Changing Course: After King’s Egbert’s promised safe passage back home turns out to be a lie, Ivar is forced to endure the torture of being a slave inside Castle de Haar. At the mercy of the Giant he needs to find a new place in a world where he’s the underdog and needs to rely on a slave maiden he named Piglet in order to survive. - finished 18-03-21-
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Adrift, Adrift – Part II of the Changing Course Saga
After being left for dead, Piglet returns; not out of mercy, but because she refuses to carry his death on her conscience. Yet her return comes with a revelation: she was not born a slave, but the surviving daughter of the slain Emir of Aswan. And reclaiming her birthright will require the impossible; an army, a war, and Ivar the Boneless at her side.
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Changing Course / Adrift Fanart
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Viking Prompt: Avalanche
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Masterlist Between cross and raven
In a convent near Dorestad, a young healer named Magdalena is taught that sin is inherited and mercy is her only redemption. When a wounded Viking raider is delivered to her infirmary with orders that he must live, she takes his survival as a test of skill; not knowing she is binding her fate to his.
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
Between cross and raven Chapter 24. Sending out a message
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
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Magdalena woke without moving, her senses flaring to life while her body remained perfectly still.
Then she felt him. Ivar lay directly behind her. One of his arms was still draped heavily across her waist, his upper body relaxed and sleep-loosened, though his withered legs lay motionless beneath the heavy furs. The warmth of him pressed insistently through the layers of her wool tunic and the furs alike. It was a proximity so unfamiliar that her body instinctively recoiled before her thoughts could fully form a defense.
Against the back of her shoulder, his breathing stirred faintly. It was different now. Lighter. Closer to waking.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. The knife. If he shifted, if he pulled her closer, he might find it.
Slowly, Magdalena shifted her hand beneath the furs. Her fingers brushed against the cold, hidden iron. She closed her hand around it. Not as tightly as she had held it last night, when desperation was highest. But tightly enough. A reminder. A choice.
With excruciating slowness, she began easing it free, already searching in her mind for somewhere better to hide it. A place within reach where he would not find it. A place where her fragile illusion of safety could remain intact.
“Do you honestly think I’m not aware of what you are doing?”
The breath stopped completely in her throat.
His voice was rough with sleep, a low, gravelly vibration against the back of her shoulder. She did not need to turn to know his eyes were open, or to know that their heavy, unblinking weight was fixed entirely on her. Awake. Watching.
Her fingers locked in a desperate, frozen grip around the knife.
“Last night, you held it,” he murmured, his tone dropping quieter now, “like a starving child clutching bread.”
There was no violence in his words. No sharp, anticipated cruelty. Instead, there was a terrible, quiet undercurrent of something that sounded amused.
Magdalena stared straight ahead at the canvas wall of the tent. She did not dare to speak. Her pulse thudded painfully beneath her skin as she waited for punishment to arrive.
His arm shifted slightly around her waist. He was not withdrawing. Instead, his weight settled deeper, a deliberate anchor keeping her exactly where she was: pinned against his chest by the strength of a man who fought entirely with his upper body. She did not stand a chance.
Then, after an agonizing moment, he spoke again. “If you mean to kill me…”
His breath brushed faintly, warmly, against the sensitive skin at the back of her neck.
“…find a better blade.”
Before she could react, the knife disappeared from her hand. It was not ripped away with sudden force; it was simply lifted from her grasp with casual ease. She heard the faint sound of the weapon shifting in the dark, followed by the dry slide of his thumb testing the edge.
A sharp, sudden inhale broke the silence of the tent.
It was his.
Driven by an instinct she could not master, Magdalena turned her head before she could stop herself. In the gloom, she saw the dark, rapid welling of blood across the broad flat of his palm from his wounded arm. It looked black in the dim light, bright and slick against his skin. The cut was shallow, but entirely deliberate; not enough to harm him, but more than enough to bleed freely.
Her stomach tightened with a sudden, sickening jolt. Instantly, an impulse rose that was older and deeper than her fear.
Her hand moved toward the wound before her mind could stop the action, then halted halfway, trembling in mid-air. Permission. She forgot that she needed it.
Ivar noticed the halted gesture. Something unreadable; a fleeting hint of appreciation or calculation, flickered through his dark gaze.
He gripped her shoulder with his good hand, pinning her flat onto her back against the bedding. When she instinctively tried to bring her hands up to defend herself, his palm shifted instantly, trapping her wrists and forcing it effortlessly down into the furs above her head.
Then, without ceremony or a single word, his free hand descended. He reached for the stark white linen of her habit near her hips, between her thighs. His palm with the cut pressed firmly against the fabric.
Magdalena’s breath caught sharply in her chest. She felt the warm, sticky dampness of his blood soaking slowly, insistently, into her habit.
Her gaze dropped instantly, unable to meet his eyes. She did not pull away. She could not. He held his bloody palm against her clothes. When he finally withdrew his hand, the dark, irregular stain remained vividly etched against her linen habit.
When he spoke again, his voice had stripped away all traces of sleep and amusement, returning to something practical. Flat. Controlled.
“Now go.”
He let go of her wrists. She remained frozen, unable to bring herself to move.
“Wash yourself,” he ordered, his voice slicing through the heavy air. “Your clothes.” His eyes flicked once, with detachment, toward the wet, dark stain on her habit. “The bedding.”
Only then did the full, crushing weight of his actions dawn on her.
The entire camp would see her emerge. They would see the blood on her clothes, the blood on the sheets. And they would assume exactly what Ivar wanted them to assume. He had made absolutely certain of it, achieving a total subjugation in one quiet, devastating act. It would be impossible for the other Northmen to miss, and entirely impossible for them not to understand.
It was a mark. Not holy, not pure. She had been claimed.
Her throat tightened so painfully she could barely swallow.
With effort, Ivar shifted, using both his arms to hoist himself backward and drag his legs out from beneath the heavy furs. He moved himself off the bed, settling onto the cold ground beside it. He sat there, propped against the framework, idly playing with her knife, turning it over and over in his hands while his palm still bled a slow trail of red, entirely unbothered by the injury.
Magdalena rose too quickly, her head spinning. Her legs nearly failed her, buckling beneath her weight, and she had to throw a hand out to steady herself against the rough wood of the central tent pole. She kept her eyes averted. She did not look at him, and she did not speak as her trembling hands began stripping the stained bedding.
The bundle of wool and linen felt impossibly heavy in her arms, like a shroud.
From near the floor, Ivar’s voice followed her, low and utterly devoid of remorse. “Now no one will touch you.”
As she turned toward the tent flap, she could feel the heavy, unyielding weight of his gaze burning into her back. Steady. Constant. Watching her leave with the bloody mess.
.-.-.
Although no one spoke to her directly, Magdalena felt like a walking spectacle. Keeping her gaze pinned strictly to the muddy earth beneath her boots, she could still feel the weight of a hundred eyes boring into her. They were staring at the dark, wet crimson stain glaring against the white of her habit, and at the damp bundle of ruined bedding clutched tightly in her arms.
Everyone saw. Everyone knew.
Right on cue, Brechje stepped into her path, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp.
“Follow me,” she commanded.
Instead of taking the direct route to the riverbank, Brechje turned sharply, leading her down a longer, winding path through the very heart of the camp. It took Magdalena a few paces to realize the truth: this was entirely for show. A calculated, dreadful walk of shame designed to parade Ivar’s brand before his men.
As they rounded a cluster of large, hide-covered tents, the earth beneath Magdalena’s feet seemed to tilt. Emerging in the clearing ahead was the caravan of her captured sisters.
A wave of sickness washed over her; she wanted nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow her whole. But she could not stop. Her legs kept moving, her feet forced to follow Brechje’s steady, unbothered stride.
In the silence of her own mind, Magdalena prayed desperately. Please, Lord, let them be asleep. Let them be spared this.
But as she drew closer, the sudden, collective intake of breath shattered her hopes. She heard the sharp, horrified gasps of her sisters.
In that terrible moment, the truth did not matter. It did not matter that Ivar had not truly violated her last night. It did not matter that the blood was his. Right now, the illusion was total, and the shame filled her until she was entirely hollowed out by it. Hot, silent tears finally escaped her eyelids, tracking hot lines down her dirt-streaked cheeks.
“Lena!”
The hoarse, cracked shout cut through the morning air. It was the voice of Brother Armandus.
A faint surge of relief tried to surface, but it was instantly crushed by the weight of her disgrace. If only she did not feel so utterly ruined.
She kept her chin tucked into her chest, not daring to look up and meet his gaze, terrified of the pity or the horror it would undoubtedly hold.
“Magdalena!”
Hearing the stern, commanding voice of Abbess Gerhild set years of ingrained obedience into motion before her mind could think to stop it. Magdalena’s head snapped up.
And what she saw devastated her on an entirely different level. The Abbess seemed to have aged a decade since the raid took place. The once speckless, formidable woman who had ruled the convent with a spine of iron now looked entirely broken. Her holy habit was torn and smeared with mud and dried blood; her frame seemed hollowed out and dangerously thin beneath the wool. Her face was a ghostly, ashen gray, her eyes sunken deep into dark, shadowed sockets.
Seeing her daughter in Christ marked in such a way, the old woman’s lips trembled, but she forced a fragile, trembling strength into her voice.
“Filia mea...non derelinquet te Dominus,” the Abbess murmured, her voice cracking on the Latin syllables, offering the only comfort she had left: My daughter...the Lord will not forsake you.
Magdalena’s heart broke completely as her eyes flickered past the Abbess to her closest sisters: Lidewij, Elinor, and Elswyth. All three shared the exact same petrified, pale expressions, their knuckles white as they clung to one another. Behind them, crowded into the back of the wooden caravan, the rest of the sisters watched her with wide, weeping eyes.
From the side, Brother Armandus bowed his head, his hands bound tightly with rope, and began to intone a low, desperate prayer for her soul.
“Sub tuum praesidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genetrix...libera nos a periculis cunctis...”
Hearing the sacred words, Magdalena felt a sickening wave of guilt. It choked her. If they only knew the truth; if they knew that she had been the unwitting pawn used by Ivar to set the entire raid of their sanctuary in motion, they would not pray for her. They would hate her. She was a traitor clothed in the blood of her captor.
Sister Elinor’s voice rose, trembling but clear, breaking through the low murmurs of the Norse camp. Lidewij joined her, then Elswyth, until the entire caravan of captive women was singing a hymn of fortitude, an ancient chant passed down through generations of faithful hearts:
“Crux fidelis, inter omnes
Arbor una nobilis:
Nulla silva talem profert,
Fronde, flore, germine…”
Their pure, harmonized voices followed Magdalena as Brechje urged her forward, echoing through the crude tents and the harsh clatter of the Viking army.
She knew she was not worthy of their sympathy. She knew she was completely unworthy of their holy prayers. Yet, as the sacred melody wrapped around her like a protective shield, she felt the crushing weight of her despair shift, just a fraction. For the first time since waking, she felt slightly less ruined by sin.
.-.-.
Brechje led her past the bustling perimeter of the camp, winding through the brush until they reached a secluded, quiet curve of the riverbank. Here, the tall reeds grew thick and dense, shielding them from the prying eyes of Norse warriors.
“Undress,” the young woman said without preamble, reaching out to take the heavy, stained bundle of bedding from Magdalena’s arms. “I’ll wash that. You can bathe.”
Magdalena froze, her arms instantly crossing over her chest. Years of cloistered life had ironed a strict, unyielding modesty into her very bones. To strip bare in the open air, even before another woman, felt like a transgression.
And there was a deeper, more agonizing reason she loathed to reveal her body. Her dark hair and the deep, sun-warmed olive of her skin tone made her a permanent outsider.
Countless times in her youth, she had taken coarse soap and pumice to her own skin, scrubbing until she bled, desperately trying to erase the color that marked her as different. She had tried to wash away the heritage that had made her an object of utter disgust in the eyes of her mother’s husband.
That man had marked her too. Just in a very different way than Ivar had.
Brechje watched her troubled hesitation, letting out a sharp, impatient sigh. She nudged her chin toward a dense cluster of towering reeds. “Undress there, then. I’ll come down once you’re settled.”
Safe behind the wall of stalks, Magdalena stripped in the blink of an eye. She kicked her soiled, blood-stained clothing aside into the mud and stepped instantly into the river. The biting, early morning chill of the water made her hiss, the cold piercing her skin like a thousand tiny needles.
Teeth instantly chattering, she submerged herself rapidly until the dark water rose to her shoulders, concealing her entirely.
Brechje came into view a moment later. With pragmatic indifference, she hitched up her heavy woolen dress and tied it off at her hips to keep it dry before stepping into the shallows. Kneeling on a flat, smooth boulder at the water's edge, Brechje began to wash the bedding. She dunked the heavy linen into the current, repeatedly striking the fabric against the stone to beat out the dark stains, a rhythmic, echoing thud that resonated through the quiet bank.
Magdalena watched her in silence. When Brechje suddenly turned her head and met her gaze, Magdalena let herself sink completely beneath the surface.
Darkness and a profound, icy quiet rushed over her. The sound of the camp, the beating of the linen, and the weight of her reality vanished. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold onto that blissful loss of her vital senses, wishing she could simply dissolve into the water.
Suddenly, a violent, stinging force gripped the crown of her head. A strong hand yanked her mercilessly upward by her hair.
Magdalena broke the surface, gasping for air, water streaming into her eyes. Brechje was leaning over her, staring down with an agitated, fierce expression.
“Do not try to flee,” Brechje warned, her voice a sharp whisper. “There are hunting parties scouring the woods on the other side of the river. You will not get three paces before they run you down. And if you drown yourself, he will have my head.”
Magdalena swallowed a mouthful of river water, wanting to tell Brechje that escaping hadn't been her intention; that she had only wanted a moment of peace. But the young woman had already let go of her hair and turned back to her work, aggressively scrubbing the bedding against the rocks.
The deep, penetrating chill of the river began to settle into Magdalena's bones. With a heavy heart, she watched Brechje drench her ruined, blood-marked habit in the freezing current. It would take ages to dry in the damp morning air. But returning to the camp without proper clothing was out of the question.
Honestly, as her limbs grew numb, a fatal case of pneumonia didn't feel like a punishment at all. It felt like an escape.
Brechje must have heard the violent, uncontrolled clattering of her teeth. She paused, looking over. “Will you flee if I go back to the tents and bring you clean clothes?”
Magdalena shook her head weakly. She watched in silence as Brechje stood, wrung out the edges of her skirts, and marched back up the bank toward the camp.
Left alone in the freezing water, Magdalena looked longingly over her shoulder toward the far side of the river. The temptation was a physical ache. She could attempt to swim across. The odds of surviving were close to none, but wouldn't it be a relief to simply be slain by a Norse scouting party in the woods? To have the misery end?
She turned her body completely now, treading water as she stared at the opposite shore. A vast, unbroken line of tall, swaying grass and ancient forest stretched out as far as her eyes could see. It would be so easy to swim over and embrace death.
But a glaring flaw in the plan halted her. What kind of man would kill a nude, defenseless maiden lost in the wilderness? They wouldn't kill her. Not at first. They would use her, far worse than anything she had faced yet. Wolves, a bear perhaps; if she were certain to meet a wild animal instead of desperate men, she would have swum across in a heartbeat.
With a hollow, bitter ache in her chest, she was forced to admit a terrible truth: even after the psychological torment of last night, even after being branded like livestock as his property...Ivar was the safest of all her options right now.
A sharp, piercing whistle shattered her thoughts.
Magdalena spun around. Brechje was standing on the riverbank, holding a clean, dry habit in one hand and a thick, coarse wool blanket in the other.
Getting out of the river without being fully exposed was impossible, and Brechje already looked thoroughly irritated by the delay. Steeling herself, Magdalena emerged from the water as fast as she could, acutely aware of any hidden eyes that might be lingering across the water. She stumbled onto the muddy bank, instantly wrapping the heavy blanket around her trembling shoulders.
Brechje stood by, watching with a critical eye as Magdalena frantically rubbed the moisture from her limbs. She handed over the dry garments.
“It wasn’t too bad, then,” the woman stated casually.
Magdalena paused, her hands freezing against the wool. She looked up, entirely unsure of what Brechje meant.
“Last night,” Brechje clarified, gesturing crudely between her own thighs. “You’re not bleeding. You're not in pain.”
A hot, furious blush rushed to Magdalena’s cheeks. She had been so focused on surviving the cold and getting dressed that she had completely forgotten to maintain the act. She hadn't faked a limp. She hadn't shown any of the physical agony of a violated woman.
“I wish not to speak of it,” Magdalena whispered truthfully, her voice tight as she hurriedly pulled the clean habit over her head to hide her face.
“I understand,” Brechje said. For the first time since they had met, there was a note of genuine sincerity in her tone. She leaned against a willow tree, looking out over the water. “He never fucked me, though. He told me he only fucks up, never down.”
Magdalena honestly did not know how to answer such a crude statement. She remained silent, pushing her damp arms through the long sleeves of the tunic. As her fingers brushed the coarse, familiar fabric, a pang of grief struck her; she recognized the specific, tough weave. This habit had been looted directly from the storerooms of her convent.
“In a way, you should feel special,” Brechje continued, entirely unbothered by the silence.
“Hvithár, my other master, told me I’d never have to share his bed. He said I remind him of his late daughter. Same laugh, same spirit. But he told me he could never refuse his prince if the boy wanted to use me. So, I offered myself up to Ivar the first chance I got, just to get it over with. He just laughed at me. Told me he’d never fuck a thrall, and sent me away.”
Magdalena did not allow the weight of Brechje’s words to fully sink in; instead, she carefully stored the information away in the back of her mind.
“But,” Magdalena swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she looked at the young woman, unsure of where her question would lead, “you’ve been hurt. Like me.”
“Yes. In wedlock,” Brechje replied without a shred of self-pity. “I had a horrible father, and a worse husband. I was gambled away over a game of cards.” For a brief moment, lost in the dark fog of memory, Brechje’s rough fingers traced the jagged scars that marred her face. She looked up at the grey sky, a bitter, profound smile touching her lips. “As God is my witness, these pagans have been my salvation.”
Before Magdalena could even begin to parse the terrifying paradox of that statement, Brechje snapped back to reality. She turned resolutely toward the wet bundle of washed linen.
“We better get this out to dry,” she said, her voice returning to its sharp, practical edge. “Move.”
.-.-.
Magdalena had been able to steady the frantic rhythm of her mind by focusing entirely on the mundane, bone-deep exhaustion of labor. Brechje kept her moving throughout the day, ensuring she had no time to think.
She worked until her hands were raw from hauling heavy buckets of river water to the cook-fires. Afterwards, she was set to tending the massive, soot-blackened iron cauldrons over the central fire pits, using a heavy ash wood paddle to constantly stir a thick, greasy pottage of dried peas and salted mutton while the grease coated her skin.
The other thralls quickly branded her with the name ‘Nunna.’ It was a byname she wore with a quiet, stubborn grace, deeply relieved that Brechje at least allowed her to keep wearing a habit.
Yet, it was painful to notice that even here, in the dirt of a pagan camp, she could not escape the sting of gossip. The only difference was the sheer boldness of it: the Norse thralls did it directly to her face, fully aware she did not understand their harsh, guttural tongue. They pointed openly at her, their laughter sharp and mocking as she passed. Even here, among the lowest of the low, she still managed to be the outcast.
It should have hurt her. It should have pricked her pride. But a thick, protective callous had curled around her heart; right now, the whispers of slaves were the least of her problems.
Whatever fragile spirit she had gathered during the day vanished entirely when Brechje motioned for her to follow her back to Ivar’s tent.
An icy knot of dread tightened in her stomach. She honestly was not ready to face him. She had no way of knowing what version of him she would encounter tonight: the amused tormentor, the cold strategist, or the ruthless warlord. And his absolute unpredictability was starting to take a heavy toll on her sanity.
Nausea swirled in her gut and hot tears pricked the back of her eyes as she lifted the heavy flap and quietly stepped into the dim interior of the tent.
Ivar was positioned in his carved seat, leaning forward over a large oak table. His brother Ubbe and two unfamiliar, heavily tattooed warriors stood close by, their low voices rumbling as they discussed the markings on a sprawling parchment map.
Ivar’s sharp gaze snapped to Magdalena the moment she crossed the threshold. Without breaking his conversation, he immediately dismissed her, pointing a single finger toward the dark corner where the massive hound sat.
Obedient and desperate to remain unseen, Magdalena lowered herself onto the furs next to the animal. As Magdalena tentatively reached out a hand, the dog leaned its heavy head into her touch, letting out a soft grunt and softly licking her knuckles as she petted its thick side.
The discussion at the table grew heated, the men’s voices rising in an argument until Ivar abruptly raised a hand and dismissed them all. Just as they filed out, Brechje entered with a heavy wooden tray of roasted meat and flatbread. Neither woman acknowledged the other, and Brechje left as quickly as she had arrived, leaving Magdalena alone with him again.
“Garmr,” Ivar said suddenly, breaking the silence as he tore off a piece of meat. When Magdalena only blinked, not understanding, he pointed a grease-stained finger at the dog. “I named her after the blood-stained guardian of Hel’s gate.”
Magdalena stared at the scarred beast, watching the slow rise and fall of its powerful chest, and felt a chilling realization of how fitting the name truly was.
“Garmr. The howler,” Ivar continued, his voice surprisingly flat, almost reflective. “She was the smallest, scrawniest of the litter. I raised her myself on goat’s milk and scraps because her mother didn’t want anything to do with her.”
He cast a brief, knowing glance toward his own motionless legs. “Animals have a sense for that, you know. Some eat their young. Some leave them out in the cold to die. She is alive only because of me.”
Magdalena did not know how to respond, or if she was even permitted to speak, so she remained silently on the floor, watching him eat.
When he finished, Ivar set the tray aside and motioned for her to come close. She rose without a word and knelt to carefully unlace the heavy braces from his legs. When she finished, she turned her attention to the linen wraps on his wounded arm, her movements precise and gentle.
Suddenly, Ivar reached onto the table and pulled up a sharp, iron dagger.
Magdalena froze completely, the breath dying in her throat as he held the gleaming edge close to her face. Her eyes widened, her heart hammering against her ribs as she braced for the strike.
Instead, Ivar reversed his grip. He pressed the smooth wooden handle firmly into her palm and forced her fingers to close tightly around it.
“Keep this close,” he commanded, holding her gaze with an intensity that burned through the shadows of the tent. “If anyone touches you, make them regret it.”
Magdalena stared at him, her chest heaving.
“Even me.”
The words hung heavily in the air. Slowly, Magdalena pulled the weapon closer to her chest, the profound, staggering depth of the gift settling into her mind.
“You can choose where you sleep tonight,” he told her, leaning back into his chair.
Subconsciously, her body reacted before her mind did; she took a skittish step backward, toward the safety of the dog. She watched him warily, her eyes darting across his face, desperately searching for the trap, the trickery, a sudden laughter that would accompany cruelty.
Seeing her hesitation, Ivar simply held his arms open, his expression remarkably unreadable.
“You choose. No consequences.”
The tension snapped. Magdalena turned and fled back to the dark corner, sinking into Garmr’s pile of furs. She quickly and carefully tucked the dagger away between the tight linen of her undertunic and the woolen cord wrapped around her waist, ensuring it was within arm's reach
Turning onto her side, away from the weight of his gaze, she curled herself into a tight, protective ball.
The silence of the tent stretched out, safe and vast. Magdalena closed her eyes, burying her face into the coarse fur of the hound, and whispered into the dark, “Thank you, Ivar.”
.-.-.
A/N: Another chapter with a lot of ups and downs. I wanted to give a little insight into all three characters, Ivar, Magdalena and Brechje. I do believe Ivar did Magdalena nasty, then again he could have hurt her far worse. He did make his point though.
And when Magdalena thought her day could not possibly get any worse, she came across the caravan. I did like the encounter with Abbess Gerhild though and Brother Armandus and her fellow sisters. Brechje is an interesting OC, I like to give the ‘bystander’ OC’s backgrounds too, so in this chapter I wanted to reveal a little of hers.
And the last part; Ivar giving her options in forms of a knife and her place to sleep. I do think he disliked how he was sort of forced to act in the last chapter. Let’s be honest if he did not make this point she’d be targeted. I want this Ivar to be cruel too, but more out of necessity than just for the sake of it; like in the tv show. Translation: Sub tuum praesidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genetrix...libera nos a periculis cunctis: We fly to your protection, O Holy Mother of God... deliver us from all dangers
Crux fidelis, inter omnes, Arbor una nobilis:, Nulla silva talem profert,Fronde, flore, germine: faithful cross, above all other, one and only noble Tree! None in foliage, none in blossom, none in fruit thy peers may be;
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
.-.-.
Magdalena followed Brechje through the camp as though walking to her own execution. Her legs moved because they had to. Because stopping was not an option. Because in this place, hesitation only earned punishment.
But each step felt heavier than the last.
The noise of the camp pressed in from all sides. The normal rhythm of camp life continued as if nothing had changed
As if her world had not just been torn apart.
Magdalena’s chest felt tight enough to break. She could still hear the laughter that had followed his words.
Her breathing came shallow now, barely controlled.
She had spent years learning discipline. Silence. Sacrifice. She had tended to dying men and broken bodies. She had watched faith survive despite impossible suffering. But nothing had prepared her for this. Because this felt like annihilation. Not simply of the body. Of self. Of everything she had once promised.
Her vows had not been mere ritual, words spoken in candlelight. They had shaped her life. Her body belonged to God. Her service belonged to God. Her future belonged to God.
And now her captor had claimed all three with a single sentence spoken before an entire camp.
She had known that the Vikings were capable of brutality. She had seen it. But this…this felt cruel in a different way. Personal. Because last night he had let her see something real. He had looked at her without walls and told her to call him by his name.
And now this.
The betrayal burned so sharply it almost eclipsed fear. Almost.
By the time they reached Ivar’s tent, her hands were trembling so violently she had curled them into fists to hide it.
Brechje stopped. Without speaking, she pushed the tent flap aside.
Magdalena stared into the dim interior as if looking into the mouth of something waiting to consume her.
Brechje motioned toward the opening.
“Go.”
Magdalena didn’t move. Not at first. The strength holding her upright simply broke. It came all at once. Her breath hitched violently. Then again. A sound escaped her throat before she could stop it, small and broken and humiliatingly close to a sob.
Her knees weakened.
“No…” she whispered, though the word carried no force at all. “Please…”
The distant laughter from the clearing drifted toward them again, carried on smoke and evening wind. It felt grotesque. Cruel. The entire camp feasted and drank and laughed while she was expected to step quietly inside this tent and wait like livestock awaiting slaughter.
Wait for her master to return. Wait to be taken.
The tears came then. Hot and unstoppable. Magdalena pressed a shaking hand over her mouth, trying desperately to quiet herself, as if dignity still mattered.
Brechje watched her for a long moment. Something shifted in her expression; a mixture of pity and memory.
When she spoke, her voice was flat, practical.
“Piece of advice.”
Magdalena’s tear-filled gaze lifted to her.
Brechje crossed her arms.
“Don’t fight him.”
The words landed like blows.
“Lay still. Think of somewhere else. Somewhere better.”
Her voice remained emotionless, but something grim lived underneath it.
“Then it’ll be over quickly.”
Magdalena shook her head weakly.
“No…”
Brechje stepped closer and lowered her voice.
“I’ve been there.”
A pause.
“Done that.”
Something hard flickered in her eyes.
“You’d better get used to it quickly.”
Then, almost gently, Brechje placed a hand against Magdalena’s shoulder and guided her forward. Almost softly. Which somehow made it worse.
Magdalena stumbled into the tent. And the flap fell shut behind her.
With shaking hands she slipped the small blunt kitchen knife from the folds of her woolen habit. It had been tucked tightly beneath the cloth belt at her waist where the heavy fabric had concealed its shape.
It was hardly a weapon. The blade was short and worn dull from work, better suited to roots and onions than flesh. Still, it could cut and right now that was all she had.
She stared at it for a long moment, her breathing shallow and uneven. The sharp chill of the metal grounded her in a way prayer no longer could.
Then, forcing herself to move, she crossed the short distance to Ivar’s bed.
Kneeling beside the bedding, she carefully lifted the thick layers of fur and wool. Her fingers shook so badly she nearly dropped the knife twice.
At last, she pushed it deep into the bedding, burying it beneath the furs near the edge where her hand could find it quickly in darkness.
Her hand lingered there for a moment, pressed against the bedding as though reassuring herself it was real. Something solid, hers, a choice.
Then she withdrew and returned to her place next to the dog. The warmth of the animal’s body against her side offered little comfort now. Her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her breathing remained shallow.
Now all she could do was wait.
.-.-.
It was late when Ivar returned, bringing the feast in with him. The scent of ale clung heavily to him again, mixed with smoke, sweat and cold night air. His hair had come partly loose, dark strands falling across his forehead. Exhaustion sat plainly in the hard lines of his face.
He looked tired. Not merely weary. Spent.
He crossed the tent slowly,with measured effort in each step, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed with visible strain. The moment his weight settled, he exhaled through his nose and rubbed a hand briefly across his face.
Only then did he look at her. He watched her longer than she liked. Something in that gaze made her skin crawl.
At last, he spoke.
“Come here.”
His voice was neither loud nor sharp. But there was no room for refusal in it.
Her body obeyed before her mind gathered enough courage to resist.
The warmth of the dog vanished the moment she stood. Immediately she missed it.
Each step toward him felt heavier than the last. When she reached the bed, she stopped and remained standing, hands folded carefully before her in a futile attempt to hide their trembling.
He studied her for a moment before motioning toward the braces.
Wordlessly, she knelt.
Her fingers moved to the leather and iron with mechanical precision, loosening each fastening as if performing some grim ritual. Fear had hollowed her out so completely that only function remained.
One strap loosened. Then another. Leather shifted softly beneath her hands. When the final fastening released, he drew a quieter breath.
Then his gaze returned to her.
“Closer.”
Her breath caught. This was it. The moment she had spent half the evening preparing herself for.
Slowly, she sat herself onto the edge of the furs, leaving as much space between them as she dared. Her body angled instinctively away. She could hear his breathing now. Could feel his presence with unbearable clarity.
When he moved her eyes shut before she could stop herself, every muscle in her body tightening in violent anticipation. Her entire body braced for impact, for weight, for pain.
His hand closed around her wrist. Magdalena went completely still. Every part of her locked up. She did not retreat. Did not lean closer. She simply waited.
His grip tightened only enough to guide. He drew her toward him until the distance she had fought to preserve disappeared entirely.
Her breath caught painfully. She waited for force. For weight. For being pinned down beneath him.
For only a heartbeat he stilled. But long enough for her to feel it. Long enough to realize he had noticed the rigid terror locked into every muscle of her body.
He knew exactly what she expected.
He lowered himself back against the furs. A quiet breath escaped him, suspiciously close to pain. Then he pulled her beside him.
His good arm settled loosely around her waist, heavy with fatigue. She could feel the heat of him through layers of wool and linen. The rough press of fur beneath her. The steady rhythm of his breathing against the back of her shoulder.
He was too close. Far too close. Her body knew only one thing now. Prepare.
Slowly, carefully, beneath the folds of fur, her fingers searched and found the knife. Her fingers curled tightly around it. She reminded herself she still had a choice.
Beside her, Ivar stilled.
For one terrible heartbeat, panic surged in an entirely different direction.
He knows.
Frozen, Magdalena waited for him to take the knife from her clenched hand. To wrench it away. To punish her for her foolishness. To laugh at the pathetic illusion of control she had tried to create.
But he said nothing.
Instead, his forehead lowered slowly until it rested against the space between her shoulder blades. The contact was so unexpectedly gentle it startled her more than cruelty might have. Then his arm shifted and settled more fully around her waist, as though some exhausted part of him had finally stopped fighting the simple need for warmth.
His breathing deepened against her back. Slower now. Heavier.
Sleep claimed him with startling suddenness, as though exhaustion had finally overruled even his relentless will.
Magdalena lay motionless. He slept. Beside her.
The knife remained cold in her palm. She did not loosen her grip.
Carefully, barely daring to move, she turned her head enough to look at him.
Sleep had changed his face. The sharpness had receded into something softer. What remained looked younger somehow; human in ways she almost wished he did not.
Because demons evoked no confusion; hellspawn did not fall asleep holding you as though simple warmth was all they wanted.
Ivar had every right in this place, in his world, to take what he wanted.
He had not.
That did not make him safe. It made him unpredictable. And that unpredictability frightened her too.
Still, against her own will, some small part of her began to ease. The unbearable relief of not being hurt loosened something locked deep inside her. Her shoulder shifted, ever so slightly, into the warmth behind her before she caught herself and went still again.
She lay awake in darkness, listening to his breathing, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest behind her and the unfamiliar weight of an arm that held her without trapping.
Slowly, carefully, she relaxed her fingers. Only then did she realize how tightly she had been gripping the knife. Her hand ached from it.
Moving with agonizing care, she slid her hand beneath the furs and tucked the blade deep into the bedding near her waist. Hidden but within reach. Close enough to find in darkness if she needed it.
Then she withdrew her hand and folded it tightly against her chest.
She did not sleep. But for the first time that night, she no longer felt as though she was waiting to be destroyed.
.-.-.
A/N: Sorry for keeping you all waiting after last chapter’s cliffhanger… I hope I put you through a rollercoaster; no way he’s going to go through with it…right? Nah, nop, OR WILL HE? OMG you bastard…oh thank god he didn’t. All while realising she has a knife.
Love to read your thoughts, honestly what did you think was going to happen?
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
.-.-.
Ivar spent most of the day in bed, flat on his back and deeply resentful of every passing hour.
The hangover had settled over him like punishment from the gods themselves.
His head pounded with a slow, merciless rhythm, each pulse seeming to strike somewhere directly behind his eyes. The stale taste of ale still coated his tongue, sour and bitter, while his stomach rolled unpleasantly whenever he moved too quickly. Even the light filtering through the seams of the tent felt offensive. Too bright. Too sharp.
He had vomited once before midday. Twice, if one counted the dry heaving afterward. That alone had soured his temper beyond repair.
By midday he was in such a foul mood that even Garmr, his faithful dog, had abandoned him.
The animal had spent the better part of the morning pacing around his bed, whining softly and nudging at his hand in search of attention or treats. Normally he tolerated her persistence. Sometimes even welcomed it.
Today her whining grated directly against his skull.
When she nudged him again, he snapped.
“Enough!”
The word cracked through the tent like a whip.
Garmr startled visibly, ears flattening at once before she retreated several steps, glaring at him with what looked suspiciously like offended dignity.
Then, with all the drama of a wronged queen, she turned and walked out.
Ivar stared after her. Even the damned dog had better judgment than most men.
The silence that followed should have helped.
It didn’t.
Restlessness crawled beneath his skin like something alive. The worst part was that by late afternoon he could feel the difference.
His body was improving.
Not fully, not even close. But enough.
The pounding in his skull had dulled to an ache. His stomach had settled. The sharp agony in his legs had softened into something more familiar, something manageable.
Most men would have taken that as reason to continue resting.
Ivar only grew more restless. Stillness had never suited him. Lying idle made him feel trapped inside his own body, and he had spent enough of his life imprisoned there.
Impatient now, he sat upright and tugged at the linen wrapped around his wounded arm.
The bandage came loose slowly. Beneath it, the wound looked angry but cleaner than before. The torn flesh no longer bled freely, and the swelling had eased somewhat. Bruising still stained the skin in deep shades of purple and yellow, and red inflammation traced the edges where the wound had split open days earlier. It looked ugly.
But healing.
At least as far as his untrained eye could tell.
He flexed his fingers carefully. Pain shot from wrist to shoulder at once. Still, it held.
Good enough. That alone decided it. Enough bed. Enough waiting. Enough weakness.
He braced both hands against the furs and dragged himself toward the edge of the bed.
The moment he put real weight on the wounded arm, pain flared viciously through it. White-hot and immediate, it shot up his shoulder and clenched along his spine hard enough to make his jaw lock.
He hissed through his teeth.
For one ugly moment, his strength faltered.
Then pure stubbornness won, as it always did.
Slowly, painfully, he lowered himself to the floor.
His legs followed uselessly behind him, the dead weight as familiar to him as breath itself. Once on the ground, he paused only long enough to steady his breathing before moving forward.
Hand.
Drag.
Hand.
Drag.
Each pull burned through his wounded arm. Sweat gathered quickly at the back of his neck despite the cool air inside the tent. His shoulder screamed at him with every movement.
Still he kept going.
From one side of the tent to the other.
By the time he reached the far end, his arm throbbed violently and his breathing had roughened, but something familiar stirred beneath the pain.
Relief.
He lowered himself onto the furs spread across the floor and sat there in silence.
If someone had told him years ago that one day he would celebrate crawling, he would have laughed in their face and called them a fool.
And yet here he was. Almost smiling.
After so many days forced into braces and crutches, forced upright by iron and leather that granted movement while twisting his body into relentless agony, crawling felt like freedom.
He moved, crude, undignified and slow. But all by himself.
His palms pressed into the furs as he shifted forward again, dragging himself with effort. It hurt. But it was honest pain. Clean pain. Pain that belonged to effort, not confinement.
And absurd as it was, dragging himself across the floor felt almost like flying.
.-.-.
Ivar managed the rest of the day.
He managed to force food down his throat, though every bite tasted like ash. He managed to drink enough water to dull the pounding behind his eyes. More importantly, he managed to keep both down. By late afternoon, the nausea had finally retreated enough.
Getting the braces back on proved far less graceful.
It took time. It took sweat. It took a truly impressive variety of curses.
The leather felt cruel against sore flesh. His wounded arm screamed with each adjustment, but eventually iron and leather locked into place, and he forced his body upright once more.
By the time he reached the clearing, he was already back to hating the world.
The camp had fully awakened into its usual chaos. Men shouted over dice and cards. Ale sloshed freely. Meat roasted over spits, fat hissing into open flames.
His brothers were already seated.
Ubbe calm and watchful. Hvitserk restless. Sigurd wearing that familiar look of bored amusement, as though waiting for something entertaining to happen.
Ivar settled into his chair with a practiced expression of indifference. And immediately noticed her.
Magdalena moved between the tables carrying a heavy wooden pitcher with both hands, refilling cups and bowls of water as instructed. When the pitcher emptied, she returned to the barrels near the edge of the clearing, filled it again, and started over. Her movements were efficient but careful, still unfamiliar with camp rhythm. She kept her eyes lowered, did not speak, and made herself small in the way thralls quickly learned to do.
Ivar watched the way she avoided wandering eyes. The way she anticipated movement before men barked orders.
Her presence aggravated him. Which, in all fairness, was deeply unfair. She had done nothing wrong. He disliked the way his eyes sought her without permission. Disliked the way last night lingered in his memory. Disliked how easily she unbalanced him. Most of all, he hated how aware he had become of her.
He forced himself to look away and pretended to engage in conversation with his brothers, though the words passed over him like smoke.
Until Hvitserk nudged him.
“What about the caravan of nuns?”
Ivar’s gaze shifted slowly from Magdalena to his brother.
“What about it, Hvitserk?”
Hvitserk leaned back with visible irritation.
“What are we going to do with them? They eat our food, occupy space, weep and chant half the day. We might as well put them to use.”
Ivar took a slow drink before answering.
“We feed them the bare minimum, scraps. And we will put them to use when the time is right.”
Slight irritation sharpened Hvitserk’s voice.
“And when is that?”
Ivar’s answer was cold and practical.
“When they’re useful.”
His fingers tapped once against his cup.
“They’re holy women. Christian soldiers hesitate before shooting arrows at sacred things. They make better shields than half the fools in this camp.”
Hvitserk snorted.
Ivar continued.
“The ones I selected also have medical knowledge. Useful for tending wounds.”
He paused.
“And they speak local tongues.”
That got Ubbe’s attention.
Ivar glanced briefly toward him.
“They can translate. Gather information. Listen where warriors cannot.”
Hvitserk tilted his head.
“Holy women, huh?”
“Yes.”
Hvitserk side-eyed Sigurd.
“So we don’t fuck them?”
Sigurd exhaled through his nose, half amused.
Ubbe shot him a warning look.
Ivar missed all of it.
Because his eyes had drifted again.
Magdalena stood near one of the tables now, pouring ale into cups while drunken men watched her with varying degrees of interest.
Then Sigurd spoke.
“So.”
Ivar’s attention snapped back.
Sigurd lounged in his chair as though utterly relaxed.
“You haven’t claimed yours yet?”
Silence settled over the table. Different this time. Sharper. Because men nearby had heard. And every single one of them understood the meaning. If not claimed, then available. An invitation. A question of ownership.
Across the clearing Magdalena kept working, unaware of the politics suddenly shifting around her.
Ivar felt the trap close. This no longer belonged solely to him. A necessary decision that he hated settled inside him.
He lifted his cup and drained the remaining ale. Then turned his head.
“Thrall.”
The single word cut clean through the noise. Magdalena stopped immediately and turned, cautious and confused. Every eye shifted with hers.
Ivar did not lower his voice. He spoke in Norse so the entire camp would understand.
“I want you to warm my bed tonight.”
Laughter burst violently from every side. Cups slammed against tables. Sharp whistles cut through the air. Crude remarks flew freely, growing louder as men fed off each other’s amusement.
The noise swelled into something ugly.
Magdalena remained frozen.
For one awful moment, she clearly didn’t understand what had been said. Then Bregje stepped near and murmured something in her ear.
Ivar watched the exact moment comprehension struck. All color drained from her face. Her lips parted slightly. Then closed. Her hands tightened into the fabric of her sleeves until her knuckles whitened.
She did not argue. Did not protest. Only lowered her head. Her shoulders went rigid. Bracing. Already preparing herself for suffering.
The sight hit him harder than expected.
Still, Ivar leaned back as if unaffected. He did not watch the crowd. Did not watch his brothers. He watched only her. The silent betrayal moving across her face. The humiliation. The hurt.
Good, he told himself. Let them all see. Because protected things survived. Unprotected things broke.
He lifted his cup as men around him cheered and laughed. Drank deeply.
And let the camp believe exactly what it wished.
.-.-.
A/N: Yes, I am ready to face your thoughts on this one….
Athelstan is clearly an intriguing character. You can see it through both Ragnar and Ecbert's fascination with him. They come from completely different worlds, yet they are both drawn to him.
But why is he so fascinating? What is it about him that makes him stand out among so many memorable characters?
If I could answer that question in one sentence, I would say this: Athelstan's willingness to question his own beliefs and remain open-minded toward other cultures and religions is what makes him fascinating.
Both Ragnar and Ecbert admired Athelstan not because he had all the answers, but because he was willing to ask difficult questions. In a world full of people who were certain they were right, Athelstan had the humility to admit he wasn't.
I was genuinely upset when he was murdered because it meant he would no longer appear on my screen. I wouldn't get to watch him wrestle with faith, identity, and the clash between two completely different worlds.
His open-mindedness was refreshing and inspiring. Being open-minded is a quality that adults always encouraged me to develop growing up, yet I rarely see people truly live by it. Many people become so attached to what they already believe that they refuse to even consider another perspective.
That is what made Athelstan different.
If he had been like Floki, the existence of another god would never have crossed his mind. He would have dismissed the Norse gods entirely. Instead, Athelstan allowed himself to experience both Christianity and Norse paganism. Rather than blindly accepting one and rejecting the other, he wrestled with difficult questions. His faith wasn't simple, and that internal conflict made him feel incredibly human.
Athelstan's open-mindedness didn't just shape his own journey; it also changed Ragnar. Ragnar's curiosity about Christianity grew because of his friendship with Athelstan. He wanted to understand Athelstan's faith, learned Christian prayers, and even chose to be baptized later in life. Whether Ragnar fully believed is almost beside the point. Athelstan taught him that understanding another person's beliefs has value, even if you never completely adopt them yourself. Their friendship became a bridge between two worlds that had only known each other through war.
Watching Athelstan wrestle with his own beliefs also made me reflect on my own experiences with religion.
I grew up Catholic. I attended Catholic grade school and high school, and every Sunday, you could find me at Mass with my family.
At one point, I considered myself a devoted Catholic. I prayed every night and enjoyed reading Bible stories.
One evening in fifth grade, I lost my rosary. I panicked and began tearing my room apart looking for it. I treasured that rosary and treated it like a good-luck charm. I felt as though nothing bad could happen if it were in my pocket. Thankfully, my mom heard the commotion, calmed me down, and quickly found it underneath my bed.
It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I began reflecting on my religion and the ways some of my beliefs had affected me.
I remember sitting in art class, starving because I had skipped breakfast. I decided to eat part of my lunch to stop my stomach from growling. A friend immediately reminded me that it was Ash Wednesday and that, traditionally, I wasn't supposed to snack between meals. I remember thinking, "I'm hungry," and I kept eating anyway. It seems like such a small moment, but it was one of the first times I questioned whether I believed something simply because I had always been told to.
Questioning my religion was uncomfortable at first because of my family.
When I was in college, I went on a school trip to India. The first question my grandpa asked me was, "You're not going to adopt any of their religions, are you?" It struck me as an odd question, and, notably, it was the only thing he asked me about the entire trip. He wasn't curious about the people, the culture, or what I might learn. His biggest concern was that I might come home believing something different.
Ironically, visiting India didn't make me want to change religions. It did something I think is far more valuable: it made me appreciate that people around the world find meaning in different beliefs and traditions. I realized that faith looks different depending on where and how someone grows up.
Today, I wouldn't consider myself a particularly religious person, but I understand why faith is important to so many people. I don't judge others for their beliefs or traditions, even when I don't agree with them. I think it's healthy to ask questions, to be curious, and to listen before deciding what you believe.
That is why Athelstan became my favorite character.
His story isn't really about choosing Christianity or the Norse gods. It's about having the courage to question what you've always known without losing your compassion or your humanity. He reminds us that being open-minded doesn't mean abandoning your beliefs; it means being willing to understand someone else's.
I think that's a lesson that extends far beyond religion. Every day we encounter people with different beliefs, values, cultures, and opinions. We don't have to agree with them, but we do have a choice in how we respond. We can react with anger, fear, and hatred, or we can respond with curiosity and respect.
Floki serves as the perfect contrast to Athelstan. He allowed his convictions and emotions to consume him until he believed murder was justified simply because someone believed differently than he did. Athelstan, on the other hand, spent his life trying to understand others, even when it challenged his own identity. One character closed every door to other perspectives; the other opened every door, even when it was painful.
The world would be a much more peaceful place if more people shared Athelstan's willingness to listen before judging and to understand before condemning. Open-mindedness doesn't require us to surrender our own beliefs. It simply asks us to recognize that another person's humanity is worth more than winning an argument or proving ourselves right.
For me, that's why Athelstan stands out among every other character in Vikings. Long after the battles are forgotten, it's his compassion, curiosity, and willingness to grow that I continue to remember.
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
.-.-.
The feast burned long into the night. Even after the fires sank low and drunken laughter turned hoarse and ugly, the camp refused to sleep. Men still shouted over games of chance. Somewhere nearby, someone butchered a song so badly it earned more laughter than applause. A fight broke out near the far tables, ended in blood and curses, and somehow dissolved into drunken laughter minutes later.
Victory was never quiet.
And this time, he hated every part of it.
He drank more than he should have. Not for pleasure. Not for celebration. Only to dull the sharp edges of the night.
By the time he returned to his tent, the world tilted unpleasantly beneath him. Ale sat heavy in his stomach. The pain was heavier still.
The braces had become unbearable hours ago.
Each step back through camp had sent sharp, familiar agony through his hips and spine. His wounded arm throbbed in deep, angry pulses beneath the linen. His head felt thick from drink, exhaustion, and something worse he refused to name.
The moment the tent flap fell shut behind him, silence rushed in like water. Warm. Dim. Close.
Safe.
And suddenly, too quiet, leaving too much space for memory.
The image returned instantly. That of Gerbrand screaming as fire consumed leather and flesh alike. The sharp, sickening smell of scorched leather still clung to the back of his throat.
Ivar’s breathing turned shallow. His chest tightened as though iron bands had been wrapped around his ribs. For one terrible moment, the tent disappeared.
But beneath that came something worse. The infirmary. Chains biting deep into his wrists. Arms wrenched high above his head until his shoulders screamed with the unbearable strain. His feet had barely touched the floor, only enough to keep his full weight from tearing both arms clean from their sockets. Pain had burned white-hot through him until his vision blurred at the edges.
He remembered sweat running into his mouth. Blood too. Thick and warm where it spilled from his split lip. He remembered choking on it. The taste of iron coating his tongue.
And the laughter.
Gods, the laughter.
Frankish voices all around him. Spitting. Mocking. Cruel in the casual way only men safe in another’s helplessness could be.
Cripple.
Half-man.
Heathen.
Each word landed like another blow.
But worst of all was remembering himself. Helpless. The sounds that tore from his throat when pain stripped everything else away.
Not commands. Not threats. Only raw, involuntary noise. The sounds of something wounded. Cornered. The sounds of a frightened animal.
And he was there again. Hanging. Bleeding. Powerless.
No. Ivar forced the memory back down with the same brutal discipline he used for everything else and allowed himself to drop down onto his chair near the table.
He only needed one thing now; to let the ale drag him into heavy, dreamless sleep before memory caught up with him again.
To do that, however, he needed both braces removed. With one arm still nearly useless.
The first brace refused to loosen, no matter how hard he pulled. The leather buckle wouldn’t catch. Ivar’s jaw tightened and he tried again. Pain already burned through his hips and spine. Sweat prickled at his neck.
Frustration sharpened fast.
He tried once more and failed. The buckle slipped from his shaking hand and something ugly cracked. He slammed his fist into the brace hard.
“Damn it!” His breathing turned harsher, faster. Angry. Not at the brace, at himself, at his limits and dependence.
“My lord?”
Magdalena rose halfway from where she slept beside his dog, confusion fading into alertness almost instantly.
Ivar hated how quickly she noticed when something was wrong.
The moment she moved toward him, the tent shifted unpleasantly around him. The ale sat thick and bitter in his blood, dulling the edges of pain without ever truly silencing it. His thoughts felt slower, heavier, yet the memories remained sharp enough to cut.
When she took another step toward him, something in him snapped tight.
“Don’t.”
The word came out sharper than intended.
She froze immediately.
Ivar lowered his head, shame tightening through his chest like a fist.
Gods, he hated this. He hated the pain. Hated the memories clawing at him. Hated the drink fogging his thoughts.
But most of all, he hated being seen like this. Weak. Unsteady. Needy.
His good hand tightened around the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. Even now, his hand shook faintly beneath the effort of holding himself together.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded rough even to his own ears. Stripped bare in a way he despised.
“I am so sick of needing help!”
The words landed between them with quiet finality. Too honest. Too exposed. He regretted them the moment they left him, but he no longer had the strength to pull them back.
Magdalena hesitated only briefly.
Then she crossed the remaining distance anyway.
As she came closer, Ivar became painfully aware of the smell of ale surrounding him. There was no hiding it now. She would notice the heaviness in his movements, the unsteadiness in his balance, the fact that he had drunk enough to dull himself and still found no peace.
Yet she said nothing. No judgment. No pity. She simply lowered herself to her knees before him. Then, without speaking, she placed her hand lightly over his.
The gesture was small.
Simple.
Yet it struck him harder than he expected.
Warmth met tension. Steadiness met tremor.
For one terrible moment, Ivar thought the last of his control might break entirely.
His hand remained locked beneath hers, every muscle rigid with resistance.
Then, little by little, something loosened. Not the pain. Not the shame. Just enough of the iron grip he held over himself. Enough to let her help him.
Enough to breathe.
“Hurry.”
His voice came out rougher than intended. He yanked his hand away from her touch and tapped the brace sharply.
Magdalena did not flinch. Did not retreat. She only lowered her gaze and went to work. Her hands moved to the straps with quiet efficiency, steady despite the tension thickening the air between them. Leather creaked beneath her fingers. Metal shifted softly. The first buckle came loose. Then the second.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then, quietly, she asked: “Are you alright?”
The question broke something in him. Not violently. Not in anger. Just a small crack.
Ivar let out a short laugh that held no humor.
“No.”
One word. Barely more than breath.
Magdalena stilled. Her hands rested against iron and leather, waiting. She did not press. Did not speak again. She simply remained there beside him.
Ivar kept his gaze fixed on the opposite canvas wall, jaw tight enough to ache.
Still, the words came. Slowly. Reluctantly. As though each one had to be dragged through broken glass.
“I burned him.”
His throat worked.
“He screamed.”
His breathing caught once, sharp and uneven. Anger rose instantly. At Gerbrand. At himself.
“I wanted him to hurt.”
Magdalena said nothing. She only continued loosening the final straps. The moment the last brace released, pain shot viciously through his leg. His muscles spasmed hard enough to make his vision flash white.
Control slipped.
His hand flew to his face. He pressed both palms hard into his eyes, as if pressure alone might hold everything inside.
“When they beat me,” he said, voice low, distant, “I wasn’t brave.”
He swallowed hard.
“Not even a little.”
The next words cost him more than all the rest.
“I was terrified.”
Pain he understood. Fear was different. Fear stripped a man down to whatever truth remained underneath. And what had remained in that cell had not felt like strength. He had felt small. Broken. Helpless.
“I thought they’d cripple me further.”
Bitter irony twisted through him. He exhaled shortly.
“If they damaged both my arms…”
His voice nearly failed him. When he forced the final words out, they landed between them with brutal simplicity.
“…I would become completely useless.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then finally he looked at her. There was no anger left in his face now. Only exhaustion. Humiliation. And terrible honesty.
“Tell me, healer.”
His voice had stripped clean of any kind of mockery.
“What is left of a cripple when even his arms fail him?”
The question hung between them. This was what he’d truly feared inside his cell. Not the ruined leg. Not the damaged arm. Not a horrible death. But the terror of becoming less than half a man.
A burden. Never ending dead weight.
Magdalena met his gaze carefully. When she spoke, her voice carried a quiet certainty that slipped beneath his armor more easily than pity ever could.
“You endure pain most men would break under.”
His jaw hardened.
“That isn’t strength.”
A sharpness entered her expression.
“No?”
“I think strength is enduring and surviving it.”
Her gaze never left his.
“You are damaged,” she said softly. “But you are not less.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside him. In a place he kept locked for good reason.
Gods, he wanted to believe her. Wanted it with an intensity that almost angered him. But wanting something had never made it true.
Still, his breathing began to slow. Not steady. Not yet. But better. The shaking in his hand eased.
Minutes passed. Neither of them moved. The silence no longer felt sharp.
Eventually, Ivar spoke again. His voice was quieter now. Worn thin by exhaustion.
“Outside this tent…”
He swallowed. Forced some measure of control back into himself.
“I am your lord.”
The authority returned to his posture. But only partly. Then his gaze lifted to hers again.
“But in here…”
His voice softened into something unguarded.
“You can call me Ivar.”
.-.-.
Morning came not with light, but with breath.
Warm, damp air brushed insistently against Magdalena’s face until sleep loosened its hold. She stirred with a small frown, blinking into the dim interior of the tent, only to find the dog standing over her, its broad head lowered and wet nose pressed far too close for comfort.
For one disoriented moment, she simply stared at the gruff animal.
Then slowly, carefully, she pushed herself upright.
Ivar was already awake.
At once, she understood something had changed. The moment of the night before had vanished so completely that for one awful moment she wondered whether she had imagined all of it.
He sat at the edge of the bed with his back half-turned toward her, rigid even in the early morning. One hand pressed hard against his temple, fingers digging into skin as though force alone might split the pain from his skull. His jaw was tight, his shoulders drawn, every line of him pulled taut with discomfort.
Even from several feet away, she could see he was suffering from his hangover.
And she could smell it too. Ale lingered thickly in the tent, sharp and sour beneath the familiar scents of leather, smoke, and damp wool. It clung to the air around him, heavy with the stale bitterness of too much drink.
Carefully, she rose to her feet.
“Can I be of any service?”
Her voice came out soft, cautious, as though speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile.
He did not even look at her.
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Short. Cold. Final.
It struck far harder than it should have. Not because she expected kindness. Not because she expected warmth. But because she understood exactly what he was doing.
He was rebuilding himself. Reconstructing the walls he had let crumble during the night, stone by careful stone, until nothing remained of the wounded young man who had spoken to her with raw honesty in the darkness.
The hurt that rose in her chest felt strangely childish, and she disliked that feeling far more than his dismissal.
She lowered her gaze. So last night had been real. But daylight clearly had no mercy for such things.
Before the silence could stretch further, the tent flap opened. Cold morning air spilled inside along with Brechje.
The young woman took one look at Ivar and seemed to understand everything worth understanding. Her gaze lingered only briefly before he spoke to her in Norse, his voice low and clipped.
Magdalena understood none of the words.
Brechje gave a single nod, then turned toward her.
“Come.”
No explanation followed.
Magdalena hesitated only once, glancing toward Ivar. He still did not look at her.
Silently, she followed Brechje outside.
The morning air hit like a blow. Cold and damp, thick with smoke and the heavy stink of a camp that had celebrated far too hard and slept far too little.
Stale ale soaked into wood and earth. Smoke from dying fires drifted thickly through the camp, stinging her eyes. Somewhere nearby, the sharp sour stench of vomit made her stomach tighten.
Around the fire pits, puddles of sickness darkened the churned mud where men had emptied their drunken excess into the earth. Several raiders still lay where they had fallen, passed out beneath tables or sprawled against overturned benches, snoring heavily in complete disregard for dignity.
Ravens had already descended. They hopped boldly between scraps of discarded meat and shattered bones, glossy black feathers catching the pale morning light as they tore greedily at whatever remained.
The ground had become a ruined sea of mud, trampled beyond recognition by boots, blood, spilled ale, and ash.
Nearby, butchered carcasses hung from wooden frames, pig and deer stripped open while men worked with knives, carving meat.
Life continued. As though brutality and routine belonged together. Perhaps here, they did.
Brechje kept walking.
Magdalena followed in silence until another smell reached her.
This one stopped her cold. Burned flesh. Not cooking meat. Not wood.
Her stomach twisted violently. And then she saw it.
Near the edge of camp, half-covered by rough cloth and being dragged aside with all the care one might give unwanted refuse, lay what remained of a soldier.
The cloth had shifted. Enough for her to see the boots. Or what was left of them. Blackened leather had twisted into grotesque shapes, fused to ruined flesh beneath. The exposed skin above was charred beyond recognition, cracked and blackened where fire had consumed it.
Magdalena stopped breathing.
Brechje did not stop walking. Did not speak. Did not even look.
But Magdalena could not tear her gaze away.
Because now it was real. Terribly, undeniably real.
Ivar had ordered this. Orchestrated this terrible death. He had watched this. Had chosen this.
Magdalena forced herself to move again.
Brechje kept walking at the same steady pace, unaffected by the horror they had just passed. Or perhaps not unaffected. Simply accustomed. There was a difference.
Magdalena swallowed hard before finding her voice.
“Brother Amandus…my sisters.”
Even saying the words felt difficult. They caught somewhere in her throat, as though fear itself resisted giving them shape. She immediately hated that weakness but forced herself to continue anyway.
“Are they alive?”
Brechje did not slow her pace. She did not even turn her head.
“Yes.”
The answer came so simply that Magdalena nearly stopped walking.
Her pulse jumped painfully.
Alive.
Relief hit her with such sudden force it almost hurt.
“Where are they?”
Only then did Brechje glance at her.
Just once.
There was nothing cruel in her face. Nothing particularly warm either. Only the practical steadiness of someone who had long ago learned the cost of unnecessary softness.
“Not here.”
Magdalena’s throat tightened.
“You know where they are?”
Brechje looked forward again.
“Yes.”
Silence followed. Not awkward. Not unkind. Simply final.
Magdalena understood then that no amount of pleading would change anything. Brechje belonged to that rare kind of person who spoke only when speech served purpose. Anything unnecessary remained unspoken.
The conversation ended there.
They moved deeper into the camp, leaving behind the center of the clearing where warriors still slept beneath overturned benches and broken revelry. The tents here sat lower to the ground, rougher and more crowded than the one Ivar occupied. Nothing about them felt personal or permanent. They were practical structures, built for use rather than comfort.
Brechje stopped before one of them and pulled aside the flap.
Warmth struck Magdalena first. Too many bodies sharing too little space.
She stepped inside slowly.
There were perhaps a dozen people within. Mostly women. A few older men. Two children no older than eight.
Thralls. Slaves, like her.
Some worked in silence with practiced hands, mending torn linen or sorting bundles of dried herbs and roots. Others scraped hides clean with dull blades or peeled vegetables into wooden bowls. Near the back, a woman stirred something thick and steaming over a small fire pit, never once looking up.
A few heads lifted when Magdalena entered.
One woman studied her with open curiosity. Another spared her only the briefest glance before returning immediately to her work. An older man watched her longer. His expression held something darker than curiosity.
Not cruelty. Bitterness. As though he had seen too many people arrive exactly like this; confused, frightened, still clinging to illusions.
And then there were the empty ones. The faces that held nothing at all. No curiosity. No resentment. No recognition. Only absence.
Bregje turned toward her.
“You work here today.”
Magdalena blinked. For some foolish reason, she had expected something else. Expected…she did not even know what.
That she would return to Ivar’s tent. That somehow, because of him, because of last night, her days would now be different.
The truth settled slowly. Last night changed nothing. She was still a thrall. Still property. Still one among many.
Brechje picked up a sack near the wall and dropped it heavily onto a low table. Turnips, onions, and carrots spilled into view, thick with dried mud and root fibers.
She placed a dull knife into Magdalena’s hand and gestured toward a wooden bucket filled with water.
“Wash them. Peel them. Cut them.”
Magdalena stared at the vegetables.
Brechje’s expression remained unchanged.
“You think you can manage that?”
A flush rose immediately in Magdalena’s face.
“Yes.”
Brechje gave a short nod.
“Good.”
Then she turned and walked away. No ceremony. No concern. No further instruction.
Just like that, Magdalena was left standing alone with a dull knife in one hand and a pile of root vegetables in the other.
After a moment, she lowered herself onto a bench.
Cold water bit into her fingers as she began washing mud from the vegetables. Dirt clouded the water almost instantly.
Around her, life continued with quiet indifference.
Here, she was nothing special.
Only another pair of hands expected to work until told otherwise.
Magdalena lowered her gaze and forced her hands back into motion. Wash. Peel. Cut.
Time passed slowly. Knives scraped against wood, vegetables thudded into bowls, hides shifted beneath steady hands. No one spoke unless necessary. No one wasted words. It was a silence born not of peace, but of habit.
And within that silence, her thoughts betrayed her. No matter how firmly she tried to direct them elsewhere, they circled back to the night before, to the darkness of the tent, to the weight of his confessions.
Had he been honest?
The question lingered heavily.
He had seemed honest. The ale had stripped something from him, and exhaustion had finished what pain began. Whatever walls he spent each day building around himself had cracked wide enough for her to glimpse something raw beneath. She had seen his shame. His fear. The wound buried far deeper than crippled limbs or scarred flesh.
Not the fear of pain. The fear of becoming less. Less useful. Less necessary.
Her knife slowed.
She understood that fear more than she wished to admit. Not because their lives mirrored each other, but because she understood what it meant to fear losing the very thing that gave life meaning. She knew what it meant to feel yourself reduced. Stripped down. Made small in ways no one else could fully see.
Her fingers tightened around the knife.
Had she been honest?
Her own words returned with painful clarity.
You are damaged. But not less.
She had meant them last night. Yet now, in daylight, doubt crept into places certainty had occupied only hours before.
Had she spoken as a healer? As a woman of faith? As someone who had spent years tending broken bodies and frightened souls? Or had something else guided her? Something less noble.
A quiet instinct for survival, perhaps. The desire to soothe the man who held absolute power over her. To keep him calm. To remain useful. To stay on the right side of his favor, because men holding power could be merciful one moment and merciless the next.
The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Was compassion still pure when fear shaped it?
Her fingers tightened around the knife.
And then another question returned.
Had he trusted her?
That question refused to leave her. But even as it formed, doubt followed close behind. Had it truly been trust?
Or had she simply been there when exhaustion, ale, pain, and old wounds finally split something open inside him?
Perhaps he had simply reached the point where the weight became too much to carry in silence. And she had simply been there to witness.
Nothing more. Because Ivar trusted no one easily. That much had become painfully obvious. He measured people constantly, weighed them, tested them, always holding some guarded part of himself beyond reach. Even his brothers, she suspected, did not truly see everything beneath the surface.
Magdalena’s hand stilled completely as water dripped from the vegetables back into the bucket, rippling the muddy surface in slow widening circles.
He had given her permission to use his name.
Ivar.
Such a small thing. Only a word.
But names mattered. Names carried identity. Meaning. Power.
My lord.
Titles created distance. They established order. They reminded everyone of exactly where they stood. Those words drew clear lines.
But a name…a name blurred them.
Inside the privacy of those canvas walls, he had offered her something dangerously close to equality. Not true equality. Because he still held power over her in every way that mattered. He could command her, punish her, dispose of her.
And yet, for one brief moment, he had lowered the distance between them.
That thought should not comfort her.
And yet it did.
Because buried somewhere beneath fear, confusion, and reason, something small and dangerous had begun to take root.
Hope.
She hated the thought almost as soon as it formed.
Because hope was dangerous. It could save.
But false hope ruined.
And Magdalena feared there was nothing more dangerous than beginning to hope for something in a man like Ivar that he himself might not possess.
.-.-.
A/N: The ‘inside the tent’ chapters are a joy to write. They feel close to the once I wrote when Ivar was inside the infirmary, only with their roles turned. I’ve written a few very long slowburns but I think this is my favorite so far because of the master/slave dynamic between them.
“why would he do that?” because this is my fic where I am in control of what I want to happen, how it happens, how the characters react. and also I made him ✨unwell✨
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
.-.-.
The feast burned long into the night. Even after the fires sank low and drunken laughter turned hoarse and ugly, the camp refused to sleep. Men still shouted over games of chance. Somewhere nearby, someone butchered a song so badly it earned more laughter than applause. A fight broke out near the far tables, ended in blood and curses, and somehow dissolved into drunken laughter minutes later.
Victory was never quiet.
And this time, he hated every part of it.
He drank more than he should have. Not for pleasure. Not for celebration. Only to dull the sharp edges of the night.
By the time he returned to his tent, the world tilted unpleasantly beneath him. Ale sat heavy in his stomach. The pain was heavier still.
The braces had become unbearable hours ago.
Each step back through camp had sent sharp, familiar agony through his hips and spine. His wounded arm throbbed in deep, angry pulses beneath the linen. His head felt thick from drink, exhaustion, and something worse he refused to name.
The moment the tent flap fell shut behind him, silence rushed in like water. Warm. Dim. Close.
Safe.
And suddenly, too quiet, leaving too much space for memory.
The image returned instantly. That of Gerbrand screaming as fire consumed leather and flesh alike. The sharp, sickening smell of scorched leather still clung to the back of his throat.
Ivar’s breathing turned shallow. His chest tightened as though iron bands had been wrapped around his ribs. For one terrible moment, the tent disappeared.
But beneath that came something worse. The infirmary. Chains biting deep into his wrists. Arms wrenched high above his head until his shoulders screamed with the unbearable strain. His feet had barely touched the floor, only enough to keep his full weight from tearing both arms clean from their sockets. Pain had burned white-hot through him until his vision blurred at the edges.
He remembered sweat running into his mouth. Blood too. Thick and warm where it spilled from his split lip. He remembered choking on it. The taste of iron coating his tongue.
And the laughter.
Gods, the laughter.
Frankish voices all around him. Spitting. Mocking. Cruel in the casual way only men safe in another’s helplessness could be.
Cripple.
Half-man.
Heathen.
Each word landed like another blow.
But worst of all was remembering himself. Helpless. The sounds that tore from his throat when pain stripped everything else away.
Not commands. Not threats. Only raw, involuntary noise. The sounds of something wounded. Cornered. The sounds of a frightened animal.
And he was there again. Hanging. Bleeding. Powerless.
No. Ivar forced the memory back down with the same brutal discipline he used for everything else and allowed himself to drop down onto his chair near the table.
He only needed one thing now; to let the ale drag him into heavy, dreamless sleep before memory caught up with him again.
To do that, however, he needed both braces removed. With one arm still nearly useless.
The first brace refused to loosen, no matter how hard he pulled. The leather buckle wouldn’t catch. Ivar’s jaw tightened and he tried again. Pain already burned through his hips and spine. Sweat prickled at his neck.
Frustration sharpened fast.
He tried once more and failed. The buckle slipped from his shaking hand and something ugly cracked. He slammed his fist into the brace hard.
“Damn it!” His breathing turned harsher, faster. Angry. Not at the brace, at himself, at his limits and dependence.
“My lord?”
Magdalena rose halfway from where she slept beside his dog, confusion fading into alertness almost instantly.
Ivar hated how quickly she noticed when something was wrong.
The moment she moved toward him, the tent shifted unpleasantly around him. The ale sat thick and bitter in his blood, dulling the edges of pain without ever truly silencing it. His thoughts felt slower, heavier, yet the memories remained sharp enough to cut.
When she took another step toward him, something in him snapped tight.
“Don’t.”
The word came out sharper than intended.
She froze immediately.
Ivar lowered his head, shame tightening through his chest like a fist.
Gods, he hated this. He hated the pain. Hated the memories clawing at him. Hated the drink fogging his thoughts.
But most of all, he hated being seen like this. Weak. Unsteady. Needy.
His good hand tightened around the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. Even now, his hand shook faintly beneath the effort of holding himself together.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded rough even to his own ears. Stripped bare in a way he despised.
“I am so sick of needing help!”
The words landed between them with quiet finality. Too honest. Too exposed. He regretted them the moment they left him, but he no longer had the strength to pull them back.
Magdalena hesitated only briefly.
Then she crossed the remaining distance anyway.
As she came closer, Ivar became painfully aware of the smell of ale surrounding him. There was no hiding it now. She would notice the heaviness in his movements, the unsteadiness in his balance, the fact that he had drunk enough to dull himself and still found no peace.
Yet she said nothing. No judgment. No pity. She simply lowered herself to her knees before him. Then, without speaking, she placed her hand lightly over his.
The gesture was small.
Simple.
Yet it struck him harder than he expected.
Warmth met tension. Steadiness met tremor.
For one terrible moment, Ivar thought the last of his control might break entirely.
His hand remained locked beneath hers, every muscle rigid with resistance.
Then, little by little, something loosened. Not the pain. Not the shame. Just enough of the iron grip he held over himself. Enough to let her help him.
Enough to breathe.
“Hurry.”
His voice came out rougher than intended. He yanked his hand away from her touch and tapped the brace sharply.
Magdalena did not flinch. Did not retreat. She only lowered her gaze and went to work. Her hands moved to the straps with quiet efficiency, steady despite the tension thickening the air between them. Leather creaked beneath her fingers. Metal shifted softly. The first buckle came loose. Then the second.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then, quietly, she asked: “Are you alright?”
The question broke something in him. Not violently. Not in anger. Just a small crack.
Ivar let out a short laugh that held no humor.
“No.”
One word. Barely more than breath.
Magdalena stilled. Her hands rested against iron and leather, waiting. She did not press. Did not speak again. She simply remained there beside him.
Ivar kept his gaze fixed on the opposite canvas wall, jaw tight enough to ache.
Still, the words came. Slowly. Reluctantly. As though each one had to be dragged through broken glass.
“I burned him.”
His throat worked.
“He screamed.”
His breathing caught once, sharp and uneven. Anger rose instantly. At Gerbrand. At himself.
“I wanted him to hurt.”
Magdalena said nothing. She only continued loosening the final straps. The moment the last brace released, pain shot viciously through his leg. His muscles spasmed hard enough to make his vision flash white.
Control slipped.
His hand flew to his face. He pressed both palms hard into his eyes, as if pressure alone might hold everything inside.
“When they beat me,” he said, voice low, distant, “I wasn’t brave.”
He swallowed hard.
“Not even a little.”
The next words cost him more than all the rest.
“I was terrified.”
Pain he understood. Fear was different. Fear stripped a man down to whatever truth remained underneath. And what had remained in that cell had not felt like strength. He had felt small. Broken. Helpless.
“I thought they’d cripple me further.”
Bitter irony twisted through him. He exhaled shortly.
“If they damaged both my arms…”
His voice nearly failed him. When he forced the final words out, they landed between them with brutal simplicity.
“…I would become completely useless.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then finally he looked at her. There was no anger left in his face now. Only exhaustion. Humiliation. And terrible honesty.
“Tell me, healer.”
His voice had stripped clean of any kind of mockery.
“What is left of a cripple when even his arms fail him?”
The question hung between them. This was what he’d truly feared inside his cell. Not the ruined leg. Not the damaged arm. Not a horrible death. But the terror of becoming less than half a man.
A burden. Never ending dead weight.
Magdalena met his gaze carefully. When she spoke, her voice carried a quiet certainty that slipped beneath his armor more easily than pity ever could.
“You endure pain most men would break under.”
His jaw hardened.
“That isn’t strength.”
A sharpness entered her expression.
“No?”
“I think strength is enduring and surviving it.”
Her gaze never left his.
“You are damaged,” she said softly. “But you are not less.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside him. In a place he kept locked for good reason.
Gods, he wanted to believe her. Wanted it with an intensity that almost angered him. But wanting something had never made it true.
Still, his breathing began to slow. Not steady. Not yet. But better. The shaking in his hand eased.
Minutes passed. Neither of them moved. The silence no longer felt sharp.
Eventually, Ivar spoke again. His voice was quieter now. Worn thin by exhaustion.
“Outside this tent…”
He swallowed. Forced some measure of control back into himself.
“I am your lord.”
The authority returned to his posture. But only partly. Then his gaze lifted to hers again.
“But in here…”
His voice softened into something unguarded.
“You can call me Ivar.”
.-.-.
Morning came not with light, but with breath.
Warm, damp air brushed insistently against Magdalena’s face until sleep loosened its hold. She stirred with a small frown, blinking into the dim interior of the tent, only to find the dog standing over her, its broad head lowered and wet nose pressed far too close for comfort.
For one disoriented moment, she simply stared at the gruff animal.
Then slowly, carefully, she pushed herself upright.
Ivar was already awake.
At once, she understood something had changed. The moment of the night before had vanished so completely that for one awful moment she wondered whether she had imagined all of it.
He sat at the edge of the bed with his back half-turned toward her, rigid even in the early morning. One hand pressed hard against his temple, fingers digging into skin as though force alone might split the pain from his skull. His jaw was tight, his shoulders drawn, every line of him pulled taut with discomfort.
Even from several feet away, she could see he was suffering from his hangover.
And she could smell it too. Ale lingered thickly in the tent, sharp and sour beneath the familiar scents of leather, smoke, and damp wool. It clung to the air around him, heavy with the stale bitterness of too much drink.
Carefully, she rose to her feet.
“Can I be of any service?”
Her voice came out soft, cautious, as though speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile.
He did not even look at her.
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Short. Cold. Final.
It struck far harder than it should have. Not because she expected kindness. Not because she expected warmth. But because she understood exactly what he was doing.
He was rebuilding himself. Reconstructing the walls he had let crumble during the night, stone by careful stone, until nothing remained of the wounded young man who had spoken to her with raw honesty in the darkness.
The hurt that rose in her chest felt strangely childish, and she disliked that feeling far more than his dismissal.
She lowered her gaze. So last night had been real. But daylight clearly had no mercy for such things.
Before the silence could stretch further, the tent flap opened. Cold morning air spilled inside along with Brechje.
The young woman took one look at Ivar and seemed to understand everything worth understanding. Her gaze lingered only briefly before he spoke to her in Norse, his voice low and clipped.
Magdalena understood none of the words.
Brechje gave a single nod, then turned toward her.
“Come.”
No explanation followed.
Magdalena hesitated only once, glancing toward Ivar. He still did not look at her.
Silently, she followed Brechje outside.
The morning air hit like a blow. Cold and damp, thick with smoke and the heavy stink of a camp that had celebrated far too hard and slept far too little.
Stale ale soaked into wood and earth. Smoke from dying fires drifted thickly through the camp, stinging her eyes. Somewhere nearby, the sharp sour stench of vomit made her stomach tighten.
Around the fire pits, puddles of sickness darkened the churned mud where men had emptied their drunken excess into the earth. Several raiders still lay where they had fallen, passed out beneath tables or sprawled against overturned benches, snoring heavily in complete disregard for dignity.
Ravens had already descended. They hopped boldly between scraps of discarded meat and shattered bones, glossy black feathers catching the pale morning light as they tore greedily at whatever remained.
The ground had become a ruined sea of mud, trampled beyond recognition by boots, blood, spilled ale, and ash.
Nearby, butchered carcasses hung from wooden frames, pig and deer stripped open while men worked with knives, carving meat.
Life continued. As though brutality and routine belonged together. Perhaps here, they did.
Brechje kept walking.
Magdalena followed in silence until another smell reached her.
This one stopped her cold. Burned flesh. Not cooking meat. Not wood.
Her stomach twisted violently. And then she saw it.
Near the edge of camp, half-covered by rough cloth and being dragged aside with all the care one might give unwanted refuse, lay what remained of a soldier.
The cloth had shifted. Enough for her to see the boots. Or what was left of them. Blackened leather had twisted into grotesque shapes, fused to ruined flesh beneath. The exposed skin above was charred beyond recognition, cracked and blackened where fire had consumed it.
Magdalena stopped breathing.
Brechje did not stop walking. Did not speak. Did not even look.
But Magdalena could not tear her gaze away.
Because now it was real. Terribly, undeniably real.
Ivar had ordered this. Orchestrated this terrible death. He had watched this. Had chosen this.
Magdalena forced herself to move again.
Brechje kept walking at the same steady pace, unaffected by the horror they had just passed. Or perhaps not unaffected. Simply accustomed. There was a difference.
Magdalena swallowed hard before finding her voice.
“Brother Amandus…my sisters.”
Even saying the words felt difficult. They caught somewhere in her throat, as though fear itself resisted giving them shape. She immediately hated that weakness but forced herself to continue anyway.
“Are they alive?”
Brechje did not slow her pace. She did not even turn her head.
“Yes.”
The answer came so simply that Magdalena nearly stopped walking.
Her pulse jumped painfully.
Alive.
Relief hit her with such sudden force it almost hurt.
“Where are they?”
Only then did Brechje glance at her.
Just once.
There was nothing cruel in her face. Nothing particularly warm either. Only the practical steadiness of someone who had long ago learned the cost of unnecessary softness.
“Not here.”
Magdalena’s throat tightened.
“You know where they are?”
Brechje looked forward again.
“Yes.”
Silence followed. Not awkward. Not unkind. Simply final.
Magdalena understood then that no amount of pleading would change anything. Brechje belonged to that rare kind of person who spoke only when speech served purpose. Anything unnecessary remained unspoken.
The conversation ended there.
They moved deeper into the camp, leaving behind the center of the clearing where warriors still slept beneath overturned benches and broken revelry. The tents here sat lower to the ground, rougher and more crowded than the one Ivar occupied. Nothing about them felt personal or permanent. They were practical structures, built for use rather than comfort.
Brechje stopped before one of them and pulled aside the flap.
Warmth struck Magdalena first. Too many bodies sharing too little space.
She stepped inside slowly.
There were perhaps a dozen people within. Mostly women. A few older men. Two children no older than eight.
Thralls. Slaves, like her.
Some worked in silence with practiced hands, mending torn linen or sorting bundles of dried herbs and roots. Others scraped hides clean with dull blades or peeled vegetables into wooden bowls. Near the back, a woman stirred something thick and steaming over a small fire pit, never once looking up.
A few heads lifted when Magdalena entered.
One woman studied her with open curiosity. Another spared her only the briefest glance before returning immediately to her work. An older man watched her longer. His expression held something darker than curiosity.
Not cruelty. Bitterness. As though he had seen too many people arrive exactly like this; confused, frightened, still clinging to illusions.
And then there were the empty ones. The faces that held nothing at all. No curiosity. No resentment. No recognition. Only absence.
Bregje turned toward her.
“You work here today.”
Magdalena blinked. For some foolish reason, she had expected something else. Expected…she did not even know what.
That she would return to Ivar’s tent. That somehow, because of him, because of last night, her days would now be different.
The truth settled slowly. Last night changed nothing. She was still a thrall. Still property. Still one among many.
Brechje picked up a sack near the wall and dropped it heavily onto a low table. Turnips, onions, and carrots spilled into view, thick with dried mud and root fibers.
She placed a dull knife into Magdalena’s hand and gestured toward a wooden bucket filled with water.
“Wash them. Peel them. Cut them.”
Magdalena stared at the vegetables.
Brechje’s expression remained unchanged.
“You think you can manage that?”
A flush rose immediately in Magdalena’s face.
“Yes.”
Brechje gave a short nod.
“Good.”
Then she turned and walked away. No ceremony. No concern. No further instruction.
Just like that, Magdalena was left standing alone with a dull knife in one hand and a pile of root vegetables in the other.
After a moment, she lowered herself onto a bench.
Cold water bit into her fingers as she began washing mud from the vegetables. Dirt clouded the water almost instantly.
Around her, life continued with quiet indifference.
Here, she was nothing special.
Only another pair of hands expected to work until told otherwise.
Magdalena lowered her gaze and forced her hands back into motion. Wash. Peel. Cut.
Time passed slowly. Knives scraped against wood, vegetables thudded into bowls, hides shifted beneath steady hands. No one spoke unless necessary. No one wasted words. It was a silence born not of peace, but of habit.
And within that silence, her thoughts betrayed her. No matter how firmly she tried to direct them elsewhere, they circled back to the night before, to the darkness of the tent, to the weight of his confessions.
Had he been honest?
The question lingered heavily.
He had seemed honest. The ale had stripped something from him, and exhaustion had finished what pain began. Whatever walls he spent each day building around himself had cracked wide enough for her to glimpse something raw beneath. She had seen his shame. His fear. The wound buried far deeper than crippled limbs or scarred flesh.
Not the fear of pain. The fear of becoming less. Less useful. Less necessary.
Her knife slowed.
She understood that fear more than she wished to admit. Not because their lives mirrored each other, but because she understood what it meant to fear losing the very thing that gave life meaning. She knew what it meant to feel yourself reduced. Stripped down. Made small in ways no one else could fully see.
Her fingers tightened around the knife.
Had she been honest?
Her own words returned with painful clarity.
You are damaged. But not less.
She had meant them last night. Yet now, in daylight, doubt crept into places certainty had occupied only hours before.
Had she spoken as a healer? As a woman of faith? As someone who had spent years tending broken bodies and frightened souls? Or had something else guided her? Something less noble.
A quiet instinct for survival, perhaps. The desire to soothe the man who held absolute power over her. To keep him calm. To remain useful. To stay on the right side of his favor, because men holding power could be merciful one moment and merciless the next.
The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Was compassion still pure when fear shaped it?
Her fingers tightened around the knife.
And then another question returned.
Had he trusted her?
That question refused to leave her. But even as it formed, doubt followed close behind. Had it truly been trust?
Or had she simply been there when exhaustion, ale, pain, and old wounds finally split something open inside him?
Perhaps he had simply reached the point where the weight became too much to carry in silence. And she had simply been there to witness.
Nothing more. Because Ivar trusted no one easily. That much had become painfully obvious. He measured people constantly, weighed them, tested them, always holding some guarded part of himself beyond reach. Even his brothers, she suspected, did not truly see everything beneath the surface.
Magdalena’s hand stilled completely as water dripped from the vegetables back into the bucket, rippling the muddy surface in slow widening circles.
He had given her permission to use his name.
Ivar.
Such a small thing. Only a word.
But names mattered. Names carried identity. Meaning. Power.
My lord.
Titles created distance. They established order. They reminded everyone of exactly where they stood. Those words drew clear lines.
But a name…a name blurred them.
Inside the privacy of those canvas walls, he had offered her something dangerously close to equality. Not true equality. Because he still held power over her in every way that mattered. He could command her, punish her, dispose of her.
And yet, for one brief moment, he had lowered the distance between them.
That thought should not comfort her.
And yet it did.
Because buried somewhere beneath fear, confusion, and reason, something small and dangerous had begun to take root.
Hope.
She hated the thought almost as soon as it formed.
Because hope was dangerous. It could save.
But false hope ruined.
And Magdalena feared there was nothing more dangerous than beginning to hope for something in a man like Ivar that he himself might not possess.
.-.-.
A/N: The ‘inside the tent’ chapters are a joy to write. They feel close to the once I wrote when Ivar was inside the infirmary, only with their roles turned. I’ve written a few very long slowburns but I think this is my favorite so far because of the master/slave dynamic between them.
I’ve been doing this every night since I was a kid but it’s always whump scenarios and instead of me as the main character, it’s the fictional man I love being violated, bleeding out and on the verge of death before his archenemy comes and rescues him. and the recovery road is just as ugly.
this is also where my source of fic ideas and inspiration comes from. #old man yaoi #enemies to lovers forever
