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Sigurd never paid attention to the history of the clans of Norway. The tales in which each one is formed and reshaped. The mournful songs sang for clans long since destroyed.
He never understood why those tales and songs could possibly matter to a child like him; tucked safely in a nest of furs, giggling with his best friend, Eivor, as their fathers share mead and laugh in the distance, and Eivor’s mother tries desperately to put the two boys to sleep with the telling of such tales.
No, they didn’t matter to him at all.
Until the night the Stag Clan’s song joined the chorus of the destroyed. The night a pyre was lit for the parents of the girl who is now his sister, and the mother of that same best friend, as Eivor lays wounded in the medical house. Not even conscious for his own mother’s funeral.
After that, those stories mattered very much indeed, and Sigurd listens intently as Varin tells him a new story of alliance. One that goes against all the others. That breaks traditions and customs in a desperate bid to find strength and hope where all is lost. Restlessness and tension is in the air. This is unheard of, and Sigurd knows everyone expects him to fight. To resist. But he’s seen first hand what destruction lies ahead. He’s heard the prophecies the seer has told. He will do what it takes to right this wrong.
If it means they can one day destroy Kjotve the Cruel. To end his Tyranny. Sigurd will do anything. Even marry his best friend. Even marry a boy.
He says this to Varin and his father. Straight-backed and stoic, and through the wrinkles of their grief, Sigurd can see smiles of pride.
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Sigurd doesn’t see much of his new sister in the coming days. Has no idea what she makes of all this – of him becoming her brother, and being betrothed to another boy all in the same day – but whenever he does see her, all he can see behind her eyes is anger and grief, and he leaves her alone to mourn.
She ends up coming to him.
“That boy,” she says, and Sigurd knows immediately who she’s talking about. “The wounded one from the Wolf Clan,” She clarifies regardless, “You’re betrothed,” it’s not a question but Sigurd answers it anyway.
“Yes,” he says, and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away in shame. Just holds his ground and continues to answer what he knows she’s really asking. “We will burn Kjotve’s clan to the ground.”
“Good.” is all she says, and then walks away before Sigurd has time to react.
And though Sigurd means every word. Wants Kjotve dead almost as much as her, as he looks upon the feeble, injured body of his soon-to-be-betrothed later that night, he wonders how their friendship could possibly last through all of this. He knows Eivor doesn’t love him. Not in the way one would love a wife anyway, and he himself can’t picture loving Eivor that way either. - This little, scrawny boy with his peach fuzz hair and soft limbs. - For the first time, his resolve wavers. He wonders if the sacrifice he has made for the two of them will be worth it. If he hasn’t just lost Eivor entirely. He prays to Odin. To Freyja and Tyr and every God besides, that Eivor won’t resent him once he finally wakes.
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Eivor does wake a few days later and his cries of pain can be heard throughout the village.
Sigurd desperately wants to see him. Wants to comfort and hold his best friend and try to help him, but he can’t. No one but Varin is permitted to be around him.
So Sigurd listens to him cry while he sits outside with Randvi, and tries his best to be strong for the both of them.
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He finds the younger boy trying to build a cairn days later.
“Hey Eivor,” he says, gentle and tentative. “Father says we are to be betrothed. I hope that pleases you?” He doesn’t mean to make it a question, but he’s so nervous, it comes out as one anyway.
Eivor doesn’t answer. Angrily laying another stone atop his cairn. From where Sigurd is standing, the cairn somewhat resembles a person.
“What’s that you’re building?” He tries again.
“This is Kjotve,” Eivor says, and his little voice is filled with nothing but rage. Then suddenly he hits the pile of rocks until the cairn topples over and he’s kicking and beating at the ground.
“Hey, hey! stop, you’ll hurt yourself!” Sigurd grabs at Eivor, trying to stop the boy from breaking his knuckles open over the rocky pile that is Kjotve.
“I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him for what he has done!” Eivor shouts in Sigurd’s hold before collapsing into tears in the older boy’s arms.
“I know Eivor. I know.” Sigurd says, consoling “We’ll stop him. We’ll kill him together.”
They stand there for a time, Sigurd silently holding Eivor until he stops crying, rubbing gentle circles on the young boy’s back. He hears Eivor muffle something into his tunic.
“What was that?”
“I said, ‘It does please me,’” The boy says, a little louder. Sigurd can’t see his face, but the tips of his ears are flushed red.
“It pleases me too,” Sigurd replies, and it’s not the full truth. He hasn’t really had time to digest everything that has happened. To actually decide how he feels about it all, but if his words can bring Eivor some small amount of pleasure, then it’s enough.
Eivor holds him a little bit tighter.
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But as the months go by, there’s very little talk of the actual betrothal. It is something that just is. The sun shines, the wind blows, and the son of the Raven clan is to marry the son of the Wolf Clan.
Instead of lingering on it, they do what young boys do. Running through the forest and getting into scrapes and scuffles. Pranking Dag. Smuggling mead from feasting tables and getting drunk off of it for the first time, while Varin and Styrbjorn shamelessly laugh. Things almost seem normal.
Happy even.
But at night Sigurd hears Eivor wake screaming from nightmares of wolves and men, and in the morning, he finds his new sister, eyes red rimmed and angry, and hands bloody with callouses from swinging a sword she doesn’t yet know how to fully use.
One such night, He wakes to Eivor standing over his bed, huddled in on himself and shaking with nerves.
Sigurd knows what he wants before the boy even speaks a word. “Come here. You’ll freeze standing there like that.” He says, lifting one of the furs for Eivor to crawl into. Sigurd feels the other boy fall asleep instantly, and he wakes in the morning to find him curled along his side. Still dead to the world. sleeping more peacefully then he probably has since the night his mother was taken from him.
Sigurd leaves Eivor to sleep, and gets up to find an angry Randvi waiting outside his door.
“Where’s my sword. I know you took it.” She says, and Sigurd knows if Eivor hadn’t been sleeping in his bed, Randvi would have barged in looking for it, just as he knows that she too, hears Eivor’s screams.
“You’re not getting it back,” He says, as she seethes, and before she can forget herself enough to actually wake Eivor, he continues. “It’s not the right sword for you, and if you keep using it with your hands bloody like that, you’ll do permanent damage. Once your hands heal, I’ll teach you how to use a proper one.”
She looks startled for only a second.
“Teach me how to shoot a bow too.”
“Once your hands heal.” He says again. And then leaves her to go break his fast.
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It becomes something of a ritual after that. At night, Eivor comes to sleep in Sigurd’s bed, where his nightmares can’t touch him, and in the morning, Sigurd teaches Randvi how to lob a man’s limbs off with one clean swipe of a sword.
Sigurd gets so accustomed to this new way of life, that on the first night Eivor doesn’t show up, he’s so thrown, he can’t sleep a wink.
It costs him the next morning in the form of a bloody wound at his one side and a panicked Randvi at his other.
“It’s fine Randvi, leave it.” He says, interrupting the girl’s litany of apologies.
“It’s not fine! Look at it! You’re bleeding!” She’s still panicking. “I was careless, I shouldn’t have gone so hard on the swing!”
“Your swing was perfect, and your mind was as far from carelessness as one’s could be. It was me, I was distracted.”
“By what?!” she yells, and he can’t blame her outburst. Out of the three of them, Sigurd has been the most level-headed and calm. - Has had to be. - It’s a rare moment where he’s not focused on his surroundings.
“Keep training that technique on the dummy over there,” He says, in lieu of answering her. “I’m going to go clean this and get some cloth to bandage it with. Relax! It’s barely a scratch, it probably won’t even scar.”
That last part is a lie, but the wound really was quite shallow. Scar or not, it would heal fast, and be of little consequence. Sigurd just hopes he doesn’t have to explain this to his father or Varin. He doesn’t even know where to start.
Eivor shows up as he’s trying to wrap the cloth around himself.
“Randvi said you were injured this morning,” He says, rather sulkily.
“It’s nothing, just a scratch. By the Gods why is this so difficult?” The last part is yelled at himself as he fumbles with the cloth yet again. Wrapping a wound shouldn’t be this hard but the sword nicked him in an awkward angle, and the injury hurts more then he had originally thought.
“Let me do it.” Eivor takes the cloth and starts wrapping Sigurd’s waist with it. He has to hold Sigurd every time he wraps it behind his back, and Sigurd feels oddly vulnerable in his shirtless state.
“I’m not a child,” Eivor says. Apropos of nothing.
“I know,” Sigurd lies. Eivor is only just ten winters to Sigurd’s fourteen. A child is exactly what he is and Truthfully, looking at him now, all sullen and petulant, Sigurd can’t see him as anything but.
“Why won’t you train me too?”
“I didn’t know you wanted me too.”
Eivor’s run out of cloth to wrap but he’s still hugging Sigurd. Has his little face buried in Sigurd’s abs.
“Train me too.” He says into Sigurd’s body. And Sigurd feels distinctly off kilter.
He gently pushes Eivor away, using tying the cloth off and putting his shirt back on as an excuse. “Have your nightmares gone away?”
“Yes.” He’s a terrible liar.
“You know you can keep coming to my bed if it helps ease them.”
“Do you want me to?” Again, Sigurd feels off kilter. Like the two of them are of a different mind. He thinks of his next words carefully.
“If your nightmares are gone, then there’s no real need, I suppose.”
He knows he didn’t say what Eivor wanted to hear. The boy’s face, impossibly, gets even more sullen. But he says nothing as they leave the house.
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And so Sigurd begins training Eivor as well. At first he tries to train him and Randvi together, but Eivor is not at Randvi’s level and Sigurd can tell she’s frustrated by having to slow down for him.
Beyond that, Eivor seems to get irate anytime Sigurd isn’t paying direct attention to him, and his foul mood only slows his progress, thus slowing Randvi down even further and frustrating her even more.
After about two hours of this, Sigurd calls the session off. Actually scared the tension might cause a second training incident.
He decides rather quickly after that, to train them both separately. Randvi, he continues training in the morning, and Eivor in the afternoon.
Though this means double the work for him, it swiftly proves to be the best course of action. Randvi is a fast study and needs little of his interference, meanwhile Eivor flourishes under his direct attention.
He’s actually impressed with how rapidly Eivor seems to take to the bow. He tells the boy as much and watches him beam in a flushed joy.
--------------------------------------
They’ve been training for about two years, - enough time for Randvi to fight other would-be drengr and for Eivor to start forming hints of muscle, his peach fuzz hair grown to a blonde, shoulder-length mess. - When Varin pulls Sigurd aside one day.
“You’re training him well” He starts. Sigurd has seen him watching for the past month now. Can feel Varin’s eyes on him every time Eivor so much as looks in Sigurd’s direction. He doesn’t know why he feels so unnerved by it.
No,
That’s a lie. He knows exactly why. Eivor’s intentions are becoming harder to ignore, but Ignore them, Sigurd does. The boy is still just twelve winters.
“He’s already becoming a fine shot with that bow.” Sigurd says back. “He’ll be a fearsome drengr one day,”
“You know,” Varin starts again, “I don’t think we ever asked you if you were happy with this Betrothal.”
“It’s what’s best for our clans,” Sigurd says, without missing a beat. He sees Varin’s face falter and has the impression that he failed a test he wasn’t even aware he was taking.
“Eivor is pleased with it,” He tries, and then instantly knows he shouldn’t have said that either.
“You know he thinks the world of you, Sigurd,” And if Sigurd had any doubt of that, he doesn’t now.
“He’s young and sees me as a hero, he may change his mind when he’s older,”
“And you will be alright with that?”
“Of course,” Though the thought of Eivor with another doesn’t please Sigurd anymore then the thought of Eivor mooning after him does. “Betrothals are about alliances, not love. I want Eivor to be happy, and to find someone who will make him happy.”
Varin just hums in response.
“I know you will take good care of him, Sigurd.” Is all he says, and Sigurd doesn’t know how to respond.
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He’s finishing up another training session with Eivor, a month after that discussion, when the younger man asks if they can wash up at the nearby pond.
Sigurd agrees before his mind catches up on why that’s not the greatest idea. They were fighting with heavier weapons this time, and the effort has exerted them both; their dirty tunics drenched in sweat and sticking uncomfortably to their bodies.
Thankfully though, when they get to the water, Eivor just plunks down and starts splashing his face.
Sigurd thanks every God he can think of that Eivor saw fit to remain clothed, before going down to the pond himself.
After, they lay in the grass, letting the sun heat their bodies and dry their clothes.
“Estrid’s been staring at you.” Eivor breaks their peace.
“Has she now,” Sigurd doesn’t even bother opening his eyes in response.
“You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed, she looks at you like your some piece of meat!”
At this Sigurd can’t help but burst out laughing. He finally looks over at Eivor, and blurts “Is that jealousy I hear?”
But Eivor’s eyes are piercing and his face serious from where he leans in the grass, watching Sigurd.
“You’re betrothed to me,” is what he says, and it’s the first time since it was decided, that either of them have really spoken about it out loud.
“I am.” Sigurd replies, and then gets up and starts dusting himself off. “But you know that doesn’t have to mean we’re completely tied to each other,”
“What?” Eivor whispers, getting up himself and staring intently into Sigurd’s eyes. Sigurd feels as if he’s walking on thin ice, one wrong step and he’ll fall into frigid depths.
“This betrothal was decided while you weren’t even conscious to be a part of it. Just because it’s there, doesn’t mean you can’t give your heart to other people.”
“So it’s me you’re worried about?” It’s both of them, but Sigurd knows better then to say.
“Are you not pleased with me?” And he sounds so vulnerable, Sigurd instinctively reaches for him. Puts his hands on Eivor’s arms, and holds him gently like that.
“No, no, I am, it’s just-” But Eivor is craning his neck, reaching up on the tips of his toes,
And Sigurd suddenly finds himself being kissed. It’s just a chaste, innocent, little thing. A peck of closed, dry lips over his own. Sigurd realizes this is Eivor’s first kiss.
He gently pushes Eivor away. Trying to talk past the look of absolute distress he sees on the younger boys face.
“Eivor, you’re still so young, not even thirteen winters and I-”
“So it’s just my age that’s the problem?”
Sigurd doesn’t know what to say anymore, doesn’t know how to get control of this situation without monumentally fucking it up.
“Will you wait for me?” Eivor asks. “Wait until I’m old enough for us to get married, and if by then,” His voice stutters. “If by then, you wish to be with Estrid-” Sigurd has about as much interest in Estrid as he does in a toad, but he doesn’t feel this is the right moment to say such things “Then we can be married for alliance only, and you can...you can-” but he can’t finish and Sigurd takes pity.
“I’ll wait for you Eivor, I promise,”
And he takes a moment to hold Eivor, just a moment, before he starts back up to the longhouse on his own. Giving the younger boy time to collect himself.
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In truth, Sigurd didn’t really consider what waiting for Eivor might actually entail. At sixteen winters, his body is getting urges that Sigurd can’t quite control.
And the dreams. Dear Gods the dreams.
If he thought the urges were bad, then the dreams were a hundred times worse.
Dreams of a man, beautiful and god-like. Blonde hair shorn on one side, hanging off the shoulder of the other. The most enticing eyes Sigurd has ever seen.
Sigurd dreams himself as a man, touching this blonde God. Tasting him. Doing unspeakable things with him, and every night he wakes in a sweat,
He’s frustrated and strung tight like a rope about to snap, and he’s touched himself more then he can count, and a part of him just wants to find a warm body. - A warm male body, preferably, - Drag him into a barn and just get it over with.
He’s so tempted some days he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He can see the looks his father and even Varin give him. “You’re becoming a man!” They laugh.
And Sigurd doesn’t look at Eivor. Doesn’t even want to know what he thinks of all this.
But he can’t resent him. Can’t hold it against him. Sigurd made him a promise and he intends to keep it. This is a matter of honour, and “manly urges” or not, Sigurd is nothing but honourable.
So despite the flirtatious looks he gets from other boys, - and girls, but those matter less to him, - Sigurd does nothing. Despite the dreams, and urges and the way his blood sometimes feels like it’s on fire.
Sigurd does nothing.
He smiles at Eivor when the younger boy looks at him with concern and something else. Something Sigurd can’t even being to parse right now, and he shoves at Randvi when she laughs and jeers,
And he perseveres. The dreams eventually ease up a bit, and it gets easier after that.
Still, he thinks, there’s no set date for his and Eivor’s wedding. It was just agreed they would wed when they were both “ready.”
But Eivor has made it perfectly clear that he will be ready the second he reaches adulthood. So that means Sigurd only has to wait...He counts the winters in his head....Six winters. Six winters and then they’ll be wed and Sigurd won’t have to wait anymore, and the alliance will be made and he can find someone to lay with. Anyone. He doesn’t care at this point, but It. Will. Happen.
Six winters. He can wait that long. That’s hardly any time at all.
Sigurd puts his head is his hands and groans.
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He explains his Situation to Varin, a few months later, after the man inquires into his unusual behaviour and lack of bed partners.
“You’re....You’re protecting your virginity on Eivor’s behalf?” And when he puts it like that...
“You didn’t see him, Varin he-”
“I can only imagine. He truly does think the world of you.” Varin laughs “I’m glad he has put his own chastity in the hands of someone so decent and honourable” Varin says it with sincerity but Sigurd can’t help but feel like he’s being insulted somehow.
He’s telling all this to his laughing sister just before their daily training, when she says “The consummation of your marriage is going to be a night to remember, I’m sure” and then starts howling at his absolutely stricken face.
He didn’t even think about the consummation part of their betrothal.
He’s running to his father while Randvi rolls on the ground in uncontrolled laughter.
He doesn’t feel bad at all about suddenly cancelling their training. She was probably just waiting for the moment to reveal this information to him. The little weasel.
Barging into the longhouse Sigurd finds Styrbjorn and Varin drinking mead and chatting amicably,
He doesn’t even give them a chance to breath in his direction.
“I have to lay with Eivor?”
His father looks dumbstruck and Varin looks, honestly a little threatening, so Sigurd takes another second to elaborate.
“On our wedding night. I have to consummate the marriage?”
Varin visibly relaxes, but Sigurd is still shaking with emotion.
“Well, that’s the tradition, yes,” His father begins. “A marriage must be consummated for the alliance to be made official.”
“But he’s just a child!” Sigurd yells, and now Varin looks like he’s about to laugh again.
“He won’t be when you’re married.” His father says, calmly, like he’s explaining the technique to skinning a deer, and not the fact that one day Sigurd will have to share a marital bed with his childhood best friend.
“Aren’t we already breaking tradition?” Sigurd asks, desperate. He pictures the things he dreamed about with the two men, then he thinks of soft, young Eivor and then he forces himself to stop thinking all-together. “Why must we follow this part of it?”
“It’s because we’re going against tradition in one aspect that we must adhere to it strictly in all others.” And this time it’s Varin who speaks, and Sigurd feels a little better knowing the man is talking about his own son. Trusting him in Sigurd’s care.
Then he looks at Sigurd and says “Do you wish to sever the betrothal?” And Sigurd thinks about it. He really does, because he knows if he says yes, they would. No questions asked. Neither of them would actually push for something that would cause either Eivor or Sigurd any real distress.
But he thinks of everything that hangs in the balance. He thinks of Kjotve’s clan that looms over them, only held at bay by the combined strength of their clans under one temporary banner. How that’s all that’s stopping the severely weakened Wolf Clan from joining the Stag Clan’s fate. He thinks about how this betrothal is the thing that’s tying it all together. Keeping the peace in the midst of a thunderstorm of panic and fear. How the Seers had prophesied this union would mean the end of Kjotve for good. He thinks about what this betrothal means for other clans and how it unifies the Raven Clan in their eyes too. He thinks of if the betrothal were severed, Varin would have no choice but to find another Clan to ally with. How he would be forced to leave their settlement and take the remainder of the Wolf Clan with him. Take Eivor with him.
He thinks of Randvi. Training every day for just the chance at revenge. Beaten but not broken by all that’s happened to her. She is his sister.
But most of all, he thinks of Eivor. He thinks of how much Eivor loves him, and he thinks of the pain he would see in the other boy’s eyes if he found out Sigurd ended their betrothal, had Broken his promise to wait for Eivor, and, in cutting off the betrothal, forced Varin to leave and marry Eivor to another clan. He thinks of Eivor being married off to someone he has absolutely no want or interest in, and he thinks of Eivor wailing in pain after his mother’s death, so lost and hurt.
He can’t do it. He can’t break off the wedding. His father is right. Eivor is a child now, but he won’t be when they wed, and Sigurd loves him. He does. He wants him here. He wants to have him be a part of The Raven Clan.
And maybe he’s not in love with Eivor, but the boy is still a child, And there’s a pretty, delicateness about him, if Sigurd let’s himself consider it. Like a young deer, a faun just on the cusp of growing into a handsome stag.
Sigurd isn’t even an adult himself. - Though he feels so much older then his sixteen years. - Maybe he will grow to love Eivor. There’s no way to find out if he sends him off now.
“No, No I wish to continue with the betrothal” He says, strong and sure, and he sees both his father and Varin visibly exhale. “Kjotve is a danger to all Norse, and the Wolf Clan needs our help. The Stag Clan needs our Justice, and I’ll make sure we can offer both.”
And he sees that pride again, - The same pride he saw the first time he agreed to this whole thing, - shining bright and true from the faces of his two fathers.
Because that’s really what they were, now, the two of them. Unified in their own way by this marriage.
As if proving the point. Varin looks at him and says “You really are becoming a man.”
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A year later, Vili and his father, Hemming Jarl, come to stay with them.
Vili and Eivor get along like a house on fire. Friends almost since Eivor came out the womb, the two are nearly inseparable. Eivor’s name might as well be changed to Vili-and-Eivor for how much Sigurd has heard it being said.
Sigurd isn’t used to this new dynamic, and is again, surprised to find himself thrown.
“You’re not used to having to fight for him,” His sister tells him as they’re eating yet another breakfast by themselves. Vili-and-Eivor finished theirs in a rush and went off to...do whatever it is they do. Play at being dragons, Sigurd thinks he heard once.
“I’m not having to fight for him,” Sigurd grumbles back. Their betrothal is definitely still happening. He made sure of it last year, and his resolve is set. Suddenly he wonders, for a second, if Eivor would even be permitted to wed Vili. His and Sigurd’s betrothal was born of extreme circumstances after-all, but if Sigurd had Severed it, then Vili could be another option. Couldn’t he? They were breaking tradition for Sigurd, they could for Vili as well, couldn’t they? Sigurd finds he really doesn’t like the thought.
Would Eivor want to marry Vili? Would Eivor look at Vili like he looks at Sigurd?
“You’re having to fight for his attentions,” Randvi says, Interrupting his thoughts, and Sigurd can’t argue.
As if to make Randvi’s point, Eivor isn’t at the sparing arena when Sigurd and his sister go down for their usual training. Eivor has taken to waking early to watch them. To watch Sigurd.
Well, Eivor has, Vili-and-Eivor, it seems, isn’t interested.
Sigurd keeps glancing at Eivor’s usual spot, looking for him, while also pretending not to look for him.
“Sigurd if he have another accident because you can’t focus I swear to the Gods-” Randvi says, after his third time narrowly dodging a blow.
“You’re right, Randvi, Sorry.” He can tell he’s caught her off guard, that she didn’t expect him to acknowledge her point, let alone admit she was right. The older brother in him resists, but she is right. He’s seventeen winters now. Not some milk sop of a boy. He shouldn’t let the affections of others distract him.
The rest of their training session goes smoothly, and thankfully, there’s no second accident.
When Sigurd finally bids himself leave to look for Eivor again, - after his sister has left with a roll of her eyes, - he finds Vili-and-Eivor waiting patiently, and then Eivor is picking up a weapon and walking over to Sigurd’s side.
Sigurd honestly shouldn’t be as surprised as he feels. One thing that hasn’t changed since the Vili-and-Eivor creature came to town, is these training sessions. Their training sessions. Eivor always shows up, on time and ready. No matter what.
“I’m surprised to see you away from your ass-end,” he says to Eivor instead.
“Is that Jealousy, I hear?” Eivor replies, eyes twinkling, as he gets into his stance.
“You wish,” Sigurd blurts, unthinking and stupid, But Eivor just laughs, loud and joyful, and then goes in for a lunge.
Later, after their training is done, but just before Eivor can become Vili-and-Eivor again, Sigurd grabs his arm and asks “How are the nightmares?”
Eivor pauses and takes a moment to think before answering. “I still get them every night.”
“You know you are always welcome with me.” He says. You’re always welcome in my bed. He doesn’t say.
“Do you want me there?” Eivor asks, and Sigurd can’t answer. Not the real question that Eivor is asking. Sigurd is alarmed to find that he’s losing sight of the child Eivor once was in the face of the man he is going to become. He’s just not there yet.
But Randvi is right. He is fighting for Eivor’s attentions and he hates it. More then that, he hates the idea that Eivor might go to Vili for his nightmares. That Eivor might got to Vili for comfort and affection that Sigurd is perfectly capable of providing him.
He hates that he feels like he’s losing Eivor to Vili-and-Eivor.
But he has no right to get in the way of that, really. No right to try and leash Eivor when it is him purposely keeping his distance. They agreed that Sigurd would wait for Eivor. They said nothing about Eivor waiting for Sigurd.
He let’s go of Eivor’s arm and watches as Eivor becomes Vili-and-Eivor yet again. But as they run off to be dragons, - or whatever they plan on being this time, - Eivor glances back in his direction.
He shows up at Sigurd’s bed that night anyway. Despite Sigurd not being able to give any real concrete answers. Despite Sigurd still trying to keep a good, safe distance between them.
Once he’s actually there, Sigurd doesn’t know what to do. How to invite him to share a bed as the children they once were, and not the lovers. No. Husbands, they will one day be.
“Come here. You’ll freeze standing there like that.” He says, gently, lifting one of the furs.
And Evior chuckles and crawls into bed. There’s no cuddling, no real touching at all. They sleep on either side, backs to each other, and when Sigurd wakes, Eivor isn’t snuggled up into his side like he was once wont to do.
But Eivor sleeps peacefully, and well, and Sigurd gets to selfishly enjoy a bit more time with him before he’s back to being Vili-and-Eivor.
They part ways later while Sigurd meets Randvi for training, and this time. He’s not distracted at all.
--------------------------------------
Sometimes Vili-and-Eivor becomes just Vili, and Sigurd get to know him too. He finds more Eivor in Vili them he had originally thought, and it’s then that he sees why the two of them get along so well.
They’re extremely similar. Not in looks, no, in looks they couldn’t be more opposite, but in personalities. They could almost be interchangeable.
There’s a care-free attitude to Vili that has been cut away from Eivor before it had a chance to really grow, and Eivor’s anger fuelled revenge and honour bond loyalty to The Raven Clan, to Sigurd and becoming his husband, makes him a steadfast presence that Vili can’t even begin to mirror.
But their interests are the same, and their sense of humour. The way they both pull the same expressions when they see someone do something stupid.
But most interesting of all, the way they both watch Sigurd.
At first Sigurd doesn’t really catch it. Thinks he’s imagining it. Eivor is a constant presence in Sigurd’s life, - Even with Vili-and-Eivor, - And he’s so used to Eivor’s intense attention on his person, that he forgets this isn’t how other people behave.
It’s not till his sister brings it up that he realizes it’s there. That it’s something to bring up in the first place.
She makes a joke one day about how “It seems like Eivor’s ‘ass-end’ shares the same poorly placed affections as his front end does.” And it clicks to Sigurd that he’s not imagining things at all.
And perhaps some of that honour bond loyalty is in Vili after all. - Loyalty to Eivor this time, - for despite his attentions, he makes no attempts to curry Sigurd’s favour, and Sigurd makes no mentions of it. No acknowledgement at all.
And slowly Vili’s attentions wane, until Sigurd is just a drengr to be admired and nothing more. The hero who’s sacrificed everything to save Vili’s best friend from all number of horrid fates.
And in watching this slow loss of affection, Sigurd can’t help but notice Eivor’s own infatuations even more, for unlike Vili, Eivor stays fast and true, like an arrow loosed from the bow he’s become so exceptionally good at wielding.
As Vili starts looking away, Eivor continues to stare directly at Sigurd.
Only now, Sigurd is beginning to stare back.
--------------------------------------
Eivor is fourteen when he goes from Vili-and-Eivor to just Eivor again. (Hemming Jarl and Vili having to go back to their own clans and duties.) He’s back to waking early to watch Sigurd train with Randvi, and Sigurd finds himself occasionally working for Eivor’s attentions. Preening a little when he makes an impressed sound, or cheers at a particular technique.
“You look like a bird flaunting it’s plumage,” Randvi says to him as their blades clash. This far into the sparing arena, their words are a private thing between them.
“I do not!” But he’s laughing, and he swings harder back at her in retaliation. She blocks the blow easily and across the field, Sigurd sees her own admires stare, unabashed.
“Look who’s talking,” he goads. “Are you trying to form a cult?”
“Unlike you, dear brother,” Their blades clash again. “I’m not doing anything to encourage them.”
“And I am?” At her unimpressed face, he laughs again, “Am I not allowed to enjoy the attention of my betrothed?”
“On the contrary,” She replies, “It’s about time you started getting your head our of your ass,”
She swings at him again and he easily blocks it. Though she’s become an impressive warrior in her own rite, Sigurd’s years as a teacher, and his own warrior’s training, - started long before his sister’s, - keeps him a constant step ahead of her. He can tell it’s an endless point of frustration for her.
“I only wish to warn you.” She says as they finish up for the day.
“Of what?” The mood is still light and happy and though Sigurd can see Eivor getting antsy in his peripheral, he waits for Randvi to finish before beckoning the other boy over.
“Of what you’ll be in for once Eivor notices your encouragement.”
Sigurd just laughs her off as he waves Eivor into the ring. Encouraging affection is a part of courtship is it not? And Sigurd has to admit to himself, - as he watches his betrothed preemptively strip his tunic before walking over to Sigurd’s position, - Eivor’s affection is becoming something to be coveted.
And judging by the newly gathered crowd of onlookers, Sigurd isn’t the only one who thinks so.
He’s noticed them sometime ago. Oh yes, he’s noticed. As Eivor starts growing into a man, his number of admirers continue to climb, and not even the hopelessness of their situation, - the impossibility that Eivor could ever be within their reach, - seems to deter them.
Some of the more brazen ones have even tried to push Eivor to stray. Attempted to court his affections. Sigurd can see where their thinking lies. Eivor is just as capable of ending this betrothal as Sigurd is. Even more so, in fact, as it is his clan that needs it most.
But it is all in vain. Their betrothal remains just as much a fact of life as it always has been, and Eivor’s affections don’t so much as hint of straying. On the contrary, as the date of their betrothal looms ever closer, Eivor’s affection just seems to grow impossibly stronger.
It’s the little things. What was once just looks of longing have now turned into little touches. A swipe of the backs of their hands as they walk together, the lingering of fingers as items are passed to him, the touching of limbs as Eivor stands close. Too close then is at all necessary.
And Sigurd doesn’t move away. He starts to feel every touch like the heat of a flame along his skin, and like all other aspects of Eivor’s affections, Sigurd begins to covet those touches too.
Now as they train, Eivor pushes in too close on a lunge, brushes against Sigurd’s side as he dodges a blow, brings his chest to Sigurd’s as he purposely off-shoots an attack, too far to Sigurd’s right to be an accident.
And it’s all effecting Sigurd. He’s losing track of time, losing track of his surroundings and the admirers, and his sister and fathers, and the arena. The two of them are no longer warriors training for revenge owed, but two lovers, dancing around a feeling just out of reach.
Instinctively, Sigurd falls into the steps of the dance. Forgoing the tactics of a fight for chances to touch.
The final straw is a truly awful attempt of a blow. Nothing but a poorly veiled excuse for Sigurd to push his thigh between Eivor’s legs.
He feels the hardness there the same time as he hears Eivor’s little hitch of breath, the smallest of gasps tingling the side of his face, a tiny gust of wind right into his ear.
Like the crack of thunder he jolts away. Ends the training right then and there and walks out of the arena at a fast pace.
He needs to leave this situation. Eivor says nothing. Doesn’t call him back and Sigurd wonders if perhaps he feels the same.
On his way out he sees his sister and Varin, watching him side-by-side. Knowing looks behind serious faces.
He can hear the ‘I told you so,’ before Randvi even says it but the look on his face must be truly thunderous for she stays silent.
--------------------------------------
Eivor is fifteen and a menace. If Sigurd thought his own experiences with lust were bad. It’s nothing compared to this.
He thinks of his laughter at his sister’s warnings last year, and wants to go back in time to slap his past self. The naivety! The hubris!
“No! You don’t understand!” He would shout at eighteen-winters-old Sigurd. So cocky and assured in his situation, in his future. “You can’t possibly know what you’ll have to endure!”
And the worst part. The absolutely worst! Is that everything that he is being put through now, is a monster of his own creation.
Ha! Hubris, indeed.
Sigurd was the one to start the training sessions, and so must deal with the intricate dances they perform to each other’s bodies. The steps of affection played to the tune of swords grazing axes. The screech of metal on metal that can barely be heard over blood rushing through ears.
Sigurd is the one to re-invite Eivor to his bed, and so must deal with Eivor’s own lust-filled dreams. His little sounds and squirming body. The safe distance that was once kept between them is nothing but a faded memory. Sigurd wakes up most mornings now with Eivor shoved up against him, unconsciously rubbing up against any part of Sigurd he can reach. Some days Sigurd wakes up to find himself doing the same thing to the other boy, and his one saving grace is that Eivor is still sleeping. Eivor sleeps like a dead man in Sigurd’s bed, and it’s the only thing keeping some semblance of propriety between them.
Because the third issue. The third monster of Sigurd’s own creation, is that Eivor is absolutely shameless in his want and it’s all Sigurd’s fault. Ever since Eivor has become aware that his infatuation is encouraged, maybe even reciprocated, - who’s Sigurd kidding, at this point, Eivor’s affections are definitely reciprocated, and probably have been for longer then Sigurd was even aware of, and isn’t that a scary thought. - There’s nothing stopping Eivor now. He flaunts his love for Sigurd like one might flaunt a finely crafted weapon.
Maybe slapping his past self isn’t enough, Sigurd thinks, - as he, yet again, untangles himself from his rutting bed partner, and goes to deal with the problem between his own legs, - Maybe he should go straight for the throat. Just end his misery.
“Why not just send him back to his own bed?” His sister asks him later that evening, but the question is empty.
They both know Sigurd isn’t strong enough to do such a thing. Not strong enough to see the pained expressions, and to deal with the arguments that will undoubtedly occur. The shouts of “It’s your fault we’re even waiting in the first place!” and “Why must you be such a stubborn pig of a man!” and “Damn you and you’re stupid honour!”
But really. Sigurd isn’t strong enough to sleep in an empty bed anymore. Gods help him, for all this torture and endurance, he likes having Eivor there.
What has he become. Truly.
‘Just three more winters,’ he mind supplies, unbidden.
--------------------------------------
They have those arguments often. Eivor is bursting with hormones and unbelievably frustrated that the only issue standing in the way of him finally dealing with them, is Sigurd’s stubborn pride and honour.
“Go rut against someone else then!” Sigurd shouts at him one evening. In their shared bedroom. - because that is what it has become now. At some point it just stopped being Sigurd’s bedroom and became Sigurd-and-Eivor’s-bedroom, just as he and Eivor have turned into Sigurd-and-Eivor and Sigurd can’t even begin to deal with that. - “If it’s release that you want, then go get it! You have plenty of willing candidates!”
He knows he’s being mean; hurting just for the sake of hurting, But he’s had to deal with his own frustrations, and this situation, for far longer then Eivor has, and it’s his honour on the line, his pride.
So he stands to his full height, anger and frustration radiating off him in waves as he unconsciously advances on Eivor. Backing the shorter boy to the wall.
Eivor, for his part, looks neither threatened nor hurt. His own anger projecting from every part of his body. “Oh is that what you think of me then?” Sigurd advances on him further. “Just some stubborn whelp who could just go off with any pair of legs? What of my honour? What of my pride?!”
He’s completely to the wall now. Back almost plastered to it. Sigurd doesn’t think he’s even noticed.
“Well maybe I will go find some big, strong drengr to take me!” An empty threat if Sigurd had ever heard one. Laughably empty in the face of Eivor’s behaviour through the years. “At least then I would get some release, seeing as you’re nothing but a pigheaded coward of a-”
But Sigurd is swallowing the rest of his words. Physically lifting his shorter body as he sucks the air out of his very lungs. Eivor grasps at his shoulders and clings like an octopus. All arguments forgotten as he eagerly opens his mouth to Sigurd’s probing tongue.
Sigurd has kissed people before Eivor. Just once or twice, but it was chaste little things between children.
This kiss is years of passions and pent up tension breaking loose. This kiss is Sigurd’s first real Kiss, and Eivor’s too. The thought pleases a primal, possessive part of Sigurd. As does the knowledge that he will be all the rest of Eivor’s firsts as well.
Not now, but eventually, one day. He will have all of his betrothed. Leave him ruined for every other lover.
One day he’ll give all of himself to Eivor too.
“Three. More. Winters.” is what he says now. Growls it really, as he releases Eivor and leaves the room.
--------------------------------------
The kissing doesn’t stop though. Now that the line has been crossed, neither of them can seem to go back. Eivor is sixteen as Sigurd holds him up against a tree by the little pond, and kisses him like their lives depend on it.
They had originally come here to clean up after a days of hard training. - Actual training this time, not their little lover’s dance. They still have actual training days, no matter what Randvi thinks. - But the second they had reached the water, Eivor had turned to Sigurd, wrapped his arms around the older man’s shoulders and pulled him into a bruising kiss.
They must have been going for half an hour by now, Sigurd thinks, but it’s impossible to tell. After a year of kissing they’ve learned each other well. Mapped the insides of each other’s mouths with their tongues. Memorized the quiet little moans and grunts that manage to slip out through the seal of their lips.
Every time they do this, it becomes just a bit harder to stop. To not push things even further, but Sigurd has had lots of practice in that regard too, and eventually, he breaks away and puts Eivor back down to do what they had originally come here for.
But as they’re washing themselves, - shirtless, but with breaches still in place. If Eivor had tried to take those off, Sigurd would be out of there faster then an arrow, - Eivor watches him, eyes as intense as ever.
“Two more winters.” he says, and Sigurd feels a shiver crawl up his spine.
“One and a fall.” He says back, and Eivor’s heated look could set him on fire.
--------------------------------------
Eivor is seventeen winters and Sigurd can no longer remember ever not wanting him. He knows, logically, that such a time existed. That he had struggled and fought over the mere possibility of ever wanting Eivor sexually. Romantically.
But he can’t recall it. Can no longer see Eivor, now at the cusp of full adulthood, and even imagine not wanting him. Not wanting every inch of him. The hunger he feels for the other man is insane, and he can tell it’s written all over him. Can see it in the annoyed looks Randvi keeps giving him. Can see it in the exasperation his fathers throw his way.
He knows he’s being insufferable, that they’re being insufferable, but he just can’t stop.
He sees his same hunger reflected back at him from Eivor’s eyes, feels it in his roaming hands. In the way they rub their clothed bodies against each other.
Sigurd knows they shouldn’t, that he should stop before they cross yet another line, but he has Eivor under him, moaning into his shoulder, in their bed, and he doesn’t think he could stop if Kjotve himself barged through his door.
He brings them both to their first release in their shared bed, not even a year away from their wedding, and it’s nothing like any of the ones he’s found on his own. It’s an intensity the sweeps over him like the rushing water from the falls outside.
He makes a new rule; Clothes must always stay on. If nothing else but to give him some sense of stability, some grasp at control where he’s lost so much of it already.
“Less then a winter.” Eivor whispers into his ear a few days later, as they’re tangled together in the grass by the bathing pond. It’s spring now and Eivor turns eighteen at the end of fall.
Sigurd just hums and brings them both over the edge.
--------------------------------------
It’s the middle of winter and Sigurd-and-Eivor are standing inside the longhouse, as plans for their wedding are underway.
The ceremony, it turns out, won’t actually take place until the Spring. An entire season after Eivor’s eighteenth birthday. When their fathers explain this to them, Sigurd could see his own look of frustrated incredulity mirrored on his lover’s face. He barely manages to restrain himself from shouting a rather rude, ‘Are you fucking, kidding me?,’ but by the looks on his father’s faces, they heard it anyway.
“The seers are prophesying a particularly harsh winter. Travel for other clans will be too difficult to manage, and with such an unorthodox marriage, we must-”
“Keep, strictly to traditions.” Sigurd grumbles back. Interrupting his father.
“Exactly.” His father replies, amused.
“As much as we’re happy to see you two so excited for this union” This is Varin speaking now, “I’m sure you can wait a few more moons, Grown men such as yourselves.”
It’s a low blow and they know it, but neither Sigurd or Eivor argue.
Instead they take out their frustrations on each other, in their bedroom. Again.
“Sigurd, must we keep playing at this,” Eivor moans through another bout of their fully clothed thrusting. “I’m of an age now. The wedding was just a formality.”
He’s right of course. It was always Eivor’s younger age that was holding them back. Well. Holding Sigurd back, and now that he’s eighteen that’s no longer an issue.
“But just think my dear,” Sigurd says on his next thrust down, and he can’t tell if Eivor’s little moan is because of his words or his cock, “How much sweeter it will be to share ourselves for the first time on our wedding night.”
Technically they’re sharing themselves now. As Sigurd is delightfully reminded of when Eivor peaks after rutting against him a few more times, but they still haven’t fully taken each other. Not like men do. Not like they would be expected to for the consummation of their union.
And Sigurd yearns to be inside his lover. To take everything that’s left of him. To feel the warmth of him constricting around Sigurd’s cock. He climaxes at just the thought of it. Collapsing with a moan beside the younger man.
“It’s a wonderful thought, Sigurd.” Eivor says, after they’ve recovered, “But the wait is torture, And I’m not sure how long I can go without having you fully seated inside me.”
Sigurd groans, and he knows immediately what Eivor is doing; Trying to push him till he gives in, to tempt him into going all the way and taking the last thing Eivor has left to give.
Instead he rolls them until Eivor is on his Stomach and Sigurd thrusts over him, cock pushing into the cleft of his ass through their clothes. It’s not enough. It’s not what Eivor wants. Not what Sigurd wants either really, but the idea is there, and it drives them both mad.
Without warning, Sigurd shoves a hand into Eivor’s breaches, grasps his naked cock for the first time, and reaches his peak, again, to the sound of his lover’s climax, screamed into the cushions.
“One more winter.” He gasps into the ear of the shivering mess of man beneath him.
--------------------------------------
The wedding does eventually come, and even Sigurd has to admit, waiting till the Spring was a good idea.
The warmer weather allows them to hold the ceremony outside and Eivor looks ethereal, haloed by the blue of the ocean and sky. The whites of his ceremonial garb makes him appear almost godly and Sigurd recalls a faded memory of a dream.
Then Eivor is standing in front him, ring in his hand and vows on his lips and all other thoughts leave Sigurd’s mind.
He says his vows back thinking about everything this man is to him, and the life they will now share together. His heart is so full it feels like it could burst, and he knows, by the glow of Eivor’s smile, the other man feels the same.
In this spring weather, every clan in Norway has been gathered to witness their union. As nontraditional as it is, it is official in the eyes of the Gods and the Norse.
It’s not perfect, of course. There’s been some grumblings over the union of two men, over it’s legitimacy. Kjotve’s name hangs in the air, an unspeakable threat that is ever present in their lives, in the stern look of Randvi’s eyes, - grown soft, just for today, as she watches Sigurd’s happiness. - But Sigurd is marrying his best friend and love of his life in front of the all the clans of Norway, and he can’t imagine a better future.
“Tonight.” Eivor whispers in his ear.
--------------------------------------
Evening begins it’s quiet decent over the settlement as Sigurd-and-Eivor make their way back into the longhouse, hand-in-hand, to complete the final part of their union.
After so many winters of waiting, Sigurd’s skin tingles with an unknown electricity and he can feel Eivor shivering in anticipation through their linked fingers.
They step into their bedroom together and Sigurd can’t believe how different it feels. Walking into it as husbands about to fully lay together for the first time, instead of the clumsy infatuated youths they once were.
On the bed sits a dish containing jars of scented oils and cuts of cloth. Preparations for what’s to come.
Slowly, Sigurd leads Eivor toward the bed, putting the smaller man between it and Sigurd. He brings a hand up to Eivor’s cheek and watches, fascinated, as his fine, pale lashes flutter closed. Then he bends down and kisses his husband.
He’s gentle at first, soft and slow as he explores the same territory but in a new context. Darting his tongue out to taste Eivor’s closed lips. He waits patiently till the other man opens for him, then continues his slow dive in. Exploring and tasting every corner of the inside of Eivor’s mouth, taking his time drawing pleasurable moans from him as Eivor shivers in his hands.
Sigurd pushes at him and aligns their bodies. He moans at the fact that they are both hard just from the kissing. Or maybe it’s the anticipation of what’s to come. The thought that soon Sigurd will have Eivor completely at his mercy. He moans again at that, into the other man’s mouth, and Eivor mewls back in response. Hips unconsciously rubbing gentle little circles into Sigurd’s thigh. Seeking any amount of friction.
They’re still so inexperienced. Sigurd has done some research of course, put on his big boy boots and asked around. He wants to make this the best experience he can for Eivor, wants him to feel pleasure to the very core of his body, but up until this point, the most they’ve done is rubbed against each other. An almost innocent act compared to what’s to come.
Neither will last long. Sigurd can already feel wetness on his thigh from Eivor’s leaking cock. The other man now unashamedly rutting against him and moaning in ecstasy. But they are young and full of stamina. They’ll enjoy each other many times tonight.
Sigurd raises his thigh into Eivor’s thrusting hips, planting his foot on the edge of the bed. He grabs Eivor’s ass in both his hands and manhandles the other man over him. Using his bigger size and strength to physically thrust Eivor’s body against his own thigh. Eivor can’t maintain their kiss anymore, head thrown back and body gone limp as he just let’s Sigurd have his way with him. He only lasts two more thrusts before he’s loudly reaching his peak, the first of many, Sigurd will make sure.
The sight of him is exquisite and Sigurd is aching. Cock harder then it’s ever been.
He throws Eivor on his back on the bed and is on him before the other man even knows what’s happening. Pulling the outer layers of Eivor’s wedding clothes over his head, Sigurd latches his mouth onto his lover’s neck. Sucking hard and fast, and sure to leave a mark. Again, the first of many.
“Sigurd!” Eivor keens, lost to the pleasure of Sigurd’s tongue. They’ve barely even started.
Sigurd’s patience is fraying though, and he releases Eivor’s neck, - pleased to see a large, purple bruise already beginning to form, - to reach for his tunic, just as Eivor pulls at Sigurd’s own outer layers.
Eivor shows even less restraint then Sigurd, and he hears the distinct sounds of cloth tearing as his garments are pulled off his chest. Sigurd can’t bring himself to care though as he tugs Eivor’s tunic the rest of the way off the other man’s body.
They’ve been shirtless around each other before, but never like this. With no restraints, and in the middle of sex. Eyes hungry and tongues licking at dried lips. Eivor spreads his hands through the hair growing on Sigurd’s chest and moans.
Sigurd wants to lay down on top of the smaller man, align their chests, skin to skin in a way they haven’t done before. Feel those hard nipples against him.
But he fears if he does, he’ll never get up again, so instead he pulls his boots and breaches off, and does the same for Eivor, and then they are both truly and fully naked, for the first time.
Almost like a spell cast upon them, for a few minutes, all they can do is stare. No shame between them now, just a hunger and thirst to have what they have been denying themselves for years.
Then the spell is broken and hands are everywhere. Sigurd does exactly what he had wanted to do earlier and drops fully on top of Eivor. Careful not to crush the other with his weight.
The feeling of every inch of Eivor’s naked body full aligned with his own is indescribable and he closes his eyes and just thrusts his cock against Eivor’s before he peaks to the sounds of his lover’s moaning. His first of the night.
Eivor is already hard again, just like Sigurd new he would be, and Sigurd takes a minute to catch his breath. Eivor smells so good he can’t think straight. They had fully washed before the ceremony and in perpetration of their lovemaking. Eivor smells like a clean crisp breeze with an underlying musk that’s all his own.
Sigurd allows himself a small moment to bury his nose into Eivor’s neck, and groaning, breaths in his scent. Then he pulls away just far enough to reach for a jar of oil. The dish, somehow undisturbed from their rough bed manners earlier.
Eivor moans as he watches Sigurd liberally spread oil on his fingers, cock already starting to leak in anticipation.
Staring straight into Eivor’s eyes, Sigurd slowly drags his oiled hand down his lover’s body. Eivor’s stomach trembles slightly and Sigurd slows down, drawing out even more little trembles and watching, enraptured, as oil pools into Eivor’s belly button.
Sigurd’s eyes find Eivor’s again as his hand moves past the man’s thighs and finally reaches it’s destination. Still maintaining eye contact, Sigurd slowly, and ever so gently, pushes a single finger into that glorious tight heat.
He expects resistance but the first finger goes smooth as a knife through butter, and though surprised, Sigurd moans at the feel of it.
“Sigurd,” Eivor gasps, “I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember and have been shoving my own fingers into myself since I learned that was how men take pleasure from one another. You don’t have to treat me like glass.”
Sigurd can’t do anything but groan loudly and close he eyes at the thought, at the mental images. He has to physically take a moment to collect himself. He doesn’t think it’s possible for him to fall over the edge from just words, but of course, if anyone could be the cause of it, it’s the man currently laying naked beneath him.
“When’s the last time you did it?” He asks, against his better judgment. Eyes still shut tight and teeth clenched around the question.
“This morning,” Eivor replies. Moaning as Sigurd’s finger works him still. “I took two.”
Sigurd has to take another calming breath. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. Thinks if he does, he actually might find his peak a second time.
“Were you thinking of me?” He asks and on his next pull, he pushes a second finger in. Sure enough its an easy slide and they’re both moaning at the different sensations. Sigurd opens his eyes just in time to see Eivor arching off the bed.
“Always.” He gasps to the ceiling. Back taught and muscles straining.
Sigurd can’t control himself after that. He collapses on top of Eivor, driving his fingers deeper and capturing Eivor’s responding yell in a kiss.
He pumps into Eivor in abandon now. Moaning like he’s the one feeling the intrusion, but it’s nothing to how Eivor is taking him, Sounds barely contained in their kiss. Back arching as he thrashes.
Sigurd wishes he had more restraint, he wanted to draw this out longer, but he can’t. Not after what he just found out. Without warning he pushes a third finger into Eivor and the other man screams.
“Is this alright?” Sigurd asks, genuine concern in his voice, but he’s still pumping his fingers mercilessly into Eivor’s entrance. He’s not sure he can stop.
“Yes!” Eivor yells. “Yes, Sigurd, don’t you dare stop! I need, I need-” He’s angling his hips different ways, chasing something Sigurd can’t see or feel.
Sigurd tries a different angle on the next pump of his fingers and Eivor lets out another loud moan. “There! Sigurd, touch there!”
He’s thrusting even harder now, hitting that spot each time to Eivor’s continued cries. His cock is purple in it’s need but he knows Eivor is close, he can bring him off at least two more times tonight if he could just-
He hits the spot once more and Eivor climaxes a second time, back arched so hard he looks like a bow just about to loose an arrow.
Sigurd doesn’t even wait for him to come down. Honestly, doesn’t even think he can. Just grabs the jar of oil, practically spills it everywhere trying to get it on his straining dick, then he lines up and pushes in.
There is no words Sigurd can think of the for the feeling of filling Eivor with his cock. The constricting warmth of his ass clenching and releasing as Sigurd struggles to hang on, to not reach his second peak right then and there, but he knows it’s a lost cause. He’s only human and he’s been waiting for this moment for at least three winters.
He thrusts in once, hits that spot that makes Eivor howl, and falls off the edge.
Eivor is a mess as Sigurd collapses on top of him, wriggling on his cock like an eel. Moaning and clawing at him, and chasing yet another climax, and though Sigurd's dick is sensitive and his balls shrunk, he knows he’ll be able to go again soon. Can’t watch Eivor going mindless with pleasure and not think of going another round.
He lets himself take a few gasping breaths, tries to collect what ever is left of his mind before he flips them over. The bowl of oils and cloth finally falls off the bed. Probably causing a giant mess, but Eivor is a wriggling, bouncing, bundle of nerves on top of him and Sigurd doesn’t care about anything but him.
“I’ve got you Eivor. I’m here, my love” And sure enough, he’s hard and ready yet again. Actually thinks his third release is not that far off and he’s not even sure how that can be possible. His dick is going to hate him tomorrow and he’ll be shocked if Eivor can walk straight.
Sigurd grabs Eivor’s hips and forcibly shoves him down on his own cock as he thrust up. Eivor is keening and grasping at him. Body shining with sweat and muscles clenched tight and straining.
They go like that for a while, rutting against each other in a frenzy, but in their change of position, Sigurd has lost that spot that drives Eivor wild. He angles his hips a different way each new thrust up, trying desperately to find it before Sigurd hits his third release. He’s not sure he can go for a forth.
There!
“Sigurd!” Eivor howls, and grabs his cock as Sigurd continues plowing him. Constantly aiming for that spot.
Then Eivor’s falling forward onto him. Kissing him messily as he pumps himself and continues rutting into Sigurd’s frenzied thrusts.
And that’s how they find their third release. A mess of sweaty limbs, drenched in oil and spend and spit, and holding each other through it.
Eivor falls to a heap beside him and Sigurd gently pulls out. His cock is so sensitive it actually feels a little painful, and Eivor’s almost motionless but for his chest, visibly expanding and contracting as he tries to fill his lungs with air. Sigurd imagines he must feel somewhat boneless at the moment.
Sigurd uses and remaining strength he has left to dig around for a cloth not covered in oil. He manages to find one along with a small basin of water. Missed in Sigurd-and-Eivor’s initially frenzy to get at each other.
Gently he wets the cloth and goes to clean his lover’s body.
“Was that everything you wanted?” He asks. Eivor’s not fighting so hard for breath anymore, but his eyes are closed and he hasn’t moved from his initial position. It’s clear he’s going to fall asleep any minute now.
“For now,” He hums, eyes still closed, but lips quirking up in amusement. "I’ll need a repeat performance to properly judge though.”
“Is that so?” Sigurd laughs, then hisses as he wipes his overly sensitive cock with the wet cloth. “You might need to give me a day or two rest first, and then we’ll see.”
“Whatever you say, old man.”
Sigurd throws the wet cloth at Eivor’s face then laughs at his squawk of outrage.
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The next morning, Sigurd wakes to a room reeking of sex and Eivor snuggled in the pit of his arm.
He takes a moment to watch his husband sleep, rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder. Then Eivor is groaning and stretching as he blinks his eyes awake.
“Good morning, Husband dearest.” Sigurd smiles, watching Eivor’s face look up at him and instantly brighten. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was plowed within an inch of my life,” He groans, but his voice is full of mirth. “And how are you feeling, Husband mine?”
“Like I plowed you within an inch of your life,” Sigurd laughs, then laughs some more as Eivor tries to smack him.
He continues laughing all the way to the feasting table, as they break their fast.
He laughs through his sister’s poorly masked happiness, and his father’s exhausted faces. - and he laughs extra hard at Eivor’s face when he realizes exactly why they’re so exhausted, - He grabs Eivor’s hand from under the table and laughs laughs and laughs.
He only stops laughing long enough to pick up a mug of mead.
“To Family!” He shouts, mug held high.
There’s a pause, then four voices, loud and clear. “To Family.”
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He’s thirty winters, staring out at the ocean with his husband at his side. Kjtove is finally dead. Their father’s will remain here, safe with each other and the peace of a unified nation.
Randvi will meet them in the morrow. She had gone to visit her parent’s graves after she had pulled the last breath from Kjotve’s lungs. Her revenge finally achieved.
They have a new adventure ahead of them. A new country to explore, and this time, they’ll go together.
To Valhalla, Sigurd thinks, and takes Eivor’s hand.