ᛅᛁᚢᛅᚱ: Defender
When she was a girl, Randvi's mother told her of the web woven by the Nornir – the tight bonds they drew between people promised to one another, the threads of fate linking destined mates.
"In all of their wisdom," Freydis had explained, "the Dísir mark our skins, so we may easily recognize the one who is destined for us." She had tapped the pale underside of her arm as she'd said these words. "Sigurd Fafnesbane and Brynhildr. The Valkyrie Sigrún, who found her beloved Helgi in her next life. Such were unions thus blessed by the gods. Even now our skalds sing of their love, and of the struggles they had to face to be together."
Randvi and her sister Thora had exchanged a puzzled glance. They were cuddling with their mother under the furs, warming her in stead of their father, who had gone raiding with the rest of the village's warriors earlier this summer. Randvi took this duty very seriously. Her mother's bed, with its mountain of pillows and soft furs, was also quite comfy, which made the task all the easier.
"So our destined mate's name is written on our skin?" Randvi asked. "Like a tattoo?"
Thora peered closer at their mother's arm. She gasped. "It's bare! Father's name isn't there!"
Freydis laughed. "Oh, it happens ever so rarely, my sweets! In all of my years, I've never met anyone who bore a soul mark. Even our völva says she has never seen one, and she has lived through more winters than all of us combined!"
"She's ancient," Thora added, as if this was very important information.
"Besides," Freydis continued, "if I had a soul mark, only my destined mate would be able to see it. And love still grew between your father and me – because we've made sure to nurture it. Our marriage is an oak, tall and strong, yet born of a single sapling."
Randvi's tiny brows furrowed. "If we can grow to love one who is not promised to us, then why do the gods even bother giving us soul marks?"
"No one knows," Freydis answered. "The gothi says such unions produce children with prodigious potential. Perhaps he has the truth of it. But personally I would not dare presume to know the gods' designs."
Randvi kept these words well in mind the morning she set foot in Fornburg for her wedding celebrations, nearly two decades later. She had become a woman without ever seeing the fabled mark appear on her arm; once again, her mother had assured her that it was quite normal. Still, Randvi had—naively!—hoped to see a certain name appear on her skin, as if to receive confirmation from the gods that the path she had chosen had been the good one.
After all, Randvi was to marry the son of a rival Jarl—she was to serve as living proof of the truce her father had negotiated with the mighty Raven clan, an alliance that would allow them to stand against stronger, bigger clans.
Her betrothed, Sigurd Styrnbjornsson, was handsome enough, she supposed. They had already met in the preceding summer, at the assemblies of the clans, where their parents had convened on the details of the betrothal. A few moons later, he and his father had journeyed to her hometown to seal the deal with a handfasting ceremony. Randvi remembered a serious man who guarded his emotions well. According to Freydis, this was a good sign. "You would not want a man easily led astray by fear or anger," she had told Randvi.
It was very much the same today. Sigurd and his father, Jarl Styrnbjorn of the Raven clan, offered punctual greetings to Randvi and her family as they disembarked from the longship. Sigurd smiled as he appraised her—but the smile never quite reached his eyes. Next to him, Styrbjorn Jarl remained as still and warm as a block of wood.
Love can be nurtured, Randvi remembered her mother's words as the man guided her family through the village. I did not love your father, not at first. We had to work for it. And Randvi was certainly hard-working—she was the daughter of a Jarl, with all that it entailed. The hopes and dreams of an entire clan rested on her shoulders—and Randvi would sooner slit her own throat than shrug off that burden.
They were nearing the longhouse when a voice called Sigurd's name, loud and clear. Immediately, a wide smile broke on his face, and Randvi was shocked by the transformation it brought to his once guarded features. A tall, broad-shouldered woman clad in fighting leathers was making her way toward them; across her shoulder was flung two dead rabbits. Randvi noted the bow in her hand, and the axe hanging from her belt. A huntress and shieldmaiden both. She clapped hands with Sigurd, mirroring his grin. Randvi frowned, not sure what to make of the encounter.
"Eivor!" Sigurd called. "Meet my betrothed and her family." He gestured at Randvi and her parents. Behind them, Thora scoffed, and Randvi had to stifle a smile. "Jarl Asgeir Thorvaldsson. And his wife and daughters."
The one named Eivor smiled crookedly, glancing at Randvi then at Thora. Her eyes were a pale, piercing blue, the colour of ice at the early onset of winter. "Well met, my lord, my ladies. I've heard much from my brother of his bride's beauty… which make it all the more difficult to tell which one of you lovely sisters will grace our family with her luminous presence!"
That prompted a laugh out of Thora. My brother. That was Sigurd's sister, then. Neither he nor Styrbjorn had spoken of her in their previous meetings. Why?
Sigurd was making no effort to present Randvi, so she came forward to say, "I am your brother's bride-to-be. Randvi Asgeirsdóttir."
The other woman's smile was frank, genuine. At the sight of that smile Randvi knew: here was someone who never lied, never schemed. Here was someone who would never betray her trust. "Eivor Varinsdóttir." The other woman's voice was deep, rough at the edges. Still, it was warm as that first sip of mead after a day spent hunting in the cold.
As the evening passed, Randvi kept stealing glances at her. The Jarl's daughter was clad as a man, not a maiden, and she spoke and sang as loud as her father's drengir. Truly, tonight's celebration would have put old Aegir's sea-deep feasts to shame. Skalds lined up to entertain the two Jarls and their family, while harried thralls could barely keep up with the drengir's demands for more ale. Randvi forced a smile upon her lips at the merrymaking, though beneath the table her hands were clasped tightly around her knees. Her intended was not sitting beside her; Sigurd was standing, one leg propped up a chair, beside his fellow warriors, laughing and drinking and boasting of his many fighting prowesses. For some reason, Randvi felt faint, a sick sensation churning low in her belly. The meadhall was stiflingly hot. The laughter, a little too loud.
And Sigurd did not once look in her direction.
Abruptly, Randvi stood up. Freydis threw her a concerned look, and Randvi mumbled that she needed fresh air. She strode through the hall before the woman could put in another word, pushing through the throng of drunkards and distressed servants. Finally, she felt the welcoming touch of the cold evening air upon her brow; Randvi let out a long-awaited exhalation through her nose. Now the clamour of the celebration seemed more bearable. Her hands, however, could not stop shaking.
"Felt the pull of the stars, have you, flame-kissed maiden?" came a voice from behind her.
Randvi whirled on her feet, startled as a deer. Sigurd's sister—Eivor—was standing behind her, that smirk still hanging upon her lips. Randvi, however, did not return her smile.
"My head was spinning a little," she admitted, carefully choosing her words. "Might be the poor quality of the ale."
Her heart just about stopped the moment those words left her mouth. Randvi might have made such a quip in familiar company—when locked in a game of wits with Thora, for one—but to say such a thing to a warrior from a once-rival clan was tantamount to social suicide. Randvi's cheeks grew hot in shame, and she cursed her carelessness.
The tall blonde shieldmaiden huffed out a laugh, however. "You should not say this within hearing of Tekla, our brewer. She takes great pride in her craft."
"As should any artisan worth their salt," Randvi said. "I should offer my apologies, then. It was simply a jest, made all the poorer by its unkindness. Your brewer is right to be proud, rest assured."
Eivor's smile softened. Her face was all hard edges—a strong brow, a stronger jaw—but her eyes and mouth were gentler, more expressive. She looked upon the night sky, draped in the wavering blues and greens and purples of the aurora borealis. Randvi followed the trail of her gaze. A childlike sort of awe bloomed at the familiar sight. At least the night sky would remain the same wherever Randvi would go. It was a comforting, but wistful thought.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Eivor commented. "I never tire of seeing the nightly spectacle of the northern lights." Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "My mother said the auroras were a sign of the great feasts thrown by the Allfather as he calls the Einherjar to his table. They are the only glimpses that us poor fools can have of glorious Valhalla here in lowly Midgard."
Randvi lifted a single brow. "Truly? Our skald says that the space between Yggdrasil's branches grows thin enough at night that we can see the Bifrost."
"Oh, I like that!" Eivor said, with a laugh. "It would certainly account for that beautiful array of colours."
Randvi managed a slight smile. Through the open door behind her, the noises of the feast seemed to have grown dim. Or perhaps it was that Randvi's senses were solely focused elsewhere—on the show of lights dancing in those blue eyes, on that crooked yet soft smile. Randvi's heart pounded in her ears. She felt on the edge of something deep and dark, something unknown—and dangerous. Randvi knew she should not press on to that path, yet she was compelled to explore it. She was a Jarl's daughter, but she was a Vikingr as well; she had been born to enjoy the thrill of uncharted territories.
"Your brother never spoke of me at length, did he?" she said, rather suddenly.
Eivor seemed taken aback. "I…" she hesitated, "no, he did not."
"Then why did you say so?"
Randvi was surprised to see Eivor dipping her head, as if ashamed by that white lie. "Out of kindness, I would say," she mumbled. "You deserve to feel welcome amongst our clan."
Again, Randvi felt compelled to ask, "Why?"
"I was adopted," the other woman blurted out. "I could have been tucked aside, a shameful secret to be hidden, but Sigurd opened his heart to me, made sure this clan would be my home." Again, Eivor smiled at Randvi. "I only wanted to extend the same courtesy to you. I have no doubt that my brother will love and cherish you, as he has loved and cherished me. And soon enough the people of Fornburg will be proud to call you one of their own. This, I promise you."
A seed of something much like hope sprouted in Randvi's heart. She did not want to believe those naïve words, she did not… but she chose to, anyway. "Thank you. I am glad to have found a friend in my new sister, at least."
That night, Randvi twisted and turned on her borrowed cot, plagued by hazy dreams of pale blue eyes, of a sprawling, light-filled village built by a river, of a battered, broken stone tower surrounded by still water. As she clutched her furs, eyes squeezed shut, pain burned through her arm, pinning her into place. At the break of dawn, Randvi was panting and shaking, as if she'd survived an encounter with a dangerous enemy. She raised a trembling hand above her head, seeing black runes upon her arm, shining as if written in fresh ink.
It was not her betrothed's name that she saw there.
Oꞅƿeald: God's Power
Hidden in a darkened corner of the meadhall, hands tightly clasped on her knees, Valdis Eirikrsdóttir watched the men feasting before her with pure hatred in her heart.
News had come from across the Skagerrak Strait, brought about by enterprising merchants willing to make the dangerous journey to the isles of Britannia. While thralls and servants helped unload the ships, the captains had been escorted to the longhouse, where they were received with all honours by Valdis's husband, Jarl Rued Hakonsson. One of the merchants was a man named Frode; Valdis had known him since she'd been a child, as he'd often made stops at her home village before crossing over to Geatland.
His grin was mirrored on the faces of every drengr present in the meadhall. They all knew that Frode was surely bringing news concerning Halfdan Ragnarsson's campaign in England. Across Denmark and Sweden and Norway, people hungered for stories about the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, and the bloody swath they cut through the Saxon kingdoms to avenge their father's name. The conquest of the British isles was a saga in the making—and there existed no man who called himself drengr who did not want a piece of that glory for himself.
"Halfdan calls for every able-bodied man to join his efforts in pacifying Brittania," Frode told the Jarl and his assembly of warriors. "Riches beyond measure await those bold enough to lend their sword arm to the king and his brothers! Riches… and lands! Green, fertile lands, enough for the whole of our people!"
At this, many had gasped and whispered among themselves. Yes, warriors craved riches and glories—but in truth, all of these prizes were inconsequential compared to the promise of land. To the promise of sustenance and stability.
A sort of feverish excitement swept across the hall as the crowd took in Frode's announcement. Young drengir boasted of the great deeds they were sure to accomplish in distant England. Older warriors dreamed of regaining their honour to earn a place in golden Valhalla. Second sons barred from inheritance wondered if salvation from starvation lied in wait across the sea. And, of course, Rued leaped from his throne, roaring that his own glories would eclipse even the Ragnarssons' own battle deeds.
Meanwhile, Valdis gritted her teeth and fought the urge to pummel his face into a red paste.
Frode had brought more news from the Dane mainland, but, of course, neither Rued nor the mongrels pledged to his service cared about that particular topic. They feasted and drank, groped and leered at the comely thralls bustling about the halls like frightened mice. No one paid attention to the scowling wife of their Jarl; why would they? Three winters she'd lived in their midst, three long, miserable winters. It was well known by then just how unpleasant, how difficult that sour-faced bitch could be.
Meanwhile, Valdis seethed in secret, Frode's kind condolences playing in her mind on loop. He'd brought her the news she had been fearing since the start of summer. Her mother was dead. She was now an orphan—first losing her father to the depths where Aegir had built his halls, and then… Valdis's fists tightened into fists beneath the table, tears of rage burning her eyes. Frode said that Ylva Leifsdóttir had died from illness in her bed. Valdis's mother was now imprisoned the cold emptiness of Hel's domain—an unworthy death for one so strong, so fierce.
Valdis's parents were dead, barred forever from Valhalla—and she was stuck here, playing the battered and pliant wife to a maggot of a man. Rued had not said it out loud when Frode had told them the news, but the nasty spark in his eyes, that vile smirk had said it all. One day you will join them in anonymity and disgrace, dear wife. You will live the eternity of your second life much as you lived in Midgard—a wretch to be mocked and despised.
Valdis glanced at her husband was he lounged on his throne, surrounded by sycophants and supplicants. How had she come so low as to allow herself to live under the boot of such a man? She thought of her parents—so strong, proud and loving—and wondered: would they have been disappointed by their daughter's weakness? And she thought of her clan, her people, now bereft of their Jarl and Jarlskona. Would they recognize the bright-eyed young shieldmaiden she had been inside the bitter shrew she had become?
As Rued detailed his plans of conquest, Valdis found herself vowing, No… no, I will not allow this to go on any longer. She would leave, or she would be broken beyond repair. Else, she would never be able to look in the eyes of those she loved without ever feeling like a stain on their honour.
Quite suddenly, a burning pain flared in her left arm. Valdis jumped out of her seat so fast that she sent the chair clattering behind her. She clutched her arm, the agony making a foul mixture of bile and ale rise to her mouth. It burned her throat as she retched. From behind came loud laughter; she was only dimly aware that it was directed toward her. Tears stung at her eyes as she dug her nails into her skin. The world swam in front of her, and she did not know what kept her from fainting. The last remnant of her tattered pride, perhaps.
Finally, the pain receded, leaving Valdis trembling and panting in its wake. One of Rued's raiders was making a cruel jape beside her, but she barely paid him any mind. Valdis retracted her left sleeve, heart pounding; she half expected to find her skin blackened and pustulant. Instead, she saw strange markings, wet and shining as if written in fresh ink. Valdis knew what it was, even though she had never set eyes on such a thing.
A soul mark. The Nornir had tied her fate to another's.
Revulsion shot through Valdis's veins, and she nearly vomited again. Her mother had told her the stories, yes, but Valdis had thought them silly tales for children. To have one appear upon her skin after those last miserable years spent married to Rued… well, it felt as if the gods were spitting in her face while she was on her knees begging for deliverance.
"What is it, oh dear wife?" came a familiar drawl, and a chill crawled down Valdis's spine. Rued had deigned leave his seat to approach her. "Are you unwell?"
Despite her shock and fear, Valdis met his smirk with a mask of perfected indifference. Through the hall, Rued's men were laughing in their cups. She hid her arm behind her back, well knowing that she could not allow her husband to see the mark. Valdis did not dare imagine the depths of his fury if he happened to learn that she bore another man's name. He would kill her then, Valdis was certain of it. Truth be told, a part of her almost wished he would try; that would finally give her an excuse to bloody that gormless grin of his.
"Everything is fine," she said. "Something I ate must have upset my stomach. I am feeling rather fatigued, in truth. I should retire."
Rued touched her waist, and it took all of Valdis's willpower not to flinch. "Wash the vomit from your mouth before I join you in bed," he said, drawing up her dress. Then his hand slowly made its way up her thigh. His warriors chuckled again; one even let out a rude whistle.
"My time has come early," Valdis said, the practised lie coming easily to her mouth.
Immediately, Rued retracted his hand as if she hid a serpent under her skirts. "Gods, again?" he sneered. "We've been married for three winters, woman." Behind this accusation was another snide reproach. Where are the sons I was promised? The sons I am owed?
"These things often take time, husband," Valdis replied. "Trust in the gods' wisdom." In truth, she was ever so glad that fair Freyja had not allowed his seed to quicken in her womb. The thought of bringing into the world an innocent child bearing the curse of Rued's blood made her feel colder than the realm of Hel itself.
He made a dismissive hand gesture. "You best sleep in the guest quarters, then. Gods, but you bring nothing but failure upon failure. What a pathetic gift your father made me when I married you. Go! Before the sweet taste of mead sours in my mouth at the sight of you."
Valdis did not need to be asked twice. She turned tail and fled, red-hot shame and anger burning a hole through her chest. Only when she was in the relative safety of the guest chambers did she stop to look upon her arm again. The mark seemed even eerier in the flickering light of the candles set beside her cot. Despite herself, she shivered at the sight of it.
The name was written in Roman letters, not runes. Her intended was not a Norseman, then. She could not read it, of course. As a child, Valdis had not been interested in learning how to read this strange, overly complicated system of meaningless wiggles; her people recorded their history through runes etched in stone and told it through sagas sung by skalds. Why then would she have wasted precious time learning to read texts written on fragile parchment by Christian hands?
Valdis traced the first letter, a circular symbol. A Christian. Were the gods mad, tying her fate to a follower of the crucified Lord? Was she cursed to live in subordination to a weaker man all of her existence? Valdis was almost tempted to scratch the name with the point of her knife; at least that would have been a choice that she would have made out of her own volition.
Eventually, she ripped strips of cloth out of the bedsheets and wrapped them around her arm. There. She could no longer see it; these ugly letters could no longer taunt her. The gesture brought some form of comfort. Valdis' brothers were well-meaning, but incompetent. Rued had shown himself to be even worse—cruel and weak in spirit. No, Valdis vowed, nearly spitting out the word like a curse, she would not tie her fate to another useless man. She would go to England, but not to seek the one the gods intended for her. She would join Halfdan Jarl to win glory for her own self—and to provide land and safety for her clan now that they had lost both of their stalwart protectors.
While her husband and his mongrels drank themselves to stupor, Valdis spent the night devising her escape.
