Irreplaceable

Decisions

"You love the gods." He says.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?" You suggest. Ivar shakes his head. There was no reason you shouldn't, but most people did not sing so openly. He urges you closer and you follow, tensing when he offers you his thigh to sit on with a slap. It wasn't that you hadn't had your father's permission to do so. Faksi didn't just agree. He encouraged.

"No, there isn't. Sit on me." Ivar slide his crutch aside. Nor was it that you didn't want to sit on his lap. No, it was the thought that everyone was looking— and that yet again, a Ragnarsson was propositioning you. You open your mouth, but he knows your unspoken fears already.

"Kitta gave permission. She would be watching you if she hadn't." He says.

So you slide onto his lap, awkwardly holding onto his broad shoulders. You would pull your skirt to sit like... well, a princess. Ivar's other hand came to settle on your hip.

"I meant to say... how good a mother you would be that you show those girls the true ways." King Ivar says.

"How does that interest you?" You hum, leaning back when Ivar prompts you to relax. His arms shift, and enclosing you on his lap. His toned chest presses into your back.

"Because I want you." Ivar rasps into your ear. "Like any other Viking should."

"You know I'm no virgin." You ask in an ariose lilt of a voice.

"What does it matter if I make you mine?" He hums. "If I am the only man to fill you with children— that will be all I need."

Your mind feels heavy by the thought of it. The only one to fill you with children... you thought how easily it was that Ubbe bottomed out within you, the pulse of his seed kissing your cervix against his deep, smothered groans. Your first. He would always be special somehow.

"I'll... see you tonight, my king." You drop off of Ivar's lap.

Air. You needed to walk around, enjoy the fresh air whirling about your head. You walk and walk for what seemed like miles on Kattegat's dusty roads until you round circled into the cabin you stayed in with your father. There, to your shock and partial disillusionment, you have another visitor.

"Queen Kitta!"

You bow your head, coming forward as your father prepared bread. An uncommon scene for your father... that was a woman's task. You took the loaf from his fingertips and smacked him with cloth. Kitta's slight eyes move upon you.

"Princess." Kitta turns a smile. "I was just telling your father how Ivar prepares to propose."

Was that what it was? A proposal? It seemed more like a blatant statement of facts or feelings. You weren't sure which it was entirely. You slide the bread onto a chopping board, easing your knife through the bread while your father bellows n excitement.

"I'd gladly give (Y/N) in marriage! She has another suitor: some random King. One that I'm surprised hadn't ran off hearing she isn't—" Faksi began to prattle when Kitta held up her ringed hand.

"He isn't a Ragnarsson now is he?" Kitta snaps. Then she comes toward your side, her hand atop of yours as you butter bread.

"Sweet (Y/N), I'm barren. That doesn't mean he has to be as well. Ivar will take care of you. He will love you... and so will I, as my sister wife. Marry him when he proposes. Give him children." Kitta says. At her last words, you find her eyes seem to water and ache, deeply pained by her nonfunctional womb. Its enough that you want to say yes, for her.

But at the same time you want to babble out you're complaints that— no, you didn't want to be a wife to a married man. No! You wanted something else. But if you were being fair, you loved how Ivar looked upon you at dinner. You look up to Kitta, offering her bread.

"I'll think about it. Would you like to learn to cook our native bread?"

She nods.

Marry King Ivar: lose thoughts of Ubbe.

Don't marry King Ivar: be a spinster for the rest of your life.

Or maybe not, you reason, tucking bits of white buds into your hair. You could always marry the strange King. The one that you didn't know if was your age, or ten more, or even twenty at that! You twirl the bouncy stem of a green flower in your fingers, deciding what to do when you finally concede. The men were drunk and wild at your father's table, and much through the night, Ivar watches you curiously. No one dared approach you that night.

"Faksi! I'd like to extend an offer," King Ivar's voice cut through the crowd towards Faksi.

Faksi turns his eye upon Ivar. "What is it?!" He bellows back. Always bellowing, you're not sure how your ears haven't gone numb.

Ivar stumbles down through the crowd with crutch in hand, limping until he found himself at eye level with you. "I want to marry your daughter. For the glory of Odin and Freyja— whom my mother worshipped."

You felt buzzing in your ear as he takes your hand, a glistening bright ring in his finger. Ivar leans into your ear, among the roar of the crowd. "Be my wife." He whispers, coaxing you with his slight voice into agreement. Faksi eagerly slams his cup against his friend's, eager for your response.

"I'll do it. I'll be your wife."