Ain't No Rest For The Ruthless (Ivar Lothbrok)

Chapter One - Hard & Sturdy As Tungsten

My stallion's hooves clattered against the stone road leading to Kattegat as we neared our destination. The winds blew mercilessly through my hair, tugging its way through my dark cloak, which trailed behind me like a black ooze.
I had been riding for almost two days. Luckily, Kattegat wasn't too far from Igshål, though it had crossed my mind that this would be a disadvantage when war had ensued.

After hopping down from my horse, Skarde, I pulled up my hood, concealing my face from unwanted eyes.
Looking at me, many would have assumed I was a slave. It was blatant that I was not from here, not a pure Viking. But even I wasn't sure what that really meant.
My skin was paper white, speckled with light freckles that had scattered across my nose and cheeks. My thick, snow-colored curls that used to reach my chest were now cut into a short to just above my shoulders, the locks on the sides sliced down to almost nothing. Small ears peeped out from behind my hair, slightly pointed. One of my eyes was a faint bluish-white, the other a dark, emerald hue. It gave my stare a cutting edge to compete with the sharp end of a well-crafted spear, equally as pointed and cold.
In every sense of the word, I looked like an outsider. A freak. Not even a person.
Many had theorized that I was evil - an omen, bringing forth a dark, foreign power wherever I stepped. And for most of my life, nobody had ever treated me like anything more.

Tell someone that they are a monster...and a monster is what they become. Perhaps if I had been met with kindness and hospitality I wouldn't be here, conspiring to kill my own family. But that wasn't the way the world worked. Tolerance and love were impossible to find in the depraved lands of not only Scandinavia but everywhere. Everyone was expected to stay where they came from, in their own little communities, but what about me? I was born in Scandinavia, but I'm unwelcome in my own village. Where did I belong?

I trudged along the paths of Kattegat, asking people for a certain man in particular.
It wasn't long before I was questioned by Lagertha, the false monarch that had usurped her way to power. I had heard tales of her cowardice and brutality, how she had left four children motherless and did so dishonorably.

"What is your business in my land?" The usurper asked after surrounding me with her loyal minions, each on horseback.

Her presence made disgust settle in my soul, but I resisted the urge to curl my upper lip, "I am from Igshål, a neighboring area." The coward's eyes looked me up and down, "I've come to speak directly to the Sons of Ragnar."

Lagertha's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "And what business do you have with the Sons of Ragnar?"

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I tried to remain calm, "That is for me and the Sons of Ragnar to discuss." Without another word I led my stallion through, pushing through her wannabe shield-maidens.

I had no respect for them; they idolized her. For the entirety of my life, I had no idea which Gods were real. Dagda? Odin? Morrigan? Baldr? My father was a Viking prisoner, while my mother was an Irish slave. Both practiced pagan religions and while my mother taught me the Celtic beliefs, I was surrounded by only the Viking Gods after her death. But even I, as spiritually lost as I was, could never deify a coward like Lagertha. These women already had idols to believe in, but they had wasted their devotion on a parasitic tyrant. Fools.

I began asking around before I was pointed towards a specific hut.
I tied up my stallion outside before rapping forcefully on the door, impatiently waiting for a response.
Seconds passed before the door swung open, revealing a boy with fire-red hair.

His eyes looked me up and down, an uneasy look pulling on his features, "Who are you?"

"I am here to speak with Ivar Lothbrok, Son of Ragnar." My speech was blunt because that's how it had to be. I spoke only to get things done and the blunter I was, the more things I could get done.
He simply furrowed his brows, "You're not from here." Crossing his arms, he blocked my path, "Why'd you want to speak with Ivar?" I could feel his disgusting eyes tracing down my body. Once again I had been branded an outsider.