Chapter 3) Goddess Nótt
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When Ivar woke up, his chest felt heavy and a string of harsh coughs made his body wither in pain. The breaths he took were too fast and shallow, but he couldn't get his breath under control, sucking it in and out rapidly. He rang his tongue over his teeth; checking for possible damage. The inside of his mouth felt the same though, no fragments or shards of teeth. No gaping holes, unlike that Giant's rotting mouth. Ivar recalled that blackened smile indulging in his suffering; watching Ivar squirm and grimace in the back of the cart.
If this violation had occurred in Kattegat, Ivar would have the man quartered; allow his brothers to use the man's decapitated torso for target practice. Oh, he'd be patient and wait how over time little insects would feast off the man's flesh and ravens would peck out the bastard's eyes.
But Ivar was kingdoms away from that safe haven; from home. And realising that, left him overwhelmed; his laboured breathing hitched and a low moan escaped his busted lips.
Eager to examine his face, Ivar carefully moved his right hand. Although his wrists had been freed, the dreadful ride had been long; which left his sockets overstretched and his arm muscles aching.
Cautiously, he brought his right hand up to his face. Blood warmed the tips of his frozen fingers, the bumps, swelling and bruises a painful reminder of his previous beatings. His face felt alien and another moan escaped the back of his throat as he tried to open his right eye. The swelling was so severe it was impossible; the socket was the size of a chicken's egg.
By Odin, what had he'd done to deserve this?
Another rattle caused his chest to heave up and he coughed his throat raw. As he gasped and inhaled, the damp smell of ammonia and hay filled his nostrils. It smelled like home, like the Great Hall where the fire always burned bright. Melancholy swept through him and claimed every inch of his chest. Squeezing his good eye shut, Ivar casted out every sliver of emotion.
Survival mode eventually took over and Ivar set his mind to finding out more of his current whereabouts.
He lay inside a makeshift stable, in an empty box filled with hay and animal feces. Door hinges creaked softly, a cold wind whipped through gasps in the planks. Combined with the sounds of small cattle, Ivar allowed his tense bearing to ease. There was no indication of danger, at least not for the moment.
Although his wrists had been freed, Ivar wasn't going to get very far. Both his ankles were in shackles. The chains rattled as he adjusted himself into a sitting position; alerting the animals of his conscious state. A flock of chicken guardians tottered around the corner to see if the strange newcomer had food in store.
The first chicken brave enough to come near Ivar, quickly learned that this newcomer wasn't keen on being pecked in the feet.
Ivar lunged his stiff legs at the chicken, which scurried back with fright. The rest of her flock followed her example and left the unwelcome newcomer alone.
There was more life inside the stable, less animalistic than cattle, but not as human as Ivar expected. Soft, cautious footsteps stopped near his box and large eyes, dark as night sky, took in his poor state with curiosity and awe.
Ivar did vice versa; the creature in front of him reminded him of the Goddess Nótt. The maiden's skin was the color of earth dug from deep within the ground. It was darker than Ivar had ever seen. Even the men who'd caught adrift at sea; scored for days by the sun, did not come close to the dark pigment of the young woman. She must have crawled through the soils of the earth to earn such an unique complexion; night personified.
Her dark eyes narrowed as her fingers gripped firmly around the wooden beam of his box, revealing more of herself she took a mere step aside to move into an active position; if he'd make any sudden move she'd flee. Ivar recognised that gaze in her eyes, he'd seen it before many times. During the hunt, moments before he'd drive his arrow through the skull of a doe.
She must be a slave, the layers of the rags she wore were tattered, worn and dirty. Her hair was hidden away behind a bandana; the fabric in the same poor state as the rest of her clothes. Intrigued by her overall alien appearance, Ivar gawked at her through his one good eye.
Still the center of her focus, the slave slowly sank to her knees and picked up a small rock. With swiftness, she swung the rock in Ivar's direction. The lack of food caused absence in strength and reflexes, resulting in being hit right between the eyes.
Ivar cried out and squeezed his good eye shut, bringing his hand to his throbbing face. When he reopened his eye, the savage bitch was holding up another small rock. Extracting her arm back to repeat her previous attack, Ivar turned from prey into predator.
Dashing forwards, like an arrow shot from a bow, he came at her like a malicious dog, snarling and spitting.
The absence of food and overgrowth of rage, clearly cluttered his brain and the malicious dog quickly found out he was on a very short leash. His attack stopped abruptly as the chains rattled and forbade him to bash in her teeth with the damned rock. As his fingers ached to get a good grip around her ankles, the slave girl took a step back and used her heel to draw a line in the mixture of sand and hay.
"Dirty bitch, you did that on purpose!" Ivar snarled frustrated, stretching his arms out in a last fruitless attempt to grab her. The aggressive flinging of his upper limbs made her retreat a few more hasty steps, but as their distance grew her cautiousness lessened. Sitting down Indian-styled, she continued to observe him with great curiosity. And by the Gods her lips twitched up humoured by Ivar's unflattering attempts to maul her. Picking up a straw of hay, she placed it between her front teeth and tsked as she watched him wither on the floor. His outburst was riding on the last bit of his adrenaline and started to take its toll on his beaten body.
Struggling to push and pull himself back into a sitting position against the boarded wall, Ivar drew his amused observer a dark glare. She did not seem bothered by it, still chewing on the straw.
"If I'd have a knife on me I'd pick your eyes out for staring at me like that," Ivar promised her with a grunt, "you have no idea what I'm saying," he then stated when his threat did not strike any kind of reaction.
Ivar sighed as deeply as his ribs would allow it and closed his good eye. It hit him hard; he was a captive in an unknown country, unable to properly speak with its inhabitants. He had no resources, no leverage, here his royal name would cause him more harm than good. He'd always been a cripple, but now he was just an insignificant slave with a handicap.
He must have drifted back into sleep, because when he woke up his unwanted companion had moved to the left, munching on a piece of bread. Two dark eyes still registered every move he made, but he no longer was her centre of attention; her meager meal was. Besides, as long as she stayed behind her makeshift line, she had nothing to fear.
"I'd split your skull into two pieces," Ivar informed her, "and drink mead out of it as I'd watch how the pigs fed off your filthy bones. I bet you're black all the way through your core. If I'd had an axe, I'd be eager to find out!" Ivar's words were nothing more than a cold hiss. Although she could not possibly understand any of his threats, it gave Ivar joy to at least throw them at her feet.
His death threats, however, had the opposite reaction; her lips momentarily tweaked into a humble grin of amusement and she barked at him like a dog.
"You're lucky I'm in shackles, else I'd cut you a smile from ear to ear!" Ivar promised her. It only caused him more mockery and doglike sounds. Ivar's frustration was at this point radiating off of him.
"I'll kill you!" He shouted, a cough immediately tickling the back of his throat. Ivar tried to suppress the urge, due to the pain in his ribs and the rest of his body. But it was impossible, a coughing fit tore his body apart. In a slow, torturous degree the coughs eventually eased, leaving his chest ten times more heavy and on fire.
"Yallah,"The dark skinned slave had repositioned herself on her knees, one arm coaching him to come closer, the other one extracted, holding a wooden ladle.
Water, Ivar's burning aches suddenly seemed completely irrelevant as his good eye stared at the content. Thirst makes a beggar out of kings and in Ivar's case; out of a prince. Like an infant he made himself crawl forwards, still lacking strength due to his previous outburst. The maiden had the audacity to make cooing noises, as if he was a startled little animal.
Pure and utter loathing must have been readable from his good eye, because she stopped abruptly when he flashed her a glare. Restricting herself to the safe side of the line, the wooden handle crossed their imaginary border between safety and harm.
With slow, pain plagued motions, Ivar dragged his body closer. Leaning on his elbow, he craned his head up and allowed the wooden rim to be pressed against his dry, cracked lips. It was degrading, but being deprived from all primary necessities, Ivar drank. Greedily, he consumed every drip the maiden had to offer. It caused him to cough, but he choked through it.
"More," he half ordered, half begged while water dripped down his chin. Dutifully, she complied and held out another spoon full of water. And Ivar drank again, water drizzling from both sides of his mouth. The act repeated itself until Ivar's stomach was full and his head felt empty. Lacking the strength and care, he sank onto his elbows and allowed his head to rest on the hay covered flooring.
Everything felt scalding, his lungs seemed to be punctured by a thousand little needles. Without meaning to, his body curled up, tensing with every little cough and whimper. His lips must have split open while he drank from the wooden spoon, because he tasted blood. The coppery sensation was a small reminder of the pathetic physical state he was in. His mental state was one to match. Ivar sensed blackness taking over him and like a cold heavy blanket, unconsciousness weighed him down and soon Ivar drifted back into sleep.
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A/N: Something about never biting the hand that feeds you… as the writer of this fiction, I feel the need to once again address that Ivar is a thick-headed asshole who's not kind to, well, pretty much anyone. In this case, to the slave-girl, if you feel offended, fear not, I'm not done with beating some common sense into him. It's going to take long, but heck, I sure do like a challenge!
Sidenote: as a fact-freak I just want to add that Nótt is an actual Viking Goddess, she's the grandmother of Thor.
Xoxox Nukyster