Ivar the Boneless Imagines

Lost Opportunities

Years ago, he had a wife.

Long before his fall from grace, clambering back up to the top on the tips of his dirt crusted fingers until yet again he became king. This time Ubbe was banished to the farthest recesses of his flourishing kingdom, working a generous amount of land with Torvi and the children.

It seemed so long ago.

"What have you to tell me?" Ivar sat on his throne, his long hair in rows of braids down the middle of his head. They group together at his nape just as you said was most flattering. The messenger stood with his hand to his warm furs, looking behind him as the strangers quickly vacated the Great Hall's musky inner walls.

"The former queen has moved to Hedeby." The stranger says behind stringy pieces of caramel hair.

"I could have guessed that from the deed of land I gave her in her Morgengifu." Ivar senses he's holding something back. The messenger has a strange sway in his hips when usually, he is still as stone. He reminds him of nervous Christian women.

"Her thralls and she live off the land." He agrees.

"So she is happy being ordinary." He sneers, dropping his hand away from his chin. He grasps the head of his armchair. He always likened her as being more like Ubbe's woman than his own. He wanted a shameless woman. One... like her. The woman he once had for only a few months time. Perhaps a year.

"Well... yes, my king. She was not alone." The messenger states. "She has remarried."

His slight eyebrows furrow, a blankness snatching his eyes. He doesn't recall the moment his fist beat upon his armchair. Only that his bones have begun to protest the motion, almost snapping his bones in forceful pounds.

"Who is he?" He roars, hands coming to a stop. The messenger has begun to step back as if seeking out the safety of dark recesses from the son of Odin.

"A farmer, King Ivar."

A farmer. You left this– him, son of Odin. A very god in his own right for... a farmer. It must have shown on his face because as he throws a glance over to his empty throne, a lone golden headpiece sitting where once Freydis sat. Once upon a time, you sat there too.

"She seemed very happy." The messenger takes his chances speaking to attempt to soothe over the war ravaged king. Ivar holds his hand up, peering out of the corner of his tinged sclera. The messenger seals his lips while Ivar glares toward the fur covered stairs.

She's feeding you lies. You are no god!

Who are you to say?

I'm your wife! She's your– your whore!

Ah, but for how long? You make it so I desire to divorce you even.

He never imagined you would run off, nor, that you would be so horrendously right. Then again– he never professed to be a good, sweet man despite freeing Freydis and sparing Margrethe. It was always at a cost. Sigurd's life for Margrethe's, his wife for Freydis. His teeth knit. He could send Earl Gormr to raid, take this man and ensure a sacrifice for the death of this pathetic farmer boy.

Or...

He waves his hand. "That's enough. Leave me."

He could try. For you– but something told him that in the end, this farmer would be dead by winter's end. Yet here he was trying to fight his own instinct. His resolve would fail. Bit by bit until he was maddened beyond compare. It eats him.

Who exactly was this farmer? How was he better?