Perhaps your return was ever fated by the way people looked at you. The men would approach you thinking you were easy, the women would whisper in their husband's ear and your father had been shamed. He could not do as many man would; go claim retribution. If he demanded it of the Ragnarsson, he would be sorely remorseful. With no other option, father sold his land and moved. You knew you ruined it all.
All because of him.
So you trained, you fought and made by yourself a household name. You helped Harald conquer kings, freed princesses of their binds and raided like a queen. Years had passed since you were that stupid young girl, dreaming of her dalliances with one of Kattegat's cutest princes. It was so long ago. You pushed the thought of your mind thrusting over the doors of Kattegat's Great Hall. You felt the heat of stares from within and the lamps that were warm with flame on your skin.
The warriors filtering forward were thrust one way, then another; you came in a hot rush, knuckles born with strain. The Ragnarsson on the throne lifts his head as you stop with your hand to the sword on your belt.
"(Y/N). It's been a while." King Ivar says.
"Nevermind that. I've come to make a formal challenge." You hiss– hushed whispers claim the room while you fling your shield to the floor, scratching and crashing. The warriors step aside. Your long hair is pulled back as if for battle, braided tightly back into the clips that hold it in an elaborate ponytail.
"Well, if that's what you want." Ivar pushes himself off his throne, ready to receive you in battle.
"Not you." You hiss. "Hvitserk."
The whispers die a cold death on the lips of the bystanders. They all know why you are here to kill Hvitserk. He had shamed you in the eyes of the gods. No man, especially not your late father, had been able to restore your honour.
You were here to take it back.
"Come out and face me Hvitserk!" You find the man himself was crouched low beside Ivar. He pushes up on the balls of his feet, palming a peach in his hand. Fruit for dinner. Of course, he would have sweet things for dinner. You were surprised that he hadn't had a thrall thrust over the table instead.
"Are you sure you don't want to forget this?" Hvitserk murmurs.
You can't let it go. A Viking never let go of revenge. Should you be different because you were a shieldmaiden? You were a berserker. You could fly off the handle just as well as any other Viking.
"You dishonoured me. You dishonoured my father." You stagger forward with a hateful sneer beating on your lips. "Why should I forget this?"
There's obvious strain on your forehead where you tighten your brow.
"...because you enjoyed it?" He suggests– and like wildfire you set off. You steal the war pick from your belt, chucking it in Hvitserk's direction so quick all he can do is drop to the floor with a grunt. It embeds in the drapery behind him. His braids bob on his shoulders while he rolls off of the stairs. He scrambles for a blade as you crash towards him with your sword. Ivar quickly supplies it to him.
"Shut up!" You snarl, blades hissing together in a beating strike. Hvitserk shoves back, hopping off to the side.
"If you would just let me explain." Hvitserk murmurs.
Fruitless words. You come at him again near the bulky looms. Hvitserk slips behind it, arching his back to the side when your sword beats through the strands. He dips down in a roll, running away from the womanly items.
"There's nothing to explain!" You jerk your arm pack from a piercing stab into the floorboards. A sharp miss– your blade sticks. Hvitserk abandons his, tackling you down beside a group of rich karls. Your hand snaps to the axe on your belt. An action he quickly notices, slamming his forehead into yours with a sharp crack. You're momentarily seeing stars, and quickly, you shake it off. There's a whizzing. Your axe hisses across the wooden floor. Hvitserk's hands snap to pin your wrists above your head.
"It is not my fault you ran away." Hvitserk supplies. Your long legs wind about his waist, strong muscle like the roots of Yggdrasil. He feels you throw him over, pinning his arms back in exchange.
"I did not run away!" You snap, snapping up the pick on your belt. It presses against his pale skin, eliciting beads of blood. "You were the village whore, not me! And yet I am to blame for being only yours?!"
In all of that– a small, cheesy smile spreads across his lips. It had been years. Five, ten? You aren't sure. Enough to become a woman and face this man underneath you who– who... was smiling. The smile sends your mind whirling toward memories. The chatter of the karls around filter away... and you check out completely.
Wonderful memories of Hvitserk surprising you in the forest, dragging you into the flowers to steal your virginity from your father's nose. Smooth, strokes of his hips and the softest of kisses over your neck like silk. They all careen forward to smack you in the middle of your head.
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You have him. Slit his throat.
"Well?" Says King Ivar in a charmed tone.
Slit his throat! Do it for father! The blade is shaking in your hand under the weight of your thoughts. If you would just grow some lady balls and slide your knife into his throat, everything would be better. Your cheeks are hot like the rest of your body, rising and falling with the difficulty of this short lived fight. Then your blade slashes. Not into Hvitserk, but against the deep wood beside him.
He made you weak.
"What I wouldn't have gave to be able to slice your throat open." You lean down against Hvitserk's ear. Your body flushes against his– and the heat of the moment has his dick rising in excitement. He knows you couldn't kill him. "I would flay you like a fish if I could." Your hands leave his.
As you lurch to get off of him, Hvitserk thrusts up to grasp your hand. And instinctively, your fist crashes into his forehead. You lay his ass flat on the planks as you rise up. A snarl replaces any fondness on your lips. Fondness of threats or fondness of killing you aren't sure.
You only know that you couldn't do it.
"Huh." Ivar's head bobs in pure, blatant amusement as you collect your weapons. "Stay for the feast."
The way he speaks– you know its an order. You sheathe your father's sword in a black sheath, wiping the blood away from your skin onto the red of your overtunic and black armor. A king asking you to dinner was a kind gesture to some. But to a shieldmaiden? Something else.
