FIC: Saga of Bläken the Bloodthirsty (2)
saga of bläken the bloodthirsty
[gossip girl rpf, blake/leighton]
9
"WHAT HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU?"
Bläken met the ever-inquiring gaze of Robyn the Red with a coy smile. Although those of kin continued to inexplicably ignore her nightly escapades, Bläken was not foolish enough to trust them to remain oblivious to everything else. She had done her best to suppress the smile permanently nagging at the corner of her lips, but pitiable subtlety thwarted her every attempt.
“What do you mean, my sister?”
Robyn’s left eye narrowed in a sign of distrust. “You smile.”
“I always smile.”
“Never to an invitation to accompany father to a trade center,” Robyn argued, “and not unless you and Eirík are up to mischief.”
Bläken shrugged, her eyes downcast and watching her foot leave shallow dents on the turf. “Eirík is abroad,” she said dismissively. “I have slept well, that’s all.”
Robyn eyed Bläken's restless foot and raised an eyebrow. “I see,” she said, not at all convinced. Just as Bläken began to fear that a second round of questioning would end in undesired revelations, Robyn’s attention was caught elsewhere.
“Do not get in trouble,” she said sternly and squeezed Bläken’s arm both as a gesture of warning and affection.
Bläken breathed a relieved sigh once Robyn wandered off to where Bard and her children dwelled. There was much love between them, but Robyn was too perceptive for Bläken to be truly at ease in her presence. Some even whispered she dabbled in dangerous magic when young, like a juvenile sorceress.
Bläken believed no such thing, of course--any information retold by her other sister Löri was to be taken with all the salt in the seas--but Robyn would need no magic to read unguarded thoughts of Laetin all over Bläken’s face.
“It is why some of us have brawn, others cunning,” Bläken mused quietly, distracting herself by twisting her hair into a thick braid.
“And some not even that,” said a voice not unlike a croak. Bläken’s fingers immediately ceased their skillful braiding and she turned around. A scowl appeared on her face, even as she found only an old woman standing there by her lonesome.
“I suppose,” Bläken replied noncommittally. Robyn was right to say she hardly smiled when summoned to a trade center. Too often did strangers openly mock her pants and she was never allowed to retaliate.
Such feelings must have been clear, since the woman smiled and bared teeth stained black.
“It is alright, Bläken,” she said, and though she barely reached Bläken’s shoulders, there were such airs of trickery about her she could’ve been a giant. “What the spirits tell me, I’ll tell only you.”
Bläken took in the elder’s raggedy clothes, in no way seeming like a woman of status. “You do not look like a seer.”
“I do not look like many things,” said the old woman. “But there are things I must warn you of. Great dangers.”
Bläken came short of scoffing at the stranger and her dramatic antics. She stood up straighter and casually placed a hand on the decorated pommel of her sword.
“If you believe a vague prediction will scare me into giving you goods, you offend me greatly.”
“No, no, no,” the woman spoke hurriedly, but Bläken had already stepped back, seeking Robyn’s fierce red mane in the crowd.
Bläken had deemed her skepticism enough of a hint that she did not wish to carry on with this conversation, but bony fingers wrapped themselves firmly around her elbow.
“You do not understand,” insisted the stranger. Bläken breathed an aggravated sigh and her eyes fell to where her arm was trapped. That woman’s grasp was surprisingly strong for an elder.
“I do not have time for this.”
“But I see-” The old lady’s words faltered momentarily and her eyes went wide. “A wolf.”
Bläken crinkled her brow, confused by such nonsensical advice, and then noticed the woman’s eyes were actually focused beyond her. A great uproar made it even clearer that it was no advice, but tangible warning.
The sudden commotion was enough to tear Bläken’s eyes away from the bothersome stranger. Alarmed by the noise, she turned on her heels and quickly reached for her sword, but the sight of a fine silver coat--stunning if not on such a deadly creature--had her stupidly frozen on the spot, as if her feet had grown roots.
It was a wolf, indeed, darting fast through the startled crowd. Bläken saw it heading her way and feared it would lunge, but the creature swiftly dodged her. Only when it became clear that the wolf was truly going for the elder woman did Bläken break out of her stupor, regaining control over her own limbs.
In a completely unwise decision, she threw herself at the wolf without thinking and landed clumsily on its lower half. Bläken seized its hind legs in an attempt to slow it down, but one leg slipped from her grasp as the animal struggled. Bläken gripped its other leg tighter, which was when it finally occurred to her that all it took for a disaster to happen was the beast craning its neck.
Bläken instantly let go of the animal, avoiding a run-in with its jaws, and the wolf fled even faster than it had come.
But faster still ran the old woman. Bläken rose breathlessly to her knees and saw the strange lady practically out of reach, the wolf still on her trail. She was also much too swift for an elder, when Bläken thought about it, but there was no chance to indulge in such thoughts. Strong hands suddenly pulled Bläken up to her feet and turned her away from where the duo had fled.
“Bläken, are you alright?” exclaimed Erlendr the Lively, his men now surrounding the area.
Bläken couldn’t muster a reply quickly enough, dumbstruck by what had just taken place, and Erlendr took it upon himself to inspect her for injuries. He hastily patted her arms while looking her up and down, and fear was replaced by wonderment.
“There’s hardly a scratch on you,” said Erlendr, then promptly threw his arm around her and turned to his men. “The bravest daughter I could have asked for, is it not?”
There were cheers, Bläken noted, but all she could see was the joy in her father’s face. She could not help a smile. Even though the absurdity of the situation hadn’t truly sunk in, Bläken gave it up in favor of the exhilarating feelings that enveloped her then, having pleased her father so greatly.
“Come on.” Erlendr gave her back a light push. “Let us drink to your man-pants,” he joked goodheartedly and gestured for her to follow him.
Bläken faltered. “Actually, I meant to visit the berry lady…” she started saying, remembering earlier promises, and tried to picture the look on Laetin’s face when she learned what had happened.
“Nonsense, we shall drink to your honor,” Erlendr replied firmly, pouring cold water over Bläken’s previous thoughts. “Besides, you are my daughter. It is she who should come to you, not the other way around.”
Bläken offered no comeback and let her father lead her away, somewhat upset by his words. He did have a point.
10
BLÄKEN SAT BY THE FIRE, sword unsheathed. It was a gift from her father’s best smith, with runes inlaid into the surface of its long blade, truly one of his best works. She pointed it towards the ground and held it as if it were a staff, watching the light dance on the blade as she idly twisted and turned the sword’s handle. It would occasionally catch the reflection of a bare thigh, round hips, and then the bright flame would once again burn into view.
“You have seen me disrobe before,” Laetin spoke from behind her, before small arms slid around Bläken’s neck and warm breath tickled her ear. “What disturbs your thoughts?”
“My father’s home houses many,” Bläken said quietly, as Laetin’s chin came to rest on her shoulder. Her petite hands began to work on unfastening the bronze brooch holding Bläken’s fur cape together. “There is room for you.”
Laetin didn’t immediately reply. She finished removing the fur cape and quickly discarded it, then walked around the chair and into Bläken’s view. Such a tantalizingly bare sight did not fail to entice all sorts of responses from Bläken’s still clothed body.
Bläken watched Laetin through a haze of anticipation; it softened a moment later due to an unexpected stroke of worry. She had grown so accustomed to the other woman’s body, so familiar with how it moved and where it reacted the strongest, that even while intoxicated with desire Bläken noticed something in Laetin’s walk was askew.
Bläken’s features morphed with concern. “Are you hurt, my Laetin?”
“I fell in the woods,” Laetin replied with ease as she approached. “And I cannot live with you, Bläken. You know that.”
Bläken lifted her blade at once, quirking an eyebrow. “And if I were to take you as my captive?”
Though the sword’s tip was mere inches from her navel, Laetin did not move or react. She smiled her trust and loosely wrapped her fingers around the blade, moving it aside to make room for herself.
“It would be of no use,” she said, stepping closer and sliding onto Bläken’s lap, “for you are already the mistress of this house.”
The fire painted her alabaster skin a very light amber. Bläken was tempted into stealing a kiss, but as she leaned in to do so, Laetin spoke again.
“Do you love me, my Bläken?” Laetin asked suddenly, her tone genuinely casual despite watching Bläken somewhat expectantly.
Bläken only smiled and brought her free hand to rest in the small of Laetin’s back. She expected to feel the bare skin growing cold under her fingertips, but Laetin was unusually warm.
“How…?” Bläken wrinkled her brow in bewilderment as words failed her once, then twice when Laetin’s lips moved to cover her own. Laetin’s mouth was as warm as the rest of her body when she kissed Bläken eagerly, teeth tugging at her bottom lip until Bläken tasted copper.
Laetin then pulled back, though her face remained close enough that Bläken could see the fire reflected in her eyes--or was it burning behind them? Bläken did not know. The mists clouding her thoughts wouldn’t disperse, this time.
“You are my mistress…” Laetin murmured and Bläken felt her sword shift, though she hadn’t moved her arm. Her eyes fell on the blade just as Laetin’s fingers wrapped themselves tighter around it, until a thin red line snaked its way to the ground.
Bläken’s lips moved to form a question, but once again it died in her throat. She watched, fascinated, as Laetin brought the wounded hand up and spread out her fingers, presenting it to Bläken. Her palm was bloody, yet the skin remained unmarred.
“Only you may touch this skin,” Laetin whispered, watching Bläken’s lips obediently part as she touched them with her fingers, gently tracing the tiny cut on Bläken’s bottom lip with her bloody thumb. “And only I may touch yours.”
11
“SHE HAS GOTTEN YOU under a spell,” said a man with an accent not known to this side of the seas. Though well-bred and of great charm, he was a thrall brought back from one of King Erlendr’s successful raids in England. “Do you not see?”
“I did not bring you here to scorn me, Edward,” Bläken said with moderate austerity--albeit unconventional, she was still a king’s heir--but softened her tone by offering him a smile. Edward was the servant she was most fond of, a loyal man due to Bläken’s pivotal role in convincing her father that Edward’s head would be more valuable if still attached to his neck.
“Fear not, my mistress,” Edward then said, crossing his arms, “I am well aware of how you think my presence undesired.” He smirked and, as if to illustrate his point, the door abruptly swung open and hit him in the buttocks. “Ow!”
“It is not wise to stand behind a door,” Laetin informed him flatly as she reentered the cottage, carrying a basin filled with water. Edward cast a sideways glance her way that was unappreciative to say the least.
“She has servants at home to do that,” Edward said, once Laetin set the basin down and gathered soap and an elegant comb to begin washing Bläken’s hair.
Bläken, for her part, watched their exchange with even less interest than before, now that Laetin’s hands soothingly massaged her scalp.
“Be kind, the both of you,” she said, in a tone that would have sounded commanding, had she not punctuated the request with a lengthy, contented sigh. “Ooh, the water is warm.”
“It’s from a hot spring,” Laetin told her, absentmindedly. Her intent remained focused in deftly working her delicate fingers through Bläken’s long golden hair, combing away the eventual knots. “Relax, my Bläken.”
Edward sat on a wooden chest of significant size, watching them with some curiosity. “May I suggest you use the opportunity to put some thought into what excuse we are going to give your father when we return?”
“You should have come by nightfall,” Laetin said, pursing her lips disapprovingly, though her hands stroked the skin below Bläken’s ears just as gently as before. “What urgency suddenly calls for you to be home this night?”
“My father is having a feast,” Bläken explained, rather cheerfully. She had fond memories aplenty of the many joyous banquets her father had hosted for their kinsfolk. “He takes great pride in hosting those celebrations, even the local spaewife will be visiting our homestead.”
Laetin’s hands stilled, but remained buried in Bläken’s blonde mane. “Spaewife?”
“Have you not heard of the Tráktenbjörg sisters? They are all prophetesses,” Bläken went on, brightly. “My father even had a high chair set for her.”
“You do not appear pleased, woods woman.” It was Edward who spoke. Though his mouth had been sealed until then, his eyes and ears remained alert, lest something more significant than childish banter need his immediate attention.
He had not failed to notice the apprehension in Laetin’s expression, nor had she failed to notice his cynical eyes trained on her.
“I’d like you to stay,” she said to Bläken, though her eyes sustained Edward’s gaze. “I do not think it wise to meet with this spaewife.” She spoke gently, but her words were heavy with intent.
“And I do not think it wise to do such dishonor to my father,” Bläken said, and deemed the matter over. “Let us not speak of this anymore.”
12
THE SPAEWIFE OF skin white as winter snow and a lingering, wolf-eyed stare was the youngest of the Tráktenbjörg sisters. Men all around the table sang her praises as the last surviving wise-woman of the village, though she did not appear a day older than Bläken herself.
Erlendr the Lively sang her praises the loudest, even more so as maidens made sure mead was served generously to the many occupants of his hall.
"Tell us, spaewife!" he suddenly bellowed, slapping the wooden table with his palm. "What do the spirits say of the season to come?"
"It is not clear to me, yet," said the spaewife and resumed her walk around the room, where many curious men prodded her for similar answers.
Bläken, too, watched the wise-woman with some interest; she almost did not hear Edward approach.
"The spirits will only speak once she's gathered enough silver coins," he said, his naturally quiet tone practically engulfed by the overjoyed voices of those invited to the banquet.
Bläken snorted into her horn cup, nearly inhaling her beverage. "You are impossible, today!"
“And you-” Edward’s speech was cut short as a burly man walked by and practically carried him along. “This is quite possibly the worst time to be a careless drunkard.”
“I am well drunk, not drunken,” Bläken objected, slamming the horn-shaped mug on the table with such violence it somewhat belied her statement. “And you are one to talk,” she went on, “captured with a bucket of ale on one hand and your pants on the other.”
Edward’s lips curved down and he mumbled words Bläken figured were not compliments. “Hold your tongue,” he warned and wandered off, for men around the table were already beginning to send disapproving glances his way. He certainly did not wish to start a fight with a legion of drunken Norsemen.
Bläken herself mirrored their disapproving glares. “First my woman, now my thrall,” she muttered and turned her attention back to the large table where much merriment and feasting was being had.
The spaewife eventually reclaimed the high seat close to King Erlendr’s and spoke of a kinder winter, to which men drank twice as more in celebration. By the time Erlendr took to entertaining his guests with tales of former battles, Bläken could only make sense of few parts of his stories.
“And the night before the battle my forefather came to me in dream. He spoke of a saying by the people he had met in the world that is not ours. ‘From small things come great ruin’, the saying went.” Erlendr paused and challenged each and every one around the table with a daring eye. “Well, indeed, it was a very small knife that slew many.”
His hall roared with the sounds of laughter and stomping feet. Bläken saw her father’s face brighten with joy and wondered, somewhat disappointed, how Laetin could have expected her to cause him the displeasure of being absent in such happy times.
“It is no wonder even your daughter will wrestle a wolf with her bare hands!” praised a man seated further down the table. Erlendr’s already pleased expression became one of pride, and Bläken felt her chest fill with warmth.
“My greatest asset,” he joked, gesturing her way. “Too bad I gave it to Farmansson.”
Bläken felt her cheeks flush as attention around the hall was drawn to herself and Penn, to whom men took rounds cheerfully toasting. She took Penn's hand and smiled sheepishly. It was most delightful to finally have eyes filled with something other than disapproval trained on her.
There was, however, a pair of eyes that watched neither with disapproval nor cheerfulness, but simply watched. Bläken locked gazes with the spaewife and felt a chill deep in her bones, like her secrets had been laid out on the table between them for all to see.
Penn stood up, unperturbed by the stare and easily distracted by men of his kin. He was led away from his seat, chatting animatedly with a tall, ginger-haired man making a series of crude gestures Bläken supposed were compliments.
Bläken let him be and turned back on her seat, fearful of facing the spaewife's stare alone, but she no longer sat on her high chair. A sigh of relief slowly pushed past Bläken's lips, then became a rushed gasp when she noticed the strange woman was standing right next to her.
The young Tráktenbjörg stepped into the space Penn had left vacant and rested one hand flat on the table. Her skin was of such paleness, Bläken could see the blue veins crisscrossed over the back of her hand. Likewise, the spaewife eyed her as if she could see beyond skin and bones, studied her as if seeing something that was not there.
Just as Bläken felt her lips dry and scrambled to find words, the prophetess spoke, delivering words like a verdict. "Blinded by a veil of magic."
Bläken smiled uneasily. “Speak not in riddles, spaewife. Ale has taken my wit.”
It seemed like she would say nothing else, then the wise woman leaned in and whispered close to Bläken's ear. "She is not who she seems to be."
With that, she turned around and walked away, leaving Bläken alone with the echo of her words. No sooner she was gone and Edward approached in large footsteps.
"Is something wrong?"
Bläken tried her best to articulate, but words came and went and tumbled all over each other chaotically. It did not make matters any easier to see the spaewife reclaim her seat near Erlendr and whisper something to him.
Erlendr the Lively shot her a perplexed look, and rather than whispering, the spaewife then raised her voice again and spoke loud enough for all of them to hear. “Like your ancestors helped you win a great battle, King Erlendr, mine tell me I must leave.”
“Why, spaewife, stay and taste my daughter’s excellent jam,” said Erlendr, appearing bothered.
“I must go, for the spirits have warned me that if I don’t leave your company soon, tragedy shall come my way.”
Stunned silence took over the hall. Bläken, who had been afraid to appear relieved when the subject turned out not to concern her, sat there as bewildered as the rest. She saw her father run a hand through his beard--a nervous habit--and then his features were one of outrage.
“All the more reason to stay," he said. "No men shall disturb you under my roof, wise woman.”
The prophetess didn't even pause to consider the offer before saying, “It is indeed one under this roof that shall slay me.”
There was no silence, this time, but a mess of whispers, protests and questions, until the voice least likely to stand out rose above the rest.
“Let us at least escort you, spaewife,” said Penn the Gaptoothed. “I swear on my honor that I shall protect you.” The men who had stolen him from Bläken’s side all nodded, gathering their weapons and standing dutifully behind Penn.
King Erlendr scratched his bearded chin again, considering. “Indeed, if there’s one I trust above all men, it is Penn Farmansson.”
“Very well,” said the spaewife and rose from her high seat, bidding them all goodbye. She accompanied Penn and two more men out of the hall, but the gloomy aura left by her words loomed over them, still.
Bläken balled her fingers into a fist as she watched them depart; inevitably, she thought of Laetin and the last words they’d exchanged.
A string of possibilities born out of scenarios where she actually listened to Laetin’s worries began to unravel, but Bläken was brusquely startled out of such thoughts by the sound of something heavy falling.
It took her a moment to place the noise and realize it’d been the bilberry jam that toppled off the table, spilling on the floor like dark blood.
Bläken stood up abruptly. “I’m coming with you.”
13
THEY FOLLOWED THE PATH out of the farmstead in silence. Penn rode alongside the spaewife, axe propped over his shoulder. Bläken could not remember ever seeing Penn in battle. She only hoped he would wield his weapon with knowledge, should it come to that.
The spaewife rode a horse black as the nightly sea. One could not tell where woman ended and animal began, were it not for the gems lining her equally black cloak and scintillating under the light of the moon and their torches. Bläken rode a small distance behind, accompanied by one of Penn’s loyal men, while a second man went ahead of the group, scouting for danger.
“It is ill counseled to be out after nightfall,” said the man riding next to Bläken, grimly. She could not remember his name, but vaguely remembered a nickname relating to his extensive black beard. Penn thought highly of him.
Bläken nodded, fingers clenching and unclenching restlessly around the hilt of her sword. It did not escape her mind that riding out after dark had been a daily activity of hers ever since stumbling upon Laetin and the cottage, but the woods had always felt safe. Such strong feelings of trepidation were completely new.
She gave Penyrir’s hind a light tap and the horse immediately quickened its trot, catching up with Penn and the spaewife.
“We should go back,” Bläken said, as soon as she was within their earshot. “Your own men feel it is not safe to be out right now.”
Penn seemed to consider it, lighting a spark of hope in Bläken’s heart, then turned to the prophetess. “Do the spirits still foresee danger, spaewife?”
“They only tell me our fates have been sealed,” the young Tráktenbjörg sister answered, cryptically, looking past Penn and training her chilling stare on Bläken once again.
“What-” Penn suddenly fell silent when his eyes followed those of the prophetess and saw where she was looking. His eyes darted back and forth between Bläken and the spaewife, until airs of realization appeared on his face. “Oh.”
Bläken felt the hairs on her body stand and knew it was not from the windy weather.
“Oh!” Penn repeated, strangely excited, and said to the spaewife, “Is my wife with child?”
The spaewife, who had often been impeccable at concealing emotions, now appeared utterly incredulous. Bläken, on the other hand, could not have been more relieved. Blessed be her husband’s ingenuity.
Then the prophetess spoke again.
“There is a maiden of chestnut hair dwelling in a cottage down the hill.” She hesitated at the sound of Bläken’s breath catching in her throat, but soon carried on speaking. “Your wife shall never bear your children while this maiden lives to poison her mind against you.”
Men exchanged looks of bewilderment, for failing to bear a living heir was a sentence more disgraceful than the loss of all wealth. Bläken herself shared some of their surprise. She hadn’t truthfully given much thought to the matter, as instinct often trampled reason when it came to her decisions; the pull of her strange Laetin had called, she just answered.
“Then lead the way, spaewife,” Penn suddenly said, recomposing after the figurative blow. He now held his axe as if ready for battle, and his bearded companion similarly drew out his weapon. “This shall be settled at once.”
But Penn did not move, for the tip of a sword suddenly pressed against his neck.
“There is nothing to settle,” Bläken told him. “You will leave that poor woman alone.”
Penn the Gaptoothed showed no signs of hiding utmost incomprehension as he met her unyielding stare. “Bläken, listen to yourself,” he pleaded, looking down at the sword aimed at him and then back up, at the woman wielding it with resolve.
“You listen to yourself, my husband,” Bläken retorted. “What honor is there in slaughtering an innocent woman whose spoils will be a handful of berries?”
Penn did not answer, but the black-bearded man took the cue to himself and scoffed in outrage. “What honor is there in threatening your own kin over a whore?”
Bläken’s eyes moved away from Penn; slowly, as if to give her blood time to boil.
“You will not speak of her that way.”
“Why yes, I will,” the man replied. “And this will I add,” he went on. “If this whore is worth such commotion, by all means do lead us to her door, spaewife.” His fat belly shook with derisive laughter, shattering the silence of the night.
Bläken narrowed her eyes. If he would not seal his mouth, she’d do him the favor of slicing up a new, better one. Her murderous intent must’ve been clear, since she suddenly felt a strong hand grasp her wrist.
“Restrain yourself,” said Penn. Bläken tried to yank her arm free, but his grip on her wrist merely tightened. “I only want you safe.”
“By the Gods, woman, listen to your husband,” said the bearded man in admonishment. “I’ll leave you to settle your private matters. But worry not, my good friend, for I, Kolskeggr, shall honor the oath we took as blood-brothers and avenge these wrongdoings by sword.”
He gave his horse’s reins a sharp tug, steering it eastward and motioning for the spaewife to follow him. Thus he took off for the woods, passing the man riding ahead of their group, and he too joined Kolskeggr’s party.
Bläken watched them leave in a stupor, aware only of her heart hammering within the confines of her chest. The thought of Laetin on her lonesome while danger approached made it hammer with renewed intent, almost up to par with Mjöllnir’s crushing prowess.
“Let me go,” Bläken said, and her voice came out hoarse and strangely devoid of feeling. She lowered her eyes to where Penn’s hand still gripped her sword-wielding arm.
Penn’s hold loosened, but he did not release her. “You know that way lies only trouble,” he told her cautiously. “Let him be and we shall discuss this back home, with calmer spirits.”
Bläken simply met Penn’s eyes in response, and her glare was deadly in itself; he let go of her arm immediately.
For a moment they did nothing but watch each other, as if in a silent spar, and the tension made Penyrir grow restless between Bläken’s legs.
At last, Bläken moved, withdrawing her arm and sheathing her sword.
Penn breathed a relieved sigh. “You do well,” he said. “We-”
Whatever words he then uttered were lost to the angry stomping of hooves as Bläken took off towards the woods.
14
BLÄKEN COULD FEEL her nails digging into the skin of her palms, so tightly she gripped Penyrir’s reins while guiding the horse over land she practically knew by heart. She could hear Penn chasing her, but the sound grew faint, while she grew confident. Bläken was on her turf.
She had made it back and forth through these woods, at the brink of dawn or the fall of evening. It was not impossible to see where they were going, but with little knowledge of the place, one could easily mistake a tree for another and wind up lost.
So it was with little surprise that she found Kolskeggr disbanded, guiding his horse left and right as if trying to figure out where to go from there. He spotted her just before she drew her sword once again and went at him in a fit of berserk fury.
Kolskeggr twisted on the saddle to fetch something strapped to his back. Bläken did not even see what it was, already swinging her arm low and slicing his gut in a swift move. No sooner was she finished with the motion and he toppled off his horse, clutching his own entrails.
Bläken got off Penyrir’s back and approached him. Kolskeggr squirmed on the ground, the wounded vermin, sputtering blood and curses alike.
“Where are the others?”
Kolskeggr gritted his teeth, his eyes wild. “The spaewife fled,” he began, gasping his last breaths, “and Björn-” he trailed off, and when the pause stretched on, Bläken understood his wounds had taken him at last.
Bläken went to his horse and retrieved his sword, then walked back to where his body lay and thrust the weapon into the ground. He did not deserve her true condolences, but she’d give him this much. Leave it to his men to find the rocks to improvise a burial.
Bathed in blood spatters and irrational rage, Bläken stood by Kolskeggr’s body and allowed herself a moment to recompose. She tried willing her heart to calm, but approaching footsteps made it hammer away at her chest once again.
Bläken turned sharply, sword raised, and came face-to-face with a horror-stricken Penn the Gaptoothed.
She thought of lowering her weapon, but Penn held his axe in similar fighting stance. Bläken could not see the strength to fight in his eyes, but there was a newfound resolve in them. He stared at her as if, up until then, he truly had not known her at all.
“Foolish is the man who does not know the woman sleeping beside him,” Penn repeated, sourly. “I am the most foolish of them all, aren’t I?”
“Penn…”
“The spaewife did not lie, that woman has immense power over you, Bläken.”
“Then you know you cannot stop me,” Bläken told him. She could barely hold her sword still, its blade shook almost imperceptibly as her heart drummed wildly.
Penn stood his ground, his mouth forming an angry line. “I’ve been your friend and husband-”
“Let me pass, Penn.”
“I was forgiving of your eccentricities, even if it brought mockery to my name,” he continued, ignoring her. “I could have divorced you for those stupid pants alone and you repay me by slaying my own- my brother and denying me children, all in the name of a stranger?”
“She’s my friend.”
“She is wicked, Bläken!” Penn’s neck burned a heated red and his nostrils flared. Bläken didn’t think she had ever seen him this distressed. “Kolskeggr and I bled together,” he went on gravely. “Do you even know what that means or have you been that tamed by what that woman’s got between her legs you cannot even listen to reason?”
Bläken pressed her lips tight through the barb's sting, though her tone remained unaffected. “I listen to my heart.”
Penn’s breath came out in harsh bursts as he laughed incredulously. “Is that so?” he questioned. “Was it your heart you listened to when you took your own brother’s bed-servants in the weaving room?”
Bläken’s eyes widened. “You knew.”
“And who doesn’t?” Penn spat aggressively, unable to repress his tirade any longer. “Your father spoke so highly of you, I trusted him over the word of others of less honor. I ought to have listened to my instincts when they warned me against letting a wench who goes about in men's breeches be betrothed to me.”
Bläken swallowed a lump and her grip on the sword wavered. It broke her heart to see Penn like this, spirits altered to the point where she could no longer see the kind, work-obsessed man she’d always known. She supposed it was no different for him, no less painful to watch mutual illusions shatter.
“You show your colors, my husband.”
“As do you, my wife.”
Bläken sighed in resignation. “I wish it did not have to end like this,” she admitted.
Penn looked her in the eye and his tone softened. “Likewise.”
They raised their weapons.
15
IT IS SAID that bloodlust is the original double-edged sword: a blessing at wartime, a curse in its aftermath. Racing Penyrir through cutting wind, Bläken hoped to outrun the latter, sustained by the thrill of the former.
The stench of death clung to her skin much like the blood drying on her face, making strands of blonde hair stick together and staining her fists a deep crimson. Bläken could not think of what she had done, only of what she would do if she arrived too late.
The cottage came into view just as Penyrir’s breathing showed signs of near exhaustion. Bläken jumped off its back and ran the remaining distance herself, drawing out her bloodied sword once more.
“Laetin!” Bläken cried as she approached the house. Laetin had always greeted her at the door, yet this time Bläken was met with excruciating silence.
“Please be asleep, my Laetin,” Bläken muttered as she ran up to the entrance. The door was open, Bläken noted in a panic, but when her eyes surveyed the small interior she found no one inside.
Bläken stepped back, stumbling at the last step as consternation threatened to numb her limbs. What had they done? Even Laetin’s belongings were gone; it was as if no one had ever lived there at all.
“No,” she said, battling a terrible tightness constricting her chest. Bläken did not know how she had managed to diminish her feelings for Laetin for this long--perhaps she had been a match for poor Penn after all, in their joint cluelessness--but now that recognition finally dawned, it was threatened by the horrible possibility that she might’ve been too late.
Bläken stepped back outside, thrust into the heavy silence of nightfall. It was short-lived silence, however, disturbed by sudden footsteps coming from Bläken’s left.
“Bläken!” bellowed a male voice. “I shall quench your blood thirst!”
Bläken turned just as the surviving man in Penn’s group smote at her. Caught off guard, Bläken could only react by reflex and lift an arm to shield herself from the blow.
But as the stroke took her forearm right down in the middle, all Bläken felt was the almost bone-shattering impact of the blade. Both she and the adversary, who they called Björn for his bear-like size, watched the blade inexplicably fail to even pierce her skin.
Björn stepped back, dumbfounded. “How can this be?”
Bläken stared at her arm in a similar state of shock. She couldn’t understand what had happened or why a single culprit popped in her mind. “Laetin,” she whispered.
Her poor Laetin, Bläken then thought, and it ignited scorching ire within her chest. Only fools and slaves enacted revenge right away, but Bläken could not hold it back.
Blow for blow they fought, Bläken growing confident as her flesh remained immune to the bite of steel. The battle was fierce on each side, for this man was not as careless as the rest, and she did admire him for putting up a worthy fight. At least her poor Laetin had not fallen at the hands of a coward.
As that thought crossed her mind, Bläken delivered an artful blow that sent Björn’s weapon flying into the green clutches of the nearby shrubbery, lost among leaves and berries. There was no fear in his eyes when she approached, for death was certain.
Björn lost his footing on a rock and fell on his back, further rendering him defenseless. Still, Bläken did not deal her last blow right away.
“Where is it?” Bläken asked, towering over him with her sword pointed at his chest. He eyed her strangely, so Bläken lowered her sword until its tip touched his torso. “Her body,” she added, trying to sound commanding even as she inhaled harshly to contain a surge of tears.
Björn saw this and perhaps took pity on her, finally opening his mouth. But as Bläken waited for words, what she heard was a furious cry as he kicked out his leg and swept Bläken off her feet. She was quick to recompose, but he was also quick to realize that if no blade could pierce her enchanted skin, blunt objects would still crack the hardest skull.
And so it was that Bläken, warrior of noble blood and renown, was struck down by not more than an ordinary hard rock.
part three
[gossip girl rpf, blake/leighton]
9
"WHAT HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU?"
Bläken met the ever-inquiring gaze of Robyn the Red with a coy smile. Although those of kin continued to inexplicably ignore her nightly escapades, Bläken was not foolish enough to trust them to remain oblivious to everything else. She had done her best to suppress the smile permanently nagging at the corner of her lips, but pitiable subtlety thwarted her every attempt.
“What do you mean, my sister?”
Robyn’s left eye narrowed in a sign of distrust. “You smile.”
“I always smile.”
“Never to an invitation to accompany father to a trade center,” Robyn argued, “and not unless you and Eirík are up to mischief.”
Bläken shrugged, her eyes downcast and watching her foot leave shallow dents on the turf. “Eirík is abroad,” she said dismissively. “I have slept well, that’s all.”
Robyn eyed Bläken's restless foot and raised an eyebrow. “I see,” she said, not at all convinced. Just as Bläken began to fear that a second round of questioning would end in undesired revelations, Robyn’s attention was caught elsewhere.
“Do not get in trouble,” she said sternly and squeezed Bläken’s arm both as a gesture of warning and affection.
Bläken breathed a relieved sigh once Robyn wandered off to where Bard and her children dwelled. There was much love between them, but Robyn was too perceptive for Bläken to be truly at ease in her presence. Some even whispered she dabbled in dangerous magic when young, like a juvenile sorceress.
Bläken believed no such thing, of course--any information retold by her other sister Löri was to be taken with all the salt in the seas--but Robyn would need no magic to read unguarded thoughts of Laetin all over Bläken’s face.
“It is why some of us have brawn, others cunning,” Bläken mused quietly, distracting herself by twisting her hair into a thick braid.
“And some not even that,” said a voice not unlike a croak. Bläken’s fingers immediately ceased their skillful braiding and she turned around. A scowl appeared on her face, even as she found only an old woman standing there by her lonesome.
“I suppose,” Bläken replied noncommittally. Robyn was right to say she hardly smiled when summoned to a trade center. Too often did strangers openly mock her pants and she was never allowed to retaliate.
Such feelings must have been clear, since the woman smiled and bared teeth stained black.
“It is alright, Bläken,” she said, and though she barely reached Bläken’s shoulders, there were such airs of trickery about her she could’ve been a giant. “What the spirits tell me, I’ll tell only you.”
Bläken took in the elder’s raggedy clothes, in no way seeming like a woman of status. “You do not look like a seer.”
“I do not look like many things,” said the old woman. “But there are things I must warn you of. Great dangers.”
Bläken came short of scoffing at the stranger and her dramatic antics. She stood up straighter and casually placed a hand on the decorated pommel of her sword.
“If you believe a vague prediction will scare me into giving you goods, you offend me greatly.”
“No, no, no,” the woman spoke hurriedly, but Bläken had already stepped back, seeking Robyn’s fierce red mane in the crowd.
Bläken had deemed her skepticism enough of a hint that she did not wish to carry on with this conversation, but bony fingers wrapped themselves firmly around her elbow.
“You do not understand,” insisted the stranger. Bläken breathed an aggravated sigh and her eyes fell to where her arm was trapped. That woman’s grasp was surprisingly strong for an elder.
“I do not have time for this.”
“But I see-” The old lady’s words faltered momentarily and her eyes went wide. “A wolf.”
Bläken crinkled her brow, confused by such nonsensical advice, and then noticed the woman’s eyes were actually focused beyond her. A great uproar made it even clearer that it was no advice, but tangible warning.
The sudden commotion was enough to tear Bläken’s eyes away from the bothersome stranger. Alarmed by the noise, she turned on her heels and quickly reached for her sword, but the sight of a fine silver coat--stunning if not on such a deadly creature--had her stupidly frozen on the spot, as if her feet had grown roots.
It was a wolf, indeed, darting fast through the startled crowd. Bläken saw it heading her way and feared it would lunge, but the creature swiftly dodged her. Only when it became clear that the wolf was truly going for the elder woman did Bläken break out of her stupor, regaining control over her own limbs.
In a completely unwise decision, she threw herself at the wolf without thinking and landed clumsily on its lower half. Bläken seized its hind legs in an attempt to slow it down, but one leg slipped from her grasp as the animal struggled. Bläken gripped its other leg tighter, which was when it finally occurred to her that all it took for a disaster to happen was the beast craning its neck.
Bläken instantly let go of the animal, avoiding a run-in with its jaws, and the wolf fled even faster than it had come.
But faster still ran the old woman. Bläken rose breathlessly to her knees and saw the strange lady practically out of reach, the wolf still on her trail. She was also much too swift for an elder, when Bläken thought about it, but there was no chance to indulge in such thoughts. Strong hands suddenly pulled Bläken up to her feet and turned her away from where the duo had fled.
“Bläken, are you alright?” exclaimed Erlendr the Lively, his men now surrounding the area.
Bläken couldn’t muster a reply quickly enough, dumbstruck by what had just taken place, and Erlendr took it upon himself to inspect her for injuries. He hastily patted her arms while looking her up and down, and fear was replaced by wonderment.
“There’s hardly a scratch on you,” said Erlendr, then promptly threw his arm around her and turned to his men. “The bravest daughter I could have asked for, is it not?”
There were cheers, Bläken noted, but all she could see was the joy in her father’s face. She could not help a smile. Even though the absurdity of the situation hadn’t truly sunk in, Bläken gave it up in favor of the exhilarating feelings that enveloped her then, having pleased her father so greatly.
“Come on.” Erlendr gave her back a light push. “Let us drink to your man-pants,” he joked goodheartedly and gestured for her to follow him.
Bläken faltered. “Actually, I meant to visit the berry lady…” she started saying, remembering earlier promises, and tried to picture the look on Laetin’s face when she learned what had happened.
“Nonsense, we shall drink to your honor,” Erlendr replied firmly, pouring cold water over Bläken’s previous thoughts. “Besides, you are my daughter. It is she who should come to you, not the other way around.”
Bläken offered no comeback and let her father lead her away, somewhat upset by his words. He did have a point.
10
BLÄKEN SAT BY THE FIRE, sword unsheathed. It was a gift from her father’s best smith, with runes inlaid into the surface of its long blade, truly one of his best works. She pointed it towards the ground and held it as if it were a staff, watching the light dance on the blade as she idly twisted and turned the sword’s handle. It would occasionally catch the reflection of a bare thigh, round hips, and then the bright flame would once again burn into view.
“You have seen me disrobe before,” Laetin spoke from behind her, before small arms slid around Bläken’s neck and warm breath tickled her ear. “What disturbs your thoughts?”
“My father’s home houses many,” Bläken said quietly, as Laetin’s chin came to rest on her shoulder. Her petite hands began to work on unfastening the bronze brooch holding Bläken’s fur cape together. “There is room for you.”
Laetin didn’t immediately reply. She finished removing the fur cape and quickly discarded it, then walked around the chair and into Bläken’s view. Such a tantalizingly bare sight did not fail to entice all sorts of responses from Bläken’s still clothed body.
Bläken watched Laetin through a haze of anticipation; it softened a moment later due to an unexpected stroke of worry. She had grown so accustomed to the other woman’s body, so familiar with how it moved and where it reacted the strongest, that even while intoxicated with desire Bläken noticed something in Laetin’s walk was askew.
Bläken’s features morphed with concern. “Are you hurt, my Laetin?”
“I fell in the woods,” Laetin replied with ease as she approached. “And I cannot live with you, Bläken. You know that.”
Bläken lifted her blade at once, quirking an eyebrow. “And if I were to take you as my captive?”
Though the sword’s tip was mere inches from her navel, Laetin did not move or react. She smiled her trust and loosely wrapped her fingers around the blade, moving it aside to make room for herself.
“It would be of no use,” she said, stepping closer and sliding onto Bläken’s lap, “for you are already the mistress of this house.”
The fire painted her alabaster skin a very light amber. Bläken was tempted into stealing a kiss, but as she leaned in to do so, Laetin spoke again.
“Do you love me, my Bläken?” Laetin asked suddenly, her tone genuinely casual despite watching Bläken somewhat expectantly.
Bläken only smiled and brought her free hand to rest in the small of Laetin’s back. She expected to feel the bare skin growing cold under her fingertips, but Laetin was unusually warm.
“How…?” Bläken wrinkled her brow in bewilderment as words failed her once, then twice when Laetin’s lips moved to cover her own. Laetin’s mouth was as warm as the rest of her body when she kissed Bläken eagerly, teeth tugging at her bottom lip until Bläken tasted copper.
Laetin then pulled back, though her face remained close enough that Bläken could see the fire reflected in her eyes--or was it burning behind them? Bläken did not know. The mists clouding her thoughts wouldn’t disperse, this time.
“You are my mistress…” Laetin murmured and Bläken felt her sword shift, though she hadn’t moved her arm. Her eyes fell on the blade just as Laetin’s fingers wrapped themselves tighter around it, until a thin red line snaked its way to the ground.
Bläken’s lips moved to form a question, but once again it died in her throat. She watched, fascinated, as Laetin brought the wounded hand up and spread out her fingers, presenting it to Bläken. Her palm was bloody, yet the skin remained unmarred.
“Only you may touch this skin,” Laetin whispered, watching Bläken’s lips obediently part as she touched them with her fingers, gently tracing the tiny cut on Bläken’s bottom lip with her bloody thumb. “And only I may touch yours.”
11
“SHE HAS GOTTEN YOU under a spell,” said a man with an accent not known to this side of the seas. Though well-bred and of great charm, he was a thrall brought back from one of King Erlendr’s successful raids in England. “Do you not see?”
“I did not bring you here to scorn me, Edward,” Bläken said with moderate austerity--albeit unconventional, she was still a king’s heir--but softened her tone by offering him a smile. Edward was the servant she was most fond of, a loyal man due to Bläken’s pivotal role in convincing her father that Edward’s head would be more valuable if still attached to his neck.
“Fear not, my mistress,” Edward then said, crossing his arms, “I am well aware of how you think my presence undesired.” He smirked and, as if to illustrate his point, the door abruptly swung open and hit him in the buttocks. “Ow!”
“It is not wise to stand behind a door,” Laetin informed him flatly as she reentered the cottage, carrying a basin filled with water. Edward cast a sideways glance her way that was unappreciative to say the least.
“She has servants at home to do that,” Edward said, once Laetin set the basin down and gathered soap and an elegant comb to begin washing Bläken’s hair.
Bläken, for her part, watched their exchange with even less interest than before, now that Laetin’s hands soothingly massaged her scalp.
“Be kind, the both of you,” she said, in a tone that would have sounded commanding, had she not punctuated the request with a lengthy, contented sigh. “Ooh, the water is warm.”
“It’s from a hot spring,” Laetin told her, absentmindedly. Her intent remained focused in deftly working her delicate fingers through Bläken’s long golden hair, combing away the eventual knots. “Relax, my Bläken.”
Edward sat on a wooden chest of significant size, watching them with some curiosity. “May I suggest you use the opportunity to put some thought into what excuse we are going to give your father when we return?”
“You should have come by nightfall,” Laetin said, pursing her lips disapprovingly, though her hands stroked the skin below Bläken’s ears just as gently as before. “What urgency suddenly calls for you to be home this night?”
“My father is having a feast,” Bläken explained, rather cheerfully. She had fond memories aplenty of the many joyous banquets her father had hosted for their kinsfolk. “He takes great pride in hosting those celebrations, even the local spaewife will be visiting our homestead.”
Laetin’s hands stilled, but remained buried in Bläken’s blonde mane. “Spaewife?”
“Have you not heard of the Tráktenbjörg sisters? They are all prophetesses,” Bläken went on, brightly. “My father even had a high chair set for her.”
“You do not appear pleased, woods woman.” It was Edward who spoke. Though his mouth had been sealed until then, his eyes and ears remained alert, lest something more significant than childish banter need his immediate attention.
He had not failed to notice the apprehension in Laetin’s expression, nor had she failed to notice his cynical eyes trained on her.
“I’d like you to stay,” she said to Bläken, though her eyes sustained Edward’s gaze. “I do not think it wise to meet with this spaewife.” She spoke gently, but her words were heavy with intent.
“And I do not think it wise to do such dishonor to my father,” Bläken said, and deemed the matter over. “Let us not speak of this anymore.”
12
THE SPAEWIFE OF skin white as winter snow and a lingering, wolf-eyed stare was the youngest of the Tráktenbjörg sisters. Men all around the table sang her praises as the last surviving wise-woman of the village, though she did not appear a day older than Bläken herself.
Erlendr the Lively sang her praises the loudest, even more so as maidens made sure mead was served generously to the many occupants of his hall.
"Tell us, spaewife!" he suddenly bellowed, slapping the wooden table with his palm. "What do the spirits say of the season to come?"
"It is not clear to me, yet," said the spaewife and resumed her walk around the room, where many curious men prodded her for similar answers.
Bläken, too, watched the wise-woman with some interest; she almost did not hear Edward approach.
"The spirits will only speak once she's gathered enough silver coins," he said, his naturally quiet tone practically engulfed by the overjoyed voices of those invited to the banquet.
Bläken snorted into her horn cup, nearly inhaling her beverage. "You are impossible, today!"
“And you-” Edward’s speech was cut short as a burly man walked by and practically carried him along. “This is quite possibly the worst time to be a careless drunkard.”
“I am well drunk, not drunken,” Bläken objected, slamming the horn-shaped mug on the table with such violence it somewhat belied her statement. “And you are one to talk,” she went on, “captured with a bucket of ale on one hand and your pants on the other.”
Edward’s lips curved down and he mumbled words Bläken figured were not compliments. “Hold your tongue,” he warned and wandered off, for men around the table were already beginning to send disapproving glances his way. He certainly did not wish to start a fight with a legion of drunken Norsemen.
Bläken herself mirrored their disapproving glares. “First my woman, now my thrall,” she muttered and turned her attention back to the large table where much merriment and feasting was being had.
The spaewife eventually reclaimed the high seat close to King Erlendr’s and spoke of a kinder winter, to which men drank twice as more in celebration. By the time Erlendr took to entertaining his guests with tales of former battles, Bläken could only make sense of few parts of his stories.
“And the night before the battle my forefather came to me in dream. He spoke of a saying by the people he had met in the world that is not ours. ‘From small things come great ruin’, the saying went.” Erlendr paused and challenged each and every one around the table with a daring eye. “Well, indeed, it was a very small knife that slew many.”
His hall roared with the sounds of laughter and stomping feet. Bläken saw her father’s face brighten with joy and wondered, somewhat disappointed, how Laetin could have expected her to cause him the displeasure of being absent in such happy times.
“It is no wonder even your daughter will wrestle a wolf with her bare hands!” praised a man seated further down the table. Erlendr’s already pleased expression became one of pride, and Bläken felt her chest fill with warmth.
“My greatest asset,” he joked, gesturing her way. “Too bad I gave it to Farmansson.”
Bläken felt her cheeks flush as attention around the hall was drawn to herself and Penn, to whom men took rounds cheerfully toasting. She took Penn's hand and smiled sheepishly. It was most delightful to finally have eyes filled with something other than disapproval trained on her.
There was, however, a pair of eyes that watched neither with disapproval nor cheerfulness, but simply watched. Bläken locked gazes with the spaewife and felt a chill deep in her bones, like her secrets had been laid out on the table between them for all to see.
Penn stood up, unperturbed by the stare and easily distracted by men of his kin. He was led away from his seat, chatting animatedly with a tall, ginger-haired man making a series of crude gestures Bläken supposed were compliments.
Bläken let him be and turned back on her seat, fearful of facing the spaewife's stare alone, but she no longer sat on her high chair. A sigh of relief slowly pushed past Bläken's lips, then became a rushed gasp when she noticed the strange woman was standing right next to her.
The young Tráktenbjörg stepped into the space Penn had left vacant and rested one hand flat on the table. Her skin was of such paleness, Bläken could see the blue veins crisscrossed over the back of her hand. Likewise, the spaewife eyed her as if she could see beyond skin and bones, studied her as if seeing something that was not there.
Just as Bläken felt her lips dry and scrambled to find words, the prophetess spoke, delivering words like a verdict. "Blinded by a veil of magic."
Bläken smiled uneasily. “Speak not in riddles, spaewife. Ale has taken my wit.”
It seemed like she would say nothing else, then the wise woman leaned in and whispered close to Bläken's ear. "She is not who she seems to be."
With that, she turned around and walked away, leaving Bläken alone with the echo of her words. No sooner she was gone and Edward approached in large footsteps.
"Is something wrong?"
Bläken tried her best to articulate, but words came and went and tumbled all over each other chaotically. It did not make matters any easier to see the spaewife reclaim her seat near Erlendr and whisper something to him.
Erlendr the Lively shot her a perplexed look, and rather than whispering, the spaewife then raised her voice again and spoke loud enough for all of them to hear. “Like your ancestors helped you win a great battle, King Erlendr, mine tell me I must leave.”
“Why, spaewife, stay and taste my daughter’s excellent jam,” said Erlendr, appearing bothered.
“I must go, for the spirits have warned me that if I don’t leave your company soon, tragedy shall come my way.”
Stunned silence took over the hall. Bläken, who had been afraid to appear relieved when the subject turned out not to concern her, sat there as bewildered as the rest. She saw her father run a hand through his beard--a nervous habit--and then his features were one of outrage.
“All the more reason to stay," he said. "No men shall disturb you under my roof, wise woman.”
The prophetess didn't even pause to consider the offer before saying, “It is indeed one under this roof that shall slay me.”
There was no silence, this time, but a mess of whispers, protests and questions, until the voice least likely to stand out rose above the rest.
“Let us at least escort you, spaewife,” said Penn the Gaptoothed. “I swear on my honor that I shall protect you.” The men who had stolen him from Bläken’s side all nodded, gathering their weapons and standing dutifully behind Penn.
King Erlendr scratched his bearded chin again, considering. “Indeed, if there’s one I trust above all men, it is Penn Farmansson.”
“Very well,” said the spaewife and rose from her high seat, bidding them all goodbye. She accompanied Penn and two more men out of the hall, but the gloomy aura left by her words loomed over them, still.
Bläken balled her fingers into a fist as she watched them depart; inevitably, she thought of Laetin and the last words they’d exchanged.
A string of possibilities born out of scenarios where she actually listened to Laetin’s worries began to unravel, but Bläken was brusquely startled out of such thoughts by the sound of something heavy falling.
It took her a moment to place the noise and realize it’d been the bilberry jam that toppled off the table, spilling on the floor like dark blood.
Bläken stood up abruptly. “I’m coming with you.”
13
THEY FOLLOWED THE PATH out of the farmstead in silence. Penn rode alongside the spaewife, axe propped over his shoulder. Bläken could not remember ever seeing Penn in battle. She only hoped he would wield his weapon with knowledge, should it come to that.
The spaewife rode a horse black as the nightly sea. One could not tell where woman ended and animal began, were it not for the gems lining her equally black cloak and scintillating under the light of the moon and their torches. Bläken rode a small distance behind, accompanied by one of Penn’s loyal men, while a second man went ahead of the group, scouting for danger.
“It is ill counseled to be out after nightfall,” said the man riding next to Bläken, grimly. She could not remember his name, but vaguely remembered a nickname relating to his extensive black beard. Penn thought highly of him.
Bläken nodded, fingers clenching and unclenching restlessly around the hilt of her sword. It did not escape her mind that riding out after dark had been a daily activity of hers ever since stumbling upon Laetin and the cottage, but the woods had always felt safe. Such strong feelings of trepidation were completely new.
She gave Penyrir’s hind a light tap and the horse immediately quickened its trot, catching up with Penn and the spaewife.
“We should go back,” Bläken said, as soon as she was within their earshot. “Your own men feel it is not safe to be out right now.”
Penn seemed to consider it, lighting a spark of hope in Bläken’s heart, then turned to the prophetess. “Do the spirits still foresee danger, spaewife?”
“They only tell me our fates have been sealed,” the young Tráktenbjörg sister answered, cryptically, looking past Penn and training her chilling stare on Bläken once again.
“What-” Penn suddenly fell silent when his eyes followed those of the prophetess and saw where she was looking. His eyes darted back and forth between Bläken and the spaewife, until airs of realization appeared on his face. “Oh.”
Bläken felt the hairs on her body stand and knew it was not from the windy weather.
“Oh!” Penn repeated, strangely excited, and said to the spaewife, “Is my wife with child?”
The spaewife, who had often been impeccable at concealing emotions, now appeared utterly incredulous. Bläken, on the other hand, could not have been more relieved. Blessed be her husband’s ingenuity.
Then the prophetess spoke again.
“There is a maiden of chestnut hair dwelling in a cottage down the hill.” She hesitated at the sound of Bläken’s breath catching in her throat, but soon carried on speaking. “Your wife shall never bear your children while this maiden lives to poison her mind against you.”
Men exchanged looks of bewilderment, for failing to bear a living heir was a sentence more disgraceful than the loss of all wealth. Bläken herself shared some of their surprise. She hadn’t truthfully given much thought to the matter, as instinct often trampled reason when it came to her decisions; the pull of her strange Laetin had called, she just answered.
“Then lead the way, spaewife,” Penn suddenly said, recomposing after the figurative blow. He now held his axe as if ready for battle, and his bearded companion similarly drew out his weapon. “This shall be settled at once.”
But Penn did not move, for the tip of a sword suddenly pressed against his neck.
“There is nothing to settle,” Bläken told him. “You will leave that poor woman alone.”
Penn the Gaptoothed showed no signs of hiding utmost incomprehension as he met her unyielding stare. “Bläken, listen to yourself,” he pleaded, looking down at the sword aimed at him and then back up, at the woman wielding it with resolve.
“You listen to yourself, my husband,” Bläken retorted. “What honor is there in slaughtering an innocent woman whose spoils will be a handful of berries?”
Penn did not answer, but the black-bearded man took the cue to himself and scoffed in outrage. “What honor is there in threatening your own kin over a whore?”
Bläken’s eyes moved away from Penn; slowly, as if to give her blood time to boil.
“You will not speak of her that way.”
“Why yes, I will,” the man replied. “And this will I add,” he went on. “If this whore is worth such commotion, by all means do lead us to her door, spaewife.” His fat belly shook with derisive laughter, shattering the silence of the night.
Bläken narrowed her eyes. If he would not seal his mouth, she’d do him the favor of slicing up a new, better one. Her murderous intent must’ve been clear, since she suddenly felt a strong hand grasp her wrist.
“Restrain yourself,” said Penn. Bläken tried to yank her arm free, but his grip on her wrist merely tightened. “I only want you safe.”
“By the Gods, woman, listen to your husband,” said the bearded man in admonishment. “I’ll leave you to settle your private matters. But worry not, my good friend, for I, Kolskeggr, shall honor the oath we took as blood-brothers and avenge these wrongdoings by sword.”
He gave his horse’s reins a sharp tug, steering it eastward and motioning for the spaewife to follow him. Thus he took off for the woods, passing the man riding ahead of their group, and he too joined Kolskeggr’s party.
Bläken watched them leave in a stupor, aware only of her heart hammering within the confines of her chest. The thought of Laetin on her lonesome while danger approached made it hammer with renewed intent, almost up to par with Mjöllnir’s crushing prowess.
“Let me go,” Bläken said, and her voice came out hoarse and strangely devoid of feeling. She lowered her eyes to where Penn’s hand still gripped her sword-wielding arm.
Penn’s hold loosened, but he did not release her. “You know that way lies only trouble,” he told her cautiously. “Let him be and we shall discuss this back home, with calmer spirits.”
Bläken simply met Penn’s eyes in response, and her glare was deadly in itself; he let go of her arm immediately.
For a moment they did nothing but watch each other, as if in a silent spar, and the tension made Penyrir grow restless between Bläken’s legs.
At last, Bläken moved, withdrawing her arm and sheathing her sword.
Penn breathed a relieved sigh. “You do well,” he said. “We-”
Whatever words he then uttered were lost to the angry stomping of hooves as Bläken took off towards the woods.
14
BLÄKEN COULD FEEL her nails digging into the skin of her palms, so tightly she gripped Penyrir’s reins while guiding the horse over land she practically knew by heart. She could hear Penn chasing her, but the sound grew faint, while she grew confident. Bläken was on her turf.
She had made it back and forth through these woods, at the brink of dawn or the fall of evening. It was not impossible to see where they were going, but with little knowledge of the place, one could easily mistake a tree for another and wind up lost.
So it was with little surprise that she found Kolskeggr disbanded, guiding his horse left and right as if trying to figure out where to go from there. He spotted her just before she drew her sword once again and went at him in a fit of berserk fury.
Kolskeggr twisted on the saddle to fetch something strapped to his back. Bläken did not even see what it was, already swinging her arm low and slicing his gut in a swift move. No sooner was she finished with the motion and he toppled off his horse, clutching his own entrails.
Bläken got off Penyrir’s back and approached him. Kolskeggr squirmed on the ground, the wounded vermin, sputtering blood and curses alike.
“Where are the others?”
Kolskeggr gritted his teeth, his eyes wild. “The spaewife fled,” he began, gasping his last breaths, “and Björn-” he trailed off, and when the pause stretched on, Bläken understood his wounds had taken him at last.
Bläken went to his horse and retrieved his sword, then walked back to where his body lay and thrust the weapon into the ground. He did not deserve her true condolences, but she’d give him this much. Leave it to his men to find the rocks to improvise a burial.
Bathed in blood spatters and irrational rage, Bläken stood by Kolskeggr’s body and allowed herself a moment to recompose. She tried willing her heart to calm, but approaching footsteps made it hammer away at her chest once again.
Bläken turned sharply, sword raised, and came face-to-face with a horror-stricken Penn the Gaptoothed.
She thought of lowering her weapon, but Penn held his axe in similar fighting stance. Bläken could not see the strength to fight in his eyes, but there was a newfound resolve in them. He stared at her as if, up until then, he truly had not known her at all.
“Foolish is the man who does not know the woman sleeping beside him,” Penn repeated, sourly. “I am the most foolish of them all, aren’t I?”
“Penn…”
“The spaewife did not lie, that woman has immense power over you, Bläken.”
“Then you know you cannot stop me,” Bläken told him. She could barely hold her sword still, its blade shook almost imperceptibly as her heart drummed wildly.
Penn stood his ground, his mouth forming an angry line. “I’ve been your friend and husband-”
“Let me pass, Penn.”
“I was forgiving of your eccentricities, even if it brought mockery to my name,” he continued, ignoring her. “I could have divorced you for those stupid pants alone and you repay me by slaying my own- my brother and denying me children, all in the name of a stranger?”
“She’s my friend.”
“She is wicked, Bläken!” Penn’s neck burned a heated red and his nostrils flared. Bläken didn’t think she had ever seen him this distressed. “Kolskeggr and I bled together,” he went on gravely. “Do you even know what that means or have you been that tamed by what that woman’s got between her legs you cannot even listen to reason?”
Bläken pressed her lips tight through the barb's sting, though her tone remained unaffected. “I listen to my heart.”
Penn’s breath came out in harsh bursts as he laughed incredulously. “Is that so?” he questioned. “Was it your heart you listened to when you took your own brother’s bed-servants in the weaving room?”
Bläken’s eyes widened. “You knew.”
“And who doesn’t?” Penn spat aggressively, unable to repress his tirade any longer. “Your father spoke so highly of you, I trusted him over the word of others of less honor. I ought to have listened to my instincts when they warned me against letting a wench who goes about in men's breeches be betrothed to me.”
Bläken swallowed a lump and her grip on the sword wavered. It broke her heart to see Penn like this, spirits altered to the point where she could no longer see the kind, work-obsessed man she’d always known. She supposed it was no different for him, no less painful to watch mutual illusions shatter.
“You show your colors, my husband.”
“As do you, my wife.”
Bläken sighed in resignation. “I wish it did not have to end like this,” she admitted.
Penn looked her in the eye and his tone softened. “Likewise.”
They raised their weapons.
15
IT IS SAID that bloodlust is the original double-edged sword: a blessing at wartime, a curse in its aftermath. Racing Penyrir through cutting wind, Bläken hoped to outrun the latter, sustained by the thrill of the former.
The stench of death clung to her skin much like the blood drying on her face, making strands of blonde hair stick together and staining her fists a deep crimson. Bläken could not think of what she had done, only of what she would do if she arrived too late.
The cottage came into view just as Penyrir’s breathing showed signs of near exhaustion. Bläken jumped off its back and ran the remaining distance herself, drawing out her bloodied sword once more.
“Laetin!” Bläken cried as she approached the house. Laetin had always greeted her at the door, yet this time Bläken was met with excruciating silence.
“Please be asleep, my Laetin,” Bläken muttered as she ran up to the entrance. The door was open, Bläken noted in a panic, but when her eyes surveyed the small interior she found no one inside.
Bläken stepped back, stumbling at the last step as consternation threatened to numb her limbs. What had they done? Even Laetin’s belongings were gone; it was as if no one had ever lived there at all.
“No,” she said, battling a terrible tightness constricting her chest. Bläken did not know how she had managed to diminish her feelings for Laetin for this long--perhaps she had been a match for poor Penn after all, in their joint cluelessness--but now that recognition finally dawned, it was threatened by the horrible possibility that she might’ve been too late.
Bläken stepped back outside, thrust into the heavy silence of nightfall. It was short-lived silence, however, disturbed by sudden footsteps coming from Bläken’s left.
“Bläken!” bellowed a male voice. “I shall quench your blood thirst!”
Bläken turned just as the surviving man in Penn’s group smote at her. Caught off guard, Bläken could only react by reflex and lift an arm to shield herself from the blow.
But as the stroke took her forearm right down in the middle, all Bläken felt was the almost bone-shattering impact of the blade. Both she and the adversary, who they called Björn for his bear-like size, watched the blade inexplicably fail to even pierce her skin.
Björn stepped back, dumbfounded. “How can this be?”
Bläken stared at her arm in a similar state of shock. She couldn’t understand what had happened or why a single culprit popped in her mind. “Laetin,” she whispered.
Her poor Laetin, Bläken then thought, and it ignited scorching ire within her chest. Only fools and slaves enacted revenge right away, but Bläken could not hold it back.
Blow for blow they fought, Bläken growing confident as her flesh remained immune to the bite of steel. The battle was fierce on each side, for this man was not as careless as the rest, and she did admire him for putting up a worthy fight. At least her poor Laetin had not fallen at the hands of a coward.
As that thought crossed her mind, Bläken delivered an artful blow that sent Björn’s weapon flying into the green clutches of the nearby shrubbery, lost among leaves and berries. There was no fear in his eyes when she approached, for death was certain.
Björn lost his footing on a rock and fell on his back, further rendering him defenseless. Still, Bläken did not deal her last blow right away.
“Where is it?” Bläken asked, towering over him with her sword pointed at his chest. He eyed her strangely, so Bläken lowered her sword until its tip touched his torso. “Her body,” she added, trying to sound commanding even as she inhaled harshly to contain a surge of tears.
Björn saw this and perhaps took pity on her, finally opening his mouth. But as Bläken waited for words, what she heard was a furious cry as he kicked out his leg and swept Bläken off her feet. She was quick to recompose, but he was also quick to realize that if no blade could pierce her enchanted skin, blunt objects would still crack the hardest skull.
And so it was that Bläken, warrior of noble blood and renown, was struck down by not more than an ordinary hard rock.
part three