The freedom of truth
"What happened to you?" Ivar asks when she wanders back in.
Her hair is messy, her forehead is red and scraped, and in her hand is only the very bottom of the jar, jagged ends pointing upwards as she picks nuts from it.
"This guy," she sighs when Ivar limps to her side, "He tried to… I don't know. Fuck me, maybe."
Hvitserk is by her side then as well, taking the broken Jar from her hands, while Ivar searches her for more injuries. Thankfully, the only thing he finds is broken glass in her hair and on her dress. When he pokes the bruise above her right eyebrow, she flinches, "Yes, that hurts. Thanks for asking."
When he is sure that she is not seriously hurt, he pulls away, "You should take off that dress."
"Why?" she asks, her nostrils flaring in warning and Ivar almost smiles at the challenge in her voice. Almost.
"It is most likely why he thought he could take liberties with you."
"No," she corrects with a shake of her head, "it's because he is an asshole."
"It is just.-" Hvitserk tries to intervene, "that the way you dress may have seemed like an invitation."
Mary gapes at him, eyes wide, mouth open, the full thing, and then she wretches Ivar's hand from her shoulder.
"I can't believe you said that."
"Mary-"
"No. No Mary. Not a word from you." She hisses and Ivar sighs, "he did not mean-"
"Oh, I know what he meant. But guess what. That servant has no right to touch me, the same way that Oleg had no right to touch me, the same way that – if I say no – you have no right to touch me. And it doesn't matter if I wear this stupid dress." She says, before pulling the sleeves down and letting the gown pool around her feet, standing in nothing but a cream-coloured camisole, "Or this. Or nothing at all."
"Of course not." Hvitserk says, his hands raised as if he were approaching a wild animal, "But women are always in danger of something like this happening. No matter how much it shouldn't."
"Jesus, Fuck. Do you really not get it? You can't just say, well that's how things are, and ignore it. It's easy for you. Men. You don't have to be afraid of someone violating you."
"No," Ivar agrees darkly, "Because a man would get killed right away. Would you prefer that?"
"Yes." Mary snaps, "Because do you know what that means? It means that even in death, they will respect you more than they respect me while still alive."
She wants to scream. Rage. Find that boy and cut off his dick. But she doesn't. Because she is only in the thin camisole, with wild hair, and a shrill tint in her voice and with every angry word – no matter how true – she will be taken less serious. Be it now or in a thousand years. Hysteric. Emotional. Woman.
So, she takes a deep breath and pushes back her hair. They are looking at her carefully, worriedly, and she does something she hasn't done in months. She turns into the seer. Powerful and mystical, and much more respected than Mary.
"It won't be long until they start burning witches. Women accused of witchery for speaking up. Or worse. For rejecting an advance, for refusing to be quiet, sometimes for nothing at all." Her voice is low and threatening, "King will take wives and dispose of them like dirty laundry. Eight-hundred years from now a woman can have a child with a man, and have no legal right over it. They will be his children in the eyes of the law and the church. She will not be allowed to work, will have no money of her own. Dependent to suffer whatever may happen to her behind closed doors."
With her head held high, she grips Hvitserk's chin and snarls, "And you won't even learn their names. Because they are just servants. Barely more than cattle, right?" he flinches at that, averting his eyes and she turns to Ivar.
He swallows when she comes close but she just smiles, "And even in my times, even when we are allowed to work and learn and do what we want, we are not free. We are still attacked. Still raped. Girls who are not even ten are given away as child brides. If we go out, we fear the dark streets, we fear every man who might walk too close."
She opens her arms wide, "But of course. It is the dress. My dress, a queen's dress, a nun's dress. A shieldmaiden wrapped in armour, a child in a nightgown."
Mary walks backwards until something tangles her feet and she has to catch herself before she stumbles to the floor. Glass clinks and Hvitserk hurries forward.
"What is that?" she asks and pushes open the top of the satchel on the floor. Inside are two bottle of wine and a small wooden box.
"Don't," Hvitserk shouts, but she is already pulling it open. Mushrooms. Withered and dried.
She looks up, "Are you for real?"
"Just-" he tries, "Just give them back."
"No. Fuck that."
"What is it?" Ivar asks and when Mary dangles one of the shrooms between her fingers, his face becomes expressionless.
"Mary," Hvitserk says again, irritated, "Give that back."
She narrows her eyes at him, "No. You wanna drink? Fine, lets drink. I have had an abhorrent night, thanks to both of you, so I could use a drink."
"Just leave me alone," Hvitserk growls and when Mary throws the little box of mushrooms into the fire, he looks ready to dive after them.
"Come on," she mocks him, "Drink with me, Hvitserk." Then her face turns serious, "I mean it. Both of you. Sit."
But as Viking men are, they refuse to take orders until physically forced to, so Mary has to change tactics. Orders they are unwilling to follow, but challenges they would never let pass.
She grabs the two bottles of wine and puts them aside before calling for a servant and when the girl returns, she passes a silver carafe, closed with a cork, and three copper glasses.
"This, my dear, ancient friends," Mary spits as she puts the carafe onto the table, "Is Vodka. Now, you may know how to drink mead and wine but believe me, I know how to drink Vodka."
She fills the three cups, much smaller than the normal ones, even if not quite shot glasses. Hvitserk scoffs, "You want to intimidate with barely more than a sip of drink?"
Mary lifts the glass in his direction, "Why? Are you intimidated?"
With that, Hvitserk is the first one to give in. He glares at her, clearly aware of what she is doing even when he sits down. "You used to be less obnoxious."
She just smiles, "You used to be less addicted."
He bristles at that and she raises her chin, daring him to contradict her. But he can't, so he just mumbles something with an angry hiss.
"Ivar," Mary turns her head, "Do you not want to join us?"
He shakes his head with a laugh, "I prefer not to lose my dignity tonight."
"My dear brother," Hvitserk remarks with a sly grin, "Seems to have sworn off these mortal vices. He didn't even drink on his wedding."
Mary looks between the two in surprise, "I have seen you drunk, though."
"Not if I can help it," Ivar growls.
"Well, tonight you can't help it. You drink or you leave."
He looks at her, then at his brother, who just shrugs, his brows still furrowed angrily.
"He is right," Ivar grumbles when he sits down, "You used to be less obnoxious."
"I'll cry later," Mary rolls her eyes, "Now. Na Zdorovie."
She lets her head fall back as the liquid burns down her throat.
"Oh god, that's even worse than that bottom shelf stuff I used to buy," she groans, shaking her shoulders with a grimace. At least the other two don't seem to enjoy it much more than her, even if they try to hide it.
"Why are we drinking this?" Hvitserk asks with a suspicious glance at the carafe.
"Because it will get us drunk a lot quicker than wine. Next one."
They take three glasses in quick succession and each is just a little better than the previous one. They are still bad though.
"Alright," Mary says, putting her hands flat on the table, "Now that we are on the way to precious inebriation, talk."
Hvitserk just leans back on his hands, long legs stretched under the table. The liquor coursing through his veins is humming quietly, but after months of continuous abuse, his body is used to it.
"Mary, what are we doing here?" he asks tiredly.
"I'm gonna be honest." She says, "this is a giant fuck you to both of you. To you-"she points at him, "because you seem to have grown indefinitely dumber while we were away." He growls at her, "and you," she just keeps talking, turning to Ivar, "because I won't take your bullshit without at least some revenge."
Hvitserk's curiosity is clearly visible, but he doesn't voice it. Not yet.
"And what is your plan then?" Ivar asks mockingly, "Do you really think that this disgusting drink will loosen our tongues enough for you to get the answers you so dearly crave?"
"No," she says- yes, she thinks - and when she feels a rush of warmth crawl up her neck, she knows that the vodka is starting to work, "But it will loosen mine."
With a deep breath, she leans on the table, "I know that you two are almost genetically conditioned to be uncommunicative. You could be high and drunk and half mad and I would still not get a straight answer out of you. But I am not like you, and someone has to be honest in this very fucked up trio we built. So, come on. Ask me. Anything."
They look at her dubiously, even a little suspicious, and Mary takes the silence to look at them. Hvitserk still looks completely sober, clearly not feeling the same buzz as her. Muscle mass, maleness, and a long build up resistance to alcohol mean that he will need twice as much as her. Ivar, while also ticking a lot of the same boxes – mainly male and muscular – has abstained from alcohol for so long that there is a flush in his cheeks now.
"What do you want us to ask?" Hvitserk asks at last and she throws up her hands.
"Jesus, Mary, and the camel. I don't know. Anything. This is likely gonna be the only time in your entire life that you can count on complete honesty."
"When where you born?" Ivar asks and Mary sighs with irritation.
"You said anything." He reminds her.
"It's a start I guess." She huffs, "I was born on the fourth of November, 1998."
"November?"
Ah, yes. Months are not really a thing for them.
"Usually, it is right after the trees lose their leaves. You know that beautiful time of the year when everything is red, and orange, and yellow? Right after that, when it's just cold."
"How old are you?" Hvitserk asks.
"Twenty-four now."
"You are older than Ivar then," he teases his little brother, who does not appreciate the joke. Hvitserk nudes him, just a little too rough, "Do not worry, Ivar. It is quite common to lay with an older woman for the first time."
Ivar's anger is interrupted by Mary, "Ew. Fuck, Hvitserk. Was that necessary? I feel icky now."
She fills her cup again and throws it back, watching Hvitserk do the same. Ivar shakes his head when offered.
"Okay," she mumbles, her hand pressed to her lips as she tries to stop herself form pulling a face, "Next one."
This time it is Ivar who speaks, "If you could return to your own home, would you do it?"
The question is much bolder than the previous ones and Mary takes a moment to think, "I don't know."
Rights, safety, health. All of those seem ridiculous to give up for a man, but she would not able to say yes truthfully. Because it's not just a man, not just Ivar. It's Hvitserk and Tanaruz, Floki, Helga, Ubbe. Siv and Inga and even, somehow, Igor and Sigurd.
The thought leaving them all behind, maker her heart feel heavy and she shakes her head. "No, I wouldn't. I don't think I could live, knowing that you are all long dead, laying somewhere in the earth beneath my feet. I don't think I could bear it."
"Why have you never tried to become a shieldmaiden?"
She looks at Hvitserk surprised, "What?"
"Many women would have, in your situation."
"I don't want to fight a war. Or even a battle." She answers honestly, "I dislike killing."
"And do you dislike us for killing?"
"Sometimes."
The room has taken a bitter tinge and Mary takes another drink, this time joined by both brothers. As soon as she sets it down, she can feel the familiar sway beneath her, and the drag at her heart. It has always been like that. Liquor turns a smile into laughter and a frown into tears. Thankfully, she is not the only one trying to escape the shadows, and Hvitserk seems to finally feel the first touches of alcohol, because when he leans forward there is a decisively devilish grin on his face.
"When did you first lay with a man?"
"Hvitserk," Ivar growls warningly, but Mary just laughs.
"It's alright. I'm not afraid to talk about that. And you-" she points at Ivar, "- will stop that frown. All questions are allowed and you will sit there and accept that. Nothing said today will leave this room." She points between them, "Now in joke, not in anger."
Ivar glares but doesn't protest and then he takes the first shot of the next round, followed by Hvitserk. This time, it is Mary who refuses another one.
"I was sixteen. Seventeen? I'm not sure."
"Rather late," Hvitserk remarks and again Ivar scowls.
"Maybe for your depraved tastes," Mary smiles sweetly.
She had intended to keep her answer short and to the point, but the alcohol is coaxing her lips open, "His name was Santiago and we had started seeing each other a few months before. He was sweet. Sweet and boring and wholly unremarkable." She sighs sadly. Oh, Santiago. Hopefully, he has a personality by now.
"Months?" Hvitserk asks shocked, "You held the poor man away for months? How do you keep calling us people prudish?"
She pretends to slap him, "Tell me about yours then."
"I was thirteen," he boasts and Mary shudders. Much, much too young. "And she was the daughter of my mother's maid. Dina I think she was called."
Mary pauses, her head titled and she is almost afraid to ask, "She was willing right?"
Hvitserk looks taken aback, before his face turns horrified, "Yes, Mary. Of course, she was. Do you think I would really do that?"
"Well," Ivar interjects from the end of the table, "You were the one who said that Margarete could be led to my bed without being asked. What did Ubbe say to you that day? She is not cattle."
Mary's mouth falls open and she stares at Hvitserk, "Excuse me?" then she remembers, "That's why you flinched earlier. You actually said- Jesus, Hvitserk."
His cheeks tinge with embarrassment, before he lifts angry eyes to Ivar, "Do you really want to bring up Margrete?"
Painfuly regret flashes across his face and Mary quickly lifts a hand, "Next topic. No need to go all Viking now."
"We are Viking." Hvitserk mumbles before throwing back another cup, and then, "What happened last night?"
Mary swallows, but it is Ivar who speaks up, surprising them both.
"I was woken by a woman, who brought me into an empty room. Princess Katia was there. She," he swallows, "she looked like Freydis. Her hair was blonde and she…" he struggles then, unable to name whatever happened. "She was wearing no clothes and she spoke to me as if she were Freydis. She kissed me."
Mary gets annoyed just hearing the words, but she cannot take more vodka, her vision already starting to blur. Hvitserk, however, does. He drinks and exhales and then, when he looks back up, he is angry.
"And you did nothing?" he asks his brother, voice tight.
"I-I told her to leave." Ivar says before admitting, "Eventually."
Hvitserk just stares. Then he turns to Mary and asks, with a completely serious face, "Do you want me to steal his crutch?"
She breaks out in laughter, falling back onto her back as she holds her belly. Hvitserk is bend over the table, his own shoulders shaking as well, as Ivar rolls his eyes at their drunken amusement.
Even when she stops laughing, Mary stays on the floor her knees drawn up as she stares at the ceiling. It is awfully pretty, she has to admit.
"Mary, sit up," Ivar sighs but she shakes her head, "Why?"
"Because you are barely dressed and giving my brother a view I would prefer he didn't have." He deadpans, but she shrugs. "I'm wearing underwear. Plus, it's nothing he hasn't seen."
The words are just slightly slurred and Ivar growls, "Are you trying to make me jealous?"
"Yes," she sighs, "I'm tired of being the only jealous one."
When she doesn't move, Ivar turns his glare towards Hvitserk until he raises his hands, in defeat, "I will join her then."
When he stands up, Mary cranes her neck, "Walk a straight line." She demands.
He furrows his brows but complies. He is not steady on his legs anymore, but he doesn't sway either, so Mary points at the table, "Drink two, then you can join."
She looks at Ivar then and giggles, "Now you. Walk a straight line. No crutch."
He rolls his eyes at her joke but grins. She sees his eyes wander down her body, over the camisole that does little to hide the outline of her breasts, the swell of her hips, and they stay on her thighs, exposed almost to the hips, before running down her legs.
"I wish I could forgive you quicker," she mumbles with a wistful smile.
"And why can't you?"
"Because," she raises her hands, "the men here are too used to getting away with their shit. I have to prove that I am not like these other women?"
"To me?" he asks, propping his crutch to lean his hand on it, "I know that."
She shakes her head, "Not to you. To myself."
Hvitserk falls beside her, his hair mingling with her own locks as they fall like a halo, and he sighs, "Our father was a great man."
Mary turns her head in confusion, "What?"
"He was a great man," Hvitserk repeats, "He was the one to sail to England. He wanted to build farms and trade. He was smart and charming enough that even his enemies liked and respected him. He went from being a farmer, to being an earl, to king. And now, he is a legend." Mary and Ivar listen to his ramblings, both confused, but neither wanting to interrupt him.
"Now Bjorn is a king and a fighter. He leads armies and wins wars." He sighs, "And Sigurd is leading the new land in England. Ubbe is exploring places that lie so far, we never even thought anything existed there at all. And Ivar-" he grins then, at his brother, "Ivar has his ferociousness. His cunning. His inability to just die."
Ivar shakes his head with a smirk before Hvitserk's face falls, "And all I have is his inability to find love, his crisis in faith, and his weakness for addiction."
"That's not true," Mary mumbles, "Ragnar didn't have an inability to find love. Just to keep it. He left his wife for your mother. And then he cheated on her as well."
Ivar looks troubled at her assessment, about his mother as a mistress and his father as unfaithful, but he doesn't say anything.
"And I mean, lets be honest. None of you Ragnarssons have had much more luck. You and Sigurd still want to bone Ubbe's wife. Bjorn is arguably the worst husband in history, and Ivar – well, you know."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Ivar asks, but she waves him off.
"Should I bring up Katia again? Or Freydis?" she snorts, "I think Ubbe might be best off, actually. They are still together, right?"
"Yes. Margaret is with child as well." Hvitserk answers. The urge to congratulate is overshadowed by the urge to comfort, because his voice is oddly hollow as he answers. When she looks at him, his eyes are far away. She rolls onto her side, exchanging a worried glance with Ivar, as he looks down at them.
"Hvitserk," she whispers, "Look at me."
He does so, reluctantly, and his pupils are wide, his eyes glassy.
"I never knew Ragnar, and the few things I do know, I do not like. Famous or not, he was not a good man. Bjorn's bloodlust is not a virtue. Sigurd settling in England means that soon he will adapt, assimilate to their culture so that he can belong to the masses. Odin's shrines will be Crucifixes soon enough."
Hvitserk closes his eyes as if in pain as the self-destructive part in him tries to discredit her words. Unwilling to believe. But she grips his chin, and doesn't let him avert his gaze.
"Ubbe's explorations are not proof for his likeness to Ragnar. In fact, it shows how much he is trying to escape what his father was. Escape war and bloodshed and Vikings. And my dear Ivar," she breathes and looks up, finding his eyes burning into her own as she leans over his brother, "his ambition is what killed Ragnar. I'm trying to stop it form killing your brother as well. Ragnar Lothbrok was already legendary when he sailed for England, with two ships and eyes full of greed. The only good thing that came from it was a Cell in Wessex, with me in it."
She smiles at Ivar then and even if he doesn't return it, she can see the intensity in his eyes. But this is not about him. No, Ivar, as angry and emotional as he is, is tethered to this world. Through her, and greed, and determination. But his brother is not, and if she lets go of him, he might just dwindle into nothing.
"Hvitserk," she mumbles. But then their faces are too close, too close for her to see his face clearly, too close to miss the way his eyes jump to her lips, and she sits up. Still, she puts a hand on his abdomen, and smiles sadly.
"Bjorn will fall in one of his battles. Sigurd will lose his ties to Kattegat and your gods with every year that passes. Ubbe might sail away one day and never come back, and if your brother keeps ignoring my advice, he will burn out before he can reach whatever he could have been." Ivar scowls at that but she ignores him.
"But you. You are the best fighter on any field, you were there to sign the papers for land in England. You sailed to the Mediterranean, saw Spain, Italy, Africa. And now you are here. The only difference between you and your father is that you are a good man. You lack his hubris. His callousness. His zeal. And thank all the gods for that."
He puts a hand on top of hers and squeezes her fingers tightly, but doesn't speak.
Instead of pushing him, Mary sits back up, trying to give him the space he needs right now. So, she looks at Ivar.
"Did you ever really believe that you are a god?"
He stiffens at her question and Mary knows that if it wasn't for the alcohol he would be reacting with angry defensiveness. But he doesn't, turning the little cup in his hands as he thinks, "I don't know."
"Really?" she asks, "You thought that you were a divinity? Would live forever?"
"Not like that. But I always believed that there must be something that kept me alive." He says with a shake of his head and then he chuckles darkly, "Being born as a cripple is a death sentence by itself but even when my father left me to die, I lived. Not only that, but I grew. Reached manhood, when most like me die young, of illness or parental regret."
Mary frowns, the ugly words sending a chill through her.
"As a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, I always knew I had to find greatness. My brothers were growing up around me, growing into his footsteps. Successful in war, admired by the people, wanted by women. It seemed unreachable for the longest time. But then, things changed. The chariot, then the crutch. Tell me, how else could I have reached Kinghood if not by divine intervention?"
"Determination? Intelligence? Cunning?" Mary suggests, "Maybe a touch of mania."
He shakes his head with a smile, "So unwilling to believe in the gods."
"Oh, please," Mary scoffs, "If it was the Gods who put you onto the throne, then it was the gods who turned you into the hateful, foolish king you were. And then I would have to hate them."
"She is right," Hvitserk mumbles, pulling himself back into an upright position, "There is no fate, no meaning in the name Ragnarsson. And if there are Gods, they do not care about us."
A rather bleak assessment, but not untrue. Ivar looks at his brother for a moment, weighing something in his mind before asking, "If that is so, why won't you tell me what happened with Freydis?"
Mary has avoided the topic so far, too afraid to ask. Too cowardly to face the confirmation of her mistakes. But Ivar must have, and something in the way Hvitserk tenses tells her there might be even more awfulness to the tail than expected.
"She died," he mumbles, "I told you."
"But that is not everything, is it?" Ivar asks accusatorily.
"She did not die immediately. Tanaruz saved her, but she was weak. When the baby was finally delivered, she died." He looks at Ivar, begs him silently to take the story as it is. But Ivar just stares back unwavering. Hvitserk sighs, "The child was deformed. It died soon after."
Mary shudders, shaky breaths trying to keep down the tears, until Ivar laughs, loud and sardonically, and she jumps. "Maybe it was my child after all." He scoffs. "And maybe I am not favoured by the Gods, but cursed. Meant to have met death long ago. An inability to die, you called it."
"I think we got all the main points, don't you?" she asks then, her voice oddly cold, "Hvitserk over there is having an identity crisis, trying to desperately find a meaning to life. That's why you are here, isn't it? Maybe you can get a crumb of whatever Ivar finds, because you have long given up on getting it yourself," the man in question looks at her with wide eyes, confused and just a little hurt at her bluntness. "And hopefully he understands now that nothing good ever happens once you go from drunk to smashed. You need help? Ask for it, as I will be by your side."
She comes to her feet, walking over to Ivar on unsteady legs. When she sways, he takes a hold of her hip and she rakes her fingers through his hair. "And Ivar here, oh, he might not be quite broken yet, but the cracks are starting to show. We know of course, where the shallower weaknesses lie. You have never made them hard to find. But no, that's not all. You are torn between fate and self-determination. If it is the Gods, you might be eternally damned, predestined to fail in the end, no matter what you do. But if you cannot blame the Gods for your downfall, you might have to take the blame for your actions. I wonder which one would be more painful." The fingers around her hips tighten painfully.
"And – just for the record - everyone in this room who is descendent form Ragnar Lothbrok, has tremendous daddy issues."
Ivar pulls her down then, her thighs hitting his knees hard and he pulls her head back, revealing the line of her throat.
"What of you then, Mary?" he spats, "Now that you have laid us out. What have we learned about you?"
"I gave you the opportunity," she hisses back, "I answered every question you asked."
"You think that our humiliation is the same as your story of a fumbling boy seven years ago?"
"He is right," Hvitserk says, his voice cracked when he looks at her. "You deceived us, Mary."
"Yes," she admits, "and I don't regret it. Everyone here is so God damn afraid of being honest. Well, guess what, they can't use your secrets against you, if you don't have any. Those hidden little insecurities, the questions you never ask, the stories you don't tell out of shame or regret or embarrassment? They are gonna be the thing that destroys us."
She huffs then, crossing her arms across her chest with a pout.
"You could have just asked us," Hvitserk growls. Accusatorily. Hurt.
Mary raises an eyebrow. "Really?" He nods. "Fine. Why are you here? Why come find us if you could have gone anywhere else? Was I wrong with my assessment?"
Hvitserk's throat bobs, but he cannot back down now. "No." he confesses, "I know that I won't find the same fame as my brothers. But I refuse to be forgotten."
"I have been asking you this question for weeks, Hvitserk. The truth didn't come until I forced it out."
He doesn't answer, cannot answer, because she is right. He has been ashamed for weeks, months even. But in Kattegat is shame was wide open, for everyone to see, and with no place to hide. When he had come here, he had hoped to avoid the pity, the embarrassment in his brothers eyes whenever they found him in the drug dens. When Mary had spoken, so uncharacteristically cruel, he had wanted to flee, brace himself against the oncoming storm. But there was none. All of his secrets, all of his most inner vulnerabilities, were put on display. And now it is done. He cannot get lower. There is no reason to hide.
Betrayal and shame still pulse through his veins, but relieve has lightened his heart at the same time.
Ivar, however, is still angry. He has experienced enough humiliation at the hand of the Rus Prince to still sit with head held high. But that doesn't mean he can accept the way in which Mary had spoken down to him. Had told a secret that even he was not aware of, that even he only understood once she put it into words. It seems wrong to have her understand him better than he understands himself. It is dangerous. The alcohol sings in the back of his mind, trying to convince him that it is alright, dulling his anger.
But even if he trusts her not to turn against him, even if he trusts Hvitserk – out of forced necessity, where they both hold each other's secret – he cannot let Mary go without retaliation.
"Did he ever fuck you on a table?" he asks roughly, letting go of her hair, making her gasp. Hvitserk, halfway through taking another sip of much needed vodka, chokes and then coughs and curses when the alcohol burns the back of his nose.
Mary just looks down at Ivar and nods, "Twice."
"Was it good?" he growls, angry and jealous, but unwilling to back down. She wants their truth? Then she will have to pay with her own.
"The first time. The second, I almost set him on fire."
Ivar stocks then, the answer so unexpected that his fury ebbs for a moment, "What?"
Hvitserk, finally recovered, pulls back his right sleeve and shows the faintest trace of a burn mark, right below his elbow, "There was a candle still standing."
Mary smiles down at Ivar, seeing the anger leave his features, and pushes her nose against his temple, "I'm more than happy to never do that again."
Both brothers seem keen to ask her questions now, curious and drunk, and in need to reclaim their pride.
"How many men have you bed?" Hvitserk asks.
She lifts her chin, "Seven."
"Would you ever betray me?" Ivar challenges and she nods, "Yes. To save your life. If you become dangerous to me or the people I love. If you betray me first."
Words that would find truth very soon, because they Invasion of Scandinavia is announced the very next day.