#deathversary

Continuation of the Fan Fiction on 'The Missing Scenes' from 'Vikings' 4x18 'Revenge - What really happened between the start of King Aelle's last battle and his arrival at the pit (6 chapters all in all, mapped out and ch. 4 currently being written)

Chapter 2: Captured! - The Beginning of the End

King Aelle‘s body seemed to float – if there had not been these jolts. A hand softly stroked his cheek. Ealswith? Her face appeared shortly and melted away, reshaped as the face of their young daughter, their little one. Then it transformed once more to – Egbert? Egbert! The pale, skinny face of his boy, the eyes like hollows in his face, wide open with the horror and despair of revolting life force in the face of the abyss of death. Aelle felt his cheeks moistening.

Once again, his wife gently caressed his face. Or …? A sudden jolt, a sharp pain in the knees, and the mist cleared up. His sight got brighter and sharpened. He was facing the sandy ground as it glided away beneath him, full of trampled tufts of grass, creating a sickening feeling of dizziness. Slowly, the sensory perception of his body returned to relentless clarity. His legs and knees were trailing over the ground, a dull pain hammering in his head, accompanied by a rhythmic pounding underneath a stabbing pain on his forehead. His tongue felt heavy, thick and furry.

With difficulty, he gulped to relieve the tormenting thirst and the sickness. A dragging pain in his shoulders surged and subsided alternately. He was unable to move his arms or to feel his hands. They had probably been bound behind his back. Something stroked his face again. Not Ealswith‘s comforting caress but a piece of cloth. A sleeve, possibly, of one of the men who had grabbed him under his arms and were dragging him along – away from the battlefield.

The battle! The thought struck King Aelle like lightning. His men! The gigantic army of the savage heathens! What had happened? He did not hear any battle noise, no clang of arms. Like a cold shiver, the horrible realization flashed down his spine and made all hair on his body stand on end: The battle was lost. Northumbria had fallen. He had failed. And his men had paid for his failure with their lives. His family would pay even more dearly. And he had let it happen to be captured – alive! This nightmare had just started.

Dizziness overwhelmed him while he looked at the churned ground that slowly moved away beneath him, step by step. He closed his eyes. Every step that he was being dragged ahead shook his body, his arms, his head – and rekindled the pain explosively.

They had captured him alive. But why? Why had they not killed him yet? What else did they want?

A spark of hope raised its head: Maybe their greed for riches had, once more, taken the upper hand? Maybe they wanted to hold him to ransom. And, surely, even an enormous invasion force would struggle less to get a foothold in hostile territory with a royal hostage. Maybe there was a chance to save his people, his family – and himself. And if not? He shuddered as the icy fist of rising fear pressed his stomach together. Then, he would have to find a way to make them kill him. He felt no inclination to learn what tortures the sick minds of these brutes could think up.

Stay calm, he encouraged himself, not all is lost yet!

He had to wait and see if there would be an opening, a chance to use their greed to his benefit. It was the sole trump card he had left – if he got an opportunity to play it.

Abruptly, the movement stopped and the hands that had held him disappeared. King Aelle landed with a splat hard on his belly and barely managed not to hit the ground with his face. With a groan, the air was knocked out of his body. While he struggled to catch his breath, the tip of a boot was poked under his body and used to turn him on his side. Panting, he blinked up to the silhouette of a slim man in front of the sky who towered over him.

„You King Aelle?“ It was a young man‘s voice with a thick Norse accent.

Swallowing hard, King Aelle tried to get control over his tongue to manage a halfway dignified reply from his undignified position. But before he could utter a sound, a second, much broader silhouette came up from behind the first one and growled in a derogatory tone:

„It‘s him. The King of Northumbria.“

Spitting at the ground, the man barely missed King Aelle‘s face. Then, a boot landed hard in Aelle‘s stomach, hardly mitigated by his leather armour. The pain in his stomach teamed up with a sharp explosion in his head triggered by the jolt of the kick. With a muffled groan, Aelle squirmed as the sickness welled up in him so strongly that it unloaded in convulsive retching. Yet there was nothing left in his stomach but gastric juice.

„Take off his armour and bring it to me“, he heard the disgusted tone of the Northman‘s voice.

He rather felt the next kick coming than seeing it and managed to roll back on his belly just in time to receive the heavy boot in his ribs this time.

„And the king as well!“ The voice was dripping with contempt.

Belated #deathversary post for Ivan's King Aelle in #Vikings - first aired on 18 January 2017. Bravo to Ivan for working such wonders with this character and RIP King Aelle. 👑 P.S.: This may hurt but there is a change in tone at the end for remedy. 😉

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