Everything lost
Ivar has experienced a wide range of emotions in his life. He has felt anger, shame, regret, hate. None of it comes even close to what he feels now.
He watches Mary, watches the way she sways and falls. Watches his brothers, warriors, servants, rush to her side.
He sees Hvitserk catch her as she falls and he also sees him cradle her close, putting his ear to her mouth and, when he feels her breath, scream for help.
He tries to follow them and when his fingers are too weak to properly secure the crutch, he throws it to the ground and crawls after them. By the time he arrives by her side, her hair splayed around the sickly grey of her face, he fears she is dead. A medic is by her side, urging Hvitserk to keep the pressure on her hand and Mary's slim digits peeks between the dirty, calloused fingers of his brother. There is so much blood. It runs in puddles on the floor, sticky and red, and Ivar wants to retch.
He has seen blood before. Plenty of it. But never like this and never from her. How does she even have this much blood?
"What do we do?" Hvitserk asks panicked and Ivar curses himself, curses himself for how useless he is, unable to move or speak, while his brother tries to keep his girl alive.
"We could finish the cut. Remove the fingers completely and cauterize the wound." He healer suggests, carefully inspecting the wound.
Somehow it is those words that pull Ivar from is stupor. The thought of Mary, his Mary, waking up to find her hand almost completely gone. She would never be able to play with his hair again. To let her fingers dance across his back or to braid that beautiful hair of hers.
"Something else." Ivar croaks and the healer looks at him in surprise.
"Find another way." He repeats.
The healer cleans the wound, cleans the dirt and the mud that had entered it when she fell, and wraps a tight bandage around it. Time passes achingly slow and Ivar never moves from her side. Night comes and night goes. So do his brothers. So does Floki and Helga and their new girl. The one that likes to draw pictures on Mary's skin.
He barely registers it.
She catches a fever halfway through the night, her face burning red when dawn comes around, and when the healer unwraps her hand, the wound cracks open almost immediately, heavy droplets of blood running down her wrist.
The skin is swollen and red, a thin crust on the very edges dipped in the dirty yellow moisture of infection. It only gets worse from there.
She doesn't wake up, even a day later and even if the healer assures him that it is probably or the best – that her body cannot deal with the injury – he prays for her eyes to open. The next day comes and when they open the bandage once again, the infection has spread.
He tries talking to Bjorn, begs for a ship to bring her back to Kattegat, to their healers and their medicine, but his older bother is sceptical.
He doesn't trust Ivar to be home, be close to Lagertha, without attempting to overpower the Queen. In the end, the decision is the following: Ivar will only be returning to Kattegat when their mission in England is finished. But it could be days, weeks maybe, before their army can safely retreat and Mary might not have that time.
In the end he does the only thing he can think off. He puts her life in his brothers' hands and when he watches them board the small boat, he begs Hvitserk to take care of her. Bjorn, tall and sturdy, sits at the head of the ship when the wind carries them out to sea. They set sail a week after the incident and when their silhouette disappears at the horizon Ivar seems to collapse into himself.
Ubbe and Sigurd work around him, they organize the departure of the raiders and help build rudimentary houses for those who will stay. They try to be as quick and as efficient as possible but every minute feels like a year and when night comes, Ivar feels like a lifetime has passed.
Another week passes and a messenger reaches them. Ivar sees the young Viking enter the tent, sees Ubbe's eyes widen and his gaze flicker to his younger brother and then his heart turns black when his brother's gaze becomes one of anguish.
News from Kattegat. The Seer died, succumbing to infection before they even reached the shore.
Across the sea, in a wooden hut and on a bed of furs, Mary wakes up.
She wakes up with surprising clarity. She remembers her hand, remembers the pain, she even remembers odd snippets of grey skies above and cool water on her lips.
Her throat is dry.
She sits up before she opens her eyes and she can hear someone move beside her and then strong hands are guiding her up, helping her lean against the headboard and when the initial wave of dizziness subsides, she finally looks around.
Hvitserk is by her side and when she tries to speak, he offers her a cup of water.
"We thought you were gone there, for a while." He tells her with a soft smile and Mary draws her injured hand closer. She remembers the gaping wound and for a moment she is afraid that she will only find a stump, but when she looks down, she can see that her fear was unfounded. Her hand is still there, five fingers, fourteen joints. The wound has been stitched awkwardly, and even though the skin is still red and slightly raised, there is no sign of infection.
She tries flexing her fingers but all that happens is a stabbing pain shooting up her arm and she winces. "Ow."
"It will take time to heal." Hvitserk says and for the first time, Mary takes in the room. It has walls and ceilings made of wood, a fire to the side, and she frowns.
"We are in Kattegat." He informs her and Mary's eyebrows rise high across her forehead at his words. Kattegat?
"Where is Ivar?" she asks, her voice hoarse and even though her mind is still foggy, she doesn't miss the way Hvitserk avoids her eyes at the question.
"He will come soon." He promises.
He doesn't. A day passes and Bjorn comes. He tells her that the armies are heading home.
He also tells her of Haralds betrayal and the abduction of Lagertha's favourite shield maiden, Astrid.
She asks for Ivar again and Bjorn tries to sooth her anxiety by saying he will be home soon.
A day later he comes in again and Hvitserk rises from his seat by her bed. They speak in hushed voices and with furrowed brows and when he returns to her site, Hvitserk is troubled.
It takes another day, before he finally speaks.
"We don't know where he is." He admits, his head hanging low and eyes trained on the floor.
"What do you mean you don't know?" Mary asks sharply. She had been waiting. Waiting patiently for him to come home, to finish whatever had to be finished and come back to her. She knows a deal was involved, knows that her quick return to Kattegat had to have had its price, but he was supposed to come home. Soon. They all had said soon.
"He was supposed to stay back with the others. Then Ubbe took off with some men to explore the north. We got a message from Sigurd from the day after. Ivar is gone."
He…? Her head spins. He wouldn't just leave, would he?
But there is more, she can tell. Hvitserk is still not looking at her and when she presses him to continue, he swallows.
"He took an army with him. Twenty boats disappeared as well."
"Why does he need an army?" Mary asks and she prays - prays – that there is another explanation. That Ivar has not taken off in pursuit of his insane hunger for power. She regrets her thoughts almost immediately and tries to tell herself that he would not do that. He would not turn against his own family. Least of all now.
Lagertha comes to her bed that same afternoon.
In her hand is a clean dress and a wooden comb and for the first time the queen does not seem deceitful. She sits at Mary's side and helps her get dressed, a job so far beneath the ruler of Kattegat that Mary blushes.
"It is hard loving a Ragnarsson," Lagertha says softly when she brushes Mary's hair, "I have tried and failed."
She doesn't know what to say to that so she stays silent. Lagertha is more than happy to keep talking.
"Ivar has always been volatile. Dangerous." The words are true and Mary cannot protest even if she feels like she should. "For a while your presence soothed him. But I always knew that one day I would stand on the battlefield and Ivar would be my enemy."
She sets down the comb and moves to face Mary, her cat like eyes urging her to listen. "I will be honest with you. We don't know why he has done what he did. What we do know is that he is assembling an army and sooner or later he will be outside these gates. I am trying to protect this town and these people," she explains and Mary nods, "and I need to know that when he comes, you will not go to his side."
Mary stiffens at the request because, frankly, the thought had never crossed her mind. If Ivar does come, will she stand against him? Will she stand with him? A month ago, the answer would have been clear, but now?
Lagertha nods in understanding even when Mary stays silent and then, with a soft hand, he forces her to look up.
"If you cannot answer me, I will have to send you away. I will not kill you and I will not judge you, but I will not let you stay. I told Hvitserk the same. If, however, you can promise me that you will not aide him to victory, then I want to offer you a place in this village."
"A place?" she asks unsure.
"A place. I cannot make you a free woman and I cannot have you as the Seer. Your previous relationship with our current enemy would not allow me to. But I can make you a servant in my own house. I can promise to treat you well, to keep you fed and warm."
The offer is as tempting as it is disturbing. A life in servitude or an unknown future. Two choices that seem equally scary to her, but in the end, she knows what she has to do.
"I would like to stay."
Hvitserk comes back to visit her and when he finds her in bed, dressed in a servant dress and with shiny hair, she takes a deep breath.
"Are you going to leave?" she asks him and Hvitserk realizes that she must have spoken to Lagertha.
"That depends on you." He answers and she is confused until he sist down beside her with a heavy sigh, "I promised my brother I would take care of you. If you decide to leave, I will bring you to him. If you want to stay, I will make sure that you are safe in this village."
God, this is complicated. When did things go so utterly, utterly wrong?
"Do you know where he is?" she asks hopefully and he runs a tired hand over his face.
"A fishing village up north." He says, "With King Harald."
The news shock her more than anything else and for a second she forget the dreary emptiness that had been muddying her thoughts.
"Why the hell is he there?" she asks loudly and Hvitserk quirks a smirk at her outburst.
"We don't know. Sigurd is still in England, holding the settlement now that we have to worry about the Saxons from the land and Ivar from the sea. He doesn't know much more than us. Ivar had not been quite himself ever since-" he makes a vague gesture and Mary lifts her hand with an unimpressed stare.
"Since he almost sliced my hand off?"
"His actions shocked many, most of all himself." He nods and she huffs in annoyance.
"Still could have handled it a bit better." She mumbles.
"No question there." Hvitserk laughs, "We only now this. A messenger from King Harald arrived at the shores of England before Ubbe set sail. The next day, Ivar had disappeared and so had the messenger. Sigurd never got to hear what notice had been given, but we assume it was an offer for an alliance."
"And Ivar just… took it?" Mary frowns.
She wishes she could say that it doesn't make sense. That Ivar would never accept such an invitation. But … that would be a lie. Because Ivar craves blood as much as he craves revenge and anger and praise. She had just always assumed that he loved her more than he loved power. Had she been wrong?
That same day she arrives in her new home, as a servant to Hvitserk Ragnarsson, and when she finds Inge in the servants house, the blonde girl silently teaches her how to disembowel a fish.
The people must recognize her. Surely. And yet, no one pay any attention to her, no one comes up to her, asking why the Seer is suddenly back in rags and tending to a new master. She disappears into the crowds of servants and slaves, doing choirs even when Hvitserk tries to awkwardly stop her.
She cooks, she cleans, and when the evening comes and no one is around, they talk.
The first thing they speak about, every evening without fail, is whatever rumour they may have caught. Bjorn is preparing for his expedition. He had been reluctant at first but Lagertha is urging him to leave, urging him to fulfil his destiny. Still, his party of explorers is significantly smaller than initially planned, leaving more men to defend Kattegat.
Floki and Ubbe have not been heard of, having disappeared across the ocean with Helga and Tanaruz, and a group of curious warriors.
Sigurd is leading in England, where the settlement seems to be growing. His letters are sporadic, but it seems unlikely that anyone would target the new land just yet, where there are few treasures and even fewer men to be found.
And Ivar. Ivar is lying in wait.
Every time she thinks about him, her heart aches and her hand pulsates with pain, and no matter how much she tries to, she cannot figure out what her heart wants. She knows Hvitserk feels the same. The complete and utter lack of contact with Ivar leaves them both in a weightless void where no judgement can be made. Does she feel betrayed? Does she feel abandoned? Yes. But she also holds onto the believe that there must be a reason for Ivar's seemingly callous behaviour.
Lagertha thinks Ivar is out for revenge. Bjorn thinks his brother has finally gone crazy. And Hvitserk… Hvitserk seems just as lost as her, waiting for the storm to finally come and hopefully bring some answers.
Something else happens as well. She starts relying on Hvitserk. Starts reaching out for him when her mood is at its lowest, and more often than not he returns the small gestures and the lingering touches. It's not love. Not even close.
Hell, her heart would not be able to take it, even if she tried.
No, it's just… closeness. An ally in strange waters.
Someone to depend on when everyone seems like a potential enemy. And in return for that yearning sense of security, she gives him stories. Faith. Revelations.
He wants to know about cultures and religions. In the darkest hours of the night, she tells him about the Bible, the Quran, the Torah. He comes alive when they speak about Buddhism and Nirvana and Enlightenment. Karma and Purgatory.
But at the end of the night, even when they have been sitting together in the dying light of the fire, she crawls onto her furs and he into his bed and every night she dreams of Ivar.
It has been two months since her injury, six weeks since her arrival in Kattegat and three weeks since her new place in Hvitserk's house, and Mary wakes up with a hand over her mouth.
She tries to scream but then Hvitserk is right in her face.
"Shush." He orders and she stills, her eyes still wide with panic and when something crashes outside, he pulls her deeper into the house. A scream echoes and then she knows what is happening.
Ivar has arrived. His army has arrived. The battle for Kattegat has started. It is not what she had expected. She had thought they would meet on a battle field, face to face, where a clash of armies would decide the future of the kingdom.
But then again, Ivar's cunning was being accompanied by Haralds ruthlessness and a backhanded attack, and invasion by night, seems a likely result. Hvitserk stands by the door, axes twitching in his hands and they wait in silence, wait for the screams to either subside of reach their little hide-away.
Finally, a man, burly with a long beard, storms through the door. Before he can even register what has happened, Hvitserk has his axe at the man's throat.
"Take one more step and it will be your last." he warns the Viking, who gladly slips from the hut and back into the turmoil of war.
Mary knows that Hvitserk wants to fight, even if she doesn't know for which side, but he stays. He stays until the last screams fade out and he stays when the victorious party screams in jubilation. They only move when the first lights of the morning start shining through the windows and when they step out into the streets, their fate is up in the air.
Mary doesn't know who she hopes has won, but even so, she holds back a sob when they come face to face with Harald as he victoriously prances through the streets.
He is bloody and dirty, but the men around him are still shaking form the adrenaline of the battle and while Mary's heart flutters at the knowledge that Ivar won, Ivar is alive, she cannot help the weight that settles in her chest either.
What had become of Lagertha and Bjorn? More importantly, what would become of her?
Hvitserk stays by her side, attentive and careful even when it becomes apparent that the people around them have lost all interest in a fight.
They are recognized almost immediately, the Ragnarsson and the Seer, and Harald is the first one to approach them. He pulls them into a tight hug, speaking loudly in her ear as if there had never been any animosity between them. In his hand is a roasted chicken leg and Mary watches in disgust as he drinks, speaks and eats all at the same time.
Terrible table manners.
"Where is my brother?" Hvitserk asks carefully, his posture still ready to fight, and Harald laughs loudly, pieces of meat flying from his lips.
"Our boy King is in the throne room, trying out his new seat."
Then he turns to Mary and something dangerous glints behind the glazed eyes of the drunken man, "Oh, how you have helped me, little Seer." He says loudly, "You have played your role even better than I could have ever dreamed."
He stumbles towards her and she steps back at the same time that Hvitserk puts a warning hand on Haralds shoulder, his fingers dancing to the axe at his side.
"What do you mean?" he asks and Harald, maybe out of exhaustion, maybe drunkenness, maybe arrogance, just smirks. "All you Ragnarsson. So afraid of your brother, of his anger. All you could think about was that he is controlled by his anger, yet you never tried to control his anger."
The words are slurred and confusing and it takes them a second to put together what he has said, what he is insinuating. When Hvitserk turns around, Mary is already gone.
She finds him in the throne room, his crutch leaning against the side of the enormous chair as he lounges in the empty hall. Her breath catches and she presses herself behind the curtain, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. It's been so long. Two months for her, and the wound in her hand throbs at the memory of their last encounter. She peeks from her hiding place, needing to see him, to see what has changed, before she can face him.
Harald words had been vague, but one thing was abundantly clear. He had been deceived as much as she had been used and suddenly the last two month could mean everything or they could mean nothing.
She looks at him. There are new braids on his head, a new piece of armour across his chest. Somehow, he still looks the same.
She knows that if she wants to talk to him, she has to do it now. Here. Where there is no one else, where they can be honest. But something in her freezes and she takes just a second to long to overcome her internal blockade.
Because when Mary steps from behind the curtain, Ivar's eyes are drawn to a different sound, across the room. Two warriors come in and, in between them, they bring Freydis.
"A slave, as requested." One of them says and they retreat. Mary freezes and if Ivar would look just slightly to the right, he would easily spot her. But his eyes are trained on Freydis, whose blonde hair is braided beautifully behind her head and who is wearing the same green dress that Mary had given her so long ago.
"I know you." Ivar comments languidly, two fingers motioning to the blonde girl. "Your name is Freydis."
"Yes, my King." She answers demurely.
"You said I could not die." He recounts and she inclines her head. Mary can't see her face, but she is sure that the same, serene smile is plastered on her lips.
Taking in her silent agreement Ivar shifts in his seat, sitting up straight and letting his hands rest on the sides of the throne. He looks like a predator toying with its prey. He looks confident. He looks dangerous.
"We have just finished an important battle. A lot of our men have died and we need to appease the Gods to defend this town." He tells her before cocking his head to one side. "If I asked you to be our sacrifice, would you agree?"
Mary holds her breath at the question but Freydis seems unbothered by the suggestion of her own death.
"I will do anything you ask of me." She says and Mary hates the sound of her voice in that moment. The calm demeanour and the grating, terrible puss that sits somewhere between the airy tones. Ivar leans back, his chin lifting in a so achingly familiar way that Mary's fingers curl into the material of her skirts. A challenge sits behind his eyes when he speaks.
"Then take off your clothes."
When Freydis steps out of her dress, Mary's eyes close in anguish. It's not jealousy that is coursing through her. No, she feels much too distant from Ivar for that. Whatever had been between them has been muddied and stained by the last few months and the lies that have been separating them. Still, she feels pain. Hurt. Love. A cruel desire to hurt him.
Because what his appearance alone had been able to hide, became undeniably clear when he spoke. Ivar Ragnarsson is not the one sitting on this throne. This is Ivar the Boneless. Ivar the Hated.
At his command Freydis steps closer and straddles his lap and when he asks her to kiss him, Mary wants to leave. She wants to turn and run and scream. But she stays. This is not some stupid romance novel and she will not be driven away before she can speak to him. Life is too short and much to unpredictable for her to leave now.
And then she sees the way he squeezes his eyes close when their lips meet and she is reminded of the first time he kissed her. Back when he had been trying to be something else - someone else. He breaks away with a scowl, his eyes glaring at the floor for just a moment, before he can pull himself together.
When he looks back up at the servant girl in his lap, his eyes are cold.
"Leave." He orders her and just as before, Freydis happily obeys.
She leaves and he closes his eyes, his fingers massaging the bridge of his nose, and Mary can see him take a shaky breath. There is something there. Something threatening to spill over and she watches with concern how Ivar swallows hard before he opens his eyes again.
And then he is staring at her.