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

Oath Bound: Day 3

Word Count: 18,097

Summary of Events:

Aðalbjörn went to the silversmith to get him to make a special holder for the stone he had acquired so that it wouldn't be damaged, which could bring about a curse; but because he was loathe to leave the stone out of his possession he had to go to the stonemason to get a replica fashioned out of a less valuable stone for the silversmith to use as a model. Friðljót was so upset and depressed about her betrothal that she didn't eat and wouldn't get out of bed, but stayed alone with her thoughts, yearning for the handsome young warrior she'd dreamed of, but with no hope of finding him. Once the replica was finished Aðalbjörn took it to the silversmith and then went to the meadow his siblings regularly played in, where he found his mother was on duty to mind them, and she asked him to sit and talk to her, beginning with conversation about the warrior his father had sent off to Gammelhjem to investigate the reports of the merchantmen . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

“How long has he been gone?” she asked.

“Nigh unto a week,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“And you wonder now?” she asked.

“Of what?” he asked.

“She who is to be your bride,” she replied.

“Of a token,” he admitted.

“Only a token,” she said, as if astonished.

“I am shocked to know that I am betrothed,” Aðalbjörn admitted, looking at his mother’s eyes, the very same shade of blue as his own. “I feel unready.”

“And why does the first of my womb feel unready?” she asked.

“I cannot . . . say,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“You do not wish to tell me?” she asked.

“I know not how to say it,” Aðalbjörn replied.

Her hand reached across and gently her fingers slid into his hair, running close to his scalp and filling him with a soothed sensation as the action had always done.

“Do you feel it wrong to be happy when Marúlf is gone?” she asked.

A stab of pain hit his heart. “Part of me does.”

“There is more to it,” she said.

“Yes,” Aðalbjörn replied.

She sighed and drew her hand from his hair to resume her needlework.

“Part of me feels it would distract from my duty,” Aðalbjörn said.

“Your duty?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“What duty have you which would be hampered by marriage?” she asked.

“The duty to Marúlf’s daughter,” he replied.

“You have a duty to her?” she asked.

“I pledged her father,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“That you would be as a father to her?” she asked.

“No,” Aðalbjörn replied. “I pledged that I would guard him with my life.”

“And you intend that pledge to be carried on to his seed?” she asked.

“Yes,” Aðalbjörn replied.

“And you think a wife would inhibit that?” she asked.

“I would have a duty to a wife,” he replied.

“Surely you could do both,” she replied. “Your father has duties to his wives, children, and people, and fulfills them all. One day all three duties will be yours, and you will need to be able to do them all without compromise, as your father. Surely having a duty to a brother’s child and a wife will give you good practise.”

He nodded, she had a point there; but he wasn’t sure how he would succeed; only the hound lounging on his belly beside him and the handsome stallion in the stables knew about the misgivings he possessed regarding his even being king. He had failed Marúlf, how could he come through for anyone else? Even his people as king?

Oath Bound: Day 2

Word Count: 12,029

Summary of Events:

Friðljót's mother informed her that a special guest was coming to call; alluding to the idea that something significant was going to happen to Friðljót, so she snooped on the guest's arrival and saw that it was Snerrigeírr the king of Gammelhjem's southern neighbour, Uppodlingland, which left Friðljót full of foreboding. Aðalbjörn's father determined to send a warrior to investigate the reports of the merchantmen, but yet felt foreboding that an evil lurked in Gammelhjem, so he and Aðalbjörn went to visit a vitki* so as to allay his concerns. At the banquet held in honour of Snerrigeírr of Uppodlingland, Friðljót felt ill and unsettled and wanted to get away, but she had to wait until the eating was done before she could do so . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Before she could open her mouth to get her mother’s attention and proclaim her false complaint so as to escape the gathering, her mother rose to her feet and, instead of politely tapping the edge of her goblet with her knife, causing a soft ringing that got people’s attention in a rather civilised fashion, took up the jar of wine in front of her, and threw it to the floor.

“Let everyone be quiet!” she shouted.

Many people looked warily at her, those of Uppodlingland looked somewhat horrified at the fact that wine had willingly been wasted when it was so hard to get.

“I wish to make an announcement on behalf of my husband, Marfrið, lord and king of Gammelhjem,” her mother went on.

All the silent people now looked curious, attentive. She felt the bit of food she’d eaten tossing about in her stomach like the ocean’s waters tossed about in great gales.

“An agreement has been reached between Marfrið of Gammelhjem and Snerrigeírr of Uppodlingland, to forge an alliance, a brotherhood, that will see us help one another, and have the peace between each other which has not been known before this time,” her mother proclaimed. “As the seal of this alliance, Marfrið of Gammelhjem has agreed to grant Snerrigeírr of Uppodlingland the hand of Friðljót, his only daughter, in marriage to his new ally.”

It took an immense amount of effort for Friðljót not to regurgitate her food, scream, or burst into tears — or even do all three simultaneously. This declaration was worse than all her worst nightmares; she had feared merely to be wedded to one of Snerrigeírr’s equally lecherous sons by one of his first four wives, but to think that she was to become his fifth when he was more than old enough to be her father, for he was slightly older than her father, such a horrific thought had never come to her mind.

Now it was fact, and she saw the horror she felt hidden behind the stoic masks of some of her father’s subjects on the main floor of the hall before her. They were no more pleased with the news than she was, although she was sure they were hiding it better, as she felt as if she were as white and cold as snow itself.

“Let the ale be brought!” her mother cried. “And let us rejoice in this alliance.”

With that, her mother sat down and, as she looked toward her mother to make her escape, she found the watery eyes of Snerrigeírr looking at her, while a too-wide, too-happy, too-lecherous smile curled his lips.

She pried her gaze away from him, not wanting to know what he was thinking, lest the bile rising within her get so high that she couldn’t push it back down, and turned her gaze toward her mother.

“Please, may I, may I go?” she asked.

Her mother turned quickly and looked at her sharply. “Go?”

“I ate too much,” she lied.

“You look quite ill,” her mother said condescendingly. “What a wretched time for you to come down with something. Go.”

Pronunciations:

Snerrigeírr: snehrihg'ayr

Uppodlingland: uhpaw'dlinglahnd

Vitki: vihtkee

*vitki (pl. vitkar): wise women (and occasionally men) of Svärtaland who possess supernatural abilities and a lifespan that is on average triple that of normal people.

Oath Bound: Day 1

Word Count: 6,029

Summary of Events:

Aðalbjörn went out to the meadow where his youngest siblings, and his niece, were playing to spend time with his niece; from the elevation of the meadow he saw a group of merchantmen arrive, and so hurried down to see what they had brought, acquiring from them a beautiful white stone said to have protective powers. Once they'd offered their wares they sat down and told the news, as well as answering an enquiry Aðalbjörn's father made of the kingdom of Gammelhjem, which puzzled Aðalbjörn, as he only knew the kingdom existed, nothing more; so, once the merchantmen had gone to sell their wares to the rest of the town, he asked his father, who told him that some years ago a message had come from the king of Gammelhjem, whom his father had gone to war with long before either man had been married or king . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Part of Aðalbjörn was curious about his father’s past relations with Marfrið of Gammelhjem, but he knew that to enquire of them would be to distract from his original enquiry, he could ask about them later.

“I have never received a message such as his,” Father replied. “It was an offer of betrothal.”

“An offer of betrothal?” Aðalbjörn asked.

“Yes,” Father replied. “He offered the hand of his daughter, who was just an infant, in marriage.”

“Then why did Marúlf not marry her?” Aðalbjörn asked. “Surely he was betrothed to her before Auðnýr.”

“She was not offered to Marúlf,” Father replied.

“But who else would she be offered to?” Aðalbjörn asked. “A king’s daughter is only ever offered to a king’s son.”

“Are you not my son Aðalbjörn?” Father asked. “Are not all those sons of my wives which are younger than you my sons also?”

“Yes Father,” Aðalbjörn replied. “But Marúlf was your firstborn.”

“And it was my firstborn whom Marfrið made clear he did not want his daughter wedding,” Father replied. “His specific request was for my second son. For you.”

Aðalbjörn stared at his father. He didn’t know that he could’ve been more shocked if lightning had been sent from above and struck him. Him!? The king of Gammelhjem had wanted him to marry his daughter!?

“We negotiated particulars back and forth for a time before reaching an agreement that, when the princess of Gammelhjem came of marriageable age, she would be brought with an entourage and dowry from Gammelhjem and wed to you, my second son,” Father went on. “Since she was but an infant at the time, she would’ve needed sixteen years to come of marriageable age; thus that should be the present, yet she has not come.”

Words eluded Aðalbjörn. He felt as if his capacity to speak had been robbed from him the instant his father had told him that he had been betrothed to an infant. Of course, he’d lived sixteen less years than presently, which meant that he had been hardly more than an infant himself, but it still staggered him. He’d never heard of a betrothal being arranged that early in the life of anyone. Surely even Marúlf himself hadn’t been betrothed to Auðnýr at that time!

“Thus, to answer your enquiry,” Father continued, seemingly oblivious to his son’s dumbstruck state. “I enquired after Gammelhjem that I might know when the princess would be coming to wed you, and considering the news I have heard this day from trusted and loyal servants, I have great doubts about whether it will happen, for surely Marfrið, though younger than I, being aged beyond me by time and a half, is in no state to bring his daughter to me, and if a woman is hated with as much a passion as his wife is hated by his people, surely she would not bring her daughter to me.”

Pronunciations:

Marfrið: mahrfrihth

Marúlf: mahrolf

Auðnýr: awthneer