#sigurd lothbrok

Ubbe Ragnarson

He wants to learn about your blue tattoes and meanings just to paint them on you on the next battle, is his final goal in life from the moment he sees you.

He is thriled to train with you and see what kind of weapons the celtic people have.

Hearing you talk about honor and battle tactics always makes him smile like an idiot.

Since you tend to go to battlefield without much clothing, he is always there at the end with his coat to put around your shoulders.

Seing how you were trained and the society you lived in, he realized you were quite similar, but he would prefer your daughters to be raised in celtic combat (if you ever have children, he thinks of that a lot).

Hvitserk Ragnarson

He is the only one who laughs during battles and feels like crazy but when he saw you doing the same, he decided that you were going to be his wife, no matter what.

He loves tracing your tattoes after battle, remembering you that you are alive and well, just as you do with his braids.

He would love to go to your village and see the life there, especially the food cause some of the ingredients are not easy to find.

He bought a couple of times some celtic protection symbols to gift you and then discovered they were fake, but he will never admit that to you (he feels a little idiot).

But you know, so you make him a protection necklace for him.

Sigurd Ragnarson

He is not the best warrior and he knows it, but he loves your boldness and a little bit of your craziness.

He says he is going to write songs about your quests and victories and you can only smile about his poet heart.

Even though he always has a heart attack when he sees you getting onto batle without an armor.

Sometimes he doesn't understand your society so he tries to find common points like the druid and the seer, so he can somehow understand the important things for you.

He is not a good painter but he tries to create new patterns for you, maybe putting nordic runes for extra protection.

Bjorn Ironside

He thinks you are a little barbaric, until he sees your rituals and your pride in battlefield.

You carved him a bear tottem for power and strenght and he was looking at you thru the whole process.

Now he sees you as the most brave warrior and accompanies you to your rites before entering war, in some mixture of your cultures.

Now he enters battle with paint, like you, but in white.

The device felt oddly warm against your palm, warmer than it should be considering the crisp air. You'd been using it for photos all morning, but the battery should still be at sixty percent. The screen flickered to life, but instead of your usual GPS app, strange patterns danced across the display—pixels shifting and rearranging themselves in ways that made your eyes water to follow. Colors bled into each other, creating an almost hypnotic swirl of light that seemed to pulse with its own rhythm.

"What the actual fuck ?" You stopped walking entirely, holding the phone closer to and then further from your face, with forrowed brows. The screen continued its bizarre light show, completely unresponsive to your increasingly frantic taps and swipes.

"This is so not the time for you to die on me. I literally just updated you last week!"

You tried the power button, the volume keys, even that trick where you hold multiple buttons at once that usually fixed everything—nothing worked. A high-pitched whining sound emanated from the device, so sharp it made your teeth ache and forced you to pull out your earbuds.

"Great. Just great. My phone's having a seizure in the middle of nowhere." Frustrated and more than a little unnerved, you lifted your foot to take another step forward, but your boot caught on something hidden beneath the fallen leaves. Your ankle twisted painfully as you pitched forward, arms windmilling desperately for balance.

The phone flew from your grasp, its bizarre light show spinning through the air like a demented firefly before disappearing into the undergrowth.

You hit the ground hard, damp earth cushioning your fall but doing nothing for your dignity. Pain shot through your palms where they'd scraped against rough bark, and your knee throbbed where it had connected with what felt like a particularly vindictive rock.

"Perfect," you groaned, rolling onto your back and staring up at the canopy above. "Just perfect. Lost in the woods with a dead phone. Nature's determined to kill me."

By the time you'd accessed yourself mentally for injuries and decided to drag your arse out of the dirt, it looked like rhe light filtering through the leaves had changed, taking on a golden quality that spoke of late afternoon rather than the mid-morning sun you remembered, shit had you hit your head harder then you thought ?

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, scanning the ground for your phone among the scattered leaves and debris. Instead, your eyes found two pairs of worn leather boots, planted firmly in the earth not three feet from where you lay.

Your gaze traveled upward—past rough-woven pants and leather armor that looked hand-crafted rather than costume-department perfect, past fur-trimmed cloaks with intricate brooches, past metalwork that bore the patina of actual use—until you found yourself staring into two pairs of eyes that definitely didn't belong to fellow hikers.

The men were tall, broad-shouldered, with long hair braided in patterns you'd only seen in history books and, more recently, your favorite television show. Scars crossed their visible skin—they looked like real scars that told stories of violence and survival. And pointed directly at your throat were two swords that looked very, very real.

Your heart began to race, but not from fear. These costumes were incredible. The attention to detail was beyond anything you'd seen outside of major film productions. The weapons looked authentically forged, the leather was properly weathered, and the men themselves had the kind of rugged authenticity that spoke of serious commitment to their craft.

The men exchanged a look that seemed equal parts confusion and concern, speaking in a way that sounded familiar and made your pulse quicken with recognition. The rolling vowels, the harsh consonants—you'd heard this accent before, week after week for seasons.

"Oh wow," you breathed, temporarily forgetting your precarious position as excitement bubbled up in your chest. "Are you guys filming something? Please tell me this is for Vikings. Are you filming near here? Is Travis here? What about Alex?"

"This is incredible," you continued, struggling to sit up properly while trying not to make any sudden movements toward the very real-looking weapons. "The authenticity is amazing. I mean, I've been to Renaissance fairs, but this is next level. You guys even smell authentic—like, actually smell like you've been living rough. Method acting much?"

One of them gestured toward you with his sword, the meaning clear even without translation. The other spoke again, his words carrying an authority that made your stomach flutter with a mixture of nerves and starstruck excitement.

"Get up."

Your legs felt like water as you struggled to your feet, hyper-aware of how the weapons followed your every movement. But even as a rational part of your brain registered the potential danger, a larger part was busy cataloging every detail of their appearance, trying to place which characters they might be playing or if they were new additions to the cast.

"Seriously though," you said as one of them grasped your arm with a grip that was definitely firmer than you'd expect from actors worried about liability, "when does this air? Because I have literally seen every episode of Vikings at least three times. I have so many questions about the next season."

But as they began to march you through terrain that bore no resemblance to the hiking trail you'd been following, a chill ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the weather. The grip on your arm was too strong, too real. These men moved with the kind of casual violence that spoke of lives lived on the edge of survival.

The journey that followed felt like stepping into the most immersive historical experience imaginable. The two warriors—because what else could you call them—flanked you as they marched through terrain that looked like it had been untouched by modern civilization. Rolling hills stretched in every direction, dotted with clusters of buildings that looked like they'd been pulled straight from historical dramas.

"This is unreal," you murmured, your eyes drinking in every detail. "The production value must be insane. How did they find a location this perfect? There's no power lines, no modern buildings in the background, nothing."

Your mind raced with possibilities. Maybe this was one of those immersive experiences for super fans ? Maybe you'd somehow stumbled onto the world's most elaborate filming location ? Maybe this was some kind of historical recreation site that you'd never heard of, despite your obsessive consumption of anything Viking-related.

But even as you tried to rationalize what you were seeing, something nagged at you. The smells were—not the sanitized version you'd expect from even the most elaborate theme park, but the real thing. Wood smoke mixed with less pleasant odors of a world without modern plumbing, animals, and unwashed bodies. The sounds too were wrong for any kind of production, no generators humming in the background, no modern voices calling directions, no anachronistic equipment hidden just out of frame.

The settlement that came into view made your breath catch in your throat, and for a moment, your steps faltered entirely.

"No way," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"No fucking way."

It was Kattegat.

Not a representation of it.

Not inspired by it.

It was exactly as you'd seen it on screen, down to the specific arrangement of buildings around the natural harbor.

The great hall dominated the settlement, its distinctive architecture immediately recognizable. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, carrying scents that were somehow both foreign and familiar from years of watching your favorite characters navigate these same streets.

"This is..." You struggled for words, your inner fangirl warring with growing confusion. "This is perfect. Like, scary perfect. How do you create it so exactly?"

The warriors guided you through streets that seemed to pulse with authentic life. Children ran between the buildings, their laughter mixing with the sounds of craftsmen at work—the ring of metal on metal, the rhythmic thud of looms, the calls of merchants hawking their wares. Women tended to various tasks, some weaving, others preparing food, all of them dressed in clothing that looked lived-in rather than costume-perfect.

And they all stared at you with expressions that made your skin crawl.

Your modern hiking clothes—the synthetic fabrics, the bright colors, the strange cut and style of your Jacket—marked you as an outsider as clearly as if you'd been wearing a neon sign. But it wasn't just curiosity in their faces. There was wariness, suspicion, and in some cases, outright hostility.

"Okay, this is getting a little too real," you muttered, your earlier excitement beginning to curdle into something approaching fear. "Like, I get that you're going for authenticity, but the staring is kind of intense guys."

Your escorts didn't pause.

The great hall that loomed ahead was exactly what you'd expect from years of watching Vikings, but somehow more imposing in person. Massive wooden beams supported a structure that seemed to reach toward the sky itself, and intricate carvings—the carvings you recognized from countless episodes.

The doors swung open at their approach with a groan that you felt in your bones, revealing an interior that stole what little breath you had left.

The hall was vast, filled with long wooden tables and benches. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of battle and conquest in threads that seemed to glow in the firelight. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of meat, mead, and too many bodies in close proximity.

And on a raised dais that you'd seen in your dreams, sat a figure that made your heart stop entirely.

"Holy shit," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "Holy actual shit."

Queen Aslaug.

She was exactly as you remembered from the show—ethereally beautiful in a way that seemed almost otherworldly, with long blonde hair that caught the firelight and eyes that seemed to hold secrets older than time itself. The same regal bearing, the same sense of mystical wisdom that had made her such a compelling character.

But seeing her in person, breathing and real and looking directly at you, was like having your favorite fictional character step out of the screen.

And surrounding her, arranged in a semicircle that spoke of both protection and presentation, were her sons.

Your knees nearly gave out.

Ubbe sat to her right, tall and golden-haired, with the kind of steady, thoughtful presence that had always made him your second favorite character. The strong jaw, the intelligent eyes, the way he held himself with quiet authority—it was all exactly as you remembered, but somehow more vivid, more real.

Hvitserk lounged in his chair with the same restless energy you'd watched, his dark hair falling in a way that made your fangirl heart skip. Even seated, you could see the lean strength in his frame, the quick intelligence in his eyes as they tracked your movement across the hall.

Sigurd sat with his characteristic smirk, the one that had always made you simultaneously want to slap him and appreciate his particular brand of cruel charisma. His snake-eye studied you with an intensity that made your skin crawl, but in a way that was thrilling rather than truly frightening—because this was Sigurd, and you knew his character inside and out.

And Ivar.

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes found him. He sat in his chaur with his legs positioned in front of him, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away. Even motionless, he commanded attention in a way that was utterly terrifying. The sharp intelligence in his face, the cruel curve of his mouth, the way his fingers drummed against the arm of his chair—everything was exactly as you'd memorized from countless hours of screen time.

"This is insane," you whispered, your eyes darting between faces that belonged to your favorite show. "You guys are incredible. Like, scary incredible. The resemblance is perfect. Are you the actual actors? Please tell me you're the actual actors because I have been obsessed with this show and meeting the cast would literally make my entire life."

But even as the words left your mouth, something cold began to settle in your stomach. The resemblance wasn't just uncanny—it was perfect. Too perfect. And the way they sat, the way they moved, the casual interactions between them... there was no sense of people stepping in and out of character, no modern tells breaking through their performances.

"Bring her forward," Aslaug commanded, and her voice was exactly as you remembered—melodious, authoritative, with that distinctive accent that had always given you chills.

The guards propelled you past people who had stopped their conversations to watch this unexpected entertainment. Your footsteps echoed loudly in the sudden quiet, each step bringing you closer to people you'd spent years analyzing, theorizing about.

When you finally stood before the royal family, close enough to see the individual details of their clothing, the very real looking scars on their skin, the way their eyes tracked your every movement with predatory interest, your rational explanations began to crumble.

"Okay," you said, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. "I'm seriously confused right now. Are you guys method acting? Because this is either the most incredible immersive experience ever created, or..." You trailed off, unwilling to voice the impossible thought forming in your mind.

"What manner of creature is this?" Sigurd spoke first, and hearing that familiar mocking tone directed at you sent shivers down your spine. But it wasn't the good kind of shivers anymore. His voice carried an edge of genuine disdain that no actor playing a role would direct at a fan.

Aslaug leaned forward slightly, her mystical eyes studying you with an intensity that felt like being examined by a particularly beautiful predator. "Your garments are unlike any I have seen," she observed, her English clear but heavily accented in a way that made each word feel deliberate. "The colors are... strange. Unnatural. And the material..." She gestured vaguely at your outfit.

"Oh, um," you stammered, suddenly very aware of how out of place your moisture-wicking jacket looked in this setting. "It's just, you know, synthetic fabric? Like, polyester blend? For hiking?"

The words felt wrong the moment they left your mouth. Your casual speaking pattern clashing horribly with their formal, structured way of communication.

Hvitserk tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. "She speaks strangely," he commented to his brothers, his voice carrying the same warm tone you'd fallen in love with on screen. "The words are familiar in part, but the manner in which she forms them..."

"Like no Saxon I have encountered," Ubbe agreed, his brow furrowed in genuine concentration. "The rhythm is wrong. The choice of words... peculiar."

Ivar had remained silent during this exchange, but you could feel his gaze like a physical weight. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through his brothers' observations with razor-sharp precision.

"Tell us" he said, and the familiar candance made your heart race for all the wrong reasons, "where is it that you come from?"

The interest in his words hit you like a physical blow. You'd heard him and you knew that in the show—usually he spoke right before doing something terrifying to whoever had caught his interest. But hearing it directed at you, seeing the way his eyes glittered with curiosity and something much darker, made you realize just how much danger you might actually be in.

If this was real.

If they were real.

"I'm from..." You paused, your mind racing. How did you explain twenty-first century America to people who lived in a world where that continent wasn't supposed to exist yet? "I'm from really far away? Like, really, really far?"

Your voice rose at the end, turning your statement into a question in that distinctly modern way that made you cringe even as you said it.

"How far?" Aslaug pressed, and there was something in her voice that suggested she might understand more than she was letting on. "Beyond the great sea?"

"Um, yeah," you nodded eagerly, latching onto anything that might make sense to them. "Way beyond that. Like, super beyond that."

Sigurd snorted, a sound of pure derision. "Super beyond? What manner of word is 'super'?"

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. The casual slang that peppered your everyday speech sounded ridiculous in this formal setting, childish and strange.

"I just mean... very far," you corrected yourself, trying to adopt their more formal speech patterns and failing miserably. "Like, an incredible distance. More than you could possibly... um... imagine?"

The brothers exchanged glances, and you saw Hvitserk suppress what might have been a smile at your awkward attempts to sound more formal.

"She speaks like a child," Sigurd observed, his cruel smile widening. "Using simple words in simple ways...is that it ... are you simple ?"

"I'm not simple!" The response burst out of you before you could stop it, defensive and sharp in a way that immediately made you regret speaking. "I've been to university."

Ivar's eyes glittered with amusement at your outburst. "Such fire," he murmured, and the approval in his voice was somehow more terrifying than if he'd been angry. "Tell me, what is this 'university' of which you speak?"

"It's..." You struggled to find words they might understand. "It's like... a place of learning? Where you go to study... things?"

"Things," Hvitserk repeated, and now he wasn't bothering to hide his smile. "How illuminating."

Your face burned hotter. Everything you said made you sound either crazy or stupid, and you were beginning to suspect both might be true.

"She is either touched by the gods or touched in the head," Sigurd declared, earning chuckles from some of the watching crowd.

"I'm not crazy," you protested weakly, but even as you said it, doubt crept in. Maybe you were. Maybe you'd hit your head and all of this was some elaborate hallucination brought on by a concussion.

But the ache in your scraped palms felt real. The smoke in the air made your eyes water in a very real way. And the expressions on the faces around you carried a weight that no dream or hallucination could match.

"Then explain," Aslaug commanded, her voice carrying absolute authority. "Explain your strange garments, your peculiar speech, your claim to come from a place beyond our knowledge."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. How could you explain that you came from a world over a thousand years in their future? That you knew their names, their personalities, their fates because you'd watched them portrayed on a television show? That you had their pictures saved on your phone?

Your phone. Which was lying somewhere in a forest that apparently didn't exist anymore.

"I..." you started, then stopped. Your throat felt tight, and for the first time since this nightmare began, tears threatened at the corners of your eyes. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Try" Ivar suggested, and his voice carried a silky threat that made your blood run cold.

Because suddenly, impossibly, you were beginning to understand that this wasn't a film set or an immersive experience or an elaborate prank. The smells were too real, the sounds too authentic, the weight of history too heavy in the air around you.

These weren't actors playing characters.

These were the actual characters.

Which meant you were standing in Queen Aslaug's hall, facing Ivar the Boneless himself, in a world where the things you'd watched him do on screen weren't fictional plot points but actual memories.

The hall suddenly felt very cold indeed.

"I think," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "I think I'm in a lot of trouble."

The silence that followed stretched on forever, broken only by the crackling of fires and the distant sounds of life continuing outside the hall. You could feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon you, studying your every reaction, cataloging your fear.

Finally, Aslaug spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Children" she said, addressing her sons, "what think you of this strange girl?"

"She is clearly foreign," Ubbe said thoughtfully, his voice carrying the same measured tone you'd always admired on screen. "But from where, I cannot say. Her manner of dress suggests wealth of a sort, but the materials are unknown to me."

"Perhaps she is a sorceress," Sigurd suggested, his voice carrying the same cruel amusement it always had on the show. "Sent by our enemies to bewitch us with her strange appearance."

"I'm not a sorceress!" you protested, then immediately regretted drawing more attention to yourself. "I mean... I'm not... I don't know magic or anything like that."

Ivar had been silent during his brothers' discussion, but now he spoke, his voice carrying a authority that immediately silenced everyone else. "Mother," he said, never taking his eyes off you, "what do your visions tell you of this creature?"

Aslaug's mystical gaze seemed to look right through you, and for a long moment, she said nothing. When she finally spoke, her words sent chills down your spine.

"The gods whisper of displacement," she said slowly. "Of things torn from their proper place. She carries the scent of otherworldly knowledge."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. How could she possibly know?

"Otherworldly knowledge?" Ubbe questioned. "What manner of knowledge?"

Aslaug's eyes never left your face. "Tell me, strange girl, do you know of things yet to come?"

The question hit you like a physical blow. Did you know things yet to come? You knew everything that was supposed to happen to these people to date. You'd watched their stories unfold, knew their triumphs and failures, their loves and losses.

"I..." you stammered, unsure how to answer without making everything worse.

"She hesitates," Hvitserk observed. "That is answer enough."

"What do you know?" Ivar demanded, his voice sharp with sudden interest. "What visions plague your mind ?"

You looked around the hall desperately, at faces that belonged to people whose fates you knew by heart. How could you tell them that you'd watched Sigurd die? That you knew how Ivar's cruelty would escalate.

"I can't," you whispered. "I can't tell you."

"Cannot?" Sigurd laughed harshly. "Or will not?"

"Both," you admitted, and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Ivar's eyes glittered dangerously. "How interesting," he murmured. "Knowledge she possesses but will not share. Perhaps she requires... encouragement."

The threat in his voice was unmistakable, and suddenly you were terrified in a way that went bone-deep. This wasn't the sanitized violence of television anymore. This was real, and these people had no modern concepts of human rights or due process to protect you.

"Wait," you said quickly, raising your hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please, I'm not trying to be difficult. It's just... complicated."

"Uncomplicate it," Aslaug commanded.

You took a shaky breath, trying to find words that might make sense to them without revealing the impossible truth. "Where I come from, we have... stories ... Sagas ... About people like you. About this place. About things that might happen."

"Stories," Ubbe repeated slowly. "What sort of stories?"

"Stories about great warriors," you said carefully. "About raids and battles and... and of Ragnar Lothbrok."

The effect of Ragnar's name was immediate and electric. All four brothers straightened, their attention focusing on you with laser intensity.

"You know of our father?" Hvitserk demanded.

"Everyone knows of Ragnar," you said, which was true enough. "His fame ... his fame reaches very far."

You'd almost said "will reach," catching yourself just in time.

"And what do these stories say?" Ivar asked, his voice deceptively soft.

You looked at him, this man who would evolve into someone capable of such beautiful and terrible things, and felt your heart break a little.

"They say you're destined for greatness," you whispered. "All of you. That your names will be remembered long after..."

You stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Long after you're all dead, you'd been about to say.

"After what?" Sigurd pressed.

"After the world changes," you finished lamely.

The brothers exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.

"She speaks in riddles," Hvitserk said. "Like a völur."

"Or like a spy," Sigurd countered. "Sent to learn our secrets and report back to our enemies."

"What enemies?" you asked, confused. "I don't work for anyone. I don't even know where I am, exactly. I mean, I think this is Kattegat, but..."

"You know the name of our home," Ubbe observed. "Yet claim to be lost."

You realized your mistake too late. Of course they'd find it suspicious that you knew where you were.

"The stories," you said weakly. "I told you, there are stories..."

"Convenient stories," Sigurd sneered. "That tell you exactly what you need to know."

Aslaug held up a hand, silencing her sons. "Enough," she said. "The girl is clearly far from home, whatever her true origins. The question now is what to do with her."

Your stomach dropped. In the show, strangers who couldn't account for themselves rarely fared well.

"She could be useful," Ivar said thoughtfully, and something in his tone made your skin crawl. "If she truly possesses knowledge of the future, she might prove... valuable."

"And if she is a spy?" Sigurd challenged.

Ivar's smile was razor-sharp. "Then she will tell us everything she knows before she dies."

You felt the blood drain from your face. Was this Ivar at his most dangerous ?—calculating, intelligent, and utterly without mercy. You'd watched him torture people on screen, had been simultaneously horrified and fascinated by his methods, but when where you now ? What season ?

Being on the receiving end of his attention was pure nightmare, but where exactly where you in the seasons.

God you sounded nuts, which episode did the stranger fall through time ... your probably unconscious in a forest having a fever-dream.

"Please," you said, your voice small and shaking. "I'm not a spy. I'm just... lost. I fell in the woods and when I got up, I was here. I don't understand it any more than you do."

"The woods?" Ubbe questioned. "What woods?"

"I..." You struggled to explain. "There was a hiking trail. Trees. I was trying to find my way with my... with a device that shows directions. But it broke, and I fell, and then..."

"A device that shows directions?" Hvitserk leaned forward with interest. "What manner of device?"

You realized you'd painted yourself into another corner. How did you explain GPS to medieval Vikings?

"It's... it was like a... a map?" you tried desperately. "But small and it showed lots of maps?"

"Lots of Maps," Sigurd repeated mockingly. "How convenient that this miraculous map is lost."

"But perhaps," Aslaug said slowly, "not so convenient for her."

All eyes turned to the Queen, waiting for her to elaborate.

"If she speaks truth," Aslaug continued, "if she is indeed displaced from her proper place, then she is as lost as she claims. A stranger in a strange land, with no way to return home."

The sympathy in her voice gave you a brief moment of hope, but it was quickly dashed by her next words.

"Which makes her our responsibility. And our property."

Your heart stopped. Property. The word hung in the air like a death sentence.

"She will need to earn her place among us," Aslaug continued. "Prove her worth through service."

"What manner of service?" Ubbe asked, though his tone suggested he already knew where this was heading.

Aslaug's gaze moved between her sons, considering. "She claims knowledge of the future. If true, this makes her valuable. But also dangerous, if that knowledge falls into the wrong hands."

"She should be closely watched," Hvitserk agreed.

"Very closely," Ivar added, and there was something in his voice that made your blood freeze.

"Then it is decided," Aslaug declared. "The strange girl will serve as a slave in our household. She will be given to..."

Your heart hammered as her gaze moved between her sons. Please not Ivar, you thought desperately. Oh shit not Sigurd either.

Ubbe, in your mind was the most reasonable.

"My youngest son Ivar," she finished.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Of all the possible outcomes, this felt like the worst. You'd watched Ivar on screen, had seen what he did to people who displeased him. His intelligence made him unpredictable, his disability made him cruel, and his curiosity made him dangerous.

And now you belonged to him.

"An excellent choice, Mother," Ivar said, his voice carrying a satisfaction that made your skin crawl. "I shall take very good care of our mysterious little guest."

The promise in his words was anything but comforting.

You stood frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by people whose stories you knew by heart, facing a future that terrified you beyond measure. Because you knew exactly what Ivar was capable of.

Aslaus sees Ivar from the kitchen and immediately calls out for him. She was very careful with him, not wanting him to feel any kind of pain. “Ivar,” her voice is soft as she walks towards him, “Do you not want to spend time with your brothers?” She wants to know and Ivar knows if he’d tell her the truth she would scold Ubbe and Hvitserk, even Bjorn, so long until they would include him and he didn’t want that.

So he just lies, “My legs hurt.” His voice is a mumble to not give himself away. Aslaug ruffles his hair and places a kiss on top while Ivar grimaces. He’d told his mother often enough that he grew out of all those affections. 

Her voice is still soft as she speaks, “Do you want me to bring you painkillers?” But Ivar shakes his head. All he wanted was to be on his own. Nothing more, nothing less. Aslaug eyes Ivar one last time before she ruffles his hair again and goes back to the kitchen. Ivar lets out a relieved breath and limps his way into his room.

He was the only one who had his bedroom downstairs, damn his legs. His mother wanted his life to be as easy as possible but while Hvitserk, Ubbe and Sigurd could secretly spend time together after bedtime, Ivar couldn’t. He was on his own in his room. No one to talk to once bedtime came. Only himself…

It takes an insane amount of self control to not slam his bedroom door. Once the door is closed he throws away his crutch and drops to the ground. Normally he would crawl over to his bed, a low bed frame with a mattress–as close to the ground as possible–but he didn’t feel like laying in his bed. He felt like crying, like laying on the floor and hoping that it would swallow him. And that’s exactly what he did…

He lays on the floor for god knows how many hours, silent tears streaming down his face. He would do anything if only he could have a normal life. Was that too much to ask? Was it?

-

“Ubbe,” Aslaug walks into the living room. “Have you seen Ivar?” she asks her oldest, not having seen her precious boy since he came home from school a few hours earlier. On most occasions Ivar would sit with her in the kitchen and tell her about any and everything but today he went straight to his room, slamming the door shut. When Aslaug went to check on him, he wasn’t there.

Ubbe doesn’t even look up from his phone, “He’s in his room.” 

“He is not.” A hint of panic is evident in Aslaug’s voice and now Ubbe looks up. The look on his mothers face is slightly distraught while she looks at her son. “He is not in his room, Ubbe. He’s not in the house.” 

Ubbe raises to his feet, walking over to his mother to place a comforting hand on her arm. “He’s probably just with Hvitserk. He wanted to go and get sushi. I will call him, alright?” He searched for her eyes. “Ivar is okay,” he promises, not knowing if he could even believe that himself…

“He’s not with me,” Hvitserk says with a full mouth once Ubbe calls him. “I haven’t seen him all day. Maybe ask Sigurd.” Hvitserk puts another sushi roll in his mouth as he hears Ubbe rambling about Ivar and where he could be. 

Ubbe starts pacing around. “Sigurd is in his room, still alive, so I’m more than positive Ivar isn’t with him.” Nervously he lets his hand comb through his braids. “Hvitserk, he’s gone,” panic rises in Ubbe’s voice. This was the first time Ivar was gone for so long, Aslaug started going crazy. 

Now the seriousness of the situation starts to settle within Hvitserk. He puts his sushi roll down and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “You call Bjorn and tell him what’s going on. I will go and drive to all the possible places Ivar could be.” He stands up, places more money than his sushi cost on the table and grabs his jacket to leave the restaurant. “We will find him Ubbe! And call Lagertha. Maybe she will be able to calm mom down a bit.”

Once Hvitserk hung up he was already speeding across the highway, on his way home. There were only a handful of places Ivar could get to on his own and Hvitserk knew those places like the back of his hand. He–They would find Ivar. Even if he didn’t want it.

-

Ivar’s vision is blurry as he stares at the lake. No one would expect him here. They all knew he hated water. He was afraid of it. He was powerless against it. And powerlessness was something he deeply despised. 

The grass is soft beneath his fingers and for a minute he thinks about abandoning his plan. He knew his mom would miss him. Maybe Ubbe and Hvitserk a tiny bit but otherwise… He was invisible to people, even his own family. He doesn’t remember one day where his father looked at him–when he was home. Or when Bjorn did something just with him. Normally Ivar was just the one tagging along.

Hvitserk did things with Bjorn, Ubbe did and hell, Bjorn even took Sigurd to concerts from time to time. But never Ivar. Never once his youngest brother crossed his mind whenever Bjorn was over at their house or out with any of his other brothers. Ivar was invisible to him. And he didn’t even feel sorry.

Another flood of tears makes their way down Ivar’s cheeks and he doesn’t fight when sobs break past his lips. He was done with acting though. He didn’t want to anymore. He just wanted to be loved. That was all he asked for… He just wanted his brothers to love him. 

Since Ivar could remember he idolized Bjorn, he wanted his oldest brother to be proud of him, to pat his shoulder and say ‘I love you’ but that never happened. At first Ivar thought it was because Bjorn was 16 years older than him and just didn’t know how to handle the little boy with fragile legs but the older he got the more Ivar realized that that wasn’t the case. 

He saw how Bjorn handled his own daughter Siggy, who suffered from brain damage after almost drowning as a baby, and from that he knew, he was the problem; not Bjorn. Bjorn knew how to handle disabled kids, he just didn’t want to deal with Ivar. Something about Ivar set Bjorn off but Ivar didn’t know what it was. If he knew, maybe he could change…

-

Bjorn groans when he’s woken up from his nap. He blindly grabs his phone and holds it to his ear. But once he hears Ubbe’s distressed voice he sits up and wipes the sleep out of his eyes. 

“What? What do you mean, he’s gone?” He’s on his feet in a matter of seconds, searching for his jeans. “Since when?” he asks Ubbe, stumbling through his apartment to grab his car keys. “Does Aslaug know?” A small pause. “Okay, I will call my mother. I am on my way!”

Once Ubbe hangs up Bjorn stands in his hallway, his brother’s voice repeating itself in his head. Ivar is gone. That was what Ubbe said. Was it his fault? Was he part of the reason why Ivar disappeared? He wasn’t exactly…familiar with his little brother. He knew Ivar had tried and every time the young boy wanted to spend time with Bjorn he found a lazy excuse not to. He noticed when Ivar stopped trying but it hadn’t bothered him. The opposite. He was happy about it. 

Bjorn shakes his head and opens his apartment door. He couldn’t think of that right now. He needed to find Ivar. And maybe try to fix his mistakes… He knew it wouldn’t be easy. Far from it actually. 

While Bjorn jumped into his car he called his mother to tell her about the situation. Lagertha promised to drive over to the Lothbrok mansion as soon as possible. Other than what people might think, Lagertha and Aslaug got along quite well. In the beginning they had their differences but now, almost like two peas in a pot.

With way more speed than probably allowed Bjorn drove off his driveway, on his way to the only place where he thought Ivar could be right now. He didn’t know why he had such a strong feeling about the lake but something told him his little brother was there and he didn’t have a good feeling about it. 

-

With steady hands Ivar makes his way over to the lakeshore. He was set on his plan and no one could try to stop him now. He knew where Ubbe and Hvitserk would search. And it wasn’t at the lake. It definitely wasn’t at the lake.

The water is cold against his skin and he shivers. Slowly he crawls deeper in, the ground slowly falling off. Soon he would need his hands to keep his body over the water. And his hands wouldn’t do that for long. That was what Ivar counted on.

The further he got in the water the more he realized what he was about to do. He thought about it for a long time but he never had a plan. Until today. He was alone with his feelings too long, he couldn’t bear the weight of them anymore. It was simply too much. And he had no one to talk to…

After a short while he reaches the point where he needs to start to swim. He could do it for five minutes, ten maximum before he would run out of strength. Then he would start to sink to the bottom of the lake…

Ivar looks up at the clouds, the sun, and he feels at peace. He’s at peace with what he is about to do and it feels weird. He shouldn’t think like that, feel like that but he can’t help it. He was ready to die and he was welcoming death with open arms…

Bjorn doesn’t bother parking his car correctly. He kills the engine and is out in seconds, running through the little forest towards the lake. If his gut was right he didn’t have any more time.

His lungs burn from exhaustion and his breath is labored once he reaches the lake. His eyes scan his surroundings and then he sees it. The lifeless body a few meters from the shore. 

“Ivar! Ivar!” Desperate screams rip past Bjorn’s lips as he runs towards the shore to jump inside the lake. Was he too late? Did he fail one last time? No, he couldn’t! It couldn’t– 

When he reaches Ivar’s body the young one’s face is already turning blue. Once he has a good hold on Ivar, his head over the water he starts to make his way back to the shore. Bjorn can’t remember even swimming that fast.

Bjorn’s lungs are still burning when he places Ivar on the shore, immediately feeling for a pulse. A massive weight drops from his shoulders when he finds one. It’s weak, but it’s there. He tries to remember his first aid course and what he was supposed to do but it was like it was all gone. Every coherent thought; gone. 

Panic starts to set in as he turns his little brother to the side and slightly claps his back. “Come on Ivar. Don’t do this. Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, turning the younger one back onto his back and starting to reanimate him. “Don’t–” his voice breaks. “You can’t leave me.” 

Bjorn doesn’t notice the tears dripping onto Ivar’s wet body as he tries his best to bring his little brother back.

-

An obnoxious beep rips Ivar back to consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to cast out the beep but it wasn’t working. There was someone holding–no, stroking his hand which confused him even more. Was this what the after life was like? He thought it would be…different?

“I think he’s waking up,” he can hear his mom–wait! His mom? Waking up? He thought he was dead? He rips his hand away, starting to stir but then two pairs of hands hold him down.

“Go get the doctor!” Was that Ubbe? “Now!” That was definitely Ubbe! 

Now another voice spoke up, “Ivar, Ivar you need to calm down.” Bjorn? “Everything is alright, okay? But you need to stop thrashing around.” No, that couldn’t be Bjorn. The voice was so…gentle and soft. There was no way that that could be Bjorn. “Please Ivar. Calm down…”

He couldn’t calm down. He didn’t want to calm down. He wasn’t even supposed to be alive! 

-

Bjorn is sure he was walking holes in the floor with the way he was pacing around. After Ivar gained consciousness and started to thrash around they gave him a small sedative to calm him down. He was asleep for hours now and Bjorn refused to go home. He neglected Ivar enough times without a slightest hint of feeling sorry. He couldn’t leave now. Not when his life was still somehow at risk…

“Do you want to sit down?” Aslaug’s weak voice sounded as she patted the chair beside her. “You've been on your feet for a long time already.” The smile on her face is gentle and the first time Bjorn asks himself how he could hate her. She didn’t know his father was married when they first met. It was his father that kept that from her. Bjorn had no good reason to hate Aslaug. It was Ragnar that destroyed their family. 

Without arguing he sits down beside his stepmother, placing his chin on his hand. Waiting for Ivar to wake up was pure agony. 

Carefully Aslaug places her hand on Bjorn’s leg. “Thank you for saving him,” she whispers, looking at her stepson with tears in her eyes. “Without you he wouldn’t be here anymore..” A genuine, faint smile is playing around her lips and without much thought Bjorn places his hand over hers. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry…” 

Aslaug shakes her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” The tone of her voice is comforting and Bjorn wants to believe it but he can’t. He knows he’s part of the reason why Ivar did what he did. If he would’ve cared about his little brother any sooner this never would’ve happened. “It wasn’t your fault…”

“But it was!” Bjorn says, his voice louder than he would’ve liked. He buries his hands in his hair, pulling the dirty blond strands. “I’m an adult for fucks sake, I have children myself and still I didn’t manage to take care of my little brother properly! All because–” his voice breaks. “–all because I couldn’t forgive you for something you had no fault in…” Tears sting in his eyes and all Bjorn wishes for right now is the comfort of a hug. 

“I couldn’t look at him because of something he can’t change. I knew that he wasn’t okay, I could see it and I did nothing…” A tear rolls down his cheek. “He wanted to hang out with me and do stuff with me but I always found some lousy excuse. I took Hvitserk and Ubbe from him. I–I failed.” 

Aslaug pulls her hand away from Bjorn’s thigh and instead places it on his back. “You made mistakes, I won’t deny that and at your age you should’ve known better but now is the time to fix your mistakes.” She starts to comfortingly stroke his back. “But you're not at fault for this, Bjorn. We…all saw that he wasn’t okay–I saw it and I tried to ignore it. If anything…it’s the fault of all of us.” Her voice starts to tremble.

Bjorn looks at her, seeing the tears in her eyes that threaten to fall and he embraces her. He’s never done it. In the almost 20 years Bjorn knew his stepmother he never showed her any affection, he resented her most of those years, but right now he needed the comfort. And she needed it too.   

-

The silence is loud as Ivar looks back at his family. He’s sitting in the hospital bed, waiting for the scolding to start. That was what he deserved. A scolding. The way Ubbe, Hvitserk, even Sigurd and Bjorn stare at him was frightening and Ivar hated to admit it but right now he was scared of his brothers. The only one who was a calming presence was his mother…

She sits beside the bed, her hand carefully cradling his. She was the first to talk. “How are you feeling?” She wants to know, her voice gentle and steady but Ivar could see the tear streaks adorning her face. He was the reason for them. He was ashamed. 

When Aslaug realizes that Ivar won’t answer she continues talking. “We were…afraid for you. You can be lucky that Bjorn found you in time.” Ivar frowns. Bjorn? Bjorn was the one who found him? But–How? His eyes snap towards his oldest brother and that’s when he notices how red and also puffy they were. Has he missed something?

“Bjorn?” Ivar croaks out, not quite believing his mother. But she only nods, a faint smile on her lips. Ivar looks at his mother, then back to Bjorn. “Why?” he asks. A simple question. One word. Why?

Bjorn swallows and walks forwards and sits down at the edge of Ivar’s bed.  “Because you’re my little brother,” he says. “And I’m supposed to protect you.” Ivar wants to open his mouth to shoot back a snarky remark but Bjorn beats him to it. “I know I failed you. It’s…pathetic, really.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I am sorry, Ivar. I know that won’t undo things and it won’t make them okay but… I am sorry.” He looks at Ivar. “Sometimes we need to lose things in order to realize how important they are to us. I love you, Ivar. And I was a fool for trying to deny that. You’re my little brother and you will always stay my little brother. No matter what.”  

Ivar bites down on his lip. “You really are a fool,” he then mumbles. “I should hate you actually.” His eyes are narrow as he looks at Bjorn, not used to seeing him so caring and gentle and…sorry. “You weren’t exactly nice to me.”

Bjorn nods. “I know.”

“Good.” 

-

“If I could run I would chase you to the ends of the world,” Ivar screams as Bjorn runs away from him, a water gun in his hand. The oldest is giggling like a maniac while Ivar stands on the patio with his crutch, soaked in water. 

It’s been weeks, months even, since he’s been out of the hospital and it was almost comical how things changed. Bjorn was, well…he finally was the brother Ivar wanted all those years. Right now he was staying over at Lagertha’s house, house-sitting together with Bjorn. He had offered and Ivar thought, why not? He’d finally be able to spend time with the brother he idolized all those years. 

“Should’ve thought about that before,” Bjorn shouts back, running around the garden while also being chased by Hali and Asa. Sometimes he really didn’t behave like a 30-something year old man. He really didn’t. He acted like a fucking teenager.

Ivar bites back a grin before he plops down beside Siggy. She was a few years younger than Ivar and her brain damage restricted her sometimes but that only made her and him more similar. She was almost completely paralyzed from the chest down and had her problems forming sentences, still Ivar loved spending time with her. She was smart and sometimes she was the only one who understood him and the way he thought. 

“Your dad’s a child,” he smiles as he looks at her. She only laughs and nods. Her dad did behave like a child sometimes. She thought it was funny though. That made him less boring than other dads. That made him special. 

Ivar and Siggy watch as Hali and Asa finally catch their father and manage to make him stumble and fall into the pool. “That’s karma,” Ivar shouts, giving his niece and nephew a thumbs up. 

Bjorn breaks the water surface, a big grin on his face. “You just wait, Boneless! You can’t run from me!” he threatens with a laugh, pointing his finger at his younger brother. 

Ivar laughs. “Am I running?”

That was Bjorn’s sign. He jumps out of the pool, running towards Ivar to–carefully–pick him up and jump in the pool with him. A war cry on his lips.

When Ivar was fresh out of the hospital he refused to go near any water but step by step, with help from Ubbe, Hvitserk, Bjorn and–god forbid–even Sigurd, Ivar actually started to like the water. But only when he wasn’t alone. Most of the time he went swimming with Bjorn, so he felt comfortable with his older brother but sometimes he also went with Ubbe.