#i hope to god sap and dream get the same treatment

[sunshineduo]

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[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame II

Author’s Note: Next part as things start to pick up and Ivar making his first appearance (as if I’d keep him away long) Thanks as always for being the best fans, and if you want to be tagged or I forgot you, please remind me!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 1667

Warnings: Ivar being a little sh*t

Under the cover of the stars, Ubbe had moved you through the night. Hvitserk had gone on ahead to make sure their trail was clear. They decided on an abandoned house, far from the church where Ivar and the majority of their army were making camp. Besides a few stray drunken warriors that Hvitserk was able to distract, they were able to settle in unnoticed. 

In their little corner of the town, it was quiet, making it easier to forget the conquering of the day. As Ubbe studied the nun, he wondered what you were thinking. You wouldn't look at him now. Perhaps it made ignoring your situation simpler if you could pretend he wasn't there. He wanted to tell you to rest, that no harm would come to you tonight, but the words wouldn't come. Doubtful you would take to their meaning if they did.

Sleep was something his own body was craving. Often he could stay awake through the night with little to no rest, but after fighting a battle his body was sapped of most of its strength. Ubbe didn't trust you not to run the moment his eyes shut, but he didn't want to put you in fetters either.

He let out a sigh as he dropped himself in front of the door. The nun noticed this and you cast your head down in despair. He ignored you as a sudden longing for home hit him, to be back with Margrethe. Things were simple in Kattegat, even if it was no longer their mother on the throne. These Christians complicated everything, guided by their holy book and God. Would they ever be able to live alongside in peace, or was their father's hope of new farmland a farfetched dream? No matter how dismal things seemed, he knew he couldn't give up. He might have failed once when Ragnar approached him to go to England, but so long as he drew breath, Ubbe would see his vision through. 

ooOOoo

When he fell asleep, it was with thoughts of his people prospering in green fields. Margrethe was at his side, and two fair-haired children played at her skirts. The wind was warm on his face, free of frost and rain, and the birds sang sweet songs that were free of the harsh raven's call. It was blissful. 

Imagine his disappointment when he awoke at dawn to the stale air of the English abode. A stream of sunlight came in through a crack in the wood. Ubbe squinted from the brightness as he gathered a look around the home. The nun wasn't where he left you, and he bolted up to his feet. There were only so many places where you could have hidden, and after he'd checked every spot, it occurred to him that you had squeezed through the small frame of the window. A piece of your white cloth had caught on the uneven wood, stained red from blood.

Ubbe had seen enough dying men to know you hadn't gravely injured yourself, but he worried just the same. You had abandoned your own well being to escape him. Some of the Christians deserved to feel this fear of his people, but not you. When he had spotted you in that alcove, he knew you were innocent. 

He made his way out of the home, and towards the church, not knowing if he was searching for you or returning to his duties. If he found you again he would keep you safe as his thrall, but he had no way of knowing if someone else had gotten to you first.

It was with dread and relief that he came upon the church. Some had already started fires to cook, and there was much talk about nothing in particular. Ubbe was greeted by many of the faces he passed, and one shieldmaiden informed him that Ivar was looking for him. He was in no hurry to find his youngest sibling, but getting the inevitable over with seemed better than avoidance. Taking the steps two at a time, he climbed up to the double doors.

Their most important and battle-hardened warriors lined the tables, and at the head of the room was Ivar, an ill-favored look in his eyes.

"Brother," He greeted with his arms spread wide. "Where have you been hiding? We thought you'd swam home."

Ubbe sighed under his breath as he began to approach. Ivar was smiling, as he always did these days. He remembered how miserable his little brother used to look dragging himself around Kattegat unless he was with their mother. But even with this new grin, Ubbe thought he looked devoid of joy. There was something else about the look that spoke of unpleasant thoughts, not true happiness.

"Not without my share of the raid," said Ubbe. He spotted Hvitserk down the right from Ivar, who appeared fixated on his drinking horn.

"Right, I hear talk that wives are expensive," Ivar said, and Ubbe was sure there was a jab meant for Margrethe in there. "I myself have already found my share."

Ivar waved for the attention of one of the warriors. This worried Ubbe. Some of them appeared to be acting as his personal guard now, and this appeared to be the start of a greater divide amongst the men. The warrior pulled on a length of rope and Ubbe felt a chill in his spine, like a deep breath before a storm of Thor's. Tied to the bound wrists at the end of the rope was the nun. You cut a sad figure, no better than a flower that had been trampled in a field.

"She might not be worth her weight in gold and silver, but she'll have her uses," said Ivar, taking a measured look at the nun who refused to return his stare.

"To what purpose, brother?" Ubbe tried to speak evenly, not letting on that he held any stock in your treatment.

"I'm a helpless cripple," Ivar smirked, a far cry from helpless. "I need someone at my beck and call to aid in more...menial tasks. Like Margrethe does for you."

Ubbe gritted his teeth. "Margrethe is no longer a thrall, she is my wife."

"Of course. I myself am not looking for a wife, but I do need a thrall." Ivar paused, once again his eyes flitting over you. "She must be clever to have hidden away this long. They found her trying to escape the city in the night."

"Really," Ubbe said, playing along. 

Ivar heaved himself up to a stand on his crutches, and his approach was enough to get you to look up. He stopped just before you, looking down at your white-clothed figure.

"What's your name, Christian?" 

You seemed surprised to hear your own language come from one such as Ivar, but you did not falter. "I am Sister Mary Catharine."

Ivar sounded a malicious little laugh as he turned to Ubbe. "She'll need a new name."

"I'm happy for you, brother. She should be of aid to you."

"I know. What could she have done for you when you shout foreign words in her face?"

So he had known. Ubbe didn't let himself feel surprised by that revelation. Ivar was always steps ahead even if he had to limp to get there. When he refused to say anything more, Ivar continued his gloating. 

"She might not be a great beauty like Margrethe, but she will obey. I like a thrall who stays put." He shifted with an unsteady step and started his way back to the table. No one dared to offer help as he staggered. "Take her to my room, and get her a change of clothes. I don't want her wearing that Christian frock."

Ubbe watched as they dragged the helpless woman away, but you never sought him out in the crowd. All of his reassuring the previous night had been for naught. You did not think of him as an ally, but he would try to help if Ivar got carried away with his cruelty. 

It seemed his little brother already had the ears of the warriors around him, so Ubbe turned and began to leave the church in search of food. He didn't get far when Hvitserk followed after him. 

"Wait a moment," He huffed, catching his breath. "I'm sure she'll be fine, Ubbe. I don't think Ivar will break her so easily."

Ubbe's brows furrowed in thought. "But how did they find her so quickly? Even though she snuck out of the home we hid in, it was a good deal away from the church. No one was looking for her."

Hvitserk hesitated. "I told Ivar about her."

"You told him?" Ubbe's gaze steeled with anger, and he took a threatening step towards Hvitserk. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I need you to be on my side against Ivar. You've seen how he is now, practically leading the army. He doesn't think we're needed here. If you were off protecting that nun, I'd have no chance. I'm not smart like Ivar, and I'm not as strong as you."

Ubbe took in the guilt that Hvitserk was displaying, and clasped him on the shoulder with a firm grasp. "I wouldn't leave you alone, brother."

"Promise?" Hvitserk asked, meeting his eyes. 

Ubbe was suddenly reminded of the two kids they had been, lost on the frozen lake. He nodded.

"Then I'll make sure to keep an eye on the Christian as well. It's the least I can do for putting her with Ivar," said Hvitserk. "But I think she'll be alright. Ivar has always wanted what we've had. This time he'll have something first."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," said Ubbe, smirking when he saw Hvitserk's confusion. "You say you aren't the smartest, but what you've just done is as devious a scheme as Ivar could come up with."

Hvitserk breathed a laugh. "Let's hope the good Sister can survive our boneless brother."

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[scummy-writes]

Offset Beginnings

Throughout his life, Arthur had believed that there had to be at least some strain of truth when it came to the occult, whether through a vague promise of ‘magic’ or trying to find whatever possible science it boiled down into. That being said, he’d never thought he would get such an up close and personal taste of its existence. 

     Slowly, he touched the pads of his fingers to his face, tracing the curve of his cheek. Seeing was believing, yet his mind still couldn’t process the youthful body he had just recently been blessed with. Despite standing in front of the immaculately polished mirror left in his room, Arthur found himself gripping the vanity in disbelief, breath shallowing.

Of course. Being born anew had to have some sort of catch, didn’t it? Unless this was a new form of lucid nightmare, his deathbed granting a new experience to torture him even through his last breath. But…

That coppery taste on his tongue still lingered. Despite past dreams, Arthur was never one to have a sense of taste within them. And the pain when Le Comte had bitten him…

He dropped his head, poorly attempting to switch his focus onto his lungs as his nails found purchase in the wood.

Moments ago he had finished meeting the other residents of the mansion, faces completely new to him yet the names he had heard brought more fear into the possibility of this all being another trick of the mind. 

A deep inhale, and he made up his mind, shoving himself away from the mirror to numbly grasp his coat and head back out the door. If his mind was set on plaguing him with bastardized ‘blessings’, then he was determined to fight back by drowning in his sorrows. 

---------

The grooves in the counter were surely etching themselves into his skin, but Arthur couldn’t be bothered to care, mind elsewhere as his eyes barely focused on the glass in front of him. If he squints, he can make out a face under the mess of hair in the warped reflection, and he groans, turning to thump his head against his forearm. He’s sure he hears a muffled question, the tap of a glass by his head. He can’t bring himself to attempt deciphering whatever was said.

He inhales, his chest feeling a steady burn as he shakily sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. Staying firm in the present is harder with alcohol muddling his reason, though that’s his own fault, isn’t it? Every drink he slugged back in hopes of forgetting his earlier woes pit against him, memories playing back as he remembers his reflection, the same face that haunted him late at night.

There’s another voice, deeper this time, that accompanies a weight on Arthur’s shoulder. Curious, given the lack of sensation in his arms or fingers at the moment. He attempts to shrug it off, a flash of annoyance going through him.

“Tch. Trying to help you, you...” 

The voice muffles as Arthur finally turns to face it, some curse slipping out before he recognizes the flash of brown fabric, his own hand reaching out to grasp without much thought following. 

There’s a pisspoor attempt to say Theo’s name, the sound coming out slurred even to Arthur’s ears. A groan slips out next, his arm dropping as his grip slacks.

Despite the clear inability to verbally communicate, Theo still seems to recognize what he was getting at; sitting down on the stool beside him with a grumble.

“Just how much did you drink?”

He wants to laugh at the worried question, how it doesn’t match the man’s expression, how it's the first time in years anyone has asked him that. He supposes some sort of dopey smile crosses his face at the scoff Theo gives him.

When was the last time someone showed him an ounce of pity? Le Comte didn’t count, given he was nearly convinced the man was reviving them out of a sense of misplaced guilt, nor was Arthur ever deserving of it, not since…

There’s a grumble that comes out as his world begins to spin. He catches how Theo’s eyes widen before Arthur closes his eyes, feeling his body tip into something softer than the counter. Was it Theo? There’s a gruff mumble coming after him as someone attempts to right him, but Arthur’s well past the point to move without stumbling over immediately.

The thought to apologize comes along as he says something, the words mingling with memories of Trevor and the others catching up to him. For Theo’s sake he does try to stay lucid a moment longer, just to ease the weight he’s pushing onto the man, but the next breath he gives seems to drain him, sending him tumbling into unconsciousness.

---------

Ugh. 

As soon as he registers warmth creeping along his face, the sharp stab of a headache follows immediately, forcing a groan out as he pats around him blindly. He fumbles with the blanket he’s wound up in, finding a way to tug it over his head to block out the sunlight filtering in through his window.

It takes him a moment to open his eyes, feeling the spinning from last night trying to return along with his coherency.

Who in the hell pushed open the curtains? He was positive that they were shut when he left…

Arthur’s brows furrow as last night starts to come back to him, piecing together the flashes of brown fabric he had seen along with the gruff voice of-

“Theo,” The name comes out as a curse, “You bloody devil.” 

-------

It takes him longer than he likes to withstand the small act of just getting up, head pounding all the while. He manages to stumble over to his window and tug the curtains closed, allowing himself to prop up against the vanity, eyes avoiding the mirror attached as he plots the day ahead with a firm plan to steer clear of Theo; else who knew what embarrassing conversation that would spark.

But God’s always been a right bastard, hasn��t he? Once he peels off yesterday’s clothes and steps into a cleaner set, he’s out the door, only to nearly smack right into the man.

“Ah…”

Damn and blast.

Their eyes meet for just a moment, before Arthur’s running a hand through his hair and dodging Theo’s gaze.

“Listen, about last night…”

His unspoken beg to spare him the details of his foolishness seems to come true, as Theo interrupts him with a scoff.

“There’s nothing about last night.”

“Huh?”

“What? You think I remember any of the nonsense you spouted? I was too busy deciding to bring you back here or to toss you into the Seine.” Arthur bites back a quipp, and all Theo does is check his watch with a tsk, echoing the one out of many from the night before. “I have to go to the gallery, I don’t have the time to spare for this.”

When he walks past in a determined tread, Arthur half expects the man to bump into him in annoyance. He’d certainly deserve it and more, knowing fully well what a mess he had to have been to drag back here. 

He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh at the fact that someone so brusque was willing to spare a sorry sap like him. And for what reason? Perhaps the new lad to the mansion always went through this, and Arthur was just being given the easy treatment for now, until his feet- or fangs -settled.

With another scoff towards himself, he turns off towards the direction of the kitchen, planning for a cup of coffee and, admittedly, a way to offer buying a round for Theo- without getting the drink thrown back in his face.

-------

This. Has been a draft since July, so if anything sounds off I'm sorry haha

The second half of this pulls from that Drunk from your Love(?) Collection event, where theres a brief story about Theo finding the thot conked out at the bar, thought it seemed fitting to change that to the first night Arthur was brought back and Suffering at the age he was made to look like. (Even thought canon says otherwise haha)

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