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Celebrations were already well underway by the time Ashe was able to free herself, taking a seat across the bonfire with a horn of mjøðr someone had pressed into her hands. The demand for her attention as Warmother wasn’t fully unappreciated as it meant her people placed their faith in her enough to look to her for guidance, but it often left her little room to herself. Even in the midst of the commemorations of an oathswearing where the attention should be on the newly sworn couple, both of which were happily dancing together across her on the other side of the bonfire.
Hrefna caught her eye across the fire, then pulled away from Geiravor with a warm, loving smile before circling the dance area to greet Ashe. She managed to snag a drinking horn as she passed through the crowd.
“Drengmóðir.”
Her scarthane looked beautiful outside of her usual battle regalia. The blóðberg flowers braided into her jet black hair like violet stars winking in the firelight. Ashe offered her a genuine smile as she tipped her drink.
“Ver heil ok sæl.”
“Skál!” Hrefna replied in affirmation, knocking their drinks together smartly before they both took a swig. “May I?”
Ashe motioned to the seat by her side that Hrefna indicated.
“By all means.”
Hrefna relaxed into the seat, eyes panning over the festivities in contemplative quiet for a moment.
“I do not think I have ever seen an oathswearing quite as lively as this. It is hard to believe that it is mine.”
“It has been a while since our last. It is about time we had some love to celebrate,” Ashe replied mildly.
“I can only imagine how spirited it will be when it comes to celebrating yours,” Hrefna replied, turning a cheeky smile onto Ashe.
“Oh hush. You are beginning to sound like all the elders.” Ashe could feel a bit of warmth blooming on her cheek.
The elders had been relentless, today especially. Reminding her that when it came to all her future bloodsworn, she needed to find women who would be able to be confident leaders in their own right. More importantly, she needed to find strong men who would help her with ensuring her Iceborn bloodline carried on. Conversations that she’d been grateful to break away from, only to be pulled back into it by Hrefna.
“I do not mean it the same way they do, Drengmóðir. I was genuine in hoping it will be love that we will be celebrating, and not only advantageous unions.”
Ashe pinched her lips together. Shaken from the words, a memory arose.
She’d only been maybe seven summers old when her mother had been scolding her.
“And what am I to tell Hallr’s eiðfaðir?” Grena tsked as she turned Ashe’s small hand in her own before pressing a cool wet cloth to the bloodied knuckles.
“Tell him Hallr stinks and should be kinder to those around him,” Ashe retorted easily, unflinching at the sting. She hadn’t understood why her mother would ask her such a foolish question. Hallr was large for his age of eight summers, and had been using that to his advantage to bully another child for their toy.
“He is still young. He will come to direct such aggressions to the right places as he learns to become a proper warrior.”
“But I am young too.” Ashe could not understand what it was about that her mother found so funny as she stuck out her tongue. Age should have been no excuse.
“Ah, but you forget I oft say that you are clever beyond your years,” Grena replied fondly as she carefully wrapped bandage around those little yet strong hands. “I think it would do you well to learn to lead him in that direction as a future Warmother. He may yet make a powerful bloodsworn.”
“Euck!!” Nothing could have sounded less appealing.
“You need the cunning and strong among your bloodsworn. You need to look for and nurture these traits among your peers to build the foundation for your future,” Grena’s voice grew stern, as it always did when it came to discussing Ashe’s eventual leadership. “Everything else is secondary when it comes to securing those around you that you can trust.”
“What about love, Mamma?”
Her mother paused a long time before answering.
“Love will come, as I have come to love many of your eiðfeðr.” Ashe frowned. She did not like that answer. She loved all her oathfathers. Sensing this, her mother’s expression softened. “Perhaps one day a Warmother will be able to prioritise love over practicality.”
“When I am Warmother, I will make it so,” Ashe resolved with the surety only someone of her age might have.
“I am sure you will, my little lágfóta,” Grena laughed as she affectionately stroked a weathered fingertip to Ashe’s nose, eliciting a little giggle. Then she put on her stern face again, though with not as much effectiveness as she might have hoped. “Come now, it is time to apologise to Hallr.”
“Perhaps one day,” Ashe echoed her mother’s words. There had been a sadness in Grena’s words that she hadn’t noticed when she was a child. Or perhaps time had addled her memory and added what wasn’t there. The memory was a kind one, from before her mother’s guidance turned rigid and cold.
Hrefna sensed the finality in Ashe’s tone, seemingly choosing to change the subject by waving to Geiravor from across the fire.
“Drengmóðir,” Geiravor greeted as she came to join them, Hrefna standing to receive her in a loose embrace. They looked to each other for a moment, something unspoken passing between them before turning back to Ashe, hands outstretched.
“Freljord is already different from how we once knew it to be. It would be an honour to receive blessings from the Warmother that helped shape it.”
Ashe took their hands in her own. The rough of the bandages around their palms echoing the memory that had just surfaced. She knew why they were asking this of her.
In many tribes, her mother’s included, the right to an oathbinding with a title as official as bloodsworn was often a privilege only allowed to the Warmother. Moreover, Geiravor was just one of the countless Avarosans that had lost their original tribes to another’s raids; No family left to offer her oathbound. Certainly not a union her mother, as Warmother, would have approved of for her scarthane. Least of all a hearthbound one.
Pride swelled in her chest at the grateful appreciation the couple gave her when she pressed a soft kiss to each of their hands. She then brought them against her forehead in silent prayer to Anivia; Frostbringer. Hopebringer. The warmth of their hands burned through the linen, the still bleeding proof of their love all but pressed against her frigid skin. Her own scar beneath her glove, so old it had all but faded, almost seemed to warm in tandem.
Hrefna’s words instilled a sliver of daring hope within her. Freljord had a long way to go yet, but she could find it in herself to take pride in what it had become now.