Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Sol stood high in the sky, draped in her resplendent golden veil, casting a warm embrace over the people of Kattegat. Her presence was gentle today, her light neither harsh nor distant, but welcoming, almost as if she had been coaxed into kindness. As if some unseen force had lured her forth to bestow favor upon this day.

Perhaps the culprit was Hvitserk, Ivar mused. His brother’s mirth was infectious, his spirit so light these days that even the gods seemed drawn to him, basking in his presence. It was easy to believe that his unbridled joy had called Sol from her slumber, persuading her to shine so kindly upon their people today. The thought held an air of myth, something their ancestors might have spun into a tale over cups of mead. But as Ivar watched Hvitserk, so full of laughter and warmth, he found himself believing it to be true.

The wedding feast sprawled beneath the open sky, where the scent of the sea mingled with freshly cut grass and roasting meat. Long wooden tables stood laden with food and drink, surrounded by warriors and shieldmaidens raising their cups in wild toasts. Laughter and song echoed through the valley, carried by the breeze that rustled through the towering trees. Children wove between the revelers, weaving garlands of flowers and chasing one another over the sun-dappled hills.

At the center of it all stood Hvitserk, his presence radiant, his arm curled tightly around Amma, his new wife as if she were the only thing anchoring him to the ground, before he might take flight, carried away by the sheer weightlessness of his joy. His happiness was palpable, a force so warm and bright that even Ivar felt it seep into his own bones. It was still a somewhat unfamiliar feeling. One that had been foreign to him for most of his life, but lately, it surfaced more and more, especially when he saw Hvitserk like this. His joy was contagious, impossible to resist.

There had been a time when he might have resented this. When jealousy would have crept in, bitter and sharp. He had once craved power more than peace, had sought control over connection. And in his reckless pursuit of dominance, he had pushed Hvitserk to his darkest depths, testing his loyalty beyond reason. Some people still whispered that Ivar was the reason for his brother’s worst days, that he had played with Hvitserk’s mind like a cruel trickster, too consumed by his own hunger for victory to see the damage he inflicted. And they were right. He had done terrible things, had hurt his brother in ways that would have broken lesser men.

But Hvitserk had forgiven him. Somehow. And though that meant the world to Ivar, he still didn’t know how to fully accept it. Didn’t know what to do with the quiet warmth that came with knowing his brother was still here, still standing by his side, being an anchor to his past, a link to the family he had long feared losing entirely. It unsettled him almost as much as it comforted him.

But now, none of that mattered. What mattered was the present, and with it, the rare and precious sight of Hvitserk truly at peace, holding Amma close in his arms, a bright future upon them. And for the first time, Ivar felt none of his old resentment, none of his usual impulse to taint something beautiful simply because he could. 

Almost, at least.

Ivar actually felt a certain joy at seeing his brother revel in happiness. He watched him with a rare, genuine smile on his face, but the longer he watched Hvitserk's joy unfold, how he so openly showered Amma with affection, the more Ivar also felt the familiar sting of jealousy gnawing at him. Impossible to ignore. 

It wasn’t the same kind of jealousy that used to burn hot in his chest, the kind that would twist his insides with bitterness and make his fingers itch to tear down what others had built. That old jealousy had been wild and unruly, feeding on his deepest fears, turning his love into cruelty. It had made him lash out, had driven him to push people away before they had the chance to leave him first. But this, this was different.

This jealousy did not fester with anger; it was quiet, creeping in like the tide, lapping at the edges of his mind with a dull ache he couldn’t quite shake off. It did not make him want to destroy anything. It did not ignite the need to wound or claim. Instead, it settled deep in his bones, leaving behind a heavy, aching hollowness. A sadness. One that made his chest feel tight, his shoulders heavy. One that made him want to turn away, to slip into the shadows, to hide himself from the world before anyone could see the longing etched into his face. Because no matter how much he told himself that he was happy for Hvitserk - and he was - this feeling would not leave him, made him feel ashamed about himself in addition.

It clung to him, whispering in the back of his mind, reminding him of things he would never have.

Seated upon a carved wooden throne on the end of a long table, Ivar let his gaze wander across the lively gathering until it fell upon the one man who both unsettled and completed him in equal measure.

Bishop Heahmund stood a few paces away, fully integrated among the people of Kattegat. He wore simple black linen garments, the fabric hugging his torso and accentuating the powerful build hidden underneath. A thick white wolf-fur cloak hung over his shoulders, giving him an air of quiet authority, almost regal in its presence. Yet, despite how seamlessly he had adopted the Viking ways in many aspects, two things set him visibly apart: his unbraided hair, shorter than that of any Viking warrior, and the heavy cross pendant resting against his chest, a stark reminder that, no matter how much he adapted, a part of him would always remain tethered to the faith of his past.

The Saxon warrior observed the feast with sharp, discerning eyes, always watching, always knowing and just seconds after Ivar let his eyes feast on this - in his opinion - most handsome man, Heahmund caught him. As if he had felt the weight of Ivar’s stare as if he had known all along.

A slow, knowing smile spread across Heahmund’s lips, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. Then, just as subtly, unmistakably, he winked. A fleeting gesture, yet deliberate. 

Ivar had never met another who could read him so well. It was unnerving, infuriating even, this feeling of being utterly exposed before a man who, by all reason, should have despised him. Others feared him, admired him, loathed him, but Heahmund? He saw him. He saw through him. He had looked past the cruel smirks, past the sharp edges of his arrogance and the reckless hunger for power. He saw what no one else ever dared to look at - the fear buried beneath the bravado, the aching loneliness, the desperate, unspoken plea for someone who would not turn away.

Apparently, he had seen a young man worth staying for, someone deserving of love, even when he felt unworthy of it himself. Heahmund had stayed. Through the madness, through the bloodshed, through those agonizing moments when Ivar had been certain he had gone too far, had torn apart whatever fragile bubble of happiness he had found. Yet Heahmund had remained loyal, never wavering when he lashed out, never retreating when the worst of him came to light. No, Heahmund had stood by him, matching him blow for blow, calling him out with raw honesty when his pride made him blind, anchoring him when the weight of his own demons threatened to swallow him whole.

Heahmund had shaped him into a better man so to say, a better leader for his people and a better brother to Hvitserk.

Feeling that kind of happiness, the certainty of being loved, of having someone who truly cared for him, was both a gift and a curse when he could not claim it openly. To have it, yet be unable to live in it freely, to touch it only in stolen moments and hushed whispers, was a torment that gnawed at Ivar. It ached like an old wound that would never fully heal, a dull pain that flared into something sharper whenever he saw how freely Hvitserk and Amma could show their affection for one another.

His brother had no such chains. No need for secrecy, no fear of scorn. Hvitserk could love openly, without restraint, without consequence. He kissed Amma freely, pulled her into his arms whenever he pleased, as if the world around them did not exist. And gods, it grew unbearable for Ivar to watch. Every stolen kiss between them, every lingering touch, every whisper shared in plain sight was a blade twisting in Ivar’s gut, reminding him of how badly he wanted to act on his feelings as well.

All he wanted was to reach for Heahmund, to take his handsome face between his hands and press his lips against his, to claim him, not in secret, not in shadows, but under the same open sky that graced Hvitserk’s love. He wanted the people of Kattegat to cheer for him as they did for Amma and his brother, but that was a luxury he would never be able to experience. And so, he remained still, swallowing his longing like bitter poison, watching, aching, yearning, while he tried to keep a warm smile on his face.

The longer he sat there, the more restless Ivar became as he simply observed his surroundings, trying not to let his mood be spoiled. The last thing he wanted was to ruin Hvitserk’s day just because he couldn’t have what he wanted. He refused to be that bitter, jealous child he had once been, the one who lashed out, who destroyed what he could not claim.

A ghost of an old memory crept in, unbidden and unwelcome. A child’s cry. The sickening crunch of bone. His small fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of an axe far too heavy for his hands. The red that had splattered across his face, bright and violent, as vivid in his mind now as it had been then. He had wanted something - he could not even remember what - and when it was denied to him, he had taken his rage out in the only way he knew how.

That version of him was meant to stay buried. He was better now - at least when it came to family members.

His fingers toyed with the small objects in his pocket, feeling their cool weight against his skin, questioning the idea he had come up with a little while ago. He had been convinced of his decision, but now doubt crept in, gnawing at his resolve.

Would Heahmund find it foolish? Would he perhaps even laugh at him for being so sentimental?

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The warriors of Kattegat, already deep in their cups, roared in excitement at the moment the wedding race was announced. It was a contest of speed and endurance, a battle for honor - and for the groom’s dignity. Traditionally, the husband had to prove his worth, and should he lose, he would be forced to serve drinks for the rest of the day. A humiliation no Viking took lightly.

All eyes instinctively turned to Ivar. As the brother of the groom, the honor of running should have been his. But the unspoken expectation was a cruel reminder of what he could never do. His legs, weak and fragile were not meant for running. A shadow flickered across his face - so brief that most would not have noticed, but Heahmund did, sensing the sting of frustration in the flicker of his expression.

Before Ivar could even think about how to respond, Heahmund stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding. "I’ll run for him."

No one reacted with surprise. There had been a time when such a declaration from a Saxon might have stirred murmurs of skepticism or amusement, but that time was long past. Heahmund had fought beside them, bled beside them, stood his ground as fiercely as any Viking. His place was secured, his loyalty unquestioned. And so, instead of doubt, there were nods of acknowledgment, claps on his shoulder - an acceptance that had been hard-earned but was now absolute.

As he prepared, Heahmund shrugged off his thick wolf pelt, the heavy fur sliding from his shoulders before he draped it over the back of Ivar’s carved seat. His hand lingered for the briefest moment, pressing against Ivar’s shoulder in silent understanding. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He could already imagine the thoughts creeping into Ivar’s mind - the old wounds reopening, the frustration about his body's limitations clawing at him. Ivar had made peace with many things, but moments like these still had the power to sting. Heahmund’s touch was meant to anchor him, to say without words: I know. And I see you.

Then, he turned, rolling his shoulders as he stepped forward to take his place among the runners.

Hvitserk started to run, his usual ease and lightheartedness giving way to sheer competitiveness, but there was no denying that he had already had more mead than was wise before such a contest. His steps, while powerful, lacked precision. He staggered slightly as he pushed forward, his balance just a fraction off. More than once, his foot caught on uneven ground, forcing him to recover quickly to avoid a full stumble. The drunken cheer from the onlookers only fueled him further, but his body was not as sharp as his spirit.

Heahmund, by contrast, was relentless and less drunk, his aversion to mead keeping his mind clear. He ran like a man possessed, his muscles coiled with strength, his movements sharp and efficient. His breath remained steady as his boots pounded against the earth, his focus unshaken. Though Hvitserk kept pace at first, the minor missteps began to add up. The thick patches of grass became treacherous obstacles, the uneven terrain something he had to fight against rather than conquer.

The crowd roared in amusement and encouragement, both for Heahmund’s sheer determination and for Hvitserk’s increasingly reckless attempts to keep up.

And then, just at the last moment, Heahmund surged ahead. With one final push, he crossed the finish line first.

Ivar had watched the race with sharp eyes, his gaze never once leaving Heahmund. Admiration swelled in his chest, but as his beloved stood victorious - chest rising and falling with steady breaths, sweat glistening on his forehead - pride also took root in him as well as something more tender.

The thought that Heahmund had fought for him - not for the thrill of competition, not for his own honor, but for his - made Ivar’s smile return more naturally, without force or restraint. It was a quiet but undeniable truth: Heahmund always stepped in, always carried what he could not. And not because he had to. Because he wanted to.

Theoretically, this victory spared him from the fate of serving drinks for the rest of the day. Not that Ivar ever would have done it anyway. But still, the gesture lingered, warming him from the inside out, a slow, steady ember that refused to die down, even as Sol began her descent, shifting the air into a cool breeze brushing against his skin.

The festivities carried on with unbridled mirth, but the energy settled into something warmer, softer. The wild revelry of earlier was giving way to contentment, to the steady hum of voices, the occasional bursts of laughter. Ivar remained seated at the head of the table, and beside him, Heahmund had taken his rightful place.

For a while, they sat together as a king and his warrior might, eating, drinking, exchanging the occasional remark about the feast, the race, the quality of the food. To anyone watching, their conversation was as unremarkable as the dozens of others taking place around them. But beneath the surface, every moment stretched unbearably thin for Ivar.

Ivar could feel Heahmund’s presence like a fire at his side, burning through his composure. The warmth of him, the scent of sweat and musk and something distinctly him made Ivar’s longing almost impossible to bear. Every glance they shared was a battle, a silent war between the urge to act and the necessity to remain still.

So Ivar had done what little he could to create distance, sending Heahmund on meaningless errands throughout the evening. At first, he had obeyed without question, retrieving water, checking on the horses, ensuring the guards were still awake. But with every new request, Heahmund's hesitation to stand up and follow the nicely voiced order grew.

Most of the feastgoers had either stumbled off into the night or were too deep in their cups to pay attention to the king and his warrior. The long table was nearly empty by now, the air thick with the lingering scent of firewood and spilled mead when Ivar, once again, asked for a favor.

This time, Heahmund didn’t move. He simply leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.

"No."

Ivar turned to him, his brows knitting together. "No?"

"No." Heahmund repeated, his voice steady, unwavering. "I’m not leaving your side again. Whatever it is that weighs on you, I’ll stay here with you."

And then, beneath the table, Heahmund’s fingers brushed against Ivar’s. It was a simple touch, but deliberate. A quiet act of defiance against the world that demanded their love remain hidden. Ivar inhaled softly, his stiffened posture relaxed at the sensation, at the understanding that passed between them without words. Heahmund had seen it - his struggle, the tightness in his shoulders, the way his fingers had curled into fists more than once throughout the evening. And this was his answer. A silent promise. A reminder that he was here, that Ivar was not alone in this.

Ivar’s grip tightened around Heahmund’s fingers. A silent thank you. A confession without words. His free hand slipped into his pocket, fingertips grazing over the small objects he had kept hidden all evening.

He turned to Heahmund, voice low, steady despite the storm raging inside him.

"Come with me."

Heahmund didn’t hesitate this time. He rose to his feet, waiting for Ivar to follow so he could lead the way. They moved through the remnants of the celebration, past the warriors too drunk to care, past the flickering torches and the laughter that faded behind them. They walked in silence, through the darkened paths that led toward the cliffs, where the wind howled against the stone. And there, hidden between towering boulders and the whispering trees, they found solitude by the sea.

Ivar turned, the moon casting silver over his features as he took Heahmund’s hand in his own. His breathing was irregular, his pulse quickened from the exertion of the long walk.

"I have something for you," he murmured, but hesitated. He glanced away, suddenly too self-conscious, too uncertain to meet Heahmund’s gaze.

But Heahmund was having none of it. "I have something for you as well," he countered, guiding his hand to Ivar’s cheek, his touch firm yet gentle, tilting his face back toward him. And then, before Ivar could think, before he could second-guess, Heahmund leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss.

For a brief moment, Ivar’s instincts screamed at him to push away, to resist, too afraid that even here, someone might see. But then, reason took over. No one would find them here. They were alone. Safe.

And so, he let himself have it.

The tension melted from his body, and he yielded, sinking into the kiss, letting it consume him. His fingers curled into Heahmund’s tunic, pulling him closer, no longer hesitant, no longer reserved. The longing that had gnawed at him all day finally found release, and he took what he had been aching for, freely, hungrily, as if he could make up for all the stolen moments, all the times he had been forced to hold back.

Their lips parted only to meet again, again, and again. Each time slower, softer, as if neither of them could bear to let go entirely. Their breaths mingled, warm in the cool night air, fingers still tangled in fabric, unwilling to create distance just yet. Heahmund's nose brushed against Ivar's, a ghost of a touch, his lips lingering at the corner of Ivar’s mouth before finally, reluctantly, he pulled back just enough to whisper against his skin.

"What did you have for me?"

Ivar stiffened slightly, caught between the remnants of bliss and the sudden return of nerves. He swallowed, his fingers twitching at his sides before he forced a small, self-deprecating smile.

"Actually, no. It's stupid. Forget it."

Heahmund frowned. "Ivar…" His tone was already slipping into the firm cadence of a lecture, the kind that promised he wouldn’t let this go easily.

"No, really, it is foolish," Ivar interrupted, shaking his head, his hands tightening into fists. He exhaled sharply, glancing away as frustration flickered over his face. "I was just…when I helped Hvitserk with their rings, I thought - why not us as well? But we can’t. We never could. It’s meaningless. I…"

His words faltered as he reached into his pocket, pulling out two rings he had secretly crafted himself during the last days. Ivar hesitated only for a moment before opening his palm, letting them rest there under the pale moonlight, revealing them to Heahmund.

Heahmund’s gaze dropped to the rings, his expression unreadable as he let Ivar’s words sink in. His lips curved into the barest of smiles, and he lifted his gaze back to Ivar’s.

"We can't exchange them like your brother did. With people watching us," he mused, voice softer now, contemplative. "But we can still exchange them here, right?"

Ivar held his gaze, nodding in response. He had expected resistance, maybe even dismissal, but instead, Heahmund didn’t seem on the edge of laughing at him for such cheesy thinking.

Heahmund glanced down again, tilting his head slightly as he studied the two rings. "So," he murmured, "which one is yours?"

Ivar hesitated for only a heartbeat before lifting his finger, pointing at one. "This one."

Heahmund took the ring, lifting Ivar’s hand with a tenderness that contrasted the roughness of his warrior’s calloused fingers. His gaze never wavered, searching Ivar’s face. For a long moment, he remained silent, searching for the right words, knowing that this vow, though spoken only in whispers between them, would mean more than any oath he had ever taken before. He would neither speak as a priest nor as a warrior but as a man laying his heart bare.

"I swear to you, Ivar, son of Ragnar," he began, his voice softening into a tender cadence. "That I shall stand by your side for as long as breath fills my lungs. I will fight for you, bleed for you, shield you from all who wish you harm. But more than that…" he exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly around Ivar’s hand, grounding himself, grounding them both. "More than that, I will be yours. In battle and in quiet, in the darkest night and the brightest day. In the fiercest storm and the gentlest dawn. In laughter and in sorrow. I will be yours when the world sings your name and when it curses you. When you rise, and when you fall. I will be your wrath, should you ever need it, and your solace when the fight is done. I will be yours, will be at your side and not because I must, but because my heart chooses you above all else. This I vow."

With the final words, he slid the ring onto Ivar’s ringfinger, slow and deliberate, as if sealing something sacred.

Ivar exhaled sharply, his breath unsteady, as Heahmund’s words settled deep in his chest, wrapping around his heart with an intensity that left him momentarily speechless. The gesture, the quiet devotion in Heahmund’s voice, it was overwhelming for him. Had it been daylight, Heahmund might have seen the flush creeping over his cheeks, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly as he traced the cool band of metal now circling his finger.

The ring itself was simple, engraved only with simple symbols due to his limited abilities, and yet it carried a greater weight than gold or jewels ever could. 

For a moment, Ivar simply stared at it, his thumb brushing over its smooth surface, watching as the moonlight danced along the curve of the metal. A silent vow, resting warm against his skin. He swallowed thickly, drawing in a breath to steady himself, before finally, slowly, he reached for Heahmund’s hand, ready to give his own.

Almost at the same time, their eyes fell on the opulent ring already adorning Heahmund's finger.

Heahmund hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly before he slowly withdrew his hand from Ivar’s grip. A moment later, he pulled the bishop’s ring from his finger, turning it between his fingertips, his jaw tight. That ring had been his past - his faith, his duty, his identity. It had anchored him through war, through betrayal, through loss. For so long, it had been a part of him, a symbol of who he was. But now - now he had become someone else.

Someone who didn’t need that ring anymore. Or perhaps, more truthfully, someone who was no longer defined by the duty that came with it. Wearing the bishop’s ring had just become a habit by now. One, he was willing to give up without a second thought.

He did not cast it aside, did not abandon it, but instead, with quiet reverence, slipped the ring into his pocket. A silent farewell, an acknowledgment of the man he had once been.

Ivar watched him carefully, understanding settling deep in his chest. And when Heahmund’s hand was bare, stripped of old oaths and bindings, Ivar lifted it anew, bringing it to his lips. He pressed a lingering kiss to the place where the Christian symbol had rested, his breath warm against Heahmund’s skin.

Ivar swallowed, his grip firm but reverent as he held Heahmund’s hand in his own. His breath was unsteady, but his resolve was not. He had never been a man of soft words, had even never thought himself capable of feeling something as consuming as this. It was hard for him to find the right words, but he just started.

"I vow to you, Heahmund, that I shall never turn my back on you," he began, his voice low but unwavering. "I will never take for granted the sacrifices you've made for me. You mean more to me than you'll ever know, more than I can find the words to say. You've stood by me when no one else would, when even I doubted myself. You’ve seen everything. The rage, the hurt, the ambition, and still, you stayed. You stayed." He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly, as if he could hardly believe the truth of it. "No one has ever done that for me. No one has ever been… you."

His fingers reached up, trembling just a little as they brushed over Heahmund’s jaw, a touch so gentle it felt as though it might shatter him if he lingered too long. "Whatever storms come," Ivar whispered, voice thick, "we'll face them together. In life and in death, my heart will always be bound to you." His voice softened further, turning almost reverent. "And I will make sure that you never want for anything. Be I a king or a man with nothing but the strength in my hands, your well-being will always be my first thought, my first priority. Whatever force seeks to take you from me, I will strike down, be it men or gods alike."

With trembling hands, Ivar lifted the second ring from his palm, his breath hitching as he slid it onto Heahmund’s finger, over the place where the old ring had once sat. He held it there, his thumb tracing the cool metal, the meaning of the moment sinking deeper into his soul. "You're mine," he murmured, voice softer now but unwavering. "And I am yours. That, I swear to you."

Their lips met, slow and lingering, the weight of their vows settling between them. The distant crash of waves against the shore, the rustling of wind through the trees - everything felt softer, quieter, as if even the world itself dared not intrude on what had just been sealed between them. They were not warriors, nor leaders, nor outcasts. They were simply two souls bound not by law, but by something far stronger.