The Art of Lying

Exhaustion takes Mary in the early morning hours and when she wakes up, she startles to her feet. Is he alive?

When her tired eyes find him, Ivar is still on his back, but his eyes are open and his arm is draped protectively across his stomach. Hvitserk is still asleep, practically passed out by the fire, and Mary quietly climbs into bed beside Ivar. He doesn't pull away when she puts a soft hand on his hand, but he still doesn't look at her.

"I was so worried." She whispers, nudging her nose against his cheek, and he releases a shuddering breath.

"You don't have to lie." He says, his voice void of emotions and his lips pressed into a thin line. Mary knew that today would be hard, knew that his wounded pride would make him lash our or retreat, end even though she is happy that it is the second, it breaks her heart.

With a sigh, she closes her eyes. "I'm not lying, Ivar."

She presses a kiss against his cheek and he squeezes his eyes shut when she continues, "I was so worried, I thought my heart was going to shatter." Another kiss. "I was so worried I could barely breath." Her hand closes around his fingers. "I was so worried, I wanted to kill something."

Her last words draw a chuckle from his cracked lips and when he squeezes her hand, she drops her lips to his shoulder and smiles. "God, Ivar."

Finally, he turns his head and looks at her, blue eyes still glassy from the last grips of the fever, but otherwise completely lucid. "You are still here." He says softly.

"I can leave if you want." She offers teasingly and when the corner of his mouth lifts into that beloved smirk, Mary wants to weep with joy.

Ivar's eyes narrow then, and she can see his eyes scan her face. "You are filthy."

Her mouth opens in mock offense and, just to spite him, she wipes her face and drags the fingers down his cheek, leaving a trail of blood, sweat, and coal.

He barks out a laugh and his eyes go back to the ceiling, staring up as if he could see directly into the heavens. Then his hand tightens around hers. "Our gods are real."

Mary frowns but stays quiet, waiting for him to explain. She doubts that he is simply trying to engage her in a theological debate. "They must be real. There is no other explanation for how you are still here. With a cripple whose legs would scare away even the most obedient slave. With an idiot who believed himself a warrior when he should just accept that he is as useless in battle as he is in anything else."

"I agree." She says. "They must be real. How else could I be laying here, with a prince in every right, a man so smart that he can trick every enemy, whose determination will make him the most famous Viking to ever life." And then, because she knows that he needs to hear it, "A man who fills my head with lust every time I see him."

Mary discovers that Ivar's neck flushes red when he is embarrassed, and the little piece of information brings her almost as much joy as the familiar pride in his eyes.

"Every time?" he asks, his eyes going to her lips when he turns towards her. The movement pulls at the sore muscles of his arm and stings in his leg, and with a wince he falls back onto his back. Mary laughs lightly when he curses, and sits up.

"Take it easy, cowboy."

Climbing out of bed, she lifts the heavy bucket of water onto the table, ready to wash all the grime and blood off her skin. Dunking a cloth into the water, she scrubs along her face, before turning to Ivar to ask if he would like to wash as well.

But he is looking at her with wide eyes and she stops mid movement, unsure of what caused the horror in his eyes.

Oh God, is there a bug on her?

Is he having a stroke?

He pulls himself up, leaning his upper back against the headboard of the bed and gapes at her.

"What are you wearing?"

Ah, shit. Looking down, she tugs sadly at the ruined dress, stained with red and brown and green. "I was going to surprise you are the celebration."

"You were wearing that outside? In front of people?" he asks loudly and Mary rolls her eyes. "Relax. No one cared."

"Of course, they cared." A new voice contradicts her, and Hvitserk slowly sits up, craning his neck. One side of his face is covered in lines from the furs he slept on and his hair has escaped its tight braids, giving him a hilariously sleepy appearance.

"Morning, sunshine." Mary teases, "And no they didn't."

"Einar did." He counters and she throws the wet cloth at him, which he catches and throws right back. Damn these men and their hand eye coordination.

"Einar Gunnarson?" Ivar asks, his posture suddenly rigid and his eyes clouded with anger. Mary shrugs. "No idea. Wholly unpleasant person though."

Hvitserk stretches his arms and yawns, putting a brotherly hand on Ivar's head.

"Don't worry, your woman is uninterested in good looks." He assures before adding, "Luckily for you."

Ivar swats away his brother, who is more than happy to lazily wander out of the tent, and Mary hides a smile. With Sigurd having lost all favour, she is in need of a new friend and it seems that she has found just the person.

"I like your brother." She informs Ivar with a bright smile and – as expected – his only response is a growl.

It takes three days for Ivar to be able to stand again and even when he does, his balance is off. The wound in his leg is the lesser of two evils, painful and red, but healing nicely. No, the real problem is his arm. The joints are still weak and when he first tries to stand – against Mary's explicit wishes – the muscles can't support his weight. Instead, he has to rely on his right arm to hold the crutch which not only puts an unfamiliar strain on the limb, but also means that he has to use his injured and non-dominant hand to do most other things.

Mary is by his side the entire time, caring for his wounds and helping him get around, and even when her fussing becomes overbearing, he is glad for it.

He feels like a fool. More than a fool. He feels like a failure. Knocked down and wounded by his own weapon. Pathetic.

But Mary, sweet Mary, doesn't care. Every night she kneads the sore muscles in his arm, and every night she curls up beside him. And every night, he looks at her and he swears to himself that whatever happens, he will try to make her happy.

He doesn't touch her though. He doesn't dare, not even when another five days pass. Because whenever she asks about his shoulder she asks about his leg and every time she massages his elbow, she also checks on his wound. The process is necessary, he knows that. The stitches she has made are working well and no infection has set in yet, but he still holds his breath when she pulls back the blanket. The view of her delicate fingers on his leg is as scary as it is soothing and even when his mind knows that she has seen it before, has seen the extend of his disease, his heart races.

But she never comments on it, her eyes never linger and – thank the Gods – he never catches a glimpse of disgust. Still, he doesn't touch her. He can't. Not yet.

Thankfully, apart from the people who were inside the very tent, no one knows the exact source of his injury and his brothers work to keep it that way, giving vague answers when people ask what happened to the youngest son or why he wasn't being cared for by the other healers.

"I can't believe you did that!" Mary exclaims with a loud laugh. Her arms are holding a heavy bucket of water as she walks through the camp. Hvitserk is holding two in each hand himself and follows her with a role of his eyes.

"She wanted to. She asked for it."

Mary tries to understands, she really does. She even banishes the grimace from her face and nods, but Hvitserk isn't convinced.

"You still think it is odd."

"That's because it is." She insists, "You had a threesome with your brother."

Hvitserk stops walking for a moment and gives her a serious stare, "You are aware that I did not actually have sex with my brother."

Mary just shakes her head. "That doesn't matter. You were in the same room, doing it with the same person."

He laughs at her appalled expression, "Prude."

Now, it is Mary's turn to stop. Did he just…?

"I'm not a prude." She says offended and hurries after Hvitserk who has a much too satisfied smile on his face.

"Are you not?"

For a second, she can do nothing but gape at him because never, in any scenario, has she ever expected anyone from here – from now – to call her a prude.

"That's pretty rich coming from someone whose people seem to fall into shock every time I wear less than three layers." She counters.

"Decency is not the same as prudishness." Is all he replies and Mary glares at him.

He opens the flap to Ivar's tent and Mary steps through, her nose lifted in false arrogance.

"Your brother is a pain in the ass." She announces and Hvitserk laughs behind her, while Ivar just lifts a curious eyebrow. The pair has been close ever since the battle and even if he would prefer to keep Mary all to himself, he has to admit that Hvitserk is at least a better choice that Sigurd. And – even if he would never say so – he is happy that his brother seems to be finding a friend whose company does not require the usual Viking games of threats and intimidation.

"How are you doing, brother?" Hvitserk asks and Ivar shrugs, Truth is, his joints still throb with every movement and the stitches in his legs are tight. Not that he would ever willingly tell anyone about his discomfort.

"When are we moving against King Ecbert?" he asks instead.

"Tomorrow. We have word that the castle is basically empty."

Ivar bites into an apple and scoffs, "Cowards."

Mary snorts loudly while she plunges a rag into the clean water, the sound very much intended to be heard. "The wise warrior avoids the battle."

"A warrior who avoids battle is no warrior at all, little Seer." Ivar mocks and she lifts a single eyebrow while scrubbing any possible dirt left behind in one of the metal pots.

"It's a quote from a book called The Art of war. The man who will write it is one of the most admired tacticians of history." She informs him and – after a thorough inspection – fills the bucket with clean water and hangs it over the fire.

"A book on war? How utterly useless." He tries to dismiss it, but Hvitserk is intrigued by what she said.

"Will write?" he asks when Mary kneels down and blows on the fire, letting flames spring to light from the smouldering wood.

"Will." She confirms and smiles up at him, "In about two hundred years. By a man called Sun Tzu."

Hvitserk's curiosity had caught her by surprise at first. Sure, many men had come up to her, trying to coax a little fortune about their future, but they had all been focused on their own lives, their own legacies. Very few ever wanted to know anything beyond their little world.

"That is an odd name." Hvitserk remarks now and then frowns when Mary holds out an open palm. She motions for the dagger at his hip and when he passes her the weapon, she drops it into the hot water.

"I have to take out the stitches." She tells them and Ivar grimaces when the notion of his wound makes his leg itch. He had seen the way the skin was slowly closing around the yarn that had been embedded into it. "It has to be disinfected."

She gets back to her feet and turns to Hvitserk, who is perched on the table, looking as comfortable as he would in his own home. Ivar is still sitting on the edge of the bed, and once again she notices that Hvitserk seemed to be the only brother with whom Ivar could spend a prolonged amount of time without a fight breaking out. Mary had tracked the fragile peace between the two brothers down to a single factor: The absence of competition.

Hvitserk's lack of arrogance meant that he rarely clashed with Ivar, preferring to stay quiet on matters which he didn't know about rather than throwing in his own opinions purely for the sake of opposing someone else.

"Sun Tzu will be born in a land very, very far away from here." She tells him with a smile, "It's a very old country, very rich in traditions and wealth. It will take another - " she thinks, her brows puling together, "five hundred years? Maybe more – before Europe will start continuous trade with them."

He takes the information with a small frown and amazed eyes before shaking his head to himself and throwing his shoulders back. "So many things we will never see."

Ivar laughs at that, the sound mostly teasing if a little condescending. "Little Hvitserk was always the most inquisitive one of us." He says, "While we others learned how to win a battle he just wanted to know more and more and more."

The brother in question throws him a dirty look, as if Ivar had just told a deep secret, but Mary peeks up at him.

"If you want, I can tell you more." She offers and even though he seems hesitant, there is an undeniable curiosity in his eyes.

"It'll be fun." Mary says, foregoing any question and instead nudging him gently with her elbow when she goes to check on the water.

When she catches sight of the way that Ivar's eyes narrow at the gesture, she wags a finger at him. "Don't look at me like that, Ivar dear. All you ever want to know about is war and truthfully, I am tired of that."

He scowls at her, "As long as you come back to my bed at night, I do not care who you spend time with."

Hvitserk snorts into his cup and she rolls her eyes, "Charming."

"Oh my God, what time is it?" Mary mumbles confused. Her hair is still wild form sleep, her eyelids heavy and when she looks around, she can see nothing but darkness. Yet, for some reason, Ivar is already dressed, limping unsteadily through the tent while he collects the last bits of his armour.

"It's still early." He assures her, his lips quirking up into a n amused smile when he sees the confused expression on her face, "The army will be at King Ecbert's door by sunrise."

"What?" she asks, her sleep muddled brain not quite up for its task of thinking yet. "Oh, alright."

She is about to fall back into bed, when voices outside start becoming louder and with a groan she recognizes Bjorn's shout-like words, followed by Ubbe's desperate attempt to shush his brother.

"I really don't think – " the younger one tries, the voices just outside the tent, before Bjorn interrupts him.

"It doesn't matter what you think."

The tent is opened and two massive silhouettes appear in the weak light of the fire.

Ivar heaves himself upright, and Mary can see the outline of his helmet on the table beside him.

"Brothers, I did not know we were going to leave already." He welcomes them and when Ubbe sighs heavily, she knows that something is up.

"We are here for Mary." Bjorn tells him and she tenses when his eyes find her in the dim light.

"Why?" Ivar asks harshly, shifting his weight to stand between her and his brother.

In his defence, Mary has to say, he looks as thrilled to be there as she is.

"Harald has been musing about her recent absence. She has been send as a messenger for the Gods, working under Lagertha. They demand to see her before the confrontation with King Ecbert."

Mary has never spoken directly to Harald, but the man had a certain cunning in his eyes that had creeped her out from the very beginning. Not to forget the enormous face tattoos and his involvement in the murder of Ellisif.

"Well, I do not care what Harald wants." Ivar says, cocking his head in that self-sufficient way of his. "She stays here."

But they all know she won't. Because Bjorn is their leader, and what he says goes.

"Ivar-" Ubbe tries, ever the diplomat, but once again he is interrupted by the oldest brother.

"She is here to bring us the favour of our gods, Ivar." Bjorn says, his figure towering dangerously over the others, "She is not here to be hidden away inside your tent."

"We are the leaders of this army, Bjorn. We make the decisions, do we not."

"No, Ivar. I am the leader of this army." He corrects him and the tension inside the tent rises to a new high, "And I make the decisions."

"I forbid it."

"Ivar." Bjorn growls, but Ivar shakes his head.

"Harald is a mad man. He already killed another man's woman. You would have every reason to deny his request."

The irony of his words is not lost on Mary because – really – who is Ivar to call another man dangerous, even if she whole heartedly agrees with him. But then she catches Ubbe's pleading eyes and she knows what she has to do. There is only one way this will end and now all she has to do is avoid any bloodshed on the way.

"It's fine." She says, slipping from the bed with false bravado, "I can talk to Harald."

As it turns out, it is not only Harald who wants to speak to her. After hastily dressing in a purple dress and throwing a turquoise shawl around her head, Bjorn roughly paints a ruin on her forehead and guides her towards a collection of torches in the forest. His hand is on her neck, maybe to stop her from running away, and she can feel Ivar's eyes on her beck the entire time.

He is silently seething, ignoring Ubbe's attempts of conversation as they make their way to the council of war. To her immense relief, she spots a few familiar faces in the crowd of Viking leaders. Floki plants himself firmly to her right when Bjorn instructs her to sit, and Hvitserk is leaning against one of the posts, his posture relaxed but his fingers playing with the handle of an axe. Even Sigurd's presence is a relieve when she stares at the faces of a dozen battle ready warriors, their faces set into stony masks, illuminated in the long shadows of the fires.

Harald is already waiting, his hands clasped in front of his body and his face set in a satisfied smirk. Mary tries not to shudder.

She can hear Ivar behind her, trying to make his way to her side, but when she looks for him, Ubbe has a hand on his chest and I shaking his head in a silent warning. For a second Ivar swats away his brother's arm, but when Ubbe leans down and whispers something in his ear, Ivar stills.

Mary swallows.

"As requested," Bjorn says loudly, "You may speak to our Seer."

Harald musters her silently, letting his eyes drag from the colourful shawl to the sigil on her skin, before finally resting on her face.

"I meant no disrespect." He starts, although the words are delivered with an amused smile, "I was merely curious. Seers are not known to spend so much time in the company of a single person."

Floki's heavy hand rests on Mary's shoulder and she tries to slow her speeding heart. Harald probably just wants to throw his weight around, make some noise and clap his chest like a Silverback. Anything to make sure that his name is known.

She has dealt with plenty men like this since she arrived here.

"What is it you want?" she asks him and for a moment she fears that the question might have been too rude, but the hand on her shoulder is still relaxed.

The night air is cold on her face and she ignored the way her fingers seem to freeze in her lap.

"Whatever you can offer us, Seer. A fortune. A warning. A blessing from the Gods if you would be willing." He says and then, when the smile spreads wide and wicked, "Or is that something only bestowed upon the men in your bed?"

A murmur goes through the crowd, some of the other men clearly unhappy with such an accusation and Hvitserk quickly slips beside his youngest brother, ready to hold him back. But Ivar is stock still, his eyes staring at Harald while his hand tightens around the handle of his crutch.

"Careful with your words, Finehair." Floki warns, his voice cold even under the usual cackle that accompanies his words. "Or some might think you doubt our Gods."

Harald is unperturbed by the accusation. "Not at all. I simply doubt this girl. We all heard the story of how she arrived here with the youngest Ragnarsson. The mystery around her is great, and she has done little to prove the claims of her abilities."

He turns his stare directly to Mary and Floki presses one finger against her spine, forcing her to straighten her back and she supresses the urge to fidged under the man's inquisition.

She takes a deep breath and crooks a finger, beckoning him closer.

He shares a curious glance with his brother before coming closer. Mary's stomach clenches nervously but she has to keep the façade of her role, now more than ever. Having to speak to Harald may not have been her first choice for the evening, but right now, she is happy that it had been him and not someone else. Because Harald Finehair was – or will be – famous enough for her to know about him.

When he is close enough, he crouches down in front of her, and she can see that he expects a weak lie or maybe a vague fortune. But he has collected enough men, for Mary to knows that she is in danger, and she has no intention of losing the precious safety that comes with her status as a Seer.

"Harald Finehair, Kind of all of Norway." She says quietly. His grin widens and the tattoo's crinkle at the edges of his eyes. Leaning forward she puts her lips at his ear and drops her voice into a deep purr.

"A ruler whose name will be known for hundred of years." She can see Floki's curious glance and knows that he can hear everything she is saying, just as Bjorn can. But the others are looking at the pair with suspicion and – in Ivar's case – hatred, unable to hear what she is whispering.

"I know that you want to raise the taxes on your subjects. And I know that when you do they will leave you. They will prefer to live under English rule, casting you aside for foreign lands. Some will even take to the sea, sailing their ships to unknown places, to a place called Iceland, where they will settle."

He stills beneath her and even though she can't see his face, she sees the heavy swallow in the way his throat bops. "If you question me again, I will make sure that your men leave you much earlier and quicker than you can imagine. Now call back this ridiculous hunt or I will send word of your taxes to your people and your will come back to barren lands and empty houses."

Floki cackles beside her and Harald shoots him a withering glare, his ears burning, before he stands up.

"It is true." He says to the men gathered behind them, clearing his throat to repeat the words, loud and clear. "It is true, she is a Seer."

Ignoring the questions, ignoring even his own brother's confused advances, Harald leaves the tent and Mary exhales in relieve.