TOSKA | Sihtric Kjartansson

𝐕𝐈.

JELLING, DANMARK  [886]
— now known as Jelling, Denmark

SIXTEEN SHIPS SWAYED IN THE WARM SUMMER BREEZE THAT Njǫrd had sent them for a safe and promising passage over the sea. Zvora had her hands clasped together as she watched the last of Thore's men aboard the ship which would be hosting their jarl; a mighty longship with a frightening beast on it — a dragon carved out of wood and delicately painted. It had long teeth and eyes that could evoke nightmares on their enemies, its mighty head pointing towards the place that was to conquer.

    England. Wessex. Mercia.

    Only chieftains and kings were allowed to place dragons on their ships and Thore had seen himself as such for a long time, hailing from the line of Kings as he proclaimed it he had made himself one too, even if he didn't bore a crown.

    His men bowed nevertheless when their leader passed them, dressed in robust leathers and with his blonde hair cut close to his scalp. The tattoos on his fingers had been re-done, another one now graced his collarbone, he looked every piece a warrior that was ready to lead his men into battle and glory.

    Thore watched them say their farewells to their families who had gathered on the harbour, women that clung to the collars of their husbands, children that kept on repeating blessings of the gods so that they would see their fathers again.

    Tears were shed but not in the house of Thore Ivarsson.

    When he turned around to look at who had come to wish him safe travels he looked into the eyes of a hateful wife that had crossed her arms over her swollen belly.

    "Ylva," he said, striding towards her while he ignored the twist of disdain on her face. The woman endured the kiss he placed on her cheek and the touch of his hand on her belly while he tried to feel one last kick of the child that would come into this world in a few days.

    "Don't you wish me luck on my way, wife?" Thore asked when he straightened his spine again, eyeing the once beautiful woman.

    Hate and disgust had turned her into a sour-faced creature with sharp lips and unforgiving eyes.

    "You don't believe in luck," Ylva answered her husband, her eyes darting to Zvora who stood next to her own son. "I bet your vọlva has cleared the passage for you." She spat the words out as if they poisoned her tongue.

    Thore overheard the tone of his wife, carefully glancing behind her where her brother stood tall and would replace Thore as head of his hall for his time gone.

    Zvora felt how her stomach cramped itself together.

    "Take good care of her, will you," Thore said instead of addressing the topics that burned his wife's mouth while looking at her brother. "I leave my family, my son and my unborn child in your hands."

    Esger nodded out of respect while his jaw tightened.

    "They will be protected, worry not."

    Thore seemed pleased with this answer, but what would Esger say anyways. His sister was about to burst with a child that Thore had put into her while everyone knew that all over Denmark and gods-know-where, blonde children were running around that bore his significant looks.

    Zvora felt how Thorstein wiggled his arms weirdly in front of him when his father turned to him, his dark eyes darting upwards rather unsure as if he wanted to be far away from this scenery.

    "Son." Thore bent down, his beard brushing over his son's forehead when he placed a kiss on his scalp and shook his body when his hands grabbed him.