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skyeet-the-writer · 2 years ago

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The Dragon Queen of Fiska

Chapter Two: Feasts and Fists

hey 🧍‍♀️ its me again. did i have this in my drafts for months and forgot abt it until just now? yes. my bad. but will i have the next chapter out soon despite the fact that i work on it? ...maybe.

ANYWAY LOVE YALL COLLEGE HAS MADE ME DEPRESSED BUT MAYBE THIS WILL BRING ME SOME SERATONIN x.

dagur the deranged x female!reader

summary: y/n finally meets dagur the deranged during an annual treaty singing. during the feast, they both learn a lot about each other and how terrifying the other can be

word count: ~5.4k

warnings: swearing, violence, mentions of alcohol

Months passed since your last visit to Berk. It’s the cusp of spring now, the remaining snow from the most recent blizzard finally beginning to melt away. The air was still cold and your elkskin cloak went with you everywhere you went.

A fire crackles in the hearth of the Great Hall. People often come in to warm themselves or to converse with their friends, safe from the briskness of the outside.

You sit at the head table with Ingrid, looking over parchments. In a few days, those from the Berserker tribe will visit for their annual treaty signing, as well as the annual bear hunt that went along with it. It always took place on your island. That was one of the only places in the archipelago where one could find bears. Many tribes had hunted them down and killed them off their islands. But your people kept them at a reasonable number. There were even stories of old chiefs taming bears and keeping them as pets.

You’re looking forward to this. It’s your first time doing this in your father’s stead. You’ll also meet the infamous Dagur the Deranged. You’ve heard a lot of him. How he loved to kill dragons. How he was one of the youngest chiefs after his father’s death. You figured that was one thing you two had in common.

The other being the fact that you were both bat-shit insane.

“This’ll be fun!” you exclaim, smiling. “Me and Dagur, together in the forest, killing bears with our bear hands.” You grinned at the thought, blood rushing through your veins like lightning from Odin himself.

Ingrid looks at you with a raised brow. “Did you mean that pun?”

You just stare at her, confused, your smile gone from your face. “What?”

She just shakes her head. “Nothing. Anyway, they’ll be here before tomorrow night, we know that for sure. Also, we’ll need to hide our dragons. Dagur is notorious for killing dragons.”

“Aren’t most Vikings? We can hold him off. Besides, if he touches them then we can kill all of them.”

Ingrid shrugs. “True. Still, I’d advise we send them off just to be safe.”

You consider her words before you nod in agreement. “Yeah, it’s for the best. Besides, judging by the Berserker’s reputation, I’d rather not have a quarrel with them. We’ll send them off tomorrow morning to the craggy rocks. They’ll be fine there. It’s too dangerous for Vikings to roam to as well.”

Ingrid nods. “Very well. Also, I’ve already got some of the servants making the Berserkers’ beddings for their stay. Those few spare homes shall do them well, no?”

You agree with her. “What else?”

“The farmers will slaughter their pigs, yaks, and chickens for the welcoming feats tomorrow morning and the cooks will get them prepared. We’re lucky we’ve had some time since the last storm.” She places her charcoal pencil down and stands up straight, stretching her arms.

“Yes,” you reply, doing the same as she does. “Alright, if that’s it, then I’m going to head out. Thorhild is giving birth and I cannot miss the birth of my cousin.”

Ingrid gives you a smile. “Very well. What will the baby be named?”

You begin to head out and shrug. “No idea. Shall I suggest Ingrid?”

Your friend laughs and you exit the hall, great spruce doors banging shut behind you.

It’s midday when you reach your cousin’s home and sunset when you leave. You release a breath of relief, free from the hot, sickly smelly home. Your cousin did well. Her son was named Magnus. Strength.

You walk home alone. You enter your home alone. You eat a light dinner of broth alone and practice your reading alone. You’ve been alone almost all your life. Your mother died during a dragon attack and your father died of sickness a year ago. You’ve grown used to being along and you don’t mind it.

The next day, it’s clear and bright. The snow is all melted by late morning and by late afternoon, Ingrid calls to you.

You’ve just returned with Eid after sending the dragons away. There is no trace that any of them even lived in the village. Their saddles are hidden underneath floorboards and their stables can be passed off as sheds or barns.

“What is it, Ingrid?” you ask her, jogging down the hill to the cliff where she’s standing.

She hands your her spyglass and you look where she’s pointing. You spot three ships bearing the Berserker crest on their sails. They’re large, as most ships are. Their prows are decorated with large, exaggerated figureheads of dragons, sharp eyes, and long teeth to match.

You hand the spyglass back to Ingrid and beam, heart thumping with anticipation. “Let’s go welcome them, then!”

By the time the three of you climb down the cliffs and down to the beach, they are close enough to the dock for you to greet them. You search for Dagur but cannot find him yet. You’re fairly sure of how he looks. A bit taller than you, a tall helmet and three blue stripes tattoos over his face. That would stand out for sure, as tattoos were not common among Vikings.

“Welcome, Berserkers,” you say in a loud and proud voice, “to the isle of Fiska, home of the Savage Ax tribe!”

The men drop their anchors and rope their ships to the docks. The wood creaks and water splashes at your feet. Your heart is thrumming in your chest.

Their gangplank falls and one of the men holds up his spear. "Presenting the high chief of the Berserker tribe! Cracker of skulls! Slayer of beasts! The great and fearsome Dagur the Deranged!"

Up steps a boy not older than you, head covered by helmet but eyes shone green as emeralds and as wild as the sea. Immediately, you're drawn to him.

Dagur the Deranged walks down the plank and you notice that he's laughing to himself.

"What's so funny?" you ask him, voice even and a smirk playing at your lips.

"Oh, nothing," he says, shoulders back. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Y/N the Raging. I've heard a lot about you." His eyes narrow and are fixed upon you. A shiver goes down your spine.

"All good things, I hope. But then again, bad things wouldn't be too terrible, either. As long as they're terrible enough."

"I've heard you're one of the most feared women in the archipelago."

A burst of pride blooms in your chest and you urge it down. "Is that so? I wouldn't say that." Cheekily, you look away, feigning humbleness.

"One of the youngest chieftains alive," says Dagur, clearly trying to flatter you, though you know in nothing more than an attempt to be on your good side. "One said to have raided every town from here to the Thunderrock fjords. Killer of dragons, slayer of men." His tone changes. Before, it was flattering and admirable. Now, it's condescending and taunting. "Tell me, how is it one has so many titles yet is this underwhelming in person?"

Your mood is always ready to change at the drop of a coin, but this time, it changed quicker than ever. Heat rushes to your face, embarrassment. Did he just call you underwhelming? In front of his people, in front of your people. Did he know who you were? Did he know what you could do to him? If you called, your dragons would come in an instant and burn him to ash, leaving nothing but that big, obnoxious helmet of his behind.

"Excuse you?" you ask him in a deadly quiet voice. "Cheif Dagur, do you dare insult me on my own shores?" Your hands want to reach for the ax at your hip, but instead, you ball your hands into fists, nails digging into the skin of your palm.

"I do not," he replies, voice and face both calm, neutral. "I only challenge you to prove me wrong." And then he smiles, a crazed smile, a smile of someone who seemed to fool Loki himself.

Never in your life have you turned down a challenge. When you were younger, another child in the village dared you to jump from a cliff on the beach down to the reef below. You did as he said and came out with a broken ankle and toes. Ingrid once challenged you to shoot an apple off of her head when you were young teens. You nearly shot her head off twice before she finally insisted that you stop.

Your father did not raise a corward, he did not raise a chicken. And you would not have this boy, this immature Chief, belive that you were cowardly.

Ingrid and Eid whisper behind you. You can hear some of your people as well as Dagur's men begin to whisper. Your vision turns red and you resist the urge to hold him at axe-point.

"Do not test me, boy." You spit out the last word, glaring at him. "Or you will see that I can be given much more colorful names. Now, tell me. Have you ever witnessed a bear?"

"Can't say that I have," he tells you, smirking still. Oh how you want to wipe that off of his stupid, smug face.

"Oh, you will," you whisper. Stepping back, you straighten up. You took a deep breath to contain your anger and say in a loud, clear voice, "Are you aware of the annual Savage Ax bear hunt?"

"My father mentioned it," he replies, taking a step back as well. The two of you no longer sound hostile towards the other, but the tension is still there, thick and sharp. "After signing the treaty, the chiefs went together."

"It's been a tradition since my great-great-grandfather, Erik, first made the treaty with the Berserkers," you explain. It was something you had heard your father say over and over again. "The chiefs would meet in the morning and set out together to find the biggest brown bear living in the forests." You hold out a hand behind you, towards the great, towering trees, swaying in the late winter wind.

A look crosses over Dagur's face. Pride, perhaps? Excitement? You don't blame him, you're also looking forward to the hunt. Maybe not with him, but still.

"Sounds like quite the challenge."

You smirk. "Oh, it is. But first! You and your men must be starving and exhausted. Come, let us feast!"

Dagur's men cheer and you turn to Ingrid, quickly motioning her forward. "Is the feast ready yet?"

"Not quite, my lady."

Your eyes narrow. Thor, you give those people one simple task and yet they cannot do it. "Tell them to hurry up or I will be cooking their dogs instead, see if that's any quicker."

Ingrid clasps her hands and nods. "I'll go tell them to hurry up, then."

She turns and pushes past the mass of people before running up to the hall.

Dagur appears beside you. "I'm not so sure if dogs cook much faster than pigs," he said in a mildly amused tone.

You shrug and begin to make your way up to the hall, you and Dagur leading both your tribes. You walk slowly in an effort to give Ingrid and the cooks more time. "Yes, well. We all need some form of motivation, do we not?"

He just nods. A beat of silence passes. "I heard about your father. I'm sorry."

You look at him. "Thank you. I'm sorry about the passing of yours. I understand that it's hard to move on, especially run a village after something like that."

"Yeah, well, my father had taught me everything while I was growing up," he says with a shrug. "Preparing me, I'm sure."

You hum. "Mine didn't do so well."

"What do you mean?"

You chuckle lightly and say, "Well, when he died, it was in the middle of a drought. It was a terrible coincidence and I was the one everyone looked to after that. So I was the one who had to fix the problems."

"What did you do?"

"Well, as it turned out, our main well was no longer getting water," you explain. In the distance, you point towards the old well, a simple wooden box with a pole and a bucket beside it. It's faded and rotting, no one has had the chance to tear it down yet. "So we made some new ones. In the meantime, we made a couple smaller ones, but for our new main well, we made it out of cobblestone."

Dagur nods along, maintaining eye contact most of the time and occasionally glancing around. The pair of you lapse into an uncomfortable silence. You're not quite sure what to say after what had just happened. Of course, you're still upset, but you had already threatened him. What else could you do?

Thankfully, halfway through the village, Dagur asks, "So, this bear hunt. Tell me more about it."

"I mean, it's quite self-explanatory. Us two will head out early tomorrow morning with some supplies into the forest. Normally, my father and your father would visit the seeress, Cyrena.”

Dagur looks at you in curiosity. “You have a witch here?”

You simply nod. “Yes. She’s lived her since the reign of my grandfather. She lives off in the distance, far away, back towards the base of the mountains. She has a few girls that live with her, but she is quite nice. Keeps to herself most of the time and she can be helpful in a pinch.”

Witchcraft was a somewhat common thing to Vikings. Freyja was a sorceress herself and able to tell the future. Cyrena was also adept at telling the future. You remember your father telling stories of how when he went to visit her when your mother was pregnant, Cyrena predicated that your mother’s baby would be one of the most powerful chiefs in the archipelago.

It was beginning to seem like she was right.

You finally reach the doors of the great hall and you say a quick prayer to Odin that the food be ready before pushing them open.

The smell of ham and chicken greets your nose, alongside the smell of bread and beets and that sour smell of mead. Cooks and servers are scurrying around in an effort to get every last little thing ready. You spot Ingrid among them, helping, placing down plates and knives.

You turn and address the men and women of both tribes. “Eat as much as you wish, drink as much as you can! Rest, for our stores of food are bottomless and our mead and wine even more so.”

There’s a cheer and you smile before waking towards the back of the hall where the table for chiefs sits. Dagur follows behind you and you watch the rest of his men and your people sit down, pints of mead served and wine poured.

You sit beside Ingrid and Dagur pulls out the chair beside you. Before he sits down, however, he takes his axe from his belt and leans it against the wall before he sits.

A servant girl comes and places three mugs of mead in front of you. Ingrid thanks her but she walks off before anyone else can.

The feast goes well. You, Dagur and Ingrid make small talks, make small jokes and laugh. You watch your people mingle with Dagur’s men. Women and men flirt together occasionally and you spot one or two of them leave together.

People eat, laugh, drink together. As the night wears on, you stop drinking, already feeling the effects. If you didn’t have anything to do in the morning, you would keep going, but you’d rather not deal with the massive headache you always get the morning after.

Ingrid nudges your arm and you look at her. “What?”

She points her knife towards the side of the room and you follow her gaze. Two men, one Dagur’s and one yours, look to be in a heated argument. From what you can tell, it doesn’t look violent, but everyone around them is watching.

You nudge Dagur’s arm with your elbow and lazily point a finger towards them, leaning back in your chair. “Should I be worried?”

Dagur takes a moment to respond, probably judging the situation. “Maybe. That’s Vestar, he’s….well, he’s got some issues.”

Your man, Boe, also had his own issues. Anger issues, he tended to think with his hands rather than his head. You stand, watching the argument heat up. Vestar and Boe stand up and you watch Boe’s hand form a fist. Before you can yell and order him to stop, it's too late. Boe’s hand collides with Vestar’s face and soon enough, the two of them are on the ground, throwing fists.

You groan and walk around the table, throwing your chair down in your haste. “For the love of fucking Thor!”

Dagur is right behind you, but you don’t even notice. Your vision is red as you make your way towards Boe, who is currently beating the absolute shit out of Vestar. Though it looks like he’s putting up a fair fight, blocking, getting a few kicks in and even managing to push Boe off of him for a moment.

“Boe!” you shout, voice booming. People, Beserkers and Fiskans alike, scramble out of your way.

You reach a hand and grab the back of Boe’s tunic, taking the material into your fist. Boe is a large man and he’s renowned for his strength. But when he’s in the middle of a fight, he gets sloppy. So you have no trouble hauling him off of Vestar and onto the hard stone floors.

He shouts something and stands, but you backhand him. It echos through the quiet hall and bounces off the walls. Boe falls to his knees and glares up at you. He makes a move to stand and you raise your fist.

“You want another mark?” you demand, giving him a challenging look. He backs down and leans on his heels. A wave of satisfaction rolls through you. “Now. What in Odin’s great name is going on?”

Dagur’s man is also standing back. Dagur himself is holding an arm up on his man’s chest as if to hold him back. Dagur is staring at you with an expression you’ve grown to become accustomed to. A mixture of fear and respect.

“Well?” You look between the two of them, impatiently waiting for an answer.

Boe is the first to speak. “He insulted my mother.”

Pushing your tongue into your cheek, you try to keep your blood from boiling over. “What did he say?”

“He called her a whore.”

You roll your eyes. “She was a whore, Boe, Odin rest her soul.” You throw a hand up. “Do you know how many people in this room are related to you?”

“I still won’t have him disrespect my mother’s name!” he exclaims, standing, but making no move to strike again. “Not to mention that he disgraced my entire family name. Do you even know what the House of Sigmond has done?”

“From what you’ve told me, sounds like you’re all cowards!” snaps Dagur’s man.

“Cowards?” roars Boe and lurches forward. You punch him in the jaw and send him sprawled in the floor. Then you turn to Vestar, standing there with a smug look on his face.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” growls Dagur. Though he’s shorter than his man, it doesn’t make Vestar cower any less.

“Dagur,” you say in an unnervingly calm voice. You’re heaving, trying to keep yourself steady. The last thing you want to do is lash out at the chief of the Berserker tribe before you have a chance to renew the treaty. “Take your man out of here. I will have no tolerance for name-calling in my hall.”

Dagur nods and shoved Vestar forward. “Take him away. You and I are going to have a long conversation about this later that I know you aren’t going to enjoy.”

You motion for a servant girl to take him to one of the buildings that has been prepared. In the meantime, you haul Boe back on his feet. There’s a red mark on his cheek and a bruise forming on his jaw. Regardless, you brush of his shoulders and the fur of his cape.

“Now, Boe?” You look up at him. “If you pull something like that again? I’ll feed you to Solveig myself. Hm? Does that sound preferable?“

When Boe does not reply, only looks at you in fright, you laugh and smile sweetly. “That’s what I thought. Now, I suggest you go home. Alright?”

“Y—yes, Chief,” he stammers before quickly leaving the hall, followed close by his wife and his cousin, who you’re fairly sure is his brother.

His mother was quite the whore, though you would never say that to his face. You’re not stupid.

With a deep sigh, you turn and head back to your table, Dagur not fall behind you. Ingrid hasn’t moved and is eating another piece of cod silently, picking out the bones.

“You know,” she says between bites, “your slaps are getting louder.”

“Oh, well thanks,” you say with a smile and sit back down. You’re not hungry anymore, but you can’t leave quite yet. It’s not late enough, the sun has just set outside and the moonlight mingels with the fires and torches inside the hall.

Dagur takes his seat beside you and says, “That was interesting.”

“I’m sorry about that,” you apologize. “Boe is just extremely sensitive about his mother.”

“No, it’s fine. Vestar shouldn’t have called her a whore.”

You shrug. “Well, she was.”

Dagur laughs.

The night continues to wear on. People come and go. You watch children run between tables, chasing each other in helmets too big for them and dulled down axes and swords, screaming and laughing.

You’ve always been fond of children. They seemed so innocent and pure. You remembered when you were a child, you never got that. Always following your father around, hearing his tales of raids and bloodshed. You remember fleeing from dragons as a small girl during the almost nightly attacks, screaming for your faðir.

Those werent your most pleasant memories. But now, when you finally had control over Rhys and ran the rest of the dragons off of your island, you didn’t have to worry about that. The kids didn’t have to worry about that.

“Y/N!” calls a small girl. Tove was her name. Meaning dove. She scrambles up to the front of your table and pushes her hands down on it, her blonde hair hanging in front of her face. “Can I borrow your helmet? We’re playing a game and I’m gonna be you!”

Ingrid bites her lip, smiling. “Oh, be sure to be real mean to… who’s playing me?”

Tove points towards another girl with black hair. You recalled her name was Ase.

“Be real mean to Ase if you’re gonna be Y/N,” whispers Ingrid in a loud voice, not really intending to be quiet. “‘Cause she’s mean to me all the time.”

You shove her arm and almost knock her over. Tove giggles. Then you take off your helmet and motion your hand forward. “C’mere.”

She leans forward and when she realizes she’s still too far, she run over to your side. On the way, she trips over Dagur’s axe handle, falling to her stomach. At the same time, the axe spins on the handle and falls, exactly towards Tove’s hand.

You’re fast, but Dagur is faster. He grabs the axe before it can fall onto the poor girl’s hand.

Tove stands and looks at Dagur. She knows who he is, who doesn’t? Quietly, and slightly stuttering, she thanks him, pulling at her fingers. Then she quickly turns around and stands in front of you.

Gently, you place your helmet on top of her hair and adjust it so it rests on her head in a way that it won’t slip too far over her eyes. You smooth your own hair down and tighten your braids at the top of your head.

“There,” you tell her, securing it once again. “Wow, you look just like me.”

The girl smiles wide and doesn’t bother to thank you before running off to rejoin her group of friends.

“She was sweet,” Dagur says as the three of you watch the group of five children run off together around the hall, Tove in the lead.

“She is,” you agree, drinking the rest of the mead you had been nursing for the last hour. “All of these kids are pretty sweet. I mean, up until they have to start training that is.”

“We Beserkers usually start training when we’re about their age.”

“They should start within a couple years,” says Ingrid, drinking more wine. You can smell her breath from here, but she’s not even showing a hint of drunkenness. She could always beat you in a liquor drinking contest. “Usually they start when they’re about ten or so. That’s when they come of age.”

“What training do they do?” asks Dagur, sounding truly interested.

You try to recall the training you went through. The training your father taught you and Ingrid and all of the other kids you grew up with.

That included dragon killing. But you figured they wouldn’t need that now. Instead, they would have dragon training classes, learn how to control one.

“Sword fighting,” you answer, pulling your boots onto the table cleared of plates and mugs. You cross your ankles over the other and lean back with your arms crossed. “Archery, axe training. The usual things.”

“What about dragon killing?”

You turn to the chief next to you and notice a faint glimmer in those moss green eyes of his. You’re not quite sure what it is, but you don’t like it.

“We haven’t had dragons on this island for a year,” you lie seamlessly. “They may not have need for it. However,” you add with a shrug. “We may touch upon the subject.”

“That reminds me,” Dagur begins and you notice and undertone of cunning in his tone. “What happened to the dragons?”

“Have you not heard the stories?” asks Ingrid. “We killed them. Chased them off.”

“I’ve heard different.”

You turn to him and lazily raise a brow. “Have you?” You drag your feet from the table and turn in your seat to face him, placing your chin in your fist. “Tell me. What have you heard, great Chief of the Berserkers?”

His brows furrow and his eyes flick around your face. You keep him fixed with your stare, waiting. “I’ve heard that you tamed a Monstrous Nightmare. That you ride it like a horse and keep it here on the island. That the rest of you have dragons as well and you ride them as well.” Something in his voice sends a chill in your veins. His tone is soft, menacing.

You scoff, turning away. “You really think that?”

“I do.”

You look back at him and narrow your eyes. "Are you calling me a liar?"

Dagur doesn't flinch and stares back at you. "Am I wrong?"

Your blood thumps in your veins and you sneer at him. "You're mistaken, Dagur. We do not ride dragons here. We kill any that come near us."

Dagur nods, but you can tell he isn't convinced. Still, he doesn't want to start anything and drops the subject.

You turn away and look back at the children running around and laughing. They weave through tables and you think that they're in a pretend battle.

You sigh gently and lean back in your chair, feet lazily propped up on the table. One of your favorite things to do after a feast is just to see people interact. You enjoy watching your people, learning how they act. Especially at times like these when they're all relaxed and having fun.

Thunder rumbles outside and you turn your head, craning to look out the tall window just across from you. It's gotten darker outside. You can no longer see the moon and the wind has picked up. If you focus, you can smell rain on the horizon.

People begin to thin out and children are taken to their homes, also sensing the storm. You hope it's not too much of a storm. Of course, you won't hold off the hunt, but doing so in the rain will make it a lot more difficult.

Dagur stands, watching many of his men take their leave. "I should get going."

You stand as well. Ingrid makes a move to do the same, but falls back down in her chair, swaying. It seems like the alcohol has finally caught up to her.

"Yeah," you agree, holding onto your friend's arm. "We should do the same. Tomorrow, we meet here at dawn. We'll grab provisions before we leave."

Dagur smiles at you and nods. "I'm looking forward to killing a bear."

"I as well," you tell him and take Ingrid by the shoulder, throwing one of her arm's around your shoulder to hold her up.

"I'm fine," she slurs, head lolling.

Her breath reeks and you jolt your head back. "Sure you are. Come on, you can stay with me tonight."

She slurs some more words that make no sense as you carry her through the hall. The servents have begun to clean and you spot Dagur beside the door, walking out with one of his men, his axe over his shoulder.

You find yourself watching him as he goes. There's something...intriguing about him, something that draws you to him that you can't quite place your finger on. He definitely didn't seem too deranged tonight, though you weren't exactly on your game either.

But still. You're excited to hunt with him tomorrow, see how crazy he really is while on the hunt.

"Chief Y/N?"

Tove's soft, sweet voice draws your attention away from the long-gone man and to your feet, where she holds your helmet up to you.

"Thank you for letting us borrow it," she says with a grin.

You take it from her hands and place it on your head, smiling at her. "Sure. Now go home, it's going to rain soon."

She nods and runs off to catch up with her mother and her older brother.

You haul Ingrid down the steps of the hall and by the time you reach your home, it's raining and you're drenched. You push the door open and the pair of you stumble inside, gasping for air on the floor of your home.

Rain pelts the roof while you try to sober Ingrid up, giving her water and some slightly stale bread you left out from earlier in the morning. It seems to work and by the time she's drank two cups of water and half of a slice of bread, her vision has cleared and she can form somewhat coherent sentences.

"You can really hold your liquor," you tell her with a smile, taking your helmet and boots off by the fireside. "How much did you drink? Five pints? Six?"

"Six and a half," she answers with a small groan, taking her jacket off. The two of you undress by the fire you made when you entered and hang your clothes to dry before changing into another pair of slightly dryer clothes. Ingrid, being your best friend, has stayed with you at your home often enough she basically has her own drawers.

After drinking some more water and exchanging small talk, the two of you head upstairs. Lighting another fire, you crawl into bed beside her. There's a perfectly good bed downstairs, but since it gets so cold at night, you and Ingrid prefer to share body heat.

Of course, she never tells anyone.

"I've wanted to," she says when you mention the subject of how out of character this may seem to you. "You know, telling the entire village how the great Chief of Fiska likes to push her cold feet against my back."

You shove her. "If you tell anyone that, I'll shove them up your ass."

Ingrid just laughs and pulls the fur blanket closer around the pair of you. The fire flickers across the room and throws shadows on the walls. When you were a girl, you were afraid of the dark. You outgrew that a long time ago.

Ingrid rolls over to your side and you throw an arm over her shoulder, your legs tangling together with hers. It's nothing romantic, purely platonic. You two had been doing this for years.

After a while of staying up and making a game plan for tomorrow, you fall asleep, Ingrid's hot alcoholic breath warming your body up.

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lisinfleur · 3 years ago

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WYWTTS - Chapter 08: Those who plant dates (Final Chapter)

Author’s Notes | It's said that an old man was calmly planting his dates when a young boy came around. Curious about the old man's task, the young boy asked: "Why are you planting dates when you won't be alive to harvest them?". The old man smiled at the young man's question, answering it with wise words: "If everyone was to think as you do, nobody would ever harvest dates." Words | 970 ⁑ Warnings: None

"If you keep drinking like this, you won't be here to see it coming, brother."

Wise words from someone who couldn't control himself around a bottle, thought Sigurd, while Hvitserk was still patting his shoulder.

The two of them were in the dining room, an amphora of mead in front of them.

Björn was closer to the door. A cup in his hands and his ears attentive out into the hallway, looking for any sign that the wait would be over for them soon.

Even so, the hallway was silent.

Another sip of his mead and Björn found himself thinking Siggy was a strong woman. Many would-be screaming, others would demand their husbands' presence, but she had acted like a lioness: screaming everyone out of the room (except Thorhild), handling her own labor bravely in the face of the pain he knew she would face.

Long hours had passed since then, and no sign that the labor was over. Sigurd was beginning to worry about the baby's condition. Ivar had left with Ubbe a few moments ago - To keep his thoughts from attracting bad luck, Ubbe justified.

But everyone was worried about the silence coming from the rooms.

"I think I should go there," said Sigurd, rising from his chair for the fifth time in an hour.

"She said she didn't want to," recalled Björn.

"But I should be there! I should be supporting her...I..." Sigurd gasped.

"She is a woman, Sigurd," said Hvitserk.

Looking like the only one who was relaxed in the whole situation.

"She knows better," he added, taking a sip of his mead.

"She was made by the gods for this task. Trust your wife as much as I trust my daughter," Björn insisted.

Making Sigurd sit down again, defeated.

"It seems like I'm not doing anything to bring my child into this world," said Sigurd, disappointed.

Drink his whole cup of mead before filling it from the amphora again.

"That's because that's not your task, little brother," replied Hvitserk, smiling childishly. "And thank the gods, this isn't your task, or else we'd all be deafened by your screams by now."

Björn couldn't help but smile as Sigurd middle-fingered his older brother, sighing in frustration.

"Why does it take so long?" he regretted it.

"Let her have her time, Sigurd. She doesn't be so childish and impatient. It is life itself happening before our eyes. Take this chance. We may not have another one."

Dag's words slammed heavily into Sigurd's ears. After all, they were Vikings. They never knew when Valhalla would call.

Sigurd prepared to respond when Björn was alerted by sounds coming from the hallway.

"Björn?" Sigurd asked from the table.

"Shh," said Björn, holding up his fingers.

And once again, the sound came. This time, loud and clear.

A childish cry that filled the hallway, reaching their ears and putting a smile on all of their faces.

"Your child is born, Sigurd," Dag smiled. "Go and welcome it, son."

Björn signaled for Sigurd to pass towards the bedroom. They were all close to the door when Thorhild opened it, smiling.

"Go slowly…" she called, allowing them to enter the room.

One by one they entered the room. Sigurd was leading the small group. Dag and Björn right behind him. Hvitserk took on the task of notifying the other two, retreating to go after Ubbe and Ivar.

On the bed, the peaceful scene unfolded almost immaculate: With a smile on her face, Siggy held the small package in her arms from which a tiny hand reached out feeling the air for the first time.

The small existence in her arms summing up the whole world to her eyes filled with tears of joy.

"Her name shall be Synnove," Siggy said, smiling. "For she came with the sun of a new day, like a gift from Sun to us, my love."

Sigurd sat beside them, tearing up.

"She's so beautiful..." he said, seeing his daughter so delicate on Siggy's hands.

Slowly, the little girl was passed into Sigurd's embrace for her first blessings. Then, into Dag's hands to receive his love.

Unaware of his position in that scene, Björn remained at the door, watching as everything happened, smiling at the moment without really expecting to receive that invitation.

"Come, father," Siggy said, surprising him with that word. "Come and hold your grandchild," she completed, smiling.

Since he'd saved Dag's life, that was the first time she would call him anything but his name. That simple word was something Björn was never expecting to hear from her.

Dag's face was self-explanatory. His smile was saying words untold that Björn could read in his eyes. "Time, my friend. Time."

Time had finally come for him when the smiles were open for his entrance. When his place was there for him to occupy.

And the little girl was developed in his arms like a gentle gift. Blood of his blood once again in his hands. Blue eyes like his once again looking at him.

It was like holding Siggy one more time between his arms and seeing her little eyes looking back at him, so curious.

Björn's blues teared up, and he smiled.

"May the gods be with you, little child. May them bless your life like they've been blessing mine. Like they've blessed my father's life before mine. Welcome to this world, sweet child. May your life be full of happiness like my heart is full of it now."

Siggy watched Björn's lips gently kiss the child's forehead. And they laughed together as little Synnove grabbed the old man's beard, not letting him back away.

"It seems she found her new favorite pulling toy, son of Ragnar!" Dag laughed happily.

With his heart full of joy, Björn knew those laughs were a new beginning for him.

I'm sorry for a short epilogue for this story, but I don't feel exactly inspired nowadays. I hope you guys have enjoyed this work, and thanks to everyone who followed it 'till now!

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