something something just thinking about finan with shieldmaiden!reader who falls in battle and finan’s grief overtakes him because she’s gone to valhalla— somewhere he can’t follow due to their differences in faith
(eternity by Alex Warren… This song causes me pain)
A/N: This... did not come out like I thought it would.
You ran out of Kattegat.
Perhaps your return was ever fated by the way people looked at you. The men would approach you thinking you were easy, the women would whisper in their husband’s ear and your father had been shamed. He could not do as many man would; go claim retribution. If he demanded it of the Ragnarsson, he would be sorely remorseful. With no other option, father sold his land and moved. You knew you ruined it all.
All because of him.
So you trained, you fought and made by yourself a household name. You helped Harald conquer kings, freed princesses of their binds and raided like a queen. Years had passed since you were that stupid young girl, dreaming of her dalliances with one of Kattegat’s cutest princes. It was so long ago. You pushed the thought of your mind thrusting over the doors of Kattegat’s Great Hall. You felt the heat of stares from within and the lamps that were warm with flame on your skin.
The warriors filtering forward were thrust one way, then another; you came in a hot rush, knuckles born with strain. The Ragnarsson on the throne lifts his head as you stop with your hand to the sword on your belt.
“(Y/N). It’s been a while.” King Ivar says.
“Nevermind that. I’ve come to make a formal challenge.” You hiss-- hushed whispers claim the room while you fling your shield to the floor, scratching and crashing. The warriors step aside. Your long hair is pulled back as if for battle, braided tightly back into the clips that hold it in an elaborate ponytail.
“Well, if that’s what you want.” Ivar pushes himself off his throne, ready to receive you in battle.
“Not you.” You hiss. “Hvitserk.”
The whispers die a cold death on the lips of the bystanders. They all know why you are here to kill Hvitserk. He had shamed you in the eyes of the gods. No man, especially not your late father, had been able to restore your honour.
You were here to take it back.
“Come out and face me Hvitserk!” You find the man himself was crouched low beside Ivar. He pushes up on the balls of his feet, palming a peach in his hand. Fruit for dinner. Of course, he would have sweet things for dinner. You were surprised that he hadn’t had a thrall thrust over the table instead.
“Are you sure you don’t want to forget this?” Hvitserk murmurs.
You can’t let it go. A Viking never let go of revenge. Should you be different because you were a shieldmaiden? You were a berserker. You could fly off the handle just as well as any other Viking.
“You dishonoured me. You dishonoured my father.” You stagger forward with a hateful sneer beating on your lips. “Why should I forget this?”
There’s obvious strain on your forehead where you tighten your brow.
“...because you enjoyed it?” He suggests-- and like wildfire you set off. You steal the war pick from your belt, chucking it in Hvitserk’s direction so quick all he can do is drop to the floor with a grunt. It embeds in the drapery behind him. His braids bob on his shoulders while he rolls off of the stairs. He scrambles for a blade as you crash towards him with your sword. Ivar quickly supplies it to him.
“Shut up!” You snarl, blades hissing together in a beating strike. Hvitserk shoves back, hopping off to the side.
“If you would just let me explain.” Hvitserk murmurs.
Fruitless words. You come at him again near the bulky looms. Hvitserk slips behind it, arching his back to the side when your sword beats through the strands. He dips down in a roll, running away from the womanly items.
“There’s nothing to explain!” You jerk your arm pack from a piercing stab into the floorboards. A sharp miss-- your blade sticks. Hvitserk abandons his, tackling you down beside a group of rich karls. Your hand snaps to the axe on your belt. An action he quickly notices, slamming his forehead into yours with a sharp crack. You’re momentarily seeing stars, and quickly, you shake it off. There’s a whizzing. Your axe hisses across the wooden floor. Hvitserk’s hands snap to pin your wrists above your head.
“It is not my fault you ran away.” Hvitserk supplies. Your long legs wind about his waist, strong muscle like the roots of Yggdrasil. He feels you throw him over, pinning his arms back in exchange.
“I did not run away!” You snap, snapping up the pick on your belt. It presses against his pale skin, eliciting beads of blood. “You were the village whore, not me! And yet I am to blame for being only yours?!”
In all of that-- a small, cheesy smile spreads across his lips. It had been years. Five, ten? You aren’t sure. Enough to become a woman and face this man underneath you who-- who… was smiling. The smile sends your mind whirling toward memories. The chatter of the karls around filter away… and you check out completely.
Wonderful memories of Hvitserk surprising you in the forest, dragging you into the flowers to steal your virginity from your father’s nose. Smooth, strokes of his hips and the softest of kisses over your neck like silk. They all careen forward to smack you in the middle of your head.
You have him. Slit his throat.
“Well?” Says King Ivar in a charmed tone.
Slit his throat! Do it for father! The blade is shaking in your hand under the weight of your thoughts. If you would just grow some lady balls and slide your knife into his throat, everything would be better. Your cheeks are hot like the rest of your body, rising and falling with the difficulty of this short lived fight. Then your blade slashes. Not into Hvitserk, but against the deep wood beside him.
He made you weak.
“What I wouldn’t have gave to be able to slice your throat open.” You lean down against Hvitserk’s ear. Your body flushes against his-- and the heat of the moment has his dick rising in excitement. He knows you couldn’t kill him. “I would flay you like a fish if I could.” Your hands leave his.
As you lurch to get off of him, Hvitserk thrusts up to grasp your hand. And instinctively, your fist crashes into his forehead. You lay his ass flat on the planks as you rise up. A snarl replaces any fondness on your lips. Fondness of threats or fondness of killing you aren’t sure.
You only know that you couldn’t do it.
“Huh.” Ivar’s head bobs in pure, blatant amusement as you collect your weapons. “Stay for the feast.”
The way he speaks-- you know its an order. You sheathe your father’s sword in a black sheath, wiping the blood away from your skin onto the red of your overtunic and black armor. A king asking you to dinner was a kind gesture to some. But to a shieldmaiden? Something else.
You lean over your chair at the wedding feast. Hvitserk was gleaming a bright grin, the only one of his brothers to have two beautiful brides. Or at least, one beautiful one. She was his prize after all. You were a shieldmaiden with more scars than a thrall. Ivar leans into you, lips moving against your ear.
“Of course she isn’t.” Ivar doesn’t question you. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful body?”
You snort-- yes, she was beautiful. Even you could admit when you saw a beautiful woman. She was glowing in gold and sheer fabrics as light as the clouds, so thinly wrapped that you could make out her perfect little curves behind the dress. The gold of her gown matched the golden lamb on Hvitserk’s belt, odd you thought. Given the woman’s heritage, however, perhaps it wasn’t that peculiar.
“That is exactly it. I mean it Ivar.” You warn. “Frigg appeared to me.”
That snatches his attention, pulling back with wide eyes and an even wider mouth in wonder. His attention is snatches as he brings his drink to his lips.
“The All-Mother appeared to you?” He asks with his voice sharpening somewhat. It was a game before, perhaps still a game to Ivar, but the stakes had changed. “What did she say?”
“She said if I left, we would never see him again. How peculiar it is that this comes up only when a new woman comes.” You look to your cup of ale and find that its presence in your stomach has churned somewhat. Whatever this thing was, woman or beast, it was not who Hvitserk thought she was.
“And so, what exactly do you plan on doing about that?” Ivar shoots his drink down.
“You must help me find out where this woman came from.” You turn to Ivar. The youngest of the brothers was also the more witty of the brothers. If anyone could be bothered to understand, it would be he. Ubbe would call you jealous and Sigurd the same. They would not understand what was going on. Bjorn? Hopeless.
They were boys.
“Fine.” Ivar reclines back. You know that you will owe him something. But if he believed you, he was doing this for yes, the gods, but also the twins. Aesir and Aaldiv who sat in not just your lap, but Ivar’s too.
“Thank you, Ivar.” You turn back to sit upright in your chair with your eyes squarely focused on Hvitserk’s curvy new bride. Whoever she was, you would find out where she came from.
Hvitserk’s next few weeks would mean being snapped up in her bedroom for a sort of honeymoon like vacation. Fine with you, you had work to do.
With Aslaug informed, you kept everything under tight lips. You knew she would believe you. She believed the gods, her visions. She would care for the children and you would go about seeking what the All-Mother saw in this new woman.
“No one has heard of her.” Ivar grunts on his crutches through the crowd. He had become increasingly more mobile with them, but struggled all the same. It was better to go at his pace with such things.
“None of the sailors?” You supply as you walk beside him in a mellow yellowish dress. It wasn’t proper for a woman to go out in pants for just any reason. If you weren’t in a position to fight, you needed to act properly.
“None.” Ivar says in agreement. You stop in front of him.
“That is impossible. She is not of Kattegat. She is not of here. She has to have come on a boat. Someone would have forced her into marriage if she did not.” Your hands come to slap on your skirt. You turn up to the bruised peach colouring of the sky. It was getting late, dark. The clouds were suffocating you in confusion of what this could have been. You asked the farmers-- they had never seen her either. How could a woman appear without a trace? Your palms were sweaty, running together under a nervous tic of yours. It scared you to know someone could appear of thin air.
“I will go speak to the merchants.” Ivar turns and limps in another direction into the waving crowd of blonde and brown hair. The floodgates of your mind had pulled open-- and you quickly feel every aching moment pour into your brain in asphyxiating dread. The sailors hadn’t seen her, the farmers that plowed this land day in and out hadn’t seen her. If the merchants, who perhaps could have smuggled her in, didn’t see her… what options were left? Your jaw set tight. Tooth against tooth with your chest so tightly wound up, you thought you were choking. You set back for the Great Hall.
The moment you walked in you found Hvitserk at the table. Bizarre… bizarre because Hvitserk was supposed to be with Aalia. You came around him, sitting in a chair beside him while your sons played on the ground with thralls, both well fed.
“I thought you were with Aalia.” You inch closer to him.
“She said she had something to take care of.” He says cooly. You raise an eyebrow to regard him with a guarded gaze, holding your breath as you turn into him. He speaks too coldly for your husband whom has always been there for you. He sounded as if he didn’t want to talk to you. As if your presence was inconvenient. Was he not the same boy that had been fighting with you to stay? His eyes were shadowy and dark when you yanked him around to look at you. His eyes were clouded, a bizarre tracing of veins that appeared more like whipping tendrils gathering around his neck. How had no one noticed?
“Ivar.” You say out loud, kicking your chair back into a thrall. It’s desperation that manifests over yourself when Hvitserk goes to grab your arm. Instantly your forehead collides with his to buck him off of you, falling upon Ubbe who gapes. So does Sigurd.
“Where are you going?!” Sigurd hauls after you. But you’re already out of the door and heading toward where you know the merchants are in town. Your hands curled into white-knuckled fists, quaking as you looked for him. No one was in the street, absolutely no one.
Then you saw a body strewn over the ground limply. The blood felt clogged in the valves of your head coming upon the sight. No blood, no open wounds, but as you turn over your brother in law, you recognize his ailment. Blue roots like that of Yggradsil coursing over half of his face. Pale and cold, the dark portion of his eyes lulled back only to expose his sclera.
“Ivar!” You shake his shoulders. His limbs twitch, spasming as if he was dreaming. “Ivar don’t you die on me, you fucking idiot!”
“Oh he isn’t dead.” There’s a playful lilt on top of the sugary sweet voice of Aalia, who comes donned in sheer gold from somewhere in the alleyway. You drop Ivar’s hand, hand snapping to the dagger that you keep on the inside of your belt.
“I’ll fucking gut you in your sleep, you bitch.” You spit.
“But why would you do that?” Aalia says in a voice that lacks any hint that she is from the Middle East. Something is different-- wrong. Her voice tore through your thoughts like a dagger. Which speaking of, you jerked yours out. “Hvitserk would blame you for my death. We couldn’t have that now, could we?”
Her words create a lump in your throat. Hard, pastelike liquid seals your lips together. You knew she was right. Hvitserk would say that it was your fault-- that you were jealous. Then you would be on trial for her murder. How could you make him see?
“What did you do to my Ivar?” You say, the words foreign and dangerous on your tongue. Aalia treds closer, skin pulsing under a strange golden hue.
“You’re both too knowledgeable.” She remarks. “I gave him a kiss. That is all. Would you like one too?”
“Come try.” You snap back.
The closer she moves, the more you feel a heat radiating against your skin. Warm like a summer fire. You mark it into your memory as she moves closer. You bend low, glinting the silver of your blade at her. Then suddenly, she retreats. You see her eyes widen and chest rise hard. She was afraid. But of what? It takes a split second for you to realize it was your blade she was staring so intently upon. Aalia backs up when you come closer.
“Oh c’mon.” You laugh, renewed in vigor. “You can’t honestly say you’re afraid of a little knife.”
She stumbles over the payals on her feet. “N-No!”
You swipe her, grazing her chest but not causing her to bleed out. Her skin is unmarred-- and you understand now. You realize that perhaps this blade couldn’t harm her, but it was a part of the picture. Then as if magic, she dissipates. You’re not sure where she has gone. There is no sign of the burning flame that was the woman’s golden hair. The high from causing her to flit away rejuvenates you. You dash back to Ivar, picking him up off the ground with a harsh grunt. You’ve gotten soft. As you toss him over a shoulder, you feel your legs protesting the motion.
“Fat ass.” You grumble, making your way back to the Great Hall. You found a weakness. Now there were only a few more steps to take.
Step Two: Find what the hell Aalia is.
Step Three: Convince Hvitserk.
You had a feeling you would have a long trip ahead of you.
A/N: Here is the Hvitserk version of Irreplaceable! I based it off of my story A Thousand Times NO! So if you haven’t read that, you can read it for some context if you’d like. Gif belongs to philomaela and thanks to lisinfleur. <3
The marketplace was once a fun pastime for Hvitserk. Mooching off tiny maidens’s food, slipping them into alleyways for another type of snack or just looking at wares with his brothers before they went to train. It was interesting-- much better than the life he was living now.
“What did you buy?” Ubbe looks down to the little golden ware in his brother’s hand. It was shaped with a long spout, fashioned in gold and encrusted in clear sparkling jewels.
“Lamp.” Hvitserk mutters, twirling it around his finger as Ubbe they walk into the great hall. It wasn’t any kind of lamp. It was foreign from a silly man with a headdress wound tight asking if he could bless the prince with a gift-- and a beautiful woman. He didn’t see any beautiful woman in his lap though.
“Some crazy old man promised me an ‘exotic’ woman.” Hvitserk grouches as he sits in his seat. Margrethe came near with a pitcher of ale to fill his cup while Ubbe reaches to fill his plate.
“You’re the fool for listening.” Ivar snarks off across the table. So what if he was a fool? He was bored. Everyday it was the same. From behind him, he heard her before he saw her. The almost playful smack across his head as you sat down beside him.
“You should worry less about other women and more about your legacy. What have you contributed?” You thought you had been clear. While he was free to play-- he was also free to work on making a name for himself. For his sons.
Earl (Y/N) had left her lands for Kattegat. It was a mistake, more and more, he knew it was. You could not rule from here. He made you give up your lands for the two bubbly boys that he had managed to fill you with. As of late, it felt like that was the only reason you were still here.
Failure. He huffs out his disapproval while eating most angrily, face lowered and lips chomping to avoid your heated glare when he ignored you. The night progressed about as lifelessly as it always did. One by one his brothers and you left until he was left with nothing but this little lamp and no mood to go to bed.
He plucks up the lamp, peeping inside. But it was clear from any smudges or even a wick. There was nothing. He considers it bizarre, flipping the lamp over. He examined the lip that kept the lamp balanced and upright. There was something written there. Marks that read الجن. Whatever the hell that was. He swipes his overtunic across the golden bottom, rubbing away smudging of the text.
But then it seems to shake-- and Hvitserk starts to question just how strong that ale was that he had as the lamp made a hissing. A bizarre hissing that drew his heart to race as he all but flung it into the sky, dropping from the table. A steady streak of red billowed out from the thin snout like smoke, glitter bright. It isn’t just the sight that tickles him but rich myrrh and frankincense among other indelible spices that spills over the room and bites his nose with a sharp whip of cinnamon. More than that he could smell the perfumes, airy and soft, like a woman.
“Hahh…” Hvitserk carries him back on his palms as the pink began to take form. Curves pull in tight, billowing out began to take the shape of yes-- a woman. A woman with round thick hips that drew Hvitserk in enough to crawl forward. She wears golden coins like her heavy jewelry, nevermind the heavy gold behind a sheer rouge veil; a nose ring connecting to her ear that connects to a mop of long, waving curls.
“Master.” Her sultry eyes part, kohl and shading over her eyes giving way to bright eyes. “How can I please you?”
That was it. That was all it took for his brain to go fuzzy and lights to go out across the wooden floor. Master, master! When he comes to, the woman is on her hip, a glittering hand shaking him awake. He looks to her realizing that her legs are wisping into the lamp on the table. Hvitserk’s eyes glaze over her bare stomach before back up.
“...too much mead?” He begs her to say yes. The ale and mead were too strong and he was piss drunk imagining this beautiful little goddess that draped over him. Because that would make more sense than whatever she was.
She giggles , “No master. I’m here to grant your deepest of desires.”
She really needed to stop talking like that. His body began to ache just looking at her-- everything he craved. A woman, but not just a woman, a woman that was new and looked at him like a man. Not as a failure-- . He reaches out, hand at the golden thin headdress that dresses her like a prize.
What he wouldn’t have done to see you in such a thin, jeweled outfit without that scowl on your face. One of those rare genuine smiles, splaying your legs wide open for him to settle between and fuck raw with his cum. If only.
“What desires?” He asks.
“I can help you achieve glory, my sweet prince. Wouldn’t you like that?” She leans in against him, breath huffing against his lips. Hvitserk gasps hotly against her lips, leaning in to tease and tug the piercing through her lower lip.
“Or maybe it is the sex you desire so much, Hvitserk… with her? I can give you more, my sweet master. You are so lonely!” She exclaims, finding Hvitserk would lean his lips in against hers for a smooth drunken kiss. The smell and taste of mead is thick and heavy on his lips. Hvitserk tugs on her lower lip, shifting her back down on the ground. She fell obediently back just for him, filling him with a foreign excitement he hadn’t felt in years.
“Maybe. Don’t you want this?” He says, lips pressing against her neck.
She moans. “Yes master. If that is… what you wish.”
“I wish you were my woman.” He whispers, causing her great excitement-- and as her fingers snap, she feel a forlorn feeling of actually having legs! Legs and as Hvitserk looks down, the sweetness of your sex is palpable. He runs his tongue down her neck, slipping lower and lower without question past the valley of her breasts to the sweet sensual area between her legs. The prince finds that the harem pants are exceedingly easy to tear at the seem, pulling away between her legs to find the smooth expanse of her sex is tucked away like a present.
Hvitserk lowers himself down almost too excitedly, thrusting her legs over his shoulder as he caresses her with his tongue. Smooth, flat licks from entrance to clit at first, warming her up to his touches. Tucked away in that lamp-- she didn’t need much to excite. Years without sexual contact, much less company, had her moans spilling through the hall. Hvitserk spread her lips for him, easing his tongue to swirl along her inner lips. He flickers his tongue against her entrance, dipping his tongue in to taste her . It’s an exotic taste, addicting, it almost -- and draws his interest completely and fully to her.
“Oooh, master! You are soo good!” She squeals, soaking him in the sweetest of fluids that coat down his lips. His thumb presses up against the hood of her cunt, desperate for more of a taste with his thumb rolling into her sweetness.
“Good girl!” He groans against her lips. She doesn’t need to be worked hard for the many years she has gone without substantial attention of someone that was new and fresh. She cums over his face-- making him hot and wet with excitement for her as he drinks her up as if she was a fine ale.
“You’ll be fun.” Hvitserk lurches over her and in response-- her jeweled arms encircle his neck. With a little smile, the genie grins. It’s less of him have fun with her than the genie having fun with a prince. She had no intention on letting him go.
Morning came far too early and painfully so.
Not because of the sunlight drifting in, but rather the broom thrust against his messy braids that flopped over his new woman. He immediately snaps awake against the bristles on the bags of his eyes. It was the most rest he’d gotten in years-- but one look at not just your disappointed face was all he needed to be exhausted again.
“What the FUCK is this?!” You snarl, thrusting the broom to the side as you rush over to the swords hung on the wall of the hall. You snap awake the boys-- peeping out behind their grandmother who stands with a tired look in her eyes.
As if she’s gone through this before.
“(Y/N), (Y/N)!” Hvitserk stands up, tucking himself back into his pants while the genie slides onto her hip with a weak, pitiful little ‘always me’ frown. It wasn’t long before Hvitserk was behind you, hands wrapping around your waist to drag you away from the walls that display such beautiful swords.
“I told you not to bring your little whores home to the boys!” You thrash in his arms, thrusting your head back against his eye. He can feel the splitting of his eyebrow as he turns you in his arm.
“This is not a whore. She’s a lady.” Hvitserk grasps your upper arms, looking to her as she sits up with her legs tucked underneath her butt. Like a beautiful lady instead of the rough sort of shieldmaiden you were. “One I want to marry.”
The wheels of rage in your head stop spinning. In fact everything stops spinning as you gawk at him. You had never seen this woman around Kattegat in your life. Where was she-- how was it that she came out of nowhere and enchanted your husband?
“What?” You gasp.
Hvitserk nods, a sense of pride revitalized within his chest. “I am going to marry her.”
You weren’t sure which dropped to the floor first: your jaw, or Hvitserk’s knees, but it served him right making this claim that you would just have to deal with being second best to this jeweled up dancer that was fluttering her lashes at you. The other Ragnarssons spill into the hall-- and none of which have a complaint at the beautiful woman laying in the middle. Ivar pulls himself close, a low blossoming grin bearing teeth. It wasn’t just that there was another woman. No, it was that Hvitserk may have found a sexier replacement for you… and that fact? Your bones were chill.
