she who brings sorrow

Of course, my dearest”, she replies, turning her attention towards Hel and away from the maps before her on the table. The Chieftain watches her beloved daughter with intent. Angrboda knows that her youngest is her consort’s child as well: deeply intelligent and wilful.

There is much she wishes to say at first. The display of her growing power is fantastic and there is a profound sense of pride within the Chieftain. A more critical side of her wishes to know why she would be so self-conscious. Angrboda has always seen her daughter’s figure as how she sees herself: frightening. Menacing. Worthy of respect. But she also wants her daughter to not doubt herself, for she is worthy of awe.

My beautiful daughter is beautiful and I will defend her and Ironwood til the end of times.

He loves the chieftain’s scars as he loves her eyes, as he loves her lips. They tell the story of her just as eloquently, if by a different medium. Her eyes tell him what is in her heart, her lips tell him what is in her mind, and on the parchment of her body is written the story of her life. With a little help from her lips he can read the tale of her childhood, of her rise to power, of her success in keeping contenders and usurpers at bay.

A tale that is not yet ended, the reminder of which fact is written in bold crimson, impossible to ignore – especially since he is the one stitching up this page. Only to make room for the next, he knows, and he is not sure whether or not he likes the thought.

When she draws her hair away from her back (with a little help from his own deft fingers, to add a few stray strands to the collection in her hand), he leans forward and presses a long, warm kiss to the crook of her bare neck. The cloth in his hand is hot, and he takes exceptional care as he dabs at the sutured gash not to tear the stitches or press hard enough to hurt.

“Mm, difficult to say,” he murmurs, voice bright with humour to match hers. “As your medic, I am inclined to order a few days of bed rest in the company of your dear consort, so that he might monitor your condition and ensure you don’t… er… contract an infection? Hm, yes, that’s right. So that he can clean your wound regularly and stave off infection.”

Angrboda closes her eyes upon feeling the warmth of his lips on her skin and her breath is completely stuck in her throat as if she forgets it for a moment. Although the Chieftain is in discomfort, the nearness of her most beloved consort is a balm more so than any medicine, any concoction of herbs a healer might have created.

She sighs contently and fidgets with the tips of her hair, slightly coated with dirt from the battleground mixed with blood -- some of her own, some of her opponent --, but she cares little for it. If her ‘medic’ is to be both trusted and listened to, she will have more than enough time to deal with any grime.

Angrboda laughs and nods. “I shall follow your orders, medic. It would be unwise to not do so, after all, and I do not wish to vex you”. The agreement is easily attained. She wishes to give in to his ‘demands’. “I am sure my consort will do so gladly. Or so I hope, given our relationship. I shall ask him”.

He grins at the normally stoic chieftain’s admission, beaming beautifully. It is an interesting sensation, he thinks, to feel so drawn to someone that he wishes he had more hands to touch her; he wants them at her hips to anchor her body to his, and he wants them against the strong curve of her jaw, and he wants them tangled in her hair. (He wants them elsewhere too, but this is not the time or place for that).

So he winds one arm around her waist to hold her near, and caresses her cheek. And as she kisses him he draws his fingers down along her jaw until he is holding her chin in his thumb and forefinger. “I missed you too,” he whispers as she pulls away from the kiss, and he licks his lips, wishing it had been longer.

It doesn’t take much prompting to get him to follow her; a private person himself, he would much rather have their reunion away from prying eyes. But he doesn’t let go of her hand as she guides him, for it has been too long, and now that they are together he would not be parted from her for even a moment.

His touch sends shivers down her spine, they always do. How far they have come from their first encounter. Often she thinks back at it. On how close she was to having his head on a spike at the edges of Ironwood, a reminder to all Asgardians that her woods are to be respected. The Chieftain is glad that the Nornir did not plan for the embassador to die then and there. She is thankful, for he has brought her an array of feelings that she is sure would have been kept dormant if not for him.

She guides him through torch-lit halls toward her personal living quarters. Her duty is never set aside, but nonetheless, she appreciates having rooms to call her own, in which she deals with matters that are also her own: Angrboda’s, not ‘the Chieftain’s’.

There, she lets go of Loki’s hand -- a punishment in itself -- to let go of the cloak of her obligations, figuratively and literally, as she takes off the pelt around her shoulders to reveal the garments underneath. They are simple, a belted dress adorned with silver jewelry, which matches the rings and earrings and hair beads she possesses.

Angrboda&Sigyn 2k19

❝ Perhaps, ❞ she all but hums; those somewhat hazy eyes still watching the giantess. Or perhaps we simply share a similar taste. Or, it’s the blood loss making her loopy. Regardless, she finds herself staring at Angrboða’s slight smile for a moment longer than she should. She is never usually so close to the giantess. There had been a few quick embraces ( mostly due to Sigyn’s need for them ), but it seems that Angrboða keeps a certain distance from her. Perhaps from everyone.

The forests of Jötunheim are foreign to her, as is almost everything about Angrboða and her people. But Sigyn wants to learn, more than anything, she wants to learn about Loki’s home and his people. Though clearly, she may require more aide than previously thought.

❝ Oh, that is alright. ❞ Sitting up, her legs moves a little and the pain still lingers. Though it is much less than before. Her wound now stitched, no longer bleeding. She looks at it, brows furrowing slightly. ❝ A scar will only make me more interesting. ❞ Her eyes lift to the Chieftain once again as a giggle falls from smiling lips. ❝ Though I will have to tell a more exciting tale than tripping on a large root. ❞

Angrboda is well aware of Sigyn’s continuous stare at her. The warrior, the hunter inside of her has to sense those sort of looks if she is to stay alive, even when such attention is not a dangerous one. Perhaps before the asynja’s scrutiny would have angered her -- she desires no attention from anyone related to Asgard -- yet she has grown accustomed to her presence. One might even call it ‘fondness’, but such words are not usual to the hag of Ironwood.

“Do not allow him to coerce you into recklessness”, Angrboda advises as she turns to fetch some clean cloth from a small pouch around her waist. “It has done him no good”. An understatement. For all of his wits, the trickster is incapable of thinking about the bigger picture. While he may be two, three steps ahead of everyone else, Angrboda is not quite sure Loki knows truly what game he is playing.

A minute chuckle leaves the Chieftain’s throat. She finds Sigyn interesting for all that she is and that herself is not. Because of her life and duty, Angrboda cannot imagine how it is like to be delicate. Indeed a scar would make Sigyn more ‘interesting’, considering she comes from a place of pristine, leveled floors, and not thorn bushes and wolves. Although she might not admit it, there is a part of Angrboda who wonders what would it be like to be less worried, to be lighter. She only knows blood, battle, and weapons. All gentleness left when her children were taken. She is simply rage underneath a veil of calm.

Hróðvitnir was never meant for this fate —- he was never meant to see the forests of Járnviðr again, in the flesh. Never meant to be anything more than the bane of a tyrant. A title he had learned to hold tightly, and proudly. Yet now? Now the Norns had graced them all with peace, a foreign concept to one told he was bent upon nothing but. It was finally a time to unclench his fists, bask in the company of his people, and follow the new wyrd that had been so graciously laid before him. Yet it’s a thing easier said than done. For how does one who so long yearned for death, learn to embrace life? He is nothing short of elated to be here, to take up the rightful place that was forbidden to him not long ago. It all seemed a dream, that he didn’t dare wake from. Though he feared that if he stirred, if he truly relaxed and allowed freedom to truly sink it – it would be snatched away again. And his eyes would be flooded with the familiar sight of Ván, left wallowing again in his solitary. 

Her voice becomes the anchor to still him in reality, and he’s grateful for it. He even allows a haughty smirk to tug at a single corner of his lips, ❝ perhaps if chains still dulled my strength, I would be an easy target. But none would dare now, when only scars remain. ❞ For too long, he’d been just that. But he knew there were none in this realm ( as of yet ) who would be foolish enough to pose a challenge to the fame wolf. Onyx hues linger upon the throne in question, claws dragging along the armrest as the weight of such responsibility lingers in the air around him, threatening to collapse upon him. He was never meant for this fate. But Norns – how he had wanted it! Dreamt of it, yearned for it. The mantle he would never acquire. The title he would never earn. The throne he would never ascend to. 

But now it was his. Everything he had always wanted, dangling at his fingertips. ❝ — I don’t know if I can do it, ❞ he mumbles, brow furrowed and features stern set, ❝ I have longed for nothing more than to take the life of those who have wronged us, I have been so willing to to die for such a cause and the justice our people deserve. How can a martyr make a good leader? ❞

The former Chieftain looks at her firstborn with keen eyes, trying to understand what goes through his mind, what he is thinking. She knows that he is not the same wolf that once was, a free being, her son who roamed the forest that is her domain with little worry. There is no part of Angrboda that is not aware her children changed in their individual prisons, each suffering greatly in unique ways. And she knows how she is to blame still for that: her failures as a mother are nothing new to her burdened mind. She suffered threefold, having lost her own flesh and blood.

Blood red strands of hair move as the warrior-woman shakes such thoughts away to allow herself to enjoy the fact that she is truly before her son, and a content smile once more graces her lips -- a rare vision to all but her family. “No chains hold you now”, she says, as if to remind herself of such fact. “No chains will ever again”. The second statement is also a promise -- to herself, to him, to their family -- which the former Chieftain would keep to her dying breath if need be. No chains would ever touch Fenrisulfr’s skin ever again and Angrboda is ready to die to ensure it. “Still, it would be quite the sight to see someone challenge you”, Angrboda adds playfully.

@ircnwccd

Absently, fingers ghost upon the raised flesh of his wrists, onyx hues wandering toward the clutch of jotnar within his immediate vicinity. There was no resistance there, no harshness to jut into his flesh the move he moved ( he had become so accustomed to the scent of his own blood, and pain so relative – he didn’t even now when he was wounded ). Such days were passed, ancient fury and desire for vengeance still swelled beneath his breast. Yet it was overpowered by something greater – gratitude, excitement. He hadn’t seen Jötunheimr, truly seen it and been physically present since his youth, before gleipnir. It was as if he was seeing it for the first time again, no matter how long he had already been here since a treaty had been signed, a truce decided. 

For the first time in millennia, Fenrir has hope for a brighter future – a desire to live. His pups are never far from his side, ever waiting and eager for the attack should anyone wish harm upon their father again. Though they need not worry here, especially in the presence of the one who approaches. The Famed wolf is bristling with pride to see Angrboda drawing near, in his smile, a twinge of boyishness. 

❝ Móðr — forgive me, I don’t think I can sit upon it. Not yet, ❞ the throne, that is – where he should be, presently. Something he still deems as hers, something he still deems himself unworthy of.

Still, she commands a room, dark red hair no longer in countless braids, war ready. There she is, still alive. To none she would admit such a fact to be surprising. Angrboda was born and forged a warrior, she killed her way to the chieftaincy of the Jarnvidr, and ever since then, she expected to never let go of her duty until her dying breath, until she returned to dust, nourishing the earth of Ironwood, her blood nurturing the soil with the very essence of what she once was.

She approaches her firstborn with steady steps and stops beside him, locks of hair falling over her shoulders. Her demeanor -- always austere -- is lighter, it cannot not be, given Fenrisulfr’s presence. Her son. Her blood. By her side. Free. Alive. Home.

“You must, sønn, lest someone fights you for it”, she replies, a proud look to her features. She knows not a soul who would dare try his luck.

Green eyes analyze every inch of the throne she used to sit upon, war paint smeared across her face, anger and hatred within her chest. Although it was once underneath her, a mere object, it still weighed heavily upon her shoulders. Countless days were spent there, as the former Chieftain put herself after her wood’s needs. Even as she grieved for her children, she could not do so whilst sitting upon it. She bore three children but was a mother to many more, and she hadn’t lost those then.