On the table sat plates of cooked vegetables, desserts, along with meats of every kind. Among them was the slaughtered pig that had been promised, an apple clenched in its mouth.
"It's only fair Svea should take the first piece," Aeneas declared, flicking his hand for a thrall to serve her. "After all, had she missed as Eumelia did, what would we be eating?" His laughter rang, accompanied by a good-natured smile sent to the one he had dubbed "the finest archer in all his lands". Although the smile he gave Eumelia had been intended to soften the jab, she blushed, lowering her head toward the wooden table. Only lifting her mug for a swallow of mead to drown the sting.
"Thank you -" Svea began, but Aeneas pressed on.
Quickly, his eyes took in everyone to ensure they were paying attention to him. "It inspires me to know how many brave souls live beneath my roof, under my care. Talented. . . loyal. For that reason, I offer you the chance to embark on our grandest voyage yet." He grinned, his eyes gleaming.
Finally the true reason he had opened invitations to his land for the festival had come to light. He continued, "Our boat builds have -"
"My lord," interrupted the same girl he had dismissed earlier, "a stranger asks for the master of the hall."
Asvoria's eyes shot up, her brows nearly vanishing into her hairline. She rose at once.
"Remain seated. I will speak to them." She hurried out before Aeneas could reply. He carried on, bragging about the new vessels in his possession, the riches that awaited them over the sea, even the Volva's visions. Anything that could be used to entice the people at his table to take the trip, even the promise of new weapons, was brought up. Leading to the final notice that Raoul would be the commander of the expedition.
It was some time before Asvoria had returned to them. A man walked at her side, closer to her in height than any of the men seated at the table. His hair had been partially braided back, some of the braids running from the sides of his beard to meet the rest, a style both tide and deliberate. Yet Svea's eyes caught onto something past just his appearance. She took note of the way he moved. The grace in each step. His frame seemed more feminine in nature, though no less self-assured.
Asvoria cleared her throat, "This is Fjorvi. He will be joining us for dinner." Her voice was careful not to resurface any of her earlier anger. She gestured toward the seat beside her, while some turned their attention to the newcomer; others kept up their conversations, too wrapped up in their own laughter to care.
Without thinking, Svea leaned closer to Dragmall, glancing over his plate as she ate. He placed a hand on her thigh, patting it gently to keep her calm. He was sure Svea was struggling being around a Jarl as long as she had been. She watched his hand for a moment, then looked up to the long table, taking in the faces around it. The noise pressed in from every side with voices overlapping, laughter, and eating.
Lidwina of Valkvann laughed, dropping her head back with a grin, her sight fixed on the rafters of the great hall. She snorted when her neighbors would lean in to spread gossip she could not in good conscience ignore. Couples around the table flirted shamelessly, touches between them growing bolder with every emptied cup of mead that took hold.
Around the hall, the groups mingled into their own worlds - some locked in drinking games, others singing or testing one another with riddles that fueled the joy in the hall before anyone was able to answer. Some didn't understand the conversations but circled the groups like a moth to the light in hopes to capture the warmth between them. Happy simply to be part of it.
People cycled to and from the tables: eating, standing, singing toasts to no one in particular - each person celebrated the festival in their own fashion.
Pulling away from the table, Svea was grateful that the noise seemed to be dimming behind her as she crossed toward the far wall where she spotted Fjorvi standing with his arms folded.
"Don't waste your breath," Fjorvi warned her forwardly as he could be, too exhausted from his travel to care. "Asvoria has already told me all I need to know. I only mean to stay the night, if that. No longer." He spoke like one had grown accustomed to moving on, unwelcome wherever he stopped.
Svea lifted the mug she had brought for him. "I don't live here. I've no intention of inviting you to stay." She mused, "I'm only offering a drink to ask what the farthest you've traveled is." She leaned against the same wall, keeping her posture easy, her approach open to test him.
Fjorvi's brows twitched together, wary of whatever game she might be playing, yet he accepted the cup all the same. "There was a place," he began after a sip settled him down, "that took me thirty-seven days and nights to reach. I walked through mountains so green they looked carved by the gods' own hands. Each slope was cut into steps, each step grew food to feed their people. It was as if the mountains were alive, as though Sif had combed her golden hair across the mountains." His eyes softened at the memory of all he had seen. "They grew roots I had never seen. . . like potatoes but sweet, the sun was inside."
Nodding as she listened, Svea's mind conjured up images of what the mountains could have contained. Envy for fertile soil far from her own cold shores came up once more. She nodded encouragingly at his story but did not understand why he had left a land so abundant in food.
On the other side of the room, Hvitserk snapped his fingers to draw Asvoria's attention. "If you truly want to get back in his favor, convince the new man to stay. Join his guard, do something useful. . . Aeneas is interested." He tried to free himself from the drunken dancers weaving through the hall, clumsily spilling their satisfaction into every corner.
"Better yet, Svea," he added. Lowering his voice with a knowing smirk. "He seems to be interested in either."
Pressing her lips together, Asvoria scanned the room until her eyes found them. Dismayed to see her targets were talking to each-other. She wondered what had happened - before, Svea would have kept mostly to herself. Was this who she had become with the weight of the village on her shoulders? Was Svea doing it to spite her, specifically? She couldn't decide, but did it find strange that she had strayed so far from her husband.
She approached them, taking her time to try and listen in on the conversation before announcing herself.
"What I'm saying is. . . Kattströnd has won nearly every competition here tonight. That must get monotonous. It's our duty to give them some competition, don't you think?" Svea laughed.
Finding truth in the argument, Fjorvi nodded, flattening his lips together and pursing them to the side. "You're right Svea," he decided as he set his mug down. "Tell you the truth. . . I don't like how things are here from what I've seen," he said, eyeing a few of the thralls working in the area. Although it was common, thralls were not comfortable for everyone. Fjorvi included. "I'm not much of a fighter either. I suppose I'd prefer the quiet day-to-day. I enjoy travel, learning. . ."
"Which is welcomed with us," Svea promised. She smiled, "Odin always has a home amongst his people."
She said this teasingly. It was well known that the god Odin would visit the realms to travel and learn.
Fjorvi smiled, licking his lips with a small chuckle. Taking another drink, he clinked his mug to hers. "Then I will join you."
"Join her? In what?" Asvoria interrupted, making their little line into a triangle as she stood with them, a confused smile at the agreement that had taken place. "Fjorvi, Jarl Aeneas would like to extend his invitation for you to stay with us -"
"I've accepted to visit Svea's village and possibly stay there. Please, give my regrets," Fjorvi said, glancing at Svea.
"Clearly, we need all the help we can get in the competitions next year," Svea claimed, keeping her words light in the charged moment.
All conversations faltered as a young man rushed into the great hall, shouting: "My lord! My lord! News from -"
Although the message wasn't meant for him, Raoul was the first to move. He seized the young man by the arms as the messenger nearly collapsed from his running. The young man wasn't sure how his legs had carried him; all he knew now was that they burned.
"You'll speak to me! What has happened?" Raoul demanded.
Hesitant to respond but left with no other choice when his eyes fell on the Jarl who had not yet risen from his seat, the boy found no other choice. He swallowed, summoning all of his bravery. He turned back to Raoul, words tumbling from his mouth in panic at the heavy words he had brought. He told them the tale of the raid that had gone out but hadn't returned. At first, his account shared their victories: how Aeneas's men had stormed the coast, claimed riches from nearby dwellings, how they found success in every strike. It wasn't until they had gone back to their boats, stopping at a smaller village to feed their greed that everything had changed.
A wrath had fallen upon them, one the messenger insisted a reversal of Thor's favor. Their men that had been captured had been hung and left to decorate the castle walls as a banner of warning to their comrades. Others were beheaded. He spoke of how few had survived, how only enough to crew a single boat back to Kattströnd if they took on twice their usual work. Entire families were gone. Those captured to be sold as thralls had been forced to bow to a foreign god.
Even through his trembling, the messenger swore on their behalf that most had resisted - they had died defiant, loyal to their blood.
The hall had grown still.
The music had stopped.
Laughter had filled the air only moments before, now the crackle of the heart was the only one brave enough to breathe in the room.
As the silence deepened, the fire in Jarl Aeneas's eyes began to stir.