As always, Eivor awoke at dawn to make her tour of the village. Even at these early hours, Ravensthorpe was bustling with activity. The animals had to be fed, pigs and goats and chickens alike. The forge needed firewood—Gunnar and his son would surely have much work to do, as always. The first catches of the day—fat breams and slippery eels—had to be hung out to dry. Villagers and patrolling warriors alike stopped to greet their Jarlskona. She could easily feel their love and admiration. Eivor returned those smiles, though in truth she felt little mirth in her heart this morning.
She'd just had another of those nightmares, after all.
Deep within, Eivor knew these were no dreams, not truly. It had taken years, but she was finally grasping the truth of those visions she'd once had, delirious from drinking Valka's concoctions. Sigurd had nearly lost himself learning that truth; Basim had gone mad from it.
Those glimpses into the past did not paint a flattering portrait of the one Eivor had once been. Shifty-eyed, they called him in sagas. Worker of Evil Deeds, Deceiver, Ruler of Treachery. Havi had lied and stolen for his own gain; he'd plotted in the shadows, betraying those who had looked up to him as their protector. All those years ago, Eivor had refused his foul gifts, turning from him without understanding what was truly happening.
Because it had not been a twisted sorcerer tempting her that day; it had been her own true self, reaching from within forgotten memories, trying to drag her back to those dark depths with him.
And now Eivor understood, oh, yes, she knew why Valka had called her betrayer on that fateful night, so many years ago, before they had embarked on their journey to England. Truly, that was the essence of what she was: an oathbreaker, a traitor to her own kin, one who had taken throne and wife from the man who was both her brother and her liege. Most damning of all, her happiness had taken root in Sigurd's misery.
Suddenly, Eivor couldn't bear it anymore: the villagers' cheerful expressions, the children running amok, the drengir addressing her with fond salutes. She did not deserve any of it—her clan's respect, Sigurd's understanding, least of all Randvi's love. Her vision blurred as her head pounded, and the happy, pastoral picture before her turned almost nightmarish. Sheer horror gripped her heart tight, and Eivor turned on her heel, unable to stomach those smiles anymore.
She ran up the hill behind the longhouse, where she had so often come to contemplate her village—the home of her heart. But now she sat with her head in her hands, shaking, feeling nauseous. A tidal wave of memories threatened to overwhelm her. Loki and his children, Gunlodr and her father, Freyja and Frigg and all these women he—she—had professed to love… How many more had he—she—betrayed and discarded in his frantic efforts to avoid the unavoidable? How many had perished because of her selfish delusions? How many?
A hand came to rest over her shoulder, and Eivor startled, hand going to her knife. The point of the blade came to prick a pale, elegant neck. Valka's blue eyes, however, remained filled with kind understanding. Eivor panted, unable to tear her gaze away. Valka put her hand over Eivor's clenched fist, her long, lovely fingers curling around it. It took a few precious seconds, but Eivor eventually relaxed, and the knife fell in the grass beneath her.
"Good," said Valka, with a voice so soothing that Eivor let out a long shuddering sigh, "that is very good, Eivor…"
"I… I did not mean—I was—I'm sorry—"
"There is nothing to apologize for, truly. Randvi told me you have been troubled as of late. Was this why you have been avoiding me for a week?"
Eivor hung her head. At least she had stopped trembling. "You have much to accomplish, with the celebrations of the harvest coming so soon. I will not bother with simple troubles, my friend."
"Simple troubles? Eivor, you look like you have not slept a good night of sleep for the whole of the past season!" Valka drew her lips into a grim line. "Randvi also said you were plagued with nightmares."
"Randvi tells you a great many things," Eivor muttered, which earned her a light swat behind the head from her friend.
"Randvi loves you, as I do. Sigurd is worried as well."
"Odin's cock," Eivor said through grit teeth, before wincing at her poor choice of words. "Did they set you up for this?"
"As I said," Valka enunciated, quite calmly, as she was speaking to a very small child, "I love you as well, Eivor. I came here of my own accord. And as you so aptly put it, I am a busy woman. So speak, Eivor. I did not come here to hear you moan and gripe. I came here to help."
"You would not understand. I am not what you think I am. I'm…" Worker of Evil Deeds, Deceiver, Ruler of Treachery. "Valka, how could I deserve any of this? Everything I have, everything I am… I took it away from someone more deserving. You were right, all these years ago. I betrayed Sigurd. I betrayed my brother. And built my glory atop the ruins of his honour."
Valka stood. For a moment, she looked upon the village below, quiet with her thoughts. Then, she spoke: "The Allfather has many names, as the sagas teach us. He is a creature of wisdom, but also of low cunning. He inspires bravery in our warriors, but flees from his own fate. He is united in sacred bond with his heir's mother, dearest Frigg, but finds solace in the arms of other women. Yes, the High One is many things, and all of our stories reflect this duality, this… duplicity, if you will."
Eivor stared at Valka in surprise. She could not believe these words were leaving the seer's lips; Eivor had lost her own faith, long ago, when the nightly air of Wessex had been filled with the ashes of fallen friends. But Valka had always been a pillar of pious strength, even as Christianity encroached on their borders, turning weak hearts away from the old faith.
Valka faced Eivor, blue eyes bright and unerring. "You are our wayfinder, who discovered a place where we could build a home for ourselves. You are welcomed across the land, a guest who is valued for the wisdom she brings. And you are the bringer of victory, on the battlefield, and out of it as well. You are more than that, Eivor." And Valka sat down again, wrapping one arm around Eivor. "What you truly are will not be sung in sagas. Because neither Randvi nor Sigurd—nor I—are predisposed to the skaldic arts. You are our Eivor. And no one will ever be able to take that away from you."
Eivor knew this was wishful thinking. "Basim—"
"—made his own decisions, and chose to abide by these decisions without caring for the consequences. You are your own woman, Eivor. You can choose better."
To this, Eivor could only let out a light snort. She rested her head on Valka's, who snuggled closer—a rare open display of affection for the normally reserved seer.
Eivor closed her eyes, taking comfort in Valka's warmth, in remembering Sigurd's boisterous laugh and Randvi's smile. The memories were still there—a damnation of Eivor's character if she ever believed in such things.
But their pull had grown weaker; she could keep her head above those dark waters and swim to shore if she wished so.