Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sif huddled closer to the fire. It was solstice in Midgard. Hard to remember that when Niflheim was so cold. She could have taken her bracelet off which afforded her illusions to make her look and feel like an Aesir, but her and Thor's business in this realm required some subterfuge and they needed draw no further attention to themselves. The fire was bad enough.

Thor was worse.

Her very loud husband dropped down beside her and instantly curled up. Thor hated being cold almost as much as he hated bring quiet, and Sif smirked at him.

“You look like Fenrir,” she observed.

Thor pouted. “I do not. It’s colder than a Jotun's tits here.”

Sif rolled her eyes. A shame that it was so cold, though. Thor usually walked around with his tits on full display for her to enjoy. Now his lovely chest was hidden behind furs. "Perhaps you could implore Havi for a wolf’s tail. to keep you warm.”

Thor huffed. “I’m not cold,” he insisted, like she was Ullr issuing challenges. He bravely uncurled himself. “In fact. This fire is far too warm.”

He took off his cloak, to prove it, though he did it with little enthusiasm. Or, maybe just slowly. He looked sidelong at her.

Sif stared at him. “You’re not.”

Thor just waggled his eyebrows and let the garment slither to the ground.

“You’re a fool. This would not even excite a troll.” 

Thor responded by tugging languidly at the laces of his tunic. Maybe it didn't work on trolls but it worked on her.

“O, I’m so warm,” he lamented, head cast back, revealing the lovely hollow of his throat, the curve of his shoulder and--oh, speak of the devils…. “O, Sif, I burn…”

“Stop it!” She threw glove at him but Thor just tipped back, groaning, perfect sculpted naked chest heaving. “Thor, you ass, you’re going to wake all of Niflheim--”

“Quick!” he cried. “My love, smother me! Put out the flames before I am turned to ash!--”

Sif couldn’t take it anymore. She tackled Thor bodily into the snow, her hands on his chest. 

“Better?” she asked. She wished her hands were colder, just to teach him a lesson, but his little stunt made her quite warm all over. She felt it as he melted, butter-soft, under the warmth of her hands.

“Very much so,” Thor breathed--then shivered violently. “S-s-since you’re here, my love, you might as well hold me close, s-so I don’t catch a cold…”

Chapter Text

“You wanted to see me?” Halfdan frowned.  Last time he checked he was in charge, yet here he was, at the beck and call of his thrall.

Faravid didn’t even look up from where he sat on a rock by the wide open river. “Halfdan. Sit.”

Halfdan grumbled but did so. “Don’t you have anything better to do than pick flowers?” Faravid had an assortment of them carefully arranged in his lap now, a rainbow of blue-hued blooms. Secretly, Halfdan loved Faravid’s custom of weaving flowers into his pretty braids.

“If you can get your warriors to train more, be my guest,” Faravid said simply. “I’ve been recently called a taskmaster, tyrant, and cruel troll, which I believe is not good for morale--theirs or mine.”

“We were told the Saxons would attack on the Solstice.”

“Yes, you’ve been pacing about it all day. This is important.”

Halfdan rolled his eyes. “What is?”

Faravid looked up at him from under his bushy dark brows, which contrasted strongly with his dyed blonde hair. Another secret love of Halfdan’s. It was hard to be annoyed at him for long when he looked like that. “You need a distraction. And I…” he picked up a flower, eyed it critically, then carefully nestled it into Halfdan’s beard. “...need to properly describe your eye color.”

“My eye color!” Halfdan reached up to brush the flower away but Faravid stopped him.

“Yes. I have larkspur, forget-me-not, lupine...I’m starting to think it might be periwinkle…” He took another flower and threaded it into Halfdan’s hair—then another. “Everyone needs to know this information or what will the skalds have to sing about?”

Halfdan sighed, allowing Faravid to continue festooning him until his face resembled a blue-tinted garden. Then Halfdan dabbed his finger in the soft mud of the shore and swept it across Faravid’s cheek.

Faravid faltered, but only for a moment. “What was that for?”

“Just trying to match your eyes.” He found another color of mud, more clay than silt, and dabbed it to Faravid’s nose. “River brown may do. Now, if I had some tree bark…”

Faravid did that glare from under his eyebrows again. “I hate you.”

Halfdan found an old leaf and stuck it in Faravid’s hair. “You love me.”

Faravid continued to frown, though he gave a secret smile he thought was hidden behind his beard (though fo course Halfdan saw right through that). Still, he forgot all about the impending battle until scouts warned them moments before the attack, and he and Faravid entered the battle with sword and hammer held high. Faravid was perfectly right, of course. Their warriors beat back the attack easily. Those Saxons that escaped the battle spread news far and wide of their defeat by two gods, one with a face carved of the earth, the other cut from the sky.

Chapter Text

“Faravid!!”

Faravid started to reach for his sword but the shriek appeared to have emanated not from a villager in distress, but a boy of six: little Ivarr, tear-soaked and snotty, shivering in the doorway of his tent. 

“Ivarr.” He put a hand over his chest to slow his beating heart and hurried over. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a draugr under my bed,” he announced, and, apparently satisfied with this summary of current affairs, began to wail again.

“Ivarr,” Faravid said, speaking firmly even as he gathered the child up. “There are no draugr under your bed. Draugr aren’t--”

“He is! he is!” Ivarr grabbed Faravid’s tunic in two tiny fists. “Please, Faravid! Come look!” 

Faravid rolled his eyes, but sighed. He had nothing to do and Ivarr’s screeching would soon become everyone’s problem if not dealt with. Some of the other warriors might have taken Ivarr to be looked after by Aslaug or another, but Faravid liked children, and liked Ivarr especially. It wasn’t like Faravid ever planned to have children of his own. 

He carried Ivarr back to his tent. Ubba was still in bed, turned resolutely away from the door--it was clear who Ivarr implored for assistance first. He set the boy down on the bed, where he promptly kicked his brother in the head while peeking over the edge. Ubba just grunted. 

“Let’s see,” Faravid said, kneeling and giving the underside of the bed a good look. “What does this dragur look like?”

“Who cares?” Ivarr asked. At least he wasn’t crying anymore.

“Well—I need to know which one to throw out.”

“FARAVID.”

“Draugr must be well behaved to stay under your bed,” Faravid insisted quite seriously.

“But you said draugr are only found at cairns!”

“New ones, yes. Ididn’t think to mention the old ones, they’re usually much more kind to little boys. Isuppose this one is new, though, or he wouldn’t be so ill mannered.” Aside from the reed flooring, Faravid only saw a ball, two socks, and a bread crust that the chickens hadn’t found yet. But a talking Ivarr was not a crying or kicking Ivarr.

“Yes,” Ivarr said. “He’s--new.”

“Alright. How tall.”

“As tall as the hills.”

That was a little odd phrasing, sounding familiar in a way Faravid couldn’t place. “What of the hair color? Is there any hair left?”

“Fair,” Ivarr said. “And he has a scar in his lip. Right here.”

Ivarr showed him. Faravid was sure other vikings in times long past had such marks. But there was a man living that matched that description. who the skalds sang was as tall as the hills. “Like Ragnar,” Faravid said, slowly. He hoped Ubba was asleep. “Your father.”

Ivarr nodded, shivering.

“Ivarr, he’s not dead.”

Ivar shrugged. “He--he’s new. So new he hasn’t turned into a draugr yet. When he does, he’ll haunt me.”

Faravid felt his spirit falter a little. “Ragnar is a great warrior,” he said, because it was true and because if anyone was listening Faravid was not going to lose his head over consoling a frightened child. “He will go to Valhalla when he dies.”

Ivarr shook his head. “No. Aslaug said--Aslaug said he was a coward. Cowards don’t go to Valhalla, so…” Ivarr shrugged again.

“Well, draugr don’t appear before their time, in any case,” Faravid said. “Perhaps it is your great-great-grandfather.” He stuck his head under the bed and bumped it lightly, sending one dirty sock jumping out from under the bed with each thump. Ubba gave a grumble of protest. 

“I think I knocked his socks off,” Faravid declared, showing Ivarr the articles. 

“Those are my socks!” Ivarr said, but he was grinning. “They wouldn’t fit a draugr.”

“He was all skin and bones, of course they fit,” Faravid said, tossing them aside. He gave Ivarr’s shoulder a small squeeze. “You’ve got to be brave and battle any other draugr that bother you yourself, alright?”

Ivarr nodded. “And I’ll--I’ll make sure to go to Valhalla,” he decided. “So I never have to see that draugr again.”

Faravid sighed. but while he couldn’t condone that and keep his head...he didn’t have to admonish Ivarr for it either. He left, promising himself he’d try harder to keep Ivarr away from Ragnars attention. It took several more years for Ragnar to die In Faravid’s opinion, it could not have come soon enough. Ivarr never stopped questing after Valhalla.

Chapter Text

Eivor was sick of...well, everything. The forest of people all around him currently topped the list. He used to love watching adults wander all around him, laughing and joking and drinking and fighting. Now they got so quiet whenever he came near. He wanted to melt into Sigurd like two candles stuck too close together, so it was just the one candle and Eivor disappeared. Sigurd was silent too, brooding over dreams. Maybe nightmares. Eivor wasn’t sure if Sigurd had seen so many people die before, and Eivor understood the problem of nightmares so he didn’t blame Sigurd’s silence. Still. All the silence felt like everyone was keeping some secret from him, when he had the bigger secret, it seemed. His approach used to encourage smiles and hugs and chatter. The silence was too much like the snow when the wolf kissed his cheek and stole any breath to scream. The silence was killing him.

He ran as soon as everyone stopped looking at him, not stopping until he got outside the longhouse. It was snowing again. Eivor sat down in the snow and decided that if he was to be plagued by silence he might as well turn into a tree while he was at it. Trees didn’t have to worry about honor and going to Valhalla. He could just be alone and enjoy the quiet. 

“EIVOR!” 

Eivor gasped and jumped up, heart pounding. A blonde head and bright eyes looked down at him from the tree above like a raven. 

“Sorry I scared you, Eivor!” Barid jumped down, looking ashamed. 

“You didn’t scare me,” Eivor snapped. He hated how people kept apologizing.

"Oh." Barid pointed. "You have snow on your butt."

 Eivor glared and brushed snow off the back of his tunic. "Go away."

Barid frowned. "Why?" 

“I’m becoming a tree.” He folded his arms and closed his eyes, waiting for his feet to grow roots. 

Barid just frowned. “Trees don’t get to do anything fun.”

“I don’t care. If your parents died, you would understand.”

That shut Barid up. For about five seconds. “You can’t turn into a tree down here.”

“Why not?”

“You have to be up high to be a tree!” Barid scampered over to the tree and laced his fingers together into a stirrup. “Come on! I’ll boost you!”

Eivor peered up at the tree doubtfully.

“You’re not scared of heights, are you? Imagine a tree scared of heights!”

“I’m not scared!” Eivor scrambled up into the tree just to prove it, Barid close behind. They sat on the branch, and Barid showed him how to lean back against a branch behind them, so it was almost comfortable. Eivor prepared to sink into silence--

“This is the best place to be a tree,” Barid chirped. “You picked the best! Everyone walks under here and no one sees you. No one notices a tree and you can see all sorts of things.”

“I bet they don’t have a chance to say anything with you chattering all the time!”

“I saw Faravid and Halfdan kissing,” Barid continued. “And I heard Dag practicing how he was going to ask Randvi to climb to the top of the hill with him. He even practiced kissing noises!”

“This is gossip,” Eivor said, but he smiled a little. "Halfdan and Faravid kiss?..."

"It’s not gossip," Barid insisted, “It’s not my fault they insist on pretending this is a secret place. You can use this spot whenever you want, I won’t tell.” He leaned over and whispered, “They come here to kiss all the time. With tongue!” Barid laughed so hard he almost fell out of the tree, squeaking like a chipmunk. No--maybe a squirrel. Worse than Ratatoskr, spreading silly lies up and down the world tree even though it held the tragedies of all men in its branches. 

Eivor supposed there were worse trees to be.

Chapter Text

Vili put his hands on his hips. “When I said, ‘come over here,’ I meant in the same country. At least a nearby one.”

Eivor folded his arms, glaring at him from about ten feet away. “I’m here.”

Vili sighed. “Is this because I’m taller than you now?” It really was unfortunate--last summer they were the same height, and now Vili was a head taller, with signs to grow taller still. 

Eivor huffed, nose sweeping into the air. “I have other things to do, Vili. It’s solstice.”

“Come here!” Vili laughed. Eivor did not. Vili groaned, but had no choice--he ran at his friend. Eivor yelped and scrambled away, but a brief tussle illustrated that Eivor, while just as skilled in combat as Vili, had not yet gotten used to fighting opponents larger in him. Vili just barely managed to grab him around the chest and lift him off the ground.

“Put me down!”Eivor yelped, struggling. Vili managed to hold onto him at least long enough to drag him under the big oak tree. He laughed and barely managed to set him down without breaking his neck. 

“There, was that so hard?” Vili said, smirking.

Eivor glared up at him. “What’s so important?”

“Look up.”

Eivor looked up, then squinted at a patch of bright-green leaves amongst the foliage of the branches above. “Mistletoe?”

Vili nodded. “You know what they say about standing under mistletoe.” Short as he was, Eivor was still the apple of Vili’s eye.

Eivor frowned. “It’s the middle of summer.”

Vili’s confidence faltered. “It’s--it’s doubly lucky, then!”

Eivor narrowed his eyes, sizing him up. They were the same age but Vili was pretty sure Eivor’s experience with kissing was non-existent. Still, he saw the way Eivor watched the older boys when they came back from battle, shirtless and sweaty...hadn’t he? Was he just projecting?

Vili started to backtrack. Even best friends might not come back from this kind of thing. 

Then Eivor got up on his toes and their lips met. It was--everything Vili hoped, really. Eivor even used tongue, possibly just to outdo Vili at something. Their lips parted with a loud smack. 

“...That was your first kiss, right?” Eivor breathed.

“Was it yours?”

“Ah—w-with tongue,” Eivor added, a little too quickly. He stepped back. “That was your first kiss with tongue, right?”

Vili pushed his lips to one side, looking up at the sky.

“Vili!”

Eivor lunged at him. Vili, with no intention of telling Eivor his first kiss with tongue came from a dog, ran as fast as he could. Thankfully Vili’s height gave him an advantage in a race too, because Eivor chased him all through the rest of solstice. 

Chapter Text

“What are you reading?”

Hytham looked up only briefly from his book. “A song book. From Madrid.”

“Where is that?”

“South of here, by far! You would be best served to approach it by sea, along the coast of the Franks, and it is across two seas from Constantinople--”

“Never mind,” Eivor said, throwing up his hands in surrender. Hytham shrugged, and went back to reading. Eivor went back to perching different places in the room, as awkward as a crow with nowhere to sit. Hytham forced himself not to laugh. 

“You could practice your reading with it,” he suggested instead, wondering if that was what Eivor was always waiting around to hear, or say. Eivor was getting better at reading but seemed uninterested in the subject whenever they sat down to practice.

Eivor made a face. “I only sing when there is a boat under my feet.”

“A shame. This one is called, I Care Not For Ladies.”

That got Eivor’s attention. “...Really?”

“I care not for ladies,” Hytham said. reading aloud, “that must bow for night and day, for Balthazar, my thrall, shall kneel before me when I say.”

“It...it doesn’t say that, does it?” 

Hytham ignored this. “The sun will shine, the wind will blow, the moon will rise in the sky, my Balthazar will breathe upon on my neck, is hand upon my…”

Eivor blinked. “Well?”

“Oh.” Hytham frowned and shut the book. “I shouldn’t say more, perhaps this isn’t good for you to read after all.”

“Tell me what it says, Hytham!” He snatched at the book but Hytham was too quick.

“No, I couldn’t possibly—I’m sure Sigurd wouldn’t approve of my corrupting you--”

Eivor proceeded to chase him around the room like a dog after a bird—Hytham was quick but Eivor’s tenacity won out, and he dragged Hytham over to a chair. 

“Alright,” Eivor said, sitting Hytham against him, “If I can read it all the way through, you’re going to sing it to me, little bird.”

“Really?” Hytham shrugged. “I don’t need to worry then--there are some big words, parts of the body you probably don’t know…”

“Go in peace, Hytham,” Eivor said airily, then frowned at the page, following the words carefully with his finger. “I care not for ladies, that must be courted night and day…”