When Ivar meets a girl with flaming red hair and eyes that cannot see, he begins to wonder how a sightless girl can see so much beauty in the world... And in him.
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It was dark. But it was always dark now. Ivar had been living in darkness ever since she'd gone. Hatred consumed him just like it had done before he had met her, and that hatred burned for its release.
Their warriors were silent in the night. They were barely visible, and not a sound could be heard save for the soft footsteps and clatter of horses hooves.
No one dared speak. They all watched their King with apprehension. It was true that the Celts all loved Ailbe, and even Ivar's own warriors had grown to enjoy the cheerful girl. But they all knew that it affected the boneless king more than any other.
Ailbe was in her cell, but this time she was not alone. She rarely had time alone anymore, for the Saxon King had taken a special interest in her. She couldn't see his eyes lingering on areas that they should not dare to glance at, but she felt the chills run up her spine that told her something wicked stalked her. She loathed feeling his hands upon her, clutching her face or running up her leg, but she couldn't move. She didn't have the energy or strength to fight anymore. All she could do was sit, feeling bile rise up in her throat as the King tried to take advantage of her new vulnerability.
Perhaps he thought he could manipulate her, or beat her into submission. But he was wrong. She would rather rot away into death than help him. More specifically, she would rather that than betraying Ivar. No, she was honest and true, and she was true to him.
"No one is coming." The King whispered into Ailbe's ear, all too close for her liking. "My men say that the heathens sailed away. They left you here after all."
Ailbe's heart dropped, the very thought shattering her whole world. Every sliver of hope was snuffed out in that moment like a candle. Tears welled within her, and this time she could not hold them back. They poured freely down her cheeks, loud sobs echoing through her. So, Ivar had left her. He had left her here to die.
She couldn't quite believe it. Her lip quivering as she tried to speak, "You're lying."
"Oh, my princess, I'm afraid not. It seems they did not care as much as you'd hoped after all." He answered with fake warmth that made her shiver uncomfortably.
"No..." She whispered, trying to contain the heavy agony that ripped through her. This pain was far worse than any knife of whip. No boiling steel or wet rag could inflict this much torture. The torture of abandonment - of betrayal.
"Oh my dear," He held her closely, pressing a kiss upon the top of her head as Ivar had once done. "Do not worry. This means that you are mine now."
And just that thought made her dread intensify. If she was lucky, he would kill her. But she doubted that his sick fascination with her would permit that. And just the thought of what may come next made her shudder and cry even more violently.
Ivar held his axe tightly, almost drawing blood from the harsh grip on the weapon. His men stood ready on his orders, prepared for their attack. Sending the sick and those who could not fight elsewhere with the boats had indeed worked.
No one would see them coming now, and Ivar was ready to strike. No more waiting. He would finally get her back after all this time and the streets would run red with blood. Never again would he let her out of his sight. Never again would he let anything happen to her.
He did love her. And he would do anything to bring her home.
