NOTE: Set several days after HIS MERCY, HIS WRATH + DEVOUR US and a day or so after RIVERSIDE - thank you liquid time!


Birth; it was a familiar scent, certainly by this point. It heralded the arrival of his nieces and nephews - the children @Saga had created with the new High Sovereign of Andal Oasis. Magnus still had no idea as to whether or not the Miroslav knew about his progeny, but at this point it did not seem to matter much; he would not preoccupy himself with such thoughts when he had his own brood to concern himself with. The aroma of new-born had faded a little - some hours had passed since he'd first detected it. With a large chunk of buffalo between his jaws, the King would make his way towards the mouth of his sister's den. Placing the offering down, he would offer a low chuff to the chimeric woman he assumed was inside, lingering in wait for his invite. High Sovereign and brother he may be, but he knew better than to intrude on a new mother.

Best to keep her well-fed, lest her hunger fuel any hormonal outbursts that may come his way.

the finest fury is the most controlled

code by corvus

saga is sleeping - not soundly, but sleeping - when @Magnus approaches. the four ( no. no, three. ) at her stomach mewl and knead as she stirs, blinking blearily as her mind works to separate the strands of dream from reality. the quiet lull of the ocean nearly sends her back into that limbo halfdream state but her brother's call shakes her more firmly awake. she's mildly surprised - and pleased - to know he's come out from the dark place he had been in after the ritual. or at the very least began to step foot from the pit, one claw at a time.

she takes a moment, reaching to smooth the wayward hairs of her newborns, before issuing her own rumbling chuff to escort him inside. she's enticed by the scent of the meat in his jaws and greedily swipes a tongue across her lips as she peers at it, holding enough composure not to demand it immediately. "bróðir," she greets wearily, leaning her back up against the wall of the den and peering steadily at him despite the way sleep begs her to return. "hvernig gengur þér?" she asks. it's very nearly small talk and from any other lion it would have been. but saga has reasons behind nearly everything she does and the question carries a weight with it.

how is he? the wives? the children? vellen? there's no judgment on her face but there is certainly a shadow to her gaze, a wariness that was not there before.

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS

She would invite him in, keeping careful amber gaze lingering on both him and his offering all the while. His attention would flit from the chiselled features of his sister and then, downcast, onto the brood that nestled at her brow. He knew nothing of the nephew that had been lost - sacrificed - to the waves, nor his daughters' involvement in it. For now, the congratulations remained stilted in the back of his throat; instead his mind would, reeling, zone in on her words. He sees it for what it is. @Saga may have been checking on him, to an extent, but there was a mostly ulterior motive somewhere behind it all. Poking, prodding, perhaps searching for a weak spot to bury into. The idea hurt him, but he had not missed the judgemental expression worn at the drowning.

He was not blind; not entirely.

"Nógu vel miðað við það." With a rumble, he'd leave it at that; for now. No point in rehashing the details; Saga, like everyone else, had seen everything. Had heard everything. "Einbeitum okkur að börnunum þínum augnablik." An easy excuse to push away the elephant in the room, albeit probably only for a few moments. He would take a step closer, peering down at the three little bundles. Two dark, and one starkly pale. "Viltu segja mér nöfn frænka minna og frænda?"

the finest fury is the most controlled

code by corvus

he sees through the pallid attempt at covering her intent - she's not surprised. @Magnus has never been a fool. had never been, she thinks darkly, her brows tightening just a bit over those hawkish brown eyes. she grapples with blaming him and laying the blame on hrefna's shoulders; nadia's. perhaps their mother was not hard enough and magnus too busy with his kingly duties, his jarl duties. perhaps he shouldn't have shouldered that burden: the one she thrust upon him. she chews the inside of her cheek, wondering if it would have been easier to keep her own claws in the right of rule. but ingvar's upbringing had been harsh, infallible, and to change the traditions left her feeling shaky and cold. when he finally replies, saga makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. yes, she expects that considering made things rather hard. he turns the conversation back to the monochrome creatures at her belly. her expression turns soft at the edges as her gaze shifts down to them, the harsh lines of her face smoothing. "hillevi, velkan, solvi." she names each with a vague gesture to the child in question, eyes raising then to focus on his face. while she gives him a moment to digest, her paw reaches out to greedily snatch the meat with claws so she can tear a chunk away. "fjórði lá með vellen. gjoff." she swallows another mouthful, thoughtful as she waits to read his expression. "sendar af dætrum þínum. iðrun." she adds, almost as an afterthought. as if doesn't hurt when she thinks about him, doesn't hurt to drag the words from her throat.

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As she complied, the man took a step closer, dark gaze relieved to shift away from the mask his sister wore and instead focus on the three small bundles at her breast. Two daughters and a son. "Very good," he rumbled, administering approval that she certainly did not ask for or require. Still, it was nice to convince himself that his opinion mattered somewhere. She would carry on, then, and his posture stiffened a little at the news. At that point he would tilt his head back up, studying his sister with a cool and unwavering stare. It would not take more than a second or two for him to piece together what @Saga meant; what she was confessing.

A long pause, and then - "I see." His displeasure was clear. How easy it was to sit back and judge, from her cushy position. A woman of seniority within the clan, yet certainly not senior enough to burden herself with any real responsibility. And yet now, her act - her statement - had put him at her mercy (wherever that may be, somewhere behind the cold sharp surface). Magnus would settle back on his haunches, tense. "The ultimate act of sacrifice - your child, a son," bright and bonny, no doubt, and inevitably full of potential, "for two of mine." And while they were both full of potential too, it still troubled Magnus. Where would they draw the line now? Would they be indebted to each other for the rest of their lives? A home, a title, a child, and then what? The pause that followed was heavy. Why? "Do you not suppose that to be the sort of thing a Jarl would do? To act in the interest of the clan?" He wrinkled his muzzle. "And yet you refuse it still, all because you are a woman. A waste, sister."

He sniffed. "You were always better with the masses."

the finest fury is the most controlled

code by corvus

he seems displeased by her confession and her lips twitch, pausing mid-chew to regard him coolly. was he truly going to be angry that she gave her firstborn son in an attempt to nullify the damage done? she presses her lips together in a tight line, ears tipping back in an angle to her skull, and instead of responding merely gobbles the rest of the meat between her feet with a gusto. she ignores him while he settles on his haunches and continues, instead focusing on grooming the blood and fur lingering on her paws. what he says is pointless, she thinks, shooting him a sharp look without lifting her head so that she's peering from under her brow. she knows what she lost, what she sacrificed.

she realizes he's trying to make a point and she finally lifts her head and places her still-bloodied paws on the ground. "segðu hvað þú meinar, @Magnus." she bids him, caught between uncertainty and agitation. he dances around topics more than she and that is chalked up to charisma, to restraint. saga may be the ice queen but she's far too bold, too obvious, to be as good with the masses as magnus seems to think.

he finally drops the bomb and she stills, reaching a paw out to coax little hillevi back to the trio of wriggling bodies. the dark chimera was a handful already and she wonders which of the two daughters will be more difficult. her remaining son is.... weak. sickly, at times. she worries for him in a way she won't admit to anyone else. "you know why." she tells him, eyes soft as she regards the children in her protective curl. "ingvar was your father, too." her frown deepens and she lifts her head to regard him less critically. more.. bemused. "would changing traditions right now really be the best for the clan?" she shakes her head, unconvinced.

"do you think yourself unfit?" she challenges him, then, gaze steady and face impassive. she's not sure, herself, where she lands. but he's still her brother and he's still her jarl and he deserves her faith. "you..." she stumbles over the words, face twisting into agitation at herself. "you can't control your children. not really." there's a wistful sort of sorrow that flashes in her gaze, there. "if you could, i would've stopped fannar.... and aki both."

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS