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The Saga of Rögnvald réttilbeini

Notes: This is a fanfiction about an old norse text! My friend proofread my final thesis about men who used a certain kind of magic in ancient northern Europe. This kind of magic is very strongly connected to women, so men using it were seen as unmanly, or ergi in old norse, which is also a term used for gay men. There is one story in the Heimskringla, a text about the first kings of Norway, about 80 wizards who practice this magic called seiðr living together. My friend liked the gay wizard commune very much, was very disappointed by their gruesome end, and asked for a fix-it. So here it is: The Saga of Rögnvald réttilbeini!

I feel a bit blasphemous writing fanfiction about a 13th century text, but I think it turned out fine. Also, I know now a thing or two about norse magic now, but I took some creative liberties, this is fiction after all. ENJOY!!

@disorganisedautodidact

@fiifuchs

Rating: T

Content warning: Era-typical homophobia, era-typical gender roles, violence (not very graphic though)

Read it on AO3!

The Saga of Rögnvald réttilbeini

There was a man called Rögnvald. He was the son of the famous Harald hárfagra, the mighty king of Norway. But he wasn´t like Haralds other children. His fate led him to a different path.

The first time Rögnvald thought that there was something wrong with him, was the day he lost a swordfight and won a bet. He was nine years old and tried to be a good warrior, a good fighter, a good viking, so he could follow in his father´s footsteps. His father, who cast such a long shadow over the land and over the lives of his sons and daughters that Rögnvald wasn´t sure what the sun even looked like. But the axe and sword lay heavy in his hands and the anger and violence of his opponent hit him way before the wood did, let him stumble in fear and confusion. He wasn´t a good fighter. He was scared of his first raid. Of the pain and suffering he would have to endure. Of the pain and suffering he would cause. So he lost the swordfight against his older brother Eirik, who looked at his tears with a mix of pity and disgust. Men didn´t cry. Men didn´t lose. Men didn´t run into the woods afterwards, hands clutching the bruises on his arms and waist.

The woods were Rögnvalds friends. They held their own dangers, big animals, bad weather, you could trip and nobody would find you for days. But sometimes, when he allowed himself to dream, it seemed as if the vines opened a path for him, as if the birds sang louder when he came along, as if the rain fell warmer on his skin, as if the branches of the trees bowed down to him. Rögnvald had seen a bear or two, and there was a pack of wolves living nearby. He didn´t look for them in the vast forests, but he had seen their gray fur in the underbrush. But he never felt the same anger and violence in them that he did in his own brother, and Eirik had yet to kill him, so he decided to let them be as they let him be. Yes, the woods held dangers. But nowhere else seemed his father´s shadow so weak, nowhere else could Rögnvald breathe so deeply. His favorite place was on a cliff, looking over the fjord and away from the town. The sea breeze carried the smell of water, salt, and algae up to him and the trees sang their whispering songs in his back. It was his other brother who found him, Håkon, who sat down beside him and began throwing stones down into the grey-green waters below. It annoyed Rögnvald, but what was he supposed to do? So he looked away and up into the clouds.

“I think it´s going to start raining soon.”

Håkon looked up and frowned. “No, I think we have time before the rain starts. At least until we get back if we get going now, I bet.”

Rögnvald closed his eyes. The trees whispered. The wind sang. And up, way up in the clouds, he swore he could hear the soft tinkle of raindrops. He concentrated. He counted aloud. “One. Two. Three. Four.” The wind fell silent. “Five. Six. Seven.” The tinkle filled his senses. He sat up straight. “Eight. Nine. Ten.” He opened his eyes. The first raindrop hit his nose. He looked at his brother with wide eyes, who stared back through the downpour with disbelief and something between awe and mistrust in his eyes. Rögnvald didn´t know yet that he would get to know that look very well.

Rögnvalds grandmother Solveig was a Völva, a seer. She lived on her own and people came to her for advice or healing. They came with wounds and insecurities, with hurt in their hearts and sickness in their stomach. She had wise words and herbs for them. She could see what plagued them in their eyes and their future in clouds and the ashes of the hearth. Harald didn´t like her very much, he never came to her cottage, which was one more reason for Rögnvald to go there as often as possible. He sat at the fire in silence, watched her cut and dry herbs and listened to the sagas she told time and time again. He hid in her sleeping chambers when visitors came, listened to their stories of battle and love, of heartbreak and marriage, fishing and farming, the hardships and wonders of raising children and the weight of keeping secrets. Solveig didn´t judge. She listened patiently, gave advice when needed, warm tea for cold hands and hearts and an open ear for words that had to be said. It was in the darkness of her chambers in his eleventh summer that Rögnvald first heard of a man loving another.

The boy fled into the sleeping chambers of his grandmother as soon as he heard footsteps at her door. He sat down leaning against the wooden wall, and listened to the heavy steps of a man entering the house, bent down by grief. The voice of the man was surprisingly soft as he spoke, although Rögnvald had heard the heavy thud of an axe being set to the ground next to him. His name was Þorsteinn, and he had just come back from a raid to the Eastern coast. The raid had been a success, but not for him. His voice broke when he told Solveig about his friend Halvdan. How his eyes had gleamed under the moonlight when they got there. How his face had lit up by the fires of the first building burning. How ragged his breath sounded when he fell to the ground with an arrow in his chest. How cold his skin became when he died in his arms. Rögnvald cried Þorsteinns tears when the whole story broke free. After that, there was just the sound of grief for a long time. When he regained a little bit of his composure, Þorsteinn started to tell their story with faltering words. He told about a life-long friendship. About strange and secret feelings blooming. About the sweetness and terror of a first kiss. About two hands reaching for each other when everything they had been taught tried to pry them apart. About the thrill of fighting together and loving each other. About the hole left in his soul that he wasn´t allowed to show anywhere else. About the suspicion. About unmanliness, ergi, that they had been accused of, and the painful weeks apart to convince their families that nothing had happened that shouldn´t have. Solveig didn´t say anything. She brought tea and herbs for easier sleep. When Þorsteinns cries turned muffled, Rögnvald suspected that she held him while he fell apart. But he couldn´t move, couldn´t even wipe his face, was frozen in terror and excitement. It was forbidden. It was shameful. But he couldn´t help but wonder what it felt like to love another man so much. To touch his skin and know his soul, and his heart pounded, overwhelmed by the feeling of coming alive.

When Þorsteinn left, his steps were lighter, as was his heart, he had said that much. It took some more time until Rögnvald could make himself move. Solveig didn´t come to check on him, she let him be, let him take his time. It was one of the reasons he loved being with her so much. When he came back to the room, he just stared at her with wide, wet eyes. She looked back for a long moment, listening to the words unspoken. Then she kneeled down and held him, soothing his shivering, and humming a soft tone. When she got up again, she caressed his hair and lifted his chin. The light of the fire danced in her eyes.

“Fate is not always merciful, but it is never wrong.”

The problems of his childhood grew heavier with every year of age that Rögnvald lived among his family. He had to learn how to fight eventually, it was the only way. He also learned to dread his growing feelings when fighting other boys hand to hand, his heart pounding with more than fear, his skin prickling with more than pain, pleasure and torment taking his breath away. There were, however, things he enjoyed, like hunting and learning how to provide for himself in the wilderness. Solveig taught him about herbs and plants, about the weather and the wind, the waves and the frost and every growing thing. But he had to come more secretly with every year, the disapproval of his father and his brothers weighed heavier with every spring. He didn´t understand it, until a skald came to Harald in his 14th summer, and was allowed to sing at the feast. He sang about Haralds deeds as the king of Norway, about the gods and the nine worlds. But then came another song, one that took Rögnvald back to ancient times. The woods were even wilder then, the cold harsher, the people more violent. But there was one more danger out in the wild. A man, half human, half beast. A man who could control the wind and the wild creatures of the woods. A man who sang forbidden songs to the sea and the rain, soothing or enraging. A man who was hunted. A man who killed his brothers like prey. A man who wasn´t a man but a monster. And Rögnvald thought of the woods and the wind and the rain that felt more like his family sometimes than his older brothers. He didn´t know when or how he left the hall. He came to himself when his own voice interrupted his ragged breathing and he whispered into the bark of the tree he was clinging to: “I am a monster.”

Rögnvald kept away from his grandmother for some time. He fought hard to be what he was supposed to be, and kept himself away from the woods. His brothers approved, even his father seemed reluctantly pleased, but he failed to be happy about it. The woods called to him at night, his dreams haunted by visions. He saw a storm roll over the town, ripping down the mast of a ships and killing a man. He woke up in a cold sweat, dread heavy on his chest. Three days later he stood at the grave of the man killed by a falling mast in an autumn storm, and he thought he couldn´t breathe, he told himself that it was a coincidence and went hunting. Two days in the woods calmed his spirit, but he never forgot. The dreams became more frequent, his predictions more precise and he refused to sleep. He kept himself up and useful, stood guard in the dead of night and in the coldest days of the winter. Rögnvald shivered his way through the darkness and went to sleep in the morning. He dreamt of fire and rage, his skin turning black under the relentless flames, and when he woke up, the fire refused to leave his mind and veins. Rögnvald burned.

The fever ravaged his body for two weeks. Rögnvald barely ate, bare drank, wasn´t conscious for most of it. He screamed at the gods and begged them to take the foresight away from him. He swore to never touch a man, to never look at one, to never listen to the wind and the water again. He thrashed on his bed until he had to be bound to it and then he chaffed his skin raw on the ropes.

In the middle of his delirium, he had a moment of clarity. His grandmother sat at his bedside, bent over with worry, and she took his hand.

“The gods don´t make mistakes. You are what you are. Stop fighting it. If you are a seiðmaðr, you are supposed to be one. It´s alright, my dear Rögnvald. Your gift is not a curse.”

“It is alright?”

“It is alright.”

Rögnvald slept for four days. When he woke up, weak and nauseous and thin as a bear in spring, his mind was clear for the first time in months. He smiled at his grandmother and stayed in her house during his recovery. He learned everything he could from her, every herb, every spell, every secret. He learned to understand the voices of the forest, he learned how to bribe the wind to do his bidding, and how to coax the fish to the surface of the ocean. She told him about Freyr and Freyja and the Vanir. About growth and death and the afterlife. He spent his days in the forest and avoided his brothers and parents. The people of his town started to turn their heads when he passed by, whispering filthy words, and uttering unfriendly suspicions. But he kept his head high, his sight clear and his mind calm.

When Rögnvald turned 17, his grandmother passed away. It didn´t come as a surprise. She had grown weak and slow over the past months. He had been the one to look for herbs in the fields and forests, he had talked to everyone who was willing to confide in him. Rögnvald had been sitting at her bedside and had carried her out to the cliff. They had watched as the sun climbed down towards the gray-green waves, tinted the mountains red and the sky golden. The sun took Solveig with her to the lands of the dead. Rögnvald buried her on a hill close to the water, where she could look over the sea and far into the forest covered mountains. Then he announced that he would leave his family and travel to find adventure. Nobody stopped him. Nobody thought he would return. Rögnvald knew he wouldn´t.

The mountains were harsh in their beauty. Survival was hard, but Rögnvald learned to become a part of the land. He listened to the sky for rain and to the ground for shelter and prey. He read his fortune in the flight of the birds and the turn of the seasons in the clouds. His first winter was spent in a cave that he made into a home. But the cold wind found a way into his shelter, and the loneliness into his heart. When spring came, he swore he wouldn´t spend another winter like that.

Rögnvald had crossed Vestfold and came to Gulbrandsdalen. It was a lovely place, but the people were not fond of the name Harald hárfager, so he turned west into the mountains and towards the Hardanger fjord. Autumn sent it´s first cold breath over the lands when he crossed a meadow, the mountains in his back and the sea ahead. Sheep grazed peacefully and he stayed for a moment to admire the view. The rustling sound of steps behind him made him turn around. A man smiled at him; his face alit by the soft glow of the sunset. Rögnvald noticed long blond hair, shining green eyes and a firm grip as they greeted each other. The strangers´ voice was deep and rich as he announced his name:

“Frodi”

“Rögnvald”

They smiled at each other and Rögnvald followed back to Frodis hut. He stayed for the night and they talked much about Rögnvalds travels and Frodis sheep. About the summer passed and the winter ahead. Rögnvald helped Frodi with the harvest and the sheep. He hunted and fished for them both. When he called the fish to the surface of the pool out of habit, he turned in terror, expecting to see the same awe and suspicion as in his brother´s eyes, but Frodi met his gaze unafraid and full of warmth. Rögnvald couldn´t look away. The fishing net glided from his fingers. He took a step forward, heart in his throat, but he didn´t dare to go further. Instead, he turned, took up the net and caught the fish he had called. Frodi helped him to pull out the catch, fingers brushing and cheeks burning.

Rögnvald stayed another day. And another. They saw the first snow together. Every night came earlier and left more reluctantly. Every night found them laying down closer to each other. When Frodi took Rögnvalds hand and asked him to stay the winter, it didn´t come as a surprise, but that didn´t damp the happiness Rögnvald felt. His heart pounded in his chest and for the first time in his life, he felt as if he could stay.

Only the fire and the howling wind outside their hut witnessed them as they sat by the hearth one evening, shifting closer and closer together, fingers and hearts shaking as their hands found each other. For one eternal moment they looked into each other’s eyes, question and answer in one. The first brush of lips was sweet as the first touch of spring and as overwhelming as the first winter storm. Rögnvald wrapped his arms around Frodi when it ended, and held on as if his life depended on it, and maybe it did.

Winter went by slowly, in darkness and bitter cold, but Rögnvald barely noticed. He spent his days under warm furs, wrapped around an even warmer body. He learned what it meant to feel another mans skin on his own, how lips could burn and what pleasures another one’s company held. They talked a lot and by the end of winter, they knew each other so well that words were mostly unnecessary. Touches and looks were enough. Rögnvald learned what it was to love and to be loved in return, and a part of him lived in this time until the end of his life.

Spring came, and they saw the rise of the sun with soaring hearts. They sat in front of their hut, holding hands, and looking over the endless ocean, sure about their place in the world. Summer came and they rolled around in the soft grass, the sun witnessing their joy and pleasure. Autumn came and they brought in the harvest together and reveled in the riches that nature gave them. Winter came and Rögnvald told Frodi everything he had learned from his grandmother. They talked about the power of nature, about the prejudice of humans, what it meant to be a man and what it meant to be a seiðmaðr. They dreamed about finding others of their kind. About finding and shaping a place that would allow them to be who they were. When spring came, they were ready. As the snow climbed up the mountains, they did too, hope and sorrow both heavy in their hearts as they left their sanctuary. They turned southeast, towards lands where they would be able to grow the plants they needed to feed their people, and towards the border of king Haralds influence. In the middle of summer, they found a remote valley in Haðaland, green and lush, secluded, and safe. They built a home for themselves and their sheep, and prepared for the winter. A wandering skald came through. They saw a longing in his heart they recognized. His name was Kjell. He stayed for one day that turned into ten and then into all winter. They shared with him what they had, their food, their shelter, their bed, and their hearts. Food became scarce, but house and hearth stayed warm, and they made it to the next spring. But Kjell wasn´t one to stay in one place for a long time. He longed to roam the land, but promised to spread the word among others like them, and to return for the winter. Their farewell was heartfelt and warm.

Rögnvald and Frodi began to prepare the land for their reign. They cut down some trees, but they didn´t clear the land as their people had done. They planted what they needed in the half shade of the birch forest. They dreamt of others coming to join them, and prepared shelters in time for their arrival. Three other men arrived, Erik, Þorgrim and Ragnar, they had met Kjell and were in awe about the bravery of the two seiðmenn. Two others came, Þorleik and Reik, led to them by their dreams. Two were led there by fate, Halvdan and Leif. Rögnvald and Frodi listened to their stories of violence and abuse, broken families and broken trust. They dried the tears of their new friends as well as they could and gave them something to believe in. Together, they built more houses between the trees. The men had brought goats with them that mingled with Frodis sheep. Summer was as warm and rich as the season could be, and their gardens and fields flourished. They bathed in the river nearby and watched the birds fly by overhead. Rögnvald and Frodi stayed close together, in awe of how their lands and lives bloomed. Autumn brought rich harvest and good hunt. Halvdan and Reik, who had found shelter in each other´s arms, went down to the fjord, with furs and art to trade for salt. Rögnvald, Erik and Þorgrim went hunting and came back in time to pickle the meat. Kjell returned with the first snow and Rögnvald and Frodi welcomed him back into their lives and bed with open arms.

Years went by. More men came. Bonds were made. They spread their houses far and wide over the valley. Some of them preferred more secluded, remote places where they lived in harmony with nature. Some were happy to have found company that didn´t judge them for who they were. However, they were human, naturally there were some fights, jealousy over lands and hearts, or power. But those fights could be solved quickly, and most were aware that there was no better place to be for people like them. Women joined them, too. Mostly those unhappy with the role that they had been assigned for by their communities. They were women who loved another, who had no interest in settling down with a man, or to bear children. Many of them had learned the things that Rögnvald had learned from Solveig from their own mothers and grandmothers and didn´t want to hide who they were.

Of course, there were hardships, too. Being able to influence the weather didn´t mean that they could change the climate. Sometimes all attempts to call for rain were in vain. Sometimes even the nightly fires couldn´t keep the apple blossoms from freezing in the early spring. Mud and cold weather were as uncomfortable as ever, and sometimes the healers tried in vain to chase the sickness from a friend. But they helped each other out through all grievances and held each other up and laughter was heard more often than weeping.

Life flourished, and after ten years, about 80 people lived in the valley in Haðaland, some all year, some all summer, some came back for winter like Kjell. Music and dance were omnipresent, and they dressed as they wished to. Frodi had taken a liking to dresses while some of the women, like Þora and Ragnhild, who had fled their husbands together with their children, preferred breeches. Rögnvald and Frodi loved to take care of the children while their mothers were out and hunting, or fishing, or taking some time for themselves under the warm glow of the summer sun. The longing for Kjell was a permanent ache in their hearts, but one they shared.

Summer and winter solstices were celebrated with great fires, with drums and song, and many ate mushrooms or inhaled the smoke of burning herbs to widen their minds and leave the confines of their bodies to look for truth and vision in the depth of the space between the worlds. Rögnvald led those dances, and it was Frodi who brought him back from the vast emptiness of a space beyond sense and reason with gentle kisses and touches. Frodi, who brought him tea for his aching head and held him close and safe as he sank into an exhausted sleep. As they enjoyed the company of Kjell during the winters, there were many who didn´t exclude others from their pleasures, as well as those who preferred to stay by themselves. Live in Haðaland was free, and easy, and in harmony with nature and each other. But darkness tends to be drawn to places of light, and Rögnvald and his 80 seiðmenn and völvas were no exception. Dark dreams came as a messenger of hardship to come, and while they lived in peace and prosperity, the dread sank in like ink seeping through a piece of parchment.

It was Kjell who brought the news. He had been at the court of Harald hárfager and he had ridden his horse half to death to get to them in time. He jumped from his exhausted steed, far too early for his return, in the beginning of autumn. With wide strides, he crossed the village to get to Frodi, who was pulling up weeds. His green eyes gleamed when he saw his beloved return, but his gaze quickly darkened when he noticed the pain and regret in Kjell´s face.

“Call everyone together! I will look for Rögnvald! Quickly, we don´t have time!”

Frodi nodded, but pulled Kjell in for a desperate kiss. “I will. Rögnvald is in the woods. Listen to the birds, they will lead you. Everything will be alright!”

Kjell nodded and ran into the forest, leaving Frodi with dread and fear in his heart.

Harald was coming. Harald hárfager, who hated seiðr-magic, had sent Rögnvalds brother Eirik to them, to come and clear his father´s name of the shame that was a seiðmaðr as a son.

“I´m sorry. It is my fault. I told the seer Vitgeir about you, about us. I thought he would join us, but he revealed your gifts to your father. It is no secret where you dwell, but the nature of our community was, and is no longer, because of me. Please, forgive me, my love.”

Rögnvald stood and pulled Kjell up into his arms.

“There is nothing to forgive, beloved one. There was no reason to distrust one of our own. What has been done has been done. But the wheel of fortune spins quickly.”

He turned towards his people. He saw their frightened eyes and the hope shattered in their hearts and a fire roared in his ears unlike any he had ever felt before. These people were his family, his kin. He would rather burn than let anything happen to them by his brother’s hand. He´d rather turn the land itself against the men coming for them. He´d rather perish with them then let them touch what was his to protect. He spoke:

“Pack what you can. Hide in the mountains. Let Eirik come, he will find no living soul on this ground.”

Frodi took his hand, worry clearly visible in his frown.

“They will know we have left. They will hunt us like deer.”

Rögnvalds gaze turned to steel. “No, they won´t.”

Nightfall saw the village empty. Everything that could be carried had been packed. The animals had been led far into the forest. The children had been silent and scared. Rögnvald saw the last of his people disappear into the dark of the forest at night. Frodi pulled at his hand as Kjell watched the horizon with growing dread.

“We have to go.”

“No.”

Rögnvald saw the pain and fear in both his lover´s faces. He pulled them close.

“I will not let them get those I love. They will leave here believing that we have all perished. Then we will go and find another place to live.”

“How?”

“You will see.”

Rögnvald felt the faint vibrations of many feet approaching the village.

“Go, go now! Return with the sun!”

Kjell hesitated. Then he spoke:

“I have travelled many dangerous roads, and you always trusted me to come back. I trust you now.”

Then he pulled Frodi up and muffled his cries with his hand as he dragged him into the safety of the forest. Rögnvald stayed behind and sank to the ground. He beckoned the wind to do his bidding. He asked the clouds to cover the moon. He asked the animals around him to flee to safety. He waited and felt his fate approach. When the darkness was deepest, they came. And he was ready.

Rögnvald asked the wind to lift the dust up to form running humans, darting across the village. He asked it to cry with children´s voices. He let it carry his voice down to his brother, to beg him to turn back. He didn´t. Rögnvald wasn´t surprised, but he felt fire and rage burning in his veins like never before. For a moment he realized that he understood his brother now more than ever. Here, at the crossroads, before they would part ways forever, they were closest to each other. Then the thought vanished, drowned out by fire and fury.

Rögnvald let the doors of the great hall in the middle of his village fly open and let the wind carry the dust inside. He rattled with the swords and axes left behind as a cover. He clouded the minds of these people he had once called his own, as he had clouded the sky. And when they threw the first torch into the house that had once been his home, he let his rage fuel the flames, let the fire scream with the voices of his family, let the light lead them to all their houses. He let the wind carry embers into their faces and away from the trees. He raged with the roaring inferno as it devoured everything they had built up with their bare hands. Rögnvald bowed down and begged the bones of the land to imitate the bones of the people closest to him as the rain poured down and tamed the raging flames. His words died down with the flickering fires and the silence of death sank heavily onto the land. He sank down with the ashes, too drained to move, and watched as they looked through the buildings, taking everything that hadn´t been burned to a crisp, too tired to listen to their laughter and delight. He watched as they pissed on what they thought were his bones. He watched as the last one disappeared with the first light of morning. The black, scorched earth came closer, blocked out the light of the sun and pulled him down into the cold and dark, and then there was nothing.

The first thing Rögnvald felt was water dripping onto his face. It was salty. The ground seemed to sway underneath him. He opened his eyes and saw the faces of his lovers, distorted by desperation, their tears falling onto his lips and cheeks. He wanted to reassure them, but the black earth called him back.

The second thing Rögnvald felt was water dripping onto his face. It was sweet. His body swayed as if carried. He opened his eyes to a cloudy sky. Rain fell into his eyes as he was carried to a wagon and laid down carefully by Kjell. He wanted to ask something, but the darkness called him back before he could find his tongue.

The third thing Rögnvald felt was water dripping onto his face. It was salty. His body swayed and as he opened his eyes, he found himself on a ship. His head rested in Frodis lap and as he slowly sat up, he saw the coast of Norway disappear in the distance. His hands were cradled in those of his lovers and together, they turned their backs on the land and people who had never wanted them in the first place.

They sailed west until they came to the coast of a green land. Mountains rose into a clear blue sky. They didn´t want to go to Iceland, which was too far away to settle down before winter. They didn´t want to go to the Orkney islands, which Harald had shown interest in even before Rögnvald left. They sailed around the land called Alba, and were welcomed with open arms. The people helped them over the winter. They shared stories of a god with antlers, and an island covered in mist. They tended their wounds and shared what they had and stayed their friends over many winters to come.

In the spring, Rögnvald and his family sailed over to an island barely visible from the mainland. It was partly covered in forests, with a steep northern coast and soft slopes leading down to the waters in the south. It wasn´t as lush as their old home, but it was more than enough.

They sowed the seeds of their old home and watched them grow over the springs to come. Getting enough wood to build all the houses was difficult, so they started building with clay and earth, let grass cover their roofs and protect them from unwanted eyes. Some of the people from the mainland joined them and some of their own decided to live there. Kjell started to roam the lands again during summer, after being afraid to leave for some years. The island stopped being their exile and started feeling like home.

They took the legends of the land they had settled in to heart, and whenever foreign ships approached, they surrounded their island with mist, impenetrable for the eye and frightening to the heart. Only those who had been led there once were allowed to set foot on the land. Rögnvald and the others built a seat on the steep northern cliff, and there was a guard watching over the island at all times, who called the mist in and warned his friends when strangers approached. The land beneath their feet started to recognize their footsteps, just as they learned to hear the song in the old bones of the land, and they became one before the first one of Rögnvalds family realized it.

One morning, Rögnvald stood on the watchtower with Frodi. It was spring, and a small ship sailed out towards the mainland. On board was Kjell, who sailed out to his annual journeys. He had been more reluctant to go than ever before. They all suspected that he would one day grow tired of his wanderings, but it wasn´t this year and it was his decision to make. So they watched him go with a familiar longing in their hearts. After the boat had passed from view, Rögnvald turned his head towards Frodi. The first silver strands had started to sneak into his golden hair. But the green eyes were alive and warm as ever, just as the arm he wrapped around Rögnvald. They watched the sun rise over Alba and the light flood the land to their feet, where their family slowly awoke to a new day.

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