Ivar the Boneless/Alex Høgh Andersen

Prinsesse (Viking!Ivar)

"Ivar," your voice held purpose as you approached the annoyed looking man, "there you are."

"What is it you want, now, woman?" He sneered at you, his lips curled and his blue eyes like ice.

"I was told that you were looking for something to ease your pains." You jut your chin out, appearing fiercer than you feel. "If you do not want what I bring, then I shall return to my quarters and you can suffer."

Rolling his head from side to side, Ivar wrinkled his nose and lifted a bronze cup to his lips. A cup that had been pillaged from your late father's castle. Licking his lips, he watches as you stand firm, not even a flinch under his murderous glare.

Ivar likes that about you, among many other things. He'd met you as a young man, when he and his late father; the Great King Ragnar Lothbrok, had arrived on your shores. Your father, the late King Ecbert, had kept the two men from the north for a handful of weeks, causing a discourse among those living in Wessex.

Ordered to care for young Ivar, there was never a cause to fear him, despite his constant threats against the guards and the yelling he would do. Slipping into Ivar's cell one evening, after the rest of the castle had gone to sleep, you sat at a safe distance studying the heathen.

His dark hair looked soft and his eyes were those of a scared boy, even if Ivar didn't want to appear in such a way. You had struck up a conversation with him, the two of you communicating the best you could between your little knowledge of each others languages.

"If you are a King's daughter, then why are you dressed as a slave?" Ivar had asked, upon hearing your true identity. "Should you not be the one giving the orders?"

"It isn't that simple, I am afraid." You replied, breaking off a piece of bread from the loaf you'd taken and adding a chunk of meat to it. Handing the food to Ivar, you smiled when he took it and bit into it, sighing as his hunger became satisfied.

Nothing about your life was ever simple. Being born to a King and a maid had been your biggest curse and your biggest advantage in life. Your mother passed when you were a child and your father had the sense to keep you, under some conditions of course.

During those little visits, Ivar had learned of your gift, one which had helped him greatly as he sat on the cold stone day after day. Only allowed to leave when his father or your nephew, Alfred, wanted to see him.

You'd spent a deal of time studying with the castle medic, helping to blend and maintain salves, powders, and other medicines. When you'd learned of Ivar's pain, there was no doubt in your mind what to do. Claiming that you had heard one of the children in the church complain of a sore arm, you'd convinced the medic to let a few jars of slave go.

"Give it here." Ivar's rough voice roused you back to the present. His hand stretched out as he beckoned you forward.

"Hmm," You hum handing over the slave, "you must be in some terrible pain."

"And what makes you say that?"

"Because you are grouchy, even for you." You tease him. Opening the jar, the pungent smell of the salve wafts to your nose. "Show me where it hurts."

"Going to kiss it better?" He torments.

"Perhaps, but not right now." You smirk watching as he takes his tunic off.

Bending forward in his seat, Ivar displays his bare back, without so much as a word you know the very spot that is troubling him today. Dipping your fingers into the salve, you gently massage it into his skin. Ivar's body is warm, unlike his personality.

Closing his eyes, Ivar inhales as the mixture begins to do its job. He can feel it seeping into his skin, down until it reaches the muscles that have been causing him to flinch every time he moves. He should have known better than to get so caught up in training, yesterday.

But you still had much to learn, who better to teach you how to be Viking than the most feared son of Ragnar?

You'd spent many hours training with Ivar, yesterday, and many days before that. Why he kept pushing you was a slight mystery, after years of being among his people, there wasn't much left for you to learn.

"Skills fade, we must keep them sharp." Ivar would shout at you while throwing a dagger in your direction, or having Hvitserk attack you from behind with his sword drawn.

Your fingers run along the muscles of his back, up his torso and to his shoulders, knowing that they would be just as sore. Rubbing the salve onto his shoulders, you give a gentle squeeze. Leaning over to kiss the warrior's cheek.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"I will be." Ivar growls, a snarl turning into a smug look. "When I have the greatest shield maiden in my army under my covers."

"You wish to have Magnhild Omsdóttir in your bed?" You snort in torment, placing another small amount of salve onto Ivar's shoulders. "Should I be worried, husband?"

You didn't have to see Ivar's face to know he was rolling his eyes, his head lazily rolling from side to side at your comments.

"Do you mock me?"

"No, Ivar, I would never mock you." You continue to tease him. The only person allowed to do so, without the threat of losing your life.

Satisfied that the salve would do the intended job, you stop rubbing his back, wiping your hands and leaning in for another kiss on the cheek. Ivar could grumble all he wanted, but somewhere inside that cold glare of his, you knew that he enjoyed you teasing him.

Your laugh and childish nature was what caused him to fall for you, as he had told you many times over the years. Why else would he have allowed a daughter of a king to follow him home?

Smitten with the heathen, you'd managed to slip away from your life in Wessex, following him to the north. Not only a girl, but the daughter of a king, following him to his homeland had been the craziest, stupidest, yet bravest thing Ivar had ever heard of.

Perhaps you were crazier than him?

Ivar heard the whispers, even now all these years later, he would hear his warriors whisper and speculate that his wife was crazier than he would ever be. Watching you cut down a man twice your size, because he had inappropriately tried to touch you had been the moment Ivar decided to marry you.

You'd never harmed another person before, but there had been something exhilarating and liberating, watching as the man crumpled to the floor while his soul left his body. The wildness in your eyes had been the only indication that Ivar needed, to know that you were sent to him to be more than a kind face in a strange land.

"Then why do you insist on saying such silly things?" Ivar pouted, tugging his tunic back over his head. "I do not want another woman."

"I know that, Ivar." You move to sit beside him, draping your legs across his lap. "I only love to see you pout, is all."

"I do not pout." Ivar continued to do just that. His arms crossing over his chest, he scowled at you.

"It is okay, I find it arousing." You wink, tracing your finger along his jawline. "The more you pout, the better the sex." your voice is but a whisper now.

"Oh woman," Ivar tutted shaking a finger at you. "Is that all I am to you?" A wicked smirk followed his words. "A means to relieve stress, when cutting down enemies has become boring?"

"Sweet husband, you are that and much more." You assure him, patting his cheek. "So much more."