King Ivar spends much of his time with his infertile first wife: neglecting his second wife, the mother of his children, a Freyjasdottir. Eventually, it catches up to him when a foreign King Sverri invades his lands.
tw: abuse, character death, etc.
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It was typical for a king to go to Uppsala to go to the gods feet and offer their sacrifices. As a young king himself, he learned swiftly to heed to the gods. So he would go to Uppsala across dangerous snow capped mountains and steep cliffs with what was left of his family.
After the ambush– there weren't many close to him but the female and male thralls he learned to call family save his one special little grandmother. He is glad to see the trees kissing the sky and the heavy wooden temple that roars with life from not only his people but those that came with the many other kings.
"Focus, Sverri." The voice of a shuddering older woman shakes him out of his daze. His arm was laced by hers to support her past the entrance to sacred ground. There is a festival occurring with great drink and blots, sacrifices to the gods. It is quite a time to be a King.
"I'm sorry grandmother." Sverri says, tearing his eyes from the thick furs around the necks of beautiful women to his grandmother's hair as thin and white as the strands spun by spiders. His eyes are in a constant state of curiosity taking in the sight of those around him. Sometimes, he swears his eyes have their own sort of mind of their own.
"If you have wandering eyes." Her voice shakes as she speaks. "No woman will want to marry you."
He hangs his head– dark wavy strands shading his view. That was exactly why he came here. He heard of a great beautiful princess that King Faksi had. She was said to be a daughter of the goddess Freyja: a fierce, sexual and powerful goddess who instilled wisdom and fear both in the hearts of men.
If he prayed to the gods about her distant daughter, could he perhaps have her?
He goes inside the temple, sprinkled with blood and spoke to the gods. His fingers slide across the cool expanse of wood, forehead leaning against it when he hears it. The soft whispers of a voice. Your gentle voice reminds him something foreign and in the same breath, familiar. How he wishes he could place it. His still heart picks up in a rough and harsh beat, over and over again. He quickly realizes that it's you– the girl that he heard so much about. He can smell the very rich spices on your skin marking you as a princess.
"Freyja– do you think he will propose to me, mother?"
As he sets his forehead against the wood, he catches you out of the corner of his eye. A less than shy cobalt dress was tightened by a leather cincher around your midsection that matches the ruddy furs around your neck. Your long hair tumbles below her hips, probably farther than that, braided with the buds of beautiful flowers and set with amber clips. And god– his breath was failing him. He was done for. He aches for another word off your lips: to perhaps ask him his name.
"Sverri."
A thwack set Sverri off balance again. He stumbles forward, spinning around to see that his grandmother is there behind him. Sverri swishes to stand up properly, heart aching when you turn with painted lips to frown at him. He wants to explain to you that it wasn't what it looks like. He wasn't being a pervert! It was awe that claimed him. There was no reason to be perverted if there was nothing but blank admiration for you. Fuck!
