Aftermath
Tanaruz is waiting by their tent (which Mary now notices is far closer than she had thought) and pats the ground beside her.
Mary leans against the tree and they stay silent for a long while, watching the people. Helga is holding a rune stone, smiling up into the sky. A woman further away is leading what looks like a prayer circle, and yet another is cooking and giving out scraps and kind words to everyone waiting.
Mary hates it. She hates it and she wants to scream just to do something.
Tanaruz, bless her heart, tries everything in her power to distract Mary. She draws patterns of flowers on her calf, makes them climb up her leg up to her hip, and when the entire thing is done and they still haven't returned, she starts teaching Mary songs.
"It's about a woman so beautiful that people would follow her into the dessert and come out alive, fed by her beauty and quenched by her voice." She tells her, and then the first shouts sound.
Mary gets to her feet and looks around frantically, following the others to the edge of the forest when the first men arrive. They are loud and happy, screaming about victory and hugging their wife's. Mary climbs onto a fallen tree just to get a better view but the more people come back, the heavier her heart gets.
Why aren't they here?
They wouldn't be so happy if a Ragnarsson had died, she tells herself. They have to be alive. They are the best fighters. They are legendary. They promised.
Then a small hand pulls at her skirt and Mary looks down at the face of one of the servants. The girl is beautiful, tan and graceful, her hair pulled back and her face serene.
"Do not worry." She tells Mary "They have captured King Aelle and will take him to where their father died."
Thank God. Mary sits down, almost slipping on the moss but she is able to breathe again and for a second she actually thinks she might faint. In a gesture of pure emotion, she hugs the servant girl.
She gently strokes her hair.
"It's alright. They will not die here." She reassures Mary. Her voice is still serene, almost too much so for the moment, but Mary doesn't care
The girl disappears again and Mary makes her way back to the brothers' tents, hoping to catch them here whenever they come back.
People laugh, people cry, people have sex, and people drink. And Mary waits.
She waits until its night and then she waits until people fall asleep. She doesn't think much of anything during the time, her thoughts erratic and clouded. It's the early morning hours when she can't take it anymore.
How can these people stand it? How can they wait here or, worse even, wait back home to see if their husbands, wives, brothers, and daughters died?
Her fingers start peeling the bark off the tree she is sitting on. Then she braids her hair. Then she just starts to pace.
"A phone would be fucking useful." she mumbles angrily. "Just a little text. A call. But no. Nothing."
She is cold. She knows that she is cold, but what if she runs to her tent and misses them? No, she would rather be cold. But what if she gets a cold? She doesn't wanna be sick, so maybe she should get a coat.
God, she is frustrated.
She kicks a pile off leaves and huffs angrily.
And then she hears it. Voices. Animated but quiet, talking excitedly and when they step into the clearing, they are barely more than dark shadows against the dark forest.
But she knows its them.
Bjorn gives her a slight nod before disappearing in his tent. Hvitserk claps her on the shoulder, clearly tired and ready to sleep.
And then Ivar is there, leaning on one crutch and when he is close enough, he put a hand around her neck and pulls her in. And then he is kissing her, finally and Mary could cry.
The others make some half-hearted sounds of appreciation, but they all seem too exhausted to tease them.
Mary grabs Ivar's sides, her nails digging into the leather of his armour as he kisses her. She wants to sink against him, but she is pretty sure that they would both simply fall to the ground if she did that, so she just holds him and hopes that it's enough to keep them upright.
The kiss is hard and bruising, his hand moves form her neck to the back of her head and this time there is no hesitation. He tells her what he wants and she follows his lead. His face is wet, she notices, but she doesn't care. His hand is pulling on her hair but she doesn't care about that either. Its only when his left arm buckles, that she forces herself to pull back.
She can't see him, not really, but his breath is ragged against her lips and there is warmth pooling deep in her stomach. He limps to his tent and she follows him silently. Once he lights one of the candles, she takes a look around. Its quite luxurious. Held up by a tall pole in the middle even Bjorn would be able stand in here, and there is a table, a firepit, and even a small tub. More importantly however, there is a bed. Its not as nice as the one back home, but its not a cot, and there are blankets and pillows.
He still has his back to her, trying to open all the satchels and buckles of his armour with only one arm while he supports himself with the other.
Mary walks around him with the intention of helping him undress, but she stops when she sees his face. He is covered in blood, the red smeared around his mouth and where her hands had touched his face, and there is a look of pure euphoria on his face, a grin spread from ear to ear. He looks terrifying. When he lifts his eyes and catches her staring at him, the grin somehow brightens even more. He takes her in. Her lips are swollen and there is blood on her face. She looks beautiful.
Mary steps closer and picks up a rag.
"No." he says, putting her hand down when she tries to clean his face.
He tries to pull her close again but she stops him.
"Ivar, I don't want to kiss you and taste blood." She says, even though it's all that he wants to do. But he has fought his battle, slain the enemy, and now he just wants her.
So, he stay's still while she cleans him and then she starts taking off his armour and his boots. She helps him to the bed and takes off the leg braces.
"I missed you." She says and kisses him. He is still forceful, tilting her head the way he wants it, scraping her lips with his teeth and she doesn't know it's the aftermath of his battle or his desire for her. Probably both.
She gasps into his mouth when his hands start to wander up her thighs and she sighs when he starts inching down the sleeves of her dress. He kisses her neck, her throat, her collarbone and his hand runs over her thighs and up to her hips, but he is still not touching her where she wants it the most.
"Ivar." She moans his name, and he growls at the sound. She helps him take off his tunic and her nails scratch the muscles on his back when he settles between her legs and kisses her deeply.
Ivar is intoxicated.
He has everything he has ever wanted. He has proven his might in battle, he has avenged his father, and he has a beautiful woman withering beneath him. No one would have expected it. They all underestimated him, but he has proven them wrong. Just like his father had said he would.
He pulls her dress further down and Mary can feel cold air against her heated skin, making her nippels hard and her fingers clench against Ivars arms.
He runs his lips down between her breasts and she sink her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer against her and he smirks against her breastbone.
They stop for a minute, when Mary pulls her dress off, and he feels slightly awkward when it gets tangled in his legs. But then she leans back, her arms raised over her head and the golden light of the candle makes her look like a goddess. A goddess laying in his bed, smiling up at him, lifting a hand and crooking a finger, beckoning him to come closer.
He swallows hard and lets his eyes wander up her legs, following the odd drawing of flowers that he is sure has not been there before, to her hips and then lets his eyes flicker to where her thighs meet. He rolls over, leaning on one arm at her side and when he kisses her this time, he lets his free hand wander over her soft skin. He tries to remember every little sound she makes, the way her breath stops when he touches her nipples, the way she sighs happily when his hand runs down her side. Even the small, involuntary giggle when his feathery touches start to tickle.
Her hand, which had until now been in his hair, runs down his neck, across his abdomen and slips between his waistband. His hands stop.
"No." he whispers "Don't."
He is feeling too good. He doesn't want to ruin this. One day he will let her hands wander, and he will see if she truly doesn't care. But not now.
Rather than argue, she wraps her hand around his, and leads it between her legs. His eyes widen and his stomach clenches, but she smiles encouragingly and when his fingers first touch her, she closes her eyes and moans softly. She guides him, showing him where to touch to make her mewl and what to do to make her gasp, and she is so wet and responsive that Ivar thinks that maybe he had died on the battlefield after all. Maybe this is Valhalla.
When she is sure that he won't stop she pulls her hand away and drags him closer, kissing him deeply. She spreads her legs wider when her gasps become louder. Mary tries to be silent, but Ivar hopes his brothers hear. He hopes everyone hears. She moans his name against his lips, urging him on as her pleasure increases. Ivar doesn't know what he is doing. Plain and simple. He doesn't know. But Mary is writhing beneath him, her hips lifting when he does something that makes her whimper and then she says his name, draws it out like a curse or a prayer and her fingers tighten around his neck. It isn't like he had seen it. She doesn't convulse, she doesn't scream. She just sighs, bites her lips and closes her eyes in extasy.
After that, she stills and when he leans back, her face is flushed and there is a lazy smile on her face. She takes his hand again and kisses each knuckle, looking at him and when the reality of what just happened sinks in Ivar blinks in astonishment.
"I told you." She whispers, poking a finger playfully against his cheek "There are many ways of pleasure."
He doesn't say anything. At all. For a long time. He just stares, not even at her, just into thin air, until Mary leans up on her elbows.
"Are you alright?" she asks worried. Has she broken him? Will she be remembered as the girl who accidently killed Ivar the Boneless by letting him finger her?
His mouth opens, then closes. And then he is on top of her again, his hand on her throat. She gasps at first, but the gesture is not threatening. He doesn't tighten his grip, no, he just holds her underneath him.
Then he leans up and stares down at her.
"I love you." He says. There is pride in those words. Pride and surprise and just a little bit of arrogance, and only Ivar could sound arrogant saying those words.
"I love you, too." She answers, smiling and tired.
That night he dreams of blood, victory, and of her, and at some point, they all becomes one and the same.