Ivar the Boneless Imagines

Play the Fool I

For every king, there was a queen.

The only difference was in this case– Ivar Ragnarsson didn't know it yet.

"I want the king." You move a piece across the board. "But if I take him, like Lagertha planned to take Ragnar, how can I be so sure he won't kill me instead?" You flipped the tablet around then plucked up the black piece in your palm. It's jagged edges form a raven in your palm. A beautiful, black raven. The symbol of Ragnar.

Except Ragnar was far past laying in the cold, unfeeling ground of Midgard. He was bound to fight in Ragnarok by Odin's side. Now Ivar was the enemy. Or to you, the prize.

"What would Loki be without his dangerous wiles?" A decrepit voice asked. Her voice was as weathered as the skin that seemed to dip down her very gangrene face. You swirled the tablet over then took a piece as snowy white as your long hair.

"He would be Baldur." You said. "A beautiful fool."

"Be sure that the young king does not make you one." The seeress shifts, wheezing in and then out. "For (Y/N) the shieldmaiden, it should not be such a feat."

She begins to rattle a string of bone– slow clacks burn into harsh ones. The sear you felt now, under your feet, standing line in line with other women. A blonde to the left of you had legs like limp rags and eyes so blown wide you thought she were a cat. The slave driver amuses the company of several rich farmers. Perhaps a merchant or two as well. Some hostile eyes, some with complaints, they were all alike. Looking for a hand to grow crop and another to jerk them off at the end of the night.

"Move aside, move aside!" The slave owner booms. "The King is here!"

You angle your face to the dirt between your muggy brown flats. Out of the corner of your trifling eye, you dare look to the latches of a man's trousers, locks steadying his legs to stand. He's so much taller when he stands with his crutch under his arm. So much handsomer than his upright brothers with the swirl of something darker within his eyes.

"Do you bathe them?" He says. Ivar takes a few mincing steps forward, inspecting a woman's black hair, crunchy under his fingers. He throws a insipid frown back at the slave driver.

"Well King Ivar," The slave trader exchanges a knowing smile with the king. "Much of these women will be farmhands."

Ivar turns on his crutch down the line. "A handy word for a bed slave."

"If you want a bed slave, my king." The man keeps up with his steps. "I have a few that might suit your fancy."

"Do they smell– or look– any better?" Ivar spares him a bored look, losing interest by the second. The man sweeps his hand in a motion past dingy slaves to those which were deemed somewhat better. For better or for worse.

"Well at least they don't smell." Ivar glazes over the many gathered. Some outwardly cringing away. You're sure its an allure in its own right. To put a thrall into its place, use it and sell it when it no longer became amusing. You've heard as much.

"Who is this one?"

Ivar inclines his head toward a few thralls to the right of you. A buttery blonde– shaking like a leaf. As he reaches out to touch her, a small gasp filters out of her lips. More of a shudder against his war calloused fingers. His fingers curl inward; as does the small quirk of your lips. Without knowing it, you too have made your own noise.

One of amusement.

"What was that?" Ivar storms down past heads alike, eyes scanning past horrified features of beautiful girls until he settles upon you. You smooth over the diaphanous material of your sandy skirt, forcing the the thralls on either side of you to shift in response. "You think yourself funny?"

"Oh no, my king." You turn your eyes up from your skirt in one fluid motion, squeezing your eyes sassily before opening. Pursed lips humming: "Of course not."

Ivar met your gaze with his own, chest raising and dropping with apparent rage at your amusement. You're raptured with a heated exchange. Your poor slave driver, standing by the king's side rushes to fill your empty space with apologies.

"For! Forgive her muh-mouth my king– she's, she's a new thing, I promise she is." He stutters, tossing you a heated glare as he forms his words in an attempt to appear contrite. Ivar brings his other hand to his crutch, leaning upon it.

"No, no by all means. She thinks herself so beautiful that she might laugh in front of me." Ivar says by your coy simper. "What is your name, thrall?"

Your eyes betray the next word out of your lips. "Kyi."

You knew many women known as Kyi. The king had yet to recognize you for who you were. If the King hadn't, you imagined not many others would either. The slave driver's mouth flattens in disrepair. "Let me... let me get you another my king."

He certainly could have had a choice of many. Like a dog after a bone, Ivar jerks his arm from the slave driver enticing his attention in another direction. Back to the girl he once was so interested in.

"Shut up. She plays me for a fool." Ivar grunts. Then reiterates with creasing across his forehead. "What is your name?"

"Kyi, my king."

Yet again, the slave driver grits his teeth into a straight line. Teeth crushing against one another. Ivar makes a vague noise at the back of his throat. Part irritation, part amusement for a bright new challenge.

"What is her price?" Ivar turns to him, eyes sharp.

"The usual, my king."

So it was paid. Your wrists were bound behind a heavy bit of rope, dragging behind the king. It would have been lucky if he had not brought your to be publicly beaten, strewn and thrown to the wolves. But you knew the king far better than that. Ivar passes the pins filled with squealing piglets out toward the Great Hall– where he once resided with his mother. Now, that very same hall was cold of her warm touch.

"Hurry up, whore." He snaps.

You were just one step closer to making the king yours. And as you could saw it– he didn't even know what was happening.