Reaching out, Svea grasped Asvoria's forearm. Quietly pleased when Asvoria returned the gesture. It was an old custom, certainly older than their feud. One of warriors. Equals. An invitation, a promise, and a warning all at once.
Their forearms locked, skin to skin, muscle to muscle, bone to bone, in the same grip that had once sworn blood-oaths and sealed fates on frostbitten fjords.
*Fjords: deep, long, narrow body of water that reaches far inland
"Then speak," Svea said at last, her face unreadable even to the one who had known her all her life. "But speak true. Why have you come here, Asvoria?"
They held each other's gaze before finally releasing the hold. Svea gestured toward the table, bringing extra candles closer to scatter the shadows. She draped a blanket over Asvoria's shoulders, the gesture as much diplomacy as kindness.
Rubbing her rope-burned wrist, the marks of steering a one-man boat through storm seas, Asvoria collected herself before answering in a gentle tone that Svea had never before heard, "It's my home."
"It was," Svea replied, uncertain. "What is it, then? Did something happen?"
Asvoria sighed. "I left. I had to leave. I had to come home."
Her voice wavered between resolve and exhaustion. "I need to claim my rightful place here." She leaned forward, elbows braced against the wooden table, as if pushing her words toward Svea with sheer will.
Svea rubbed her arm, the motion slow but deliberate. "You resigned your position here. You gave it away, the land, the people who trusted you. . ." Her own voice became softer as she spoke. The memory still hurt her as well. What she had to admit was even worse: that it had broken her heart. "You left us, Asvoria."
"I know." The admission came out low, almost swallowed. Asvoria bowed her head, unable to rid herself of the guilt pressing down like the damp still clinging to her clothes. She hadn't expected Svea to throw her failures back at her, Svea rarely did such a thing. She was used to the girl of her childhood overlooking her faults, she often did for those she loved. Now however, she had come home on cold wings, only to be met by the same chill carrying the name of those she once cared for.
"I've returned now," she pressed, lifting her gaze. "To my lands. My birthright. I couldn't stay in that foreign place another moment." Her voice cracked slightly, but she steadied it. "Svea, I need help. They need to be stopped before they can reach further."
"Aeneas is the Jarl," Svea said carefully. "Is this not his right? The work of a Jarl?"
Asvoria huffed.
"You don't understand."
"Then tell me," Svea urged. Her tone remained level, but her patience was thinning. "Before you drag us into some revenge plan you haven't thought through."
Asvoria ran her fingers through her damp hair, the once-tight braid unraveling between them. Strands clung to her face, curling in the heat of the candles. For a moment, Svea saw not the woman before her, but the girl she used to be = the one who'd undo her braids whenever she was nervous or restless. It had always been her tell.
"Raoul proposes that competitions be rigged as they were at the festival, that battles be fought alongside our enemies," Asvoria began, her voice rising with each word. "Aeneas doesn't command it, he only agrees! He thanks Raoul for leading as he does. They expect me to throw all I am away, to roll over and expose our soft underbelly to those who would gut us. And Raoul. . ." she exhaled sharply, shutting her eyes. "He doesn't take it well when I refuse."
Her face was unsettled, her hands trembling just enough for Svea to notice as she spoke, surely remembering punishments that the latter could only imagine.
"Aeneas swore I would remain head of the Shield-Maidens when we arrived," she continued bitterly. "Yet. . . he relies on Eumelia. She talks down to me." Her laugh did not match her wide eyes which reflected panic, nor the flare of her nostrils. Svea had seen it once before: the same look on a boar before it charged, risking life for a single moment. "Eumelia, Svea. Can you believe it?"
"Iona didn't return with you?" Svea asked quietly. "Isn't she tired of their treatment as well?"
"It's only me," Asvoria insisted. "Only I'm made to suffer." her hands fidgeted, hair undone as it clung to her damp cheeks. She pushed it back into a loose, uneven knot. "Aeneas doesn't trust me. Hvitserk tells all who listen that I am untrustworthy, that I lie, anything so I won't be sent on raids. Not alone."
Her voice faltered as she began picking at the skin around her nails until one began to bleed faintly. "I need you to believe me," she whispered. "No one else has since I left."
Anger is not an easy thing to dissipate. Yet hearing this, knowing Asvoria as she did, Svea felt traces of sympathy she didn't know still existed within herself. They surfaced far easier than she would have liked. She forced herself to breathe. Anything to keep her mind clear for their discussion. Reason would serve her far better than sentiment.
Svea swallowed. "Everyone loves Aeneas," she reminded, taking her time with her words. "These accusations. . ."
What could be said that they didn't already know between the two of them?
These accusations were blasphemous against the ruler of not only their land but the surrounding ones. Oaths had been sworn; men and women had united beneath his banner. To go against him with not only an act of rebellion - it was treason.
How could they ever hope to build a case against such a man? The only way would be to overthrow him outright.
Grunting, Asvoria leaned forward as if she could will the other into seeing the things she saw. "Let us say he isn't making all of the decisions, he is still the face! He should pay for this. They all should! Aeneas allows it; he gives the final and permits everything."
Her leg bounced under the table, fingers busily worrying at the cuticles and torn skin around her thumbs until they reddened even more. "When he proposed my marriage to Raoul, I accepted for I though tit was a show of faith. A way to raise me within his circle. Now I see it for what it was. He meant to humiliate me." She huffed. "He is a bad man, Svea. All of them at Kattrönd are! Listen to me. Take heed of my guidance, my knowledge. We must bring them down and it must be done now. Once I reclaim my rightful place, I will take the Jarldom." She licked her lips. "And you -" her eyes flickered rapidly along the shadows playing on Svea's face. "You will be my most trusted Hersir. Unquestioned. Indisputable."
*Hersir - a member of a Jarl's inner circle: advisor, official, or warrior trusted above all others.
Tilting her head, Svea saw her opportunity.
"Then you'll permit me to provide you my first counsel now, Asvoria?"
Asvoria nodded.
"Do not breathe a word of these to anyone else," she warned quietly. "You'll be branded treasonous. No one will trust you. What proof do you have? Who in his house would stand beside you to accuse him?"
This was no better than a slap to the face.
Asvoria frowned. "You've always been so cautious," she muttered bitterly, turning her head aside, nails drumming against the wood.
And you've never been this. . . unstill. This unsure.
"Do you know what my name means?" Asvoria asked suddenly, her gaze locked on the candle flame. She ran her fingers through it, teasing the black smoke that caressed her skin. In another time, the flame might have been used to forge a bracelet instead of lighting a hall.
Svea shook her head.
Lately, she had given the meaning of names more thought than usual.
Her own, she had been told, meant spear. She wasn't sure what had guided her parents to name a child, who would grow into a simple farmer's daughter, after a weapon. The name had turned over in her mind time and time again, like a blade in the fire, testing its shape, its heat, the weight of it.
It reminded her of a spear thrown at dawn, cutting through the wind before even the sun had fully woken. Sharp. Direct. A name meant for one who would lead others into war, whether they wished for it or not. It was not a name meant for someone raised among grain stalks and barley fields. Not for someone whose father tilted the earth with bare hands and an aching back.
Why had they named her Svea? Was it hope? Fear? So many daughters bore the names of goddesses in hopes of their attributes, or of seasons for their beauty. Svea had been named for a simple weapon.
Did they see something in her eyes the day she first screamed at the word? Was there something that had told them she wouldn't stay where it was safe? Or had they only wanted her to be strong in a world that would not be?
She was growing into it, wasn't she? Even if it was against her better judgment. Whether name had made her, or she had made it, she couldn't say. There were days when the name didn't feel like hers at all but more like something she wore, like armor. Heavy. Chosen for her long before she had ever known what war was.
Names clung to people like shadows or shackles. Sometimes foretelling one's life before it unravels, or giving them something to live up to.
Vilhelmiina's name, for instance, meant helmet to some and resolute guardian to others. Svea thought of her friend, more specifically, the way she always used her "head" in battle, which drew a chuckle from her every time. She had decided long ago that Vilhelmiina's name must have been chosen by fate itself, for she embodied it completely. Few were fiercer protectors. Vilhelmiina was the kind of woman who didn't need to shout or demand; she existed, not in fear but from the admiration of others.
Leif's name, by contrast, was one for him to live up to. It meant heir to some, and he would forever chase the echo of time, hoping it might tell his tale for him rather than waiting to become more and more like his father. To Svea, though, his name carried another image: that of a tree's last leaf clinging through winter when all others had fallen. She hoped he was unburdened by inheritance, that he might always keep the gentleness only a leaf could carry.
Then there was her dearest friend, even across the oceans: Ulfinna. Wolf-born. There was no hiding what the name meant. It didn't ask for softness, instead it demanded teeth. A name like a prophecy, or a curse. Ulfinna wore it like a crown of ash and bone, and it suited her in ways that sometimes made Svea uneasy. As though she were watching fire dance too close to dry grass. Beautiful, but dangerous. Svea never knew who had given her the name or why, but she suspected it hadn't been born from tenderness.
Perhaps all names were weapons - just carved for different hands.