#dadvar

“God-Queen of Kattegat, the Red Roman, Lady of Chains, the Wolf Queen, Blessed of Skadi, Wife of the Boneless.”

She conquered Scotland. Battled in Rome. Killed the Scottish king, beheading him and turning his wolves into pelts. The white wolf, Tarir, she wore every day across her shoulders. Contrast of her hair against the purity of white fur always made her look young. The black wolf, Eitrigg, she wore on days of blood and sacrifice. Feared, beautiful, manipulative...it is no wonder she was queen.

And on this day, a man approached her throne to ask for her daughter's hand in marriage. A meer man... a fisherman, who gave her daughter a pendant for a gift. And he believes he is worthy?

"I would sooner gut you than a fish made of gold," you growled at the lowlife who sought your daughter's hand.

"I would rather eat the fish my dear," Ivar chuckled. The color drained from the young man's face and your daughter...oh your poor daughter. The embarrassment of how brutal you were sent her paling as well. You hugged Tarir's fur to your shoulder and held up your nose.

"No princess of Kattegat is marrying a fisherman. Begone," Ivar said, dignified.

Everyone feared Ivar the Boneless. That name held more weight than the iron legs he walked on. But Ivar was a warlord, and he would raid and plunder for months away from home as a king of the battlefield. This was when you, his queen, would rule...and while Ivar kept his army in his gloved fists, you kept Kattegat in your claws.

Your daughter rushed away from the Great Hall and outside, off to who knows where. A dreamer, that one...you do not know where she got it from. You and Ivar loved all your children. Four sons and one daughter, the eldest. Your daughter Irina was born within a year of Ivar claiming you in his war on Rome.

“You’re quiet.”

“You are always quiet Ivar,” you snorted. “Who are you to question my silence?”

“Your king. And husband,” he said softly. “You’re worried for Irina.”

“The girl has her head in Alfheim. She hasn’t found a suitable man because she wants any man who comes alone,” you sighed in disappointment. Ivar took your hand resting on your throne. “Does she have no ambition?”

“Our daughter is unlike you,” the king shrugged, rubbing his thumb on your hand.

“I am not asking her to be a warrior. I am asking her to wed...she’s almost 20.”

“You and I were nearly 30,” Ivar reminded you. You grinned at the memories; young love was so uncertain and felt forever blessed by the gods you’d met Ivar as a grown woman. And he gave you children in abundance. Snapping out of such memories, you looked over at him with a wavering smile.

“If she will not become a warrior, she must become a wife.”

The following morning you set out with Irina, Bolvar and a few shieldmaidens to Uppsala. You were riding ahead of Ivar with your two eldest children to ensure Kattegat would have it’s king as long as possible. Ivar would join you all towards the end of the celebrations on the last day, then you would all return home. Ivar had many enemies. To leave Kattegat for more than a day was leaving blood to the hounds.

The sun and harsh winds were unrelenting on your journey. Bolvar and one of your shieldmaidens seemed to be getting along well, but Irina was...quiet. She did not eat much and seemed distant. It concerned you the way she kept her head so low. Your daughter...

As a young woman you were nothing like Irina, despite looking identical at that time. You were strong, confident, and had hope in your heart to see Valhalla in every battle. The intense fear most felt for death was unknown to you. You’d never been afraid. Perhaps Irina was hiding from the gods...

Or from you.

When you arrived at Uppsala your warparty made camp. Patrons from across Norway and Gotaland were pouring in already. Irina was 11 when you last came to Uppsala; Bolvar was 8, Vindsrk was 5, and Odion was just barely a yearling. Irina could remember this place the most; still, she followed yours and Bolvar’s shadow up the steps to the temple. Letting your son take the lead you trailed back, waiting for Irina to speed up a bit. She did not.

“Irina,” you said tenderly. “You are quiet...”

“It’s nothing mother,” she said. She’d been holding her arms together as if she was cold, cuddling them closer. “I’ve had a stomach ache since we left home.”

“Perhaps its the nerves,” you said with a little chuckle. “Uppsala can be harrowing...we are closer to the gods than ever.”

“When you were here last...” Irina begins, and trailed off. You stopped and reached out for her hand.

“Go on.”

“When you were here, did Freyja bless you like you’d asked?”

You thought about this carefully. The gods’ blessings were almost always ones to praise. But not every question was answered by the gods...it was simply not their way.

“She did. Not in the way I expected, but the Goddess gave me everything I needed. She favored me.”

Irina nodded in consideration. At that time in life, you’d had 3 of your 4 sons and your daughter...what more could you ask of Freyja? Irina wondered.

To each of the shrines you paid respect, paying special attention to the shrines of Odin and Thor.

“Your father is a descendant of Odin,” you reminded Bolvar. “That means you are too.”

“Family reunion...” Bolvar snorted, earning him a smack on the back of the head. You led him by the ear while Irina trailed behind, watching the shrines timidly.

That night everyone drank and danced and sang. It was quite a party; you restrained yourself for lack of your husband. Ivar didn’t like parties like this anyway. Watching your daughter swirl her gauntlet around, looking bored, made you scowl. You crouched down to set down your stein, walked over and sat on the grass across from her.

“Irina,” you said firmly. Big blue eyes looked up at you with worry. The same worry you were tired of seeing. “What is it?”

“I asked Freyja for help. I cannot...tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I am your mother. I cannot stand to see you like this,” you said longingly. Irina shifted in her seat, holding herself tightly. “Irina.”

“Freyja will answer me,” she said with a shaky voice. You put a hand on her knee.

“Do not rely on the gods to fix your problems.”

Irina looked solemn at such a revelation. Her head hung in defeat.

“I am pregnant.”

You sighed, taking back your hand in disappointment. You’d suspected as much when she refused more than one gauntlet of mead. And from her questions about Freyja and Siff, and the way she held herself as if trying to hide her stomach...you knew.

“By who?”

She glanced away from you into the dark woods. “A farmer’s son...his name is Svorn. He is my age...I have not told him yet.”

“Nor have you told your father,” you reminded her. A grimace stretched over your daughter’s face; you shifted your seat and sat next to her now, holding her hand and shoulders. “Do not worry little foss...we will tell him together.”

“Father will kill him,” she sighed.

“Your grandfather was a farmer you know...” you said slyly. Irina looked at you like you were suddenly a hydra. “The great Ragnar Lothbrok started as a farmer. Many great men start humbly...your father didn’t because his father did.”

“Svorn is not afraid to meet Father,” Irina said quietly. Hopefully. “He said he’d fight any man Father chose...slay any beast he wants, for me.”

Perhaps this Svorn was a good man...a worthy man. You had sought a viking for your daughter. If he was a true viking, he would show it. Ivar was a good judge of character...and you married him shortly after revealing you were pregnant. How different were you to your Irina?

“I suppose I shall thank him when we return home for giving me a grandchild...”

Irina hugged you suddenly. You pat her back, smiling at how she squeezed you and sniffled.

“Thank you Mother...”

You sat in silence together, laughing at how some folks drunkenly stumbles about between camps or accidentally spilling ale. Irina couldn’t help a gnawing question in her heart...

“Mother?”

“Hmm?” you asked.

“What is it that you asked of Freyja the last time we were here in Uppsala?”

You shut your eyes, lowering your head and considering this. Turning to her, you took a drink from your stein and set it down.

“I asked Freyja to give me another daughter.”

“And...she gave you Lothar?”

“And she gave me Lothar.”

Irina considered this a minute. Lothar looked so unlike her and her other brothers. The dark hair they all inherited from their father was unlike Lothar’s blonde hair; they all shared blue eyes, though Lothar’s were much brighter. He was the youngest of all of them, only nine years old now. Just born before your womb was closed by the gods...everyone said he looked just like Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar’s father.

“Did you love Lothar?”

“More than my own life. As I have loved you all.”

“But...why did you ask for another daughter?” she asked. You did not break her stare.