Bow and Arrow | Ivar the Boneless

M O N S T E R

"Why are you doing this, papa?"

Light ocean waves stare back. They're filled with nothing but guilt and sorrow. She's worth an explanation, she's owed that much. But thin lips only purse as his large hands pull tighter against thick rope.

Her mother watches from the corner, in her own nook of safety beside the fireplace. Not once does that gaze leave the little wrists of her daughter as they're bound to wooden bed posts. Not once does a protest leave her lips, or concern fill those eyes. Only fear plagues her now. Fear of the lithe thing on the mattress, and all she's capable of.

"Get the feet too."

An exasperated sigh escapes her father's lips. "Her feet will hardly cause damage."

"Not if she kicks." The woman lifts a sleeve of her dress for added effect. Nothing but battered flesh greets her husband. "It's worse than the nails."

"Papa."

Her voice leaves his chest in ruins. It's a plea, she's begging in the only way she knows how. But there is another woman in his life. The woman that brought her into the world rules over them all. And no matter how great his heart swells at the sight of their creation, he can't help but fear what will come of her. He doesn't want to believe what others have told him, the whispers that some say of his daughter when they think he can't hear. With honeyed curls and baby blues, she should be a gentle thing.

But the blood caked beneath her nails suggests otherwise.

"Tie her feet, Nilsen." His wife presses.

A whimper escapes his daughter's lips as he wraps the rope around ankles the size of his wrist. He longs to untie the dreaded things, and whisper sweet nothings in her ears. She should know she isn't a monster. That they can't control who Odin chooses for his armies. One day perhaps she'll be marveled for what she is. But now it only brings shame to a father who can't do enough, and hatred to a mother who only wanted a normal little girl.

It is all his fault, and he will fail them again, in time.

His wrists tug against her shifting feet. "Don't struggle, Dagny."

"When will you let me go, Papa?"

"When that tea kills the demon inside of you." His wife hisses.

Dagny ignores her. "Will you untie me at sunrise?"

He nods with a frown, his calloused fingertips weaving through her golden tresses. "Yes my girl, at sunrise."

The demon will be asleep by then, unless the Volva's tea manages to kill it. The man doesn't have the heart to tell his wife that he believes the tea only worsens her condition. Agitating the beast rather than destroying it. Nothing destroys the monsters he's fought beside. Not even when a blade pierces their flesh do they succumb to the cold embrace of death. But they are not his girl. They are demons encased in flesh that can barely hold them in. They are not a girl of only five.

His other hand hesitates, just inches from the rope. It's in there, the doubt. He tries to bury it every night with her violent screams but like a virus it always lingers. Perhaps the gods stole away his child and replaced her with a giant's spawn. All the old tales spun speak of such things. How wretched they were destroying homes and eating all the food.

But his girl isn't that. She isn't raw chaos or madness of destruction. She's the copper taste of blood and the awful noise of screams. She's the sharp tip of a knife and the pain of the wound it conjures.