Tags:: Blacksmith!SimonRiley × Seer!Reader, Viking AU, arranged marriage, slow-ish burn, historical inaccuracies/historical accuracies 2 for 1 special
CW:: Canon typical violence and gore, romanticization of violence, improper use of hallucinogens, smut, additional CW's added as necessary
Comment on chapters or here to be on the taglist
Since birth, Odin’s ravens have haunted your dreams, whispering riddles of fate and shadowed prophecy. The gods marked you as their seer, and you’ve borne the weight in silence, bound to visions soaked in blood and storm.
But now, the dreams twist. A shadowed man hunts you through the mist, his voice a dirge of death, and the ravens scream of a binding—of a union forged in doom.
The Norns have woven your fate, in threads of fire and frost, but you will not go to it meekly. You will fight, claw, and bleed to survive—no matter the cost.
If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…
Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.
Including (sigh) the em dash.
There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.
A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.
No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.
You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.
Defend the em dash.
(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)
CW: Typical Canon violence, depictions of gore, romanticization of gore, improper use of hallucinogens, 18+
Hey sorry for disappearing and not writing for like, forever. I got really depressed and lost all my passion for everything :D Anyways, thank y'all for your perseverance in this wait!!! Here's chapter 3!!
Chapter 3: Falter
You wake choking—retching—the taste of earth and rot and blood flooding your mouth. You vomit until your stomach is empty, until your ribs ache and your throat burns raw, and still your body convulses, grasping at ghosts with every dry heave.
Time slips sideways. You don’t know how long you’re folded over the bucket. Minutes, hours, a lifetime?
Your head swims. Your ears buzz like wasps are trapped behind your eyes. The world tilts—sways—refuses to stay still.
You collapse backward into your bed, sinking into something that isn’t sleep, isn’t waking— a fevered nowhere between the two.
Dreams claw at you, omens whisper in tongues you’ve forgotten, and none of it makes sense.
You think your mother comes. You think she presses something bitter to your lips, but maybe that, too, is a dream. Maybe she’s only another ghost.
This is the hollowing. The gods take their toll. The völva’s price is pain.
You are paying it, piece by piece.
—
The next day, you wake surprisingly whole.
Your limbs ache with the familiar dull throb the ritual always left behind, and your stomach is hollow from the hours of retching. A strange film coats your mouth—bitter and sour, like old herbs and smoke clinging to your tongue.
You dealt with it the way you always did: a long soak in the bath, a rinse with cool water, and silence.
No words. No prayers.
Just breath, and movement, and the quiet ritual of reclaiming yourself.
The rest of the morning passed with your mother fussing over you and your father focused on preparing for the journey.
“But you were retching for hours!” your mother pleaded, wringing her hands. “You were speaking in tongues, and you kept crying! Delay the journey, at least a day!”
Your father shook his head as he strapped a saddlebag into place. “She asked for two days, she got two days. She should stick to her word. It’s the sign of a good woman.”
You cringed at that “good woman” but you still agreed. “Ma, please. I get sick every time I visit the völva. You know that. This is nothing new. I’m fine.”
With your father on your side, the argument ended there. Reluctantly, your mother relented—but not without stuffing your bags with enough herbs, protective runes, and enough food to feed a small family. You were still munching on a hunk of bread as your father tightened the last strap on the saddle and gave the horses a final check.
The ride to the edge of the village and onto the forest path was quiet. It always was with him. You and your father didn’t speak much unless it was about something necessary—repairs, livestock, family… your marriage.
The forest welcomed you with the hush of falling leaves and the creak of tree limbs bending in the breeze. Autumn had settled deep into the land—leaves of gold, rust, and fire clung to branches or drifted down in lazy spirals, carpeting the path in color.
The air was crisp, sharp with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, and somewhere in the distance, a wren let loose a sudden torrent of song—bright and bubbling. The notes tumbled over each other in a breathless rush, high and sweet, defiant in their smallness. It sang as if the world were listening, as if that one moment of music could chase away the lingering chill of dawn.
You kept your gaze forward, but you felt the weight of it all pressing in—the season, the fauna, the inevitability of your path.
It was always like this, riding through the forest in fall. The trees thinning, the skies darkening earlier each day, the world winding down into quiet death before the snow. And still, it was beautiful.
Part of you wanted to stop and take it in, just for a while. To breathe deeply and pretend, if only for a moment, that this journey was yours to shape—that you weren’t being carried along by fate like a leaf in the current.
Your father said nothing, just rode beside you, his presence a solid, stoic thing. You wondered if he ever looked at the trees. If he noticed the way the world was dying in gold.
Or if, like always, he only saw the road ahead.
The forest moved around you like a dream—branches sighing in the wind, leaves tumbling through the air in golden flurries. For a while, you let yourself be part of the stillness, breathing it in like a balm.
Then your father spoke, clearing his throat as if to announce the change in atmosphere.
“So,” he said, awkwardly, “we’re going to go negotiate a marriage for you.”
You blinked slowly, the words sitting heavily in the air. He said it like it wasn’t already done, like he hadn’t been the one to set it all in motion.
Still, your voice stayed even. “Yes. I suppose we are.”
He glanced at you, as if trying to read your reaction, but you kept your gaze forward.
“I know you’re not thrilled,” he said after a beat.
You let out a breath. “No. I’m not.”
He didn’t speak right away, and the quiet between you stretched, filled only by the rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the rustle of the trees.
“But I’ll do it,” you added softly.
He frowned. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” you said, more firmly than you meant to. Then, after a pause, “You’ve always done what needed doing. I understand that. And I understand that now it is my turn to do what needs doing.”
He was quiet again. The silence this time felt heavier, more thoughtful.
“I’m proud of you,” he said at last. The words came with a weight you weren’t expecting. “And I won’t be upset if you say no. If you change your mind. That doesn’t make you weak. And it is your right.”
You didn’t answer immediately. The lump rising in your throat made speech difficult anyway.
But I can’t say no.
You wanted to. You wanted to stop the horses, turn around, scream into the forest. But fate didn’t care what you wanted. The gods had already carved your path, and all that was left now was to walk it.
So you nodded, because that was all you could give him.
And you kept riding, because that was all you could do.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. You and your father didn’t speak when you stopped for lunch, nor when you paused for dinner, nor as you set up camp for the night beneath the whispering boughs.
He was stoic, unbothered. You were anxious—tightly coiled with dread as each hour brought you closer to what felt like your doom.
When the fire had burned down to glowing embers and your father’s steady snores filled the quiet, you lay awake, your body buzzing with the urge to flee.
You were deep within the forest. It was night. You could run.
Maybe he’d wake and find you gone. Maybe he’d think you’d been taken by the forest, or worse. He might ride to that monster’s village and tell them you were dead. Maybe the news would reach the gods, and—by some mercy—they’d believe it.
You could vanish.
But then you looked at your father and the thought began to unravel.
What would happen to him if you left? Could he make the journey alone? He was strong—a jarl, a seasoned warrior—but what if the village turned on him for failing to deliver a bride?
You sighed and rolled onto your back, turning your gaze away from the darkened trees and up toward the stars. Solveig’s words echoed in your mind: "It’s in our nature to run from what we can’t control. But the moment you do... others will pay the price."
No. You would not abandon him.
So you stayed, eyes wide as the sky slowly shifted from black to pale blue. When morning came, you pretended to have slept. You helped break camp, packed your things, shared breakfast—and never said a word about the thoughts that had kept you awake.
But exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, following you every step of the way toward the village.
The village emerged through the thinning trees, larger than your own by far. Its longhouses were tall and richly carved, beams etched with winding beasts and runes that caught the light. Roofs shone dark with pitch, and finely dyed banners stirred in the wind. Smoke curled from dozens of chimneys, and the air held the scent of hearthfire and roasting meat.
This place was not humble. It wore its wealth openly—opulent by the standards of your people.
Your father reined in his horse as you both entered the wide square. A stone well sat at its center, and villagers moved with purpose, well-fed and well-armed. He called out to a passing man, “Where is your jarl?”
The man barely looked up as he gestured toward the great longhouse at the end of the square, its towering doors flanked by statues of wolves, its roof steep and proud.
Your father turned to you, his voice quiet. “Wait here.”
You slid down from your horse, muscles aching. He gave you a short look before heading toward the longhouse, cloak snapping in the wind.
Left alone, you hovered near one of the pillars near the doors. The bustle of the village swirled around you, but no one paid you much attention. You tried to distract yourself, to study the buildings or the people—but the fatigue pressed hard. The night had taken more from you than you thought.
You leaned against the stone, arms crossed. The weariness you’d been carrying all morning began to press heavily on your limbs.
You didn’t mean to close your eyes. It just happened.
Your body relaxed, weight sinking into your boots, the sounds of the village fading into something distant. Your head dipped forward once—twice—and then you snapped upright, heart pounding.
Something wasn’t right.
Someone was watching you.
You scanned the square, suddenly alert. There was no one staring, no hostile faces. And yet… the feeling lingered. Like eyes on your skin. Like being seen from somewhere you couldn’t see in return.
Then the doors of the longhouse creaked open.
You flinched as your father stepped out—and behind him, another man followed.
Your body tensed, instinct flaring. Every nerve sharpened. You stood straighter.
The man beside your father was taller, broader, and clearly younger—yet the two spoke like old comrades. He had an unusual look about him: the sides of his head were shaved, the longer hair on top left unbraided, and his accent was stranger still.
“Daughter,” your father called, “meet Johnny—one of Jarl Price’s men. A raider I met on my travels.”
Johnny grinned at you, eyes an almost startling shade of blue. His smile was wide and eager, and there was something puppyish in the way he bounded over, seizing your hand in a firm shake.
“’Ello, bonnie.”
You blinked. “Bonnie?”
“From the Highlands,” he said, voice lilting and warm. “’S what we call beautiful women. I’m to lead ya to where you’ll lay your wee head.”
You flushed, but didn’t look away. He wasn’t the one the gods had shown you—and that realization brought unexpected relief. The tight knot in your chest began to loosen, and you found yourself genuinely enjoying his company, even if you couldn’t always make out what he was saying through the heavy accent.
“Alrigh’,” he said at last, stopping in front of a modest longhouse, “here’s where you’ll be sleepin’.”
You stared at it. Your own space—an entire house just for you while negotiations were underway. It was unheard of back home. Just how wealthy was this jarl?
Still in awe, you turned to Johnny. “Thank you—for guiding me.”
He gave a short bow, exaggerated and playful. “Aye, any time, bonnie. If ya need anythin’, ask for me.”
“I will. Good night, Johnny.”
“Sleep well,” he said with a wink, then turned and strolled off with the same bounce in his step.
You stepped inside, lit the hearth, and helped your father unpack. The two of you ate in silence. You didn’t ask what was said in the jarl’s hall, and he didn’t offer it. You assumed all had gone well—and for now, that was enough.
The longhouse was simple but well-built, with only one proper room and a wide, open main space. You gave your father the room without hesitation. You preferred to sleep by the fire anyway, closer to the door. You wouldn’t run—but you liked knowing the option was there.
Anxiety coiled tight in your chest, whispering reminders of what awaited you, but exhaustion dulled its voice. Eventually, it slipped away altogether, and you drifted into sleep.
No visions came.
You couldn’t remember the last time that had happened—and it was… nice.
I am love’s weakest soldier. I don’t believe in making that shit work. Don’t like their family that they’re super close to? Break up. Don’t like their friends? Break up. Wedding planning drama? Break up or elope. They cheated? IMMEDIATE break up. They’re jealous? Break up. They don’t like your pet? Break up. You hate the squalor of their apartment? You’re not obligated to teach a grown adult how to do basic chores, break up. They keep trying to start arguments? Break up. There is nothing definably wrong with them but you’re not feeling it? Out the door.
I get fighting for your relationship in some of these scenarios if you share assets or are married but if you’re just dating and they’re already making your life worse than it would be if you were single, go be single.
when you grew up as a lonely uncool girl it will never stop haunting you by the way. you will meet a cool person at a bar or the train station or at a friend's party and you can wear your most stylish outfit and striking eye makeup and you will swear that they can see through all of the facade and see the lonely terribly insecure teenage girl you used to be who desperately wanted to connect and you will swear that they know that there is like an insurmountable gap between you. this will happen forever
Okay so I know I said Chapter 2 would be out by last Saturday but life has gotten in the way and the chapter has gotten longer than I thought it would be. So, I'm sorry but this time it should be done by Friday, so yay!
And good news, I've figured out how to stylize my text posts now!!! Took a minute but I figured it out :-)
Anyways, here's a snippet and I'm sorry it's taking so long 🫶🏼
“That is all I can see,” she murmured, her voice frayed and exhausted.
Even that small phrase—spoken in her own voice again—made everything feel frighteningly real. The trance was over. The vision was true. This was your fate.
You were to wed a man half-dead, guard him against the cold grip of the goddess Hel and her creeping hands, and somehow, somehow, give him a reason to keep living. To fight. To stay.
You didn’t want to.
That realization hit like a crack in your ribs. You hadn’t wanted any of it—but now, with the path laid out before you in smoke and shadow, your resolve faltered.
You had come here knowing you couldn’t escape it, and still, the urge rose in you like a wave: to run. To flee so far that even the ravens couldn’t find you. To vanish into the woods and become moss and bark and memory. Forgotten by fate.
But it would be useless.
The gods had eyes in every crevice of Midgard. And fate—fate would find you, drag you back, and place the burden in your hands all over again.
simon considers eating your pussy as one of his three meals a day.
he undertakes the task of eating you out the same way he tackles his food; voracious, messy, starved. christ, the first time you saw him tear into a burger made you wet just from a purely pavlovian response - the wet sounds and juices around his mouth were entirely gross and off putting… and yet you couldn’t help but squeeze your thighs beneath the table while you sat opposite him.
Where's that video of a guy at a cake eating competition (not a euphemism, I mean it literally) and this guys is just passionately eating fucking cake (again, not a euphemism). Cuz that guy is Simon.
CW: Typical Canon violence, depictions of gore, romanticization of gore, improper use of hallucinogens, 18+
You have seen the face of Death Incarnate, you know what you must do. But first, you must prepare.
Chapter Two: Smoke
You could have sworn you were having a pleasant dream before you had set foot on the path again, before the songs of Hugin and Munin summoned you. They shriek from the trees, a command to make haste, so you do.
The grove is empty and green when you arrive, creme swaths of henbane peek out of the clover and grass. You creep into the space and only the sound of the ravens taking flight into the cloudless sky accompanies you as you make your way to the center. You know exactly where the middle of the grove is, it is instinctual; So is the abrupt stop you make.
The grove was silent, too silent, and too still. Without warning, a chill crept up your spine and you knew what -or rather, who it was. You turned and instantly the grove was filled with gore and the ground squelched under your feet, the man was half-way across the field; a blink, and he was a few steps away.
He was beautiful and terrifying, with deep brown eyes and long blonde lashes, but his pupils were dilated so wide that his eyes were almost black and he shook as though the blood of the grove made him frenzied. He was tall too, taller than any other man you'd seen, you craned your neck up as he got closer and spoke one word.
“Wife.”
Just like that, the grove swallowed you whole, bodies piling on top of you, grabbing at you. The smell of rot and blood filled your senses as the carnage pushed in around you, trapped you, absorbed you. You could feel nothing but blunt nails digging into your skin, pulling you further, and everywhere you looked you met the gaze of another dead man. Had that man done all of this?
They began to sing, to talk, to scream, “You are a bride bathed in blood, the sacrifice chosen by the gods to tame the deathless. Bind yourself to him and quell his rage. This is your purpose blood bride.”
—
The völva’s hut was warm and inviting, despite the skulls and strange herbs that crowded the walls. The scent of smoke and dried flowers clung to every surface, thick enough to taste. Solveig glided from the back room, elegant as always in her fine furs and bone jewelry.
“Hello, old friend,” she rasped, her voice frayed by smoke and prophecy.
You smiled. “Hello, Solveig.” You had come here often—for tinctures, for clarity, for the comfort she never admitted to offering. She was the only soul in the village who knew of your dreams. She had even held you once, when the visions had turned violent—when the gods showed you death and plague, and you sobbed, “I don’t want this. I wish the gods would take it from me.”
Her advice hadn’t been kind. “Midgard is made for our suffering and the gods do not unmake what they have given, no matter how awful. Spite it, spite them, and thrive.” But her presence—warm, steady, unyielding—had been kindness enough.
“What ails you this time?” she asked, drawing you back from the memory.
“Marriage,” you said, and frowned.
“Marriage?” she echoed with a scoff, already turning to usher you into her meditation room. “Gods preserve us.”
You ducked through the low doorway and followed her inside. The room was dim, lit only by a hearth and the soft shimmer of rune-etched stones. You settled onto the floor cushions as she stirred the embers, her back to you.
“Who is the lucky fool?” she asked, with no real interest in the answer.
“I don’t know,” you said. “But I’ve seen him in my dreams. I know his face. I know what the ravens call him. And I know I was chosen for him.”
Solveig straightened and she turned slightly, just enough to catch your eyes in the firelight.
“And what do they call this man?” she asked, voice low.
“The draugr.”
The name hung in the air like a chill, even with the hearth burning bright. Solveig didn’t speak right away. Her gaze drifted past you, to some point far beyond the walls of her hut.
“You’re certain?” she finally said.
You nodded. “They screeched it again and again. The same face, the same name. And every time he came to me, the ground bled.”
Solveig closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. “And have they called you anything?”
You nod, voice low. “Blood bride.” The words taste like iron. A blood bride is a sacrifice—to quell, or to feed. Either way, her fate is never kind.
“It’s why I came today,” you continued, your voice tightening. “There’s no avoiding it anymore. The signs are here. I can feel it closing in.”
You look up, eyes burning. “I know I can’t run. I know I can’t change what’s coming. But gods, if there’s a way—I want to survive.”
Solveig’s expression was grim, but slowly, she nodded. “I will see what I can find.”
She reached for a worn stone bowl and set it down with care, then began selecting herbs from her shelf. Her fingers moved with practiced precision—feverfew, juniper, angelica root—but it was the sharp scent of henbane that made your breath catch. The dried petals settled atop the mixture like a curse.
Chills ran down your spine. Last night’s visions surged back unbidden: a field of death, the sound of wings, the draugr’s voice like frost cracking stone.
Solveig paused, her hand hovering in the air. She had seen your reaction. Neither of you said anything as she slowly finished her ministrations. She looked at you then, truly looked—past the mask of composure you wore, into the fear and fire beneath.
“This won’t bring you peace,” she said softly, placing the bowl before you. “I may see your death—and if I do, I am godsbound to speak it.”
It was a warning, and a rare flicker of concern in her otherwise implacable tone. You drew a breath, steadying yourself. “Tell me what you see.”
Without another word, Solveig struck flint to tinder. The herbs caught flame, then smoldered, tendrils of smoke curling toward the rafters like reaching hands. You watched as it swirled—slow, deliberate, almost alive.
Solveig leaned forward and began to inhale deeply, her breath syncing with the rhythm of the rising smoke. Her voice followed, low and strange, slipping into an ancient tongue you never quite understood—one that tugged at something deep in your bones. A language not meant for mortal ears, yet one you yearned to hear all the same.
The air thickened as she chanted, smoke coiling like serpents around her fingers, her arms, her throat. The fire in the bowl pulsed with an unnatural glow—dull red, then violet, then black as emberless coal.
You felt it before you heard it: a pressure, like the air around you had been sealed tight. The warmth of the hut faded, replaced by a cold that sank straight to the marrow.
Solveig's eyes fluttered, then snapped open—pupils blown wide, all color vanished. Her head tilted, just slightly, as if listening to something far away, or deep below.
The chanting stopped. Silence followed—so complete it made the crackle of the fire feel deafening.
She spoke again, but it wasn’t her voice. Not entirely.
“He does not hunt you. He is hunted.”
The words freeze your blood, she continues. When she speaks again, her voice comes in echoes not her own—deeper, older, like wind through a burial mound.
“One foot in Midgard, one in Hel’s hall. The dead queen stretches out her hand.”
A low rumble passes through the floorboards, like distant thunder—or breath from beneath the earth.
“The bride is not the offering. She is the tether. The seal. The blade.”
The air snapped colder. You thought you saw feathers in the smoke—black, glossy, falling like snow.
“The ravens guide the bride. They whisper in her dreams, carry her to the stones where answers still speak.”
The fire flared, the smoke thickened. It felt suffocating.
“Guard the root. Kindle the flame. Make him remember the breath in his chest.”
The hut trembled. “Give him reason, and he will give you shield. Let him fall, and the gates will open wide.”
Silence fell. Then one last whisper, so faint it barely reached your ears: “You are both bond and offering.”
The silence in the hut was deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of dying embers and the echo of words that refused to leave your ears. The smoke had thinned, but it still clung to your skin, your lungs, your thoughts. The air was thick with what had just passed—too sacred to speak aloud, too terrible to ignore.
You felt dizzy, drained. The ritual always left you hollow, like the gods demanded a piece of you as payment for daring to ask help from someone else. Perhaps that was why you never told anyone else of your visions—because there was always a price.
Solveig remained seated, her posture still but strained, eyes closed and breathing slow.
“That is all I can see,” she murmured, her voice frayed and exhausted.
Even that small phrase—spoken in her own voice again—made everything feel frighteningly real. The trance was over. The vision was true.
This was your fate.
You were to wed a man half-dead, guard him against the cold grip of the goddess Hel and her creeping hands, and somehow give him a reason to keep living. To fight. To stay.
And you didn’t want to.
That realization hit like a crack in your ribs. You hadn’t wanted any of it—but now, with the path laid out before you in smoke and shadow, your resolve faltered.
You had come here knowing you couldn’t escape it, and still, the urge rose in you like a wave: to run. To flee so far that even the ravens couldn’t find you. To vanish into the woods and become moss and bark and memory. Forgotten by fate. But it would be useless.
The gods had eyes in every crevice of Midgard. And fate—fate would find you, drag you back, and place the burden in your hands all over again.
Because that’s what it did.
Solveig’s eyes opened slowly, the last tendrils of smoke curling away from her like breath. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. The hut was silent, save for the whisper of wind outside, brushing against the bone-charms hanging from the eaves.
“I’ve seen what I can,” she said at last, repeating herself from earlier. “The rest is hidden… or not meant to be spoken.”
Her voice was quieter now, the rasp of it more human, more worn.
She didn’t look at you—only at the bowl of ash, as if searching for something she knew she would never find.
“You’ll want to turn back. At some point, you will. It’s in our nature to run from what we can’t control. But the moment you do… others will pay the price.”
There was no cruelty in her tone, only certainty. She had seen enough paths unraveled to know the shape of consequence.
“You were not sent into this to be spared. You were sent to endure.” Her gaze finally met yours—steady, unblinking. “And in that, there is power. There always is.”
A pause. Then, almost gently: “Whatever waits ahead, meet it standing and with your blade drawn high.”
She closed her eyes again, shoulders slumping as if the weight of what had passed finally caught up with her.
“Go. The ravens are waiting.”
You left slowly, but silently dropping your payment in a bowl by the door. The door shut behind you with a soft thunk, and the weight of Solveig’s words clung to your shoulders like damp wool.
Just as she said they would be, two ravens waited outside—perched on the bare limbs of an old tree in her field. Their feathers caught the fading light like shards of obsidian. They watched you with knowing eyes.
Something close to anger stirred in your chest at the sight of them. By the time you reached the edge of the field, it had grown sharp, cutting through your ribs like a blade drawn too quickly.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to curse the gods—how dare they? How dare they lay this burden at your feet, carve a path in stone and call it destiny? How dare they grant you the sight only to torment you with it?
It was evening when you reached your home. The chickens clucked softly as they nestled in, goats offered lazy baahs as they chewed the last of their feed. The sky was brushed in soft golds and pinks, it was peaceful.
How dare they try to steal this from you?
Your anger gave you no rest. It carried you inside, drove you to your room with heavy steps. You packed with a fury, fists clenched, breath sharp. You would have waited until morning, but you knew better. The ritual’s cost would come for you by dawn- The ache in your bones, the sickness behind your eyes, the hollowing. You knew it well.
You skipped dinner. You finished packing in silence. And when you finally sank into your bed, sleep didn’t come. The unfairness of it all gnawed at your thoughts.
How dare they?
How dare they take your future and shape it with blood? How dare they drag you into a fate where love was a duty and survival a reward for obedience?
You stared at the ceiling, fists clenched beneath your blanket.
The fire in your hearth had long gone out, but the room still held its warmth, as if reluctant to let go of comfort.
You lay there, motionless, eyes wide in the dark. The packed bag sat at the foot of your bed like a silent witness, waiting.
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. The wind picked up outside, brushing against the walls like a whisper, or a warning. You imagined the ravens still perched in that same tree, watching, patient as the grave.
Your throat tightened. You wanted to cry, but even your tears had been taken—wrung out of you by smoke and prophecy, by bone and fire.
Instead, you whispered into the stillness, your voice nearly lost beneath the wind: “Why me?”
No answer came. Not from the gods, not from fate, not even from yourself.
Only silence.
And then, finally, sleep took you—not gently, but with the sharp-edged weight of exhaustion.
-Chapter End-
Fun fact! Henbane is believed to have been used by völvas to prophesize- just like in this chapter. Unfortunately, henbane is a very toxic hallucinogen, so I don't recommend smoking it or inhaling its smoke. Side effects include: loss of muscular control, dilation of the pupils, heart palpitation, hallucinations, delirium, and in large doses; coma, and death.
Henbane also represents warning and danger, I wonder what it could all mean :0
A little about the other herbs placed in the bowl. Feverfew is used for migraines, headaches, and arthritis. Juniper is used as an anti-inflammatory and a diuretic. Angelica root can be used for a variety of things: heartburn, flatulence, loss of appetite, arthritis, circulation problems, nervousness, and trouble sleeping.
I chose those to show that the völva, Solveig, knew about herbs and used them to combat the side effects of henbane. In this fanfic, it apparently works, but irl please research stuff before consuming it 🙏🏼
Anyways here's the tag list: @dravenskye @thegreyjoyed
Meant to post this snippet on Wednesday and totally forgot!!! Work has been stressful, so chapter 2 will hopefully be published by Saturday.
TW: GORE
He was beautiful and terrifying, with deep brown eyes and long blonde lashes, but his pupils were dilated so wide that his eyes were almost black and he shook as though the blood of the grove made him frenzied. He was tall too, taller than any other man you'd seen, you craned your neck up as he got closer and spoke one word.
“Wife.”
Just like that, the grove swallowed you whole, bodies piling on top of you, grabbing at you. The smell of rot and blood filled your senses as the carnage pushed in around you, trapped you, absorbed you. You could feel nothing but blunt nails digging into your skin, pulling you further, and everywhere you looked you met the gaze of another dead man. Had that man done all of this?
ah the thought of my beloved knight with their hair all messy, armour and entire body drenched in blood... which smears on my face when they grab it roughly to kiss me...
Okay listen, first official blog post but I literally made this account just to write this fanfic okay? Okay!
It's kinda long but! I think that's good?
CW: Excessive gore, implied violence, fear of abuse, overuse of phrases to induce a sense of helplessness, Odin kinda fucks with you tbh, seriously: excessive gore
The cries of ravens haunt your dreams; this time, they sit on your shoulders, claws bearing into your skin as you walk through a beautiful and lush forest. The lush greenery does not distract you though, you have a purpose: someone is waiting for you and so, you continue to walk until the forest opens up into a grove where an elder stands. He awaits you. As you approach him, he begins to speak, “Völva, who performs seid through her dreams,” He turns, blue eye piercing through you, “You must bind thyself to the draugr favored by valkryies and blessed by Brokkr. To do so will spell your fortune and prosperity, to deny him will spell doom for us all.”
Suddenly, the grove began to wilt, and bodies began dropping into it, their blood seeping into the yellowed grass as the ravens took flight from your shoulders and began singing , “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr,” over and over as blood and carrion filled the grove. You turn to run only to be met with the most terrifying sight of all.
He was dressed in black furs with paint smeared over his darkened gaze, and blood, so much blood. It stained his scarred porcelain skin and white-blonde hair, and as your gazes locked the bodies began to scream and claw at your ankles. You are rooted in spot as he begins to approach. You want to scream, you want to run, but all you can do is stand as this predator stalks towards you and the ravens shriek and the bodies cry to make a terrifying cacophony of death and doom. “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr!"
***
You bolt upright, cold sweat clinging onto you and your underclothes as the smell of blood clears from your senses and the phantom ache of claws in your shoulders leaves you wincing. This dream of yours has been haunting you for 2 moon cycles, ever since your father ordered your mother to begin preparing you for marriage. Each time, however, the visions were more violent and each time, you never saw his face. It worried you, that the gods had assigned a violent lover for you, were you meant to bear the brunt of his violence? You hoped not, you would not heed a man who laid hands on you.
+++
Translations:
Völva- A type of Viking seeress, pronounced kinda like:: v-uu-lva
Seid- A magical late age Scandinavian ritual performed by völvas to see prophecies. Pronounced kinda like:: sey-d, it comes from the word seiðr.
Description: The shrieks and calls of ravens have always haunted your dreams, tainting them with cryptic messages and horrible visions, but they have always guided you. However, for the past two months, they seem to be guiding you towards Death Incarnate.
CW: Typical canon violence, gore, romanticization of gore, drug use, awkward parent conversations, will contain smut, historical inaccuracies mixed in with historical accuracies (other content warnings will be added as needed per chapter, however these are general warnings)
Chapter One: Ravens I
The cries of ravens haunt your dreams; this time, they sit on your shoulders, claws bearing into your skin as you walk through a beautiful and lush forest. The lush greenery does not distract you though, you have a purpose: someone is waiting for you and so, you continue to walk until the forest opens up into a grove where an elder stands. He awaits you. As you approach him, he begins to speak, “Völva, who performs seid through her dreams,” He turns, blue eye piercing through you, “You must bind thyself to the draugr favored by valkyries and blessed by Brokkr. To do so will spell your fortune and prosperity, to deny him will spell doom for us all.”
As if to demonstrate the man's warning, the grove began to wilt, and bodies began dropping into it, their blood seeping into the yellowed grass as the ravens took flight from your shoulders and began singing , “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr,” over and over as blood and carrion filled the grove. You turn to run only to be met with the most terrifying sight of all.
He was dressed in black furs with paint smeared over his darkened gaze, and blood, so much blood. It stained his scarred porcelain skin and white-blonde hair, and as your gazes locked the bodies began to scream and claw at your ankles. You are rooted in spot as he begins to approach. You want to scream, you want to run, but all you can do is stand as this predator stalks towards you and the ravens shriek and the bodies cry and it all coalesces into a terrifying cacophony of death and doom. “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr!”
You bolt upright, cold sweat clinging onto you and your underclothes as the smell of blood slowly fades from your senses and the phantom ache of claws in your shoulders leaves you wincing. This dream of yours has been haunting you for two moon cycles; ever since your father ordered your mother to begin preparing you for marriage. Each time, however, the visions grew more violent and each time, you never saw his face. It worried you, that the gods had assigned a mysterious and violent lover for you, were you meant to bear the brunt of his violence? You hoped not, you would not heed a man who laid hands on you.
Your dreams tended to fade away during the day, for there was always much to do but today it stuck with you. The stench of the corpses followed you when you slaughtered a chicken for food, then you heard the terrible song of the ravens as a crow flew by causing you to jump and almost drop the chicken’s carcass, and you nearly shrieked when you bumped into one of your villages vikings, his gaze dark and covered with warpaint just like the monster in your dream.
Your violent dreams nipped and gnashed at your heels like a feral animal, chasing you throughout the day causing you to be distracted and your work to be clumsy. It caused even your mother to stop and notice, she frowned as she asked if you were well, “I'm fine, ma.” You replied with a tired smile, which she frowned deeper at and went to get herbs to boil for you.
Gods above and below you needed more than just herbs, you needed a good night’s rest and not have Odin cursing you with visions of a murderous man the ravens called a “draugr”. If you were to prepare for wifehood, you needed rest to practice your duties. Unfortunately, the gods cared not for your mortal toils as you became more and more exhausted throughout the day. By dinner, you were slouching into your chicken stew trying to stay awake, your father sat at the head of the fire pit telling tales of the raid he had just come back from.
He spun tales of a new land made of ice and another covered with nothing but tall green trees, he droned on and on about trades and raids and other such viking things- “Daughter!” His voice cuts through your thoughts and you straighten, looking at him, “Yes father?” He huffed, “We were talking about your marriage.” Your gut, sank and you swallowed, slowly nodding.
“I met a jarl on my adventures, a fine raider, he is John Price.” You nod again, the ravens’ cursed song ringing in your ears “Bind thyself to the draugr…” “I will not force you to wed him, but you will meet with him. He governs his villages not far from ours.”
“Alright…” your voice is shaky, like a trembling leaf, so you clear your throat and clearer, say “Alright, give me two days before we leave,” two days, one to visit the Völva of your village and one to recover from her seid. You needed clearer answers, not cryptic advice from your dreams. If this really were to happen and happen this quickly, then you need to be prepared while you can still object from the wedding.
"...to deny him will spell doom for us all.”
***
That night as you help your family clean up dinner, you move sluggishly; struggling to keep your eyes open as you scrape scraps of food into the compost. Your mother watches you closely, frown deepening everytime you begin to nod off.
"You haven't been sleeping lately." She remarks, gathering the chickens into the coupe. You have never told her about your dreams, it seemed like a natural instinct to hide this part of you, granted, your visions have never plagued you in this way before.
You sigh, turning to look at her, "I've been having nightmares."
"About?" You don't know what to tell her. "Oh just about this murderous monster I'm supposed to marry because the All-Father said so otherwise I'm dooming everyone somehow." Now that would make you sound like a madwoman. You need to keep the answer simple.
"It's the same one most nights," the truth, "I appear in the middle of the village naked and everyone notices except me until the end of the dream." A lie, but your mother's face breaks into a smile, "Really?" You nod, "I'm going to the völva tomorrow to seek answers, such a ridiculous dream shouldn't cause as much sleeplessness." Your mother buys your explanation, nodding along, "I've brewed you something for sleep tonight, and I will give you something to trade with the völva tomorrow." You smile in thanks and quickly finish up your evening chores.
That night your mother gives you a horn of chamomile tea and you sip it gratefully, but you know as you rinse the horn and you know as you prepare for sleep and you know as you finally fall into the dregs of unconsciousness that the tea won't help.
-Chapter End-
Translations:
Völva: A Viking seeress, pronounced kinda like:: v-oo-lva
Seid: A ritual performed by Völvas in order to commune with the gods, see the future, and make prophecies. Pronounced kinda like:: "seed"
Draugr: Undead guardians of tombs, a mix of a zombie and ghost. Pronounced kinda like:: dr-ow-grr or dr-ah-grr
Brokkr: Norse Dwarf God of Blacksmithing, means "he who works with metal fragments"
Valkyrie: Norse warrior goddesses that chose who died in battle and led them to Valhalla (afterlife for warriors)
A/N Yay! Chapter One finished!!! What do you guys think? Also, how the hell do people add moodboards and headers on their blog posts cuz I wanna do that but have no clue. Anywaysssss blessed be!
Okay listen, first official blog post but I literally made this account just to write this fanfic okay? Okay!
It's kinda long but! I think that's good?
CW: Excessive gore, implied violence, fear of abuse, overuse of phrases to induce a sense of helplessness, Odin kinda fucks with you tbh, seriously: excessive gore
The cries of ravens haunt your dreams; this time, they sit on your shoulders, claws bearing into your skin as you walk through a beautiful and lush forest. The lush greenery does not distract you though, you have a purpose: someone is waiting for you and so, you continue to walk until the forest opens up into a grove where an elder stands. He awaits you. As you approach him, he begins to speak, “Völva, who performs seid through her dreams,” He turns, blue eye piercing through you, “You must bind thyself to the draugr favored by valkryies and blessed by Brokkr. To do so will spell your fortune and prosperity, to deny him will spell doom for us all.”
Suddenly, the grove began to wilt, and bodies began dropping into it, their blood seeping into the yellowed grass as the ravens took flight from your shoulders and began singing , “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr,” over and over as blood and carrion filled the grove. You turn to run only to be met with the most terrifying sight of all.
He was dressed in black furs with paint smeared over his darkened gaze, and blood, so much blood. It stained his scarred porcelain skin and white-blonde hair, and as your gazes locked the bodies began to scream and claw at your ankles. You are rooted in spot as he begins to approach. You want to scream, you want to run, but all you can do is stand as this predator stalks towards you and the ravens shriek and the bodies cry to make a terrifying cacophony of death and doom. “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr
***
You bolt upright, cold sweat clinging onto you and your underclothes as the smell of blood clears from your senses and the phantom ache of claws in your shoulders leaves you wincing. This dream of yours has been haunting you for 2 moon cycles, ever since your father ordered your mother to begin preparing you for marriage. Each time, however, the visions were more violent and each time, you never saw his face. It worried you, that the gods had assigned a violent lover for you, were you meant to bear the brunt of his violence? You hoped not, you would not heed a man who laid hands on you.
Seid- A magical late age Scandinavian ritual performed by völvas to see prophecies. Pronounced kinda like:: say-der, it comes from the word seiðr.
+++
Translations:
Völva- A type of Viking seeress, pronounced kinda like:: v-uu-lva
