Work Text:
gro, gro lisle spire
dager gryr og mørket svinner
sól har snudd
og hjulet det har venda
–-
“My lady! You have a guest!” The serving girl curtsied deep and then scurried back to her tasks.
She sighed and stood, shrugging on her cloak and patting her hair quickly to make sure her braids were passably presentable.
“Hrei,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s Hrei.”
It was useless, though, she knew. The girl would only curtsy and say: “Of course, my lady!”. As always. I used to be you.
*
It was a wet, grey morning: the sun was a pale ghost behind the heavy-hanging clouds, and water dripped from the roof into deep puddles on the corners of the longhouse. The fallows beyond the stone fence were still brown, but she sensed the green was not far as she stepped outside onto the porch and blinked in the daylight.
“Good morning,” her guest called, striding across the courtyard. When he reached the longhouse, he lowered his hood and shook out his damp, dark hair with a smile
“Fóthraðr,” she said by way of greeting, frowning slightly and crossing her arms.
“Thegn Hreiðunn.” The warrior bowed his head respectfully. She all but rolled her eyes and scoffed. At least he doesn’t call me ‘Princess’. Or ‘my lady’.
“Finn!” she called out instead, and her housecarl came jogging the short distance from where he'd been chopping firewood, his face lighting up into a grin.
“Fó!”
The vigor of his embrace nearly jostled the newcomer into a puddle of slush. Fóthraðr, in turn, grabbed Finn’s head between his hands and cheerfully knocked his forehead with his own.
“Good to see you, brother,” Finn laughed, punching him lightly in the arm. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just about to ask him the same,” Hrei grinned and lifted the hems of her undyed wool dress before stepping down into the muddy slush. I wish I'd worn breeches today.
*
“I come bearing good news from Ribe,” Fóthraðr explained as he fell into step beside her.
She walked over to the steaming firepit in the middle of the yard and sat on a log, leaning over to poke life into the embers with a stick. He sat opposite her and rested his forearms on his knees. He’s always so at ease.
“The repairs are finished,” he said, searching her face through the drifting smoke. “Fálki is ready to set sail.”
She drew a deep, shuddering breath and kept her eyes on the flickering embers. She still sensed the shift in his expression.
“We’ll find him,” he said quietly, reassuringly. “I’m sure of it.”
“I know,” she said, then quickly lifted her gaze. “Wait. What do you mean ‘we’ll find him’?”
He had the good sense to look slightly sheepish, but quickly recovered. “I’m coming with you,” he said evenly. “Me and a few of my most trusted warriors. In fact, we took the liberty of sailing her here up the coast. She’s on the drydock in case you want to make any last-minute changes.”
She glanced over her shoulder to where Finn stood a few steps away, ever her loyal shadow.
“Did you know about this?” But she already knew the answer when he shrugged. “Not the full extent of it, or the exact schedule. But… yes, Hrei. I did.”
She tossed a pine cone into the fire and watched it explode into embers with a satisfying crackle. I should feel betrayed. But I don’t.
“You’re my aunt’s housecarl,” she began wearily, gesturing towards Fóthraðr with her half-burned stick. “The leader of her strongest hird. I can’t take you away from her for… Allfather knows how long. You know I can’t.”
“Hrei…” He chuckled, perhaps at his own boldness – because whatever else he might be, Fóthraðr was never condescending. Not with her, not with anyone.
“Do you seriously think I would do this without the Queen’s approval?” he continued gently. “She insisted.”
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