Re: Sigvard's Hall: Lagertha/Ragnar
The scrape of blade against bone was a grit that set her teeth on edge, both familiar and strange at once. Jaw clenched, fingers held tight around the knife's handle, her eyes were intent on Sigvard's, watching as the realization sunk in past the drunkenness. The realization that she'd stabbed him, that he was already dying. She didn't smile, but there was a grim sort of satisfaction to the press of her lips together.
Her fingers finally released the handle, though she didn't step back, even as Sigvard went to his knees. He still made high sounds of pain, not quite screams, but only because he couldn't quite catch his breath to do it. It took Ragnar's approach, one that nearly made her turn and strike out at him before she realized who it was, to break her focus. She stared again then, this time at him, heard him speak. But it wasn't until he held out the knife that she realized what he had said, what he meant.
Knife in her hand, eyes on his yet for a moment before she turned back to her dying husband. He still kneeled there, sounds of pain filling the hall. And though she hesitated, perhaps wanting to make it last just a little longer, she finally stepped in again, threaded hard-clenching fingers into his hair to pull his head back, and ran that knife (her knife) over his exposed neck.
The thin screaming stopped, replaced by the sound of blood and air escaping his slit throat. A moment passed, his body slumping, held only by her hand until she unclenched her fingers from his hair and let him drop. The sound of him hitting the floor was dull, heavy flesh on dirt, and she stared down at him as the spread of blood grew wider, inched toward her feet.
She'd killed many men. But never her husband. Never an Earl. And the death of an Earl passed his title to the victor. To her.
She looked at Ragnar, expression almost flat. Disbelieving. She was Earl now. Those gathered around were her people. The body at her feet was her responsibility. And yet...
"May his family or allies come to take his body. I will never again touch him." She turned, finally looking away from the body on the floor, the spray of blood stark on the front of her skirts. "I am done with my meal," she said, softer. The knife still in her hand, slick of red on silver blade, she stepped away from the table. The people - her people - watched her as she moved, and after several steps, she looked at them, a low sweep of her gaze. It was a claiming, an acknowledgement. She was their protector now, in a way she had never been before. And she nodded, accepting it, before she turned again to go to her rooms.