Normally, he would not mind. Normally, he would have made himself content in the small dwelling constructed just outside of Kattegat, where the trees cluster close in the cold and creak when the wind pushes through branches laden with ice. A warm fire and a belly of ale and the thin sheets of vellum he lifted from a passing trader, charcoal dusting his hands from the material he uses to draw. A strange contentment in the stasis in spite of the months he has spent here, coming and going.
Wrapped in fur Nate huffs, piles of white crunching underfoot as he steps through the dark and back into the village, breath swirling around him. Yellow glows from shuttered windows and out from under the numerous doors, casting blades of light over his boots as he steals through the empty spaces between buildings. The hall looms overhead, dark and forbidding. Light flakes begin to fall from the sky.
It is a surprisingly easy thing, to break into a king's residence in the north. Nothing like the chambers of an emir in al-Andalus, locked tighter than gold or silver.
His steps are light, muffled, as he shakes off the snow in the hall, draping his coat beside the hearth and slipping his bag back over one shoulder as he slips beyond the belted leather straps that serve as a separation between public and private.]
Ivar. [Nate hisses at the shadow on the bed, cast in dim light from an oil lamp in the corner.] Wake up.
[Ivar jerks wide awake at the hissed sound of his name. Conveniently, he always has been a light sleeper. Not on account of hyper-vigilance or paranoia or anything, oddly enough, considering. Or maybe not so odd: for all their constant inter-raiding, inter-warring and power grabs among brothers and friends and neighbors, Vikings do their bloodshed in the light of day. Becoming a jarl or a king through violence against the sleeping in the night is more likely to brand a man as a coward and taint his grip on any position gained, and more importantly (...to Ivar) it doesn't honor the gods. You wake up early and you commit your violence proudly and openly like you mean it! Even Ivar with his useless legs had challenged the previous ruler to single combat as publicly as possible before taking Kattegat through terrible, bloody war when he was refused.
No, instead of that he teeters constantly on the razor's edge of wakefulness and sleep because of his body's constant aches and pains. It's almost... pleasant to wake up to an errant noise rather than the searing fire twinge of some joint or the terrible crack of a useless bone splintering because he'd rolled onto it and stressed it too much in his sleep.
He inhales sharply, then pushes up onto one elbow beneath the spread of thick, soft furs on his huge bed, squinting into the gloomy light.] What? [Anyway, sleep didn't just make his voice break embarrassingly off at the high end of the word, that's all Nate's imagination.] What are you doing?
[Even Nate usually doesn't have this much gall. Or does he? Ivar struggles to remember enough in the spur of the moment to contextualize the situation, at this ungodly hour of the morning. Give him a minute.]
[The gods have a code of honor to which Nate does not subscribe, at least in the sense that he has never been entirely convinced of their presence. He feels things now and again, in the roaring heat of battle when the stench of blood and death rises around his feet, in the sharp gust of wind that cuts the edge of a mountain when he stands on a precipice, but it is never a god. It is always something else.
Something else twinges wry amusement in his chest when the lump under the heavy furs startles and Nate settles on the corner of the bed, watching.
Good, he is awake.]
Visiting.
[He says simply, as if that should be a sufficient answer. He has the tact to avoid pointing out the way Ivar's voice cracked with the scratchy dregs of sleep and drink, but not enough to keep from smiling. Nate also has an excess of gall to be so bold, slipping into the residence of a king as though he belonged in halls like this, bastard son of the wilds that he is. Habits are difficult to break once established and the first few break-ins were met with favorable tolerance, setting a precedent for this very evening. It is Ivar's fault for not constructing more specific boundaries with the thief he took in under the roof of his rule.
Eyes bright in the half-light of the room Nate edges closer, reaching for the lamp beside the bed with the intention of lighting it.]
I just returned from the coast. I came to see you first.
That is because no one else likes you. [Never mind that that implies Ivar likes him (Ivar doesn't like anyone for any reason other than that they're useful!!! He is an island!!!!), he's not firing on enough cylinders yet to catch that and is even further disgruntled when the second and closer light source is fired up. He mutters something impolite and makes a face, taking a moment to adjust to the relative brightness and running a hand through his loose hair.
Alright. Alright, look alive, Ivar. He tugs the blankets to stay up around his waist as he shifts back far enough to lean against the headboard, as ever too wary of anyone possibly seeing his legs (maybe even especially this incredible pain in the ass probable spawn of Loki), eyes finally focusing enough in the new light to give Nate a roaming glance.
The coast. So that's where he's been for what feels like far too long. Ivar narrows his eyes testily.]
[Feigning offense at the insult Nate claps a hand over his breast, gasping like one of the old women in the market, before the sound devolves into a chuckle. His quiet laughter only peters off as he leans down to retrieve his bag, lifting it onto the overstuffed mattress. No one else likes him, his ass. Kattegat is packed with people who are plenty happy to see him whenever he slinks back into town, though any excitement is usually tempered with a wariness of his quick fingers.
Nate's gaze slides askance in the new light, tripping up the angry fingers that clutch the blankets, tense forearms, and the rigid line of Ivar's shoulders as he settles against the headboard of the bed. It isn't often their king is so vulnerable because it isn't often he allows himself to be. For good reason, Nate knows, but the novelty is nice on its own. As is the view. This much comparatively unmarked flesh is a rarity.
He flips the canvas flap open and it smells of the sea - of Nate - all salt and dense earth, moss growing on stones.]
I went past Ribe, to the north, [he chats amiably, digging a heavy, gleaming brooch formed of a serpent from the depths of his satchel, sliding it across the fur.] To meet the traders, and to draw- ah.
[With slightly sooty fingers he withdraws a number of fragile papers, folded over and bound as a sacred text. It holds no scriptures of the Christians but sketches by his own hand, and without invitation Nate kicks his boots off and slides onto the bed next to Ivar, offering him the book with a smile.]
[Ivar notices the staring, of course he does. But it is a different kind of staring than he is used to, and he notices that too. Noticing is as far as it goes, though, because he finds it baffling. He knows it holds none of the fear that he gleefully inspires in most people (he's not convinced that Nate is afraid of anything, honestly), not even the same sort of devotion he has cultivated in the warriors from his army who have been loyal since he first led them in a bloody, uncontested wave over England, laughing the whole way. It certainly isn't the disgust or contempt or, occasionally, pity that he used to garner far more often, crawling through Kattegat's streets as a child.
It's something he can't name. It's— oh, Nate did bring a gift!
Ivar lets himself be distracted, first by the snake broach, which he picks up to get a better look at in the lamplight (the serpent is very On Brand), then by Nate sliding into his bed. Maybe he's hallucinating. Clearly, that's the only logical explanation for this.]
You— [Ivar forces himself to look at the book he's been handed instead of Nate, smiling at him, in his own bed. Not an easy task, mind.] You drew the coastline...?
[Nate looks with interest, rather than with disdain. Having known a particular kind of life on the fringes, not quite outcast but not quite welcome, he is aware of the sensation of feeling like a foreigner trapped in his own skin. Aware of skirting pathways people make to avoid contact, or the curiosity of strangers who see him as something Outside their own.
Ivar snatches at the brooch eagerly - predictably - and Nate suppresses his satisfaction, crossing his legs on top of the furs and feeling the snow left in his hair melt, eking down the back of his neck slowly. It is warmer here, with both the proximity of the person next to him and the insulation from the walls and heavy woven tapestries, but the pink in his face from the biting cold outside recedes slowly still.]
Yes!
[He says excitedly, foregoing formality and leaning in to open the book in Ivar's hands. There are dozens of pages and the majority of them have been packed with drawings in smudged charcoal and an ink he mixed of the very same. The English aren't the only ones with the ability to utilize older methods of writing. The sketches themselves consists of sprawling landscapes and flora, travelers in the Ribe market, makeshift maps of the terrain he recorded for his own sake.]
I marked the fjords, and the mountains. Visited some fishing villages and spoke to the people. Most of them thought I was a tinker. [Not altogether incorrect, given his multifaceted skill set - it was easier to move freely when ingratiating himself as being handy.] Do you like them?
[And now Nate is leaning over the book, which means also his lap, which means that surely Ivar is being tested by the gods.
By one god. By Loki. Obviously.
He makes a mighty effort to look at the book a second time: maps are actually something he sorely needs, and the Summer Raids are coming up. He can't send everyone to England, he'll beggar the place. And anyway, he'd probably have succeeded at paying attention to the drawings again, if the flickering lamplight hadn't caught all those droplets of melted snow on the slope of Nate's neck. The redness in his cheeks and the way he smells like the sea.
Ivar's mouth is embarrassingly dry.]
Yes. [He sounds. Distracted. A beat, wait:] —What?
[His shoulder, wrapped in linen and scratchy wool, presses close to Ivar's as he turns a page to show the beginnings of a proper map intended to better encompass the territories that belong under Kattegat. As the one-man recorder of this information the work is understandably slow going but Nate doesn't mind using the lazy months this way, spending his time alone and getting to better know the kingdom into which he has apparently been adopted.
It isn't appropriate, perhaps, for a veritable stranger to this place to spend as much time as he does in their leader's company, but neither is it appropriate for said leader to send him surreptitious glances when he thinks Nate isn't looking.
He knows Ivar is lonely, evidenced in the way he (begrudgingly, then happily) accepts Nate's conversation when the opportunity to speak on more intellectual subjects arises. He knows enough from the other citizens of this small city that he does not lie with slaves, has not taken a wife, but the interest is there, edges of longing when he stares and then skitters away. Oddly nervous behavior - either out of shame, or fear, or both - for someone Nate has seen laughing at the misfortune of others.
He almost rolls his eyes at the question, turning to catch the tail-end of Ivar's eyes raking down the back of his neck.]
Do you like them? [He repeats, trying to catch his gaze. Nate can't help but feel a little smug.] The drawings. I can make the maps bigger, if you want, for your raiding parties.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
uncalendula) wrote2018-04-26 09:29 pm
no subject
[It's fucking freezing.
Normally, he would not mind. Normally, he would have made himself content in the small dwelling constructed just outside of Kattegat, where the trees cluster close in the cold and creak when the wind pushes through branches laden with ice. A warm fire and a belly of ale and the thin sheets of vellum he lifted from a passing trader, charcoal dusting his hands from the material he uses to draw. A strange contentment in the stasis in spite of the months he has spent here, coming and going.
Wrapped in fur Nate huffs, piles of white crunching underfoot as he steps through the dark and back into the village, breath swirling around him. Yellow glows from shuttered windows and out from under the numerous doors, casting blades of light over his boots as he steals through the empty spaces between buildings. The hall looms overhead, dark and forbidding. Light flakes begin to fall from the sky.
It is a surprisingly easy thing, to break into a king's residence in the north. Nothing like the chambers of an emir in al-Andalus, locked tighter than gold or silver.
His steps are light, muffled, as he shakes off the snow in the hall, draping his coat beside the hearth and slipping his bag back over one shoulder as he slips beyond the belted leather straps that serve as a separation between public and private.]
Ivar. [Nate hisses at the shadow on the bed, cast in dim light from an oil lamp in the corner.] Wake up.
no subject
No, instead of that he teeters constantly on the razor's edge of wakefulness and sleep because of his body's constant aches and pains. It's almost... pleasant to wake up to an errant noise rather than the searing fire twinge of some joint or the terrible crack of a useless bone splintering because he'd rolled onto it and stressed it too much in his sleep.
He inhales sharply, then pushes up onto one elbow beneath the spread of thick, soft furs on his huge bed, squinting into the gloomy light.] What? [Anyway, sleep didn't just make his voice break embarrassingly off at the high end of the word, that's all Nate's imagination.] What are you doing?
[Even Nate usually doesn't have this much gall. Or does he? Ivar struggles to remember enough in the spur of the moment to contextualize the situation, at this ungodly hour of the morning. Give him a minute.]
no subject
Something else twinges wry amusement in his chest when the lump under the heavy furs startles and Nate settles on the corner of the bed, watching.
Good, he is awake.]
Visiting.
[He says simply, as if that should be a sufficient answer. He has the tact to avoid pointing out the way Ivar's voice cracked with the scratchy dregs of sleep and drink, but not enough to keep from smiling. Nate also has an excess of gall to be so bold, slipping into the residence of a king as though he belonged in halls like this, bastard son of the wilds that he is. Habits are difficult to break once established and the first few break-ins were met with favorable tolerance, setting a precedent for this very evening. It is Ivar's fault for not constructing more specific boundaries with the thief he took in under the roof of his rule.
Eyes bright in the half-light of the room Nate edges closer, reaching for the lamp beside the bed with the intention of lighting it.]
I just returned from the coast. I came to see you first.
no subject
Alright. Alright, look alive, Ivar. He tugs the blankets to stay up around his waist as he shifts back far enough to lean against the headboard, as ever too wary of anyone possibly seeing his legs (maybe even especially this incredible pain in the ass probable spawn of Loki), eyes finally focusing enough in the new light to give Nate a roaming glance.
The coast. So that's where he's been for what feels like far too long. Ivar narrows his eyes testily.]
What did you bring me? [What a spoiled brat.]
no subject
Nate's gaze slides askance in the new light, tripping up the angry fingers that clutch the blankets, tense forearms, and the rigid line of Ivar's shoulders as he settles against the headboard of the bed. It isn't often their king is so vulnerable because it isn't often he allows himself to be. For good reason, Nate knows, but the novelty is nice on its own. As is the view. This much comparatively unmarked flesh is a rarity.
He flips the canvas flap open and it smells of the sea - of Nate - all salt and dense earth, moss growing on stones.]
I went past Ribe, to the north, [he chats amiably, digging a heavy, gleaming brooch formed of a serpent from the depths of his satchel, sliding it across the fur.] To meet the traders, and to draw- ah.
[With slightly sooty fingers he withdraws a number of fragile papers, folded over and bound as a sacred text. It holds no scriptures of the Christians but sketches by his own hand, and without invitation Nate kicks his boots off and slides onto the bed next to Ivar, offering him the book with a smile.]
no subject
It's something he can't name. It's— oh, Nate did bring a gift!
Ivar lets himself be distracted, first by the snake broach, which he picks up to get a better look at in the lamplight (the serpent is very On Brand), then by Nate sliding into his bed. Maybe he's hallucinating. Clearly, that's the only logical explanation for this.]
You— [Ivar forces himself to look at the book he's been handed instead of Nate, smiling at him, in his own bed. Not an easy task, mind.] You drew the coastline...?
no subject
Ivar snatches at the brooch eagerly - predictably - and Nate suppresses his satisfaction, crossing his legs on top of the furs and feeling the snow left in his hair melt, eking down the back of his neck slowly. It is warmer here, with both the proximity of the person next to him and the insulation from the walls and heavy woven tapestries, but the pink in his face from the biting cold outside recedes slowly still.]
Yes!
[He says excitedly, foregoing formality and leaning in to open the book in Ivar's hands. There are dozens of pages and the majority of them have been packed with drawings in smudged charcoal and an ink he mixed of the very same. The English aren't the only ones with the ability to utilize older methods of writing. The sketches themselves consists of sprawling landscapes and flora, travelers in the Ribe market, makeshift maps of the terrain he recorded for his own sake.]
I marked the fjords, and the mountains. Visited some fishing villages and spoke to the people. Most of them thought I was a tinker. [Not altogether incorrect, given his multifaceted skill set - it was easier to move freely when ingratiating himself as being handy.] Do you like them?
no subject
By one god. By Loki. Obviously.
He makes a mighty effort to look at the book a second time: maps are actually something he sorely needs, and the Summer Raids are coming up. He can't send everyone to England, he'll beggar the place. And anyway, he'd probably have succeeded at paying attention to the drawings again, if the flickering lamplight hadn't caught all those droplets of melted snow on the slope of Nate's neck. The redness in his cheeks and the way he smells like the sea.
Ivar's mouth is embarrassingly dry.]
Yes. [He sounds. Distracted. A beat, wait:] —What?
no subject
It isn't appropriate, perhaps, for a veritable stranger to this place to spend as much time as he does in their leader's company, but neither is it appropriate for said leader to send him surreptitious glances when he thinks Nate isn't looking.
He knows Ivar is lonely, evidenced in the way he (begrudgingly, then happily) accepts Nate's conversation when the opportunity to speak on more intellectual subjects arises. He knows enough from the other citizens of this small city that he does not lie with slaves, has not taken a wife, but the interest is there, edges of longing when he stares and then skitters away. Oddly nervous behavior - either out of shame, or fear, or both - for someone Nate has seen laughing at the misfortune of others.
He almost rolls his eyes at the question, turning to catch the tail-end of Ivar's eyes raking down the back of his neck.]
Do you like them? [He repeats, trying to catch his gaze. Nate can't help but feel a little smug.] The drawings. I can make the maps bigger, if you want, for your raiding parties.