A minute with you
Prince Oleg – as it turns out - is not only a creepy megalomaniac, but also a pervert. They are still in bed when he saunters in, not bothering to knock or announce himself any other way, and Mary draws the blankets up to her chest with a yelp. She has learned her lesson about see-through garments and Oleg will not get an eyeful of her.
Ivar shoots up in bed, his hair in disarray, and when he spots the prince, he scowls.
Oleg doesn't care.
"I see that you made full use of having your companion back." He remarks and Mary glares at him.
"What do you want, prince Oleg?" Ivar asks tiredly, unwilling to play whatever game is being offered.
"Your presence, of course." The prince answers with a shrug, "A mind such as yours should never sit idle for too long."
"I will be right out."
"Good," Oleg nods, "I want you on your best. If I thought that these nightly encounters might tire out my newest recruit, I might have to forbid them."
He is gone as quickly as he appeared and Mary falls back in bed, "Idiot."
Over the next few days, Ivar obediently entertains Prince Oleg, joining him on adventures of all kinds. The only good thing that comes out of it, is the crutch that the prince presents to him a week later.
From then on, Ivar is gone even more often.
It is on one of those days, that their room is suddenly invaded by a barrage of servants. Most of them are women, the older ones hastily pulling at Mary's wrists, too impatient to explain what is happening.
She figures it out quickly enough though. Prince Oleg has moved them to a different room, one adjoining him and his other private rooms, meaning that before getting to her own, she will have to step through his dining hall. A door doesn't seem like enough between her and that man.
The room is still nice, with a wide bed and four small fires instead of one big one, but the thought of being close to Oleg makes her uncomfortable. Ivar looks quite sceptical as well, even when he graciously thanks their host, who in turns just smiles slyly.
Over dinner the next day, Oleg speaks up. He has been ignoring Mary for the most part and she is more than glad for it, but now he is looking directly at her.
"She is not Rus." He remarks.
"Neither am I." Ivar responds bored, not looking up from the hot soup in front of him.
"But you are in the service of the Rus." Oleg counters and Ivar drops his spoon in annoyance.
"And she is my companion. So, what does it matter?"
Mary follows their conversation silently, her own spoon gripped tightly in her hands. Oleg always narrows his eyes when she speaks, and for once, Ivar is the one whose comments draw fewer criticism.
Misogynist.
"I do not know how it is handled in Scandinavia," Oleg presses, "But people have to earn their upkeep. Women have to earn their upkeep."
Ivar narrows his eyes in suspicion, "And just how is she supposed to do that?"
"There are many ways for a woman to do that," Oleg answers.
"In your dreams," Mary mumbles into her soup.
"Unless a man pays for her stay."
Ivar shrugs, "I will pay for her stay then."
"Good." Oleg answers, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth. But he is still staring at her. The servants take the soup away and Mary cannot even remember what was in it.
"It is only for appearance, of course." Oleg says after a long silence, "My court has to appear as proper as any, even if I myself do not believe it necessary. After all, a spirit such as hers cannot, and should not, be tamed." There is a twinkle in his eyes and Mary shifts uncomfortably. There has been something in the way he stared at her. For a few days now. Until tonight, she had not been able to place it, but she suspects it might be starting to break to the surface.
"I would say she is rather calm, actually." Ivar interjects, but Oleg's eye stay on Mary.
When she doesn't say anything, he continues, "I have heard her speak." He says. Not accusingly, but still like someone who has just discovered a secret, "In your rooms. It is a good act she puts on out here, but it is not perfect" Mary freezes and Ivar tries to pretend that he doesn't. She lifts her eyes to Oleg's and he is grinning, one knee drawn up with his arm stretched across it. His posture is relaxed, but his face is predatory. He is playing with them, reminding them of their place.
"I want you to speak like that to me. You are my guests after all." He drawls, still staring, "Ivar, do you not think that there should be enough trust between us to let your woman speak freely?"
It's a threat wrapped in pretty words and Ivar grinds his teeth, "Of course, prince Oleg."
And then it's Mary's turn to speak and she swallows, "I'm sorry for lying."
He waves her off, "All I wish for is a fresh wind in these old halls. And you might be just what I need."
Her tongue feels heavy. He is waiting for her and her mind feels blank. What would she say to that if it was just her and Ivar?
Mary chuckles, the sound more like a hiss between her lips, "Oh, I am nothing special. In fact, I think you would find the air in here quite refreshing if only more women would be allowed in."
It's a bit of a jibe, a dangerous bet, but Oleg just laughs. He is entertained.
"A quick wit as well," he remarks, "When my new wife arrives, she will find your company most amusing."
Later that night, Ivar pushes her down on the bed, one hand splayed on her sternum, and she looks up at him with surprise.
"Am I the one you want?" he asks and his face is possessive.
She nods, "Of course."
"Then do not ever let Oleg touch you. And if he does, I want you to cut off his hand before coming to me." He growls.
Ivar is gone for days after that. He has ridden out to meet with Oleg's brothers, she is told, but the loneliness almost makes her go crazy. Worse yet, it makes her think.
Late at night, when she has nothing else to think about and when sleep is tearing down her carefully erected walls, she starts remembering.
Hvitserk and Thora. Are they safe? Are they happy? What about Ubbe? Has Bjorn won his favour by letting Margaret back into town? And then, always, like a ghoul in the night: Freydis.
Is she alive? And if so, has she had the child. Is there a little boy or girl being told that their father is Ivar the Boneless?
And then her mind reels back to that one moment, the slip of petite feet, the straining of a rope. It haunts her. Still.
Sometimes, she his happy that Ivar has done nothing but kiss her, because how could she touch him knowing what has happened last time? What their proximity had caused.
In an attempt to escape the dark thoughts, Mary does something which she hasn't done in weeks. She drinks.
The decision leads to the rather fascinating situation in which Mary, rather tipsy and laying on her back, is hit on the knee – hard – when the door is thrown open by Ivar, equally drunk.
"Ouch," she curses and he looks at her surprised, splayed on the floor in a full gown of dark purple and gold. His lips quirk and then he throws the door shut again to limp closer, staring down at her face, cheeks rosy and lips stained red.
He sways.
Or maybe her vision sways, she isn't sure.
"What are you doing?" he asks. She lifts a finger and crooks it, "Come join me."
With little elegance, he sits down to the floor, only to be pulled to his back by Mary, "Come on."
"What are you doing?" he asks again, but this time he laughs and she chuckles by his side.
"Have you ever looked at the ceiling here?" she points up, where shadows dance between the patterned first layer, where shapes are cut out of the wood.
"A rather unnecessary piece of work." Ivar remarks and she slaps his shoulder, "It's impressive."
"If you say so." Then he turns his head and looks at her, smiling wide with bright eyes, "Are you drunk?"
"Only if you are." She shoots back and then she giggles and rolls onto her side, "A little."
He nods and turns back to the ceiling, but Mary's face quickly appears in his field of vision. Her hair is held back with a simple band, but some strands around her face have escaped, tickling his cheeks when she leans over him.
"I missed you."
"I was not gone for long."
"I know, but this place is dreadfully boring." She pouts and he lifts his head when she rests her's on his chest.
"Have the nightmare returned?"
He knows all about them. He has been the one to wake her up for months, the one who held her when she woke up with a sob. Mary doesn't know if Ivar dreams the same because, even though she strongly suspects it, he never tells her.
"Only twice," she answers and he gently strokes her hair.
"I am sorry." He mumbles quietly and she sighs, "So am I."
He can feel her mood slipping, but before her drunken happiness is lost, he draws her up. She leans on her hands and he sits up. "I want you to know something, Mary."
His pupils are large, the blue pushed to the very edges, and his breath smells of wine. Still, she is mesmerized. By the closeness. By him.
"I made a mistake. Marrying Freydis." He pulls her closer still, and Mary leans back on her knees, waiting for him to continue. "I did not love her. Not the way I love you. But she offered me something I never thought I could have. Something, I thought I wanted." She swallows and he gently strokes her cheek, "But now I think of her, and all I feel is guilt. I do not regret my actions, but I do regret hers. I hope she is alive and well, but I do not want to see her."
"What about the child?" she asks thickly.
"I hope it finds another father. One who wants it. One who can care for it." He seems deeply troubled by his own words and Mary leans her head against his shoulder, "it's not yours, Ivar."
He nods, but the movement is jerky, "I know. But for a while it might have been."
There is a heavy silence and, at a loss for words, Mary passes him the bottle.
He takes a sip, then another, and then he falls back onto his back without a waring, causing Mary to tumble on top of him.
"Careful," she laughs before leaning in closer and kissing him. He tastes of wine. She does, too. She kisses him until she has to gasp for air, and when she straddles his hips he sits up, drawing her closer by the waist.
"I missed you," she moans when he kisses her collarbone, her neck, her shoulder. She rocks in his lap but there is too much between them. Heavy skirts and thick trousers and when she is about to speak, his fingers start working on the laces of her dress.
She slows down.
His fingers stop for a moment, confused by the sudden change of pace, but Mary pulls his face closer.
"Don't stop," she whispers against his lips.
Her own hands push back his hair, long and silky, before running down. They slip under his tunic and she exhales loudly when she feels the muscles of his abdomen. She inches the fabric up, her fingers hungrily exploring every bit of him, and when she pulls it over his head, her lips find the tattoos on his shoulders.
"I love these," she mumbles and he nuzzles the side of her face when the lacings of the dress finally fall apart.
But there is yet another dress underneath and he curses when his fingers find more fabric beneath, "I hate these dresses."
Mary chuckles and draws back.
She drops the first dress, letting it slide down her hips, before pulling the second one over her head. And then Ivar is looking at her, practically devouring her with his eyes, because underneath there is nothing. Just her.
When Mary straddles his lap again, Ivar growls.
He seems torn between pulling her closer and looking at her, and in the end he has one hand between her shoulder blades and one on her breast, while his lips work against hers. Mary is on fire. Every movement of his hand, every flick of his thumb, sends desire through her and she starts rocking against him.
His hands go to her hips then, encouraging every movement and he gasps her name when her thighs clench around him. One hand on his face, she lets the other one run lower, ever lower, until they slip under the edge of his trousers.
"Mary," he gasps in warning, even when his hands grip her hip, "I don't-"
She doesn't move her hand, just leans in closer until her lips are by his ear, "I can stop."
His grip tightens even more and his forehead falls against her collarbone. Then he shakes his head and she presses a kiss behind his ear.
She starts to open his trousers, her movements never stopping, and Ivar burrows his face in the crook of her neck. But they can't stay like this and Mary moves a hand to the back of his neck, tugging at his hair until he finally looks at her. His eyes are wide and glazed with lust and for a moment she forgets what she wanted to say. Kissing Ivar is wonderful. It's all ragged breaths and soft moans and minutes pass before her muddled brain starts to function again.
"Come," she whispers and then guides them backwards, leaning back until she unfolds her legs from beneath herself and instead wraps them around Ivar's hips. She pushes down hiss trousers and draws him closer. He seems more than eager at first, hovering above her as he covers her in kisses. She shifts, his skin setting her on fire wherever they touch, and his hand wanders from her sides to her hips and down her thighs.
But then he realizes that she isn't planning on moving again, in fact, she is keeping him right in place with her legs and he looks up. Eyebrows draw together and insecurity crosses his beautiful face.
"Mary," he mumbles, closing his eyes and shaking his head, "I don't know how…"
"Trust me." She whispers back and then she reaches between them and he gasps her name when she touches him. Mary moves, shifts downwards and positions herself and when Ivar moves, she moans.
This time it doesn't sting, but she still olds onto his arms, fingernails raking across his shoulders when he starts to rock and then he is gasping her name.
Again and again. Mary.
His movements are shallow and rapid and every time he pushes forward, their hips meet in the most delicious way.
"God, Ivar." He gasps and his head falls to the floor, his breath hard against her shoulder. She holds him close, urges him on with every curse and every moan and even when his arms begin to shake, he doesn't stop.
Thank god, he doesn't stop because something is building deep in her stomach and she presses a kiss against his ear. More. Just a little more.
And then it's there, right there, and her thighs clench.
She groans and her hands pull him even closer until he is flush against her front.
He feels her shake underneath him and the way she moans his name, the name she somehow tightens, almost makes him come undone. But he can't.
So, he grins his teeth and resist the temptation of just one more, just one more stroke, before pulling back.
It doesn't diminish his enjoyment. How could it if he has her under him, panting his name. Still, he collapses on top of her, his head on her chest and he listens to her heart beat while he tries to catch his breath. His knees are sore but he doesn't care. Someone could drive a sword right through hiss heart and he would not care. Not right now.
Mary's skin is covered in a sheen of sweat and her chest moves rapidly, even when her heartbeat slows. Lazy fingers stroke his hair, the movement slow and calming and he feels the stress, the weeks on the road, everything, slowly seep from his muscles.
When the fire slowly dies, neither one of them want to move and in the end, Ivar just pulls the furs from the bench and covers them.