Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
From the other side of Liv’s body, Bjorn made a noise of disgust, but I found myself leaning in Snorri’s direction, desperate to learn what silver lining he saw within this catastrophe. I was not alone. All around us, the people of Halsar watched their jarl with hope in their eyes, and for all I prayed that he had answers, it was not lost upon me that it was the consequences of his choices that we needed to be delivered from.
“Long have we known that Halsar was vulnerable!” Snorri leapt onto a pile of debris, his voice projecting across the smoking ruins. “Long have we known that its position was weak, ever a target of raiders from north and south, east and west. Yet it was our home, so we clung to it, allowing habit and sentiment and apathy to weaken us. But no longer.” His eyes surveyed his people. “For like a healer excises a rotten bit of flesh, so has Gnut burned away our weakness, leaving behind nothing but strength!”
I felt a fervor growing in the people, a restless energy stirred by Snorri’s words. Felt it in myself, and for the first time I saw a spark of why the gods foresaw him as king of Skaland, for he was a man whom other men followed on the strength of his words alone. Ylva, however, seemed unmoved, her arms crossed and eyes frosty.
“The gods themselves have seen a united Skaland. Have seen a king. And a king does not live in a muddy fishing village.” He paused again for effect. “And neither do a king’s people!”
Villagers and warriors alike voiced their agreement, lifting their fists into the air.
“So we will turn our backs on this pile of mud and ash,” Snorri shouted. “Will turn our eyes across the mountains and prepare for war. Will prepare to strike our enemy! And I swear to you this: The next roof you sleep beneath will be within the walls of Grindill!”
Roars of approval echoed across the ruins, everyone, including me, shouting for Gnut’s death. Shouting for blood. And shouting for vengeance. I allowed myself to be swept away by it, for a path forward was an escape from what had come before. From what surrounded me now.
“We’re going to make the bastards bleed for this,” I said, turning to Bjorn.
Only to discover that he was gone.
We set up camp near the ruins of Halsar, Snorri sending riders through his territories to call in every man and woman who could fight. Bodil sent for reinforcements from her own lands. Warriors and ships and supplies to feed those who’d lost everything to fire.
“Gnut’s scouts will hear of this,” she warned. “He will be ready for us.”
Snorri only scoffed. “Let his scouts go running back to him. I want Gnut cowering in terror behind his walls, knowing that I’m coming for him. I want his people to have time to understand that their jarl has brought this pain down upon them in his refusal to swear an oath to the rightful king of Skaland. In his refusal to bend to the will of the gods. Mark my words, they will turn on him sure and true.”
Despite the arrogance of his words, there was a fervor in them that fueled the fires in the hearts of all who heard. Only a few drowned in sorrow, all others turning their minds and hands to preparation for battle, forging weapons, fletching arrows, and gathering the supplies that would be needed. It was the nature of our people to spit in defiance of adversity, to look forward rather than backward, to fixate on vengeance rather than to grieve for the fallen.
Sitting next to a cookfire, I ate food that someone had prepared, my mind tossing and turning over what my role would be in the battle to come.
Bodil sat across the fire from me, a bowl in her hand. Despite not knowing her for very long, and the difficult questions she’d posed of me, there was no denying that I felt at ease in her presence. She was of an age with my mother, but whereas my mother was endlessly prying into my business so that she might pick apart flaws in my behavior, Bodil’s interest seemed motivated by curiosity rather than the desire to uncover my failings.
For a long time, the jarl said nothing, only watched as the others gathered around fires, drinking and singing and dancing, the air thick with energy, like in the moments before a storm. Finally she said, “Snorri believes his words. Believes that this is the fate the gods foresee for him. There is a sort of magic in that.” She gestured to the dancers. “A power to make others believe as well.”
Finishing my food, I set my bowl down. “Do you believe?”
Bodil considered the question, and it struck me that she rarely spoke without thinking first. Probably a skill I’d do well to learn, though I found it frustrating having to wait for her responses.
“I believe,” she finally said, “that we stand on the brink of great change for Skaland, though what that change will be, I cannot say. Only that I hope to be part of it. To influence it for the better, if I can.”
An answer that was not an answer, another habit I’d noticed of Bodil. It made me want to dig, to extract something solid and tangible from her, so I asked, “How do you know when someone is telling a mistruth?”
Bodil smiled. “My feet itch.”
A flicker of surprise ran through me, first that she had said something forthright, and second that the answer was so…mundane. She was the child of Forseti, her ability to discern truth the god’s magic, and to have it manifest in such a way made me smile. “I’d say that would be irritating, but I suppose those who know you refrain from deception in your presence.”
Pushing a silver braid over her shoulder, Bodil said, “Being wholly honest is harder than you might think, Freya. Nearly everyone is deceiving someone about something, even if it’s only themselves. Words uttered might be the truth but the tone or sentiment false, and my gift does not tell me the difference, only that something in the exchange is deception.” Taking a mouthful of food, she chewed and swallowed. “In my youth, I suffered tremendous anger because it felt as though everyone was lying to me and that I could trust no one.”
Gods, but I understood that feeling. “You must have felt miserable,” I said to her, though my eyes drifted from Bodil’s face to the other fires, hunting and searching for Bjorn, whom I’d not seen since we’d returned to Halsar. He was the one I trusted above all others, yet he was the one person I had to guard myself against the most.
“It was,” Bodil answered. “I found peace only when I learned to tell the difference between mistruths told from empathy, shame, or fear, and those told with malice. Knowledge of that came not from magic but from experience.”
“It’s amazing that you didn’t go mad in the intervening period,” I mumbled, then I heard a familiar tread coming up behind me, and I turned.
Bjorn approached, firelight casting shadows across the hard angles of his face in a way that made my stomach flip.
“Bodil.” He nodded at the jarl. “Freya.”
“Where have you been?” I asked, then instantly cursed myself for doing so, swiftly adding, “Avoiding real work, as usual?”
He sat next to me, sending my heart into a gallop as I inhaled the scent of pine and fjord. “Why? Was there something you needed me to do for you?”
My cheeks instantly reddened, and I prayed he’d only think it the light cast by the fire. “Other than cutting off heads, the list of things that you can do that I can’t do better is very short, Bjorn. So to answer your question, no.”
Bodil cackled and slapped her hands against her thighs. “She speaks the truth, boy.”
Bjorn’s smile turned sly. “Maybe so, but the items on that list I do very well indeed.”
Memory crashed over me, of his hands on my body and his tongue in my mouth, heat flaming in my core. “So say all men,” I muttered.
Bjorn laughed, but Bodil’s eyes narrowed on me. “Truer words never spoken.”
True words. False sentiment.
Shit.