The strength of women
Ivar walks in when is sitting on the bed, her night gown carefully lifted while she looks into the mirror and tries to clean the blood from her ribs. The ruined dress is by her feet, the bodice stained red, and when he sees her, they both freeze.
Worry and fury fight for dominance but when he catches her wide eyes, the former take hold of him and he limps to her side.
"What happened?" his voice is still tight but his fingers are gentle when he takes the rag from her hands.
"Oleg happened." She grinds out when he rubs the cloth over the wound, "He heard about the tattoo. When I wouldn't get undressed, he decided to take matters into his own hands."
"I'm going to kill him." Ivar whispers and Mary snarls.
"How? How will you kill him, Ivar?" she doesn't mean to be cruel, but she is hurt and shaking, and so tired of being afraid, "Even if you got close enough to him to actually do it, we will both be dead before we can even leave the castle."
"I will find a way," Ivar promises quietly, the determination in his voice leaving no place for doubt. Still, Mary lashes out.
"Like you swore to kill Lagertha? Because she is still alive and well."
It's a dirty hit, and Ivar tenses as soon as the words are out. Mary drops the nightgown and steps away from him. Now they are both angry. Good.
"Do not speak about Lagertha." Ivar whispers and Mary whirls around, "Or what?"
He stares silently, his nostrils flaring, and she points a dinger at him, "You are not the only one who is allowed to get angry. I'm so tired of men being violent and condescending. I am so sick of it."
"So, I am just like Oleg?" Ivar asks angrily and this time he does get up, the crutch under his arm, "Are you afraid of me, too?"
She lifts her hand, the scar still clearly visible across her palm, "Shouldn't I be?"
For a moment his mouth falls open in shock only to be replaced by a mask of cool indifference, "You are a cruel woman." He steps closer, "But I am a cruel man as well."
She frowns when Ivar takes her hand. He kisses the scar and the he tugs at her wrist, light enough for her to pull away if she wants to. But his sudden gentleness is tearing at her resolution and she can feel her anger start to waver. The floor sways under her feet and Mary lets herself be pulled closer.
Why is her lip trembling?
"I'm not cruel." She protests weakly and her fingers start to shake in his grip. Why is she shaking? She feels cold.
"No, you are not." Ivar agrees and his hand goes to the back of her head. She leans her face against his chest. The trembling has moved inwards and suddenly she feels ready to break.
"Don't let him turn you into something you are not."
The words make her crumble and then her anger collapses and all the if left is a terrible, terrible sense of fear. Her hand grasps the leather on his back.
"I thought-" she starts, her voice trembling. Her throat is tight. Her eyes are moist. And then she breaks and if it Ivar had not been there, she would have fallen to her knees.
"I thought he was going to- He told me to get undressed and he grabbed me – I tried to fight, Ivar, I really did-" she stammers and then she sobs, "Please."
She doesn't know what she is asking for. Safety. Security. Help.
All she knows is that her shoulders shake and a feeling of helplessness grows in her chest, "I couldn't- I couldn't even think."
She cries only for a minute, but it is loud and deep and when the shock recedes, her head is pounding. She crawls onto the bed, draws her knees up to her chest and watches Ivar take of his armour. When he joins her, she clings to him, her hands fisted into his tunic.
And then, Mary makes a decision. She sees herself as if she were standing outside her own body and she hates what she sees. A girl with tear-stricken face, helpless and hopeless. A girl who lowers her head to avoid trouble, who could do nothing but scream when a man overpowered her. She hates what she sees, and she realizes that she has to put a stop to it. There are still pieces of her left. She still speaks her mind, even if she does it less often than she used to, and if she hopes to find back to herself, she has to do it now. Otherwise, she might be forever lost.
"Ivar," she clears her throat, sitting up. He looks at her, his eyes soft and still clouded with worry.
"I love you," she starts and then she stops, thinking about her next words. He raises an eyebrow, "But?"
Mary smiles softly at that and lifts a hand to his face, "No but. Not really." She assures, "All I meant to say is that, you love me. You loved me a year ago and you love me still."
He nods.
"Good. Because I love you as well, so much, but I'm gonna bring you a lot of trouble." She grins then, "Alright, so there might have been a but after all."
Ivar smiles when she does, but his face is still confused, "You have brought me nothing but trouble since Wessex," he says and she shakes her head with a chuckle, "Mary, what is this about?"
"I'm not gonna let him do that again," she declares and his eyes darken. It's clear what she means and he sits up as well.
"I'm not going to leave you alone with him ever again." Ivar says seriously but Mary shakes her head again, "That's not what I mean. I'm not just talking about Oleg. I'm talking about everything. The men, the women, everyone. I kept telling myself that I have to be smart, that I have to play by their rules, but I'm done with it."
The words seem to send her into a frenzy of new found energy and Mary crawls off the bed, "I'm not going to sit by and swallow the thinly veiled insults or the misogyny."
She walks over to the small table where a smudged mirror hangs on the wall and when she sits down, she splashes water on her face. No eyes red from crying, no blotchy faces, or trembling lips. She won't allow it.
"I don't know if Oleg hates or loves me, and I don't care. He wants to play a game? I can play, but I won't do it by his rules. I'm not gonna cower just to appease him."
She catches Ivar's eyes in the mirror. He is sitting up in bed, watching her curiously, "Will I have to be the voice of reason then?" he asks and Mary snorts.
"Fuck, no. We'd be dead in week."
When her face is clean, she turns to her hair. It has grown to ridiculous length in the last year. It's unruly and dried out. More importantly however, it looks exactly like everyone else's hair.
"Give me your knife." She demands and Ivar motions to the side of the room, where it lays beside an array of other weapons.
"What are you doing?" he asks when she lifts it to her shoulders. The locks fall easily to the ground. Thank God, the knife is sharp. Otherwise, the haircut may have turned out quite wonky. The next time she washes her hair, the curls will tighten and graze her shoulders.
"I'm not stupid," she says, going back to their previous conversation, "I won't refuse to wear a dress if it's all that they will give me. But whenever he looks at me, whenever any of them look at me, I want them to know that I am not under their thumb. I'm not a Christian from Wessex and I am not some folkloric fortune-teller. If they try to push me, I will push back."
"Wait until they sleep and hold a knife to their throat?" he asks with a wicked grin, and Mary nods, "If I have to."
"Good," he says and when she tries to put his dagger back where it was, "Keep it."
Mary looks down, "It's too big." The knife is long and heavy, the blade wide and jagged on one side. It's a hunting knife. A weapon for the battlefield. Not what she needs. "I will get a different one."
"From where?"
Mary sits down on the bed again, "Do you think the women here don't carry knifes? Oleg is not the only thing lurking in the shadows."
Ivar doesn't protest but when she slips back under the blanket he asks, "Do you know how to use it?"
"Pointy end first?"
He grins, "Don't go for the chest. Bones are hard and you are not very strong," she huffs but he only lifts a hand to his neck, "The throat is soft. The stomach. Behind the knees. Otherwise, under the arm and if you cut the inside of the thigh, the blood will be impossible to stop."
Mary listens and nods when he continues, "Your forehead to the nose. Fingers in the eyes. And of course, if you are dealing with a man, hit him between the legs. I have seen the biggest Vikings fall from that."
Before he can continue, Mary presses a soft kiss to his lips, "Thank you."
He leans his forehead against hers and smirks, "What can I say. I like it when you are blood-thirsty."
That night, Mary sleeps well. Because she knows that tomorrow, she will feel like herself again. For the first time in months. Since England; maybe even since that fateful day when she was brought in front of Lagertha.