The way home from Great Heddinge was not as prolonged as the journey had been on their way there. The sun did not stand as high on the sky anymore, and so the air had a gentle freshness to it, cooling their skin gently as they backtracked across the Danish heathery landscape, overgrown with flourishing purple heather that filled the air with sweet and heavy fragrances.

But was it not always like that?

Going somewhere new always makes the nerves in your body tickle with expectations, while going back home has you tiresome from all the new senses and imaginaries that you have taken in during your journey.

But Frida still enjoyed the trip back home plenty. Ubbe and Hvitserk told more songs from their seat on the top of the wagon, and Frida was surprised when she heard Ingeborg sing along to one of them.

The story was a most horrendous story of a poor girl whose fiancé was sent off to fight in battle, and because their father did not have faith in his return, the girl was soon promised to another man. This man had the appearance of a troll, his manners even worse, and so she stood in her window, wishing for a chance to seek refuge with her loved once across the sea.

But on the sky soon appeared a great raven, who spoke to her in a whisper: "Listen, my maiden Hermlein. What will you give in return of me flying you to your fiancé?"

And the maiden, strayed in her spirit like a sheep, told him that she would give anything, all treasures of gold and silver that she possessed would be his, if only he would take her away from her prison.

But the raven did not want her treasures, and he looked at her with the big black pearls in his skull that were his eyes, saying: "The first son that you will have with your fiancé is to be mine, and you will give him to me on the day of his birth."

Frida had felt shivers travel down her spine when the maiden Hermelin had agreed to the raven's offer, and soon she was with her beloved fiancé, in a foreign country and under a different moon. So the maiden Hermelin soon forgot about the black raven, and nine months later she birthed her and her fiancé a little son, and a still knocking was heard on the window.

"Remember what you promised me, maiden Hermelin, back when you were in your prison?"

And the maiden Hermelin remembered, she swept her son in soft fabrics, looking away as she handed him over, saying: "Take my son, take him away, he will never see his mother."

And the raven had scratched out her son's right eye in that instant, before drinking his young heart blood. And the mother cried, all around them cried, their tears like prayers to Asgård.

And so, soon the son awakened before their eyes as a warrior, strong and brave in his posture. The song ended with the melodic words:

"Now, the fair maiden Hermelin
gone is her sorrow and misfortune:
Now she has both brother and child
and sleeps in her fiancé's arms of tribune.
But the raven flies at night."*

Frida had furrowed her brows as the voices of the singers died down, revealing but the rhythms of the trotting of hooves on dry earth, meaning they had covered a lot of ground, moving themselves further and further away from the wet earth of the moor.

She sensed Ragnar's eyes on her coming from the right side of the wagon, and she saw him riding there with a little smile on his lips, his eyes gentler than usual.

"What's wrong?" he asked in a small breath, as his eyes quickly traveled down to her big belly.

Frida chuckled out a little breath too, waving her hand at him. "Nothing, nothing, it was just the song, I um… It just ended weird."

Frida still felt his eyes on her face.

"How so?" he insisted, roaming over her with his blue crystals still.

Frida switched in her seat so she could better see him. The skin over his cheeks were reddening, the sun had been rough on them during the last couple of hours.

She shook her shoulders lightly.

"I don't know. It just seems weird. How can she have both a brother and a child at the end? It makes no sense. Did the raven not kill the boy?"

Ragnar breathed out a small chuckle and turned his eyes to gaze at the horizon in front of them. The sun was starting to down over the Western outline of the sky in front of them as they were riding casually, still moving closer and closer to the waving landscape of Kattegat.

"Yes," Ragnar finally smiled with his eyes still pointed towards the path in front of them, "And the gods made him into the great warrior that he would have been, had he lived. His fate was still the same."

Frida weighed the words in her head for a moment.

"So he went to Valhalla? But then, Hermelin could not have had him. That was what I thought?"

She could sense Floki in front of them turning his eyes back at her for a quick moment, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.

Ragnar smiled: "When we die, we don't just disappear into thin air, nor even to the bones that we leave behind. Our spirit, our legacy, our story will still be here on this earth, circling between those near to you. Those related to you. So when the All-raven takes you to the golden gates of Valhalla," Ragnar finished, turning his gaze back to the coloring sky. "You live on here in Midgård in the stories that your people tell of you."

Frida kept quiet for some time after listening to Ragnar's words.

As beautiful and poetic as they might sound, they were true. Honestly, genuinely, trustworthily true, she knew that.

And when they turned over the path than ran along the top of the hill that would grant them a view of Kattegat longer down the road, Floki spoke similar words that carved themselves into the mind of Frida for her to always remember:

"Cattle die, kinsmen die, you yourself will also die.
But the word about you will never die, if you win a good reputation."

"Cattle die, kinsmen die, you yourself will also die.
I know one that never dies, the character of those who died."*

She felt them speaking to her heart in such honesty, she could not deny their meaning. For if one did not accomplish things that were of grandeur or marvel, people would forget your presence along with the mound they buried you in.

The truth of these words bore notes of bravery and power, but in all their simplicity they were sad too.

For Frida knew of many persons, alive as well as dead, who to her deserved recognition in the history of men. But who would never achieve it, she was aware.

And she found herself suddenly wondering who amongst the ones that she had come to know here in these lands, who would be remembered for all the improbable things they had seen to make happen?

Ragnar?

Floki? Athelstan? Rollo? Lagertha? Torstein?

Bjørn? Ragnar's children?

She felt the child in her stomach kick lively.

Herself? Her children?

She decided in this moment as they were riding casually down the hill that would lead them to their homes, that she would try to persuade Bjørn, when he returned, to agree to the marriage between himself and the Götaland princess Ingeborg.

The gods had to have a grand plan for this man, for his wits and strength bore so many signs of it, his legacy so powerful and his blood so pure. He was bound to do great things, and they were not necessarily to be placed in the village of Kattegat.

She understood that now.

And there was a certain peace to it, she felt it with the blood that pumped through her veins as she later that day sat on the wooden throne of Kattegat's longhouse, her eyes wandering over the many smiling faces that sat scattered across the hall, her hands thoughtlessly caressing Freke's furry soft head beside her.

Bjørn would come home, and he would do many great things. She felt it.

There had just been a meeting in the long-hall between the leading heads of the two kingdoms, of Danes and Geats, and now a feast was playing out before her eyes, and she sat smilingly listening to the tones of the music that was playing from one of the corners of the long-hall.

She was thrilled when she recognized the song from earlier this day being played skillfully into the room, the already distant sensations the magic of the moor had made her feel vibrating slightly over her skin as she took a sip of honey mead from her drinking cup, enjoying herself in her seat.

Suddenly, she sensed movement from her left, and she quickly noticed the beautiful snow blonde hair of Ingeborg moving towards her.

Ingeborg smiled innocently as she placed herself in front of her, but Frida waved her hand, nodding her head at Ragnar's throne beside her.

"Please, take a seat."

Ingeborg widened her eyes, and Frida could almost sense pride beaming from her chest.

"Are you sure?" she asked in a small voice.

Frida nodded, before she lifted her hands as to bring forth one of the servants, asking for a refill for her and the princess.

"I must say," Ingeborg smiled widely as she accepted the drink that one of the servants held out for her, "You are a very generous people here in Kattegat."

She took a small sip of her mead. "I like the spirit of your men," she admitted in an innocent smile. "What is Bjørn like?"

Frida chuckled breathily, and raised her horn at the princess, saying: "Well, if you like spirited men, Bjørn is a man you'd be fascinated with. As the son of Ragnar who watched his father grow from being a simple farmer to a king, he has himself grown very strong and wise. Like his father."

Frida saw Ingeborg's eyes traveling to Ragnar, who was sitting down between Athelstan and Floki by the fire.

"Are they a lot like each other?" she asked, and Frida could sense a nervous tone to her voice.

Frida giggled. "Well, yes, I'm afraid so," she smiled into her horn, her eyes not leaving Ingeborg.

Ingeborg pushed her lips out shortly, before she sipped from her horn. "Good," she chirped, earning Frida to widen her eyes, "I expect him to fight well."

Frida could not believe she found herself surprised by Ingeborg's qualifications in a man, even now that she had lived for such a long time in a Norse land.

She laughed out heartwarmingly and cheered with the Götaland princess.

"I think you would come to like each other very well."

*Valravnen (The All-Raven): It is an old Danish folk song. It is very long, as is normal for the Nordic folk songs, and it is about the raven that would come to take fallen warriors home to Valhalla or Hel (kind of like the Valkyries, but they could only bring the dead to Freya's or Odin's halls, not Hel's).

*These words are originally:
"Døyr fe, døyr frender. Dør sjølv det sama, men ordet om deg aldreg døyr, vinn du et gjetord gjevt.
Døyr fe, døyr frender. Dør sjølv det veit et som aldreg døyr, dom om daudan kvar."
- They are from the Elder Edda (Poetic Edda), and are said to be words of Odin himself. The Norwegian band Wadruna used them in their song "Helvegen"