Ease The Dawn

Part 2, Chapter 6

Catching Aethelswith's lips with his one last time, he released his grip on her waist, allowing her to slip free. Her tiny fingers slid out of his outstretched hand and she looked back at him and smiled. Soft wisps of strawberry golden hair framed her perfect face and Ivar thought she looked breathtaking. Turning away, she moved down the steps and toward their chambre; his blue eyes fixed on her lissom form, his body still warmed from her attention, as she made her way back to their chamber to prepare for the evening.

The small blonde slave stepped out from where she had been waiting against the wall and rushed to follow as Aethelswith made her way down the corridor. Ivar did not miss the way Freydis glanced back over her shoulder, with a hopeful look that his eyes might focussed on her. Forgetting herself, she swayed her hips and Ivar thought Hvitserk, or any other man, would take it for what it was, an invitation.

Wincing, he adjusted on his chair, hoping to find a position that might ease the stabbing in his legs. It was of no use, of course, and despite the added strain, he already missed the feel of Aethelswith's bottom pressing down on his lap.

"Gods," he exclaimed and closed his eyes. Withdrawing from her felt impossible. It forced him to question the strength of his resolve. He felt at war with himself yet avoiding her was his only chance of her experiencing just a sliver of the rejection he felt. It would be so easy to give in and plunge under the warm waters of her affection; her skin, her scent, her taste and feel, her curiosity, and the way she subtly smirked before saying something witty. He loved her. The fact that she could place her god or some nothing man between them felt like a knife splaying his ribs apart. But now, tasting her sweetness after so long made his mind soar but he could not undo his ultimatum. What kind of man would break his word? No man worthy of her, he assured himself. For the time being he would feel lost without her touch until she chose what he had to believe was their fate.

As nothing beyond them had any true meaning and at times he wondered, if he was a less greedy man, could he turn his back on everything, his throne, his legacy, his need for victory. No, he scoffed out loud, clearing his throat and straightening on his seat. They would have it all. Why should he ever choose? He was the favoured son of Ragnar Lothbrok. A Viking king, and with her at his side, more powerful than any man. Glory for him was not a question of deserving but taking.

Sinking down further into his chair, he slumped onto an elbow feeling the heaviness in his limbs. The worry struck that he might not be able to make it back to their room upright because of the degree of his pain. If the hall had been less occupied, he would simply drop to the ground and crawl back. He had pushed his limits inspecting the new sections of the wall. Still under construction, he had walked the areas his chariot could not reach before heading to the yard to oversee the training. Since starting the fortification, he had surveyed the progress each day, unrelenting in his demands for speed and excellence.

Holding his cup out to the side, it was refilled for the third time. If it did not quell the pain in his lower half he would concede and drink the tea Aethelswith kept in supply from the healers.

Hurried voices cut through his thoughts, jabbing at his foulness. He growled in the direction of the divide leading into the kitchen and took a slow drink from his topped-up ale, his eyes staring out above the rim of his horn. He could still hear the faceless thralls, jabbering on.

"Quiet!" he roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he lowered his cup down onto his armrest. Glaring out as if to challenge the room, he scanned all those occupying benches drinking his ale. No one met his stare, but everyone seemed to tense, holding their breath, waiting.

Brigit, a stout, matronly dressed slave raced around the divide, stopping below his throne at the foot of the stairs. Shifting her feet side to side she gave the impression that she might wet herself. Opening his mouth as if to deliver his wrath, Brigit cut him off.

"My king, it is Lady Aethelswith."

Closing his mouth, he listened.

"You must come. Quickly."

Hearing nothing after she spoke his beloved's name, Ivar was already up and out of his chair, down the stairs, making his way through the corridor, hardly leaning on his crutch.

The shrill voices coming from their chambre reached him before he rounded the threshold. Entering, he lurched to a stop. Blood. Her blood. Her precious, sacred, crimson blood, everywhere. Smeared across the floor from the tub to where she lay, carelessly dropped on their bed like she had been discarded. Her face was coated with what looked like red honey and Ivar's his mind raced, attempting to make sense of the scene. His love! Unconscious and nude but for a loose sheet tossed across her front.

A young thrall, no more than sixteen, crouched over Aethelswith stroking back the damp hair stuck to the side her face; the girl's hands were shaking and coated with blood. Kneeling, as if in prayer, Freydis crouched on the far side of the room, sobbing into her hands.

"No," the word tumbled from his tongue. "Nooo!" he screamed; his eyes wild with confusion. "Do not touch her!" he shouted, rushing forward, and dropping onto his stomach onto the bed. "Who did this! Get your hands off her!" he snarled grabbing her small body and pulling her limp shoulders toward him. Her eyes were closed and her slack mouth hung open.

The thralls scattered back from the bed like mice.

"My sweet? My sweet?" Frantically, his eyes darted between her features, his hands skimming her body, searching for a wound. Letting go, he heaved himself closer and pressed his ear to her chest, letting out a cry of a relief detecting the steady rhythm of her heart.

"What happened?" he roared so loud it echoed into the hall.

The older slave stepped forward, pressing a cloth to Aethelswith's forehead. Lifting the cloth, Ivar saw the dark opening of a deep gash buried within her hairline. Off-center and hard to detect with the amount of blood flowing out. Flipping the rag over, Brigit pressed down on it with a firm hand.

"What happened!" he demanded again, snapping his head up, his cold furious eyes cutting into the woman.

Turning to look behind her, the old thrall eyed Freydis who now sat on the floor against the wall, her arms hugging her knees to her chest.

Glancing down to Aethelswith, he snatched the blood-soaked rag from Brigit and pressed it himself just above her temple. The gaze he returned to Freydis was beyond a threat, he was marking her death.

As if trying to escape, she dropped her hands to either side, pushing herself harder against the wall.

"I am so sorry, my King," her face twisted in fear. "She slipped climbing from the tub. There must have been soap on the floor. I,'I, I" she stuttered, choking on tears, "I am so sorry. Please, my King. Please forgive....."

"Get out!" Ivar shrieked, his grip around Aethelswith was the only reason his ax had not already been hurled in her direction.

Ivar flung the drenched cloth onto the floor as the older woman quickly pressed another rag to her wound. Ivar smacked her hand away and held it himself.

"Get the healer!" he barked into the air. "Run! Tell her it is the queen and she will need to be stitched. How could you have let this happen?" he hissed, dropping his eyes back to Aethelswith, too angry to cry.

Having driven a blade into countless skulls on the battlefield, he knew head wounds could be the most gruesome. Hers made worse by the hot bath opening her veins and after a blunt blow, her thin blood was raging. Pressing his lips to her sticky red face, he rushed out whispered assurance and how much he loved her while pulling the stained covers up to shield her body.

It was hard for him to breathe, feeling cold spread through his chest. The sensation making a memory flash of him breaking through ice on his chariot. Lifting the cloth, he watched the jagged tear in her skin fill again with blood. Pressing harder, he could only stare and pray to the Gods.

She lay peacefully still with her eyes gently closed looking like a perfect doll but soiled with gore and blood. He wanted to kill everyone in the room and the hall, Kattegat even, but he would not let go of his sweet. She was his heart, his dreams, everything; his beautiful Aethelswith.