Like Me

Loyalty to the King

When you were off the ground, you could feel the glory of the fresh salty air against your face. Nor was there anything like having a reason to look presentable beyond obligation to your father. There was bound to be tons of men at this celebration Ivar was having to mark the defeat of his brothers. Your eye kept shyly to Ivar, too embarrassed to admit you found him attractive in any regard.

"He is handsome... isn't he?" Beside you, you found a beautiful blonde whispering in your ear. You don't altogether recognize her as you sit at the table, combing your long hair out over your shoulder. Ivar sits upon his throne with his hands tight around his ale in a curved horn.

"Oh. Ohh yes." You whisper softly. "He is handsome."

"And you are beautiful." She tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear. Strangely so– you turn to look at the soft haired blonde, unsure of what she is doing. In fact everything is new and strange without crawling upon the ground. Being able to take the time to look... like an actual woman. "You should speak to him."

"What is your name?" You gaze into her pure blue eyes, wavering when you feel shyer than usual.

"Freydis." She says.

"Freydis." You smile. "Ivar could have anyone he likes, Freydis. So why a cripple?"

The slave girl brings her fingers up to pin locks of your hair back. Each small lock is done with beautiful pearl that your father had found in raiding England. Never before had you been willing to wear it. But... now... maybe there was a reason, after all.

"You are a goddess. Ivar is a god." You don't understand what she means. "Together you would make beautiful things. Just look, he is watching you."

You look to the crutch that Ivar had dedicated to you, wrapped in soft white to reflect the new hope that you insisted upon. You smooth out your white dress, fixing the cincher before you garner the courage to stand up and take the crutch again. It's hard when the Great Hall is so covered in people but... you've learned. You limp closer, your crutch pricking the floor as you drag yourself about with one hand pulling up at long skirts.

Ivar shifts in his seat. "(Y/N)! Come, sit in my mother's chair."

He pats it for the emphasis. You take one careful step over another and at long last– you sit beside him in his mother's chair. Flutters take over your belly as he leans over to you, letting his tongue tease the corner of his lips.

"The slave girl." He says. "Is she married?"

But then– any excitement you could have had died a sad death in your stomach, dropping in your smile until you catch it. You clear your throat, shaking your head as if you have no idea what just happened. Of course you know. A man leading a life like his wanted a woman that could walk beside him and not have to battle on which side your crutches would be. You should be thankful to him that he taught you this skill. No one else had.

It wasn't you he had been watching.

"I can find out." You do all that you can to smile at him.

"I would like that." He says, leaning back upon his throne. "You are a good, loyal friend."

"It's the least I could do for all you've done." You sit upon the chair, your hands forming a crown when you notice something else occur. Your father comes forth with your mother, both looking to King Ivar with glee.

"You've taken very well to our daughter!" The two look between one another joyfully. "Should we leave her here with you when we sail home?"

"She's welcome to stay in Kattegat." He says. However Ivar knows exactly what they are getting at and so do you. You bring your hands up as if to motion them not to say a thing! As if that could save you. Your father might have caught on but your mother had not. She was far too elated at the fact that you were walking earlier– and now, that you were very likely getting married in her eyes! Why else would a king ask you to sit in his mother's chair?