The dangers of war
"Mary are you here? You weren't with Ivar and Bjorn send -why are you sleeping on the floor?"
Mary cracks open an eye and growls at the harsh light falling through the open tent as Ubbe looks down at her surprised.
"Because your brother is an arse and my bed was taken."
Tanaruz, woken up by the voices, sleepily opens her eyes only to spot Ubbe, blushes furiously, and pulls the blanket over her head. Poor girl.
Ubbe looks slightly put out but then continues "We are moving. Someone will pack up your tent but you should get dressed."
Then he disappears again and Mary sighs.
"He is gone." She says to Tanaruz, who reappears in a mess of dark curls.
They get dressed and when they step out, the flurry of movement is almost intimidating. The speed and efficiency of these people is really impressive.
Two servants come to take down Mary's tent and although she tries to help, they shoo her away when she accidently gets the carp stuck on a nearby tree branch.
With nothing to do and Tanaruz off to find Helga, Mary wanders through the camp aimlessly. She helps Hvitserk load half a boar on a cart, and when he asks who she will be travelling with, she just shrugs.
"You should stay at the front with us." he tells her and she makes a non-commital sound.
"I mean it." He presses "I know you are mad at my brother, but its not safe to travel with people you don't know."
"How do you know I am mad at your brother?" she asks and then grunts when he passes her a sack of grain. She heaves it onto the cart.
"Easy." Hvitserk grins "You are here and he has been in an especially foul mood this morning."
"Even more than usual?" Mary asks "What does that even look like?"
He laughs.
"Why don't you find out?" he asks and motions to the chariot a few meters away.
Ivar is trying to move his things onto the back of the carriage, but with one hand holding his crutch he cannot stop the sack from opening up and spilling. Even from where she is, Mary can hear him curse and then shout at the people around him when they stare at him.
"Aren't you gonna help him?" Mary asks Hvitserk.
"No, thank you." He says, lifting his hands "I would rather fight a bear."
Mary can't fault him. With a sigh she walks over and picks up some of the fallen items before lifting them into the chariot.
"I don't need your help." Ivar hisses.
"Good morning to you, too." She just says, ignoring his comment.
"I thought you were angry at me." He remarks then and Mary nods.
"I am."
"Ah, so you are just here out of pity for the cripple." He snarls and Mary has to actually stop herself from whacking him over head.
"Shut up, Ivar. I'm here because you are my friend." She says and then lifts herself up and looks at him, her legs dangling over the back of the wagon "A friend who you insulted deeply and who you will repay by giving her a ride."
He grumbles something incoherent but undoubtly rude and takes his seat.
"Friend, huh?" he asks when they start moving.
"What would you call it?" she asks him and looks over her shoulder. There aren't many moments when she ever has to physically look up at Ivar but now she has to crane her neck.
He just shrugs, his eyes trained ahead as he leads them through the trees.
"You are my woman." He states simply.
"That sounds quite controlling, don't you think?" she asks "What if I don't want to be your woman?"
His lips quirk up at that and he throws her an amused look.
"But you do."
Mary scowls "You are quite cocky, aren't you?"
"Not at all, actually." He says and when the meaning of his words sink in Mary snorts loudly and laughs.
"Clever." She says.
The ride is not all that comfortable, the uneven forest floor making the whole thing wobble and lurch, but it's better than walking.
They move for most of 6 hours before the whole caravan is stopped by a rider coming their way.
After hearing what he has to say, Bjorn calls for the group to set up camp. Mary jumps down and starts packing up Ivar's things, making sure that they are properly tightened, when he speaks up.
"You can make camp. " he says "I want to take a look at where we are going to fight."
Mary listens silently when the brothers approach the chariot and they start arguing.
Ivar wants to scout ahead and see which tactic would be best to employ. The others worry that it will lead to confusion.
"We fight in the shield wall." Hvitserk says. "Like we always have."
But Ivar is determined to subvert the English's expectation and Mary has to agree with him. It's a good idea. But he is not making it easy for the others to agree as well.
As expected, the conversation starts getting more heated when Ivar starts lashing out.
"We are brothers." Bjorn interrupts them, trying to mend the animosities. While his words are usually reasonable, he has a habit of speaking down to the others even when he doesn't want to.
In an unprecedented moment of maturity, Ivar doesn't snap back with an insult or a mocking remark but instead takes a deep breath.
"Listen." He says, his voice controlled "Come with me, Bjorn."
Mary stops in the middle of what she is doing and when she looks up, the brothers seem as surmised as her.
"Let's investigate the battle field." Ivar says, explaining what he intends to do in a calm voice and when he is done Bjorn nods.
Mary pulls the last bag off the cart when the brothers ride off and she is left speechless. That was… fantastic.
Most people have walked off by now, but a familiar lanky shadow is hanging back and when she is left standing with her mouth gaping open, he lifts his hands at her and claps silently.
"Good thing you aren't one of our gods." Floki remarks and she doesn't understand what he means until she remembers the conversation she had with him.
'Even the gods cannot stop the storm coming over the Ragnarssons'
But Mary is no god.
This time, her tent is put up right beside Ivar's. When the brothers return, still in one piece and with all limbs attached, Mary is sitting in the dirt and teaching Tanaruz how to play chess. Soon after their return, they are joined by a number of commanders and leaders, no doubt there to talk battle strategies, and Mary spends the night in her own bed.
By the time dawn comes around, she is already wide awake, her teeth worrying her lip as she stares at the ceiling of her tent.
Today, Ivar will not be on his chariot. He will be in the masses, fighting with an unknown weapon, on unknown terrain. A slip of his crutch. A turn that is just a fraction too slow. Hell, an unfortunately placed rock could mean the end.
With a heavy sigh, she throws the scratchy blanket off the bed and sits up. She has to move, has to do something, anything. But first, she has to swallow her pride and go see him.
When she steps outside, the air is surprisingly warm and she quickly drops her coat back into the tent, staying only in the mossy green dress with the golden brooches at her shoulders. It's heavy and too warm and, Mary notices with a grimace, it itches. Ignoring the slight discomfort, she enters Ivar's tent. As expected, he is already awake, pulling on his boots with the braces safely secured around his legs.
When he hears her enter, he looks up and smiles. She had expected he would tease her, maybe declare himself the victor in their little game of stubbornness, but instead he just pats the bed beside him and she sits down.
"How did you sleep?" Mary asks. He snorts in amusement, but still, no snarky remark follows.
"I slept fine." He says instead.
There is no awkwardness between them, but they speak few words. She doesn't know what to say, which is a first. She had never had any problems speaking to Ivar, no matter how cranky he was. But something in her stomach is churning at the mere thought of a heartfelt word or anything resembling a goodbye. A few times she opens her mouth and the words die on her tongue. Instead, she watches him dress and brings him food until the camp is fully awake and the battle is undeniably close.
"There will be a ceremony tonight." Ivar says when he swallows the last piece of bread. "A victory revel. You should prepare for it. They will expect our Seer to be ready when we return."
Mari tries to draw from his confidence. Ivar is smart. Ivar is a strategist. Ivar is sure that they will return victorious.
Still, all she can do is nod.
With a heavy sigh, Ivar stands.
"Come," he orders her, and she stares at him confused when he drags her up.
"What are you doing?" she asks loudly and Ivar smirks. "Ah, so she does talk."
"Jesus Christ, Man." Mary curses, a spark of her usual liveliness returning when he pulls her out of the tent. She stumbles after him, her arm lifted in an awkward angle, and when they pass Hvitserk, he stares after them concerned.
"It's fine." She reassures him, but her teeth are gritted and she glares at Ivar's head when he pulls her deeper into the woods.
When he finally stops, she yanks her arm back and rotates her aching shoulder.
"What the hell?" she asks angrily.
"You are worried about me." He states simply.
"Of course, I am worried." She bites back, "You are going into battle."
"I have done it before."
"That was different."
"Because of this?" he asks and motions towards the battle crutch in his hands. In the light of day, it looks even more menacing than she remembers. Without waiting for her answer, Ivar lifts his arm. With a single, fluent movement he arcs the weapon high into the air before slamming it against the nearest tree trunk with full force. The wood splinters under the attack and Mary jumps back, a hand against her chest.
As if in slow motion, the young ash groans and falls, taking down several branches and bushes on its way to the forest floor.
The loud crash draws a few curious glances, but all Mary focuses on are the remnants of the tree, its trunk split in half as easily as a toothpick.
A horn sounds and Ivar throws back his shoulders, lifting his chin.
"I will be back." He promises and presses a harsh kiss against her lips.
And then he is gone. Just like that.
"Fucking hell." Mary whispers to herself, still staring at the tree. She will have to build a cover for that crutch, or he will take the foot off of someone.
This time, Mary knows to stay busy. Instead of sitting around and waiting, she wanders through the camp, talking to the women left behind, caring for the injured of the last battle, and offering kind words when needed.
After saying goodbye to a young boy called Erik, she catches a familiar eye. The blonde slave girl is sitting not far from her, a pile of clothes by her feet as she sews.
"Hello, again." Mary greets smiling and sits down beside her.
The girl still has the same serene smile on her face and she only gives a slight incline of her head while her fingers work quickly and with precision. The dress in her hands is long and white and at her feet is a corset, making Mary raise a curious eyebrow. Neither one of these are Viking.
"Where did you get this?" she asks and lifts the corset. The material is smooth form years of use, but the delicate pattern of flowers is still clearly visible on the front. It's quite pretty really.
"A Christian girl." Is the only answer.
Not the most talkative girl, Mary thinks with a shrug. Letting her fingers run over the soft fabric, she sighs enviously. The light dress is barely more than underwear for the women here, but it is nice and airy and much less heavy than any of the dresses she has brought.
"Wanna trade?" Mari asks suddenly and the girl looks up in surprise. "What?"
"We won."
Two words, and Mary is flooded with relief. The messenger is bloody and out of breath, his clothes and face filthy, but the pride in his voice rings loudly. Cheering rises from the forest as wives weep and children celebrate, and the preparations for the revel start almost immediately.
"Come, my sweet." Helga says, smiling as brightly as Mary when she pulls her back to the tent. "We have to prepare you."
And prepare her, they do. Helga braids her hair and Tanaruz paints her skin and when the blonde slave girl bows into the tent with a mass of white in her arms, Mary grins.
"What is this?" Tanaruz asks curiously, but the only response is a wide grin and a light tap on her nose.
She drops the green dress and Helga laces up the back of her new costume while Tanaruz stares with scandalously wide eyes.
"Oh hey, wait." Mary calls after the blonde girl when she gingerly picks up Mary's old dress. "What's your name?"
She turns around and smiles. "My name is Freydis."
When the first warriors return, Mary is already high up on the tribune, sitting on a chair, and draped in white. After her deal with Freydis, the young woman had stitched the corset directly to the skirts of the dress before wrapping shawls of white satin and tulle around the shoulders. A truly outrageous dress, made for the sole purpose of welcoming back Ivar and hopefully persuade him to come and apologize. Music plays and wine flows and Mary lifts a cup to her own lips, staining them red. Tanaruz, sitting on the steps of the tribune dressed in dark purple, takes a sip before quickly giving it back with a grimace and a shudder.
When Freydis steps in front of her, Mary lowers her cup. "Is everything alright?"
The wine is starting to leave her buzzed, but it hasn't escaped her attention that there are four faces glaringly missing from the celebration.
"Yes. I am supposed to deliver a message." Freydis says quickly. "Prince Ivar will be delayed. He is still in company of his brothers."
Mary rolls her eyes. Of course, he is. Probably drinking or fighting like children. It's only ever one of the two.
With a small thank you, she falls back in her chair. So much for her little surprise. Now, the only people seeing her specially tailored dress are stupidly drunk or lecherously staring. She glares at all of them. A few men come up to her, some asking for a fortune telling, some thanking her for their victory. And then there is Einar. Einar is from Norway and he is handsome in a way that is much too obvious and has clearly won him one girl too many. He ignores her mono-sibyllic answers and the slouch in her posture and even when she tells him that he should join his friend, he just winks and tells her he prefers to be exactly where he is.
Then he starts speaking about Tanaruz and her exotic skin and how exciting it must be to have a girl so different. When his words turn dangerously appreciative, Mary sends Tanaruz away and by the time he, on the request of exactly no one, shares the stories of all the women he has conquered on this mission, Mary is about to throw something at him.
She is saved by Hvitserk, who appears by her side with a disapproving snare.
"Einar." He says, his lank figure towering over the other man, "I sure hope that you are not bothering our esteemed Seer."
A challenge hands between the two of them for a minute as they seize each other up and in the end, Einar gives a mocking bow. "Of course not."
When he is out of earshot, Mary growls.
"What an actual dick."
Hvitserk chuckles and leans against the armrest of her chair, ignoring the festive table that had been decked for the brothers. She hasn't talked much to the second youngest Ragnrasson, but he makes it surprisingly easy. "One day, he will lose his looks and realize that he has the personality of a candied eel."
Mary snorts into her cup. "Too nice."
"A regular eel?"
"Too normal."
Hvitserk looks down at her with a smirk, "A long forgotten piece of Lutefisk?"
At that she actually laughs and then shudders and his eyes twinkle. "I am happy that I don't have to bring Ivar the unfortunate message that you have fallen for Einar's charm."
"Is your opinion of me that low?"
He shrugs at that, "I do not have an opinion of you yet."
She ponders his words for a second, before holding a hand out. "I'm Mary."
He looks down at her and raises an amused eyebrow before shaking it. "Hvitserk."
"Well, Hvitserk." She smiles, "Tell me about yourself."
When he turns silent, Mary frowns. If there is one thing the men here, really the men anywhere, like to do it's talking about themselves. Bjorn would be proud, Ubbe would be humble, Sigurd would brag, and Ivar would challenge. But Hvitserk stares at his own feet with an odd look of detachment and Mary worries that she ruined a friendship before it could begin.
"What are you wearing?" he asks instead of answering her question, and she is relieved to be offered a way out of the precarious territory she seems to have stepped into.
Smoothing out the skirt of her dress, she answers him. "A dress."
"Hardly."
From his position he must have an easy view down the front of her corset, but whenever she looks up, his eyes are on her face.
"It is where I am from." She tells him with a shrug. His brows knit together and he cocks his head, but Mary just stares back, unperturbed by his impervious gaze.
"Where are you from?"
"Somewhere you will never see." She answers ominously and when his eyes widen a fraction, she breaks into giggles. He scoffs and shakes his head with a smile, taking another gulp of his drink.
"You are much too cheerful for that sourly brother of mine."
At the mention of Ivar, she slumps again. "Well, I'm trying to be." She mumbles into her cup, "If he would ever bother to show up."
"It might be a while." Hvitserk warns, and then, "When I left, they still couldn't open the crutch."
Mary glares at the bottom of her drink. How is it empty again?
Then the words register in her brain and she looks up, "What do you mean?"
"His crutch caught a horse. Twisted the shoulder and the elbow. We send a servant to tell you, but were told you were busy at the feast."
Mary blinks. Once. Twice. Then something terrible twists in her heart.
"What?" she asks weakly, and Hvitserk realizes what is happening.
"You didn't know."
She shakes her head, unable to speak. Unable to think really, unless you count the constant and repeated line of Ivar is injured. Her heart is impossible loud in her own ears and the floor seems to sway when she hastily comes to her feet. The metal cup in her hands falls to the floor and rolls off the tribune, but no one pays them any attention.
"I'll take you." Hvitserk says immediately and when his hand wraps around hers, warm and steady, it's the only thing keeping her grounded. He leads her away from the celebration, but instead of going to the grey tents to their right, where the injured are usually kept, they move towards Ivar's own tent.
She runs the last few meters, throwing open the tent door before freezing where she stands. He is shirtless, lying in his bed with sweat covering his forehead as he grinds his teeth and stares at the ceiling. The crutch is laying by his side, the straps cut open carelessly and Mary gasps when she catches sight of his left arm. The shoulder is swollen and red, already set back into the joint, but his elbow is still dislocated.
The bone protrudes grotesquely, and she watches it move distinctively wrong when Ubbe tries to relocate it. Sigurd has his hands on Ivar's chest, trying to hold him still when his arm is extended painfully. Mary grips Hvitserk's hand, digging her nails into his skin when a loud pop halls through the air and the joint falls back into place.
Ivar growls loudly and Ubbe gasps in relieve before letting go and falling back onto the bed with an exhausted sigh. Mary rushes towards the bed, falling to her knees beside Ivar and putting a gentle hand on his cheek. His eyes are tired, his face red and slick with sweat, and when she feels the heat of an approaching fever under his skin, tears start gathering in her eyes.
"I didn't know." She apologizes. Stroking his face, she buries her head in the mattress by his healthy shoulder. As Ivar's breathing slows, she grasps his hand instead, leaning her forehead against the rough skin of his knuckles.
"He will be fine." Ubbe assures her and when Mary looks up, she has to wipe tears from her cheeks. The older brother is still sitting on the bed and Hvitserk as fallen into one of the chairs. Sigurd is somewhere behind her, but Mary doesn't care enough to turn around.
"What happened?"
"Nothing happened." Ivar growls and Mary almost laughs. Stubborn idiot.
"Bad lie. Terrible lie." She shushes him and presses a kiss against the back of his fingers before repeating her question. Ubbe frowns, clearly unsure if he should follow his brother's request for silence and for the first time, Mary is thankful for Sigurd loud mouth.
"The idiot's crutch got caught by a fleeing horse. Threw his entire arm out and made him slice his own leg clean open."
"Your leg?" she asks worried and her hands immediately go to the scratch blanket covering him from the waist down. Ivar's hand snatches her wrist. "Don't."
"I don't care." She tries to tell him but he shakes his head stubbornly. When he refuses to meet her eyes, Mary huffs and, in a move as traitorous as it is deserved, she reaches out with the other hand.
With one arm completely immobilized, Ivar can do nothing but stare in horror as she draws back the blanket. He tries to stop her, leaning up only to fall back when his injured shoulder buckles under his weight. The blanket slides down to expose the right side of his pants, torn to shreds halfway down his thigh. Beneath is a sickly leg, the skin pale and taunt over bones and sinewy muscles. If she wanted to, she could have wrapped her hand around his knee. But what draws her eye is not the leg itself, but rather is the bandage wrapped around his calf, already stained with blood and a stomach churning moisture.
Peeling back the bandage she finds a gaping wound where the muscles are torn so deeply that she can see blood flow from the veins with every beat of his heart.
Holy shit. Oh, she can't throw up. She can't. Still, her stomach lurches and she has to swallow down bile.
"You have to stitch this." She manages to say, but Ivar won't even meet her gaze. His head is stubbornly turned away, his fingers twisted into the blanket and Mary wants to cry. Because even now, even with all the blood and the pain, it is the shame that overwhelms him.
"Ivar, I'm going to stitch this. You will get an infection otherwise."
He doesn't answer her and she turns to Ubbe. He waves her off with a nod and sends Sigurd to collect whatever she needs. Clean water, needles, yarn, towels.
Mary has never stitched anyone up. Hell, she has never done more than put a plaster on a scraped knee, and all she knows comes from TV shows or movies, but adrenaline is a hell of a thing and she bites her tongue until she tastes blood, all while slowly closing the wound. Ubbe is by her side, gently pouring water when the blood becomes too much and holding the two sides of the cut together for her. Ivar is silent the entire time, nothing but low growls and heavy breathing whenever she has to dig the needle into his skin.
At the end of the night, even Sigurd is silent, leaving with Ubbe, a heap of bloody rags and a bucket of red water.
Mary isn't sure if Ivar loses consciousness or if it's sleep that takes him, but when she wipes red fingers across her forehead, his eyes are closed. Hvitserk gets a new bucket of clean water and she wets a cloth and gently dabs Ivar's forehead with it.
And then, when everything is done, when the celebration had died out and the fire is nothing but embers, she cements her newfound friendship in the most intimate way possible.
By crying into Hvitserk's arms, holding onto him until all that is left are shuddering breaths and red eyes.