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These men are the Vanirdøtur’s jailors. I wish it weren’t so easy for this to feel like righteous revenge. Tamsin loves these people… these men… her countrymen. But they do not deserve her love.
“If we die in some ridiculous manner, you find me in Valhöll,” Ivar tells me. “So I can express my feelings about it. With an axe.” I scoff. “If you follow me into a ridiculous death, you only have yourself to blame.” That earns me a smirk. “You watch your mouth.”
“I am not gentle,” I warn. Her eyes glint in the dark. “Nor am I fragile.”
I stare at the rows of dead men. Somehow I still only see necessity. As a tanner who works the skin of lambs, or the painter who takes her pigments from crushed flowers; thus we must close our hands around our own sacrifices, to come to our ends.
It’s giving close your heart to it
“Every man has his limits,” I tell her. “It is generally preferable to have them. But you could say mine are further than most.”
“I think Kætilví would say a woman need not be beautiful,” he says. “That her greatest strengths are bravery and a good seax strapped to her belt.”
Armod hurries to bind large strips around Olaf’s thigh, tying the compress tight against the wound, so tight it must be painful. Olaf’s hand is crushing my fingers – then it relaxes. He breathes out, blinking up at the sky, looking dazed. “That’s done it,” Armod says. He leans over Olaf. “You with me, Jarl? Oy, look here. I know she’s prettier than me, but give me a chance.” “I’m looking at you,” Olaf slurs, blinking up at Armod. “I’m looking… right at your ugly mug.” His eyes are closing.
She lifts an eyebrow. “The shield you made for Thrain Mordsson wears such a potent repellent spell that even grass will not lean towards it.”
“There is gold in your hand, and yet you would wander as a beggar,” she says. “You are used to keeping your palm open, letting the gold fall out. Thus you let go of what you desire most. But it is a waste of your mother’s legacy to keep all that knowledge stored in here.”
Oh she reading him to filth
You will have nothing, says the cacophony of memories. You only ever ruin what you touch. And they are louder, so much louder, than the softly spoken words of a well-meaning blue-eyed man.
Will you forgive me, my love… will you forgive me if I lay here like this? If I take this peace from her? Because that is what it is: it is peace, her purr. It is a stillness I have not known since I woke with you that first morning after we were wed, and contemplated you as one contemplates the rest of their life. All I want is to sleep and be rid of this hurt. I’m so tired, my love… I’m so tired.
Olaf please
Olaf. I kissed Olaf.
!!!!!!!
And Ögmundr watches us with a satisfied grin, before returning to the madness so he might lead their full-frontal attack on the fort. He raises his sword, encourages his men with a yell. They all brandish their weapons in turn, their faces lit with fervour. For all intents and purposes, he is King now.
This bitch ass
It’s incredible, he told me once. How you cannot go back, once you see things differently. Often it is just a small moment, and the entire world seems different for it.
Try to hold onto something wild and it will wither.
“Only you would stage your claiming ceremony in the middle of a full-blown siege,” he says, amusement in his tone.
