Between cross and raven Chapter 16. Guard dog
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
.-.-.
Magdalena sat with her back against the wooden post, the rough wool cloak still gathered tightly around her shoulders for warmth. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, wrists bound before her, the chain lying slack for now. No longer biting into her skin.
Only present, a quiet, terrible reminder. Bound. Bound to this place. Bound to fear. Bound, somehow, to Ivar the Boneless in ways she did not yet know how to untangle.
Outside, the camp did not sleep. Muffled voices drifted endlessly through the canvas, rising and falling in unfamiliar rhythms. Laughter followed somewhere nearby, loud and careless. A moment later came shouting, then the unmistakable sound of something breaking, followed by cries that might have been pain or grief.
Then music. A drum, followed by clapping and voices joining together. Feasting and celebrating.
Her stomach turned violently. The pagans were celebrating the ruin of the only home she had ever known. The burning of holy ground. The slaughter. The chains. The frightened faces pressed against wooden cages.
The thought of her sisters torn from prayer and safety, of wounded men and frightened children dragged screaming into darkness, settled like sickness beneath her ribs.
Why? The question arrived uninvited. Why had the Lord allowed any of this?
And why had Brother Amandus ever placed Ivar in her path? Of all the wounded carried into the infirmary, why had it been Ivar who became her burden to carry? Why had God placed such a trial before her only to watch everything crumble beneath it?
No. The word arrived sharply enough that she bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. Pain bloomed, metallic and immediate. Her nails dug deep into the skin of her wrists, pressing hard enough to ache.
Punishment. But it was not enough.
No. She would not place any blame upon Brother Amandus. He had only shown mercy. Only trusted her skill.
This had been her doing. Her weakness. Her failure. She had been the one who lingered too long near his bedside. The one who searched for reasons to return. The one who ignored the spiteful warnings in Abbess Gerhild’s gaze.
The older woman had seen it long before Magdalena dared admit it herself. Sin. Not fully formed, perhaps. But very much alive, growing quietly in dark places.
She had been forbidden to tend him, to see him. And still she had gone. She had allowed herself to see the wounded man instead of the enemy until compassion had become something dangerous; she had opened the window.
Her stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. It had been her choice. She had left it open. Had welcomed black wings into sacred stones without understanding what followed behind them. And through that opening ruin had entered.
Their sanctuary burned. Their people scattered. Their suffering laid at her feet. Their blood on her hands. She had been the root of all evil.
The first tears came quietly. She hardly noticed them at first, only the warmth as they slipped soundlessly from her face to disappear into trembling hands resting uselessly in her lap.
Another after another, until grief came too hard to swallow. Her breath broke. A quiet sound escaped her throat, fragile and wounded, before sobbing overtook restraint entirely.
She bent forward, shoulders trembling violently beneath the heavy cloak, grief and guilt rising from somewhere so deep it felt impossible to overcome.
If only she could undo it.
Dear God.
If only she could return to that chamber, close the window and walk away from him. Forget his voice. Forget his eyes. Forget the strange ache of compassion that had grown into something she no longer wished to examine.
She would. She would tear the weakness from herself if only it meant undoing this.
The prayer came trembling.
“Rex tremendae majestatis…”
Her voice caught as she pressed her fingers harder into her wrists.
“Qui salvandos salvas gratis…”
The words felt distant somehow. Like reaching towards something hidden behind fog.
“Salva me, fons pietatis…”
Her voice faltered completely. Slowly she shifted, drawing her knees tightly against her chest, arms curling around herself not for warmth but for something solid to hold onto.
The small wooden cross rested cold against her fingers. For a long moment she only held it. Not because faith eased her pain. Not because certainty remained. But because she could not bear to lose that too.
“I am still Yours,” she whispered.
The words sounded fragile, almost frightened.
She swallowed hard and tried again.
“I am still Yours.”
Then, with trembling hands, she lifted the cross to her lips and kissed it. Not because comfort followed. It certainly did not. And not because belief came easily. But because betraying God because of her dreadful mistake felt somehow worse than grief.
“I will always be Yours.”
The promise settled quietly inside her. As a vow of devotion. She would endure and repent. To carry what she had done. Whatever suffering waited among the pagans, she would bear it. Whatever punishment the Lord demanded, she would not turn away.
Somehow, some way, she would set this right. She would ease what suffering she still could. She would find the Light again. Even here.
.-.-.
The Northman with white hair came for her at the first light. Without a word he unclasped the chains from her wrists, keeping a firm hand around her upper arm. She was pulled on her feet before her body had remembered how to stand.
Guilt had settled deep in her bones overnight, and it followed her as the Northman dragged her through the waking camp. Magdalena kept her eyes lowered until they stopped in front of another tent. Without a word she was pushed forwards and she stumbled through the opening.
This tent was larger than the previous one, which had been nothing more than a place for storage. In here furs layered the ground instead of bare earth and damp grass. An arsenal of weapons leaned within easy reach; axes, a sword, a spear resting against the central pole.
Near the back lay a dog. It lifted its head the moment she entered. The beast was massive; broad-chested, thick-necked. Its fur was dark and coarse; still damp from the morning air. Scars marked its muzzle, one ear torn slightly at the edge; its eyes fixed on her immediately: yellow-brown, unblinking.
At the sound of a sharp command the dog lowered itself again, though its gaze never left her. Only then did she dare to move further in. Ivar sat near the center of the tent on a heavy wooden chair carved with twisting beasts and worn smooth by years of use. The chair looked less like furniture and more like something claimed through conquest, broad-backed and severe beneath the flickering firelight, draped with dark furs befitting a famous northern raider.
Ivar leaned forward slightly, one hand resting on the crutch beside him, speaking in low and controlled tones in his own language to the men around him; they all listened without questioning. Then he saw her and stopped mid-sentence. With a flick of his hand he dismissed the men and all left without argument.
Silence settled in their place.
Ivar leaned back slightly in the chair, studying her. “Slept well?” The edge in it was unmistakable; dry and amused.
Magdalena did not answer. Her gaze remained lowered, fixed somewhere near the edge of the furs, with her hands clasped in front of her.
Slave. The word needed no repeating; it still sat as a bolder atop of her shoulders, weighing her down. She bowed her head slightly and under her breath came the last bit of her lifeline.
“Rex tremendae majestatis…”
“- I don’t see how your pathetic God can save you now.”
His words cut cleanly, but not in a loud and angry manner. He gestured lazily towards a crate near the table. Magdalena looked inside cautiously. The contents consisted of herbs, wrapped bundles, clay pots of honey and linen. Her breath caught as she recognized all materials from the infirmary. Then she dared to lift her gaze slightly.
“You still want me to treat your arm?” she questioned carefully. “Of course.” Ivar shifted slightly, adjusting the position of his wounded arm, “You’ve done a better job at keeping it attached than most of my healers could.” There was no mockery in that, just fact.
Magdalena hesitated only for a heartbeat. Healing, she knew that, lived for that, and in a way it gave her back purpose. Do not judge, we are not here to measure sin. We are here to lessen pain. She still kept Brother Amandus' principle close to heart.
She approached him slowly, every instinct in her body tightening as the distance closed, fully aware that this time he was no longer in chains.
The dog’s head lifted again as she stopped within its master’s reach.
She did not look up at Ivar’s face; focused fully on the part that suffered.
“Your arm,” she requested softly. He extended it stiffly. She knelt beside him, aware of the vulnerable position she had to place herself in.
Her hands trembled once, and then she focused and unwrapped the linen carefully. The wound had held, no sign of fresh corruption. Good. Her fingers moved with familiar practiced precision; cleaning, checking, adjusting.
The world narrowed. Not to him, just to the work.
“You are afraid of me.”
Her hands did not stop.
“Shouldn’t I be?” she paused. “My Lord?”
Through her lashes she saw him watching her. Something tightened in his jaw.
She finished binding the arm, securing the linen with steady hands. When she was done she hastily began to collect all the medical supplies.
But not fast enough. He stood up. The movement was controlled, the braces shifting with a muted creak as he rose, his weight settling through them, the crutch grounding him. Leaving him close. Too close for her liking.
Instead of withdrawing further Magdalena froze on her knees. He stepped forward, the space between them disappeared, and once more she could feel the heat of him. Her breath caught in her throat; she was fully aware of what Northmen did to captured women, enslaved women.
But he did not touch her. Instead he simply passed by her, close enough that the air moved with him.
“You stay here,” he said as he stopped near the entrance, “inside my tent.” He gave a sharp whistle and the dog rose instantly, moving to its master's side. Ivar pointed: first to her, then down. “Do not think of fleeing.” He paused, then spoke with that same thin, mean edge of a grin in his voice: “She hasn’t had breakfast yet.” The tent flap opened and closed, leaving her with one monster.
Magdalena remained where she was for several long moments, scarcely trusting the silence he had left behind.
The dog had settled near the entrance, vast paws crossed before it, head lowered but not resting. It watched her with the terrible patience of something trained to wait for the wrong movement. Every so often its ears twitched toward sounds outside, though its eyes never truly left her.
Carefully, slowly, Magdalena shifted her weight.
The beast did not move. Which allowed her breath to loosen only slightly. She observed the dog in turn, judging wherever it was worth to move or not. Indecisive, she then shifted her focus from the animal to her surroundings.
The inside of the tent was larger than she had first realized, its heavy canvas darkened by damp morning light filtering faintly through the stitched seams overhead.
Near the chair where Ivar had sat stood another lower stool, sturdy and worn smooth with use. Beside it rested spare linen wrappings, folded carefully rather than discarded. Nothing sat far from reach. Not the table. Not the weapons. Not the chest beside the bed furs. Not even the drinking horn resting near his chair. Everything was positioned with a strange precision, arranged for a body that could not move easily yet demanded command all the same. A space shaped entirely around the man who occupied it.
Her gaze drifted toward the rear of the tent.
There, upon thick layered pelts, stood a sleeping area unlike anything she had expected. Raised slightly from the cold earth atop woven hides and timber boards, furs piled heavily against the chill. Wolf and bear perhaps, thick enough to bury warmth beneath them. A folded dark wool cloak rested near one side, alongside a spare iron brace left unfastened, straps hanging loose as though discarded only briefly.
Something tightened unexpectedly in her chest. Evidence. Proof of pain. The chair. The braces. The careful distances between things. Even here, inside the bounds of his authority, suffering remained stitched stubbornly into him.
Her eyes moved again, catching upon the maps. Several lay spread across the low table, corners weighed down by stones and knife hilts. Rivers marked in dark ink. Coastlines. Small carved markers scattered deliberately across them. Tiny ships.
Planning. Not raiding without thought. Men deciding where suffering would go next.
Her stomach turned. Quickly, Magdalena lowered her gaze, fingers curling instinctively into the edge of the rough wool cloak gathered around her shoulders.
Her eyes drifted back towards the crate of medical supplies. The necessary herbs sat neatly bundled, tied in careful twists of linen exactly as she herself had once prepared them within the infirmary. Garlic. Comfrey. Yarrow. Small kindnesses against suffering, gathered and dried.
For a moment she only stared.
Then, slowly, cautiously, she shifted backwards a few inches across the furs.
The dog did not move.
Her hand hovered uncertainly above the crate, trembling faintly before lowering. The scent reached her first; sharp garlic, dried leaves carrying the faint bitterness of healing. Familiar in a way so piercing it nearly hurt.
Her fingertips brushed lightly against the delicate yellow heads of dried yarrow.
Soft and fragile. Comforting in a way she had not expected.
Then the dog shifted and rose up.
It crossed the tent in only a few steps, frighteningly silent for something so large, until it stood before her. Close enough now that she could see where the old scars cut deep through the dark fur of its muzzle. Close enough to understand the terrifying breadth of it; the thick strength in its shoulders, the heaviness of muscle beneath coarse fur still touched faintly by morning damp.
Her breath lodged painfully somewhere high in her chest.
The beast lowered its enormous head down towards her.
Sniffed. Once. Twice. Its warm breath ghosted across her wrist.
Magdalena did not dare move.
Then, with startling indifference, the animal huffed softly through its nose, as though deciding she posed no immediate concern at all.
It turned and returned to its place near the entrance. This time, however, it settled differently, lowering its massive head atop its paws with a sound almost suspiciously close to contentment. One great yawn followed, tongue curling briefly before it busied itself licking methodically at one front paw.
Still watching her.
But no longer quite like prey.
.-.-.
A/N: Yes, I did give Ivar an assistance dog. Why? Because I like dogs and how handy is a dog for a cripple? Sure the show gave him a horse and chariot, but this suits him too!
I liked the tension between Ivar and Magdalena in this chapter. Let’s be honest, at this point her fear is very realistic. His people raided her home, murdered her people or enslaved them. And he did not stop his people. He could have set her free, her and Brother Amandus and Lidewij. Instead, he mocks her faith and leaves her behind with his guard dog.
So far the flame of this slowburn has lost its warmth…
And also, in the upcoming chapters other characters will appear, some not all. Just go with the flow, this is my AU safe space. To add to that, the White Hair viking that captured Magdalena IS one of the Vikigns from the TV show, the one with the creative byname 'White Hair', in case anyone was wondering.
Love to read your thoughts
Xoxoxo Nukyster
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