The fear of being a woman
Mary is barely awake when the door opens. Technically, she woke up about ten minutes ago, but she had refused to let sleep go quite yet. She was warm and happy, a heavy arm holding her close, and so, instead of waking up, she had been dozing and listening to Ivar's heart rhythmically beating under her cheek.
When the door did open, it did so quickly and with little regards for the room's occupants, which had made her think it must be Oleg. Annoyance rose before she even processed what was happening, but when she looks up it is not the Rus prince. It's a boy, maybe thirteen years old, with blonde hair.
What the fuck.
"What the fuck?" she shrieks, pulling the furs tight er around her body. Ivar's eyes snap open and the boy looks both stunned and curious.
"Who are you?" Mary asks loudly, trying desperately to cover herself and Ivar with what must have been the world smallest bear.
"I'm sorry." The boy quickly apologizes.
"It's alright," Ivar assures, ignoring Mary's panicked eyes. In fact, he seems altogether too comfortable, simply leaning on his elbows. Of course, if his legs were on display, he might be a little more agitated, but Mary had made sure that there were covered as soon as she was sure that she herself was.
"I will be waiting outside," the boy announces before turning on his heels. Mary is still rattled, her face red and when he leaves, she falls forward with a groan, her forehead pressed to the ground, "Oh my god."
Ivar just chuckles. "Are you alright?"
"Who was that?"
"Prince Igor. Oleg's younger brother."
Mary looks up again, the furs still clutched to her chest, "I can't believe he found is like this." She groans, her eyes scanning the disarray of clothes around them. If her whole body could blush, it would. Ivar seems unbearably calm, watching her with amusement as she melts down.
"Why are you so calm? He is a child."
"He has seen worse," Ivar just shrugs and Mary glares, "That doesn't mean he should have seen this."
Oh, God. If a hole could open up beneath her, she would be very thankful.
"I will see what he wants." Ivar says, starting to pull his clothes back on. Mary wordlessly passes him his crutch and when he heaves himself upright he smirks down at her.
She is still sitting on the ground, only covered in the furs, with her back hunched and her head lowered.
"Are you going to get up?"
She shakes her head, "I'm just gonna wait here for a bit. Maybe the room will collapse and put me out of my misery."
He just chuckles at her dramatics and puts a hand on her head, before leaving.
The room doesn't collapse – to her immense disappointment – and after a while she has to drag herself up. She gets dressed and then she sits in front of the mirror and makes sure that any and all traces of impropriety are gone. She brushes her hair and braids it – a skill she had learned and perfected since arriving here – before wiping away any smudges left behind by coal and dirt on both their hands.
When she leaves the room, Mary is as presentable as she could possibly be, but that doesn't keep the blush away when she finds Ivar and Igor in the eating hall adjacent.
The young prince – god, she is surrounded by a lot of royalty – immediately jumps to his feet before bowing his head, "I am sorry for intruding."
Mary smiles awkwardly, one arm still wrapped around herself, "Don't worry. I'm just sorry you had to see that."
He seems a little confused by her words before introducing himself, "I am prince Igor."
Should she bow? Curtsey? Are curtseys a thing yet? Mary isn't sure, so she just inclines her head, "It's an honour to meet you. My name is Mary."
"Please, sit with us." He invites her and she shuffles across the room, folding her legs to sit beside Ivar. At least the kid has manners, she has to give him that.
Igor sits as well, curiously glancing between the two of them, "Is she your wife?"
Oh, the awkwardness just won't stop. Mary glances at Ivar and jerks her head. He clears his throat, "No."
"Is she a concubine, then?"
Normally, Mary's first instinct is to bristle at accusations like that, but this is quite literally just a kid. It's not his fault that extramarital affairs are so common in this- Ah, shit.
Mary swallows. Because, technically – technically – she is a concubine. At least until Ivar either divorces Freydis, or they find out that she died. She wasn't even aware that she could feel this much shame, all at once.
"She is my woman. The only one." Ivar answers, evading the question while also managing to distract Mary. Under the table she quickly squeezes his hand.
Thank you.
Igor nods carefully and then – as children do – he quickly drops the topic.
"Would you like to see the puppets, Mісіс Mary?"
Mary's eyebrows rise and she glances at Ivar, who just shrugs. Igor looks at her with expectant eyes and her eyes soften, "I would love to."
The puppets, it turns out, are wooden and tall, reminding her of the nutcrackers she has seen for Christmas. They are kept in a box in the throne room and she is more than happy to find the hall completely deserted.
Ivar sits down on one of the chairs and once again, Igor quickly changes his path, falling into the seat beside him. Ivar looks surprised, but there is something else in his eyes. Something she had glimpsed only a few times. A kind of touched smile, that someone would seek out his presence purely for enjoyment.
Mary hangs back, kneeling on the stairs to the throne. When Igor turns to her, she smiles.
"You speak Rus." He says and she nods. "You also speak Norse."
"I speak a lot of languages," she replies and he nods, "I wish I could speak all the languages in the world."
Then he turns to Ivar, "Teach me how to speak Norse."
The words are not a question but a command and even in his soft voice and with his excited eyes, it proves the way in which he was raised. As a prince. But Ivar just smiles and lowers his hand to the floor, before explaining the Norse word. Igor repeats it eagerly. Then chair. Mead - Mary tsks at that one, and then Igor goes to the floor. He imitates Ivar's crawl, even pulling his legs into place once he reaches the puppets.
Ivar's mouth falls open at the mimic and for just a second, he looks a tad uncomfortable. But then Mary chuckles and when he looks at her, she shrugs, "It's pretty on point."
His eyes quickly scan the hall, as if trying to make sure that no one else is there, and then he grins. Igor grabs one of the puppets, a crown painted in gold on it's head, and holds it up, "Oleg."
At that, Mary snorts and then hides her smile behind her hand, "Sorry."
Ivar is a lot less apologetic, a small laugh escaping his lips when he nods, "Yes, Oleg."
A dog barks then and once again, Igor drops what he is doing and moves to the new stimuli. Really, the kid is restless. Mary quickly follows him, feeling like someone should be looking out for the boy, and when he jumps down the stairs, she rushes after him. Only once they reach the courtyard does he seem to remember Ivar and dutifully waits for him to join them.
Together, they make their way to the stables. The dog is still barking, at a cage stored to one side and when Mary recognizes what is inside, she gasps.
Then she puts a hand over Igor's eyes and pulls him back against her front. A man crawls from cage, a metal ring shoved through one side of his cheek before coming back out between his lips and her first instinct is to retch. Igor, still unaware what is in front of him, tries to peek between her fingers, but Mary gips him tighter.
"Don't."
"He has seen worse," Ivar says with a roll of his eyes, but Mary just glares at him. There is no reason – no good reason anywhere and at any time – for a child to see this. Hell, she doesn't even want to see this.
When her stare doesn't waver, Ivar rolls his eyes once again, but then he puts a hand on Igor's shoulder and leans down to the boy.
"Come," he nudges him, "Let us find something to eat."
The young prince tries to protest but Mary has already turned them around and is marching them back to the castle. Curiously, Igor tries to peek past her, but her hands stay on his shoulders and Ivar coaxes his attention back to him.
"You can pick a story to hear." He offers and when they pass underneath the balcony, Mary sees Oleg staring down at them, his face unreadable. She just stares back.
"He said he wants me to be honest," Mary says stubbornly and Ivar rolls his eyes, "That's because he has never heard you be honest."
She paces in their room, her hands balled to fists, while Ivar watches, growing more impatient with every step.
"Well, maybe it's time he does."
He snatches her hand and pulls her close, "Mary, don't."
She knows he is right. Of course, she does. But Jesus, she wants to tell the man a thousand things, none of them very nice.
"Igor is a child. He shouldn't be around a man like Oleg."
Ivar nods and he can see the angry tension ease from her shoulders, "You are right, he should not. But he is and we can do nothing against that."
Her chin juts out for a moment, before she narrows her eyes, "I'm gonna make sure that he spends as little time with him as possible."
"A good plan."
Mary glares at him, her eyes suspicious, "Are you only saying that to appease me?"
"Yes," he answers and she huffs, pushing his face away when he grins. But Ivar keeps her close, "But I also agree."
With a pout, Mary's hand – which had just shoved his head to the side – lands on his cheek and she sighs. Damn him and that charming little smile. When did he turn charming anyways? It's much easier to deal with Ivar when he is the unreasonable one.
A knock sounds, "Ivar."
Oleg is impatient and Mary rolls her eyes when Ivar exhales loudly.
"We will go visit Igor again tomorrow." He promises before grabbing his crutch and limping to the door. Mary falls back on the bed, her arms spread wide. Never has she thought so much about overthrowing someone. It's just too damn tempting.
Igor's room urns out to be every boy's dream, full of toys and trinkets, and when the boy peeks out from above an actual nest, Mary frowns.
"You'd think they are raising a monkey," She mumbles when he quickly climbs down.
"I am delighted, my friends," he says loudly, before adding, "my cripple."
Mary cranes her neck at the word and Igor stops in confusion.
"She does not like the word.' Ivar explains with a grin and Mary grinds her teeth, "It is not a nice word."
"But it is the truth," Igor says confused, "he is a cripple."
"Jesus Christ," she mumbles to herself and Ivar chuckles, "She can be … peculiar."
"Peculiar, my ass," Mary swears, "I just can't stand that word. It's ugly and derogatory."
Igor looks unsure for a moment but Ivar just waves her off, "Do not worry."
Instead, he quickly engages the young boy in an inane conversation. When Igor claims the existence of only one God and then says that the god looks like Oleg, Mary laughs, "Who would ever follow such a God?"
The mirth on her face quickly vanishes when they are interrupted by three soldiers. She expects them to ask for Ivar or Igor, both of whom may have business with Oleg, but when they demand Mary, she freezes.
"What is this about?" Ivar asks suspiciously, one hand tightening around her wrist.
"The prince wishes to speak with her," one of them says, and Mary recognizes him as the same man who initially brought them here. He is still dressed in black. He glances at Ivar's hand and adds, "Alone."
Fuck.
Mary swallows hard before prying Ivar's fingers from her wrist, "It's alright."
"Mary-"
"It will be fine." She assures him with a shaky smile. Then she bows to Igor, "I am sorry. It seems I have to leave."
Ivar looks furious when she is led out, but May can't focus on that right now. She nervously straightens out her dress when she follows the silent guards. But they lead her past the throne room, through the dining hall and when they stop in front of Oleg's room, her heart is racing.
Maybe she should have let Ivar argue. But it's too late now, and soon she is invited into the room, which is at least five times the size of theirs, with jewels and silks and all kinds of statues and finely crafted furniture.
Oleg is standing in front of a drawer, closing a small box before turning around.
"Mary," he says, his voice a bad imitation of joy, "I wanted to speak with you."
The guards leave and she subconsciously wraps her arms around herself. His eyes make a shiver run down her spine.
"What do you want?" she asks, more brusquely than intended.
Oleg quirks a grin, "So very direct."
Then he steps closer and Mary forces her shoulders down even when all she wants is to duck her head. But Bjorn hasn't made her cower, and neither have Lagertha or Harald. Hell, she stood up to Ivar at his worst. She won't let this man intimidate her.
"When you were brought here, they called you a fortune teller."
She raises an eyebrow when he stops a meter away from her, "I did not know you believe in fortunes. You haven't seemed all that interested so far."
"I believe that my life is in mine and God's hands only. Everything else is irrelevant."
"Then why am I here?"
"I am getting married soon."
She frowns, "Congratulations?"
"You see, my wife will be here soon. I intend to be a good husband to her," he explains and Mary almost- almost – rolls her eyes. Doubtful.
"But you fascinate me," he continues and when he inches closer, she moves away, "And I dislike seeing you at the side of someone like Ivar."
"Why?"
"He believes himself bigger than he is and it makes him blind to the greatness at his side." He lifts a hand, fingers splayed wide open, "You try so hard to blend in, yet there is something about you that I cannot quite, " he closes his fist, "grasp."
What the hell does he want her to do about that?
"So, I send out my man and they brought me back the most interesting stories about you. One in particular, seems to stand out," he clasps his hands before his body and lifts his chin, "Take off your dress."
Mary blanches, "Excuse me?"
"Take of your dress," he says again and she shakes her head, "No."
He shakes his head with a sigh that sounds almost sad, before his hand shoots out, grabbing her hands and yanking her forwards, "It is such a shame that honest women are so difficult," he groans.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oleg has his wrists in his hands and she manages to escape his fingers just long enough to draw her hand back and scratch his face, leaving bloody traces that lead from his forehead across his nose and nick his lip.
But it only makes him angry and she is pushes hard against the drawer, the wood hitting her back painfully and she gasps. She tries to kick him in the groin, but her dress is heavy ad thick and he easily evades her clumsy attack. Then he has both of her wrists in his and he forces her arms behind her back, holding them in place with one hand and the weight of his body, when he presses against her.
Mary is wedged between him and the drawer and when she struggles, he leans down until his lips are by her ear, "Quiet now," he shushes her, "Or I will have your Viking brought here, and I will do much worse than I plan to do now."
"Bastard." She spats, but her jerky movements slow and Oleg straightens up with a smug smile.
He pulls a thin knife from his robe and Mary almost starts to fight him again, but she forces herself not to.
Oleg leans to one side, his eyes leaving her face and instead falling onto the bodice of her dress and when she feels the pointed pressure of the knife under her breast, she tenses.
The sharp weapon easily cuts through the heavy material, slicing through layers like butter, before sinking into the shallow tissue of her skin. Her body instinctively jerks to one side, but Oleg leans in closer, his hips pressing against hers until she stills.
He doesn't cut deeper and after swiftly moving the blade in a crescent, he quickly sheaths it again.
Mary feels a few drops of blood run down her skin when he lifts the material from her side and then he exhales loudly and she looks down. The cross on her side is exposed, slightly smudged with red and after a few moments of laboured breathing, Oleg's eyes find her face again.
"You are truly a Christian, " he says, ignoring the shake of her head, "A Christian who is loyal to a heathen. How could you possibly belong to him?"
"I am not a Christian." She hisses, "Now take your hands off me."
She is tempted to jerk her wrists from his grasp and try to get another hit, but there is still a knife hidden on him, and at least for now, he seems satisfied. So, she doesn't.
"They call me the Prophet," Oleg whispers, "And I see that you are not meant to be with him."
"They call me the Fortune teller," Mary snarls, "And I see your death and your ruin, Oleg of Novgorod. I see a horse and I see your dead body."
He freezes at her words and for a moment he actually looks afraid. Mary laughs, "I know about the prophecy. Your dead will come to you through your own steed."
Oleg lets go of her then, but he doesn't move away, "Do not forget at whose mercy you are."
Apparently, he has a lot less respect for seers then then Vikings do. They would be on their knees by now.
"I can have you thrown out of our gates whenever I wish, and then I could watch you freeze to death." He warns, "Or I could have your man's throat cut. All I have to do is give the order. I care for his life a lot less than yours."
Oleg's face goes through a terrifying change then, where flares nostrils and gritted teeth turn into a false smile, "As a fellow Christian I will make you a gift." He pulls something from the drawer and when he lifts his arms, Mary flinches. But he simply puts a necklace on her shoulders. "I insist you wear it. I'm sure Ivar won't mind."
Around her neck hangs a heavy cross, decorated in silver and gold, with delicate details set with gems. She glares at him.