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
.-.-.
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;
Xoxoxo Nukyster
(If you want to be tagged let me know)
Taglist: @miksmom-blog
@g-cf2020
@authorpj
@yami267
