Ivar the Boneless Imagines

Lost Sigurdsson

"If I could just see the prince for a minute. Please." You plead at the entrance to see Ivar, your toes cold along the floor. It was going to be Jól soon. You had to talk to him.

"I don't have time for this." The Viking in front of you pushed at your shoulder, shoving you back a great couple of feet. You fell to the ground with a loud 'oof!' Beside you the wailing of a young boy rippled through the air, no more than a year and a half old.

"What is all that noise?" The Prince's voice seeps out to where you lay in the ground, reaching out for your young son. The guards shuffle away, the seas of men parting to give way to your prince.

"She was asking to see you Ivar. I told her—" Ivar holds out his hand to silence the man.

"Get up. What is your name?" Ivar asks while you gather yourself off the dusty floor. You take up your blonde haired son into your arms

"(Y/N)." You answer. "This is my son Mimir."

Ivar grunts in acknowledgment whilst looking you over. Suddenly you fall self conscious. The eyes of a Prince— on your peasant curves. Mimir is dressed far better than you. Perhaps it was a mistake as Ivar passes his eyes over your knee length skirt then settle on your sloppy braids weaved with poor beading. Your appearance was important to impress prince Ivar. And yet... you stood like the worst of thralls for a free woman.

"A divorce to settle." He suggests. You shake your head.

"I've never been married my prince." You say. Ivar looks to the bemused laughter of his men. A woman with a child, never married. It must have been funny to them, but not to you. You were so tired.

"Then what?" Ivar says, his patience dissolving short.

"I came to set paternity for my son." Your hands set atop of your skirt. The crowd of men heckle you with hateful words but your head is high. Ivar limps closer, his face mere inches from yours.

"I have to say... I think I would have remembered fucking you." Ivar says lazily, leaning forward to pat the slight curve of your ass. You could remember when your curves were enviable. Now, you felt so thin... You shove his hand off, flustered as you barked out:

"Not you. Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye."

Once again, they fell quiet. No one had spoken Sigurd's name in some time and as Ivar turned, you could feel the heat of his eyes on your head.

"What?" He glanced down to the boy, meeting the two shafts of Fafnir in your son's eyes. His lips part before he takes up your son with his free arm. The resemblance to him as a child is uncanny. He can't deny that the son is his brothers.

"He's my brother's son." Ivar agrees. You exhale a breath of air at his words as Ivar hands off your son to a thrall. He glares darkly at the ground until you speak.

"I know how he died." You begin, finding Ivar glares out of the corner of his slight eyes. "But... I only ask that you can forgive Sigurd enough to not throw Mimir out into the cold. He'll die with me." You plead.

Of course you didn't want to leave him– but you knew what was best for him. Your little boy couldn't die, even if it meant leaving him with the uncle that likely detested him. After a while, Ivar nods. You turn away from the youngest Ragnarsson and begin to walk out toward the outskirts of town when he grasps your arm.

"Where are you going? It is cold." He asks. Before you can go on, he cuts you off. "Your son is inside. So go inside."

You want to object, but he is already dragging you inside. The clean floors and wide, open warmth are foreign to you. Ivar hands you a fruit harshly, walking back to a room with Mimir grumbling all the while.

"And bathe. For being so pretty, you smell like a Saxon whorehouse."