#vikingssummer

[nothingtolosebutweight]

Flower Crowns and Withered Egos

My entry for @vikingsevents Summer Solstice challenge Day 7: Flower Crowns (and I apologize for humiliating Ivar in such a way 😂 but I love it) June 24th came way too fast. The idea for this was right in my head when I saw the prompt for the event, but I didn't start writing until two days ago. Therefore, it's not heavily proofread or very in depth. Just a small thing. @vaire-gwir was so kind and sacrificed her time to look for major errors. So if you find any, it's her fault 😏😈

Characters: Ivar, Asa, Ubbe Words: ~ 3150 [AO3] Summary: Ivar wants his privacy and sets off for the cabin in the mountains. But everything turns out differently than planned. Credits: @ofmanderley made this wonderful gif

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"Ivar, Ivar. Look there! We found them!" 

The addressed young Viking looked at the little girl next to him, who was looking at the spacious meadow in front of them, in her eyes a gleam of joy and admiration. In front of them were countless flowers in full bloom, one more magnificent than the next. Even he couldn't deny that the sight was beautiful.

"You were indeed right. We found the flowers," Ivar said, smiling warmly at her. "And look at how many there are. Now you can not only make a flower crown for your mother, but for everyone else in Kattegat, too."

Asa seemed to like that idea. Driven by the intention to weave a beautiful crown for her mother, which she could wear the next evening at one of the numerous festivals during the summer, she immediately ran into the meadow and began to pick the most beautiful flowers.

Ivar didn't accompany her. Instead, he settled down on a tree stump at the side. His legs ached after the long walk. He needed a break, but kept his eyes attentively on the little girl. He watched her for a while and caught himself smiling slightly at the sight of her. It surprised him in a way, and he began to wonder what he was doing here at all.

He had never had a special relationship with Asa. Neither with her nor to her brother Hali. They were both Bjorn's offspring, so he was their uncle. The children were part of Ivar's family, and yet he had no idea what to do with them. He wouldn't have shed a single tear in the past, if something had happened to one of them.

Ivar vaguely remembered little Siggy. Bjorn's first daughter. She drowned one day while playing outside without supervision, probably going into the water alone without knowing how to swim properly. Back then, as a child, he had laughed about her death. She had meant nothing to him. He had moved on with his day as if nothing had happened at all, and so far he had kept behaving in the same way emotionally with his half-brother's subsequent children. He knew their names, that was all he thought necessary, or at least he had assumed that this was still the case.

That this might not be the case anymore was proven to him by the fact that he was now sitting here, by now with a respectable selection of different flowers on his lap. At irregular intervals, Asa brought him new ones. Always when her small hands couldn't carry any new ones or when she wanted to hear his opinion about her yield so far.

Actually, he had wanted his privacy, some peace, and quiet to reflect on his current situation and think about his future. That's why today he had left the hustle and bustle of Kattegat and headed for the cabin in the hills which he had often visited in earlier years.

Only a few weeks had passed since he had once again set foot into the town in which he was born and raised. The town whose throne once belonged to him, whose people were once his subjects. Now everything was different, weird in more than one way.

It had felt right to return back home after he left Kiev together with his brother Hvitserk. After all the time he had spent in this foreign land and after all the hardships he had gone through there, along with new experiences and newly made alliances, if not friendships, Ivar had longed for something familiar. Not knowing who would sit on the throne and how the townspeople would react to them - he, the former tyrant, and Hvisterk, the murderer of the most famous Shieldmaiden, they still dared to do it. They had nothing to lose at that time. Both lost in one way or another.

Neither Hvitserk nor he would have expected to see Ubbe sitting on the throne as they were ushered into the great hall by a scowling mob of people. Torvi beside him, as his queen. It came as a surprise, but at the same time seemed equally fitting. Ubbe had always possessed that charisma of a ruler and he was certainly a better one than Ivar had been.

Their arrival wasn’t met with enthusiasm among the townspeople. Boos and insults echoed through the streets as they made their way from the harbor to the great hall, and they didn't fall silent when both brothers came to stand before the throne and paid their respects to Ubbe. It had taken Ivar great effort not to bury one of his throwing knives into one of the loudest screaming Vikings, but he had been able to control himself. For the sake of peace.

Ubbe's face had also shown no signs of joy when he realized who had returned and why everyone was so upset. Instead, there was astonishment, sadness, and confusion to be read in his expressions.

The following hours had been more than strange. Ubbe, in his merciful way, had welcomed them home after the first tense silence, had given them shelter, despite the above all unpleasant separation between him and Ivar years before. In doing so, he defied the calls for revenge from the common people, who had also gathered in the great hall, eager to see bloodshed.

Since then, they were under constant observation. Everything Ivar and Hvitserk did was scrutinized, judged. Everyone seemed to expect a conspiracy, a hostile takeover, but Ivar wasn't the least bit interested in the throne of Kattegat or any other at the moment. He had had the pleasure once before, and all it had brought him was nothing but too much of an ego and a deep fall from grace. He had no desire to repeat the experience. Hvisterk cared just as little about any of that. They both had no problem recognizing Ubbe as the rightful ruler of their hometown.

However, no one seemed to believe them, or at least not Ivar. Even Ubbe continued to behave in a distant manner toward him. Hospitable, but his reservation was still clearly noticeable. With Hvisterk, however, it was different. Ubbe had warmed up to him almost immediately, and after only two days they began spending time together. Just the two of them, restoring their previous bond.

Somehow it made Ivar sad, but it didn't come as a surprise to him either. The two of them always had had a special relationship, and so it was only natural that it would show again. They had a lot of catching up to do, and although he couldn't deny that he himself felt the same deep bond with Hvitserk, Ivar felt strangely out of place when they were all three together.

That's why he preferred to be alone lately. Far away from the piercing glances of people who suspected something insidious behind his every action. He couldn't blame them, but he was tired of it nonetheless.

His hoped-for solitude was however suddenly interrupted when he met Asa. In the forest, which he had to cross on the way to the hut, he had heard a child's voice singing in a cheerful manner. Ivar didn't know directly that it was his niece,  but his curiosity had won out and he had followed the sound until he had the culprit in sight. As he had found out, after she had recovered from the first slight shock when he suddenly emerged from behind a tree, she had sneaked out of Kattegat as well, all alone without an escort.

She had set her mind on finding the great meadow at the foot of the mountains, where the most colorful flowers were supposed to bloom. Without his asking, she had told him that she needed them for a crown she was going to make for her mother. It was going to be a surprise. One that Asa was determined to make a reality.

His first impulse had been to continue on his own path unperturbed, but then a small hand had slipped into his and round blue eyes had looked at him pleadingly. The small fright had probably made her realize that dangers could lurk in the forest, which she had not thought of before.

It was not necessarily this gesture that had softened him. She was still Torvi's daughter, the closest confidant of his former nemesis Lagertha, and thus another reason why he usually wouldn't have cared about the little girl's fate. He would perhaps have even killed her with his own hands earlier if it had been to his advantage. He was sure that he would have never passed up the opportunity to hurt both his mother's killer and her allies.

What stopped him, however, and finally led him to search together with Asa for the place she had heard about, was his knowledge of Ubbe's love for her. She was like a daughter of his own to his big brother. Ivar had been able to observe this over the past few days, and it had become clear to him that the little girl occupied a large part of Ubbe's heart. It would break him if something were to happen to her, and although Ivar couldn't understand why she had been able to sneak away in the first place, he somehow felt responsible to keep a watchful eye on her.

As a result, he hadn't had a single quiet minute on their journey here together. Asa was an enthusiastic storyteller, and on top of that, he was now busy weaving flowers into a crown himself. Under the watchful blue eyes and strict guidelines for color patterns and arrangements, he tried to follow the instructions and help her in her endeavor. Asa seemed to know exactly what she wanted and was not afraid to say so. She didn't seem to be afraid of him, the infamous Ivar the Boneless, as she repeatedly scolded him in a playful tone when he got confused with the stems, and thus the stability of his wreath suffered badly.

Ivar had certainly imagined his day differently, but despite the fact that he had been deprived of his tranquility, he felt that his mind could still relax. The innocent laughter of this child that often rose due to his clumsy attempts at weaving flowers had a calming effect on him. He didn't mind being laughed at, in fact, he sometimes made an extra clumsy effort to elicit that sweet laugh from Asa.

He liked her - somehow.

Occasionally a flower would also land on his hair, tucked between the simple braids he had decided to wear today. He granted Asa this favor since it gave her equal joy to embellish him a little. Soon he started to do the same, using flowers that didn't fit into the crown to decorate her blonde head with them instead. These simple gestures felt initially strange, too familiar almost, but he was soon infected by the child's laughter.

It reminded him of the time in Kiev and especially of the days he had spent there with the young prince. He missed Igor, often thought back to him, wondering if he was doing well. He had been older than Asa and, despite his childish features at the beginning, not quite as silly, but the carefree hours with him and his beloved puppets had helped Ivar get over many a bad day in equal manners.

After a while of sitting side by side and working diligently on their crowns, Ivar felt more and more weight pressing against his side. A glance from his working hands to Asa explained why. Her body had sunk further and further sideways against him. It was clear that she was struggling with tiredness, the day had been too exciting.

"Let's rest a bit, hmm? And after we've had a nap, we should head back. I'm sure your mother is already worried about you." Ivar put his materials aside and leaned back a bit as well. When he said that, it was a done deal, and Asa put her flowers aside and rested her head on Ivar's lap, careful not to break her colorful and fragile hair decorations.

Ivar had no intention of dozing off as well, but the peaceful atmosphere made him close his eyes as well. He listened to the wind blowing among the grass and flowers, the birds singing their songs, and the busy insects making sure that the meadow would be in full bloom again next year.

He had no idea how long they had rested like that in the end. Only when a loud calling for his name came through to him, he opened his eyes again, a bit startled and disoriented. A glance at the sun told him that it had moved on and was no longer quite as high in the sky as before. Some time must have passed, but it was still bright.

Cautiously, he straightened up a little after involuntarily slumping down in his sleep. His gaze first turned for a moment toward his lap, where the little girl's head still lay, her eyes still tightly closed as far as he could see. Asa hadn't seemed to be disturbed by the loud shouting, she was still asleep, holding the fabric of his trousers with one hand.

Next, his gaze drifted to the source of the sound and again his name rang out. This time louder than before, threateningly sounding.

"IVAR!"

It was Ubbe who rushed toward them. His eyes were full of worry, his breathing heavy as if he had run all the way up the hill. He was clearly in distress, and Ivar knew immediately that his brother was not worried about him. They were no longer children, and he was no longer the little one who had snuck away and left his family in fear for him. Now he was the one causing the fear.

Ubbe didn't need to say anything. His worst fear was written all over his face as he came to a halt in front of Ivar, his gaze fixed on the lifeless-looking little body.

"What have you done?" 

His brother's voice sounded faint, seemed powerless, but the accusation in his voice was still clearly audible. Ivar was aware of how the situation seemed, what Ubbe assumed straight away and it hurt deeply. Calmly returning Ubbe's accusing gaze, he placed a hand on the back of Asa's head and gently stroked it, trying to wake her up in a tender way.

Ubbe watched this warily, already about to grab the little body to bring it to safety when he saw Asa's eyelids begin to twitch and her eyes open sleepily. Pure relief spread across Ubbe's face and he finally put his plan into action and took the little girl into his arms. He picked her up, held her close to him, and kissed her several times on the temple.

"What I did was watching your daughter while everyone else was too busy to notice a little kid sneaking off," Ivar finally said as he watched the scene in front of him. He used the term your daughter on purpose because he could just see again how much Asa meant to his brother.

The emotions on Ubbe's face changed. Where before there was concern and the beginning of anger, now realization and shame appeared. Only now did he notice his brother's unusual hair ornament and he slowly realized how wrong he had treated him.

"I'm sorry," was all he said, and he sat down in the grass as well, Asa still hugged tightly to his chest. Just a minute ago, Ubbe had thought he had lost her for good. He needed the reassurance of her soft breath against his neck now to calm his nerves.

Ivar just shrugged his shoulders. He was hurt, but didn't want to show it to the outside world.

Asa was the one who saved the rough atmosphere. Now awake again, she remembered her actual intention and after she had let a few more kisses and a firm hug pass over her, Ubbe released her again. The little girl eagerly continued to process the remaining flowers. Much to Ivar's shame, she also involved him again and it was obvious to Ubbe that the two of them had spent their afternoon like that.

"You've changed, little brother," Ubbe let his watchful gaze slide over the scene before him, observing how the two got along so well. 

A snort was the only answer he got at first. It had been several years without contact between them. Years in which Ubbe hadn't thought of his youngest brother with good feelings, and yet he was still familiar to him. He could still read Ivar's gestures and facial expressions. They were nothing unknown to Ubbe, though certainly somewhat different than before. Softer. 

"What is it?"

"Hvitserk said something similar when we left Kiev together," Ivar explained as he turned his gaze into the distance and looked up at the sky to observe the clouds gathering there. Even as a child, he had learned to read them, because unfavorable weather changes could occur quickly, especially at higher altitudes.

"Maybe there is some truth to it, then."

"I don't think so. As I told him before. We never really change, we just think that we do."

They sat like that for a while longer, talking about trivial things to keep the mood light. Only when the sun had approached quite close to the horizon, they decided to start on their way home. Ivar would tackle the path to the cabin again another day.

He was about to remove the flowers from his hair, which earned him a sad look from Asa, when his eyes fell on Ubbe, who was also looking at him, a broad grin on his face. He hadn't said anything teasing about it until now, smart as he was.

"If you tell anyone, I will slice you open in your sleep. That's a promise." It was not only the slight grin on Ivar's lips that took the gravity out of this threat. The flowers in his hair also contributed to the fact that Ubbe only looked at him with amusement.

"I don't doubt it, Princess," Ubbe said as he let his hand brush over Ivar's head and leaned over to him, bringing their foreheads together in the process.

It was just a simple gesture. A step towards more closeness, which was not only visible through the connection of their bodies. Ivar felt it on a deeper level. At that moment, a wall inside him, which had already sustained numerous cracks beforehand, broke. A curse was lifted.

"I missed you, Ubbe," He whispered quietly, closing his eyes for a moment, just allowing himself to feel the lips of his brother which now also brushed over his temple.

"I missed you as well, little tyrant."

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Normally I would put my tags on here now, but this time I wasn't so sure. It's nothing against you - just a war I have with myself ;)

#vikings #vikings fanfiction #vikings fanfic #ivar the boneless #ubbe ragnarsson #asa bjornsdottir #ivar & asa #ubbe & ivar #ivar & ubbe #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #vikingssummer #vikingsevents #my stuff #my writing

[ivarthebadbitch]

Freydis Eriksdotter + meadow

(thanks @vikingsevents for organizing)

#vikings valhalla #freydis eriksdotter #gifs #vikingssummer

[encomium-emmae]

Spring saw the arrival of several newcomers to the neighborhood, including two young siblings who had journeyed from the West Country. Mr. and Miss Erickson were soon the most sought-after guests for every occasion, from teas and luncheons to hunting parties and dances at the village assemblies. Both were genial, and Miss Erickson, with her fair and willowy good looks, managed to catch the eye of a number of eligible men, among them Mr. Harold Sigurdson, the younger son of a viscount. Mr. Sigurdson seemed entirely smitten and tongues wagged that they would likely be seeing a wedding by summer’s end. 

And yet more were surprised to hear news of a different engagement, this between a respectable widow and a naval captain who had made his fortune in the war. The story was soon to emerge: the couple had been acquainted for years, when the captain was merely a junior officer, their budding courtship discouraged by her father, who desired a more advantageous match. Instead, she had wed a local landowner, an older gentleman who had died two winters previous. There had been little talk of remarriage until the arrival of Captain Swenson, and now, it seemed, he and the widow had quickly rekindled sentiments that both had thought long extinguished. 

For Day 6 of @vikingsevents’s Summer Solstice: “wedding”

#vikingssummer #vikings: valhalla #vikings valhalla #harald sigurdsson #freydis eriksdotter #leif eriksson #emma of normandy #king canute #harald x freydis #canute x emma #vikings netflix #fanfiction #regency au

[dragonsoftheeast]

if I had a voice, I would sing

read on Ao3

Thorunn and Ivar, through the years.

Written for the @vikingsevents Summer Solstice Challenge, Day 1: Meadow

“How blue are Ivar’s eyes today?” Aslaug asks, and Ivar opens his eyes wide for Ubbe to check.

“Very blue,” he reports.

“Then you must not train today,” Aslaug says, caressing his cheek.

It is the third straight week she has said this, and Ivar finds it doubtful that she will ever relent. He must watch from the sidelines yet again, pointing out his brother’s mistakes. Even Siggy has a small shield now.

Hvitserk takes the opportunity to steal from Ubbe’s plate.

Ubbe pulls up the cart. This is the part where Ivar will lift his arms up, and he will put him into the cart, and he will drag him along so that he can watch them train.

This time, when his brother reaches under his armpits, he screams.

“Ubbe!” Aslaug scolds, rushing over to comfort him. 

She rubs his chest and tries to lift him.

“No!” He screams again. “No, no!”

Aslaug sighs, and rubs at her eyes.

He struggles out of his chair, pushing aside worried hands- all except Sigurd, because of course Sigurd wouldn't be worried about him.

Ivar the Boneless, whose great deed is living by the grace of his mother, falls to the ground like a worm.

As he crawls, there is nothing great about Ivar. But he crawls, because it is the only thing he can do, and if it is the choice between two humiliations, then he will choose the one that is on his own terms.

It is more exhausting than he expects. As soon as he is out of the line of sight of his family, he allows himself to breath as raggedly as he likes. 

The dead weight of his legs drags him down, and yet he can feel the pain of them, the scrapes of his useless knees. His pants are ruined- not that that has ever been a concern for him, his mother will surely replace them on the morrow- and his hands are caked in dirt.

He carries on, and drags himself to the other side of the hall. He sits up, and leans against the wall, watching people pass by.

It is there that his brother’s wife finds him.

“What are you doing here, young Ivar?” Thorunn asks. Siggy is not with her. Most likely she is with his brothers, learning how to block and push with their small shields, learning how to strike with their small swords.

Without him. All of them, without him.

“Go away,” he says.

To his surprise, she does not immediately obey him.

“Does your mother know you here?” She asks, unconcerned.

“No.” The word escapes his lips against his will. “Please do not tell her.”

“Of course not.” She cocks her head. “I thought you would be training with your brothers.”

He glares down at his useless legs in response. He hopes their reality will make her uncomfortable; he already expects the sight of them to drive her away. But instead, she tilts her head and looks him in the eye.

“Ah. That explains why you are so angry.”

“I am not angry.” He seethes through his teeth.

She scoffs. “Of course you are angry. You are a slave to your body.”

He snarls, exposing his baby teeth. “I am no slave.”

"Perhaps not. But you lack choices. In my eyes, that makes you a slave."

He has no cutting comment for that, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Do you want to learn how to fight?” She asks him, after an uncomfortable pause.

What a stupid question, he thinks. 

“Of course I do.”

“Then you deserve to learn.” She crosses her arms. “Do you want me to carry you or do you want to crawl?”

“I want to crawl,” he says. “Where are we going?”

“To your first lesson.”

That is the first time she takes him to the meadow.

---

The lessons are slow-going, at first. There is quite a bit of trial and error.

For one, they must sneak away to the meadow, and there is not much he can do to hide himself from his watchful mother. 

She starts him out on a stool, and teaches the most important lesson: how not to get hit.

They quickly rule out him ever using a shield. His balance is precarious enough to start with, and he cannot shift it for defense.

Ivar must make up for the lack of a shield with devastating offense, she decides. It is a similar fighting style to Bjorn’s, but where Bjorn uses hammering blows from above, Ivar will use his lower vantage point to surprise his opponents. Every party must be quickly turned to counterattack, every dodge must become a way to get inside an enemy's defenses.

After two weeks of lessons, he comes wearing gloves that allow his fingers to peek through, with bands around his forearms. His pants are thicker, too, and he has tied his legs together.

“Floki says that if I am to crawl everywhere, I should have a new pair of shoes,” he says cheerfully. 

He has to adjust to holding the weapon with these new gloves.

It doesn’t take long for them to be crusted in mud.

---

“So this is how you have been spending your days, wife,” Bjorn says, leaning against a tree. “Making new memories in this meadow, hm?”

Thorunn snorts, smacking his shoulder. His brother laughs, clearly pleased with himself, and tugs on one of her braids.

Ivar pipes up, not happy to be left out. It happens to him far too often.

"I am learning to fight, Bjorn. She is teaching me."

“Should I be worried?” He asks her.

“Yes,” Ivar answers for her. “I will become a greater warrior than you. I will surpass you in all things.”

His eyebrows go up in a comical shock. “I should be careful, Thorunn. All my brothers aim to defeat me.”

"I would protect you," She says, "And Siggy would avenge you."

"Vengeance is the domain of sons, not daughters," Ivar says, irritated at how laughable they find this scenario to be.

“I must make do with what I have,” his brother says, completely unbothered by him. “But my father once told me that a father may be jealous of his sons, but a daughter will always be a light in your life.”

Ivar cannot help but think, what does Ragnar have to be jealous of?

“That’s enough rest,” Thorunn says. “Bjorn, you should go against him, since he intends to surpass you.”

She steps back as they ready their weapons.

Ivar has always known that his brother has possessed fearsome strength, but it is another matter entirely to face it himself. 

Each of his swings is a hammer-blow, and it is all he can do to block against him. 

The meadow rings with the song of steel, his desperate yells, until his brother binds their swords together and shoves, hard, knocking him to the ground.

His brother looks down at him, appraisingly. Ivar lifts his chin up, baring his teeth in feral defiance.

“You have learned well, brother,” Bjorn tells him, lifting him back onto the stump. “I would be honored to fight beside you one day.”

It feels like the highest praise.

---

Ivar parries Thorunn’s strike, barely shifting on his stump. 

“That’s good,” she says, patting the length of her sword. “But you must be stronger with your counterattack.”

He nods, and prepares for another series of strikes.

She lifts her sword again, and attacks.

“What are you doing?”

She flinches out of reflex, while her young pupil merely stares.

Aslaug, hands covering her mouth, rushes to his side. Sigurd smugly looks on.

Thorunn’s mouth gapes in shock. She never thought Aslaug would make her way out here, but she should have known better. Aslaug would walk through fire for her beloved son.

“She’s teaching me, Mother.” Ivar has always been willful, but his defiance rarely comes this calmly.

“You could have gotten hurt.” Aslaug fusses over her youngest, checking him for bruising or broken bones.

Sigurd looks vaguely disappointed- but not surprised- by this turn of events.

“What were you thinking?” Aslaug whips her head around to Thorunn. Her kohl is smeared around her eyes, as if she’d been interrupted while applying it. Her eyes are murderous. 

She knocks over a cup on the table, spilling wine.

What were you thinking?

She tangles her mistress’ hair with numb fingers.

What were you thinking?

She knocks the loom with her hip, causing a mistake.

What were you thinking?

No. You are a free woman now. She is no longer your mistress.

Thorunn pulls herself to her full height. Not as tall as Aslaug, but enough to look her in the eyes.

“He needs protection, yes, but he deserves choices. If Ivar wants to fight, then he should.”

She catches herself bracing for the slap. Certainly the bristling rage in Aslaug’s eyes always seemed to foretell that. Her body has still not forgotten slavery.

You are free, she repeats to herself, you are free.

She keeps her eyes away from her former mistress’ twitching hand. She will look her in the eyes.

You are free. You are free. You are free.

"Is this what you want, Ivar?" Aslaug asks, turning away from her.

"Yes, Mother," he says, blue eyes blazing.

"Then there is no doubt you will surpass even your father," She says, and turns to leave, Sigurd tramping behind her.

Once she is out of sight, Thorunn picks up her sword again.

"Let us return to our practice," She says, hiding the trembling of her fingers in the strength of her grip.

---

Once the two of them can practice openly, all things become easier.

Ivar comes up with a design so that his hand-axes have spikes on the handles, to make it all the more easy to crawl. He describes it to the blacksmith, hands flying. 

He can fight with his brothers now. He is on a level where he can put them to a draw- with no small amount of dirty tricks. He can be with them on the training grounds.

But he prefers to learn from Thorunn, and the meadow, away from curious eyes. But also because she is much more willing to entertain his wilder ideas, and experiment.

“What if I was able to attack from below? On the ankles, or the knees?”

“You would be too easily trampled,” she says, frowning. “The front line would not be your place.”

“My brothers could throw me at the enemy,” he suggests. “Break their lines, and surprise them.”

Her eyes narrow, unsure if this is a legitimate suggestion.

His cheeky grin says otherwise.

“Tch,” she scoffs. “They would certainly be surprised.”

Thorunn tells him of Bjorn’s dream of the Mediterranean. 

“I know already,” he says, with no small amount of childish pride. “Floki told me. That is why he is designing a new boat, as he did for my father.”

There it is, that slightest twist of the mouth, when he mentions his father. She never brings him up, not like any of the other members of the family. 

“You knew my father, didn’t you?” Ivar asks her.

“Not very well,” she says. “I was only his slave.”

He cannot imagine his mentor as a slave. Ubbe has mentioned it of her before, so he knows that it is true. But he has never known her as anything other than a free woman. She was the one who taught him freedom.

“What was he like?”

She hesitates, the same way his mother does.

“He was a great man,” she says. “Inspiring. When he led, you wanted to follow, especially in battle.”

“I did not know you fought beside him.”

“Only twice,” she says. She points to her scar. Quite fearsome: he remembers cowering from it as a baby, and even when he first began training. “And I could not go to Paris with him.”

“I would have liked to go with him.” He pouts. “Of course, I doubt my mother will let me into battle at all.”

“We have not been on raids for years,” she says. “We have many years yet where we can convince her.”

He looks over at his unlikely champion, who has so casually pledged her support, and smiles.

---

The time has finally come, for him to enter battle, and although Thorunn is proud of her first- and only- student, now it is time for them to part ways.

“I don’t understand why you have to leave,” he says, pushing himself onto his stump again. “You should come to England with my father.”

“Ah, but I have been to England before,” she says. “I was promised Paris years ago, Ivar. And I intend to go beyond that.”

“What if you do not return, hm?”

“As long as I do not die before reaching Paris, I will be happy.” She shrugs.

He shrinks into himself, as if he could hide the words he says.

“I would like to fight with you,” he mutters. “I would like to fight with you, and my brothers, and my father.”

Ragnar had never liked her, had doubtless never noticed her while she was serving him. All she was to him was an error in his son’s judgment.

Thorunn remembers much of Ragnar, but it is doubtful he remembers her as anything other than mother to his first grandchild. Perhaps as the woman who carried that grandchild into battle, receiving a scar that still marks her.

Ivar does not remember anything of the reality of Ragnar. They have been fed a steady diet of stories, great tales that neither Aslaug nor Thorunn contradict. Thorunn, because she cannot be bothered. It amazes her that Aslaug seems to want her sons to have a good opinion of their great father.

“You have a choice here,” She says. “You can come with us, or you can go with your father, or you can stay with your mother.”

He bites his lip, his eyes wide.

“What do you want me to choose?” He asks quietly. 

Sometimes, she forgets that Ivar looks up to her. The concept seems so ludicrous to her- the son of a king, asking the advice of a former slave. If she asked it of him, she might actually sway him. 

“I want you to choose.” She says, finally. “Do not forget that you deserve choices. Always.”

When Ivar leaves, Aslaug hugs her sons in turn and kisses them on the forehead. She saves her tears for once Ivar boards their boat. They stand on the dock together, Ubbe holding his mother.

As the boat sail away from each other, Thorunn stares Ragnar in the eye, the way she never would have as his slave.

#vikings #thorunn #ivar ragnarsson #bjorn ironside #aslaug #vikingsevents #summer solstice #vikingssummer #fic #bjorn x thorunn #glory and gore

[vikingsevents]

We have come to the end of our first-ever blog event! The responses we received to our Summer Solstice week blew us away with their diversity, creativity, and commitment. We have really enjoyed seeing all your creations and hope that we included all of them in a reblog.

Under the 'read more', you will find all the entries for our Summer Solstice week. Thank you to everyone in the Vikings and Vikings: Valhalla fandom who participated!

Day One - Meadow

Little As A Leaf moodboard - @grimeundglow

Delicate fic - @vikingstrash

Freydis Eriksdotter gifset - @ivarthebadbitch

Lost Amongst The Meadow fic - @ladyyennefer

Meadow Lark fic - @lmillay

if I had a voice, I would sing fic - @dragonoftheeast

Beyond the Stones fic - @encomium-emmae

I Will Join You fic - @shelivesinhermind

Day Two – Honey

Honey moodboard - @grimeundglow

she was sweet like honey edit - @encomium-emmae

Honey & Water fic - @lmillay

The Reverie Protocol fic - @underragingwaves

Honey moodboard - @vikingstrash

more, give me more, give me more fic - @dragonoftheeast

Day Three – Bonfire

Bál fic - @lmillay

Bonfire moodboard - @grimeundglow

The offering fic - @ivarthebadbitch

Bonfire edit - @encomium-emmae

that’s why we’re making headlines fic - @dragonoftheeast

Day Four – Summer Sun

Summer Sun moodboard - @grimeundglow

Midsummer’s Promise fic - @lmillay

dangling feet from window frame fic - @dragonoftheeast

Summer Days, Summer Nights fic - @encomium-emmae

Day Five – Dancing

The Dance fic - @lmillay

The Touch edit - @encomium-emmae

tired little laughs, gold-lie promises fic - @dragonoftheeast

Day Six – Wedding

Summer Solstice art - @ingeborgalf

Shadows of the Sun fic - @lmillay

Wedding edit - @encomium-emmae

do you even wanna go free? (I’ll show you what that big word means) fic - @dragonoftheeast

Day Seven – Flower Crown

Flower Crown edit - @shelivesinhermind

Ragnarssons with flower crowns gifset - @ivarthebadbitch

Tradition fic - @vikingstrash

my crown is in my heart fic - @encomium-emmae

Flower Crowns and Withered Egos fic - @nothingtolosebutweight

Solveig’s Crown fic - @lmillay

the gods will always smile on brave women fic - @dragonoftheeast

#vikings #vikings valhalla #vikingsevents #vikingssummer #round up #summer solstice

[underragingwaves]

Written for the Summer Solstice event of @vikingsevents, day 2: honey. This is an AU set in the universe of Westworld. All you need to know about that before reading is that it takes place in an amusement park, in which robots are designed to look and act like humans but are not allowed to harm humans the way humans can harm them. In-series, the robots slowly begin to show signs of life that override the commands given to them by humans.

He hates when their latest death still clings to them.

Most techs know this about him by now, but it seems like it has escaped the notice of whoever worked on her last. Hvitserk sucks in a breath, sharp and annoyed, when he spots the small spatter of blood just below her ear. His thumb comes up to his lip before he can reconsider this course of action. He smudges the spatter with his spit, rubbing over her too-clammy skin with his thumb as gently as he can manage, and watches it turn from a garish red to a copper-toned hue that blends into her tan.

She looks almost normal again like this. Her dark hair has been arranged in careful ringlets and braids, with no trace of the gaping headwound with which she was brought in. There is no trace of the fact that her brain and blood had spilled from her head. Her eyes carry more life since she was brought back from the latest of her numerous deaths. Someone took the time to reapply the slight flush to her cheeks as well as the strawberry punch color on her lips. He's heard guests in the park say she tastes like that when she's kissed. Moments like these, Hvitserk doesn't doubt that. She is exactly as his father designed her.

Pliant. Sweet. Perfect.

[read the rest on ao3!]

#vikings #vikingssummer #hvitserk ragnarsson #urwfic #scheduled post for event day

[therealvikingstrash]

Title: Delicate Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Pairing: Emma of Normandy/King Canute A/N: My entry for @vikingsevents Summer Solstice Event. The prompt is Meadow. Word count: ~ 800

Read on AO3:

#vikings valhalla #vikingssummer #meadow #vtrash writes #emma x canute #emma of normandy #king canute

[encomium-emmae]

Anne Sexton, “The Touch”

For Day 5 of @vikingsevents’s Summer Solstice: “dancing”

#vikingssummer #vikings: valhalla #vikings valhalla #emma of normandy #king canute #canute x emma #vikings netflix

[ivarthebadbitch]

Season 4b, but what if they all wore flower crowns?

(thanks @vikingsevents for organizing!)

#vikings #hvitserk #ivar the boneless #ubbe #sigurd #gifs #vikingssummer

[encomium-emmae]

The queen gave birth in midsummer, on the eve of the feast day of Saint John. Her labor had begun the night before, continuing into the morning and ending only as the sun finally set on what had been the longest day of the year. For the length of her ordeal, the king had not been allowed entry into her chamber, but instead had paced the corridors, the scuff of his boots on the stones not loud enough to mask the heartrending cries emerging from behind the door. But as the day at last gave way to night, they called for him. You have a son, they said. The child was tiny, cradled easily in two hands, with a mop of dark hair and bright blue eyes like his mother. They named him Hardecnudth, a strong name that they hoped would serve him well one day as king. Orders were given for the church bells to be rung in celebration, a sound that echoed through the city and the smaller villages that dotted the countryside beyond. Bonfires had already been built in honor of the saint’s day—over the objection of some who thought the practice heathenish, an echo of the Old Ways—and the peal of the bells mingled with the songs of the revelers and with the roar of the fires that burned through the night. 

For Day 3 of @vikingsevents’s Summer Solstice: “bonfire”

#vikingssummer #vikings: valhalla #vikings valhalla #emma of normandy #king canute #canute x emma #vikings netflix #fanfiction #drabble

[encomium-emmae]

she’s on the tip of my tongue she’s on the top of my thighs and if i searched a thousand miles i’d be dying to find  looking for honey (x)

For Day 2 of @vikingsevents's Summer Solstice: "honey"

#vikingssummer #vikings: valhalla #vikings valhalla #emma of normandy #king canute #canute x emma #vikings netflix

[ivarthebadbitch]

The offering

(Ubbe & Ivar & Sigurd after 4x15, for @vikingsevents‘ Summer Solstice Event, based on the prompt “bonfire.” cw: animal sacrifice)

Ubbe wakes Ivar just before midnight. The rest of Kattegat is already asleep on this warm summer evening, and the air is heavy and humid. A storm is brewing off the coast; by morning, it will be here.

“Go away,” Ivar mutters when Ubbe taps him on the shoulder, batting away his hand. But he sits up anyway with a yawn and begrudgingly dresses himself, and when he is ready, Ubbe picks him up and hauls him over his shoulder like he has a hundred times before. In other times, Ivar would no doubt take the opportunity to call him donkey and tug at his braid (like he has a hundred times before), but he has not been himself since he came back from England without Ragnar, only to learn that their mother had been killed and her throne usurped in his absence.

(read on Ao3)

#vikings #ubbe #ivar the boneless #sigurd #fanfiction #vikingssummer

[vikingsevents]

Hi everyone! We are organizing a Summer Solstice event for the Vikings and Vikings: Valhalla fandom. 🔆

This is a small event that only lasts for a week, from June 18 to June 24. We have put together a list of prompts for this week that you can use to create… whatever you feel like creating! You can write a fic/drabble, or create art, or create an edit/moodboard, or do something else entirely. You can create something for any character(s) in Vikings and/or Vikings: Valhalla. We’re leaving that all up to you.

There is no need to sign up or claim a prompt! You just pick and choose something from the list below and then post your creation on the date assigned to the prompt you chose. If you want to combine prompts or make more than one thing, that’s all good too! (When combining prompts, please use the day with the prompt that features the most for posting your work.)

We would like to reblog your creations, so please make sure to tag us @vikingsevents and use the tag vikingssummer when you post your creation.

The individual prompts and posting dates are as follows:

#vikings #vikings valhalla #vikingsevents #vikingssummer #fandom event #prompt list 2022

[dragonsoftheeast]

do you even wanna go free? (I’ll show you what that big word means)

read on Ao3

A compare and contrast of two weddings, between a son of Ragnar with a former slave girl.

Written for @vikingsevents Summer Solstice challenge Day 6: Wedding

Thorunn’s wedding was hardly the happiest day of her life. Consumed by self loathing, she’d been halfway ready to bolt the whole time. As much as Bjorn had beamed at her, she could not get past Ragnar’s uninterested stare, or Lagertha’s strained smile.

“You won’t want to marry me now, will you?” She’d asked, there in her sickbed. She wouldn’t have blamed him. But Bjorn had seemed determined to prove her wrong.

Her poor, stubborn husband.

They’d married as soon as Thorunn was physically able. Her scar was so, so red, and hidden by a veil, her belly rounded beneath her dress.

Aslaug had been the one to provide her a sword and kransen, as her former mistress. They were shiny and new, unlike Bjorn’s rusted ancestral sword, presented only to be exchanged during the ceremony. 

It was humiliating, to be there in front of her hero, wearing the bridal crown of flowers in her hair as if that could make up for the beauty she’d lost. It’d hurt even to smile, or to cry, so she’d kept her face neutral.

She’d seen their pitying looks. No one wanted to say it, not out loud, not in front of Bjorn. Now he’s stuck with her, she’d seen on their faces. 

At least here, Ubbe and Margrethe seem happy. Everyone at Ubbe’s wedding seems jealous of him.

The fact Margrethe was a slave not a few weeks ago does not seem to phase most of the men in the crowd, though perhaps the fact that the eldest son Ragnar had done the same can save her from much of the disdain that Thorunn faced in the first years of her marriage. She hopes that is true, but she can do some other things to assist her.

As Aslaug had once done for her, Thorunn had provided Margrethe with a new kransen and sword. Her own kransen was reserved for any more future daughters- the one encircling Siggy’s brow had been worn by Lagertha, and her daughter Gyda, for a brief time.

“All of us slave girls dreamed of being like you,” Margrethe had said, admiring the blade. “Freed to marry a son of Ragnar. I can’t believe it’s happening to me.”

Thorunn suspects that this is not so much happening to her as Margrethe making it happen. From Ivar’s complaints, she’d set a wide net among the sons of Ragnar. Not that she blamed her. A path to freedom is a path to freedom, and Ubbe will make a good husband. 

“And,” Thorunn corrects her.

“What?”

“I was freed, and I married a son of Ragnar. Not in order to.” Thorunn placed her own hands over Margrethe’s grip on the sword. “Let me tell you this. I always demand respect from my husband. Do not let him forget that he married a free woman. You are not a slave anymore. You never will be again.”

Margrethe nodded fervently, and let Thorunn place the kransen on her brow, and together, they washed away her maidenhood. 

“Congratulations,” She says to the new bride, as the men ready to race the course. They jostle and jockey for position, already drunk, all ready to be even more drunk. 

“Thank you, Thorunn,” She says, clasping her hands. “For everything.”

“We are sisters now,” Thorunn said, smiling.

“Yes!” Siggy says, wrapping her arms around her new aunt. “I am glad to have you as part of our family.”

Ubbe shoves his brother aside, passing by the finish line, whooping in victory. Panting, he approaches the three of them.

“My apologies, Siggy,” He says, smiling. “I’m afraid I must-” 

And he sweeps his new wife in his arms, and Margrethe squeals with laughter-

“Steal my wife away from you. So I can take her to the feast!”

The men cheer, even the men covered in mud.

“Served, of course, by my faithful cupbearer, my brother Hvitserk.”

At this, Thorunn joins in the cheering, as they all leave the clearing. Siggy jumps on Sigurd’s back, and they woop together, laughing as he carries her to the hall.

“I don’t know what everyone is so excited about,” Ivar growls, crawling to be at Thorunn’s side. “She’s just a slave.”

She’d warned Ivar against approaching her. He is too prone to being jealous of his brothers to compete with them this way.

“If you keep chasing them, you will never catch up,” she’d told him. “If you forge your own path, you will reach places they will never imagine.”

She can only hope that he heeded her.

“So was I,” Thorunn replies, measuredly.

Ivar freezes, as if he cannot put that together. He is perhaps one of the only people who ever forgets this about her, and normally, she loves him for it. But she cannot let him forget it now.

“I only watched her,” he mumbles, and she turns, holding his face in her hands.

“And now she is your brother’s wife,” she says. “As I am. So surely, you will afford her the same respect as you do me.”

He searches her face, and nods.

“Bjorn,” she calls.

“Yes?” He calls. His horn is already full.

“Can you help take Ivar to the feast?”

“Of course, my heart,” he says, passing the horn to her. She drains it. With a swift and easy movement, her husband lifts Ivar onto his back, and they walk together to the Great Hall.

Aslaug proudly presides over wedding feast. Perhaps this was not her desire when she encouraged her sons to get married.

A marriage to a slave he freed himself, rushed so all his brothers could be here before they all departed, Bjorn and Hvitserk to Rome, Ivar to England. Far from the noble bride she’d imagined for him. But at least her eldest heeded her advice, if only halfway.

Aslaug will have another weaving student, it seems.

#bjorn ironside #ubbe ragnarsson #hvitserk ragnarsson #sigurd ragnarsson #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless #vikings #vikingssummer #fic #siggy bjornsdottir #thorunn #margrethe #bjorn x thorunn #ubbe x margrethe #glory and gore

[dragonsoftheeast]

the gods will always smile on brave women

read on Ao3

Three generations of women, and Midsommar 

Written for @vikingsevents Summer Solstice challenge Day 7: Flower Crown

Siggy Bjornsdottir loves to fight.

She is determined to be a shieldmaiden worthy to be the daughter of Bjorn Ironside. Worthy to be the daughter of Thorunn Blood-eye. 

She loves to see her father’s nods of approval, to hear her mother’s praise.

She loves to imagine her victories on the battlefield, the clashing of swords and shields, charging forward with no fear. Valhalla is the only destination for me.

It’s not just her glory or her parent’s approval or her family legacy that motivates her. 

At twelve years old, she is practiced with her own sword and shield. She can hit her mark with the bow and arrow. She has practiced with the spear and the ax, though she is not exceptionally skilled with them. None can call her lazy.

But that is not the only thing she loves.

Siggy’s days might be spent learning to fight with her father, but many of her nights are spent weaving with Aslaug, her mother by her side. 

Her mother tries, but she was not taught when she was young, and she learns with slow and clumsy fingers. Siggy outpaced her long ago.

Siggy has been working on this tapestry since the winter. It depicts Lagertha in her first battle, leading a group of shieldmaidens. She is especially proud of the designs of the shields, blue with the Fehu rune emblazoned on it.

At first, she’d wanted to show the story of her courtship by Ragnar, as her father had described, but she’d worried. Would honoring her grandmother offend her queen? 

Before she’d started, she’d asked her mother’s advice.

“Aslaug deserves your respect,” her mother told her. 

“Do you love Aslaug, then?” Siggy asks.

Her mother purses her lips.

“It’s complicated. She owned me. She set me free. And she helped raise you. For that I will always be grateful.”

“Well, what should I do then?”

“You can still honor your grandmother,” her mother says, twisting her hair in her hands. “But we still owe Aslaug much. You should be wary of needlessly insulting her.”

So she’d unwound her work and started her new scene.

She’s finally finished it.

Her father praises it, comparing it to his mother’s work.

She glows. It is the highest praise, from him. She is not just descended from a great shield-maiden, but a great weaver, as well, this purely female work. She represents the greatest part of her ancestors.

She plans to give it as a gift to her grandmother, when she comes to celebrate Midsommar.

Of course, she loves being able to train with her grandmother, too. But with her so busy, and so far away in Hedeby, Siggy just wants the chance to show how grateful she is.

They greet her grandmother at the docks, adorned in flower crowns.

---

Siggy is restless in the morning, rocking on her heels, as they prepare for Lagertha’s arrival from Hedeby. She is also so excited to show her finished tapestry to her grandmother. 

It is strange to think of Lagertha, who she once so idolized, as her daughter’s grandmother.

Siggy has been raised by legends. Thorunn herself has no great parents to hearken to. What grandparents could compare to Ragnar and Lagertha? Certainly not the slaves that Thorunn was torn away from as a child.

She once feared that any skill or ferocity her daughter possessed would only ever be attributed to Bjorn, but by staying, she has ensured the opposite. But at least now, Thorunn has turned herself into an ancestor to be proud of, in the same way that Aslaug speaks of her own mother, the shield-maiden Brunhilde.

She is proud to stand as a woman in Siggy’s lineage, despite her lack of finesse at the loom.

Thorunn wouldn’t even be making the attempt to learn, if it weren’t for Siggy. She seems to take twice the time to make a knotted monstrosity, while her daughter’s fingers fly, threads flashing. 

Her daughter has the best characteristics of a noble shield-maiden: she has calluses both at the palms of her hands, from the sword, and at her fingertips, from the loom.

Her talent is why Thorunn doesn’t actually spend much time teaching her. Bjorn takes up that role well, and enjoys doing it. He takes every opportunity to show off their talented daughter.

She is unsure as to what she can teach her that Bjorn or Lagertha or her uncles cannot. Perhaps that is why she prefers her secret lessons with Ivar. Every bit of progress together takes so much work, it feels so rewarding. One day, when he reveals himself to his brothers, they will believe that this is the result of true talent, that all of this was completely effortless.

Ivar has paved his own way to strength, just as she did.

But she still has something she can share with her daughter.

Siggy has begun to ask for braids, so she has begun to practice again. It has been so long since she has ever had to braid another woman’s hair, despite her skill from years of practice. But her daughter’s hair is like spun gold in her hands, and doing it as a family makes her smile.

She tucks purple flowers into each other- at least this weaving she is adept at- and sets them on her daughter’s head. Warrior’s braids twist over her ears, allowing the rest of her beautiful hair to fall loosely around her shoulders.

Thorunn’s own hair, as always, is braided back tightly on the right side of her face, to expose her scar in full. Small white blooms dot the greenery that encircles her head.

“My mother has arrived,” Bjorn says, at the door. 

“Come here,” she says. He dips his head down low enough that she can reach. She plops a wreath of white and yellow blooms on his head.

“Thank you,” he says, adjusting it so it sits straight on his head.

They go to the docks to greet their family, flowers tickling behind their ears.

---

Lagertha always looks forward to her visits to Kattegat.

It has grown large over these many years. She can spot it easily, there on the coast, swallowing up the bay. The docks are filled to the brim with boats, and the misty sea cannot shroud the heights of the Great Hall entirely. Trade and prosperity has caused it to swell in size, and its connection to a great hero does not hurt, either.

In weaker moments, she wonders if this all could have been hers. If she had swallowed her pride, allowed Ragnar to take his second wife, would she be a queen over this great city?

But no. She would not be Lagertha if she swallowed her pride for a husband. The fates had known her fate long before she was born, and they had made her to be the Earl of Hedeby. And she is still proud of what she has done there.

More and more women have come to Hedeby, seeking to become shield-maidens. Her lands are fertile, and she has bounty she had never known as a farmer.

She has a son she is proud of.

Her son has his own family now. A family that waits to greet her.

“Mother,” Bjorn exclaims, embracing her almost as soon as she steps off of the boat. His flower crown sits crooked on his head, and she corrects it.

She turns to look for her grand-daughter, and is struck by the very image of Gyda. The resemblance hits her like a hammerblow.

She thinks of her daughter too often, these days, surrounded by eager young women who desire her mentorship. Her daughter, a woman for too short a time, who died at the age Siggy is now. She could only hope Siggy would far outlive her.

“Oh, Siggy,” she says, wrapping up her granddaughter in her arms.

The four of them catch up together as they make their way to the Great Hall, her entourage of warriors following close behind.

“It is good to see you, Earl Ingstad,” Aslaug says from her throne, her sons all flanking her, “In order to celebrate Midsummer. Please enjoy all that Kattegat has to offer.”

“I am, as always, grateful for your hospitality, Queen Aslaug,” she replies. Every time she has returned here, she finds that her respect for Aslaug has grown.

“Now that our guests have arrived, let the festivities begin!” Aslaug says, toasting. “Skol!”

“Skol!” The crowd echoes in reply, and the music begins. The sun still shines overhead.

“Grandmother,” Siggy says, stepping forward. “I would like to present you with a gift.”

Her servants approach with a large roll of cloth, and unfurl it. It is a tapestry, showing her at the head of an army of shield-maidens. The work and the detail is excellent.

“It depicts your first victory, against the king Froh,” she explains.

Ah, her first battles, where glory was the only goal. How she misses the purity of the fight, but she can never return to it. She is too old to fight for no reason now. As a shield-maiden, the chance of Valhalla was all it took to motivate her. As an earl, everything must have a purpose, every battle has its own goal.

Yes, Siggy is young enough to want to fight purely for its own sake. One day, she may outgrow this. Perhaps she will enter Valhalla before then. Who knows? The gods have already decided. But Lagertha cannot wait to teach her all she knows.

“I will treasure it always,” She tells her.

“A less permanent gift,” Thorunn says, passing her a crown of white and purple wildflowers. She dons it happily, and grasps their hands- Siggy’s in her left, and Thorunn’s in her right.

The three of them, wreathed in flower crowns, turn to join the festivities together.

#vikings #vikingssummer #thorunn #siggy bjornsdottir #lagertha #fic #bjorn x thorunn #showing some generational women here #glory and gore

[dragonsoftheeast]

tired little laughs, gold-lie promises

read on Ao3

Ragnar attempts to recruit his sons for his final voyage to England.

Written for @vikingsevents Summer Solstice challenge Day 5: Dancing

Squeezing his son between his arms seems to push aside the death wish in Ragnar Lothbrok’s heart, if only for a moment.

He remembers the first time he reunited with his son this way. He’d envisioned their reunion a hundred times, a thousand times during those. These last ten years, he’d done the same. This, and the thought of revenge, has sustained him far more than any food or drink.

He remembers seeing Bjorn for the first time as a man, riding alongside his mother with a hundred men at their back, ready to fight alongside him. He remembers the pride that flooded his very being. A similar pride fills him now: Ubbe had the courage to face his father. Not many men can say the same.

His eldest son shoulders his way through the murmuring crowd.  He, more than any of Ragnar’s sons, is sure of his place, grown into his own as a leader. His brothers look to him for answers.

“Why did you come back?” Bjorn says, crossing his arms. 

He does not even greet his father. But despite the warmth, surely his son knows him well enough. The answer is so clear: he wants to exact his revenge alongside his sons. 

“You know why,” he says. “What you want to know is how I plan to do it.”

The crowd murmurs, and he makes sure to smile, that smile that had always reassured people that he had a plan.

“These people remember you as a god, not a man,” Bjorn mutters to him, steering him through the crowd. They part before them. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

His other sons lag behind, hesitant.

They make their way to the edge of the woods, further and further away from the crowd. Like a row of ducklings, they are, with him at the head, and Ivar, shuffling along, at its tail. 

“Siggy,” Bjorn says, suddenly. “Why don’t you go and tell your mother the news?”

“What?” She shouts, crestfallen.

Ivar sticks his tongue out at his niece. Siggy sends him a dirty look.

“You too, Ivar,” Bjorn adds.

“This is for the sons of Ragnar to discuss,” Ivar protests.

“Your mother will want to hear it from you,” Bjorn says, but Ivar isn’t fooled. He recognizes it for the dismissal that it is, and begins crawling away.

“I want to help you,” Siggy pleads to her own father. “I should know what is going on.” 

"I will tell you what you need to know. But you can help your mother and the queen prepare a feast, to celebrate the return of our king.”

“Father-” 

“Run along, my quicksilver," Bjorn says, ruffling his daughter's hair, and a bolt of pain goes through him at the old nickname.

He has lost many things in his life. He has lost countless comrades. He has lost his brother in every way that matters. He has lost Athelstan. But Gyda, that pain he has long kept buried, the thought of it too much to bear. For nothing aches like the loss of a daughter.

Gyda is truly the only child he could have nothing but love for. Eternally twelve in his memories, she had never even known him as a king.

"Still no sons, hmm?" He asks Bjorn.

His son half-smiles.

"No. But I hear you have another." He says, his face suddenly turning serious. “His name is Magnus. His mother is Queen Kwenthrith, and he lives in King Ecbert’s villa in Wessex.”

“Who told you that?” He laughs. Yet another of Ecbert’s chess pieces. Of course he’d like one of Ragnar’s sons in the palm of his hand, free to use whenever he pleases.

“A warrior who was fighting in Wessex.”

“And he told you about the settlement.”

He nods. His other sons watch him warily.

“I came back,” Ragnar says, standing up with no small amount of effort, “I came back because I wanted to see what has become of my sons.”

They stand, unsure. The mix of admiration and hatred in their eyes is what he expected, but their confusion, their doubt, it irritates him. After ten years, couldn’t they make up their minds?

“And?” Bjorn adds. Of course he knows there is a caveat.

“And I’m going to England. And I thought that you all might want to join me.” He feels almost shy, asking this of his sons. How pathetic. “What say you, Hvitserk? Ubbe?”

He tries again.

“Sigurd?”

Ragnar looks to his eldest, who shrugs.

“I can see in your eyes that your answer is also no, Bjorn.”

“It is because of this!” Bjorn exclaims, shoving a map in his lap. “A new land. Further east than we have ever traveled. I want to go there.”

“How far along are you in your plans?” He replies, reaching for this last sliver of hope.

“Floki is building the boats.” Bjorn says, exasperated. “My wife and my daughter are coming with me. Hvitserk has agreed to come with me, and so has King Harald.”

How can he blame his son for dreaming of exploration, as he had? He turns to his other sons.

“What about you two? Why are you not going with your brother?”

“Kattegat has changed since you went away,” Ubbe says, as if he has not noticed. “It is a major trading center in the region. Many other kings regard it with envy. We want to stay and protect our mother.”

It seems that he is doomed to have sons that choose their mother over him.

“It is good, that you think of family.” He says. 

"But perhaps you may talk to some people at the feast," Ubbe says. "And then perhaps you may convince some of them to go with you.”

None of that means anything if his sons are not with him. But he nods, and goes to the feast that night.

The Great Hall has changed much since he has last been there. It is larger, for one, and the tapestries that hang from the walls are bigger, and richer. One shows him, in his fur coat and breeches, fighting against a man wreathed in snakes, his first claim to fame. Another shows him, landing in Lindisfarne, terrorizing the monks. Another shows him in his coffin, leaping out and taking Paris in one fell swoop.

He is everywhere in this room, and yet he does not belong. For all this feast is meant to honor him, the celebrations are in full swing long before he gets there.

There is Ivar, and Aslaug, sitting at the head table, laughing together.

There is Bjorn, and his scarred wife, drinking merrily, swaying along to music together.

There is Sigurd, plucking at his harp, singing in an echoing bass.

There is Hvitserk and Ubbe, dancing with his granddaughter, taking turns spinning her as she laughs, nearly breathless. 

All of this, without him. Ten years of staying on the sidelines, of planning, of stewing in the thoughts of revenge as he moved from farm to farm, and they feel none of the bitterness that consumes him daily. They are still happy. They are still prosperous. They have done just fine without him. Better, even.  

He once thought that he had outgrown Kattegat. Now he sees that it has outgrown him. Now, he must make his goodbyes.

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