The longest day of the year was one worth celebrating.
It was the height of the summer months, to honor it, Jarl Aeneas had spared neither coin nor man in adorning his land for the Midsommar festival. Flowers bloomed in every corner, more than the earth alone had offered. He had ordered even more to be cut, gathered, and braided into wreaths and flower crowns for the maidens: meadowsweet, elderflower, daisies, heather, wild roses in pink and white, yarrow, violets, and even lupine. For the men, bracelets from the same soil-born kisses had been woven, herbs bound into knots against their wrists.
Svea's breath caught at the sight. Herbs sprouted here in lazy patches, unforced: mint, thyme, parsley, nettle, angelica, wild thistles. In Valkvann, such things had been little more than memory. Svea was filled with envy. Here, the Jarl, a man who cared nothing for farming, was surrounded by herbs she had not seen in years.
At the highest point of the estate, a great pole stood, ribbons dangling like roots in reverse, waiting for the maidens to circle and bind them together. At its base lay an abandoned corn doll, stolen by a mischievous child who had stolen it in advance of the games that would have won it.
Beyond, spaces had been marked for games and contests, where strength and pride would be shown off.
Farther still, yet within the Jarl's holding, a guest-hut smoked with a constant fire, though the air around them was already warm. The Volva had arrived to take her seat, her presence a reminder that the gods watched.
(*Volva: A Viking age seeress, known for practicing a form of magic known as seiðr)
"Welcome, brothers and sisters of Valkvann!" announced a man in a tunic with ornaments finer than any farmer among them could have dreamt of affording. Some of it had come from raids far past the shore they lingered by now. Although he smiled, Svea knew not to trust it. "Who is your leader?" His blue eyes skimmed them, pausing only long enough to show his disappointment. These were farmers. They had worn their best for the day, yet still, they looked like beggars.
"Svea is the proxy." Dragmall's grin was wide, proud. He nudged his beloved forward,
urging her to stand where she belonged.
Svea stiffened as the man's gaze settled on her. "Svea?" he repeated.
Slowly, she nodded. She hated being put on display, hated more that she could feel his judgement crawling over her. Her nails dug into her palm, leaving hidden crescent moons on the flesh no one else would see.
"Yes. Regrettably, Agathe could not make the trip."
The words tasted bitter. None of them spoke openly of why or how Agathe had abandoned them. She had shirked her duties from the first day, retreating into her cups, staggering to the hearth only when hunger demanded it. It was best she did not come, best she did not carry their name. Svea could feel the questions on her: what gave her the right to stand there in Agathe's place?
"Regrettable, of course," the man answered, folding his arms. The layered silks and velvets rustled, too heavy for the summer sun. Perhaps the show of wealth mattered more than breath itself. She couldn't imagine he wasn't burning beneath his clothes.. "Svea. . . this is a name I've heard before."
"And you are?" Svea asked flatly.
The man behind him clicked his tongue, his temper quick to flare. "Jarl Aeneas!" he snapped, insulted by her ignorance.
The people of Valkvann had never stood in his hall, never bowed before his table. How could they have known this man by sight alone? Still, Svea could have guessed. Perhaps she had. Something inside her itched to humble him, if only in the slightest of ways.
Aeneas lifted his hand to calm the man beside him, Hvitserk, marked by the beautiful alexandrite ring gleaming at his finger. "It is nothing. She has not been here before. Are you new to the village, then? Svea?"
Svea hesitated, she could feel her throat closing. "No. I am not. I was. . . an orphan of the village, left behind more often than not. I am grown now so I have come without a chaperone." her heart thudded against her ribs as his eyes dragged over her. He frowned. The other women had worn dresses, however plain. Svea wore pants, chosen for the freedom of movement, for travel, for competition. A practice choice. On the other hand, a statement too.
"If it pleases my Jarl," she added, biting her cheek to hide the sourness of the words.
It did not necessarily win Aeneas over, but it had managed to soften Hvitserk who stepped back with a nod, appeased by the respect she had forced.
Aeneas studied her longer, searching his memory. The name tugged at something, but he could not place it. At last, he spoke, voice carrying across the green.
"Well, Svea of Valkvann. . . welcome to Kattströnd. Make yourself at home. Let us celebrate the solstice, give thanks for harvest, and prepare for the raids to come!" His arms rose, voice booming louder to ensure every guest heard. The tease of their upcoming raids was what everyone truly wanted to hear.
Paying into his need for admiration, the crowd roared, mugs lifted high, voices echoing his name. "Aeneas! Aeneas!"
"Drink!" he commanded, grinning. "Take what you will from the slaves! Once you have taken your fill, the games will begin!"
Svea winced, only slightly. Not enough for most to notice, but Aeneas's man Hvitserk did. As did Dragmall. She turned quickly, facing Dragmall so the others would not see her sentiments.
"They look well kept, Svea," Dragmall murmured, offering what comfort he could. A small try to console her, one that would never fix their society, but he would still try.
"No one should be kept, Dragmall," Svea retorted. Her shoulders rose with a sharp brethren fell again as she practiced a weak smile, lifting the cup he had pressed into her hand. She could not free the men nor the women Aeneas kept, but she could treat them as more than shadows. She could meet their eyes, remind them they were still people.
They may be a slave to you, she thought bitterly, her gaze darting toward the Jarl. To me they will always be one of Odin's children.
She tipped back the drink, lowering it just in time to feel the soft weight of a crown made from flowers settling onto her head.
Eumelia had come with the wreaths, her smile and hands practiced. She moved down the path to adorn the others, her fingers scattering beauty like she was dropping crumbs for birds to peck at.
"Do you know her?" Dragmall asked.
Svea nodded, pressing her lips together. "Eumelia. She left with the others. She was the messenger Aeneas sent to invite betrayal." The words slipped out, the frustration that had long been buried in her now rising to the surface. She had wondered often how they lived, those who had gone. Now, it was plain to see. They had left Agathe to torment Valkvann, left Svea to scrape and claw, all so for coin, for feasts, for crowns of flowers.
Her voice steadied, careful even with the anger bubbling in her. She stepped deeper into the crowd, trying to follow Eumelia through the whirl of skirts and laughter. Eumelia had vanished into the group, however, leaving Svea alone amid strangers.
"Who is staring at you?" Dragmall question.
Following Dragmall's line of sight, Svea's eyes found the blonde giantess who lingered at the edge of the crowd. Asvoria. She stood in the shadow of the greatest woman Svea had ever known, and yet her presence still pulled to her like a tide. No matter the day, Svea would always be the ship.
"Asvoria," Svea breathed.
Wasting no time, the blonde moved towards them, her eyes flicking between the two.
"The rumors are true then. You did marry?"
To the untrained eye, Asvoria's face was unchanged, her composure unbroken. But Svea saw what others could not. Svea could see it for what it was: the same measured, controlled behavior Asvoria had struggled her entire life to master. In the heat of the summer, Asvoria's eyes showed how strangely distant the world felt - as though she were watching from the wrong side of a frozen lake, close enough to see but far too distant to touch. Her hands remained steady at her side, the paleness of her knuckles betraying the tremor she fought to hide. This too was caught by Svea.
At last, Svea spoke. "This is my husband, Dragmall."
The word husband felt strange on her tongue when given to Asvoria, stranger still as her mind wandered to the silences that had grown between them. How odd that our first words to each-other are of my new husband. Stranger yet how they quietly let the tension that had stopped their goodbye, sit there, untouched.
"I never thought the village would let men in," Asvoria said with a short laugh, trying to ignore the past between them with a turn to banter.
"And I never thought you'd leave it," Svea retorted, the faintest frown tugging at her mouth. She had hidden her disappointment in front of others, swallowing it down like poison. But she had trusted Asvoria - with their livelihoods, with her own heart. . . and in return she had been cast aside. To Svea, she had been more than a leader, more than a companion. She had been a sister. After all they had endured, how could she be abandoned so easily? Cast off like a tired field?
The two of them stood in uncharted territory, bound by history but divided by their respective choices. Even in their sharpest disagreements, they had never known this kind of distance. A distance that sat heavily between them. Frightening, and in an even stranger way, relieving: if today went poorly, neither would have to face the other again until or unless the gods themselves willed it. This knowledge was reassuring, neither found it sad. Only an obligation to Herja weighed, reminding them to at least act civilly, in her name.
Asvoria's jaw tightened, a ripple in her cheek giving her away. She would not admit it, would not name the shame of leaving the land of her ancestors. Worse still, leaving it to Agathe. She could not. She had chosen to survive, to endure, to carve out her own place in the world, and those were choices she refused to apologize for. No matter the cost, no matter the state in which she had done it.
She flinched faintly when a hand settled on her shoulder. Turning, she found a man at her side - somewhat older, his cropped hair jarringly short, out of place among the braids and wild locks of the festival, certainly too neat for the gathering. He was thin as well, but tall enough to make up for it.
"This is my husband," Asvoria said, voice steady though her body leaned away from his touch. "Raoul."