Five
"How are you today?" Iza whispers to the egg. She kneels before it, her face level with the top-most curve. The egg does not respond, but Iza does not feel a dip in the steady stream of contentment coming from the egg, so she supposes that she – he – it is still okay.
She sits back with a sigh, checking over the nest she has made for the egg. It had taken Iza hours to uncover a natural dip in the cavern floor and hours still to lug and roll and prod enough rocks around the slight pit to make a safe barrier for the egg. She has filled it with coals and wood chips and pungent whale oil to keep the fire burning for as long as possible. After all, Iza can only visit the egg once a day without her absence arousing suspicion and, even though she has a connection to the egg, she still frets that it might become cold during the night. So far, her efforts have been adequate, but she remains attentive.
She does not want what happened before to happen again.
With a critical eye, Iza assesses the color of the egg's shell and happily concludes from the wide spread of golden-red that the egg is doing as well as can be expected. Better, even.
But how long will the egg remain an egg, she wonders with a deep frown.
It has been weeks since the egg entered her life. Would it be weeks more until the egg hatched? Would the egg even hatch in Iza's lifetime. Not for the first time, she wishes there were someone to talk to – someone who could answer these questions. She has asked Alise, of course, but not even Alise knows.
Only the Norns know such things – and they do not seem keen to share with Iza.
Iza shifts, feeding the slow-burning fire with scraps of wood and sweet-smelling vegetation she had picked along the way to the cavern, taking care not to jostle the egg as she does. Then she settles nearby with her legs folded beneath her and resigns herself to struggling with her mending for next little while. She might as well spend her time wisely, especially since it calmed her father's mind to know that her traipses away from the village were useful. She had momentarily panicked when he asked after her the night before – and the first excuse to come to mind was seeking peace away from the village to better her lamentable sewing skills. Her father had accepted the lie and this morning Iza had not seen the harm in at least remaining partially truthful to her father's trust. Maybe, with any luck, word would spread to any other curious villagers and Iza would not have to answer any other questions.
Any hope that actually practicing her mending would improve her sewing skills is dashed when she jabs the tip of her finger hard enough to draw blood. Iza hisses and pops her finger into her mouth. She raises the torn fabric to her face, examining it in the soft firelight, and takes some comfort in the fact that she had not stained it with blood this time.
"I am hopeless," Iza says to the egg.
The egg, of course, remains silent.
In the distance, Iza can hear the echoes of men's voices. She shifts on her knees, shuffling to the mouth of the cavern to peer at the sky – the sun is high. Iza curses, realizing she has lost track of time, and crawls around the cramped, smoky space to gather her mending into her basket.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she promises the egg, before she dashes across the craggy ground between the forest and the shining waters of the fjords. By some miracle, she manages to not lose her balance as she hurries along, heart hammering away in her chest as she forces her tired legs to keep going. She almost cannot believe she has been so thoughtless – on today of all days!
Thankfully, everyone else in the village is preoccupied with their own tasks that they pay Iza little mind as she weaves her way to the lower village, heading toward the docks where the boats are being readied for long travel. All around her, men are kitted in leather armor, horned metal helmets, and bags full of rationed smoked meat and travel bread. More than one man seems to be checking the weapons strapped to his body; others are giving lustful farewells to their wives and intendeds; and others still are ushering dirtied thralls along into the boats so that the slaves might be sold or traded at other outposts.
Today is the day the Vikings leave on another months-long raid.
It is their way, Iza knows, to pillage and plunder. The Vikings are warriors, but more than that, they are tasked with providing the village with the means to survive. Times are especially hard and, although sometimes distasteful, none of what the Vikings do on raids are held against them. It is more important that the men return home.
Iza's father is leading the raid, as usual. Her entire life, she has known her distant father as a fearsome Viking, one who seldom returns without the men he left with. As Chieftain, it is his duty to oversee the Vikings on their travels, and he does, heedless of the fact that doing so leaves his motherless child alone for months on end. Iza resents this reality, but does not know what can be done to change it. The substitute Chieftain – a son of a cousin of the Chieftain – is too young, inexperienced, and soft to fully replace Chalisław. And Iza is a women, not able to rule in any sense.
She does not think this is fair at all.
Still, as Iza carelessly drops her basket on the rocky shore, she is torn between relief that her father is leaving and wishing that he did not have to go. Iza pushes through the crowd, forging ever toward the flagship already removing its anchor from the dock. It is not difficult to locate her father's dark, braided beard and hardened expression as he talks with Mik, the substitute Chieftain whose ill-health has never allowed him to leave the village - even now, Mik looks wan and too-thin.
No wonder Edvard is so favored, Iza thinks fleetingly. She shakes off the strange stray thought and comes to a stop beside Mik, who spares her a wide-eyed, overwhelmed look. Discreetly, she touches her smallest finger to the back of his wrist, a silent reassurance that this raid would be no different than any of the others. After all, Mik knows he is only a figurehead when he is acting as substitute Chieftain; ever since his first assignment, he and Iza had come to the agreement that Iza would be making all major decisions related to the village, not that any of the villagers – or her father – know this is the case.
Mik's shoulders relax marginally, his light eyes darting back to the Chieftain with a nervous nod to the last of Chalisław's reminders. "All will be handled as always," Mik manages under the Chieftain's weighted stare.
Chalisław grunts, then seems to notice Iza for the first time. His face colors beneath his beard. "You didn't have to come to see me off, Izabela," he says gruffly.
"It is tradition," Iza says simply. She has done the same since she was old enough to walk independently, has vivid memories of the salty sea breeze drying her tears when she was still young enough to be hurt by her father's absence. Now, seeing her father's boat safely meet the horizon is a cold comfort.
The Chieftain, a man of exceptionally few words, leans down to plant a brief kiss to the top of Iza's head, a rare act of affection before he departs with the rest of the Vikings. Iza stands side-by-side with Mik as the Vikings arrange themselves on the boats, shouting to the shore as they row away under the warm midday sun. They remain like that until the boats are in the distance, unlike other villagers who turn away and retreat back to their daily lives.
Mik is the one to break the silence. "The Chieftain wants to begin new measures to ward off the dragons," he relays.
Iza bites her inner lip, mind flashing to the illicit egg hidden in a cavern. She draws her shoulders back with a resolute nod, recalling overheard conversations with the village elders. She does not agree with the proposed strategy, but without an alternative idea, there is little that can be done than to abide by the Chieftain's orders. Not even Iza, pulling the substitute Chieftain's strings, can change that.
"I'll speak with Wilhelm in the morning," she mutters, quietly enough that not even the wind can carry her voice.
Mik nods, then falls silent.
Iza imagines they are both pondering their odd fates.
Hers, she thinks, is the most mired of the two. Especially now.
A/N: So, often when the Vikings were off pillaging, they did leave someone behind to watch over their village, usually the successor of Chieftain who was both male and related by blood (or marriage). Sometimes, the substitute Chieftain would be too young for raids, too old to travel, injured, or otherwise unfit to be a real Viking. And while we're on Viking raids, some scholars theorize that the whole pillage and plundering thing was specifically because Vikings were searching for resources and women to bring back with them. And yes, Vikings did take slaves (thralls) and trade them for money, crops, or other goods, if not to use the slaves for actual physical labor. Viking thralls often slept with the animals, though there are some accounts of slaves being freed and "legitimized" in Viking settlements by Vikings who saw value in a slave's skills.
Yes, Mik is supposed to be Mike Newton. Yes, I am being mean by making him weak-willed and very sickly, but he always annoyed me in canon so he has it coming.
As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.
~ Rae