After the first fight her family is surprised. Dagny's flesh isn't the delicate softness that Yir and Hlodvir possess. She's come home roughed up, cuts from being lazy with the knife as it skins a stag pelt. Bruises peppering her inner thighs from spending too long in the saddle, or raw fingers from an unforgiving bow string. But never anything like this. Never could a shallow scar conjured from embedded fingernails compare to the mess of blood and battered flesh that stood in their entryway. Even her mother, the cold hearted thing she's become can't surprise that awful wide eyed gaze. But it only last seconds before the frigid composure returns.

"You're getting blood on my floor."

The statement is a winter's night. Her azure gaze doesn't lift from table as she speaks, and somehow rage finds a way to stir in Dagny's belly.

No concern, no soft gasp or gentle touch. Only those six horrific words that remind her of the king she supposedly serves. Even if he'll let her face him again after such a shameful defeat.

Her siblings are different. Even Bardi doesn't possess the ice around his heart in the same fashion that his mother does. Not yet. Their eyes pour with sympathy, hollowed statements of assurance filling her ears with white noise. Someone gently strokes her bloodied temple. It's light enough to be Yir, but the pad of the large thumb can only belong to Hlodvir. She's one of his broken sows, beaten to a pulp and strung up in the tree waiting to be gutted. Why hadn't Asta gutted her after? The pain would only be a fraction of the shame that weighed down Dagny's chest now.

She's supposed to protect them, yet she can't manage to best even one of the king's shieldmaidens. What if true danger found its way to their home? A hungry serpent disappointed that Odin lied to him, promising a she wolf and only returning with a dog. She wouldn't stand a chance against him. Legs or not, he was lethal. Too lethal for a novice like her.

She's failed them. This much Dagny knows. Every day that she returns looking like this will be another failure. Another sign that she's not enough for them. Yir can't wield a knife, and Bardi is too small to leave a real mark. Hlodvir barely stomachs the sight of blood, and her mother's only answer to the monsters below is to hide away. Shame is thicker than the pelt wrapped around her bruised shoulders.

"You better clean that before I wake tomorrow." Her mother's snarl is enough to break the small circle the four of them have formed. It's almost as if for a moment they've become her shield. Until the three of them disemband and she's left alone in the entryway once more. A reject. A broken animal.

They bathe in a hut beside their home. Dagny and Hlodvir barely fit, their heads often brushing the ceiling. The water is always frigid as it comes from the river, and the tub is hardly comfortable as it takes up the entire space. It's a pathetic situation, but she cannot subject Yir to the smell of blood and sweat all night. Her teeth chatter against one another as she rubs her flesh raw. The water tinges pink as blood is scrubbed away. Only the violet plumes remain, and will until they're a hideous shade of yellow. The cuts could go either way. Some may fade, others leaving behind a white imprint.

She idley wonders if Ivar the Boneless has to bathe in a pool of ice, or if his thralls heat the water over the fire until it scalds. He's a sadist, so surely nothing below scalding will do. Does he pull himself in the tub the moment the water subsides? Quick enough to blister the skin. Dagny pauses, teeth embedded in her lower lip. It doesn't matter if his bath is warm. Yours is still cold.

That night she scrapes a cloth against the dark ground until her fingers are raw. The skin cracks and fresh crimson replaces the old. Her mission is fruitless, and a grunt of dissatisfaction escapes chapped lips before the cloth is slammed to the ground with a thud. She can see those disappointed eyes, the way they cut through her like a knife with butter. Even the serpent with his tongue sharper than any blade can't penetrate her this way. Her mother's voice haunts her long after the cloth is tossed away, and she's lying in bed with shaking fists.

You're getting blood on my floor.

You're getting blood on my floor.

You're getting blood on my floor.

She has to bury her face in the mattress to suppress the screams.

After the fifth day, her shame has become part of the daily routine. They all wake at dawn, silence consuming the suffocating space. Hlodvir, Bardi, and Dagny tend to the animals while Yir and their mother weave. The five do their duties in silence, but the lingering gazes on her battered flesh tell more of a story than any empty conversation. She pretends not to notice when Bardi assists with the horse pen, and murmurs a thank you when Hlodvir tells her to leave early. When she bathes Yir comes every night and doesn't voice a single complaint when the frigid water stains her skirts. She scrubs the dirt off her sister as if she were cleaning vegetables from the garden. Their mother only says the same five words every time Dagny returns home with a fresh canvas of wounds.

"You're getting blood on my floor."

It's a scream in the air as Asta throws Dagny to the ground once more. It's the crack of her knuckles against the frozen ground, and the pool of crimson gathering at an already broken nose. It's slightly shifted in the past week, and Dagny can't help but wonder how horrific it looks. She can't miss the pity in Yir's gaze every night in the bath. Does she bear the looks of a monster? A hideous creature so pitiful even Ivar the Boneless wants nothing to do with her?

She believes it. Especially since he hasn't bothered to show up for her daily beating. The chair he typically occupies is empty, though the three beside it are not. The dog occupies the first, his grease covered braids hang at his back while his beady eyes watch with satisfaction. Dagny is aware of his distaste for her, the constant sneer against his lips. He believes she's an imposter, and Dagny can't help but wonder if she is too. An imposter that never asked to be what's expected of her. A woman sits to his right. Dark tresses shield a face that searches everywhere except where the two women brawl. She reminds Dagny of Yir, too soft for such sights. It's evident in the shudder that fills the woman's spine, and the whimper that leaves her lips at the punch Asta delivers to Dagny's right eye.

Dagny wonders if she is the serpents wife, and slightly pities her if it's true. She can imagine him forcing her to watch violence until the sight of it becomes as common as pissing in a chamberpot. Except a child sits beside her in the final seat, his chair still covered with snow that he couldn't be bothered to brush off. He has her eyes, but his face belongs to the dog. Their son. Which fate is worse? To lay with the venomous serpent or a feral dog?

At least dogs can be tamed.

They distract her enough that she forgets about the shieldmaiden whose muscular thighs pin her into the dirt. Another fatal blow to the right eye socket has stars dancing around their heads and a moan fills the air. Dagny's too dazed to realize it belongs to her swollen lips.

"Submit." Asta snarls.

Has she grown bored with their game? Does she wish that a second wind would blow and knock Dagny on top of her? Just one blow to equate with the hundreds she's given. But if there is a wolf stirring beneath Dagny's battered flesh, it's either long dead or too lost to find it's way out.

"Submit!" The command is followed with a hard shove of her skull into the dirt.

Incoherent words leave her lips. But Asta is more merciful than she expects, and the shieldmaiden pulls off Dagny's crumpled form. She brushes off her knees and subtly rubs at her swollen chin. One of the few blows Dagny managed to throw while being tossed around.

"How much longer do I have to do this?" Asta hisses at the dog.

A smirk tugs at his thin lips. "As long as your king wishes."

"But she will never beat me." The shieldmaiden points a strong digit toward the body below her. "She can't even put up a fight."

"King Ivar thought you would enjoy the ego boost."

"Ego boost? I have dealt with children stronger than this girl. Our king mocks my strength with this foolish game. I will have no more of it."

The dog releases a snarl. "You will continue to do it until she beats you. Unless you wish to defy a direct order from the king?"

"If this is such an important task, then why isn't he here to witness it?"

It's a blow much greater than any punch or kick. Even if it shouldn't mean a thing, she can't suppress the pain that crushes her chest. It knocks the breath right from her lungs. His absence is every word her mother's said about them. That the king is nothing more than a puppet master, whose only pleasure spurs from the torment of others. She's just another string to tug, another pawn to use.

All for your stupid bow. Her mother's voice returns.

Something stirs in her belly. It's molten coals burning until it catches flame. Her skin grows hot, breathing erratic. Nothing but red fills her vision. That terrible, bright shade of red.

Until it's gone just as fast as it came.

"The king has other duties. Surely you understand, Asta." Hvitserk's tone is final. He will no longer entertain angry shieldmaidens and lowly farmers.

Something wet hits her cheek as Asta's boots stomp away. They leave prints in their wake and the Earth appears to shake in their midst. It isn't until a bloody palm touches her cheek that Dagny realizes what it is—spit. That is how Asta feels about her opponent. Dagny is just another worthless face in the crowd. A waste of time.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It's difficult to determine how long she lies there. The air shifts from uncomfortable to frigid. Soft plumes of white fall from the darkening sky, melting into a kiss on her ruined skin. Their touch stings the fresh wound under her eye, the one that despite any effort remains swollen shut. The dog and his little family left ages before. His little wife watching her with all the curiosity of a child. As if Dagny was no more than a wounded animal on display for them. When they left she didn't say a word, nor did the boy with his father's face. Like ghosts they follow the prince back to the hall that provides more warmth and shelter than her mother's pathetic shack ever could.

Guards shuffle back and forth, but none pay much attention to her body curled up in the dirt. The wind nips at her cheeks, and she knows they must be raw by now. Does she look as pathetic as the weight that crushes her chest? Are the gods truly liars? To curse her with dreams of blood and war, only to leave her a clumsy child when the real battle came. She knows now why some stop praying to Odin, and why she shot that raven in the wood. Perhaps if it rose from the dead, she'd shoot it again. An extra blessing for her wondrous gods.

She hears him first. That familiar sound of metal dragging through the dirt. The cold has made his bones more brittle, therefore he's replaced the crutch with his hands. His presence is claws sheathed into her belly gnawing at the tender flesh until blood seeps into the dirt. He looms over her form enough to cast a shadow in the setting sun. But no words escape the lips that affect her like poison. It's as if he absorbs the pit of rage consuming her until there's nothing but the numb effect of bleeding out in the winter sunset.

After several minutes pass that familiar voice suffocates her once more. "Get up."

She doesn't respond.

"Dagny."

Nothing.

A calloused palm shoves into her side. "Dagny."

"Mm."

He shoves again enough to shift her torso against the dirt. The gravel embedding in her battered cheek.

A fist flies into the air, but it's caught in his grip before the breath escapes her lungs. Sharp nails dig into her flesh as she attempts to pull it away. He only tugs harder, shifting the woman onto her back, her wild azure gaze landing on the purple sky. He tugs again until chapped lips are against her ear. The warm of his breath grazes the lobe with a shiver down her spine.

"You can't fight me yet. You won't win."

His harsh grip releases her hand. It's left with nail marks the remind Dagny more of a cat than any snake. Not lethal enough to kill, but still painful enough to serve as a reminder of what she's done.

"You didn't come today." Shame envelops her. The tone of her voices matches a pathetic girl rather than a defiant warrior. "I did everything you said, and you couldn't bother to witness it."

The serpent's laughter is poison. "Why would I witness a fight where the outcome is already obvious?"

It shouldn't bear the same agony of Asta's fists. His tone shouldn't bear any emotion at all. Yet she can't control the gasp of pain that emits the air when his words batter what little is left of her wounded pride.

Violent ocean waves bear into her. "You won't let it out. Until you do you will always lose." She meets his gaze but any semblance of a conversation is cut off by his sharp tongue once more. "And I refuse to watch Asta beat you bloody because you won't fight back properly."

He claims to know what lurks beneath her. But he's only heard of it, for if Ivar did witness it, he wouldn't want it released. The monster that he embodies does not bear the same curse as her's. The serpent accepts what he is, his fangs gleam in the winter sun without any sense of control. His fangs embed in the hearts of thralls, feasting on their blood and picking his teeth with their bones. The beast that stirs within her is just as violent. It's the snarl of sharpened teeth, and claws that ripped her mother's arms into ribbons years ago. It's sharp claws drawing blood from her palm and the death of a raven. She's always been aware of it, but like the torn clothing on her back, it's only a layer of her. It isn't the woman that lies on the ground now.

"I told you." She croaks. "I don't know how to let it out."

"Once the beast is unleashed, there is no going back." Her father's voice carried in a hurried whisper all those years ago. When nothing but firelight illuminated the backs of him and her mother when they believed she was fast asleep and dead to the world.

"Then you have to teach her to bury it away, before it kills all of us."

The sound of braces dragging against dirt fill her ears once more. Perhaps he's bored with the conversation and plans to leave her out in the cold. Let the evening frost consume Dagny until her toes turn black and ice coats her flesh like a second skin. A waste of his time. Just as the dog said, kings bear greater tasks than training a farm girl to fight.

The braces pause. "Get up, Dagny. I won't ask again."

Except it isn't permission he's requesting, it's obedience. It's the command of a king instead of a question between two acquaintances. His contorted limbs drag across the snow toward the forest. Not once does that gaze of deep blue find her again. He knows she'll follow, and beyond the stubborn nature that silently begs her to protest, Dagny reluctantly is aware she'll follow too. Even when her limbs scream when she slowly rises from the ground. Every bruise, cut, and scar begs her to move no further. To collapse back in the dirt and let the cold night consume her. It's tempting, not having to move at all. But the command from the serpent haunts her enough to put one foot in front of the other. Until the bare land that surrounds his city is surrounded by snow covered trees. Their trunks are endless as they stretch to the sky. Her blue eyed gaze follows one until she loses sight of the branches above. One tree melds into another leaving the forest canopied in a thicket of bare limbs.

He's waiting for her in front of a tree older than Kattegat itself. The stump thick enough that if the pair wrapped both of their arms around it, they wouldn't even brush the pads of each other's fingers. His gaze is no less intimidating as it focuses on her left leg. The one that drags slightly through the snow, while the right picks up the slack. His brow furrows, but if the sight brings him discontent he makes no effort to voice an opinion. Across his lap is a long sword released from its sheath. Even in the dying light she can make out the various marks and indents impressed into the metal from endless battles.

How many bellies did that sword cut through? How much blood has soaked into the blade?

He lifts the blade from his thighs, the dullness is evident as it produces no sheen against the setting sun. Will he hit her with it? Has he realized that Odin was Loki all along playing the king for a fool? He's already wasted precious time that would have went toward preparing for spring, and instead focused on her training. If it could even be referred to as such. Her death wouldn't be quick. The serpent enjoyed the copper tang of blood against his tongue too much to make it quick. She would suffer every hack and blow the sword would bring. Then perhaps he'd feast on her raw heart, slowly chewing on each bloody bit until he was engorged. At the very least her body would be consumed by the forest. Until her bones became decoration and maggots feasted on whatever the serpent left behind.

Her mother would have one less burden to worry about. Perhaps she'd even let Yir find the husband she longed for. Hlodvir would struggle to take on her duty, but his heart would harden just as Dagny's had to. And Bardi would pick up Hlodvir's slack until then. She did not doubt her baby brother would replace her role in the family. Whatever twisted place she had managed to become in that household.

Dagny's eyelids flutter into darkness, waiting for the first blow. Will he strike her belly first? Or perhaps her neck?

"What are you doing?" His tone dry.

She opens a single eye to find him staring back at her, confusion plagues his features. The sword is still in his grasp, but he makes no motion to swing it.

Her single eye fills with curiosity. "Aren't you going to kill me now?"

A dark chuckle escaped his lips. The dark braids tied to his scalp shift with the tilt of his skull.

Dagny's other eye opens, narrowing her brow. Was this how he played with his food? Did he bring a false sense of security before the blade made its first slice? It wouldn't surprise her. From all her mother's stories she recalls him being a master of torment.

He doesn't answer her question. Instead he lifts the blade higher. It's only then that she realizes that he's handing it to her. She's meant to grasp it. For what? He was a puzzling executioner.

"My arm is growing stiff." He hisses.

She reaches for the hilt, it bears more weight in her grasp than originally expected. As if every body lost to it has seeped into the blade. There's an insecurity building within her, the lack of confidence that always appears whenever they're together. In her dreams she's a skilled swordsmen. Not a single body misses the crimson stained blade as it flies through the air. But in the harsh winter of reality Dagny has never swung a sword. Only a hammer, and that hardly compared to even the dull blade in her grasp now. It required more skill, more knowledge of balance and aerodynamics. A sword is an extension of the human wielding it. The king probably knew it better than he knew himself.

He watches her with a gaze she can't read. His brow burrows in thought, as if he's curios over her reaction to the blade. Not a single spiteful comment escapes those plump lips as she turns the blade in her grasp.

"I've never wielded a sword."

"I know."

Is it that obvious?

The king ignores the obvious distaste in her expression. Instead he gestures to the massive trunk beside his form.

She stares down at the blade before gazing at the trunk. "It'll ruin it."

He shrugs. "I possess a different sword now, it's much sharper than this one." When she doesn't move he gestures toward the stump once more. "Go on."

Her stance is awkward, the way her limp leg shakes uneasily from the weight distribution. She can't tell if her feet are planted too far apart or close together. Is it a predetermined stance or does one just swing? The questions cling to her tongue, waiting to be set free. But they're foolish in nature. It's something that should be second nature to people like her. Did Asta ever ask for help? Dagny's blood boils at the thought of the other woman. Or did she just know?

The serpent appears to notice her inner conflict. "Think of your moth—."

She swings before he can finish the sentence. Metal collides against wood with enough brute force that vibrations rattle down her arms. Bits of bark tumble into the snow leaving gouge marks in their wake.

If he speaks again she doesn't hear it. The only sound is the faint click of her mother's disapproving tongue. Those words that bring nothing but rage. "You're getting blood on my floor."

Whack.

Dagny at just five years old waking from another night terror. Blood fills her mouth and its coppery consumes any other that attempts to overpower it. The shrill of her throat is matched with another. Tiny nails seep into the arms of another, the flow of blood is real now as it sticks between stubby fingers. Her father has to pull Dagny off her mother, but even then she still rips more skin. There's no comfort in the woman's dull gaze, only fear. Pure terror at the little creature writhing in her father's grasp.

Whack.

Yir on her knees like a beggar in front of their mother. She sobs that she will never know life outside of their farm. That men in Kattegat look at her and she cannot look back. She'll never know the soft touch of a man, or the feeling of a babe at her breast. Her mother only says the same thing she does every time. "You will not marry until your sister does." Knowing very well it'll bind them forever.

Whack.

Ten years before, waiting impatiently for the return of their father. She sits beneath the tree where they hang the sows, waiting. Long after her mother calls her in for supper and the screams subside below she still waits. Days pass. Her body grows weak, the girl of ten can barely lift her own weight. Her mother doesn't wait, she doesn't even shed a tear. While Dagny waits, knowing that he'll never return. Instead another man finds his way to their farm with her father's bow spewing tales of glory. But glory can't bring back the dead.

Whack.

That awful look. That dull, distanced look every time they lay eyes on one another. It isn't the soft love of a mother and daughter. They don't embrace, the woman never runs her hands through her eldest's unruly head of hair. A husband is never mentioned, and neither is any semblance of future outside the mundane activities they participate in daily. A kiss is never given, a compliment is absent from that wrinkled jaw. They are strangers at best. Two tortured souls forced under the same roof. There is no love there, and she wonders if there ever was.

Whack.

The forest is red. It's a bright solid hue that blocks out any semblance of reality. There is no trees or snow. There isn't a serpent watching intently as an old stump is hacked to bits. Only red. Sweat beads her brow, cheeks the same shade as the crimson forest. A scream fills the air but it's difficult to tell who it came from. She only sees that same copper scented color.

Another scream fills the air as the blade and the stump make contact. She has to kill it, watch the life drain away. Like blood, the sap pools onto the snow covered ground. Except now the tree isn't a tree. It's her mother. An old weathered thing whose roots have become so embedded in the dirt that the forest can't recall a time when it wasn't there, suckling away at all the resources like a babe at its mother's breast. With every blow the woman becomes less woman and more a hunk of flesh. Nothing but raw meat for the wolf in her to consume.

How about I get blood on you?

Something snaps. Intense pain radiates to her palms, pale lips releasing a cry of pain. Her grip on the blade loosens and the clang of metal hits the ground. No longer is her mother slowly bleeding out, only the trunk of a mutilated tree stares back. Sap leaks from several cuts in the wood. Like a violent masterpiece her artwork is displayed to the Gods. This is their token for all her suffering.

The ocean currant in her eyes is enough to rival the serpents as it finds the blade below. A violent crack jags straight down the middle, a quarter of the blade already crumbling into the snow. Her breaths are labored as she slowly lifts the battered sword from the snow. She desires to keep hitting the tree until it's snapped in half. But it's reduced to nothing but a slab now, and she tosses it back to the ground with a snarl.

Darkness falls before the serpent dares to speak again. Dagny's returned to reality. Her breathing is no longer ragged, and images of her mother's mutilated body fade to nothing.She can't make out anything outside the king's form on the ground beside her. Even without the canopy of summer leaves, the forest is a labyrinth of darkness.

"Do that everytime you fight, and you will never lose."

He doesn't give her time to retaliate. She can't lament that the only reason she's stopped is because the blade snapped. Her arms would have swung until they gave out, her hands would have gripped the hilt until they bled. And the stump would have been reduced to wood chips. But only if the blade didn't break.

But that's something they both already know.

The sound of dragging braces against the snow makes a final appearance."Don't disappoint me again tomorrow." The king calls over his shoulder.

She only listens until the sound of metal fades to nothing but the winter winds. 

A/N: Sorry I promised this chapter would go up sooner but I was so busy for the holidays. The next update will be quicker though!