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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?

Xoxoxo Nukyster 

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

Taglist: @miksmom-blog

@g-cf2020

@authorpj

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.

Love to read your thoughts,

Xoxoxo Nukyster

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

Taglist: @miksmom-blog

Ahead, beneath an awning of stretched hide near the central fire, his brothers remained gathered around one of the long tables.

Ubbe sat broad-backed and steady as stone, speaking little, listening much. Sigurd lounged sideways upon the bench with all the carelessness of a man born handsome enough to mistake sharpness for wisdom. Hvitserk sat half-drunk already, laughing at something no one else appeared to find nearly as amusing.

The sight of them struck somewhere unexpectedly old inside him. Familiar. Annoying. Home.

Hvitserk spotted him first.

“There he is,” he called. “Thought the marsh finally swallowed you.”

Ivar lowered himself onto the chair with considerably less grace than pride would have preferred.

“You sound disappointed.”

“A little,” Hvitserk admitted. “Ubbe’s been unbearably cautious about you,” he said, nudging his older brother between the ribs. 

Ubbe sighed into his drink.

“He almost died, Hvitserk…”

“But I didn’t,” Ivar said.

Sigurd lifted his cup lazily.

“A shame. We had already divided your things.”

Ivar took the horn shoved at him by Sigurd. 

Ubbe said nothing at first. Only watched him. The stiffness in the way Ivar carried himself. The deliberate care with which he shifted his weight. The arm still held too close beneath dark wool. The pale exhaustion lingering beneath anger, beneath pride.

“You should be resting,” Ubbe said eventually.

Ivar adjusted the horn, fingers tightening once against the carved rim.

“I rested plenty, dear brother.”

Ubbe’s expression did not change as he pressed the matter once more. 

“You almost died.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Ivar’s face. 

“But then again,” he said dryly, lifting the horn, “I didn’t.”

 From beside Sigurd, Hvitserk barked with laughter.

“To think we nearly lost your stubborn crippled ass.”

The split in Ivar’s lip pulled unpleasantly as his mouth curved.

“And yet here I am, favoured by the Gods.”

Ale lifted and cups knocked together. His brothers drank to that. Though beneath the laughter lived memory. The kind no one spoke aloud unless drink softened the edges first.

The marshland of Holland had nearly taken him. He remembered the violent panic from the horse first as arrows rained down. Mud spraying high against the wheels of the chariot as the animal stumbled through wet ground already ruined by rain and blood.

Then the strike. Not pain at first. Only force. Sharp and terrible enough to knock his breath clean from him. The arrow drove through his arm with brutal certainty.

The reins slipped. Everything lurched sideways.

He remembered the world tilting violently before the horse lost footing entirely. Then earth. Cold. Hard. His body striking the ground wrong. The sickening helplessness of it.

The chariot gone. The horse screaming somewhere ahead. Men shouting.

The church bells of Dorestad ringing through wet air like some mocking prayer.

He had tried to rise but failed. And tried again. Pain tore white across his vision.

Realisation hit: his fighting arm was useless. The clothes, drenched and heavy with marshwater. His body refusing him in every possible way.

Around him, retreat had already begun. The river branch needed to be crossed before the Christians regrouped. He knew exactly what he had become.

Doomed dead weight. 

The thought had settled cold and practical inside him.

“Leave me,” he had said. Not dramatic. Only tired. Blood, already soaking dark through his clothes.

Ubbe had knelt immediately.

“No.”

Ivar remembered anger then. Hotter than pain.

Hvitserk had cursed.

Sigurd had stood nearby, silent, pale eyes sharp with frustration.

But Ubbe…Ubbe had crouched in the mud before him, broad hands gripping hard at his shoulders as if refusing to consider the possibility itself.

“We leave now,” Ubbe had said, jaw tight enough to ache, rain dripping from loose strands of pale hair, “and we come back.” Ubbe’s voice had gone frighteningly calm then. The kind of calm that only arrived when fear sat too close beneath it.

Ivar had laughed once. Bitterly.

“You won’t.”

“We will.”

No hesitation. A promise.

Ubbe’s hand had tightened once against the back of his neck. Something painfully familiar. Brother to little brother. 

The rain had turned colder. Voices urging haste somewhere behind them. Still, Ubbe remained kneeling. Something in his face had stayed with Ivar longer than he cared to admit. 

Fear. Real fear. The kind men rarely allowed themselves to show. Because for all his irritation, for all the endless sharp edges between brothers, Ubbe loved too hard for his own good.

And leaving him there–half-conscious, bleeding, unable to stand–had carved something ugly into him.

“I will come back,” Ubbe had said again, quieter now.

A promise spoken like prayer. Then, his brother’s hands hauling him towards natural shelter. Arguments. Orders shouted.

And finally, being left behind. Wrapped in mud and reeds near the monastery grounds while the others retreated into river mist.

For the first time in his life that he cared to admit, Ivar had truly believed he might die.

Not in battle. Not gloriously. But in the cold marshland. Broken and abandoned within enemy lines. 

Until the convent. Delirium, agony and fever. A woman’s hands. And waking alive after already preparing himself for death.

Ivar drank his ale slowly. The taste had gone bitter.

Across from him, Ubbe still watched. Like he had not yet forgiven the marsh for nearly taking his youngest brother. Or himself for leaving him there at all.

For a while the conversation moved around him rather than through him. Raiding routes. River crossings. The next movement of men. Who still owed silver. Who had stolen whose ale. Familiar things. Expected things. The shape of command returning; that of the Ragnarssons united. 

And still, his thoughts wandered. Against his will. To dark eyes refusing to meet his. The way relief had crossed her face before fear swallowed it whole.

Relief. That part bothered him. After the raid, she had looked relieved to see him alive.

Foolish woman.

He drank. His thumb tapped once against the rim of the horn.

She should hate him now. Probably did. Good. It was better that way. Easier. And yet, he found himself thinking of her sitting inside his tent with that expression still lingering somewhere beneath terror. Small against the furs. Trying very hard not to weep. Still quietly stubborn beneath all that fear.

He did not know what to do with her. That irritated him most. A thrall was simple. Useful. Temporary and manageable. 

But Magdalena had sat beside him while he had been weak enough to despise himself. Had looked at him not as Ivar Ragnarsson. Not as a pagan warlord. Not as a monster. Just as wounded.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Hvitserk’s voice cut clean through his thoughts.

Ivar looked up slowly.

“What?”

His brother leaned forward, grin widening.

“The nun.”

Silence shifted slightly around the table.

Sigurd’s mouth curved immediately.

Ubbe merely watched.

“What about her?” Ivar asked.

Hvitserk laughed outright.

“You brought home a nun.” 

Sigurd leaned lazily against the table. “Not even a pretty one,” he pointed out dryly. “She’s thin, looks like she’d snap in half. At least steal someone entertaining.”

“She kept my arm attached.”

That came too quickly. Too sharp. The silence after it lasted exactly long enough.

Hvitserk’s grin widened dangerously.

“Ah.”

Ubbe’s gaze sharpened.

Sigurd tilted his head.

There it was.

The moment his brothers saw what should never have become visible.  

Ivar hated it instantly.

“She is a healer,” he said flatly. 

“Healer, huh?” Hvitserk repeated, entirely unconvinced.

Ivar’s patience thinned.

“She is mine.”

The words landed harder than intended. Sigurd’s smile lingered.  “I think you made that very clear today. You drove a knife through a man’s hand.”

“You misunderstand the lesson.”

Sigurd’s brow lifted.

“Do I?”

Ivar’s voice stayed even.

“The man was not punished for touching her.”

Sigurd snorted. 

“Then enlighten me.”

Ivar’s gaze flicked briefly between his brothers. 

“He was punished for forgetting who he serves under. And I do not allow anyone to touch my property.”

Silence. His words landed in between his three older brothers. 

Sigurd’s smile thinned just slightly.

“Well,” Hvitserk said, lifting his horn, looking far too pleased with himself. “To the nun.”

He raised it slightly, as though the matter deserved celebration all on its own.

“You nearly die, disappear into Christian hands, and somehow return with a holy woman.”

Sigurd let out a quiet breath of amusement through his nose.

“Very unlike you,” he said lazily. “Are you certain none of her Christianity has rubbed off on you?”

Ivar said nothing. He did not possess the strength to wrestle with his brothers’ mockery any longer.

Rainwater started dripping steadily from the awning above them, hissing softly where stray drops struck fire. Beyond the clearing, mist moved low through the marshes, swallowing pieces of the camp until only torchlight remained.

Ubbe remained quiet the longest.

Watching and observing his younger brother. 

“You trust her?” he asked eventually.

That question settled heavier than the others. Because it mattered. Because Ubbe rarely wasted words.

Ivar’s jaw tightened slightly.

“No.”

The answer came easily. Automatic.

Yet something in it sat wrong. He trusted her hands. Trusted the way she had stitched flesh while exhausted enough to sway. Trusted that she had every opportunity to hurt him and had not.

But honest trust? No. That word carried weight. And weakness.

“She is useful,” he said instead, adjusting his grip against the horn. “Nothing more.”

Ubbe leaned forward slightly, forearms resting upon the rough wood of the table.

“And now?”

The question landed strangely. Simple, yet not simple at all. 

Ivar stared into the fire. Flames curled around damp wood, stubborn despite rain.

Now.

Now she knelt when told to. Lowered her eyes. Only spoke when spoken to. Yet she still looked at him sometimes with something dangerously close to disappointment. As though the man from the infirmary had disappeared and left something rotten in his place.

He disliked that. Disliked noticing it more.

“Now she lives,” he said finally. “Because I decided so.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Ubbe answered calmly.

Silence stretched.

Ivar hated being studied. Especially by people who knew him too well.

“She treats my arm,” he repeated. “Until it’s healed.”

Sigurd tilted his head slightly.

“And after?”

Ivar’s gaze sharpened.

“There is nothing after.”

Another lie. He knew it the moment it left him. Because he had already thought too far ahead. The moment he had ordered her into his tent. The moment he had told the others she was his.

Mine. The word lingered unpleasantly. Too possessive. Too instinctive.

He drank again to silence it. And irritatingly, that earned him another look from Ubbe. Not mocking but understanding.

Which somehow felt worse.

Ubbe’s voice lowered slightly.

“She saw you weak.”

There it was. The thing beneath it all. Sharp enough to bite.

Ivar looked at him. Neither brother spoke for a moment. Because what Ubbe had stated mattered. 

Magdalena had not met Ivar the Boneless in the infirmary. She had met something uglier. Him, bruised and humiliated. Fevered, half-delirious and chained beneath a window. A cripple unable to stand.

And still, she had sat beside him and touched him without flinching. 

The memory sat badly inside him. Too close to gratitude. Too close to something softer than he preferred.

“She doesn’t matter, she is just a thrall,” he said quietly, more to himself than to them.

“I hope so.” Sigurd said. “Because camps notice things.” His gaze drifted briefly towards the larger fires. Towards the men.

“The moment people think she matters to you…”

Sigurd left the rest unfinished.

He did not need to say more. 

Vulnerability drew teeth. Always had, always would. 

Ivar leaned back slightly despite the protest in his body. Exhaustion dragged at him harder than pride liked.

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, he found himself wondering whether she sat in his tent crying, mourning her losses.

Annoyance flickered, sharp and immediate. Gods. He should have left her in the cart.

Yet even thinking about it, he knew it was untrue.

No. He would have gone back for her. Again. And that realization irritated him more than anything else.

Eventually he rose.

Slowly.

Braces creaking softly as he steadied himself against the crutch.

Hvitserk lifted a brow.

“Going back already?”

Ivar adjusted his balance.

“I’ve had enough ale.”

“Mm.”

Entirely unconvinced.

Sigurd smirked into his drink, exchanging gazes with Hvitserk. 

Ubbe said nothing. Only watched him go.

And as Ivar disappeared back into the drifting marsh mist, one thought followed him with increasing irritation:

He truly did not know what to do with Magdalena.

So he would keep her close.

Until he understood her.

Or himself.

Whichever proved easier.

.-.-.

A/N: YAY first Ivar POV, took me a while but I felt it was necessary to stretch it up to this point. What I really, really like is that I can work with the brothers. I found that in the show their bond was sometimes, well, a bit thin, non-existing. And I kinda want to give them all a chance to be brother’s, YES Sigurd will live (do not get me started on that). Also wanted to add the little flashback to give some information of what has happened to Ivar before the infirmary. And isn’t Ubbe the perfect big brother, I really enjoyed writing the part where he promised Ivar he would come back for him. 

And of course some of his thoughts over his little nun, poor guy has a lot to figure out, all while healing and being in constant pain. 

Penny for your thoughts

Xoxoxo Nukyster  

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

Taglist: @miksmom-blog

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

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

Taglist: @miksmom-blog

Outside, the camp carried on with an indifference she found strangely unbearable. Voices drifted through the canvas in unfamiliar rhythms. Laughter rose somewhere nearby, rough and unashamed, startling after so much grief. Men shouted across the marshland darkness while the crackle of distant fires folded itself into the restless sounds of horses, movement, and life continuing as though nothing sacred had burned at all.

Footsteps approached.

Magdalena stiffened immediately.

A figure lowered herself quietly beside her.

Not a raider, but a young woman near Magdalena’s own age.

A wooden bowl appeared suddenly before her, steam curling softly into the cold air.

Warmth.

The young woman carefully pressed it into Magdalena’s hands.

“Eat.”

Magdalena blinked and slowly lifted her head. The words had not been the sharp Northern tongue that had surrounded her since the convent burned. But in her own language.

For a moment she could only stare, caught by surprise. 

The woman noticed. Something humourous moved briefly across her expression. She did not look like the Northmen Magdalena had imagined from frightened stories whispered in convent halls. Nor did she feel wholly foreign.

The young woman’s hair, the color of dark wheat dampened by rain, had been braided simply and pinned back without much care, loose strands escaping to cling against temples pale from weather rather than softness. Her skin carried the familiar touch of riverland wind, the sort Magdalena had seen upon women who worked fields near the water or walked long roads beneath endless grey skies.

There was something quietly familiar in the shape of her face. Something painfully close to home.

Only hardened somehow. Changed.

And then Magdalena noticed the scars. One side of the woman’s face bore the memory of old violence.

Pale, uneven lines stretched faintly across her cheek and towards her temple, healing long finished yet never gentle. The skin pulled slightly there, permanent in the way only suffering could become permanent.

The woman caught Magdalena looking at her face, but she did not lower her gaze. Instead, she nudged the bowl gently closer.

“You need warmth,” she said quietly, still in Magdalena’s language. “Eat.”

Before Magdalena could answer, the woman reached behind herself and unfolded a heavy wool cloak. The rough fabric settled unexpectedly across Magdalena’s shoulders. Warmth followed.

Her throat tightened painfully. Kindness felt almost unbearable now, after everything. 

“Eat,” the woman said once more, softer this time.

Then she stood and slipped back through the tent flap, leaving Magdalena alone with steam rising faintly from the bowl between her trembling hands.

For a long moment she simply stared.

Her fingers shook too badly to hold it steady. Hunger forced her to act and she lifted the bowl slowly and drank. 

As the first fragile traces of warmth began loosening the tightness in her shoulders, her mind betrayed her entirely.

It returned to him. 

The image of Ivar outside the cage refused to loosen its hold.

Standing.

Only days ago she had watched him chained beneath the infirmary window, fevered and bruised, his body worn thin from refusing to eat and beatings alike. She had already begun mourning him then, though she had not allowed herself to name it fully. His death had seemed inevitable enough that part of her had quietly prepared for it.

And now he managed to stand among his own people. As if resurrected. A warlord returned to power.

The stories she had grown up hearing about the Northmen suddenly no longer belonged to frightened whispers traded within convent walls. They had a shape now. A body. With blue eyes, sharp with intelligence and cunningness.

Ivar, whose people had burned her home. Who now decided whether she lived or died. That was what made the fear so unbearable, because some part of her honestly believed she knew him. She knew the mocking edge of his voice. The terrible pride that refused to surrender even in chains. The moments of strange restraint he wore so uneasily that they almost seemed accidental.

She had seen him powerless. She’d seen pain strip him raw enough to reveal parts of himself no warlord should ever allow another person to witness.

And now she could not stop wondering how much of that man remained now that power had been placed back into his hands.

A soft rustling sound broke through her thoughts.

Magdalena looked up instinctively.

A raven sat upon a carved wooden perch near the rear of the tent, black feathers gleaming darkly in the firelight. Its bright eyes regarded her while its claws shifted softly against the wood.

Her breath caught. Memory moved too quickly. The request for fresh air; how emphatically she’d opened the small window inside her old chamber. The way he had never looked quite like a man condemned to death. 

The tent flap shifted.

Ivar entered without haste. He moved like a man entirely certain the world would part where he wished it to. Because here, she realized with sudden clarity, it already did.

The heavy canvas fell closed behind him, muting much of the camp beyond into distant noise and firelight shadows.

Magdalena watched him cross the tent.

Every step looked like one too many. The iron braces locked hard against his legs, forcing movement where his body no longer managed it naturally. One foot dragged faintly between each measured step while the iron crutch bit heavily into the earth beside him, bearing the weight his legs could not. Pain lingered openly in his body now that no enemy eyes surrounded him, tightening itself through the line of his mouth and the rigid set of his shoulders.

Yet even wounded, even pale from exhaustion and healing, there remained something deeply dangerous about the control with which he carried himself. As though he would rather break entirely than allow weakness to master him again.

He stopped before her.

For one long moment neither spoke.

His gaze shifted briefly toward the raven.

Then back to her.

And Magdalena understood. He watched the realization settle fully across her face. Saw the exact moment guilt arrived.

Because softness sat uneasily upon him even now, something dry touched his voice.

“I suppose,” he said, adjusting his grip on the crutch, shifting his stance with quiet precision, “I owe you thanks for that as well.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Only shifted slightly, the braces creaking softly beneath the adjustment. The movement looked careful despite the indifference he wore around it, pain managed rather than ignored.

“You saved my arm.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the sling bound tightly across his chest.

“You saved my life.”

A pause settled between them.

“More than once.”

Something shifted faintly in his expression. Not softness, recognition perhaps. A silent decision forming. Debt.

“I return what you gave me,” he said at last, straightening slightly despite the visible strain in it. “You live.”

Magdalena swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

“Brother Amandus,” she said carefully, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Lidewij-”

“-Still breathing.”

The answer came too quickly to doubt. His attention remained fixed upon her.

“Because of you.”

Relief came sharp enough to hurt. Brief enough to vanish.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Please, let us go.”

There it was. That fragile thing called hope. Small and trembling and foolish enough to survive even here.

He saw it happen. Watched it take shape across her face. And ended it with one word. 

“No.”

Magdalena went very still. Her throat tightened painfully.

He regarded her for a moment, blue eyes moving slowly over her as though weighing something not yet fully decided.

“I owe you,” he said eventually. His gaze lowered briefly to the chains binding her wrists.

Then lifted again.

“So I keep you.”

Her breath caught.

He tilted his head slightly, something dry brushing the edge of his voice.

“I am a generous man.”

It almost sounded mocking.

“You will eat.” His eyes flicked briefly towards the cloak gathered around her shoulders. “You will stay warm.”

A pause followed. Quiet and steady, as if he gave her time to process. 

“As my thrall.”

Her brow tightened faintly.

He noticed. A shadow of amusement touched the corner of his mouth.

“Slave,” he said simply. “Though I suspect my people would argue you have already earned kinder treatment.”

Magdalena stared at him.

“No.”

Her voice came softer this time. Not defiant. Not pleading. Only refusal, because after losing everything she had, this simply was too much. This could not be happening, this could not become her life. 

He held her gaze. Long enough that she understood refusing changed nothing.

“Yes.”

He moved again with visible effort, bracing himself heavily with the crutch as iron bit softly against the packed earth. For all the authority he wore now, pain still followed him faithfully, lodged stubbornly inside every measured step.

For a moment she thought he might leave without another word. But at the entrance he paused.

“You should have listened to my advice,” he said. Something dry lingered at the edge of his voice, though weariness roughened it now.

“The world is rarely gentle with those who refuse to hate the right people, Sancta Maria.”

He did not turn back.

The canvas shifted closed behind him.

And Magdalena remained where she was, hands still shackled, surrounded by warmth that did nothing to touch the cold spreading quietly through her.

The terrible truth of it settled slowly into place.

She had survived the raiding. But at what cost? 

.-.-.

A/N: Yeah so, this is not going to be a Disney Romance folks. But I guess you knew that from chapter one. So between them the tables have turned and this is one of the reasons I started writing this story. (Brace yourself for some advertisement) About six years ago I started writing the story ‘Changing Course’, which I managed to finish and am currently writing the second part of the saga. In this story I break down Ivar fully and completely, in this fiction he is a slave. The overall underdog, relying heavily on an OC to survive. While I am still writing on this fic I started to hyperfixate a while ago on ‘what if…’ Like I am an Ivar fan, he is my comfort character. But I disliked him after he burned the two young boys alive in season four/five. After that TYRANT, and do not get me started on season six… So I love to give him redemption arches. In Changing Course that’s him repenting as a slave. 

But wouldn’t it be interesting to see what would happen if something or - someone- stepped onto his path and showed him selfless kindness. Would that change him as a person; as the warlord Ivar? 

Now that’s the question we will get answers to in this fiction. 

End of ramble, love to read your thoughts

Xoxoxo Nukyster

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

Taglist: @miksmom-blog

Her body trembled so hard her teeth ached from holding them together. Breath came shallow now. The world beyond the slats blurred at its edges. Voices lost shape. Time loosened.

She thought once or twice she might sleep. But the road allowed no mercy.

Every jolt sent pain sharply through stiff muscles already protesting hours spent trapped upright in wet clothes. 

Morning arrived without softness. Only less darkness. Grey light spilled reluctantly through the trees, revealing the dreadful shape of what they had become.

Captives.

Lidewij had begun crying quietly sometime before dawn, exhaustion finally breaking whatever strength fear had left her. Magdalena tried at first to soothe her, though her own voice sounded thin and distant. In the end she only wrapped trembling fingers around her sister’s tied wrist and wept with her, silent tears slipping unnoticed through rainwater already cold upon her cheeks.

Hours passed.

The forest stretched endlessly around them, ancient and dark beneath towering trees that swallowed much of the pale morning light. Pines stood thick as walls in some places, their branches dripping steadily with rain, while elsewhere the path opened briefly to marshland slick with mist before narrowing again beneath heavy woodland. Birds scattered at the sound of wheels. Smoke rose occasionally in distant curls from unseen settlements far from the road.

As the morning dragged onward, more wagons joined their dreadful procession until there were seven besides their own, each crowded with frightened bodies, wounded villagers, nuns wrapped in misery, men too injured to resist. The line stretched through the forest like something stolen from the world behind them.

Home disappeared further with every turn of the wheels.

At some point the older Northman appeared beside the cage again.

Without warning he forced open the door just enough to throw several hard, mold-speckled loaves onto the floorboards.

Hunger overcame dignity quickly.

People surged forward at once. Hands shoved. Pulled. Fought. The desperation of it frightened Magdalena almost as much as her fear of the Northmen themselves.

She remained where she stood, grief sitting too heavily inside her to move.

The Northman lingered. Watching.

She felt it before she looked up.

His gaze rested steadily upon her.

Magdalena lowered her eyes immediately, unease tightening painfully in her chest. Fear returned all at once. She had heard the stories. What Northmen did to Christian women. What happened to captives.

Slowly, cautiously, she looked back.

To her surprise, the giant did something strange.

His expression shifted, only faintly, something unreadable flickering there before vanishing again so quickly she wondered whether exhaustion had imagined it.

Then, unexpectedly, he drew two fingers briefly across his chest.

A cross.

Her breath caught.

The man motioned for her to come closer.

Fear settled cold beneath her ribs. Still, Magdalena forced herself forward, carefully pressing through cramped bodies until she stood near the cage door.

The Northman lowered his voice.

“Ert þú í skjóli Óðins?” 

The words struck strangely against her ears.

She understood little. Only the name. Óðinn.

And suddenly dread settled heavily inside her stomach. The necklace. He had recognized it.

Instinctively her hand moved towards the hidden weight beneath her veil, then stopped.

Fear tightened sharply inside her chest. Fear of what the others might think. Fear of what it meant to possess something pagan. Fear of what it said about her that she had carried it this far at all.

Unable to form words, she only gave the smallest nod.

Something in his expression shifted again. Understanding perhaps. Without another word he reached for the knife at his belt.

The cage recoiled. Bodies shrank backward immediately.

Lidewij gasped softly beside her. Magdalena herself froze.

But the man did nothing except crouch and press the knife into the wood near the door, carving quickly with surprising care.

When he stepped back, a small cross marked the timber.

He tapped it once. Then looked at her.

“Sancta Maria.”

Before Magdalena could make sense of any of it, another crate was shoved roughly through the opening, this one filled with fresher bread.

Lidewij managed to snatch a piece before the others could take it all and quietly broke it in half, pressing one portion into Magdalena’s hands.

The bread sat heavily in her stomach as questions settled heavier still.

What, in God’s name, had she set into motion?

If the Northman had recognized the necklace…if he had spoken Odin’s name so knowingly…

Was Ivar still alive? Near?

A chill moved through her that had nothing to do with rain.

If Ivar the Boneless still lived, what exactly did that mean for her?

.-.-.

By the time the wagons finally reached their destination, dusk had settled. Rain no longer fell in merciless sheets, though it lingered stubbornly in the air, drifting through the marshland in a fine mist that clung to skin and wool alike. Fog spread low over black water, swallowing distance so completely that the world beyond seemed half-formed.

Longships rested half-hidden among reeds and the dark water, pulled close to concealed banks where thick roots and marsh grasses swallowed much of their shape. Fires glowed low beneath dripping trees, orange light flickering weakly against wet bark while smoke curled sluggishly into mist. Raiders moved through mud with frightening ease, broad figures cloaked in wool and leather, voices carrying sharply in a language Magdalena had come to dread.

Horses shifted restlessly near rough shelters hastily built against the weather. Somewhere nearby metal struck metal. Laughter rose unexpectedly through smoke before vanishing again into the endless murmur of foreign voices.

Magdalena lifted her head slowly. Pain settled immediately through her neck and shoulders. Every part of her ached. Her body had long since stopped belonging entirely to her, bent for too many hours into impossible angles within the cramped cage, cold lodged so deeply beneath her skin that even shivering had begun to feel distant.

The wagon wheels groaned to a sudden stop. And for the first time since the convent burned, Magdalena felt something colder than fear settle quietly inside her. Not fear of dying. That had already come and gone.

No, it was the fear of living. That surviving this might demand things of her she did not yet know how to bear.

Something struck the cage hard. The wooden slats shuddered violently.

Magdalena flinched instinctively, though her body obeyed sluggishly now, stiff from cold and exhaustion, limbs slow beneath wet clothes that had long since begun to feel like another weight she carried.

Another strike followed. Closer this time.

A shape emerged before the cage. Not tall like many of the others. But standing.

Magdalena blinked hard through tear-blurred vision. Slowly, the world sharpened.

Blue eyes found hers. Pain lived there still. Pain and something quieter beneath it. Recognition.

Her breath caught somewhere painfully between relief and dread.

Ivar.

Iron braces ran hard and unforgiving along both legs. Beneath dark leather wrappings, hard and unforgiving iron braces ran along both of his legs, fixed tightly enough to force his body upright.  His wounded arm rested in a sling, bound tightly against his chest, linen disappearing beneath heavy wool darkened by dampness.

The other arm leaned heavily against an iron crutch, the tip half-buried in mud to keep him standing. But not without cost. His face looked paler still beneath the bruising, his split lip only half-healed, exhaustion carved deep around the sharpness of his mouth. There was strain in the set of his jaw, something tightly held beneath practiced control.

He looked less like a man recovered than one held upright by will alone. By sheer refusal. As though surrendering to the pain had simply never occurred to him.

The end of his crutch lifted slightly. Pointing, for a mere moment, at her.

He spoke sharply and fast. The Northern language escaped her entirely. Only the tone carried meaning. Command.

The cage door opened with a violent scrape.

The older Northman with silver-threaded hair climbed forward immediately, rough hands catching her arm before she could properly move.

Her legs failed almost at once. The journey had stolen too much from them.

Mud swallowed her knees when she struck the ground, cold seeping instantly through soaked fabric, though she scarcely felt the impact beyond distant shock.

Voices rose around her. Movement shifted. Men splitting apart. Orders barked somewhere beyond understanding.

“Magdalena!”

She turned sharply, back towards the cart. Lidewij clung desperately to the wooden slats of the cage, terror breaking openly across her face now.

“Magdalena!”

“No-”

The word scarcely formed.

A hand closed beneath her arm again. She was hauled upright before she could fight.

Pushed forward. Terror and exhaustion blurred the camp around her. 

Canvas. Fire. Weapons. Mud. Smoke. Chaos given shape.

Then darkness again. Not night. A tent.

.-.-.

A/N: “Ert þú í skjóli Óðins?” translation = are you under Odin’s protection? I liked writing this chapter, it’s a nice change to let the OC suffer for a bit instead of Ivar. And our little warlord is back in the game. The big question; is that a good thing or a bad thing for Magdalena? 

And to you all, thank you so much for all the kudos, hits and comments. You have no idea how good it makes me feel to see around 100+ readers read my fanfiction. I’m still having a hard time and this brightens up my day. 

Xoxoxo Nukyster

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

Taglist: @miksmom-blog

The prayer came automatically. For sneaking through darkened corridors. For the lie she had spoken so easily to the guards. For staying too long. For not stepping away quickly enough when he had leaned in. For the terrible, trembling part of herself that still remembered the warmth of his skin in that cold room and hated how fiercely her heart had answered it.

Yet beneath the guilt sat something heavier still.

Grief.

It settled quietly at first, slow and creeping, until she could no longer separate one sorrow from another. Grief for what waited for Ivar in Utrecht. Grief for the bruises darkening his face, for the wound left untended too long, for the impossible pride, even as he had sat chained to stone, as though pain itself were something beneath him. She thought of his split mouth curving faintly as he mocked death, of the cruel way his arms had been forced upwards, of the moment he had told her to keep the necklace near her heart, like he had somehow already known she would carry him away with her whether she wished to or not.

Tomorrow he would be gone.

Perhaps dead not long after.

The thought hurt something inside her so suddenly she turned onto her side as if the movement alone might make it go away.

This was wrong.

He was a pagan. A Northman. An enemy to her people and to God Himself. Abbess Gerhild’s warning still lingered somewhere inside her, stern and fearful. Compassion was one thing. Attachment another.

And yet, against all orders, she had gone to him.

Her fingers tightened instinctively around the necklace beneath the fabric.

She should have left sooner. Instead, she had stood too close. Close enough to know the warmth of him despite the cold. Close enough that, for one impossible moment, she had forgotten herself entirely.

The tears came quietly then, slipping free before she fully understood that she had begun to cry. Magdalena pressed her trembling fingers against her mouth, swallowing every sound for fear of waking the others. Even now, shame moved alongside sorrow. Shame for mourning him. Shame for the dreadful ache inside her chest that felt far too much like loss already.

She did not know whether she feared more for his soul or her own.

At some point exhaustion finally pulled harder than grief.

Sleep came not gently, but like drowning.

.-.-.

“Fire!”

Lidewij’s scream tore through the darkness with such force that Magdalena woke as though dragged violently from deep water. For a disoriented moment she did not understand what had woken her. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs, the room still thick with sleep and shadow around her.

Then Lidewij cried out again.

“Fire!”

Magdalena pushed herself upright too quickly, breath catching sharply in her throat.

The room had changed.

Orange light flickered wildly across the stone walls where darkness should have been, throwing strange, violent shadows into corners that only moments ago had been still. Smoke had begun to creep through the narrow gaps around the shutters, thin at first, but unmistakable.

Lidewij stood near the window, pale with terror, one trembling hand pressed hard against her mouth.

“Elinor, wake up!”

By the time Magdalena crossed the room the smell had already reached them. Burning canvas. Burning straw.

She looked through the narrow opening of the window and felt cold spread through her body despite the sudden heat in the air.

One of the infirmary tents stood ablaze.

Fire climbed greedily through canvas, swallowing the structure with terrifying hunger. Shapes moved frantically inside. 

The wounded.

Oh Lord.

Her breath left her.

All those wounded men, women, children.

Trapped like rats. 

Bells had finally begun to ring, too late; their warning swallowed beneath the shouts already rising across the convent grounds.

The courtyard had dissolved into movement. Men ran carrying buckets from the well, sisters hurried through smoke with frightened prayers spilling from trembling mouths, and somewhere deeper within the convent voices barked orders.

Magdalena had already turned from the window. 

“We have to help,” she exclaimed. 

Lidewij looked at her as though she had lost all sense of danger. 

“There are people inside!”

The words came sharper this time, urgent enough to move them.

The corridor beyond had surrendered entirely to panic. Half-dressed nuns hurried past, faces pale with fear as smoke drifted through the open passageways, and somewhere nearby someone had begun weeping openly. Elinor stumbled behind them as Magdalena and Lidewij hurried onward.

The cold struck hard when they stepped into the courtyard, but heat followed it almost immediately.

The fire roared louder than she could have imagined.

Men still strong enough to stand rushed desperately between the well and the burning tent, water sloshing uselessly from heavy buckets before ever reaching the flames. Smoke thickened the air, bitter and stinging, sparks flying wildly into the darkness above.

Someone screamed. Not from fear, but from agonizing pain. The sound tore through the chaos with something so raw that Magdalena felt it deep in her chest. And then the smell hit her; that of burned flesh. 

Without thinking, she moved.

A young boy sat slumped against the infirmary wall coughing violently, soot blackening half his face. She dropped instinctively beside him, reaching for him before she had fully thought.

“Water,” she called, turning towards the movement around them.

No one heard. Everything had become too loud. Too frantic.

The next tent had begun to catch on fire. At first it was only a darkening along the canvas, but then suddenly flame unfurled upwards with dreadful speed.

“No,” Magdalena whispered, though there was no one to hear it.

Someone shoved past her hard, nearly sending her to the ground.

Only then did she notice movement where movement should not have been.

Figures emerged through smoke with frightening clarity, dark against darker shadow. Not sisters rushing towards the flames. Not frightened soldiers.

No, these figures moved purposefully in silence. They moved swiftly between the confusion with precision, slipping through the panic.

Then someone fell.

A soldier.

One moment shouting by the burning tent, the next crumpling soundlessly into the dirt.

Another staggered backwards clutching his throat, blood darkening his fingers.

Magdalena froze.

More shadows emerged. Steel caught the firelight. Axes. Blades. Swords. 

Voices rose suddenly through the smoke, sharp and fast in a language that struck her with horrifying familiarity.

Something inside her turned cold. She knew their tongues. Not fluently. But enough. Enough from muttered curses spoken through fevered delirium. 

Northmen.

Dear God.

Northmen.

No longer sinister stories from afar. Not distant warnings whispered by frightened villagers. But here. Inside the convent.

A soldier shouted too late. Steel flashed through firelight and another body struck the earth. Panic swallowed whatever order had remained. Some cried out for Christ. Others screamed for mercy. A sister stumbled past Magdalena, sobbing openly while smoke thickened until the whole courtyard seemed to dissolve into terror.

“Magdalena!”

Lidewij.

She turned at once.

Lidewij stood several paces away, frozen where she had stopped, terror draining every trace of color from her face as chaos surged around her.

Magdalena crossed the distance immediately and seized her wrist.

“We have to go!”

“But where?”

There was no answer. Because there was no longer safety inside their holy walls. Only fire spreading from tent to tent, steel glinting through smoke, and Northmen appearing everywhere she looked.

Another scream split the night.

Magdalena pulled harder.

“Come.”

They ran.

The herb garden offered deeper shadows; crushed herbs releasing sharp scents beneath their frantic steps as they stumbled through the narrow paths.

Behind them the shouting of the Northmen grew louder.

Closer.

A hand caught Lidewij. She screamed.

Magdalena turned instinctively.

The Northman standing behind them was older than the others, carrying none of the reckless violence of youth. Broad-shouldered and weathered, he looked carved from something harsher than flesh, with his deeply lined face framed by hair braided back from his temples and a heavy beard  gone mostly silver. Blood marked one side of his face in drying streaks, though he wore it with the indifference of a man long accustomed to battle.

He did not shout like the others. Did not rush. He simply stood there with the dreadful steadiness of someone used to being obeyed.

His hand around Lidewij’s arm looked impossibly firm.

“No!” Magdalena seized Lidewij’s wrist immediately with both hands.

“No! Let her go!”

The man barked something sharp in Norse. Lidewij sobbed openly now, trying uselessly to pull free.

Magdalena refused to let go. Her hand moved without thought, disappearing beneath her veil. To the necklace.

The cold metal caught briefly in the moonlight.

The Northman stopped, only for a moment. His gaze dropped to the small treasure in Magdalena’s extended hand. 

Something unreadable crossed his face. Recognition, perhaps. Gone too quickly to understand.

Then the Northman said something sharp over his shoulder in Norse.

A second figure emerged almost immediately from the smoke, younger, broader through the chest, axe still hanging dark with blood at his side.

The older man released Lidewij only long enough to shove her hard toward him.

The younger Northman caught her at once.

Lidewij screamed.

“No!” Magdalena cried, gripping her tighter.

The older warrior muttered something rough beneath his breath, impatience flickering across his weathered face. Then, without warning, he bent and hauled Magdalena bodily upward as though she weighed scarcely more than a sack of grain.

The world lurched violently.

She struck hard against the broad wall of his chest, breath catching painfully as she twisted instinctively, struggling despite herself.

“Lidewij!”

Her sister’s terrified voice answered somewhere behind them. The younger Northman had thrown Lidewij over his shoulder, ignoring fists striking uselessly against his back.

Smoke followed them through the darkness as the two men moved swiftly through the chaos, past burning canvas, wounded bodies, fallen soldiers, and voices swallowed by fire. Sparks climbed wildly into the night while soldiers shouted prayers and orders already too late to matter.

The convent blurred around Magdalena in fragments.

Flame.

Blood.

Stone.

Screaming.

And above it all the terrible certainty that everything she had known was vanishing behind her faster than she could bear to look.

They were thrown roughly into the back of a heavy wagon enclosed by rough wooden slats.

The impact knocked breath painfully from Magdalena’s lungs.

Bodies crowded together in frightened silence. Sisters huddled close to one another, villagers pressed shoulder to shoulder, soot-streaked faces pale with terror. Smoke still clung stubbornly to damp clothing and tangled hair. Someone cried quietly in the darkness. Someone else whispered prayers beneath trembling breath, the words shaking so badly they scarcely sounded like prayer at all.

Lidewij found Magdalena almost immediately, collapsing against her side with a frightened sound that scarcely seemed human anymore.

Before either could speak, the cage door opened again. The young Northman climbed halfway inside, he carried rope. The space recoiled instinctively. But no one fought. Exhaustion and fear had already stripped most resistance from them.

One by one wrists were pulled forward and bound. Rough cord bit quickly into skin, efficient rather than cruel, though no gentler for it.

When the man reached Lidewij she began trembling anew.

“Please,” she whispered, though whether to him or to God Magdalena could not tell.

The Northman ignored the words entirely.

Magdalena held still when her turn came.

The rope tightened around her wrists, binding them before her rather than behind, coarse against skin already stiff with cold. Beside her, Lidewij’s hands had been tied the same way.

The door slammed shut. Outside, voices barked sharply in Norse. Then the wagon jolted violently into motion.

Magdalena caught herself against the rough wood just before she fell. Lidewij clung tightly to her, shaking hard enough that Magdalena could feel it through layers of damp fabric.

Only then did the enormity of it begin to settle. As smoke still clung to her lungs, her pulse thundered painfully beneath her skin. Through the narrow slats of the wagon she could still see it.

The convent. Her home.

Fire consumed the eastern edge now, orange light spilling violently into the night where candlelight had once burned softly through narrow windows. Smoke rose thick into the dark sky, swallowing the familiar shape of stone walls she had known for years.

Somewhere beyond that fire stood the chapel where she had prayed every morning.

The bells had stopped. That silence frightened her most; it was as if God had abandoned their holy shelter at the moment they desperately needed Him. 

Magdalena pressed trembling fingers hard against her mouth as though holding herself together required force now.

Only hours ago she had lied down believing grief had already hollowed her out.

But grief, she realized with terrible clarity, had not yet even begun.

The wagon rolled onward through the darkness while behind them the convent burned.

And with every turn of the wheels, her decaying home disappeared a little further into the night.

.-.-.

A/N: So the story took a drastic turn. I really loved writing it, this raid has been on my mind for a while and it took me some time to decide how to make it take place. I do feel sorry for Magdalena, at the start of this chapter her biggest heartache was the fact that she said her last goodbye, not knowing that within hours she will be forced to say goodbye to her home and freedom. 

I’d love to know what you think of this chapter, what was your first thought that was going to happen? That Ivar would be taken away? That she would try to save him? Or something entirely else? 

Xoxoxo Nukyster

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

Taglist: @miksmom-blog