Bridal Price

He's Dead!

Thor thrashes his hammer that evening. The sun was blotted out as if Hati had devoured it when you were inside sewing the embroidery on Earl Lagertha's newest dress. You should have been watching most closely for this– after all, it was your duty to care for the pieces you made. Since running away from Hvitserk, however, things were fuzzy in your mind. It had been two months since you had last seen him and you had no time for games, there were festivals to be had and if you ever were going to meet anyone new it would be then.

"Wait!" Came the quiet prince. Hvitserk, the hungry one, who helped you gather the heavy woolen material back into your woven basket. Your hair strung about your face, whipping around as you gather your clothes back into your basket. With his aid and height, it was easier to gain the pieces higher up on your heavy wooden stand. Sure, you're momentarily thankful... but when you see that jaunty little smile in his eyes, it all comes flooding right back.

"Thank you Prince Hvitserk." You say. "I should go back inside and dry these off now."

He tilts his head harshly, as if shocked, he might have been too. "I am a man, let me help you get it in."

You look up to him, rushing down the muddy streets that have your ankles sinking in soft mud. You shake your head about a million times. "I have it." You respond curtly, sticking to it this time. If you let him talk you back, it would be the same. This time... oh this time would be different in a million and one different ways.

Your words aren't completely stringing together for the hungry prince. "Then tomorrow?" He suggests with a hint of hopefulness tied to his voice. If cuddles after a rainy day didn't sound good, you didn't know what would.

"No." You answer, coming the the doorway of your home. You open the door, shoving the sopping clothes in and nearly following after when Hvitserk grasps your wrist with a bruising grip to his war calloused hands.

His stunned eyes reflect the tightness your hand in his wrist. "Why not?"

You roll your lower lip into your mouth. "Because I do not want to." You respond. "I would like to dry off however."

Hvitserk yanks you back off the steps up to your home, twisting you around to grab your other wrist. "You never say no."

Was he intending to bully you back into his bed? Your teeth clench, resolving yourself with a face of tension to look him into the eye. Beyond his soft, puppy like cheeks with peppered facial hair, his eyes hold an insulted quality. He looks to you shaken as if Ubbe had told him no more bread or something so ridiculous.

"I don't want to sleep with you anymore." You muster the courage to speak the thoughts that had been whirling through your head the last week or more.

"Is there another man?" Hvitserk says so quickly that you snap your hand away from his wrist to smack him across the face. His jaw snaps to the side, water running over the bridge of his nose to dribble onto his full lips.

"No, of course there isn't." Your voice is stern, unrelenting. "I'm only... over the women and the drama. I'm over you."

As if a weight came over his head, he pulls back with a 'huh' bouncing off his lips. It's long enough for you to rush up the stairs and out of his grasp. He realizes as much, moving after you a fraction too late. The heavy door knocks closed in his eyes, causing him to look lower... and lower, over the heavy weight door. He notices something for the very first time. Your name carved over the door. He knows as much– because while the name always escaped him, he could make it out in a set of names. It was a bit too late.

It paid to fuck out his worries on another woman. Revna was his new default... easy, she was easy. A big busted bimbo who couldn't care less if her name was remembered. Then he would come to the Great Hall with his drink, religiously. It felt... dull to him. As if there was no interest in what he were doing anymore without your warm smile on Kattegat's pier when he came home.

"Are you taking Revna dancing?" Ubbe asks, Margrethe was square on his lap. He says nothing, shaking his head lightly.

"She has others lined up." He says.

"(Y/N)?"

His ears burn. He knew you were going to show up, probably with your goading father finally having the last laugh. He intends to take you back. Every instant of his mind filled with thought of it. Others filter into the Great Hall– and his first look at you leaves his heart strumming. Any man knew that a poor man with a good wife was a rich man indeed. You were flawless with your hair twisted, bouncing around your shoulders as you walk in with the finest dress he had seen that night. It should be no surprise given the seamstress you were. Yet it always took his breath away.

He stands up with his cup about his chest, hopping down the stairs and past Ivar who drags himself back up. He finds you beside another man with braided sides to his black hair. A trim black beard and warm, honey brown eyes make up the man's innocent appearance. The two of you laugh and joke, a brightness coming to your cheeks he hadn't seen in months of stalking you. You lean against a heavy table, laughing about something he can't quite here. The sear burning in his heart is enough to cause him to intervene– a prince had nothing to worry of.

"Come here." Hvitserk grasps your wrist brusquely, yanking you apart from your companion. Most men would have let him but this one cuts him off. A brazen man with scars over his cheek and a nose that probably had been broken one too many times.

"Let her go." He demands.

It's an impulsive, split second decision. In a second Hvitserk's fist collides with the man's throat. You stumble back, hitting one of the Great Hall's firm wooden tables as the two roll about on the ground, exchanging punches. Ahead of you, Ubbe places Margrethe on the table, wandering down the stairs with a long, drawn out sigh. He pulls the two men apart long enough for Hvitserk to grasp the grip of his blade and draw it with a long metallic hiss of the blade in its sheath. Ubbe groans, turning around to look at Hvitserk.

"Put that away." He flicks his fingers at his little brother.

"He was taking my woman." Hvitserk says gruffly.

You lean down to help this strange man up, inciting Hvitserk to lurch forward with the blade. Ubbe grabs his brother's shoulder to anchor him in place. Your thumb comes back over the man's bloody nose, gasping incredulously to Hvitserk.

"I am not your woman, Hvitserk." You wipe blood streaming down over the coarse, dark beard of this new man. "This man did nothing to incite that, either. I hope he'll have to account for this at the Thing, Prince Ubbe."

The oldest of the brothers has no choice but to nod as you turn this Earl about, showing him to a bowl of water supplied by a thrall. Hvitserk lurches as if to follow and is quickly shoved in another direction by Ubbe.

"Walk it off Hvitserk." He snears. "There are other women."

He is leaded out with shoves out the door of the Great Hall. Hvitserk finally sheathes his sword and whips about, his hands tight on the splintering wood that kept their animals within a pin.

"Who was that man!?" He sneers.

"An Earl." Ubbe stands with his legs slightly spread, arms tight over his chest. "Who you attacked without just cause."

"I had cause. Whoever he was, he was in my way." He rasps lowly. Hvitserk wipes blood from his cracked lip, spitting out bloody saliva. As far as Hvitserk was concerned, another man couldn't just walk in on his woman! If he made you his... it was for a reason. He had a reason.

"There are more women, Hvitserk." Ubbe reasons with his wayward brother. Hvitserk throws Ubbe a look over his shoulder, a dark one. His eyes spiral with an obscure hate. He turns around, daring to get into his brother's face.

"But that one is MINE!" Hvitserk roars loudly enough that bystanders rush away. Hvitserk, usually so meek when with Ubbe, shoves his brother back. "I'll kill him, brother. He's dead!"

Ubbe leans back on his heels, looking down with parted lips at his brother. If ever he has known his baby brother, it was now. Hvitserk's words aren't warning, but a statement. He doesn't recognize the boy in front of him.