❛ summary | ivar arrives in the home of a strange girl after having fallen from grace.
❛ warnings | fallen ivar
❛ sy's request | I also want to request a softie for ivars 5cw: very sweet girl always makes him things and helps build/fix maybe like his chariot or braces even tho she doesnt know much about the stuff, and is always kinda of like "are you happy" and hes a little standoffish about her but comes around and proudly wears or displays whatever she makes :) (hsa)
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After losing his world: his wife, his son, his home, his people! he found himself here. It's a safe place in the farmer's home where the man allows him to stay out of respect for his father, but all the same strange. The homes are long and big. Most do not have a proper bed, save the man and woman of the house, so you sleep on a bench.
In the mornings you care for the house. With your mother dead, it was your duty to care for all the interworkings within it. But you would be lying if you said that you did not stop to admire the young, fallen king who took up your father's own bed.
"I– I hope you like it. It's not much but I– I noticed your old armour. It was in need of updating."
You set out the armour over your bed. Ivar finds it strange that a farmer's daughter would make such things. For, without a standing army, what was the point? You held the hem of your blue, waterfall dress, anxiously shifting it between thumb and index finger as Ivar looked over your work. Your father tends to his own work outside.
"Outdated?" he asks, looking over his shoulder. "My mother commissioned that piece."
Oh, that was not a good place to start.
"That was... that was not my intent. I only..."
When he says nothing, you fear the worst. Such an insult to his mother was unacceptable. You lean forward to pick it up when he stops you, shrugging off the warm fur over his shoulders. It was a brutal winter day.
"I will try it."
The days pass similarly. You make something for Ivar in your free time, something that he would have to appreciate, and Ivar makes that junked up scowl. Inevitably, one day he would leave. You were within certainty that he would not take a crafter with him.
It became time to move.
Winter passed. With its passing, Ivar knew that he could not stay too long in one place. When it inevitably became time to move, he decided he would leave in the night. You would be fast asleep. The days would continue to roll by not unlike the regular current of life. As a farmer's daughter, every day would progress the same.
Or so he thought when he came outside that night, lit by the flames of torch. His men arrange their things as Ivar limps toward the chariot. He stops at the sight of a blue rump, rutting around the floor of his chariot.
"What are you doing in there?" he asks. "I thought you were in bed."
"Bread," you gesture. "For your journey."
Bread, he looks to the small chest that you arranged there. Something as simple as bread should have been the least of your worries. You stand up, picking up the edges of your skirts when he offers his hand toward you.
"The armour. It looks good on you," you take his hand, carefully stepping off into the firm ground. Perhaps it did, but Ivar was not about to address that with other things on his mind. The edges of a wound cause your skin to pucker. Ivar takes your hand and turns it over when you step off toward him.
"You cut yourself,"
You pull your hand free, wiping it down over your skirt. "Just a little. I may not have known how to do all of this."
All of this being whatever repairs that you had done to his chariot. Ivar steps onto it, sitting at his seat. It no longer has the slight wobble that it once had from so much wear and tear. You pick up your skirts and begin to walk toward your home.
"Where are you going?" Ivar asks.
"Um, inside."
You say pointing in the direction of your home. The wayward warrior jerks his head in the direction of his chariot and seizes the reins.
"Come with me."
You glance back to him. "Go with you?"
He fists the reins, dropping his hands into his lap as he waits for you to choose one way or another. "That is what I said,"
"But why?"
"You wanted to ride with me. Now is your chance to come."
There was a chance to come— then there was this, much more permanent. When you look back to your house, your father stands there. The lines of his face exceed his actual age. His toned arms spread one over another in what could have been disappointment, but the small smile he wears reflects his peace with the moment. He doesn't speak when you pick up your skirts, stepping onto the chariot behind Ivar. Your hands run over his shoulders.
"Hold on," Ivar says— and takes off only seconds later. You clutch his shoulders, yet still laughing when his horse starts down the smooth path away from your meager farm, knowing you would likely not return.
"Where are we going!?" You laugh over the roar of his wheels. You understand now why he uses the chariot. The wind thwaps through your long hair, and yes, you feel free.
"To Birka," Ivar answers. "And eventually, back to Kattegat."
