Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before Ymir,
Or ocean moved,
Earth was not nor sky,
nor green – Gap gaped.
-Völuspá

Music: Fòrn by Sagason, Herkunft, Askadia

Long before the world took shape, there was nothing but the void. This darkness of infinite silence came to be later known as Ginnungagap. The yawning abyss that lay between the realms of Muspelheim and Niflheim. This celestial union brought forth the birth of Ymir, the first frost giant of the expanding universe, and thawed Auhumla, from her frigid imprisonment on Niflheim. As centuries passed, Auhumla met Ymir in a fragile state, promising him that she would give him her milk. Ensuring Ymir’s survival until the time of the predetermined legacy arrived. The thawing of Niflheim continued, and Búri appeared. Known as the first of the gods and father to all other beings, he walked the frozen plain of the ancient world until falling beneath Hárm enchantment.

Time continued and stopped and the birth of Odin became known throughout the realm. Soon after Vili and Vé followed right after their brother and were introduced as the new gods of the astral planes. The age of nothingness and the dawn of creation continued without threat until Ymir revealed himself. Centuries of bloodlust oozed from his very pores, the blood of the ancient kin. Odin and his brothers slew Ymir to protect their kin from needless slaughter. However, upon beholding the vast expanse of the frost-giant corpse, they began to shape the world. From his flesh they formed the earth; from his blood, the seas; from his bones, the mountains; and from his skull, the sky.

The first humans to tread upon the new plane of existence were the Ohara ætt. The males are direct descendants of Odin himself showcasing his strong will, immense strength, and the honor of death. The women, carrying the sacred bloodline of Freyja the goddess of love, beauty, and seiðr magic become the eyes of the gods and the voice of the mortals. Creating a ætt revered and feared across the realms of mortals. Both sexes of the ætt were trusted with a rare gift that only their bodies would be able to withstand: the djǫflaber also known as devil fruit.

The Ohara ætt lived for centuries among the gods in Asgard. Serving as the ancient guardians of the powerful runes’ scriptures and relics, forbidden to ever gaze eyes upon. However, in the unquenched desire to discover the secrets of the world they broke their vow upon gazing at these sacred runes. Uncovering a forbidden prophecy that would rewrite the current world that they had come to know. An ancient prophecy that spoke of the coming of the end of the world that they knew --Ragnarök.

In the attempts to seize the cataclysmic apocalypse to occur, they attempted to alter fate by manipulating the threads of destiny and seiðr to change the grim future they had foreseen. In this act of defiance that was revealed, it was seen as an ultimate betrayal of the gods’ trust. An unforgivable sin of intruding on the natural order and the sacred laws bestowed upon them from Yggdrasil.

The ætt was banished from realms of gods, forbidden from ever approaching the World Tree. Due to the god's fear of releasing a premature Ragnarök to mankind and bringing forth the destruction of the nine realms.  

The Ohara’s made their way across Bifröst as the entrance of Asgard disappeared to the depths of their mind as they lived among the humankind in Midgard. Centuries passed and the ancient tales of the first ætt were long forgotten along with the legends and guarded secrets they had once kept.

Yet, the Oharas never forgot.

They continued teaching their children the language of the gods. An ancient blood binding was later made, ensuring that the sacred tongue would never leave the ætt. Soon afterward, teachings of the Norse language were shown, allowing the protection of the divine dialect to remain hidden until death.

After the banishment of the ancient clan, there was talk from the gods in Asgard. A prophecy that made even the goddess Freyja tremble as the vision fell upon her.

In the coming century, a powerful völva will be born among this banished group, destined to shake the nine realms.

Bringing forth a disturbance between gods and mortals alike.

The name would etch itself upon the sacred trunk of Yggdrasil, heralding the end of days.

Their name would be ᚱᚢᛒᛁᚾ. 

Chapter Text

From the ashes of Yggdrasil's roots,
Freedom blooms anew.
- Unknown

Music: The Echo and the River by Bear McCreary, Sophia Brown

‘You may not leave little one’

“She’s going to eat me Ullf! They said she hasn’t had a full meal with children’s bones since she’d arrived!”

‘Would you like me to save you trouble and eat you first? I'm starving,”  the large grey wolf pulled back his lips, revealing its sharp teeth.

“Ulf that is enough, stop teasing the boy,” a light voice called out, deep within the darkened corner of the hut. The sound of rummaging and grunting only unnerved the child more as he held his breath, waiting for the wrinkled white-haired völva to come and devour him whole. Instead, much to his shock, emerged a young woman, her hair as black as a moonless night, flowing down her back in intricate braids.

Her piercing black eyes glanced up at the boy as she made her way up to him, reminding him of the deepest part of norðrhaf he wished to sail over just like his father and grandfathers had the year before. She was adorned in a deep purple cloak, as dark as the sky amidst the dusk, while the ends of the cloth glowed a small light from the golden threads along the edges. The child could not stop staring, his look of fear soon turned to one of curiosity as his eyes did not waver from hers.

“You don’t look like you could eat me,” the child accused, almost saddened by the fact he wouldn’t be able to run back to his friends depicting the heroic tale of how he barely escaped the child-eating witch that lived in the hut but never came out. 

“Unfortunately, children are not very tasty for me. They squirm too much,” Robin teased, chuckling softly as the boy’s bright rosy cheeks slowly fell to one of ash-stricken worry.

‘She is jesting boy, she is here to heal you, not to eat you.’ Ulf hummed from the back of his throat, chewing on the piece of jerky he had found in the satchel of the human child, a reward of sorts for himself.

“No, today I am here to help mend that axe wound in your arm,” staring at the deep jagged wound, showing signs where the axe was removed frantically, tearing at the skin angrily leaving red streams in its wake. Leaning in closer she was able to view the dark muscle beneath the pooling blood that seemed to have dried, crusting the child’s hand in the attempt of squeezing it shut.

“What were you doing with father’s axe?” she questioned, grabbing handfuls of yarrow leaves and less than a spoonful of lysi, before throwing them into the pot beneath the boiling sun.

“Faðir said that when he came back, he’ll take me out to sea! Though only if I’m strong enough. So, I tried to prove to my younger siblings that I could go with him, once summer past the skies! But this gash shows I’m not ready yet,” he whimpered hanging his head in shame.

The völva hummed in understanding, finishing her inspection of just how deep the wound proved to be. 

“You are quite strong, do not doubt that. Any other would have come screaming in pain of the wound, but you walked in headstrong with the only worry that you would be eaten,” the sound of the pestle mashing the yarrow rang throughout the hut.

“Are you speaking true?”

“Aye, you are the son of a Viking. Though to be a Viking you must have all your limbs attached to you,” Robin joked, placing a small bowl next to the child. Grabbing some salve, she gently cleansed the wound until the deep red gash turned a light pink. Satisfied with the cleanse, she grabbed her needle and thread.

“Ulf, please grab a rag and bring it to the boy,” Robin ordered her grey-furred companion.

Slowly rising from his seat he sauntered to the rag basket near the hearth and grabbed the thick sheep-skinned cloth. Before plopping it on the mini human’s lap.

“What is this for?”

“For you to bite on, and I suggest biting hard,” the völva directed, before looping the thin pig intestine through the eye of the needle.

She pinched the two open folds of the wound together and began to sew. The child’s muffled cries rang out through the hut. Robin tried to drown out the sound, yet it all sounded too familiar. It was not the blood that began to bloom from the wound, that pushed on her chest to seize her breathing.

It was his screams.

The heat of her home.

The sound of the flickering flames beneath the pot, where the breakfast meal smelt of burning flesh.  

‘Robin’ Ulf warned, the sound of his deep rumble bringing her senses to the present. She shifted her gaze to the tear-streaked child, gripping the table with all his might to not wail a single cry.

“Do not worry kærr, I am almost done,” she cooed, squeezing his leg as she administered the yarrow slave, coating the swollen and tender fleshed seam pulled tight but firm.

Pulling away from the wound, she released a puff of air she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. Squeezing her small patient's leg, he peeled one eye then the other, revealing the pools of water that remained unshed, determined to not seem weak if a single tear fell.

She could only chuckle at his strong demeanor. Something that she lacked.

“Now Irick be careful with your arm, head straight to your móðir and tell her you are alright, and not do the same foolish act once more!” She scorned as he gave her the biggest smile. The only payment that she accepted from the young.

“I will! Thank you!” Irick yelled in glee, yelping in pain at the reminder he was still wounded.

Robin smiled as he ran out of the hut before turning back to the crimson that pooled beneath her kitchen table, stomach churning at the sight.  Dragging her feet to the kitchen, the scent of iron slowly began to spread throughout the house like the slaughterhouse down the road of their small home.

‘I do not understand why you take on the duty of a healer if you are not fit to see wounds,’ Ulf scolded, walking up to where his human companion crouched cleaning the spill of red.

“Crocodile does not have a healer, this is how I can repay him. Even if my knowledge of healing is limited.  I give him thanks for taking us in 20 years ago, and you should too.” Shooting a glare behind her shoulder. “If not, we would have been dead either from starvation or from our first winter alone.”

‘Thanks, is what we must give him for putting these collars around our necks like common thralls?!’  he bellowed pawing at the iron collar, glowering at Robin with piercing red eyes.

“Yes! This is a thanks Ulf!” Robin touched upon the cold weight hanging around her neck, its rusted patches chafing her skin. Reminding her to salve the irritated patches left raw around Ulfs neck later this evening.

“Because of this, we look like common thralls, no one will come after, us or even know where to search for us. What we are, who we are is to remain buried.”

Rising from her crouched position, Robin began making her way to the end of the hut, grabbing the satchel that carried her life, along with the woven basket to carry the bloodied bandages and rags she used on Irick.

“Come, we’re going to the river to wash the rags and refill our supply of herbs we are running low.”

Ulf shook his fur before making his way to her side, gently taking hold of the basket filled with bloodied rags, in his mouth.  

“I also must pay a visit to Jarl Crocodile before we head down to the river, he sent Daz Bonez earlier before Irick arrived to meet him at the longhouse.”

‘Must be urgent if he sent his trusted right hand’ Ulf commented, equally concerned by the sudden call from the hövding himself.

“Enter,” a deep bellowing voice called from deep within the Jarl’s massive hut. The völva opened the door, only to be met with a towering figure casting a shadow over her frame. Crocodile stood gallant and fearsome with his broad shoulders long and imposing, covered by his dark cloak made of heavy furs, laid tattered on the edges, making note of the countless battles he had fought over his life to gain his esteemed title. His hair, long and unruly was tied back in a warrior’s braid, streaked with colors from the earth and sun.

His left hand lay still by his side as it was replaced by a cruel iron hook, gleaming in the sunlight from the opening above the hut. His smile always unnerved her to her core as he sauntered up, his finger caressing the flying strand of raven hair between his forefinger and thumb, gazing at the beauty of his property. He released the flying stray and roughly grabbed her chin, digging his fingers into the thrall's soft skin. He tilted her head, forcing her eyes to meet his as he caressed her smooth rosy cheeks with his soiled thumb. Crocodile harbored a strong fascination with her, bordering desire for her.

She was one of power that could be felt from the moment she stepped into a room, a raw strength tainted by something as ancient as when the gods had first walked on Midgard. It intrigued him, more so captivated him. From the moment he laid eyes on her, nothing more than skin and bones wrapped in her mutt's fur outside of Lokkstrang, he decided against his normal amusement of beheading her and took her into his own home.

The Jarl of Lokkstrang was more than generous, sheltering them from the strongest winter since Ymir walked the land so it was more than frustrating that she refused to lie with him. It was her duty as his thrall, and his compensation for his generosity of allowing her to stay her, with the only charge of him being able to bed her. Yet that damn beast followed her like a shadow, snarling in warning as the air of a twitch was sensed from that bloody spawn of Fenrir. For now, he found his twisted satisfaction in watching her fidget beneath the collar in discomfort. 

Robin gagged beneath his suggestive touch, loathing the smell of iron and decaying flesh that lingered on him. The stench threatened bile to rise from her throat, but Robin choked back her revulsion, unwilling to give any indication that he unnerved her. Her eyes met his void of emotion, teetering on defiance, wishing that his putrid hand would ignite in flames.

She was his thrall bound by iron chain, but not his toy of enjoyment.

Displeased by her lack of fear, he jerked her chin away in irritation. Causing the thrall to stagger back, irritation flashing for a second before composing itself back to a lack of expression anew. 

“You took your time arriving Nico Robin,” Crocodile grumbled, his deep gravelly voice reverberating throughout the lonesome building.

“Where is your pet?” he peeked behind her, noting the absence of the spawn, who was always glued to his völva's waking side.

“He stayed outside, it seemed that the matter was urgent, so I came in alone to discuss it with you.”

“Wise of you to do, the matter is somewhat urgent.” The Jarl walked over to the table, pulling out a chair, gesturing with his hand for Robin to sit at the front of his desk. She ignored the gesture, adamant about sitting especially behind these close quarters even if Ulf was just steps away from the longhouse. 

"Suit yourself thrall," Crocodile spat, causing her heart to flinch every moment that word was thrown in her direction. Olvia would have cried to view that the great Ohara's prodigy, her only daughter, now rotted in the clutches of unhonorable Viking filth.

“Someone is coming to see you, he is looking to bring a talented völva back to their clan, in the hopes of assisting an unresolved problem that seems to be growing,” Crocodile sighed, leaning back as he rubbed the corners of his eyes from the lack of sleep. 

“Though we will be coming along, in case they decide not to return you. He will be coming later when the sun is near setting. Be packed by then.”

Robin stared at her Jarl, question written on her face.

“What is it? You seemed confused by my simple orders.” Crocodile slightly fumed, the iron collar growing hot beneath his smoldering gaze.

She winced in pain from the heat, “Did he say what sort of problem needs to be resolved?”

“No, he did not he stated that he did not wish to elaborate until he arrived. He should be here in less than a day now, so finish up any previous errands you needed to run, meet me here by sundown.”

The collar grew cold, the pain had resided.

Robin walked out of the hut, a deep uncertainty settled beneath her ribs, unaware of what sort of issue needed to be resolved that required her specifically to be involved. Yet, the chance of her walking out of this village ignited a small hope within that she had thought had been dispelled long ago. 

Music: Rise Up O Flame, Kiki Rockwell

‘He didn’t elaborate further?  No reasoning of how they found out about you?’

“No, that’s what concerns me the most,” Robin bit her lip, wringing out the bandages before handing them over to Ulf as he gently grasped them between his jaws. They had been washing half of the day, next to the flowing river somewhat near their home.

‘No one is to know about you, we settled down in an abandoned hut to not be found unless sent by the Jarl himself,’ the wolf shook the water from his coat ‘Perhaps it was him who sent word, the price must have been mighty high for him to be offering our services.’

“It brings the question, what is it that they must have resolved so desperately to be in search of a specific völva,” Robin muttered more to herself than to a friend, wringing the last of the bandages.

“Do you think they know who I am Ulf?” Her heart stopped, the fear climbing to her throat as she clutched the last of the bloodied laundry.

‘We can never be sure, any price can be paid. It depends on just how high they are willing to pay.’

Robin cleansed her chin, wanting the grip of her Jarl off her skin, feeling small ants dance upon her skin in disgust. She threw down the leftover fabric, irritation spreading through her. She was a völva, one who came from a respected clan, an ancient clan, yet here she was scrubbing bandages, an iron collar bound onto her neck, as a Jarl lusted over her frame.

“Do you wish we stayed with our family instead of running Ulf?”

Ulf tilted his furred head.

‘What do you mean?’

“I know Mother yelled for me to live, but there’s someplace within me that wished I stayed. I don’t deserve to be walking around content with this life that I have when I know that other villagers in Ohara deserved it more Ulf,” Robin whispered as she gazed at the rushes of water that splashed about the air, allowing the flecks of water to fall upon her face to feel the motion of crying that she felt within her heart.

‘Robin-‘ Ulf began when his collar broke from his neck.

Their eyes widened in shock, staring at the iron chain split in half beneath their feet.

“Ulf what have you done! Your collar-“ a breeze tickled Robin's neck in agonizing relief, the first time in 20 years.  As they watched her collar tumble towards the ground.

“Ulf our collars! They’ve been unchained! Has the Jarl decided to let us go?!” she breathed in disbelief, running to her best friend, and nuzzling her face into his furry neck.

‘No, there is something wrong in the air. The scent of burning hay seems to be growing stronger,’

“What do you mean burning-“

A high-pitched scream pierced the stilled sky.  

A dark grey haze hovered above them.

Robin scanned the landscape until her eyes landed on a village.

Her new home.  

“Ulf, the village…”

‘We must take this chance to escape Robin, we won’t have another chance!’  

“Then you flee, but I cannot have a repeat for a second time!” Robin bellowed before grasping her skirts into her fists.  She dashed in the direction where the scent of burning wood grew stronger. While the darkened storm clouds of ash slowly began making their home on Midgard.

Suddenly her legs seemed to be lifted off the ground, replaced by four strong legs. with Ulf grunting in disapproval at his companions rationless.

“Thank you Ulf,” Robin patted his chest, making headway into the flames.

Chapter Text

Yggdrasil’s ash
hardship suffers
greater than men know of;
a hart bits it above,
and in its side it rots,
Nidhögg beneath tears it.

- The Lay of Grimnir

Music: Valhalla Rising by Nytt Land

Robin slid off Ulf’s back.

The outskirts of the village reeked of burning flesh mingled with the sharp scent of pine. A stench that, once inhaled, would linger in the mind like a curse, until the unfortunate should finally ascend to Valhalla.  The young seiðr witch clamped her hand over her mouth, the contents of her meals threatening to spew out, as charred flesh clung and invaded her senses. She couldn’t contain her nausea, the wisp of charred skin settling comfortably beneath her nose. Forcing her to hurl the fish and fresh yarrow she had eaten hours prior onto the ground.

‘Robin—’

She shot her palm against his snout, silencing his concerns. The muddle of tears from her forced heaving finally settled, as she wiped the remaining traces of her weakness with the back of her hand. Before finally settling her eyes on the devastation in front of her. She hadn’t known what to expect when they rode into the ashen fog, but this – this was the one sight she prayed to the sky to never witness again. Robin took a step back, clutching her cloak. The last remaining gift of her late mother entrusted her before the mirror of the imagery reflected off her memory into the inferno of her reality.

The fire snarled, his ember hands grabbing anything in sight to fuel his rage that set him loose among Midgard. The heat seared against her skin, tinges of pain itching up her cheek in a familiar embrace. As if the fire itself was an executioner sent from Asgard, intent on punishing her kind for sins against the gods.

But, she would not bow down. Not yet, will the cold embrace of Hel’s underworld consume her. She willed a first step, then another before running into the wall of raging embers.

“Is anyone alive?! Please come out we are here to help you!” Robin cried out, her voice breaking into fits of coughing as soot and ash danced in the air, filling her lungs with a deep agonizing burn.

‘We must turn back!’ Ulf urged the stench of ash and sweet flesh screaming in anguish against his coat. Robin grabbed some of the leftover dampened bandages, wrapping them around his snout and her own.

“We must continue further, there could be survivors!” she gasped, her throat raw from the soot. Robin turned back, venturing deeper into the village. Whose heat even challenged the underworld realm of Surtr. Her breath slowly began coming in ragged gasps as the former thrall forced her steps into the flames. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, as the memories of the past slowly resurfaced in familiarity.  Past conversations she pushed back down into the depths, of relatives and familiars whose faces she couldn’t remember but their screams were carved deeply into her soul as punishment for remaining alive. Taking the place of those who could have used their life for a greater good, rather than her own.

She knew it was her duty to carry, something to be proud that she carried the legacy of the Ohara clan coursing through her veins. A prayer that always hummed as a gentle pulse, yearning to be spoken aloud once more in the tongue of the ancient. Though she couldn’t -wouldn’t-bring herself to utter those words aloud.

Her mind battled against the past and present until something distinguished not wood nor beaten dirt kissed the bottom of her heel. Slowly Robin lifted her leg, finding a singed cloth, the edges now curling and frayed from the intense heat. Just this afternoon she had wrapped it around the arm of a boy who dreamed of sailing the seas as a warrior with his father. Now it lay beneath her feet, pleading for release as the blood that splattered against it bore its flecks into her mind.

“Irick.”

His smile and unwavering eyes tore at her heart, prickling the back of her neck in anguish as she reached for the cloth when a small glint caught the corner of her eyes. A golden hook, and a fur coat covering a mound beneath it. Robin slowly made her way towards the mound, lifting the cloak to reveal a corpse, consumed by the flames. A grotesque silhouette that barely resembled the man she had known for so many years. The body laid hunched over, limbs frozen in a final desperate plea. The skin blackened and cracked, peeling away its layers of flesh to reveal raw, scorched muscle beneath.  His face, or what remained of it, was fused as an expressionless mask. His mouth was lax open in a silent scream. Robin stared at Crocodile's remains, as his burnt hair and crisped flesh clung to the air around them.

‘Is that…’  he couldn’t bare to finish the thoughts that wavered against his throat, for the reaction that he had been greeted upon was confirmation of who this wrap had belonged to, along with the mound of charred flesh. Robin gripped his gray fur, steadying herself from the grotesque reality before them.  

“It’s worse than I imagined. We must venture deeper. There must be someone in need of help, I refuse to believe everyone has been burnt in such a short amount of time.” Her voice was trembling but determined.

‘Unless they were already dead by the time we arrived,’ Ulf countered, raising the question if they always had been too late. ‘It would be almost impossible that anyone could have survived this, Robin.’

“I survived, and that’s enough to hope that someone else could have too.” Robin quipped, her eyes hardening in resolve, before venturing further into the graveyard.

Robin no longer could dispose of the contents of her stomach, only the retching dryly as they continued. They had begun to explore some of the huts on the opposite outskirts of town, seeing if there were remaining survivors who needed their assistance or in need of aid. The first hut they entered; Robin disposed of the rest of her afternoon meal. Intestines of the elder fishermen were smeared across the wall, reflecting an almost neon red in contrast to the mudded wall. His single, detached eye stared at her silently stared at her in silent horror, as its other pair laid across the room. His torso had been ripped open so viciously, that the man that gifted her fish to snack upon, became unrecognizable.

The second hut they entered; Robin was forced to part with what remained of her breakfast. The midwife’s home was in disarray, her severed head wrapped in the very swaddles used for newborns, hung eerily gazing at her helplessly. In her mouth were the stuffed remnants of the birthing chants, along with the sacred rune Robin had gifted her, inscribed with a prayer from Freyja to guide the children to a long life. In return for the gift, she was granted extra wheat bundles for the coming winter. As Robin’s eyes swept the room, her face contorted to horror, as the midwife’s dismembered hand was outstretched – frozen in its final, futile plea for help. But no one had come. They were all suffering similar fates, unaware of the screams that blended with the rage of the flames that ate at their home.

“Allfather…” Robin gasped, barely able to contain the sob rising in her throat.

When they reached the last hut, Ulf refused to enter. He knew what awaited inside and could stomach no more.

Robin understood.  

She felt the same way, as she stared at her hands, now stained crimson from the endless death that had greeted them like an old companion. She forced herself into the remaining home spared from the fire. A cry of of despair slipped her lips as she gazed upon the corpse that laid against the floor.

Irick’s mother.

Clutching an axe. The same axe.  With only a few hours prior, injured her son in a moment of innocence. Now buried deep into her chest, pushed in by someone as she struggled to push it away. The last act of defense before death claimed her.

She stepped out into the opposite inferno, her face reflecting the same-colored ash that fell from the sky, almost like snow upon their faces.

‘Anyone?’

“No one,” Robin whispered, her voice hollow. “In a way, I’m grateful I could not find any children in their homes. However the same couldn’t be said for their parents or guardians. What in the world occurred while we ventured only half a day out to the river?!”

‘I don’t have the answer, you know that. We can’t help but return to our own abode to see if some had fled to it, as a last resort.”  He nudged her back, beckoning for her to mount his back, but the seiðr remained still, unbudging as she stared deeper into the village town.

“You may go, I need to continue.”

‘Robin—’

“You may return, I will not allow a single soul to be left behind to save myself Ulf,” she cut him off, unwilling to face him for she knew that she would collapse in fatigue that overwhelmed her. She made her way further into the smoldering smoke, as the lone grey wolf watched her, knowing that he could not leave his savior out into the embers alone. He began making his way behind when something curved beneath his foot, he raised it, finding a particular object. Gently nipping it between his lips, he ran up right behind his companion as a shadow of night.

“Impossible.”

Robin stared at the dying fire, as she stood in the middle of hundreds of mounds of charred and mauled corpses. No sign of ever attempting to flee or escape the fate that had befallen them. The once vibrant town now had been reduced to scorched earth, as faces that she had grown to know from trading, mending wounds, and even in passing now littered the ground with a mass of burnt flesh and bones.

Yet they were all adults, not a single child seemed to have met this cruel end.

‘There isn’t a single child, it’s as if the children mysteriously knew and fled, or someone took them and burned the evidence left behind in case,’ Ulf growled as he pawed his nose, attempting to block the acrid stench of charred flesh from his nose.

Robin clenched the bandage, the parrels of the incident ringing a bell in the back of her mind. She crouched in front of her companion, gently pushing the cloth beneath his snout.

“Sniff this, there are traces of blood still stained from his wound.”

‘Very well.”

He sniffed into the fabric, the smell bringing out almost a bloodthirsty reaction, as the odor of something putrid clung onto his snout.

“What is it?!” Alarmed by his reaction, she retracted the cloth instantly, hastily shoving it into her beaded sack. The wolf pawed at his nose, pushing into the scorched ground, welcoming the scent of ash and burning rather than what had clung to his nostrils. Slowly, he raised his head meeting his master’s bright eyes, the uneasiness that had crawled up his neck, causing his fur to stand on edge, finally subsided.  

‘There’s a lingering scent on the cloth, something ancient and decayed. Predating to the time gods still walked among the land, and it isn’t friendly – its bloodthirsty Robin…’

“This thing took Irick?”

‘Not just Irick. I smell the fisher’s daughter, the blacksmith’s son, the midwife’s twins, and the other children. Their scents linger, all carrying the same emotions.”

“And that is?”

‘Fear.’

A chill ran down her spine, despite the oppressive heat from the smoldering village.

The children…they were taken. Not killed. Taken.

“Are you sure they’re alive?” her voice quivered, barely a whisper. “But why? What could they want with them? More than half of them are tied to Viking men who are still currently out at sea. What do those that took them have to gain?”

‘This might bring some light to the situation,’ he murmured, dropping a small charm at the front of her battered feet, glinting off the burning light from the near distance. She gingerly grabbed it, noticing the smoothness over some areas and ridged on others, encapsulating just how long it’s been rubbed before the battle. Robin tilted the amulet trying to read the scripture that bordered along the skin of the serpent.

‘ᚦᛁ ᚼᛅᚱᛏ ᛒᛁᛏᛁᛋ ᛁᛏᛋ ᚱᚢᛏ, ᚦᛁ ᛏᚱᚢᚾᚴ ᛁᛋ ᚱᚢᛏᛏᛁᚾᚴ, ᚦᛁ ᛋᛁᚱᛒᛁᚾᛏ ᚴᚱᚢᛒᛋ ᛒᛁᛚᚢᚢ ᛒᛁᚴᚴᛁᚾᚴ ᚠᚢᛦ ᚱᛁᛚᛁᛅᛋᛁ. ᚢᛁ ᚼᛁᛁᛏ ᚦᛁ ᛘᛅᛚᛁᚴᛁ ᛋᛏᚱᛁᚴᛁᚱ'ᛋ ᚴᚱᛁᛁᛋ.’

Artwork by: 🌞Sunny🌞

“The hart bites its root, the trunk is rotting, the serpent crops below begging for release. We heed the Malice Striker's cries,” the seiðr mumbled beneath her breath, the words almost foreign on her tongue.

These were writings of a runic scripture she had not seen since she was a small child. Yet, what was it doing on an amulet of a warrior, one who assisted in the capture of innocent children? It’s when she finally noticed the imagery where the scripture laid engraved did she understood. The serpent’s eyes stared back, cold and unrelenting, its fangs teasing her with the sting of death she had escaped 2 decades ago. He had returned to collect.  

Robin’s breath caught as the amulet seemed to burn—not her hand, but her mind. Igniting memories, she had hoped she’d long buried as its red jeweled eye gleamed with wicked joy.

Yes. It taunted. We have returned for you, Nico Robin.

Her veins ran ice cold, hurling the cursed thing into the ground. She stomped on it, her heel grinding it into the dirt, crushing the past it awakened within her. The serpent's gaze lingered in her mind, mocking her with its bloodlust.  

‘Do you sense unease from the amulet?’

“Do you not recognize it Ulf?!” Robin pointed at the amulet, her voice shaking. “Look at the symbol, it's them.”

Ulf stepped closer, his eyes widening in disbelief as the realization coated his eyes.

‘It can’t be…’  

“There were no signs, but I should have known,” Robin muttered, her voice thick with anger. “Damn it. I should have known…” Robin pulled at her scalp as angry tears seared down her face. Questions could only run through her mind, faster than she could understand her own muddle thoughts. Her eyes stared at the sea of flames, waves of corpses that came up to bear their farewells in agony, their fate torn from their grasp. Grandmothers who watched over the young, mothers who had just given birth to newborns, elderly men who survived the rage of battles who craved to fish at peace by the sea and their children, never to see their mothers again.

All were taken by a handful of barbarians who defied even the Allfather, deciding themselves they would rule Hel’s title of God of Death.

We heed the Magic Striker’s cry. They said, in ancient scripture, something that only she should be able to discern and read. A buried language she thought no others would know unless one of her own was with them. Though that could only mean, she isn’t the last survivor of the Ohara clan like she originally believed.

“Ulf,” Robin said, her voice now steady, though every inch of her being trembled with fury.

‘Did you sense something else?’

“No, it's only but a thought. We must follow those who dropped this. It’s written in ancient runic, something that only I can read. They have someone either beneath their grasp or they have voluntarily decided to assist them. While not ignoring the fact they have begun taking children. I will not stay quiet no longer.” No, she wouldn’t. Too long she had hidden in the shadows, hiding from the fate that befell her. She no longer wanted innocent blood to be spilled, nor did she have any other children to face the reality she had to endure with the destruction of her own livelihood. If this was to be her penance for living instead of dying as she should have, then she would make it worth her death.

Ulf grunted, shaking his head in opposition to the words that dripped like honey from her lips.  ‘You are talking of facing them. They are shown to have a clan of barbaric Vikings. Who does not mind the fact they would not enter Valhalla.’

“Because they have already sworn their fate to another god. A serpent.” Robin held up the amulet, its viperous eyes glistening in the dim light. “They follow Nidhogg, the destroyer of worlds.”

Music: The Procession by PHILDEL

 One by one, Robin pulled them from the rubble, washing their faces with the river just on the village’s edge. Tears blurred her vision as she cleansed them--the mothers still cradling their stolen children in their stiffened arms, the older men far beyond their prime clutched onto their swords—instead of their rods—in their stiffened hands, refusing to bow down even in death. She knelt down beside a younger woman, her age mirroring her own as her body laid bruised and lifeless. The young woman’s hair once was matted with grey with ash, now flowed past her shoulders like a golden river.

With delicate hands, Robin buried her beneath a mound of stones, placing an engraved stone with a single rune -- ᛉ the rune of protection—atop the burial site. As she laid the final stone on their final resting place, twelve more pairs of hands sprouted from nearby, silently working their way down the burial ground, placing identical runes on each grave.

Ulf, assisting nearby, noticed the sprouting of the extra limbs that seemed almost a figment of his imagination if it hadn’t been for the faint green glow emanating from the runic letters.

“Robin…” his voice low but cautious, afraid to disturb the eerie morning. “You must be careful. We don’t know who could still be watching. Even the ravens…they could be the direct eyes of the Allfather.”

She paused, her fingers lingering over the rune. “It’s necessary,” she whispered, her voice heavy with exhaustion from the night spent preparing the dead for their journey, beyond the sea. It was impossible for her and her wolf companion to do, she didn’t want to use them as her gift. She knew the scorn it brought her back in Ohara—knowing of the scorn it brought. Her people had claimed she wasn’t a true descendant of their clan, but of Stakard's cursed lineage, she refused to hear anything of it, coming home crying into her mother’s skirt every night after her lessons. Yet, Nico Olvia knew it was not her daughter's fault that the fruit had appeared during a cold famine, it was not the time for such a secret or truth to be revealed to others. And so her mother had sworn her to secrecy about the fruit she’d consumed, the djoflaber they called it ---demon fruit, cursed by the gods, banished by the seas. Mortals who borrowed the power of the divine risked being struck down by the heaven, many through history suffered this accursed fate.

She had kept her gift hidden all this time, even during her servitude under Crocodile, but now, “For them, it’s the least I can do,” Robin murmured, rising to her feet. She walked towards the river, cleansing her hands to prepare for the ritual of crossing.

Raising her hands to the sky, she evoked the gods in the chant that lingered from her past – to guide them on their final voyage, beyond the sea.  

“ᚠᚱᛖᛃᛃᚨ, ᚺᛖᚨᚱ ᛗᛃ ᚲᚱᛁᛖᛊ. ᛁ ᛒᛁᛞ ᛃᛟᚢ ᛏᛟ ᛏᚨᚲᛖ ᛈᛚᚨᚲᛖ ᛁᚾ ᚦᛖ ᚺᚨᛚᛚᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚢᚨᛚᚺᚨᛚᛚᚨ, ᚹᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᚦᛖ ᛒᚱᚨᚢᛖ ᛊᚺᚨᛚᛚ ᛚᛁᚢᛖ ᚠᛟᚱᛖᚢᛖᚱ.”

Freyja, hear my cries. I bid you to take place in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave shall live forever.  

The etched runic scripture hummed, wrapping the bodies in an almost deep-green ethereal glow. The air tingled with whispers, carried by the wind with a forgotten language as the burial site of the fallen, became tinged with something almost sacred.

Robin collapsed to her knees, resting upon the scorched earth. Finally releasing the built-up sigh, that slowly turned to wailing sobs as the weight of it all descended upon her. Crushing her chest, almost suffocating her of the realities of the place she called her home for years, even if she was entrapped as a thrall for all those years.

“I did what I could for you,” she whispered to the lone wind. “I hope this is enough.”

The hut was silent, as Robin rummaged the counters and shelves. She packed only what was necessary—light enough to carry but useful for the journey ahead. Ulf’s nose would guide them wherever the children led the trail, so the need to pack minimally was necessary.

She glanced over the hut one last time, her eyes lingering on every detail – the fire where she had huddled for warmth with Ulf on the colder night, the windows that framed the bird's morning calls, the medicinal cabinet stocked with herbs the young me of the village had brought her, their cheeks often tinged with red by fear or shyness, she could never tell. For years she believed in living out her days in quiet servitude, an old thrall, chained to a life of submission. Now, it all felt hollow.

There was no home left for her here, not anymore. But there was a scene of freedom that electrified the air. They weren’t running this time; they were chasing. Chasing the darkness that had tormented her for so long---one she would not allow to steal even more of children’s innocence as they had stolen hers. She would stop this, or die trying. It was the least she could do for a living for so long while others couldn’t.

Peeling back the door, she stepped out of the only hut left untouched by the marauders who had ravaged the village. A cruel twist of fate, one that left no room for laughter or relief.

‘Are you ready master,’ Ulf hummed as he nuzzled up against her skirts. He gazed up at her as she flashed him a small smile, rubbing the back of his ears and gaining a soft growl in approval.

“What did I say calling me that? We’ve known each other far too long.”

She faced the rising sun that began its travel over the sky above, a new day completing the same journey that they would now embrace.

“Where did the scent of the kids lead to Ulf.”

‘Further south. Towards the shoreline of Moberg.’

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”Before even a single step was taken away from their hut, heavy footfalls broke the stilled silence. Ulf’s ears pricked, a vicious snarl ripping from his throat, his fur bristled stepping in front of Robin, blocking her path.

She searched the tree line, her voice cutting through the warm morning air like ice.

“Who are you!” She barked, her hands beginning to cross above her chest.

Out from the trees, stepped a figure—large and broad-shouldered, with wild blue hair that caught in the sunlight like the rolling seas. He raised his hands in surrender, a grimace spread across his face, no doubt from the imagery he had passed through to get to her abode.

“Easy, easy,” the man gazed at her, sending shivers up her spine from his unrelenting eyes.

“I came here looking for a völva. Looks like I might have missed something big, huh?”

Chapter Text

Then said Thrym, lord of ogres:
“Bring in the hammer to sanctify the bride,
Lay Mjollnir on the girl’s lap,
Consecrate us together by the hand of Var!”

-Thrymskvida, Poetic Edda

Music: Deireadh an Tuath by Enya 

'Who are you? My master asked you a question.' Ulf growled beside Robin, his fur bristling as he eyed the stranger that appeared where the buried now lay.

“Woah, easy wolf.  I come here with no ill intentions brave guardian of the seiðr witch,” the man called back, keeping a cautious distance as Robin studied him from afar.

'Sweet words do not work on me, berserker.’

A berserker?

Robin dropped her hands to her side gazing at the large man who towered almost more than six feet, blending in among the trees in the distance. His bright blue hair battling for vibrance against the sky was tied back in a Ragnar braid with the sides shaved clean. While his beard hung in loose braids, save for a single strand of black intertwined with the vibrant blue. Draped over his broad shoulders was the fur of a black bear, yet his upper torso remained bare save for a belt strapped across his chest and torso holding his shield in place, along with a silver axe nestled on his side. 

Robin's eyes held onto the sight of the intricate tattoo that peeked below his cape of fur, that covered his left pec and shoulder, down to his arms. A design of a wolf head its jaws wide for hunger, as detailed knotwork and swirling patterns twisted in a serpent-like shape almost alive in movement, descended down his arm, all the way to the top of his hand.

Just like an iron collar had branded her as a thrall, this branded him as a warrior, yet also a craftsman with the subtle outlines of axes and hammers that were hidden beneath the light blue knotwork of his tattoo.  

‘Robin-‘ Ulf began.

She shot her palm, requiring silence from her companion as she treaded carefully toward the curious figure.

“I must say, having a descendant of Fenrir at your command is quite impressive," the Viking whistled, his sharp gaze tracing the contours of Robin’s raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes. "That must have been some blood pact."

“Enough of this feigned friendliness, who are you? why are you here? You say you’re looking for me, why is it that you’ve arrived only after Lokkstrang demise?”

She crossed her hands across her chest as sprouts of hands appeared, bounding the man’s body with her limbed ropes, if he were to attack, there was some time to run.

‘What are you doing?! You can’t just show that whenever you please!’ Ulf barked, as a brief moment of surprise crossed the stranger's face before dawning his usual grim exterior.

“I was hoping more of a proper introduction, not an interrogation but understandable,” he grunted, trying to shift within the tightening skin-soft bonds.

“Enough of your games berserker. Answer the questions and I shall decide if you’re worth sparing.” Robin bellowed, her tone unwavering as she glowered at him in untrustworthiness.

“What was your name again, descendent of Fenrir?” he smirked. “No matter I shall call you Chopper since those choppers of yours seem ready to tear out my throat.”

‘May I eat him so he shuts up?’

“Not yet,” Robin replied, pushing the man onto his knees with her limbs,  as she stepped closer to him, his hot breath brushing against her face. “Now, answer the questions so I may kill you swiftly after.”

The man sighed. “Forgive me for not showing up the day before. I was sent to take both the revered völva and Jarl Crocodile back to our settlement, where my Jarl is currently awaiting his requested assistance. “

“You’re the man that was sent to receive me for your clan?” Robin asked, her suspicion confirmed.

“Yes, and I’m sorry I arrived so late. If I had known the horrors you would have fallen to again—” the man paused, clearing his throat, as Robin tilted her head in confusion over his choice of words. He was different. He felt sorry for not being able to reach her home. He was bound by her arms, yet he did not resist but embraced the grasp and spoke with her in such strange familiarity.

“What did you say you were called?” Robin murmured curiously as his gaze locked onto hers, as he kneeled before her.

A grin spread across his face, so wide and unexpected that it made her take a step back. His laughter erupted, startling the crows perched in the nearby trees.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself properly.  My name is Cutty Flam but I prefer to go by Franky. And may I presume that you are the Völva Nico Robin, correct?”

She nodded warily, with the knowing knowledge of her name.

“Miss Völva, do you mind easing up on this tight embrace?” Franky asked, still grinning. “I appreciate the warm welcome, but I fear it’s a bit too strenuous...judging by the beads of sweat on your brow.”

Music: Goodbye by Apparat, Soap&Skin

“I underestimated you seiðr, your grip for such a frail thing is not to be challenged,” Franky laughed as he devoured the lamb leg Robin had wrapped for both her and Ulf earlier that day before they were interrupted.

‘Why is he eating the only meat we had’ Ulf grumbled lying near the hearth, his paws beneath his head as he sighed in at the man who now occupied his master’s entire abode.

“Sorry, Chopper!  I promise I’ll make it up to ya once we make it back to my clan,” Franky winked only causing the wolf to growl in response, clearly despising his presence.

“His name is Ulf,” Robin corrected, slight irritation dripping into her voice.  “And you don’t mean you still expect me to come with you back north to your clan, do you?” Robin tilted her head in question, stuffing the remaining herbs she had used on Franky’s meal back into her satchel.

“Of course I do, that’s the only reason why I came from Hestr. To bring you back to my Jarl,” Franky spoke casually, meat flying from his mouth mid-sentence.

‘I thought he was human, not half pig.’ Ulf muttered in the back,  but she paid no heed to his anger towards their guest.

“I’m no longer a thrall Berserker,” turning her full attention to the man who took up more than half of the room with his large frame “ I am no longer bound by an owner's order.”

“Then where were you planning to go before, I arrived?” he asked, his attention now fully focused on her.

“Towards the shoreline of Morberg,” she answered swiftly, as she focused her attention on cleaning up the table and throwing the clay plates into the fire, leaving no trace of their existence within the hut.

“Morberg? Why in Midgard are you planning to head there?” Franky stood from his seat, his voice turning from his light tone, to one more serious. “You think your newfound freedom will last if you go down there? That's where slavers trade! If they catch wind that you’re a seiðr witch, you might as well start praying to the Allfather for whatever time you have left free, woman.” Franky bellowed, throwing the cleaned lamb bone towards Ulf, which he swiftly caught between his jaws.

“I’m sorry Berserker but in honest truth, I barely know you are. You have come for me, but I’m no longer bound by a deed. With that, I will decide where Ulf and I will go next, I must.”

“I am not understanding.” Franky frowned, his confusion deepening as he watched her pace the hut, her movements growing quicker as the daylight began to fade.

“Let me ask you something,” Robin turned to face him. “When you passed through the village, did you notice anything unusual?”

“Just the mounds of dirt and grave marker, greeting you upon the entrance,” Franky replied, his confusion deepening. “Is there something I’m not comprehending?”

“Let me ask another way, what were the sizes of the graves?”

“They were long enough for a typical adults and children…” His eyes widened as realization dawned on him. “There wasn’t a single grave for a child.”

“Exactly,” Robin’s expression turned grim as she nodded, her hands unconsciously touching the cool metal pendant that hid in her bag, still wrapped tightly across her abdomen.

“All the children were taken, and I intend to find them, no matter the cost.”

“The children stolen…was one of your own?” Franky questioned, grabbing the steel axe he left leaning against the table.

“No…but they might as well have been. I’ve assisted in each one of their births, saw them grow, mended them for their carelessness,” the völva hung her head in shame at her lack of strength to save the children when they needed her most, she couldn’t allow these mistakes to repeat themselves once was enough.

“I have to save them, but…” Robin exhaled slowly, before setting her hardened gaze upon his own “We can assemble a truce between each other,” she reached for the axe’s blade, gripping it tightly before dragging her palm across it. Blood welled up from the wound, pooling in the curve of her hand.

“We could make a truce without the need for blood,” Franky stared at the crimson tears that fell from her hand.

“No, this is more than a truce. This will be a blood pact that is fated by our intertwined selves. If you assist us in saving the children, then I will go with you to Hestr and serve your Jarl. I will be bound to you until the terms of this pact are complete.”

“And if I don’t? “

“You will soon find out if you don’t honor this pact, the consequences it will undo.”

The berserker stared at her trembling arms as blood dripped from her hand, pooling on the ground as she awaited his. He touched the singular black strand on his beard, wrapping his mind around the events that unfolded so quickly just from his arrival this morning before clenching his jaw firm. Pressing his palms against his axe blade, he wrapped his large scarred hand around her nimble one, enveloping her in his heated warmth.

Robin closed her eyes and began murmuring a strange language that Franky had never heard, not even from other völva he’d encountered in the past. But was soon distracted by his confusion to the floor beneath him that began to emit a dim purple light, before glowing stronger after each word that slipped from her lips.

‘ᚢᚨᚱ, ᛁ ᚲᚨᛚᛚ ᚢᛈᛟᚾ ᛃᛟᚢ ᛏᛟ ᚹᛁᛏᚾᛖᛊᛊ ᚦᛁᛊ ᛊᚨᚲᚱᛖᛞ ᛟᚨᚦ. ᛚᛖᛏ ᚦᛖ ᛒᛚᚢᛞ ᛊᛈᛁᛚᛚᛖᛞ ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᛟᚢᚱ ᚢᛖᛁᚾᛊ ᚲᛟᚾᛊᛖᚲᚱᚨᛏᛖ ᚦᛁᛊ ᚢᛟᚹ, ᚨᚾᛞ ᛗᚨᛃ ᛟᚢᚱ ᛈᚱᛟᛗᛁᛊᛖᛊ ᛒᛖ ᚠᚢᛚᚠᛁᛚᛚᛖᛞ ᛁᚾ ᛃᛟᚢᚱ ᛊᛁᚷᚺᛏ, ᚾᛖᚢᛖᚱ ᛏᛟ ᛒᛖ ᛒᚱᛟᚲᛖᚾ ᚢᚾᛏᛁᛚ ᚦᛖ ᛞᛖᛖᛞ ᚺᚨᛊ ᛒᛖᛖᚾ ᚠᚢᛚᚠᛁᛚᛚᛖᛞ.’

Var, I call upon you to witness this sacred oath. Let the blood spilled from our veins consecrate this vow, and may our promises be fulfilled in your sight, never to be broken until the deed has been fulfilled.

Their hands began to emit an eerie scarlet glow between them.

Then he felt it.

An indescribable pain from his palm, and up his arm as if the whole left side of his body was being ripped off. He gritted his teeth, as his knees nearly buckled beneath him from the pain. Robin cried along with him, clutching his hand tighter, forcing him to bear the pain until the glow finally subsided and the pain along with it.

Franky stumbled back, clutching his arm to ensure it was still intact. While he flexed his fingers, in disbelief the feeling of the pain had disappeared. Like it had never occurred but he felt it, a burden upon him, almost as if something was watching.  

“Allfather… what did you do?! What was that?!” His voice was hoarse, thick with disbelief.

“A blood pact, one that if broken you die alongside the pact that was made,” Robin murmured as she stared at her hand, the cut now slowing clotting but the stinge of the pain still evident.

“That language you spoke, I’ve never heard of it, never from any other seiðr—”

She shook her head.

“I can’t reveal where I received my training but… it is sacred, a very ancient language once spoken and that is all I will say over the matter.” Robin walked towards the water bin, washing her hands from any dried specks of blood before wrapping her hand in a clothed bandage. Like how she had only done so a day before with Irick, as she stared at the cloth.

“I would like to leave at first light, she called out behind her back as she stuffed the bandages back into her sack.  “And I wish to hear more about what your Jarl is expecting from both me and Ulf,” Robin nodded in determination before walking back towards the hearth where her bed lay near.

“I have one question before you turn into the night Miss Völva,” Franky whispered, his tone almost cautious.

“Yes?”

“Why did you resort to a blood pact, we barely know one another, I could have thrown the thrall collar I have at my disposal and skipped this whole notion. Forcing you to accompany me to meet my Jarl...,” he didn’t complete his sentence, knowing that the empty threat lingered in the air, that could have unfolded if things played out differently.

‘I have the same question’ her guardian stirred deep inside the hut, gazing at them both with watchful eyes.

She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of that but in some form, she just knew he would agree. There was some part of her that felt that whoever this man was that had intentionally come to bring her by force to his own needs, wanted to help. That there was some good that poured from him, and by the Allfather and Freyja she would believe.

“The gods told me a secret..."

Without awaiting a response, Robin turned towards her bed “May the Allfather watch over you, Berserker. Goodnight.”

Music: The Return by CLANN

The völva was left to her sleeping quarters, as the berserker walked outside of the small hut. Staring at the stars, he rubbed the single strand of black raven hair almost identical to the color of the seiðr he had promised to take back home to his uncle.

Was it the same woman?

The same that he cut this strand of hair from.

Franky shook his head, as he sat down against the grassy wall of the hut, leaning his head back as stars gazed at him from far eyes, knowing that the gods used them to view the lives of mortals unfold.

There was still something that ate at his insides as closed his eyes, grasping a pendant he hid beneath his bear-skinned pants, pulling out the face of Nidhogg that their clan so desperately worshipped for the past 20 years. Opening his eyes he stared at the black-eyed serpent that laughed at his turmoil over the mysteries of this völva that began to bring up the past he no longer wanted to remember, the involuntary manslaughter he was forced to take part in, against his wishes.

His eyes lifted towards the forest, knowing deep within is where the parents of many lay, slaughtered by cold hands, a part of him refusing to believe that he somehow knew who it could have been. Franky grunted softly as he rose from his place, walking deep into the fields where the mounds of dirt housed empty souls.

He gazed at the stones with traditional runic scripture, his hands unconsciously tracing the ᛉ rune that was carved in the weathered rock. He bowed his head in silent prayer,  before wandering deeper into the remnants of the village that had once thrived. He entered houses gazing at the splatters of mud red that still stained the ground and walls, depicting the lives that lived here that she assisted in healing over the years.

No less, he knew the work, the individual had time for her to be gone for the open opportunity to take the children. The purpose behind it was still unknown, but it was a start, as he gazed back at the rows of stones.

“This reeks of your stench Winged Reaver.”

Chapter Text

Wise is he not who 
the dead man robs given to the gleaming Gods;
To sinners' breasts to bring the bright Moon
In the days of old, the world went forward
on quick oxen of the air

- Poetic Edda 

Music: Demise of a Nation by Secession Studios

Smoke.

Rusted Iron.
 
The mix of these scents always brought misfortune with it, clinging to the air like a curse. There was never a time that this dissonance of odors brought forth joy. Robin felt the oppressive clash of the odors suffocate her, each one fighting for dominance like Tyr and Surtr in an endless struggle of fire and bloodshed.

She stared into the sea of flames, the flickering light painting shadows across her face, as she trembled while her body lay frozen in its wake. She knew this sight too well—this unrelenting nightmare that refused to fade with time. It wasn’t just a memory; it was a prison. No matter how fiercely she fought, it would drag her back into its clutches, over and over again. Yet, she deserved it, it was her punishment to face.

The night that defined her, that broke her.

'Robin you must escape! Find your Onkel Saul, please ástin mín!’

Her mother’s voice rang out, trembling but firm, a lifeline laced with urgency.

Robin turned toward her, her heart pounding. Her mother stood amidst the chaos, her silver hair catching the glow of the flames like strands of moonlight. Her face, so like Robin’s, was streaked with tears, her expression a fragile balance of love and desperation.

‘Móðir, please do not make me! I can help, please I have trained for this!’ Robin’s voice cracked, her hands balled into fists, her heart screaming against what she already knew was to come.

‘No, not yet  ástin.’  Her mother’s lips trembled into a smile, one that broke even as it formed. ‘You are the strongest of us, but you must live. For us, for our people. If you don’t, then everything is lost. Please, Robin. Run to your Onkel—he may still be near the shore.’

Robin shook her head violently, her sobs choking her words. ‘Móðir—'

Her mother pulled her into a fierce embrace, her arms trembling as they held on for what little time remained. Robin felt her mother’s heartbeat, rapid and desperate before she was pushed away.

‘Run!’

Robin ran. She ran with everything she had, but every step was agony. Her body moved, but her heart remained behind, crying not in pain from fleeing away, but leaving behind the only tie to herself. The face that she woke up to and fell asleep next to since the day she saw the first starlight from above. Who brushed her long dark-void colored hair that she despised so much but made her mother tear up with just how similar it looked liked Robin's father's.

Who sang her vardlokkur of their lineage, reminding her just how special she was as she would caress her cheeks. Who taught her everything she knew, where Robin would study twice as hard to make her proud. Who loved her and would sacrifice her own life just for her own.  

Robin came to a stop.

She stopped because she had to. She turned because she couldn’t bear not to catch a last glimpse of the moon that lit her path.

Her breath caught as she saw it—the flash of a blade, the onyx-haired berserker raising his sword high above her mother.

Time slowed.

The blade screeched in a howling cry.

A head full of silvered strands bounced onto the burnt ground, rolling into a half circle until it lulled as if she was sleeping. The headless body dropped in an instant, her soul intertwining with the rising smoke of the burning huts. There was screaming soon after, but Robin didn't realize that it was her voice that felt unfamiliar to her ears as she stared at her mother's face. One that still wore the familiar smile, even though her tears glistened like molten silver in the firelight. The air then left her lungs in a shuddering gasp, as her knees buckled beneath her.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.

‘There she is! She is who the jarl wants, bring her in.’

The voice snapped her back to her current reality, and before she could process the words, she began to run. Stumbling through the fallen ash and snow, that now lay muddied with splatters of blood and burnt flesh all around. Robin ran until she could no longer distinguish between the growls of the Vikings and the screams of her village. Silence then fell, with the only sound coming from her burning hiccups as her tears streamed down her face. Hot and unrelenting, mingling with the soot that smeared her skin

Her mother. Gone. Gone.

That was all she could think of as the night sky hid her as an unfamiliar cloak.

Music: Man or a Monster by Sam Tinnesz and Zayde Wolf

She didn’t know how long she had been running, weaving through the dense forest as the trees blurred into shadowy figures behind her. The shouts of men filled the air, their voices sharp with fury as they gave chase. Her legs burned like the cold fire in her lungs, but she didn’t dare slow down. Robin glanced back—no one was in sight across the blank snowy canvas.

She had lost them. Relief threatened to overtake her, but she pushed it aside, knowing she couldn’t stop for long.

Robin hadn't noticed her surroundings as efficiently as she thought when a rough hand grabbed her from behind clamping over her mouth. Robin thrashed wildly; her screams muffled against the calloused palm.

'Stop. Shh!’ a low voice hissed, sharp and commanding.

Robin’s eyes snapped open, her breath hitching as she found herself pinned to the ground. Above her was a boy with hair as vibrant as the blue winter sky. His gaze was grim, his expression unreadable, but his weight pressed heavily against her forcing her still.

The sound of Viking voices grew louder, their shouts holding a promise of a grim period of destruction.

‘Did you find her, Flam?!’

‘No, I didn’t! She’s a blasted little rat—hiding somewhere!’

‘Keep searching! If we don’t find her, we’ll burn every one of them! Sköll!!’

The voices of the berserkers faded into the distance, but Robin’s sobs did not. She lay trembling beneath the boy’s weight, her tears melting the snow beneath her.

’I’m sorry… you do not deserve this fate but if you do not pull yourself together at once, your Móðir sacrifice will be for not. This whole village has fallen to protect you, so you must listen very carefully to the words that I say.’

The young Viking whispered right next to Robin’s ear, sending a slight shiver down her sore back. His voice was steady, but a weight to it that carried more than simple duty.


Robin stilled, though the tears still fell in torrents.


‘Your relative may yet be at the shore, but it is unlikely unless I show proof that you have been slain.’


Her eyes widened in shock, a muffled scream escaping beneath his palm as panic gripped her. She began thrashing again, her small frame squirming against his hold.


'Stop that, veslingr! Don’t shame your clan further! I’m not going to kill you!' he hissed, irritation flickering across his aged face.

Robin stilled, though the tears did not.


The boy gave a small nod as if her compliance was a small victory, but his expression remained as solemn as ever. He looked far older than she expected for someone who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than herself.

‘If you would let me, I would cut off a piece of your hair, along with some remnants of blood from the gash above your eyebrow. This is the only way to ensure your escape, once this is done and I have distracted them. You run. Do not look back. Understand?’


Robin gave a hesitant nod, her body trembling as she tried to find her voice. The boy’s stern expression softened ever so slightly as he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.


‘Are you ready genta?’

Robin stared up at him, her eyebrows scrunched in questioning concern.


‘What is it, we don’t have much time genta.’


‘Why are you helping me?’


He froze, her question halting him mid-movement. His eyes, sharp and calculating, softened as they took in her tear-streaked face and puffed eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, before revealing a soft response. 


‘Because dýrr genta, no one should decide your fate but you.’


Robin blinked, her chest tightening at the weight of his words. She didn’t resist as he cut a fistful of her hair, nor when he pressed his blade deeper into the cut on her brow. Her breath hitched at the sting, but when the boy moved his hand toward her mouth offering it to her to bite, she understood.

She bit into his hand as the blade dug deeper. He worked quickly but carefully, his eyes meeting hers briefly with reassurance as if to remind her that this pain was temporary, that it was for her freedom. The blood flowed freely, staining her hair, and the boy used it to craft the evidence he needed.

Quickly he ripped a piece of fabric off his torso, before wrapping it tightly around her forehead to seize the flow of blood that had begun to pool onto the white snow. The mysterious boy stepped back, nodding once more that what he had planned would not surely fail...fail her at least. 

Robin could only just stare at him in amazement at his actions. She had just lost her mother, but this boy from the clan that destroyed her life wanted to assist her in escaping death?

The gods always had questionable humor in the life of mortal humans. 

‘I’ve completed your escape ástin mín genta, I will say that I cornered you on the shore and cut you before you fell into the ocean. This will allow you to leave.' The boy interrupted her thoughts as he slowly rose from his crouched position, sacrificing one last glance towards her. 

He turned to leave in the direction of the rogue barbarians, but Robin’s trembling hand shot out, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. She didn't know why she did, but knew that if she didn't the act would plague her mind. 

‘Wait,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. Her tear-filled eyes searched his face. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’

He hesitated, his features softening for the first time since they’d met. Slowly, he knelt in front of her, his hand brushing against her cheek with a tenderness that felt almost out of place amidst the destruction surrounding them. ‘Forget me, ástin mín genta. But remember this—I will honor your móðir and your clan. I will see to it that they are given the burial they deserve, so the Valkyries may guide them to Valhalla. They died as protectors, as guardians for the gods. Let their sacrifice give you strength.’

Robin’s breath caught, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. She could only nod, not trusting she had a voice to speak.

The boy rose and disappeared into the smoke and snow, leaving her with a heart heavy with grief yet stirred with something she couldn’t quite name.

Music: Fjörgyn by Osi And The Jupiter

Light filtered through the cracks of the dried mud atop the hut, breaking the reoccurring nightmare and the mysterious boy, whose memory constantly looped in her mind.


She was no longer safe, the life she had sheltered herself for years was all gone, in the mere moments that she descended towards the river to cleanse her splattered crimson dressings. It was as if the nightmare bore truth once more, just as the goddess Nott had predicted.


A slight whimper escaped her lips as images of the village and the people she had grown up along with were now laid to rest, only a few fathoms away.


She asked the same question before Ulf had even formed the words, why was she doing this? Robin herself did not have the answer but knew it was buried deep within her chest, hanging in suspension. Freyja awaited for her truth to be revealed, the reason why she felt compelled to find the children, to team with a berserker, and run towards the risk of becoming a thrall once more, not away from it.  

Robin slowly peeled her eyes, only to be met with the shine of the moonlight greeting her in return.

Was it not morning yet?

Rolling over to the edge of her bed, she planted her bare feet onto the cool dirt ground. Softly she stepped around the sleeping wolf she grabbed ahold of her cloak, donning it over her frigid frame, before stepping out of the hut. She glanced to either side, expecting the berserker to be standing watch as he had promised.

But emptiness stood in his place.

The space where he should have been empty, silent except for the faint rustle of the wind through the trees. Robin’s eyes scanned the dark expanse, the silvered light of the moon her only guide. Surely, he wouldn’t have abandoned his post so soon after making their blood promise?

To break it would mean losing his life, those were the consequences following a blood pact.

Was he truly that desperate to shirk his duty of escorting her back to his jarl?

Circling the perimeter of the hut, Robin treaded cautiously wary not to rouse her companion. Ulf’s keen ears could catch even the faintest disruption, and the volva knew better than to disturb his much-needed rest. This was but a problem between their new companion or assailant, depending on what she thought fit behind the reasoning of his behavior. She did not want to admit it in front of Ulf, but something smelt off from the Berserker. Lies wafted off his breath, an odor as intense as the town's annual hunt for sealskins it was putrid.


After a brief search, her gaze fixed on the dark line of the woods beyond, the direction from which the berserker had first emerged. Had he returned to the town, where the smoldering ruins and its fallen souls still lingered, awaiting their flight to Valhalla?

Robin quickly ducked back into the hut, heading for the pack of supplies tucked near her bed. She rummaged through its contents, retrieving a granite-colored soapstone lamp. Beside the hearth lay the remnants of cod liver oil from their meal a fortnight ago; she poured the last of it into the lamp’s reservoir. Striking flint against steel, she coaxed the lamp to life, its orange glow flickering across the walls of the darkened hut. Shielding the light with her body, she kept it hidden from Ulf’s view before turning back toward the door.

The night stretched far, yet the leaves of the forest beckoned her to venture deeper into the forbidding night. A silent prayer was softly whispered into the wind like a gentle kiss before she began her descent into the night.

Their blood pact could not be broken.

She no longer felt welcome in the village she had called home for so many years. The wind howled through the jagged, scorched wood, creating an unholy sound that sent shivers down her spine, prickling her nerves with uncertainty about what now lurked in the shadows of the abandoned homes.

Clutching her cloak tighter against her chest, she let the lamp’s glow wrap her in its warmth, shielding her from the dangers of the night. The silence of the desolate village pressed against her, broken only by the faint crackle of the flame. 

The absence of the blue-haired man whose hair reminded her of the afternoon light remained hidden.

She ventured deeper into what would have been the town square, Robin side-stepped the debris that lay scrambled upon her feet. When a silvered glint reflected upon her eye, slowly she dipped her knees low to the ground, gently lifting the silver axe brooch. It was unfamiliar to her. She had grown up here long enough to have at least spotted the heavy broach. Just by its weight she knew no one could have afforded it, not even the Jarl of the town. 

As Robin continued to ponder deep in thought it had escaped her she couldn't be completely alone. Until a deep throaty growl caught her attention.

Her heart leaped as she stilled, straining to hear more. A moment later, a name—sharp and foreign—escaped the lips of the man she had heard only hours before, in a light-hearted manner.

“This reeks of your stench, Winged Reaver,” he growled, his voice a mix of venom and weariness.

Robin followed the sound, finding herself once more among the heart of the massacre with the runic stones staring straight back at her. She strained her eyes to see a rigid broad back, bent over in the graves, as familiarity was emitted through the night.

“Who is this Winged Reaver you speak of?" Robin asked, her voice steady but sharp. “You seem familiar with this name to have spoken it so viciously.”

Franky froze, the tension in his body betraying his surprise. He had been so consumed by his own investigation that he hadn’t heard the young völva approach. Slowly, he rose from his crouch, stretching his arms wide with an audible grunt of satisfaction, as if shaking off the moment. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, noting her thing frame cladded in a modest, dark linin dress as if it was a part of her skin worn soft and threadbare from years of wear.


The faint glow of the lamp she held, cast a fleeting shadow across her face, making her appear almost translucent as if she were a spirit that had arisen from the massacre in seeking her revenge. Her cloak softly fluttered in the breeze, revealing the thinness of her arms and her pronounced collar bones. She was malnourished and frail, the Seiðr did not need his baggage alongside hers.

“It’s just a name,” he grumbled, his tone clipped. “And none of your concern, Miss Völva.”

“Robin’s eyes narrowed. “You say that, yet your tone suggests otherwise. If you know of this man, what does he have to do with the kidnapped children or their massacred families?”

Franky’s expression hardened. “I promise you, Miss Robin, it has nothing to do with the massacre. But if my suspicions prove false, I will consult you.” His voice was low but firm, his words carrying a weight that left little room for argument.

Robin studied him, her gaze unwavering. She did not appreciate being dismissed, especially in such a manner. Yet, with so many questions already clawed at her mind, she chose to drop the questions for the current time being.


She couldn’t bear to add yet another burden to her already overflowing list of grievances. Still, unease prickled at her skin as she stood in the lingering stench of charred flesh and smoldering wood, her curiosity refusing to subside.


“What are you doing here?” she asked at last, her voice softer but with the same bite. “It’s late. We set out tomorrow to search for the children, yet here you are wandering in an unfamiliar village in the dead of night.”

“If we are to set out to find these children, we need more than just the reliance on Chopper’s sense of smell.”

“His name is Ulf,” Robin corrected sharply, her tone edged with irritation. She had no intention of softening her words.


If he refused to share his truths, she saw no reason to yield her trust.

“I’m aware, but the name is the least of our concerns,” Franky said, dismissing her retort. “I found something, but I needed to confirm it was from the children.”

“How do you know it’s from them?”


“It’s a boat. A Viking has no use for such a toy—nor does a boy training to become a warrior like his father.”

A shadow of something flickered across Franky’s face—an emotion so fleeting that Robin almost missed it. Before she could grasp it, his expression turned stern once more.

“It belongs to a child,” Robin murmured, her voice softening. “A small boy of three. His name was Booth. I named him after I helped his mother birth him in a barn.” Images of the laughing blonde boy flitted through her mind, his chubby cheeks glowing with life and joy.

“A fitting name,” Franky chuckled dryly but not unkind. He took a step closer and held the wooden toy between them, the small boat dangling in the dim light. It hung there, waiting to be claimed.

“Take it, Seiðr,” he said, nudging the toy toward her.

Robin stood frozen, unable to reach for it. The pain of taking the toy into her hands felt wrong—it wasn’t hers to hold. It belonged in Booth’s small fingers, hands too little to wield even the lightest axe yet large enough to tease his brothers with mischievous glee.

She had failed him.

She had failed all of them.

The promise she had made to keep them safe, now lay broken. If the horrors she had once endured were ever to return, she had vowed to sacrifice her life in their stead.


Yet, she couldn’t even do that.

She was as worthless as the whispers back in her village had always made her feel.

Would the quickest relief be to sever the pact and welcome death herself? Or would she remain here, risking more lives to await a reunion with her mother—to beg forgiveness for the guilt she carried?


“Miss völva.”

The deep voice broke through the storm of her thoughts, pulling her back to reality. Large hands settled gently on her shoulders—not rough or demanding, but firm enough to ground her to Midgard. Startled by the sudden contact her eyes snapped up meeting Franky’s in surprise. There was no hostility in his gaze. Instead, it held something quiet, almost steadying, like the sight of a bird amidst the vast sea.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low, lacking its usual gruffness.

“I’m fine. Release me,” she said sharply, the instinctive edge in her tone cutting through the moment. She pulled away from his grasp, crossing her arms as if to shield herself from his uninvited kindness.

Franky hesitated his hand lingering mid-air for a breath before letting it drop to his side.

Without a word, Robin reached out and took the wooden boat from him. The small, weathered toy felt heavier in her hands than its size should allow, the weight pressing against her heart.

Chapter Text

"The red ring here I hew me,
Once owned of Halfdan's father,
The wealthy lord of erewhile,
Or the sea waves undo us,
So on the guests shall gold be,
If we have need of guesting;
Meet so for mighty men-folk
Amid Ran's hall to hold them."
-Eiríkr Magnússon and Morris 

Njord's Melancholic Melody by Njordic

It had been four days since they left the small settlement, the winding dirt roads stretching endlessly before them. The first day passed in near silence, save for the crunch of boots against dirt and the occasional wind rustled through the trees. Robin kept her distance, trailing just behind Franky’s broad frame, using it as a shield without ever acknowledging it.

Ulf padded loyally at her side, a constant reassuring presence that she appreciated as he nuzzled his snout beneath the palm of her hand.

‘Robin, is everything fine?’ Ulf murmured, pressing his head against the Völva’s linen skirt.

“Yes.”

' You’ve always been a horrid liar since you were a small lass.’ Amusement laced his voice, as he caught the way her teeth bit the inside of her cheek.

“You’ve always been able to read me so well, haven’t you.” A small smile broke through her strained lips, scratching the top of Ulf’s head in content.

“I’ve been having doubts about the Berserker,” Robin whispered beneath her breath. “It seems much too convenient that he comes almost immediately after the fires. As if he was waiting not even for the bodies of the dead to turn cold before approaching us.” She gazed warily at the blue-haired warrior ahead of them

‘Robin.’

“I know, you believe that I’m thinking too much into him, but there is something that he is hiding. Something that he pretends to think that I’m not aware of.”

‘Or he could have arrived unluckily at the worst time, with good intentions to bring you to his Jarl in the assistance to a greater problem even we couldn’t be aware of,’ Ulf paused in the road watching from the corner of his eye to the Berserker before turning his full attention to her. ‘You are quick to judge genta, I know it has been only us two for many years, but do not be afraid of assistance from others.’

“It is not a matter of lack of trust, but of the information he is withholding from us Ulf. He has not mentioned the name of his Jarl to us once, nor the reason of importance for us needing to accompany him.” Robin sighed.

“If it was so dire for us to come with him, he could have bound us once more with thrall collars, but he didn’t.” Robin could only shake her head, ensuring that the space between her and the blue-haired man remained as vast as needed. “I do not trust him until there is some information that leaves his lips that sounds truthful, he is but the means to our end towards this journey.”

Ulf could only nod his head as they continued walking in silence, with only the crunches of the gravel beneath their feet accompanying them in the lone solitude.

Franky turned around, far up ahead, his eyes passing over the Völva’s companion and settling only momentarily on her own before speaking in a tone laced with authority.

“We will rest here for the night, by mid-day tomorrow we should come across a village that will allow us to replenish our supplies.”

“I don’t think we should settle here Berserker. I think it's best if we continue forward and reach the settlement by nightfall,” Robin commented defiantly.

“The name isn’t Berserker Robin, it is Franky and no, that is not possible. We will settle and make camp here.” He responded calmly, shrugging off the sack from his back to begin making their settlement.

“I don’t agree,” Robin repeated, narrowing her eyes at the man commanding her of where she was to rest and sleep. Was he to tell her when to rise and eat, when to bathe and move?

“Tell me Miss Völva, why don’t you agree with this? I am making the best assumption based on where we are.”

“We waste multiple days just camping just to reach Morberg when we should have arrived only yesterday.”

Franky exhaled, before catching Robin’s gaze with his fierce look as he walked towards Robin, his frame imitating as it blocked out the sun that towered over her.

“The answer is no. I will not risk the creatures of the night to make a quick feast over your frail frame.”

Robin gaped at his retort; she stepped forward placing her finger straight into his chest before meeting his gaze with her smoldering gaze.

“I can handle myself, Berserker.”

“Never said you couldn’t Miss Völva, but it is something to give me peace of mind knowing that you are safe. I do not wish for my Jarl to find a scratch on you.”

Robin clamped her mouth as silence drifted between them, she sighed walking past the Berserker before settling down into the beginnings of their small camp.

“Come Ulf, let us rest.”

Iduna by Power-Haus, Christian Reindl, Lucie Paradis

Franky stared at the flickering wisps of flames curl into the night sky. The piece of dry wood beneath his fingers felt familiar, a small touch of home from where he now stood miles away. His carving knife glided through the wood with practiced ease, each grain running like hidden veins beneath the surface.

Unshaped and full of possibilities was what Tom used to say, every time his hands picked up the chisel to carve the freshly cut Oak. It was something that his uncle had first taught him when he was placed beneath his care, a habit that was passed on that he couldn’t go a day without grasping the familiar sense of wood. Nowadays since venturing off to find the Völva he had begun to use the wood not just as something to pass time with, but to keep his wandering thoughts in check.

When he was sent to retrieve the Völva, he couldn’t help but think of it as fate. He had expected her to recognize him and sprint in the opposite direction when he locked eyes with her. He stood there waiting even up until now for the slight passing of recognition to pass through her eyes. He never realized until the first night when he kept watch over the wolf and her that he wanted her to remember him, he never once forgot about her.

Franky’s jaw tensed as he exhaled slowly, his fingers subconsciously drifting to the braid woven into his chin. A stark black strand intertwined with his hair.

Her hair.

Franky twirled the braid between his fingers, his mind slipping back to a memory that refused to fade.

He still remembered how her onyx-colored hair entrapped his soul, drawing him in when he first laid eyes on her. Hidden behind a tree in utter fear after the recent loss of her mother, his own clan had caused by their belief in the greater good for the inhabitants of Midgard. He still could remember the pain of how his stomach rose to his chest in an unsettling fashion as her empty blue eyes met his when he pinned her to the ground. He could still feel the weight of her frail body pinned beneath him, her nails clawing at his arms before quickly surrendering. Her eyes stared into him, void of life, as if death had already claimed her.

Perhaps that was why he allowed her to walk away. Maybe it was because he had only just recently lost his birth parents, or did it run deeper? Something deeper that he wasn’t ready to understand. Yet, he knew the moment he had chopped her hair and tucked it away, he had made his choice.

To defy his clan had slowly started becoming consumed with the thought of worshipping Nidhögg. To revel in the ancient god's luster and glory, he knew that this was something that Tom would voice in defiance.

Maybe, that was the main reason he let her go,

Yet, nothing passed nor come with their journey.

She had forgotten.  

Over the past three days, he felt something take shape around the Völva.

A barrier that she had begun to encase herself in.

She did not trust him and Franky could not blame her. If he were to reveal who his Jarl was, two things would come to pass. Either she would kill him or her companion would in her stead.

He knew the feeling all too well.

A heavy sigh escaped him once more as he glanced down at the carving in his hand. It had begun to take shape, though its final form still eluded him. The thought only lingered for a moment more before a more pressing realization settled in.

They should have returned by now.

Franky gripped the hilt of the axe that lay beside him, he rose from his settled position scanning the silent forest. The Völva and the wolf had gone to the river to catch the group's meal, as an excuse for space she had said. Though the night stretched on, and the quiet became wrong. He had been sitting far too long, selfishly lost in his thoughts.

Franky’s gaze flickered toward the darkness beyond the fire’s reach.

The silence felt unnatural.

Slowly, he began to walk, brushing off any remaining wood shavings from his lap as his fingers curled around the handle of his axe, turning toward the distant sound of running water.

“Miss Völva?” he called out

No answer.  

“Chopper?”

Nothing.

His gut twisted.

A quiet curse slipped from his lips as he took a cautious step forward.

“Miss Völva!”  he called again, louder into the dark.

The sound of rushing water only sang in response.

‘Robin, it is time to head back we caught sufficient fish to feed us well into the morning.’ Ulf pawed his face as he sat near the river’s edge, watching the sun glint off the water reflecting Robin's exhausted features.

“No, not yet Ulf. Just a few more.”

‘You’re exhausted Robin, what is ailing you?’

She stood from her hunched position, staring at the water running freely down the middle of the barren land.

“It’s been so long since we’ve been able to walk freely, be able to feel the fresh air tickle our necks without the feeling of metal bearing it down. Now, we are thralls once more being watched by a berserker who is forcing us to accompany us to meet his Jarl at the end of our journey. I am weightless, but the feeling of a collar now wraps around my lungs, weighing itself down.”

Robin turned to Ulf, his head tilting in silent question.

‘He is assisting us Robin, this is how deals are made. No arrangement may be reached without the other party sacrificing something in return.’

“Don’t worry about my thoughts Ulf, they are just fleeting like the fish in this river. I,  for one, am spent from catching our meals. I do hope that the Berserker doesn’t eat the whole basket of fish himself,” Robin quipped in irritation as she stepped onto the smooth rocks beneath her feet.

“Come, grab the fish we’ll begin making our way back,” Robin glanced up noting that the stars had broken through the darkened sky.

Robin had begun to untie the knot from her upheld skirt when the sound struck. It wove through the air like spun silver, each note glowing delicately in the air and otherworldly as if plucked from stars themselves.

Her breath hitched. She whipped toward Ulf, shoving her hands into her sack before grabbing the remnants of cold wax from the cod liver oil she had used nights before. Quickly she mixed it with ash from their fire and stuck it into his ears. Ulf stared at her in question before his nose twitched. He smelled them. Quickly, Robin placed in her ears the same wax before glancing at Ulf, whose throaty grumble revibrated off her hand that still lay perched near his ears.

Robin pressed a finger to her lips. They were near.

What the Water Gave Me by Florence + The Machine

She knew the Children of Rán would not relent; they never did. Robin glanced up into the sky, the night had settled in too quickly, but she did not need the light of the fire to guide her. The glow of the moon would do just fine.

Softly, she followed the river downstream, beckoning Ulf to stay close as she re-tied her skirts up to her knees before wading into the chilled water. The Children of Rán were known for their captivating voices, lulling fishermen and warriors alike to their watery graves.

They knew she was here. Rán had been waiting, before sending her children for her.

Robin raised her hands above her head, feeling the pull of unseen fingers wanting to drag her deeper into the frigid cold. She parted her lips and let the mantra spill forth, her voice unwavering despite knowing the toll the prayer would take.

‘ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᚦᛖ ᛞᛖᛖᛈ ᛊᚺᚨᛞᛟᚹᛊ, ᛃᛟᚢ ᛊᚺᚨᛚᛚ ᛞᛖᛈᚨᚱᛏ,
ᛞᚱᛁᚾᚲ ᚾᛟ ᛒᛚᚢᛞ, ᛏᚨᚲᛖ ᚾᛟ ᛒᚱᛖᚨᚦ.
ᛒᛃ ᚦᛖ ᚱᚢᛏᛊ ᛟᚠ ᛃᚷᚷᛞᚱᚨᛊᛁᛚ, ᛃᛟᚢ ᚨᚱᛖ ᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ,
ᛁᚾ ᚦᛖ ᚲᛟᛚᛞ --’  

“From the deep shadows, you shall depart,
Drink no blood, take no breath.
By the roots of Yggdrasil, you are bound,
In the cold --”

“Miss Völva!”

A rough hand grabbed her, yanking her back with a force that sent her breath hitching. The prayer died in her throat as she was lifted, pressed against something solid, something or someone burning with warmth in contrast to the freezing water. Before being flung across the river onto the dampened earth.

No.

“What are you doing?! Get out, cover your ears! You must not hear them!” She yelled across, panic lacing into her voice as his broad frame silhouetted against the dark.

“Franky!”

Her voice couldn’t reach him. The sweet song had taken hold. He stepped forward, deeper, his usual strength meaningless beneath their spell.

Ulf barked furiously, the danger now became nearby. Robin grabbed Ulf’s face, forcing his eyes onto her lips.

“Can you grab the Berserker Ulf?!” She mouthed dramatically.

His head shook.

‘No, the Children of Rán have begun to walk onto land. I will fend them off as you try to break their hold on the Berserker. But remember. Do NOT go deeper into the water, the fruit you consumed as a child will not allow you to swim into safety. I cannot protect you if you are limp in the water.’

Robin nodded.

Running back towards the river she squinted her eyes into the water, Franky’s chin barely remained above the current. Soon he would be gone. The water churned violently around his broad form, invisible hands began to pull him deeper, they had become his anchor.  

She needed to act. If she didn’t, he would be added to the list of victims that met their watery death.  

“Cien Fleur—” Her voice rang despite the rising pressure she began to feel as her eyes constantly darted out to the water to ensure that the Berserker was still visible to her, “Liana!”

From the damp earth, hundreds of arms bloomed like vines, twisting and coiling towards Franky as if the branches of Yggdrasil itself had come alive to reclaim him. Yet, the moment her fingers touched the river, exhaustion slammed into her, sapping her power. But she could not stop. He would die before their journey had even begun.

Robin focused her attention on finding his arms beneath the water, before wrapping them around his torso, as more of her arms began to bloom from the trees, the rocks, and even the edge of the water creating an unbreakable chain that slowly began to pull him to shore.

A muffled shriek split through the night. Robin gritted her teeth, The Children of Rán were fighting back, and they would not be denied their prey.  

Her vision blurred at the edges. The use of her power was draining her, but she couldn’t let go. Not now.

Then, A muffled deep, guttural snarl snapped her from her thoughts.

Ulf.

The massive wolf lunged, his powerful jaws snapping down on Marbendlar's shimmering green arm as it clawed at Franky’s chest. A shriek almost like metal grinding against bone, echoed through the river.

The song stopped.

Robin yanked with all her strength, dragging Franky onto the shore, her legs giving out beneath her as his head landed against her lap.

Her breath came fast as she tried to control her shaky gasps.

Reaching into her satchel, she shoved wax into his ears with her trembling fingers before he could succumb to their song once more.

Gently, she cupped his face.

“Berserker,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

Robin held her breath until she saw movement beneath his eyelids before his black eyes met her own. Exhaling from relief, Robin brushed back the damp hair from her forehead as she sat back.

“What were they? I had come looking for you since it had been far too long since you were to come back, and this melody began playing…it was one my móðir would sing…” Franky began as he pushed himself up.

“In my clan, we had called them The Children of Rán, but you may know them by the name ‘Marbendlar’. They are half-human, half-fish beings that sing from a deep memory that is familiar to you. Cruel creatures they are, they wait for you to fall beneath their spell before dragging your soul back too—”

Robin stiffened.

Her gaze flicked downward.

The water had risen.

A pair of webbed, clawed hands gripped her ankle.

Robin barely had time to struggle before the cold consumed her, wrapping around her like a vice. The weight of her soaked clothes dragged her down, and the current seized her body, pulling her into the dark abyss.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her lungs burned as she fought against the river’s grip, but the more she thrashed, the deeper she sank. The shadows beneath the surface stretched toward her as the elongated hands reaching from the depths, webbed fingers grasping at her limbs.

Marbendlar.

Their eyes glowed like dim lanterns beneath the water, their mouths twisting into jagged, unnatural grins. They had been waiting. Lurking. Now, they had her.

Her chest constricted. Her vision blurred. The last traces of air left her lips in a stream of bubbles.

Then…

A flash of movement. A shockwave through the water.

Something seized her, someone strong, unyielding, burning hot even in the frozen depths.

Arms.

Had he jumped in after her?  

Robin could barely register anything beyond the panic that had seized her mind, but she saw the flash of silver as he swung his axe, cutting through the Marbendlar's grasp. The creature shrieked, as green blood began to bleed through the water as they cried for help.

Franky reached for her.

And by the Allfather, she reached for him.

His grip was raw, desperate, almost painful as he wrapped his hand around her arm. He began to kick as hard as he could against the pull of the river. His other hand pushed against the current of the river as he bit into the handle of his axe.

But the creatures didn’t retreat.

They shrieked beneath the surface, their claws slashing and cutting at him, at her. Franky could only grimace in pain as he bit onto the wooden handle of his weapon as he pulled Robin with him to the surface. Robin barely had the strength to react. Her body was numb, sluggish. But she could feel Franky, feel his raw force of his movements, the wild, reckless strength behind every kick as he pushed them toward the light above.

Then their webbed hand clasped onto her wrist, yanking her downward with a force so strong that it nearly felt as if it had dislocated her shoulder. Robin choked as her vision swam in and out of darkness. She could feel her chest burning, begging for air to circulate once more through her lungs. Slowly, she felt herself succumb to the darkness, with the last feeling of warmth coming from the Berserkers grip.

The Marbendlar shrieked, their voices muffled beneath the plugs that the Völva had gifted him still pierced like echoes through the water. A group surged forward; their lithe, eel-like bodies moved faster than his eyes could track. Long clawed hands reached for him, before sharp nails sliced through the water aiming for his throat.

Franky twisted at the last second. A claw grazed his shoulder, tearing through his fabric, leaving a trail of searing pain in its wake. His breath burned in his chest, but he didn’t stop. He swam closer to the surface, his hand pulling the Völva against his chest.

Another Marbendlar shot forward, its mouth stretching unnaturally wide. Rows of needle-like teeth gleamed in the darkness before it lunged aiming straight for his exposed arm that gripped around his Völva.  

Franky snarled and swung his axe with such force, it almost parted the river in half. The swing met with a sickening slash; a burst of black ichor clouded the water.  Another came from behind, its webbed fingers curling around his wrist.

Instantly he raised his axe, and with a vicious slice, he tore through the creature’s grip, severing fingers from its hands. It howled twisting away, but others took its place.

There were too many.

Robin was barely conscious in his arms, her breath escaped in weak bursts of bubbles. She was no longer moving, and that terrified him more than the monsters snapping at his heels.

His lungs screamed for air. His limbs ached. But he could not stop.

A Marbendlar wrapped its tail around his ankle, jerking him downward.

Franky roared, bubbles escaping his lips as he swung his blade again. The creature shrieked as steel tore through its flesh, but its grip remained like iron. Others closed in, their claws reaching, their eyes glowing with hunger.

He twisted, pulling his knee up before slamming his foot into the creature’s chest. The impact sent it spiraling back, its grip loosening just enough.

Franky didn’t hesitate.

With one last, desperate push, he kicked off with a powerful force swimming up to the riverbed.

The surface was so far.

Robin was barely breathing.

The Marbendlar lunged one last time, their arms stretching for him, claws slicing through the water, teeth snapping at his heels…

Then—

Air.

Robin gasped, choking on the air as it hit her lungs, burning with such intensity that she coughed a sputtered.

Franky held her tight to his massive frame, shaking with every stroke through the water more frantic than before. The Marbendlar lurked beneath them, their fingers just out of reach, their presence slithering through the water like a threat unspoken.

Then, his feet hit the riverbend.

With a final, staggering lurch, he pulled her onto solid ground. Robin collapsed against the shore, her fingers curling into the damp earth as her entire body trembled from the sheer freezing waters, they had been submerged in.

For several moments, neither of them moved.

He was still holding her, clutching her tight against his frame.

She should have pulled away, every instinct screamed at her to push him off.

But she didn’t.

Slowly, she turned her head to face him. But was surprised by the expression that greeted her.

He looked…terrified. Tender? A strange mix of both.

His shoulders were hunched, his hair falling out of their braids hung onto the side of his cheek, his hands clenched into fists.

And his eyes.

They held onto hers, sharp, searching, desperate for an answer that she wasn’t sure she could provide.

“Idiot,” she rasped, her voice barely about a whisper. “You should have let me go with them. Saved Ulf. Saved yourself.”

Franky let out a short, breathless laugh.

“Then who would complete this bloody pact you enforced me on, Miss Völva.”

Robin could only stare at him in disbelief.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she whispered.

Silence. 

His eyes never left hers. 

"I couldn't let you leave," he murmured. 

Something inside her chest stirred at the words...at the way they sounded on his lips. 

Robin slowly pushed herself up, detangling herself from his grip. She had to. Even as her limbs felt so light beneath her weight. She couldn't continue to be in such close proximity to the man. The chilling cold from the water had certainly begun to influence her thoughts. 

Franky remained kneeling, dripping with water as he watched her.

Robin looked away, her eyes scanning her surroundings. The river roared behind them, the night air thick with a mist. Ulf remained growling; his ears pinned back as his gaze refused to leave the water.

‘Robin, you’re alright!’  The wolf bounded up to her, his tongue swiping at her face to ensure that she was still alive.

“Yes, yes, I am fine Ulf,” she assured him, before grasping his head between her hands. “But I need a favor.”

‘What is it?’

“Keep a close eye that the Marbendlar do not resurface, to ensure that they don’t attack us once more during this trip I must utter their name. That is the one way we will be able to continue the journey seamlessly.”

She stepped forward, her bare feet sinking slightly into the damp earth. The river murmured, its surface unnaturally still. Taking a breath, she recited the binding prayer.

‘ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᚦᛖ ᛞᛖᛖᛈ ᛊᚺᚨᛞᛟᚹᛊ, ᛃᛟᚢ ᛊᚺᚨᛚᛚ ᛞᛖᛈᚨᚱᛏ,

ᛞᚱᛁᚾᚲ ᚾᛟ ᛒᛚᚢᛞ, ᛏᚨᚲᛖ ᚾᛟ ᛒᚱᛖᚨᚦ.

ᛒᛃ ᚦᛖ ᚱᚢᛏᛊ ᛟᚠ ᛃᚷᚷᛞᚱᚨᛊᛁᛚ, ᛃᛟᚢ ᚨᚱᛖ ᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ,

ᛁᚾ ᚦᛖ ᚲᛟᛚᛞ ᛊᛏᚱᛖᚨᛗ, ᚲᚨᛚᛚ ᚾᛖᚢᛖᚱ ᚨᚷᚨᛁᚾ.

ᚲᚺᛁᛚᛞᚱᛖᚾ ᛟᚠ ᚦᛖ ᛊᛖᚨ, ᚺᛖᚨᛞ ᛃᛟᚢᚱ ᚾᚨᛗᛖ.

ᚱᚨᚾ .’


‘From the deep shadows, you shall depart,

Drink no blood, take no breath.

By the roots of Yggdrasil, you are bound,

In the cold stream, call never again.

Children of the Sea, head your name.

Rán.’

The water stilled. The night’s hum returned. Crickets chirped; leaves rustled in the wind. The presence in the river had faded.

Robin exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

“Let us return to camp,” Robin whispered, ignoring the way her voice continued to tremble from the cold.

“Let us go,” Franky echoed, in a softer tone than her own.  

She turned first, unwilling to meet his eyes again.

Because if she did, she might not be able to forget the way he had looked at her. 

Fierce. 

Unyielding. 

Like she was something worth saving. 

Chapter Text

‘I know an ash tree stands, called Yggdrasil,

A tall tree sprinkled with white mud;

From it comes dews that fall in valleys,

It ever stands, green, over Urd’s well.

From there come maidens, knowing much,

One is named Urd, the second Verdandi

Skuld the third; they laid down laws,

They chose lives

For the children of men to speak their destiny.’

-Vǫluspá 

[2 Years before the Massacre of Ohara]

“Who are they?” A pair of innocent dark eyes widened in eager curiosity at the unfamiliar name, Robin scooted closer to her móðir, anticipation buzzing in her limbs as her mother hummed a song so unlike the hymns she’d learned.

It was different.

And different always was exciting to Robin.

Her mother’s eyes softened with a smile as she brushed away the stray wisps of hair that had leapt against Robin’s cheek when she startled at the sound of the hymn. Olvia lifted a pale finger to her lips before carrying on with the haunting words that echoed through their small hut.

‘Who are the Norns that live within the well,

That live within the tree of Yggdrasil?

Who are the Norns, who go to those in need

And separate the mother from the baby?

“Who are the Norns? Why do they live in a well? Why not in the Midgard?!” Robin exclaimed as she jumped up, her arms wide up towards the sky, as she giggled in glee.

“Who are the Norns, ástin mín? And Urd…why does she linger by the well?” Olvia’s smile carried a playful lilt, though her eyes hinted at something deeper. “So many questions… but tell me, my love, what is your answer?” She watched her daughter twirl, laughter soft on her lips.

Robin glanced at her mother just once before letting her gaze slip inward, her thoughts circling with a weight she could not yet name, spiraling deeper than her steps

“Urd, urd, urd…” Robin murmured as she grabbed a stick from the floor, one she often used to write out her thoughts beneath her feet. 

URD.

Robin bit her bottom lip. That didn’t seem right.

ᚢᚱᛏ.

No, still not quite right. That was her new name, her ancient name if sung back during their time in Asgard, weathered with age.

Urðr.

Robin's eyebrows shot up in delight. Her heart leapt as she scratched the name again into the dirt, this time in a rune she had seen many times before. Often etched on the doors of the recently deceased and newly born, those wishing to rewrite what could not be rewritten. A fate set in stone. Or so what the völvas would whisper during the birthing celebration and the death rites.

But Urðr was the only Norn. There were three.

ᚢᚱᚦᛦ. ᚢᛁᚱᚦᛅᚾᛏᛁ. ᛋᚴᚢᛚᛏ.

Urðr. Verðandi. Skuld.

Robin grinned, glancing up at her mother for confirmation. Olvia only smiled, her eyes shining with a glint of approval Robin craved every time. Though she didn’t fully understand what she had exactly solved.

 “Good Robin. Good.” Olvia grinned warmly. “Now, who are they?”

“Fate?” Robin whispered…almost afraid that her answer would remove the glint from her mother's eyes.

“Correct. They are mentioned in the Völuspá. Now, why are they mentioned? Who are the Norns we hear so much about?”

“I don’t know,” Robin admitted, spinning slowly as she traced a circle in the dirt with her toe.

Olvia chuckled, closing the worn hymn and prayer book in her lap, before taking Robin’s small hands in her own. 

“The Norns are three maidens. They are fate itself. They spin the threads of life, carve marks into pole figures, and measure our destiny, but not just for mortals, but for gods and all beings.

“Urðr is our past, while Skuld is the future, along with Verðandi the present.”

“Our destiny?” Robin tilted her head in question.

“All of us have our own destiny astín mín, and we have been told it long ago.”

“I think I would have remembered my own destiny, móðir,” Robin huffed, rolling her eyes with complete conviction.

“Alright, what is your destiny then, dóttir?” Olvia laughed gently, kneeling before her.

“To grow up and become a völva like you! Why else am I here studying in this hut for hours?” Robin sighed exasperated, throwing up her hands with the dramatic frustration only a child could muster. 

“Nope. Incorrect.”

“What?!”

“That is the job that you’ve been given, but it is not the destiny or fate the Norns chose. They whispered your fate the moment before you took your first breath. They dictated the life you will have, whether it will be just or not, the course that you will carry, and the time that the veil of this life will fade to dark.”

Olvia gently flipped her daughter’s right hand over and began to trace the delicate lines etched into her palms.

“Your fate has been spoken and written here. We cannot change it. We cannot escape it. We embrace it, just as we embrace the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of now. If you ever find yourself questioning the fate bestowed upon you, look to the palms of your hands.”

Her finger paused, then lifted.

“And if you cannot look at your hands…then look up. Whisper to the sky.”

“Why the sky?”

Olvia smiled, her hand holding Robin’s palm.

“Because the sky remembers, dottir. The stars are threads spun by the Norns themselves, woven into the tapestry of all that is and all that ever will be. When you whisper to the sky, you are not just speaking to empty air…you are speaking to the weave itself. To your fate. To theirs.”

She reached up and gently touched the space between Robin’s brows.

“The Norns dwell at the roots of Yggdrasil, but their threads stretch across the sky, from the stars to your soul. When your hands feel too heavy with fate, look upward. The sky is where the gods hung the stars, and it is where the gods listen still.”

Robin blinked, her small fingers curling instinctively.

“So the sky…can talk back?”

“Only if you listen, litla mín. Fate has never been loud. It’s quiet…like a small intake of breath. But strong enough to sense the shift in change like the wind. It will blow you gently in the right direction.”

Robin had never been good at breaking long periods of silence. The same could be said here, as she continued to support the Berserker’s weight slumped against her side. Each step they took towards the camp was slower than the last as they hobbled back toward the camp. The glow of the fire softly pulsing with its last light as the Viking continued to cough up blood. The bite of the copper scent flooded her nose as warmth soaked through her tunic. She didn’t realize just how warm yet cold blood could be until she herself was covered in it, shivering from the heat of it.

‘His wounds are too deep; they must be mended or worse will happen.’ Ulf warned, shaking his coat as blood began to mat his golden-brown fur from carrying him the first half.  

“I know,” she murmured, her voice hoarse from screaming underwater in encountering near death. She knew of the severity of it as Franky began to drag his feet slower as they approached the camp's flame.

“I will be fine. It is but a mere scratch, nothing that good ale can mend,” Franky murmured sluggishly.

“No talking.” Robin bit out as she used to last remaining of her strength to the tree that flickered in front of the dying flames. “Ulf, to the tree.”

They propped him down, as Robin attempted to sit him up for clarity to view the extent of the wound.

Go and gather more firewood. The sun won’t rise for some time, and I need light to tend the wounds.” Robin’s voice held steady, though the strain beneath it revealed the quiet desperation of the moment.

Ulf gave a sharp nod before sprinting into the distance, away from the watery graves they had escaped. Robin dropped to her knees beside her sack, fingers trembling as she dug through what little she had managed to salvage from their hut. Every heartbeat pressed against her ears, a reminder that every second was dire. She dumped the bucket of fish - that Ulf and she had caught- onto a cloth without care. The smell clinging to her hands, and she tied the fish aside.

With a swift tug, she tore a strip from her bandage fabric, feeding it to the embers until the fire caught, coaxing the flames high enough to heat the bucket. She needed the light, the heat, anything, to keep her hands steady for what waited behind her.

She threw in the antiseptic she knew that she would be required to use, garlic, and leek, before mixing in the red wine she carried for her own needs into the copper pot. Before adding a splash of cow urine that she carried with her in a concealed bottle. She laid it to boil before hurrying to the man lying against the tree, holding a piece of wood bright in flames to view the wounds in closer inspection.

She was hoping for something that was easily manageable, that clothes and bandages could assist before continuing their journey deep into town tomorrow, though the sight that bore into her eyes almost made her guts spill out with the sight.

Robin dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, the remains of her morning meal spilling onto the ground, the bitter taste lingering. She glanced back at the half-dead corpse that lay before her.

“By the Allfather…” she whispered, not understanding how this man was still alive. The torchlight flickered across the mess of torn flesh and bone as the blood soaked into the earth, creating a darker shadow underneath the torch flames. His arm was in ruin, muscles flayed and curled like a flower in bloom, though glistening in pink flesh as bits of white from his bone poked through.

Though his leg… 

His leg fared far worse; half of his calf was simply gone. The wound blackened at the edges, skin already slowly turning an ashen gray from the lack of blood reaching the dead flesh, as pink ribbons of muscles lay in shreds. What remained of his flesh pulsed hot and angry, taking hold of infection as it lay atop the battered, soiled ground.

“Do not gape at me, woman,” Franky gritted in pain, cold sweat clinging to his forehead. “Tell me, can you heal it?”

“I…I just…these wounds,” Robin’s voice broke, her words caught like seaweed in her throat. Her hands trembled, suspended without purpose. There was blood. So much blood

The screams, the scent of iron wafting through the air, the heat of the torch, the heat of her home.

“Miss Volva,” Franky interrupted her thoughts, her eyes regaining the scene of the present.  “Do not disappear into that head of yours right now.” Franky panted, the wounds beginning to affect his breathing.

“Streð mik.” Robin cursed beneath her breath, running her hands down her face. She ran back towards the boiling pot, stirring the bandages. Robin hoped that this would allow the stupid Viking to live longer. The norms can have their say in fate, but she would be damned if he was to leave now before the goal at hand had hardly even begun.

“You stupid, axe-swinging bastard.” Robin spat whipping back towards the slumping berserker, now turning gray as he grunted in irritation at her words. “You let me walk beside you for an hour to get back to this camp, bleeding like a gutted boar. Having me believe that your injuries since leaving the river were nothing but a scratch?! May the Allfather grant me patience with you. You will be lucky to live with these injuries.”

Robin paced the floor, her anger softening into irritation, and irritation fading into worry as her eyes swept over him. His wounds, raw and burning red, caught the light in a way no flesh was ever meant to. With a quiet breath, she stepped back to his side and knelt. Her gaze lingered, following the line of his clenched jaw, the harsh rhythm of his chest as it rose and fell, heavy with pain. For a moment, she simply looked at him, unable to turn away. She despised seeing him in such a state. She was no healer, only a völva, and the skills she had were never meant for saving a man who hovered so close to death.

Her hands trembled as she leaned closer, inspecting his torn extremities. Desperation gnawed at her. Perhaps she could bind the arm with animal gut, or stitch it with stray lengths of string, anything to keep it whole. But the leg… the leg was beyond saving. Not even the seiðr she commanded could restore it. The magic she bore carried an unyielding law: it could not call back what had already gone to Valhalla, nor mend what had been destroyed beyond the order of life itself.

Robin sighed, knowing that the only option was something she had never performed; she had only seen the women in Ohara conduct it once during the first 12 years of her life.

The first was when a boy came screaming in pain from a hunting trip that he should have never been allowed to be on. Half of his hand had been cut by a sword too big for the child to handle. He was only 11, just a year older than Robin at the time. She could still remember the violent screams he cried, being carried into the hut near the outskirts of the village where the oldest völva rested. She had followed, curious as to why he screamed as if his life was near the end. It wasn’t until she poked her head near the opening of the door that she understood in her whole ten years why. 

In the frail woman’s hand rested a curved blade, almost a half-circle, its edges glinting in the firelight as it lay heating in the coals. The boy writhed and kicked, his eyes wide and wild like a stag cornered before the spear, a strip of cloth clenched between his teeth while the other völvas forced his jaw shut. The elder gave no heed to his muffled cries. She lifted the blade, glowing and merciless, and in a single stroke carved through the ruined hand. The boy fell still, limp, and Robin swore she saw his soul drift upward, slipping free of Midgard to climb the branches of Yggdrasil. She bolted from the hut before she could bear another heartbeat of the sight, only to be scolded later by her móðir when she refused to eat meat…the image burning itself into her mind, a wound she carried long after the boy’s.

It wasn’t until two years later, almost a the winter before the end of her childhood life, that Robin saw the boy, who now seemed like a man, return from the sea. With a shield strapped firmly to his back and an axe sitting where his hand used to be.

Robin knew what her only option was, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to feel what men who had killed or were killed had done before with no remorse. Guilt gnawed at her—this was a Viking, a man who had fought for her. What was a warrior without the limbs to wield his strength? She had told Irick the same once: she would never take a man’s limbs. And now, faced with him, she could not bring herself to break that vow.

Robin glanced back up towards the Berserker’s face, as sweat slowly began to build above his upper lip.

She hated that her life was the cause of this pain that he had to endure. Robin didn’t want to be the cause of any more deaths or pain. Though she knew she had no other choice at this moment to do what she must, even if it meant cutting a part of him away.

“Do you want to die?” Robin whispered softly, her lips brushing just above his ear. “Is this what this was? Some death wish? Because you thought it would go away on its own?”

Franky shifted slightly, hissing in pain like hot steam between his teeth. “No, I trust you, Miss Völva.”

Robin shuddered.

“I knew you’d do what had to be done.”

‘Robin?’ Ulf questioned, as he padded up softly to her, staying only but a safe distance away, measuring the extent of the Viking injuries.

‘Tell me what you will have me do, and it will be done,’

Robin nodded at her companion, glancing upward at the sky. Not much time had passed; if they were to act to save his life, it would have to be now.

“Ulf, keep him conscious for the next few moments. I must grab the necessary items to complete this healing ritual.”

Ulf nodded in understanding, though the Viking did not, as he questioned her with his half-dazed eyes.

“You said you trusted me, Berserker, did you not? Then I will tell you how I plan to keep you here in the land of Midgard. To save you…I will have to cut off your limbs.”

The contents of her stomach dropped low as the unsettling grief rolled through her, though she refused to show it on her face.

“You may use my axe if you must,” Franky chuckled dryly with a painful, curled lip plastered on his face, “you look like you could use it with those many useful arms of yours.” Franky winked jokingly, then winced in pain from his own idiocy.  

“Spare me your humor at the moment,” she muttered, walking back towards the boiling pot, gingerly removing the bandages from the rolling bubbles. She placed them in the empty basket resting next to her foot. Robin crossed her arms, taking the Vikings' comment into consideration as arms flowered around the camp. A pair of hands dug through her sack she had settled near her supplies, digging for a stone and some aged mead that she had kept in case of injuries, though not as intense as the one before her.

Another pair of hands grasped the handle of the axe that rested against the trunk of the tree, dragging the weapon across the dirt floor towards the fire that flickered, setting the blade as close to the flame as she could
 
“Do what you must,” he whispered faintly. “It is not the first time I’ve lost something important like my own flesh.”

“Then let there not be a second, nor a third. You will live, you must.” Robin spoke loudly enough for the berserker to hear.

Her eyes bore into Ulf’s own as she spoke.

“He must not fall asleep. If he does, he will die. Hold him down when it is time.” 

Ulf nodded, aware of what needed to be done.

Robin hurried to the Berserker's side, breathing shallowly, yet his gaze never relenting from wherever she stood.

She knelt towards the ground, grabbing a nearby stick as she began to draw runes encapsulating the Viking. As she pulled her runic scripture, she muttered a string of words, almost like a soft buzz that danced around Franky’s head, that would have raised the hair on the back of his neck if not for the current situation that he was in. He softly opened his eyes, only to find that a circle with runes he’s never seen before surrounded him.

                                                                       

“What is this?” he mumbled slightly, straining to keep his lids apart, focusing on the goddess that had seemed to kneel beside him.

Grasping his large, bloodied fingers in between her own frail, pale ones. The woman was shrouded in firelight, her hair reflecting the light, almost gleaming like golden silk. He took a slight sharp intake of breath, certain that it was from the pain, rather than the wife of Oden had come to seal his fate as she slipped something cold between his good hand.

“Hold this,” Robin whispered, folding his fingers over the healing stone. Along with placing a piece of bundled cloth between his teeth.

“Are you casting a spell or a curse for my sins, Freyja?” Franky, half-conscious, muffled his words, almost sounding relieved. Accepting?

 “I tried to stop…I tried to stop it. I let her go…Gods, I let her go, it wasn’t right…”

His eyes fluttered, unfocused, staring right at her as he slowly raised his good arm, caressing Robin's cheek in acceptance to his fate.

“I didn’t know that it was her home… they lied to me until I saw it,” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “The books… the ashes…I should have gone…Tom…Tom…I’m sorry…”

A pause, then a whisper of a confession that she did not know what the confession could entail.

“Freyja please, why…why…massacre…prophecy…no more…”

Massacre? Prophecy? Robin’s mind wandered, if only a bit from the words that spilled from his mouth. A prophecy?

Who was he wanting to live and abandon their fate? The fate is written by the Norms themselves, no one was really able to cut their fate.

‘Robin, focus! He is fading’ Ulf growled, tethering back to the present rather than into her thoughts. She gave a quick smile to Ulf, grateful that her companion was aware of the stakes, she could not get distracted once more.

Robin pressed her palm to his the crown atop his head, tilting it slightly back, as she drew a small circle between his furrowed brows, whispering the tongue of the gods. 

ᛊᛟᛊᛖ ᛒᛖᚾᚱᛖᚾᚲᛁ, ᛊᛟᛊᛖ ᛒᛚᚢᛟᛏᚱᛖᚾᚲᛁ, ᛊᛟᛊᛖ ᛚᛁᛞᛁᚱᛖᚾᚲᛁ: ᛒᛖᚾ ᛉᛁ ᛒᛖᚾᚨ, ᛒᛚᚢᛟᛏ ᛉᛁ ᛒᛚᚢᛟᛞᚨ, ᛚᛁᛞ ᛉᛁ ᚷᛖᛚᛁᛞᛖᚾ, ᛊᛟᛊᛖ ᚷᛖᛚᛁᛗᛁᛞᚨ ᛊᛁᚾ

‘Like bone-sprain, so blood-sprain, so joint-sprain.
Bone to bone, blood to blood,
Joints to joints, soul to ground.
Let thy be glued, and stay in thy realm of Midgard,’

The runic stone that now rested in the Berserke’s hand, along with runic circle that encapsulated them began to emit a soft green light as almost if it was being shown from beings beneath the earth.

It was time.

“Do not forget, keep him in place Ulf.” Robin ordered, her pair of extra limbs grabbing the handle of the axe, not daring to touch blade that glowed a deep red against the edge of the steel. Robin placed the bandages next to her feet, as the axe then floated into her hands. They must not leave the circle where the light is emitted or the tether holding him to the earth would be broken, guaranteeing this departure from this land.

Robin held the wooden handle firm between her hands, feeling the weight heavier than she ever could have anticipated, as her eyes darted between both limbs. She must chop it off in one swing, ensuring that no broken pieces of bone or pieces of skin laid scattered about.

Two swings. Then they would wait till morning to see if he would rise.

She knew what to do.

She knew, she had to…

She couldn’t.

“Chopper, please look after her. I can’t allow her to faint mid-swing.”

“Not the time, Viking,” Robin’s voice trembled, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at Chopper her eyes pleading for some sort of guidance. “If I cut at the wrong angle, or hesitate, or even miss the correct limb….I’d have to swing again. And I won’t. I won’t. It would be butchery! I would be no better than them…”

She held the axe, weighing it, steadying it. Her fingers curling tighter around the shaft as her breaths began to hurt with just how shallow her breathing had become. She closed her eyes, feeling as if they were betraying her with just how blurry that had become. Just slightly, but just enough for a mistake that could cost him his life.

“Then don’t miss.” The Viking whispered, fainter than before.

Robin’s stomach twisted in despair, no more so than disgust. Why was he the one comforting her? She was stronger than this, she needed to be stronger so that the life she had endured wouldn’t come to proceed once more. Yet, why was he the one whispering comfort when it was his blood soaking the earth beneath him?

She did not want to hold the thread in her hand that was his life, was this her fate that the Norns had cursed her to bear…to be the hand that continues to sin, even in mercy?  

A cold snout pressed softly against the edge of her wrist. Then a small deliberate nip, sharp enough to pull her back into her body. Robin flinched, startled, glancing down at Chopper’s amber eyes burning straight through her.

Robin flinched.

‘Robin,’ Chopper growled, low and urgent, his voice cutting through the haze fogger her mind. ‘This is not the time, not now. Time is crucial.’

She blinked, her breath finally catching up with the speed of pumping lungs.  

‘Remember child, I am right by your side. I will hold him down to ensure that he does not risk further injury. That is all that I am able to do, but you are a völva from the Ohara Clan. The greatest clan that was descended directly from the gods. You are a healer, and his only chance.’

Robin’s heart thudded against her ribs, glancing up at the stars overhead, her hands trembling as she tightly wrapped it on the axe handle.  

“By the Allfather,” she whispered, “let us survive the night.” She pleaded towards the sky, a plea to the Norns that his thread would not be cut tonight, no here. No more deaths because of her account, not tonight at least.

“Chopper,” she barked, slipping into command to keep her own fear at bay. “You hold him, don’t let him move an inch.”

Chopper slowly began to climb on top of the Berserker, his physical form steady despite the urgency. His golden fur now splattered with matted blood.

“And you,” she turned her gaze to the Viking, her voice sharp with urgency, “bite down on the cloth I gave you. Now. Do it or the immense pain that’ll course through you will be strong enough that you’d break your jaw in pain.”

He didn’t argue. Taking the dark purple cloth, neatly wrapped, it was almost painful to use it in such a barbaric way. Though the eyes that smoldered into his, said there was no choice in the matter, and by the gods, did he not have the strength to argue.

He grabbed the cloth with his good hand and clamped it tight between his teeth.

Robin swallowed, the pain of the bolus of spit down her throat did not help in the reality of what she was going to do.

She lifted the axe, steadying it with both hands. Her arms trembled under the weight, her muscles burning in pain.

With a final heave, she swung.

The axe came down in a brutal arc.

The sickening crunch of bone shattered through the night, as blood sprayed upon her face.

The Vikings’ muffled screams were no warrior’s cry. Its sound was raw, agonizing, full of brutalized pain. The sound of it nearly made Robin’s knees give out beneath her, she couldn’t dare see the pain that emitted from his face as her stomach lurched. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself not to flinch as she examined the cut. It was clean, not a single fractured bone or jagged skin. It sickened her.

And yet.

There was still more to do.

“Hold him, Chopper!” She cried, her voice cracking with dry tears. “Don’t let him thrash! If he moves, he’ll bleed out!”

Franky writhed beneath the wolf’s weight, the screams dying now into broken gasps around the cloth in his mouth.

Robin wiped the splattered blood from her cheeks, feeling the unsettling feeling of it weighing heavily on her as she glanced at the severed arm beside him. She began to work quickly, taking a thread and needle, sewing the loose skin together before taking the soaked bandage and wrapping it around the stump of his arm.

She could feel his breathing as she began to bandage the stump, ensuring that the bleeding would soon stop. His breath was shallow, erratic, but he was still alive. Though she couldn’t relax, not just yet.

The leg was much worse.

Dead skin already curled around the edges like burnt leather. Muscles were torn in long, jagged strips, exposing raw sinew from the clear bites that were taken out of his calf.

She hesitated just for a breath.

Yet he knew.

“Do it,” he rasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, “Don’t make me beg, dammit!”

“You are far too heavy to carry to Valhalla,” Robin whispered hoarsely. “Bite down. Now. Chopper, pin his hips.”

The wolf moved swiftly, pressing his paws down just enough above the mangled limb.

She brought down his axe again.

The bone shattered first, followed by the sinew and skin. Blood sprayed across her arms, hot and thick, splattering across her face once more.

Quickly, she grabbed the remainder of the thread and needle, sewing the amputation shut, her fingers constantly slipping as they were coated in heavy amounts of blood before disinfecting and ensuring the stump was well wrapped.

Finally, the air she hadn’t known she had been holding released in one large sigh. Before collapsing onto her back, the sound of breathing from everyone brought her comfort, everyone was still alive.

‘What now then?’ Chopper questioned, his paws padding up right next to her.

“We wait until morning, and hope he survives the night.”