Her eyes were wide open as she lay motionless in bed, dreading the approaching wedding day. She had no desire to move, to eat, or to do anything but wish for escape. The words of her future mother-in-law echoed in her mind, but that wasn't what troubled her most. For nights on end, she had been plagued by restless sleep. Her dreams were filled with images of gaping holes in the sky and a delicate girl plummeting to the earth. Yvette couldn't decipher what her subconscious was trying to communicate. Perhaps it was a reflection of her own feelings of vulnerability, as if she were that fragile girl falling into a world that felt utterly foreign.
On the eve of her wedding, Yvette did little but sit in contemplation, haunted by the strange dream. She hoped it might offer some insight into her fate, but she couldn't bring herself to believe it. The dream had felt too intense, a powerful force tugging at her heart, hinting that something significant was on the horizon.
The marketplace, once a favorite haunt for Hvitserk, had lost its allure. He used to slip into alleyways for stolen moments with women who pleased him in ways both physical and emotional. But today, as he wandered through the bustling stalls, a frown lingered on his lips. The anticipation of his wedding loomed over him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that everyone around him was more excited than he was. The thought of being bound to another person, to her, was almost unbearable. She was undeniably beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but he couldn't shake the growing resentment he felt toward her. He wanted, more than anything, to at least try to like her, but it felt nearly impossible.
"What troubles you, my prince?" A blonde girl appeared at his side, her eyes as blue as the summer sky.
"I have no troubles now that you're here," Hvitserk said, his voice carrying a hint of weary amusement. Despite the wedding day's solemnity, he knew exactly where this encounter was headed. This was likely his only chance for pleasure before the vows, and he was all too aware of it.
He wasn't a savage; he understood the concept of Christian marriages well enough. They were supposed to be filled with love, a sentiment that seemed foreign in this arrangement. Even though he craved the touch of another's skin, he couldn't bring himself to take her purity without the bond of affection he didn't possess. He wouldn't cross that line, no matter how strong the temptation. How he wished that instead of the blonde he was currently with, it were Yvette who lay beneath him. His desire for her was undeniable; she was a true beauty, and the image of her body had consumed his dreams since she arrived. His thoughts were endlessly preoccupied with the idea of her, making the current moment feel like a mere distraction from his true longing, He felt himself slowly start to picture that it was Yvette he was inside.
The morning of the wedding dawned cold and overcast, mirroring the gloom in Yvette's heart as she prepared for the pagan ritual she had never imagined she'd partake in. Dressed in garments that felt alien to her, she felt each layer as a betrayal to her faith, her god. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and fresh blood, a stark reminder of the rites she was about to undergo.
Hvitserk stood at the other end of the hall, his expression as stormy as the weather outside. He, too, felt the weight of this marriage, not just as a union between two individuals, but as a political alliance forced by circumstances neither truly wanted. His Viking heritage demanded he embrace the old ways, yet marrying Yvette felt like a deviation, an uncomfortable blend of worlds.
The ceremony began with chants that reverberated off the wooden beams, the druids calling upon the Norse gods, invoking Thor for strength, Freyja for love. Yvette's heart raced, her prayers to her God a silent plea for forgiveness. As they approached the altar, a goat was sacrificed, its blood collected in a horned cup, symbolizing the bond they were to forge in blood.
With trembling hands, Yvette received the cup, her eyes meeting Hvitserk's. His gaze was intense, unreadable, filled with a similar turmoil. He dipped his fingers into the blood, drawing the symbol of Thor's hammer on his forehead, a mark of protection and power.
"May Thor's strength be my strength," he murmured, his voice steady but not without a hint of hesitation.
Yvette, her hand shaking, did the same, drawing the symbol on her forehead. The blood felt hot against her skin, like a brand. "Forgive me," she whispered, her voice so low only she could hear, a prayer for understanding from her God.
The crowd cheered, the drums pounded, and the tension reached its peak as the officiant declared, "With this blood, you are bound. With this kiss, you are one."
Hvitserk stepped closer, the world narrowing to just the two of them. His hand found hers, squeezing gently, an unexpected gesture of reassurance. Their lips met, not in the fervor of passion, but in a solemn, shared acknowledgment of their fate. It was their first kiss, a seal not just of marriage, but of an alliance fraught with unspoken emotions.
As their lips parted, Yvette felt the sting of tears but blinked them away. She had crossed a boundary, stepped into a world she hadn't chosen, her faith challenged by the very act of this union. Hvitserk, too, felt the weight of tradition heavy upon him, the kiss a testament to a future both feared and, in some uncharted corner of their hearts, hoped for.
The ceremony continued around them, but they stood still, each lost in their internal battles. For Yvette, it was a moment of profound betrayal, yet also one of connection—she was tied now to Hvitserk, not just by blood and pagan rites, but by the shared experience of being forced into roles they never chose. For Hvitserk, it was the beginning of a journey with a woman who was both an enemy and now, inexplicably, his wife.
Their kiss, in the eyes of the gods and their people, was a union. But in their hearts, it was the start of a complex, entwined path they would navigate together, each step a negotiation between duty, faith, and the unexpected stirrings of something neither could articulate—a mutual respect, perhaps, or the seeds of something deeper, yet to be understood.
The two now newly married stepped inside their shared cabin. Yvette held herself tightly, clinging to her dress. She prayed and prayed that he wouldn't touch her. Prayed to her god that he wouldn't be a savage.
"Hviserk" she whispered. The prince turns to her from the fireplace he was attending. His eyes watch how at every move he makes she flinches away.
"I won't touch you."
YOU ARE READING
Selcouth
Fanfiction"I hope you know how hard I am trying to love you." ~•~ "Maybe I deserve someone else but I always loved you, Hvitserk."
