PROPAGANDA:

[Gunnar]

"Suffer."

[Marco]

Thinking about Gunnar, the stray cat that used to visit me outside my place in London, when I was there for grad school back in 2020.

Gunnar hated me when I first moved in—used to hiss at me when they saw me and run away. But Gunnar slowly warmed up to me when I started seeing them more often during lockdown, and gave them water during extremely hot days.

M.Eivor x reader

Rating: G

Summary: Eivor decides to skip his duties as Jarl to tell stories and myths to his daughter.

A/n: I’ll eventually finish the list for Codextober lol. Enjoy 💕

The Ravensthorpe longhouse hummed with the low crackle of the central fire, its flames dancing against the hewn timbers and casting long shadows that writhed like serpents on the walls. At the head of the room, before the sprawling map of England, Eivor Varinsson, Jarl of the Raven Clan, leaned over the table, his brow furrowed in thought. His trusted riend and advisor, Randvi, traced a line with her finger, her voice a low and steady counterpoint to the fire's hiss.

"If we secure the trade route through Lunden," she was saying, "our grain stores will be full before the first snow. But the Saxons there are wary. It would require a delicate hand, Eivor. More diplomacy than axe-work."

Eivor grunted in amusement, his gaze fixed on the painted parchment. "A delicate hand is not what my axe is known for. But you are right. We have built this place with blood and sweat; we will sustain it with shrewdness."

Their serious planning was shattered by a sudden, joyful shriek from the longhouse entrance. A tiny blur of blonde hair and blue tunic burst into the room, followed by the sound of lighter, urgent footsteps.

"Papa! Papa, I found you!"

Eivor straightened instantly, the weight of his station lifting from his shoulders as a broad, unconscious smile spread across his face. Little (d/n), all of five summers old, ran towards him with the uncoordinated but determined gait of a child, her blue eyes—his eyes—sparkling with mischief.

Close behind her was his beloved partner, (y/n), her hair slightly tousled from the chase, a look of loving exasperation on her face.

"(d/n), slow down! Your father is working." She stopped a few feet away, offering a breathless, apologetic look to both Eivor and Randvi.

"My apologies. I tried to distract her with the chickens, then a story about your travels, but her only quest today was to find her father."

Randvi chuckled softly, her professional demeanor melting away. "It seems our Jarl's defenses are easily breached."

Eivor knelt, opening his arms just in time to catch the small projectile that was his daughter. He lifted her effortlessly, her giggles filling the hall as he settled her on his hip. She immediately wrapped her small arms around his neck, burying her face in the rough wool of his tunic.

"No apology needed, my love," Eivor said, his voice softening to a gentle rumble. He looked at his wife, his gaze filled with an affection that a thousand battles could not diminish.

"My mind was growing weary of maps and trade routes anyway. A break is welcome."

He knew it was more than that. He could face down a beast twice his size without flinching, but he was utterly powerless against the determined charge of his daughter. Nor did he ever want to be.

"The map will be here when we return, Randvi," he said, turning to his friend. "My family will not."

Randvi nodded, a genuine warmth in her smile. "Go, Eivor. Lunden can wait. Enjoy the sun."

With a final nod, Eivor took (y/n)’s hand, his other arm securely holding (d/n). Together, they walked out of the dim longhouse and into the bright, crisp air of the settlement. The sounds of the Gunnar’s blacksmith’s hammer and the chatter of the clan filled the air, a symphony of the life he had fought to build. They walked past the docks where the clans raiders moved about with the fishermen, beyond the last of the houses, and onto the gentle, sloping hills that overlooked the river.

Eivor found a spot in a meadow, a blanket of emerald green dusted with white and yellow wildflowers. The gentle swaying of the trees was the only sound. Eivor sat, leaning his strong back against the trunk of an ancient oak, and his wife settled beside him, leaning into his side. (d/n) wriggled out of his lap only to climb back and nestle between them, a perfect fit in the space they made for her.

"Papa," she said, her small hand reaching up to tug gently on his beard.

"Tell me a story. A good one! With giants and gods and magic!"

(Y/n) smiled, resting her head on Eivor’s shoulder.

"She has your thirst for tales."

Eivor chuckled, his arm wrapping around his wife’s shoulders while his other hand gently stroked his daughters hair.

"Very well, little wolf. A story it is." He looked out at the peaceful landscape, his thoughts drifting back to the cold lands where had originated from.

"Long ago," he began, his voice taking on the deep, rhythmic cadence of a skald, "in the time before times, there was no sun and no moon, only the gaping void of Ginnungagap. But from fire and ice, the first beings were born. A great giant named Ymir, and a cosmic cow..."

He told her of Odin, the Allfather, who sacrificed an eye for a drink from the well of wisdom. He spoke of Thor and his mighty hammer Mjolnir, and of Loki, the clever trickster whose schemes both imperiled and saved the gods.

(D/n) listened with rapt attention, her eyes wide as saucers, her little mouth slightly agape. His wife closed her eyes, not just listening to the ancient myth, but to the sound of her husband's voice weaving a world for their beloved child.

As the sun began to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and rose, Eivor’s story wound down. (D/n), lulled by the tale and the warmth of her parents, had grown heavy-limbed, her head resting sleepily on his chest. He could feel the soft puff of her breath against his skin. (Y/n)’s soft hand found his, their fingers lacing together.

He looked down at the two most important people in his world. He had sailed frozen seas, stormed Saxon fortresses, and stood before kings. He had fought for glory, for vengeance, and for a home. He had felt the exhilarating thrill of victory and the sharp sting of loss.

But this… this was a different kind of victory. It was quiet, profound, and absolute. The weight of his daughter’s head on his chest, the warmth of his wife’s small hand in his, the scent of wildflowers on the breeze. This was the peace he had unknowingly been searching for his entire life. This was not a kingdom won by the sword, but a world held in his arms.