Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ivar sat with his arms stretched behind him, fingers digging into the pungent moss. His carriage was nowhere in sight, nor was his horse.

With the glare of the sun right in his eyes, Ivar could see precious little of the uneven valley stretching before him. But he trusted his companion to secure their meal for tonight and, true to his word, the latter did not disappoint. Only a handful of minutes later Ivar caught the sounds of labored breaths and heavy footsteps, and then the carcass of the boar he'd spotted earlier was dropped on the ground, right next to him.

Out of habit, and a bit of curiosity now with the monster so close, Ivar transferred the weight of his upper body from one hand to the other and leaned sideways to inspect the dead animal. Its tricolored fur was matted with blood and wet earth where the other man's spear had lodged itself deep into its flank; the black, brown and grey mixed with a deep red stain. It looked softer than Ivar had imagined, and he tentatively reached out to stroke the fur. Maybe it could be used as a blanket to fend off the cold in winter.

Once his curiosity sated, Ivar looked up, squinting against the sunlight.

"Good catch."

The other man straddled Ivar for sole reply and wrapped his arms around his neck, and Ivar made a show of pretending to be surprised by the bold display of intimacy—right until he couldn't anymore, and had to let out the laughter he'd been holding in.

"Ivar," the man said, no traces of the once timid young man left in the affectionate voice.

"Osmund," Ivar mimicked his lover, tone overtly teasing, but not unkind.

Chapter Text

The people of Wessex—Ivar had started to notice—didn't talk much. 

Even their 'games' were spent in stifling silence, the players sitting opposite each other with a wooden board in between, and tiny pieces they could move in what he'd quickly recognized to be the simulation of a battlefield. 

What a sad people, Ivar thought as he scratched his chin with one of the rough patches of his leather glove.

When he looked down to the board again—'chess', the young boy had said before pointing to the game—Ivar still wasn't sure which of the remaining black pieces of wood was best to move. Chess might have been a less than exciting game better fit to occupy his mother and the old folks that barely had any strength to hunt or protect the village, but that didn't mean it was an easy game. Ivar understood that there were rules that either allowed or forbade the advance of your pieces, but once he'd stopped mimicking Alfred's own moves on the board, he knew not where to go next.

There was a significantly higher amount of white pieces on the board. And many of Ivar's black ones had been pushed to the side, at the boy's elbow, his prize to claim.

Reaching with the same hand, Ivar let his fingers dance uncertainly above a piece, stalling the inevitable. But sudden movement behind Alfred's stoic figure caught Ivar's attention, and 'chess' was momentarily forgotten.

It was the tall figure draped from head to toe in a thick, woolen cloak, the likes Ivar had glimpsed a few other men wearing around the castle, and in the courtyard. They all appeared unarmed, but with their hoods dissimulating their faces, Ivar couldn't help the shiver of dread that ran down his spine. His father had spoken about those men during their journey, had told Ivar about the Christians and their beliefs, and how some men in this country didn't fight, but spent their lives devoted to their lonely god.

The priests are smart, my son. More than you can imagine! Even if they don't believe in our gods! But do not concern yourself with them. You have nothing to fear from a toothless beast. 

Ivar had ignored the presence of the priest since the man's entrance, quite some time ago when the sun had still been high in the sky, on the other side of the windows.

With a quick glance at Ivar, then at both guards posted somewhere behind their prisoner at any given time, the man had walked up to Alfred, the limp he tried to dissimulate under his cloak easy to spot for Ivar's hunter's eyes. Then he'd bent and whispered something in Alfred's ear, the brown woolen hood obscuring the young boy's face for just an instant.

There had been no need for privacy when Ivar barely understood even some of their gestures, but he liked the impression he got of the other's trepidation. 

They were right to fear the Viking in the room. They were right to be wary of Ragnar Lothbrok's son.

Now, the priest was moving again, standing up from his seat on the other side of the room where he'd been reading in the flickering light of a candle, and he'd come to stand at Alfred's side. Alfred looked behind his back at the sound of the man's approach, and he offered one of his polite smiles.

"Would you like to play, Oz?"

Ivar blinked, studying the two, the board forgotten.

"No, my lord, thank you. I was merely wondering if you'd allow me to address the Viking directly. He does not appear to know what to do with himself any longer."

The familiar word 'Viking' caught Ivar's attention, and he shifted restlessly in his seat. An unfeeling leg hit the side of the table then, and made the pieces of wood rattle atop the chess board. Alfred and the priest immediately turned their focus on him, and Ivar frowned, feeling confused and defensive once more.

"I suppose..."

Alfred made a gesture that was for once easy to guess—do whatever you wish—in Ivar's direction. And the priest bowed his head, before limping slowly onto Ivar's side.

Ivar tensed all over, teeth gritted, ready to fend off any potential attacks. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and tickled the side of his cheek, but he did not flinch. Not even once.

"Det er godt å møte deg, Ivar, sønn av Ragnar," the priest said.

It's good to meet you, Ivar, son of Ragnar.

Ivar let out a startled laugh. That was Viking!

Then he braced himself against the table with both hands, relaxed once more, and looked expectantly at the priest. He now understood why his father spoke so highly of the spiritual men of Wessex. Although the words came out strange from a mouth unused to saying them, it was still knowledge about his people that few others seemed to have.

The priest did not seem to have anything else to say, and reached instead for one of Ivar's painted pieces.

Ivar caught the other man by the wrist a scant moment before he touched it, and frowned.

"I did not give you permission," Ivar warned in his own language.

He felt the man freeze like a stone in his grip, and he could smell his fear. Looking down, Ivar noticed a strange webbing of knotted scars stretching across the skin of the priest's hand and disappearing beneath a woolen sleeve.

His skin had been burned.

"My apologies," the priest mumbled and tried to tug himself free, but to his obvious surprise Ivar held onto him with a smirk, amused by the weak attempt and curious to see how far he could take it. He also found himself wondering how much of the priest's skin had been ravaged by flames, and how ugly it was.

What kind of monster is hiding under your cloak, priest?

After the priest's third attempt, however, one of Ivar's guards stepped closer with a menacing clattering of armor, no doubt ready to interfere between mouse and cat. And not looking forward to a beating, Ivar quickly released the priest and raised his arm in plain view of the guard, waiting for him to settle back.

The priest stumbled a little once he was freed, but didn't tremble or cower. Ivar was mildly impressed.

"Apologies," the priest said once again, head bowed. "I only wish to help."

Ivar glanced at the priest, then at the chessboard and the few black pieces that still remained. Then he looked at Alfred, who was watching them in return with round eyes, and a slight frown.

"I see," he finally said, and shifted in his chair to face the priest again. "Go on, then, give me your advice. What should be my next move?"

Ivar still couldn't make out the priest's face under the hood, but he thought he felt his stare was not on the chessboard, but on him. He could feel eyes searching his face for something—what exactly, he knew not—and he waited.

The priest finally nodded, and stepped closer to the table. Then he spoke in the language of Wessex, slowly and with a lot of hand gestures so that Ivar had a chance to understand, and Ivar's constant smile quickly vanished as he turned his attention back to the game.

When more guards barged into the room to fetch Ragnar's son, Osmund quickly limped out of the way.

He was conscious of being held in contempt by most of the royal household, and he knew the King's men would have no qualms about harming him in the process of getting to the prisoner. So he stuck to Alfred's side as the guards flanked the Viking and lifted him roughly off his seat. Osmund found it peculiar that they would so violently treat the King's guest, whom he'd personally ordered not to be harmed in any way during his dealings with the father.

That is, until he noticed the way the guards put Ivar's arms round their necks, and in unison started walking with him towards the door.

Except Ivar wasn't walking. Instead he let his feet drag along the floor lifelessly behind him, supported, it seemed, only by the other men's strength.

The Viking was a cripple.

Osmund couldn't suppress his gasp of surprise at the discovery, and unfortunately, the Viking heard.

It was very brief, but before Ivar was carried out of the room he glanced Osmund's way, and never before had he believed there could be something else than fire that could burn him just as surely.