Rotten Love
"What's your favourite colour?" Mary asks, still on Ivar's lap. He has pulled her against her chest and had been drawing patterns against her shoulder blades for a few minutes now, staring at the walls, deep in thought.
"What do you mean?" he asks and she can feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest.
"Your favourite colour. What is it?"
"I don't know. I have never thought of it."
"Really?" she asks astound, "Never?"
He shrugs, "Why would I? It would be of no importance."
She sits up, a pout on her face, "That's not true. It's very important."
He smirks and raises an eyebrow, "What for?"
"Well, for- " she struggles, "For buying your clothes for example."
"I wear armour. It is brown or black, nothing more."
"Ivar-" she starts to protest when the door behind them opens.
"Fucking hell." She curses instead, wrapping her arms around her chest and pressing herself against Ivar. She is almost entirely naked, for God's sake, the dress still bunched around her hips. Ivar, in a much more effective move, pulls the scratchy blanket from the cot and over her shoulders, glaring at the intruder.
A loud laugh halls through the tiny room and when Mary looks over her shoulders she can see three of the four brothers peering into the cell. Hvitserk has already retreated back into the hallway, his head thrown back in laughter, while Ubbe is looking incredibly uncomfortable and Sigurd is almost scowling. There is no mistaken what had happened, not with Mary's state of undress, her hair half fallen from its braid, and Ivar's protective arm around her waist.
"Get out." Ivar barks, even if there is an arrogant smirk on his face. The bellowed command cannot hide the pride in his posture, or the possessive way he pulls her closer, with his eyes tauntingly set on Sigurd. Men. Ridiculous.
Then Mary's eyes fall onto a small form between the brothers, her slim body almost disappearing between the tall Vikings, and she pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
"Freydis," She says, surprising the others by talking to the slave girl directly, "You still owe me an explanation."
Freydis looks confused, her eyes wide and innocent and when Mary glares at her she only stares back silently. "Of course."
At her voice, Mary eyes narrow further and Ivar's hand on her hips starts rubbing small circles against the dip of her hips. His eyes wander curiously from Mary to the strange slave girl. She rarely ever raises her voice against anyone - not even him, no matter how much he deserves it – so her animosity is quite a curiosity.
"How do you now her name?" Hvitserk asks confused and Mary's eyes momentarily snap to his face.
"What? I asked her." She says confused, "seriously, Hvitserk, it's basic- you know what? Not now." She quickly talked herself out of the distraction and focuses back on the girl. "You told me that Ivar was with his brothers. That night of the feast."
Freydi's still looks confused. Mary doesn't know if it is an act or if the other girl really doesn't know why Mary is so angry.
The other brothers are peering at the blonde girl with curiosity and, at least Hvitserk, with a hint of suspicion. He must know what she is talking about.
"He was." Freydis answers, her sweet voice low and serene and this time Mary almost growls.
"He was also injured. You should have told me." She snarls and Ivar's fingers still, "Why didn't you?"
Freydis blinks, her beautiful face wide in its confusion and devoid of any nervousness. Could it be that she truly, actually, doesn't understand the issue?
"It did not matter. He was never in any actual danger." She explains and Ubbe's brows knit together in a frown.
"How would you know?" Mary asks accusingly.
"Because he will not die. Ivar is favoured by the Gods so I knew that he will be fine."
Jesus, this girl is a loony packed into a pretty golden package. She is not the only one who stares at her after that, and Ivar's fingers suddenly dig into Mary's hip.
"What?" he croaks and when Mary looks back at him his face is confused, but also curious. She rolls her eyes. Flattery will bring you everywhere it seems.
Freydis looks at him, staring right past Mary's angry glare, and lowers her head submissively, "It is clear to me, my Lord. You are as mighty as a God and no mortal will be able to kill Ivar the Boneless."
Mary exchanges a baffled glance with Hvitserk and for a second there is only silence when everyone stares at the petite slave girl. Then Ivar's finger curl even further and his nails dig into her skin.
"Ouch," Mary flinches and Ubbe seems to find back to himself.
"Eh, alright." He says unsure, "Next time, please deliver any message in its entirety."
Freydis makes a demure bow and leaves, her face never shifting from the honest innocence in her features and the oldest brother awkwardly clears his throat.
"Well, now that we found you." He stammers and behind him Hvitserk grins widely, earning himself a withering glare from Mary, "We are holding a feast to celebrate the acquisition of Land."
The feast is held on the dirty courtyard of the castle, where a raggedy stage has been build from the planks ripped from empty houses. A long table is standing on it, Bjorn already deep into his drink. The other leaders are sat on their own tables close to the brothers, while others are standing, all of them busy celebrating.
When they join them, she has to fight the blush threatening to spread to her cheeks and when Ivar sits down on the far end of the table, she quickly scurries to stand against the back. He raises a curious eyebrow at her behaviour but when he catches the red in her cheeks, his lips curl into a self-sufficient grin.
Hvitserk gallantly offers her to take a seat, the chair put up for her similar to the one she had set in after the last battle. From there, she can see the entire crowd and fidgets nervously with her hands until Ubbe offers her a small plate of venison and a cup of wine.
The alcohol does manage to calm her nerves and when Hvitserk throws her a teasing grin for the seventh time in just as many minutes, she finally reaches out and flicks his ear.
He flinches and chuckles, leaning against the armrest of her chair with an apple in his hand. Ubbe's glances, while much less insinuating, are just as obvious and he leans back in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face.
Sigurd is the only one of them not staring at her, choosing instead to throw dirty glares at Ivar, who just smiles back at his brother condescendingly.
His mood darkens however, when Bjorn starts speaking, praising the war and its outcome, loudly shutting about the way in which Ragnar Lothbrok's dream has been secured. With every word, the snarl on Ivar's face becomes more apparent and Mary regrets not having stayed by his side. From here, she can do nothing but try to catch his eye and silently beg him to calm down. But Ivar's elation from before seems to have retreated and he doesn't even spare her a glance.
When he opens his mouth, Mary knows – deep in her bones – that they are heading towards disaster.
"Who wants to be a farmer?" he asks, interrupting Bjorn in front of the other warriors and drawing the attention of the crowd. The oldest Ragnarsson is silent, letting Ivar speak his thoughts and watching the masses of warriors instead. Hvitserk shifts uncomfortably beside her, but so far nothing warrants any of them to step in.
And so, Ivar talks, sharing his plans for continue raiding, to use the momentum of the army to take even more land. Mary doesn't know if his words are truthful, if he really wants to keep going or if he simply doesn't want to return. Whichever it is, his ideas seem to fall onto open ears and soon there is a group of others nodding along to his words, cheering at his ideas.
"You cannot lead the Army, Ivar." Ubbe says quietly, trying to reason in private rather than opposing his brother's ideas out loud.
"I don't want to lead," Ivar says.
The exchange between him and Ubbe is almost amicable and when Ivar throws a teasing insult, Ubbe just laughs. Mary relaxes, just a fraction.
"It would take a great man, Ivar. To stake your claim." Hvitserk comments, his words just vague enough to avoid any real backlash from Ivar, who instead turns towards the crowd, asking who will follow him.
Bjorn scoffs at his words, his face clearly showing what he thinks of Ivar's idea, and Sigurd is looking more than a little annoyed at his little brother's antics. And Mary…Mary knows that she should say something, try to reason with Ivar, but she can't deny the little glimmer of hope that flares in her chest. Because staying here, in England, would mean safety. Right now she is living on borrowed time, and the possibility of staying by Ivar's side, of staying under his protection, is tempting enough to silence her.
Bjorn falls into his chair, picking at his food while staring at the table, not bothered enough to try and stop his younger brother. Sigurd on the other hand, snaps.
"Don't do this." He warns, "We are all the Sons of Ragnar. We have to stick together."
His words are surprisingly careful, devoid of any taunt or insult, and Mary has to give him credit for his attempt to stay diplomatic.
It doesn't work of course, because Ivar is much to wrapped up in his own head and the support he seems to be getting form the crowd.
He deals the first insult; something gross and crude that makes Mary cringe and causes Ubbe to sigh in his chair.
Sigurd retaliates immediately, throwing away all attempts of diplomacy in favour of childish bickering.
The moment he uses the words 'real man' Mary closes her eyes in disappointment.
Ivar is momentarily frozen, as surprised as the others that Sigurd would bring up that particular taunt in front of the crowd. Their fights are usually in private, where insults are thrown with little thought, but saying this in front of an army could have devastating consequences.
Ivar composes himself quickly, no doubt ready to throw back something harsh, possibly dragging Mary into the conversation, but he is interrupted. There is an attempt to change the topic when the other leaders declare their intentions, some choosing to fight, others to settle or explore. It doesn't work.
"I would never follow you." Sigurd says loudly. He stands up, his form blocking Mary's view of the crowd as he looms in front of her, and he points an accusatory finger at Ivar, who glares back furiously.
He insults start stupid enough, so stupid in fact, that Mary has to roll her eyes, but the more they speak the crueller they get. Ubbe tries to intervene, but it's too late.
"It must be hard now that your mummy is dead." Sigurd taunts and Mary freezes. Her first, inane, thought is: Wasn't she your mother, too?
Hvitserk tenses beside her, the apple in his hands going back to the table before his fingers stray to the weapons at his side.
"It must be hard, knowing that she is the only one who ever loved you." Sigurd says and Mary bristles. Not only are his words mean and cold, they are also factually untrue. Has she suddenly been forgotten? Has she turned invisible?
Ivar seems to be thinking the same as her, his eyes swiftly moving to stare at her and his eyebrows furrow when a wicked leam enters his eyes. He is clearly about to say something arrogant, probably inappropriate, about her but Sigurd catches his glance.
"Oh, you believe she loves you?" he asks and Mary glares at the brother. Had he not walked in on them just an hour ago?
"How could she love you?" Sigurd continues and she shakes her head at his pathetic try to discredit her feelings. When he notices that his taunts are missing their mark, he makes a desperate attempt to win the upper hand.
"Do you think you can keep her, now that you fucked her?" he asks and Mary pulls a face at the crudeness. Alright, that's enough now.
"Don't talk to her like that." Ivar warns at the same time that Mary hisses, "Shut up."
Sigurd just laughs, "Look at him." He says, turning towards the crowd, "So desperate that he falls to his knees in front of the first woman who lets him put his prick in her."
"Sigurd." Hvitersk says lowly and Mary grasps the seat of her chair in anger. How dare that little, slimy…
"Were you even able to do it? Or did you just hump her like you did the slave? She told me you cried like a girl that night. Who would follow someone like you into battle?"
Ivar's fury turns murderous and Mary growls.
"Sit down, Sigurd." She snarls.
"Why?" he asks, opening his arms wide, "Everyone here knows that Ivar cannot walk. We have all seen him crawl around. You don't have to pretend that he is a real man, don't worry. I'm sure he didn't even satisfy you, did he? Did you get wet? You have seen his legs before, so I doubt it. I bet every time he touches you, you want to cry and run."
She stands up, the stair scraping loudly across the floor, and stares at him angrily, but he just smirks down at her. She is no threat. She knows that and so does he. Mary, in her purple dress and with no weapon, would never be able to actually fight Sigurd.
"Tell you what," he says, leaning down until his face is dangerously close, "I'll fuck you like a real man and then you can decide if you still prefer my crippled brother."
She might not be able to fight him, but that doesn't mean she has to take his words. Bracing both hands against his chest, she pushes hard and watches with satisfaction how he falls from the stage, hitting the muddy ground with a yell and a loud thump.
But that is not the only thing that happens. She hears Ubbe yell Ivar's name, hears – feels – a rush of air, and then she stands in front of a silent crowd. Everything slows.
Something wet is on her face and she looks up, white clouds hang across the sky. Mary moves to wipe the drop away and her fingers come back stained in red. She looks down. Red on her left hand. Red on her dress. And then.
She lifts her arms. Her left hand is white, oddly white, especially compared to the smudge of red that is streaked across it. The right one is dipped in blood. Blood on her fingers. Blood on her palm.
She moves the digits, but only her thumb curls, together with a slight crook in her pointer finger. The others stay still and then they fall back grotesquely when the slice in her palm opens. And opens. And opens. Until there is little left. The axe sliced through her hand - through tendons, muscles, bones - like a knife through butter, and now her fingers are only connected to the rest of her hand by a fray of flesh next to her thumb.
Her head feels dizzy. Her knees are weak. And then the pain sets in, all at once and she gives the smallest of mewls.
Lifting the mutilated limp to her chest she looks up to find only shocked faces around her. Bjorn's cup is on the floor. Ubbe's eyes are wide. Hvitserk is on his feet just before her, his hands stretched out. And Ivar.
Ivar stares at her with his mouth open, his skin pale – so, pale – and his beautiful blue eyes filled with terror. The pain in her hand brings tears to her eyes and for a moment she sways.
Hvitserk shoot forward, wrapping his hands around her upper arms, but she already falling. He hits the ground with her. She remembers screams. She remembers someone picking her up and she remembers a burning pain. She remembers nothing.