Between Cross and raven Chapter 6. Touched by fire
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
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The bell for Terce had long since faded by the time Magdalena returned to the infirmary, its echo swallowed by the quiet rhythm of the day. The work had already been done in her absence. Brother Amandus had seen to the others with his usual steady diligence.
Matthijs lay asleep, his breathing slow and even, the strain of his illness eased for now. Pieter, though still restless, no longer clawed at the edges of his healing wound with the same desperate irritation, his complaints reduced to low muttering. Sister Agnes sat upright for the first time in days, her frail frame gathered around a wooden bowl, bony fingers clutching it as though the thin broth alone tethered her to strength.
Magdalena paused just inside the doorway, taking it in.
There was nothing urgent left to be done. She moved anyway, keeping her eyes firmly away from the guarded door. Habit carried her forward, her hands seeking purpose where none was required. She bent to Pieter first, laying her fingers lightly against his brow, searching for a fever that was no longer there. His skin was cool. She needed distraction, and lingered a moment longer than necessary, as though willing the heat to return.
At the far table, she adjusted the jars of dried herbs, aligning them with unnecessary care, checking their seals though she had done so only days before. Then she crossed to the basin, dipping a cloth into the water and wringing it out slowly, her gaze fixed on the simple task as if it required her full attention.
Anything to remain busy, anything to delay.
“Magdalena.”
Brother Amandus’s voice cut gently through the room.
Her hands stilled.
“We should see to him.”
There was no avoiding it now.
She inclined her head once, silent, and set the cloth aside. She gathered what was needed in a basket: fresh linen, the small jar of honey mixed with crushed garlic, the clean bandages she had prepared earlier.
The soldiers at the door watched as she approached, their presence a constant weight she found impossible to ignore. One of them shifted slightly, exchanging a glance with Amandus before allowing them passage.
Magdalena kept her gaze lowered.
Inside, the room felt smaller. More contained. The door closed behind them with a muted finality.
It felt wrong being here. After learning the raider’s fate, it simply made her sick to her stomach to pretend they were saving his life.
Brother Amandus moved first, stepping to the pallet and carefully loosening the linen that bound the wound. The fabric peeled back with less resistance than before.
Magdalena stepped closer. She dipped her fingers into the mixture and applied it with care, spreading it along the wound with steady precision, ensuring it reached the deeper grooves left behind by the arrow’s cruel design. He shifted beneath her touch; the pain from her action was immediate, though he fought it. The tightening of his jaw, the brief hitch in his breath that he forced down his throat before it could fully betray him. Pain moved through him in sharp, unyielding waves, but he did not give it voice.
When the treatment of the wound was done, she reached for the fresh bandages inside the basket behind her and resumed her place beside the pallet, lifting the material and pressing it once more against his skin. His eyes followed the movement, tracking her hands, her posture, the quiet certainty in everything she did.
He shifted then; slightly, almost imperceptibly, angling his body to give her better access to his shoulder. The movement was small and barely noticeable. But it had been his choice. Magdalena continued her work as though nothing had passed between them at all.
Her fingers moved to the binding at his arm, checking the tension, ensuring the splint held firm.
He simply watched her hands adjust the linen at his shoulder, careful not to cause any more pain.
Her movements precise, wholly absorbed in the work before her, as though his attention carried no weight at all.
It was then that his good hand moved. Not with the suddenness of instinct, nor with the careless force of pain. His fingers closed around her wrist.
Magdalena froze. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his.
His eyes met hers, clearer now, the haze of fever receding enough to reveal hidden curiosity. An unspoken question lingered in between them: what will you do, if I don’t let go. His brow lifted faintly, as her stillness remained unbroken. His grip tightened, though not enough to harm. Just enough to press his intent. Magdalena did not try to pull away, did not grant his action any attention.She knew within her heart that if she called for aid the soldiers would barge in and quite literally throw themselves upon the raider again. It would cause a lot of unnecessary pain and possible damage to all parties involved.
So instead of withdrawing, she stepped closer. Her free hand moved back to his bandaged upper arm and her fingers settled not upon the wound itself, but just beside it; where pressure would carry through the injured flesh. Her touch was not gentle when she pressed down. His breath caught at once, sharp, involuntary. The reaction was immediate and entirely beyond his control. The tension in his body followed, instinctive and unguarded, betraying what restraint could not conceal.
Magdalena held the pressure for only a moment, then released it.
His grip on her wrist loosened; not entirely, but enough to mark the pain she caused by her simple action.
“I can do it again,” she said calmly, her voice even and not unkind. “If you do not release me.”
He stared at her, and although she had intentionally hurt him, he did not meet her with anger or offense.
Slowly, his hand fell away.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then something shifted in his expression; subtle, but unmistakable, as though some quiet line had been redrawn within him. The interest there deepened.
Magdalena became aware, distantly, of her own heartbeat; steady, but heavier than before. And of Brother Amandus beside her, who had gone utterly still, as though uncertain whether to intervene or remain a witness. Watching.
The awareness struck her with force. The moment, so contained while she had been within it, shifted in her mind, taking on a different shape; one seen not through her own focus, but through another’s eyes.
Her wrist, held in his. The silence that had stretched between them. The closeness. The control and the challenge.
Heat rose swiftly to her cheeks.
For the first time since entering the room, her composure faltered; not outwardly, not in any way that could be seen, but enough that she felt it, sharp and immediate beneath her skin.
Without speaking, she turned away.
Her movements remained disciplined as ever, but something in them had changed. There was a quiet urgency now, a tightening beneath the surface as she gathered the remaining linens, the jar of honey, the old linens still damp from use. Each item was placed carefully into the basket, though the care bordered on excess, as though the act of order might steady what had shifted within her.
She did not look at Amandus. Nor did she look at the raider upon the pallet. She could not.
When everything had been collected, she lifted the basket against her chest, holding it there as if it might anchor her. For a brief moment, she stood at the door, her hand resting against the wood. Then, without hesitation, she opened it and stepped outside. The cool and clean air beyond the infirmary struck her face, stripping away the closeness of the room she had left behind. Yet it did nothing to steady her.
Magdalena moved forward without direction at first, the basket still held too tightly against her chest. Around her, the convent continued as it always did; quiet voices, distant movement, the low rhythm of a life ordered by prayer and duty.
None of it reached her as her skin remembered.
The place at her wrist burned; not with pain, but with something far more unsettling. The pressure of his hand lingered there, as though it had not yet released her, as though the imprint of it had settled beneath her skin and refused to fade.
Magdalena stopped. Her fingers shifted, pressing against that same spot, as though she might erase the sensation through force alone. But the memory did not yield. It remained, clearer, sharper the more she tried to dismiss it.
She drew in a breath and held it.
This was wrong. Not the act itself. But her response to it.
That was where the fracture lay. She had not feared him. Not in that moment. She had met his gaze and held it.
And something in that moment; something in the quiet certainty she had felt, now turned against her, unsettling the foundation she had always relied upon.
Her fingers curled inward, tightening against her palm as though she might contain the feeling there, trapping it before it could spread further.
Foolish.
The word came unbidden and sharp.
Foolish to allow it.
She closed her eyes briefly, her jaw tightening as the realization settled more deeply. Foolish to feel it.
This was not who she was meant to be. Not what she had given herself to. Discipline had always been her strength. Her refuge, her certainty in a world that demanded obedience and offered clarity in return.
But now-
No.
Magdalena forced herself to move again, her steps turning with quiet purpose now, carrying her away from the infirmary, away from the room where the moment still lingered too close to the surface.
She would correct this. She had to. Prayer would steady her. Work would occupy her hands. Silence would contain what should not be given voice. And if that was not enough, then she would make it enough.
Her grip tightened once more around the basket. Because she would not allow herself to become something unrecognizable. Not for him. Not for a single moment of weakness, of foolishness.
And yet, despite the firmness of her resolve, the memory of his hand remained all far too alive beneath her skin.
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A/N: Can we all agree that in Ivar’s books, this is a form of flirting? In a very Pagan, unflattering, almost Neandertaler kind of way. And could our little nun be a teenage girl underneath all the fabric, hail Marie’s and praying?
Gosh, I love slowburns.
Love to read your thoughts.
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