Vikings Archive

Winchester is a fascinating place. The landscape is similar enough to Norway’s, albeit missing the country’s magnificent mountains and rolling hills that Ragnar has somehow grown bored of. It has grown even closer in similarity these last few months, with winter bringing heavy snowstorms, covering the courtyard in fluffy white snow that glitters in the cold sunlight.

Free of King Ecbert’s all-knowing gaze, he walks beside Athelstan, eagerly waiting to see where his priest is leading him. But he’s known for being impatient, voicing his restlessness to Athelstan, a man who has enough patience for the both of them. “Where are you taking me, little priest?” Ragnar asks, trying to push the right buttons to irritate him, but it fails. 

“Patience is a virtue, Ragnar,” he replies, a knowing look on his face.

Ragnar rolls his eyes with a dramatic groan, earning himself a quiet chuckle from his friend. “Well, are we close, at least?” 

Athelstan doesn’t answer him on purpose, knowing it’ll annoy him further. Before Ragnar can continue to complain, Athelstan announces they’ve arrived at their destination. “We’re here.”

They stand in front of two giant wooden doors at the end of the long cobblestone hallway they found themselves in. The black metal handles make it look like the entrance to a dungeon. 

Ragnar looks at Athelstan with confusion. Ath must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere! Ath surely can’t be serious when he says this is what he is so eager to show him! “Didn’t realize you’re a comedian, Athelstan,” he smirks. “Come on, where are we going, truthfully?”

Athelstan turns to meet his gaze, unaffected by Ragnar’s cockiness, far too used to him and his shenanigans. “I told you, patience is a virtue.” He leaves Ragnar’s side, walking up two pointless steps, and takes hold of the cold metal handles, pulling both doors open in a grand reveal of what lay behind. Light flooded the dark hallway, causing Ragnar to raise a shielding hand to his brow. 

Through squinted eyes, what he sees takes his breath away. Larger-than-life stained glass windows filter the massive amount of winter sunlight into a rainbow of colors across the beautiful stone floors. Despite the colorful sunlight, the room is still relatively dark. The ceiling is taller than the hallways’, at least three stories worth of height between the two, the top coming together at a point. Hanging from the pointed ceiling is a fancy—and expensive-looking—candlelit chandelier, adding to the specific atmosphere in the room that Ragnar can’t find a descriptor name for. In the center of the room is a marble statue depicting what appears to be a stable of some kind. The wall behind the statue hangs a large wooden cross with a bronze man nailed to it. 

“This is what I wanted to show you.” Athelstan looks as if he is in his God’s heaven. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Ragnar slowly trails behind him, head craning back to absorb everything before him. “Is this what you talk so much of back home? What is it called…” he mumbles under his breath, searching for the word in English. “A… church?”

Athelstan smiles at the effort Ragnar is putting towards getting the correct answer all on his own. “Close. A chapel,” he says in Norse, then repeats the new word in English.

He nods, trying to commit the phrase to memory. “What is the difference?” he asks, returning to Norse. 

“A chapel is a place for private prayers, while a church is for congregations led by a priest.” Ath lets Ragnar take his hand within his callused one, keeping him close. 

The Vikingr’s eyes light up at the mention of a priest. Finally, something he knew something about! “A priest? A priest like mine?” 

Ragnar’s words cause a red dust to bloom across Athelstan’s cheeks. “I’m not a priest, Ragnar.” 

He shrugs. “They’re basically the same thing.” Ragnar turns and points at the marbled statue in the center of the room. “What is that? It’s not like anything you’ve told me about.”

Athelstan looks to where he is pointing and pulls Ragnar towards it with the hand the Vikingr still held onto. “This is a nativity scene!” 

He looks at him with a confused expression, suddenly lost again. “A nativity scene? What is a nativity?” Ragnar asks, the English word feeling foreign and unnatural on his tongue.

He gnaws on his thick bottom lip as he mulls over the easiest way to explain it in Norse. He sighs. “A nativity is the place of someone’s birth. And a nativity scene is a depiction of that.” Ragnar circles the statue, looking at it from every angle imaginable as if he were sizing an opponent up for a fight. He crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his elbow into the meat of his forearm, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. 

“Why?”

It’s Athelstan’s turn to feel puzzled now. “What?”

“You heard me, Ath. Why? What is the point?” 

Ath moves to stand beside him. “It’s a recreation of the birth of our Savior.”

Ragnar interrupts him. “Our savior?” he questions, voice full of snark.

“Shut it and listen,” he smacks his bicep. “It’s how the faith celebrates the birth of the son of God all year round. Every year around this time, churches will put together beautiful masses to commemorate the birth of Jesus. It’s an important symbol in the religion, making the Lord tangible for all the world. Etching it into stone makes it permanent, ensuring parishioners never forget that He was once a helpless babe like they were.” 

He doesn’t respond immediately, absorbing Athelstan’s words and attempting to understand them to the best of his abilities. “God’s son?” Ragnar squats in front of the marble baby. The stone infant slept in a pile of straw compiled within a trough, surrounded by who Ragnar assumed were his parents and extended family. Ragnar trails his finger across the babe’s cold forehead, feeling the finely chiseled details against his skin. “Is this the eldest son?”

Athelstan sits cross-cross next to him, nodding.

“Like Thor?”

Ath makes a face. “I suppose so.”

“Who are your god’s other children? Why are they not here?” Ragnar shifts to sit as well. “Why dishonor his other children this way?”

“Jesus is God’s only son.”

Ragnar chuckles. “Your god must be stupid, then. Betting everything on one son, only for him to die before having sons of his own.”

“Everything was a part of His plan, making Jesus’ death far from stupid,” Ath counters, leaning against Ragnar’s shoulder. 

The Vikingr sighs deeply. “Do you worship him still? This Jesus.”

Athelstan shrugs. “I see the Lord in the blooming of spring flowers, but I hear Thor in my ears when I run into battle beside you. I feel the Lord in the summertime breeze, but I pray to Freyja to protect my norse sisters when they enter motherhood.”

“You’re a confusing man, Athelstan. No matter how much I learn about you, you never fail to reveal something I’m incapable of understanding.” Ragnar’s words earn him a giggle from the man beside him. 

Ath turns his head, his chin digging into the soft tissue in Ragnar’s shoulder. “You’d be bored if I were any different.” Ragnar’s silence is telling, confirming Athelstan’s statement as correct. 

Ragnar doesn’t stay silent for long. He never is quiet for long, always spouting the first thing that comes to mind. “Why is there no table?”

“Table?” Ath questions. 

“The table!” he repeats as if that would clarify it. He gestures with his hands, trying to visualize the image in his head by drawing it in the air. “The table the priest hides behind!”

Ragnar’s words finally clicked inside Ath’s head. “Oh! You mean the altar?” He nods. “Chapels don’t have altars since they’re designed for individual prayer.”

“That’s a shame,” he says with a coy smirk, a devious glint in his icy-blue eyes.

Athelstan raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah? Now, why is that?” Ragnar invades Ath’s personal space, noses just barely touching. It doesn’t startle him in the slightest, having grown quite used to it in the past handful of years being Ragnar’s partner.

Teasingly, he licks the tip of Ath’s nose. He leans in, whispering hotly in his ear. “If there were a table,” Ragnar refuses to call it by its proper name, purposely to irk him, “I could bend you over and fuck you on it.” He finishes with a sultry drag of his tongue up the shell of Athelstan’s ear, biting the lobe when the younger man shudders underneath him.

Athelstan’s expression looks as if he can’t decide between being aroused or being appalled. “Ragnar!”

“What, little priest? Does the idea of fucking on your god’s table make you uncomfortable?” Ragnar slides a rough hand over one of Athelstan’s thighs. “Or does the thought of defiling your Lord’s precious altar fill you with an embarrassing feeling of desire?” Ragnar’s words are hot against his ear, drawing another shudder from him.

“Ragnar!” Athelstan exclaims, his face a bright shade of red. 

His smirk broadens as he drinks in Ath’s reaction. “Hm? Did I strike a nerve in you, my love?” Ragnar goads, teasing his hand further up Athelstan’s inner thigh, fingertips sending tingles straight to Ath’s slowly hardening cock. “Maybe I should take you right here instead, take you apart piece by piece in front of your beloved stone nativity.”

Athelstan grasps his wrist, halting his hand from edging along any further. “We can’t—I can’t. Not here.” 

“Then explain why your cock is telling me a different story, my love,” he hums, breaking free of Athelstan’s hold to cup the man’s groin in his palm. Ragnar feels his own cock twitch against his thigh. “Let me show your god exactly how I worship you.” Ragnar closes the barely-there gap between them, lips pressing against his messily, hungrily. Athelstan practically melts under his ministrations, just like always. He grips Ragnar’s wrist again, trying to keep himself grounded, or else he feels as if he might float away. 

“Ragnar, we can’t, it’s wrong!” Athelstan isn’t sure if he’s saying it to convince himself or Ragnar. Maybe both. When he’s kissing him, he can’t be sure of much. “Seriously,” Ragnar kisses him again. “We shouldn’t—” Another kiss. “We can’t!” Another kiss, this one sloppier than the rest.

Ragnar mocks him teasingly. “We can’t! We shouldn’t! It’s wrong! You should give me a real reason, little priest.” He moves to kiss down Ath’s neck, sucking on the spot he knows will make the man whimper and shiver. “Don’t try and hide how badly you want this. You know I can see right through your little disguise, sweetheart.” Ragnar squeezes Ath’s quickly thickening cock, pulling sweet, embarrassing noises from him. Athelstan’s resolve is quickly deteriorating, much to Ragnar’s pleasure.

“This is no fair; you’re no fair, Ragnar,” Ath complains, forgetting to add malice to his insult. His blush has spread down the column of his neck, making Ragnar want to suck pretty purple bruises into the soft skin there. Ragnar’s quick to act on his impulses, leaving an impossible-to-hide bruise in his wake. “What—What if someone walks in?” Ath manages to stutter out.

He chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating in his chest. “So what?” he snickers, kissing a line down Ath’s neck, roughly tugging on the neckline of his tunic so he can continue along his shoulder. “Who cares if someone finds us. It wouldn’t stop me.” Quickly finding the blue fabric irritating, Ragnar pulls it over Ath’s head and tosses it behind them without a care. Taking off his own shit as well, Ragnar pushes him to lie on his back, shoving his tunic underneath Ath’s head as a makeshift pillow. “So what if your beloved god watches me fuck you? He should be honored to watch one of his creations be so thoroughly taken care of,” he hums, his words sending another wave of sparks through Athelstan’s body.

Athelstan doesn’t have a response for him. And even if he did, he doesn’t think he’d be capable of speaking without stumbling over every word. So he stays silent to keep from embarrassing himself further. The lack of any comeback made Ragnar grin maliciously.

“Not talking, my little priest?” he asks coyly. “Now, now, why could that be? I know you’re good with your words.” As Ragnar speaks, his deft fingers quickly begin unlacing Athelstan’s trousers. “Perhaps,” he licks his lips enticingly, his grin morphing into a familiar cocky smirk, “perhaps you want me to turn you into a dirty little sinner. Maybe you just don’t wanna admit how hard the thought of defiling your beloved god’s house makes you. ‘Cause then,” Ragnar leans down to whisper in his ear, his breath hot against his lover’s skin, “you’d be a filthy heathen like me.”

All of the willpower Athelstan had mustered up ‘till down crumbles around him at Ragnar’s words, the thought alone making his pretty pale blue eyes roll backward in his skull. “Fuck, Ragnar,” he groans, his voice shaking as if he might start crying any minute. “Fuck it, fuck everything, fuck God—I need you right now!” Ath exclaims, wiggling out of his trousers and kicking them away. He fumbles with the ties on Ragnar’s pants, desperately trying to push them down his thick, muscled thighs.

Ragnar cheekily nips at the shell of his ear before helping Athelstan relieve him of his pants, leaving the pair in just their undergarments. “Didn’t hold out for as long as I thought you would, sweetheart. Are you that desperate for me to defile you? To ruin you in front of your god?” Ragnar kisses down his sternum, laving his tongue over the sparse freckles he found dotted across his lover’s chest. He teases his fingertips along the waistband of Athelstan’s underwear. “Is that right, Athelstan?” 

Instead of words, Ath whines pathetically, embarrassment flooding his senses. He felt his cock throb and leak beads of pre at the sound of Ragnar saying his name in such a lustful, inappropriate manner. “How long do you truly expect me to hold out for when you seduce me like this?” He unties Ragnar’s ponytail but leaves the braided sections alone, running his fingers through his now mostly loose locks. “You should leave your hair down more often.”

“Only if you promise to pull on it,” he says with a smirk, earning himself a deserved smack on the shoulder. With a giggle, Ragnar unceremoniously tugs down Ath’s underwear, watching intently as his cock slaps against his lover’s toned abdomen. Laying between Ath’s now spread legs, he mouths over his jutting hipbones, kissing everywhere but where Athelstan so desperately wishes he would. Ragnar lifts Athelstan’s legs to rest on his broad shoulders as his rough, weathered hands wrap around his thick, supple thighs, keeping him from squirming away. Nipping at his inner thigh with his teeth, Ragnar slowly makes his way down to Ath’s groin, littering small kisses as he goes. 

Slowly regaining his confidence, Athelstan teases him right back, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Starting to think your bark is worse than your bite, Ragnar.”

He cocks an eyebrow at him. “Oh? How so?”

“You’re going so slow it’s almost like you’ve got cold feet or something,” Athelstan smirks, egging him on.

Ragnar returns his gaze with sharp eyes, telling Ath everything he needs to know with just one look. If he wasn’t before, he’s sure in for it now. Ungentle hands spread the globes of Athelstan’s ass apart. The rush of cool air to the newly exposed skin makes his whole body shiver with anticipation. Ragnar licks a hot, thick stripe from Ath’s hole to just below his balls, drawing an unexpected yelp from him. The yelp soon turns to moans as Ragnar continues, each lap of his tongue sending his nerve endings into overdrive. Slowly working his hole loose, Ragnar slides a free hand up Athelstan’s chest, stopping when they reach his red, bite-swollen lips. “Go on, pretty boy, make them nice’n wet for me.”

He wastes no time, opening his mouth for two of Ragnar’s fingers, sucking on them fervently. Ath licks them from base to tip, acting as if they were his cock and not mere fingers. Once Ragnar deems them wet enough, he pulls them from Athelstan’s lips, a string of spit connecting them briefly before it breaks, now sticking to Ath’s chin instead. “Good job,” Ragnar hums, sliding his spit-slick fingers down Athelstan’s taint and over his entrance. “Do you feel your god? Can you feel him watching us? Watching you?” he taunts with a click of his tongue. Ragnar presses the pads of his fingers against his entrance, threatening to sink inside but never following through with it. 

Athelstan nods, embarrassment bubbling to the surface once more. 

“I don’t think he’ll still be your god after this, little priest,” he licks over his top teeth with a gross wet sound. “I think I’ll be your god instead.” With that, Ragnar presses two fingers inside him, and Athelstan’s jaw drops in a silent scream. The sudden stretch burns slightly, but he likes a little side dish of pain with his pleasure. 

Ragnar sits up, folding his legs underneath him. Athelstan’s legs are still propped up on Ragnar’s shoulders, stretching to stay up there as he moves. He unhurriedly thrusts his digits in and out of Ath’s tight hole, watching smugly as a lewd expression spreads across his lover’s face. Using his free hand, Ragnar holds Athelstan’s left leg steady, peppering light kisses along his meaty calf. 

“You can—fuck—you can add another finger; please add another finger,” he begs, fighting to keep his eyes open and focused on Ragnar. 

He chuckles, but it sounds like it came from the Vikingr’s chest instead of his throat. “What if I don’t?” The pads of his fingers just barely brush against Ath’s sweet spot, enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Weren’t you the one just lecturing me about how patience is a virtue?”

Athelstan huffs in frustration, mildly upset that his words were successfully being used against him. He chooses to ignore it for now, focusing on the first question posed to him instead. “I’d be upset.” He looks up at him with a devilish gaze as if he were daring Ragnar to go through with his threat. They both knew he wouldn’t. Ragnar enjoys taking him apart far too much to deprive him of it just to fulfill an empty threat. 

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we? A God has to keep his subjects happy, after all.” Ragnar slips out of him, wetting his ring finger with his own spit before pressing all three inside. Athelstan blesses his ears with a moan that sounds almost as pretty as he looks. “There we go,” Ragnar mumbles, spreading his fingers apart methodically, occasionally curling them against Ath’s sweet spot. After a few minutes, he deems Athelstan’s hole to be loose enough and pulls out, his knuckles glistening with a combination of their spit. Ragnar removes Athelstan’s legs from their home on his shoulders, motioning for him to sit up.

Quick to obey, he braces himself on the heels of his hands. Ragnar meets him the rest of the way, bending over slightly to kiss him. It’s sweeter than their previous kisses, but it’s not that way for long, Athelstan taking the lead and licking into Ragnar’s eager mouth, turning the sweet kiss into a sloppy makeout. Athelstan anchors his hands in Ragnar’s hair, tugging on it harshly, earning himself a low grumble from the older man. “Let me suck you off, love?” Ath whispers, lightly dragging his teeth down Ragnar’s neck.

He growls, the sound rumbling in his chest handsomely. “Like you need to ask.”

Athelstan wastes no time swapping positions, pulling Ragnar’s underwear down before settling between the man’s spread thighs. He doesn’t beat around the bush, far too eager to get his mouth around Ragnar’s thick cock. Laying down on the cold stone floor, Athelstan presses his face against the crease where Ragnar’s inner thigh meets his pelvis. Breathing in his scent, he lifts his head up and kisses the tip, licking a bead of pre-come off and swallowing. Holding Ragnar’s gaze, Athelstan slowly took him into his hot, wet mouth. Unable to keep his head up, Ragnar closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of Ath’s lips around him. 

“Didn’t know you had such a sinful little mouth, Ath,” Ragnar groans out, putting all his effort towards not fucking his lover’s throat ‘till he can’t speak correctly.

He simply hums around him, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to his core. Sinking down to the base, Athelstan chokes slightly when the tip hits the back of his throat. He gradually quickens the pace as he loosens his jaw, allowing for more of Ragnar’s cock to fit down his throat. Returning the favor, Ragnar yanks on Ath’s dark brown curls, keeping him from pulling off for a few seconds. Spit and drool drip from the base of his cock and down his heavy ballsack, eventually pooling on the gray stone beneath them. Ath’s chin is also slick with spit, his beard damp and curling even more due to the moisture. 

With each bob of his head, the room echoes with sounds of him slurping and the occasional gag. One would think Athelstan had no idea he was in a church based on how he was acting, slobbering around a heathen’s cock as if it were what he was put on this Earth to do. He tongues the thick vein running along the underside of Ragnar’s cock, drawing a strangled moan from the man. Ath does it again before moving upwards, focusing all his attention on the overly sensitive head. He teases the slit he finds there, eagerly lapping up all the pre-come that had begun to dribble out. The action causes Ragnar’s cock to throb and his leg to twitch, and he’s quick to tug on Athelstan’s hair again, a silent warning that he’s close. Noticing this, he promptly pulls off with a wet pop sound. His chest heaves as he quickly tries to catch his breath.

Somehow, Ragnar looks in worse shape than Athelstan does, long hair matted against his sweaty forehead, his cock a deep shade of red and oozing pre-come. The perfect depiction of Satan’s temptations laid out in front of him, just begging for Athelstan to come and take a bite. He doesn’t think twice about going against his Lord’s wishes or what it would mean for his soul, far too enraptured in the delicious spread before him to care about some pretty garden his Lord had to offer when he could have Ragnar Lothbrok instead. Not even the King of Kings can win a fight against the King of the Northman. Ragnar beats everything his Holy Father offers him with little effort. Athelstan looks him up and down, drinking in the sight of him as if he were about to devour him whole.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Athelstan shuffles on his knees to straddle Ragnar’s hips, his cock bobbing enticingly in front of Ragnar’s face. The Vikingr gazes up at Athestan, taking in the beauty before him. His rough hands grab greedily at supple hips, thumbs meeting at a belly button surrounded by a thick trail of coarse hair. Ragnar feels Ath’s hungry eyes on him, an unneeded boost to his severely overblown ego. “You look good enough to eat, my love,” he digs his teeth into his bottom lip, returning Ath’s hungry gaze with one of his own.

“Good enough for a God?” Athelstan asks, voice dripping with lust.

Ragnar pretends to contemplate the question as he rolls his hips upwards to grind against Athelstan’s. “Depends on what His sinful little disciple can offer Him.”

Licking his lips, Ath splays his hands over Ragnar’s chest, tracing over long healed scars with his fingertips. “He can devote his life in service to Him.” Athelstan can’t articulate why, but speaking of himself in the third person like this stirs something within him that makes a pleasurable heat pool in his abdomen. “Devote himself to loving Him, serving Him, obeying Him.” He leans down as he speaks, slowly coming nose-to-nose with Ragnar. Athelstan shifts further down Ragnar’s abdomen, ass now nestled just above Ragnar’s cock. “Would He like that?”

Ragnar’s mouth curls in a devilish grin, grinding against his plush ass. “He’d have to renounce his previous Lord. This God doesn’t like to share with others.”

He kisses the edge of Ragnar’s mouth, knowing how it drives him mad. “Will his new Lord take care of him for eternity?” Ragnar turns Ath’s head to face him properly, his pointer and middle fingers holding his chin as he captures Ath’s lips in a heated kiss. The passion within his embrace serves as Ragnar’s answer, something Athelstan effortlessly picks up on. 

Ragnar pulls away enough to whisper against his lips, switching back to first-person language, his brain too addled with lust to adequately phrase sentences that way for any longer. “How about you make yourself nice’n pretty for your new God?”

“How does He want me?” Athelstan nips at Ragnar’s ear before kissing it, almost like an apology for biting him.

“On all fours, face down,” he slaps Ath’s ass, and Athelstan yelps in surprise, “ass up like you’re praying.” Athelstan gets off of him, but not without a furious red blush flooding from his cheeks to color his pale chest beautifully. Sitting up, he watches how quick Ath is to obey his request. It merely fuels the flames of Ragnar’s ego, making him even more eager to take Athelstan apart piece by piece and put him back together in his own image.

Ath makes a show of bending over, swaying his hips as he goes, and arching his back, making him the picture of temptation. “Like this?” he asks innocently, spreading his legs and looking over his shoulder at him, resting his weight on his forearms. 

Ragnar settles behind him, shamelessly running his hands over the globes of Athelstan’s ass. “Mmhm, just like this. Such a sinful little worshiper you are. Defiling your previous Lord’s house, throwing away your chance for holiness without a second thought.” Ragnar fists his cock, spitting on it to get it wet again. He taps it against Athelstan’s still loose hole, watching it clench desperately around nothing. 

Athelstan’s cock throbs pathetically at Ragnar’s words, sending a whole body shiver through him. He presses his ass into Ragnar’s hands, silently pleading for Ragnar to bury himself deep inside. All it accomplishes, however, is getting the Vikingr to smack his thick cock against him again. 

“I think,” he hums, pausing solely to draw out Ath’s torment, “you should beg your abandoned Lord for forgiveness.” Ragnar presses his cockhead against Athelstan’s entrance, barely dipping inside before retreating. “You are sinning in his house, after all.” Athelstan gasps at his proposition, and Ragnar takes advantage of his lover’s shock, deciding it to be the perfect opportunity to push inside him. He bullies his way inside, not stopping to give Ath time to adjust until his balls are pressed against Ath’s thighs.

“Ragnar!” he yelps, the sudden intrusion knocking the breath from his lungs. On top of having been a while since they last laid together, Ragnar’s cock is far thicker than the three fingers he prepared him with, so there’s a slight burn in the stretch as he bottoms out. “Fuck, you’re so stupidly big!” Ath whines, gripping the makeshift pillow in an attempt to stay grounded. 

He tsks at him. “That’s no way to talk to your Lord, Athelstan. Don’t you think?” Without waiting for a response, Ragnar pulls out nearly all the way, leaving just the tip. He grips Athelstan’s hips roughly, the pads of his fingers squeezing the soft, unmarred skin there.

He panics at the sudden empty feeling, immediately backtracking, determined to be a good boy for Ragnar. “No,” he choked on his words, his brain moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. “No, it’s not; please forgive me!”

“I’m not who you should be apologizing to, remember?” Ragnar goads as he sinks back inside at a gruelingly slow pace. “Or should I pull out to help jog your memory?” Keeping one hand on Ath’s hip, Ragnar sinks his right hand in Ath’s dark brown curls, tugging his head up to force him to look at the cross directly behind the nativity scene before them. “You tell me stories of how Jesus died for your sins, only for you to shame him by sinning in his chapel.”

Athelstan whimpers and whines, shamelessly canting his hips back on Ragnar’s cock. “Please don’t pull out,” he begs, sniffling. Despite how he sounds, Athelstan doesn’t think he’s ever been this aroused in all his thirty-five years of life. Made to gaze upon the man he had once dedicated his life to serving, on his knees in mock prayer, but it wasn’t Jesus he was praying to this time. It looks unlikely he’ll ever pray to the Heavenly Father or His son again after this, having found something much sweeter and far more rewarding. Something more real to Athelstan than the figure on the wall or the marble Blessed Virgin Mother in front of him ever will be.

The unmistakable sound of Ragnar snarking breaks him out of his thoughts. He’s remained unmoving since bottoming out a second time, providing a deep-seated, pleasurable pressure within Ath’s abdomen. “I’m not above using you as my own personal cockwarmer until you start begging, darling,” he threatens, only this time Athelstan knows it’s not an empty one. 

Unfortunately, Athelstan’s bratted too close to the sun more often than he cares to admit. This might end up one of those times if he doesn’t play his cards correctly. “What do you want me to beg for, Ragnar?” he questions cheekily, playing dumb, knowing exactly how to get the reaction he wants from Ragnar. 

Ragnar yanks on his hair as a warning. “You’ve been good up ‘till now, little priest,” his deep voice rumbles low in his throat, words sticky with pent-up desire, the little self-control he has left quickly deteriorating with every passing minute. “I wouldn’t go fucking it up now if I were you.” He emphasizes it with a slow, punishing roll of his hips, cockhead brushing against Athelstan’s sweet spot. “But if you don’t want me to fuck you after all, keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart.”

The moan Ath lets out is utterly sinful, and Ragnar hasn’t begun to fuck him in earnest yet. He briefly debates his options, but it wasn’t a hard decision. Solidifying his gaze on the nailed God before him, Athelstan began to pray for the Lord’s forgiveness. “Lord, I seek Your forgiveness and healing. Help me to release the weight of the guilt and shame that I carry.”

“Aww, there we go, little priest. Beg to your nailed god,” Ragnar taunts. He pulls out again and truly starts to fuck him now, thrusting into him quickly. The hand on Ath’s hip squeezes tightly, sure to leave bruises later. Ragnar tugs Athelstan’s hips back on each thrust he gives. The chapel echoes with sounds of skin slapping against skin and Athelstan’s choked, moaned prayers. Sweat slides down the ridges of Ath’s spine and pools in the divots at the end of his tailbone. “Imagine how disappointed he must be in you, Athelstan,” he says with a yank of his hair. He drapes himself across Ath’s back so he can whisper into his ear. “Once a pious little monk,” Ragnar delivers a particularly harsh thrust, hitting a pleasurable bundle of nerves inside Athelstan. “Now reduced to a devilish sinner by a blasphemous pagan.”

Athelstan wonders briefly about where in the world Ragnar could’ve learned that word, but the arousal thrumming through his body made any coherent train of thought impossible. He was barely managing to get out his prayers, let alone anything in addition to that. “Grant me strength, ‘O—oh fuuck—‘O Lord, to learn from my previous mistakes and help me grow,” Athelstan stops mid-sentence, interrupting himself with a slutty moan. “Ragnar, Ragnar, fucking hell, you’re so deep,” he whines, rolling his hips back on each thrust he gives.

His lips curl in a cocky smile. “How’s it feel, sweetheart?” The hand in Ath’s hair twists, making him groan loudly.

“It feels s’good, Ragnar!” He moans, white-knuckling Ragnar’s abandoned tunic. Ath fights his eyes from rolling back in his head, desperate not to appear as how slutty he feels. It doesn’t work. “Harder, Ragnar, please!” He almost forgets to continue his prayers, but a perfectly aimed thrust to his prostate reminds him of his orders. “‘O Lord, I thank You for even though I am a sinner, in the kindness of Your mercy!” Athelstan feels shame flood over him and the omnipotent eyes of Jesus Christ boring into him from across the room. Judging him, condemning him, and casting him down from the light of heaven, sentencing his soul to the fiery pit of hell for eternity. But that humiliating feeling is accompanied by a shameful pleasure that greedily spreads throughout his entire body, making his extremities tingle.

Ragnar is more than happy to oblige, fucking into him at a punishing speed, hips moving at a godlike speed. Each thrust hits Athelstan’s sweet spot dead on, ripping a loud moan from him every time. “You’re still so tight, Ath.” He bites the fleshy junction of his shoulder and neck, leaving a blotchy red mark in his wake. “It’s like your god made you to be wrapped around my cock like this.” He releases his hold on Ath’s hair, moving to fist Athelstan’s red, leaking cock instead. His hand nearly engulfed his cock entirely, just the tip peeking out from above his fingers. “What do you think, hm? You think he made you just for me?”

Ath manages to nod, biting his lip so hard it nearly bleeds. He’s given up praying for forgiveness now, his mind all-encompassed by Ragnar and the arousal coursing through his veins. “Just—Just for you, always been just for you!” He cants his hips into Ragnar’s hand, needy for any and all friction he could get against his poor, neglected cock. “Please, please, please, Ragnar!” he begs, unsure exactly what he’s begging for, just that he needs more of whatever it is. 

“Please, please, please!” Ragnar mocks and Athelstan can practically see the conniving smirk he wears in his mind’s eye. “Please what, little priest? Can’t give it to you if I don’t know what it is.” Athelstan’s whole body shudders from his next thrust, eyes quickly rolling back from the intensity of it.

He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out are incoherent moans and slutty whimpers. “Please—oh, right there! Please, just, more, more of—fuuck—everything, please, Ragnar!” Ath’s arms give out from underneath him, his weight resting on his shoulders, cheek pressed against the cold stone floor.

“More, hm?” Ragnar slows his movements, earning himself a pathetic whine from his lover. “Even with all your pleas for forgiveness, you still want more?”

Ath nods with another high-pitched whine.

“Do you think your precious nailed god would approve of that desire?”

He shakes his head no.

“Perfect,” Ragnar growls, standing up straight once more, drinking in the sight before him as if it were the perfect cup of ale. He takes his hand off Athelstan’s cock and places it on his hip, spreading his cheeks apart with his thumb and forefinger. Reestablishing the pace he had previously, Ragnar watches his cock disappear inside him, a creamy white ring of pre-come circling his base. “I hope he’s watching when I paint your pretty insides and fully claim you as mine,” he pairs his words with a punishing thrust, far harder than anything else he’d delivered previously. “Watches me take you from him for good this time.”

Each thrust is like electricity, sending tingles from his toes to his fingertips. “Yours, Ragnar,” he hiccups, “Yours, make me yours!” 

Ragnar lands a harsh smack to Ath’s asscheek, a slightly pink handprint blooming across his pale skin. “Always have been mine, little priest. Ever since I stole you from your comfy little monastery.” He angles his hips so he hits Ath’s sweet spot with every thrust. “I wanna hear you say it. Tell your beloved god who you truly belong to.”

“You! I belong to you!” he cries, voice bouncing off the walls, echoing his shame for all close enough to hear. 

He yanks Ath’s head up, forcing him to speak directly to the cross instead of begging into the floor. Ragnar hoists him almost entirely off the floor, now barely able to graze the stone with his fingertips. “Look him in the eye when you speak, sweetheart. After all, you can’t disgrace him further by being rude, and I’m sure you don’t want that.” Ragnar’s words are soaked with liquid sin, the droplets burning a hole in the consecrated floors of this sacred building he’s corrupting with each passing minute. 

Athelstan hums a yes and repeats himself, staring into the cold, metal eyes of Jesus, his former savior, who died to atone for humanity’s sinful souls. Even though it’s only a statue, Ath felt as if it were Jesus himself nailed there, flesh and blood dripping to the floor with cold splats. He can practically see him there, gold and brown colored metal morphing into pale skin marred with rivers of red. “I’m sorry, ‘O Lord! Please bless me with your kind mercy!” he cries out in his thoughts, but deep down, he knows it’s not a genuine apology. He knows God knows as well. Ath doubts his soul will be cleansed, but he can’t doesn’t care any longer. He has a new God. 

“Tell him who you belong to.” Ragnar’s thrusts don’t let up, somehow gaining in force instead. 

Ath swallows thickly before speaking, eyebrows pressing upward, his face screwed together in overwhelming pleasure. “You! I belong to you!”

Ragnar twists Ath’s curls in his fist. “Who? Say my name, Athelstan. He might believe you’re talking about him.”

“You, Ragnar!”

“Hm? I can’t hear you, Athelstan; you’ve got to speak up, or else he won’t hear you, either,” Ragnar goads, grinding his hips hard against his ass. 

The curve of Athelstan’s spine is nearly pornographic. Ath scrambles to find something to hold onto but comes up empty-handed. “I belong to Ragnar! You, Ragnar!” he yells, stretching his arm backward to grip the back of Ragnar’s head, fingers anchoring in his hair. “Oh, my God—oh, my god fuck—I’m close, Ragnar, please!” 

Ragnar releases his grip on Ath’s hair to wrap his arm around Ath’s stomach, holding him closer than believed possible. He presses his sweaty forehead against Athelstan’s shoulder, his thrusts growing uneven and sloppy as he approaches his limit as well. “Fuck, Ath-Athelstan,” he stutters, the mask he wore cracking at the edges, revealing just how desperate he really is. “Fuuck, yes, that’s it, you’re so fucking hot like this, baby. Fucked open and needy, just for me and no one else.” Ragnar splays his fingers over the tensed muscles of Athelstan’s stomach, pressing down gently.

“No one else, all yours, my love,” Ath babbles, leaning his head back to rest on top of Ragnar’s. His chest heaves with each gulp of air he takes, the lower half of his ribs showing slightly every time his stomach sucks in. “Gonna—oh, fuck, there—gonna cum!” 

“Cum for me, Ath, make a pretty mess all over my hand, fuuck,” Ragnar moans out, words warbly and uneven as he does his best to speak without stumbling over everything. “You’re so pretty, so good for me.” His thrusts quickly lose whatever rhythm they had left as he reaches his climax, spilling his cum deep inside Ath’s spasming entrance. 

Athelstan’s cock throbs and twitches when he feels Ragnar’s orgasm, his own cum spurting all over his stomach and Ragnar’s hand. His legs shake violently, toes curling and uncurling in tandem with each spurt of his cock. The short nails of his left hand rake across Ragnar’s back and side, making the man shiver. As they both come down from their highs, a mix of Ath’s cum and sweat drips wetly onto the floor. He can feel Ragnar breathing heavily against his back, finding his equally exhausted presence comforting.

As his cock softens, Ragnar carefully slips out of him, a rush of cum quickly following. Shivering, Athelstan shuffles to turn around before Ragnar does. Now face to face with his lover, Ragnar kisses him gently, as if Athelstan would break if treated too roughly, a stark difference from how Ragnar was manhandling him a few minutes prior. He tilts his head to one side and cups Athelstan’s unmarred cheek with his clean hand, thumb stroking his sweaty cheekbone. Ath licks into his mouth, nose pressing into Ragnar’s scarred one. The kiss lasts for both years and only a handful of seconds simultaneously. Neither knows who pulls away first. “Are you okay, Ath?” he asks, rubbing his nose against Ath’s.

He nods with a hum. “Are you?” Ragnar nods, too. “Didn’t know you had that in you, baby.”

Ragnar snickers, kissing the tip of his nose. “And this surprises you?”

“Nothing about you surprises me. Not anymore.” Athelstan scrunches his nose cutely after he kisses it. “We’ll have to be quick about cleaning up; someone might come looking for us.”

Ragnar snags his tunic off the floor and uses it to wipe away the cum dripping from between Ath’s legs. “Did you mean what you said? About belonging to me and only me? Forever?” he asks somewhat quietly, the insecurity he shows uncharacteristic of him. 

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ragnar,” Ath says softly, his voice soothing, like a wool-lined blanket on a cold winter’s night, calming any worries Ragnar might be harboring within him. “You know that.”

Dropping his now-soiled tunic, Ragnar wraps his arms around him in a tight hug, corded muscles flexing beneath his skin. “Good; perfect. You’re perfect.”

Athelstan drapes his arms over Ragnar’s shoulders, hugging him back just as—if not more—tightly. Ragnar traces shapeless designs into the skin of Ath’s lower back, pressing soft, grounding kisses along the column of his neck. He kisses the bite mark he left, which is now starting to bruise. They slowly sink to the floor, Athelstan sitting in Ragnar’s lap, legs on either side of his waist, head resting against the lower part of his shoulder. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. I love you, too,” Ragnar says, almost as if he’s been saying it to him for decades, not years. As if every time he’s said it, it’s always been for Athelstan, even before he knew him. As if his love is reserved for Athelstan and Athelstan only. He lays his cheek on the top of his head, careful not to dig his chin into Ath’s skull. “When we go home in the spring, we’ll hold the biggest feast our halls have ever seen.”

Ath gazes up at him the best he can. “What for? What’ll we be celebrating, other than a successful return like always?”

Ragnar holds his hand, lacing their fingers together. “A wedding.”

“A wedding?” Ath questions, getting a nod in response. “Who’s?”

Ragnar breaks his gaze, looking up at the ceiling. “Our wedding.”

Blindsighted but elated, Athelstan shifts to look at him properly, refocusing Ragnar’s eyes where they belong—on him. “Our wedding?” Ragnar calmly nods like he didn’t just propose to him. “You need to work on your proposal skills, darling,” he giggles as a stupidly wide, toothy grin spreads across his face.

“Is that a yes, then?” Ragnar asks, donning a toothy smile of his own.

Athelstan holds Ragnar’s face in his hands and kisses him. “You dumbass, of course, it’s a yes.”

Ragnar kisses him again, then litters small kisses across his cheeks, chin, forehead, and anywhere else he can easily reach. “Perfect,” he kisses Ath’s lips. “Next time I take you, it’ll be on our marriage bed.”

“Ragnar!” Athelstan gasps with a slight laugh. His words made his softened cock twitch in curiosity. “You can’t just say that!”

“Yes, I can.” Ragnar squeezes his waist. “We both know you love it,” he teases, pressing his thumbs into Ath’s soft abdomen, messing up the dark hair there.

He rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh, unlacing his hand from Ragnar’s so he can drape them over Ragnar’s shoulders again. Ath holds his own hand, lacing his fingers together. “You’re so insufferable, you know that?”

Ragnar grins cheekily, far too proud of the fact. “You love it, don’t even try and deny it.”

“What if I do deny it? What’ll you do then?” Athelstan asks, licking his lips and shifting his hips to brush against Ragnar’s cock, who’s making an effort to chub up again. 

He nips at Athelstan’s nose as a warning, a grin still spread across his face. “Something we can’t get caught doing in here, baby.” He reaches back to grab Athelstan’s tunic, blue eyes never leaving pale ones. Ath slips it over his head and stands, tugging on his trousers. Ragnar copies him, minus a shirt. They gather their things and clean their fluids off the floor as best as they can manage with the little supplies available. Once it looks like nothing sinful has occurred, the pair leaves the chapel hand in hand, eagerly heading for Ragnar’s chambers. 

taglist: @moonlighttfoxx, @demon-of-the-ancient-world, and @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics.

"I told you!" she shouted at last, her voice nearly carried away by the wind. "I will not live in a world without you, Ivar Ragnarsson!' she finished and the air left his lungs as she leaned forward, tumbling forward. It was a beautiful descent but tragic as she fell with a heavy thud, smashed upon the frozen ground. Ivar screamed at the top of his lungs, as though it would bring her back and quickly he sat up, his chest heaving.

He looked around and saw he was still in the comfort of his bed, it had been a dream.

"Do you believe me now?" Kara asked and his head snapped to his left, she sat on his bed watching him.

"What!" he exclaimed, furrowing his brow in both anger and confusion. She leaned forward and stroked his cheek.

"I said, do you believe me now?" she demanded and he shook his head, gazing at the bed for a minute.

"How did you know what I dreamed?" he asked and she smiled, a shrug of her shoulders.

"What else would scare the great Ivar Ragnarsson but my death?" she queried, standing and moving to a table. She poured a glass of water from the jug into his cup and passed it to him, he took it. He chugged gratefully and thrust it back in her hand.

"You sent me the dream," he growled and she laughed quietly.

"Oh Ivar, if I had the powers of the Gods I would do much more than that," she assured and he shook his head again as though trying to rid his mind of the dream.

"What do you want me to do, Kara?" he demanded. "I cannot leave you now that I have found you but you will not come with me," he said.

"I will come with you," she said and he stared at her. "After I give birth to this child," she finished, cupping her belly.

"And what of the child?" he asked.

"They will stay with their father," she dismissed.

"Why this child? You have not left a child behind before," he reminded.

"No but no other child has brought me this much misfortune," she mused, filling the cup for herself.

"So you will punish the child?" he asked and she glanced over at him, well aware of the sensitive topic.

"Punish? He will be raised in a life of opulence and luxury, I fail to see how this is punishing," she countered and Ivar fell quiet, it was true. Though he loathed the chief, the chief was wealthy and powerful.

"The chief will not let you go," he said and she shrugged.

"I do not need a man to let me go, I go where I please and if they try to stop me, I will stop them," she said and Ivar's eyebrows raised. "As much as he knows your weakness because of me, I know his weakness as well and I will use every one of them against him," she vowed.

"Then I will leave and trust that you will follow?" he asked and she smiled.

"I was willing to kill myself to save you, why would I not do something as simple as follow you?" she asked and Ivar smiled slightly, it was true. "So go, Ivar, go before I must fulfill my promise," she urged and leaned over, kissing his lips. He kissed her back and for a moment they remained until she backed away and she stroked his face.

"I will go but if you do not come, I will return," he warned. "And I will bring my army,"

"I do not doubt you," she promised and he pulled her dress, guiding her back to his lips for another kiss.

----

Ivar had readied his horse and chariot, strapped himself in. He moved through the dirt roads and glanced up at the wall. The same wall that had been in his dreams the night before and she stood atop it again, a smile on her face. He gazed at her before he passed beneath it and then looked over his shoulder to be sure she had not jumped. It was her subtle way of reminding him her promise and that should he negate on it, she would do as she had warned.

She slid her hand into his and within moments, her mind was flooded with visions. Fire raged, screams echoed and the sound of weapons slicing flesh entered her ears. She felt the child inside her kicking with such force she was sure it would burst from within, and she quickly withdrew her hand, he looked at her confused.

She walked back to Asger, he took her hand and together they gazed at him. He raised his ax and pointed it to Asger, as though threatening him.

Otsana woke then, her eyes snapped open, and she stared at the ceiling, her mind racing with the confusion of her dream. Ivar had come to her, with abilities he did not possess and offered her an escape to adventure but the adventure he carried was filled with death, destruction.

She rose slowly from the bead, her back aching from the weight of the child and for a moment she gathered her bearings before standing. She looked back to Asger who still slept, and she admired him for a moment, he was handsome. She had no doubt she would always choose him over Ivar, but it worried her that she had taken Ivar's hand at all.

She left the bedchamber and found the fire still burning, the thrall who minded it rose quickly. He bowed his head and backed away, leaving her with her thoughts. She sat before the warm flames and stared into it.

“Sister, the rumors are true then,” he spoke, and her eyes flew to the shadows, he stood embraced in them.

“What rumors are those?” she questioned.

“That you live, that you are with child and married,” he said, and she nodded, watching as he came into the light of the fire. There were years in his face that she had not been part of, years of anger, hate and destruction. He was a changed man, and his heart was colder now.

“They are,” she agreed, and he still stared at her. “Tell me brother, are the rumors true of you?” she asked.

“What rumors would those be?” he asked, and she stood. After hearing such fearmongering of her brother, she found herself fearless in the face of him.

“That you declare yourself a god,” she said and moved closer, she stopped inches before him, he stared at her.

“I only take what it is rightfully mine,” he said, and she admired how handsome he had grown. “I have heard you denied Ubbe,” he said, and she shrugged.

“As I have and as I will deny you,” she replied, turning away from him, and going to the fire, warming her hands.

“Why,” he said, and she looked at him over her shoulder.

“I do not believe in your war, Ivar,” she said, and he shook his head.

“You do not believe I have the right to the throne?” he asked, she heard him then, the same Ivar she had known many years before and the Ivar she had felt a semblance of love for.

“I do not believe there should be a throne of Kattegat, there are four brothers and so they are the ones who should control it,” she said, and Ivar shook his head with a smile.

“That can never happen,” he said, and she moved to her chair, sitting upon it. “Look at yourself, you sit upon a throne and preach to me how I should not have my own,” he said.

“But there is only one heir to this throne, to Ragnar’s there were four,” she said. “Five before you killed Sigurd,” she said.

“You have heard of that?” he asked, appearing to be saddened that she had heard it before he could explain it to her.

“Of course, I have heard of it, Ivar,” she said. "Do you think Ubbe came and went? He stayed with me during some of my darkest days," she said, and Ivar's gaze softened, regret filled his eyes.

"Do you think I would not have been there? If I had known, you were alive?" he questioned.

"It is not like you searched for me," she replied. She had felt more anger at Ivar than Ubbe for never seeking her out, for accepting her death.

“You were my sister! You were our sister! When father was killed, when you realized what was to come, you left us!” he shouted. "I did not have to search for you, I knew what you had done!" he exclaimed.

“I left you because I knew you would all turn to fools!” she shouted back, standing.

“We fight for our rightful place on the throne! There is nothing foolish about that!” he retorted, and she laughed, shaking her head.

“You are the greatest fool of all because you truly believe yourself to be a god,” she said, moving towards him.

“What other man has been born cripple only to learn to walk again?” he asked, and she snorted.

“Walk? Take the braces from your legs and walk, then!” she exclaimed, pointing to his legs.

“You have changed sister,” he said, and she crossed her arms. “You were once kind and loving, now you are angry and cold,” he said, and she gazed at him. “You are not the girl I once loved and I have made a mistake coming here thinking I could speak to you as a brother would to his sister,” he said and Otsana studied him. His words softened her, calmed her and she, at last, sighed exasperatedly.

“Ivar, I am sorry,” she said at last and looked to him. It was there, for a moment, the memory of the kiss and the memory of her affection towards him. She reached up and nervously put her hands on either side of his face. The tales had put fear in her heart, he was unhinged and mad, she did not know how he would lash out if he was to.

“I am still the same boy you knew before, only now I am a man,” he said as she gazed at him. “Do not fear me as others do, I feel it in your touch,” he said. “You have heard stories and now fear me,” he said.

“They say you have killed your own people, that you sacrifice them,” she said.

“Have we as North people did not sacrifice our own before?” he asked.

“But that you do it for your own greed, that you sacrifice them to yourself and not to any gods,” she replied.

“Otsana, I will not apologize for my actions to you or anyone, but it does not change my feelings for you,” he said, and she gazed into his eyes, she saw him at last. She had got past the anger, the hurt and the cold exterior, he was now just Ivar. She reached her arms around his neck and hugged him gently; she felt his body freeze in surprise before relenting to her embrace.

“You must stay the night, and, in the morning, we can speak,” she said, pulling back and he nodded, bending to her will. “Come,” she said and led him to an empty bedchamber, pulling back the furs.

“Sleep and I will have a bath drawn for you in the morning,” she said, and he gazed down at her.

“Otsana,” he began but she knew the words that were to follow, they were words she could not hear. Instead, she kissed him gently on the forehead and left the room, returning to Asger who still slept. She slid into bed beside him and rolled on her side, cuddling her robust stomach.

She had noticed the child stirred at their uncle’s voice, how the child had kicked when she had hugged the man, but she ignored it all. He was still the hand that filled her with such fear and animosity when she took it.

“Ivar,” she said, standing at the foot of the bed. She had learned with Asger that you do not wake a warrior by looming over them, you instead stand at the foot of the bed and wake them slowly. She watched him and spoke his name again; he slowly came to.

“Otsana,” he said, sitting up quickly and pulling himself against the pillows. He rubbed his eyes and she motioned to the plate of food.

“I have brought you breakfast,” she said, and he looked at it, nodding.

“Thank you, I would have been fine to eat in your hall,” he said, and she smiled.

“I know but I thought it easier for you,” she said, and he eyed her.

“Easier for me?” he asked, and she lowered her eyes. “Why are you so ashamed of me?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“It is not you that I am ashamed of, and I am not even ashamed,” she said. “I worry of Asger’s reaction to your arrival,” she said.

“Asger is your husband?” he asked, and she nodded. “Why would he react poorly to me?” he questioned.

“He has heard the same stories I have but he has not known you as I have,” she said and brought the food to him. “I wish to tell him you are here first before he greets you,” she said, and Ivar shrugged silently as he ate. “I will be back,” she said and moved from the room. She looked to her bedchamber and saw the door open, Asger was awake. She investigated the hall and saw him standing across it, arm over his chest with his eyes upon her. He gazed at her as though he tried to figure her out without words, and she moved towards him.

“Who is in there?” he asked, and she grasped her hands before her, wringing them. “Otsana,” he began, and she sighed at last.

“Ivar,” she said, and he looked over her head to the closed door.

“He is here?” he asked, and she nodded.

“He is but I did not want you to meet him until I told you,” She said and Asger looked down at her again.

“Why do you protect him?” he asked and Otsana sighed.

“Ivar has always been judged before he was able to defend himself and I wanted you to not do the same,” she said.

“The stories I have heard, he deserves nothing less,” he said.

“That is what I am saying, you have heard all these stories, but you do not know Ivar as I once did,” she said and he studied her, his eyes narrowing.

“How did you know him?” he asked.

“Asger,” she began.

“No, tell me, wife,” he said, and she shook her head.

“It was not in that way,” she defended. “Well, not for me at least,” she said.

“Not for you? So, he is in love with you?” he asked.  

“I do not think I would call it love, Asger,” she replied. “Ivar is a man who enjoys the conquer, the victory and I think that is all he feels for me,” she said. “But I have never given into it,” she vowed, her eyes meeting his. 

“I know this, I was the first to have you,” he replied. “I want to meet him, Otsana,” he said at last.

“You will, just,” she started and sighed. “Just please put aside your pre-decided opinions of him and speak to him as you would any other visitor to your kingdom,” she said, looking into his eyes.

“I will,” he agreed, and she studied him but could not discover any truth. “Go and fetch him,” he pushed, and she nodded, moving towards the room. She knocked and entered when he called for her, she found him dressed tying his braces.

“My husband wishes to meet you,” she said, and he nodded. “Ivar,” she began, and he looked to her.

“I know, Otsana,” he dismissed, and she sighed. She was going to tell him to be patient and not to lose his temper. Finishing, he stood wearily as though the braces hurt him, but he followed her from the room. Asger stood over her brother, but Ivar did not seem intimidated. 

“Welcome to my hall, Ivar Ragnarsson,” he welcomed, putting his hand out and Ivar gripped his wrist as Ubbe had.

“Thank you,” he said.  

“I am King Asger, my wife has told me many stories of you,” he said, and Ivar looked to Otsana.

“I have missed my sister,” he replied.

“Come, sit and we shall talk,” Asger offered, pointing to an empty table and Ivar nodded. “We shall speak alone,” he said, looking to Otsana and she nodded, remaining where she stood as they went to the table. She called to Thore and Tyrm, leaving the hall to take a walk. She did this every morning, it helped stretch her limbs and back when they ached. She could not sit still today, knowing her most irrational brother spoke with her very rational husband.

She returned an hour later with both wolves in tow, panting and she sought Asger, finding him still with Ivar. She put water in a bowl for her wolves and set it down before them. Asger looked up as she approached the table and smiled, leaning back in his seat.

“Ah, my beautiful wife,” he said, and she smiled at him then looked at Ivar.

“How goes the conversation?” she asked, and Ivar smiled at her.

“If you are asking if I have threatened to kill your husband yet, no,” he said.

“Well, that is surprising,” she said, taking Asger’s cup and drinking from it.

“I am not as bloodthirsty as Ubbe made me sound, sister,” he said, and she shrugged.

“Perhaps not but I remember you from our childhood,” she said, and he gazed at her.  

“What does that mean?” he questioned, and she sighed, taking a seat across from them.

“You threatened to have me killed many times, Ivar,” she said, and he smiled.

“Threatened, never did I do it though or attempt it,” he said, and she rolled her eyes but had a smile on her face. 

"With you, it is difficult to tell the difference,” She said and Ivar smiled at her, she reflected his smile.

"You bicker more than we have, you were so nervous to introduce me, but I have found your brother very likable," Asger said, and she gazed at Ivar then looked to Asger, surprised by his words.

"Oh?" she asked. 

"He wishes only to defend his homeland, something I can identify with," Asger said and Otsana looked to him nervously, hoping he remembered her neutrality plea. 

"Well, I suppose I should be glad you get along," she stated and Asger smiled. He pulled her gently down to the seat beside him and stroked the back of her hair, running his fingers down the back of her neck causing her to shiver. She felt Ivar's eyes on them, and she quickly leaned forward, causing.

Asger's hand to drop. 

"Tell me everything that has happened besides the war, Ivar," she said, and he sighed, readying himself for the tale.

Otsana and Ivar had spoken at length concerning the activities of her family after she had left; they had enthralled her. Asger had left her side at one point with a kiss to the top of her head and she had forgotten about him for the rest of the time. When Otsana could ignore her rumbling stomach no longer, she called for a meal to be had and was promptly rewarded with a plate full of food, another placed before Ivar.

"Where has Asger got to?" she asked her thrall, and the girl lowered her eyes.

"He has told me that he had official business to attend to, but he wanted to leave you with your brother, that he would return in the afternoon," she said and Otsana dismissed her, turning back to the table.

"Does he make you happy sister?" Ivar asked and she looked up at him.

"Very," she said, nodding firmly and Ivar smiled.

"Then he is good with me," he said and began to eat.

"And if he didn't?" she asked, interested in the options.

"Then I would tear him limb from limb and feed him to your wolves," he stated, and she laughed, Ivar joined her. "Speaking of which, I have not seen Magni," he said, looking around the hall and then back to Otsana, whose expression was crestfallen.

"He died the same night I gave birth to my son," she stated.

"I am sorry to hear that, he was with you since the beginning," he said, and she nodded.

"Our father trained him, it was like losing him all over again," she said, and Ivar smiled sympathetically at her.

"But I am glad to see Thore with you," he said, and she looked to the wolf who slept at her feet, she tossed him a piece of meat as well as to the other.

"Yes, he has been great comfort and Tyrm as well," she said and Ivar nodded, eyeing the black wolf pup.

"He is beautiful," Ivar said and she smiled, she did not want to tell him who gave her Tyrm. "Do you think your husband will support me?" he asked, and she looked up at him, quiet for a moment. "Ivar, as I have told you upon your arrival, we will not be part of this war," she said.

"You will have to take sides at some point, or you will be against us both," he stated, and she shook her head.

"No, I am against neither and for neither," she said.

"It is a war, Otsana, sides will be drawn, and a line will be made, you will have to choose," he said, and she shrugged, the conversation became uncomfortable.

"I cannot, you are all my brothers and my only family, choosing would be turning my back on one and I will not do that," she said, and Ivar sighed.

"I love you Otsana, as I have always but I do not control this war and its outcome," he said.

"Are you threatening me?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"You, I will never threaten but I cannot protect you either," he stated.

"I do not need your protection, Ivar, I have Asger," she reminded.

"And if he falls?" he asked and she stared at him, her vision returning to her.

"I pray that he doesn't," she said at last, and Ivar sighed, leaning back in his seat.

"As do I, for your stubborn sake," he replied, and she smiled at him. "You are stubborn, Otsana and I hope that does not ruin you," he said.

"So do I, brother," she answered, and he sighed again, heavily. The conversation was over and neither had come to see the other's point of view. "Do you stand alone?" she asked, and he looked up to her. She had heard of Freydis' death but she was not saddened by it.

"For now," he replied.

"Is it not lonely?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"It is what it is, I am not a man that needs friends nor love," he said, and she smiled.

"That I know to be false, brother," she said, and he rolled his eyes. "You will find a wife, this I am sure of," she said.

"Oh? You know an eligible bride who would enjoy being married to a crippled maniac?" he asked.

"With power, with a crown will come many offers," she said. "You must be wise about its Ivar and not accept the first that seeks your attention," she warned.

"Sister, you still act like I am your little brother, I have killed many men," he defended, and she smiled, amused by his argument.

"Ivar all men are boys when it comes to women and you will be no different," she said, and he sighed. "Seek one who stands beside you, who guides you and not one that offers you the world the moment your eyes land on her," she said.

"As you did with Asger?" he asked, and she smirked.

"If I was to accept the first hand that was offered, you and I would be married," she reminded, and he gazed at her quietly.

"And how awful that would have been for you," he murmured, and she gazed at him.

"Ivar," she began but he shook his head, dismissing the topic.

"I tease, sister," he promised. "I wish to see your kingdom, sister, you must show it to me," he said, and she pushed a smile forward.

"Of course, I trust you brought your own transportation?" she asked.

"I did," he said, his tone lightening, he was excited. "Let us eat and then I will show you, Floki designed it," he said.

She was the wife of Ivar the Fearless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok and her seven sons reigned on the thrones of the known Norse realm. Her lineage was carried down through the blood of them as well as her many grandchildren but still she was not settled. She wandered, collecting something more valuable than gold, she collected stories and memories, filling her cup with them.