Some may decry my story as a housewife’s dreamworld fantasy, but every word spoken is true beyond all knowable truth. Not until the whole world can glean the verity from my tale will the retelling come to an end. Perhaps it will become legend when told enough, forgotten in the hearts of men as a mythological world that never existed. Perhaps it will take root in the breast of the heroic, and they in turn will strive toward all the virtues the gods once inspired. True warriors might again rise from the ranks of the complacent to fight for what they know is right, to protect their friends and family from all dangers.
My story will outlive me, for when it is lost from mankind’s memory, again will I impart the forgotten deeds of men and gods until my spirit is taken from this world.
The true genesis of my tale began countless millennia ago, in a time long before my birth, but for myself it began with a man named Thorval Gudmundarson.
A long time I had been away from home, carrying out rudimentary errands for my master. After traveling from mountain to farmland to city, the uneven road at last dragged its weariness into my bones. The cold, night air sweeping through the fjord told me that winter was on its way. The icy chill and distinct tang of saltwater in the breeze said the coming snows would be harsh and relentless that year.
Winter had never bothered me much, but something elusive seeped into the feeling, something that rattled down my spine like an axe haft along a picketed fence. The sensation of phantom eyes settled upon me, the gaze distinct, piercing, and almost reproving. Glaring into the cloudy night sky through my windblown hair, I tightened my black feather cloak around my shoulders and continued on.
The eyes disappeared from my thoughts, and I was again left alone with my ponderings. The feather cloak did little to ward off the growing chill, but I was used to the open road and the open air. I was accustomed to traveling alone, for my sisters often undertook their own errands without me. The snowcapped mountains, high fjords, and twinkling stars were often my only companions.
That night the North Star, so-called Odinn’s Eye, shined brightly in the cloudless patch of deep purple straight overhead.
A soft sigh escaped my breast. I was the castaway of my sisters, the least of the least, the one never mentioned in the stories or songs of the skaldic poets. Though I was as skilled and adept as my peers, my neglectful master only offered me chores no one else would accept. On the off chance I was permitted to accompany one of my sisters, they always gave me the least appealing part of the assignment.
Watch Sognefjord, my master had said. Something important is soon to happen, and I want you there. Catalog the people and the lands if you have to. Let nothing escape your eye.
I knew he had been lying. I could see it in his sparkling eye, but there was no way I could refuse. I had convinced myself something significant would happen elsewhere, and he wanted me out of the way. Far off in the middle of small farming communities bordering one of the longest fjords in Norway would suffice. There I would certainly not cause any trouble.
I should have said no. I should have stood defiantly in his face like an unruly daughter and told him to go himself if it was so important. I should have insisted that one of my ungrateful sisters go along with me. But, no. I bowed like a dutiful child and went away, as flustered with him as I was with myself.
This was how I found myself traversing the vast Sognefjord of lower Norway, cold and alone, with naught but a feather cloak, leather boots, and hauberk to keep me warm.
The fjord stretched out for leagues before me. Cliffs and high mountains enclosed the ocean waters into a picturesque valley of green fields and scattered farmhouses. The farmers and other freemen who inhabited the region called Sogndal were already asleep or indoors, dotting the landscape with lantern fire and hearth smoke.
I could have spent the night anywhere. I could have stolen away behind a haystack or hidden in a shieling with the lowing cattle and horses. I could have slept perched in a tree large enough to support me, for that matter, or in the rafters of an unsuspecting farmer’s homestead. Instead I fought the late summer cold for a while longer and followed the goat path leading further down the fjord. Regardless of how unimportant I thought my chores were, I always performed to the best of my ability; my work as an observer would not, of course, get done while napping in a hayloft.
My sword uncomfortably smacked against my thigh as the path ascended along a rocky ridge. The blade, like my feather cloak, was a gift from the one I served, given to me when I first took up my subjugation long ago. Though a boon in danger, the weapon then felt like a stone dragging me down. There were no highwaymen from which to defend myself, no rabid animals steered to the edge of madness. There was only myself and the winds of the approaching winter.
A single farmhouse stood in the distance, encircled by a long, stone wall about waist height. A handful of ocher haystacks flecked the nearly empty field. Only a few cows and a single bull grazed on brown grass. A light lit the window, and a single trail of smoke issued from the hearth fire within. The smells of manure and roasting beef gradually filled the air as I drew closer.
Everything stood still. None stirred from within when I came up the path leading to the farm. Not a single cow lowed when I crossed over the stony fence. Upon reaching the closest window, I heard a voice from inside.
“I don’t care how much influence that ignorant king has,” growled a gruff man. “It is not my lot in life to make him richer when he does nothing to pad my coffers in return.”
Intrigued, I climbed in the tree just outside the window, using the shadows and my cloak to keep myself hidden.
“Calm down,” a woman ordered. “Railing against the king will solve nothing. What’s done is done. Hraldrir Halfdanarson is a reputable and evenhanded king. To fight for him will bring us much honor and wealth.”
It was not uncommon for a local king to send messengers to farming communities, rallying up warriors for an upcoming campaign. Those who accepted were often well rewarded; those who refused were scorned or even murdered. Such things were an everyday occurrence in the shifting tides of power and many kingships of Norway. For a moment I wondered if this was what I had been sent to watch, but I quickly dismissed the idea. Warfare is warfare; there are no distinctions between large or small, long or short.
I would have listened some more, but again I felt the sensation of being watched in the softly swaying tree. With a sigh I descended from the branch, trying to make as little sound as possible. My cloak relaxed against the cold, I approached the farmstead’s entrance and rapped curtly upon the heavy wooden door.
After a few moments the door opened only a crack, allowing a gust of warm, fireside air into my face. A corpulent, dark-bearded man stuck his nose in the crevice. “What do you want?”
“I am an emissary from King Hraldrir,” I said with my best authoritative face. “May I speak to the head of the house?”
“You are wasting your time,” the man grumbled. “Someone already came by earlier to make me join his bloody army.”
“I beg your pardon, but I am a census taker. I am here to ensure our king is receiving the proper amount of tribute.”
The man grimaced with derision. “I starve my family to pay his tribute, and now he sends lackeys to make sure he’s not being cheated?”
I cleared my throat formally. “Your name.”
His gaze slackened with resignation. “I am Jokul Hoskuldarson of the farm Jokulsstadir. My wife is Hallgerd Ingjaldardottir. Our sons: Kalf and Kolbjorn. Our slaves: Bersi, Einar, Luta, and Signy. We have four heifers and a bull, four hens, and two pigs. My land is a league square, from the fjord to the stream over yonder. I am a regular voting thingman for the Sognefjord Assembly. In tribute, I give five marks of silver each summer to king Hraldrir, two marks of silver each summer to Jarl Thengil Vermundarson, and a horn of mead to the gods whenever I am able.”
“Your sarcasm will be duly noted,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Jokul.”
And that was how I left the bewildered Jokul Hoskuldarson. I went to each farm in turn and observed them for a time before posing as King Hraldrir’s census taker. Each man told me who he was, the name of his land, and how much tribute he paid.
“I am Hakon, owner of Hakonsborg.”
“This is Halldorsstadir. My name is Halldor.”
“I am named Ulfheidin of Ulfheidinsholt.”
It was the same all over Sogndal. At every farm I stopped, the residents spoke about this mysterious king and the army he was raising.
The residents of Sogndal were as normal as any. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; nothing spectacular would happen anytime soon.
Of course, there was the highest point of the fjord that I had not searched. I could not count my master crazy or mad just yet if that land was settled. Sure enough, all signs led to an occupied farmhouse up the rise. The goat path continued to the crest of the grassy hill, leading to a farmstead encircled by a tallish, stone fence. The farmhouse itself was larger than most but still small as far as a jarl’s house was concerned. If his livestock and land size alone were any indication, the owner was indeed wealthy for a farmer. Five stabled, thoroughbred horses snuffled behind the house. Dozens of cattle mulled in the far corner of the field. A large sty full of fattening pigs lay further away from the hall, and in between the cattle and swine, a large flock of bleating rams and ewes gently tended to their own business.
Constructed of large, wooden pillars, stone walls, and heavy thatch, the house itself was large enough for ten or twenty families. Each wooden beam and support had been intricately carved and painted in the traditional swirling, knotted fashion.
And the view from the path was no less than spectacular. The farmhouse and surrounding land sat atop a hill sloping gradually all the way down into the water. From such a vantage one could see the whole lay of Sognefjord -- all of the rolling mountains, cliffs, and nearby settlements. The sensation was the closest to standing atop a mountain without a precarious climb.
I could have stared into the fjord’s wonder for days if I had the chance, but the impression of urgency moved my gaze back to the farmhouse. It seemed as normal as possible that night -- just a simple home for a simple family who was neither poor nor overly rich. Even then I was fully convinced nothing out of the ordinary would happen, that I had been sent off on a fool’s errand in order to be kept out of my sisters’ way. With this pervading thought I trudged irritably up the path towards the house.
Again I heard conversation from within as I neared. I could not see inside for the closed shutters, but I discerned three distinct tones in the muddle of discussion. All were male, one older and two younger. To avoid making much noise right outside of the window, I perched in a nearby tree and listened to the sounds spilling from the thin crack where the shutters met.
“You act like it is the end of the world, Thorval, and I assure you it is not,” insisted the oldest of the three, a throaty but noble voice wracked with advanced years. “It is a chance at opportunity.”
“But I do not want the opportunity,” said another, the youngest. “What is wrong with saying no?” His soft, mellifluous voice sounded strange from a man but was nevertheless pleasant.
“He could have you outlawed, for one,” replied the oldest. “You do not refuse a king’s request unless you have the strength or the idiocy to support your insubordination. And from the way I look at you, you have neither. You are an intelligent and gifted son, Thorval. I know you’ll make the right decision without me to hold your hand.”
The sound of chirping insects filled the gap of awkward silence that followed.
“Not once in twenty-five winters have you ever left this fjord, Brother,” said the third voice. “You’re almost half Father’s age, and you have never seen the world beyond our valley. You have never seen the mountains and glaciers of Romsdal or the grand halls of Trondheim. You have never once gone vik-ing with Thorvis or I to see the moors and lochs of Scotland or the green banks of Eire. You see, this is your chance to behold the wonders of the world beyond our fjord, Thorval.”
“I am content here,” said Thorval. “Here is where I was born; here is where I would like to remain. I do not travel because I like our valley. I do not go vik-ing because I am a terrible sailor.”
“Because you’ve never tried your hand at it!” blurted the brother. “Sometimes I wonder if you are even a man at all!”
“Calm yourself, Thorgeir!” snapped the oldest. “Peace, both of you! I will not tolerate such outbursts in my house!”
More silence filled the air before the father continued.
“Thorval, Hraldrir is a benevolent and just king. He is Norway’s most powerful and influential ruler and consequently the ruler that Jarl Thengil pays tribute to. Now, when Thengil says that Hraldrir needs freemen for his army, that means we are to send as many as we are able. I am far too old to fight in a lengthy campaign. Your brother Thorvis is abroad. That leaves only you and Thorgeir to represent our family.”
“Then let Thorgeir go by himself,” said Thorval icily.
“I am not finished,” the father growled. “Halldor Arnorsson also has three sons. Hallstein is away vik-ing in England, but Halldor will most assuredly send both Hauk and Haki into the king’s service. What will that say to our great king if only one of my two available sons goes into his service? How favorably do you think he will look upon us if my youngest, most intelligent son would rather be a woman and stay home with the knitting instead of seeking glory at his side? Answer me that.”
“And you would have me waste my life in battle just to inflate your own personal pride, Father?”
“Death in battle is not wasteful!” the older man answered harshly. “Nothing happens in battle unless Odinn wills it. If you die in battle, it is because of divine --”
“Please, Father!” Thorval interrupted. “No more preaching tonight.”
“If battle frightens you, then think of this,” Thorgeir offered. “You compose excellent poetry. If the king has any sense, he’ll opt to keep you at his side as a court poet instead of sending you into battle. Then you could serve without being placed in danger.”
“And a court skald is held in very high regard,” added the father. “Pour some of your honeyed verse into his ear, and you’ll be guaranteed a high place at his table.”
This Thorval’s reply fascinated me. “You do not understand, Father,” he said. “I do not want to leave home. I do not want to see the world. I do not want to serve Odinn. I do not want to cater to a king’s every whim just to appease his own personal fancy.”
“You will not have to remain in his service for very long.”
“How long?” Thorval demanded sullenly.
“Until all of Norway is under his control.”
“But that could be years! Decades!”
“Still. Is it so bad to serve a man who will one day control all the land from the Baltic to the Western Sea?”
Thorval did not answer this time.
I heard the father clap his hands on his knees with finality as he rose from his seat. “Good. Then it is settled. I’ll have your sister see that your supplies are ready for the journey. Tomorrow I’ll travel with you as far as Jokulsstadir and then see you off from there.”
More silence followed.
“Now, I do believe I will retire. An old man needs his rest.”
But as his father was leaving the room, a persistent Thorval said in rhythmic cadence:
“No sword oak am I
No war flame sings in my hand
Mead song is my gift to Odinn
For the runes of battle are His alone.
Stay the shield-rain
Stay the bone-cleaver
For raven song fills high the wind
Where proud men meet their death stroke.”
I thought them good verses; it had been a long time since I had heard such lyric quality from normal farmers. The father of the household thought differently, however. “The matter is settled, Thorval,” he grumbled. “You will go with Thorgeir to our king. Now, good night.”
The world stilled with the sound of a bed-closet door opening and closing.
The nagging persistence of someone watching me continued, but I refused to move from my roost. I was interested in this display; my master’s assignment could wait.
“I am sorry, Thorval,” Thorgeir eventually said. “I know you do not want to leave home, but not to worry. I will protect you if it comes to that. I am not about to let my little brother become raven food, okay?”
I heard a refreshing pat of a hand against a shoulder.
“Okay?” he asked again.
Thorval said nothing.
“I am going to get some sleep, then. Good night, little brother.”
The stillness resumed with the closing of another bed-closet. For a few moments I thought the whole house had gone to sleep, but an instant later the farmstead’s front door burst open, and a young man came storming out.
My heart stopped. By Odinn’s Spear, he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. From the angered set to his eyes, to the incidental curl of his shoulder-length, sandy hair, to the chiseled, short-bearded jaw and broad shoulders, he exuded a silent strength befitting the most handsome, ravishing creature I could ever imagine. He reminded me so strongly of someone I had not seen in ages that I could not take my eyes from him. Despite the evening chill, unnatural warmth flooded over me as I watched him with rapture.
He stooped to pick up a rock from the path. White knuckles gripped the stone, and with a frustrated growl of rage, he flung the rock as far and as hard as he could. It had just landed with a dull thud near the ewes when another angry rock followed it, sailing through the air like a launched arrow. Another followed it, then another and another, but his anguish did little to assuage the course his father had decided for him. He was an oar-less boat fighting an upstream current, a mountain resisting the slow but eventual ravages of a mighty glacier.
I could feel his pain. Often I had no choice but to dutifully complete assignments I strongly disagreed with, hiding silent dissent behind my eyes. I wanted to go down to the man and ease his pain, but a paralyzing fear held me at bay. Here was a man as beautiful as a god, with feelings and circumstances akin to my own, but I could not force myself down from the tree to comfort him in any way. Petrified with hesitation I perched in the bough and waited.
A click from the farmhouse door echoed amidst futile stone throwing, and another shape hurried down the path to meet him. I could not discern a face until the figure neared, but the silhouette moved with the graceful gait of a woman. Reaching the distressed Thorval, she stepped out from the shadow of the homestead and into the silver moonlight, catching his glistening, overworked arm with a firm grip.
“Thorval!” she hissed. “What is the matter with you?” She could have been the young man’s near-twin if not for the impressive air of womanliness about her. Golden spun locks framed her haunting eyes, thinly pursed lips, and narrow nose and chin. A finely made linen dress draped over her ample breasts and long legs in stark contrast to his rugged, earth-toned tunic and breeches. But, like him, I could sense in her a strong-willed temperament that went far beyond outward beauty.
Irritation flashed in Thorval’s eyes. “Leave me alone, Thordis. Just leave me alone!”
“You will wake up the whole house if you do not calm yourself!” she whispered angrily.
Thorval’s arm slackened, and the rock in his hand fell to the earth with a quiet thump of resignation. “I am sorry, Sister,” he said with downcast eyes. “I know not what came over me.”
“I heard fighting in the common room,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Is everything well?”
Thorval stared at the ground sourly.
“Does this involve the king’s messenger?” she persisted.
Thorval’s brow wrinkled with dismay.
“Does it?” Thordis insisted, the sternness reemerging in her words.
He eyed her for only a moment before turning his back on her, shrugging her hand from his shoulder. “Our king wants to make war. Thorgeir wants to join him, and Father is forcing me to go as well.” His head shook. “Forcing. If I was twelve, I would have expected him to order me around at his whim, but Father manages not to see that I am not a child anymore.”
“Father sees many things differently than you do, ever since his vision started failing him last summer,” said Thordis. “He is too old to carry out his own dreams any longer and lives vicariously through his children’s achievements. He wants to see us all succeed in his lifetime.”
When he did not answer, she continued. “Thorgeir has been successful raiding and amassing a steady wealth of his own. He is married and has a beautiful family. Thorvis is married and seeking his fortune abroad.” She paused. “You are his youngest son, and you have yet to marry, go raiding, or amass any wealth. To him you are the least successful of his children.”
“But I am a successful skald,” Thorval insisted. “Even Jarl Thengil wants a verse whenever he comes to visit. What more does Father want?”
“But your skill does not yet put gold on the arm or food on the table.”
“And why should that matter?”
“Because when Father is gone, the farm will pass on to Thorgeir and Thorvis as their inheritance.”
“I am the youngest male in the family,” he said. “I never expected to inherit the entire farm.”
“But Father is worried that without a lot of your own, you will be forever indebted to our brothers. He would rather you seek out your own destiny instead being a layabout.”
“Because he’d rather see me end up in Valhalla, giving my life to Odinn for some senseless cause?!” Thorval fumed.
“No, of course not.”
“I’ve told him time and time again, I am not a tool to be used and discarded, like Odinn is wont to do with those who serve him.”
Thordis’s eyes glimmered strangely. “What are you talking about?”
“The poems and legends say he is a crazy trickster who is given to caprice. Long ago Odinn gave the hero Sigmund Volsungsson a magic sword that gave him the power to defeat his enemies, but Odinn later broke the sword, leading to the king’s death in battle. Father served Odinn fervently in his youth, and now his vision is failing more with each passing year. What sane man would want to serve a fickle god like that?”
“I do not know, Brother. Perhaps there is a part of the story that you are missing. Perhaps Sigmund displeased Odinn in some way. We will never know.”
Thorval stared angrily at the stars, particularly towards Odinn’s Eye. “Well, let the ignorant and stupid throw their lives away in Odinn’s service. I’ll not serve that mad fool.”
“That is fair. Follow whomever you want.” His sister’s mien drifted into a soft seriousness. “But regardless of what god you serve, Father’s only looking out for your best interest. He would not rather see you go to Valhalla in death. He prods you towards serving our king because he knows your poetry will find favor and prestige in Hraldrir’s eyes.”
Some of the anger drained from Thorval’s face when he turned back to his sister, but he remained noticeably upset. “I still do not like it, but if Father insists, there is no way of changing his mind.”
“Then you will go?”
He sighed in acquiescence, and for a single moment, I thought he stared directly at me while he turned back towards the farmhouse. “Do I have any other choice?”
Thordis smiled affectionately. “I will take that as a yes.” She beckoned him towards their home. “Come. I do not know about you, but I am tired.”
But Thorval remained in the same spot, still cheerless and dark. “What is the point? I won’t sleep well tonight.”
Thordis quickly scanned the ground to find a twig about as large around as her thumb. From the folds of her dress she produced a small knife, wordlessly cut the twig about a handbreadth long, and began carving runes along its length.
“Madr for self,” she said, risting the rune on the wood as she spoke it aloud. “Tyr for patience. Yr for flexibility. Kaun for open doors and new opportunities. Sol for health and wholeness. And Dagr for daylight.” When she was finished, she handed him the twig with the six runes etched several times into the soft bark.
“What is this?” he wondered.
“Keep it with you tonight. It will help you sleep.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Thordis.”
“Now, come on. It is cold.”
He faced the stars with a wonder pained by the sadness of eventuality. “Go on. I will be in shortly.”
Thordis nodded. “Good night then, Brother,” she said and disappeared into the house.
Thorval stood alone in the late summer night, regarding the stars and the landscape for as much comfort as they could offer. I could see a dream in his eyes, a dream that was contradictory to both his surroundings and his father’s wishes. With the deep sigh that echoed from his throat, I knew he felt destined for success but wanted it to come via its natural course instead of by coercion.
“Odinn,” he whispered to the stars, “show the wisdom of your whimsical ways. Thor, let your hammer be my shield. Frey, let my blood run thick and fruitful. Tyr, let my hand strike true.” He spoke the words as if he did not believe. He spoke each incantation like a bored priest or a man who spoke a prayer of safety just in case the god every one else worshipped was real.
But then he spoke words that I had never heard another man speak with such honesty.
“Freyja,” he breathed sorrowfully and earnestly, “may you guide me to your bosom, where I can find the love you have chosen for me.”
My heart broke for him.
“Gods and goddesses of heavenly Asgard,” he went on in a louder yet still subdued voice, “I will sing a thousand songs and compose a thousand verses if you will reveal yourselves to me!” He fell into a hushed whisper. “Please. Give me a sign.”
Silence was all that answered him. The weary, tired, and distressed look upon his face told me that he spoke these words to the heavens often but had yet to receive any confirmation. Just like he had snapped at his Father’s mention of Odinn, he hardened his gaze towards the North Star and turned to retreat into the warmth of his father’s hall.
My heart skipped a beat. More than anything I yearned for him to turn back and shine his wondrous visage upon my heart once again. I wanted to ease his fears, to tell him everything I knew, to have him accompany me on my otherwise pointless and futile assignment. On that night I wished only to walk beside him under the soft moonlight and enjoy his presence, but I could not make myself descend from the tree and introduce myself. I could not give in to my desire. Fear and uncertainty weighed down upon me and swept me away in their icy avalanche. Watching his broad back moving further and further away from me, I felt all hope drain out of me, but I refused to let go. I had unearthed a treasure beyond words; I was not about to sit back and watch it disappear from me.
No longer caring if he wondered why I was sitting in a tree or why I was trespassing on his father’s lands, I moved from my hiding place. Landing on the ground with a soft crunch from my leather boots, I smoothed my hauberk across my chest, ran fingers through my hair, and approached with a feigned uncertainty.
“Heill!” I greeted him. “Excuse me, sir!”
Thorval craned his neck around with surprise. His crystalline, blue eyes darted first to my face and then to my sword. He met me with a confused and wary expression. “Who are you?”
“Ragnhild Solmundardottir” was the name I gave him. “I am a census taker for the king.”
“And what in Thor’s name are you doing out here at this time of night?” he demanded.
His penetrating gaze almost stole the thought from my mind, but I swallowed deeply and forced the words from my mouth. “Please, sir, my horse was stolen by a highwayman near the mouth of the fjord,” I lied. “My supplies were in my saddlebags, and I seem to have gotten myself lost trying to hunt the thief down. Can you tell me where I am?”
“Gudmundarhol,” said Thorval. “I am Thorval Gudmundarson, and this is my father’s farm.” He eyed me with interest. “If you do not mind me saying so, it is not often I see a lavishly armed woman under the employ of a king.”
“My father is well respected,” I said truthfully.
“I can see that,” he said, the ghost of a smile lighting his handsome face in the moonlight. “Where were you heading?”
“Jokulsstadir,” I said with a noticeable shiver, recalling the conversation between Thorval and his father. “I have been traveling through Sogndal on my way to the king.”
“Jokulsstadir is about an evening’s ride due south of here,” he replied.
I smiled and shivered a bit more noticeably in my cold, heavy armor. “Thank you.”
Using Odinn’s Eye to set my bearings, I turned to the south, but he stopped me before I could leave. “Uh, Ragnhild, excuse me, but I doubt you would make it on foot before dawn in this cold.”
I blinked and faced him once again. “I beg your pardon?”
“Winter is approaching,” he said simply. “You must be cold and tired.”
I nodded, and my hands instinctively pulled the feather cloak tighter around my shoulders. “Quite so.”
His eyes radiated a rare kindness. He sighed and said, “My father, brother, and I are traveling to Jokulsstadir tomorrow on our way to meet the king in Oppland. If it would make you feel safer, you could stay the night here and travel with us in the morning.”
I felt my cheeks redden at his offer and hoped that the veil of night hid my embarrassment. “I am sorry, but I cannot impose upon --”
“Nonsense. I am certain my sisters-in-law would love the company before we depart.”
The temptation of warmth and fellowship was indeed strong, but the nagging of my assignment pulled at the back of my mind. And traveling to Oppland would put me even further from the place I has been told to watch. “I could not --”
“I am sure we have some soup, bread, and ale still left from the evening meal, if you are hungry.”
My stomach grumbled at the thought of food, but I remained silent. In all of my fantasy, I had never expected this man to be so courteous, especially not after his anger at his father had been loosed.
“Then if you will not accept our hospitality,” he sighed, “please accept shelter in our shieling. It is unoccupied this time of year and will at least provide a respite from the wind.”
I nodded respectfully while hiding the unexplainable joy I felt inside. “Thank you... Thorval.”
He turned towards home but stopped a few paces before the door to regard me with his soft, blue eyes one last time. “But the offer to travel with us tomorrow still stands. It would pain me to see a woman beset upon again for traveling alone.”
“I will consider it,” was all I said to him.
He smiled lightly and awkwardly, as if he was unsure of how large a smile to gift me with. “Good night, Ragnhild,” he said.
I gifted him with a smile of my own. “And to you as well, Thorval.”
I watched him close the farmhouse door before I crossed the field to the shieling. Something strange happened inside of me, and I think that exact moment was when I chose him. It was then I decided to do all in my power to hold onto him forever.
©2004 Philip A. Lee