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The Warrior had arrived three summers previously with his family, a wife and two strapping boys who were well on their way to becoming men, and a few months after they arrived, another daughter. A house was built and a farm planted, managed quite capably by the wife. The barn was going up and would be complete before the coming winter.
Life was good for the Warrior and his wife, who were king and queen over their own small plot of paradise, which was more than anything that they had back where they’d come from across the sea. The Warrior owed his allegiance to his warlord King, a Dane invader turned farmer much like himself, and despite the peace between his King and the King of Mercia, skirmishes and raids were common by all parties and the warrior was called upon often to fight for his liege lord, leaving his small piece of heaven behind in the care of his wife and children while he took up sword and hefted shield to defend what had become his only a short while ago.
In a battlefield on a bright fall day that dawned crisp with frost and mist, both clinging to the blades of grass and leaves of the hedges, the Warrior fell, mortally wounded but not yet dead. Although the battle had been won and victory celebrated by his comrades, the Warrior's dying body was carried home by his fellow warriors and laid at the feet of his wife, who knelt and prayed over him to their gods to deliver him to Valhalla. His sons set the pyre, and the eldest carved the sacred runes that would send their father's spirit to Valhalla into the standing stones that surrounded the pyre. The runes would also keep the veil between the worlds thin in this sacred spot so that the shield maiden wife could stay close to her husband. The runes were complete before the Warrior's breath left his body, thus ensuring their strength. The Warrior's daughter prepared his body when he finally passed, and it was his wife who said the final words that would carry him home.
The next morning, the mother woke to find her second eldest son missing, and his father’s sword and shield gone as well. It took months for the news to finally reach her. Her son, her father’s namesake, had fled to the Mercians and was calling himself by a new name and claiming to be a Christian while fighting for the king named Edward.
The wife of the fallen warrior visited her husband’s memorial, to whisper the news into the runes to ask her husband’s advice and counsel. She traced the lines and said the prayers only to stumble over the words halfway through. She stared in horror. Her son had carved the runes incorrectly. The words twisted back on themselves and turned around and around in a labyrinth, trapping her husband’s soul to this land, to the ground. She looked at horror at the disturbed ground and saw that the ashes had not been carried away on the wind, but had sunk into the ground in the way the Mercians practiced. It would rot him. Her husband did not live in Valhalla; he lived with the worms and dank and dark of the soil. She screamed in rage and hate for her eldest son, and vowed her revenge.
Darkness overtook her soul and she fled the farm she had once called paradise with her daughters beside her. She would return to her homeland and call upon the dark magic of her mothers and grandmothers. Then she would return with a power greater than death and release her husband’s soul. Her sons, she left behind. What came next was woman’s work. Her eldest she made swear to her he would find his brother and kill him, then to return to the farm to await her return. Her daughters returned home, where the magic was more powerful for the work she needed to do.
On Thursday afternoons, provided my brother and I were both in London, Sherlock and I took tea together in his Baker Street flat. For Sherlock, I know he appreciated seeing me just often enough to truthfully be able to tell our Mycroft that I was well, whenever our elder brother remembered to inquire after Sherlock’s guardianship and my well-being. For me, the meetings were first and foremost about Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. A Mrs. Hudson always prepared the most delicious sandwiches and I ensured I never missed the appointment unless out of absolute necessity.
A much more distant second was the ability to consult my admittedly-more-experienced-in-the-art-of-detection brother. But I’d like to think Sherlock enjoyed as much as I did our afternoons in the cozy little sitting room, where we discussed whatever problems had been amusing us since the last time we had met. "Enola," he'd sigh with a fond smile, but he never mocked or dismissed outright without hearing my argument. I appreciated that far more than I liked to admit.
This Thursday I brought my latest index of newspaper clippings. Sherlock found plenty of problems to keep himself busy in the London papers. At times, I wondered if he forgot that the world did not revolve around the city. I, on the other had, quite enjoyed the papers I subscribed to from England’s other cities.
I had a delicious little problem, but I debated sharing it with him at all, let alone seeking his counsel and guidance. Sherlock cared little for magic for all that he deigned to admit it existed.
I must've been far more obvious in my indecision than I had supposed, because eventually he sighed heavily, set his tea down, shoved his plate of half eaten sandwich quarters away, and folded his hands in his lap.
"Will you just tell me what it is and allow me to judge its merits for myself?"
I returned the sigh, then pulled out my index and turned to the appropriate page. There were three articles there from a small village paper, the Garton Register, from the tiny little village of Garton - closer to the sea than York.
He read them, eyebrow climbing his forehead and nearly into his hair. Then, returned the index and looked at me with a furrowed brow.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"About what part?" I stalled.
He tsked.
The first was about a maid who had fled Garton Hall outside the village and refused to go back, claiming it was haunted by a frightening bearded man in a silver chain mail, a huge shield, spear, and round shield.
The second was about the old rune stone ruins in a field somewhat near the hall on the grounds that had been glowing and caused the stable boy to flee, just as frightened as the maid.
The final one was a report from a farmer who claimed to see a ship off the shore with a huge square sail in an unnatural mist on a moonlit night.
"The final one is from a different part of the county, a farm on the coast. What makes you think it is related?" he asked, finally.
I took the inquiry for what it was - curiosity into what had sparked my interest, not true curiosity about the case.
"It's a Viking ship!" I exclaimed, unable to contain my excitement.
Sherlock could not contain his snort of amusement. "It's a sleepy, probably half-drunk farmer chasing after his dog on a dark night. It's superstition and fear."
"But the ghost of the Viking warrior-"
"A glimpse of a painting or a statue in a half-abandoned manor house by a frightened maid or a story made up to explain why she was caught out of bed late at night - either way, hardly a ghost sighting."
"The activated runes?" I asked, feeling frustrated and dejected.
Sherlock inclined his head. "Old magic, spells that were half superstition rather than true craft. Glowing doesn't mean anything. Enola, your enthusiasm is commendable, but you must observe the facts lead you to conclusions and not conclusions lead you to facts. One supports the other, but the reverse is not true. They're unlikely to even be related. This part of the country was once ruled by the vikings."
I snapped the book shut, stung by the rebuke, despite its gentle delivery.
"Well thank you for at least acknowledging that the runes could be magic."
Sherlock smiled that was too gentle to be a true smirk. "Magic is more belief than anything else, scientific discovery is showing us that much of what we once thought of magic spells and prayers are simply chemistry and timing."
He held up his hand when I opened my mouth to interrupt. "I'm sure that our mother taught you and magic still remains a much more strongly held belief amongst women than educated men. But Enola, magic or simply some scientific principle we have yet to discover, glowing lines in stones are harmless and no crime has been committed here." He hummed thoughtfully. "Except perhaps the maid, she likely should be searched for the missing silver teaspoons."
Rather than start a fight with Sherlock, I chose instead to take my leave, pockets stuffed with sandwiches and my index tucked under my arm. I made my way back out onto the hustle and bustle of Baker Street. I passed Watson on my way towards the park and gave him a friendly wave and "hullo," which he returned with a wide grin and a neat little bow. He was always quite polite when we encountered each other.
I'll admit I may have been a bit hasty and perhaps there was a bit of stubborn pride driving my decision, but I was right and I knew it. Which is how I found myself on the train to York in a simple black dress. I was disguised as a nervous governess, simple and demure in my dress and grooming. I clutched my satchel as if it contained all my worldly goods instead of the small book of spells from my mother's library, a silver bracelet for protection, and a box of herbs and other spell casting aids, and a simple dress befitting a maid.
When I arrived in Garton late that afternoon, it was easy enough to get direction to the house. By the time I arrived, my neat hair had been exchanged for a simple braid, my corset for stays and a short dress that I knew would make me appear at least five years younger than I was, and my black lace gloves for a bit of dirt under my fingernails. The calluses from my single stick training would provide the evidence I could work with my hands when I presented myself to the kitchen door for employment.
As I knew it would, my disguise did the trick, helped along by the desperation of the housekeeper, who was short two maids now, the second having followed the first. . The scullery maid looked at me as if I had saved her life. By the time my work was done that evening, I was quite sure I had, since there was no way anyone could survive this long term. I collapsed into the small narrow and very uncomfortable bed in the high attic room, and despaired of being able to stay awake long enough to investigate the ghost that night.
But I am a professional, so I dragged myself out of bed as the moon crept across the bare wood floor of the cold room. I wrapped myself in my warm wool shawl from my bag and crept down the back stairs. The house was dark and silent, the master abed and the servants sleeping the deep sleep of the grossly overworked and underappreciated.
I first tried the hall. There was a suit of armor and paintings of what must've been the past masters dressed in their finery, but nothing that resembled the description of the man by the maid. I had written to her, pretending to be a researcher interested in ghost sightings and asked for a better description. Pouring through the books in my mother's library during my stop-over at Ferndell, I concluded the maid had seen a lightly-armored viking warrior, rather than the English Saxon from Mercia. There were no viking warriors in the paintings that lined the hall. I tried the library next, hopeful to find something there before I would be forced to try the master's study. It was always dangerous to rifle through someone's private space, and I was loath to do it.
I sought a bit of magical help in the library, using a small spell I had used to use when my mother sent me hunting for something particular in the house. I mixed the herbs and said the incantations, producing a flash of light and a small pile of ash. I dusted my hands with the resulting powder, and trailed my fingers along the shelves and drawers, eyes focused on middle distance and mind open. Hopefully it would guide me to the correct location or book if it could help me.
My fingers tingled as I brushed them over a few books' backs and again on the third drawer down on the left hand side of a cabinet. I marked both and continued searching, but that was it for the thankfully small and dusty room. I pulled the books and set them on the table before returning to the drawer and opening it.
It took me far too long to realize that what the spell had helped me find was under the mess of papers: a few rough metal worked pieces of jewelry - brooches, a ring, and an open ring too large to be a bracelet - wrapped in a dirty cloth. I pulled them out and returned to the table.
Sherlock may not believe much in magic, but I did. Scientific discovery had informed us that some magic wasn't magic at all, but rather the predictable interaction of chemicals, heat, and time. But I knew that objects carried the memories of those that had touched them before. I would be able to sense strong emotions and on some pieces even be able to catch complete memories as if I were seeing them through an old mirror that had been plunged into a bath - distorted and faded. The more important an object was to the person, the more vivid the memory and more accessible it was via magic.
Tucked back in the drawer the way these were, I hoped these items had been unloved and untouched by generations which would make the emotions they contained sharper and more distinct to their owner. Perhaps it would be even enough to determine who they belonged to with a bit of research. In that way, I was glad for the books and optimistically hoped they would be obviously linked to each other.
Practicing magic was dangerous. You lost track of time and used as much effort as running across the hills at a brisk pace. I was fit but tired and had no idea what I would find with my objects. Best to be safe. I set a small alarm clock, willing to risk the sound over being caught in a magical trance when the rest of the house arose. I set it for an hour. That should be sufficient and still offer me three hours of sleep before I had to arise for my day's work.
Knowing that the objects would take more mental energy, I first flicked through the books, discovering they were early ledgers from the property, describing the land and what was bought, sold, and grown on the manor property by the tenants. It was a copy book, probably for the use of the steward while traveling, rather than the official record of the entire manor -- that would likely be in the study. Hopefully this book would be sufficient. I placed my hand on the bare metal objects and on the cover of the first of the three ledgers and whispered the proper incantations as I opened my mind.
My mother had taught me to control my emotions, and I was thankful for her instruction as the objects' anger, bitterness, betrayal, and hate flooded my brain and heart, as real as if they were my own emotions. I gasped aloud and nearly broke my trance, but I grit my teeth and carried on. Pressing my hand down painfully on the metal and inadvertently pricking myself inadvertently on the brooches' pins, I carried on. I allowed my other hand, the one touching the books, to drift over the covers and then through the pages, trusting the magic to lead me to the correct place. I kept my hand on the brooches as I felt blindly for a piece of paper and pulled off bits one handed, marking pages. My hand found a pen too, on its own, and scribbled notes. I would read them later; for now, I focused on gathering information.
The alarm clock jolted me out of my trance with a shock akin to a bucket of cold water, and I scrambled to shut it off. I held my breath, listening for noise from the house, but there was none. I had managed to not even awaken the dogs. Thank goodness, they didn't know me yet and would give me trouble. I made a decision, wrapping the jewelry up again and tucking the books and clock under my arm and heading for my room. It was a calculated risk:hopefully they would not be missed in the next few days I planned to spend here to solve the mystery.
I slipped out of the library and back through the hall. There was a movement just at the edge of my vision; I gasped aloud and spun in shock. The magic and the emotions with which I had spent the last hour had left me on edge. I was certain as I turned that I would find a trick of a tapestry and moonlight. I was wrong. Instead, there, in the middle of the hall, looking about, stood a viking warrior, shield on his arm and sword held aloft. He looked at me and then started in surprise as our eyes met.
"Gyda?" he gasped in shock.
"Enola!" I snapped in return, too scared to move.
He looked confused. "You are not my sister, Gyda? This is not her farm? Our mother has not returned?"
"What?"
"I am to wait for our mother warrior's return and guard the land."
"What?" I asked again, curiosity warring with fear.
The man looked around, startled by some unheard noise. "Gyda, she returns!" He exclaimed, I could see the panic on his face.
"I'm not Gyda."
"Gyda, I could not slay him. May mother forgive me, but I could not slay my own brother, so I remain to guard our father's spirit."
A dog barked and I startled, looking around, but it must've been in another room, the sound carrying through the hall of the manor house as if the animal were close by. When I looked back, the ghost was gone. I hurried back to my room and pulled my notebook from my satchel. I made notes - Gyda, slaying brother, mother return, protecting father - and then collapsed into bed.
My eyes burned the next day with lack of sleep and a magical hangover that was not unlike the mornings after the occasions I drank too much wine at dinner with Tewksbury. But to my everlasting relief, the housekeeper turned out to be a chatty woman, and as I trailed after her, carrying my coal bucket, broom, mop, and cleaning rags, I was able to keep her talking about the history of the manor.
The first thing I learned was that she had inherited the position of housekeeper from her mother, who had inherited it from her mother, and so on. While the manor often employed local farm girls as maids and farm boys as footmen, the butler, steward, groundskeeper, and housekeeper all had been in positions passed down through family lines unbroken for since they were first recorded in the earliest manor records. I wondered if they were tied to the land by a magic ancient deep and powerful, nothing like the little tricks I had been practicing in the library the night before.
I helped one of the footmen polish the master's riding boots that afternoon, and got to hear a story he had heard the gamekeeper tell a thousand times about how the manor had been passed down in the family, but often fell to nephews or cousins as the first born sons rarely married and seemed more often tragic and miserable. I caught a glimpse of the master of the house and figured that it wasn't just hyperbole.
"And all move here after inheriting?" I asked. I knew too often that nephews and cousins and long lost relatives who inherited property often sold it quickly, preferring the cash and a life in a city rather than this cold, dark, and damp house.
"Aye," the boy said, handing me a pair of mud caked boots that I started brushing. "They always return. It's the house, my ma told me. She was a maid here before she married my da. She said that they couldn't leave if they tried."
The housekeeper appeared around the corner before I could get any more out of him and chased me back to the kitchen to assist with the master's dinner. Over the servant's dinner I asked about the two maids that had fled. The butler shot me a quelling look.
"Oh the poor girl," the cook exclaimed, either ignoring or unaware of the butler's condemnation of the topic. "She was so frightened. A maid or two always is, but that ghost is harmless and you just grow used to him and that funny word he repeats all the time like a question."
"Gyda?" I asked before I could stop myself. Every head at the table in the servants hall whipped around to stare at me. I blame the lack of sleep on my error.
The butler narrowed his eyes at me, but I could see the housekeeper looking slightly relieved but trying to hide it, and the steward looking at me for what was probably the first time since I arrived.
I looked back down at my food and shoveled more in my mouth, hoping no one would ask me to explain.
"It's a name," the scullery maid whispered. I looked at her. She was staring hard at her dinner, cheeks pink. I swallowed a too big bite without chewing thoroughly and nearly choked. "It's a name," she said, with a shrug, and glanced around the table, clearly too afraid to say more.
The housekeeper sighed, as if defeated. "It's Danish," she explained, as if unable to help herself. I certainly didn't mind, her inability to help herself had served me well all day and saved me hours and days of research and work. "There are still some families around here that trace their lines back to when this area was ruled by the Danes. The names show up from time to time."
The butler rose then, putting an end to our conversation. We all rose with him and the meal was over. I finished my evening chores, alone for the first time since I had arrived not twenty-four hours before. I finally trudged up the stairs as the clock chimed ten, and I collapsed into the bed without even bothering to remove my boots. I considered writing to my brother about the history of the area and the importance of names, but knew I wouldn't be able to get into town until my half day on Sunday and I hoped by then I could solve the mystery.
Tonight, I had planned to look for the stones. One of the three I had found in the library described their location and although I didn't know the land, the house was the most prominent feature for miles around. It was a full moon, and I figured I could follow the description from the book. I was unlikely to grow too lost. I briefly considered taking a psychic brew and attempting to communicate with the ghost, but figured if he had important information to impart, he would've done so when revealing himself to what sounded like anyone who lived in the house.
I waited only an hour, desperate to find the stones and then return to my bed to sleep. I knew I risked someone still being up, but as I had only the vaguest idea where I was headed, time was the more important consideration. I slipped out the back door and darted across the wild lawn. I had memorized the location described in the book, unwilling to risk removing it from the house.
I carried a small flask of psychic brew in my dress pocket, a small collection of herbs for emergency spell casting, and my small silver bracelet on my wrist. The bracelet did not provide much protection, and I would need to remove it if I cast a spell, but better to have it and not need it than be caught without even the smallest protection.
As I moved down the hill from the house, I slipped the flask from my pocket and drank a single swallow, then opened my mind, chanting the directions softly under my breath as if they were an incantation. My mother always argued that magic was about intention and faith. Although I wasn't sure I agreed with her, but I had to improvise, as there was no spell written in any book that would allow you to find rune stones in the middle of an unfamiliar field.
I was still unconvinced about use of the improvised incantation when I literally tripped over the stones as I walked along. They had fallen and were half overgrown; I would've missed them entirely if I hadn't fallen on them and scraped my hand. I looked at the blood welling up on my palm before being distracted by the faint blue lines that traced and pulsed through the stone below my hand. I turned my hand over and squeezed a drop of blood out and watched the lines flare bright and strong as it hit the stones. The flare spread out in pulses, lighting the stones about me. Blood was a powerful magical tool, and one I never practiced with as it was highly dangerous. I lifted my skirt and wiped the blood on my drawers. The stones remained glowing.
The marks swirled and made my eyes and head hurt. I squinted at them. The light wasn't bright any more, but it flashed through as if it was a lit match in a pitch black room. The moon was bright and right over head and offered far more illumination than the stones themselves, but it was the stones that hurt my eyes.
I fumbled for my flask and took another sip. Then a gulp, then I drained it and burped. Anise and sage battled for dominance in my mouth and I grimaced, smacking my lips to rid them of the taste. Next time I'd use more honey, I decided. The swirls and etchings danced across the stones. I trailed my fingers after them, noticing the lights trailing little afterglows that looked like sprites and fairies. But sprites and fairies were Celtic magic, not Viking magic, and certainly not the civilized British magic I practiced.
It took an embarrassingly long time to realize that the lines I was tracing did not follow the lines carved in the stones beneath my finger tips. I pulled my knife from my boot and scraped at one of the marks, changing it slightly. The light fell into the new channel I had dug and settled in, glowing softly and gently, no longer pulsing and swirling. I gasped, then fell upon the stone, carving in the weathered crumbling rock chasing the swirling lines as they all began to settle and gentle. I cooed at them, murmuring snatches of lullabyes and prayers and half remembered words and phrases, as I chased and soothed them into stillness. There were ten stones, but the work took me less than two hours. I stood up when done, satisfied in a way that I knew wasn't entirely my own emotion. I scrambled for the bit of paper and pencil I had also stashed in my pocket and withdrew it, quickly sketching the stones and then the runes on them. The unknown words they spelled didn't feel powerful as I wrote them down, but I smiled all the same.
As I was finishing up I noticed that the light in the stones was fading. No, it was withdrawing, slowly, towards the center of the stones, into a pool, as if it were water flowing gently through a brook and into a pond. I watched it as it swirled gently and began to rise, as if an upside down whirlpool. It grew to the size of a man, but I was not frightened.
"Gyda." The whisper was carried as if on a breeze and brushed my cheeks, soft and gentle, and I felt love and affection dance about me as if someone was trying to share the feeling with me rather than it be my own.
"Enola," I whispered back.
The light withdrew slightly, then re-approached and brushed my cheek again. And I knew what I must do, somehow, I knew it. The message was for this Gyda, whomever she was, but she was long gone. The spirits that knew her remained and it would need to be my job to be Gyda for them, to release them.
"Yes?" I tried instead.
The light swirled, pleased. "She will return to take me home," the light whispered straight into my ears and across my mind. I nodded, completely uncomprehending. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the need to tell someone, anyone, the first person I encountered the same thing. "She will return to take you home," I mumbled, brokenly, then more surely, then over and over again. I turned, as if in a daze and stumbled back towards the house, glinting bright like a beacon, moonlight bouncing off of stone, and I followed it back in far less time than it took me to find the stones. I crept over the sleeping dogs, shocked that they didn't wake, but trying not to question it. I still whispered the words, lips chapped and dry from their unceasing movement.
I walked through the hall. The ghost stood in the middle, as if waiting for me.
"She will return to take him home," I said, suddenly very sure who my message was for.
"Gyda! Father has been released from his prison?" The ghost asked.
"She will return to take him home," I repeated. Unsure how to answer the question, but positive the answer was in that phrase.
"He is released," the ghost said. I stood there, unsure what happened next. The ghost turned to me.
"Gyda, you must meet her, when she returns, you must be there to remind her that love is more powerful than hate. What we do, what all of us have done this whole time is for love. Gyda help mother return home the same as father."
"I will, brother," I was shocked to find myself saying. Possession was not a magical area I had any experience in, nor did I want any. I shuddered.
"Enola." I whispered to myself.
The ghost smiled at me. "No, not alone any longer, Gyda. I will see you in Valhalla, my brave shieldmaiden, after this one last quest."
I hurried back to my bed, frightened by the ghost for the first time. I collapsed into a deep sleep as I shook off the effects of my potion I had taken to see the rune stones, but still managed to arise in time to set off on my duties to light the fires and begin the day's chores.
I was distracted most of the day, unsure what came next, but now even more convinced that the farmer's report of the ship ten miles away on the coast had something to do with this. I had no ability to get there and back, but I was sure that whatever was destined to happen would happen tonight.
The next night, I found myself returning to the stones. Unsure what came next. When I had left the house, I had looked for the ghost, but he was not there and there was an emptiness to the hall I had not felt the previous two nights.
I stood there on the stones, wrapped up tight in my shawl, stamping my feet to keep them warm, unsure if I should take another potion, sit, stand, wait, go back to bed, or what. I was still undecided when I glanced out across the fields and noticed a mist creeping in.
"Damnation," I mumbled to myself. I would have to flee for the house and hope I could outrun it, or risk getting lost in the fog.
I turned to run, decision made, but then stopped in shock after three strides. The mist had come in behind me as well. I was surrounded. My only hope was that it would move on before dawn and I could return before I was missed.
"Damnit," I said again.
A faint noise carried across the fields and I shook my head; it wasn't like me to give into fanciful imagination of the kind that would imagine my brother's voice calling me. I shook my head and clutched my shawl tighter as the temperature dropped with the oncoming mist.
The noise was louder and came again, sounding even more like my name, shouted across a great distance. The mist, I thought, playing tricks.
Then I heard my name, very distinctly.
"Sherlock?" I called, the name getting caught in my throat. I coughed, then called again.
"Enola!" came the answering shout. I turned, and there was my brother, striding out of the mist. At least, I hoped that was my brother. But I wasn't positive, not yet. The man had hair like my brother, and was wearing a coat with a billowing cape about the shoulders and he carried a thick stick forward in his hand.
"Sherlock?" I gasped in shock.
"Enola, thank god!" he replied as he approached.
"What in the-"
"She's coming," he said and nodded in the opposite direction. I turned and I could see a shape coalescing out of the mist.
"What?" I gasped.
"When you disappeared, I went to the coast, sure you would investigate a ghost ship first, but you weren't there. I spoke to the farmer and saw it for myself the first night. I realized my mistake today and rushed here. Of course you would investigate the manor first, of course you would," he said in a rush.
"Well yes," I started. He waved me off.
"I had enough time to research the story before coming to find you - the ship, she's a shieldmaiden and has haunted the coast for centuries. I realized you were right, the sightings were related. She's come to this manor, but I don't know why."
I looked at the swirl of light in the center of the stones that had appeared as I had spoken to Sherlock.
"I do," I replied.
Sherlock glanced at me, stick still held out, as if he was facing an oncoming army. There was a shape of a woman in the mist now, marching forward. She felt menacing.
"She's returning to take him home!" I exclaimed.
"Who?" Sherlock demanded.
"I don't know!" I said, but gestured toward the rune stone lights. Sherlock took his eyes off the mist for a moment to consider it. "There was a ghost in the manor hall, he called me Gyda, so did the light here. They told me she was returning to take him home. That love was more powerful than hate."
I felt Sherlock's eyes on me, but I was staring at the woman who approached. She felt angry and menacing and I realized with a gasp it was the same feeling that I had felt when I had touched the jewelry in the library. I plunged my hand into my pocket and withdrew the items, pulling them from the cloth and holding them in my hands. They were colder than ice and burned my palm, still tender and scraped from last night and the work I had put it through today.
I stepped forward, ducking under my brother's hand that rose to hold me back, and approached the stones. I heard Sherlock shifting behind me, but was confident he wouldn't try to stop me. I held the jewelry up in my open palm. The woman in the mist solidified and approached. The anger and hate threatened to overwhelm me. But I glanced back at my brother and found strength.
Love. Love was more powerful than hate. I loved Sherlock. He loved me. That's why he was here, I wasn't even 'missing' for a single day before he set out to find me. That's why this spirit was trapped here, and the ghost guarded the hall. Love. I was Gyda because they loved her and each other so much that despite the centuries that had passed, they all sought to return home. To Valhalla, I realized.
The light swirled up beside me and I felt the impression of a hand on my shoulder for a brief moment before the light moved forward.
"Husband," the woman in the mist gasped. "You've been released."
The light moved forward, shaping itself in that of a man.
"My wife," he replied. "Look at our legacy."
I realized with a start that the families that had been tied to this land for generations was the family he spoke of. Yes, cousins and nephews and daughters and brothers, but family all the same. The man in the hall was a son who guarded his father. A wife returned to her love, and then there was me, or rather, there was Gyda somehow in all this.
I stepped forward, hand outstretched with the jewelry. I felt Sherlock step forward at my back.
The woman turned to look at the two of us. She gasped. "Gyda? Horvik?"
I smiled. Sherlock thankfully stayed quiet behind me.
The lady of the mists turned to her husband. "Horvik trapped you there with runes. Gyda died on the journey home. They have returned to release you," she said.
No one corrected her, although I was quite sure everyone else understood it was her grief that made her see the ghosts of her children in Sherlock and myself. I nodded.
The light of the husband stepped out of the rune stone circle.
"Wife, let us return to home, depart for Valhalla, and join our children who are released from their own bonds keeping them in the Danelaw. Our legacy is built and our paradise found, let us now drink mead and feast and be happy."
The lights melded in a flash as brilliant as the noonday sun before disappearing. Spots danced across my vision as I stood there, hand still outstretched, my brother still at my back.
After a moment of blinking away, my vision returned and I saw the mist retreating from around us. The moon still showed bright overhead. I looked down at the runestones. They were weathered and still laying there, but no longer glowing. My new marks looked as if they had been there all along.
I closed my fingers around the jewelry in my hand, but was startled to discover the shape was different. I looked down at it. There was a small signet ring and a small stylized raven on a delicate metal chain. I smiled and turned to my brother, handing him the ring.
"They left us gifts!" I said.
He rolled his eyes and let out a heavy breath. "All that, and that's what you say first?" he asked. I slipped the raven into my pocket, but was pleased to see my brother consider the ring before slipping it onto his finger.
"Our first case together?" he asked.
I snorted. We'd solved many together. True, this was the first where we had both been there at the conclusion, but this was hardly our first case.
"Our first magical case," I conceded. He smirked at me.
I turned to look back at the house.
"How will we explain you?" I asked, considering.
"A lost traveler, ill-advisedly traveling by night to reach his destination, I was thrown from my horse." I glanced over at him. He shrugged, a bit sheepishly. "It's close enough to the truth."
I laughed at him and we set off for the house. I snuck back in; Sherlock would wait at least ten minutes before banging on the door to rouse the house. It was just enough time for me to walk through the hall to confirm the ghost was gone, get back to my room, and place my necklace around my neck, before Sherlock's commotion started and the scullery maid banged on my door, fetching me to help set a room for the stranger who had just arrived in the middle of the night.
I grumbled, but tied my apron and followed her out the door. As we clattered down the steps I found myself considering her a bit.
"How did you know Gyda was a name?" I finally asked as we shook out the sheets and prepared the bed for the guest.
She looked at me and I reappraised her. Shy, I realized. She was painfully shy.
"It's my sister's name," she responded, finally.
I shivered and she gave me a funny look. "Just tired," I explained with a smile.
The housekeeper burst in the door at the moment.
"Girls! Hurry!" she exclaimed, clearly flustered. "Our guest is none other than Sherlock Holmes." The name was delivered in a fervent whisper. I just barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes.
"And he's so handsome!" the housekeeper exclaimed before leaving the room with the same speed and violence with which she had entered it. This time I wasn't able to stop myself from rolling my eyes, and I heard the maid giggle in response. I offered her a smile and a wink, and we finished our work quickly.