Sillage (n) the scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in the water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone's perfume
On the day Ragnar returned to me I told him of my vision.
That I was afraid to lay with him, for I had had a dream, and I had seen if we made love on the next three nights I would bear him a monster. I do not know what made me said the things I said to him that day, I spoke them, but it seems now as if our fate was already sealed.
Of course, Ragnar -being Ragnar- chuckled softly, smirked deviously, and teased me to no end about my old hag superstitions, dismissing each and every one of my words. You see? That's the thing about my husband, he never listens to my advice, and he doesn't believe in my "gift".
But right then, neither did I. At least, I didn't want to. In his embrace, all the fears in my mind and all the sorrows in my heart were banished to oblivion, and as his arms surrounded mine, I found peace again.
My happiness wasn't meant to last for long anyway.
I sensed this pregnancy was different from the moment it began, but Ragnar reassured me -I was overreacting, the child was fine -he told me- and I just felt anguished and strange because he was sure we where expecting a girl this time around, and surely a daughter took more energy from her mother in order to become strong. He has been hoping for a baby girl for a long time now, for even if he never talked about her anymore, I knew he missed his first daughter terribly, and he seemed so happy and joyful with the prospect of it, I did not dare to contradict him.
You can imagine his disappointment when the doctor told us waving at the black and white screen it was, without a hint of doubt, a boy. "A big, strong, healthy boy, just like his brothers" he promised looking straightly into my face.
But then again, what do the doctors know?
First came the pain… so much pain, and then the unnatural stillness… My baby was so calm back then… but nonetheless I dreaded every doctor appointment, and every time, when they told me all was just fine I plagued them with questions and concerns, I insisted Ragnar endlessly into doing all the tests possibly known. So, when finally the diagnosis was made I'm not sure why it was so much of a shock to me.
Osteogenesis Imperfecta.
Brittle bones disease.
We were absolutely devastated. The new scans showed several fractures in his legs, both of his femurs were crashed, and that was just a small glimpse of all the suffering to come… As we could not determinate the extent of his injuries, and the level of his condition, the specialist sat us down and told us to prepare ourselves for a fatal end before birth, or, being strongly optimistic, on the firsts months of his short and difficult life. From the moment of his arrival to this world our baby would endure incredible pain, and quite possibly, would never be able to walk at all. And if,by some miracle, he survived into adulthood, Terms like "probable dwarfism", "acquired deafness" and "abnormal development" would be part of our vocabulary on a daily basis.
At this point, he advised us to seriously consider terminating the pregnancy.
It was out of the question for me. I wish I could say the same for Ragnar.
We argued day and night, we cried, we fought, we said hurtful and cruel things to each other, he told me our son would die anyway, "what is the point in pretending otherwise?" and if he survived, he told me, it would be much worse, for he would be weak and deformed, a cripple, and everyone would stare and be cruel to him. "What kind of a life could he live?" he asked me with tears on those beloved blue eyes.
I understood then, my husband was already grieving. And I hated him for it, I hated him with a passion I never knew I had within me. Because even if what he said was true, I didn't care. That baby was already my son and I loved him just the same.
I wanted him.
I know, what a selfish bitch I am, am I not? Believe me, I've been told worse.
Even to Siggy, my dearest and oldest friend among those who I call family now, I couldn't bear to listen. She told me it would be a mercy to him, but by then I would have rather died than take her advise. I felt my little boy growing inside me. He was alive, and I knew he would be a fighter, a warrior.
I have never been as fierce as my father nor yet as brave as my mother, but I stood firm on my determination, and at the end, I won. At least I felt that way at the moment.
I knew my husband resented me for taking away his choice on the matter, but I was sure, with time, his heart would warm and he could find the love to understand me and even be grateful for my stubbornness.
He did not.
Our son arrived almost one month early in this brutal and vicious world, premature and small, I knew he would need to spend months developing in the safer environment of an incubator, but I craved for a little touch, so the nurse placed the frail creature on my arms as she instructed us to "handle him with care". That sentence would hang above our heads as a Damocles sword for the rest of our life.
I neared him to my breast and he opened his eyes, those big and bewitching eyes, and there was so much blue in them even the white surrounding his irises seemed completely cobalt-stained; and yet, they were so similar to Ragnar's I could swear it was my husband giving me a playful grin just before starting sucking with a demanding need. I took a great comfort in that resemblance, and I wanted to show it to Ragnar, a little -yet precious- renewed joy in my heart.
I handed him the baby, and in doing so the blankets covering his little body felt down revealing a couple of thin and twisted legs. Ragnar's eyes flew open in surprise, a repressed grimace of pity and disgust showing through his handsome face, he tried to disguise it quickly kissing our baby's head, caressing and folding him again. But as soon as his hands placed a little too much pressure on him a horrendous and heavy "CRACK" resounded through the room.
The sound of your baby bones smashing to dust hooks to your brain as a spreading stain of oil. From that moment onwards, our lives became a living hell, I could only listen our little boy screaming in pain and fury as they took him immediately to the first of many surgeries to come. I was powerless, nothing I could do would spear him now. And it was my fault entirely.
"After all, your prophecy was right " Those were Ragnar's only words to me on the day our son was born, and then he left the room with tears in his blaming eyes.
I had never felt more alone.
"His name is Ivar"- I whispered into the void.
From the diaries of Aslaug Völsunga Lothbrok,
September 1985, Stavanger.
He runs into the mists without fear, after all, the mists are just the passage to her, and so, he knows he doesn't need to be afraid. The Ravens will guide him like they always do. Without hesitation or pain. Without sorrow.
Without shame.
He runs fast and agile as sweat rolls down his skin in thick, salty beads. His strong long legs pushing him far away from everything, he doesn't care about his soared muscles, he pushes harder, always harder, the wild wind blowing against his face, his bare feet feeling the warm sand escaping through his fingers, his heart throbbing inside his chest at full speed. He does not mind. Not a little bit. He is free.
Ivar runs as he always does, in his dreams.
And then, as he always does, he wakes up.
A raspy and wet tongue licking his ear is not like he has imagined it will happen though.
The persistent sound of his alarm punching his sore head as a hammer reminds him it is time to start his morning routine…. Gods, He's getting older, he cannot hold his scotch like he used to. As he silences the fucking iPhone he pats the Great Dean head with parsimony.
"Ok ok! ok, old boy, come here" he throws the stuffed pillows and the sheets away to make space for Odin to jump in. He knows the old man does not allow it usually, but who cares? As he's in the cabin visiting he will do as he pleases.
He searches inside the drawer of the bedside table until he found what he's looking for. He opens the small travel pillbox as he evaluates for a second his pain levels on this cloudy morning. The ache in his knees worsened with all this humidity.
What a great-fuckingtastic day to be in the middle of this nothingness of mountains and lakes.
He grabs a couple of extra ibuprofens and his normal dose of painkillers - the rest of the meds will have to wait till he has something inside his stomach- and swallows them in one gulp with the golden liquid that still remains in the glass. He's sure he's not supposed to mix, but frankly, he does not give a shit.
He tries to relax waiting for the medication to kick in as he lazily lits a cigarette, his bare chest expanding as he breaths the familiar and shooting scent.
Odin looks at him reprobatory with his big yellow eyes. Ivar chuckles and turns his head slightly to the left, mimicking the dog position.
"Now even you judge me, hmm?" The dog just raises his brows as if trying to prove he's not impressed. What a great day indeed.
His gaze stops abruptly upon seeing where Odin's tongue is leaving a trace of slobber on the mattress, his last night reading scattered dangerously close to the dog warm body. He quickly takes the thin black covered books away and he caresses them briefly to his heart, that has stopped abruptly for one second as he has faced the very idea of losing those diaries.
His mother diaries.
He has read them a thousand times… and yet… yet, every time, every fucking time he reads those firsts pages, an iron fist punch him hard in the stomach.
She started writing a mere week after he was born… how hollow and painful was her life in those days to throw herself with such a passion into the white pages of a notebook?
He's not prone to self-pity. There's nothing to win from it anyway, but today he cannot hold a pressuring though from his aching mind.
That he brought her nothing but despair. That she would have been far happier if she had chosen differently.
And yet, she loved him. She truly did.
And he misses her. He truly does.
He wonders if she's resting in peace, knowing she is finally avenged.
Most probably not.
She's either completely gone and therefore not present to have an opinion or worst, she's sad and disappointed at what remains of her family.
He lets out the last puff of sweet smoke as he ends his cigarette.
Enough. It is enough.
With a couple of smooth moves, he pushes himself into a straight position, and then transfer into the sleek black wheelchair by grabbing on to the side of it and shifting his body over using the strength of his arms. The muscles in his upper body the exact opposite of his lower half.
As he goes on with what is needed to be done in the bathroom the soft in-crescendo beats of Apocalyptica's cello fills the air with the last pieces of his new album. Music always soothes him, and half an hour later Ivar emerges from the scalding shower and quickly transfers again into the bed after grabbing his clothes for the day.
He carelessly – as carelessly as this process allows anyway- dresses into an all-black outfit. He feels like it fits the day mood and besides- being lost in the middle of nowhere is no reason to be tatty.
After giving it a quick thought he decides to risk it with the braces. The old man doesn't seem to be awake yet and he can use some good breakfast for once. And as Ivar have experienced recently his old shabby kitchen is not too wheels-friendly. So, KAFO and crutches for the day it seems.
Odin is missing, and he guesses by now the giant dog will have let himself run free through the mount and fields that surround the cabin. He's not particularly worried, after all, the back door is never locked for that same reason. The animal does as he likes for some hours every morning and sometimes even at night, but he always comes back.
As every one of them, Ivar thinks before pushing himself into a stand-up position, he's a wild soul trapped within a mundane cage.
The sun is already high in the grey sky when Floki finally makes an appearance into the kitchen guided by the delicious smell of crackling bacon and sizzling eggs.
"Happy Bi-" He has no time to finish as his godson interrupts him quite rudely.
"Don't mention it" He barks, heavy annoyance sounding like a threat in the suddenly tense atmosphere.
For once the older one seems taken aback by the vivid anger that comes off the bitter young man in front of him. He's used to Ivar's outburst – even when with time he has mastered theme and is less prone to lose his temple in front of others- but is on rare occasions when he finds himself the target of that overflowing fury.
He has no time to elaborate an answer as Ivar shrugs and drops his face into the palm of his hands. His crutches resting on the kitchen island as he leans into a high stool for stability.
"Sorry, really bad morning" The voice comes muffled through his fingers as Ivar slides his hands with a nervous gesture that he tries to conceal by adjusting the strands of hair behind his ears. The young man tries to smile dismissively. "Can we pretend is just another stupid cold day in this stupid cold place?"
The older one nods silently, there's no more explanation needed. He takes a glimpse for a brief second of the three smiling faces frozen forever on the small wooden frame on the shelve. His sweet Helga, his little Borda, and his own young reflexion smiling freely for the camera as they play in the snow.
Some days are harder than others. And that he understood quite well.
The realization struck him like a thunder then, and suddenly he is painfully aware that today is not only a birthday for his godson.
Today marks a dividing line on Ivar's life.
Today he becomes 33 years old, and therefore, from this day onwards, he will have lived more than half of his days without parents in this world.
"Come on, move your lazy ass to the table and let's enjoy whatever you've managed to left unburned by now" He says as he grabs the plates and starts crossing the room to the small circular kitchen table. After a few seconds, he hears a soft sight and the familiar sound of his accurate and slow movement as the metal bars of his braces scratches the wooden floor.
The boy will be alright.
He will have a family again, and he will be ready when the time comes.
And then the old and lonely Floki will be allowed to part in peace, and he will go back to his family knowing he has fulfilled his promises.
yes yes, all will be alright.
Floki will make sure of it.