Eivor had seen only four winters when her mother suffered her first stillbirth.

She should have been too young to understand what it meant. Her father's mother had passed only a moon before, and Eivor had not quite grasped what had happened, why she had been so suddenly sundered from her beloved Amma's warm hands and many kisses.

But this time, Eivor knew what had been taken from her. She should have been a big sister, should have had a brother to cherish and tease and protect. She had long imagined him: small and blue-eyed and so eager to take her hand. Yet, the gods had stolen him away from her, uncaring that they had just ripped her family apart.

Eivor was angry and sad and scared. Varin and Rosta were subdued in their sorrow, and that couldn't be right. Mother was always so cheerful, surrounded by friends and admirers, while Father was the gentlest soul Eivor had ever met, always willing to lend a hand with a smile. Eivor did not like seeing them looking so glum. It was not right; she had said so to her clan's völva, asking her to intercede with bountiful Freyja on her parents' behalf.

Two winters later, and Rosta lost another little one, waking up in a pool of her own blood. This time, Eivor's mother nearly followed her baby—another boy, another lost brother—into the grave. Sacrifices were made to Frigg, beloved of all mothers, and to Freyja as well, to appease the golden-haired goddess. When Rosta became pregnant again, Eivor remained wary. She wanted a younger sibling, oh, yes, she did, but not if it meant losing her mother. Third time was the charm, however, and Rosta gave birth to a boy, fine red hair dusting his lumpy head. Eivor grinned from ear to ear the first time she held her brother. She had seen eight winters, then, and was resolved to become his best friend and protector.

But the gods took as they gave; one winter morning, they found him cold in his crib. By then, Eivor no longer had any tears to shed for another lost sibling. The rage that kept fuelling her, however, served her well in the years afterwards, honing her warriors' instinct.

Then Kjotve raided Heillboer, sacking the town and slaughtering Eivor's people. Her parents joined their sons in Hel's realm, leaving behind a daughter who was reborn anew, not as a protector, but as a being of single-minded purpose: a living weapon who only existed to exact revenge upon her family's killer.

(That new version of Eivor had forgotten that she had once asked her mother where her little brothers had gone, after they had passed from Midgard. "Do they go to Helheim?" she had said, shivering as if she could feel Hel's cold touch upon her own skin. "That wouldn't be fair, would it? They didn't even have the chance to prove themselves in battle. Why should they be alone and forgotten?"

Rosta had looked at her daughter with a smile, but her eyes had been red-rimmed and puffy. "I don't know, love. Wherever they are, I hope we'll meet them again."

"I hope so too. Do you think they would have liked me?"

"Of course. You would have been their great protector. It's right there in your name, you see?"

Eivor had beamed at this, making her mother laugh for the first time in many moons.)

Another feast was winding down in the meadhall at Ravensthorpe. The villagers were returning to their homes, some stumbling rather than walking. A few of Eivor's drengir were still playing a dice game that involved shedding clothes whenever one lost a round. Others were making light conversation. In darkened corners, reunited couples were locking lips, celebrating the longship's return from yet another successful raid in the way only lovers knew. Eivor was seized by a brief jealousy at their sight, suddenly longing for that tender touch herself.

Brushing that sour thought aside, she passed from one table to the other, greeting an overly cheerful Holger here, clapping Birna's hand there. Many had already retired for the night; Randvi, for one, was nowhere to be seen.

Someone was attempting his best to stay awake, however. Eivor felt a grin tugging at her mouth as she headed toward the head of the table, where Ceolbert was staring, a bit cross-eyed, at the bottom of his mug.

Eivor crossed her arms, looking at him with amusement. "I think you've had enough for the night, stripling."

"Wh-what?" he muttered, moving to turn toward her. That was a mistake; Ceolbert swayed in his seat, nearly falling from it. "Eivor? Didn't… didn't notice you…"

"C'mon," she said, hosting him up to his feet, "let's get you to bed, shall we?" The lad offered no resistance, and Eivor saw that his eyes were already closing. "Oof. How much did you have?"

"I'm not—" he slurred. "Can do better—see here—I'm not a child—"

Ah. An adolescent's pride. Eivor remembered that period of her life all too well. Still, Ceolbert had not puked his guts out so far, which meant he was doing better than she ever had.

Eivor grinned. "You're heavy, lad. Putting on some muscles, are we?"

He only mumbled in response. Eivor lay him down on his bed, wondering for a moment if she should at least remove his shoes. She had one foot in hand when she caught him mumbling something: "'s alright, Sunni… I'm not… not a baby…"

Eivor frowned, standing up. Ceolbert remained silent, and he seemed to have fallen asleep. Perplexed, Eivor left his chambers to head toward the war room. As expected, Randvi was writing by the light of a candle. Eivor rolled her eyes; of course Randvi was working while everyone was celebrating or enjoyed a well-earned rest. Typical.

"You should be going to sleep," Eivor chided her, not even hiding her smile.

In response, Randvi only glanced at her. "I could say the same to you, Wolf-Kissed. When have you ever gone to bed at a reasonable hour?"

"Depends on who I'll find in that—" At Randvi's cocked eyebrow, Eivor coughed awkwardly, saying instead, "Ah, well, you know how it is! There is so much to do, and not enough hours in a single day!"

Randvi made a sound of assent. After a slight silence, Eivor added, "Say, did Ceolbert ever speak of someone named, er, Sunni to you?"

Randvi's quill hung over the parchment. She looked at Eivor, slightly frowning. "I remember him saying his sister was named Sunngifu. But she's been dead for a while, I believe. Why are you asking?"

"Oh," was all Eivor could say. "I see."

That night, Eivor lay awake for a while, troubled by Randvi's words. Then, remembering the peace on Ceolbert's face as he slumbered, she relaxed as well, enjoying the warmth of her furs. Not long after, she was wandering Nött's domain, and she remained undisturbed by nightmares as the dark hours passed.

"Eivor! Oh, Eivor!"

She almost did not hear her name being called; the wedding party was loud, which was to be expected of any celebration in Ravensthorpe. Eivor swayed a little as she turned to face the one asking for her. Hunwald was red-faced and grinning, looking rather silly with that flower crown on his head. Sweet Swanburrow wore a matching one, though she was rather more elegant than her groom. She was seated at the main table, speaking with Gudrun and Randvi. The latter had her hair loose, and it fell to her shoulders like copper—

"Eivor!" Hunwald called again, more insistently. He was standing right in her face, hands on his hips. That prompted a few laughs from the other revellers. "Holger told me you Norses are masters of the most ancient art of wrestling! You must teach me, Eivor!"

"Yeah, teach him, Eivor!" called Hrefna, and the rest of Eivor's crew roared in approval, raising their drinking horns.

"Yes!" said Hunwald, snapping his fingers. "I wed a beautiful maid of the north, and I wish to partake in every part of her noble culture! I fought through word and wit while learning the art of flyting, and sang age-old sagas with your skalds! Now I must complete my education, and what better teacher is there than our own Wolf-Kissed warrior?"

To this, the meadhall erupted into loud cheers. Hunwald gestured at his guests, opening his arms wide, goading them, and the crowd went even wilder. Then he smirked at Eivor.

That little shit, she thought, grinning as well. Eivor was so drunk she could barely stand up straight. From the looks of him, Hunwald was hardly faring any better. Yet, she hollered, "I accept your challenge!"

Hunwald whooped, pounding one fist into the other. Swanburrow stood from her seat, uttering, "Oh, love, I don't think—" while Randvi rubbed her temple, sighing. But most of the warriors only punched in the air, chanting, "Fight, fight, fight!"

Sunniva, Eydis and Norvid pushed a few tables away to make a suitable wrestling ground. Birna and a few other of Eivor's raiders let out catcalls as she—rather dramatically—removed the finely-made tunic Valka had given Eivor for special occasions. Eivor struck a few poses for her audience, flexing her muscles. Hunwald made a face, and he glanced toward his bride. "Do… do I have to remove my…?"

"Let's go!" Eivor drunkenly bellowed. "Come on, don't just stand there, move, you big—"

Something small (and reeking of sweat and ale) barreled into her, sapping the air out of her lungs. Eivor staggered, nearly knocked off her feet. Hunwald was holding her midsection and squeezing as hard as he could. Eivor's intoxicated mind tried to make sense of the situation. Oh, he was trying to push her to the ground, wasn't he? Eivor snorted, grinning stupidly. Cute.

Poor Hunwald yelped as she lifted him off his feet. His legs flailed in the air, and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. "Oh, no, no, no," he squeaked. Eivor's raiders were calling for his blood—figuratively, she hoped, since it was pretty poor form to hurt a groom on his wedding day, wasn't it?

Still, she owed her crowd a good show. Grinning even more widely, she bent backward, as if she was about to throw Hunwald behind her. The lad screamed. And yet Eivor held on to him, not letting him fall. The top of Hunwald's mop of hair barely brushed the ground. There was silence as the flower crown slipped from Hunwald's head. The poor lad wheezed.

Finally, Eivor let go of him, and they both toppled to the ground. For a moment, Hunwald stared at the ceiling, a strange sound escaping his mouth. Then he met Eivor's gaze—and they both burst out laughing, hard enough to make Eivor's stomach ache.

"Oh, Frigg's mercy!" Swanburrow exclaimed, rushing to help her new husband to his feet. "Hunwald, are you alright?"

The cocky little shit only dusted himself. "Of course, my dear. I'm made of stern stuff. My people used to rule the kingdom of Lindsey, I'll have you know. I am descended from kings and gods alike—"

Eivor clapped his back, making him yelp. "You fought well, aye." That was a terrible lie, but his ladylove was looking, and Eivor did not want to sink the poor boy's spirits. "With great courage. Not with a lot of technique, but… well, you've got guts aplenty."

The stupid boy beamed at her. "Well, I wouldn't be here, if not for you. Three cheers for Eivor Wolf-Kissed, noble mistress of words, wits and wrestling!"

Soon, the meadhall was filled with chants of her name. Hunwald held up her hand in the air, shouting the loudest. The two wore matching grins—and Eivor did not even think to recoil from him when Hunwald wrapped one arm around her in an awkward embrace. Instead, she only hugged him back.

It was the last night Eivor would spend in Elmenham in the company of King Guthrum and Ealdorman Oswald. The latter's children had been roped into helping their mother take care of the king's retinue; that gave Eivor the opportunity to chat and catch up with Oswald, who was ever so glad to see his old friend again.

Eivor was secretly relieved. Over the years, she had grown weary, so weary, of young drengir and their endless boasting. Oswald's quieter demeanour suited her best. The man only asked about things that brought her joy, genuinely interested in the ordinary happenings of her life. It felt good to speak with him—but whenever she looked at his plain, pleasant face, Eivor was seized with a strange fear, cold in the pit of her belly. He'd mentioned, in passing, that there had been an attempt on his life, not long ago. Oswald had reassured her, reminding Eivor that he had a very competent bodyguard in the person of his wife.

And yet…

And yet looking at him Eivor could only think of the wide-eyed, earnest young man she had met on the road to Elmenham, so many years ago. He had escaped death then, as he had escaped death many times afterwards—but Eivor had met another pair of wide-eyed, earnest young men who had not been so lucky…

"Are you well, Eivor?" Oswald finally said, chuckling and putting down his mug of ale. "It's not like you to let me do all the talking."

"The years are hard on me," she conceded. "I have gained much by building a new home for my people in England, but I have lost many precious friends as well. I feel older than my years." She took a deep breath, while Oswald remained quiet, no doubt to give her the time to gather her thoughts. "Once I had nothing but disdain for the likes of Halfdan and Guthrum. I thought they had grown weak in their old age. Complacent. But now I understand. Now that I walk in their shoes, I see why they were so weary of the world and its woes."

Oswald could only sigh in response. Quite evidently he had held similar thoughts. After a slight silence, she turned to grab him by the shoulders, the words tumbling out of her mouth, "Oswald, you must live. I fought to bring glory to my name, only to end a bitter woman with a broken body. I fought to make a home for my people, only to have them surrounded by enemies still. I fought to save those I'd sworn to protect, only to fail in that endeavour and see them slaughtered like animals."

She could hear her mother still. You would have been their great protector. It's right there in your name, you see? Before Oswald could place a word, she looked into his eyes, forcing her gaze into his; Gods, but he must have thought her a madwoman. "It has to mean something, you see?" she continued, hoarsely. "You must live. Your line must endure, just as Ravensthorpe must endure. You must…" Her voice died down. Eivor had no more strength in her.

Oswald let her regain her breath. Then he smiled at her, "I cannot make such promises, my friend. But rest assured I have no intention of giving up so easily." He motioned at their surroundings—the crowded meadhall, where Danes and Saxons alike ate and made merry. "Do remember that none of this would have been possible without you. This is your legacy, Eivor. You speak of my line enduring, but my family would not even exist if not for your courage, if not for your kindness."

Eivor wished she could return his smile. But that sense of dread was coiled tight in her belly, and she could only see the dead eyes of two other boys when she looked into his clear blue gaze. Still, she managed a nod. "If you say so. I will keep your words in mind."

She never saw him again; Oswald died a moon later, another friend—another member of her chosen family—taken some place away where she could no longer protect him.