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The busiest time of the year was here again. Pull the plow, plant the seed, bless the plants and worship Freyr for your land. You woke early in the morning and went to bed later than intended. In fact, there would be no time to go into town for the next week or two. Your trousers were damp with not only water for the crop but the dirt off the mounds you made to the side. Dirt coated your braids held high into a ponytail and you were sure other places would be just as bad when you bathed later.
When he would still be watching you.
"This would be easier if you would marry me, (Y/N)."
You worked by dragging the plow, groaning with the blisters on your fingers protesting the movement of your body with your cattle. He sat on top of you mound of hay like a king on his stoop, ever judgmental of the way you denied him over and over again. Somehow, despite Sigurd's harsh words, he was still here looking to harvest you as his bride.
"Perhaps so!" You call back over the cattle's clopping steps. It would be easier to be his bride. To have no worries– or cares in the world. But idle hands were not your hands. You couldn't stomach simply being a bride. Ivar wears a blank expression, shaking his head lightly side to side.
"I can be a patient man." Ivar says, folding one arm after another.
Glancing over your shoulder, you shoot him a beaming smile. "Until harvest then."
