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It had been an accident, reading the open page in Randvi’s journal. Was it, though? Randvi is far from careless. It was entirely possible that she left it there, wanting Eivor to read it. With a frown, she flipped it over so no one else would see it – Especially Dag. Gods forbid. That was the last thing either she or Randvi needed. Somehow, she kept her hands from shaking as she snatched the rolled up map that Randvi had asked for. Ever so conveniently, it had been right beside the journal. Not an accident, then. Nothing Randvi does is an accident. Every word, every gesture, every action is carefully calculated. Eivor barely managed to keep her composure as she spread the map of Mercia across the table, careful not to meet Randvi’s eyes. She should leave, probably – Go check on Tove like she told Gunnar she would. Anything to get out of the longhouse. Randvi having feelings for her is not the sort of problem she can swing an axe at. No. Eivor likes that sort of problem. This is just complicated and makes her heart ache.
The kiss... That was not an accident. Eivor knew it was coming, had plenty of time to either take a step back, or gently push Randvi away. She just... Couldn’t. In that moment, she knew it was too late. Valka’s prediction would come to pass; she would betray Sigurd, just not in the way she thought. Still, she had told Randvi that the timing was not right. One day, maybe, they could be together – just not today. Randvi has not said two words to her since, and it takes all of the self control Eivor has to keep her at a distance. Sigurd does not deserve Randvi, does not deserve to call himself Jarl either. He is a good man with a good heart, but he sets his eyes on the horizon while he neglects his wife and his clan. Still, Eivor knows it is not her place to sit on his throne, or lay in bed with his wife – not that she wants to lead the clan. Far from it. Wherever her fate lies, she simply can’t see herself as the Raven Clan’s Jarlskona.
Somehow, through all the suffering and bloodshed, it’s Dag’s death that finally pushes Eivor over the edge. She’s tired of burying friends – of being forced to turn her blade on those she’s supposed to be able to trust. Whenever she tries to sleep, she can hear Ceolbert trying to tell her about Ivarr’s betrayal with his labored dying breaths. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Ivarr screaming in a pit of flames. Maybe he deserves it, but she probably would have given him his axe if she hadn’t been so blinded by anger at the time. At least she had given Dag that much. And Sigurd... Is he even still alive? Randvi barely seems to care; he is, and has always been, mostly a stranger to her.
Every bone in Eivor’s body aches as she digs a grave for Dag, alone. Everyone is likely too terrified to approach her, even Randvi. Most of all, she regrets shouting at Randvi to leave her – hates herself for the hurt she could see in the other woman’s eyes as she turned away. She was only trying to help, even though she had just watched the woman she claims to love murder an old friend. Eivor shakes her head, as if it will dash the thoughts away, ignoring the pain and stench of iron in the wet air as she digs. It doesn’t take her long, driven by rage and despair. She doesn’t handle feelings well. She was raised to be a warrior. She does not cry; she doesn’t know how – only how to destroy things, and people. The labor of digging the grave helps, she thinks. She’s exhausted once it’s done and collapses in front of it, sitting with her legs crossed, facing the heap of muddy earth. The rain is still coming down hard, and her bloody armor is soaked through. In the back of her head, she can hear her mother scolding her, telling her to go inside before she catches cold. She can’t will herself to get up, though.
Eivor doesn’t know how much time has passed when Randvi comes to stand beside her. She doesn’t look up, but she knows it’s Randvi – knows the sound of her light footsteps, and the soft flowery scent of the incense she burns to sweeten the air in the longhouse. Eivor says nothing as she rests her hand on her shoulder.
“Come inside,” Randvi says. “Please.”
Eivor only grunts and stares hard at her filthy, calloused hands. She couldn’t speak if she wanted to.
“You are wounded. Come.” She easily drags Eivor to her feet, and steers her toward the longhouse. Eivor does not protest, though a nasty little voice in her head screams at her to stay away from Randvi – not to taint her with whatever curse seems to befall everyone else she cares about.
She can’t find the strength or will to push her away, though. Just like the damned kiss. She feels only shame as Randvi strips off her armor and throws it in a heap on the floor in her bedroom, like a mother tending to a child. Randvi’s touch is light and warm, as she scrubs the dirt out of the many deep cuts decorating Eivor’s back and forearms. For a moment, she allows herself to think that it feels good, and almost immediately hates herself for it. Thankfully, the ointment that Yanli brings for her stings so badly that Eivor flinches as Randvi rubs it into the wounds. Good. Pain she understands, and deserves.
“Breathe, Eivor,” Randvi tells her softly. “You did what you had to. Dag forced your hand.”
Eivor chokes on a breath she didn’t know she was holding as Randvi wraps her in a clean wool blanket and pulls her close, so that her head is resting on her shoulder. All she can do is silently thank Odin that no one is there to see it, except for Mouse who is curled up at her feet. Randvi chased everyone out of the longhouse some time ago. How weak is she, that she wants to cry like a babe while Randvi holds her and softly sings an old Norse lullaby? It’s a sobering thought, but she can’t find the strength to push Randvi away.
“No one has ever held you like this, have they?” Randvi asks, pulling Eivor’s braid loose with a gentle tug.
“Only my mother, when I was very small.”
“Sigurd always used to jest that no man could handle you,” Randvi says with a quiet chuckle. “I think he was right. You need a woman’s touch.”
“Randvi, please...” Don’t do this to me, Eivor begs silently. “I will bring him back. I promised...” Randvi isn’t the only one living a lie that’s growing thinner by the day. Eivor needs her like air, and it gets harder to breathe with each passing moment.
“I know you will, and when you do we will go our separate ways, whether you choose to let me love you or not.” Randvi sighs as she combs bits of dried mud and blood out of Eivor’s hair. “I don’t hate him, but I never loved him. Nor, do I think, he ever loved me.”
Eivor is glad Randvi can’t see her face, because she can’t help but grimace. Sigurd married her to stop their clans from fighting, nothing else. Randvi probably knows as well as Eivor does that he fell into other women’s beds quite regularly while away from home. She wouldn’t have strayed, though. Until now. Eivor sighs and closes her eyes, before gently pushing Randvi away.
“No,” Eivor tells her firmly. “I care for you, any fool with eyes could see that, but I can’t do this. I will not betray Sigurd. If I allow this to happen, then I give life to all of Dag’s baseless fears. No. I still have my honor, despite the cost.”
“Eivor!”
“No!” Eivor takes a breath. “I love you, Randvi. Because of that… I will wait for you. I will find your husband, and bring him back to you. When you have the courage to part ways with him and find your own path, I will be waiting for you. Until then, I must leave you.”
“Eivor! Wait!”
It takes every shred of willpower Eivor has to walk away, back to her own room in search of a clean tunic and armor that isn’t tainted with Dag’s blood. She should rest, but knows that sleep won’t come to her. So, she gathers her things and heads out into the night without looking back. Mouse follows her to the edge of the settlement, where she pats him on the head and leaves, after telling him to keep Randvi safe.
It’s nearly dawn by the time Eivor stops to catch her breath, sitting cross-legged at the base of an ancient oak deep in the woods. She doesn’t even know where she’s heading – does not care, as long as it is far away from Randvi because she can’t trust herself to keep her distance. It hurts worse than any wound to deny her, but Eivor cannot betray her brother. No. All she can do is trust that Randvi will eventually do the right thing, and then… What then? Eivor barely knows what love is. Her life, as long as she can remember, has been nothing but battle after battle – death, pain, and blood. She thinks of how it felt when Randvi held her, and she loathes herself for that moment of weakness.
…Not nearly as much as she hates herself now, as she hugs her knees to her chest and sobs like a frightened child – not that she knows anything about that. If she had ever cried like this as a child, she would have been beaten. How much longer can she go on like this, though? As long as it takes, she tells herself. She is a warrior. She will meet her fate on the battlefield, not broken and weeping alone in the woods. She stands, and looks to the horizon. She can worry about her future with Randvi, after she finds Sigurd. No, not worry. It’s something to look forward to, a bright spot in the shadows. It’s been a very long time since she felt that way – since she had hope.
Eivor takes a breath and finds her way back to the old Roman road she was following before. One foot in front of the other. Whatever happens, she has work to do and must not falter. The road ahead is long, but she knows she will find her way.