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.