#((ivar))

The mud of Kattegat was always cold, a thick, gray sludge that clung to the skin like a curse, but to a boy who could only drag himself through it, it was a personal malice. The fjord winds howled through the timber alleys of the settlement, carrying the scent of drying fish, woodsmoke, and the damp rot of the shoreline. For young Ivar, the world was viewed from the earth up, a perspective that bred a bitter, defensive venom in his small chest.

When you were children, Ivar was already a storm brewing in a fragile, broken frame. The other children ran from his sharp, bared teeth and the heavy stones he kept stuffed in his linen tunic to hurl at anyone who stared too long at his twisted legs. Even his own brothers looked at him with a mix of exhausting caution and a soft pity that made his blood boil. Only Floki laughed with him, teaching him the chaotic songs of the trickster gods, and only you sat in the frozen dirt beside him without waiting for him to strike or yell.

You distinctly remember the day the fragile peace cracked entirely. A butcher’s son, older, thicker, and arrogant with his growth, had stood over Ivar near the animal pens. He had openly mocked the way Ivar’s legs twisted uselessly beneath him, spitting into the dirt and calling him a useless cripple who would never see the smoke of Valhalla’s fires.

"You'll just crawl under the tables while real men feast," the boy sneered, kicking a clump of mud at Ivar’s chest.

Before anyone could blink, Ivar’s face contorted with a demonic, blinding rage. He didn't cry; he growled, a raw, animalistic sound. Grabbing a heavy wooden toy boat—carved by Floki with a sharp, heavy, solid oak prow—he swung his torso forward, utilizing all the desperate strength of his upper body. The wood shattered against the older boy’s mouth with a sickening crack, splitting his lip to the bone and spraying crimson blood across the packed dirt.

The other children shrieked in horror and fled, their boots pounding away as they shouted that Ivar was a monster, a demon born to curse the line of Ragnar. Ivar lay there in the mud, panting, his knuckles white around the broken toy, his chest heaving as he prepared for the inevitable blows or the disgusted, fearful looks that usually followed his outbursts. He glared at the ground, waiting for you to run too.

You did not run. You simply walked over, your small leather boots squelching in the mire, and picked up the broken piece of wood that had flown near your feet. You knelt directly in his line of sight, taking your sleeve to wipe a stray streak of northern mud and someone else's blood from your own cheek.

"Your aim is getting better," you said softly, handing him the broken prow. "But you need to lean into the swing more if you want to break the jaw next time. You wasted too much force on the lip."

Ivar snapped his head up, his eyes a terrifying, vivid, luminous blue—the deep, electric shade that warned of his immense physical pain and volatile temper. "Aren't you going to run?" he snarled, his voice cracking with youth and bitterness, his whole body tense as if waiting for you to strike him. "I am a monster. Didn't you hear them? They all say it. My father thinks it."

"Why would I run?" you asked, shifting to sit cross-legged just out of reach of his sudden swings, but close enough to feel the radiant, furious heat of his body. "You only hit the stupid ones. And besides, who would help you fix your boat if I left? Floki is busy with the longships."

Ivar stared at you, the wildness in his blue eyes freezing into something silent, intense, and deeply rooted. "You aren't afraid of me?" he whispered, his small fingers tightening around the wood you gave him.

"No," you said firmly, looking him dead in the eye. "I'm not."

From that exact moment, you became his anchor in a world that terrified him. As the years bled into one another, his fierce, possessive attachment to you deepened into something heavy, silent, and altogether consuming. He grew into a man with the broad, powerful shoulders of a true Viking warrior and the razor-sharp mind of a master tactician, but whenever his eyes landed on you, the storm in those blue depths always calmed into a deep, dark fire. He loved you with the desperate, territorial intensity of a man who believed he was entitled to absolutely nothing from this world, yet secretly wanted everything it had to offer.

The Unbroken Promise

The night after the humiliating incident with Margrethe, the atmosphere inside Ivar’s private quarters was thick enough to suffocate. The slave girl had failed him—or rather, his own body had failed him in the dark, leaving him drowning in a toxic, suffocating mix of masculine rage, vulnerability, and profound shame. He sat slumped on the edge of his massive bed of furs, his breathing ragged and shallow. The room was in ruins; broken jugs of mead leaked into the floorboards, an upturned pine table lay splintered in the corner, and a heavy iron dagger was gripped so fiercely in Ivar's fist that the blade bit into his own palm, sending a slow trickle of dark blood down his wrist.

You entered without knocking, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind you to lock out the snickering whispers of the camp. You saw the wild, shattered look in his eyes, the sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead.

"Get out," he hissed, his voice a low, animalistic growl that didn't even sound human. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, refusing to look at you. "Get out before I crawl over there and open your throat from ear to ear. I mean it!"

"You won't open my throat, Ivar," you said softly, completely unfazed by the threat you knew was born of agonizing pain. You walked over slowly, deliberately placing yourself in his space, and knelt right between his braced, useless legs. You reached up, your fingers warm, gentle, but entirely unyielding as you pried the iron dagger from his white-knuckled grip, tossing it carelessly onto the wooden floorboards where it clattered away into the shadows. "Look at me."

"I am less than a man," he whispered, a rare, horrific vulnerability cracking through his armored exterior. His blue eyes were almost pitch black in the dying firelight, swimming with unshed tears of pure fury. "She looked at me with pity. She tried to hide it, she tried to act the willing thrall, but I saw it in her eyes. They all do. I cannot give a woman what she needs. I am broken. I am a cripple who cannot even take a woman."

"Margrethe is a frightened slave who knows nothing of a man’s true power," you murmured, leaning in until your breath brushed against his trembling lips, casting a spell of absolute certainty over him. You took his large, calloused hands—hands that could crush an enemy's skull—and pressed them firmly against the bare skin of your waist, slipping them beneath your tunic. "Let me show you what you are, Ivar. Let me show you what you can do."

"No," he panted, his chest heaving, even as his fingers instinctively gripped your hips. "Don't mock me. If you pity me, I will kill you."

"Do I look like I pity you?" you asked fiercely, tilting his chin up. "I want you. I have always wanted you."

You didn't wait for his pride to construct more walls. You leaned up and captured his mouth in a bruising, desperate, deeply passionate kiss that tasted of iron, salt, and years of unspoken desire. Ivar gasped into your mouth, a shudder running through his massive frame, and his hands instantly locked onto your hips with a bruising, desperate force, pulling you flush against his solid chest. He couldn't use his legs, but his upper body possessed the terrifying, magnificent strength of a warrior who rowed longships and dragged his own weight through the dirt every single day.

Proving the God

The heat between you flared into an absolute inferno. You shifted, sliding up onto the thick, heavy furs of the bed, straddling his lap completely, guiding his rough hands beneath the hem of your tunic. His fingers were coarse, tracing the curve of your ribs, leaving trails of electric fire that made your stomach clench. When you pulled your tunic over your head and tossed it aside into the dark, his breath caught, his eyes flaring with a dark, deeply predatory hunger as he stared at your bared breasts in the flickering firelight.

"You are beautiful," he growled, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly purring sound as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping hungrily at your pulsing vein, making you gasp out loud.

You reached down, your fingers steady as you unlaced his heavy trousers, sliding your hand down into the radiating heat between his thighs. He stiffened instantly, a low, guttural groan escaping his throat as your warm, slick fingers wrapped around his length. He was soft, hesitant, his mind still fighting the ghosts of his failure with Margrethe, but you did not hesitate for a second. You dipped your head, your tongue tracing the harsh line of his jaw down to his collarbone, while your hand began a slow, deliberate, agonizingly teasing rhythm.

"Look at me, Ivar," you whispered against his skin, demanding his presence. "Look at what you do to me."

He forced his heavy eyelids open, panting, his chest heaving like a beast in a cage. You shifted your hips, pressing your bare, aching center directly against his thick, muscular thigh, grinding down slowly in a rhythm that made his eyes widen. The friction was agonizingly sweet, coating his skin with your warmth. You took his mouth again, deeper this time, your tongue tangling masterfully with his as you picked up the pace of your hand, sliding the slick, honeyed heat of your own arousal between you.

Ivar’s breath completely caught. He was a tactician; he caught on instantly to how this battle could be won without his legs. His powerful arms suddenly pinned you down into the furs, his immense upper-body weight pressing down into you, dominating the space. He used his thick, strong fingers to explore the wet warmth of your cleft, finding the sensitive, swollen bud of your flesh and swirling against it with a torturous, rhythmic, heavy pressure that made your back arch completely off the bed.

"Ah... god, Ivar," you gasped out, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark, braided hair as he drove you closer to the edge.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice thick with lust, arrogance, and a newfound, intoxicating sense of masculine power. He pressed his thumb hard against your sweet spot, while his other hand kept your wrists pinned firmly above your head, mastering you entirely. "Tell me what I do to you. Tell me if the cripple can make you scream."

"You tear me apart," you sobbed out, unable to hold back as a massive wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashed over your body, your internal muscles clenching violently around his slick fingers as you came, crying his name into the rafters.

Watching your climax, feeling your body shake, shudder, and weep beneath his hand, something fundamental shifted inside Ivar. A dark, triumphant satisfaction bloomed in his chest, wiping away every ounce of shame Margrethe had inflicted. He slowly pulled his hand away from between your thighs, slick and glistening with your release, and brought his fingers to his mouth, lazily tasting you while his brilliant blue gaze remained locked on your blown-out eyes.

Then, he pulled you down by your hair, his lips scraping aggressively against yours. "We marry," he growled against your mouth, no longer asking, no longer doubting, but declaring a law to the gods themselves. "Before the week ends, the sacrifices will be made, and you will be my wife."

The Fractured Throne

The world shattered into a million bloody pieces when Ragnar Lothbrok died in the snake pit. The Great Heathen Army marched across the sea like a plague of locusts, a tide of blood and vengeance that tore through the Saxon kingdoms. Under the shared, turbulent command of Ivar, Ubbe, and Hvitserk, the Saxons fell like wheat before a scythe. But victory bred toxic ambition, and ambition bred rot within the brotherhood.

After a fierce, echoing argument in the great hall of York—where Ivar had publicly humiliated Ubbe, thrown an axe at his brothers' feet, and declared himself the sole, rightful leader of the great army—the air in the camp was thick with impending civil war.

"You do not speak for our father!" Ubbe had shouted, his face red with fury.

"I speak for his ghost!" Ivar had screamed back, his voice cutting through the hall like a broadsword. "You have the heart of a farmer, Ubbe! Go back to your dirt! I am the leader of this army!"

You had gone searching for him through the dark, muddy corridors of the captured fortress, hoping to cool his volatile temper before he tore his father's legacy apart completely. The heavy stone walls of the Saxon fort held a damp chill, but the rage building in your chest kept you warm.

You found him in the deeply shadowed, private backrooms of the encampment. But he was not alone.

The heavy wooden door was left slightly ajar, a sliver of warm candlelight cutting into the dark hallway. Through the crack, a scene unfolded that turned the blood in your veins to absolute ice. Freydis, the former slave with the treacherous, worshipful eyes, was kneeling in the dirt before Ivar’s makeshift throne. Her hands were slid high up his thighs, and Ivar’s head was thrown back against the carved wood, his eyes closed, a low, guttural, unmistakable groan tearing from his throat.

"You are a god, Ivar," Freydis whispered, her voice a poisonous, sweet honey as she slid her lips up his bare stomach, inflating his monstrous ego with every breath. "The gods speak directly to me. They tell me you will rule the entire world. No mortal woman can understand your greatness."

Ivar’s hands were tangled deep in her long blonde hair, pulling her up onto his lap with a rough familiarity. He didn't see you standing in the shadows as he pushed her heavy linen skirts up, his large fingers slicking her inner thighs, plunging into her with the same frantic, desperate need for validation that you thought you had healed in him. He was losing himself in her worship, letting her hands touch the parts of him he had once sworn belonged only to you.

The breath left your lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp that hit the quiet room like a thunderclap.

Ivar’s head snaps toward the door instantly. His blue eyes widened to the size of saucers, the thick haze of lust instantly shattering into a look of stark, naked panic. "Get out!" he roared at Freydis, his voice echoing off the stone walls as he violently shoved her off his lap, sending her tumbling unceremoniously into the dirt floor. "Out!"

Freydis scrambled to her feet, clutching her skirts, casting a dark, venomous look at you before slipping past into the corridor.

You didn't run away this time. You stood your ground, stepping fully into the room, your face a pale, frozen mask of absolute betrayal. Ivar dragged himself up into his custom chair, pulling his tunic down over his waist, his face rapidly shifting from panic to a defensive, arrogant rage.

"It means nothing!" Ivar shouted, pointing a trembling finger at you, his voice booming. "She is a slave! She means nothing to me! But she sees what I truly am! She speaks for the gods, she tells me my destiny!"

"She speaks to your pride, Ivar," you said, your voice terrifyingly calm, though your heart was breaking into a thousand jagged, bleeding pieces inside your chest. "And you let her into your bed. The bed we swore before the Allfather to share only with each other. You gave her what belonged to me."

Ivar swung himself forward into his chariot frames, pulling his massive upper body up so he could look you dead in the eye, refusing to back down. The vulnerability of the boy in the mud was entirely gone, replaced by the monstrous, blinding ego of a man who believed his own myth. "I am a son of Ragnar! I am destined to be a king of kings! A king can take whatever wives he pleases to secure his legacy! I will make Freydis my wife alongside you. You will accept it because I command it!"

You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the boy you had protected now completely blinded by false praise and treacherous whispers. Slowly, without taking your eyes off his, you reached down to your wrist. You unclasped the heavy, ornate silver arm ring he had given you on your wedding night and let it drop. It hit the stone floor with a dull, final, ringing clang that seemed to echo forever.

"I do not share, Ivar," you whispered, your voice cutting through his anger like a razor. "If you take her, you lose me. And you will never, ever get me back."

"You will stay where I command you to stay!" he roared, his eyes flashing a brilliant, dangerous, wild blue as he smashed his fist against the arm of his chair. "You are my wife! You belong to me!"

"I belonged to the man you used to be," you said softly, turning your back on him. "Not to the monster she is creating."

Within two days, Ivar wed Freydis in a lavish, blood-soaked ceremony before the army. That very same night, under the cover of a torrential downpour, you packed your few belongings, walked down to the dark docks where Ubbe and his loyalists were silently preparing to flee Ivar's tyranny, and stepped onto the longship. Ubbe looked at your hollow eyes, offered you a silent hand of solidarity, and sailed away into the night, leaving Ivar’s fractured kingdom behind.

The Echo in the Hall

Years passed like a bitter, endless winter. The war for the crown of Kattegat was brutal, a horrific meat-grinder of brothers fighting brothers, turning the rivers red with Norse blood. When Ivar finally returned at the head of a massive foreign army to reclaim his birthright, he expected to see Björn, Hvitserk, and Ubbe guarding the wooden walls.

He did not expect to see you.

Standing high on the ramparts of Kattegat, wrapped in a heavy, fur-lined cloak against the biting sea wind, you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Ubbe, a shield in your hand. Your gaze locked onto Ivar’s golden chariot as it rolled to the very front of the invading line. Even from across the battlefield, the sudden sight of you punched the air straight out of his lungs. His heart hammered frantically against his ribs—a furious, agonizing, suffocating mix of desperate, undying love and blinding, possessive betrayal. You had sided with his enemies. You were fighting against him.

The battle that followed was an absolute bloodbath, but Ivar’s terrifying tactical genius ultimately broke the town's defenses. As the great gates of Kattegat were smashed to splinters and his warriors flooded the streets, painting the snow red, Ivar didn't care about the throne. He didn't care about the crown or the cheers of his men.

"Find them!" Ivar screamed at the top of his lungs over the deafening din of clashing steel and screaming men, his voice cracking with a terrifying desperation as he swung himself through the bloody mud of his childhood home. "Search every single house! Every cellar! Every cave! Bring my wife to me unharmed! If a single one of you puts a scratch on them, I will flay you alive and feed your lungs to the ravens!"

His men scoured the settlement for hours, turning over every shield, breaking down every door. The sun began to set over the dark fjord, casting long, bloody, crimson shadows across the high hall of Ragnar.

Hvitserk walked into the great hall, his battle-axe dripping with thick blood, a weary, completely hollow look carved into his face. Ivar was sitting alone on the high throne, his hands trembling violently on his knees, his eyes wild and bloodshot as he stared desperately at the entrance, waiting for you to be dragged in.

"Where are they?" Ivar demanded, leaning so far forward he nearly fell from the seat. "Where is my wife, Hvitserk? Tell me you found them!"

Hvitserk sighed heavily, wiping a smear of dark blood across his forehead. "They are gone, Ivar. We searched the entire settlement, up to the mountain passes. The small scouting boats at the back docks are missing. Ubbe’s huscarls must have secured a secret retreat for them by sea before our shield wall even collapsed. They slipped away hours ago."

Ivar’s breath completely caught in his throat. He felt a cold, massive, hollow void open up in his chest—a wound far deeper and more agonizing than any sword could ever inflict. He looked down at the empty stone floor at the base of the throne where, years ago, you had dropped your arm ring.

You had kept your promise to him. He had taken Freydis, he had won his crown, and he was completely, utterly alone.

The Western Wind

Months turned into a bitter, lonely rule. Kattegat was his, but the great hall felt like nothing more than a lavish tomb. Freydis’s constant, frantic whispers of his divinity and his godhood sounded entirely hollow now, nothing more than the annoying buzzing of a fly in an empty, silent room. He couldn't stand the sight of her; every time she touched him, he remembered the warm, fierce, authentic weight of your body against his, a contrast that made her feel like a ghost.

One stormy evening, a trusted scout entered the great hall, shaking the rain from his cloak, and knelt before the throne. He held a small, weathered, tightly rolled piece of parchment, recovered from a Christian merchant ship that had just arrived from the western seas.

"What is it?" Ivar snapped, his mood perpetually foul, his eyes staring blankly into the fire. "Speak before I have your tongue."

"News from the west, Lord. From England," the scout said carefully, watching Ivar's volatile expression. "King Alfred of Wessex has granted a treaty. He has given rich lands to Ubbe and the Northmen who followed him. They have built a new settlement." The scout hesitated, swallowing hard. "Our spies in the Saxon courts report that... they are there, Lord. Your wife. They live in a large timber manor overlooking the sea. They do not carry a shield anymore. They cultivate the earth. They look at the ocean every sunset."

Ivar snatched the parchment from the scout's hand with terrifying speed. His eyes scanned the messy, hurried runes written by his informant. Safe. Whole. Living under a foreign, warm sun, completely free of his violence.

"Does she... does she ask of me?" Ivar whispered, his voice suddenly dropping the kingly armor, revealing the broken boy underneath.

The scout lowered his head. "The spies say they never speak your name, Lord. Not once."

Ivar collapsed back into the heavy wooden throne, his trembling fingers clutching the piece of parchment tightly against his chest, right over his hollow heart, until his knuckles turned pure white. A bitter, agonizing, deeply sorrowful smile traced his lips as a single, silent tear slipped down his cheek, lost in the shadows of the hall.

You were across the great, vast sea, entirely out of his reach, living a beautiful life far away from his madness. He was a god on a throne of ice, completely omnipotent over Kattegat, and entirely, beautifully forgotten.

The Ghost of the North

The parchment felt heavier than any broadsword Ivar had ever swung. He squeezed his eyes shut, his broad shoulders shaking under his heavy wolfskin mantle as the scout’s words echoed through the cavernous rafters of the great hall. They never speak your name. Not once.

It was a far worse punishment than a blade to the ribs. If you had hated him, if you had cursed his name to the Christian monks or sworn bloody vengeance to the Saxon kings, he could have fueled his own dark fires with it. He could have understood wrath. But silence? Absolute, unyielding silence meant you had excised him from your heart like rot from a wound.

"Get out," Ivar whispered, the command dropping like lead into the quiet hall.

The scout didn't wait. He bowed frantically and scrambled toward the heavy oak doors, leaving the King of Kattegat alone with the crackling flames of the central hearth.

Ivar stared down at his useless legs, draped in fine, foreign silks and furs. He remembered the feeling of your weight shifting over them on the night of his greatest shame, the way you had unceremoniously stripped away his armor and his doubts with a fierce, intoxicating dominance. He closed his eyes and could almost taste the salt of your skin, could almost feel the frantic, rhythmic clench of your internal muscles around his fingers as you cried his name into the dark.

Now, his fingers only gripped an empty throne.

The heavy thud of soft leather boots announced her presence before she even spoke. Freydis drifted into the hall, her golden hair braided tightly with silver thread, her belly swollen with the child she claimed was his—the divine seed of a god. She slid up the steps of the dais, her delicate, pale hands reaching out to stroke his tense jawline.

"My love," she purred, her voice a poisonous silk that used to make him feel ten feet tall. "The people are waiting in the square. They wish to see their god. Why do you sit in the dark with a piece of Saxon garbage?"

Ivar didn't move. He let her hand rest on his cheek, but his blue eyes were completely vacant, staring right through her. "Do you love me, Freydis?" he asked, his voice chillingly flat.

"Of course I love you," she smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "You are Ivar the Boneless. You are a god walked among mortals. I worship you."

"Worship," Ivar spat, the word tasting like ash. He suddenly snapped his hand up, his powerful, warrior's grip wrapping around her throat—not enough to choke her, but enough to freeze the breath in her lungs. His blue eyes flashed that dangerous, blinding electric hue. "That is the problem, isn't it? You worship a god. You want the crown, the myth, the legend. But they..." His voice cracked, a rare, terrifying fracture in his mask. "They loved the boy in the mud. They loved the monster. They loved the man. And I traded them for a crown made of dirt."

He shoved her away from him violently. Freydis stumbled back, clutching her throat, her eyes wide with a sudden, genuine fear. She realized then, with a sickening certainty, that no matter what she gave him, she was merely a ghost occupying a space meant for someone else.

"Get out of my sight," Ivar growled, turning his face back to the fire. "Before I forget that you carry a child."

The Manor by the Sea

The western sun was a different kind of light. It wasn't the harsh, biting glare that bounced off the frozen fjords of Kattegat; it was a soft, golden warmth that settled deep into the rolling green hills of Wessex.

You stood on the wooden porch of the timber manor Ubbe had built for your small household, watching the tide roll in over the gray pebbles of the beach. The air smelled of salt and wild lavender. Behind you, the sounds of a peaceful settlement drifted on the breeze—the rhythmic thud of a carpenter's hammer, the lowing of cattle, and the laughter of children who didn't know the terror of a civil war.

Ubbe walked up the steps, his shield slung over his back, his face sun-browned and lined with a deep, earned contentment. He held a wooden bowl of fresh milk and handed it to you, leaning his hip against the railing.

"The scouts returned from the port," Ubbe said softly, his eyes scanning the horizon. "A merchant ship from Hedeby arrived. They say Ivar has solidified his rule. Kattegat is completely his."

You took a slow sip of the milk, your gaze remaining fixed on the waves. "Good for him."

Ubbe studied your face, looking for the phantom pain that usually accompanied that name, but he found nothing but a serene, unyielding wall. "They say he is unhinged. That he calls himself a god and rules with an iron fist. But they also say... he spends his nights looking out over the western sea."

You finally turned your head, a faint, bittersweet smile touching your lips. You reached down to your wrist, where a new, simple leather band sat where the heavy silver arm ring used to be.

"Ivar was always a genius, Ubbe," you murmured, your voice carrying no malice, only the weight of an absolute truth. "But he never understood that a man cannot rule a kingdom if his own hearth is cold. He wanted the world to fear him because he was too terrified to let anyone see how much he needed to be loved."

"Do you miss it?" Ubbe asked, genuinely curious. "The fire? The fury of him?"

You looked back out at the vast, endless ocean, the deep blue water stretching out until it met the sky. For a split second, you remembered the taste of his mouth, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips, and the absolute, terrifying thrill of being the only person alive who could tame the beast. You remembered the boy who had looked up at you from the mud, promising you the stars.

"No," you said softly, your voice carrying out over the water, swallowed by the western wind. "The fire was beautiful, Ubbe. But it burns everything it touches. I prefer the sun."

Across the sea, a king sat on a throne of bone and silver, weeping over a scrap of parchment. But in the green hills of Wessex, you took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air, turned your back on the ocean, and walked inside.

The Winter of the God

The shadows in the great hall of Kattegat grew longer, darker, and colder as the months bled into a harsh, unyielding winter. Ivar sat upon his high throne, draped in heavy bearskins that failed to warm his bones. The parchment from England had grown soft, its edges frayed and creased from the countless times his rough, calloused fingers had unrolled it in the dead of night. He knew every rune by heart, yet he stared at it as if it were a riddle he could somehow solve.

Freydis had given birth to a boy. She had brought the child to him, her eyes wide with a desperate, frantic plea for him to see his own divinity in the infant's face. But Ivar had looked down at the child’s twisted legs and felt nothing but a profound, sickening sense of irony. The gods were not honoring him; they were mocking him. They had given him the crown he had murdered his brother for, they had given him the worship of fools, and they had left him with an heir that reminded him only of his own vulnerability.

He had turned Freydis away from his bed entirely. The heavy oak doors of his chambers remained barred, a barrier against the world he had conquered but no longer wished to face.

One night, the wind howled so fiercely against the timber walls that it sounded like the dying groans of the Great Heathen Army. Ivar lay on his side in the massive bed of furs, his eyes fixed on the empty space beside him. His mind, always a chaotic storm of strategy and malice, betrayed him, dragging him backward through the years.

He remembered the smell of the damp earth after a rain in their youth. He remembered the feel of your small, warm hand sliding into his when his legs ached so badly he wanted to cry out to Odin to end his life. You had never looked at him with the worshipful, hollow eyes of Freydis, nor the fearful, wide-eyed compliance of the thralls. You had looked at him as a man.

In the dark, Ivar’s hand slid down his own bare stomach, tracing the lines of his muscles, remembering the night after Margrethe. He closed his eyes, and the memory was so sharp it felt like a blade. He could almost feel your soft skin beneath his rough palms, the frantic, delicious friction of your hips grinding against his thigh as you guided him, showing him that he was not broken.

“Look at me, Ivar,” your ghost whispered in the dark room.

A low, guttural groan tore from his throat. He wrapped his powerful fingers around his own length, his upper body tensing as he sought the release that used to come with your name on his lips. He stroked himself with a frantic, punishing speed, his mind conjuring the image of your arched back, the flush of your skin in the firelight, and the sweet, tight heat of your body clenching around his fingers. He imagined your hair tangled in his fists, your lips bruising his as you claimed him as your husband.

When the climax hit him, it wasn't a victory; it was a surrender. He came with a sharp, ragged cry that was swallowed by the howling wind outside, his body shuddering into the empty furs. He pulled his hand away, slick and warm, and for a fleeting, delusional second, he expected to feel your breath on his neck.

There was only the cold northern air. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dark rafters, his chest heaving. He was Ivar the Boneless. He was a king. He was a god. And he was entirely, utterly hollow.

Seeds in the Mud

In Wessex, the winter was kinder. The snow fell in soft, dusting blankets that melted by midday, leaving the rich, dark soil of the valley damp and ready for the spring plow.

You knelt in the small garden plot behind the timber manor, your fingers dug deep into the cool earth. You were turning the soil, preparing to plant the herbs and vegetables that would sustain the household through the coming year. It was hard, honest work that left your muscles aching and your hands stained with dirt, but it was a grounding pain—a pain that built something rather than tearing it down.

A shadow fell over you. You looked up to see Ubbe standing there, a wooden crate of seed potatoes lifted against his broad chest. He smiled down at you, his eyes reflecting the calm, steady nature that made him so different from his volatile brother.

"You have mud on your nose," Ubbe joked, setting the crate down with a heavy thud.

You laughed, wiping your face with the back of a dirt-streaked forearm. "It’s good luck. Or so Floki used to say."

The mention of the old shipbuilder’s name hung in the air for a moment, a gentle reminder of the world you had left behind. Ubbe sat down on a large stump nearby, watching you work.

"A Saxon monk came through the market today," Ubbe said carefully, his tone turning serious. "He had traveled from the northern ports. He said the tension in Kattegat is reaching a breaking point. Björn and Hvitserk are gathering forces in the East. They mean to take the town back from Ivar."

You paused, your hand resting on the wooden trowel. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant cry of gulls over the cliffs. You thought of the golden chariot, the brilliant, dangerous blue of Ivar’s eyes, and the absolute certainty with which he had told you that you belonged to him. You thought of the boy who had broken a toy boat over a bully's face just to prove he wasn't weak.

"Björn will win," you said softly, your voice devoid of malice or triumph. It was simply a fact. "Ivar is a brilliant general when he has an enemy to face. But when he sits on a throne with nothing but his own mind to fight, he destroys himself. He always has."

Ubbe nodded, reaching down to pick up a handful of the rich English soil, letting it crumble through his fingers. "He will never stop looking for you, you know. If Björn doesn't kill him, he will spend the rest of his days looking across the water."

You stood up, dusting the dirt from your linen skirts. You walked over to the edge of the garden, where the cliffside dropped down toward the crashing waves of the channel. The wind caught your hair, pulling it back from your face.

"Let him look," you murmured, looking out over the endless blue. "He wanted a empire of ghosts, Ubbe. He can rule over them. But my feet are planted in the earth."

You turned away from the sea, walking back toward the warmth of the timber hall, leaving the King of Kattegat to his frozen throne and his beautiful, empty crown.

The Broken Mirror

The siege of Kattegat did not come with the grand glory of the sagas; it came with the wet, choking stench of thawing snow, burning pine, and blood running into the fjord. Björn Ironside and Hvitserk had struck from the mountains and the sea simultaneously, a pincer movement born of shared hatred and exhaustion.

Inside the great hall, the chaos of the collapsing defenses echoed like thunder. Ivar did not cower. He sat on his high throne, his armor gleaming in the frantic, dancing firelight, a massive iron broadsword resting across his knees. His men were dying in the streets, betrayed from within by those who could no longer stomach the cruel whims of a man who called himself a god.

The heavy doors groaned, splintering under the weight of an iron-headed ram. Freydis stood near the base of the dais, her pale face streaked with soot, her posture taut with terror. She looked up at him, waiting for the tactical miracle that had always saved him before.

"Ivar!" she shrieked over the roar of the oncoming shield wall. "They are through the inner gates! You must order the retreat to the boats! We can rebuild in the east!"

Ivar didn't look at her. His brilliant blue eyes were fixed on the shattering wood of the entryway. "Retreat?" he murmured, a terrifying, manic smile spreading across his lips. "A god does not retreat from his own footstool, Freydis."

"You are mad!" she screamed, the illusion of her worship finally cracking beneath the cold reality of an incoming axe. "You are nothing but a cripple in a gilded chair! You threw away your true wife for a lie, and now you will die alone in the dirt!"

The words hit him harder than any Saxon arrow. The manic smile vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory stillness. With a fluid, terrifying surge of his massive arms, Ivar swung himself down from the throne, his torso hitting the stone steps with a heavy thud as he dragged his body forward with impossible speed. Before Freydis could scream, his large, scarred hand locked around her throat, slamming her down onto the steps.

"I know what I am," Ivar whispered, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and smelling of sour mead. "I have always known. But they knew too, and they loved me anyway. You... you just wanted a crown."

His fingers tightened, silencing her permanently. He let her body slide down the stone steps, an discarded doll in the path of the conquering heroes.

When Björn and Hvitserk finally kicked the remaining timbers of the door aside, shields raised and axes dripping with the blood of Ivar's personal guard, they found him sitting on the bottom step. He had no chariot, no crutches, no army left to command. He simply sat there, his broadsword resting carelessly across his lap, his hands covered in the blood of the woman who had promised him the world.

Hvitserk raised his axe, his chest heaving, his face a mask of exhausted rage. "It is over, Ivar. Yield the hall."

Ivar looked up at his brothers, his eyes fading from that brilliant, wild electric blue into a dull, weathered slate gray. He laughed, a low, raspy sound that echoed off the empty rafters.

"Take it," Ivar said, flinging the heavy iron broadsword into the dirt at Björn's feet. "Take the wood and the stone. There is nothing left here but ghosts anyway."

The Midsummer Harvest

Three summers passed in Wessex, each one milder and richer than the last. The timber manor by the sea had grown into a prosperous homestead, surrounded by high fences, fat sheep, and fields of golden wheat that rippled like a sea of amber under the southern sun.

It was midsummer, the longest day of the year. The air was thick with the scent of roasted wild boar, sweet clover, and ale. The settlement was celebrating the harvest, a vibrant blend of Saxon neighbors and Norse settlers who had learned to live in the space between their different gods.

You sat on a heavy oak bench outside the longhouse, a linen apron tied over your green kirtle. Your hands, once smooth, were now calloused from the loom and the garden, but they were steady. Beside you sat a wooden cradle, and inside it, a plump, healthy baby girl with wide, curious green eyes stared up at the canopy of leaves above.

Ubbe stepped out of the hall, his braided hair silvering slightly at the temples, but his smile was warm and unburdened. He held a horn of mead, taking a seat beside you and leaning his head back against the warm timber wall.

"She looks like you," Ubbe said softly, nodding toward the cradle. "Thank the gods she didn't inherit the Lothbrok nose."

You laughed, reaching down to let the infant wrap her tiny, strong fingers around your thumb. "She has your eyes, Ubbe. Calm. Like the sea before a fair wind."

Ubbe turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the western sea met the sky in a haze of purple and gold. "A ship arrived from Frankia this morning. Merchants from the old routes." He paused, his tone shifting into that quiet, respectful caution he always used when handling the past. "They say Ivar is alive. He left Kattegat after Björn took it. They say he is wandering the eastern empires, fighting as a mercenary for kings who don't know his name. A shadow with a broken chariot."

You looked down at the tiny hand holding yours, feeling the perfect, fragile warmth of the life you had built here, in the dirt, far away from the blood-soaked altars of the North.

For years, you had wondered if the ghost of Ivar the Boneless would always hang over you—if the memory of his heavy hands, his desperate, bruising mouth, and the intoxicating, dangerous thrill of his love would pull you back into the dark. But looking out at the golden fields, listening to the peaceful laughter of the village, you realized the fire had finally gone out. The ashes had been scattered by the western wind.

"I hope he finds a war that satisfies him, Ubbe," you said softly, your voice completely free of hatred, longing, or regret. "But he belongs to the skalds now. We belong to the earth."

Ubbe smiled, reaching over to press a warm, solid hand against your shoulder. You leaned into his side, watching the sun slowly dip below the edge of the world, casting its light over a kingdom that required no kings, no gods, and no sacrifices—only the quiet promise of tomorrow.

The Last Horizon

The Eastern empires were vast, flat, and choked with a yellow dust that tasted nothing like the salt-crusted air of Kattegat. For Ivar, the world had shrunk to the iron rims of a crude mercenary chariot, pulled by two gaunt horses through lands where his father’s name meant absolutely nothing. To the lords of Kiev and the silk merchants of the south, he was not the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, nor a god walked among men. He was simply the Boneless One—a terrifying, crippled warlord whom they paid in heavy silver to break the shield walls of their enemies.

He had become a ghost before his body could even die.

One evening, after a brutal skirmish along a muddy riverbank that left his arms trembling with exhaustion, Ivar sat by a campfire. He was surrounded by men who spoke a language he barely understood, men who feared his mind but cared nothing for his soul. Slowly, his scarred, trembling fingers reached into the leather pouch at his waist. He pulled out the scrap of parchment—now so worn and tattered that the ink had faded into faint, gray smudges.

He didn't need to read it. The runes were carved into the back of his eyelids.

A manor by the sea. They cultivate the earth. They look at the ocean every sunset.

With a sudden, violent surge of frustration, Ivar threw the parchment into the heart of the campfire. He watched the dry skin curl, the edges blackening and catching fire, turning the last physical tie to his past into a bright, fleeting orange flame.

"Let it burn," he whispered to the empty night, his voice cracking with a decade of unshed tears. "Let them forget me."

He leaned his head back against the iron wheel of his chariot, closing his blue eyes. For the first time in his life, the electric, dangerous fury in his blood didn't ignite. The fire that had sustained him, the rage that had driven him to conquer kingdoms and murder brothers, had finally burned itself down to ash. He was tired. He was so incredibly tired of fighting a war against a ghost he could never defeat.

Across the western sea, the midsummer sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky over Wessex painted in bruises of deep purple and bruised gold.

The feast had quieted down. The children had been carried off to their furs, and the embers of the village bonfire were glowing a soft, comforting red. You stood at the wooden railing of your porch, a heavy woolen shawl wrapped tight around your shoulders against the cooling night air.

From inside the timber hall, the soft, rhythmic sound of Ubbe’s breathing drifted through the open window, alongside the faint, sweet coo of your sleeping daughter.

You looked out over the dark water of the channel. For years, you had half-expected to see the black sails of a longship cutting through the fog, half-expected to hear the terrifying, booming roar of a golden chariot rolling onto the pebbles of the beach. You had carried a quiet defense in your heart, a readiness to fight for the peace you had ripped out of the earth.

But tonight, as the cool western wind brushed across your face, carrying the scent of damp grass and sea salt, the tension completely left your shoulders.

You closed your eyes and took a deep, clear breath. There were no ghosts hiding in the dark. There was no lingering shadow of a boy in the mud, nor the phantom grip of a king who couldn't let go. The sea was just water, the wind was just air, and the past was a story told by dead men around fires you would never sit beside again.

You let your hand drop from the railing, untying the leather band at your wrist and letting it slip into the grass below. You didn't need a token to remind you of who you were anymore.

Turning your back on the endless ocean, you pushed open the heavy timber door, stepped into the warmth of your home, and shut out the northern night forever.

Bjorn

He is so terrible at hiding his jealousy

The type of man to interrupt immediately, because even the thought of you being desired by another man in the way that he desires you is enough to make his jaw clench

He stands up straight away when he sees the tall stranger lean against the wall next to you, trapping you in with his form and making you grow nervous

And he's not gentle either, he grips the man's shoulders and pulls his back roughly

Giving a rough glare while doing so, he then pulls you to his chest, growling out a "Sorry, they are with me."

And you cannot help but chuckle against his chest at the jealousy basically smoking off of him

He is also a lecturer to you about it, bringing it up later and saying that you need to be more careful because he may not always be around to save you from perverted men

And he becomes quite velcro, not leaving your side for hours after it happened, in fear that the same man would try his luck again if he catches you alone

away from your guard dog

Ubbe

Ubbe drives himself insane with his own jealousy

It is not noticeable at first, and instead, it festers inside his head over time

And his pride does not allow you to see him like that

And so when he sees a man leering at you from the other side of the camp, even whilst he is sitting right next to you, he turns, kisses your cheek and walks away without explanation

But much to your ignorance, he had wandered over to the man with a dagger hidden in his hand, and held it to his throat quietly

"I think you should be careful with where you stare. You might give someone the wrong idea."

And you notice that he remains close that afternoon

Trying to follow you everywhere, even into your shared tent when you were just grabbing an extra tankard, which made you suspicious

But later, when you're both alone, his demeanour breaks and he confesses his insecurities

Explaining about how he cannot bare the thought of losing you to someone else

Hvitserk

Hvitserk is a little condescending

He pokes fun at the situation, and his anger can come out in jokes and laughs to try and ease the tension that he is feeling

When the man you were both speaking to makes a risque comment towards your figure, Hvitserk cannot help himself

He throws an arm around your shoulders, and a devilish smile paints across his face

"Ah, be careful. When they smile like that, men always think it is for them. But do not be fooled."

But after the laughter fades, his insecurities come out in different ways

Such as recklessness, he will drink too much mead, start fights with randoms, and especially go after the man who started it

And it takes you having to intervene to have it stop

You grab his hand and drag him away while he continues yelling swears towards him, stumbling over his own feet as you sheepishly walk past the onlookers

But underneath it all, there is, of course, fear

A fear that you'll tire of his chaos, his wit, and instead search for another suitor

But he is not ready to admit that yet

Sigurd

Sigurd's jealousy has sharp teeth

He masks it with cruelty, with insults, with mocking words

The type of behaviour that is aimed to wound before it can be wounded

If he catches someone flirting with you, he is quick to insult

Standing from his position and spitting poison across the table towards the man who dared challenge his importance in your life

He tries his best to be big, to be the scary one, the threatening son of Ragnar that he wants people to see

And that is the only way he knows how to keep you; by scaring others off

But he has the habit of blaming you at points, saying that you led these men on and that is why they think they have a chance

"Do you often laugh this loud for other men when I am not here?"

His jealousy is tragic, and very fear-driven

It comes from a place of always being overshadowed, and he desires your attention more than anything, and so he hates to see it on someone else

Ivar

Ivar's jealousy is delicate, all-consuming, and immediate

He does not ask questions, and he does not wait for answers or explanations for behaviour; he simply assumes and does something about it

He sees someone smile at you, touch you, or even speak about you in a certain way, he is seeing red

He desires control more than anything, and he also feels that about your relationship

And so he finds himself being quick to re-establish his dominance, and making it known that he will not be dismissed

Even by you

Even if you don't entertain the man's behaviour, you still find that Ivar will blame you to some degree

"You think I am not good enough for you? What can he give you that I cannot?!"

Reassure him all you want, but he is hard to convince

It is not until you are both in bed, getting ready to sleep, that the quiet of the night brings about his apology

It is short, but you appreciate it

As simple as he does not know how to love or protect gently, only fiercely, and like you will get ripped away at any second

Every single one of her brothers served as her guard, never leaving her alone in all her time alive. Even Ivar, as irate as he was with the world, could never bring himself to ever turn his rage towards his twin sister.

His beautiful, perfect little sister. All of 8 minutes more in the womb had saved her from the same malformations that plagued him. But he could never blame her, no, that was a rage for the gods.

When they were little, Ivar insisted that he never leave her side. He'd scream and throw rocks at whoever tried to take her from him, spitting venom about vengeance and blood eagling.

So they slept in the same bed, bathed in the same tub, and ate from the same plate.

When they were little, it was cute. Sweet, how close they were. How protective Ivar was.

As they got older, it became dangerous. The first time Aslaug tried to move her daughter into the new room they had built for her, she witnessed the extent of her favourite son's rage.

Ivar had razed the room to the ground, setting fire to the annex and nearly burning the great hall with it.

Ragnar dragged Ivar to the edge of the forest and beat the rage out of him, but the venom remained.

The people began to talk. Whispers about the relationship between the twins, that it wasn't as pure or sweet as it seemed.

It enraged Ragnar and Aslaug, but Ivar would not help the rumours. In fact, the first time word reached his ears, he smiled a grin big and wide.

"Maybe now they'll never send you away from me, hmm?"

So it was no surprise that when Ivar took the throne, he'd made his baby sister sit by his side. The darling princess of his kingdom.

Now, though, he was angry. Darling sister or not, he would not relent if anyone got in his way.

Apparently, a raid had gone wrong, and Ivar had lost some men; his temper would not calm in the face of this loss.

So she waited in his chambers, reading by the window, as she heard the shouting and crashing of furniture as the king threw his tantrum.

"Sister?"

At the door stood Ivar, chest heaving and eyes burning. Wordlessly, she set her book down and opened her arms, smiling sweetly.

She expected a hug, maybe his hands would slide dangerously low, but nothing she hadn't already expected from her dear brother.

But he pounces on her, before she can blink, the air rushing out of her lungs as she realises that he's kissing her.

He's kissing her like he's drowning and she's the last bit of oxygen he's clawing for, all teeth and tongue and violence. The only way Ivar really knows how to love.

It hurts her, draws blood from her pretty, plush lips, but she sighs into it all the same. This was her Ivar; the pain was pleasure in her haze-mind.

His tongue probed deep into her mouth, hands tugging and yanking at her clothing, ripping the fabric when his frustration bubbled over.

He shoved her down onto the bed, face into the pillows and pulled her hips up in the air.

Usually, he offered his baby sister some gentleness, tonguing her and coaxing a few orgasms out of her before driving into her.

But now all he saw was red, and gentleness was the furthest thing from his mind.

He spat roughly on her, but it was barely needed. The display had brought a burning into her chest, and she was slick with want already.

She looked back at him, coy and sweet, the picture of innocence in the most vulgar position. Ivar grinned back, eyes dark and glinting in the candlelight.

He rammed into her in one full thrust, seating himself in her all the way to the hilt. The moan she let out was low and desperate. The pain awakened her senses in a way nothing else could.

See, most of Kattegat thought that the princess was too sweet for Ivar. The goodness in the womb had all but been absorbed by her, leaving him empty and angry at the world.

But what they had not realised was that she was as much of the darkness as Ivar was. They were two halves of a dangerous soul, one that was damned from the start.

As he drove into her relentlessly, setting a pace so brutal it punched the air from her lungs. She keened into the fabrics of the bed, her peak rising like a flame being fed, growing higher and higher.

Coiling his hand into her hair, Ivar pulled her up into his arms, forcing her to arch her back almost painfully and breathed deep into her hair.

"You are mine, forever."

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as Ivar's cockhead speared into that spongy spot repeatedly, driving her half-mad with pleasure.

Her peak crashed upon her in waves, as she shivered and trembled in Ivar's arms. Moaning loud and airy, so that half the hall would have heard her by now.

She was his, till the end of time. But he also belonged to her, wholly and completely.

As he pressed apologetic kisses into the nape of her neck, she smiled lazily at her brother and knew;