Four
"Where do you think she goes?"
Edvard remains silent, his eyes tracking Izabela as she – once again – leaves the Chieftain's longhouse with a basket hoisted in her pale-fingered grip. His eyesight is very good. He can see how her shoulders round under the strain of carrying the evidently heavy basket. Her expression is nervous, like prey, as she glances back down the hill, checking that she is not being followed before she scurries away from the village. She carries her bow and quiver strapped to her back, which is unusual for her.
Not into the forest and not toward the farmlands in the valley. She goes toward the mountain, but also down toward the fjords. Dangerous terrain. Dangerous to navigate safely. But in spite of her burden and harried pace, she is quick to pick her way across the craggy juts of rock and disappears into distant morning mists with rare grace.
Edvard rolls his shoulders. "Mind your own business, Emebor."
His brother makes a face. "Mind your own business," he mocks in a terrible imitation of Edvard's flat tone. Emebor sucks his teeth and turns to Jaspar. "What do you think?"
"Of what?" Jaspar is not paying attention, too busy – like Edvard – dragging a whetstone across the blade of his longsword to be interested in Emebor's gossiping inclinations.
"For the love of Odin," Emebor grumbles. "Where do you think the Chieftain's daughter goes? Every day it is the same. The sun rises, I have my gruel, I steal a kiss from my Różyczka, and I come to train with you louts – and then little Izabela sneaks away from the village. Where is she going?"
Jaspar flicks blond hair out of his face with the back of his hand and says, "Is the Chieftain's daughter not Edvard's concern? I care not what she does or why, so long as her actions do not harm the village."
Emebor huffs. "Yes, well, Edvard does not seem to care, even though we both know he does."
"What she does is her business," Edvard says blandly.
At that, Emebor pounds his fist against his knee and points at Edvard accusingly. "You know, the other day I swear I saw that basket of hers smoking. Tell me, is that not strange?"
Admittedly, Edvard had seen the same thing and it had also made him curious. But he is not about to give Emebor the satisfaction of knowing his skin practically itches with the need to know what Izabela does each morning far away from the village. She has a life her own that Edvard has no right to intrude upon – and even if he quietly longs to know all of Izabela, she is entitled to having a secret. All people have secrets.
Edvard included – although his is, perhaps, rather more usual than most secrets.
Surely Izabela's secret, whatever it may be, is not as alienating as Edvard's.
Emebor does not await a response. He pokes Edvard in the shoulder, hard enough that Edvard can feel it through the cured leather of his vest. "You are favored by the Chieftain, brother. This girl could one day be your wife. How do you not care?"
Edvard's heart throbs within the safety of his ribcage.
The truth of it is that Edvard does care – and Emebor knows it, he only wishes to goad Edvard into admission because he is an ass – and he has long-since known that the Cheiftain has been watching him with the intention to make a match. The Chieftain needs an heir, someone to rule the village when he is gone, and since Izabela is his only child, the next Chieftain will have to be Izabela's husband. Chalisław seems to think that, out of all the other men in the village, Edvard has the most promising potential.
He understands the rationale, but he cringes at the very idea.
It seems wrong that he should take Izabela as a wife for mere political gain and the prospect of lifelong security. Especially because the way he feels about Izabella is most assuredly not political. Not in the slightest.
Which has naturally brought him to a conundrum in how to behave around the object of his affections. Edvard's reserved personality would not allow for anything so overt as Emebor's shameless public affections, but he should be able to muster something more than the monosyllabic utterances he does manage in Izabela's presence. Only he finds himself nervous and torn by the knowledge of what her father intends for them to become. The end result is unsatisfying.
Izabela likely loathes him.
He wouldn't be surprised if she resents him for the implication that she needs a husband to keep her place in looking after the village. She has always been very independent. Unique to the other girls he grew up with. Even now, she has forged her own role.
Edvard does not want to be the obstacle in the future she is building for herself, even if he does want to be the one to warm her bed and father her children. He wants to be the only one to ever have her body and hear her worries.
He does not know how to reconcile both desires – and so he does neither.
He is a coward.
Edvard scrapes the whetstone harshly down his longsword, his face twisting in frustration. "Mind your own business, Emebor," he repeats with a fearsome scowl. "Or will I have to remind you why I have been named the best warrior in the village?"
Emebor curls his lip, but finally falls quiet.
Edvard presses his molars together and – once again – begins turning over the problem of Izabela over in his head. What should he do? What is right? What does not infringe upon her freedom but also keep her safe?
A sign would be appreciated, Odin, he thinks as his gaze lifts to the far-off mists, waiting for Izabela to return.
Any sign at all.
A/N: A short, but important chapter - I dropped a few breadcrumbs for upcoming chapters, as I'm sure you noticed. Also, it's kind of funny that Edvard is the Most Socially Awkward Viking Ever. Hilarious.
Odin was mentioned in this chapter and he's a doozy of a Norse mythological figure. He's the Allfather, father of the majority of Norse divinities, and of course is known for being the high ruler of Norse Gods. But he's also associated with many, many skills. This is probably because in Old Norse, Odin (Odr) means ecstacy and fury and inspiration. Rightfully so, on top of being the Allfather, he's also a god of war, a god of wisdom, a trickster, a shaman, a necromancer, and a god of poetry (for some reason). He has the most documented stories in Norse myths, probably because he's kind of a vagrant, wandering king; he also played the most important part in the Norse creationist story. He's wild. Anyway, some scholars figure that Norse peoples often looked to Odin for direct signs and divine intervention. Praying to Odin was basically like praying to a Magic 8 Ball, though, since you never really knew what Odin would decide to do. He was kind of a dick. You know, for a King of Gods.
Someone asked last chapter if seidr is like magic - and the answer is yes, it basically is. Pretty much. But not like magic as we tend to think of it. From what I've read, seidr in Norse mythology was a woman's - and Odin's - skill that empowered them to play within the bounds of potentiality. Think of it like probability manipulation, only there weren't really spells, exactly, and the results were finite. A lot of it seemed to center around runes and ritual sacrifice, though. For this story, I'm just going to...make it up as I go. :)
As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.
~cupcakeriot