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Gif-- Sigyncreation.
There is one more thing.
Thor is beating his hammer tonight. Gusting winds thrust into the sail his men rushed to take down. The waters were overchurning with a briny foam; waves tossing into the thick wooden boat. He sat with his hand on the sturdy mast reflecting upon the time father once tied him to one of these just one months before.
There is a girl. Your age, maybe a little older like Ubbe.
He hadn't often kept charms but this one was given to him specifically by his father. This was a charm of their own people. A sole hammer threaded through a metal chain. It was etched with squiggles around the symbol of Mjolnir. It was hers.
My last wife. She's pregnant... with your sibling.
Are you an idiot?
Listen to me.
The boat made it to shore. He docked it outside of town where he was told that she should be. It was pleasantly warm here. The storms gave. The tall grass is crisp under his gloves as he pulls himself out of the reeds and onto the trail leading away from town as he had been told the way by father. This is the place his father had ran to after Paris. A place of farms, a place to sit and think between his travels. Apparently also a mighty great place to get his dick wet with young, pretty girls.
The day's sun begins to set on the horizon when he found it. A meager little farm that shone under the summer sun. He braces himself with a sigh as he pushes forward through the large wooden gates flying an allegiance of red and black, his arms drag his lower half through the rough granules of mud.
Bring her back to Kattegat.
Bark! Bark! Bark! Ivar stops when he hears the noise from inside. He looks up to the home sitting slightly elevated from the rest of the farm.
"Hush, Tru!"
She sounds very young. Not because her voice was necessarily meek and mild, but she held a sweetness at the end of it all. He couldn't explain it if asked. The doorway fills with the presence of a young woman, axe in one hand and her stomach– clearly distended underneath her nightdress.
"Name yourself!" She calls with her other hand tight on her mutt. A fluffy thing, low to the ground with his large paws like that of jotunns. Ivar looks around for sign of his father's touch. He finds it in the image of ravens perching, crowing. Protecting. Breath escapes him for a few moments before he answers.
"Ivar the Boneless, a Ragnarsson."
Unconvinced she hisses, "There are many men that claim to be a Ragnarsson. Why should I believe you?" She looks out to his place crawling in thick mud. So much for hospitality, he thinks.
She won't believe you at first. You'll have to make her.
He sits up, swinging his bound legs in front of him. "I am his crippled son."
"Anyone can pretend to be a cripple."
She looks one way, then another. Did she believe that there were others? There were... but they had filtered out into the town with the threat of the gods instilled in their hearts. Ivar hunches over, unlacing his gloves. He offers her his wrist, pulling off a thick bronze armband.
"This is my father's armband."
She releases Tru first– and of instinct, Ivar's hand flew to his axe. The pup waits for her to approach instead, even allowing her to use him as a stool to lower herself down. She takes the jewelry from him and examines the very band in her fingers. Then like a crumbling rock formation under the waves, her hardened features drop.
"Oh, my sweet Ragnar. He's taken you to Valhalla." She cries out, drawing her fingers across the braided jewelry up to the raven's mouth. It is sweet Ragnar's, he can see her mind churning with every stroke against the piece. In the solemnest display of tears he's seen, she seems to grieve. They stream over her cheeks and dribble onto her belly.
"Where did you get this?" She asks past heavy tears.
Let her see my armband.
"Father gave it to me. Before Ecbert sent him away."
She finally believes him. The tears sliding down her cheeks were real, wet and without qualm of him seeing them. She kneels before him in the mud with his father's armring all too real in her fingers. He wondered– what all would she be thinking? Several seconds pass and she finally turns her face away.
"Please... come in." She replaces the armband back on his wrist, setting back for the inside of the home. He follows after and its like being in another world entirely. The inside of the home is decorated with items of hunt, antlers and fresh flowers everywhere. There are clothes hanging, tunics that belonged to his father and furs that he must have worn once. She locks the door behind him. Tru stalks around him, inevitably collapsing in a pile of fluffy furs while leering at Ivar.
"Lets get you out of those clothes." She says, beginning to loosen his armour when Ivar's hand snaps to her wrist.
"You expect me to go cold?" Ivar hisses.
"You expect to stay in sopping clothes?" She snaps back. "You can wear something of your fathers."
She's feisty too. Ivar grunts and allows her to continue, unlacing the bindings on his legs while he rids himself of his tunic. With his clothes discarded, Ivar looks as she hardly takes him in. He turns as she moves away, looking for his fathers clothes. She picks a deep olive tunic, setting it in his lap.
"It's (Y/N)." You say to him.
"What?" Ivar asks.
She slides her hands over onto her hips. "My name, Ivar."
He nods, finding his stomach rumbling more than the interest in such a name. She's back into the space of her kitchen preparing who knows what. He looks over to her as she takes up a plate and come back around the corner. She kneels before him, setting the food on the lap of his slacks.
"Why are you here?" She says, running her hand over her stomach. His eyes fall to the bump. The last Ragnarssson– or Ragnarsdottir to be known to be legitimate. His brothers would have liked to know.
"I've come to take you to be with us."
Her eyes turn away from him. Her once peaceful life is about to be uprooted. Her head bobs a nod. "I see I have no choice..." She trails on with such a thought. Then, seeing Ivar's eyes are so deeply focused on her stomach, she smiles.
"Would you like to touch?" She suggests, leaning over to take his destructive hands away from his food and against her stomach. Just so slightly, he can feel the child moving under his palms. It's a strange feeling– a proud one. And he wasn't even the father!
Father...
"Is it a boy?" Ivar says gruffly. All Ragnar's children had been boys but one girl. Her fingers massage the swell, a small delightful smile at her lips. They crawl forward, cupping the hand on top of her stomach.
"It was foretold Ragnar would have many sons." She smiles. "But I always hoped for a little girl."
Ivar stares at the hand, daring on top of his, rushing for words. The right ones that wouldn't have her throwing his hand off of his brother or sister. "And father?" He asks.
"His mind was very tired. He never said."
Ivar's hand slides away. A small, pensive moment passes before Ivar slips his lips apart. A scoff, a laugh or a smile– his hand slips off of her stomach. Ivar speaks in a smooth voice. "It will be a girl."
"You think so?" She keens fondly, breaking his bread and setting it in his glove clad hand. Ivar brings it to his mouth, ripping off a piece. His eyes fall back to the hammer of Thor, your pendant. He can so clearly hear the words pulsing through his brain.
