Bow and Arrow | Ivar the Boneless

W E A K

 After the first fight her family is surprised. Dagny's flesh isn't the delicate softness that Yir and Hlodvir possess. She's come home roughed up, cuts from being lazy with the knife as it skins a stag pelt. Bruises peppering her inner thighs from spending too long in the saddle, or raw fingers from an unforgiving bow string. But never anything like this. Never could a shallow scar conjured from embedded fingernails compare to the mess of blood and battered flesh that stood in their entryway. Even her mother, the cold hearted thing she's become can't surprise that awful wide eyed gaze. But it only last seconds before the frigid composure returns.

"You're getting blood on my floor."

The statement is a winter's night. Her azure gaze doesn't lift from table as she speaks, and somehow rage finds a way to stir in Dagny's belly.

No concern, no soft gasp or gentle touch. Only those six horrific words that remind her of the king she supposedly serves. Even if he'll let her face him again after such a shameful defeat.

Her siblings are different. Even Bardi doesn't possess the ice around his heart in the same fashion that his mother does. Not yet. Their eyes pour with sympathy, hollowed statements of assurance filling her ears with white noise. Someone gently strokes her bloodied temple. It's light enough to be Yir, but the pad of the large thumb can only belong to Hlodvir. She's one of his broken sows, beaten to a pulp and strung up in the tree waiting to be gutted. Why hadn't Asta gutted her after? The pain would only be a fraction of the shame that weighed down Dagny's chest now.

She's supposed to protect them, yet she can't manage to best even one of the king's shieldmaidens. What if true danger found its way to their home? A hungry serpent disappointed that Odin lied to him, promising a she wolf and only returning with a dog. She wouldn't stand a chance against him. Legs or not, he was lethal. Too lethal for a novice like her.

She's failed them. This much Dagny knows. Every day that she returns looking like this will be another failure. Another sign that she's not enough for them. Yir can't wield a knife, and Bardi is too small to leave a real mark. Hlodvir barely stomachs the sight of blood, and her mother's only answer to the monsters below is to hide away. Shame is thicker than the pelt wrapped around her bruised shoulders.

"You better clean that before I wake tomorrow." Her mother's snarl is enough to break the small circle the four of them have formed. It's almost as if for a moment they've become her shield. Until the three of them disemband and she's left alone in the entryway once more. A reject. A broken animal.

They bathe in a hut beside their home. Dagny and Hlodvir barely fit, their heads often brushing the ceiling. The water is always frigid as it comes from the river, and the tub is hardly comfortable as it takes up the entire space. It's a pathetic situation, but she cannot subject Yir to the smell of blood and sweat all night. Her teeth chatter against one another as she rubs her flesh raw. The water tinges pink as blood is scrubbed away. Only the violet plumes remain, and will until they're a hideous shade of yellow. The cuts could go either way. Some may fade, others leaving behind a white imprint.

She idley wonders if Ivar the Boneless has to bathe in a pool of ice, or if his thralls heat the water over the fire until it scalds. He's a sadist, so surely nothing below scalding will do. Does he pull himself in the tub the moment the water subsides? Quick enough to blister the skin. Dagny pauses, teeth embedded in her lower lip. It doesn't matter if his bath is warm. Yours is still cold.

That night she scrapes a cloth against the dark ground until her fingers are raw. The skin cracks and fresh crimson replaces the old. Her mission is fruitless, and a grunt of dissatisfaction escapes chapped lips before the cloth is slammed to the ground with a thud. She can see those disappointed eyes, the way they cut through her like a knife with butter. Even the serpent with his tongue sharper than any blade can't penetrate her this way. Her mother's voice haunts her long after the cloth is tossed away, and she's lying in bed with shaking fists.