Fljótdís- Daughter of the North

by Sanita Trumpika

  Skadi observed from a cool distance as their skin blackened and peeled away and their blood boiled dry in their veins. Their eyes were no more as the flames leapt into their lungs to finish their deadly meal. She had to wonder who these roasted husks might have been. But she had lost interest in the whole business and sought the cold refuge of the forest to clear her mind of the dark affairs of humans.

  The thunder had drawn her toward the glade where she discovered this female. Skadi had grown weary of all this human drama, and she was sure the woman must be dead anyway. No human could survive such a storm. And this Midgardian had no clothes to protect her from the cold. Humans were so stupid sometimes.

  Skadi turned the woman onto her back. She was a beautiful human, dark-haired and strong. She leaned down, close to the woman’s face. To her surprise, she felt a warm breath coming from her lips. The human was still alive. She looked at all the blood in the snow and turned the woman over for another look at her injured shoulder. Oh, she knew these signs. And she knew what they meant. She almost felt pity for this Midgardian.

  Skadi frowned. She wasn’t used to feeling sorry for humans. True, they worshipped her, but they worshipped their Aesir gods as well, the murderers of her father. If anything, she should want this woman to be as dead as all those charred townspeople. Whoever she was, she must have committed a very terrible crime to be worthy of this powerful curse. Let the human save herself.

  But as she turned to leave, she saw something peeking through the heavy snow at the base of the rock. It was a ring. Although it was of a simple design, it was covered with great runes, runes of power and protection. This woman wasn’t just any human. She was protected by the gods, whoever those gods were. She slipped the ring back on the woman’s finger reverently. Perhaps the loss of this talisman had contributed to her downfall. Maybe now that it was returned to its rightful place, her fortunes would turn for the better.

  She wasn’t sure what to do with this woman. She could take her to the mountains of Jotunheim. She would be a good slave. But she didn’t want trouble with the gods, especially Aesir. Still, the woman deserved some little amount of help. She took the fur from her shoulders and wrapped the Midgardian in it. Then she placed her carefully back on the stone.

  The human opened her eyes and looked up at the giantess. It was clear that she wanted to say something, but it was as if her lips were sealed. Skadi didn’t need words to understand what the human wanted to say. She was in great pain and she asked for help. But Skadi knew she couldn’t help, even if she wanted to. The Midgardian would have to be strong and bear it for a while.

  The giantess stood up and gave one last look at the human woman. She had already drifted back into sleep and Skadi disappeared in a whirl of the blizzard.

  The whiteness blinded her. She had fallen from the sacrificial stone and she was covered in snow. She should have felt frozen, but she hadn’t. She was warm and wrapped in thick fur. She tried to move, but she had no strength. She tried repeatedly to get to her feet, but always she collapsed back into the snow.

  She looked at the sky. The bright sun poured its golden light on her. She decided to try again. She freed herself from the fur and got on all fours. So far so good. But she needed something to hold on to. There was a large wooden branch not too far from her. If she could just reach it, it would give her some support. The world began to spin. She lost her balance and fell down again. Her body was crushed. There was nothing left unbroken. She collapsed in the melting snow and fell into deep darkness.

  Strange dreams crept up on her, dreams that frightened her beyond measure. If she had been able to she would have forced herself to stay awake rather than suffer these dreams, but the only thing she could do right now was sleep.

  The next time she woke up, it was night. Bright stars shone above her head. The moon sneaked into the glade and illuminated it. She sat up slowly and looked for the branch. This time she had to reach it. She reached out her hand, but it was still too far away. She crawled toward it and soon, the big branch was in her hand. She thrust it into the ground and supported herself on it, fighting her way onto her feet.

  Everything started to spin and go black before her eyes, so she stood very still and waited for it to pass. When she could once again see the moon and the stars, she took a moment to look around in the moonlight. She knew this place. She knew every place in the mountains. There should be a little stream not far away. The thirst she felt was unbearable. She had to find water.

  Trusting her memory, she made her way carefully in the direction of where she thought the stream would be. It was painfully slow, but at last, she heard the blessed sound of running water. With every step, it grew louder. There it was, the little stream, coursing through the dark grass. Thanks to Mani, she could see it in the silver light. She fell to her knees and drank from it like someone who had been dying of thirst for an eternity. It went down her throat cold and pure.

  When her thirst was quenched, she crawled to the nearest tree and leaned against its sturdy trunk, fighting against sleep. She looked up at the ash. Snowflakes fell through the leaves and the wind shook the great tree, making a hissing sound. She wished she had taken the fur with her, but she had left it in the glade and she wasn’t sure if she could fight her way back through the storm. She hugged herself, trying for warmth. The tree was her protector. It sheltered her from the cold northern winds and the monstrous snowstorm.

  What had happened? Why was she all alone in the storm so far from civilization and shelter? Why did she know this place, but she had no idea of her own name? Something blocked her memory like a huge black veil. Had she hit her head and why was she so tired? Why did every part of her body ache as if she had been in a long and exhausting battle with a thousand opponents?

  There were so many questions. But every time she thought about them, her head felt like it was breaking into pieces. She had to let the thoughts go. If the snowstorm eased up, she would have to find the fur or she would die from the cold. And she needed food, any kind of food to give her strength.

  She took the branch and broke the little limbs off, turning it into a true staff, and with its help, she stood up. She left the safe protection of the tree. It was very hard to get through the snow. It was often up to her knees. But with time, she reached the place where she had been before. The stone was under the snow. Only a small part peeked through. She got on her knees and dug the great fur out of the thick drifts. It took a lot of effort and strength to retrieve it, but it was a joy to wrap it around her shoulders. Now, she needed to find food.

  There was a strangeness about this drive for survival. Why was she trying so hard to stay alive? Part of her said that living on was not a good idea. Why would that be true? She couldn’t care about it now. She had to keep going and find food. The rest would have to be sorted out later and she headed south into the forest.

  She wandered among the trees, searching for berries or mushrooms, anything that might be surviving the winter. It wasn’t enough, but it was all she could do for now. Her strength was ebbing again and it made her furious that she had so little stamina. She was quite sure that wasn’t how she usually was, and something warned her that it wasn’t safe to sleep alone out in the wilderness. If she had to protect herself against animals and other dangers, she didn’t have the first clue how to do it. Whatever else she didn’t know about herself, she did know that she did not like to feel helpless.

  She awoke with a start. This time it wasn’t because of snow or thunder. It was a sudden shock of memory. In her sleep, her mind had remembered what it couldn’t remember in its waking hours. Dreams that were usually only filled with dark shapes, solidified into bodies and faces. Things that were nothing but dark mists of moving objects came back into horrifyingly sharp focus.

  She knew who she was and why she was here. She remembered what happened. And right now she regretted the return of her memory because what she remembered was nothing but torture and sorrow. Was she truly cursed? Did she believe in cu
rses? She did. But was Irena capable of such a thing? She wasn’t sure.

  The thought of her stepmother made her heart pound. The familiar anger and bloodlust returned to her, the call to battle and vengeance. Out of instinct, her hand sought her sword, but she remembered that she was unarmed and she remembered why. This situation had to be changed as soon as possible.

  She got to her feet again, this time feeling fortified. Now she had a purpose and a mission, a war to be won. Revenge gave her the strength she needed and there was only one thing for her to do, go back to the town and kill Harald and Irena, thrust a knife straight into both their evil hearts, even if it was the last thing she ever did. She would have her revenge and it would make everything she had suffered, everything those she loved had suffered, worth the price. It was going to make everything right at last.

  Finding the road back to the town was easy. It wasn’t so easy to walk it, though. She was still weak, but anger and hate kept her moving and she was thankful for them. Adrenaline fuelled her body now. The return of her memories was a blessing. She had one purpose and she would win this war.

  When she reached the town gates, they were scorched black and fallen off their hinges. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The entire town was little more than a huge pile of ashes and burned bodies. Was she dreaming again? Every building had been consumed by fire. There was nothing left of King Harald’s rich and prosperous town. A few broken and weeping people, ones who had been outside the town for one reason or another, sorted through the ruins in the desperate hope of finding loved ones and precious belongings. There was no hope.

  With every step she took, she saw worse destruction. No one had been spared, men, women, children, livestock. Burnt bodies were strewn everywhere. Some of them still looked a bit like humans, but others were just pieces of roasted meat. Crows already feasted on their bodies and the wolves would soon come.

  A little girl started toward her. Surely this child would know how all of this had come about. But the child paid no attention to her and passed by without a glance. Fljótdís kept walking in hopes of finding a familiar face. She had to find out if the King and Irena had survived this conflagration. Her mission remained strong and demanding and she couldn’t let herself be too distracted by all of this tragedy.

  She approached a man who stood near the pile of ash that had been the marketplace. It was a man she had fought with in many battles. How he had managed to survive the fire was of no interest to her. She didn’t care if he decided to try to drag her off to the King. She was strong enough to kill him if he tried to take her against her will. No one was going to stop her now.

  She stood right in front of him, taking her chances that he wouldn’t try to subdue her. “Arvid, tell me what has happened here?”

  But he seemed to not see or hear her as he surveyed the smouldering landscape.

  “Arvid!” She said it louder this time. Still no reaction.

  She tried to touch his hand, but something strange happened. She couldn’t do it. It was like touching a ghost, someone who had no physical body. Was she seeing spirits now?

  He spoke at last, but he wasn’t looking at her. “Ah, here you are.”

  Fljótdís turned and saw a woman approaching. It was Kraka, one of the seasoned warrior’s daughters. It looked like she would run right into her and she jumped aside.

  Now, she realised the truth. Arvid wasn’t a spirit. She was.

  Kraka stood in the same space as she did, and it was as if she didn’t exist at all. The shock of it was like a sword through her heart. Irena’s curse was real. It had worked. Here was the living death her stepmother had conjured as her punishment. She had been reduced to nothing.

  The excruciating pain in her shoulder returned and she tried hard to not cry out from it. She realised that even if she screamed out her pain, it would not be heard by anyone. She was absolutely alone in her suffering and it struck terror in her heart.

  How could she defeat this enemy? And if she didn’t defeat it, Valhalla and everyone she loved was lost to her forever. It was sorrow as she had never known and it threatened to rob her of all her hard-earned strength. Only the voices next to her turned her attention back to the present.

  “It’s terrible,” Kraka said with very real sorrow. “What have we done to anger the gods so badly? At least my family was gone to visit relatives or this would have been our fate as well.”

  Arvid turned her away from the road and spoke in a low voice. “Some say it was the King’s fault. They say he was drunk and knocked over a wall of candles. The Queen tried to run, but her gown caught fire. And then the whole Hall went up in flames and it spread to the town. But I think this is much bigger than that. This hit the town all at once from every direction and without mercy. I think you may be right that this was the work of the gods.”

  Kraka didn’t have to consider this theory for very long. “I think it was Fljótdís’ curse because of the King’s ill-treatment of her. The gods may have helped, but I think it was Fljótdís. And I think those of us who survived are not safe from her wrath as well. I think we should leave this place and never return, or the Commander will turn the rest of us to cinders as well. I know the King said she killed herself out of shame but I don’t believe that story. Not Fljótdís.”

  Arvid squared his shoulders. “I was there when she cursed the King. I say she was chosen by Thor himself. Would such a woman as that take her own life? No. I heard the King’s story, too. No one ever saw her body and I think this is the price we had to pay for being loyal to him. Maybe the King killed her or maybe she didn’t die at all and she has gone to raise an army to finish this job. But what would be the point since Harald and the Queen are already dead? There is no one left here to fight. Or, maybe she will always haunt this town and bring it to ruin for all the generations to come. One way or the other, I think it’s very unwise to stay here and risk her vengeance.”

  Harald. Was he dead? He had to still be alive. She prayed to the gods that he and Irena had not been lost in the fire. She needed her revenge. She needed Irena alive to lift this miserable curse. The Vǫlva was the only one who could do it. If Irena was dead, all was lost. Even her own existence had been taken away from her. Revenge was all that was left. If she had been robbed of it and the chance to reverse Irena’s curse, there was no one to blame but the gods, and she would never forgive them.

  She ran to the Great Hall. But when she got there, there was nothing left of it. It was burned to the ground. The great wooden pillars were in smoking ashes and there was just a small part of the roof left. She saw Harald’s slave women crying over two charred piles of embers. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Irena and the King. Harald’s crown lay among the ashes. No one had dared to touch it. Her thoughts raced back to the burning barn of so long ago and the innocent young lives that had been incinerated at Harald’s command. Vindication. But for her, this was the ultimate injustice.

  She walked over to the bodies, still reeling with disbelief. No one could see her, so she had no qualms about being bold in her approach. She was a woman of battle, a woman of victory. She had beaten every man she had ever faced except this one. And now, her last chance to make things right for her father, for Erik, for herself and for all the others who had sacrificed themselves protecting her, had been stolen from her forever.

  There would never be another chance to taste the joy of spilling Harald’s blood. And her only hope of ever releasing herself from this new misery lay as scorched remains at her feet. She spat on the ashes and wished them a speedy trip to Helheim. It wasn’t nearly enough.

  Of all the times she had genuinely wished for death, prayed for it, she had never longed for it as much as she did right now. She fell to her knees and tears blurred her sight. But something caught her eye. Perhaps it was an illusion or just a trick of the light. She could trust nothing anymore.

  It was her Thor pendant. It was tangled among the blackened finger bones of Irena’s corpse. Perhaps
she had simply had it in her hand to gloat over her curse one more time. All that mattered was that it had survived the blaze even though Irena had not.

  Fljótdís hoped against hope that it was what she saw it to be. But what good did it do if she was unable to retrieve it from the ashes if she was unable to take it into her hand? And what would happen if it was seen to be floating in mid-air?

  She thought about the furs she had found herself wrapped in. Whatever had been their source, she had been able to touch them and use them. The same was true for her walking stick. It had been of the real world, but she had been able to touch it and use it. Perhaps those were the only two things she would ever be able to make a part of her new world. There was only one way to find out.

  She waited for the slave women to wander off with their weeping and moaning. She must have her pendant back. It symbolised her father’s memory and his love. Whatever happened now, along with the ring from her mother, these were the anchors she needed to survive this ordeal. They were as much of her family as she would ever have. With them, she could bring her mind into focus and try to make some sense out of what must be her next move.

  Her fingers trembled as she reached into the smoking ashes. This was about training her senses and her every ounce of strength toward a goal that had to be achieved. It was no different from training herself for battle. And what was at stake now was every bit as important as battlefield survival skills.