Chapter 11) Wanderlust

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Back in Kattegat, Ivar used to disappear in the woodlands. Don't get lost dhyrbare, his mother would press, conflicted by her youngest wanderlust. As a response Ivar would ignore her, keeping his chin up as he crawled out of the Great Hall, haunted by the merciless ridicule of his brothers. None of them ever earned their mother's concern, because their legs were strong, their physique proportionate. There was no reason for any mother to fear for the safety of those capable boys. But Ivar, poor Ivar… now that one could easily be trampled down by a horse.
It did not matter how much Ivar physically challenged himself; dueling, throwing axes, wrestling his brothers to the ground. By the end of the day, his opponent could easily jump back on their feet. His small victory diminished in front of his eyes as his brother's ran off, leaving him alone under the watchful eyes of their mother. Poor Ivar, defenseless in a fight to the death.

It always left a bitter taste in his mouth and so, he spent most of his time in solitude. Ivar devoted himself to setting traps for rabbits all throughout the forest, pushing his upper body to its absolute limits as an everyday battle against himself.

At times he'd tumble down a hill, or slip into a ditch. Mother's eyes always showed their clear disapproval when she'd tweezed out thorns from his palms and fingers. His brothers would snigger when showing off his loot and call him crazy for poaching; he was a prince after all, a precious prince, why get his hands dirty?

Ivar never granted them any form of explanation for his endless wandering; it was his secret and his secret alone to keep.

In the forest, he was able to disappear.

Nature did not care about his disfigurements nor his short fuze; in the maze of trees, trunks and wild lands there was only one rule that mattered: to eat or be eaten.

As tall grass tickled his chin; seconds, minutes and even hours became inconsequential. Ivar could lose himself into the cycle of daylight and darkness, simply merging into the rural landscape. Nature was ruthless, it would not treat him differently; if a wild boar or wold found him, it would be a fight to the death. With no time for amused sniggering, ruffling his hair, nor a sympathizing pat on the back. Many times, Ivar would lose himself completely in the woods, silently willing that boar or wolf to appear; even if his remains would be eaten by wild creatures, he'd die with more dignity then the death that lay in his future; being smothered by their mother's insufferable love.

Cold nor rain bothered him, draped from head to toe in his cloak, Ivar simply watched the drizzle canopy the dense and tangled vegetation. Bowl-shaped plants caught rainwater, insects, snails and frogs came out from hiding. Trees would whisper, thick leaves creaking underneath hooves of skittish does, birds would jitter high up mighty oaks in the frisky weather. While munching on mushrooms, Ivar would get into contact with the otherworldly creatures; elves. He could see them, only from the corners of his eyes; like a pleasant dream they'd disappear before his perception was focussed enough to grasp their true form.

They'd tease him, but not in the same tasteless way most humans did. Their soft voices were nothing more than a tingle in the air, their giggling sweeter than a songbird's chirp. The elves were tiny creatures, delicate and all female.

They must have casted a spell on him, because on the green moss layered with roots, Ivar would find himself at peace; at times the forest was the only thing that silenced the raging turmoil that meandered endlessly inside his head. In the forest, Ivar did not need his legs, it was enough to simply observe his surroundings.

A trait that had proven to be of value. He'd taught himself to be invisible and disappear into his surroundings, but his eyes and ears were always open. In Kattegat, it was merely tactical to play his brothers off against each other. Or use their secrets as blackmail to get things done.

Now this trait could be essential. Because if Ivar's captivity taught him one thing; it was that it's useless to put up a fight. He was completely outnumbered, weakened, starving and in constant pain. But that did not mean he was giving up. No, what would the Gods think of him if those Christian bastards managed to break his spirit? Hel wouldn't even care to take him in and he'd spend his entire afterlife in the same pitiful place as he was right now; down at everyone's feet.

Ivar did not pledge to kill the Giant to nurture his anger. No, he'd made a solid commitment to end that man's life in the worst way possible. But if he wanted to succeed, he needed more than a weapon. What he needed was the perfect opportunity and an escape plan, because he certainly wasn't planning to die on Christian soil. No, the Gods must have more in store for him. He did not survive all those drownings for nothing. Surely his father did not layoff his feast in Valhalla for nothing, there must be greater meaning to Ivar's survival than to waste away in a pigsty.

So, Ivar would keep his head down and quietly observe his surroundings, keeping his eyes and ears open at all times.

Piglet had managed to inform him about their whereabouts using her hands and feet. 'De Haar,' was the name of the castle and although Ivar hadn't been able to see past the courtyard, the majestic towers and ramparts, moats and gats were drawn to him. Their shed was, like all the other peasant huts, banished from all beauty but was protected by the outer walls that surrounded the entire fortress.

Today Ivar was tasked with a new burden; cleaning various dirty cauldrons at the well. Although the work was boring and repetitious, it gave Ivar a perfect hiding spot at the well. While scraping the insides with sand and an old rag, ridding the iron of all caked up layers of food scraps, Ivar became a quiet observer.

By noon he'd learned that in order to reach the centre of the castle he needed to use the nearest side entrance. The linen-maidens walked in and out, using that entrance. Surely such expensive bed material wasn't used for the common folks. The Giant's chambers must be somewhere behind that side entrance.

Ivar also learned that Piglet was as much an outcast as he was. The linen-maidens didn't give her the time of day and jerked their freshly folded linen away as Piglet passed them, as if her dirtiness would turn into a shadow itself and spoil their hard work. As noon passed, Ivar kept an eye on Piglet; she took her task as caretaker of the cattle very seriously. At dawn, she routinely took the animals to another paddock across from the well. The grass was taller there and a perfectly planted tree provided enough shade and sun. Scraping hooves, checking eyes for possible infection, petting their furs; the cattle all got their proper share of attention.

A harsh smack on the back of his head brought Ivar back to his place; cleaning cooking material. A task he'd dared to pause for a moment and of course his master was eager to make him remember that there was no time to spend lazing around. The Giant granted him another degrading job; cleaning the chamber pots. Thank the Gods, all of them were already emptied, but still the stench of human waste made Ivar retch and shudder.

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A/N: So yes, back in the day Ivar spent much time tripping balls in the woods. If you read between the lines, Ivar was pretty much a lonely, depressed teenager, waiting for an encounter in the forest so he could die with dignity. I'm not saying 'suicide' but it comes close to mind. It's sad really how a large part of his family ignored him, while his mother tried to smother him with love. Family dynamic at its worst if you ask me.

Xoxoxo Nukyster