Summary: You married a man who didn’t love you, but you chose to love him anyway. Through quiet care and devotion, you gave him healing he never thought possible.
You were not the wife he wanted.
You knew it the moment Queen Aslaug placed your hand in Ivar’s before the gods. You felt it in the stiffness of his grip, in the way he looked through you and not at you.
“A union blessed by the gods,” Aslaug had said, smiling gently at her son. “She is clever, gentle. She will be good for you, Ivar.”
Ivar did not reply.
He only walked away from the wedding fire when the ritual ended, leaving you alone among the ash and shadows.
And yet, you stayed.
You were his wife now. You were bound to him.
Even if he hated you.
He ignored you most days. Barely spoke to you unless forced. When he did, his words were sharp and cold, meant to push you away.
Still, you watched him. Quietly.
The way pain twisted his features in the morning. The tremble in his hands when he forced his legs into motion. The anger he swallowed, the shame he masked with cruelty.
You saw it all. And your heart ached.
Because, unlike him, you wanted this marriage.
You had admired him for years.
Not just his mind or his fierce spirit, but the way he carried himself despite the world’s cruelty.
You saw a man carved by pain, and you longed to soften its edges. To help him heal.
So you sought out old healing texts. Spoke to volvas in secret.
Traded furs for rare herbs. Brewed tinctures to strengthen bones, to ease pain, to mend where time had been unkind.
And every night, you added it to his drink.
Quietly. Carefully.
You knew he wouldn’t accept it if he knew.
It happened on a stormy night.
He came home from the training fields, soaked and furious, dragging mud into the hall.
You had already prepared his food, placed the warm cup of brew beside it as always.
You smiled, ready to leave him in peace.
But his eyes were already on you.
“What is this?” he snapped, lifting the cup. “You give me this every night. Do you think I don’t notice?”
Your breath caught. He was holding it like it was poison.
“It's nothing. Just herbs, to help you rest-”
He threw the cup against the wall. It shattered, making you flinch.
“Do not lie to me,” he growled. “Are you trying to kill me, Wife? Is that how much you hate being mine?”
His voice was venom. His hatred, a sword.
You swallowed hard. Your hands trembled, but you didn’t back down.
“It’s not poison,” you said quietly. “It’s medicine. For your legs.”
He stared at you. Something in his eyes cracked.
“What?”
“I asked the volvas. Searched scrolls from the East. It's a mixture of roots and silverleaf, it's meant to help rebuild strength in damaged bones. You’ve been in less pain lately, haven’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
You stepped closer.
“I just wanted to help. I know you didn’t want this marriage. You don’t even like me. But I still see you. And I care. Even if you never… feel the same.”
Silence fell.
The storm outside raged, but in the hall, it was still.
Ivar looked at you, truly looked at you, for the first time since your wedding night.
“You’ve been doing this… for how long?”
“Since the second week we wed.”
He lowered his gaze. You saw the war in him, between pride and pain, between mistrust and something softer.
“You are a fool,” he said. But his voice had lost its edge. “A stubborn, strange little fool.”
You turned to leave, swallowing your humiliation.
“Wait.”
You stopped.
He rose from his bench with difficulty, but stood nonetheless. He looked at you, blue eyes unreadable.
“I’ve been walking farther. I thought it was the gods.” A pause. “You’re the one who did it.”
You nodded slowly.
He stepped toward you.
“Why?”
Your voice was barely a whisper. “Because I love you.”
The words stunned the air.
He didn’t speak. He only looked at you, and for the first time, you saw no hatred in his eyes. Only confusion, and something like awe.
He reached for your hand, his fingers trembling.
“Sit with me,” he said. “Stay tonight.”
You hesitated. Then nodded.
That night, for the first time, Ivar did not eat alone. And when you touched his hand beneath the firelight, he didn’t pull away.
The fire crackled low, and outside, the rain turned soft, tapping gently on the roof like the gods themselves were listening.
You sat beside him, closer than ever before, your hands folded in your lap, unsure of what to say now that you’d spoken the truth.
You had confessed love to a man who never once gave you kindness.
But tonight… he had not turned away.
Ivar’s eyes were unreadable, but they didn’t look through you anymore. They held you.
“How long have you loved me?” he asked, voice quiet as the flames.
You hesitated, but answered honestly. “Since before the wedding. I admired your strength. Your cleverness. The way you held your head high when the world gave you every reason not to.”
He looked away at that, jaw tight. “You saw something good in me. Even when I couldn’t.”
You nodded.
“And yet I treated you like the enemy.”
You gave him a soft smile, one born of pain, not pity. “You were protecting yourself. I understand.”
He exhaled through his nose. Then, after a long silence:
“No one has ever done what you’ve done for me. Not like that. Not in secret. Not without asking for something in return.”
You turned toward him. “I didn’t want anything. Just… for you to be in less pain.”
He looked at you then, and something cracked open behind his gaze.
“Come here,” he murmured.
Slowly, cautiously, you moved toward him.
Ivar shifted with effort, wincing as he opened his arms, awkwardly at first, as if the gesture were unfamiliar. And perhaps it was. You had never touched more than his hand or shoulder since the wedding.
But now…
You moved into his embrace.
He wrapped his arms around you, hesitantly at first… then tightly. Desperately. As if the idea of being held like this might break him, but also save him.
His forehead pressed into your neck, and you felt it.
The tremble.
The breath he was holding.
The surrender.
“I don’t know how to love,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I want to try.”
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“You don’t have to know how,” you whispered. “Just let it happen. We’ll find the way together.”
His eyes searched yours for a long, breathless moment.
And then—he kissed you.
It was not rough or hurried like you'd imagined it might be. It was soft. Curious. Full of unfamiliar tenderness. The kiss of a man learning, trusting, hoping.
And when he finally pulled away, his hands stayed on your face like he couldn’t bear to let go.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered.
“I’m yours,” you replied. “I always have been.”
That night, you didn’t lie on opposite sides of the bed like you had for so long. You curled into him, warm under furs, his arm wrapped around you protectively. He fell asleep with his face in your hair, breathing you in.
And for the first time since your wedding, he didn’t wake from nightmares.
He only dreamed of you.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
Summary: Lagertha's gift of a daughter and Ragnar's monster of a son have loved one another for far too long. But things in Kattegat are fragile, and the two now must make choices.
Warnings: mostly spoilers for S4b
A/n: I had to break this into sections. Trust that p2 is gonna get serious real fast.
Masterlist
........................................
The Seer had been right.
Lagertha would never give Ragnar a son, never bearing one after her Bjorn. But when Earl Kalf came into her life, she suddenly found herself with child.
There was little hope that the child would make it. After all, the Seer said so.
But a daughter?
Lagertha's second chance to make up for the death of her sweet Gyda. She held the babe close.
And yet.
No one predicted that she'd one day end up in the arms of Ivar the Boneless.
…
"It seems like a death sentence," she explained to Ivar. "Suicide, even."
"My father wants me to go," Ivar shrugged. "He needs me. I can't say no to that. To the gods."
She sighed. He was beyond stubborn. A true Ragnarsson trait.
She often traveled between Hedeby and Kattegat, staying with Bjorn when here. It was a strange thing to have her around, but Bjorn was the Prince of Kattegat, so others didn't have much room to question.
Plus, the Ragnarssons didn't mind a bit.
She was neither the daughter of Ragnar or Aslaug, but because of her connection to Bjorn, she was a sister to all five of them.
Well, four of them.
Ivar's love had always gone beyond that. As did hers for him.
"What if you go with Bjorn instead?" She tried. Her hand stretched out over his. "To the Mediterranean."
His head lulled. "My brothers have always doubted me. Not my father. He knows what the gods have in store for me."
"And what if all that is store is your death?"
He ran his tongue across his teeth. "Then I will die."
"Marry me before you go," she rushed out, immediately caving in once it was uttered.
"I will not risk making you a widow before you get to truly be a wife."
She felt tears well up in her eyes. She was never the strong one around. Lagertha swore to have a peaceful reign when she became Earl. There was no need to teach her daughter the hardships of being a shield maiden. She had no need to- Lagertha on one side and Bjorn on the other always. Gyda was so soft. So kind. Y/n was no different, only older. She had a chance to grow up kind.
"Don't cry," Ivar huffed. He had no idea what to do with tears. "I'll be back soon enough."
"Swear to it."
He shook his head. "I will not swear if I don't know the will of the gods."
"Then swear you'll marry me if you return."
He couldn't stop another scoff, "woman-"
"-Ivar, please."
"Ivar!" Aslaug's voice interrupted.
The queen stepped into the room, her worry turning to amusement at the sight of the two. She'd always had an odd relationship with Lagertha. How strange was fate to bring their children together?
"Let me speak to my mother," Ivar gently waved.
Y/n nodded and stood, but her wrist was caught by him. "I swear to it," he remarked, looking her firmly in the eye.
…
Lagertha had come to Kattegat with the help of Torvi and Margerette. She hadn't dragged Y/n into the plans.
So when she took Kattegat, Y/n stood at the sidelines in shock, even letting out a shriek when Aslaug fell to the ground dead.
She wanted to feel betrayed by her mother. She should have. But she couldn't find it in herself. Lagertha had sat on the sidelines for too long as her world was taken away.
So she was torn when Ubbe and Sigurd had come to her privately.
"How are you not angry," Ubbe lectured his brother. "Our mother is dead."
"And it is for the best," Sigurd huffed. "Y/n's mother is the only one around here that knows how to truly mother. Look at Bjorn."
"Y/n?" Ubbe questioned.
She sat with her head in her hands, utterly confused by it all. "I won't choose sides."
"We all know it will come to it eventually."
She lifted her head with a heartbroken look. "Then I side with Bjorn. The side he chooses, I follow."
Ubbe nodded. "Very well. So, we wait for Bjorn."
"No," Sigurd shivered. "We wait for Ivar more."
The three exchanged nervous glances.
…
Ivar had returned first. Carried by soldiers of King Ecbert's guard, he was set onto the wooden dock of Kattegat.
She couldn't muster the strength to go welcome him. He wouldn't find out such devastating news from her.
But the next day, Ivar crawled his way into the feast hall with his picks. The entire room quieted as they waited for what the angry son of Aslaug would say.
His eyes slowly trailed from Lagertha, to Torvi, to Astrid, then finally, Y/n.
She stood to the side, a completely guilty expression strung across her face.
No one was immune to noticing the way his eyes glued themselves to her in every room.
It had been like that since her first visit to Kattegat.
It's what finally drove the stake between Sigurd and Ivar. The love Bjorn had for Y/n that he never had for his own daughter, Siggy. And how Sigurd had loved little Siggy.
Y/n's life was always a comparison to one's already dead. All did it but Ivar. Perhaps that is why she was so content to be stuck in his web.
When Largertha refused Ivar's challenge, he was becoming angrier. He knew his easiest chance to kill her was by hand-to-hand combat. Ivar was a cripple, but a damn good one.
"I will kill you, Lagertha. Your fate is fixed," he growled.
Content with his threat, he looked back to Y/n, pulling a chain from around his neck.
A ring.
She felt something in her stomach twist at the shimmer that crossed her vision. His fingers rubbed over it a few times, egging for a reaction from the girl he promised to marry.
He let the chain drop to his chest with a smirk. Especially when her eyes followed it.
…
As soon as the meeting was adjourned, she rushed out to Ragnar's old cabin. The children had found it when he'd left, and it was their designated space away from the rest of the world. Plus, that was all the boys had to live in now. Ivar would be there.
She rushed in, not caring that the other brothers were gathered around. "Ivar?"
The three others looked at one another with questioning glances before completely packing up and walking out. The brothers weren't about to intervene.
The door closed before Ivar finally spoke. "What do you want?"
"Are you not grateful to be home? To be back? To be the only survivor?" She sat next to him, her voice lowering. "Are you not happy to see me?"
He scoffed, turning away.
"I didn't know, Ivar. I swear to you."
"Seems like we enjoy making swears we don't intend to keep, hm?" He mocked.
Her eyes moved down to the chain again. She sat up straighter and brushed a hand over his chest. Over the ring. "You truly won't marry me now?" She asked softly.
His hand wrapped around her wrist gruffly. But after the initial touch, his grip softened. His jaw was clenched, his anger unchecked. But he couldn't help the flutter that still moved through his chest. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't know if I want children with traitor blood."
Her fingers twiddled with the ring. "You know better than I that we don't choose our mothers. The gods do."
"And yet, you'll never help me get my revenge."
"No," she agreed. "I won't."
His eyes wandered over her face. The anger bubbled under his skin. But not at her. And that frustrated him more. "I'll still marry you. But you cannot fault your future husband when he has his revenge."
"But Bjorn will-"
"-That is my offer to you, my love. If you want this ring," he offered, pulling the chain from around his neck and setting it on the wooden table, "Then that is your choice. I have taken my stand. You know what I will do. Will you still marry me?"
She stared down at the jewelry. She'd longed for this for years now. Being his wife.
This could make or break everything.
"I… I don't know," she admitted back to him.
"You don't know?"
"I should wait. For Bjorn to come back. And Hvitserk."
He set a heavy hand on her thigh. Not menacing, but not softly either. "Will you ever choose things for yourself? Or will you wait on Bjorn hand and foot as he decides your fate?"
"Ivar-"
"-No. I do not mind if you must think on it more. But do not do what Bjorn says purely because you think it is right. He makes mistakes." His head tipped down and his gaze turned menacing. "You will choose."
She nodded. "I need time."
"Good," his voice lightened. He even managed a smile. His body leaned forward like he was thinking of kissing her, but he paused and gave a quick nod of his head in acceptance. Then he looked at the ring and her one last time before pulling himself down to the floor and leaving.
She exhaled a long breath, taking the chain and placing it around her neck, tucking it away.
…
Another feast, another problem.
Y/n wasn't far off from Torvi and Astrid, hearing them speak about something being wrong as the large doors closed.
"Like what?" Astrid asked.
"I don't know, but something."
Sigurd let out a small grunt as someone grabbed him from behind and held him at knifepoint. That began a whole group coming forward and grabbing at Lagertha's shield maidens and earls alike, restraining them all.
A hand grabbed Y/n's wrist, holding it out.
Ivar's ring was wrapped around her finger. She'd chosen.
Whoever it was dropped her hand entirely and stepped away from her, meaning she stood amidst the chaos, entirely left alone.
Everyone began to part, and Y/n tucked away towards Sigurd. Her hand grabbed the wrist of the man holding him in an attempt to pry him away.
Ivar and Ubbe approached Lagertha's throne. Lagertha was rather unfazed by it, standing and grabbing her sword slowly. She was a fighter to the end.
Ivar was impressed by her willingness to face him. He sat up with his spike as Ubbe circled around the queen.
The tension could be cut with a knife. Waiting for someone to make the first move.
The door burst open, and in walks Bjorn.
"If you kill her, my brothers," he sauntered, "you'll have to kill me too."
Y/n and Sigurd both let out relieved sighs. The argument was far from over. But with Bjorn there, the fight would not be one-sided.
"Maybe we should," Ivar warned.
"Shut up," Ubbe immediately countered. He respected Bjorn immensely, and starting conflict with Ironside was like starting to dig your own grave. "She killed our mother," he mentioned. Bjorn would see where he was coming from. Surely.
"I know. You want revenge. So would I." He took in a deep breath. "But more importantly, we have to avenge our father. That is why I came back. And that," he tapped his axe against Ivar's cheek, "is what we are going to do."
Lagertha smiled and threw down her sword, prompting the rest to follow.
As Sigurd was let go, Y/n immediately tended to him, rubbing a soft hand over his neck at the irritated skin.
Frustrated, Ubbe and Ivar left.
She was torn between following them and staying with Bjorn and Lagertha.
But after speaking to the new queen, Bjorn spotted her. That made the decision. She approached him, smoothing out her dress as she weaved through everyone.
Within a few minutes, the feast began again like nothing had happened, but Bjorn was still far from jovial.
She wasn't even sure the viking knew what that word meant.
"So, I travel all the way past Frankia, through pirated seas and storms, I keelhaul my own uncle, and still," he grumbles, "things turn to ruin here the moment I turn away."
"Since I watched her sleep with my father the first time they met, yes. Yes, I have," he complained. "But our mother has caused a rift that I'd rather not have now. I have revenge of my own to get and I need my brothers in order to do it."
"You have your brothers," she pointed out. "Of Ragnar's wrongful death, you all agree."
"I will not play guard to mother's kingdom more than I did before. I want to sail. To travel."
"Then don't."
He let out a long sigh. "This is why I love the sea. It is predictable. People are not. Like you," he pointed his cup towards her.
"Like me?"
"You wear a ring and you say nothing about it. You have not asked for my allowance. Let me see it." He held out a large hand, to which she slipped the band off and gave to him.
Bjorn flipped it in his palm a few times before a daunting thought came over him. "Where did you get this?" He questioned roughly. "Who is proposing with this ring? I'll kill him."
"Brother," she scoffed. "Why the sudden rage?"
"Does mother know?" He asked in complete ignorance of her previous question.
"No. No, and she won't. Not right now."
"I'll ask one more time," Bjorn growled, leaning across the table. "Who is proposing with Mother's ring?"
Oh.
Where had Ivar gotten Lagertha's ring?
"Our mother wore this ring until the day she and I left Ragnar. Her wedding band. Now answer the question, sister."
"Give it back, Bjorn." She tried to muster up confidence. It didn't quite work.
Bjorn's lips quirked up at that, all too amused. "I don't think I will. I think I'll hold onto this until you decide to ask for my blessing."
"That is cruel!"
He shrugged. "I don't care. Either you tell me now or he can come get it from me himself."
She let out a tantrum-like grunt and stood up, her chair scrapping against the wood. She weaved through the crowd and finally out into the cold air.
…
The journey was a little harder in the dark than she'd thought. The air was cold and frigid, and she was far from dressed for it. The wind chilled her immensely, traveling down her bones. Her chattering teeth exhaled a visible breath when she saw the cabin.
"Ivar? Ivar!" She called out as she neared.
Hvitserk was the one to come out with a concerned brow raised.
Y/n felt guilty, still not welcoming Hvitserk after the raid. She all but collapsed into his chest, wrapping her arms around him and finally relaxing.
Hvitserk froze for a moment. Touch was never his thing. "You miss me?"
"Like hell," she mumbled against his chest.
He chuckled and circled his arm around her. "Already using Christian phrases, hm? Don't let Ivar hear you. Congratulations, by the way."
It was her turn to freeze, her head tilting up until she looked straight up at him. "What?"
"You're to be married, are you not? He said so." At her hum of agreement, he rubbed a hand down her back. "You're freezing, sister. You'll catch a chill if I don't get you inside."
He guided her in. The warm air from their small fire immediately caused a shiver down her body. Hvitserk frowned and held a hand to her forehead. "Gods. I'd think you were half dead like this."
That caught Ivar's attention. His head snapped up, his entire body relaxing at the sight of her. "Did you travel this far like that?" He questioned, his hand motioning to her lack of heavy clothing.
She stepped to the fire, sitting down next to Ubbe. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying to transfer some of his heat. After all, he'd been scheming over the flames for a while now. He could afford to give some of the warmth up.
Ubbe gave a small glare to Ivar, effectively telling him to drop the question. "Let me see this ring Ivar said so much about."
Her face dropped. "Oh. I… it's…"
One by one, the siblings realized that something was not quite right and Ubbe should have minded his own business. In all honesty, it was a fair ask. One that usually is fine to ask to an engaged woman.
Ivar let out a long, loud breath. He seethed from his place at the table. "Where is it? I was told it was on your finger only hours ago."
How to explain that Bjorn had taken it without Ivar immediately growing angry? After all, Ironside didn't know that it was Ivar's. It wasn't personal at all. But that's not how Ivar saw things.
"Where is it?" He asked in a firmer tone. His head tilted. His tongue ran over the back of his teeth. "Did someone take it from you?"
"Don't be angry-"
"-No I AM ANGRY!" He yelled. "Tell me yes or no. Have you gone back on your word?"
"Ivar," Ubbe scorned. "Let the woman speak." He pulled a piece of hair from her face. "Go on."
She sniffled and moved closer to the fire to warm her hands. She stared at her ring finger longingly. "I do, Ivar. I want to marry you."
Hvitserk smirked widely, peering at his brother in a tease. His brother. In love.
Ivar exhaled in a hidden form of relief. "Alright."
"I did not tell Bjorn about it yet. I wanted to wait…"
"-But?" Ubbe interrupted.
"But Bjorn saw it before I could." She frowned. "Where did you get Lagertha's ring?"
Every head shot to Ivar in shock.
He shrugged. "Father gave it to me. On our way to Wessex. I told him that we would marry when I returned and he gave me the ring. Chain and all. He said he'd worn it around his neck since the day your mother left him."
Hello! Can u do the sharing bed with the Lothbrok brothers, please? <3
Ragnar + Sons | Sharing a bed for the first time
{Vikings TV Masterlist}
Ragnar, Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ivar
Requests for headcanons / reactions / drabbles always open~
Content warning: suggestive themes (Hvitserk)
Ragnar
He, with all his confidence, is not awkward about it at all
He lies across the animal skins, legs spread and hands behind his head, already relaxed and happy
But when he sees you standing there awkwardly, noticing that there is only the one bed to sleep in, he lets out a laugh at you and pats the furs beside him
"Why don't you come lay? I am not that scary."
He is all warmth and silence, a type of tenderness that mixes with power and marks you nervous
When you finally settle down next to him, you notice the lack of space that the small bed has made between you two
When you feel his finger along your arm, you flinch out of surprise, which causes a deep chuckle to rip from his chest before his hand keeps travelling along you
Across your arms, across your hips, and when he realises you are showing no sign of pulling away, it curls around your midsection, and you feel his hot breath against the back of your neck
During the night, he shifts closer, until his chest is against your back and his legs tucked behind yours, enjoying the warmth
Bjorn
Bjorn pretends it is nothing, brushing it off as no big deal
But he is lowkey shitting himself from nervousness, trying to hide it from you
He actually offers to sleep on the floor at first to give you space, which you accept, happy that he is not pushing your comfort zone
But during the night, you grow cold, and you notice his incessant tossing and turning on the floor
And so you call lightly, "Bjorn?"
And he sits up immediately, one hand on the edge of the bed to steady himself
And when he sees you motion for him to join, he does not hesitate
The craving is immediate, without any delay
You open your arms and the covers and he sinks into your touch, brushing his face against yours and tangling your limbs together, your skin rubbing together for warmth
"You are so soft," he mutters as his hands find yours, squeezing them
You only hum in response, tucking yourself closer, trying to quieten your shivers from the cold air
Ubbe
Ubbe emits a steady warmth that invites you in
And he remains gentle, caring, as he always is with you
When you lie down, he gives you space
Leaves the room to let you settle, and only comes back once you are under the covers and half asleep
You wake when he enters (drunk, might I add), and he shushes you when you sit up to see who it is
"Shhh, it's only me, Y/N. Don't worry."
He collapses onto the bed, nearly crushing you in the process, which makes you groan and complain
But he only laughs against the sheets and tucks himself in
But at some point, during the darkness and shuffling of bodies, you notice how close his breathing feels
His head is basically on your shoulder, but you do not move, and neither does he
But he lets in a big inhale, "How the hell do you smell so good?"
You pretend to be asleep out of nervousness, and he only grumbles before tucking himself back into your side, drifting off to a drunken sleep
Hvitserk
It is all laughs and constant teasing from him
A little gossipy, saying "We're just sharing a bed as friends, of course, Y/N. Don't go rubbing on me during the night."
But it is a front, and he uses it as defense for how he's really feeling
Sweaty in the palms, hairs on the back of his neck standing up, being aware of literally EVERY sound you make
But he can't let you know how much this is affecting him
And even the possibility of anything happening between you has him buzzing inside, and he is half worried you could feel the heat radiating off of him
ESPECIALLY when you press up against his back suddenly, complaining about the cold
"You don't mind, do you, Hvitserk? It's only to keep us warm."
You're playing with him; he can hear it in your voice
And it isn't long before his hand reaches back slyly, running along your side, creeping underneath your thin linen shirt with slight hesitation
But you guiding his hand slowly downwards answers his question, and it doesn't take long for him to turn over completely to pay full attention to you
Sigurd
He does not like to face things head on
And so, he skeddles to bed before you do, hoping to fall asleep before you do so he can avoid the awkward chat
Well... he's the one that would be awkward
You can feel the tension as you lay down next to him
Your arm slightly brushed against his bare back and he flinched before grumbling, followed by you whispering a sorry
He only mumbles a "don't worry" before going silent again, but your hand does not go far, and remains against his back
He does not pull away or push you away, and you both accept it as a silent piece of affection that you're both drinking in
And with some bravery, your hand trickles slightly up, fingers dancing along his soft, scarred skin, and he shivers and lets in a deep breathe
"Y/N..." he lets out through a rough breath, "Please don't tease me."
"Tease you with what?" you said through a sickening smirk
But he only groans, "Forget it. Just... keep doing that."
Ivar
Ivar is not one to show affection or gentleness
He is cold and harsh, and so sharing a bed with him isn't gonna be the best experience
He warns you to keep your distance and to not smother him
Which you gladly obey, letting yourself become settled on your side of the bed while you listen to his soft breaths
But during the night, you wake to the feeling of something crawling on your leg, making you jump quickly to only find a small spider
But Ivar basically leaps up and places a hand out, gripping your upper arm tightly with a stressed face
"What's wrong? What is it?" he questioned while shuffling closer to check on you
You're taken aback by his sudden reaction. "Um... nothing, Ivar. Don't worry, just a bug."
The rough man rolls his eyes, then rubs his brow
"Just go back to sleep, Y/N. Nothing's gonna hurt you."
It was less of a reassurance and more like a promise, like he wasn't going to let that happen
It takes a while for you to drift back off, as his hand's grip shadows on your arm like a bruise
Hi lovely, I want to request Ivar from Vikings! I hope that's okay, if not, that'll be totally fine! 🤗
I wanna request Ivar x saxon reader who came to Kattegat as a slave and who was sold to Lagertha. In her hometown she was forced to wear a blindfold made of black lace so no one could see her eyes because they were deemed as demonic from the church. Like her eyes are really crystalline and were unsettling for Christians, and she continues to wear it even in Kattegat. Perhaps the young Rangarsson finds himself to wonder about her and one day a jealous woman rips it from her face during a festive in the main hall when she was serving ivar...?
I know it's a lot but I've been thinking about this all week. 😭✨ Thank you so much!
Angel eyes
summary: Ivar thinks your eyes must be Gods-sent.
warnings: Margrethe being Margrethe, vikings scaring reader, Ivar being Ivar.
ch3rrybbie says: love the request bby, I changed it a lil hope you don’t mind🩷 sorry it took so long lol
———
It’s been three whole moons away from England. Away from the cruelty you knew, but that cruelty was yours. It was home.
Kattegat wasn’t too dissimilar to England but it wasn’t the same.
You trudged through the thick mud of the central market. People didn’t stare at you and you reveled in the anonymity. The thin cotton you always wore around your eyes shielding your oddities was nothing to the people of Kattegat and you had grown to love it during the few days you’d spent here.
Lagethera had brought you along wanting to show you the ways of her culture. After being sold to her she declared you free yet you refused,you would not settle to a life here. You wished to serve her in hopes you could make enough money to flee home.
Slave to handmaiden.
Handmaiden to home.
You refused to learn to fight, to speak her tongue comfortably, to like the viking life. The foolish hope of home held strong within you. And yet you knew you’d never return to England you’d seen what they’d done to the village of those who’d ostracised and belittled you. Luckily your family was away selling the spoils of their labour at market.
They would’ve come back to an empty village stinking of death. The thought makes your heart clench and your steps falter.
Lagertha had playfully commanded you go out and see Kattegat, to see her ex-husbands lands. And to bring her seawater, its purpose left you clueless but you obeyed.
The heathens were strange people after all.
And yet your own had forced you to learn to squint through your blindfold to see shapes and sounds.
To live life veiled.
———
Lagertha was repulsed by the idea. The Christian rigidity that had left you believing in the need to hide your eyes.
She watched you from afar, leant against the entrance of the great hall. You were a sweet girl yet you could be so much more.
And she would see to it.
Ragnar follows her gaze, “what is so special about this slave anyways?”
Lagertha’s head whips towards him, “she is no slave Ragnar, she is blessed by the Gods”
Ragnar’s laugh almost shakes the great hall itself, he walks off still chuckling.
———
Later as the moon begins its race to the crest of the sky you braid Lagertha’s hair. The bucket of seawater stuck out in the corner.
“Why did you ask for the seawater?” You break the gentle silence and she turns smiling at you softly.
“Bring it here” she gestures towards it a sly smirk emerging upon her face.
Standing in front of her seawater at hand she starts to command you.
“Smell it”
“Taste it”
“Feel it”
You end up giggling at the foolish tasks until she asks.
“What is the difference between this seawater and England’s?”
The smile drops from your face and you set the bucket down and return to your tasks bring her dress to ready her for the great feast.
“My sweet girl this is your fate do not run from it, you will come to love Kattegat as much as England as there isn’t much difference”.
“To you, there isn’t much difference to you, my lady” the words bite bitterly at her.
She sighs and you step back from her outstretched arms. You didn’t understand her fondness of you.
“We must go to the hall” you turn on your heel and march into the frosty air, she follows carefully.
———
You pause outside, the noise reminding you of the nights spent around a fire at home.
Perfumed with smoke and stories of old.
You shake the thought away and wait for Lagertha. She come to you a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently.
“You ready?”, you nod and clench you fists at your sides as she pushes the door open.
Truth is you’d never be ready for a feasting hall full of vikings.
“Mother!” A thundering voice cuts through the rowdy masses.
Bjorn comes thumping over sweeping Lagertha into a crushing hug. Once their greetings are finished he turns to you inquisitively
“And who is this little birdy mother” you manage to grasp from your basic understanding of their tounge.
He reaches to peek under your eye covering and instinctively you slap his hand away. Your breath catches as you wait to be struck to the ground.
Instead a sharp laugh cuts at your action you turn to see someone with eyes almost as striking as yours. He regards you a cruel smile and glaringly sharp beauty confronts you. You hold back a gasp and turn from his gaze. Bjorn is also bellowing out a laugh.
“I am sorry bird, ignore Ivar” he plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek and is gone into the crowd of hedonism.
It was going to be a long night.
———
Refusing to sit by Lagertha’s side you stood ignoring the curious looks from Aslaug.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Ivar. It was so strange, he didn’t seem to mock you.
“Hello birdy” a gruff tease voice floats out behind you.
You whip round to see a man that looks exactly like an older Bjorn, Ragnar you conclude.
“Why do you stand here all alone, hmm? Lagertha tells me you are a free woman, here free woman can do as they please you should try it!” He chuckles and it takes you aback, he doesn’t know you yet he treats you like he has for years.
You don’t speak and turn to watch the crowds further, eyes searching for Ivar.
He’s looking right back at you, with a gasp you turn away.
“You know, I had a friend like you once” Ragnar whispers, voice taught with emotion. The pain in his voice pulls you from thoughts of Ivar.
At that you turn and take him in. Towering next to you he looks deep in grief. Eyes watery and gone to distant memories, you recognise it all too well.
“I’m sorry for your loss” you murmur, their language is crude and harsh on your tounge.
Your voice pulls him back, he grabs your shoulder and thanks you with a smile.
And once again you’re alone amongst heathens.
———
“Girl! Come serve me wine” a voice throws its self against you cutting through the bustle of the hall.
Ivar.
“Ivar do not command her like that!” Lagertha bites at him.
You frown at her remark and make your way over.
Aslaug is watching you as though you are a mirage, you ignore her stares and focus on the task at hand.
“She is no servant, please sit down” Lagertha implores you and you ignore her, Ragnar watches on curiously.
Fingers clasping over the mead jug you come closer towards Ivar ignoring the way he drinks you in.
“Surely she’s just a servant” a pretty blonde remarks from a group of boys, the rest of Ragnar’s sons you presume.
“You will watch your tongue upon my mother’s friend Margrethe” Bjorn booms at her, seemingly tired of her presence.
Lagertha frown and you lean to pour Ivar more mead.
“Thank you” he grins up at you, ignoring him you turn to be met by Margrethe.
“Why do you wear that silly cloth on your face?” She giggles and takes you in.
Everyone watches with bated breath.
Someone cuts out her name as another warning.
Attempting to step past her you don’t make it far.
“Here let me help you slave”
Her nails scrape against your skin, harsh in its endeavour.
The room brightens and grows in life as you see it more clearly.
An outraged roar emerges as Margrethe is chastised greatly. Everyone turns to look and the same whispers you’ve heard your whole life break out.
“Blessed Freya” sounded in a wave of murmurs.
The seer shuffles over parting the crowd and you retreat slowly. His interest peaked at such an odd display.
“My child you are kissed by the Gods, you shall see to their vision” his words curl through the fog of fear.
Embarrassed you flee the hall into the icy night and collapse in a heap by the fjord.
Finally you have peace.
They hadn’t cast curses or spat at your feet. They were almost reverent in their discovery of you. Perhaps they truly believe you were someone sent or blessed by their heathen Gods.
A repetitive click and shuffle sounds behind you and you whip around to see Ivar approaching. Embarrassed you turn back to look at the still waters, struggling to think upon his intentions. He groans as he lowers himself aside you.
“You know you didn’t have to run off so quick birdy” he chuckles cruelly
“You would do well not to mock me” you bite back and he simply laughs in your face.
“Maybe you really are sent by the Gods, no other woman in the whole of Kattegat would speak to me this way” he seems to grow serious and take you in.
Fixated on your eyes he stares into them, “They really are beautiful you should not cover them anymore, I command it so”.
“You command it so!” You can’t help exclaim incredulous. Dragged from home and commanded by the bratty son of a king.
“Yes I command it so!” He giggles and watches your perplexed face. You resort back to silence and the pair of you just sit there until he coaxes you to talk of England.
So you do.
You tell him of its fields and wildflowers. How the moon feels different and the sun is sweeter. How the grass will always be greener to you and the songs louder.
And for once he just listens and he knows you were meant for him. Every laugh and lilt makes his heart climb. Without telling you he makes a prayer to the Gods commanding you be by his side every day till death do you part. That you may tell him what you please and speak how no woman ever had to him.
And for the first time you’d found something wholly dissimilar to England and you wouldn’t compare it for all the homesickness in your heart. You could not have found Ivar in England. You would never have found the appreciation of your beauty there.
With the intermission of his laugh at your tales, you thank his Gods and yours for kissing your eyes.
———
Lagertha and Ragnar watch your silhouettes from the mouth of the great hall. They needn’t speak the thoughts they share but they know the nights they’d spent together talking till the sun kissed the fjord had seemingly come to life in front of them.
Hi! Could I please request preference/headcannons of the Vikings with a Celtic warrior s/o? Like female braveheart/the Morrigan goddess energy! Thank you!
How would they react to a Celtic warrior
Characters: Ivar, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Bjorn
A/N: don't kill me but I didn't see braveheart, but I know a little celtic warriors, so you would tell me if you like it.
Masterlist
Ivar the Boneless
When he saw you first time in battle, a female warrior but without an armor and tattoes, full of blood... he is thrilled.
You are the maximum representation of a Valkirie at his eyes and now you can't escape him.
He obliges you to go with him everywhere with the excuse of being a cripple who needs protection.
He also makes you train with him and you both ussually end up tangled.
He despises the idea of being saved on the battlefield but he would love to see you apraching his enemies to help him.
Ubbe Ragnarson
He wants to learn about your blue tattoes and meanings just to paint them on you on the next battle, is his final goal in life from the moment he sees you.
He is thriled to train with you and see what kind of weapons the celtic people have.
Hearing you talk about honor and battle tactics always makes him smile like an idiot.
Since you tend to go to battlefield without much clothing, he is always there at the end with his coat to put around your shoulders.
Seing how you were trained and the society you lived in, he realized you were quite similar, but he would prefer your daughters to be raised in celtic combat (if you ever have children, he thinks of that a lot).
Hvitserk Ragnarson
He is the only one who laughs during battles and feels like crazy but when he saw you doing the same, he decided that you were going to be his wife, no matter what.
He loves tracing your tattoes after battle, remembering you that you are alive and well, just as you do with his braids.
He would love to go to your village and see the life there, especially the food cause some of the ingredients are not easy to find.
He bought a couple of times some celtic protection symbols to gift you and then discovered they were fake, but he will never admit that to you (he feels a little idiot).
But you know, so you make him a protection necklace for him.
Sigurd Ragnarson
He is not the best warrior and he knows it, but he loves your boldness and a little bit of your craziness.
He says he is going to write songs about your quests and victories and you can only smile about his poet heart.
Even though he always has a heart attack when he sees you getting onto batle without an armor.
Sometimes he doesn't understand your society so he tries to find common points like the druid and the seer, so he can somehow understand the important things for you.
He is not a good painter but he tries to create new patterns for you, maybe putting nordic runes for extra protection.
Bjorn Ironside
He thinks you are a little barbaric, until he sees your rituals and your pride in battlefield.
You carved him a bear tottem for power and strenght and he was looking at you thru the whole process.
Now he sees you as the most brave warrior and accompanies you to your rites before entering war, in some mixture of your cultures.
Now he enters battle with paint, like you, but in white.
WHen you told him about the nude celtic soldiers, he looked at you with the most unbelieved look thinking: have you done it? have you seen it? how could he not have done it before?
Yn: how fucking dare you, 3 hours ago you promised me cuddles when you were done with what you had to do. Turns out you were done 2hours ago. I'm getting my cuddles 😡 *grabs character or person of choice and drags them to the couch for the cuddles that were promised *
TW: Canon typical violence, cussing, readers a bit dumb (understandably at this point)
A/N: Research has been done on brittle bone disease, "Osteogenesis imperfecta" however in as many cases as possible have stuck to canon depictions, while trying to be respectful to the lifestyle differences and challenges of the disabled community. Opinions expressed by characters do not reflect the feelings of the author.
Modern Mercy - Part 1
The forest floor crunched beneath your hiking boots as you navigated the winding trail, autumn leaves painting the world in shades of amber and crimson. You'd chosen this secluded path specifically to escape the chaos of daily life—no crowds, no noise, just you and the wilderness. The kind of solitude that made your soul feel lighter with each step, your favorite playlist humming softly through your earbuds as you lost yourself in the rhythm of walking.
But now, three hours into what should have been a simple loop trail, that peaceful solitude was beginning to feel more like isolation. The marked trail had seemingly vanished somewhere behind you, leaving you surrounded by towering pines and unfamiliar terrain that all looked frustratingly similar. The GPS app had been spinning uselessly for the last twenty minutes, showing nothing but a blank gray screen where your location should be.
"Come on," you muttered, pulling your phone from your jacket pocket with hands that trembled slightly from both cold and growing anxiety.
"Just show me where I am. Please don't tell me I'm going to be one of those people who gets rescued by a helicopter because they took a wrong turn."
The device felt oddly warm against your palm, warmer than it should be considering the crisp air. You'd been using it for photos all morning, but the battery should still be at sixty percent. The screen flickered to life, but instead of your usual GPS app, strange patterns danced across the display—pixels shifting and rearranging themselves in ways that made your eyes water to follow. Colors bled into each other, creating an almost hypnotic swirl of light that seemed to pulse with its own rhythm.
"What the actual fuck ?" You stopped walking entirely, holding the phone closer to and then further from your face, with forrowed brows. The screen continued its bizarre light show, completely unresponsive to your increasingly frantic taps and swipes.
"This is so not the time for you to die on me. I literally just updated you last week!"
You tried the power button, the volume keys, even that trick where you hold multiple buttons at once that usually fixed everything—nothing worked. A high-pitched whining sound emanated from the device, so sharp it made your teeth ache and forced you to pull out your earbuds.
"Great. Just great. My phone's having a seizure in the middle of nowhere." Frustrated and more than a little unnerved, you lifted your foot to take another step forward, but your boot caught on something hidden beneath the fallen leaves. Your ankle twisted painfully as you pitched forward, arms windmilling desperately for balance.
The phone flew from your grasp, its bizarre light show spinning through the air like a demented firefly before disappearing into the undergrowth.
You hit the ground hard, damp earth cushioning your fall but doing nothing for your dignity. Pain shot through your palms where they'd scraped against rough bark, and your knee throbbed where it had connected with what felt like a particularly vindictive rock.
"Perfect," you groaned, rolling onto your back and staring up at the canopy above. "Just perfect. Lost in the woods with a dead phone. Nature's determined to kill me."
By the time you'd accessed yourself mentally for injuries and decided to drag your arse out of the dirt, it looked like rhe light filtering through the leaves had changed, taking on a golden quality that spoke of late afternoon rather than the mid-morning sun you remembered, shit had you hit your head harder then you thought ?
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, scanning the ground for your phone among the scattered leaves and debris. Instead, your eyes found two pairs of worn leather boots, planted firmly in the earth not three feet from where you lay.
Your gaze traveled upward—past rough-woven pants and leather armor that looked hand-crafted rather than costume-department perfect, past fur-trimmed cloaks with intricate brooches, past metalwork that bore the patina of actual use—until you found yourself staring into two pairs of eyes that definitely didn't belong to fellow hikers.
The men were tall, broad-shouldered, with long hair braided in patterns you'd only seen in history books and, more recently, your favorite television show. Scars crossed their visible skin—they looked like real scars that told stories of violence and survival. And pointed directly at your throat were two swords that looked very, very real.
Your heart began to race, but not from fear. These costumes were incredible. The attention to detail was beyond anything you'd seen outside of major film productions. The weapons looked authentically forged, the leather was properly weathered, and the men themselves had the kind of rugged authenticity that spoke of serious commitment to their craft.
The men exchanged a look that seemed equal parts confusion and concern, speaking in a way that sounded familiar and made your pulse quicken with recognition. The rolling vowels, the harsh consonants—you'd heard this accent before, week after week for seasons.
"Oh wow," you breathed, temporarily forgetting your precarious position as excitement bubbled up in your chest. "Are you guys filming something? Please tell me this is for Vikings. Are you filming near here? Is Travis here? What about Alex?"
"This is incredible," you continued, struggling to sit up properly while trying not to make any sudden movements toward the very real-looking weapons. "The authenticity is amazing. I mean, I've been to Renaissance fairs, but this is next level. You guys even smell authentic—like, actually smell like you've been living rough. Method acting much?"
One of them gestured toward you with his sword, the meaning clear even without translation. The other spoke again, his words carrying an authority that made your stomach flutter with a mixture of nerves and starstruck excitement.
"Get up."
Your legs felt like water as you struggled to your feet, hyper-aware of how the weapons followed your every movement. But even as a rational part of your brain registered the potential danger, a larger part was busy cataloging every detail of their appearance, trying to place which characters they might be playing or if they were new additions to the cast.
"Seriously though," you said as one of them grasped your arm with a grip that was definitely firmer than you'd expect from actors worried about liability, "when does this air? Because I have literally seen every episode of Vikings at least three times. I have so many questions about the next season."
But as they began to march you through terrain that bore no resemblance to the hiking trail you'd been following, a chill ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the weather. The grip on your arm was too strong, too real. These men moved with the kind of casual violence that spoke of lives lived on the edge of survival.
The journey that followed felt like stepping into the most immersive historical experience imaginable. The two warriors—because what else could you call them—flanked you as they marched through terrain that looked like it had been untouched by modern civilization. Rolling hills stretched in every direction, dotted with clusters of buildings that looked like they'd been pulled straight from historical dramas.
"This is unreal," you murmured, your eyes drinking in every detail. "The production value must be insane. How did they find a location this perfect? There's no power lines, no modern buildings in the background, nothing."
Your mind raced with possibilities. Maybe this was one of those immersive experiences for super fans ? Maybe you'd somehow stumbled onto the world's most elaborate filming location ? Maybe this was some kind of historical recreation site that you'd never heard of, despite your obsessive consumption of anything Viking-related.
But even as you tried to rationalize what you were seeing, something nagged at you. The smells were—not the sanitized version you'd expect from even the most elaborate theme park, but the real thing. Wood smoke mixed with less pleasant odors of a world without modern plumbing, animals, and unwashed bodies. The sounds too were wrong for any kind of production, no generators humming in the background, no modern voices calling directions, no anachronistic equipment hidden just out of frame.
The settlement that came into view made your breath catch in your throat, and for a moment, your steps faltered entirely.
"No way," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
"No fucking way."
It was Kattegat.
Not a representation of it.
Not inspired by it.
It was exactly as you'd seen it on screen, down to the specific arrangement of buildings around the natural harbor.
The great hall dominated the settlement, its distinctive architecture immediately recognizable. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, carrying scents that were somehow both foreign and familiar from years of watching your favorite characters navigate these same streets.
"This is..." You struggled for words, your inner fangirl warring with growing confusion. "This is perfect. Like, scary perfect. How do you create it so exactly?"
The warriors guided you through streets that seemed to pulse with authentic life. Children ran between the buildings, their laughter mixing with the sounds of craftsmen at work—the ring of metal on metal, the rhythmic thud of looms, the calls of merchants hawking their wares. Women tended to various tasks, some weaving, others preparing food, all of them dressed in clothing that looked lived-in rather than costume-perfect.
And they all stared at you with expressions that made your skin crawl.
Your modern hiking clothes—the synthetic fabrics, the bright colors, the strange cut and style of your Jacket—marked you as an outsider as clearly as if you'd been wearing a neon sign. But it wasn't just curiosity in their faces. There was wariness, suspicion, and in some cases, outright hostility.
"Okay, this is getting a little too real," you muttered, your earlier excitement beginning to curdle into something approaching fear. "Like, I get that you're going for authenticity, but the staring is kind of intense guys."
Your escorts didn't pause.
The great hall that loomed ahead was exactly what you'd expect from years of watching Vikings, but somehow more imposing in person. Massive wooden beams supported a structure that seemed to reach toward the sky itself, and intricate carvings—the carvings you recognized from countless episodes.
The doors swung open at their approach with a groan that you felt in your bones, revealing an interior that stole what little breath you had left.
The hall was vast, filled with long wooden tables and benches. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of battle and conquest in threads that seemed to glow in the firelight. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of meat, mead, and too many bodies in close proximity.
And on a raised dais that you'd seen in your dreams, sat a figure that made your heart stop entirely.
"Holy shit," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "Holy actual shit."
Queen Aslaug.
She was exactly as you remembered from the show—ethereally beautiful in a way that seemed almost otherworldly, with long blonde hair that caught the firelight and eyes that seemed to hold secrets older than time itself. The same regal bearing, the same sense of mystical wisdom that had made her such a compelling character.
But seeing her in person, breathing and real and looking directly at you, was like having your favorite fictional character step out of the screen.
And surrounding her, arranged in a semicircle that spoke of both protection and presentation, were her sons.
Your knees nearly gave out.
Ubbe sat to her right, tall and golden-haired, with the kind of steady, thoughtful presence that had always made him your second favorite character. The strong jaw, the intelligent eyes, the way he held himself with quiet authority—it was all exactly as you remembered, but somehow more vivid, more real.
Hvitserk lounged in his chair with the same restless energy you'd watched, his dark hair falling in a way that made your fangirl heart skip. Even seated, you could see the lean strength in his frame, the quick intelligence in his eyes as they tracked your movement across the hall.
Sigurd sat with his characteristic smirk, the one that had always made you simultaneously want to slap him and appreciate his particular brand of cruel charisma. His snake-eye studied you with an intensity that made your skin crawl, but in a way that was thrilling rather than truly frightening—because this was Sigurd, and you knew his character inside and out.
And Ivar.
Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes found him. He sat in his chaur with his legs positioned in front of him, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away. Even motionless, he commanded attention in a way that was utterly terrifying. The sharp intelligence in his face, the cruel curve of his mouth, the way his fingers drummed against the arm of his chair—everything was exactly as you'd memorized from countless hours of screen time.
"This is insane," you whispered, your eyes darting between faces that belonged to your favorite show. "You guys are incredible. Like, scary incredible. The resemblance is perfect. Are you the actual actors? Please tell me you're the actual actors because I have been obsessed with this show and meeting the cast would literally make my entire life."
But even as the words left your mouth, something cold began to settle in your stomach. The resemblance wasn't just uncanny—it was perfect. Too perfect. And the way they sat, the way they moved, the casual interactions between them... there was no sense of people stepping in and out of character, no modern tells breaking through their performances.
"Bring her forward," Aslaug commanded, and her voice was exactly as you remembered—melodious, authoritative, with that distinctive accent that had always given you chills.
The guards propelled you past people who had stopped their conversations to watch this unexpected entertainment. Your footsteps echoed loudly in the sudden quiet, each step bringing you closer to people you'd spent years analyzing, theorizing about.
When you finally stood before the royal family, close enough to see the individual details of their clothing, the very real looking scars on their skin, the way their eyes tracked your every movement with predatory interest, your rational explanations began to crumble.
"Okay," you said, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. "I'm seriously confused right now. Are you guys method acting? Because this is either the most incredible immersive experience ever created, or..." You trailed off, unwilling to voice the impossible thought forming in your mind.
"What manner of creature is this?" Sigurd spoke first, and hearing that familiar mocking tone directed at you sent shivers down your spine. But it wasn't the good kind of shivers anymore. His voice carried an edge of genuine disdain that no actor playing a role would direct at a fan.
Aslaug leaned forward slightly, her mystical eyes studying you with an intensity that felt like being examined by a particularly beautiful predator. "Your garments are unlike any I have seen," she observed, her English clear but heavily accented in a way that made each word feel deliberate. "The colors are... strange. Unnatural. And the material..." She gestured vaguely at your outfit.
"Oh, um," you stammered, suddenly very aware of how out of place your moisture-wicking jacket looked in this setting. "It's just, you know, synthetic fabric? Like, polyester blend? For hiking?"
The words felt wrong the moment they left your mouth. Your casual speaking pattern clashing horribly with their formal, structured way of communication.
Hvitserk tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. "She speaks strangely," he commented to his brothers, his voice carrying the same warm tone you'd fallen in love with on screen. "The words are familiar in part, but the manner in which she forms them..."
"Like no Saxon I have encountered," Ubbe agreed, his brow furrowed in genuine concentration. "The rhythm is wrong. The choice of words... peculiar."
Ivar had remained silent during this exchange, but you could feel his gaze like a physical weight. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through his brothers' observations with razor-sharp precision.
"Tell us" he said, and the familiar candance made your heart race for all the wrong reasons, "where is it that you come from?"
The interest in his words hit you like a physical blow. You'd heard him and you knew that in the show—usually he spoke right before doing something terrifying to whoever had caught his interest. But hearing it directed at you, seeing the way his eyes glittered with curiosity and something much darker, made you realize just how much danger you might actually be in.
If this was real.
If they were real.
"I'm from..." You paused, your mind racing. How did you explain twenty-first century America to people who lived in a world where that continent wasn't supposed to exist yet? "I'm from really far away? Like, really, really far?"
Your voice rose at the end, turning your statement into a question in that distinctly modern way that made you cringe even as you said it.
"How far?" Aslaug pressed, and there was something in her voice that suggested she might understand more than she was letting on. "Beyond the great sea?"
"Um, yeah," you nodded eagerly, latching onto anything that might make sense to them. "Way beyond that. Like, super beyond that."
Sigurd snorted, a sound of pure derision. "Super beyond? What manner of word is 'super'?"
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. The casual slang that peppered your everyday speech sounded ridiculous in this formal setting, childish and strange.
"I just mean... very far," you corrected yourself, trying to adopt their more formal speech patterns and failing miserably. "Like, an incredible distance. More than you could possibly... um... imagine?"
The brothers exchanged glances, and you saw Hvitserk suppress what might have been a smile at your awkward attempts to sound more formal.
"She speaks like a child," Sigurd observed, his cruel smile widening. "Using simple words in simple ways...is that it ... are you simple ?"
"I'm not simple!" The response burst out of you before you could stop it, defensive and sharp in a way that immediately made you regret speaking. "I've been to university."
Ivar's eyes glittered with amusement at your outburst. "Such fire," he murmured, and the approval in his voice was somehow more terrifying than if he'd been angry. "Tell me, what is this 'university' of which you speak?"
"It's..." You struggled to find words they might understand. "It's like... a place of learning? Where you go to study... things?"
"Things," Hvitserk repeated, and now he wasn't bothering to hide his smile. "How illuminating."
Your face burned hotter. Everything you said made you sound either crazy or stupid, and you were beginning to suspect both might be true.
"She is either touched by the gods or touched in the head," Sigurd declared, earning chuckles from some of the watching crowd.
"I'm not crazy," you protested weakly, but even as you said it, doubt crept in. Maybe you were. Maybe you'd hit your head and all of this was some elaborate hallucination brought on by a concussion.
But the ache in your scraped palms felt real. The smoke in the air made your eyes water in a very real way. And the expressions on the faces around you carried a weight that no dream or hallucination could match.
"Then explain," Aslaug commanded, her voice carrying absolute authority. "Explain your strange garments, your peculiar speech, your claim to come from a place beyond our knowledge."
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. How could you explain that you came from a world over a thousand years in their future? That you knew their names, their personalities, their fates because you'd watched them portrayed on a television show? That you had their pictures saved on your phone?
Your phone. Which was lying somewhere in a forest that apparently didn't exist anymore.
"I..." you started, then stopped. Your throat felt tight, and for the first time since this nightmare began, tears threatened at the corners of your eyes. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."
"Try" Ivar suggested, and his voice carried a silky threat that made your blood run cold.
Because suddenly, impossibly, you were beginning to understand that this wasn't a film set or an immersive experience or an elaborate prank. The smells were too real, the sounds too authentic, the weight of history too heavy in the air around you.
These weren't actors playing characters.
These were the actual characters.
Which meant you were standing in Queen Aslaug's hall, facing Ivar the Boneless himself, in a world where the things you'd watched him do on screen weren't fictional plot points but actual memories.
The hall suddenly felt very cold indeed.
"I think," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "I think I'm in a lot of trouble."
The silence that followed stretched on forever, broken only by the crackling of fires and the distant sounds of life continuing outside the hall. You could feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon you, studying your every reaction, cataloging your fear.
Finally, Aslaug spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Children" she said, addressing her sons, "what think you of this strange girl?"
"She is clearly foreign," Ubbe said thoughtfully, his voice carrying the same measured tone you'd always admired on screen. "But from where, I cannot say. Her manner of dress suggests wealth of a sort, but the materials are unknown to me."
"Perhaps she is a sorceress," Sigurd suggested, his voice carrying the same cruel amusement it always had on the show. "Sent by our enemies to bewitch us with her strange appearance."
"I'm not a sorceress!" you protested, then immediately regretted drawing more attention to yourself. "I mean... I'm not... I don't know magic or anything like that."
Ivar had been silent during his brothers' discussion, but now he spoke, his voice carrying a authority that immediately silenced everyone else. "Mother," he said, never taking his eyes off you, "what do your visions tell you of this creature?"
Aslaug's mystical gaze seemed to look right through you, and for a long moment, she said nothing. When she finally spoke, her words sent chills down your spine.
"The gods whisper of displacement," she said slowly. "Of things torn from their proper place. She carries the scent of otherworldly knowledge."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. How could she possibly know?
"Otherworldly knowledge?" Ubbe questioned. "What manner of knowledge?"
Aslaug's eyes never left your face. "Tell me, strange girl, do you know of things yet to come?"
The question hit you like a physical blow. Did you know things yet to come? You knew everything that was supposed to happen to these people to date. You'd watched their stories unfold, knew their triumphs and failures, their loves and losses.
"I..." you stammered, unsure how to answer without making everything worse.
"She hesitates," Hvitserk observed. "That is answer enough."
"What do you know?" Ivar demanded, his voice sharp with sudden interest. "What visions plague your mind ?"
You looked around the hall desperately, at faces that belonged to people whose fates you knew by heart. How could you tell them that you'd watched Sigurd die? That you knew how Ivar's cruelty would escalate.
"I can't," you whispered. "I can't tell you."
"Cannot?" Sigurd laughed harshly. "Or will not?"
"Both," you admitted, and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say.
Ivar's eyes glittered dangerously. "How interesting," he murmured. "Knowledge she possesses but will not share. Perhaps she requires... encouragement."
The threat in his voice was unmistakable, and suddenly you were terrified in a way that went bone-deep. This wasn't the sanitized violence of television anymore. This was real, and these people had no modern concepts of human rights or due process to protect you.
"Wait," you said quickly, raising your hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please, I'm not trying to be difficult. It's just... complicated."
"Uncomplicate it," Aslaug commanded.
You took a shaky breath, trying to find words that might make sense to them without revealing the impossible truth. "Where I come from, we have... stories ... Sagas ... About people like you. About this place. About things that might happen."
"Stories," Ubbe repeated slowly. "What sort of stories?"
"Stories about great warriors," you said carefully. "About raids and battles and... and of Ragnar Lothbrok."
The effect of Ragnar's name was immediate and electric. All four brothers straightened, their attention focusing on you with laser intensity.
"You know of our father?" Hvitserk demanded.
"Everyone knows of Ragnar," you said, which was true enough. "His fame ... his fame reaches very far."
You'd almost said "will reach," catching yourself just in time.
"And what do these stories say?" Ivar asked, his voice deceptively soft.
You looked at him, this man who would evolve into someone capable of such beautiful and terrible things, and felt your heart break a little.
"They say you're destined for greatness," you whispered. "All of you. That your names will be remembered long after..."
You stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Long after you're all dead, you'd been about to say.
"After what?" Sigurd pressed.
"After the world changes," you finished lamely.
The brothers exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"She speaks in riddles," Hvitserk said. "Like a völur."
"Or like a spy," Sigurd countered. "Sent to learn our secrets and report back to our enemies."
"What enemies?" you asked, confused. "I don't work for anyone. I don't even know where I am, exactly. I mean, I think this is Kattegat, but..."
"You know the name of our home," Ubbe observed. "Yet claim to be lost."
You realized your mistake too late. Of course they'd find it suspicious that you knew where you were.
"The stories," you said weakly. "I told you, there are stories..."
"Convenient stories," Sigurd sneered. "That tell you exactly what you need to know."
Aslaug held up a hand, silencing her sons. "Enough," she said. "The girl is clearly far from home, whatever her true origins. The question now is what to do with her."
Your stomach dropped. In the show, strangers who couldn't account for themselves rarely fared well.
"She could be useful," Ivar said thoughtfully, and something in his tone made your skin crawl. "If she truly possesses knowledge of the future, she might prove... valuable."
"And if she is a spy?" Sigurd challenged.
Ivar's smile was razor-sharp. "Then she will tell us everything she knows before she dies."
You felt the blood drain from your face. Was this Ivar at his most dangerous ?—calculating, intelligent, and utterly without mercy. You'd watched him torture people on screen, had been simultaneously horrified and fascinated by his methods, but when where you now ? What season ?
Being on the receiving end of his attention was pure nightmare, but where exactly where you in the seasons.
God you sounded nuts, which episode did the stranger fall through time ... your probably unconscious in a forest having a fever-dream.
"Please," you said, your voice small and shaking. "I'm not a spy. I'm just... lost. I fell in the woods and when I got up, I was here. I don't understand it any more than you do."
"The woods?" Ubbe questioned. "What woods?"
"I..." You struggled to explain. "There was a hiking trail. Trees. I was trying to find my way with my... with a device that shows directions. But it broke, and I fell, and then..."
"A device that shows directions?" Hvitserk leaned forward with interest. "What manner of device?"
You realized you'd painted yourself into another corner. How did you explain GPS to medieval Vikings?
"It's... it was like a... a map?" you tried desperately. "But small and it showed lots of maps?"
"Lots of Maps," Sigurd repeated mockingly. "How convenient that this miraculous map is lost."
"But perhaps," Aslaug said slowly, "not so convenient for her."
All eyes turned to the Queen, waiting for her to elaborate.
"If she speaks truth," Aslaug continued, "if she is indeed displaced from her proper place, then she is as lost as she claims. A stranger in a strange land, with no way to return home."
The sympathy in her voice gave you a brief moment of hope, but it was quickly dashed by her next words.
"Which makes her our responsibility. And our property."
Your heart stopped. Property. The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
"She will need to earn her place among us," Aslaug continued. "Prove her worth through service."
"What manner of service?" Ubbe asked, though his tone suggested he already knew where this was heading.
Aslaug's gaze moved between her sons, considering. "She claims knowledge of the future. If true, this makes her valuable. But also dangerous, if that knowledge falls into the wrong hands."
"She should be closely watched," Hvitserk agreed.
"Very closely," Ivar added, and there was something in his voice that made your blood freeze.
"Then it is decided," Aslaug declared. "The strange girl will serve as a slave in our household. She will be given to..."
Your heart hammered as her gaze moved between her sons. Please not Ivar, you thought desperately. Oh shit not Sigurd either.
Ubbe, in your mind was the most reasonable.
"My youngest son Ivar," she finished.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Of all the possible outcomes, this felt like the worst. You'd watched Ivar on screen, had seen what he did to people who displeased him. His intelligence made him unpredictable, his disability made him cruel, and his curiosity made him dangerous.
And now you belonged to him.
"An excellent choice, Mother," Ivar said, his voice carrying a satisfaction that made your skin crawl. "I shall take very good care of our mysterious little guest."
The promise in his words was anything but comforting.
You stood frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by people whose stories you knew by heart, facing a future that terrified you beyond measure. Because you knew exactly what Ivar was capable of.
Tropes/Themes: Friends to lovers to enemies, betrayal, heavy smut/spice, hurt/comfort, childhood flashbacks, satisfying/bittersweet ending.
Summary: You were the only one who didn't run from him when you were kids. You were the one who healed his pride after Margrethe. But when Ivar's thirst for a crown makes him blind to what he already has, he learns the hardest lesson of all: you cannot share a god's throne with a ghost.
Read the full fic below! 👇
The mud of Kattegat was always cold, a thick, gray sludge that clung to the skin like a curse, but to a boy who could only drag himself through it, it was a personal malice. The fjord winds howled through the timber alleys of the settlement, carrying the scent of drying fish, woodsmoke, and the damp rot of the shoreline. For young Ivar, the world was viewed from the earth up, a perspective that bred a bitter, defensive venom in his small chest.
When you were children, Ivar was already a storm brewing in a fragile, broken frame. The other children ran from his sharp, bared teeth and the heavy stones he kept stuffed in his linen tunic to hurl at anyone who stared too long at his twisted legs. Even his own brothers looked at him with a mix of exhausting caution and a soft pity that made his blood boil. Only Floki laughed with him, teaching him the chaotic songs of the trickster gods, and only you sat in the frozen dirt beside him without waiting for him to strike or yell.
You distinctly remember the day the fragile peace cracked entirely. A butcher’s son, older, thicker, and arrogant with his growth, had stood over Ivar near the animal pens. He had openly mocked the way Ivar’s legs twisted uselessly beneath him, spitting into the dirt and calling him a useless cripple who would never see the smoke of Valhalla’s fires.
"You'll just crawl under the tables while real men feast," the boy sneered, kicking a clump of mud at Ivar’s chest.
Before anyone could blink, Ivar’s face contorted with a demonic, blinding rage. He didn't cry; he growled, a raw, animalistic sound. Grabbing a heavy wooden toy boat—carved by Floki with a sharp, heavy, solid oak prow—he swung his torso forward, utilizing all the desperate strength of his upper body. The wood shattered against the older boy’s mouth with a sickening crack, splitting his lip to the bone and spraying crimson blood across the packed dirt.
The other children shrieked in horror and fled, their boots pounding away as they shouted that Ivar was a monster, a demon born to curse the line of Ragnar. Ivar lay there in the mud, panting, his knuckles white around the broken toy, his chest heaving as he prepared for the inevitable blows or the disgusted, fearful looks that usually followed his outbursts. He glared at the ground, waiting for you to run too.
You did not run. You simply walked over, your small leather boots squelching in the mire, and picked up the broken piece of wood that had flown near your feet. You knelt directly in his line of sight, taking your sleeve to wipe a stray streak of northern mud and someone else's blood from your own cheek.
"Your aim is getting better," you said softly, handing him the broken prow. "But you need to lean into the swing more if you want to break the jaw next time. You wasted too much force on the lip."
Ivar snapped his head up, his eyes a terrifying, vivid, luminous blue—the deep, electric shade that warned of his immense physical pain and volatile temper. "Aren't you going to run?" he snarled, his voice cracking with youth and bitterness, his whole body tense as if waiting for you to strike him. "I am a monster. Didn't you hear them? They all say it. My father thinks it."
"Why would I run?" you asked, shifting to sit cross-legged just out of reach of his sudden swings, but close enough to feel the radiant, furious heat of his body. "You only hit the stupid ones. And besides, who would help you fix your boat if I left? Floki is busy with the longships."
Ivar stared at you, the wildness in his blue eyes freezing into something silent, intense, and deeply rooted. "You aren't afraid of me?" he whispered, his small fingers tightening around the wood you gave him.
"No," you said firmly, looking him dead in the eye. "I'm not."
From that exact moment, you became his anchor in a world that terrified him. As the years bled into one another, his fierce, possessive attachment to you deepened into something heavy, silent, and altogether consuming. He grew into a man with the broad, powerful shoulders of a true Viking warrior and the razor-sharp mind of a master tactician, but whenever his eyes landed on you, the storm in those blue depths always calmed into a deep, dark fire. He loved you with the desperate, territorial intensity of a man who believed he was entitled to absolutely nothing from this world, yet secretly wanted everything it had to offer.
The Unbroken Promise
The night after the humiliating incident with Margrethe, the atmosphere inside Ivar’s private quarters was thick enough to suffocate. The slave girl had failed him—or rather, his own body had failed him in the dark, leaving him drowning in a toxic, suffocating mix of masculine rage, vulnerability, and profound shame. He sat slumped on the edge of his massive bed of furs, his breathing ragged and shallow. The room was in ruins; broken jugs of mead leaked into the floorboards, an upturned pine table lay splintered in the corner, and a heavy iron dagger was gripped so fiercely in Ivar's fist that the blade bit into his own palm, sending a slow trickle of dark blood down his wrist.
You entered without knocking, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind you to lock out the snickering whispers of the camp. You saw the wild, shattered look in his eyes, the sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead.
"Get out," he hissed, his voice a low, animalistic growl that didn't even sound human. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, refusing to look at you. "Get out before I crawl over there and open your throat from ear to ear. I mean it!"
"You won't open my throat, Ivar," you said softly, completely unfazed by the threat you knew was born of agonizing pain. You walked over slowly, deliberately placing yourself in his space, and knelt right between his braced, useless legs. You reached up, your fingers warm, gentle, but entirely unyielding as you pried the iron dagger from his white-knuckled grip, tossing it carelessly onto the wooden floorboards where it clattered away into the shadows. "Look at me."
"I am less than a man," he whispered, a rare, horrific vulnerability cracking through his armored exterior. His blue eyes were almost pitch black in the dying firelight, swimming with unshed tears of pure fury. "She looked at me with pity. She tried to hide it, she tried to act the willing thrall, but I saw it in her eyes. They all do. I cannot give a woman what she needs. I am broken. I am a cripple who cannot even take a woman."
"Margrethe is a frightened slave who knows nothing of a man’s true power," you murmured, leaning in until your breath brushed against his trembling lips, casting a spell of absolute certainty over him. You took his large, calloused hands—hands that could crush an enemy's skull—and pressed them firmly against the bare skin of your waist, slipping them beneath your tunic. "Let me show you what you are, Ivar. Let me show you what you can do."
"No," he panted, his chest heaving, even as his fingers instinctively gripped your hips. "Don't mock me. If you pity me, I will kill you."
"Do I look like I pity you?" you asked fiercely, tilting his chin up. "I want you. I have always wanted you."
You didn't wait for his pride to construct more walls. You leaned up and captured his mouth in a bruising, desperate, deeply passionate kiss that tasted of iron, salt, and years of unspoken desire. Ivar gasped into your mouth, a shudder running through his massive frame, and his hands instantly locked onto your hips with a bruising, desperate force, pulling you flush against his solid chest. He couldn't use his legs, but his upper body possessed the terrifying, magnificent strength of a warrior who rowed longships and dragged his own weight through the dirt every single day.
Proving the God
The heat between you flared into an absolute inferno. You shifted, sliding up onto the thick, heavy furs of the bed, straddling his lap completely, guiding his rough hands beneath the hem of your tunic. His fingers were coarse, tracing the curve of your ribs, leaving trails of electric fire that made your stomach clench. When you pulled your tunic over your head and tossed it aside into the dark, his breath caught, his eyes flaring with a dark, deeply predatory hunger as he stared at your bared breasts in the flickering firelight.
"You are beautiful," he growled, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly purring sound as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping hungrily at your pulsing vein, making you gasp out loud.
You reached down, your fingers steady as you unlaced his heavy trousers, sliding your hand down into the radiating heat between his thighs. He stiffened instantly, a low, guttural groan escaping his throat as your warm, slick fingers wrapped around his length. He was soft, hesitant, his mind still fighting the ghosts of his failure with Margrethe, but you did not hesitate for a second. You dipped your head, your tongue tracing the harsh line of his jaw down to his collarbone, while your hand began a slow, deliberate, agonizingly teasing rhythm.
"Look at me, Ivar," you whispered against his skin, demanding his presence. "Look at what you do to me."
He forced his heavy eyelids open, panting, his chest heaving like a beast in a cage. You shifted your hips, pressing your bare, aching center directly against his thick, muscular thigh, grinding down slowly in a rhythm that made his eyes widen. The friction was agonizingly sweet, coating his skin with your warmth. You took his mouth again, deeper this time, your tongue tangling masterfully with his as you picked up the pace of your hand, sliding the slick, honeyed heat of your own arousal between you.
Ivar’s breath completely caught. He was a tactician; he caught on instantly to how this battle could be won without his legs. His powerful arms suddenly pinned you down into the furs, his immense upper-body weight pressing down into you, dominating the space. He used his thick, strong fingers to explore the wet warmth of your cleft, finding the sensitive, swollen bud of your flesh and swirling against it with a torturous, rhythmic, heavy pressure that made your back arch completely off the bed.
"Ah... god, Ivar," you gasped out, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark, braided hair as he drove you closer to the edge.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice thick with lust, arrogance, and a newfound, intoxicating sense of masculine power. He pressed his thumb hard against your sweet spot, while his other hand kept your wrists pinned firmly above your head, mastering you entirely. "Tell me what I do to you. Tell me if the cripple can make you scream."
"You tear me apart," you sobbed out, unable to hold back as a massive wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashed over your body, your internal muscles clenching violently around his slick fingers as you came, crying his name into the rafters.
Watching your climax, feeling your body shake, shudder, and weep beneath his hand, something fundamental shifted inside Ivar. A dark, triumphant satisfaction bloomed in his chest, wiping away every ounce of shame Margrethe had inflicted. He slowly pulled his hand away from between your thighs, slick and glistening with your release, and brought his fingers to his mouth, lazily tasting you while his brilliant blue gaze remained locked on your blown-out eyes.
Then, he pulled you down by your hair, his lips scraping aggressively against yours. "We marry," he growled against your mouth, no longer asking, no longer doubting, but declaring a law to the gods themselves. "Before the week ends, the sacrifices will be made, and you will be my wife."
The Fractured Throne
The world shattered into a million bloody pieces when Ragnar Lothbrok died in the snake pit. The Great Heathen Army marched across the sea like a plague of locusts, a tide of blood and vengeance that tore through the Saxon kingdoms. Under the shared, turbulent command of Ivar, Ubbe, and Hvitserk, the Saxons fell like wheat before a scythe. But victory bred toxic ambition, and ambition bred rot within the brotherhood.
After a fierce, echoing argument in the great hall of York—where Ivar had publicly humiliated Ubbe, thrown an axe at his brothers' feet, and declared himself the sole, rightful leader of the great army—the air in the camp was thick with impending civil war.
"You do not speak for our father!" Ubbe had shouted, his face red with fury.
"I speak for his ghost!" Ivar had screamed back, his voice cutting through the hall like a broadsword. "You have the heart of a farmer, Ubbe! Go back to your dirt! I am the leader of this army!"
You had gone searching for him through the dark, muddy corridors of the captured fortress, hoping to cool his volatile temper before he tore his father's legacy apart completely. The heavy stone walls of the Saxon fort held a damp chill, but the rage building in your chest kept you warm.
You found him in the deeply shadowed, private backrooms of the encampment. But he was not alone.
The heavy wooden door was left slightly ajar, a sliver of warm candlelight cutting into the dark hallway. Through the crack, a scene unfolded that turned the blood in your veins to absolute ice. Freydis, the former slave with the treacherous, worshipful eyes, was kneeling in the dirt before Ivar’s makeshift throne. Her hands were slid high up his thighs, and Ivar’s head was thrown back against the carved wood, his eyes closed, a low, guttural, unmistakable groan tearing from his throat.
"You are a god, Ivar," Freydis whispered, her voice a poisonous, sweet honey as she slid her lips up his bare stomach, inflating his monstrous ego with every breath. "The gods speak directly to me. They tell me you will rule the entire world. No mortal woman can understand your greatness."
Ivar’s hands were tangled deep in her long blonde hair, pulling her up onto his lap with a rough familiarity. He didn't see you standing in the shadows as he pushed her heavy linen skirts up, his large fingers slicking her inner thighs, plunging into her with the same frantic, desperate need for validation that you thought you had healed in him. He was losing himself in her worship, letting her hands touch the parts of him he had once sworn belonged only to you.
The breath left your lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp that hit the quiet room like a thunderclap.
Ivar’s head snaps toward the door instantly. His blue eyes widened to the size of saucers, the thick haze of lust instantly shattering into a look of stark, naked panic. "Get out!" he roared at Freydis, his voice echoing off the stone walls as he violently shoved her off his lap, sending her tumbling unceremoniously into the dirt floor. "Out!"
Freydis scrambled to her feet, clutching her skirts, casting a dark, venomous look at you before slipping past into the corridor.
You didn't run away this time. You stood your ground, stepping fully into the room, your face a pale, frozen mask of absolute betrayal. Ivar dragged himself up into his custom chair, pulling his tunic down over his waist, his face rapidly shifting from panic to a defensive, arrogant rage.
"It means nothing!" Ivar shouted, pointing a trembling finger at you, his voice booming. "She is a slave! She means nothing to me! But she sees what I truly am! She speaks for the gods, she tells me my destiny!"
"She speaks to your pride, Ivar," you said, your voice terrifyingly calm, though your heart was breaking into a thousand jagged, bleeding pieces inside your chest. "And you let her into your bed. The bed we swore before the Allfather to share only with each other. You gave her what belonged to me."
Ivar swung himself forward into his chariot frames, pulling his massive upper body up so he could look you dead in the eye, refusing to back down. The vulnerability of the boy in the mud was entirely gone, replaced by the monstrous, blinding ego of a man who believed his own myth. "I am a son of Ragnar! I am destined to be a king of kings! A king can take whatever wives he pleases to secure his legacy! I will make Freydis my wife alongside you. You will accept it because I command it!"
You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the boy you had protected now completely blinded by false praise and treacherous whispers. Slowly, without taking your eyes off his, you reached down to your wrist. You unclasped the heavy, ornate silver arm ring he had given you on your wedding night and let it drop. It hit the stone floor with a dull, final, ringing clang that seemed to echo forever.
"I do not share, Ivar," you whispered, your voice cutting through his anger like a razor. "If you take her, you lose me. And you will never, ever get me back."
"You will stay where I command you to stay!" he roared, his eyes flashing a brilliant, dangerous, wild blue as he smashed his fist against the arm of his chair. "You are my wife! You belong to me!"
"I belonged to the man you used to be," you said softly, turning your back on him. "Not to the monster she is creating."
Within two days, Ivar wed Freydis in a lavish, blood-soaked ceremony before the army. That very same night, under the cover of a torrential downpour, you packed your few belongings, walked down to the dark docks where Ubbe and his loyalists were silently preparing to flee Ivar's tyranny, and stepped onto the longship. Ubbe looked at your hollow eyes, offered you a silent hand of solidarity, and sailed away into the night, leaving Ivar’s fractured kingdom behind.
The Echo in the Hall
Years passed like a bitter, endless winter. The war for the crown of Kattegat was brutal, a horrific meat-grinder of brothers fighting brothers, turning the rivers red with Norse blood. When Ivar finally returned at the head of a massive foreign army to reclaim his birthright, he expected to see Björn, Hvitserk, and Ubbe guarding the wooden walls.
He did not expect to see you.
Standing high on the ramparts of Kattegat, wrapped in a heavy, fur-lined cloak against the biting sea wind, you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Ubbe, a shield in your hand. Your gaze locked onto Ivar’s golden chariot as it rolled to the very front of the invading line. Even from across the battlefield, the sudden sight of you punched the air straight out of his lungs. His heart hammered frantically against his ribs—a furious, agonizing, suffocating mix of desperate, undying love and blinding, possessive betrayal. You had sided with his enemies. You were fighting against him.
The battle that followed was an absolute bloodbath, but Ivar’s terrifying tactical genius ultimately broke the town's defenses. As the great gates of Kattegat were smashed to splinters and his warriors flooded the streets, painting the snow red, Ivar didn't care about the throne. He didn't care about the crown or the cheers of his men.
"Find them!" Ivar screamed at the top of his lungs over the deafening din of clashing steel and screaming men, his voice cracking with a terrifying desperation as he swung himself through the bloody mud of his childhood home. "Search every single house! Every cellar! Every cave! Bring my wife to me unharmed! If a single one of you puts a scratch on them, I will flay you alive and feed your lungs to the ravens!"
His men scoured the settlement for hours, turning over every shield, breaking down every door. The sun began to set over the dark fjord, casting long, bloody, crimson shadows across the high hall of Ragnar.
Hvitserk walked into the great hall, his battle-axe dripping with thick blood, a weary, completely hollow look carved into his face. Ivar was sitting alone on the high throne, his hands trembling violently on his knees, his eyes wild and bloodshot as he stared desperately at the entrance, waiting for you to be dragged in.
"Where are they?" Ivar demanded, leaning so far forward he nearly fell from the seat. "Where is my wife, Hvitserk? Tell me you found them!"
Hvitserk sighed heavily, wiping a smear of dark blood across his forehead. "They are gone, Ivar. We searched the entire settlement, up to the mountain passes. The small scouting boats at the back docks are missing. Ubbe’s huscarls must have secured a secret retreat for them by sea before our shield wall even collapsed. They slipped away hours ago."
Ivar’s breath completely caught in his throat. He felt a cold, massive, hollow void open up in his chest—a wound far deeper and more agonizing than any sword could ever inflict. He looked down at the empty stone floor at the base of the throne where, years ago, you had dropped your arm ring.
You had kept your promise to him. He had taken Freydis, he had won his crown, and he was completely, utterly alone.
The Western Wind
Months turned into a bitter, lonely rule. Kattegat was his, but the great hall felt like nothing more than a lavish tomb. Freydis’s constant, frantic whispers of his divinity and his godhood sounded entirely hollow now, nothing more than the annoying buzzing of a fly in an empty, silent room. He couldn't stand the sight of her; every time she touched him, he remembered the warm, fierce, authentic weight of your body against his, a contrast that made her feel like a ghost.
One stormy evening, a trusted scout entered the great hall, shaking the rain from his cloak, and knelt before the throne. He held a small, weathered, tightly rolled piece of parchment, recovered from a Christian merchant ship that had just arrived from the western seas.
"What is it?" Ivar snapped, his mood perpetually foul, his eyes staring blankly into the fire. "Speak before I have your tongue."
"News from the west, Lord. From England," the scout said carefully, watching Ivar's volatile expression. "King Alfred of Wessex has granted a treaty. He has given rich lands to Ubbe and the Northmen who followed him. They have built a new settlement." The scout hesitated, swallowing hard. "Our spies in the Saxon courts report that... they are there, Lord. Your wife. They live in a large timber manor overlooking the sea. They do not carry a shield anymore. They cultivate the earth. They look at the ocean every sunset."
Ivar snatched the parchment from the scout's hand with terrifying speed. His eyes scanned the messy, hurried runes written by his informant. Safe. Whole. Living under a foreign, warm sun, completely free of his violence.
"Does she... does she ask of me?" Ivar whispered, his voice suddenly dropping the kingly armor, revealing the broken boy underneath.
The scout lowered his head. "The spies say they never speak your name, Lord. Not once."
Ivar collapsed back into the heavy wooden throne, his trembling fingers clutching the piece of parchment tightly against his chest, right over his hollow heart, until his knuckles turned pure white. A bitter, agonizing, deeply sorrowful smile traced his lips as a single, silent tear slipped down his cheek, lost in the shadows of the hall.
You were across the great, vast sea, entirely out of his reach, living a beautiful life far away from his madness. He was a god on a throne of ice, completely omnipotent over Kattegat, and entirely, beautifully forgotten.
The Ghost of the North
The parchment felt heavier than any broadsword Ivar had ever swung. He squeezed his eyes shut, his broad shoulders shaking under his heavy wolfskin mantle as the scout’s words echoed through the cavernous rafters of the great hall. They never speak your name. Not once.
It was a far worse punishment than a blade to the ribs. If you had hated him, if you had cursed his name to the Christian monks or sworn bloody vengeance to the Saxon kings, he could have fueled his own dark fires with it. He could have understood wrath. But silence? Absolute, unyielding silence meant you had excised him from your heart like rot from a wound.
"Get out," Ivar whispered, the command dropping like lead into the quiet hall.
The scout didn't wait. He bowed frantically and scrambled toward the heavy oak doors, leaving the King of Kattegat alone with the crackling flames of the central hearth.
Ivar stared down at his useless legs, draped in fine, foreign silks and furs. He remembered the feeling of your weight shifting over them on the night of his greatest shame, the way you had unceremoniously stripped away his armor and his doubts with a fierce, intoxicating dominance. He closed his eyes and could almost taste the salt of your skin, could almost feel the frantic, rhythmic clench of your internal muscles around his fingers as you cried his name into the dark.
Now, his fingers only gripped an empty throne.
The heavy thud of soft leather boots announced her presence before she even spoke. Freydis drifted into the hall, her golden hair braided tightly with silver thread, her belly swollen with the child she claimed was his—the divine seed of a god. She slid up the steps of the dais, her delicate, pale hands reaching out to stroke his tense jawline.
"My love," she purred, her voice a poisonous silk that used to make him feel ten feet tall. "The people are waiting in the square. They wish to see their god. Why do you sit in the dark with a piece of Saxon garbage?"
Ivar didn't move. He let her hand rest on his cheek, but his blue eyes were completely vacant, staring right through her. "Do you love me, Freydis?" he asked, his voice chillingly flat.
"Of course I love you," she smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "You are Ivar the Boneless. You are a god walked among mortals. I worship you."
"Worship," Ivar spat, the word tasting like ash. He suddenly snapped his hand up, his powerful, warrior's grip wrapping around her throat—not enough to choke her, but enough to freeze the breath in her lungs. His blue eyes flashed that dangerous, blinding electric hue. "That is the problem, isn't it? You worship a god. You want the crown, the myth, the legend. But they..." His voice cracked, a rare, terrifying fracture in his mask. "They loved the boy in the mud. They loved the monster. They loved the man. And I traded them for a crown made of dirt."
He shoved her away from him violently. Freydis stumbled back, clutching her throat, her eyes wide with a sudden, genuine fear. She realized then, with a sickening certainty, that no matter what she gave him, she was merely a ghost occupying a space meant for someone else.
"Get out of my sight," Ivar growled, turning his face back to the fire. "Before I forget that you carry a child."
The Manor by the Sea
The western sun was a different kind of light. It wasn't the harsh, biting glare that bounced off the frozen fjords of Kattegat; it was a soft, golden warmth that settled deep into the rolling green hills of Wessex.
You stood on the wooden porch of the timber manor Ubbe had built for your small household, watching the tide roll in over the gray pebbles of the beach. The air smelled of salt and wild lavender. Behind you, the sounds of a peaceful settlement drifted on the breeze—the rhythmic thud of a carpenter's hammer, the lowing of cattle, and the laughter of children who didn't know the terror of a civil war.
Ubbe walked up the steps, his shield slung over his back, his face sun-browned and lined with a deep, earned contentment. He held a wooden bowl of fresh milk and handed it to you, leaning his hip against the railing.
"The scouts returned from the port," Ubbe said softly, his eyes scanning the horizon. "A merchant ship from Hedeby arrived. They say Ivar has solidified his rule. Kattegat is completely his."
You took a slow sip of the milk, your gaze remaining fixed on the waves. "Good for him."
Ubbe studied your face, looking for the phantom pain that usually accompanied that name, but he found nothing but a serene, unyielding wall. "They say he is unhinged. That he calls himself a god and rules with an iron fist. But they also say... he spends his nights looking out over the western sea."
You finally turned your head, a faint, bittersweet smile touching your lips. You reached down to your wrist, where a new, simple leather band sat where the heavy silver arm ring used to be.
"Ivar was always a genius, Ubbe," you murmured, your voice carrying no malice, only the weight of an absolute truth. "But he never understood that a man cannot rule a kingdom if his own hearth is cold. He wanted the world to fear him because he was too terrified to let anyone see how much he needed to be loved."
"Do you miss it?" Ubbe asked, genuinely curious. "The fire? The fury of him?"
You looked back out at the vast, endless ocean, the deep blue water stretching out until it met the sky. For a split second, you remembered the taste of his mouth, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips, and the absolute, terrifying thrill of being the only person alive who could tame the beast. You remembered the boy who had looked up at you from the mud, promising you the stars.
"No," you said softly, your voice carrying out over the water, swallowed by the western wind. "The fire was beautiful, Ubbe. But it burns everything it touches. I prefer the sun."
Across the sea, a king sat on a throne of bone and silver, weeping over a scrap of parchment. But in the green hills of Wessex, you took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air, turned your back on the ocean, and walked inside.
The Winter of the God
The shadows in the great hall of Kattegat grew longer, darker, and colder as the months bled into a harsh, unyielding winter. Ivar sat upon his high throne, draped in heavy bearskins that failed to warm his bones. The parchment from England had grown soft, its edges frayed and creased from the countless times his rough, calloused fingers had unrolled it in the dead of night. He knew every rune by heart, yet he stared at it as if it were a riddle he could somehow solve.
Freydis had given birth to a boy. She had brought the child to him, her eyes wide with a desperate, frantic plea for him to see his own divinity in the infant's face. But Ivar had looked down at the child’s twisted legs and felt nothing but a profound, sickening sense of irony. The gods were not honoring him; they were mocking him. They had given him the crown he had murdered his brother for, they had given him the worship of fools, and they had left him with an heir that reminded him only of his own vulnerability.
He had turned Freydis away from his bed entirely. The heavy oak doors of his chambers remained barred, a barrier against the world he had conquered but no longer wished to face.
One night, the wind howled so fiercely against the timber walls that it sounded like the dying groans of the Great Heathen Army. Ivar lay on his side in the massive bed of furs, his eyes fixed on the empty space beside him. His mind, always a chaotic storm of strategy and malice, betrayed him, dragging him backward through the years.
He remembered the smell of the damp earth after a rain in their youth. He remembered the feel of your small, warm hand sliding into his when his legs ached so badly he wanted to cry out to Odin to end his life. You had never looked at him with the worshipful, hollow eyes of Freydis, nor the fearful, wide-eyed compliance of the thralls. You had looked at him as a man.
In the dark, Ivar’s hand slid down his own bare stomach, tracing the lines of his muscles, remembering the night after Margrethe. He closed his eyes, and the memory was so sharp it felt like a blade. He could almost feel your soft skin beneath his rough palms, the frantic, delicious friction of your hips grinding against his thigh as you guided him, showing him that he was not broken.
“Look at me, Ivar,” your ghost whispered in the dark room.
A low, guttural groan tore from his throat. He wrapped his powerful fingers around his own length, his upper body tensing as he sought the release that used to come with your name on his lips. He stroked himself with a frantic, punishing speed, his mind conjuring the image of your arched back, the flush of your skin in the firelight, and the sweet, tight heat of your body clenching around his fingers. He imagined your hair tangled in his fists, your lips bruising his as you claimed him as your husband.
When the climax hit him, it wasn't a victory; it was a surrender. He came with a sharp, ragged cry that was swallowed by the howling wind outside, his body shuddering into the empty furs. He pulled his hand away, slick and warm, and for a fleeting, delusional second, he expected to feel your breath on his neck.
There was only the cold northern air. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dark rafters, his chest heaving. He was Ivar the Boneless. He was a king. He was a god. And he was entirely, utterly hollow.
Seeds in the Mud
In Wessex, the winter was kinder. The snow fell in soft, dusting blankets that melted by midday, leaving the rich, dark soil of the valley damp and ready for the spring plow.
You knelt in the small garden plot behind the timber manor, your fingers dug deep into the cool earth. You were turning the soil, preparing to plant the herbs and vegetables that would sustain the household through the coming year. It was hard, honest work that left your muscles aching and your hands stained with dirt, but it was a grounding pain—a pain that built something rather than tearing it down.
A shadow fell over you. You looked up to see Ubbe standing there, a wooden crate of seed potatoes lifted against his broad chest. He smiled down at you, his eyes reflecting the calm, steady nature that made him so different from his volatile brother.
"You have mud on your nose," Ubbe joked, setting the crate down with a heavy thud.
You laughed, wiping your face with the back of a dirt-streaked forearm. "It’s good luck. Or so Floki used to say."
The mention of the old shipbuilder’s name hung in the air for a moment, a gentle reminder of the world you had left behind. Ubbe sat down on a large stump nearby, watching you work.
"A Saxon monk came through the market today," Ubbe said carefully, his tone turning serious. "He had traveled from the northern ports. He said the tension in Kattegat is reaching a breaking point. Björn and Hvitserk are gathering forces in the East. They mean to take the town back from Ivar."
You paused, your hand resting on the wooden trowel. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant cry of gulls over the cliffs. You thought of the golden chariot, the brilliant, dangerous blue of Ivar’s eyes, and the absolute certainty with which he had told you that you belonged to him. You thought of the boy who had broken a toy boat over a bully's face just to prove he wasn't weak.
"Björn will win," you said softly, your voice devoid of malice or triumph. It was simply a fact. "Ivar is a brilliant general when he has an enemy to face. But when he sits on a throne with nothing but his own mind to fight, he destroys himself. He always has."
Ubbe nodded, reaching down to pick up a handful of the rich English soil, letting it crumble through his fingers. "He will never stop looking for you, you know. If Björn doesn't kill him, he will spend the rest of his days looking across the water."
You stood up, dusting the dirt from your linen skirts. You walked over to the edge of the garden, where the cliffside dropped down toward the crashing waves of the channel. The wind caught your hair, pulling it back from your face.
"Let him look," you murmured, looking out over the endless blue. "He wanted a empire of ghosts, Ubbe. He can rule over them. But my feet are planted in the earth."
You turned away from the sea, walking back toward the warmth of the timber hall, leaving the King of Kattegat to his frozen throne and his beautiful, empty crown.
The Broken Mirror
The siege of Kattegat did not come with the grand glory of the sagas; it came with the wet, choking stench of thawing snow, burning pine, and blood running into the fjord. Björn Ironside and Hvitserk had struck from the mountains and the sea simultaneously, a pincer movement born of shared hatred and exhaustion.
Inside the great hall, the chaos of the collapsing defenses echoed like thunder. Ivar did not cower. He sat on his high throne, his armor gleaming in the frantic, dancing firelight, a massive iron broadsword resting across his knees. His men were dying in the streets, betrayed from within by those who could no longer stomach the cruel whims of a man who called himself a god.
The heavy doors groaned, splintering under the weight of an iron-headed ram. Freydis stood near the base of the dais, her pale face streaked with soot, her posture taut with terror. She looked up at him, waiting for the tactical miracle that had always saved him before.
"Ivar!" she shrieked over the roar of the oncoming shield wall. "They are through the inner gates! You must order the retreat to the boats! We can rebuild in the east!"
Ivar didn't look at her. His brilliant blue eyes were fixed on the shattering wood of the entryway. "Retreat?" he murmured, a terrifying, manic smile spreading across his lips. "A god does not retreat from his own footstool, Freydis."
"You are mad!" she screamed, the illusion of her worship finally cracking beneath the cold reality of an incoming axe. "You are nothing but a cripple in a gilded chair! You threw away your true wife for a lie, and now you will die alone in the dirt!"
The words hit him harder than any Saxon arrow. The manic smile vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory stillness. With a fluid, terrifying surge of his massive arms, Ivar swung himself down from the throne, his torso hitting the stone steps with a heavy thud as he dragged his body forward with impossible speed. Before Freydis could scream, his large, scarred hand locked around her throat, slamming her down onto the steps.
"I know what I am," Ivar whispered, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and smelling of sour mead. "I have always known. But they knew too, and they loved me anyway. You... you just wanted a crown."
His fingers tightened, silencing her permanently. He let her body slide down the stone steps, an discarded doll in the path of the conquering heroes.
When Björn and Hvitserk finally kicked the remaining timbers of the door aside, shields raised and axes dripping with the blood of Ivar's personal guard, they found him sitting on the bottom step. He had no chariot, no crutches, no army left to command. He simply sat there, his broadsword resting carelessly across his lap, his hands covered in the blood of the woman who had promised him the world.
Hvitserk raised his axe, his chest heaving, his face a mask of exhausted rage. "It is over, Ivar. Yield the hall."
Ivar looked up at his brothers, his eyes fading from that brilliant, wild electric blue into a dull, weathered slate gray. He laughed, a low, raspy sound that echoed off the empty rafters.
"Take it," Ivar said, flinging the heavy iron broadsword into the dirt at Björn's feet. "Take the wood and the stone. There is nothing left here but ghosts anyway."
The Midsummer Harvest
Three summers passed in Wessex, each one milder and richer than the last. The timber manor by the sea had grown into a prosperous homestead, surrounded by high fences, fat sheep, and fields of golden wheat that rippled like a sea of amber under the southern sun.
It was midsummer, the longest day of the year. The air was thick with the scent of roasted wild boar, sweet clover, and ale. The settlement was celebrating the harvest, a vibrant blend of Saxon neighbors and Norse settlers who had learned to live in the space between their different gods.
You sat on a heavy oak bench outside the longhouse, a linen apron tied over your green kirtle. Your hands, once smooth, were now calloused from the loom and the garden, but they were steady. Beside you sat a wooden cradle, and inside it, a plump, healthy baby girl with wide, curious green eyes stared up at the canopy of leaves above.
Ubbe stepped out of the hall, his braided hair silvering slightly at the temples, but his smile was warm and unburdened. He held a horn of mead, taking a seat beside you and leaning his head back against the warm timber wall.
"She looks like you," Ubbe said softly, nodding toward the cradle. "Thank the gods she didn't inherit the Lothbrok nose."
You laughed, reaching down to let the infant wrap her tiny, strong fingers around your thumb. "She has your eyes, Ubbe. Calm. Like the sea before a fair wind."
Ubbe turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the western sea met the sky in a haze of purple and gold. "A ship arrived from Frankia this morning. Merchants from the old routes." He paused, his tone shifting into that quiet, respectful caution he always used when handling the past. "They say Ivar is alive. He left Kattegat after Björn took it. They say he is wandering the eastern empires, fighting as a mercenary for kings who don't know his name. A shadow with a broken chariot."
You looked down at the tiny hand holding yours, feeling the perfect, fragile warmth of the life you had built here, in the dirt, far away from the blood-soaked altars of the North.
For years, you had wondered if the ghost of Ivar the Boneless would always hang over you—if the memory of his heavy hands, his desperate, bruising mouth, and the intoxicating, dangerous thrill of his love would pull you back into the dark. But looking out at the golden fields, listening to the peaceful laughter of the village, you realized the fire had finally gone out. The ashes had been scattered by the western wind.
"I hope he finds a war that satisfies him, Ubbe," you said softly, your voice completely free of hatred, longing, or regret. "But he belongs to the skalds now. We belong to the earth."
Ubbe smiled, reaching over to press a warm, solid hand against your shoulder. You leaned into his side, watching the sun slowly dip below the edge of the world, casting its light over a kingdom that required no kings, no gods, and no sacrifices—only the quiet promise of tomorrow.
The Last Horizon
The Eastern empires were vast, flat, and choked with a yellow dust that tasted nothing like the salt-crusted air of Kattegat. For Ivar, the world had shrunk to the iron rims of a crude mercenary chariot, pulled by two gaunt horses through lands where his father’s name meant absolutely nothing. To the lords of Kiev and the silk merchants of the south, he was not the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, nor a god walked among men. He was simply the Boneless One—a terrifying, crippled warlord whom they paid in heavy silver to break the shield walls of their enemies.
He had become a ghost before his body could even die.
One evening, after a brutal skirmish along a muddy riverbank that left his arms trembling with exhaustion, Ivar sat by a campfire. He was surrounded by men who spoke a language he barely understood, men who feared his mind but cared nothing for his soul. Slowly, his scarred, trembling fingers reached into the leather pouch at his waist. He pulled out the scrap of parchment—now so worn and tattered that the ink had faded into faint, gray smudges.
He didn't need to read it. The runes were carved into the back of his eyelids.
A manor by the sea. They cultivate the earth. They look at the ocean every sunset.
With a sudden, violent surge of frustration, Ivar threw the parchment into the heart of the campfire. He watched the dry skin curl, the edges blackening and catching fire, turning the last physical tie to his past into a bright, fleeting orange flame.
"Let it burn," he whispered to the empty night, his voice cracking with a decade of unshed tears. "Let them forget me."
He leaned his head back against the iron wheel of his chariot, closing his blue eyes. For the first time in his life, the electric, dangerous fury in his blood didn't ignite. The fire that had sustained him, the rage that had driven him to conquer kingdoms and murder brothers, had finally burned itself down to ash. He was tired. He was so incredibly tired of fighting a war against a ghost he could never defeat.
Across the western sea, the midsummer sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky over Wessex painted in bruises of deep purple and bruised gold.
The feast had quieted down. The children had been carried off to their furs, and the embers of the village bonfire were glowing a soft, comforting red. You stood at the wooden railing of your porch, a heavy woolen shawl wrapped tight around your shoulders against the cooling night air.
From inside the timber hall, the soft, rhythmic sound of Ubbe’s breathing drifted through the open window, alongside the faint, sweet coo of your sleeping daughter.
You looked out over the dark water of the channel. For years, you had half-expected to see the black sails of a longship cutting through the fog, half-expected to hear the terrifying, booming roar of a golden chariot rolling onto the pebbles of the beach. You had carried a quiet defense in your heart, a readiness to fight for the peace you had ripped out of the earth.
But tonight, as the cool western wind brushed across your face, carrying the scent of damp grass and sea salt, the tension completely left your shoulders.
You closed your eyes and took a deep, clear breath. There were no ghosts hiding in the dark. There was no lingering shadow of a boy in the mud, nor the phantom grip of a king who couldn't let go. The sea was just water, the wind was just air, and the past was a story told by dead men around fires you would never sit beside again.
You let your hand drop from the railing, untying the leather band at your wrist and letting it slip into the grass below. You didn't need a token to remind you of who you were anymore.
Turning your back on the endless ocean, you pushed open the heavy timber door, stepped into the warmth of your home, and shut out the northern night forever.
