Chapter Text
The ship docked at the shore. On the pier stood Gunnar the blacksmith, smiling warmly at the newcomers. Eivor nimbly leapt ashore and hurried to embrace her old friend. Randvi and Valka followed behind her. Sigurd walked apart, offering the smith only a slight nod of greeting before quickly striding away toward the longhouse.
“Wolf-Kissed—you’ve done it,” Gunnar said, stepping back slightly. “You fulfilled your oath. You triumphed. I believed in your victory from the very beginning!”
“Gunnar, old friend!” Eivor smiled genuinely at the man. “It couldn’t have ended any other way. Besides, we’ve cleansed the Wolves’ stronghold and came away with plenty of silver—enough to last us a long while.”
“Randvi,” he addressed the girl as she and Valka drew closer, “I’ve heard tales of how fiercely you fight. Your people are right to be proud of you. And you, Valka? What did you do in the thick of battle? Did you hurl curses upon the Wolf Clan?”
“You could say that,” the seeress smirked. “But why are you here to greet us instead of celebrating?”
Gunnar glanced at the assembled group and turned directly to Eivor.
“Styrbjorn is furious over your absence. Harald has summoned our king to negotiations in Alrekstad—something important is brewing there. He expected you with all your forces, but you never returned. No one could explain why.”
“We had to destroy the Wolf Clan’s last northern stronghold,” Valka lied smoothly. “I’m sure the king will understand.”
“In any case, you must go to him now,” Gunnar said, his eyes falling on the thralls leading the bound and battered Basim. Dried blood caked his face; he looked terribly bruised and had lost the usual sharpness in his gaze. “And what about him?”
“Basim betrayed us,” Eivor waved dismissively. “Now he’s Valka’s concern.”
“Then I don’t envy him,” the old smith chuckled. “I wouldn’t cross a völva as powerful as she is.”
“We must go pay our respects to Styrbjorn,” Eivor said. “Your armor served us well, old bear. You’re as reliable as ever!”
“Thank you, friend. Now go—before the king comes looking for you himself.”
Valka headed to her dwelling, thralls trailing behind her with the captive. Randvi and Eivor exchanged a glance and silently walked toward the longhouse. Though Randvi had slept through most of the return journey, she still felt exhausted. All she wanted was to go to the baths, wash away the events of the past days, eat a good meal, and sleep. But a conversation with her future father-in-law couldn’t wait.
The great hall bustled with people—another feast, this time celebrating their victory and honoring warriors fallen in battle. As soon as Eivor entered, she was swept up by the cheering crowd; someone thrust a drinking horn filled with mead into her hands. Gratefully accepting it, Eivor offered a weary smile—she wasn’t ready to celebrate. Quickly excusing herself, citing an urgent meeting with the king, she slipped away from the festivities.
First, she had to endure Styrbjorn’s angry tirade. Seated on his throne, he nodded curtly, beckoning Eivor and Randvi to follow him into the planning chamber.
Randvi noticed the room was again cluttered with scrolls and maps. Apparently, Styrbjorn still hadn’t found himself an aide. Sigurd was absent from both the feast and the chamber—likely avoiding a confrontation with his father.
“Eivor, Randvi—come closer,” the king commanded.
Eivor stepped forward, standing defiantly before her adoptive father. Randvi remained slightly behind.
“What delayed you? Why did you leave without warning?” Styrbjorn asked, settling onto a wooden chair and frowning. “Sigurd refused to explain anything.”
“My lord,” Randvi addressed him, “we heard rumors that some of the enemy camps remained intact. With a small band from the Deer Clan, we decided to cleanse it—to eradicate the poison still festering in our lands.”
“I gave no such orders,” the man replied, his tone softening slightly as he turned his gaze to his daughter. “Moreover, you departed without your retinue after the main forces had already returned. What were you thinking?”
“We had to eliminate the threat,” Eivor said quietly. She didn’t want to lie to her father, yet telling the full truth seemed impossible—he likely wouldn’t believe her anyway.
“Eivor, you and your brother must accompany me to Alrekstad,” Styrbjorn said, barely masking his fury as he looked at his adopted daughter. “Randvi must come as well, as heir to Rudi. What if you’d been killed out there? What would I have told her father?”
“My father would have supported my decision—as he supported our choice to lead the Deer Clan’s warriors rather than hide behind others. That brings no honor to our people,” Randvi stepped forward boldly. “Eivor slew the greatest enemy of our peoples. She brought immense wealth and glory to the Raven Clan. She deserves honors—especially from her father—not a scolding for stubbornness!”
“Randvi—” Eivor interjected, shaking her head in warning.
Styrbjorn fell silent for several heartbeats, stunned that anyone dared reprimand him.
“Perhaps I’ve been too harsh with you, Eivor,” he finally said, his voice calmer. “But you must understand—you, as my daughter, though not by blood, represent the leadership of both our clan and your own. It would be foolish to die at the hands of some petty raider, especially after defeating Kjotve the Cruel.”
“Have I ever given you reason to doubt my loyalty to the clan, my king?” Eivor asked, clearly irritated. “Everything I’ve done has been for our clan’s prosperity. For several winters now, I’ve been the one guaranteeing peace between Ravens and Deer—not Sigurd, the promised heir, but me. And more than once, I’ve brought riches to you, my king. Yet it seems nothing I do will ever be enough for you.”
“That’s not true, daughter,” the man’s expression hardened. “I took you into my home and raised you. My foremost duty is your well-being—and that of our people.”
“I don’t wish to continue this conversation.” Eivor spun sharply on her heel and strode out of the room.
“Eivor!” the man called after her, but she didn’t even glance back. “Gods, what a headstrong girl,” he muttered.
Randvi looked at him in surprise—she’d thought only she had ever dared say those words aloud.
“My lord,” Randvi said, “we’re exhausted. We need rest. I believe Eivor will be more reasonable after a good night’s sleep.”
“Of course, Randvi. Go. We depart for Alrekstad in a few days,” the man rose from his throne and approached his future daughter-in-law. “And there’s something else I haven’t yet told Eivor. A message arrived from Northumbria—one of Ragnar’s sons, Ubba, I believe, has expressed his wish to marry Eivor. He’s heard of her martial fame—and her beauty. Seems Hemmingsson spread word of his battle companion’s virtues. After the Althing, we must give them our answer.”
“Oh, gods!” Randvi hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.
“What is it?” Styrbjorn asked.
“Eivor is unlikely to accept such a match,” Randvi replied, feeling her chest tighten painfully. She’d only just begun to believe everything would be alright—and now she couldn’t imagine Eivor leaving her behind. Even her own impending marriage no longer seemed as dreadful as the thought of Eivor’s departure. She’d nearly lost her once already in that dwarven cave. She wasn’t ready to lose her again. Better to remain her friend than lose her entirely.
“You must tell her this news yourself. I want her to hear it from you,” Styrbjorn interrupted her thoughts.
“Why me?” Randvi swallowed hard, hoping her voice didn’t sound as pitiful as she felt.
“You’re the only one she might actually listen to. Sigurd’s been gone too long—she trusts no one but you now.”
Randvi bowed uncertainly and, without another word, left the longhouse. Her body felt heavy; she couldn’t imagine how to break this news to Eivor. Perhaps Eivor would even be glad—now that her primary goal was fulfilled, a marriage to one of the most powerful men in the land might awaken new ambitions in her. She might leave this cold house without a second thought. And Randvi would be left watching as Eivor sailed away for the last time—perhaps never to return. She’d nearly lost her twice in recent days, and now this feeling again: losing Eivor meant losing a part of herself. Perhaps it was fate—Randvi had been betrothed to Sigurd from the start, and all her feelings for Eivor were merely a beautiful dream. But dreams end.
***
Randvi headed to the baths. She had no desire to feast. She needed to wash away the grime and let her aching muscles relax—they throbbed and burned from recent events. Entering the warm chamber, she watched as serving girls bustled about, stoking the heat and helping her out of her filthy clothes and the mail shirt that seemed fused to her skin. She felt an extraordinary lightness as the metal armor came off. She still hadn’t thanked Gunnar—the Raven Clan’s smith was among the finest in Rygjafylke.
Slipping into the wooden tub filled with warm water, she relaxed as the servants tended to her hair. The touch of one young thrall was unusually soothing. Randvi allowed herself to unwind beneath those gentle hands. She might have fallen asleep if not for the turmoil in her mind. How could she tell Eivor? Perhaps she should confess her feelings before Eivor left forever. But baring her soul to another felt strange—leaving herself defenseless. What if Eivor laughed or rejected her? Though she’d never been cruel to Randvi. Eivor always spoke of her as a sister—or future sister-in-law. Either way, she first had to deliver the news about the Ragnarssons’ letter. Maybe it was better if no one ever learned of her feelings—that everything remained as it was. That would be the wisest choice. After all, confessing would make her seem weak—and she needed to appear strong in everyone’s eyes.
***
Randvi entered Eivor’s hut. She froze in the doorway, startled to see her friend cradling a six-month-old baby, making silly faces as the infant giggled joyfully.
“Randvi, this is Eira—Gutrun and Gudmund’s daughter,” Eivor answered her unspoken question. “I’m just playing with her for a bit. Gunnrun will be here soon. Did you want to rest?”
Randvi stood watching as Eivor played with the baby, unable to suppress a smile. Randvi herself had never wanted children, yet the sight of Eivor with the infant was undeniably heartwarming. In her simple post-bath attire, she looked so young and tender—nothing like the fearsome warrior who’d defeated an enemy twice her size.
“You’re good with little ones,” Randvi said softly, affection coloring her voice. Eivor nodded in agreement.
“I enjoy playing with them, telling stories, taking the older ones fishing. Children are pure and innocent. I’d like them to avoid the bitterness of loss and pain for as long as possible.” Eivor glanced at Randvi; her smile dimmed slightly—perhaps remembering that night when her own family was taken. “I’d like to have a daughter or son someday. It’s strange—I never even thought about children before.”
Eivor pulled the baby close and, sitting on the edge of the bed, handed her a small wooden horse. Eira immediately reached out with tiny hands, grabbing the toy and alternately tasting it and tapping it against Eivor’s arm.
“You never expected to survive,” Randvi said. “All these years, your life revolved around a single purpose—and now that you’ve fulfilled it, new desires awaken within you. Perhaps soon you’ll find a new goal.”
“I never considered anything like this,” Eivor shrugged. “A warrior’s life is short—what’s the point of grand plans?”
“I don’t know the purpose of any life. But however many winters we’re granted in Midgard, we must cherish each day.” Randvi knelt beside Eivor’s feet and gently stroked little Eira’s dark, short hair. “She resembles her mother.”
“She does,” Eivor smiled.
***
As promised, Gutrun arrived a few hours later. She’d been caring for her mother, who’d broken her arm in an accident, while her husband recovered from the battle at Kjotve’s fortress. She was grateful Eivor had taken the baby.
“How is your mother feeling?” Eivor asked softly as she carefully passed the sleeping infant to Gutrun.
“She won’t be able to use her arm for a long while. Runa set it firmly and said not to move it until she removes the bandages,” the girl whispered, careful not to wake the child. “I hope Eira wasn’t too much trouble?”
“She’s wonderful,” Eivor replied, stroking the baby’s cheek.
“Thank you for watching her. I know how tired you must be,” Gutrun said sincerely.
“Not at all—it was my pleasure,” Eivor answered.
Once Gutrun and Eira had left, Randvi remembered Styrbjorn’s request and hesitated, pacing slowly across the room as she weighed how and when to deliver the news of the possible betrothal. Eivor sat on the bed, polishing her dagger with a scrap of pigskin. She glanced up, immediately sensing Randvi’s inner turmoil, and asked directly,
“Randvi, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know… I don’t know how to say it, but… your father…” Randvi crossed her arms tightly over her chest, pacing without meeting Eivor’s eyes.
“What about my father?” Eivor frowned, studying Randvi intently.
“Your father asked me to tell you… a message arrived—from Ubba… Ubba Ragnarsson.” Randvi finally met her friend’s gaze.
“From Ragnarsson? From England?” Eivor clarified.
“Yes, I believe so,” Randvi cleared her throat, trying to sound impartial.
“And what does he want from me?” Eivor pressed her lips together.
“To marry you!” Randvi blurted out. She’d wanted to say it calmly, but her voice betrayed her with a tremor.
“What?” Eivor’s brow shot up. She sprang from the bed, tossing the dagger aside, and seized Randvi’s elbow, forcing her to stop. “Styrbjorn told you this?”
Randvi held Eivor’s ocean-blue eyes without blinking—now darkened with anger.
“Yes. He asked me to tell you because he believes you’ll only listen to me.”
“So what do you suggest?” Eivor asked sarcastically. Randvi had never seen such hatred in her before. “Marry a stranger? Leave everything and everyone behind? Lose my clan all over again?”
Randvi didn’t know how to respond. She wanted to scream from the pain constricting her chest, to pull Eivor close and swear she’d never let anyone take her away. But she knew that would be selfish—soon, she herself would belong to another. Instead, she stepped back and turned toward the fire, as if answers lay within the flames.
“I’m not suggesting anything, Eivor. You’re grown and can decide for yourself. Besides, you said you wanted a child someday. This is a perfect opportunity.”
“A renowned warrior will become your husband and the father of your children.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” Eivor’s fury was no longer concealed; her fists clenched until her knuckles turned white. Randvi couldn’t understand what in her words had provoked such a reaction. After all, Eivor would likely receive many marriage proposals—given her beauty, fame, and noble lineage, she was a highly desirable match.
“You’ll fulfill your duty, strengthening the alliance between Ravens and Ragnarssons. You yourself said a warrior’s path is short—perhaps it’s time to settle down and think of family?” Randvi kept her voice low, avoiding Eivor’s gaze so she wouldn’t appear pitiful.
“I didn’t spend countless winters honing my skills just to surrender my freedom, my life, my clan in an instant!” Eivor spat.
“I’m leaving my clan too—for a life in Fornburg!” Randvi turned to face her. She could’ve sworn Eivor’s glare could burn her alive; she’d never seen her this enraged.
“You—you!” Eivor growled, challenging Randvi with her eyes. “You agreed to this willingly—but not me! I’ll never betray my principles!”
Randvi felt bile rise in her throat at those words. So in Eivor’s eyes, she was just a meek little sheep for obeying her father’s wishes for the sake of peace? She, who’d just saved Eivor from oblivion? She, who’d taught this girl to hold a bow and throw axes, helped her with discipline, stood watch by her bedside when she was ill? And this was her gratitude?
Randvi stared straight into the Wolf-Kissed’s eyes. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to strike her. She dropped the mask of indifference.
“It’s time to grow up, Eivor!” Randvi flared, her chest heaving with sudden fury. “You’re not a little girl galloping through fields dreaming of glory anymore!”
“I have only one duty, Randvi—to protect and care for my people, those who truly need me!” the girl hissed, brows furrowed, her gaze turning menacing. She stepped right up to Randvi. “If you’re content with the life of a jarl’s wife and mother to his children, that’s your choice. I’ll never accept such a pitiful existence!”
“I didn’t choose this life! I’m no less than you—in many ways, I surpass you! You’re reckless and vain! You always need someone to temper your fire! And yet you dare accuse me of something?” Randvi shot back, staring into those familiar, ocean-deep eyes—and for the first time, seeing only hatred within them. A sharp pain pierced her heart. “You can chase glory all you want, but if it benefits your father to marry you off to a Ragnarsson, he will! You must understand that, you foolish drengr!”
Without even realizing her own boldness, Randvi grabbed Eivor by the front of her tunic and crushed her lips against Eivor’s in a furious kiss, biting her lower lip until it bled. Eivor growled but didn’t pull away—in fact, she yanked Randvi closer, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist and tangling their tongues together. Randvi moaned into her mouth as desire flared low in her belly, her hands sliding under Randvi’s tunic from her back down to her hips, pulling her even closer.
But then Eivor abruptly broke away, licked the blood from her lip, and fixed Randvi with that same hateful glare.
“To Hel with you, Randvi! To Hel with you and your duty!” She wiped the blood from her mouth, snatched up her boots and cloak, and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Randvi stood frozen in place, still tasting the salty, metallic flavor of Eivor’s blood on her lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks.