Ivar Head Cannon - Tumblr Posts

6 years ago

She Was-Ivar

She Was-Ivar

    Warnings: blood, self-bullying, bullying, slavery, fluff

     Summary: Ivar’s best friend, Amala, was a slave when they were children. She was later freed and their relationship grew into something more...Now, Ivar has to deal with seeing her on the battlefield, on Lagertha’s side.

      Note: slanted words are in the past. Bold, slated words are being said in the present but was also said in the past.  Amala means ‘Hard working, labor’.

      Words: 470

           There she was, her black hair flying through the breeze as Ivar stated that Ubbe was no longer his brother.

      There they were, wrestling with each other as six-year-olds, laughter rigging through the great hall. But the fun was quickly stopped as an older man demanded that the little slave girl got him more mead. Amala’s wet, sweat-stricken hair clung to her forehead as she rushed away to do the Viking’s bidding.

           There she was, completely silent as Halfdan patted her armored shoulder, telling her silently that it was time to leave the meeting. The young warriors’ eyes met; blue depths of the sea meeting the blinding Sun.

      There they were, two 12-year-olds, Ivar’s face was covered in a cheerful expression, while his closest friend’s was black; surprised, but blank. Her wide, shadowy orbs were now bright as she leaped to him and took him to the ground with a forceful hug.    She was free, at the youthful prince’s wish.

       There she was, shouting continuously to her followers, all wearing pitch-black armor and riding heavy farmer’s horses, attempting to make them more excited for the battle at hand. 

       There they were, her dancing as a mid-teenager to Sigurd’s fast-pact music, her wild, braided hair swinging with each turn of foot as he watched carefully. Amala’s pace quickened, as did the crowd’s joy. She was giggling, causing fellow villagers to join her in happiness, a few thralls swinging their hips as they danced with the Ragarsson’s ally.

      There she was, face bloodied and shell-shocked as a sword struck through her shoulder from behind, making blood sprout like an ivy’s flower. Amala screamed, Bjorn turned on his heel and went to help her, but was held back by King Harald. Ivar’s jaw dropped, stopped twirling the knife in his nimble fingers and gazed down with panic at the scene below him, on the flat land. 

       There they were, sitting in the field, they very day that Ragnar returned from his chosen exile. The vicious cripple was groaning, his legs causing him as much pain as his father coming back, and knowing that his girlfriend was soon to leave. Amala brushed away his hair from his gorgeous eyes, a smirk clear as she sat and he laid on his back. 

       “Don’t go,” he whispered, confused and angry, refusing to accept that she was leaving him, again.

        Now, her body was on the corpse covered grassland, facing towards him, dull, once golden eyes now turning into a greyish color as Halfdan gripped her cold hand, his death near. A single tear welled up and ran down the scarred face of the ambitious, blue-eyed, son of Ragnar as he watched his heart die.

        She was no longer living.              She was no more.                  She was gone.                                               And even the Sun darkened at that fact.


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