Oath Bound: Day 15

Word Total: 90,087

Year to Date: 570,158

Summary of Events:

Aðalbjörn continued to ask people if they'd seen a raven-haired maiden, only to have many of them scoff at the idea of such a woman existing, which made him wonder if he wasn't on a fool's errand. Friðljót was shaken by her experience with death, even if she was heartened that a vitki had been able to destroy the necklace so no one else could be harmed by it, fearful that her mother was behind the attempt to kill her. Fearing himself lost in a thick fog, Aðalbjörn decided to wait the fog out in an abandoned hut that wasn't abandoned, but was, in fact, occupied by a lone old woman, who offered him food and drink before enquiring of his travels . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

“What seek you?” she asked.

“A maiden,” he replied simply.

“What sort of maiden?” she asked.

“One, if there is, of raven hair,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“Why say you ‘if there is’?” she asked.

“Only among my own people have I heard it proclaimed that such women exist,” Aðalbjörn replied. “Of all others whom I enquire I get the answer that such are not to be found, excepting in the sagas.”

“Women of raven hair exist, my lord,” she replied, putting her well-worn hand gently on the back of his, only for him to draw his hand out from under her touch, not appreciating the sensation he felt when she touched him.

“Know you whereat I should find one?” Aðalbjörn asked. “Or of late have you seen one?”

“I know not where one may be found,” she replied. “But I have of late seen one.”

“Where?” Aðalbjörn asked, desperate and shocked that he’d finally found someone who’d seen a raven-haired maiden.

“She was on a pony, riding in a company of some warriors, and they were headed onwards from here,” she replied, indicating a north-northwesterly direction by her pointing — if Aðalbjörn had his directions as straight as he hoped he did despite the fog. “They did not see me, and so I did not enquire their destination.”

“What did she look like?” Aðalbjörn asked.

“She had the ocean in her eyes, the finest berries for her lips, and the new cream of a young cow as her skin,” she replied. “Never before have I seen a fairer maiden, for all the maidens I have seen in my days.”

It was her. It was his betrothed. Was she headed for Mørkingsfjord? No, north-northwest wouldn’t get there, but it was closer.

“Seek you she my lord?” the woman’s enquiry broke into his thoughts.

“May the gods look well on you,” Aðalbjörn replied. “Forgive my distrust, my hope has failed these days as I have sought, but not found. Now I have found and I must go.”

The woman nodded and Aðalbjörn hurried out, commanding Fróðvin to return to his shoulder as he fairly leapt into the saddle. He startled when he found the woman holding his reins, as well as a bag.

“I shall lead you where I saw them, my lord,” she said. “There is a trail they were following, but there are many settlements along it, and whence they stopped I know not, for they did not speak of their destination as they passed.”

Aðalbjörn nodded, not really caring how many settlements he had to ask at, the simple fact that he had a more straightforward direction in which to travel was enough for him.

I will be taking a summer break during the month of July, thus the next post will be on 1 August.

Oath Bound: Day 14

Word Count: 84,234

Summary of Events:

The brothers left for the day, leaving Friðljót alone for the first time since her rescue, which had her a little worried; she also became alarmed when a völva came to call and the hound she'd been given wouldn't let the woman near. Aðalbjörn discovered that his betrothed was not dead as he'd been told, but had escaped from her death; the only problem was that a lot of land lay in the directions she'd likely fled, and he had no tracks to set him on course. Friðljót went outside, waiting for her hound to return with supper, and spied a necklace on the ground where the völva had stood; it was pretty, so she decided to take it inside and try it on once she was done eating; being overwhelmed by weariness, she fell asleep . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

“Sigbjörg,” an earnest voice said, sounding far away. “Sigbjörg, wake up.”

Friðljót felt as if she were floating, but yet slowly coming toward landing.

“Please, Sigbjörg,” the voice said, sounding desperate, yet nearer.

A great fog seemed to be about her mind; she struggled to find her way through it at first, but the more she sought to get through it, the easier it became.

“I think she’s coming,” another voice said, sounding nearest of all, and as if desperate for hope.

Suddenly sensation came to her, two hands were clasped around one of hers tightly, her head rested on something that wasn’t her bed, and a soft, warm, wet tongue was licking her face. Her eyes were closed.

She shifted, trying to get away from the tongue, which left of its own accord, she heard a bark very close at hand that sounded triumphant.

“Sigbjörg!” a delighted voice she recognised now as Arnvíg’s exclaimed.

Finally Friðljót opened her eyes and saw the fire was burning high, Arnvíg was the one clutching her hand, and her head was resting on Varðag’s lap. It was dark.

Alarmed at the darkness, Friðljót startled and sat up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep long, I was just tired, I don’t even know why, I’ll start the bread right away,” Friðljót said desperately.

“The bread doesn’t matter,” Fróðvinr whispered. “We can go without bread.”

Friðljót looked around at the brothers and saw, despite the relief on their faces, vestiges of the anxiety that had been on them before still remained. Arnvíg, in particular, still looked pale and terrified, as if he couldn’t really believe that she was awake and speaking.

“But I was going to make it,” Friðljót replied. “I just needed to sleep for a little bit.”

“You weren’t sleeping,” Úlfherr said, his voice sounding low and ominous.

“How could I not be sleeping?” Friðljót asked. “Did I not just wake up?”

“You were dead,” Úlfherr said, his voice sounding raw.

A lightning strike of cold terror shot through Friðljót. She looked toward Úlfherr, whose face was grim.

“How could I be dead?” Friðljót asked despite her breathlessness.

“Where did you get this?” Fasthallr said, holding up the fire poker, on which hung the necklace.

“I found it,” Friðljót replied. “It was outside, where the völva had been standing.”

“Völva?” Magnarr asked. “What völva?”

“She didn’t tell me her name,” Friðljót replied. “She only offered to tell me what the gods had in store for my future, but Hildmundr wouldn’t let her near. She threatened to curse me if I didn’t give her a loaf of bread, so I did and she left. When I sent Hildmundr to get me a fish I saw it, and once I had eaten I tried it on, and . . . and that’s when I felt tired, and so I went to sleep.”

“So much for not cursing,” Varrað spat, sounding contemptuous.

Pronunciations:

Völva: vuulvah

Arnvíg: ahrnveeg

Varðag: vahrthahg

Fasthallr: fahsthahllhr

Magnarr: maygnahr

Hildmundr: hihldmoondhr

Varrað: vahrahth

Oath Bound: Day 13

Word Count: 78,320

Summary of Events:

Aðalbjörn reached the eastern shores of Gammelhjem, where he took shelter for the night in an isolated hut. Friðljót was given one of the brothers' hounds as a guardian for herself, for he had trained up a new, younger hound, wanting to retire the hound he gave to Friðljót so as to have puppies from it. Aðalbjörn arrived at the capital of Gammelhjem and was granted an audience with the king, whose aged, withered state was beyond what Aðalbjörn had imagined, while his wife was, physically, at least, highly attractive, but bearing of no resemblance to the princess . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

The woman leaned toward the man, who uttered indistinct mutterings that actually sounded quite alarming, and almost as if they were pleading, desperate, and distraught.

“What is your business?” the woman’s voice rang out clearly and almost angrily.

“I seek to know the welfare of the princess of Gammelhjem,” Aðalbjörn replied.

Again the woman leaned toward the man, who muttered again, sounding more subdued.

“Why seek you this knowledge?” the woman asked once the mutterings had subsided.

“That is not yours to know woman,” Aðalbjörn snapped indignantly. Even if she was attractive, he would’ve preferred that she not be present and he be allowed to speak with the king alone.

“Do you not know to whom you speak?” the woman snapped. “I am Eyhild, Queen of Gammelhjem, and in these times of incapacity for my husband I act as his regent.”

She sounded very pompous; it almost seemed to Aðalbjörn that she was only physically attractive, but as soon as she opened her mouth she became ugly.

“Grant me what answer I seek,” Aðalbjörn replied firmly. “And it shall be well with you.”

“The princess is dead,” Eyhild replied.

Aðalbjörn didn’t think he could’ve recoiled more if he’d been slapped by a white-hot piece of metal.

“She was given as a sacrifice to Vár and Valfreyja, in hopes that the former would pardon her for breaking her oath, while the latter would give us victory in the war we are now engaged in with Uppodlingland, as a consequence of the oath’s violation,” Eyhild continued, sounding as if she were quite pleased with what she was telling him.

Dead? His betrothed had been slaughtered? Rage surged in Aðalbjörn like when he had seen Marúlf’s body fall lifeless to the battlefield, an arrow protruding from the chest at the heart.

“May you be accursed by the gods!” Aðalbjörn shouted. “May Uppodlingland wipe all memory and recollection of Gammelhjem from this land! May this hall burn with fire! May you be tortured, flayed, rent in pieces, that no resting place may be known for your corpse, and no memory of you would be in existence! May Vár have her vengeance on you, for the oath which you have violated is far more severe than the oath which the one you have killed violated. May the royal house of Gammelhjem die in fire and hounds’ teeth. That you would kill a human in sacrifice to the gods. May they consume you more utterly.”

Turning, Aðalbjörn stormed out of the hall, drawing his sword immediately upon exiting and slamming it with both hands into one of the thick posts on which Marfrið of Gammelhjem’s banner was affixed.

He fought to wrest his sword free and succeeded after a time; then he surged down the stairs and spied a late-summer flower near at hand.

Using one hand, Aðalbjörn deftly flicked his sword so as to cut off the flower close to the ground, and it collapsed. Just like the princess.

Oath Bound: Day 12

Word Count: 72,010

Summary of Events:

Friðljót was woken by one of the brothers, who helped her to prepare breakfast and chatted with her a little bit while they waited for the rest of the brothers to wake up. Aðalbjörn, due to the outbreak of war, elected to head east until he reached the coast, and then go south, so as to not encounter the conflict, but that didn't prevent him from encountering men going to war or seniors, women, and children fleeing the battlegrounds. Friðljót was taking a break from her work when Fróðvinr, the middle brother, sat down and chatted with her, still expressing disbelief that human sacrifice would be acceptable to the gods . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

“And, even if such a sacrifice was permitted,” Fróðvinr went on. “Surely there would have to be some rules regarding who was to be sacrificed.”

“Such rules as would prevent me from being sacrificed for having not done what I was told?” Friðljót asked.

“Yes,” Fróðvinr replied. “I think that your mother was honestly just looking to get rid of you one way or another, and figured that by marrying you off as a least wife for a man with many or killing you off was the best way for you to disappear and no longer be in her life. But still, why would a mother do that? I have never known a mother to hate her own child so much.”

“Neither have I,” Friðljót replied. “I have even seen many other children who receive nothing but love, care, and affection from their mothers, while I receive absolutely nothing of the kind.”

“Are you even sure that she is your mother?” Fróðvinr asked.

The question jolted Friðljót. She stared at the dancing shadows of the leaves as the breeze picked up just a little bit more. How could that be possible? How could her mother not be her mother? She had no memory of a woman who loved her — aside from Sólstigr, but there was no way that Sólstigr was her mother — not even a vague sense that there might have been someone, even if only for a rather brief time.

“You have not considered the idea?” Fróðvinr asked.

“I know not how she could be anything else,” Friðljót replied. “I have no memory of another.”

“Nor does my mother,” Fróðvinr replied. “But the woman she knew as her mother wasn’t her mother, for her mother died while bringing her into the world. Surely it is possible that your own mother may have died in that fashion, leaving your father with just one wife.”

“But surely she would have children,” Friðljót said.

“It is just as strange to think that she would have only one,” Fróðvinr said. “Yet you seemed unquestioning of that fact.”

“Well, I knew of another woman who had a child, but suffered so terribly that she nearly died, and was thereafter never able to have children,” Friðljót replied. “So I suspected that was what had happened to my mother, and that part of her contempt toward me was because I had harmed her.”

“That is possible,” Fróðvinr said. “Or maybe it is possible that she suffered the same but her baby died, and she resented that you lived, even though your mother died where she did not.”

“Maybe it would even explain why I have raven hair, when neither my father nor the woman I know to be my mother do,” Friðljót mused, more so to herself.

“It may,” Fróðvinr said. “But I don’t know if there is a line of raven-haired people, I know not how they come to be, I merely know that there are not many of them.”

Pronunciation:

Fróðvinr: frowthvihnner

Oath Bound: Day 11

Word Count: 66,014

Summary of Events:

Friðljót and the brothers arrived at their house and they told her that she could stay on as a housekeeper for them if she liked, and she agreed, as she wasn't really sure what else she might do. Aðalbjörn, having arrived within the borders of Gammelhjem, reached a small settlement on the shores of a lake and discovered all the men had been ordered to prepare themselves and depart for battle, which left him wondering if it was as a result of the king of Uppodlingland needing their help already; once the gathering had dispersed a man approached Aðalbjörn . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

“Who are you, and what brings you here?” the man — who, up close, looked nigh unto Aðalbjörn’s age — asked.

“I am a traveller,” Aðalbjörn replied simply. “And it is the trails of men long dead which bring me here.”

The man, whom Aðalbjörn was beginning to suspect was the son of the chief, gazed at him in silence.

“My lord, do you bid us your goodwill?” he finally asked.

Although the enquiry caught him off-guard, Aðalbjörn did his best not to show it.

“Do you, my lord?” the man asked urgently.

“Why seek you my goodwill?” Aðalbjörn asked, feeling confused, but diligently keeping it out of his voice.

“You know, my lord,” the man replied. “We go to war against our ages-old enemy, the usurper and his realm of thralls. They have attacked our king without provocation, and there are many reports of slaughter and violence, even against our women and children. Let us have victory my lord.”

Aðalbjörn wasn’t entirely sure what he had to do with the matter, but a more important realisation came to him: the king of Uppodlingland had dragged them into war, but he had done so by attacking them, despite the report of Fastmund that Uppodlingland and Gammelhjem had made a treaty of peace together.

“Has not this enemy of yours made peace with you?” Aðalbjörn asked.

“It is said he did,” the man replied. “But I have not trusted it, and now I am vindicated for my distrust. I knew this would come of it. They would have not allies, but thralls, and I am sure that they pursue even now to make us thralls, and will kill all who resist to be thralls beneath them.”

“They bring wrath upon themselves,” Aðalbjörn said.

“Then we have victory, my lord?” the man asked.

“The victory goes to he who fights with the favour of the gods,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“My lord is generous,” the man said, seeming to tremble with delight. “How can I repay you?”

Repay him? What was this man going on about? He wasn’t figuring it out at all.

“I need no recompense, for I have done nothing,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“But you have come from your sacred halls to give my people hope,” the man said. “I must give you something. Please, tarry, I will be swift.”

Silently Aðalbjörn watched as the man hastened back to the hall, disappearing inside.

His sacred halls? There was no way this man thought he was who he was. He didn’t even think this man thought him the prince he was, or even was mistaking him for a king.

Was it possible that this man thought he was one of the gods?

Aðalbjörn wanted to slap himself for thinking such foolishness, but it was the only thing that made sense. Why else would this man seek his goodwill, or his assurance that victory would come? And if that was the case, then that meant this man thought him Alföðr, the chief and greatest of the gods.

Pronunciation:

Alföðr: ahlfuhthur

Oath Bound: Day 10

Word Count: 60,008

Summary of Events:

Friðljót continued to travel with the brothers, who asked her more about herself, but she did her best to not give them an abundance of details, including avoiding telling them she was the princess of Gammelhjem and not telling them her real name. Aðalbjörn started down the east side of the mountains and felt there was more land to be seen to the east, except that he hadn't actually checked on the west before he crossed, so he couldn't be sure. Friðljót and the brothers arrived at a settlement whereat one of their sisters lived, and before they went in to visit her they asked if Friðljót if she was willing to meet other people, and she said she was, but she was grateful that they'd asked her first . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

The smell of food filled Friðljót’s nostrils and she felt delight within her when she noticed fish cooking over the fire. They were going to have fish, just as she had hoped, and she was eager to eat.

“And who is this?” a man’s voice asked, sounding curious.

Friðljót turned to see a man who looked a little older than Úlfherr, although he was probably shorter, and unquestionably broader. He had blonde hair and his beard was thick; a little blonde-haired boy with large eyes sat in his lap, both were looking at her.

“Have you been wed Úlfherr?” the man asked.

Friðljót flushed, rather shocked that the man’s presumption.

“No, my brother,” Úlfherr replied. “This is Sigbjörg, a thrall we acquired.”

Her mortification immediately turned to indignation while the flush remained. A thrall? Surely he could’ve come up with something better than that.

“Oh,” the man said. “And why is a maid as fair as her a thrall?”

“Because her father is dead and her mother was not wise with money, according to her previous master,” Úlfherr replied.

“Well, then I guess she ought to work,” the man said.

Friðljót levelled a glare toward Úlfherr as she turned toward the fire, and she could tell that Úlfherr saw it, but that he wasn’t reacting to it, which only made her more upset.

In a matter of moments Friðljót found herself busy helping the women prepare the fish, which was a challenge, as she’d never done any cooking before, but she strove to gain as much knowledge by observation as possible in an effort to not be chastised or condemned, seeing as she had now been described as a thrall.

As grateful as she was for Úlfherr’s willingness to not tell the truth about her — or, to not repeat the lies she’d told him — she was indignant at the lies he’d chosen to tell instead, and couldn’t consider herself grateful to have been called a thrall when she was, in fact, a princess.

Nonetheless, she worked hard; she would’ve been sent to work anyways, considering that she was a woman, and the women always did the cooking, with female guests being expected to help with the cooking as much as any other woman in the home, and Friðljót found there were three.

Two of them were older women, one of whom was sister to the brothers, while the other one was probably a co-wife of the man who’d spoken to Úlfherr with her, and the other one, looking to be significantly younger than Friðljót herself, was probably the oldest daughter of one of them.

Which woman was sister of the brothers Friðljót didn’t know, but she did know that one of them looked pregnant, while the other had a baby laying in a basket near at hand, and when the meal was nearly ready she ended up having to depart with the baby, who had begun to fuss.

Pronunciations:

Úlfherr: ohlfhehr

Sigbjörg: sihgbyuhrg

Oath Bound: Day 9

Word Count: 54,218

Summary of Events:

Aðalbjörn readied himself and set out for Gammelhjem, even though he felt nervous about going now that he knew the journey was going to be longer than he'd expected. Friðljót woke and had breakfast with the men before being given a mount on one of their pack horses and taken with them north to their home, learning along the way that they were seven brothers who travelled about Svärtaland offering their services as warriors wherever needed. Aðalbjörn was attacked by a sudden torrential downpour in the foothills of the mountains he had to cross, and so sent his hound, Tryggarr to seek shelter ahead . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Guiding his stallion carefully down the hill, Aðalbjörn found Tryggarr was standing at the head of a narrow trail at the base of the little valley. He turned Sigvarr and immediately Tryggarr took off, barking regularly to call his master onwards.

The trees waving overhead caused fear to writhe in Aðalbjörn’s stomach, but he followed the narrow trail until a rather small open meadow appeared, as well as a large door carved into the hillside and framed with stones.

Riding close to it, Aðalbjörn dismounted and knocked on it as hard as he could. No answer came, so he pounded again. There had to be someone inside or Tryggarr surely wouldn’t have led him to it.

Again there was no response, so Aðalbjörn tried to open the door, but found it was locked, so he threw himself against it several times in an effort to break it down, but all he got was a sore side before he heard something inside and the door drew open to reveal a weathered, hardened man whom Aðalbjörn could tell immediately was a cattle herder.

“Come inside,” the man urged.

He took Sigvarr’s reins from Aðalbjörn’s freezing hands and Aðalbjörn followed him inside, with Tryggarr close at his heels.

The floor just inside was dirt, but hewn stone was overhead and Aðalbjörn raised his hand to order Fróðvin off his shoulder before he peeled off his sodden cloak and removed his helmet.

Tryggarr shook himself off and trotted off down a hall without further ado, while Aðalbjörn saw Fróðvin, too, was making himself at home and preening up on a rocky ledge close to the ceiling.

Following the tracks of his dripping horse, Aðalbjörn found a stable area back of the open hall in which several other horses and a couple cattle and other animals were all sheltered and dry.

The man had stripped Sigvarr of his saddle and was wiping him down with a piece of cloth. He looked up at Aðalbjörn.

“I hope you weren’t meaning to keep on lad,” the man said. “A downpour in the mountains is just as impassable as a snowstorm.”

“I’d hoped to find shelter sooner,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“Well, at least you found shelter,” the man said.

He turned from Sigvarr to a stack of straw, armloads of which he pitched into the stall the stallion was standing wearily in. He then disappeared behind the stack and returned with two pails, one with water in it, and one with a good measure of grain in it.

After placing both within the stall and shutting the door he looked Aðalbjörn over.

“I’m not surprised,” he said simply. “Come lad.”

Shivering, Aðalbjörn followed the man and was led to a room where he was told to strip out of his wet clothes and change into dry ones, boots and all.

The boots were — to Aðalbjörn’s surprise — slightly large, and thus a bit of a challenge to keep on his feet, but the dry clothes were welcome.

Pronunciations:

Tryggarr: treegahr

Sigvarr: sihgvahr

Fróðvin: frohwthvihn

Oath Bound: Day 8

Word Count: 48,017

Summary of Events:

Still tied to the tree, Friðljót tried to figure out why she had been spared a swift death, only to be doomed to a slow one, but had no guesses, much less answers. Aðalbjörn was woken by the vitki, who took him to the sacred place, where she sacrificed a calf and sprinkled its ashes over him, his hound, his horse, and the raven his father was sending with him; this symbolised that the trip would be long, which troubled Aðalbjörn. Friðljót had been awake when darkness fell and couldn't sleep, especially when she heard the sounds of a dog sniffing and became certain it was a wolf about to eat her, so she screamed until a man told her to be calm; she discovered he was one of a group of men, and the sniffing had been their hounds . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

“Please, please get me away from here,” she begged. “I can’t go back, they will try to kill me again, or they will force me to marry the man.”

“And why would you not marry this man?” the torch-bearer asked.

“He is as old as my father,” she replied.

“Are there not young men in this realm whom you could wed?” the torch-bearer asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then why are you being betrothed to this man?” the torch-bearer asked.

“I know not, he already has four wives,” she replied. “He has sons older than me.”

“It is grotesque,” a voice from the shadows said.

“Please, please, will you help me?” Friðljót begged.

Without a word the torch-bearer drew his sword and sliced it through the ropes as if they were nothing, Friðljót’s heart quaked to think of how sharp his blade was, but was grateful as the pressure released and all the rope coils fell away; she shook her wrists free from the loops about them and winced as she moved them, they were raw and bleeding.

“Come,” the torch-bearer bid.

She followed him while the others fell into step behind; she heard one of them whistle to the hounds as they went through the trees to the southwest for a short ways before she saw the low orange coals of a fire and one man sitting up guarding it.

“Build up the fire,” the torch-bearer ordered. “Get out the bread, skin the last hare.”

Friðljót couldn’t tell how many men there were as they bustled about to fulfill orders given by the torch-bearer, who added the torch to the fire once it was restocked with wood to get it burning; she also saw horses tethered on the fringes of a ring of bedrolls, one of which she was instructed to sit on.

All of the men were warriors, and they were all young, no matter how many there were. One of the youngest-looking ones sat beside her and took first one hand, then the other, and applied a cool, stinging, but soothing salve to the raw flesh before gently wrapping it.

Another thrust a spit through a skinned hare and started cooking it over the fire, while another brought her bread, apologising that it might be a little stale, but she devoured it and was certain she had never tasted better, yet — especially at the sight of the cooking hare — her stomach wasn’t sated.

She was given water and drank it all, and when the hare was finally cooked she was told to give whatever she didn’t eat to the hounds, for all the men were sated, but she ended up devouring the whole thing herself, and felt slightly ashamed after the fact, although she had been starving.

As she ate the activity settled down and she was able to count that there were seven men, all young, and truly all quite fetching, any of them she would have gladly married over Snerrigeírr, even if they were mere warriors, and were not princes or even kings such as Snerrigeírr was.

Oath Bound: Day 7

Word Count: 42,031

Summary of Events:

The warrior Aðalbjörn's father had sent to confirm the report of Gammelhjem the merchantmen had given returned, and his report bore even more bad news: the princess of Gammelhjem had been betrothed to the king of Uppodlingland. Friðljót was dressed for her death by her faithful handmaids, who wept the whole time, before being taken to the sacred place where her mother's favourite warrior strove to carry out the sacrifice — a severe violation of sacrificial protocol — but could not kill her though he tried stabbing, beheading, beating, strangling, and poisoning her, which drove him to light the altar fire before killing her in hopes the flames would do so . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

She saw Gnýrmóð looking quite delighted as the flames licked up the logs and over the oil until finally flames swept over her; but although Friðljót could feel their heat, it was not an oppressive heat, and she couldn’t feel her flesh cooking as she expected to.

Even as flames came onto the oil which covered her face she actually watched them dance over her face from the underside. It was a frightening sight, yet, at the same time, it was fantastically beautiful.

As she lay surrounded by the flames, Friðljót actually felt peace and relief come over her; she didn’t know how or why she wasn’t dying, but it was more than clear that she wasn’t dying, and nothing could have made her happier at that moment than to know that she wasn’t going to die, no matter what Gnýrmóð did, or tried to do.

Eventually the fire burnt itself out and they were left in darkness. Gnýrmóð’s hand touched her.

“I am alive,” she said calmly.

“What kind of magic being are you?” Gnýrmóð demanded hotly.

“I do not know why I haven’t died,” she replied. “I really don’t.”

“Then let starvation or wolves take you!” Gnýrmóð spat.

He seized her up from the altar and Friðljót discovered that her bonds had been burned away, but before she could think of a way to escape she was thrown back against a rough-barked and thick-trunked tree, with a rope feeding under her arms. She felt Gnýrmóð tighten it about her securely before he walked about her time and again, binding her to the tree, including wrapping the rope separately about each wrist to keep them fixed in place at her sides.

“Surely your magic cannot protect you against wolves and bears and hunger,” Gnýrmóð spat, close enough that she could feel his hot breath against her face. “Vár and Valfreyja will have their sacrifice, even if they must claim it for themselves.”

With that, she heard receding footsteps, the sound of weapons being gathered together from where they’d been cast together, and then the footsteps continued to recede.

Friðljót struggled against the bonds slightly, but they wouldn’t let her go; not that she was surprised, considering how they constricted her breathing, and how the rope bit into her wrists.

Tears filled her eyes. Even though axes, swords, daggers, rocks, sticks, ropes, and fire had not been able to kill her, she had no doubt that one of bears, wolves, or hunger might, and it would be a far slower and more painful death than if she had been killed by one of the swifter attempted means.

Slowly the tears rolled down her cheeks and sobs came even though constricted by the ropes. She was sure there was no chance of getting free from the binding, and due to the isolated and rather secretive nature of the sacred place, she knew no one would find it, thus she wouldn’t be able to be helped, she would just have to wait until she died, and that would be agonising.

Oath Bound: Day 6

Word Count: 36,005

Summary of Events:

Friðljót was taken before her mother to be condemned for her behaviour and told she had one week to start getting dressed and leaving her bedroom or she was going to suffer. Aðalbjörn took the finished holder for the stone, attached to a cord, and gave it to his niece, who was quite pleased with the stone, which she found mesmerising. Friðljót, having not done as her mother demanded during the week, was brought again before her and screamed at by her mother for her behaviour . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

A strange and frightful croaking sound startled Friðljót and she watched tremblingly as her father’s long-bearded jaw moved consistent with the croaking noises. She couldn’t make them out as words, they just sounded like a parched, dried-out frog or some other sort of sick and dying creature trying to call for help.

“Yes, you are right my lord,” her mother said. “Try though she may, Friðljót will not be able to get out of the agreement we have made.”

Friðljót lifted her jaw defiantly.

“When comes the fifth waxing of the moon from this day, that is when you shall marry Snerrigeírr of Uppodlingland,” her mother said, her tone and gaze as cold as the winter winds off the sea.

“I would rather be dead,” Friðljót snapped boldly.

Her mother’s eyebrows jumped and her whole posture took on a look of intrigue, but she said nothing for a long moment, although the intrigue remained etched on her face.

“You would rather be dead?” she asked finally.

“Yes,” Friðljót replied firmly, although a knot of dread was starting to form within her.

“So be it,” her mother replied briskly.

The chill of her mother’s tone, the unnerving calm of her expression as she said the words, caused the knot and all else in Friðljót to freeze.

“Because of your violation of the agreement made with Snerrigeírr of Uppodlingland, the sacrifice shall be to Vár,” her mother said calmly — as if talking about what was going to be had for the evening meal. “And in hopes that we will be victorious when he comes in war against us for the violation of said agreement, it shall also be to Valfreyja.”

Friðljót felt a great fear and wondered just what she had done.

“Lest the goddesses reject the sacrifice, they shall have it when the moon is fully waned,” her mother added. “Take her, and let her be prepared accordingly.”

Immediately Friðljót was turned and hauled out of the hall and back before the crowd, who cheered initially, but yet she was sure they could tell that she was not returning out to them with the same stubborn confidence she’d shown before.

She couldn’t. Once again her mother had done something she hadn’t begun to expect and she was left wondering how she was going to get out of it.

Now she had been sentenced to death, to be sacrificed to the goddess of pledges and the goddess of war, and there were assuredly no ways to escape this end than she’d already considered as options for escaping her betrothal. If anything, there were less.

Bitterly she wondered now why she hadn’t kept her mouth shut, but yet the face of Snerrigeírr repulsed her, and surely the death would be swift and not lingering; she would rather be a sacrifice than be a prisoner, because at least once she was dead as a sacrifice she wouldn’t feel anything.

Pronunciations:

Vár: vaur

Valfreyja: vahlfreeyah

Oath Bound: Day 5

Word Count: 30,088

Summary of Events:

Aðalbjörn woke up feeling frightfully cold, and found neither sun, fire, nor clothes could warm him, so he went to the vitki for help; she was surprised by his chilling, but engaged in a treatment that rendered him unconscious. Friðljót's mother came into her room to try and order her out to see the king of Uppodlingland off, but Friðljót refused, although after the confrontation her resolve to resist wavered. 

Excerpt of the Day:

A soft bed was underneath his back, the designs the vitki had made still stung his abdomen, chest, and arms, and a dull pain still lingered in his chest, almost as if he’d been run through with a sword, but yet the wound had healed.

Aðalbjörn opened his eyes and rubbed them before turning his head to see the vitki seated beside him, looking resplendent in her white gown, with her hair styled neatly, as opposed to the looseness of the day before.

“Are you now warm my lord?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” Aðalbjörn replied, nodding, he felt much more comfortably normal now, and he was grateful for that.

“Very good,” she said quietly.

“But it still hurts,” Aðalbjörn said, indicating his chest where the pain lingered.

“As it should,” she said.

“It should?” Aðalbjörn asked.

“Yes, it should,” she replied.

“But why?” Aðalbjörn asked.

“Because I have imparted the snow-stone into you,” she replied.

“But that’s–”

“My lord, at peace,” she said, her hand arresting Aðalbjörn’s efforts to scramble up in a panic. “The stone is still in your pouch, as it ought to be, you will be able to give it to Mærvalr as you intend, I have merely given a share of its power to you.”

Aðalbjörn lowered his head down to the pillow again and slid his hand to the pouch, which he could tell the stone was within from the outside. He felt relieved.

“Your chilling, I believe, was because it is a snow-stone,” she said. “But it has now been reversed and you will be fine.”

“But what about the pain?” Aðalbjörn asked. “Will I always have it?”

“No,” she replied. “But until it fades there are treatments to lessen it.”

“What are they?” Aðalbjörn asked.

She gave him merely a soft smile and produced a small jar with a lid. She removed the lid and ran her fingers through an ointment that had a subtle pleasant smell to it — it certainly smelled far better than most ointments did, for most of them were made of animal fat in order to get the texture, and the odour of that fat made them rarely smell pleasant at all.

Aðalbjörn turned onto his side when she lifted at his shoulder and didn’t feel at all bothered by the removal of the blanket from his shoulder, which caught him by surprise, as usually when a person was recovering from a chill removing the warming layers from overtop them led to them feeling quite cold.

Vigorously she rubbed the ointment into the sore spot just by the edge of his shoulder blade and it didn’t take him long to feel the pain dull; he appreciated the ointment immensely.

Once she was finished he laid back again and she scrubbed the ointment — which he could now smell fully and pleasantly — onto his chest with the same vigour as she’d rubbed it onto his back. 

Pronunciation:

Mærvalr: myrevahlr

Oath Bound: Day 4

Word Count: 24,112

Summary of Events:

Friðljót continued to remain confined to her bed, not inclined to get up or eat, and told her chief lady-in-waiting — who had been her nursemaid when she'd been a child — that she would rather be dead than marry the king of Uppodlingland. Aðalbjörn went to place an order of fish on behalf of his father and on his way back encountered the daughter of the vitki, who took him to a secluded meadow and performed a special ceremony whose purpose he didn't know. Friðljót had been given no food since she'd expressed a preference for death over marriage, but decided to braid her hair for the first time in nearly a week because it was annoying loose, when her chief lady-in-waiting came in and prepared her clothes, as she was expected to go out and bid farewell to her betrothed by her mother . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

“I’m not going,” Friðljót said, hoping her tone came across with the amount of finality she thought it had.

Sólstigr looked up at her, looking rather shocked. “You would actually defy Eyhild?”

“I never want to see that man again,” Friðljót said firmly.

“This will not please her,” Sólstigr said.

“Why should I care what pleases her when she never has thought for what might please me?” Friðljót asked bitterly. “Time and again she does things that don’t please me, including this betrothal. If she can do a myriad of things which don’t please me why should I not have right to do the same in turn?”

“You are not her elder,” Sólstigr warned.

“She is not Father’s elder, and yet she has done this to me,” Friðljót snapped. “Father would never have done such a thing, but he is so withered and destroyed he knows nothing of what is going on, if he is even still alive to do anything about it. Father loved me, and he would never do such things as this, he would not forge an alliance with his greatest enemy, he would never give his daughter to that man in marriage when that man is his own elder, to say nothing of his daughter’s elder. I am not coming out of this room until Father is restored or dead, at which point I will take my place as Queen.”

Sólstigr looked rather astonished and dumbstruck. She didn’t move for a long time, hardly even blinking before she finally shook her head as if to clear it and blinked several times as she stared at Friðljót, whom she’d nursed and tended from her youngest days.

“You will be dead by then,” she said.

“My father is practically dead,” Friðljót replied bitterly. “Surely he won’t outlive me.”

“Why are you being this defiant?” Sólstigr asked.

“I will not be a pawn of anyone,” Friðljót replied. “Waste not your time with these preparations. I do not consent to the betrothal, and I will not lead my people to believe that I do.”

Looking rather distraught and helpless, Sólstigr started putting away all that she had gotten out, including the hideous golden gown before looking desperately at Friðljót.

“Eyhild will not be pleased,” she said, the anxiety tight in her voice.

“I care not,” Friðljót replied defiantly.

“The king of Uppodlingland will be angrier,” Sólstigr warned. “He may even make war.”

“May the gods help my people,” Friðljót said, set and determined.

“You care nothing for their lives?” Sólstigr asked.

“I care for them,” Friðljót replied. “That is why I would rather die than marry that lech to whom I am forcibly betrothed. I would not have my people become his thralls, for by this marriage he would be king of Gammelhjem and Uppodlingland.”

Sólstigr’s face paled. Apparently that hadn’t dawned on her before, but then again, she had a lot of duties, and worries, that likely kept her from having time to think about the ramifications of betrothals and marriages.

Pronunciations:

Sólstigr: s'ohwlsteeg'r

Eyhild: ayehihl'd