It all started in the Great Hall. There you were listening to a skald reciting the stories of the gods and the heroes that shaped their world. This particular story seemed to have you enraptured with the self deemed wanderer. Wanderer his fucking ass. He was back.
"And so I came upon the feuding of the gods. The firebringer wielding flame in his discourse while the others came upon him, accusing him just the same." The man pulled the jaunty strings of his oud. His large fingers are symmetrical to his hulking body– dark hair pulled back into a bun out of the dark beard that graces his pale skin.
Harbard. The wanderer. The home wrecker. The breeder.
Sigurd swore that he had been the one to snuff his work shut. It had been years since Harbard came to prey upon the women of Kattegat. There he watched as you coo delightfully for this strange man strumming his tune in line with the story he tells. As if Kattegat hadn't known him to tell many stories before.
"Thus I wielded my hammer to the trickster's feisty tune. Three more times, he striked. Three more times I wondered if my hammer would suffice." He booms so richly it fills the room. Even Ivar had dragged his crippled arse over there, leaning his head against your lap. Your hand lays upon Ivar's head– heightening Sigurd's hateful discomfort across the room. Everyone adored this strange wanderer and no one
"Then what did he do?" A slave with hair cropped short dared to ask. Even she was enthralled in the heat of the moment. No others reprimand her. Harbard's lips curl in delight for her speaking up in particular.
"He left." Harbard puffs, sitting up proudly. "He snuffed out his fire there too, with the claim that Ragnarok would light it anew. Who was I?"
You delight in a laugh, clapping in such eagerness that he questions just... why were you really sitting there? Listening to this? You have heard this very myth a million times! He would surely later go on about Ragnarok.
"Mighty Thor!" You shout.
Harbard's eyes gleam mischievously, centering on you. "Yes, Thor, was I. Now I'll play a song for you. Do you think you can dance along?"
"I think so!" You whisper, bending down to affectionately urge Ivar up Harbard reaches out his hand to you as if to help you out of your chair, the other hand tight on his oud. Sigurd abandons his cup that very second.
Oh hel no.
Listening to a story was one thing. Dancing and mead would lead to dancing and a random bed. He had seen this before with his father and the utter desecration of his father and mother's already troubled marriage. It was not going to happen to him.
"That is my wife." He throws himself forward, his braids slapping his chest in the abrupt motion he stood up from his chair. You pause, your hand in the great one belonging to Harbard the Wanderer. Whoever he was– god or wanderer, he could not take his wife like all the other women in Kattegat. It would not happen.
"She is just dancing, Sigurd." Ivar pulls himself onto the chair you once occupied, pulling his legs around by the leather ties on his boots. "What harm is there in dancing hm? Does she not dance with you?"
Sigurd pushes his way through to you, offering out his hand in blatant expectation that you would take it. You always took it. Instead of immediately taking it, you clearly hesitate in giving your hand to him.
"You say that when there are wolves coming to take your wife, brother. She only dances in that sacred state for my oud." He snarls. "(Y/N)."
"Are you sure you aren't overreacting?" You ask Sigurd, looking to the hand that was still taken by this skald. He would bring nothing but misfortune and chaos, clearly! Sigurd curls his hand in, shuffling around to pull your hand from Harbard's grip. The wanderer lets go willingly and Sigurd brings that very same hand to his lips for a soft kiss.
"He'll take you. I'm sure of it." Momentarily, your certainty in seeking out this strange new man drops. After all, he was a wanderer... right? He can see the very thought floating about your head. The one that Harbard puffed up with songs of the gods.
"That is not true, young Sigurd. I've only come to help. Like I always do." Harbard sets aside his oud, raising to a hulking tall height in front of Sigurd Snake in the Eye Ragnarsson. In many cases, Sigurd was a quiet man. When Lagertha and his brothers fell into discord... he was quiet. But when his wife was to be threatened– oh no.
"Whether you are man or god is irrelevant" Sigurd stands upright, pushing you behind him. "You may have snuck around like a dog after the last bits of a meal because my father was not here. But this is my wife. I am not going to wait in my chair while you seed her."
"Very well. I have a woman to see about her womb. You would understand, wouldn't you?" Harbard stares for a brief few seconds before his smile cracks. He takes his oud, excusing himself around Sigurd. With the remnants of the moment, your hand is at your chest. You look to Sigurd meekly as he loosens his cloak and drapes it over your shoulders. He sees you out of the Great Hall and towards the cabin you call home.
"Sigurd... what if he could have helped?" You say, raising your hand to your barren stomach. Sigurd keeps up with you, rising his hand over your yours upon your stomach.
"There is nothing we need from him. Nothing." Sigurd disagrees.
"Are you sure?"
"I've never been clearer."
