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animebw · 1 year ago

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Short Reflection: Vinland Saga Season 2

A sequel can do a lot of interesting things to the story it’s a part of. A great sequel can catapult an already good story into greatness. A bad sequel can squander whatever potential the first part was building up, or be so inconsequential that you can just pretend it doesn’t exist. But the hardest sequels to talk about are the ones that do an excellent job following up on what’s come before... yet still feel like a downgrade in ways so subtle you’re not quite sure if nostalgia is playing tricks on you or not. Did this series always have these flaws, you wonder, and you were just blind to them before? Or is something genuinely missing from this otherwise fantastic continuation that makes it feel less special than that initial entry? It’s a question I asked myself last year with the final season of Mob Psycho 100, a show that by any other metric would be a knockout success but couldn’t help but feel overshadowed by the seasons that came before. And now that same quandary presents itself to me with Vinland Saga, back after four years for another round of bloody historical viking combat and deep ruminations on the dangers of violence and hatred.

To make my position clear from the outset: I fucking love the first season of VInland Saga. It’s one of the best written, most achingly mature works of storytelling in anime, a beautiful exploration of the humanity behind violence, the people who perpetuate it and suffer it alike, and the complexities of people in a world far too willing to sort everyone into ally or enemy. It was potent, it was sincere, and it was achingly beautiful (at least when the production wasn’t driving itself into a ditch). It also had Askellad, one of my single favorite anime characters of all time for how beautifully he blurs the line between monster and hero. So perhaps that’s the reason why I don’t like season 2 as much; Askellad dies at the end of season 1 and only shows up here for a couple brief visions. My sweet baby gone too soon from this sinful world, we shall never see his like again.

I kid, I kid. Obviously, Askellad’s story ended exactly where it needed to, and any continuation to Vinland Saga- much like Thorfinn- would have to find a way forward without him. And that listless limbo of living between worlds is where we first meet Thorfinn as season 2 kicks off. Far from the ravenous warrior he was in season 1, Askellad’s death and the thwarting of his revenge has left him a shell of a man, barely able to function day by day. He’s ended up a slave on the farm of a seemingly kindly slavemaster named Ketil, his life reduced to following orders like an automaton as he wonders what the point of living even is now that his purpose has been taken away, leaving nothing but the memories of the countless lives he ripped apart in pursuit of it. But that begins to chance with the arrival of a new slave named Einar, a man who lost his home and family to Vikings much like the ones Thorfinn used to serve. As the two strike up an unlikely friendship, the shattered boy slowly begins to piece himself back together from nothing, facing the trauma he inflicted on others and himself and searching for new purpose unshackled from the bloodshed than once ruled his life. But it’s only a matter of time before bloodshed once again comes knocking at Thorfinn’s door, forcing him to come to terms with what kind of person he wants to be... and whether or not it’s possible to truly escape a world that seems to worship violence as the only true way.

It’s a radically different direction for the story to take, but it’s really the only way it could have gone. From the first episode, Vinland Saga has always been an interrogation of violence and its effect on people, a cry for peace in a world where that might as well be a foreign concept. And is season 1 was a full dive into the heart of that violence itself, season 2 is all about the escape from it, what it takes for a person who’s lived their whole life bathed in blood to seek a better way forward. Appropriately, most of what’s been dubbed “Farmland Saga” is spent on conversations and quiet moments, characters working out their issues and finding peace beyond the reach of a sword or ax. And whenever violence does show up, it’s always in short, brutal spurts of death where no one comes out happy, a far cry from the bombastic battles we used to have. And while that change no doubt rubs some fans the wrong way, it’s the only honest way Vinland Saga could continue to explore its themes. You can’t exactly tell a story of a man leaving violence behind and embracing peace if you’ve got limbs and heads flying at the same rate as season 1. Thorfinn’s growth from an emotionally stunted boy into a fully realized man, and the ways the rest of the inhabitants of Ketil’s farm react to the role of violence in their world, is Vinland Saga, and it’s still the same damn powerful story it was telling back when blood ran thicker and death same swifter.

So no, the relative absence of violence is not the reason that season 2 feels somewhat lacking in comparison to season 1. But then... what is the reason?

The obvious culprit to point at would be the change in studio. And yes, I’m as sick to death of the endless Wit vs Mappa debates as you are. So many stupid takes on every side, all ignoring the fundamental issue that both of these studios are infamous for treating their workers like shit and sacrificing healthy production times for the sake of pumping out more content for their shareholders to make money off of. Seriously, all your animation issues with shows from both of these studios come from the same source of corporate greed favorite quick profits over artistry, bond over that and fight your mutual enemy instead of turning it into a fandom dick measuring contest. That said, it’s not every day that you get to see two different studios put their own touches on multiple different anime in such clear terms. And between Attack on Titan and Vinland Saga, I definitely think there’s a conversation to be had on how Wit and Mappa’s approaches to anime differ... and what effect that has on the finished product.

To vastly, vastly oversimplify what I’ve observed, I’d say that Mappa tends to focus more on detailed animation, while Wit prioritizes cinematic direction. Whenever Mappa flexes its “budget” (yes I know that’s not really what it is I’m oversimplifying for time bear with me), it tends to be with intricate shots of richly detailed characters, every crease and line in their skin shaded and expressive. A single image or quick action cut, when given the time it needs, can feel so weighty and expressive, like you can actually reach out and touch it. Wit, meanwhile, tends to put its best foot forward with the way its camera brings its stories to life, sweeping CG-assisted tracking shots or gorgeous tableaus spilling out across the screen. They may sacrifice the finer details sometimes (and let’s be clear, there are moments where Vinland’s first season looks like aaaaaaass), but the visual imagination behind how they frame and present their anime captures that elusive feeling of cinema that few TV anime manage to achieve. Wit embraces anime not just as an animated medium, but a truly visual medium, one where every choice is make to sweep you up in the beauty this art form is capable of. And that’s a level of imagination, sadly, that Mappa doesn’t always measure up to.

In regards to Vinland specifically, the part of season 1 I always come back to is episode 14, which is framed almost entirely in claustrophobic, horrifying close-ups as we witness the slow-burn destruction our protagonists bring upon an innocent family. Everything is so close to your face, almost blotting out the frame, shoving your face in the horrors the story’s main characters are capable of committing and refusing to let you turn your gaze away. It’s one of the most gut-wrenching episodes of anime I’ve ever experienced, and it’s all thanks to how thoroughly Wit embraced the tools of this medium to drive home that horror. Moments like that are what made Vinland’s first season such a cinematic marvel, even when the production was clearly suffering from poor time management. By contrast, most of the big experimental moments from season 2- dreams, nightmares, near-death experiences, visions- are shot and framed rather conventionally. In fact, pretty much every scene in season 2 has the most basic “camerawork” imaginable. Mid shots and long shots and close-ups and detailed action cuts, all in their proper places, yes, but there are no moments like episode 14, no moments where the visual language rises to that same level of brilliance. It’s all individual moments of beautiful animation (and some rough patches as well because again, Mappa and Wit have the same problems with overwork affecting the final product) with nothing that truly takes flight and shows off the true power of the medium as an artistic form. Still achingly effective thanks to the strength of the writing, performances and soundtrack, but if anyone at Mappa has the same sense of cinematic joy and creativity as the folks at Wit, well, they were probably working on Chainsaw Man while Vinland season 2 was in production.

But technical differences can only explain so much. Attack on Titan also had a rough start switching to Mappa, and it still managed to be pretty much as electrifying and incredible as always. Which means we need to dig a little deeper in the writing of season 2 and figure out what isn’t clicking quite as well this time around. And thankfully, the answer is actually pretty obvious, so I’m gonna come right out with it: the dialogue in season 2 kinda sucks.

See, telling a slow-burn story that’s mostly conversation is a totally fine way to explore your themes, even if the actual plot remains fairly still for the sake of intricate character work. But there is an art to writing a slow burn without making audiences long for something faster-paced, and it is not an art that season 2 pulls off well. Almost every conversation boils down to characters talking explicitly about the show’s themes for minutes on end, repeated and re-repeating themselves as they endlessly ruminate on violence, peace, the nature of war, the nature of hatred, trauma, forgiveness, moving forward and choosing the hard way over the easy way until they all start bleeding together into the same indistinguishable soup. These conversations don’t feel like people engaging with heady ideas, they feel like the author was terrified of even a single audience member not getting the point. There are some really powerful themes season 2 is working with, but they start to feel less special when every episode is full to bursting with characters doing nothing but talking about those themes for the hundredth time.

And just to make sure, I re-watched an episode of season 1, and it didn’t have this problem! The dialogue in season 1 flows so much more naturally, characters seamlessly weaving between plot-relevant exposition and interpersonal relationship-building and interesting, quirky asides and heavy, climactic confrontations. Perhaps it helps that season 1 also has a lot more moving pieces, so it has countless ideas it can juggle throughout a single episode without getting bogged down in a single mode for too long. The occasional thematically explicit speech or monologue becomes a lot more powerful when used sparingly, interspersed with other story beats that advance the story and its themes through less direct methods. “Show, don’t tell” is a common piece of writing advice for a reason; most of us find stories’ ideas far more engaging when they’re revealed through characters actions rather than (or at least in addition to) their words. But with so few actions to “show” throughout season 2, pretty much all of its thematic weight relies on characters “telling” us what we should think about the experiences they’re going through. Thorfinn tells Einar about his trauma, Einar tells Thorfinn about his perspective on life, Canute tells his weird ghost dad head (which, I’m sorry, this thing just looks goofy) about his increasing moral rot and the weight of the king’s crown, and all of it really starts to drag when there’s nothing else to change things up. No wonder some fans grew tired and started to beg for a return to the bloody action.

Which I seriously want to drive home: Vinland Saga season 2 not being violent is not its problem. This show has always been a plea for peace, so exploring the aftereffects of escaping a violent life in a mostly peaceful environment for Thorfinn to find himself again is exactly the direction it should have gone in. And in the moments where stuff actually happens in season 2? Where the endless slow-burning conversations give way to action, violent or otherwise, on part of its characters? It’s just as heartbreaking and awe-inspiring as anything in season 1. The only reason I’ve gone so hard on critiquing this season is because I know just how fucking fantastic this show can be at its best, and when season 2 is at its best, it absolutely lives up to that high bar and more. Going peaceful isn’t the problem; the problem is that it just isn’t as good at being a peaceful story as it is a violent war story. Not bad at it, just not as good. Vinland Saga’s first season explored its themes so well by balancing so many different factors and making them all sing in harmony, delivering a propulsive tale of blood and swords that drove its ideas into you like knives while still being an entertaining story capable of effectively delivering those themes in the first place. Season 2, meanwhile, puts almost all of its eggs in a single basket, and suddenly it finds itself running into problems it can’t fix without betraying the core of its narrative. It’s like trying to build the same house twice but the second time you only have 10% of your toolbelt available; the fact it even ended up as great as it did is something of a minor miracle.

And make no mistake: Vinland Saga season 2 is still great. For as much as I’ve complained about it, it’s every bit the change in direction this story needed to carry forward. And while the execution wasn’t perfect, it was still able to lay me out on the floor like few shows even come close to. Vinland Saga is a colossus. Vinland Saga matters. It’s so rare we get stories this mature, this thoughtful, and this widely beloved in this crazy medium we call home. And if Mappa’s planning to stick with this one until the end like Attack on Titan, I hope, much like that show, future installments are able to find their footing and push it back to the top of the heap where it belongs. Until then, I give season a score of:

8/10

And so begins the Spring 2023 round-up. Look forward for more seasonal reflections to come!

#anime #the anime binge-watcher #tabw #vinland saga #spring 2023 sr #spring 2023 anime

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l-r-christian · 3 years ago

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Title: 'The noble stag's daughter; A Halloween romance'

First Meeting - Thunder Monster - First Crush - First Family Ball - First Heartbreak - First Christmas - A Day With Grandfather

Warnings: Fluff just all of the fluff, Cute Mikaelson moments

It was the first of October as Rebekah smiled dressing Y/N who was smiling up at her aunt kicking her feet as she sat on a chair while Rebekah placed a hat on her head then place the girl down watching the eight year old skip out giggling. Rebekah had placed green tights and a pumpkin dress on the girl as her aunt was going to make sure the girl was going to have the best Halloween since they couldn't give her one the las few years.

"Well well look at this Nik. A cute little pumpkin." Kol said picking up the girl who squealed happily as Klaus smiled and Rebekah walked out smirking.

"I have out done myself. Got a costume for each day up until Halloween."

"I see, going to take her trick-or-treating also?" Kol asked placing Y/N down with a smile seeing Klaus crouched down holding his hands out to the girl smiling soft as she grabbed them.

"That we are."

"Is that my baby pumpkin?" Elijah cooed crouched down as Y/N saw her father and pure joy came over her face running up to Elijah. Y/N placed kisses on his face as Elijah grabbed her little hands kissing them then scooped his daughter up into his arms smiling feeling her cuddle up to him and Elijah fixed her little hat.

"Adorable Rebekah. You have out done yourself."

"Thank you Elijah. Be ready because I have more."

Four days into October and Rebekah had dressed Y/N as a little bat and was running down stairs stopping smiling seeing Elijah with Gia. Both were talking about something as the girl just wanted to see her father happy since Elijah had been only focused on his daughter. So when Y/N saw Elijah getting closer to the younger vampire, the girl began to push them together.

"What are you doing small one?" Mikael asked getting down behind Y/N since saving the girl a month ago. Mikael had been wrapped around his grand daughter's finger unable to say no to the girl, doing whatever she asked of the vampire. Much like her uncles and father, Mikael was willing to slaughter anyone to protect the girl.

"Watching daddy with Gia. See daddy likes Gia and she likes him back so I been trying to get them together.....Daddy deserve to be happy."

"I see. And why are you a bat?"

"Aunt Beka picked out my costumes all the way up to til Halloween." Y/N chirped looking up at her grandfather smiling brightly as Mikael nodded taking in the information.

"Why hasn't your father act on his feelings?"

"Busy, also the scary suit people papa."

"I see then I shall help you on this little endeavor." Mikael said smiling as Y/N brighten up as operation make Elijah happy went into affect to which Mikael got to see just how much of a Mikaelson Y/N was. Elijah smiled seeing Mikael with Y/N believing he was drawing with the girl unaware his daughter was working with his father to get him a girlfriend.

"Okay! We find out what Gia likes then hint it at daddy." Y/N said showing Mikael as Rebekah raised an eyebrow seeing Mikael nodding listening intently to the young Mikaelson.

"What are you plotting Y/N?"

"Getting daddy and Gia together. Papa is help." Y/N tells Rebekah who smirked sitting joining in. A week away from Halloween with Y/N dressed as Wednesday Addams of the Mikaelson Halloween ball as a Halloween block party was passing out candy to the children. Elijah stood watching Mikael hold Y/N up away from boys her own age and it was amusing to Elijah when he spotted Gia making his breathing hitch.

"I hope you don't mind but Y/N want to match costumes so we took Gia to get a Morticia Addams dress. By the way Gia is amazing with Y/N." Rebekah says watching Y/N run to Gia who pick the girl up with a smile as Mikael was glaring at the young boys. Rebekah knew the quickest way for a woman to earn Elijah's affections was how they treated Y/N so to see Gia adore Y/N was a winner in Elijah's eyes.

"You planned this?"

"You'll be surprised to know I did not." Rebekah said as Elijah looked at her then walked over to Gia and Y/N. The vampire jumped feeling a hand on her lower back looking to see Elijah smiling softly as he kissed his daughter's head.

"Looks like you are the Morticia to our Wednesday and Gomez." Elijah teased lightly seeing the vampire flushing as Y/N smiled hugging Gia saying how pretty she was. Hours into the night Y/N sat on Mikael's forearm watching Elijah dance with Gia making the young witch excited.

"It is working!"

"What is working?" Klaus asked spotting the brightness in his niece's eyes as Mikael smirked looking at his son.

"Your niece as planned to get Elijah with young Gia."

"Oh?" Klaus said smirking deciding to join in getting Elijah with Gia also. The day of Halloween Y/N was excited dressed as a Viking warrior she rush down stairs getting Mikael's and Hayley's attention hearing her let out a battle cry waving a fake axe pretending to kill Mikael who played along. Hope squealed happy to see her cousin as Mikael played dead and Y/N looked to Hayley who was trying to not to laugh.

"Had me the princess."

"Okay please don't hurt me." Hayley says placing Hope in a wagon the girl brought with her and Hayley smiled watching Y/N take off with Hope and pretend attack Marcel. Klaus walked into the den with a raised eyebrow seeing Mikael getting up and the sounds of Kol dying dramatically.

"Do I want to know?"

"Y/N wanted to be a Viking warrior princess this year." Rebekah says carrying two bowls of candy getting ready for trick-or-treaters seeing Gia crouched down in front of Y/N with a smile.

"I take it Gia and Elijah are taking the girls?"

"Yes since Mikael had scared the neighborhood boys. And hopefully Elijah and Gia get together at the end of the night."

Elijah smiled watching Gia with his daughter and niece as they got back from trick-or-treating and Y/N had asked the vampire to help her get ready for bed. Next thing both vampires knew they were in Elijah's bed panting when a roll of thunder reached their ears. Gia flushed when Elijah placed one of his shirts on her before kissing her lightly when Y/N came running in carrying a teddy bear Gia got her.

"Daddy, thunder monster and Thor are being scary."

"I know babygirl, come here." Elijah said opening his arms to his daughter but saw her climb into Gia's arms and Elijah smiled softly wrapping his arms around both girls. Y/N smiled snuggling between them falling asleep as Elijah rubbing her back.

"You know, Y/N and my family had been plotting to get us together."

"Oh! I.....but...why?" Gia asked feeling shy as Elijah cupped her cheek rubbing it with his thumb eyes twinkling with adoration as seeing Gia holding his daughter with such care made him love her even more.

"Y/N wants me happy. The clever girl found out my feelings for you and had been pushing us together."

"Truly your daughter. Always thinking ten steps ahead to which I am glad for." Gia says softly leaning forward kissing Elijah making him smile against her lips before both fell asleep.

Morning light shined though Elijah's window as the vampire woke surprised to find Gia and Y/N curled into one another while snuggling into his warmth. Elijah smiled softly watching them both for a moment.

"Goodmorning beautiful." Elijah said softly seeing Gia wake up catching her flushing face. Y/N caught both of their attention whe she rolled over snuggling back into Gia and Elijah chuckled softly kissing his daughter's head before gently kissing Gia.

"I'll go make my favorite girls breakfast. And Gia.....do know I care for you deeply."

"I know.....I care for you deeply too." Gia says smiling knowing that she wasn't going anywhere as she adored both daughter and father too much to leave. Gia breathed deeply smiling burying her nose in Y/N's curls happily listening to the girl breath softly cuddling into the vampire.

#l.r writes #elijah mikaelson fluff #the originals imagine #mikaelson family x reader

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s5anyu · 3 years ago

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he is a terrible man. and yet amongst men, he is the most beautiful of characters.

Character Analysis for Askeladd of Vinland saga

On the surface, Askeladd is nothing more than a self-serving man. He is cunning, charming, and intelligent, qualities that no matter the disdain people have for his abrasive personality, have earned him respect amongst the Vikings, and beyond. Floki respects his intelligence enough to approach him to request the killing of a man who is regarded to be the strongest amongst all warriors. This being his first appearance is a solid testament to his ability to overcome any predicament – the basis of his development as a character throughout the Vinland Saga prologue. His men trust in all of his decisions, no matter how rash. They believe him to be as lucky as he is intelligent. His intelligence, wisdom and kindness complements the air of arrogance with which he carries himself. When hosted by his uncle Gorm, he laughs at him, before imparting wisdom on a young man who tells him that he would sooner die than live without pride. He says:

“Look. It’s terrible. The guy who’s a slave to money holds a whip and pretends to be the master of the slave he bought with his money. He just doesn’t realise it himself. Everyone is a slave to something.”

Such a sense of wisdom places Askeladd as a tool for Yukimura to present and explore the status of elders in Norse society. As an elder to Thorfinn, he guides him through different trials and encourages him to push his limits as a warrior, and become a better combatant. Regardless of whether or not life at war is the best option for Thorfinn, Askeladd always believes in him and his ability, and though he never expresses verbally his concern for Thorfinn’s wellbeing, he always shows an interest in Thorfinn’s safety and is always waiting for his return where the rest of his band do not care. To the other Vikings, Thorfinn is just another one of their men. Bjorn says of Thorfinn, “You trusted in his [Thorfinn’s] luck too much this time. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t lose anything.” This statement also reflects the stark individualism displayed by Vikings – although they may work together in bands of warriors or mercenaries or otherwise, they do so to serve their own interests – honour, valour, wealth, among many things. But to Askeladd, he is someone important - someone he cares for. When one considers the question of whether life at war is the best for Thorfinn the answer to this question evidences Askeladd’s selfishness. Despite knowing that life as a warrior is not the best for Thorfinn, he still uses him as a tool to further his own goals. In his own words, “It’s just easy to make use of an idiot who is not afraid of anything.”

There are, however, multiple occasions on which Askeladd appears to be straying from the typical Viking individualism of the era. The first example of this, is his kindness towards Thorfinn, as introduced in the previous paragraph. Amongst Vikings, such ideas of care and brotherhood are ultimately trumped by ideas of valour in battle and honour in death. One would not be greatly concerned with the death of one’s companions as long as they are assured that the departed are well on their way to the esteemed Valhalla – however the concern that Askeladd shows towards Thorfinn is evidence of his holding of attitudes that were unconventional for his time. This ties into the subtle revelation towards the end of the prologue that Askeladd does not believe that life at war is honourable, and does not hold the Viking people in esteem because of this; going so far as to disdain his own Norse heritage in favour of his Welsh heritage. His final actions and his final words reflect his sentiment from episode 10, Ragnarok, in which he declares:

"This is the age of twilight, Bjorn. Let’s go out with a bang."

In his final moments, he kills King Sweyn to protect both his motherland of Wales and the young Prince Canute. In this, he sacrifices himself to protect what is dear to him – and to protect King Canute who he grows to respect as a man with potential to be great in their short period of companionship. This is him leaving his mark on the age of twilight; this is him going out with a bang. He tells Thorfinn:

“In the future, after I die, how do you plan to live your life, Thorfinn? You haven’t thought about it, right? Move forward already. Don’t stay stuck in a boring place like this forever. Go far ahead, go beyond the world where Thors went. You’re Thors’ son. Go. That’s your real fight. Become a true warrior son of Thors.”

These last words reflect multiple things that are introduced at the beginning of the prologue and explored throughout it, the first being Askeladd’s feelings towards Thors. At the beginning of the prologue, Askeladd shows great respect to Thors throughout the duration of their battle. He outwardly expresses an appreciation for his strength, saying that he “could lead a whole army”. This statement shows that Thors is a man who is both physically strong and strong in character, and that Askeladd recognises this. He then asks of him, “why don’t you become our leader?” which shocks his men – as mentioned before they trust in him absolutely and are already surprised to see a man who can best him in hand-to-hand combat. However, none of them express dissent to this; whether this is out of shock or acceptance is open to interpretation. When he backtracks on this statement and says he’s only joking, one of the young men from the village try to attack Askeladd, to which he responds

“Damn kid. You should start valuing your life. You should be grateful to Thors. He was a man who was worth more than a hundred bratty kids like you.”

Askeladd greatly respects Thors and despite his decision, holds him in high esteem. The first part of this statement also reflects on his belief in – or at the very least respect for – Thors and his philosophy. He calls him a man of great value and he scolds the young man who he perceives as disrespecting the sacrifice that Thors made to keep him alive. “Don’t stay in a boring place like this” refers generally to the life of a warrior as opposed to their physical location of the king’s court. As detailed briefly above, Askeladd disdains the life of a warrior, and disdains the Vikings for it. Therefore, when he reminds Thorfinn “You’re Thors’ son”, he believes that Thorfinn Karlsefni has the potential to be as great as his father, if not more so. He believes that he can grow to become something greater than a warrior.

The second idea that this quote reflects is that of Askeladd’s care and concern for Thorfinn. He asks, “You haven’t thought about it, right?”. Askeladd has thought about how Thorfinn has been mentally since the passing of his father. Thorfinn has a stark hatred of battle and engages in it purely because of the hatred he has for Askeladd, and the proximity it gives him to his goal of killing him. Askeladd is aware of this. In his last moments, he could have been unkind and goading towards Thorfinn as he had been in the past – but instead he pushes him to seek something better. He knows that Thorfinn has been suffering emotionally and hasn’t known happiness from the day they met. Askeladd doesn’t appear as a man who wants to seek redemption – he wants Thorfinn to find happiness now that he has nowhere to direct the anger that has been his only motivator for the greater part of his childhood. From this, one could argue that Askeladd’s selfishness trumped his desire for Thorfinn to be happy. However, very early on in the prologue, Askeladd hints at his acceptance of defeat at Thorfinn’s hand.

"You’ve grown a lot. Well, time is on your side. You’re going to grow, and I’m going to get old. Someday, I’m going to lose to you. It’s only natural. Even the strongest dies someday."

Askeladd doesn’t attempt to dissuade Thorfinn from his desire for vengeance. Rather he tries to guide him towards the idea that vengeance is empty, and that any defeat he faces at Thorfinn’s hand is meaningless in the face of the natural order of the world. He knows that it is pointless to try and calm the resentment that Thorfinn harbours towards him; he knows the gravity of his sin and can’t tell Thorfinn not to hate him for it. From this, we can begin to explore the idea that Askeladd is similar to Thorfinn and sees himself in the younger man. Askeladd is just as full of hatred as Thorfinn is – as much as he is to a father figure to Thorfinn as a man, as a character, he serves as both a parallel and a foil to Thorfinn.

Askeladd is just as full of hatred as Thorfinn. His mother, Lydia, was taken from her homeland of Wales as a concubine to Olaf, and when she grew sick, she was of no value to him. She and her son were discarded and Askeladd grew to despise his father, and by extension his people. Askeladd, like Thorfinn, learned from the man he hated the most and sought revenge against him. Askeladd was successful in killing his father but his disdain for the Viking way of life and his bloodline led him to harbour resentment even into his old age. He is therefore a parallel to Thorfinn in that they both resent battle and war but tolerate it as a means to satisfying their own end. Askeladd, however, has seen and experienced first-hand the effects of Viking conquest on the innocent. Thorfinn has only seen it from the eyes of the oppressor.

Despite this, both continue to kill.

Askeladd’s ability to relate to Thorfinn’s anger is what makes him such a good father figure to him. He knows what it means to be so consumed by anger that you see nothing else, that you live for nothing else – to endure something you despise for the sake of vengeance. He knows that Thorfinn is miserable, and hurting, and lonely, because he is too. Such a sense of relatability is what puts him in a position to understand and take care of Thorfinn. It is because he understands how Thorfinn feels that he does not attempt to dissuade him from following him around in the hopes of killing him. He knows that Thorfinn cannot let go of the anger he has until he sees the recipient of that anger gone, because he too suffers from the same affliction. Therefore, it is not selfishness that drives Askeladd to keep Thorfinn around in his suffering – it is resignation; the same resignation he displays when he says that he will someday lose to Thorfinn.

Askeladd proves himself throughout his life to be ahead of his time. He is wise, caring, and understanding; but he is also cold, cunning, and ruthless. Man is not absolute, and Askeladd is no exception. But from those of his time, he is far above men – even with each and every of his nuances and flaws. he comes close to attaining the status of a true warrior as Thors was – and maybe if he had had more time, he could’ve seen his mother’s dream come true. The world is never that simple.

word from the writer:

When Askeladd was first introduced to me, he appeared to me as a terrible man. His intelligence and his strength is terrifying. A man who can kill for his own gain, without remorse. Such a terrible man. But amongst men he is the most beautiful of characters.

When I was writing this I wanted it to be a prelude to my upcoming essay on his relationship with Thorfinn. To some degree I’ve covered that here, so the next piece will most likely be on how Thorfinn views him and I would also like to talk about his relationship with prince Canute. Askeladd, despite not seeming like it, is a very fatherly man and I love looking at how he interacts with the other members of the cast. I hope you enjoyed this, and I’d love to hear what you guys have to say about this. my asks are always open.

Please look forward to the next piece in my Vinland Saga series.

#vinland saga #thorfinn #askeladd #bjorn #makoto yukimura #seinen #manga #anime #vinland saga canute #canute the great #analysis #philosophy #thors #thorfinn karlsefni #lucius artorius castus #danish #vikings #individualism #wales

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mrsalwayswrite · 4 years ago

Text

Fight For You (Ivar x Reader)

This is my contribution to @youbloodymadgenius 1k celebration! Congrats, love!

My prompt was: You had my curiosity. But now you have my attention. (Django Unchained)

Warnings: a smidgeon of violence, talk of premeditative murder of a spouse, some possessive!Ivar? my poor attempts at humor and flirting.

Words:3900

The talking of the other earls, jarls and king grated on Ivar's nerves. Instead of threatening to cut out all of their tongues and make a necklace of them, like he strongly desired to do, he silently reclined in his seat fuming. It was both boring and infuriating to listen to these lesser men squabble amongst themselves like children. But like Hvitserk frequently reminded him, the others needed to be included in the planning. Even if Ivar despised it.

So he sat back, pretending to listen to the others as they attempted to make a battle plan. Even if it was a piss poor attempt and honestly, laughable. He kept silent for now. For he had his own plan and when he felt he had given them enough time to argue, he would share what they needed to know to fulfill it. He never shared the full plan; he would never give another that kind of power and knowledge.

King Harald Finehair was the least incompetent of the warriors and since at least half of their heathen army was there due to him, many listened intently when he spoke.

"If our scouts are correct, our army vastly outnumbers anything the town has." King Harald placed both of his hands on the table, drawing the attention of those under the meeting tent to himself. "I say tomorrow we attack with our full force. If they barricade themselves in, then we burn the gate down."

"How great will our casualties be then?" Earl Liefson questioned, eyeing most of Norway's King with scrutiny.

"Did you not hear King Harald? We outnumber them! Those that die during the fight will certainly go to Valhalla to feast with Odin and Thor. Let us attack without fear or worry!" Jarl Haakon boasted, slapping a hand to his broad chest in emphasis.

This time Ivar did not try to suppress his annoyance. He rolled his eyes at the Jarl, practically biting his tongue to withhold a scathing comment. Looking to his left, he caught the gaze of his brother, Hvitserk, who at least was better at hiding his irritation.

There were many men that Ivar detested, many men he loathed. Jarl Haakon was most certainly in the top five. The man loved the sound of his own voice and any idea spewed from his mouth usually equaled in value to a pig's fart. At first, Ivar could not fathom how the Jarl managed to stay in his position of power. Sure, he fought like a berserker and thrived on bloodlust like many Vikings…. but he was a pompous, narrow-minded idiot.

Yet once the meetings started, plans being drawn for this great raid, Ivar figured it out.

It was you.

In the beginning, some of the other earls initially protested when Jarl Haakon brought you into the meetings; especially since you were no shieldmaiden, you were only his wife. But when he flatly stated either you came with him or him and his men left, their protests died down. Those very men were further silenced when King Harald greeted you warmly and welcomed your company.

At first, Ivar loathed your presence, thinking you were there just to satisfy your husband's ego, his continuous need to show off his beautiful wife. It was only after plans were finalized and Jarl Haakon looked down at you, his hand possessively on your lower back, that Ivar realized you were not there just to look pretty.

You surveyed over the "map" drawn into the dirt, eyes analyzing. Then you did the most unexpected thing. You critiqued the plan. Perfecting it in ways that even Ivar had not seen.

And the bloodthirsty prince could only sit back in shock and awe.

It was after that first encounter, whenever you were nearby, his gaze never strayed far from you.

Now, you stood silently next to your husband, focused on the plan being discussed. Instead of fully listening to the others, Ivar watched you. The way you bit your lower lip in concentration, the faint twitch of your right eye when someone said something you disagreed with, the quiet way you controlled your husband with a simple word or touch. It all mesmerized him.

What inflamed him the most was the few times your gaze would rise to meet his. The way you would peek at him through your lashes like a shy maiden, as if silently asking for his permission, then speak to the group of men. The power and intellect you kept hidden would be unveiled with your words. It was enough to make Ivar salivate every time.

Most women bothered Ivar with their whimpering or tedious nature, even most of the shieldmaidens made him want to plunge a dagger into them. But not you. You were not most women. Ivar swore on all the gods that you were a Valkyrie sent from Odin to bless him, to confirm his favor with the Aesir and his lineage tracing back to Odin himself.

Yet somehow you were married to that fool of a Jarl….and Ivar hated it.

"What say you, Ivar?" King Harald asked, drawing the prince back to the current conversation. The gazes of the other leaders weighed heavily once their eyes turned to Ivar, but instead of buckling underneath their inquiry, he thrived.

"I say why waste time and men? Let us lead a main force from the river like they expect us to do. A second force will attack from the north, hiding in the woods. My scout says there is a second smaller gate that their hunters use to leave the town. Because of its location, it is not well defended. Using that, there will be no need for a siege." He confidently explained his plan, looking around the meeting tent. A knot in his core tightened as he saw the corners of your lips turned upward in a brief smile and the bright gleam in your eyes. His plan was flawless, but seeing your approval bolstered his confidence, made him straighten further in his chair.

"Why did you not tell us about this second gate sooner?" An older earl demanded. His fingers tapped on the axe he wore on his hip, either purposefully threatening or mindlessly was yet to be determined.

The dark-haired prince rolled his head to the side, glaring at the man with malice in his icy blue eyes. "I waited until the information was necessary. If you sent your own scouts, they may have discovered it themselves instead of wasting their time drunk everyday we've been here."

"A second gate is fortuitous for us." King Harald interrupted before the earl could respond. "We will lose less men. I will lead the main attack with my men. Ivar will lead the second attack since you were the one who brought this information."

Ivar cocked his head for a moment then nodded. "Agreed." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jarl Haakon turn to you with a silent question in his look. Without hesitation, you give a single nod and your husband smiled.

"What are we standing around for then? We have Saxons to kill and glory and riches to earn. Let us prepare!" Jarl Haakon loudly proclaimed, making a couple of the earls chuckle. After that everyone began to disperse back to their own tents and warriors. Word would spread to prepare for battle the next day.

Catching Hvitserk's eye, Ivar motioned for his older brother to accompany him. Together, they walked out of the meeting tent and past groups of warriors, tents and cooking fires. The noon sun blared down on them, causing many to seek shelter under tents or tree canopies.

"What is it?" The flaxen-haired warrior asked, falling easily into step with his little brother.

Ivar hated how easily his brother could keep pace with him, while he stumbled along with his crippled legs and crutch. It was not Hvitserk's fault, but it was a resentment that Ivar still held nonetheless. Keeping his gaze forward, he grunted a vague reply. "I have questions."

"Ah." Hvitserk ran a hand over his mustache as he surveyed the camp around them. After a moment, he spoke up again. "Anything to do with y/n?"

Ivar snapped his head around to glare only to meet the amused look of his smirking brother. His upper lip curled up in a snarl but Hvitserk cut him off with a shrug.

"What? You're not as subtle as you think you are. You're lucky her husband hasn't taken notice of your…. attention."

"Shut up."

"Alright…. we are going to see her though, right?"

Ivar did not respond, instead he grit his teeth as he pressed on to his destination. Beside him, Hvitserk laughed but kept pace and any further comments to himself.

The two princes walked towards Jarl Haakon's tent. From observing, Ivar knew that the Jarl would be off with King Harald, talking to their warriors and finalizing their own plans. Without fail, he always postured himself to the forefront in speaking to their warriors, most likely to make sure his voice was heard just after King Harald and to boost his own ego. Even if his usefulness in making the battle plans was nonexistent. He was a warrior, through and through, but not a strategist. His value lied on his ability to wield his sword and axe on the battlefield.

To Ivar's surprise, you always retired to your tent right away after meetings. He witnessed on more than one occasion where your husband tried to convince you to accompany him, all to no avail. Oh, it was obvious your husband cared for you, but he also thrived on the jealous looks from others. His hand continuously rested on your lower back or around your shoulders, pulling you against him, dwarfing you with his larger frame. Frequently, he loudly proclaimed how he was gifted with a wife from Freya herself, making sure to steal a kiss as he laughed boisterously.

A coy smile danced on your lips but Ivar could see it hidden in the depths of your eyes, the annoyance and disgust by your husband's actions. You were a goddess on Midgard. That simpleton of a husband was not worthy of you. He should worship at your feet, begging for a moment of your divine attention. Yet, you were his lawful wife.

And jealousy threatened to burn Ivar alive as he looked on.

The son of Ragnar was further enraged as he approached your tent to witness no guards posted in front of it. How dare your husband leave you undefended? He was even more of a fool than Ivar thought.

With his usual arrogance, Ivar drew back the flap to your tent without calling out for your permission. As he stepped through, he could hear Hvitserk mutter something under his breath behind him, but still followed into the Jarl's tent.

You stood next to a short table on the far side of the tent. Your hair was out of its typical braids, catching the prince's eye. An image of him running his hand through your hair flashed through his mind without warning. With the cloth in hand and the shallow bowl before you, Ivar knew he had interrupted your cleansing.

"Prince Ivar," you started, dragging the cloth down your neck sensually before setting it softly into the bowl. "My husband is not here at the moment. Would you like me to send for him?"

"That's alright. It's you I'm interested in." He smirked as he watched you straighten further, a faint furrow between your brows. Your eyes continued to hold his, sending a thrill straight down his spine. He moved to the center of the tent, drawing closer as if magnetized by you. Leaning on his crutch, he tipped his head to peer at you. Lesser men would fear being alone with him, a Viking known for his bloodlust and cruelty but not you. There was no fear, no concern for safety in your eyes, only interest….and that amused and enthralled the crippled prince.

"I confess, I find your relationship with your husband…. peculiar. At first, I thought you were another pretty face, just another useless wife. But I see now, you are far more cunning and clever than you let on. Even now. Your husband is a fool, but he is intelligent enough to recognize he's need for you. So, I have been curious. Why are you still married to that oaf? I suspect there are far better suitors out there for you."

You shrugged, taking a couple steps closer to the center of the tent. "It was the gods' will, and he is a good man."

"He's an idiot." Ivar deadpanned. A muffled snort came from the direction of Hvitserk behind him but he kept his piercing eyes on you.

"Perhaps. He is still my husband."

"Mmm….and do you care for your husband?"

You glanced over at Hvitserk, who stood near the entrance, leaning against a pole casually, and then back to Ivar. For the first time, he saw uncertainty flash across your eyes but it was quickly subdued. "Why does it matter?"

He moved closer until he stood before you, the sound of his crutch muffled by the furs covering the ground. "He is always touching you, but you never reciprocate. You are…. complacent. Tell me, honestly. Does his intellect bore you? Is that why you run back to your tent?"

"Ivar…." Hvitserk said in warning, only to be ignored.

"Would you bore me?" You asked coquettishly, looking at him from under your lashes, making his heart race. "I find most men…. simple."

"I think you know the answer to that." His mouth curved in an arrogant smile. "Is that why you steal looks at me during meetings?"

"Or is it because I feel your eyes on me already?"

Gods, he wanted to touch you. As you stared into one another's eyes, a silent conversation flowed between you two. It was now he finally saw what he hoped for, what he silently prayed for. A longing lay hidden in your gaze that matched his own. An understanding. A hunger that bespoke of adventure and passion. The torturous desire was enough to drive him mad with need but he refrained. He would make you come to him though, he would make you touch him first to prove your want for him.

"Is this…. are you two flirting?" Hvitserk suddenly asked, shattering the revealing moment.

"No, brother. I would never flirt with a married woman." Ivar took a step back from you, feeling the space like a chasm between you two. "I think my questions have been answered." He turned around and started towards the entrance.

In anger, most people revealed their true selves. He had learned that if he could say the right thing, push people the right way, their true selves, their true desires would manifest. So he decided to see if the meek wife you portrayed was accurate or just a mask, if he could draw that longing out from you. He turned his head just enough to the side to make sure you heard his next statement. "It seems you are just another pretty face after all."

In the next step, the sharp edge of a dagger pressed to his throat froze his step. Shifting his head slightly, the edge dug further, almost piercing his skin. You stood just behind him, the dagger in your hand.

"I may not be a shieldmaiden but I am no helpless Saxon woman." You slowly, teasingly, dragged the dagger's tip further up his neck to his pulse point. The whole time he never removed his eyes from yours over his shoulder. The tension glided across his body, shooting a shiver down his spine. He wondered if the heated look in your eyes matched his own. If he licked his lips, could he taste the ardor saturating the air between you.

When you spoke again, it was with a low and titillating tone. Your breath brushed against his neck, the feeling of your body almost touching his- tormenting. His hand clutched his crutch with a white-knuckle grip, his self-control slipping away with each moment. "I always have at least three daggers on me…. would you like to try and find them?"

"I do!" Hvitserk said, raising his hand, breaking the tension. "I volunteer!"

You winked at Hvitserk before withdrawing the dagger from Ivar's throat and taking a step back. Ivar continued to watch you as your gaze met his again. "Do not assume just because you cannot see something, does not mean it is not there. I may look like the submissive wife but that is far from the truth."

To say he was aroused was an understatement. Spinning on his heel, he faced you, not even trying to suppress the hunger bubbling up within him. "You had my curiosity. But now you have my attention."

"And what does that mean, 'I have your attention'? Is there a prize?" You raised an eyebrow but the devious smirk betrayed your amusement.

"I always reward those who…. interest me." He shifted forward to gently reach forward and caress your cheek. A sharp inhale and the fluttering of your lashes at his touch proved his effect on you. Carefully, you tipped your head, leaning your cheek against his hand. Never before had he coveted you so strongly. His instincts screamed at him to take your hand and lead you back to his tent, to make you his forever. You were a free woman though; the choice was yours. He wanted you to choose him.

"You are too smart for that idiot. Leave him." He muttered, tracing a finger over the seam of your lips.

"It's not that simple."

"It can be."

You pressed a kiss to the tip of his finger. "And what will I do then?"

"You can be my woman!" Hvitserk declared, placing a hand over his heart.

You giggled at the harsh glare Ivar threw his brother over his shoulder.

"What?" Hvitserk asked in mock innocence. “You know I would share, little brother!"

"Hvitty, say another word and I will cut your tongue out."

The flaxen-haired prince rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Both of you need to work on your flirting. I did quite enjoy the little display you gave us, it's been far too long since someone threatened Ivar. We could make a shieldmaiden out of you yet, y/n."

You stepped around Ivar to approach Hvitserk, much to Ivar's chagrin. He watched you give a quick peck on the cheek to his brother. Red began to color Ivar's sight, the tight grip on his crutch borderline painful.

"I could make you very happy." Hvitserk said with a flirty wink, making you giggle.

The innuendo did not go over both Ivar and your heads. You smiled though, walking back towards the center of the tent. "I'm sure but I would hate to take that opportunity away from all the other women since I don't like to share."

Ivar reached over and grabbed your arm, pulling you closer to him. The sweet smile lingered on your face but now directed at him softened some of his jealous anger. He cupped the side of your face, gazing down at you in something akin to reverence and longing. Silently, you placed your hands on his chest, staring up at him. He wondered if you caused his heart to beat or it beat for you.

"You fascinate me." He whispered, as if scared to utter the confession.

A sigh escaped you as you glanced downward at your hands on him. "If only we had met in another life."

"Leave him. He doesn't deserve you. You deserve to be worshipped and recognized. Not treated as something to be shown off."

"Perhaps one day." You lifted your eyes to meet his once more. "But I can't yet. An alliance relies on our marriage."

He nodded, running his tongue along his bottom lip. It made sense. That would explain how you ended up married to the foolish warrior jarl. Lifting one of your hands from his chest, he pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles, wishing it was your lips instead. Without another word, he started towards the entrance to your tent. His mind needed to process what it learned and how to best utilize that information for his plan.

Just before opening the flap, he turned back to you, surprised to see you still standing in the same spot but now rubbing your kissed knuckles across your bottom lip. Warmth and determination welled in his chest.

"Will you pray to the gods for our victory?"

A smug smile curled the corners of your mouth. "I always do, but it is not necessary for who can defeat Ivar the Boneless?"

He could not stop the grin from spreading across his face. "And do you pray for your husband's safety?"

"That I leave to the gods."

With one last heated look sent your way, he ducked out of the tent and back into the sunny camp.

"What now?" Hvitserk asked, walking beside him.

"I need to talk with King Harald."

"Ivar, you can't…. that’s…."

He stopped to round on his brother, a scowl directed at him. "She deserves better than Jarl Haakon. Do you disagree?" He spat out, his wrath directed at your husband blazing once again.

Hvitserk sighed. "No, but…."

"Then it's settled." Without waiting, he started in the direction of King Harald's tent.

Hvitserk rushed back to his side, falling into step. "So you'll pursue her after?"

Ivar kept silent, mind already finalizing plans on how to best dispose of your husband. The battle coming up was the perfect opportunity, as if the timing was ordained and blessed by the gods.

"You won't be the only one. You're not the only man to watch her."

Ivar sneered at the thought. "They will find themselves with my axe embedded in their guts if they even try."

"So protective of her already and she is still another man's wife."

Ivar turned on his brother but Hvitserk just sidestepped the dagger aimed at his chest.

"If it's the gods' will for her to be your wife then I will help you." His older brother stated with his hands held up in surrender. "You know this. Besides I think you found your match with her."

"She is…." The crippled prince started but his words trailed off. How could he adequately describe how you meant to him, how he longed for you, how he knew with you by his side he would be unstoppable and maybe for once in his life, actually happy.

"Is that Ivar the Boneless speechless? It must be love…. or the sun is getting to your head and you're going to be sick."

"Shut up." Ivar snapped but without malice.

They walked for a few more minutes in silence before Hvitserk spoke up again.

"It will be pleasant to not hear his irritating voice anymore in meetings. We may be able to find an earl willing to just kill him for us."

Ivar chuckled darkly. His thoughts returned to you and how he would willingly do anything to make you his wife. You were his Valkyrie, his goddess, you would complete him. Soon you would at his side, come death or Ragnarök, he would fight for you.

#vikings #vikings fandom #vikings fanfic #vikings fanfiction #ivar the boneless #ivars heathen army #ivar x reader #hvitserk #harald finehair #youbloodymadgenuis1kcelebration #ivar lothbrok #vikings imagine #mzwrites

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imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl · 4 years ago

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Unexpected Places (Pt. 01 of 11)

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless X Reader/Bjorn X Reader

Word count: 2.8 K

Summary: As a princess, you've lived in a golden cage all your life, always a piece on someone else's game. But everything changed when the Norsemen came crushing down on Wessex, like waves in a violent storm. Their king spared your life and decided to take you with him to his kingdom, in what felt more like a rescue than a kidnapping. There, you were not only confronted with a completely different culture and lifestyle, but also with two of his sons. The oldest one has his eyes set on you, but it's the youngest one, Ivar, who gets who claimed your attention since the first sight. And he seems to have an unnamed interest in you. Of course you hoped whatever that was would pass, but when unexpected feelings start to flow a different way, things begin to change.

Next part (02)->

{Vikings Masterlist}

Sailing Into The Unknown

Walking fast, you keep up with the two Norsemen coming right behind you. Unlike the rest of your maids, who were caught hiding or trying to leave the castle, you were found in your chambers. You knew they'd find you, one way or another, and you'll have much more to gain if you keep fear and despair away from your mind.

You knew this day would come. Your father, the King, was sure of it, and so were you. The political implications of King Ecbert and King Aelle in the last years brought you to this moment. An attack was imminent, and when you were told the Vikings were once again clashing on your cost like the waves, you knew this was inevitable. The only thing you can hope now is that they'll either let you live or give you a quick death. You're a threat, that's obvious. Aethelwulf may be the heir, but you're forth in line after his two sons. And that puts you in a dangerous position.

A yelp from one of your maids gets your attention, and you give her a look. You get why they're scared. These men look like monsters to them, speaking a strange language, dressed in dark, hard material, covered in blood. And everything they were told about the Norsemen, is that they're all savages. Worse than animals, soulless. Fortunately for you, one of the few things you actually wanted to do that your father allowed was to learn the Vikings language. Ecbert taught you himself, and you feel relieved to know what they're saying.

When you reach the main hall, you're pushed to the center, near a table. The maids all stick together, trying to pull you with them as they fall to the ground, using their skirts to dry off the tears. But you stand up, looking around. The place is flooded by them, the so-called monsters. Some are chatting, laughing even. Some of them have their eyes on you and on the other ladies. There's no way to know what will happen next, but you know who's in charge here.

The legend, the man they believe to be a descendant from the Pagan god, Odin. Ragnar Lothbrok. If you want to stand a chance to get out of here alive, that's the man you need to talk to. And, as if being called, he comes from the hall, alongside two other men. He looks, at the same time, exactly how your father described, but also very different. A paradox. His eyes scan the room, and, as you make your way over him, they lay on you.

One of the men who were with him come forward, standing on your way. Looking up, you sustain his stare. “I wish to speak with Ragnar.” You say, trying not to smile at the confused expression on the man's face. Nobody here expects you to speak their language.

“Princess (Y/N).” Ragnar sings songs, and the man steps aside. He has an axe in his hand, playing with it as he comes closer to you. “I was just having a small chat with your dear father.”

“Did you kill him?” The answer is obvious, but still, you need to know. The funny expression on his face changes and he pinches his eyebrows together “My father always said that, if he had to die at all, he'd like to be killed by you.”

“Oh.” He exclaims, glancing at someone behind you. “His wish was granted.”

Nodding to yourself, you look down. You have been preparing yourself for this moment ever since the news of Ragnar's return arrived, but still, your heart sinks a little. “Alright then.” It sounds stupid to ask him to simply let you go. This won't happen. Still, you don't want to face death scared, like your maids, crying and yelling. So, standing before Ragnar, you push your hair away from your shoulders, exposing your neck. “Do it already.” With both hands on your hips, you take a deep breath.

But Ragnar doesn't move, his lips break into a smile. Slowly, he leans closer, his mouth on your ear. “What are you doing?”

“I know you'll kill me. But I don't want to go like them.” Tilting your head at your maids, you shrug your shoulders. “I don't want to be taken as a slave either. So I guess that's it, king Ragnar.” Unlike him, you keep your voice as loud as before. You don't mind being heard.

“Do you–”

Ragnar is cut off by someone's shouts. Soon enough, a man comes, being held by two of the Norsemen. When they move a little, you recognize Edward, the man you were supposed to marry in a short amount of time. He's hurt, a black eye and a wounded lip. The men throw him on the floor, and he stands on his knees. Perhaps you should pity him... But no. It may not be kind of you, but you can't pretend you feel something you don't.

“Princess (Y/N), my lady.” He mumbles, trying to get to his feet and failing. “Stay away from them.”

Ignoring him, you turn to face Ragnar again. “As I was saying, there's no other option in this situation, so you might as well get done with it.” Giving the axe a look, you raise your eyes again. “I'm ready.”

“Don't be stupid, (Y/N)! Get away from him!” Edward shouts, and you run a hand through your hair, frustrated. Even now, he still tries to tell you what to do. You're tired of being ordered around. At least in death, you want to make it on your way.

“Shut up, Edward!” You burst out, moving to stand a few feet away from him, talking in his language since, of course, he wouldn't even dream of learning the pagans tongue. “It's over, don't you see it? We're both dying today, and honestly...” Now, you can say it. You can finally say it, and you can't help but smile. You'll be dead in a minute, but you never felt so... Free. “I'm happy my fate is to die by the Vikings... That's far better than marrying you.”

When you're done talking, Edward jerks forward, too fast, managing to grab your arm with one hand and hitting your face with the back of the other. You taste blood on your mouth, falling to the ground, but easily pushing yourself back up as the Norsemen pull him back, away from you. “You little whore!” He tries to set free, but it's useless. A laugh escapes your lips. “I'm so glad you'll die today. I'm so glad you'll join your devil of a father.”

With a hand on your jaw, you stare at him, shaking your head lightly. “You call then savages, but you were the only one in this room to hit me.” Turning away from him, you return to where Ragnar stands, watching the whole commotion. “So, king Ragnar?”

You can tell he's thinking. About what, you have no idea. From what you've heard, they don't need much thought before killing someone. “I could kill you right here, princess, but this speech you just gave got me interested.” Pacing around you, he swings his axe, resting it on his shoulder. “My wife, a former princess herself, might actually like you.”

“Aslaug?” A man says, and Ragnar looks at him. Following his gaze, you see a man with blond, dirty hair, pulled back in some kind of braid. “She hates Christians. I don't see how she'll like this one.”

“Well, I've never seen a Christian act like this. Have you, Bjorn?”

“No.” The man admits, eyes finally meeting yours, just before you look away from him.

“Well, my wife has been pissing me off lately, so anything that might distract her for a bit sounds like a good idea to me.” He speaks slow, and some people laugh. “So, Princess (Y/N). I will let you chose your fate.” He's back at your face, looking down at you. “Would you rather come with me to Kattegat, or would you rather die here, with your crying maids?”

Giving the women a look, you weigh the odds. Death is final, the very end. Life is full of possibilities... But are you willing to risk it? “Would you keep me safe? I mean...” Gesturing at the other men, you sigh. “I'm sure you understand what I mean.”

“Nobody touches the princess,” Ragnar yells, his voice echoing through the walls. “Is that enough?” He asks you in a much lower voice.

“I guess it is.”

That said, he walks away. Following him with your eyes, you see as he stops by Bjorn. Bjorn Ironside, his oldest son. His name is also well known here. Ragnar tells him something before disappearing, and his son gives you a look. It doesn't take long for you to understand Ragnar told Bjorn to keep an eye on you, since, as you walk down the beach to the boats, Bjorn silently walks beside you, like a bodyguard. He helps you climb up on to the boat, a strong hand on your waist, pushing you up.

When you finally start sailing, you get an idea of their army. Too many boats, filled with far too many warriors. You can't help but make your way to the back of the boat, watching as your home grows distant. But calling it home is a compliment. This was just somewhere you lived, surrounded by people who always expected something of you. Where you were forced to act a certain way, just because you were unlucky enough to be born a princess.

What's coming now, is completely unexpected, unforeseen. If anyone ever told you you'd be sailing away from Wessex, in a Viking boat, you wouldn't believe them. But the feeling that really gets to you, leaving you utterly perplexed is that you feel... Good. Free, even. You can't even count how many times you desired you could just disappear, leave everything behind and go somewhere entirely new. Maybe you're crazy, your mind completely lost already, but you somehow find joy in it. In sailing away, into the unknown, with the very people you were taught to hate and fear.

But this is far better than what your future was holding back there. An unhappy marriage with a disgusting man. This is far better.

Days after you left Wessex, a violent storm starts falling at daybreak. The rain comes lightly at first, but by the moment you stand up, it starts pouring. One of Ragnar's friends, named Floki, stays on the edge of the boat, holding on tight with one arm, the other stretched out. He's laughing, saying things you don't quite understand the meaning of. It's about Thor, and Odin, and othter of their gods. He seems unaffected by the crashing waves. Stumbling, you leave the protection of this dark fabric they hanged above the ship, getting on your knees next to Floki. You don't know what's soaking you, the rain, or the waves, high enough to hit the boat.

“Hear this, Princess?” Floki yells, trying to make himself heard above the deafening sounds. “This is–” A huge wave hits both of you, and Floki almost falls back. But he regains his balance, laughing even louder.

“Will the boat sink?” You ask him, yelling at the top of your lungs. “I can't swim! If we sink, I'll drown.”

“So will I,” Floki answers, glancing at you before turning his attention back at the ocean. This makes you burst into laughter too because you never thought someone who can't swim would face the waves like this.

“(Y/N)!” Someone calls, and you turn around, pushing wet hair away from your face. Bjorn comes your way, grabbing both your arms and helping you stand up. “What are you doing here?”

“She's mesmerized by the powerful waves!” Another wave, hitting both you and Bjorn as well. You're knocked down, your back against Bjorn's chest. But despite the sting you fell on your leg, Floki's laughter makes you giggle. These people are crazy. Nobody on Wessex would be this happy, this carefree in such a storm.

“Come.” Bjorn pulls you with him, back to the safety of the handmade roof. He helps you settle down, and as he does, you lock eyes with him. You've never seen blue eyes like this. “Stay out of the rain.”

“Floki is in the rain. Why can't I?” You snap back, not really enjoying the bossy tone.

“Let the girl have her fun, Bjorn.” You recognize Ragnar's voice, and you find him rowing, trying to keep the boat moving despite the violent waves. There's an empty seat beside him, so, pushing yourself up, you make your way there.

“Mind if I help?”

“If you think you can.” He breathes out, and you nod, grabbing the oar. “Keep it steady... Push, then pull.” He tells you, and you mimic his movements. The thing is heavy, and it takes only a few seconds for your arms to start hurting. But you keep up, ignoring the looks you're getting. No woman would be allowed to do such thing in Wessex. So you're enjoying it, even though you're strength is nothing compared to the rest of them.

When the heavy clouds are blown away, and the sky is once again blue and serene, you bend over the edge of the boat a little, just to better see where the ocean meets the sky, on the horizon. The chaos was replaced by a low chattering, laughter, and giggles. You're mostly on our own, not really speaking to anyone but Ragnar. He's a curious man, and he's curious about you. You're not sure why though.

“Here.” A voice makes you turn around, sitting down. Bjorn offers you a cup of water, which you take and drink after muttering a ‘thank you’. When you give him the empty cup, you wait for him to walk away so you can resume your horizon watching, but instead, he settles down beside you, letting out a heavy breath. “We'll reach Kattegat in a few days.”

“Finally.” You burst out, playing with the tips of your hair. “Sick and tired of this boat already.” Chuckling, you glance at him. He's already staring. “So... Bjorn Ironside. What are you doing talking to a Christian? People here don't really seem to be fond of me.”

“The truth is they're trying to figure you out.” Bjorn lowers his voice, and your eyes scan through the men. “Ever since you stood up with your neck exposed to my father's axe.”

It doesn't seem much of a big deal to you. “I just didn't want to die like those other girls. Whining and crying.” Shrugging your shoulders, you sigh. “I mean, I really thought there would be no other way, so I'd face death with some dignity.”

“Don't tell anyone I said this but...” He leans closer until you feel his breath on your ear. “You kinda sounded like a Viking right now.” Then, he stands up and leaves, back to his chores.

You're confused, to say the least, but you guess that was a compliment coming from a Viking himself. Taking a deep breath, you move to where you were, staring at the calming waves.

And Bjorn was right. Eight days after, you're arriving at Kattegat. The many boats stop at the decks, and yours is one of the first. There's a sea of people here, waiting for their loved ones. As you step out of the boat, you don't really know where to go. Everyone is hugging, kissing, telling about the successful raid. You just start walking then, following the flow until you feel someone grabbing your arm. “This way,” Bjorn says, tilting his head at where his father is going. “He wants to introduce you to Aslaug.”

The Queen who hates Christians. Great.

The main hall of Ragnar's house is full. First, he talks to the people, telling them everything they took, everything they found. There's a huge fire in the center, flames reaching high. You're at the corner, half-hidden behind Bjorn's shoulder, eyes flying through the place. You quickly recognize the Queen, seated on a chair beside Ragnar. She's very pretty, dark hair cut off to her shoulders. But she looks... Bored. Very uninterested in this.

By her side, close to the floor, you find a pair of eyes set on you. It takes you by surprise since you weren't expecting anyone to find you among all the people. But he did. Ragnar told you a little about him. His youngest son, Ivar, the Boneless. The cripple. It's not hard to recognize him, but your eyes don't search for his deformity. They're locked on his face, trying to read it, trying to understand why he won't look away.

Suddenly, everybody standing in front of you moves, creating a passage that leads to the very center of the hall. Glancing at Bjorn, you see when he gestures for you to go. And so you do, stopping only when you're standing before Aslaug. She doesn't seem very happy about it.

“And who this might be?” She asks, taking a sip from her cup.

“This is King Ecbert's daughter, princess (Y/N).” Ragnar answers. “She has some spirit, so I thought she'd make a good friend for you since you too were a princess once.”

“A Viking princess.” She snaps, looking you up and down.

You should probably say something, but what? The woman doesn't like you, and why would she? The big question now is what will happen to you next.

“(Y/N) isn't like the other women,” Bjorn speaks up, and you give him a look. He's pacing around, playing with a knife. “While her maids were sobbing and begging for their lives, she stood before Ragnar, accepting her fate. I've never seen one of their women do anything like that.” You don't get why he's doing this. Probably Ragnar's orders, or something like that. “She even helped with the oars when a storm reached us, after staying on the edge with that crazy ass Floki over there.” He gestures at the man, who loudly giggles.

“And what does this all mean?” Aslaug breathes out, clearly annoyed.

“Why don't you give her a chance, wife?” Ragnar sits back on his chair, taking Aslaug's hand. “Talk to her, see if there's anything in common and if you don't like her, well... I can send her to live with Lagertha.”

“Who's Lagertha?” You mutter, to nobody in particular.

But the name makes Aslaug sigh, and she stands up, putting the cup down. “Fine then. Come with me.”

With no other choice, you follow her inside. But on your way, you walk by Ivar, who's holding a clutch. You try hard no to, but your eyes find him nevertheless. He quickly looks away, and you keep walking, deciding not to give it much thought. He probably despises you like most of the people here.

Aslaug has some slaves prepare you a warm bath. And, much to your dislike, she stays in the room as you take off your clothes and step inside the tub. But it doesn't take long for you to relax as one of the girls starts washing and brushing your hair.

“Did you sleep with my husband?” The question comes with an angry voice, and you're not sure what startles you more. The anger or the question itself.

“Of course not.” She gets on your sight, pacing around.

“Do you want to sleep with my husband?”

Then, it clicks. She thinks Ragnar brought you here because he desires you. And that's a very dangerous thought for a Queen to have. “No, I don't.” Resting both your arms on the edges of the tub, you look up at her. “And even if he wants to sleep with me, I won't accept it. That's not the reason why I'm here.”

“And why are you here, so far from home, little princess?” She doesn't sound like she actually wants to know, but you get the feeling that this time you can actually say the truth. Here, there's no reason to keep it hidden, locked in. You can say how you feel about everything, even the things that could've got you imprisoned or even dead in Wessex.

“I'm willing to tell you if you're willing to listen, Queen Aslaug.”

At first, there's silence. But then, Aslaug drags a chair, placing it near the tub before sitting down. “Well, since I have nothing better to do at the moment, let's hear it.”

@multific @revolution-starter @crackhead1-800 @youbloodymadgenius @clown-boyyy @kitten0394 @castielsangelx-blog @goldlion07 @alwaysadreamingoptimist @midnightmystic

#ivar the boneless imagine #ivar imagine #imagine ivar #ivar vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings x reader #imagine vikings #vikings imagine #bjorn imagine #Bjorn x reader #ivar fanfiction #ivar the boneless fanfiction #Vikings #vikings fanfiction

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pilvimarja · 3 years ago

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I've started a very, very casual second playthrough of AC: Oddyssey. It took me over 200 hours and 2 years to complete the game and all the DLCs back when it came out, so I'm not even going to attempt to 100% the entire map.

The game is really bloated and I honestly can't look at the quest menu without my head exploding, but I really love the world, which is so idyllic and relaxing compared to viking era England and iirc the story was pretty solid, too, so I think it's worth another playthrough.

Valhalla is probably my favorite of the modern AC games simply because I'm really into vikings, but I absolutely adore ancient Greece and Kassandra, my beloved. She's my favorite AC protagonist (together with Edward Kenway) and one of my favorite video game characters in recent years! She's got so much personality and I think the performance from her voice actress is as good as Jennifer Hale's in the ME games. I also love how the game basically let's me pretend I'm playing a Xena Warrior Princess/Diana Prince simulator. The only thing that's missing is a little lesbian sidekick haha.

#personal post

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goddessofmischief · 4 years ago

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Blue Monday, Chapter Four - Loki x T.V.A.! Reader

Chapter Four... ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’

You almost wanted to step outside and freeze again. Better that, than to be faced with this - on your first-ever mission with a partner, no less. In a matter of hours, you had almost frozen to death. You had pretended to be a goddess - one that uncomfortably resembled you. And, worst of all, there was only one bed. Yeah. Really.

“We-ell,” you said, awkwardly, untangling your hand from Loki’s. Now that you were finally left alone, you didn’t have to keep pretending. But you did have to sleep somewhere.

“Let’s not pretend that this isn’t... difficult,” said Loki, “...Because it is. But don’t worry. I don’t share.”

You laughed. “Really? Kicking me out onto the floor, Odinson?”

“It would seem so. Alternatively, you can make peace with the fact that nothing is happening here, and allow it to be nothing.” “Oh, you think I’m the problem?”

“I truly do.”

“I’m the problem? Not the guy who pretended I was his wife though, right? There’s no way that maybe you’re the one who’s got some issue?” Loki crossed his arms, chuckling, and sat down on the bed. “If you’re implying that I feel anything for... a mortal like yourself, you’re wrong.” “Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Prove it. Keep me warm.”

You cuddled up to him, and Loki sighed, covering you both up with a warm, woolen knit blanket. “You’re not really as warm as you thought I’d be,” you whispered, your breath hot against his freezing collarbone. “Loki, maybe you should take all the blanket-”

“I’m fine.”

He spoke like he didn’t want to go any further into the matter, so you didn’t push it. Simply closed your eyes, tried to breathe. “G’night.” Loki doesn’t respond. But you both fall asleep smiling. ... “Get up.”

You hadn’t woken up next to another person for forty years. And Loki was not making the experience any easier. Apparently, the God of Mischief is an early riser. “We lose light in four hours.”

“Don’t we want to lose light?” you muttered, yawning, rubbing at your eyes. “Well... yes. But we have to be at the fortress where they’re keeping the tesseract much before then. Remember, you don’t hold up in the cold, darling. We’ll need to make the trek before night falls.” “Which means...”

“Which means we leave now.”

Neither of you had changed out of your clothes, so you didn’t have to get ready. Loki looked as if he hardly needed sleep at all. You, however, felt like a mess. You were a mess. Your hair was untidy and unstyled, your skin still sore and red from the cold the night before. These things had never mattered to you before - really, they hadn’t. When you were at home, on Earth... even then. In the 1970s, most people weren’t wearing makeup, anyway. Most of them barely wore clothes.

You tugged your pant leg down, uncomfortably, attempting to ignore your appearance in the mirror. “You’re not honestly self conscious, are you?”

Jerk.

“No,” you said, smoothing down your jacket. “No, why would I feel self-conscious in front of a... well, whatever the hell you are.” “If you do, love, you shouldn’t.” Loki leaned back, seemingly pleased with himself. “You look...”

“Professional,” you interrupted, reaching over and brushing one of your stray hairs from his coat. “Professional, always.” ... The trek was actually kind of... nice.

Long, and exhausting. And filled with melting, slippery roads, still wet from the snow before. But nice. And shockingly silent, for a man who infamously loved to talk. But you couldn’t be mad at him for it. You liked Loki quiet. “Careful,” Loki said, reaching over to you, offering his hand to help you over a puddle. “I’m fine - oh!”

To the surprise of neither of you, you had slipped - and Loki had swept you off your feet, literally. “Are you going to carry me all the way, or-”

He unceremoniously dropped you. “Ow!” “I wouldn’t want to humiliate you, sweet.” “How considerate, darling.”

For the first time, you’d hurled one of his venomous compliments back at him - and it felt pretty damn good. He became completely stiff, still managing to walk, but no emotion or expression crossed his face. “You okay there, ‘Oki?”

He nodded, a little more quickly that most people would.

“Yes,” Loki said. “It’s just, that was spoken like-”

“Spoken like what?”

“Spoken like her,” he said. “And yet...”

...

Loki was continuing to make your existence a joyless one.

For one... you’d just arrived at the fortress.

A fortress Loki seemed to have no interest in helping you get into.

"Damn it!” you shouted, rushing up against the gates. “They’re... they’re locked.”

Loki was sensing your frustration. He knew it, and you knew it. And you could practically see the little gears turning in his mind. He was trying to wind you up, and you just wouldn’t let him.

“Just use your powers.”

“I don’t have any powers!”

You were on the edge. Loki was determined to make you fall off.

Well... not today.

“Alright,” you said, finally.

“Alright... Loki. You stay here. I’m going to go around the side.”

“What? Why?” He sounded panicked, and for all the wrong reasons.

You shrugged.

“They might have left it open. Or... maybe, there’s a key under the mat.”

“You must be joking.”

“You must know that I’m not.”

“Never mind that. I’ll use my powers, and... they’ll surely hand the Tesseract over when they see who is demanding it. You saw that town back there. Even if they’re not quite as zealous as the others, these people must adore me.”

“Or.... maybe not.”

“Come again?”

You gestured at a wooden sign, trying to contain your laughter.

Törvedalen.

Which, if the simple Norse you learned had not failed you, translated to the Valley of Thor.

“Maybe that’s why they took the tesseract from the other town,” you managed, gulping as you watched Loki’s briefly irritated, then furiously incensed expression. “Maybe... there’s a little bit of a war going on here, over who they like best. You gotta admit, Loki, that statue in town was pretty oversized.”

“It was exactly adequate - whose side are you on, anyway? Are you not my partner?”

You shrugged.

“I’m just trying to help.”

Loki saw your worried expression and softened, slightly, his hands unclenching.

“Alright,” he said. “So we’ll go in - together. I’ll talk to them. I’ll make them understand - and they’ll get exactly what they bargain for, one way or another.”

“Do I have to be Amora again?”

You sounded pathetic, admittedly - you felt pathetic.

Luckily for you, Loki shook his head. “No, love. Just be Y/N L/N. That should do it.”

...

“Hello!” called Loki, having strolled through the front gate - it turned out his magic was completely effective at undoing non-magical locks, and he could’ve opened the gate the whole time. He was just toying with you.

As usual.

“Hello!”

“Y’know,” you said, trying to keep your voice low, “Y’know, we don’t really have to shout, if we stay quiet we might be able to get the tesseract and sneak-”

“Don’t pester me. I could use a little Amora right now.”

Well, that stung.

“Well, she isn’t in,” you muttered, holding a dimly lit torch up to another sign. “She’s not here. She’s not even real.”

“Really, this again, darling? You’ve forgotten so easily the art we saw in the village. That didn't look real to you? Would you prefer, perhaps, a larger painting?”

“That doesn’t mean anything, and you know it. How do I know you’re not just screwing with me? You trick people. It’s sort of... what you do.”

You knew you were being mean - well, mean for you. He was your partner, shouldn’t you be kind and tolerate his little... eccentricities?

Then again, Loki was sort of wrecking you, mentally. The last time someone did that... you’d just let it happen.

Well. Not this time.

“Guilty,” Loki admitted, his voice lowering. It wasn’t threatening, instead, it was actually sort of... nice?

Kind of nice. Almost sweet.

“But this isn’t a trick, I’ll promise you that. It means just as much to me that I learn to understand this - because for once, I know as much as you do, love. So it's up to us. To figure it out, together-”

Just then, a group of Nordic warriors stormed in.

Holding axes.

“They’re holding axes,” you whispered, tugging on Loki’s sleeve. “Loki, they’re-”

“I noticed - gentlemen, what can we do for you?” He repeated the last sentence again, this time in Old Norse.

The group shouted something back at him.

“What’d they say?”

“Something about 'a light cube.’ Our light cube, I presume, unless there happen to be others.”

“Ask them if they can give it to us.”

“Sweet, you have to know they won’t.”

But he translated your request, all the same.

“He said that they can’t,” said Loki. “Because... of their leader?”

“Do you know who leads them? Is it Thor?”

“No... this is... an alternate Earth. It wouldn’t be my Thor... it could be someone else...”

“Tell them to take us to the leader.”

“My, aren't you bold? What makes you think this leader won't just kill us?”

“I don’t know! But it’s worth a try, yeah?”

Loki rolled his eyes, attempting to translate again, and one of the Vikings responded.

“They’ve agreed. To take us to... who is it, again?”

The Viking shouted something out, and Loki’s face paled.

"What did he say?”

“He said,” said Loki, clearing his throat, “That... he’d bring us to the leader. Their leader, the new ruler of Törvedalen ... Lady Loki.”

Taglist: gorgeourrific-nerd @suwupremeleader @sserpente @tripleyeeet

#loki #loki x reader #loki (marvel)#blue monday #blue monday a loki story #jules writes #blue monday masterlist #loki blue monday #blue monday by jules #loki x amora #lady loki #tva #time variance authority #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #loki x reader angst

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e-m-christina · 4 years ago

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Heathens Pt2 (Ivar X Warrior Reader)

The ship journey had lasted over three days. The afternoon sun burned your skin as it beat down upon the sea, causing the water to glimmer like a million little mirrors catching the sunlight. But you did not notice the scenery, you were determined not to give into hopelessness. Nor did your brother.

“Lord, unto thee do I lift up my soul. Let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.” You prayed aloud, staring down at the shackles that bound your bloodied wrists.

“So, is this an interruption of your life’s journey...Or is it a part of it?” You looked up at Ivar. He was leaning against a thick rope, his eyes preying on you like a hawk. You stayed silent. You would not entertain these devils with argument. To your dismay, Ivar simply smirked, before looking off into the distance. Over the course of the journey, many viking men taunted you about your God, the true God, but it did not sway you. In fact it made you angry, and when you got angry, you would become even more determined not to give into hopelessness.

“Heahmund, are you alright?” You asked, noticing the state of your brother. He dark hair was matted, and dried blood covered his usually pale face.

“I do not think either one of us are alright, my dear sister.” Heahmund said, coughing up drops of blood.

“We are here!” You looked up to see a heathen pointing toward a mass of land only a few miles away.

Two men gripped your shoulders, digging their fingers harshly into your flesh as they dragged you and your brother through a set of iron doors. You were dragged into a great wooden hall. The hall was large, lit only by a two windows that ran across the top of the walls, and hanging in the centre of the ceiling was a humongous whale skeleton.

“On their knees.” You heard Ivar command to his men. You were thrown to the ground as the air got knocked out of your already battered lungs. You groaned as you pulled yourself up into a kneeling position. Above you, a Norseman sat upon a throne. On his braided hair sat a crown that sent shadows over his heavily tattooed face. By his side sat a beautiful woman wearing a crimson dress.

“What is the point of them?” The man on the throne leaned forward, inspecting you and your brother. You growled and spat in his face, making him recoil and wipe his cheek. “Why did you not just kill them?” The man said, glaring at you.

“Because they are both great warriors, Harald.” Ivar said, gesturing to you and your brother. “I have seen how they with my own eyes. I admire great warriors.” Ivar continued, limping around the side of Heahmund, before stopping behind you, but your gaze was still fixed on the man before you, the man that was now named Harald. You listened closely to their conversation, trying to gain information, afterall, they did not expect you to be able to speak or understand Norse.

“Even the girl? I did not know Christian women fought in battles.” Harald said with a frown. You could hear Ivar chuckle behind you.

“Nor me Harald, nor me. But I hope that they will both fight for us.” Ivar said, patting you on the shoulder. You lurched forward to get away from his touch.

“The women do not fight. I am the exception.” You said at last, surprising them with your Norse language.

“She speaks our language. Did you know this Ivar?” Harald asked, and for the first time, your eyes left his face, and flicked to Ivar.

“No, I did not.” Ivar said, raising his eyebrows.

“How did you come by learning our language, Y/N? Does Heahmund speak it as well?” Ivar asked, shoving you with his crutch. You shot a glare at him before looking to your brother. Heahmund was staring at Ivar, after hearing his name mentioned.

“King Ecbert taught me, before you Heathens slaughtered him like a beast. And No, my brother does not know your language.” You said, venom dripping from every word.

“The lord rules me. I shall want nothing.” You turned to look at Heahmund. He had begun to pray, glaring Harald in the eyes. You hissed as Ivar yanked your brothers hair sharply.

“No, no, no. Let him speak.” Harald asked, waving at Ivar to stop pulling Heahmunds hair. A smirk begun to form on your lips as a look of dismay flashed across Ivars face.

“I fear no evil, for you are with me Lord, your rod and your staff have comforted me.” You joined in on the prayer with your brother, looking directly into the eyes of Harald.

“What are they saying?” He asked looking to Ivar.

“They are praying to their God.” Ivar said. A flash of anger flickered across Haralds face as he stood up.

“A fat load of good that will do them!” Harald chuckled, regaining himself as Ivar simply smirked, hitting Heahmund across the head. You glanced at your brother, a small smile dancing on your lips. These Heathens were very easily to aggravate. That would come in handy.

“You prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” You say over and over, as the two men that brought you in, dragged you by your arms toward the door.

In the distance the faint sound of water dripping from an old dingy drain pipe splashed into a puddle on the floor. In the gloom all you could make out was the four stone walls that locked you in. In the water dripping silence you sat, back against the cold stone walls. You and Heahmund at been separated, thrown into separate rooms a few hours ago. You rubbed your painful wrists with your now freed hands, before turning to face Ivar, who was sat on a stool opposite you.

“There is going to be a war. A war that will make me king of Kattegat, my father’s kingdom. A war against the usurper, Lagertha, who killed my mother in order to be queen. And of course, a war between brother.” You listened to Ivar, peering at him in the darkness. You rolled your eyes. What did you care of his wars and family troubles?

“What of it?” You said, flicking some dirt off your trouser leg. You watched him carefully as he leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

“Y/n, you have a choice. Fight alongside me, or I kill you.” He said. You snorted, sitting upright. Though you pretended to be disgusted, your curiosity was peaked by his offer.

“What are your wars to me?” You asked, looking him in the eye.

“Your way of staying alive.” Ivar quipped, leaning back in his seat with a smirk on his face.

“I am not afraid to die for my faith.” You pulled yourself off the muddy ground and stood by the small window, peeking through the bars that secured it.

“I am not asking you to do that. I am not asking you to renounce your faith, or to fight against Christians.” You turned away from the window, fully facing him now. “All I am asking is for you to kill more of those who you call ‘Heathens’.” Ivar said, watching you as you took a few steps toward him. You crouched down on the ground below his stool with a raised eyebrow.

“Why do you offer me this choice?” You asked, slightly softer. You had begun to realize that Ivar could have killed you at any point, but he did not. He obviously needed you for something. You had thought God must have planned for this to happen.

“Because I am jealous of you.” He said at last. You frowned, turning your head to the side and beckoned for him to continue. “I would like to be like you, strong, whole...” Ivar began to trail off, looking at his lap. You felt a small pang of sympathy in your heart when his voice broke at the end. If you were entirely honest, you had forgotten that his legs did not work. You were going to say something, when he continued to speak.

“To be a great warrior like you. That is why I saved you, brought you with me. That is why I want you to fight alongside me.”

Your feet stumbled as your were dragged forward with a chain around your neck. The iron rubbed your throat, causing the skin to tear and bleed. A crowd of mucky Pagans crowded you, following your every step as Hvitserk clutched your now re-chained arms as rain pelted you, turning the ground into sludgy mud.

“Kill her!” The crowd roared as you were thrown to the ground. You groaned in pain, feeling a trickle of blood drip down your cheek.

“I told you to take her her to me, not batter her.” You looked up to see Ivar standing up, out of his chair, glaring at Hvitserk.

“Kill her!” The crowd cheered again as Hvitserk bent down, unlocking the chains from your wrists and neck. Ivar raised a hand, shushing the crowd instantly. You staggered up, spitting a mouthful of blood at the crowd, causing a small smirk to flitter across Ivars face.

“Possibly. We may kill her, if she does not agree, I will kill her.” Ivar said, as the crowd went mad again. You clenched your jaw, watching as Ivar stepped towards you. You hissed in pain as he ran his thumb across you cut cheek, wiping the blood away before continuing his speech.

“She will live if she and her brother both agree to fight alongside me. Which I hope she will do.” Ivar said the last part in a lower voice, making eye contact with you.

“Well, will she?” A man in the crowd yelled, causing you turn around and glare at him. You turned back to Ivar, who was staring at you intensely.

“Well Y/N? Will you fight with me?”

Thanks for reading! Part 3 coming soon!

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#Ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #ivar lothbrok #bishop heahmund #hvitserk #fanfic #romance #angst #x reader #fluff #vikings #lothbrok #ragnar #war

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

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νοσταλγία (Chapter 8)

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 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: 4.5k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Ohohohohoh I like this chapter. I hope you guys do too! Thank you for giving this a chance!

Btw, I don’t know if I should do this or not, but I mention a lot of Greek deities and figures, so maybe I’ll add a lil page to the masterlist with all the references (also flowers and stuff, certain smells are supposed to reference a Greek or Norse God/Goddess, so yea I’ll probably do that if you guys are interested), but for now, aside from the usual mentions of Persephone/Hades and Freyja, Galla brings up Peitho, Greek deity of persuasion (both sexual and political) and seduction, and there’s evidence about her being a symbol for prostitutes (’servants of Peithos’, according to Pintar).

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927

Warriors dressed the same way the ones functioning as the King’s personal guard lead you gruffly but respectfully through the waves of people and the tides of fires and strange houses.

You catch sight of where they are leading you, and consider that drowning in that sea of foreign people and hostile glares was not as bad as having to face your captor again.

But, you ponder, getting used to not having a choice anymore should be something you should be doing, so you straighten your back and continue walking as the warriors lead you to Ivar the Boneless.

His pale eyes find yours, but you deviate your gaze away from his, and bite down on your tongue to keep silent.

He dismisses the guards with a gesture, and motions for you to follow him past the almost empty throne room, into his quarters.

You walk inside and try not flinching at the sound of the door closing behind you. The place is well lit, and not as cold as the biting winds of the outside, but it is still unfamiliar and foreign.

Worry and dread churn at your stomach, but you still your heart and try to keep your hands from trembling. You tell yourself that if he wanted to force himself upon you, he would have done so a long time before, and it helps lessen the panic bubbling in your blood.

“I have been thinking of what I will tell people about you,” He starts simply, as if this is just another conversation you shared on that city that smelled of despair. You stay frozen in your place, watching him with wide eyes as he limps towards a low table and sits on a chair by it. The King motions for a chair by his side, but you cannot move. “Relax and have dinner, woman.”

“I thought…your people dine in the great hall.”

“Not tonight.”

You move limbs of lead to sit on that chair, feeling so alike one of those Christians thrown into the coliseum to prove themselves against a lion that your heart feels like it may either beat out of your chest or suddenly stop.

“It’s just a man and a woman sharing a meal, nothing more.” The Viking presses, gesturing to the plate in front of you again. He is being so strange, and it has nothing to do with him being Viking.

“A Greek Priestess and a Viking King,” You clarify, no little bite in your tone, to then add in a sardonic jest, “Why would I dare think this is nothing but ordinary?”

It is the first time in days that you have allowed yourself to forget keeping your mouth shut with a muzzle as strong as the chains that held onto your wrists; and you dare think the Viking notices, offering a faint softening of his features in return.

“What would make this ordinary for you?”

“Stone walls, the warmth of the sun, speaking in my own tongue.” You list out before picking a piece of cheese carefully and putting it in your mouth.

“Teach me your language then,” The King orders, leaning forward on his table. At your startled and surprised expression, he shrugs his shoulders and his mouth curves downward in a gesture of indifference before he offers, “Stone is expensive, and I do not yet command the sun. We will speak in your tongue then.”

“What reasons do you have to make me feel at ease?” You ask before you can stop yourself, eyes narrowed. “If you wanted me to feel anything but hate you wouldn’t have chained me and dragged me all the way to your kingdom.”

“I don’t care about you feeling anything, Priestess,” He dismisses easily, but the clench in his jaw gives away the lie. Not in the mood to die for calling it out, you just lift an eyebrow, and he explains, “You are a useful woman to have around.”

The scoff that leaves your lips couldn’t have been stopped if they had been sown together by the Gods themselves, and you turn spiteful eyes to the King.

“I am of no use to you.”

“We will see.”

With an anger you hadn’t felt since you stood before Constantinople’s Patriarch and told him what he could do with his cross, you explain, “You asked me why I didn’t tell you that I’m Anassa of the Attics, and I don’t know why I didn’t, considering I was enough of a fool to believe I could confide in you; but I do know I thank the Gods every day that you didn’t know before Stithulf gave me up,” You shake your head at your own stupidity, but refuse to lie and pretend you weren’t foolish enough to delude yourself into thinking he didn’t see the foreign witch he could pride himself in conquering when he saw you. That’s why it hurts the way it does, and if you deny the source of the hurt, if you deny the hurt, you lose your anger. With your nose curled in disgust, you offer, “You will never have the satisfaction of holding a Greek Anassa in chains, Varangian. The opportunity to use my title against me is long past, and now all you have is a Mediterranean slave, nothing more.”

“You are not a slave,” You open your mouth to retort, but he is quicker. He seems to be catching up to your ways, it seems, “You don’t have chains anymore, do you?”

“A prisoner, then. Truly an honor, King Ivar.”

“Don’t disrespect me, Priestess. I am not known for my patience.”

“And I am not known for taking kindly to being captured.”

Your gaze meets his and you refuse to lower your eyes, to accept defeat. You press your lips into a line while his nose furrows, but eventually Ivar leans back on his seat with an angry huff.

“You are insufferable. I should have your tongue cut off.”

“I can gesture.” You offer stubbornly, the beginning of a smile on your lips that you furrow to keep hidden. The King answers with a small curve of his lips, pink tongue tracing his lower lip as he regards you with a strange kind of exasperation.

After a few moments of silence, he offers,

“I promised you freedom and I do not break promises. You are a free woman, but I have to keep you here.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“What difference is there between now and when you had iron chains to my wrists then?”

“Because you now know I didn’t bring you here with the intention to make you a slave.” He confesses around gritted teeth, as if offended you thought he did, even when he brought you to him in chains and paraded you like an exotic delicacy for his entertainment.

“What, then? A whore? A healer?” You press, because you will probably surprise the Gods themselves the day you learn to shut your mouth.

You are reaching for a goblet to drink from when the King answers,

“A wife.”

You knock off the goblet, it brings down a plate with it, but even as mead pours down the table you stay frozen in your place, slowly turning your face to the King that merely stretches a hand with a roll of his eyes and straightens the mess you made.

Your mouth opens quite a few times, and while your brain panics for not saying anything, you keep opening and closing your mouth.

“What are you talking about?” You settle on, finally.

“I want to make you my wife.”

A nervous laugh that sounds insane even to your own ears leaves your lips, “You are joking,” But the King shakes his head with nonchalance, and your eyes widen, “Why? Why do you-…why?”

“I have been King for quite a while, and my people will soon start demanding I get myself a Queen.” He offers flippantly, as if that problem warrants the solution he is proposing.

“Get one.” You bite out, a frown marring your face.

“I did.” He replies without hesitation, expression dripping mirth.

You cannot help the bare of your teeth, and your hands tighten to fists.

“No.” Is all you say, but it carries all your will and strength.

Ivar’s laugh is mocking and you watch with growing anger as he shakes his head dismissively, “I am not asking.”

You never do, you bite down the words, and stare at him in silence for a few moments, trying to think of…of anything.

“You will get nothing out of this,” You hiss at him, leaning closer even when you should be running away. Your eyes search his, trying to…to have him see reason, even if that reason means you get new chains. You can break iron, but you can’t break a bond. “My kingdom is ashes, my army is dead, my ‘noble blood’ is not recognized by the Byzantines any longer.”

But Ivar dismisses that too, barely a gesture of his hand. With every passing moment, you feel the invisible chains tightening on your wrists, you feel your hope dying.

“I have a kingdom, and an army. And I have no interest in noble blood.” He explains, certain.

“Then why?” You insist, your voice sounding so alike a plea your pride hurts.

He remains silent, considering you for a few moments. You return his gaze, and even if you are startled and more than a little terrified, you think he finds whatever he was looking for in your eyes, for he moves his head from side to side, squares his shoulders, and takes his eyes from yours and to the table before him, with the clear tells of someone about to confess something.

“All my life, Priestess, I have been in pain. I was born…cursed,” You frown slightly “A cripple, I can’t even walk properly. And everything has been a…struggle. With myself, with others.

You swallow past a dry throat and for once stay silent, looking into his eyes trying to understand what this has to do with making you a prisoner, a…a wife.

“So I have always been so angry, jealous of everyone around me, filled of hate,” A twitch in his expression, nothing more, and he continues explaining. In the back of your mind you wonder if he is searching for pity or compassion. You wonder if he can discern the two. Ivar’s mouth curves into a smile as cold as the first of winters, as bitter and resentful as you have ever seen in a smile, “Nothing has come easy in my life, and since I was a child I would always ask the Gods why.”

Your own words echoing in your head as you look up into eyes like Greek Fire, “Your Gods have heard you beg to know the reason behind your pain, Ivar.”

Your gaze jumps between his eyes, and you remain quiet for a few moments, trying to understand his meaning and discern the words he expects to come out of your lips now.

After a few breaths of silence, with your voice as quiet as the sleeping world around you, you whisper,

“I don’t have an answer, Ivar.”

But an answer wasn’t what he expected from you, apparently, for the Viking shakes his head with a small smile so reminiscent of the almost bashful look he had before, when he was just a Viking and you just a Priestess, that it hurts some foolish part of your heart.

“No,” He argues, more softly than you would have ever thought a man like him to be capable of, and he leans forward, as close as he can get to you from where he sits. Looking into your eyes for a few moments, Ivar then says, “You are the answer.”

You raise your eyebrows, and feel again the tension take over your frame. But you remain still on your place, keeping guarded eyes on the King as he explains,

“I was once told that the Gods mark us for pain, that some of us are…chosen to suffer, to be pushed to the ground, over and over again,” His head moves with his words, his eyes deviating to the side before he presses his lips together and meets your gaze again, “To test if we endure. And I did, I still do. I conquer, I make them proud, I give Odin and Freyja warriors to take to their halls and wars to rejoice in,” He sounds proud of himself, and the part of you that would cling to the tales of the triumphs of Ragnar and his sons thinks that he has every right to be. You catch yourself softening your stance without you meaning to when you find his Greek Fire-like eyes jumping between yours, always searching, always demanding. Ivar continues, “And I understand now, that when we fulfill what the Gods ask of us, when we…endure, we are rewarded,” A small smile curves at his lips, beautiful even if manic. His eyes don’t stray from yours as he whispers, “The Gods have sent you to me as a gift.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a gasp that almost sounds like a dying breath, the weight of reality and his words settling over your chest like a stone.

And as dread starts finding a home in the cold of your bones, all you can muster is a horrified whisper,

“What?”

He watches you with the wide eyes of a frenzied predator, and as he leans closer to you your body leans away. He still doesn’t falter, “You heard me.”

“I hope I heard wrong,” You mutter, blinking quickly as you try getting your thoughts in order. After a few moments of silence, you lift your gaze to his again, and offer, “I don’t follow your Gods.”

He shakes his head, resolute, “That doesn’t matter. You were sent to me by Freyja.”

You cannot help the laugh, manic and broken, that leaves your lips. “You are crazy.”

“I am not crazy,” He states, the edge in his tone making you straighten in your seat. His eyes narrow, “We were both lead here. Why it had to be so I don’t know, but it was fated.”

“What kind of Gods would fate this!? What kind of Gods would make all that happened happen just for us to meet!?” Mother, father, Galla, Narses, everyone you lost; you cannot accept their deaths, their suffering, were just a piece in a bigger scheme involving a Varangian of all things. Your voice quietens with questions that speak of more than just Ivar’s delusions, “What kind of Gods would curse us so?”

“You are not being cursed.” He spits out, his temper rising and his voice to meet it.

“The Gods, nor yours or mine, would fate that I become your wife!” You insist, after a breath insisting, “They would fate it that I loved you if they wanted to reward you. Why would they gift you an unwilling wife?”

“It was Fate that you and I met,” He explains after a moment, “It is Fate that you remain at my side, however I choose to have you.”

His nose furrows in the beginning of a snarl, and his mouth forms around the syllables of your name. Even with all the rage in his tone and his posture, the way he says your name never ceases to carry some sort of strange familiarity in it, like nostalgia and hope intertwined.

The realization that making you his wife is not his priority, but keeping you at his side; it makes a part of you want to whisper, trust me and I’ll stay with you.

But it would be a lie, it would be a false promise. And you cannot bring yourself to taste lies on your lips again. Whether it is for the still burning pain of what you did to Narses, or something else, something particular to Ivar and the uncertain smiles, the flutter in your heart when you were just a Priestess and eh was just a Viking; you are afraid to say.

And you will not lie, not to him. Not about this.

Your breath quickens, and you put a desperate hand on his forearm where it rests on the table. His pale eyes jump to your hand before quickly returning to your eyes.

“Listen to me, I was in your way because…because…”

“You don’t have an answer, do you?” He hisses when your words die.

“Of course I do!” You snap back, resting your elbows on the table and running frantic hands over your hair as you try evening your breaths. This can’t…you can escape an ambitious man, a bloodthirsty man, a powerful man. But a man that believes his own delusions you cannot…you cannot get away from. Taking a deep breath, you find his eyes again, not caring how much this sounds like pleading, “You cannot do this, you cannot expect me to…don’t put chains on me.”

“I am not chaining you!” Ivar snarls, a hand grabbing at the back of your head tightly, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are enraged and more than a little desperate, and the breath leaves your lungs as you realize there’s no way to bring him out of this delusion. “You were sent by the Gods to me, Priestess. And you will be by my side, I’m not letting you go.”

But you are shaking your head before he is even done speaking, and you want to scream to the top of your lungs that this is wrong, that this is madness. And yet, the rage dies in your throat and all you are left is fear.

Fear, and the desperation not to be chained with shackles that you cannot break.

“I am not a…a gift, I am a person,” You insist, “I have nothing to do with your Gods, nor they with me.”

“You are touched by the Gods, you are favored by Freyja.” He reminds you, not a moment of hesitation in his words, making the weight of defeat grow heavier and heavier.

“But I am a person, I am…my own person, I have a story, I-I have wants and hopes.” You whisper, frantic hand reaching up and grabbing on tightly to his wrist as you search his eyes.

He considers you in silence, his hand relinquishing the tight hold on your loose hair and for a moment you could fool yourself in to believing the Viking plays with the strands at the back of your head.

“A story that led you to me,” He promises, nodding faintly. If it is to convince you or himself, you are almost afraid to know. His eyes burn like Greek Fire as they gaze upon yours, and he vows quietly, “And all you may want I will give you.”

You press your mouth into a line to keep words and tears at bay, and breathe out, “But not my freedom.”

The flare of rage is back in his gaze, and the growl is back in his tone when he states, “I am not imprisoning you.”

Your gaze falls from his, and all the breath in your lungs leaves your body in defeat, as if baring your chest of air can somehow change any of this.

Blind eyes search the nothingness in front of you, like you can find an answer in this foreign land of cold and death, like anything in this Viking’s room or home can give you solace.

But there’s no escaping, this time. This time, Narses will not be here to save you from the flames; this time, your mother will not be there to protect you.

This time, you are alone. Alone and defeated.

Tears fill your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, you refuse to let him win.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” You whisper finally, looking at the mess of mead and scattered pieces of food in the table from your clumsiness, and wondering faintly of who is going to clean this up.

The thought that answers ‘his wife’ makes a hysterical laugh bubble in your chest, but you swallow it down.

“We don’t get to choose our fate, Priestess.” Is all the Viking gives as answer.

You nod faintly and almost manically to yourself, taking a few deep breaths and telling yourself this is…it could have been worse. You don’t know particularly how, but it could be worse.

You remember your time back in Attica, and the poison that place made grow on you is not easily dissolved by distance and nostalgia.

Lower your eyes when men speak.

They went to you for council, they asked your blessing for their marriages, their funerals, their wars. But no, how could you look them in the eye, how could you speak up when they were in the room.

Noble blood is but a vessel for the alliances of men.

They put titles on your head, they bowed their greetings, they showered your door with marriage proposals. And yet, not yet twenty years ago the same families had sent your father condolences when they heard the child his barren wife had birthed him was a daughter and not a son.

Be a wife, a mother, a home. Not a leader, a traveler, a war.

Not a thousand years would make you forget how they muttered to themselves when you proved you could read and write, how they looked in disgust when they heard you would go out to hunt, how they gritted their teeth when you spoke out about how to fight the Saracen raiders, the Slavs and the Arabs.

You are not deluded enough to believe you will be seen for much more than what’s under your skirts here either, but at least here you can fight back without the disapproving glances. You may lose every battle, especially against their King, but here they will not shame you for fighting.

So, you grit your teeth and calm yourself with the truth that defeat has not yet settled in your heart, as you thought it would, once the reality of your powerlessness dawned on you.

At your silence, the King hesitates, like he doesn’t know what to do with your compliance, like once the resistance is gone he loses what he had been chasing.

After a breath and shuffling in his seat, he starts quietly, “You crossed so many seas, survived so many things, Priestess. Don’t you ever wonder why?”

“Because I’m stubborn, not because I’m…I’m made for you.”

This makes him laugh, setting you even more on edge as you realize it is not a mocking or cruel laugh, but a strangely fond one.

Gods, this is…this has to be a strange nightmare.

“Yes, you are stubborn, and insufferable,” He frowns as he speaks, but behind his fingers that now lay by his mouth, you catch sight of a smile, “But you are true, you don’t lie, even when for the sake of your own life you should.”

The laugh that leaves your lips is bitter, but you cannot help it, “Oh, I have lied before, my King.”

Narses cups your cheek in one big and warm hand, and you have to remind yourself to lean into the touch.

“I love you.” He whispers, lips curving into a smile you struggle to return.

“I love you, too.” You lie, closing your eyes at his kiss and refusing to open them until the sound of the tent entrance flipping closed signals he left.

“But you don’t, do you?” Galla asks from her place sitting on one of the tables, but you do not turn to face her, so she continues, almost impressed, “Peitho keep you, my friend, you promised your love in exchange for an army.”

“I…didn’t think I would survive long enough for the lie to start hurting.” You confess after a breath, holding yourself up with a hand on the back of a chair, and for once in days the need for balance is not born out of the burns over your body.

“Well, none of us do.”

But Ivar’s response is just as quick, just as certain, “But not to me.”

“How are you so certain?”

“If you had wanted to lie you would have spun some…” He considers his words, his head moving slightly from side to side as he thinks, “…promises or tales about me being special, a chosen one. But you didn’t, you didn’t-…you saw me as a man first, treated me like you would any other.”

You narrow your eyes when they meet his, and you understand what he means. Your gaze lowers to his legs, encased in heavy iron that still makes you think of pain before anything else, and you think, not for the first time, of what life must have been for him.

“If you do this, I will only see a captor when I look at you,” You warn in trembling syllables, lowering your gaze to your hands. “If you want a slave to be your Gods’ gift, you have your pick, my King.”

The unheard question of why you, why all this, why; does not go unnoticed, judging by the moment of hesitation before the Viking speaks again, but it goes unanswered regardless.

“You will not be a slave, I am making you the most powerful woman in these lands, I…you will be Queen of Kattegat.”

Fickle memories of a conversation past, “I could never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands, Ivar.”

Still, you ignore the implications, you ignore the traitorous thought that he listened and complied, you ignore the foolish hope that there’s freedom in this madness, and you reply, “I don’t want to be.”

“You’d rather just be my wife?” He chuckles, “Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were made to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”

You grit your teeth, but don’t refute what he says. If he is to force the title of wife upon you, the title of Queen won’t be as heavy.

He nods to himself, a strange calmness, a jarring relief, guiding his movements as he stands up leaning on the crutch and signals a goodbye as he marches for the door to his quarters. You shouldn’t feel cold when you are left alone at the table, but you do.

You call his name before he can leave you behind, and stand up on shaky legs as you face the man that has condemned you to a fate worse than death.

“I want to talk with…with the women.” You state with as much confidence as you can muster while the world caves under your feet and the darkness of bindings threatens your every breath.

“What women?”

“The…the Völur. I saw them, I saw h-her.”

The Viking frowns, “She will not help you escape,” He warns, “She’s a woman of the Gods, it is not in her power to bend fate.”

Fate. The thought scratches at the edges of your mind, the idea that the Gods somehow interfered so that you and Ivar would meet dreadful and intriguing all at once.

Still, in all his madness he is right. Whether the Gods interfered or not, the same way it was fate you survived Eleusis it is fate you are now at this King’s mercy. Fighting against fate leads you only away from the Gods and towards misery.

A scattered thought tells you misery is already here, but you snuff it out. You know this could be worse, you know this is mercy even if King Ivar has none.

So, you offer, “You know what your people think of me. She will be the only one not to fear or dread me,” You offer honestly, blinking quickly and forcing yourself to find his eyes, “It’s…the closest thing to normal that I have right now,” And it hurts your pride, your throat, your blood; but you force the word past your lips, “Please.”

“Fine,” He concedes after not much thought. When he looks at you, considering you for a few moments as he seems to make another choice, his eyes are unwavering and certain as they force you to hold his gaze, “But you will go tomorrow, tonight we’ll…eat together, and talk.”

You nod again, even if he has proven he doesn’t need your approval or consent for anything he does.

_____

Regarding how he acts before he drops the wife bomb on her, I just want to point out that if it feels like Ivar is being weird as fuck, it is because Ivar is being weird as fuck. Like, I intended him to. One of the things that I find so endearing and also infuriating of his character is how little he knows how to socialize, like truly socialize. The ‘Are you married?’ before knowing her name guy is in there, and I have the time of my life writing my poor Priestess into these situations she feels she is losing her mind being a part of.

Anyhow, hope you liked this chapter, and the story so far! Please let me know what you think, I would love to hear from you! :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings imagine #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

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the-wolf-who-kissed-the-moon · 4 years ago

Text

• Randvi x female reader 💋

• Warnings: adult fantasies.

a sapphire for your heart, part VI.

Oh, sweet Lilith,

How temping is your sin;

The Devil's arms pry open,

And I jump right in.

If damnation came after that kiss, you’d welcome it. Your knees felt weak and tingly, making it nearly impossible to pull yourself free from that woman's hold. You could feel her chest heaving, moving against you, stirring you up. The warmth of her lips lingered on your mouth, a sweet distraction, yet at the same time it fueled your desire to appease her.

She wanted a treasure, and you were ready to dig all the way down to the core of the earth to fetch it.

The marble floor of those sacred ruins felt cold and lifeless beneath your feet. Even though you were quite disheveled from sharing that brief moment of passion with Randvi, you never doubted your ability to feel that mystical impulse of gemstones yearning to be found. As you paced about the old, dusty tiles, you allowed your body to steadily relax and seek that natural pull of the soil and its riches. You begun to feel it – a very low vibration; but not from underneath. By instinct, you tilted your head back to look at those tall pillars, and Randvi’s gaze followed your own. She said nothing for now, giving you room to express yourself.

The faintest lull of precious stones encouraged you to climb those dilapidated ruins to the very top of the highest pillar. There it was; a strange energy calling for you, infiltrating your body through the tips of your fingers. You were swift as a deer and light as a feather on the tip of your toes, flowing gracefully towards your aim.

“Careful!”

A sweet velvet voice called from below. You glanced down to see a worried frown on Randvi’s lovely face, and you smiled.

“I’ve done this before.”

You reassured, but she walked beside you on the safety of the ground, ready to catch you in case you’d fall – what a heartwarming thought. This magnificent warrior had all her attention on you. Just when was the last time someone had cared so much for your well-being?

How you longed to be back in her embrace, to drown in the warmth of her chest and the sweet scent of her skin. But your focus was on your treasure, your determination impenetrable, even by such powerful desires. The pillar was cold to the touch, unbreakable and strong – but there was one particular area in that ancient marble which stood out.

“That’s enough Sapphire, you don’t need to look further!”

Your Viking goddess called again, with nothing but well-meant worry in her stern tone.

“Are you concerned for my safety?”

You jested as you produced a small hammer from your pouch.

“Of course! Now please climb down, I don’t trust these pillars.”

“Oh? Is it the pillar or me that you do not trust?”

You grinned at the sound of a frustrated sigh; Randvi paced about the floor, her head tilted to watch your every move, and her strong arms ready to cushion a fall which never came.

Large pieces of marble crumbled under the slightest hits of your hammer. The wall was a soft decoy, hiding a small hole the size of a man’s fist. You listened for any movements within; any trap someone might have used to ward off thieves. And when you were sure no scorpions or snakes were coiled inside the crevice, you slipped your hand right in.

“I found something!”

You announced as you steadily pulled your arm out of the pillar, with your fingers tightly wrapped around a small, old bag.

“What is it?”

Randvi’s sweet voice echoed from below. The worn-out piece of cloth was hardly something to behold, but you felt a pulsing energy within. And when you opened the bag, you were almost stunned by the brilliant colors of shimmering gems.

“It’s... a key.”

“A key?”

But not just any old key; this piece was an artifact, a treasure you have only dreamt to find. It was fairly the size of your palm, all made of pure gold and studded with rubies and diamonds in the shape of runes. It burned your skin, sent shivers up your spine, and whispered to you in a tongue you did not understand.

“Are you alright up there?”

Suddenly, you were brought back to the present. You tucked the mysterious key into you bosom pocket and reassured Randvi that you were on your way down.

“I’m fine, I promise.” Gently, you called. “I have something for you, though.”

And as soon as you found your footing on the ground, you presented your find to her. The sight of that sacred key brought forth an expression you never thought you’d see on those beautiful, stern features. Randvi was completely breathless, shocked and amazed. You felt her soft palms cup over your own, gently prying the key from your hold.

“Freya’s tears…” She murmured. “Sapphire, this is a great find – this is extraordinary!”

There was more than awe dancing across those godly features; she way exhilarated, almost relieved, and you knew that artifact must’ve had a deeper meaning to her than just the value of the gold. You bit back a smile as you witnessed spring bloom over those somber eyes you fell in love with; and that’s when you remembered -

Ache-filled wails in the night, by the river.

It was hard and painful for you to picture tears on those rosy cheeks. You felt a spark of hatred for ‘Sigurd’ and ‘Eivor', albeit you had no solid proof they were directly responsible for Randvi’s secret heartache.

“Is it… something personal of yours?”

You inquired curiously, hinting at the key.

“No, much more important. Had I known it was here, I would’ve demolished these ruins long ago.” She answered with a hint of excitement as her dazzling gaze found yours.

“How did you know…?”

“I just do.” You glanced at the sacred item in her palms as you ran the tip of your index finger along the precious diamonds and rubies. “I had no clue it was a key; I only felt the precious stones… calling me. It was faint, because they’re rather small. Yet loud enough for me to hear them.”

All Randvi did was nod slowly as she beheld your unique talent and the way you spoke to her.

---

A feast was to be held that night in honor of your find. The little village buzzed, song and excitement already filling the evening air. Somewhat bothered, you retreated to that little pond to sit on the mossy bed and be alone with your thoughts. Perhaps you should’ve been more interested in finding the roots of such a valuable item, yet your mind seemed to obsess over one thing only – that kiss.

Were you wrong to wish for more? Did Randvi desire it as well, or perhaps she’d done it in the heat of the moment? Regardless, the memory of her soft mouth was embedded on your lips, and you could still taste her sweet passion at the tip of your tongue. Your chest ached for her, yet you found no courage to go and meet her now, when she was in the midst of joyous celebration together with her clan.

The night was yours to ponder, and so you drifted into a light slumber where you allowed your sinful fantasies to come to life. How soft her skin must’ve been beneath those velvet layers, how gently you’d caress her chest, her plush, womanly mounds. The sight of her nude before you, divine in all of her brawny glory, with rust hair flowing freely down her broad shoulders.

You sighed as you pictured yourself straddling her lap and worshipping her chest with slow kisses whilst her strong hands would caress your thighs. Closer, closer, where you burned…

“Sapphire? Is that you?”

With a sharp inhale you abruptly sat up in the mossy bed and quickly dusted dry blades of grass off your hair. Your cheeks were hot red, but thank God for the darkness of the night hiding your shame. Randvi was right there, in the flesh, and the sound of her velvet words only stirred your arousal.

“Yes, it’s me!”

You called as soon as you trusted your voice. Her heavy footfalls drew nearer and you turned your head away as you pretended to smoothen the wrinkles in your tunic. She crouched down next to you.

“Is everything alright? We were waiting for you in the longhouse…”

“Ah, I’m sorry – ...it’s the smoke.”

A fitting excuse which worked the previous night. Randvi did not insist, already accustomed to your need for solitude at times and you were grateful that she understood. But when she stood as if to take her leave, words spilled before you had the chance to think.

“Randvi – “

She turned at your call.

“…there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

- To be continued…

*part VII.

#randvi x reader #randvi fanfiction #randvi #randvi valhalla #valhalla #lesbian love #lesbian fanfic #sapphic love

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superprincesspea · 3 years ago

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Chapter 11: Traitor

Masterlist

It rained for almost a week and Rollo didn’t return home.

Edithe was too proud to ask Haedde where he was and should have rejoiced at being without his heathen company, but the old woman bored her. Praying, sewing and sitting bored her. It always had.

She missed her family and home more than ever but even there, she’d been unhappy. Quiet reflection and tedious activity never suited her. Being the daughter of a Saxon Lord never suited her. Rebellion had burrowed under her skin for as long as she could remember and over time she’d learnt to quell it rather than banish it entirely.

The last words she’d spoken to her family had been in anger. She’d envied her brother. Envied his freedom most of all. She was going to be sent away to marry a boy prince, while her brother would remain and one day become Lord of all she held dear. It wasn’t fair but nothing was ever fair for a woman, Haedde was right about that.

Today the sun shone brightly amidst fluffy white clouds and she perched at the window, watching the world go by, her foot tapping rhythmically on the floor.

“Why are you so restless, child?” Haedde asked for what must have been the tenth time that morning.

“I wish to go outside. It isn’t even raining today. Can’t you ask the guard again, Haedde?”

“Each day it is the same answer from them, child. Have patience. I’m sure Rollo will be home soon enough.”

She sighed, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. With each passing day she longed more and more for the easy meander up the meadow. To feel the long grass tickling her legs and to fill her lungs with sea air as it swept across the fjord and onto the hillside.

“Why don’t I tell you the words for the days of the week?” Haedde said.

Edithe slumped even further into misery, “who cares about the days of the week when every day is the same?”

Haedde replied but Edithe didn’t hear it. Instead, her eyes searched a group of warriors who were walking from the docks, talking, laughing, returning home. And in the middle of them all, there he was.

Rollo .

“I told you he would return soon and already you are happy,” Haedde cooed, watching over her shoulder to see what had caught her attention.

Edithe bit back the smile which had fallen carelessly onto her face. Thanking God it was only the old woman who had seen the proof of it. “I am happy to leave this prison, nothing more.”

By the time he entered the house, she’d taken a seat by the fire, pretending to sew.

He sat away from her, unloading the sack he carried and chatting to Haedde while she fussed over him.

“You look well, Lord. You have been busy?”

“Yes, it has been a long week and I have missed your cooking old woman,” he smiled, flattering her.

Edithe was trying her best to ignore him but she couldn’t help herself, nor could she help the sting of disappointment in his disregard for her. She was supposed to be his bride yet he had no interest in talking, or even looking at her.

“Will you not greet me, heathen?” she said, wishing she held more patience.

“Hello, Edithe,” he replied, meeting her stare briefly before resuming his conversation with Haedde.

Edithe jabbed the stupid sewing needle into the dress she was embroidering and caught her finger in the process. It bled out but she suffered in silence, quietly seething and certainly more wounded by his ignorance than she should have been.

“No doubt you have had a long journey, Lord. But will you be taking Lady Edithe out for the afternoon? She has been so fretful in your absence.”

“Has she?” Rollo asked, looking pointedly in Edithe’s direction.

Edithe was grateful Haedde thought of asking Rollo to take her outside, but the manner of her phrasing left much to be desired. She hadn’t been fretful because he was gone she’d been bored because she was trapped.

She ignored the way he looked at her, giving her attention to the sewing once more.

“She is young, it is not good for her to be cooped up all day with an old woman. Take her, have fun together, hm?”

Rollo humoured Haedde but his tone had an edge when he asked, “but does Lady Edithe wish me to take her?”

“I think-” Haedde began.

“I wasn’t asking you, old woman.”

Edithe straightened her spine, chin up, “you promised to train me, did you not?”

He scoffed, “I’m a heathen and a barbarian as you always point out. Why should I keep my promises to you, Christian ?”

Edithe held her temper tightly in her chest. She would rather die than beg him.

“I think she does not understand you-” Haedde lied to Rollo in Norse before speaking to Edithe in Saxon, “-you want to go with him, why be so stubborn, child?”

“I think she understands perfectly,” Rollo decided, watching her carefully.

Edithe tightened her jaw, her whole body rigid with frustration. “Do as you please, heathen . I have not asked you for anything and I never will!”

“Then these will go to waste,” he said, tossing a burlap sack at her feet.

She wanted to ignore it but the curiosity was far too tempting. She picked it up, opening the ties to find a tunic and trousers like the ones Solveig wore. But more excitingly, there was a black leather tabard, delicately stitched and soft to the touch.

“I do not want them,” she lied, still clutching them in her hands.

Rollo sighed, “wear them, don’t wear them. It makes no difference to me.”

“Then why bring them for me?”

He sighed again, “to make you happy, Edithe. Though I can see it is impossible to do so.”

He was wrong, the clothes did make her happy but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She could hardly even admit it to herself.

They stared at each other in silence, both of them unwilling to yield.

“I will leave you to your sewing then,” he decided, grabbing a piece of bread from the plate Haedde prepared for him. “Do not wait up for me.”

He walked to the door and she couldn’t remain seated or impassive a moment longer, not when freedom was tantalisingly close. “Wait,” she called.

He turned, giving her the opportunity to speak.

“I…” she’d asked him to take her before, why was it so difficult now? “I do wish you to take me.”

She thought he might mock her and then refuse but he didn’t. He smiled, his eyes crinkling warmly, “then change quickly, woman.”

She smiled too and in hindsight, perhaps she could have been less enthusiastic, but some emotions were impossible to hide.

Pulling on the new clothes, she liked the way they made her feel. In trousers, she would be able to kick, run and tumble as freely as any man and, in Kattegat, nobody would judge her for it.

Yet, in her mind’s eye, she could see the scorn on her mothers face. If she was here now, she would hate it and think her unladylike, unchristian even. Edithe banished the thought. She would pray on it later but for now, she would enjoy the newfound freedom a pair of trousers seemed to promise.

When she emerged from the bedchamber, Rollo’s gaze caressed her body, admiring her shape without restraint. Stupidly, she hadn’t even considered how the trousers would hug her figure.

Her cheeks heated, after a week she’d forgotten what it felt like when he gave her all his attention.

“Enough,” she said and his hungry gaze flicked to meet hers.

“Now you really do look like a warrior of Odin,” he praised and she ignored him, moving across the room to collect her wooden sword.

Rollo move closer to her and, when she turned, she had to take a step back to avoid crashing into him.

“For you, Valkyrie,” he said, uncurling his hand to reveal a black leather belt clutched within it.

Another gift, another thing to pray on later. She reached for it but he moved it away.

“Allow me,” he insisted, his hands deliberate as they carefully began to fasten the belt around her waist.

All the time her heart thudded. Every brush of his fingers rippling a flurry of tingles to her core. She held her breath, trying desperately to ignore the scent of his skin, the scent of his very presence, as it enveloped her.

Sea, soap and leather. She hadn’t realised how familiar the smell had become until this moment, and now she was trying not to drown in it. Trying so hard she was lightheaded and unsteady on her feet.

“For your sword,” he said, smiling as he eased the weapon from her hand and slipped it into her new belt.

He turned towards the door and she exhaled, wondering why his touch had seemed to brand her skin. Even now she could feel the heat of it.

Luckily Rollo didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He stepped outside and waited for her to follow with hardly a second glance.

After a week trapped indoors, the meadow was even better than Edithe remembered and she took the time to ramble through the long grass. After so much rain the air was fresh and wildflowers bloomed all around. She picked a buttercup and twirled it in her fingers, admiring the way the light dance on its waxy petals.

Rollo was watching her and she was very aware of him, very aware of herself. She didn’t want him to know that she found beauty in this place or, that if he was a Saxon man, then she could have found pleasure in his company.

She was a traitor for even having such a thought steal into her subconscious. But it was becoming impossible to deny. Despite her hatred for Rollo, his smile fell warmly onto his face and she had missed it. She had missed their lessons. He was a patient teacher. More patient than the nuns had ever been, infinitely more patient than her father.

It seemed so strange to her that a heathen Viking could have such a capacity for gentleness. In many ways, Rollo was much more agreeable to Edithe than the boy prince she was supposed to wed. But underneath Rollo’s pleasing exterior he was a pagan and a murderer.

She let the buttercup fall to the grass, her face hardening to him as she recalled the moment he’d killed her brother. When she thought about that, Rollo became the most hateful thing she’d ever seen. But if only he could be unpleasant to gaze upon too. It would make everything far easier and she would feel far less shallow in her sinful thinking.

“Perhaps we could walk a while?” she asked, feeling suddenly unprepared to be in such close proximity to him.

“Anything you want, we will do. As always, Lady Edithe,” he chuckled.

Was he mocking her? Calling her spoilt? How could she ever think anything good of him? “We don’t always do everything I want,” she snapped.

“Do we not?”

“I did not want to be brought here. To be locked in your house, day after day. Even Haedde gets to leave whenever she pleases while I have to sit and wait for you . You disappeared for a week and left me to rot.”

“So you noticed I was gone?” his smile wasn’t mocking her, it was warm and handsome and she hated it all the more.

“I noticed your man stopping me from leaving.”

“He’s not there to stop you from leaving. He’s there to stop anyone from getting in.”

Edithe laughed, now it was her turn to mock, “like Ragnar?”

“What of him?” Rollo’s tone was serious now, his face hardening as he moved to tower over her. This was the Viking she expected. Menacing, dangerous, heart-stopping.

“He said he would never touch something which belonged to you.” So perhaps she would relay Ragnar’s message after all.

Rollo relaxed, his eyes softening once more, had they always been as green as they were right now? Surely not.

“Do you belong to me, Valkyrie?” he asked, reaching for her plait and letting it slip slowly through his long fingers

She couldn’t bear to hold his stare a moment longer. Couldn’t bear to be so close to him when he looked at her as he was looking right now. As though there were no Christians or Pagans just Edithe, Rollo and his boyish smile.

“I belong only to God and you should never have taken me.”

She could hear his frustration, feel it even. “So I should have killed you? Left you for the crows? Or for the other men to do with as they pleased? Do you have any idea how much you would have suffered in the hands of another man?”

“Stop,” she told him, angry because he was right.

“I saved you,” he whispered, his presence encompassing her, “and you have given me nothing, Edithe. Not even a kiss.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry, adrenaline hurrying down her veins but she didn’t run away. His eyes grazed her lips and she knew what he was thinking, knew she should stop this madness.

“ Rollo ,” she said, her word a breathy whisper rather than a command and as soon as it had rolled from her lips, he took her into his arms and leaned in to kiss her.

She pulled back but his hands caught her escape and his lips were soft with tenderness as they pressed to her hers. They warmed her, yet she shivered, goosebumps prickling along her skin.

“Rollo,” she said again and when he kissed her a second time, his open-mouthed urgency startled her. His tongue pushing past her lips, sinking wet and smooth into her mouth. She whimpered, allowing him to consume her and allowing herself to drown in the sea, soap and leather of his scent.

She didn’t know a kiss could be so longlasting and as it deepened, his hands gliding easily over her body, heat pooled unexpectedly between her legs. He was invading her, breaching her walls and somewhere in the back of her mind a voice called for her to fight. But she was weak, melting willingly into his unyielding kiss.

When it was over she trembled, frightened by the deep pull of desire which coursed across her traitorous body.

“How can I ever stop kissing you now?” he asked, smiling, leaning down to kiss her again.

“Stop,” she whispered, pushing her hands against his chest but he was too strong, too entranced.

“Why should we stop?” he breathed in her ear before his lips peppered lazily along her neck, tightening whatever it was which made her body thrum for something more.

“Please Rollo,” she begged, unsure if she was begging him to stop or begging him to continue.

How could she let this heathen touch her in such a way? This was not her, this was madness. Utter madness. She had been too long from home, too long in this pagan land. Her body was for God first and her husband second. Rollo was neither and he never would be.

“Let me go, heathen!” she shrieked, pushing him more forcefully.

He released her, his breathing ragged. There was no more sweetness or gentleness in his features, only lust.

Edithe didn’t wait to see what he might do next. She ran. From Rollo and herself. She didn’t recognise that girl in the meadow. Nor did she recognise the part of her who wondered, what it would feel like, if she didn’t stop him at all.

#rollo #rollo vikings #rollo lothbrok #vikings #vikings fanfiction

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hysterialevi · 4 years ago

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Hagall - A Sigurd/Male Eivor Fanfic

**SPOILERS FOR SUTHSEXE ARC BELOW**

Fanfic summary: After rescuing Sigurd from Fulke's cruelties, Eivor works on helping his brother recover from his trauma.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

KINGDOM OF SUTHSEXE

BAELFRITH

Hair as red as fire. Eyes as cold as ice. A wrath that burned brighter than Surtr’s mythical sword.

The Saxons watched in terror as the Norse warrior carved his way through their settlement, tearing apart its very foundation in an attempt to find the woman who took his arm.

He shouted in a Devilish tongue that none of them understood, and with every guardsman that he cut down, the more the ground seemed to vanish underneath a new layer of blood.

There were fresh corpses scattered all over the village, and due to the flames that ravaged the settlement, most of its people now lay buried beneath a tombstone of ash, their faces frozen in fear as the world around them burned like a pyre.

It was Hell on earth, and only one man had caused it.

“BRING ME FULKE!” The viking roared above all the chaos, swinging his sword into another guard as he headed for the longhouse. “I know she’s here!”

Stomping his way up the hill that led to the longhouse’s entrance, the Norse refused to stop for anything as he stormed through a crowd of terrified civilians, all of them scurrying away in fear upon noticing his presence.

“Flee, everyone!” A Saxon man yelled in horror. “Flee for your lives! The Devil himself is in Baelfrith!”

Ignoring the panicked screams of the villagers, the viking continued on his fervent path for vengeance and planted a firm foot in the door of the longhouse, breaking it free from its hinges as it wildly swung open.

There were only a few people inside -- most notably, the thegn of this settlement -- and with no one around to stop him, the viking hurried into the building, ready to get the information he needed.

Just before he could progress however, a familiar voice called out to the Norse, halting him in his tracks.

“Sigurd!” Eivor exclaimed, jogging up to the man. “Wait!”

The viking turned around to face his brother, his gaze still wild from the recent battle.

“What is it?” He asked sharply, sounding more harsh than he intended.

Eivor furrowed his brow in concern, unable to hide the worry he felt.

“I just...” the younger man took a breath, trying to calm himself down, “...I want you to think about this, brother. Are you certain this is what you want to do? Interrogating Aldrich, I mean.”

The older man obviously didn’t share his partner’s skepticism. “Why wouldn’t it be? Thegn Aldrich can tell us where Fulke is hiding. He’s protecting her. I know he is.”

Eivor’s fear quickly turned into frustration. “And you really think he’s going to help us? After we just burned down his settlement and slaughtered his people? I love you, Sigurd, but this...” he gestured at the destruction around them, “this is not who you are.”

Sigurd stepped closer to Eivor, his figure towering over him.

“Then you haven’t been paying attention.” He said lowly. “We are warriors, Eivor. Sons of Odin. We are born and bred for Valhalla. We do not cower in the shadows like a rat, or hide in the grass like a snake! Fulke wrought every conceivable violation upon me, and so I will not rest until I throw her into the jaws of Garmr myself!”

Sigurd leaned forward, his voice rumbling like magma in his throat. “Either lend me your aid now, or return to Ravensthorpe. I will collect Fulke’s head, with or without you.”

The younger man shook his head in disapproval. “...There is no honor in this, Sigurd. You know that. You are not a barbarian, nor are you a murderer. But you are blinded by your hatred. Listen to me--” Eivor gripped him by the shoulders, “--Fulke isn’t worth it!”

His brother scoffed, shrugging his hands off. “You really think you can judge me? Or must I remind you of all the years you spent seeking revenge against Kjotve? What about when you endangered your crew simply to go after him? My methods may be brutal, Eivor, but do not pretend that you would not replicate them. Your claim to a virtuous disposition is meaningless, for we both know you are no better.”

Eivor sighed in annoyance. “Which is exactly why I know this isn’t worth it! My hatred for Kjotve tore me apart for years, Sigurd. It led me down a path that changed me for the worse, and I do not wish to see you lose yourself either.”

“You weren’t there, Eivor!” Sigurd insisted. “You did not see what Fulke did to me. She...” the man paused for a moment, trying to hold himself together, “...she took... everything from me. My strength, my dignity, my freedom. Fulke is nothing more than a witch in human form, and honor demands that I bring her to retribution. You can fight by my side, or watch from the shadows like a coward. It matters not.” He threw a cautionary glare at the other man. “But do not get in my way.”

Standing there in silence, Eivor watched hopelessly as his brother lost himself in his rage, consumed by a hatred that no one in their clan had ever seen before. He knew the man was hurting inside, and he knew it wasn’t Sigurd’s fault, but to see him lash out in such a violent manner... it broke Eivor’s heart.

Sigurd was a good man. A good leader. He cared deeply for his people, and had already sacrificed so much to keep them afloat. But to witness him undo all of his work in the name of killing Fulke -- a single woman -- Eivor knew he had to stop him sooner or later.

He did not want to fight against Sigurd as Valka predicted he would, but for his brother’s own sake, he feared he would have no choice.

Noticing the abrupt shift in his brother’s mood, Sigurd felt a sudden sense of guilt clutching at his chest as he took on a gentler tone, uttering a brief apology.

“F-Forgive me, my love...” he whispered, “that was... unworthy of me. I apologize. But I fear my point still stands. I can’t just walk away from this. I...” Sigurd glanced down at his amputated arm, doing his best to block out the abhorrent memories that came with it, “...I need to kill Fulke.”

Eivor sighed in defeat, not wishing to argue with his brother any further. “...If that’s truly what you wish, then I will stand by you, Sigurd. All the way to the end.” He placed a hand on the man’s cheek, gazing at him affectionately. “But please... do not forget who you are.”

Sigurd nodded reassuringly. “I won’t.”

Returning to the task at hand, the older man separated their embrace and brought his attention back to the longhouse, eager to get some answers from Thegn Aldrich as Eivor followed from behind.

At the moment, the elderly nobleman was cowering behind the safety of his throne and had no more than a pitiful dagger to defend himself, somehow enhancing his already pathetic display.

Most of the civilians who once stood by his side had fled the safety of the longhouse, and the closer Sigurd got to him, the more Aldrich’s grasp on the dagger seemed to shake.

“No!” The Saxon cried out in fear. “Leave me be, Dane! Stay back!”

The thegn wildly swung his blade in an attempt to cut Sigurd, only to receive a fist to the face when the viking swatted the weapon out of his grip.

The dagger went flying off to the side and landed on the stone floor with a metallic clang, leaving Aldrich completely defenseless as he backed away from the Norse in panic.

“Filthy fucking pagan...!” He hissed under his breath. “Rendering a man defenseless in his own home -- slaughtering innocents! God will see you punished for your sins, Dane! Whether you believe in Him or not, He will condemn you and all your kind to Hell for the suffering you’ve inflicted on our people! You will--”

“--Enough of your piety!” Sigurd barked, striking the thegn once again.

Eivor flinched at the aggressive action, having to restrain himself from interfering.

“Brother...!” He warned in a hushed tone, causing Sigurd to glare at him.

“Stay out of this, Eivor.” He demanded before returning his focus to the thegn. “...Tell me where Paladin Fulke is! I know you’re hiding her!”

Aldrich stammered out a response. “M-Madwoman Fulke? That’s why you’re here? You wish to find her?”

Sigurd prowled closer to the Saxon, staring him down as a lion would its prey.

“I wish to kill her.”

The nobleman glowered at that. “Lord above... you Northmen and your thirst for violence. Is it any wonder that England crumbles under the hardships of war? We should’ve set you heathens to the torch the minute you set foot on our shores.”

Sigurd instantly raised his sword up to Aldrich’s throat, holding it dangerously close to his skin.

“Watch... your tongue, Saxon. Lest I tear it out through your teeth. Now, tell me where Fulke is! I grow weary of your rambling.”

Still, Aldrich remained obstinate. “That heretic is far away from here, and safely in the hands of God. She is to be tried by true Christians, and brought to justice in an appropriate manner. I will not let her fate fall into the hands of a bunch of barbarians!”

Sigurd gently pressed the blade into his neck, applying just enough pressure so that a few beads of blood began to form.

“...It’s not your decision to make.”

Aldrich nailed his gaze onto the sword, his teeth starting to chatter as small droplets of blood trickled down his skin.

“And who are you to decide, Dane? You who walks among the hellfire. What makes you think you’re any more suited?”

Sigurd grinned darkly. “Is the fate of your own life not already in my hands?”

When the thegn offered nothing but silence in return, the redheaded Norse took a few steps forward, carrying on with his interrogation.

“This is your last chance, Aldrich. Tell me where to find Paladin Fulke, and I might leave enough of a body for your kin to bury. Otherwise, I will personally see to it that my skalds use your bones to beat their war drums. Your head will adorn the tallest pike in my village, and I will spread your lungs into wings so that you may fly with the same birds that feast on your corpse.”

“Sigurd...!” Eivor said once again, causing the man to sigh in frustration.

“What?” He snapped.

“What are you doing?” The younger man questioned. “This is not who we are!”

The viking ignored his brother’s pleas, growing tired of their quarrel. “Enough, Eivor! You may be my brother, but do not forget who is jarl! My word is law, and if I wish for someone to be killed, I expect you to help me swing the sword! Now for the last time, stay out of this...!”

Sigurd turned to Aldrich, impatiently awaiting the man’s reply.

“And you! What say you? Will you tell me where Fulke is? Or shall I take my axe to your spine?”

The Saxon scowled at the Norse, refusing to give in.

“...Devil take you, Dane.” He spat at Sigurd’s feet.

The Norse warrior chuckled at the gesture, his temperament alarmingly calm.

“A foolish idea, thegn.”

Deciding not to hold back anymore, Sigurd suddenly threw a punch at Aldrich’s face and knocked the man flat on the ground, continuing to beat the Saxon as he helplessly crawled away.

“Sigurd!” Eivor blurted out in shock, unsure of what to do.

But the viking didn’t stop. Instead, he simply approached Aldrich and carried on with his assault as the thegn desperately tried to get back up on his feet, latching onto any piece of furniture that would support his weight.

“Sir Regnward...!” The Saxon shouted, calling out to his housecarl. “Cut this Dane down immediately! I want him killed!”

There was no answer.

“Sir Regnward!” Aldrich repeated in his absence, his voice trembling now. “For God’s sake, Cedric, where are you...?!”

Sigurd planted a boot on top of the thegn’s hand, grinding it into the floor.

“Your housecarl is dead, thegn!” He exclaimed, his tone dripping with venom. “He lies outside with a sword buried in his heart, just as you soon will.”

The Saxon whimpered under the pressure of Sigurd’s boot, frantically trying to wiggle his way out of the man’s hold, but to no avail.

“Please...!” He begged, his jaw clenched in agony. “Leave me be...! There’s nothing more I can offer you!”

Sigurd crouched on the floor, staring at Aldrich directly in the eye. “Are you as dense as you are cowardly? Tell me where Fulke is, and all this stops. It’s a simple concept, really.”

But still, the Saxon refused. “If I tell you, they’ll have me hanged!”

“And if you don’t,” The Norse growled, “I’ll do worse.”

Leaning closer to the thegn as he crushed the man’s hand, Sigurd prepared to punch Aldrich again and clenched his fist, only to find himself being dragged away from the Saxon when Eivor suddenly decided to intervene.

“Sigurd!” The younger man said. “Enough!”

The redheaded viking regained his footing, glaring furiously at his brother.

“Eivor! How many times must I tell you to stay out of it?”

“As many as you wish,” he replied, “but regardless, I cannot just stand by and do nothing while you torment these people! We will find Fulke, brother, but not like this. Not ever like this.”

Eivor turned to the fallen Saxon, gesturing to the longhouse’s ruined door.

“Take what people you have left and flee, thegn. There is nothing more for you in Baelfrith.”

Aldrich pushed himself off the floor and gripped his hand in a nursing hold, nodding appreciatively at his savior.

“Bless you, Dane. Bless you...!”

“Do not mistake my mercy for acceptance. If I see you or any of your other people near our clan after this, you won’t be walking away next time.”

It pained Eivor to speak to a defenseless man in such a way, but for the sake of not completely throwing his loyalty for Sigurd out the window, he figured he had to prevent the Saxons from seeking vengeance somehow.

“Oh, you won’t,” Aldrich promised. “I swear it.”

Scurrying off without another word said, the lone thegn hurriedly made his way out the longhouse as Eivor stayed behind, standing amidst all the chaos his brother had sowed.

He wasn’t sure if he did the right thing, allowing Aldrich to escape. The man appeared sincere enough in his promise to leave the Raven Clan alone, but as past experiences would have taught Eivor, no one could be trusted in a time of war.

For all he knew, the thegn could’ve been planning for revenge. He had enough survivors to rally a small fyrd, and it didn’t seem entirely impossible that the man would attempt some sort of retaliation.

Still, despite his uncertainties, the young viking was glad to have prevented further bloodshed. There was no love lost between him and self-righteous Saxons, but regardless, Eivor did not wish to see anymore unnecessary death.

There had been far too much of it already.

Turning back to address his brother, Eivor halted in his steps when he found the sullen man sitting quietly on Aldrich’s throne, his head hanging low in despondency.

His brow was furrowed in deep thought, and the closer Eivor walked to the solemn jarl, the more he was able to see the exhaustion creasing his lover’s face.

Sigurd didn’t look well at all.

A grim shadow seemed to loom over the man’s conscience like a dark cloud, and with the sound of wild flames crackling outside, Eivor only wondered how long it would be until Sigurd’s actions reflected the little sanity he preserved.

“Sigurd...?” He said worriedly, kneeling in front of the man so that he was eye-level with him. “Are you well, brother?”

The forlorn viking glanced up at Eivor, his expression heavy with remorse. There was no longer any strength in his face as there was before, and the dark circles outlining his sockets only seemed to harden his gaze.

“...What’s happening to me, Eivor?” Sigurd whispered, his tone devoid of any emotion. “That woman, Fulke... she turned me into a monster.”

The younger man cupped his partner’s face in his hands, looking at him affectionately.

“No, Sigurd...” Eivor comforted, “you are not a monster. Nor are you a saint. You are only human. Like the rest of us.”

The other man chuckled morosely at the statement. “...Human. If only you knew the irony of your words, brother. Fulke spent all our time together trying to convince me otherwise. She believes I am born of the gods. One of the... Ancient Ones. She believes that--”

“--What Fulke believes doesn’t matter.” Eivor insisted. “She’s a madwoman, Sigurd. A snake. And she will do anything she can to twist your mind, regardless of the cost.”

Eivor caressed Sigurd’s cheek, attempting to console the older man.

“But hear me when I say this. No matter how you see yourself, Sigurd -- no matter how long it takes for you to recover from this pain -- remember, you will always be someone who’s cherished among our clan. You will always be my most trusted friend, and my most loved companion.”

Eivor placed a kiss on the other man’s lips, afterwards resting the bridge of his nose against Sigurd’s.

“I love you. And don’t you ever forget that.”

Sigurd brought a hand up to one of Eivor’s arms, holding him gently in place.

“Freyja knows I don’t deserve you.” He replied softly. “After everything I’ve done, I’m not certain I deserve anyone.”

“Don’t say that,” Eivor reassured. “There is still hope for you, Sigurd. You’re not beyond redemption yet. But I can’t heal you by myself. Ultimately, your own recovery rests with yourself in the end.”

The younger man stepped back and rose from the floor, reaching a hand out to Sigurd.

“But I won’t abandon you. From here to Valhalla, I’ll always be at your side.”

The older man grabbed Eivor’s hand, pulling himself up from the throne as the two of them savored a brief moment of peace.

“I know,” Sigurd said earnestly. “And I won’t disappoint you, my love. I promise.”

Walking alongside each other, the peculiar couple removed themselves from the morbid scene and returned to the hellfire outside, prepared to face whatever threats awaited them in the chaos.

By now, the ferocious flames had dug into the very heart of Baelfrith and consumed its soul, leaving nothing but a sea of fire that drowned everything in its path.

There were golden specks of light flickering throughout the pillars of smoke, and with nothing more than a pile of corpses to commemorate the life that once thrived in this settlement, Eivor felt a new sense of grief tugging at his conscience.

All this destruction, all this ruin... it was entirely their fault. So many innocent lives had been condemned within a single day, and the blood would forever stain their hands.

But despite the tragedy, Eivor knew he couldn’t give up. Sigurd’s old self was barely hanging by a thread at the moment, and the younger man feared he would fall without someone there to help guide him.

So, without saying a word, Eivor simply reached over and took his lover’s hand into his grasp, holding him close as they traversed through the flames.

He didn’t know how he was going to help Sigurd recover from his pain, or the torment that Fulke put him through, but one thing was for certain.

Fulke was going to have to kill Eivor if she ever intended laying her hands on Sigurd again. He would always protect that man at all costs, no matter what happened, and even if it meant he would lose his own life, he was prepared to defend Sigurd.

All the way to the end.

#assassin's creed valhalla #assassin's creed fanfiction #ac valhalla #ac valhalla fanfic #sigurd styrbjornson #eivor wolfsmal #sigurd x eivor #sigurd x male eivor #eivor wolfkissed #male eivor

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valhallasubstitute · 4 years ago

Text

Fealty

--Sihtric x reader

You’re not entirely sure what you mean to Sihtric. After spending another night together you finally get some answers after trying on his jewellery.

It was common that once a Viking boy came of age he would receive an oath ring, he’d swear fealty, loyalty to his earl/lord. For the sake of this fic we’re going to pretend that Sihtric’s arm bands are his oath rings.

AN: And here children we can see Inga’s obsession with Arnas Fedaravicius’s arms ever clearer.

WARNINGS: Fluff, Dane boy who looks like a rat being very soft

wc: 958, short but sweet

Sihtric’s arm bands had always been a point of interest for you.

When he had first come into your life his arms alone had had most of your attention but as you had gotten to know him even the smallest detail wasn’t enough.

It hadn’t taken long before he had found a way into your heart and you into his bed.

And that is where you found yourself tonight.

He lay with his arms behind his head, propped up on the mountain of pillows you insisted upon having, not that he was complaining. He was comfortable, freshly fucked and enjoying the view.

As were you.

He was half naked, muscles on full display, his tunic covering your body rather than his and the marks you had left on him had not yet begun to fade. But it was Sihtric’s face that you enjoyed most. He looked relaxed, happy and ever so slightly amused.

Not only had you donned his shirt but you were in the process of “pillaging” his jewellery. His rings were far too big for you, slipping off your fingers just as quickly as you had slipped them on but you liked the intricate designs.

Each one you would hold up to the candle light and admire the way it shone, and if it didn’t you would polish it until it did. You would ask where he had gotten them and he would tell you each story without argument.

He had hesitated the first, second and third time you had inquired about his exploits, much more interested in exploring the physical aspects of your relationship, and he did not wish to scare you away. It had taken some convincing but now he did not hesitate to tell how he had gotten each ring; from winning a drinking contest to taking it from a enemies corpse.

He loved to watch the way your eyes would light up as he spoke, your attention flitting between him and the ring you held in your hand. If only he knew it was because you couldn’t decide which was prettier.

He was laughing by the time he had finished his story. While the sound was gentle his whole body shook and you found yourself drawn to him, just as you always had been. You placed his rings back on the table and instead filled your hands with his arm bands.

You sat on the bed, enjoying the way his touch immediately found you. You held both pieces of gold in one hand and with the other you laced your fingers with Sihtric’s. They were warm and rough.

‘And what are these for?’

‘Do they appeal to you more than my rings?’

‘I will not deny my curiosity.’ He smiled at you and your stomach flipped. He was too handsome for his own good, the bastard. He sat up, his body shuffling towards you. Sihtric took one of the bands and placed it on your arm. The metal was cool against your skin and it fell off as quickly as the rings had. Sihtric did not remove it, preferring to toy with it settled between the crook of your elbow.

‘There is a tradition, from Kjartan’s homeland. When Danish boys come of age they are given a band to show their loyalty. Oath Rings.’ He picked up the gold band that usually sat on his right arm, his thumb running lightly over the ridge of it. ‘This one is for Uhtred and my fealty to him.’

‘He is lucky to have you Sihtric.’ A proud smile bloomed across his face, his eyes dancing in the low light. You wanted to kiss him but more questions lingered on your tongue. ‘Whose fealty does this belong to?’ You could not fathom the answer. It would not be for Kjartan, Sihtric had mixed feelings towards his late father but loyalty was not one of them. Uhtred was and always would be his only lord.

Sihtric looked at you for a long time and for a moment you feared you had asked too much, that he would take back his shirt, his soft touches and whatever feeling you hoped he might have. He must have seen the fear in your eyes, you watched the softness return to his gaze and he placed a large hand onto the back of your neck.

Sihtric opened his mouth but closed it again almost immediately, optioning to bring his forehead to yours instead. His scent was calming and you breathed him in deeply, your courage returning.

‘You do not have to answer, it wasn’t my intention to pry-‘

‘No… No, you do not over step. I-‘ He laughed lightly, his other hand coming to your hair, his fingers gently playing with the loose strands. ‘It is more decoration than anything but …’

‘But?’ You couldn’t tell if it was the low lighting or if he was blushing, you hoped he was blushing.

‘If I were to swear fealty to another, anyone other than Uhtred, it would be you Y/N.’

‘Me?’

‘You. The woman I love. You alone have both my sword and my heart.’ He said it fast and finished with a sigh, his eyes were wide and the vulnerability in them was plain. You felt although your heart had stopped, doubled in size, melted and burst all at once. You kissed him then, his soft lips becoming flush with your own.

You could not contain the wide grin that spread across your face. How were you meant to kiss the warrior in front of you when your own lips refused to do anything other than smile? His expression mirrored yours, and you knew then that he loved you.

‘I accept your offer of fealty Sihtric Kjartanson. With pleasure.’

#the last kingdom #tlk fanfic #sihtric x reader #sihtric kjartanson x reader #arnas fedaravicius #sihtric kjartanson #sihtric #fluff #inga writes

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