Like Me

The Divorce

You hadn't meant to sleep in Ivar's bed. You meant to slink out of Ivar's bed after he took you, past the statue-silent guards, and go back to your home with Whitehair. In his words, you were staying in his bed that night or he'd tie you to it.

Ivar, you run your hands over fur when you awaken. At the foot of the bed, you find Ivar rectifying the last of his locks of armour, pushing himself up onto his crutch. It's strange and distant to see Ivar's youthful face at the foot of his bed. Usually, it would be Whitehair's face. He often slept with you, full in dress, in case someone came to raid your home.

"She awakes. I began to think I hurt you," Ivar says, stabbing the planks underneath his leather boots. You shift onto your elbows, catching the fur that drops down your naked breasts. He looks you over, a fervor raising in his voice when he came beside you.

"You couldn't hurt me."

Ivar's eyes find yours. He weighs something that you couldn't begin to question, but flutter your eyelashes at him for emphasis. Ivar sits beside you and allows his hand to bury in your buttery locks of hair, dropping down to cup your cheek within his palm.

Don't be so sure.

"If you're so sure. Then I believe I offered you marriage," Ivar says, looking around the room. He locates a basket, lined by a drab wool blanket. He pulls a square from the top and tucks a fluffy animal under his arm. You lean to see what it could be. Ivar drops a fluffy cat upon your lap, nothing more than a young kitten.

"Kisa!" You shout in delight, taking the kitten in your arms despite heavy mewls from the snowy thing.

"A wedding gift." Ivar's lips crack a small smile at your delight. It soothes him over. "We can divorce you today and marry by Freyja's day."

You look up to him, uncomprehending of his words when the fluffy cat was dancing on your lap rather than leaping off.

"What of Sigrunn?" You ask.

"You will still live with Whitehair," Ivar informs you, his lips flat. "This is Freydis's bed."

You look up to Ivar, suddenly aware of everything all over again. Your stomach curls with the anxiety frothing in your chest. It's not– not that you don't want her here. She is the rightful wife, after all. Your jealousy does not occur to you until Ivar causes you to look at him.

"It will be for protection," Ivar assures, leaning forward as to place a kiss upon your forehead, flowering out with his admiration. "I will see you and warm your bed every other day."

It's not jealousy. You convince yourself of that and remind mindful of your new life when the leather curtains shift. Freydis stands beside the aged curtains, her hands on top of one another as she awaits him.

"Heal, Whitehair will gather you. Freydis and I can handle the mechanics of your divorce for tomorrow." Ivar says, giving you a patient smile. You nod, eyes canting over to Freydis who affords you a small smile. Not a good smile, you note. There is a sweet rot under her smile– and when Ivar rises to her side, it's almost as if it was never there in the first place. You drop your head back upon the pillows as the two make their way out.

It was just an illusion. It would be better tomorrow.

In a span of moments that morning, everything changed.

"You want us to divorce?"

To Whitehair, sitting and awaiting Freydis to return from the preparation of breakfast– this makes very little sense to him. Rorik sits along with him, clustered around the hearth of the home he built for his so-called bride. Everyone knew that it was a farce. From those closest to Ivar to those who had nothing better but to concern themselves with the wedding of a king.