Shortly after sunset, Leiknleif found herself before the wide lane leading through the woods to Volsungaheim, still garbed as she had departed from the Álfar. It was traditional to remain so until arrival at one's destination. Leiknleif raised the hood of her cloak, covering her hair and casting obscuring shadows over the features of her face. The first time she'd seen this place, she had lurked among the trees at the edge of the road. Now, she stepped with confidence onto the well-beaten path, moving with natural grace enhanced by her time among the Álfar, walking towards the settlement with her head held high.

The guards at the great gate stood in relaxed but ready postures, trying to stave off boredom by arguing the merits of a war-hammer over a battle-ax. Surprised, they straightened to attention as a small, cloaked figure emerged from the shadows on the lane before them. Clad in the manner of the Álfar, its gait was graceful, its mien ethereal. There was an authority in the álf's bearing; obviously, she was expected, though the guards had not been told to watch for her. They nodded in respect as she passed.

Leiknleif smirked as she entered the citadel. Passing the guards had not even been a challenge, and she could hardly wait to see their reactions when they realized whom it was they'd just allowed to stroll right past them. If one comported himself as though he belonged, most would be thoughtless enough to assume he did.

As she drew near the mead hall, drinking songs and laughter drifted to her ears. She took a deep breath to steady herself before stepping into the hall and lowering her hood. Silence fell at the sight of her, those with their backs to her turning to see the sight at which their kith and kin were gaping. Hágoð stood reflexively, eyes wide as saucers as though she would disappear if he blinked, and whispered, "Elda," in disbelief. He was taller than her now, though only just. She wanted nothing more than to run to him after so long, but she restrained herself and kept her face expressionless, her bearing relaxed.

A moment later, the entire company was thrown into uproar, half still blinking in shock, most of the remainder shouting over each other, some reaching for their weapons, while the very few who did not know her looked around in bewilderment.

Leiknleif walked calmly to the Volva, at the head of the long table, and fulfilled the álf custom of presenting the travel-garland to the hostess upon arrival. As she took it from her head and offered it to the Volva, she remembered a conversation held long ago. Holding the older woman's gaze, she said softly, so only they two could hear, "You once told me you did not think I would walk the path of darkness. What you meant was you wanted me under your gaze in case such fears came to pass. Is that still your wish?"

The Volva searched her eyes for a moment before nodding sharply and accepting the proffered garland. Holding the girl's gaze she gestured to a thrall, who stiffened in surprise before filling a horn with mead and offering it to Leiknleif, whose lips twitched as she suppressed a smirk. It was a calculated insult. Usually, the hostess or another honored woman presented guests with mead;* by intimating that Leiknleif was unworthy to be served by any but a thrall, the Volva was satisfying the minimum requirements of hospitality and essentially stating that while the girl could stay, she was not welcome. Acknowledging the maneuver with a nod, her eyes never leaving the older woman's, Leiknleif lifted the horn to her lips.

The Volva announced her return, and she found a place at the table, between two of those who had joined the community in her absence, not too near Hágoð but keeping the boy in sight. Unfortunately, Martin was near, as well, and would not leave her unchallenged.

"Back, are you? Pity, I'd hoped you'd gotten yourself killed out there."

"You won't be rid of me so easily."

He scoffed, "I cannot imagine it would take much. You always showed little enough talent for combat – save for stabbing people in the back."

She tensed at the jab at Ull's death and saw Hágoð flinch out of the corner of her eye. She hadn't come to fight, but anger quickened her blood at Martin's presumption. She hadn't expected a warm welcome and could have endured a round of flyting,** might even have enjoyed the chance to put the boy in his place, but he'd gone too far and said the most damaging thing he could. She responded in kind.

"As opposed to you? You, who wage your war on me with words, afraid to meet in proper battle. You must remind me which of us the woman is." Though her temper raged, she kept her voice light with amused contempt, her accusation provoking him as nothing else ever could.***

"If you are so bold, we will meet in combat," he answered tightly. "I challenge you to the hólmgang**** tomorrow."

She grinned, "I look forward to it," and she did, surprising herself with such bloodlust. She had intended, after all, to come in peace.

And then, suddenly, Hágoð had her arm in a grip of iron, dragging her out the door, through the citadel, and into the woods. Would the wonders never cease?

"I've never seen you quite so…forceful."

"Shut up," he snarled, never breaking stride until they were far from prying eyes – and ears. He slammed his friend against the trunk of a tree, knocking the wind out of her, and demanded in a low growl, "What in Hel's name were you thinking?"

She took a moment to consider her response, sobering in the face of his distress. She almost regretted her actions; the last thing she'd wanted was to cause him more pain. She'd only wanted to see him again.

"Forgive me," she apologized sincerely, "I lost my temper."

"Lost your- Elda, he'll kill you." He heaved a sigh, looking at her in agony as he continued, in a tone of utter defeat, "You have to leave. And you can't return this time, not after this. I only just got you back."

As the fight seeped out of him, he became aware of the strange texture of the slender wrist in his grasp, looking down to see the scar tissue left from her trial. He lifted it, pressing the skin gently to his lips before releasing his friend and stepping back. As he did so, she took a step forward, maintaining the distance between them, and lifted a hand to gently cup his face, eyes boring seriously into his.

"You needn't fear for me. I've learned much in my wandering. You won't lose me again so soon."

"How can you say that?"

"Do you trust me?"

She was surprised and pleased when, even after everything, he didn't hesitate in his answer, "Yes."

"I give you my word, I will be alright."

"Elda-" She saw the doubt still in his eyes.

"Do you really think me so arrogant?"

"Yes," though a hint of a smile was visible about his lips. That was good; she was making progress.

The girl snorted, "Fair enough, but even at my most arrogant, have you ever known me to instigate a fight I cannot win?"

His voice was hard, "Do I even know you anymore?"

She flinched, hurt, and took a step back, preparing to turn and leave, when he called out, "Wait! Forgive me, I only… Hel and Surt, Elda, I'm just so angry," he confessed. He didn't sound angry; he sounded hurt.

"You just…left. Without a word, or any sign that you even yet lived. Did you even think what that would do to me? After what had happened, I thought you dead. We all did, and it didn't help the others were so glad of it…" He ended with a sigh, and for the first time, the girl really considered how her departure may have – apparently, had – hurt her friend.

"I am so sorry," she whispered fiercely. "Can you ever forgive me? I never thought… I missed you every day, but I thought you would move on. Please believe I never meant to hurt you."

Hágoð sighed, moved by the pain in his friend's eyes. He didn't like to see her hurt, but he was glad of the confirmation that she cared for him, which he'd begun to doubt.

"Of course I forgive you. I was angry because I feared for you. I felt betrayed because I care for you, more than I think you realize. When you first appeared tonight…I don't think I've ever been so happy as I was then." He stepped forward and, as he'd longed to ever since that moment, embraced her tightly, as though she'd disappear once more if his grip loosened.

"Just do not leave like that again," he murmured roughly.

She hesitated before responding, "I cannot promise that. But," she hastened to reassure, before he could protest, "I give you my word that, if I feel I must leave again, I will take my leave of you properly."

He sighed, absently noting that he'd been doing a lot of that since Eldrleif had come back into his life, and mumbled, "I suppose that's the best I can ask of you."

They settled down next to each other, backs resting against the trunk of the tree against which he'd pushed her. Each with an arm slung around the other, they sat in comfortable silence, enjoying the presence of which they'd been so long deprived and watching the stream burble along – Hágoð had led them to the same place in which they'd spent so much time together before their innocent young world had darkened. For just that night, they could almost pretend nothing had changed.


Leiknleif made sure to be the first to arrive at the hólm; she'd long since learned that appearances were everything to the Heruli. Hágoð stood with her in silent support, still and stoic. The sun shone cheerily down on them as the better part of the community gathered 'round, pitching their voices to carry as they murmured to each other, voicing their surprise at seeing her.

The girl kept her face impassive, but was tempted to laugh, remembering a time when she had actually cared what these people thought of her. Now, she noticed, Hágoð seemed far more upset than she, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists, insulted on his friend's behalf.

When Martin arrived, he looked surprised, but made no comment, only nodding in acknowledgement as he took his place before her. He had not expected her to actually meet his challenge, and by doing so she had risen – just a bit – in his estimation.

Leiknleif blinked – Was that a sign of respect? – absently returning the gesture. She didn't have much time to ponder his response, however, for upon his arrival, they wasted no time in performing the rituals and beginning the fight.

She remained on the defensive for a while, allowing Martin to take the lead as she evaded his attacks and familiarized herself with his style. He was good – better than her, in fact, she was forced to admit when he casually batted aside an experimental thrust she'd hazarded after parrying his latest strike. She saw a glint of victory enter his eye, as though it were some definitive portent of the outcome, and almost laughed. How little he knew, if he thought a skilled sword arm was all it took to win a duel.

Holding her sword carefully, she flopped onto her back, using her position on the ground to sweep her opponent's legs out from under him with one of her own as he stood, stunned by her abrupt unorthodox maneuver. As he lay, gasping, she didn't give him an opportunity to regain his wits, quickly leaping to her feet and planting one on his blade, anchoring it to the ground, raising her own in preparation to plunge it into his chest.

He managed to roll out of the way, but was forced to relinquish his sword in the process. Leiknleif managed to free her own from the ground as Martin stumbled backward. He moved as though to dash around her to reach his blade, but she expertly warded him back and even farther from his prize. He seemed to realize that he had lost, and straightened, standing before her with dignity.

She strode toward him, raising her weapon and gathering her strength for a clean strike –

"Stop!" If the horrified shout didn't secure her attention, the body suddenly interposed between her and Martin certainly did.

She kept her eyes on the warrior to ensure he didn't take advantage of the situation – though she doubted he would; it would be dishonorable. – and growled at Hágoð, "What do you think you are doing?"

"No. The real question is: What are you doing?" He sounded disappointed.

"Get out of my way." Her voice was hard. She should probably apologize for that later.

"I will not allow you to kill him."

"Remember, he challenged me. It is my right."

"You need not exercise that right."

"Were I in his power, he would show me no mercy."

"I ask this not for him but for myself. Please, Elda, do this for me. I would not have your homecoming stained with blood." It was bloodshed that ultimately drove you away.

The silent stillness stretched taut as a bowstring until Leiknleif shattered it by slamming her blade into its sheath and stalking away, stiff and proud.


When the sun began to set, Hágoð's nerves got the better of him, and he set off in search of his friend, making his way to their usual escape in the woods. He had thought it best, when she'd stormed off after the hólmgang to let her go. Her emotions at the time had likely been influenced by her battle-high, and he'd wanted to give her the space she needed to cool down. He hadn't seen her since, however, and no matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise, a small voice in his head, refusing to be silenced, insisted that she had fled once more.

Leiknleif didn't know how to return and face everyone after the display earlier. Why had she so wanted to kill Martin? She had to appear strong before the Heruli; no, she didn't care for their opinion of her, but she knew they would exploit any weakness.

In the moment, though, she hadn't thought any of that. She'd been angry; she'd hated the boy and wanted to kill him with a fervor that surprised her. She hadn't known she could feel such bloodlust, and quite frankly, it disturbed her. What was she becoming? What was wrong with her?

How could she ever again look Hágoð in the eyes?

She stood, as she was wont, in the woods, watching the little stream rush by. She didn't know how to break her self-imposed exile, so she waited where she could be found, where Hágoð would know to look – if he desired.

His footsteps had changed in the time they'd been apart, but she was pleased to find she could still identify them as he approached. The silence was charged, and neither knew how to break it, so Hágoð simply came to stand next to her. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his arm and, when she didn't move away, settled it gently around her shoulders.

"Why did you stop me?" She didn't need to specify from what.

"I know what it is like to have blood on my hands. I didn't want that for you."

He'd wanted to spare her the pain of guilt. She felt sick.

"Had I killed him," she confessed, "I am not sure I would have regretted it." She didn't meet his eyes, keeping her gaze instead on the stream.

Hágoð was startled by the admission, and his first thought was What happened to her? Then, he realized she was stiff and trembling with horror and disgust even greater than his own. He thought for a moment, wondering what he could possibly say to make things alright. Before he could reassure her, however, he needed to accept this part of her himself.

Her youth had contributed to his shock, but the eleven-year-olds who accompanied older warriors on raids often killed, and none of them seemed to regret it – they were raised not to. They lived in a world of war and death, he realized, and it was unrealistic to expect anyone to remain untouched by it. His friend had never been sweet or soft, but she'd always had a good heart, and that was obviously still true, judging by how shaken she seemed to be by her own warlike nature. She felt, he realized, almost exactly what he had wanted to protect her from.

"Do you still want to kill him?"

"What? No!"

Hágoð nodded, "You are no murderess. Had you killed him earlier, you would have been within your rights, as you said. You would have had no reason to regret it."

"It would have been out of anger."

"Anger to which he provoked you. Do not hold against yourself that which might have been. You are a good person, Elda, and that is not changed by the appearance of this harder side of you; all it means is that you are becoming what we all are raised to be: a warrior."

If that was true, then she wasn't sure she wanted to be a warrior. But, if Hágoð could accept her so fully, without reservation or being repulsed by the darkness in her soul, she could too. And, until she learned who she was, who she wanted to be, and how to reconcile the two, his faith in her was enough. She relaxed into his side.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome. I never want you to feel like I did – still do, sometimes."

I know what it is like to have blood on my hands, his earlier words returned to her. He had been wracked with pain and guilt over Ull's death – and she hadn't even been there for him, she realized, hating herself just a little. Well, she would be there now.

"Do you regret saving me that day?"

"Never. But-"

"It was his life or mine. That was the choice you were given, there was no way to preserve both of us."

"What gave me the right to make that decision? To choose between two lives?"

Nothing. He had been faced with an impossible situation and done the best he could. That was the way life worked. She knew that this would be no comfort to him, so she said the only thing that she thought might.

"The gods." The gods she no longer saw as such.

Something of her own mind must have bled into her voice, for Hágoð replied, "You do not believe that."

"What I believe does not matter. What do you believe?"

He considered that for a moment, remembering his friend's trial, still certain that her survival was due to his father's intervention.

"Thank you," he said, heart light and – finally – free of the guilt he'd carried since Ull's death.

As they made their way, together, to the mead-hall that night, Martin approached them, Leiknleif reflexively tensing for a confrontation.

"I have never understood you," he addressed her without preamble. "You apparently stabbed Ull in the back, but you then immediately stepped forward with candor to face the consequences, and the gods saw fit to spare your life. I never knew what to think about your subsequent flight: It certainly seemed cowardice at the time, but you were quite bold in your return. I realize now, you came in peace, but when I pushed you, you met my challenge with strength and courage. Then, though I'd given you little enough reason to like or even respect me, you spared my life after besting me. I don't expect you will ever cease confusing me, but you have earned my respect."

Leiknleif was flabbergasted. The young man had just displayed an open-mindedness – and willingness to admit his own shortcomings – that she did not expect from the Heruli, and she realized that for the fault it was: How could she judge them so thoughtlessly, then call them narrow-minded?

As she'd grown and learned and matured, she'd realized that the world was not perfect, and neither were people. It was the reason, she'd realized, she'd always favored Loki: She'd grown out of her romanticized perception of him, seeing him for the flawed, sometimes petty, being he was. He wasn't particularly virtuous – but, he never claimed to be, unlike the Æsir who claimed the high moral ground despite being no better than he. People made bad choices, and she was willing to forgive just about anything – except hypocrisy. Seeing it in herself was sobering, and she vowed to correct it and guard against falling into the same trap in the future.

"I am afraid you have Hágoð to thank for your life, not me, but I now regret that his intervention was necessary. Thank you for opening my eyes. You are right that I came in peace, but there was no kindness or friendship in my heart: I expected everyone here to hold my past sins against me. I misjudged you, and if others are as discerning and accepting, I look forward to my time spent among you. For whatever it is worth, you too have earned my respect."

Martin offered his hand, and they clasped forearms before walking to the mead-hall together, as friends, and when Leiknleif sat, Hágoð and Martin on either side, she was the happiest she'd been since her return to Volsungaheim – possibly since her departure.


Notes


1. There actually is precedent for this. In certain old texts, including Beowulf, it can be seen that mead was traditionally served by high-ranking women of the hosts.

2. Flyting: A good, old-fashioned exchange of insults. This is what takes place between Loki and the other gods in the Lokasenna. Also, the entire Harbardsljoth is basically just a flyting match. (Lokasenna and Harbardsljoth are poems in the Poetic Edda.)

3. Research of the terms ergi ("unmanliness") and argr ("unmanly") reveals that calling a man effeminate was the cardinal insult in Old Norse society and legal grounds for the insulted to issue a challenge to the hólmgang.

4. Hólmgang: Basically a duel of honor. They were bound by certain rules, which varied from place to place, the most descriptive surviving record of which including a ritual to be performed before the fight.