#Bishop Heahmund

[thunderfaucet]

Longest hyperfixation since Catwoman lol. I truly don’t know how to blur this from casual scrollers. Apologies in advance..

[mnzbrg]

whatever this was...... PEAK homoerotism.........

[nothingtolosebutweight]

A little (fast-written and not thoroughly proofread) something for the Summer Solstice Event hosted by @vikingsevents. I combined day 4 (Sweet, Salty, Metallic) and day 5 (Moan, Whimper, Scream) and created a Vampire AU (doesn't every writer need one at some point xd and JRMs role as Dracula gave me the perfect pic). I'm a little late, but I'm here :) Pairing: Heahmund & Ivar Words: ~4000 [AO3] Warnings: Mention of Blood (what a surprise), M/M Blowjob, Mild Smut

If his heart would still be beating in his chest, he was sure it would have stopped the moment he finally put his lips on the soft pillows he had painfully longed for weeks. Or rather, for centuries. It felt like a gentle death, and in a way, he actually died the second their lips touched, uniting in a kiss. 

In an instant, he felt as if he had been reborn. His old self ceased to exist. The suffering self, driven by pain. All the pain of the past centuries, all the suffering that had accumulated during that time, slipped away from him, peeled off like a skin that no longer belonged to him, making way for the hope of a future in which love and passion would once again become his driving forces.

Caught in the maelstrom of his sensations, he gave himself completely to the feeling that the lips, which at first only hesitantly pressed against his, triggered in him. He would have loved to take possession of them directly, to feast on them like a wild animal that had had to wait too long for new prey.  He was hungry, wanted more, but he held back. He mustered all his willpower to do so. Even though it was difficult for him, he instinctively knew that he had to give his counterpart the time to slowly get used to the feeling he was most likely experiencing. It was probably unfamiliar to him and overwhelming at the same time. Not the kiss alone, but the wave of emotions it unleashed. He was sure that he wasn't the only one feeling this way, but that the boy in front of him was also stirred up inside. He felt the uncertainty and probably also the disbelief about what was happening in his tentative approaches, heard it in his fastened heartbeat and shaky breaths.

Sweet - was the prevailing thought that burst upon him, unannounced like a storm on the high seas, as soon as their lips parted a crack, clearing the way into a world full of new sensations. He felt as if there was a slight hint of caramel, or perhaps honey, on these soft pillows, which further enraptured him. He wanted to devour every last trace of this delicious taste, chased after it like an addict after his favorite drug. 

A smile formed on his lips, and had he not disturbed the kiss with it, he would have shaken his head in disbelief at his own surprise at the beguiling taste. Of course, his sweet prince still tasted like the sweetest temptation he had ever tasted. He hadn't gotten that nickname for nothing. Back then, a very long time ago.

He caught himself thinking that he could do without blood for the rest of his life if only he could sip on those very lips every waking minute. They were the elixir he needed more to live, the loss of which had made him an empty shell.

A stupid thought, perhaps, but he was far from being wise. Not when he was close to the one person he love the most and which he had believed he had lost forever.

The fact that he was here, unarmed, and without even having thoroughly checked his surroundings beforehand, was already proof enough that he might not be in his right mind.

The boy, who so willingly allowed himself to fall into his arms, was Ivar - the youngest scion of the Lothbrok family, whose roots as famous hunters went back a long way. Hunters who had tried for several generations to banish him and his kind from this earth, yet they had never been successful. At least in his case. Many of his kind had fallen victim to them, which had only magnified his anger and hatred toward those people, and perhaps it was now up to him to fall into the easiest of all traps that would cost him his survival.

He was walking on dangerous ground, but this kiss alone was already worth the risk. With not a fiber of his being could he imagine that the Lothbroks knew what old soul was slumbering in this boy when not even Ivar himself seemed to comprehend why he too was drawn to him as well. Ivar could have killed him already. He had several opportunities to do so, since he was too careless when near him, but Ivar hadn't done it, instead, the boy surrendered to the kiss as well, letting himself be guided by something hidden deep inside him.

Gently he let the tip of his tongue trace this sweetness and silently begged for further entry into this paradise-like cave.

He had fought many battles in his life already, had brought down many enemies who were begging for their lives on the brink of death. During those times, he also faced many weapons that were specially created to cause him pain and the most suffering before his ending. But never before had he felt anything like fear or a sense of weakness. Never had he felt defeated or unable to fight against something life-threatening.

However, the soft moan that escaped Ivar's lips when he opened his mouth a little wider, which led him to take possession of it immediately, made him feel a sense of weakness for the first time. He felt weak to the bone, on the verge of crying because he couldn’t believe his luck. 

Ivar could stab him right in his cold heart, he wouldn't mind right now, but apparently, his luck hadn't run out yet. No wooden peg dug deep into his chest, but a shy tongue invaded him now, began to circle his, and nestled against it. Another moan sounded. This time from his mouth, and he could feel how it was working its magic on Ivar as well. He could hear his heartbeat increasing, could feel the tremors dancing across his skin.

His sweet prince pressed himself closer against him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Seeking hold, he was more than willing to give it to him.

Of the many battles he had already fought, none was as difficult as this one he was now fighting with himself internally.

Triggered by the sweetness that had overpoweringly anchored itself in his senses, he was overcome by the urge to want to possess Ivar, with every last molecule that made up his existence. He wanted to have him all for himself in fear of losing him again.

It was easy to say that continuing life without him would be unthinkable for him. Exaggerated poetics for most, but he knew that these were not just empty words. He had already had to live through it, knew how bleak his existence had been for the last centuries.

He had already lost him once. About 300 years before. Hunters had ripped him away from him in a brutal way. They had used Ivar as bait to lure him out of hiding, driven by the painful screams of his beloved. Pain caused by consecrated silver arrows that had been drilled into his legs in various places.

At that time, he had not been able to free him and thus had not been able to save him. In the end, he had only been able to watch in horror from a distance as they had beheaded his most loved one. Thus destroying a love that had lasted over 200 years. His existence thereafter was marked by hatred. His drive was revenge against all those who had been involved in this cruel event. Including their descendants. No one should be allowed to walk the earth who carried the blood of those people who had taken the dearest from him.

The dark time seemed to be over now. Although darkness was still his accomplice, needed for protection, it no longer ate through his insides.

Ivar was back. Even if so far only as a shell, he was sure that also his consciousness, his soul would soon push back to the surface. He was as sure of this as he had been at their first brief eye contact that this young man was his Ivar.

- His eyes, those azure depths, had been the first thing that had given him away. Back then, a few weeks ago, when they had run into each other in the twilight. A brief crossing of their eyes had been enough and he had lost himself in those familiar eyes. Had lost all sense of time, overwhelmed by all the memories that had burst upon him at that moment. They both had stopped for a moment as if they had been forced to stand still by some supernatural force and just looked at each other in silence.

That brief moment had been enough to trigger a realization in him, and when his senses had returned and with them, Ivar's heartbeat had reached him, he had been absolutely certain. Many people were nothing special. They were lost in the steady rhythm of the faceless mass, but there was something special about his sweet prince. A striking unevenness that sounded to his ears like the most beautiful classical song, whose tonal perfection no one had yet put on paper. He would recognize his heartbeat among millions and millions, had never heard a comparable one since he was robbed of his beloved.

Only briefly had he been able to catch a glimpse of Ivar's legs, trapped in metal braces, before the young man had awakened from his stupor and continued on his way, turning around again a short time later and eyeing him once more with interest. 

The sight of the maltreated legs had triggered sheer rage in him and only with difficulty had he been able to suppress the scream that had been brewing inside him. Just like the memories that rose along with it, at the same time. -

Flatly, he pressed his tongue against the warm skin on Ivar's neck, licking over it with relish. The throbbing of his heartbeat made itself felt as a gentle vibration on his tongue. He heard the rush of blood flowing through the human shell and the thought of wanting to taste it overwhelmed him. Greed took over. When already on the outside such a foretaste of the sweetest nectar was waiting for him, how delicious would Ivar's blood be then?

His grip around Ivar's waist tightened, his nails deformed into claws almost leaving small holes in the fabric. His sharp teeth grew, scratched over the sensitive skin while he alternated between licking it and covering it with kisses. He was seconds away from plunging his teeth into the thick vein, ready to satisfy his curiosity and hunger, but the tip of a sharp object pressing into his side, right below his rotten heart, made him pause. 

Carefully, he licked over the tempting spot once more before lifting his head and looking Ivar in the eye. 

Already as he moved away, the pressure at his side also eased, even though the sharp end still lingered menacingly close to his body. Nevertheless, he was not afraid. He could read in Ivar's eyes that he had no intention of driving the peg deeper. It was merely a warning. The marking of a border that should not be crossed.

Devoutly, as if it weren't only Ivar's legs that seemed fragile, he enclosed his face with both hands and examined it for a moment, putting all the love he had for him into his gaze.

"I promise that I won't harm you. More than that, I promise that no one will ever hurt you again. No one will ever lay a hand on you again and cause you pain. From now on, I will protect you. No matter what it costs."

He saw Ivar frown as he let the words sink in. They didn't seem to make any sense to him. How could they, if he didn't remember?

"I don't need protection. I can stand up for myself."

The same pride as before gleamed in Ivar's eyes. The same confidence that almost bordered on arrogance, which had fascinated him even way back then. He smiled at him and nodded in understanding.

"I know. And yet I will protect you. I am your loyal servant and anyone who harms even a hair on your head will die. Like all the others before. That is my promise to you." He kept his voice soft, almost a whisper, even when no one was around to overhear.

"No one has ever hurt me."

"Your legs tell a different story."

He watched Ivar as he looked down at himself for a moment as if he had to see once again what had been done to him. Something so terrible that even centuries later it was still manifest in his body.

"I was born this way. It's nobody's fault, it's just the genes." Ivar sounded puzzled. Partly unsure maybe if this was actually the reason.

He stroked over the soft skin on Ivar's cheek, felt the first stronger hairs forming on his jawline under his fingertips. He left it at that. It was obvious that Ivar didn't remember the details and that he was struggling with himself inside. He could see it in his inquiring gaze, could almost hear the questions that Ivar was surely asking himself inwardly, undecided about what he was actually doing here. But his interest seemed to be stronger, his desire for closeness far from satisfied.

By initiating the following kiss, Ivar also made a statement that he was not here to talk. While he had been shy and cautious before, he now took what he thirsted for more confidently. Willingly, he opened his mouth, welcoming the foreign tongue into his realm.

He could feel the warmth of Ivar's breath mingling with his own cold one, creating an electrifying current that surged through their bodies. The touch of his lips was soft, yet firm, their movements synchronized in a passionate dance. Their tongues and lips met with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Breathy moans and sighs that echoed in the air were like a symphony, created by their desire and need, a testimony to the intensity of their connection.

Once again the heartbeat of his once-lost love accelerated, his skin became warmer, exuding a pleasant fragrance that crept into his nose, taking hold of his whole being. Everything around him was once again forgotten, declared unimportant.  His world was Ivar and Ivar alone and he took this place as self-confident as ever.

His hands roamed over Ivar's back, possessively, yet tenderly tracing patterns along his spine, further igniting the fire that burned within them. Ivar's fingers clawed into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss even more. They only separated to get rid of each other's shirts. In a hurry, they tore them off their bodies and threw them carelessly on the floor, where also the wooden peg had found its resting place in the meantime. 

The air crackled around them and fire blazed in their eyes as they looked at each other breathlessly for a moment. Their bodies yearned for more, their hands could not leave each other, slid exploratively over naked skin. Once again their lips found each other, sealing their testament of passion anew.

He started to open Ivar's pants, slid his hands in the sides, wandered to his butt, and dug his fingers into the plump cheeks, kneading them while he pressed Ivar closer, letting their hips gyrate against each other. Another moan was breathed into his mouth, unleashing another storm of desire to unfold. Without effort, he lifted Ivar up and helped him wrap his legs around his waist before walking to the bed on the other side of the room, continuing to kiss as if Ivar didn't need oxygen either.

When he reached the bed, he bent down and let Ivar slide gently onto the mattress. He propped himself up with his hands, and bedded himself on top of him, gyrating his hips again. Their moans mingled and Ivar leaned his head back to catch his breath, thus invitingly presenting his seductive neck to him. Without hesitation, he let his lips slide back there, kissing his way over the throbbing vein. He didn't linger there long, feeling how Ivar was tensing up again. Purposefully, he slid to his collarbone, licking his way down to one erect bud, nibbling on it, causing Ivar to voice his delight.

The scent that emanated from Ivar wrapped him in an invisible cloak.  It had changed in the last few minutes, had intensified, and he felt like he was lying on the softest pillows, carried by the warmth that poured out of him.

The hands that ran through his hair, clawing almost painfully tightly into it, unmistakably pushed him deeper. He let Ivar guide him, but still took the time to explore his upper body first with tongue and lips,  spoiling kisses here and there.

A tremor ran through Ivar's body and a sound of relief escaped his mouth as he opened his pants further and hastily pulled them down to his knees along with his underwear, freeing that part of his body that craved attention the most.

Desirously he looked at the wet shimmering tip, which stretched towards him. The witness of Ivar's lust was emblazoned on it, arousing in him the need to taste it. Turning his head sideways, he licked the hot flesh with the flat of his tongue, saving the best for last, when he finally absorbed the drop with the tip of his tongue, letting the salty taste melt on his tongue.

Ivar whimpered as his lips closed around the tip, begging for more with the next gasping exhale. He was only too happy to comply with this request, given that his own hunger for more was far from being satisfied.  Nibbling, he let his lips glide over the head, savoring each new drop of pleasure as it rose to the surface. He relished the deep sighs that were coming from Ivar's mouth, bathed in the knowledge that it was he who was giving him this pleasure, these moments of absolute bliss.

Once again he licked over the entire length, noticing the trembling that flowed through Ivar's fragile legs, before he opened his mouth and placed it around the tip, this time taking it deep inside him. Immediately the grip on his hair tightened, urging his head deeper.

Sucking blood was a necessity for him to stay alive.

Sucking Ivar's cock was like a revelation that made him feel alive again.

The pulsing that spread through his mouth made him feel like he had a heartbeat of his own. He took Ivar deeper inside him, letting the sensation penetrate further down his throat. The sounds emanating from Ivar became more and more indignant, his hips reared up, his movements became desperate. He tried to follow the rhythm, willingly letting himself be used for Ivar's own pleasure, not letting the roughness deter him. He let it happen, enjoying the satisfaction he could give Ivar with a little sucking and bobbing his head up and down. He hadn't felt this fulfilled in a long time.

And something else distracted him, making his thoughts wander off.

The buzz of Ivar's blood sounded loudly in his ears. Two thick veins on his lower abdomen sought his attention. They stood out clearly. He saw them pulsing, and he could almost see through the skin how the surely delicious blood was pumped into Ivar's lower body at a hurried pace. His hunger for it grew with every second. A growl came deep from his throat as the urge finally overcame him, bouncing as a vibration against Ivar's cock, eliciting an equally guttural moan from his sweet prince.

He freed himself from Ivar's hard grip, sucked the tip of the shaft again intensely, and then let the cock slide out of his mouth completely. His tongue slid one last time over the length, made its way to the thigh on which he breathed fleeting kisses. Kissing and licking, he approached the lower belly, took Ivar's cock in his hand in the meantime, and continued pumping it in the same rhythm as he had previously spoiled it with his mouth. He increased the pressure around the head, sliding his thumb over the wet tip, rubbing the juice of their lust into both their skins.

Licking his lips, he came closer to one of the pulsating veins, firstly, just pressing his tongue against its pulse, letting it pass over him. He felt how the greed turned his features animalistic and how his teeth extended. It took all his strength, but he raised his head briefly to take a look at Ivar. A smile flitted across his features as he once more realized how gorgeous he was. His beloved had his eyes closed, his features tense with pleasure, his lips slightly open, breathing heavily. His fingers clutched at the sheet to his left and right, and his hips continued to thrust toward his hand, demanding.

He is mine was the prevailing thought as he lowered his head again. Forgotten was the previously made promise.

A scream fought its way through Ivar's lips, triggered by the shock when he couldn't hold on any longer, sinking his teeth into the soft skin of Ivar's lower abdomen. The metallic taste of his blood immediately filled his mouth, increasingly befogging his senses. Greedily he sucked the juice of life into himself, was overwhelmed by its delicious taste which he now well remembered.

Ivar reared up briefly, trying to push him away, but his resistance was only half-hearted, disarmed by his hand still pumping Ivar's arousal in a steady rhythm. He continued to drink, feeling the twitching in his hand grow stronger until he heard Ivar moan loudly. The feeling of warm drops landing on his cheek caught his attention and out of the corner of his eye he saw how Ivar slumped limply back onto the mattress, trying to catch his breath. 

Weak hands tried to push him away once again, but he hadn't had enough, kept sucking the delicious blood into his mouth, intoxicated. 

"Heahmund, please don't."

The soft, almost brittle voice of Ivar reached his ears and with a jolt he came to, jerked his head up and pressed his palm on the small wounds to stop the bleeding, but also to avoid being overrun by lust and hunger again.

He hadn't heard that name for a long time, had never used it again after his biggest defeat so far. The memory that came with it was too painful.

They looked at each other. Silently, yet he read so much in Ivar's eyes. Realization shimmered in them, accompanied by tears that tried to flood out. With the back of his hand, he first wiped his mouth, removing the bloody residue from his lips, before leaning down to Ivar, stopping just before his lips. With his thumb, he collected a tear that had made its way out of the corner of Ivar's eye as a glittering pearl.

"My sweet prince," he whispered before sealing their lips again, encouraged by the hand that had settled on his neck, pressing him closer.

The taste of his own blood didn't seem to deter Ivar. Much more it spurred him on, made him become more impetuous again. It was going to be a long night. Of that he was sure. A night in which he would hear his old name even more often, breathed and moaned and accompanied by sweet sounds.

It was time for a new identity anyway and Heahmund knew exactly which one he wanted to revive.

[0nelittlebirdtoldme]

My own RMSE fic - for a fandom I haven't written for before!

Vikings (TV) | Ivar the Boneless/Bishop Heahmund | 3700 words | Smut | M/M  | Rated E | Relevant Tags: Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, Age Difference

“I subject myself to your orders,” Heahmund just says calmly, his words lacking any emotion. “Utterly. Fully.”

But it isn’t good enough for Ivar. “Prove it.” His teeth shine white in the dim light, glimmering up to the other man.

Or: Ivar demands for Heahmund to prove his loyalty to him.

Pretty sure @alcorc once expressed interest for me to write Viking fic (if i misremember, please forgive me). Also tagging @mikaharuka and @argyleheir, in case any of you feel like checking it out 🖤

[therealvikingstrash]

Vikings and Vikings: Valhalla Recs!

Phew, it's been a minute since I've done one of these. Now back with a new design and additional fandom! Keep in mind that this rec list is my personal taste and yours might differ. I managed to read twelve fics despite the year I had and I think twelve fics for twelve months is a good number. (list below the cut)

Crossing the Abyss by @northernxstories - E - Multi - 23,6k

A beautifully written Space AU with polyamorous pairings. The relationships between the characters are just as interesting to read about as the bigger story of their journey. And I don't think I'm biased in the least, just because I made part of the art. This story is a whole treat!

Summary: The Kattegat was a unique vessel, designed to cross the expanse of space known as the Abyss. Once a ship enters the Abyss, the stresses surrounding the vessel increased exponentially and there was no known means of navigation in the starless void. Captain Bjorn Ragnarsson, known as Bjorn Ironside for his ability to survive seemingly impossible battles, has relied often on his brothers, Ivar, Ubbe and Hvitserk, and his sister, Gyda, to crew his ship.

Ivar was determined to defeat the impossible Abyss and has heard of a scholar who has invented a method of navigation that might be able to accomplish the task. Gyda and Ivar came up with a plan to get this information and if necessary, kidnap the scientist. Once on board the ship, the scientist is faced with unexpected challenges and rewards. However, before they can attempt the journey, Gyda must face her past.

October Rust by @bouncehousedemons - T - Ubbe/OFC - 1,9k

Wonderful imagery throughout the whole fic and and a great continuation of Salt of the Earth and Sea, which I also highly recommend to read! Summary: Ubbe assumes his lover has met a grisly demise, until an unexpected reunion with his brother proves otherwise.

polish the blood and the bruise by @underragingwaves - M - Hvitserk - 4,7k

Soldier Hvitserk, veterinarian Ubbe and a kitten. All very strong points to sell this fic, but please, it is so much more! If you like military themed stories, are a sucker for angst and family bonding this fic will hit all the right spots. I love it dearly and I'm sure so will you. It's also a nice crossover with Vikings: Valhalla characters.

Summary: Hvitserk came home from war, or so they tell him. Most days, he begs to differ about whether he ever made it out of the desert.

Reactions of your Kind by @ulfrsmal - E - Ubbe/Hvitserk - 3,1k

A bit of forbidden action in a hot spring and very nice mental images being painted along the way. Kudos to the lovely author!

Summary: Plagued by thoughts and desires he shouldn’t have had, Ubbe retreated to the hot springs outside of Kattegat… and had his bath interrupted by the one person he’d hoped wouldn’t see him so weak.

Sleepy Mornings by @ritual-unions - E - Ubbe/OFC - 7k

This is a story that reads like devouring your favorite food, while savoring it for as long as possible. Tender and electrifying and Ubbe is so very in character, I love it.

Summary: Winnifred lives a sheltered life as a Christian woman in King Alfred’s court. Not truly understanding the meaning of sexual pleasure her new husband, Ubbe Ragnarsson, is more than willing to show her the path.

I wish I knew how to quit you by @niishiki - E - Ivar/Heahmund - 1,2k

To make it short, if you love the naughty forbidden church sex, old/young pairing and Ivar being a little shit, this is a must-read.

Summary: Bishop Heahmund is a man of God - yet, he finds himself unable to resist temptation time and time again.

Til the light comes back by @naps4bats - T - Emma/Canute - 5,4k

I really liked how canon was translated into modern day AU and how well it worked! It's a lovely story with all the characters we like and don't like but still love to read about.

Summary: Emma and Canute enjoy a brief romance during a power outage. A couple of weeks later, they find their real lives intertwine.

Summer Days, Summer Nights by @encomium-emmae - T - Emma/Canute - 3.5k

An absolute lovely read for this pairing, set in a modern day AU. I like me some competitive Emma and Canute duo!

Summary: During a week of mandated vacation at a beach resort, Emma encounters a dark-haired stranger. Too bad he turns out to be a first-rate jerk.

Lost Amongst the Meadow by @emma-ofnormandy - M - Emma/Canute - 1,5k

A canon compliant piece that fits perfectly like a missing scene!

Summary: Canute wakes to an empty bed and sets out to find his wife in the early summer dawn.

to look at me and think of conquest by @mercurygray - M - Godwin/OFC - 2,5k

Absolutely adore the OFC Edith and her chemistry with Godwin. This 'verse has a few more little stories on tumblr and they are definitely worth checking out in the authors #edith eadig tag!

Summary: Godwin of Wessex knew how to be useful. He’d been Aethelred’s advisor before he’d been Edmund’s; before the Danes had left he’d made himself invaluable to Canute, too. And now that the first wife had taken up residence, it looked as though she, too, was availing herself of Godwin’s offered expertise.

Godwin has also never been a man who needed help - but he won't be able to deceive the Queen on this particular matter alone.

I Will Join You by @shelivesinhermind - Gen - Leif & Liv - 641 words

Missing scene potential. Wonderfully written and the respect Liv deserved to receive after her death.

Summary: A funeral for Liv.

The End of the Beginning by toughtobeashamgod - T - Freydis/Harald - 1,1k

Directly set after Freydis kills Kåre and even though it's rated T, it's a little bit gory due to the description of blood everywhere. Nevertheless, this fic was a nice little read and fits seamlessly into the canon 'verse.

Summary: They had come so far into this new world, only for it to end so quickly.

Read and share, share and read, loves! ❤️

[toshkakoshka]

bishop heahmund and ivar the boneless are the reason why pope francis started calling em faggots btw

[heavenlymorals]

Of Christ and Yuletide

Summary: As Ivar stared out the Kyiv skyline, watching the people down below, Prince Igor asks him to come inside, which then to leads to discussions regarding the winter holidays.

This is my entry for the NorsetalesforWinter winter event hosted by the wonderful @nothingtolosebutweight and @barnes-lothbrok ❤ This is the first fandom event that I've ever attended and I hope you all enjoy~

Kyiv was Lord Hodr’s plaything. 

Or, in other words, Kyiv was cold. Unbearingly cold. Gods, it was almost stupidly cold. It was the type of cold that burned your skin to settle in your bones, leaving you lifeless, with lips the color of purple royalty and skin the color of the skies. In the back of his mind, Ivar was sure that Kattegat was colder than Kyiv, considering, if his navigational skills weren’t completely useless, that the city was south of Kattegat, but still. 

The cold made his lashes thick with frost and skin more delicate than silk. It made his hands kin to ice. It made his heart go numb and his soul ache. Perhaps that was the cold of Kyiv. Not the breath of winter as he blew over all, forcing them all to wallow in a sub-zero decay, but the cold that he felt inside him. Clamoring, wasting, a monster with jagged teeth whose stomach was an endless void, a glutton for anything and everything. Who took, and took, and took, and left one with nothing. 

Loneliness. The monster was loneliness. Once again, and forevermore, Ivar was lonely and this time, he had only himself to blame. Not the gods, not the people of Kattegat who wanted nothing to do with him as a Prince or as King, not his parents, not his brothers. 

Only him. 

And truthfully, that hurt more than anything. 

He sighed and balled his fists a couple of times before flexing out his fingers. Why he did this, he had no idea. Ivar then wrapped his hands around himself, pushing the thick black coat that he was given closer to his skin. He was on one of the balconies of the palace and was leaning against the railing, his crutch beside him as he supported his body on the thick railing. 

The wind blew with vigor, the force almost knocking him off his feet. A harsh shiver forced its way up his spine again. The wind became harsher when Ivar realized that it was accompanied by snow. The snow dusted Kyiv all over. Perhaps a bit childishly, Ivar tilted his head upwards and flicked out his tongue, catching two snowflakes, which melted immediately. He felt odd as he thought about when was the last time he did that. Kattegat. Yes, Kattegat.

Pathetic.

He sighed and began to look outwards again. 

Kyiv was cold, an image straight out of Niflheim, but it still held its own beauty, one that can only come from a people who learned to accept Kyiv for what she is and build their lives around her identity. Ivar was in awe as he stared out, at the temples-turned-churches, at the towers touching the sky and the clouds, at the people down below illuminated by golden light as they carried torches to quickly take shelter from the snow. He then looked up. The sky was streaked with clouds, and behind those curtains, the stars peaked out, numerous, glittering, sprinkled everywhere. The moon was a crescent and provided little light, thus the torches had to make do.

He then began to wonder as he watched. About many things. Many stupid, insignificant things. About the cold. About the snow. About the lives of the many people who scattered under the balcony. The animals too. 

Suddenly, he was that young boy back in Kattegat, bored and tired and hurt from watching his brothers play without bothering to include him and thus crawling to the market district in Kattegat to sit behind a crate or two to just watch people. They never noticed him. He was invisible, about as invisible as the mistletoe that is destined to kill Baldr by the hand of Hodr. The cripple will kill his better half and then the world will end. 

Or so, that’s what they say. The Seer once said that he shared the likeness of both the “good son” and the “forgotten son” of the lords on high. What that means though, is still a mystery, and since the Seer has been killed (by your own hand, you monster), Ivar didn’t bother with it. The Seer’s words only hurt his head and damaged his ego in the most inconspicuous ways. 

In any case, he watched people and began to learn a lot. There was a woman who had five children and not one of them was her husband’s. There was a man who poisoned his brother for his inheritance and blamed his death on sickness. There was a man who hated another man so much that as revenge, he would fuck his enemy’s young daughter, a shapely, pretty thing, right behind his house. Ivar saw the good, the bad, the admirable, the deplorable, everything as he watched Kattegat. 

“Ivar? It is very cold. You come inside?"

And he watched him too. Igor, Prince Igor to be exact, was the young boy who owned all the skies and lands of the land of the Rus. Or would own. His soft voice, still delicate by the sheen of childhood,  was made choppy by the whistling wind and the fact that he was speaking in Ivar's Norse tongue, or at the very least trying to. It made Ivar smile, that the child would willingly struggle just so he can make Ivar more comfortable by speaking his native tongue. Ivar was sure Oleg taught him, but still.

 Oh, the innocence of children was something so pure, so beautiful. Even someone as debauched and tainted as Ivar could see that. Igor was the prince-to-be-king of all the Rus. He shouldn’t care about such things, shouldn’t even think of them, but the fact that he did was precious.

It made Ivar’s heart ache. Poor, poor child. So naive to reality.

Ivar turned his head around and answered the Prince in his Rus tongue. He learned it rather quickly. Oddly quickly. Same with the Saxons’ language. It was a gift that the brood of Ragnar and Aslaug seemed to have. To learn and master tongues in such a limited time. 

“Hello, Prince Igor. It’s quite alright. It’s not that cold.” Liar. If it weren’t for his pure stubbornness, he probably would’ve shattered like a delicate sculpture made of ice after someone throws it at the ground with passion. Igor knew this, for he raised one eyebrow and looked at him as if he was a fool. 

“I hear…I heard your brother Hvitserk once mutter that you are crazy. He must be right if you think that this is not cold. I can see ice on your lashes. What are you even doing out here?” Igor attempted to continue his Norse speech but promptly gave up and like a fish to water, it was quite obvious that he was far more comfortable with his native tongue. Ivar smirked at that and smirked even more at Igor’s observation of his mental state. He wasn’t even wrong. 

Ivar then shrugged and continued looking forwards. “I am watching. The view is rather interesting.” 

Igor’s delicate face scrunched up in confusion. “What is there to watch?” He then skipped to the balcony where Ivar was and heaved himself upwards a bit on the railing to have a better view of what captured Ivar’s eyes. Almost automatically, Ivar’s left hand left its folded position and hovered like a fly over Igor’s collar, there to catch him in case something happened. Igor did not notice, to which Ivar was glad.

 One time, when Oleg peeled Ivar away from Igor for another moment of odd affinity between them, he fleetingly and perhaps bitterly joked about Ivar’s “motherly tendencies” (Oleg’s words, not Ivar’s) towards Igor, to which Ivar had taken offense to, though refused to properly acknowledge, as Oleg was like a storm, and like a storm, you cannot choose whether or not it’ll spare you. 

It made him think, though. About that part of life that he was so close to, or at least thought he was so close to having. For as much as he bullied Ubbe, wherever that bastard was, for wanting to “settle down”, he did find parts of it to be attractive, such as the joys of fatherhood, real fatherhood, not the spectacle that Ragnar made of his four other children, to have them only to have them, as ornaments to his name and not as actual sons. Maybe it was just the primitive nature of man, or maybe it was Ivar’s desire for a normalcy that fleeted away from him like he was the plague the second that he was born with his wilted limbs, but Ivar longed for fatherhood.

That was the reason, he was sure now, why he allowed Freydis to carry on with her “divine child” charade for as long as she did. He was not a fool. He was not crazy, though many would seem to disagree (even himself, at times).. He knew that he couldn’t father a child. He knew that he couldn’t conceive a child by his blood. But still. It was such a pretty fantasy that he allowed it to continue until it became pretty no longer. 

Sweet Baldr. Sweet child, weep no more, for you are in the embrace of the gods. It pained Ivar still, to think of his son. It pained Ivar to think that the only reason why he killed him was so he wouldn’t have to suffer the same way Ivar had and still has to suffer. Ivar made himself a name because of his ferocity and his tenacity, yet still, he was miserable. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Igor’s babbling. 

“There is the baker! He’s got with him some sacks of grain. And there is the smith, he’s closing up his shop. And there is a mother and her child, and there is the priest, and there is a man drinking, and there is…well, there is nothing interesting.” 

Ivar chuckled a bit and gently patted the top of Igor’s head. He would ruffle his hair if it wasn’t covered by his hat, which he noticed was crooked, as Igor probably only wanted to quickly find him and then come back inside. Almost automatically, he fixed the position of the hat, which Igor didn’t even care to notice as his eyes were still in a hawkish mode as he stared down Kyiv. 

“There are many interesting things if you take the time to think, even if the view itself doesn’t seem interesting, Prince Igor. Look over there,” Ivar explained, pointing to a small scene of two men speaking to each other in a shifty way, their heads turning to random sounds like dogs, all perked up, “it’s just two men talking, but why are they so paranoid? Why are they looking around every now and then? And what about that woman over there?” Ivar pointed to a woman who was clutching something close to her chest, a bundle, taking an effort to conceal it as much as possible, “what is she hiding? What is she doing?” 

Igor tilted his head a bit, like one of those colorful birds that Ivar had the pleasure to see during his travels on the silk road, all blue and yellow, and then crossed his arms on the railing. “I don’t know…Maybe those men are planning something special and are trying to keep it a secret from their families. For Christmas maybe? And maybe the woman is just trying to keep whatever she's holding warm? A baby?” 

Ivar blinked a couple of times at the innocence of Igor’s reasoning and then smiled. Perhaps he was in a charitable mood, so he didn’t bother to bring forth more nihilistic possibilities of the behavior of these people. “Hmph, you’re probably right. But still. The behavior of everyone, no matter how insignificant, stems from something, and sometimes, those things can be important. To you, especially, as you are royalty.”

Igor rocked on his feet back and forth for a bit, probably fidgeting to keep himself at least just a bit warmer. Or maybe it was just the mannerisms of children. One of the two.

“Well…Every royal family has spies, Uncle Oleg told me once, though he was drunk…” Igor began.

Ivar nodded. “Yes, he’s correct, they all do. How else would we get anything done?” 

“So if I want to know stuff, I can just send them to do it for me! It just seems so boring…I’d rather go to the puppet shows.” 

Ivar laughed. “Of course, you can, but you can always trust your own eyes far more than you can others, especially if you have the moment to do so. Humanity is so colorful, my dear Igor, and many of those colors are so, so ugly.” Ivar sounded wistful, and philosophical, as he stared up into the sky and watched the streaking of the stars.

Igor raised his brow and looked at the Norseman before replying a few moments later. “...You should probably come inside, Ivar. The cold is making you say weird things.” 

Well then. 

Before Ivar could answer that cheeky revelation that isn’t even wrong, Igor grabbed his empty hand, the one that wasn’t grasping the crutch, and all but forced him to come inside. Attentively, Igor made sure to watch the way he moved so as to not hurt Ivar, which Ivar found sweet but rather unnecessary. He didn’t say anything though. Perhaps he was growing soft like Ubbe, but he found the gesture to warm the coldness that he willingly forced himself into, to continue his timely tradition of people-watching, something that his late mother told him he had in common with Ragnar. 

A few moments later, Ivar found himself in Igor’s room. Igor led him to sit on his bed. It was heavenly warm, a very lovely contrast to before, and Ivar took notice of the decorations that quaintly painted the room in splashes of rustic charm. Rustic and so, so familiar. 

Igor must’ve noticed his staring and then climbed on top of a table to pluck off an ornament from the tree that the servants put in his room. He then jumped back down, with all the enthusiasm that a young boy can have, and handed it over to Ivar, who nodded and then began to look over the thing, taking note of the details, the grooves. The ornament was made of light-colored wood and depicted the scene of a woman and man looking over a crib with a child while a lamb sat down in front of the crib. He tilted his head a bit.

“I am assuming this is for your Christmas holiday, yes?” 

Igor nodded. “Yes. That’s Mary and that’s her husband Joseph and the child is our Lord, Jesus Christ.” 

Ivar’s thumb grazed gently over the face of the wooden child and then smirked when he touched the lamb. “And what’s the lamb for? Is it a sibling to your Christ?”

Igor let out a giggle and then gasped, putting his hands over his mouth. “You can’t say stuff like that, Ivar!” 

“Why not? Would your Uncle Oleg get angry?” 

Igor shook his head violently. “No, no, he’d probably laugh, but still! The priest told me that good Christians shouldn’t joke about such things. It’s blasphemy.” 

Ivar smirked and then gave back the ornament to Igor. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m no Christian, then, hmm? Don’t worry your little head about blasphemy. And anyway, she gave birth to your Christ without a father. Is it that unbelievable that your Christ may share blood with a lamb?” Inwardly, Ivar thought about the man who told him that story. Bishop Heahmund. Strong, butch, vicious, lying Heahmund. 

Perhaps he should’ve expected such treachery from the man, but like with Freydis, he was enamored by the image that he bestowed upon the man without him ever knowing. He wondered where Heahmund was now, whether he was alive or dead. Back when he was King of Kattegat, he hoped to the Gods that Heahmund was dead, rotting with the maggots, his death anything but honorable. Now? Not so much. Technically, Heahmund did what was asked of him. He fought for Ivar. Almost died for him too. Besides that, he had nothing connecting him to Ivar other than a debt of gratitude for keeping him alive which the Christian never wanted. In a strange way, Ivar missed him. His talks, his odd stories, his stalwart allegiance to his god. It was attractive, in an odd, odd way. He couldn’t try to explain it even if he wanted to.

His odd infatuation with odder Christians did not end with Heahmund. There was Oleg too, though he was cut from a different cloth. He cared little about the odd Christian rituals that Heahmund was obsessive over, though that could be credited to the fact that he was a Prince and not someone whose reputation and legacy come specifically from the Church, like Heahmund. Both men indulged in their carnal desires, as any man should, but whilst Heahmund was ashamed of the matter, coy even, Oleg couldn’t care less. He drank, he fucked, and when he prayed, it wasn’t for forgiveness, but to expand his influence, the reach he had in these snow-capped lands. 

He liked that. How unapologetic Oleg was. How he cared little about what anyone thought of him. That was obvious. It made him so charismatic and so magnetic that even Ivar became trapped in his web of gilded words and pretty promises. And how pretty there were…

He was also wary of how unapologetic Oleg was. That made him dangerous. It made Ivar feel like a wife who was always alert because her husband would always come home reeking of mead and ale, which would then make his moods unpredictable. For how generous Oleg was to him, Ivar also knew that it had much to do with his forced submissiveness to the man, a state of being that humiliated him whilst also keeping him very much alive, which, at this point, was all he craved. 

“Uh…Yes? It’s too strange. Do you have a figure in your faith who gave birth to an animal?”

Ivar nodded and Igor’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes. There is the Jotun Angrboda, who gave birth to a wolf and a snake, Fenrir and Jormangandr. Her consort, Loki, another Jotun, also gave birth to an eight-legged horse named Sleipnir who our King God Odin rides, though in his defense, he was in the form of a mare when he did so.” 

A few moments of silence pass. “You say it like it’s so normal!”

Ivar shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. And besides, Loki and Angrboda aren’t gods like the Aesir or the Vanir, so we don’t care to give them their own carvings during this time.” 

“During this time?” Igor questioned, the fire from the fireplace making his blue eyes shine like precious jewels, the type that vain women would kill for to pluck and put on a circlet or a necklace. What a precious boy.

“Yes. Back home, I’m sure the people are getting ready to celebrate Yuletide.” His voice was wistful, nostalgic. Perhaps even a little melancholic. Igor could tell.

“Yuletide? Isn’t that a celebration for your gods? Uncle Oleg told me once. He showed me a carving of two of your gods that you make whilst celebrating. He got it from a Danish tradesman. If I can find it, I’ll show it to you,” Igor offered and Ivar couldn’t help but smile. He could read Igor very well, now. 

As much as the boy was sprung up to show Ivar the intricacies of the culture of the Rus, one that came from the wayward Norse who made their own way in this mysterious land, he was also just as aware and interested in Ivar’s ways, of the Norse’s ways. He could sense that Ivar missed Scandinavia. If he were to find the carving, he would give it to Ivar. Oleg shouldn’t care. He gave it to Igor after all. He had many more trinkets. 

“Yes. During Yuletide, we celebrate our Gods and ask them for prosperity. Children are also told by their parents that they must behave, or else our King God, Odin, will take them away with his Wild Hunt. In return, they are given gifts. Small gifts in their shoes, as they leave out hay for Sleipnir in them, and bigger ones under a tree. Similar to the ones you have here. Those carvings that you spoke about? We hang them on the tree. An honor to the gods and whatnot. Your decorations and garlands reminded me of that, I suppose.” 

Igor nodded and then smiled. “Well…Is the Christian God one of them that you celebrate?” There was a hopeful gleam in Igor’s eyes. It amused Ivar. Oh, Christians…

“I don’t think our gods would be amused if we were to dedicate our celebration to only one god. We have many gods, not only one, child.” Back in York, if Heahmund was to ask him something similar, though he never would as even acknowledging Ivar’s gods or celebrations for those gods would probably burn his tongue, Ivar would be smug and grin and tell him that his Christian God was a selfish God who expected too much and would only be satisfied by his followers turning to groveling worms. But this wasn’t Heahmund. This wasn’t Oleg either, who appreciated Ivar’s Norse ways, but who found them as valid as wives’ tales.  

“And besides, don’t you Christians believe in only your Christ god,” Ivar continued. Igor shrugged before getting up to start pacing around his abode, opening chests and carding through piles of trinkets and knick-knacks that were placed neatly around the furniture, on the tables, and in the chests. 

“Sure. But if Uncle Oleg can be a god, why can’t you celebrate more than one? Whenever Uncle Oleg hosts parties, it’s always like a holiday. A holiday dedicated to him, the prophet.” 

Ivar chuckled. “Do you truly believe that your Uncle is a god?” 

Igor shook his head and continued looking around for, well, whatever it was that he was looking for. “No, but it sometimes seems like it. He sees and hears everything. You can’t do anything without him knowing, and if he doesn’t know, he will find out, and then…if it’s something he doesn’t like, you disappear. Maybe he hasn’t created the world, but, as far as the Rus is concerned, he is a god.”

Ivar blinked a couple of times. And what a god he was, that Oleg. He gave Ivar a life of luxury, the warmth of another body, and the prestige of a prince that Ivar took to like a hand that would fit a well-worn glove. And Ivar was grateful for that, perhaps even indebted. Yet Oleg took. He took and took. He took his autonomy, his freedom. He was a prisoner here, no matter how pretty Kyiv was. 

It felt strange to hear such, well, daunting words coming from a child. But in a court filled with nothing but lies, treachery, and shadows, such revelations would be obvious to a boy, especially one that is a heir to a land so vast and so wise. “Your Uncle is no more a god than I am, Igor. And I promise you, with everything I can do, I will make sure you are no more a prisoner of this gilded cage.” 

Igor stopped his little search for a few seconds before starting again. Ivar stayed quiet and let the boy continue on his quest. A few more moments later and Igor seemed to have found what he wanted. In his hand was a small wooden carving, similar in shape to the one he showed him before, the scene of Christ being born, but one depicting something else. He skipped over to Ivar and gave it to him, a smile on his precious face. Ivar looked down at the carvings and took note of the two figures carved on them. 

Both of the figures were wearing male garments, thus they were gods, not goddesses. The figure on the left had a smile on his abstract face, with hair that reached the small of his back. The wood was not stained there, thus the figure’s hair was golden. Near his head were lines depicting sheens of light. The figure on the right was more somber in his emotions and though his hair was of a similar length to the god on the left, it was stained, thus he had dark hair. On his face, interestingly, were bandages covering his eyes and in his right hand was an arrow. 

Ever the pious man when it came to his gods, Ivar instantly knew what the carving was hoping to predict.

“That’s the carving I told you about! See, that’s the two gods. Their names are Baldr and Hodr.”

Ivar nodded his head and looked the carving over, a soft smile gracing his red lips. “I can see that. You can tell. Hodr is blind and Baldr is said to be so beautiful that light emits for his visage.” 

Igor nodded, taking note of the information before asking another question. 

“What are they the gods of?” 

“Oh, many things. Baldr is the god of beauty and light, obviously. The summer sun as well. Purity and innocence and righteousness. He is also said to be one of the wisest gods, one whom all would go to ask for advice,” sometimes, Ivar wished he asked Baldr for wisdom instead of Odin, eccentric as he was, “and to the right is his brother Hodr. He is the light god’s twin and opposite. His domain is darkness and cold and winter. They prefer Baldr, my people, but without Hodr, Baldr’s gifts would hold no value.” 

Igor nodded and then grazed his thumb on the arrow in Hodr’s hand. “Why does he hold an arrow? Is he a god of the hunt as well?”

Ivar shook his head. “No, no. Well, not that I’m aware of. That’s the arrow he will use to no doubt kill his twin with in the future.”

Igor’s eyes widened. “Why would he do that? Was he jealous?”

Ivar laughed. “Anyone would be jealous of Baldr, but no. His mother, our mother Goddess, Frigga, wished for no one to kill her son, as he informed her that he began to have nightmares of his death. Other than just completing the role of protecting one’s children, she also knows that his death would mark the beginning of Ragnarok, the end of the world, and the end of the old Gods’ reign. She then goes across the realms and asks of everything to take an oath to never harm her son. Every animal, every insect, every rock and plant. All except one. The mistletoe.” 

“Why would she ignore the mistletoe?” Igor asked, furrowing his eyebrows. He climbs onto his bed and sits next to Ivar, pressing his side to Ivar’s. Ivar, almost automatically, wrapped one of his arms around Igor, pulling him closer to him. 

“It was too young. In any case, the Jotun Loki, the one I told you about earlier, was jealous of Baldr, and thus found out about the mistletoe. He carved an arrow from the wood and went to Asgard. The Aesir were busy entertaining themselves by throwing things at Baldr, knowing that he wouldn’t be harmed. Hodr, being blind, didn’t take much part in the fun. Loki came to him, giving him the arrow, and told him he’d help him take part in the commotion. Hodr took the opportunity and Loki guided his hand. He killed his brother, not knowing he even could, and Loki slipped away, thus the blame was put on the god of the night, even though it was an accident. And when that happens, Fimbulwinter will begin. It will be three years with nothing but winter. And then Ragnarok will happen, the twilight of the gods.” 

Igor was silent for a few moments and then looked up at Ivar. “That’s…That’s very sad. I hope it won’t happen.”

Ivar smiled and then ruffled Igor’s head. Igor yelped and batted away Ivar’s hand, which made the Norseman laugh. “You’re a Christian, aren’t you? How can any of this happen if none of them exist,” Ivar asked playfully. Igor huffed. 

“It’s still sad, though!” 

“Yes…Yes, it’s sad. Here,” Ivar brought the carving to Igor’s hands but the boy gently pushed the offer away, which puzzled Ivar.

“Keep it. It’s a gift. Maybe it can remind you of home,” Igor said, smiling, and the tone of his voice made it clear that the boy would not take no for an answer, thus, Ivar refused to refuse his offer. And besides, it made him warm inside, this touch of Scandinavia, a place he missed dearly, for, with all its faults, it was home. Igor deserved far, far more than Oleg or Ivar. At least Ivar was proud to admit that his fondness for the young boy did not only stem from his title as a prince and future heir.

“Are you sure,” he then settled to ask. 

“Of course! You’re my friend Ivar. On Christmas day, I’ll get you a bigger gift, I promise.”

Ivar snorted and hugged Igor closer to him, giving him a firm kiss on his head. “Thank you, Igor. I'll get you a gift as well.” 

Igor grinned and then yawned. “You don’t have to, but thank you, Ivar…”

It did not take long for the young boy to fall asleep and Ivar didn’t have it in him to let the young child go. 

So he didn’t.

He held him tight and pressed him close to him, much like how a wolf would do anything to protect its pups. 

Ivar closed his eyes and began to dream of a future that had more to him than just this mindless existence, one that existed just to suffer in misery and pity.

Who will Ivar the Boneless be? In the future, what will his life, his fate entail? 

He had no idea. 

Kyiv was cold. But for now?

For now, he was warm. 

[bluemargotrobbie]

Seren e Ivar ( + Headmund)

Tras la captura de algunos guerreros ingleses, entre ellos , el Obispo Headmund que tras curarle las heridas. Seren empezó a pasar más tiempo con el sacerdote ..

Pero a Ivar no le empezó a gustar que su hermana se junte con cristiano..teniendo en cuenta que desde siempre Ivar y Seren son mejores amigos...

📚: 𝙈𝘼𝙎 𝘼𝙇𝙇𝘼 𝘿𝙀𝙇 𝘿𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙊 (publicado)

🖋: Sol_Andersen93 (wattpad)

🌎: Vikings

💌: Ragnar Lothbrock & Bjorn Ironside

👤: Elizabeth

[shadewood]

Его тело можно было сравнить с дикой местностью, красотой гор и берегов, целый земной шар, территория провокационных изгибов.

[baeaisling]

Bishop Heahmund is the best character in ages

[thunderfaucet]

Heathen & Christian

[mnzbrg]

something was in the air when i made this

[nothingtolosebutweight]

Give me Love, Give me Bruises

Pairing: Heahmund & Ivar Words:~2700[AO3] Warnings: None Note: It's been a while since I last wrote something. Bear with me :) Summary: A warrior bound by faith crosses paths with a fierce Viking prince, stirring desires he never dared to acknowledge. As loyalties blur and beliefs are tested, he’s forced to confront a truth that could change him forever.

Heahmund stood in front of a makeshift mirror, his fingers ghosting over his neck and collarbone down to his chest, tracing each purple-blue mark with a solemn reverence he had once reserved only for holy relics. Each bruise felt alive beneath his touch, radiating a warmth that pulled him back to the memories that had left them there. To him, they appeared almost like a map—a landscape of moments that had changed him.

His reflection gazed back at him, shadowed eyes from a sleepless night, lips slightly parted as he drew a shaky breath; and yet he felt more whole than he had ever felt in his life. The colors blooming across his skin—deep blue, faded purple, hints of tender red—were a language written not by pain, but by passion. These marks told a story different from the scars carved by war, a story he had never thought he would live, one that left him both shaken and strangely... fulfilled.

His body had been a map of scars long before he had ever set foot on Viking soil. Each cut, each welt, each thin line had once been a testament to his faith—a warrior-priest’s hard-won display of worth. From his earliest memory, Heahmund had been taught that his flesh was a vessel for God’s will, each wound a mark of his piety and devotion. He could almost hear his father’s rough, distant voice urging him to bear pain without flinching, to accept the suffering of this world so that he might earn a place in Heaven. As a child, he had risen before dawn on his family’s meager farm, hands blistered and raw from the land, already showing his devotion to hard work and, eventually, to God. His parents, poor and God-fearing, had spoken to him of destiny, duty, and the divine path that lay before those who served without question. "Faith demands strength," they’d said, and he’d clung to that belief like a lifeline, like a fire in the cold. Through the years, that fire had only grown fiercer, driving him to forsake comfort, to wield the sword as fiercely as he wielded the Word. Every scar was a reminder that he was a warrior not only in body, but in spirit. Every healed wound, every bloodied knuckle and bruised rib, whispered the same message: You are worthy of heaven. You are worthy of Him.

But heaven had, in recent years, so often felt out of reach, despite all his sacrifices. It had been as if each scar demanded more from him, as if he could never offer enough to feel truly worthy. He had been endlessly grasping at worth, only for it to slip through his fingers like water. And so, he had fought harder, prayed with greater fervor, punishing himself for every fleeting moment of doubt. Yet, deep down, Heahmund had known himself to be a sinner, perpetually drawn to the temptations of the flesh, unable to fully suppress his desires. This inner conflict gnawed at him, convincing him that there was something fundamentally wrong with him—that he could never be worthy enough, no matter how much he strived for purity. With these doubts, fueled by his sins, new scars and markings had only added to his body, enhancing the portrait of his devotion. His flesh had become a canvas where each act of self-flagellation and every attempt to punish his inadequacies left a fresh layer of pain. He had carried the weight of this shame in silence, believing that his constant struggle was the true price of his devotion, each misstep reinforcing his belief that he was destined to fall short of heaven’s grace.

But now, that old certainty seemed like a distant dream, a truth swallowed by the earth along with his old life. These fresh marks he bore now, scattered like small, hidden treasures, were no trophies of a righteous battle. They weren’t from swords or fists, but from the lips and teeth of a young man who should have been his sworn enemy—a person who had, against all reason, become something far more than that.

Ivar.

The young Viking prince, with his sharp smile and keener wit, had broken Heahmund in ways no enemy blade had ever been able to do.

Their first meeting was not long ago and still fresh in Heahmund's mind; it had been impactful. He had heard of Ivar long before—tales whispered among the townsfolk of a son of Ragnar, feared and despised by the Saxons for his cruelty and ruthlessness. But Heahmund hadn’t paid these stories much heed; he hadn’t let himself be influenced by the rumors. To him, Ivar was simply another heathen blasphemer, another enemy to be slain for God’s glory.

But when he had finally laid eyes on Ivar, he saw something far darker than mere tales had prepared him for. Ivar sat, blood-smeared and wild, before his chariot, shouting commands in his own tongue, his laughter sharp and unhinged, echoing over the battlefield. Even his warriors kept their distance, as if wary of a beast barely restrained. For a brief moment, Heahmund himself had felt the chill of dread, the feeling that the devil himself had come to drag them all into damnation.

A few days later, he was taken as a prisoner, humiliated by being stripped of his title, his armor, and his very purpose.

At first, Ivar had been every bit the taunting captor, relentless with his mocking words, his sharp-edged laughter echoing through the cell like a taunt from the devil himself. And yet, as the days passed, Heahmund had begun to notice the subtle shifts in Ivar’s tone, the way the jeers softened, curiosity creeping into the Viking’s gaze. What had once been disdain seemed to morph into something else, something more intimate and enticing that neither of them were able to name or ignore.

Heahmund could still feel the thrill of those quiet nights in his cell, each memory lingering like a taste he couldn’t rid himself of. He remembered those moments in the dark, the brief glances they stole when neither of them was supposed to be looking. There had been a strange, subtle heat in the air, a charge that neither would acknowledge, but neither could overlook either. And there were chuckles and laughter—hesitant at first, almost reluctant, as if admitting the other capable of humor would open a door best kept shut. In those late hours, when even the guards outside had fallen silent, it felt as if the world beyond had ceased to exist. Their voices filled the empty spaces where violence and death had once reigned, each word and shared glance like a whisper of a truth too dangerous to name.

He’d told himself it was just the strange bond between captor and captive, a temporary understanding created by his isolation and forced dependence. But each dawn that broke only left him feeling hollow, the daylight a jarring reminder of the boundaries that separated them. And yet, with each passing night, he found himself pulled deeper, left with questions that gnawed at him long after the silence returned. Why did he crave the sound of Ivar’s voice, the sweetness of his laughter that seemed to reach places Heahmund thought he’d long buried? Why did each of their conversations leave him restless, his heart beating like a war drum, though there was no fight to be had?

He’d noticed the way Ivar watched him, an intensity in those sharp blue eyes that felt like a hand reaching out, testing, waiting. When Ivar finally came to him and offered neither torture nor escape, but something like companionship, he agreed without a moment's hesitation, as if something deep within him had taken over his body in that instant. In that moment, he felt no doubt, only instinct guiding him forward, as if an inner voice compelled him to respond in a way he could no longer resist. That day he had been freed from his physical prison, but inside he still felt trapped, bound by this silent, unspoken longing for Ivar's attention, which had become as real to him as a cage.

Not long after regaining his freedom, he had begun to notice the subtle, seemingly accidental touches that passed between them. A hand brushing his arm as they walked side by side, fingers lingering on his shoulder, the ghost of warmth from Ivar’s palm that never seemed to fade. Each touch felt deliberate, testing, as if both were tracing the edges of something unspoken yet undeniable.

Over and over, he told himself it was nothing, a trick of his own longing, yet every glance they shared, every brush of skin left him questioning. Was he imagining this pull between them, seeing only what he craved to believe? Or was Ivar truly reaching out, challenging the silence that had settled between them? Each touch, each lingering look, felt like a promise just on the edge of words, and he had found himself caught between hope and doubt, unsure if he dared to believe what he felt growing between them.

His doubts vanished the night Ivar made the first bold, unyielding move, crossing the delicate line between them with a kiss that felt stolen, rough, and commanding. It wasn’t tender; it wasn’t soft. It was a fierce claim, a demand that drew Heahmund back into the dynamic of captor and captive, Ivar asserting his power while masking any trace of vulnerability behind the roughness of his lips. Yet, beneath that fierce exterior, he was able to sense the hesitation woven into Ivar's forceful kiss—a struggle for control that concealed an insecurity he dared not to show.

Instead of pulling back, he had answered that roughness with a gentle warmth, pressing forward and softening the kiss, letting his own guarded tenderness speak for him. He could feel Ivar’s surprise, a brief hesitation as if bracing himself for rejection. But as his touch lingered, a new kind of understanding had settled between them. Slowly, Ivar’s grip eased, the harsh edge giving way to something more genuine, until finally, his defenses softened, and he let the command fall away, meeting him with an openness that was as fragile as it was real.

In that moment, he realized that his yearning for Ivar’s affection was more than mere desire. He had been irresistibly drawn to this young man, this fierce spirit, in a way he had been unable to comprehend until now. It clashed with everything he had ever known, forcing him to question the very foundations of his beliefs about right and wrong.

That night, Ivar had branded him in a new way that no scar could. It was the Viking prince, his Viking prince, who had marked him again and again from that day on, as if staking his claim.

Now, in the stillness of their chamber, in front of the mirror, Heahmund looked at those bruises, not as evidence of conquest but of surrender—a willing surrender that, in all honesty, still frightened him far more than any battle.

"You are mine. You belong to me, now," Ivar had whispered last night while they’d shared the bed, his voice low and fierce. Those words had done something to him, tearing down walls he hadn’t known existed, leaving him exposed and yearning. It should have felt like a betrayal—to his faith, to the path he had carved out of duty. But it hadn’t.

It had felt right.

Heahmund's fingers lingered on a particularly dark spot at the base of his throat, the pain of which blossomed into warmth under his touch. It was a fresh mark. One of many that had been inflicted on him last night. They had argued, his words sharp, layered with the fear of something he still couldn’t name. Ivar had kissed him hard, fierce and unyielding to silence him and maybe also as if to remind him that he didn’t have to carry every burden alone. That he was allowed to feel, to need, to belong to someone other than the God he had served with such devotion.

But those kisses hadn’t stopped there. Ivar’s lips had wandered, trailing along his skin, marking him with purpose. Each bruise was a testament to their connection, every kiss placed with care and intent—words of affirmation, recognition, and desire whispered softly between them. Ivar had taken his time, ensuring each mark was deliberate, each caress imbued with a promise that Heahmund was worthy of love and belonging, far beyond what he had ever imagined.

Now, in the flickering candlelight, Heahmund began to see himself anew, with a clarity he hadn’t known before. The scars he once wore with pride now seemed meaningless, each one a reminder of a life spent in pursuit of something distant and unfulfilling. He had struggled all his life to prove himself to a God he had never seen, to chase after a heaven he would never touch, and for the first time, that pursuit felt agonizingly insignificant. Heahmund realized how much of himself he’d sacrificed to a calling that had only left him empty, bound by duty yet untouched by the very warmth he really craved. 

These new bruises—Ivar’s marks—spoke of intimacy, of vulnerability, of a love he had been told was sinful but which felt more sacred than any prayer he had ever uttered. This love had already filled the void inside him, however short a time, in a way that his faith had never done.

Heahmund looked back at his reflection, swallowing hard with realization as he traced another mark at the side of his chest. He saw the map of his rebirth, with the bruises forming the constellations of a new belief that he more and more dared to acknowledge. It was a creed of self-worth, of love given freely, not earned through pain or penance.

His voice broke the silence, a whisper barely above a breath. "I am worthy," he said, testing the words as if they might shatter on his tongue. "Not for what I suffer. But for what I… feel."

A part of him still recoiled, the teachings of a lifetime wrapping like chains around his heart. But another part of him—the part that Ivar had awakened with each touch and kiss—rose to meet those doubts. He was no longer simply a warrior, no longer merely a priest; he was a man who had dared to follow his own heart, straying from the path others had carved for him.

The creak of the door stirred Heahmund from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Ivar standing in the doorway, resting heavily on his crutch. A smirk tugged at his lips as he took in the sight of Heahmund in front of the mirror. 

"Admiring my handiwork, priest?" he teased, stepping closer until the scent of him, earthy and warm, filled the space between them.

Heahmund chuckled softly. "You could say that." He reached out a hand, offering support that Ivar accepted without hesitation.

"I'm far from finished," Ivar murmured, setting his crutch aside to trail his fingers over the bruises and marks scattered across Heahmund’s skin. His touch lingered, deliberate and intimate, as if he were contemplating where to leave the next trace of his affection.

Heahmund's gaze softened as he looked into Ivar's eyes, where he detected a depth of feeling—affection and tenderness mingling with an undeniable heat. "To be your canvas," he breathed, his voice low and gravelly, "would be my greatest honor."

As he leaned in, their lips met in a kiss, soft but certain. Not for the first time in Ivar’s presence, but now even stronger than before, Heahmund felt what it truly meant to belong, to have something worth fighting for without losing oneself. From now on, he knew he was fighting for something worth his soul, but not for a God who demanded ceaseless devotion. Instead, he was giving himself to a Viking who had taken his heart and made it his own.

Heahmund surrendered, not to faith, but to love—and in that surrender, he discovered the essence of his truest self.

[bloodeagled]

i love men covered in blood

[therealvikingstrash]

The Oath

Don't ask me how I ended up writing Ivar/Heahmund for the fifth Prompt Furs of @vikingsevents winter solstice, it just happened. Full fic is available on AO3, if you're logged in.

When the morning sun filtered through the dull glass window in York, Ivar woke slowly, almost sluggish from his dream. He was rapidly losing the memory of it and frowned in irritation as he noticed the empty spot beside him in bed. 

His hand glided over the space once inhabited and he saw the dust sparkle in the ray of sunlight hitting the furs with the movement. It was warm, but Ivar couldn't tell if the morning sun had warmed the surface or his lover had only just left.

[mymy4802]

I am like Ivar, I am a little bit obsessed with this man