My mouth fell open in blatant shock; I could allow myself one moment of uninhibited emotion.
What on Midgard was she doing here? The warriors she had arrived with were clearly there to contribute in some way to the campaign this coming summer in England, but by the looks of her, warring was not her preoccupation. The last time I had seen this woman, the Gods themselves had shown me her designs upon Ivar. Now she stood before me in the flesh, and I couldn't stop the ill feeling that wound its way from my stomach into my throat. I moved quickly from the throne to grip the wall and steady myself, casting the Queen Mother a brief look as an excusal.
The woman seemed to skirt about the room, taking part in conversations here and there, but never actually generating anything more than superficial connections with the people she selected to engage her. Or maybe that was my own tainted view of her doings. I doubted that I could see anything she did as genuine.
Even from a distance, I could inspect the finer details of her person—details that would easily be missed by the untrained eye. Soft hands, no callouses. Thin arms that failed to show the hard line of muscle through her dress. Fair-skinned face, chest, and shoulders; the sun had not ravaged her from too much time spent out of doors. She must've been a maidservant. One who eked out an existence by avoiding the labors of hard duty and preferring instead to provide her services in the bedchamber.
'And how would others perceive you, child?' Siggy's voice goaded me gently. I sighed loudly. She was right.
Presumption was the enemy of caution. Believing this woman weaker than she actually was could be a fatal folly on my part. I no doubt presented a similar visage, a young, unattached woman of my social standing. I would have to bide my time and learn more about her before acting out against her. One thing was certain: this woman—Signe, I had learned her name was—had an extremely small amount of time to prove herself useful in my eyes.
I realized with a start that I had been watching her for a great deal of time, and it was a small wonder no one had approached me where I remained anchored to the wall. I glanced side to side in an effort to discern how my surroundings had changed in the time since I had last taken an inventory only to find everything really about the same. Except for one glaring discrepancy.
Ivar had arrived.
Aslaug watched the scene before her unfold with almost comedic timing. She knew the roles of each and every player in this script, and play their parts they did. What small inclinations the Gods had graced her with were coming to pass in an overwhelmingly predictable fashion where her son and the Daughter of Mischief were concerned.
Ivar would have his dalliances as all Ragnarsons were wont to do. Conquerors seldom conquered tracts of land alone. It was in their voice, their eyes, their blood, and Aslaug had known it in her son for time now. Hel would come to learn that in time. She must if she ever meant to successfully set Ivar upon a vast throne.
Hel had a similar spirit—that much the Queen Mother could see, and yet it was inherently different all at once. Where Ivar was cruel, Hel was not. Where Ivar sought recognition and admiration, Hel went fleeing from it. She may have very well turned out exactly like Ivar—ambitious in the most grandiose and ostentatious of ways—but Aslaug had seen to it that she be reared otherwise.
Siggy had been the perfect answer to an imperfect question. How to raise a child of the divine in a world of mortals? Midgard was certainly not the natural dwelling place of such a young one, and it only made sense that her upbringing be wrought with various oddities and commotions. The village people of Kattegat had at first feared her, but the royal household made it abundantly clear that Hel was to be treated as any of them. In time, she grew up to be a beloved child of her people, thanks to Aslaug's tireless efforts.
A soft word here, a hard look there. These people would have crumbled if they knew of what the girl truly was. The only reason they had accepted a strange woman like Aslaug as Queen was because they understood her Sight could be of value to them in guiding Ragnar's future exploits to victory. They wouldn't have been able to fathom all of Hel's wonders. The girl barely knew them herself.
Then of course there had been the incident with Hel's disappearance and subsequent reappearance at the mouth of a cave. And just as Aslaug had begun to win her acceptance amongst the people…
In the end, it was the girl's natural charm that saved her. No doubt a gift from her father. Her smile made the people forget who they thought she was—who she actually was. Hel's laugh could smooth anyone's temper. It was what made her so well-suited for Ivar. Ivar with his wild temper and propensity for sullenness and rumination. He was her favorite son by far, but the title certainly did not originate from his behavior.
The Queen Mother glanced between Hel's hidden form and her son as he reclined near her own seat atop the wooden platform. She loved to play spectator to their interactions as they provided her the entertainment she so needed in these last days of her droll existence in Kattegat. She did not know exactly how it would be done, but Aslaug's Sight of her own lifeline simply stopped in the near future. There was no other explanation except for her own death, and she had come to accept it bitterly.
Her drinking habit had increased immensely to the point of embarrassment for her sons. Yet still she felt unashamed. It was her death, she mused ruefully. She would greet it how she saw fit.
Aslaug took comfort in the fact that her youngest son would be greatly cared for despite his tempestuous nature. She could see it quite obviously in the way the two moved about each other. Their bodies screamed hoarsely to each other across the void they had created out of youthful, misguided spite. Their brows strained the slightest bit as they kept their eyes trained anywhere else but the other. Such was to be expected; their bond was one orchestrated by the Gods. They were past redemption.
A bead of sweat worked its way from the nape of Aslaug's neck down to the base of her spine. The fire roared heartily this night…Small pleasures she would miss soon enough.
Aslaug breathed a morbid laugh and raised her goblet to her lips.
So he had finally decided to make his appearance… No doubt a result of his ambition winning out over his wounded pride. Word must've circulated in the village about the newcomers from the East, leading him to join the welcoming party.
I could only bear to look at him for a few moments before the tumult of emotions in my stomach threatened to brim over once more. He still hadn't spared me a glance, but I didn't mind remaining unnoticed. Considering our last interaction, I'd be fortunate to interact with him before Ragnarok. I'd have to draw him back in before then, of course. Men could never be left to their own faculties for so long.
"Something to drink?" a young man sitting amongst a group of warriors closeby offered me a cup brimming with ale.
This night—like so many others—was indeed a night for keeping my wits about me. Then again, if I were to subject myself to learning as much as possible about a woman whose existence I found completely unnecessary, why not enjoy myself a bit? One cup shouldn't be enough to spell my undoing, Gods willing.
"Thank you," I retrieved the drink from his hand gracefully and made sure to throw in a touch of sweetness for his benefit. The men around him guffawed and shouted while clapping him heartily on the back.
He was a man in the prime of his life, a time when every man is his strongest without much effort. He had soft blue eyes, hair that burned red like the sun, and strong hands. He had never seen battle before, of that I was sure, for he bore no scars or hard lines in his face. He would see his share of hardship in the conquest to come.
A slew of images assaulted my mind at that moment. Most of them centered around a quiet life filled with ample happiness. Slow winter mornings where we both dared not to rise from bed to brave the cold. Babes tucked underneath my arms as the other copper-haired children ran about the fields in the mild summer. No worry. No resentment. No anger. Just simple living with a man I could learn to love…after some time. I blinked to free myself of the visions.
That was not the path I had chosen, nor was it the one that the Gods had chosen for me. I did not yearn for a quiet life because I was not made for it. Desire reveals one's design, and I desired victory above all. I was made to succeed in this life so that I may please the Gods in the next.
As if he had known of my guilty thoughts, Ivar began to move with his newly-fashioned iron picks noisily to join his brothers near the throne at the front of the room. I watched him closely despite the young warrior at my right attempting to make conversation at his friends' insistence. I whipped my head around to make an excuse to exit, leaving the poor lad with a stunned expression upon his face. I felt almost sorry. Maybe in a different life.
Ivar was taking his time in moving across the great open space, and my attention focused on him greater and greater with every discordant drive of his picks into the wooden floor. No one seemed to pay him any mind and instead carried on with their merriment, but I could feel him from where I stood on the wall at the opposite end of the room. His was a slow-burning anger; it rolled off of him in waves that then flowed over me. It was worse than any frustration he might've felt during one of our many heated exchanges. Then, he had been merely reacting without much time for deep rumination. Now he had had plenty of time to explore every dark, sick way in which he hated what I'd done. He seemed to be seething in a barely controlled way—his countenance held tightly together like a bow pulled taut. The slightest provocation would sent him into a rage.
I allowed the shadows to draw me in further, away from the torch lights that kep the hall bright. I would play no part in his undoing this evening.
He made it to the front of the room to take up a place near his Sigurd, Ubbe, and Hvite, and quickly began to scan the room with a fierce, hawk-like gaze.
I couldn't help the pride that swelled in my chest when he failed to find me, if I was even truly the object of his avid search. My skills weren't so far gone as I thought!
I had only a small amount of time for internal celebration, though, when Ivar's stare stopped abruptly at the far end of the room. I followed his eyes slowly, half-convinced that I already knew what awaited on the other end of his gaze.
I was right.
Her. Signe.
But what did Ivar think about her reappearance? I whirled my head back around to find out.
His eyebrows had risen slightly in surprise only to furrow shortly thereafter. He was more than likely puzzling over the circumstances of her arrival. Looking back to where the blond-haired woman stood amongst a group of her North Men companions, I was able to witness her head lifting to finally make eye contact with her scrutinizer.
She wasn't caught off guard in the slightest; she had been watching for his appearance since she arrived. The conniving louse.
I felt my cheeks redden, and my hand tightened around the mug it held. I could remotely her the strain of the wood under the increasing pressure. The moment of truth was upon me—one more slight turn of the head to bring Ivar back into my line of sight.
He was smirking.
He recognized her, of course, for how could he not?
All the unwanted emotions I had buried in Hedeby came rushing into my chest once more. Still, I managed to keep a cool exterior, numbness being the greatest feeling of all.
Any other time, I would have decided to retreat. To collect my thoughts, assess my options, and act in the most logical way possible. Not now.
Kattegat would not become the place where I regularly ran. It was my home, the seat of my ambitions. Everyone else could go to Hel for all I cared.
My resolution did not come to fruition quickly enough, however, as Ivar chose this moment to turn his sadistic gaze on me. His expression didn't change a bit. He knew.
He had known I was standing off to the side observing him closely all along. He wanted me to know he still looked on that woman favorably.
His smirk widened into a wide, threatening grin. His eyes hurt in their intensity. He was dangerous.
My hands shook, but still I felt nothing. It was his way of assuring me I was far from forgiven. My suffering at his hands had only just begun. I should really have been searching for a way to appease him, strike back, anything. But sickeningly, I was just pleased he allowed some of his focus on me. This was a starting point from which I could work my way back into his favor. I knew it. It had to be so.
I heard a small laugh emit from the front of the room and turned abruptly to discern its source. I took in the sight of the Queen Mother covering her mouth with a lazy hand, her eyes filled with listless mirth.
I'd been caught.
No doubt Aslaug could read every single thought as it passed through my mind unbidden. I schooled my features to a look of feigned indifference, though I couldn't help the quirk at the corner of my lips that came with being so hapless yet again. The Queen Mother released another breath in laughter at my childish antics. All previous emotional stirring was immediately banished at her smiling attentions, and I beamed brightly at her.
This was the woman I remembered from my younger years; not the abandoned wife who had turned too aptly to the drink in her King's absence.
I did not have to spend the entire evening skulking in the shadows. What better vantage point had I to conduct my observation of the blonde-haired woman than the throne itself? Perhaps Aslaug could offer me her insights while I played at stoicism. I moved easily to retake my former position at her side.
Moving soundlessly toward the elevated platform, I looked up to the King as I passed his reclining form. He rested his full cup on one arm of his seat and motioned to me to draw nearer with his other hand.
"Yes, King," I greeted respectfully. I had not forgotten his warning from earlier in the woods.
"You have spoken to Floki?" Björn gazed deeply into my eyes as if trying to learn the information before I could speak it aloud.
"Yes, King," I responded unhelpfully. I would see if he revealed anything himself in his inquiry. I couldn't help but smile coyly.
"And?" he prodded, a tiny smirk gracing his lips as well.
"And I don't understand why you couldn't have told me any of this sooner. Really, Björn. A wanderer, a cave, and a snake—was it that hard?" I chastised jokingly.
He became gravely serious in an instant. "The Gods and their doings should not be taken so lightly. You of all people should understand that, Hel."
"I fear the Gods just as you, Björn, but what makes you think that I have any special connection to them?"
The King looked unimpressed. "You forget I witnessed it firsthand. Your fylgur in the woods, remember? And your nighttime dealings with Nòtt and her mare?" he leveled a calculating stare at me, but seemed almost amused as he did it, "Did you think I would be so quick to forget?"
"I cannot hide what I am," I offered with a shrug. I reached out to rest a hand on the King's empty hand, "Floki told me what he knows—what everyone else knew besides me. I thank you for leading me to him, but there are still so many questions I have that are left unanswered." I sighed and let my hand fall from his. Björn reached out swiftly to snap it up once more and pull me close so only I could hear him. I saw Aslaug sneer from her seat nearby. He bent his mouth next to my ear before speaking again.
"Who sees all without seeing?"
I leaned back, my eyes wide in understanding.
At that moment, a sharp howl pierced the air causing many of the partygoers to jump or shout in surprise. I knew that howl—it was Garmsen.
I rushed from my position next to the King and headed toward the door of the great hall to enter the unforgiving night.
A/N: For those of you who continue to offer me a sincere word of appreciation or constructive criticism: thank you. You cannot begin to understand how much I need to hear your words to keep this work going. I do not apologize for my delay in writing, but it was in my absence that the story finally came together somewhat in my mind. Life happens, and I cannot be sorry for that. Just know that it is your dedication to this story when I fail that continues to draw me back. Hold onto your seats, it's going to be a bumpy ride! :)
Ragnarok - The End of Days
Fylgur - Familiar