Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A.N.: Important! For the reader's (and my own) convenience, I am writing this entirely in English. Please remember to pretend that all dialogue is Old Norse.

As usual, there was no sleep to be had in the dormitory - at least, not for Eryn. As was her habit, the five-year-old waited until all the others were asleep before sneaking up onto the rooftop, her green eyes sparkling in the moonlight. As she laid on her back, losing herself to her survey of the stars, her mind returned to the events of that afternoon. It was winter in Denmark, and the fireplaces blazed, flames flickering in a mesmerizing dance.

Apparently, touching fire was not something that people did. Then, why hadn't anything bad happened to her?

Maybe Sister Mary-Katharine was right, and I'm some creature sent from hell - No! She shook her head forcefully, desperately, against the memory of the nun's panicked shrieks. I'm not evil!

Then, what was she? Yet again, she found herself wondering from whence she'd come, and yet again, her imagination ran away with her, conjuring images from the simplified stories she had read. Achilles, Isis, Baldr…She always had loved mythology.

Eryn shook her head, forcefully dismissing the wild speculation. Sometimes, stories were just stories; some things really were impossible. Once again, her mind returned to that afternoon. For a fraction of a second, she, herself, almost doubted that she'd actually made contact with the fire. Maybe she'd just gotten close and only thought she'd-

Then, she remembered the look in Sister Mary-Katharine's eyes as she'd warped her perceptions, forcing the situation to conform to her conception of the bounds of reality.

"No," Eryn whispered, not even registering the fact that the word she had uttered had not been Danish, "I won't let that happen to me."

She didn't understand what had happened, but she'd still rather know. She thought back to her lie, the instinctive rush of words that had filled her mouth with reassurances, explanations.

At least I won't lie to myself.

Besides, there were countless reasons the normal rules of "reality" didn't apply to her. When she had first come to this abbey that doubled as an orphanage, she had spoken no Danish, uttering instead fragments of what sounded like Icelandic. There were other oddities, too - her unnatural body heat, for one.

When she had first come to the abbey, the nuns had been afraid she'd had a fever, but no other symptoms of illness had ever appeared, and it had never subsided. The doctor had given them a long and complicated - but, apparently, "quite simple, and more common than you'd think" - explanation involving circulation.

Then, there was her life before the abbey. When she had mysteriously appeared on the doorstep one night, about two years ago, the nuns had eventually gathered from the girl's broken answers to their questions that she didn't seem to remember anything. Trying to piece together her history for themselves, they had guessed her to be about three years old; to explain the language confusion, they had concluded that one of her parents must have been from Iceland; to explain her lack of memories, they'd concluded that she must have suffered some trauma, and was repressing the memories, "the poor, little dear..."

But that wasn't quite right. She did have some memories, they were just...fuzzy. She heard a woman sing in that unidentifiable language she somehow, inexplicably, understood. She saw…fur. Soft, grey fur that smelled of a forest of linden and pine. She felt the wind in her face as she ran across the snow, bursting with exhilaration, the moon high above. Most clearly, she remembered a pair of warm, hazel eyes.

And then, she'd found herself alone on the steps of the abbey, not knowing how she had come to be there.

Eryn could not make sense of her past, but as she lost herself in the fragmented memories, with a breeze ruffling her flaming red mane and the moon high above, she finally found sleep.

Chapter Text

The first thing to disrupt the heavy black curtain of Eryn's unconsciousness was a song. The voice, warm and clear, was the same one the now seven-year-old remembered from the cubist portrait that was her childhood. The language was her mother tongue, not Danish. The words...She had never heard those words before.

The woman sang of waters, still and stormy; she sang of wind, slicing through the waves.

As glowing stars and a bright full moon appeared overhead, Eryn used their light to pick her way across the stony ground. As she followed the sound of the woman's voice, Eryn's dreamscape continued to take shape, and she found herself in the midst of a great wood.

Linden and pine…

The towering trees largely blotted out the sky, but Eryn had always seen exceptionally well in the dark. The voice led her to a clearing, in the center of which sat a woman on the far side of a small campfire.

As the woman finished her song, Eryn simply studied her. She was tall and lean, with warm hazel eyes and elegantly, yet simply, plaited amber hair.

Eryn knew this woman - or, she had, once. Suddenly, she felt her consciousness beset by images, fragments...

A gray wolf. This woman, by a campfire much like this one. This woman, leading Eryn by the hand. She hadn't been Eryn, then.

This woman, calling her... Leiknleif?

Yes, that had been her name, then...

Eryn paused a moment more, considering the woman before her.

"I'm dreaming."

"Technically, yes, but that doesn't mean this isn't real. Dreaming isn't as simple as mortals make it out to be."

"Wait, what? Mortals? What are you talking about?"

The goddess sighed, her eyes sad and resigned.

"I'd hoped to wait until you were older. I fear you aren't ready to be dragged into this mad world of ours, but I've watched you grow restless. It isn't enough to be taught English or the geography of Europe. You want to learn galdralag* and the geography of Yggdrasil. I blame your parentage," she said with a small smile.

Eryn - Leiknleif - whoever she was - was getting bored at the abbey; she wanted to go places, see things, have experiences, stop reading about adventures and start having her own. But, how did this woman know her so well? What connection they had once had was still unclear to her. Mortals, Yggdrasil - she spoke like a character out of Norse mythology... And, parentage. What could she tell the girl about her past?

"Who are you?"

"Someone who cares about you."

After a moment of thought, she added, "I know your mother very well."

Since when am I the cryptic one?

Leiknleif's heart soared, "What's she like?"

Then, her heart sank, "Why isn't she here? Why can't I remember her, only you?"

"Come sit with me. It's a long and complicated story..."

The girl's eyes flashed in the firelight.

"What's so complicated about it?" she demanded.

The goddess shouldn't have been surprised. She reflected for a moment, gazing first into the girl's eyes, then into the flickering flames. Finally, she spoke, and her voice was soft.

"What is your mother like? She's a lot like you. She's relatively small, but swift, agile, and remarkably intelligent, with piercing green eyes and hair like fire." She smiled ruefully, "And she has quite the sense of humor."

Unconsciously, Leiknleif had drifted closer, enthralled, until she found herself sprawled out beside the fire, eyes focused intently on the woman's face.

"She is a very good mother, and loves you very much... You asked why things are so complicated: In a word, politics. The Æsir over-complicate everything, and she wants to protect you from that, so she's kept her distance."

That's not the only reason she hasn't come to see you, but it's all you're ready to know.

"She's asked me to take care of you for her, because no one pays much attention to me."

And because fylgjir** can be hidden from Hlidskjalf.*** Not to mention, I doubt anyone else would have agreed to help.

As Leiknleif absorbed all this, silence fell, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Then, she realized, "You still haven't told me your name. Or hers."

The goddess sighed, and the girl knew she wouldn't be happy about the words that followed.

"Remember what I said about politics? I need you to trust me when I say this is for the best. You-"

"It's kind of hard to trust someone I don't know anything about. Besides, if my mother trusted you to take care of me, why did I end up getting dumped at the abbey?"

The goddess paused. Despite all their efforts, the child still knew pain. She should never have hoped otherwise.

"If you knew me and my intentions," she said softly, "there would be no need for trust. I brought you to the abbey because you needed experience with human beings before you could deal with your own people. Mortals are psychologically and societally similar to your kind, but safer. It was the perfect environment for you to learn."

Leiknleif paused. If possible, she felt even more confused than before this woman had waltzed back into her life. She had so many questions...

Eventually, she settled on one, "You keep talking about 'my kind.' What do you mean?"

"I speak of the Heruli,**** the children of the Æsir. Their dwelling is called Volsungaheim, after those ancient role models of the Heruli. I would send you there to learn their ways, to learn how to hold your own in our world. I won't reveal your origin until you've grown to understand your new world and choose your place in it without feeling bound by some sense of familial obligation."

She watched the girl struggle to sort through the overwhelming load of information - and lack thereof - that had been thrown at her.

She understood so little...

Eventually, Eryn realized that it all came down to one simple consideration.

If I wake up in the morning and this is just another dream, then it doesn't matter what I do or say now.

But, if this is somehow real, then what will I most regret?

The answer was obvious, though frightening. Still, her little voice rang out with surprising strength as she answered, "I want to go."

The goddess was unsurprised, though she had hoped to be able to shelter the girl for a while longer. Wyrd had never been kind to her family.

Half-heartedly, she spoke, "You may regret this decision."

The girl glared up at her. She'd made her choice. The woman had offered it in the first place!

"And I might not," she retorted.

"It is my hope that you will not."

Chapter Text

The darkness was stifling and the silence oppressive as the volva's* eyes snapped open. Though awake, it was a few moments more before she was aware of anything but the all-consuming flames and laughter that chilled to the bone. Even before she had regained her grip on the concrete world, she was stumbling out of bed, all but sprinting in her haste, for she knew – how could she not? – this was no ordinary dream. She rushed from her chambers to the adjoining temple, in a grove slightly removed from the citadel, and with practiced motions, prepared a sacrifice, performing the ancient rites of spá-craft to invoke her mistresses, the Norns. Her dream had been a warning and a summons, and she would learn what they would share.

"So…what do I need to know before I get where I'm going? And, where exactly am I going? And, how am I even getting there? And, when am I leaving? In fact, I don't actually know anything about…well, anything. And, for that matter, how do I know-"

"Leiknleif, please." The goddess's words were stern, but she didn't bother hiding her amusement, even as she continued, "I know you have questions, but you'll have plenty of time to learn once you've reached Volsungaheim. For us, however, time is short, and you must depart soon if you wish to arrive by morning. Now, for the details of your journey… An old friend of yours will be waiting when you awake; he'll show you the way. As for what you need to know before you join the Heruli…

"You must be strong and confident, for they value such. Do not show weakness if you can help it, for they set great store in first impressions. You must get the measure of them yourself in order to understand how to interact with them; do so quickly by watching and listening closely and carefully. Try to learn more than you tell, and remember that people seldom say all they think – you must look past what they say and gather what they mean."

The girl's expression had changed as she internalized all this, her eyes hard and focused, though unseeing, on a point in the distance. The woman had the unnerving impression that Leiknleif was looking straight through her. The expression made her look far more dangerous than one her age should, and the goddess was quite familiar with it – though on a different face.

The apple truly doesn't fall far from the trunk.

Acutely aware of the passage of time, the woman prompted, "Can you do this?"

The girl's eyes cleared, once more registering her surroundings, as she looked up at her.

I… I think so…

Strong…Confident…

May as well start practicing.

"No problem," she asserted with a lazy grin. The woman felt a rush of pride, looking down on her.

She really will be alright. She is capable of this; it's in her blood, after all, and I'll be watching over her. The others cannot directly interfere where she is going.

"Very well," she smiled, "Then, only one thing remains. When you arrive, tell them your name is Eldrleif."

Fire's legacy.

Rorick was hard pressed to keep himself from pacing. The jarl** had been abruptly awakened from troubled dreams and informed that the volva sought to counsel with him. Standing before her now, he knew that all was not well.

"Unlock your word-hoard,***" the son of Odin prompted. "I would know what troubles you, for I doubt not you come with some warning. It must be urgent for you to address me at this hour."

The volva spoke.

I feel a shadow slinking toward us.
Swiftly it comes, shrouded in riddles.
Tonight it comes, claiming us all.
Its form I've seen not; would you know yet more?

Born of fire, its flames burn bright.
'Tis at a crossroads 'twixt day and night.
Destined to bring, on a distant day,
Great darkness or light; would you know yet more?

One path boasts abundance of joys -
Music and feasting, firelight and dance,
Shining mead-halls standing tall,
Wisdom and harvest, wonder of word-smiths.

The other path holds the weather of weapons,
Fulfillment of fears, destined destruction,
Everything falling to flames leaping high,
The sky-candle lost to the sleep of the sword.

Eryn awoke, reeling, to find herself on the rooftop of the abbey cum orphanage, as was her custom. She had been caught once – only once – when she'd slept too late, and she still had not the faintest idea how she'd managed to get away with the excuse of sleepwalking.

Now, she lay still for a moment, letting her mind settle. Her dream had been crisp and clear, unlike the fuzzy, fragmented visions that usually occupied her rest. Still, that was not enough to convince her of its reality. Something inside her whispered that it was real, but she could not bring herself to hope, as her mind scoffed at her heart's "wishful thinking." If only it could be…

Restless, she climbed to her feet, padding softly across the rooftop to the front of the building, peering down onto the street, still and silent in the moonlight. To her surprise, it wasn't empty; a large, gray wolf sat before the steps of the abbey, a mere stone's throw from the structure.

A wolf in the middle of the city?

The girl could have sworn it was looking up at her.

Soft, gray fur, surrounding her as a child…

An old friend…

She scoffed at herself, shaking her head.

Yep, I'm completely insane. Honestly, where do I come up with this stuff? It was a stinking dream.

She cast one more glance at the creature before preparing to turn and walk away, when it whined in greeting. It was definitely looking at her now. She hesitated.

This could still be a dream. Like, a dream inside a dream.

Oh, come on, she thought abruptly, A second ago I believed I was talking to a Norse goddess, and now I have trouble believing she sent a wolf to guide me? I really need my head checked out.

Still, she hesitated.

Do I really want to do this?

Really, the decision had been made weeks before, when her restlessness had begun to boil over, the wanderlust in her blood beginning to chafe. Her misgivings never had a chance. All reluctance melted away, and she shimmied down the pillar on the right side of the stoop.

The wolf trotted up and nuzzled her. She looked down into its warm hazel eyes and caught her breath.

"I really do know you."

Somehow, she recognized its – his, she was certain, though she knew not how – affirmation for what it was.

"Well, that lady said you're supposed to take me…wherever I'm going. Is that right?"

He conveyed another affirmative, then: Are you sure you want to do this?

She grinned down at him, replying, "Can't wait," with a confidence she did not feel. She could have sworn he was laughing at her as he trotted off, leading her away from the only home she could remember.

They quickly left the city behind. The girl had never before ventured outside it, unless in her mysterious childhood. They eventually reached a small, rocky cove, hidden by a copse of trees, and the wolf simply sat about a pace from the waterline, looking up at her expectantly.

Confused, the child asked, "What now?"

You tell me, the wolf conveyed along with a meaningful glance at the sea.

"You want me," the girl reasoned slowly, "to figure out how to get across that."

Yep.

"But that's ridiculous! I can't even see what it is I'm supposed to be trying to get to. How am I supposed to – aargh!"

She was answered with a steady, patient look.

Figure it out.

She huffed, then turned away from her companion, looking out across the sea instead. As she felt the wind on her face, she closed her eyes, feeling its peace and power wash over her. She reopened her eyes, watching the wind play across the waters, and a song came unbidden to her heart, as if carried by that same wind, or washed up on the shore beside her. Where had she heard that song before?

In her dream, just earlier that night.

She didn't even realize she'd begun singing until she felt it fill her up, as though the winds and waves before and around her were bubbling up inside her. The breeze picked up, caressing her, and the waters calmed. By the end of the song, a shape could be seen, floating in the distance. As it approached, she finally identified it: A small boat, simple but elegant, with an elaborate figurehead – the head of a wyrm, its proud neck curving down to meet the body of the vessel. It floated a few paces away, presumably as close to the shore as it could get without running aground.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, the girl thought, O.K… What just happened? But, all she really registered was its beauty, and the songs it sang of adventures and hidden knowledge. Unconsciously, she was drawn towards it, when suddenly, already knee-deep in the water, she stopped, turning back to face the shore. The wolf hadn't moved.

"A-aren't you coming with me?"

This is your journey, not mine.

"But…"

You'll be fine.

The girl bit back her protests and nodded resolutely. She had so many questions…

Who are you? Why aren't you coming with me? Why do I know you from before? How do I understand you so well?

But somehow, she knew it was time to move on. Perhaps some of her questions would be answered when she reached her people. Until then…

"Will I ever see you again?"

We'll see.

"Farewell," the archaic expression sat strangely on her tongue, but felt appropriate.

Farewell.

The girl waded through the water until able to clamber into the boat. As it slowly glided off of its own accord, she turned to look for the last time upon all she had ever known before setting her face forward, toward all that would come her way. As she surrendered herself to the currents, allowing the black-and-silver sea to take her where it would, she felt her resolve harden; she was ready for whatever the future would bring.

Immediately following the volva's prophecy, the guard around the perimeter of the citadel was doubled. Thus, Martin, a boy of eleven, found himself unexpectedly and hurriedly roused and stationed a few paces outside the main gate. The son of Skaði had completed his martial training only a few months before, and the sentries on the wall behind him did little to ease his nerves. His light brown hair was tied back so as not to be a hindrance, and his sharp blue eyes flicked nervously from side to side as he scanned his surroundings.

He reminded himself of the vague nature of the prophecy, and of the volva's conviction that, even in the worst case scenario, there was no immediate threat.

Yeah, right, a voice inside him scoffed, and we've all been woken for a bit of stargazing! Nope, no danger at all, he thought with a sarcasm born of frayed nerves.

The volva probably saw more than we know and they're just lying so we won't panic.

Just then, he heard something scuffling toward him from behind. Forgetting that whatever it was approached from the direction of the citadel, he whirled around, drawing his sword, to face-

"Hágoð," he breathed in relief. He scowled as his comrades jeered down at him from their posts on the wall.

Ignoring them, Martin returned his blade to the scabbard strapped to his back, approaching the six-and-a-half-year-old who had inadvertently startled him.

"What are you doing out here?"

The child, a son of Tyr, looked up at him with large, tawny eyes, his face half-obscured by the mess sleep had made of his dark brown locks.

"I woke up, and everyone was getting ready for battle and whispering, and… I just wanted to know what was going on," he explained timidly.

He paused, then, "Are you angry?"

"No," Martin chuckled. "No, I'm not angry."

Hágoð relaxed.

"What's happening?"

Martin did his best to explain the situation at the child's level. Apparently, he did alright, because the kid seemed to understand well enough. Enough to keep asking questions, anyway, which was probably as much as any of them knew about it, barring only the volva and the chieftain.

"So, there's no real danger?"

"Not for the time being, anyway."

"Then, why is everyone so tense?"

That gave the older boy pause. Why, indeed?

After a while, he answered, taking the time to form a response he believed.

"Because there are times when you can never be too cautious, and this is one of those times. Which is why you should go back inside."

He looked into Hágoð's eyes as he considered the older boy's statement. Seeing the conflict there, Martin made a spur-of-the-moment decision.

"But, since people don't always do what they should, here."

He pulled a knife from his boot, offering it to the child.

"I want you to have this. Just stay close to me, and remember what I said; a little caution never hurt anybody."

Hágoð's eyes widened - as did his grin - and he carefully took the proffered weapon. It would be a couple years before he could wield such a thing effectively, but he knew enough to prevent the gift from being reckless one.

Martin considered the younger boy a moment longer, before turning to gaze off into the wood, his back to the citadel, watching for any sign of trouble. He had allowed the boy to stay because, of course, there was no real danger, and he could see curiosity practically eating the child alive. Besides, he didn't want to encourage cowardice, training the boy to run and hide whenever the slightest hint of danger approached.

And maybe, just maybe, Hágoð gave the older boy a reason to be brave.

As the moon sank through the sky, nearing the horizon, the boat stopped before a shore of cliffs, jutting severely upward, towering over the water. The girl sat completely still, for once, gazing at them and feeling impossibly small.

"You must be joking," she breathed. "Right? I mean, what am I supposed to-? How am I supposed to-?" She trailed off, returning to her silent scrutiny of the cliff-face. She spotted a dark opening near the bottom, where the stone met the sea. It was almost like a cave, but she couldn't see a back; instead, it seemed to stretch on indefinitely, almost like…

"A tunnel?"

No, that's crazy. But, she had witnessed stranger happenings that night alone. Still, committing to that belief would be a risk. What if it didn't lead anywhere, and she became trapped? What if some creature lurked inside, waiting to devour her? Or, what if the tide rose and she was drowned? So much could go wrong.

She pushed these thoughts out of her mind. It was clear that, if she wanted to move forward, she would have to take her chances, for no other options were apparent. But, did she really want to move forward?

Somehow, she knew that once she left the boat, there was no turning back. Once she made her decision, she would have to live with the consequences for the rest of her life. She hesitated and, for the first time, really considered that this might not be a dream.

What was she doing? If she disembarked, she would be leaving behind everything she had ever known, and for what? She didn't even know what she was getting into!

But, she did know what she was leaving behind. She knew as much as she wished to of the mortal world, and what's more, she knew her place in it. She felt herself drawn, as she so often was, into a day long past, a memory of fire and screaming.

She didn't know what she was getting into, but she wanted to find out. She wanted to learn of this people – her people. She took a deep breath and stood.

When she finally emerged from the tunnel, she found herself in a forest, a few paces from what appeared to be a well-worn path. Perhaps it was paranoia, but she found herself unwilling to venture out into the open. Instead, she stayed in the cover of the trees as she worked her way inland, travelling parallel to the path.

She caught her breath when she saw from whence it led. Peering out from behind a tree, she took in the massive walls of gray stone, on top of which stood armored figures carrying spears. The path she'd been following passed through an arched gateway, in front of which stood a boy who appeared several years older than her, accompanied by another who looked to be about her age. Both were armed.

She hesitated. Was this where she was meant to go? Gathering her courage, she crept closer for a better look. As she approached to only a stone's throw away, she focused on the figures she could see. Just as she registered the underlying tension, she felt a twig break underfoot, the resounding snap sounding far louder than it should have.

The elder of the two boys drew his sword and spun to face her, demanding, "Show yourself!" The girl inhaled sharply, as the soldiers on top of the wall teased their comrade, calling down something about squirrels and frightened rabbits. Steeling herself, she thought, I've got to do this sometime.

"Right, because threatening me with your sword so makes me want to come out of hiding." She stepped out from behind the tree, slowly making her way toward the boys. Had she seen the faces of those on the wall, she would have laughed.

As it was, she had eyes only for the boy leveling a sword at her chest.

"Who are you?"

She struggled to control her ragged breathing. She was not entirely successful, but she at least managed to keep her face neutral.

"E-Eldrleif."

"How did you get here?"

"I – There was a boat." Was it uncommon to reach this place alone?

Learn more than you tell…

If one is unusual, it prompts questions. Fit in, however, and people assume they already know all they need to about you. The girl really didn't feel like answering many questions just then.

"The woman showed me."

The boy seemed to relax the slightest bit, but his weapon never wavered.

"What woman?" he asked, his voice gentler than before.

"The one who told me my name. Back at the orphanage, they just called me Eryn. A lady came to me tonight and showed me this place."

Just then, the younger boy stepped forward. "Well then, welcome. My name is Hágoð." He smiled, offering his hand.

The girl grinned back, "Hey. I'd shake your hand, but I'm afraid your friend here would stab me if I moved." She somehow managed to keep her voice light, despite her very real trepidation, and the older boy snorted as the younger looked up at him reproachfully.

"Sorry," he said, sheathing his sword. "You'll soon grow accustomed to the way we do things here." In all honesty, he was impressed by her lack of fear, especially considering her unfamiliarity with this world. He knew many, even among the Heruli, who lacked such strength and courage.

"I'm Martin, by the way. Now, come with me. There are some people with whom you must speak."

Acquiring a torch, Martin began weaving a course through the citadel. The girl seemed tense, and he noticed her frequent glances toward the light. On a hunch, he shifted it to the hand closest to her; she faltered, and fell a step behind, looking nervous. Smirking, he passed the torch back to his other hand.

"It isn't going to leap out at you, you know." The declaration startled her, but she soon realized his meaning.

"So you say," she muttered.

He let it pass, and they walked in silence until they reached their destination, a building in the heart of the camp. She found herself shepherded into some sort of sitting room, and introduced to the jarl and the volva. Martin and Hágoð were included in the gathering, as they had been the first to meet her, but the room was otherwise empty.

"Now, what is your name, child?" the volva asked kindly.

"Eldrleif... Apparently." The qualifier went unnoticed as the volva and Rorick shared a meaningful glance.

Born of fire…

After some prompting, the child quickly found herself explaining that she had no real memories of her family. Her house had burned down when she was three – Martin looked uncomfortable at this, probably remembering his dismissal of her unease with the torch. Her father been trapped inside, but she had somehow escaped and been brought to the orphanage, presumably by her mother, where she had lived out her life so far. That night, a woman had appeared to her, telling her her real name – apparently not Eryn – and origin, then showing her the way to the hólm**** which housed the Heruli.

At first, the girl wondered why the lies flowed off her tongue so easily, but as she lost herself in the tale she spun, letting the words wash over her and become truth, she realized: It was just like telling a story, and she'd read enough stories to become good at telling her own.

"Then only one mystery remains," Rorick said. "Who is your mother, and why did she leave you to find your way on your own? Children are generally brought to us by their parents." He and the others were under the impression that the goddess in the girl's dream was her mother, and she didn't contest the idea.

"I – I don't know. She didn't tell me who she is. She said something about politics? Maybe she's just ashamed of me."

"That is wrong," the volva was quick to soothe. "If she did not love you, she would not have led you here."

"The girl may have a point though," the jarl replied. "Her description could be applied to most of the Ásynjur,***** but her hair was bound, which means she is married."

"But, many of our parents are married," Martin broke in, "and they show no shame for their infidelity."

"Hmm."

"In any case," the volva said, "we may never learn the answer. Let us turn our thoughts, then, to matters that we can and must decide. The girl is only seven; most children arrive at the age of at least eight, when the battle-training begins."

"What does that mean?" The child felt it necessary to remind the others of her presence, as they spoke as though they'd forgotten it.

"Once of training age," Rorick explained, "children reside in the barracks. Those few who arrive before the age of eight are raised by their kin. In your case, however…"

"I will raise her."

All eyes snapped to the volva, a surprised silence weighing down the air. Finally, the jarl spoke.

"Are you certain?"

"Perfectly. I believe we'll get on quite well."

The little council was quickly adjourned after that. As she followed the volva out the door, the girl turned back to face the small voice calling out to her.

"It was nice to meet you, Eldrleif. I'll see you in the morning!" Hágoð's smile was infectious.

"It probably is morning by now," she tossed back before turning to catch up with the older woman.

And, sure enough, as the two began their trek through the citadel, the first rays of dawn were slowly spreading forth from the horizon.

A.N. So, what did you think of my fornyrðislag?

Chapter Text

It was a crisp, clear night, and Eldrleif lay alone, gazing up at the steadily rising moon, the cold stone roof a familiar pressure at her back. Despite herself, her lips quirked upward.

            Here I am again. Thought I’d gotten over this.

She had arrived at Volsungaheim shortly after her seventh birthday. It was now early Þorri¹, exactly a year later. They had celebrated her eighth birthday that day, the anniversary of her arrival, which was fine by her since she didn‘t know the real date, anyway. She had been duly transferred to the shieldmaidens’ barracks, which was not so fine by her.

            She heard an inhuman snarl and propelled herself into a sitting position, whipping her head around in search of a wolf before realizing that the sound had torn from her own throat. Restless, she stood and began to pace. She knew the reason for the whispers; she had noticed them soon after her arrival and asked what they meant. Only Hágoð had been willing to tell her, explaining the night of her arrival and the volva´s mysterious prophecy, which apparently, no one had actually heard. She had confronted her guardian the next time they were alone.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” she’d demanded.

            “Tell you what, Child?”

            “That everyone thinks I’m going to start the Hel-begotten Ragnarokkr!”

            The volva had sighed.

            What did I expect? This was bound to happen someday. Though I had hoped to have more time.

She hadn’t been sure what to do, but had somehow felt that scolding the girl for her language would be a mistake just then. Later, however…

            “Prophecy is a tricky business…”

            It had not been a pleasant conversation, and both participants would be haunted by its conclusion for many years to come.

            “And what do you believe?”

            “As I’ve already tried to explain, prophecy is a tricky business.” The child’s eyes had flashed with pain that was almost betrayal before something had changed; in the space of a moment, emotion had drained from her face, her eyes hardening. Thrown by the sudden shift, the volva had rushed to reassure her.

            “But I do not believe you will bring darkness or destruction.” The words had rung hollow, and she’d realized that she didn’t quite believe them. The girl must have sensed as much, for she’d stalked from the room without another word, or even so much as a backward glance.

            The volva had berated herself; of course, it was all nonsense. The child was one of them! Still, she had failed to suppress a shudder as she’d recalled that sudden shuttering of the girl’s eyes.

Eldrleif had fled to the woods, then, desperate for solitude. Of course, one was never really alone in nature, but that sort of company didn’t count. Plants and animals, even most spirits, minded their own business, manifest only as a quiet reminder that one was not in isolation; it wasn’t like the suffocation she felt in the citadel.

She had found a small stream, hidden by a thick copse of trees, and simply settled there, hugging her knees to her chest. That had been around midday. She hadn’t so much as shifted position by the time the moon was at its zenith. She hadn’t even noticed the passage of time, until she’d found herself lost in the constellations.

I bet no one is even looking for me.

Not that she’d expected a search. In fact, in her current state, she’d not been able to even care.

Her thoughts had turned, then, to the woman who had lured her there in the first place.

“I thought you said I could belong here,” she’d muttered.

That was when Hágoð had found her. The volva had let her slip away for the day, knowing she’d needed time to come to terms with everything, but had worried when night had fallen without her return. She had asked for help locating the child, and the citadel was being searched. The boy, forgotten in it all, had not been satisfied to sit back and wait. He had prayed, not to his father, but to the girl´s unknown mother before, somehow knowing that she wouldn´t be found within the walls, setting out into the woods. He hadn’t gone far when he’d been stopped short by a large seabird, white with gray wings, landing in his path. Such birds did not frequent Volsungaheim. It had induced him to follow it, leading him to a set of small footprints before disappearing, leaving him to follow the trail through the woods. When he’d found Eldrleif, he had simply sat beside her.

Eventually, he had induced her to speak, and when it was all over, one thought had stood out in the girl’s mind:

He thinks I belong.

If not for his support that night, she didn’t know what she would have done. She knew only that he was the reason she had returned and renewed her efforts to call Volsungaheim home.

Now, a year later but still alone as ever she had been, she needed him again. They hadn’t had much time to themselves that day, and so had arranged to meet that night when the moon reached its zenith. It was appropriate, as her arrival had been in the night.

Eldrleif sighed, restless in what she was quickly coming to view as a great stone prison. Quickly and quietly, she escaped to the woods, a skill she was fast perfecting. She found her way to her usual meeting place and paced beside the stream she’d found all that time ago. The moon was now directly overhead, and she turned at the sound of familiar, soft footfalls on the snow, a tension she didn’t know she was harboring seeping out of her bones and a smile gracing her lips at her friend’s approach.

The younger boy – Hágoð would not turn eight until late Harpa² – returned the expression, but a hint of hesitance dampened the smile that would usually banish the bite from the chill winter air. He shifted nervously and slowly reached into a pocket, saying, “I – um – I hope this is appropriate, but I, uh…I made you something.”

With that, he pulled out the miniscule figure of a wolf, carved from pine with astonishing detail, hanging from a thin leather cord and offered it to his friend. In the shocked silence that ensued, the usually serene boy fidgeted, wondering if he’d presumed too much. There was nothing inherently special about birthdays; this one was significant only because it marked Eldrleif’s transition between two phases of life. As befitted the commencement of her training years, she had been presented with a hunting knife at the feast earlier that day. She had not expected anything else; aside from symbolic boons like the knife, the giving of gifts on one’s birthday was not widely practiced except by those with an extremely close bond, usually family.

Overcoming her surprise, she slowly accepted the pendant and hung it gently round her neck, acutely aware of the gravity of Hágoð’s gesture. Suddenly, she embraced him, whispering, “Thank you,” voice thick with emotion. When they pulled away from each other, she continued, words gushing forth as if to compensate for the earlier silence.

“Thank you so much. Not just for the gift – I mean, it is beautiful! But… You know… For caring. I – I didn’t think anyone… In any case, thank you.”

Hágoð’s grin stretched ear to ear, relief evident in his posture.

“You are welcome. Truly. I am glad you like it.” 

They moved as they talked, sitting side by side at the base of a tree, gazing at the stars reflected in the stream.

“The detail is wonderful. You said you carved it yourself?”

“My sister showed me how – you know, she being a smith and all. She said I have a talent.”

“You do,” Eldrleif affirmed, causing the boy to blush.

“Anyway, what is it like to be eight?”

“It’s Hel,” the girl declared flatly, smile falling away. Hágoð’s eyes widened.

“Really?” he asked with no small amount of trepidation. His companion rolled her eyes.

“Well, it won’t be so bad for you; you’ll be with the other boys. It’s these Hel-begotten girls I can’t abide!” The boy’s smile returned at her fervor.

“It can’t be all that bad.”

“It is! Don’t laugh, it’s awful. Honestly, I hate them all!” But, she couldn’t quite keep a smile from her own face under the circumstances, despite her very real ire. It just felt so good to vent, here beside her friend, knowing she could simply be for a while.

“Elda, you’ve only spent a day with them,” Hágoð reasoned. “Give them a chance.”

Sobering, Eldrleif replied, “Oh, I have. If we speak of ‘giving chances,’ you’ve got it the wrong way round.”

            She had learned quickly, and rather firmly, through her acquaintance with Martin that when a boy had a problem with you, you knew it. And, that was how she liked it. These simpering wenches with whom she was now forced to reside baited her constantly with subtle barbs, protecting themselves from retribution with a thin veil of civility. They went out of their way to welcome and include her with their artificially wide smiles – and to make sure she heard the whispers when her back was turned.

            She took this opportunity to tell her friend as much, complaints spilling forth with a vitriol that didn’t quite mask the pain beneath. It wasn’t her fault she’d arrived the night she had.

            The two simply sat for a while after that, silence falling heavily as the snow. Sensing the heart of the matter, Hágoð sought something, anything, to fix it. Eventually, he hazarded, “The sky is not less blue because the blind man does not see it.”

            The girl looked at him, confusion written plainly across her face, and he shrugged diffidently under her earnest gaze.

            “It means – well, you probably know what it means, it’s a fairly common saying, it’s just…I thought it applied. If they truly think such things about you, they obviously do not know you, and just because they presume to…doesn’t mean they actually do,” he trailed off.

            Her answering smile was small, but it was there, and his heart soared at being able to lighten hers a little.

            “You have a proverb for every occasion, don’t you?”

            “It is because I listen as much as you talk.”

            Eldrleif squawked in mock indignation, punching her companion in the arm before both collapsed into throes of laughter.

            When they quieted, Hágoð thought more about what he had learned. He was a very even tempered child, but his friend had been clearly upset, and he didn’t like to think that her pain would continue.

            “Elda,” he began softly, not yet sure what he intended. “If it truly bothers you so much…” Inspiration struck, “Think of it as a game!”

            “A game.” She eyed him with incredulity, her tone suggesting she suspected him of having lost his mind. It did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm.

            “Their manner bothers you, and you know not how to retaliate, right? So, think of their hostility as a game they are playing. All you have to do is figure out the rules. I have never known you to lose a game, in the end. You always play until you win.”

            “Very good,” the volva praised. She stood before the citadel’s eight-year-olds, beginning their basic education of Volsungaheim’s history and culture. She began her teaching with questions, establishing what the children already knew and preparing to build on it. She had asked the children to list the major players in fundamental history, beginning with the most eminent of the Vanir. The children had just finished with the Æsir, and she prompted them to continue, “Now, what-“

            “Excuse me.” The voice was soft, but confident. Surprised at the interruption, the volva paused for a moment before gathering herself to respond.

            “Yes, Eldrleif?”

            “They forgot Loki.” Everyone froze, and the girl pretended not to be acutely aware of the fact that every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on her. After taking a moment to recover, the volva said, “What do you mean, Child?”

            “You asked us to list the Æsir who made significant contributions to history; no one said Loki.”

            “Because he’s not an áss³, idiot,” another child hissed, “He’s a jötun.” Eldrleif’s cheeks reddened at the insult, her spine stiffening, but she kept her composure. She turned to face Bridget Thorsdóttir, the one who had spoken.

            “But, he is,” she stated calmly. “Though not an áss by birth – and, for the record, he’s actually half alfr⁴, not completely jötun– he is reckoned among the Æsir, having sworn an oath-“

            “Yes, yes, we all know about his pact with the Allfather. But, he broke that oath.”

            “Did he?” It wasn’t a question, not really, leaving no doubt as to her opinion on the matter. A shocked silence fell, evidence that no one else had even considered such a question before. Bridget was the first to recover; flabbergasted, she burst out, “Loki embodies all that is evil!”

            “Even if that were true, it is not the issue at hand. In any case-“

            “If it were true?!”

            “Odin himself once said, ‘None so good is found that faults he has not, nor so wicked that naught he is worth.’”

            The volva had had enough. It was long past time to restore order. Perhaps sensing that she was about to put an end to the debate, Eldrleif cornered her.

            “Is not that right?”

            Reluctantly, the volva began, “It is written in the Hávamál-”

            “Then, the High One meant it as a generalization!” Bridget interjected. She opened her mouth to continue but never got the chance.

            “While I am delighted to see you taking such an interest in your studies,” the volva interrupted, voice laden with authority, “that is quite enough of that. We are setting the stage for history, not debating the gods’ moralities. Now, the mischief monger is actually a perfect segue into our next topic: the jötnar…” She continued her lesson, sketching out a rough timeline of antiquity before moving on to more modern history.

            She spoke of wars, of the outside world “progressing” and forgetting the old ways, of the Heruli withdrawal into isolation and the founding of Volsungaheim, and finally, she asked, “Have you ever wondered why the gods do not visit us here?” She spoke gently, knowing it was a sore subject for many children. She paused but did not expect an answer. Just as she opened her mouth to continue, Eldrleif surprised her.

            “It’s because of the war.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “There was a great civil war in Volsungaheim; some of the Heruli acted on their parents’ rivalries, which only worsened the problems as the gods lost their children. It was a dark time, and much blood was shed. When it was all over, the gods decided that the best way to keep it from happening again was to, rather than solve their issues and work out their differences, cease contact with their children.”

            Taken aback by the girl’s tone, the volva responded sharply, “They, of course, in their wisdom, acted for the best.”

            “Some, Tyr among them, disagreed.”

            A tense silence followed, broken only by the whispers of some of the children. Eldrleif thought she heard “Loki-spawn” from Bridget and was surprised by how much it hurt. Finally, the volva spoke.

            “It is a time not often spoken of. How did you know of it?”

            “It is written in the annals.”

            Slowly, the volva nodded before attempting “damage control,” relating the details of the situation and trying to justify the gods.

            Eventually, the topic changed once more.

            “As you grow older and prepare to face the outside world, you will need to know a little about magic. Seidhr⁵ was once considered a woman’s art, and is still the woman’s responsibility in the home, but it is prudent for all to have a basic understanding of it and to know the runes set forth in the Hávamál⁶. Because it is such a sensitive subject, I will teach you individually.

            “Now, you must know, in the event that you are faced with it, that there is other magic – older magic. A primitive form, galdr is worked through song. It is still practiced by the alfar and the jötnar.”

            Worked thorough song…

            A song came back to Eldrleif, one she had learned a year ago. She remembered her journey to Volsungaheim, the song that had carried her across the sea. But…

            Practiced by alfar and jötnar…

            That woman had been neither. She had been an Ásynja, or so the girl had been led to believe. Why, then, had she practiced galdr? Once again, the child was left with one resounding question.

            Who was she?

            Eldrleif carved a rune into the small stone in her hand while the volva looked on in approval. They sat in the temple, knee deep in the child’s first attempt at seidhr. She began chanting to set the rune and effectuate the magic. She went on chanting for a while, and eventually…

            Nothing happened.

            “Alright, Child,” the volva finally said. “Stop for a moment.” Usually, it was easiest to teach the runic arts to children, as their innocent belief and expectation was enough to work their will, preventing them from getting too caught up in the details of the process. Obviously, this approach was not working with Eldrleif.

            “I suppose we’ll have to start at the beginning, help you understand exactly how it all works.” The girl perked up; she needed to understand. Knowing what to do but not how or why it was supposed to work was killing her.

            “There is a little bit of magic in everything; the runes tap into that energy, telling it what to do. But, the runes only work if the seidhkona has enough force of will to make the base of the spell obey the runes. Does that make sense?”

            Slowly, Eldrleif nodded. 

            “Take as much time as you need to focus yourself. Only concentrate, and remember to have confidence. You are in control; the stone will do as you command.”

            The child closed her eyes, feeling the smooth, cool weight in her hands. She let go, mentally, allowing the sensation to wash over her, heightening her awareness of the stone. Suddenly, she felt a warmth, gentle against the edges of her consciousness. Her eyes flew open in surprise, and the feeling abruptly vanished, leaving only an emptiness, almost a sort of afterimage, to indicate it had been real.

            “Eldrleif? Did something happen?”

            “No. No, it is only…I thought I felt something.” The volva blinked in surprise.

            “Good. Very good. I never expected…Do you think you can find that energy again?”

            The girl thought for a moment before responding, “I…I think so. Maybe.”

            “Only do your best. When you feel the magic this time, take up the chant again, and push against it.”

            Closing her eyes, the child reached out once more. The magic was easier to find this time, perhaps because she knew what she was looking for. She began to chant anew, but faltered as the energy recoiled. She recovered quickly, picking up where she had broken off, but couldn’t shake a feeling of unease. As she neared the end of the incantation, she felt the magic squirm. Her mind was suddenly filled with the volva’s voice, Push.

            She obeyed, throwing herself into the last few words. As she ended, she felt something break, and her stomach turned in protest before the magic flared, and the rune glowed briefly as it was set. Startled and disgusted, partially with herself, her eyes flew open, and the stone fell from her grasp, clattering against the floor. It took her a moment to register the volva’s concerned voice.

            “Child, can you hear me? Are you unwell? What is the matter?”

            “I- Nothing, I am fine; I only…It felt wrong.” Her voice was quiet, hesitant, brimming with uncertainty as to whether such a sentiment were appropriate.

            “As though I made it into something it didn’t want to be.”

            The silence that followed was pregnant, the volva gazing at her in open shock. Finally, she looked prepared to speak, but Eldrleif never learned what she would have said, for just then, the jarl appeared in the doorway.

            “You asked to speak with me?”

            “Yes. Yes, thank you, I- I’ll be only a moment. You did well today, Child. Now, the lesson is over. Would you excuse us?”

            Slowly, the girl stood, bowing stiffly to the volva, then the jarl, on her way out of the room.

            Neither ever need know that she waited outside, a child’s instinct telling her she would be their topic of discussion.

            “You said you have…concerns for the child?”

            “I...do not know what to make of her.” Rorick raised an eyebrow; the volva was rarely at a loss, and for her to be in such a state over a child…

            “Sometimes, I think she could succeed me, but the next moment…” she struggled to express her uncertainty. “I almost wonder if she is one of us at all! And, the comments she makes! I never know whether she displays insight or blasphemy.”

            “Perhaps she will find her place among us as she grows.”

            “But, you do not believe that. You have doubts, as well.”

            “I have heard…some interesting opinions on her lack of progress in combat training. But, I know not what you expect me to do. Some people are simply…different.”

            “That isn’t all. It was, but…Just now…She displayed a level of awareness that is uncommon, to say the least, among our people.”

            “Awareness? Awareness of what?”

            “Of the magic all around us. And, more worryingly, of the battle we fight through seidhr to shape it to our will.”

            In the silence that followed, Eldrleif slipped out of the temple and into the surrounding woods. She wasn’t certain the conversation had ended, but she wouldn’t risk lingering and being found out.

            Hágoð sat facing his stream, back resting against a tree as he carved intricate patterns into a small block of wood, busying his hands while his mind was elsewhere. The son of Tyr and a Danish lawyer, he had been brought to Volsungaheim younger than most and had resided with Sigrið Tyrsdóttir ever since. Basking in the peace of the woods, he turned his thoughts to the future; as all Heruli, he would fight when called upon, but he didn’t want to be a warrior, at least, not vocationally. He wanted to create, to feel something take shape under his hands, to accomplish something tangible. His sister said, when he was old enough, she would teach him to work metal like her if he wished. He intended to hold her to that promise, maybe someday work the forge with her.

            He tried to imagine what Elda would do once grown but could think of nothing that suited her. Once, he would have said she was a warrior through and through, but from what she told him of her training, that didn’t seem likely. Perhaps-

            “What are you thinking?” A voice sounded directly into his ear, and he jumped in surprise, nearly cutting himself.

            “Don’t do that!”

            Eldrleif only laughed, “You oughtn’t to allow people to sneak up on you so easily.”

            “You ought not to sneak up on people in the first place!” Eldrleif just rolled her eyes.

            “You have no sense of humor, honestly. You should have seen yourself just sitting here, entirely too serious. I absolutely had to do something.” He shook his head in exasperation, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, widening when Eldrleif pointed it out.

            “Anyway, you never answered me. What were you thinking of?”

            “Ways to stop you being so annoying.” His friend laughed.

 “See, you do know how to jest!”

            “Who said I was jesting?” That earned him a punch in the arm, but the accompanying grin was worth it.

            They sat in silence after that, Eldrleif watching as Hágoð continued his carving. Eventually, the boy spoke, hesitantly, “So…is everything alright?”

            “Why wouldn’t it be?” The girl looked entirely too innocent.

            “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so quiet.”

            “I’m just…thinking.”

            “That’s dangerous.” His companion managed a small smile before sobering once more.

            Finally, she began, “Before I came here…I used to hear the nuns talking about me, wondering ‘what they were to do with me,’ because I didn’t fit. I was led to believe, when I came here, that things would be different. But, I’m not like the people here, either, and just now…I heard the volva talking to the jarl, and apparently, all the adults are complaining about me. It’s only…I might be able accept that I don’t fit if only they would cease going behind my back, acting as though I’m too stupid to notice. If they would only talk to me instead of about me, help me to understand-” she cut herself off before she could finish, understand what’s wrong with me.

            “Surely, nothing they can say of you could be that bad. Nothing true, anyway.”

            The girl scoffed, “They accuse me of blasphemy simply because I dare suggest the gods have erred. Where is it written they are omniscient or omnipotent?”

            “I think…” Hágoð took his time in responding, carefully organizing his thoughts. “I think we are used to the idea that they can be wrong, but we never pause to consider that they have been wrong. Wouldn’t to do so be prideful? To suggest that we know better than they?”

            “Not necessarily, for they say retrospect makes all clearer. In any case, it should be no crime to speak one’s mind. Especially when one is right.”

            “They also say, ‘One must howl with the wolves one is among.’”

            “But we aren’t wolves; we’re people! What separates us from animals if we live in such a way?”

            Silence fell once more. Finally, Hágoð ventured, “You must, of course, live according to your own conscience. Only…Be prepared for the consequences. I only want you to be happy.”

            The girl’s lips twisted into a small, wry smile.           

“We do not always gain everything we want,” she said softly, “But…That you want it for me helps.”

They sat a while longer, Hágoð resuming his carving, Eldrleif observing over his shoulder. Eventually, though, they had to return to the citadel, lest they be missed. Hágoð departed first, leaving Eldrleif with her thoughts.

As she stood, her soul was bogged down by the weight in her pocket; she had retrieved the stone she’d enchanted as she prepared to leave the temple, and remembering it now, she felt sick, on the verge of vomiting. Sharply, she pitched it into the stream and watched as the current carried it away.

She thought back to the conversation she had overheard.

So, it is wrong; I’m simply not supposed to realize it. Just another item in the long catalogue of what is wrong with me.

As if she needed reminding after her constant arguments with the others. More and more often, she found herself defending the trickster. She found it…disturbingly easy to see his point of view. Indeed, she found herself believing him to be in the right in every chronicle except that of Baldr. She was certain that at least half the anger she incurred was on account of her successful proofs and the others’ inability to deal with such truths.

She had grown accustomed to being called Loki-spawn and even begun to triumph a little in it; by pushing the others to abandon their veneer of civility and insult her outright, she was beating them at their own “game,” as Hágoð had described it.

She was haunted by her latest spar, though.

“Why are you so eager to defend him?” Bridget had demanded.

What excuse she’d blurted out, she no longer remembered. What plagued her was her inability to answer truthfully. She hadn’t known; her argument had been instinctual.

Now, standing on the bank of her stream, watching the water rush on with all the confidence she secretly lacked, she thought she understood and could finally admit the truth to herself.

She saw herself in Loki because, like her, he was alone.

It’s not the same. You aren’t alone; you have Hágoð.

And Loki had Sigyn.

She blushed at the implications of such a parallel, quickly abandoning the train of thought. That wasn’t what she’d meant.

In any case, the trickster’s life was marked by constant wanderlust; he hadn’t fit among the alfar, the jötnar, the Æsir – among anyone.

He had no home.

Just like her.

Chapter Text

"Keep your guard up!" the weapons master shouted at Eldrleif. A big bear of a man with red hair and a perpetual scowl except when drunk – or in battle – Þorsteinn was called a "grizzled veteran" by his friends and "old curmudgeon" by his students.

"Perhaps, if my sword was smaller than I, that would be possible," the girl grumbled under her breath. Nevertheless, she struggled to obey the admonition.

Not well enough, apparently, for she received a blow to the ribs for her trouble, her resulting growl startling her opponent, a nice enough boy by the name of Gorm, a step backwards.

Honestly, she thought, struggling, even two-handed, to heft her blade in an attempt to press her advantage, this monstrosity has no maneuverability.

Of course, to Hel with practicality. This is the way the Heruli do things. Traditional weapons, traditional stances, our ways have lasted so long because they are the best, blah, blah, blah…

As the nine-year-olds sparred, the girl kept up her internal commentary, irritation building as the match continued.

Not that I would term this a match. More an excuse to watch me make a fool of myself.

She grunted as the boy landed another hit, grimacing apologetically at her.

At least he does not enjoy it like some. A son of Odin, Gorm was surprisingly open-minded and one of the few Heruli to interact civilly with Eldrleif.

Of course, it was possible that his forbearance sprang not so much from tolerance as from a fear of waking to a serpent coiled on his pillow, as had happened to Martin one morning. Not that anyone had been proven to place it there, but it had hardly opened the barracks door and slithered in on its own.

Still, Eldrleif's involvement remained alleged, her alibi airtight.

Besides, Martin had deserved it.

As arms training drew to a close, the girl found herself gritting her teeth, her temper reaching dangerous heights. She'd been training for a year now and could probably do more damage with her hunting knife than with any "proper" weapon. She wasn't very big; one of her few advantages was speed, and she couldn't use it while trying to lug around a broadsword or battle-axe. She never had good form, every muscle in her body protesting at the Heruli way of meeting blows when her natural instinct was to simply not be there when they fell. Sometimes it felt as though the only thing she could do right was anticipate her opponents' movements – she was better at that, at least, than just about anyone else – but little good it did her if she could not lift her weapon in time.

Still seething as the match came to an end, she prepared for unarmed combat training.

She stopped short, suddenly possessed of the irrational urge to laugh despite – or, perhaps, at – her misery when she saw with whom she'd be paired that day.

Bridget.

Eldrleif's day just kept getting better and better. She didn't bother stifling a groan.

What did I do to deserve this, gods? Is this retribution for the serpent?

… Not that that was my doing.

But, you know…If it was…

"Oh, hello, Eldrleif! It gladdens me so that we are to spend this time together," the blonde girl gushed. Contrasting her saccharine words, there was nothing sweet about the glint of anticipation in her cold blue eyes.

The redhead clenched her jaw so hard it spasmed.

Definitely divine retribution.

The one favorable aspect of training? It was a perfectly acceptable excuse to be rude.

"Shut it, Þorsdóttir.¹ I doubt even you will have much success talking the jötnar to death. Why not put all that breath to use?"

Bridget's face colored, but she quickly schooled her features, saying, "Of course, you are right…" She trailed off meaningfully before continuing, "Forgive me. You named me Þorsdóttir, but I know not what to call you in return."

The other girl rolled her eyes. After an entire year, one would think they'd find a more effective insult, but no; of course, her unknown parentage was the best the idiots could come up with.

"Eldrleif will do. After all, I stand on my own, not by the merits of my father, unlike some."

Oh, right. Everyone still thought the parentage jab should work because it was such a big deal to them. She tried not to laugh at the other girl's expression. Honestly, she was surprised? That had been the obvious retort!

"I am worthy of my father's name!"

"Eldrleif! Þorsdóttir! You can gossip later, now spar!" the cry came from the far end of the courtyard, where Þorsteinn observed a pair of their fellows, grumbling about 'being too old for this.'

"Gladly," the redhead muttered.

The girls obediently began circling each other, and Bridget picked up where she'd left off.

"Perhaps that is why your mother will not reveal herself. Perhaps she always knew you would be a disappointment."

Though the blonde looked pleased with herself, Eldrleif knew she was too stupid to realize how close to home she'd hit. Her insecurities were well hidden, and she'd learned over the past year to cope with – okay, fine, ignore – them. But, despite all that, they plagued her still.

Her eyes hardened, flashing with green fire, and every muscle tensed, but she managed to keep her pain from her face. She'd take what she could get.

Smirking, she replied, "Well, stop procrastinating, and we'll see which of us is the disappointment."

Of course, Bridget took the bait and struck first. The redhead's training dictated that she stand firm.

To Hel with training.

There had been nothing good about her day so far. Something was going to go right, Surt take the consequences.

She sidestepped the other girl's blow, the blonde's own momentum throwing her off balance, and attacked.

"What's the matter over there?" the instructor roared, tramping over to where the girls rolled around in the dirt. Bridget had a hand fisted in Eldrleif's hair, but the redhead ignored it, focusing all her energy on inflicting as much harm as possible on the other girl – and it was considerable. A few bloody strands came free, and it hurt like Jörmungandr's venom, but it did no serious harm, and thus, did not demand her attention. Fortunately, Bridget didn't seem to recognize how ineffective the tactic was, or if she did, her solution was simply to pull harder rather than change tactics.

"Enough!" Þorsteinn snarled as he forcibly separated the girls. "Your instructions were to spar, not attempt to murder each other. What in Hel was that?"

Eldrleif quelled her instinct to blurt out a response, knowing that maintaining her composure while Bridget spouted off would make her seem the mature party. She was learning.

The instructor listened impassively to the blonde girl's diatribe and impassioned accusations. Eventually, running out of words if not rancor, she sputtered, and he took advantage of the pause.

"Enough. Eldrleif?"

Calmly, having collected her thoughts while the other girl spoke, she replied, "Bridget struck first, and she did so in anger. I responded in kind. Neither of us should have let the situation deteriorate so far, but neither of us were raised to yield."

Her face was carefully neutral, her eyes cold and calculating. Þorsteinn could almost hear, as she looked up at him, a challenging, Well? What are you going to do about it?

He was not dealing with this. Behavioral therapy for bratty children was not in his job description. The dictates of combat, however, were.

"You were, however, raised to fight properly. What in Hel was that? It would never have worked in a battle. Whatever harm you inflict upon your opponent will do little good if you allow them to strike back."

"Perhaps, but this wasn't a battle. I think you'll agree, my strategy was quite suited to my opponent."

Unable to contradict her, upon assessing the damage done to each girl, Þorsteinn growled.

"Well, soon enough, you will find yourself on the field, so you'd best learn to fight properly ere then." He then spun to face Bridget.

"And what have you to say for yourself? Abasing yourself to clutch at your attacker's hair? When you were the one to begin the assault? Listen well, little girl. What you begin as a warrior, end as a warrior. So, your fight did not go as you wished. You believe that allows you to cast aside your honor? What is battle without honor? Each of us will one day fight a battle we cannot win. We cannot change or avoid our fate, but we decide whether to face it as a warrior or a coward."

In the beginning, Bridget took offense and looked ready to argue, but as the weapons master continued, something he said seemed to give her pause. Eventually, she answered, "Forgive me. You are right; it is better to be defeated with honor than to conquer with shame."

It was plain to see she meant every word.

Eldrleif kept her face carefully impassive, concealing her skepticism. Despite the pressures of Heruli society, she failed to see how honor played a part in battle. She saw no point in the etiquette of fighting; if she were on a battlefield, she would be more concerned with preserving her life than her pride.

In any case, she couldn't wait for the day to end.

Eldrleif watched Hágoð as he sat silently by her side, considering her words with brow furrowed and eyes gazing intently ahead, as though he could distill an answer from the very air before him. As always, the sight elicited a smile from the girl.

She had been glad when he'd caught up to her in age, hoping that when he experienced the same classes and training she had, he would share many of her views; it would be nice to finally have someone on her side. It hadn't gone quite as she'd expected, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; she'd watched her friend come into his own, and it was really something to behold for those who had eyes to see.

Hágoð didn't take sides; he listened, always, soaking up everything that was ever said, no matter by whom, and he thought about it. He always found a way to see everyone else's point of view before deciding on his own, which he didn't necessarily share; he, unlike Eldrleif, knew when to keep his mouth shut and "howl with the wolves he is among." He always shared with her, though, even when he didn't agree with her, and she appreciated his trust and valued his opinion.

In any case, he'd usually come up with some brilliant compromise which he'd suggest in that soft, diffident voice of his and make people much older and, ostensibly, wiser feel like childish fools. Eldrleif always teased that he should move back into what she called the "real world," despite being discouraged from seeing it as such, and become a lawyer like his human mother.

Finally, he spoke.

"It depends on one's point of view."

Eldrleif rolled her eyes with a fond smile; he almost always said something like that. He usually elaborated though, so she waited for him to continue. Strange, the uncharacteristic patience he could inspire in her.

"Some glorify war, saying it is noble to fight for a worthy cause. Others see it as only senseless bloodshed and a waste of life, saying there is no "worthy cause." I suppose even the former must admit that a battlefield is not a pretty sight – that's why soldiers are thought so brave. Perhaps people cling to the ideal of honor in battle as a way to make up for the horrors."

"It is stupid to delude oneself."

Hágoð couldn't hide a small smile; that was just like his friend – saying the first thing that came into her mind, and if no one agreed with her, they could all go to Hel.

"Earlier, you said you would do whatever was necessary for your survival; this is an example of people doing what is necessary to keep some hope and brightness in their lives. Is it really so different, Elda?"

The girl managed to resist the urge to immediately defend her original assertion, and really thought about her friend's words.

She couldn't condone the idea of believing in something that might not merit such faith for no other reason than that one wanted to, but she supposed she could understand why some felt the need to do so, at least in this case.

Somberly, she turned to look at her friend and said softly, "It isn't fair."

Confused, the boy replied, "What isn't fair?"

As the girl answered, she could no longer hide her smile.

"That you are younger than me and yet so much wiser."

It was early autumn, the leaves' changing colors bringing a new beauty and vibrancy to the forest. Eldrleif crept silently through the woods on light feet, shouts and the clamor of steel on steel ringing in her ears, carried on the wind from a nearby clearing. Grace marked every line of the girl's body – except the set of her slightly shaking arms as she held a broadsword awkwardly out in front of her. She was filled with the adrenaline of the iron game,² a ruse held periodically as a training exercise. With her martial prowess – or, rather, lack thereof – she stood no chance in the heart of the conflict; instead, she kept to the fringes, hunting for stragglers. She knew as soon as she engaged one she would quickly be driven to frustration and humiliation, but she kept her mind on the present. There was a certain thrill in stalking her prey, in the coiled tension of the moment just before she struck.

She loved it.

A twig snapped behind her, and she whirled around, struggling to keep her sword in a guard position. Ull stepped out from the shadow of the trees, and Eldrleif blinked in surprise; the fourteen-year-old was a son of Þor and could usually be found in the thick of the fighting. What was he doing out here?

The blond boy addressed her, a glint of something predatory in his green eyes.

"I had wondered where you always sneak off to; it is well known you are difficult to find during a battle."

He continued walking slowly towards her, a lethal grace in his step, as she flushed at the thinly veiled insult. Eldrleif shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the sudden urge to run. Something felt off about this; her instincts were screaming at her, and she didn't know why.

She sent up a silent prayer to the Dissembler³ that her voice wouldn't shake as she responded. Apparently, he was listening because her tone was light and dry as she said, "I am flattered you take such an interest in me. I knew not that curiosity is one of your virtues. Or any mental capability, for that matter."

She knew she was in trouble when he showed no sign of anger, simply responding with a cold smirk. She suppressed a shiver. It was the coldness, she realized, the calculation that set off her instincts. After all, "Barking dogs seldom bite," as Hágoð often reminded her.

As Ull neared her, every muscle in her body tensed; she was practically vibrating with the need to do something – anything – other than just stand there. She would not back away, however, so her relief was almost palpable when, barely a foot remaining between them, the older boy finally stopped his advance, looming over the nine-year-old.

"Your tongue is sharp. My dislike does not cloud my vision so much that I cannot see the mind behind it is just as keen. You are rather pathetic in battle, but that will not always be true. Already you are dangerous, and you will only become more so."

The tension was suffocating; Eldrleif felt that if she even breathed wrong, the situation would immediately collapse. Confused by Ull's words, she searched his eyes. Hidden behind his cool gaze, she caught a glimpse of hatred – surprising only in its vehemence – and…was that fear?

She would have laughed in surprise at such an ironic discovery, had it not brought with it a rush of sudden understanding. Realizing what this was really about, she spoke carefully, acutely aware of the danger she was in.

"We are Heruli. All of us are dangerous."

"Perhaps. But we ought not to be dangers to each other."

Eldrleif opened her mouth to respond but wasn't given the chance. Quick as lightning, Ull lashed out at her. He had given almost no warning, but she had seen it and somehow managed to bring her sword up, blocking the swing of the young man's battle-axe. She was, however, forced back a few steps by the power of the blow. He gave her no time to recover, pressing forward with a battery of strikes, keeping her off balance as she tried desperately to block them all. Within moments, she had been disarmed.

Contrary to custom, the loss of her weapon didn't stop his assault, and she was forced to dodge the forthcoming blows. Eventually, she noticed a tree to her right; if he swung horizontally and she timed it just right, Ull's axe would be buried in its trunk, giving her time to…do something. She would figure out what if she survived that long.

Now! she thought, throwing herself backwards, out of the weapon's path.

She miscalculated, though, stumbling over a root on which she'd landed and falling heavily on her back. She was frozen in shock for a moment, gasping in an attempt to regain the air that had been forcibly expelled from her lungs. By the time she recovered herself, her attacker had freed his weapon.

As he advanced on her, she desperately called, "What call you this, then, if not being 'dangerous to each other?'"

"To each other?" His voice was as cold as Skaði's breath.

"You are not one of us." So saying, he raised his axe above his head. No one would ever know who had killed the girl, and he doubted there would be serious backlash anyway. He was nowhere near alone in his views.

Hágoð quickly fought his way to the edge of the battlefield. When Eldrleif had slipped away early on, disappearing into the tree line, he had noted the direction in which she'd headed. Seeing that no one was watching, he set off in that direction now, searching carefully for signs of his friend's passage; her footsteps were light and had not left much to trace, but he was persistent. Eldrleif often described her love of prowling around the edges of the field, and since they were on opposing sides today, he saw it as the perfect opportunity to catch her off guard in the same manner.

Of course, she would most likely notice him trying to sneak up on her; she was good at that, but it was worth a try.

He heard a faint clanging of weaponry that seemed to come, not from the battle behind him, but the woods ahead. Frowning in confusion, he set off towards it. It came from the direction in which the traces of his friend seemed to be leading, so perhaps she had found and engaged someone.

Smiling, he continued; if she were fighting, it would be far easier to take her by surprise. The sound of clashing weapons died away, but he found a trail of clearly defined footprints heading in the same direction.

That must be whomever Elda is fighting. Or, was fighting; it sounds as though someone has already won.

Probably not her, he was forced to admit. While he greatly respected his friend, she simply was not very skilled in combat. Besides, the footprints he followed obviously belonged to someone larger than her.

Still, Elda's intellect makes her formidable. If given opportunity to strategize, she'll find ways to contrive an advantage.

With that in mind, Hágoð was careful not to reveal his presence, cautiously peering around the trunk of the tree to ascertain the victor.

What he saw turned his heart to a jagged lump of ice that leaped into his throat.

Chapter Text

Lurking at the fringe of the clearing, Hágoð was careful not to reveal his presence, cautiously peering around the trunk of a tree to ascertain the victor of the earlier conflict he’d heard.

What he saw turned his heart to a jagged lump of ice that leaped into his throat. By the time he stopped to think, he had already acted.

Eldrleif had just regained her breath, only to have it stolen away again by fear as the blond standing above her raised his ax over his head. Her life may have held little joy, but she didn’t want to die. Not yet, not in vain.

Most of all, not forgotten. Not alone.

But, her wishes didn’t matter, she realized; this was the end. In the split second before the ax fell, she had time for one last act of rebellion. The Heruli taught that death was not defeat. Eldrleif felt pretty defeated right then, but she was determined to take this last, small victory to her grave, so she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and banished every trace of fear from her face, meeting Ull’s eyes with a proud, cold glint in her own.

And, so it was that she saw the look of shock on his face before looking down to see the causal sword tip sprouting from his chest.

She lay frozen for a moment as her mind caught up to her surroundings, but watching Ull sway snapped her into action, and she scrambled to her feet, backing away as the larger boy fell, sword still embedded in his back, revealing the smaller form behind him.

“Elda…”

Her name was almost a whisper on his lips. His breathing was harsh and ragged, fear and adrenaline still racing through his veins, his eyes wide with panic. Suddenly, they narrowed in concern as he focused on the redhead’s trembling form.

“Are you alright?”

She was alive. She was alive, and her death was no longer imminent. And, standing before her was…

“H-Hágoð? W-What are you-?”

Her voice shook – like the rest of her, she dimly realized. Her mind was sluggish, her eyes wide.

What was wrong with her? A moment ago, facing death, she had been perfectly composed, but now, when everything was alright, she was a mess!

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, forcefully clearing her mind. She wasn’t recovered, not by a long shot, but she had enough control over herself to at least maintain a façade of composure. She opened her eyes to see Hágoð stop, now about a foot away from her, having approached after she’d faltered.

“Elda?” he questioned softly.

“I am well.” It would have been believable, except it was too emotionless. Besides, he knew her too well.

Not knowing what he could say, he didn’t. Instead, he gently took her in his arms, despite her initial stiffness. All at once, she melted into the embrace, letting out a shuddering breath.

“Thank you.” She tightened her arms around him for a moment before pulling away.

Hágoð searched his friend’s gaze once more. She wasn’t okay, but she would be, and that was good enough for him. He sighed in relief before something on the ground caught his eye, and he stiffened, paling.

Noticing the change, the girl asked, “Hágoð?”

He didn’t respond, visibly shaking, and she followed his gaze in concern, her own sight lighting on that which caused her friend such obvious distress – Ull’s corpse.

Hágoð – innocent Hágoð – had killed for her.

And, it was tearing him apart.

“Come,” she said. Her voice was firm but her hands gentle as she took him by the shoulders and led him to the other side of the clearing, making sure, when they stopped, his back was to the corpse.

“What have I done?” His eyes were wide in disbelief and horror.

“You saved my life.” Interesting, that his breakdown was apparently what it took to get her calm and in control. She had no time for weakness, now, only options to assess, priorities to deal with. She did her best to reassure the boy, but her mind was elsewhere.

One of the Heruli was dead, and the others would not let it pass without retribution. To make matters worse, he had clearly been taken from behind. Hágoð had chosen her life over Ull’s, and had done so in a way the Heruli would brand cowardice.

Eldrleif’s full attention snapped back to him when he fell to his knees and began emptying the contents of his stomach. After all, a child shouldn’t be forced to kill before the age of ten. Especially not him. The girl knelt beside him, gently rubbing his back until the sickness had subsided, and murmuring what weak reassurances she could. He had been sobbing, too, but the tears had slowed.

Her friend had protected her. Now it was her turn to protect him. Gripping his shoulders, she gazed into his eyes with all the intensity she could muster, speaking as forcefully as she could in an effort to impress upon him the importance of her words.

“Hágoð. I need you to swear to me, on my life, that you will never reveal to anyone what happened here today.” After what he’d done for her, it was a vow she knew he’d keep.

It was enough to shake him out of his dazed state, but the only emotion it aroused was confusion.

“What? Elda, what- why-”

The girl used his dazed state to her advantage. It meant he was more likely to agree before considering the consequences.

“Do you trust me?” She cut him off, her tone hard and demanding. He blinked in surprise, but there was no hesitation in his answer.

“Yes.”

Her insides quailed with guilt. Instead of helping him recover from the trauma he’d just been through, she was using it to manipulate him.

He deserves better.

“Then, I need your word,” she pressed.

“You have it.”

She sighed in relief.

“Good.” It was the least she could do.

“Now, I need you to stay here,” she instructed. Hágoð nodded, and she dashed off to retrieve her sword from where she’d dropped it earlier before returning to his side. Once there, she hesitated.

“Are you alright?”

He looked at her a while. His friend was safe, and that was what mattered for now. He would have to deal with grief and guilt, but all that could wait. For now…

He took a breath, then steadied himself and looked into his best friend’s eyes.

“I will be.”

“Take this.” She offered him the sword which, after a moment of hesitation, he accepted.

“Now return to the others.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” Seeing his hesitation, she tried for a reassuring smile, “I always am. Now go.”

With a final nod, he went. Eldrleif waited a while before returning to the corpse, refusing to subject her friend to this. She yanked the blade free of the body, and wiped away the blood. She was not so naïve as to believe that this would not come back to haunt her, but she could take measures to distance herself and hope for the best.

Finally, she walked away, oblivious to the glint of cold, blue eyes watching her through the trees.

For a short while, she’d been able to pretend that everything was alright. But, now, a shriek had been heard. A body had been found. And, Bridget was in hysterics.

“She killed my brother!”

Those around her tried to hush her with an odd mixture of condolences and reproach at her wild accusations.

“I saw her!”

“Then, why didn’t you do anything about it?” a less sympathetic party asked. Ull’s loss was a heavy one, but accidents happened sometimes, and from what he’d heard of the girls in question, he wouldn’t put it past her to accuse the other out of spite.

“Sh-She ran off.” She faltered, there, not having expected the query, but recovered admirably. It was, after all, a valid point; if she had been present for the incident, intervention on her part would only have been expected. “I wasn’t near enough to catch up, and the damage was already done.”

“I see.” The man didn’t sound convinced, and there were murmurs all around them. Desperate and angry, the girl rounded on Eldrleif, giving it one last shot.

“Do you deny it?”

The redhead froze, not expecting the direct confrontation, frantically considering her options. At her hesitation, a glint of victory entered Bridget’s hard, blue eyes, assured of the other girl’s choice.

 Eldrleif knew the odds were high the blame would somehow, eventually, make it back to her. Bridget would never stop pushing until it did, and while that wasn’t the only factor, it was enough. If she denied it now, she would only end up making more of a mess.

Taking a deep breath and hating how much it felt like conceding defeat, Eldrleif glared at her rival and answered, “No.”

Most exclamations of shock were lost amid all the others, but one rang loud and clear in her ears.

“What? No, Elda, you can’t-”

“I just did.” Her voice was even but hard and final, as she met Hágoð’s gaze with pride. His protests had reminded her what she fought for, and looking at him now, she realized she had won. The victory was hers, and nothing Bridget or anyone did could change that.

As the sun began its descent, they were all assembled by the sacred spring at the foot of the large evergreen tree¹ near the temple. Eldrleif was bound hand and foot with iron shackles, but she stood tall and proud. She might still die today, but it wouldn’t be in vain. And, she would never be forgotten.

She was to be judged of the gods for her offense. No one really doubted the outcome, as the Volva chanted, invoking Forseti to preside over the proceedings and see that the law was upheld. And then, the girl’s ordeal began as she was dedicated to Odin. She managed not to cry out in pain as the spear was driven into her side,² but gasped when it was yanked free, her knees buckling. Without the support of those restraining her, she would have fallen. In shock for the second time that day, she struggled to draw breath before being thrown into the spring, her freely flowing blood staining the water in pinkish swirls. Thrashing against her bonds, she tore the skin of her wrists, but she didn’t even notice, her whole attention on her struggles; she was prepared to die, but no way in Helheim was she going quietly.

Hágoð watched, eyes wide in horror, as his friend sank below the water. This was so, so wrong, and desperate to fix it, he did the only thing he could think of that might make any difference.

“Father,” he whispered. “I- This…They’ve left her at the mercy of the god of law. This isn’t right, but he won’t care. A life for a life, there will be balance, but… She doesn’t deserve this. You are the god of justice. Hear me. Please. See that justice is done.”

Eldrleif was growing heavy, though adrenaline still numbed her pain. Still, all her struggles were to no avail, and she was weary. As resignation overtook her, she prepared to accept that there was nothing more she could do. Then, her shackles shattered.

Concerns such as how or why were overshadowed by the strain on her demanding lungs, and she quickly clawed her way to the water’s surface, and thence, onto the shore. As she lay, trembling, her coughs and gasps awoke the flaring pain in her still bleeding side.

Slowly, the surrounding shouts and commotion filtered into her awareness, and she tensed before her eyes lit on a face slack with relief.

“Elda…”

Reassured by her friend’s gaze as he ran to her side, the girl gave in to her exhaustion, letting darkness claim her.

The first thing she saw when she awoke was Hágoð, asleep in a chair by her bedside. Looking around, she recognized the interior of the healers’ compound. Only then did she notice how strange she felt. Her vision seemed to be coming from odd angles, and her wings- wait, wings?

Turning frantically, she caught sight of…herself? Yes, her eyes were closed and her face pale and sickly as she writhed in the bed, but it was definitely her.

What in the name of-

Hearing the shrieks emitting from her beak, she snapped it shut, trying not to panic. Startled by the sound, Hágoð’s eyes flew open, landing on the bird perched on his friend’s chest.

“What? How did you get in here?” There weren’t any windows in the room.

He watched the falcon hop about and flutter its wings in distress, looking frenetically between him and Eldrleif, its shrill squawks conveying confusion to match his.

Suddenly, it stopped, seeming to gain control of itself, and simply stared at him, eyes glittering with intelligence and forced calm. Seeing such a familiar expression on the avian face was sort of surreal, and a thought struck him. He might be crazy, but at least the only one around to think him an idiot would be a bird.

“Elda? Is that you?”

The falcon’s eyes widened in surprise before it – she, apparently – nodded, the human mannerism startling the boy.

“This is…strange,” he chuckled nervously, shaking his head in bemusement.

Elda fixed him with a look.

Oh really? Because I’m perfectly accustomed to having wings and watching an unconscious me thrash around while I try to figure out what’s going on and you sit there laughing at me, being no help at all.

He couldn’t help laughing at her expression, wishing he could hear the thoughts she wanted to convey.

“Wow, Elda, I never knew a bird could look so condescending.”

The falcon rolled her eyes, and her friend couldn’t help one last smile before he sobered.

“You’ve had me worried. You haven’t woken since- since last night, and… They bandaged you to stop the bleeding, but that’s all they’ll do; we think your wound’s infected from the water, but they say you must fight it off yourself, they won’t do anything- and- and it’s midday now, and you’ve got this fever, and… I’m scared, Elda.”

The words came out in a rush, and he heaved a great, shuddering sigh when he was done.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Without warning, the falcon flew straight into his face, shrieking at him while he flailed in surprise. After a moment, she landed in his lap, glaring up at him with a couple more squawks for good measure.

The message came through loud and clear.

Stop being a fool. Honestly, I’m insulted. I am far too stubborn to die from a silly little thing like this, and I’ll thank you to remember it.

He huffed a small laugh, saying, “Right, sorry. Of course, you’ll be fine. Just hurry up about it, will you? Life would be far too boring without you to give me grief all the time.”

He returned his attention to the pallid face, surrounded by flaming locks splayed out across a pillow, for a moment before speaking to the bird once more.

“You never were one for sitting still. I suppose you got bored waiting for your body to recover, so your fylgja³ decided to take a little stroll. Did you know you’re a falcon?”

She cocked her head, considering the information, before straightening in pride and letting out a small shriek of approval.

“Yes,” Hágoð smiled. “I think it suits you, as well. Though, I’m surprised; usually fylgjir appear as a result of trained manipulation rather than subconscious restlessness. ”         

The falcon made a movement that could have been a shrug; he was right, but at that point in life, she would have been more surprised to discover she had a normal characteristic. Suddenly tired, she hopped back to her body, relaxing as she sank back out of awareness. Hágoð watched the bird fade, levity fading with it, before whispering, “As soon as you wake properly, you’re going to tell me why you were such a fool. Maybe if you’d told them what really happened- maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. How could they- How could you-?”

He wasn’t sure who he blamed most. Those who’d done this to his friend. Her, for allowing it. Ull, for starting the whole thing.

Or himself, for swearing that Hel-begotten oath without a second thought.

She woke properly two days later, the fever subsiding. Finally, her friend got his chance to ask the question that had been haunting him for the last three.

“Why did you hide the truth?”

The girl sighed, not sure how to answer. Finally, she settled on, “You had more to lose.”

“Elda, you almost died.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make it alright! Elda, how could you be so-”

“I don’t regret it. I understand your concern, and I’m grateful that you care. It means more to me than you’ll probably ever know. But, I do not regret my actions, and I would do it all again.”

For the past three days, Hágoð had barely left her side. Now, without a word or backward glance, he stood and walked away.

 “Because you’re worth it,” the girl whispered as he closed the door behind him.

That night found her on the shore where she’d first landed as a lost little girl looking for a home. Despite her high hopes, she’d never quite fit among the Heruli, and any life she might have led among them was over now that they thought she’d murdered one of their own.

Her wrists were beginning to scar, and her side was not yet healed, though the infection had run its course, but she could wait no longer. Her recent brushes with death had made her realize something: There was a whole world out there – nine of them, actually – and she hadn’t really experienced any of it. She was going to change that. She didn’t need anyone’s acceptance, she realized. She was going to live her life to the fullest, on her own terms, because any day might be her last, and she wanted to go down with no regrets.

Singing, she called upon the winds and the waves, and that same little boat from what seemed so long ago appeared again to carry her back to the mainland. She embarked with confidence, ready – even eager – to leave the Heruli behind. She would not look back.

Only, she did, watching the isle until it faded from view with distance, and even a while after that.

Because he was worth it.

The next morning dawned like any other, the new day bringing new hope and soothing cares as it always did. The day before, Hágoð had made a sacrifice to his father, grateful for his intervention on Eldrleif’s behalf. Afterwards, he’d tried to return to his normal routine, but it had only put him more on edge; he’d ground his teeth as he’d heard the ubiquitous slander of his friend, silently cursing the oath binding his tongue. He’d wandered alone into the woods that evening, finally understanding the appeal as he found himself in his friend’s usual spot. He’d taken the time to think, to sort through his tumultuous emotions, eventually accepting that what was done was done and resolving to move forward.

A firm believer that things always look better in the morning, he now returned to the healer’s compound, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw his friend’s bed was empty and she was nowhere to be found.

What is that fool thinking, being up and about already? She has a hole in her side!

“For the love of all the gods, Elda, when I find you I am going to kill you myself,” he muttered, before setting off in search of her.

It took him until midday to realize she had vanished without a trace.

Chapter Text

 “Eryn,” as she introduced herself to inquiring humans, remained in Denmark, the only land with which she was familiar, and spent most of her time in libraries. She’d begun to build a rather…interesting skillset in pursuit of supporting herself, often through less than legitimate means, but for all the worldly experience she gained, her thirst for intellectual knowledge remained. She focused her study mostly on Midgard as a whole, familiarizing herself with the world’s significant literature and history. She harbored a deep admiration for J. R. R. Tolkien,¹ one of the few Heruli to have broken away from their isolated commune and make what he wanted of his life.

She sat in a library now, snorting over Saxo Grammaticus’s² account of the death of Baldr.³ She definitely thought the characterization was something to be considered, but the tale as a whole, she was sure, could not be farther from the truth. She was, however, quite interested in Grammaticus’s works and the rather unconventional views expressed therein, particularly the idea of Euhemerism.

Of course, she knew the gods were not human, but nor were the Jötnar or the Álfr. What made the Æsir or Vanir special besides the belief that they were so? With this new perspective came the realization that, though the Æsir were not human, they were only men, and she would treat them as such.

Chapter Text

The clearing, hidden deep within the woods, was one of those regions in which the lines between the worlds were blurred. It stood fully in neither Midgard nor Álfheim. During her time among the Álfar, the girl had learned of such places and how to navigate them, among other things. After “Eryn,” as she called herself in the world of men, had sated her desire for the knowledge of Midgard, she had continued her wandering. Her journey had led her to the Álfar, to whom she’d introduced herself as Leiknleif on a whim.

Truth be told, it was more than a whim: It was, she’d been told, her name, after all, and by Hel, she was going to own it, if only this once. But, beneath her defiance lay curiosity; it was plain to see why the Heruli would abhor such a name, and she wondered what another culture would make of it. Spekir, the first álfr to take an interest in her, had simply raised one golden eyebrow and said, “Well, your name giver certainly had an interesting sense of humor,” his green eyes dancing with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

 Now, as the night and its festivities wore on, Leiknleif slipped away to the edge of the clearing, disappearing into the shadows of the nearest trees; it would not do to wander too far, but she needed some distance. She chose a tree and climbed it nearly to the top, gaining an almost unobstructed view of the sky. She did as the Álfar had taught her, reaching out to the spirit of the tree with her own consciousness, feeling for the right words as she sang, coaxing and persuading the branches to grow and weave together, relaxing into a sort of nest as it formed around her. Her work done, she laid back, running her fingers over the little wolf pendant she always wore and searching the stars as if they could show her whether the one who had made it watched them as well. It had been more than a year since she’d seen him last, and for all that she told herself she needed no one, she missed him.

“Your galdr¹ has improved greatly.” A voice sounded next to the girl, startling her. She hadn’t noticed Spekir’s approach.

“It ought to be,” she responded, relaxing again, “I had good teachers.”

“As skilled as he who instructed you in combat?”

“Better,” she teased with a smirk, heart already beginning to lighten.

The álfr was old enough to be her distant ancestor and looked young enough to be her older brother. Over her time spent among his people, he’d become something like a favored uncle to her and seemed to return her affection. She’d learned many things from him, including how to utilize rather than fight her natural instincts in battle, relying on speed and grace rather than the raw force of the Heruli’s technique.

“You seem restless.” Leiknleif blinked.

“Do I?” She didn’t yet feel the need to move on. She didn’t intend to remain among the Álfar, but she was happy there. Besides, she hadn’t yet decided where she would go next.

“Perhaps not.” The álfr paused, reevaluating, before continuing, “But…distant, somehow.”

The girl sighed. Distant was an apt description; her heart was somewhere else, and she thought she knew why.

“Did you know today is my birthday?” she found herself replying. She still didn’t know the day of her actual birth, but this was the designated day at Volsungaheim. She continued, “I am eleven now,” her eyes drawn to the pendant with which one of her hands still toyed. Spekir’s eyes followed her gaze, coming alight with understanding.

“It was a birthday gift.” It was more statement than question, and she didn’t have to ask to what he was referring.

“Yes.”

“You miss the one who gave it you.”

“Yes.”

The pair lapsed into silence, gathering their thoughts. Finally, Spekir ventured, “You should go home.”

“I have no home.”

“Where he is: Is not that your home?”

“Volsungaheim could never be my home.”

“Because you are not one of them.” Leiknleif was surprised by the flat statement and the álfr’s matter-of-fact expression.

“I…” She considered the idea, never having put it quite so plainly before, “Perhaps not. But, if not, then I know not what I am.”

She couldn’t read the look in her companion’s eyes, but they seemed to gain the full weight of the ages not usually so evident in him, piercing her very soul as he said, “You do. It is easy to see if one only looks. You only do not wish to face the knowledge yet.”

The girl reeled, “I- What-” She took a moment to force on a mask of composure, saying, “You know, then.”

“I do, but I will not force the knowledge on you until you are ready to see it for yourself.” So, do not ask was left unsaid.

Leiknleif thought for a long moment but found nothing to say, settling at last upon a simple nod. Her friend had given her much to think on, and apparently, he wasn’t quite done.

“At the moment, our original topic of conversation seems more pressing. It is true that ‘Only those who wander find new paths,’ but as they say, ‘Home is best.’”²

Suddenly, all the girl could see was Hágoð’s face, serious tawny eyes aged beyond his years as he spouted some proverb at her as though it could fix all that ailed the world. She smiled sadly at her companion, “You sound like him.”

“You should go to him. Before I suggest that you fear to, forcing you to prove me wrong.”

The girl’s smile turned wry at his jest as she answered, “And give up on your more subtle manipulation? Spekir, you surprise me!”

He shrugged, “Extraordinary stubbornness sometimes requires extraordinary tactics to overcome.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the álfr choosing not to call the girl out on her deflection; she didn’t need to decide quite yet. As he began his descent, leaving her to her thoughts, he called up with a smile, “Happy birthday, Leiknleif.”

“Thank you.” For everything was left unsaid, but she rather thought he heard it, all the same.

It was spring, and the world moved on. It was time for Leiknleif to move on, as well. The only problem was she didn’t quite know which way was on.

The first few weeks of spring had passed her by as she struggled with herself. She’d considered continuing her journeys, searching out knowledge of different cultures. But, some part of her was tired, in a way she didn’t quite understand. The only direction that appealed to her was the way back – or was it?

Perhaps she needed to face her past. She would not let it define her, but it was a part of her, and as much as she hated the idea of returning to the Heruli, she hated the thought of running away more. Was that, effectively, what she had done by leaving? She didn’t know.

What she did know was that it had been over a year since she’d seen her best friend, and she missed him. She had learned to carefully weigh the consequences before settling on a course of action. She had also learned that, at the end of the day, the only consideration that really mattered was what she wanted and what she was willing to do to obtain it.

She spent the afternoon walking through the woods. The sun was just beginning to set when, her mind made up, she stole back to her current habitation to retrieve her perpetually packed bag and set out for the edge of the forest. She hadn’t gotten far from the edge of the clearing, however, before Spekir steeped casually out from behind a tree, falling into step beside her.

“You’ve made your decision, then?”

“Yes,” she answered softly. “Now I must leave before I decide not to go through with it.” The álfr, disappointed, shot her a look.

“Come back for a few days. You have become dear to all of us, and I will not allow you to depart like a thief in the night. We will give you a proper send-off.”

Leiknleif smiled, “Thank you. But, I spoke not in jest; I fear, if I remain any longer, my resolve may waver.”

“Of course it will,” his response surprised her. “But your decision will stand. You are far too stubborn for anything else.” She hesitated but finally yielded, and the two returned, both smiling, to the community.

Friðrún and her younger sister, Lævidís, were younger álfar who had befriended Leiknleif and taught her much about the nature of galdr. As such, it was their prerogative to prepare her for her journey. As the sun began to set, its lower reaches only just brushing the horizon, they led her to a small pool, surrounded by lush greenery, where she bathed while they wove a crown of agrimony, oak leaf, and white heather.³ That done, the sisters dressed their friend as one of the álfar in close-fitting, dark brown trousers with matching, lightweight boots and a white linen smock⁴ beneath a leaf green tunic with a woven turquoise belt. At her waist, she wore an álf blade, far lighter and less clumsy than Heruli weapons. Beside it hung the hunting knife she had received upon turning eight, and upon her left forearm, she wore a steel bracelet patterned with intricate vines, enchanted so that it could be used as a bracer in battle and emerge unmarred. Her wolf pendant rested prominently upon her breast, and settled over her shoulders was a light travelling cloak of deep forest green. Finally, Lævidís plaited the girl’s long, fiery tresses in a simple, single braid down her back, and Friðrún crowned her with the woven flowers before handing the girl her bag. Just as the sun finished its descent below the horizon, the last of its light fading from view, the three entered the clearing in which the festivities were beginning.

The revelry lasted until the first light of false dawn illuminated the horizon, and then Leiknleif took her leave, Friðrún, Spekir, and Lævidís accompanying her to the edge of the woods.

“I always thought you would make your home among us, though Spekir insisted you were only passing through,” Lævidís spoke sadly.

“The ultimate busybody,” Leiknleif smirked, “He knew my decision before I did.”

The party laughed, continuing to jest as they made their way through the forest. As they reached the tree line and said their final farewells, Spekir said, “Know that you are always welcome among our people.”

“Thank you. That means more to me than one might think.”

“I know.” And, he did.

With a final embrace, they parted ways.

Chapter Text

Shortly after sunset, Leiknleif found herself before the wide lane leading through the woods to Volsungaheim, still garbed as she had departed from the Álfar. It was traditional to remain so until arrival at one’s destination. Leiknleif raised the hood of her cloak, covering her hair and casting obscuring shadows over the features of her face. The first time she’d seen this place, she had lurked among the trees at the edge of the road. Now, she stepped with confidence onto the well-beaten path, moving with natural grace enhanced by her time among the Álfar, walking towards the settlement with her head held high.

The guards at the great gate stood in relaxed but ready postures, trying to stave off boredom by arguing the merits of a war-hammer over a battle-ax. Surprised, they straightened to attention as a small, cloaked figure emerged from the shadows on the lane before them. Clad in the manner of the Álfar, its gait was graceful, its mien ethereal. There was an authority in the álf’s bearing; obviously, she was expected, though the guards had not been told to watch for her. They nodded in respect as she passed.

Leiknleif smirked as she entered the citadel. Passing the guards had not even been a challenge, and she could hardly wait to see their reactions when they realized whom it was they’d just allowed to stroll right past them. If one comported himself as though he belonged, most would be thoughtless enough to assume he did.

As she drew near the mead hall, drinking songs and laughter drifted to her ears. She took a deep breath to steady herself before stepping into the hall and lowering her hood. Silence fell at the sight of her, those with their backs to her turning to see the sight at which their kith and kin were gaping. Hágoð stood reflexively, eyes wide as saucers as though she would disappear if he blinked, and whispered, “Elda,” in disbelief. He was taller than her now, though only just. She wanted nothing more than to run to him after so long, but she restrained herself and kept her face expressionless, her bearing relaxed.

A moment later, the entire company was thrown into uproar, half still blinking in shock, most of the remainder shouting over each other, some reaching for their weapons, while the very few who did not know her looked around in bewilderment.

Leiknleif walked calmly to the Volva, at the head of the long table, and fulfilled the álf custom of presenting the travel-garland to the hostess upon arrival. As she took it from her head and offered it to the Volva, she remembered a conversation held long ago. Holding the older woman’s gaze, she said softly, so only they two could hear, “You once told me you did not think I would walk the path of darkness. What you meant was you wanted me under your gaze in case such fears came to pass. Is that still your wish?”

The Volva searched her eyes for a moment before nodding sharply and accepting the proffered garland. Holding the girl’s gaze she gestured to a thrall, who stiffened in surprise before filling a horn with mead and offering it to Leiknleif, whose lips twitched as she suppressed a smirk. It was a calculated insult. Usually, the hostess or another honored woman presented guests with mead;¹ by intimating that Leiknleif was unworthy to be served by any but a thrall, the Volva was satisfying the minimum requirements of hospitality and essentially stating that while the girl could stay, she was not welcome. Acknowledging the maneuver with a nod, her eyes never leaving the older woman’s, Leiknleif lifted the horn to her lips.

The Volva announced her return, and she found a place at the table, between two of those who had joined the community in her absence, not too near Hágoð but keeping the boy in sight. Unfortunately, Martin was near, as well, and would not leave her unchallenged.

“Back, are you? Pity, I’d hoped you’d gotten yourself killed out there.”

“You won’t be rid of me so easily.”

He scoffed, “I cannot imagine it would take much. You always showed little enough talent for combat – save for stabbing people in the back.”

She tensed at the jab at Ull’s death and saw Hágoð flinch out of the corner of her eye. She hadn’t come to fight, but anger quickened her blood at Martin’s presumption. She hadn’t expected a warm welcome and could have endured a round of flyting,² might even have enjoyed the chance to put the boy in his place, but he’d gone too far and said the most damaging thing he could. She responded in kind.

“As opposed to you? You, who wage your war on me with words, afraid to meet in proper battle. You must remind me which of us the woman is.” Though her temper raged, she kept her voice light with amused contempt, her accusation provoking him as nothing else ever could.³

“If you are so bold, we will meet in combat,” he answered tightly. “I challenge you to the hólmgang⁴ tomorrow.”

She grinned, “I look forward to it,” and she did, surprising herself with such bloodlust. She had intended, after all, to come in peace.

And then, suddenly, Hágoð had her arm in a grip of iron, dragging her out the door, through the citadel, and into the woods. Would the wonders never cease?

“I’ve never seen you quite so…forceful.”

“Shut up,” he snarled, never breaking stride until they were far from prying eyes – and ears. He slammed his friend against the trunk of a tree, knocking the wind out of her, and demanded in a low growl, “What in Hel’s name were you thinking?”

She took a moment to consider her response, sobering in the face of his distress. She almost regretted her actions; the last thing she’d wanted was to cause him more pain. She’d only wanted to see him again.

“Forgive me,” she apologized sincerely, “I lost my temper.”

“Lost your- Elda, he’ll kill you.” He heaved a sigh, looking at her in agony as he continued, in a tone of utter defeat, “You have to leave. And you can’t return this time, not after this. I only just got you back.”

As the fight seeped out of him, he became aware of the strange texture of the slender wrist in his grasp, looking down to see the scar tissue left from her trial. He lifted it, pressing the skin gently to his lips before releasing his friend and stepping back. As he did so, she took a step forward, maintaining the distance between them, and lifted a hand to gently cup his face, eyes boring seriously into his.

“You needn’t fear for me. I’ve learned much in my wandering. You won’t lose me again so soon.”

“How can you say that?”

“Do you trust me?”

She was surprised and pleased when, even after everything, he didn’t hesitate in his answer, “Yes.”

“I give you my word, I will be alright.”

“Elda-” She saw the doubt still in his eyes.

“Do you really think me so arrogant?”

“Yes,” though a hint of a smile was visible about his lips. That was good; she was making progress.

The girl snorted, “Fair enough, but even at my most arrogant, have you ever known me to instigate a fight I cannot win?”

His voice was hard, “Do I even know you anymore?”

She flinched, hurt, and took a step back, preparing to turn and leave, when he called out, “Wait! Forgive me, I only… Hel and Surt, Elda, I’m just so angry,” he confessed. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded hurt.

“You just…left. Without a word, or any sign that you even yet lived. Did you even think what that would do to me? After what had happened, I thought you dead. We all did, and it didn’t help the others were so glad of it…” He ended with a sigh, and for the first time, the girl really considered how her departure may have – apparently, had – hurt her friend.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered fiercely. “Can you ever forgive me? I never thought… I missed you every day, but I thought you would move on. Please believe I never meant to hurt you.”

Hágoð sighed, moved by the pain in his friend’s eyes. He didn’t like to see her hurt, but he was glad of the confirmation that she cared for him, which he’d begun to doubt.

“Of course I forgive you. I was angry because I feared for you. I felt betrayed because I care for you, more than I think you realize. When you first appeared tonight…I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy as I was then.” He stepped forward and, as he’d longed to ever since that moment, embraced her tightly, as though she’d disappear once more if his grip loosened.

“Just do not leave like that again,” he murmured roughly.

She hesitated before responding, “I cannot promise that. But,” she hastened to reassure, before he could protest, “I give you my word that, if I feel I must leave again, I will take my leave of you properly.”

He sighed, absently noting that he’d been doing a lot of that since Eldrleif had come back into his life, and mumbled, “I suppose that’s the best I can ask of you.”

They settled down next to each other, backs resting against the trunk of the tree against which he’d pushed her. Each with an arm slung around the other, they sat in comfortable silence, enjoying the presence of which they’d been so long deprived and watching the stream burble along – Hágoð had led them to the same place in which they’d spent so much time together before their innocent young world had darkened. For just that night, they could almost pretend nothing had changed.

Leiknleif made sure to be the first to arrive at the hólm; she’d long since learned that appearances were everything to the Heruli. Hágoð stood with her in silent support, still and stoic. The sun shone cheerily down on them as the better part of the community gathered ‘round, pitching their voices to carry as they murmured to each other, voicing their surprise at seeing her.

The girl kept her face impassive, but was tempted to laugh, remembering a time when she had actually cared what these people thought of her. Now, she noticed, Hágoð seemed far more upset than she, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists, insulted on his friend’s behalf.

When Martin arrived, he looked surprised, but made no comment, only nodding in acknowledgement as he took his place before her. He had not expected her to actually meet his challenge, and by doing so she had risen – just a bit – in his estimation.

Leiknleif blinked – Was that a sign of respect? – absently returning the gesture. She didn’t have much time to ponder his response, however, for upon his arrival, they wasted no time in performing the rituals and beginning the fight.

She remained on the defensive for a while, allowing Martin to take the lead as she evaded his attacks and familiarized herself with his style. He was good – better than her, in fact, she was forced to admit when he casually batted aside an experimental thrust she’d hazarded after parrying his latest strike. She saw a glint of victory enter his eye, as though it were some definitive portent of the outcome, and almost laughed. How little he knew, if he thought a skilled sword arm was all it took to win a duel.

Holding her sword carefully, she flopped onto her back, using her position on the ground to sweep her opponent’s legs out from under him with one of her own as he stood, stunned by her abrupt unorthodox maneuver. As he lay, gasping, she didn’t give him an opportunity to regain his wits, quickly leaping to her feet and planting one on his blade, anchoring it to the ground, raising her own in preparation to plunge it into his chest.

He managed to roll out of the way, but was forced to relinquish his sword in the process. Leiknleif managed to free her own from the ground as Martin stumbled backward. He moved as though to dash around her to reach his blade, but she expertly warded him back and even farther from his prize. He seemed to realize that he had lost, and straightened, standing before her with dignity.

She strode toward him, raising her weapon and gathering her strength for a clean strike –

“Stop!” If the horrified shout didn’t secure her attention, the body suddenly interposed between her and Martin certainly did.

She kept her eyes on the warrior to ensure he didn’t take advantage of the situation – though she doubted he would; it would be dishonorable. – and growled at Hágoð, “What do you think you are doing?”

“No. The real question is: What are you doing?” He sounded disappointed.

“Get out of my way.” Her voice was hard. She should probably apologize for that later.

“I will not allow you to kill him.”

“Remember, he challenged me. It is my right.”

“You need not exercise that right.”

“Were I in his power, he would show me no mercy.”

“I ask this not for him but for myself. Please, Elda, do this for me. I would not have your homecoming stained with blood.” It was bloodshed that ultimately drove you away.

The silent stillness stretched taut as a bowstring until Leiknleif shattered it by slamming her blade into its sheath and stalking away, stiff and proud.

When the sun began to set, Hágoð’s nerves got the better of him, and he set off in search of his friend, making his way to their usual escape in the woods. He had thought it best, when she’d stormed off after the hólmgang to let her go. Her emotions at the time had likely been influenced by her battle-high, and he’d wanted to give her the space she needed to cool down. He hadn’t seen her since, however, and no matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise, a small voice in his head, refusing to be silenced, insisted that she had fled once more.

Leiknleif didn’t know how to return and face everyone after the display earlier. Why had she so wanted to kill Martin? She had to appear strong before the Heruli; no, she didn’t care for their opinion of her, but she knew they would exploit any weakness.

In the moment, though, she hadn’t thought any of that. She’d been angry; she’d hated the boy and wanted to kill him with a fervor that surprised her. She hadn’t known she could feel such bloodlust, and quite frankly, it disturbed her. What was she becoming? What was wrong with her?

How could she ever again look Hágoð in the eyes?

She stood, as she was wont, in the woods, watching the little stream rush by. She didn’t know how to break her self-imposed, so she waited where she could be found, where Hágoð would know to look – if he desired.

His footsteps had changed in the time they’d been apart, but she was pleased to find she could still identify them as he approached. The silence was charged, and neither knew how to break it, so Hágoð simply came to stand next to her. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his arm and, when she didn’t move away, settled it gently around her shoulders.

“Why did you stop me?” She didn’t need to specify from what.

“I know what it is like to have blood on my hands. I didn’t want that for you.”

He’d wanted to spare her the pain of guilt. She felt sick.

“Had I killed him,” she confessed, “I am not sure I would have regretted it.” She didn’t meet his eyes, keeping her gaze instead on the stream.

Hágoð  was startled by the admission, and his first thought was What happened to her? Then, he realized she was stiff and trembling with horror and disgust even greater than his own. He thought for a moment, wondering what he could possibly say to make things alright. Before he could reassure her, however, he needed to accept this part of her himself.

Her youth had contributed to his shock, but the eleven-year-olds who accompanied older warriors on raids often killed, and none of them seemed to regret it – they were raised not to. They lived in a world of war and death, he realized, and it was unrealistic to expect anyone to remain untouched by it. His friend had never been sweet or soft, but she’d always had a good heart, and that was obviously still true, judging by how shaken she seemed to be by her own warlike nature. She felt, he realized, almost exactly what he had wanted to protect her from.

“Do you still want to kill him?”

“What? No!”

Hágoð nodded, “You are no murderess. Had you killed him earlier, you would have been within your rights, as you said. You would have had no reason to regret it.”

“It would have been out of anger.”

“Anger to which he provoked you. Do not hold against yourself that which might have been. You are a good person, Elda, and that is not changed by the appearance of this harder side of you; all it means is that you are becoming what we all are raised to be: a warrior.”

If that was true, then she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a warrior. But, if Hágoð could accept her so fully, without reservation or being repulsed by the darkness in her soul, she could too. And, until she learned who she was, who she wanted to be, and how to reconcile the two, his faith in her was enough. She relaxed into his side.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome. I never want you to feel like I did – still do, sometimes.”

I know what it is like to have blood on my hands, his earlier words returned to her. He had been wracked with pain and guilt over Ull’s death – and she hadn’t even been there for him, she realized, hating herself just a little. Well, she would be there now.

“Do you regret saving me that day?”

“Never. But-”

“It was his life or mine. That was the choice you were given, there was no way to preserve both of us.”

“What gave me the right to make that decision? To choose between two lives?”

Nothing. He had been faced with an impossible situation and done the best he could. That was the way life worked. She knew that this would be no comfort to him, so she said the only thing that she thought might.

“The gods.” The gods she no longer saw as such.

Something of her own mind must have bled into her voice, for Hágoð replied, “You do not believe that.”

 “What I believe does not matter. What do you believe?”

He considered that for a moment, remembering his friend’s trial, still certain that her survival was due to his father’s intervention.

“Thank you,” he said, heart light and – finally – free of the guilt he’d carried since Ull’s death.

As they made their way, together, to the mead-hall that night, Martin approached them, Leiknleif reflexively tensing for a confrontation.

“I have never understood you,” he addressed her without preamble. “You apparently stabbed Ull in the back, but you then immediately stepped forward with candor to face the consequences, and the gods saw fit to spare your life. I never knew what to think about your subsequent flight: It certainly seemed cowardice at the time, but you were quite bold in your return. I realize now, you came in peace, but when I pushed you, you met my challenge with strength and courage. Then, though I’d given you little enough reason to like or even respect me, you spared my life after besting me. I don’t expect you will ever cease confusing me, but you have earned my respect.”

Leiknleif was flabbergasted. The young man had just displayed an open-mindedness – and willingness to admit his own shortcomings – that she did not expect from the Heruli, and she realized that for the fault it was: How could she judge them so thoughtlessly, then call them narrow-minded?

As she’d grown and learned and matured, she’d realized that the world was not perfect, and neither were people. It was the reason, she’d realized, she’d always favored Loki: She’d grown out of her romanticized perception of him, seeing him for the flawed, sometimes petty, being he was. He wasn’t particularly virtuous – but, he never claimed to be, unlike the Æsir who claimed the high moral ground despite being no better than he. People made bad choices, and she was willing to forgive just about anything – except hypocrisy. Seeing it in herself was sobering, and she vowed to correct it and guard against falling into the same trap in the future.

“I am afraid you have Hágoð to thank for your life, not me, but I now regret that his intervention was necessary. Thank you for opening my eyes. You are right that I came in peace, but there was no kindness or friendship in my heart: I expected everyone here to hold my past sins against me. I misjudged you, and if others are as discerning and accepting, I look forward to my time spent among you. For whatever it is worth, you too have earned my respect.”

Martin offered his hand, and they clasped forearms before walking together to the mead-hall as friends, and when Leiknleif sat, Hágoð and Martin on either side, she was the happiest she’d been since her return to Volsungaheim – possibly since her departure.

Chapter Text

Harpa had come, and with it, the onset of summer, the last of the snow having just melted away. Leiknleif woke with a smirk on her face, remembering the celebrations of the night before and looking forward to the consequences; it had been Hágoð’s eleventh birthday, marking a turning point in his life. One did not come of age until sixteen, but upon turning eleven, one was no longer considered a child, and that change in station was reflected by new privileges and responsibilities. Hágoð had tasted mead for the first time at last night’s feast, and Leiknleif had smirked at the volume he had consumed, considering extending a warning but deciding against it as she remembered the morning after her own first introduction to strong drink.

She waited for the morning to wear on a bit before making her way to Hágoð’s dwelling. She thought about banging on the door, but decided to take some pity on him, though he had brought his discomfort on himself. Quietly slipping into the dim room, she walked lightly to her friend’s bedside, waking him as gently as she could. He still groaned piteously as consciousness forced itself upon him, and Leiknleif couldn’t help a small chuckle.

“Elda?” the boy slurred. “Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not sure I’m that good an actress,” the girl smirked, but she did at least keep her voice soft out of consideration for her friend.

“If you’re here only to mock me, go away and let me sleep.”

“Have you any idea how late it is? Sleep any longer, and you may as well not wake until tomorrow.”

“May not be a bad idea,” Hágoð grumbled. Leiknleif laughed and finally relented, leaving his side, though not to leave him be. Rather, she found his washbasin and filled it with water she’d brought in a flask, warming it with a spell; as a rule, she didn’t perform galdr before the Heruli – that would be more trouble than it was worth – but she had no such qualms alone with her friend. Returning to his side, she extended her hand, speaking quietly, “Come. ‘Tis time you got up.”

He acquiesced, allowing her to haul him to his feet before stumbling over to the basin to wash his face and hands. A little more aware, then, he had the presence of mind to be surprised when she stepped forward, taking his head in her strong yet gentle hands and proceeding to wash his hair.¹ He was touched by the show of affection, and by the care she had shown him that morning. As she finished her ministrations, he took her in his arms, saying simply, “Thank you, Elda.”

“You are welcome,” she responded, returning his embrace. “Now,” she teased, stepping away, “Do you think you can manage donning a shirt without aid, or are you yet not sober enough?”

He was, at least, enough recovered to riposte, “That you knew this would happen means you made the same mistake I did on your eleventh birthday.”

“On the contrary, when I was first allowed strong drink, I had the presence of mind to take only a few exploratory sips. Of course, for me, it was álf-wine, so the effects were not dissimilar.”²

The pair laughed, and despite the lingering fog and pain in his head, Hágoð thought his day was shaping up rather well, after all.

As summer neared its end, fall drawing ever closer, the warriors prepared to depart, as was the custom. Hágoð, and a few others of his age, would be joining them for the first time. On the morning of their departure, each of the fledglings would be formally presented with a shield made by one of his or her choosing. Leiknleif had expected Hágoð to ask his sister to perform that duty; she was, after all, a smith of considerable skill. He had chosen her, however, and she was glad of it; she had been unable to dissuade him from his course, but found solace in the opportunity to provide him with this protection, at least.

As she made her way into the woods, seeking solitude for her task, bits of their conversation replayed in her mind.

“There is no reason for you to go.”

“There is every reason.”

“Why? Why are you so anxious to do this? You will see nothing good out there.”

“Elda, please. I am going, no matter what, but I need you to understand. You had to take your own journey, to see what is out there. This is the equivalent for me.” Leiknleif, of all people, understood the need to go out and discover the world. She just didn’t want to lose her friend as he did it.

“You liken your enterprise to my own. I returned. I need your word that you will do the same.”

 Hágoð had paused for a moment, considering the oath with appropriate gravity, before replying, “You have it.”

He had hesitated before requesting softly, “Be here when I return?”

“I will. You have my word on that, for whatever it may be worth.”

Now, walking through the woods, she struggled to keep her mind off her darker thoughts. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace… She shook her head as if to clear it, trying to banish from her mind the harsh and bitter words that rang with truth. It was a poem she’d read in her study of Midgard’s history and culture, Dulce et Decorum Est, penned during the humans’ “Great War.”³ She didn’t want her innocent friend to see what this man had seen, but he was determined, so she would do everything in her power to ensure his safety while he did it.

Her task took her three days. On the first, she sang, wood of linden taking shape under her watchful eye and melding with a boss of iron. On the second, she stained the wood black, representing the night sky with a pattern of white stars. If one knew what to look for, he would see the constellation Nidhogg. By the end of the day, the metal boss displayed the relief figure of a wolf. Leiknleif spent the third day singing to protect, enhance, and reinforce in every way she knew how. By the time she was done, the shield was practically indestructible. It would serve her friend well.

As the next day dawned, she waited with the other shieldbearers near the ships, seeking Hágoð in the crowd as the departing warriors began to gather. They didn’t say much – they didn’t need to – but after their desperate embrace, she sought someone to whom she did need to speak before he left. She and Martin had gotten to know each other better since she’d returned to Volsungaheim that spring. They weren’t friends, and likely never would be – their views were simply too different – but they understood and respected each other. She located him just before he boarded.

“Look after him. Please.”

“I will.”

As autumn died into the first cold breaths of winter, the raiders returned – most of them, anyway. Those who had left for the first time seemed, as a whole, largely unchanged. Hágoð, however…

He had always been quiet, but now he scarcely spoke, his thoughts turned inward. Leiknleif watched him carefully, but he didn’t seem haunted, only thoughtful. Unsure how to help him, she simply stayed by his side, almost constantly, offering her steady presence. It took nearly a fortnight for him to open up, apparently having finally come to understand his feelings enough to express them.

“You were wrong. You said I would see nothing good out there. The way we cared for each other, protected each other, lightened each other’s moods and burdens: That was good. But, I saw what you warned of, too. It was…terrible, Elda. There was so much that I just-” he paused, sighing, taking time to fit his meaning into words. “I wish it was not so, but I do not wish I had not seen it. I told you that I had to go, and I do not regret doing so. I cannot simply close my eyes to the darkness of the world and pretend it is not there.”

“I know. But simply because it is there does not mean it must be here. You are light. Do not allow the darkness you have seen to weigh on your heart. If you dwell on what you cannot help, you will neglect the things you can.”

“When did you become the wise one of us twain?”

“When you left me for a season with no suitable company, I was left with little else to do.”

They smiled, both with hearts a little lighter, and talked of happier things. It took a little time, but Hágoð came back to himself, the only lasting change from his experience the gaining of a bit more wisdom.

Winter had undoubtedly begun, and after ascertaining that her friend was well, Leiknleif felt herself grow restless. She wasn’t sure she could content herself walled up within Volsungaheim until spring, and soon winter would have too firm a grip over the land for travel to be possible.

She found herself standing on the shore one night, simply looking out over the waves. If she left, where would she go?

Anywhere, a voice in her mind called out, louder than she might have expected. Finally, she was forced to acknowledge how much she needed to go. She could always return to the Heruli – by some miracle, she’d avoided burning any more bridges – but she could not sit still while the worlds out there called to her.

Reluctantly, she turned back towards the citadel – she’d promised Hágoð she’d not leave without due warning – but she never made it there. Instead, she found herself in the woods, by a very familiar stream. A familiar figure stood waiting for her.

“I know you, Elda. I’ve seen how restless you are. If you must leave, then go. Only promise me we’ll meet again.”

“I’ll go tomorrow. There is so much out there…I know not when I may return, but you have my word I will. I will miss you while we are apart.”

They sat together, then, backs against their tree, watching the water hurry along like their time together. Quietly, they simply soaked up each other’s company until, as the sun began to peep above the horizon, Leiknleif gathered her things into her gunnysack, exchanged final farewells with her friend, and left Volsungaheim behind.

Chapter Text

Leiknleif had always known Jötunheim couldn’t be the barren wasteland the Heruli raiders described; it had always been obvious that was only their prejudice talking. She’d heard more objective tales from the álfar, but even that had not prepared her for the sheer beauty of it. It was not a gentle land, by any means, all jagged stone and blinding snow and rivers too powerful to freeze. But, its harshness only underscored its loveliness, much like its inhabitants.

The twelve-year-old had wandered the worlds for a while, never staying in one place for too long but constantly pressing forward, feeling almost as though she was searching for something, though she didn’t know what. She had longed to see Jötunheim for herself but somehow doubted it would be a good idea to simply show up unannounced, considering their relations with the Heruli. She’d met a pair of jötnar in her travels, though, all ivory skin and white-blond hair and pale eyes, reflecting the colors of their homeland. They’d been wary of each other at first, but she’d soon realized they would not attack unprovoked, and she in turn had won their trust, beginning with her name. She’d told them the whole story behind it, and the one called Jofurr had studied her for a moment, seeming to see something in her at which she could only guess in a way that reminded her of Spekir, before saying simply, “There is much you do not know. I’ll stay out of it but to tell you this: Whatever you were told as a child, you are not of the Æsir or their kin.” His words had shaken her, but she’d not been given an opportunity to dwell on them.

“You hold no love for Volsungaheim?” Hvítla asked carefully. She seemed to Leiknleif a bit more cautious than her mate, and the girl could hardly fault her for it. In fact, she almost welcomed the distraction after what she’d just been told.

“No,” she answered, and it was true. Hvítla must have sensed it somehow, for she seemed surprised.

“You truly hate the Heruli and their gods?”

The girl’s first thought was that she did, and that gave her pause. Was she truly so full of hatred? She hoped it was not so. She thought of Hágoð and Sigrið, Martin and Gorm. Even as she acknowledged her regard for them, she realized it did not totally drive out the darkness in her heart. For every one like Sigrið, there seemed to be three like Bridget.

Finally, she spoke, “I would claim to hate no one, but that would be a lie. In truth, I hate no race – Æsir, Jötnar, or any other – only individuals.”

The jötun had nodded her respect and the pair had introduced the girl to the larger group with which they’d been travelling. Leiknleif had been invited to join them and eventually return to their homeland with them.

Now, here she stood, conversing with a jötun Wise Woman about the end of days.

“Do you truly hold no fear of the prophecies?” the girl asked, slightly awed.

“The Æsir’s prophecies. Not ours.” The Volva tsked in disapproval, “What do the Heruli teach you about the nature of wyrd?”

“They don’t,” Leiknleif grumbled. “They say the workings of the Norns are for none to know save their gods and their Volva.”

“Typical,” Gróa snorted. “In that case, listen well. We do not seek to know the future, because in this case, the less our knowledge, the more our freedom. How oft have fools struggled against prophecy only to bring it about, seeing too late how their actions were manipulated by the very knowledge they sought? You have not spoken of it, but I understand you have experienced this, yourself.”

Startled, Leiknleif remembered the prophecy that had marked her arrival at Volsungaheim. How much of what separated her from the Heruli had sprung from it? And, how had Gróa known?

“You have Seen. Even here, I cannot escape wyrd.”

“Yes, and no. There is a reason my people do not seek such knowledge. And those of us who See do not speak of it.”

“Like Frigg.”

“Yes. Arguably the only ásynja with any sense. Life is a vast web; the slightest thrumming of a single strand can cause the whole to tremble. Who are we to choose which threads to pluck and how to do so? The Norns keep their own counsel.”

“I am familiar with the concept of a self-fulfilling prophecy,” the girl said. “But, then, what of wyrd?”

“What is your understanding of time?” The Volva answered, as she so often did, with a question of her own. Leiknleif blinked in surprise at the apparent change in subject.

“Time? It is cyclical. As the dew that falls from the leaves of Yggdrasil drips back into the Well of Urd sustaining its roots, so do the fruits of the future return to the wellspring of the past.”

“Why should wyrd be any different?”

Leiknleif’s eyes widened, and the jötun gave her a moment to contemplate the idea before continuing, “The Norns carve into the trunk of Yggdrasil the earliest destinies of things. Our potential – or, as the case may be, our most likely doom. Ultimately, however, our lives are what we make of them. Perhaps some things must be, but they will come to pass because of our decisions.”

The girl struggled with herself, wanting to ask but doubting she’d receive an answer. Wondering if she truly wanted the answer. Finally, she started, “I never learned the Heruli’s prophecy concerning me. But, what I heard about it sounded…bad.”

“How like them to tell you only half of it,” Gróa snorted. “I know not how their Volva phrased this prophecy, but I know what I have seen. Whatever she said, there can be nothing of substance to it. All that is known is that you will play a pivotal role in whatever future unfurls. Whether that future will be good or ill remains to be seen. Or Seen,” she couldn’t resist adding with a wry smile.

“And depends on what side one is on,” Leiknleif said softly.

“Well, look at you,” Gróa said in pleased surprise. “Seems that indoctrination hasn’t quite deprived you of sense. According to the Heruli, one side is inherently good and the other ill.” Leiknleif looked up in surprise, not having meant to be heard.

“And, among your people, it is different?”

“Yes.”

“Then, why do you fight?”

“There is blood between our peoples. Do you see any other way of resolving it?”

The girl considered that for a moment before asking, “If there were? Another way, that is?”

Gróa smiled, equal parts mysterious and approving, “Who knows what the future may bring?”

Birthdays were maudlin affairs, Leiknleif reflected late one night in Harpa, alone in the snow where she’d trekked a short distance away from the jötun clan with which she’d been residing. The friends she’d made among them were good company, but she didn’t want company on this occasion. It wasn’t her birthday, but a friend’s, and he was very far away.

Perhaps not so very far, she thought. The jötnar were skilled in the manipulation of fylgjir, and she’d learned from them how to control her own, changing its form from avian to human, and sending it where she willed. She’d never tried to transcend such a distance before, but she thought it was as good an occasion as any to attempt it.

The falcon soared through the wintry skies of Jötunheim carried on eager wings to the temple linking the land to Midgard. If the Bifrost were the only way to traverse the worlds, no one but the Æsir would ever get anywhere. Winging her way through the mortal world, Leiknleif found her way to Volsungaheim perhaps an hour before dawn. Being of doubtful corporeality had its advantages, she thought as she melted through the walls of her friend’s home. Hágoð was still asleep as she approached his bedside, feeling the energies flowing through her as she’d been taught, and allowing herself to flow with them, assuming her human likeness.

The boy, now of twelve, shifted in his sleep, brow furrowed as in a less than pleasant dream, and she thoughtlessly reached out a soothing hand- only to find herself by the stream in the woods surrounding Volsungaheim, Hágoð standing beside her, casting about bewildered looks.

“What-? Elda?”

“I hope you do not intend to ask me what just happened,” she said dryly.

“No need,” Hágoð grinned. “This was just a much unexpected shift in dream. Definitely not unwelcome, though.”

“What? Oh, no, you aren’t dreaming- Well, technically, I suppose you are, but…” Leiknleif trailed off, remembering a somewhat similar discussion in her childhood. “Holy Hel!” She realized, “I am dream-walking! I knew not I could do that!”

“Wait, what? Elda, slow down and explain yourself.”

“You will never believe me,” she said with conviction, but she was grinning.

As the sun rose, Leiknleif said her farewells and returned to her body. Something seemed to have clicked inside her, and she felt everything more acutely, as though the experience had unlocked her full potential. She felt the energies flowing freely through her, as when she was in her fylgja. Curious, she focused on them, feeling their currents…

She felt herself flow with them, and suddenly, everything changed. Taking stock of her body, she found herself a wolf. Perhaps strangest of all was that it didn’t feel unnatural.

The form brought with it memories. Of her first three years of life. Of her brother, the wolf, watching over her through them. Of Sigyn’s fylgja – sometimes as a humanoid, sometimes as a great white seabird – watching over her and, when the time came, guiding her to the mortals.

Leiknleif had been born through a sort of accidental parthenogenesis, in the way of Ymir’s children. And, now, she knew who and what she was.

It had been in her name the whole time.

Leiknleif.

The Trickster’s Legacy.

The girl remembered when, so many years ago in Denmark, she’d thrust her hand into a fire, the flames leaping up her arm as though in welcome, and she had not been consumed but, rather, felt at home. It now made sense; after all, her father’s father was of the fires of Muspell.

She loosed a desolate howl. Why had Sigyn lied to her? Why send her to the Heruli instead of her true people?

Resuming her usual shape, Leiknleif prayed, “Sigyn…I must speak with you. I do not understand…There is so much I do not understand. I need…Please. Do not abandon me now.”

“Did you truly think I would?” The familiar amber-haired image appeared almost immediately before her.

“I know not what to think. About anything. Why did you send me to the Heruli? Why tell me I was of them? Why not tell me the truth?”

“In a way, it was the truth. Your father was once counted among the Æsir, as you know.” She continued quickly, preempting any protest, “But, I understand your meaning. I told you all those years ago that we wanted you to find your own place in the worlds without it being defined for you by your family.”

“And you thought I had any real chance of doing that? The Norns seem to have other ideas.”

Sigyn winced at that, “Forgive me. We never expected…There were no prophecies about another child.”

“I understand.” And, she did. “But, still…Why the Heruli, of all peoples?”

“To find the place you wanted, you had to first see all of them. We had hoped you would decide who you are before learning what you are.”

“You sent me first to them,” she realized, “because it was the only way I’d get to know them.”

“I hope you do not regret it.”

The girl’s first thought was that she did, but then she thought of Hágoð. “I cannot…Not completely.”

She thought for a moment, before continuing, “Perhaps it was wise of you to prevent my first impressions from being tainted by fear and prejudice, but now…It is good that I know. My heritage is a part of me, and I cannot simply ignore it. I need to understand who I am and whence I come before I can learn who I want to be and where I want to go.”

“Oh, child. When did you grow so wise?”

“Perhaps I learned it from my friend among the Heruli,” the girl smiled.

“Well, you certainly did not inherit it.” The pair shared a small laugh.

“I wish I could know him,” Leiknleif said softly. “There are so many stories…Such a tangled web to sort through.”

“He’s mostly wild, rough edges, but he can be gentle as well. The thread of every lie he weaves is spun of truth. He is bitter after all these centuries – and, who could blame him? – but, he has not let it utterly consume him. Like you, he can forgive almost anything except hypocrisy – or harm to his children. And, like you, he is stronger than most will ever see. He truly does love you.”

“I believe you. I only wish I could know all this for myself.”

“Who knows what the future may hold? Your origin does not suggest you will have a mortal lifespan.”

Leiknleif gasped, “I…had not considered that.”

Sigyn smiled kindly, “Think not too much on it now. In time, you will learn to accept it. Until then, you should not concern yourself unduly with what you cannot help.”

“I am afraid that may be more easily said than done.”

“I am sure. But, you will manage. You are stronger than you know.”

The two talked through the day, the younger trying to understand who and what she was while not thinking too deeply about the aspects of herself that frightened her. It soon became apparent that she would have to confront this new knowledge, but not now. For now, she would simply learn what she could accept about herself and file the rest away to be dealt with later. When the goddess finally left her, the sun was beginning to set.

Leiknleif would soon leave Jötunheim. There were some things she needed to puzzle out, and some others she had to decide. Perhaps she would seek the support and counsel of her kith and kin in Álfheim. Before any of that, though, she had one more journey to make. One more reunion.

“Narvi,¹” she greeted the wolf when they found each other.

Little Sister, he responded in the way of the wolves; that of men had long been denied him.

He had been but a child when the Æsir had come. His older brother, Nari, had protected him in the only way he could – by changing his form and hiding him away. He had been killed before he could reverse the spell, however, and because Narvi had not effected the change himself he’d been unable to undo it.

“I think I know enough to help you now, if you would like.”

The wolf looked skeptical. Sigyn has tried and failed.

“You well know my magic is not the same as hers.”

She uses galdr just as you.

“But, it is not galdr of which I speak. Will you give me leave to try?”

Narvi nodded, and Leiknleif placed a hand gently on his flank, using the connection to channel her own spirit into contact with his, using the currents in her essence to pull his along into the flow of change.

She was gentle, coaxing, until finally, he sat beside her in his natural form.

“This feels…strange,” he said at last. “I am not sure I know how to be a man any longer.”

Leiknleif snorted, “Well, I’ve no idea how to be…whatever the Hel I am.” Through her veins ran the mingled blood of an álfr and an eldjötun. What did that make her?

“You appear to be a young woman – currently, at least. I understand you inherited the ability to change that.” He felt his lips pull into a smirk and thought he could definitely get used to regaining humanoid facial expressions.

“Yes, because a bit of snark fixes all that is wrong with the world.”

“Perhaps not,” Narvi shrugged, “but it usually brings better spirits.”

“Usually,” the girl conceded, and her brother sighed.

“Sister, listen to me. You are as you have always been – whatever the Gjöll² you wish to be.”

Chapter Text

Leiknleif’s thirteenth birthday had come and gone, and the winter was drawing to a close. She’d been dwelling among her kith and kin in Álfheim since the summer, learning much about herself and experimenting with shape-changing. She’d learned rather quickly that some forms (the ones with which she was most familiar) were easier to assume than others.

It was the middle of the night, but sleep eluded her, so she walked through the woods to clear her head. Her mind and heart were full. She was growing more comfortable with who and what she was; it helped that the Álfar were so accepting. Laufey’s son was a mischief-monger, certainly, but through his mother, he was one of their own – as was his daughter.

“Father,” she whispered in the darkness, “I know not if you can even hear me. I’ve heard so much about you…But, I do not know you. The tale varies widely depending on who does the telling… I-”

She broke off, scoffing at her childishness and feeling very stupid. What, she was praying now? What was she even supposed to say to him? But, whether or not she’d even be heard, she felt compelled to finish what she started.

“I am not your daughter in any way that matters,” she realized, “not yet.” The only thing connecting them was blood. Finally, with eyes now opened, Leiknleif did what Sigyn had always hoped she would: She chose.

 “But, I’d like to be.” She knew who she was, and she knew who she wanted to become. No longer would she let others define her identity; she had decided for herself.

“I want to be your daughter.”

It was with a lighter heart that she continued on her way, winding through the trees, her light steps leaving the barest hints of footprints in the snow.

A while later, she was joined by the form of a familiar woman.

“Loki asked me to tell you that he hears you,” Sigyn said, and Leiknleif caught her breath, blinking back tears.

“Would you like to meet him?” the Asynja asked with a small, gentle smile.

Leiknleif’s eyes widened, “Can I?”

“Come,” the older woman extended her hand with a conspiratorial smile, “I’m going to teach you how to hide your fylgja from Hliðskjálf.”

Something wasn’t right. Even had Leiknleif’s own senses not alerted her to this fact, Lævidís’ laughter certainly would have. The small brown bear hobbled over to the pool – thankfully only a few paces away – to see her reflection. She’d been working on this particular transformation for the past week, and her efforts had yielded marked improvement, but the image in the water showed clearly where she’d still gone wrong. Her legs were disproportionately short, which accounted for her discomfort and limited her range and ease of motion, but the most striking mistake – and, probably, the one that had resulted in her friend’s laughter – was the wolf’s tail she was sporting. At least it was brown.

Resuming her usual shape, Leiknleif made a face at the álf maiden, whose laughter had yet to subside.

“That is simply uncalled for,” the thirteen-year-old said, “It wasn’t that bad. In fact, it’s the closest I’ve come. You’ve seen me do worse.”

It was nearing Midsummer, and Leiknleif had been dwelling among the Álfar for roughly a year. During that time, she had grown rather adept at shape-changing, but certain forms still gave her trouble.

 “Yes, but O, Dísir!”¹ Lævidís chortled, “Of all your blunders, that may be the one that looked the silliest.”

“I don’t know,” the young woman said, melting into a perfect replica of the álf before her, “I think this form looks rather silly.”

“Leiknleif-”

“O, Afvaldr, I love you so!” she mocked in a ridiculously high-pitched tone, oozing saccharine melodrama. She would have continued, but was cut off by an indignant squeal.

“Leiknleif!” the maiden, distinguishable from her double only by the bright, embarrassed red of her cheeks, squawked, “I told you that in good faith!”

“I am a young woman of thirteen years. Surely you have someone better to keep your confidence,” the other scoffed, resuming her natural form.

She’d long thought her human shape to be her true one, but as she’d grown more comfortable in her own skin, she’d learned the truth. She’d projected her fylgja, once, in preparation to visit her father, and been surprised when the form it had taken had been one she’d never before seen, yet felt more familiar than any other she’d assumed. Loki had smirked when he’d seen her, with that light in his eyes that always made her want to laugh along with him. She’d been pleased at how much she resembled him.

 She, like him, had inherited the small, lithe frame, slanted eyes, and pointed ears of the álfar, along with the vertical-slit pupils, obsidian skin, and golden veins of the eldjötnar. She had the sharp teeth and heightened senses of both. Her hair was the color of fire, and her green eyes burned like stars.

It was now her customary shape.

“Anyone else would just shove me at him and tell me to be bold,” her friend answered.

“I think you ought to be. I know you won’t, though. No, if I want to see you together, I’ll have to employ drastic measures…”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

The redhead continued with a smirk, “Perhaps I’ll simply have to approach him wearing your face and-”

“You wouldn’t!” Lævidís exclaimed, aghast.

“Have you met me?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

The half-álf shrugged with a smug smile, “’Tis an inherited trait.” There was a time when she’d have been horrified at such a joke, but no longer. During her time among the Álfar, she’d learned all she could about her family – and herself.

“The identity of your father is no excuse for you to go around tormenting people!” Lævidís protested, but she was smiling.

The Heruli would disagree, Leiknleif thought, but, unwilling to spoil the mood, she proclaimed in a mock-wounded tone, “I am not tormenting you; I’m helping!”

Her friend scoffed, but she continued, “Truly! Either Afvaldr will be receptive to your advances, and you’ll stop pining once you’ve won him; or else he won’t, in which case he doesn’t deserve you, and you’ll stop pining once you realize what an a## he is. Either way, you stop pining, and everybody wins!”

The álf maiden fell quiet for a moment, and seemed to be really considering the merits of her friend’s arguments, but the only response she gave was a small, petulant, “I am not pining.”

Leiknleif answered that with one raised eyebrow above a pointed smirk.

Leiknleif stood in the dancing shadows cast by the firelight in the midst of the Revels on Midsummer Night. Far away, she knew, the Heruli were holding their Sigrblót² to bless the warriors preparing to depart with victory in their campaign.

Earlier that day, she’d snuck off to a secluded grove, offering a small sacrifice to Tyr. “They call you Tyr the Just,” she whispered over the flames. “I know you as the father of my friend.  I am not one of your people, but he is. Hear me for his sake. I ask only that you watch over him. If he should go again to war…keep him safe. Please, bring him home.”

Leiknleif was the offspring of magic and fire. The Æsir were not her gods. The álfar, like the jötnar, did not truly worship anyone but revered the dísir. For herself, she chose to do the same, but for Hágoð…Well, a prayer or two wouldn’t go amiss.

She could not know that, in the heart of Volsungaheim, a young man added his own silent prayer to the great sacrifice. O, High One, Giver of Victory, wherever she is, let her be victorious. O, High One, Lord of the Slain, let me survive the coming raids and, gods willing, return home to find her here.³

Now, as Leiknleif stood in the firelight, enjoying a short moment of private contentment amongst her kith and kin, a small, warm smile graced her lips at the sight of a young álf couple – Afvaldr and Lævidís. She’d very nearly made good on her threat of masquerading as her friend and doing something drastic, but in the end, had settled for approaching the shy young álf in her own form and essentially ordering him to grow a spine and stop making her friend miserable.

Whatever works, right? It had been almost as fun. Perhaps, the next time she found herself playing matchmaker…

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned her head to see Spekir making his way toward her.

“Hello, coz,”⁴ she greeted, face breaking into a brilliant smile. The álf was her kin, Laufey’s cousin, and she’d often looked to him for support while sorting out her identity.

He’d told her about her grandparents, about the rare, unlooked-for romance of an eldjötun and an álf – even the occasional amusing story of her father’s antics as a child. He’d taught her about her culture, the álf side of her heritage. He’d helped her find her place among her people – this half of them, at least.

“This seems to be a habit of yours,” he teased her now.

“I’m not hiding, I promise, only taking a moment to catch my breath. I think my cousins have a wager going that they can rope me into dancing with them all before the night is through.⁵ You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she grinned.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, fair coz,” he demurred. “I’ve brought you a drink and some conversation, though,” he said, handing her a horn of álf-wine (She’d slowly but steadily increased her tolerance for the stuff.), “and I was hoping, afterwards, it might be my turn to dance with you.”

Leiknleif blinked. “I was jesting about that wager until you said that.” The two laughed before lapsing into a companionable silence, and she sipped at her wine.

Soon, though, perceptive green eyes boring into her, Spekir said, “I am glad to have you here. But, are you not homesick?”

The young woman sighed. “Álfheim is more my home than Volsungaheim could ever be. I do miss the one I left behind…” As she spoke, her left hand drifted up to the little wolf figurine suspended over her heart. “But…” she hesitated a moment, before confessing, “I send my fylgja, sometimes, to visit him. It isn’t the same as returning, but it sets my mind at ease.”

“What stops you from returning to him?”

She took a moment to respond, struggling to put her feelings into words. Eventually, she began, “I know myself now. I am finally comfortable in my own skin. But, if I went…How could I fit?”

“You have found your place in the world.”

“In this world. I fear I have no place in the Heruli’s.” The time she’d spent alone among them, waiting for Hágoð to return from his first voyage, had been one of the most miserable experiences of her life. And, that had been without any knowledge of her heritage…

“If the one you miss is worthy, you will have a place with him. Perhaps, the others of his kind may not accept you, but he will be enough.”

Leiknleif paused for a moment, considering the blonde álf’s words.

“You are right,” she said, and her lips quirked in a small smile, “That is how it has always been with him.”

Unburdened, she threw back her head, swallowing the remnants of her wine in one go before tossing the emptied horn to a table and turning back to Spekir with a wide, slightly feral, grin.

“Well, coz,” she said, offering her hand while her sharp green eyes glinted in the firelight, “Are you ready for that dance?”

Leiknleif had once more assumed her human shape; it took her a while to grow accustomed to it once more, but it was a form in which she was comfortable, though it rankled that she had not the freedom to appear in her true likeness.

She had returned to Volsungaheim in the late fall, about a fortnight before the raiders made it home, visibly fewer and more haggard than they were wont. Her breath caught in her throat, and though she reminded herself that she’d recently seen him through her fylgja, alive and relatively unharmed, on the voyage home, she could not breathe easily until she caught sight of him.

Hágoð’s life without Eldrleif was dull. He was on good terms with almost everyone in Volsungaheim, and considered many to be friends, but no one was as close to him as she. If someone told a tale, all Hágoð could think was how much more vibrant it would be were she the teller. If someone jested, all he could think was how much he missed her unique brand of humor. If someone made a claim, all he could think was how much pleasure she would take in proving them wrong, sometimes regardless of her own beliefs.

His state of mind was hardly helped by the nightmares he often had of losing her.

As time went on, he’d grown more and more withdrawn, shutting himself up within his sister’s forge, throwing himself into his study of the craft as though the distraction could fill the sudden void in his life.

That had all changed, however, on his twelfth birthday.  He still wasn’t certain that she’d truly touched his dream, but he wouldn’t put it past her, and he’d since thought he’d caught glimpses of a falcon watching over him.

In any case, he’d been reminded he could trust her to return to him. And, he wouldn’t stop living while he waited. He still missed her, of course, but he didn’t let it consume him, stopped keeping himself so distant from those around him. He was serious and driven, still spending much of his time in the forge, and when the warriors left, he went with them. But, every so often, he’d have a strange dream, leaving his heart that much lighter the next morning…

He was now thirteen, returning home from his third voyage. Even as his heart fluttered in his chest with the hope of seeing Elda there, awaiting his return, it felt heavy as he remembered her absence when he’d returned the previous year. He didn’t know what to expect. It had been so long since he’d last seen her…

As the shore came into view, Martin joined him at the prow of the ship, looking intently out across the water.

“Looking for Ristil already?” Hágoð smirked, “Because I am fairly sure you cannot see her from here.”

Martin barely acknowledged the tease, accustomed to such comments since his betrothal.

“Perhaps not,” he conceded, “but at least I have something to look forward to when we put in. Not everyone is as fortunate.”

“No,” Hágoð said softly, “I suppose not.”

Following his companion’s thoughts, Martin said, “You always claim she’ll return. Perhaps today will be the day.”

“Perhaps.”

The voyage had been a difficult one, the hostilities more vicious than Hágoð or his companions had ever before experienced. Their losses had been heavy.

The campaign had dragged on, and as it had finally drawn to a close, the thirteen-year-old had felt himself drowning in darkness. He’d desperately needed a ray of light, and he’d found it in a dream.

He’d had nightmares with increasing frequency, the atrocities he saw during the day sinking deep into his subconscious and manifesting themselves at night. Sometimes, he wondered whether or not he was alone in this regard.

One night, his dreams had seen him once more in the throes of pain and fear, blood and death. He’d found himself alone on the field, struggling to keep his footing in the deep snow of Jötunheim, surrounded on all sides by the enemy.

Just as he’d been certain he was about to die, suddenly, he’d no longer been alone. Eldrleif had stood by his side, but not as he’d seen her last. She’d looked older, more mature, and had the beginnings of the curves of womanhood. There’d been a look in her eyes, too, that said she’d seen as much as he during their separation, and he’d known this would be one of those dreams. The ones she claimed were true. They didn’t happen often, but he’d learned to recognize them when they came.

She’d fought with him, scything through the enemy with impossible grace. Then, she’d stopped and looked at him, the rest of the dream – no longer a nightmare – melting away to leave only the two of them, still dressed and armed for war, on the moonlit plain of ice and snow. He’d found it surprisingly beautiful when not lost in the din of battle. Wind had played with the young woman’s fiery hair as she’d stepped forward.

“That was…quite the nightmare,” she’d said softly, breath fogging the cold night air. Her eyes had locked intently on his, as though she were searching for something.

Hágoð had shrugged, “Nothing unusual.” He’d tried for a wry smile, but it had fallen flat.

“You are not alone. The others-”

“Are not you,” he’d spoken before thinking, but he’d meant it.

“You know I will never leave you alone. Not for good,” she’d spoken with complete conviction and sincerity, but he’d sensed a vulnerability, too, as though she’d feared-

“I am sorry it has been so long. I needed…There were some things I had to sort out. I couldn’t-”

“Hey, Elda,” he’d cut her off, stepping closer still, and sheathing his sword to gently cup her cheek in his hand. “Shh, it’s alright, I do not blame you. I am sure, whatever kept you away so long, you had good reason. And, you didn’t leave me alone.”

She’d blinked, and he’d smiled softly, genuinely this time.

“You may not have been here in person, but you’ve been watching over me all the same, through this,” he’d continued, indicating his shield. “It has stood me in good stead, saved my life over and again, and whenever I miss you…I look at it and realize I have a little piece of you with me always.”

“I will be waiting at Volsungaheim when you return,” she’d vowed, “You have my word.”

Don’t say that, he’d thought, Please. If this is only a dream…

But, what he’d said was, “I believe you.” And, he had.                                                                   

Now, nearing his home once more, he hoped he wouldn’t prove a fool for relying on the promises of a wraith.

As the ships drew nigh the shore, a small gathering became visible, growing as news of their approach spread. Hágoð ignored the main body of the crowd, instead scanning the fringes; if she was there, that was where she’d be.

She said she’d be here, he thought, but it lacked conviction. He’d seen and heard what he’d wanted to. He only hoped there was more to it than that.

Dimly, he heard Martin’s sharp intake of breath – he must have caught sight of Ristil – but, it didn’t concern him. There was only one thing on his mind – and she was nowhere to be found.

His heart sank, and he suddenly felt a bone deep weariness, as though he hadn’t slept the entire season he’d been gone.

So, it really was only a dream. Something to get me through the horrors.

Turning his head, he looked away from the scene before him, unable to bear the sight of families, friends, and lovers reuniting.

And, that was when he saw it. Not actually part of the group – of  course, how like her – but a few paces away, a shock of red stood out against the shade cast by a small copse of trees.

She looked exactly as she had in his dream.

Without a second thought, he leaped over the side, running toward her as though she’d disappear if he didn’t reach her within the next few seconds. Perhaps, a part of him feared she might.

She met him halfway.

It was the night after Martin and Ristil’s marriage-feast, and Leiknleif stood alone in the woods, the moon and stars reflected in the stream before her and the first cold breaths of an early winter in the air.

She remained motionless at the sound of approaching footsteps at her back. There was only one who would come here now.

“I thought I might find you here,” Hágoð’s amused voice drifted softly to her ears. “You disappeared,” he said, coming to stand beside her, “Are you alright?”

“I am well,” she smiled convincingly, though it was the last thing she felt like doing. “They seem happy,” she deflected.

“It is a good match,” Hágoð agreed, but he still watched her carefully. Her smile had looked sincere, but he knew her well enough to know that he couldn’t trust her expressions; her masks were too good.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked, “Marriage?” He hoped the conversation would eventually lead to whatever she was thinking about.

Leiknleif blinked in surprise before snorting, “No.”

“Why not?” he asked lightly, glad to see his friend’s amusement; she’d been far too quiet since she’d returned. “You will be a woman in a little over two years. That isn’t such a long time.”

“And, who will make my match?” she asked flatly, levity lost as quickly as it had come. Those born to the Heruli had their betrothals arranged by their parents, the rest by the patriarch of those who shared their divine blood. She, of her father’s children, was alone among the Heruli.

“I am sure they will sort that out when you are of age.”

“Perhaps, but what suitor would want me, anyway?” None of Volsungaheim, that was certain.

“I would!” Hágoð exclaimed without thinking, startled at his friend. Then, realizing what it was he’d just said, he blushed furiously, rushing to explain, “I-I only meant, any man would be fortunate to have you. Surely you must see that, Elda.”

The young woman laughed softly, “You are sweet. But, to be honest, I could never love a man of the Heruli. I can barely find it in me to respect most of them.”

“Never?” he asked, surprised to find that he was hurt by the thought, “None of us?”

Elda drew a sharp breath, looking at him with wide eyes.

“I…” She honestly didn’t know what to say. She’d never considered…

“It is alright,” Hágoð attempted a smile, “I-”

“No! I didn’t mean…It was a generalization. None of the others could ever understand me, let alone accept me. But, you are different.”

She paused, then, struggling to explain herself, “Hágoð…You’ve stood by my side since we were children, too young to consider such things. I never dreamed you might want me to think of you in that way.”

“Neither did I,” he answered honestly. “I am not certain I do, I only…”

“I understand. We’re growing older, and things change. But, let us not worry over it. We have time.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a relieved smile, “We have time.”

He put his arm around her, then, and they stood in silence, which was just as well, because Leiknleif had much to think on.

Obviously, she’d never expected the Heruli to accept her, but she’d hoped Hágoð would be different. Still, she had yet to tell him of her parentage. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him – he’d never been as blindly prejudiced as the rest of the Heruli – but, he meant so much to her. She couldn’t bear to lose him.

The hostilities between the Heruli and the jötnar had escalated to a new level of ferocity. She was torn, caught between the two warring worlds, each of which had a claim on her. She knew the horrors Hágoð had experienced at war, she’d seen some of his nightmares, and once, after a particularly vicious attack against Volsungaheim, he’d spoken of his fears – apparently represented by the jötnar.

Sometimes, I fear the jötnar will burn the worlds to ash, and we’ll be powerless to stop it.

She knew, however, that the comment had been thoughtless. He hadn’t meant anything by it, and if he cared for her as deeply as she thought he did…

I have time, she thought. I need make no decision yet.

Time passed, though, and no decision came. Soon, winter had come in full force, harsher than almost any other in living memory. More often than not, nights saw Leiknleif standing alone in the shade of the trees, watching her little stream as it hurried along, wishing she could carry on with as little care.

Every time, Hágoð joined her. Sometimes, they talked, but more often, seeing the tension in her shoulders, he simply draped an arm around them and stood with her in silence, speaking only with his presence.

He knew something was troubling her, but he never pushed. She would open up to him if and when she chose, and nothing he could do would change that.

The night of her fourteenth birthday, he looked at her in concern and softly said, “Elda…You know you can tell me anything. Right?”

Leiknleif turned to him, searching his eyes, and realized, “Yes.”

A small, genuine smile took shape on her face. She could tell him who and what she was, and she believed he would accept her. But, if he knew…

If the others found out, she didn’t want him caught in the backlash. She’d keep her secret to herself, and he would be innocent. Just knowing that she could tell him, that she could trust him so completely, that he cared for her so much was enough.

“I know, and I’m not sure you’ll ever understand just how much that means to me. Thank you, Hágoð,” she placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

He blinked, surprised at the turn in her mood, but glad to see her so wholly happy after so long.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he smiled, producing a hunting knife he’d forged himself, the hilt shaped like a falcon with its outspread wings forming a crossguard.

“Happy birthday, Eldrleif.”

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“May it never fail you, as your shield has never failed me. And, when we are apart, may it be a little piece of me to remind you you are not alone.”

The time of spring began, but there was no sign of the season. Aloud, it was attributed to a late thaw – it had been known to happen – but, it was impossible not to hear the whispers.

Fimbulvetr.⁶

With the frequency of raids against Volsungaheim, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.

Leiknleif’s conflicted loyalties had never been truly tested because no raiding party had ever made it to the citadel; they’d all been stopped by the patrols before getting too close.

Finally, however, that changed.

It was the frost-jötnar who finally breached the citadel. Leiknleif tried to stay where the fighting was thin, only defending herself, unwilling to harm her opponents unless absolutely necessary. As she fought, she scanned the fray for Hágoð. When she caught sight of him, her breath caught in her throat; he fought alone, surrounded, as though in one of his nightmares.

It was the setting of her own worst nightmare.

No longer with any care for her opponents, she fought her way to him, brutal as she cleared her path. They had attacked Volsungaheim; perhaps they had ample provocation, but at the end of the day, they were choosing this fight. She would respond in kind. Hágoð was a fair warrior and could take care of himself, but her fears would not rest unless she was there to watch his back.

As she finally reached him, viciously cutting down those who posed a threat to him, she gasped at seeing a familiar face.

“Traitress,” Jofurr hissed.

Blue eyes glowing with the elemental magic of the jötnar, he raised an arm, sending shards of ice flying at the girl.

Instinctively, Leiknleif raised her arm before her, as though it could afford her any protection against the onslaught.

In response, a burst of fire flowed out from her, rising into a wall before her and melting the projectiles before disappearing as quickly as it had come, leaving Leiknleif standing out in the open – in her natural form.

Exclamations were heard all around, but the fight raged on with no time for any response. Many of the Heruli watched her warily, most likely expecting her to turn her blade on them, but she didn’t. She’d chosen her side – for that battle, at least. She would hold to her decision and deal with the consequences.

When the battle ended, the jötnar either dead or fled, a taut stillness fell over the warriors. Leiknleif’s knuckles were white where she gripped her sword, her muscles coiled tightly in preparation to ward off an attack from any direction – for, indeed, she was surrounded by the Heruli, all with their weapons levelled at her. She counted it a small miracle none had assaulted her already, especially considering she stood before them still in her true likeness.

“What are you?” Martin asked, voice hard and guarded.

“My name is Leiknleif Lokisdóttir,” she answered standing tall, her voice calm and level. Tense as the circumstances were, some part of her basked in the freedom of – finally – owning herself and her family. “I am half álf and half eldjötun, and I am not your enemy.”

Bridget scoffed, “Of course you are. I always called you Lokispawn.”

“That you did,” Leiknleif smirked, appearing entirely unaffected, even relaxed, though she was anything but. “You never knew how right you were. Though, to be fair, neither did I. I learned of my heritage only two summers past.

“And you expect us to believe anything you say?” the blonde demanded.

“Well, of course not. But-”

“Just stop,” Martin said wearily. “Lay down your arms,” he told the half-breed.

She paused, evaluating the situation, before cautiously responding, “And, what will befall me if I comply?”

“Oh, what do you think?” Bridget snarled, “What we always do with your kind. You’re only good dead.”

At least she’s honest…

“In that case,” the redhead said lightly, “I think I’ll keep my sword, thanks.”

The tension spiked, and murmurs spread throughout the crowd. Something had to give.

“Shut her up inside her quarters. Post a guard at her door, and call a Þing⁷ to decide her fate.” The suggestion was given in voice both familiar and foreign. She’d never heard Hágoð sound so cold.

Her eyes snapped to his face; his eyes were hard. He’d never looked at her like that before, and she quickly looked away, as though the sight burned her eyes.

“The boy is right,” the Jarl had appeared. “This is not a decision to be made rashly. She was once one of ours, after all.” Turning to Hágoð, he continued, “Do you wish to guard her?”

“No.” he said shortly, words cutting into her like knives, “I do not want to be anywhere near her right now.” He stalked away, then, without a backward glance.

Keeping the pain from showing on her face was the hardest thing Leiknleif had ever had to do.

“Well,” she said with a smirk, “That was exciting.”

Martin looked at her sharply. He looked surprised, and she wondered what that meant.

“I will guard her,” he said. And, so it was.

Leiknleif dwelt at the outermost edge of the citadel. It would be an advantage if she needed to escape. As would the fact that she’d been left alone with Martin. She stood in her room, facing him where he stood in her doorway

“Why did you return?” He surprised her with the question.

“What?”

“Before, you said you only learned what you are two summers past. That was after you had left Volsungaheim. What brought you back to us? You had little enough love for the Heruli, even when you thought you were one of us; that was no secret. So…” he trailed off expectantly.

“Not espionage, if that is what you mean to imply.”

“Then, why?”

Leiknleif studied him. He apparently believed her – and trusted her to answer him honestly. That was significant.

She remembered his surprise when she’d hidden her pain, playing off Hágoð’s betrayal – for, that was what it felt like – and, suddenly, she understood. Martin knew her, at least in one respect, better than she might have thought.

“You know why,” she answered softly.

A glint of approval entered his eye as he said, “I would hear it from you.”

“I gave Hágoð my word I would return.”

Martin nodded before closing her door, taking up his post outside and leaving her alone with her thoughts. The roiling emotions she’d tamped down in front of prying eyes came surging up, driving her to pace like a caged tiger.

She felt betrayed, and she hated herself for her weakness; she was a fool. She’d been so certain her identity would not change Hágoð’s opinion of her, but evidently, she’d been wrong. The way he’d looked at her, his clipped words…And, then, finally, he’d abandoned her, walking away without a backward glance, leaving her to the mercy of those Heruli wolves.

“One must howl with the wolves one is among,” he’d told her once. She hadn’t thought he’d meant it.

He obviously wasn’t the man she’d thought he was; he shouldn’t be worth such exquisite pain and grief.

He didn’t advocate killing me right off. That’s something, at least.

And, it reminded her of the situation at hand. She had more practical and urgent concerns than broken faith and a wounded heart. Feelings could wait. They would have to if she was to live long enough to sort them out.

She looked contemplatively out her window for a while, a hand at the wolf pendant she always wore. Shortly afterwards, a large falcon flew from Volsungaheim, never to return, a small travelling bag clutched in its talons.

Hágoð  had less practice ignoring his pain.

Did she not trust me enough to tell me?

He couldn’t be near her now. His emotions were too violent and confused.

It was obvious, now, what had so preoccupied her upon her return. But, she’d seemed to get over what was troubling her and return to herself. Perhaps, she’d relaxed after making the decision not to tell him. All he could think was, why?

As if in answer, his own words came back to haunt him, and he remembered seeing an odd look in her eyes, remembered her receding into unusual silence, afterwards.

Sometimes, I fear the jötnar will burn the worlds to ash, and we’ll be powerless to stop it.

He hadn’t meant that the way it sounded, and she should have known better. He’d stood by her since the day she’d come to Volsungaheim; she should have known he’d never turn his back on her.

But, hadn’t he? Perhaps she’d been wrong to think she couldn’t rely on him, but when she’d needed him most, he’d walked away without a backward glance. He’d proven her right.

It wasn’t like that, he protested. I just needed some time and space to think.

But, it sounded weak, even to him.

Dragging his attention from such thoughts, he tried to focus on the debate raging around him, and he was surprised by the overwhelming hatred and bloodlust in so many surrounding him. He’d thought he’d seen the darkness in the world, but found, in some ways, he was still hopelessly naïve. The horrors of war were nothing compared to what perverseness one could find in those he knew and trusted under the right circumstances. Finally, he understood the cynicism he’d so often seen in Eldrleif; she’d seen this truth long ago, at a younger age than anyone should have to. No wonder she had so little faith in the Heruli.

Almost no one spoke in her favor, but he added his voice to theirs.

“She fought with us,” he reminded the gathering. “She revealed herself – knowing we might turn on her – fighting for us. She’s never caused harm to any of us!”

“Except Ull,” a voice snapped, and Hágoð reeled. He’d never wanted so desperately to break an oath.

Is this why she hid the truth? he realized. Did she fear, all those years ago, that they would do this to me?

“The gods saw fit to spare her after that,” another answered. “There must have been a reason.”

“Their reasons are their own; I doubt they’ll stop us now.”

A few more moments passed of heightened voices, one raised to be heard over another, and even higher tempers. Then, an authoritative voice cut through the cacophony.

“Silence!” the Jarl called, and silence fell, all eyes turned to him in anticipation. The decision, ultimately, was his.

He held himself tall and straight before the assembled body, but Hágoð thought he saw weariness hidden in his eyes and the taut lines of his face, and when he spoke again, his voice was flat.

“The girl must die.”

Shocked, it took Hágoð a moment to process what he’d heard and another to believe it. He’d never actually considered the possibility, and before he knew what he was doing, he cried out, “You cannot do that!”

A tense hush fell over the company, all eyes riveted to the young man. It was not his place to say such a thing, but he did not back down. He looked the Jarl in the eye and spoke, quietly this time, “You cannot do this.”

“You were not so eager to defend her earlier,” the Jarl said mildly, and Hágoð fought the urge to look away, ashamed.

“I was surprised, and upset. I needed time to come to terms with it.”

“And have you?” That gave him pause.

“No,” he admitted. “Not entirely. Not yet. But, that doesn’t really matter, not in this. You cannot kill her.”

The Jarl paused a moment, before saying, “Come, boy. Speak with me alone.” He turned and walked away, and Hágoð followed.

The moment they were alone, the young man burst out, “This is not right! Surely-”

“You think I do not know that?” Rorick snapped. Hágoð stared, startled, as the older man deflated. The Jarl sighed, defeated, before saying gently, “I am sorry. I know she is your friend. But, a man in my position…” He sighed again.

“Certain sacrifices must be made to keep order, to keep the peace.  As they say, ‘One must howl with the wolves one is among.’” Hágoð flinched at that. He’d once said the same to Eldrleif, when they were children. He’d never envisioned anything like this. He vowed in that moment it was a saying he would never put into practice.

“I am sorry,” Rorick repeated.

“When Elda was revealed,” Hágoð said quietly, “I was upset. Hel, I was angry she apparently didn’t trust me enough to tell me. But, if this is the way things are, I understand why she felt she could tell no one. And, I am ashamed to be Heruli.”

They found an empty room with an open window. Martin had heard nothing suspicious. No one had thought the window might pose a problem; it was too small to be a point of egress for a human. Ironic that her not being human – the very thing to cause this uproar – had somehow slipped all their minds. Hágoð was grateful for it.

A flash of brown caught his eye. Left on the pallet in the corner of the room was a small wolf figurine, carved from wood and attached to a leather cord. Surreptitiously, Hágoð bent down to retrieve it, slipping the cord around his neck when no one was looking.

That night found him turning it over in his hands, looking down at it as he sat by the stream he’d so often shared with another. Ignorant of the enchantment on the pendant – to be activated only in his presence, and only if he stood alone by the stream he’d visited with Eldrleif – he was surprised by the soft, familiar voice that issued forth from it.

“I figure you managing to trigger this spell means you must care, to some degree, so I may as well say goodbye.” Eldrleif’s voice was bland, devoid of any emotion. It meant she was in pain.

After her tone, it was her words that hit him. In all the years they’d known each other, she’d never once told him, “goodbye.” Only, “farewell,” until they met again.

For the first time, she’d left him, with no intention of meeting again.

“Whatever you think of me now, I cannot believe you wish me dead. I had hoped, if given the chance, you might accept me for who and what I am.” She scoffed, a hint of bitter humor making its way into her voice – the rare loss of control illustrating the extent of her devastation – as she said, “In fact, that was why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you caught up in the backlash, if, say, something like today happened. You probably thought it was because I knew how you’d react.”

A brief, pregnant silence fell, before Eldrleif’s voice sounded once more, no longer with any attempt to mask her emotion. Hot frustration melted into potent pain, as she said, “Oh, I know not even what I do. Honestly, what can I possibly say to you now? It matters not; I doubt you’ll ever even hear this. If you do…I suppose there’s only one thing left to say, so here it is: Goodbye.”

As Elda’s voice faded for the last time, Hágoð wept.

He’d had every right to be upset – or, so he’d thought – but, in his self-righteous fit of pique, he’d forgotten how frightened and vulnerable she must have been. He’d abandoned her when she needed him most, and now she was gone – probably forever – thinking he hated her for no reason but that she was Loki’s daughter.

The pain he’d felt at her apparent lack of faith paled in comparison to what she’d suffered when, wrapped up in himself, he’d proven right her worst fears. And, all the while, she had trusted him. She’d only been trying to protect him.

Just as she’d always done, he thought, remembering how she’d sheltered him from the repercussions of Ull’s death.

She’d put her faith in him and, apparently, been proven a fool for it.

When his tears subsided, Hágoð stood, filled with new purpose. Making his way to the heart of the woods surrounding the citadel, the son of Tyr committed sacrilege.

Offering a sacrifice to Loki, the young man prayed, “I am sorry. I failed your daughter-” he broke off, scoffing at himself, before acknowledging the bitter truth. He hadn’t failed her. “No, I abandoned her in the hour of her greatest need. I know that you are bound, but if you have any power yet…Watch over her, I beg of you. For I no longer can.” And, I have no one but myself to blame.