Heartache
(not gonna lie, I cried a lttle)
On the way back, Hvitserk and Ivar are both looking rather sober, putting their heads together and whispering in low voices as Mary trots behind them. She doesn't know what is up with them and when they reach their room, she closes the door.
"Alright, what is it with you two?" she asks loudly and they finally look at her, "Out with it."
They both look unwilling to tell her and she snaps her fingers, "Now, please."
"Prince Oleg's army is…impressive."
She frowns, "So?"
He squirms and she realizes, her face falling into a disbelieving expression, "Oh, you – wait, seriously? You didn't know what his army looked like? You have been planning this invasion for months now."
"I only ever saw the city guards," Ivar mumbles and Mary nods.
"And now you realise that he will win. If he invades Scandinavia." And then she smiles, "And you are worried."
"It is not that-"He tries to explain but Mary barks a laugh, "No, that's it. You are worried. Cause you don't want him to win."
"An army of that size will annihilate them." Hvitserk says quietly.
"Them. Your friends, you mean. Ubbe, Floki, Sigurd. Even Bjorn."
Ivar scoffs, "I do not care about Bjorn."
"But Bjorn's death means the death of everyone else."
She puts her hands to her hips and shakes her head, "Jesus Christ." Then she looks at Ivar, "You are such an idiot."
She rubs her temple, "And you," she ads, pointing at Hvitserk, "Came here to join this idiot."
"I have to think," is all Ivar says, before limping out of the door. Mary doesn't know where he is going, but she doesn't care right now. Because Hvitserk is looking crestfallen and when she approaches him, she has no intention of letting him go without getting some answers.
She pulls his hand to make him join her on the low bench and he does so without protest.
"Hvitserk," she whispers, "What happened?"
His throat bobs and he closes his eyes as if in pain.
"A lot of things happened," he says, his voice shaky.
"Start at the beginning."
"She died," he whispers and his voice catches in his throat, "Thora. She died."
Mary's eyes widen and she feels her heart clench in her chest, "Hvitserk," she says helplessly, "I am so sorry."
He nods jerkily, his eyes lowered as they fill with tears and Mary pulls him close. He lowers his head to her shoulder, hiding his face as he takes a number of shaky breaths. When he looks up again, his eyes are still red.
"After that…" he shakes his head, "I failed. At everything. I let everyone down. I barely remember the last few months. Alcohol, herbs, sometimes mushrooms."
"Jesus, Hvitserk," Mary breathes and he shakes his head again, not looking at her.
"They should have just let me die."
"Don't say that." Mary says forcefully, "Hvitserk, don't you dare."
"Mary…" he sighs but she doesn't let him talk.
"No, nothing. Look at me." He reluctantly lifts his head. "I am so sorry about what happened to Thora. I know how much she meant to you. But if you ever say something like that again, I will punch you."
His weak attempt to argue is cut down by her, "I mean it, Hvitserk. You say another word like that and you can deal with the same bruises as Oleg."
"That was you?" he asks and she sees his mouth twitch.
"Damn right that was me."
He looks at her, still tired, still heartbroken, but just a little more hopeful.
"Violent woman." He whispers and presses a kiss to her brow.
Mary wraps her arms around his middle and leans into his side, "I'm so happy that you are here."
"This doesn't bother you?" Hvitserk whispers to Mary, his eyes on Ivar who is once again staring at Katia.
"Occasionally, yes," she admits, "but you know what always makes it better?"
She delivers a swift and precise kick under the table and Ivar's head jerks up. When he catches them both staring at him, his ears and neck both turn a deep red and Hvitserk chuckles.
"I see that you are all very happy to have found each other again," Oleg says from the other side of the table, "Mary especially."
"You know how it is," Ivar answers with a polite smile, "Family can be as tiresome as it is precious. A friend however, is always cherished."
"A friend," Oleg repeats with a laugh, "Is that what you would call friendship."
"Why yes," Mary replies, "Two people who like to spend time together, share interests, and care about each other."
"Is that so Hvitserk?"
"Very much."
The other Ragnarsson had very quickly learned to play the game of polite insults, suppressing the urge to squirm the way he had done the first time, even if he is still uncomfortable with being so bluntly talked about .
"It is very fortunate to have good friends," Katia pipes in, "Many love stories start with friendship."
Mary rolls her eyes and stabs a piece of meat with her fork.
"As you can see," she mumbles to Hvitserk, "Dinners are fun and not at all draining the life out of me."
"Maybe my brother's presence will stop you from turning aggressive again," Ivar suggests quietly and she nudges his side, "Shut up, you loved it."
He smiles, "That I did."
When Mary looks up again, she finds Katia staring at Ivar, while he eats. He doesn't seem to notice though, even when Hvitserk clearly does. God, she can't deal with everything at once.
"Well, fuck." Mary mumbles.
It's late at night and she is standing in the doorway to Hvitserk's room, having slipped out of bed after frivolous attempts of sleep. Ivar is still with Oleg, and she had turned restless.
But now, she is standing here, a bottle of wine in hand to share with an old friend, only to find that he has beat her to the bottle. By a lot.
Hvitserk is slumped against the wall beside his bed, blankets pulled to the floor and drenched in wine, and when she steps inside and quickly closes the door, she finds herself in almost complete darkness. The only light is from the smouldering ashes of a torch and she gathers the beddings with a few colourful curses. Gathering the ruined cloth in her arms, she steps back into the hallway.
She is dressed only in her nightgown which, while decent enough, doesn't quite beat the cold. Shivering she now has to cross onto the lower floors until she finally runs into one of the servants.
The young man looks momentarily stunned by her appearance – the dress is long and NOT see-through, but people here are prudish – before hurrying to give her a replacement.
She takes a candle as well, only to almost set her own dress on fire when she collides with Katia. Seems like she is not the only one out for a midnight stroll. The princess looks surprised, then suspicious, but Mary has no nerve to deal with her right now.
"Excuse me," she snaps and brushes past her.
When she drops the blanket on Hvitserk's bed, she cannot quite decide what to feel.
On one side, her heart is bleeding for him. He had been lost before, but with Thora he seemed to have found some kind of direction in his life, only for it to be torn away in the cruellest way possible. So, she feels for him. She really does.
Still, she won't deny the rage that builds in her as she sees him like this. How dare he treat himself like that?
When she kneels down in front of him, she slaps his cheek and his head jerks up. Bleary, bloodshot eye look at her and she can see how long it takes him to actually recognize her.
"Mary," he moans and then he looks down at his hands, still stained red with wine. He tries to sit up, but his hands are shaking and then he stops when he sees the anger in her eyes.
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" she hisses and he frowns.
He looks around the room confused, until his eyes fall on the bottle by her side, the one she had brought to share with him. His fingers reach for it, but she snatches it away, "Don't even think about it."
"Don't," he tries to protest but his movement are clumsy and slow and when he tries to grab the bottle from her hand he falls forward.
"This is pathetic," Mary tells him, even when she pushes his shoulder back against the wall. His head fall back against the stone and he closes his eyes
"I know," he just says quietly, "I told you."
But even her anger can only take so much, and when he lets his hands fall into his lap, she sighs heavily.
"Come on," she mumbles, "To bed with you."
Somehow, it is actually harder to get him upright than it is with Ivar and Mary swears loudly when she pushes him onto his bed. He lies back as she pulls the boots off his feet and the overshirt from his shoulders and when she leans down to pull the blanket over him, he catches her hand in his.
"Mary," he breathes, "I'm sorry."
She tries to shush him but just keeps talking, "I just want it to stop hurting. I want to forget that I'm…me"
Mary's own heart breaks when she looks down at him, her best friend, so filled with pain that he can see no other way but to numb himself.
"It's alright," she mumbles, pushing his hair away from his face, "Just sleep."
But he pulls her closer still, "I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face."
"Oh, Hvitserk," she sighs sadly, "It will be alright."
But he just shakes his head and Mary climbs into the narrow bed beside him, leaning against the wall as he lays on her chest. She gently strokes his hair as his breath slows and his eyes flutter closer.
"I like who you are, Hvitserk," is the last thing he hears and when his breathing evens out and the hand around her waist goes slack, she slips from his bed.
On the way back, she bites her thumb, thinking. Hvitserk is clearly in pain, but she has to keep him from falling deeper into this hole of self-destruction or he will kill himself. Does Ivar know how bad it stands with his brother? Does he know that – wait, is that him?
A woman in a red dress passes the next hallway and behind her is the unmistakable form of Ivar, leaning on his crutch as he follows her. He is wearing no shirt, his hair open, and Mary frowns.
What the fuck?
She hesitates for just a second because – as stupid as it sounds – the apparitions had been so surreal that she cannot help but think about the horror films back home. If you see something so odd, so late at night, in an old castle? Don't follow it.
But of course, she does follow them. Quietly hiding in the shadows until Ivar disappears behind a door and it falls close behind him, as the woman wanders off. Mary contemplates just waiting for him to come back, but her curiosity is too much and she finds the door to an adjacent room still open. Behind it is a small chamber with a collection of wooden dolls and costumes on the walls. Across from the entrance, a hallway leads onto the back of a stage.
What the fuck?
She almost walks further out, but then a figure steps onto the platform from the other side, and Mary hides between the long curtains instead.
The figure steps into the light and Mary almost gasps. Freydis.
The shock of seeing her shakes her to the core and it takes Mary a few seconds to start thinking clearly again. Not Freydis. Katia. With a blonde wig, adorned in jewels and with her truly unfairly perfect pair of breasts on display.
She elegantly steps off the stage and when Mary peeks into the room, her breath catches in her throat and her heart seems to slip from her chest.
Ivar is sitting there, alone on the floor, and he stares at Katia with wide eyes.
Maybe he doesn't realize that it is Katia, or maybe he simply doesn't care, but when she moves closer, he seems speechless.
Say something, Mary wants to scream. Do something.
What she really means is 'Leave. Don't do this to me.'
Mary hears him whisper "Don't," but his voice is weak and when Katia just comes closer, he doesn't protest. Pathetic, stupid, superstitious boy.
Mary knows that she could step into the light as well, make her presence know and end this right now. But she has to know what Ivar will do. Her presence cannot be the only thing keeping him away from Katia.
But he doesn't protest when she sits in his lap, her hands caressing his shoulders, and Mary is frozen. In anger. In fear.
She catches glimpses of his face over Katia's shoulder and she can see the battle raging behind his eyes. She can understand the trouble. Freydis will forever be etched into his heart, more now than ever, and Katia is exploiting the grief and love and memories still in his chest. And even if it does make her the villain, it does not exempt Ivar of blame. Not if he gives in now.
"Don't you dare," Mary growls almost soundlessly. Don't give in.
She steps further into the room, far enough that either one could spot them if they saw her, but they are too caught up in each other. A painful memory flashes before her eyes. Kattegat, Ivar on the newly-claimed throne and Freydis in his lap as Mary watches.
A stab of hurt reaches through the anger, and she closes her eyes, willing it down.
Until, that is, Katia starts kissing down his chest and Ivar shudders, closing his eyes, and still – still – not sending her away. But he also hasn't given in yet, hasn't settled the battle in his head – and in his heart – with his hands clenched in hesitation.
And then, "I can't."
His voice is louder this time, and he tries to pusher away
"Of course, you can." Katia whispers, unyielding to his attempts.
"You don't understand. I can't." A shaky exhale from Ivar, "I am with Mary."
At his words, Mary swallows hard. His resistance seems to be rising and Katia must be noticing it as well, because she presses her lips against his. Ivar's hands waver again, for just a second, but then they close around her shoulder and hold her at arms-length.
"Am I not your wife?" she asks coyly, fingers still dancing along his shoulders, tracing the drawings on his skin.
Mary bristles at that, possessive and angry.
How dare she touch those patterns?
How dare he let her?
Ivar shudders again, she sees his eyebrows knit together before he finds the strength to shake his head.
"No," he says and pulls the wig from her head, "you are not."
Katia's dark hair falls around her shoulders and she shakes her head, letting it fly around her face.
"And even if," Ivar continues quietly, "I love Mary more than I ever loved Freydis. Even when I married her. Even on our wedding night."
And with that, he pulls a piece of lacy fabric over her shoulders.
Katia leans back, finally, but she is not quite done yet, "You are a good man, Ivar the Boneless," she mumbles, "But you are blind. She doesn't love you, not the way you should be loved."
Now that it is Katia talking, her accent rolling her words again, her hair dark, he seems to be finding back to himself.
"How should I be loved?" he asks, his head cocked inquisitive.
"Completely. By someone who would put no one above you. Who would not visit your brother late at night," could have seen that one coming, "and who doesn't try to tame the wildness inside of you."
Wildness? Really?
"You are like Fenrir, the wolf of Odin himself. You should be feared and respected everywhere. She will not let you reach greatness."
"You clearly don't understand then," Ivar answers and moves her knees from his hips, shifting her so that she is not straddling him anymore, "I was nothing more than a rabid mutt. Mary will not keep me from greatness. She will be the reason for it."
Katia kneels beside him, one hand languidly stroking across his chest one last time, before he snatches it from the air, "You should leave."
Mary scrambles back, not wanting Katia to see her, and tries to be as quiet as possible as she leaves the chamber behind and hides in the shadows of a nearby alcove. Katia appears soon after, wrapped in a silvery gown, but Ivar takes a while to come back out. When he does, he is deep in thought.
"Hello, Ivar."
He flinches when she speaks, and then his eyes find her in the shadows of the dark hallway, and he stands up straight. Caught red handed, personified.
"Mary," he says and then frowns, "Why are you not wearing clothes?"
She looks down at her nightgown, "I'm wearing more clothes than you," she replies with a pointed look at his chest, and then with a jerk in the direction of the door, "or her."
Ivar's shoulders fall, "You saw."
She nods, "Every detail of that fascinating little show."
"Then you saw how I pushed her away."
Mary nods, her jaw still set, "Yes. I also saw how you let her sit in your lap. How you let her kiss your chest." Here, her voice breaks, just a little, "How you let her kiss you."
"Mary," he says helplessly, his voice laced with pain and regret but she shakes her head. "It's my turn now."
His mouth closes and he waits dutifully for her to continue.
"Now, don't get me wrong. That last part? Big fan," she says and then steps closer, "Everything before? Not so much."
"I send her away," he mumbles again, but his eyes won't meet her gaze. Good. At least he knows he fucked up.
"Took you long enough."
When he does finally look at her, his eyes are glassy. "She looked like Freydis."
"I don't care." She says, throwing her hands up, "Jesus, Ivar, I don't care." She takes a deep breath before she continues. Waking up the entire castle would only bring more problems and right now, she can't deal with any more emotional fuckery.
The night has been long enough.
"I know how terrible you feel about Freydis." She says, "And I know how seeing Katia like that must have fucked with your head. But, fuck, Ivar, you hurt me."
"I never meant to hurt you," he promises, "And I know that right now, you might not believe me, but every word I said to her was the truth."
"I know. I just- Fuck." She takes a deep breath, "You fucking suck." She shakes her head and then looks at him, "If I ever catch you staring at her again, I'm gonna leave you. And if I ever catch you kissing her, I'm gonna kill you."
"Please," he says, and it sounds like a request.
She wakes up in a terrible mood.
It's no surprise of course, but this morning, not even Ivar, wrapped around her back, can help. In fact, he is only making it worse.
Mary wriggles free from his grip and sits up. Even while sleeping, his face is marked with deep lines of worry and she takes a deep breath. Just like her, he has enough to deal with. A war to deal with, which looms much larger than her own problems.
But fuck, it's no excuse and she won't pretend that it is. He would have a lot less on his plate if he would just stop acting like an idiot. He can have her forgiveness, but he will pay for last night nonetheless.
When she dresses, she leaves away the crescent shaped piece of the dress that is usually secured over the shoulders. It is stiff and suffocating anyways, closing so tightly around her throat that she tugs on it every few minutes.
Without it, the dress is much more revealing, showing off her clavicle and neck in a way that will be frowned upon or stared at, depending on the person before her. The rest of it is still modest enough, dark purple and set with milky pearls down the bodice that curl like waves at the seam.
Without waking Ivar, she steps into the dining hall, happy to only find Hvitserk and Igor there.
"Mary," Igor greets her politely, "How did you sleep?"
Terrible.
"Well, enough. Thank you very much. What about you?"
"I had a dream about a dragon who was the sky, and a bear who was the land, and they both bowed to me and the bear fed me and the dragon brought me a thousand jewels."
"That sounds like a good dream, indeed," Mary smiles and he smiles.
Then, she looks at Hvitserk. His head is bowed, one hand limp on the table, and when he doesn't react to her presence, she tries to peek at his face. But his hair is hanging down in unkept strands and she glances at Igor, "Is he alive?"
The young prince just shrugs, and Mary makes her way to his side, where she crouches down and pokes his shoulder. He scrambles awake then, eyes wide and in his haste, he tips over the cup of water before him.
Mary roars with laughter, Igor laughing along, and when Hvitserk finally comes to his senses, he looks around embarrassed.
He rightens the cup and runs a hand down his face, before he catches a glimpse of Mary and he freezes. His jaw goes slack before he quickly catches himself and drags his eyes away from her chest, even as the blush on his face intensifies.
"How is your morning going, hun?" Mary teases and he clears his throat.
"Rather embarrassing so far."
She nods and sits down beside him, "I can see that."
"Mary," Igor speaks up, "Did you rip your dress?"
"No, little prince, I did not," she replies with a smile, "But it was much too uncomfortable. I'm sure that you know what I mean."
He nods understandingly and with that, the topic seems to be over for him and he turns back to his breakfast.
"How's the hangover?" Mary asks Hvitserk.
"I think my head will explode," he answers honestly and she chuckles, "That's your own fault."
He clears his throat then, "About what I said yesterday-"
"No need," Mary quickly interjects, "I have said much worse things while drunk. Once I danced on a table and once," she leans in closer, lowering her voice, "I texted an ex boyfriend, went to his house, and when he didn't answer, kissed his brother."
"You kissed whose brother?" Ivar asks behind them, his voice sounds tired and just a little scratchy, and without turning around, Mary shoots back, "Yours."
"Seriously?" Hvitserk groans but Ivar just scoffs.
"I see you are still angry."
"Oh, you have no idea, love."
He moves around them until he falls onto the opposite side of the table and then, just like his brother, he freezes when he sees her, "Why are you dressed like a-"
"Careful, Ivar." She interrupts him with a warning glare.
Hvitserk looks like he wants to ask, but then he shakes his head.
Ivar and Hvitserk are both called for business for most of the morning and when they return, they have Oleg and Katia with them.
She is sitting in the dining hall, most her bread and cheese already eaten, and when Ivar sees her still dressed the same way as this morning, he scowls.
"Mary," Oleg greets her, his voice more than a little enthused, "You seem to have forgotten part of your dress this morning."
He doesn't even try to hide the way his eyes rake across her chest and she grimaces, her hands tightening around her knife.
"I did not, actually," she answers with a forced smile, "I simply decided to be more comfortable today."
"A woman who knows what she wants," he nods and sits down at the head of the table, "You should do it more often."
Ivar sits down beside her, his face still dark and pulls her possessively to his side.
"Are you trying to kill me?" he growls into her ear.
"No," she snubs, "I am trying to punish you."
Their private whispers are interrupted by Katia as she leans forward, "Mary has a lot of customs different than ours," she tells Oleg, "Just yesterday, I found her strolling the castle in nothing but her nightdress. She doesn't seem to be quite as concerned by promiscuity, as we are."
"Funny coming from someone who could fucked on a table in front of two people," Mary mumbles. Thankfully, only Ivar and Hvitserk hear her and send her a quiet chuckle and a look of deepest confusion.
"And where did your nightly adventure take you?" Oleg asks smugly and, of course, the question is answered for her, "I believe she was visiting Hvitserk."
The brother in question squirms under their gaze while Ivar pulls Mary even closer.
"Did you now?" he asks quietly.
"I did," she answers simply, "and then I cleaned the wine from his floor and made sure he wouldn't choke on his own vomit."
Ivar looks surprised at her words and his eyes flicker to Hvitserk worriedly, who stubbornly pretends that he doesn't hear them.
"Your ability to trust astounds me," Oleg remarks, "If my wife would do such a thing, I would have her killed."
Three people at the table tense, fear, worry, and guilt on their shoulders, but thankfully, Oleg is too caught up in his own words to notice.
"Thankfully, Mary and I have known each other long enough to know that the other won't stray." Ivar answers, his words meant for two ears in particular and Mary gives a reluctant smile.
"That is true."
"Hvitserk, if you keep staring at my boobs, I will slap you."
"But they are just-" he gestures vaguely across her front, "-there."
"Congrats on the very basics of female anatomy," she deadpans.
"You have seen boobs before. Shit, you have seen these boobs before. What is it with you men?"
He just gulps and when his eyes flicker down again, almost unconsciously, she huffs and gets up. "I'm getting a snack."
It's later afternoon and she storms through the halls, servants and guards stepping aside when she comes close. For most of them, she is still an enigma. A woman comes with a Viking prince, who claims to be a seer, and who speaks in distinctively unladylike manners.
Yet another demonstration of the latter is given when she finds the kitchen almost empty. "Fucking hell."
The maid who is sweeping the floor jumps back.
"Sorry," Mary apologizes immediately, "Where is the food?"
"The meat is being roasted in the cellar." She answers quickly, holding the broom to her chest like a shield, "Most of the fruit was found to have worms, but we should have some left in storage."
"Thank you," Mary answers, turning on her feet only to pivot back around, "Where is storage?"
The storage room is surprisingly light, with large windows allowing the sun to keep the space dry, and avid rodents. Barrels of food line the walls and while all of them seem fine – apples, carrots, berries – it is the Jar of honey coated nuts that catch her eyes.
"Now how am I going to get you?" she asks herself, staring at the glass temptingly placed on the upper shelf. No amount of stretching gets her even close to the shelf however, and after a few more curses and a close call between her and the basket of blueberries, she huffs.
"Hello?" she asks into the long hallway, "Could someone help me?"
A young servant boy scurries to her side and she recognizes him as the same one who had passed her new sheets the night before.
"Could you help me?" she asks and he nods, eagerly following her into the storage and – after some coaxing and instructions – lifting her in the air. Her foot is in his hands and she sways dangerously, holding onto the rough stone of the wall and reaching for the jar.
"Yes," she yelps, before feeling her ankle twist and falling in a graceless heap right onto the poor servant.
"Oh, my god," she groans, "I am so sorry."
She sits up carefully, the boy still underneath her and rubs her forehead. That's gonna leave a bruise.
But then. Then she tries to get up, only to find his hands on her thighs, keeping her in place. She frowns, "You can let go of me now."
But he doesn't and suddenly, there is a wolfish grin on his face. Mary yelps when he pulls and flips them over and then she pushes his shoulders away with a snarl, "Let go of me."
"Do not worry, Lady," he grins, "I am not a servant. I am the son of a personal guard of the prince."
As if that would make it any better. He leans down and tries to kiss her and Mary tries to crawl away from under him. His lips land on her shoulder and he chuckles, pulling he right back where she was and she grinds her teeth.
"Get off me, you maggot."
"Do not pretend to be against this," he just mumbles "Your dress speaks otherwise."
How dare he…
"I'm gonna scream." She warns but all he does is cover her mouth with his hand, before putting the other one on her right knee. At the touch, Mary sucks in a breath and wills the panic down. It creeps into her throat regardless, into her hands, into her very core, and for a moment she is frozen. But then she remembers Oleg and she glares at the boy above her.
She can't reach her knife, but that doesn't mean she is helpless. With a twist of her head, she takes his thumb between her teeth and bites down. She tastes blood and he jerks the arm back, giving her enough space to draw her head back and slam it into his nose.
What was next?
The boy is cussing her out, trying to catch her wrists in his, but she manages to grasp the glass jar and with as much force as possible, she shatters it on his head.
Shards rain down on both of them, but it is enough to let her escape. The boy looks stunned, one hand going to the back of his head, only to come back red and wet.
"Fuck you," Mary spats and then, just for good measures, she kicks him right between the legs. Twice.