T H E S E R P E N T

When she arrives home Dagny's breath is short, and sweat sticks to her breeches. A cold sweat,she decides, is the worst kind of sweat. It fills the body with heat, but teeth remain chattering like the irregular beat of drums. At the moment her jaw is sore from chattering, and her palm is numb from the bow string. A crusted line of crimson brands the flesh where the string rested and her nails dug in only yesterday. It could have been days or hours spent in that forest, for the time appeared to stop. The work of magic or the trick of the sun. Dagny knows it's the latter, yet she still carries a doubt. The gods are fickle creatures, and Dagny doesn't put their tricks past her. Their love for humanity is only as strong as their desire to torment.

Another trick is the silence surrounding the farm. The animals hardly stir, and Dagny can't make out a shout from Bardi or the thump of Hlodvir's feet. She's just below the hill they reside upon. From this view not a single silhouette rests against the pens. Yir usually enjoys sneaking sweets to the horses before supper.

Dagny battles the panic that swells in her chest. Her gaze rises to the setting sun. Has she arrived too late and missed supper? That is the logical solution. Winter is a fickle mistress. There are times when she welcomes the evening earlier, and others where she begs for a few more moments with the sun. Winter's unpredictable mood isn't an excuse for Dagny's mother. If the girl doesn't want to worry over being late, she shouldn't go into the woods.

But there's something off to the silence she can't place. It isn't from peace of mouths greedily shoving in soup. There's an edge to it. Like a blade grazing against skin with the threat of pressing too hard. Something was grazing her home, and it wasn't a gentle hand that led the knife.

A raven squalls in the sky above, sending Dagny almost as high in the air. The birds flies past as if she isn't there, and comes to a stop on the roof of the hut. Her skin prickles in discomfort. Have you come to take revenge for your friend?

Except there's something greater to fear below the roof. Outside their home stands her mother. The rage that consumes the woman is thick enough that Dagny can pick up the scent. Her posture rigid in an attempt to appear taller. Slightly wrinkled hands press into her round hips, eyes narrowed into slits. She's angry, raw, and absolutely terrifying to Dagny. A predator bathing in the remnants of sunlight. Dagny lacks a feminine touch, but she doesn't lack common sense. She sprints toward home with the little energy that remains.

"What did you do?" Her mother's voice echoes across the mountains. A haunting song of rage. She waits until they're inches apart before she speaks once more. "Does that forest render you deaf? What did you do, you stupid thing?"

They stand before one another--mother and daughter. Identical in the face, but that's where it ends. One resembles an archer and the other resembles the wife. But Dagny's father once told her long ago, that in arguments with the warrior—his wife always wins.

What did I do? Dagny wonders. I killed a raven. Did the one on our roof tell you about it? Has the king of the gods sent him here to kill me and our livestock? Are you all to starve this winter due to the blood on my hands?

For a woman lacking the skill to sew or cook, she doesn't lack dramatics. Though her gods don't either. Their flair for drama and betrayal leave her a victim of curiosity. You don't scorn Odin and come out unscathed. That is something even the greatest fool is aware of.

Dagny's voice is smaller than she'd like. "Is this about the raven?"

Her mother's perplexed. "The raven?"

"Nevermind." Ignorance is bliss.

If this were another time, her mother would prod. She's an expert at poking and exploring the dark corners of places. Her daughter is no different. An anomaly that she can't even decipher completely--or so she claims. Long gone are the days she's tried to make a lady of her eldest. Now she silently seethes, gaining revenge through endless passive aggression. Dagny expects nothing less. She suspects she's a terrible daughter, but a blessing of a son.

"I know you're lying." Her mother's stare oddily reminds Dagny of that dead raven. "Or you insist on making this family's life more difficult for your own pleasure."

Dagny's sigh is heavy. "Unfortunately I haven't done a thing today outside of the morning chores, and shooting arrows at a rotting stag's head."

This is the problem. Neither woman trusts the other, and therefore they often end up in an argument before the night is through. This night isn't an exception, and Dagny can feel it on the tip of her tongue.

"You!" Her mother jabs a thin finger into her chest. "You did something! I know you did. You might not know what it was, but it was something awful enough to get his attention. For years I've kept the four of you safe out here, and now it's ruined. Do you know how mad they say he is? We might as well throw ourselves on a funeral pyre!"

She fights the rage bubbling like boiling water. "Why is it always me that you blame?"

"Because you're the only stupid enough to wander off where you shouldn't go. You're lucky Bardi has any teeth left after what happened today." What exactly transpired, seems to have escaped her mother. Punish first, explain later.

Panic rises within her. Bardi. Her Bardi. The shadow that never fades when the sun goes down. A boy with a sharp wit and sharper tongue. He's capable of trouble without her influence. Like a caged animal he rages and rots until he's set free. And once he is, there's no going back. Dagny finds it beautiful, her mother deams it disgusting. How dare a viking act like a viking.

Her mind races. It was something awful enough to get his attention. You're lucky Bardi has any teeth left.

Whose attention?

She yearns to ask, but Dagny's mother will only provide the scolding she doesn't have time for. "Where is Bardi?"

Her mother raises light brows in disbelief. How dare Dagny cut her tantrum short. "You haven't told me what you've done."

"And you haven't told me who hurt my brother." She snaps.

They stare down once more. Two stubborn mares, one filled with pride and the other with malice. They will do it the entire night. Even after the moon is full in the sky, and the snows continue to fall. Neither plan stand down until soft footfalls fill the air behind them.

"Dagny?"

It's the clumsy voice of Hlodvir. She's relieved and unsettled all at once, for it isn't Bardi. But it's a more sound mind than that of their mother.

She whirls. "Hlodvir. Where is Bardi, I--"

But the next sentence doesn't leave her lips. It's as if Surt has risen from his fiery inferno to swallow her whole. That in itself would be a less painful experience than the sight before her. Her little brother's face a mess of yellow and purple. Where one bruise ends another begins. The skin on his face is a swollen mess of irritation and broken blood cells. His lip is split clean down the middle, a scab of brown and crimson lightly crust the cut.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done...

Dagny's mother is quickly forgotten. In two quick strides Hlodvir is the only thing in front of her. Dagny's hands are gingerly cupping his face, the most maternal thing she's ever done. "Who did this to you, Hlodvir?"

Her brother's voice is younger than his body. "The king."

The king?

"Hlodvir." She shakes her head. "Who bruised your face? I will cleave him in two with the hammer we used on Skaldi last night."

"I told you Dagny," He presses. "it was the king."

Perhaps he's mistaken. There were plenty of men who thought of themselves as a king. Plenty of men in the village claimed to be king of ale or king of the seas. Some boast that they're Odin and demand woman to fall at their feet with kisses and lust. An old drunkard on the road to Kattegat once told her and Bardi that he was king of the waves, and if they didn't give him their bounty, they would drown in the near future.

The actual king never crosses her mind. He may as well not exist for someone like her. Even if she did tempt the thought of him, it was a wound too deep within their family to reopen.

But Hlodvir tempts that memory. He shakes his head, the eye that isn't swollen shut fills with tears. Fear, raw and unhinged surrounds him. She's never witnessed such a thing. He's a soft boy, but never this soft.

"It-It's the king." He grips Dagny's shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of her tunic. "I thought maybe it was thieves, but it was him !"

Tension coils in her back. There's only one other time she remembers anger threaded this deep. Back before she towered over most men, and could wield a bow. At that time she didn't know what to do with it. Now was no different. Only she had a person this time. A person who left her large brother trembling in his boots.

I have to see Bardi.

Dagny's attention is back to her mother. "Where is Bardi?"

"Inside." The woman's voice surprisingly loses the malice that plagued it before. "Yir is caring for him."

Only Yir can bear such an effect. To take the violence and strip it away like a strong gust of wind. It's impossible to be angry with Yir. In that moment Dagny can't recall a time she's ever been. But there is something painfully intimate about their relationship. Often they speak with their gazes instead of tongues. Words, Yir often says. Have a habit of getting caught in your throat.

She pulls herself from Hlodvir's grasp, and in exchange he clings to their mother. The woman floats to his side the second it occurs, already aware that he needs to trade one sturdy wall for another.

Dagny can feel the heat from the fire inside the home when her mother calls after her. "Wait! Dagny there's something you should know—"

But her mother's voice is swallowed by the sound of foreign laughter.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Their home is uncomfortably small. A lifetime ago, when it was just Dagny, her mother, and father it was liveable. Then came Yir. The two girls shared one bed of straw and their parents shared another on the other side of the room near the fire. It was crowded then. Elbows rested against one another during dinner, bodies collided in attempt to complete the daily chores. When Hlodvir was born their home was suffocating, and when Bardi arrived it was bursting at the seams.

The death of their father left it merely suffocating again. There is still a need for three beds. One for the boys, one for the girls, and one for their mother. Privacy isn't a concept, and neither is silence. There is always noise. From a whistling tune on Yir's lips, to Bardi's feet stomping in rebellion. Her mother enjoys reminding Dagny that she is a waste of the little space they have. If she were married, she wouldn't fill a bed or eat their food. But her mother would lack the furs for the beds and cloaks. She wouldn't have the fresh butchered meat to bring to Kattegat for monetary gain. Dagny is a necessary evil, that much she knows. Even if it lingers amongst their family like a silent sickness.

The moment she passes through the threshold, there are more bodies than ever before. The structure radiates with heat comparable to summer. Some of the strangers are pressed against the thin walls, while others linger near the fire. Two sit at the makeshift dining table, their mugs filled to the brim with ale that Dagny knows her mother didn't possess this morning. They mingle with one another as if the woman never entered the room. Some boast with animation of hand gestures and booming voices. Others resort to hushed whispers of opinions best kept to themselves.

It's the strangest sight she's ever witnessed. And in that moment she can't decide if it frightens her, or contributes to her fraying temper.

She expects to see Bardi, with his face cut up and ego bruised. He should be sitting in front of the fire while Yir applies a salve to his wounds. The softness of her voice will distract him from the stinging pain of antiseptic. Just as it's done for Dagny many times before.

Instead her baby brother is sitting on his bed of straw, with a mug in hand. Another man sits beside him, pushing the cup to Bardi's swollen lips. Her brother stiffens as murky liquid fills his mouth, and the man lets out a jovial chuckle. A meaty palm slaps Bardi's back, and he nearly chokes on whatever is in his cup. His face is an endless bruise. A painful canvas of purple, black, and yellow. His nose is crooked, a trail of dried crimson beneath it. It's as if the god's decided to take her brother's face and shake it forcefully. A mess of swollen flesh, and bruises.

This is not the Bardi that Dagny knows. Her Bardi is chaos in a boy. The loudest thing in the room and proud of it. He's thunder conjured by Thor, and tricks shaped by Loki. Her stomach lurches. Who could cause such ruin to the boy with fire in his eyes?

"Don't touch him!"

Silence fills the air. It happens at a frightening pace. One second the structure is consumed with sound, and the next not a breath is taken.

The man beside her brother stiffens. His eyes reflect a mixture of humor and disbelief. His beard matches the inky shade of a raven feather, and it's unruly enough that she can barely catch the smirk on his lips. It reveals what he must be thinking. Who is this strange woman to demand something from him? She isn't his commander. He bears the badge of a taker. Though that is the viking way, to take and take until it is gone. Then move onto the next endeavor and rob it of everything.

"Why?" His voice is consumed with a silent threat. "What do you plan to do about it?"

Hit your face until it resembles his.

"Eirik," A smooth voice purrs. "That is no way to speak to our host."

It reminds her of honey. Smooth and addictive, her ears find the sound more appealing than fearful. It's unlike the grunts and hoarseness she's accustomed to. A higher pitch that holds more authority than voices twice it's age. It renders the other man mute. Suddenly his steel exterior just a trick of the light. She sees he's nothing more than forged armor and liquid courage. A puppet blindly obeying his master.

She tries to locate the owner of such a voice. But before she can, something more urgent grasps her attention. A woman hidden in the corner. Her small form pressed to the wall, taking shelter against the shoulder of a man who does his best to shield her from sight. Her cheeks are flushed from both the heat and something else. Perhaps the lips of the man which are pressed to her ear in hushed conversation. It fills Dagny with discomfort to witness such intimacy. A display she's only heard of in passing from others with more interest and experience.

But what adds to the discomfort, is that the woman is Yir. Yir, who catches the eye of every man at the market. Yir, who flushes at the fantasy of marriage and a home full of sons. Dagny's never shamed her for such dreams. Some woman desire one thing, other woman desire something else. If everyone was built for the same purpose, life would be a mononity of nothing.

She knows Yir is a romantic. A woman who hums love ballads, and gazes longingly at the couples united after a long raid. But Yir isn't a toy to be thrown around and used. She deserves more than to be stained by the dirt of careless hands.

"Don't touch her either." Dagny hisses.

Yir immediately recoils from the man. Her look of lust now replaced with embarrassment and disgust. It's an act, nothing more than a shield to protect Dagny. But she will take it. If only to bury the sight she just witnessed.

The honeyed voice returns again, and it fills the air with wicked laughter. The man with Yir pulls himself from the wall, hazel eyes narrowed into slits. Dagny only stares back. Her father once said a lifetime ago that life was decided with dominance. The creatures that could maintain authority over others would come out on top. While the others would follow blindly. Only a coward looked away when staring death in the face.

Except the man wasn't death. He was a follower. It took seconds before his gaze fell to the floor and Dagny revered in her silent victory. All of these men answered to a power higher than themselves. They answered to their king.

The one with the honey on his tongue.

Her father often spun tales when he was still alive, but it is Dagny's mother who is the true story teller. When they were young she often spoke of the kings who dwelled in the village below. They often changed. One rose up, then another, and another, until one solidified his rank. Then his sons lusted for the crown and fortunes they'd been promised since birth. War broke out, and brother's bathed in one another's blood until nothing remained but battlefields littered with decaying bones.

The king's sons were unlike most boys. Each was a different beast that lusted for power. The eldest was a bear who guarded his mother more than he ever protected his own cubs. Then a wolf that wore the skin of an alpha, but bowed to beasts lesser than him. Next came the dog that followed whatever brother was most convenient. His loyalty muddled by cowardice and lack of desire when it came to the subject of kingship. Then there was a dragon destined for greatness. But it was stolen from him before he took flight. Finally, there was the youngest. The most powerful son who was underestimated all along. A snake that lingered beneath tall grass with venomous fangs. So many brushed him off as useless. A life that shouldn't have been spared. Until years later when he bit at the ankles of his brother's until they fled or fell to his great army.

She was ten when the first war broke out. The scent of death lingered for months after as bodies rotted on the battlefield. Every brother but the dragon threw their sword into the ring, and only the snake emerged victorious by the end of it.

Dagny knows the snake is in her home now. He lingers in the shadows, waiting for the opportune time to strike. But it troubles her. A dull throb in her head due to the information she can't seem to recall. Why is the king in her simple farmhouse? Why does he terrorize her brother's and leave her sister under a spell of lust? Dagny is no friend of kings or soldiers. When she walks through Kattegat her head is down and she only speaks to sell her goods. He shouldn't know who she is. Her existence is an enigma for someone like him.

"For a woman full of rage, you make little use of that tongue." The king declares in mock disappointment.

Her face grows hot, plumes of pink cover her pale skin. "For a man who's tried so hard to gain my attention, you have suddenly mastered the art of hiding."

"Or you're forgetting to search within plain sight."

What a fool she is. A snake always hid in plain sight. How else can he strike so quickly and violently?

You little fool.

Behind her the serpent sits on his throne, which has been reduced to Dagny and Yir's bed of straw. Though his posture is straight, and his gaze is authoritative as if he's positioned on a chair of gold.

Her mother has always described him as a monster, so that is how she's pictured him. A grotesque creature that slithers at their feet and drinks the blood of children. But he has neither horns nor fangs. His eyes remind her of a summer sky rather than a black void. His face is more lovely than terrible, with sculpted cheekbones and plump lips. Braids twist through his scalp into a small ponytail against his upper back. It's the face of Baldr instead of Jormungandr. The most interesting quality the king possesses are the twisted limbs beneath his torso. Braces of metal cling to the extremities like a second skin. But the fault makes him no less intimidating. Nor does it cause him to look any less of a king. Dagny wonders if his suffering is lessened by the pain he inflicts on others.

Their eyes meet. Two gazes of fire that burns brighter than the kindling in the pit. His lips form into a wicked smirk, filled with the cockiness of a hunter who trapped its prey.

"Leave us. Now. " His tone is chilling. A command and a threat interwoven into a single statement. Those that did not heed the command would succumb to the threat. A torment that Dagny herself couldn't fathom, for her darkness did not hold a candle to his.

They all rise or file out like puppets with tugged strings. Yir passes Dagny with her head down, the man who was beside her follows at her heels. Braids of sand brush against his armored back.

Bardi limps off the bed and hobbles past. Though not without a swift tug at the arm from his eldest sister. They huddle close, his ripped lips attempt to form a whisper.

"He wouldn't tell me why he's looking for you." Bardi croaks.

She nods solemnly. "I think I've done a terrible thing."

He shakes his swollen head. "No you haven't. He wants something, or else he wouldn't have gone to all this trouble."

He wouldn't have knocked the life from you unless he really wanted something. She silently laments. But what does a man like that want with me?

A grunt from the serpent results in a shudder from Bardi. Never has fear struck him so deeply in the eyes. It's as if war has knocked on her doorstep and her family forgot to bring swords.

The youngest pulls away from his sister's grip and follows another man out the entrance. He dwarfs Bardi considerably. A mountain beside an ant hill. He has to duck down just to fit, and she wonders how he managed to get through the threshold in the first place.

When they are gone they only noise that remains is the crackling fire. Rage, fear, curiosity, and grief plague her all at once. All a vicious cycle that stems from the king sitting across from her. His calloused fingers brush against the stag pelt on the bed, but his eyes never leave her. She feels like an animal on display. With every twitch of a finger or movement of her eyes, he asses her.

Have I been your real prey all along?

Dagny's voice is a knife. "Are you just going to stare at me until the sun rises tomorrow morning?"

His smirk only grows. "Is that any way to speak to your king?"

She's never come across a being so arrogant. A man who remained faceless and out of thought until minutes before, expected to be worshipped. Perhaps she would have played the game if the circumstances were different. His army is large, filled to the brim with skilled warriors and shield maidens, who fall to few enemies. How many nights did she dream of conquering lands beyond her reach?

But now she only gazes into the eyes of a child. One who's never willingly been refused a thing. She thinks of Bardi with his face torn apart, Hlodvir bloodied and bruised, even Yir being stared at like a rack of meat. The anger rises faster than her heartbeat. A violent heat courses through her blood, setting her temper ablaze.

"The only king I bow to is Odin." She seethes.

He recoils and it's the swiftest action she's witnessed from the man. The facade melts, his smirk dropping into a scowl and eyes blazing with an icy flame. It's the face of a man who left earls trembling for mercy. She flinches at the harshness of it. The jarring swiftness that he went from a politician to a cold blooded killer.

The realization hits her at a sluggish pace. This is a man who refuses to be denied anything. Those who cross him hang in the market until their bodies grow bloated with death. What she doesn't realize yet is the calculation brewing beneath his physical demeanor. How quickly the cogs are turning in his brain as he searches for the upper hand.

In the blink of an eye he discovers it. "Then why would you kill his raven?"

The air leaves her lungs. Impossible. It's ludicrous, a coincidence to catch her off guard. The woods is her safe haven. A place where nothing exists outside of herself, the forest. Except she's never questioned how her hunting ground appeared. Who may have once occupied the targets of rotted wood and overgrown grass. The safe assumption is warriors or shield maidens. Ones who were bored with the mundane task of guarding a king, and decided to partake in greater fun. But what if it belongs to someone far more significant? What if her eyes weren't the only ones searching through the trees?

The expression on her face is obvious, and Dagny's rewarded him with a small victory. But his discovery isn't complete, it's only just begun. "Did it feel good, when you defied him? Watching that arrow slice right through its throat?" He shifts closer, bottom on the edge of the bed. "I've always found Odin too loud. He yearns for all the attention with theatrics of war and death. But you silenced it all in seconds. I felt a similar rush when I defied a corrupt queen a lifetime ago."

"I didn't feel anything." A lie. Regardless, she doesn't deny what she's done. He must be here to punish her for it, just as she thought the moment her mother was waiting outside the door. "I just wanted it to stop squawking. I yearned for silence."

His ever changing mood is whiplash. One second he's a storm of bellowing thunder, the next he's an enamored little boy. There's a sudden glow to him, the way she describes her motivations. As if something has clicked, and his purpose is fulfilled. But she cannot explain her desire for silence, except for that it exists. Just as strongly her desire kill exists. They eat away at her long into the night. Plaguing her dreams with rivers of blood and chants of Hel.

"Does noise leave you unsettled?" He probes with a gentle tone as if he's speaking to a child. "I don't like it either, unless it's the sound of my enemy greeting his death. Everything else is useless chatter."

It did. She nods weakly. There is some noise she likes. The sound of Bardi's growls, and Hlodvir's clumsy chuckle. Yir's sigh when she's weaving by the fire. But then there's noises she loves. Her arrow piercing the throat of a stag, the melody of blood rushing from a wound, the scream of livestock when her hammer hits their skulls-- stop .

"Stop!"

The king releases out a dark chuckle. "Stop, what?" His voice drips in mock innocence. "I was only asking you a question."

"No you weren't." She doesn't care who he is. The king of everything, or the king of nothing. Her mind is a guarded place, and it's no place for a viper to go lurking.

He tsks with the click of a serpent's tongue. "Such a defensive thing you are. You are a starving wolf pinned down by a herd of sheep."

She scoffs. "That's impossible."

"Yet here you are," He counters. "A girl with blood stains on her breeches from the murders of sows and stags. Surrounded by nothing but domestic sisters and farm boys."

A wolf. The word runs through her mind for several moments. She never thought herself a wolf. More a dog. An obedient dog that yearns for the approval of her master. Except her master will always appear disappointed no matter how plump the rabbit is that Dagny lays at her mother's feet.

"Even alphas are bested by weaker beasts." His voice is gentle once more. As if he's combing through her thoughts, and adding encouragement. "My brother was a wolf. They tried to tame him and he submitted like a dog. He didn't fight it, and it cost him greatly."

Sorrow fills her for the first time that night. A disappointment she isn't quite sure she's capable of. Then I am that dog too. I bow my head and do as I'm told.

"But you are not my brother."

She lifts her head that's fallen to the floor in shame. Already submissive, already losing. Fire ignites in her belly, the warm coals pressing against her flesh. You are not. She is not the prince that fled. She is not the king that could have been, but something else. Something more?

Her gaze meets an ocean of blue. "Then what am I?"

"A wolf cutting her teeth on game." His tone rises, the intensity drips from his lips like blood. "But you want more--so much more. You want bodies in the river, and kingdoms burning to the ground. You want to wield a sword that cuts through bone and wear the blood of lesser men. You want war ."

She does want war. Endless war with nothing but chaos and the scent of death in the air. Her knuckles twitch as the word escapes his lips. An indescribable urge consumes her, like an animal in heat. The screams of innocents deafen her ears, and her heart races. She isn't aware of the smile that tugs against her lips for the first time that night. Or the light that's filled her eyes for the first time in moons. But the snake takes notice, and his smirk is a sharp blade that mirrors her own.

"I can give you war, Dagny . I can give you all of it."

It's the first time he's called her by her proper name, and a chill travels down her spine. It rolls off his tongue like every other word, covered in honey. The incarnation of death sitting on her bed welcoming chaos. The words hang on the tip of her tongue. Yes, my king. Yes, I will ravage the world if you can give me the means to do so.

But they do not come out. For beneath the bloodlust is the voice of her father. She's only a girl now, with her hair loose and whipping in the wind. Sitting atop the pony as her father walks by her side. He's to journey to Kattegat and fashion himself a proper shield, one that isn't made of simple farming tools. War is on their doorstep and he must answer to the call of their monarch. Even though the state of the rulers change more than the seasons. Only two summers before did the willowy seer sit atop the throne with her husband long lost to another land.

This is before he's sprawled on a newly red battlefield. Before his body is bloated with death and picked apart by the ravens he prays to every night. He looks to his daughter and chuckles at the breeches that fall past her feet. What a terrible but wonderful little thing she is.

"Why do you go to war Papa?"

"Ivar the Boneless has come to kill our Queen."

She furrows tan brows "But you and mama whisper ill of the queen every night."

He shrugs. "We do. But her offer to join is too great to ignore. We need the coin."

She doesn't know yet what a hardship it is to be a farmer. She finds it fun to scoop shit and lay straw in the pens. He fears one day she will learn, and if she does neither he nor her mother will see her lift a pitchfork again. But rather a bow or a sword. Something to dip in blood instead of shit.

Her next question forces his heart to sink. A prophecy fulfilling before his eyes. "If she ever requests that I to go to war, should I papa?"

"That is not my decision but rather yours." A decision he will never be able to stop. " Just know that every promise comes with a cost. No wish comes true without sacrifice in return."

Bardi and Hlodvir fill her mind then. The cost of the king's offer. Two victims of circumstance now tainted by her desires. Their skin peppered in bruises, and scars forming over their fresh wounds. The man who offers war is war himself. No one is safe from it. What she longs for most has already ruined the two she holds dear. A small price in his eyes, for all the glory he can give. But a price nonetheless.

The king nudges forward on the bed, waiting for her answer. He studies her with sharp eyes and a growing smirk. He thinks he has her in his trap. The venom spilling into a fresh wound.

Her gaze narrows suddenly. "No."

It's the second time she's surprised him tonight, and it's evident within his expression. Eyes bulging in disbelief, fists curling in anguish. A slight semblance of the monster her mother's warned of. "What do you mean, no?"

"No." She repeats monotonously. "I do not want what you can offer."

"No one refuses me." He seethes. "No one."

She takes a step forward. "Well I have."

He doesn't flinch, instead a snarl escapes his lips. A feral warning of the beast stirring within. "Then you are a greater fool than I imagined. You do not want to make an enemy of me."

Perhaps she already has. "You broke my brothers, and for that I cannot accept whatever you may offer me. There are plenty of warriors in your kingdom. You can make a berserker of them."

He's off the bed in a flash, crawling to her at a speed she didn't think possible for a man like him. The crutches that rested against the bed fall to the floor with a loud crack. Or perhaps it's the dining table that she's stumbled into while avoiding his wrath.

Her hand finds a dull knife hidden in the pocket of her breeches. A sad blade used to skin the stags she hunts so often. But she doesn't let the fear penetrate her gaze as she points the blade right between his eyes.

The king pauses in his path, his gaze burning into her like molten coals. "No one refuses me." He repeats. "Odin comes to me every night and whispers tales of you. The girl in the forest who stretches as tall in the trees, and who has a trail of blood behind her. It appears he was wrong. For I've only found a broken wolf reduced to a dog by her ungrateful mother."

It slices through her and the pain is greater than it should have been. Even if it is all a lie spun by a trickster to rival Loki himself. The wound is still gaping and raw. She fights the urge to run, or to kick at the fragile limbs beneath his waist. "Someone has refused you, Ivar the Boneless. Go find a proper warrior to lick your wounds clean."

The snake crawls away without a fight. One the chairs suffer, and shatter into endless splinters across the hut. But moments pass and he's through the threshold. Only the man who was with Yir returns. He doesn't look her way as he lifts the makeshift crutches from the floor and takes his leave.

She is a deer after escaping the hunt. A shaking and pathetic thing. Her mind racing too quickly to decipher any of it. The king of Kattegat in her home, offering her everything she's wanted on a silver platter. A violent and cruel being who became exactly what others whispered of him the moment she said no. If Odin does really speak to him, then he will no longer favor her. For she killed his servant and refused a king. A selfish, foolish, girl with pride larger than any monarch on his stolen throne.

If Odin would rather side with that king, then perhaps I have been worshipping the wrong gods all along.

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