ᚱᛅᚾᛏᚢᛁ: Shield Home


You will betray your brother.

The words rang out in Eivor's mind, heavy as a condemnation, as she trudged through the thick snow. She could not feel the cold bite of the wind upon her face, nor see the lights of Fornburg nestled in the valley below. She could only think of these words—Valka's words.

Valka's prophecy.

You will betray your brother.

The seer had sounded sorrowful, but certain of herself, when she had announced the death of Eivor's honour. She had once told Eivor how hard it was to make sense of the gods' designs—often their messages served as a test of one's faith as much as a warning. But Eivor's vision had been clear, almost as if she had just remembered a long-forgotten memory—that is why Valka had been so frightened.

You will betray your brother.

Eivor stopped, catching her breath. Above, the aurora swept across the nightly sky in brilliant shades of violet and green. Eivor glanced upward, immediately regretting that choice. The beautiful spectacle only reminded her of that conversation she'd shared with Randvi, three winters ago, when she had been wed to Eivor's brother. Eivor grabbed her arm, gritting her teeth. Chasing the sight of Randvi's face—that perfectly sculpted jaw, those high cheekbones, that piercing, lake-green stare—away from her mind, Eivor continued down the path. Still, she was assailed by memories of what she had learned in Valka's hut.

"I will —betray Sigurd," Eivor had said, hoarsely, as she had stood to leave the seer's cabin. "Odin fought against his fate. It can be done."

"Eivor—" Valka had begun.

"I will not—gah!"

A bright pain had flared in Eivor's arm, scorching like a burn. Valka had leaped to hold her as Eivor's legs faltered under her weight. From her corner of the hut, Svala—Valka's mother—muttered, "Ahh-ah, the old blood, the ancient blood, we must gather it anew. A vessel they must make, a vessel perfectly shaped to hold our…"

As Eivor's pain receded, she and Valka looked upon the old woman, shocked to hear so much coming from her ancient lips. But Svala said nothing else, only rocking back and forth in her seat, her gaze unfocused, as if lost in another secret world only she could perceive.

"Mother?" Valka asked. Still, there was no answer. As Eivor struggled to her feet, she said, "Be careful, my friend! Here, let me see if—"

But Eivor was half-deaf to those wise words. Instead, she removed her bracer with fumbling fingers. There, as she had feared, she found a name etched on her skin. A name Eivor knew all too well. A name that brought to mind a rush of red hair flowing in the wind, bright as if kissed by the sun itself.

A name that was as forbidden to Eivor as mistletoe was to Baldr's divine skin.

"No," Eivor breathed, "no, no, no…"

"A soul mark?" Valka said, inspecting Eivor's arm. "Whose name is—"

"It doesn't matter," Eivor said, wrenching her arm free from Valka's tender touch. "It doesn't matter. I will—I will not betray Sigurd."

Valka's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh, Eivor…"

That had been the last words Eivor had heard from the seer that night; she had rushed out of the hut immediately afterward, preferring the icy air of a Norse winter evening to Valka's well-meaning pity.

Nearly a decade later, Eivor awoke in the middle of the night—her wedding night!—to contemplate the woman lying beside her. The sight—Randvi, serene and resplendent in her nakedness—brought a surge of warmth through Eivor's veins, and she had to pinch herself to make sure she was not dreaming. Moments before, they had finally let their passion speak louder than words. The taste of Randvi's kisses were still upon Eivor's lips, and she could yet feel the ghost of her beloved's touch all over her body; the memory of those calloused, but tender hands made her skin tingle with remembered pleasure.

Asleep in her marriage bed, Randvi appeared much more peaceful—and much less harried!—than during the day, where she was expected to put out fires all across Ravensthorpe. The premature lines at her brow and the crow's feet at the corner of her eyes were smoothed over by the comfort of sleep. Eivor was sorely tempted to brush a strand of red hair away from her lovely face. Her mouth was slightly open; Eivor felt a burst of affection at this simple, almost comical sight. This woman—this fierce drengr, this brilliant tactician, this fair diplomat—had offered Eivor the gift of her trust. Eivor had never been given anything more precious.

Randvi moved her hand from under her pillow, giving Eivor a good view of the skin of her underarm. The black runes that formed Eivor's name stood out in stark contrast from the pale, freckled flesh. Eivor could almost could not believe it; the thread of the Nornir binding them together, visible to her weak, human eyes. It almost made her want to weep. After all these years of suffering—these years of denying her love even as it tore at her heart, of dealing with Sigurd's madness and hatred, of losing so many friends and comrades to the gilded lure of Valhalla… Eivor was finally allowed this one happiness, the only one she truly ever needed.

Randvi made a small sound, then her eyes fluttered open. "Eivor?" she said, with a yawn. "My love, why are you still awake…?"

Eivor chuckled, caressing her wife's cheek. "I've only woken up, my sweet. I was simply… lost in thought, you might say."

"Lost in thought." Randvi attempted a stern look. "A coy metaphor. I know what goes in the depths of your mind, Eivor of the Raven clan. Again you wish to—"

"Not this time!" Eivor said, heat blooming in her cheeks. Randvi was the only woman who had ever made her blush; usually, it was Eivor who made ladies sigh and swoon. "I was thinking of your soul mark. And mine. What it meant for us, to be bound by the Nornir's weave."

Randvi's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"The night it appeared," Eivor said softly, "I had a vision. Valka believed it meant that I would betray my brother. And so I thought… when the soul mark appeared, I thought…"

Randvi sighed, stroking Eivor's back. The touch was meant to be comforting, yet it brought back memories of recent bliss, and Eivor shivered in response.

"Love, why did you not tell me?"

"It was my burden to bear—"

"I would have gladly shared it with you," Randvi said, with much emphasis. "Oh, Eivor… you are strong, so strong, my love, but even your shoulders cannot bear the weight of the nine realms. I am here for you. That is the oath I gave in view of gods and men, when we were wed by Valka today. Have you already forgotten?"

"No, I did not," Eivor managed. She kept her head down, suddenly unable to meet Randvi's gaze. "But it came true. Valka's prophecy came true, Randvi—I found my greatest happiness in my brother's misery. How can my honour service such a betrayal?"

"You are not the cause of his misery. You supported him and guided him when he was lost in a darkness of his own making. Sigurd knows this." She leaned to press a soft kiss on Eivor's mouth. "And he is happy for us, my love. In his own way, I suspect he must have always known."

Eivor's heart gave another jolt. "What do you mean?"

"He could see it," Randvi explained, "my soul mark, I mean. Not well enough that he could read the name, but he knew from the beginning of our marriage that the gods intended someone else for me." Her smile soured a little as she added, "That must explain why he had never shown any sort of passion toward me whatsoever."

Anger surged in Eivor at this admission, anger toward Sigurd, who had made his own wife feel unloved and unwelcome in her new home—and toward herself, for letting it all happen because of a foolish fear of the Fates' designs. Gods, they had already lost so much precious time—because of Sigurd's pride, because of Eivor's weakness, because of Randvi's commitment. How could Eivor ever make it right?

Holding Randvi close, Eivor murmured, "I can see them as well. Soul marks, I mean. Ever since I've been a child. I never understood why."

None of the destined couples she had met through her travels have been blessed with a happy ending. Eivor remembered Birna, showing her Soma's name upon her skin and saying bitterly, "She loved me, she did—but not the way I loved her." She remembered Halfdan and Faravid, and how shocked she had been when she had realized they were bound together by the Dísir's decree—and how it seemed to have brought them nothing but resentment and mistrust. She remembered Trygve telling her, at his beloved Jarl's funeral, "It was never meant to happen. Hemming would not betray his wife's memory, not even for me."

All these years, Eivor had viewed these unlucky unions as proof of humanity's foolishness. But now, she saw these sorrowful stories in a new light, and her heart ached for those lovers who had been denied—or had denied themselves—a chance at true happiness.

"You must have been blessed by the gods," Randvi said. "I have always thought so. You have been given a glimpse of the Nornir's great tapestry. A gift to cherish, surely."

Eivor said nothing. Randvi believed still in the gods and their greatness, but Eivor knew better. She had been hanged on the metallic branches of Yggdrasil, grasping the gods' true form: that of callous and cruel beings, made weak with their selfishness. They had not humanity's best interest in mind—and Eivor had made her peace with that knowledge.

She would choose a few decades with Randvi over an eternity in Valhalla anyway.

"I know what I should cherish," Eivor answered. "I did not need any divine guidance to learn that lesson. You taught me that. You, and the rest of the clan. My fate is what I make of it. It was my choice to love you. The gods played no part in that choice. To say otherwise would diminish the oath I made to you, as your lawfully wedded wife."

Randvi laughed again. What a fine melody it was, lovelier than the song of any lyre. "Defiant enough to blaspheme and defy the gods' names even as she makes sacred oaths. There's my Eivor." She dropped her voice lower to add, "And now, I believe we are past the time for words. You've just showed me what a nimble tongue you have, drengr. Show me what else it can do."

Eivor smiled and ducked her head below the furs, all too happy to obey her love's command.


ᚠᛅᛚᛏᛁᛋ: Goddess of Death


One week after the day of his wedding, Oswald of Elmenham took his wife on a horseback ride.

By her own admission, she enjoyed riding, telling him how wonderful it was to have a taste of freedom away from her duties once in a while. Oswald was ever glad to bring her along the loveliest paths in Norfulc, showing that her marsh kingdom was also one of deep, golden fields and verdant forests. His father had done the same when Oswald had been young, teaching his heir that to love one's people also meant loving the land that nourished them. Valdis took to the lesson well, and she greeted every new pastoral sight with one of her rare smiles. Oswald's heart fluttered whenever she directed those smiles toward him.

Oswald's first week as king of East Anglia had been hard, but she had faced even bigger difficulties. Even though their marriage had been a show of unity for Danes and Saxons, Oswald's people still struggled to accept her. She was everything a Christian bride should not be: blunt, stern and unafraid to speak her mind when faced with the scorn of men. But Oswald loved the frankness of her speech, saw wisdom in the way she cut to the heart of every matter. One night, when one farmhand had made a snide comment within hearing distance of the royal couple, Oswald had risen abruptly from his throne to say, "You will keep quiet. She is your queen, and I will not allow any of you to disrespect her. Apologize, or be gone from my hall at once."

The man, who was of age with Oswald's father, had made a mumbled apology, before going back to his stew in sullen silence. As Oswald had sat down, he'd felt Valdis' hand squeezing his under the table. Her expression had been surprisingly soft, and Oswald had understood in that instant just how much of these comments cut at her heart despite her apparent indifference. He had squeezed her hand back in return.

Today, her eyes were light, playful even, and her usually tense shoulders were relaxed. What a regal figure she made on that horse, riding with natural grace and confidence. Oswald, in contrast, must have looked like a farm boy sitting an old nag. He wondered if she ever felt shameful to be riding in such poor company.

Eventually, they reached their destination: a beach situated at a small lake, where Oswald had often gone to play with the other village children as a boy. As they worked to tie the horses to a nearby tree, Oswald explained, "I enjoy going for a swim once in a while. It clears the mind of worries, I think."

His heartbeat sped up when she smiled at him. "It's a wonderful idea," she said. "The last time I went swimming was… why, it must have been when I was a child. Gods, we would test our limits with those inane challenges… seeing who could dive the deepest, who could swim the fastest, who could hold their breath the longest…"

Oswald laughed at her wistful tone. "We did the same as well! Children are children, no matter where they are born, it seems!"

Her slight, playful smile was her only answer. Then, she began to unbuckle her belt. Oswald blushed and immediately turned around, hoping to give her some privacy. They were married, yes, but in many ways they were strangers still. Oswald did not want Valdis to feel uncomfortable or unsafe. He did not know how much his wife had suffered in her past, but there was one thing of which he remained certain: that she deserved to be happy, and that he had to do everything in his power to ensure that happiness.

He was not surprised that Valdis took to the water like a fish; she had told him she had grown near the sea, in a clan renowned for their shipbuilders. Now Valdis was grinning freely, doing laps across the small inlet. At the sight of that smile, Oswald called cheerfully, "Race you!" She answered with a cheeky smirk that made the blood rush to Oswald's face.

She was fast, her strong, lithe body cutting through the waters like a longship through the waves. But Oswald was also a descendant of proud seafarers; he overtook Valdis at the last possible moment by the barest of inches. He whooped and cheered to celebrate his victory, a bit too enthusiastically perhaps. Valdis responded by splashing him with water. They tussled in the river like children, though this time Oswald was quick to admit defeat. He swam faster, definitely, but Valdis was a ferocious fighter, one fond of using dirty tactics. Like sneaking kisses on him before dunking him underwater, for example.

He was grinning like a damn fool when they got out of the water. Teeth chattering, Oswald scurried toward the pile of clothes he'd left by the beach, while Valdis only stretched, yawning like a cat. Drops of water dripped down her hair, trickling over her toned and tattooed shoulders, the slight swell of her breasts, the hard panel of her stomach, those muscled thighs—and, oh Lord Almighty, he'd been staring, hadn't he, like a fool driven only by the basest of instincts. Had she noticed? God, that smile ghosting on her lips… she had noticed. Oswald suddenly wished he could throw himself over another cliff. Perhaps he could tumble down and drown himself in the lake. It would be better than suffering another second of this mortifying ordeal, at the very least.

"Keep your clothes off," Valdis said, freezing him into place. "You will dry more quickly that way."

Oswald's slow, stupid brain struggled to make sense of her words. "Wuh-What?" was all he could manage.

Her face showed a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Oswald, I wish to look upon you."

"Look upon—oh! Oh." Oswald glanced down at his scrawny form and stick-thin limbs, suddenly becoming very much aware of her scrutiny. In contrast to hers, his pale skin was bare, save for the few marks she had left last night when—Oswald's gaze snapped upward, and he blushed to the tip of his ears. "Yes, yes, of course," he squeaked. "You're right, as always."

"Good," Valdis said with a satisfied smirk, and somewhere along the way Oswald's brains turned into something with the consistency of oatmeal.

Not long after, she was sitting against a tree, massaging his scalp as he lay his head upon her lap. In the few days they had been wed, Oswald had experienced oh-so-many of the delights associated with married life, but this… having your hair stroked by your very pretty (and half-naked) wife was a pleasure he would have never dared imagine. God, he wanted to say something, anything—impress her with some wit or charm, at least—but being in close proximity to her tended to turn him into a blistering, incoherent fool. Thankfully, she did not seem to mind.

After a while, Valdis ran her finger alongside his arm, lingering on the name marking his skin. Her name, in truth. She frowned as she traced the lines of each rune.

"When were you marked?" Valdis asked. More quietly, she added, "Mine appeared five years ago."

Oswald gave a nervous little laugh. "As did mine! God, this is surreal…"

"Almost out of a dream?"

"Indeed." His smile dimmed a little. "It happened on the night before we were to meet the Ragnarssons' army in the field outside of Theotford." Valdis's brows rose up her forehead. She did not say anything, and so he continued, "God, I remember it as if it was yesterday. We'd all come at King Edmund's call, every ealdorman and thegn of East Anglia. Spirits were high. We could not—would not believe God would ever let us down in our hour of need. And yet…"

Oswald could still recall that night with perfect clarity—Edmund standing before his throne, cup raised in a salute while the nobles of East Anglia roared in patriotic ardour. Only Oswald had not shared their appetite for battle; Elmenham was a horse ride's away from the coast, and Dane raiders had been pillaging the seaside towns of Norfulc since his grandfather's early years. Oswald had often seen the outcome of those raids—burning villages, slaughtered cattle, people weeping for their dead.

These pictures were clear in his mind as he made his way to the king to meekly ask, "My lord, is it wise to meet the northmen in the field? Shouldn't we bring the civilians behind the walls at Northwic and wait for the barbarians to come to us instead? A-At least, that's what my father said, the first time the Danes wintered in—"

"Your father?" King Edmund had said, cutting him off. "Ah, you're Osmund's son, aren't you? You took his place in the witan when the man was killed. I had almost forgotten."

Oswald had winced at the king's dismissive tone. Edmund was only a few years older than him, and yet… he was everything a king should be, tall and handsome, with a strong jaw dusted with a fair, close-cropped beard. Oswald felt even more like a scrawny sheepherder under the heat of his stare. They were distant kinsmen—but Oswald was the feeble descendant of a cadet branch of the royal family, while Edmund was proud as only the scion of a kingly dynasty could be.

"My father said the Danes seek unfair tactics to win their battle," Oswald continued, somewhat desperately. "They might not have the resources necessary to withstand a siege—"

King Edmund lay a hand upon his shoulder. "You are a good man, Oswy." Oswald bit down a retort, hands tightening into fists at his side. "East Anglia will need good men to win this fight. Good men who believe that the Saxons of England—most beloved of all of God's children—will prevail in the war against the devil's kin and the darkness they bring. Drink and be merry, my friend! Tomorrow, you shall fight for the soul of East Anglia."

"I will fight for the soul of East Anglia, aye," Oswald had said. He did not need to believe in Edmund's empty promises to make this assertion, this oath. "And I will give my life for her people, if need be."

At that moment, scorching pain had flared through his arm, and Oswald had wrenched himself away from the king, clenching his jaw to keep himself from screaming. Edmund was looking at him as if he'd gone mad. From behind, the din of conversation dimmed down to murmurs. All thegns and ealdormen of East Anglia stared at Oswald as he twisted in agony, hand clasped around his arm.

"Oswy?" said the king. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine, it's fine," Oswald panted, as finally the pain receded. God, what a foolish sight he must have made. "Th-Thank you, l-lord." And with a quick bow, he had retreated to his seat, under bewildered—and scornful—stares.

Valdis watched him, silent and attentive, as Oswald raised his arm, looking at the mark somewhat wretchedly. "It burned when it appeared on my skin," he continued. "Meanwhile, my companions kept feasting as if we'd already won, while I… Lord Almighty, I just kept looking at your name, wondering if that meant the battle was already lost and we just didn't know it. If that meant I would betray my countrymen, my liege lord, my kingdom."

Yes, Oswald had looked upon the hallowed name of the one God intended for him, and he had wondered—is that a slave's brand? Will we be thralls to the whims of pagan warlords? Back then, the idea had filled him with dread; there was not one family in East Anglia who had not lost a loved one to Norse or Dane slavers. Would God be so cruel as to let His flock suffer such a fate? He had not dared imagine.

"Do you think you betrayed them," Valdis asked, breaking his pensive silence, "by marrying me?"

"Oh, heavens, no," Oswald replied. "But still, I fear…"

"That others will not think that way. That history will remember you as the man who sold East Anglia for a crown—or worse, for a woman."

"I did it for them," Oswald mumbled. "I did it so we could have peace, finally." There had been enough death, enough destruction. Oswald's dignity and reputation were a small price to pay to give his people the chance to return to their fields and tend to their broken families.

"I know you did," Valdis answered just as softly. For a moment, she brushed his curls in a soothing gesture, her other hand laying over his heart, warm and reassuring. He gave her a grateful smile, and she responded by caressing his cheek.

Then Oswald said, "You knew from the moment we met that I was the one to whom your soul mark referred. Why didn't you tell me?"

Valdis tilted her head. "We were to be married out of convenience. That suited my needs. I had no wish for sentiment. Love is sweet, but more often than not it can be a burden as well."

Oswald's heart plummeted somewhere near the pit of his stomach. He sat up from her lap, thinking back to these last few days, sweet as honey: those bright morning where he awoke to the warmth of her body as she nestled against him, those privileged evenings where she sang and played the lyre for his ears alone, and—God, of course he'd been a fool to keep his hopes up, to think that she would ever—

"I-I see," he managed, evading her gaze. "V-Very sensible, that's true…"

"And you? Why did you not tell me?"

"I did not feel worthy of you," Oswald muttered. "I still do."

Valdis's brows came together in a stern expression. "Oswald, I led your people in battle to avenge your name. We stormed a castle for your sake."

With some desperation, Oswald blurted out, "Pragmatism dictates—"

"Pragmatism had nothing to do with it. Grief fuelled me in this battle. Grief and…" She could not quite finish that sentence. "I am here because I chose to be. The gods are wise, but I alone know the depths of my mind." Valdis tapped her arm. "If that mark showed Rued's name, do you think I would have returned to him, a tamed wolf with my tail tucked between my legs?"

"You wouldn't have," Oswald replied, immediately.

"No. I would have ripped his throat apart and I would not have cared what the gods would have done in retribution. I've had enough of people making choices for me. My fate is mine to shape, mine alone."

"But… you said… that sentiment was a burden, and…"

"You are a fool," she said, reaching to capture his lips. Time seemed to hold still as she pressed her mouth against his. Oswald felt a stab of disappointment when she pulled away. "There. Do you understand now?"

Oswald's gaze went to her mouth, and back to her eyes again. "Not quite," he said piteously, biting down his lip to keep himself from smiling too much. "I might need… another demonstration…" In response, she flicked a finger at his nose. "Ow!" Still, not a moment later, and he was laughing.