Content Warning: This chapter contains a brief reference to coercion and attempted abuse. Nothing explicit is depicted, and the focus remains on the mentioned character's resistance and survival. If this subject matter is uncomfortable, you may prefer to continue with the next chapter.
-----------------------------------------------------
Four nights of rejection had gnawed at Jarl Geir's pride like the fangs of Fenrir himself - relentless, tearing, divine in their cruelty. By the fifth night, his composure had been frayed beyond repair, as though the great wolf had not merely bitten him, but ripped the very sinew of his spirit in two.
It was the night the women left; the strange warriors who had dined without yielding, smiled without promise, and departed his halls untouched, that broke him. He had hoped by the fourth night, at least, to win over one of the maidens with charm or drink, but they had gone with neither kiss nor favor. His fury, twined with wounded pride, swelled so terribly that even the Overseer slipped aside from his path. For all the care she carried for him, she could not bear to be the victim of his wrath.
Geir's bedchamber, in his mind, was no mere room but an altar to conquest. A wide bed that sat low to the ground, lay cloaked in an extravagant rug of fur so vast it spilled like a pelted sea beyond the frame. The hides, which had been stitched together by hand, beneath bore the weight of the carved headboard, etched with raids and legends of his lineage.A woman's hand had softened the chamber with candles on either side, yet it was the sail, nailed to the wall behind the bed, that he prized most. Torn from the ship of his greatest raid, once white and proud, it now bore the deep stain of blood.
Blood not from war, but spilled by the hands of the girl beside him.
Svea stared down at her bloodied hands. Her palm had been cut by the sheer force with which she had clutched the knife - his knife. The same blade he had pressed to her tunic, daring to strip her like spoils of a war she had only been the captive of. In the struggle she had torn it from him then turned it on him. She could not say how. Only that she had managed to do so.
She clutched the torn sleeve of her clothes, pulling it up as her gaze lingered on the once-proud Jarl. She wasn't horrified. She was confused. Could she truly be the culprit? Had she, one known as a thrall, truly taken the life of the man who called himself "her master?" If so, why didn't she feel ashamed? She stepped back onto the fur rug, the coarse hairs prickling her bare feet. The softness mocked her, cruel in its comfort. Blood dripped down from the blade, flattening the tufts until they lay matted and red.
Beyond the door, a guard's voice drifted into the room as he passed, muttering more to himself than anyone else: "Thank the gods, she's stopped screaming.
Bastard.
Svea's stomach twisted as she cursed him. He had heard. He had heard her cries but done nothing. There was relief in his tone, not a shred of empathy for the "slave girl" who had been left to the master's whims.
Her jaw tensed.
Her hot temper could have easily led her to fling herself through the doorway, knife in hand. Whether she won or lost would be left to The Norns but at least he would face the one he had abandoned to silence. The thought burned in her veins, yet her limbs refused. Her rage demanded blood; her spirit urged her to survive. Survival won.
She forced herself to breathe. First the inhale, which came heavy like Thor's Hammer, Mjolnir, pressed on her chest. Would it ever lift again? Would she ever be able to move without the fear of it breaking her body? Then the exhale, tight, threatening to escape as another scream. She could not allow it. Again she inhaled, again she forced the air out, until at last her body remembered how to do it without thought.
Geir had driven her to this; there was no other answer. She believed that with everything left inside her. She needed to.
She had to.
She did.
"Women are wicked, no matter their age. You all share the sin of your sex," he had spat, condemning her for nothing more than being born a woman. "You must atone for that tease. . ." he had snarled, and Svea knew he meant Mist - the one who had smelled of apple blossoms. "My guard will fetch Gelda to join us. There is no point in waiting further."
Why would this flash through her mind now, when every second, every heartbeat, counted? When escape was possible? Had she been wrong to strike? Had she been right? What would others think of her? She had killed their Jarl. She could not pretend otherwise.
The questions tumbled over themselves. The more he had spoken, the more he had prodded her, the hotter her anger had burned. Yet she had not moved. She had hoped he would relent. She had clung to that hope until it snapped. Then had come the thought of him hurting her, then worse. Another. That thought she could not bear. Her body had acted when her mind could not.
She had driven the blade into his throat again and again, until the sound in his chest stilled and no cry could rise to call for help. Then she had followed the knife's path deeper, almost without knowing it.
Let him be so ruined the afterlife cannot mend his body, she thought. Let his flesh reflect the truth of his dark heart. Rot like his insides.
The thought was bitter, but it steadied her hands when they trembled. It drove her long after her arms had gone numb. Her forearms throbbed as if they were packed with sand, too heavy to lift the knife again. At last, she let it fall. Steel clattered into fur beside the ruined form.
She stared. She could not look away. Did people always bleed so much?
The bed was soaked. The white sail behind him was no longer white. The floor was streaked with red. For a moment, she thought to call it a sacrifice, an offering the gods might accept. Her lips parted, but no words came. They would know. It had not been prayer but rage that had guided her hand.
She stepped back, leaving faint prints on the boards under her feet. Her shoes lay where the struggle had flung them, but her body could not summon the will to fetch. The thought alone sickened her. He laid too close to them. She was done with him. Done. More than that. . . . free. Free!
"If you ever gain your freedom, child… if you are able to get away from the Jarl, then you may come with us." Herja's vow rang in her ears.
Slowly, a smile tugged at her lips. They could not have left yet. If she reached the docks, she might be free. Truly free. Yet even as the thought surged through her, the others lingered in her mind. The thralls were still trapped, still believing themselves bound to the slain Jarl. She smeared the blood lower on her tunic, near the hips, where the dim light might hide it. There was no time to save them all. There was only time to run.
Svea moved as quietly as she could, slipping through the hall until she stood at Gelda's door. Her fingers hovered, curled tight, before she gave a quick two-rap knock. "Gelda," she whispered tensely, her eyes darting over her shoulder. "Let us leave. Now." One loyalist, one pair of eyes, that was all it would take to see the blood revealing what she had done.
The door opened swiftly. Gelda had not slept; fear kept her restless. Yet Svea's words stopped her. "Leave?"
"Sh!" Svea hissed. "Now. We can still catch Herja and her crew. We can be free."
Gelda shook her head, pale in the torchlight. "The Jarl would loose his hounds. He would hunt us down. They will not take us. Do not speak such nonsense."
Svea forced herself to breathe through her nose, quiet, steady, as though her lungs were being wrung by unseen hands. "He cannot," she whispered, "not if we go now."
"What do you mean -" Gelda began, her eyes falling to Svea's hands. The stains were dark against her skin, the blood on her tunic blending with the shadows of the hall. Her breath caught. "What have you done?"
Svea bit the inside of her cheek. To speak it aloud was to bind her. The moment she confessed, Gelda would be bound by law to name her guilty. It was more dangerous than Gelda could have known. The Jarl had already marked Gelda for himself. Svea was certain the guard had heard. There would be no innocence left for her either.
"It is better if you just come," Svea urged, voice low, urgent, pleading. "We could go now." She reached for Gelda's hands. Hands that were unsullied, clean against her own bloodied ones, and she whispered, "Please. We could take the other girls and run, we could -"
Gelda turned her head, blonde hair striking her cheek like a curtain against the plea. "No. No." The second word fell like an axe-blow. Her decision was hard and certain. "I did not see you tonight. I am asleep in my bed. The others are asleep in theirs. If you flee, you flee alone. The women will not take you."
"The sea brought us here," Svea argued, her voice rising despite the danger it could bring. "The same sea could carry us away. The women leave tonight, we could be amongst them."
While her intentions to save Gelda were noble, Gelda's face had already hardened. She had never loved the girl, and now she was being asked to pardon a murderer. Gelda had hated Geir as much as any thrall, but this. . . this broke the law. Jarl Geir's death had been a dream she dared in secret only, meanwhile Svea had taken it into her own hands. Such justice was not hers to claim.
"The Norns chose you to be a thrall," Gelda said coldly. "That was their weaving, and you were meant to abide by it. You are a murderer, Svea. Leave now. Leave alone."
She closed the door on her, pressing her palm against the wood as if to bar it should Svea try to force her way in.
Svea hesitated only a breath. If she had more time, she might have broken Gelda's resolve. If she had not been so afraid of discovery, Gelda might have come.
But time was gone.