Chapter 12) Wahid, Arbe, Sitta.
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At the end of the day, Ivar felt in desperate need to cut himself out of his own skin. Every inch of his body reeked; from sweat, blood, animal dung and to top it off; other people's waste. The palms of his hands riddled with blisters from scraping, some already popped open and bled. There was barely anything left from his already sullied clothing. His trousers scraped to bits and pieces from moving around without braces, knees a mush of mudd, blood and thick exudate. The skin surrounding it was hot and swollen.
Shackled, in the safety of his box, Ivar tried to rid his knee wounds from further infection. With dirty fingers, he gently pressed down on one of the largest lumps that had formed underneath the swelling. A bubble of pus oozed up and Ivar had to grit his teeth in order to keep himself silent. He dropped his head in frustration; after surviving drowning and pneumonia was he destined to watch his body rot away from infection?
A shadow glided over Ivar and for a moment he feared the Giant's return. But it was Piglet returning the cattle for the night. She watched him shy away with mild amusement; she'd had a first row seat when Ivar had been hurling over the chamber pots. The glance of mild amusement changed and turned into a state of alertness as her dark eyes fixated on his bloody knees.
Without a peep, she ushered the animals into their box and disappeared for a while. Ivar did not pay much attention to her when she hurried out of the door, his distress was all consuming. He did not react when Piglet poured a few buckets of water into the trout of his box and kept plucking on the scabs of his badly healing knee. The slave tottered back and forth and eventually disappeared up the attic of the small shed.
On cue, the door was being locked for the night and Ivar let out an exhausted gasp, tilting his head backwards to rest against the wooden frame. His lids nearly closed, but opened wide when he noticed a soft light brightening up the dark shed.
It was that of a candle, held like a treasure by Piglet, carefully coming back down from the attic. The candle was small, no bigger than a chicken's egg, the flame however burnt neatly amid the dusty wax.
Elevating the tip of her candle, Piglet dropped some of the wax on a stone near the trout and motioned Ivar to come close. Ivar failed to find the deeper meaning in the strange new ritual Piglet was carrying out, but since he hadn't had a decent meal today he hoped it had some food in store. To keep his knees from scraping over the floor, Ivar lay down on his side. Moving at a snail's pace, he wondered how he was going to carry out any tasks in the morning.
During Ivar's crawl, Piglet dunked a bundle of rags into the trout and threw one into Ivar's hands once he'd positioned himself near the makeshift line.
"Yallah," the slave whispered, gesturing on the candle. The small flame flickered by her sudden movements and grew dimmer than it already was. Ivar failed to understand her rushed demand and stared at her wide-eyed.
Piglet pointed at his face and armpits and Ivar understood that she wanted him to wash himself. When he did not jump into immediate action, Piglet grunted something under her breath and rolled her eyes heavenward.
"Yallah hamar," she yanked at the brim of her own skirt, pulling it an inch down and motioning him to react to her order.
Of course Ivar understood her demand; she wanted him to undress and clean himself up for a bit, however he failed to understand why it was any of her business. The stench coming from her body and rags was one to match. And that aside, he did not feel comfortable getting naked in front of the dark skinned maiden. As a viking and a youngest of three older brothers Ivar was accustomed to naked flesh. Or sex, for the latter. It was impossible to ignore the heated moans of his brother fucking one of their thralls into the great oblivion. Nudeness, sex, it had never been a taboo in his household.
However, his own few fruitless attempts to please a woman had been more like painful embarrassments. His impotence was another sign that his body did not function properly, as he'd mentioned before; if he survived, he'd cut everything off from the waist down. Because facing the facts, he wasn't even half a man.
By now, the frustration was radiating off of Piglet and grunting underneath her breath, she disappeared into the next box. When she returned she was holding a lifeless chicken. The bird was barely breathing. Piglet brushed aside some of its feathers and deep infected peaking sores came into view, the stench of the wounds hitting Ivar's nostrils a moment later.
Piglet pointed at the tattered bird and then to Ivar's bloody knees. He did not need a moment more to understand her comparison. For the bird it was too late, the stench would soon attract flies and maggots would be eating the poor thing whole. It would be cruel to leave the chicken alive and so Ivar stuck out his hands. Somehow, he'd expected Piglet to be prepared when he snapped the neck of the plagued bird, but she flinched and her huge black eyes grew morose. She cared for the animal, not just for the sake of being beaten. She mourned its death. It was a peculiar thing for Ivar to witness, because he lacked that specific sensation; empathy.
The flame flickered again in that vulnerable way fire could, the nascent flame being pushed by a breeze coming from the cracks between the wood. It would not take long for the light to be taken by the cold of night.
"Yallah!" Piglet hissed, now through her gritted teeth and Ivar complied. Hurriedly, he peeled his begrimed tunic over his head and began scrubbing the skin of his face and upper body. Self consciously, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting Piglet to be ogling every move he made. But to his surprise, the maiden was petting the dead chicken, caressing its feathers and whispering softly to the carcass.
Seeing Piglet being so preoccupied, allowed the tension in Ivar's shoulders to ease for a small while. Hurrying, he pulled his arse up and wiggled the remains of his trousers down his thighs. A hiss managed to escape his lips when the material slid over his battered knees. He started to cleanse his lower half. Sitting stark-naked in front of Piglet made his self consciousness leap towards an endless black void.
From a very early age, Ivar had learned that embarrassment wasn't an emotion. No, it was a weapon wielded without a trace of pity. It was an easy tool for torment and it had struck Ivar time after time. For him it was cataclysmic; and he knew his face was burning bright enough to outshine the sun in the midst of day while his mind scattered like a scared deer.
He heard her move behind him and although he knew she wasn't foolish enough to come any nearer, he felt so completely and utterly exposed it made his breath hitch in his throat. Although he told himself firmly it was the cold that made his fingers twitch and jitter, deep down he knew the truth; it was his embarrassment. The absolute and complete destruction of his already damaged ego. Fair maidens his age never looked at him the right way and although Piglet wasn't anything like the female population of Kattegat, she was a woman. One able to stare at every little detail of his body.
But when Ivar glared over his shoulder, he noticed how Piglet's dark eyes did not linger over his groin, her gaze was instead fixated at Ivar's right knee, both brows sunken into a stern frown. She threw him another long rag and pointed at the sticky exudate oozing from the wound. Ivar compiled without a word and started to swathe the damaged part of his knee.
Piglet watched him lift himself up and dress back into his reeking attire. In the flickering of yellow, her skin was truly the color of nightfall. Besides the glints of her teeth and the whites of her eyes, she was but her own shadow.
Since the day he woke up in the shed, Ivar wondered about the reason behind Piglet's selflessness. She'd suffered due to him, taken beatings yet she'd shared her food and saved his life. It made no sense in Ivar's head, who'd developed complete emotional indifference over the years. The overall rejection from his peers, father and townsfolk had turned his heart into stone, it was no longer an easy thing to break. More than once, he'd asked the Gods to turn him blind and deaf too. Because he couldn't stand any of the glances of disdain and mocking words. It made his world pitch-black and empty, so why not take those senses away?
Four knucklebones dropped near his feet and Ivar's somber eyes met Piglet's pleading ones. Dumbfounded, he picked up one of the small bones and something flashed beneath the surface of his hardened expression. In the flickering candlelight it hit him; Piglet's reason.
All she wanted was a companion.
She was an outcast, just like him. Spit upon, downtrodden and shunned. Her empathy and nourishment hadn't been driven by pity or due to his royal blood. No, she saw him as an equal, both burdened by the same faith.
A smart man once said: the enemy of the enemy is my friend. And wouldn't it be tactical to have at least one ally in a place riddled with foe? She had two well-equipped legs, knowledge of the fortress and clearly lack of judgment if she was seeking a friend in him. She could be of use, a benefactor to his masterplan. Of course his plan only had basic outlines up to this point; kill the giant and escape. But bringing a useful second party into the picture…
Ivar managed to morph his wolfish grin into a polite smile and conjure up the one knucklebone he'd previously stolen from Piglet. For a moment, he let the bone roll between his fingers and spoke: "wahid, arbe, sitta," before throwing it together with the other four.
Piglet bore the facial expression of one being granted a great gift. There was a hint of victory in her smile, surrounded by dimpled cheeks.
A battle seemed to be won and Ivar played along; letting her think she'd gained his sympathy and trust. What a foolish little lamb, gullible and too blind to see that she was sitting with a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Ivar managed to hide all his mischievous, hostile thoughts behind a blank expression and they played her game. Until the small flickering flame grew dimmer and the wax melted down to its last. In an instant, they were left in utter darkness. But it was the first time Ivar saw some hope for his future.
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A/N: so this chapter was supposed to turn everything a little more kumbaya and lovely dovely. But dear Ivar is more of a sociopath than I thought and guess what he's just taking over the storyline. Nop, he's not letting people close, he's too damaged/proud/frustrated to allow that.
Although it turned out different than I thought, I really liked writing this chapter. In particular, the bit where Ivar overthinks his embarrassment and shyness. In the tv show, I liked how he's a mix of pretty much every strong emotion and just lets it all explode. Everything fuels out, anger, sadness, anguish, hate. Oh and don't forget the self hate towards his own body. I hope I can manage to add that toxic blend of emotion into my story.
Feedback/thoughts/comments are always highly appreciated!
Xoxox Nukyster