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.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The clip of his crutch eventually stills. Around Ivar, two of his other brothers stood. His dark hood is drawn around his head, still smelling of his late wife. He met your eyes with his: an indecipherable amount of shame slips over your irises. How he came to know you were here-- you can only speculate. Ubbe, you think, would have kept it a secret if it meant peace and not fighting. Yet he is still here... somehow, he found out. You cringe to think that your father had been the one to tell him.
Now his eyes glaze over your sexed body, considering you with hateful eyes. Your skin flushed, sweaty and he didn't need to be told to know what you had done. It lasted only a fraction of a second before his jaw depresses. Your eyes flit to the side. A shrill, deep howl from the king makes the others of the Great Heathen Army back up.
Ubbe's hand meets Hvitserk's chest, backing him against the wall with his sword drawn. The bastard King Sverri reaches his hand out to yours in consolation and yet, you turn away. You drop your tousled skirts in exchange for cradling his sons– your sons, the children he wanted more than anything. Ivar's boom of a howl is wordless but anyone understood well.
You betrayed him. The worst of it was; he expected as much.
"He's so cute." You mutter in bed with Ivar. The first pregnancy left a two year old in a bassinet beside a shared bed, the second left your arms full with a newly born boy. Another boy to be proud of; another boy to prove the public wrong. Ivar's arm wrapped around your shoulders before he glanced down to the small babe who fell asleep with his flaky little fingers protecting his face.
"What will you call him?" You asked Ivar. As you nestled into the space between his arms and torso, your smile was permanently fixed on your lips. Your hair was slick with sweat after hours and hours of harsh contractions on the floor, blood between your legs as you rocked your hips in agony. The pain you bared for him: pressing out Veifnr in the twilight hours of morning. Ivar turned his head towards you.
"You name him." Ivar let his other hand tease your strands of hair.
"Really?" You leaned back to look at Ivar.
"You birthed him." He said. As quick as day, you snapped back, Veifnr. Veifnr after Ivar's bloodline. A tease at the dragon Fafnir, whom his grandfather slayed. He accepts as much, eyes lazily sliding closed when he heard it. Those four little words that made his chest clench tight. Breathless, he opened his eyes when you said it again.
"I love you, Ivar." You said. He kicked himself in the ass for shrugging off your words. Ivar's lips wavered a sigh.
"You say that now. Let us see when a good man comes along. I am not a good man."
He was not a good man. He craved power, land and gold. Glory for Odin and children that would walk in the right ancient ways. His voice eventually strings dry, no longer able to howl so much in pain. You flinch back, boys in your arms as Ivar breathes hard in— then exhales hard out.
