Once we had arrived at the throne room, which was now dark and decimated, I was unceremoniously slung off the warrior's shoulder and dropped on unsteady feet. My lungs heaved, cheeks blotchy and stained from crying, and my dress rumpled from the man handling.
Before I had a chance to exam the room properly, a tight grip on my wrist snatched me from my thoughts. My immediate reaction was to pull away, but the weakness in my muscles made the struggle almost pitiful. I followed the broad, calloused hand down the arm and to its owner, finding my gaze entranced by the same pair of indigo eyes that had stared up at me from the courtyard. They were wide with curiosity, though sinister in the way he looked over my small frame. The same smirk adorned as his face at my pathetic attempt it freeing my wrist.
"You are exactly as I remember," he said lowly, letting his thumb trace absently on the inside of my wrist. I was sure by the way his smirk deepened that he could feel my pulse race in terror. "Princess Orlan."
The words came out in a sneer rather than an admiring tone and I attempted to shrink back, suppressing a shudder. His iron grip held me in place though.
Clinking chains and the groan of metal drew my attention and I glanced upwards, only to find a horror I had hoped to avoid. Father had pressed himself against the bars of cage hung high above the ground, and stared down in panic. His breathing was labored and the distress surrounding him was palpable.
"Orlan, you fool," Father griped as he leant his forehead against the thick bars of the cage. "You should have drunk the tea, dear daughter."
I felt tears spring up at the despair in his voice, and said, "I wasn't ready, Father." Sobs interrupted my words and I dashed tears away with the back of my free hand. "I could not face it, I did not wa-want to die."
"What are they saying, Bjorn?" Grunted a man from the corner. My attention turned to him as he stared back under furrowed brows. Limp blonde hair hung across his forehead and his blue tunic seemed ill-fitting, though the cautious expression in his eye suggested unpredictability.
The oldest of the group, who I could guess was this 'Bjorn', looked disinterested as he said, "The girl was meant to drep seg selv." I could insinuate the rest of the sentence, as it was clear he understood I was to die. He took a small sip from a goblet and continued. "But she was scared and did not. What a shame, for her that is."
"It is only fair that I have the princess, after all it was Father and I who were imprisoned, therefore I can imprison King Ecbert's child as was done to me," this 'Ivar' said in a voice so gentle that it set chills down my spine.
"She is small and clearly unwell," announced another in a distracted voice. "I do not think anyone else would bother with her. Though I would not mind sampling the local delicacies."
My head whipped around to the source of the voice, finding a handsome young man with longer brown hair. With a gaping jaw and impossibly wide eyes, I found myself backing up against Ivar's chair if only to distance myself from the man.
Ivar himself cackled and said, "It seems the princess does not want you anyway, Hvitserk!" He released his iron-clad grip on my wrist and caught a lock of my hair which had fallen from its braid. He twisted the gold silk around his fingers like it was an exotic fabric, admiring the honey-coloured strands that contrasted the ashy colours of his own people.
Then, without warning, he yanked viciously on the lock, eliciting a girlish yelp from my throat. I leant down to ease the pain, but he only pulled it further across his body until I was forced to lean over his chest. I felt the eyes of those in the room watch curiously, and the anguish of my father as he watched the Northman he had thought harmless, man handle his daughter.
"Leave my daughter be, she is innocent," Father begged as he pressed even closer to the bars. My breathing quickened and I felt the familiar burn in my lungs.
Ivar tilted his head as if pondering my father's words. "Now you know how Ragnar felt when you imprisoned his son."
"But I did not torment you, I was civil," my father retorted, holding out a diplomatic hand as if to beckon Ivar to let go.
"No, you did not," Ivar muttered. "You are not the one in control anymore, Ecbert. I am, and if I say your daughter is mine, then she is mine."
Bjorn glanced over briefly. "Do not hurt her too much, brother. She may be useful in the future."
Clearly the younger brother, Ivar rolled his eyes but released my hair and I immediately straightened up. He instead took my pallid hand in his much larger one and pressed his lips to it.
"Do not worry, Princess. I can be civil," he said after his eyes drifted up to mine. It was a show of civility that set me on edge, as if waiting for him to lash out again. I wanted nothing more than to recoil my hand and be left alone, but I feared his iron grip crushing my wrist once more.
"Ivar, no woman would want that kind of attention from you," groaned the young man in blue as he stood up from leaning against a pillar close to the doors. "Let the girl die with her father."
"Quiet, Sigurd!" Ivar barked as he wound his fingers around my forearm possessively. I winced as his fingers dug deep into my skin, surely leaving vivid red marks in their wake. "I shall blodørn Ecbert and keep his daughter for myself. That is my decision."
I shuddered and my bare toes curled up in fright. I could not decipher this 'blodørn' and yet the mere mention of it had the hairs on the back of my neck rising. A small sound escaped from between my lips and I looked up to my father, only to see his face pale more than I had ever seen before. If even he was this frightened, then I knew my fear would grow on top of that. My body betrayed me as it began to tremble, but Ivar only tightened his grip until I feared I would cry out once more.
Bjorn glanced over with an unreadable expression before saying, "We will not blodørn Ecbert, a king is much more useful when held at ransom. Rather, we can stake a claim in England, take land for farming and settlements. It is what Father always wanted."
Hvitserk nodded in agreement, as did the final brother who had yet to be introduced. Ivar twisted his fingers into my skin out of frustration, and I finally let another yelp slip through, though nobody seemed to pay any mind.
"And remember how well that turned out for him, hm?"
"I agree with Ivar," Sigured announced, which seemed to be a shock to my captor who wore a surprised expression. His grip seemed to loosen momentarily and I winced at the bruises that would surely form by morning. "We should keep up this momentum with the army; take as much as we can, as quickly as we can."
"It is time to stop thinking with your emotions, and think about what is best for your people. A Saxon army avenging their slain king is certainly not what is best. Rather we should fortify what we have already gained," Bjorn grunted back.
Ivar seemed livid, though my father clearing his voice in the strained silence interrupted his anger, "If I may, as the King of England, I can offer you the legal right to the lands of East Anglia. Then, nobody would dare challenge your right to the land."
My jaw nearly dropped at the proposition, and Bjorn exchanged a glance with Ivar. It was a show down between hard-willed brothers, and I was trapped in the middle of their heated stares.
"In return, I only have two requests," Father added. Bjorn tilted his head forward and folded his arms before ordering his brothers from the room.
Ivar protested briefly, but a wild-eyed glare from the older man forced the young man's mouth shut. He then turned his attentions to me, and jerked on my arm to pull my face down to his until our noses nearly touched. Thick lashes framed his impossibly blue eyes, and the muscle in his jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth.
"Do not run from me, Princess," he hissed, hot breath fanning against my face. In spite of this my blood ran cold. "I may be crippled, but believe me when I say I am not afraid to punish what belongs to me."
I felt myself nodding along, fearing how far his threats would go. My will had so easily bent to his, and I agonised over what lengths Ivar would go to in order to satiate his need for vengeance for his father. Though, as he slithered through the dim halls of the villa with me trailing behind, I wondered how much of it was based in the need for vengeance or out of some need for control. I had seen men revel in control over those weaker than them, and I feared this Ivar was no different.
My stomach dropped at the thought of leaving my father, but I feared Ivar's wrath more. So I had managed to spare him a forelorn glance before my captor's harsh voice dragged me from the moment and out into the hall.
By mid afternoon, the announcement had been made that King Ecbert had slit his own wrists in the bathing pool as retribution for the murder of King Ragnar. The words seemed hollow in my ears, and little more than a few tears trickled down my cheeks. I knew I should be wailing and fighting these Northmen with every ounce of my being, but nothing screamed louder in my thoughts than wanting to stay alive. Perhaps it was my selfishness, perhaps my unwillingness to grieve for my father when my own life might possibly be cut short.
Perhaps it was unthinkable that my father, the great King Ecbert, had died in such an unsettling manner.
Regardless, my body felt numb as the Northmen feasted in the courtyard and Ivar idly twirled my hair around his finger. He had pulled my hair roughly from its braid and ran his fingers through the strands that reached my waist, humming as he rolled a lock between his fingers and listened to his brothers jest.
I was seated on a meagre stool beside him as he ate, though I was given nothing. He lifted a silver chalice filled with wine to my lips and let it spill across my chin as I refused to open my mouth. He frowned slightly, as if expecting me to be grateful for the humiliation. The kindest brother, who I had come to know as 'Ubbe' shot Ivar an annoyed glance.
"Her father just died, Ivar," Ubbe muttered, chewing on a hunk of bread. "Do not expect her to warm up to you right away."
"I do not need her to warm up to me, she is mine, not some slave girl I need to woo," Ivar replied in some hidden stab at his brother, who looked somewhat disappointed at the reply. He sent me an apologetic look but returned to the conversation nonetheless.
Ivar watched his brother for another moment before dropping the lock of my hair he had been admiring and laid it on my upper thigh. "You are pretty, for a Saxon. And delicate, like a child," he commented, eyes drifting over me until they settled on my neck. Ivar watched as my pulse raced in my neck and I willed him to look away if only for a second. He then pulled his hand from its inappropriate place upon my leg and waved me off. "Eat."
Pushing his almost empty plate towards me, Ivar beckoned me to do as commanded. I felt the stares of his brothers upon me, watching to see what I would do. Ivar scanned their faces, a cruel grin emerging on his lips as he placed a hand on my upper arm, his thumb making small circles upon my skin. I assume it was meant to appear reassuring to all else, but the menacing gleam in his expression hinted at violent repercussions if I did not comply.
So I gingerly picked up a slither of meat and slipped it between my lips, savouring the rich fats on my tongue. It had been a while since I had eaten, on account of my particularly rough leaching recently.
Ivar cracked a semi-genuine smile and slid his arm down my back, brushing briefly against my backside as an attempted tease and clasped the stool, dragging it towards him. My back tensed as his hand lingered on my backside before he withdrew it to fiddle with the axe in his lap.
Chewing the meat deftly, I tried to escape his intense gaze by examining the table. It was littered with fineries, jewels and weapons the Northmen had pillaged from the villa. I recognised a few of my bangles the servants had missed in their hurry to flee, as well as my beloved circlet with its inset garnet.
His touches were more taunts than anything else, and I could sense him testing the boundaries of my meekness. Humiliation burnt across my cheeks in bright scarlet as he would bury his hand in the hair at my nape or make a show of his dominance to his brothers by tugging on my long hair. Ivar seemed intrigued by the lustrous colour of it, as it glistened like gold in the sun, and found pleasure in stroking it during conversation; while I wished for nothing more than to curl away from him and his wandering hands.
Ivar kept me close like a guarded possession through the feast. I could not cease the hammering of my heart, particularly as the brothers discussed plundering the remainder of my homeland.
The young Northman finally turned to me, chin in his hand and eyes gleaming. I sucked on my lip and prayed for no more humiliation.
"It is a pity I did not get to blodørn your father, princess," he snickered and revelled in how ashen my skin turned at the thought of the sick plans he held. "But having his lovely daughter for my own will have to do. One of his conditions to signing over land to us was to choose the manner of his own death, unluckily for me."
I winced and closed my eyes, hoping to escape from this nightmare. "Of course, as would I."
Ivar rolled his jaw as if dissatisfied with my answer. "Your father's tormenting will end with you, princess." Like a viper, Ivar's hand coiled around my throat and clamped down on my windpipe. I felt the air rush from my lungs and eyes bulge from their sockets. Ubbe immediately tensed and my desperate hands clawed at his wrist. Bjorn watched carefully from middle of the table, disinterested unless I was nearly dead. "Is it not infuriating to be powerless while your father dies and your life is in someone else's hands?"
His eyes were wide and wild, pupils dilated to take in every inch of my petrified expression. Licking his lips like a predator, Ivar let his thumb caress the edge of my jaw, lavishing in the control he held over me. My mouth gaped open and I felt the edges of my vision dimming, only able to focus on his vivid eyes soaking in my image.
My lungs screamed for air but he refused to loosen his grip. At first my lips tried to form pleas for mercy, but the metallic tang of blood quickly spluttered from my lips. In an instant he released me and I heaved a breath in around the clots of blood that erupted from my mouth. The stress placed on my body was becoming too much.
An unreadable emotion flickered through his eyes as he momentarily faltered before beckoning over a servant. "Take her to my quarters."
The unfamiliar twitch of his cock as he choked the life out of his new possession was unmistakeable. It strained against his pants in pleasurable way he had never experienced before, leaving him disoriented. The heightened adrenaline blinded him.
Insults and divisive words were tossed across the Ragnarsson's table so quickly Ivar barely had the time to process before he realised his axe had been lodged in his brother's chest.
He stumbled towards Ivar before collapsing in a heap, and Ubbe and Hvitserk rushed to their dead brother's side. Their eyes betrayed everything: rage, grief, betrayal.
It ached the most coming from Ubbe, his closest sibling. Utter anguish as he stared up at his brother, struggling with the horror of what had happened. Ivar found himself crawling aimlessly through the halls of the villa until he came to the dimly lit quarters he had claimed for himself. Even in the height of summer it was cool within the stone villa, but it could not compare to the numb chill set deep within his bones.
He entered the stone room, seeing Orlan's slim figure upon the bed with her back turned. By the quickening of her breath, he could tell she was merely pretending to sleep. Had she not expected to be warming his bed tonight? Ivar could not be sure, although he knew he deserved the comfort of a woman tonight. His display of dominance had produced a reaction in him he had not thought possible, though perhaps he required something a little darker than romance.
Ivar crawled up to the low set bed and hauled himself upon the stiff mattress. He fiddled with the braces before growling at the unresponsiveness of his fingers and collapsed upon one of the pillows. Turning his head, he stared at Orlan's hair splayed across the bed like a wondrous gold tapestry.
Staring back up at the ceiling and groaning at the ache of his legs being bound for so long, Ivar finally said, "Undo my braces, Saxon." With no reply Ivar let out a low groan. "I know you are awake, do not ignore your new owner."
"You do not own me," Orlan replied in her native tongue, voice cracked and broken to betray how she had recently been crying.
"Do not make me ask again," he growled threateningly. With her back still turned, Orlan tried to wipe her tear-stained cheeks and slowly rolled over. Her dull eyes met his vivid ones, and she withdrew slightly at the simmering rage in them. It was obvious he was used to being obeyed, though Orlan had never acted under anyone's orders before; not even her father's.
Hot indignation sparked in her gut but she forced it down and took a shaky breath. Ivar made no motion or sounds of approval as she drew up onto her knees over his crippled legs and swiftly undid the silver buckles. She slid the leather braces out from under him and let them drop to the stone floor, before peeling herself from the bed.
Ivar's hand caught her wrist once more, his lips twisting into a dissatisfied line, and the deep set anxiety peeked out through his carefully crafted mask of arrogance and brutality. Her wrist felt so small and fragile in his hand, as if the slightest jerk and it would snap in half. The girl was almost grey in complexion, blood still staining the middle parts of her lips as her head bounced from whiplash when he refused to let her leave.
Large, round eyes stared down at him, both afraid and angry, though unsure of which emotion to express. And Ivar enjoyed the frustration in her tense limbs, as he had felt towards her father when imprisoned. His middle finger was rested above her pulse, and it raced like that of a hummingbirds.
"You will sleep on the floor," Ivar said, still gripping her wrist tightly. She whimpered as he gave it a tense squeeze. "Do not run."
Ivar finally released Orlan and she recoiled her bruised wrist, clutching it to her chest. She could barely managed a nod before finding a spot in the corner to curl up in, like an injured animal trying to find a defensive position. Small fingers tried to brush the knots from her hair, as if trying to salvage some sense of dignity. Though Ivar knew the luxury would be short lived as he would drag her name through the mud; anything to humiliate the daughter of his captor.
He shut his eyes firmly, keenly away of how the eyes of his new toy focused on him through the gloom. Orlan was petrified, shaking even. And so Ivar did not worry for his safety that night, he only dreamt of Sigurds face and the call of the Valkyries.
I huddled against the stone walls, fingers clutching my arms and curling my skirts beneath my feet in an effort to keep warm. Father was dead, Aethulwulf and Judith had fled, and who knew how many had died in battle. I was resigned to this fate as I was presumed dead by everyone outside of the villa. Perhaps I should have consumed the tea when given the chance, though my soul still yearned to live on.
Even now I was not ready to die. Not yet.
My mind wandered back to Father, of how he could spin niceties and compliance in an intricate web around his adversaries that made them feel like they were in control, when in reality it all played into his master plan that ultimately gained him all of England. Surely I could do the same, it would be far simpler to lull one man into thinking I was a broken in horse, unwilling to escape. Only then could I make a break when Ivar thought me nothing more than a compliant hostage.
I could see the slow rise and fall of my captor's chest as he drifted off into sleep, unafraid of whatever threat I could have possibly posed. Occasionally he tossed and turned, grunting in his sleep at some invisible adversary that disturbed his sleep. When he entered the chambers it was clear from his breathing that he was distressed, though over what I could not tell. His foreign features were drawn into a heavy frown that formed deep lines across his forehead, and I wondered if I should have taken the opportunity to soothe him and gain his trust. Though he seemed more like to lash out than accept any comfort.
I felt threatened by his mere presence, particularly after his attempts at crushing my windpipe. I had never felt more helpless than I did in that moment.
Although I feared how far I would have to take it in order to survive, my ultimate goal remained the same. I would not die here, not at the hands of a Northman, but on my own terms when I was ready. Just like Father.