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brightlycoloredteacups · 2 years

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The King of Traitors

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Pairing: Ivar x OFC

A/N: I’ve been working on this little by little and hadn’t realized I hadn’t posted in forever...um....oops?

Warnings: Canon typical violence.

Brynhilda had never been nervous before battle. Perhaps it was because she’d never led an army before. Sure, she led the charge, but she didn't have to give orders, all she had to do was fight. Now men looked at her expectantly. It’s a small group, pitifully so, but she sent the bulk of her forces with Alf to take down another Jarl with more men. Gods, she realized after an eternity, they want me to give a speech. “Remember,” she starts, “we didn't come here to slaughter the people,” she gulps what had they come here for? To kill the jarl, of course, but that didn't sound very inspiring. Her panic rises as she continues spouting inspirational bullshit, “We came to right wrongs. To put things back into order.” Yes, that sounded right, it sounded better anyway. The words come out easier now, so much so, they don’t sound like her at all. “We came on behalf of those that can't fight, that won't fight, so we could free them from Boggvir.” It was a half truth, a great many people were fed up with Boggvir's mismanagement. That was how her army had swollen so quickly. Now was the time to capitalize on that. “Today, is the beginning of the end of Boggvir, he will die, painfully, just as he deserves, We will see it done.” Her men grunt and nod in agreement, careful to keep quiet in the predawn morning. “Victory,” she growls ending her speech, “or Valhalla.” Her men whisper it back to her.

At the caw of her raven, they begin the dangerous trek over the ice. It's the dead of winter and they were freezing thanks to the long trek around the village. They were coming up through the harbor as it was frozen solid. Admittedly it was also the least protected. Who the hell was going to take over a town via the frozen harbor? It was dangerous. They could slip through the ice at any moment. Because of this, they moved slowly, ears tuned for the telltale sound of cracking ice. One wrong step, one solid gust of wind, any unforeseen danger, unplanned for snag, and they might as well be done for. She only relaxes when they reach the beach.

Silently, they make their way to the jarl's longhouse. Lucking out, they made it without any sort of fuss. The village had been stupidly unguarded. Apparently Falki didn’t feel the need to protect her people. It seemed that Jarl Falki was throwing a party for whatever reason she felt like. Who the fuck throws a part this early in the morning? Or was it this late at night? Shit, Brynhilda thinks, it’s just my luck, Falki sitting pretty in an enclosed space where it would be harder to fight. Out in the streets they could spread out, run around and get the upper hand. Inside it was a completely different story. Too many ways to get trapped and killed. Growling, she sheaths her sword. “My lady?” Someone calls, obviously confused. They were there to kill Falki, not play nice. She winces, gods she wished she wasn't a leader. “Well, we can't be rude,” she says, smirking to hide her nerves, “we're crashing the party after all,” her men chuckle. Brynhilda straightens up as much as she can. Gathering her courage, she can't help but feel that this is the stupidest idea she ever had, but with nothing stopping her, and no one else giving her any ideas, she walks through the front door.

All conversation stops from the moment she and her men enter. “Falki!” She says, opening her arms not giving the other woman time to register what in the hel was going on, “so good to see you my friend!” Falki is a small woman with red hair and a mean face. Her men looked equally as mean. All stood with weapons at the ready, despite being up all night and most of them being very drunk. Before her men could pull their own weapons out, she motioned for them to stop. “Here's the deal,” she says, daring to walk further into the longhouse. She's exposed, but she has to take this chance. “All I want is Falki's head,” Falki scoffs, “It will never happen,” the red head declares. Brynhilda ignores her. “No one but her has to die today,” Brynhilda turns to the biggest threat in Falki’s little group. She singles him out as leader the moment she entered the room, if she can get him to throw down his weapon, the others will surely follow. “You can join me, or become my enemy, what do you say?” She walks up to the man, reaching out to him for a handshake, “Friends?” She smirks in her nervousness. Stupid, she thinks, stupid, stupid, stupid. He isn't going to fall for it, I know he won't

Just as she thinks to move her hand towards her sword, the man in front of her slackens his stance, puts his weapon away, and grasps her hand in a firm shake. “Friends,” he agrees. Brynhilda smiles, not daring to believe her luck. Things could go sideways at any moment.

Before Falki cam even register the betrayal, Brynhilda's ax, a secondary weapon she hardly used, flies with deadly accuracy across the room, catching the red head right between the eyes. Things are deathly quiet. “Well?” Brynhilda says, surprised at how easy things had gone, “let's eat!”

Midday, and Brynhilda is exhausted. She's been waiting anxiously for news of the other half of her people. Had they won? Had they failed? She didn't think so, one of her ravens had departed with Alf to keep an eye on things and it hadn't reported back yet. They still must be fighting.

A few hours ago the village had awoken to find Falki's head on a pike, just as Brynhilda had promised. She had been ready for a fight, a skirmish, even a few complaints. However, as word spread of Falki’s death and people began to gather around the longhouse to stare in wonderment, nothing came of it. In fact, just as she was sure a riot was going to break out, people began to cheer. It took her longer than she wanted to admit to realize they were chanting her name.

From there life had gone on as always. As news of her victory further spread through the village and beyond, people kept coming in to see her. Mostly children, but women and men as well. A great many of them pledging their sword arms to her. She hated it, she wanted to crawl into furs and sleep the day away. It was the anxiety of not knowing about her other men combined with the looks of utter adoration on people’s faces. Boggvir had raised her to believe they all feared her. Because of that fear they hated her. It was just another lie he told to control her. She half thought of asking Dorfi to try his sleeping spell again, but she knew it wouldn't work.

Just as she thought she was going to go mad with anxiety the doors burst open. Alf walked in, not a scratch on him, her raven perched neatly on his shoulder. “It would seem your plan worked,” he declared, “though not as one would think.”

“No one fought you?” Brynhilda asks incredulously. Alf shakes his head, sitting heavily in a chair. “Not a one, in fact, once everyone realized whose army was taking over, they began to cheer.” She nodded, “Much the same happened here,” She was quiet as she thought it over, three territories captured. Two to go. It’s funny how she’s beginning to understand Boggvir's fear. If people follow her this readily as his enemy, what might she have done as his ally? It didn't matter, all that mattered was the end. “Get Dorfi and the others, we have a battle to plan,”

“You're staring into space again,” Dorfi says, nudging her. Brynhilda merely grunts, coming back to the present. Right, battle plans. “Who occupies your thoughts?” Alf teases, feeling giddy that the day had been won so easily, “your lover from Lattegat?” Brynhilda's hand goes up to Ivar's pendant automatically. “It doesn't matter who he was, he's dead now.” And besides, that wasn’t what she’d been thinking about. She had been day dreaming about her parents and brothers. She was curious to know if they were proud of her. They had to be, right? Someone had to be proud of her.

“Killed by your hand for an affair no doubt.” Dorfi says, not wanting to be left out. Brynhilda leans back in her chair, trying to relieve the ache in her back. “No, he went off on an ill advised raid. And he is dead. As is this conversation.” the two men nod, getting the hint.

“Right, Boggvir's men outnumber us three to one despite all the ground we’ve covered.” Alf says. “Your numbers swell everyday, but we need to attack while the advantage is ours.”

“We need to fight smarter, not harder.” Dorfi reminds her. Brynhilda chews at her lip, this is all true. But she wasn’t one for planning things out. She was just a weapon to be used, not an intellectual. Even so, an idea begins to take hold. “Boggvir has an ego as big as a giant. He probably thinks I'll just charge into battle. We can use this to our advantage.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Dorfi asks, “you won't see his army laying down their weapons just because you're Brynhilda the Deathless.”

“I don't expect them to.” She says, happy she managed to keep the edge from her voice. Dorfi got under her skin, she didn't trust him fully, and he always had the opposite opinion she did. But if she was to be a leader, she needed people who disagreed with her, to make her consider all angles.

“Boggvir is predictable, he lays his army camp out the same way every time. I can almost guarantee he'll situate himself at the Cliff of Cliffs.”

“Excuse me? The what now?” Alf asks, not even bothering to hide his snicker. Brynhilda sends him a glare, “I was ten when I named it, it was the biggest cliff I ever saw at that point in my life.” Alf laughs at her, as do the other men. She feels her cheeks heat up but she reminds herself they weren’t necessarily laughing at her, more like they were laughing at her logic. Her irritation eases. They felt comfortable laughing at her because they saw her as someone likable. Was it possible these people saw her for more than what she was? She liked the thought of that, but tried desperately not to let it get to her head. She’d allowed her pride to lead her blindly before, never again.

Brynhilda's plan was simple. So simple in fact, she doubted it would work, but she had to try. If nothing, she would at least be sung about in a saga. Maybe. She found she didn't care.

Braiding her hair carefully, preparing for battle, her thoughts turned to the subject of death. She had been evading it since her family was slaughtered for their land when she was ten years old. She almost succumbed to the Valkyries when she was left hanging from the altar. Apparently though, she had been spared by Odin. She was a part of some grand design.

Her name, her story, the idea of her had now reached mythical proportions. They whispered her epithet, The Deathless behind their hands, looking at her in awe. Every tragic episode in her life adding to her legend. The death of her parents, her first kill when she was ten in revenge for that death. The Blood Eagle ritual that hadn’t been completed, and now the ease with which she had come back from some place unknown, healed and stronger than ever. It sounded fantastical, even to her, and she had lived it all.

But what if this was to be her last battle? What if Odin had been setting up one long lesson for her about her pride just to pull everything she worked for right from under her? What if Aslaug's prediction was wrong?

She grabs the pendant hanging from her neck, giving it a lingering kiss. “I wonder if you're watching over me, my love.” She smiles at the memory of his perfectly blue eyes. It was the only thing she remembered accurately. “I hope you are. Perhaps I will join you soon,” Dorfi pokes his head through her tent flaps, “Are you ready?” She stands, wolf pelt upon her shoulders, bear shield in her hand, and sword at her side. “Victory,” she whispers, “or Valhalla.”

The Cliff of Cliffs hugged a valley rather than the sea. It had a simple cave system. That Brynhilda had explored as a child. From the information she’d gathered, thanks to a recon mission, she knew that Boggvir’s men were situated right against the cliff, next to a crack that opened right in the middle of the camp. He was trying to cover his back so he could watch out for his front. She had planned something entirely unexpected for someone like her. She though too much like Boggvir. Direct, powerful attacks had been his forte. She had to do the opposite. She had to be sneaky and whittle down the numbers before she attacked head on. To sew a little chaos amongst the ranks of Boggvir was her goal.

Brynhilda’s force is small, excluding herself, there were seven in total that followed her. Alf, Dorfi, and five others that had volunteered to go on a virtual suicde mission. The other men in her army had other tasks.

Standing in front of the opening that would take them through the systems and lead them to Boggvir’s army, she turns to her people, “Remember, you can take as much as you can carry, but destroy supplies. Keep as quiet as you can, for as long as you can. If you get caught, I won't be saving you.” Everyone nods in understanding. “Good, lets go.”

There were other groups prowling that night to help with creating confusion.. One such group busied themselves with setting up traps in the forest. In the early morning, they’d try to get some of Boggvir’s men to follow them for a skirmish, and neutralize a small portion of the army with said traps. Another group was situated on top of the cliff, ready to fire arrows down at the enemy at a random time in the night. Yet another group was going to try and lead a small group of the enemy into a small skirmish to the south, no traps this time.

Brynhilda didn’t have the bulk Boggvir did, even now, at the height of her popularity. She had to resort to guerilla tactics for the next few hours in the hopes of weakening the enemy, tiring them out, depleting some of the massive army.

So many opportunities for things to go wrong...yet the reward was worth it.

Brynhilda leads her group through the caves with no problem, out the otherside with only the smallest of sounds. When she finally saw the last person out of the cave, she hisses,“Find cover, quickly.” They do as told, following her behind a stack of food. She looks at them, “spread out, start destroying supplies. Food, weapons, shields. Throw things into the ravine, steal things, I don't care. Get going.” Everyone disperses at her orders. They had one hour to complete their tasks before the attacks began. Then, they either get caught in the fight, or they escape without a scratch.

Brynhilda is on edge the entire hour. Anything could go wrong. Luck holds with her, however. She manages to find weapons just laying around the camp, just as she expected. It’s a pity that she has to give Boggvir this sorely needed reality check.

Her confidence is slowly returning as time passes. She can do this, they can do this. A soft caw from one of the crows that perpetually follows her tells her it's time to go. She rushes back to the hole in the cliff, seeing most of her group. “Where is Dorfi?” She asks. “We don't know,” Alf tells her, “lost I expect.” Brynhilda curses. “Go back to the camp, I'll find Dorfi.”

“What happened to you not saving us if we got caught?” Alf says, smirking, “Clearly I lied.”

“I saw him go towards the edge of the camp, toward the log trap.” A woman tells her. Brynhilda nods by way of thanks and turns to head back towards the interior of camp, stopping when her group moves with her. “Go back,” she hisses. “Not without you,” Alf says. “Look-” Brynhilda begins to argue, but Alf cuts her off, “Don't bother arguing. We aren't leaving without you.”

“Well, don't blame me when we're still stuck here when things go to shit.” Brynhilda mutters, moving herself and her group towards the edge of the camp. It occurs to her that Dorfi really might be working for Boggvir, thus leading her into a trap. She grips her sword tighter, she'd behead him if that were the case.

She doesn't have to wonder about it long though, as she hears Dorfi's voice through a tent. “I don't know anything about Brynhilda.” he says defiantly. She keeps the smirk off her face. He could just be saving his own skin, Odin knew he didn’t owe any loyalty to Boggvir. “Oh? She didn't send you here to curse us all?” Someone sneers. Their voice is gruff, someone she doesn't recognize. She motions of her people to surround the tent. “Do you really think Brynhilda is someone that believes in curses?” Dorfi argues.

“Yes.” The unseen man says matter of factly. There was an awkward pause, “Do you think Brynhilda is someone who would use curses?” Dorfi rephrased. “Look, we all know Brynhilda wants us dead, but-” she steps into the tent for dramatic effect, cutting off the man’s tirade by running him through with her sword. She’s angry when she sees Dorfi beaten and bloodied. For a moment, she has to wonder if he really kept her secrete despite the torture. “You're right, I do want you dead,” she mutter to the body on the ground.

Dorfi looks at her, smiling. He gets off his knees and stumbles out of the tent. Sheathing her sword, she follows him, bringing out a dagger from its holster and cuts his restraints. “What happened to not coming to save our asses?” Dorfi asks, delighted. Brynhilda just pats his shoulder.

They were going to sneak back to the cliff, but the ravens kick up a fuss, the signal for the other groups to start their skirmishes. “Shit,” she mutters. Everyone readies their weapons, “There isnt enough time to escape,” Dorfi warns her, watching as people are now pouring from the tents, wondering why the fuck ravens are awake in the middle of the night.

“Tight circle,” Brynhilda instructs, bringing her shield in front of her. They form a tight ring as shouts of intruders begin to go up, now alerted to their presence. Men begin to surround them, no one attacking yet. “Brynhilda, I don't like this,” Alf mutters, “Oh really?” She snaps, “What's not to like? We're trapped in the middle of the enemy encampment, ready to be killed. What’s not to like?”

“Someone's testy,” Alf mutters, “She needs a nap,” Dorfi explains, “she gets cranky without her beauty rest.”

“I hate you both.” She mutters, bracing herself for a fight. The dam of tension breaks as soon as a random enemy charges at her and hits her shield. Everyone begins to shout, fight, run. Its utter chaos.

Brynhilda wants to throw herself into the fight with wild abandon, her very being craves the blood shed, demands it, but she's divided. She has to get her people to safety. They have to survive. She defends them more than she fights.

The enemy, composed of men she's led in battle and known for six years, are confused at the new tactic. She's a brute force fighter, she charges and her opponent dies. Now she's yelling coherent instructions, staying back and helping her people. Her old comrades can’t make sense of it, it makes them hesitate.

Her new friends are just as adept at fighting as she is, a tall blond clears a path, striking so quickly anyone barely has time to react. Dorfi is clearly a distance fighter, throwing numerous little knives into the fray. The women dart in and out of small pockets of enemies, taking down two or three at a time. They work as a team and manage to get to the border, where fighting only grows heavier.

The group Brynhilda sent out that was supposed to charge the side of the camp she’s headed towards is doing its job beautifully. She leads her people towards the small skirmish, forgetting about returning to the small cave system they entered through. The shock of the attack had given them the clear advantage. “Retreat!” She yells once she regroups with the small force of fighters. Despite the screaming and clanging steel, her voice is heard clearly over the battlefield. A horn is sounded and her men begin to fall back. Brynhilda stays until she is sure the last man has gone. She is about to join them when the enemy crowd parts, and she sees Boggvir.

Her heart aches. A sick part of her wants to forgive him, to run into his arms and take comfort in his presence, most of her just wants to snap his neck then and there. He looks older than she remembered, he looks...terrified. “Enjoy your final moments,” Brynhilda calls to him, bowing, “Boggvir, King of Traitors” with that, she melts into the darkness of the trees.

#vikings #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless #brynhilda's saga #ivar and brynhilda

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ceridwenofwales · 7 years

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Brynhilda’s Saga: A fanfic by @brightlycoloredteacups

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brightlycoloredteacups · 4 years

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Set Up

Fandom: Vikings

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless x OFC

Warnings: None for this chapter

Tag List: @salt-is-a-terrible-currency @salimahbicharara-comun

Brynhilda shifts on her throne, uncomfortable despite the soft padding. Becoming Jarl had not been the point of killing the previous one. She’d only been looking to send a message, yet somehow, the entire town now saw her as their de facto leader. Something wasn’t right about that.

Looking out at the great hall, she’s surprised to see so many familiar faces. She’d revealed her game plan only a week ago, and already her tiny little village had swelled three times its original size. Men and women, young and old, new soldier and army veteran, all of them looking forward to fighting for her. She nearly chokes on her emotions...well, at least her laughter.

With allies come enemies, she understands that, but she doesn’t know what to make of this particular situation. On the one hand, she’s highly amused, on the other, slightly disturbed. She knows this will only add to the rumors that she’s Odin’s chosen. But, really? She looks at the fabric in her hands, the Sleep Thorn had been stitched into it. She wondered what Floki the Boatbuilder would make of it. He had a special connection to the gods, he would’ve had a great deal to say. Suddenly, she misses Kattegat, misses funny old Floki and the girls, she even misses the cranky old medicine woman that refused to treat Ivar because of his temper.

“Lady Brynhilda?” Alf says, nudging her shoulder. Brynhilda blinks, brought to the present, oh, right, she’s supposed to sentence the traitor. “The Sleep Thorn,” She mutters, tracing the symbol with the pads of her fingers. “Not very effective, was it?” She looks up at Alf. He looks as amused as she feels. “No, lady, it would seem it wasn’t.” They look at the man who’d done it. “Jarl Brynhilda,” A rather rough looking man walks up to her, she only knows him as Arrow. He was the first to greet her back home, and the first to pledge his allegiance to her cause. “I say we kill this traitor and send his head to Boggvir,” mutters of agreement flow through the long house.

Brynhilda stands up, walks down from the dias, and stops in front of the man. “Why would we do a thing like that? Boggvir wouldn’t even recognize him.”

“My lady?” Arrow asks, unconvinced of her statement. Brynhilda begins to stalk the man that tried to curse her, round and round she went, taking in every detail. “You aren’t acting out of loyalty to Boggvir, are you?” The man struggles against his binds, snarling unintelligibly at her. “You're acting out of revenge for your brother.” The shock that Brynhilda remembers him is evident on his face. It’s quickly replaced with a smile, he speaks. “I didn't think you'd remember.”

“Yours is a hard face to forget.” Brynhilda straightens, looking at her confused men, she didn't feel like explaining that the one before her had been after her since she helped Falki take over. “The way I see it, you have two options. Choose your death, or choose to work with me.” The man spits at her, snarling once more in rage. “Why would I work with my brother's killer?”

Brynhilda turns from him, sitting back on her throne. Damn, this thing was hard on her back. “You and I both know I was a mere pawn in Boggvir's army, his best warrior yes, but a pawn nonetheless. I got Falki and her troops into your village, I killed your fighters, but I did not kill you brother. If I had, I would have been the new Jarl.”

He squirms in his binds, considering her words. What she said was true, even her enemies knew she was not in the habit of lying. Still, surely years of anger and hatred didn’t shift from one target to the next. He straightens, giving her a haughty look. “You may call me Dofri.” Well, she’d been wrong before. It’s stupid to trust someone that just tried to curse her. She’s an idiot, she knows she is, but there’s something about him, something in his eyes. He’d never before considered working to kill the true target of his revenge. Maybe Falki had been unattainable to him until now. She knows she’s just making up an excuse to trust him.

The way she figured it, the benefits outweigh the risks. She needed someone with a desire for revenge, some like her, that would stop at nothing to see it through. And, if she had to be completely honest, he reminded her of Floki. “Dofri” she motions for someone to cut his hands loose, “Welcome to my army.”

Those that visit Brynhilda's feast hall swears it’s a place of unsettling magic. Not exactly gloomy or bright. Not cold or hot. Not comfortable or uncomfortable. A charge was ever present in the air, making one aware of the unearthly quality Brynhilda exuded. Unseen things crawl around the place, whispering in the ears, telling the listener that they were safe, cared for. The only catch was Brynhilda herself had to be in a good mood.

Part of the magic of the place was that the feeling in the room changed with her feelings. If she was angry, the urge to drive your axe into the skull of your greatest enemy became almost too great to resist. If she was sad, you felt as though your heart had been ripped through your chest and eaten by a wild beast. If she was happy, you felt as though you had the strength of the gods themselves. The moment you left the feast hall, the cool air hitting your face, you felt dazed and confused. Why had you been subject to such alien feelings?

Only adding to the atmosphere were the plants hanging from ceilings, growing in pots in the corners, covering the windows with their leaves. Dorfi the Poisoner, a strange man you weren’t exactly sure was even a man, had made himself at home. He had no house of his own, no relatives he could rely on, so she opened the feast hall to him, and allowed him to do as he wished, within reason. Most of the plants were harmless until mixed into the right concoction. Dofri could make you a healing draught that helped you fight like ten men, or a poison that made you bleed from your ass. Many were unsettled by that fact, all but Brynhilda, it seemed.

Dearest Bryhilda, wild, untameable Brynhilda. She was the topic of much conversation. Alf had his suspicions that Brynhilda didn’t exactly belong to the world, she was to ethereal, too much wild energy danced about her. It didn’t help that to add to her mystique were the legendary stories. She’s killed a hundred men on her own, she survived the bite of the most poisonous snake in the world, she survived being Blood Eagled. Of course, she always brushes the stories off with completely plausible explanations. Those hundred men she killed on her own? It had taken her a week, and even then she’d gotten lucky with a rock slide taking out half the force. That snake bite? The poison didn’t get too far into her system before she had been treated. The Blood Eagle? Hadn’t been completed before an army attacked.

She may be a living, breathing, legend, but she was humble. That's why people flocked to her banner. Or perhaps it was because she was kind. The people in the village had been starving thanks to the previous Jarl’s greed, but now, they had rations, enough to last them through the winter. And with the promise of a good summer’s planting, the harvest should be more bountiful. Either way, in just a few short weeks, Brynhilda’s popularity was skyrocketing. Which surprised her, if her constant look of annoyance was anything to go by.

Alf listens to the conversations around him as was his task. Brynhilda needed to divine the moods of her people in order to be successful at ruling them. She needed eyes and ears everywhere. He knew Dorfi had also been given the job, but there had to be other men and women about. Two men couldn’t share the burden of ten. If Alf knew Brynhilda like he thought he did, and he was fairly confident in his assumptions despite knowing her for such a short period of time, he knew that she was keeping the other people that worked under her a secret. She was the only one that knew all the plans. Everyone else was kept in the dark in the event of a capture, or worse, a betrayal.

The most amusing talk was that of how animals reacted around her. She had two ravens, and wherever she went, they went. One was cheeky, always playing with her hair, her clothing. Always talking to her in its own birdish way. It was fond of mead, often drinking from Brynhilda's cup. The other raven was stoic. It either stood still on her shoulder, or the best place to watch over her. You got the feeling it was always watching over her. It too drank from her cup, but very sparingly. Mostly, it ate meat from her plate.

Pigs were excited by her presence, they followed her whenever she passed by a pen, what’s more, they obeyed her when she gave them an order. If she found any strangeness in that little fact, she told no one.

Alf looks up to try and find her, desiring her biting wit to end his boredom. She sat in a corner, a raven perched on either shoulder. She’s still, looking more a menacing statue than a young girl. He can clearly see the exhaustion on her face.

She woke up before dawn to the crowing of her ravens, trained relentlessly, ate like someone four times her size, then trained more. She ran through the forest, uncaring of the potential hazards, she hunted, bringing in the best kills and sharing it with her men. At night she learned all she could from men like Alf and Dorfi, medicine women, even the greenest soldiers she pestered with questions. She maintained that you could learn a great many things, so long as you though to ask.

So yes, Brynhilda was wild, but she was kind, she could be brutal, but only if you pressed her. Mostly, she was curious, and infuriating. He thinks back to their previous conversation.

“You need to consider the dangers of attacking during winter.” Alf cautione. This had been an argument ongoing since the announcement of her plan. He knew she was pressed for time, but her plan was downright suicidal, “And you need to consider the advantages.” She argues. “Brynhilda, you want to keep your men, not freeze them.”

“Quick attacks,” she says, “on the two port cities. Here and here,” she points them out on the makeshift map. “We walk the ice, attack from the harbor where they least expect it, when they least expect it. Just before dawn, when it's darkest. Everyone will be asleep, confused.”

“Alright,” Alf says, seeing she isn't going to be persuaded, “Suppose it works the first time around, do you honestly think it'll work the second time around?”

“I considered it,” she says, nodding, “We can split the army in two, attack at the same time.”

“Who can you trust to lead the second half of your army?” he couldn't think of anyone he'd trust, not even the men who watched her grow up. “You,” came the obvious reply. Alf has to register her confession for a while. “Me?” She nods. “You owe me for freeing you,” she points out, “that's why you hung around for so long.” Damn her, she read people too well. “Do this for me, and your debt is repaid.” Alf huffs, this was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but she did have a few good points. After a long while considering his options, he heaved a sigh, “Alright,” he says, “I'll do it.”

#viking #ivar the boneless #ivar's heathen army #ivar x brynhilda #brynhilda's saga

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brightlycoloredteacups · 6 years

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Tender

Pairing: Ivar x OFC

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Warnings: Angst

Tagging: @tiyetiye @sammi-faye @anunhealthydoseofangst @salimahbicharara-comun @bluearchersstuff, @novumlibellum

Ivar lays comfortable in the furs, a smile on his face. He still feels Brynhilda’s rough, gentle hands running themselves along his legs, getting rid of the knots within the atrophied muscle. He licks his lips, still tasting the blueberry mead she enjoys so much. He enjoys the new relationship with her. She loves as fiercely as she fights.

There’s no pressure being with her. He doesn’t have to posture or perform, he doesn’t have to fight for her affections. Brynhilda is a woman unlike any other, she’s entirely self-reliant, capable of finding her own pleasure and happiness without him. His smile widens, she’s with him because he’s a challenge. Her words, not his. He doesn’t break under her gaze, he isn’t afraid to get nasty with her. He’s what she needed in a man. He can’t help the unadulterated joy that rises within him. She thinks of him as a man, different of course, but a man nonetheless.

He rolls over, looking at the form next to him. Though the firelight is low, he can still see the long, ragged scar that runs down her back. The sign of betrayal she’ll never be rid of. He swallows the rage building within him, he swallows the guilt, he has yet to tell her, he doesn’t want to think about it, not now, not when everything is so peaceful.

Brynhilda is going to wreak havoc on those that crossed her. She’s going to raise an army, spread her vengeance across the kingdom. He can see it in his mind. She’s haughty, fresh off her latest victory. Her armor is soiled with muck and blood, her hair in it’s characteristically long braid is matted with sweat, on her face is the smile of a woman who delights in warmongering. That is his Brynhilda, and he feels oh so guilty that he’ll never get to see it.

He’s going to England with his father, and hasn’t told her yet. He can’t bear to do it, not when they just found this new peace with each other. He gulps, fearing this is his last night with her. He wants it to be meaningful, a memory they’ll remember forever. She’ll leave to wage her war, and he’ll leave for England, and they’ll never see each other again. Or if they do, she will no longer love him. Still, going to England was something he must do.

He wants to wake her from her slumber but can’t bear to do it. She has a long day ahead of her, prepping for travel, trading for supplies. He settles with staring at her, running his fingers down the scar across her back. “Stop touching me,” He freezes at the sound of her voice. “I didn’t know you were awake,” He admits, cheeks flushing at being caught in such a tender moment. He lays his hand flat against her lower back, ignoring her request.

“I wasn’t, until you started touching me.”

“You’ve never complained about me touching you before.” He points out, moving his hand to her ass and giving it a squeeze. She growls, shifting under the furs. “I don’t like it touched,” She admits. Her voice is so low, he strains to hear her. “My scars are connected to painful memories I’d rather not relive.” His eye dart across her back, jumping from scar to scar.

Ivar’s brows furrow. It dawns on him that Brynhilda isn’t someone that knew true tenderness. If she did, it had been a long time. She came home from battle to a cold hut, body aching, no one to say they missed her. You’ve been used all your life, he thinks. Boggvir used you, and when you served no purpose other than to scare him, he tried to kill you.

Ivar shifts as best he can, resting his hands on either side of her. “What are you doing?” She asks, turning around. He hushes her, pressing her shoulder, trying to keep her on her belly. “I’m giving you pleasant memories.” He says. He begins with the arrow shaped scar on the back of her neck. No doubt an assassination attempt. He presses a kiss to it. Brynhilda stiffens underneath him, but says nothing. Emboldened, he continues. Every scrape, every scratch, every scar received a kiss. It takes him awhile to accomplish this, for she has many, but he manages to do it.

He’s pressing his last kiss to the tail end of the back scar when he hears a sniffle. “Brynhilda?” He calls. Had he done something wrong? “Brynhilda, are you crying?” He crawls back up to her. She’s hiding her face in the pillow, shoulders shaking. “Brynhilda I-”

“Shut up,” She says, grabbing his arm. She yanks him on top of her, lacing her fingers with his. He smiles, he’d done something right apparently. He allows his weight to settle on her. This may be their last night together, but it would be a memorable one.

What Brynhilda can’t tell Ivar is how he makes her feel. Across her twenty odd years of life, she’d had a string of lovers. Men, women, young, old, warrior, farmer, none of them compared to Ivar, for none of them had thought of her insecurities. For as long as she could remember she hated her scars. They made for great battle stories around the fire, but when it came to the realm of love, they were constant reminders of how undesirable she was.

She remembers look at all the married women in her life, they had been smooth skinned beauties, the lot of them. She’d never have that. Then she had to go and fall in love with the biggest asshole she’d ever met. He made her feel so beautiful, with the look her gave her after they kissed. The one that makes it clear he wants her. Blue eyes would rove the planes of her naked body, she never slept with clothes on is she could help it. He’d wet his lips and make a lewd comment, even though nothing would come of it. Gods, he’d never know how much she cared for him, how much all of it meant. She wouldn’t dare tell him.

Instead, she lies there, Ivar on top of her, pressing kisses to her shoulder, making sure she knew how he felt. She closes her eyes and sends a rare prayer to the gods, let me keep him. She thinks. I couldn’t keep my family or my king, but please, let me keep him.

Brynhilda is up with the sun that morning. She is heading out today, she knows it, and Ivar will be at her side. They will be an unstoppable force together. Brynhilda’s might and Ivar’s cunning. She smiles at the thought, surely it would be a battle to go be sung in the Sagas forever more, they’d be immortalized in rhyme. She snorts, better stop that train of thought, you’ve had your time to be a proud fool, and look where it got you.

Ivar still sleeps in her temporary home, on the edge of Kattegat. Aslaug graciously allowed her to have it for the time being, a place she and Ivar can be away from prying eyes. Of course, when you’re delcared the lover of the youngest son of Ragnar, tongues start wagging. She has the idea that she’ll go pick some fruits for breakfast when she sees Ragnar cresting the hill, heading straight for her house.

She waits for him to arrive at her gate, unwilling to move from her door. She doesn’t trust him, he has an air of desperation about him. “Hello!” He says, rather cheerfully, waving. “Ivar’s inside, he isn’t awake yet.” She tells him, jerking her thumb towards the door. “Oh, no, I didn’t want to talk to Ivar, I wanted to talk to you.” Brynhilda crosses her arms, she has a feeling she knows exactly what he’s going to say. “Speak, make it quick. I refuse to suffer long talks with old men.” Ragnar’s smile falters. “I am going to England!” He announces. “I was wondering if you would like to come with me, to make your fortune. Surely I’d be successful with Boggvir’s greatest shieldmaiden at me side.

Brynhilda can’t help the snap reaction. She rushes Ragnar, grabs his beard, and yanks him down to her eye level. “Listen and listen well,” She snarls, “I am no one’s Shieldmaiden. The next time you mention that traitor’s name in front of me, I’ll cut out your tongue.” Ragnar gives her a shaky laugh, then gulps when she doesn’t laugh with him. “I just thought you’d like to come, considering Ivar-” Brynhilda pushes him away from her. “Ivar is going with you.” It isn’t a question. Ragnar lets out another sheepish laugh. “You didn’t know?”

Brynhilda crosses her arms, hurt. “It’s none of my business, I suppose.”

“Aren’t you my son’s love?” Ragnar is frowning. Brynhilda can’t help her cheeks heating. She thanks Odin she’s dark enough that Ragnar doesn’t see it. “I am,” She says. “But Ivar is a person all his own. He’s able to make his own decisions.” Ragnar is going to say something else, probably try to convince her to go with him when Sigrid comes running, calling her name. “Brynhilda!” She says, skidding to a dusty stop behind Ragnar. “It’s Aslaug, she wants to see you, come quickly.”

Brynhilda leaps over her small fence. Before she rushes off, she turns to Ragnar. “Ivar is just inside. Help yourself,” She then takes off at a trot, Sigrid keeping pace with her.

When she reaches the Great Hall, it’s empty. Aslaug is pacing, muttering to herself. “Your Majesty?” She whispers. Aslaug stops dead in her tracks. “Brynhilda!” She gasps, rushing towards her. “I know you will see reason,” she says, grabbing the girl’s shoulders. The grip is surprisingly strong, “I know Ivar will listen to you. You must convince him not to go to England. I don’t care what you tell him, just do it.” Brynhilda frowns, stepping out from Aslaug’s grasp. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Aslaug yells. “Ivar is his own person, capable of making decisions for himself. I love him, but I’m not going to stop him.”

“He will die Brynhilda! Don’t you care about that?”

“Of course, I do,” Brynhilda says softly, wrapping her arms around herself. Aslaug had seen his death, this day just kept getting worse. Life without Ivar would be hard. She’d only have her revenge to live for, not someone to come home victorious to. Then what? Without her love, there would be nothing beyond her victory. Somehow, she manages to keep herself together, her voice is calm, “It is still his decision.”

“Then go with him. Protect him, make sure he’s safe.”

“We both know I won’t do that.”

“Why because of your silly war?”

“It’s not war! I’m taking back what’s rightfully mine!” Brynhilda would’ve kept yelling if the change over Aslaug’s face hadn’t been so terrifying. Looking much like the death hag, Aslaug rushes at her. “You snake!” Aslaug roars, slapping Brynhilda soundly across her cheek. “You filthy traitor! You care no more for my son than anyone else!”

“You’re the one who doesn’t care!” Brynhilda says, stopping the next slap. Aslaug stops her ranting in shock, no one had ever dared to accuse her of not loving her son. “You have coddled Ivar all his life, kept him from the world, from experience because you wanted something, anything to hold close to your heart. It is time to stop being selfish, your majesty. It’s time to let Ivar go, he is grown enough to take command of his own destiny. Allow him the dignity to do so.”

Aslaug wrenches her hand away from Brynhilda. “Go,” She says, eyes filled with tears. Brynhilda doesn’t need to be told twice.

There is something off about Brynhilda, Ivar just can’t tell what. She hasn’t spoken to him since she came back from wherever she had been. He hasn’t said anything to break the silence. Her savagery is lurking just beneath her beautiful green eyes. “Brynhilda?” He asks, quietly. She slams her hand on the table, “Why didn’t you tell me you were going with Ragnar?” She growls, looking at him. Ivar gulps, shit. “I didn’t want to upset you,” He whispers truthfully. Things had been so good these last weeks, he couldn’t help it if he wanted it to last a little longer. “I wouldn’t have been upset!” She admits. “Ivar, I wouldn’t have held it against you. I know what something like this must mean to you. Hell, if MY father walked through that door right now and told me we were going to the Mediterranean, I wouldn’t ask any questions. What did you think I was going to do?”

“Hit me,” Ivar answers honestly. “Yell at me, beg me not to go.” There’s a look of hurt that crosses her face.

“Then you don’t really know me at all, do you?” She whispers. Ivar frowns, he knows her well enough, doesn’t he? “Ivar, I understand that there are things one must do in life. I understand that you must go to England, and I must go to war.” She sits down, grabbing his hands in hers. “I would not try to stop you from doing what you need to do. It would be cruel of me, selfish. I do not want to be that sort of woman.”

Ivar takes her face in his hands and brings her close for a kiss. It’s soft, and full of thanks on his behalf. To find someone who understands him so completely is refreshing. “Mother says I am going to die.” Brynhilda nods. “I will mourn you,” She says, sniffing. “Ass that you are,”

“Man that you love?” Ivar asks hopefully. Brynhilda laughs, wiping at the corners of her eyes. “Man that I love,” She agrees. They look at each other for a few moments. “Ok,” She says, standing. “I don’t want to stay in this smelly hut all day feeling sorry for our future. I want to enjoy my last day with you.”

Ivar crawls off his seat, “It sounds like a plan,”

#vikings #ivar the boneless #ivars heathen army #ivar ragnarsson #brynhilda's saga #brynhilda brynjarsdottir #ivar x brynhilda

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brightlycoloredteacups · 5 years

Text

Nearly Dead

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Warnings: Violent Imagery

Taggin: @anunhealthydoseofangst @novumlibellum @tiyetiye @salimahbicharara-comun @sammi-faye

Brynhilda looks over a cliff, waves crashing into the rocks. She remembers this cliff, the one near her home. She played here with her brothers while her parents sat and watched in delight. She wraps her arms around herself. “What do you look like mother?” she whispers into the wind, “I can’t remember.”

“Well, I look like this, I think.”

Brynhilda starts, turning around. She stares into hauntingly familiar green eyes. Long black hair cascades over a brilliant red dress, full lips are pulled into a gentle smile. “Mother,” Brynhilda breathes, aware she’s speaking her mother’s language. “My Brynhilda,” She says, opening her arms. Brynhilda rushes to her, letting out a laugh. She can hardly believe it, to see her mother after all this time...Brynhilda squeezes tightly, never wanting to let go. “I’ve missed you.” Brynhilda admits, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You and father, and my brothers.”

“Well maybe if you turned around, you wouldn’t miss us at all.” Came a snide comment. Brynhilda turns from her mother, looking to see five blonde boys staring at her. Her crying worsens, her brothers and father all join in the hug. “I am dead, aren’t I?”

“Well,” her father says, pulling back from her. “You’re nearly dead.” Brynhilda frowns. “What?”

“You are walking in a place between life and death,” He explains. “Your soul is in the balance.” Brynhilda considers his words. “What do I do?” she whispers, not wanting to know the answer. “Tell me what to do.” Brynjar smiles at her. He leans down and presses a kiss to her brow. “If I did that, my Brynhilda, I would be selfish, I’d take you with us.” Brynhilda sniffs, damning the man, “You know only you can make the decision, my daughter” Camila says, wrapping an arm around Brynhilda’s shaking shoulders. Her parents take her to the edge of the cliff. Instead of a sea of water, she sees the men that rose with her from her grave. They’re all looking at her expectantly. “These are our ancestors Bryn,” Her eldest brother tells her. “From the dawn of time to now, to you.” Men, women, children, all of them, grouped in the vast nothingness of the dreamspace. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” Brynhilda admits, she is wracked with sobs now, “I don’t want to be in pain anymore. I can’t, I can’t go on like this. I’m so sick of being miserable!”

“Aw, shit little sister,” Brynki, the youngest of the boys punches her arm affectionately.

“You’re making the rest of us cry.”

Brynjar takes her shoulders in her hands, looking at her with pride “We walk beside you, in life, in death, always. Pain is nothing more than a temporary state.”

“So is happiness.” Brynhilda whispers, thinking of the wasted time she spent with her family, thinking of Ivar. Brynjar’s face softens, he’s going to say something more, but Brynhilda shakes her head. “I just want you to know that I love you and miss you, every day. The ache in my chest has nestled there permanently. But,” A chant begins, low, powerful, simple. Get up, get up, get up. Brynhilda wipes at her face, takes a deep breath and calms herself. “I am Brynhilda Brynjarsdottir, I am no weakling, I must live so that I may see Boggvir dead. This is what I vowed to Odin. We are a family that never goes back on their vows.” Her family moves away from her, smiling, proud. “Best not to start breaking them now, especially not to the All Father.” Her father says. “Allah keep you safe,” Her mother says. Brynhilda nods, trying not to choke. I will see them again, but now, it is time to get up, get up, get up.

Brynhilda awakens, violently choking on smoke. She cries out weakly, something burning her hand. Sitting up, she pulls her hand to her lap, Ivar’s pendant, heated by the flames burns her. She drops it, unable to withstand the pain. She whimpers, looking around her, no way out, there’s no way out. The flames are too fierce, even for me. A beam falls too close for her liking, she scrambles away, not forgetting Ivar’s necklace.

This is an enemy with no weak points, she realizes. I will die here after all, my vow meaning nothing. A slow bubbling anger settles in her belly. She will die without getting her revenge. She will die a coward, burned alive by Eylaug of all people. Eylaug, the disgusting pig. He will boast about her death, he will get glory. Her rage builds. It builds until she begins to shake. It builds until it fogs her mind. It builds until it blinds her. She’d be damned if she let Eylaug claim her death. She cocks her head back, letting out her signature screech, and runs towards the door, she refuses to go out this way.

Lagertha approaches the building on fire. “What the hell is going on here?” she demands. “The fighting is finished, why are you burning someone’s house?” Eylaug looks at her, making her skin crawl. He is a man that should be put down as soon as possible. She can hardly wait until her alliance with Boggvir comes to an end.

“We have lain to rest a wraith,” Eylaug tells her, throwing his hands out, proud. He spies the Sword of Kings in her hand and bows, adding, “Your majesty.” An unhelpful reminder of just what he did for her. “Brynhilda is dead!” He yells, turning to his men. None of them look as joyful as Eylaug, “We have done what no one said was possible, we have killed Brynhilda the Death-” he is cut off by a terrifying scream.

Lagertha watches as whoever it was trapped within the flames bursts forth in a shower of embers. The wretch is nearly naked, black from soot. She looks about wildly, huffing, green eyes landing on Eylaug. “By Odin,” He whispers, truly terrified. She cocks it’s head back and unleashes yet another unearthly screech, then charges.

Lagertha watches in horror as she tackles Eylaug to the ground, a man easily three times her size. Some men manage to find the courage to react. They rush her, grabbing the back of her shirt and throw her into the air, away from Eylaug before she can do anything more than stun him with a punch to the face. She lands by Lagertha’s feet. Looking up at the newly ordained queen, half crazed. Lagertha raises her sword ready to defend herself, but she’s outmatched by the sheer strength of this animal. It can’t be human, Lagertha thinks as a powerful kick knocks her to the ground and steals her breath. I will die today, this beast will kill me. Lagertha is proved wrong, it seems the girl only cares about the men that trapped her, she turns towards them, poised for battle.

Eylaug is screaming orders at his men, readying them for a fight. Lagertha motions for her own people to stand down, this was not something she wanted to get involved in. They all watch the bloodbath in amazed horror.

It is a sight to see. A sort of peace settles over the woman. You were born in battle, made by the dwarves, a machine to wreak havoc on Midguard, Lagertha thinks, impressed by Brynhilda. She strikes with the deadly accuracy, cutting down man after man. When her sword is not enough, she uses the rest of her body, moving to and fro, avoiding axes and arrows. Her fists more than enough to snap men’s necks. None manage to touch her.

When there are no more men left to attack, she throws the sword to the side, staring at Eylaug. Through the smoke, Brynhilda smiles, her prey is vulnerable, she moves in for the kill. He lets out a terrified scream that chokes off into nothingness as she beats him with her bear hands. It’s disgusting, it’s violent, it’s poetic justice at its finest. When she is done, Eylaug’s head is nothing but pulp. She slides off him, throwing her head to the sky in a sort of reverence, unleashing one last powerful scream.

She turns to the last surviving man, a man too terrified to raise his weapon. She approaches him. He throws down his weapons kneeling, but before he can beg for his life the thing grabs him by the front of his shirt and speaks, “You will go to Boggvir,” She says, “You will tell him Brynhilda yet lives, despite the attempts on her life, and you will tell him I am coming to rip his still beating heart from his chest and eat it. He better pray to the gods for mercy, I will have none.” The man whimpers, nodding. She throws him away. He scampers, leaving his weapons behind, wanting to get away from the the demon as quick as his legs will carry him.

Brynhilda straightens, looks about her, and reaches for the Sword of Kings. Lagertha approaches her. She holds to sword up, distrust plain in her eyes. “That is my sword,” Lagertha states plainly. “It’s in my hand,” Brynhilda counters. The soldiers behind Lagertha ready their weapons. “I could have you killed,” Lagertha continues, hoping to persuade the haughty young thing. Brynhilda merely laughs, then says “You can try,” her men ready their arrows, still she is unafraid, Lagertha liked her. “I’ll tell you what,” Brynhilda says. “You find my weapons and armor, and I will give you your sword back.”

“You don’t make demands of the Queen of Kattegat!” Astrid said, stepping forward. “I make demands of whom I wish. My effects. Now.” Astrid takes another step, but Lagertha stopped her. There was something in the child’s eyes that told her she’d kill the entire town if she had to. “You heard her, find her things.” Lagertha orders, the men hesitate. This is not a woman she wants to make an enemy of. “Now,” she reiterates. Her men disperse. “You look hungry,” Lagertha says, smiling. “Let me get you something to eat.”

Brynhilda has bathed, her things have been returned to her, and now she stands uneasily in front of the new queen of Kattegat. She notes with irritation she hasn’t been fed at all. “Who are you?” Lagertha asks. Brynhilda refuses to answer. Astrid steps up, irritated with her, “Your queen-”

“I have no queen,” Brynhilda informs her calmly. Astrid growls, grabbing her sword. “I’d snap your neck before you could even land a blow,” Brynhilda threatens. She’s in her element, danger surrounds her. She is delighted to see the look of irritation on the new queen’s face. Astrid makes to rush at her, but Lagertha calls her back. Good, at least someone knows what they’re dealing with.

“Where are you going?”

Brynhilda crosses her arms, refusing to answer. “This would go a lot smoother if you simply answered me,” Lagertha tries for a third time. “For you maybe.”

“I could have you locked up.” She points out. “I just barreled my way out of a burning building and killed a man three times my size with my bare hands, what makes you think you could lock me up?”

That’s it, the look of fearful doubt settles on this imposters face. Could Brynhilda be contained? So far it didn’t seem so. Best not to push my luck, she thinks. No one will come for me if I get into anymore trouble. “I get it,” Brynhilda says, pacing, never turning her back on the queen or the people that surround her. “You want to know if I’m going to cause trouble for you. Despite you aligning yourself with Boggvir, I won’t.” Lagertha opens her mouth, no doubt to say something smart, “I will leave you in peace,” Brynhilda interrupts, “so long as you understand that if you get involved you will die.” Lagertha chances a laugh at this. “I have an army, you fight under no banner.” I’m playing a dangerous game here. I’ve never been good with my words. “There are men that would follow me,” Brynhilda says, sounding much more confident than she felt. “And you are a new queen. People here loved Aslaug, do you think all of them would rise up to help you, the usurper?”

“Queen Lagerther-” another blond woman starts, Brynhilda has to interrupt her. “Enough of this talk!” She barks. “I am leaving, with or without your permission. Get in my way, and you lot burn with Kattegat.”

Lagertha smiles at her, a placating smile. She doesn’t think I’m a threat, I’d love to see her head on a pike. “Really now, what is one small girl with no army of her own going to do?” Brynhilda smirks, “I’m going to conquer a kingdom.”

All things considered, Brynhilda feels lucky. The town was attacked, and she survived, she was nearly burned alive, but she survived, and the new queen allowed her to leave mostly unmolested.

She sits in her cabin, looking at the friends she’s managed to make. Rhona, Vigdis, Sigrid, the healer, how odd to think of these girls as friends. True friends.

They’ve had a trying day, so they sleep away the hours. It’s just as well, Brynhilda goes weak for Rhona’s crying. “I will watch over them,” The healer tells her, cracking open an eye. “You’d better, I’d come back to strangle you if you didn’t.”

“You aren’t used to having friends are you?” Brynhilda smiles. “Not good ones, no.” The old woman chuckles. “Go,” She says. “I will tell them of your love in the morning.” Brynhilda nods, looking at the girls one last time. “Tell them,” Brynhilda stops, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t used to having people that would worry over her. “Tell them I will be back, one day.” With that, she slips into the night

Ivar cracks open an eye, bright sun nearly blinding him. Well, he thinks, smiling, I’m alive. He pats himself down, just to make sure. His hand closes around the trinket Brynhilda had given him. A troll cross. He didn’t know what the hell a troll cross would do for him all the way in England, but it obviously meant something to her, so it was dear to him.

Ivar smiles at the thought of his love, she was going to shit herself when she found out his mother was wrong. His mother would be happy, and he would be able to prove to his brothers he wasn’t some useless thing that had to be carted around all the time.

He half remembers the storm that took them, by surprise. His father had warned all of them that there was a chance it would happen, but no one really believed him. Ivar blamed the boats, they were shoddily made in haste for the journey. But what boat can the most hated man in Kattegat get with so little money?

Ivar looks and shakes his father’s leg, eager to get going. He finds he can’t keep the smile from his face. He made it to England, he will live to see his Brynhilda, and most importantly, he will be able to kill a Saxon for her. He had a feeling things would go well here.

#vikings #ivar the boneless #ivars heathen army #ivar ragnarsson #ivar x oc #ivar x brynhilda #brynhilda

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brightlycoloredteacups · 2 years

Text

A Winter Attack

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Pairing: Ivar x OFC

A/N: Has been 84 years? Yes. Am I back on my bullshit? Maybe.

Warnings: None for this chapter.

Looking out at the great hall, she’s surprised to see so many familiar faces. She’d revealed her game plan only a week ago, and already her tiny little village had swelled three times its original size. Men and women, young and old, new soldiers and army veterans, all of them looking forward to fighting for her. She nearly chokes on her emotions...well, at least her laughter.

Brynhilda stands up, walks down from the dias, and stops in front of the man. “Why would we do a thing like that? Boggvir wouldn’t even recognize him.”

“My lady?” Arrow asks, unconvinced of her statement. Brynhilda begins to stalk the man that tried to curse her, round and round she went, taking in every detail. “You aren’t acting out of loyalty to Boggvir, are you?” The man struggles against his binds, snarling unintelligibly at her. “You're acting out of revenge for your brother.” The shock that Brynhilda remembers the prisoner is evident on his face. It’s quickly replaced with a smile, he speaks. “I didn't think you'd remember.”

He squirms in his binds, considering her words. What she said was true, even her enemies knew she was not in the habit of lying. Had she been the one to actually kill his brother, things would have undoubtedly played out differently. Still, surely years of anger and hatred didn’t shift from one target to the next in an instant. He straightens, giving her a haughty look. “You may call me Dofri.” Well, she’d been wrong before. It’s stupid to trust someone that just tried to curse her. She’s an idiot, she knows she is, but there’s something about him, something in his eyes. He’d never before considered working to kill the true target of his revenge. Maybe Falki had been unattainable to him until now. Even so, Brynhilda knows she’s just making up an excuse to trust him.

Those that visit Brynhilda's feast hall swear it’s a place of unsettling magic. Not exactly gloomy or bright. Not cold or hot. Not comfortable or uncomfortable. A charge was ever present in the air, making one aware of the unearthly quality Brynhilda exuded. Unseen things crawl around the place, whispering in their ears, telling the listener that they were safe, cared for. The only catch was Brynhilda herself had to be in a good mood.

Part of the magic of the place was that the feeling in the room changed with her feelings. If she was angry, the urge to drive your ax into the skull of your greatest enemy became almost too great to resist. If she was sad, you felt as though your heart had been ripped through your chest and eaten by a wild beast. If she was happy, you felt as though you had the strength of the gods themselves. The moment you left the feast hall, the cool air hitting your face, you felt dazed and confused. Why had you been subject to such alien feelings?

Dearest Bryhilda, wild, untameable Brynhilda. She was the topic of much conversation. Alf had his suspicions that Brynhilda didn’t exactly belong to the world, she was too ethereal, too much wild energy danced about her. It didn’t help that to add to her mystique were the legendary stories. She’s killed a hundred men on her own, she survived the bite of the most poisonous snake in the world, she survived being Blood Eagled. Of course, she always brushes the stories off with completely plausible explanations. Those hundred men she killed on her own? It had taken her a week, and even then she’d gotten lucky with a rock slide taking out half the force. That snake bite? The poison didn’t get too far into her system before she had been treated. The Blood Eagle? Hadn’t been completed before an army attacked.

So yes, Brynhilda was wild, but she was kind, she could be brutal, but only if you pressed her. Mostly, she was curious, and infuriating. He thinks back to their previous conversation.

“Quick attacks,” she says, “on the two port cities. Here and here,” she points them out on the makeshift map. “We walk on the ice, attack from the harbor where they least expect it, when they least expect it. Just before dawn, when it's darkest. Everyone will be asleep, confused.”

“Alright,” Alf says, seeing she isn't going to be persuaded, “Suppose it works the first time around, do you honestly think it'll work the second time around?”

“I considered it,” she says, nodding, “We can split the army in two, attack at the same time.”

#vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar x ofc #brynhilda #brynhilda's saga

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brightlycoloredteacups · 3 years

Text

King of Traitors

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Pairing: Ivar x OFC

Warnings: None for this chapter

Tagging: @salt-is-a-terrible-currency

****

The Cliff of Cliffs had a cave system. As a child, Brynhilda had explored the systems to such an extent she still knew what paths lead to where. From the information she’d gathered, thanks to a recon mission gone very right, she knew that Boggvir’s men were situated right against the cliff, next to a crack that opened right in the middle of the camp.

She has a plan to sew some chaos into the camp, not much, just enough to put the men on edge. Brynhilda’s force is small, excluding herself, there were seven in total that followed her. Alf, Dorfi, and five of the bravest women in the whole camp. The men that would have volunteered to come had other jobs to do. She turns to her people, “Remember, you can take as much as you can carry, but destroy supplies. Keep as quiet as you can, for as long as you can. If you get caught, I won't be saving you.” Everyone nods in understanding. “Good, lets go.”

She sent other groups out that night that were going to help with creating chaos. One was setting up traps in the forest. In the early morning, they’d try to get a group of Boggvir’s men to follow them, and neutralize a small portion of the army. Another group was situated on top of the cliff, ready to fire arrows down at the enemy at a random time in the night. Yet another group was going to try and lead a small group of the enemy into a small skirmish to the south.

So many opportunities to go wrong...yet the reward was worth it.

Brynhilda leads her group through the caves with no problem, out the otherside with only the smallest of sounds. When she finally saw the last woman out of the cave, she hisses,“Find cover, quickly.” They do as told, following her behind a stack of food. She looks at them, “spread out, start destroying supplies. Food, weapons, shields. Throw things into the ravine, steal things, I don't care. Get going.” Everyone disperses at her orders. They had one hour to complete their tasks before the attacks began. Then, they either get caught in the fight, or they escape without a scratch.

For an entire hour, Brynhilda is on edge, anything could go wrong. Luck holds with her. She manages to find weapons just laying around the camp, just as she expected. It’s a pity that she has to give Boggvir this sorely needed reality check.

Her confidence is slowly returning. She can do this, they can do this. A soft caw from one of the crows that perpetually follows her tells her it's time to go. She rushed back to the hole in the cliff, seeing most of her group. “Where is Dorfi?” She asks. “We don't know,” Alf tells her, “lost I expect.” Brynhilda curses. “Go back to the camp, I'll find Dorfi.”

“What happened to you not saving us?” Alf says, smirking, “Clearly I lied.”

”I saw him go towards the edge of the camp, toward the log trap.” A woman tells her. “Thank you,” Brynhilda turns heading back towards the camp, stopping when her group moves with her. “Go back to the camp,”

“Not without you,” Alf says. “Look-” Brynhilda begins to argue, but Alf cuts her off, “Don't bother arguing. We aren't leaving without you.”

She doesn't have to wonder about it though, as she hears Dorfi's voice through a tent. “I don't know anything about Brynhilda.” he says defiantly. She smirks, she loves it when she's wrong. “Oh? She didn't send you here to curse us all?” Someone sneers. Their voice is gruff, someone she doesn't recognize. She motions of her people to surround the tent. “Do you really think Brynhilda is someone that believes in curses?”

“Yes.” There was an awkward pause, “Do you think Brynhilda is someone who would use curses?” Dorfi rephrased. “Look, we all know Brynhilda wants us dead,” she steps into the tent for dramatic effect, cutting off the man’s tirade. She’s angry when she sees Dorfi beaten and bloodied. For a moment, she has to wonder if he really kept her secrete despite the torture. “You're right, I want you dead,” she says. Before the man can even yell or draw his weapon, she runs him through with her sword, covering his mouth so he doesn't make much sound.

They were going to sneak back to the hole, but one of her ravens caw, loudly so everyone can hear it, a warning sign that her other plans are about to be set into motion. “Shit,” she mutters. Everyone readies their weapons, “There isnt enough time to escape,” Dorfi warns her, watching as people are now pouring from the tents, wondering why the fuck a raven is cawing in the middle of the night.

“Please tell me you disabled the trap.” Alf says. Dorfi snorts, “course I did!”

“Tight circle,” Brynhilda instructs, bringing her shield in front of her. They form a tight ring as shouts of intruders begin to go up, now alerted to their presence. Men surround them. “Brynhilda, I don't like this,” Alf mutters, “Oh really?” Brunhilda snaps, “What's not to like? We're trapped in the middle of an enemy camp, surrounded, with fucking no way out.”

“Someone's testy,” Alf mutters, “She needs a nap,” Dorfi explains, “she gets cranky without her beauty rest.”

“I hate you both.” She mutters, bracing herself for an attack. The dam of tension breaks as soon as a random enemy charges at her and hits her shield. Everyone begins to shout, fight, run. Its utter chaos.

The enemy, composed of men she's led in battle, are confused at the new tactic. She's a brute force fighter, she charges and her opponent dies. Now she's yelling coherent instructions, staying back and helping her people. It confuses the enemy, makes them hesitate.

The group Brynhilda sent out that was supposed to charge the side of the camp she’s headed towards is doing its job beautifully. The shock of the trap working had given them the advantage, confusion was sown, everyone was divided. “Retreat!” She yells, her voice is heard clearly over the battle. A horn is sounded and her men begin to fall back. Brynhilda stays until she is sure the last man has gone. She is about to join them when the enemy crowd parts, and she sees Boggvir.

Her camp is riotous when she gets back. Through snippets of excited congratulations, she finds that all men have made it back alive with no more than a few bumps and bruises. Someone had the wherewithal to break out the celebration food. She notes there wasn't a mead cup in sight, good, mead was after the battle was definitely won. “To Brynhilda the Deathless!” One of her men yells. The cheer goes up, her name reaching the heavens. She laughs as someone picks her up on their shoulders, it's hard not to get caught up in the celebration. “To my warriors!” She says, throwing a fist in the air. This elicits an even bigger cheer.

When she is put down, Alf approaches her, pulling her off to the side. “Sven tells me there's something that requires your full attention.” She follows him through the camp.

They come upon her tent, small and unassuming, except for the large boar stitched into the side. A group of men surround something, the air is charged, as she approaches, they part for her so she can see what it is they’ve captured. The Volva that started this mess. She's not so pretty now, covered in dirt, hair wild, half starved. “What did you do to her?” Brynhilda mutters, feeling bad for the woman...only slightly. She glares at the men in turn.

“Your men have done nothing,” the witch says, looking Brynhilda in the eyes, “they were perfectly behaved.”

“Leave,” Brynhilda tells them. “Jarl-” Sven, who’d been among the group, begins to argue, but at Brynhilda's look he stops. They all leave.

Brynhilda picks the witch up, and throws her into the tent, nearly gagging at the smell of her. “Are you cold?” Brynhilda asks, not bothering to wait for the answer. She throws a blanket around the woman.

“Enough with the niceties. I know nothing of Boggvir's plan. He cast me aside the moment he got word you lived.” Brynhilda had trouble keeping the smirk from her face. “A wise queen told me once that women seldom have choices in life. We must take what we’re given and deal with it, ours is a most tragic lot.” The volva merely grunts. “She was loved, hated, and killed because she was a witch.”

“What's your point?”

“My point is, right now, you have a choice to make.”

“I told you I know nothing of Boggvir's plans,” Brynhilda ignores her, “become mine, work for me, and live under my protection,”

“Be a slave? Ha! I'd rather die,” Brynhilda nods, pulling out a dagger. “Very well,” she gets up and grabs a fistfull of dirty hair, pulling the volva's head back. Before she can even put the blade to her neck, the witch changes her mind. “I'll do it! I'll work for you! Don't kill me please!” Brynhilda lets her go. Smiling, she puts the dagger down, “I'll send someone to come clean you up.”

#vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #brynhilda's saga #brynhilda #ivar x oc

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brightlycoloredteacups · 5 years

Text

Revenge At Hand

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Pairing: Ivar x OFC

Warnings: None really.

Tagging: @anunhealthydoseofangst @salimahbicharara-comun @tiyetiye @ivarinleatherpants

A/N: If this has a lot of spelling errors in it, it’s all my fault, I was just too damn excited to get this out.

Brynhilda has to wonder how much sadness one person can handle. Laying there, looking at the sky, she can’t help but feel very small. “Odin?” she whispers. “What is your plan for me? Is it to cause so much grief I simply die of heartbreak? Or are you testing me, as everyone says you are?” She is heartsick. She misses the girls, Ivar, her home. Everything.

A crow caws, startling her. Looking over she finds it staring at her, a fish at its feet. It gives it a nudge, rolling it towards her. She doesn’t feel like eating.

She turns back to look at the sky. Deciding to focus her attention on planning. She isn’t too good with strategising, her one and only plan had always been ‘hit the enemy harder than they hit you’. She was sure this wasn’t going to work this time. The news that she lives had no doubt spread like wildfire throughout Boggvir’s kingdom. It’s all a matter of how she goes about attacking everyone, and who she’s attacking first. She needs to think like Boggvir, who would he attack first? Her chief concern is how she’s going to stop an entire army on her own?

She remembers Aslaug’s advice. She must not doubt her capability to lead. She thinks even further than that, to the man Ivar tortured. He said people would rise up to fight for her. How true was that? Would people come if she asked them? How would she get the message out?

The crow caws again. It’s a different tone, quieter, I must pay attention, she thinks. She sits up, listening. There are men nearby. She hops to her feet, grabbing her bag of provisions, and her sword. Keeping low, moving silently, she follows the voices. Which isn’t hard considering someone is screaming.

She stops behind a tree, peeking from behind it. One crow sits on her shoulder, while the other sits on a low branch. It’s a group of men and women, all around a fire, drinking, eating, and torturing a poor soul in bright clothing. Brynhilda has to look away, stomach turning despite the emptiness. She never could stand torture.

The crow nibbles her ear. “Yes,” She whispers, “I must do something, I know.” She unsheaths her new axe. She managed to trade some hide for it. It was better to have a swift, short range weapon in woods, rather than a sword. She slinks down to the group, wholly unsure of what she’s going to do.

She’s so focused on not making a sound, she doesn’t notice the man in the cage until he grabs the back of her shirt. She manages to hold in her yelp of surprise as she’s yanked into the air. “Free me,” The man hisses, “Why?” Brynhilda asks. She can never be accomodating, could she? “I want to kill those men, free me.” She raises an eyebrow, “What is one man going to do against ten?”

“What is one child going to do against ten?” The man counters. Brynhilda glares at him. “I will have you know, I am fully grown thank you.” The stranger looks her up and down, unconvinced. “You are rather short for a fully grown woman.” Brynhilda growls. “Put me down.” she kicks her feet to no avail. The man’s arm holds her away from the cage, she can’t get at him, not that she’s trying to hard.

“Free me,”

“I can't free you if I'm dangling in the air can I?” The man drops her to her feet. She’s surprised that she manages to stay upright. Looking back over her shoulder, Brynhilda holds her breath.

Breaking the chain on the cage will be a loud affair, she’ll have to strike quickly, and be ready for the inevitable fight ahead. “Odin, grant that my blad strike true,” She mutters before hefting her axe. She swings with all her might, shattering the chain cleanly. The man kicks that cage open, grabs her axe and charges the men. It happens so fast Brynhilda is left staring at empty space and an open palm. Her crow nibbles at her ear to pull her from her stupor.

She turns, watching with mild interest. Sitting down on a log, she takes one of the flagons of mead and begins to drink. As luck would have it, it’s blueberry. She smiles, watching the show. Her crow hops from her shoulder to her hand, taking a healthy gulp from her cup. The other simply watches from a branch above them. The prisoner lacks power, despite his hefty build, but he’s swift and deadly accurate. He takes the men out no problem, leaving Brynhilda sufficiently impressed. He turns back to her, axe still firmly in hand. Hers is on her sword, wary of him. “Drink?” She says, holding out another cup of mead. He nods, setting across from the dying fire. “Drink,” He mutters.

Of all the things Alf has seen, this one scares him the most. No, he isn’t scared, he’s unsettled. The young girl in front of him couldn’t be human. She had to be one of those forest things he’s heard the Vikings whisper about at night. Hulda? No, not unassuming enough. Volva. A witch, she had to be.

She’s dressed in simple traveler’s clothing, but everything else screams otherworldly. There’s a fine wolfskin that hung about her shoulders The pelt gleams, the eyes ever watchful. Her axe was sharp and beautifully balanced. The blade at her hip shines despite being sheathed. Her eyes have seen too much, her hair is too wild, and the two crows that sit about her person are too watchful.

“Alf,” He says, by way of greeting. “Brynhilda,” Alf is trying to figure out if she’s a threat or not, from the look in her eyes, she’s doing the same thing. When she and the crow perched on her knee have finished their mead, she throws up cup over her shoulder, then stands. “Well, Alf, it’s been fun,” She nods to him and walks away. “Where are you going?” He asks, alarmed. “This is no place for a child to wander about alone. And what about your axe?”

The woman pauses. “I’m not a child,” She tells him, whipping around, “I’m just incredibly short! Keep the axe, you need it more than I.” Alf crosses his arms. “Even a grown woman isn’t this short.” He smirks, enjoying the annoyed look on her face. “I am Brynhilda! I don’t need this.” She throws her hands in the air and continues to stalk off into the forest. “You say your name like it’s supposed to mean something to me.” Alf says, continuing after her. She pauses, turning to him, mouth hanging open in shock. “Are you famous?” He asks, still highly amused. She stutters for a moment, incredulous. She settles on ignoring him.

Alf follows her nonetheless. “Where are you going not-as-famous-as-you-thought Brynhilda,” This comment doesn’t annoy her like he thought it would. “Doesn’t matter, you’re not coming with me,”

“Oh no, of course not, the problem is, I have no clue where I am, I need to get to a town and you seem like my best bet to get there.” She throws a thumb behind her, “Town is that way,”

“Then why are you going the opposite direction? It’s dangerous for a child to be out here by herself.”

As if to prove his point, Brynhilda trips, landing face first into the muck. Her crows seem to laugh at her. Alf picks her up and puts her right on her feet. He has trouble not laughing at the enraged look on her face. “You will follow me to the next town,” She tells him, “No further.”

“No further,” He agrees.

The town is cold, gray, subdued. This is not the same village she remembers growing up in. She looks at the people’s faces. Fear has settled upon them. She wraps her arms around herself, hoping her shoddy disguise is enough to keep her from being recognized. Sure, it’s only a grey cloak, but it’s better than her wolf pelt. That would’ve been a dead give away.

“Where are we?” Alf whispers, trying not to disturb the silence. “Don’t worry about it,” She snaps, hurrying through the street, making sure not an inch of skin is exposed. She makes it all the way to the end of the village when she stops. Alf bumps into her, grunting. She can see the ruined land from here. Slowly, not actually wanting to see the devastation, she walks forward.

Brynhilda stands in front of the ruins of her memories. She isn’t surprised, she knew this had happened, but still...to see her family home reduced to nothing more than a few timber pieces piled haphazardly about is unsettling. She had wanted to raise a family there. Little warriors running about playing with wooden swords. She wanted to keep the name Brynjar alive, in some small way. She will never get the chance.

She looks at the family tree. It’s as grey as the surrounding, wilted, dead. This breaks her heart more than being blood eagled, more than losing Ivar. She buckles, knees driving themselves into the muddy ground. She can’t help the sob that comes forth. Her land, her home, her everything, gone, just like that.

Alf stands awkwardly behind her, recognizing the scene for what it was. He grits his teeth, heart going out to her. One so small, so young, should not know the grief that turns grown men into walking corpses. He’s going to put a hand to her shoulder when he hears someone walking up. His axe is out in an instant, turning to the sound. It’s a small boy, looking slightly frightened, there are flowers in his hands, and the Valknut dangling from them. “A monster used to live there,” the boy whispers, not sure what to do. It seems he didn’t want to disturb the silence here. He slowly approaches. “That’s what the say,”

“Who says that,” Alf asks, interested. He walks up to Brynhilda, lowering her cowl, understanding the importance of her disguise. “The grownups.” The boy says. “I know better.”

“Do you?” The boy nods. “A valkyrie lived here,” He places the flowers at the foot of the tree. “They say she was greedy, power hungry, evil.”

“But she wasn’t?” Alf watches as Brynhilda’s shoulders start to shake with emotion. “She was the kindest woman I’ve ever met.” He says a quick prayer over the valknut and places it next to the flowers. “That symbol,” Alf asks, “What does it mean?”

“It’s a binding symbol.” The boy explains, “The others are putting it all over their doors and pray to keep Brynhilda asleep, I pray that Odin releases Brynhilda from her deathly binds and brings her back. We need her.” Alf nods. “Run along boy, it’s cold out today.” The boy senses Alf is dangerous enough not to argue with him. He takes off running.

Alf watches after the child, only for a few moments. Rage taints the air. He turns back to see Brynhilda is standing, eyes half crazed with grief. “Brynhilda,” He warns, holding up his hands. She is going to do something brash, he knows it. She walks past him, straight up the lane of the village. He follows her, not bothering to stop her. In his head, he’s cursing her though. He might not live to see tomorrow after this.

She burst through the doors of the mead hall, strides up to the Jarl in his chair and gives his head a violent jerk to the right. Just like that, the thing slumps to the floor. “What in Odin’s name?!” Someone says standing. She turns, removing her cowl. Yup, Alf thinks, that is definitely the look of a crazed woman. The men take in a collective gasp. Alf turns, his axe out in a minute. “If you would follow me,” Brynhilda says, voice surprisingly stable, “Then stay. If you follow Boggvir, leave, before I have it in my mind to kill you.” There’s a heavy silence as men decide what to do. They all look at each other. The oldest one, a gray haired man past his prime steps up. “I think I speak for everyone when I say, fuck Boggvir.” Her face slacken, turns bright, then she smiles. Gods, Alf breathes, she’s beautiful, isn’t she? “We are Brynhilda’s warriors,” The man continues, the rest growl the affirmation, “We have always been Brynhilda’s warriors,” another string of affirmations, this time louder. “And we will die as Brynhilda’s warriors.” This time, it’s a fucking cheer that rings throughout the hall. Brynhilda’s smile widens. She kicks the body to the side, then sits on the throne. “Good,” She says, “Now, which one of you is brave enough to tell Boggvir my revenge is at hand?”

#vikings #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless #fic #brynhilda's saga #brynhilda brynjarsdottir #brynhilda x ivar #ivar x ofc

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brightlycoloredteacups · 6 years

Text

Old Enemies

Pairing: Ivar x OFC

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga

Warnings: None

Tagging: @tiyetiye @sammi-faye @anunhealthydoseofangst @novumlibellum @salimahbicharara-comun

Ivar is aware everyone is watching him, the cripple going on a raid. He’s arms are killing him, his legs are ready to break, but he has to do this, for himself. Even so, he scans the crowd, looking for the familiar pair of green eyes. He spots her, standing in front of the boat, looking every bit the shieldmaiden she was. Proud, haughty, smiling ever so sweetly at him.

He comes to a stop in front of her, he has to, he has to speak with her one last time. “You’re short,” He says, grinning through the effort of trying to remain upright. “And you’re handsome.” She replies. His cheeks heat at the compliment. Brynhilda gives a quick inspection to his armor, running her hands over the leather, tugging at the straps, she nods in approval. “My family has a saying,” She tells him, her voice is cracking, she looks at him with watery eyes. Don’t cry, he demands. Don’t cry, if you do, I’ll have to stay. “Victory, Ivar, or Valhalla.” They both know he’s going to certain death. He leans down to kiss her. The position is awkward, but they manage it. There’s a thrill knowing that the most powerful shieldmaiden in all of Kattegat is willing to kiss him in front of everyone.

“I will miss you all my days,” She whispers, pulling back from him. She slips something in his hands. “I am lucky to have known you.” She steps away, allowing him to pass. He can’t bring himself to say anything more than a quiet ‘I love you’. He doesn’t have the inspired words Brynhilda does.

Just as they set sail, Brynhilda steps forward, “Hey, dumbass,” Ivar looks at her, smiling, ornery to the very end. “Remember who trained you, at least kill a Saxon for me before you die.” Ivar gives her a rude gesture, laughing at her. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” He yells. They set off all too soon. Ivar and Brynhilda watch each other until they can see no more.

A crow lands beside her, letting out a shrill cry. Brynhilda looks at it. “Yes, Odin,” She whispers. “I know you’re eager for me to begin.” She had wasted enough time in Kattegat, it's been a week after Ivar's departure, but she couldn’t find the strength to leave. Every day she looks to the sea, hoping against hope Ivar finds the strength to survive, despite Aslaug’s vision. The crow gives her another caw, picking at her sleeve. “Allow me my grief, you’ve taken my world from me.” She feels stupid for mourning a boy she only knew a few months, but he was the first real connection she's had since her parents died. Not even Boggvir had gotten so close to her, despite letting her live with him for years.

The crow flies to her shoulder, runs it’s beak across her cheek, seeming to comfort her. She breathes in, then out, slowly. She finds the strength to stand, the crow, flying off. “Brynhilda,” someone calls. It’s Aslaug. “Your majesty?” She says, turning to face the queen, unsure of what Aslaug could possibly want with her now. “You are leaving today, aren’t you?” Brynhilda nods, she can no longer put her journey off. Aslaug stares at her. “I do not know you well,” She admits. “But I know how happy you made Ivar’s last days,” a tear escapes Aslaug's eye, Brynhilda bows her head, saying nothing.

“I’ve had a vision,” Aslaug informs her. Brynhilda growls, irritated, “I’ve had enough of your visions!” She walks passed Aslaug, yet freezes at the next declaration. “When you are queen, come back to Kattegat, I would enjoy opening trade negotiations.”

“I will be queen?” Brynhilda whispers, turning back to her. “Yes, though, I could've told you that without the vision.” Brynhilda gulps, processing the information. “I will make a poor queen,” she says, “I will only terrify my subjects,”

“You will make an excellent queen,” Aslaug assures her, “Have confidence in your ability to lead and inspire loyalty.”

Aslaug raises her hand, showing Brynhilda a pendant resting in her pale palm. “It was Ivar’s,” Aslaug explains. “He told me he wanted you to have it, but..I couldn’t let go.” Brynhilda, says nothing, how could she? Aslaug had every right to keep this last memory of her son, despite his wishes. “You’re right, Brynhilda,” Aslaug continues, “I need to let go of my son.” Brynhilda reaches out, Aslaug drops it in her palm. Thor’s Hammer. A surge of irritation rises within her. Ivar should’ve taken it, it could have saved him.

Aslaug takes Brynhilda’s face in her soft hands, a motherly gesture that makes Brynhilda’s heart ache for her own mother. “You are wise beyond your years,” Aslaug tells her, “You are as strong as the gods, you will achieve all you set out for, and much more.”

“I’m tired of people telling me that,” Brynhilda admits. “But thank you.” Aslaug gives her a genuine smile, then kisses her forehead. “Odin’s blessings.” She whispers. “I am Brynhilda, daughter of Brynjar and Camila, I need no blessings.” Aslaug’s laughter follows her as she finally departs.

Brynhilda looks at the hammer in her hand. Ivar’s pendant. The last reminder she had of him. It a week, and all she remembers is his eyes. Those tired, angry blue eyes. Gods, how she misses him. She’s so busy memorizing every detail, she doesn’t hear the screaming until people are rushing past her. Kattegat is under attack.

Brynhilda pulls her sword out, ready for a fight. The old feeling of exhilaration rushes through her, she bares her teeth in a smile, let them come, she’s itching to spill blood. It’s the perfect cure for a broken heart. She runs towards the commotion, but slides to a stop, suddenly remembering the girls. “Shit,” She mutters. They’ll be in the longhouse, probably scared out of their wits. “I have to save them,” Brynhilda takes off at top speed, she needs to make sure the girls are safe. Hearing a particularly weak cry, Brynhilda slides to stop yet again, trying to find the source.

The old medicine woman. She’s been knocked to the ground, hovering over her is a man, readying his axe for the killing blow. Brynhilda is lucky, she’s faster than the axe. Reaches the old woman in time, her blade finally tastes blood. Brynhilda ignores the tingling sensation in her arms, other warriors are closing in on her. They are little more than irritants, she dispatches them quickly, annoyed they didn’t put up more of a fight.

She looks for the old woman, still on the ground in shock. Seathing her sword she grabs the old thing, “Come, healer, to safety.”

“You are a monster,” she whispers. Brynhilda looks about her, “Yes,” She says distractedly, “A monster that has just saved your life, come,” She runs as best she can with the healer, before she can get two steps towards the longhouse, the Seer slams into her. She doesn’t really stop for him, just grabs his robes. “Let’s go.”

“Are you saving lives now young Brynhilda?” She seer says. “By Odin’s left testicle, none of your shit today.”

Somehow, she makes it to the longhouse without much more effort. She slams open the door, seeing Ubbe and Sigurd ready for a fight. She snorts, good luck, those idiots have never even killed someone, let alone win a battle. “Where are my girls?” She snarls, before Ubbe could answer, Rhona comes running from somewhere in her back of the house. She slams into Brynhilda’s legs, Sigrid and Vigdis follow suit, all are crying, scared. Their babbling stressed Brynhilda so much, she can do nothing but yell, “Enough!” The girls stop immediately, terrified. They back away from her, holding each other close. Shit, it does no good to add to their terror. Brynhilda controls herself. “This is what’s going to happen,” She says, crouching down for them. “The Seer and the Healer are going to take you three into the mountains, where you’ll be safe, when things have calmed down, I will come for you.”

“Brynhilda, what are two old people going to do against an army?” Sigrid asks. Brynhilda has to concede the girl’s point. She brings the girls in front of her. When she speaks, she hears her mother’s voice, “There comes a time in everyone’s life when they either stand against the storm, or they wither and die. You girls are stronger than you know. You will weather this storm, you will survive, do you understand me?” The girls nod. In an uncharacteristic show of affection, she gives them each a kiss on the head, then rushes them off. “Who the hell am I turning into?” Brynhilda asks no one in particular. First, she actually stops to save two people she barely knows, then, she shows genuine affection to slaves. I’m going soft, she thinks. She turns to Ubbe and Sigurd, “Are you alright here?” Before they can say something, the door bursts open again.

Brynhilda turns, heart leaping into her throat. “Eylaug,” She whispers. Eylaug, Boggvir’s favored lap dog next top her. Her belly turns in disgust. “The rumors are true then,” he says, giving her a cruel smile. “Boggvir’s Bitch lives still.” Men surround her. The very same men that she lead into countless battles, to countless victories. The same men that look terrified of her now. They know what was done to her was an affront to the gods. “Well, Eylaug, you’ve certainly gotten uglier since last I saw you.”

“And you’ve become crooked.” He points out. Really, that was the best he had? She chances a turn, looking into some of the men’s eyes.. They lower their weapons, unsure of what exactly to do. She was supposed to be dead, no one survived that much torture. No one but Brynhilda the Deathless, it would seem. “Think,” She urges them, they would come to her side, she knew it. They had to, she had treated them fairly when she lead them, laughed with them, mourned with them. These were her men, not Eylaug’s, they must listen to her.. “Think before you raise your swords to me, they call me deathless for a reason.”

“The dead will be put back into the ground today!” Eylaug yells. He manages to catch her off guard with his swift movement. She curses her luck, how could she forget the first rule of battle? Never show your back to the enemy.

#vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivars heathen army #brynhilda #brynhildas saga #brynhilda x ivar #ivar x oc

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brightlycoloredteacups · 6 years

Text

I’ve Got You

Series: In Another Life: Keeping Promises x Brynhilda’s Saga cross over: Ylva x Brynhilda.

Warnings: None for this chapter.

Tagging: @ivartheboneme (You started this, and I love you for it), @wanderingsorceress27, @tiyetiye (I feel like this might be something you’d like?)

When you’re the wife of a great man like Ivar the Boneless, sacrifices must be made. One such sacrifice is breakfast with her daughter. Ivar said she’d eat too much, that she’d get fat, then no one would like her anymore. So, in the mornings, Ylva allowed her husband to take Dagny to the war table and eat his fill, while she worked on sewing.

In the gloomy tent, Ylva finds herself smiling. She’s lucky, she’s away from the men that previously held her captive. She’s married, a mother, things are finally looking up for her. Humming softly to herself, she continues to practice, she wants to be the perfect wife for Ivar, she’s determined to get it right. It slow work, but steady. The slaves tell her she’s improving, but she can’t really see the difference. It matters little, is the thought that counts, right?

She’s almost done with the hole in her dress when the flap to the tent is yanked open. Ylva tries to stand as quickly as she can, but she isn’t fast enough. Ivar sends her a glare, thrusting Dagny to her chest. “That Woman,” is all he hisses. Ylva knows immediately who he’s talking about.

Lagertha and Bjorn, relied on tired and true tactics. Steadfast and set in their ways, they were predictable, but this new comer, a queen, was an entirely knew entity, and one who forwent tradition, making her unpredictable. She’d set many a trap for Ivar, none of which he’d fallen for. “She’s desperate,” Ivar claims. “Hopes to weaken me by continuing to pull my men into skirmishes.” He chuckles, strapping his sword to his side. “Then she runs,” he says, smiling and turning to Ylva. “Runs like the coward she is. Not this time,” He puffs himself up. Ylva manages a smile for him. “You’re going to win this fight husband,” She says encouragingly, voice soft. He scoffs at her, limping forward. “Of course, I am, I’m descended from Odin himself.” He bends low to kiss Dagny on the forehead, the babe manages only a grimace. Straightened up, he gives Ylva a hard look.

“I know,” She says hurriedly, “One hair on her head and I’m through.” He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, she interrupts him again. “And ready myself for your victorious return, I know, husband.” He sets his jaw, his cold gaze turning into a hot glare. She feels warmth rush to her cheeks. “It seems I must teach you to speak when spoken to.” He mutters, shaking his head. Ylva gulps, she was only trying to let him know she understands what’s expected of her.

“They call her Brynhilda the Deathless,” Ylva whispers to Dagny. The babe’s eyes light up at the name. “She killed her first man when she was ten and became a commander in Boggvir’s army when she was eleven. They say she served him faithfully for years before he betrayed her and tried to sacrifice to her to Odin.” Ylva lays nest to her daughter, smiling.

Meeting Brynhilda the Deathless was as secret wish of hers. She keeps the desire close to her heart, never to uttering it to anyone but a baby who can’t even understand her words. It’s curiosity, not admiration, she decides. She wants to know how many of the sheer impossible rumors are true. “the sacrifice was interrupted by another war party, and Boggvir was forced to abandon his plans. He thought Brynhilda dead, not counting on her will to live. Odin came to collect her himself, and she spat in this face. He was amused but insulted. He allowed her to live but left her to hang from the alter. She escaped, nine days later.

“She crawled among the bodies forced feast upon rotten food, and drink rancid water. All to gain enough energy to crawl away from the battlefield, lest Boggvir comes back to guarantee her death. She rushed to the cover of the woods, stumbling across a pack of trolls. Even half alive and delirious she was so fierce she scared the trolls into submitting to her will.

“As she recovered, the rumor of the trolls’ submission spread through the forest, many a creature came to see the strange human. Other trolls came to wrestle her, she slaughtered them. Wolves came to eat her, she made them into pelts. Huldra tried to seduce her, but ended up her lovers instead.” She giggled at this. That part of the tale always amused her. She rolls over to look at Dagny, and says, feeling giddy all the while; “They say she’s so good in bed, that the only thing better than having her between your thighs is being in-between hers.”

“Well that’s very flattering.” Someone says.

Ylva gasps, sitting up and covering Dagny with her body. A stranger was in her tent and she hadn’t even heard them come in. “Who are you?” Ylva asks, wishing there was a weapon near her, not that she knew how to use one. Ivar wouldn’t let her pick up so much as a carving knife. “I’m the only protection you need,” Was one of his favorite saying. The woman chuckles, “I am,” She begins, giving an exaggerated bow in the meantime. “Brynhilda the Deathless, seducer of Huldra apparently.” The woman looks at Ylva, a wolfish grin on her face.

Ylva is stunned, Brynhilda is here, in the camp, her in her tent, that means… “Ivar,” She whispers. “He’s perfectly fine my dear, I’d worry about yourself.”

“Don’t kill the baby,” Ylva says in a panic, maybe Brynhilda isn’t as ruthless as she’s said to be, maybe she can be bargained with. “Oh, I’m not here to kill you,” Brynhilda explains, walking towards Ylva. “I’m here to kidnap you. It’s a completely different scenario.

“Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way, it’s your choice.”

“What’s the easy way?” Ylva asks. Too curious for her own good. “You walk out of here, with me and your baby, of your own volition.”

“The hard way?”

“I throw you over my shoulder and drag you kicking and screaming back to my camp.” Ylva gulps, that shouldn’t thrill her as much as it does. “Ok,” She whispers, grabbing Dagny in shaky hands. “Ok,” Brynhilda swoops in next to Ylva, putting a steadying hand underneath her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” Brynhilda says, giving Ylva a heart achingly beautiful smile, “I’ve got you.”

The sound of thundering hooves descends upon a quiet, terrified camp. The leader stops in front of his tent, yelling for his wife and child. He raves for hours when he finds them gone, foaming at the mouth, curing the gods, cursing the very woman he claimed to love. His brothers try to calm him, but he is inconsolable. He sends men to search for his family, throws things, nearly kills his second in command. In the end, all he accomplishes is the breaking of a few bones, and the formation of a new vow to kill the wench that did this, for there’s no doubt in his mind as to who did it. That Woman will not be allowed to live.

#vikings #Ivars heathen army #brynhilda's saga #keeping promises #Cross over #OC x OC #Lucky to have this lady in my life

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brightlycoloredteacups · 6 years

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Can’t Let Him Win

Series: Brynhilda and the Murder Couple.

Warning: TW, mentions of abuse, both physical and sexual.

Tagging: @ivartheboneme @tiyetiye @sammi-faye @salimahbicharara-comun

There’s a large apartment near the fashion district, sparsely furnished, barely decorated, and neat. An apartment dedicated to function only. The sol resident is a quiet woman who spends as little time in this place as possible, preferring to be outside, or at the very least, at a friend’s house. It’s very rare any sort of sound fills the echoing space, but today, is a special day. The sounds of grunting and growling are mixed in with the sounds of flesh hitting something else.

The person making all this noise is Brynhilda Brynjarsdottir, She’s punching a bag that hangs from the ceiling. There’s tape around the bits she’s punches through, it swings wildly back and forth. She’s been at this for hours now, positively dripping in swear, she barely blinks as a drop stings her eye. All this is an indicator that she’s having a bad fucking morning. Scratch that, she’s been having a bad fucking week. All the thoughts rolling around in her head are superseded by one. “I can’t let him win.” Gritting her teeth, her punches come with renewed vigor, frustrated and tired.

Earlier that week, she’d seen what Ylva had been up to on her laptop before she could close it. Panicked, Ylva had made Brynhilda promise not to tell Ivar. Brynhilda felt a moment’s irritation with her friend, she didn’t need to be prompted to promise. It wasn’t any of her business that Ylva visited self-help sites, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to get involved in Ylva and Ivar’s relationship. Besides, if Ylva wanted to talk about it with Ivar, she would’ve talked about it. “But why do you go on those sites anyway?” Brynhilda asked, simply curious. “I want to get better,” Ylva admitted quietly. “That way, the nightmares stop, and the voices and the doubt. If they don’t stop, Aella wins. I can’t let him win.”

Brynhilda had been thinking about it all week. She knew the very basics of psychological trauma, but had never applied it to herself. There was no need to. She wasn’t going to share her life with anyone, and if she was going to tailspin into something even more monstrous than she already was, she would’ve done it already. But that niggling thought, “I can’t let him win.” Kept hold of her. Like a tick to a blood feast, it had latched on and wasn’t letting go.

A plethora of insane thoughts filled her being. There was a feeling she could only describe as blackness inside her. From the tips of her fingers and toes to her head it wormed it’s way throughout her body, some days it threatens to overwhelm her. It suppresses all her secret wishes, her hopes, it clouds a great deal of beauty in her world. She places a hand to her belly, was it the same thing that prevented her from having a baby? Or was that the utter rage she often felt? Anger is the only other emotion she feels.

What about the feelings towards Dagny? A little voice asks. She vicious represses the voice with a single thought, it’s an inconsequential feeling that should be dealt with immediately. She stops punching, a wave of nausea rolling through her. That sounds exactly like Boggvir. Was this his revenge from the grave? Worming his way into her being so thoroughly she can’t even tell when her own thoughts are hers?

She’s about to continue abusing her poor punching bag, her anger renwed, but a knock on the door stops her. She rushes out of her room and to the door, looking through the peephole. It’s Ylva and Eliza. They’d invited her out today to go shopping. “Shit” she mutters, opening her door. “Brynie!” Ylva says happily. Her smile immediately falls. “Why aren’t you ready?”

“Sorry,” Brynhilda mutters, standing aside to let them in. Ylva steps right in, but Eliza hesitates. Brynhilda gives her a small, hopefully encouraging smile. The doctor seems to get the hint and sails inside. Brynhilda tries not to think too much about how delicious she smells. “You didn’t forget about today did you?” Ylva asks, a little upset. “Of course not, time just got away from me is all.” Brynhilda explains, taking the bandages off her hands and making her way into the kitchen.

She brings out a plate of fruits and vegetables, along with dip from her fridge. She places it on the tiny table next to the window. “Here Ylva, sit. You too Ms. Eliza.” Ylva wastes no time in sitting and digging into the tray. Brynhilda rushes back over to the fridge and gets the pitcher of water and two cups. Pouring them, she sets them next to her respective guests. “I’d offer you something more than water,” She mutters. “But it’s all I have. I’ll be right out.” She turns and rushes back to her bedroom.

She hops in the shower, irritated she can’t properly take care of her hair. Leaping out, she wraps a towel around her head, then dries herself off. She’s lucky, she already has her outfit laid out. Instead of her usual black on black ensemble, Brynhilda has decided to add some color to her wardrobe. She’d done it in the hopes that Eliza would find her more appealing, less intimidating.

She looks at her own computer. Taking a note from Ylva’s books, Brynhilda also began to search online for self help forums. Most of them were for sexual abuse survivors. She’d never suffered sexual abuse herself, but she read the stories anyway. Mostly to see if she could use something to help Ylva the next time Ivar was on a job, but a tiny part of her read them to see how they coped.

She’s moved on quickly from there, eventually finding what she was looking for. A forum for physical abuse survivors. She hadn’t joined anything yet, but there had been a few ideas she wanted to try for herself. Small, baby steps, she told herself. One of those baby steps was adding color into her life…despite wanting to make herself seem less threatening to the good doctor.

She unwraps her hair and throws product on it, then a clip to keep it out of her face. Shoving socks and shoes on, she looks at the time. Ten minutes, that isn’t too long for a shower, is it? She rushes out, stopping when she notices she’s obviously interrupted something. Ylva is smiling like a cat that got the cream, Eliza looks red and harassed. “Do I need to go back to my room for a few minutes?” Brynhilda asks, confused. Ylva giggles, shaking her head. “Nope! Are you ready?” She stands, beaming at Eliza. Turning to Brynhilda she gasps. “Your hair is down today!”

“Uh, yeah,” Brynhilda says, gathering the half-eaten fruit tray and the cups. She stops, mid-turn, looking at Eliza. “I’m sorry, where you done?” She mutters. “It’s alright if you weren’t. I was rude.”

“Oh, no!” Eliza says, popping up as well, backing away from Brynhilda as fast as she could. “I’m finished, that was very good, thank you. Very thoughtful.” She rushes to stand next to the door. Brynhilda puts the tray away, wondering what she’d done to frighten Eliza. As she’s quickly washing her cups, she sees her hands. Oh…that’s why. They’re bruised and bloodied from the hours she spent in the gym. Eliza was probably convinced Brynhilda would kill her if she made eye contact. So much for trying to put her at ease.

She finishes with the dishes and shuffles the ladies out of her home. With practiced ease, Brynhilda situates Ylva on her back and carries her down the flights of steps. Generally, Brynhilda let’s Ylva walk down the steps at her own pace, but Ylva is going to do a lot of walking today, she doesn’t want to get tired out so early into the trip. Placing her down gently, they girls shuffle off, into the waiting car. Brynhilda slides in next to Lars. “Ms. Brynhilda.” He says, handing her a cup. She takes it, smiling. “Thank you.” She says, already knowing what’s in it. The taste of her favorite tea hits her tongue and she’s immediately calmed. Lars grunts and drives off.

“Where too?” He asks. There hadn’t been a set plan, so Brynhilda looks in the review mirror, looking at the girls in the back. “Ms. Eliza? Do you mind if we furniture shop today?” Ylva ‘s face lights up that the prospect of shopping for more furniture, she begins to wiggle in her seat. Eliza chuckles and her enthusiasm. “Not at all.” She says, looking fondly at Ylva. Brynhilda nods, settling in her seat with her tea. Ylva begins to talk about all the new things she can buy for the house, rattling off names Brynhilda didn’t even know existed. Suddenly she stops. “Why do you want to shop for furniture?” She asks. “You never want to do that kind of stuff.”

Brynhilda clears her throat, feeling uncomfortable with the attention. She mutters a half-assed answer. Ylva gets the hint and begins explaining how she wants to redecorate the living room, fall is coming up after all, and that means a change of scenery. Brynhilda was nervous and wishes she had gone alone. Shopping for something different fills her with dread. The thought of changing her home in any way scared her. Just a chair, she thinks. I’ll get just one tiny chair. I can do this, I can’t let him win.

Having gotten them to the store in a timely manner, Lars opens the door for Ylva, she clamors from the car as quickly as she can, holding onto Lars’ arm for support. Brynhilda gets Eliza’s door, more out of habit than out of politeness, she does the same thing for Ivar.

Ylva chats happily to Eliza and Lars, while Brynhilda lingers behind. Ylva knows what she wants, so she sails past all the things she isn’t interested in, while Brynhilda stops to observe everything, wondering what the hell she’s doing. Inevitably, the group separates. Ylva wandering off with Lars, Eliza wandering off with Brynhilda.

Brynhilda has changed her mind, a new chair too big of a commitment right now. She decides on new towels, intent on getting solid colored one, not the strange, patterned crap that only serves as decoration. She’s is aware that Eliza keeps creeping closer. It’s largely unwelcomed, seeing as Brynhilda can’t tell what the woman’s intentions are.

Allowing Eliza to get close to enough to lean in and whisper into her ear took a lot of self-control. Brynhilda was protective of her bubble, and Eliza was within that bubble. “I’m not going to steal her away you know.” She says. Brynhilda frowns, looking up at the woman. “What?”

“Ylva, I’m not going to steal her away. You don’t have to worry.” Eliza puts a comforting had on Brynhilda shoulder. Her skin is immediately set aflame from the unfamiliar touch. She can’t tell if it’s pleasant or not. “What the hell are you talking about?” Brynhilda asks, shuffling away from Eliza. Shy may think the world of the doctor, but that doesn’t mean she was completely comfortable with contact. “You’re face says it all.” Eliza presses, tone gentle and even. “You’re always glaring at me, and that’s if you even look at me. And your lips are always pressed together, like you want to say something, but refuse to. Ylva’s told me how protective you can be.”

Brynhilda stops, considering soap dispensers, trying to figure out what she wants to say. “I’m glad Ylva has a new friend. She needs them.” She begins slowly, “She can’t be kept away from the world just because Ivar and I want her safe.” That was good, right? It’s the truth anyhow.

“Well, what’s your problem with me then?” Eliza asks, tone a little clipped. Brynhilda chances a glance at Eliza. Gods, even in the halogen lights she looks heaven sent. “You make me nervous.” Brynhilda finally admits. Eliza’s frown deepens. “Because I’m a doctor?”

“Because you’re pretty, and I like you.” She mutters. She watches Eliza’s face for any sign of discomfort. She’s already got the ‘I won’t do anything, I swear’ argument ready, but it seems as though she may not need it. Eliza’s face lights up, a smile gracing her features. Well, that had been the right move apparently. “Well,” Eliza says, obviously pleased. “I like you too, quite a bit.”

“Uh, thanks.” Brynhilda mutters, turning around, escaping down another isle. That was no indication that Eliza liked women, that she liked Brynhilda like that. You can like your friends, hell, you can love your friends. Brynhilda decides she isn’t going to read too much into that statement. She’s going to live her life alone anyway. No, she thinks, that’s Boggvir speaking. We aren’t letting him win this round. I can do this. I’m Brynhilda the gods-damned Deathless. I can ask a girl out.

She turns to Eliza abruptly, starling the doctor. Putting her hands behind her back, she squares her shoulders. “Would you like to go out with me sometime? Like for coffee? Maybe a movie?” Brynhilda manages. Direct and to the point. There’s no room for misinterpretation. She’s shocked to see Eliza’s face light up once more. “I’d love to,” Eliza says, sounding a little breathless. “This Friday? I get off my shift early noon, we could go to this café at the corner. It’s really cute and has the best chocolate cake.” Brynhilda loosens up. Did…did she really just get a date. Smiling as softly as she could, she nods. “Yeah,” She says. “I’d like that.”

#ivar the boneless #ivar's heathen army #vikings #brynhilda and the murder couple #brynhilda and eliza #keeping promises x brynhilda's saga crossover

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brightlycoloredteacups · 6 years

Text

Battle Plans

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga: Ivar x OC

Warnings: mentions of blood

The moment she had Brynhilda had stumbled in, Ivar in tow, the girls had stopped what they were doing. All she had to do was ask for help before the girls hopped to it, fussing over her in the midst of getting a bath ready. Ivar can’t help but smile as he watches Brynhilda order the girls about. Order wasn’t the right word. She simply asked for something, and they gave it to her. He had to wonder if life had always been like this for her.

Brynhilda sits, eating gruel the slaves saved for her. She’s tense, obviously in pain from the way she’s leaning to one side. It isn’t until the smallest slave stops rushing about that Brynhilda’s posture softens. “Rhona,” She calls, “What is it?” The child is maybe eight, maybe nine, Ivar doesn’t care to think about it too long. The little girl’s face scrunches up, and tears begin to fall. Ivar stifles his laughter as a look of utter panic crossed Brynhilda’s face. “What is it? Why are you crying? Did someone say something to you?” She puts her bowl to the side, poised to do…something.

Rhona shakes her head, then begins to wail. Brynhilda is up like a shot. For one moment, Ivar thinks Brynhilda is going to slap her. Serves the little irritant right, disturbing the relative peace with her caterwauling. Instead, Brynhilda kneels in front of the child and begins to soothe her. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t know she could be so soft. “Hush little Rhona,” Brynhilda whispers, wiping at the child’s face. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!” Rhona wails. “You almost died!” She flings herself at Brynhilda, who grunts. The way Brynhilda holds her hands out in front of her, unsure of what to do, is comical. Ivar definitely lets out a snigger. Slowly, she wraps her arms around the tiny girl and picks her up. “Rhona, hush, I didn’t even come close to dying.” She makes a motion to the others to continue with their chores as she paces back and forth with the child in her arms.

Rhona pulls back, still crying. “You didn’t?” She whimpers. Brynhilda scoffs. “A hundred men couldn’t kill me.”

“What about a hundred and one?” Ivar teased. This upsets Rhona once more, and her wailing begins anew. Brynhilda shoots Ivar a glare, who manages to look halfway apologetic. After a few, tense moments, Brynhilda calms Rhona’s cries into mere whimpers. There’s something about the scene that perturbs Ivar. He begins to squirm in his seat and is close to leaving when Brynhilda passes Rhona off to Vigdis. “Go,” She says. The girls look at her, confused for a moment. “You’re all needed in the great hall for tonight’s feast. Go.”

“What about you?” Sigrid whispers. Brynhilda gives her a smile. “It’s just an arrow to the shoulder, I’m hardly going to die.” She shoos the girls out without so much as another word. The moment the door closes she begins to undress, heedless of Ivar’s presence. Early on in her disrobing he decides if she’s comfortable showing off to him, he’s comfortable staring.

Ivar’s eyes don’t wander past the arrow hole for a long while. The blood on her back and shoulder captivates him. The dark red splashes on her rich skin stirs something within him, so much so, he has to suppress a groan. The movement that distracts him from his staring is when she beds to drop her pants. He can now take in all of her. Scars crisscross her dark skin, telling stories he yearns to hear. The largest one is the one that runs down her spine.

At the sound of him crawling off his seat, Brynhilda turns slightly to watch him, ready to defend herself if needed. There’s a sort of reverent look on his face that heats her cheeks. No one has ever looked at her the way Ivar is looking at her now. He reaches her quickly. Settling behind her, he lifts his hand to touch her scar. He stops, just before he can touch her skin. Looking at her for approval to touch it, she turns from him, denying such a pleasure. Ivar is a little hurt as she slips into the tub.

“Do me a favor and take down my hair.” He rolls his jaw. “I’m the one who gives orders.”

“I’m not giving you orders, I’m asking you to do me a favor.”

“Do it yourself.” She turns to glare at him. “I can’t exactly lift my arm over my head, can I?” He simply glares back at her, not understanding the root of his irritation. “It seems I forgot I was talking to the most selfish brat in Midguard.”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are,” Brynhilda growls, twisting her body in an uncomfortable position to get at her hair. “Stop,” He snaps, wincing at the rush of blood that comes from her shoulder. “I’ll do it.” Brynhilda does what he says and settles back into the tub. “Thank you.” She whispers. Ivar merely grunts.

Despite the crud tangled throughout her curly locks, Brynhilda’s hair is soft, and smells of the forest. It’s much longer than he anticipates, reaching almost to the floor as he undoes her braids bit by bit. The moment he’s done, Brynhilda dunks herself underneath the water, holding for a few seconds. She leans back when she resurfaces. He crawls to the side of the tub, leaning his back against it. “How did you get the scar on your back?” He asks quietly. “Boggvir Blood Eagled me.” She says it with such a matter-of-fact tone Ivar has to look at her to make double sure she isn’t lying.

Her face is pure hatred, and he’s glad it isn’t directed at him. “I gave that bastard ten years of my life, I made him king, and he repaid me, by trying to kill me. His best warrior.”

“And you plan on killing him.” Ivar says. Brynhilda’s smile sends shivers down his spine. That new feeling stirs his gut again. She leans forward. “I’m going to destroy him,” She says. “I will ruin him, everything he holds dear will be mine for the taking. I will cut out his heart out and burn it.” A shiver runs down Ivar’s spine.

Brynhilda begins washing her hair, jaw clenching and unclenching as she moves her arm. “Let me do that, stupid.” Ivar grumbles. She stops, watching as he drags a chair towards the bath and settles in it. He leans forward and begins to wash her hair. “What about the others?” He asks. She waves her hands in the air. “The only one I’d have actual trouble with is Falki.”

“Who’s he?”

“She is one of the people I helped to make a jarl.” Ivar spends a long time working Brynhilda’s hair before he speaks. “I don’t understand,” he says. “You are apparently this all-powerful woman, descended from the gods, tell me, why did you put so many others in power, but take none for yourself?” Brynhilda throws water over the shoulder, rinsing it out as best she can. “You took your time with your kill today,” She begins. “You drew it out as long as you could. Was it pleasurable, taking his life?” Ivar nods, the grunts when he realizes she can’t see him. She smiles at him. “It always is.” She whispers.

She cranes her neck to look at him, a completely new look overcoming her. It’s wild, ethereal. Ivar shifts, taking all that long hair from the tub and putting it on his lap to comb. He’s utterly captivated by her look. “It’s even better when you’re on the battlefield.” She begins. “The only thing standing between you and them; empty space.” She waves her hand out in front of her. “There’s a charge in the air, your heart begins to race, the tension is so thick, it’s palpable. And then,” she snaps her fingers, “the command to charge. You rush in, it takes hours, days, to reach the opposition. And when you do.”

She grabs the edge of the tub, her crazed smile making her look like some sort of demon. “It’s glorious, such chaos. All you can focus on is the killing blow. Intelligence and planning may win battles, but instinct wins fights.” She twists, standing on her knees in the tub. She takes his face in between her rough hands and presses her forehead against his. He can do nothing but grip the edge of the tub. “I love fighting,” she confesses, running her thumbs over his cheeks. “From beginning to end. But my favorite part is when it’s all finished. You stand, victorious in a sea of the dead and dying. Covered in blood. Nothing makes you feel more alive.”

The fever passes over Brynhilda has quickly as it had taken hold of her. She lets go of his face and leans back in the tub again. Her wolfish features settling. “My entire point is, I am a warrior, not a ruler. You just sit there and make decisions all day long. I’d go crazy within the hour.”

Ivar watches her for a long while, then takes her hair back into his lap. In his minds eye, he can see it. She stands in front of a thousand faceless men and women. A picture of calm before the storm. Then, she screams, breaking the silence, rushing forward for the kill. Before he can get too lost, he has to know, “Who are you going to kill first?”

“Falki.” Ivar frowns. “But you said she would be the toughest to kill, why wouldn’t you save her for last?”

“Precisely because she is the toughest to kill.” Brynhilda explains. “You’ve thought a lot about this.” He mutters. “I spent an entire winter and most of a spring recuperating, training. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and to plan.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d start with this…Falki woman.” Brynhilda cracks open an eye. “When you’re getting ready to go into battle, you want to take out the strongest person first, usually.” Ivar nods, shifting again to ease some of the pain in his legs. “Sometimes, if you’re in a hard position, you have to weigh the benefits and the risks.”

“You are one woman, Falki has an army.” Brynhilda frowns. “What’s your point?” Ivar splashes some water on her face. “How do you presume to get to someone with an army.” Brynhilda huffs. “Falki thinks me dead. She won’t be on her guard. I know the shit hole she lives in better than she wants to admit.”

“You will sneak in.” Ivar mutters, getting the last tangles out of her hair. Brynhilda smiles. “Yes, and I will beat her to death with my own hands. Then, I will put her head on a spike and gain control of the most well supplied army under Boggvir’s rule.”

“And then what?” Brynhilda growls. “You are very nosy.” She snaps. “I just want to make sure my slave brings honor to my name when she’s freed.” Brynhilda laughs, the most genuine laugh he’s ever heard from her.

They don’t say anything for a long time. Ivar sits still, thinking about the trouble Brynhilda will bring while she soaks. Every once in a while, she will splash water on her body. She breaks the silence. “My parents didn’t sell me.”

“What?” Ivar mutters, looking at her. “My parents. They didn’t sell me. They were killed.” Ivar frowns. “What’s your point?” He can’t figure out where this is coming from. “My point,” She says, glaring at him. “Is that I had very loving parents. And I don’t appreciate you insinuating otherwise.”

Ivar begins to argue, but she holds a hand up. “You’re going to ruin our moment. Just leave.” Ivar huffs, but crawls from his chair and out into the night. It’s good that he’s leaving, he has to figure out the ache in his chest.

#Ivar the boneless #ivars heathen army #ivar ragnarsson #vikings #brynhilda's saga #brynhilda #ivar x ofc

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brightlycoloredteacups · 7 years

Text

Tension

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga: Ivar x OFC

Warnings: Tends towards violent imagery, none for this specific chapter.

Brynhilda is convinced Odin put the Ragnarsson’s on Midgard to torture her. At the very least annoy her for the rest of her days. They refuse to leave her alone for too long. Ubbe was interested in her because she was the only woman in all of Kattegat that continually refused to bed him, Hvitserk was only interested because Ubbe was interested. And Sigurd liked her because she gave an uncommon amount of lip to Ivar and got away with. Ivar just liked having a slave around.

Ivar rarely used her during the day though, preferring to make her nights a living hell, so Aslaug still used her to do labor intensive tasks around the home. Gathering buckets of water, butchering the meat, she even had to catch and kill all the mice in the home, every last imaginary one. Today, Aslaug had her help an older woman bring bags of grain to the docks so she can ship them out to gods knew where.

She threw the last bag on the pile, groaning with relief. Before she could turn to the old woman and ask her if anything else needed to be done, Aslaug came up the beach, barking for her. “Brynhilda! Come!” Brynhilda nodded to the woman, who thanked her, and ran off. “You are to take Ivar to Floki’s.” She commanded. “And be gentle with him, I know how much you like to play rough.”

“Yes, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters, scurrying off to get Ivar.

When she finds him, he is bent over, tying his braces up, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His face is haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. “Where have you been?” He snapped, “I’ve been calling for you for ages.”

“I do have other duties to attend to outside of the house.” She informs him. “None of you lip today, I’m in no mood for it.” She scoffs but remains quiet. Watching as he finishes with his braces, she says, “How am I supposed to carry you if you don’t wrap your legs around me.”

“You won’t be carrying me you idiot!” He throws a bag to her, one she catches with ease. Crawling off his furs he heads for the door. Aslaug is watching her carefully. “I thought I told you to carry my so-” She begins, but Ivar cuts her off. “I’m not an invalid mother,” He snaps. “I don’t need some slave carrying me around like a child.”

“Are you sure, every other day you’d love to have me carry you.” Brynhilda says. He gives her a withering look. “I swear slave, today I will cut your tongue from you head.”

“My name,” She says, making sure to step on his hand as she steps over him. He snarls and swats at her. “Is Brynhilda.” She throws open the door and waits for him to crawl out.

By the time they get halfway to Floki’s hut, Brynhilda is sweating and struggling as much as Ivar is. “Maybe we should take a break.” She suggests, trying not to pant with the effort it takes to put one foot in front of the other. Ivar glares at her, “I don’t need a break.”

“Sure,” She says. “Neither do I. I’m good. I could go on for days.” They continue until they both come to a stop, pain becoming too great. Ivar presses his head into his forearm while Brynhilda drops to her knees. Both begin to gasp for air, trying their best to ride out their pain without the other taking too much notice. When they’re finished, Ivar peeks at her. “Can go on for days huh?” Brynhilda growls. “Don’t need anyone to carry you huh?” They stay like that, looking at each other for a long while. It isn’t a glare, it’s more of a curious stare, they want to know the extent of each other’s pain, they want to bond over it. Brynhilda gets back up, shouldering the bag and nods. “Lead the way oh mighty prince.” She says. Ivar begins once again to crawl.

By the time they reach Floki’s hut, Ivar pounding on the door calling for the man, both are drenched in sweat and nauseas with the effort of it all. The door is thrown open to reveal a mostly bald man, shirtless and looking very alarmed. He takes one look at Ivar and opens the door wider. Ivar enters the hut, Brynhilda merely hands Flokie the bag, figuring Ivar had her bring it for a reason. Floki takes it wordlessly. He gives her a long look, expecting her to follow Ivar. She doesn’t move from her spot. Not one to invite strangers in his home, he shuts the door in Brynhilda’s face.

She’s in the middle of getting off the grumpy old man’s front step when the door opens again. She looks to see Ivar’s disapproving face. “Well?” He says. “Get in here.” She does as she’s told, but does it slowly. As she passes him, she hears Ivar mutter ‘moron’. “And who’s this?” Floki asks, looking over her critically. “Her name is Brynhilda.” Ivar explains, pulling himself onto the bed.

“Undo my braces.” Ivar looks at Brynhilda expectantly. She stands there, glaring. “Well slave?”

“Give me a moment.” She snaps, seized with pain. His brows knit together as he looks at her, but he says nothing. For a few tense moments, she stands there, willing her legs to work. “The last time I check-” Ivar begins. “You keep your mouth shut.” Brynhilda snarls. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m the crippled one,” He snaps back. “Yes, but the entire world doesn’t revolve around you.” Ivar throws something at her, it bounces off her stomach. “You’re my slave, you should be taking care of me when I’m in pain.”

This spurs Brynhilda to his side. He’s smiling, thinking he’s triumphant, and in a way he is. Brynhilda can’t bring herself to hit him. Any other man, any other point in time and she would have gutted him like cow he is. Instead, she rips at his ties. He hisses in pain with the jerking of his legs, but doesn’t stop her. It’s like prey that’s smelled a predator but doesn’t know where it is, something instinctive inside tells him not to push too hard or he may not live to regret it.

When she’s done untying his braces she walks into a corner of the hut and slips to the ground, exhausted. As Floki and his, presumably wife, work on Ivar, Brynhilda grinds her teeth together. Breathing deep and letting it out slowly, she focuses on one of the lessons Eysteinn taught her. How to properly strong a bow. It isn’t complicated, but she drags out all the little details in her head for distraction.

When the pain abates, she uncurls herself. It worried her that she had seized up at all. If she was going to wage war on her enemies, she couldn’t let that stop her. There would be long, hard days of marching, hours of fighting, she’d need to be able to lift her shield and her sword, or else she’d fall. Weakness was not an option.

She chewed her lip as she thought of the actions she could take. She went through every idea she could, resting wasn’t an option, going to the Queen and telling her what Brynhilda was trying to do definitely wasn’t an option, getting one of the Ragnarssons to help her was unthinkable. She could train at night, when no one would bother her. No one traveled in the forest at night, they wouldn’t be able to figure her out. As much as she hated the thought, it was her only option.

She was pulled from her internal planning by Ivar throwing his bag at her. “Let’s go, slave,” He sneers. “My name,” she says, getting up and shouldering the bag, “Is Brynhilda.”

When Eysteinn had trained her during the summer, she hadn’t been in top form. He went easy on her as a result. She hadn’t complained then, wanting to soak up the technical aspect of training more than anything. Now, she planned on putting that training to good use. Ivar had gone to bed early, leaving her with an evening alone. It was the perfect time to start.

She didn’t dare dig up her sword and shield. They were far too precious, she couldn’t afford someone figuring out her little treasure chest. So, she took up a stick she found and began to go through the motions. Her back still ached, but she took it slow. The goal was to work on endurance, not kill herself.

She was just beginning to work up a sweat when she heard her name being called. She had chosen the spot where all the slaves went to relax when they had the rare day off, the only one she told was Sigrid. Expectedly, that was who burst from the tree line, looking panicked. “What’s wrong?” Brynhilda asked, trying to stay calm for the girl. “It’s Ivar,” Sigrid pants. “He’s looking for you.” Brynhilda rolls her eyes. Of course he is.

She walks up the bank to Sigrid, throwing the stick somewhere in the brush. “You’d better hurry,” Sigrid warns, grabbing Brynhilda’s hand. “He’s angry that you’ve disappeared.” Brynhilda grunted, not moving any faster as Sigrid tugged her along. “Let the little shit suffer.” She says. Sigrid says nothing.

They walk for some time, Sigrid keeping a tight hold on Brynhilda’s hand. Normally, Brynhilda would’ve brushed her off. She hated being touched, but it seemed she didn’t mind Sigrid. “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to kill you?” Sigrid finally asks. “No,” Brynhilda answers honestly. “Really?” Brynhilda completely misses the girl’s tone of awe. “Really. I’ve faced entire armies on my own before, Ivar doesn’t scare me at all.”

“You have not!” Sigrid says. Brynhilda grunts. “Alright, maybe a small warband, but the point was, there was one of me and a large number of them.”

“What did you do?” Sigrid asked. “I killed them.”

“I know that,” Sigrid says, giggling. “How did you kill them?”

“One by one,” Brynhilda tells her honestly. “It took me about a week.”

“Really, an entire week? You didn’t just fight them all?”

Brynhilda stops and looks at Sigird, trying to figure out if the girl is serious. “I’m not a god Sigrid, I can only do so much.”

“But it took you a week?”

“I had to remain hidden, I would’ve died otherwise.” Brynhilda says a little exasperated. Sigrid’s brows are furrowed, she’s trying to figure out how Brynhilda went about killing a bunch of men over the course of a week. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story one day, right now, let’s go and see what fresh torture Ivar has prepared for me.”

As they approach Kattegat, Sigrid continues asking her questions. “Are you a shieldmaiden?”

“I was,”

“What happened?”

“I was betrayed.”

“Who betrayed you?”

“People I thought my family.”

“Why did they betray you?”

“I was a pawn in a game I hadn’t realized was being played.” Sigrid was quiet for so long after that, they reached the Slave House before she spoke again. “Are you going to get revenge?” She whispered. Brynhilda lets go of Sigrid’s hand and bends to look her in the eye. Sigrid’s blue eyes are wide as her mouth as Brynhilda says, “Not even Odin can stop me from reaping my revenge on those that tried to bury me.” Sigrid takes a step back from the older woman, feeling chills run through her. Bryhilda straightens and turns towards the feast hall. As the girl steps into the slave house, Sigrid makes a promise not to get on Brynhilda’s bad side.

The moment Brynhilda opens the door, Aslaug is on her. “Where have you been?” She snaps. “Ivar has been calling for you,”

“I’m aware.” She brushes past the queen. “He is in a great deal of pain,” Aslaug says, running after her. “You will soothe it by any means necessary or-”

Brynhilda turns to the queen. “Or what?” She sneers. Aslaug backs up from her, clearly afraid. Brynhilda’s eyes are afire tonight, Aslaug knows better than to frustrate the girl, the Seer has told her as much. Pressing her lips together, she lifts her chin and looks down at her. “Just soothe my son’s pain.” She orders. “I will try my best, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters.

She leaves Aslaug in the feast hall and opens the door, only to be assaulted with a drinking horn. “Where have you been?” Ivar yells at her. “As far away from you as possible.” She mutters. Ivar ignores her smart answer and begins his tirade. “You are MY slave! You are to be where I can find you at all times!” Brynhilda drowns him out early on, trying to concentrate more on not strangling him. When there’s no sign of an end to his angry speech, she cuts him off, “Are you going to sit there and bitch all night, or are you going to tell me what to do?” Ivar seethes for a few moments. “Go fetch the healer. She’s an old woman that lives on the outskirts of Kattegat.”

“For the love of Odin!” Brynhilda throws her hands to the sky. “Any slave here could’ve done that, one of your brothers could’ve done that.”

“I want you to do it.” Ivar says, smirking. Brynhilda can’t believe it. This asshole really had her tracked down for a task anyone could’ve done. “Of all the idiotic-” She starts, turning from him and walking out of the room. Ivar only catches the end of her complaining, something about a ‘complete moron’. She ignores the cup that sails by her head.

#ivar the boneless #ivars heathen army #ivar ragnarsson #vikings #ivar fic #ivar and brynhilda #ivar x OFC

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