Bow and Arrow | Ivar the Boneless

B L O O D Y S O W

He never makes it to the old training ground. The crutches get him to the forest, but he's forgotten about the roots. They curl and dip in every available spot. He trips several times before landing face first in the dirt. The ground is chilled and hard. It reminds him of ice, even if the frost hasn't come yet. Pain radiates in Ivar's lower body. If it were a terrible day a bone would snap or crack from the impact. Instead the wind is knocked out of him, and he feels bruises blooming on his flesh. Any sane man would have gathered himself and turned around. It was a fool's wish to pursue a vision in a dream. After all it was just a girl with a bow.

Except he is Ivar the Boneless, and he does not give into the temptation to turn around. Instead he drags himself on the forest floor, his legs screaming with every inch forward. His breathing grows heavy, and sweat pools at his brow as the distance grows.

He's always crawled, since he was just a babe and had no other means to move. But the training ground is far from Kattegat. As boys and even young men, his brothers would each carry him on a platform. It provided a reprieve for the youngest and shortened the amount of time it would take to get there.

It was then that Ivar missed the platform. He wasn't even sure if he was going in the right direction anymore. The wood had long overgrown and the trails he knew as a boy were gone. He only remembers that it is uphill, and it is one of the only places where there is a clearing of few trees. The rest of the forest is covered in a blanket of green, and there's little room for much else with all the roots and stumps.

The vision of her returns to him and he can't shake the look in her eyes. The raw desire when her arrow pierces flesh. The carnal reaction to violence and death. He knows it well enough. His men unleashed wild cries of war when they once tore through battlefields and won back Kattegat.

But the anger in her eyes reminds Ivar of himself. The way it's carefully buried beneath years of resentment and anguish. Like a pot over the fire it simmers over time until it overflows onto the floor. If such a woman really exists, she is more than just another shield maiden with a bow. She is war in a stare, and he can't recall ever witnessing it in his best soldiers.

It is only when the sun peaks highest in the sky that he hears another. But it is not the feral snarls of the woman from his dream. He is too far from the training ground to hear her yet. Hooves pound through the forest, and what sounds like wheels. They creak and howl as they're jostled over the roots. Rage pools within him, already aware of who came looking. The one vice of his crown is that he's never left alone. They all assume he's dead or on the brink of it when he wanders off. It was easier in the days when they all looked at him with upturned noses and strange looks.

It's Hvitserk who finds him. The familiar sight of Ivar's chariot as it barrels through the forest is a dead giveaway. The horse at the helm stumbles over upturned roots, but it didn't succumb the way Ivar did. Hvitserk steers the beast with clumsy uncertainty and his gaze is filled with determination. Ivar desires nothing more than to slap it right off his brother's face.

The elder Ragnarsson is out of breath when he catches sight of Ivar. His eyes are saucers when they get a good look at Ivar. Hands buried in the dirt, blood on his lower lip from splitting it during the fall. Mud cakes his forehead and his cheeks are crimson from the cold.

He knows Hvitserk desires to scold him but knows better. Instead he fumbles over excuses as to why he barrelled through the forest on Ivar's chariot like a bat out of Hel.

"Brother." Ivar croons.

Hvitserk is physically winded. "One of the guards said he saw you go into the forest and I-I."

"I-I-I" Ivar mimics, his voice nothing but pure venom.

A sigh of defeat leaves Hvitserk. "I was only worried, brother. We have collected many an enemy over the years."