Chapter Text
Prologue;
"You said you were the one. You said I could trust you." Ivar sneered out the words, torn between grief and anger as he stood in front of Heahmund's grave. Learning of his bishop's death in battle had been bittersweet.
A part of him was smugly satisfied that the traitor got what he deserved for siding with the blonde whore, but there was also something inside Ivar, something he had refused to acknowledge before he had lost everything else as well, something that just wouldn't stop mourning what could have been.
As much as he wanted to forget about Heahmund, he wasn't able to do so. Ivar's anger and broken heart wouldn't let him.
One millennium, the dark witch had told him.
Ivar slid the knife across his palm and then clutched the small bag she had given him, letting the blood wet the cloth and mix with the ingredients inside. It smelled like death and unnatural things.
It had been a desperate decision to turn to magic, but Ivar had come to a point where he no longer cared about the consequences. He merely wanted what was his.
When he held the saturated bag over the grave, Ivar watched the blood drip to the ground.
One millennium the spell would last.
One millennium where his and Heahmund's souls were bound together and cursed to meet.
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1100-century
The tradesman's son and the stranger
They were feared once, not too long ago. The mighty vikings who came across the sea.
Ivar contemplates this fact as he sits by the waterfront, absently dangling his legs over the edge. The waters here in England are always calmer than the ones back home.
Yes, his people were feared, but not anymore. Not really.
One example is how his father is currently in town, merrily sharing drinks with the men his father and his father's father had done battle against. Pathetic.
Ivar had fled the cheerful gathering and returned to where their boat was tied up and waiting for them to set sail back to Norway.
This had been his first trip across the ocean, the first time his father had allowed him to join him on his trading venture, and Ivar had been eager to see the land his ancestors kept returning to pillage. He pictured a land of wealth and beauty.
Ivar stares at their boat gently rolling on the lazy curl of the waters and wonders if she had been equally disappointed as him when she first arrived on the English shores.
England, it turned out, wasn't that different from back home and where Ivar had grown up with the tales of the brave warriors who set out to go viking, while here they were more like a bad memory.
The sound of footsteps approaching snaps Ivar out of his thoughts. He knows the sound of his father's footsteps and this is not him. He turns to look.
It's one of the Englishmen. Ivar had noticed him back in the town. Dark haired, like Ivar, but with piercing gray eyes and more years on his back. He gives a little smile at the sight of Ivar, lifting a bottle in his hand as a peace offering.
Ivar turns back to stare out over the ocean. He's not sure why, but the man makes him uncomfortable and it annoys him. "What do you want?" In the old days, no lone Englishman would have dared to sneak up on a Norseman in the dark.
"I noticed you sneaking off." The man replies and has the audacity to sit down next to him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. "I got curious."
Ivar glares over at him.
Smoothly ignoring the hostile attitude, the man takes a drink from his bottle. "I'm Heahmund."
"Ivar." Ivar replies, not willing to give him any more words than strictly necessary.
"Ivar..." Heahmund appears to search his brain for something and lights up when he finds what he's looking for in there. "After Ivar the Boneless?"
Feeling a spark of pride, Ivar nods. For as long as he can remember, he's always looked up to their former king. He had gone viking, conquered lands, defeated his enemies and come up with some of the best tactics in warfare that were still being used, and this despite being a cripple. People had feared Ivar the Boneless. "He was one of the leaders for the Great Army."
Heahmund is the one to nod this time, strangely serious. "I know. I lost my grandfather to his army."
Barely resisting the urge to smile at the thought of his country's old infamy, Ivar can't resist adding; "Ivar the Boneless was a great tactician. He was the one who won them their final victory."
"I heard," Heahmund says, deceptively mellow, "that he was quite insane."
Ivar flinches at the insult and anger quickly flares up. He jumps to his feet and clenches his hands into tight fists. "A convenient excuse from the people who was forced into submission by his strength." He doesn't back away when Heahmund gets up on his feet as well. "And who knows, maybe one day we'll come back and finish what Ivar the Boneless started."
To Ivar's disappointment, there is neither anger nor fear in Heahmund's eyes, instead there is a harsh amusement at the bold words.
Ivar is unprepared for how quickly Heahmund moves. One moment they are staring at each other, the next he is shoved harshly against the side of one of the massive ships pulled up on land for maintenance. His breath is almost knocked out of him and he vaguely registers the hard grip Heahmund's hands has on his upper arms.
"I don't think so." Heahmund says, his voice low and smooth. "I think your people's pillaging days are over. Do you know why I think that?"
Ivar opens and closes his mouth, but no sound emerges. Heahmund is too close, his eyes too hypnotizing, his grip is too real.
Ivar's heart is thumping in his chest and he's acutely aware of how it's not fear that makes it frantic.
Strangely enough, he can't help but to notice how handsome Heahmund is. From the curve of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders to the heat of his hands, and suddenly Ivar is afraid.
"Back in the old days, men like Ivar the Boneless was to be feared." Heahmund admits, leaning closer. "But now...?" His gaze lazily caresses its way down from Ivar's eyes to his mouth before he slowly drags it back up again. "Now none of you have the courage to merely 'take' what you want."
Heahmund's mouth comes down on Ivar's like an invading force, taking and not asking.
There is a distinct possibility that Ivar makes a startled sound, but he will deny it to his dying day. He flails under the sensation, but the harsh grip on his upper arms keeps him in place and he can only raise his own hands enough to take a hold of Heahmund's hips. He means to push Heahmund away, that is his intention, but for some reason, his hands just linger there.
And when the Englishman has the audacity to force a broad thigh between Ivar's, giving him a slow, rolling pressure against the increasingly interested flesh there, Ivar trembles and his brain stops working all together.
Ivar knows his own touch, has been with several girls, and has found pleasure in both situations, but that is nothing compared to this.
He feels dizzy, saturated with lust and greed, pulling Heahmund closer instead of away.
Heahmund's lips feels soft yet anything but gentle. His stubble rakes at Ivar's skin and the slight pain only makes Ivar want it more. Everything about the Englishman is an impossible mix of soft and hard, intrusive and yet beckoning.
When voices in the distance makes Heahmund pull away, Ivar gasps for air but doesn't let go of Heahmund's shirt.
Scanning the source of the voices and finding it to be only a couple of fishermen heading home, Heahmund turns his attention back to Ivar. He smiles at the sight.
Ivar knows he's a flustered mess and hates him for it. But he also wants him even more.
Heahmund's smile widens, as if he knows, and Ivar suddenly finds the strength to release his grip on Heahmund's shirt and finally pushes him away.
Allowing the move, stepping back, Heahmund radiates smugness.
Ivar feels a flicker of anger inside and latches on to it.
"Sweet little lion," Heahmund says with a touch of what sounds like affectionate condescension. "A boy with a lion's heart, that's what you are. You still have a long way to go yet in life." He reaches out and draws his thumb along Ivar's lips, appearing to appreciate the soft sensation. "I suggest you let go of the past, Ivar. Focus on the future instead."
Ivar glares daggers at Heahmund's back as the Englishman leaves. Ivar's heart is still thumping in his chest, arousal is still curled tight low in his belly and anger makes him tremble.
The next day Ivar and his father sets sail for home, but not without Ivar casting a thoughtful glance back at where he can see Heahmund watching him amidst a small group of other fishermen.
Forget the past, he'd said. Let it go. Focus on the future.
Ivar's eyes narrow with fierce determination.
He will never forget the past, and as for the future? Well, Ivar fully intends to shape it as he sees fit, just like Ivar the Boneless would have.
Ivar is going to find and take what he wants.
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Next: 1200-century: A hirdsman and the royal guard