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He was king. As far as he was concerned, he was god too. He stood on top of the leveled off area of his throne, crutch in thick furs with his chalice in a gloved hand. His many earls cluster about– offering coin and gift to their king. He had received several swords, fine and beautiful thralls and expensive cloth sewn by careful hands. Everything was going fantastic until he noticed someone was missing as he commenced his toast.
The earl by the name of Njáll was missing. He owned a rather pressing piece of land. A healthy, beautiful town that overlooked the a cliff with rolling waters. Seemingly incapable of being defeated, Njáll had begun to turn grey. Ivar considered what Earl might come after him.
The rich clang of chalice and horn signals the end of his toast. In place of relaxing, Ivar took down the stairs in search of the old man with long blond hair beginning to lighten. When he finally found the man, it's nothing short of a interrogation.
"Where did you go during the toast?" He asks.
Njáll turns– the thick wall of his muscle seeming to block him as he stands awkwardly. It hasn't gone unnoticed by Ivar. He turns his head as if to peer over him when Njáll clears his throat.
"I was..." He begins seeking an excuse, flopping like a fish without water. His eyes are wide, showing his large brown eyes had white all around his eye. He's searrching for an excuse. For something. Ivar moves against him, teeth knit.
"Where were you?" He says again.
"Please don't be angry with him."
The voice seems to be without owner. He looks from one shoulder to the other, inevitably finding no one around. Then suddenly, Ivar feels a bit of pressure on his lower limb. His head turns to find a girl by his foot. Her hair is down, twisting braids like a crown pin the sides of her hair back. At first, he isn't sure what to think. He simply looks to the Earl, what little eyebrows he had furrowed up like they had knots.
"What...?" Ivar draws back his crutch, leaning as she pushes herself up onto one of her lovely hips. The abruptness of her shifting means that her long skirt has shifted up over her long legs, covered by stockings– but notched. He knows exactly why.
"He came to get me. Njáll is my father. I... I make more trouble than I'm worth, I'm sorry." She says, hiding deformed feet under her skirt. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
She's just like him. Ivar's mandible depresses, eyes softening in what she deems is pity. Then he looks to her father. A little haphazardly he speaks patently:
"She's a cripple?" He says.
Instantly she's on her forearms, dragging herself away from those gathered. His blatant words have obviously not gone over well. Njáll follows her swaying body with his eyes. She disappears into the crowd of men and women as quickly as she appeared.
"Now you see why I have to watch her for injury or those who would want to injure her." Njáll explains himself. "I meant no disrespect, King Ivar."
Ivar falls without words for the Earl. Instead he limps in the direction he saw her disappear in. It should not be hard to find a woman crawling on the ground like he once did more often. Most people made a clearing for people like him to slip by. When he finds her, she is sitting with a cup of ale warming within her hands. She glances up to catch his curious blue eyes.
"I didn't mean to ruin your evening, King Ivar." She clears her throat adorably, setting down her ale and twiddling the frayed edges of her long hair pooling at her hips. "I make a mess wherever I go."
Ivar drops his crutch, using the chair beside him to maneuver down onto the ground beside her. This height is familiar to him; long, long ago. Back when mother was still babying him. When she was alive.
"I once knew the feeling." Ivar says, folding his arms one over another. "But you are a pretty girl, what would you know of making messes?"
It's almost a tease. Ivar feels wary to this strange feeling. After Freydis left him for another man– he never dared pick another woman. It had been a long time. The girl laughs, tucking her hair behind the shell of her ear to expose airy earrings and a delicate neckline. She's clearly embarrassed. Maybe she even likes his words from the way she fiddles with her hair, almost flirtatiously so.
"Pretty girls can make messes as well, my king." She annunciates his title as she looks to him.
"Ivar. It is just Ivar." He corrects. For some reason– his title sounds annoying off of her lips. Ivar... Ivar could be better.
"I feel as if that's too informal for the heir of Ragnar and scourge of Midgard." She teases, running her hands down her creamy skirts. "So King Ivar it is."
He wouldn't win this one. He had to take a loss. For now.
Ivar leans into her ear, glancing to the others around. He's teasingly close. The Earl could likely tell he was interested. "So... pretty girl, what do you know of being messy?"
"Have you ever been a woman?"
Now that didn't make sense to him.Women were treasures. They were all vied for. The number of women after Kattegat's great plague was pathetic. Of course, they still did the work women were meant to do... but they were endlessly more special than men. Unless she meant...
"No."
"Um, what I mean is." She says. "They like to pick on me."
Then as she excuses herself, somehow, he still isn't really sure what she means. He learns some days later.
