Ease The Dawn

Part 2, Chapter 13

The weeks dragged on and Aethelswith continued to deteriorate; her weakening body struggling to fight the attacks of the illness, with the hours of reprieve few and fleeting. In those moments when she would stir or wake, the peace was short-lived, the violent toils of the unknown affliction pulling her back and holding her down.

After just one night of struggling to care for her, Ivar buckled, allowing the old healer and one assistant back in and limiting the number of thralls. And, despite Ida and Freydis working and moving her limbs each morning and night, Aethelswith's skin-and-bone body had begun to atrophy, her flesh and the whites of her eyes showing a tinge of yellow.

Her sight was entirely gone and, in those moments, when she could be roused, she woke confused and panicked, crying for Ivar, begging him to stop some brightness she said was burning her eyes. Attempting to soothe and comfort, he would hold her close, whisper that he was there, that she was brave and strong, and how much he loved her. He would try and coax her, with the help of Ida, to take sips of water or honeyed milk but in spite of her body wilting away, any scarce amount she could take in was instantly rejected.

The early autumn weather was not yet cold, but charcoal was kept smoldering in the fireplace to help mask the smell of her failing system, and the days and nights spent in bed left open sores on her backside. The unspoken question flashed in the sideways glances of everyone but Ivar, all shaken, wondering how much more their sweet queen could suffer. But somehow, she held on. 

After months of the same agony, news of her dire condition spread through the city, reaching villages beyond. People braced for word, feeling as if their own fate was somehow tied to the survival of the king's beloved. At dawn, each day, flowers, small gifts and various tokens of affection were collected from outside the doors of the permanently closed hall. It was all the villagers and merchants could do to express their worry and hopes for her recovery.

In addition to cooking and running the kitchen, Birgit, had stepped in to oversee the slaves and manage the hall. She would rush out early and collect the gifts, hiding them from Ivar, afraid he would see them as offerings of condolences.

Only a select few were permitted in their chambre aside from Ida and Birgit, occasionally Freydis, Hvitserk and a couple of favored thralls. Nana and Gussr would sit at her bedside, often for hours and Brana would read from books, brush her hair and help with the washing down of her body.

Shielding his brother from the pull of duty, Hvitserk took on the training of the army and, with the help of Loni, tended to the city and trade disputes, while Ruud oversaw the ongoing wall construction.

Life in the city had changed; the streets were quiet, and people moved cautiously, tense with the anticipation of what was to come. A fog of sadness had settled around the hall, suffocating and dangerous. The thralls would scurry through the corridors, fearful of catching the king's eye, his wrath sharp below his strained, brittle, exhaustion. Few hours in his day were spent away from Aethelswith and when he did enter the hall, he would sit at a table alone, avoiding the throne chairs entirely.

On the rare night that he would emerge, leaving Ida at her side, he would drink himself into a stupor and smash anything he could reach. On more than one occasion, he'd use the walls of the hall as a target for his axes, inevitably being dragged back to his bed by his brother.

Taking a chair in the corner, Hvitserk would sit and stay close, watching as Ivar screamed at Aethelswith's fragile, sleeping form. In his tirades, he would demand that she wake-up and shout that she was not permitted to ever leave him. He would weep and sob, kiss her hands and stroke her tied back hair, promise to love her how she deserved, swearing off his selfishness and cruelty forever. He would shout and curse the Gods, pray and plead for Odin to spare her, but with no change, no signs, not a single mark of improvement, the killings began.