The pier is full. Mothers and fathers, lovers and would be lovers fill the pier welcoming home their warriors and shieldmaidens from a successful raid abroad. Hvitserk shoulders by groups of people with Ubbe beside him, his arms wound underneath Ivar's knees to support him on his back.
"My dove... she isn't here." He looks around a man shouldering a large tapestry ripped from the walls of a church. Ivar tightens his arms around Ubbe's shoulders, a playful shrug ripping across his own when Hvitserk stops, looking around as if to question where she could be.
"You've been gone months. She's been seeing the blacksmith." Ivar says, depressing his mandible and looking around dully. "Maybe she doesn't want a real Viking."
Ubbe nearly drops him off his back at that. Ivar holds onto his throat for life, choking his older brother in the process. He tightens his hold back on Ivar's legs. The color drains from Hvitserk's face, turning away from his older brother and setting into the town.
"What was that?" Ubbe hisses, starting into the gates. Ivar looks down to the shaved ruddy side of his brother's head before giving him a playful pat.
"Don't worry about it brother."
Hvitserk's footsteps stomp through Kattegat and with them, those going on about their business stand aside. Never once had he broken up with. He knows Ivar to be the Loki of his brothers, always the one to stir up trouble where trouble did not need to be had. He turns into the dusty cabin where the blacksmith was, confident that this... this is just Ivar being ivar.
"Oh, harder?" He recognizes your voice straight away. That can't be... he grips his sword around the grip, trying to calm himself down. This wasn't the Hvitserk you wanted to see. He had to be truly Viking– check his anger where it needed to be checked.
"It is better if you thrust harder." The blacksmith says. But... did it need to be checked now? Something, he suspects, is happening. His feet carry on heavily through the cabin back toward the area where the voices were coming from.
"But it kind of hurts!"
"You won't be sore for it later." He hears the old blacksmith say. But why him! He was old! He didn't have the history with you, the moments of kissing your knuckles on the pier and bringing home new flowers that Kattegat did not have.
His heart thumps in his chest like a spear tight against his chest as he steps past the leather strip curtains, looking to the blacksmith standing just to the side of you. He assists you in thrashing a hammer down upon a chunk of metal.
"Prince Hvitserk." The blacksmith pulls aside. "You are home."
By his side you squeal, turning up to almost jump upon him. Your arms fling over your neck, squeaking like the bird that he named you for. His sweet, innocent little dove.
"Oh Hvitserk!" You sing.
Hvitserk brings his hands up to your hands around his neck and bring them down his chest. He loses the grip on your dusky fingertips, bringing his hands to cup your jawline.
"What are you doing here?" He rumbles skeptically. There was no proof that you had betrayed him. Your dress was carefully cropped around your ankles but clean as he had ever seen it. The apron that came over your ashen dress was the filthy one. You promptly remove it and set it aside.
"What?" You blink softly.
The blacksmith senses his suspect before Hvitserk does, shifting to take the round piece that you were working upon to the side. The blacksmith's coal dark eyes lift to look past his stringy hair that hands in his face.
"With the blacksmith?" He suggests.
You quickly understand, "You think I was cheating on you?"
Your voice, hurt. It aches to see the film of your eyes moistening with drops of tears. They bubble over the rim of your eyes. Tears drip over your cheeks, moistening down your jaw. The next words die dry on his tongue when you pull away, going to grab a chunk of metal. The blacksmith stops you from burning yourself by supplying you with the heavy tongs.
"I was just making you a stupid bracelet! So you could remember me when you're away in whatever country you choose sleeping with women I don't even know!"
He takes a good look at the metal braided bracelet. Almost like his armband jingling on his wrist but clearly different. A dove takes the place of a raven or dragon, whimsical in its nature.
Oh.
"My dove, you should have told me. Ivar..."
The blacksmith seems to know how this goes already. He takes the tongs from you and makes himself quickly scarce, handling the bracelet and slipping out the leather strip curtains with nothing else but a word of luck against Hvitserk's ear.
"You listened to Ivar? Why would you listen to him! He is insane!" You say, turning around in a circle. "And I am your wife!"
His face drops when there is a little giggle from outside. The girls, he thinks. The ones that always waited outside the door to see when the other 'shoe' would drop so to speak. The timing couldn't be worse.
She thinks she's his wife.
It's so cute!
Fuck those little– Hvitserk stalks over to the door to shoo the girls on their way. He wears the cringe on his face when he turns back away from the door. You sit on a creaky oak old chair, digging the meaty part of your palm into your eye.
"Or at least I would be if you weren't so ashamed of me!"
"Dove, stop." Hvitserk kneels before you on the dusty floor. He leans forward to pull your hands free of your face and replaces them back within your lap. "What is this about?"
"Ubbe is married." You say. "But we have been together much longer."
"Yes, he is." Hvitserk leads you on. "You don't mean... that you want to, too?"
At your silence, Hvitserk figures that what he suspected might be true. It had been on his mind on a constant basis since the wedding. After all, he noticed your silence at the wedding– gazing at Margrethe in envy.
"I just want you to want me like Ubbe wants Margrethe."
Hvitserk glances off to the side for the moment, reliving that wedding night where you allowed him to go and play with his brother. Perhaps that was another trigger for this explosion.
"Oh you want me to want you more than that." He courses his tongue across the side of his mouth, bringing your fingers to his chest. "You don't need a ring to tell you that like I don't need a bracelet to tell me that either. You are always with me."
"You think so?" You say.
He looks down as if thinking intently. It's a farce by the way his smile perks, shifting the honey fibers of his moustache up. "Yes, I think so, little dove. Isn't it the same for you?"
"Then I want you to wear my bracelet."
"If you'll wear my ring." Hvitserk suggests, standing up with your hands in his. You sneak your hand around his arm, dropping your head on the his shoulder as he speaks, adorably bursting into the giggles and peaceful smiles he named you for. "I think your father is sick of courting. He sicked his dog on me last time you know."
"At least it wasn't the bear."
"He has a bear?"
