Langhús — Viking Longhouse.

Drengskapr — Honor. A drengr is a valiant warrior.

Glíma — is the name of the Scandinavian martial arts system used by the Vikings.

The old man's body was white as the winter glaciers, his bloodless flesh tinged with the same cold, pale blue as the perennial ice mountains.

It had been on her land that his life had been snuffed. An animal, or so they thought. Only a white bear could have caused such destruction; or perhaps a pack of wolves. Let them think that, but Aila knew better.

She turned her head to her right where Roth was standing, his face impenetrably formidable; and so like his father's.

"Tell me you would not ascribe evil to an unborn child?" Loki's words haunted her now as they had when he'd first said them.

They were, neither of them, evil! Her sons were good men!

"I had hoped your sons would be more like their mother than their sire."

Had she dreamt those words? Would that her offspring had been sowed from mortal seeds ... and not a scourge of nature.

"But I see now that I was wrong."

Yes, Loki; how wrong you were, she thought now. She should regret him. But how could she. She loved him and she adored her sons. Moreover; life was for living, not regretting. And where better to appreciate that sentiment than beside the worsted remains of a fallen friend.

It was as though Loki's personality was split in twain, and each of his sons possessed half of the essentials of their sire. Although, Roth, she thought, was more remindful of Loki's darker nature and Renic's mien an exemplification of his more exalted traits. Roth was mischievous, unpredictable, mordant, and ruthless, whereas Renic was equanimous, thoughtful, and playful. Or he had been. Her youngest son was even more of a riddle to her now than her firstborn ever was.

Still, it was surely unmotherly of her to think better of one son than the other? To wish it was Renic that would lead her people and not Roth... But those were her quiet contemplations, for she did love her sons equally despite esteeming one slightly above the other.

He used to talk to her. He used to smile a lot more too, but those memories of grins and laughter were merely the redolence of bygone years and he only the husk of the boy he had been. Furthermore, she knew not how to help them. How could she possibly explain herself or condone the secrecy of their lineage. However, even if she had wanted to, she had promised their father that their divine heredity should be his privilege to disclose if and when he chose to do so.

She had conceded that to Loki, mindful of the fact that it was indeed dangerous to confess aught that might slip innocently from a child's mouth and into disloyal or treacherous ears. Ergo, he had thenceforth watched from afar once they grew old enough to speak; to understand; to remember. Yet still and all he watched them.

Had he always known what his sons would become? She could not say for certain, but he always denied that he had any knowledge of what exactly would come of their being his progeny. Of his blood. And she believed him. But they could no longer declaim against the truth of the matter — Rothgar and Renic were accursed.

Loki had told her once that there must always be balance in nature. That nothing good could come of a god loving a mortal, and that they would find no impunity for their actions.

"I have realized the consequences far too late." As of a dream remembered she heard his voice, a whisper in the darkness, weighted with premonition.

How those words beset her still. The full effect of what he'd said then, so long ago, had never quite been clear to her until recently. It had first struck her the moment she had given in to Thorgny's demands — they were now to reap the repercussions of that forbidden love and her people would be the ones to suffer the greatest ... as old Gunnar lately had.

Snorri Gunnarson, his elder brother, and their mother stood beside the body, the sons somber and withdrawn and their mother snuffling quietly in the crook of her eldest's arm. Aila valued all her thranes, but Gunnar had been one of her favored, loyal and honorable. 

His youngest son, Snorri, had moved away and married a girl from a wealthy family whose lands bordered the Redtooth neighbor that had been slain by his own rapacious brother. And he, Snorri, had been accused of the crime. But he had thereafter been exculpated at Klanerting — when Arnar had been killed.

It pained her that Snorri's second mischance had presently been precipitated by her own children. She knew it in the pit of he stomach, churning like the sharp bite of rue: Roth had taken another life, and this one as undeserved as the first one had been justified. He was only just seventeen.

She nearly snorted. Seventeen in all but physicality. 'Twas no boy that stood at her right, but a man, the blood of gods seething in his veins, full grown and unpredictable. Her heart was heavy with both a mother's eternal love and a chieftain's duty to her clan. She knew not what she could do, but something must be done.

Aila studied her kith as they stood scattered about the dim room, the meager flames in the fire pit and the stone lamps, the fish liver oil smoking gently from the cottongrass wicks, yielding very little light despite that the smoke-holes were open. The sun had been swallowed by sooty clouds and the only sound within the chamber, one of four in the capacious langhús, was the quiet sobbing, the hushed voices, and the occasional snapping of the logs as the fire consumed them. All were as grave as the occasion warranted.

She approached the widow with all the compassion she felt for their family, laying her hands firmly on the woman's trembling shoulders. Ebba turned and strained her chieftain to her ample chest, taking what solace she could from Aila's whispered words and soothing arms.

With her had come Ragnar, Eydís, their son, Søren, and daughter, Thora, her father, Ívarr, Heida, Frida, Eirik, Renic, and, finally, Roth — the son that would succeed her to the chieftaincy. Still, there were more arriving every hour, for Gunnar had been revered and loved. Each took their turn to console the widow and her sons, but Heida, at better seeing the devastation done to Gunnar's body, gasped and fixed Roth with desperate eyes, her lips trembling fatally. Her gaze was rife with meaning.

"Eirik," said Aila to her brother, "take Heida outside for some air, please."

She watched as her bother draped his arm over the girl's shoulders and guided her outside, Roth's spectral eyes marking their progress. His brother's eyes were more like Loki's — of a clear, iceberg blue — but Roth's, though mottled, were no less uncanny.

It was better that Heida awaited them outside, for she was far too expressive by half and her poor little heart had ever been visible through those silvery orbs. But it would not do to excite suspicion, and her daughter somehow knew well to whom the blame of death was owed. It had been there in Heida's eyes for anyone to see should they chance to. Not blame or revulsion exactly, but dread and ... shock aimed wholly at Roth in such a way as to make a body wonder.

There was no doubt that Roth was taken with the girl. Aila too had loved her from the first moment Heida, a sodden and abandoned infant, had fastened that grave, thoughtful gaze to hers. She was so unlike Brynja; and of that Aila was thankful. The child was better off without that woman — and she was, at any rate, Aila's now. Had been from the instant she'd heard Heida's puling sobs on the hall's doorstones seventeen years ago.

She had known the depths of her eldest's regard for her adoptive daughter and had always imagined that they would one day be joined in marriage. It was a hope that had been laid to waste the moment he had effaced Arnar's wretched life from this world and sent it to Hel.

And thence would all mortals go when they died, those scant few who were not fortunate enough to feast in Valhalla with Odin, but she was gratified that this world was blighted no more by the first fruit of Thorgny's loins. That one had deserved the very fires of Muspellheim! Hel was too lofty a place for him.

Tragically, it was Frida who would now bear the title of daughter more fully than Heida. Aila closed her eyes wearily and then peeled them open to watch Thorgny's daughter.

She had blossomed some since coming into their care, and that fact Aila could well see. Frida's form had filled out some and her color was not so wan as it had been when first she'd arrived, but she was, nevertheless, a sickly little thing. Winsome enough, but too delicate a petal to weather the likes of Roth's wintery attentions. She looked as though she might not even survive the wedding night!

Roth had never taken much notice of her and poor Frida was, unfortunately, already smitten with him despite his cold incivility. Some women were like that, craving the affections of the man who most spurned their love. But that was not Aila's business; she could only govern her own heart — and hers was cherished by a god no less. Her children, however, would have to make sense of their fates themselves, for she would not meddle.

Her sons were grown now and their lives were theirs to do with what they would in whatever manner they deemed best.

She could merely offer advice. Howbeit, the matter of their ... curse required her immediate interference, lest there be another grisly outcome. She had not broached the subject with Loki for some time, fearful of hearing the truth of what she already knew: they were, in all likelihood, the very bane of humanity! 

If it were spoken aloud then it would be instantly made into undeniable fact, and she was not yet ready to hear it. Yet she could no longer deny that her sons would destroy themselves and her clan if she and Loki did not help them.

They would need to be told who they really were.

She had, in a manner, already done so, but they had always assumed, by her will, that what she told them was merely legend: of a girl who fell in love with a powerful god named Loki. And through their union bore him too strong sons that had been the salvation of their people. It had been their favorite fable once upon a time, settled at the great hearthstone of an evening, and they had, in their innocence, declared themselves to be those two glorious descendants.

But they had been young boys then and with age had come repression; and, inevitably, skepticism had taken root.

With the beloved burden of her clan settled on her shoulders Aila heaved a ragged sigh and withdrew from the room, her kin falling in behind her, Ragnar at her side. If not for Ragnar she'd have floundered many times in those early days; if not for Loki she'd have gone mad long ago. Both men had been to her like the mountains to the north — steady and immutable — but Loki had been much more: the fire that sustained her in the midst of blizzards.

When they entered the hall she nearly faltered with the shock of seeing Thorgny at the fire, his red beard shifting imperceptibly as he smiled in greeting.

"Aila!" he said, as though ignorant of how keenly she despised him.

"Thorgny," was all she said, her voice stony and her countenance revealing none of what she felt. Once Ragnar and the rest of their kith had paid their respects, as stiffly as their chieftain had, Aila made to leave.

Thorgny, waving his men to follow them, fell into step beside her, effectively relegating Ragnar to walk in their wake.

"I was sorry to hear of the loss of your clansman," said he.

Aila nodded, her eyes narrowing as she caught him scrutinizing her eldest. She knew he would accompany them home; and she was witting too of why he'd come. He imposed often to bedevil her under the pretext of visiting his daughter who, it was well understood, meant nothing to him besides being the anchor that bound him to the prestigious Blackmanes.

"But are you sure 'twas not your son?" he said with a hearty chuckle, knowing full well the magnitude of the insult he was delivering. "We all know his penchant for flesh-eating."

"Hold your tongue, old man, if you wish to keep your own flesh from ruin." Ragnar's fists were clenched furiously. "You mock Gunnar's memory with your foul jesting, to say nothing of your vilification of my nephew's name."

The irony of it was that Thorgny knew not how close he was to the truth, the bastard; this originator of Roth's vile byname. Harald would have smote him for such an insult, chieftain or not; war or no. But she was not Harald, and his words were nothing to her, but for the affront he'd thoughtlessly, or purposefully, directed at her slain nobleman. She harbored no respect for him and hers was the mightier clan by far. She had nothing to prove to him.

Nonetheless, Aila instantly halted. Even the trees lining the worn, grassy path were shocked to silence, the breeze stilted in in their boughs, but she calmly held her hand up to curb Ragnar's advance, loth to have any more blood shed this day. She then pinned the other chief with a quelling look, her furious quietude speaking volumes.

At length she spoke. "Do not dishonor the fallen again by making light of this grievous day. Not within my hearing; not ever again. And if you are afeared of your daughter's safety perhaps you will reconsider her place with us?"

She glanced over her shoulder to see that Frida had blanched in horror. She was sorry for the girl, but if Thorgny demanded the disseverment of their betrothal she would not hesitate in granting it.

"I fear nothing of the sort," he muttered, showing no remorse in the least. "They will marry."

They resumed walking again, Ragnar and Thorgny now both either side of her like two stags grunting and pawing contentiously at the earth. When they reached the folk stead Aila entered first, followed by her kin, but Thorgny remained without until his daughter passed him by, or endeavored to. Then, taking hold of her arm with a bruising grip, he pulled her to his side. 

"Do you not greet your father properly, girl?" He pressed his bearded lips roughly to her averted face.

To kill a woman was one of the lowliest of crimes, and beneath any man's code of honor; but to harm one, especially one as small as Frida, was shameful and craven. It was that lack of drengskapr that elicited disgust amongst those in their propinquity. Even his men wore fleeting grimaces. 

Whatever Frida's life had been in Thorgny's care, only the gods knew, but there was something unsavory about the way the step-father beheld his daughter. Aila's skin began to crawl with even more loathing for the man. 

But the Redtooth chief had barely got his words out before Roth wrenched his hand from Frida's arm. "Here we do not mishandle another man's betrothed. You would do well to remember that."

"I am her father, Flesh Eater!"

"Yet you have given her into my care, and while she resides under our roof she will not be touched; even by you." Roth easily towered over the seething man which only further vexed Thorgny.

He was clearly, and purposefully, made to feel dwarfed by Roth's larger frame and the resentful elder was very sensible to this fact. No warrior, especially not an acrimonious one like Thorgny, enjoyed being made to feel less than he thought his own worth to be.

"As to that," the stocky chief growled, "you have made me wait long enough!" He shoved Roth aside, not an easy feat by any means, and marched purposefully over to Aila. "In the spring! They will be married once the last of the snow leaves the ground!" He then fixed hateful eyes to Roth again. "And you had better make good on your promise..."

"What promise?" Roth's smile was so terrible that it even Aila's bones were chilled by it.

Yes, this is Loki's son.

"Her belly," Thorgny bellowed, stabbing a meaty finger in his daughter's direction, "had better be quickening with brats by summer!" Transferring his livid glare to Aila once more, he offered his parting words: a warning. "Or you shall make an enemy of me." With that he stormed from the hall, his burly men in tow.

❅

Once Thorgny had departed, a few days hence, the hall and its inhabitants breathed easier. The tension had infected the air like thick smoke all throughout his stay; Aila only hoped he would limit his visits once he his daughter was finally married off to the blackmane heir. What need would he then have to beset them as often as he had been doing.

It was a warm day and the sun was out in full force which meant that all were out of doors, taking advantage of the last of the summer weather. When winter eventually arrived, they would be contained within doors more often than not.

The Practice yard was populated this morning as it was the perfect weather for Glíma. Wrestling, sport, and games were in sore need, considering the pall of despondency that had mantled the people since the death of one of their own.

Some of the spectators, both men and women, were on the periphery of the field, awaiting their turn to be active participants in whichever contest held their interest. There were manifold groups of avid bystanders, some of whom were cheering on two wrestlers, Roth and Renic, and others that were standing where Heida, Eirik, and five more bowmen were firing arrows at targets drawn onto the boles of trees. Lastly, there were those that were enjoying a bout of swordplay as she and Ragnar, who were presently engaged in combat sport, circled one another, their spears discarded and their wooden swords poised at the ready.

Between he and Loki, she had been taught to be an effective, and methodical, fighter. Though she was not as strong as her warriors, albeit far from incapable, she was tenacious and wily as an opponent.

She could and would employ complex tricks, though not dishonorable by any means, to see herself to victory. There were certainly many different types of fighters: those that were heroic, those that taunted, few that were caitiff, and some that were pure berserker brutes. Whatever technique a drengr employed, he — or she — would always need to be resourceful and shrewd to win a match, whether in sport ... or to the death.

Aila did not posses the bulk or brute force the others did, but she was just as efficient in other ways; just as aggressive. She was, in fact, swift of foot, nimble, and dangerously cunning — the latter had doubtless been greatly honed by the very god she often sparred with: her lover. Through Loki's tutelage she had learnt to be what the others could not and to use her strength to fatal advantage.

The men had not always been keen to fight a woman; any woman. It was unmanly to engage in combat with a female. Effeminate to pit themselves against one. But in the end they did finally relent. When she had first began to show her prowess on the field, her men had initially thought it a blow to their virility. However, when she began to best more and more of them, they began to find humor in it, hurling wisecracks at those that she invariably defeated.

It was many years before she became one of them. Became a source of pride instead of merely a young woman playing at chieftaincy; a wellspring of shame to those that fought with the Blood Drinker. But no longer. She was now a chieftain first, and a shield-maiden second. A woman almost never. Although, to her, being a woman was the greatest source of pride. Would that men were not so pig-headed to see this. Perhaps, she was proving this though.

Hearing the rumble of Thor's hammer on the horizon, Aila looked up to see a sudden squall blowing in from the ocean, her brow corrugating with disquiet to witness such a strange phenomenon. But the storm seemed a dilatory one, only building offshore, as if waiting, and was not yet close enough that the people would need to run to their dwellings for shelter. They too merely watched it, as she did, in uneasy speculation, but soon they resumed their sport. She, meanwhile, was enthralled as the lightning licked at the sea and the wind strengthened from the east bringing the tang of salt to cool her brow.

Ragnar suddenly lunged with his wooden sword, intending to slap the flat of it against her spleen, but she deflected it with her shield and, concurrently, she side-stepped to deliver her own attack to his legs, intending to affect the maneuver that would sever his tendons. He was a vicious fighter, indefatigable and canny as he hacked mercilessly and parried each of her blows. She rarely ever beat him and he was too proud to be taken down, even by his chief.

With him she had always to improvise more than the rest, and to draw on her mental prowess like Odin himself. And like the Allfather Aila was a poet at heart. Poetry and combat were both related and equally revered. A leader that was adept at both was considered divine, for to master each was to emulate Odin's genius.

She threw her shield at him suddenly, unexpectedly, and as he ducked to block the missile she dove at him with her elm sword and feigned a mortal jab to his ribs. "Ha!" she cried, throwing her makeshift sword to the ground amidst hearty good cheer.

Ragnar lay on his back glaring up at her, his lips twitching with suppressed humor. "Before you crow too loudly, remember that I still hold the record over you, woman," said he.

"But for today, I am victor over all!" She chuckled at his supine form, the links of his mail covered in grass and mud. "Are you going to sleep there all day; have I so flattened you?"

He was not looking at her as he rolled to his side, squinting towards the copse of trees nearby. "Is that Váli?"

Aila, suspicious of his motives, backed away a goodly distance, in case he meant to trick her, afore fixing her gaze in the direction his was strained. There was indeed a wolf there, an incredibly large one, sitting patiently under the trees as he watched them. Loki.

"It does not look like Váli." Ragnar stood slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Do you think it was the beast that killed Gunnar!" He had pulled his eyes from the dark grey beast to look for his sword — his iron sword.

"No!" she hissed, surprising him. "I've seen it here many times and it has never acted aggressively in all that time." She smoothed her features quickly, lest she give herself away. "No, it must have been a rogue that savaged Gunnar."

Ragnar nodded, her theory was ostensibly sound by his estimation. "Perhaps you're right." But he still looked uneasy, as did others: those few that had also noticed its camouflaged presence.

"It is only a curious animal by the looks of things." Inside, however, she was contemplating Loki's sudden appearance. Whatever the reason for it there was no mistaking the fact that he wished to speak with her.

The grey wolf's eyes bored into hers, the blue of them visible even from this distance. Once he was sure that she'd understood him, he loped away without a backward glance.

🌟⭐️Did you miss Aila's POV? Guess who's next...😈🌟⭐️