#the thin man has reached that point in child rearing that for his sanity he must give no fucks

[grim-faux]

The Thin Man and Mono's relationship boils down to

Mono: [has something on his face]

{wipes his face on the Thin Man's shoulder}

The Thin Man: [never looking up from the book he's reading]

"E̷w̸ .̶.̵.̶.̷"

[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck and Weave / 4

7,000+ words! I’m proud of myself for going this far. If you like what I do, consider commissioning me or donating to my ko-fi, which can be found here: https://ko-fi.com/owlespresso Thank you to TenkeyLess, Neila_Nuruodo, WickedWiles and Nidvaller on ao3 for beta reading this chapter! I could not have done this without them.

The fresh, frigid air pulls in and out of your weary lungs, a refreshing change from the stifling coziness of Urianger’s abode.

 Despite not being accustomed to it, you appreciate the way the cold settles against your skin. It’s a better wake up call than any tea could ever be. Haurchefant shields you from the harshest of the chill; the weight of his arm is a welcome warmth, a reassurance that you are not alone. Whilst you traverse the emptying streets, he takes the time to point out various locations and landmarks.

He chatters like a child eager to show their parents an art project.

“And just over there is the Jeweled Crozier—where you can find anything and everything your heart so desires. It’s also home to an array of restaurants should you grow peckish while on a shopping spree. Emmanellain, my younger brother, idles there often, much to my eldest sibling’s, Artoirel, dismay.” The swell of fondness in his voice is heart-warming. You should have expected someone as delightful and devoted as he to cherish his family like this.

“I look forward to meeting them.” If they’re related to Haurchefant, they must be almost as wonderful as he… and even if they aren’t, you owe them a great debt for sheltering you. If they hadn’t extended that kindness, you would have been forced to fend for yourself, left to hide in whatever decrepit crevice you could find. Still, you can’t help but want to know more. All he’s given you thus far are brief summaries, which, to be fair, is likely all you have time for.

Artoirel must be the responsible type, you assume, from both his position as the eldest brother and his apparent dismay over Emmanelain’s troublemaking. Is he as kind as Haurchefant? Or is he colder, more devout to his responsibilities than he is compassionate?

“They will adore you,” Haurchefant insists all the way up the stone stairs. For as much as Ishgard has gone through, the noble district seems untouched by war. “If Emmanellain gets fresh with you, I apologize on his behalf. As the youngest, he is perhaps… a bit spoiled.”

“The kind of person who doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer?” You raise an eyebrow. As close as you are to Haurchefant, you know next to nothing about his family or life prior to meeting you. What shaped the man you knew and treasured? What were his parents like? Had he always aspired to be a knight?

“A bright young man with an unfortunate tendency to philander and act recklessly.” Haurchefant clears his throat and corrects you sheepishly, sparing you a smile. “He means well, I assure you.”

The conversation flows slow and steadily as you walk through the fragile veil of the night. Street lamps shed bright light onto the concrete paths. It’s eerie, almost ethereal in comparison to Ul’dah’s bustling nightlife. No vendors, no street performers, no crowds. Simply sheer silence against a dull grey backdrop.

Eventually, you reach Fortemps Manor. It’s a tall, elegant building much like every other you’ve seen. Two armored guards are posted out front, their steel halberds at the ready. They give a low, courteous nod as you pass, opening the doors to reveal the interior of your new home.

The marble floors are so shiny you can see your reflection. A circular bench rests atop an elegant throw rug in the center of the lobby, the middle of the bench decorated with an immense floral display. Embroidered curtains hug either side of the wide windows. You don’t even want to try and gauge the price of even one set; artisan goods like that sell for thousands of gil a pop, far beyond your price range.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe. A warm flame crackles, nestled in a well-stocked fireplace. It extends its warmth graciously to you, thawing you from the dry cold. This is their living room? They get to return to this luxury at the end of every long day? “I’m kind of envious. Even the Rising Stones wasn’t this nice… and we had a bar out front.” Customers would stumble out drunk or worse, and piss in the nearby street after a night of hard drinking.

“Well, there won’t be a need for you to feel that way a moment longer,” he assures you. When you glance up at him, he’s smiling, gaze unmistakably tender. “This is your home now as much as it is mine.”

He’s so utterly devout that you can’t not believe him.

Your home. A place you can always come back to without fear or betrayal. When you were driven from the rank sewers of Ul’dah, you had given up on calling anywhere home. It seemed impossible, malms away, ripped from your bloodied fingers with no warning.

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheeks.

“Ser Haurchefant,” a new voice cuts through the air, ripping you from your train of thought. Probably for the better. You’ve cried enough today.

A tall, blond man strides into the living room from one of the branched hallways, clad in gleaming white armor. You’re not sure what grabs your attention the most, the incredible pauldrons which adorn his shoulders or the stripe of pale gold that slopes over his chest plate. Blond hair sweeps to the side, framing his angular face, his stern expression. His vivid white armor’s shape contrasts with the shadows at his back.

“Pardon the intrusion.” He glances from Haurchefant and then to you, recognition brimming in his blue gaze. “Ah. The Warrior of Light. Tis good to see you’ve arrived safe and sound. I am Zephirin de Valhourdin of the Heavens Ward. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His torso dips in a polite bow, sparing you the slightest of smiles before turning his gaze back to Haurchefant. Hurried, hasty. “Archbishop Aymeric has need for us. I was sent to retrieve you.”

“Can this not wait ‘till morning?” Haurchefant’s tone oozes exasperation in a way you’ve never quite heard before. A glance at his expression reveals a foreign neutrality. His lips are set in a firm line, an eyebrow raised in slight inquiry.

“Once more, I apologize,” Zephirin’s breath leaves him in a sigh. “It will take less than a bell, I’m told.”

“If we must. I expect you to treat me to a fresh tankard of ale tomorrow.” Haurchefant’s lips curl into a mischievous smile. His arm drops back to his side. The warmth he’s cocooned you in is torn away with little preamble. Despite the crackling hearth, you immediately feel a new kind of cold settle over you.

“Right.” Zephirin follows Haurchefant from the room and back out into the cold, leaving you alone. Again. You clutch the Fortemps lordling’s jacket tight to yourself and shut your eyes, feeling exhaustion pull at your weary consciousness.

You haven’t done much but sit around all day, yet you still feel fatigue clutch you close, sinking its devilish claws into your aching muscles. It’s agonizing, to be this tired from doing so little.

Had you not risen to acclaim through slaying gods and monsters, perhaps you would be less bitter about your new weakness, about the time you need to recover. Urianger had asked you to take a moon away from strenuous activity, but you don’t know if your sanity will let you.

The injuries that mercilessly litter your body ensure those responsible for the banquet can roam free and unpunished. That thought makes your blood curdle, the very fabric of your being rearing up and howling refrain at your helplessness, at the unkindness of this reality.

“Oh! Good evening.” Yet another new voice rings out across the spacious living room, rich and soft in quality. Your gaze sweeps in its direction, coming to rest on the tall, slender form of another elezen. Adorned with a thick, elegant alpine coat, the new arrival’s hair is as black as coal. It’s long and wavy, swept beautifully above his forehead to crest over the left side of his face. He’s handsome, sharp facial features and intent gaze unlike the soft gentility you’ve come to know and expect from Haurchefant. “I assume you’re the Warrior of Light?”

“Uhm, yes.” The sudden, unexpected social interaction causes the cogs in your brain to very suddenly knock back into place. To tell the truth, you’re not really sure how to respond here. So you tell him your name, do your best to act naturally, act cool despite being a stranger in a strange land.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His heels click against the marble floor as he approaches, thin lips curling into a welcoming smile. He’s the perfect picture of a noble gentleman, right down to the eloquent way in which he bows at the waist. “I must thank you for your service. Had you not led our defenses at the Steps of Faith, we likely would have met crushing defeat. It is truly an honor to have you.”

“It’s no problem. I should be thanking you for letting me stay,” You manage a small smile, cheeks growing warm under his unfiltered praise. “I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t extended the invitation... speaking of, is Alphinaud here? And Tataru? They came in with me, right?”

“Yes. They arrived with you, in admittedly much better condition. No harm has been done to Alphinaud beyond a few bruises and thoughts fraught with worry. He went to sleep half a bell ago, but I’m sure he will be delighted to see you safe and sound,” the noble replies. “Miss Tataru is completely unscathed, but has opted to head to The Forgotten Knight, a local tavern, to speak with the locals and attempt to gather information on your companions’ whereabouts.”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Had either of them been severely injured or—Hydaelyn forbid—killed, you never would have forgiven yourself. It’s tempting to ask to see Alphinaud now, but you know he needs his rest. Tataru is enough of a grown woman to take care of herself, and you don’t know if you can manage another long walk, so she’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

“Good, thank you again. That’s such a relief. If he had—uh, never mind.” You’re exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but you still have enough good sense to not unload your innermost feelings on a man you’ve just met, on a noble kind enough to shelter you and your allies despite the target painted on your back. “Haurchefant left with, uh—”

“Lord Zephirin? I had assumed so. In the meantime, I can show you to your room. You must be exhausted after the ordeal you’ve been put through,” Artoirel offers, every bit as kind and polite as you expected him to be, given Haurchefant’s unfailing cheerfulness. His expression softens with sympathy. You glance back at the arched double doors leading outside. It feels wrong to head to bed without giving Haurchefant a proper goodnight, but you don’t know when he’ll return. Turning back to Artoirel, you acquiesce to the siren’s call of your fatigue.

Your stomach snarls and immediately you are reminded that Haurchefant whisked you away from Urianger’s humble abode before he had the chance to prepare dinner.

“...Did you miss dinner?” Artoirel inquires and your cheeks flame with warmth.

“I did, but it’s no trouble,” You try to wave it off. You can wait until tomorrow morning to eat. It won’t be the first time you crawled into bed on an empty stomach. “I can wait, really—”

“Nonsense. We ate only a bell ago and the chefs won’t be leaving for another two. Come,” he gives you no room to argue, a hand gracing the small of your back. You jolt at the touch, wide eyes staring up at his handsome profile as he steers you alone. “You can sit in the kitchen whilst you wait—you there!” he calls to a passing servant woman, listing out a small order before continuing to lead you back across the living room. The extravagant furniture vanishes as the structure siphons into a slender hallway that lies in the back.

“Thank you,” It wouldn’t do to argue with him, and you would be a fool to turn down a fresh, hot meal. “So, you’re Haurchefant’s older brother?”

“That I am,” He sends you another smile, leading you into a wide dining room. An oval-shaped table sits in the middle surrounded by eight, elegant chairs resting around it, all positioned with perfect symmetry. A golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Several crystals affixed to the ends of its curving, twining arms emit a vibrant, illuminating light.

“I am quite fortunate to have him as a brother. He’s been incredibly dependable since our father stepped down.” A solemn smile graces his lips as he speaks, as though recalling better times long past.

“The count stepped down?” You settle into one of the chairs, allowing your weary muscles to relax into the firm frame.

“Yes, it’s quite common for house leaders to step down as they reach their twilight years, often to prevent reckless decisions due to their old age. Our father fortunately isn’t in that position. He was simply ready to retire and pursue other passions… I shall let him disclose those details himself—”

The next half-bell passes in quiet, mild conversation. It’s simple and surface level in a way that puts you at ease. He pointedly avoids any mention of the banquet or your injuries. It makes you feel coddled the longer you speak, but the food arrives before you get truly miffed at being handled with kid gloves. It’s a delicious dinner, a meal that fills and warms you from the inside. The meat is thick and tender, the vegetables expertly cooked and spiced. You barely manage to not scarf it all down like a monster, reminding yourself that the nobleman who’s so generously sheltering you is sitting mere fulms away.

After dinner, he escorts you to your room. From the dining room, you head back across the lobby and in a hall that branches off the left side. Heading further into the house, you walk up a steep case of stairs and down another wide corridor. Artoirel leaves you in front of a polished wooden door, bidding you a polite farewell alongside an offer to show you the city proper tomorrow. If Haurchefant is busy, you may just take him up on that.

You enter the room and let your back thunk against it, eyes shutting as the day’s events wash over you in their entirety. Your eyes fall shut, the wooden surface cool against the back of your head.

It… it would be a good idea to get some sleep.

Yet, a pair of feminine voices reach you through the door.

“Lord Zephirin was… in his chambers…” As they come closer you guess they’re a pair of maid servants. Over your time of bumping elbows with nobility, you have learned that the help are by far the most knowledgeable when it comes to the inner workings of any noble house. They cook the food, personally serve each member of the family, have access to every room on the property.

They most definitely have access to a wealth of knowledge about House Fortemps and all its occupants.

“I could hear them, plain as day! You’d think someone so high ranking would attempt to keep their affairs quieter…”

“Be quiet!” a second voice hisses. “Imagine what they’d do to you if they heard you gossiping so!”

“Well, they should at least keep it down. Imagine how I felt, having to hear them carrying on while cleaning ser Artoirel’s study!” the first voice acquiesces into a quieter grumble.

“I’m sure they don’t really give a damn about our comfort.” You can practically hear the second woman roll her eyes.

“Ser Haurchefant should at least care about his good House’s reputation! Think, if the court heard he was gallivanting around with—”

Their voices lapse into quiet little grousing until you can no longer hear them, which is probably for the best. You already have enough to think about to keep you up at night. It’s likely nothing more than idle gossip, you tell yourself. But then again, what reason would they have to lie?

You sigh, shoving the matter to the furthest reaches of your mind.

You lay Haurchefant’s jacket across a luxurious, cushioned arm chair facing an elegant coffee table. You nearly stumble out of your trousers and rip your shirt in haste, clambering over to the tall wardrobe. It sits proudly next to a dresser-vanity combination.

This is nicer than any room you’ve ever stayed in, you realize, from the lush weave of the throw carpet to the very grain of the wooden furniture.

A decadent robe rests on a silver hanger inside the wardrobe, just as nice as the one Urianger lent you earlier. It chases the cold from your weary muscles as you tumble onto the bed, ignoring the pain that jostles your entire body upon impact. You barely have enough energy to burrow underneath the bundled blankets, much less decipher anything you just heard.

The best thing you can do for yourself is fall asleep and get some rest. So, you toss and turn among the sea of blankets, until you descend into the velvety embrace of sleep.

- - -

Lantern light spreads over the concrete in spaced out lines as the knights traverse the holy steps. They venture towards the apex of the Holy See, yet Haurchefant’s thoughts cannot be further from the man who requires their presence. Archbishop Aymeric is a man he’s spoken with countless times, who he’s gotten to know in a shockingly intimate way. A bond old, yet pale in comparison to what he feels for you.

His thoughts return to you constantly, a grandiose girandole of scenarios in which he gets to know you deeply and intimately. He cannot help but recall how his jacket dwarved your precious form, could only imagine the sweet curves and planes of your body, the sanguine siren call of your raw fragility threatening to drive him from his good senses.

Never had he wished to see you under such duress, yet the helpless gaze you leveled him with whilst caged in Urianger’s abode still sent thrill after thrill down his spine. It haunted him to this very moment.

“I anticipated her to at the very least be an Elezen.” Zephirin’s baleful grousing disguises itself as a genuinely thoughtful statement, his tone shockingly level. His voice interrupts Haurchefant’s musings, ripping through the pristine portrait memory crafted of your image.

Ah, is that… envy in his fellow commander’s voice? How unseemly for someone held in such high regard by the general populace! Haurchefant isn’t sure whether to be flattered or mildly aggravated. so he settles for ignoring the other. He barely spares the other man a glance as they come to stand before Ishgard’s mightiest cathedral, lit tall by ever-burning touches, stone smothered by flamelight.

“I don’t see how species matters in this situation,” He raises an eyebrow steeply, making sure to emphasize his skepticism, for shame is a powerful tool and socking Zephirin in the face would surely cause a stir. “Especially when she seamlessly led our defenses in order to protect the Steps of Faith.”

Zephirin has been a good friend to him, but he will not stand to hear your grand name slandered even the slightest bit. The man at his side has rested upon his silken sheets in nights past, but even that treasured intimacy pales in comparison to his unadulterated passion.

He will not have Zephirin sow seeds of doubt and discontent in regards to you. Not when you are soft with injury and so perfectly pliable to him, not when you are finally within arm’s reach.

“‘Twas not my intent to offend you.” Zephirin makes the wise decision to rein himself in, a stiffness in his voice that speaks to unpreparedness for Haurchefant’s push back. It makes sense. Never has Haurchefant dared to be so stern with any of his fellow Heavens’ Ward. Not when he was so young and green, so recently inducted into its vaunted ranks. “The Warrior of Light has my utmost respect. I think it’s simply… novel that you’ve chosen to fawn over someone so decidedly different than anyone in Ishgard.”

Statues frame either side of the grand hall they enter, heroes memorialized in carefully crafted effigies that watch in silence as they traverse the stairs. The sound of Zephirin’s gleaming platemail clanging echoes up and down the hollowed corridor, somehow making it feel emptier.

“Then again, you have made a habit of walking to the beat of your own drum,” Zephirin continues knowingly, pensive, observant rather than judgmental.

“The Holy See will always have my sword at their service and my undying loyalty, but the people of our fine city have a habit of stubbornly clinging to useless tradition. It would be narrow-minded of me to limit my romantic interests by species.” Haurchefant shrugs as they reach the top of the staircase, continuing down the hallowed halls. The distinct lack of moonlight makes the halls seem older and dingier than usual.

“I apologize if I offended you,” Zephirin says. “I have your best interests at heart when I advise you keep some of your more outlandish beliefs close to your chest. You know how the nobility likes to gossip.”

Hah! Haurchefant barely stops himself from barking a laugh, both from disbelief and genuine amusement. To think, the bastard child of the Fortemps has gained the favor of the Heavens’ Ward’s most vaunted! Distantly, he wonders how his fool of a step-mother would react. To think, both children born in wedlock would be passed up in favor of him, the reminder that her husband had strayed!

“The nobility cannot rob me of the position I have worked endlessly for. Let them gossip.” Haurchefant brushes off the other man’s warning with an unintended note of disdain in his voice, left over from the memory of the witch his father once called a wife.

He blinks a moment later. Ah. Being rude to Zephirin certainly isn’t in his best interests. Best mend any potential rift between them before it even forms.

“My apologies. The hour is late and the day’s fatigue is getting the better of me,” he says, voice softening at the edges like the sweetened edge of an apple pastry. His gaze is honey, his expression tender as he smiles in his fellow’s direction. “I appreciate your concern, ser Zephirin. It is truly an honor to serve at your side.”

“It’s no trouble. However, it would be in your best interests to make sure you don’t allow your tongue to slip in the archbishop’s presence.” His fellow Heavens’ Ward acquiesces, likely deciding the conversation not worth continuing.

“Duly noted.” Haurchefant idly assures him, gaze drawn out one of the steep windows, towards the moonless sky. Silence settles between the both of them, the empty space filled only by the sharp sound of Zephirin’s greaves against the marble tile.

- - -

“Full glad am I to see you in one piece,” is the first thing Alphinaud says to you as you wrap your arms tight around him. You ignore the way your wounds ache and groan in protest, because oh god, you’re so utterly relieved to see him alive and safe—the admittedly bratty child whose tailed you so long, through a seemingly endless cycle of hardships.

Knowing he was more or less alright was comforting; actually seeing him put all your worries at rest.

“Thank the gods you’re alright.” You press your cheek to his temple and give him another loving squeeze. He gasps and jolts under the sudden pressure, noises devolving to a delighted, nervous little giggle. Hesitant fingers curl in the dense fabric of your robe. He’s so warm, so soft and alive. He’s one of the two people you have left in this cold world and you’re not going to let him anywhere near potential danger anytime soon.

“After all that happened, you’re concerned for my well-being?” he inquires incredulously. He shakes his head, but cannot hide his weary, fond smile as he steps back. He looks you up and down, gaze softening with sympathy as he looks you up and down. The smile he adorns turns into a guilt-ridden frown. “I must apologize. What happened with the Crystal Braves was utterly and completely my fault. I should have—”

He cuts himself off as a line of servants flows into the kitchen. The light from the chandelier glints off the extravagant, silver platters they carry.

Fresh steam rolls off the mounds of food as they set each one down, arranging them artfully down the long table’s center.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you reassure him over the sound of silverware and fine porcelain and hushed chattering. “It’s not your fault. You’re too young to be leading any kind of organization and Minfilia should have known that.”

“I should have known that. It’s because of my recklessness that—” His voice cracks with his agony and you once more reach for him, grasping him his hand warm and tight, attempting to convey all the love and passion and forgiveness you can manage with a simple, physical gesture.

Are you disappointed in him? Had such terrible tragedy not stolen your friends from you, perhaps you would have been. But all you can feel right now is overwhelming relief.

“There’s no way you could have known, Alphinaud. Because you’re young and no amount of education could have changed what happened.” Your voice is hurried and rushed and desperate, more of a plea than a statement. “Happened. Because it’s in the past, and we can’t go back and fix it. All we can do is go on and grow from this. It’s not your fault, Alphinaud. Please believe me.”

He’s just a boy. Despite his past arrogance, he didn’t deserve to be humbled like this. He’s not even eighteen and he’s already been exposed to the horrors of war, already had some of his closest friends stolen from him in a single night.

He’s just a boy. A boy with no home, no present parents, and no more political power. Just a boy, but most importantly, he is now your boy.

“I...” he gives a small, sputtering laugh, a hand coming up to wipe away a spare teardrop. “When you insist with such ardent passion, I cannot help but want to believe you. In any case, you’re right. Wallowing in my own self-pity will get us nowhere… and it will not bring anyone back,” he ended with a soft sigh, staring blankly at a plate stacked high with pancakes and fruits. “It wouldn’t do for our new allies to see me in such a crestfallen state.”

“You’re allowed to cry and grieve.” Your expression softens. You press your hand gently to his shoulder. “You just have to know it isn’t your fault.”

You’re not entirely sure if he believes you, but you aren’t given any time to reassure him further. Artoirel strolls in with two other men, who are introduced to you as former Count Edmont Fortemps and Emmanellain.

To make a good impression, you’re forced to shove your Alphinaud-related worries to the back of your mind. After a pleasant breakfast, Haurchefant at last makes his return, sweeping you into one of the more private lounges whilst Alphinaud opts to head to the study at Artoirel’s side, hoping to learn more about Ishgard’s political climate and resources he can use to locate the Scions.

“Good morning, my lady,” Haurchefant openly fawns, mischief gleaming like flint and steel in his eyes. “I hope you had a good rest, last night? I specifically made sure they gave you the softest mattress we have to offer!”

His shameless affection makes your cheeks grow warm. No matter how much time you spend with him, his unabashed affection never fails to astonish you.

He sits next to you, his side pressed right up against your own.

“I slept fine,” you assure, promptly ignoring the gossip you overheard last night. Even if what the maids said happens to be true, it’s none of your business, despite how curious you are.

Prior to all this recent chaos, you dismissed his affection as mere friendliness, denied the idea that he could be romantically interested in you, someone so constantly occupied with your work.

He merely supports the Scions and their mission statement, you had attempted to reason.

I don’t have time for romance, you convinced yourself. Before you knew it, you had crafted excuse after excuse, each one growing more elaborate in nature.

“You spoil me too much, really. You haven’t eaten breakfast and here you are, asking after me.” You try to sound indignant, despite the way your heart thrums so wildly in your chest.

“I’ll have you know I purchased one fine bowl of stew from a trustworthy vendor on my way home! Though, I am touched by your concern. It’s simply riveting to know you keep me so close in your thoughts.” He sends you an impish grin, the weight of his hand warm on your shoulder. “Forgive me, though.” His voice dips into something genuinely solemn, gaze shifting downcast with sudden guilt. “T’was my intent to dine with you this morning. However, the archbishop required my services and it is not my place to deny His Holiness.”

“Don’t apologize.” You level him with an incredulous stare. Are all Ishgardians prone to such melodrama? With how deeply he pouted, any passerby could easily assume his mother had just passed. “You had work. It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“Ahh, how could I forget!” He seems to ignore your reassurances, hanging his head low. “Allow me to make up for this transgression by taking you to the Jeweled Cozier. Surely a veritable sea of gifts, including the realm’s finest garments, would be an acceptable appeasement?” he drawls, his charitable intent near knocking you flat.

“Haurchefant, that’s so sweet, but I couldn’t possibly—”

“You arrived in our fine city with naught but the clothes on your back, correct?” He cuts you off in a way that makes your ears burn hot. Your gaze dives to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes.

He’s not wrong, but did he really have to bring that up?

“Yes, but—”

“And—pardon my well-intentioned assumption—would you say you have not a single possession to your name?” His gloved fingers find your chin and delicately coax your face upwards, the sudden gesture shocking you still. After a moment of attempting to gather your frayed nerves, you swallow and nod.

That quaint, smug smile widens.

“Then allow me to treat you. Please. Hardly ever do I spend my coin, and my pockets are so heavy that they encumber my every move. It would be a delight, nay, a relief to spend some on you.” His dramatics practically fill the room, and you’re suddenly grateful as he releases your chin… only to slide off the couch and onto his knees. He clasps his hands together, fingers intertwining, head dipping to mimic prayer.

“Stop!” You raise your hands to push at his clenched fists, protesting before he can wax any more flowery poetic. “I get it! I get it! We can go shopping together!”

“Ah! There’s that brilliant common sense you are so well-known for!” His smile turns a touch smug as you acquiesce, pushing himself to his feet. “Wonderful, simply wonderful. I’ll go get you a coat. We don’t have many, so you’ll have to settle for one of mine.”

With that, he scurries off, asking you to stay put whilst he retrieves it for you.

It’s plush and fur-lined, multiple sizes too large for you. It buries you, coated in his soft scent, cocoa and faint spice, a familiar comfort in a strange, new city.

The Jeweled Crozier wasn’t a market filled with glitz and glamour as much as a series of shops, restaurants and vendor stalls among the sea of grey stonework. It’s the most you’ve seen of the lower and upper class mingling. It’s elezen as far as you can see, dotted with the occasional hyur. Despite being clothed in Ishgardian garb, you stick out like a sore thumb—and those in the crowd have no problem with making you really feel it.

Countless gazes glue to you, making your ears hot with shame. You’re out of place, away from every home you’ve ever known.

“Pay them no mind.” Haurchefant breaks you from your train of thought, sparing you a kind smile. “Hardly ever do outsiders venture inside the city walls. They’re just curious.”

And ignore them you eventually do, once Haurchefant tugs you inside a spacious store. It becomes impossible to think about the public’s general public opinion of you when you’re face-to-face with racks of fine garments, overwhelming you instantly. Where are you supposed to start? You desperately look over the blouses and skirts and pants and dresses, suddenly losing the mental checklist you had come up with.

“I’ll apologize now for taking too long,” you say with a nervous chortle. “I’m not really sure where to start.”

“Allow me, then. Surely with our powers combined, we can assemble you a new wardrobe—aha! What about this one? The color suits you.” He plucks a fresh blouse from one of the high racks, holding it up next to you.

Much of the next hour passes similarly. You roam the aisles with your devout “helper” in tow. He plucks garment after garment—

“As much as I love it, I don’t think wearing a skirt that short is a good idea—”

—from the aisles—

“Haurchefant, I am not looking for swimwear.”

—And shelves. Some are genuinely helpful, while others…

“I am not shopping for lingerie today!” You finally lose your temper and scold him.

“Ah, so you will one day?” He falls into step next to you, your chosen garments rested across his arms. He refused to let you carry them yourself. “You must let me accompany you when the time comes ‘round. I know the most delightful boutique—”

“Please, just focus on what we’re doing now!” You rub your temples wearily and use it as an excuse to not look at him, taking the moment to try and cool down. Your cheeks are much too hot underneath his unyielding, devoted attention. Aren’t Ishgardians supposed to be rigid and uptight? You’ve long known about Haurchefant’s more… affectionate tendencies, but never can you pretend to be immune to them.

“As my lovely lady wishes.” He heaves out a dramatic sigh and keeps his teasing to a minimum, resigned to his status as a practical coat rack. After grabbing a new bunch of socks, he accompanies you to the counter, stunning you with the absolutely swollen wallet he brings out.

He makes no attempt to be subtle about his wealth as he ferries you from store-to-store, purchasing everything from necessities like new shampoo to frivolous luxury candles and rose petal pastries.

“You really have money to burn, don’t you?” You eye the crepe he’s shoved into your hand incredulously, the pastry wrapping covered in sugar crystals and cinnamon, stacked high with fruits and cream.

“A man of my position and status would never lie about something so important,” he says with humorous firmness.

“I thought you might have been exaggerating.” You lean forward to take a heaping bite of the pastry. It’s just as rich and delicious as you expected.

“Me? Exaggerate? Impossible,” he declares.

The bags nestled in the crook of his arm bump against each other with each long step. It’s somewhat easier to ignore the prodding gazes of nosy passerby whilst locked in conversation with him.

“If you say so,” you shrug with a small smile, not bothering to bring up his tendency for ridiculous dramatics.

You’re barely given another moment to savor another bite of your pastry before your leg suddenly locks, the jostle of the sore muscle forcing a pained little cry from your chapped lips. Fuck, fuck! It was clear one of your wounds doesn’t agree with how much walking you’ve been doing.

“What’s wrong!?” Haurchefant is looming over you in an instant, concern clear as day in his deep, blue eyes. One of his hands finds your shoulder, the other arm wrapping around your back to pull you close, away from the Crozier’s foot traffic. “What’s troubling you, my friend?”

“Just one of the cuts on my leg, I think,” you admit with a small sigh, before shooting him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. Really.” Weak, you realize. You’re still weak. The pain brewing in your body suddenly renews the heavy grief settled in your heart. You’re weak, too weak to even enjoy a shopping trip with one of your best friends.

“Perhaps it’s best we head home for the time being. I think our trip was quite successful!” He lightly shook a few of the bags on his arm as if to emphasize his point.

“I’m fine,” you insist, lips curling in the beginnings of a soft frown. Perhaps it would be best to retire to the manor and get some rest, but… “We can keep shopping. You wanted to pick up some groceries, didn’t you?”

“That can wait, I assure you.” Haurchefant’s expression curls to match your own, mirroring your displeasure with a touch of worry. He doesn’t relinquish his grasp on you, lest you topple over the moment he let go. While you appreciate the concern, you can’t help but feel deep frustration boiling underneath your heated skin. “Urianger prescribed you the best painkillers Ishgard has to offer and extensive bedrest until you’re well on your way to being fully recovered.”

“I’ve been bed-resting for the past day and all this morning. I can last a trip to the grocery store,” you insist, voice growing more fervent. You may be injured, sure, but you’re also an adult who can make your own decisions!

He says your name as an exasperated inhale, a hand perched on his hip.

“My dearest friend, I understand your pain and your frustration, but the more you rest, the faster you’ll recover.” Haurchefant’s voice slows and softens, any potential exasperation brewing on his expression melting away into the tranquil joy you’ve come to associate him with. “Please. Even if you insist that you’ll be fine, come home with me and rest for the sake of my own sanity. It worries me when you push yourself. Long have I been forced to watch you plow onto the battlefield, thrown against opponents no other mortal can face only for you to return injured.”

A sudden gust of wind wails through the area, slipping between the streets and alleyways to reach you. Yet, you hardly feel its effects, shielded by his steep body.

“When you came back from your victory against Shiva, I was so relieved… but also regretful. Regretful that I could not be by your side and help you.” The sudden onslaught of genuine tenderness completely throws you off your train of thought. The rage you feel dissolves in a near instant. A single, gloved hand comes to rest against your cheek, gaze impossibly tender.

He’s right. You know this. The more you rest, the fast you’ll recover. No matter how upset you are now, you can’t be illogical if you want to return to full health as quickly as possible.

“...Okay. Alright.” You shut your eyes and suck in a deep breath, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, attempting to soothe an upcoming headache. “Let’s go back.”

“Let’s go home,” Haurchefant corrects gently. His eyelids dip low, his smile sanguine and delighted at your easy compliance. His hold on you adjusts, an arm steady around your shoulder. By now, it felt natural to be attached at the hip to him, held close to his side. Close enough to feel his body warmth.

It does wonder to soothe your mental and physical aches. He continues to speak in quiet, gentle tones as he escorts you back to the manor, sheltering you from the frosty, curious gazes of the Ishgardian passerby. He smells nice, his clothes interwoven with the rich scent of mocha and freshly cleaned linen. It’s a familiarity you’re able to cling to and bury yourself in, a deep-seated comfort you can’t place a name to until you’re at the manor doors.

He smells like home.

- - -

The veil of night settles over his skin like a soothing balm.

This is the time of day where Estinien feels most at ease. It is the blessed dark that shrouded his draconic features, gave him more cover should the glamor that shielded him from prying eyes begin to falter.

It keeps him tucked away, as he pries open the one window Urianger leaves unlocked for him.

The building’s interior does precious little to shield him from the cold. The small orbs of light that float freely around the room don’t carry any warmth with them.

No matter. He’s long grown used to the cold.

His greaves land heavy on the wooden floor. The boards creak underneath his each step as he makes his way to the door, sliding into the hall. He picks up on the book man’s scent within a mere few seconds, old books and rich spice.

He makes his way down the narrow hallway, retracing a path long grown familiar to him.

It’s a new smell that causes him to pause and divert from his chosen path, grasping one of the doorknobs to tug it open. Blood, he realizes, blood and a familiar, rich scent that is uniquely yours.

The globes of light, when combined with his enhanced vision, allow him to see as if it were day. His gaze falls upon a tousled bathrobe. He knows that bathrobe is too large for you. It is Urianger’s, yet you cling to it, yet—

Ah. He understands now.

He exits and shuts the door, continuing towards his intended destination.

A ray of gentle, warm light slips through a crack in one of the doors. He curls his armored fingers around the door to pull it open.

Urianger is hunched over his humorously large desk, long fingers wrapped around a long quill. He glances up, amber gaze softening at the sight of him.

Estinien doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the sympathy he is so freely afforded by this man. He is not a creature to be pitied.

“Good evening, my friend. ‘Tis good to see thee.” Urianger rests his quill and stands, looking him over.

“Likewise,” Estinien grunts, more out of obligation than anything.

“I imagine thou hast come with the intention of brevity in mind, as per usual.” Urianger wanders away from his desk and towards the door, towards Estinien.

Estinien steels himself at the approach, smothers the cacophony of singing, screaming voices that claws and rises at the back of his mind. Sparks of pain dance down his spine and he exhales, firm and long. He listens to the sound of Urianger’s footsteps across the floorboards, allows the noise to ground him.

“You had a guest,” he says as the man passes him. He practically feels Urianger stiffen beside him, the tendons and muscles tightening rigidly. The broad set of his shoulders grows stonelike with newfound tension, and Estinien can instantly tell he has hit a nerve.

“I did. The Warrior of Light wast dropped into my waiting lap yestermorn. I was gifted with the pleasure of treating her,” Urianger informs him.

“...Did you do more than treat her?” Estinien inquires. He knows this is not his business, knows he has no place prying into these affairs. But the sight of the astrologian hunched over your bloodied, battered form has been ingrained into the fine corners of his memory. It settles uneasily in his stomach.

“Of course not. My duties laid in administering care and that alone. Art thou casting doubt upon my good intentions?” The astrologian assured and inquired with an arch of his elegant brow.

Ah. There are the melodramatics he’s come to know and expect.

“Of course not,” Estinien parrots, deadpan. “I was simply curious about why her scent clings so deeply to the robe in one of your guest rooms.”

“Thou… wandered into one of my guest quarters?” Urianger looks to him with a vaguely betrayed expression. His eyes have widened, blinking several times as though he cannot believe what Estinien just admitted.

“Her scent saturates the entire house, Urianger.” Estinien shrugs. “It is merely strongest in one of the guest bedrooms.”

“So in an attempt to satisfy thy curiosity, thou intruded—” His voice is getting faster, more agitated. Seldom does Estinien ever see or hear the bookman lose his temper, but he is coming dangerously close.

“Wasn’t it you who assured me that your home is my home? Or are you attempting to retract that claim?” Estinien raises an eyebrow. “Regardless, if it makes you uncomfortable to disclose such information, I shalln’t pry.”

“That would be best. As much as I appreciate thy companionship, I would enjoy it if thou did not pry into my personal affairs.” The tension did not dissipate from Urianger’s posture or his tone, but Estinien could feel him beginning to loosen up. Interesting.

Someone who did not know Urianger as well as he might not even be able to tell how nervous he was. But hardly did anything escape Estinien. Not when his nose was so sharp, not when his ears were so open, not when his carnal instinct was akin to a flail and a mace.

Still, he lays underneath Urianger’s capable hands, receives hundreds of small needles pried into his aching muscles and head. Never would he have discovered how acupuncture benefits the symptoms of his condition without Urianger. For that, he will always be grateful.

He savors the gentle draw of Urianger’s fingertips across his shoulders and back and sides. Small strokes and touches that make stars dance behind his eyelids as he melts.

For an hour, he is not the Azure Dragoon. He is not the foolish child who fell into temptation and stole the Eye for himself. He is a mere elezen, a humble creature allowed through Eden’s gates.

When the treatment is done, he indulges in the way Urianger helps him off the table with a hand. His solitude has made him appreciate even the slightest of contact. He allows himself to drink in the feeling of humanity and compassion for a meager few moments, before his hand falls back to his side.

When he climbs out the window, he is a beast once again, seeing, smelling and hearing what he should never be privy to.

[we-are-only-halfway-home93]

Come and Lay the Roses 25- Shadow of the Evening Sun- [Ivar x OC]

Summary: Ragnar makes a move on Aelle.

Characters: Ivar x OC, Bjorn x Torvi, Ubbe x Margrethe, Hvitserk x Thora, Sigurd x OC, Ragnar, Lagertha

Warnings: Arranged marriage, language, violence, torture, sex, mentions of sexual assault/rape.

Word Count: 3942

Ch. 24

AN: I’m so sorry for the wait. I had some family stuff come up and I’m getting ready to move and my school still doesn’t have a solid plan in place for the fall so I’ve had other things on my mind but I am here now and we have chapter 25 of Come and Lay the Roses. I wasn’t too terribly happy with how the end came out but it is what it is. Enjoy! 

“Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.”

~Walter Scott

“They’ve been attacking our docks regularly since Sigurd’s death. First they took Ritland then they took Nyland. Floki and Rollo are at Kattegat right now making sure it’s not overrun. Father,” Björn leaned forward setting his hands flat on Ragnar’s desk. “We need to make a move.”

Ivar tsked. “As much as I love disagreeing with Björn he’s right. We can’t just sit back and let the Saxon kings make fools of us.” Björn shot Ivar a scathing look but kept his mouth shut. 

“Sigurd has just died. We haven’t even buried him yet and you want to talk about retribution? Priorities, brothers. I think you should reevaluate them.” Ubbe chimed from his position by the fire. Ivar snorted and shook his head. 

“The longer we wait to retaliate the bolder they will become. First, our brother, then the docks. What’s next? A home invasion massacre? No thanks. We need to strike while the iron is hot.” Ivar insisted. Ubbe rolled his eyes and sat back, his melancholy mood thickening the air. 

Hvitserk sat forward, silent until now. “We should kill one of their brothers. It’s only fair. That’s what they’ve taken from us.” Ivar shook his head and stood. 

“We did that already, Hvitserk. Remember? Aethelwulf was what started this whole mess anyway.” He turned his back to the room and stared out the large picture window overlooking the back garden. He could see Aaline and Thora walking a shaky Sibylle around the grounds. They made it a point to get her outside at least once a day.

“No, if anything this started when you married Aaline.” Björn accused. Ivar whirled around to face his oldest brother whose face had turned a wicked shade of puce. 

“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean? You’re saying this is her fault?” Ivar exclaimed. He pointed a stiff finger at his brother and rounded the couch. Hvitserk stood up and pushed his hands against Ivar’s chest, stopping him. Ubbe stepped in front of Björn, a barrier if needed.  

“No. You were out of control. Killing anyone who annoyed you or even got in your way. You married Aaline because it was the only way father could control you. Aelle and Ecbert formed an alliance that night and they’ve been working against us ever since. It’s your fault all this has started.” Ivar snorted and tried to move around Hvitserk but Ubbe was there, creating too much resistance. 

“They were attacking us long before my marriage. Who’s to say they wouldn’t have done it anyway?” Ivar yelled. 

A loud crash silenced the room. All four men turned to look at their father. 

In an uncharacteristic display of emotion, Ragnar had swept the contents of his desk onto the floor. Several glass ornaments shattered and littered the hardwood. Papers floated serenely to the ground. Pens rolled softly across the floor and came to rest under the chairs in front of his desk. 

Ragnar looked up. His fingers were steepled in front of him. He had been sitting in quiet contemplation, taking in all the arguments his sons presented. Once they began to turn on each other, he had had enough. He took a deep breath and pressed his hands to his desk, standing.

His sons backed up, distancing themselves from each other, creating space in the already cramped room. 

“As compelling as all of your arguments are, only one thing matters. Retribution. Aelle needs to pay for what he has done to us.” He came out from behind his desk and crossed the room, taking Ivar’s place in front of the window. 

“He needs to feel my pain. This is the second child I have lost. No parent should have to outlive their children. It is worse than death. Aelle needs to feel what he has done to me.” He turned and faced his sons. “To all of us.” 

“Are we going to kill his son?” Hvitserk asked. Ragnar smiled and shook his head. 

“No. I would not deprive a father of his children.” He looked at each of his sons, studying them. “But I will deprive a child of his father.” The brother’s exchanged apprehensive glances but remained silent. Ragnar had turned back to the window and settled his hands in his pockets. 

“Do you remember the story of Jarl Borg?” Ragnar asked. He kept his back to his sons. Björn was the one to step forward. 

“He was an ally. He betrayed you. Took Kattegat, tried to kill Aslaug and Hvitserk and Ubbe and Sigurd. Killed many of your men. Tried to kill you.” Ragnar nodded and Björn took this as encouragement to continue. 

“You overtook him. Took back your land and your people. Captured him.” Björn spoke softly in the tense room. He could feel his brothers’ eyes on his back. He was the only one old enough to remember the events of that night. His brothers had all been too young. Ivar hadn’t even been born.

“What did I do to him, my son?” Ragnar drawled, his voice low. Björn glanced at Ubbe whose gaze was laser focused on their father. 

It was moments like this where Björn was reminded of his father’s power. These tense, quiet moments where all Ragnar had to do was lower his voice and speak softly and the whole world would stop to listen.   

“You blood eagled him.” Björn whispered. Ragnar nodded slowly. 

“Yes.” Ragnar breathed. “A fitting punishment, don’t you think?”

.

“Sir, there is someone here who’d like an audience.” Ecbert looked up from his paper, cursing internally at the stupidity of his companion. Sigurd Lothbrok was dead in a drive-by shooting, his body undergoing an autopsy but Ecbert only needed one guess to figure out who was behind it. 

He’d told Aelle to be patient. The fool just couldn’t do it. 

“Tell them I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.” He waved carelessly. He looked up when he didn’t hear the door close. His attendant was still standing in the doorway, his body tense with nerves. Ecbert sat back. “Well, what do they want?”

His attendant cleared his throat. “She says she has information about Ragnar Lothbrok that might interest you.” Ecbert arched a perfectly shaped brow before waving his hand forward. 

“Send her in then.”  

The woman who entered was tall and thin with flowing blonde hair that reached her waist. She carried herself with a dignity seen in the upper class but dressed in a way that implied she was more middle or lower class. Her hands were clasped in a loose knot in front of her and her face betrayed little. It was her eyes that stopped Ecbert short. Her eyes gave away her sanity or lack thereof. 

 “What can I do for you, Miss…” He tapered off, waiting for her to offer her name. 

She didn’t. 

“I know how you can stop Ragnar Lothbrok.” The confidence in her voice was astounding. Ecbert snorted and shook his head.

“Pray tell, how exactly can I stop Ragnar Lothbrok? He is already the richest man on this side of the country and he has powerful allies in all areas of the government. Tell me, what do you know that I do not that will help me get rid of Ragnar Lothbrok?” 

If she heard the sarcasm and skepticism in his voice, she didn’t show it. 

“His children are his weakness. He does everything for them and with them in mind. Get rid of the children and he’ll have nothing.” She did show emotion then. Ecbert laughed at her and she looked affronted. 

“I am well aware of Ragnar’s attachment to his children. But I will not kill them. Not so soon after the death of their brother. Now please, William will show you out.”

As if called, the door opened and the attendant appeared, his arm outstretched behind him, waiting for the woman to leave. She made no move to do so. 

“You don’t have to kill them all in one fell swoop. Just one at a time. As one falls, Ragnar will grow weaker with grief and the rest will be easy.” She insisted, a hint of desperation behind her words.

Ecbert stood, his anger pulsating through the room. “Do you take me for a fool? Hm? I know that Ragnar’s weakness is children. But I have enough respect for the man to let him grieve one son before depriving him of the next. Or are you just trying to get me killed? Killing them all at once would be worlds easier than one at a time. I’m more likely to survive that way.

“Now, you’ve said your piece. Be gone from my sight before I feel you’ve overstayed your welcome.” He looked towards William at the door who moved forward and took the woman by the arm. She jerked against him, causing them to stumble. She took the chance to pull herself from William’s grasp and slam her hands on Ecbert’s desk. 

“You’re a coward.” She snarled. Ecbert reared back like he’d been slapped. Never had anyone, let alone a woman dared to speak so to his face. 

“Madam, you have overstayed your welcome here. Be grateful that I do not strangle you here and now for your insolence. I have killed stronger men for less. Remove yourself from my sight.” He hissed.

“You’re afraid of the retribution that will rain down if you act now. That makes you a coward.”

“I would be an idiot not to fear Ragnar’s retribution. You must be desperate if you’ve come to me with so little. I’ll not ask again. Leave. Now.”

“Ivar is the problem.” She said with confidence she had no business feeling. 

Ecbert sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Ivar has always been the problem. This is not news to me.” His voice was clipped and short.

The woman straightened and crossed her arms over her chest. “I know how to get rid of him.” 

Ecbert opened his eyes and stared at the woman with trepidation. She continued. “Once Ivar falls, the rest will soon follow.” Ecbert shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was about to listen to her. He was either stupid or desperate. Maybe it was a little of both.

“What did you have in mind exactly?” 

The grin that overtook her face was just this side of insane. 

.

Aaline leaned against the door jamb, watching Ivar dress. It was late in the evening and he was preparing for his raid on Aelle. 

He had spent the better part of the last two days holed up in his father’s office discussing what needed to be done to avenge Sigurd. She could see the lines of anger and grief in his face every night when he came to their bed. He struggled to keep his eyes open long enough to kiss her goodnight before he was passed out.

He was gone by the time she woke and she knew that he was busy plotting.

It seemed they had finally devised a plan. 

“How long will you be?” She asked, feigning casualty. 

Ivar stopped lacing his boots and glanced up at her. 

Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was looking down at her feet. 

She was just as exhausted as he was if not more so. She had come to their bed every night physically and emotionally drained. She had taken the lead in Sibylle’s care and had spent the last two days tending to her. 

Making sure she ate, making sure she bathed, consoling her and helping Lagertha. Lagertha had taken it upon herself to plan the funeral. Sibylle was in no position to do so. She struggled daily to get out of bed and Torvi and Aaline had to drag her out of bed and to the back garden just to make sure she got some exercise. 

She was in no place to plan her husband’s funeral.

Lagertha had planned a day long celebration of life with a massive feast. There would be wine, food, music, and dancing. Of course this would all take place after Sigurd’s funeral pyre. Sigurd’s body would be burned on a pyre that Ivar and his brother’s would build. Offerings and ornaments would be placed on the Pyre so that Sigurd would have things to take with him into Valhalla. 

Ivar had the utmost faith in Lagertha, though he felt that the funeral should take place after their vengeance on Aelle.

He sat up and sighed. 

“It is hard to say. Our timing depends on Aelle and what he’ll do.” She nodded and looked up, meeting his eyes with watery ones of her own. 

He drew his eyebrows together and took a deep breath, letting the air fill his chest, feeling the strain in his lungs, before he exhaled. “Why are you crying?” His voice was soft in the space between them.

She laughed once and pressed her hand against her mouth, afraid it would turn into a sob if she continued. She shook her head, unable to look at him for fear of breaking down. He said her name and she sighed, resigned. “Because I am afraid.” She could not speak louder than a whisper for she knew her voice would break.

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid you won’t return.” 

Ivar stood up and approached her slowly. He stopped in front of her and, with tender hands, took her face between his palms. “Aaline…” He searched her eyes, looking for what, she didn’t know. He seemed to find it because the next minute his lips were on hers, hard. 

She moaned and brought her hands up to his shoulders, clenching her fists in his shirt, pulling it tight. Ivar sucked in a sharp breath and pulled away, locking eyes with her again.

“I will never leave you.” He whispered against her parted lips. She sobbed once, tears streaming down her face, and pressed forward, molding herself to his body.  

.

Ivar crouched low behind the bushes in Aelle’s backyard. His hips protested the position but he ignored them in favor of watching Aelle’s bedroom window. The light was still on. He cursed when Hvitserk came up behind him.

“Nothing yet?” Ivar glared at his brother before shaking his head and turning back to the window. 

“What are they doing anyway? It’s after midnight.” Hvitserk looked at his wrist for a watch that he wasn’t wearing. “I bet they're getting freaky. You think Aelle’s wife still lets him stick it in her every night? Can he even find it? I mean, he’s so…”

“I know what you mean.” Ivar cut his brother off. “His wife is a night owl. She reads.” Hvitserk side eyed Ivar before snorting.

“If I was her, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near me. I bet it’s like a shriveled old pickle.” Ivar rolled his eyes as Hvitserk laughed at his brilliance.    

“Tell me the plan again.” Ivar demanded. He needed to get Hvitserk back on track. 

Hvitserk huffed but relented. “You and I watch the back and wait for the light to go out. When it does, we text Ubbe and Björn who will wait 20 minutes and then they’ll use the French doors on the side patio to enter through the kitchen.”

“Security cameras?” Ivar asked only half listening. 

“Disabled. Björn’s got the jammer in the car. It’s good for ten miles.”

“Security system?”

“Ubbe called the company. Said that the area has been experiencing connection problems and that they’re working post haste but some systems may go off unexpectedly. He’s got the decoder in his bag.”

“Guard dogs?”

“Unconscious.”

Ivar looked over at Hvitserk who didn’t look at him. “I stole some of Margrethe’s Xanax and stuffed it in some ground beef. They’ll be out for hours.” Hvitserk elaborated. 

Ivar snorted. “If they wake up.” 

He waited only a few minutes before he spoke again. “What happens after 20 minutes?”

Hvitserk groaned and hung his head. “Must we go over this again? Björn made me recite it until I didn’t leave anything out.”

Ivar ignored him. “What happens after 20 minutes?” He spoke through clenched teeth. 

“Björn and Ubbe enter through the French doors and disable the silent alarm. They have 30 seconds before it’s not silent anymore. If it goes off, we take off and hope they make it out. When it doesn’t go off, we wait for Ubbe’s text and we break in through the back door. 

“We sneak upstairs, inject Aelle with a horse tranquilizer and haul him out of the house like used furniture.”

He turned to Ivar as if he was expecting some kind of commendation but Ivar just slapped his shoulder and pointed to the bedroom window. Hvitserk turned and saw that the light had gone out. 

“Text Ubbe.” Ivar hissed. 

Hvitserk rolled his eyes but did as he was told. Ivar kept his eyes on the window for any movement. He could feel Hvitserk shifting beside him. He was building up to something so he left his brother off the hook. “Was there something else, Hvitty?”   

Hvitserk opened his mouth to answer but no words came out. Ivar turned to look at him and smirked. “Cat got your tongue?” Hvitserk narrowed his eyes and landed a solid punch to Ivar’s shoulder. Ivar chuckled and looked back at the bedroom window. 

Hvitserk finally found his courage and asked, “So, you and Aaline, huh?” 

Ivar slowly turned to face his brother who had no shame. “Well, she is my wife, Hvitserk. It comes with the territory.” 

“No… well, yes, but… what I meant was…”

“I know what you meant. And yes, me and Aaline.” 

Hvitserk grinned and he was trying so hard not to show his teeth that his face was tight with tension and his eyes nearly clenched shut. 

“I knew it. It was only a matter of time. No one believed me. They all thought you would run her off. Said she was too smart for you but I knew you’d make it work. I knew it the minute I saw her. You can’t resist a challenge.” 

Ivar had turned back to his brother and stared at him through narrowed eyes. “They all thought I’d run her off?”

“Well, yeah, but you didn’t.” Hvitserk stated like it was obvious. 

“What else did they think?” Hvitserk looked over at Ivar and seemed to sense the danger he was in because he suddenly looked down at his nonexistent watch and hummed. 

“Oh, look, it’s been 20 minutes.” Ivar watched Hvitserk stand and head towards the backdoor on tiptoes. He growled and followed swiftly behind. 

They pressed back against the siding and waited. 

Ivar glanced around the backyard, his adrenaline pumping. Hvitserk nudged him and jerked his head inside, indicating Ubbe’s signal. Ivar turned to the door and, with quick hands that won him Ragnar’s praise, he unlocked the door and shoved Hvitserk inside. 

His brother cursed but otherwise did not react. Ubbe and Björn were in the kitchen. 

“Everything’s set. We do this quick, we do this perfect. We’re in, we’re out. No one gets hurt.” Björn said. 

“Except Aelle.” Hvitserk snorted. Ubbe slapped his arm and Hvitserk shrugged. 

“Last bedroom on the left end of the hall.” Ivar said, leading the charge. The rest of his brothers followed behind on quiet feet. Ivar kept close to walls to limit the noise on the floorboards. As soon as he reached the landing, he took out his gun and attached his silencer. Björn glared as he passed him down the hall but Ivar ignored him. Hvitserk stopped beside him and took out the tranquilizers. He had three full syringes in his hand. Ivar gave him a look and he just shrugged. 

“Better to be safe than sorry.” Ivar rolled his eyes and followed Ubbe.

Björn jerked his head towards the door and Ubbe nodded, wrapping his hand around the knob and turning. The door eked open and Ivar was the first inside. 

He came around the left side of the bed, the side that Aelle’s wife, Ealhswith, slept. He watched as Ubbe and Björn came in, one standing at the foot of the bed and the other standing on Aelle’s side. Hvitserk was the last in.

He stepped up and knelt beside Aelle, removing the plastic covering from the first syringe. He smirked down at Aelle before plunging the needle into the side of his neck. “Sleep well, Aelle. It will be your last.”

As if his words were a trigger, Aelle’s eyes snapped open and his hand wrapped around Hvitserk’s throat. 

Hvitserk spluttered and choked, his own hands coming up around Aelle’s wrist. Björn and Ubbe jumped forward, Ubbe helping Hvitserk tug against Aelle while Björn latched himself to Aelle’s back.

Aelle jerked forward, knocking the contents of his nightstand to the floor, waking his wife. She jerked up but was quickly met with the business end of Ivar’s gun. She didn’t even have time to scream before Ivar spoke. 

“Scream and I’ll shoot you.” She snapped her jaw shut and stared at Ivar, tears streaming down her face. Ivar did not look away.

Aelle roared and yanked Hvitserk closer, spittle flying from his mouth. Hvitserk was turning a dangerous shade of purple. 

“Hvitserk, the needles.” Björn grunted. 

With help from Ubbe, Hvitserk plunged the two remaining syringes into Aelle’s neck. The Saxon flagged just a bit but his hold on Hvitserk didn’t lessen. 

“Ivar! Help us!” Ubbe cried. 

“Aelle.” Ivar called, his voice calm and soft. 

The Saxon king turned his head and saw Ivar with his gun pointed at Ealhswith’s head. “Let him go or I’ll kill your wife.”

Aelle narrowed his eyes and pulled Hvitserk closer to him, his fingers flexing around his neck. Ivar watched the hand tighten around his brother’s throat before he turned cool, empty eyes to the weakened king. “You don’t believe me?” 

With no preamble, Ivar fired a single shot between Ealhswith’s eyes.

The other men stopped, frozen as her body collapsed back onto the bed. A pool of blood leaked out onto the bed. A splatter pattern decorate the wall behind the headboard. 

Aelle roared and released Hvitserk. He lunged toward the bed but Björn kept his hold tight and, with three horse tranquilizers in his system, Aelle was out in no time. 

Hvitserk heaved and gasped in the corner, Ubbe hovering over him. Ivar glanced once to the body of Aelle’s wife before he stowed his gun. 

“Ivar, we said…”

“I know what we said.” Ivar looked up at his oldest brother. Björn liked to stick to plans and it frustrated him when Ivar uphending these plans. 

“We didn’t agree to kill his wife.” Björn hissed, his teeth clenched and his eyes hard. 

“I know what we agreed but plans change. We didn’t plan on him waking up. We didn’t plan on him fighting as hard as he did. Frankly, I think this works in our favor.”

“A dead woman works in our favor?”

“Yes, he saw her die. He knows what we’re here for. He’ll beg for death in no time now that he knows what we’re willing to do.” 

Ivar kept his gaze on Björn for a few more seconds before turning to Hvitserk who was standing now but with a ring of thick bruises already forming around his neck. “Alright, Hvitty?” 

Hvitserk nodded, coughing, and clasped Ivar’s shoulder. 

Ivar looked back at Björn before jerking his head towards Aelle’s body. “Let’s move. It’ll take time to drag him down the stairs and we don’t want anyone to see us leave.”

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