THE BLIND INFANT
Morrigan started to be a problem right away. Firstly, her father didn't intend to conceive her, and I can tell with certainty. Because I was there, in his head. In that retrograde, violent and confused head.
Morrigan was a mistake, therefore, right from the beginning. Her father drank like a pig when the womb of Sígriðr Vetr-í-Auga, Sigrid Winter in the Eyes, began to swell.
"How dare you?" he used to say to her, as if it were her fault, as if she could decide, "I don't want to have another blind, useless person in this house! You should be grateful. Nobody wanted you. I took you, and this is how you repay me?"
He had beaten her a little, not much more than usual. Then, as weeks went by, he seemed to convince himself to look at the bright side of that tragedy, conveying hatred in the hope of a male heir.
And then, all at once, the second and the third problem of Morrigan, in addition to that of being conceived: she wasn't male and, moreover, to make sure that others could see it, she had made her mother suffer for seventeen hours consecutive. A badly started life: the child seemed to bring misfortune around her.
Like a crow.
That was how her father called her, in a deprecative way.
"Crow of ill omen! Unlucky fellow! She's blind too, and looks like a crow. Why does she have black hair? Isn't she a real Nord?" and he couldn't even understand that she had inherited that hair from him, since Sigrid was blond as ripe wheat.
Speaking of her father, not much remains to be said that cannot be deduced from the few sentences reported. He was a violent, hypocritical and contradictory man. He made the others call him 'The Hammer', even his wife, and he didn't seem to have a real name. He was smaller than the other men and he didn't have the typical traits of a Nord. He, of course, proudly swore to be one.
But Sigrid wasn't like him, she loved her baby. She didn't care that she had almost killed her during labour, causing her to suffer for an entire day and tearing her genitals apart. She loved her, even without being able to see her. The first thing she did was cuddling her face, to understand what features she had. She was pleased to know, through her touch, that the baby had inherited them from her own lineage.
The Hammer, offended that she loved her, went off to drink, slamming the door. And while the midwife was cleaning the house and changing the sheets covered in blood, Sigrid whispered in her daughter's ear.
"Fear not, child. You've been kissed by bad luck, but it doesn't matter. If your father wants you to be a crow, you will be, and you will show him that you can fly higher than he thinks. Like the Mór Ríoghain, dark and ruthless."
For that reason, honoring the ancient origins of her mother's mother, she called her Morrigan.
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Years passed and the child grew up. Without the gift of sight, she inquired into life with a sort of cautious delicacy. Without brothers or sisters, without friends, she preferred to learn by her own. Her ears and hands, trained from birth, enabled her to hear the music of the world and see the shape of the colors. She liked yellow. It was the color of her mother's hair. She didnt' know how it was, but she could feel its soft consistency, and was convinced that it was a beautiful color.
The thing she liked best in the world, though, was to hear Sigrid's voice. In the evening, if her father wasn't at home, she used to tell her ancient stories. Even more ancient than the Nords themselves.
"And then there is Jörmungandr, the Miðgarðsormr. A huge serpent, black as your hair, which surrounds the world, and whose whorls move the sea..."
But the girl was beginning to understand that something in her was not like the others, so listening to stories wasn't so pleasant anymore.
"Mommy..." she interrupted her cautiously, "will I ever see the sea?"
"You don't need to see it, my child. You can hear it. You can feel the breath of Jörmungandr through the foam waves. You don't need anything else."
"But you can describe it so well... you must've seen it."
And at that moment Sigrid understood that she couldn't lie to her daughter forever. It didn't matter, even if it was not to make her suffer: she deserved the truth. She was intelligent, like all crows.
"Aye, my love, I saw it. But it was a long time ago."
"So you could see?"
"Aye. Sigrid once used to see, and she was not Winter in the Eyes, but Thunderstorm in the Soul! I was Sigríðr Veðr-í-Sál, the bravest Skjaldmær in Whiterun. The Curse first took my taste, I was lucky, more than you. But eventually the Curse takes everything."
"And why do we have the Curse?"
Well, on that topic instead she wanted to continue to lie, she didn't want to tell her that it was just an illness. It was something that, growing up, Morrigan would've understood by herself. For now Sigrid could continue to delude her, to entertain her with the stories she loved so much.
"Because our oldest ancestor, Aslaug the Strident, had promised the witches that she would've brought them a leaf of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, in exchange for a melodious voice."
She was inventing it in that very moment, but it was working, judging by Morrigan's amused tone.
"How stupid!"
Sigrid laughed.
"Aye, Aslaug wasn't very smart. But she was ambitious and unwise. She promised it and couldn't honor her word. She had a melodious voice, then, but only up to twenty-six, when her senses died. Without hearing herself, she also lost the ability to sing, becoming out of tune again. And the curse passed on to her daughter, and to her daughter's daughter, to us. That's why we all can sing very well... for a very high price."
"So if I could bring a leaf of the Tree of Life to the witches, would the Curse go away?"
Sigrid laughed, actually hiding the sadness of her heart.
"Oh, who would ever want something like that? I've tried both gifts and I can tell you that singing is the joy of life, much more than seeing, because everyone can do that. I'd never trade my sight for my voice. Maybe... Aslaug wasn't that stupid."
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And so, at least for a while, Morrigan had convinced herself that she didn't need her defective eyes. She thought that singing, and hearing her mother sing, could solve all the problems in the world. Including the one represented by her father, who was becoming increasingly violent and unmanageable.
Morrigan didn't usually meet him, except in the evening, and she was happy that way. She was forced to call him The Hammer like everyone else. And soon she began to understand that something was wrong with him: people mocked him.
The first time she noticed it was at the age of nine, talking to other children. She never played with them, but sometimes they approached her out of curiosity about her eyes, and then she could start a short and timid conversation.
"Oh man! They're so white! More than your mother's! They should call you Morrigan Winter in the Eyes, not Sigrid." a boy was telling her, whom she imagined beautiful, just because his voice was beautiful.
"Is winter white?"
"Aye. Like milk and the moons."
"And my hair is dark instead?"
She didn't really understand the distinction between light and dark, it was beyond her logic, and therefore she tried to make the others explain it as much as possible.
"Yes, of course, your hair is black."
"And how's black?"
"The opposite of white."
The opposite. She just couldn't imagine it.
Then, suddenly, another girl had intervened. This, unlike the boy, had a hideous voice.
"Aye, you inherited it from your fool father! How lucky!"
"Fool?"
"Aye, just like you, apparently!"
The group of children laughed. Morrigan felt pressed, she could tell everyone was staring at her. She just knew they were.
"My father... he's not a fool..." but she too thought so and couldn't hide it.
"My dad says he's not even a Nord!" the girl continued, "He says he is, but he's actually a kind of... half orc... and half breton... your mother is stupid too for marrying him!"
The children laughed and Morrigan tried to leave, running. She wanted to leave the Cloud District, a place for rich children, not like her. When she reached the stairs, however, he stumbled and fell down the ramp.
She had broken an arm.
Some passers-by tried to help her, but she still could hear the children laughing and then, clenching her teeth, she stood up and ran on. More cautious, this time, but no less agitated.
She ran to her mother in tears, feeling guilty for being stupid and impulsive.
"Mommy, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! They were making fun of you and I left..."
But Sigrid was always calm, always loving, always wise. She wrapped her arm in gauze and consoled her.
"Sh. Worry not, time will heal you. For now, eat this, it'll make you feel better!"
And she gave her an apple.
Sigrid kissed her forehead, breathing hard to smell her daughter's hair. Then she got up and went back to work.
They were in the inn, The Bannered Mare, her mother worked there. She had been hired to clean, but since she wasn't that good at it, she often sang, accompanied by wandering bards, animating the evenings.
She was very good, one of the most beautiful voices Skyrim had ever heard. She often sang ballads, she knew them all. Morrigan's favorite was one that talked about the journey into the long and cold sleep of the underworld, called Helvegen. The lyrics was in the ancient language, but it was beautiful and with patience she had learned to sing it too, without understanding all the words. It had a calm but afflicted melody, fierce but resigned, and that was exactly what Morrigan wanted to be sung for her once she would've gone to Sovngarde.
Sigrid knew she liked it and then sang that one to cheer her up.
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Kven skal synge meg
i daudsvevna slynge meg
når eg helvegen går
og of the spora eg trår
er kalde så kalde, så kalde
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Morrigan sang the first stanza in a low voice, shameful. She couldn't do like her mother and sing in public. She was good, but she simply didn't care, she didn't want to be ridiculous in front of everyone. But, oh, she really liked that song!
She returned home with her mother that evening, singing softly with her. She loved to sing and she loved her mother. It didn't matter that The Hammer was a horrible person, if she was at her side.
When she had the feeling that the road was almost over and they were reaching their home, Morrigan decided to ask the heavy question which was tormenting her head.
"Mom... is it true that The Hammer isn't a Nord?"
She heard Sigrid sighing beside her as they both walked slowly, cloaked in the night.
"No, your father isn't a Nord. But you must never say it to him."
"I know this. I must never say anything to him. But why did you married him?"
Sigrid put a hand on her shoulder, to comfort her.
"This is the life, my love, sometimes it takes unexpected paths. I met him in a den of bandits, he had been kidnapped and I saved him. He was another person back then, he was... he wasn't like that. But it doesn't matter, and do you know why? Because if I hadn't married him, you wouldn't be born. He's the most horrible person in the Nirn, but you... I'd marry him a thousand times, just to have you."
Morrigan smiled, pleased.
"According to you... if he isn't a Nord... will I be able to enter Sovngarde?"
"Of course, honey! You're a Nord! You're like me, you're more Nord than all of Whiterun citizens put together!"
"But not the hair and... and I'm short."
"You're exactly of your stature, the one that the Divines and Talos above all have destined for you."
Morrigan pursed her lips, not quite convinced.
"Talos could've given me at least sight, though. I wanted to be like you, a brave Skjaldmær, and instead... I don't even have a nice nickname."
Morrigan heard Sigrid stop for a moment, on the road. She wanted to fix the matter before they got home.
"Do you want a nickname, is this the problem? All right, let's make it up now!"
Morrigan hesitated.
"Well, but... usually you have to earn it, don't you?"
"Do you think Kodlalk Whitemane earned his name? They call him that just because he's old and hoary, there's nothing valiant about being decrepit."
Sigrid had said it in a low voice, so as not to be heard by other passers-by. Morrigan had giggled, embarrassed.
Sigrid resumed:
"Okay, so... you're Morrigan, like the war goddess my grandmother believed in. The Morrigan symbol is a crow, coming down from the sky on the battlefield to reap victims. Um... what about Kráka-frå-Ofan? Crow from Above!"
Morrigan wrinkled her nose. She didn't know if she liked the matter of the crow... her father called her that, she wasn't sure she loved that nickname.
"Kráka sounds a little too harsh..." she lied.
"All right, then... death, not crow. Mórrígan Ofandøðer, Morrigan Death from Above! What do you say?"
Morrigan spread a broad smile. Death from Above... it sounded good. It sounded intimidating, like a real warrior name. She cuddled that name in her mind over and over again, and she could almost imagine herself as a proud and beautiful Skjaldmær, adored by the whole city.
She smiled even more widely.
"Aye, I like it so much!"
Sigrid chuckled and cuddled her shoulder, encouragingly. She resumed walking, pushing her lightly on her back to take her home.
"Well, now that you have a name, never think again not to be worthy of Sovngarde! And never allow anyone to tell you that you should be different! Not even your father."
But she allowed him, and more than once.
Her father didn't like Morrigan, for reasons that went far beyond being a blind woman. Morrigan began to understand that he hated her because she represented everything that he himself was and didn't want to be. Dark hair, short height.
Whenever he saw her, he laughed at her. He told her how she should have been and how horrible she was instead.
"You should cut it, your hair! Better bald than that disgusting color!"
Morrigan ignored him most of the time. But some things bothered him more than others, so it was hard to ignore the beatings.
"You have to keep your eyes open, do you understand?" he shouted, mad, grunting, while he was giving her the belt, "you look stupid if you go around with your eyes closed, you look stupid! They all make fun of you! Keep them open! Even if they're disgusting, keep them open!"
And so she had learned to keep them open, even if she didn't need it. No more drooping eyelids, after that time. And likewise it had happened for some daily gestures: she had learned to say yes and no with her head, thanks to the straps; she had learned to look at the interlocutor in their eyes following the sound, thanks to the straps; she had learned not to touch what she was told not to touch, thanks to the straps.
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When her parents were arguing, Morrigan was used to leave the house and waiting outside. She didn't dare go farther: she was afraid. She was afraid of everything now. So she only escaped beyond the door, without asking anyone for help. She waited there, in the cold, and came back when the screams weren't finished.
She wanted to do something, but she knew she couldn't. She couldn't do anything, neither fight nor run away, nor ask for help, because she was convinced that nobody would've helped her.
When the screams were too loud, like that night of Last Seed, Morrigan forced herself to sing, not to hear what was being screamed, or the cries of her mother when he raped her.
"You... you're on this earth thanks to me!" shouted Sigrid, from inside the house, "I saved your life! I was a shieldmaiden, I was strong, and I was earning my entry to Sovngarde before you arrived!"
"Stupid woman! You're just blind, nobody wanted you! "
And meanwhile, Morrigan sang.
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Eg songane søkte
Eg songane sende
då den djupaste brunni
gav meg dråpar så ramme
av Valfaders pant
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"This is what you convinced me of! What a fool I was!"
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Alt veit eg Odin
kvar du auge løynde
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"I don't want another disgusting blind son! Get out!"
"You have no choice, stupid breton! Ivar is in my womb and you can't do anything about it!"
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Årle ell i dagars hell
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"DO NOT TOUCH ME!"
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enn veit ravnen om eg fell
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And, precisely with the end of the stanza, the one providentially speaking of a ravnen, a crow, Morrigan heard a loud, frightening noise. Her mother screamed louder than usual and begged to leave her alone.
She couldn't get inside. She wanted, she wanted so much to help her, but she was afraid and... she couldn't get inside.
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When her mother came out it was almost morning. Morrigan hadn't moved from outside. She hadn't dared.
Although Morrigan couldn't see her, her mother was bent, she walked as if she had a weight on her shoulders. There was blood on her skirt, in the middle of her thighs.
"Mo... Morrig..." she tried to call, but failed.
"Mom! I'm here!"
They approached each other and Morrigan immediately understood that something was wrong.
"My love... I... I have to leave."
"Where are you going?"
"Far. I can't stay here anymore."
"Do I come with you?"
A pause, strangled by tears. Morrigan realized her mother was leaving her.
"No, my love. I have to go alone."
"Why... why are you leaving me... I... what have I done?"
Sigrid hugged her, and Morrigan felt that she was trembling and could hardly stand up.
"You did nothing wrong. It's my fault, my love, it's my fault. I should've left before, with you. We didn't have to stay here."
"So why don't you take me? Where are you going? What will you do? Do you have my brother in your belly?"
Sigrid cried louder, sobbing.
"My love, Ivar is gone. But it doesn't matter, he's in Sovngarde now. And you... you will stay here and you will be a true Nord. Forgive me for what I couldn't do. Forgive me please!"
She hugged her tightly between convulsions.
Then, she whispered something unexpected to her ear.
"Do you know what a real Nord Skjaldmær would do, Morrigan? She would kill him. She would kill him."
"You mean my fath..."
"Don't call him like that!"
Morrigan was silent, scared, not understanding what was happening, even more in trouble because of the emptiness that surrounded her since her birth.
Then, unforeseen, merciless, she said:
"Goodbye, Morrigan."
She broke away and Morrigan remained alone, without seeing where her mother was. She searched for her, stretching out her arms.
"Mom? Mommy?"
She called her, but she never heard her again.
She didn't understand her choice right away. At first she thought Sigrid had escaped, and she hated her for not taking her too. After a couple of years she managed to think that maybe she had to forgive her, after all. And finally, one night, at the age of thirteen, she suddenly realized that her mother, Sigrid Winter in the Eyes, hadn't left at all, she was dead. It was as if she had always known, but only mental maturity could unlock that thought. She had gone to die far away, perhaps in the forest, or in a Nord crypt, with the same dignity as cats. And Morrigan had grown up without being a real Nord, drowning in fear of pain and in fear of fear, more and more, until it had become impossible to get out of it.
Hi folks!
As you can see, this is one of the chapters where I felt free to put a lot of poetic licences. Since I reaaaally love history and mythology, I decided to integrate the Nord culture with the real Norse one, and I'll do the same with the Imperial/Roman and the Khajiit/Egyptian/Gipsy one. I could've changed some names, like Jörmungandr, but I thought that it was much more impressive this way, it made no sense to invent by myself since there is so much to take inspiration from in the real world. Hope it was a good idea!
Also, I must credit the band Wardruna, and especially Einar Selvik, for the song "Helvegen", which I used in this chapter. It's probably my very first and most important inspiration for this book, and it describes perfectly the mood of the entire story. I really wrote like 80% of the entire novel listening to Einar's beautiful voice, so I needed to mention him and his work somewhere.
Finally, sorry for all the ugly dots, but I still don't get how to separate paragraphs. I need everything to be TIDY.
Thank you for reading and have a good week! See you friday! *.*