#Hvitserk supports him tho

[not-that-syndrigast]

modern!ivar would either be the most popular asshole bastard or some weird ass lone wolf, nothing in between

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Prologue)

(Gif credit to @honestsycrets​)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Greek/Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: Like 7k, I’m sorry

Warnings: As usual, mentions and descriptions of blood, death, torture, injury and people being burnt alive. Mentions or allusions to rape. If there’s anything else I didn’t mention, please let me know. Fair warning that the Reader Character may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but please give her a chance.

A/N: So, in this universe, bc fuck Michael Hirst, Sigurd is alive (tho Ivar did throw the axe) but married and away, Bjorn is still somewhere sunny, and Dublin was founded in Saxon land by Hvitty, Ivar and Ubbe, but it is the latter the one in control, prompting Ivar to eventually return to Kattegat and take the throne form Lagertha (she is alive just like in the show, only Bjorn is not here -I like to think he would understand his brothers wanting to avenge Aslaug?- and Floki departed bc he didn’t want to have to choose between supporting the kid he raised and an old friend), leaving him as King, Ubbe as ruler of Dublin, Hvitserk in Kattegat for now like in the show, Bjorn getting a tan in the Mediterranean, and Sigurd alive and happy cause goddammit killing him was a stupid choice. Sorry and btw this isn’t my creation, this is based on some exchanges I saw on reddit and a lil bit of me lol)

The warrior hesitates before letting you enter the tent, but you do so quietly and without a word, like it is expected out of you, and the men discussing war take no notice of you as you slip into a seat and watch them discuss.

Narses, still in the armor of a Byzantine Strategus despite his back having been turned to the Empire for a long time, turns to look at you as you enter. He doesn’t say a word, but in his green eyes there’s a plea for you not to speak, one that you must obey with gritted teeth and bitten tongue.

He understands, and there’s relief in Narses’ eyes.

Your friend. Your confidante.

Your fool.

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his hands supporting most of his weight as he leans on the war table.

“Our numbers are strong enough to hold until support from Strepshire arrives.” The Christian you recognize as Leofric -a bishop? Cleric? You have no idea anymore- speaks, his voice not much unlike the sound of the Byzantine soldiers’ armor plates rustling together as they march down the streets, burning idols and slaying the poor fools that believed the Gods would save them.

“If we retreat, we can-…” Narses argues, but is quickly interrupted.

“You belong to us!” Leofric barks, and you startle at the sudden aggression, “You have made a deal, Greeks. You must honor it.”

“I am aware. I am also aware you Saxons would sacrifice everything for your revenge.” Narses scoffs back, interrupting the Saxon and your train of thought at the same time.

“You want the same, boy. Is it not why you insist on gaining our support?” Stithulf, the leader, states, leaning back on his chair and resting his hands on the back of his head.

His posture screams of arrogance, his young age of a boy with too much power, his scars of a monster eager to fight.

You could use someone like him leading your army. You have seen too many of the so-called soldiers in your home bend the knee to a false Emperor. Maybe you need a monster on your side, someone with the same thirst for blood Greece left you with, someone willing and able to bring the Gods down from the very Olympus for retribution.

And as he leans back he catches sight of you, his expression tightens into a scowl, and you discard the remote possibility.

Not only is he a Christian, the same brand of men that burned your home, your mother, and years later you as well; but he looks upon you like all you are to do is be one of more of virginal maidens for his strange pantheon.

“What is the witch doing here?” He asks out loud, and you swallow down the words you want to say, but still holding his gaze.

“She is to be my wife, I trust her advice.” Narses sentences, sending you a glance that you return with a grateful one of your own.

“I didn’t know you Greeks were ruled over by your women.”

“Greek women are the only ones to birth real men.” You quip before you can stop yourself, reminded with the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia of when your father told you those exact words.

“Is that what your Goddess tells you, Heathen?”

Even the cadence of Leofric’s voice is enough to get you to twist your lip as you turn your gaze to him, but he remains stoic, a quiet sort of anger bubbling behind his eyes. You could swear a small smile tugs at his lips, as if he truly believes a simple word is enough to silence you.

The loud interruption of Narses’ fists colliding with the table stops his mocking, and the man’s eyes shift to his Byzantine ally within a moment.

“Do not call her that.”

“It is not an insu-…” You start, but your friend turns to you once again, begging you in silence to keep quiet. Biting down a sigh, you lean back in your chair and return your eyes to the map.

A long way from home, setting tents alongside Christians, and shutting your mouth because a man told you to. For all the visions and counsel the Gods have sent you through the years, a word of what was to become of your integrity would have been appreciated.

The sound of the curtains of the tent flapping open and closed makes you lift your gaze from the map, and you see Stithulf’s retrieving back.

Narses sighs, not looking at you when he concedes, both to inform you and the rest of the Saxons and Arab mercenaries in the room,

“We will hold.”

A cold hand grips your heart and the names of the Goddesses you seek for guidance and comfort are at the tip of your tongue, shaped by your lips but never spoken.

The Christians leave you two alone, and you walk to the soldier hunched over the war table. Your native Greek feels like a soft song evoking nostalgia as it dances past your lips:

“You cannot…”

“Please, my love.”

Anger bubbles within you, and you stand up straighter as you meet his eyes, “Narses, the Varangians will overpower us, you know we lost too many already, the support from Ivar the Boneless’ incoming army will crush us, you know h-…”

“This is a matter of war, love, let me handle it.” Narses interrupts, to which you frown.

“I know of war Narses! And I know this is a foolish move!”

“Do you know how to lift a sword?” He retorts, a challenge in his voice that does not go unnoticed.

“I…” You clench your teeth, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I do not need to fight to…”

He laughs bitterly, interrupting you, “Are you hearing your own words?”

“Are you hearing yours? The Varangian King has a crown made of bones and blood, Narses, don’t be foolish. Athena rejoices when he wages war, his army carries her favor.” You spit out your words, trying to make him understand. Narses remains impassive, though, eyes on the map and jaw clenched tight.

“You cannot argue of battle if you have never-…”

You interrupt him with a scoff, pointing an accusing finger at him even when he doesn’t meet your eyes, “I do not need to know how to kill to know the Varangians will swallow you whole. And you’ll drag our people with you.”

At your last words, his head snaps up, eyes facing yours with ferocity and more than old anger, “What choice do I have, huh? We will freeze or starve come winter, we need to move for Eleusis soon!”

“Our people…” You start, but he interrupts you again.

“Our people chose to follow me, and they will.”

“They followed me, they believe in me,” You correct without hesitation, teeth bared, “You followed me, Narses, and I let you, because you promised me an army.”

For a second he hesitates, takes you in with what seem to be new eyes. He seems to have forgotten there’s more than a meek priestess to the woman he followed from Attica. He seems to forget the bloodied hands and hungry smile that greeted him when you gave him the choice to be at your side.

“And I followed you because I love you, because I believe in you!” He exclaims, making shame and regret churn at your insides. You deviate your eyes from his, gritting your teeth.

“I begged you not to force our people to fight against these Norsemen, and you didn’t listen,” You grit out after a few breaths, anger returning to your voice, “Where was your love, your trust, when you chose to ally with these…Christians?”

He takes one of your hands in his, and the touch feels cold.

“You must trust me with this,” He intreats, warm eyes looking for something in your own you don’t think he can find. “Can you trust me?” A small pause, and you taste your own regrets in your mouth, “Love me?”

You press your lips into a line, and because you cannot say anything else, because the lie has gone on for too long and you might as well offer a truth before you entreat your soul to Hades, you whisper,

“Once, I could have.”

But he shakes his head, fervent and certain as he finds your eyes again,

“I promised you Attica, and it will be yours.”

But his words are empty. You do not care for that kingdom if the people that you love are not alive and prospering in it.

“Pray to the Gods you are killed by the Varangians, old friend. I will sacrifice you to Hades myself if you dare return alive from the place you are condemning my people to die on.” You sentence, unable to keep from showing the curl of disgust in your lip, the ancient pain in your eyes.

Narses walks closer to you, eyes searching yours and hands on your shoulders. You clench your jaw. He is gentle, he always is. Gentle, but so were the men that held you as their brothers in arms dragged your mother out of that temple.

You take a step back, but Narses speaks still, ignoring your discomfort,

“These Christians care not for their God, they just want Ivar the Boneless and his brothers. We give them to Stithulf, and they will march for Eleusis with us.”

You shake your head as you watch him believe his own lies.

“Even if we succeed, you are exchanging one master for another, Narses.” The words are your farewell as you turn your back to him and walk towards the entrance of the tent.

____

You walk into your tent and are greeted with a language these Saxons want to have you killed for speaking. The tongue of savages, of barbarians, of Vikings.

“Did they threaten to burn you yet?” Sieghild asks, and you can hear the smile in her voice even if her back is turned to you as she tends to the fire.

“Narses and Stithulf command us to remain,” You confess instead, voice breaking, “Kattegat’s army will be here in a day’s time to aid Dublin’s, but we will not retreat.”

The gasp she lets out forces you to shut your eyes tight in hope of keeping the tears at bay.

You both remain silent for a few instants, and you let yourself fall to the log she brought as a seat. Taking a seat next to you, she places a motherly hand on your knee, squeezing lightly until you look back up at her.

Blueish ink traces ancient marks on the skin of her face, and she moves a lock of your hair away from your face, the rattling sounds of her bracelets and trinkets reaching your ears and filling you with a sense of nostalgia you have difficulty explaining.

“If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you.”

“This is not the war I will die fighting on!” You yell back, closing your hands into fists as they start shaking. “I will not see my people die fighting a cause not their own, Sieghild. I can’t.”

She takes your head in her hands gently, and, pressing cold lips to your forehead, she gives you the comfort only a mother can.

“Even if we die tomorrow, the Gods are with us. They have been close to you since your birth. You will understand soon.”

“I will certainly see Hades soon.” You smile bitterly, but Sieghild doesn’t falter.

“Then challenge his throne.” She states, and the feral, hungry, look in her eyes makes you think she is not speaking of your God.

You do not even believe in the same Gods, and yet Sieghild remains at your side, you at hers, since she found a crying child clutching a wooden carving of Persephone.

“They want me to give them up, but I won’t.” You argue stubbornly, as the red-haired woman cleans your face with a warm wet cloth. She smiles.

“Arguing about Gods is a matter for adults, little one,” She silences your next argument with a single finger, inked and painted like her face and arms. “They cannot make you believe in their God.”

“But…Mother’s altar, th-they…”

“Those are merely worldly things. The Christians fight with fire what Logi and Glöð themselves have created.”

“Who?”

She chuckles, fingers going through your hair and places a finger on your chest.

“Your faith, your legacy, remain here.”

And at dawn, when the men sound the horns and ready for a battle they must know will be lost, you whisper a prayer to Athena and Enyo, your heart griped tight by the cruel mistresses of Fate.

Even all the tales travelers and mercenaries told you about the army of Kattegat, the sheer strength, the flawless tactics, the barbarian-like warriors; none of that prepared you for the display of forces, however small considering his actual army, Ivar the Boneless has displayed before you.

You catch a glimpse of Narses and Stithulf approaching the King, you hear faintly of the Viking’s taunts.

“Narses is a fool.” You bite out, anger poisoning your voice even as tears clogging your throat make the words wobble.

“A Byzantine Strategus doesn’t fall without a fight, girl. Do not grant my countrymen their victory just yet.”

Even if you hide it as you lower your face, a surge of pride for the foolish warrior that followed you to the ends of the world makes a small smile blossom in your face.

“Do I hear you admitting us soft citizens stand a chance against your brutes, mother?” You mock with a smile, even as you discuss the imminent danger that the Norse men represent to you and your people. Maybe it’s because of the way Sieghild, with all her harshness and tough lessons, comforts you even facing death itself. Maybe it’s the Gods that have guided you your whole life embracing you as you near your descent to Hades.

She laughs, raspy and warm, as always. “I’m saying your boy may give the sons of Ragnar an entertainment.”

A crow flies overhead, cawing loudly and taking your gaze away from the soldiers ahead and into the sky. Something within you, something primal and asleep seems to follow its path in the skies with more than just your eyes.

“Odin is watching. History will be made today.” Sieghild whispers behind you, but you cannot take your gaze away from the black feathers as you answer.

“Apollo sends us an omen. The Gods do not favor us.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head as she rests a heavy hand on your shoulder

“Your Goddess surely revels in this, dear. The spilled blood of those who will be to arrive at her kingdom waters her flowers, after all."

Flashes of a life before chaos blossom behind your closed eyes, images of a life under the spring sun, of fertility festivals and your mother’s warm laughter as she honors the Daughter of Nature.

And for a second, with the warmth of nostalgia encompassing you, you want to argue that Persephone looks after life; but when your eyes open and all you see is war and cold, you realize maybe she wasn’t the one captured.

Maybe she was not a stolen maiden, but a bloodthirsty usurper.

“May she rejoice, then, and be merciful when we reach her Kingdom.” You whisper.

The war cries reach your ears before you can even see the warriors attack, but soon chaos follows the chariot, that marches not with the set pace of Apollo’s, but free and leaving chaos and death at its wake.

With a heavy weight on your stomach, you hold your place as the battle begins, the injured and dying falling back to the area you look after with Greek soldiers at your back, granting a safe haven for the fallen, either to give them another chance to fight or a merciful end.

_____

It’s been days and the Saxons still push for victory, despite the losses. And, despite their losses and bloodshed, the Vikings push ruthlessly for death.

The camp of healers you have set by the entrance of the woods is so filled with the stench of blood and death that you fear you will never be able to smell a flower again. The warriors come and go, the drachmas in their eyes or in their hands. Your heart dies a little with every familiar face you send off to Hades.

You are working on pressing down with the poultice of herbs to stop a soldier from bleeding from the wound on his back when you hear, past the yells and death and fighting, your name.

You would know that voice anywhere, and you leave the safety of the healing camp to follow the hoarse call.

Narses’ figure stumbles and crawls as he tries reaching you, and, not caring for battle, you run the space separating you. Your knees dig painfully into the earth as you kneel at his side, but the pain in your heart drowns it all.

“No, no, no,” You sob, shaking fingers tracing his bloodied cheeks as he gasps in pain in your arms. His eyes are focused on you, and you cannot deny him the answer of yours, even if battle still goes on around you. With another broken gasp, you whisper, “You fool, you fool.”

Galla calls your name from somewhere at your side, and you turn blind attention to her, murmuring to have people take him to the healers’ tent. She agrees, and you start to pull away from your childhood friend.

Narses opens his mouth to speak, but only blood pours out. You silence him with trembling fingers against his lips, granting the kiss you cannot. Your heart begs you to do something, anything, to keep him alive, to take away his pain, to…to…

But all you do is remain kneeling on the ground, and you cannot take your eyes off his shield. Splattered with blood and mud, left behind a few feet away from you, on the cold and unrelenting earth.

Your mother’s last words to your father, you remember them as if it were yesterday, as if you could still see the warmth in her gaze, the hardened adoration in his. Her delicate hands offering him the shield with Sparta’s symbol on it as he prepared to storm Macedonia, her words a murmur that meant come back to us, my love even when her sentence was other.

Return home with it, or on it.

With it, or on it. With it, or on it. With it, or on it.

But Narses never returned home, none of you ever did. He never returned home, he didn’t die for your home, he died for…for…

You hear hurried footsteps coming towards you, the feeling of having Varangian eyes on you makes you turn just in time to see the warrior approaching. You grab Narses’ shield from the ground, moving as fast as you can to guard your back and block the Viking’s strike with the metal shield.

It is sheer anger and grief, nothing more than the desire to hurt back, that pushes you to take an arrow from the quiver at your back and drive it through the warrior’s knee with your bloodied hand.

He falters, stumbling away from you, but you don’t let go, holding on tightly to the shaft of the arrow and inflicting as much pain as you can. When he finally hits the ground with his back, you crawl over him, sitting on his stomach and bashing his face with the shield.

With your weight upon him, his axe cannot find a home in your skin and instead meets the shield. Over and over, metal meets metal. With a growl, the Viking lets go of it and grabs your hair, pulling roughly and forcing your blows in his face to stop.

You let go of the shield, and your eyes focus on the skies above for a moment before you find the strength to fight.

A yell leaves your lips, and your hungry teeth find the tender skin at the inside of his arm, forcing him to let go of your hair. Blood fills your mouth and almost makes you gag. You spit the flesh from your mouth and with a snarl you drive another arrow through his eye.

He screams as your whole weight leans on the arrow, making sure the projectile you use as a spear kills fast. Your hands keep slipping from the shaft as the blood you have tried to keep from spilling and the blood you have spilled wets your hands.

When he finally stops moving, you know you should feel nothing but emptiness and dread.

Looking with frantic eyes for Narses and Galla, you find him being carried by two of his soldiers back to the tent. You should follow, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

You look down at your dress. Red, the color of a bride’s veil, stained with the blood of the man you just killed. Your ears ring, your eyes cloud with tears as you realize what you have done, and you scurry away from the corpse as if your breath cannot get into your chest because of your proximity to him…to it.

You know what you should feel, you know what a Priestess, a woman, ought to feel at the sight of death, you know. But dread and horror are not the only things you feel. A part of you is satiated, like a snake curling satisfied and vindicated after injecting its poison; you taste the blood and feel alive.

When you lift your gaze to the battle again, you catch the eyes of the Varangian King. You know who he is, you have heard the tales and even without the chariot he sits on you would still recognize the eyes of the man that rules over Kattegat.

Ivar the Boneless.

He looks at you for a few moments, and you fear he is to call for his men or kill you himself, but he doesn’t. A slow, cruel, ruthless smile starts curving at his bloodthirsty lips, and when he regards you, you feel he can see through your eyes and into whatever it is that made you kill that man.

He lifts his arm not on the reins, bloodied axe held in his hand and slowly, with the same terrifying grin still on his lips, the King points towards you and grants you a curt bow of his head. If it’s a recognition of your kill, a promise to kill you himself, or something else, you cannot know.

You scurry back to the woods, fearing an axe to your back that never comes.

____

Whatever advantage the Christians were so sure to have quickly dissolves like mist, and within days the Vikings push forward with no regard for the lines your people or your unwanted masters wanted to protect.

There’s three injured men under your care when you hear the warning that a group of enemies is coming your way. A quick glance towards Galla, the childhood friend that followed you from Eleusis into this cold hell lets her know what to do.

Her dark eyes fill with understanding before you can even utter a word.

“Lift them up, we are retreating.” She barks at the other soldiers, bow held tightly in her hand betraying her fear, her pain. The men accompanying her hesitate, looking at you for a second before turning to her.

“I may not be able to fight like a Strategus, but I can distract them enough for you to run.”

“Our people…” One of them starts, but you interrupt with a shake of your head, reaching forward with a courage you do not believe to truly possess and take his sword from its holster.

“Our people live on in you,” You promise, and even as your voice wavers you still try not to show how fear grips at your throat or how unbalanced you are with the new weight in your hands. Galla’s eyes lock with yours, and you give her a nod, “Go.”

I pray you find Sieghild on your way out of this slaughter.

“You better make it out alive.” She threatens in good will, and you find yourself smiling. Just before she is to take off with the others, you call out.

“Galla,” You hesitate, feeling like asking to deploy this would be an acceptance of your death. Still, you take a deep breath and say, “Once the dust settles, send some of your people to Thebes, Constantinople and Sparta.”

“What for?” She asks, but in her tone you can hear she understands your words: she is to protect your people, she is to lead them. Because you will not be alive to do so.

“You’ll need spies. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with them.” You sentence, and after a moment of hesitation you hear the girl’s footsteps fading behind you.

Galla’s hoarse yells in Greek to call your people to retreat become the rhythm at which you let loose arrows to find the Viking warriors. You tell yourself it’s just like hunting deer, you tell yourself it is not men and women you kill. Brothers, sisters, friends, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.

You tell yourself it is just like hunting, but the tears clogging at your throat and making pain and rage accompany your moves as you let the arrows loose show you that you don’t believe your own lies.

It doesn’t matter how fast you move, how efficient your shots are, there will always be more of them. And you know this, and fear has a cold grip on your heart, even as you continue trying to take out any straggler that chases after the retreating Greeks.

So, the bodies dropping and the injured yells bring the attention to you, and you buy Galla and the others as much time as you have arrows and legs to run on.

Running helps when the Vikings can be distracted by something else, but after you took down some of his countrymen, this warrior seems to only have eyes for you. You scramble to lift the sword you took from your warrior before they took off, and, cornered as you are, you are forced to face the offending Viking.

The Viking strikes first, but you block his attack with the sword. The blunt force of his swing makes it so that the axe stops just shy of the intended blow to your head, opening a deep cut on your forehead as it is slowed by the sword.

Wincing past the pain you hold your ground, facing the hungry gaze of the warrior with your own, although you are forced to close one of your eyes as the blood from the cut in your forehead starts dripping down your face.

The man’s attack has failed, but he smirks, though, before wrenching the weapon from your hands with a twist of his axe.

You can do nothing but stumble back, you Goddess’ name on your lips as you face him with wide eyes.

He mutters something in his own language before discarding your sword and moving to strike again. This time you are defenseless, and can only step back and try and dodge his continuous blows with increasing panic.

Blood, probably his own and his enemy’s, stains his mouth, his face, his hands. He still smiles, and you wonder if bloodthirst becomes more literal than what Sieghild explained in her tales of her people.

His movements stop suddenly, though, and he falls limply to the ground, a small axe protruding from the back of his head.

“I told you you’d need to know how to fight, little one,” Sieghild boasts as she approaches you. The axe leaving the dead man’s skull makes a horrible sound, but she’s not bothered by it, choosing instead to say, “Even you Greeks must see the advantage of fighting like a Viking.”

An arrow in his knee, you feel the iron piercing the muscle, the bone, the tendons. The edge of the shield breaking the bones in his face, the sound it makes. Screams of pain, that you silence with another arrow in the eye.

The King’s hungry smile when he spared you.

You shake your head, returning your thoughts back to the moment, and regard the woman in front of you with a smile.

“Galla told me you chose to stay behind.” She states, and years knowing her let you know of the reprimand shining past the gruff tone. Her hand, bloodied as it is, reaches for the cut in your forehead, inspecting it with the eyes of someone that saw countless wounds and fought in countless wars.

“I wanted to distract the warriors from the path they took.” You offer in explanation.

“For someone so…small you sure take a lot of risks, my child.” She sighs. You’re about to answer when the thrumming of the ground underneath your feet stops you. Sieghild’s movements stop, your breath dies in your lungs.

Bees swarming. You remember an Arab merchant telling you about Varangian armies, and he spoke of chaos and deadliness and bloodthirst. And as you watch the Varangians flank the battlefield, archers at the ready, warriors beating their shields, while the King that crossed the sea to assist his brother commands them to hold with a single gesture; you cannot help but think why didn’t the merchant talk about the grace of it all, the beauty in the blood.

“That boy carries his father’s cleverness with him. And his mother’s favor.” Sieghild mutters in the strange calm that settles as Ivar the Boneless and his brothers taunt Stithulf, dare him to continue the fight and face certain death or retreat.

“You knew that before.”

“So did you. You tried to warn Narses against facing him, little one.” She says, and the name makes a pit of guilt and grief form in your heart.

“Maybe my warnings are the reason he is dead now.” You bite out, voice quivering and eyes burning.

The shieldmaiden turns to you, lips parted and eyes wide. You offer her a nod and a tight-lipped smile, a small sign that it is okay, that…that it is Fate.

You promised Narses you’d kill him yourself for sending your people to die, and grief and pain do not stray you from that resolve. He sentenced your people to die at the hands of these Varangians, it is only right he leads them to the Underworld.

It doesn’t help the pit of pain and absence and fear and cold that forms at your chest, but…but it makes it easier to burden.

Murmured words in Norse startle you out of your thoughts, and you find Sieghild’s eyes still on you, expression still stunned and in a mix of awe and terror.

“When the last of the chains of nostalgia fades away even as she clutches it in her arms.”

“What did you say, mother?” You ask, taking a small step closer and looking into her eyes searching for any answer.

But the shieldmaiden is quick to put on a smile on her face,

“You told me before you had no interest in what Lady Freyja has to tell me, little one.” She mocks, but there’s a shadow in her expression, a strange darkness looming behind her eyes.

A familiar one.

“You are the one that taught me-…”

“I taught you to be your own woman!” The Varangian roars, and for the first time you realize exactly the kind of fire the women from her homeland have, that made them capable and free. “I taught my daughter better than this!”

“What choice do I have? We need the support from Narses’ army, we need someone to lead the men into battle the way I know will grant us victory!”

Two long strides, and the tall and imposing shieldmaiden is standing before you, a mix of reluctant softness and angry stoicism in her inked face.

“You fight. You fight against the notions these men have about you, you fight against that boy that only listens to what you have to say when you promise him love in exchange,” Her green eyes burn into yours, “You fight, little one. That’s what I taught you to do, what you were born to do.”

“Narses is a good man, mother. I will not fight him.” You reply, as calmly as you can even as your chest caves under a strange pressure, as evenly as you can even if the words leaving your lips taste like lies.

“You wouldn’t give your love without a fight though, minn dóttir.” Her hand grasps at your chin, and there’s a strange storm in her gaze, “I won’t lose my daughter to that boy’s whims.”

“I am not lost to any man.”

Her lips curve into a smile, a little savage, a little Viking.

“I know. You are my daughter, after all.”

“He was a good man, mother.” You offer quietly, and even if the binds to Narses, the binds you set on yourself and your mother hated the most, are gone, there’s still the same dark desperation, that same stubbornness you saw in her eyes that day you told her about your choice to marry him.

“Not good enough,” Is all she replies, and her eyes focus somewhere past the two of you, on the center of the battlefield where everything seems to have stopped. Sieghild sighs, “And your Gods and mine know that, little one. Your Mistress may have touched your soul, but Freyja lays claim to your heart.”

With your eyes on the thick of battle, you watch Stithulf and his trusted men lay down their weapons, and slowly retreat. You have been defeated.

____

“I told you only death would follow,” You say, your back against the foot of a table as you sit on the cold ground, your bloodied hands in your lap, motionless. You allow yourself a small laugh, manic and broken as it is, “You fought for so long, sacrificed so much, and you couldn’t even make the Varangian King bleed.”

You followed the Saxons back to their decadent city, and now sit past their walls awaiting the death that will follow. The city may have held for long enough that the Saxons could secure an escape, back when your people were with them and they didn’t have more corpses than soldiers.

But now, now it is just a matter of time before the Varangians return to finish it all.

Stithulf turns to you, cold fury shining past his gaze, but you hold his stare. The man walks over to you, armor rustling and making a sound that rings in the ears that have heard nothing but war for so long now.

He bends down to be at your level, face close to yours and lips set on a snarl.

“You ordered your people to pull back.” He accuses, but you shrug in response.

The pretense of what a good little fucking woman you ought to be to make these fools content with their idea of supremacy is long gone from your mind. You will die without masks, and if it means earning a few deserved hits from these Saxons for not shutting your mouth, then so be it.

“It was never our war, Christian.”

“Where have they gone to!?” He asks, ignoring your words. His fascination with how the Greek forces work shines through his bloodthirst and anger as he regards you. You know the reason why he went to Narses for an allegiance in the first place is because of the tactics, the fighting style, of your people; and you know he longed to make them a part of his own army.

But you will leave your own under the boot of a Christian the day Persephone calls for your soul to become one of her Furies.

“You will never find them.” You promise through a tired and battle-worn smile, morbidly delighting yourself in the way he seems to grow more enraged.

“How are you so certain?”

“The Varangians, Vikings, will find us first. They will kill us all, and you know this.” You sentence, standing up. You cannot help it when your eyes fixate themselves on the drying blood staining your hands.

You wish you could say most of it was Christian, or even Varangian.

But no, the blood of Greeks stains your hands. The blood of thousands, even if only less than eight hundred died today.

“And why are you so certain?”

“If you had retreated before that King came from across the sea-…”

“Narses told us your mother is Viking, how are we certain you did not plan this, plan to betray us?” One of his trusted men speaks out, limping from his place by the war table. You watch the deep and bloodied gash in his thigh, wondering why that old man survives being incapacitated while in battle but Narses is to fall.

You shake your head mutely before offering him a hollow chuckle.

“Me betraying you would imply I ever faked loyalty for you, or pretended to care for your survival.”

“You live, witch. Any sane man would question why.”

“You think…what? That I have helped any of the sons of Ragnar defeat you?” You let out a small laugh. “No, I did not. I will not let you blame me for your own weakness.”

You move to leave the tent, but Stithulf’s hand wraps around your arm. His voice is low when he speaks.

“If you tell your soldiers to fight with us, I can-…”

“I am not Narses, you cannot fool me with empty promises,” You interrupt, wrenching your arm from his grasp. Less than two hundred Greek warriors still remain in this city, and the Saxon wants still for every last drop of their blood. “The Greeks that remain here will not die quietly, but do not fool yourself into thinking you can ever command them.”

He stalks even closer, looming over you with enraged factions, and you cannot help the pang of fear that the murderous intent in his eyes sends through you.

His sword leaving its holster startles the room of men into silence, and you feel their attention set on the two of you. The blade finds a home right under your chin, piercing mildly at the soft skin.

Your breath quickens in fear, and when you swallow past your dry throat you feel the tip of the sword inflicting sharp pain in your neck.

Stithulf smiles darkly, “I could kill you now and leave them leaderless, heathen.”

But you refuse to let him see the fear in your eyes, instead promising, “Make me a martyr and you will not survive the night, Christian. The Greeks will kill and die for me.”

Even as you leave the tent behind, you hear the heavy footsteps of the Saxon behind you. A call of your name, and you stop. Not your title -Anassa, Hiereiai-, not an insult -heathen, pagan-, not your lineage -Daughter of Athens, Daughter of Sparta-. Your name.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done so in front of your men.” You state without turning around, and the Christian reaches your side with his sword holstered.

“I don’t want to kill you,” He insists, shaking his head, “But I should do it regardless. You are a smart woman, which makes you dangerous.”

Not even a muzzle would keep your next words from leaving your lips, “Dangerous? Is a man dangerous for being knowledgeable?”

“If he has nothing to lose, like you, yes.”

“What are you saying, Stithulf?”

The Saxon sighs, an act of regret and humanity you don’t believe for a moment.

“I’m saying you should know that you have forced my hand, Greek, that I had every intention to have you wage war alongside us, had you chosen to do so.

_____

Hi, I’m kinda amazed you got this far down lol, but thank you so much for reading! This is one of the first projects in a while that I am really loving to write, and I hope you like it!

Please let me know what you think, I am one needy fuck when it comes to feedback :)

[peaceisadirtyword]

LOL and of course Freydis is cheating on Ivar 😂😏 I hope he’s humiliated. It’s what his dumbass deserves. I hope YN isn’t the one to tell him though. I hope someone else tells/shows him and he can’t stupidly accuse them of lying. It would be hilarious if sometime in the future Ivar ever tells her “I was fooled. She wasn’t who I thought. She cheated” and YN can be like “yeahhh 😬...I knew btw. I saw her.” And if Ivar has the nerve to bitch about her not saying anything she can promptly tell him to go to hell, it wasn’t her business anymore, he wouldn’t have believed her anyway, and he’s the idiot who wanted Freydis and he got her. It wasn’t YN responsibility to look after him or insert herself in his business anymore 🤷🏽‍♀️. I do agree that he doesn’t deserve any more of her time or energy. I have so much compassion for the pain YN is in and want her to take her time healing, however I don’t want her subjecting herself to anymore opportunities for Ivar to prove he’s an ass and hurt her. Like checking up on him. She needs to have more pride for herself. And I was proud of YN for living a little dangerously 😈 good for her and Hvitserk! But Torvi was acting like an ass 😡 and it really pissed me off! YN didn’t do anything wrong and Torvi had no right to tell her that just because she’s hurt she shouldn’t hurt Alfred. YN never knew about his feelings and she’s going through enough, she doesn’t need Torvi piling on with that insensitive bullsh**. And good for YN for standing up for herself!!! 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽 YNs had enough of being walked on! She really had some nerve lecturing YN but did she lift a finger to protect her when Ivar started with his behavior? Or look out for YN when Freydis got invited to this girls night? Girl please. Also, YN, delete his number! Great chapter! Thank you for updating! It was great! Don’t be so hard on yourself! 💕

Yeah😭 I felt so bad writing that! And I feel bad for Freydis because I always write her like this :( (I'm planning to write something with a nice Freydis too😌) but this things can happen when you break a long time relationship and immediately start dating someone you barely know, @ Ivar!😒 maybe Y/N will tell him because she’s too nice, or maybe someone else will tell him 👀 but we know Ivar is a bit dumb when it comes to Freydis’ stuff, so who knows what will happen😭

You’re right, tho, Y/N should stop worrying about him and just focus on herself, it’s none of her business and Ivar would probably be defensive towards her, thinking she’s “jealous” or something like that💀 God, I just want Hvitserk to hit Ivar or something! I nearly included the scene in which Ivar finds out Hvitserk slept with her😈 but I prefer to wait, it will be worth it👀 

The Torvi thing really pissed me off too :( I love Torvi but she keeps trying to put Y/N and Alfred together without really giving her some time, I don't think she’s ready for another relationship so soon! And she’s like really used to being hurt and tossed around like a toy and should just stand up for herself and think less about other people. Like Y/N, honey, Ivar’s an asshole, he doesn’t deserve you, you’re amazing, we support you, delete his number, forget about him and be happy🥰 (this is for Y/N and for every single person on her same situation😂).

Thank you so much love! I'm glad you liked it♥️

Ivar we still love you, it’s just that we’re team Hvitserk on this one, sweetie

[rhabakoli]

Targets On Our Backs - Part 5

Fair warning: It gets a bit bloody towards the end.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 

My husband and Lord Barth discussed in our chambers, I was there. They say, he is going crazy from fear, due to a failed attack. I think it is very much possible.

“I will kill him.” Hvitserk shook his head, still not used to hearing this from you. He tapped his fingers against the table, the sound of it aggravating you. “I don’t think you’ll get a chance. Ivar will be faster.” “No, he won’t. I won’t let him.” Hvitserk scoffed. “Yeah, sure. I somehow doubt he’ll listen to you.” “He will have to.” You paced through the map room, from the door to the window, and back. Hvitserks fingers tapped faster now and you couldn’t stand it anymore. With long steps, you strode over and slapped a hand over his, effectively stilling the motion. “Stop that.” 

His eyes were big, surprise and a smidge of dread in them. “I still don’t think Ivar will give you a choice. He is unpredictable and wild; you can’t control him.” “I don’t need to control him, Hvitserk. I just need him to hold back.” Hvitserk stood up now, the chair making a horrible ruckus as he moved it back. “That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you since you arrived here, Y/N! He can’t hold back. He needs it, the blood! He is a murdering bastard of a man, how can you-” “Hvitserk!” “No, you need to listen to me-” You had enough. You straightened up and pushed him hard enough to make him step back. “No, you need to listen. My brother tormented me for years. He sold me to a viking, a barbarian, who most likely would use me and then throw away, or so he thought. He was willing to give me to a monster, just to save his own skin. He let his men say about me whatever they wanted, he even silently encouraged them. He hurt my best friend. He tried to kill my husband. He killed my first child, in my womb. It didn’t even get to receive a name!” You poked his chest, repeatedly. Your voice echoed through the room and you were sure you’d be heard outside as well. “He sent an assassin to try and kill my child, again, and he almost succeeded. He still tormends me, he still does not consider me a threat. Edgard will realize his mistake. I am his worst nightmare, and he will regret every decision he ever made in his worthless, pathetic life, up to that moment.” You lowered your voice and took a step back. “This is personal. Killing him will be the only closure I am able to have, and I will get it. Ivar knows that. He understands, which is exactly why he’s not going to kill him.” Hvitserk stared at you, taken aback and speechless, as you left the room.

Ivar was talking to a messenger, when you entered the Great Hall. Ragnar sat in his lap, one hand clutched around a braid that was falling over his father’s shoulder. When he saw you, he gargled happily and reached towards you with the other. “Can we be sure?” “Yes, my King.” Ivar nodded, and the messenger left, after presenting you a quick, respectful bow. “Hvitserk finally annoyed you enough to snap at him, it seems?” You sat down with a groan and stroked over your sons fluffy head. “You heard?” “Not word for word. But I do recognize your angry voice.” He moved his hand from your child's belly to poke his cheek and smiled softly, when Ragnar leaned to the side, giggling loudly. “What did he say?” If you told him, he’d probably get angry and come up with some elaborate plan to potentially hurt Hvitserk. On the other hand, he won’t stop asking, you knew your husband well enough. “Oh, same old. You’re a monster and I am a dainty flower.” “He is delirious, if he still thinks you are harmless.” He looked at the top of your throne. “You have a falcon, for Odins sake!” Eitr was sitting on the top of your seat, her talons leaving marks in the wood. At Ivar’s words, she looked at him, before letting out a raw coo and flapped her wings. Sometimes you thought she understood too much, for an animal. “He just wants to believe I am still innocent and sweet.” Ivar managed to keep his voice light, even when his smirk betrayed him. “We both know you’re far from innocent, wife. Have been for long now.” “We also both know, that you haven’t been that experienced as everyone thinks, husband.” “Y/N. you wound me.” “You like it, don’t play the victim.” Ragnar pulled at Ivars fingers with his tiny ones and kicked his legs, struggling against his father’s restricting hands. With a sigh, you stood up and took him, just to set him down into the furs again. Immediately, he was burrowing his hands happily into the softness, letting out a high squee. “He is so uncomplicated, he doesn’t have that from either of us.” “Are you saying I’m complicated?” Your husband’s voice sounded offended as could be, he even dared to look the part. “It took you almost a year to admit you actually like me, you goose.” With an eye on your son, you leaned closer to Ivar. “What did the messenger want?” “Oh. They have found a boat at the coast and what seems like a camp base. Big enough to house at least 5 people. It’s on the other side of the mountain, about a day’s ride away. We will have to go take a look, but we can assume it’s your brothers.” At least 5 people. You fixed your eyes on Ragnar, a dark mood creeping through the hall. Eitr felt it and started to fuss, flapping her wings and letting out small noises. “Where are the other 4 then?” “Bjorn and Ubbe are out looking for them.” You nodded. Good. If they were found, you’d have proper proof and plausible cause to attack your brothers holdings. “I want them found and brought in. No one is to hurt them, until I get to them.” Even Ivar was surprised at the coldness of your whole demeanor, but nodded and gestured a guard to deliver a message.

You’ve been hovering over your son the entire day, waiting for your brothers men to strike. Gala and Bree were by your side, Bree reading another letter from Aethel, a little status update, if you will, and Gala was sorting through furs and sheets. It was getting colder, and you didn’t want the more poorer inhabitants of Kattegat to freeze at night. In your years in Kattegat, you have accumulated a many furs, you couldn’t even hope to use them all in one winter. “Gala, the big, black one can go as well. I saw a pregnant woman in the market the other day, she didn’t seem like she has enough warm clothes.” Gala nodded, and placed the fur on the assigned pile. “When will we distribute them?” “Just this afternoon, when Bjorn is back.” You turned to Bree. “I’ll leave Ragnar with the both of you, I don’t want him to be too exposed. Ivar has a meeting, and I don’t know where Ubbe will be.” “What about Hvitserk?”, Gala asked. You turned to her, a slight smirk on your lips. “I am sure, he’ll be found strolling around Kattegat as well, dear.” Gala smiled, and went back to her work, now humming a song under her breath. Bree and you grinned at each other, knowing too well how Gala felt.

The door opened, and Bjorn’s tall figure stepped in. “There you are.” Waving at you and Gala, he strode over to where Bree was seated in a chair. She looked up at him and her face lit up in a split second, as he placed his hands on the armrests and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips. “I missed you.” “Mhm.” Bree pulled him back onto her lips with a giggle. You simply shook your head, but when you saw Galas embarrassed read face, your cleared your throat. “There are easily impressionable children in attendance, you know?” Bjorn turned his head and looked you over. “I didn’t know you were still a child.” Bree slapped his chest with the back of her hand. “Stop it.” He stopped her hand and lightly bit her palm. “Never.” “That’s it.” You threw a pillow at the both of them. “You two are disgustingly cute, would you please stop?” The eldest Ragnarsson straightened and leaned back onto the table, arms crossed in front of his chest. “We found the campsite. But there was no sign of life, they seem to have abandoned it.” “But the boat was still there?” You could see Gala halt in her movements, as you asked this. “Yes. They are still around.” “Y/N.” Concern was etched into your friends face. “Will it be safe to go around? Maybe we should let the guards distribute the furs.” “I refuse to let a bunch of bastards keep me from my duties.” You went over to her, stroking her hair back and assuring her: “We’ll be in company. Hvitserk is surely more than willing to join us. And I’ll leave Ragnar in good hands, he’ll be even safer.” Bree nodded, serious and tense in face of the news. “We won’t let him out of our sight.” Even though Bjorn didn’t know about this, he still agreed without hesitating. Gala seemed a little less concerned, but not calm. “I’ll bring my dagger and knives, just in case.” That didn’t seem to help, for some reason.

Hvitserk did indeed agree to join you, even tho he was definitely falling back and kept walking by Galas side, stealthily pushing the other market goers away, when they came too close for his taste. Your friend had a healthy color to her face, which you did not attribute to the cold. The pregnant lady was seated at her stand, wrapped in thin fabrics and looking as if she just barely managed not to shake. “Gala, come.” You could see the woman’s eyes grow big, when she realized you were on your way over. Hastily, she got up, supporting her big belly with a hand. Quickly, you went behind the table to help. “No, please, take a seat. I am just bringing some furs for you.” “But, my Queen-”

“Ah.” You raised a hand, silencing her. “I saw you the other day, you seemed cold. It is getting colder every night and I wouldn’t want anyone to freeze.” Gala reached over and handed you the black fur. Thanking her, you unfolded it and tucked it around the flimsily covered shoulders. “What’s your name?” “Dagheid, my Queen.” She was still watching you in amazement. You flattened the fur and smiled at her. “Those furs are a present. I will be mightily insulted, if you’d wish to refuse them.” Dagheids hand came up in a flurry, her head shaking as well. “No, my Queen, I wouldn’t dream of it.” “I am glad, then.” You took her hands and held them between yours. “If you know of anyone else who’s suffering in this cold, be sure to send them to me. I am sure, I’ll be able to resolve the problem.” Dagheid nodded. “I will. Thank you, my Queen.” Gala laid two more furs into her lap, when you gestured to her. Dagheid didn’t seem to know what to say, so she simply bowed her head in gratitude. You made your round through Kattegat, distributing furs and listening to the peoples worries. Just when you were talking to an elderly man with a bad cough, promising him to send a physician over with a remedy, Hvitserk stepped closer and lowered his voice to a murmur. “We’re being followed, Princess.” A slight turn of your head towards him indicated that you heard him. “Tall, short dark hair, face like a babies butt.” He scoffed. “Whoever it is your brother sent, they do not know how to blend in.” You nodded, said your goodbye to the elderly and started walking back towards the Great Hall. Hvitserk kept behind you, a hand to Galas back, who looked scared out of her wits and walked at a brisk pace, shoulders pulled up and hunched over. He pulled her closer and whispered into her ear, whereupon she tried to relax her stance. When your name was called, you closed your eyes for a split moment and prayed to Freyja. Hvitserk whirled around, sword drawn already, and stepped in front of you and Gala. Said baby-faced man stood behind you, face filled with fury and a dagger in his hand. It seemed a ridiculous to you. Who in their right mind would attack you, when you were so obviously in company of a Ragnarsson? Especially when they seemed to be sneaky enough to worm their way into a Kings bedchambers? Ice-cold fear gripped you, when realization hit you. Now you were so very glad, that Eitr had stayed back with your son. “It’s a diversion.” Hvitserk nodded, eyes on the attacker, but still scouting the surroundings. A noise behind you made you twist around, barely managing to avoid the blade coming towards you. Hvitserk cursed, pulled his axe and threw it, splitting one attackers head, before he came around and blocked another blow meant to impale your heart, with his sword.

“Run.” He didn’t need to say that twice. Grabbing Galas hand, you started running. Just when you thought you were in the clear, a broad chest stopped you. Gala let out a scream, as you almost fell to the floor. “Look who we have here.” You looked up at the man before you, his scarred face and his grim smile. “How kind of you to run into my arms like that. Definitely makes my job easier.” One big paw of his came up to your neck and held you, giving you little room to watch your surroundings, or even just look at Gala. “Gala, run.” The poor terrified girl stood there, trembling all over, but she still dared to object. “But-” “I said run.” The man before you didn’t seem to be in a hurry, which placated you, in a way. Maybe you could find a way to stop this. When she still did not move, you raised your voice, using every ounce of royalty you had in you. “That was an order, servant!” Finally, she moved, taking off in a speed that made her slip on the floor. Hopefully she wasn’t going to fall and break her neck, before she reached the great hall. Your assailant chuckled darkly. “How selfless of you. I didn’t know King Edgards sister was so sweet.” He brought his ugly face closer to yours. “Maybe I should take a bite out of you, before I end your life.” His free hand trailed down your cleavage, fingers moving to unlace the front. You clenched your jaw and slowly moved your hand to your belt, all the while thanking the gods for your cloak. He was so focused on unwrapping his victim, that he didn’t notice the movement under the fabric covering your arms. His fingers found the end of the laces, now pulling and grunting, as they didn’t give right away. You grabbed at his wrist, trying to stop him, which made him tighten his grip on your neck, thumb pressing against your chin to lift your head and making this whole position even more uncomfortable for you. “They said, you’d be more like a savage than a good christian woman.” The sound of laces snapping filled the air. “I think there might have been a mistake.” “I don’t.” Before he had time to react, you ripped your dagger out of its sheath and slashed it across his stomach. Gasping, he looked down at himself, his grip on you loosening. The hand previously on your front let go and pressed to his guts, coming away bloody. You used his distraction to advance once more, stabbing upwards into his armpit and twisting. He screamed, falling to his knees and weakly grasping at your hand. The fury sat tight in your belly, making you feel like you could survive anything, making you breathe fire. So, you leaned forward and hissed into his ear: “You can tell my brother about this, when you meet him in hell. You shall never get to find peace on the side of your Lord Saviour, you piece of shit. You will rot in purgatory, haunted by your sins and wrongdoings, until you go crazy and then even longer.” You twisted your dagger again, pulling a groan from his lips. “Your family won’t find your body, they’ll never see you again, and your head shall be a fitting present for my brother.” A hand in his hair, your brought his head back, watching pain flicker in his eyes, as you ripped the dagger out, towards you, cutting through more flesh in the process. “You should have taken that ship home, when you had the chance.” His hands came up, trying to wrap around your neck, but his blood made them slippery and he was too weak to get a good grip. He gasped and simply fell over into the dirt, when you gave him a rough shove. Your hands were bloody, your dominant hand was still holding the dagger, blood soaking into the sleeve of your dress, the hems of your cloak. There was also blood around your neck, streaks of it adorning your skin, drops of it having found their way to your cleavage, staining your dress there as well. “Y/N!” Hvitserk came to a stop by you, bloodied himself. He turned you around, taking you in and patting you over. “Are you hurt? Where’s Gala?” When he saw the destroyed laces of your dress, he swallowed heavily. “Did he… did he try-?” You shook your head, eyes fixed upon the body to your feet. “Did I kill him?” Hvitserk paused and turned his head. Blindly, he took your dagger from you and stepped closer to the man. His eyes roamed over the body, hands on his hips. He then kicked it lightly, as if it was gonna react to it. Which, it didn’t. “You did.” He raised his head and looked at you in puzzlement. “Good.” You could feel your body starting to shake, but you couldn’t figure out why. You weren’t cold, you weren’t scared. Your brother-in-law noticed and quickly pulled your cloak closer around you. “It’s the aftermath, it will be over soon.” He pulled you into the crook of his arm, still holding your bloody dagger. “Let’s get you home.” You made it two corners, before the guards almost ran you over. Hvitserk told them where the body lay, and sent one back to announce your arrival and get a bath prepared. “Where’s Gala?”, he asked again. “I told her to run, when he grabbed me.” “She did?” “After I specifically ordered her, yes.” You were shaking so bad, your legs felt like the pudding your cook used to prepare back in England. He nodded, face grim. She’ll gonna have to listen to him freaking out. You’d bet your crown on it. When you entered the Great Hall, you noticed the bodies on the floor, Bjorn standing in the middle of the pile, pulling his axe out of a man’s head. As soon as he heard your steps, he said: “Ragnar is fine.” Gala came towards you, fussing and worrying, but you just laid a hand over hers and said: “I’m glad, you’re okay.” She promptly broke out into tears and hugged you, despite your bloodied state. You looked around, looked for your husband. “Where’s Ivar?” Bjorn wiped his axe in the shirt of a deceased, and nodded towards your bedchambers. “He’s in there, with Bree and Ragnar. Little man wouldn’t stop screaming.” Just then did he take a proper look at you, jaw falling, eyes widening. “By Odin, Y/N, are you hurt?!” You declined, waving your hand dismissively. “No, I- I really just want to see Ivar and my son now.” Gala took your elbow and maneuvered you around the bodies, towards your chambers. “I wanted to prepare a bath for you, but Eitr is in such a state, she wouldn’t let me get close.” “It’s fine, Gala. I can wait.” You cleared your throat. “But, please, do make sure a physician goes and take a look at the old man. I told him I’d send one over today.” She nodded and turned around, going back out into the Great Hall. Your joints felt more stable, when you stepped into the bedchambers, which you were glad about. The sight of your husband made your lungs freeze. Ivars face was dripping, red streaks running down into the collar of his shirt, caking his braids and clothes. He looked like the christian devil himself and you were so relieved to see him. “Ivar.” At your voice, his head shot up from where he was focused on soothing his son, talking to him, so he might fall asleep in his crib. When he saw you, he- Gods, he let out a sob. “Y/N, Love.” You flung yourself into his arms, not caring about the way his braces hit your legs and left bruises, or how your weight against them might hurt him. The two of your clinged to each other, fingers digging into skin and brushing through hair, as you took each other in, assuring yourself that neither of you were badly hurt. “Y/N-” He pressed his nose into your hair, leaving red streaks and blowing warm breath over your skin. You shivered, pressed closer to him, needing to touch him, be touched, making sure he was okay, you were okay, you were alive. “I-” You swallowed, mouth dry, starched. “I killed a man.” 

**

Part 6

[ssraven7]

Vikings Episode 3

Spoilers ahead (please skip if you haven't watched the last ep or this week's trailer.) If you don't mind, keep going! 😉

Side note: excuse me for the spam. I have so many things to say about this ep. 🙂

So, this episode made me change my mind about so many characters.

First of all, I want to hear a wild round of applause for Alex because his performance has incredible in this episode and delivered the feels better than I had expected.

Moving on, I honestly cannot understand the choices the three brothers made in this episode. To begin with, Ubbe was 100% right about the peace offering! There is no point in continuing the war. In the long term, if the Vikings were to be besieged by the Saxons they wouldn't last long. Even if they are near the ships half of them would die before they even got there. And York is not even that good of a fortress. But Ubbe's mistake was how he handled the situation. You don't leave in the middle of the night like someone is chasing after you! YOU ARE THE ELDEST! You can do whatever you freakin like! His plan would have actually worked if not for that freakin Bishop tho...

Dear Hvitserk,

WTF is wrong with you? Was it me or the whole "I'm siding with Ivar" thing made zero sense? A few hours ago, we could see how much it hurt him seeing Ubbe being abused. But oh, let's betray the only brother who actually cares about me. WHY? Ubbe was the one raising him basically. The one who always tagged along. And you betray him like that? There is no logical explanation. None. I saw this week's trailer and he did say he always felt like Ubbe treated him like his little dog. Bullshit. He freakin let you fuck his wife on his wedding night! What else can a brother do? I don't know how those two will ever be brothers again.....

I don't care what any of you say about Ivar. For me, it's over. Seriously. Yes, I sympathized. Yes I cared. The moment he humiliated his brothers, I was done. First of all, Ubbe was the only one to ever treat him like an equal. I don't think Hvitserk took him seriously until he saw him on the field. But Ubbe always believed in him. He taught him archery and always tried to stop the fighting between him Sigurd. Not only he didn't kill Ivar after he murdered Sigurd, he accepted him as an equal leader of the Great Heathen Army. But all he got in return was to be doubted and humiliated over and over again by his little brother. I get it that Ivar has issues but he owes SO much to Ubbe. Without him showing some affection, Ivar would be way worse. The thing is, Ivar will never get it. He was told that his father would hate him for breaking up the brotherhood and he replied with "I don't think so". Ragnar would absolutely hate it. Right now history repeats itself. Brother against brother. Rollo once betrayed Ragnar because he had the same delusions as Hvitserk and Ivar have at this point. I am so disappoinangry. All I wanted to do was punch Ivar in the face during the entire ep. During the whole "I told you so" sense, during his humiliation speech I remember me pausing and saying "I just want to break every single bone you have left." I got that angry.

I believe Ubbe and Bjorn are the only truly worthy of Ragnar's legacy. Ivar has a brilliant mind but would be the worst king in he history of kings. Hvitserk enjoys basically three things: eating, killing and raping. The other two have so many traits of Ragnar's and especially with Ubbe is hard not to see it.

I want that Bishop dead. Skinned and burned alive. Dismembered and thrown to the hounds. I refuse to remember his name cause my gut says he won't make it to Season 6. He freakin hit Ubbe. He is freakin dead.

My friend and I watch the show together. She was a huge Hvitserk fan and I was with Ivat. We both support Ubbe now. And I think we won't change our minds anytime soon.

I would love to hear your opinions about last week's ep.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

þrá (Ivar’s PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

þrá (thra): a throe, pang, longing (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This goes a little bit into Ivar’s perspective on νοσταλγία, and the chapters are probably gonna be chronological but not consecutive. I don’t really know how to summarize this, help pls

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: The same as for the main story/PoV applies, tho I should add quite a bit of ableism, moreso than usual

A/N: Hi! This is the first chapter in Ivar’s PoV, and it covers the Prologue, somewhat. Something that really interested me about Ivar is the watching/witness aspect of his interactions when it comes to romance. Hence why he brings it up so much in this chapter lol.

Anyways, hope you like this chapter, and I would love to hear back from you! Thank you!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​  @heavenly1927​

He curses his weakness. He curses every day that he was never able to kill the mewling and pathetic boy he once was. The needy boy that could do nothing but watch, watch and wish, watch and think about what life could have been for him if he had been normal. The same boy he still is, much to his chagrin.

Because when night falls, when there’s no more blood to shed, no more battles to fight on, no more voices around him…Ivar feels stupidly, childishly, shamefully alone.

He hasn’t been alone in his whole life. His mother’s sometimes-overbearing presence, Floki’s teachings, Ubbe’s quiet support; people were always there, making sure he wasn’t alone, making sure he didn’t stop and think about what he was missing, about how while others found wives and had children, he tried and failed at fucking a slave that could look at him only in disgust and fear, about how all he could -can- do when it comes to the things normal men do is watch.

But he remembers his father’s words, he remembers his lesson. Ivar is not a normal man, he doesn’t think like other men, he doesn’t fight like other men, he doesn’t lead like other men. But he still does. Fight, lead, conquest, triumph. He still does, and he may not be a normal man, but he still became King, he still gave the Gods and his parent’s memories something to be proud of.

He knows that should be enough.

And yet when they return from a raid, satisfied and battle-worn, he sees every time the absence in the docks, an absence of something that was never there in the first place.

Most of his men run to their wives, their sons and daughters, their families. And he watches them, he always has, all he could do once was watch. And he still does. He watches them embrace their laughing children and ruffle their hair, kiss their loving wives and enjoy their soft touches.

He sees in their eyes as they approach the docks that they are satisfied with the raid and can’t wait to return to their homes; and Ivar…Ivar wants to turn the ships around, go back and raid some more, fight some more, kill some more.

He wants to go back and he doesn’t want to return from there, he wants to stay in the battlefields, stay amongst the dead and the dying, if only so that he can forget he has nothing to return to.

But he grits his teeth and focuses on the bloodshed ahead, the battles promised, the wars to be started. If in the dead of night Freyja hears him ask to know why he was fated to never know what love is, only the Gods know of his weakness, and it shall stay that way.

Fenrir will break free before anyone knows he craves softness, love; so much so he is willing to lick it off a blade’s edge.

There’s not much time to think about it, though, when Dublin itself is threatened by a Saxon army that bears…unique characteristics. Dark-skinned, oddly-clothed warriors of broad swords and strange formations fight alongside them, and in an even bigger number, his brother’s scouts say, a group of foreign settlers and warriors seem to accompany the Christians, with strange customs to follow, strange tongues to speak in, and oddly enough, strange Gods to worship.

He goes to his brother’s aid, and Ivar will admit he is surprised the Saxons and those foreigners stand their ground and fight.

Ivar leads the chariot to Ubbe and Hvitserk’s side, eyeing the Saxon and the foreign leader as they approach, their army at their backs. Soon enough, they sound the horns and the battle starts.

He hears his men call their wives’ names, their daughters’ names, their sons’ names; like they can ward off death by having something to love, something to call their own.

Stupid. Pathetic.

He doesn’t need any names; he doesn’t need any love.

Don’t they know who he is? He is Ivar the Boneless, they can’t kill him.

The Gods willed it so that he lives, they did it long ago and they still do so. He wonders why, has asked why, demanded to know why, many times before.

But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need no names.

So, in the name of death, he leads the charge.

____

He catches sight, distracted, as the man in the foreign armor stumbles his way through the battlefield, towards the woods.

Ivar wouldn’t have taken him for a coward, and it seems he isn’t fleeing, but rather calling for someone. The man calls what to Ivar sounds like a name, even if their language and accent sounds odd in his ears, and the Viking stops to watch.

He always has, all he could do once was watch. And when it comes to the emotion that echoes in the man’s yells as he stumbles and falls, Ivar deems all he will ever be able to do is watch.

A woman cradles the fallen warrior in her arms, her dress flowing like a mirage of red in all the mist and cold. Ivar watches her murmur words, caress the man’s face with care and grief.

He haters her in that moment. He hates her grace, her weakness, her beauty, her kindness. He hates all of it, because he knows that softness will get her killed.

He watches raptly as one of Ubbe’s men charges towards her while some other of those foreign warriors that are aiding the Saxons take her soldier from her embrace. For a moment Ivar feels a pang of…something, a loss that isn’t quite his to have, because what will he lose when she’s killed by that Viking? Nothing he has ever needed.

But then the woman turns around, a metal shield in her hand and stops the man from attacking her. There’s a ferocity to her, a wildness, as she attacks the fallen Viking that Ivar cannot even be bothered to remind himself she is an enemy.

Her teeth close around weak flesh and soon blood fills her mouth, but it is Ivar the one licking his lips, chasing a taste that is not there. The air us pushed out of his lungs as he watches her lift her arm over her head and strike the Viking with one last arrow.

He watches her kill, a mirage of the red of the blood and her dress, and he has never wanted anything as much as he wants to see those eyes meeting his. He wants to witness the fire behind her eyes, he wants to hear the fury in her voice, he wants to taste the blood on her lips.

And it is as if the Gods have heard him, as if Freyja finally answered, for the woman turns around and meets his eyes across the field. A current goes down Ivar’s body at the feel of her focus being on him, and while a part of him wants her to attack him, wants her to fight him and make him bleed; he only raises his axe towards her, and with a nod, acknowledges her kill.

She is startled, stumbles back, but it seems she is reluctant to take her eyes off his too. Still, before long she turns her back and darts into the woods, and Ivar is left with a hunger like never before.

____

He retires early to his tent, hearing faintly of his brother boasting about how they will crush the Saxons come morning.

He should be there, rejoicing with them in the battle won and those to come, he should be drinking and enjoying the night. But he can’t get that…that woman out of his mind. She was dressed like a noblewoman, like a dream, and yet she was there, in the midst of battle like a chimera adorned with the red of the dress and the blood.

And Ivar keeps replaying in his mind the moments he saw her. When she wept over the fallen warrior, her hands softly tracing over the man’s features. Her fingers pressed to the dying man’s lips, her eyes on his with emotions Ivar would never be at the other end of.

Swirling the horn cup in his hand, he feels his face twitch in anger as he recalls her. He hates her, her pathetic softness that should have had her killed by now, her words that he read on her lips, foreign in more ways than one to him.

And then she shed her softness like a snake its skin, and Ivar can remember with a pit of tension in his chest when he saw her kill. When her small body cowered under that shield, and the slight hesitation before she took an arrow in her hand and drove it through the man’s knee.

He can almost see her again, like an avenging Valkyrie in that red dress, holding herself above that Viking and breaking the bones of his face, hit by hit.

Her lips parting in a furious scream before she got her teeth on the man’s arm. The blood staining her teeth, her lips, dripping down her chin. Her eyes when she lifted her gaze to find his and…

Ivar throws the cup across the room with a growl before he can let his mind slip further.

She…she has done something to him. This isn’t his fault, that damn woman has done something to him.

Ivar has prided himself all his life in not falling for stupid things like lust as Hvitserk does, in stomping on softness instead of craving it like Ubbe. This woman, she…surely is a witch, a…a lie. She has done something to his mind, he is certain.

He has thought about her skin, her hands, her hair, her body; ever since she darted back to the comfort of the woods. And even now, if he closes his eyes, he can still recall the fire in her gaze when she met his own across the battlefield.

He hates her. For her softness. For her fire. For the way she has somehow burrowed herself a place in his mind.

His hand blindly reaches for his crutch, and he is standing up before he can stop and think about this. Curse her and what she is doing to his mind.

“Hvitserk, brother, come here!” He calls out as he leaves the tent behind, stopping his stride so he can let go of his right leg and motion for his brother to get closer. When he does, Ivar allows himself a smile, grasping comfortably at his brother’s shoulder. He will drive her out of his mind, he will prove himself she was either a mirage or a lie. “Send a messenger and tell the Saxon I changed my mind. I agree to the talks.”

“What?”

“Let’s…negotiate,” He states, even if the word feels like defeat, the stupidity of attempts at peace bitter in his tongue. At his brother’s questioning glare, he shrugs one shoulder, “I have someone I want to talk to.”

____

Hi, thank you for reading! So this is my first attempt at writing Ivar’s perspective, and if anyone reads this I ask that you please let me know what you think. I struggle so much with him as a character through the Priestess’ eyes, it’s even harder to get his voice down, so this is my attempt lol. Please let me know what you think, cause I really wanna improve at writing in general and writing Ivar in particular.

Regardless, thank you so much for giving my writing a chance! Love u all! :D

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Vοσταλγία Masterlist

General Masterlist here

Vοσταλγία (nostalgia): a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless/Female!Reader

Summary:

The King breathes a delighted laugh, and he looks at you like he’s starving for whatever he sees in you when he focuses his pale eyes. You find yourself having to school your features to keep your mouth from smiling back because even if it hurts, even if it claws at your insides with shame and promises of failure; admitting your darkness somehow makes you a little freer, like you have just let go of an old wreath of flowers.

“Your blood is that of the Greeks’, Priestess, but your heart is like ours.”

This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Greek/Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place around the time (to take into account character ages) of season 5a-b, but ignores most of the canon past season 4b (I want everyone to be happy, okay?)

And Disclaimer(s): So, in this universe, bc fuck Michael Hirst, Sigurd is alive (tho Ivar did throw the axe) but married and away, Bjorn is still somewhere sunny, and Dublin was founded in Saxon land by Hvitty, Ivar and Ubbe, but it is the latter the one in control, prompting Ivar to eventually return to Kattegat and take the throne from Lagertha (she is alive just like in the show, only Bjorn is not here -I like to think he would understand his brothers wanting to avenge Aslaug?- and Floki departed bc he didn’t want to have to choose between supporting the kid he raised and an old friend), leaving him as King, Ubbe as ruler of Dublin, Hvitserk in Kattegat for now like in the show, Bjorn getting a tan in the Mediterranean, and Sigurd alive and happy cause goddammit killing him was a stupid choice.

Chapters:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36*

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42*

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46 (Coming Soon)

Ivar’s PoV:

þrá - a throe, pang, longing (Parallel to Prologue)

Vænn - beautiful, hopeful, promising (Parallel to Chapter 11-12)

Unna - to grant, bestow; to love (Parallel to Chapter 21)

Kenna - to know (a person), to feel (Parallel to Chapters 28-29)

Hjarta - heart (Parallel to Chapters 31-32)

Brim - the surface of the sea, sea, ocean, water (Parallel to Chapter 30-ish)

Atfǫr - method, execution (law), attack (Parallel to Chapters 33-35)

Vár - spring (Parallel to Chapter 37)

Gǫfga* - to worship, to honour (Parallel to Chapter 42)

Hrygð - affliction, grief, sorrow (Parallel to post Chapter 45)

Freydis’ PoV:

“Freydis.” - An alternate 5x03 interaction between Ivar and Freydis, and what happens to her after she is made a free woman.

“For her.” - A lil more insight into what unfolds in chapter 23 and a lil bit after it

“I love her.” - Freydis’ journey from 30 to 33 approximately, an insight into why she did what she did.

“Until spring comes.” - Freydis perspective of 38, sry but a better summary would spoil things

Deleted Chapters/Scenes:

Κατακηλέω - In between chapters 16 and 17, mainly centered around Narses

Πᾰ́σχω - In between chapters 21 and 22, centered around Ivar and his condition

Σέργω - In between chapters 26 and 27, and it’s just...it’s actually filler, but the kind that includes parallels to Greek myths, so I couldn’t delete it

Ảγαπάω - In between chapters 28 and 29, centered around the reader’s relationship with the other Ragnarssons, and Ivar’s particularities with personal space

Κόρη - In between chapters 43 and 44, centered around the world left behind, and the celebration of the beginning of spring in Kattegat

Winter Blurbs (requested and not requested scenes that happen between Chapter 43 and Chapter 44):

Hríð - The first big snowstorm in Kattegat

Πολεμέω - The first big fight of the winter

Στέργηθρον - They talk about the future, kinda (continuation of the previous one)

Arinn - Pillowtalk and soft Ivar, that’s about it

Φθόνος - She gets territorial and he’s into it

Dróttning - Knife kink and sub!Ivar smut (continuation of the previous one)

Μαντεία - She has a nightmare, though it’s more than that

Άσπίς - Protective Ivar, my best attempt at it anyhow

Nátt - Ivar thinks back on the evolution of them sharing a bed

Μῦθος - Fluff with Aghi (Valdis’ son)

Aἰτέω (Coming soon) - A night of festivity in Kattegat and some jealous Ivar sprinkled about

θῡμός (Coming soon) - A bit of resolution to the previous blurb’s conflict (continuation of the previous one)

Haf (Coming soon) - An outing for the brothers and the Reader

Καλύβη (Coming soon) - A night away from Kattegat (continuation of the previous one)

Dagblik (Coming soon) - Ivar and touch, after everything

Extra Bits:

Names - Priestess’/Reader’s backstory, the badges of honor and marks of shame she has earned and lost, and the reason behind names and titles meaning both freedom and chains.

Sieghild’s Prayer Part 1 & Part 2 - Sieghild reminisces about her life as the Priestess’/Reader’s mother, as she prays to the Goddesses she knows will answer.

The Seer - Sieghild’s interaction with the Seer, around 20 years before the main story.

Pinterest Board: Hope you like it! This is supposed to be Reader insert, ik, but I still have a face for the Priestess cause why not, there’s also some quotes and general aesthetics things that I like. :)

Nostalgia characters in:

Troubled birds

Fake texts

Funny AO3 tags

Alternate Universes:

ἀλήθεια - AU of Nostalgia (diverts from Chapter 37 onwards) where the main ship/pairing is Freydis/Reader.

Πραξιδίκη - AU of Nostalgia (diverts from Chapter 8 onwards) where the Reader decides to do the same to Ivar that she did to Narses: lie.

[rhabakoli]

Infinite White - 7

Fenja meets the Fam, gets scared. 

Previous Chapters here. 

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @i-am-always-famished @marauderskeeper @superwolfchild-fan @thescarsweleave @cgn-99 @alicedopey @alwaysadreamingoptimist @atlas-of-the-world @finnickfoxes

**

Even though they spent most of the evening holed up in the library, eating and reading - a lot less full-body-snuggling -, Fenja did manage to meet his father. She closed the bathroom door, turned around and came face to sweater with a man. “Hello there.” Fenja looked up at the sound of the smooth voice, but she didn’t recognize the face looking at her. “I’m Ivar, Ragnars father.” Oh. OH. Hastily, she held out her hand, shaking his, introducing herself. “Yeah, I heard.” He smiled down at her. “Are you feeling better? My wife told me, you’re having a migraine?” She was baffled, for a second - what had Ragnar told her? -, before she picked herself up and nodded. “Yes, thank you. A nap was just what I needed.” “I’m glad. And the food? Did you eat?” She nodded again. “It was delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten such a good ginger soup. Usually they make it way too bitter and hot.” Oh, gosh. She was rambling. But he just chuckled, blue eyes focused on her face and simultaneously looking through her, as if there was more to it. “I’ve ordered one once, and it tasted like I just bit into a whole ginger root. So, that soup my wife cooks, is for the gods.” His voice carried so many feelings, when he talked about Queenie, calling her his wife, talking about her skills with such a proud aura around him; wasn’t hard to see how much he loved her. It was cute.

When he walked by her, she noticed the cane he was supporting himself on. From the looks of it, he didn’t really need it. Like, he was built. That’s probably where his son got his physical attributes from. Maeve would most likely call him a Dilf. Or some other inappropriate name. Fenja grinned at the thought of that. So ridiculous. Ivar turned around, addressing her again. “Would you join us now, that you’re feeling better?” Fenja hesitated, but then decided it was okay, she’d survive. And she didn’t want to keep Ragnar from his family. So she told him yes, she’d go and fetch him.  The smile she got was so fatherly and warm, it made her chest hurt.

**

“Ragnar.” “Hm?” “Let’s go. Your father asked us to join them.” At that, he looked up, eyes wide. “What? My father?” He got up, walking over to her. “You met my dad?” Fenja nodded. “Yeah, just now, when I came out of the bathroom, I almost crashed into him.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? Did he say anything?” “Just asked if I was feeling better, and if we were up to some company.” “And are we?” “Yes, I think so.” He stood before her, arms crossed and listening intently, watching her face for anything indicating she didn’t want to. When he didn’t find was he was fearing, he shrugged. “Okay then.”

**

The living room was a wild mess. There was bowls of chips, popcorn, fruits and candy; UNO cards were strewn all over the floor, and Ingrid was currently trying to escape Bear, who tried to get to the piece of - chicken? - in her hand. Aslaug just sat on the couch, laughing and calling Bear over, who stopped, and longingly looked after the chicken. Two blonde heads were barely visible over the back of the couch, but they turned around and straightened up, when they realized they had new company.   “Oh, Nephew, you here?” Ragnar ignored them, and rather introduced them to Fenja. “Those two eggheads are my uncles. That’s Ubbe, and the one with the unruly hair is Hvitserk.” Hvitserk got up, and did a little curtsy directed at Fenja, before slapping Ragnar over the head. “Is that how you talk to your elders?” Fenja halted, slightly lost. She never had banter with her relatives, she didn’t really know how to react. Aslaug came to save her, fortunately.   She slung an arm around her shoulder, dragging her over to the couch. “Did you eat?” “Yeah, thanks. The soup was really good.” “My sister-in-law is a goddess in the kitchen. My brother doesn’t deserve her, if you ask me.”, Ubbe commented. “I heard that!”, came from the kitchen, a female laugh carrying over. Fenja pulled a pillow onto her lap, something to anchor her here, to hold on to in this chaotic environment. She felt like she was losing herself. Aslaug bickered with Ubbe, about how no one had asked for his opinion, standing behind her father, because ‘they love each other so much, it’s disgusting to watch, and you’re just jealous.’ Fenja observed, gauging the mood, the interactions, how all the Ragnarssons were tall as heck, as well as Aslaug. Ingrid would probably become taller as well. Grace she already possessed. Suddenly, a booming voice came from behind her, making her flinch and turn around so fast, she almost pulled a muscle. “Okay, family, we have decided.” What the hell. There was another one. He was taller than the others, his hair the lightest shade of blonde, his face grim and - well, Fenja was slightly terrified. If she didn’t watch out, he’d step on her by accident. He was going to make a speech, apparently, then stopped when he caught sight of her. “Wait.” He pointed at her, wagging his finger. “I don’t know you, do I?” “Uh, no.” Fenja was ready to run, even tho she was sure he’d make one step, when she made three. Ragnar came to the rescue, plopping down next to her and grinning at his uncle. “That’s Fenja, a friend from school. She’s a candidate for YWA, helps Ingrid with the translating and loves books.” Then he looked at her, pointing at his uncle. “That’s Bjorn, oldest brother, and not even close to being as scary as he looks.” Fenja waved him, still a bit intimidated, but trying not to look like it. “Do you know how to play UNO?”   “Yes?” “Welcome to the family.” He clapped his hands together and then shooed everyone up to gather the cards and get another deck. Welcome to the family. Her heart stuttered, her insides twisted, and she felt like crying. No one ever had said that to her. Ever. Ragnar felt her tense - of course - and laid a hand on the back of her neck, rubbing, spreading the warmth. “He’s right, you know. Welcome to the family.” Ingrid came over, lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned in. “Run, as long as you can. They are ridiculously competitive when it comes to UNO.” “Stop trying to scare her, she’ll be fine. You’re just concerned that she might be better than you.” The 15 year old shrugged, and quipped: “Got me there.” She then winked at Fenja and sat down on the carpet, legs crossed and arms on the coffee table, essentially in starting position. Fenja raised her brows at her, making Bjorn snort. “Yeah, she’s the worst out of all of us. Don’t believe anything she says throughout the game.” “Got it.”   Bjorn quickly patted her shoulder, touch gone faster than she could have reacted, and then went back to the kitchen.  Ragnar stood up and pulled her with him, sitting down on the carpet, legs crossed, just like his sister.  “C’mon, If you’re not on your butt  around the table when they are coming back, you’re gonna be in charge of doing the dishes.”  “I don’t mind.”, she replied, but sat down anyway. “I’ll help, whoever has to do them.”  In the corner or your eye, you saw Ubbe elbowing his brother and nodding over to you.  You mirrored him, poking Ragnar, and stage-whispered: “Except those two.”  Ubbe heard, and promptly pretended he was shot in the heart, including a theatrical gasp and falling against Hvitserk.  “Okay, you guys, enough, calm down.” A beautiful redhead walked in, nudged the both of them with her foot and then settled down on the couch, long legs crossed and an arm laid out on the back. Bjorn fell in place next to her, the two of them fitting together like puzzle pieces, so effortlessly and harmonic. He stroked a hand over her thigh and grinned a very boyish grin at her, before diving in for a short peck. The woman then noticed the new addition to the round, and leaned forward, holding a hand out to shake. “Hi, I’m Bree. You must be Fenja?”  “Yes.”  “Nice to meet you, Ragnar has told us so much.” Fenja frowned. “He did?” “Yes, he did indeed. How you’re a brilliant writer, a candidate for the YWA, and how sweet and compassionate you are, and-”  Ragnar interfered, leaning over the table and holding his hand over her mouth. “Thank you, auntie, but please be quiet now?” “Why, can’t she know how proud you are of her?” His parents came out of the kitchen, joined them around the table. Queenie grinned at her son.  “Was that a secret?”  Fenja’d never seen him speechless, stumbling over words, and then giving up.  Bree patted his hand. “It’s cute, don’t worry.”  Bjorn looked around, counting heads. “Where’s Aslaug?” “She’s taken Bear for a walk, she doesn’t like UNO anyway.”, Ingrid answered.  “That’s actually not true, she plays with me all the time.” Ragnar commented, making Ingrid stick her tongue out at him.  “The only reasonable explanation for this phenomenon is, that you’re just so bad at it, she always wins.”  They continued to banter, while Bjorn just sighed, asked for strength - judged by the look he sent towards the ceiling - and started to distribute cards.  Fenja looked around, taking in the harmony and familiarity of them, how they all fit together and leaned on each other, even when they were bickering and teasing.  Bree had her hand on Bjorns knee the whole time, Ragnars dad leaned into his mom, her arm around his shoulder, even the loud siblings next to her were always touching in one way or the other.  This whole family was seriously touchy-feely.  Fenja couldn’t help but ask herself, if her family might have been similar, or completely different. She didn’t have a lot of clear memories from before the accident, so she couldn’t really say. A weight on her shoulder reeled her back into the present. Ragnar had squeezed it, gently, and asked in a low voice, if she was okay.  She took up her cards, organizing them, and smiled at her friend.  “Yes. I will be, thank you.”  Ragnar smiled as well, dragged his thumb from her jaw to her chin and seemed satisfied by her answer. “Good. Let’s break some hearts.”

**

Part 8