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thepaperpanda · 1 year

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A Little Snowball Fight || Ivar the Boneless x fem!reader

Masterlist ❄

Summary: Your friendship with prince Igor dates back to when you cared for him as a child. One day, he introduces you to Ivar, the Viking prince from the far north. After first courtesy, a little snowball fight ensues. At the end of the meeting, Ivar makes a very interesting offer that you cannot refuse

Warnings: none

Word count: ~ 2215

Authors: Fenrir & Cass

A/N: today’s prompt: Snowball Fight

Ice skating was one of your favourite pastimes, so you couldn't say no when young Igor invited you to skate - skating was especially fun when you had someone to skate with.

"Do you want to meet my new friend?" Igor asked, holding your hand as you glided across the ice together.

You glanced at him while humming softly. "Does this refer to this Viking prince? What was his name again... Ivar?"

After nodding immediately, the boy raised his head up and waved at Ivar.

Standing on top of a deck that provided a vantage point, Ivar nodded gently at Igor who was ice-skating below. Despite spending almost an hour outside, Igor was far from fatigued; Ivar was impressed by his stamina. The wooden railing was a perfect place for Ivar to rest his folded hands while watching Igor and rethinking his own matters.

In the same way that Igor did, you waved your hand to attract strangers' attention as well. Despite hearing about Ivar, you never had a chance to speak with him personally.

He kept his face straight, attempting to stay polite as he waved his hand back at you.

Soon, Igor pulled you off the ice so the two of you could join Ivar on the deck.

Ivar's lips were tinged with a smile as Igor and his female friend joined him. "Hope you are tired now, my boy," Ivar said as he placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "There is nothing better than returning to the warmth of the indoors when you are freezing."

"Who said I was freezing?" Igor asked, raising his eyebrow and tilting his head as he looked at Ivar. "I am fine, but I would like you to meet Y/N. I used to be cared for by her when I was younger."

Ivar's blue eyes inspected your face and features with ease. A tone of pride permeated his introduction, "My name is Ivar, Ivar the Boneless."

"My name is Y/N. It is nice to finally meet you in person," you said, bowing your head a little.

The smile on Igor's face was contagious. "You see, Ivar? I told you I have a very pretty friend."

In response, Ivar nodded his head a little, his smile growing wider. "There is no doubt in my mind that you did not lie in the slightest."

As Ivar's eyes slipped over your body, he met your gaze and had no choice but to admit you had the most stunning eyes he had ever seen on a woman.

You gazed at Igor, then grabbed some snow to rub into his cheeks, causing him to whine and laugh simultaneously. "As I told you before, Igor, be careful not to say things like this. It is rude to suddenly speak in such a manner."

It would have never occurred to Ivar that you would be the first to initiate a fight. He watched the scene with amusement. His question came out of the blue moments later, "Are you Russian, Y/N?"

A smile spread across your face when Igor hugged you, hugging him back you looked at Ivar "Как думаешь, красавчик?"

"My first impression of you was that you're one of the most temperamental women I've ever seen."

Laughing softly, you bend down to whisper something into Igor's ear; a smile spread across Igor's lips. Looking back at Ivar, you smiled. "Thank you so much for your kind words. I really appreciate them."

Observing Igor interacting with you, Ivar slowly cocked his eyebrows. "My lady, aren't you aware that whispering in company isn't considered polite?"

"Aren't you aware that strangers shouldn't listen to certain matters?"

In spite of a temperature way below zero, Ivar's soft chuckle that escaped his lips was accompanied by a little cloud of steam. "That's right."

"Don't worry, I didn't say anything derogatory about you, or did I?" You teased, looking directly into Ivar’s eyes.

"She said she loves your eyes," Igor revealed your little secret without hesitation.

Ivar observed the two of you and decided not to comment on what Igor said, instead he nodded his head. "Maybe we should take a stroll back inside?"

Igor shrugged and said, "The two of you can go inside, I'd like to stay a little longer."

As you sighed, you looked at the boy and shook your head; he was impossible to get fatigued easily.

After politely waiting for you to move, Ivar followed you to the stairs and down on the ground level.

Taking a look at Ivar, you asked, "How's it going here for you? I hope Igor isn't bothering you too much."

The man shook his head eagerly, "No, he isn't bothering me at all. Igor is such a wonderful young man. He reminds me of myself when I was his age," Ivar's tone faded into silence. "Are you from here or did you come from somewhere else?" He asked, smoothly changing the topic.

"It's funny how you are so curious, aren't you? I was born and raised in this place, so I can truly say that I am from here," you replied politely, raising an eyebrow.

While walking through the ice and snow covered path, Ragnarsson listened to your words. A crutch-dependent person found walking in such conditions to be a challenge, so Ivar was stopping from time to time.

A worried look crossed your face as you looked at the young man. "Ivar, I am sure all the snow must be a great burden for you. Can I help you in any way?"

Your polite pleas for assistance went unanswered. Who did you think he was? Although he was crippled, he was capable of walking on his own, so he didn't need any kind of assistance. "Isn't our winter beautiful?" He asked, again changing the topic.

The hint was taken and you did not press any longer. "Despite the cold, it's beautiful. As usual."

"Do you like winter?"

"Well, not really. It's cold, and I don't really like skating because of it, but it's still fun."

"What other winter activities do you fancy?"

As you walked behind Ivar, you quietly grabbed some snow and moulded it into a ball and threw it at Ivar's back. "Snowball fights."

The moment Ivar was hit in the back, he turned around to look at you. "Seriously? Have you thrown a snowball at me? Isn't it kind of silly for someone like you?"

"You asked what winter activities I enjoy, so I showed one to you," you gave him a shrug in a form of response. "You don't have to be so stiff."

Ivar stuck his crutch in a snowdrift and slowly leaned forward to collect some white fluff, which he formed into a ball before throwing it skillfully at you - the ball hit your left shoulder. "I'm not stiff, Y/N, as you put it. I just prefer observing and planning."

"Isn't that exactly what you called? I observe and plan how to..." You threw another show ball at Ivar, hitting him in the stomach, "... Successfully throw snowballs at you."

Observing you, Ivar cocked his eyebrow and threw another ball of snow at you, hitting your cheek with it this time.

You gasped and wiped snow off your face. Your response was, "Oh, you! You're dead!" By saying this you made a big snowball and got ready to aim it.

When Ivar observed you making a snowball, he wondered how a dodge could be made.

The snowball was thrown right at his face as a way to pay him back.

As Ragnarsson couldn't dodge, snow got into his eyes when the ball struck his face. With his vision blurry, Ivar took one tiny step back and flopped on his butt in the snow as he tried to wipe his eyes.

You ran up to him, whispering, "Oh, gods! I should have been more careful!"

Ivar's facial expression initially displayed anger and disbelief; eventually, these emotions dwindled and he laughed as a smile spread over his lips. "Okay, that wasn't what I expected. It was a strong hit, Y/N."

As you wiped snow from his cheek, you quickly began to apologise. "Thank you for not being angry with me, but I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have... Your legs..." Your voice was nothing more than a tiny whisper as you looked at his face. "Forgive me, please."

He caught himself staring bluntly into your eyes - they were huge and had the most beautiful colour he had ever seen. He had a burning sensation in his cheeks from your hands as you slowly rubbed snow off of him; he discovered your palms were so warm and felt cosy. "It's fine."

"You seem to be getting warm... Are you feeling sick? Oh! I shouldn't keep you out too long today, it's cold," suddenly, you started to panic.

Your sudden solicitude surprised Ivar, who raised his hand to signal you to remain silent for a moment. “First of all, it is cold, yes, but I am accustomed to it, so no worries there. Second thing, stop worrying, nothing wrong is happening. Deal?"

Biting your lip, you nodded slowly, still feeling bad and hoping you didn't hurt him. "Let me assist you with getting up."

After a moment of thinking, he accepted your hand and slowly stood up. "Thanks."

A smile of apology appeared on your face as you squeezed his hand. There was still a feeling of guilt in your heart.

Another snowball aimed at Ivar's shoulder struck him suddenly. "For Valhalla's sake, what was that this time?" The young man grunted, looking around, only to see Igor gathering snow into his hands already, forming another ball with a smile on his face.

Looking at Igor, you blinked and shook your head. Before a snowball hit you right in the face, you managed to utter only a quiet, "No, Igor, don't..."

Using his forearm to block another snowball aimed at him, Ivar shouted, "Better stop it now, dear boy!"

"Come on, Ivar! It's fun! You can practise your combat skills with me now! Let's fight!" Igor shouted enthusiastically.

Ivar, instead of responding, slowly leaned down, made a huge ball from the snow he gathered, and then threw it at Igor, hitting him in the face. "It's for aiming at the lady."

A snowball thrown by you hit Igor before the boy could prepare another snowball to throw at Ivar.

"It's time to show the little one what it's like to start a fight with the adults!" You briefly looked at Ivar, a mischievous grin dancing in the corners of your mouth.

Ivar was throwing ball after ball at Igor, occasionally chuckling to himself as he did so.

As soon as you did what Ivar did, poor Igor was scrambling to surrender.

Ivar slowly limped closer to you with his crutch in hand and asked you quietly after leaning closer to you, "Y/N, are we accepting his surrender?"

Keeping your eyes on Ivar, you hummed softly. "It seems like it might be a good idea. What do you think?”

"I agree."

"Then I agree too," you nodded at Ivar, then looked at Igor. "It's time to get inside before we get sick."

After looking at you for a moment, Ivar gave you a nod of approval. Although Ivar wore a thick fur coat and a hat to keep himself warm, he began to feel cold under the clothes. "The idea is good, Y/N. We could get some warm drinks."

Before Igor joined you, Ivar offered you his shoulder after shaking the snow off his thick fur. "Shall we, Y/N?"

In response, you accepted the offer, wrapping your arm around his shoulder and discovering with surprise that his shoulder was very well-built and seemed to be very strong, even with the fur covering it.

Biting inside of your cheek, you tried not to get distracted by thoughts that crossed your mind. "With pleasure, Ivar. Also, I’d like to point out that your combat skills are also impressive, you have a very sharp eye,” you praised him, feeling the blush spreading across your cheeks.

In spite of his crippled appearance, Ivar was far from being an idiot, and he immediately noticed a slight change in your behaviour after you got closer to him. He suggested politely, "I was wondering if we could enjoy a pint of mulled wine and discuss our likes and dislikes a little more?"

Your eyes never left his as you tightened your grip on his shoulder and gently nodded your head. "It will be my great pleasure, Ivar the Boneless."

Both of you didn't seem to notice Igor standing right beside you, hands resting on his hips. "It is not my intention to interrupt your lovely exchange of views, but I am hungry, and I know Oleg will send guards looking for us if we don't return inside soon. I know you two get along really well, but let's leave it for later, shall you?" The young prince gasped and walked to the front door of the palace. “I can’t handle their teeth-rooting sweetness,” he whispered to himself.

Ivar rolled his eyes after listening to Igor's rant and led you back to the palace. "Having Igor between two fires tomorrow might be a wise idea if he continues to behave this way."

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heavenlymorals · 1 year

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Of Christ and Yuletide

Summary: As Ivar stared out the Kyiv skyline, watching the people down below, Prince Igor asks him to come inside, which then to leads to discussions regarding the winter holidays.

This is my entry for the NorsetalesforWinter winter event hosted by the wonderful @nothingtolosebutweight and @barnes-lothbrok ❤ This is the first fandom event that I've ever attended and I hope you all enjoy~

Kyiv was Lord Hodr’s plaything.

Or, in other words, Kyiv was cold. Unbearingly cold. Gods, it was almost stupidly cold. It was the type of cold that burned your skin to settle in your bones, leaving you lifeless, with lips the color of purple royalty and skin the color of the skies. In the back of his mind, Ivar was sure that Kattegat was colder than Kyiv, considering, if his navigational skills weren’t completely useless, that the city was south of Kattegat, but still.

The cold made his lashes thick with frost and skin more delicate than silk. It made his hands kin to ice. It made his heart go numb and his soul ache. Perhaps that was the cold of Kyiv. Not the breath of winter as he blew over all, forcing them all to wallow in a sub-zero decay, but the cold that he felt inside him. Clamoring, wasting, a monster with jagged teeth whose stomach was an endless void, a glutton for anything and everything. Who took, and took, and took, and left one with nothing.

Loneliness. The monster was loneliness. Once again, and forevermore, Ivar was lonely and this time, he had only himself to blame. Not the gods, not the people of Kattegat who wanted nothing to do with him as a Prince or as King, not his parents, not his brothers.

Only him.

And truthfully, that hurt more than anything.

He sighed and balled his fists a couple of times before flexing out his fingers. Why he did this, he had no idea. Ivar then wrapped his hands around himself, pushing the thick black coat that he was given closer to his skin. He was on one of the balconies of the palace and was leaning against the railing, his crutch beside him as he supported his body on the thick railing.

The wind blew with vigor, the force almost knocking him off his feet. A harsh shiver forced its way up his spine again. The wind became harsher when Ivar realized that it was accompanied by snow. The snow dusted Kyiv all over. Perhaps a bit childishly, Ivar tilted his head upwards and flicked out his tongue, catching two snowflakes, which melted immediately. He felt odd as he thought about when was the last time he did that. Kattegat. Yes, Kattegat.

Pathetic.

He sighed and began to look outwards again.

Kyiv was cold, an image straight out of Niflheim, but it still held its own beauty, one that can only come from a people who learned to accept Kyiv for what she is and build their lives around her identity. Ivar was in awe as he stared out, at the temples-turned-churches, at the towers touching the sky and the clouds, at the people down below illuminated by golden light as they carried torches to quickly take shelter from the snow. He then looked up. The sky was streaked with clouds, and behind those curtains, the stars peaked out, numerous, glittering, sprinkled everywhere. The moon was a crescent and provided little light, thus the torches had to make do.

He then began to wonder as he watched. About many things. Many stupid, insignificant things. About the cold. About the snow. About the lives of the many people who scattered under the balcony. The animals too.

Suddenly, he was that young boy back in Kattegat, bored and tired and hurt from watching his brothers play without bothering to include him and thus crawling to the market district in Kattegat to sit behind a crate or two to just watch people. They never noticed him. He was invisible, about as invisible as the mistletoe that is destined to kill Baldr by the hand of Hodr. The cripple will kill his better half and then the world will end.

Or so, that’s what they say. The Seer once said that he shared the likeness of both the “good son” and the “forgotten son” of the lords on high. What that means though, is still a mystery, and since the Seer has been killed (by your own hand, you monster), Ivar didn’t bother with it. The Seer’s words only hurt his head and damaged his ego in the most inconspicuous ways.

In any case, he watched people and began to learn a lot. There was a woman who had five children and not one of them was her husband’s. There was a man who poisoned his brother for his inheritance and blamed his death on sickness. There was a man who hated another man so much that as revenge, he would fuck his enemy’s young daughter, a shapely, pretty thing, right behind his house. Ivar saw the good, the bad, the admirable, the deplorable, everything as he watched Kattegat.

“Ivar? It is very cold. You come inside?"

And he watched him too. Igor, Prince Igor to be exact, was the young boy who owned all the skies and lands of the land of the Rus. Or would own. His soft voice, still delicate by the sheen of childhood, was made choppy by the whistling wind and the fact that he was speaking in Ivar's Norse tongue, or at the very least trying to. It made Ivar smile, that the child would willingly struggle just so he can make Ivar more comfortable by speaking his native tongue. Ivar was sure Oleg taught him, but still.

Oh, the innocence of children was something so pure, so beautiful. Even someone as debauched and tainted as Ivar could see that. Igor was the prince-to-be-king of all the Rus. He shouldn’t care about such things, shouldn’t even think of them, but the fact that he did was precious.

It made Ivar’s heart ache. Poor, poor child. So naive to reality.

Ivar turned his head around and answered the Prince in his Rus tongue. He learned it rather quickly. Oddly quickly. Same with the Saxons’ language. It was a gift that the brood of Ragnar and Aslaug seemed to have. To learn and master tongues in such a limited time.

“Hello, Prince Igor. It’s quite alright. It’s not that cold.” Liar. If it weren’t for his pure stubbornness, he probably would’ve shattered like a delicate sculpture made of ice after someone throws it at the ground with passion. Igor knew this, for he raised one eyebrow and looked at him as if he was a fool.

“I hear…I heard your brother Hvitserk once mutter that you are crazy. He must be right if you think that this is not cold. I can see ice on your lashes. What are you even doing out here?” Igor attempted to continue his Norse speech but promptly gave up and like a fish to water, it was quite obvious that he was far more comfortable with his native tongue. Ivar smirked at that and smirked even more at Igor’s observation of his mental state. He wasn’t even wrong.

Ivar then shrugged and continued looking forwards. “I am watching. The view is rather interesting.”

Igor’s delicate face scrunched up in confusion. “What is there to watch?” He then skipped to the balcony where Ivar was and heaved himself upwards a bit on the railing to have a better view of what captured Ivar’s eyes. Almost automatically, Ivar’s left hand left its folded position and hovered like a fly over Igor’s collar, there to catch him in case something happened. Igor did not notice, to which Ivar was glad.

One time, when Oleg peeled Ivar away from Igor for another moment of odd affinity between them, he fleetingly and perhaps bitterly joked about Ivar’s “motherly tendencies” (Oleg’s words, not Ivar’s) towards Igor, to which Ivar had taken offense to, though refused to properly acknowledge, as Oleg was like a storm, and like a storm, you cannot choose whether or not it’ll spare you.

It made him think, though. About that part of life that he was so close to, or at least thought he was so close to having. For as much as he bullied Ubbe, wherever that bastard was, for wanting to “settle down”, he did find parts of it to be attractive, such as the joys of fatherhood, real fatherhood, not the spectacle that Ragnar made of his four other children, to have them only to have them, as ornaments to his name and not as actual sons. Maybe it was just the primitive nature of man, or maybe it was Ivar’s desire for a normalcy that fleeted away from him like he was the plague the second that he was born with his wilted limbs, but Ivar longed for fatherhood.

That was the reason, he was sure now, why he allowed Freydis to carry on with her “divine child” charade for as long as she did. He was not a fool. He was not crazy, though many would seem to disagree (even himself, at times).. He knew that he couldn’t father a child. He knew that he couldn’t conceive a child by his blood. But still. It was such a pretty fantasy that he allowed it to continue until it became pretty no longer.

Sweet Baldr. Sweet child, weep no more, for you are in the embrace of the gods. It pained Ivar still, to think of his son. It pained Ivar to think that the only reason why he killed him was so he wouldn’t have to suffer the same way Ivar had and still has to suffer. Ivar made himself a name because of his ferocity and his tenacity, yet still, he was miserable.

His thoughts were interrupted by Igor’s babbling.

“There is the baker! He’s got with him some sacks of grain. And there is the smith, he’s closing up his shop. And there is a mother and her child, and there is the priest, and there is a man drinking, and there is…well, there is nothing interesting.”

Ivar chuckled a bit and gently patted the top of Igor’s head. He would ruffle his hair if it wasn’t covered by his hat, which he noticed was crooked, as Igor probably only wanted to quickly find him and then come back inside. Almost automatically, he fixed the position of the hat, which Igor didn’t even care to notice as his eyes were still in a hawkish mode as he stared down Kyiv.

“There are many interesting things if you take the time to think, even if the view itself doesn’t seem interesting, Prince Igor. Look over there,” Ivar explained, pointing to a small scene of two men speaking to each other in a shifty way, their heads turning to random sounds like dogs, all perked up, “it’s just two men talking, but why are they so paranoid? Why are they looking around every now and then? And what about that woman over there?” Ivar pointed to a woman who was clutching something close to her chest, a bundle, taking an effort to conceal it as much as possible, “what is she hiding? What is she doing?”

Igor tilted his head a bit, like one of those colorful birds that Ivar had the pleasure to see during his travels on the silk road, all blue and yellow, and then crossed his arms on the railing. “I don’t know…Maybe those men are planning something special and are trying to keep it a secret from their families. For Christmas maybe? And maybe the woman is just trying to keep whatever she's holding warm? A baby?”

Ivar blinked a couple of times at the innocence of Igor’s reasoning and then smiled. Perhaps he was in a charitable mood, so he didn’t bother to bring forth more nihilistic possibilities of the behavior of these people. “Hmph, you’re probably right. But still. The behavior of everyone, no matter how insignificant, stems from something, and sometimes, those things can be important. To you, especially, as you are royalty.”

Igor rocked on his feet back and forth for a bit, probably fidgeting to keep himself at least just a bit warmer. Or maybe it was just the mannerisms of children. One of the two.

“Well…Every royal family has spies, Uncle Oleg told me once, though he was drunk…” Igor began.

Ivar nodded. “Yes, he’s correct, they all do. How else would we get anything done?”

“So if I want to know stuff, I can just send them to do it for me! It just seems so boring…I’d rather go to the puppet shows.”

Ivar laughed. “Of course, you can, but you can always trust your own eyes far more than you can others, especially if you have the moment to do so. Humanity is so colorful, my dear Igor, and many of those colors are so, so ugly.” Ivar sounded wistful, and philosophical, as he stared up into the sky and watched the streaking of the stars.

Igor raised his brow and looked at the Norseman before replying a few moments later. “...You should probably come inside, Ivar. The cold is making you say weird things.”

Well then.

Before Ivar could answer that cheeky revelation that isn’t even wrong, Igor grabbed his empty hand, the one that wasn’t grasping the crutch, and all but forced him to come inside. Attentively, Igor made sure to watch the way he moved so as to not hurt Ivar, which Ivar found sweet but rather unnecessary. He didn’t say anything though. Perhaps he was growing soft like Ubbe, but he found the gesture to warm the coldness that he willingly forced himself into, to continue his timely tradition of people-watching, something that his late mother told him he had in common with Ragnar.

A few moments later, Ivar found himself in Igor’s room. Igor led him to sit on his bed. It was heavenly warm, a very lovely contrast to before, and Ivar took notice of the decorations that quaintly painted the room in splashes of rustic charm. Rustic and so, so familiar.

Igor must’ve noticed his staring and then climbed on top of a table to pluck off an ornament from the tree that the servants put in his room. He then jumped back down, with all the enthusiasm that a young boy can have, and handed it over to Ivar, who nodded and then began to look over the thing, taking note of the details, the grooves. The ornament was made of light-colored wood and depicted the scene of a woman and man looking over a crib with a child while a lamb sat down in front of the crib. He tilted his head a bit.

“I am assuming this is for your Christmas holiday, yes?”

Igor nodded. “Yes. That’s Mary and that’s her husband Joseph and the child is our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

Ivar’s thumb grazed gently over the face of the wooden child and then smirked when he touched the lamb. “And what’s the lamb for? Is it a sibling to your Christ?”

Igor let out a giggle and then gasped, putting his hands over his mouth. “You can’t say stuff like that, Ivar!”

“Why not? Would your Uncle Oleg get angry?”

Igor shook his head violently. “No, no, he’d probably laugh, but still! The priest told me that good Christians shouldn’t joke about such things. It’s blasphemy.”

Ivar smirked and then gave back the ornament to Igor. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m no Christian, then, hmm? Don’t worry your little head about blasphemy. And anyway, she gave birth to your Christ without a father. Is it that unbelievable that your Christ may share blood with a lamb?” Inwardly, Ivar thought about the man who told him that story. Bishop Heahmund. Strong, butch, vicious, lying Heahmund.

Perhaps he should’ve expected such treachery from the man, but like with Freydis, he was enamored by the image that he bestowed upon the man without him ever knowing. He wondered where Heahmund was now, whether he was alive or dead. Back when he was King of Kattegat, he hoped to the Gods that Heahmund was dead, rotting with the maggots, his death anything but honorable. Now? Not so much. Technically, Heahmund did what was asked of him. He fought for Ivar. Almost died for him too. Besides that, he had nothing connecting him to Ivar other than a debt of gratitude for keeping him alive which the Christian never wanted. In a strange way, Ivar missed him. His talks, his odd stories, his stalwart allegiance to his god. It was attractive, in an odd, odd way. He couldn’t try to explain it even if he wanted to.

His odd infatuation with odder Christians did not end with Heahmund. There was Oleg too, though he was cut from a different cloth. He cared little about the odd Christian rituals that Heahmund was obsessive over, though that could be credited to the fact that he was a Prince and not someone whose reputation and legacy come specifically from the Church, like Heahmund. Both men indulged in their carnal desires, as any man should, but whilst Heahmund was ashamed of the matter, coy even, Oleg couldn’t care less. He drank, he fucked, and when he prayed, it wasn’t for forgiveness, but to expand his influence, the reach he had in these snow-capped lands.

He liked that. How unapologetic Oleg was. How he cared little about what anyone thought of him. That was obvious. It made him so charismatic and so magnetic that even Ivar became trapped in his web of gilded words and pretty promises. And how pretty there were…

He was also wary of how unapologetic Oleg was. That made him dangerous. It made Ivar feel like a wife who was always alert because her husband would always come home reeking of mead and ale, which would then make his moods unpredictable. For how generous Oleg was to him, Ivar also knew that it had much to do with his forced submissiveness to the man, a state of being that humiliated him whilst also keeping him very much alive, which, at this point, was all he craved.

“Uh…Yes? It’s too strange. Do you have a figure in your faith who gave birth to an animal?”

Ivar nodded and Igor’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes. There is the Jotun Angrboda, who gave birth to a wolf and a snake, Fenrir and Jormangandr. Her consort, Loki, another Jotun, also gave birth to an eight-legged horse named Sleipnir who our King God Odin rides, though in his defense, he was in the form of a mare when he did so.”

A few moments of silence pass. “You say it like it’s so normal!”

Ivar shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. And besides, Loki and Angrboda aren’t gods like the Aesir or the Vanir, so we don’t care to give them their own carvings during this time.”

“During this time?” Igor questioned, the fire from the fireplace making his blue eyes shine like precious jewels, the type that vain women would kill for to pluck and put on a circlet or a necklace. What a precious boy.

“Yes. Back home, I’m sure the people are getting ready to celebrate Yuletide.” His voice was wistful, nostalgic. Perhaps even a little melancholic. Igor could tell.

“Yuletide? Isn’t that a celebration for your gods? Uncle Oleg told me once. He showed me a carving of two of your gods that you make whilst celebrating. He got it from a Danish tradesman. If I can find it, I’ll show it to you,” Igor offered and Ivar couldn’t help but smile. He could read Igor very well, now.

As much as the boy was sprung up to show Ivar the intricacies of the culture of the Rus, one that came from the wayward Norse who made their own way in this mysterious land, he was also just as aware and interested in Ivar’s ways, of the Norse’s ways. He could sense that Ivar missed Scandinavia. If he were to find the carving, he would give it to Ivar. Oleg shouldn’t care. He gave it to Igor after all. He had many more trinkets.

“Yes. During Yuletide, we celebrate our Gods and ask them for prosperity. Children are also told by their parents that they must behave, or else our King God, Odin, will take them away with his Wild Hunt. In return, they are given gifts. Small gifts in their shoes, as they leave out hay for Sleipnir in them, and bigger ones under a tree. Similar to the ones you have here. Those carvings that you spoke about? We hang them on the tree. An honor to the gods and whatnot. Your decorations and garlands reminded me of that, I suppose.”

Igor nodded and then smiled. “Well…Is the Christian God one of them that you celebrate?” There was a hopeful gleam in Igor’s eyes. It amused Ivar. Oh, Christians…

“I don’t think our gods would be amused if we were to dedicate our celebration to only one god. We have many gods, not only one, child.” Back in York, if Heahmund was to ask him something similar, though he never would as even acknowledging Ivar’s gods or celebrations for those gods would probably burn his tongue, Ivar would be smug and grin and tell him that his Christian God was a selfish God who expected too much and would only be satisfied by his followers turning to groveling worms. But this wasn’t Heahmund. This wasn’t Oleg either, who appreciated Ivar’s Norse ways, but who found them as valid as wives’ tales.

“And besides, don’t you Christians believe in only your Christ god,” Ivar continued. Igor shrugged before getting up to start pacing around his abode, opening chests and carding through piles of trinkets and knick-knacks that were placed neatly around the furniture, on the tables, and in the chests.

“Sure. But if Uncle Oleg can be a god, why can’t you celebrate more than one? Whenever Uncle Oleg hosts parties, it’s always like a holiday. A holiday dedicated to him, the prophet.”

Ivar chuckled. “Do you truly believe that your Uncle is a god?”

Igor shook his head and continued looking around for, well, whatever it was that he was looking for. “No, but it sometimes seems like it. He sees and hears everything. You can’t do anything without him knowing, and if he doesn’t know, he will find out, and then…if it’s something he doesn’t like, you disappear. Maybe he hasn’t created the world, but, as far as the Rus is concerned, he is a god.”

Ivar blinked a couple of times. And what a god he was, that Oleg. He gave Ivar a life of luxury, the warmth of another body, and the prestige of a prince that Ivar took to like a hand that would fit a well-worn glove. And Ivar was grateful for that, perhaps even indebted. Yet Oleg took. He took and took. He took his autonomy, his freedom. He was a prisoner here, no matter how pretty Kyiv was.

It felt strange to hear such, well, daunting words coming from a child. But in a court filled with nothing but lies, treachery, and shadows, such revelations would be obvious to a boy, especially one that is a heir to a land so vast and so wise. “Your Uncle is no more a god than I am, Igor. And I promise you, with everything I can do, I will make sure you are no more a prisoner of this gilded cage.”

Igor stopped his little search for a few seconds before starting again. Ivar stayed quiet and let the boy continue on his quest. A few more moments later and Igor seemed to have found what he wanted. In his hand was a small wooden carving, similar in shape to the one he showed him before, the scene of Christ being born, but one depicting something else. He skipped over to Ivar and gave it to him, a smile on his precious face. Ivar looked down at the carvings and took note of the two figures carved on them.

Both of the figures were wearing male garments, thus they were gods, not goddesses. The figure on the left had a smile on his abstract face, with hair that reached the small of his back. The wood was not stained there, thus the figure’s hair was golden. Near his head were lines depicting sheens of light. The figure on the right was more somber in his emotions and though his hair was of a similar length to the god on the left, it was stained, thus he had dark hair. On his face, interestingly, were bandages covering his eyes and in his right hand was an arrow.

Ever the pious man when it came to his gods, Ivar instantly knew what the carving was hoping to predict.

“That’s the carving I told you about! See, that’s the two gods. Their names are Baldr and Hodr.”

Ivar nodded his head and looked the carving over, a soft smile gracing his red lips. “I can see that. You can tell. Hodr is blind and Baldr is said to be so beautiful that light emits for his visage.”

Igor nodded, taking note of the information before asking another question.

“What are they the gods of?”

“Oh, many things. Baldr is the god of beauty and light, obviously. The summer sun as well. Purity and innocence and righteousness. He is also said to be one of the wisest gods, one whom all would go to ask for advice,” sometimes, Ivar wished he asked Baldr for wisdom instead of Odin, eccentric as he was, “and to the right is his brother Hodr. He is the light god’s twin and opposite. His domain is darkness and cold and winter. They prefer Baldr, my people, but without Hodr, Baldr’s gifts would hold no value.”

Igor nodded and then grazed his thumb on the arrow in Hodr’s hand. “Why does he hold an arrow? Is he a god of the hunt as well?”

Ivar shook his head. “No, no. Well, not that I’m aware of. That’s the arrow he will use to no doubt kill his twin with in the future.”

Igor’s eyes widened. “Why would he do that? Was he jealous?”

Ivar laughed. “Anyone would be jealous of Baldr, but no. His mother, our mother Goddess, Frigga, wished for no one to kill her son, as he informed her that he began to have nightmares of his death. Other than just completing the role of protecting one’s children, she also knows that his death would mark the beginning of Ragnarok, the end of the world, and the end of the old Gods’ reign. She then goes across the realms and asks of everything to take an oath to never harm her son. Every animal, every insect, every rock and plant. All except one. The mistletoe.”

“Why would she ignore the mistletoe?” Igor asked, furrowing his eyebrows. He climbs onto his bed and sits next to Ivar, pressing his side to Ivar’s. Ivar, almost automatically, wrapped one of his arms around Igor, pulling him closer to him.

“It was too young. In any case, the Jotun Loki, the one I told you about earlier, was jealous of Baldr, and thus found out about the mistletoe. He carved an arrow from the wood and went to Asgard. The Aesir were busy entertaining themselves by throwing things at Baldr, knowing that he wouldn’t be harmed. Hodr, being blind, didn’t take much part in the fun. Loki came to him, giving him the arrow, and told him he’d help him take part in the commotion. Hodr took the opportunity and Loki guided his hand. He killed his brother, not knowing he even could, and Loki slipped away, thus the blame was put on the god of the night, even though it was an accident. And when that happens, Fimbulwinter will begin. It will be three years with nothing but winter. And then Ragnarok will happen, the twilight of the gods.”

Igor was silent for a few moments and then looked up at Ivar. “That’s…That’s very sad. I hope it won’t happen.”

Ivar smiled and then ruffled Igor’s head. Igor yelped and batted away Ivar’s hand, which made the Norseman laugh. “You’re a Christian, aren’t you? How can any of this happen if none of them exist,” Ivar asked playfully. Igor huffed.

“It’s still sad, though!”

“Yes…Yes, it’s sad. Here,” Ivar brought the carving to Igor’s hands but the boy gently pushed the offer away, which puzzled Ivar.

“Keep it. It’s a gift. Maybe it can remind you of home,” Igor said, smiling, and the tone of his voice made it clear that the boy would not take no for an answer, thus, Ivar refused to refuse his offer. And besides, it made him warm inside, this touch of Scandinavia, a place he missed dearly, for, with all its faults, it was home. Igor deserved far, far more than Oleg or Ivar. At least Ivar was proud to admit that his fondness for the young boy did not only stem from his title as a prince and future heir.

“Are you sure,” he then settled to ask.

“Of course! You’re my friend Ivar. On Christmas day, I’ll get you a bigger gift, I promise.”

Ivar snorted and hugged Igor closer to him, giving him a firm kiss on his head. “Thank you, Igor. I'll get you a gift as well.”

Igor grinned and then yawned. “You don’t have to, but thank you, Ivar…”

It did not take long for the young boy to fall asleep and Ivar didn’t have it in him to let the young child go.

So he didn’t.

He held him tight and pressed him close to him, much like how a wolf would do anything to protect its pups.

Ivar closed his eyes and began to dream of a future that had more to him than just this mindless existence, one that existed just to suffer in misery and pity.

Who will Ivar the Boneless be? In the future, what will his life, his fate entail?

He had no idea.

Kyiv was cold. But for now?

For now, he was warm.

#vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #prince igor #igor #prince oleg #bishop heahmund #mentioned prince oleg #mentioned bishop heahmund #christmas #yuletide #norsetalesforwinter

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