Hvitserk Imagines

One Day

She's a witch! His brother had said it as if their mother had not been the same. When Hvitserk went to Kattegat, it was always with the knowledge that he was outside of their strange circle... despite being so in at the same time. The only thing keeping his brother at bay, or so Hvitserk thought, was her.

It was cold-- wet and frosty as he hops from one congealed mat of ice to another, hoping back onto the man made road towards the slight hill where slushed ice would crack under his foot. He taps his boots of the ice as he pushes the door apart, sliding in with a small little peep. A garland of weasel bones jingle to welcome him back home, etched with rune.

"Fadir!" Shrills his nearly three year old, whizzing through the dark planks of his home to the doorway. Hvitserk grins a bright, gleaming smile as he closes the door behind him. It smells of warm hearth. Old ash lit alife and boy, there are no bowls on the shelf. That meant one thing to Hvitserk who sheds his fur coat and plucks up his son: dinner.

"(Y/N)!" He beams, rocking his son in his arms.

You turn away from the warm hearth in the room, pouring him a hearty and warm soup of rökt fisk to go with his herb bread. You turn up with your bowl, revealing a round belly that picks up his skirt. He moves forward to meet you in a soft kiss to your forehead.

"There is my pretty witch." He teases, running his hand over the curve of your stomach, taking the bowl you hand to him. He almost moves away when you stop him by tapping your lips with a 'ah, ah, ah' as if to note that he can't leave before his kisses. His pre-existing gloomy mood is done away with in that instant, leaning in with a great smile to kiss you upon the lips. Then he moves to his seat with his little boy in his arms.

"Mhm. Why do you come in here with that frown?" You say, bringing your own bowl on top of your round belly. The chair you sit in is carved with imagery of the falcon-- melted gold paints its surface in memory of the goddess you serve.

"Ivar murdered Margrethe on his way to find Bjorn." He notes. Old feelings died hard-- you suppose, but you are far more confident in your abilities to keep your husband than worries of the one who played mad. Hvitserk bobs his son on his lap, offering him some of his smoked fish soup.

"I can't say I'm surprised. Are you grieving?" You ask.

He mushes his thin lips together, shrugging his shoulders. "A little. Ivar thinks I am overreacting and have gone soft."

"Ivar is just as guilty of being soft as you, little fadir." You reach over, tickling his belly. Your young son babbles for more of his father's food.

"Hey, I've hardly gotten any." He pouts to him, cleaning the spoon. His son steals his bread, devouring it as hungrily as Hvitserk ever had. Your husband turns his eyes to you.

"He says I've gotten comfortable having a seidhkona at home." Hvitserk notes. Such strange magic you practiced. Magic that even the gods were wary of. Harmful and yet protective, all in one. Your kohl lined eyes glisten while you raise your eyebrows up.

"Should I write ale-runes on his horn?" You tease.

Hvitserk laughs, leaning up in his chair. "No, Freydis is with child. They will call you a Spakona, not my pretty little witch who bares me sons, makes bread and cares for me at night in spirit or person." He rolls his eyes as if he can't understand how his brother managed it. The two did not speak. But more than that his impotence was exactly what led to the death of Sigurd-- which you foresaw with Aslaug. A death.

"Oh, then its too late for that." You note rather dead pan in tone. Its enough that he stops to look at you quizzically. You return his gaze with a dead serious one, not at all revealing anything more. He opens his mouth but then closes it. He stares off again.

"He doesn't think I love him. What if I..." He begins. Just as quickly you cut him off.

"Let the fool play the fool, Hvitserk. He will humiliate you."

Nothing else passes his lips, bringing his bowl of soup up to his lips to chug the fishy broth all at once. He hops up, setting down his heavy son who whizzes about his feet as he goes to serve himself more. You stand up, gliding over to where he kneels.

"Let me do that." You huff something about womanly duties-- and Hvitserk swats your skirts back to sit down.

"I have hands too!" He pouts cutely bringing his son another bowl of fishy soup along with him. He plops down on the ground to eat with him, resting his head against your side.

"But you're my king." You turn your hands over his neat braids. Hvitserk can't help a smile at the suggestion.

"With no lands in all of Norway." He notes. Even the land he was given was bought off of his smaller brother's hands. You hush the strain in the wrinkles of his forehead by a consoling rub of your thumb against the wound smack in the middle of his forehead.

"Be patient my love. Your line will have your glory." You console. So he smiles, edging closer towards your belly. He lays a kiss atop of the round swell of his son brewing in his little witch's belly.

"One day."