In his dreams Ivar was always flying. Legs that weighed him down like contorted vines disappeared into blue of the sky. Eyes black as night, the wings of a raven. A messenger of Odin that held an unmistakable war cry. The world was an endless labyrinth from sight of the sky. So many directions to go, an endless amount of time to waste. Brothers with foolish ambitions and murderous step mothers couldn't grasp him in the clouds. Some nights he could taste the rain as it fell on feathered wings. He would forget it was a dream until the pain rushed back in one foul swoop, and the rotting ceiling above served as a welcome back to reality.

This night his dream was vivid as ever. The forest over Kattegat, where his brother's once sparred with one another. Just boys unaware of the temptations of power and greed that would soon takeover. How Sigurd held a look of shock when his baby brother nearly wiped his head off clean with an axe. The foul irony of what was to come just months later like bitter blood on Ivar's lips.

But his brothers were not there. Their boisterous laughter and clashing swords a song of the past. The grass had long overgrown, the deer carcass that once served as a target rotted out with maggots. Blood dried down a lone oak in a tear drop pattern--Sigurd's blood. But when his claws landed in a dead branch he was not alone. One eye trained straight ahead, and the other a black abyss of nothing. The man stood below him with a smirk tugging against his pale lips.

"You're late." He whispers to the raven.

Ivar says nothing in return.

The old man often plagued his dreams. Instead of flying where he liked, the man would tug Ivar from the sky with an invisible string. Presenting images Ivar often forgot once he awoke from the trance that held him under. Why Odin would choose to torment him of all men was a mystery. A loyal servant, Ivar shed enough blood in his name. Yet the elder man continued to torment him.

The man holds out a free hand for the raven. "I fear you will forget this, just as you have the others. But if you remember it will serve you well."

Ivar swoops onto his shoulder, talons digging deep enough to feel the flesh break beneath him. But the god hardly flinches in response. The stubborn bastard.

Indeed the one thing he remembers is that Odin sings that warning every time they find one another in the depths of his slumber. It is almost cruel now. They both know he will forget. In the beginning Ivar would pine over the lost dreams like smoke. Reaching out only to have it slip through his fingers. Perhaps the old man could find a way to visit him when he was awake. But luck only traveled so far for men such as him, and it seemed the God enjoyed haunting his dreams.

"Listen with your ears, Ivar the Boneless." Odin cooes. "What do you hear?"

It would be easier if the old hack just told him what to expect. But that was not the way of Odin. So like a good student, Ivar listened with the ears of the raven.

A grunt fills his ears, though he cannot see another body. A rib cage that is breathing heavily, it reminds him of a panting dog. Has the god sent him a pet? But another noise quickly overpowers the breathing. He's heard it thousands of times whether in battle or when he is bored. There is no mistaking the quiver of a bow as it's tugged back with the string. Wound tightly, waiting to be set free.

The pop of the arrow's release comes. But he does not hear the sound of a target hit. Only a sigh of disappointment. It is a deep sigh, though strangely feminine.

Odin's voice interrupts Ivar's trance. "You are curious now. Look with the eyes the raven has gifted you."

As the god commands Ivar can suddenly see more. The field laid out before him as ugly and dead as it was when he flew over. Only he and the old man are not alone. The unmistakable form of another covers the eyes given to him. It is tall enough that if he were looking with his own eyes Ivar would think it male. Though there is the unmistakable softness in the hips, the long plait far too intricate to be Ubbe's.

Her stance is one he knows well. He remembers looking at the same expanse of land she is now. Bright blue eyes staring down a rotting stag head that Hvitserk cut down days prior. Now the flesh is almost rotted off. More skull than skin is visible. He wants to thank Odin then, for not permitting him to use his scent. For he could already sense the stink coming off the animal. But it doesn't seem to phase the woman. Her light brow furrows, emerald gaze on the putrid head. There is a bow in her grip, with intricate designs he would normally admire if it weren't so foolish. Bows often snap, unlike a sword they are disposable. If the woman were smart she wouldn't waste her time or coin to fashion such a luxurious piece.

The sound of the string being tugged fills the air once more. Ivar's gaze doesn't waver as she prepares to strike. Her hand shakes, and if he could speak he would scold her. What is there to fear? The deer will not gain a voice to scold her. He will not sob that she hurt him. It is dead, a simple target.

The arrow flies quick enough that he almost misses it. A thud fills the air as it lodges itself into the center of the head. The entire post vibrates and Ivar wonders if the wood has rotted through. Perhaps it will fall into the dirt.

But it doesn't.

"Do not look away yet." The old man warns.

Ivar does not. He watches with less ambition now. It is just a girl with a bow hitting a rotten deer. There is no battle, there is no death.

A snarl fills the air. Like a wolf on the hunt it lingers through the forest. Ivar ruffles his feathers, surprise coursing through him like a violent sea. Her teeth are bared at the carcass, eyes a pair of daggers as they sink into the rotting flesh. She is angry, but why? Hitting the target is the goal one would expect to have.

Odin senses Ivar's confusion, his smirk only wider. A sly fox enjoying the show before him.

"She searches for satisfaction in this forest. With that old target. But she finds none. Corpses are already dead."

As he finishes his statement, her other hand balls into a fist. Long nails dig into the soft flesh of her palm, and Ivar can smell the blood before he sees it. Like an old friend he is all too aware of the scent it carries. How many times had he done the same thing? It's as if he's looking in a mirror as the crimson liquid pools in her palm. A silent river as it travels down her wrist. If she is in pain she does not show it. Her lips still curled like the wolf he imagines she would be if Odin made her into an animal too. Ubbe is a dog in comparison to this woman.

Ivar waits for her to do something more. Perhaps scream at the endless forest surrounding them. Toss her bow at the carcass until it finally spills onto the dirt. Or even snap the wood clear in half with her bare hands. But none of this happens, and Ivar finds himself disappointed.

Odin must feel it too, as the empty eye socket is now facing Ivar. "Some of us are better at controlling our anger than others. Some let it fester, and feast as much as it likes. While others bury it until it threatens to consume them."

If Ivar could speak he would scold the old man for speaking in constant riddles. It is a blatant statement if he ever heard one. She is angry, but hides it away. Instead of acting out she stands there, seething. He remembers a time when he gazed at Sigurd and Ubbe the way she is gazing at the deer head now. She will succumb to her anger soon enough. And it will free her of the chains that keep her from doing it now.

"You think she is weak, for hiding her anger." Odin observes. "You want her to lash out and destroy that deer."

Ivar hates when the old man is right. So his eyes still remain on the girl. Her fist now stained red unfolds, and he just barely catches the grimace on her face before it is replaced with a straight expression.

"She comes here every day. Searching for the answers that this place cannot giver her.." Odin snaps his fingers, and Ivar's beady gaze falls on him. "But perhaps you could give her what she wishes for. If she ever is able to figure it out."

The mere thought of Ivar assisting another was laughable at best. He was not a paternal figure, patting on the shoulders of others. His smile more predatory than warm. Often those he inflicted it upon shook the way the woman's bow did out in the field.

He wishes now more than ever that Odin allowed him to speak. For if he did the man would ask why the other wasted his precious sleep on women in the woods. If only he showed him images of his mother before she became consumed with anger and drink. Or Hvitserk tugging his cart through Kattegat when Ivar was a little older than a babe.

Or the old man has already showed Ivar those things, and now Odin punishes him with visions that mean nothing. If he only could recall what he was shown before. Pleasantries in comparison to this.

The old man pushes himself off the tree, his lone eye gazing at the sky above. A fog that fell upon Ivar the moment he took flight began to dissipate. Time was running out.

"Do what you will with this." The old man says, as if he's said it over a thousand times prior. Perhaps he has.

Ivar knows it isn't worth remembering anyways.

"Leave me, Ivar the Boneless. You have closed those eyes long enough, your advisors will think you dead if you sleep much longer."

Ivar once more ruffles his feathers in preparation for flight. As he ascends into the sky he steals one last glance at the field below.

The woman with the bow is gone.

* * * * * * * *

The cold embraces him as Ivar's eyes; the vey shade of the sea open. He gasps as if someone had been sitting on him while he slumbered. The numbing pain once more fills his lower body with such a force he wishes to cry out. But years of self control have prevented the man from doing such foolish things.

His torso flies up from the furs beneath him. A cloud of warm breath fills the air as he huffs. Ivar's rib cage moves up and down vigorously. A pale light fills the chambers and he cannot tell if it is early morning or late afternoon. The coming winter leaves time indistinguishable. Kattegat nothing more than a pale shadow until spring graces them once more.

"My king?"

A sweet voice suddenly breaks his trance. It is far from the sound of gravel rubbing against itself, which is often what he associates with Hvitserk. It also is not the terrified tone of his elder brother's former wife. Margrethe, for all her faults deserved more than Ubbe. Maybe more than any of them.

The wide gaze of the thrall stares back at him. She's young enough to be a child in most eyes, and he cannot push away the disgust that fills him at the sight of her. It seems that they all get younger. Though he often forgets that he is getting older.

"You-you were shaking in your sleep, and mumbling words." The girl adds.

Her pale palms are shaking, and he almost wishes to ask her why they are not stained with blood. Though he cannot place why. Instead a scowl marrs his features upon the realization that it was this girl who woke him from a dream of great importance.

Or so the old man claimed.

"What do you want?" His words are laced with venom.

She visibly flinches and he feels a victory. Wide blue eyes fall to the floor as her hands shake even more. Like a little mouse , he thinks. I would pity you, but no one ever pitied me .

"Well," He snaps. "Why did you wake me? Is my kingdom burning to the ground?"

"N-no."

"Is some fool with a deathwish storming the gates?"

"No."

"Is a plague spreading through the port?"

"No."

"Then why," His lips curl into a sardonic smirk. "Would you be foolish enough to wake a king from his slumber? I need sleep too you foolish girl."

Her gaze turns to glass and Ivar swears he can see the tears brewing beneath her eyes. When he was young the thralls had skin thick as leather. Now they were weak things scared of their own shadows. This girl would not last one minute in the clashes of war.

"Your brother, my king." She nearly sobs. "He was worried that you would not wake. It is well past morning and--and I apologize but I have to do what I am told."

Ivar shakes his head, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "Stupid girl." He snarls. "Is my brother the king?"

She shakes her head of golden curls.

"Then you do not need to listen to him. You listen to me."

She nods her head, a glimmer of hope in her eye. Hoping for some form of praise from Ivar. It is unfortunate she does not know him well enough yet to know it isn't coming.

"Leave." The king commands. "And tell Hvitserk that I am alive, but angry that he ruined my slumber. He will pay for it later."

The thrall rises, she cannot escape his chambers fast enough. She is willowy, and her stature reminds him more of a crane than a mouse. But he doesn't say anything about it. He only watches with haunting blue eyes as she shuffles from the room.

When he is alone his head falls against the furs of his bed once more. Blood. Bloody palms and the snarl of a wolf is all he can remember. One minute he was flying free and the next he wasn't.

The words of Harald haunt him even now. If dreams mattered, they would come true before our eyes. They are only a distraction from the greater picture.

Perhaps Harald is guilty of being the biggest dreamer of all. The king of all Norway wasn't a simple goal. Only a man who dreamt of glory would be crazy enough to try and conquer every small kingdom around him.

Ivar reaches for the metal braces against his bed. Even after years of use, he still hasn't grown used to them. They rub against the pained flesh of his legs until they're raw. Each step he takes is filled with a pain he would only wish on his worst enemies. A dull knife slowly slicing away at each individual tendon until he is nothing but a contorted mess of lower limbs once more.

He rises slowly, with the help of a crutch. It takes years before he manages to pull a tunic over his head. Not willing to change his trousers, as if anyone will care if he wore the same ones as the day prior. Ivar did not harbor the energy or patience to watch a thrall struggle to put on a new pair. Especially the little thing that just fled from him moments before. She was far too rattled to handle the task. And Ivar feared he would mock her the entire time, only leaving the girl a greater mess than she was before.

When he reaches the hall, it is fairly empty. Most are wandering in the market, or training for future raids. Ivar welcomes the silence, for he knows it is only temporary. Soon enough people will come and go throughout the great hall as the day wears on. His colors of red and black adorn every inch of the hall. His people will not forget who won, even years after.

A sigh escapes the king's lips as he settles into his throne. The screams of his lower limbs silence in a momentary reprieve. He leans back, gaze flickering to the few bodies left in the hall. Most of which are his guards. They carry shields of red and black, walking in continuous patterns until the next one comes to take over. What a mundane task to watch over a king. Ivar is grateful he's never had to do it himself.

At the table below a small cluster of thralls whisper amongst themselves as they knit. With winter almost upon them they would be working tirelessly to have thicker cloth available to wear. Furs alone would not protect from the bitter winds that ripped across the sea. Ivar could not see the girl from his room amongst them, perhaps she ran to his brother to relay the message. As well as other things. Hvitserk had changed little over the years, so the notion held little surprise. A thrall was a thrall but they still warmed your bed when you asked.

One of the guards entered the king's periferal. His lips upturned despite Ivar's expression remaining stoic. "My king." He states with a nod of his head.

Ivar simply nods in return. He takes in the image of the guard. A man large enough to look into the eyes of Bjorn. His bicep easily twice the size of Ivar's skull. But Ivar is disappointed when he does not see a mighty sword in the man's sheath. But rather a bow strewn across his back. An archer rather than a swordsmen.

An archer .

He remembers it then. The forest, his old training grounds. Where wild flowers and long grass have taken over, and the clanging of weapons is long gone. The corpse of a deer still remains tied up, though somehow it is still rotting. Ivar is frustrated with the archer. He doesn't know why she won't scream at the head. Why she would hide amongst the trees and shoot at old ghosts.

The blood pooled so thick in her palm that he wonders if she'll be able to shoot again right away. Her nails must have been sharper than a wolf's, the way they cut so easily through her pale flesh.

Her eyes are as blue as his. The long plait of honey tresses runs down her back. There is a scar above her left eye, but he can't remember how fresh it was. She's tall enough that they would see eye to eye. But not as willowy as the thrall. No she has cut her teeth on blood and sweat. She's run through the very hills his brother's would run through when they were younger. Ivar hated them for that. He always wanted to run through those hills too.

But he can fly. A raven high above the sky, he flies until Odin commands him to rest. Then Odin shares useless information that he forgets hours later. Until he doesn't.

"My king?" The gruff voice of his guard fills the air.

Ivar realizes then, as he leaves his trance, that he has stood once more. His legs throb but he ignores it. The guards all look on with mild curiosity, and even the thralls have silenced their whispers. He must look crazier than they already assume him to be.

"I have just remembered something." Ivar boasts. "I must leave for awhile."

The guard tenses his shoulders, and Ivar already knows what he will say. "But my king, you cannot go alone. And the frost fell last night. It is slippery."

Ivar does not hear him. He is already forcing himself toward the door of the hall. I must go to that field. I will find what Odin showed me once more.If only to prove it was not a silly dream.

He doesn't know if the guards follow him. But he has long forgotten him when the bitter air kisses his cheeks. A plethora of bodies rush past, more concerned about their daily errands than their king chasing imaginary things.

The old training ground. He will go until his legs give out beneath him, then he will crawl. Because Odin showed him the angry girl in the forest with the bow. And for the first time, he remembers it.