Ragnarøkkr

[Rainjay]

The

chatter, loud as it was among the eerie muteness of the Sister's procession, quieted into silence at Freja's words. Even Halladóra's words froze in her throat, lips agape as she pondered what her younger Sister had just observed. Antonia lowered her eyes to the ground. So, Freja did indeed share the same thoughts as she. It was not a pleasing revelation.

"What makes you think that there's more fighting?" Halla then said, voice booming. "Jarls are always quarreling. It's what they do. Nothing else to it."

"Yes, but it is not exactly a Sister's job to come and deal with their quarrels, is it? It simply is not normal to call on the spearwives for something like this... and certainly not for a Chosen to join us," Antonia said. Running her hand over the side of her tunic as she spoke, a small thread pulled loose--she picked it out between her thumb and forefinger, holding it out before her eyes with pursued lips before letting it fall.

"But it's happened before," one of the younger girls spoke up.

Antonia shook her head. "Not in the last decade it hasn't."

Halladóra grunted, turning to look at her sister icily. Even her whitened eye furrowed with something akin to irritation and disbelief. "Even if it did mean something--which it does not--there is no way of knowing what the Chosen are up to, and there is no point in trying to know. Unless you become a maiden of the Goddess, you'll never know," she sneered. "It is none of your business, and never will be. Feel fortunate to have been granted the rank of spearwife, and stop piping about such nonsense before Audhild twists your ear for spreading rumors."

Jaw clenched, Antonia turned her face away from her sister, opting instead of look out at the eastern horizon rather than Halla's ugly grin. She would never say it, for as mean as Halladóra was they were still siblings, but thought to herself: it's not like she has any chance of becoming a Chosen! The Goddess does not want ambitious, silly girls with only one eye to fight under her power. As though her own chances were any better; a paranoid child with a sword, shield, and nothing else. But not unlike her sister, she could not admit it to herself. Her pride would not have it.

The quiet chatter continued for the rest of the day, and for some days after that. Much of what had been said turned into rumors, some renditions of the story worse than others, and spread quickly through the ranks of the to-be spearwives and the shieldmaidens, and down to the girls in the lower ranks, though fortunately not much further. Soon enough, talk returned to other things--family, news from the south, and word of traders stopping at the fortress shortly after their arrival back home. But tension remained, and every Sister in the procession felt it. Even Halladóra, non-believing as she was, walked with her prized spear in hand at all times. Worse so was Audhild, whose appearance seemed to decline with each time Antonia saw her. Stress lines marked her face and creased the skin around her eyes. No longer did she watch the sparring matches held between the younger girls each time the Sisters stopped to make camp, nor were her stern quips heard, loud above the bustle of footsteps and voices. She, like the rest of the women, was scarily and unusually quiet.

Antonia herself remained rather silent for the remainder of the trip, scarcely speaking with Freja, or anybody else for that matter. It was not for lack of things to say, but rather for the pain in her ribcage, which left her breathless after each day of marching and unwanting to speak at all, and for the lack of desire to discuss the situation at hand. She wanted so deeply to know what was happening, but Halla was right. It was not her place, even if she felt it was her, and everyone else's, right to know.

Finally, they arrived back at the fortress, the massive structure that housed the Sisterhood. The trelleborg was visible from a long ways off, with towering gates and walls--one of a very few like it in number. The very tops of several buildings could be seen as they approached from over a distant hill, but none stood as tall as the stave. It stood at the center of the trelleborg, where the four paths, one for each cardinal direction and each connected to a gate on the outer, circular wall of the fortress, met. Emerging from the open roof was an ash tree, branches spread beautifully to catch the sun. Antonia had only been inside the stave a few times since joining the Sisterhood, and knew that it would take many more visits before she had seen all the mosaics on the inside and read all the scripture. The stave was where the Chosen resided, and were ceremonies were held; except for the induction of Sisters and the promotion of rank, none other than the Chosen were ever allowed inside. It was said among the shieldmaidens that the ash tree, sharing kinship with Yggdrassil, was the Chosen's vessel of communication with the Goddess herself.

It would not be long before she and her peers would enter the stave, and formally be initiated as spearwives. The idea wasn't as exciting to Antonia as it had been in the months past. She, like any other shieldmaiden, worked hard to climb the ranks in the Sisterhood. But she felt somewhat more dread than exhilaration, her stomach a ball of nerves. The induction, as Audhild had told them a mere hour before arrival, would occur within a toll of the bell. They had until then to ready themselves, or miss the ceremony entirely and remain as shieldmaidens. It was not very long to prepare.

"Are you ready, Freja?" she said as she came by her friend's side, matching her pace though it strained her ribs some.

 

[ze_kraken]

Freja

shuddered with anticipation at Antonia's question, spine tingling at the very thought of becoming a Spearwife. As a young girl, wooden sword clutched haphazardly in her hands, Freja had often (like nearly all young Sisters her age) created mock battlefields from her imagination, swinging her blade with all the grace and precision of the Goddess herself. She had fantasized about slaying might giants. Fabricated stories of heroic last stands. Concocted increasingly convoluted meetings with the Goddess, where she would be rewarded handsomely for her deeds.

And now, confronted with the reality of her initiation as a Sister proper, Freja was experiencing a mixture of terror, wonder, and, though it pained her to admit it, disappointment. She had marched for weeks, fought and killed in a battle, broken her arm and nose, and marched for weeks once more. Over the years of hearing Halladóra's stories and listening to Eir recount the legends of Sisters of old, Freja had placed her moment of initiation higher than any other worldly priority and here she stood with a sore arm, talking to Antonia in a fortress she had inhabited for most of her life.

"I'm ready," Freja replied with forced optimism.

The girl tugged uncomfortably at her sleeve then, gooseflesh prickling up as the roughspun wool brushed abrasively against her arm. All Shieldmaidens wore plain grey wool tunics embroidered with golden trim, singed at the waist with a plain leather belt, over plain trousers and boots. They had all been given this garb for formal occasions when they had officially come of age, and would be consigning it to the fire before long.

A real warrior's dress is boiled leather, mail, and helm, Freja repeated the motto under her breath now as the bell tolled loudly overhead.

All the Shieldmaidens stirred and straightened their formation, falling into a single-file line. A Chosen, one whom Freja did not recognize, emerged from the stave and took her place at the head of the line before the entire procession began to move. The soft thud scrape of leather upon stone flooring won over the peals of the bell as the clamor subsided and the first of the Shieldmaidens entered the stave.

The stave's open ceiling gave way to the starry sky above, with the branches of the great ash tree blotting out much of the night sky. Still, dots of light peered through the web of branches to the ground below. The smoke of braziers clouded the air above, casting the main floor of the stave in flickering orange light. Worn stone gave way to intricate tile work, which swirled and spiraled into incomprehensible patterns. On either end of the procession stood Chosen, their Spears intersecting one another over the heads of the incoming Sisters. As the lead Chosen passed, her fellows on either side of her uncrossed their Spears and faced the tree.

The tree itself was completely unmarked, save for a single hand axe whose head was buried deep into the mighty trunk of the ash. It was said that this axe had been placed by the founder of the Sisterhood upon arriving here, guided by the Goddess. She had buried her axe in this ash tree and, in return, Brynhildr had blessed the devout warrioress with her personal chainmail. This, too, hung on a low-hanging branch close to the axe's handle. It had only been worn twice since it had been gifted to mortals, each occasion one the stuff of legends.

As Freja trudged forward, keeping her eyes planted firmly on the back of the head of the girl before her, she attempted to still her beating heart. Fighting the urge to clutch at her chest before her heart burst through her rib cage and fled, Freja practiced one of the breathing exercises Eir had taught her to use before a battle. It helped little.

Freja panicked as the girl ahead of her strut forward towards the base of the tree, where an old and greying Seer waited, flanked on either side by Chosen prepared for war. When the girl ahead of her finished with the ceremony, Freja was urged onward by the Chosen upon either side of her. The girl approached the Seer timidly and fell to one knee before the venerable woman. The Seer's one good eye, milky white and watery, peered directly into Freja's own brown ones. It took all of Freja's willpower to avoid flinching or averting her gaze as the Seer examined her.

The Seer stood and grabbed a Spear from where it stood, tip planted firmly in the earth surrounding the ash tree, offering it to Freja. Without standing, the girl took it and placed the butt of the spear upon the ground, bowing her head.

"Freja Dottir of None," she croaked. "You are now Freja Brynhildrsdottir, Spearwife and warrior true."

The Seer paused then, took in a sharp intake of breath, and continued.

"You will live and die by Brynhildr now, and will fight for her eternal when your time upon this plane of existence has ended..." Another pause. "Now rise and join your family, Spearwife, and may you walk in Her grace from here until your death."

The two Chosen on either side of the Seer saluted Freja as she stood and joined the others, legs trembling...

Here I stand.