#the volva to be and the volva who wasn’t

[bedlamsbard]

I got into your fics because of Thor and Loki.. and while I love the world (and you basically sold me on Steve/Nat) I am still very curious about the twins. What made you go the prophecy route?

Oh, man, this was almost three years ago -- with rare exception I use the same background and worldbuilding across stories, so while the prophecy is introduced back in Morning, it's also mentioned in the Yonderverse. It's just that Yonder isn't really a story where that kind of thing features, and Morning's all about destiny/fate/timelines, which is part of the reason it's in there. IIRC, the other reason was pushback against some of the meta/fic I'd seen in the Thor fandom back then, since that was still when I was still reading in the fandom. I wanted to take Loki (and Thor) out of operating in a very human realm, where there were very direct parallels to things that could happen to, like...normal people, and put them back into a mythical realm where stuff like the prophecy was taken very seriously. But it's important that it's also an ambiguous prophecy that could as easily have gone the other way, which I don't think has actually been revealed anywhere, because the prophecy has been most directly dealt with in a chapter of Morning that hasn't been posted yet, but has been written since 2021. So I've had this all figured out since then, I just haven't been able to use that chapter yet. (It is a full-chapter altverse flashback, and it has to follow a present-day chapter.)

Hela is actually the first person to mention it in Morning:

She had known for five centuries before her exile that they were coming, her little brothers. Odin’s sons, battle-born, battle-worn. Prophecy could leave many things to chance – the finer details, mostly – but the broad strokes were always certain. Hela had sat in the hall of the vǫlur and known by the end of the chief seeress’s first stanza that it was the end of her. As soon as Odin knew of the new prophecy, he would have no more use for her, not when Asgard’s wyrd said he would have his matched pair of perfect princes. She had slaughtered all of the vǫlur for that, hoping that Odin would never hear of the prophecy, but the vǫlur were like the wyrd they spun out – no one, not even the goddess of death, could truly destroy them. Sooner or later a vǫlva would come to Asgard bearing the Norns’ words, though it had been, Hela assumed, after her exile, since she had no memory of the vǫlur’s return. Even one of the Aesir could not stop fate, merely delay it. Fate, like death, was inevitable.

This introduces my take on the volur and the first hint of the prophecy, that it pretty significantly predates Thor's and Loki's births (by fourteen centuries), and that Hela is the only one that knows the entire thing because she killed the volur who spoke about it. It's also mentioned very briefly in Yonder and at one point Yonder went into more detail and I cut that because it's not thematically important in Yonder the way it is in Morning.

“You didn’t know?” Sif said to the Valkyrie. “It’s a very famous story.” “Yes,” Loki said, “as in ‘story,’ as in ‘fictional,’ as in ‘Odin made it all up.’” He ground his teeth and looked irritated. “What story?” the Valkyrie said pointedly. Sif shot a glance at Thor and Loki, then explained, “About Odin’s sons being born at the beginning and end of the Battle of Jotunheim. There’s supposed to be a prophecy – Odin’s sons, battle-born –”

So it features pretty significantly in an unposted chapter of Morning, here are the two most relevant sections. (Farbauti's a volva but was not at Urdarbrunnr when Hela did her slaughter, and isn't aware that it was Hela who did it.)

The giantess didn’t look at him. “Twenty-four centuries ago the vǫlur were slaughtered at Urðarbrunnr.  I wasn’t there with my sisters that day, but I know what prophecy it was they sang into being.  It did not come to Asgard, I think, for many centuries afterward, nor was the whole of it brought to Valaskjalf for the ears of Odin One-eye.” Frigga hesitated before she shook her head slightly. “What prophecy?” Loki said. “What – the prophecy?” “Odin’s sons, battle-born,” Farbauti quoted softly. “There’s more, but that’s the part you and Odin cared about, isn’t it?  That he might have his matched pair of perfect princes.  Never mind that you might never hear the rest of it, because the vǫlur that still trusted Asgard brought those stanzas to you in time, but those who would never trust Asgard again brought the rest to me.” No single vǫlva ever got the whole of a prophecy, Loki knew.  Individuals got bits and pieces, but it took many vǫlur to piece together the entirety of one.  Since the massacre at Urðarbrunnr he didn’t know if more than a handful had been completed; most of the known prophecies dated from before the slaughter. “They are my sons,” Frigga said, her voice hard. “Yes,” Farbauti said, “but they could have been mine.  Both of them could have been mine, your blood-son and his twin.”

and then a little later, after they argue for a while and some other stuff is discussed.

Farbauti nodded, then crossed back to the brazier with the kettle and poured herself another cup of spiced wine.  As she spooned honey into it, she said, “When the vǫlur see the future, it isn’t set.  We see possible futures – certain things that will happen, because they’re part of the pattern laid out in the great tapestry the Norns make of our wyrd, but there are many ways that those threads can be woven.  And those threads themselves are always being spun.  Yes, our own choices make up our ørlǫg along with our natures, but so do the choices of all those who come before us.  What was possible when the vǫlur speak the great patterns of the Norns into being is not always possible a century later, let alone ten.  The possibilities narrow as the cloth is worked and the thread of our ørlǫg is spun.” She set her hip against the table and drank deep from her cup, then quoted softly, “Odin’s sons, battle-born, battle-worn – that’s the version you know, isn’t it?” Loki nodded shortly.  “Everyone says Thor and I were born at the beginning and end of the Battle of Jotunheim.” “I can’t speak for your brother,” Farbauti said, “though I don’t know that there’s any reason to lie about that –” “There isn’t,” Frigga said. “Thor was born when the Bifrost brought the last of the einherjar to Jotunheim.” Farbauti smiled, thin. “Your other son took his first breath as the first of my people died.” Loki felt the muscle in his jaw jump again, but glanced upwards at his mother anyway.  He tried to make his voice light as he said, “So Thor’s still older than me.” Frigga hesitated for a brief instant, then said, “Sixteen minutes.  I scried it to be certain.”  She leaned down and pressed her lips briefly to the crown of his head, making Farbauti’s brows knit a little – a somewhat disconcerting effect on her Jotun features. Loki let his breath out slowly, suddenly dizzy with relief.  “So we did come into this world together,” he said.  He had been afraid to ask before, to find one more part of his reality crumbling around him; having it back… “Yes,” Farbauti said.  When they both looked up at her, she shrugged. “It’s their wyrd.  Odin’s sons, battle-born, battle-worn,” she quoted, the rhythm of the familiar words a little different than an Asgardian would have used.  What she said next was entirely unfamiliar.  “Or Laufey’s sons, battle-won, bone-born.” Loki heard the sound he had made only after it passed his lips, a soft grunt like he had punched in the gut.  You didn’t have to be a vǫlva to interpret that. His mother’s grip was so tight on his shoulders that he suspected he would find bruises there later. Farbauti made a gesture to toss the matter aside. “It’s done.  What might be is now only what could have been, and ultimately what never was.  That path was closed to all of us at least a century before your birth.  Laufey never worked up the courage to challenge Asgard on its own ground, just proxy wars.”  She smiled a little, idle.  “Or I suppose he might have taken more than Odin’s eye that day, though I doubt it.  Regardless –”  She shrugged.  “It’s done.” “Yes,” Frigga said softly. “It’s done.”

The Asgardians never knew the other version of the prophecy. That is actually a reference to a What If comic called What If Thor Was Raised by Frost Giants, where Laufey does kill Odin and take Thor to raise him himself.

Part of the reason the prophecy is in Morning is to set up the idea that there are things that are going to happen, though they're conceptualized in different ways depending who says it -- obviously the Asgardians and the Jotuns think of fate very differently than (my version of) the TVA, since Mobius gives a long explanation earlier in Morning. But those things are going to happen aren't always going to happen in the same way or in predictable ways, so the prophecy sets up that Loki and Thor were always going to be raised together as twins, but not necessarily in the context that they were. And again, part of that is just to put the Asgardians and company into a non-human and very mythical context, that they accept is governed by other powers.

All of this is also true for the Yonderverse, it just doesn't come up because it's not really relevant there. There are brief mentions of the prophecy, and then Urdarbrunnr and the volur are mentioned a few times (they'd both feature in the Horizon sequel), but it's just not thematically relevant in the same way it is for Morning. But it's still part of my worldbuilding.

[moonchild-things]

Chapter Six: The Procedure

Summary: Delphia Odinsdottir is the Goddess of Virtue. While stopping petty fights between her brothers, sparing with her friends, and practicing with her mother, Delphia has visions of the future. However, her once boring, uneventful life as Princess is disrupted by one of the most disturbing visions she had ever seen. Which leads her to run into a patriotic captain in red, white and blue.

Word Count: 3973

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NEW YORK WAS JUST AS BUSTLING AS it always is. Cars drove down the many roads, children played in the streets, and people idly walked on the sidewalk. Sitting in one of those cars, sliding across the cracked asphalt, Steve looked through the windows watching alleyways pass by. He was doing his best to try and distract himself for the time being. After all, today was the big day. His life was about to change if this experiment really worked. Though he had faith in Dr. Erskine's ability to get this procedure to work smoothly.

Next to Steve, Delphia fidgeted in her seat and wrung her fingers together. She did her best to try and hide the nervous feeling that chilled her to her bones. The Volva already knew how this day was going to go and she hated it. It was moments like these that her blessing of foresight really felt like a curse. This felt almost as horrible as the vision that had given her cause to leave her home. This time it involved someone who she had come to know and admire. Abraham has become her good friend, and she certainly wasn't ready to see him go. Though that may be one reason she never really left her home. Certain beings, especially on Midgard, had such short life spans. Why would she want to get attached to someone who would die within a short span of time? She lived for hundreds of years! Midgardians had such fickle lives that she would compare to those of a pet. Still, to make that connection with someone and to see their life taken in such a horrific way and before he was really meant to pass on, was even more heartbreaking than the fact that he had a short life, to begin with.

As Delphia continued to wallow in her own sorrowful thoughts, recognition flashed through Steve's blue eyes as he looked out the window. "I know this neighborhood. I got beat up in that alley." He pointed out, "And that parking lot. And behind that diner." He trailed off realizing that he probably shouldn't be pointing out how many times he had lost fights to the women in the car.

From the front passenger seat, Peggy turned around to look at the small man. One of her thin eyebrows was raised in question, "Did you have something against running away?"

"You start running, they'll never let you stop." Steve said strongly and straightened himself in his seat, "You stand up, push back. Can't say no forever, right?"

Delphia's admiration for his words broke through her worrying thoughts. For a moment, just a short moment, Steve had distracted her from the devastating images that were invading her mind. She smiled softly, though wasn't nearly as large as they usually are, "Very wise words, Steven."

"Oh, uh," his eyes widened at having been complimented by her. Sure, they've known each other for a while now and we're friends, however, he was still flustered whenever she did something like this. Who wouldn't be flustered by this goddess of a woman?! "I guess they are."

Peggy smiled at the interaction as she found it quite adorable. She cleared her throat to get the two to focus on something other than each other. "I know a little of what that's like. To have every door shut in your face."

"I guess I just don't know why you'd wanna join the army if you're a beautiful dame." He caught himself, seeing as he said something that would embarrass himself. He began to stutter over his words, "Or a beautiful… a woman. An agent, not a dame! You are beautiful, but…"

"You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?" Peggy asked, on the verge of laughing at Steve's unfortunate lack of social skills with the opposite gender. Though she found it quite cute, in a way.

He winced and turned to look out the window, in order to hide his pink cheeks from both women. "This is the longest conversation I've had with one besides Delphia. Women aren't exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on."

"I do not understand why," Delphia spoke up softly, drawing Steve's attention once again. He is such an interesting man to her and she honestly didn't know why women weren't willing to get to know him more. If people could just look past society's ideas of pursuing someone based on how attractive they are, people would probably be more confident in themselves. "You are quite an interesting man."

He cleared his throat, "Well, asking a woman to dance always seems so terrifying. And the past few years just didn't seem to matter that much. Figured I'd wait."

"For what?" The woman in the front asked curiously.

There was a moment of silence before Steve glanced between the two women, almost in embarrassment. A certain longing lingering in his eyes as he looked at each of them. "The right partner."

Delphia smiled softly while looking out the window bashfully. Delphia certainly isn't an oblivious woman, at least when it comes to something like this. The princess has lived long enough to have a couple of suiters court her while in Asgard, though none of them really caught her eye(They also may have been frightened off by her brothers who thought no one was worthy of their precious sister). She had a feeling that Steve may have developed feelings for her for a little bit, as she may have done for him. Though there was the thought in the back of her head reminding her that she couldn't really seek a relationship with him. There were just far too many complications that would come with it. However, that couldn't stop the way her heart fluttered whenever she talked with him.

The car finally arrived at their destination. A dusty old-looking antique shop was their stop for the day, which didn't make much sense to Steve. The trio climbed out of the car and headed to an antique store that was packed with plenty of miscellaneous, old knick-knacks.

"This way," Peggy said as they walked towards the small shop.

Steve looked between the two women in front of him and put on his hat, "What are we doing here?" It's a strange place to be, considering they're supposed to be heading towards his procedure.

"Follow me," she simply said as the two women led the way. They entered the dusty-looking shop as the eyes of a few men followed after them.

An old woman walked up to the trio with a kind smile, "Wonderful weather this morning isn't it?"

"Yes," Peggy agreed politely, "but I always carry an umbrella."

Steve watched the exchange with confusion painting his face. What he didn't know was that this was a secret code between the two. Delphia continued to lead Steve towards the back of the store where they stood in front of some bookshelves. She stayed quiet, a bit more quiet than she usually is. Both Peggy and Steven noticed it, but they chalked it up to her nerves. Since they all are quite anxious about today. Unbeknownst to them, she wasn't just nervous about the experiment. She already knew that it would work from her vision. Though she also knew about how both she and Abraham would be injured just minutes after their success. Of course, Abraham, her closest friend since she came to Midgard, would be fatally injured, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

They waited for a moment before the bookshelf opened up, to reveal a long metal hallway. They glided through the hidden passageway and started to march down the hall. Every nerve in Steve's body was buzzing. It slowly started to set in his mind that this is really happening, he truly was going to be experimented on. He had full trust in the work that they were doing, but he couldn't help himself to be nervous.

As they walked past the other soldiers and doctors, eyes followed them in a mixture of awe, skepticism, and hope. This scrawny man is the possible future of the US army, a piece in the defeat of the Germans, they hoped.

They finally made it to a pair of doors that were opened up by some soldiers and found scientists preparing their machinery for the experiment. Though at the sight of the trio, more specifically Steve, everyone paused to stare at them. Steve looked completely nervous about this, from the way he was starting to pale a bit and with all this attention on him. Delphia placed her delicate hand on his shoulder and squeezed it slightly. He gave her a small smile, grateful that he had his friend there to help calm him down, at least a bit.

They all climbed down the stairs as everyone resumed what they were doing. "Good morning." Abraham greeted them by first allowing Delphia to peck his cheek and then shaking Steve's hand. Though just as he did that, a photographer came up and took a picture of them with a blinding flash. "Please, not now." The photographer lumbers off as Steve drinks in the machinery that would hopefully turn him into a super-soldier. Abraham takes in his apprehensive expression, "Are you ready?" Steve just nods, "Good. Take off your shirt, your tie, and your hat."

Steve blushed slightly at the command, even more so when Delphia walked over to take them from him. Though he followed through with the instructions hastily. The brunette helped Steve settle onto the pod. The calm aura around her helped soothe Steve just a bit more as her wide eyes looked down at him, "are you sure that you will be alright, Steven?"

He nodded his head firmly, a small part of him not really wanting to appear weak in front of her. "Yeah, of course."

Delphia could see how he was keeping his apprehensions hidden, even though she is doing the same thing. She placed a comforting hand on his arm with her ever-present kind expression, "I have faith in Abraham and his work. There is no doubt in my mind that this procedure will be a success. We would never place you in a situation that would cause you harm, Steven" Her honey-coated words relaxed him even further, as the tight muscles in his body lightened up.

"Comfortable?" Abraham asked as he walked over to the two. Delphia slowly pulled herself away from Steve, a bit embarrassed that they had been caught in what she considered a bit of an intimate moment.

Steve nodded his head, "It's a little big." He then tried to joke a bit, "You save me any of that schnapps?"

"Not as much as I should have." Abraham cringed a bit, "Sorry. Next time. Mr. Stark, how are your levels?"

Steve raised an eyebrow in a bit of surprise at the playboy being here. Well, then again, who else would be helping with this. Howard Stark is one of, if not the, smartest men in the United States. The dashing genius walked up to them, "Levels at one hundred percent."

"Good."

"We may dim half the lights in Brooklyn, but we are ready as we'll ever be." He then laid eyes on the brunette that handed him a clipboard, "Delphia."

She rolled her eyes slightly at him with a small endearing smile, "Mr. Stark." He reminded her of Fandral. The dashing ladies man who tried to charm every woman they came across. It made her homesick in a way. While she found Fandral's attempts at flirting with her somewhat annoying at times, she still missed him. As well as her other friends on Asgard. She could only hope that she would get to return home soon. Though in order to do that, she must live through the vision that she had seen years ago.

To say that Steve didn't necessarily like the interaction, as small as it is, is a small understatement. Considering he's aware of Howard's reputation and that Delphia's extremely beautiful looks, it wasn't that hard for him to question if Howard had flirted with her. It didn't really sit right with him, but he shouldn't dwell on that right now.

Abraham then turned to the other woman besides them, "Agent Carter? Don't you think you would be more comfortable in the booth?"

"Oh, yes." Peggy cleared her throat, "Of course. Sorry."

"Good," As Peggy made her way up towards the viewing booth, Abraham was handed a microphone and he spoke into it, "Do you hear me? is this on?" There was a small bit of feedback from the speakers, which caused everyone to cringe, but Abraham continued on, "Ladies and gentlemen, today we take not another step towards annihilation, but the first step on the path to peace. We begin with a series of micro injections into the subjects major muscle groups." Abraham explained as the other scientists did as he said, "The serum infusion will cause immediate cellular change. And then to stimulate growth, the subject will be saturated with Vita-Rays."

A nurse walks up to Steve with a syringe and injects him with it. He cringes a bit, "That wasn't so bad."

Abraham and Delphia shared a look with each other. He then turned down to Steve, "That was penicillin." He looked back up with a small sigh, "Serum infusion beginning in five, four, three, two, one." The pads of needles settle onto Steve's skin and Delphia places her hand on Steve's shoulder as she sees him cringe in pain. She certainly didn't like seeing him in pain, at all. Though if he wished to continue with this, then she would not stop him. The blue liquid slowly is injected into Steve's body, it keeps going for a moment before Steve's blue eyes open wide. Delphia stepped back to watch to procedure from a bit of a safe distance. Since she wasn't necessarily needed for anything, she could really go up and sit with Peggy. Though Abraham knew she would much rather be down here to make sure that everything went smoothly. "Now, Mr. Stark." The millionaire slowly moved a lever which caused the pod to move into a vertical position and encased Steve completely. The others started to hook the pod up to the other machines as Abraham walked up to the pod and knocked on it, "Steven, can you hear me?"

"It's probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?" Steve said jokingly. Delphia couldn't help herself but giggle lightly. Even though this nerve-racking experience, Steve was still able to make small jokes. She found that so amusing.

Abraham chuckles slightly and turns to Howard, "We will proceed."

Howard manned the controls and turned a few dials, put on his stylish sunglasses, and moved towards a wheel. He started to turn it, "That's ten percent." A light started to grow from within the pod, so bright that everyone not wearing goggles had to look away from it. "Twenty percent. Thirty. That's forty percent."

"Vital signs are normal," a doctor called out. Everything was looking alright at the moment, there seemed to be no hitch in their plan.

"That's fifty percent," Howard called out, "Sixty. Seventy.

Though while everyone thought that this was going perfectly smoothly, Steve started to scream out from within the pod. Everyone grew alarmed, especially Delphia. Her heart started to race as she clutched her hands to her chest in anxiety.

Abraham too was overly concerned now, he shouted, "Steven!"

Peggy came running out of the booth, "Shut it down."

"Steven!" Delphia shouted out in concern. She couldn't really do anything at this moment. She didn't completely understand all of the science that goes into what this experiment is, so she didn't really know how to stop it. Though she certainly wants to now. Steve is in obvious pain, more so now than ever, and she wants it to stop.

Abraham jumped up and started to knock on the pod, "Steven!" There was no real reply from him except more groaning and shouting.

"Shut it down!" Peggy called out again.

Seeing no other choice but to make sure that he was safe, Abraham turned to the controller, "Kill the reactor, Mr. Stark! Turn it off! Kill it! Kill the reactor!"

"No!" Steve suddenly exclaimed from inside the pod, "Don't! I can do this!"

Everyone shared a look with each other, unsure if that was true. Delphia gnawed at her bottom lip and looked to Abraham for what to do. She certainly didn't want Steve to be hurt, or even die from this experiment. However, they've come this far. There wasn't much else they could do nor would they really want to stop. Though if Steve says that he can, then she believes him. Not only that, but she knew that this worked, in the end, the procedure would be a success. She just didn't realize that he had gone through pain like this to get there. Abraham looked to her for a second opinion and found her giving him a small nod. An indication to let it continue.

Howard called out, "Eighty. Ninety. That's one hundred percent."

All of the machines around them started to spark and crackle. The blinding light was starting to get too much, even for Delphia. Though eventually, the light dies down, and everything becomes still. Everyone in the room held their breath. There was no sound or movement from within the pod.

"Mr. Stark?" Abraham called out, telling him to open up the pod.

However, once the pod was open and Steve was revealed, everyone was in shock. No longer was Steve some scrawny little man anymore with a feeble body. No, He was now tall, muscular, and healthy-looking. Their experiment was a success! The first-ever super soldier had now been born!

Abraham moved to Steve's side quickly, helping him out of the pod. "Steven. Steven."

"I did it," He mumbles out while stumbling down onto his slightly shaky feet with the help of Abraham and Howard.

The older man nodded, "Yeah, yeah. I think we did it."

On the other side of Steve, Howard stared at him in awe, maybe not completely believing that they succeeded. "We actually did it."

Delphia quickly walked over to Steve with a new shirt to wear over his new physique. She certainly was impressed with the outcome in her vision, however, seeing it in person was a whole different experience. She wouldn't lie, she may or may not be completely flustered by him at the moment. Though what mattered was his well-being, not her racing heart. "Are you alright?"

Steve panted, a bit disorientated from what had just happened, "Yeah, yeah."

Delphia smiled widely, "How do you feel?"

He looked down at Delphia and breathed out happily, "Taller."

Delphia chuckled, seeing now that he was quite a bit taller than her, "I would suspect so."

The officials who witnessed this miracle congratulated Abraham. All of them are amazed at this feat in scientific history. Not only is this a big discovery within science and what they know is possible, but it also is a big help towards their efforts for the war. Imagine, super-soldiers used to help with the defeat of the Germans. This war certainly would come to a swift end.

Abraham was shaking the hand of a government official, "Thank you, sir." He looked over to Steve and Delphia who were happily speaking about how well this all went. He is not only elated that their experiment worked, but also that Delphia and Steve had become such good friends. Delphia, being an alien, had a bit of trouble conforming to how people lived and interacted with each other on Midgard. He knows that it was difficult for her to make connections with people. So he is more than happy to know that she has found a friend in Steve.

However, the feeling of accomplishment was short-lived in that moment for Abraham. For he caught a glimpse of a suspicious man standing behind the group. Abraham noticed as the man pulled out a lighter and pressed it. An explosion rattled the entire room as the observation booth was engulfed in flames.

In the confusion, the suspicious man grabbed the last vial of the super-soldier serum and tried to run off with it. Abraham shouted, and pointed at the man, "Stop him!"

Though it was too late. The disguised Hydra agent had already gotten off at least two shots. The first one, Delphia could predict. So she threw herself in front of Abraham to try and divert the bullet from hitting him. There were screams and grunts of confusion, but in the end, both Abraham and Delphia ended up shot.

The man ran from the room with Peggy on his tail. She effectively shot the man at least once in the legs, but he was able to flee with the serum in hand. As Peggy chases after him, Steve rushes over to both of their sides. He kneels by Abraham and holds him slightly. Abraham couldn't speak and only pointed to Steve's chest before he fell limp. Sadly, Abraham has died. His injury was far too fatal for him to recover from them, there was no way to help him.

As the fact of Abraham's death had just struck Steve in his heart, he turned to Delphia who was groaning next to him. Crimson painted her shoulders while blood poured out of it. She breathed heavily while trying to stop the bleeding. Delphia isn't necessarily new to getting injured, but this is a bit different from say a sword or dagger.

There was no way that Steve could lose both Abraham and Delphia, his two closest friends during all of this. He moved to help her with her injury and Delphia looked up to him with tears in her eyes. "No n-need to worry a-about me," Delphia got out with her weak voice. Though her eyes were hard, drowning in her tears, and filled with anger, "Go g-get that bastard."

Steve was apprehensive for a moment, not sure if he should leave her behind like this. Though the fact that there were a few other people here to keep an eye on her, he figured that he could go after the man who did this. He isn't usually one for revenge, but this was personal. So Steve rushed up and out of the room to chase after the disguised Hydra agent.

As a nurse tried helping Delphia with her injury, Peggy eventually came running back into the room. She was instantly at Delphia's side and started to help the other blonde-haired woman with Delphia's injury. The princess grunted slightly as they moved Delphia to lay flat on her back. They made quick work of making sure that there was pressure on her wound as others went searching for some more supplies to help them. Not only that, but there were a few others with minor injuries after the explosion. This was truly turning out to be a disaster.

"Delphia, hey listen to me," Peggy said to the woman in pain, trying to keep Delphia's attention on her. Peggy could already see the way that her eyes were glossing over and were starting to close, "you've got to stay awake alright?"

She knew that she should. Staying awake during this meant making sure that her injury wasn't going to kill her. However, sleeping for just a moment seemed quite nice. Not only was she in physical pain, but also emotional. Abraham died right next to her, she is emotional now, and taking a nap didn't seem so bad. Though Delphia was fighting for it, she eventually closed her eyes and everything went black.

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[onedivinemisfit]

Obiyuki Shapeshifter!AU - Scent

Even as a fox, Shirayuki has trauma. Thankfully, she’s not alone in the dark with her memories. Also see if you can’t spot the line I lifted from @sabraeal’s fic she wrote for my birthday <3

AnS (c) Akizuki Sorata

Art: Me

[thewrittingworldofeva]

"God or Gods, does it matter?" PART 14

The base of the story :

“York is envied by the Vikings and during the battle, Ivar sees a Saxon girl fight with one of his warriors. The protagonist has a brother with the same disease as Ivar.”

The next morning, Ligeia was empty of any kind of emotions and feelings. Her dark circles, speaking for her. Ivar has thought about her words, all night, depriving him of sleep. Ligeia’s stomach hurt. The thought to kill more people made her sick. Feeling nauseous, she didn’t eat when she wakes up. She is also very quiet. Ivar announced to his army to get prepared, that it was time. At the announcement, her shoulders are sagging. Why is he so damned stubborn?! Secretly, she has always thought that he was smart, but right now, he was stupid. All this is for something that happened in the past. Something that technically Lagertha has the right to do. Also, Aslaug wasn’t a saint, her attention was clear because she is a volva. And has a mother, she wasn’t great either. That’s good that she takes care of Ivar, but not at the expense of the other boys.

Ligeia was putting on her armor with a heavy heart, deadly silent. Apollo watches her quietly but terrified inside. He realized that if something happened to her if she… dies on the battlefield today… he pushed away his negative thoughts. Rosalia was playing with her chessboard. “Ligeia?” Someone called her behind the curtain. “You can come in.” She answers. Harald appeared ready to battle. “Are you ready?” He questioned. “I am.”

No, she is not. She gives a last glance at her brother and sister and leaves. The lump in her throat intensified with every step she takes. She arrived next to Ivar’s chariot, not even looking at him once. Harald and Hvitserk updated her on the plan when a scream gets their attention. She looked behind her and saw Rosalia running in her direction. Apollo is struggling to follow her, calling her name. “Lili!” She cries. Ligeia knelt down and reception her baby sister jumping into her arms. “Lili, where are you going? Pollo said, that you are leaving.” She said, grabbing with her little hand the collar of her clothing. “I have to go somewhere…” she starts trying to find the best words. “With Ivar, for protecting you.” She continues looking at Ivar for the first time this day.

“I think you are big enough to know that, I probably not coming back.” Ligeia has her heart in her throat and clears it out. The big blue eyes of her little princess, full of tears, break her heart. Because she knows what “not coming back” means. “Are you going to see Mom and Dad?” Tears falling down her rosy cheeks, Ligeia swipes them off with her thumbs. “Maybe. But I will try my best to come back to you. To both of you.” She stated, looking at Apollo who was behind Rosalia. “I love you so much, you are my everything.” She takes Rosalia in a tight hug, then she kissed her all over her face, and did the same for Apollo. “Promise me to be strong for both of you if I don’t come back.” She begged in Apollo’s ear during the hug. “You are coming back.” He said. “I need to hear you! Please, promise me!” She was now holding his face in her hands. “I promise to be strong and take care of both of us.” She sighs in relief, closing her eyes, a solitary tear falling down, she kissed him on the forehead, stands, dries her tear away.

When putting some distance between them, she can still hear Rosalia cry, cracking her heart even more. Men moving, she pushes herself through the crowd. Ivar gives a glance in Apollo and Rosalia’s direction and met Apollo’s eyes. A strange feeling in his chest, guilt. Ivar gives the signal and the army walks to their battlefield. Astrid glances at Ligeia from time to time, more concerned than usual about her quiet behavior. She looks tense. All the warriors are in place, Harald, Astrid, Heahmund, and Ligeia make their way into the first line.

Heahmund speaks up in old Saxon “I can’t wait!” He said, with adrenaline rushing through his veins. “Why, does that beautiful sword of yours thirst for blood?” Asks Ivar in the bishop’s language. Heahmund takes his sword out and touches the blade tenderly. “Perhaps my God intended it to slake its thirst upon pagan blood… that’s why I’m here; to do the Lord’s bidding.” “And mine, bishop Heahmund. And mine.” Ivar makes sure that he remembers that he is also following his orders. Ligeia rolled her eyes, to the bishops rambling. Looking straight to the horizon and cross Bjorn's eyes. Through her eyes, she speaks to him, and he understands.

Harald turns to Ivar. “What do you think?” Asks the tattooed man. “I have a feeling that Bjorn is playing a game.” Stated Ivar was suspicious. “What kind of game?” Wants to know King Harald. “Well, what if he is keeping a lot of his army in reserve? What if this battle is just a feint? What if his real plan is to outflank us and drive on and try to destroy our boats?” The possibility of being defeated bloomed in Harald’s mind, so at the moment in decided to trust the young Viking. “What should we do?” He demands. “I'll pull back a third of our army to protect our ships. It is a risk. But it would be far worse to lose our entire fleet.” Harald sighs deeply, looking at Astrid. “So, I think we should send Hvitserk with some men into the woods over there, and try and outflank them, dividing Bjorn's forces.” Proposed Ivar. “I agree. If you take Astrid back with you. I don't want her to die.” Added Harald, taking Astrid by surprise. “No.” Objected Astrid. “Yes.” “I am fighting!” “Not today.” Insists Harald. “Astrid, go with Ivar.” Recommend Ligeia calmly. “I want to fight by your side!” Protest Astrid. “We will have another occasion for that.” Promised Ligeia, smiling at her friend. Two men grab Astrid and put her on Ivar’s chariot. “Ha!”

The chariot move away and Ligeia follows it with her eyes and Astrid looked behind her shoulder. Ligeia slightly lowers her head, telling her that it will be fine. She was left with the King and the bishop. Getting her sword out, holding her shield in the other, she starts to think what the hell she was doing here?! The opposing side launched the attack. Then Harald followed. The first wave with Bishop Heahmund. Ligeia was going to follow him, but Harald stops her with his sword, so she steps back. Watching the battle unfold in front of her eyes, she has a bad feeling. Something was wrong and they were going to fail. The second wave. The fight was fierce, men and women fighting with rage, not scared to die. In the third wave, Harald and she enter the arena.

She fights with strength, blood all over her face and hands. Her breathing was chaotic, screams of warrior and pain, ringing in her head. Her tight hurt. Everything went in slow motion. She looks around her, terrified and sad to see all this life taken. The movement on her right brings her back to reality. She didn’t hesitate and sank her sword in the body in front of her. Lagertha and her troop ran to them. Bjorn and his soldier coming front. They are surrounded. Harald seeing this doesn’t hesitate. “Blow the horns! Summon Ivar !” The poor man blows the horn twice before being killed. Ligeia starts to feel exhausted and overwhelmed, and scared. She was fighting with the blond woman she has seen on the hill. She was stronger than her, much stronger, she avoids the attacks with difficulty. Her shield was broken, only her sword was left. She stumbles back, knowing that it was the end. “Retreat! Retreat!” Screams Harald leaving the battlefield.

The blond woman raised her arm in the air and prepared to shoot her with her blade. “Torvi, no!” The blond woman froze and looked behind her. “Don’t kill her!” Scream Lagertha. Ligeia looks at Lagertha confused. “Go.” She tells her with a movement of the head. Ligeia slowly steps back and takes the same direction, has the others retreating. Ivar was waiting for them, with Astrid. Harald arrived at him. Ivar looked at the soldier remaining. “Where’s Heahmund?” He asks. “Your Christian’s dead. Come.” He said frustrated. “Where’s Ligeia?” Asks Astrid not to see her friend. “I don’t know, probably dead too.” He said. “No, she can’t be! I gotta find her!” She stated, going in the direction of the battlefield, but Harald stops her. “If she is alive, she will come back to the settlement.” “But…” she tries to insist but Harald cuts her off. “No but. Let’s go.”

The night sets in, with no sign of Ligeia. Ivar was worried, he didn’t know what to say to Apollo and Rosalia. He was biting his fingers, mind working. Is she dead? Is she alive? Where is she? All those questions turned in a loop in his head. Ligeia was exhausted. Walking slowly, with her injured leg. Her eyes were blank. “Someone’s coming!” Scream one man, making Ivar lookup. “It’s the Christian woman!” He straightens up, grabs his crutch, and gets closer. He can see men making way, and she appeared. Limping, holding her leg to help her walk. “Ligeia!” Scream Apollo, but Ligeia doesn’t react and keeps walking passing next to him.

Apollo follows her with his eyes. He never sees his big sister like this. She looked so… scared. She was like in another world, not even blinking. Ivar swallowed with difficulty, he feels terrible but also relieved to see her alive. The night set in, Ivar decides to go to his tent, tired of this major defeat. He takes off his shirt and threw it somewhere in the area. When he turns around, he straightens quickly surprised to see Ligeia is standing at the entrance. Her hair untied, in her nightgown, and a shawl on her shoulders, covering her upper body. She looks so small like this, he thinks. Why was she in his tent? That was the real question.

She slowly gets closer and without letting him analyze the situation, slaps him real hard, making him turn his head to the side.

“You left me for dead.” She said with all the hatred she got. “You left me there to die!” Her voice goes up in volume. She pushes him on his chest, making him stumble a little to his surprise. “I thought I’d never see my brother and sister again!” She pushes a second time with all her strength, tears rolling down her face. “Men’s life wasted because of your selfishness!” A third time, and he fell on his bed. She puts herself above him and tries to hit him. She succeeds in giving a second slap but then he finally goes out of his lethargy and tries to stop her. “Enough!” He growls in a deep and warning tone. “I fucking hate you!” She cursed. He ends up locking her arms behind her back.

Him sitting, her on his lap, their faces close. Her hair was messy, and her nightgown has slightly dropped on one shoulder. “I am sorry.” He whispered. Ligeia Brest going up and down because of her breathing. “I am sorry, I should’ve not let you come with us.” He confessed. They just looked at each other. Ivar gazes slide to her lips and when he met her eyes, the atmosphere change. The tension was so thick that it can be seen by the eyes. Ligeia felt the atmosphere changing, and in Ivar’s eyes. There was something that she has never seen, something powerful. Their faces were inches away from each other.

Ivar’s grip loosened on her wrist, and without warning crashes his lips on hers. Surprisingly, she responded with fervor. Her hands now free, she supped his face, getting closer. His arms surrounded her waist, hands resting her other back. He made his hands travel her back, waist, ass, and thighs. He slides them under the tissue and squeezes the flesh, making her whimper. Something in his body was shaken, of the sound she just did. The kiss was angry, frustrated and a fight for dominance. Realizing what is happening, Ligeia’s eyes shot open and she pushed him away and get as far away as possible from his body. He falls on his back and didn’t move.

“Stop this nonsense! This war is stupid and I am sure in your heart you know it.” She said putting her finger in his direction. “You can live with your family, but you are willing to destroy it for something that even isn’t your concern. Be a man and take the right decision for goodness sake!” Then, she stormed out of the tent. What in the Hell has just happened? She shakes her shoulders and puts on her straight face and goes back to her tent. They both didn’t find sleep that night, too distraught about the feelings they felt during the kiss. Ligeia was feeling ashamed, to let him touch her like this, but at the same time, she liked it.

tags : @youbloodymadgenius @al-lwiisa @akaward-potato @funmadnessandbadassvikings @heavenly1927

[conaionaru]

The Drowned girl

Burn the Witch

Synopsis: Rollo and Siggy talk. Bjorn’s men ruturn to Kattegat to witness a fight between a volva and the queen

Warnings: violence, shit parenting (Bjorn), child abandonment, language, canon divergence, murder, blood

Tags:

@pieces-by-me​

I don’t own the gifs.

Siggy sat at the edge of the ship and watched the nearing shores of Frankia. Usually she would sit with Helga, but she had her hands full with her little orphan girl. Tanaruz was hostile and scared, no wonder there. And Siggy was in no mood to play babysitter.

Heavy boots hit the deck in front of her. Her eyes trailed from the wooden floors to the owner of the dirty shoes. "Rollo."

"We are nearing the shores of Frankia. I wished to talk to you one more time."

"I am in no mood to talk to traitors."

Rollo chuckled and sat down next to her. "You only wish to speak to me, cause I'm named after your dead lover. Is this your attempt to share a bond with me or repair the one you lost."

"Siggy is gone." Rollo sighed and looked down at the blonde. She looked so much like Ragnar and Rollo. Oh but the fury was all Porunn. "Floki and Helga did a good job raising you."

"I know." Siggy spat annoyed.

"But the Ragnar's and Lagertha's blood flows through your veins. It will bring hardships. Bastard born or not. Just... Don't let the jealousy and revenge win."

"Like you did?" Siggy mocked only to see the former viking nod. "I don't need advice from a traitor. Or a christian."

Rollo nodded and stood to leave but stopped again. "The wristband I gave you." Siggy looked down at the solid golden bangle and frowned. She forgot that he gave it to her. "Keep it. Women don't get armbands. Keep it close. It's your proof of battle."

"You stole it not me."

"I am not viking. You are. They can all be proud of you." The blonde stuck her tongue out to watch him go. Yet when he turned his back, she reveled in the praise. It was strange to get it from someone she heard so much bad of. In Floki's tales Rollo was the traitor that betrayed Ragnar. But Ragnar wasn't anything like he was in Floki's tales. So maybe there was more to Rollo than a betrayal. No matter how dire.

"I want to make you all an offer." Rollo called out to the people making everyone stare him down. "Anyone from our homelands who wants good, rich lands to farm can come and live in my kingdom. There will always be a part of Frankia which is a part of us."

"Us?" Floki grimaced at the Frankish lord. "You are no longer a part of "us," Rollo."

"But what is "us," Floki, is changing. Only you won't accept it." Floki chuckled at the riddiculous remark." And so I say the same to you." He looked at Bjorn. "And you, Hvitserk."

"Too much bad blood, Rollo." Bjorn spat not even looking at his uncle that he once loved so much.

"Once a betrayer, always a betrayer." Answered Hvitserk.

Rollo nodded and looked at Siggy, standing behind everyone like an outcast. "And what of you?"

Everyone turned their heads to look at the young Völva. "I am not a farmer, am I?"

"You could fight in an army. I could provide you with a nice place, men to fight alongside with. You would be treated with respect." Not like you are here. That's what he meant.

Bjorn looked at her from the corner of his eye. Waiting like everyone else. It sickened Siggy that he might care about her depiction. Fuck him. "I won't abandon the gods. I am a Völva. I pray to Odin and Eir. Not to your false God."

"Then pray to them."

He was growing desperate, but the smile never left his face. "There is a place in Frankia for you if you ever change your mind." With that Rollo said goodbye to Helga and left to reunite with his son. Siggy watched the interaction with bitterness.

He looked back one more time and looked at her. "She would have been proud if she stayed."

Bjorn scoffed and Siggy took that as a sign not to answer. Stayed. That meant it must have been her mother. The woman that left her to Aslaugs care and run off to find herself. No matter the bitterness it left behind. She understood the decision. She would have chosen the same if the choice laid between Bjorn or freedom.

"You could have left." Hvitserk whispered in her ear, yet Siggy ignored him.

"My place is here." She answered loudly so both Rollo and Bjorn could hear. "No matter what anyone might think." Siggy turned on her heel and walked to the other side of the boat to climb back up the mast.

When they returned to Kattegat, it looked different. Ditches and walls were being built. Apparently Lagertha was making a few changes. She watched Hvitserk wander off. But she had a mission to complete.

"If you kill her, my brothers, you'll have to kill me too."

"Maybe we should." Ivar spat back.

"Shut up." Ubbe ordered looking Bjorn up and down. "She killed our mother."

"I know. You want revenge. So would I. But more importantly, we have to avenge our father. That is why I came back. And that is what we are going to do."

Siggy chuckled and walked around the Ragnarsson. "All hail Queen Lagertha. The one that killed the witch."

Ivar glared Siggy down while Ubbe tried to stop her before she made a scene. Too late. "I see you have returned safely."

"You care. How touching." Siggy mocked looking the new queen up and down. "But you made the wrong choice. What you did will destroy all of us!"

"Aslaug paid for what she did."

Siggy laughed out out and wiped away a fake tear. "What? Fullfilling a prophecy? Giving Ragnar sons you could not? Better ones? Or any at all? Don't you need two for that? He was married. That's what everything is about isn't it? Jealousy. He lost interest and you..."

"That is enough!" Legartha ordered and glared Siggy down. "I understand that Aslaug raised you, but my revenge ended with her. So let there be peace."

"Too late, Lagertha." Ivar roared angrily.

"Aslaug was no witch!" Siggy only chuckled and spread her arms. "Me on the other hand."

Mad giggles spread through the hall. Lagertha's shieldmaidens stepped closer the their queen. Bjorn also took a stand next to his mother. The two stared Siggy down with hate in their eyes. How fitting.

"You are a Völva like Aslaug. Because you have the gift of sigh. Visions?" Lagertha boasted her new knowledge. The Ragnarssons stiffened and Floki moved to drag the angry blonde away.

"Yes. If that made her a witch, then so am I. Will you kill me to?"

"You are no witch."

"You sure, Legetha?" She pushed Floki off and run to Bjorn's side. She ripped his dagger from the holster and cut her palm. "I swear on Odin and his missing eye that until the sun goes up tomorrow, five of your shieldmaidens will drop dead!"

"Stop it!" Bjorn ordered only for Ubbe to stand in his way.

"If she is no witch then there is nothing to fear." Ivar mocked looking at Lagertha.

Siggy licked the blood off her palm and showed her bloody tongue to Lagertha. "Till the morrow." She turned on her heel and left the great hall. The air outside was thick and made her want to shout. She saved that part for when she returns home.

A chuckle escapes instead. Rollo said her mother would be proud if she stayed. It makes her wonder. What would mommy say now?

During the sacrifice. Siggy watched the flames of the torches rise. The dying mans words lost in the gasps of the crowd. The drops of blood hit her face. Yet none of them were as strong as the gasps of the shieldmaidens on the back of the crowd. Blood dripped from their eyes as they tried to make anyone notice. Thought the gaps of the people, Siggy looked back on them.

She gave them a wicked smile and put her palm up, the cut open for all to see. When the drops of blood her the side of her face, Siggy turned to look at Lagertha and smiled. "You chose wrong."

[brightlycoloredteacups]

King of Traitors

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Pairing: Ivar x OFC

Warnings: None for this chapter

Tagging: @salt-is-a-terrible-currency

****

The Cliff of Cliffs had a cave system. As a child, Brynhilda had explored the systems to such an extent she still knew what paths lead to where. From the information she’d gathered, thanks to a recon mission gone very right, she knew that Boggvir’s men were situated right against the cliff, next to a crack that opened right in the middle of the camp. 

She has a plan to sew some chaos into the camp, not much, just enough to put the men on edge. Brynhilda’s force is small, excluding herself, there were seven in total that followed her. Alf, Dorfi, and five of the bravest women in the whole camp. The men that would have volunteered to come had other jobs to do. She turns to her people, “Remember, you can take as much as you can carry, but destroy supplies. Keep as quiet as you can, for as long as you can. If you get caught, I won't be saving you.” Everyone nods in understanding. “Good, lets go.” 

She sent other groups out that night that were going to help with creating chaos. One was setting up traps in the forest. In the early morning, they’d try to get a group of Boggvir’s men to follow them, and neutralize a small portion of the army. Another group was situated on top of the cliff, ready to fire arrows down at the enemy at a random time in the night. Yet another group was going to try and lead a small group of the enemy into a small skirmish to the south. 

Brynhilda didn’t have the bulk Boggvir did, even now, at the height of her popularity. She had to resort to guerilla tactics for the next few hours in the hopes of weakening the enemy, tiring them out, depleting some of the massive army. 

So many opportunities to go wrong...yet the reward was worth it. 

Brynhilda leads her group through the caves with no problem, out the otherside with only the smallest of sounds. When she finally saw the last woman out of the cave, she hisses,“Find cover, quickly.” They do as told, following her behind a stack of food. She looks at them, “spread out, start destroying supplies. Food, weapons, shields. Throw things into the ravine, steal things, I don't care. Get going.” Everyone disperses at her orders. They had one hour to complete their tasks before the attacks began. Then, they either get caught in the fight, or they escape without a scratch. 

For an entire hour, Brynhilda is on edge, anything could go wrong. Luck holds with her. She manages to find weapons just laying around the camp, just as she expected. It’s a pity that she has to give Boggvir this sorely needed reality check.  

Her confidence is slowly returning. She can do this, they can do this. A soft caw from one of the crows that perpetually follows her tells her it's time to go. She rushed back to the hole in the cliff, seeing most of her group. “Where is Dorfi?” She asks. “We don't know,” Alf tells her, “lost I expect.” Brynhilda curses. “Go back to the camp, I'll find Dorfi.”

“What happened to you not saving us?” Alf says, smirking, “Clearly I lied.”

”I saw him go towards the edge of the camp, toward the log trap.” A woman tells her. “Thank you,” Brynhilda turns heading back towards the camp, stopping when her group moves with her. “Go back to the camp,” 

“Not without you,” Alf says. “Look-” Brynhilda begins to argue, but Alf cuts her off,  “Don't bother arguing. We aren't leaving without you.”

“Well, don't blame me when we're still stuck here when things go to shit.” Brynhilda mutters, moving herself and her group towards the edge of the camp. It occurs to her that Dorfi really might be working for Boggvir, thus leading her into a trap. She grips her sword tighter, she'd behead him if that were the case.

She doesn't have to wonder about it though, as she hears Dorfi's voice through a tent. “I don't know anything about Brynhilda.” he says defiantly. She smirks, she loves it when she's wrong. “Oh? She didn't send you here to curse us all?” Someone sneers. Their voice is gruff, someone she doesn't recognize. She motions of her people to surround the tent. “Do you really think Brynhilda is someone that believes in curses?”

“Yes.” There was an awkward pause, “Do you think Brynhilda is someone who would use curses?” Dorfi rephrased. “Look, we all know Brynhilda wants us dead,” she steps into the tent for dramatic effect, cutting off the man’s tirade. She’s angry when she sees Dorfi beaten and bloodied. For a moment, she has to wonder if he really kept her secrete despite the torture.  “You're right, I want you dead,” she says. Before the man can even yell or draw his weapon, she runs him through with her sword, covering his mouth so he doesn't make much sound. 

Dorfi looks at her, smiling. He gets off his knees and stumbles out of the tent. Sheathing her sword, she follows him, bringing out a dagger from its holster and cuts his restraints. “What happened to not coming to save our asses?” Dorfi asks, delighted. Brynhilda just pats his shoulder. 

They were going to sneak back to the hole, but one of her ravens caw, loudly so everyone can hear it, a warning sign that her other plans are about to be set into motion. “Shit,” she mutters. Everyone readies their weapons, “There isnt enough time to escape,” Dorfi warns her, watching as people are now pouring from the tents, wondering why the fuck a raven is cawing in the middle of the night. 

“Please tell me you disabled the trap.” Alf says. Dorfi snorts, “course I did!”

“Tight circle,” Brynhilda instructs, bringing her shield in front of her. They form a tight ring as shouts of intruders begin to go up, now alerted to their presence. Men surround them. “Brynhilda, I don't like this,” Alf mutters, “Oh really?” Brunhilda snaps, “What's not to like? We're trapped in the middle of an enemy camp, surrounded, with fucking no way out.”

“Someone's testy,” Alf mutters, “She needs a nap,” Dorfi explains, “she gets cranky without her beauty rest.”

“I hate you both.” She mutters, bracing herself for an attack. The dam of tension breaks as soon as a random enemy charges at her and hits her shield. Everyone begins to shout, fight, run. Its utter chaos. 

Brynhilda wants to throw herself into the fight with wild abandon, her very being craves the blood shed, demands it, but she's divided. She has to get her people to safety. They have to survive. She defends them more than she fights. 

The enemy, composed of men she's led in battle, are confused at the new tactic. She's a brute force fighter, she charges and her opponent dies. Now she's yelling coherent instructions, staying back and helping her people. It confuses the enemy, makes them hesitate. 

Her new friends are just as adept at fighting as she is, a tall blond clears a path, striking so quickly anyone barely has time to react. Dorfi is clearly a distance fighter, throwing numerous little knives into the fray. The women dart in and out of small pockets of enemies, taking down two or three at a time. They work as a team and manage to get to the border, where fighting only grows heavier. 

The group Brynhilda sent out that was supposed to charge the side of the camp she’s headed towards is doing its job beautifully. The shock of the trap working had given them the advantage, confusion was sown, everyone was divided. “Retreat!” She yells, her voice is heard clearly over the battle. A horn is sounded and her men begin to fall back. Brynhilda stays until she is sure the last man has gone. She is about to join them when the enemy crowd parts, and she sees Boggvir. 

Her heart aches. A sick part of her wants to forgive him, to run into his arms and take comfort in his presence, most of her just wants to snap his neck then and there. He looks older than she remembered, he looks...terrified. “Enjoy your final moments,” Brynhilda calls to him, bowing, “Boggvir, King of Traitors” with that, she turns and runs. 

*

Her camp is riotous when she gets back. Through snippets of excited congratulations, she finds that all men have made it back alive with no more than a few bumps and bruises. Someone had the wherewithal to break out the celebration food. She notes there wasn't a mead cup in sight, good, mead was after the battle was definitely won. “To Brynhilda the Deathless!” One of her men yells. The cheer goes up, her name reaching the heavens. She laughs as someone picks her up on their shoulders, it's hard not to get caught up in the celebration. “To my warriors!” She says, throwing a fist in the air. This elicits an even bigger cheer. 

When she is put down, Alf approaches her, pulling her off to the side. “Sven tells me there's something that requires your full attention.” She follows him through the camp. 

They come upon her tent, small and unassuming, except for the large boar stitched into the side. A group of men surround something, the air is charged, as she approaches, they part for her so she can see what it is they’ve captured. The Volva that started this mess. She's not so pretty now, covered in dirt, hair wild, half starved. “What did you do to her?” Brynhilda mutters, feeling bad for the woman...only slightly. She glares at the men in turn.

“Your men have done nothing,” the witch says, looking Brynhilda in the eyes, “they were perfectly behaved.”

“Leave,” Brynhilda tells them. “Jarl-” Sven, who’d been among the group, begins to argue, but at Brynhilda's look he stops. They all leave. 

Brynhilda picks the witch up, and throws her into the tent, nearly gagging at the smell of her. “Are you cold?” Brynhilda asks, not bothering to wait for the answer. She throws a blanket around the woman. 

“Enough with the niceties. I know nothing of Boggvir's plan. He cast me aside the moment he got word you lived.” Brynhilda had trouble keeping the smirk from her face. “A wise queen told me once that women seldom have choices in life. We must take what we’re given and deal with it, ours is a most tragic lot.” The volva merely grunts. “She was loved, hated, and killed because she was a witch.” 

“What's your point?” 

“My point is, right now, you have a choice to make.”

“I told you I know nothing of Boggvir's plans,” Brynhilda ignores her, “become mine, work for me, and live under my protection,”

“Be a slave? Ha! I'd rather die,” Brynhilda nods, pulling out a dagger. “Very well,” she gets up and grabs a fistfull of dirty hair, pulling the volva's head back. Before she can even put the blade to her neck, the witch changes her mind. “I'll do it! I'll work for you! Don't kill me please!” Brynhilda lets her go. Smiling, she puts the dagger down, “I'll send someone to come clean you up.”

[oysterrat]

Play of The Fates

Short one-shot fanfic; Magura x Sigurd Styrbjornsson (canon x oc but can be seen as canon x reader if the reader pleases)

Short Info about Magura: she is a peasant herbalist/healer Eastern European/Balkan girl (of Daco-Roman origins, hence her religion is a mix between the Roman/Greek and Dacian pantheon) roughly 21/22 years of age (tiny basic info only for context and because I don’t want to bore you all)

I have many stories and scenarios that live inside my head so I’ve decide to face my fears and began writing in order to create a fun hobby for me, hope you’ll enjoy :D

 The air from the fireplace caresses your face with a pleasant warm breeze, it’s been several weeks since your ship docked on the shores of England, and several days since you saw Sigurd again. Sigurd Styrbjornsson, the same man who you meet wandering the east two winters ago.

You’ve spent some time with him, you being a wandering healer from Eastern Europe, caring salves and herbs behind the church’s back in order to heal anybody in need sure gave you some interesting patients, and he was one of them when you first met.

Seeing him again in England of all places wasn’t a surprise to you at all, considering the fact that he often told you about his big dreams and having to fulfill his destiny, all that heroic fantasy made you laugh at first, but seeing that little spark in his eyes each time he began his “speech “ was somewhat enchanting. It truly made you admire the fac that he was so set in seeking his “glorious destiny”.

The days passed quickly and you didn’t even notice how you grew attached to the large prideful vikingr, both his stories and his character ended up charming you in an unexpected way.

Some visits followed his recovery and short enough, in a month or so when he was forced to stay at your healing clinic, he ended up seeing you as a friend or a potential ally, even considering offering you a place on his ship, because they greatly needed a healer, as they might’ve recently discovered (no one is immune to cuts and infections after all, unexpected or not)

But despite all, you had to refused, because simply put, you were scared of leaving your life behind and traveling far away from all the places you knew… leaving your friends behind, the friends that were your only family.

The day he left made you question whether or not you made the right decision. It could have been your destiny or a fatal mistake leading you to your doom. Nevertheless you choose to forget that character and go on with your life. It was easy wasn’t it. Was it?

Oh how amused were the fates when you met again, and there you were, at a feast in Ravensthorpe with him, half drunk , his head resting in your lap , despite the curious looks of the others.

How did you end up here? Ask the ones who captured you and wanted you shipped as a slave in Scandinavia, thrall or whatever was called. How you manage to escape despite almost drowning with that ship, despite having everything taken from you, the Gods still had faith for you. You wanted to forget but some of those memories haunted you.. but this night wasn’t one for grieving your past life.

Truth be told you did develop some tiny feelings for him back when you first met, it was prone to happen, he was the type of man who could get any lass he wanted, you hated yourself for that, for being so cliché, you were a simple healer not a warrior nor a noble woman who could grand land, why would he want anything with you? Those feelings indeed came back when you met him again, the same attraction and fascination you despised buy yet loved. Perfect isn’t it? To dream… but then you found out he was married and he was in fact a jarl with his own settlement, something he clearly forgot to mention in that time you’ve spent together.

His clan was kind enough to take you in, more like, he was kind enough to not letting you rot on the shores of a foreign country. You saw it as a repayment for what you did to him, yet you wondered if he might have done it out of pure kindness. However you’ve decided that the answer will remain a mistery.

He didn’t seem to mind his wife, nor spend too much time with her , having later discovered that their marriage wasn’t out of love, but to make peace, as his brother Eivor told you one day when you offered to help him deliver some shipments to the near saxon village.

Eivor was a good lad, very helpful as you have noticed. Kind and eager to answer your questions and help you gather your herbs since you slowly became somewhat of an apprentice for the settlement’s volva: Valka.

Loveless or not, you still felt like you shouldn’t act upon your strange feelings, you felt like it was wrong, and decided to suppress it. It was very wrong.

That wasn’t easy, you always ended up chatting and listening to his stories when you weren’t out strolling, helping Eivor and the merchants or discussing Greek and Dacian/Roman Gods with Valka.

Especially when Sigurd came to you one day, with a pair of golden earrings , probably looted from one of his many raids from the East.

You tried to politely decline but he insisted they were a thank you gift from where you healed him, back when you’ve just met him, despite telling him several times that offering you shelter was more than enough.

“ You could have refused, healing a raider, an enemy, it’s not common practice, especially with the reputation we Danes hold “

“ it was the right thing to do Sigurd Jarl, besides I was a foreigner there too once.. we wanderers should help each other “ you said, looking at the jewelry, not daring to look into his eyes , thank the Gods no one was near to witness that event, since it was during a feast, thank and praise Dionysus.

“ You have a kind heart, Magura, I’m afraid too kind for this cruel world “ he said while cupping your hands into his gently , making you hold the earrings into your fists

“ My jarl.. “

 To be continued….?

[adapembroke]

Icelandic Sagas and Norse Culture: A Conversation with Jared Juckiewicz

There are some people who are so interesting and knowledgeable about a fascinating subject that I wish it was culturally acceptable to hand them a lectern and microphone in social settings and ask them to give an impromptu lecture. My friend Jared Juckiewicz is one of those people.

Jared’s knowledge of Norse history and culture is legendary in our circle, and it was a privilege to have the opportunity to chat with him about the Icelandic Sagas, Jared's class on the Sagas for Nameless Academy, and why you shouldn't carry a magical banner with a raven on it into battle if you value your life.

Ada: For those who are new to the subject, what are the Sagas? 

Jared: So Merriam-Webster defines a saga as “a prose narrative recorded in Iceland in the 12th and 13th centuries of historic or legendary figures and events of the heroic age of Norway and Iceland” which is actually bang on for my definition of the historical Icelandic sagas. (I’d class things like Beowulf and the Nibelungenlied as sagas as well, but epic sagas rather than historical ones.) Most of them are attributed to one writer, an Icelandic gentleman by the name of Snorri Sturlisson, who took advantage of his position in the Icelandic Diocese to record as much of Iceland’s Oral History as he could. Each one is basically the history of one of the important families in Iceland at the time, typically going back a generation or two or three before the settlement of Iceland.   

Ada: I’m surprised that the dictionary defines “saga” as Icelandic specifically. I always thought “saga” was a synonym for “very long poem.” I’m learning something already! 

Was there something about the settlement of Iceland that inspired the Icelanders to write down all of these stories, or is it more that more of the oral tradition survived than it otherwise would have because of Snorri? 

Jared: I mean, I would definitely quibble with the definition being specific to Iceland myself. But then again, I don’t work for Merriam-Webster, so you know. Not my say.

So, it’s definitely a case that more of the oral tradition survived thanks to Snorri than it otherwise would have. Admittedly, he did impart a lot of his biases to them, given that he was Christian, in fact being heavily involved in Iceland’s organised Church, and a lot of his subject matter predates the Christianisation of Iceland. But it’s less of an issue in the historical sagas than in things like the Eddas. I suspect a part of his motivation is that the 13th Century was around the time we start to see the emergence of true national identities in northern europe, and a recorded history tends to be a large part of those. 

Ada: What sorts of challenges do readers have to be aware of accounting for Snorri’s biases, and why are those biases less of an issue with the sagas?

Jared: So the sagas are more of a historical account than the Eddas, which are a record of the icelandic forms of Norse myth. Being a historical account, there’s less room for interpretation, whereas most scholars agree that Snorris Eddas were revised, by him, to make them more palatable to the Church. So when reading the Eddas, it helps to be aware that the person recording them was a Christian, had been raised Christian, and so had certain views regarding morality and cosmology that may have (Read almost certainly did) differ significantly from how the Norse viewed things. Less of an issue with the historical sagas because history is less open to interpretation. His biases may have coloured his description of people’s motivations, but the events are likely accurate, as are the depictions of things like cultural mores and the like. 

Ada: What is your story with the sagas? How did you get interested, and what fascinates you about them?

Jared: So, I’ve always had a bit of a fascination with history. When I was at University, a friend dragged me along to a meeting of what became our local Historical Reenactment Society by dint of showing up to class with a wooden shield on his arm and a wooden sword in his belt. 

Ada: Best. Marketing. Ever.

Jared: I was hooked. Still am. Anyway, I’m like, 5’7” and am lucky if I weigh more than 120lbs. To be effective on the field of battle, I have to go for a mix of speed, savagery and complete disregard for my own personal safety. Four years of getting referred to as ‘The littlest Berserker that could’ lead to finding out everything I could about said Berserkers, which lead to the Icelandic sagas. They’re great stories. Dry reads, cause, you know, the 13th Century wasn’t known for popular fiction. But they’re very… human. Stories. Like you read them and it’s like “I can understand why that person would respond that way.” The culture is at enough of a remove that it feels fantastical, but because we’re talking about real people, and their emotions and their triumphs and their failings, it’s easy to emphasize with them, I find. 

Ada: How did you get from berserkers to the sagas?

Jared: There are a number of sagas where major characters are berserkers, or berserkers are mentioned. Viga-Glums Saga mentions a Berserker who made a living challenging farmers to Holmgangr (a sort of duel where the victor took the losers property. Given they were generally to the death, the loser didn’t tend to object). The eponymous Egil Skallagrimsson is also described as being a Berserker in some translations. As well as a Skald (poet), Sorceror, and what passed for Nobility in his period of Iceland. Part of it is also a dearth of other sources. You have some mention in the Anglo-Saxon chronicle and in similar Scots and Irish records from the time, but they mostly complain about the Norse being evil pagans come to destroy the Christians (When they aren’t complaining that the Vikings only bathe so they can get laid). There’s Adam of Bremen, but he didn’t talk much about the military side of things, which is where berserkers come in, and there’s Ibn Fadhlan, but until recently translations of his manuscripts were a bugger to get a hold of. 

Ada: What is it about the sagas that feels fantastical to you?

Jared: Everything is so much… MORE. If that makes sense? Like, there’s an account of a trial in Njall’s Saga where the defense witness perjures himself by libeling one of the victims, and the prosecuting attorney (Who happened to be related to said victim. No conflict of interest, it’s how things were done at the time) responded by impaling the witness, fatally, with a spear throw. And got away with it. They solve their disputes, when talk fails, with broadswords and battle axes. 

Ada: It’s like they actually do the things we’re all imagining doing when someone does something that’s completely out of line.

Jared: Certainly the things I imagine doing.  Although, I now realise I could explain it easier. Tolkien was a scholar of the Norse Sagas, and drew heavily on some of Snorri’s other works (particularly the Eddas) for the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. So part of why they feel fantastical is that the definitive work for High Fantasy is based on them. 

Ada: Other than weapons, what Tolkienesque things can readers find in the sagas?

Jared: So the sagas are maybe less of an influence on his works than the Eddas, but he drew heavily on the mythology, and there are bits where that crops up in the sagas. There are also references to things like rune-carving as a means of casting spells, and at least one instance of a magic banner. Bear in mind that this was back when magic was an accepted fact of life (in fact at the time, the Catholic Church was heavily involved in magical research. There are guides on things like alchemy and necromancy and rune magic that were written in monasteries at the time). Poetry, I suppose. The Norse were big on poetry. 

Ada: I would love to dive into the intersection between history and mythology with you, but I’ll restrain myself. What’s an example of the intersection of history and myth in the sagas?

Jared: The above mentioned magic banner, actually. It crops up in Njall’s Saga and the Orkneyinga Saga, and belonged to the Jarl of Orkney. Jarl Sigurd of Orkney, to be precise. It was a Raven Banner, sewn by his mother, who was reputed to be a Volva, which was a Norse term for a female magic practitioner, particularly one who practiced fibre magics. It was, reputedly, enchanted to draw the attention of Odin and his aid, and whatever army carried it into battle would have victory, but the bearer of the banner would be slain. Well, the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 was particularly hard fought, and after he’d gone through several standard-bearers, none of Sigurd’s companions was willing to pick it up. He informed them that by spurning Odin’s gift, the battle was lost, tied it round his waist like a belt, and led his final charge. Sigurd’s side lost the battle, and the few of his immediate companions were hunted down shortly thereafter by Kari Solmundsson (admittedly for unrelated reasons).

Ada: One of the reasons I wanted to have this conversation with you is because you are going to be teaching a class on the sagas at the Nameless Academy in February. 

I’m really excited to have the chance to sit in on your class because you are a person who I regularly want to hand a lectern and microphone because you have so much knowledge and so many stories.

What is this class, and what will you be teaching?

Jared: So the class is called Íslendingasögur 101: Norse Polytheism and Medieval Culture in Icelandic Sagas.It’s a mouthful I know. Really, it’s just an introduction to pre-Christian Iceland. There’s a lot of misinformation floating about regarding the Norse. I’m not going to name any names. *Cough* Wagner *Cough* Victorian England *Cough* 

Ahem. Don’t worry, it’s not Covid, I promise. 

But no, there’s a lot of misinformation about the Norse out there, and it’s only in the past five or six decades that we’ve started to undo that. The thing is, the corrections started in Academia, and it took three or four decades before accurate information began to be easily available to the general public. So while we’re doing away with the popular image in peoples heads of the ravening barbarian with the horned helmet, it’s slow going. 

I’m hoping in future semesters to do guided self-study of some of the Icelandic studies, but because I do not want to spend all my time correcting common misconceptions, I decided to teach this first, so that anyone looking into the sagas themselves, either under the aegis of the Nameless Academy, or by themselves, is doing so with at least a basic understanding of the culture those sagas concern. 

Ada: Other than the horned helmet ridiculousness, what is a common misconception that tends to trip up newbies to the sagas?

Law. The Norse had the greatest respect for their Laws, even if they didn’t always follow them. Because of how sparsely settled Iceland was, and given the lack of urbanisation, they didn’t have permanent courthouses like you find nowadays. Instead they all met up at regular intervals at what was known as a ‘Thing’. No that is not a typo, it was actually called a Thing. The big one in Iceland was held at Thingvellir or “Place of the Thing”. “Field of the Thing”? I do not (yet) speak Old Norse and I’ve seen multiple translations. It was sort of a combination of court and county fair, that was opened by a member of the community, the Lawspeaker, reciting a portion of the legal code to all assembled. It was a great honour to be chosen as the Lawspeaker, even if it also meant moderating all the suits. 

One of the most famous Sagas (and my personal favourite) actually focuses heavily on the Laws and Legal matters. In fact, more attention is paid in most sagas to legal nitty-gritty than to pitched battles. 

Ada: Other than an interest in history, why might people want to take your class?

Jared: Perspective. People don’t change, even if the places and laws and the cultures do. It’s also a conversation piece. I mean, you can back me up on this. I can relate almost anything to the Sagas.

Ada: That is absolutely true. I feel sometimes when you're talking like they're stories that are happening now.

If people wanted to read the Sagas, where do you suggest they start?

Jared: So, if you prefer Dead Tree Editions, most of my hardcopies were released by either Penguin Classics or Oxford University Press. They tend to be older translations, but still very good, and I’ve never had a problem finding them at good second-hand bookstores or my local library. Well. Never had a major problem. And in this time of Covid, if you don’t want to go out or have someone bring a copy to your door. 13th Century is pretty much Public Domain now, so there are a few of the sagas available as ebooks through Project Gutenberg. Alternately, there’s an Icelandic Non-Profit that hosts a website, sagadb.org which hosts all the extant Icelandic sagas in a variety of languages and formats (although not all of them are available in English). If I do manage to lead some guided self-study it’s likely to be the SagaDB translations I use. Amongst other things, they’re free. 

Ada: Thank you so much for talking with me, Jared. 

How can people who are interested in learning more about you and your class find you?

Jared: So I’m on Tumblr. At present I’m A-Krogan-Skald-And-Bearsark, and if that changes, only the article and the first identifier will change. Admittedly, I don’t curate my Tumblr AT ALL. So there’s a bit of everything on it. 

I’m also on Discord, and you can reach me there on the Nameless Academy server as Jared, or on Polytheists or Diviners Anonymous as JehanCriec. Mind you, my internet access can be sporadic, so if you don’t hear back from me right away, don’t take it as a slight, I’m just on a boat and will respond as soon as I get a chance. 

[scroll-of-thought]

Ok this next question may be a super "baby witch" /newbie question, but why is anything norse shrouded in mystery? Like why is most of the rune information up to speculation? Why do we only have so much information?

What happened? Was it some kind of historical event that made any good sources disappear? We're books or other sources/writings burned or lost? Was it a war or something similar?

Or is it just the good ol too far back in the past for something to be recovered?

I'm sorry (sort of), but I like myself some mystery and it's just so interesting. My curiosity is getting the better of me.

No worries, I like answering these kinds of questions :D Sorry it’s taking me a bit to get back. I’m replying when I give myself a break. I got a lot of freelance work to do, but taking a minute to write about Norse stuff is helping my brain not melt :)

From what I understand, the majority of Norse mythology was an oral tradition. The poetry that survives are all spoken poems from the 900s to the 1100s, often told for entertainment, or as something a respectable man could recite from memory to show some value. Towards the end of this time all of the Scandinavian countries were Christianized, and the Eddas were written later around the 1200s. So all that survived of these spoken poems were recorded by Christians who had interest in preserving the poetry more than the beliefs. Snorri’s versions specifically paint the Norse gods as less gods and more heroes in the flavor of Greek heroes, and his reason for writing it down was to have a record of the old way Norse poetry worked grammatically. Norse poems use a specific style that values alliteration, correct meter, and clever kinnings over rhyme or anything like that, so it’s pretty unique.

So, lack of interest in the topic or fear of the church/God probably played a big role. Some speculate that Snorri’s writing about pagan stories contributed to his assassination in 1241, but others say it was mostly because he was involved in the legal system by trade and made some people pretty angry. And the fact that there simply were no original writings before the 1200s means there’s always been a lack of knowledge. Up to then, you literally had to find someone to tell you the poems if you wanted to know anything about them.

The reason Norse magic had so little surviving information is probably similar. About 1000 years of Christianity disallowing pagan practices, and the fact that the Norse Volva (seers/witches) weren’t common to begin with means that a lot of their practices were pretty secretive to anyone who wasn’t in the know. The only accounts of Norse magic in detail come from post Christian sources, so they don’t have a lot of details. The saga of Erik the Red has some information involving rituals observed by Erik as guests, but they were mystified of the whole thing and as Christians didn’t take part or inquire further. There’s little bits of folklore here and there of old spells and remedies, but it’s very hard to determine their validity and how old they are. Other than that, not much was generally recorded or proliferated through any traditions.

Runes are specifically secretive because they’re the secret spells of Odin, which he paid a price for. He typically personally will teach a single rune or two to a warrior he likes, but there’s no surviving stories where he teaches spells or the meanings of runes to the masses, or explains them to the listener/reader. So it’s likely Norse people didn’t know how Rune magic was meant to work. Many of the carved runes we find on artifacts are just people’s names, or documentation of events, memorials, and snippets of poetry.

To wrap this up, I’ll like a couple a couple of Dr.Crawford’s videos on the subject as well as some magic related stuff he went over.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_l33RAAjrg

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHbD8ko-tU0

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4WJK2vNy6E

https://youtu.be/pPPWde7SVk0

https://youtu.be/LZFkPaoafBo

Alright, now I gotta put away the chickens and get back to work :D Hopefully you found that all interesting and helpful. Let me know if there’s anything else you want to know or I can help with.

[b1t5andpi3c3s]

A/N: Ok, guys, I have to admit the endings kind of flat and I’m not that proud, but it actually turned out less awkward and better then I originally though! Again, I have not been able to see Vikings, so I don't know how accurate the characters are being portrayed. 

It was a few days after Ragnar had returned, normally when he came back to his current family, it was a day or two before the questions and assumptions stopped. However, it appeared that Aslaug had had enough of his disappearances and wanted a real answer from him.

“Where on Midgard had you been, Ragnar?” she questioned, it was the fourth night of his return, they in attendance of a feast that was for something he didn’t really care about, not this soon. 

His sons stopped what they were doing, wondering if Aslaug finally knew something about where their father wondered to. It amazed them all as how Ragnar could keep this a secret when Aslaug was believed to be a volva. Ragnar sighed a deep breath, setting his goblet of mead down with a thump, taking his time and letting the curiosity and silence of his family stretch on. Soon, other Vikings took note in their silence and followed suit, ending their conversations quite quickly to listen and watch.

“Away,” was all Ragnar grumbled, lifting his hand to rub his forehead, for once he didn’t like the gazes of the people in Kattegat no him. He didn’t want part in this celebration of sorts, and he didn’t want to questioned until never.

“Away?” she repeated, her tone light but Ragnar could hear the underlining scoff, so could his sons apparently, as they shifted uncomfortably in the chairs.

“Yes, I’m sure you can respect that,” he sassed back, standing from his seat, nodding his head to the entirety of the Hall, before taking his leave, marching out into the setting night.

Sucking in the crisp night air, Ragnar walked down to the beach, letting the sound of crashing waves sooth him before he made the decision to return to his present home. Suddenly, when Ragnar was about to turn and make his way towards his chamber, he heard the unmistakably footfalls and breathing of a familiar person approaching him.

“You got to tell them some time,” it was Floki, the only man who Ragnar allowed himself to trust with the knowledge of Aslaug actually being his third wife.

“I know,” he murmured when Floki was finally in hearing distance, “I know. It was before them, so why should they be angry, upset.”

“They won’t,” Floki agreed, staring out into the sea, how the moon was perfectly reflected in the water.

“But there is peace,” Ragnar said, turning his head slightly to glance at his friend, “and … I guess, I fear that when they find out there will be no peace any longer.”

“Well, the news doesn’t actually affect them,” Floki sighed, nodding his head to himself, before he turned his body to face Ragnar completely (out of the corner of his eye he spotted Bjorn, Ubbe ad Hvitserk). “Have a try.”

Ragnar stared into Floki’s eyes, his own feeling heavy and full of exhaustion, an affect of his sleepless nights of grieving. Sighing, Ragnar turned to see his older sons watching their interaction, a sickening feeling of dread filled his gut as he resorted to patting Floki on the shoulder, before making his way over to them.

“Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk,” he said, signally for them to follow him as he made his way to the forest, “one of go fetch your brothers.”

“Why?” Ubbe asked, his eyebrows furrowed, he shut up however when Ragnar sent him a look, and quickly left to go and fetch Sigurd and Ivar.

It was a few moments after they arrived when Ubbe returned, Ivar securely hanging onto his back and Sigurd not far behind. However, to Ragnar chagrin Aslaug was also there, not far from her sons, it appeared she had overheard Ubbe telling his younger brothers about Ragnar and wanted the truth as well.

“Aslaug,” he greeted her, watching as she stood next to where Ubbe allowed Ivar to climb off his back and take a seat on the

“I think its time you all know why I disappear,” he started, looking at each of them, trying to gauge how they might react, but of course Floki was right, this information wasn’t actually going to affect them.

“Well, then, get on with it,” Ivar spoke up, looking curious, but at the same time bored, he was looking down at his axe, turning it over in his hand, as he inspected the blade.

“I had another wife,” he started off slow, not sure how to tell them] properly, so he decided to be blunt, even if it hurt him, “before Lagertha. She was nice, a simple farmer.”

“What happened to her?” Bjorn spoke, cutting his father off from continuing, Ragnar could only assume what he was thinking, “she leave?”

“She died.”

The silence was just that. Silence. It wasn’t deafening, nor was it awkward. It was the kind of silence where information sunk in. The kind of silence before the storm.

“How?” it was Sigurd who spoke first, he seemed to have swallowed the truth better than the others.

“Sickness, really, but truthfully it was the after birth,” Ragnar managed to speak, his voice was strong like all the other times he would speak, the complete opposite of how his mind was screaming from reopening a wound that could never properly heal, “she was pregnant at the time.”

Again silence.

Each of his sons took on a sombre attitude and seemed to be thinking, of what, Ragnar could only guess, but none of them seemed to be hurt because of the truth. Even Ivar, the son he had tried to kill because he was a cripple, was staring out into the forest with a sad look. Aslaug didn’t seem that affected by the news either, but he could also see something in her eyes that showed Ragnar that she felt pity of the events.  

“Neither would have survived the sickness anyway.”

**Gif not mine**

Part 1

[cat-brodsky]

richard pipen is the worst pre-med student ever: death caps in the secret history

"Judy, what would you do if you had a hundred and three degrees of fever?” “I would go to the fucking doctor,” she said without looking away from the TV.

must i say anything else

This post may contain errors, and anyone is welcome to point them out.

@sadbabywltch gets a thanks for the inspiration

some context

"You studied medicine for a while, didn't you?” [Henry] said.

I knew this to be a prelude to some health-related inquiry. My one year of pre-med had provided scanty knowledge at best...

I’m going to cite some parts of The Secret History, but I cannot copy the entire text of the scene in question. If you haven’t read it, this scene won’t make as much sense.

This post contains extensive discussion of mushroom poisoning as a murder method, so consider yourself warned. This post also contains math and biology, so people allergic to either should turn back.

Richard Pipen knows absolutely nothing about medicine. And I intend to prove that.

on amanita phalloides

Aka, death cap. The most poisonous out of all known mushrooms - half a mushroom (30 grams) is enough to kill a grown human. If Henry had really done extensive research, he should know that - and he said that he has.

“You have no idea how much thought I've put into this. Even to the strain of poison. It's said to make the throat swell, do you know that? Victims are said to be struck dumb, unable to name their poisoner.”

He should also know that the throat swelling is a myth. A.phalloides cause gradual organ failure. Symptoms of poisoning occur twelve hours later, too late to seek treatment, and death generally occurs six to sixteen days after the poisoning.

He should also know that there are less toxic species of Amanita. For instance, Amanita muscaria (fly agaric) is a hallucinogen, and symptoms take only thirty to ninety minutes to appear. Considering that the entire friend group has already been taking drugs regularly, Henry could offer Bunny a lethal dose, ingest a small one, and seek treatment.

There is also Coprinopsis atramentaria - the common ink cap, or tippler’s bane. This mushroom is poisonous, even lethally so, if combined with alcohol. I don’t need to spell the murder method out.

But, of course, Henry is high Intelligence low Wisdom and obsessed with ancient history; if Claudius allegedly died via death caps getting mixed with Caesar’s mushrooms, then it must clearly be the best way to poison someone.

on advanced calculus

“Let's say we know, for instance, that x amount of the drug in question is enough to affect a seventy pound animal and another, slightly larger amount is sufficient to kill it. I've figured out a rough formula, but still we are talking about a very fine distinction. So, knowing this much, how do I go about calculating the rest?”

Quick reminder that Henry killed one dog and poisoned another.

I’m not going to do calculations on A.muscaria or any other method of murder - A.phalloides is what the characters were poring over. I’m going to explain the calculations as simply as I can, and then provide some references for those of you who are interested in biology.

The characters don’t have the internet available, but they have the whole college library, a virtually unlimited amount of money, and a town where everyone takes illegal substances at their disposal. What they need is a pharmacology textbook (to look up the necessary equations), a reference on poisonous mushrooms (to look up death caps), and perhaps a handbook on toxins. 

LD50 is what Henry is after - that is, “the dose required to kill half the members of a tested population after a specified test duration.” (I hope that the readers can already see that two dogs are not a large enough sample size.) LD50 is conveniently measured in mg/kg. We have the characters’ exact weights: Bunny is 86 kg, Henry is 97.5 kg.

Amatoxins are a group of toxins contained in A.phalloides, and the one that causes symptoms of death cap poisoning. LD50 of amatoxins in humans is estimated to be 0.1 mg/kg. Thus, Bunny would need to ingest 0.1*86 = 8.6 mg amatoxins, perhaps less, preferrably more, to be stone dead. Here I make an assumption that 0.05 mg/kg is not lethal; with Henry’s poor health, it might be. Henry would need to ingest under 0.05*97.5 = 4.87 mg to not be dead.

Oral LD50 for amatoxins in dogs is 0.5 mg/kg. Finding out the amatoxin content should be an easy calculation: X grams divided by 31 kg contains 0.5 mg. We know that X grams minus one gram failed to kill the other dog, so we can assume this is not low-balling the dose.

For the sake of ease, let’s say X = 31 -> 0.5 mg amatoxins in one gram of locally harvested, organic death cap. This looks close to reality. Per Yilmaz et al (2015) a death cap ingested by a patient contained 0.426 mg amatoxins per gram, and you can calculate that yourself.

And now a simple proportion:

0.5 mg (per gram) / N mg (lethal dose) = 1 gram / X grams (of mushroom)

Bunny: 8.6/0.5 = 17.2 grams (ingest more than that)

Henry: 4.87/0.5 = 9.74 grams (ingest less than that)

partway disclaimer

Of course, I wouldn’t stake my life, or anyone’s, on those calculations.

The toxin content of the A.phalloides can vary drastically depending on geographical location, season, maturity, etc. This could be remedied, I guess, by gathering a large amount of them, mixing them and chopping them into paste, then testing some of the mixture to determine LD50 and the amatoxin content.

From the data at hand, the exact content of amatoxins cannot be precisely determined. But, hey, Henry only needs to poison more dogs to find out!

and now for some more science

A.phalloides contains two main groups of toxins: amatoxins and phallotoxins, and also phallolysin. Phallolysin is not toxic if taken orally, so that’s out. Phallotoxins were found to have little contribution to death cap toxicity, perhaps because they are not absorbed through the gut. (Though it’s not certain whether the characters would have this information in 1982.) This leaves us with amatoxins.

Yilmaz et al (2015) describe a patient who recovered after ingesting approximately 0.32 mg/kg amatoxins (but after developing liver failure). This is why I’m assuming 0.05 mg/kg is non-lethal.

LD50 for amatoxins in dogs has been calculated for α-amanitin and methyl-γ-amanitin.

Garcia et al (2015) gives the amount of a-amanitin in different tissues of A.phalloides as follows (mg/gram dry weight): 0.67 to 0.78 in caps, 0.30 to 0.32 in stipes and 0.07 to 0.10 in volvas.

why richard is an idiot sandwich

Look, perhaps I’m misunderstanding what Donna Tartt has written, but Richard comes across as right for the wrong reasons. He’s right in that trying to non-lethally poison yourself with something so deadly as A.phalloides is a monumentally stupid affair. He’s wrong about everything else.

Faced with a simple calculation like the above, how does Richard go about it?

Equations about chemical concentration were never my strong point in chemistry, and they are difficult enough when you are trying to figure a fixed concentration in a suspension of distilled water; but this, dealing as it did with varying concentrations in irregularly shaped objects, was virtually impossible. He had probably used all the elementary algebra he knew in figuring this, and as far as I could follow him he hadn't done a bad job; but this wasn't a problem that could be worked with algebra, if it could be worked at all. Someone with three or four years of college calculus might have been able to come up with something that at least looked more convincing; by tinkering, I was able to narrow his ratio slightly but I had forgotten most of the little calculus I knew and the answer I wound up with, though probably closer than his own, was far from correct.

I didn’t know proportions required three or four years of college calculus. If the mushrooms are irregularly shaped, why not weigh them?

“It's a good try, but just by looking at it I can tell that it's insolvable without chemical tables and a good working knowledge of calculus and chemistry proper. There's no way to figure it otherwise. I mean, chemical concentrations aren't even measured in terms of grams and milligrams but in something called moles.”

There are different kinds of chemical concentration, and molar concentration is just one of them. “Something called moles”? A mole is, simply, an amount of substance that contains 6.02214076×1023 molecules (Avogadro number). This is sixth-grade chemistry. It’s also completely irrelevant here.

It’s a miracle Richard ever got into pre-med.

Henry, paraphrased: Oh, well, if I overdose - which I can totally figure out despite the fact that the symptoms take twelve hours to show when the damage is already done - I can just have some atropine. Atropine will totally counteract amatoxins.

...Never mind, Henry is also an idiot - though, at least, that is highlighted in-story. What does he plan on doing, drinking a whole bunch of atropine without knowing the precise dose he ingested?

“They are exactly opposite in effect. Atropine speeds the nervous system, rapid heartbeat and so forth. Amatoxins slow it down.”

No, they are not. To put it in plain English, amatoxins cause cell death - nothing about nervous system. Atropine basically counters the parasympathetic system, kicks your organism into fight or flight mode.

Do you know what atropine is an antidote to? Muscarine. It’s a compound found in certain mushrooms - such as A.muscaria, though only in trace amounts. Atropine and muscarine both bind to muscarinic acetylcholine receptors. Muscarine is not found in A.phalloides. Confusing amatoxins with muscarine is... I imagine it’s excusable if ancient Persian texts are your most recent source.

Oh, and one more thing while I’m at it.

“The Persians? I didn't know you read Arabic.”

In Persia (modern Iran), they speak Farsi, not Arabic. Oh, Richard. I imagine Henry took pity on him and didn’t correct the poor fool.

conclusion

There are two ways to engage with canon - from an in-story perspective (Watsonian) or an outside perspective (Doylist). I’ll leave you to discover what the third (Forsythian) perspective is.

From an in-story perspective, I am drawing the conclusion that both Richard and Henry are utterly inept at math, biology, medicine, and common sense; heaven only knows what “algebraic equations” they spent a good half hour going over.

From an outside perspective... well, if Tartt wrote all those errors purposefully, then it’s a nice bonus for any reader who knows basic medicine. If she didn’t, then I can fault her for not doing enough research. A middle ground is more likely: I’m certain that the 103F episode was intentional, but the Arabic in Persia wasn’t, since Henry of all people would lambast Richard for this error mercilessly.

half-assed references

Garcia, J et al. Determination of amatoxins and phallotoxins in Amanita phalloides mushrooms from northeastern Portugal by HPLC-DAD-MS. Mycologia, 107(4): 679-687. 2015.

Hooser, S.; Khan, S. Common Toxicologic Issues in Small Animals: An Update, An Issue of Veterinary Clinics of North America: Small Animal Practice: Ebook. Elsevier Health Sciences. 2018.

Tu, A.; ed. Handbook of Natural Toxins: Food Poisoning (1st edition). CRC Press.1992.

Wieland, T. Peptides of poisonous Amanita mushrooms. Springer-Verlag.1986.

Yilmaz, I et al. A Case Study: What Doses of Amanita phalloides and Amatoxins Are Lethal to Humans? Wilderness Environ Med. 26(4): 491–496. 2015.

[lisinfleur]

Imagine Ivar and his son’s first...

The request:

Author’s Notes | Here is a headcanon I love to make! Thank you for the request! (This one came out a little different from the others, but I’m sure you guys will like the little scenes). Info | Viking Age AU, requested by anon for 5CW7 ⁑ Warnings: None

...breath:

Had his ears covered, for he couldn't handle hearing your screams anymore. Not noticed the screams had changed since he was deeply diving in prayers for that to end well. Is awakened by the midwife that softly places his child in his hands. Looks at the boy completely fascinated, with teary eyes "You're my most beautiful dream that came true, my child."

...steps:

Fully worried when the baby starts crawling all over the house "Why he's not using his legs?" Checks all the time, but there is no problem with the little boy, despite the child is always dragging its legs around as if they weren't functional. "He kicks, he plays with his feet... Why is he crawling like that?" His concerns were starting to make you worried as well when you started taking the boy to the Hall to visit Ivar In the first two days, the boy observed quietly as his father stood with the braces in his legs. But on the third day, you saw him climbing a chair, using its wood as support to stand. Two more days and Ivar saw the boy letting go of the supports, trying to stand by himself, essaying some small steps despite he was keeping his knees straight while walking, almost marching. You noticed Ivar's eyes change from worried to a mix of pride and satisfaction when he finally understood what was happening... "So... You're trying to be like me... To do like I do."

...word:

"... then, he bit Týr's hand in fury, but the gods left Fenrir there, fighting Gleipnir until Ragnarök when he'll finally break the ties and release his vengeance over the Aesir." You could hear the baby's giggles, and it's sounds, imitating Ivar as Ivar was roaring like Fenrir, telling stories to your son Every night routine Like every night, he got up, caressing his son's head at the crib He kissed his son's forehead and said goodnight And you prepared to hear your little wolf roaring in its bed, mimicking Ivar's Fenrir for ten minutes more before its sleepiness would play Gleipnir and have him knocked off. "aady!!" The two of you froze. Ivar at the door, looking at you. You at the hall, looking at your baby from over Ivar's shoulder. Your son fully stretched towards him, arms in the air, grabby hands "Da-ady!! Daddy!!" Ivar's eyes shone like stars And you knew he would play Fenrir that whole night...

...fight:

You were the one to separate the boys Your son's hand wounded in multiple places The other boy's face wounded and bruised multiple times Both of them yelling at each other when Ivar stood at the door, yelling. His potent voice finishing the fight in a single word. "Enough!" Your son still had his fists clenched. "What is happening here?" "Boys were fighting each other..." you started, trying to protect Ivar from the reason. "Childish things..." "It wasn't childish!" your boy yelled, annoyedly pointing his index towards the other. "This idiot said my father is nothing but a cripple! I'm not the son of a cripple!" You saw something breaking in Ivar's eyes, but before the two of you could say anything, your boy stood, imposing, proud... "My father is the great Ivar, The Boneless! He's not just a cripple! He's a man so strong that the gods thought it would be fair to make him a cripple so the others would have a chance against him! My father is the man who defied the gods and survived! And he didn't trick death itself and fought all his way up here to hear a silly boy who's still pissing on its trousers saying he's nothing but a cripple! You'll learn to respect my father, even if I have to make you swallow your words with your blood!" You and Ivar looked at each other once again... Yeah... Maybe your boy was more like him in his speeches than the two of you imagined...

...booze:

It happened when he gave his son's armlet Boy is a man now, he can drink! First mead, then ale Then boy dancing with every single girl in the Hall Two more cups of mead and boy disappears... Searches everywhere worried you would kill him for losing your son Ends up finding the boy naked, laid over a slave girl, embraced with her on the barn, sleeping It seems his first booze was also some other firsts...

...defeat:

Boy's team was kicked in a raid. Boy went with 20, came back with 4 men and 2 wounded, one of them in his back. He had to go and force the boy to come to his tent - boy was fleeing from his father's eyes. "Why didn't you come to report? I received your report from a secondary man... What's happening to you?" Boy doesn't look at him. Ivar sighs. "Are you wounded?" Boy says no. "Are you dead?" Boy lifts his head. Of course, no! "How many men came back with you?" Boy sighs: only six. "Then you clean yourself up, you stand, you feast and toast for the ones that fought the good fight tonight and tomorrow, you gather your men, go there and avenge your dead!" "But you were never defeated," says the boy "I must be a shame for you." Ivar sighed, lifting the boy's head. "A shame for me is that my defeats don't follow my name such as my victories, my child. I wouldn't be anyone without them. Your strength is not measured by how many battles you won, nor diminished by how many battles you lost. Your strength is measured by how many times you rose up after the fall, and increased by every wound you were able to surpass. It is in defeat that you learn the most, my son. I learned it by being beaten several times." Boy's eyes are glowing with determination once again. Ivar smiles. "Clean yourself, child. And pour some mead for your companions that feast in Valhalla tonight."

...broken heart:

Boy is sitting at the balcony. An amphora by his side, cup in his hand. Ivar crawled outside, sitting beside the boy that sips from his mead, without a word. "Who died?" "My heart..." His eyes look at the lost gaze of his son. And his fingers touch the cup, taking it out of the boy's hand, attracting his eyes. "You drink to celebrate. You feast for the ones who fought the good fight. You speak for the broken hearts, my son. Mead won't drown your heart... Nor the pain into it." Boy sighs. "She betrayed me..." "Then we should celebrate," Ivar said, confusing the boy who looked at him, finding a smile on his father's face. "My son, Odin sacrificed his eye for wisdom and stabbed himself and hanged himself on Yggdrasil for the knowledge of the runes. Who are you to think you would discover who the woman by your side was and have the knowledge about her bad character without any sacrifice charged for it?" he completed, patting his son's shoulder. "Rejoice, my son. The gods accepted the sacrifice of your love and showed you the bad choices you made. Now you're free to choose again. Be wiser and move on."

...scar:

It was for a shieldmaiden's life. One of his women, under his command. She had lost her shield and would lose her life if the boy didn't come on time to place his body in front of her and protect her with his own skin. Together they finished their enemy, but the boy earned a long cut of the man's sword in his face. She held him. They came back to the camp and she followed him to the healer's tent where Ivar was called because of his son's wound. "I'm fine..." boy said, bleeding, but strong. "Yes, you are," Ivar said, not worried, even seeing that would be a dangerous wound if it was a little deeper. "And now you have a story to tell, boy." "And someone to carry this story forward, my king," said the shieldmaiden. Ivar just smiled.

...child:

"She's a shieldmaiden! If she's screaming like that, something must be wrong!" Boy was nervous. Ivar smiled bigger. He could remember how hard it was for him to hear your screams - such a strong woman... Another scream and the boy filled his lungs. "I'll go in!" "Sit and drink, boy," Ivar said. "She's bringing your child into this world and you can do nothing inside that room but disturb her. Don't you trust your wife, my son?" "But... but..." boy didn't have words. Ivar poured some mead offering the cup to his son. Another loud scream sounded and then, silence. The boy almost let the cup fall when someone opened the door inviting him to finally come in. His son rushed inside, but Ivar placed the cup slowly at the table smiling at you. He could remember how beautiful it was that moment, but he could never imagine how fulfilled and complete he would feel when seeing his son with the same tears he once had in his eyes, bringing with him a package he kneeled in front of the two of you to show. Inside his arms and blankets, a beautiful little girl with icy blue eyes that seemed to break completely Ivar's glassy posture, getting tears to his eyes and a smile to his lips. "I thought you were my most beautiful dream, my boy... But now I see this dream will never end and it can become even more beautiful..."

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[ofaheadstronghealer]

Alma Bio

I know we have official bios but until that was posted I thought I’d temporarily post this to help with interactions, please feel free to message me if you have any ideas for plots or connections or what have you! :)

FULL NAME: Alma

AGE: 36

OCCUPATION: Healer/Slave

CHARACTER TRAITS: (+ Clever +Kind Hearted , -Headstrong - Insecure )

LABEL: The Phoenix

GENDER + PRONOUNS: Cis-female, she/her

BIO

(trigger warning: implied sexual assault)

Alma, an unusual name for an unusual girl. There has not been a moment in her life that could be described as ‘typical’ or ‘normal’, perhaps that is why for most of her life being normal had been something she’d craved so desperately until she would come to understand the true power in being different from the rest. Something her mother had always understood.

Alma was born a fatherless child. Not literally, of course, but in the sense that the man who is her father was not her mother's husband nor was his identity ever known to the girl or to the others in the village in which she grew up. Being branded a ‘bastard’ was her first taste of this ‘otherness’ that she would come to experience her whole life, being the daughter of a woman who was suspected by many of being a witch….well that certainly didn’t help matters. When Alma thinks on it now she finds proof that God has a sense of humor, how hard she fought to be unlike her mother and yet how like her she later became. Alma isn’t a witch, not one of the barbarians ‘Volvas’ or one of their ‘seers’, and neither was her mother before her but that mattered little to the townspeople she grew up around. They were pariahs for her whole childhood, ostracized by the community until one of their people needed a healer with skill unmatched by any other and then only under the most dire of circumstances would they accept them with open arms. Alma wouldn’t realize that until she was much older, a naïve thing desperate for acceptance she would bask in it no matter what the price for as long as it lasted. Sometimes at night she would kneel before her bed and pray, pray to god to show the truth of her innocence to the people so that she might live among them as kin and not be regarded with such fear. The first time God answered her prayers she was but the tender age of 14 and she was shown his power...as well as his cruelty. Had she known the price that God would make her pay for her freedom she would have been more specific in her prayers, would have extended the prayer to her mother as well but alas she was selfish as children so often are and did not think of such things. A life for a life, her mother's death for her freedom. She still remembers the way her mother’s hand felt upon her cheek before they brought her to the pyre, remembers the tremble in her voice as, for the last time, her mother told her that she loved her. Alma was forced to bear witness to her mother's death, forced to stand there as she was engulfed in flame and pleading for her life. Suddenly acceptance didn’t matter so much to Alma, all she wanted in that moment was her mother back. 

The years following her mother's passing were difficult in many ways and brought many changes, on one hand she was welcomed back into the community as a show of the villagers' mercy but on the other she was an orphaned girl with no family and no prospects. Her mother had not raised her as a proper lady, she was not educated in the things a girl should be and though everyone around her agreed she was beautiful she was far too clever and her reputation too marred to make a suitable wife for anyone ‘such a waste of a beautiful girl’ they’d mutter as though that were supposed to make Alma feel appreciated. Perhaps other women if put in her position would have simply bowed to fate but not Alma, she had too much of her mother in her for that. If she had no use as a wife then she would find another way to have use, to make herself indispensable so she could not be so easily cast aside. In what she would later realize was a bold move she became a healer like her mother before her though unlike her mother she was more careful in how she was perceived, cautious to never show up the men around her, to curb her clever tongue, and to never perform acts that could be considered miracles and later used against her. She couldn’t really say in any sincerity that she was truly happy but it was as close as she’d ever gotten, she was valued and though people looked at her sometimes with pity it was better than the terror she had become accustomed to in her youth. If only she’d been able to save her mother than perhaps it would have been perfect. Alma lived this way in the village for many years, alone but accepted as much as she could be. That all changed the day they showed up. 

The day of the raid was like any other, Alma had been making her rounds attending to the villagers when she heard the screams. At first the healer thought it was simply in her head, it wasn’t unusual for the painful memory to surface; it had been haunting her for years, but it grew in its volume and intensity and soon it became clear to her that they were not the screams she remembered hearing as a child. Of course they’d all heard of the Vikings and their ways, how they would often raid and pillage and kill everything in sight, but as every other town did they never thought they would be targeted. She was still in the house of a patient when it happened, the person too weak to realize what was going on and certainly too weak to fend for themselves. Alma is no saint, she will not deny if asked that there was a moment when she simply considered running and trying to save herself but one look at the pathetic state of the woman laying there and her mind was purged of that thought. She could not abandon her. Alma helped the other woman to the back of the house, hid both herself and the woman in a dark pantry not easily seen and for the first time in a very long time Alma prayed ‘Please God protect us, see us through this, save us’. God answered Alma much like he had the time before, granting her her wish but always with a twist. The Vikings that crashed through the house at first appeared as though mindless beasts that had not the capacity to think beyond destruction and for just a moment Alma thought herself and the woman safe. She was made aware of how wrong she was when rough hands tore her from the safety of the pantry, a foreign tongue that she couldn’t understand flooded her ears but she understood the tone well enough. The only thing that got her through the assault that followed was the sight of the other woman, frail but still hidden. Safe. 

Alma doesn’t remember much about the journey that led her to Hedeby, she tries not to think about it. She can recall her captors dragging her back to show the horde their prize, remembers her feeble escape attempt just before they threw her on one of their boats. The rest of the voyage was not memorable, she kept her head down as much as possible on the boat and simply listened. Though she could not understand all of what was being said at some point in the journey she managed to make out that they were going to one of their cities, a place they called ‘Hedeby’. Alma was not certain what to expect, what would become of all those they had taken including herself? Would they be killed? Sold? The thought was frightening but she did not let it overwhelm her, simply continuing to listen and do as the Vikings bid. When Alma was brought to what appeared to be an open market in chains with the others she stood silently as they were inspected by the market goers. As time passed and the other villagers were distributed it became clear to the healer exactly the position she was in, she had always been a slight thing and while that had not been looked at negatively back home it was becoming clear that as a slave she was probably the most unappealing of the bunch. Death, it seemed, would be the escape that God would deliver her. It was not to be so. Much to her own surprise she was bought by what appeared to be a family of little means meaning that they had little to trade and therefore she was the only one they could afford, the man looked brutish, as they all did, but was not unkind in his handling of her. She was in their service for a few years, quietly observing the customs and language of these strange people with whom she now resided, but knew it would not last, she was a healer not a farmer and unsuited for the physical labour demanded of her and every day she grew weaker. It was a miracle of God when one day as she was working the fields a man emerged from the forests and collapsed before her clearly wounded, it was pure instinct when Alma leapt into action. Over the next few days there grew a small gathering of Vikings who watched as she tended to the man, they appeared intrigued by her methods some of which were unknown to them. Unknown to Alma the man she eventually ended up saving was someone that the King of these Vikings held as a very dear friend, King Ragnar demanded Alma be brought to him at once. Alma entered the great halls of the Viking King with the family that had bought her but she did not leave with them, word spread not long after of the healer from a foreign land who was now under the ownership of the King. 

That was many years ago and much about Alma has changed, she still bears the status of slave under King Ragnar and his family but as their personal healer she is treated with a great deal more respect than most slaves. Though sometimes she finds herself longing for the familiarity of her old home Alma has managed to settle somewhat among the Vikings and has found respect for some aspects of the way they live their lives and is, in some ways, more herself here than she ever was back at home.

EXTRAS

- Due to how her mother died and having been forced to watch it Alma has a deep and intense fear of fire. 

- She can fully understand the Vikings language but she still cannot fully speak it

- When first she arrived at Hedeby Alma was incredibly quiet but since being raised to the royals personal healer and over the years becoming more settled she has let more of her true personality come through, she has a clever tongue and a headstrong nature and does not feel she’s in such a precarious position anymore that she must hide those things though she is still cautious with who she shows it to

- Although she acts like she’s over the whole wanting to be accepted and loved thing she is very much not over it and longs for a feeling of home and belonging and love.

- At first she hated the Vikings and saw them as brutes and barbarians but now for the most part she has let go of that view though there are still moments where she considers them beasts

- One of the first things she noticed and loved about the Viking culture was how they treated their women, coming from a place where she was only looked at as a thing of value through marriage and the fact that she had a brain frowned upon she was secretly impressed at the freedoms Viking women were afforded.

[upstartcrow1564]

Both the Judgment card and the rune Raidho have appeared a lot in these draws recently, and the emphasis is on positive, engaged forward movement. Don’t waste time looking back. We are being called into a new normal, and that’s great. Let’s do that. Let’s be whatever the moment calls for that wasn’t there before: being more connected with our neighbors, having regular calls with family and friends (or if you’re an introvert and all these calls are a challenge, maybe find a new way to stay connected that isn’t painful or draining, like letter-writing. That’s a fun one! Let’s start doing that again. And in the rush to get back outside or into the shops and businesses, let’s remember what we’ve learned so we don’t have to go through this again. Let’s bless the dead and pray for peace for their onward journey. And let’s just be who we are. Are there any parts of you that can stay in the pre-COVID past? What pieces of your pre-pandemic mask can be left behind? Now’s the perfect time to start a new way of being. Step into your wonderful weirdness and do the dance of you! #tarot #oracle #runes #charms #citki #volva #disir #ancestress #divination #divinersofinstagram #tarotreadersofinstagram #tarotreadings #dailytarot #tarotadvice #charmcasting #tarotofthemoors #themusesdarling #witchesofinstagram #seer #beyourself https://www.instagram.com/p/CAfnMyFHyV_/?igshid=1vbqyyevie6ag

[bts5sosempire]

Ivar the Boneless: Thin Ice (3)

A/n: after a lot of writing blocks that stop me from writing this, BEHOLD I AM BACK AND ITS FINISH. And I never proofread this too. 😩😊😘

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Words: 1,679

Summary: get ready to be married off.

. . . . .

You went to the market to get some fishes as your parents allowed you to go alone this time. You never got the chances of telling them about the eyes of Ivar's men lingering everywhere you go.

Upon returning home, your parents saw you. “(Name) come inside we have to talk to you.” Your mother orders you and you quicken your steps.

Putting the basket inside once you entered your home. There was tension in the air.

Sitting down, your mother hands hover above yours. You knew what she was going to talk about anyway. “Your father and I, we both had come to a hard decision that we will marry you to King Ivar.” You weren't the slightest upset nor mad, in fact, you were scared. You had come to accept your fate once you start seeing visions, but this was different for you.

Seeing your indifference, your mother thought you were upset and feels sorry. “I should've been a better mother if only I could've kept you safer from this life, you would've been happier.”

“Wife…” Your father brought your mother to his chest. She silently cried.

“Don't be sad, it's all my fault that this happened in the first place. I should tell Ivar that we accept his proposition.”

Rose from your seat, you smooth out any wrinkle from your dress. With a deep breath, you left your safe haven.

You spot one of Ivar's men, Asvard.

“Take me to the King”

.

Asvard led you to Ivar's training ground where Ivar was shooting arrows at a target. The target was full of arrows to the brink that there was no space.

“King Ivar,” with a soft-spoken voice he lowers his bow that was ready, “you want an answer? I came here to give you my answer.” He turns around to face you with a knowing smile.

“I already know,” he turns away from you and raises his bow again. He let go of the string and it hit the target's head that was full of arrows. He manages to split an arrow in half.

“Then why?”

“I prefer it to hear it from your lips.” He set his now and arrows down. Ivar rose from the tree stump and grab his crutches and make his way over to you. His eyes that always seem to hold such deep charm and devious aura to them enrapture your very own orbs. “You come and go like the wind, soft when you want to be and strong when you feel threatened and angered. Unpredictable yet such hidden motives.” Ivar words of an observation made you turn away from him. You didn't know if you be amazed or scared at his accuracy.

“I would like to take my leave.”

“Have a walk with me, be my familiar before the wedding. I want to ask your opinions on a few things.” Ivar ignores your plead and made you walk with him.

.

The talk went about sometimes, as you give him small but precise answers to his questions. Ivar seems to be enamored by your elegant and soft talks, something he never saw you loosen up about. You were always guarded around your feelings and a few encounters had you spilling to him like an ale. Ivar saw you considerably became a little more ease around him in such a short time, but not completely. You are such a dear, run away at first sight when trouble arose.

Should he be happy about his accomplishment? He should be because this is shortly the closest he would ever get to you at the moment before he set the wedding and date.

He never pours his thoughts onto one person, due to many betrayals and enemies who claimed to be his allies. But he had a feeling around you for quite some time now, it wasn't like anything he thought of before. You were quite the opposite of him, he was ruled by logic and calculation and you were ruled by compassion and feelings.

Ivar may be a cunning and sly man, but with you around its a whole different level. He had to suppress most of his emotions because he views them as weakness and blockage of making decisive decisions.

“You've been quiet for some time now Ivar, something on your mind?” Flatly asking him, you found Ivar to be quite pleasing to be around if he isn't all that work up or blows up a short fuse. He has a very calm demeanor right now.

“How would you view war?” He quickly comes up with the topic and challenges you on, this is something that he loves. Ivar loves to see what runs in your mind.

“War?” Thinking for a moment you have a lot to say about war. “ I had a lot of views on war, it is something that would create a new era for the people or something far more stupid than you can bargain for.”

He made an okay face, “I just realized you stop using the honorific for me.”

Your face flushes a color of red, “O-Oh sorry.”

“Don't be, go home. I already held you on enough here.”

You found it strange for him to be in a good mood. Ivar motion a hand for you to leave and you did.

.

The wedding was held within a week and it was already that day. Ivar wants to get it over with as soon as possible. He invited trusted allies and family to the reunion. But everything was short fused, he would get angry at simple matter here and there as thralls failed to comply to it immediately.

“Ivar,” with a recognized voice, the man turns his head to see Hvitserk. The one whom he gets along the most out of his other two brothers. The older Lothbrok smile down at his little brother who looks happy, but wipes off the smile off of his face. “How do you feel about today?”

The wedding went like a blur in Ivar's opinion. “So and so,” was his short reply. He was rather tight lip at the moment. His eyes trail to where you were. You were sitting with your parents, while your father and mother were talking to you as you nervously answer them with tense body language.

Hvitserk eyes follow to where Ivar eyes are and saw them linger at you. “Do you like her as a whole, or as a Volva?”

The man stays silent. Did he love you because of your vision and because you were going to provide him a child? At first, he did, but his interest runs deeper than his obsession with the thought of you. You were, in fact, a version of his mother but different and the glow around you spark a different light and a sort of calmness.

Ivar saw you stand up from your parent's table, as your mother usher you away from them with a hand motion. Ivar saw you slowly make towards his way with a shy nature. Something he saw many times.

You seated yourself next to Ivar on the throne and Hvitserk moves a bit closer to peer at your face while sitting on a chair that was on the other side. “Wife,” Ivar greeted you and you mumble out his title with a soft voice and foreign feeling. You never thought that calling anyone ‘husband’ would be so nerve-wracking. Ivar handed you ale and you accept it.

“Sister.” Hvitserk also greeted you with ale in the air. You did the same.

.

The wedding night went by with no trouble. Men being men were ego boosting one another as they entertain each other with stories and jokes. Your tired eyes roam the hall as everything apparently became duller than before as sleep was dawning upon you. Ivar was being very loud next to you, so is Hvitserk.

With a wave, a thrall took your mead from your outstretched hand. Ivar took a hold of your hand and you tense up. Your attention went to him as there was no vision and your body relax for a moment.

“We should go,” Ivar told you before announcing his departure with such an authoritative voice. The hall cheers loudly for him. They all split a path for the King and newly crowned Queen, and Ivar holds you by the hand. Your eyes went to parents for a split second. You know what is bound to happen. Your father nodded his head slightly at you.

You and Ivar were being escorted by a few warriors to the bedchambers. His hold seems to tighten around your hand.

One of them opens the door to the newly wedded couple. Ivar didn't waste time as he ordered no one was to disturb you and him. They all nodded at him before leaving.

“Wife,” he once again called you by the new title of yours before you make small steps towards him. Stopping in front of him, he tugs on your hand. Nervousness course through your body and mind as you stumble into his lap. Ivar took off the flower crown on your head and set it aside.

His rough hands make their ways to your hips and face. The firelight from the fireplace flickers in his eyes as something in his eyes seems to burn something you were uncostumed too. It was rather a deep look in those blue orbs of his. He brought your face closer to his. Uncertainty filled you now but it then faded, as you brought your lips to his before sliding your hands around his neck and jaws.

“Relax,” Ivar cooed against at those soft lips of yours. The strings that were holding your dress together loosen. They fell loosely over your shoulders before sliding down your body. You hesitated but continued. This is the first time that you feel like this.

With slow hands, you took your time with Ivar's clothes.

(A/n: I won't write any smut, because I'm not ready to be flagged.)

Tonight Ivar claim what was his.

[laketaj24]

4'8, long wavy brown hair, WOC, 22, I got a deformed left hand. I'm pretty straightforward, but I tend to bottle things up to not upset others, I got a short fuse but I care for those I love. I love learning new things, and dabble in a little magic here and there, so I assume my dream job would be a seer or a healer of sorts. I would like kids in the ship! Cuddles and touches are a must for me, so smut, yes! Maybe live in a cottage in the woods or something 😂 so viking age works for this ❤

I ship you with Ivar. (Viking Age)

Reason:

Temperament wise I feel that you ad Ivarwould click well, granted I was a fan of Freydis until she became a snitch, Ialways thought Ivar needed someone who was mannered like himself. Temper and intelligencealike.

The Meeting:

You’d had a recurring dream and it wasstarting to scare you more than comfort. Every night you dreamed of the waterhad rising over the walls of Kattegat only when it fell it was not water butbones of dead warriors. There was to be a great battle and you were to tellKing Ivar of your dream. You alerted the proper people of your vision and theyagreed he must know.

Ivar sat on his throne with the crowntwirling between his fingers. “Tell me one more time what is it you have seenY/N?”

You explained the dream again and you arequiet for a minute as Ivar says nothing to you, he just sits there. Should you go?Yes. Yes, get the hell out of there. You turn to leave with your dress whippingaround you.

“Where are you going Y/N?” Ivar clears histhroat. “I have not dismissed you yet?”

“I wasn’t aware that I needed to be dismissed.”You watch as his jaw clenches. “King Ivar.”

“You are to stay here within the King’sCourt. If something happens, I will take you under as my personal seer. Mymother was a volva and it paid to have her instincts.” He waved his hand at youand turned to the white-haired guard next to him. But you remained looking atthe King until he acknowledges you again. “What is it that you want?”

“You to make up your mind perhaps?” You saycalmly. “Do you want me in your presence, or do you want me to leave?”

“Take a seat.” He says slightly annoyed. Younod and he smiles at you. “Here in my lap, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen and you do not move. “I amwaiting for you to make up your mind Y/N. Are you going to stand there gapingat me or sit where you King asked you?”

The Relationship:

Ivar loves being with you at first becauseyou just listen to him, and after years and years of being the youngest and notbeing heard, you listen. It starts off slow, he doesn’t know how you will taketo him and his way of flirting confuses you sometimes. But he adds smalltouches. The first touch is a brush of your ass a smile and when youunexpectedly slapped him, he learned his lesson and started to pursue youcordially. Then it all moves quickly one second, you’re talking, the next youare naked, then you have three kids, all girls and you’re the Queen of Kattegat.You two argue frequently about any and everything and sometimes you wished thearguing would end, but when it does you want the fire lit again just to see himshirtless. He trusts you more than anyone else, not to mention your visionshave saved Kattegat more times than he can count. 

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