She was gone.
Behind Eivor, the church bells rang loud, mournful in the autumn air. People were gathering in front of the chapel, speaking in low tones. Eivor did not care to join them. She was solitary by nature, and drew more comfort from the rustle of the river than from the company of others—or from the austere presence of God's house on earth.
There was only one man who could have soothed Eivor's worries, and he was long gone. Finally, Oswald of East Anglia would not be alone in the paradise promised to the good and virtuous. His beloved wife—Eivor's mother—had agreed to a Christian burial only in the hopes of joining her husband wherever he had gone after his passing. Eivor had hated every second of the ceremony. The priest had droned on and on, extolling the virtues of piety and submission to the Christian God. No other words could describe Valdis of the Boar Clan less. The woman had been proud, stubborn, fierce. England had filed down her fangs, yes, but Eivor's mother had been pagan to the last, a warrior queen guarding the peace her husband had won through sweat, tears and blood.
Eivor watched the light of the setting sun shimmering in the waters of the Wensum as she sat on the pier. Mechanically, she kept fletching arrows, only so she had something to do with her hands. From behind came a familiar wail. Her little sister, Eadith. Their mother would not meet the child she carried. The sound tugged at Eivor's heartstrings, and part of her felt compelled to rush to her sister's side. But Eivor remained unmoving. Tears burned at her eyes. Still, she did not dare to let them flow. She willed herself to be as still and cold as a block of ice, focusing on the repetitive gestures of her task. Eventually, Eadith's sobs subsided. She had their older brother Eohric to comfort her, not to mention her husband Beornstan. Eadith would be all right; she did not need Eivor.
Several of Elmenham's children ran past, laughing despite the grim circumstances. Among them were Asleif and Dagny, Eohric's daughters. Eivor's nieces were too young to understand that the grandmother who had loved them so fiercely was gone forever. As such, the touch of grief was not upon them—one of this dreadful day's only blessings. Eivor managed a smile as they passed. The girls giggled at their aunt, before following the rest of the children.
Eivor's smile dissipated the moment they were out of sight. Someone else came to take their place: a young man, tall and bright-eyed, his blond curls shaved at the side. Eivor's brother, Jarl of the Boar clan.
And king of East Anglia.
Eohric came to stand beside her. His blue eyes were wistful, and the ghost of a smile playing alongside his lips. With his hands on his hips, gaze lost to the flow of the river, he very much resembled their father. Like Oswald of Elmenham, Eohric's face was ever earnest, as easy to read as an open book. Eivor felt a dull pang at his smile.
"Are you all right, sister?" Eohric finally said. "I noticed you left before the end of the ceremony."
Eivor scowled, looking downward. She took another piece of wood, furiously hacking at it with her knife to make a new haft. She remained stubbornly silent.
Eohric chuckled. "Not in a mood to talk, eh?"
"What is there to say," Eivor said, taking great relish in each swipe of her knife, "that hasn't been said already?"
"I don't know," Eohric replied, with unusual gentleness. "But I'd hear your words anyway."
Eivor threw him a look. "God, stop. Don't act as if you've grown wise in your years."
"Of course I've grown wise," Eohric said, with exaggerated pompousness. "I'm a king, comes with the job."
"You were my piece of shit brother before you were a king," Eivor said, barely suppressing a smirk. Damn the man. He was the only person on this sorry earth who could wring a smile out of her when she was in her darkest mood. "I've tales that would make those poor courtiers of yours faint from the shame. King my arse, you are."
Eohric let out a laugh, and Eivor chuckled. Then, his expression grew serious.
"I can't believe she's gone," he said, quietly. "Dagny keeps asking when her dear Amma is going to come back. Thorunn tried to explain it to her, but…" Quite suddenly, he turned to face Eivor. "Where has she gone, you think? With Father in Heaven or…"
Eivor looked away. There was a sour taste in her mouth. Valdis Eiriksdóttir had died in her bed, simply fading away after a long battle with illness. The woman had kept to her gods until the end, swimming against the current as the rest of her clan converted to the English ways—but because of the manner of her death, the Allfather would never reward her for that devotion. It made Eivor want to vomit.
"I don't know," she spat. "Why should I know?"
Eohric shrugged. "I thought… since you are the one among the three of us who is the most like her, then…"
Eivor stood from the pier. She wanted to scream until her face was blue. She wanted to stomp her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. She wanted to cling onto her brother and pummel at his chest in inept rage.
She did none of these things. Instead, she breathed in deeply, letting a coldness wash over her, dimming the embers of grief. Then Eivor met her brother's gaze, her green eyes completely dry. Eohric frowned slightly; this barest show of pity almost made her want to explode in rage again.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "She's gone somewhere we can't reach. And we'll never see her again."
And with these words, Eivor turned on her heel and walked away, leaving her brother alone to ponder dark thoughts in the dimming twilight.
He was gone.
The church bells of the Old Minster of Wincestre had finally gone silent. The mourners were leaving the premises; Æthelflæd had spent the whole of the afternoon receiving their sympathies. Now, she was weary, so weary. She had not shed a tear throughout her father's funeral ceremonies. The people grieved their beloved king; they needed someone to comfort them in a time of fear and uncertainty.
As always, Æthelflæd had been that certain someone.
Now she was sitting in the courtyard of the kingdom's witan hall, watching over her daughter and her brother Edward's two children. Aelfwynn was tall for her age, taking more after her father than her West Saxon relatives. She was a deft hand when dealing with her younger cousins. Little Æthelstan and Eadgyth's mother had not been at their grandfather's funeral. When Æthelflæd had asked Edward where she had gone, he had brusquely said, "Later. We'll speak of this later."
Now Edward had gone to convene with the witan, leaving Æthelflæd to look after the children. She had been seized with a foreboding feeling when Edward had refused her entry into the meeting hall. From his tender youth, her brother had gone to her for counsel; he'd been a shy and tenderhearted child, and more than once she had served as his rock, protecting him from the jibes of his peers and advising him on his studies. And now, for the first time in nearly over two decades, Edward had turned his sister away.
"The witan needs to speak of matters of succession," he had told her. "You don't need to concern yourself with such a difficult topic on this day of grief. And I would like for you to stay with the children. They need you, more than ever."
Where is their mother? Æthelflæd had wanted to shout. Edward's marriage to sweet Ecgwynn had been arranged by their father, but Æthelflæd's brother had come to the altar reluctantly. Æthelflæd hoped the girl was all right, wherever she was.
"Mother!" Aelfwynn came sauntering toward her, Æthelstan and Eagyth toddling behind her. "Look what we found!"
The sweet girl held a colourful beetle. Æthelstan giggled; he could not stop staring at the insect as it climbed Aelfynn's fingers. There was some snot coming out of his nose. Æthelflæd took out a handkerchief, wiping it.
"That's lovely, my heart," said Æthelflæd. "What else did you find?"
Aelfwynn loved nature; she was at her happiest when searching for bugs and flowers and strangely-shaped rocks. "There was a ladybug, but she flew away! Æthelstan found this, too!"
"Ta-dah!" said Æthelflæd's nephew. He showed her a flower—a pale yellow primrose. "For you, Aunt Æfæd!"
"My, what a thoughtful gift," Æthelflæd said, taking the flower and stroking Æthelstan's blond head. The boy and his sister had been the lights of their grandfather's life in those last few years of illness. King Aelfred had also loved his little Aelfwynn dearly; whenever they had visited Wincestre, the girl had spent most of her time with her grandfather, reading and writing for him like a dutiful little scribe. The aging king's eyes had not been as sharp as they had been in his youth, after all.
Æthelflæd glanced above the boy's head. Across the courtyard, a few people had gathered to speak together in low tones; nobles of the court who were not part of the witan. Among them was a young man with a pock-marked face and blond hair cut in a messy, unflattering style. He dipped his head slightly to salute Æthelflæd. She nearly did not return his smile. Æthelwold. Her cousin, the son of her father's brother.
To her great displeasure, he began to make his way toward her. The children gave him a curious look as he took place before Æthelflæd. Her hand tightened into a fist on the stone bench.
"Dear cousin!" Æthelwold began. "We've not had the opportunity to speak together during the ceremony. How are you, truly?"
"All is well," Æthelflæd managed. "I am aggrieved, yes, but time will heal this wound, as it has healed all others before it."
"Who're you?" Æthelstan asked. More snot was dripping from his nose.
Æthelwold's smile froze. He glanced at her nephew, and… for a moment, the facade cracked, and Æthelflæd could read all the disdain, all the resentment he held for the boy. Then, his face was smooth and smiling once more, and Æthelflæd could almost believe she had just dreamed this moment.
"Why, dear boy, I'm your father's cousin," Æthelwold said. "The son of your grandfather's elder brother. We met when you were very young. That's why you don't remember me."
"I remember you," said Aelfwynn.
Æthelwold glanced at her for the merest of moments, before looking back to Æthelflæd. "How is your husband, by the way?"
Aelfwynn shot her mother a distressed look. Æthelflæd willed her face to be as smooth as possible as she answered, "Still bedridden. But he remains in good spirits."
"That is good to hear. You've lost your father, already. Wouldn't that be a shame if you lost your husband as well?"
Aelfwynn made a little noise, almost a whine. Æthelflæd stood up, putting a hand over her daughter's head. She was taller than Æthelwold. God, how she hated his smile… it never reached his eyes, which remained cold and calculating ever as his words dripped with honey.
"Well, I will be off, then," said Æthelwold. "The road back to Wimborne will be long and harsh. Take good care of yourself and of your loved ones, dear Æthelflæd."
"Safe travels, cousin," Æthelflæd said, inclining her head.
When he was gone, she finally exhaled at last. Aelfwynn was looking at her in worry. And poor little Eadgyth seemed ready to fall asleep on the spot.
God, how Æthelflæd longed to speak with her father one last time… wise King Aelfred would have known how to navigate those dark, troubled waters in which she was now lost. Pushing aside her concerns, Æthelflæd gathered her niece into her arms and said, "Let's go, children. I am ready for this dreadful day to finally be over."
They were gone.
Sigrún Gullveigsdóttir sat on the docks of Ravensthorpe, eyes lost across the river Nene. Eivor and Randvi had left in the dark of the night, while the rest of the village slept. Only Valka had witnessed their departure.
The whole of the Raven clan had been in chaos this morning. Rumours and murmurs said that their beloved Jarlskona was planning to leave for a long trip—but no one truly believed these absurd tales. Eivor had held on fast for more than two decades, protecting their little hamlet from the ambitions of greedy Jarls and intolerant Saxon lords. Why would she abandon them now that they needed her more than ever?
And yet she had left. For the second time in her life, Sigrún had lost her parents.
She remembered very little of her birth mother. With the last of her strength, Gullveig Hjalmarsdóttir, proud shieldmaiden of the Great Heathen Army, had brought her young daughter to Ravensthorpe, where she had hoped to find the father Sigrún had been named after. The Jarl of the Raven clan had already gone by then, however, leaving his sister Eivor in charge of his flock. Eivor and her wife Randvi had taken Sigrún under their wing, raising her as the daughter they could never have.
Sigrún could not have asked for better parents. Eivor was strong and warm, wise in her own odd ways. And Randvi was the very model of responsibility and resilience. Together, they had showered their niece with love and pride, teaching Sigrún how to face a world that was unkind, but oh-so-beautiful in its imperfections.
What was going to happen to Ravensthorpe now that they were gone?
Now that the clan had lost its two most stalwart protectors?
The tumult had died down, thankfully. Old Gunnar—using his son Varin to rely his words to the people—had managed to calm and disperse the crowd that had gathered at the longhouse. Sigrún suspected he had also been in the secret regarding Eivor's departure. Quite possibly she had designed him—and stout-hearted Varin—to lead the village in her absence. Sigrún was relieved to see that the villagers had gone back to their usual occupations. But still, she was plagued by a niggling feeling…
Why had Eivor and Randvi not breathed a word of their plan to the one they loved as a daughter?
(...did they trust Sigrún so little?)
Sigrún closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, letting the soothing sound of flowing water ease her mind. To no avail; a sob bubbled at the surface, and she grabbed at her chest, trembling as she tried to force it back from where it had emerged. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. God, she could not cry, not now. Eivor would not have cried. Neither would have Randvi. Sigrún felt weak and weary; she was not a stupid little girl anymore, she should not, could not—
"Sigrún?" a soft voice said from behind.
Sigrún gasped, looking over her shoulder. A man, silver dusting his fine black hair and beard, stood behind her. Hytham sat on the pier beside her, letting his feet dangle toward the water. Sigrún swallowed her sobs as much as she could.
"How are you, child?" he asked, ever so gently.
"I'm fine," she answered. "It's fine." To her great horror, she sniffed a little. Hytham's gentle features became even softer.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have checked up on you earlier. But with the Jarlskona gone…"
"You were busy, yes," Sigrún said, wiping her eyes. "I'm not a child anymore, Hytham. I don't need to be comforted as if I were still a little girl scared of the monsters under her bed."
"Even adults grieve, Sigrún."
"They're not dead. They're just… gone. I'm sure they're fine, perfectly fine." And they will never come back, said a little voice in her head. They've left you, just like—
"I'm grieved as well," said Hytham. "Eivor and Randvi were good friends to me. Family, even. Your emotions are perfectly valid, child, and I share them."
Tears welled up in Sigrún's eyes, and Hytham put a comforting arm around her shoulders. For a moment, they sat in silence, contemplating the river as Ravensthorpe continued to live behind them, as if nothing had happened, as if the whole of the clan had not just been abandoned by their beloved Jarlskona and her ever-loyal frú. Sigrún cried in silence for a moment. Hytham squeezed her shoulders in sympathy.
When she had stopped crying, he stood up. Sigrún could see how his knee struggled under his weight, the old wound making this simple act much more difficult than it ought to be. He held out his hand to Sigrún with a smile. She pointedly ignored it, using her cane to push herself upright. Her right leg screamed at the effort.
"We should be going," Hytham said. "There is much to do, isn't it?"
Sigrún sighed. He was right; life went on, uncaring of their plight. And the village needed them both, more than ever. Despite these dark thoughts, Sigrún managed to smile. "You're right. There is much to do."