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"Onto Valhalla."
The great funeral pyre billowed smoke signals for miles over Kattegat's crystallized lake. The bodies were burning with a great immense heat, bouncing off your body and Hvitserk's white horse. Bodies of Ivar's faithful men abiding to the oaths of their armbands– you hope they knock upon the golden gates of Valhalla. Your fingers are marked by pallor, pulling one of his furs around your delicate shoulders while considering what exactly was going to happen next.
"Up." Hvitserk slides around you with a swirl of his boots, rising you from the cold ground onto his horse. You gasp gently as Hvitserk replaces himself behind you, toned arms gripping the reins of his horse. It's different from riding on Ivar's chariot. In place of Ivar's thick, muscular body against yours– you're left with Hvitserk's. He is no longer the lithe thing you once knew. He's formidable.
"Where are we going?" You ask him, the smell of smoke evaporating from your lungs the father his horse galloped.
"Somewhere private. Wouldn't you like that?" He asks.
If it were with your real husband, sure. The area he brings you to is devoid of the foliage and green that the rest of the forest bares. He binds the horse against a tree and slides down, a sway left in his step while helping you back down. Much of the forest is cold and decrepit.
He looks one way, then another, his palm resting on the butt of the handle of his sword. He walks beside you through the icy forest, knowing that Ivar rarely took the time to do the same. You admire the frozen leaves and frothy snow. "You agreed to be my wife."
You nod, dropping your head to twist your chunky ring– one of a garnet that Ivar brought you home from a raid. Ivar was a cruel, awful man to the public. It was another story behind your closed doors.
"But you don't love me." Hvitserk regards, turning his head down to catch your eyes. His eyes are the murkiest of all the Ragnarssons. They hide a secret. One you wish to unveil but deny looking into his eyes. The frosted white blades of grass seem all the more appealing.
"No." You agree. "I love my hus– my Ivar."
Your true husband. The one you were betraying by agreeing to become King Hvitserk's new blushing bride. A position that still didn't sit well with you. You wondered– what would happen when Ivar found out?
"Convince him to say no."
You had snuck into the great hall– listening to the keen titter of the Queen's voice.
"She is old enough to begin a family. Just as you are old enough to marry." The Queen rests on her throne, looking to her beloved son that kneels before her. The sweet prince Ivar, her last born son.
"To make her my wife, mother?" Ivar bobs his head as if pleased with the opportunity to swipe you away. "Gladly."
"(Y/N)?" Hvitserk calls out to you. In such a state, you hardly realize that your hand so tightly upon your finger ring until Hvitserk removes it from your digit. You think he might chuck it off into the distance when he fists it in his clenched fingers.
"Please don't!"
You lurch forward, tugging at his arm. Hvitserk holds the ring in his opposing arm, letting you paw at his chest for the ring like a sweet pup. The last remaining marker of your life with Ivar– and you truly miss him in every breath you took.
"It's the only thing I have of him." You try and fail to restrain the unbidden tears that bead down your cheeks, rolling over your jawline and against your skin. You cast your eyes over his as you plead with him to let it go. His long fingers release the gold finger ring.
"So you do love him." Hvitserk grumbles as if he's disenchanted by the revelation. Why should he have cared? He always knew how passionately you felt about Ivar... why the change now?
"One day, you'll love me." Hvitserk commends the knowledge to you. You're not so sure, sliding the ring into a sachet on your side. Your finger ghosts in the winter wind. Hvitserk replaces his hand against the small of your back, pulling you against his body.
"It might not be today." He guides his lukewarm hands to your cheek, allowing himself to tilt up your cheek. His fingers are biting at your cheek, as if you shouldn't be here, but where else should you be?
Angling his face lower, his nose nudges along the bridge of your nose. His nose is adorably buttonlike, reminding you of the puppy you used to tease him for being. You want to turn away– how shy you are to look at him this close! He is no longer the sweet puppy you knew him to be. Hvitserk lets loose a small, mused chuckle against your face. "But you will one day."
