Ivar the Boneless Imagines

For My Master

There was an burning ache rooted deep in your lower stomach. It took a moment for you to realize that yes, that was Prince Ivar's axe that so happened to plant past the chain mail "protecting" your torso into your stomach. Your arms still spread out against Prince Sigurd's body, shoving him back behind yours. Then, all of your memories flooded back into your body like the literal blade that clogged the gaping wound in your stomach.

"I...I am–am sorry Master." You whimper. Like floating in the clouds, your head is heavy. Black blotches take over your vision while Sigurd maneuvers you down to the floor, shrieking for a healer off the top of his tongue.

"What have you done?!" Prince Ubbe shrills. Boots bounce the floorboards as both Hvitserk and Ubbe come to your side. The blotches take over quicker and quicker and just before it all goes black, Ivar's frantic crawl rattled the floorboards.

If only you could squirm away.

When you thought of how you would die, it was always a fate without Valhalla. That wasn't an option for you. But after your master granted your freedom, you thought being a shieldmaiden would put that dream close into your fingertips.

Light was like an irritant, streaming its warm radiance on your face. You were in and out of consciousness for days, cognitive of nothing until finally that warm light whipped you of you delightful ignorance. Wherever you squirmed, the heat from the light against the heat of furs radiated so uncomfortably your eyes were bound to open.

When they spread open for good, you found Ivar by your side. You flailed manically, a portion of you disarmed every time you saw him– to kick him, fight him, the desire worsened by the second until finally you shrieked for Sigurd.

"Get away!" You scream. The noise echoes through the room and out into the campsite.

"Ssshhh," Ivar lurches over to grasp your wrists with a cold frown. "He isn't coming. You'll burst your stomach wide open, you stupid girl."

With his broad chest pinning you back against the bed, you wrestled your hands away from his. Ivar sinks back into his chair and stupidly, you ask;

"Stomach?" You pull your skirts up, exposing creamy legs and the curls covering your sex only to find fabric carefully pulled across your stomach. The linen, you recognize, is a bound with pins that belonged to Ivar.

"What... is this?" You ask.

There's a familiar burn and ache anytime you move. You realized just what the pain, the lethargy and sickness is. As you peel away the bandages, you find a large hole that has been cleaned and shut. By who though? Ivar says nothing, only moving to sit you up by setting your arms on his shoulders. He unravels the bloodied bandages and removes them. Seemingly unmoved he dabs the area with a thin cloth, wet with water. The crusted blood falls away, beating bright red.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask. Ivar retreats to a bowl of meats, forcing it into your hands.

"Eat." He says.Your hands drop the bowl to your lap, folding your arms one over another. You don't want to eat– between the ache of your stomach and no appetite, you much rather curl up into a ball.

After a few minutes of his cleaning, he dips his fingers against the wound to apply the slightest amount of pressure. "Ow!" You say, slapping him hard across his hand. "Why would you do that!"

A crease in one of his eyebrows forms as he speaks. "Eat. You need the food to heal."

You knew as much with the slightest education you received from the healers as a young woman. You also knew that it didn't make sense for a slave, or a once was slave, to receive this treatment. You consider Ivar's decision while slowly chewing a bit of meat.