From a Tumblr prompt:
"Anonymous asked:
Idk if you ship Heahmund/Ivar but if you do, wanna write something with Hvitserk dealing with the fact that his brother is falling hard for a christian menace?"


I'm not sure now well I did here, but hopefully it's not too bad...

Seated on a bench in the hall of King Harold's home, Hvitserk watched out of the corner of his eye as Ivar made his way slowly across the room. His brother leaned more heavily than usual on his crutch, his steps shorter and slower than they had been earlier in the day, and it was clear that he had spent too long on his feet.

Hvitserk knew why. He had been visiting the prisoner again, the Saxon priest that they had, for reasons known only to Ivar, brought back with them from England.

Ivar reached the table and carefully lowered himself onto the bench next to Hvitserk, but leaving some distance between them. He sat with his back to the table, then turned to meet Hvitserk's eyes as though daring him to say something. Hvitserk declined the offer, and turned his attention instead to the cup of ale that sat on the table in front of him.

Hvitserk didn't trust the prisoner. The priest had betrayed him once before, when he had left he and Ubbe bruised and bloodied before sending them back to Ivar as a message that there would be no peace between their peoples. It was a move that had precipitated the rift in their family, and even if he chose to believe that it had been fate, Hvitserk couldn't help but hold the priest responsible.

Holding onto the table for leverage, Ivar leaned forward, grabbed one leg with his free hand, and hoisted it up onto the bench with his foot pointing toward Hvitserk. He began to unfasten the buckles on the leather straps that held the brace in place. "Problem, Hvitserk?" he asked.

"Uh…" Hvitserk picked up his cup of ale and downed it in a single gulp. "What?"

"You looked as though you had something to say," Ivar told him. His voice was calm and measured. He looked Hvitserk in the eye as practised fingers continued to work on the straps. "Why don't you just say it instead of grinding your teeth and glaring at me?"

Hvitserk tapped the back of a fingernail on the side of his empty cup, and considered the request. "Okay," he said. "I will. He's dangerous, and you shouldn't trust him."

Ivar's fingers stilled on the final buckle of his brace, and his brows knotted into an exaggerated parody of a frown. A hint of an amused smile played on his lips. "Who are you talking about?"

Hvitserk scowled, not in the mood to play games. "You know exactly who I'm talking about."

"No…" Ivar shook his head thoughtfully as his frown deepened. "No, I do not believe that I do. After all, I know a great many dangerous people." He paused, then smiled somewhat pointedly. "I am a dangerous person myself."

"I was talking about the Christian, Ivar." Hvitserk told him. "As you well know."

Ivar gave him a dismissive shake of the head and turned his attention back to his leg. He unfastened the final strap, then winced noticeably as he removed the brace. He placed it on the floor next to the bench, near to where he had rested his crutch, for some slave to collect and return to his room later.

"Heahmund?" he asked.

Hvitserk scowled at the sound of the man's name. "Are there any other Christians around here?"

"How would I know?" Ivar asked with a dismissive shrug. "Probably not, but we are in a new place. King Harold's kingdom could be rife with Christians for all I know. Anyway, Heahmund is a sly one. He tried to convert me to his faith. Perhaps he has succeeded with somebody more weak minded than myself."

"He…" Hvitserk found himself smiling at the idea of the Christian attempting to convert Ivar of all people. "Really?"

"Really. It did not exactly go as he had hoped."

No, he imagined not. Hvitserk shook his head. "But that's exactly what I mean. He's dangerous, and not just because he will try to poison our minds against the gods. He would kill you without a moment's thought if he believed that his god wanted it."

"I know," Ivar told him, apparently unconcerned by the idea.

"But still you carry on visiting him like he's an old friend, talking to him for hours at a time. It's almost as though you are infatuated with him. Almost like you're..." he stopped as a realisation hit him.

"Almost like I…?" Ivar said, waving a hand in the air as he prompted him to continue.

Suddenly Hvitserk understood. He knew what was happening between his brother and the Christian. He shook his head, as though he could shake loose the thought, but it was stuck fast. Ivar really was infatuated by the Christian. Perhaps he even loved him.

"Hvitserk?" Ivar said. He waved a hand before his eyes mockingly.

Hvitserk blinked. He couldn't say that, not with everything that it might imply. Not yet, not when he had no idea how his brother might react.

"You… like him," Hvitserk said instead.

Ivar chuckled quietly under his breath, then turned his attention back to his legs. He moved his other leg onto the bench and began the slow task of removing the slightly more complicated brace. As he did, he shook his head. "You're crazy."

"Am I? Why else would you have brought him here? And why else would you spend so much time talking with him?"

"I brought you back, didn't I? Ivar said. He winced in pain again as he released one part of the brace and got to work on the next. "He's a great warrior, he has insight I can use. I find him interesting, that is all."

"He's a Christian priest."

Ivar shook his head. "A bishop, actually."

Hvitserk frowned. "And what is the difference?"

"I don't know, but perhaps I could ask him for you, and then we will know. And that is why he is useful; it is important to know as much as we can about our enemies, wouldn't you agree, brother?"

Hvitserk rubbed a hand wearily across his face and reached for a jug of ale. "He would happily kill you, given half a chance."

"I know he would," Ivar told him, "and that is one of the interesting things about him. But don't worry, brother. He'll never get that chance, and even if he did, he wouldn't take it."

That was not a promise that Ivar could make. Hvitserk frowned, unconvinced.

"It is true," Ivar assured him. "I haven't simply been talking to him, I have been slowly winning him over, convincing him that I'm not the monster he thought I was. I think he's starting to like me, too. Anyway, he knows that I am the only person keeping him alive. If he did manage to kill me, you would have him put to death immediately, and he doesn't want to die. If he were so eager to join his god, he would have tried to do so already.

There was an undeniable logic to Ivar's argument, as usual. Hvitserk forced down a stab of irritation. "One of these days, Ivar, you're going to make an assumption like that and be wrong."

Ivar shrugged. "Maybe. But not today."

"You should still be careful. Take somebody in with you when you see him."

"Having an armed bodyguard present is no way to build trust. I am hoping that he will fight for us, remember? Do you think he would do that if he thought I was afraid of him?

"You told him you would crucify him if he didn't. Don't you think that is incentive enough to fight for us?"

"Perhaps," Ivar shrugged, "But I would prefer it if he wanted to do it. That way he is less likely to betray me to my enemies. Besides," he reached to his belt and removed a short but dangerous looking knife, I am not so stupid as to go in there unarmed. After all, as you say, he would happily murder me if his god asked him to, and I am just a helpless cripple."

Hvitserk reached for the jug of ale and refilled his cup, then poured one for Ivar too, and pushed it across the table toward his brother. "You are anything but helpless, Ivar, and you know that wasn't what I meant."

Ivar finished removing the second brace and placed it carefully next to the first, then accepted the drink with a nod. He smiled knowingly. "Oh, but that is exactly what you meant, brother."

And once again, he was right. In a way, that was what he had meant. Ivar would be terrifying to face across the battlefield, coated in in the blood of his enemies, screaming a battle cry from his chariot, but in close, one-on-one combat, especially if he caught him off-guard, Heahmund would have the advantage. Even Ivar would have to admit that, surely.

"And you are right," Ivar told him.

Hvitserk blinked in surprise. "What?"

Ivar slipped his knife back into its holster, produced a length of strong cloth from a pocket and tied it around his legs below the knees. "I said, you are right. Heahmund is a great warrior. I have no doubt that he would be able to overpower me if he chose to do so. In fact, I have no doubt he could overpower you too. But yet I am safe with him, as I have already explained to you."

"It's not only that he could hurt you," Hvitserk told him. "You might find him…" he hesitated, "You might find him interesting, but I don't think he feels the same way."

Ivar laughed quietly. "Are you worried about me, brother?"

Hvitserk set his lips in a thin line. There were only so many ways that it could end, and there was no room for the possibility of happiness. He decided to change the direction of the argument. "Father had a Christian that he found interesting once," he said. "Do you remember?"

"Athelstan." Ivar shook his head. "Not really. I was too young when he died to really remember."

"Well, I remember," Hvitserk told him. He had been a child too, but he had been old enough to understand what had happened, and to follow what the adults around him were saying. "I just don't want the same thing to happen to you as happened to father."

Ivar rolled his eyes. "Ragnar was dropped into a pit of snakes by a king that we have since killed." Ivar shook his head, then took a long gulp of his drink. "It is unlikely to happen again."

He was playing dumb, of course. Or, perhaps he wasn't, not completely. Ivar had been little more than an infant when Floki had killed the priest; a coddled and protected child who had had very little contact with his father. By the time he would have been old enough to understand, the people had stopped speaking of Ragnar and his pet Christian. There was a chance that Ivar didn't know how deep their father's feelings for the other man had been, or that after his death, Ragnar had never been the same.

Hvitserk sighed. "Yes, Ivar." he said, returning to the question his brother had asked him a moment earlier. "I am worried about you. No matter what happens, Heahmund will eventually turn against you, and when he does, I think that it will break your heart."

Ivar shook his head. "It would not be the first break I have had to endure."

Hvitserk shook his head. "It's not the same thing, Ivar. It's not the same thing at all."

"I disagree," Ivar told him. "You think my heart didn't break when Father died? Or Mother? When Floki climbed into a boat and disappeared into the open ocean? I know heartbreak, Hvitserk. I know it every bit as well as you do. Perhaps even more."

Once again, his little brother was right. Hvitserk sighed and nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry, Ivar."

"Anyway," Ivar added, dismissing the moment with a wave of his hand. "If Heahmund betrays me, I will simply kill him, or have him killed.

"And you think you could just kill somebody that you love?"

Ivar frowned. "Whoever said anything about love?"

Hvitserk closed his eyes briefly. He hadn't meant to say that, it had simply slipped out.

"Anyway," Ivar added. "I am sure that if I could bury an ax in my own brother's chest, I would have no trouble doing the same to a Christian priest. Whether I 'love' him, or not."

Uninvited, the image of Sigurd staggering toward Ivar before dropping lifeless to the ground, forced its way into Hvitserk's mind, and he took another swig of his drink as though he could wash it away. "He's a bishop," he reminded him, repeating Ivar's words back to him.

Ivar smiled, apparently unaffected by the memory of their brother. "So he is."

"And whatever you feel for him, Ivar, he doesn't feel the same way about you." Hvitserk was still thinking of Sigurd; he had already lost one brother, and after everything that had happened, he doubted that he could ever repair things between himself and Ubbe, or Björn either for that matter; they were trying to kill his mother after all. That left Ivar as the only family that he had left. He sighed deeply, trying not to think of everything that he had lost, but suddenly unable to think of anything else. "I don't want to lose you as well."

Apparently unmoved by the plea, Ivar finished his drink in a single gulp, put the cup down heavily on the table, pressed his palms into the bench to lift himself, then slid down to the ground. "You won't," he said. "I think we are stuck with each other, I am beginning to think the gods want us to stay together."

With that, using his hands to move across the ground, he made his way to the door far more quickly than he had arrived on his feet.

For a moment, Hvitserk watched him go. "You might not love him yet, Ivar, but you're halfway there," he called after him. "Don't deny it."

Ivar paused briefly. He turned back to look at his brother with a smirk on his face, then continued on his way. As he reached the door, he turned again. "I deny it," he said, then quickly pulled himself out of the door and disappeared out of Hvitserk's sight, leaving behind nothing but his crutch and braces, and the sound of a quiet chuckle floating back into the room.

Hvitserk glared after his brother helplessly, left, as Ivar had no doubt intended, with two equally unappealing options; chasing after him and attempting to finish a conversation that Ivar clearly didn't want to continue with, or shouting a response after him through the wall, with no idea whether Ivar had heard him.

Instead, Hvitserk finished his drink and poured himself another. For all that he still thought of Ivar as his little brother, he was a grown man, and he was capable of making his own mistakes. Hvitserk just hoped it wouldn't be as costly a mistake as he feared…