"Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is." Carl Jung.

The road back from East Anglia had been miserable, with bad weather following Eivor all the way to Mercia. After their victory at Burh Castle, she had sent the longship back home to Ravensthorpe, so they could carry the loot taken from the battle against Rued and his raiders. Eivor had stayed behind in Elmenham to attend King Oswald's wedding. The ceremonies had been lavish, and Eivor would have gladly spent more time in the company of the friends she had made in this bog-infested kingdom, but… she missed Ravensthorpe terribly. She missed her people, her clan; she missed Gunnar and Valka and Svend and Tove, and all the others who had followed her in this mad venture across the sea. She missed Sigurd, his easy smiles, his brotherly taps on the shoulder, his ever-comforting presence.

(But most of all she missed—)

Eivor shooed that thought away before the name could form in her mind. Lately, she had been troubled by worries she barely wished to acknowledge, worries that made her heart ache with longing. Oswald's wedding—and the obvious love he shared with his new bride—had only deepened the aching gap she felt deep within herself. She had been touched with envy whenever the royal couple had shared a loving glance, a stolen kiss. Again, Eivor chased those pesky emotions away. It was unbecoming of a warrior such as herself to be tormented with such childish concerns.

At least, the sun had timidly started to peer out of the dark clouds that had dogged Eivor's every step those last few days. Her horse had rested well this night, and the path was starting to edge toward the river; she could now hear the sweet melody of the Nene's flowing waters if she concentrated on the sound. Ravensthorpe was surely close, Eivor was certain of it.

A butterfly, yellow wings kissed golden by the sun, suddenly irrupted from the woods. Eivor smiled at the sight. She had never seen such a specimen here in England. She prompted her horse into an easy trot to follow her new guide. By the side of the path, she noticed a ramshackle hut. On a wooden bench sat an old man, clad in an old tattered black cloak. Eivor could only see the tip of a very long nose peering out of his hood. The golden butterfly glided along the path, before landing on the tip of the old man's walking stick. Beneath his hood, Eivor saw the white gleam of a toothy grin.

"Hail, travellers!" he called. "You seem weary. Come, sit with an old man and speak of your journey."

Eivor hesitated for a moment. On his stick, the butterfly opened and closed its wings in a lazy, contented manner. For some reason, this was why she chose to dismount her horse.

"I have been travelling for several days, yes," said Eivor. "I could indeed use a rest. And you seem rather lonely, grandfather." The nearest village was several hours' away. Where was his family? How could he survive here, all on his lonesome?

"Oh no, oh no," said the old man. "I am never truly alone." He motioned at the butterfly with his chin. "See, this little fellow is a close friend of mine. He often brings me company, you see?"

Eivor smiled. A friend of butterflies. It was silly, but she had met sillier people on her travels. "What is your name?"

"There are some," the old man, echoing her smile, "who call me Ingwine."

Eivor snorted. "Are they many? Those who call you by that name?"

"More than you imagine." His smile was unsettling, she had to admit. She didn't think a human mouth could open that big. "Many travellers come here to gain wisdom from the cave that can be found behind my humble home."

"The cave?" Eivor crossed her arms, trying to look beyond the hovel. She could see nothing. "What cave?"

Ingwine chuckled. The sound was not pleasant. "It is called the Caverna Psyches, or so said my grandfather, who was told by his grandfather, who has been taught that name from his own grandsire. That appellation is as old as the Roman ruins that litter this land. It is said that all who visit the cave learn about their true selves. Hence the name."

"Is that so?" Eivor said, quirking a brow. "Have you ever gone there to learn about your true self, grandfather?"

"Of course I have." There came that grating laugh again. "It takes bravery to face one's shadow. You are well-armed with shield and steel, a true-bred warrior of the North… but are you brave, I wonder?"

Eivor tensed, losing all levity. "Do not call me coward, old man," she growled. "My axe has gladly feasted on the spoils of war as of late."

"Oh, I do not doubt the strength of your sword-arm. The metal and mettle of your soul, however…"

"Where is that cave?" Eivor asked, gruffly. "I tire of your insinuations. I will defeat whatever monster lies within and silence that snake tongue of yours."

His bulging, bloodshot eyes remained fixed on her. Had he even blinked in the time they had been speaking together? "If that is your wish, then I shall show you. It is only a short way from here…"

The old man had not lied; deeper in the forest, they found the mouth of a cave, carved inside a rocky cliff. Eivor could see some pinpricks of light coming from deeper in the darkness. Someone had lit torches inside the cavern, it seemed.

"It is so travellers can easily find their way inside," old Ingwine told her when she voiced her observation aloud. "Even so, it can be rather difficult to follow the path. This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter. What will truth will you find in its depths, I wonder?"

Eivor only grunted in response. She was no longer amused. His strange platitudes were starting to grate on her.

He had only laughed and said, "You will understand in time, travellers. Fare thee well"

Ingwine had not followed when Eivor had entered the cave. Even with the dim light, it was hard to make out her surroundings. Eivor held up her own torch, feeling the rocky wall with her other hand as she advanced. The flames emitted a low light, wavering in the slight breeze coming from behind Eivor. She heard no sound except the slow drip of water falling into a puddle. For some reason, her heart thumped in her ears.

She walked on a wet, squishy surface. Moss? Or a cluster of mushrooms? Whatever it was, it sent a pungent cloud to Eivor's nostrils. Her scowl deepened as she hid her mouth with her hand to shield herself from the smell. More and more, this felt like a trap—one in which she'd easily walked into. The old man was surely laughing back at his miserable hut. Eivor huffed out a curse, ready to stomp out of the cave to give him a piece of her mind—but then she heard something strange.

The cries of a child.

She stilled at the sound. Yes, from the darkness came a few soft sobs. Her heart twisted; all carefulness dissipated from her mind as she hurried forward, calling hoarsely, "Is there someone here? Where are you?"

There was a hiccup and then: "Please come! I'm… I'm scared!"

Eivor stumbled forward on the slippery ground, following the cries for help. Here, cracks in the rocky ceiling allowed some sunlight to pour through. Finally, she reached a larger, round space; she could spy a figure in the centre, lying prone on the ground.

A dark spot glistened under the child's neck. Blood? Eivor's heart hammered in her chest. The child uttered a single whine.

"Help, please, help!" the little one sobbed. "Everyone is… everyone…"

Eivor tore a piece out of the cloth hanging by her belt and she pressed it at the child's wound. "Shh, shh… everything is all right, I will get you to safety. What happened? How did you end up here?"

"The wolves…" the child managed, and Eivor tensed, visited by familiar, deeply-set fears. The memories of sharp fangs flashed in her mind, and she remembered a haunting chorus of howls. Beside her, the child uttered, "I was running, and they… they got to me…"

Eivor shivered at those words. How had the child managed to get this deep into the cave with that wound? The girl's hair was shorn close to the scalp and—wait, why was Eivor certain it was a girl? At this age, it could have been a boy as well. Suddenly, her finely honed warrior's instincts screamed at her to run. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. And yet Eivor could not leave this poor child to her fate, could she? Especially if the pack still lingered in the shadows, ready to finish the bloody work they had started…

"I must move you," Eivor said, as gently as possible. "I will take you to a healer. Is that all right with you, little one?"

The child hiccupped again. "Don't leave me. Please. Don't leave!"

And before Eivor could place another word, the girl turned her face toward her.

Eivor reeled back, stifling yet another curse. That face… half-forgotten memories floated back to the forefront of her mind, memories of playing with her mother's mirror, giggling as she practised making ferocious expressions she could use to scare her future enemies on the fields of battle. Eivor knew that face, could see an older, harsher version of it whenever she looked at her own reflection in the waters of the Nene—but the eyes staring back at her were all wrong, yellow and bright as flames. Too bright. No human child had eyes such as these.

Instant revulsion shot through Eivor, and she backed away. "What… what is this? What are you?"

The golden-eyed child managed to get to her knees. "No, no, no," she wailed. "Don't leave, don't leave. Everybody leaves. Father, Mother… all of my clan… they're all gone."

"What manner of spirit are you," Eivor said, hoarsely, "to wear that face? What trickery, what mockery, is this?"

The girl stood on shaking legs, and Eivor took another involuntary step backward. Now the child's face was hidden in the gloom. All she could see were the yellow eyes, bright and piercing through the haze, and the neck with its ghastly wound, pouring out blood black as night.

"They'll leave too," the child said, and her voice no longer was no longer shaking. The too-bright stare pinned Eivor into place. "Gunnar and Valka and Svend and Tove… everyone you love… you'll lose them eventually. Sigurd will leave you too. And so will Randvi."

Eivor flinched at the mention of those last two. "How do you know these names?" she nearly roared. Her hand was on her axe. Her blood was ice in her veins. "What manner of twisted seidr conjured you from my mind?"

The child advanced, and Eivor backed away again, quite unintentionally. The girl uttered another heart-wrenching wail.

"No, no, don't leave," she said, reaching for Eivor beseechingly. "I'm so tired of being so strong, I just… I don't want to be alone again, please stay!"

Eivor ought to have felt compassion in the face of such sorrow. She ought to have come forward to take the child in her arms, she ought to whisper words of comfort in her ear. And yet, she was filled with loathing at the sight of this pitiful display. Gods, Eivor wanted nothing more than let that pathetic creature rot away in the darkness, forever forgotten by a world that tolerated no such weakness. Little Eivor had endured her losses without troubling anyone with her grief; so could this repulsive, two-faced phantom.

"Don't touch me," Eivor spat as the yellow-eyed wretch came forward. The fake child stilled in its tracks. Tears streaked down its grimed cheeks. The yellow eyes flared even brighter.

"Please…" it tried, once again. "Oh, please… Eivor…"

"Don't speak as if you know me," Eivor said through gritted teeth, turning to leave.

From behind came no response. Then, in a soft, sorrowful voice, the child said, "But I do know you. You are me, and I am you."

Eivor stopped. Before she could turn and respond, however, a dark, four-legged figure sprang from behind her, knocking her to the ground.

And then the creature's gaping maw was at her throat.