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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"The king wants you to see something." The man holding you said in a tongue that is strangely hinted by someone familiar. You knew that dialect– you had been around it for the past fourteen years or so.
"What do you mean?" You ask the man who carries you over his shoulder out of the Great Hall. There is a great clearing in a secluded area where wood has been assembled into a grand funeral pyre. You're familiar with them, the great sight of heavy woods arranged in a tower, tied with heavy ropes.
"We're here to see a sacrifice made just to you, lady princess." The burly man rumbles in words that yes– you've heard before. Everyone in Kattegat called you princess. The only man to call you a lady princess was Sverri. Sverri, the King who stood upon a shaky wooden surface, green eyes popping from a sea of black war paint that streaked down from his eyes to the buds of his new beard.
"A sacrifice of a shieldmaiden to Odin for our victory! Long live the Queen (Y/N)!"
Your eyes are exhausted, puffy and hot when the man set you down, hands on your shoulders as Sverri strode down in nothing but his darkest trousers and leather boots. Upon the great pyre of dark wood you realized that no– it wasn't just flames with cattle or other animals.
But upon that pyre are the dark, hooded green eyes that were set in a foxish face. Her jaw was knit tight, arms bound to her sides in a scant nightdress. But like usual, her head is held high. Almost prideful. The words on your lips fail.
"You'll have to tell me how it is to burn, Kitta!" You hear of the King when Sverri shifts the torch of a hot red flame closer to her night dress– inch by inch. Her eyes follow him, chest swelling in one hard raise as if she holds in her breath.
"Kitta!" You lurch forward, but no, the man behind you holds you in place. You had lied to her– you told her it would be fine! Who could overcome Kattegat, you thought! The hot flame flickers at first against her dress before it lights entirely, spiraling up the thin dress. You hear nothing of her– initially that is. When she finally lets out her first howling scream, mind racing a thousand screams for her king, Sverri is pleased. He trails around the pyre to light subsequent areas, braids bobbing against his pale back until he's forced to stand back. The heat radiates, thrusting embers to kiss the ivory full moon above.
"Odin, Odin, Odin stop this!" You find yourself chanting, hands slapping to your ears unable to bear her screams. You had saved her once from death– only for this to happen again. You thought you were taking care of her and yet, this is all your fault. Your fault, your fault! Sverri is doing this for you. But if he knew you, he would know that death of family was something you never wanted. Not in a thousand years.
It feels as hot as your bread oven, pluming hot even against your skin nipped by the hottest of embers. Your screaming is so shrill, even through the bellowing of the crowd in glee, that Sverri catches sight of your knees hitting the ground.
As he rushes to your side, you are rocking back and forth, back and forth, eyes unseeing the horror stripped across the bubbling char of Kitta's skin. You aren't even sure if she's completely there, bubbling coughs and wheezing that you couldn't make out under the roar of the flames. She isn't screaming for Ivar anymore, in fact her head has dropped against her chest– and that terrifies you. Her reddish tinged blonde hair has fizzled out, skin peeling away in the death of the queen.
"(Y/N)! There is nothing to be afraid of." Sverri swipes up your shoulders in his arms, trying to bring you back up to your feet against his cool bare skin.
"No! No!" You shake against him, unable to look at her body crumbling from its once glorious beauty. Surtr-- you scream. Loki! You curse. Sverri notes the jotunn name of a Jotunn, a fire giant that would kill Freyr in Ragnarok. You must have been terrified if you thought that god was here. All he could do was pet your hair through the shock, your words degenerating into a mere sob of Kitta's name. If there was one thing he had thought you would look forward to– it was no longer being that wretched woman's sister wife. But as you lay there sobbing in his arms, that doesn't seem to be the case. There are no songs on your lips to will away the pain.
"King Ivar, you have visitors."
A few days before they were set to return home, he encounters his first inklings of an issue. His sons bustled through the doorway, coated in mud and nipped by the cold air of their travels. Veifnr was shaking like a leaf. Uxi, his pride, did not shake one bit. They stop in front of their father, eyes glued to the floor with straight postures in their wait to be addressed. Ivar tips over his cup of ale as he stands up abruptly on his crutch. Ivar's face was as still as stone despite the chills telling him something had happened.
"Why are you boys here?" He asks. Undoubtedly, his second wife would be prowling about outside if his boys were here. He wonders why you would send them in without first addressing him yourself. It's unlike you. His head lulls to the side when neither answer, lazily turning his gaze back to his oldest.
"And Kitta?" Ivar limps around the table where he sat. Suddenly the oldest of his boys broke out into an outburst, his voice little more than a shrill stringing out his voice out of Sverri's silvery home, bones of his hunts mounted throughout the room. Strangely, Sverri was not here. A vast portion of his army had been removed.
"She's dead! And mother could be too! But you would rather she be dead anyway seeing how much you hate her!" Uxi's screams spill out of the wooden walls Ragnhild slips in, rocking the small babe in her arms. Ivar rubs the stress from his brow– Kitta. Kitta was dead?
"Uxi." She sets a consoling hand to his shoulder. He rolls his shoulder in response to get her off of him, shoving forward into his father's face. Ivar holds the stress together between the thumb and middle finger, avoiding the sight of weakness in front of his boys. He finally removes his hand from his face.
"No! Everyone protects poor Ivar the Boneless but no one protects my mother!"
The boys flinch when Ivar's fist pounds on the oaken table. With a stern voice, Ivar looks to his younger son. The one that rarely speaks and for years that he thought simply couldn't speak. He is stupidly honest.
"Veifnr." Ivar says. The little boy runs rigid, looking up to Ivar.
"Yes father?" He bows his head. Of the two sons, he was the more respectful to anyone that spoke with him. Almost gentle to Ivar's displeasure. A wily child was better than a blindly obedient boy.
"Is it true?"
He nips his lower lip and nods, ropes of his braids bobbing on his head. The two watch as their father loses all colour in his features, reminded of his first wife's claim that she would soon go with the gods before he left to conquer his rival's lands. Who knew if he would see her again– if he went to Valhalla, he never would. Veifner expands on his statement, meekly taking a step forward.
"Mother said you would not come for her and sent us with Ragnhild to buy time."
Ivar's eyes avert to a burning candle, running his finger over the waxen ridge. It was no mystery to him now where Sverri had gone. Not to raid someone else's land, but to take his. The only question left for him was... did Sverri kill Kitta? His mind races to that awful night years ago-- how hatefully Sverri claimed he would not sleep with his beautiful, blonde bitch of a wife. It had to be him. He would have to reclaim everything. His lands and his remaining wife whom apparently doubted his abilities as a man.
After more than twelve years of being together, he thought you would know better than to doubt him. Did he not say he would take care of you? He had promised to keep you safe by taking you as his wife? When he had wives– he loved them. You were the last wife he promised Kitta he would take and now, he wasn't about to throw you away. Not after all he had been through with you. You were still his, no matter what you thought. As a man, he had an obligation to take care of what was his. The king turns to his sons, pushing forward a plate of scarce meat.
