To live and to die
The soldiers are just starting to rise, occasional footsteps passing by the tent as they prepare. Mary stands between two guards, muffled and cuffed, and she is glaring at Oleg.
He just smirks, "Now, where could you possibly have gone?"
She doesn't answer, can't answer, really, but he doesn't seem to care.
"I assume to warn your friends back in Kattegat. A pity, really. You were so fun." Mary glares at him. She is not a toy. Not a plaything.
"I assume your man doesn't know. Neither one of them, or they would be shouting your name by now. I don't know what you have told them, little one, but I doesn't matter. Our numbers, our names, our plans. We are ten of ours to each one of theirs."
He doesn't know, she realizes then, that she knows. That she knows he is going after Bjorn. He had never wanted to make the knowledge public, doesn't know that Ivar had been clever enough to figure it out himself.
It's her only hope. Now she has to pray that Ivar, stupid, stubborn Ivar, will not go through with his plan, damning them all. If Bjorn lives, if the Rus' ships burn, they could be back behind the Palisade of Kattegat by tomorrow night. The flicker of hope almost lets her forget where she is, until Oleg moves a finger along her jaw.
"But you will be able to see for yourself." Oleg chuckles, "See their demise at the hand of the mighty Rus." He grabs her by the shoulder and when she struggles against his grip, he pulls her head back painfully, "You will not scream, you will not speak, you will not whisper, do you hear me? You will do what I tell you to do, silent and cooperative, and do you want to know why?"
He roughly leads her to the edge of the tent, the flap just about hanging open and she looks into the clearing, where soldiers are preparing. Ivar is there, fasting the braces on his legs while Hvitserk sharpens in axe.
"Do you see the men with blue on their helmets?" Oleg asks quietly.
Mary finds them quickly, blue between the black feathers, close to the brothers, weapons ready as they stand in waiting.
"If you disobey me, I will give the signal and both of your precious men will be killed. A sword in the back, an arrow through the eye, maybe even a missing arm. Watch them bleed out in agony." He whispers and Mary wants to gag. They are so close, close enough to slit their throats on a moments notice, but neither brother seems to be aware of it. There are soldiers all around after all, why would those two stand out?
"Now, Mary, will you be good?"
She hates him. She hates him more than anyone, but she nods. He laughs, delighted.
-.-
Mary stands in silence while they dress her. Black pants, black shirt, a soldier's jacket and a soldier's boots. Armour on top, a helmet on her head. She stays quiet, frozen in fear and anger, as they turn her into another nameless, faceless recruit. But she is given no weapon, no shield to complete the charade.
"You look like a soldier," Oleg grins, dressed in armour from head to toe, "Let us see if their Gods will help you be one."
She stays silent, still, when they start to march, when she boards a ship behind Oleg, who puts her right beside him, his hand on her back. Ivar is on the ship to her right, Hvitserk to her left, both too busy to ever look at her.
On the inside, she begs, she pleads, rages, cries, scream. When they leave their ships behind and move to the smaller boats, she is pulled backwards, put on a horse, with her hands bound. Only Oleg and his personal guard will ride, she is informed. Dropping into the stormy shores is too undignified for a Prince. She knows it's because the disembarkment is too open, too dangerous, for Oleg to risk it.
When they arrive at the edge of the beach, the Vikings are waiting, the boats speckles that grow as they near the coast. It's only then, when she is faced with the battlefield, that the tears become too heavy for her eyes to hold. She will die today and no one will know.
What will they tell Ivar? That she ran away? He wouldn't believe them of course, but he would never find her body either. He would never think to look between the fallen soldiers. Suddenly, Mary wants to believe in ghosts. Let Katia be Freydis, as long as it means Mary can stay, too.
"Remember, Mary. I will have Aleksei watch you. And I will have my men watch the Ragnarssons you care so much about," Oleg mocks. "If you are still alive at the end of today, you may return to my court. If you are not impaled, cut in half, or simply trampled, it will be on God's command, and I will head his judgement."
The Soldiers come to shore, screaming, running at the enemy as they are welcomed with raises weapons and fearless Vikings. Soon, the beach is a graveyard, the sand red with blood. Mary tries to find Ivar or Hvitserk but it's useless. So, she looks for blue, blue in helmets, and they are much easier to find. Wherever they are, the brothers will never be far, making them Reaper and lighthouse at once.
Without warning, Oleg gives a quick command, seemingly happy with how far the battle has progressed, and they race down the beach. Her horse receives a slap on the flank and then it is galloping, Mary on its back. It doesn't take long, barely ten seconds, before she falls, unable to hold onto anything with her hands still bound.
The fall drives the air from her lungs and when she finally gets back to her feet, she is surrounded by war. A man slices the neck of a shieldmaiden, blood raining down on them as she collapses. Mary catches a man in blue, Aleksei, behind her. He attacks and defends, but never leaves his position, never strays far from her. She searches the crowd, panicked and desperate, but they are barely people to her. Just flashing iron, bloodies bodies.
Mary cowers, her back hunched, her shoulders drawn up. The Rus believe her one of them, the Vikings do not waste their energy on what seems to be a coward. Still, she tossed around in the chaos, elbows, knees, shields and sword handles raining down from all directions. Her lugs feel tight, but then the huddle around her eases when the Rus draw forward, further up the beach. She is left with a bloodied nose and a painful throb in her side.
Then, finally, she finds him. Ivar. His movements are less fluent, less fast, especially on sand, but he fights with viciousness, screaming as he drives his sword through yet another man. His eyes shift, glancing over Mary with no recognition, until they find their target. Bjorn.
No. Please, don't.
The King of Kattegat is unmistakable, big as a mountain, fighting with strength rather than precision. He drives the men back with his shield, two, three, at a time. Oleg spots him too, but he stays away for now, his group fighting at the very edge of the battlefield where wounded men and women try to find refuge only to be cut down by the prince.
Two miracles happen then. Floki and Tanauruz, unstoppable forces that cut through the men, and whose instinct must be guided by something divine. God, Odin, it doesn't matter. What does matter, is that Floki is suddenly fighting a man with blue, quickly dancing back and forth as the Rus soldier becomes increasingly irritated. He rushes forward too quickly, as Floki steps aside, and then he has an axe in his back and joins the dead on the ground.
But when Mary searches for more blue, she finds the other guard still by Hvitserk's side. One down, one still to go. She will not move until Hvitserk is safe.
A man runs to her then, sword raised to strike, and Mary has to scramble back. She cannot fight back, and the man above her screams, spit flying from his lips. A Rus catches him first, however, almost cutting him in half with a swift arc of his sword. More blood on Mary. She can taste it, smell it, all around her, and gags. She stands up again, her legs weak from last night's journey and paralyzed by fear. There is sand against her skin, wet and salty, and doused in blood. The Rus stands over the dead Viking, hissing a curse before spitting on the ground.
Whatever disrespect he intended is cut short, when he coughs, blood flying from his lips and when he collapses, Tanaruz is behind him. The sword in her hand is bloody, her shield splintered on one side. She stares down at him, her breath heavy, before turning and finding Mary. She freezes, recognizing tan skin and deep eyes, and then she frowns.
"Mary?" she asks, coming closer, close enough for Aleksei to glance at them suspiciously.
"Tackle me," Mary whispers desperately and Tanaruz complies without question. She trips her legs, pulling Mary so that she lands on her back, with the other girl on top of her.
"What are you doing?"
No time for explanations.
"Go to Hvitserk. You both have to run. I don't care how, get him away from the man in blue."
Tanaruz nods, then yanks Mary's hands over her head, "The men in blue are watching you?"
She nods.
Tanaruz drops her sword and pulls Mary's dagger from her belt, "Scream."
Trust is repaid in trust, and Mary doesn't ask, just does. She screams. Then wails win earnest, when something slices the skin of her abdomen. Blood, a lot of blood, but not much pain. Then Tanaruz pulls back, takes her sword and runs off. As if the enemy is dealt with.
Aleksei looks at her and Mary scrambles back to her feet, just enough blood flowing to cover her hands in sticky red. He turns around and attacks again, thinking that she has held her word. That she will, probably, drop to the ground. Dead.
But Mary is scanning the beach. Ivar, dangerously close to Bjorn. Lagertha just on the other side. Oleg closer now as well.
To her right, blue. Hvitserk, twirling and jumping like a dancer as he fights. Tanaruz is on her way, swift and fast, avoiding battles rather than engaging. Her hand closes around Hvitserk's, jerking him to the side before he can react. He swings his sword, ready to fight, but she just ducks and keeps running, pulling him after. When he recognizes her, he screams a question but follows. The man in blue is confused, tries to follow but is stopped, forced to defend himself against a man with a beard so long and red, it seems to swallow him whole.
Hvitserk is safe. Now or never. Ivar's sword slashes, hacks, cuts at the edge of the water. Bjorn has not noticed him yet as he fights his way across the wet mud, face set in grim determination. Ready to kill. Ready to die.
Mary runs. Runs from Aleksei and down the beach, ducking and side-stepping blades. Aleksei bellows something, she cannot understand, but his alarm falls deaf. One guard is dead, the other has lost his target. Now, she just has to reach Ivar and Bjorn.
Mary trips over sand, bodies, weapons dropped in the fight, but she keeps going, her eyes never leaving Ivar. Lagertha sees him before he and Bjorn cross swords and Mary has never run this fast, never felt her lungs burn with such intensity. But when Lagertha dances around to Ivar's other side, she pushes through it. Forces her legs to move faster, forces her feet harder off the ground, lengthening her steps until she feels like she is flying across the beach.
Bjorn is still fighting the Rus, his head turned, eyes focused on the men before him.
Ivar raises a sword, pulling his arm back to deliver a swift death. But Lagertha is there as well, weapon already raised, with a scream that only a mother could make, on her lips.
Mary doesn't know who will hit first. Will Ivar impale Bjorn before Lagertha's sword cuts him open? And even if, would it matter? Would he not drop dead anyways, regardless of Bjorn's death?
She doesn't know.
Can't know.
Won't know.
Because she collides with Ivar, taking him by surprise as she tackles him to the ground. They fall beneath Lagertha's sword, escaping so closely that Mary can hear the metal sing as it passes her ear. Ivar's weapon falls from his hands when the hit the ground, him first, then her. Salt water and wet sand beneath their skin.
Ivar roars with anger, throws her off, ready to kill whichever soldier just took his triumph. But the helmet has fallen from her head, and when he leans over her, reaches for his sword, he sees her face. Confusion marks his features, visible even under all the blood and dirt that paints his face.
Then, the flash of metal and Mary stretches her hands out, still bound together as she sits up, pushing Ivar to the side. The blade stops an inch before her, and she looks up at the murderous face of Lagertha.
"Please," Mary croaks, "he didn't know."
The former queen regards her for a second, then Ivar, who is still staring at her in bafflement. "If my son dies, so do you."
She cuts the rope around her wrists, now bloodied and burning, before she turns and joins the battle once again.
"What are you doing?" Ivar shouts over the sounds of battle. He grabs his crutch, but it is broken, the wood splintered so that it bends and snaps whenever Ivar tries to heave himself back onto his feet. Shit.
He still has his sword, but without the use of his legs, he is an easy target.
Oleg is following Bjorn as he fights his way up the beach. He hasn't seen her, has missed the few seconds that saves the Viking King's life. Only a few seconds. It seems impossible.
Mary is still on the wet sand, on her hands and knees and she pulls the helmet back on her head, needing anonymity from the Rus. She has to do something. Something that will stop them. A miracle. She needs a miracle. Her eyes fall on the retreating Vikings and then they stop when she sees Bjorn. Wild, fearsome, stupid Bjorn who is her only chance of escaping this hell hole, and who is turning to face Oleg.
"Don't you dare," Mary growls. She scrambles to her feet as Ivar is still behind her.
"Mary," he screams and when she doesn't turn to him, just runs, he rages furiously. "Mary!"
He might not forgive her, she knows that. For leaving him behind vulnerable, reducing him from Ivar the Boneless, Ivar Ragnarsson, to Ivar the Cripple. She doesn't care.
Bjorn is tired, his shoulders heaving with the effort of just standing, while Oleg stalks closer. The prince is sprayed with blood, but there is no sweat of exertion on his forehead. Bjorn could take him on any day but today.
Mary doesn't know what to do. If she intervenes, she will die. Oleg will kill her, that is for sure. But she cannot let him kill Bjorn. Lagertha screams his name, screams for him to come to safety, but he doesn't listen. Mary panics. There are so few Vikings still on the beach. They are standing where the woods meet the wall of Kattegat, Oleg with his guard all around him. Aleksei is behind him, the blue bright and vibrant.
She won't reach them, Mary realizes then. They are too far. Even with the Rus retreating into their boats, Bjorn is outmatched, his allies – Lagertha, Ubbe, Floki – held back by Oleg's guards.
Now it is a king – tired, bloodied, bruised – against a prince, poised to strike with one general in blue still by his side. The outcome of the battle is as predictable as the sun in the sky.
But then something happens. An eclipse. Blocking the sun, blocking the unavoidable. Aleksei shifts, the sabre in his hand, and attacks Oleg. As surprising as the sudden movement is, Oleg manages to block it. Mary's view blurs, but she comes close enough to hear the sudden rise of noise.
Two Rus, fighting in what seems an even match. Then Aleksei is knocked down, the helmet flying form his head, and everyone stops. Not Aleksei. Tanaruz. Dressed as a Rus, having crawled her way close enough to their prince, to strike. But now she is on her back and Oleg scoffs, "I will never be bested by someone like you."
Woman, Muslim, foreign? Mary doesn't know, doesn't care, when he lets the sword fall. Tanaruz rolls out of the way, and then Oleg's legs buckle when she flashes past. Mary's dagger is in her hand, slick with blood where she cut it across the back of Oleg's leg. He just laughs.
"That is not a weapon," he mocks, before swinging his sword. She escapes, dancing on her feet the way Floki does. She barely hurts him, cutting shallowly into the skin, sometimes not even getting past the armour. But she drives him back, and then she drops into a crouch only to pounce on the prince like a tiger. His sabre catches the edge of her leg, slicing through leather and skin and flesh, but she doesn't stop. Not until she takes the dagger – like an overgrown needle – and drives it through his hand. The palm splits open, blood flows, but she keeps pushing. Into bark, into hard wood, pinning Oleg to the tree.
He seethes, trying to wrench his hand free but gritting his teeth when the dagger won't budge. The Rus come running to his aid then, a wall of men growing around him as the Vikings finally – finally – retreat. Mary sees Bjorn catch Oleg's eyes. A warning. A promise for retribution.
Then Bjorn turns, broad shoulders hunched in exhaustion and Oleg lets out an almost inhuman howl. That is all she remembers.