King Ivar spends much of his time with his infertile first wife: neglecting his second wife, the mother of his children, a Freyjasdottir. Eventually, it catches up to him when a foreign King Sverri invades his lands.
tw: abuse, character death, etc.
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"Kitta."
She never made it easy on him. She storms past Kattegat's square to the soft, sinkable sand where Ivar's crutch could not hold. He drops his crutches to the side, dug his fingers to the knuckles of his gloves into the sand to pull himself through where his wife siat. Her arms fold one over another.
"Oh he came! How lucky for me that he did not stay with her." Kitta flicks her fingers up into the air.
"We've talked of this." Ivar sighs, bowing his head down against his forearms.
"And it just so happens that you want that woman." Kitta snears.
"What is wrong with her?" Ivar peeps up from the space of his arms.
"She's the 'most' lovely woman the rumours are all about. She's gorgeous like Freyja." Kitta complains, slowing near the end of her statement. Of course you were. Freyja was your family. She must have kissed you with all she stood for, especially beauty.
"Can you blame me? Even you would want her." Ivar says.
Then silence. Kitta plops back onto the sandy beaches with her hands above her head. Sending opportunity Ivar crawled his way over, cradling her face with his forearms. Hmm? He says again.
"Of course I can't!" She throws her hands up. "She's desirable."
Ivar curls down over her face, laying his forehead against hers. "Let me have her. She'd make the best addition as a wife." Ivar hums. This time, Kitta holds up one of her slim fingers up in his face to tap his nose.
"She is the last wife you will take. That is it." Kitta warns.
"I promise."
You often find that isolating yourself is the worst possible thing you could do. Staying inside made you mystical to others and the rumours would fly like the raven on Ivar's banner. No, instead your feet bounce along the ground as a few girls ran after you. You had shared in the weaving of a loom, cooking of flat bread and now, play.
"An ashen fray, there it stands, here it is Yggdrasill, Yggdrasill." You bounce from foot to foot, whirling about their little dance. The tune was low, jumping word to word. "Count the willing 1, 2, 3... 4, 5, 6... an offering for the All-Father... 7, 8, 9.... 10!"
Finally at ten the little girls stopped, dropping as if to play dead. You laugh and roll, bopping one's blood deep gown when you notice eyes set upon you. Ivar sits outside in a chair, his crutch draped over his lap. Queen Kitta is nowhere to be seen. Whatever his problem was, he isn't stopping. Finally you stand straight, gathering the bottom of your gown.
"Go finish your chores now." You say to the group of girls.
"Yes Princess!" They shout in unison before separating into their own directions. Ivar leans back as you took large, prideful steps to stand in front of him. For a moment, you say nothing. So did he. Then you set your hands on your hips balled up.
