Avalanche
Song for inspiration
.-.-.
The mountain was hidden underneath a deadly snow-white brilliance, not even the animals were brave enough to leave their shelters. The ice kissed air came with a great snowfall that soon gave-way to a blizzard, as if the sky bursted open.
The stillness in the white landscape was beautiful, peaceful. Unblemished by the human touch; because who would be so foolish to go up the mountain and taunt the Gods?
Well, Ivar was, although he’d rather call himself stubborn as a mule, instead of a fool.
His presence was a thorn in the eye for Skadi: Goddess of Snow, Winter and Mountains.
Ivar was aware of his audacious move; for the wind chilled him to the bone and more than once made him tumble down a good few feet.
By now his leather gloves were clumps of ice, the fabric spun around his fingers soaked and freezing.
Yet, in this cold was still a humble flame, rage, the furnace and the fuel Ivar lived by. It was what had kept him going; all throughout his life he had one mantra he clung to: the cripple would show them, show them all.
And he would, Ivar the boneless; the baby who shouldn’t have survived his first night.
Ivar the boneless; the boy who shouldn’t have taken one step. Ivar the boneless; the young man who endured, survived and overcame his handicap.
Oh, and he would show them all alright.
Through gritted teeth came a low aggravated hiss when his sledge got stuck behind a branche again. Crawling back he yanked the sledge loose, taking a moment to catch his breath.
Twenty-four-thousand, he’d counted to twenty-four-thousand. One hand in front of the other, from one till twenty-four-thousand. That should be high enough.
Redirecting his route, Ivar scanned the white scenery, from the line of white trees up to the mountain, to the other line of white trees, about six hundred feet across. “One, two, three…” He counted out loud to keep his blue lips moving, “...two-hundred-eighty nine, three hundred…”
Craning his head back Ivar narrowed his eyes to crinkled slits; fog had settled atop of the mountain as a sinister curtain.
His heart was like a drum; as realization sank in; the snow could be his deathbed.
With his canines he tore the leather gloves off and untangled the fabrics. He needed both hands.
Crawling atop of the sledge Ivar grabbed the edge with numbed fingers and closed his eyes.
He screamed in rage. And there was something more in that scream; a pain behind all the anger. All of this, the constant rage; dislike of authority, his short temper; it was nothing but a shield for the pain. The constand seclusion, the overall loneliness. And never being treated as an equal. He was always kneeling beneath them. Ivar the boneless; would never be a man.
The scream came forced from his mouth and lungs, but it bled from his ego, from deeply within. His pain echoed between the lines of trees, trailing upwards, crossing the fog until heading towards his goal.
With a crack mightier than thunder, the snow-pack up high split into two. The part cut-loose began to move, accelerating with every scream.
In seconds Ivar’s sledge was picked up by a rolling frigid white sea of snow. For moments he was nothing more than a leaf in the wind. And yet he still screamed; because by the Gods, let those bastards hear him roar. Let them know that their downfall was by the hands of the cripple.
The army below the mountain heared the cracking of violence coming their way, an avalanche wiping through the forest. As a colossus hand it grabbed everything and everyone in its way. Although some manage to get on their horse or get onto their feet, it was too late. The frigid white took them all down, one by one. Tent by tent. Man by man.
Throughout all the screams of terror there was a laugh; manic and thrilled beyond joy. One that did not fear death, because revenge overcame him.
Ivar victored, thanking the Goddess Skadi and welcoming her ice-cold embrace. Packing in layers and layers of snow the pain stopped. Unable to move, to breath, to see, Ivar found peace; Valhalla awaited him.
.-.-.
Snow flew in shimmering arcs by the shovels, the hole grew larger at their feet. Ubbe, Hvitzerk and Sigurd stood motionless at the silhouette of their youngest brother slowly being resurrected from the frigid snow. It had been his sledge guiding them to his icy grave, the wooden sledge had been tied to his wrist by a long rope; as a lifeline.
Glacier eyes rolled skywards, struggling to focus until they saw the brothers stand and stare. Raised from the dead Ivar arched a sly brow and through blueish chapped lips he whispered: “Told you I could do it, didn’t I?”
.-.-.
A/N: This whole ‘Ivar killing people with his voice’ has been in my mind for a while now. I figured #norsetalesforwinter would be a perfect reason to finally write it down. I hope you enjoyed reading this prompt as much as I did writing it, happy holidays!
Xoxoxo Nukyster
