Hands of Gold.
Ivar the Boneless x Reader.
alright let’s see if i still got this??? i mean it’s been like forever and a half, sooooo -
warnings: nothing really, but it’s me, so.
It was when you realized you had lost your tour guide, your heels clicked against the stone, and the sound of a raven calling did you catch sight of him – tapping your pamphlet against your chin, digging the edge of it into the little dent that rested there, turning in a circle one last time you pierced sapphire eyes that stilled you in more ways than just your physical movement.
There was a thin brick wall that separated you from your companion, the air creeping along the surface and through the fabric of your jacket, spilling bumps over your skin. You listened to him talk through the window around the corner. If you would only lean back (or forward, whichever way you decided to stand), you would be able to see his face – those features that had seemingly haunted your nights ever since you first saw him. Though, strange as it was, if you were to walk only a few steps, you would find yourself alone, and vice versa. The words that were spilling from his lips were lost on your ears, his blissful voice drowning you in your thoughts as you reminisced away.
Never would you had imagined that a simple vacation would turn out to be a historical and ethereal event. Not once in your life did you ever wonder about the people who adventured the lands of the past, that sailed the seas and staked claim over kingdoms. People that slaughtered for kingship and power were not people you gave a minute too, not did you think that you would find companion ship in one. He was a Viking, a prince, a dead soul that should be lying 6ft under the harsh ground in a forgotten land that probably now had concrete and skyscrapers above it… yet there he sat against the stone sill each time you arrived at the ruins.
Neither of you could figure it out, why this was happening, who was allowing it to continue, but you had yet to complain, and as a man who enjoyed ‘adventuring’, he did not mind listening to tales of your time. Despite most of the time you were a liar and a hoax, and a lunatic with some of the things you ‘come up with’. Until you happily showed him your cell phone, and unfortunately found that he did not appear with in photographs. You continuously told yourself this was a dead man, though the way he would talk about his life, and tell you stories… some of the things he spoke as if they had just happened yesterday, or that day. You supposed perhaps maybe when a person dies, they relive all of their moments, continuously, as though it were a new happening. But you felt sorry for him, because there had been two times you mentioned him being dead, or a ghost, or a spirit, and he had yelled at you and had become offended.
You haven’t brought it up since.
You were becoming intensely infatuated with the spirit of a dead man who would cut your throat the moment he thought there was a spark of distance from him in your eyes. What you had learned in the past few days was that betrayal was not tolerated by Ivar the Boneless, not in the slightest, from anyone. Cautiously, almost timidly, it was found that he had even murdered his own brother. His own blood. It was for a fraction of the moment, you felt yourself still on that confession and you wanted to throw yourself off the ruins, onto the broken rocks at the bottom of the window.
Something small touched the side of your head and you flinched out of nature, reaching up to grab it, turning to meet his narrowed glare. “Again, you lose your head today. What are you thinking about that could possibly be more important than me, hm?” Ivar asked, tilting his head, and the corner of your lip twitched at his accent. The way his words rolled always made you want to smile, and listen to him talk for hours.
“You,” was a quick response, still rubbing your head despite the fact there was no pain, looking away from him as you suddenly felt warm at your strange confession. You were not a very shy person once you began to know someone, but there was something in his stare, his attitude, that made you feel less than significant to the life around you.
Creeping a look back around through your window, there was barely emotion on his face aside from a quirk of his lip that would pass by unnoticed had you not mapped his features so intently. “Of course,” he replied, crossing his arms and leaning back, shielding his face with his cloak. “You, only, would think of me in a different manner while I am around.”
It was no secret that you had a small bit of feelings growing for him, or something that made you feel complete around him. You had admitted right off the bat – no one ever said you were the smartest person in the world – that you couldn’t understand why he was still single, that you would love to see that face crawl to you every morning. Granted, you left right after that comment, but it had happened. Letting out a small hum, you felt almost oddly proud, clicking your feet together and glancing down at the watch on your wrist.
You felt his eyes follow your gaze, and the air around both of you suddenly felt heavy. It always did when time rolled by, and you knew the area would be closing off soon. There was a veil almost, one that seemed hard to walk through, and that a part of you was left behind when you would disappear from his vision, and his figure would no longer be present over your shoulder. “Do you…” Ivar’s attention turned, fully facing you now, leaning slightly out the window as you muttered. “ever wonder what I do when I’m not here? Like, do you think about me after I leave?”
A pause, and his head moved, looking down the opposite direction of what you assumed used to be a hallway, and he seemed to be lost like he had seen something move. The sound of crows echoed around you both, and a whistle caught your ear as wind bellowed through small cracks in the building. “Am I not here whenever you return?” he retorted as though you were stupid, turning back around and facing you.
No one ever said you were smart.
“Because you have nowhere else to go,” you told him, finalizing the conversation after nodding to his rhetorical question. Moving to stand, he shouted and you turned quickly, a fear running through your body that he had fallen out the window or something along that matter. Not that it should of worried you – he was simply a spirit. Already dead. Nothing could hurt him.
There he sat, his arm stretched out and his fingers straining in your direction. Furrowing your brows, you stared at him in question and his oceans rolled. “Touch me.” Ivar commanded.
If this were any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have to tell you twice, but until then, you hesitated. “Ivar, I can’t – “
“Touch me.” he ordered again, waving his arm a bit for emphasis, his gaze hard. “I won’t tell you to do it again.”
It was a threat, but what could he do? Walk over and touch you? A part of you wished he could, a part of you wanted to reach out and grab his hand, but there was something in you that didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t real or that he was in fact dead and you were completely crazy.
“I want to know,” he insisted. That was an open statement to you, and you wondered if maybe he was slowly coming to terms that you may be right, and he may be dead.
Hesitantly, you walked over, leaning out the window and stuck out your hand. You had seen enough movies to know that you needed to prepare yourself for a cold rush on your skin, and watching your own hand go straight through his, and a bit of a heart break. But what you did not prepare yourself for was when your fingers brushed against the tips of his, the rough skin grazing against yours, and almost instantly his large fingers grasped yours and his hand swallowed your smaller one.
You weren’t sure what to do, how to breath, or even how to speak as his mouth opened wide and almost became a smile as small clouds rolled from his mouth, and before your eyes you watched a figure walk behind him. The sound of a loud horn reached your ears, a smell of roasting food, and people shouting over one another, and his chest puffed out as his gaze became more intense. His hand slid around your wrist and his blunt fingers dug into your flesh, as though nothing could pry his grip from you. “You’re cold,” was all your brain could register, and for some reason that was not a surprise to you.
“For hands of gold are always cold,” Ivar mumbled to you, dragging his palm back across yours and he seemed to almost admire your fingers and the fact he could feel them. “but a woman’s hands are warm.”