|Sven Bjornden Ellestad | Prince of Norway | 28| Trainer | Enhanced Vision|
Next in line to the Norwegian throne--the Viking prince. Thrives on alcohol, cigarettes, books, and solitude. Pleased to meet you.
When Sven had come to he found himself chained to a wooden post, his clothes half ripped out and his skin tingling—he looked down and found a single words carved on his chest, just barely fresh.
The word was ‘ROYAL’ and Sven knew rebels had recognized him and chained him, to leave him to die a slow and painful death. But the sting in his wound was nothing compared to the sight of his family members, their bodies naked, ransacked and mutilated in the snow, crows feasting on their remains. He almost fainted again but that gift was never granted him. So instead he cried—Sven did not remember when the last time he cried was, but then again he could not remember when he cried and screamed as much as he did in those moments, whimpering like a pathetic beast begging to be put out of its misery. His few and fleeting moments consisted of cursing the gods, his father, the world and the war, and watching the bodies around him decompose before his mind shook, wishing he could dig his eyes out, and then he fell back into sleep. A crow had once made a mistake of landing on his chest, pecking at his festering wound. Sven could never explain where the strength came from and what made him decide he wanted to go on, but he seized the crow with his bare hands… and began to eat it after wringing its neck. Half the time he could not even tell day from night—reality from dreams, their faces live, dead… Nothing made sense.
All he knew was that he had to survive.
It was five days before the guards had found him. They’d found him awake, mouth crusted with blood and his wounds festering, shivering lightly, with the carcass of a half-gnarled crow on his lap. The guards only needed to look into his eyes—even in his pitiful state, they were frightened of him. Frightened of the icy cold glare in his gaze, his eyes which reflected his will to survive. He sat calmly, blinking, as if to say: about time you all found me here. They unbound his chains with an axe and Sven managed to stand up on his own.
“You are not to touch them. Nor me. Not until I’ve buried them.” Sven said, his voice dry and raspy. They all nodded in silence and watched as he went back to the remains of the house, came out with a shovel and began to dig.
When he had adorned their mounds with flowers, Sven came of his own accord. They accompanied him in silence, Sven did not say a word and his face remained unchanged despite all the death and destruction that greeted him on his way back to the royal palace… he had never seen so many dead bodies in his life so far, or after it. If anything, it brought him strength and steeled his resolve. In those moments Sven finally knew what he had to do.
He thought about his family’s final wishes, and then he arrived in the palace. He was walked down to the main hall to see his father, the rest of his family, the council and most of Norway’s important people, the servants—all were in attendance at the prince’s coming. He stood before them all, and his ragged and mutilated appearance did nothing to blemish the cold ferocity, the steely air and natural magnificence he carried about him. Sven raised his head and moved his gaze to every pair of eyes in the vast courtroom—and finally to his father.
“I’m home.” Those words, icy, controlled and almost commanding were all he had needed to speak.
As if in cue, all of them bowed, knowing their true prince had risen out from the bowels of hell and was now come to them.