It was natural to have enemies. Hvitserk was a Ragnarsson. He was born having a number of enemies to his family. Aside from his paternity, his old habit of conning whatever woman he could into his bed as a young man made for a varying sort of enemies as well. Now that he is married, his old habits died. A beautiful wife and a his children is all he could ask for. To this day, he recalls seeing out your love pursuing you after promising his affairs with Margrethe met their end. Varying poems of praise meant that at long last, he earned you as his bride.
Freshly back from Hedeby with his hacksilver pendant beating against his chest, he came around the corner to his home within one of the main streets of Kattegat. He neglects the pig pen– eerily silent of the usually rutting animals bathing in their own mud and grime. He turns into the house– seemingly quiet one the outside. Popping open the door, there is no fat fluffy cat to rub against his ankles or bite them, depending on that bastard Kol's mood at any given time.
The second he turns inside, he knows something is terribly wrong. There are short snapping cries, huffs of breath forcing into the stale air of his house through the sole smoke hole allowing air to escape. A few tiny cut outs allow fresh air and light to stream in. It was strangely dark at the dusk of an evening. Every bit of fifa wick is snuffed out. Something is wrong. He knows something is because his cheery, upbeat wife would have been dragging him in claiming that how 'pretty' it was for him to come home late.
"Móð-hir!" The choked cry from his son not at all like his usual sound. There's a great snapping noise that filters out of the small, deep green curtains separating his rooms from that of son's dwelling space. Any candles are centered in that room, a warm orange heat spilling out into the snuffed out, chalky firepit.
"Shut the fuck up and watch, brat!"
Hvitserk snatches free his sword from its dark sheath and quickly his boots thump the floor. He shoves past the curtains and finally comes upon the scene that haunts any nightmares that he could have had. On his! His marital bed, there are two men sullying the fine English silken sheets he brought back one raid to christen just so cockily. It isn't him christening it. These strange men are. One below and one above share his sole love hole, pumping themselves inside between your stifled cries, fingers cringing and curling.
But of it all, his green eyes center upon his shamed twins of mature age. Both averting their eyes from their shame. They deny lifting their heads even against the strain along their braids– maintaining their mother's honor or trying to. The brawny man forcing one of his grown boys in place turn their fists upon their bruised and battered features.
"Please!" You choke out with a sob. "Leave my boys!"
He doesn't recall what his thoughts were. There certainly was nothing on his mind when he took the decision to lurch forward with his fist tight around his grip, thrusting himself toward the line of three men holding his sons down in front of his marital bed. The grip on his blade is both tight and flexible, cutting down the first of men in a frenzy, kind green eyes empty and mechanical.
"How the fuck did he get in?!"
His firstborn would later make himself proud. He seizes opportunity with the loosening of the blade against his throat, colliding his fist into the man's gut to fall away momentarily. He scrambles– Hati along with him toward the weapons mounted on the walls. Their father pays them no mind, slashing his sword in the entrails of men caught off guard. He snaps up jaunty on his steps, winding and twisting around. The blood sprays out into the air in streaks, staining your once beautiful room of blood.
The intruders quickly become outnumbered in Hvitserk's sheer hate for the situation– slaughtering like any Ragnarsson would have. Then a sharp wail pierces through the room. Not from his sons, the focus of Hvitserk's bloodied rage, whom join in on the blood letting. Your cry. The man underneath you with one empty socket staring at the chaos Hvitserk lets out through the room guides his knife against the junction of your leg to torso. Hvitserk snaps around, braids sticky down his back with the blood.
"Móðir!" Hati hisses out. You suck in a great bit of breath, chalking out a sob on display.
"Take another step." The man above you says. His prick burns your stretched hole, somehow yet still hard. Hvitserk dares him, taking a step forward with his pale features hard.
"Father don't, Hauss will do it." Sven orders. Hvitserk isn't all there, not at all. He stands like a ravenous wolf seeking out something to devour. The target of course is his wife's assailants.
"I'll kill her!" He threatens. "Or you can stand there, wait for us to sink our seed into the wife you stole from my fingers and be the bitch you look like when I carry her off."
Your soft, hissing cries crest as Hvitserk's nose scrunches with force. Just as the men underneath you begin to shift just again, a swish cuts through the air. Your youngest son Sven slices his axe through the air, cracking into the skull of the man threatening you. He falls away– leaving only his quivering son underneath you. He thrusts you to the side, pleading.
"It was my father's idea!"
Yet it isn't Hvitserk who acts first, but your hands that snatch the axe above your head. With your precious sons free, your joyful fingers crack the axe down upon the young man who so joyfully stuffed himself into your wedded body. Blood soaks your silken sheets– spraying over Hvitserk who was so close that splatters coat him and his sons.
Then finally there is a hush.
You lay in the tattered remains of a beautiful brown dress, the amber of your hair falling this way and that in such an assault. You could have had a hardened response but instead, your lips part for a long, wailing sob. Your sons grow rigid– falling into the task of dragging bodies into a pile.
Bloodied, Hvitserk drags the two bodies off of his bed as he climbs upon it, snatching you up into his arms from the bloodied mess that is his bedroom. In the dark of the room, Hati finds a way to light his lamps and rekindle the flame that was, in tradition, your job. Light reveals what the darkness obscured.
Your fingers cringe upon his chest while he carries you away from that place past the bodies of his fallen thralls. He takes the bed meant for his sons, pulling away small tatters while you hide your nakedness from him, turning under the sheets. His shaking hand comes upon your shoulder, trying to explain that he– he took back your honor. All for you, it was always for you. The words are dry on his tongue as if a heavy bolus of your shame falls over his tongue and down his throat.
"They took my honor in front of my sons." Your voice shakes– then cracks, and finally, every woman he's ever done the same to flashes through his memory.
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