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𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈 — 𝐖𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧 — the one where a prophecy is spoken and an alliance is agreed.

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 | 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 13k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: welcome to foretold! this has definitely become a passion project of mine over the last few days (especially since I wrote practically all of this yesterday) and thanks to a push by some of you lot I decided to post it today! The other parts are coming, but I just don't know quite when yet! this is a viking/omegaverse au so there is a lot of norse terminology used. I might make a foretold dictionary of sorts but until then, ask me if you need any clarification! As always, please enjoy and let me know what you think!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit language, mature themes, abo dynamics, norse language, discussion of sexism, arranged marriages, and a very sexy viking alpha Jarl Harry.

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 HERE!

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐑

Twenty years earlier, there was a day that knew no darkness.

The people of Sólheimr watched the sun cling stubbornly to the sky long after it should have disappeared behind the mountains. Hour after hour it remained, bathing the settlement in an endless golden light. Some said Sól herself had paused her chariot. Others whispered that the Norns had stayed at the turning of the world.

Sólheimr was the northernmost settlement of the kingdom, where sometimes the sun would linger above the horizon for days at a time. The old women claimed the land was blessed by Sól herself. The warriors insisted it merely bred stubborn people. Only the seers smiled, because they knew every prophecy had to begin somewhere.

Despite the ranging sun from the outside, no one in Sólheimr. The settlement waited, plagued with the thoughts of what was unfolding inside the longhouse. They’d seen the healer enter the longhouse before the morning meal, and she had not left since. That only meant one thing, and they were waiting with bated breath for the announcement to ring.

Despite what was occurring in the backrooms of the longhouse, nobody would ever expect anything was amiss. The settlements greatest warriors, sitting with their Jarl were drinking, and laughing, celebrating the forever sun that beamed above them.

They ignored the restless livestock, the fact that the ravens that circled did not settle, or that the dogs refused to sleep. Horses refused their water, the fish abandoned the fjord and the sheep stood motionless, all facing north. The sea glittered gold even though it should be midnight, and the breeze in the air stood still, as though it knew something was amiss.

“The Norns are weaving,” the oldest woman said quietly, “No one disturbs the weave.”

Despite the changing air outside of the longhouse, the chatter and laughter from the main hall, the atmosphere darkened the further back a person was to explore. Behind the wooden door covered in cloth, to keep both heat in and sound out, laid upon a bed of furs, tunics and other familiar items laid a mother, deep within the labour that would bring her second blood into the world.

It had been a full day, a full twenty-four hour period at which Sól had not rested and neither had the Lady of Sólheimr. Whispered had spread amongst the settlement that no child or mother has ever survived labouring for such a time before, and it was unlikely either would survive.

Fatigued and breathless from the pain of such labour, the healer had sworn to not leave the Lady’s side. With a damp cloth in her hand, she dabbed the sweat that had collected upon her brow.

“Freyja, who taught seiðr to Gods and mortals,” she whispered, scarcely louder than the crackling fire, “If this child bears your touch, let your hand be gentle. Do not take the mother to claim the daughter.” With shaking hands, the healer tied a red woollen thread around Lady Sólheimr’s wrist, “…if this child truly bares your touch, Lady Freyja, grant us the strength to recieve your gift.”

On the other side of the bed, old Eira knelt with Lady Sólheimr’s trembling hand clasped between her own weathered fingers. Despite the cries and groans from the labouring Lady, Eira’s eyes never left the fire.

“Frigg Allmother,” she whispered, pressing her thumb gently against Lady Sólheimr’s hand, “Wrap your cloak around this house. Keep death from its doorway. Bring mother and child safely through this night.”

Outside of the birthing room, having slipped away from the rest of his warriors, Jarl Leif stood motionless. His hands, calloused from years of gripping sword and shield, curled helplessly at his sides.

“Lady Eir,” he whispered into the endless daylight, “Your hands are steadier than mine have ever been. Where mine cannot protect her… let yours.”

These prayers rose from the longhouse that day. One sought a mother’s life, the other begged for a child’s safe arrival and one pleaded for healing beyond mortal hands. Whether or not the goddesses listened was something only the Norns knew.

Another scream tore through the longhouse — raw, desperate, unlike any that had come before. The healer and Eira, side by side, knew that it was time. They both knew that the moment had come. The next breath taken in that room would belong to either the child… or to the mother for the last time. Both worked tirelessly to keep Lady Sólheimr comfortable despite the day’s work she had already given to this labour. Another groan, a scream and then… A cry.

At that exact moment, as the wail from the child filled the birth room to the absolute brink, the endless sun seemed to draw closer. It’s warmth settled over the room life a blessing, washing across stone, timber and skin alike. Outside, every raven that had circled above Sólheimr settled at once upon the roof of the longhouse.

“She’s here,” the healer whispered, grabbing clean cloth and linen to wrap the babe in.

“Look…” Eira motioned to the child, who’s wails had quietened and eyes had opened, “She sees.”

A silence filled the room from the women, the only sound being the light pants from Lady Sólheimr in the background.

“Oh,” the healer murmured after a second, “The sun has not left us.”

A light smile crossed over Eira’s face, “Then neither has the favour of the gods.”

In the hours after the babe’s birth, where the news had spread around the settlement that Lord and Lady Sólheimr had safely delivered a girl, the settlers began to call her Sólbarn. The Child of the Sun. On the morning after her birth, the sun finally yielded to the horizon, as though it believed its duty had been fulfilled.

The settlement celebrated the new birth, with horns of mead raised to the gods and a lamb roasting over the fire. They sang songs, left gifts upon the old stone altar in thanks to Freyja. The Lady Sólheimr was weak though, exhaustion having set into her bones from the hours she had spent labouring.

Despite the every pain that Lady Sólheimr had endured, it all felt worth bearing when that tiny hand curled around her finger. Even more so when the door to the birthing room opened, and in walked the Völva. Every birth received a blessing of sorts, but the Völva’s presence indicated that there was some godly work amongst them.

The settlement’s Völva was old, dressed in a long cloak made of fox fur. Bone necklaces layered across her chest, yellowed with age, each carved with runes too worn to read. With every step she took, her wooden staff carved with ancient runes tapped against the stone floor, silencing those who were still in the room. Even the babe, not even a mere hour old stayed silent as the older woman comes near.

The Völva dropped down to her knees, beside the bed where the babe still rested in her mother’s arms. Her bony hand reaches out from beneath her cloak to the babe, and she lightly touches the furrowed brow of her tiny forehead. Both of her eyes settle on the babe, even though one eye remained clouded, pale as winter ice. The other watched the babe with unnerving clarity.

Without taking her eyes off the babe, she spoke in a voice that no longer sounded entirely like her own, “A wolf crowned beneath winter skies… will bind divided shores. Beside him shall stand the summer-born… bearing neither sword… nor surrender.”

The silence returns, the Völva rose and she turned. Her staff struck the stone once more, and then she was gone. No one spoke, and outside the celebration continued as though nothing had changed. Inside the birthing room, no one dared to disturb the silence she had left behind.

Then, Jarl Leif turned to his wife, “What does it mean?”

Without taking her eyes off the babe, his wife shrugged, “It is not for us to know.”

The words that the Völva had spoken were never mentioned again. Not because it had been forgotten, but because no one in Sólheimr believed it could be understood before its appointed time. Eleven winters passed before the Norns tugged once more upon the thread they had woven that midsummer’s day.

Lady Sólheimr had noticed before her daughter had. She had noticed the way that her child was glazed with fatigue despite the fact that she slept reasonable hours at night. However, the sleep wasn’t peaceful. Every night she wandered the same endless forest. Snow drifted silently between black pines whilst wolves howled somewhere beyond the trees. Fire lucked at the trunks until the woodland glowed amber against the white, yet the flames never reached her. YN woke shaking, sweat dripping across her entire body.

The wolves, the tress and the snow didn’t bother her. They did not cause the racing in her hear, and the sweat from her brow. What unsettled her were the impossible green eyes that always found her. She never saw the face they belonged to. Only the certainty that whoever watched her… already knew her.

The most subtle change was that of her scent. It wasn’t a perfumed fragranced, light and full of the scent of flowers. No, it was stronger. It was a change that came from deep within her, and manifested itself into warm honey, pine resin, heather, the sea salt after sunlight. No two people ever carried the same scent.

Then came the mark. It spreads from just below her ear to the top of her arm, it spread in slow, curling lines, each rune revealing itself as though inked by impossible hands. Within the looking glass, it almost looked as though it resembled the sun, interwoven with the mark of Freyja. It grows over several days, and breathes underneath her skin.

When she had shown the growing mark to her mother, frightened by what such a mark meant — Lady Sólheimr hadn’t gasped. She hadn’t called for the healer. She had simply smiled — small, knowing and tinged with a sadness.

“Come,” she said softly, bringing her daughter to her side and beginning to run her fingers through her daughters hair, “The thread has reached its first knot.”

“Something is wrong with me,” YN had whispered back to her mother, tears collecting in her waterline.

“No,” Lady Sólheimr smiles sadly at her daughter, brushing the hair away from her face, “Something ancient has finally awakened.”

“Mother… I do not understand what you mean,” YN all but whined, the tears freely flowing down her cheeks.

“My daughter… you were born carrying seiðr in your blood,” her mother explains, brushing the tears away, “Every full moon carries the possibility of Freyja’s Fire. Sometimes she passes us by. Sometimes she lays her hand upon us. No woman knows which moon will be hers until it rises.”

YN chokes slightly at her mother’s words, “What will happen to me?”

“It is not something to fear, my child,” Lady Sólheimr comforts, “No Seiðr-blood walks through the fire alone. You will be overwhelmed, dreams will haunt your mind louder than those you have already experienced. Your body will become unbearable to touch, but we can help.”

“Mother…” YN cries once more, “Is it only me?”

“No, no it is not,” Lady Sólheimr pulls YN to her chest, “There are many that experience Freyja’s fire. And, there are many that experience the Hunt.”

“The Hunt?” YN questions, “What is that?”

“Whilst you are Seiðr-blooded, there are some who are Úlfr-blooded. They are said to carry the spark of the Allfather’s wildness. They experience their Hunt as you experience Freyja’s fire.”

YN looks up at her mother, “They are the same?”

“No, my child, they are very different,” Lady Sólheimr smiles, “But, you might find the Úlfr-blood that can help you. Some walk beside another all their lives, and some never do… The gods may have already woven another thread beside yours. Whether they are tied together… is for the hearts that carry them to decide.”

YN allows her mother’s words to settle in the room, the new information which she had been given causing a dull ache to appear within her skull. Then, her mother calls for her attention again.

“My daughter… the sun waited a full day for you to be born,” Lady Sólheimr rests her hand on YN’s mark, “Do you truly think the gods had finished with you then?”

“That is for the gods to decide, mother.”

“That it is,” The Lady sighs once again, and she was quiet for a long moment. Her thumb continued its slow circles across YN’s mark, as though she could smooth away the weight of what she was about to say, “I prayed I would never have to tell you this so soon.”

“What is it?” YN questions, brows furrowed.

“On the day you were born, the Völva came to the bedside,” Lady Sólheimr explains, shuddering slightly at the memory, “She spoke a prophecy to you, one that is tied to you and only you. She said, ‘A wolf crowned beneath winter skies will bind divided shores. Beside him shall stand the summer-born… bearing neither sword… nor surrender.’”

“A wolf?” YN exhales an awkward laugh, “Does that mean I’ll marry a hunter?”

Her mother smiles, “Perhaps.”

“Or someone who smells?”

Lady Sólhemir bellows a laugh, “That is not for you to decide, my child. The gods may have already woven that thread.”

YN nods, a small and sad smile crossing her lips, “Will it hurt?”

“It will,” YN’s mother nods, “Sometimes. The greatest gifts the gods give us are rarely carried without weight. Fire burns, little sun. That does not make it evil.”

YN leaned into her mother’s embrace, listening to the familiar rhythm of her heartbeat. She wanted to believe every word. She wanted to believe the dreams would fade, that the mark would stop growing, that the gods had simply made a mistake.

But somewhere deep beneath the warmth of her mother’s arms, she already knew that they hadn’t.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐎

The first snow always silenced Hrafnvík. Not completely. Axes still split wood, children still chased one another through drifts, and ravens argued from rooftops. But every sound felt swallowed by snow until only the wind remained.

In the centre of Hrafnvík, under the watchful eye of Jarl Björn, was his son. The heir to the settlement, now eighteen years old and training to be a sworn warrior just as his father was.

Yet, there was something different about the son. No one watching him train would have guessed he carried a single doubt. His shoulders had broadened years ago. His hands had long since hardened into those of a warrior. He could outfight men twice his age. Yet every victory reminded him of the one battle he had never won.

As Harry fought side by side with an older warrior from his father’s generation, he heard the man say, “Still waiting?”

Harry just shrugs, sword still clutched tightly in his hands, “Seems so.”

From the side, another warrior snorts, “Perhaps Odin found a better heir”

Harry’s grip around his sword hardened, his movements sharpening. He could handle their jabs, he had a tough skin after all but he could not help that his mind still did wander. Every man in his father’s bloodline had presented before sixteen winters. His grandfather. His uncles. His cousins. Björn himself. Harry had watched every one of them wear the wolf proudly, and yet at eighteen — Harry still waited.

Once the training had stopped, and the warriors had gone to rest in the longhouse and feast on whatever was roasting above the fire and drink mead until they could no longer stand, Harry chose to stay outside.

Wrapped in furs, he dropped down on the dock, looking out at the frosted fjord in front of him. Then, the groan of wood behind him alerts him to the presence of another, his father, who came to sit beside his son.

Neither spoke. The frozen fjord stretched endlessly before them, silver beneath the rising moon. Somewhere out on the ice, a raven called out before falling quiet again. Harry had spent eighteen winters trying to understand the gods. Tonight, they remained as silent as ever.

Then, finally, Harry says quietly, “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

Jarl Björn does not answer immediately, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Snow drifted across the frozen dock, and only then did he answer, “I think you have spent too long believing the gods work by our calendars.”

“But, father,” Harry tries again, frustration evident in his voice, “Everyone my age…”

Jarl Björn shakes his head, “Everyone else’s isn’t yours.”

“They’re starting to doubt me, father, diminishing me as heir to your seat.”

“The warriors always talk,” Björn brushes off his sons worry, “Warriors have talked since the first man picked up an axe.”

Then, quieter, Harry says, “Even you must wonder.”

Jarl Björn finally turns to his son, “No… I wonder what it is that Odin is waiting for.”

Harry nodded. He wanted to believe his father, truly he did. Yet, as he looked towards the full moon hanging over Hrafnvík, all he could think was that eighteen winters felt an awfully long time for a god to keep someone waiting.

Winter deepened, the snow buried the fields until even the old stone markers disappeared beneath the white. The sea froze a little more with each passing dawn. Harry stopped counting the moons and then… the blizzard came.

The ravens stopped flying and instead they lined the rooftops of Hrafnvík, unmoving for hours at a time. Wolves howled so close to the settlement that mothers called their children indoors hours before dusk. Horses refused their feed. Harry’s hounds — dogs that had slept beside him since they were pups — whimpered whenever he approached before retreating with their tails tucked low.

Everything feels too warm, as though the fire was resting right above his skin. His sleep is plagued by something inexplicable. Sunlight, a blazing sun over long roaring fields, causing a warmth stronger than anything Harry had ever felt. There is a girl in the fields, running barefoot through the long grass, sunlight caught in her hair. Every time she laughed, the warmth around him grew stronger. A sound so golden to his ears that he wants to see her, and yet every night before she turns around — Harry wakes.

Harry woke gasping. Snow coated the window outside his bed, frost climbed the timber walls and yet sweat soaked through every layer he wore. His teeth grit in frustration — who was she? Why did she feel familiar? Why did waking without seeing her leave his chest aching?

Everything hurts inside of him. He can hear every sound for miles, the axes striking wood outside caused him to flinch every time. The children laughing hundreds of feet away made him wince. The crackle of the fire sounded like thunder. His ears screech from the pain, his own heartbeat even becoming deafening.

But there is something else that throbs in pain. His tunic felt too tight, too heavy on his skin that he had no other option but to pull it away from his body. From the tip of his shoulder, all the way across his chest a mark had appeared. It was a dark knotwork, and its centre a wolf, interwoven with Odin’s knot. It rose and fell with every breath he took, as though it had always been part of him and was only now remembering how to wake.

Harry cannot help but to stare at it, whispering, “Finally…”

Harry dressed as he always did. He buckled his axe to his belt and walked to the training yard. He greeted the same warriors with the same nod he had given every morning since he was old enough to hold a sword. He pretended his body wasn’t burning from the inside out.

Yesterday the warriors had laughed, today they simply watched. They exchange a glance when Harry begins to spar with Erik, his father’s captain of the guard. Erik had trained Harry since he was ten winters old, and he had never lost in that time. Normally, it would take every morsel of strength in Harry’s body to defeat Erik. Today, it takes seconds. Harry disarms him effortlessly, causing the entire yard to fall silent.

Harry stared at his own hands. He hadn’t meant to move like that, and he wasn’t entirely sure he had chosen to.

Then, just to the side of him he hears an old warrior’s laughter. This time it wasn’t a mocking laugh, it was proud, “It seems the wolf has teeth.”

The entire group laughs, but Harry doesn’t. Instead, his eyes find his father. Björn is standing just at the edge of the training grounds, but he is not smiling. He’s simply watching.

Björn then simply inclines his head towards the longhouse, “Go to your mother.”

Harry obeyed his father without question. He always had. He left his axe where it had fallen and crossed the training yard, every pair of eyes following him. No one called after him. No one laughed. The only sound was the crunch of snow beneath his leather boots.

His mother was already waiting. The herbs were already laid out beside the fire, hot water steamed gently from a waiting bowl. Fresh linen had been folded with careful hands. Astrid had prepared everything before dawn.

Neither of them spoke. Harry simply watched as his mother crossed the room, every step seemed slower than the last. With a shaking hand Astrid reaches for his shoulder, moving his woollen tunic aside to see the mark. When she does, her eyes flutter shut.

Then she exhales a laugh, a singular one before it turns into a cry.

Harry’s chest begins to heave, his hands reaching out to grasp her elbows, “Mother?”

Astrid wipes her face, and offers her son a smile, “Forgive me, son… it is only I have waited eighteen winters to see this.”

After a second, Harry finally asks his mother, “Why so long?”

Astrid grasps her sons cheeks in her palms, “Because Odin asks different things of different sons.”

“Everyone thought…” Harry trails off with the shake of his head.

Astrid interrupts him, “I know what they thought.”

Harry’s gaze drifts away from her, “Maybe they were right.”

Astrid pulls him right back, her hands firm on his cheeks as she makes her son look at her, “Never speak of yourself that way again… Do you hear me?” Harry nods his head, as Astrid shakes hers, “Say it.”

Harry swallowed hard. He hadn’t realised how desperately he had needed someone to tell him that, “Yes, Mother,” and only then does she finally let him go.

“Come,” Astrid motions to the bench beside table, “We have much to discuss.”

“What more is there to discuss?” Harry asks, dropping down and extending his legs in front of him with a sigh.

“Much, my son,” Astrid’s eyes are pointed directly at him, “There is more you need to know now that the gods have chosen it to be your time.”

Harry nods, waiting with a bated breath to hear what his mother had to say. Astrid turned back to the table. She dipped a strip of clean linen into the steaming water, wringing it carefully between her hands before laying it across her lap. Only then did she speak.

“Men fear the Hunt because they mistake strength for fury,” Her words are strong as she speaks, “The wolf does not bare its teeth at every passing shadow.”

Harry frowned, “Then what is it?”

Astrid smile, “An instinct. To protect. To endure. To survive. Some men surrender to it… some master it… A Jarl must do the latter.”

Harry quietly asks, “Will it always hurt?”

“Sometimes…” Astrid smiled sadly as she dipped the cloth back into the steaming water, “The broadest shoulders often carry the heaviest shields.”

The linen cloth, now soaked in warm water, was pressed gently against the knotwork, his mother soothing the heat that emanated from the mark.

Harry says quietly, “What… what if I can’t?”

Astrid sighs, continuing to rub the cloth over the mark, “One day every child in Hrafnvík will sleep because you decide they are safe. Every harvest. Every battle. Every winter. Every funeral. The people will breathe because you choose.”

“That is too much,” Harry inhales a shaky breath and whispers, “I only want to make Father proud.”

Astrid smiles sadly, offering a soothing hand on Harry’s shoulder, “That stopped being enough the day you were born.”

Harry watched as something shifted across his mother’s face. Her hands, which had moved so steadily only moments before, became still. The damp linen slipped from her fingers into her lap. She looked suddenly older.

“There is,” Astrid closed her eyes for a second before exhaling a deep breath, “There is something your father and I were forbidden to tell you… until now.”

Harry blinks, “There is more?”

Astrid almost laughs, her smile unapologetic, “Much more.”

“The day you were born, a Völva visited your father and I,” Astrid explains after a beat, “She… she told us something. I have not spoken these words since the day the Völva left our hall. She said… ‘A wolf crowned beneath winter skies will bind divided shores. Beside him shall stand the summer-born… bearing neither sword… nor surrender.’

Harry stared into the fire. The crackling of the logs suddenly seemed impossibly loud. A wolf crowned beneath winter skies. Summer-born. Divided shores. None of it made sense and yet, somehow, all of it felt strangely familiar. He is quiet for long enough that Astrid begins to worry.

Then, he says, “You are speaking of my wife before I’ve even earned Father’s axe?”

Astrid shakes her head and answers softly, “I am speaking of fate.”

Harry immediately answers, “They are not the same thing.”

“No,” Astrid agrees, “They are not…” She reached and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, “Fate may weave your thread but only you can decide whether or not you honour it.”

Harry lets out a slow breath his head tilting backwards as he thinks. Then, with a small, almost helpless smile, “What if she hates me?”

Astrid laughs through the tears that have collected in her eyes, “Then you’ll have bigger problems than Odin.”

A startled laugh escaped Harry before he could stop it. It felt good. Normal. For the first time since waking, the weight pressing against his chest eased.

As Harry steps outside the longhouse, the snow had finally stopped settling over Hrafnvík. Instead, the moon hangs over the settlement like a dark blanket. His eyes drift towards the dark sea, and without even knowing, far beyond the horizon, in a kingdom he has never seen, a girl dreams of green eyes in a burning forest.

He doesn’t know her name. She doesn’t know his. But, for the first time in eighteen winters, the thread between them has begun to pull.

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

Winter came and went five times.

Harry moved with an ease he had lacked five winters earlier. The uncertainty that had once clung to him had long since disappeared. In the last five years he has grown into the Hunt, it no longer overwhelms him. He had learned to carry the Hunt quietly. The gods still tested him, but he simply no longer let the world watch.

His shoulders are broader, and his wolf knotwork has spread slightly across his shoulder. His hair is longer, but it is still braided down his back.

Hrafnvík woke around him. It was early in the morning, before many others have rose, but everyone who is already awake greets him. Whether that be old warriors who fought alongside his father, or small children running up to play. Everybody talks, no just because he is to be the Jarl, but because Harry listens to them, and he welcomes every conversation with open arms.

A small child tugs on his sleeve, “Harry!”

Harry crouches immediately, the little boy proudly shows him a carved wooden wolf. Harry pretends to inspect it like it’s the finest weapon ever made. He weighs the carved wolf dramatically, turning it over in his hand.

Then he says, “Such a fine carving.”

The little boy beams a smile, delighted by the fact he received such a response fom the future Jarl.

“The western nets won’t last another storm,” An older woman stopped him on his journey to the training ground, “The rope is not strong enough.”

“I’ll speak to the rope-makers before midday,” Harry nods, “I promise.”

The smoke drifted over the rooftops, salt danced in the wind. Harry’s dogs danced through the feet of people lingering in front of him, the snow crunching beneath his boots. The Ravens followed him from rooftop to rooftop, already ready to surround him for whatever the day held.

And that was training with his father — as always.

As Harry reached the training ground, he catches sight his father from across the land. Björn lifts his hand up to welcome his son, and Harry returns it with a smile. Then he raises his own hand.

Harry watches as his father’s smile falters, and his fingers twitch. His knees give way and without even thinking Harry runs. Harry had never reached his father too late before. By the time he did reach him, Björn’s eyes were already fixed upon the pale winter sky. Harry pressed trembling fingers against his father’s neck and felt nothing. This was it, the Norns had finally cut the thread.

Björn is prepared by his family. No servants are in the room, just Astrid and Harry. They wash him, taking away the grime and grit so his body is clean when it leaves his place. Harry carefully washes the dirt from Björn’s hands, noticing the scars, old burns and cracked knuckles. These hands had taught Harry so much. How to hold an axe, how to fish, how to braid rope and later his hair and finally how to shake another man’s hand.

Harry quietly says to his father, ‘You forgot to teach me this.”

Astrid turns to look at her son and shakes her head, “No… he taught you every day.”

Harry watches as his mother braids Björn’s hair one final time, and brushes his beard. Harry tries to fasten his fathers cloak, but he struggles with his clasp due to how his hands continue shaking.

“Let me,” Astrid places her hands upon Harry’s, stilling his movements.

Astrid quietly finishes dressing Björn, and once she is done, he is ready to be carried to his ship.

A frost covers the hull, the ship sitting still as it finishes being prepared to send off the settlements once true leader. Frost sprinkled across the wood, it swaying lightly as the light wind rocked it. Pine branches were laid beneath Björn’s body, his axe placed across his chest and his sword at his side. Harry places his father’s drinking horn beside him as the ravens begin to circle overhead.

The whole fjord is completely still as the whole settlement gathers in silence. One by one, warriors step forward to swear something to their leader. Each is something different, but each manage to say at least one thing.

“I swear my axe to Hrafnvík,” from a young warrior.

“I swear your grandchildren will never know hunger while I still cast a net,” from an old fisherman.

Then, from a solemn mother, “I swear my daughters will remember your name.”

When it is Harry’s turn to speak, he opens his mouth and yet nothing comes out.

Nothing until, “I will try.”

Astrid places her hand on her son’s shoulder, squeezing slightly in comfort before brushing past him to say her own goodbyes. She simply leans down and leaves a kiss on Björn’s forehead, uttering the words, “Sleep well, my love.”

As the ship sails away, and the flaming arrow is shot to engulf the entire ship in roaring flames, nobody celebrates. Nobody cheers. The only sound is the deep slow drums from behind. They watch as the flames move up the wood until they catch the sail, burning bright in the reflection of everyone’s eyes.

One by one, the people of Hrafnvík drifted away. The fishermen returned to their boats. Mothers gathered sleeping children into their arms. Warriors disappeared towards the longhouse. Soon, only footprints remained in the snow. Astrid places a hand on Harry’s cheek before following. Eventually the drums stop, one final beat echoed across the fjord until only Harry remained. He watches until the last ember disappears within the mist.

As the ravens leave, and the fjord settles once again, Harry walks alone into Björn’s empty hall. His father’s chair still sits there, and yet his axe has gone. Harry had sat beside that chair all his life. He had never realised how enormous it truly was. He reaches out and runs his finger lightly against the carved armrest.

Then quietly, to no one but himself, he says, “I don’t know how.”

The fire burns lower in the corner, the moonlight shadows start to dance across the floor and the wind whistles beneath the door. He remembers being just a boy, having all but six years, and his father had lifted him up into that chair after he’d sprinted in through the door. Harry had laughed and laughed at the fact that his feet couldn’t reach the floor. His feet would reach now, but he couldn’t do it. Harry never moves, he just stays so soundly still.

Harry sits there until the next morning. Just with himself and in the silence. He keeps still and unwavering. He doesn’t sit upon the chair, but instead in front of it. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it further than running his fingers along the carving in the woods. But, as the light begins to seep over the longhouse, he realises that there is already a queue of people waiting to be let in.

They all come to him with their problems, the things they need his help with. Border disputes between farmers, food shortages amongst the families, widows asking for help in protecting their children. He starts to realise that life doesn’t stop just because Björn died. They had all lost their Jarl, but Harry had lost his father. Another Jarl could be chosen, but there would never be another Björn.

Astrid places a strong hand on her son’s shoulder, “Go.”

“What if I say the wrong thing?”

Astrid answers with a light hand to his cheek, “Then tomorrow you’ll say something wiser,” then, after a beat or so, she adds quietly, “That is how Jarls are made.”

Before he leaves to open the door of the longhouse and invite the settlers in, he takes one last look at his father’s chair. He would have to sit upon it one day, but today was not that day.

Becoming Jarl to a fully fledged settlement came with both its great surprises and its great downfalls as well. It had been a month since Harry became Jarl when Ragnar Einarsson arrived in Hrafnvík. He came without an army, without threats, without raised voices. He came smiling.

Harry had known Ragnar Einarsson for most of his life. His father had never called him an enemy, but neither had he ever trusted him. He did not show up when defences were down, or the men were away on a raid. He fronted himself as an ally. Harry assumed he was in his early forties, broad, just like Harry’s father had been, and spoke beautifully for a Jarl. He fought beautifully as well. His true strength wasn’t his axe — it was that people believed he would use it. ******but Harry knew better than to believe that strength solved everything. That hadn’t been the way his father ruled, and that wasn’t going to be the way he ruled.

Jarl Ragnar never said things in a way which would openly insult Harry. Instead, he would make comments that only Harry would find unsettling.

He would say things like, “Björn would have acted already,” or, “Young men mistake patience for wisdom.”

Harry wasn’t his father, and he knew that, but maybe there was something in Jarl Ragnar’s words. Maybe the reason his father had been such a great Jarl was because he acted with the strength sometimes. Harry hated that the words stayed with long after Ragnar had gone. He wanted to dismiss them. Instead, he found himself wondering what Björn would have done.

And for the first time since becoming Jarl… Harry did not know.

Spring came slowly to Hrafnvík. Snow still clung to the mountains peaks, but the rivers had begun to break free from their icy prisons. Water ran beneath the thawing earth, and the first seabirds had returned to the fjord.

It was one of those mornings that the messengers from Sólheimr arrived.

Harry sword struck against Erik’s with a sharp crack that echoed across the year. another blow, then another.

Erik smiled, “Again.”

Before they could do it again, the messengers announced their presence to the training ring.

“We bring words from the Jarl Leif of Sólheimr,” they explain, watching as Harry attaches his sword to his belt again, “We have traveled far to deliver this news to you.”

“Then you shall deliver it,” Harry motions towards the longhouse, and he follows the messengers inside. With his hand still resting upon his sword, he stands whilst he encourages them to sit, “You’ve travelled far. Sit. Warm yourselves.”

“Jarl Lief is proposing an alliance,” They explain, “Trade is becoming dangerous, other Jarls are becoming restless at the prospect. If Hrafnvík and Sólheimr were to unite… nobody would dare to attack either.”

Harry hums, nodding his head a few times, “What does Jarl Leif ask of me?”

“Marriage,” The messenger explains, “Marriage between you and Jarl Leif’s only daughter — Lady YN. With this agreement between our two Jarldoms, nobody would dare to touch us.”

Harry listens quietly. He never interrupts what they were saying, but listens fully to the words which were being spoken.

Then, he asks one question, “Has Lady YN agreed?”

The room falls silent, as though nobody had an answer. Harry’s jaw tightened, his thumb tapped once against the pommel of his sword. The room suddenly felt much smaller.

“Then I will not answer until she does,” Harry inclines his head politely, “You have travelled far. Rest tonight… Tomorrow you may carry my answer back to Jarl Leif.”

Then he walks, straight to his room at the back of the longhouse.

Across the fjord, as the sun began to set on another glorious spring day in Sólheimr, YN had just learnt of the news herself. Her mother and father were sat in their thrones, each of them peering at the girl as she listened to their words.

“You shall marry Jarl Harry to form the alliance between the two Jarldoms,” her father explains, “It will promote peace between us, and show an united front to all of the other Jarls in the realm.”

YN falls silent. Everyone in the room expects her to just willingly obey, and yet Lady Sólheimr knows she won’t. She can see the way her daughters eye twinkles as she begins to speak.

“And what is it that Jarl Harry wants?”

The hall fell silent. One of Jarl Leif’s advisers shifted uncomfortably. Another looked at the floor. Leif stared at his daughter for a long moment.

The Völva, who had been standing near the back of the hall simply smiles at the girls response. Then, without missing a beat, she whispers, “The Norns are rarely so patient.”

Jarl Harry arrives in Sólheimr a month or so later. He travels lightly, not with the hundreds of men one expects but with only five, only those that are the most trusted to him. As the spring of Hrafnvík changes into that of Sólheimr, Harry is shocked by the difference between the two landscapes.

The snow melts until it is no longer there, the rivers break free and birds sing freely into the air. The first grass shoots were already there, where Hrafnvík wouldn’t see theirs for weeks yet. Harry had never seen so much green. Streams rushed beneath birch trees. Wildflowers spilled across hillsides. The air smelt of damp earth rather than salt and pine. Even the light felt different. The sun blared, sending a heat across Harry and his men that was only reserved for a few days in the Midsummer of their settlement.

How could anybody ever want to leave this place?

Harry arrives at Jarl Leif’s longhouse before sunset. They are immediately welcomed in and told to sit down, drink mead from the horns they had been given and feast well. They do just that, whilst the Jarl and Lady sit across from them. Everybody eats together, and even the servants laugh with warriors. He notices how Jarl Leif speaks to fishermen by name. His father had done that, so long ago.

Then, when Harry’s belly is full and his legs are slightly rested — YN appears.

Dressed in a dark brown tunic, synched at her waist by a small string of beads, she walks straight over to him. Harry had imagined the daughter of Sólheimr a hundred different ways during the journey north. Gentle, reserved maybe, beautiful. He had imagined almost everything, but he had not imagined this. He had expected grace, silence from a woman who was arranged to a man she had not yet met. Instead, she drops a map on the table in front of him and points her finger to an open strip of sea.

The men around him continue speaking, having not yet noticed her presence. Not until she starts to speak.

“If that pass closes in winter,” Harry looks at her, she’s already halfway through solving a problem nobody else noticed, “Those supplies never reach the coast.”

That is when the room stops. Harry can’t help but just blink at her, at the way she speaks so intently about things other shy away from. Then she realises that she’s interrupted something, and attempts to shy herself away. Harry just raises an eyebrow. The woman standing in front of him wasn’t some weak bride that he had assumed from the prophecy, she was a woman who understood logic, who understood people — she isn’t just pretending to.

YN had expected a prince.

She had expected someone who commanded the room and made the others lay at his feet. What she had not expected, and what she assumed he thought she had not seen was the way he acted for himself. When he realised there was not a seat left for him, he carried his own chair. He talks to every of their settlement as though he has all the time in the world for them.

She instantly feels bad for interrupting whatever they had been talking about whilst feasting.

“I apologise, Jarl Harry,” She takes a step back, “I may have come across a little too strongly there. Forgive me… I interrupted your feast.”

She turns and begins to walk away. He watches as she walks to the entrance of the longhouse and slips out into the spring night air. He then excuses himself, standing up whilst the conversation continues. He follows her outside the longhouse, down the path that brings them to the sea.

YN had not meant to leave the longhouse so abruptly. She had only meant to step outside for long enough for the heat in her face to fade, long enough for the men inside to return to their conversation without glancing towards her as though she had disturbed something sacred. The evening air had cooled as they feasted. It moved in softly from the sea, lifting the loose strands of her hair around her face and pressing the fabric of her tunic against her arms. Below the path, waves struck gently against the rocks, their rhythm almost enough to settle her.

Almost.

She folded her arms across herself and stared out towards the water. She heard the scrape of boots over earth behind her, slow and measured, before they stopped beside her. Not too close, but close enough that she knew he was there.

“You left your map behind,” Harry said.

YN looked down at the empty space beneath her arm and closed her eyes briefly. “So I did.”

“I considered bringing it.”

“And yet you did not.”

“I thought you throwing it down in front of me had already provided enough entertainment for one evening.”

YN turned to him then. There was no offence in his expression. If anything, the corner of his mouth had lifted slightly.

He was taller than she had expected, though perhaps that was because the stories had always made him sound larger than any real man could be. The wolf of Hrafnvík. Odin-marked. A warrior who had bested men twice his age before he had seen twenty winters.

The man standing at her side did not look like a story. He looked tired in the way men became when too many people expected too much from them. His braid rested heavily between his shoulders, threaded with small beads of dark iron. At the edge of his collar, the first black curve of his knotwork disappeared beneath the fabric.

YN looked away before he caught her staring, though she could not explain why the mark felt familiar. Something beneath her own skin stirred faintly, a low warmth gathering near the mark at her hip before disappearing so quickly she almost dismissed it.

“I did not mean to embarrass you,” she said.

“You didn’t.”

“I interrupted you.”

“You corrected a mistake.”

“Those two are not always different things.”

Harry looked towards the longhouse. Through the open shutters, warm light spilled into the evening. The voices inside had resumed, rising and falling with the occasional burst of laughter.

“No,” he said, looking down. “I suppose they aren’t.”

YN waited for him to say more, but he did not. Most men rushed to fill silence, particularly men with titles. They treated quiet as something to be conquered before anyone else could claim it.

Harry appeared content to let it remain.

“You disagree with your father,” he said eventually.

YN glanced at him. “Often.”

That earned her a low laugh. It was softer than she expected. Not mocking. Not polished for a hall full of watching men.

“You still let him speak first.”

“He is the Jarl.”

“That was not my question.”

YN tilted her head. “No… it wasn’t.”

Harry turned slightly towards her, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “Why do you let him speak first?”

“Because people hear men before they hear the truth.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. The answer seemed to catch him off guard, though not in the way it usually caught men. There was no tightening of his mouth, no warning that she had pushed too far.

Instead, his smile deepened. “And what truth would you have spoken?”

YN looked back towards the sea. “That alliances built only on fear never survive the winter.”

The amusement left his face, not because he was insulted but because he was listening. Really listening to her. YN had spent much of her life learning the difference.

The knotwork across his shoulder tightened with a dull pulse beneath his tunic. Harry ignored it. The mark had reacted to battle, danger and dreams before. Never to a woman speaking across a quiet stretch of sea.

“Fear can stop men from attacking,” Harry said.

“It can make them wait.”

“Sometimes waiting is enough.”

“Until they decide it isn’t.”

Harry considered that. The wind carried the scent of salt between them. Then, the scent of crushed herbs and something faintly sweet found him, as though lifted directly from her skin.

“And yet your father proposed this alliance because other Jarls are afraid.”

“My father proposed it because other Jarls are ambitious.”

“And there is a difference?”

“There is always a difference.”

Harry’s gaze remained on her. He was not studying her face, but her answer. She quickly found that she preferred that.

“What do you believe they want?”

“Land. Trade. Reputation. The things men always convince themselves they deserve.”

“And which worries you most?”

“All of them.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the most honest one.”

Harry smiled again. “You do that often.”

“Do what?”

“Answer without answering.”

YN’s mouth twitched. “I was going to accuse you of the same thing.”

“You’ve hardly asked me anything.”

“I have not yet decided whether you would answer.”

“Ask.”

The word was immediate. YN turned fully towards him.

“What do you want from this alliance?”

Harry’s expression shifted, only slightly. He had expected a question about land, warriors or what duties he imagined a wife would perform in Hrafnvík. Not that.

“I want my people to survive the winters ahead.”

“That is what your people want.”

“That is also what I want.”

“And for yourself?”

Harry looked away. The light from the sinking sun caught across the edge of his profile, turning the brown of his hair almost gold.

A sad smile crossed his lips. “I haven’t had the luxury of deciding that for some time.”

The answer should have frustrated her. Instead, it made something within her settle. She understood that feeling too well.

“You asked whether I agreed,” she said.

His eyes returned to hers. “The messengers told you?”

“My father did.”

“And?”

“I asked what you wanted.”

For the first time since he had followed her outside, Harry looked genuinely surprised. The air seemed to still between them. Warmth gathered beneath YN’s ribs as the knotwork over Harry’s shoulder gave one slow, deliberate pulse.

Neither spoke of it.

“You did?”

YN nodded.

“And what did your father say?”

“That it was not my concern.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “And what did you say?”

“That it was if he intended for me to marry you.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

“I fail to see what is so amusing.”

“Nothing.”

“You laughed.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I think my father would have liked you.”

The words seemed to leave him before he had time to decide whether he wanted them spoken. His smile faded as he looked towards the sea.

YN knew enough of Hrafnvík to know what had happened to Jarl Björn. Every settlement did. News of a Jarl’s death travelled faster than merchants and lingered longer than winter.

“I am sorry,” she said.

Harry’s shoulders stiffened. “You did not know him.”

“No.”

“Then you do not have to say it.”

“I know. I am still sorry.”

The hardness around his mouth eased. “He would have argued with you.”

“My father does that already.”

“He would have enjoyed it.”

“Then I wish I had met him.”

Harry looked down at the earth beneath his boots. “He liked people who made him think. Even more when they annoyed him.”

“I presume you annoyed him often?”

“Constantly.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Do you?”

“You seem very obedient.”

Harry turned back to her with such open disbelief that YN could not stop the laugh that rose from her. It surprised them both, and his expression softened.

“I was beginning to wonder whether you knew how to laugh without first deciding whether it was wise.”

YN’s amusement vanished, and Harry noticed immediately.

“I did not mean—”

“You are not wrong.” She turned towards the water again. “There are people who wait for me to say the wrong thing. It is easier not to give them the satisfaction.”

“Your father?”

“Sometimes.”

“The other Jarls?”

“Often.”

“And me?”

“I have not decided yet.”

He accepted that with a nod.

For a while, YN thought he might allow the subject to end. Instead, he said, “Then perhaps we should decide what we are to one another before they decide for us.”

“That sounds dangerously close to sense.”

“I am told I suffer from it occasionally.”

“By whom?”

“My mother. Usually when she is disappointed in me.”

YN’s mouth twitched. “And what are we to one another?”

“At present?”

“At present.”

“Two people whose fathers—or, in my case, whose father’s council—believe marriage will solve problems that existed long before either of us were born.”

“That is not especially encouraging.”

“It was not intended to be.”

Below them, a wave broke against the rocks with enough force to send a fine spray into the air.

“Do you wish to refuse?” Harry asked.

YN hesitated. “I do not know.”

He did not react, and she found herself grateful for that.

“If I refuse, my father will search for another alliance. Perhaps one less favourable. Perhaps one with a man who would not think to ask whether I agreed.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “That is not a reason to marry me.”

“No. But it is a reason I cannot dismiss the proposal simply because I dislike how it was placed before me.”

“And if there were no other Jarls? No trade routes, no restless borders, no settlements watching to see whether Sólheimr and Hrafnvík stand together?” He looked at her. “What would you choose?”

The question settled between them. YN had expected him to ask whether she would choose him. Instead, he asked what she would choose.

Somewhere beneath her tunic, her mark warmed as though a hand had been placed over it.

“My own household,” she said eventually. “A place at my father’s council that was not granted only when the men had finished speaking. The freedom to travel beyond Sólheimr without someone deciding it meant I was searching for a husband.”

Harry listened without interruption. One of the ravens circling the longhouse settled on the roof, its claws scraping softly over the timber.

“And you?” she asked.

Harry looked towards the horizon. “A quiet winter.”

YN waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she frowned.

For the briefest instant, she smelled pine smoke where there was only salt air. Snow seemed to gather at the edges of her vision, white against darkness, and she heard the distant call of a wolf.

YN blinked and Sólheimr returned.

“That is all?”

“You asked what I would choose.”

“A quiet winter is not a life.”

“No,” Harry said. “But it would be a beginning.”

There was something in his answer that made her look at him more closely. He did not say victory. He did not say a wife, sons or a legacy worthy of his father.

Only rest.

“You are truly tired.”

Harry’s expression changed. It was small, almost imperceptible, but YN saw it—the brief tightening around his eyes, the flicker of surprise that she had noticed.

“I have had little reason not to be.”

“Ragnar?”

His gaze sharpened. “Among other things.”

Harry looked towards the longhouse. “They will be waiting for an answer.”

“They have waited this long.”

“My men have not. They believe I followed you to either apologise or prevent a diplomatic war.”

“And which are you doing?”

“I have not decided.”

YN gave him a pointed look.

“You dislike when I borrow your answers,” Harry said.

“I dislike when you improve them.”

His smile became more visible, but it disappeared when the longhouse door opened in the distance. One of Leif’s guards stepped outside, glanced towards them and immediately pretended to examine the sky.

“We should return,” YN said.

“We should.”

Neither moved.

Harry lowered his voice. “What do you want to tell them?”

YN looked at him. “You are asking me?”

“It concerns you.”

“That has not stopped anyone else.”

“I am not anyone else.”

The answer was not boastful. He said it simply, as though it were a distinction he intended to prove rather than one she was required to accept.

“I do not want to accept tonight,” YN said.

“Nor do I.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You do not?”

“I do not make agreements before I understand their cost.”

“And what cost do you expect from me?”

“I do not know yet.”

“That is not a flattering answer.”

“It is an honest one.”

YN recognised her own words and gave him a narrow look. Harry had the decency to appear only slightly pleased with himself.

“What would you need to know?”

“Whether you could live in Hrafnvík.”

“The cold does not frighten me.”

“I did not ask about the cold.”

That silenced her.

“Hrafnvík is not Sólheimr,” Harry continued. “The winters are longer. The land gives less willingly. People are slow to trust anyone who was not born among them, and some will see a woman from the north before they see whatever else you are.”

“And what is it you think I am?”

“I have known you for less than an evening.”

“That has not stopped you forming opinions.”

“No,” he admitted. “It has not.”

He looked directly at her. “I think you are accustomed to being underestimated. I think you have learned to use it when it suits you, and resent it when it does not. I think you speak more boldly when you are frightened because you would rather be called difficult than afraid.”

YN’s breath caught. Harry seemed to realise, perhaps too late, how much he had said.

“You have known me for less than an evening,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“And you believe you have understood all of that?”

“No.”

“Then what do you believe?”

“That I would like the chance to discover whether I am wrong.”

The words were gentle, but to YN they were far more dangerous because of it. She turned towards the sea before he could read too much in her face. Heat unfurled low in her stomach—not desire, not yet, but something older and far less easily dismissed.

“What would you require from a wife?” she asked.

Harry’s posture stilled.

“That sounds like a question you have been waiting to ask.”

“It is a question every woman in my position must ask.”

“And how many women are in your position?”

“Enough that men should have learned to answer it.”

Harry let out a slow breath. “Honesty.”

“That is a convenient answer.”

“It is still true.”

“What else?”

“Someone who will tell me when I am wrong.”

“That appears likely.”

“I had noticed.”

YN ignored that. “Would she sit on your council?”

“If she understood what was being discussed.”

Her head turned sharply towards him, but Harry met her gaze without flinching.

“I would give no one a place merely because they shared my bed or my name,” he said. “But I would not deny it to someone because she was a woman.”

“And if your council objected?”

“They often object.”

“What then?”

“I decide whether they are wise or merely loud.”

YN could not help the smile that crossed her face. The final band of sunlight rested across the water between them, as though the day itself refused to disappear before their answer had been given.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You smiled.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I think my mother would like you.”

It was his turn to be caught off guard.

“She has little patience for loud men,” YN continued.

“Then perhaps I should avoid speaking when we return.”

“She would find that suspicious.”

“What do you suggest?”

YN glanced towards the longhouse. Warm light spilled through the shutters, and shadows passed within. Her parents were waiting. His men were waiting. Half the hall was likely already inventing reasons for their absence.

“We tell them we have not refused,” she said. “But neither have we agreed.”

Harry nodded. “We ask for time.”

“How much?”

“Two moons.”

“That is scarcely enough.”

“It is enough to decide whether this alliance deserves to exist.”

YN considered him, then nodded. “Two moons.”

Somewhere beyond the cliffs, the first evening star appeared. Above the darkening sea, the moon waited pale and unfinished. Its light caught against the beads at YN’s waist and the iron woven into Harry’s braid, binding them for one fleeting moment in the same silver glow.

As they came to their agreement, neither noticed the old woman standing near the edge of the trees. Fox fur hung from her shoulders, bone beads shifting softly against one another as the wind moved through the branches.

Her eyes followed Harry and YN as they walked back towards the longhouse. Behind them, their shadows stretched across the path, his dark against the light, hers edged in the dying gold of the sun.

For one moment, the two shapes touched before their bodies did.

Then, the Völva smiled.

“At last.”

Above her, a raven took flight.

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

It took three nights for Sólheimr to return to normal after the visit from the Jarl of Hrafnvík.

The excitement surrounding their visit, and the consequential plans to form an alliance between the two settlements had faded into nothing but a whisper. The town assumes that marriage negotiations are already underway, that their Jarl and his wife are working endlessly to make sure that their daughter in marriage under the most favourable terms possible.

YN throws herself into work.

By day, she’s helping to tally the grain stores, making sure everything in present and correct. She’s answering questions for weary fishermen about how they are to navigate the springs tides. Beside her father, she’s looking over trade routes and trying ever so hard to not correct her father’s advisers when they offer something foolishly wrong.

By night, she’s trying very hard not to think of the man who might become her husband.

It took three evenings for the moon to linger above the sea before darkness had fully settled, pale enough to be mistaken for daylight.

Sitting in the crowded longhouse, listening to the settlement boast around her, YN feels all of a sudden too warm, but she shakes it off thinking it might just be the heat from the fire. Then the broth she was eating tasted bitter and stale, the room felt too busy and noisy. The wool of her tunic scratched against her skin so that she wanted to crawl out of it. The laughter around her became unbearably loud, every conversation pressing pressing against her until she could no longer separate one voice from another.

But, she does not panic, and instead turns to her mother with the words sitting in her eyes.

The warmth spread slowly beneath her skin, familiar enough now that she no longer mistook it for fever.

Lady Sólheimr does not miss what her daughter is trying to convey. She simply excuses herself, stands from the table and presses her hand against her daughter’s shoulder, “Come with me.”

YN nods and stands, dropping her voice so only her mother can hear, “It’s tonight.”

Her mother nods, “It would seem as though Lady Freyja has remembered you.”

They go deep into the longhouse, to the small room that had sheltered the women of their family through every Freyja’s Fire for longer than YN had ever known. YN would be spending the next few nights here, and the room had been prepared for that.

Lady Sólheimr orders YN out of her tunic, and into a thin cotton shift that would be cool enough to withstand the events that were to occur. Her mother moves around the room as she changes with ease of long practice, making sure the bench was adorned with fresh furs, bowls of cold water were in reach of the bed. She prepares honey dissolved in warm milk to keep YN’s energy for the coming hours. Lavender, juniper and mugwort burn in the room to both calm YN and temper the scent at which she will soon give. Her mother lays protective runes in chalk around the bed. The room seemed quieter than the rest of the longhouse, as though the thick timber walls kept the outside world from intruding.

Whilst this is happening, YN stares at the small carving of Freyja that had been placed beside the fire. The face of the little carving had been worn smooth by countless hands before hers.

“YN,” Her mother taps the edge of the bed, “Come sit for me.”

YN does as is asked, dropping down lightly on the furs next to her mother. Her mother turns her, so that the carving of Freyja in her eye-line and begins to braid her daughter’s hair.

As Lady Sólheimr works on the first braid, she says quietly, “The fire cannot be stopped,” then, during the second braid, “Only carried.”

YN exhales a sigh once her mother had finished the braids and turns to her. Her mother’s hands press softly to her cheeks, before her thumb raises to press against her forehead.

“May Lady Freyja carry you safely through the fire.”

YN quietly replies, her eyes fluttering shut, “And bring me back.”

The door shuts with a quiet thud as her mother slips through it, with the promise that she would return before dawn to check on her.

YN drops down on the furs with a weary sigh. Everything felt too much for her. The light cotton of the shift pressed to harshly into her naked skin, especially the area on her hip where her rune laid. As the fire flowed through her body, causing sweat to glisten and every nerve to stand on its edge, YN could only whither.

The room was so still, and yet YN could not stop moving. Every time she shifted, the light fabric brushed against her nipples which had pebbled from the fire, clung to her thighs which had dampened in familiarity.

No position remained comfortable for more than a heartbeat before the warmth beneath her skin demanded another movement. The room itself remained perfectly still, yet her body refused to follow its example.

She drew in a slow breath, searching for the familiar comfort of lavender and juniper. Instead… she found something else. Pine. Cold air. Smoke. Iron. YN froze.

The scents her mother had left burning had not disappeared, but they had been eclipsed by something impossible. Her pulse stumbled. Every instinct sharpened at once as though the world itself had suddenly narrowed in a single breath.

Her fingers curled into the furs beneath her, “No…” the whisper barely left her lips.

At some point, surrounded by the musky smell that she had not wished for, YN succumbed to sleep. Yet, as always, the fire found her there. It was the same forest as before. The same towering pines swallowed by shadow. The same silence that had haunted her for years.

She heard footsteps, slow and measured. Leather boots pressed into the snow, made to withstand the harshest winters. A broad figure emerged between the trees, shoulders draped in thick furs, a dark braid falling to the middle of his back. Beneath the open collar of his tunic, the black knotwork of a wolf stretched across his bare chest.

He stopped. For years, this had always been the moment that she woke. Before she could see his face, before she could know. Not this time. This time the figure turned, and it was Harry. Those impossible green eyes met hers once more, no longer hidden by dream or distance, but fixed upon her with quiet certainty.

He took a single step towards her, then another. He lifted his hand slowly, fingers reaching for hers. Only a breath remained between them. Then — YN jolted awake.

YN is shaking when she wakes. Not because of the fire, no, but because of those eyes. Because she knows those eyes. All she could think was that she had met him, she had seen those eyes in real life, of course he has green eyes. She had only met one man with eyes that colour. Then she shakes herself off, her dreams had borrowed his face, that’s all. Freyja had used him to fuel her fire and confuse YN even more than she was.

It had to mean nothing.

But as she laid there, chest heaving and sweat glittering beneath the moonlight, YN realised that the scent hadn’t disappeared. The pine was still there, demanding to be smelt like a stolen whisper. Her pulse stumbled. That scent did not belong in Sólheimr.

The door opened quietly.

Lady Sólheimr stepped inside carrying a fresh bowl of water, her eyes immediately finding her daughter. Loose strands had escaped YN’s brain and clung to her damp skin. The shift she had been given hours before now clung to her just as stubbornly.

A mother noticed such things. A mother cared for none of them.

Instead she asked only one question, “The dreams?”

YN nodded, taking a sharp breath as another tremor pass through her.

“They have changed.”

“No,” YN is quick to immediately reply.

Lady Sólheimr regarded her for a long moment. She did not argue. She did not press for an explanation. She crossed the room instead and placed a gently kiss against YN’s forehead, in the very place she had blessed only hours before.

“The gods rarely repeat themselves, my daughter.”

𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

Harry returns to Sólheimr, just as he said he would, two moons later.

He arrives with few men, five instead of fifty. YN counted them without meaning to. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five men spoke far louder than fifty ever could.

YN is lined up next her father and mother as he arrives, watching as the Jarl of Hrafnvík greeted his family with the upmost respect. When he reaches YN, he does not smile.

Instead, he drops his head and offers her, “Lady YN.”

And YN, without a smile on her lips replies, “Jarl Harry.”

They all move into the longhouse, just a small group of Sólheimr’s esteemed councilman and those that Harry had ventured with.

The long table that usually hosted feasts had been stripped bare. Maps weighted down with polished stones stretched from one end to the other. Fishing tallies scratched into thin ash boards lay stacked beside bundles of trade records. Clay cups were filled and refilled with ale as servants slipped quietly around the edges of the room. Nobody laughed now. The warmth of supper had given way to the colder business of ruling.

Harry watches as YN is not sent away, and in fact takes a seat next to her father. She’s slightly back from the rest of the table, but there nonetheless. Nobody looked surprised that she remained.

The conversation began immediately, “The eastern shoals are emptying earlier every year.”

“Then we sail further!”

“Further means longer voyages.”

Then, beneath the silence YN says, “Or we stop taking the smaller fish,” the eyes in the room fall to her, so she continued calmly, “Leave them one more season. The shoals recover. Next spring we catch twice as many.”

Someone scoffs from down the table, “You’ll tell the sea what to do?”

YN stays calm under the elders pressure, and instead says, “No… but I know what happens when we take everything before its had a chance to grow.”

Harry watches her for a second before saying, “Lady YN is right,” everyone turns to him, “We’ve done the same in Hrafnvík. One harsh winter emptied half of our waters. We lost far more by taking too much then we ever did by waiting.”

Any topic that came before her, YN seemingly had an answer to. But, instead of arguing with loudness and fistfuls of anger, she waited. She waited until everyone else had already spoken, she never raised her voice or embarrassed anyone. Her suggestions were merely practical.

By the time they had moved onto trade, Harry found himself pressing two fingers against his temple. Councils, he had decided long ago, were more exhausting than battle.

“Hrafnvík iron costs too much!”

“That is because we smelt through the winter,” He responds, his finger pressed against his temple, “Wood is scarce.”

“Then lower the price.”

“So fewer families eat?” His voice snaps slightly in response.

“Then don’t lower the price,” Harry looks at her, willing her to continued, “Trade something else. Your settlement has more iron than ours, but Sólheimr has wood. No settlement has everything.”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, she had reached the same conclusion he had without even speaking to him. He could not help it, the corners of his lips lifted with the realisation.

As the council moves on to boarder disputes, YN has crossed her arms over her chest, seemingly overtaken by boredom at the sudden talk of violence in the room.

“The men from Norðvik crossed our markers.”

“We must retaliate!”

Harry shakes his head, “How many?”

“Three.”

“Hunters?”

The old warrior hesitates before saying, “…Yes.”

Harry replies, “They were following deer.’

“Not starting a war,” YN finishes for him.

The discussion carries on around them, but at this point, Jarl Leif of Sólheimr is not listening anymore. He’s watching his daughter and the man she is to wed. Every time YN spoke, Harry listened. Every time Harry answered, YN watched him instead of preparing her own reply. Neither noticed they were doing it. She isn’t challenging him, or plaguing him — they just listen. He had expected compromise, and yet he had found agreement.

The Jarl finds his wife’s eye from across the table. Lady Sólhemir follows his gaze and immediately begins to smile to herself, just a small one, but one that said everything it needed to.

Once the bickering had been put to rest, Jarl Leif decides it is now time for his action to be called. He clears his throat and looks first at Harry, and then across to his daughter.

“There is one final matter before tonight’s council ends,” Jarl Lief rested both of his hands upon the table, the conversations died immediately and even the servants stopped moving, “One that concerns every sould gathered in this hall. It concerns the future of Sólheimr.”

Harry and YN are ushered into a backroom to talk, leaving the councilmen, her mother and father still at the long table. YN leans against one of the side tables, her arms crossed against her chest whilst Harry stands in the centre of the room, patiently waiting. Neither of them spoke immediately. Beyond the timber walls came only the muffled rumble of the council continuing without them.

“Have you decided?” he asked.

YN immediately raised a brow, “Have you?”

“Yes,” The word is short and it is final and it causes YN to inhale a sharp breath, “For my people.”

YN nods, “For mine too.”

Harry takes a light step towards her, “I cannot promise that you will be happy in Hrafnvík… but I can promise that you will always be heard.”

Shock washes across YN’s face, “That is more than many women receive.”

“It should not be.”

The room felt strangely still. Outside, the ravens stopped calling. Even the wind seemed to catch against the walls of the longhouse. Heat stirred beneath the rune upon YN’s hip. Harry shifted almost imperceptibly. Pine. Honey. Smoke. Summer fields. For one impossible heartbeat the scents entwined before both of them instinctively stepped back. Neither acknowledged what had happened.

When they return back to the long table, everyone is waiting.

Jarl Leif commands, “Have you reached a decision?”

Harry does not answer immediately, instead he looks at YN. With her eyes firmly placed on his, she nods.

Only then does Harry speak, “Hrafnvík accepts.”

Jarl Leif nods before turning to his daughter, “And Sólheimr?”

YN steps forward, only slightly, “So do I.”

“Excellent!” Jarl Leif immediately springs from his seat, “Harry, tell me that you please have something for the betrothal?”

Harry nods, reaching into the pouch attached to his belt and pulls out an ancestral arm ring, carved in gold with the Hrafnvík motif of a raven on each end. He holds it out to YN in her palm, and carefully she accepts it. Before she puts it on, she holds it in her hand, inspecting it carefully. The gold had been worn smooth where generations of Hrafnvík rules had carried it before him.

“Two moons ago we were strangers,” Harry whispers to her, beneath the celebration that had started in the room.

“We still are,” YN responds quickly.

Harry exhales a laugh and raises his eyebrows, “Perhaps… I’d like that to change.”

Carefully, YN takes the band and slots it around her arm, over her dress, signalling the betrothal to everyone, “So would I.”

Once Harry had ridden away, her journey to Hrafnvík feeling much closer than it had before, the Völva came. She joined YN staring out at the sea for a while.

“The hardest threads to weave,” she begins, “Are the ones that we believe chose themselves.”

YN frowns and the völva only smiles, reaching out to touch YN’s arm ring once, “The Norns have never woven straight lines.”

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