I am so sorry that I haven't updated in over a month! It's been crazy at uni but at least that is almost over for the summer (and I have to get my wisdom teeth out in two weeks and I am so NERVOUS!). I also want to apologize in advance for this chapter. It was meant to only be a part of this chapter but it wound up going so long that I had to break it. I've kept to my word about doing the boys' perspectives but this is only Hvitserk's! When I moved on to the second part, I just thought it deserved a break. So the night is not over! The next chapter will actually be from Sigurd's POV, which is really interesting to me, and as I'm already working on it (and since it's meant to be in this chapter anyway), I hope to put it up towards the end of this week or early next week! Thank you so much for your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Remember, the night is not over! Lol. Also, I only own Dagny.
Hvitserk liked any excuse to enjoy himself. He was perpetually hungry and always had an appetite, for food, for women, for war. The night of the sacrifice was no different. Raiding loomed on the horizon and spirits were high and men who were normally callous turned charming, if only for the night. Hvitserk liked to believe he was charming all the time but even he could not deny the effect of a ceremony like this.
He was afforded the greatest position to watch the ritual, alongside his brothers, Harald Finehair, and Halfdan. Firelight bathed everyone there in a strange glow and the crowd around him chanted, a song that could lead a person astray and danced its words along his skin.
Aslaug walked into the clearing before him, face painted black and red. Behind her came Dagny, clothed in a gown of white with a crown of lavender flowers in her black hair, cradling the curved sword Aslaug would use for the sacrifice. Kohl lined her eyes and something shone on her brow like gold. Hvitserk actually stumbled in saying the words of the song. Dagny was not plain but she was always hidden away beneath old frocks, behind herbs and tinctures. But nights like this were special and Dagny was allowed to inhabit a new role.
Hvitserk heard Ivar's sharp intake of breath beside him and dared not look down. He knew what he would see. Ivar's blue eyes would be wide and his nostrils would flare and his lips would be parted, as if the idea of Dagny shedding blood or holding a ceremonial blade might put to rest all rumors that he could not satisfy a woman. Hvitserk remembered when Ivar hated Dagny, deplored her supposed mock kindness and quiet, the way she smiled and wore flowers in her hair. Now he knew that Ivar was probably considering tearing the flowers away from her with his teeth.
At a nod from the queen, Dagny kneeled, bowed her head, and lifted the sword on the palms of her hands. Its blade bit her skin when Aslaug took the hilt. Everyone watched as Aslaug slit the throat of a small stag for the sacrifice. Blood, thick and dark, flowed into the bowl beneath it, in time to the song of the raiders.
Aslaug dipped a brush into the blood and marked herself before flicking it at Dagny. Red dots splattered across her pale face and neck.
The queen gestured to the bowl of blood and Dagny took it in her arms. They walked around, anointing the raiders leaving for the Mediterranean tomorrow and those staying. Hvitserk grinned when they reached him and Aslaug slung the stag's blood across his face. Dagny returned his smile, her eyes shining in the dark, and Hvitserk decided in that moment that he had waited long enough.
When they were finished, Dagny relinquished the blood for others to take. The crowd began to disperse but the revels were only beginning. One of the other slaves handed her a goblet of wine and immediately, she took a drink of it. While she was still standing there, Hvitserk snaked an arm around her waist. When she turned, Dagny was already smiling, as if she'd been waiting for him to do just that.
"Mark me," he murmured, nodding towards the blood and pulling the goblet from her hand. Dagny followed his gaze skeptically, as if she thought it would be inappropriate but wanted to do it anyway.
Hvitserk's hand was still on her hip when Dagny dipped a finger into the stag's blood. Though Dagny had touched him hundreds of times, when she bandaged or cleaned a wound, he still felt his pulse rise when she pressed the tip of her finger to his forehead and brought it down the length of his nose. He shut his eyes, feeling oddly entranced. She dragged two fingers down each of his cheeks and onto his neck. He made a noise, deep in the back of his throat, and it seemed to stay her fingers, keeping them on his skin far longer than necessary. He almost told her not to stop, almost took her by the hand and led her into the forest, but he had promised himself that he would go slow.
"Now I will mark you," he said when she reluctantly dropped her hands.
"I am no warrior," she replied, voice low and cheeks flushed. Hvitserk grinned, the smile of a wolf, and took a swig of her wine.
"You could be…" Hvitserk moved the top of her tunic aside, his fingers barely brushing her skin, and she took in a breath sharply. "One day." Dagny held her breath as he drew a line of blood along her collarbone. He gave her a crooked grin because this was what he wanted. Perhaps Ivar was telling the truth when he said she wanted him. Maybe he had buried his face in the nape of her neck, hands twining in her dark hair, while she undressed him. But none of that mattered now. Hvitserk had bided his time. He'd waited, at Ubbe's bizarre and noble insistence, and it occurred to him that his elder brother might have been right.
Dagny tensed, like the ground around her feet had caught flame, when he drew a stark line of red along her jaw. He saw Margrethe out of the corner of his eye. She was just watching and he did not know whether her sights were on Dagny or himself. He felt Dagny clench her jaw when Margrethe finally made her way to the great hall to help the other slaves.
He laughed because the tension between the two of them was palpable. Jealousy was written across the lines of Dagny's body, in the set of her shoulders and the curve of her mouth. When she raised her eyebrows, he dropped his smile and asked, "Are you concerned about Margrethe?"
"Shouldn't I be?" she responded.
"No," he said. It was frankly ridiculous for Dagny to feel threatened when it had always been obvious to Hvitserk that she was only steps away from being a member of their family. Dagny was favored. It was why she had gold on her brow and blood on her jaw tonight. But Margrethe had been chosen to bed Ivar and it unsettled Hvitserk that that might be the root of their competition.
"But she's special to you. All of you like her."
Hvitserk shrugged and took the wine when she offered it. "Not as much as I like you."
"I disagree. I saw you in the woods with her." She could have seen any number of things. The idea of her seeing any of it oddly thrilled him. "I'm sorry," she muttered, eyes averted. "It was wrong."
Hvitserk put his hand to his chest and laughed, ridiculously flattered. "Jealousy looks well on you, Dagny," he responded and color crept into her face. "And never apologize to me." The corners of her mouth turned up and she nodded.
For a moment, they just looked at one another and Hvitserk knew he should say something, alieve her misplaced insecurity. His hand rubbed the back of his neck and admitted, "I've waited because it should be right. When I kiss you properly, it should be right."
The skin around her eyes softened and she nodded again. Before she could say anything, he threaded his fingers through hers and led her towards the great hall. His brothers were there, drinking and laughing, even Ivar. His eyes ran over them, locking on their linked hands, and even from this distance, Hvitserk saw his demeanor change. He took Dagny to the side of the great hall, intentionally away from Ivar's gaze.
Hvitserk was not a jealous boy. Sharing girls had never bothered him before. But when he thought about what might have happened the other night when Dagny was left alone with Ivar, he felt strange. Hvitserk's way of life was easygoing, go along to get along, and this wasn't worth the fight. There were more important things to argue about than a slave girl's affections. Margrethe had bedded all of Aslaug's sons and as far as Hvitserk knew, it wasn't something that bothered any of them. It certainly didn't bother him. But Dagny was different.
He had history with Dagny, a friendly comradery that came from being the same age and liking to laugh. He'd taught her how to swim and where to find the best herbs in the forest and how to mend armor. He'd vented to her about his family and his responsibilities. She always listened, laughed when he joked with her, played any game he asked her to play. She wasn't some girl to bed and discard. He'd grown up with her. He was her friend.
"You know, Ivar seems to think you like him," Hvitserk finally said. Her hand suddenly felt heavy in his at the mention of Ivar's name. It was a conversation he had been searching for a way to have with her since they'd both stood on the bank of that pond, pulling Ivar across the water. Hvitserk felt sure that he knew what she would say, it was written across her face that night and it was there now.
"I do like him," she admitted before taking a long drink of wine. He nodded and his hair fell over his shoulder. She matched the movement with her eyes, like she was thinking of running her fingers through it if only he'd ask.
"And do you like me?" There was a mischievous gleam to his eyes and she smiled, a knowing thing.
"Jealousy looks well on you, Hvitserk," she replied. At that, he found that he had to smirk. "And you know that I do." He was content enough with that answer.
"Well, I am not jealous. It is the Viking way. We share everything."
"You are never envious?" she asked, disbelief clear in her cool voice. He smiled and shook his head, even though it had been obvious for days that to some degree, he was.
"I've never had reason to be." Perhaps Ivar had parted her lips with his own, perhaps her deft fingers had untied his tunic while he kissed her throat, perhaps Ivar had moaned her name. But Hvitserk could do each of those things and more. And he could do them much better.
"Truly?" His grip tightened on her hand, so warm and firm.
"Truly," he murmured, still grinning. "You could kiss each of us tonight and not a one of us would mind." Hvitserk laughed at the way her face flushed. "Perhaps, I should dare you to do that, like in that game we used to play as children."
"You wouldn't," Dagny muttered. He shook his head.
"I wouldn't, as I want you all to myself." Hvitserk's hand found the side of her face and her strong jawline. Dagny let the goblet fall from her grip. It hit the brush at their feet without a sound. Hvitserk could no longer hear the revels inside the great hall or in the town of Kattegat. It was just the sound of his blood rushing. Always a good sign. Dagny's chest was heaving, as if she had been underwater too long. He grinned and Dagny offered him a weak smile in return.
She was nervous. She had never done this before. And Ubbe's advice still pounded in his head. Take your time, take your time, take your time. And he would take his time but though Hvitserk's wants and needs could ebb and flow with the tide, he had wanted this for ages and he had waited long enough.
"Would you mind greatly if I kissed you?" Hvitserk asked, his voice laced with ceremonial wine and desire.
Dagny, whether because of the wine or the sacrifice or the smile on Hvitserk's handsome face, answered, "I would not."
Hvitserk's mouth covered hers. She was both soft and hard, lean and lush, and Hvitserk thought that perhaps putting it off made it all the sweeter. His free hand crept along her waist and the small of her back and his body was hard against her. Her shoulder blades touched the side of the great hall and her flower crown fell to the ground. Then his fingers crept along her ribs, so slowly as to be counting them, and his lips brushed away the blood on her jaw. And Dagny's fingers wound through his light hair, a moan forming low in her throat as he kissed her again. He went rigid, the sound seeming to place him under a spell in time to the way her fingers traced his skin.
Hvitserk knew that he cared for Dagny, that there was more to his affection for her than simple attraction, and frankly, it was unnerving. Potentially even terrifying. And kissing her made it all the worse. So he pulled away.
Dagny's face fell automatically, her lips swollen and red. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked, her voice so small, Hvitserk barely heard her. Hvitserk arched a brow because it was such a ridiculous assumption. He leaned against her again, letting their foreheads touch. Dagny only looked at his chest, the embroidery on his tunic suddenly of massive interest to her.
"Of course not," he murmured. "But I am trying to be slow and you make it most difficult."
"Why pace yourself?" she asked, apparently still believing herself at fault. "You've never been like this before." Ubbe had his moments of clarity but Hvitserk thought that telling Dagny that she was too inexperienced to bed his crippled brother was perhaps one of the most foolish things he'd ever done. Now she was insecure about it and for some reason, that made his chest tighten.
"Because you are special to me," he murmured. It sounded like the most foolish thing to say, even to his ears, but it seemed to register as true to her. Dagny's gaze went to his mouth so Hvitserk pressed his lips against hers once more and her hands gripped the fabric of his tunic so hard that he thought she might tear it. He pulled back again, dangerously close to spiriting her away, and this time, she smiled at him. It was so unobtrusively pleasant that Hvitserk felt his heart start pounding. "Would you dance with me, Dagny?"
She gave a small laugh and said, "I am not very good at it."
Hvitserk smirked. "Nor am I."
She laughed again, a sound that washed over him like a wave, and nodded her assent.