Chapter 5) Eaten Alive
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Ivar radiated heat like a brick right out of an oven. Although his skin burned with a vivid flush of fever, he could not stop shaking. His breath quivered in short, loud gasps every time he inhaled; his lungs having no choice but to painfully and rigorously take in the musky air around him. The coughs and wheezing were all consuming; it was either regaining his breath while holding onto his tortured ribs, or riding out a fit.
The fever must be ravishing his brain, because he saw his father peek around the wooden board of the box. Ragnar's eyes were cold and distant; empty of life, of love. Solemnly he pressed his index finger against his lips when Ivar was about to speak.
A bird with grievous eyes and tar stained wings appeared on Ragnar's shoulder. A raven, it stared at Ivar, then everted its little head back to Ragnar. The bird then pecked its beak deep into the skin of Ragnar's cheek.
His father allowed the bird to tear and rip at the loosened flesh; without a wince, without a sound, Ragnar permitted the crow to nibble off of him.
A new raven hopped near, immediately attacking Ragnar's skin, starting at the soft flesh of his calf.
There was the sound of wings and from the shadows, silhouettes of ravens loomed up. More birds circled around the feast, attacking every tender piece of flesh without mercy.
"Father!" Ivar cried out hoarsely when the first raven pecked out Ragnar's left eye. Ripping the nerve and blood vessels loose, the bird hopped down on the floor to eat the precious delicacy.
Ragnar did not show any sign of fear nor regret and simply kept his finger pressed against his lips, while blood ran down his empty socket.
The ravens grew in number, their sounds so raucous, it casted out the noise from the other animals. In a matter of seconds, his father was ripped to pieces while more and more ravens appeared, until there was nothing more than ink black feathers, beady little eyes and the clipping of beaks.
"Father!" Ivar screamed, although his body wasn't in a state to move, he dragged himself forward by his hands and elbows to save whatever was left of his father to save. But when he finally moved close enough, the birds took off, their wings merely touching Ivar's cheek and one by one the ravens disappeared back into the shadows.
Staring sightlessly into the shadows, Ivar half expected the ravens to return for their dessert. But the only cackling and rustling of feathers, came from the chickens who'd cautiously peeked around the corner from the exact same space Ragnar had been sitting. The image of his father being ripped from skin to bones, was more than a feverish dream: Ragnar Lothbrok was gone, swept away from the earth by blackness and feathers. Swallowed piece by piece, by the descendants of Odin.
Ivar had known three forms of grief in his life; the uselessness of his legs, the fact that he'd only existed in his brother's shadows. And for knowing the truth: their father intended to leave him in the forest when Ivar had been nothing more than an infant. To be an easy prey for foxes or wolves, because what kind of life could anyone with such severe handicap have in the Viking world? Although it had been meant as a mercy kill, out of fatherly love, the truth had damaged Ivar more then both his useless legs ever could.
Ivar would kiss the ground his father walked upon and wondered for years if his handicap had been the reason for Ragnar's disappearance. That the shame of giving life to such a pitiful human being, took its toll on the mighty Viking king and made him desert his family. Those had been the thoughts that kept Ivar up all those nights. Because Ragnar had been willing to abandon him before; in the forest. Were it not for his mother's love, he would have been claimed by wild animals or simply died from hunger or the cold. She brought him back home; the black sheep of their family. What if his mere presence casted their father out of their lives? That guilt, for possibly being the reason his brother's didn't have a father in their life and their mother being all alone to rule, was an anvil resting on his shoulders. Weighing him down, crippling him more than the absence of functional legs.
So, when Ragnar came back to Kattegat and asked him, him out of all his sons, to join his raid to Wessex; the world could burn up in smoke and Ivar would still die a happy young man.
But when his father meekly walked into the belly of the beast, unarmed and helpless, Ivar knew that the God he deemed his father to be, was a fraud. A saga coming to an end.
Today.
King Ragnar was dead, executed by a king unworthy of the title. Ivar could feel it in his bones, in his soul; a significant emptiness raided the insides of his chest, until there was nothing more than bile to rise up into his mouth. He knew his father had abandoned him for the third and last time.
Although Ivar was clueless of how King Ragnar's fate was sealed, he knew his father was feasting in Valhalla. Drinking mead with the Gods, while Ivar was slowly wasting away. There would not come a heroic end to his life and so he would never see his father again. Only true warriors may enter the Valhalla and sit at Odin's table.
Ivar wasn't a warrior, no he was Ivar the Boneless, the crippled offspring of a tragic legend. A handicapped useless nothing, who would have been dead a long time ago, if it wasn't for his mother's devotion. He'd have to settle with Hel's realm for the dishonorable dead, in Hellheim.
Ivar remained in a catatonic state, staring into space and waiting, no, wishing for the shadows to come back alive and devour him with their sharp beaks.
But the only dark gap that came into view was the mouth of the Giant. The stench of decay and tooth rot, alerted Ivar who found himself eye to eye with the colossus. Piglet was hovering over the man's shoulders with a plagued expression on her brown face.
The Giant's massive fist took hold of Ivar's chin and shook his head from side to side. Ivar's fingers craved to intervene, to sink their tips into that hollow mouth and pull out the last bits and piece of teeth. But his arms felt too heavy. His chest felt too heavy, heaving more quickly than it should to bring in air.
The fever must be burning his sanity away, because when the Giant clutched his hands around his throat, all Ivar did was close his good eye to embrace the mercy kill.
Salvation didn't come, not in the form of suffocation.
It was Piglet who intervened, pleading for the Giant to ease his grip. The man seemed puzzled at first, it was uncommon for the feral slave to defy a master. His hesitance melted, like snow to the sun and with one arm he swept her to the ground.
The wildling must have masochistic tendencies, because she crawled right back up to throw herself between Ivar and the Giant.
Ivar pitied Piglet's attempt to spare his life, honestly it did neither of them any good. Either the fever would burn him up, or the pneumonia would slowly take his breath away. Why extend the misery, when his death was inevitable?
Her words, whatever she was saying, seemed to give the Giant a change of heart. Towering over the slave he leaned down on eye level and held up both his hands.
Ten days, he granted Ivar ten days to get better, else the Giant would put him out of his misery.
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A/N: I'd like to point out that another woman's defiance saved the life of our cute little prince. I also want to tell you that I've struggled dramatically with this chapter, close to banging head against screen. But I'm content with how it turned out, what I want is to give Ivar reason for being a horrible human being. Because that's how he sees himself; as human trash, the reason his father abandoned them. So, if you find yourself so unworthy of love, why not go all the way? Why not become a monster, at least that puts you up to a spot; in a different daylight. Rather being feared than pitied. That's what I've picked up from the tv show; so much rage and anger. But most rage comes from frustration, which eventually comes from grief, hurt.
Ok, enough psycho-evaluations, please leave a message,
Xoxoxo Nukyster