Svea's lips parted, taken back by the announcement. Shocked not only that Asvoria had married, but that she had never even heard the rumor.
"You're married?" she half demanded, the words coming harsher than she meant. The realization struck her like a blade slipping through the ribs. The realization of the more frightening truth upon her, "You didn't even come home for your family's sword -"
"This is her home now," Raoul interceded before Asvoria could speak. His voice carried no patience for discussion. "The Jarl was kind enough to gift us a sword for the ceremony." He squared his shoulders, looking over Dragmall as if it would prove something. He stood taller, his thin frame stretched against Dragmall's bulk, as though by sheer arrogance he might look equal.
He didn't even know what he was saying. To Valkvann, a family sword was no ornament. It was tradition, proof of blood and lineage, and no marriage was recognized without. To say another man's sword was "kind enough" was no gift, it was simply theft disguised as blessing. It was one of the greatest honors that could have fallen unto Asvoria's family.
"You're Svea, then? The farmer?" He grinned, mockingly.
Svea looked at him once, then at Asvoria who refused to meet her. Immediately, she understood. The fight had already taken place between them. He had won it.
At least you maintained a piece of yourself if only for a second, Svea thought.
Beside her, Dragmall stiffened. "Is there something wrong with being a farmer?" His voice was gentle as ever, even in his growing anger. As he tensed, his broad frame reminded Raoul he could never hope to truly be his rival. "I don't believe we're eating jewels for supper, are we?"
A gentle tap on his wrist from his wife reined him in enough to stop him from continuing. He did not have the luxury of forgetting where they stood.
Raoul bared his jagged teeth, there were grooves cut into them. Svea stared. Who in the name of Odin does that to themselves? She wondered. She had heard of it being done, but she had never seen it. She had rumors of the reasons: to become more terrifying to opponents, to mark themselves as traders, some groups even used it as a signifier that an outside had joined them. They would always be an outsider. Could that have been it? Raoul was not a traditional name, in fact it sounded more like the man of Frankia they had been told of.
"Do you think you're better than a warrior, farmer?" Raoul's voice rose, catching ears, baiting the crowd to join in.
"Not because he's a farmer," Svea said sweetly, a smile that hid its edge well enough.
Quickly, Asvoria's hand landed on her husband's arm, though her fingers curled as though the touch itself repulsed her. "Raoul. . . The Jarl is searching for you to discuss the raids. Go. I'll meet you shortly."
He scoffed, but he obeyed.
Not for her.
For his master.
A sense of balance was restored to Svea momentarily as she understood: His master is calling. Even the freedmen are thralls.
"I will go," Raoul spat, "but there's no need for a Shield Maiden to join us." He turned with a final sneer, his eyes cutting across the two visitors. "Dragmall. Svea."
Dragmall's eyes followed him. He didn't like the way he had said their names.
When he was gone, Svea leaned toward Asvoria, her whisper a hiss. "That is the man you married? Without your family's blessings?"
"He is a great warrior, and the Jarl was kind enough to create such a match." Asvoria's words were thin reeds, brittle in the wind. She couldn't meet her childhood friend's eyes. "I am happy with him." A lie. "I admit he is. . . easy to offend, not always easy to understand. You do not have to upset him."
Kind enough.
Kind enough.
There goes that description again, how kind Jarl Aeneas is. Is this all they can say of the man?
Svea could almost laugh. If this was kindness, then what cruelty would they excuse next?
The girls of Valkvann had never dreamed of marriage. Not once. They dreamed of survival, of trials endured, surviving the days after the women had left. . . of raising their village from the dirt. Marriage, if it came, would never strip them of worth. They would choose men who honored them, who respected their scars, who bent to their strength. Raoul was no such man.
Svea scoffed openly, lip curling. "You came here to be a great warrior. Instead, you are the Jarl's footrest. That man's prized mare. You left months ago, Asvoria. . . have you any idea of the stories I've heard of you since?" Her voice whispered it out. She did not wait for an answer, for she had her own. "None."
This time, the blonde could not keep all of herself hidden. Her lips twitched, her nose tightened. Anger betrayed her despite every effort to cage it. It was one thing to know the truth about yourself. It was another to have it named by another - to have it spoken aloud by the very person you had abandoned. The truth was that Asvoria did not know how to face the others she had deserted. She had thought Svea, of all of them, might understand. Their history could have made her the gentlest judge. Instead, every word Svea struck her with made her quiet. There was no shield strong enough to turn them aside. Not even the shield of her mother.
"The day you decided to leave, you told us the land had no future." Svea's eyes dropped briefly, then found Asvoria's bright blue ones. "Perhaps you confused it with yourself." Her voice was quiet, she wouldn't humiliate her in front of all the people gathered for the festival. She turned, stepping away without waiting for Dragmall, though he lingered just long enough to fix her flower crown before letting her go.
Asvoria watched Svea. She did not bother to look at Dragmall. She couldn't.
"She's as. . . Svea as ever," she muttered. "Do you take care of her?" The words came out more sisterly than she intended, an old habit she had been forced into long ago.
"How she lets me," Dragmall answered softly, "you know how she is."
He was pleasantly surprised to hear the tone in Asvoria's voice, the concern.
"Is she happy?" Asvoria asked, almost too quickly, drowning her unease in her mug. She drained it and exchanged it for another from a servant, as though the act itself might steady her hands.
"We're happy. We're satisfied. Farming is a peaceful life," Dragmall said simply, with the kind of honesty that left no room for grandeur. He would never dream of fighting in far off lands to return a hero, nor would he seek out riches to live beyond what the land already gave him.
Asvoria pressed her lips together. Something restless stirred in her, though she smothered it before it could rise. "It was unlike my mother to take simple farmers in." Her words slipped out like an arrow loose before she had fully drawn the bow. Warning? Reminder? She wasn't certain herself. Perhaps both.
Dragmall didn't answer, and Asvoria didn't press. Whatever truth lay in her words, she buried it beneath silence. Was she warning him? Was she reminding herself? She turned away to find Raoul, her face carefully composed once more.
Beyond them, old neighbors were finding each other again with shouts of surprise and laughter.
Eydis scoured the crowd, eyes bright until she spotted a familiar face. "Iona!" she cried, running to seize her lost friend's hand. They slipped aside, speaking low beneath Eumelia's watchful eye, as though afraid reunion itself might be stolen away. Many of the women separated between Valkvann and Kattströnd shared this.
Jarl Aeneas strode into the center, laughter booming above loud singing as the dancers circled the Midsommar pole, wearing their ribbons which swayed in the summer wind.
"Let the competitions begin!" he shouted. He seemed proud, like a cat who had finally had its standards met by its owner or had caught the bird who spent days tormenting it, demanding praise. "Tug of War first!"
The officiate emerged; a Shield Maiden who had long since traded raids for the comforts of the hall and her own home. Shorter, sturdy, her frame plumper than most, her face lined with years. Strands of white streak through brown hair which was tied back without care. She paced along the rope laid out on the ground, eyes sharp despite the heaviness in her steps, making certain the contest would be "fair". She never touched the rope.
Volunteers stepped forwards, others were chosen by Aeneas's command.
One side contained Eumelia, Raoul, Hvitserk, and others who arms had already earned their scars.
The other side held Dragmall, Eydis, Venla, and two others from Valkvann, hands closing around the thick hemp.
"We're uneven," Aeneas observed, eyes sliding toward Asvoria. "Join them."
She looked up reluctantly, not bold enough to refuse. She gripped the rope, frowning when her palm came away slick. She glanced down. She could see it, faint but there, shining against her skin. Oil. She clenched the rope tighter, pretending she hadn't noticed.
"Go!" barked the officiate, Gerd.
The rope swayed one way then the other in their hands, the small fabric tied in the center couldn't decide where to call home. Dust rose in clouds, coating arms, throats, eyes. The ends of the long rope lay flat in the trampled earth, dragging.
"Pull, damn it!" Asvoria snapped. Her eyes narrowed, lips drawn thin in concentration.
Dragmall caught the words but said nothing. His jaw clenched as he bore down with all his weight, muscles standing out in thick cords along his arms and shoulders. The veins in his forearms swelled like river roots as he dug his heels deeper.
Svea laughed aloud at first, her voice rising with pride at the sight of him straining, refusing to give in. She was enjoying the sight of his competitive nature. Her laughter turned to a gasp when the rival team wrenched the rope with a vicious yank. Dragmall and his line stumbled forward, collapsing into the dirt in a heap.
"The winners!" Gerd proclaimed, raising her arm toward Raoul, Eumelia, and their side. Her voice carried high, triumphant, feeding the cheering crowd. "Does anyone dare challenge them?"
More teams answered the call, more contests followed. One after another, each ending the same. The rope dragged across the ground, beaten and filthy, its fibers fraying with the weight of too many hands. Each new pull ended in Raoul's side standing tall, their boots unshaken, their laughter swelling as the defeated fell face-first into the dirt.
At last, when no team could dislodge them, Gerd's voice rang out again: "Undefeated champions!" She turned, beaming, to the Jarl. "Shall their strength be honored?"
Aeneas rubbed his chin, turning to Hvitserk. The two leaned together, muttering low, before nodding in unison. "One sheep for each victor!" the Jarl declared at last, grinning. Already basking in the praise of his people before it came.
"How generous of our Jarl," Gerd echoed, leading the teams in clapping before snapping at a nearby slave girl. "You. Clean this up so we may begin the next -"
"Actually, " Aeneas cut in, too quickly for those observant.
The girl had already stooped to the rope, dragging its bulk toward the middle. Her thin arms strained, her body tugged across the dirt in uneven jerks. She gave another pull, teeth gritted, nearly toppling into the place where the champions had stood.
The Jarl continued, "Eumelia is particular about how -" he stopped, only silent when the sharp smack of a hand split the moment.
Eumelia had struck the girl across the knuckles, forcing her to drop the rope. "I will clean this," she said. "Go." The girl obeyed at once, retreating. Slowly, methodically, Eumelia began to loop the rope around her arm, from the crook of her elbow to the space between finger and thumb. She walked it inward, closer and closer to where the ground bore the marks of the game.
Rushing to get the attention of his crowd again, Aeneas called above them: "Horse racing? Archery? Glíma!?"
(*Glíma: wrestling tradition which was recorded during the Viking Age)
"Glíma?" piped up one of the smaller boys in the gathering, his eyes wide with eagerness. "My brother and I will go! I always beat him!" He seized the hand of the older boy beside him, who couldn't believe how eager to humiliate him his brother was, towering a head and more above him
"Oh. . . . I don't think that's. . ." The elder started protesting but Aeneas's approval was more important.
Aeneas, of course, welcomed it. "Glíma it is! Let us watch our future little champion. . . over there!" he cried, sweeping his hand toward the patch of earth Hvitserk had already marked.
The crowd's attention swayed easily toward the new spectacle. They couldn't be blamed. After all, they were there to enjoy themselves. Watching boys compete in hopes they'd been praised as strong upcoming men was part of it.
Svea allowed herself a glance at the boys, then slipped her gaze back to Eumelia. The woman had finished her tidy wrapping of the rope, but Svea's sharp eyes caught what others had missed.
The rope had never truly shifted from the ground during the contest. Now, as she stepped nearer, casually, as though moving toward the wrestling match. Svea spotted it. An upturned stone, half-buried in the soil, pressed into the rope's fibers. Dirt clung thick to its edges.
The undefeated champions hadn't found favor with the gods. They had found favor with the Jarl. That was all.
Eumelia casually dropped her heel down, nudging the stone back into place then grinding away the marks it had left. To anyone else, nothing would appear out of place or suspicious. In her self-assuredness, she failed to notice Svea's silent watch from the corner of her eye.