#bloodmon

The following evening the hall was empty except for the family who sat at the head table. Everyone was in their place but the youngest Lothbrok who was yet to appear. Lofn’s eyes continued to flick over to the empty wooden chair that sat next at the end of the table.

The tone was somewhat jovial. Jugs of ale had been shared as they waited for the platters of food to be brought out and placed down the centre of the long table. Beaming from the head seat, Aslaug continued to smile at Lofn, obviously, still relishing in the glory of receiving a true gift from the gods.

The loud clearing of a throat at the entrance to the hall drew everyone’s attention to Ivar standing, leaning on his crutch. A pale and uneasy looking Margrethe waited behind. Obnoxiously preening, Ivar made his way toward the table, grinning at no one in particular and without looking up, Margrethe followed close behind. Pulling back his chair, Ivar stood at the end of the table, scanning each person, his eyes lingering on Lofn for just an instant.

“Good evening family.”

He spoke in a loud, formal tone as if addressing a full hall of people. Ubbe shot Hvitserk a questioning glance only to have it answered with rolled eyes and a quick shrug of the shoulders. Sigurd took a drink from his cup, his eyes never leaving Margrethe’s downcast face. The guarded smile on Aslaug’s face conveyed her uncertainty with the grandeur of her beloved son and Lofn stared at Ivar, pointedly. With pressed lips and dull eyes, she was already sick of his theatrics, realizing she still had the meal to endure.

Dropping down into his chair, he flicked his head toward Margrethe who quickly dragged a chair over from a nearby table. Sitting cautiously beside Ivar, she looked down at her clutched hands, resting on her lap. Holding his hand out to Margrethe, Ivar’s smile grew syrupy sweet but faltered when she did not notice causing him to jerk his waiting hand and snap his fingers to draw her attention. Glancing up, she jolted forward, taking his hand; her eyes were wide, and her bottom lip was pinched white between her teeth. She looked terrified. Bringing their held hands down to rest on the arm of his chair, Ivar’s honeyed grin returned as he sat smugly, surveying those around the table.

Frowning, a look of concern crossed Ubbe’s face as he again glanced at Hvitserk before looking to Sigurd searching for an explanation.

“Anyway…” Sigurd said, bringing the attention back to his end of the table. “Lofn, are you feeling strong? You will be ready for the journey in two weeks time?”

“I am not in pain. My mobility is still a bit tight flying on the down-beat, but I will be ready,” Lofn nodded gently, grateful for the diversion.

Sighing loudly, Ivar rolled his eyes, again, becoming the focus of attention. With a pensive face, Aslaug continued to eye her youngest from across the table.

“I have quite an appetite this evening. Where is our meal?” Ivar said loudly, dramatically scanning the room. “Margrethe?” he spoke not looking over to her, “be a dove and feed me some berries.”

Fluttering her lids, confusion flashed across her face.

“Now!” Ivar barked, his chin motioned toward the plate of fruit on the table. Pulling her hand from his, she picked up a bunch of blackberries, lifting the dangling bunch toward his face. He snapped his head in her direction. “Not like that. One at a time, you fool.”

Swallowing, she mumbled a shaky apology and began plucking the berries from the stem placing them on the plate in front of him. Opening his mouth expectantly, she slowly grabbed two from the plate, carefully bringing them to his mouth and popping them inside, one at a time. Smiling, he chewed obnoxiously, the skin of the berries darkening his teeth.

Hvitserk looked baffled. Sigurd looked utterly disgusted and Ubbe was out of patience. Lofn bit the inside of her cheek in hopes it would steady her amusement and prevent her from laughing outwardly right in his idiotic face. Shifting on the bench, she lifted her wings to adjust, ruffling them lightly before settling them back behind her shoulders. She could not stop herself from leering sideways at him but he continued to look everywhere and at everyone but her.

“Lofn?” he spoke loudly, clearing his throat, looking up toward the rafters of the hall. “I did not realize you would be joining us for a family supper. Were you out today, flapping around?”

An exasperated scoff at the other end of the table turned all heads back to Sigurd.

‘Ivar,” Sigurd sneered. “You know exactly where she was today. You loitered in the hall for hours this afternoon.” Aslaug reached forward, placing her hand on Sigurd’s arm. Whipping his arm back from his mother’s touch, he looked straight at Lofn. “Walked past your door likely a dozen times.”

Ivar clenched his teeth and Sigurd sunk into his chair with chuffed expression, finishing off his cup of ale in one long drink.

Narrowing his eyes, Ivar glanced at Lofn. “What were you doing in there for half the day? I heard voices. Who was with you?” He blinked rapidly, his aloofness becoming brittle.

“I cannot imagine you would care who I was with. Were you not with your thrall?” Lofn dipped her head toward Margrethe. “You two look so in love.”

Ivar’s expression dropped and Margrethe's eyes flashed wide. Every person at the table could see the poor girl was holding her breath.

“Mother,” Ivar whined. “I think we have a right to know who our guest is conniving with under our roof. Do we not?” he lifted his chin arrogantly.

“It is not our place to question a messenger from the Gods.” Aslaug eyed him sternly.

“Sure, mother,” he breathed, slumping against one armrest of his chair.

Lofn turned to address Aslaug, “I was sending a message home. I was speaking with a raven at the window.”

Aslaug smiled, her nostrils still flared. “Please Lofn, no one is questioning you, dear.”

Ivar snorted loudly. “Why would Odin need a message from you? Is he not omnipresent? He needs what? An update? Ridiculous,” he grabbed Margrethe’s hand, causing her to startle, and pulled it to his face, kissing her knuckles; her already pale face was now void entirely of colour.

Lofn’s head snapped toward him. “I am warning you not to speak so casually about the All Father.”

Rolling his eyes, he took another drink from his cup. “Or what? What will you do about it?”

“Easy,” Ubbe chinned in, shooting Ivar a look of warning.

“Ivar!” Aslaug scolded. “It is an honour having Lofn here with us. A true honour. She will help avenge Ragnar.”

“Yes, mother,” his tone was sarcastic. “She will be invaluable when we battle the Saxons.” He brought his cup to his lips. “As long as they are not equipped with burlaps sacks,” he chuckled into his drink.

“Brave words for a man who cannot stand to fight.” Lofn quipped, picking up her cup and lifting it in the air toward him. “What do the legends say about those who wage war on their bellies? Oh, that’s right, there are none.” Smirking, she turned holding her drink up to those around the table. “Skol.” Chugging the remaining ale in her cup, everyone watched with eyes frozen wide and rigid in their seats.

Ivar slammed his cup down on the table causing mead to splash and plates to bounce with a clatter. Leaning forward, he glared furiously at her, his hands planted on the table in front of him.

Scowling, Lofn stared right into his eyes, and leaned in his direction, “I hope….”

In a flash, Ivar’s hand shot forward, grabbing her by the throat, his lips were pulled back in a snarl and his fingers squeezing. Her eyes flashed wide as her mouth fell open and her hands flew up, clasping onto his wrists. Soundlessly, she struggled to take a breath.

“Ivar, no!” screamed Aslaug, shooting out of her chair. Hvitserk and Ubbe, already ahead, rounded the table and grabbed Ivar by his arm and shoulders. With wild eyes, Ivar’s face was locked in rage, his breath rushed in and out of his flared nostrils and spittle shot through his gritted teeth. With dark eyes, his gaze held on her open, gaping mouth, wide and unable to scream. He looked crazed, mesmerized, as the colour in her pale face turned red, and the veins in her clutched neck puffed with her blood. Snarling, his lips pulled back further showing his long, sharp teeth.

Squinting at him, she slowly closed her mouth, her expression easing and the faintest hint of a distorted smile lifted her lips. Starling, Ivar blinked, his hand loosening its grip as he saw a glimmer of mischief flash in her dark, narrowed eyes. Releasing his hand, he grunted, slamming himself back in his chair, and Hvitserk reached down to hold him in place.

Bringing her hands to her throat, she hacked violently, keeping her watering eyes on Ivar as Aslaug knelt beside her, rubbing her back and sweeping aside her long black hair. Filling a cup with water, Ubbe crouched between Ivar and Lofn, offering her the drink.

Taking the cup, she sipped but instantly spurted the water out onto the table and coughed roughly; the contracted muscles in her bruised throat unable to swallow. Wincing as she cleared her throat, she continued to stare at a dazed-looking Ivar, who sat perfectly still, panting, working to catch his breath.

“Well done, Ivar,” her gravelly voice, rasped out. “Show them who you are.” Bringing her finger up, she tapped her temple. “This is only the start, my love.”