Work Text:
England
Heahmund was given a decent meal and water to bathe in, and even unchained for the duration, which he drew out as long as possible. He didn’t know why he’d been given these things—unusually, he hadn’t seen Ivar for a few days—and had been going to refuse at one point, but then he decided it was better to be nourished and clean, to keep fighting longer.
Afterwards, when only his hands were chained, and with considerable freedom of movement, that was when he got really suspicious.
Finally Heahmund heard the slow, uneven clunk of Ivar limping down the corridor on his crutches—the man should just crawl, where he could show his superiority, rather than badly trying to compete on two legs—and he thought he might get some answers, or at least something new to think about. The heavy cell door was unlocked and opened, and Ivar peered inside. “Ah, good, you’re decent, Bishop,” he observed cheerfully, as he entered.
“What the f—k are you playing at, Ivar?” Heahmund demanded. In hindsight, if he was finally about to be martyred, it was probably better to be starving and filthy.
“Sorry I have neglected you,” Ivar interpreted, “but I have been busy. I have truly wonderful news! I need you to do something for me.”
“Do you want to convert?” Heahmund asked acidly, and Ivar rolled his eyes.
“No, but I do need a Christian holy man,” he admitted, shifting on his crutches. Heahmund could easily knock him off balance, and then probably be horribly maimed in retaliation, but now he was curious. “It turns out that I’ve killed all the others around here, so—you have to help me out.”
“Help you do what?” Heahmund questioned, completely mystified, as Ivar signaled to one of the guards.
“Bishop,” he announced, and he seemed genuinely moved by what he was about to say, which was blowing Heahmund’s mind, “I have found my soulmate.” Heahmund’s expression froze in place, because he literally did not know how to react to that. There were new footsteps in the hall, and Ivar glanced back, nervously, then tapped Heahmund hard and hissed, “Just don’t embarrass me, okay?”
The girl who stepped into the cell was young, redhaired, pretty, and apparently had Ivar the Boneless wrapped around her finger. As soon as she saw the prisoner, however, her eyes widened and she dropped to her knees in front of him (Ivar looked alarmed and displeased), bowing her head reverently. “Bishop Heahmund!” she recognized in surprise.
“Well, s—t,” Heahmund replied eloquently. The girl frowned slightly in confusion and Ivar gave him a look that said, this is exactly what I told you not to do. “Your soulmate is a Saxon?!”
“The gods work in mysterious ways,” Ivar observed thoughtfully. Heahmund rubbed his eyes tiredly, wanting to ask God a thousand new questions.
Still, he had an example to set, and he lightly touched the girl’s head. “Bless you, my child,” he told her. You’re going to need it.
“Get off the floor, it’s dirty,” Ivar encouraged her, but he couldn’t offer to help her up because he would overbalance. Heahmund did so instead and Ivar gave him a narrow look, which did not bother Heahmund in the slightest.
“What is it you wanted me to do for you, Ivar?” he asked, hoping the girl would read his tone as pleasant and Ivar as facetious.
Ivar’s glance slid sideways to the girl—clearly, this wasn’t his idea—and she put her hand carefully over his and smiled at Heahmund, warm and sweet. “Your Grace, we hoped that you would marry us,” she explained.
Heahmund looked at Ivar. Ivar’s expression said he didn’t care, but his soulmate wanted it, so it was getting done. Much as Heahmund might want to assist or thwart these plans, there were some actual difficulties. “Do you want to convert?” he repeated to Ivar, more seriously.
“No.” Obviously.
“Mmm,” Heahmund replied discouragingly, and the girl’s face fell. “It’s not really done, to sanctify the marriage of a Christian and a… non-Christian,” he informed her tactfully.
“I told you he would not do it,” Ivar said immediately, but the girl was determined.
“But God has made Ivar my soulmate, Your Grace,” she pointed out. “What is the purpose, if we cannot be married?”
“The purpose is for you to lead your soulmate, through example and encouragement, to the path of righteousness,” Heahmund explained. “To accept Christ, our Lord, as his savior.” That was the answer to any sort of mismatch, really.
The girl looked at Ivar, who looked at her. Then she faced Heahmund again. “I’m looking for something a little faster,” she decided prudently.
Heahmund found himself searching for some kind of precedent, then wondered why he bothered because Ivar wasn’t going to respect it anyway, then remembered there was also the girl to minister to. This was, perhaps, an opportunity.
“I would be happy to offer a blessing on your union,” he suggested instead. Blessings were vague but positive; he used to bless cows and sheep sometimes, upon request, and no one thought they were now cleared to receive Mass. The girl looked genuinely excited; Ivar faked it well enough. “But first I’ll need to hear your confession,” he judged.
“Confession to what?” Ivar asked in confusion.
“Not yours,” Heahmund corrected pointedly. As much as Ivar would love to tell him about every blasphemous, wrathful thing he’d done lately. “To get your soul right with God, before such a momentous undertaking,” he added more kindly to the girl. Looking her over, he could see that she was no high-ranking, sophisticated lady; probably a servant or farmer’s daughter. It was not her fault she’d been born soulmate to Ivar the Boneless, and Heahmund had pity for her. Best to do the thing as correctly as possible, for her sake. And who knew, in time, if Ivar didn’t kill her first, what change she might work in him.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” she agreed humbly.
“I don’t suppose you’d give us any privacy,” Heahmund asked Ivar dryly.
“Not a chance.” The girl shook her head in fond exasperation at Ivar, not something Heahmund thought he would ever witness.
He looked around and indicated the bench along the wall; as he and the girl moved towards it, Ivar started to follow. “You are not supposed to listen, Ivar!” she pointed out, and she would not give way, so he leaned against the opposite wall instead—obviously still in earshot, but making some attempt to feign disinterest. Heahmund and the girl knew this was the best they were going to get and sat down.
“I have not been to confession that much, Your Grace,” the girl admitted. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“We’ll skip the formalities,” Heahmund allowed. “What’s your name?”
“Sansa.”
“Sansa. Are you from York?”
“Is this a confession or an interrogation?” Ivar interrupted, and they both gave him a look. He was outnumbered at the moment and the Christians were working their magic—his input was not required.
“No, I am from the west country,” Sansa explained. “I lived with my grandmother in the woods, and I came to York quite recently, after she died.”
“God rest her soul,” Heahmund said automatically, and they crossed themselves. “May I see your soulmarks?” It never hurt to be sure.
She rolled up her sleeve readily, revealing the symbols she had been born with. “These three are Viking, I know now,” she described to him. “I never knew what they meant before.”
Heahmund was more than mildly amused to realize that Ivar must have had a Christian cross emblazoned on his heathen body since birth. “God does work in mysterious ways,” he noted, making eye contact with Ivar, who huffed at him, knowing his thoughts. “May I see your soulmarks, Ivar?” he requested innocently.
“Oh, I do not know you well enough yet, Bishop,” Ivar shot back snidely.
“Have you seen them?” Heahmund asked Sansa more quietly, and she nodded. “And they match?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa assured him. “And even before I saw them, I knew Ivar was my soulmate, I could feel it in my heart.” She spoke with such simple sincerity, and Heahmund smiled, just a little. His vows to the Church precluded him from being with his soulmate, whom he’d never met or sensed in any way; by now he’d concluded they had probably died at a young age, but when he had been younger, he used to daydream about what it would be like to finally meet, if he would really ‘feel it in his heart’ like people said.
But most people’s soulmate wasn’t Ivar the Boneless.
Heahmund leaned forward a bit more, for the greater illusion of privacy. “Has he hurt you in any way?” he asked the girl. He would have asked earlier, but she seemed calm. “Has he forced you against your will?”
“Oh no, Your Grace,” Sansa insisted, and as strange as it seemed, Heahmund believed her. “Ivar has been so gentle and considerate of me.” Heahmund did not look over at Ivar, not wanting him to think this admirable, if unexpected, behavior was being mocked. “He has treated me better than anyone I have met since my grandmother’s death, and I will go where he goes.”
“Even across the sea, among his own people?”
“That is what God intended, is it not, Your Grace?” Sansa suggested. “When He took away anyone who bound me to this land, and gave me Ivar instead. To make a new home, and a new family.”
Heahmund couldn’t help glancing at Ivar this time—he was watching them intently with a complicated expression on his face, one might even say it was related to hope. Most people Heahmund knew would only say Ivar had been ‘given’ to them as a punishment for their sins (not a popular theory, it was hard to build army morale with it). He decided to move on.
“Have you lain with him as man and woman?” Heahmund checked, seeing the answer in her flushed cheeks before he’d even finished the question.
“Ivar says, among his people, soulmates are automatically considered married,” Sansa replied, with dignity.
This time Heahmund did not hide his disdain from Ivar. “Well that’s convenient.”
“You are the only thing standing against us getting married here, Bishop,” Ivar reminded him. That and a few centuries of canon law and Scripture, but whatever, just blame it all on him, Heahmund scoffed.
“Is there anything else you would like to seek repentance for?” Heahmund questioned. He imagined it was going to be easy to get your morals mixed up when living with Ivar. “Feelings or actions related to pride, greed, envy, gluttony, sloth, wrath?” he listed, for example.
Ivar laughed intrusively. “Those are all considered bad?”
“We already covered lust,” Heahmund noted frostily.
“Sounds like a party to me!” Ivar claimed.
“Ivar, you are not supposed to be listening,” Sansa scolded again. “This is very serious.”
“Eh, why do you have to tell the Bishop things you have done wrong? According to him,” Ivar persisted.
“So I can offer absolution for her sins,” Heahmund told him. “Forgiveness. Which is important to some people.”
“Tell him about the—one of those words meant anger, did it not?” Ivar checked. “I know you have a great deal of anger, Bishop. It has kept you alive so far. Also pride.”
“We are all of us sinners,” Heahmund replied, striving for humility (but failing, per usual).
“I also feel a great deal of anger sometimes, Your Grace,” Sansa admitted, “although less so since I have met Ivar.”
“Less so?” Ivar sputtered. “She punched my brother in the face.” Heahmund raised an eyebrow.
“I thought he was going to hurt me,” Sansa explained quickly. “I think that is allowed.”
“And she chopped a man’s finger off,” Ivar tattled, greatly amused. Heahmund raised his other eyebrow.
“He was definitely going to hurt me,” Sansa avowed. “That is allowed, is it not, Your Grace?”
“Well, self-defense is certainly taken into consideration,” Heahmund replied smoothly.
“But I suppose I must mention the man I killed,” Sansa continued unexpectedly, and Heahmund froze for the second time. She sounded very serious, as she should, but a glance at Ivar showed that he was taking it seriously as well—well, there was a genuine smile of pride on his face, but he wasn’t teasing her about it.
“He was a bad man,” Sansa explained to Heahmund. “He hurt me in the past, when I couldn’t do anything about it. Ivar does not understand,” she added, “but you know what it’s like here, Bishop. A kitchen girl kills a guard at the great hall? My life would not be worth anything.”
Heahmund had been about to offer some platitude, or some authority she could have turned to at the time, but then he looked in her eyes—he did know what it was like here. Everywhere, he had assumed, if you were just a kitchen girl or a farmer’s daughter. He nodded slowly.
“So when I saw the Vikings had taken him prisoner,” Sansa continued, “and he was unarmed—I walked up, and I killed him.”
“How?” The question slipped out before Heahmund could stop it.
“I stabbed him several times.”
Ivar mimicked it gleefully, and Heahmund winced. “Well, that definitely counts as wrath,” he decided. “But, God understands our troubles, my child, and what we keep deep in our hearts,” he felt moved to counsel her. “He will not hold our sins against us, if we seek His forgiveness.”
“I do wish to be forgiven, Your Grace,” Sansa assured him earnestly. “I wish I were not so angry. But I think,” she added, “I think God has sent Ivar to protect me, so I will not feel so afraid and angry.”
She had clearly been giving this a good deal of thought, and Heahmund couldn’t help glancing over at Ivar, to see the Viking scourge of the world with a soft, awed expression on his face, that Heahmund would henceforth envisage whenever he closed his eyes. Maybe this was the miracle he had been called to witness, the small voice in the darkness he had been straining for. If God could find purpose in Ivar the Boneless, surely He would not overlook Heahmund.
“Do you know the Lord’s Prayer?” he asked Sansa. “Let’s say it together.” He made the sign of the cross when they finished, and when he stood he felt somehow lighter, despite his chains. “Ivar,” he summoned, helping Sansa kneel again. Ivar was not going to kneel, it was not emotionally or physically possible, but Heahmund thought that probably didn’t matter.
He placed one hand on Sansa’s lowered head; Ivar suspiciously ducked the other hand Heahmund tried to put on his head (he was rather vain about his hair), so Heahmund put it on his shoulder instead. And then he did something he had never dared do when he was this close to Ivar: he closed his eyes.
“Lord, we ask Your blessings upon this union between Ivar and Sansa, whom You have seen fit to mark as soulmates, from the moment of their birth until the moment of their death. Let them be fruitful and multiply, let them always have trust in each other. Let them be for each other a light and warmth in the darkness, and most importantly, let them always have faith. In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, amen.”
He’d had to improvise a little in there, but it seemed to be effective, since Sansa was brushing away tears when she stood back up.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she told him humbly.
“You’re welcome, my child.” This was actually a nice change from his usual day, which was mainly filled with wrath and pride.
Ivar wiped the tears from Sansa’s face and tenderly kissed her forehead. “Go wait outside, my love,” he suggested to her. Once she was gone he punched Heahmund lightly in the shoulder. “What did you make her cry for, huh?”
“Anyone would cry if they were your soulmate, Ivar,” Heahmund shot back, but with less bite than usual.
Ivar rolled his eyes. “I have another proposal to discuss with you,” he announced, and now Heahmund had zero idea what to expect, “but I’ll come back later, because it’s sort of my wedding night, right?” He grinned cheekily.
Heahmund gave him a fake smile in return. “Well, I’m available for weddings, baptisms, and funerals,” he assured him, “in case you make her angry.”
Ivar laughed at that, an actual, slightly-pleasant-for-two-seconds laugh, and shook his head before leaving. The clang of the cell door shutting seemed slightly less loud than Heahmund remembered.