Beware of Jezebel

7. Per aspera ad astra

            The following day Mary came to Ivar's room to collect his laundry, as usual. Often, they chatted as she worked, but that day Mary found it hard to speak.

"Not so long ago you found me almost as amusing as Freydis," Mary said sadly, catching Ivar by surprise and his head shot up from a blade he was sharpening. He quickly averted his eyes from her. Mary could swear she saw guilt flash briefly on his face.

"Freydis makes me happy. You, however, only dissapoint me."

"Mhm," Mary nodded and picked up a woman's underdress from the bed. "Delusions keep us happy. Reality is often humbling," she said.

Her words only made Ivar angry- truly angry- she hadn't seen him like this for a long time.

"I hate you!" He exclaimed. "You always speak like you know more. Like gods are talking through you. But I am the god!" he then stood up and began limping closer, staring into her calm face. Her black eyes were as cold and soothing as always, but he resisted the urge to let himself drown in them, and continued, "Tell me, slave. I allowed you too much freedom- I... you should honor our gods. Begin with me. Tell me I'm a god!"

Mary leaned slightly away from him to see his face better. "Not only I have never believed your gods, but I have also spent quite some time with you. Why would that make me think of you as a god?"

Ivar, instead of replying, surprised Mary by snarling. He growled, snarled and screamed as a mix of rabbid dog and a frustrated toddler. Before she could say anything, he turned away and limped from the room as fast as he could, his crutch thumping angrily against the floorboards.

***

Mary's mind raced as walked to the longhouse. Something wasn't right- it was too early for Ivar's bath.

Scene in the main hall told her everything before Ivar even opened his mouth: the room was empty and dark, except for a lonely candle on the table. Ivar sat on the throne, his face tense. He looked angry and uncomfortable- almost like the first time she bathed him and saw his legs. Like he was about to endure an embarrassing medical procedure. Mary pondred why he chose to do something that was so unpleasant to him. Faint rustling of silk from Freydis supplied the answer.

Ivar gripped the armrests tighter as he spoke, "You're no longer my personal thrall," he said, nuckles white. "I own you, but I don't want you in the longhouse anymore. I have a wife to look after me. You can stay in your hut among your herbs and snotty children."

Mary's eyes remained steady, betraying neither surprise nor hurt. Her head felt empty. Once again, just like that fateful day in York, her body didn't feel like her own. She gracefully curtsied before Ivar, and saw his jaw tense. The quiet rustle of her habit brushed the air as she walked away. Before leaving she turned to look at him for the last time. "Don't get distracted. A fool is known by his speech, and a wise man by silence." 

The following day doors of her hut were thrown open early in the morning and the other two Ragnarsons rushed in.

"We just heard what happened," Ubbe said, his chest heaving from hurry. He then followed Hvitserk, who sat on the bench by the table.

"Why did he kick you out?" Asked Hvitserk, casually as usual.

Mary pressed her lips tightly. She took a pitcher of mead and filled brothers' cups, then poured one for herself, assuredly like it was her own home. This didn't slip past Hvitserk.

"You're a thrall, but never act like one," he said glancing at her cup disdainfuly.

"I never accepted being a slave," Mary shrugged and took a sip and continued, looking through the window, "You should leave. Ivar already thinks I'm plotting against him with you."