Hello, this is my first post. I know Ivar’s leg situation is really complicated, so this is purely fictional. Just enjoy it.
Ivar Ragnarsson × Fem!Reader.
Warnings: Nothing really, Just a brief sexual innuendo, If something slips out, reading this is at your own risk.
Vikings One-Shot | Ivar the Boneless × F!Reader
Part One – The Stranger in the Snow
The first snow of winter had begun to fall when y/n walked through the gates of Kattegat.
She came on foot, wrapped in a wool cloak patched so many times the original colour was lost to memory. No guards stopped her; she was only a woman, after all, small beneath the grey sky, a satchel of dried herbs bumping against her hip. What danger could one wanderer pose to the great trading city of the North?
She had fled three settlements already. The first had been a fishing village in the East, where they’d wanted to keep her as a living charm against plague. The second, a merchant town where the jarl tried to lock her in a tower so she would heal only his warriors. The third, a place so far south the sun burned her skin, where they called her a witch and nearly burned her for it. Each escape had carved a little more caution into her bones, a little more steel into her spine.
Kattegat smelled of salt, smoke, and ambition. Longships creaked in the harbour. Somewhere, a blacksmith’s hammer rang like a bell. y/n kept her head down, eyes flicking left and right, cataloguing faces, exits, threats. It was second nature now.
She found the healing house by following the scent of boiled herbs and the sound of an old woman humming. The door was open a crack, steam curling into the cold air. y/n knocked once, twice, and a voice like dry leaves said, “Come in, child, before you let the winter in with you.”
The healer was called Eldrid. She was old, bent as a question mark, with eyes that missed nothing. She looked y/n up and down once and said, “You know the craft.”
“Then sit. There’s broth on the fire. You look half-starved.”
That was how it began. No grand ceremony, no oath-swearing. Just a bowl of warm broth and an old woman who recognised a fellow keeper of secrets. By the end of the week, y/n had a pallet in the corner of the healing house and a place in Kattegat. For now.
Part Two – The Cripple Prince
She met Ivar the Boneless three days after her arrival, though she didn’t know who he was at first.
She was grinding comfrey root into paste when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle every jar on the shelves. Two thralls stumbled in, dragging a man between them. He was young, perhaps her age, with sharp cheekbones and eyes so blue they looked stolen from the sky. His lower body was strapped into a contraption of leather and metal—braces, she realised, supports that let his useless legs bear weight. He was sweating with the effort of moving, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped beneath his skin.
“Eldrid!” one of the thralls barked. “The prince has torn the skin again. The braces—they’ve rubbed through.”
Eldrid moved at once, but y/n was already standing, already crossing the room with the comfrey paste still on her fingers. The man on the braces looked at her, and his eyes narrowed. He had the gaze of someone who expected cruelty and met it with cruelty of his own.
“Who is this?” His voice was rough, accented in a way that spoke of long hours speaking through pain.
“A new healer,” Eldrid said, peeling back the leather strapping around his thigh. The skin beneath was raw and bloody, chafed to an open wound. “She knows her craft. Hold still.”
y/n knelt without being asked. She looked at the wound, then at the brace. “The leather’s not cured properly. Too stiff. It needs to be soaked in oil and beaten until it’s soft. And you need padding beneath it—lambswool would be best, wrapped in linen. This will keep happening otherwise.”
The thralls looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. The prince stared at her with something unreadable.
“And what would you know of it?” he asked, voice silky with danger.
y/n met his eyes. “I know that you’ve been bleeding into those straps for weeks, and no one’s thought to solve the problem, only patch the damage. That’s poor healing.”
A beat of silence. Eldrid’s hands paused on the wound. One of the thralls actually took a step back, as if expecting violence.
Then Ivar laughed. It was a harsh sound, unused to joy. “Poor healing,” he repeated, tasting the words. “You hear that? At last, someone in this city who speaks sense. What is your name?”
She told him. His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“I am Ivar. Some call me the Boneless.” He said it like a challenge, like a blade laid on the table between them. He was waiting, she realised, for the flinch, the glance downward, the pity.
“I’ll make you a better salve,” she said instead. “One that numbs the skin while it heals. The comfrey is good, but it needs calendula and a little willow bark. Come back in two days and I’ll have it ready.”
Ivar tilted his head, studying her. His eyes were striking, set in that sharp, handsome face. She noticed, despite herself, the way the candlelight caught the line of his jaw, the dangerous intelligence burning behind his gaze.
“You are not from here,” he said.
“Nowhere I intend to return to.”
He smiled at that, a real one this time, quick and feral. “Good. Kattegat eats the weak. You look strong enough to survive.”
He let the thralls carry him out after Eldrid finished bandaging him. At the door, he glanced back once. y/n was still kneeling on the floor, hands stained green, watching him go.
She didn’t look away. Neither did he.
The weeks turned, and y/n became a familiar sight in Kattegat. She worked alongside Eldrid, mending broken bones, brewing tonics for fever, stitching wounds with thread so fine the scars were almost invisible. Word spread. She had a gift, people said. A touch that could calm infection, an instinct for what the body needed. Some whispered that the gods had blessed her. Others, that she was hiding something.
Ivar came to the healing house often. Sometimes with fresh wounds—he pushed his body relentlessly, dragging himself across the training ground, refusing to be less than any other warrior. Sometimes he came with no injury at all, only questions. How did she know so much? Where had she learned? Why did she never speak of her past?
She answered the way she always did: with sarcasm and redirection.
“I learned from a goblin in a cave,” she told him once, when he pushed too hard. “He traded me the knowledge for my shadow. I’ve been walking around shadowless ever since. Haven’t you noticed?”
Ivar’s lips twitched. “You’re lying.”
“I mock everyone. Don’t take it personally.”
He laughed, that harsh, reluctant sound that seemed dragged out of him against his will. She found she liked making him laugh. It felt like winning something.
It was on one of these visits, as winter began to loosen its grip on the fjord, that she finally said what she’d been thinking for weeks.
He was sitting on the bench by the fire, his braces removed, his legs stretched awkwardly before him. She was mixing a new batch of the numbing salve, her hands moving automatically. The silence between them had grown comfortable over the months, but tonight she broke it.
“I’ve been reading about bones.”
He glanced at her. “Reading?”
“I can read. Don’t look so surprised, it’s not that impressive. Most monks can do it.” She set the bowl aside and wiped her hands on a cloth. “The bones in your legs—they’re not missing. They’re malformed. Brittle, perhaps, and the joints are wrong. But the bone is there.”
His expression shuttered instantly. “I know what my legs are.”
“I know you do. I’m not saying this to humiliate you.” She turned to face him fully. “I’m saying it because I think I can help.”
The fire crackled. Outside, a dog barked somewhere near the harbour.
“Help how?” His voice was quiet, dangerous in a different way now.
“I’ve treated similar conditions before. Not exactly the same—every body is different—but I’ve helped children with twisted limbs walk straighter. I’ve strengthened bones that kept breaking. There are methods. Herbs to build density. Manipulation to guide the growth. Exercises in water to build muscle without stress on the joints. It takes time—months, maybe a year—but I think I could get you standing without the braces. Walking. Not easily, not perfectly, but walking.”
She had expected anger. Accusation. Mockery. She had not expected the raw, desperate hope that flickered across his face before he crushed it.
“And why would you do this?” he asked. “What do you want? Gold? Land? A title?”
“Maybe I just want to see if I can.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Everyone wants something. Everyone. So what is it you want, healer?”
She should have had an answer ready. A lie, smooth and simple. Safety. A home. But he was looking at her with those impossible blue eyes, and she found the truth rising up in her throat unbidden.
“I want to stop running,” she said. “I’ve been fleeing from people who wanted to use me since I was old enough to hold a knife. They wanted my hands for their own purposes. They wanted to own what I could do. If I do this—if I help you—I want to be under your protection. Permanently. No one in Kattegat, no one from outside, touches me or tries to take me. I want to belong to myself, and I want a prince of Kattegat to guarantee it.”
Ivar stared at her. The firelight threw shadows across his face, making him look like one of the gods from the old stories—beautiful and terrible and not quite human.
“You want my protection.”
“And in return, you will give me my legs.”
“I’ll try. I can’t promise miracles. But I’ll try.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pushed himself upright on the bench, his arms braced on either side of him, his useless legs hanging. He looked like a king on a broken throne.
“If you fail,” he said, “nothing changes. I am still Ivar the Boneless.”
“And if you succeed, you will have made the most feared man in Kattegat able to stand on his own feet. Some would call that a dangerous gift to give.”
“Some would.” She met his eyes. “Are we making a bargain or not?”
Another long pause. Then Ivar smiled—the wolf’s smile, the predator’s smile, the one that made warriors twice his size take a step back.
“We are,” he said. “I, Ivar Ragnarsson, swear it. Succeed or fail, while you are in Kattegat, no one touches what is mine. And you, healer, are mine now. You understand?”
She should have bristled at the possessiveness. Instead, something warm and unexpected curled in her chest.
“Then we begin tomorrow.”
The treatments began at dawn.
y/n had spent the night preparing: steeping bone-knit tea, grinding eggshells and dried seaweed into powder for strengthening, heating stones wrapped in herbs for muscle relaxation. She had found a sheltered cove near the fjord where the water was shallow and still, perfect for the exercises she had in mind.
Ivar arrived carried by two thralls, who deposited him on the rug she’d spread over the cold ground. He dismissed them with a flick of his hand and looked at her setup with open suspicion.
“You’re going to drown me?”
“The water is knee-deep at most. Unless you’re determined to die dramatically, you’ll survive.” She handed him a cup of the bone-knit tea. “Drink this.”
He sniffed it. “It smells like death.”
“It tastes worse. Drink.”
He drank, grimacing. “You’re very bossy for someone who just arrived in my city.”
“You’re very whiny for someone who wants to walk. Lie back.”
The first sessions were brutal. y/n manipulated his legs gently, testing the range of motion, noting where the joints resisted, where the muscles spasmed. Ivar’s jaw was locked so tight she could hear his teeth grinding. He never cried out, not once, but sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
She talked to distract him. Sarcastic observations about the warriors training nearby. Mocking impressions of the pompous merchants who came to trade. Stories she made up on the spot about the various herbs she used—the nettle that had once been a vain maiden, the willow bark that remembered every sorrow it had ever witnessed.
Sometimes, he laughed. Sometimes he snarled at her to be quiet. Once, when the pain was particularly bad, he grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise and held on, his breathing ragged. She let him. When he finally let go, there were tears in his eyes that he would never acknowledge, and she never mentioned.
That was the beginning of trust.
Session three, she moved him to the water. Buoyancy took the weight off his joints, and she guided his legs through slow, careful movements. The water was cold, but neither of them complained. Ivar’s eyes were fixed on his own limbs as if willing them to obey. They didn’t, yet, but there was something new in his expression. Something like hope, still leashed but straining forward.
Session five, he felt sensation he hadn’t felt before. Not pain—something else. A tingling, a warmth. He told her about it as if confessing to a crime.
“That’s the nerves waking up,” she said, trying to keep the excitement from her voice. “It means the herbs are working. The blood is flowing better. Your body is starting to remember what those legs are for.”
“Or you’re poisoning me.”
“If I wanted to poison you, I’d use something that tastes better. Hand me the oil.”
Session seven, they argued. She pushed him too hard, and he exploded, fury and pain and years of humiliation pouring out of him like lava. He called her a fraud, a witch, a fool who didn’t understand what it was to be broken. She stood her ground, arms crossed, letting the storm rage until he ran out of words and sat panting, looking at her with something that might have been shame.
“Are you finished?” she asked mildly.
“Good. Neither am I. Lie down.”
Session eight, something shifted. The exercises in the water produced a flicker of movement—not much, just a twitch of muscle, an involuntary response. But it was more than his legs had ever done on their own. Ivar stared down at the water as if he’d seen a ghost.
“I can’t make it happen on command yet. But it will come. Give it time.”
He looked at her then, and the expression on his face was so raw, so unguarded, that she had to look away. No one had ever looked at her like that before. Like she was the answer to a prayer he’d been too proud to speak aloud.
Session nine, he asked her to stay after the treatment. The thralls had gone, the sun was setting, and they sat together on the rug, watching the fjord turn gold and pink.
“You never talk about yourself,” he said.
“Neither do you. Not really.”
She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. A defensive posture. She knew it, but couldn’t stop it. “What do you want to know?”
It was a demand, not a request. Ivar didn’t know how to ask softly. She was beginning to understand that about him—that the sharp edges were a shield, not a weapon. Or perhaps both.
So she told him. Not everything, but enough. The village where she was born. The healer who taught her, an old woman who saw something in her hands. The first time someone tried to take her—a chieftain who wanted a personal physician who would never leave. The narrow escapes. The long roads. The loneliness that had become her only constant companion.
Ivar listened without interrupting. When she finished, the sun had set completely, and the first stars were pricking through the dark.
“They tried to cage you,” he said slowly. “Like I am caged.”
He reached out, and for a moment she thought he was going to touch her face. But his hand stopped short, hovering in the air between them.
“I would burn the world,” he said quietly, “if someone tried to cage you now.”
It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. It was also the most terrifying. Because she was starting to believe him.
Part Five – The Breaking Point
Session ten was the one that changed everything.
It was spring now, the snow melted, the world green and alive. They had been working together for three months. Ivar’s legs had grown stronger. He could stand now, in the water, with her support. He could take a single, wobbling step before his muscles gave out. It wasn’t walking—not yet—but it was close enough to taste.
He was impatient. He was always impatient, but this day was worse. He pushed and pushed and pushed, refusing to stop when she told him to, until finally his leg buckled and he crashed into the shallow water with a cry of frustration that was almost a roar.
y/n waded to him immediately, reaching out to help him up. He shoved her hand away.
“I said leave me!” His voice cracked, and the sound of it—the raw, bleeding agony beneath the fury—made her chest ache. He sat in the water, his useless legs sprawled, his face twisted with an emotion he would never name.
Instead, she sat down in the water beside him. The cold soaked through her dress instantly, but she didn’t move. She just sat, shoulder to shoulder with the broken prince, and waited.
After a long time, he spoke.
“You are whole,” she said. “Your legs are not the whole of you.”
“Easy for you to say. You can walk. You can run. You can dance.” He spat the words like curses. “I have to be carried. I have to be helped. I am a prince, and I cannot even stand before my people without these—” He slammed a fist against the braces lying on the shore.
She turned to face him. The water lapped around her waist. His eyes were red-rimmed, furious, lost.
“Ivar,” she said, and her voice was gentler than it had ever been, “you are the most terrifying person I have ever met. You could conquer kingdoms from a chair if you wanted to. But you don’t want to. You want to stand. And you will. I promised you that. But you have to stop hating yourself long enough to let it happen.”
He looked at her. Something in his face cracked open.
“Why do you care?” he asked. “Truly. Why? Is it the bargain? The protection? Because I would give you that anyway. I would give you anything. Can you not see that?”
She went very still. “What do you mean?”
He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “You are blind, then. All this time, and you haven’t seen it. I am obsessed with you, healer. I think about you constantly. Your voice. Your hands. The way you mock me without fear.” He reached out, and this time his hand did touch her face. His fingers were cold from the water, but his touch burned. “I would burn the world for you. I told you that. Did you think I was speaking in jest?”
Her heart was pounding. “I thought you were being dramatic.”
“I am always dramatic. But I am also honest. With you, at least.”
She didn’t know who moved first. Maybe they moved at the same time. But suddenly his mouth was on hers, and it was nothing like she’d imagined—hot and desperate and consuming. His hands fisted in her wet hair, and she grabbed the front of his tunic as if he might disappear. The water was cold, but they were burning.
When they broke apart, gasping, Ivar pressed his forehead to hers.
“I want you,” he said hoarsely. “Not as my healer. Not as my bargain. I want you.”
She should have been afraid. She had spent so long running from people who wanted to possess her. But this wasn’t possession. This was offering. This was him, Ivar the Boneless, the most guarded man in the North, laying his heart at her feet like a sword surrendered.
“I want you too,” she whispered. And then, because she couldn’t stop herself, she kissed him again.
That night, she came to his chambers for the first time.
She told herself she was just bringing more salve for his legs, but the lie was thin and they both knew it. Ivar was waiting for her, sitting on the edge of his bed, his braces leaning against the wall like silent sentinels.
“And I mean all of them.” She set the salve aside and crossed the room to him. Her hands were shaking slightly, but her voice was steady. “Ivar, there’s something you should know. I’ve never… I haven’t…”
He understood immediately. His eyes widened, then softened in a way she had never seen before.
“I was always running. There was never time. Never anyone I trusted enough.” She swallowed. “Until now.”
He took her hand. His grip was strong—his arms had always been powerful—and he pulled her gently down until she was sitting beside him on the bed.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he said, and the restraint in his voice was a gift she would remember for the rest of her life. “I want you, but I will wait. I will wait forever if that is what you need.”
“I don’t want to wait.” She touched his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I want this. I want you. I’m not afraid.”
“You should be,” he said, but he was smiling. “I am terrible.”
“You’re terrible and I want you anyway. Shut up and kiss me.”
The night was slow and careful. He could not move the way other men could, but his hands and his mouth more than compensated. He worshipped her with a devotion that bordered on religious. When it hurt, he stopped, kissed her forehead, whispered things in his rough voice that made her heart ache. When she finally took him inside her, the pain gave way to something deeper, a fullness that was not just physical.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, her head on his chest, his hand stroking her hair.
“You are mine now,” he said, and there was no threat in it. Just wonder. “Truly mine.”
“And you are mine,” she replied.
Part Seven – The Betrayal
She saw the kiss three weeks later.
She had been coming back from the healing house, a basket of fresh herbs on her arm, when she turned a corner and saw them. Ivar, propped against the wall of the great hall, his braces gleaming. A woman pressed against him—a shieldmaiden with golden hair and a bold smile. Their mouths were fused together.
y/n stopped walking. The basket slipped from her fingers. The sound of it hitting the ground made them break apart, and Ivar’s eyes found hers immediately.
She didn’t stay for explanations. She turned and walked away, her heart shattering into a thousand sharp pieces.
He called her name. She didn’t stop.
The days that followed were a special kind of torture. She threw herself into her work, spending every waking hour in the healing house, avoiding the great hall, avoiding the training grounds, avoiding anywhere he might be. Eldrid gave her knowing looks but said nothing. The thralls who brought messages from Ivar were turned away. The gifts he sent—a silver bracelet, a fur cloak, a knife with a bone handle—she left unopened in a chest.
She should have known better. She should have known that a prince could never truly want a healer with no name and no family. She had been a fool, and the fool’s payment was heartbreak.
She cried only at night, when no one could see. She would not give him the satisfaction of her tears.
Part Eight – The Kidnapping
y/n was alone in the healing house, Eldrid having gone to attend a birth in the village. She heard the footsteps too late—heavy, multiple, wrong. She reached for the knife she kept hidden in her sleeve, but hands grabbed her from behind before she could draw it.
“Don’t scream,” a voice growled in her ear. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time, witch.”
She was dragged from the healing house with a sack over her head. She heard the clash of weapons, shouts, the chaos of a raid. Then she was thrown onto a horse, and the world became nothing but motion and fear.
They took her south. Days of riding, blindfolded and bound. She pieced together enough from their conversations to understand: they were mercenaries hired by a Saxon lord who had heard of a healer with miraculous skills. He wanted her for his own court, and he was willing to pay handsomely for her capture.
For the first time in years, y/n was truly terrified. Not of death—death was simple. She was afraid of being caged again. Of being owned.
And underneath the fear, a traitorous thought: Ivar will come for me. He promised.
But he had also kissed someone else. Maybe he didn’t care anymore. Maybe she was already forgotten.
Part Nine – The Wrath of Ivar
He came on the fifth night.
y/n was being held in a camp near the coast, waiting for the ship that would take her across the sea. She heard the screaming before she understood what was happening. It was a sound from the underworld—high and terrible and full of agony.
Then the tent flap tore open, and he was there.
Ivar stood in the entrance, and for a moment she didn’t recognise him. He was on his feet—truly on his feet, without braces, without support. He held a blood-soaked axe in each hand, and his eyes were wild, unseeing, mad.
Behind him, the camp was on fire. Bodies littered the ground. The mercenaries who had been laughing around their fire an hour ago were dead, most of them in pieces.
He had done this. He had walked through fire and blood to find her.
The axes dropped. He crossed the distance between them in three staggering steps—walking, he was walking—and then he was on his knees before her, his hands cupping her face, his voice cracked and desperate.
“You’re alive. You’re alive. I thought—I thought I was too late—”
“Your legs,” she said stupidly. “You’re walking.”
“I don’t care about my legs!” He was shaking, tears streaming down his face, leaving tracks in the blood splattered across his cheeks. “I care about you. Only you. When they said you were taken, I… I went mad. I killed everyone who tried to stop me. I would have killed the whole world to find you.”
She touched his face, her bound hands clumsy. “The kiss. The shieldmaiden.”
He laughed, a broken sound. “Is that why you were avoiding me? That was nothing. Nothing. She threw herself at me at a feast, and I was pushing her away when you saw. I pushed her away, y/n. I have touched no one but you. I want no one but you. You have to believe me.”
She did. Looking into his ruined, beautiful face, she believed him completely.
He did, his fingers fumbling with the ropes. The moment she was free, she threw her arms around his neck and held on. He clung to her like a drowning man, his body shaking with sobs he would never admit to.
“I’m sorry,” he said into her hair. “I’m sorry. I should have protected you. I should have been faster.”
“You came. That’s what matters.”
“I will never let anyone take you again. Never. You hear me?” He pulled back, his hands gripping her shoulders. “You are mine. And I am yours. And I am going to make you my queen. Not a healer hidden in a corner. A queen. Everyone will know. Everyone will see.”
She kissed him, tasting blood and salt and the smoke of the burning camp. It was the most perfect kiss of her life.
They returned to Kattegat as the sun rose.
Ivar walked into the city on his own legs, carrying y/n in his arms. He had refused to let her walk, refused to let anyone else touch her. The people of Kattegat gathered to watch, their eyes wide. Some wept. Some cheered. The cripple prince stood before them, and in his arms was the woman he would move heaven and earth to protect.
He set her down before the great hall, keeping one arm around her waist.
“Hear me!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the silent crowd. “This woman is y/n, and she is the reason I stand before you today. She gave me back my legs. She gave me back my life. And I will give her everything in return. From this day forward, she is not just a healer. She is my wife. My queen. And anyone who dares to touch her, to threaten her, to even look at her wrong—I will make them beg for death before I am finished.”
No one argued. No one would have dared.
That night, in his chambers, they were married in the old way, with blood and vows and witnesses. y/n wore a dress of deep blue that he had commissioned weeks ago, waiting for the right moment. He wore his braces for the first time since the rescue—not because he needed them, but because they were part of him, and she loved every part.
When the ceremony was over, and they were alone, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her slowly, deeply, with all the time in the world.
“I love you,” he said. “I should have said it before. I should have said it the moment I met you.”
“I love you too,” she said. “Even when you’re infuriating. Especially then.”
He laughed, and it was no longer the harsh, reluctant sound from before. It was full and warm and hers.
The snow was falling again, a year later.
y/n stood at the window of the royal chambers, watching the flakes dance over the fjord. Her hand rested on the swell of her belly, round and full with the child growing inside her.
Ivar came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. He had walked across the room without a trace of a limp.
“You should be resting,” he murmured.
“You should stop telling me what to do.”
“Never.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “How is the little warrior today?”
“Kicking. She’s going to be trouble.”
“A feeling.” y/n turned in his arms, looping her own around his neck. “Are you disappointed?”
He looked at her as if she’d said something incomprehensible. “Disappointed? You are giving me a child. Our child. A daughter, a son, it doesn’t matter. They will be loved beyond reason. They will want for nothing. And they will never, ever know what it is to be caged.” He touched her belly, his hand spreading over the curve. “I promise you that, little one.”
She had spent so many years running. So many years hiding. And now, here, in the arms of the most feared man in the North, she had found something she never thought she would have.
Ivar tilted her chin up and kissed her, soft and sweet, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing Kattegat in white silence. Inside, the fire crackled, and two hearts beat as one.
And somewhere, the gods looked down and smiled.
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