Work Text:
Kattegat
“Ivar!” He had to turn his whole body to see who had called him from behind, pivoting carefully on his crutch in the frozen mud of the street. When he saw it was Torvi, he turned back around and kept walking. “Ivar!” she repeated, annoyed now, and sped up to join him.
“I am a cripple, I cannot walk very fast,” he pointed out to her, when she gave him an accusatory look. “I am sure you can catch up.” His voice was, per usual, innocent but with an ice-cold undertone.
He did not bother to change his course, forcing her to dodge around stalls and debris. “Ivar, you are so rude to me,” Torvi noted. She didn’t really think it would do any good, but sometimes things needed to be said aloud, and heard. “I am your brother’s wife.”
She could sense him rolling his eyes. “And if something happened to Bjorn, my brothers and I would make sure you and your children were taken care of,” Ivar rejoined lightly. “Beyond that I have no interest in your existence.” He stopped suddenly, swinging into her path and glaring down at her. “So what do you want?” he demanded, tone abruptly menacing.
Torvi reminded herself that they were in the middle of town, in broad daylight, and it was unlikely Ivar would cut her throat at this moment.
Unlikely, but not impossible.
“Your priests have been taking sheep from the farmers,” she began, and he turned away, bored, to continue his hobble. He had two crutches today, and the braces that kept his legs relatively stiff; but not the calipers that allowed him to stand for long.
“They are not my priests,” Ivar corrected as she hurried after him. “They are everyone’s priests.”
“Bjorn put you in charge of them.”
“Yes.” Ivar was at least as obsessed with religion as Floki had been, but alas, did not choose to live isolated in the woods. Being in charge of the logistical side of Kattegat’s religious life was something Bjorn though Ivar would take seriously, while also keeping him out of trouble. Since Ivar had taken up the post, they had had a lot more feasts and ceremonies. And sacrifices.
“The priests have been taking large numbers of sheep from Bjorn’s tenants,” Torvi tried again, bobbing around a wagon that itself had to move to avoid Ivar.
“The gods deserve only the best,” he replied without concern.
“They have taken over a third of the sheep,” she specified, irritated. “Not even the gods can eat that much.”
“It does not come to my house, if that is what you are implying,” Ivar denied, sparing her a glance. “My wife does not even want to eat.” This clearly concerned him more than anything Torvi could come up with.
“Then where is the meat going?” she persisted. “The farmers will struggle to get through the winter—”
They had reached a raised sidewalk of wooden planks, and Ivar abruptly stopped and carefully leaned back against one of the posts, facing her. Torvi straightened up and made ready to meet his blazing blue gaze, since he was finally deigning to have a serious conversation about the issue.
“I want you to go and see my wife,” Ivar announced instead. “Find out what is wrong with her, and get her to eat.”
Torvi had known Ivar for many years, and yet his arrogance still managed to surprise her. “And why should I do you a favor, when you have been so rude to me?” she huffed.
To Ivar, the answer was obvious, as his expression made clear, suggesting Torvi was a bit stupid for not realizing it herself. “Because you like my wife.” He turned and began to slowly make his way up the wooden steps, unable to keep the slight grimace of pain off his face.
“I feel sorry for her,” Torvi conceded sharply.
“That is acceptable.”
Torvi waited until he was solidly on the walkway before following him. “She is very close to her time, she probably just does not feel well,” she replied, more compassionately. She remembered how anxious it was to be awaiting the birth of a child, especially the first one, and Ivar perhaps had even more to be anxious about, wondering if the child would be healthy or not.
“Then talk to her about that,” he shot back over his shoulder, seemingly annoyed that she was still behind him. “You may go.” Since she was facing his back, Torvi allowed herself a very unimpressed expression at his dismissal. “And I will ask about the sheep!” he added unexpectedly, in the most ungracious manner possible. But still, he said it.
**
The doors to the Great Hall opened but no one could be seen entering; then the crowd standing between them and the main table began to jump aside, as though something short and sharp was moving through them, jabbing at their ankles. Glances pinged between the sons of Ragnar, bracing themselves for whatever mood their youngest brother was in today.
A slithering one, apparently, as Ivar crawled adeptly across the floor, identifying the seat he wanted on the bench. “Move,” he told the person occupying it, who quickly complied. The next several people rapidly departed as well, because once Ivar had boosted himself onto the bench, he needed to swing his legs over it, grabbing the ties that bound them together—and if someone was in his way, he had no hesitation about hitting them.
It was not a subtle entrance.
Once he was settled, Ubbe handed him a cup of ale, which Ivar took with only a slight sneer before staring pensively into the fire—which was practically jolly, for him. The others began to relax and resume their conversations.
Perhaps that was why Bjorn thought it was a good idea to speak to him. “I heard you killed a priest yesterday, Ivar.” He kept his tone mild, for the moment.
“No,” Ivar replied shortly. There was a long pause as Bjorn frowned and tried to decide how to refute that. “I killed a thief, who was pretending to be a priest’s assistant,” Ivar finally continued, warming up some righteous indignation. “He had been stealing sheep in the name of the priests, and selling them for his own profit. As your beautiful wife pointed out to me,” he added, narrowing his eyes at Torvi. She froze, feeling like she’d been spotted by a snake in the woods.
“You should have brought him to me for judgment,” Bjorn countered, and Ivar rolled his eyes disrespectfully, which was guaranteed to rile his oldest brother. “That is how it works, Ivar.”
Bjorn had a good point, of course, but several people around the table wished he would just drop it. “He made a full confession, in front of witnesses,” Ivar insisted, the very picture of innocence, slightly wounded even that Bjorn would think he’d done something improper. “The priests practically begged me to execute him on the spot, to alleviate their great shame at being fooled by him.” This may or may not have been a lie, that Ivar might or might not be making up on the spot; some people found his audacity clever, others frightening, and some were plainly offended.
Ivar brazened forward. “Not to mention the dishonor he brought to the gods! We may need to have a special ceremony to ask for their forgiveness.” This was said in a more upbeat tone; the thought of planning yet another festive, bloody occasion cheered him.
Now Bjorn rolled his eyes. “Next time, do it properly,” he warned—forceful, but it was a deescalation and others nearby relaxed. “Or people will say Kattegat has only arbitrary justice.”
As if Ivar cared about that. “There is no justice anyway,” he muttered, mood darkening suddenly. He smacked his hand on the table, making everyone jump. “You were supposed to make her eat!” he accused Torvi, blue eyes blazing.
“Who?” Bjorn asked, a bit foolishly because what other woman did Ivar speak of these days? Someone whispered the name to him.
“I cannot make her eat!” Torvi protested. “She just doesn’t feel well.”
“You make her eat,” Bjorn added, as if it shouldn’t be anyone else’s business.
Ivar let out a deep, defeated sigh. “I cannot,” he admitted mournfully. He laid his head down on his arms, suddenly looking very young, and Torvi at least felt her heart soften a little. Ivar might have prowess on the battlefield, but this was one obstacle he had never faced before.
“The child will come soon, and then she will feel better,” she told him gently.
But Ivar had obviously been pondering this situation for a while, treading a dark path. “If she does not eat, she will not have strength when the child comes, and then she will die and the child will die and my heart will be broken,” he predicted morosely. Many of those around the table could relate to this fear, even if some were amazed Ivar had the capacity to share it.
Ubbe raised his arm, intending to give Ivar a consoling pat on the back. “And then, in my great despair, I will have to kill everyone,” Ivar added, in the same melancholy tone, and Ubbe’s arm froze. After a moment’s hesitation he decided to go ahead and give Ivar a reassuring shoulder squeeze, tactfully ignoring his last line.
“She is strong, brother,” he reminded Ivar. “She can put up with you, after all.” Ivar shrugged as if this was not very difficult, while everyone else tried to decide if he was making a serious threat, a tacky joke, or just saying normal crazy Ivar things that they could safely roll their eyes at.
“I will bring her some mushroom broth,” Torvi promised, deciding to focus on the parts when Ivar seemed sympathetic. “It is very nourishing.”
“Good,” Ivar declared, sitting back up, his voice immediately resuming its usual sharp edge. “Do so today.” Torvi huffed, her goodwill evaporating, but they both knew she wouldn’t take back her offer. Ivar turned to leave and found that someone had dared to sit down within three feet of him. “Move,” he snapped, and the man hastily did so, so Ivar could swing his legs around and then lower himself to the floor. “Ceremony tonight after dark, don’t be late,” he reminded everyone, and crawled away.