Hi guys, just a little introduction. I am super hyped about this story and I hope you like it. Let me know what you love, what you hate etc.
Much love and good health!
A Cell in Wessex
Mary thrashes in the men's hold as they drag her down the dark hallway. Her feet are bare and the stone is cold under her soles, her arms are hurting from the iron grip of the guards and when they drag her down a flight of stairs, she starts biting out every insult she can think of.
Imbecile, maggot, barbarian. Once she is through the era-appropriate ones (she thinks, it might all be incomprehensible to them), she starts to get crasser. Asshole, motherfucker, pissface.
Mary had always thought of herself as a happy person, as someone who could see the positives in any situation. But after coming up for air on strange shores, only to be shamed, dragged and almost left to die, her patience is wearing thin. While she is more than thankful for the bishop who had seen the cross on her skin and declared it holy, she also couldn't help but accuse him on spying on her while she was changing, considering that the mark was quite high up on her torso. But even the supposed revelation had only meant more dragging, this time across uneven roads on the back of a wooden cart and when she had finally arrived at this castle, ready to be scrutinized and hopefully send off to a quiet monastery far away from all this craziness, the king had been unwilling to see her. His advisors had spoken to the bishop and the man in charge, much less willing to believe in miracle, had ordered her brought into the dungeons until the king could see to her. A rather rotten way to treat your guests, Mari had thought, but the women here were expected to stay silent and she had hope that it would help her chances. And it had, in a way, because she had managed to learn a few things about her whereabouts by simply listening. She was currently in England and, if she hadn't misheard, she was here to see King Egbert which would put her somewhere in the year 800. Or 1200 years away from her own time. Mary still isn't sure what to believe, if she is dreaming, hallucinating or maybe dead and stuck in her own personal purgatory with no heating or women's rights.
But she also has to admit that part of her, the obsessively curious part that came out with a good book or a newly discovered passion, had marvelled, gawked and stared at the people around her. King Ecbert whose bust stood in the Valhalla in Germany, a name known even in a thousand years. The prospect of actually meeting him had been exciting but when they had told her he was taking no visitors because he was hosting the Viking king Ragnar Lothbrok, she had actually gasped. It hadn't helped her cause because now Averil, the guard to her left whose grip had gone from tight to bruising at the look of admiration in her eyes, is looking at her in disgust, convinced that she is either a witch or a heathen whore. No really, he has said so. Thankfully, the guard to her right (she thinks his name is Beecher) is a much more gentle man and at the description of the cross on her skin, he had started mumbling prayers, convinced that he was standing in front of a holy woman. Not that it would increase Mary's chance of survival, just look at what they did to Joan of Arc. Or was it, what they were going to do? She isn't quite sure.
Finally, they seem to reach their destination and when she is thrown into the cell (forcefully from Averil, with care from Beecher) she jumps back onto her feet in an instant and throws herself against the door, but it is already.
"Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries" she screams, having finally run out of insults and just quoting movie lines. Beecher turns around, an almost hurt look on his face.
"Not yours," Mary reassures him, but then they are gone and she sighs.
"Who are you?"
The voice comes from behind her and she spins around to find a man, boy (man?) sitting on the small cot of the cell. He is dressed in dark clothing, and his skin is tan but covered in grime, just like her own. Everything here is just so dirty, she thinks and on further inspeaction she finds that there is not even a sink in this place. Thankfully the stranger, now staring at her with clear suspicion, seems to be the only other occupant. Medieval prison was going to suck anyway, she didn't want to worry about fighting off a room full of men. She eyes her new roommate with distrust and has to admit that, sadly, she would probably not stand a chance against even him alone. The cold light of the cell does nothing to hide the fact that this man is clearly stronger than her, probably stronger than most people she knows back in her time, which means she had to switch tactics.
Sure, the guards would never actually hurt her, too afraid of their god's wrath, should she turn out to be a holy woman, but this man is sitting in a prison cell, which doesn't speak highly of his morals.
Mary plasters a pleasant smile on her face and gives an awkward imitation of a curtesy, something she has found is generally expected of her, but it only makes him raise an amused eyebrow.
"I'm Mary." She introduces herself.
He looks at her unimpressed with what can only be called the most condescending stare Mary has ever received and when the seconds tick by without him saying a word Mary starts getting annoyed.
"I thought the men here are supposed to be polite. Good Christian values and all" she huffs in annoyance, crossing her arms and blowing a stray strand of her out of her eyes.
"I am not a Christian. I do not care about your values." The stranger says, his tongue rolling in a thick accent that she cannot quite place.
Well, if there is no need for the pretence, Mary decides to just drop the whole spiel and she falls unceremoniously onto one of the wooden chairs, drawing her feet up to protect them from the cold.
"Now, what is a girl like you doing here, Mary?" His eyes are curious and amused, more entertained by her lack of composure than scandalized.
"Waiting for the King to see me and decide if I am a holy woman or a witch." She answers, a wicked smile on her face. He looks at her and scoffs condescendingly.
"You do not look like a holy woman. And you certainly do not speak like one."
Mary's smile only brightens, "Why, thank you."
"So, are you a witch then?" he asks, cocking his head to one side and looking her up and down as if trying to decide what to make of her. Mary hopes that her overall state of grubbiness means that he won't take too much of a liking to her.
"I am not a witch." Mary answers with a shrug "But I know too much for them to believe that I am not sent from either heaven or hell."
He looks up curiously and leans back on the cot, propped up on one elbow and his upper back against the wall.
"What do you know?" His words are daring, as if he is issuing a challenge for her to impress him. There is something off-putting about the way he is staring at her. There is curiosity, amusement and something … something else. Something that makes Mary feel like a monkey in a circus, dancing for the audience. Well, she has been paraded around enough for a lifetime and if this little, sleazy criminal wants Mary to impress him, she will. And hopefully that smug smile will fall right off his face. And so, she uncurls her legs and relaxes, letting her lips curl into a sly smile. This man is not better than her. He is not smarter than her. And she will not give him the satisfaction of acting as if he is.
It doesn't escape Ivars notice; the way the girl sits across from him, not trying to hide but smiling openly at him, almost daring and he cannot remember the last time anyone, least of all a woman, had not been tense in his company, ready to jump and flee at any moment. Even his brothers rarely relaxed around him, though they rarely relaxed around anyone who wasn't a warm body in their beds, so Ivar doesn't take it personally.
The girl sits up and plants her feet firmly on the ground, leaning forward on her knees in a distinctively masculine gesture, and when she voice is conspiratorial, and her eyes watch him intensely as she talks.
"I know that the earth revolves around the sun, I know that there are 7 more planets besides our own in this galaxy. I know that humans descended from apes, I know that there is a continent across the ocean that will be discovered in -" she stops from a second and thinks "six hundred years, full of gold and people and I know how they will all be oppressed and hunted by the English, the Spanish, the French. I know about all the wars that will come in the next one thousand years. I saw the biggest clash of nations to ever be, with weapons more deadly than anything you can ever imagine, where more people die in a day than you will see in your entire life."
Ivars eyes grow wide at her words, as she tells him things that can only be fantasy, but her face is so full of impish amusement that he feels drawn to her nonetheless. It's a challenge as clear as a drawn sword would be and he was never one to avoid a fight.
"I know how sickness works inside your body. I know how the plague will kill a third of Europe. I know what we humans are made of, I know about atoms and cells and I can tell you how we think, what makes us cry and laugh. And I can tell you how King Egbert will die, I can tell you how King Aelle will die, I can tell you how Ragnar Lothbrok will die."
He sits up straight at her last words, leaning forward until their faces are mere inches apart. She is oblivious to the sudden urgency in his voice, to his heart beating loudly in his chest, as she stares at him, that wicked smile still on her face.
"Tell me." He demands.
Mary smiles. Her little tirade had been as amusing as it had been untrue. Sure, she knows what an atom is, or that her body is made of cells but it's been almost three years since high school, so the details have long since been forgotten. But she had revelled in watching the man's eyes grow wide as saucers and there is a thrill in feeling superior and she hopes that it is enough to make this man fear her at least a little. In the best case, he will think she is sent by a higher power, in the worst case he will think she is crazy. Either way, he will stop looking at her like her sole purpose is to entertain him.
He is still looking at her expectantly, his breath hard on her face and his eyes determined and (could it be?) fearful. She is taken aback by the vulnerability she can now clearly see behind his eyes and wonders if she has gone too far, but the words are out and she cannot take them back.
"King Egbert will die in the year 839." god, she hopes she hasn't mixed up the dates, "Ragnar Lothbrok will be killed by King Aella, who in turn will be killed when the Great Heathen Army, lead by Ragnar's sons, invades England."
Mary watches with distress as something crumble behind the young mans eyes and he hangs his head in silence. She wants to take back her words, say that it was all a joke, but instead she tries to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, not knowing why, but feeling the urge to do something, only to have it be snatched out of the air and used to forcefully pull her closer.
She falls to her knees in front of him and looks up in fear, fury blazing behind his clear eyes.
"Don't touch me." He hisses and she swallows hard but doesn't move. At last, he drops her hand and she cradles it to her chest.
The door opens and two guards step inside, clearly unbothered by the injured girl on the floor, or the anger radiating off of the man on the cot.
"Who are you?" Mary asks him, her voice weak.
One of the guards laughs at the question and she has to watch as they step around her and heavily lift the man from the cot, each one holding one arm as his legs drag behind him, clearly useless.
"He is Ragnar Lothbrok's crippled son." He says and she listens in silence as their footsteps disappear.
Ragnar Lothbrok's son. His son who cannot walk. This was Ivar the Boneless, leader of the Great Heathe Army, Viking ruler, and she had just told him that his father was going to die, probably very soon.
Fuck.