Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless)

Ivar's Interlude

They called him Ivar the Boneless. The bones in his legs were brittle and weak with the threat of breaking at any point. It was an unbearable pain at times, but he was far too use to the aches to complain as he once did. He was an angry youth, a madness taking hold of him as if he were possessed by a demon. His eyes, as beautifully blue as they were, held no life, no mirth, only memories of a tainted childhood that he could never get back.

He was a rarity in these days, as his condition was looked upon as a weakness and a hindrance in society. Often times, children were disposed of in such cases, believed to be cursed by the gods for whatever sins their fathers have commited.

What sins had the famous Ragnar Lothbrok committed, that his youngest son carried the burden?

Ivar was an innocent creature, a heart corrupted by anguish and grief, shame and torment. Some say that he didn't even have a heart, or that it was colder than the harshest winters in Kattegat. Perhaps what they say is right. Theres wasn't a thing in the world that could warm his soul.

Only when he spills blood.

He wasn't a boy of many words, but everytime he did speak, they were words of a threatening nature, almost always ending in the corners of his lips pushing upwards in a smirk that sets all his demons loose of their bindings to terrorize those who have terrorized him.

Observation was second nature to Ivar, something he developed as a child in a wagon watching all the other children play. He begged the gods to will his stupid legs to work so that he may join his brothers and the other village children in their games. That, of course, did not work, but he continued to believe that one day the gods would favor him. And so he constantly observed and kept silent, just as he always did, pondering his next move in a game he was not afraid to play. Ivar was never afraid.

If Ivar had the ability to pace, he would do so, as his mind filled with the constant thoughts of war and murder and inexplicable feelings that bubbled just below the surface of his tough exterior.

He should have killed Lagertha already. He should have taken over Kattegat by now. His brothers should care more that their mother is dead and gone. They should have avenged her and ended it all. It is as if they have forgotten the tragedy that had befallen them, or perhaps it had hit him the hardest, as his mother was always the closest to him. In his state, she never let him out of her sight, and he had always been an angry child, his only friend was his mother. Now she was gone from his life, taken away unjustly.

But Ragnar is gone too.

His father, a god to his people, a legend that reached the farthest corners of the earth, had been killed by Christians. The word alone sent a raging storm within Ivar that could not be eased. Had the gods forsaken him? Leaving him a crippled orphan was not what he had anticipated. He had dreamt of going to war along side his father, facing victories and defeats with a sense of pride he could embrace and wear like a crown. It was Ivar who should succeed his father as Kattegats true ruler, not a jealous ex-wife.

Lagertha has presented herself as a nuisance in Ivars' plans. Although she has been a much respected warrior, her fatal mistake was murdering his mother in cold blood. She was a fool to think appeasing him with a foreign slave would make him see reason. He had lost respect for her long ago and will not rest until he takes over Kattegat and become the king that his people need.

But it was agreed upon all the sons of Ragnar that their fathers murderers should be dealt with first, and that blood shall be spilt in his name. The war they rage would be seen by him in the gates of Vallhalla, while he feasts with the most worthy of warriors at Odins side, who will aid his sons in their quest of vengence.

Ivar had never known patience. It did not come to him easily, but he knew patience is what he truly needs at his side. He would soon touch the grassy plains of Wessex and his ocean eyes will scan its horizon. His axes would be dripping in the crimson blood of his Christian enemies, lodged firmly into their skulls with no mercy or remorse.

In due time, the world will come to know the name Ivar the Boneless.
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