Chapter Text
QUE SERA, SERA
/que se·rá, se·rá/
idiom
what will be, will be
The only blessing that came of your marriage to that man was your son.
From birth, as if preordained, you and your sisters had one purpose and one role only: marry, and bear successors. Live life bound to a man for the entirety of it, rearing child after child, embodying the true essence of a mother, always accommodating of the demands one's duty as a wife and mother engender. Never were you raised to question or complain about it. And you never did.
But that never meant you liked your situation. You were the second-eldest of your four sisters, third eldest of all your siblings, right in the middle. Your eldest brother was set, from a young age, to take headship of the tribe once your father passed. Everyone has roles, you found, the day you watched him stand at father's side as your marriage was officiated. Everyone has roles, and they all weigh differently, but never lightly.
However, life apart from your family and home brought about a few more epiphanies regarding all of this, too—some roles, though heavy and burdensome, were less desirable than others. The encumbrances you and your sisters shared as women married off to various individuals were not always appealing. But the gods drew lots, it would seem, over who would marry who, and your roll happened to land wrong.
Your father was famous about the tribes for his four daughters—beautiful and benevolent like the goddesses themselves, and, with a hefty dowry to boot, suitors vied for your hands. Your older sister, Helene, went first: her groom, the son of a rival chief, was visibly thrown off by the arrangement, even on the day. But he was kind and gentle with her throughout the wedding, something you and your other sisters commented on, and you allowed your young self to relax once you set eyes on their dynamic. The newly-established allegiance between your and his clan brought about great prosperity for the people, and your sister was blessed with an affectionate husband.
You were all very young. Your sister was fourteen; her new husband seventeen. The rest of you and your two other sisters' marriages were arranged as engagements before you came of age—once you turned twelve, however, it wasn't long until your time drew swiftly near.
Mercifully, your father and husband-to-be at the time, of whom you did not meet until your wedding day, agreed to postpone the marriage for another year or so. You were just on the cusp of fourteen when the day dawned. You understood little. But that didn't matter, not to them. Therefore, it was at age thirteen, you were married.
Your husband was twenty, and his chieftain father had recently passed. The man's tribe was quite wealthy, with expansive territory, famed for its vineyards. Your bridal price was sizable—evidently one your father deemed satisfactory. Everything about it was too much for your young mind. And, when the hour of the bedding ceremony approached, you cried into your sister's chest.
"Was it—was it scary, Helene?" Sight blurred with the welling of tears, you had peered up at her in desperation, clutching her skirts tightly. "I am so frightened, even though grandmother tells me I shouldn't be. She said it's something all women must endure—so why do I dread it so?"
Helene, with an expression drawn in sympathy, lifted a hand and brushed some of your hair from your forehead, tucking it behind an ear. Your bridal crown sat crooked on your head. "Yes, sister, I was scared, too—but, I tell you, it'll be all over in a heartbeat. You shut your eyes and it's done."
"I heard—I heard it hurts," was your quiet reply, eyes now on the floral stitching of her dress. "And I don't like him, Helene. I don't like that man. He looks at me strange, and I'm to…spend the night with him? And the rest of my life?"
"Just remind yourself, sister," she said, swiping a tear from your cheek, "that it will all be over soon. Keep that thought in mind the entire time. When grandmother said to grit your teeth and bear it, she was not wrong. It's something most of us have had to do."
"You were blessed with a good husband, though." Much of this was easy for her to say—her spouse didn't give her long looks that sent chills up her spine. Her husband was loving, and paid close attention to her delicate self. "I can see why he was fond of you immediately, Helene—you are so kind and beautiful, but I am not. And also, that man is ugly."
She laughed, apparently thinking you were trying to be funny. You did not mirror her amusement. "Come now, sister, surely he can't be that bad! I do agree that his chin is a little…well, perhaps you will grow to like him. This is a union fated and blessed by the gods. Have gratitude."
No one really understood. The bedding ceremony came, the witnesses left you both in privacy for the consummation, and you vividly remember the crushing of your spirit the moment the marriage was physically bound between you both. Having no one to turn to, even when they were the ones who should have understood, was torment.
He was not gentle with you in the slightest, and the fact remained long after you departed your tribe's premises for his own. It became clear, months into your marriage, that you didn't strike his fancy that much at all. The relief you felt at this was overwhelming; you embraced your duties about the plentiful farmland surrounding his longhouse and estate, and found companionship in the servants. When he gathered his men and steeds and battleaxes and charged for the wilderness to pillage and plunder, you remained home, tending to the cattle and managing the estate, keeping the common people of the tribe afloat and content. It was routine, if a little mundane, but the years passed in relative peace for you. Your husband would return with greater wealth, more slaves, and wider territory, and you would do as your grandmother bid—grin and bear it.
"I hope you are not opposed, wife," your husband said one day, stopped at the entrance to the longhouse, glaring down at you with his armour still stained red, "to any additions to the household."
Your first thought was the prospect of children, which puzzled you, before his true meaning swiftly dawned. Ah. "Oh—no, milord, of course not." You lowered your head. "It is only…your right."
Apparently satisfied with your answer, the man merely grunted and whirled around, striding into the building, calling for three of the finest rooms to be prepared. You felt no heartbreak, but you did feel belittlement.
Your husband remaining preoccupied with this beautiful concubines brought you relief somewhat, but it was short-lived. Aged eighteen and still without child, your father, in his increasing years, knew only impatience at the knowledge that one of his daughters had not yet secured an heir of his bloodline in another's. You took the blame, despite your husband's rare visits to your chambers. To ensure you finally did conceive, Helene was sent, with her husband and children, to your territory, for supervision—much to your husband's chagrin.
"And they are to remain for an entire year?" was his growled reply to your announcement, brow clamped low over his eyes. "So they will be present for the duration of your pregnancy and eventual labour?"
"Yes, milord."
"How absurd." Heaving a scoff, the man sipped from his goblet and then pursed his lips in consideration, mood rapidly darkening. No such thing ever bode well for you, and you grew increasingly agitated. He scoffed again. "…Fine, have it your way. They may remain here for a twelvemonth. Tomorrow night, we shall fulfil our marital duty."
"We…we cannot, milord," you softly countered, almost choking on your words. "For I am on my…monthly bleed."
"Really?" You cursed your failed courage, for you couldn't help but lower your head, and his tone became eerily placid. "And when do those dastardly relatives of yours arrive? In two days?"
"…Just so, milord."
"And you will still be afflicted with that hellish catamenia you women endure at always the most inconvenient of times?" You did not have to look to see how that dreadful grin was twisting his lips. "You mean to make me wait, wife?"
"It is…not something I can control, milord. Even if we were to fulfil the duty, the seed would not take."
"Be grateful I am a lenient man," was his toneless response. His shadow fell over you as he rose from his seat, his lounging mistresses immediately moving to stand with him. Unlike what you ever expected, they did not gaze at you with malice or dark glee; they looked at you with pity and, in many ways, you hated that more. "For my patience with you and that futile womb of yours grows thinner by the year. If you do not conceive this time, I will have no other choice but to sire heirs elsewhere, and cast you out."
A fate worse than death, for you. Divorce meant disavowal from all your relatives, and you would be left alone, desolate, penniless, and scorned. An old spinster would have far more worth.
"And if you do not give me a boy…" His hand landed on your shoulder, and your entire frame flinched at the rough, unwanted contact, involuntary. You met his eyes and found ice. "Well. Need I say more?"
"No, husband." Once more, you lowered your head, humiliated. "You needn't."
Your helplessness was not something that you ever remained unaware of, and, many times, you wished you were. Ignorance is bliss—Helene, and your other sisters, know it. But they have reasonable spouses and tranquil homes. Your home is just as tranquil, really—but it's a tranquility induced by walking on eggshells, and never allowing yourself to misstep, all for fear of your own hide.
Seeing your nieces and nephews again brought you rare joy, however—they had grown much in the years past, and the eldest was now ten. Helene was truly favoured by the gods; their first child was a girl, but her husband was not irate at such, as most would be. Their second was a boy—and, despite his sickly disposition, he was well-cared for and adored by his parents. Loving marriages between viking families were rare, almost unheard of—but never unwelcome. It was difficult to not be filled with envy when graced with your sister, and her family's, presence.
"She is five months old," Helene softly said, face glowing with joy as she gently handed you her newborn daughter, "and healthy. We named her Idunn, because she was born in the spring."
"How lovely," you breathed out, in equal awe, tenderly cradling the babe to your chest as the little girl dozed, content after plentiful suckling. "Little Idunn. Very fitting, sister. She is just beautiful."
"Isn't she?" Helene smiled at you and then down at your niece, lifting a hand to delicately caress the infant's soft cheek. "Her older sister and brother adore her. I do think she'll be quite spoiled."
"And your husband?" you softly inquired, lightly adjusting your hold on the baby. "What are his thoughts?"
"He is just as overjoyed," she replied, and you almost sagged in relief. What a mercy she did not wed your husband. Never would she know such cheer then. "I, too, was so surprised. He said I could give him another girl and he'd be just as content."
How the gods favour her, you thought with no resentment, gazing at your sister affectionately. And then you looked back down at little Idunn and felt yourself warm with adoration. You loved your nieces and nephew; their stay would finally bring you some joy in amongst the misery of your situation. "You are truly blessed, Helene. But I might just steal this little lady for myself, you know."
She laughed, squeezing your shoulder. "Steal her away for as long as you like, so long as you return her to me when she cries for a feeding."
Despite their true purpose for taking up temporary residence in your husband's lands being to ensure your father's demands for an heir from you would be met, their company proved immensely enjoyable for you, in amongst the taxing duties life as lady of the house necessitates. You felt lighter, far more at ease, your time no longer largely preoccupied with bending to your tyrannical husband's whims and acting tentatively every time you are in his presence.
Your husband set out on an expedition about three months into their stay. With this announcement, you were left greatly concerned.
"How long will you be away for?" You were conscious of your father's impatience—his last letter to you said as much. Sometimes, his undertakings leave him absent for months—not to say that isn't something you appreciate, but with circumstances now, sudden departures will prove more detrimentral than ideal.
"One month," was his surly reply, tightening the bridle of his horse. You had been obligated to prepare the necessary resources for your husband and his men as they sharpened their battleaxes and wiped their breastplates down until they shone. And so a month's worth of supplies were organised for the men and their trip—though you took precautions and arranged for more. "I do hope to be welcomed with good news of a child on the way when I return."
Yes, it was so. Because of the external pressure on the both of you, the man was forced to swallow down his apparent revulsion of you and warm your bed; you were no less repulsed, if not more so. As the years passed, the greater your relief with such sentiments from him grew, knowing he did not desire you in such ways as to worsen his treatment of you further. However, it did nothing for your self-esteem—especially when aware you were considered the least beautiful of your sisters and with the least prospects before you were married off five years ago.
"I shall…petition the gods concerning it," you replied, dipping your head. No further words were exchanged between the two of you, and he and his men were on their way within the hour. One month of peace in the house, where you could govern it as you saw fit. But that meant one month of dreadful anticipation. And if you were with child, how would things go from there?
"Aunt," called Fredrik, your nephew, who shyly approached with an item in hand after you returned inside from seeing your husband off. "May I show you something?"
"Of course you may," you replied, wiping all previous expressions of apprehension from your face and replacing it with a kind smile. You fondly brushed the seven-year-old boy's fringe from his eyes. "Tell me, what do you have there?"
"It's…it's a flower crown," he murmured, reticently holding it out for you to see. "They say flowers are not for boys, but I wanted to make this for mother, because she likes daisies and cornflowers."
"Oh, how lovely!" Kneeling down so you were eye-level with the child, you gently took the flower crown into your hands and admired it closely. "It is wonderful, Fredrik, and nothing to be ashamed of. I'm sure your mother will love it."
"…Really?" Timidity fading, your nephew peered up at you with eyes identical to his mother's and let a small smile slip. "Would you like one, then?"
You handed the crown back to him. "I would love one, and I think your sisters would as well."
"But…Idunn is so little, she won't remember it."
"What does that matter? You can be a good older brother and make plenty of flower crowns for your baby sister even when she's as old as me. Don't you think she'd like that?"
Fredrik looked at you confusedly. "You are only nineteen, aunt."
"That I am. And isn't that quite old?" Nineteen, married, but still without children—shame filled you. People whispered that you were disfavoured by the gods, due to your apparent lack of fertility, despite being wed for five, very nearly six, years. "But never too old for flowers. Now go, show your mother. She'll be overjoyed, I promise you."
And as you watched him dart away, eager to earn his mother's approval, you straightened with a lightened mood and faint sense of nostalgia. The sight of your sister's children playing about happily in the reaching fields of your husband's lands and their joy at the farm animals reminded you much of the brighter days of your own childhood. It also resurfaced an old memory—the memory of a friend you once made, the dirt on his face and the grime beneath his nails, and the cluster of wildflowers you once tucked behind his ear, because everyone deserves a flower, regardless of their identity, and regardless of their circumstances.
The gods finally took pity on you, it would seem, for you were discovered to be with child just after the messenger departed with news of your husband's imminent return. You did not feel joy at the news, only relief, and, when the man arrived, he immediately demanded to know if you were finally pregnant, his wrath curbed at your affirmative.
"Good," he'd remarked, huffing. "It means that wretched sister of yours can take her husband and children now and leave."
"Not so, milord," was your reply, careful. "They are to remain until I give birth."
Your husband had never been the sort of man to raise his voice often—and it was usually the placidity of the rage in his eyes that struck fear into you, and other people. Such was now, though you stood your ground. "You told me they would leave once you announced you were with child."
"No, husband. My father ordered for them to stay and ensure I carry the child to term."
He was seething, you could tell, but you had grown far too accustomed to his tempers now that it only faintly worried you. "…Must I have them tossed out myself? Is your father not happy merely with the news? Unbelievable."
"I am powerless before any of my father's decrees. And if it was not my father, it would have been my brother, and I have been informed that he is of the same mind."
The man wrenched off his great cloak, the apparel soiled with mud and dirt and dried blood, and tossed it to you. Then he turned on his heel and made to storm off. "Fine! Let your dastardly family continue to have their way and impose on my turf! But, I swear to you, woman—after this, no more!"
You sister had sat and comforted you following the man's outburst. "What is his issue with our presence, and our father's wishes? This goes beyond being merely territorial."
You'd sighed defeatedly, sitting still as Helene braided your hair. The man was always in particularly foul moods when having returned from an expedition, regardless of whether it went well or poorly. "I don't believe I'll ever know, sister. He is just…not a hospitable person, I suppose."
"Such a disparity to your own," she commented, tying the end of your braid and squeezing your shoulders. "We have known nothing but comfort during our stay here, thanks to your management of the staff and household. The children love it."
"I am glad to hear that." You reached up and placed a hand over Helene's, turning to smile at her. "I am also glad to know you'll still be here throughout the duration of my pregnancy. It would be quite daunting otherwise."
"Considering how resilient you are," was her lighthearted response, "even if I weren't here, I do believe you'd fare just fine."
That didn't matter, you found, as the weeks passed by and your belly swelled. It didn't matter if you were resilient or not—what mattered was that she was here with you, a woman having already experienced three pregnancies herself, someone you could trust with your concerns and fear. Your husband ordered for you to be put on bedrest for the majority of your pregnancy. This was not done out of concern for you, no—it was borne of an incentive to make sure your sister and brother-in-law and their children would be on their way as soon as possible, so they didn't have to stick around for another year or so if you happened to miscarry.
Miscarriages were too common. Two of your other sisters had experienced them, and so had your late mother. Despite their prevalence, they left the afflicted no less disillusioned and spiritless. It didn't help that women were ostracised and persecuted for such incidents. It was not something you wished to experience, not with the man you were wed to.
The concubines of the estate assumed your typical duties during your incapacitation. It was at your twentieth week that you received news of one of the women's own pregnancy.
"If she had been with child before you," Helene gravely mused, seated at your bedside, "how father's wrath would have been incurred! Perhaps this is a good thing, sister. But father and brother will demand for at least two more children."
You released a heavy exhale. "I know. What choice do I have? Do we have? It's all we're good for, Helene. Bearing children."
"Don't say that! You know that's not true. We have far more purpose than just babies. If it weren't for us, or in this case, you, this whole tribe of your husband's would have long toppled to the ground."
"No need to coddle me, sister. You and I both know that what I said is the truth. Just think: what did mother do? Grandmother? Our aunts? Our own sisters? Ourselves? You will return to your household once I give birth and I guarantee you, within the following six-or-so months, you will send word of another pregnancy—or, if not you, then it will be our sisters. Our brother's wife. Whoever. It doesn't matter anymore. Children are a blessing, yes, but isn't it a little discouraging to grow up from a girl to a woman with nothing but marriage and then gravidity after gravidity on the horizon?"
Helene had fallen silent; you relaxed back into the pillows and cast your weary gaze to the windows, staring out. "Do not misconstrue my words, sister. I am looking forward to meeting my child. I will make sure that, whether it be boy or girl, they will grow up comfortably. But it daunts me a little to know that not only for myself, but for any future daughter I may have, they will do nothing with their lives, and know no other future, except to thrash in birthing pains."
Months later, when you clutched at the birthing slings above in agony as you writhed through the anguish of labour, you knew only more relief once you let go of consciousness, and then held the baby boy tight to your front as he suckled contentedly at your breast, his soft cheeks puffy and pink with good health. Your husband visited once to confirm for himself it was a boy. Word was immediately sent to your father about the successful birth. Priority then shifted to caring for the mistress who was pregnant; you were even more relieved to have his attention diverted from you for a bit longer.
Your brother-in-law had returned to his territory six months prior to your son's birth, with only your sister and her children remaining. Helene sent them back to her husband while she stayed for another handful of weeks to care for your weary self.
"It pains me to have to soon take my leave, sister," she said regretfully, rocking your newborn son back and forth in her arms as you took a moment to rest. "I should really remain here to help you for at least another year, but…" Helene glanced tentatively up at you, gesturing her head towards the door. "I know your husband wouldn't have that, and neither would my own."
"It isn't an issue, Helene." You smiled appreciatively at her, eyes dropping to the babe in her hold. "I understand. You have your own children and household to manage—you can't run around after me forever."
"I'll be sure to visit when you send word of your next pregnancy," she assured, rising to approach and gently hand the infant back to you. Your little son stirred and then relaxed into your chest, mouth working in his sleep. Helene smiled softly down at him. "Oh, sister, he looks just like you. Same skin and eyes. What a handsome lad he will be!"
Laughing quietly, you brushed back the few tuffs of hair on his scalp and gazed at his slumbering little face fondly. "Hm. I agree. You know, I can't say I was very excited to have a child, but I really can't help but cherish him."
"As you should." Helene took a seat next to you and busied herself with the tray of drinks and food at your side, previously brought in by Helga, the head maid. "You have been blessed with a healthy baby boy. Who knows what boons the gods have in store for you yet!"
One week later, Helene finally set off, the farewells exchanged between you tearful and lengthy. She continously assured you that she would write often and send envoys to check in on you in person. With a tight, parting embrace, Helene stepped onto the wagon, waved a final goodbye, and departed with her assembly of guards.
Her concerns for you and the baby's wellbeing were mostly unfounded; the servants bustling about the longhouse and estate took excellent care of you and your son, alongside the various concubines with whom you had formed amiable relationships with. Most of the women now residing here alongside you were not brought to the estate out of their own volition—they are bounty, trophies, spoils of war and conquest, as are you, in essence. There only for display and pleasure, never for their humanity and being.
You had been taught from a young age, however, that your circumstances and situation are not something you should complain about—how lucky and blessed and fortunate were you to be the lady of such a great house? The wife of such a mighty lord? The mother of such a man's son? Even if all of that came at the cost of your own identity, and how your worth was not truly rooted and found in the labels slapped onto a woman upon her selling away and marriage and entry into motherhood?
You often stared out the window of your chambers, where the panes overlooked the expanse of the tribe's widest meadow, to the cattle peacefully grazing throughout its verdant reach. Are you not like them? Those humble cows and meek ewes, content with the environment of the pens they are herded into, for they know naught else? For they were born and raised in such confines, never to know of the liberty to be had just within their reach, just beyond the fenceline, if only they were aware of it?
The odd animal would stray along the edge of their pens and find an opening—they would taste the briefest, most fleetings drops of the wine freedom spills, know its sweetness and weightlessness, before the farmhand alerts his staff and rushes to toss that rope around its neck, and coax it back in. It can resist as much as it pleases; it means nothing once the gate behind it creaks and locks shut.
For a woman like you, in your situation, there is no freedom to be had. But if you were loved, and treated kindly, and doted upon by a man who took you as his wife, then perhaps these confines wouldn't be quite so stifling. Perhaps you wouldn't be quite so disenchanted with your prison and the lack of escape from it. Then, perhaps, you would be a little more content with your pen.
Your husband has brought home another five hundred slaves.
It is hardly something you have a say in. The port some leagues away is booming with the trade. The estate's status and wealth is increasing; the people still never have enough. Although you cannot concern yourself with the trafficking, despite your discomfort with it, you can make attempts at assuring the welfare of your husband's subjects, who fall under your jurisdiction, also.
"This past year has yielded great financial growth here, milord," you remark, during a rare dinner with him. The wine in your chalice is the liquor of one of his many pillaged vineyards—a recent excursion. The vignerons were slaughtered on sight. "We are hardly lacking in resources. Are the people not due a decrease in taxes?"
"A decrease?" He cuts and eats the rump of a felled stag, killed in the hunting grounds of a vanquished chief a fortnight ago. Its bust now sits, shadowed and stately, behind the head of the table, above the fireplace, antlers high and varnished and proud. "Why?"
"We ought to usher in the new year with celebrations of your feats, not a further demand of levy." You do not enjoy being blunt, but the man only hears what he wants to hear, and when one is explicit, he cannot skirt around the topic—even if it means stoking his ire. But when is he ever not in a temper?"The people should have a share in the wherewithal."
His mistresses, also seated at the table, exchange unsure glances, and peek looks at you. You stare straight ahead, gazing the man straight in the eye, as he remains silent for a long pause. The air is tense and thick enough to cut through it with a knife; to apply just enough pressure to ensure it snaps. You have always been one to get beneath his skin—one of the many reasons he dislikes you. Over a decade of tolerating this man has reaped these sour fruits.
"The people are content," he finally says, calmly continuing with his meal. It appears he is not going to be as reactionary as usual to my prodding tonight. "With the share I have long indulged them so generously. We have far more pressing matters at hand at present than whatever you're concerned with."
"Such pressing matters supercede the welfare of your citizens?"
A sharp click of his knife to his plate as he sets it down. "You put words in my mouth."
"Not at all," you serenely reply, setting your own utensils aside. "I am merely recapitulating."
"Ha! And just what is it you are recapitulating, wife?"
"Your dismissal of your own people. Winter is a mere month away, and they are already feeling the cold. Have your conquests not yielded more than enough resources for the coming season to provide them all they need?"
"They already have more than they need."
"They do not. Why must we debate on this? The facts are, milord, your people will starve throughout the duration of winter if you do not heed my entreaty—as the lady of those same citizens, just as you are their lord."
"What does it matter?" Still, your husband manages to curb his temper, and maintain his placidity. "The majority of them are slaves, either way."
He says right in front of his many concubines of whom he vanquished the homes of, killed the people of, stole the freedom of. Has he not also stolen yours? Is this place not a cage you all share equally, allocated your own space, fenced in nonetheless?
Ropes about our necks. Coaxing us in. Their tugging is cruel, though, and the twine of the noose digs and burns into our skin.
Your hands are on your lap, beneath the table, clutching your frock in an iron grip. But we, women of this household, are not the only ones so firmly fenced in, are we? "…You truly have no care?"
"If it will help cease your nagging, wife," the man begins, draining his goblet of drink, setting it down, "then you may take what you need to give to those slaves and commoners you are so concerned for."
"Who else would toil your farmland, crops, and cattle, if not those same slaves and commoners?"
"Careful, now." No—your husband has never been fond of correction, of challenge, of negation. All who dare to cross his warpath will meet the edge of his axe descending upon their neck. "You shall find yourself in their company in those same fields they are only obligated to toil."
Wretched man. To think he sired such a kindly boy as your son, his heir. An heir whose young ears are not, mercifully, present to hearken this dismal exchange. But how will you keep young Finn from the influence of his father, who will soon seek to oversee his education and training—thus exposing him to the veiled wickedness of the chieftain's nature and bloodlust? When he will order the boy to battle, once aged twelve? It is only four years away. Will your husband force your hand?
To force the hand of a mother is no small feat. And it is no proud achievement. Man always underestimates the iron will of woman. Especially when it comes to their children, or loved ones, and that same dear kith and kin's wellbeing.
You have borne no more children since the age of nineteen; your father, on his deathbed, did not entirely consider you a failure of a wife, mother, daugther, and woman, but he was not exactly impressed, either. One child is something, but they are still one child—and they need siblings, a line of successors, to ensure the survival of a house, and the survival of the alliance brought about by marriage. The survival of both houses.
It's nothing short of a miracle, really, that little Finn has not taken ill to a fatal degree thus far. One of your husband's mistresses' children died of fever at only age two—it was a mournful affair, and the woman, alongside the weight of her sorrow, had to endure the coldness of the chief, for he blamed her for one of his heirs' deaths.
Never had the women once known jealousy or malice from you; each newcomer is wary of the lady of the house at first, of course, but it isn't as if many of them are particularly endeared by the man either. They have relatively luxurious lives, so long as they warm his bed as often as he desires, and bear as many offspring they can to solidify his bloodline.
It became apparent, even early on in your marriage to this man, that your ability to bear children was limited. At first, it was a relief; now, with the joy you know from your son, and your love for the concubines' sons and daughters, all you grown to long for now is a baby girl of your own.
But that is a pipe dream. You would be shunned by the man for bearing a daughter, anyway. And your fear of her facing a life much like your own is more than enough of a deterrent. You cannot bring her into a world where only misery and servitude awaits her.
"Things must truly be awry for you to even overlook the lives of those in your care." Never have you cowered before the notion of defending yourself and those around you before this man. To hell with your status as a wife and woman—his carelessness is too detestable to let slide. "I'd like to be informed of what it is that could have my husband so preoccupied and too busy to spare a thought for the livelihoods of his citizens."
"Shall I have your tongue cut out for your insolence? Wife or not, it makes no difference to me!"
"I merely asked a question, and you frame my words as insolence?" It isn't often you lose your own temper. This man makes such occasions frequent, however. "You go too far."
"Too far? You dare to speak to me of what is too far?" It is with a rattle of the table and the tipping of the water pitcher that he rises to his feet, incensed. One of the women lets out a muted squeak as the water sloshes right into her front. "I like you best when you're a meek and silent little thing, like you once were! Have I grown too lenient? Too merciful? Was it a mistake you grant you such freedom and a son?"
"A son is not yours to grant, not when it is duty." You remain calmly seated. "And this is not a matter of freedom. This is a matter of your wife approaching you with the mere request of aiding the people in the impending winter season, and you deny them and I even that."
"It matters not," is your husband's low answer, voice cold and rumbling, "for truly I tell you, woman, the citizens will not be in need this coming winter. Considering the pressing matters I emphasised before, not even you will have the means!"
"Then I advise you to tell me what these pressing matters you so insist on are." The food on each of your plates have long grown cold now. "And how I may be of assistance."
"The only assistance you can be of is keeping a leash on that tongue of yours." He sharply turns to take his leave, cutting you a malicious glare. "Your title as lady of the house is an empty label, I assure you. I would advise you to refrain from meddling in my affairs any further henceforth. Do not display such impudence in my presence again, or you shall find yourself swiftly bereft of the ability to speak!"
The doors slam shut behind him. Many of the women flinch at its sharp bang. You, now alone with them, allow yourself to let loose a tense breath, before turning to the mistress who was doused in water. "Thyra. Are you alright? Shall we get you a towel?"
"Oh—um." She herself is still dabbing at her front with the cloth just handed to her by a servant. "I—I should be alright, my lady, it's just water. But, what of you? Are you alright? That was…quite the…"
You heave another sigh. "It was nothing new. I shall approach him about this matter again later in the week." Getting to your feet, you accept the fresh towel handed to you by Helga, and approach Thyra to assist her with it. "But you should go and change before you catch a chill. Dinner has ended, either way. Wasn't that just a merry affair?"
"I sometimes fear for you, my lady," one of the other women softly comment. Aina is your age, one of the first concubines to have arrived here upon your husband's initial great conquests, and likely your closest friend. Never have you succeeded in convincing her to drop the honorifics, however, much to your chagrin. "You were…careless tonight. Courage and temerity are two very different things."
"There's hardly a better way to bring up such a topic to him," you reply, shaking your head. "I do not fear him, so you needn't fear for me in return. He risks my brother's ire should he harm me to the point of death."
"That is hardly the point," says another. Gunda is by far the most foolhardy of the harem, and, by extension, not exactly a favourite of your husband—much to her relief. "The fact of the matter is, you put your neck on the line nonetheless. You have done so countless times for our sake and earned yourself severe punishments. When will you learn?"
"Gunda," hisses Sigrid, fixing the woman with a sharp look.
"What? I only speak the truth! Out of care for our lady!"
"Regardless! She is to be spoken to with respect!"
You cast a look at the women from over your shoulder as you help wipe up the table and right the pitcher. "You know I hardly care for such formalities when it is just us, Sigrid."
"Casual talk should not become a habit," she sagely replies, "for fear it slipping through when in the wrong place at the wrong time, my lady."
You huff a laugh, gently waving Helga away as she insists on you leaving the cleaning-up to her. "You all underestimate me, which is the true disrespect."
"Not at all!" The poor girl appears to believe you are being serious. "That is not what I meant at all, my lady, do forgive me—"
"She speaks in jest," Aina sighs, placing a hand to Sigrid's shoulder. "Be calm. My lady, must ask, though—just how do you intend to persuade the man when he long possesses history of little care for his people?"
"I've done it before," you answer, nodding to Thyra as she bobs a bow and departs to bathe and change, "and succeeded. And I'll do it again. The trick is to haggle with him."
"We know," says Gunda, shaking her head. "Many a time has it earned you a flogging, too."
"A flogging well worth it," is your breezy reply, unconcerned. "I will convince him, trust me. I will not permit the starving and freezing of the people like he is so comfortable with allowing. I shall employ my brother's help, too, should the need arise."
"Again." Aina gets to her feet with an exhale and weary look your way. "You are too reckless for your own good."
"Where has lying down and rolling over got anyone in the past?" You fold the damp towel you had used to soak up the puddle on the table and turn to hand it to Helga. "Other than nowhere?"
"It has kept them alive, that's what." Gunda finishes the wine in her cup. "But, it matters not. You're simply doing your duty as this land's lady. It is just lamentable it should come with such harm on your part."
"Such is life." You smile at her and squeeze her shoulder as she moves to pass. "There is only so much one can do."
"You can ask us for aid," offers Sigrid, her brow upturned.
"I thank you, but there is no need." You step back to allow the servants to come forward and clear the table upon the ladies' rise from their seats. "I have handled far worse than this before, I assure you."
It becomes clear, not long after, that your husband was telling the truth regarding the 'pressing matters' he so insisted on. His men are on edge. When you query as to their visible disquiet, they comment on the 'recent rampages' in the north. Rampages that are not of your husband's, your brother's, or any nearby unallied tribes', doing.
"And this man has already felled the Asvards?" Incertitude bleeds into your tone now, also—long has the Asvard Clan posed a threat to your husband, an adversary he has, at length, sought to defeat and return triumphant over, the plunder he would cart home worth tenfold the wealth already in his storehouses. Not only would their now-apparent subduement and fall land as a great shock to him, but also something of great cause for anger and, most of all, fear. An emotion that is nothing unnatural to know, either, for just who on this green earth could be formidable enough to lay waste to one of the mightiest, eldest, most bloodthirsty tribes of this land—in a matter of mere days?
"He has claimed the north, from all four borders, already," replies your husband's most-trusted subordinate. "Reports have stated that the amount of blood he has spilled is enough to smell from even Beinir Harbour."
Gods above, you think, dread sinking low in your stomach. Beinir Harbour is the the southernmost port of this land, a week and a half's trip from these clan grounds to its sea-soaked gates—thrice as long should the weather prove bleak. And you know such claims are no word of a lie, either—carrion birds have been seen migrating north when it is not the cold season just yet; one month too early for it to be natural, thus, leaving only one explanation. "And…And he is swiftly making his way…south?"
"Southeast, at present," grunts your husband, in too dark and spiritless of a mood to bother complaining at your presence. "It is only a matter of time."
You take the reins, as per usual, of the estate and its management whilst the chieftain is concerned with gathering and preparing his men for inevitable battle. Southeast means this newfangled foe is presently heading in the opposite direction of these tribe lands—but it is also where three of your sisters reside, spiking your anxiety from mild apprehension to overwhelming dread. If this man truly is storming throughout the lands with the intent to raze and vanquish everything in his path, be it man, woman, child, or animal, then your family will be no exception—and, as your husband said, it is only a matter of time. Before he and his army arrive on your front doorstep.
The servants and citizens have caught word, too. Gunda muttered that everyone was sitting ducks. You gently reminded her that your husband and his men would do all they can to protect the clan.
The look she gave you was borderline withering. Even you could taste the bitterness of a lie and the truth on your tongue as those reassuring words exited your mouth.
"Will I have to go out and fight?" asked your son, Finn, upon you sitting him down and giving him a sanitised summary of the situation at hand. You, with immense relief that he was not yet anywhere near old enough to have to pick up a blade and ride to battle, brushed his hair from his forehead and affectionately rubbed his cheek. "No, you shall not, my dear, you needn't worry about that. Your father will do his utmost in your stead, I tell you."
"But I want to fight." Eyes like yours peered up, wide and apprehensive—yet never lacking in courage. "I won't let some other horrible chieftain come here and hurt you! I'll protect Auntie Sigrid and Auntie Aina and Ms. Helga, too!"
The laugh you elicited was somewhat genuine, somewhat amused, largely forced, as you immediately moved to put that idea out of his head. "No, you don't, Finn. Believe me, no fighting on your part will be necessary. I will be doing the protecting here—and the very one who needs protection the most is you."
"But I'm a big ki—"
"Not quite yet." Finn was your sun and moon, the world, your greatest treasure. Should he perish, so would half of your soul. "Getting there, but not quite yet. Give it another few years, my love, when this bad man is defeated and gone, and then you can ride out into the fields and fight off the monsters for me."
"Will it make father proud?"
You hadn't immediately replied that, unsure of how to answer. The boy and his father were distant, despite Finn being his only true heir—he had, understandably, always wished to form a bond with his second parent all children would want, but, sadly, your son did not understand just who and what your husband was. He was too young. Far too young to truly comprehend just what the line of succession he was in was, what his duties would eventually be and demand, and just the sheer amount of blood he would inevitably spill as a man someday, yet another chieftain overseeing a life and house of pillaging and murder and conquest.
Someday, his eyes will no longer hold the bright innocence of an eight-year-old boy. You wish to keep him, shield him, protect him from the horrors of the world he is destined to face—but you worry that those very horrors had come too early, too soon, to collect their due.
For now, however, for as long as you can, you will clutch him to your chest and take the arrows to your back for him. If you had your way, you would do it for all his life, but you know that can't be so. You just hope it won't happen now, when your son is still so young and merry and good.
"I think…" Your eyes had shifted from his face to the windows overlooking the meadows on the east wing of the estate, where the pastures were green and the cattle grazed in their paddocks. Within the fenceline. Penned in. Sitting ducks. It's only a matter of time. "I think we shall just have to wait and see. But, either way, you make me proud, and don't you think that's all that matters?"
Finn was such a smart boy. Sometimes, you thought he was a bit too smart for his own good—for the hope in his eyes had dimmed upon your vague answer, and he never brought the topic up again.
How you hoped your husband would succeed on his quest to quell the warlord in the north; they now called him the Imperator, or the Blood-Eyed Viking. The drottin. Whispers of his unending, unbowed triumphs echoed about the streets and walls and wood of the people's residences, the fear so palpable and so audible in their voices.
And so many monikers, spoken so often with varying inflections of awe, wonder—greatest of all, apprehension and dread. Even you were are a large loss as for what to do. What was there to do? Other than pray for the safety of your family members? Who were soon to fall prey to this "Blood-Eyed Viking"'s conquests regardless?
You eased Finn's worries with empty assurances, only at peace with yourself knowing it still helped him sleep at night. You assisted the concubines in lulling their own fitful children to sleep; such luxury eluded you. The ceiling of your chambers became the most familiar sight. Your eyes strained and ached from the staring; your head throbbed from the overthinking and fretting and worrying. Sitting ducks. I, the concubines, the people, and the children are all sitting ducks.
It was only a matter of time. And there was nothing you could do, because the fence you were confined to only allowed you so much—and it brought about another realisation: your husband is just as penned-in as you, only in a different form, a fence erected by a greater foe than he has ever known, where the rope has been tossed about his neck, and, now, it is only a matter of time.
"He has allied himself," your husband states, allowing his armour to be fixed to him, "with the Kolbeins."
The Kolbeins. The clan your youngest sister married into, and the land nearest to the north, directly in the drottin's warpath. Yet, now, apparently, that is no longer so. For he has allied himself with them. Just what is this?
"Is there any…" you falter, words eluding you. You're unsure how to go about this, how to approach this matter. It is as if all your previous, learned articulation throughout the past thirteen years of marriage to this man has gone out the window. "Particular reason why he has aligned himself with the Kolbeins specifically…?"
"How are we to know?" Never has he enjoyed, either, sharing such intel with you—even if it has very much to do with you. "But they are now safe from his truculence. It is bizarre. Just who will he integrate with or raze to the ground next?"
Who could tell? He was right, even if it went largely unsaid—everyone was at a loss, and there was nothing left to do other than wait.
When you suggested taking the first step and forging an alliance as way of protecting the clan and the people, you received a face full of wine and a split forehead from the chalice.
"Away with your female inanity!" To have pushed him from the brink of his temper so easily, in so few words—it was more than telling of his present state, both inward and outward. You stood there, unflinching, letting the burgundy liquid drip from your chin and stain your front. Your husband fiercely thrust a hand in the direction of the door. "Out! I don't want to see your face!"
Just what were you going to do? With him? With all of this? When calamity was so very nearly on your doorstep? This 'blood-eyed viking' was well on his way in this direction—who could possibly say whether he will align himself, or flatten this land to its very foundations?
You hadn't a clue. You hardly had any idea of what to expect now. All you did know now was apprehension—especially when you looked at your son, and his half-siblings, and the same fear in your fellow women's eyes whenever the topic was carefully skirted around.
"You truly have no care for your own self, do you, my lady?" Aina clicked her tongue as she applied stitches to your forehead, the numbing salve working wonders against the vague sting of the needle. Even without it, you would not have felt much pain. She then dabbed a damp cloth to the wound, and proceeded to wrap a bandage around your head. "You just let him throw it at you. Is there no line he can cross with you?"
"If he were to have injured Finn instead," was your quiet reply, eyes closed as you let her work, "then that would have been a trangression I really would have taken to him with a knife for."
"I wish you weren't so forbearing sometimes." She tied the bandage secure, you opened your eyes, and she took a seat before you, clasping your hands in hers. Her gaze was tender and earnest. "I really don't know how you put up with him. I don't know how any of us do!"
"It is just something that has to be done," you sighed, shaking your head, lowering your eyes to your lap. "You know our circumstances. There isn't much we can really do."
"You could stand up for yourself for once."
"I have before. And I have ended up in a far worse state than this." You rubbed her knuckles with your thumb comfortingly. "I thank you for your concern, Aina. But these matters really must be left to me, as I have said before. Even if it results in harm. What can be done about that?"
"Slipping poison into his wine, for one." The woman exhaled in vexation at the sight of your now-soiled dress draped across a nearby chair, pursing her lips. "And he ruined one of your best frocks. Helga spent a good half a year weaving that thing!"
"It will all be fine." It won't be. Not with just what is steadily making its way toward these lands right this moment. But you must keep everyone calm and content, for fear they fly into a panic, and are met with the reality of just what is at stake here. "I assure you. Trust me, alright? I'm not bedridden or dead yet."
The long look Aina gave you was enough to have you averting your eyes, inwardly troubled. She was perceptive, that woman, knowing and ever unable to be fooled—and perhaps that is what endeared you to her so thoroughly. Gunda was the same, just far more brusque about it. But none of that mattered, when one is so completely helpless.
With what you did have, and what you could work with, you made the most you possibly could from it. That meant aiding the concubines as they soothed their fearful children and wiped their tears, easing the workload of the servants best you could as they longed to see their families, and working with your fellow women as you all put aside wheat and milk and food to supply the citizens in these trying times—all behind your husband's back, against his word.
Everyone was preparing for the killing blow to be landed by the angel of death making his swift way across the territories. Some clans had apparently made it out by the skin of their teeth with his unexpected aligning with their chiefs—primarily ones you would soon received word of, from your sisters, that they are now safe.
No one could say who was next, or if they'd be so lucky.
It was on a bright early-winter morning that your husband made the announcement—the following day, he and his men would ride out to meet the warlord in battle, fell him in combat, and return with his severed head in trophy. Finn was present for the declaration—his first, inadvertent exposure to the ugliness of such widespread warfare, and the nature of his father's duties.
The boy was to be subjected to it sooner or later, either way. It wasn't something you could ever help. Just, why like this?
The halo of clouds streaking the sun denoted impending poor weather the day your husband and his men readied their mounts, sharpened their hatchets and blades, and polished their breastplates in seasoned preparation for war; you, and his mistresses, including young Finn and his half-siblings, all stood at the clan gates as the troops trotted for the exit, fur-lined coats and armour pulled tight about their necks to ward off the chill. Your husband rode at the front, lifted high on his steed, sparing his wives and his children barely a glance as he cantered past. You expected to feel hope for his return, or that darker, more secret desire for him to never return at all. You were torn between both, at that moment, to the point of total uncertainty, where you did not know what you felt at all.
Gunda voiced her thoughts in a low tone, for your fellow women's ears only, as they rode by. "Want to place any bets on whose head will truly end up getting lopped off?"
"Considering what we've heard about this other warlord…" Sigrid kept her voice lower. "It'll be our dearest master."
"There are young ears present," hissed Aina, cutting them a warning look, "you two."
"As if you don't agree," Gunda huffed, yielding nonetheless. Her own child, Mia, a young girl of four, stood at her side with huge, awed eyes at all the horses and men trekking past. She grasped her mother's hand tightly, hair like her father's braided back into a neat plait. Gunda cared for her daughter deeply, and you considered the girl, and the rest of her siblings, save your own son, nieces and nephews of sort.
You remained silent, Aina having uttered your notions for you. But Gunda's words buried themselves deep, nonetheless—what were you hoping for? His death? His victory? Was there an in-between?
Best case scenario, an alliance between this province and the warlord would be forged. It was so unlikely, however, it was hardly anything you or your fellow women, the servants, and the people, ever even considered.
If your husband is defeated, it would mean inevitable destruction to this clan, and death to everything that you have known for the past twelve, thirteen years. On the other hand, if he were triumphant, he would return with greater wealth, a greater ego, and things would return to normal. To the miserable, vapid, mundane normal. Back to having wine thrown on you over the smallest disagreements. Further scorn for not yet bearing another child, having been eight years since your first and last, long high time. More slaves. More wealth, but unrelented taxes. Unhappy citizens. All of it. You're tired of being the mediator for everything.
Your husband is not a good man. Neither he nor you ever liked one another. Both a boon and a bane to your existence here.
And then there was Finn, and the adulthood that awaited him. Would he, under your father's increased influence once the boy was of age, come to spurn you too, his own mother? What would you do then? What would you have to live for then?
Caged, confined, penned in. Maybe this battle the chieftain is proudly journeying out to will blow a hole in the fence wide enough to slip through, and out, and away.
A pipe dream, for you and the mistresses—and, in result, their own children. Your son. The citizens. The repercussions will hit each and every person residing in this land, hard.
You watch as the war party fades into the distance, and then you turn away with a sigh. Your fellow women trail after you as you begin to make the way back to the estate, murmuring amongst themselves, your son keeping stride with you at your left. He clings onto the edge of your skirts, perceptive as ever—for Finn appears to take one look at your face, and every question he was bursting with earlier seem to die on his tongue.
You smile down at him in affection and apology. "Are you sad to see them go, my darling?"
"Oh, I don't know." The boy's expression becomes thoughtful, and you slow your steps so his shorter strides pair with yours. "I just thought…I was just thinking about how much I'd like to get on a big, strong horse and wear armour and wield an axe and protect my clan."
You brush a gentle hand through his hair, inwardly disillusioned with his aspiration, with the reality of what he must learn and see and mature into to achieve such a thing. May the need for it never come to pass. Greatest of all, may nothing like this, of this magnitude, of this peril, afflict this earth again.
But, knowing what you know, and knowing these lands, and knowing human nature, such is blithe, foolish wishful thinking. Befitting of a child—never befitting of a grown woman like you.
"Maybe…one day." I should not encourage it, but how can I do that? When it will be an inevitable, unavoidable path? He is the heir. It is destined. "First, however, you must grow into a strong, healthy young man, who will never wield that axe to harm."
He tilts his head in puzzlement, in question. "But I have to kill to protect, right?"
"Not necessarily." The right words elude you again, as usual. So young a boy should not know the meaning of 'kill'. He should not know the meaning of anything his father does—but, yet again, despite your greatest attempts to shield him, you're still ever so helpless. "Sometimes, you have to. Most times, it's preventable."
The mystification in his wide gaze does not abate. Finn blinks. "How?"
You cast your gaze aside, ahead, to the estate entrance, unseeing. How? Huh. You hold out your hand for him to hold. His small palm grasps yours immediately. Yes, my son. How, indeed. "…Perhaps someday, Finn, I will tell you how, when you can understand."
Now, all you can do is wait. Wait all the weeks or months or however long it will take until word of victory is sent back, or word of defeat. Either way, you all still remain as sitting ducks. Woe will still befall these fields and this paddock and this pen nonetheless; sooner or later.
Until then, you will do what you can, however small and trifling it may be. For the best thing to do is to take all of it on the nose. What else can be done? Such is life.
What will be, will be. Only that mantra can comfort you now. Even if it is no true comfort at all.
One of your sisters, the last to lie powerless in the way and face of the drottin's excursions, sends you a letter, which arrives two days following your husband's departure. It is not uncommon that you receive word or news from your siblings—but, in these turbulent times, such communication has been stalled. Hence, your relief at the sight of her seal on the envelope is great; you waste no time in tearing it open.
Sister,
You and the rest of our family are all filled with apprehension at present, doubtlessly. It is no secret of just who this warlord is and what he's doing—but no one is able to decipher just what his goal is here. Even more so with his strange allegiances with certain clans, most, mercifully, involving our sisters—but complete bloodshed upon others.
I write this to inform you, and our other siblings, that this man has arrived here with only himself, two escorts, and an envoy, to arrange an alignment with us. Therefore, we are safe. No calamity has stricken our border. Unfathomable, and unexpected, but nonetheless welcome. Such positive tidings I inform you of should bring you some cheer.
You have my thoughts and prayers. I beseech the gods each day to look upon you and who remain yet unaligned with him with favour, and to provide you their protection. I know you don't put much stock in the divine, sister, which I do understand, but it is no less a shame. Perhaps this recent boon will restore some of your faith.
Be safe. Do keep in touch. Your niece misses you. If it weren't for this warlord and his escapades, I would have paid you a visit by now. Write back and tell me how little Finn is doing. I am weaving him a winter scarf.
Yours, Astrid.
You read it aloud to the mistresses; they are both relieved on your behalf, and also befuddled. Just what is this fellow getting at here? was the general, shared question, and not one of you had a definitive answer, or even a guess.
It is just as you are sealing the envelope of your own reply, several days later when the head maid urgently knocks and hurries in. You rise from your desk in immediate concern. "Helga? Is everything alright? You look flus—"
"An emmisary, my lady," she breathes, hardly even composed enough to excuse her inadvertent interruption. "From his lordship."
You do not dawdle with questions or any of such like—you immediately follow after her as the woman leads you through the halls and to the estate entrance; Aina and other mistresses arrive soon after. The former approaches, visibly worried, as you stand and await the emmisary. "What in the world is happening?"
"I am unsure," is your reply, as you bite down on the inside of your bottom lip. "To have received word back so soon…"
Aina gazes at you sidelong. "Do you think…?"
You release a breath, slowly shaking your head back and forth. "I don't know. Perhaps. I…I hope not, Aina—I really don't know."
The messenger is ushered in; his face is flushed red with the bite of the wind against his face in his hasty gallop here, and the dazed look about his eyes has you both faltering in uncertainty and anticipation—good news? Bad news? Are we defeated and now reduced to nothing but trophies and slaves? Will this land be wiped clean and rebuilt under another yet another tyrant's rule?
"My lady," he manages out, still catching his breath, barely accepting the cup of water held out to him by a nearby maidservant. "I bring word from his lordship presently in the southern reaches."
"Speak," you reply, stepping forward, hardly of sound mind enough to tell him to take a moment and have a breather. "What tidings of victory do you bear?"
"Not—Not victory per se, your ladyship," the man responds, finally accepting the water. The maidservant bobs a bow before departing; the envoy takes a greedy sip, and then wastes no further time in relaying the news: "The warlord, he—he ordered for a meeting in his tent upon the chieftain's arrival—and—"
"They brokered an allegiance?" Aina finishes, breathless, her hands up over her mouth. The oxygen has, similarly, been whipped from your lungs. A quivering hand lifts from where they are clasped before you to rest atop your chest. It takes a beat—your throat has gone dry, and you swallow, regathering your wits. Allegiance. An allegiance. Are we…saved?
And so soon? Last you heard, the journey would take at least a fortnight before the two factions would encounter one another—it's been barely a week. Did the warlord meet them on the way? Did either of them engage in combat, at all? My husband will return…everything will go back to normal…and I will remain fenced in…
You don't quite know how to feel—but everyone else around shares one opinion: joy. No bloodshed would meet and soak into the earth of this land. The innocent lives of the citizens would continue on as is customary. There is no longer anything to fear.
No longer anything to fear?
"Yes. And his lordship is set to travel and return here with the warlord in tow, as an honourary guest."
"A guest?" you echo, and apprehension inundates you tenfold. He is visiting? Like he did with my sister's clan—yet, he won't be here temporarily, but for a while, presumably?
A feast would be prepared, without a doubt. Celebrations would ensue. The best of the best would be readied for the chieftain and his new ally's entertainment. Meat, mead, women. All of it.
"Yes, my lady. The chief sends word that you are to begin making preparations immediately. They shall arrive seven days hence."
"A week…" You exchange a look with Aina—she, elated; you, troubled. No one else appears to share your dread. Am I the only one here who…is not entirely convinced by this? Or delighted by it?
Yes. You are. What could you do? Tell your husband no? Incur not just his wrath, but the wrath of that berserker, also?
You still haven't figured out what you think of your sister's letter—and then this is sprung upon you. What can I do?
Nothing else, other than do as told, as usual. Make preparations. Organise lodging and gifts for the warlord's arrival. Send a seemingly joyous letter to your siblings, annoucing your own exemption from the calamity, also. Assure them that you are safe and sound and that it is not yet time to address and accept death, despite brushing shoulders with it.
"…Very well," you eventually answer, lowering your head, squeezing your eyes shut. "Return to his lordship and inform him the news has been well-received here, and the finest of food and drink and accomodation shall be long ready for them upon their arrival."
"Understood, my lady." The emissary bows, finishes his cup of water, and takes his immediate leave. Excited, rushed murmuring echoes throughout the entrance hall as servants and onlookers alike share sighs and the joy of relief. We are saved, they say, bright-eyed. The gods have taken mercy on us!
Have they? Or, maybe, you're being pessimistic about this. A killjoy. But, who will be the devil's advocate in this situtation, when everyone is blinded by the triumph of so boldly skirting adversity? Will no one gaze at it from the sidelines, through the eyes of a cynic?
Perhaps that is your job. Has always been your job. And, now, more than ever, you will have swallow down your pride, bite back your tongue, and just make do.
What will be, will be. Is this not the preferred, ideal outcome?
Are you not cattle that have been so narrowly spared the cleave of the slaughterhouse?
And when will that fortune, this luck, run out, and the gods turn their backs again?
You turn, masking your dread and secret disappointment, and immediately set about readying the estate for the month or so of festivities ahead.
Penned in. The fence has been reenforced. It's suddenly gotten taller. And you're only livestock that can look its cage in the face, will a gap in it to form, and hope to slip through unseen.
What a fool you are, to have so patiently and eagerly awaited and trusted such a windfall to ever appear. You know your situation. And, now, not only has the fence been enlarged, but so have you been tied to it, and now, there truly is no hope to flee.
What will be, will be. You must hold onto that, despite the little faith you now have—even if it means a rope about your neck, and a coaxing tug towards the stockyard.