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Raiding was akin to a wild night out for Ivar. Though he has no interest in the bodies of foreign women, Christian ones were strewn. A cargo of gold and tradable goods left Ivar feeling accomplished. Now sailing home, he drapes over the side of the boat fiddling a coin of gold. Not unlike the one that he asked his father for with the face of King Ecbert.
"Are you ready to see your wife?" Whitehair collapses beside him. Ivar glances off to his guard, then back to the coin of gold. As he flips it, he sees the side dedicated to Ecbert's lineage. Not Aethelwulf, but his grandson Prince Alfred. A beautiful legacy.
"I would be," he whispers. "If my seed could take."
Whitehair shifts his large body over the rim, looking to the coin that his king holds. He examines the grandson before clearing his throat so slightly. Ivar looks up to Whitehair when he beckons Ivar to give him the coin. He concedes to the will of his guard. Whitehair teases his calloused thumb over the ridge. Then he flips it.
"Last night, I dreamt of a swan."
"A swan?" Ivar questions.
"Yes, a swan much like your swan. A raven swooped by her bath and dropped an apple in front of her. The swan ate of it."
"What happened with the swan?" Ivar leans over to news of the tale that often reminded him of his mother. It's almost comforting. Whitehair flicks his thumb, the coin swishing through the air in several twirls to plip into the water. The coin flicks out of sight to the depths of Ran's abode.
"She became heavy with child."
Ivar drops down from the edge. The horn sounds off in the distance toward Ivar's returning fleet of men. He exhales a forceful breath. He would look up over the edge, his head inches from the wood like he usually did, look upon your beauty and... and... question why you were not with a better man.
So he looks up, finding you standing upon the pier as you always were. Close enough that he could make out the screams of jubilation and eager families, pressing against the piers. They leave you be. The glint of your gilded crown catches his eye, accenting your hair that tumbles upon the ground despite your effort in braiding it. He exhales again, tracing your pure white gown down to your flowing sleeves with braided gold, holding– what... looks like a bundle within your arms.
"What is she holding?" Ivar asks Whitehair. Whitehair stands, holding the neck of the boat as he looks out to you. In a playful gesture, you pull away the warm sheets that encircle whatever it is you're holding. Soft, pale cheeks and a chubby hand greet his eye. You tickle your fingers at the boat.
"It looks like a baby."
Ivar leans forward, so far that Whitehair grasps the back of his tunic to pull him back. A million thoughts rush to his head– whose baby is that, why are you holding it, why are you smiling so much?
"Row!" Ivar orders, bellowing toward the men whose arms are worn from one long day's work. Obediently they row to the chant of their king, letting the water bring them the rest of the way until they dock. The noises upon the pier are loud and rowdy, topped off by the giggles of good gossip. His men lay out a panneling to connect the boat to the pier before they dip down, grasping underneath his firm biceps and hauling him onto the pier.
All too suddenly the pier falls silent. Ivar ignores Whitehair's offer for a crutch and staggers closer. You move to meet him part of the way.
"What is that?" He accuses. "What do you have in your arms?"
"An heir," you state.
Your husband exhales as he takes a few aidless steps toward you, huffing and grunting. His feet fail him but you reach out to support him by his arm. Whitehair tips him forward behind you.
"My son?" He asks as if that is something that he too can't believe. He's been tricked in the past. You lean into him, moving the warm and cozy sheets so that he might take a look at the little one in his arms.
"When were you with child?" He counts the cycles of days since he had last been on Kattegat. Was it possible that you fell with child while he was on his land? It is. Highly unlikely after all this time but–
"Ivar... I prayed to the gods to hear my cries. She set me with child by before you left. A raven confirmed it."
"A raven."
Father? Mother? Perhaps.
"Yes, a raven."
He looks down to your arms, careful to look into your eyes while taking his child. He fiddles with the young one's cloth, expecting a deformity. The child's eyes pop open, spiraling with the likeness of a snake.
No, it was him. Sigurd.
"Ivar?" You ask your husband, leaning into him. His eyes dart to your lips when you speak again, lingering upon them. You lean forward to take your child back when he whines, rocking him. The sight that Ivar thought he would never see. "Are you okay?"
He retakes his crutch from Whitehair, leaning in to catch your lips. You kiss him back in a smooth meeting of your lips. It's a soft, genuine motion that ends when Ivar takes your other hand, lacing your fingers and offering it up to the sky. If Ivar were ever a man to say thank you, even at the cost of thanking him, it would be now.
"My wife has given me a son!" He booms to the gathered townspeople, each tense. He leans back to kiss your cheek, leaving a prideful glow on your radiant cheeks. "Tonight we feast!"
