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honestsycrets · 7 years ago

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Find Your Way: Epilogue

FYW Masterlist

A/N: Final chapter. Gif belongs to joligraphie I believe. My brain kinda hurts, so I’m just gonna post this and run away now.

It wasn’t enough that she was back. She was in this camp with the men prowling about for her, smelling the spices on her skin. The other shieldmaidens were a healthy distraction but he felt the swell of jealousy any time someone spoke to her the wrong way. He sat in his rooms sharpening his tools late at night when the door was pressed open. Ivar shot up in his seat, turning to glare at the newcomer: an old man of his that had yet to earn his place in Valhalla.

“There is an Englishman here, Ivar.” Ivar glances over his shoulder back to (Y/N). You cease braiding your hair, glancing over to Ivar before speaking.

“Who is it?” You say. The envoy scratches his itchy beard before exhaling through cracked lips. He carries news that he really didn’t want to carry.

“Messenger. Brought somethin’ for the princess.” He says with a scratchy rasp. The repetitive motion of metal shushing against metal comes to a stop when Ivar hears the words. You sigh gently, looking up to nod at your elder.

“Please let him in, Asger, and thank you.” Your head bobs in a confident manner; as if you are already Ivar’s queen despite your lack of ring. You made it a point to know the name of everyone you could. Asger excuses himself. Moments later, the door opens back up. You hurry to your feet, rolling your hands anxiously atop of one another.

“Princess (Y/N),” He pauses, jittering in place. “Prince Alfred sent me to deliver a gift to his dear friend.” The messenger speaks as confidently as he could. You didn’t need to look behind to know that Ivar’s shoulders were raised with a tense quality. The room suddenly feels asphyxiating.

“Oh. Then might you give him this?” You cross the room in a few wide steps, grasping a sword encrusted in gems. The sword you fought with. The messenger steps back away from your gift.

“He instructed me not to take anything of you, my lady.” The messenger says. You wonder how Alfred could know your behaviour so well after only a few days. You drop the sword back to its place, coming back beside Ivar while shaking your head.

“Then I am confused--why is he giving me more?” You ask and set your hand on Ivar’s tight shoulder. The messenger draws a drawstring bag open to reveal a glittering necklace of gold and precious stones. It’s precious and sweet; but your chest tightens at sight of it.

“An apology for his father’s actions. He hopes that your people would turn their eyes away from England. Allow me.” The messenger moves forward, stopped by Ivar’s axe pressed flatly against the chest of his armor.

“Do not touch her.”

Ivar’s other hand unravels into an open faced palm. You aren’t sure whether to feel relieved that Ivar took the choice out of your hands to receive the gift or embarrassed. The messenger drops the necklace into his hand.

“Get out.” Ivar throws back to the man. He skitters back to the door like a reptile to a crack in the wall. As he walks out, Ivar stands with his weight thrown onto his crutch.

“I wondered how you managed alone. I see now he released you. He wanted you.” Ivar unravels the necklace, dangling off his fingers. It’s truly a marvel. The stones are clear and glisten like pools of water. His nose scrunches in disgust for the prospect of another prince’s love, as if anyone else should think of you in such a way. Especially not a Christian who would see you corrupted to their sole god and odd ways. Ivar hands you the necklace and you immediately toss it on the table in response. You had to besmirch it.

“I don’t want him, he was just a friend.” You say in response, moving up against Ivar. Your lavender dress contrasts against the black of his clothes. It’s almost too innocent. He wondered if he had corrupted you too, but when he looks into your eyes, there's nothing but infatuation. You had to want his corruption.

“Really. Then you have been faithful to me?” Ivar asks, rounding about you in a circle.

“Of course. I’ve never given you reason to think otherwise.” You say, unwavering. Ivar considers it true. Over the years it was him and you, you and him despite the suitors he scared off. Alfred was another suitor masking around as a friend. He stops back in front of you.

“Tell me you are mine.” Ivar brings his large hand to your cheek. He searches for any sign of doubt in your features but there is none. You lean on your tippy toes, placing several tiny closed mouthed kisses to his lips.

“I’m yours, Ivar. I’ve always been.” It jerks him back to a even state of mind and he brings you back to his bed, pushing you back onto the furs. You spread out comfortably over the sheets.

“What a good little wife you would be.” Ivar says feeling the ring burning a hole in his trousers. He sits on the edge and leans over your body, caging you between his powerful arms.

“One day.” You giggle in response.

Why not today? The words were caught in his throat.

“Have you done it?”

Ivar’s fingers rattled against his crutch.

“What is it with you Hvitserk? You have nothing to do now that Ubbe is not here?” Ivar sneers. Hvitserk presses bits of meat into his mouth, his eyes forming amused crescents as he eats over dinner. (Y/N) has been stopped by a shieldmaiden and they speak over silly things. They eat silently for a while.

“You lead an army to reclaim her but you can’t ask for her hand?” He suggests. Ivar throws his food back down.

“She would want it to be special. So I will make it special.” Ivar informs. As if he cares— he would prefer to make the ceremony there and then to shake off any wolves prowling after her skirt. But she has an elaborate fairytale of what she expects of her husband. He is no dashing warrior of a prince. He couldn’t even dash; thanks to Ragnar.

“She’ll be an old maid before long.”

“Are you boys gossiping?” (Y/N) straddles his lap. Ivar lifts his ale away as to not spill it, protecting it while she mounts him like a throne.

“Only about the witch.” Hvitserk covers for him.

“Are you almost through?” Ivar leans on his crutch as you move through the rooms you shared with Ivar quickly. Your things have moved from your own rooms to his. It’s increasingly pointless not to marry you. You have everything but the title of being his wife.

“I haven’t braided my hair.” You round the bed in the middle of the room. Ivar stopped your fingers from weaving the strands.

“Then don’t. It looks better down,” Ivar turns you and slides a cool metal around your neck. You recognize the metal as being a necklace, the one that the messenger brought you. You clasp the earrings into your ear.

“Alfred’s necklace?” You ask. You don’t bother to ask why his mind changed about the thing.

“It looked better on you than off. Let’s go to this wedding, I’m growing impatient.” Ivar offers out his hand for you to take and you do, walking alongside him to the door where Hvitserk stood waiting. He spins a heavy floral crown about his fingers, grinning ear to ear.

“I see you agreed.” He says brightly.

“Agreed to what?” You ask, looking up to Ivar’s strained eyebrows. He glared down his brother for a reason unknown to you. Quickly, he swipes the crown out of his fingers, arranging it atop of your head.

“To be the bride.” And in the shock of the moment, you snap back to him after a few stuttering moments of disbelief.

“You are not marrying me off to some stranger.” You say. Whether the stranger was Alfred or some other well intentioned king, you wouldn’t have it. Ivar scoffs, knowing you would be the one to think like that, and turns out his pockets. The glittering ring he’s been sitting on for a good few weeks tumbles out.

“You stupid girl. I want you to be my wife.” Ivar offers it up to you. For a while the words are lost on you. You hold the lovely little ring in your fingers, babbling intelligibly while a crowd of warriors and shieldmaidens alike urge on Ivar. They shout rambunctiously, casting their axes high into the sky. “Marry him!” They say. You glance around to a group of your most favored shieldmaidens who opt for silence. “He hasn’t asked properly.” One shouts: and you agree.

“Ask me like your brothers would.” You set the ring into his palm. Ivar turns about, flickering his fingers to hush the crowds.

“Fine. (Y/N), my mother’s sweet princess of Kattegat, will you marry me?” He poses the question almost cockily, but his eyes betray his words. They twinkle almost hopefully that he might say yes, breathlessly looking from your lips down to your fingers. Despite the rowdy crowd, Hvitserk’s nosiness and the chaos that Alfred brought the last few weeks, you offer your hand out to him.

“I’ll settle for being your wife instead.” Ivar leans forward to slide his ring onto your finger. Just as he leaned in for a kiss, you slammed up against him. The force of your lips against his just about knocks him off his feet. He won’t be bested easily, leaning into the kiss you gave him.

“Let us go marry then!” Ivar follows after you as you set off through the flowers first, giving a harsh smack to the back of your ass. So this was life after you found your way.

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