The intimacy of caring
Mary wishes Margarete had never said a word, had never told her the story that made her heart contract in pity and her eyes grow in shock. But she cannot fault the girl. Had the roles been reversed, Mary would have done the same.
By the time she manages to get out of the hall, Ivar is nowhere to be seen.
"Mary." She hears and when she turns, she can see Ubbe staggering towards her. Even in his clear state of intoxication he seems worried.
"I talked to Margarete-" He starts but Mary just silences him with a condescending wave of her hand.
"Not now, Ubbe."
She looks around in dismay.
"Congratulations on your new wife." Mary calls over her shoulder, before pulling up her skirt and hurrying up the hill.
When she steps inside, the fire is almost burned out, but the silhouette on the bed is unmistakable. She doesn't say a word when she closes the door, and he doesn't move, doesn't even look at her, until she kneels down in front of him.
And even then, even when his lower lip quiver and his shoulders are slumped in an unusual show of weakness, his eyes are defiant. He shrinks away from her touch, closing his eyes and averting his gaze, but she puts a hand on his knee regardless.
"Ivar." She says softly, trying to make him look at her.
When his eyes do snap open, he is angry again.
His hands grasp her shoulders and push her away, making her fall back before she can catch herself, and Mary can feel the old wood under her palms, splinters poking her skin.
"Don't touch me." He snarls, but Mary is determined.
She gets back on her knees in front of him, putting her soft fingers around his clawing hands. His breath is laboured and even though the unspoken challenge is still clear there, he doesn't push her away again. He doesn't do much of anything until she stands up again, and then, when she climbs onto his lap and settles with one knee on each side of his hips, he can barely even remembers how to breath.
"What are you doing?" he asks, suspicious at her sudden closeness and she smiles down at him.
"I am going to kiss you now." She whispers and the cabin seems impossibly quiet as she leans closer, their noses almost touching.
"Why?" he cannot help but ask.
"Because I want to." She breathes "Not because I am a slave. Not because your brothers told me to. But because I want to, because I have wanted to ever since we were on the ship and you showed me the stars."
He swallows hard but nods and when she leans in, his eyes flutter shut.
Ivar has thought about this moment often, has imagined the kiss being passionate, with him taking the lead making her mewl his name, like he had seen his brother do. But now, when her lips finally touch his, all he can think about was that he doesn't want to disappoint her. He tries to do what he has seen others do, tries to appear experienced but his hands shake when he cradles her face, his teeth bump against hers when he tries to be more forceful, and he cannot shake the feeling that this is a disaster.
Mary notices. Of course, she notices, because rather than kiss her the way he wants to, he is imitating something he saw, maybe something his brothers have told him, which is making the whole affair quite a bit more awkward than it has to be.
It's not a bad kiss. No, it definitely isn't. It makes her stomach flutter, and her thighs clench, but after a few seconds she pulls back with a giggle when he tries to pull her closer only to have their noses smash against each other.
"Ivar." She whispers, leaning forward to rest her chin on his shoulder, her lips right by his ear "Ivar, relax."
She plants a kiss against the shell of his ear, one at the junction of his neck and when she kisses his lips again, he tries to follow her lead. She drops small kisses on his mouth, smiling like an idiot into every one of them, and when his hands stop shaking, she starts coaxing his lips open, dragging her tongue over his lower lip. He shudders but his hands start to wander. From her face to her hair, to her waist and down to her legs, burning every centimetre of skin they touch and she sighs happily when he grabs her hips and pulls her even closer.
She could have kept going forever, foregoing air and water, if it meant that she could stay here, in his arms, in his cabin.
And Ivar. Ivar feels, for the first time in his life, like the gods may actually be smiling down on him and he pours his heart into the kiss, all the resentment, the anger, the love, the joy, all of it.
When they finally pull apart, she leans her forehead against his and smiles into the darkness, one hand on his chest to feel his heart beat erratically.
She wants to keep going, she wants to kiss him again and take off her dress and his clothes and stay in his bed until someone comes looking for them.
But there are things she has to do, things she has to say, because if she doesn't do it now, she knows she will regret it.
Ivar doesn't seem to agree, as he lowers his head, pressing soft kisses against her throat, on her shoulder, anywhere he can reach.
"Wait." She pants out, ignoring the part of her that is urging to just keep going.
"Please. Wait." She repeats, but this time she leans back, puts a hand on his chest and pushes him gently away.
"What Margarete told me about, Ivar. That can never happen again." Mary says, looking into his eyes and seeing the exact moment that the walls come back up.
"If you worry about me going back to her bed-" he starts but Mary hold up a hand to make him stop.
"I'm not just talking about that." She says, even though the thought of Ivar looking at Margarete the way he is looking at her right now, makes her furious with jealousy.
"I am talking about hurting a woman like that, any woman. I am talking about blaming her for something that is not her fault."
"It is not my fault-" He spats, ready to defend his honour and his pride.
"I know." Mary interrupts him quickly "It is no one's fault. From what she said, it was an altogether awful situation, but that doesn't mean what you did was acceptable."
"She was a slave back then-" he tries to argue and at that Mary actually leans away, a look of angry offense in her eyes.
"So am I. Right now, I am no better than she was. Would you treat me that way? Wrap a cord around my neck and try to strangle me?"
Her challenge stands, her chin lifted while she dares him to answer. When he stays silent, Mary sighs but nuzzles her face against the nape of his neck.
"Why did you come here?" Ivar asks after a few moments of silence and Mary has to think about what he means for a second. Kattegat? His hut? His bed? Probably all of it.
"Because I wanted to." She answers simply. But he shakes his head as if she misunderstood his question.
"If Margarete told you everything than you know that I- I am not able to…" he struggles to find the words and his fingers grip her hips just a little too tight.
She looks up into his eyes, her lips quirked into an amused smile.
"Do you think sex is that important to me?" she asks, and again he shakes his head.
"I will not be able to satisfy you-" he tries to argue and at this Mary actually has to snort.
"I have been with enough men to know that a dick does not equal pleasure. In fact, I am sure that with a little bit of help you will be able to give me more pleasure than all of your brothers combined."
He does grin at that, and Mary is happy to see a little of his usual mirth return, even if just for a second and only because she is making fun of his brothers.
"I will never be able to have children." He then confesses and Mary shrugs.
"I don't want any children."
"You don't?" he asks, his brows knitting together as if the concept is completely alien to him.
"I don't. Less of all here, where women die in childbirth all the time." She explains, and shudders at the thought. Kudos to all the women that go through that, but Mary is more than happy to avoid pregnancy and all its complications.
"I do not understand you." Ivar whispers, but his face is full of adoration when he tucks some lose hairs behind her ear.
"Why? Because I don't wanna go through a C-section without anaesthetics?"
There is no way he understands her words, but that doesn't matter when he takes her face in his hands and looks her deep in the eyes.
"I don't understand why you are here, with a cripple who can neither control his prick nor his anger."
Mary leans forward, grinning wildly.
"Because I want to."
And then she kisses him again. She kisses him again and again, and when she finally crawls off his lap to get changed, she actually scowls.
With the days getting longer and warmer, Mary has found that sleeping in her every day clothes is too much, and sleeping in only her tunic leads to awkwardness around all the brothers. So, one a day on the market, she found herself a nightgown. She doesn't know if its actually supposed to be used as such, but the material is than and opaque, which is good enough for her.
Usually, Ivar turns around when Mary changes, but tonight he watches her. Watches her pull the heavy dresses over her head, watches the line of her spine and stares unabashedly at the curve of her ass, only hidden by her underwear, and the glimpse of her breasts that he catches when she leans down.
When she crawls into bed he follows suit, leaning over her and kissing her again. He listens as she makes those wonderful noises he has always hoped she would make. They are so much sweeter than he had ever imagined, her skin is so much softer and when she starts tucking at his tunic, he lifts his arms to help her take it off.
Mary's hands wander over his chest and his arms, marvelling at the muscles, letting her fingers run over old scars and feeling the warmth of his skin when he presses against her and rolls on top of her.
He is heavy, unable to prop himself up on his legs like others would, but she only pulls him closer, wraps her legs around his hips and kisses him even deeper.
She has kissed men who made her feel nothing and she has kissed men who made her feel full of lust, but kissing Ivar is completely different. It's slow and bittersweet and whenever she feels his breath stop or his hands shake, she brings her hands back to his face and whispers his name.
At some point his hands run up her thighs, making her gasp, and when one hand finds her underwear he strokes the soft skin underneath. She can feel a pressure against her centre then, feels him get hard and her gasp turns into a moan. Ivar squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, but the pressure disappears as quickly as it came to life and he groans in frustration.
After that, his kisses turn almost bruising, his hands more fervorous, until Mary tells him to let go. She will not be a victim of his anger.
Afterwards, they lay in bed, Ivar propped up against the headboard and Mary laying beside him, watching the red embers colour his face gold and his hair copper and she wants to giggle. She wants to laugh in excitement, she wants to skip like an idiot. He isn't much better, his chest puffed in pride whenever he looks down at the girl. Her lips are rosy, her hair is mussed and the nightgown has ridden up to show a truly scandalous amount of her milky thighs.
"Have you been with many men?" he asks and Mary flinches. Not because of the question itself, no, Ivar's eyes are more curious than possessive, but because she doesn't know how he will take her answer.
"Sex? Five." She says, and even though he doesn't want to show it, she can see his jaw clench. "It is much more common where I am from." She tries to explain.
"Was it good?" that question is more accusatory than the first, but Mary refuses to feel bad about it. She could have slept with a thousand men, and he would have absolutely no say in it.
"The first one was sweet." She tells him "We were both young, only sixteen, and it was our first time. It was quick and it hurt, but he was a good man."
Ivar refuses to look at her, so she continues. "The second and third were alright. Nothing special." She shrugs "The forth one was really good I think, but we were both very drunk and I never talked to him again. And the last one, "she laughs "he was awful." He does look at her then "He was only focused on himself, demanded I tell him how good he was and it was over in less than three minutes. After that, he told me to leave."
"He is an idiot." Ivar comments, and she nods in agreement.
"Selfish men, remember?"
Then a thought occurs to her.
"How old are you, Ivar?"
"I turn twenty-one this year."
She sighs in relive and he looks at her amused "Were you afraid I was younger?"
Mary nods, putting a dramatic hand on her heart "If you had said sixteen, I would be on my way to drown in the harbour."
"You are odd. Most men take a girl to bed before they turn fifteen." He tells her.
"Which is horrifying." She comments.
"It is not. It's a rite of passage. It shows that you are a man."
"It shows that you are a horny teenager."
"A what?'
"Forget it." She waves him off "It's not important."
He is silent, looking down at his hands and Mary can feel that there is something else he wants to say.
"What is it?" she asks softly.
He look at her, his eyes carefully guarded.
"Did you like it?'
"Kissing you, you mean?" he nods and she smiles brightly.
"Very much."
"More than the other five?"
"Yes. Although I have kissed more than five men." She tells him "But you are my favourite."
"Do you often kiss where you are from?"
She shrugs.
"In a way. We kiss when we are in love, when we want sex, when we drink, or just when we feel like it." She says, and Ivar wants to ask her which one of those reasons fuelled her tonight but his pride cannot take another show of vulnerability.
When he falls silent, Mary can't help but ask a question that has been gnawing on her since she had first started sleeping in his bed.
"Why do you never let me see your legs?"
He sighs and strokes her hair, holding her head against his shoulders.
"It is ugly, you should not see it." He states and Mary frowns, but he doesn't let her interrupt him "My legs are weak. They look weak. I do not want you thinking of me that way."
"I could never think of you as weak, Ivar Lothbrok. There is nothing weak about you, neither in mind nor in body."
He smiles at that.
"There was a time" he starts speaking a while later, "Just before we got stranded in England, when I had found a way to stand with the help of metal legs. I could move around on my own." He remembers wistfully "But on the way over, our ship sank and my legs were lost when he had to cross the land."
"Who made them for you?" she asks curiously.
"I made them myself. I wanted to have Floki take a look at them when he came back. He is much better with such things than I am."
As the night grows late, they fall silent, nodding off to sleep while the sounds of the celebration still come from the town. But there is nothing that could take the sense of peace from Mary is she lays beside Ivar.