Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I.

She was standing on the deck with the other women, watching the langskip coming deeper into the fjord, her rowers using their oars in cadence. The wind had slightly calmed down, but the rain was still pouring, and she clutched a hand on her cloak to make sure it kept closed over her chest, and over her precious load. The tiny little boy who she was waiting with. Who she was about to introduce to his father. Who was to be officially named by his father, even though she had started to think of him as Eskil, after her own father. She held him tighter against her heart, sharing her warmth with him. He was sound asleep, comforted by her presence and the smell of her skin and of her milk.

Dagbjört, her sister-in-law, was standing next to her, holding her daughter by the hand, her youngest son perched on her hip. She caught her eye and gave an encouraging smile, her cheeks round and red from the cold air.

“Ásgeir is going to be so proud when he sees his son”, she said.

She nodded, smiling.

I miss him, she thought.

Could she confess it?

Ásgeir was a well-built, merry man, with a comely face and strong arms to keep her safe and warm at night. She was looking forward to seeing him back.

He had left with the other men, embarked on her brother’s boat to raid Alba during summer and bring back cattle and grain to survive during winter, for life on these wind-blown islands was harsh.

“Why aren’t they using the sail?”

It was odd. It was windy, and it seemed to her that it would be easier than rowing all the way from the entry of the fjord.

“Maybe it was worn out during the voyage?” said Dagbjört.

“No. Your husband takes good care of his boat, you know it.”

She frowned.

It was odd, indeed.

They must have had a terrible journey.

A heavy lump set in her throat, and she swallowed hard, in vain. Anxiety was settling in her.

Frigga, please let them be safe and sound.

She held her infant tighter, intending to comfort him, knowing deep she was comforting herself. The baby sighed in his sleep, well hidden under his mother’s woollen cloak.

As the langskip approached the safe haven deeply harboured in the fjord, women began to murmur around her. The boat looked battered, the yardarm obviously broken and fixed with ropes. That was why they were rowing instead of sailing. The men aboard looked tired. Exhausted, for some of them.

What happened?

It was late in the season, almost a moon after the equinox. They should have come back sooner, when the winds and the sea weren’t so rough. They must have weathered a bad storm during the journey.

She watched intently the crew as the langskip docked. Tired men, with damp, tangled hair clinging to their foreheads and cheeks. Where was Ásgeir’s bright red mane?

Her brother stepped out of the boat and walked straight to Dagbjört, hugging his wife and children. She took a step to walk past him, tiptoeing to try and catch a glimpse of her husband’s stocky form, but he put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.

“Eyð”, he greeted her.

“Tórmóður”, she said. “You look tired.”

“The voyage has been… difficult.”

She frowned. He never complained. Ever.

“I can’t see Ásgeir. Is he a aboard another boat?”

He gave a look at his wife and nodded, and she walked a few steps away with the children. Through his beard, she could see him chewing his lip.

“Rán took him”, he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t understand.

She watched him, unmoving, her mind blank, trying to process what he just said, and he squeezed her shoulder in sympathy.

R án took him.

Rán.

One of Ægir’s daughters. The Bloody One. The Ravisher.

 “What?” she said weakly.

“A wave took him, along with three other men. He sunk like a stone.”

Ásgeir wasn’t coming back.

He drowned.

She blinked and tried to swallow, her mouth dry.

Her child chose this moment to stir in her arms. Her child. Ásgeir’s son.

“What about his sword?”

“I’m sorry, Eyð.”

His son would never know his father. He would never inherit his father’s sword, either.

She was standing on the dock, petrified, not knowing what to do.

“Come, let us get dry in the langhállr. Your husband’s share is yours.”

He rotated her and gave a gentle push to make her move. Her body walked by itself. She felt empty, hollow. Her mind was numb, preventing any thought or emotion. She felt nothing. When she was given a seat in the longhouse, her baby stirred and whined, and she unclipped her cloak to give him some air before untying the collar of her dress to feed him.

She watched him, her beautiful son, with fine blond hair and fair eyebrows and long eyelashes. With tiny fingers gripping her dress.

Eskil. No. Ásgeir, for he was to be named after his dead father, now.

Two weeks old, and an orphan already.

She had entrusted her farm to her Irish slaves and moved in her brother’s farm a few weeks before she gave birth to Eskil – no, Ásgeir. Because she wanted her husband to meet his son as soon as he would take step on dry land.

She closed her eyes, lightly shaking her head.

Don’t think.

Don’t think until you’re home.

The men had already shared their prizes when joining in the Jarl’s longhouse in Tórshavn, before coming back each in their isle with their share to celebrate with their families. Sitting here in the longhouse in Árnafjørður, she was feeling totally out of place. She closed her mind, closing herself to any feeling, only to avoid her grief. She would start mourning her husband when she would get back home.

At some point, she heard her name, and came out of her fogged mind with great effort. She took a deep inhale and focused on Tórmóður, who was speaking to her.

“ – enough grain to bake bread and brew ale for winter.”

She nodded, not understanding fully was she was agreeing to.

I don’t care.

“And I want you to take care of this hostage. Use him as a slave until spring comes. He is strong and capable, and will be of great help for the tasks in your farm.”

He pointed a tall, dark-haired man standing against a wall, surrounded by frightened slaves. He, on the contrary, looked utterly bored, examining his nails though his wrists were tightly tied with ropes.

Did a slave look bored?

“Come, þræll.”

The man glared at Tórmóður, slowly lowering his hands to his belly, reclining against the wall.  A man caught the rope that was knotted around his neck and pulled him towards the centre of the room. He reluctantly obeyed, stiffening and straightening his shoulders to stand in his full height. He carried himself like he was the very Jarl, standing tall and proud, his legs firmly planted. Even though his clothes were dirty and crusted blood was soiling his temple, he held his chin high in disdain, and she could see an iron thrall shackle around his neck. Had Tórmóður shackled him? What for? These metallic bindings were not common, and reserved for high-value slaves, or intended to humiliate their bearer.

“Ásgeir and I took him just before we left Alba.”

She stood, and the man’s glowing green eyes settled on her, studying her.

“Why would you give him to me? I already have slaves.”

She liked the couple of Irish slaves she had known since she married Ásgeir well enough. They were kind and devoted to their family.

“They are getting old. This one is younger and stronger. He is of high value. You are to take care of him, keep him in shape, and when spring comes, we’ll see to sell him back to his family.”

So she had guessed right. The iron collar was meant to humiliate this high born slave. He was older than her, perhaps twenty-five. His slender frame made her think he would have to be abundantly fed, whilst his broad shoulders showed his strength. But there was something in him that she didn’t like. The man didn’t look scared or defeated. He wasn’t resigned, either. He was angry, arrogant. And from his keen eyes, she could say he was clever. He looked like the kind of man who could murder a whole family in plain day and never have remorse about it, and she didn’t want her throat cut.

“I don’t want him. He looks sly.”

The man rolled his eyes and scoffed, which owed him a punch in the face he endured without a sound. He only sniffed loudly and scowled all the more.

So he was insolent, too. What was the use of an insolent slave?

“I don’t like him.”

Tórmóður gave a heavy sigh when Dagbjört said that they could keep him. She was eyeing him with unabashed hunger, obviously finding him a fine specimen.

“You’ll need another pair of arms now.”

“He’s too tall. I don’t have enough food for him.”

“Yes you do. You’ll have to feed the same number of people.”

Tórmóður’s sentence stroke her like a slap in the face and she blanched, her gaze hard, keeping silent under was she took as an insult. The dead didn’t eat. This arrogant, useless slave would have Ásgeir’s food.

“It is settled, then”, he decided. “Off with you, Your Highness”, and he derisively gestured at the man, “you are to sleep with the sheep.”

The thrall gave her a final glance before he let the man that was holding the rope lead him out of the longhouse. She shook her head in disapproval.

“Give me your child, Eyð. Since your husband is dead, I’ll perform the rite.”

She swallowed. Her son had to be officially legitimated to fully inherit his father’s patrimony. She presented the little boy and her brother took him in his large paws, untying the cloth he was swaddled in, exposing the bare body, and lifted him, showing him off to the community.

“Behold my nephew, Ásgeir Ásgeirsson. I shall love him like my own son. When he comes of age, I’ll foster him.”

He then splashed him with water, which made the baby cry, and gave him back to his mother. She quickly covered him and cradled the tiny body, humming to shush his protesting wails.

***

The following day, she managed to sail back to Svínoy, along with the two men who had accompanied Ásgeir during the summer raid in Alba. They embarked in Ásgeir’s skúta, taking heavy bags of grain and a gestating cow with them.

The high born thrall came along too, still proud and arrogant. He faced the sea, silent and scowling, grudgingly obeying the men when they ordered him to help during the sailing. She casted him a few glances to ensure he would keep still, and when he was allowed to sit, she lost interest in him.

Little Ásgeir wouldn’t stop crying.

She nursed him, cradled him. Nothing would do. It seemed he hated being on the sea.

It is no wonder. The sea took his father.

When it started raining, she begged the Gods to help them land quickly in the bay they used as a harbour.

Finally, they came ashore before the sun began to set down, and she let a heavy sigh of relief when she felt hard land under her feet. Ronan, the Irish slave, was waiting for them along with the dog. The three men and the þræll took care of the food and of the cow whilst she walked back to the house, her son still wailing in her arms.

She nearly fell in Orla’s arms, the slave woman understanding at once when she saw her alone and distressed, and let her tears flow. Orla hugged her like a child, and when she managed to calm down a bit, took her baby in her arms and helped her walk in. She retreated to the master’s bedroom, and fell on the bed.

It was cold and empty.

She was alone.

She had even been denied to see her husband’s body. He was now laying on the bottom of the sea, eaten by fish and crabs. And his soul, his soul…

It was like a hole in her chest.

Her tears came back, and she let her sorrow and grief overcome her, clutching her pillow, sobbing violently and wailing, until she cried herself to sleep.

***

He didn’t sleep, that night.

The unpleasantly sweet smell of the cow dung mixed with his own stench was unbearable for his olfaction. He’d visited slave markets more than once, though, and should have known what to expect. After the horrible travel by sea, most of the wretched people he had been brought with smelled of vomit and urine.

He wasn’t even allowed to wash before getting in the small fishing boat with the sad woman.

When they landed on another island, the Irishman – Ronan ? – a thrall, for sure – pushed him into the byre, alongside the two cows. He pointed a dirty finger to a corner, then turned around and left. A pile of hay was to be his mattress.

Well, it was better than sleeping on the bare ground. Or in the manure.

He sat down in the designated place, his forearms resting on his knees, and waited. The byre was connected to the house, a plank partition dividing the main room from the animals. He would be kept there, for sure, whereas he could hear the man’s voice in the house. The baby was crying. He could hear his mother’s sobs, too.

A mournful widow. How touching, indeed.

Her husband was a boorish brute, who had overcome him, taking advantage of his weakness. The enchanted collar had taken all his powers, and though he was pretty sure he was still immortal and physically stronger than humans, he was starved and diminished. He felt ashamed of himself at the thought that the man had knocked him out.

As soon as he had been tied up, they had got him on board of their langskip. He couldn’t help laughing when the yokel was swept out of the boat by a wave, never to reappear on the surface. The stupid bumpkin was wearing his chainmail. Watching his shipmates yelling at the sea, encouraging the ginger moron to swim up had been satisfactory. He had laughed hard, as much in exultation as in provocation, until one of the warriors turned to him and punched him in the face until his laughter receded. He would only be content when they would all lay dead at his feet. They had no idea who he was, bunch of stupid, arrogant mortals that they were.

Once he would be free, he would seek revenge upon all those who had wronged him. They wouldn’t even have any occasion to feel sorry for themselves, for he would let none of them alive, no matter what his father could say.

Nursing the sweet thought of revenge, he tried to make himself comfortable, laying on his back, an arm tucked behind his head, eyes closed. The baby was still crying, despite the female slave’s attempts to calm him. It was irritating. With a heavy sigh, he concentrated on his heartbeat, making his best not to listen to the noises of the household.

When finally at dawn the baby’s wails calmed down and stopped, he allowed himself to drift off.