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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years ago

Text

Centaurea

My Masterlist

Pairing: Hvitserk/Reader

Summary: Post-canon fic with a Healer!Reader. Sorry, a better summary would spoil the last season/season finale.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Spoilers for season 6b and the series finale. Mentions of death, battle, injuries, and illness. Some poorly researched medical stuff. Greek/Hellenic!Reader. Faith/Religion struggles and topics. This is probably OOC, I’m sorry for that.

A/N: This is my entry for @maggiescarborough‘s 500 Followers Celebration, with the prompt, “Centaurea”, a flower with meaning regarding Greek myth symbolism, hope, remembrance, devotion, delicacy, anticipation, unity, fertility, and love.

I am really late for this, I am sorry! Congratulations for all your milestones, you are amazing and you deserve all of us and more! Thank you for letting me participate in this! 💖

Btw, the Centaurea is the cornflower, it gets its name from the centaur Chiron, a famous teacher/father figure to many heroes of Greek legend that was wise and well versed in medicine; but the name Centaurea came to be used much later on as until the 18th century it was referred to as Cyanus in the Mediterranean, so that is the name used for it in this.

“I have a…favor to ask out of you.” Alfred starts carefully, slowly. He always speaks slowly to you, mindful of your still precarious handling of his native tongue; and for that you are thankful.

You almost resent your gratefulness to him, just as you almost resent him for giving you reasons to be thankful. His kindness makes hating the Fate that has brought you to these lands all the more difficult.

Lifting your gaze from your work you find the way the light of the candles flickers on the cross that hangs from his neck, and suddenly it isn’t so difficult to hate this place.

“Of course, my Lord.” You retort with a small smile, drying your hands on a nearby linen and coming to stand before him.

Your eyes are already examining his face, searching for the less than obvious signs that he is struggling with his illness, but you find none of the usual ashen complexion or clammy skin.

He shakes his head, as if aware of what you are searching for, and motions for you to walk with him towards one of the windows overlooking the courtyard.

“There is a…friend that I, um, I…” He clears his throat, centering himself before he starts again, “Many here do not agree with my decision to let him live, I fear too many here would do something unforgivable and call it God’s will. I trust you better than anyone to put your duty as a healer above any personal belief,” Alfred chuckles with that infuriating kindness, that relentless understanding that drives you mad shining clearly in his gaze as he adds quietly, “You and I know you have before, and continue to do so.”

You do not confirm or deny his words, it has never worked out well for you to express your beliefs or your faith, even in the relative privacy of an audience with a man the years might let you call a friend, though the piece silver hanging from his neck and the piece of silver absent from yours might never let that happen.

“Shan and Eda can be trusted, you know they can. We will take care of him.”

But silence reigns after your words, and Alfred does not take his leave nor say another thing. Though you are itching to ask what is on his mind, you know your place -you have learned your place is a better phrasing, Judith truly was a terrifying woman- and keep your mouth shut.

“Beyond the weakness of his body, I…I fear it is his spirit that refuses to heal.”

“You ought to ask your God for help with that, my Lord.”

____

He does, and though you aren’t sure his God answers, you commend him for it. Against the wishes of his wife, against the council of his elders, Alfred holds strong on his decision to let the Varangian live and on his hope to strike a deal with him.

If you had any faith that the Christian God would hear you, or that the years away from your land and people would mean nothing and your own Gods could, you would find yourself praying as well.

Eda always does, kneeling before the foot of the bed of any person she is tasked to heal and asking her God for health, the mother of her God for mercy, and even if it is a pagan she is hoping to help she still does, with the same fervor and the same dedication as always.

That first day when you return to the royal villa is the first time you see Alfred kneel by her side and join her in prayer.

It doesn’t surprise you that he does, the man has a soft heart and he cares for those he sees as his people and his brothers and sisters in faith. And he cares for you, though you are neither, so it is not surprise he would do the same for this Varangian.

Regardless, you know that beyond whatever personal desire to have a son of Ragnar survive a war that transcends whatever days were spent fighting in that battleground of soot and dirt, Alfred truly believes the future of his people and the Varangians depends on whatever alliance he can forge with this man.

But you watched as the man they call Hvitserk dragged his battered and weakened body from that cart they brought him to the hill on and insisted on carrying himself each and every stone that made up his brother’s grave, you grit your teeth each time he stumbled and fell and felt your breath catch on your throat each time he stood back up on shaking legs and continued his labor; and you hope for Alfred’s sake that he will be willing to agree to the alliance the King hopes, for if there is anything you learn that day about this Viking is that his will is not yet broken, if it can ever be.

The healer in you resents him for his insistence on making himself the grave that would hold Ivar the Boneless’ body, even if the pagan in you admires him for it, for with such an exertion he has made his injuries worse and weakened his body further.

It has been many days since and he is yet to recover his strength, the blood he lost and the strain he put his body under having taken too much of his strength. The bruises over his body have started to change in color and the worrying slash over his ribs that creeps over the side of his back has started to heal even if it was never cleaned properly with fire and now pulls him further under by making him fight an infection.

You motion with one hand for Shan to lift him up from the bed, letting you examine and clean again the wound on his side.

“You have that look in your eyes again,” Shan tells you, the accent in her English almost as strong as yours. It is strange, but that drawl of her accent in the tongue of the Saxons makes you feel more at ease with her, even if your native tongues are not the same. You are familiar to each other in your foreignness, somehow. She huffs a breath, quietly reminds you, “They did all they could at the time.”

“If that is what you want to think, then…” You shrug, furrowing your lips as you slowly peel back the last layer of bandages set over the man’s side. “But I would have done better.”

“You always say that.”

“And I am yet to be proven wrong.” You promise with a smile and a wink, before returning your attention to the wound you are inspecting. It is looking better, though it is still what one of your teachers would have called ‘raw’ -you hate the term, yet no matter how long it has been since his teachings you still think of healing wounds with the same words he did.

Reaching for the salve of cyanus and myrrh, you take a breath and nod your head for the other woman to lift his arm, holding it perpendicular to his body as you get to work.

Gritting your teeth at the half-coherent mumbles and moans of pain the movement draws from the Viking, you can only mutter a quiet apology in his language before you start cleaning the area with the vinegar.

Even slightly delirious with fever, he tries feebly squirming away, but Shan is quick to hold him still. You once saw the Briton take a knee to the face that would knock a man unconscious as she set a warrior’s bone back into place, you are certain she can keep a half-conscious Varangian in place.

Pressing the salve onto his skin is quick and by now a familiar process, but that doesn’t keep the anger, the helplessness, at bay when you lay the man back down on the bed and notice the faint trembles of his body in the aftershocks of pain.

Before you can think twice about it you are reaching or a clean linen to press against his clammy skin, offering nothing more than empty comfort but still finding it necessary for some reason.

Your eyes catch on the pendant that hangs from his neck, some strange triangular shape you have never seen before.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under the sun. A time to be born and a time to die,” Eda starts, and though you lift your gaze to share a look with Shan, you both remain quiet and let the woman of God pray to her heart’s content. “A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what was planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal. Mary, mother of God, listen to me, hear my prayer that you guide our h-…”

“S-Stop…stop that.”

You look at the man with wide eyes, and though his eyes don’t open and his breathing doesn’t get any less labored, you notice a furrow between his brows that it seems entirely out of place, as it shows more annoyance than pain.

“Huh?”

“Stop praying.”

“What is he saying?” Shan prompts at your silence. You never thought Alfred’s insistence on teaching you the language of the Varangians would prove useful, always wrote it off to the young King needing someone to spend time with and finding in being your tutor in this a suitable excuse.

Your gaze slowly travels from the man to Eda, before returning to him, finding his warm eyes, dazed and clouded by pain and fever, focused on you.

“He wants you to stop,” You tell the nun, a small smile tugging at your lips as you tell him in his own tongue, “Thank you, she doesn’t stop when I ask her to.”

His brows rise just slightly, a hitch in his breath as he tries move, tries speaking, but you are quick to silence him with a soft sound and remind him to remain still with a hand on his good shoulder.

Quietly, and slowly as to not make your already-poor Norse worse, you tell him your name, and you promise him that he is safe. You aren’t so sure how that would help, but you rarely know what to say to the people you are healing.

But regardless of how empty the promise might have been, it seems to help at least partly, because he surrenders to the pull of unconsciousness soon after. Your eyes are still drawn to the pendant hanging from his neck, even as Shan, Eda and you are finishing your work and tidying up to leave.

You had something like that once. Though nothing like hid in appearance, it was too a keepsake of your homeland and your ways, it was too a way for you to keep your people’s traditions and your Gods with you.

You are the last to leave the room, and with one last look spared to the man that sleeps restlessly on the bed, fighting a fever and something that cannot be so easily healed, you wonder how long it will be until they take that amulet from him too.

____

You grow less reluctant to speak to him after that day, and the more time goes by the more confident you are in your attempts at his language, the more chopped sentences in haggard breaths you can have him speak to you the easier it is to ignore Eda’s looks of disapproval.

He thankfully spends more time conscious than before, and though you hate to see the pain more clearly written in his face and body, given away more easily in the grunts of pain and labored breaths; you remind yourself it is better than unconsciousness and continue working.

The man is never violent towards you or any of the other healers, but even in his weakened state he is stubborn. Perhaps stubborn is not the correct word, and determined is. Because while he lets you move him about however you need to in order to tend to his wounds or his body, and accepts any salve or paste you work into the wound on his side and back or his leg, he refuses anything to help with the pain. Beyond that, because even if he doesn’t say it, he does his best to refuse ingesting anything you might offer him.

You find yourself adjusting to his needs, if only because the look of unbridled panic in his warm eyes when he returned to consciousness as you were guiding an infusion of feverfew to his lips made your heart pull tight in your chest.

It makes your work all the more difficult to be dealing with someone that has troubles accepting to drink or eat any remedies you might make, but you manage.

Today is a good day, his warm gaze is clearer and he is sitting up on the bed. You are thankful that he is stronger today, and conscious, since you are working alone and it is all much easier when he can listen and answer to your commands.

You aren’t so thankful for the fact that you feel his attention unwaveringly set on you and it unsettles you, or for the way his gaze seems to follow you with a focus that you aren’t sure if it is that of a beast about to attack or a scholar puzzled by some piece he doesn’t understand.

As you are gathering the last of your things to leave, you hear rustling coming from his bed as the man sits up straighter, adjusting himself in his place with what you could swear is a restlessness born from nervousness.

“Would you…s-stay?” He asks, a precarious sort of apprehension in his tone that makes you turn around before have even let his words sink in. The man licks his dry lips, a nervous gesture that still makes you itch to offer him some water again. “Could you stay and…talk with me?”

Dumbfounded, you can only repeat, “Talk.”

He shrugs, and of course winces at the movement, making you grit your teeth to keep yourself from scolding him.

“No one here speaks my tongue but you. And Alfred, uh, King Alfred,” He adds at the end, somewhere between an afterthought and a bitter remark. There’s a bit of humor in his tone even if humorless, and a hint of something alive in his warm eyes when he sees you smile at his words.

He tries offering a smile, it is barely a twitch of the side of his mouth, before his eyes fall from yours, look everywhere and nowhere at once.

It is enough to erode away at any resistance, if there was any within you to begin with, and walking away from the door you return to the table of ingredients and half-prepared remedies. Shan is a quick woman on the mortar and pestle, but by all the Gods she is disorganized like no other.

“When you learn their tongue, you will wish you hadn’t.” You quip almost distractedly, yet not missing the heavy breath that leaves him at your pitiful attempt at conversation, as if he truly believed you would walk away.

“I will have to, won’t I? Learn their language?” He asks, slightly dumbfounded. There’s a huff that in a life before whatever life he has lived would have been a chuckle, and he lifts tired but warm eyes to you as you approach the bed again, though after a breath he looks down at your hands that carry the dried cyanus and lavender and frowns, “I don’t…I don’t need your help, that is not why I asked you to stay.”

“I know,” You reassure him, still continuing the motions of picking at the parts of the dried plants to prepare another batch of salve. “But I hate remaining idle.”

There’s something he isn’t saying, a thought that weighs at him but he doesn’t give voice, that makes his expression tremble even if it doesn’t fall. You have to bite your tongue, you have to tell yourself if it isn’t his health it is none of your concern, to keep yourself from asking what is wrong, or offering if nothing else someone willing to listen.

Instead, you keep your attention on your work, surprisingly unbothered by the silence that follows.

Eventually, he starts, “You…aren’t from here. From England.”

“No, I am from Constantinople.”

“And you aren’t a Christian.”

You lift your gaze, studying him for a moment before you reply, slowly,

“I am not,” Even if your instinct is telling you to keep your mouth shut, you find yourself confessing, “I follow my own Gods, from my homeland. Healing, even here, surrounded by Christians, is my way of keeping my Gods with me. Where I am from it is not allowed to worship the Old Gods, so my teachers would tell me the stories of our people while teaching me how to use plants and herbs.

Searching your mind for an example, you stand up and walk to the table and drawers of supplies and grab the most familiar ones, the ones you have used so often in tending to him.

Placing the two flowers on the palm of your hand as you walk back to his bedside, you start explaining,

“When we treat a wound like yours, we use yarrow, and cyanus,” You point to each of them as you name them, and you catch yourself tracing the petals of the cyanus with the tip of one finger as you continue, “They were some of the gifts Chiron gave humanity when he taught us to make and use remedies. Yarrow was so often used by Achilles’ armies that many in my homeland have named the flower after him, and cyanus was part of a remedy that Heracles was taught by Chiron to save his life, though that failed.”

“The remedy with it didn’t work and you still use it on me?”

“You are no centaur,” You retort with a smile, amending after a moment, “Lord.”

He scoffs the closes thing to a laugh you have heard from him so far, turning his head to look up at the ceiling and closing his eyes.

He always refuses anything that might help for the pain, and you are certain he has his reasons, you have dealt with enough men and women as a healer to know when something personal is keeping them from a decision or an action; but you cannot help but notice the faint tremble in his brow, the slightly haggard breathing, and it makes you restless to know you could help but he will not let you.

“You don’t have to call me that,” He starts, still not opening his eyes. At your silence, he amends, “You don’t have to call me that, I am no Lord.”

“Várangoi, then?” You prompt, before clarifying, “That is my people’s word for what you are, for Viking.”

He swallows, lips pressed together as he hesitates. For a moment, heart stilling in your chest for no reason you can understand, you think he will renounce being Viking just as simply as he renounced being a Lord.

A shaky breath leaves his lips finally, and he turns his head to you, warm eyes slightly glossy as he looks at you and tries offering a smile, that speaks of helplessness.

“I am not sure if that is what I am anymore.” He confesses, so quietly you catch yourself leaning closer to hear him better.

“What are you then?”

“Nothing?” He offers hoarsely, and the simple word trembles past his lips, stutters his breath.

Almost immediately, you shake your head, resolute.

“No one is nothing,” You lean closer, ignoring the rational part of you that begs for you to be cautious, and whisper, “You have a name, do you not?”

His eyes search yours, as if trying to see what you are getting at, as if trying to understand the certainty you have but he lacks; but he still offers,

“Hvitserk.”

You nod once, stating, “You are Hvitserk. Anything else you might be or not be is unimportant.”

____

One morning, while you are tending to the edge of the cut that reaches past his ribs towards his back, doing nothing to hide how disappointed and irked you are that he refuses to give himself more time to heal and continues to insist on moving about the room when you aren’t there to stop him; he surprises you with a chuckle.

You cannot see his expression, but when your work on cleaning the wound stalls, he turns his head slightly towards you.

Voice light, he tells you, “Ivar would have hated you.”

“Ivar?” You repeat, even if you know who the man he speaks of is.

But if there is anything your homeland has taught you, any lesson the tales of Gods and heroes have left you with, is that men that turn to legends are only immortal to those that never knew them. The ones that did, the ones that knew what their voice sounded like and what their fears were, those need to tell the stories themselves, those need to remember the man before the legend.

Legends don’t have brothers that would remember their temper or what they disliked in a healer; legends mean nothing when it comes to grief. So, you ask who Ivar is, you ask what he remembers him as.

You feel his back move with a heavy breath that leaves his lips almost shakily, before he concedes, “Ivar was my brother. Still is.”

“Hm. And why would he have hated me? I am only trying to help you.”

He shrugs, and it is only the fact that on his profile you can see a for-once burdenless smile that keeps you from chastising him about moving like that.

“You fret. He hated healers who fret.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, your heart pulling tight in your chest at the glimpse of a man before all this that you can see in hi for just a moment before the shadows take over his features again.

“And you? Do you hate me for…fretting?” Your distaste for his choice of words is clear in your tone and you do not attempt to hide it. He shrugs, again. You huff a breath, putting one hand on his opposite shoulder as a silent reminder to keep still as you hiss, “Hvitserk, stop squirming.”

At his answering chuckle, your breath catches in your throat, the liveliness behind such a short sound making your heart skip a beat in your chest. Hvitserk doesn’t answer with anything more, allowing you to return all your focus to your work.

After a few moments, when you have already cleaned his would and pressed the salve against his skin to help it heal quicker, as you wrap the bandages once again over him, he mumbles,

“I don’t.”

“What?”

“I don’t hate you, for fretting. I…think I like it,” The final admission seems to catch him as off guard as it catches you. You watch the way his frame -thinned by illness and something beyond an ailing of his body- moves as if he intends to shrug again, before he stops himself. The smile the simple gesture draws on your lips trembles and falls when he adds, “It makes me feel like you care about me.”

Breath caught in your throat, you can only reply with a stunned silence. There’s a part of you, a person you were once before the Christians and their rules, that begs you to admit that you do, that talking to him has quickly become your favorite part of your day, that learning more about him has become almost an addiction, that each time you earn a smile from him it feels like your heart is no longer yours. But you cannot admit to any of those foolish things.

So, you continue working, finishing quickly enough and hating the silence that reigns between you two now.

There is usually a lot of silence, especially when it is a bad day and his body and mind are more weakened than usually; but silence has never been so heavy with what you refuse to say and what he wishes he hadn’t.

Searching desperately on something to say, you land on something pointless but easy regardless, and as you return to your usual seat by his bed, you ask,

“King Alfred has sent men to teach you their tongue, has he not?”

“Priests.”

“Not all of them are priests, they have all kinds of names for what those men are.” You tell him, and your attention is drawn to him when you catch him looking at you from the corner of your eye.

When you turn to meet his gaze, you find him with a small smile on his lips, almost teasing, almost lively.

“What do you call them?”

“By their titles, of course.”

“That is not what Alfred says.”

You draw back, almost startled, “The King speaks of me with you?”

“I might have asked.” He admits ruefully, but you smile regardless.

Choosing not to linger on such admission or the foolish thoughts that run through your head because of it; you instead reach to pour some more water for him, and when you pass him the cup you tell him,

“I call them bdelyrós,” He repeats the word slowly, and butchers most of it, but you still chuckle and nod your head before telling him the meaning, “Bastarðr.”

“Oh,” He breathes with a chuckle, smile widening and brightening, and once again taking your heart away from your control just by that gesture alone. “And what would you call me? In your language?”

“You ought to concern yourself with these Christians�� tongue, not mine.” You remind him.

“Do you believe I can? Learn to speak their language, I mean.”

“Why not?” You ask, frowning. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he isn’t asking whether or not you believe he can, but whether or not you believe he should.

“I don’t know. My brothers did, you know. Ivar is-…was q-quick to learn new things, and uh, and Ubbe…” His breath leaves him shakily, and somehow at the lost look in his eye at the reminder of his family, you can only think of how many times you saw that same look on someone that lost a limb in a war facing the forceful and sudden realization of what was no longer there. “Ubbe was here, he…he learned to speak their tongue too,” His voice quietens, somewhere between solemn and dazed as he adds, “Did much more than that.”

“King Alfred speaks fondly of him, always did,” You venture, somewhat tentatively, “He considers him a dear friend, I think.”

“He does, and he considered Ivar something like a friend as well,” He admits, nodding his head with a deep breath. “And now he expects me to…to-…do your people believe in Fate?”

At the sudden change you blink owlishly, but without hesitation you answer truthfully,

“Of course we do. Our Fates are woven by the Moirai, they choose when we are to be born and when we are to die.”

“That is familiar.” He tells you, voice raspy and low, a fickle smile curving at his lips for a moment.

“Why do you ask?”

“Sometimes I wonder…I ask myself, and the Gods, why my life has taken the course it has. Why…why all of this has happened, why I have been left alive here.”

“Because of the choices you’ve made.” You answer truthfully, maybe a tad bluntly.

He smiles humorlessly, looking down and admitting, “I was almost afraid you’d say that.”

You lean closer, unable to help yourself, searching his gaze as you quietly ask, “Why?”

He heaves a breath that sounds haggard, you aren’t certain if because of the weakness of his body or of his spirit. His gaze flickers between your own and the arm you have daringly, thoughtlessly, laid beside his own as you leant your weight on the bed to lean closer.

Tentatively, with his eyes still jumping between your hand and your own gaze, he reaches with his own hand to trap yours, closing rough fingers over yours.

Reminding your heart not to do foolish things like hope for what you mustn’t, you stubbornly keep your eyes on his, pretending not to feel traces of electricity when he runs a rough thumb back and forth over the back of your hand.

Quietly yet certainly, as if the touch offers a tether you cannot see or understand, Hvitserk confesses, “I have made…many mistakes.”

“You can make new ones,” You tell him, earning a smile and feeling one curve at your own lips as an answer. More seriously, you promise, “Your past was your choice, but so is your future, they both belong only to you. Your death is your Gods’, your life is your own.”

If he believes your words, you do not know, nor do you know if they bring him any comfort.

But it seems your touch does, and that is enough. He doesn’t let go of your hand as you two find another lighter, easier topic to speak on, he doesn’t let go of your hand as he drifts off to sleep.

You try not thinking of what it means that even once he has fallen asleep you are reluctant to let go of the cautious and hopeful hold of your hand in his.

____

The whispers of King Alfred’s Varangian ally accepting the Christian God and renouncing his former life spread quickly in Winchester, the spirit in the villa somewhere between hope for unity and apprehension in the face of change.

While working on the infusion that soothes the King’s mildest stomach symptoms, grinding licorice root and dried cranberry, is that you hear of the newest development by a stoic Eda that states the information with that strange way of hers of giving away nothing.

Her words seem to echo in your head long after they are spoken, as if only after the ice that ran through your veins melts it is that you can begin to understand what that means.

The Viking has renounced his pagan ways, and embraced the true God.

Your breath leaves you as if a weight had been dropped on your chest, and it certainly feels like it.

It feels like loss, like…like betrayal.

His name as a brother in Christ to King Alfred will be Athelstan.

It feels like you are left alone surrounded by Christians and their God, like you are once again a wide-eyed child searching desperately in the city she once had known for the faces and symbols of her Gods on the statues and murals, only to find rubble and broken pieces as the Christians cheered that the false idols had been defaced; like you are looking from afar at what happened to your home and your ancient ways and witnessing it all happen again on a different land, seeing bloodlines of Gods and heroes thin and weaken to nothing but blood as they choose to accept a cross to hang from their neck.

It has been done, he has been baptized this morning, or so they tell me.

It really shouldn’t make you feel anything to know that he has accepted this distant and warmthless God over his own. Why would it? You do not share his ways, you do not know them even. You barely know him.

You remind yourself that there isn’t anything of him to know anymore, since he has surrendered his past for whatever merciful and hopeful future the Christians can offer him.

Perhaps Alfred is cleverer than you gave him credit for, and perhaps the reason why he asked you to put aside any personal beliefs and help this Viking all those months ago was not because he feared your pagan ways and his would clash, but because he knew there would come a day where you would be tending to yet another Christian. But to think Alfred would do such a thing is to think him capable of cruelty, and past all your feelings towards his kingdom and his church you cannot find it in you to feel anything but warmth towards him.

But regardless of the King’s intentions when he said those words, what he said stands true. Before anything else, you are a healer.

Before a pagan, before a woman, before yourself.

And so you make the way to his rooms later that day, busying your restless hands on plucking stray threads from the clean linens you bring to re-dress the wound on his side and leg.

It would be easier to remember you are a healer before you are yourself if he didn’t greet you with an almost-soft call of your name, but you grit your teeth and call your foolish heart back under your own control and continue walking into the room.

Still, it seems you can grit your teeth but you cannot bite your tongue.

“I suppose I ought to call you Athelstan now?” You ask, joining your hands together in front of you and standing tall but refusing to meet his eyes.

He hesitates before answering, and though you are itching to look at him and try and find any truth hidden in the warmth of his eyes or in the faintest of expressions of his face, you refuse to allow yourself to.

Quietly, but not tentatively, he asks, “Are you disappointed in me?”

A more biting part of you wants to ask why he cares for a healer’s opinion of him, a more truthful part of you wants to answer that it isn’t disappointment as much as it is grief.

Instead, you walk closer to the center of the room, pretending to concern yourself with anything but his warm eyes that seem unwaveringly set on you, studying you with an attention that makes you uncomfortable.

“Have you truly lost faith in your Gods?”

“Have you lost faith in yours?” He retorts, and even if instinctually you want to take offense to such a stupid question, realization dawns on you and you turn to him, dumbfounded.

“You are a Christian now, you have a Christian name. It is not comparable.”

“I went through that ceremony, yes,” He tells you quickly, hurriedly, gesturing with his good arm as if that is unimportant. Perhaps it is. “That is what Alfred asked out of me, with the hope of a new…a new age for both his people and mine.”

“Was that what you wanted?”

There’s an almost mad smile on his lips, and he limps closer.

“My brother is dead.”

You frown, tilting your head to the side and speaking slowly, carefully, “I don’t follow.”

“Harald Finehair is dead, Ivar the Boneless is dead. So many died since we came here, so many famous men, powerful men,” He takes a deep breath, before explaining, “Men that ought to be avenged.”

“By whom? A Great Heathen Army?” You ask, almost mocking in your tone, but he doesn’t falter.

“Something like that,” He promises, before acquiescing, “Too many of our young men have died recently, war and strife has left our people weakened. I can-…Alfred wants peace, more than anything. I am not Ubbe, I will not sacrifice everything for it; but I am not Ivar, I will not scorn it.”

“What are you saying?”

“The time will come for me to avenge my brother, and for all the men of my homeland to avenge their sons and daughters, their sisters and brothers. For the Gods to avenge themselves on the Christian God for all he has taken from them. I will make sure that time will come,” The mad smile is almost fragile as his voice quietens, “The twilight of the Gods may be upon us, but I wish to fight it with my family in Valhalla. I wish to earn…to earn my place amongst them.”

“By doing what?”

“It is just oil, right?” He prompts, smile a little more certain. He searches your gaze for a few moments, before gesturing for you to hold on as he limps past you towards the small table where you keep most of your ingredients. You bite your tongue to keep yourself from telling him to be careful around your supplies, and instead just watch as Hvitserk grabs a flower of cyanus, holding it for you to see as he approaches you again. “This is just a flower, and all the others you told me about as well. They…they mean nothing to me.”

“Well, that’s comforting to hear.” You deadpan, but you are already betraying a smile when he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Being healed by your magic didn’t make me a-…”

“It isn’t magic.”

“Any different,” He finishes as if you hadn’t argued, warm eyes shining in the low light as they gaze into yours, “Their oil cannot either.”

It is the same unwavering certainty that you saw in him when you saw him first, when he was stumbling and falling as he carried the stones to make his brother’s grave and snarled warnings to those that tried helping him; only now it is livelier, it is a certainty intertwined with hope, with anticipation.

“Since their oil cannot change you,” You start, taking the blue flower from his hand and twirling it in between your fingers as you look up at him. “What is it you will do, Hvitserk?”

You could swear his eyes shine a tad more when he hears you say his name, and the curve of his smile is infinitely softer as he steps even closer.

Head bowed down until his brow almost presses against yours, Hvitserk lifts his hand between you two, offering you a leather cord and a triangular pendant hanging from it. It is still a meaningless shape to you, his ways are almost as strange today as they were that day when you first saw that amulet, but it makes your breath catch in your throat regardless.

“Would you…keep this?” He asks, betraying in his voice that same apprehension of that first day he asked you to stay and talk with him all those months ago.

He isn’t asking just for you to keep the pendant, you realize that when you notice the cautious hope that curves slightly at his lips, that shines in his warm eyes; he is asking that with it, with accepting to keep safe with you the tangible tie to his people and his family, you keep him, keep Hvitserk, no matter what else he might make out of himself for a while.

Instead of answering, you reach with your own hand and grasp the cord of the amulet between shaking fingers. Hvitserk releases a breath he had no reason to be holding, his cold fingers closing over yours as he leans his brow against yours.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, hope this was alright! Hvitserk is always tricky to write since I have like close to no experience writing him, I’m trying to get better but idk, I’m really sorry if I fucked up his characterization or something

(I’m not exactly back from the hiatus btw, so there’s a lot of stuff I’m not replying to/reading/etc. I’m sorry, but I will get to everything I can, I promise. And I’ll see you all soon, I’m coming back sometime next week for good, with a few Ivar works to post 😉)

Btw, yes, it is a familiar sight to have a healer Reader that happens to be from the Mediterranean and a follower of the Hellenic faith; I know. But it isn’t the Nostalgia!Reader bc a) she belongs with Ivar, and b) she would have never made it more than a week surrounded by Christians.

Hvitserk Taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

#hvitserk x reader #hvitserk imagine #Hvitserk #sophies500

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xbellaxcarolinax · 5 years ago

Text

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) Epilogue- Home

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 5105

Warnings: Only that Ivar likes to monologue like a super villain.

AN: And we've finally reached the end! Again, thank you to those who stuck around, liked, reblogged, and left such lovely comments 💙

28- New Beginnings

...

The gods had blessed their journey with fair weather.

The mountainous skyline was finally in their line of vision after months of travel. The sun followed them, searing them through their wool lined clothes. Most of the men grumbled, removing the layers of heated fabric and leather to find some relief under the sweltering heat.

The water was bluer than Artemis remembered, the colorful fish swimming beside their ships as if greeting them. Their surroundings were vivid and full of color, far from the gray skies that dominated the sky in Norway. The Mediterranean skies were full of unimaginable life.

She brings her eyes to the shadowy figures atop the cliffside. One by one foreign men mounted on impressive horses lined up on the edge of the rocky hill watching the ships head closer to their captured coast line. She was hoping it was a lie, or that perhaps these men had left back to where they came from. But those were childish thoughts, and she couldn't hide her disappointment. She grips tightly at the wool covering her knees, knuckles turning white from the pressure.

"Andalusian's." Ivar comments beside her, the hood of his cloak hiding the seasick look on his face. He watches her features harden, her eyes holding a reckless darkness to them. He reaches over to cover her hand with his own, successfully loosening the tension between her fingers and laces their fingers together.

She lets out a breath through her nose, muttering something that was most certainly insulting towards those men, but remains silent after that.

"They will come to greet us at shore," He says after a moment, "And they will try to threaten us." Artemis finally turns to look at him, tightening her grip on his rough hand.

"Are you worried?" She wanted so much to tease him, but only succeeded in revealing her own concerns. She was the worried one.

Ivar scoffs.

"I command the most powerful army in the world," He boasts, waving his hand about, "There is nothing to fear." Artemis smiles. She always did admire her husband's courage and ambition.

Under Ivar's command was an impressive fleet, accompanied by his best warriors such as Dafi and Whitehair, alongside Bjorn and his men. The oldest Ragnarson joined their expedition without hesitation, honoring the alliance between Kattegat and Hedeby, as well as honoring his own ambitious heart. He loved the Mediterranean.

Bjorn too had his eyes on the cliffside, commanding his men to have their shields at the ready, and Ivar followed suit with his own warriors.

Artemis struggles to remain calm, closing her eyes as the salty wind caresses her heated cheeks, her ears focusing on the soft grunts of the men steering their ships. For a moment her mind wanders back to Kattegat, to Hvitserk who was ruling over the Kingdom in their absence, and most of all, to their child that was left behind for safety. The image of their little princess appears behind her lids, and she wanted so much in that moment to hold her.

"Baby bird," Ivar calls out to her, releasing the hold she had on his fingers to tug the sleeve of her simplistic tunic, "Our daughter is fine." He reassures her. Even now he always seemed to know what she was thinking. He pulls her closer in an embrace so that she may settle against him, planting a kiss to her brow. "You know Hvitserk is protecting her. He loves her as if she were his own."

"Yes, I know." Was her mumbled reply.

"And I'm sure she is having a wonderful time with Asa and Heracles." Artemis listens, but her eyes go back to the men on the cliff side.

"But she is so young, and if we don't return..."

"Artemis." Ivar reprimands her as if he were reprimanding their own child. He never once thought that his daughter would become orphaned while they went on this journey. It was simply a scenario he refused to mull over. He vowed to return to her, no matter the circumstances.

"I miss her." Was all his wife said, resting her head against his shoulder in comfort.

"I know, I miss her too. We will reunite soon enough, hmm?" He lays his head atop of hers, stroking his fingers over her hair, "I promised you long ago we would journey to your homeland. I did not intend to break that promise." Artemis lets out the smallest hint of a smile, lifting Ivar's large hand to place a kiss on it.

The hours passed slowly, until finally they neared the shore. The ships hadn't quite settled onto the sandy bank, and before Ivar could blink, his wife was already splashing into the water, her bow and quiver in hand. He watches her struggle, the water seeping into the material of her thick breeches weighing her down but still, she pushes forward.

Ivar grunts, swinging his legs over the edge of the small boat before stabbing his crutch into the wet sand. He pulls himself up, moving through the shallow water as quickly as he could manage before the waves could set in. He barks out orders, telling his warriors to be alert in case of attack, their swords and shields on hand. Ivar himself was covered in his weapons, his axe and sword hanging from his waist, as well as his usual daggers hidden within his trousers.

Bjorn settles beside his youngest brother, surveying the familiar area as quickly as he could. The nature surrounding them was just as breathtaking as the first time he had seen it.

"Well?" Bjorn questions him, "What do you think?

"You always did dream of sunnier places," Ivar tells him, "I now understand why." The brothers stayed silent for a moment, enjoying the sound of the waves and the squawking of the seagulls soaring above.

"I took her away from her home and you've managed to bring her back," Bjorn comments. He crosses his arms, licking his dry lips before casting down a look towards his brother.

"She deserves it." Ivar replies, not wanting to disturb his wife's peace. They watched her as she reached down to touch the sand, grabbing a handful of the grainy stuff only to watch it slip through her fingers. Quickly she bends to remove the boots from her bare feet to feel the hot sand between her toes.

With a smile he looks on before whispering to himself,

"Welcome home, my love."

...

Ivar's suspicions were correct. The entourage of men from the cliffside met their own, their horses stomping around in an act of intimidation. That didn't work out too well. Ivar, finally within his chariot, smirks. He leans against the railing, already looking like a predator waiting for its prey. It has been quite some time since he's killed anyone.

"Do not taunt them, Ivar." Artemis mutters a warning as she moves to stand beside his chariot, casting him a look when he scoffs in reply before bringing her attention towards the well dressed leader.

He was a man of a darker complexion with equally dark eyes lined in khol. He immediately recognizes Bjorn, the smallest hints of a sneer forming on his lips. It seemed Bjorn had left an impression in the past, and from the looks of it, not a very good one.

"I see you're back, Bjorn Ironside," He grunts, his accent heavy on the northern tongue, "There is no mistaking those ships." Both Ivar and Artemis look at the man before turning to Bjorn in disbelief. Bjorn was not at all phased with seeing this particular man again.

"A pleasant surprise, Abu Hafs," The oldest Ragnarsson says the man's name as greeting, "The years have been good to you," The man barks out a laugh, tilting his head in amusement.

"I can't say the same for you, Viking." He proceeds to rake his eyes over his companions.

"My brother, King Ivar of Kattegat, and his wife, Queen Artemis." Bjorn answers the silent question. The man makes a low noise of confusion, eyes scrutinizing them. How could they be king and queen looking the way they did? The King was quite tall, but leaned heavily on a crutch. Metal wrapped around his legs like iron serpents. The Queen had on as much leather as a man would, wearing the gear of a warrior. The Arab man blinks, thinking what an odd pair of royalty they were. He did not miss the look they both held in their eyes, though he noticed the King's gaze promised far more danger then he let on.

"It is a pleasure, King Ivar, Queen Artemis," He politely greets them with a tiny bow of his head, and the pair return his sentiments. He then shifts his gaze towards their warriors behind them bearing their weapons. "I don't suppose this is a friendly meeting?"

"We're not here to raid." Artemis responds in her native Greek, far too tired of fake pleasantries and small talk. She approaches the man with careful steps, being mindful of the large horse he was mounted on. The horse whinnies, but does nothing more at her presence. Said man was taken aback, his brows shooting up so high they could have hid under his bright orange head wrap.

"You're Greek?" He asks in disbelief, wondering to himself how he hadn't noticed it before.

"Yes," She answers, "From this very island." Her tone was far from agreeable, it could have been picked up from anyone in hearing distance. The leader narrows his eyes, not appreciating her insinuation. He mutters something in Arabic that she couldn't make out, causing his men to snort in quiet laughter.

"Then what are you all here for, woman?" Artemis scowls, pushing down the strong desire to shoot this man with an arrow. She could already sense what he was about and what he thought of the opposite gender. Crossing her arms, Artemis lifts her chin up to look at him directly despite how much shorter she was.

"I seek a blacksmith in one of the main villages in Chania."

"You've come all this way for a blacksmith?" The man replies to her, finally jumping off his horse. He wasn't very tall, much shorter than anticipated, but still, he towered over her.

Ivar immediately moves his chariot forward in response. He picked up on a few words in their conversation, getting a sense of what was being said, and he did not like the sound of it. He steps off the chariot, masking his discomfort well, and stood behind his wife, ready to defend her if need be.

Bjorn stares between the Arab leader and his sister in law, catching very few words as he did not pick up Greek as well as Ivar had.

"We've come for my father."

"Ahh," Then Arab man quickly sweeps his eyes over her again before coming to a conclusion, "You were taken by these people as a slave."

"With all due respect, that is no concern of yours."

"How cunning you must have been to become queen of a foreign people." Artemis blinks, not sure how she should retaliate without potentially endangering them all. She glares at him, and the Arab man smirks back.

"Should I kill him?" Ivar asks her rather loudly, his fingers lightly dancing on her waist, "I could kill him."

"Ivar." Bjorn warns, but is cut short when Artemis removes a hidden dagger from Ivar's side, bringing the pad of her finger to the tip.

"Or I could do it myself." She says casually, speaking as if the man weren't there. She teasingly points the dagger at the Arab man, waiting for him to react. The Andalusian warriors immediately point their weapons at them, swords and bows just a few feet away. Ivar's men did not hesitate in reciprocating their actions, axes glimmering in the sunlight.

Bjorn stomps over to snatch the dagger from Artemis's hand with a hard yank.

"Enough," The older Ragnarsson says, putting a hand up in a form of surrender, "When did you become as impulsive as my brother?"

Suddenly the Arab man barks out another laugh, clearly amused. He orders his men to lower their weapons before putting his hands to his hips.

"I see you both make for better company than Bjorn ever did," He jokes, watching Bjorn furrow his flaxen brows in displeasure before bringing his attention back to Ivar, "Your wife is very vivacious, King Ivar. An admirable trait."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Ivar bites out a quick response, a smirk settling on his lips as he holds her tight.

"Very well, I will accept you are here in search of someone, a certain blacksmith, but what have you to offer in return for allowing you and your men into my lands?" Artemis scoffs, rolling her eyes at the sheer audacity this man had at calling the island his. Before she could spit out a sarcastic comment, Bjorn interjects.

"We wish to trade," He tells him, "I'm sure you will be satisfied with the items we've brought." The leader hums.

"Go on."

"We bring furs from all over Scandinavia," Ivar continues, "The best pelt's of brown bear from Norway." He motions to Dafi, ordering him and a few men to drag a crate off one of the ships. Once opened, Ivar digs a hand inside, pulling out a shiny pelt of fur belonging to a large brown bear. He runs his thumb over the soft hairs, offering the pelt to the Arab man, who took it from him with eager hands.

They all watch the man inspect the fur, impressed with the fine quality. He nods with a grunt of approval, handing Ivar back the pelt.

"Very well," He says, "I will grant you my hospitality," He mounts his horse, steering the beast round with his men following his lead. Picking up the reigns he turns to glance at them, "I humbly welcome you all to the Emirate of Crete."

...

The Emirate of Crete.

Artemis thinks bitterly, her eyes glaring daggers at the Arab leader's back. She didn't like him, she didn't like his men, and she most certainly didn't like his arrogance.

"I fear your face will remain that way." Ivar jokes, peering up at her with his charming smile. It was his attempt to calm her nerves.

"I don't like him."

"Neither do I, my love," He mutters, "Though he trades with us decent goods."

"Slaves?" She mutters defensively, and Ivar thinks that perhaps Bjorn was right, she was taking after him.

"Some slaves, yes," He responds, "Among other items." Artemis only grunts in response. "Such is the way of the world, Artemis, you know this."

"And they will not be as lucky as I." She says, finally deciding to rip her eyes away from the offending man and towards their surroundings.

Part of her didn't want to be there.

How long had she dreamt of this very moment, only to feel like she wanted to run and hide?

4 years?

4 years of sadness, pain, happiness and peace all in one congested mess of emotions that had her questioning her sanity in such moments.

She remembered that day vividly.

It was as if it all occurred just days ago. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could reimagine it all again, the screams, the blood, the tears.

She chooses to watch Ivar's face taking in the foreign sights. It was a lovely distraction. He'd never been this far from home before. Ivar wouldn't admit it, but he was fascinated to be in such a land so unlike his own, where the sun never seemed to set and the heat was beyond anything he'd felt on his pale skin.

He seemed so childlike, like a curious babe entering the world.

Artemis wanted to appreciate such a moment, the rare sight of her husband being absorbed into his surroundings was adorable. He swore no lands could outshine Kattegat, but judging by his curious eyes, he found something close to it.

Finally, her eyes catch the sight of the monastery. That was when the dam of her emotions broke, and she couldn't hold herself together any longer. She fights with herself, the stubborn tears already pooling at the rim of her eyes, threatening to spill. She sniffles, wiping the falling tears angrily. Her hot tears fall against Ivar, droplets landing on his hand.

He gazes up at her again, seeing how she wiped at her face furiously, skin flushed from fighting her emotions. Ivar frowns, taking up her hand to brush a kiss over her knuckles. He lets her have a moment to herself, deciding to wrap an arm about her waist in simple comfort.

Keeping a tight grip on the reigns, he turns to look at the infamous monestary, made of white stone and now donning a symbol that he knew was not that of the Christian's.

Abu Haf's men led the procession along into the bustling village, the roads small and rocky under the wheels of the chariot. It looked war torn, signs of battle and struggle through every corner. The people gaze at Ivar's men with wide eyes. Many glared, and many others hid in their homes and shops. Just like the Andalusian's, they were not welcomed.

It was a short ride. Bjorn took it upon himself to stay back and watch over the ships with a few of his own warriors under the watchful eye of the Andalusian men.

A few moments later and the procession stops in the main square of the village.

"The blacksmith," Abu Hafs says from atop his horse. He points to the familiar shop, but Artemis already knew the way. She grips Ivar's shoulder tightly in her nervousness. Everything appeared the same, though the stones were a bit eroded since she was there last. Smoke escaped from the chimney above, a clear sign that someone was at work.

"Artemis?" Ivar questions, moving to push a few stray hairs behind her ear. She turns to him with shining eyes, a look of fear settling within the dark pools. She hadn't looked that frightened in such a long time. It broke his heart to see her in such grief.

"Are you ready?"

"No," She whispers, "No, I don't think I am." Her feet seemed rooted to the base of his chariot, and it appeared she wouldn't be moving for a while. Ivar stood with a grunt, quickly placing a kiss to her cheek before stepping off into the direction of the shop.

"Ivar?" She calls out to him frantically, "What are you doing?"

"Going to meet my father in law, is it not obvious?" He turns around to look at her with a smile, "He is part of the family, no?"

"Yes but-"

"You come in whenever you're ready, hmm? Dafi, watch over her." Ivar orders the warrior, giving a quick glance to Abu Hafs, his eyes sending a warning.

Once he pushes the door, he immediately catches sight of an older man. He was of moderate height and quite burly for his age. He worked as every blacksmith would, dipping a sword into a bucket of cold water. The steam rose and cleared before Ivar decided to speak.

"Giannis?"

The older man turns around, immediately stiffening at the sight of him. He stares at Ivar long and hard, raking his eyes over his form before whispering.

"Viking."

Ivar smirks, hobbling in to get a closer look at the man who truly had a strong resemblance to his wife. It was unmistakable.

He searches his mind for the proper words before speaking.

"Your daughter has been waiting for this moment a long time," He tells him, finding a stool to sit on, "And in some ways, I have as well. She speaks fondly of you." It was quite amusing really, to see the man as frozen as a deer moments before its death by an arrow.

The man says nothing, his hand twitching over the pommel of the sword left to cool in the bucket. He scrutinizes the northerner before him and his calm actions. Ivar doesn't bat an eye when the man lifts the sword in a defensive stance, pointing it towards him.

"I want no trouble." The man, Giannis, says, thick brows furrowing when Ivar scoffs, waving his hand about as he usually did.

"I'm not here to cause trouble." The blacksmith was even more confused, slowly lowering the sword cautiously. Isn't causing trouble what Vikings did?

"You know, she is a queen now." Ivar tells him, choosing to observe his surroundings. It was a quaint little forge, supplied with what was necessary, similar to the one back home. He could already imagine Artemis scurrying about in there once upon a time.

The man blinks, quite stunned into silence. Frankly, it appeared as if he were struck in the face. He couldn't fathom what was more odd, a pillaging Northman sitting before him, or the fact that he spoke Greek. Both were equally odd.

"You understand me, yes?" Ivar questions him, eyebrows raised. He leans his arms on his crutch, waiting for the man to answer him. The blacksmith nods, placing the sword atop the table before removing his gloves. He then glances at Ivar's braces and crutch, finally bringing his gaze to look him in the eyes. The same eyes of his wife.

"You like them?" A smile begins to curl at the corners of Ivar's lips, "Your daughter's creation. You taught her well."

"How do you know my daughter?" The man's voice was suddenly like a whip. Any normal person would have flinched, but Ivar was far from normal. Ivar lets out a chuckle, as it became clear to him where Artemis had inherited her temper from.

"She is my wife," Ivar articulates as best he could, enjoying the way the man's face went from panic, to an even greater panic, "And that makes you my father in law."

"What?" The blacksmith sneers.

"As well as a grandfather." Ivar continues his chatter. The man was greatly overwhelmed. He runs a hand through his graying hair, his aged skin seemingly more pronounced as he ponders the situation.

"I don't understand," He says, "My daughter was killed by your people."

"She was captured," Ivar corrects, though not very happy to have said that, "And is very much alive." The older man grunts, picking up the sword and placing it back into the bucket with a force that surprised Ivar.

The blacksmith says nothing, walking toward the far corner of the forge and quickly producing a clay jug along with 2 clay cups. He pours himself wine, quickly gulping it down before filling the other cup and handing it over to Ivar.

"Drink."

Ivar sniffs at the wine out of habit, not much a fan of the fermented grape drink as his wife was, but decides to take a sip.

"It has been nearly 4 years," The man begins, bringing a stool over to sit a few feet from Ivar, "Artemis is dead. I have come to terms with it." He pours himself another cup and downs it with a deep grunt, holding the cup so tightly Ivar thought it might shatter in his grasp. "We haven't seen your people around here in quite a while, so tell me, has a man of the North come to kill me, or pester me, hm?"

"Neither." Was Ivar's simple reply.

"Then what is it you want? Weapons?"

"Just a man wanting to reunite his wife with her family." The older man was skeptical, looking at Ivar with narrowed eyes.

"If what you claim is true then where is she?"

"Right outside."

As if on cue, Artemis bursts into the forge, her chest heaving as if she ran for miles. She swallows thickly, her throat feeling dry from the anxiousness.

Both Ivar and her father turn to look towards the outburst, only to find a nervous young woman wringing her hands together as she slowly steps forward.

She didn't know what to think, what to say, what would he-

Her fathers eyes found hers instantly, and the cup fell from his hand, shattering across the floor in pieces. She takes a step back on instinct, her eyes following the shattered clay pieces that scattered towards her feet.

"I must be dreaming," The blacksmith says, shooting up from the stool, yet makes no movement to approach her, "The devil tests me." Ivar snorts immediately, bringing them both out from their haze.

"This is no work of the devil, I assure you." He tells him.

Father and daughter merely stare, eyes battling each other, waiting to see which one of them was the illusion.

"Father," Artemis's voice cracks, "I thought you were..." She stops herself, choking back a sob. She couldn't speak after that, giving in to the grief of painful separation. It hurt Ivar to see her in such a state. He hated it. He attempts to reach for her but stops himself short when her father finally strides forward, grabbing her into a tight embrace.

"My sweet girl." He struggles to say through his own sorrow, enveloping his daughter in a tight embrace. This was the moment that Artemis had been waiting for, the moment she thought impossible. To feel her father's touch again was almost bittersweet, as her new home was worlds apart from his.

After a few moments her father pulls away from her.

"Let me get a proper look at you," He says, holding her at arm's length, "You've not changed, though your state of dress is certainly different." He gives her a teary smile, hearing the tiny hiccup of a laugh within her sobs. Her delicate face hadn't changed much, but it was obvious to him that she had matured. She was far from the young girl he remembered. Her eyes held many tales from across the seas.

"This Viking says you are a queen, that you are his wife." Her father's tone was gentle as he was known to have a soft nature by those who knew him well. His previous panic with Ivar had subsided and was replaced with a new found curiosity. Artemis nods, wiping her face free of tears.

"His name is Ivar," She begins, "It is true...I am his wife. We rule a kingdom in the far North." She tries to keep her voice leveled, wanting to be strong. She was proud of being wife to her husband. Turning to look back at Ivar he offers her a reassuring smile. He was listening intently, making sure to follow their conversation. She smiles back, feeling much more confident.

"I thought I would never see you again," She admits, turning back towards the older man "And when I was told about the Andalusian's, I assumed nothing but the worst for you." Her father nods, running a hand down his face.

"It has been a challenging few years," He admits, "But we still persevere. We always do." He then turns away from them for a moment to collect his thoughts, a question burning in his mind. He turns back round with a sigh, placing a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I was told you have a child?"

"A daughter, Sól," Artemis smiles at the thought of her little girl, "She is back home with Ivar's brother for safety." Her father hums in response, though he was saddened at his daughter's idea of home.

"Home? Is it not here in Chania?"

"This place is just a memory of what it once was. There is nothing for me here. There is nothing for you here either, father." Her father frowns at her response. It was true. Though the Andalusian's ransacked their island, it was still home.

"Her home is where her family is," Ivar finally interjects, "And her family is in Norway." The older man gives Ivar a stern look.

"Tell me, Viking, do you know the pain of losing a child?" His voice was calm, but behind the cool exterior was a slow boiling rage. Ivar clenches his jaw, his lips forming into a tight line. He gives the man a hard look before bringing his gaze towards his worried wife, and then towards his hands gripping his crutch.

"No," Ivar answers bitterly, "I do not know of such pain. Nor do I ever wish to feel it with my own child."

"I have lost a wife, a son, and for 4 agonizing years I believed I had lost a daughter," The blacksmith explains, grunting as he sits back down upon the stool opposite of Ivar, "Your people have caused damage to many hearts here." Ivar remains silent, fingers tightening over his crutch while he listens to the words of the old man.

"Forgive me for wanting my daughter to return home." He raises his eyes to glance at his daughter, who stood beside the northern as if she were always meant to be there, "But I could already see that remaining here is not part of her plan," He sighs with smile and a shake of his head," Artemis has always been a force to be reckoned with."

"Oh?" Ivar grins, bringing his eyes to his wife. Her cheeks burned red.

"Father-"

"Did she ever tell you of the butcher boy? Scared the poor boy to death when she tried bringing a hammer to his head. Put me in much trouble with the boy's father." Ivar grins hearing the tale, his fingers trailing over Artemis's lower back.

"I would very much like to hear more of these stories." He laughs at his wife's embarrassment, squeezing her tight from round her waist.

Her father beckons his daughter forward, offering his aged hand for her to grasp,"Oh daughter," He stands, embracing her again, "My heart both sings and weeps for you." She hears the pain in his voice, the grief of an old man at wits end.

"You mustn't worry for me. I am well and Ivar takes good care of me."

"He treats you well?"

"Like a queen." She responds, and the father could feel her smiling against his tunic.

"And your daughter?"

"Takes after her mother," Ivar answers, "She is the jewel of Kattegat." The blacksmith smiles, quiet content with the answers received. They stayed silent for a few moments before he lets out another sigh, speaking with slight amusement in his tone.

"Well then," He begins, looking down at Artemis, "I suppose I can't threaten to marry you off to the butcher's boy anymore, hmm?"

Artemis breaks out into a smile more blinding than the Mediterranean sun.

...

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serbarris · 6 years ago

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Vaimah Glwrin, Inquisitor.

Nickname: Vai, Varric's nickname for him is 'Swish'

Reason for name: Vaimah means to wield wind, and the swish is on account of how Vaimah wields his great axe, creating a swishing noise.

Birthday: 29th Firstfall

Race: Dalish

Age: 33 in 9:41 Dragon (36 at the start of Trespasser)

Gender: cis male

Place of birth: near The Coastlands of the north

Places lived since: The Glwrin clan are a stationary clan in the Coastlands, so much of his childhood was spent there, he then moved to the Brecillian forest to be with the Sabrae clan when they needed his mother, Athrin to train a new Halla Keeper. He lived with the Lavellan clan in the Free Marches for a period and joined their representative to the conclave, at which he became the Herald and lived at Haven and Skyhold.

Parents’ names, backgrounds, occupations: Vaimah's mother, Athrin was the Glŵrin clans Halla herder and his father, Sylavun, a master craftsman for the clan. Athrin marvelled at the delicate designs Sylavun carved, after many brief encounters Athrin worked up the courage to properly talk to Sylavun and they fell in love and married, the pair had trouble conceiving and were finally blessed with Vaimah, but they could not manage to have another child.

Number of siblings: none

Relationship with family: They are very close, and only grew closer when their family moved from the Glwrin clan to the Sabrae clan, and surrounded by strangers. As Vaimah grew older he started to become more independent and came into his own without being coddled by his parents,

Happiest memory: Whenever the Halla were allowed to roam free on the plains, he was allowed out with them and just ran and enjoyed the freedom and open space they could explore.

Childhood trauma: When he was around 10 down at the docks, at which his clan traded, a Shem pirate grabbed him and threatened to cut off his ears, as they were 'valuable'. He had quite a few run-ins with these black-market salesmen, but the network of the docks knew of these pirates and helped prevent any serious injuries.

Children of his own?: Vaimah has 4 children of his own, all with Faralen Sabrae, Caeren is the oldest, then Amoran and the twins; Linneth and Oronth

If so, relationship with their mother?: Faralen and Vaimah started on a very tense relationship, they were both very solitary. They knew of each other through mutual friend Eilan Mahariel, though after he and Tamlen died in the ancient ruins, Vaimah and Faralen looked out for each other. They slowly but surely relied on each other more than they could realise, grew very close, and fell in love (even if Faralen didn’t realise at the time). They have a very good relationship now, and Vaimah is a constant reminder for Faralen to voice her feelings and they tend to balance each other out nicely.

Age he became a father: Vaimah was 36 when Caeren was born, 38 when Amoran was born, and 42 when Oronth and Linneth were born

PERSONALITY

Positive Personality Traits: He wants to help the greater good, decisive but adaptable, good-natured,

Negative Personality Traits: Reckless, a bit abrasive, protects the whole rather than self-preservation, oblivious to some things, sees the world in a very black and white way, insecure, determined, easy to startle

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

MBTI Type: ISFJ

Interests: He loves the creation of things, learning how to make the weak materials strong and how to change an object so inherently it becomes unrecognisable

Mood Character is Most in: Distracted

How does your character deal with being afraid?: He runs in head first towards whatever is making him afraid and confronts it

Any reoccurring nightmares?: ones of drowning, of the waves he trusts and finds comfort in betraying him, letting him fall beneath

When are they most in their element?: in the heat of debate, his morality guides him and he trusts in his own judgement completely; his gut feeling helps him feel like despite his memory loss, that he does know things and there must be a reason he is able to say things with such surety

What do they have a soft spot for?: his family and hallas,

What events have had the most impact on his life?: The death of Eilan Mahariel, they were firm friends and were a fleeting romance together, the death of Keeper Marethari and having to rise with Faralen to stabilise the Clan; The Divine Conclave leading to memory loss

Enraged When?: threatened

Greatest Strength?: his morality and judgement

Greatest Weakness?: his fear of his memory loss impairing his judgment and deviating from who he used to be

Biggest regret: Not voicing his feelings for Faralen sooner, there was just so much that got in the way, but in a way he’s glad he didn’t say he loved her sooner, it probably would have made the memory loss a lot harder to deal with

PHYSICAL

Height: 6″3

Weight: about 14 stone

Build: muscular af

Nationality: Ferelden, Coastlander

Disabilities: amnesia after the conclave, and still suffers from slight temporary memory loss

Complexion : quite dark skin, worn complexion

Face shape: idk face shapes

Distinguishing facial features: JAW, also his scars

Hair colour: dark brown, now going grey

Usual hairstyle: he had a completely shaved head for a while when he got his vallaslin as it extends into his hairline, nowadays he has an undercut and short on top, very easy to maintain, the top grows during Inquisition and he sometimes ties it back in a bun. Due to his arm being gone after Trespasser he will shave it all when it’s too long then grow the top and repeat the cycle as he can shave by himself but not trim the top.

Eye colour: lilac with specks of golden brown, like a Mediterranean storm

Glasses? Contacts?: nope

Style of dress/typical outfit(s): tough leathers and armour, when in casual wear more loose soft leathers and tunics

Typical style of shoes: practical hard-wearing boots

Health (is this person usually sick? or very resilient?): very resilient to illness, he's one of those who will be kind of ill for a long time, rather than just be dying for a week and be fine again.

Grooming (does she/he wear makeup? shower daily? wear only clean clothes? pluck her eyebrows?): Vai washes whenever he can, he loves water anyway, he's not really bothered about how clean he is though.

Jewellery? Tattoos? Piercings?: Vaimah has some ear piercings he got from an Antivan woman down at the docks, and boy did he have trouble hiding them from his parents, his vallaslin is after June due to him and his father being craftsmen.

Accent?: Deep and slightly abrasive Welsh accent

Unique mannerisms/physical habits (bites nails, talks with hands, taps feet when restless): his eyebrows move a lot when he talks, any subtle emotion is through his eyebrows

Athletic?: he is built like a brick shithouse

INTELLECT

Level of education: he knows some dalish history as well as being a skilled craftsman

Level of self-esteem: low when he moved to the Sabrae clan at around 20 years old, he was a lot taller and muscular than those in the clan, he also had to reprove himself to master Ilen as a craftsman when he moved and he felt belittled. Now he is better but doubts himself due to memory loss

Gifts/talents: aptitude for crafting things since he started at a v young age, an is very good with animals thanks to his mother

Shortcomings: distracted very easily, easy to startle and creep up on

Style of speech (loud, mumbler, articulate, etc.): articulate,

“Left brain” or “right brain” thinker?: left??

Artistic?: masterpieces or stick men no in-between

Mathematical?: nope

Makes decisions based mostly on emotions, or on logic?: a mixture of both, but he leans more towards emotions

Religious stance: He has become more open to the views of the humans and their maker given the Dalish have so many different gods, what's one more?

Cautious or daring?: just enough of both to be reckless but with cause

Most sensitive about/vulnerable to: attacks on his personality and family

Optimist or pessimist?: optimist

Extrovert or introvert?: Introvert

RELATIONSHIPS

Current marital/relationship status: Officially bonded with Faralen in 9:43 Dragon

Sexual orientation: Bisexual

Past relationships: Many casual snogging sessions etc. down at the docks with curious people (he doesn't judge), and one casual relationship with Eilan, but Faralen is the only proper relationship he has had

Primary reason for relationship ending: Eilan died

Level of sexual experience: relatively high with Eilan (vaimah gets pegged 2k19) but low experience with the ladies

Story of first kiss: So this elf really fancied Vaimah a lot and they just started to talk to each other alone and go on walks and he slipped dragging Vai with him and they just fell on top of each other and it happened

Story of loss of virginity : Him and Eilan were just horny young elves

A social person? : he makes acquaintances and good impressions very quickly, but he has very few good friends

Most comfortable around (person): Faralen, or Amath, the Sabrae clans' chef, he is very much the big brother/uncle figure in the clan

Oldest friend: Amath or Envin, they didn't judge him as much when he joined the Sabrae clan, and helped him socialise

VOCATION

Profession: Inquisitor

Past occupations: Second in command of the Sabrae clan, Liaison of the Sabrae clan, Hunter

Passions: crafting, especially patterned wood and little figurines like his father.

Attitude towards current job: it’s alright but saving the world is a bit stressful

SECRETS

Phobias: scared of worms

Life Goals: not to die and regain all his memories

Dreams: to live a long happy life with his family

Greatest fears: Corruption, he doesn't want to see himself become the bad guy

Most ashamed of: when he lets his anger get the better of him

Compulsions: tapping his teeth together when thinking

Obsessions: checking here is always an escape route

Secret Hobbies: he collects little things that remind him of his family, like a lock of hair from all his children (when they've had a haircut) or little flowers or shells from days out things like that

Secret skills: he is actually amazing at cooking but fucking hates doing it.

Crimes committed (and was he/she caught? charged?): got accused of stealing a lot when he was a youngling at the docks, but he was never actually caught red-handed so it never happened okay

DETAILS/QUIRKS

Light or heavy sleeper?: heavy sleeper, when he is gone he is dead to the world, but Faralen learned he has a little tickly spot around the back of his armpit and when tickled it will wake him up. This was very useful when she was pregnant and wanted tiny cakes.

Lefty or righty?: right-handed

Favorite colour: blue

Cusser?: Like a fucking sailor. As an elf he usually takes the creators names in vain, but after the conclave and being surrounded by humans he beings to use the Maker and Andraste’s names in vain, which is very confusing to pretty much any other elf he comes across.

Smoker? Drinker? Drug user?: Socially drinks

#oc: vaimah #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor lavellan #i love my son #mine #bringing back the ocs in style with a new gif and my baby boi #oc: sylavun #oc: athrin #oc: faralen #oc: eilan

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