Bide your time
When Mary wakes up, she finds Ivar above her, leaning on one arm, with his eyes focused on something below her neck. He frowns.
"Good morning?" she asks confused.
"What is that?" it's only when she lifts her hand to her neck, that she remembers Oleg's little gift.
"Our favourite mad Rus gave it to me," she grumbles, "He insists I wear it."
She slips out of bed but Ivar is still frowning, "And you will wear it? Even after last night?"
She sighs when she runs her fingers through her hair, before picking one of the dresses from the drawer. "I told you I will be trouble. I won't get us killed."
"I don't like it on you."
"I think that's the point. Oleg tries to feel superior, and what better way than to force me to wear his precious little symbol around my neck?" she grumbles annoyed. The weight of it feels suffocating, it's so heavy.
When she pulls the nightgown over her head, the muscles in her back protest. Mary stops. She had expected her side to hurt, where the knife had nicked her. She turns her head and finds Ivar's eyes on her lower back. Oh, yeah.
Carved wood pressing into her back when Oleg had thrown her against the dresser. She lifts her hands and finds bruises around her wrists as well, blooming like splotches of paint across her skin, with a row of four, oblong marks on the inside her arm.
"It's fine." She says quickly, letting the bruises disappear under her dress, "I don't care."
But Ivar's mood has already darkened and his brows stay low all throughout breakfast. Even Igor can only draw the occasional answer from his brooding form and when the guards announce Oleg's presence, Ivar looks ready to kill.
The impulse is weakened – and his mood significantly lifted – when Oleg walks in, three long, bloody strikes drawn across his face. Mary grins satisfied, an expression that stays even when the prince catches her eyes.
He frowns in disappointment when she doesn't react to his presence, before his eyes land on the cross laying between her collarbones. Then he grins as well and looks at Ivar, who regards the entire interaction with a deepening scowl.
Oleg just grins wider and Mary shakes her head.
Even if she doesn't wanna play, Ivar is doing just what Oleg wants. She will have to talk to him. The morning is filled with false conversation and pleasantries, where Oleg's smile grows with every biting answer from Ivar and shrinks with every unconcerned answer from Mary.
Poor Igor seems completely lost. He is old enough to pick up on the tensions in the room, but nothing more.
In the evening – no, not even the evening. At night – Oleg calls for them. Mary growls at the guards but heaves herself out of bed and gets dressed.
"He is such a nuisance," she hisses quietly to Ivar when they are led through the dark castle. God, it gets cold at night. Especially here, where no fires heat up the icy halls.
Oleg expects them in a – tomb? Mary isn't quite sure, but the room is barren and dark, the only light being the one falling in through the window or coming from the thick candles spread throughout the place. Behind Oleg is what appears to be a huge stone casket.
This is ridiculous.
But then he starts speaking, and the whole things somehow becomes worse.
…the invasion of Scandinavia.
Mary freezes at his words and Ivar tenses beside her, only easing when she slips her fingers through his in the darkness of the room.
For a second, she fears that Ivar will agree to Oleg's idea. The man does love invading his own home, after all.
But all that follows is silence and Mary breathes a breath of relief because the thought of Kattegat doesn't seem to bring up only Bjorn and Lagertha. No, he is thinking of Ubbe and Floki, who stood by his side. Of Hvitserk, his general and advisor, and she knows that he doesn't want to be part of it. Not like this.
"You can be very useful to me." Oleg continues, "You are a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. No one can question your legitimacy to rule when I place you upon the throne."
Ivar's fingers tighten around hers and Mary huffs, "Why should we agree to help you?"
"We?" Oleg asks with a laugh, "There is no we. You are of no use in this debate. I only asked you to come so that dear Ivar remembers that his decisions are tied to you."
"So, I'm a hostage?"
"A security." He corrects, "Unless, he wishes to take the side of his countrymen after all. Vikings are known for their dislike of-" his gaze wanders to the cross and he smiles, "Christians."
"So, then I will be your puppet ruler, huh?' Ivar interrupts. Oleg's smirk falls.
"Don't mess with me, Ivar the Boneless," he threatens and steps closer. Ivar bristles and she feels his weight shift, ready to step between them, but she pulls his hand, asking him to stay.
"I'm offering far more than your worth." Oleg says condescendingly and even though Mary hates the man, she has to admit that he is smart. Ivar's pride is his weakness, and he knows it. He continues the little game, dangling kingship in front of Ivar's nose, trying to disguise it as a selfless offering.
Ivar's head tilts, his chin lifts, and his mouth lifts into a fake smile. But he doesn't bite. "You forget something, " he answers instead, "We Vikings do not share your faith. Our Gods walked the earth and their blood flows in our veins. I am a descendent of Odin himself."
His words are laid on a little thick in Mary's opinion and for Oleg it seems to be even worse. He snaps when Ivar finishes, throwing a candlestick violently to the floor as he turns back around.
"You are not a god!"
First time he and Mary agree.
"you are not a god and my wife was not a Saint." He shouts, pointing at the sarcophagus and making Mary swallow hard. Dead wife. Just great.
"She was a whore." Oleg curses and Mary remembered her words from before. No accusations tolerated for the sake of harmony. But Oleg is quicker than her, his voice rising until it echoes around the chamber, "I told you, you can be useful. That should be enough. But don't ever betray me or I'll have your witch brought to me and I will have you watch me take her. And then I will gift her to my men and I will stuff your boneless body in the casket with my wife."
In an odd turn of events, it is Ivar who holds Mary back this time. Her fingers have closed around the slim knife hidden in her dress – it was truly easy to find one – and she had leaned to step forward. Maybe to stab Oleg, she doesn't know.
But he holds her in place even when her teeth are bared with a snarl and when she looks at him, his face is oddly calm. As if he knows something no one else does.
And then the oddest thing happens. Oleg looks back at the casket and his face falls. He turns slowly and without even looking at them, he sinks over the statue laid on top and weeps. Just as quickly however, he straightens up again and when he speaks his voice is calm again.
"Don't take everything so seriously, Ivar."
Scary, power-hungry, violent. All of those, Mary already knew. But now she realizes that Oleg is mad as well. Volatile.
And with she has to guiltily admit that for a second, she compares him to Ivar. Because he can be, too. But not like this. Never like this. Never in a way that made her question his sanity.
Oleg's face is sorrowful. "We widows are very passionate. Very emotional."
Bullshit, Mary thinks. You are just crazy. A crazy man with too much power.
Thankfully, he doesn't say much more after that.
A few days later, Ivar slips from their bed in the middle of the night. Maybe he thinks she doesn't notice, but when he comes back, Mary is sitting upright, waiting for him.
When he sees her he stops, having the decency to at least look somehow apologetic, "You noticed."
"Stealth is not one of your better qualities," Mary answers and he grins. Whatever has happened, seems to have had a good ending, because Ivar is very pleased with himself.
"Christ, you are frozen," she hisses when he lies down. He stays atop the covers, not bothering to get changed now that morning is so close, and the cold of the night seems to be oozing off of him. Mary inches away.
"What did you do?"
"I made Oleg's attempts at the throne aa little harder," he says, "Do you remember the man in the cage?"
Mary's shudder has nothing to do with the cold, "I don't think I will ever forget."
"Well, lets just say that he is no longer in the cage. And with him gone, Oleg will have to watch his back."
They exchange hidden glances the next day at lunch, when Oleg rages inside, his gown billowing behind him while his eyes are furious. Igor doesn't seem wholly unaware of what is going on, because while he gives Oleg big eyes of confusion, Ivar rests a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder as he passes. A congratulatory hand. A celebratory hand.
And Mary wants to tell him to keep Igor out of whatever schemes he is making, that the boy is in enough danger as it is, but she also knows that Igor is an essential plan of Ivar's plan.
The boy grows attached quickly and soon, Mary finds him in their room every other day, just before dinner. At that time, Oleg is still busy, cleaning up the last bits of business, before joining them for dinner and – too often – demanding company after.
While Mary finds his puppets more than a bit unsettling, she cannot help the smile that comes over her face whenever she watches him with Ivar. Because Ivar – Ivar the Boneless, the Viking King – does almost everything to make the little prince smile. Sure, there is an agenda behind many of his words, and a lot of the time he spends convincing Igor of his rightful place as the ruler of the Rus, but it's more than that.
He likes to spend time with him. Maybe, because Igor doesn't fear him. His background, his history, doesn't matter here. Igor doesn't want anything but a friend. And coincidentally, Ivar has never had one of those. There were his brothers of course, and then Mary, but none of those could really be classified as a friend.
"Mary," he asks one evening, "is it true that you are a witch?"
Mary, who had been busy reading one of the books left behind by Oleg, looks up surprised. Ivar had been keeping him entertained by magic tricks, but it seems that he is craving more.
"I wouldn't call it witch," she mumbles, closing the book, "but something similar."
"The Vikings called her Seer." Ivar supplies and Igor cocks his head, "Because you see things? You have visions, right?"
She makes a vague gesture and Ivar chuckles, "She knows the future. Many things that have happened and will happen, and all the knowledge we will ever have."
"That's a bit exaggerated," Mary laughs, "His expectations will be too high."
"But you do now the future?" Igor asks and she nods, "Some of it."
The boy thinks for a while, his brows drawn together and his lips pursed, and Mary exchanges an amused glance with Ivar.
"Are there still puppets in the future?" he asks then and the question is so absurd that Mary's mouth falls open. Then she snorts, "Yes. Yes, there are. And even more. Theatres and Operas. And movies."
Igor is so captured by the idea of movies, that Mary rips a few pages from the book and – with a few sketches and a piece of yarn pulled through a hole – she passes him a makeshift flip book. It is held together on the very top and at first, the boy looks confused. Ivar, who is peeking over his shoulder, looks equally lost.
"But these are just pictures," Igor complains, looking at each individual paper, "We have those as well."
Mary grins, her tongue between her cheeks, and when she perches herself on the low table, sitting between Ivar and Igor, she lets the pages race from her fingers.
A tiny stick figure appears, holding a tell-tale crutch. Then a bigger one comes, a crown on its head declaring himself Igor the prophet. The first one pulls a hammer from thin air and it smashes the other one straight on the hat, flattening him until all that is left is a crooked crown.
Igor laughs with delight, snatching the flip book from her hands to watch it again and again.
"Your artistic skills could use some work," Ivar smiles while he is distracted, "but I like your story."
From then on, Igor demands more tricks and when Mary can't think of any, he pouts. Still, she teaches him how to make airplane from paper, splays shadow theatres against the walls, and even folds a paper fortune-teller for him. That one becomes quite annoying after a while, because he keeps asking them to play, and when it rips, Mary breathes a sigh of relief.
Behind closed door, Ivar and Mary are ridiculously happy. Almost as happy as they were in the hut by the woods.
Ivar spends hours planning in the evenings. The invasion of Scandinavia is being prepared at the coast as well as in Kiev, but he has his own ideas. Sometimes he asks Mary for her opinion, but mostly he just stares into the fire, unwilling of taking the risk of writing anything down. He talks to the army, the leaders, the generals. He learns about Oleg and the royal family, the view of the people. Who likes Oleg, who dislikes him? Whose loyalty will fall easily?
Outside their rooms, he smiles and nods and plays pretend to such perfection that Mary wants to give him a standing ovation. Oleg takes the praise and compliments as a natural development, never once questioning them.
He still teases of course. Sometimes it is simply condescending words or wayward insults. Reminders of his legs, his lost kingdom, his failed grab for greatness. Those are the ones easily dealt with. At most, Ivar grinds his teeth or averts his eyes.
The lack of reaction drives Oleg in a different direction. One that is much more efficient. Mary. He stands too close, leans in too much. He demands she sit by his side, admires the cross on her neck, or touches her hair. When he feels especially cruel, he tries to embarrass them.
On one particularly bad night, just after Dir has been set free, Oleg is out for blood and the only people in the room are Mary, Ivar, and Igor.
"Tell me," he starts and from his tone alone, Mary can hear the malice, "Does your deformity affect your ability to bed her?"
She almost chokes on her food then, coughing loudly while she glares at Oleg. Igor, to her mortification, seems highly intrigues by the question. At first, Ivar tries to avoid the question.
"You tell him, Mary." He says, his voice tight as he forces a grin, "Do you have any complains?"
She smiles stiffly, "None at all."
But Oleg doesn't let go, having seen the discomfort on their faces. "How do you do it? Is she always on top? That must be quite repetitive." The last part is directed at her and Ivar growls. His pride is threatened.
"She is not." He grounds out and Mary is torn between fury and bone deep embarrassment. Oleg just nods, as if the entire conversation has any other function than to toy with them, "I'm sure she must help you, though. Say, was she your first?"
It becomes his favourite topic from then on. Whenever he has a bad day, he mocks and pushes them until Ivar's knuckles turn white and Mary wants to scream.
On those nights, Ivar reaches to restore his pride in private. That first night, he was just after sex. Their clothes disappeared so quickly, Mary barely even noticed and even though she moaned and writhed and clung to his shoulders, she told him afterwards that she would not sleep with him like that. Not if he was thinking about Oleg while she was on top of him.
The troubles of Dir's disappearance did not only bring a barrage of Oleg's most cruel remarks and taunts, but also the sobering realization that Sex could be as frustrating as it was satisfying. Ivar would struggle if they tried it more than once every few days and his mood would plummet to border on murderous. On the fifth night of that week, after three consecutive failed attempts, Mary tries something else. She guides his hand back between her thighs and while it does not get rid of his anger completely, it diminishes it.
Sometimes, when she is moving on top of him, or when his fingers – and later head – are between her legs, he tries to coax her to be loud. To moan and gasp and whine his name, so that Oleg can hear. And sometimes, when she was too far gone, she did.
As things calmed down and the misery of their dinners was lifted, Mary and Ivar could finally just enjoy themselves. No hurry or guilt, nothing to prove. Just sweet kisses and hooded eyes, scorching lips and hungry hands. Mary liked those nights the most.