The hall is silent now — the echoes of celebration, of laughter and drink, long gone. Only embers remain, and the sound of the sea against the cliffs.

The night before changed everything.

For years, Ivar was the one mocked by his brothers, whispered about behind his back — the crippled son of Ragnar, the one who could never be a man in full. He carried that rage in his chest like a brand, sharpened it into the cruelty the world expected of him. But you… you didn’t treat him like something broken. You saw him.

And yet when the moment finally came — when you crossed that line with him — all that buried shame and fury came pouring out. He was rough, desperate, afraid to show gentleness, as if kindness would prove his brothers right. He wanted to prove himself more than he wanted to be touched.

Now it’s morning. The fire’s gone cold. He sits there, silent, shoulders rigid, his hands trembling just slightly as though he’s still at war with himself. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say — or if you’ll even look at him the same way again.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low — not the voice of the fearless son of Ragnar, but of a man unsure how to exist in silence.

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t look at you when he asks. His fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles white.

“You should. I was not gentle. I—”

He stops, the words catching. His throat works as he forces out the rest.

“I wanted to be a man, not a cripple. I wanted you to see me that way.”

For once, there’s no arrogance in him — only raw honesty, trembling between guilt and longing.