As quickly as her legs could carry her, she ran. Her bare feet struck the ground without care for stone or root, every step raw with urgency. Her breath rasped in the silence, ragged and loud in the sleeping village. Behind her, torches flared - lights sweeping the night as the Jarl's people hunted. They drove her forward, down the dirt paths, through the timbered homes, toward the docks and the sea.
One of the women, who had attended all five nights of the feast, saw her first. "Herja, look!" she called.
Herja turned from the boat, her strong arms still steadying a shield she had not yet stowed. For a heartbeat her body tensed, her hand instinctively seeking the absent weight of a sword. But as the figure drew closer, she saw it was Svea. Herja lowered the shield and passed it to the maiden beside her.
"Svea?" she asked, disbelief sharpening her voice. She was not sure if she could trust her eyes so late, nor how the child had slipped so far beneath the Overseer's watch.
Panting, the runaway tried to speak. "Y -" Her throat caught, the word broken before it could be born.
How could her voice fail her now? Now, when she needed it most?
Herja crouched before her, brows knitting together. Svea's state told its own story: garments torn, dirtied, unfit for the season. Blood on her hands. A cut across her palm. Bruises banded her wrists where another hand, much larger, had pressed too hard. Herja took the smaller hands into her own, turned them over, and lifted one thin wrist. Her eyes traced the marks - and a low growl slipped from her throat despite the oath she had sworn her sisters not to meddle. Her gaze rose, meeting the tears that streaked from Svea's green eyes, glinting as they fell over the exposed brand at her chest.
One of the women spoke quickly, as if to break through what she already saw forming in her leader's mind. "She must go back."
The words were unthinkable. To send her back was to deliver her to death if not worse.
Herja clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she glanced toward the torches bobbing closer in the night. They flickered between the thick woods leading from the Jarl's land to the sea, reminding her how little time remained.
"You promised." Svea's voice was calm, steady, matter-of-fact. She lifted her face to the warrior, her eyes filled with the kind of faith only a child could still carry. Despite all she had endured, she clung to Herja's vow as if it were law.
A promise was a promise.
Herja blinked. "What?"
"You promised," Svea repeated. "If I could get away from Jarl Geir, I could go with you. I am free of him now. I am free."
The hour the Norns had woven for the fifth night was filled with threads that might have turned another way. It could have been a night where Herja was a different woman - one who recoiled, one who judged the child's bloody hands, one who declared Svea no warrior but a murderer seeking refuge for her crime. The Norns might have woven that thread. Yet the story had been cast otherwise. On this fifth night, the weaving was of a thrall who had freed herself, and the duty of the women who found her was to guard that freedom.
Herja studied her a moment longer, then tilted her head. A smirk tugged at her lips. "I suppose you are free now."
Another voice rose - Mist, the beauty who had sat closest to the Jarl on the first night. "She is a slave, Herja. This is not the way. She is not free of him, no matter -"
Svea bit down on her tongue, holding back the hot resentment that flared. Mist had flirted with Geir, had played at pleasing him while Svea had bled. Svea decided she would forgive her - if only Mist would allow her passage.
"Look at her, Mist. This is not a slave. This is a warrior, a shield-maiden like any of us. Quickly, get her onto the boat." Herja ordered, refusing to hear any more back and forth in front of the girl.
Svea's eyes darted between them, trapped in a loop between desperate hope and gnawing fear. Would Mist bar her? Could she, when Herja had already decreed otherwise? Would she be turned back to the wolves? Surely Mist could see. Surely she must. Someone so beautiful could not stand between her and freedom. Not when it was these very women who had given her the first breath of hope since she had been sold to Geir.
I can't go back.They'll kill me.I won't see sunrise if I return.
Have mercy, Mist. Have mercy. At least leave me somewhere I can make my own way.
Her mind reeled beneath the weight of her deed. Each flicker of torchlight replayed the slaughter: the knife, the blood, the silence that followed. Candles guttering in the dark. His voice silenced forever.
One of the women, without hesitation, stretched out her hand. A nod, steady and sure. Her hair tumbled loose over her arm as she reached, the gesture simple but life-altering.
Herja and Mist continued to argue, but Svea could barely make sense of their words. Not when one of the women was offering her a chance.
"She should never have been in that position to begin with."
"It is our duty to protect—"
"We are not to meddle in such affairs. Only if -"
Svea did not wait to hear the end. With what strength remained, she grasped the woman's arm and hauled herself aboard. The bloodied knife slipped from her hand and fell into the sand, left for the tide to claim. The sea would wash it away, as it would carry her toward a new life.
The women settled into their benches, hands falling to their oars. A voice rose, soft but firm, carrying the same tune Svea had first heard along the forest path:
"When our work is done,Our hearts are still and we leave no trace,No word to say. . . Just the memory, soft, of the Wanderer's Way. . .When our work is done. . .When our work is done. . .When our work is done. . ."
The song rose then fell like the sea itself. Perhaps it pleased Thor, for no storm rose against them, the single ship rode untroubled across the vastness of the ocean carrying with it a criminal onboard.
Their work was done.
They could celebrate it as they headed home to their own lands.
To a place where Svea could finally feel safe.
Like a lantern through mist, Dragmall's voice reached her from the edge of awareness. Though he lay beside her, she did not hear him so much as sense him. Her vision blurred; her head tilted toward him in confusion.
"What?"
His words, pleas meant for the present, had fallen on ears still hearing moments of the past.
"Are you alright?" he repeated. His concern was plain to her eyes, though he tried to veil it with a faint smile as he brushed a lock of hair from her face.
Svea scooted upright, drawing her knees to her chest. Her fingers wandered aimlessly over the hides and furs that blanketed her bed, soft and tangled beneath her touch. Some days, she hated furs.
"It's only that. . . I don't wish to attend Jarl Aeneas's festival," she admitted, keeping her voice low even in the privacy of their own home.
"We could always stay. Send him extra crops instead." Dragmall's thick brows lifted, his tone half-serious, half-teasing, as though the weight of harvest could be bargained in place of her presence. Given the greed of the Jarls he had known, it felt more than plausible.
Svea exhaled softly, lowering her gaze until her eyes traced the weaving of the blanket, tempted to find a way to lose herself in its threads.
"Did he do something to you?" Dragmall's voice gentled, concern slipping through despite his attempt at levity.
She shook her head. "No, not him but…" She trailed off, clutching the blanket where her brand lay hidden. The brand was now a mark she had altered herself after claiming what little freedom she could. It would never vanish from her skin, but she refused to let it be the first thing she saw in her reflection.
She picked at her lip with her nails, her thumb brushing across her lower lip as she began, "I was taken from my father's farm when I was a child." She let him sit with the knowledge. "The local Jarl was seeking a bride. He offered silver to the man who brought him the prettiest girls to choose from as well as slaves to work."
Dragmall pushed his long hair back as he sat up beside her. He searched her face for any sign of distress. Beyond her murmurs and the restless kicks in her sleep, he would never have guessed. Her features stayed still even as she spoke of her time as a thrall. His touch hovered, gentle, wanting to comfort her. Not able to bear being pitied, Svea looked away.
"At the time, I was still too young for his standards, though not by much. He chose to keep me and another girl, Gelda, as slaves until then." She swallowed the bitter truth. "When I was older, a group of women came through the village. They might have been seeking girls to join them. . . it's possible the Jarl himself had called them for protection. He was mesmerized by them. We all were. These women. . . I imagined that was how the Valkyries might appear on the field." She gave a short, bitter laugh, glancing up as if towards Asgard above. "They even bore some of their names. I couldn't help myself. I followed them until one stopped, granting me her words."
Dragmall tried to picture them, but the only face that seemed worthy of her words was Svea's own.
He asked, "What did she say?"
"Everything. She told me that even the daughter of a farmer, even a thrall like me, we are still people. We deserve -" Svea caught herself, startled that she still spoke of herself as a slave. Perhaps that title would never leave her. Perhaps the chains had been fastened to her spirit the day they bound her body. "If I wanted freedom, I would have to earn it," she murmured, rubbing her arm.
Dragmall drew his brows together, thinking how such freedom could be won in a world ordered by Jarls and fate.
"I wanted freedom for myself," she said, "but I wanted it for the others too."
Her eyes dulled as the memory slid back toward the violence of that night.
"What do you mean?" he asked softly.
She licked her lips.
"It means Jarls make me nervous. I've no desire to go."
Pressing his lips together as he studied her hands, Dragmall took one and pressed his mouth to it tenderly. "These are not the hands of a slave, nor only a murderer, Svea." He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead against hers with a quiet trust. "They are the hands of a farmer who knows the work of the land, one satisfied with her life. That cannot be taken from you."
Svea gave a sad smile.
You don't get it, she thought. You don't see how easily I can change back into something I do not want to be.
"You're right. Besides, it is for the best I go. Though I'm more worried about seeing the women who left the village to work for him." Her voice carried both hurt and curiosity. Wondering whether Asvoria had been satisfied with her choice.
Chuckling at how quickly her mind could shift back to the everyday, Dragmall watched her smiling.
Svea wiped her mouth with a fingertip, rose, and said, "Not going would be worse."
"You have to show your face," Dragmall said, half-teasing. She nodded. There was no escaping it. She would not be humiliated, nor appear weak.
------------------------------------------------
Svea leaned into the stempost of the boat, her scarred palm on it so the pitching would not throw her. One would think the water would favor a Midsummer festival; she took the wind as omen and leaned with more trust into the post, signaling the rowers to lift their oars and let the hull follow the tide toward the shore. They eased in and anchored.
She absorbed the sight of the land. Far from perfect, but better than their own: crops greener, herbs plentiful, along with a cluster of people already gathering for the celebrating.
Svea turned to Dragmall, who lounged against the boat's side until it grounded, laughing with the man who had taken the oar for his turn. The wind moved strands of hair into his face as he rose, stepping onto the gravel. He reached a hand back to her.
She took it, balancing at the edge. He gave a soft cluck before drawing her down, one hand at her hips to steady her.
"There are benefits to marrying a farmer. We're strong," he joked.
She smiled, soft and brief, letting him set her feet on the land.
"Ready?"
No.