Memories
Mary sits on a horse, half asleep and still in the garb of the Seer with her hair braided into a crown around her head. Her chin keeps falling onto her chest and she is glad for the young man holding the reins of the black steed that is carrying her. Their caravan is waiting just in the shadows of the nearest forest, staring onto the fields surrounding King Ecbert's castle. It is odd to see it again, this time from such an angle, and Mary thinks back to the last time she was here.
Back when Ivar was barely more than a stranger. Who would have thought that thinks would turn out this way. Who would have thought she would be back, with an army no less.
Helga is beside her, Tanaruz safely cocooned against her front, and they watch the Great Heathen Army emerge from the woods, making their way across the empty land until they halt a hundred meters from the gates.
There are no soldiers, no guards, no weapons pointed at them, but still the Vikings stop. She can see Bjorn, his massive frame stepping forward, and she sees Ivar's chariot a few rows behind him. They stare at the walls, weighing the probability of a trap or an ambush, before they are suddenly running, shouts ringing across the cold morning air.
"They do know that there is no need to run, right?" Mary asks Helga, "We know the army has moved on."
As predicted, the doors come down easily and when they are called into the stronghold, the entire place is a mess, trashed in the hurry of the people fleeing. Open doors and empty rooms, items ranging from clothes to food tossed carelessly to the floor and gathering dust.
No matter what Ivar says, Mary is happy that the people of the castle are not here. Being here would mean being slaughtered, and every death avoided makes her heart a little lighter. She thinks about Beecher and prays that he is somewhere far away.
Her dislike for destruction is not shared by the others, who are more than happy to add their own bouts of devastation to the already ruined yard.
Tents are being set up, treasures claimed, and fires lit and Mary climbs onto the second floor, where she finds the bed where she had slept on her last night in the castle. It is neatly made and she smiles when she sees the small stack of wine bottles in the corner, one of them clearly missing.
In moments like these it can be hard for her to distance herself from the violence around her. When people are singing and drinking, celebrating the loss of life and land, celebrating whatever is happening deep in the underbelly of this very castle.
Mary is not stupid. She knows that Ecbert is somewhere in here, a prisoner of his own choice, and she knows that his life will end sooner rather than later. Possibly by Ivar's own hand.
Last night had left her shaken and pushed him into one of his more volatile moods and the first bit of gossip had already reached her ears. Ivar wants to blood eagle Ecbert. Ubbe wants a treaty. Bjorn is undecided.
She leans back on the soft bed and stares at the ceiling. Is it cold blooded of her to lay here rather than trying to advocate for Ecbert's life?
Her tolerance for violence has increased immensely in the last few months and not for the first time does she fear that this time is making her callous. Cold.
But every scenario she can think of, any argument she formulates, is a losing case and she knows it because even in her current position, her opinion is worth very little. If it doesn't result in immediate and complete defeat, it is not worth mentioning.
Mary stares at the ceiling, following the lines of the wood and the longer she lays there, the deeper she sinks into the blanket and soon, she is on the verge of sleep.
The constant stream of shouts from the courtyard makes it impossible for her to actually fall asleep, but her mind wanders lazily until the door is thrown open and a group of drunken young men stumble inside.
As soon as they see her, they retreat back into the hallway and Mary sits up with a sigh. She doesn't want to stay here, thinking about the moralities of people around her. She doesn't want to think about the death brought by the brothers or the bloodlust of Floki.
Because if she does, she might just discover the monsters hidden inside of them and that is not something she can afford. Not if it would break her heart and leave her alone in a place where others are the key to survival.
She wanders the hallways for a long time, peeking into large bedrooms and eating halls, before going down to find the kitchens where slaves are already lighting the fires and preparing for the banquet that is sure to follow.
She keeps wandering past servant quarters and storage rooms and she only stops when she steps into a familiar hallway. Cold stone under her feet, rough walls, and a row of wooden doors at the end, each one with a heavy lock and a tiny window of iron bars. The dungeons.
Oh, how the times have changed.
The air is still as musty and cold as she remembers it to be, and when she pulls open one of the doors, she is surprised to find that she is not the only one down here.
A memory floods through her when she sees Ivar sitting on the cot, his back slumped and his face set into an angry scowl.
So much time has passed and somehow Mary finds herself in the exact same situation as before.
"Shouldn't you be in one of those bedrooms upstairs?" she asks him and he startles at the sound of her voice but the scowl stays, just below the surface. "I don't think a dirty cot and a cell are the place for a Viking prince to be."
"It has brought me luck before." Ivar says, motioning to the dusty walls, "Maybe I am in need of a bit more."
Mary smiles and sits down, their thighs touching as she leans against the wall beside him.
"What happened?" she asks and he makes a dismissive sound.
"They decided to make a deal. Land for a painless death."
"Why is that so bad?" she asks carefully. She knows that Ivar would have never taken a deal if it would have been his choice to make, what she doesn't know is why. Is it purely his need for violence or is there more behind it?
"He killed our father-" Ivar starts, but Mary quickly silences him with a wave of her hand.
"That's not true. And even if it was, Ecbert will die. Your father will be avenged."
When he doesn't answer, she understands.
"Ah." She says quietly, "That's exactly the problem, isn't it?"
Ivar makes a non-committal and she knows she is right. "You don't wanna go back to Kattegat."
"I will not bow before Lagertha." He grits out.
"And you brothers won't kill her." She guesses, "They won't go against Bjorn."
Ivar takes her hand in his and turns it over, tracing the lines of her palm, and nods. Without looking at her, he speaks, "I'm not sure what will become of you."
"What do you mean?" Mary asks confused. A return to Kattegat had always meant a return to that little hut in the forest for her.
"Lagertha might order you away. Or she might set you up like the Old One. In a remote place, visited only sparsely, with no other role than to tell her fortunes and give advice."
She can't believe she had been that careless. That thoughtless. Because of course, thing would change once they came back. She just hadn't… Oh.
Suddenly, the desire for the peaceful bay of Kattegat is squashed and Mary feels the same panic in her chest as Ivar must be feeling. A return to submission. A return to a new and unknown ruler, whose word could mean a future on desolation. A future away from Ivar.
"We could stay here." She says, but Ivar just scoffs at the thought.
"And what will we do?" he asks, "Will you plow the lands while your useless husband lays in bed?"
She ignores the word husband – not enough time to deal with that – and instead leans her head on his shoulder.
"Maybe I'll tell Lagertha that locking me away will result in her immediate death." She suggests and Ivar's shoulders shake under her when he laughs. "Of course, it would be rather suspicious if it didn't happen then."
"If she locks you away," he says, "I will make sure that your prophecy comes true."
Mary snorts before she can supress it. Ivar is threatening murder after all. She shouldn't take it too lightly. But still, it feels good to know that there is someone looking out for her and she sits up, leaning closer.
Ivar looks surprised for a second and his eyes snap to her lips when she steadies herself with a hand on his knee.
For a second, she can see the same hesitance she saw when they first kissed. A sort of fear. But when she presses her lips against his, he is as warm and welcoming as ever. He cradles her face in his hands and mumbles something against her lips, but she doesn't care enough to decipher the words.
Instead, she sighs and sinks deeper against him, glad to feel his lips against hers once again. After his injury she had tried to be patient, because she knew that Ivar would rather strain a muscle than admit weakness, especially when it came to her.
And she is happy she waited now, because Ivar pushes her down on the little cut and hovers above her, his weight balancing on his arms alone. She should tell him to stop. Push him back upright and be satisfied with just kissing him.
Ivar groans and his lips wander from her mouth to her neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin behind her ear and she digs her fingers into his back.
Then again, who is she to tell him what he can and cannot do? She just wants him closer.
The skirts of her dress ride up when she wraps her legs around his hips, and she grinds against him when his lips ghost across her throat.
God, she hopes he never stops.
And then he does just that. He stops and lifts his head, face so close to her own that their breath intermingles.
"Why did you stop?" she asks, almost whines, while her hands roam over his back, his shoulders, his upper arms. They slip beneath the armour, lightly touching the muscles of his abdomen and she feels him shudder. Whatever battle he had been fighting on the inside seems to die and when he kisses her again, the heat between them reaches a new intensity.
Mary opens what feels like a thousand clasps, unties a thousand knots, but when she finally manages to pull the armour from his chest, she feels like his skin is burning her.
He is pressed flush against her front, his weight heavy on her lungs and she gasps when he lets a hand wander up her dress.
She can feel his surprise when he wedges a hand between their bodies, between her legs, and finds no cloth.
"It's laundry day." She whispers against his lip and then moans when he touches her. "God, Ivar. Don't stop."
And he doesn't. Rather than let her lead him, he explores by himself, learning what makes er mewl and retreating when his touch becomes too rough.
"You are mine." He breathes against her mouth and Mary can do nothing but nod. "Yours. I'm yours. Only yours."
He drops his head to the crook of her neck and she can hear his heavy breathing against her ear. "Say it again."
"I'm all yours Ivar. I only want you."
He grinds his teeth and then Mary can feel it, can feel him, hard between her thighs, and she gasps. The cot is rough underneath her, but she doesn't care. Doesn't care about the cold or the dirt either, because Ivar is on top of her and for the first time that hardness stays.
With one hand still on his back, she snakes the other one between their bodies and when she touches him – still through the trousers – he makes a sound so primal that she shudders.
But then he tries to lean up on his left leg, tries to pull down the top of her dress, and the injured muscles finally reach their breaking point.
The elbow buckles and Ivar falls gracelessly on top of her, squeezing the air from her lungs.
"Ow." She yells when his weight hits her chest.
She hears him growl something against her shoulder, something that sounds suspiciously like No, before he leans up again. But his left arm is shaking, shaking so violently that his elbow hits the stone wall, and when he tries to kiss her, she stops him.
"Ivar-"
"No," he growls again, "Not now."
She knows why of course. It's pretty damn clear. That doesn't mean she will accept is stubborn refusal.
"Ivar, stop." She says and puts a firm hand on his chest.
He hovers over her, his face twisted into a painful grimace. "You don't understand." He breathes, "I –"
His eyes gaze down and she quirks an eyebrow, "You think I don't know that?"
When she pushes him away, he shakes his head, even if he complies. No force is necessary for him to pull away, to sit back up and stare down at her rumpled face. Yet, he stares at her with such hurt eyes, such self-loathing eyes, and Mary quickly straddles him.
"I'm not telling you to go away." She whispers when she settles in his lap but Ivar just shakes his head.
"It's of no use." He says and scoffs, "I can't-"
"Really?" she asks him with a grin, grinding on his lap as she shimmies out of her dress, "Lets see about that."
The pressure against her centre is gone, but she knows exactly what to do. He doesn't look at her at first, his eyes angry and embarrassed, focused on her shoulder, so she takes his hands.
They are rough against her skin but she guides them to her waist before reaching for his face.
Forcing him to look at her, she smiles and leans forward, pressing her breasts against his chest when she wraps her arms around his neck.
"I'm yours Ivar." She whispers against the shell of his ear. "I'm all yours."
She continues moving her hips and it doesn't take long for his hands to start moving as well, stroking the swell of her hips and the sensitive skin below her breasts.
"I want you." She whispers, clenching her thighs over his lap, "I want only you. No one else, Ivar."
She kisses him again, deep and heartfelt, and slowly the tension eases form his shoulders. With slow fingers, she unfastens his trousers, and he doesn't stop her, too fixated on her words to care. It doesn't surprise her that Ivar thrives of praise, but that doesn't stop a small smile to form on her lips.
"I want only you, Ivar the Boneless."
She wasn't sure if she should include his nickname, a name that had surely been given in mock, but he seems to be set alight by it.
His fingers dig into the flesh above her ass and he pulls her closer, kissing her hard on the mouth while she lets her tongue slip between his lips. And then the hardness is back and he gasps into her mouth. This time she doesn't stop him and she keeps going only long enough for him to understand what she is about to do.
And then Mary lifts herself up and he looks up at her in amazement when she sinks down on him. There is a sting, a slight burn when she takes him in and her eyebrows knit together at the pain. Ivar looks alarmed, his gaze concerned even when his mouth falls open and he fights to keep his eyes from closing. He lifts a hand to her face and the touch is infinitely gentle. She stills for a moment, getting used to the feeling, used to him and then she presses a soft kiss to his mouth and starts moving.
This time his eyes do fall close and he wraps both arms around her waist, holding onto her as if his life depends on him. The look of wonder stays on his face all throughout and his eyes stay on her face almost the entire time. Mary moves on top of him, trying to match her own pleasure to his, and he burrows his face against her chest. One hand stays on his shoulder, holding her steady in her rhythm, and the other one goes to his hair, holding him against her when she can feel his harsh breath against her skin.
He mumbles words against her body and she can hear them become faster and more breathless the longer she moves. Sweetness. Love. Treasure. Goddess. Mine. When his fingers start to dig into her skin, she forces him to look up.
His eyes, now bluer than ever, are shiny and the adoration behind them makes her own breath hitch. This man will be the death of her, she just knows it.
She cradles his face in her hands, "I love you."
He growls, a sound deep in his throat and she can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench. This is where she has to stop. She knows that, but it still seems impossibly hard to do when all she wants to do is keep moving, keep edging him on, keep building that immense pressure between her thighs.
But Ivar is too close for her to still come and even if, she has to stop. She has to.
She kisses him and lifts herself from his lap, ignoring his protest, his pleading, and settling on his thighs. She can't have him finish inside her. The consequences could be devastating.
Instead, she wraps a hand around him and Ivar, too far gone to care, lets his head fall onto her shoulder.
Afterwards, he leans his head against her shoulder, his arms still holding her as close as humanly possible while his breath slows. Mary is more than happy to indulge him, resting a cheek against the top of his head when he strokes lazy patterns on her back, and for a moment the emotions in her chest are overwhelming. Her love for him is overwhelming.
She can feel the clasps of his braces dig into the skin of her thighs, can feel the frosty air of the dungeon, but she doesn't want to move. Not when Ivar is pressing kisses to the top of her breasts, not when there is still sweat and moisture drying between their bodies.
"I can't believe it." He mumbles and Mary laughs, the sound deep and raspy, because neither can she. She can't believe it. Any of it.
He shifts under her and when he looks up, finally looks up, there is a smile on his face that seems to light up the entire world. No smirk, no grin. A smile. Wide and toothy and accompanied by a dimple on his cheek and a proud and mischievous look in his eyes. He has never been more beautiful.
Mary smiles right back, just as bright, and then they are just smiling at each other like two idiots in a dungeon. She presses small kisses against his lips, too wired to stay still, and he responds to each playful kiss with the same giddiness that she is feeling.
"Why did you do that in the end?" he asks her curiously, "When you got off."
Mary swallows, suddenly feeling awkward. "You know… Biology" she says vaguely, "Ah, Fuck, you have no idea what I mean."
She can feel a blush rise to her cheeks which is ridiculous considering everything that has just happened. Banishing the embarrassed part of her brain to a dark corner of her mind, she takes a deep breath.
"If you would have finished inside of me, I might have become pregnant. And I don't think either one of us want that." She explains and even though she gets through the whole thing without a stutter, her voice is just a tad higher than it should be. He seems much less faced by the topic than her and just nods thoughtfully.
"No Sex Ed in Kattegat, huh?" she teases.
At his confused gaze she elaborates, "Did no one tell you that? None of your brothers?"
He shrugs, "No one thought it would ever be an issue."
And then a grin – this time a grin, proud and arrogant – spreads across his face and Mary squeals with joy and presses yet another kiss to his mouth.