Rus
Yay, going into season 6!
Mary hates the cold. She has always hated it, but never as much as she does now.
It's the end of February and the entire land seems to be frozen, snow falling almost every day and while it is beautiful, the magic of it has word off long ago. Now, it's just miserable. It eats itself through everything, settling so deep in her bones that she fears she might never warm up again. The carriage they sit in is as cold as the outside and Mary huddles into the corner, trying desperately to keep her fingers from turning blue. She is wrapped in scratchy, stiff clothes, layer over layer, and her hair is covered by an equally scratchy scarf.
The cold is quickly forgotten however when the sudden sound of horses galloping closer cuts through the silent air. She exchanges a panicked glance with Ivar, who just lifts his hand in a gesture for her to stay quiet. It's not unusual for soldiers or highwaymen to cross their path and more often than not, they are appeased with a few coins. But when he moves to the edge of their tiny wagon and pulls the curtain to one side, Mary catches a glimpse of something that is clearly not a highwayman. The men are dressed in black, with terrifying sabres and pointed hats, and Ivar quickly drops the curtain again.
"Get back." He orders quickly as if Mary wasn't already pressed against the wall, and he pulls himself beside her, one hand on the small dagger that he carries around.
The weapon might seem useless against men with swords, but Mary has seen Ivar fight, has seen his ferociousness, and she knows that he will be the first one to draw blood should it come to it.
Who would have thought that his bloodlust would one day make her feel safe?
"Stay quiet." He whispers and even in her fear, she rolls her eyes. Did he expect her to start screaming?
But then the sound of swords clashing echoes through the forest, then shouts, screams, and, finally, nothing. The fight ends as quickly as it started and she has barely time to process what is happening.
Silence is heavy in these parts, where the snow swallows the sound and leaves nothing but eery nothingness, but even the snow cannot muffle the sound of footsteps or the shouted commands. Mary tries to grab Ivar when he moves forward, moves between her and whoever might draw the curtain, but he shakes her hand off without a look back.
As expected, he is the first one to attack, throwing the dagger before they have even faced the enemy, and it flies through the air like an arrow. A gasp and then someone collapses outside.
But taking down a single man means nothing when there is a battalion, and arms blindly shoot into the dim light of the carriage. They grab Ivar and pull him out, his form dropping into the icy snow below. He growls and then a voice asks who he is.
Their guide – God, she knew they shouldn't have trusted him – gives them up happily.
"A viking." He answers and even though Mary wants to jump from the carriage wants to do something, she stays. The last few months have been hard and cold, she has been hungry, tired, and thirsty beyond compare, and she has had to learn some unwanted lessons. To wait. Because sometimes being a helpless woman is the only thing that can keep her alive. The same way that being a cripple protects Ivar more than any name or title could out here.
"His name is Ivar." The guide continues and she closes her eyes because she knows exactly what he will say next. That she will be next. "He travels with a woman. They call her the Sreca and she calls him King."
The stranger laughs, "Where is this woman?"
Mary can't hear the answer but then men are stepping into the carriage, back hunched in the tight space, and she screams when they roughly pull her out into the snow. The sun is beginning to set and the forest is terrifyingly beautiful, with red splotches of blood soiling the white snow.
"Let her go." Ivar barks and Mary resists the urge to cuss them out, instead settling for wide eyes and parted lips, hoping to give the impression of a scared and helpless woman.
The man in black looks at her, then at Ivar, and laughs again, "He doesn't look like a King," he says with a glance, "And she doesn't look like a Sreca."
"I gave you the information you wanted." The guide replies, clearly impatient now, "That was our deal."
But the man seems unconvinced, "True information." He sneers, "That was our deal. The prince has no use for your lies. You can freeze to death for all I care."
He turns to leave and Mary takes a look around. The people they had been travelling with are all dead, slain by the intruders, and if they leave them behind now, Mary and Ivar will be dead soon as well. The firewood is wet in the snow, the barrels of clean water and wheat cut open and spilled.
"Wait." She cries. The word comes out in a language she has never spoken, but it comes out all the same, and the man turns in surprise.
"It's not a lie." She calls, "He is a king."
He and the guide exchange a silent glance and Ivar pushes himself up on his hands.
"What is he saying?" he asks, but Mary's focus is on the men around them.
"Are you a Sreca, then?" their leader asks and she cringes, "Something like it."
He eyes her, then tosses the guide a coin and motions for the other men to bring her closer. The guide – sniffling, traitorous bastard – drops to his knees immediately, so greedy for the gold that he seems to forget everything else and when Mary is pulled past him, she kicks snow into his face, "Coward."
"Mary," Ivar calls but this time it sounds more like a warning. He wants to know what is happening. He doesn't like being left out. He'll have to deal for now.
"It's alright." She calls back, even though she doesn't mean it. The man, their leader, lifts a hand and lets a finger wander down her cheek, making Mary crane her neck back as far as possible.
"A fortune-teller. How very interesting." He mumbles.
"Who are you?" she asks, her voice wavering only a little.
"We are the Rus." He just answers and then, with a flick of his wrist, Mary is carried back into their carriage. Ivar watches her with wide eyes before he, too, is lifted by his arms and when they drop him into the wagon, he curses the soldiers with an array of colourful Norse words.
When they start moving, he grips the edges of the carriage with frozen fingers and Mary has to pull him back to avoid him falling off.
"Mary, what is happening?" he asks her angrily. Urgently.
"They are Rus." She whispers quietly, "They live pretty much everywhere between the white sea and the black sea. The guide sold us out to a man called Oleg. He is their prince."
Fear and suspicion grow in Ivar's eyes and Mary cannot blame him. Their attempts at staying anonymous had been for a good reason and if someone had been searching for them, for whatever reason, it could mean a lot of very bad things.
They could be shipped back to Kattegat to be executed. Or it could be an old enemy of Ivar's, looking for revenge. Hell, it could even be an old enemy or Ragnar. Inter-generational grudges seem to hold a long time here.
"Where are they bringing us?" he asks when Mary crawls to his side, ignoring the jolting of the carriage as she snuggles against him. Both of their faces are burned by the wind, the sun, the cold, and when she shivers, he puts a heavy arm around her shoulders and draws her in closer.
"My guess is Kiev." Mary mumbles, "But I'm not sure."
Ivar drops his cheek to her head – the only kind of touch they had in months, where the cold had forced them to sleep in the same clothes in which they travel – and she sighs.
But he is still angry, now tense as well, and when she looks up at him, there is still annoyance in his eyes. "Don't ignore me again."
Mary just huffs, "I will ignore you all I want if it saves your life."
"I don't like being ignored." He rumbles.
"And I don't like being dragged through the snow and kidnapped. Seems like we both have to adapt."
Though their words are sharp and their voices angry, they don't let go of one another until the walls of Kiev appear at the horizon, a speck of life in the frozen tundra around them.
They are ushered rudely into a large house and even when she can see his anger rise, Ivar just grinds his teeth and lets the guards drag him through the long corridors. He will rage later.
The further they go, the warmer it gets and Mary sighs in relief when her fingertips start burning at the returning heat. They only stop when they enter a large room, the ceiling and walls arched and lined with small fires, at which's end is a dais with a single chair and a man.
His back is turned when they arrive, "What is it?"
"My prince, we made an interesting arrest." Their captor says and then they are dragged further. Mary glares at the man who has his hand around her arm, his fingers painfully tight, and when he roughly pushes her forward, she can't help but hiss a quiet, "Bastard."
Her footsteps into something sticky and when Ivar is dropped beside her, his hands land in the same puddle of blood. She grimaces. Their host doesn't seem to be a kind man.
"Who are they?" the prince asks, and even though the question is directed at his general, Mary is the one who answers.
"We come from Norway. We have been travelling for a long time, now." She says, her voice pleading and when he looks at her, she drops her shoulders in an attempt to seem afraid. Not all of it is an act, of course. She is afraid. It would be stupid not to be. But Mary's usual reaction to fear is lashing out or cursing, and both of those instincts have to be suppressed for now, so cowering it is. These men eat it up.
"They say he is a King." The man in black ads, motioning at Ivar, "And she has been travelling with him. A fortune-teller apparently."
Prince Oleg seems to have little faith in fortunes because he doesn't even spare her a glance. Instead, his focus is on Ivar, who looks about ready to kill the next man who dares touch him.
"You are a Viking." He states a grin on his lips and Mary lowers her head. Any good, fearful woman would. But that doesn't mean she won't watch them from the corners of her eyes, and it doesn't mean that she won't step in, should the need arise.
"You cannot walk," Oleg says and Mary waits for Ivar's reply. To her surprise, he only chuckles and draws his legs up. No insult. No shouting.
"Were you wounded?" the prince asks and Ivar crosses his arms over his legs, his face a mix of surprise and apprehension.
"No." he answers, "I'm a cripple. From birth."
The odd change in behaviour, from angry to almost curious is explained by his next words, "You speak my language."
Mary cannot control her understanding of languages, the same way she cannot control her own usage of it, so she had no idea when Oleg has switched to Norse.
"It used to be our language as well." Is the only answer, "What do they call you?"
"My name is Ivar." He pulls the scarf from his head, long hair falling around his shoulders, "They call me Ivar, the Boneless."
Mary doesn't know how far the stories have travelled, but they seem to have reached Kiev at least because Oleg recognizes the name and when he looks at Ivar again, it is with a subtle sense of respect.
Ivar himself revels in it of course, his pride rising almost visibly and Mary rolls her eyes in the discretion of her lowered head. Men. Then again, Ivar's reputation could be the saving grace in these damn parts of the world. Under peasants, a prince is almost an enemy, at the very least an opportunity. Under royalty, a title is one of the only ways to be relevant. And under royalty with murderous tendencies – Mary shifts on the bloody floor – it might be a safety net.
Any pride of Ivar's quickly dissipates, however, when Oleg asks about the reason for their travels.
"I lost my Kingdom to my brothers," he answers, his face sober, and Mary frowns.
He didn't. He lost his kingdom to one brother, the same brother from whose family he usurped it from in the first place. She makes a mental note to come back to the topic later on. After all the blood and death, she will beat him into submission, if need be, but she won't support yet another useless call for revenge against people who do not deserve it. She thinks of King Ecbert.
"I am nothing." Ivar continues and the anger in his voice breaks to the surface, "I have nothing to offer you, prince Oleg."
For the first time, the prince looks at Mary and she cringes under his gaze. No acting is needed for this, because when he steps closer and cocks his head, both she and Ivar tense.
"Nothing?" Oleg asks and then he pulls the scarf from her head as well, running a lock of hair through his fingers, "Are you sure of that?"
God, she wants to bite his goddamn finger off. She wants to kick him in the shins. But none of those actions would be met with much approval, so Mary bites her lip and lets Ivar talk. Because even as a man with nothing - a lost king with no kingdom - he is still worth more than her. A man's word is always louder than a woman's.
She hates it here.
"We did not mean to trouble you with our presence." He bites out and Oleg chuckles, but drops Mary's hair from his fingers.
"Where are you going then?" he asks, still standing so close to her that she can feel the heat coming off his body. Distract yourself, she thinks and her eyes focus on the pattern of his dress. Gold and yellow, stitched on deep black.
"Nowhere. We have no plans. All we want is to flee the retribution of my brothers."
There it is again. Brothers.
Mary holds her breath.
"Your presence does not bother me." Prince Oleg drawls and she can feel his eyes on her again, "Not at all. In fact, I would like it if you stayed as my guests. For now."
She exchanges a panicked glance with Ivar. They have nothing to bargain with. No gold, no army, no kingdom. If Oleg was to drag her away right now, he could do so. Sure, he might lose one or two men to Ivar's wrath, but that's it.
Her heart speeds up when the Rus prince lifts her chin. He tilts her face and Mary hopes that the blistered skin and the dry cracked lips turn him off. Hell, it has turned her off, whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
"A fortune-teller." Oleg mumbles intrigued, seemingly done with their previous conversation, "She is your travel companion I heard?"
"Yes." Ivar grinds out and Mary forces herself to keep her eyes on Oleg. Defiance shines through the mask of fake fear and he narrows his eyes.
"How very interesting. I do have a weakness for all things…curious. And I have never seen anything more curious than this. A crippled Viking King in love with a Sreca."
Ivar doesn't deny the words and Mary doesn't dare speak.
Suddenly, Oleg drops her chin and turns. A flick of the wrist and they are carried out again and this time, Mary almost enjoys the tight grip of the guard. Anything is better than Oleg's hands on her.
They separate them into two rooms.
"No, wait," Mary says loudly and looks back over her shoulder, finding Ivar already on the floor, having escaped the guard's grips through pure strength, trying to get to her. But he is quickly stopped and she flinches when the guard's fingers start digging into the sore muscles of her arms.
"Where are you bringing her?" Ivar shouts and Mary stems her feet into the ground, snow and ice trailing behind her. No answer is given and she is thrown through a narrow doorway, landing on cold stone. Their rooms are only separated by a hallway, but when Mary clings to the little window she can't see Ivar. It's too high for him to reach.
She can hear him, however, throwing himself against the door until the wood shakes and she grins in satisfaction when the guards eye them wearily.
Let them know who they are dealing with. Fuck disguises. Fuck security. If Oleg knows that it is Ivar the Boneless, then the people here better learn what he is capable of.
"You spineless idiots." She hisses at them, "I will make your winters last ten years. Your animals will freeze and the ground will be too hard for you to dig the graves of the deaths you caused."
It's a rather impressive curse she thinks. Just enough dramaticism.
"I'm alright." She calls then and hopes that the words were in Norse, "I'm right here."
The guards glance at her sceptically, but the banging on the door stops, so they don't tell her to back off.
"Am I speaking Norse?" Mary asks loudly.
"Yes." Ivar answers and she sighs, "Good. I know who he is. The prince I mean."
Silence for a moment, and then, "Who?"
"Oleg the Prophet. Also known as Oleg of Novgorod. Important enough." She grins, "But not as important as Ivar the Boneless."
A laugh huffs from across the hallway and Mary smiles, "At least it's warm."
"You get cold so quickly." Ivar remarks and she just knows that he is shaking his head at her.
"Hopefully, tomorrow you can keep me warm."
God, wouldn't that be the dream?
When they had left – fled – Kattegat, things were much too messed up. Ivar was torn between grief and sorrow and Mary was riddled with guilt. Freydis' fate was unknown and for weeks neither one of them even tried to touch the other in that way.
The love was still there, but at night they would just hold onto the other. Sometimes for comfort, sometimes for warmth and sometimes – when they had to sleep in truly deplorable places – for safety. It stayed that way until they reached what must have been Slovakia.
And then, when they started to warm up to the idea of touch, the weather turned icy cold. Any inn with a fire was too expensive and the places they did find, had them huddled into rooms with ten others, or sleeping on the cold floor. None of those inspired much passion.
Now, however, in a room with a warm fire and soft bed, Mary's fingers itch for him and she thinks about all the things she would do if he was here.
The next day, she has to admit that her fantasies may have overestimated her energy because as soon as she strips out of the scrappy coats, she falls asleep. She doesn't know how long she sleeps, but when she wakes up, she feels rested. There is still tiredness in her bones, but weeks on the road will take more than a good night's sleep to overcome. Still, she stretches and yawns and when she is actually offered food – bread and water and FRUIT! – she can feel her strength return.
Eating turns out to be a mistake though because after breakfast she is dragged out again. Ivar is already there, under the canopy in the woods and when he sees her his eyes harden and he glares at Oleg.
She doesn't understand why, until she catches sight of the man kneeling in the clearing. Cords around his limps, his face swollen and bloody, Mary recognizes him as one of the Vikings who had been part of the caravan. She thought he died that night in the woods, and looking at him now, she almost wishes he would have.
"What is this?" she breathes but Ivar gives no answer. He is still glaring at Prince Oleg when he pulls her closer. Whatever game they are playing, Mary seems to somehow be involved.
"We had some problems with your friend." The Rus says sadly as if talking about an unruly child and not a tortured man. Mary swallows hard, her eyes unable to stay on the Viking for more than a few seconds, yet being drawn back to him all the same. "He was not cooperative, not helpful."
She feels sick. Something is moved, some mechanism behind the trees, and the man groans loudly. His arms stretch further, his muscles spasming under the strain. She doesn't want to be here.
"I don't understand," Ivar says, his voice cold. Would he have been this outraged a year ago? Would he have cared this much about the pain of another man? Mary doesn't know, but right now, Ivar seems as disgusted with the torture as Mary. He just stomachs it better. "What has he done wrong?"
"Your friend refused to tell us why you had really come here," Oleg says and Mary frowns in confusion. They told him. They told him yesterday. But he seems unconvinced as he stands before them, thumbs tugged into the belt around his coat, "To my kingdom. In disguise. With her."
"We told you-" she starts with panic in her voice, her eyes wide, but Oleg just raises a hand and silences her. His eyes are on Ivar. He doesn't care about her words, only his. And then Mary understands why she is there. Not as a witness or as an accused. As a tool. To remind Ivar who has the power.
Asshole. No, worse than asshole. There is no word for this man.
"I already told you there was no reason." Ivar bites out and pulls Mary closer to his side. She is thankful for it too because when the other Viking groans again, blood flowing from the cracked wounds, she feels dizzy.
She wants to close her eyes and stick her fingers in her ears, ignore the horrifying scene before her.
"Oh, but there is always a reason." Oleg waves him off. Dancing closer to the man he seems almost gleeful in his suffering, "Always."
Then he lifts his hands and waves as if saying goodbye.
"All hail, King Ivar." Are the last words Mary hears.
She catches a glimpse of Ivar's face, eyes wide in shock, lips parted, and then his hand clamps over her eyes, pulling her face into the crook of his arm.
A stomach-turning sound echoes, ripping and a scream and she holds her breath.
Mary squeezes her eyes shut even when he lets go of her and she forces down the bile that rises in her throat. Her eyes stay closed until she can breathe normally. But when she sees the blood, the gore, staining the snow, she still scrambles to her feet and throws up into the snow. There goes breakfast.
Oleg raises a condescending eyebrow and she glares at him, wiping her mouth.
Another night is spent in separate rooms and when the next morning comes, she sees Ivar being taken away. No one comes for her though. No food is served. No water is given.
When Ivar returns his coat is new and covered in snow. He wears a fur hat. It looks funny. All she can drag out of him is that Oleg wants to talk and then he spends an hour in silence, lost in his own thoughts.
He leaves again in the evening and when he returns, Prince Oleg is with him. They exchange a silent glance and then Mary can see the guards turn and open her door. She steps back without a word when they enter her room and place Ivar – surprisingly gentle – on the red bench by the fire.
Oleg doesn't join them, instead waiting by the door.
"I look forward to speaking to you more, Ivar the Boneless." He says with an incline of his head and when he leaves as well, and the heavy door falls shut, Mary rushes to Ivar's side.
"Are you alright?" she asks.
He nods and she exhales relieved. "What did he want?"
Ivar shrugs, "To talk, mostly. He is looking for allies."
Mary leans back on her heels, pursing her lip as her brows furrow, "And you want to be his Ally? Why?"
He snorts at that, pulling the hat from his head with a tired hand, "The question is, why would he want me as an Ally? I have nothing to offer him. No name, no land, no army."
There is a frustration in his voice, but more importantly, there is uncertainty. Mary sits down beside him and watches him stare into the fire as he shrugs off the pelt coat.
"What is this about?" she asks carefully.
"I have little choice in that matter." He sighs, "It is true when I said that I am no one. I have nothing left. Nothing but you. And if he decided to take you, I can do nothing against it."
Mary shudders at the thought and gets to her feet. She is nervous. Agitated.
"Well, I'm not going to stay here as his hostage," she hisses quietly, pacing from side to side, "I'm sure we will find a moment when we can slip away."
When he doesn't answer, she stops and licks her lips. Cocking her head, Mary examines his face. He doesn't meet her eyes and she frowns, "You don't want to."
He takes her hand and pulls her closer, pulls her between his knees until she rests a gentle hand on his cheek, "Why do you want to stay?"
"Where else should we go? Stay on the road forever? Sleep in the cold?"
"I always wanted to see China." Mary shrugs but he shakes his head, "Be serious."
"I am serious. I don't care where we go, Ivar. We can go to Laos or the Philippines. India or Nepal. Hell, the guy from Baghdad said he'd have space."
Ivar snorts, "In his bed, maybe."
Mary grins before sitting back down, pushing her hands beneath her thighs to stop them from fiddling, "Why do you want to stay here? With Prince Oleg of all people." She shudders, "He creeps me out."
"He may not be the most gracious host," Ivar admits, "But no one says he has to stay in power forever. Rules come and go quickly these days."
A sly grin climbs on his face at the last words and Mary laughs, "Two days and you are already planning a coup. Does your scheming brain ever stop?"
"I do what I am good at."
"Can't we just-?" she doesn't know how to finish the sentence. If they move further into Europe, they risk discovery. But walking from Ukraine to China could take years. It would cost money. It would be dangerous. The moment they cross the Caucasus, the moment people stop recognizing the name Ivar the Boneless, their last bit of leverage would be gone. They would have to rely solely on pity and sympathy. It would kill him.
"We have nowhere else to go." Ivar says softly and she sighs, "We have nowhere else to go."
She takes Ivar's hand, interweaving their fingers and stares at the fire. "At least it's warm."
Ivar laughs and she smiles, before frowning when he lifts his other hand and gently puts it on her cheek.
"I will ask for some ointment to be brought." He says softly and Mary remembers the rather dire state of her skin. It can't be pretty.
"Yeah, I guess I am not all that fun to look at." She mumbles self-consciously and lets her hair fall around her face. She finally has time with Ivar and looks like a corpse. Damn you, Universe.
"You look beautiful." Ivar mumbles and Mary smiles, suddenly shy. The words are soft and intimate, and when she looks into his eyes, she sees nothing but affection. Leaning forward she presses her lips against his softly. They have kissed before, kissed a few days ago, but now something seems off.
Ivar seems to be holding back, his lips moving slowly as if not to scare her, and Mary pulls back, "Is everything okay?"
He looks startled at her question but even when he tries to assure her "Of course," she knows that it's a lie. He seems hesitant. Unsure. When he leans in to kiss her – which he definitely does to prove to her just how okay things are – he almost pulls back after the first touch. Then he forces himself to do the opposite and suddenly his teeth bump against her lower lip and she flinches.
"Jeez, Ivar." She mumbles, holding a finger to her lip, "What are you doing?"
He blushes embarrassed and then his eye turn dark. He refuses to speak.
"Seriously?" she asks, "Ivar, talk to me."
His chin juts out, just barely, and she realizes that she has seen this in him before. Way before. Months and months ago, when they had first arrived in Kattegat.
"Ivar," She says, softly this time, and restsh er chin on his shoulder, "What are you afraid of?"
He bristles at that, as expected, "I'm not afraid."
She almost chuckles. "Well, then why won't you kiss me?"
"I am all you have left."
She draws back a little, eyebrows raised, "What a harsh reminder."
"I mean," he sighs, "I am all you have left, and I am nothing. No King, no prince. Nothing. I can't even walk upright with my crutch gone."
Ah. The old wound has cracked open again and now Ivar is bleeding all over the floor.
"Do you remember Wessex? In that cell you were no one. A nameless prisoner." She reminds him, "And did I not come to you?"
"That was different." He says with a shake of his head.
"Why?"
"Because then, I wasn't the one responsible for your misery." He says, louder than expected, and Mary flinches. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but filled with regret, "If it wasn't for me- If it wasn't for me, you could still be in Kattegat. Sleep and eat whenever. Find a man worth having."
"I have a man worth more than any other."
He scoffs, "No, you don't. I could have been. I almost was, but the gods have forsaken me."
"Oh, bullshit." Mary spats, "The gods have nothing to do with this. I want you-"
"Will you watch me crawl into our bed then?" he hisses, "Will you want me when I can't satisfy you? When I have to work at the whims of a mad man because I can't refuse? Even at my worst, I could offer you a name. Protection."
Her mouth falls open and she looks at him again. They had spent so much time on the road, where they woke up every day, ready to do what was necessary, never calm enough to think much about the next step, the next day.
But now she looks at him and she sees all the chaos still left inside. Ivar, whose pride is left in shambles. He lost his kingdom, his title. Then his ability to walk.
This has nothing to do with her, Mary knows that. This is not the result of anything she said or did. This is Ivar getting into his own head and disappearing in the black hole that opens up when his pride and his anger both lose.
"Ivar, I want you. You, no one else." She says and when he opens his mouth, she quickly clasps her hand over his lips, silencing him, "If I wanted a king I would have gone to Medina and found a Caliph or a Sultan. And if I just wanted a man to ride," his eyes narrow at that, "then I could have found one long ago. I'm not here because I enjoy the climate. I'm here because you are."
She presses her lips against his as soon as she moves her hand and this time, he kisses her back. Frustrated and still a little embarrassed, but determined.
"Much better," she smiles when she leans back, "Now, I will go to bed and sleep, and I want you to join me."
Panic flashes behind his eyes and she nudges his shoulder with her own, "Just sleep, Ivar. I am exhausted. And tomorrow, I will find some food and I will find a hot bath, and maybe, if it is big enough, you can even join me."
"You are a crazy woman," he says when she gets up, her fingers slipping from his hand when he looks up at her adoringly.
"We make quite a pair then," she grins.
That night she sleeps in a thin night gown, her back pressed against Ivar's bare chest, and she falls asleep with a smile.
And Ivar holds her tight, as tight as he can, and when her breathing turns even, he leans up and gazes down at her face. Her lips are stretched in satisfaction, one of her hands clasped over his, and when he wakes up, she is wrapped around him, her head on his chest.