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Between cross and raven Chapter. 19 Kings and pawns
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
.-.-.
Morning came suddenly with sound. A low, strangled noise that was somewhere between breath and pain dragged Magdalena from shallow sleep. It was rough enough that she sat upright before thought had properly caught up with her.
For one disorienting moment she did not know where she was.
Only darkness softened by weak morning light pressing through the damp canvas. The smell of wet wool. Smoke still lingering faintly in the air. The steady warmth of the great dog pressed heavily against her side.
Then the sound came again.
A breath forced hard through clenched teeth.
Pain.
Her gaze lifted immediately.
Ivar had not moved far from where she had last seen him.
He sat half-curled upon the layered furs. His head bowed forward, shoulders drawn tight with effort, the iron braces still fixed cruelly to his legs, though loosened slightly from the night before.
He looked exhausted. Paler somehow.
Another sharp breath escaped him. The kind pain stole from a man before pride remembered itself.
His eyes lifted suddenly. Found her already watching.
Something flickered there. Annoyance and embarrassment.
Then command returned.
“Tighten them.”
His voice sounded roughened by exhaustion.
He shifted, attempting to straighten, and immediately folded inward again as pain seized somewhere deep between hip and spine. His jaw locked hard enough for a muscle to jump visibly beneath his skin.
“There is a feast in my name tonight,” he said through controlled breaths, irritation sharpened mostly towards himself. “I would prefer not to collapse in front of everyone.”
Magdalena pushed herself upright slowly. The healer inside her noticed things before fear settled. The stiffness. The tremor in his good hand. The way one leg dragged fractionally inward even while sitting still. The exhaustion written plainly throughout a body long denied mercy.
“You should not be wearing them,” she said quietly.
He gave a humourless sound through his nose.
“And yet here we are.”
She hesitated only briefly before stepping closer.
“If you wish not to collapse tonight,” she said carefully, lowering herself to her knees beside the bed, “then please allow me to do my work.”
Something unreadable crossed his face. Pride resisted, but pain won.
After a long moment he leaned back against the piled furs with visible reluctance.
“Fine.”
He sounded deeply unconvinced.
Magdalena reached first for the leather bindings. Up close the braces looked worse than she remembered. Ingenious in their cruelty.
Her fingers moved carefully over straps stiffened by long use, loosening them one by one. The buckles resisted. Cold iron shifted beneath her hands.
The first brace came loose.
Ivar exhaled sharply before catching himself. The relief had escaped involuntarily. He looked irritated by that too.
The second followed slower.
When the last fastening finally released, his body shifted almost immediately beneath the absence of restraint.
His right foot curled inward sharply. A spasm followed, violent enough that his jaw tightened again.
Magdalena stilled. Brother Amandus’ osteoarthritic hands were not the same. But near enough. Old pains. Cold mornings. Muscles locked hard around suffering until warmth coaxed them loose again.
“You need warmth,” she said before thinking.
He looked at her flatly.
“I need ale.”
She ignored him.
“Willow bark tea,” she continued quietly, already thinking through remedies. “More blankets.”
One brow lifted.
“You are giving me orders now?”
“No,” she said automatically. “I am trying to make it possible for you to walk by sunset.”
Silence. Then unexpectedly something that almost looked like a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
He whistled sharply. The dog lifted its head instantly. A brief command followed in Norse, followed by a name: “Brechje.”
The dog tottered off. Moments later the scarred young woman who had given her food and a cloak appeared again.
Ivar spoke quickly in his own language, clipped and impatient. Brechje glanced once toward Magdalena, something almost sympathetic flickering briefly across her face before disappearing again.
Brechje returned not long after.
A steaming clay cup was balanced carefully between her hands, blankets draped over one arm, the sharp scent of willow bark rising faintly into the air of the tent. She avoided looking too long at either of them, though Magdalena caught the brief flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
A few quiet words passed between Brechje and Ivar in Norse. Then the young woman set everything down and slipped outside once more, the canvas settling closed behind her.
Only when the tent quieted once more did Magdalena look back at him.
“You should move higher,” she said carefully.
Suspicion crossed his face immediately.
“Why?”
“So I can see.”
For a moment he simply looked at her. Annoyance warred visibly with exhaustion. But pain won again.
With a muttered curse beneath his breath, he pushed awkwardly against the furs, bracing himself with his good arm and dragging himself higher onto the bed. The effort cost him.
She saw it plainly. The tightening of his jaw. The sharp breath caught halfway through the movement. The instinctive curl of his shoulders inward, as though pain had taught his body to fold around itself. His body had learned to endure too well.
Still, it was not enough.
The thick wool trousers had twisted badly beneath the braces during the night, bunched tightly around swollen joints and tender skin.
Magdalena hesitated only briefly. Pain was humiliating enough on its own.
“The fabric,” she said quietly. “I need to see properly.”
His expression closed at once.
A flicker of resistance. Embarrassment, sharper than irritation.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
She lowered her gaze instinctively.
“My lord,” she said softly, patient rather than pleading, “I cannot treat what I cannot examine.”
Silence followed. Ivar looked away first. Towards the tent wall. Anywhere but her. His hand tightened once against the furs. Then loosened again.
“Fine,” he muttered at last, sounding deeply unconvinced.
Magdalena moved carefully. Without hesitation or ceremony.
She moved the heavy wool aside and loosened the thick fabric where it had twisted too tightly around his ankles. When the clothes resisted, caught awkwardly beneath stiff joints that refused to move easily, she paused.
“You will have to lift slightly.”
His jaw tightened. For a moment she thought he might refuse out of sheer pride.
Then, with visible reluctance, he shifted his weight enough for her to ease the trousers downward to mid-thigh, only as far as necessary.
Nothing more. Only enough to examine the damage properly.
His pale skin was marked by angry red impressions from where leather and iron had pressed too long. One knee rested at an awkward angle, muscles drawn taut beneath it. His right foot had curled inward again, seized by a lingering spasm.
Without the braces, it became evident what demanding too much from his body cost him.
Ivar turned his face away completely.
“I know what they look like,” he muttered quietly, not in anger, not in warning. This was his ultimate humiliation, not because pain existed, because she suspected he understood pain too well.
But because she had become a witness to it.
Magdalena pretended not to notice his inability to meet her eyes; sometimes kindness looked very much like practicality.
“Please,” she said softly, settling at the edge of the bed. “Allow me to do my work.”
Magdalena wrapped both hands around the warm clay cup first and offered it carefully.
“For the pain,” she said quietly.
Ivar accepted it with his good hand. Something guarded moved briefly through his expression. He drank the tea he disliked slowly.
Only when the worst of the strain eased from his face did Magdalena look back at his legs.
The stiffness remained. Muscles still pulled too tightly beneath pale skin. The right foot curled inward again intermittently, seized by its own rebellion.
Magdalena reached for the folded blankets first.
She tucked them carefully beneath his knees, raising the angle slightly to ease strain through hips and spine.
“There,” she murmured. “That will help.”
He glanced down skeptically.
“You speak with surprising confidence for a slave.”
“I cared for Brother Amandus on bad days,” she answered quietly. “Pain is rarely different between men.”
He went still as if he suddenly understood. To her, this was not extraordinary. Not shameful. Only suffering. Only a body in pain. Some of the rigid tension left him then, though he would never admit it.
Magdalena had already turned her attention elsewhere.
To the muscles drawn rigid beneath skin.
“Place your heel here.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Between my knees,” she clarified softly. “It will stop the muscle from fighting me.”
Reluctantly he obeyed. His heel rested lightly between her knees, enough to steady it without force.
Her hands moved first to his calf. The muscle was cold and rigid, knotted hard beneath skin.
Carefully she began working warmth back into it. With slow pressure and steady movement. Thumbs pressing where muscle seized hardest. Never forcing.
Brother Amandus had taught patience before skill. Healing rarely listened to violence.
At first his whole body resisted. Shoulders fully rigid again. Jaw locked. Hands curled hard into fists atop the furs. He looked resolutely away. Towards the tent wall. Anywhere but down. Anywhere but her.
Pain crossed plainly through his face whenever she worked through the worst places.
A sharp inhale. Tightening around his eyes. His fist flexed once.
But gradually, slowly, his breathing changed; less sharp and guarded as the violent tension began to loosen beneath practiced hands.
When she moved carefully towards the curled foot, supporting it gently while easing stiffness through careful pressure, she felt resistance begin to surrender.
The rigid angle softened. Only slightly. Enough.
When she finally eased her hands away, he shifted fractionally against the furs. Less guarded. Still hurting. But bearable now.
Without comment, Magdalena reached for his wounded arm. The linen had shifted badly. The limb had been used too much already. Too much foolish stubbornness.
“You overworked it.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“The camp does not stop because my arm hurts. Rest is a luxury I do not have.”
“But you reopened it.”
“I did reopen it.” He agreed matter-of-factly. Almost irritated she had noticed.
Her gaze lifted sharply. Faint rust-coloured stains bled deeper through the linen.
Annoyance rose before caution stopped it.
“You are impossible.”
One brow lifted.
“You speak strangely to your master.”
“You speak strangely for someone who wishes to keep his arm.”
That nearly startled the amusement out of him. Nearly. Instead something sharper settled into his expression.
“Fair.”
Carefully she unwound the linen. Layer by layer. The wound still held. Thank God. No signs of rot nor foul heat. Only strain where healing flesh had been pulled too soon.
Her fingers moved with practiced certainty. Cleaning. Checking. Warming honey between fingertips before easing it carefully across torn edges.
Fresh linen followed. The world narrowed again. Not to fear. Not to captivity. Only work. Healing. Purpose.
Brother Amandus had once told her that pain listened best to calm hands.
When she finished securing the bandage, she sat back slightly.
“You were fortunate enough not to redo the damage.”
Ivar looked unimpressed.
“I dislike relying on fortune.”
“No,” she murmured before thinking. “You prefer forcing things through will alone.”
Unexpectedly he made a low sound that almost resembled laughter.
His gaze lingered on her longer this time.
Then, quieter: “Will I be able to use my arm fully again?”
Magdalena looked back towards the arm carefully.
“Considering you allow time and rest to heal properly?”
His expression darkened immediately. Meaning no, he already intended to ignore that advice.
She hesitated before continuing her verdict.
“Scar tissue may remain.”
His jaw shifted.
“How bad?”
“You may lose some movement,” she admitted softly. “Strength, perhaps. Some pain in cold weather.”
His mouth flattened. As though the answer offended him personally.
“I hate cold weather.”
“You are a Northman.”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “Deeply inconvenient.”
Despite herself, something dangerous that nearly resembled amusement crossed her face. It vanished quickly.
He noticed anyway.
“There.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you nearly smile.”
Heat rose immediately to her cheeks.
“I did not smile.”
“You nearly did.”
“I did not.”
“Terrible liar. And what happened to my Lord?”
She looked away quickly, refusing to acknowledge the strange warmth rising somewhere inside her chest.
Outside, the camp stirred louder with morning.
Voices rising. Movement beginning. Preparations already underway. Inside the tent, however; calm lingered. Neither of them seemed eager to disturb it.
Eventually exhaustion reclaimed him. Gradual. Unwilling. His body settled carefully against the furs. Pain remained. But not as sharp as before. Manageable.
Without thinking, Magdalena adjusted the blanket higher over him. The reflex of the gesture startled her. She withdrew almost immediately.
But he had already closed his eyes. Pretending not to notice. Or perhaps too tired to care.
His breathing slowed and steadied. Sleep came hard from necessity.
For a while, the tent belonged only to rain, softly ticking on the canvas. To silence, to strange temporary peace.
Eventually, restlessness won. Magdalena had never learned idleness well. Her hands needed purpose; she needed something useful to do. The healer in her moved towards the crate of medical supplies before thought could stop it.
She crushed garlic carefully into honey, sorted herbs, and refolded fresh linen. All small rituals that steadied her.
As morning passed, the camp outside grew louder. Voices rising, laughter somewhere beyond the rain. The smell of smoke thickening as fires were kindled properly for the day.
Inside however, the tent remained strangely quiet. The dog slept heavily near the entrance, its full length stretched upon the furs, occasionally twitching in its dreams.
And Ivar still slept. Though not peacefully. Even resting, pain lingered. She saw it in the occasional tightening in his jaw, the way his shoulders shifted fractionally against invisible discomfort. A body that never fully surrendered.
Her gaze drifted again. Maps lay scattered across the tables; river bends, trade routes. Small markings carved with deliberate precision.
Beside the maps sat something smaller: a carved board. Dark wood worn smooth by years of touch. Small pieces rested in a leather pouch beside it.
Curiosity moved faster than caution. She reached for one carefully. Carved bone, a king perhaps, or a soldier. She had barely touched a second piece when Ivar spoke.
“Don’t you know,” came his voice, roughened by sleep, “it is rude to go through another person’s things?”
She startled hard enough that the piece nearly slipped from her hand.
Ivar watched her from the bed, fully awake and observing; far too amused by catching her in the act.
“Especially,” he added lazily, “your master’s.”
Her throat tightened instantly.
“I am sorry, my lord.”
He rolled his eyes. The motion looked strangely boyish, stripped of audience and authority.
“Bring it here.” He gestured to the board and pieces. “I am bored. And you look bored too.”
Magdalena hesitated only briefly before obeying.
The board felt heavier than expected as she approached him cautiously.
Ivar had shifted only slightly in his sleep. One leg remained propped higher beneath blankets to ease strain through hips and spine. Without the braces he seemed somehow altered. Smaller. And yet more dangerous. Less of a warlord. More of a man.
He gestured vaguely towards the edge of the bed.
“Sit.”
Magdalena hesitated. Only briefly. But enough that irritation crossed his face.
“I am not asking you to climb into it.”
Heat touched her cheeks instantly.
The dog huffed softly nearby. As though offended on everyone’s behalf.
Carefully, Magdalena settled near the edge of the bed, leaving distance between them.
Enough space to breathe. Enough space to flee. Though flee had become a rather meaningless word.
Ivar pulled the board between them.
“Hnefatafl.”
The unfamiliar word meant nothing to her.
Confusion must have shown plainly on her face.
His mouth curved faintly.
“Of course you do not know it…”
Something annoyingly close to fondness filtered through the irritation.
“The king escapes,” he explained, moving pieces into place with practiced ease. “The attackers trap him.”
His fingers moved quickly.
“This side defends.”
He pointed.
“This side kills.”
A beat.
“You may choose whichever feels most familiar.”
Her gaze lifted despite herself.
“That is cruel.”
“It is a choice.”
Still, he gave her the defending side. Whether out of kindness or arrogance she could not tell.
Probably arrogance.
He briefly explained the rules once. Then started the game.
Magdalena lost almost immediately. The second round lasted not much longer, and only because he allowed it.
The third ended before she fully understood what mistake she had made.
She lost, again. And again.
His irritation grew visibly.
“You are not even trying.”
“I am,” she answered softly.
“No, you are not.”
He leaned back slightly, watching her with visible disbelief.
“You move pieces like someone arranging flowers.”
“I’m not familiar with this game.”
“But you know war.”
Her stomach tightened. The convent burning. The cages. The screams.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose I do now.”
That stole something sharp from him. Only briefly; he recovered quickly. A dangerous boredom settled instead. Then slowly he tilted his head and grinned.
“Let us make this more interesting.”
Something cold moved quietly through her stomach.
“My lord?” Her pulse stumbled.
“The old monk.”
Her fingers stilled completely.
Ivar rearranged the pieces lazily.
“If you lose this game…”
He looked up, calm and casual.
“I will have his head.”
The words landed without warning. Without anger. Without cruelty, even. Just matter-of-fact.
Magdalena stared at him. Waiting for mockery. For the joke. But it never came.
“You would not.”
His expression remained stoic.
“You think I would not?”
Fear moved cold through her chest. Because suddenly she realised he meant it. He held power here. Real power over life and death.
“Play,” Ivar said softly, making his change of rules final.
The board blurred briefly before her vision.
This time she focused. Truly focused. She watched every move he made. Forced herself to think.
Ivar noticed immediately, clearly pleased by her sudden competitiveness.
The game stretched longer. Hope began breathing carefully. She cornered one of his pieces. Then another.
His brows lifted slightly.
“You do learn.”
But he still controlled the board patiently. Slowly, as a predator playing with its prey, driving her exactly where he wanted.
Until it was too late.
She saw it; the trap. Her king was surrounded, there was no escape.
Ivar moved the final piece and tipped her king.
“What a loss.”
His tone remained conversational. Almost disappointed.
“The old fool was rather gifted.”
Her breath caught painfully. No! Not Brother Armandus.
“No, please, you cannot…”
He looked up. Waiting calmly for her pleas.
That somehow broke something desperate inside of her.
“I will not treat you anymore.”
The words escaped before fear stopped them. She realised immediately that she had gone too far.
But unexpectedly, Ivar clapped, almost delighted.
“There she is.”
His eyes brightened. Not warm, but interested.
“The lioness instead of the mouse.”
He leaned slightly forward.
“You will treat me. Unless,” he continued lightly, “you wish me to explain to your people how the Viking fury entered your holy sanctuary.”
Her stomach dropped. He saw understanding strike her. Saw guilt arrive.
And continued mercilessly.
“You enabled us.”
She looked away, breathing shallow now.
“But,” he said after a pause, waving dismissively, “I will let the monk live.”
Her gaze snapped back immediately.
“He is more useful alive. But let this be your lesson.”
His gaze held hers fully now.
“Do not lie to me, you were not trying to win before. You are now.”
Anger arrived unexpectedly. Bright enough to outrun fear for one reckless moment.
“You keep using me.”
He blinked once. Then nodded.
“That is true.”
There was no shame. No apology. Only honesty in his response.
“You were a pawn.”
The bluntness angered her more.
“And yet,” he continued, irritation sharpening slightly now, “I gave you proper advice.”
His voice lowered.
“The world is rarely gentle with those who refuse to hate the right people.”
The familiar words landed harder now. Because he believed them. Because now, a part of her understood them.
“So first I am your pawn, now I am your slave,” she said quietly.
“Yes.” He answered immediately, without complications. “Because right now, slave, this is your best chance at survival.”
His tone sharpened suddenly.
“And you are forgetting your place.”
Fear returned quickly enough, although the anger hadn’t fully left yet.
“I am sorry, my lord.”
The hollowness in her voice did not escape him. He watched her for a long moment. Then rubbed briefly at his temples.
“You are infuriatingly impossible.”
“If you say so, my lord.”
That nearly earned another laugh. Instead he let himself fall back harder into the furs with visible irritation.
“This,” he muttered at the canvas ceiling, “is going to be a very long day.”
.-.-.
A/N: This chapter was an absolute joy to write. I loved exploring the moment where Ivar’s body finally breaks down enough to force him into something he hates: accepting that he cannot simply will himself better. For the first time since the raid, they had a moment of quiet. Almost peaceful. Their roles shifted back into healer and patient for a little while, before inevitably returning to master and slave. I really enjoy writing that dynamic between them. He reminds her what she is to him, property. She reminds him that, beneath everything else, he is still a wounded man. They challenge each other constantly and keep each other on their toes. There is something I love about those quiet moments inside the tent, away from all eyes, where reality slips through and both of them become harder to define.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
