Part 9

                                    

                                          
Three long years had passed with many battles fought and won under the leadership of the triumphant and ruthless king of Kattegat. Trade agreements had been struck with various kingdoms within and outside the borders of Norway, and broad expansion and fortification were underway to wall in the booming city.
                          
Numerous Viking settlements had taken root across the water along the English countryside along with many fruitful crusades further north to a land known as Ireland. King Ivar had much to celebrate, with unparalleled power and every imaginable luxury at his fingertips.
                          
To the people of Kattegat, their king was brutal, cunning, and to be feared. Unrelenting in his drive for prosperity and fame, he was not considered to be sympathetic or fair but he was a victorious ruler.
                          
To Hvitserk, his younger brother seemed overwrought with a need to busy his agitated mind, fill some deep emptiness within. When speaking with him, Hvitserk found him distant, preoccupied with his thoughts, his laugh always sounding shallow. Any expression of happiness never lasted with Ivar, never lit his face or his bright blue eyes. His short temperedness and cruelty appeared to be growing and there was a sadness that lingered in the space around him.
                          
Each night, once the hall cleared and his close men continued to drink, he would slip out in the direction of the docks on his so-called rounds. Hvitserk was the wiser and knew Ivar only left to trudge down to the water and stare out into the night sky. He was well aware that a part of Ivar's heart had flown away many years prior.
                          
This night was no different as Ivar moved slowly out the hall doors and into the cool evening air, the darkness thinned by the bright moonlight.
                          
"With countless guards on patrol, why does the King leave each night?" asked a visiting interpreter sitting at the long table filled with drunken men.
                          
"Ah, Ivar is a scrupulous man," Hvitserk replied. "He trusts few and needs to know what is happening in his kingdom. He is....a compulsive and mindful king."
                          
"I see that," the man nodded in agreement, running his hands down his long goatee.
                          
Looking into his cup, Hvitserk raised his eyebrows and sighed. "And... he has some strange notions about the moon."
                          
The man scrunched forehead, waiting for Hvitserk to continue.
                          
"He is waiting for an omen. A sign."
                          
"From the Gods?"
                          
"Something like that," Hvitserk chuckled, taking a drink from his cup. "Waiting for the moon to shine red like a burning ember and fill the sea with the blood of his enemies."
                          
"Ah," the man replied with understanding. "The King is waiting for a bloodmoon."
                          
Hvitserk eyes widened. "A what?"
                          
"A bloodmoon. The stories say, every few years, the Gods harness the magic of the sun. It is a violent measure and leaches the sun's power into the universe leaving the moon ablaze with fire. The reflection on the water looks very much like blood. They say it is also a night when the veil between earth and the heavens thin and the Gods travel freely taking on whatever form they choose."
                          
"So, the Gods could be among us and we would not even know?" Hvitserk smirked, looking skeptical.
                          
"Yes and apparently, it was on such a night that Loki was born. He has been known to travel on the nights of the bloodmoon. Visiting, keeping busy with his perverse trickery."
                          
"Loki's arrogance would certainly have him present as a powerful warrior. Unstoppable on the battlefield. Perhaps even a giant like his parents. That should be easy to spot."
                          
"Loki? No." the man scoffed. "He despises arrogance. Hates the power-hungry. It must clash with his own self-admiration. Loki wants power only for himself." The interpreter shook his head with amusement. Picking up his cup of ale, he took a deep swig. "With his sick sense of jest, it is said, he likes to present as the fairer sex. Often beautiful and with the wings of an angel."
                          
—
                          
Standing ridged on the soft sand of the harbour's shore, Ivar looked up toward the heavens. Breathless, with wide eyes and a racing heart, he stared at the burnt colour of the immense red moon. The crimson glow shone down on the rippling ocean, rolling and reflecting red like blood with the drifting ocean debris looking like gore floating on the surface.
                          
Through the eery silence, a swish and flap of air sounded from behind, jolting his attention and fanning his hair and the back of his neck with a burst of wind. Squeezing his crutch in his hand, he closed his eyes, and whispered, "Lofn."