#freydis.2

[witchertorsten]

@freydis-freydat location: The Lostlands notes: it's hot in the lostlands for some reason, why would he wear a shirt.

The loss of the limb did not change the warrior's resolve. The Kingsguard still drew breath; the woman who'd cut him down should have seen the task through to completion. He'd wielded a sword in either hand for most of his life, that he was down to one would not stop Torsten from fighting. Torsten would return to Iskaldrik with an army, kill the Aetherians, and liberate the High King.

"Welcome back, Jarl Freydis," Torsten commented as he set the sword aside and gave the other his full attention. She was different from before, a scent permeated the air between them that brought the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Whispers had already permeated the tale of those who'd returned, the madness of the women of the mines was one that Torsten took with a grain of salt. People did what they needed to do to survive, and that even six came to return after two long months was a testament to their strength and Iskaran fortitude. Torsten thought nothing of the elvhen who returned.

"You've changed." He remarked, deducing passively from his years of arcana study that in her travels across places of inevitably thin veils, something had left an impression upon her. Something was holding on. In terms of change, clearly, Torsten could hardly comment. And yet, the handprint that marked his chest echoed something that he could barely hope to understand. The giant aimed to kill him, instead Torsten landed among those he was prepared to die trying to protect.

[cultofthepigeon]

i appreciate when more progressive history authors try and like, be sensitive to the insane amount of cruelty and violence women faced throughout history but like man

you dont have to sugar coat it bud you dont gotta tell me how horrific it was im a grown ass woman i get it ok i honestly just assume every woman born before like 1920 was raped and or molested at some point in her life you dont gotta stop and tell me you dont approve

[aegeanxcalla]

who?: @freydis-freydat where?: library of lórien'dal when?: well after aventia fell when people are getting their lives back together

There was no shame in failing to grasp a concept on an initial try, the shame was in failing to try at all. The pursuit of knowledge was brave in and of itself, so Calla wasn't too hard on herself. After all, there was limited empirical evidence pertaining to what components even made up a soul. Soulbinding itself was based on feeling and ritual, aspects of the world that couldn't easily be studied in a textbook. Calla wanted to learn precisely because the subject was outside of her realm of expertise, and she would've accepted she'd have to return to reread some texts if not for another sharing what they learned.   "I think … I get it now. It goes beyond simply uniting two souls, soulbinding is about tying the souls together in a way that transforms them. Still separate souls, but tied in a way that both changes them and creates something new. The unity they share would give the elvhen involved a new sense of self and love that I imagine would transform everything down to the fundamental way they view the world," Calla marveled, her eyes sparkling at Freydis. The other had no obligation to share, and yet the benevolent way she doled out new knowledge endeared the Scholar of Juno to her. "I know that it isn't what soulbinding is intended to be exclusively, but it's an incredibly romantic type of expression, don't you think?"

[alatarielqueen]

[froyofthe-ironwood]

who: @freydis-freydat

where: the wildlands

notes: girl we gotta rat out your boyfriend, who's not your boyfriend, who i don't know is your boyfriend, and his boyfriend (platonic)

Froy urged Aldaron into a gentle stride, watching Freydis as she prepared to set off for Haven. They had seen more than enough conflict on this mission, and it weighed heavily on his mind that there were now more questions to go with their new answers. The revelation about Nikandros and Eivor had shaken him in ways he hadn’t anticipated; despite everything they'd accomplished, he couldn’t silence the memories of Iskaldrik’s fall, now stirred by the knowledge of two Aetherians within their midst.

He cleared his throat, urging Aldaron forward to close the distance. "Freydis," he called softly, hoping to avoid startling her. "I was hoping to run into you, I had to retrieve Aldaron first." It took some time to make it to the wildlands, but Froy didn't mind the journey as there were no dragons or skeletons chasing after him. "Are you set on heading to Haven right away? I’ve been thinking… perhaps we should return to Eterna first and speak to the Queen. I think she has to hear about what we’ve learned. About Nikandros and Eivor.”

[sudaca-swag]

to non latines, this is the gringo equivalent of casually having hamburguer wrappers lying about your desk

[inheritanceistar]

who?: @freydis-freydat where?: deep in the battlefieldussy when?: when things went uh oh spaghettio

With the four fists of Andvari's earth form pulling magnetized threads and crushing multiple enemies at a time, Istar looked wide open. That fact spoke to whatever uncharacteristic intelligence these darkspawn possessed as he supported the forces from Haven. They continued to charge towards him and each time those who got close met the same fate: their bodies forcefully transfigured into inorganic constructs when his right hand took hold of them. To use Odin's power on such pathetic creatures felt like a slight against his skills earlier in the battle, but at this stage Istar had released such banal sentiment. He would not be holding back any longer. He could see an ogre barreling toward a fearless woman who had her shield and weapon raised in preparation. She was a true Iskaran, Istar could tell just from a few moments of watching her fight. Back in the fatherland, his next actions may have been interpreted as a slight against her battle prowess, but not in Lysara. Magnetically zipping over the ground so the creature could be twisted into a nonliving mass with one touch before it could reach her was simply just the kind of Warrior Istar was. "Apologies, but a commander has no need to put herself in harm's way," he states, noting how the few remaining fighters from Haven orbit around her as if she were the authority here. As Istar addresses her, Andvari shifts into its flame form. Istar is already holding this form's bow and a white hot bolt of heat forms an arrow as he draws the string. He fires, sending it right past Freydis to the heart of an approaching horde from behind. "That's what we foot soldiers are for. I shall do what I can for your forces now that I am here."

[rykardthebarbarian]

For: @freydis-freydat Where: Aventia When: Siege Week 3 Notes: sad awoo

The third week of the siege was marked with significant losses on the side opposing the Dark One's army. With every death, morale inside the war-beaten walls of the fortress plunged even lower. The nights were alive with the sounds of mournful wails as the survivors grieved for those who had not returned from the battlefield.

A sliver of a crescent moon hung directly above them in the sky. The hour of the wolf was upon them. How fitting. "You didn't have to help me with this," Rykard said to Freydis as they carefully placed the last fallen werewolf onto the pile of wood that would act as kindling for the cleansing fire. His expression was grim as he recognized the mangled face of one of the deceased. The boy was young, probably no older than nineteen. His family had a bakery in Haven, he tried to picture the wolf's warm smile as he handed out loaves of bread to the Iskaran refugees the day they had arrived in their settlement. He had never learned his name. He wondered if the boy's mother even knew he had left to go fight. If only his bravery was enough to keep his heart beating. "They deserve to rest."

"You will be free from the bonds that bind you," He spoke solemnly to each of the corpses that had been laid upon the make-shift funeral pyre. "You are free from the bonds that bound you." Rykard walked over to horse-drawn cart they had used to transport the corpses, grabbing the torch that had lit their way. He handed the torch to Freydis, glancing away from the unlit pyre as if he was trying to steady himself. Though he did not know these wolves personality, their loss felt like a stone resting on his chest. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "They we're under your command, you should be the one to send them off."

[freydis-freydat]

Prompt: What use was a broken shield? 

You’d already answered that question. A broken shield still had splinters but Mother never looked at you like you were ruined. She only saw someone worthy and strong. Where others had fallen to the song, useless ghouls with peeling flesh and a feral mind. You would not be like the gray meat you carved away for Mother’s appetite, the morsels of rot that your teeth dug into to soothe your appetite. Better than the scraps that your brothers fought over, and valuable as the urchins that you brought forth from Mother’s heart.

When she died, you felt all the light leave the world. The cave grew dark, the fires felt cold, and in the heat of it all a werewolf tore through it all. It descended upon you, you knew this one, somehow you knew her - but a splintered piece of wood jammed into its mane was enough to send it reeling away before it could make a meal out of you like it had Mother. Her song was gone now, but her song echoed in your heart; not as anything sweet, but as a brutal reminder of the dignity these beasts had taken from you. A fractured shield in hand, the ax of a felled darkspawn in the other, even if it killed you, you would teach these beasts why your people named you Jarl Icefang.

(tw: violence, disembowelment kind of?) Something reverberated through the channel of the cavern, bouncing off the walls like an invisible wall of energy and washing over her like the wave of a silent echo. It pulled Freydis back to the surface of consciousness and out of the fugue-like state under which she had floated for how long; hours, days, weeks? She barely knew, barely felt within her body. The feeling of grit coating her skin and the aching of her exhausted muscles felt foreign to her. Awake might be a generous work for it, but despite all of that she felt just so: awakened. 

Freydis had been with one of the brood’s larvae at the time. It felt like the hands of another’s that suspended it out in front of her as she observed the fetid thing she had been tasked with nurturing. All resolve to sustain it dissolved in an instant, its wet, wriggling body sliding through her hands leaving strands of mucus as the only evidence she had once been carrying it. It squelched as it landed at her feet and began to squall. She glanced down at it where it writhed between her feet, her nose wrinkling in abject disgust, and the corners of her mouth curling in utter revulsion at the mere sight of the maggot-like youngling. It sickened her, revolted her. She stooped down to pick it up, her vice grip around one of its serpentine appendages anything but motherly. 

Its other legs, if they could be called such, slapped ineffectively at the back of her hand and coiled around her wrist stoking the fires of an internal rage that was summering as the sheer numbness of shock wore away. Freydis' head tilted slightly as she lifted her other hand and grabbed two of the offensive tentacle-like legs of the creature. It was vile, she thought, and debasing; it had not been the one to drag her under the surface of whatever spell she now found herself liberated from but as the representation of the brood mother that had put her under it. And of more, much, much more that had lived underneath the surface of her since she was a shieldmaiden of no more than sixteen. Was this all she would ever amount to? The value of her sex’s ability to bleed to create life and her ability to bleed others and take it… Her fury scared her, the way it had when she looked at the bashed-in skull of the once-jarl and her own bloody hands that had been the instruments that left him in that sorry state. Even now, her hands burned where her knuckles had scarred, her mind burning in fear of the truth that all she was and would ever amount to was a warm body strung between one violent act and the next.

Despite this fear, she was compelled. She could correct the indignity of becoming a nursemaid for such vile spawn even if it stoked the flames of her innermost fear of her own fury. She felt her teeth might shatter for how tightly she clenched her jaw, her breath unsteady and shaky, and she began to pull. Freydis’ deafened herself to the crying of the welp as she drew its lower appendages further and further from the other, the pathetic thing hanging upside down in her grip. She refused to hear the crying give way to screaming, the screaming to screeches, and the screeches to pre-verbal pleas for its life. Mercy was not part of the equation on either side of the transgressions within that treacherous lair. It didn’t tear cleanly, but it did come apart more easily than she suspected. It’s stinking blood and entrails slopped onto the floor before she released the two halves of its carcass. Unceremoniously, Freydis dropped them, discarding the creature like it was nothing. She didn’t bother to check if it had already stopped bleeding or if it suffered for long on the stone floor after being cruelly wrenched in two.

Freydis could intuit that the brood mother was dead, could feel the absence, but it didn’t occur to her that further threats beyond her underlings roamed the halls–and that she’d attracted the attention of such threats by allowing her anger to get the better of her. It was upon her before she even knew she ought to be afraid, a golden-haired werewolf barreling down the cavern and pouncing upon her. The wind was knocked from her lungs as her back hit the rugged cave floor, sharp rocks lodging into her back and sharper yet fangs gnashing at her face. It brought her back to the bereskarn she had slaughtered with the witcher, though this time she had only her bare hands and whatever was within arms reach to defend her. No unlikely ally would have her back. 

She let out a great shout, verbalizing her effort and anger as she held the great beast back from her jugular with her bare hands, elbows locked out in front of her to maintain the distance between those threatening fangs and the soft tissue of her neck. Freydis turned her face from the threatening canines and found fate smiled upon her as a great, sharp shard of some rudimentary shield lay no more than two feet to her left. With great effort, she twisted her body to lay on her left side below the great body of the beast that hovered over her. When the moment was right, she grabbed at the shard of wood and lifted her right leg, swiftly hooking it around the beast’s great flank and throwing the whole of her weight against it. Freydis’ used the momentum of her own weight to take position sitting on the back of the great beast. It was a shot in the dark, but it was the best she had–her arm lifted and deftly arced back behind her blindly stabbing at where she hoped the beast’s neck was. The pained howls told her she had found the sticking point. 

The werewolf reared, throwing Freydis back against the nearest wall of the cave before it retreated. For how likely Freydis’ could have been staring down her own death in the frenzied eyes of the beast she felt she had been let off relatively easily. Every muscle and bone in her body made its protest known as she rolled onto her stomach, panting as she watched the retreating wolf. Only now, as the adrenaline waned did she put what she had seen together. The color of the wolf’s fur, the specific hue of its eyes–if it had been one of them, it would have been Luna. Freydis pushed herself up from the floor of the cave, her footing faltering for a moment before she righted herself as she came to full height. 

For a moment, she glanced over her shoulder toward the direction the wolf had run in–had the injury Freydis afflicted been critical? She knew it wouldn’t be deadly, not to a werewolf in its monstrous form, but what would await Luna when she shifted back to her human body? Freydis cursed the fact she wasn’t better versed in all matters lupine, but to track Luna in order to know for sure would be her certain death. It was safer to take the path that the werewolf had just come from; and she had promised she would deliver Aytaç from this hell back to, well, whatever new hell awaited the refugees who had survived–if any of them had.

Once she had collected herself, the shieldmaiden began to take better account of her surroundings. There was little to recommend itself for use save the shattered splinters of a wooden shield that felt more like mockery and the ghost of a past she didn’t want to remember but knew better than to try and forget. She chewed the corner of her cracked, chapped bottom lip and chose to leave most of it and took only the largest piece. It wouldn’t do much to protect from or inflict damage, but it felt like something of a phantom limb come home as she held it in front of her. 

There was no more time to waste–it was imperative to find the others, specifically the princess, and make their escape. They wouldn’t go undetected forever, and they wouldn’t be given a second chance either–salvation needed to be seized in these moments whatever the cost. This thought propelled her down the dimly lit passage. Instinct rather than true memory told her that the brood mother’s main chamber was down this way, and she resolved her mettle in regard to what she might find–not in terms of carnage. That didn’t bother her, she would need to have sympathy for the creatures lain waste to be moved by their misfortune, but rather what threats might await her. 

The one god must have had Freydis in her good favor the jarless thought as she happened upon a slain darkspawn, its discarded ax some few feet from its unmoving body. She picked it up quickly, the cool temperature of the handle and the weight of the weapon in her hand as soothing as anything she’d ever known before. Freydis knew that her temper and her might were a vice, that they threatened to undo her and lay senseless waste, and that she needed to be careful with the sheer capacity for destruction that existed within her. But for now, in the right place at the right time, she understood those who beatified her for it. 

In the following hours, she fought her way through the cavern and offshoot of the main corridor of the brood mother. If she had started out keeping count of the wretched underlings and dark spawn, she exhausted her knowledge of numbers by the time she finished her slaughter of that arm of the cave system. Anything she crossed, she butchered. Feminine rage was unending fuel to the furnace of her might. By the time she reached the yawning mouth of the channel she had been exploring, she felt the ax in her hand was a part of her, fused to her like a new appendage crimson and slicked in blood as the rest of her.

[lunadarkwoodx]

Who: @freydis-freydat Where: Aventia Notes: please note that I am still reading to catch up, including the discord dnd encounters so i ask u to hold my hand and forgive me as i play booboo the fool

Fires burned across the land, the smell of burning hair and burning flesh had laid heavy across the warriors that still stood fighting agaisnt the Darkspawn army. Hope seemed futile and yet it was all they had to cling too as the Darkspawn worked to consume in efforts that went far beyond their intelligence. Her axe had become dirty with blighted blood, a dark ichor that bled more black than red dripped from the sharp end of the blade. A warg moved with it's belly low to the blood soaked mud and crept upon a spot of light that was Freydis fighting agaisnt the onslaught, aiming an arrow, she shot for the throat and it was with a high-pitched whine that the Warg died where it stood, fangs bared for Freydis's leg. Cocking an eyebrow, she came near. "I see you got a thing for werewolves." A new development that Luna must have missed as her kind followed Freydis as a commander.

[alatarielqueen]

Memories of season 1 ❤️🫶🏻

Leif Erikson & Harald Sigurdsson in Vikings Valhalla (2022 -)

[mithrandirl]

FRIDA GUSTAVSSON as FREYDIS ERIKSDOTTER in VIKINGS: VALHALLA season 1 ↳@perioddramasource PERIOD DRAMA APPRECIATION WEEK 2024 | day 2: favorite character

[natalieironside]

Hey great news I've made some progress editing the back chapters of Oathbreaker and putting them somewhere other than ugly-ass Patreon. Great news for gay ppl who like low-fantasy swashbucklers about sad knights who feel bad about the bad stuff they did. If that's u then u can come follow along w/ this most true and creditable recounting of the life and doings of Sir Reynold d'Morwen, Marquiss of Eldur. If u read In the Court of the Nameless Queen, you'll see lots of familiar faces.

It follows the misadventures of Reynold d'Morwen, a boy from Morwen Vale who took holy orders to escape justice for a terrible crime and now finds himself part of a military order, the Knights of St. Vitus, where he's dragooned into a war of conquest and faith with the vicious and fearless barbarians to the north of his homeland. Thrown into a life wherein every moment of existence is an act of faith and war, Reynold is forced to grow up hard and fast and make some hard decisions about who he is, what he stands for, and what it means to do the right thing. Come see all the exciting attractions, such as: How Freydis' battle plan from Carnival worked out. Fantasy Cathars and Fantasy Bogomils. The omnicidal omnisexual cannibals (aka the good guys). Guys making bad decisions that end very badly for everyone involved. Guys who are just being bros with their bros who are definitely guys until it turns out they're girls. Giant spiders. Awkward teenagers in love bumbling into each other. And lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of religious trauma!

Rn we got Chapter 1: Four Hares and a Priest

Chapter 2: Mount and Blade

Chapter 3: Of Women and Rabbits

Chapter 4: Sweetbreads

More 2 come

[bumblesimagines]

Under The Moonlight

Part 2

Request: Yes or No

~~~

Their cell felt cold and dark. Hay sparsely covered the solid ground and the windows were covered, making the circle in the ceiling their only form of light apart from the single torch in the corner. Dust clung to the air and walls, telling (Y/N) the jail was very rarely used. Jarl Haakon appeared to run a tight ship.

But even with years of experience under her belt, she hadn't foreseen the attack Freydis had launched on the Christian. She'd been successful without Harald's keen eye trained on her. Using her knife, she had carved a cross into the man's chest just as he had done to her back years prior. The aftermath had been far from calm but Jarl Haakon had been convinced to provide them a proper trial rather than take their heads.

So, there they were... Sitting in a cold cell with a murky future ahead of them. (Y/N) could only stare at the flickering flame of the torch, his finger tracing over the thread of his necklace, feeling his skin brush against the canine teeth tied to it. None of them had gotten a wink of sleep with the threat of death looming over them and (Y/N) could feel the consequences of it knawing at the back of his eyes. His siblings sat silently with their knees up to their chests, gazes distant as they stared forward. 

"Do you feel justice?" Leif broke the silence first with his words, lifting his head and looking at the exhausted Freydis. 

"Yes, I do," Freydis answered softly and craned her neck to look at them over her shoulder. Even with the dim lighting, (Y/N) could still see the drops of blood splattered on her face. "I feel cleansed."

"Good." Leif breathed, nodding to himself before continuing. "Because now they intend to kill us."

"I don't believe that. Father said-"

"Father was wrong." Leif interrupted and Freydis frowned, looking away from them as her bottom lip began to quiver. "He's a stranger to this world, Freydis. He does not know how much has changed since he left."

"Then I believe in Jarl Haakon." Freydis asserted, eyes beginning to gloss over with fresh tears. Guilt and hope battled within her, (Y/N) saw it in her eyes. She'd gotten her justice but at what cost? Her life? Her brothers' lives?

"I believe in her too." (Y/N) muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Her face changed when she heard what happened, Leif. She may not allow us to go unpunished, but she may allow us to live."

"Jarl Haakon may feel sympathy, but she is in a difficult position. If she releases us, she risks war. Christians will burn down Kattegat and many of her people will die. It is in her best interest to have us killed." 

"Then we die together. We came here for Freydis. We knew the risks and dangers. I would rather die beside my family than surrounded by strangers on a battlefield." (Y/N) declared, turning his attention onto Freydis. Her lips pursed and she released a breathy, sad chuckle as she turned her head to gaze fondly at her brother. Tears had already begun to slip down her cheeks but his words put a warm smile on her face. Allowing his shoulders to slump, Leif inhaled deeply and nodded in agreement, reaching his arm out to wrap it around his brother's shoulder. 

"We fought together and we'll die together," Leif muttered, resting his cheek against (Y/N) head. 

Freydis's lips parted, almost as if to speak, but her words caught in her throat when the cell door slung open and three Vikings entered with chains and shackles in their hands. While the one with chains approached Freydis, the other two walked toward the brothers and roughly pulled them up onto their feet, placing the shackles on their wrists and shoving them forward toward the doors. They were escorted out of the cell and down an equally dimly lit hallway before being directed outside and toward the hall where Jarl Haakon and King Canute waited for them. 

The hall had already been filled with Vikings, mainly Christians seeking justice for their fallen friend. They glared and sneered and jeered, gazing upon them as if they were mere filth. (Y/N) felt the hate and rage in their gazes. Even if they barely cared for the murdered Christian, following another god was a sin worthy of death for many of them. Their hatred could move mountains, but on most days, it burned down homes and slaughtered innocents. 

"Freydis Eriksdotter, you are accused of murdering a man you claimed attacked you." Jarl Haakon took her seat on her throne, head lifting as she regarded Freydis. "Have you a way to prove this?"

"Did I put the scar on my back?"

"Any one of your lovers could have done that to you!" One of the Christians, Jarl Olaf Haraldsson, sneered from his spot in the crowd, glaring at them with the same fury and disgust.

Freydis scowled. "The Gods know the whole truth!"

"False Gods!" Jarl Olaf spat back, rousing the crowd with his words as Vikings called their agreements or disagreed with him. In an attempt to quiet the crowd, Jarl Haakon repeatedly hit the floor with her staff, frown deepening when it proved futile and tensions grew.

"There is only one false God! Your Christian God!" Jarl Gorm bellowed, his voice carrying above all others.

"Silence!" Jarl Haakon called, slamming her staff down one last time and watching the men finally settle down. With the attention back on the trial instead of religion, Jark Haakon sighed and nodded to Freydis.

"In the old ways, you would be well within your rights to take revenge. But we live in different times. There are those gathered among us who feel that your claims require further truth. Can you provide it?"

"A trial by combat." Freydis proposed, shifting her gaze onto Jarl Olaf, a man thrice her size. (Y/N) felt his breath catch in his throat, widened eyes meeting Leif's as the two exchanged a panicked glance. Freydis could hold her own, they knew that well, but Jarl Olaf was far more experienced in combat and strategy than any of them. "If I am lying, the Gods will not protect me."

"Combat? With me?" Jarl Olaf snickered and the rest of the hall howled with laughter.

Lips pulling into an amused smirk, Jarl Haakon eyed the cackling man. "You are her accuser. Are you afraid?" Her words caused Jarl Olaf's face to burn, glaring at those among him who laughed at him instead. Eager to shake the embarrassment and attention off, he stepped forward and addressed the quiet man beside Jarl Haakon.

"King Canute, this woman's actions have robbed you of a valuable part of your arsenal. Not having Gunnar puts the lives of everyone in this room, Christian and Pagan, at risk. Therefore, I implore you and the noble ruler of Kattegat to acknowledge that debt and make her pay for it with her life!" Turning, he shouted as he pointed at Freydis. With the crowd once again growing rowdy, Jarl Olaf smugly smirked and stepped back into line. The confidence on his face made (Y/N) grind his teeth.

"Jarl Haakon, may I speak?" Harald called out, stepping forward when the woman nodded. Motioning toward Jarl Olaf, he began. "Jarl Olaf makes an excellent argument. Gunnar was an important part of our strategy, and his loss will indeed cause hardship. But my brother may have also offered a better solution. Since this woman cost you a vital element to your mission, should she not be forced to render something of equal, if not greater value to our endeavor?"

"Such as?" King Canute prompted and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. With King Canute's interest piqued, the end of Harald's lips twitched upward and he turned his head to look at the siblings, gaze lingering on Freydis before he lifted his arm.

"Her brothers: Leif Eriksson and (Y/N) Eriksson." Harald answered. Freydis went rigid, eyes widening as her brothers were pushed forward for King Canute to look upon. "Sons of the Great Berserker, Erik the Red. Leif is one of, if not the best ship captains in this room. He piloted his ship across open ocean from Greenland through a storm that killed scores of others, with the help of his brother, (Y/N), who possesses incredible fighting skills I've witnessed myself. Should we doubt their motivation, they will be fighting for the life... of their sister." 

Harald had offered a solution without bloodshed. A solution that saved their lives, if they didn't die in the war instead. (Y/N)'s throat felt dry but a sense of relief settled on his chest, eyes shifting to look at his sister. Freydis appeared near tears, nearly trembling as she stared at Jark Haakon and King Canute. They could easily dismiss it and proceed with killing them but as the two leaders looked at each other, it seemed like they were in agreement. 

"Leif Eriksson, (Y/N) Eriksson, I ransom your sister to King Canute. To repay her debt, you both must pledge service to his cause. Do you accept these terms?" Jark Haakon asked. (Y/N) looked at his brother next, staring into Leif's blue eyes and searching for any ounce of doubt. But he found none. And Leif found none in (Y/N) either. 

"I do." With their answer, Jarl Haakon nodded for her men to release the brothers. One man took Freydis by the arm and pulled her away, only letting the brothers stare after their sister as the shackles were removed from their wrists. And while they physically weren't shackled anymore, they were still in chains. Tied to King Canute until his war ended. But their sister would live and that was all that mattered to (Y/N).

"I believe this is yours," Harald said, pulling their attention onto him. Harald extended his arm toward him, offering back his precious dagger. (Y/N) felt a sense of relief and security wash over him, gently picking up the dagger and sliding it into his rightful place. Noticing the calm that wash over the younger man, Harald smiled. "Come, both of you. I must show you something." 

"What is it?" Leif asked curiously, a hint of caution in his voice as the brothers followed Harald out of the hall but the Viking simply grinned at them. The other Greenlanders quickly joined them, quietly asking questions and glancing at each other nervously when Leif answered them. They weaved their way through the bustling town, reaching the dock where ships awaited them, many being prepared and packed for the trip to England. Harald led them toward one in particular.

"It was my father's ship." He revealed, stopping before it and watching the Greenlanders begin to board and explore it curiously. (Y/N) followed his brother on, looking over the woodwork of it. The ship was far larger than the boat they'd used to sail to Kattegat, sturdier and meant for many Vikings. A true warship. "And now it's yours," Harald added, drawing the brothers' attention. (Y/N) met Leif's gaze, shrugging his shoulders when the older man raised a brow. 

"It's a nice boat." (Y/N) murmured, running a hand over the ledge of the boat before peering up at Harald and catching sight of his prideful smile.

"I'm glad you find it so," Harald replied, his gaze focused solely on the young Greenlander. His eyes studied (Y/N) closely, almost as if he were trying to commit every detail about him to memory. When Harald finally pried his eyes off him, he motioned toward the boat docked beside them. (Y/N) turned his head and easily spotted it. Perhaps twice as large as the boat they were on and suited for royalty. Shields had been fasted to the sides of it, proudly displaying the colors of Norway's flag. "But that is the ship I covet."

"King Harald of Norway, hm?" Leif spoke in a teasing tone, his grin only growing when he noticed the surprised look that passed over his brothers' features. (Y/N)'s eyes widened slightly and his head snapped in the direction of his brother. His skin flushed lightly and he avoided Harald's amused gaze.

"Someday." Harald smiled warmly before nodding to them and heading down the dock.

Leaning his hip against the wall of their new ship, (Y/N) watched the dark-haired prince, feeling his skin prickle with some embarrassment when Harald looked back toward him, coming to a slow stop and holding his gaze. Averting his eyes, (Y/N) cleared his throat and faced his brother, arms crossing over his chest. "You could've mentioned he was a prince."

"I enjoy it when you make a fool of yourself." Leif chuckled, helping Yrsa and Toke bring everyone's belongings on board. (Y/N) couldn't help the small smile that stretched across his face, rolling his eyes at his brother's words and stepping toward Yrsa to help as well. Leif questioned his friends, allowing them to choose whether they'd join him in battle or remain safe in Kattegat. With the boat ready to go, (Y/N) and Leif stepped back onto the dock and exchanged farewells with the friends who chose to remain in Kattegat. 

Feeling Leif tug on his arm, he turned his head and spotted their sister making her way down the dock with Harald, a wide smile on her face. She embraced Leif first, giving him a tight hug and rubbing his arm. Gazing at (Y/N), she hugged him next and sighed softly, tightening her hold on him for a moment before stepping back. With quivering lips and watery eyes, she smiled. "I will make sacrifices to Odin for your safe return."

"We'll be fine. You take care of yourself." Leif smiled softly at her and she nodded, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She inhaled and looked at (Y/N), rolling her lips into her mouth and stepping forward for a second hug. (Y/N) chuckled softly, stroking the back of her head and holding her close.

"Protect each other." She whispered shakily, hand rubbing his back.

"We will." (Y/N) assured, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. Freydis leaned back, using the back of her back to wipe away the tears sliding down her cheeks. She smiled warmly at the rest of her friends, stepping forward to give them each an embrace. The familiar feeling of tears prickled the back of his eyes but he blinked them away and stepped onto the boat, inhaling shakily. With the goodbyes finished, Freydis smiled sadly and looked over each of them, taking slow steps along the dock until she reached Harald and uttered a soft thanks. She glanced one last time over her shoulder before heading down the dock and disappearing from sight.

A few more Vikings joined them, some Christian, others Pagan. Among them were Jarl Gorm, the outspoken Pagon with a large figure and long ginger hair, and his son Arne, a young man with a scruffy beard and short blonde hair. Then there was Johan, a Christian Viking with hair that swept over one eye, and Tomas, a younger man with short curly black hair and boyish features. Birger, a Christian Viking who appeared to be a close friend of Harald's, joined them as well. 

(Y/N) watched the new faces join them and introduce themselves, and even with each friendly smile, he felt more and more uneasy. It'd taken nearly a year for (Y/N) to grow comfortable around the other Greenlanders, and it took another year for him to fully trust them. To have so many strangers on a boat with growing animosity between a few of them... (Y/N)'s stomach twisted. 

Noticing his tense figure, Leif placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Easy, (Y/N). We're all working together." He murmured and (Y/N) nodded, turning to watch him step onto one of the seats and look over his new crew as Njal and Skarde brought a barrel to the center of the boat.

"Listen up! All knives and axes in the barrel. No one rows with a weapon on them." 

"I don't give up my knife for anybody." Jarl Gorm voiced defiantly.

"There's only one reason to row with a weapon, and that is to kill someone else on this boat. Your enemy is not here." Leif responded, gaze shifting to his brother and giving a small shake of his head. (Y/N) rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger, satisfied he didn't have to toss it into the barrel.

"What if he is?" Arne piped up, eyeing Johan and Tomas when the two stepped by him.

"Then I'll deal with it," Leif answered cooly, face remaining stoic as he looked over the crew. For him to be taken seriously, he needed to act like a leader. Otherwise, those like Arne and Jarl Gorm would do as they pleased, even at the cost of others' lives.

Moving forward, Harald spoke and dropped his axe into the barrel. "I have no enemies here." 

With Harald making the first move, the others soon followed, dropping their axes and knives into the barrel. The outspoken men hesitated, glancing at each other and staring at the barrel as weapons were dropped in. Arne cracked first, begrudgingly dropping his axe in. Jarl Gorm held Leif's gaze challengingly but ultimately stepped forward and tossed his weapons in. (Y/N) watched him, taking note of the way he readjusted his coat with his back turned to them. Humming softly, he looked back at Leif and quirked a brow, his brother giving a small nod of acknowledgment before beckoning him over.

"I want you beside me," Leif told him, sitting down on his seat and resting his arms upon the steering oar. (Y/N) eyed Harald when the prince sat down behind Leif, a small smile appearing on the prince's face. (Y/N) frowned at him in return and took a seat on the bulwark, feeling Harald's eyes burn into the back of his head. Propping his leg up, (Y/N) placed his arm on his knee as the boat began to move forward, following King Canute's ship. Vikings released shouts and cries of encouragement as they rowed out into open water.

"Interesting necklace," Harald mentioned, retrieving a discarded rope and beginning to toy with the ends of it, gazing at the threat holding the canine teeth together around the Greenlander's neck. (Y/N) turned his attention out onto the dark waters, watching the ripples and small waves in a blatant attempt at ignoring the prince.

Leif made a noise of amusement and shook his head, fingers drumming lightly against the steering oar. "My brother has never been much of a talker."

"I can see that," Harald chuckled. 

Hours passed, the occasional silence filled with small talk between Leif and Harald. The two seemed to grow a quick tolerance for each other, even going as far as cracking a few jokes. And despite Harald's attempts at communicating with the younger Eriksson, his questions remained unanswered, though it only fueled his curiosity. Jarl Gorm eventually walked toward them, being mindful of holding onto things unless he wished to be tossed around by the rocking boat. 

"So, is this your first Viking raid? Are you nervous?" Jarl Gorm questioned, resting his hand on the side of the boat and planting his feet firmly on the wood beneath them. 

"Our father was a raider. He told us he was a Berserker." Leif said and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

"That means he was a mighty warrior and killed many men." Jarl Gorm explained, stepping closer to Leif and moving his hand onto the oar. "Like Harald." Jarl Gorm motioned toward the prince and for the first time since the boat set sail, (Y/N) turned his head to look at him.

Unable to read his expression clearly, Harald cleared his throat. "So, why did he go to Greenland?"

"Because he killed men, even when he wasn't raiding," Leif answered grimly. The subject of their father never failed to make him upset. Even when Erik made attempts at being a decent father, his past and crimes always caught up to him. A past his children had to accept but Leif grew to resent.

"Have you ever killed a man before?" 

Shaking his head, Leif frowned at Jarl Gorm. "No. I've never had a reason to."

"And you, boy?" Jarl Gorm turned toward (Y/N) next. The younger Greenlander held Harald's gaze for a moment longer before looking at the older man and nodding, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Almost." (Y/N) answered and Jarl Gorm raised his brows. "He insulted my family so I bashed his face in with a rock. He lost an eye." He still remembered the day. He'd only been nine when the thirteen-year-old boy had decided to bother Erik the Red's son. He found out just how thin (Y/N)'s patience ran at the cost of an eye. The memory of his screams and wails still brought a smirk to (Y/N)'s face. 

Smirking widely, Jarl Gorm nodded his approval. "It appears we've got a Berserker in the making."

"We were children." Leif clarified hastily, a frown pulling at his lips.

"Still." Jarl Gorm insisted before he sighed heavily and looked between the two. Without their father there to guide them, it seemed as if Jarl Gorm wanted to take matters into his own hands. "The first time is sometimes difficult. A man is different. He fights back."

"So does a polar bear." Leif chided and Harald smirked, chuckling softly under his breath. Seemingly irritated with his dismissive response and Harald's amusement, Jarl Gorm's lip curled and he turned,  heading back to his seat. (Y/N) watched him go, turning his head to meet his brother's eyes and frowning. Leif responded with a small nod.

Noticing the interaction between the brothers, Harald hummed. "You can speak freely before me, (Y/N)."

"Why should I?" (Y/N) frowned at him. "I do not trust you. Prince of Norway or not, you are... nothing to me."

"I saved your lives." Harald reminded softly, brows furrowing when (Y/N)'s eyes narrowed, almost reeling back at the irritation that appeared on his face. "How can you not trust me after that?"

"Because you had no reason to. People only help others when they wish for something in return and you've yet to reveal what you want from us."

"I want nothin-"

"I do not believe you." (Y/N) interrupted him. "We owe you, you know this. So what do you want? Our blessing to couple with our sister? If she wants you, we will not stop her." 

Sighing heavily, Harald shook his head. "Freydis is an incredibly strong woman and I admire her greatly. But she does not desire me nor I her."

"Then why-" A holler for Harald came from King Canute's ship and the prince quickly rose to his feet, noticing the large ship had stopped and tilted slightly to allow for Harald to board it.

"This is not over," Harald told (Y/N) as he climbed onto the side of the ship, carefully making his way along the edge until he stepped onto the larger boat and approached King Canute beneath the pitched tent. (Y/N) clenched his jaw and shook his head, looking back at Leif. His older brother stared at him with a frown.

"What?"

"You don't need to be so harsh. I have no reason to believe he has ill intentions." Leif spoke softly, leaning into the steering oar and gazing at his brother. (Y/N) sighed, turning his head away from him. His lips parted to speak but the sight of dark clouds approaching broke his train of thought. Straightening up, (Y/N) felt the wind pick up considerably, and soon, a horn echoed as a warning of the incoming storm. Cold droplets fell onto his face and he looked back at his brother, groaning softly. Leif watched the storm, looking up at the clouds as thunder began to clap above them.

Turning to the man closest to him, he gave an order. "Lower the sail." 

"Lower the sail!" Birger called as those standing quickly sat back down and prepared to hang on for dear life. The ginger made his way toward the mast but tripped over Aren's outstretched foot, causing him to take a quick tumble onto the wet floor. 

"Watch out, Christian! Maybe you should pray to be more careful." Aren cackled loudly.

"You tripped him on purpose." Johan scoffed, droplets dripping down the side of his face as the rain pelted them.

"I did not."

"I saw you!" Johan barked and Aren's cocky smirk quickly slipped from his face.

"You callin' me a liar?" Arne questioned and stood, tapping his chest. "Come here and tell me that!" He challenged, causing Johan to rise from his spot and step toward him. But before the two men could meet in the middle, (Y/N) shoved himself between them, putting his hand on Arne's shoulder and forcing him back down to his seat.

"Resolve your issues when we reach land." (Y/N) ordered, turning his head toward Johan. He only had to give the taller man a hard look for the Christian to bow his head and lower himself back into his seat.

Leif moved to stand beside (Y/N), frowning down at Arne. "Do you have a problem with my order?"

"I'm fine." Arne raised his arms in surrender and (Y/N) removed his hand from his shoulder. Satisfied with his response, Leif nodded and patted his brother's back, turning away from the others as Jarl Gorm followed the two toward the steering oar. 

"I thought you were both followers of the Old Gods, like your father." He spoke loudly, the rain beating down on his face and causing him to squint. Merely glancing at the older man, (Y/N) slipped some rope around his palm and gripped it as tight as possible, hoping it'd keep him from falling into the turbulent waves around them. 

"We are," Leif nodded, getting behind the oar and placing his hands on it.

"Then why take the word of a Christian over my own son?"

"Because your son is a liar, Jarl Gorm." He answered bluntly before leaning back. "I suggest you hold on. It's about to get rough."

                    ➸        ➸       ➸       ➸       ➸       ➸

Thick fog surrounded them on all sides and the wind howled softly while birds circled above them. (Y/N) couldn't hear or see another boat, meaning they were all alone for now. With no land or allies in sight. And yet, (Y/N) didn't have worries or fears. His brother knew what he was doing, that was for certain. As long as Leif didn't panic, (Y/N) had no reason to worry. But the others aboard didn't know his brother as well as he did, they didn't trust him either. It was apparent in the way some Christians prayed and others stared at them accusingly. 

"We're lost, aren't we?" Jarl Gorm spoke up first, voicing the thought no doubt plaguing their minds. "You've never been to England, and you've lost us!"

"We're not lost." Leif objected tiredly and (Y/N) turned his head to look back at them, frowning at the way Jarl Gorm scowled at his brother.

"Liar! This is your fault and the fault of all the Christians and their false God. The Gods are laughing at us right now!"

"Shut up, heathen." Birger groaned.

"What did you say to me?"

"I said, shut up. You sound like a frightened child." The ginger gritted his teeth as he spoke, turning his head to look upon Jarl Gorm. The Viking slowly rose from his seat, sneering down at the man and stepping toward him. Tearing himself away from the pow, (Y/N) descended down the two steps and slammed his palm on the mast as a warning, successfully taking Jarl Gorm's attention off the man and onto him.

"Stop rowing!" Leif barked his order, walking forward toward Jarl Gorm. "What do you see that makes you believe we're lost?"

"What do I see?" Jarl Gorm repeated, turning his head from side to side before settling his gaze back on Leif and wildly motioning around them. "No land!"

"See, that is where you and I are different. The sky tells me we are headed west. Auks and gannets flying high tell me the weather is improving and we are nearing land." Leif explained, watching Jarl Gorm glance up at the birds flying above. He looked back down at Leif and swallowed.

"Then where are the other boats?"

"The other boats are not my responsibility. This boat-" Leif tapped the mast, raising his brows at Jarl Gorm. "-is my responsibility. For all you know, the other boats are lost, not ours. Now, we continue." With his words, the others resumed their rowing. Jarl Gorm accepted defeat and headed back to his spot. 

"And Jarl Gorm, stop blaming the Christians for your fears, hm?" Leif turned away from the man and (Y/N) followed suit as Birger began laughing. But when his laughter abruptly stopped and turned into gurgling, (Y/N) turned around and spotted him leaning against the side of the boat with blood pouring down his neck. The small group of Christians were immediately held back and the other Greenlanders could only stare at the bleeding man. Liv tore herself from their side and hurried over to Birger but the damage had been done. She could only provide mild comfort as he slowly died.

"I'm taking over the boat!" Jarl Gorm declared. "Arne, get the weapons."

"Let them go!" Leif demanded, pushing his way through the crew as (Y/N) quickly stood in front of the barrel, blocking Arne from reaching it just in time.

"Or what, Greenlander? You're going to kill me? I am not a bear and you are not a Viking." Jarl Gorm called hauntingly. His son glared at (Y/N) but remained rooted in his spot, eyes nervously flickering to Njal as the taller man protectively stood behind (Y/N). "You don't have the stomach to kill me."

"A polar bear thinks the same thing before he dies," Leif replied and with a grunt, Jarl Gorm lunged forward. Leif dodged the swing from his axe, slipping past him and using the mast to block Jarl Gorm's swing before he sprung out, digging his knife into the belly of the man. Leif stared him in the eyes as Jarl Gorm gasped and whimpered, digging his knife deeper and deeper. Arne whipped his head around to look at his father, staggering slightly and swallowing thickly.

"When I pull this out, you will be dead. Before I do, tell your men what you see." Leif demanded, turning the man to look forward. 

With one last dying gasp, Jarl Gorm spoke before collapsing on the ground, "England." 

"Anyone else wishes to join Jarl Gorm?" (Y/N) questioned loudly, staring at Arne and raising a brow at him. When the blonde turned away from him and slumped back down in his seat, he looked over each Viking, watching them avert their eyes and shake their heads. (Y/N) turned his attention back onto Arne, gaze lingering on him before he hummed. "Good. Now, get to rowing." 

Once everyone settled back down into their spots, (Y/N) and Leif dragged Birger to the middle of the boat beside Jarl Gorm. Despite their faults, (Y/N) was certain they'd find themselves feasting with whichever faith they chose to believe in, old or new. Leif returned to the steering oar and settled down, appearing unphased by what had occurred. (Y/N) placed his hand on his shoulder briefly before stepping up and leaning against the pow, watching the cliffs grow closer until a horn sounded off in the distance. Turning his head, he spotted ships appearing through the fog.

Jarl Olaf's ship neared them first, tilting so it could brush past their boat safely. Perplexed faces greeted them, confusion only intensifying upon seeing the two bodies. Following the ship, King Canute's sailed beside them and came to a slow stop, allowing Harald to step onto the ledge and board their ship. Harald paused, gazing down at Birger with a saddened frown. He climbed down, briefly stopping to rest his hand on the chest of his friend before approaching the brothers. (Y/N) crossed his arms as he watched Harald walk toward them, meeting his gaze briefly. Harald placed his hand on Leif's arm, features softening slightly.

With an approving nod, he looked at them. "Vikings."

[witchertorsten]

"We're all afraid. The point is what you do with it." That was the true lesson that the First had passed on to him and the other members of his class. Everyone who stood in front of a dragon or other beast felt the rush of fear that came with putting themselves in line of sight with something that wanted nothing more than to tear them apart. That fear had power, it fueled a great deal and could shape them into the shape they needed to take to become what was necessary.

The darkspawn at the gate were relentless and they'd been at this for long enough. "Get some rest, Jarl Freydis." He took the book back and moved to shelve it once more. There was a pause as Torsten looked back to the shieldmaiden sat at the table, touched by the veil, contesting with demons and who knew what else. If only it were so easy as to charge her with the antimagic that coursed through him. "Not selfish," he said at last, "the work is important. I will do what I can too."

Changed. It was a less inflammatory word to describe what she was now, what she considered the both of them. Quietly, Freydis wondered how much better off some of the witcher’s like Torsten might have been if they had not been reared and tortured into static mindsets. That wasn’t to say that Torsten could not think for himself; he could, and she would easily admit he likely did significantly better for himself than she did for herself. But she hated that any of them had been conditioned to hate and mistrust others so completely, and even more so that it seemed to have been instilled to some degree that he, and all witchers, ought to hate themselves. Or at least what they were. 

Freydis listened to him from across the table, nodding slowly. The feywilds might hold some answers. She had been told recently as well that the Elvhen, if willing to help her, might have deeper knowledge as they were something of distant cousins to the fey. Her impatience compelled her to act, and it was difficult to sit with the discomfort of the unknown. But she would heed this advice from Torsten, even if it went against her instincts as a fighter. She continued to listen, but she did prop her head against her hand and quietly mutter, “I’m afraid of everything.” It was hardly a mistruth–she was. But she was also well equipped to navigate beyond the short sightedness of her fears. 

Another reminder that elements of her destiny resided in Iskaldrik–a land she had no interest in returning to aside from pulling at the strings of this fey magic; strings that now she worried more than ever she would find Nintra puppeteering her from on the other side. “You’re right,” she sighed. “It’s selfish of me to concern myself with this matter as much as I have been.” She closed the book in front of her, laying the issue to rest at least for the time being.

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

A Court of Ice and Shadows: Chapter 3

OC Character x Azriel

Summary: Set after "A Court of Silver Flames" (ACOSF), this story follows original character Lene, an elite warrior of the Hesker Clan from the Winter Court. Tasked with diplomatic duty in the Night Court, Lene's mission is to help retrain the Valkyries and help squash potential uprising in the Illyrian camps. As she navigates centuries-old animosities and discovers herself beyond the icy confines of her homeland, Lene must confront her past and decide who she wants to become.

Click here for other parts: Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Characters: Featuring original characters alongside core characters from the ACOTAR series.

Disclaimers: All characters and settings pertaining to the core ACOTAR series belong to Sarah J. Maas, with additional material created for the purpose of this fanfiction

Content Warnings: None.

Note: Some words used in this story are of Norwegian or Scandinavian origin. I do not speak either language, but adapted the researched words to fit the narrative. For notes regarding any of these words, see the end of the chapter.

Chapter 3

The ancient forests enveloping Hellingdom Manor teemed with towering pine trees, their branches perennially adorned with a thick mantle of snow, save for the fleeting thaw of summer. Lene knew every whisper of the wind through these trees, every hidden path beneath the snow. During the stark, dark days of late winter, when the sun seldom pierced the cloud cover, she would delve deep into the woods. Here, amidst the silent sentinels of nature, snow owls soared silently and snow foxes darted, their playful kits trailing behind, weaving through the dense underbrush. These woods, steeped in centuries of secrets, held a sacred place in the hearts of the fae females of Hellingdom, echoing with the whispers of their foremothers.

Hellingdom itself was originally founded as a bastion for the Hekser clan, a venerable lineage of female warriors dedicated to serving the High Lord of the Winter Court. These warriors, led by Lene’s forebears for millennia, not only fought bravely but were also immortalized in grand tapestries that depicted their fierce battles and noble sacrifices.

Long before the seven courts were established and the land was scourged by the Daglan terror, the fae of this region sought sanctuary in the craggy mountains. There, they honed ancient abilities to manipulate snow and ice—mystic skills now lost to the ages. The clans prospered, sustaining themselves through trade and a unified front, traditionally under male leadership.

The saga of the Hekser began with Freydis and Lova, two mated fae females who boldly defied their clans' leaders by refusing to sever their bond. In an era when such a union was scorned as witchcraft, Freydis and Lova remained steadfast. They secretly met at the base of Vindvokterfjell Mountain during the winter solstice—a time when darkness reigned for two solid weeks. There, hidden from prying eyes, they affirmed their commitment and lived in seclusion near the mountain for nearly fifty years.

Their quiet existence was forever changed when they stumbled upon Silje, a newborn girl, frail and abandoned in the woods. They named her and raised her as their own, and as the years passed, other children—lost or left—found their way to Freydis and Lova's door. The couple's family swelled to include over fourteen fae children, each one cherished and nurtured.

Decades later, a fae woman, ousted by her husband under accusations of witchcraft, sought sanctuary with them. She had heard of the "Vindvokterkind"—children rumored to have been left at the mountain as offerings, only to thrive under the guardianship of the mountain. These children, observed by nearby villagers as they frolicked through the forest, were testament to the sanctuary's legend. After recovering under Freydis and Lova's care, the woman returned to her clan, spreading the tale of the compassionate duo who defied societal norms to create a haven of love and safety.

As time marched on and Freydis and Lova aged, they passed their legacy to their daughters, who continued the tradition of compassion and resistance. When High King Fionn rose to unite the fae against the Daglan, he enlisted the aid of Freydis and Lova's descendants. Trained by his side, they rose as formidable warriors, particularly the women, who later named themselves the Hekser Clan, or "The Witches."

After triumphing over the Daglan, the Heksers gained fame as trainers of warriors and staunch allies of the Winter Court's High Lord, fiercely defending the honor of female fae. Although the original cabin succumbed to flames during Fionn’s downfall, taking Freydis and Lova with it, their daughters resurrected it as Hellingdom Manor, a beacon of refuge for all seeking solace.

Lene, a descendant of one of these resilient daughters, was now charged with perpetuating this legacy of sanctuary and empowerment. Although the Hekser and the Valkyries of the Night Court had fought side by side, a fateful decision during a war six hundred years prior had confined the Hekser to their court, leading to the Valkyries' tragic fall. Lene’s mother often shared these stories, her voice heavy with regret, wishing she could have joined their sisters in that fateful battle.

Lene cherished the rides through the dense, snow-laden forests with her mother, Solveig, who would share the storied legacy of the Hekser clans. Solveig's voice carried a deep pride as she recounted their ancestry, instilling in Lene a profound respect for their heritage. Together, they would explore the carvings left by the children of Freydis and Lova in the mountain walls—vivid depictions that chronicled the epic tales of their foremothers.

In her younger days, Solveig and Brynjar had roamed the deep ravines and towering peaks, uncovering secrets long before Lene's time. Now, with Brynjar aged at an impressive 800 years, his days of swift galloping were behind him. Normally, Lene might coax him into a brisker pace, but today, with hours to spare before her meeting with High Lord Kallias, she allowed Brynjar to set a leisurely pace. The soft crunch of his hooves breaking through the pristine snow created a rhythmic serenade, punctuated only by the occasional yips from Lumi, who was eagerly exploring every nook she came across.

It would take just an hour's ride to reach Lysdal, the vibrant city where Kallias’ castle stood imposingly against the mountainside. The city that High Lady Viviane had worked so hard to protect when Amarantha had risen to power. This hour of tranquility in the woods was a double-edged sword for Lene; it provided a peaceful respite yet also too much time to dwell on the uncertain reasons behind Kallias’ summons. With each step Brynjar took, Lene’s mind raced through myriad possibilities, none of which did anything to ease the growing knot of anxiety about the impending, mysterious discussion with Kallias.

Lene had often ventured into Lysdal alongside her kin and companions. The city served as the nearest hub, a pulsing heart of commerce where they sourced the necessities that the manor couldn't provide through its sporadic specialized deliveries. For the grand occasion of a seventieth birthday—a milestone marked with particular revelry among their kind—the women of the clan would descend upon the city. They would indulge in nights of unbridled celebration, their laughter spilling into the streets as they danced and drank under the stars. As dawn approached, packs of giggling, inebriated fae females would weave their way back through the forest, their steps light and unburdened by fear. For they were not merely merrymakers; they were warriors, sharp and unmatched, and the woods held no terror for them.

Lene's own seventieth had seen her twirling on the cobbled streets of Lysdal, her laughter mingling with that of audacious fae males, who were quite taken by her vivacious spirit. In a moment of boldness, she had playfully suggested they continue their festivities back at the manor. However, her plans were swiftly curtailed by a friend's prudent intervention, who steered her away with a knowing smile. Lene was well-acquainted with the company of men, versed in the secluded nooks of the forest that offered refuge from the watchful eyes of the world. 

Yet, the whispers of past liaisons, hidden behind fallen pines or within the sequestered embrace of snow-shrouded caves, were far from Lene's mind as Brynjar crested the final hill. Below them, Lysdal stirred into the crisp morning, nestled in the formidable shadow of mighty Skogtind Mountain. The city itself seemed to dwell in a perpetual twilight, cast by the mountain's vast presence, imbuing every stone and street with a sense of eternal dusk.

The quaint cottages dotting the city’s outskirts were home to esteemed reindeer breeders and hardy farmers whose lives rhythmically pulsed with the land. The heart of Lysdal, however, was a marvel of architecture—buildings masterfully sculpted from the ancient ice and stone of Skogtind. These structures mirrored the intricate frost patterns that adorned every available surface, weaving a tapestry of frozen lace that caught the light with every turn.

Encircling Lysdal stood the Ice Wall, a colossal structure both awe-inspiring and chilling, erected centuries ago and imbued with ancient wards. Carved deep into its icy facade were the sagas of the Winter Court, each story a frozen testament to its rich history. More than just a barrier, the wall was a spectacle in itself; however, its true power lay in the palpable cold it radiated. This frigid aura permeated the air, sinking into the bones of any who dared approach, a stark reminder of the city’s fortified, mystic strength. 

Brynjar halted at the crest of the hill, and Lene's gaze swept over the landscape before her, finally settling on Kallias’ castle, Iskronen. Carved into the side of Skogtind, it jutted out like a formidable iceberg, its walls of solid ice infused with magic to prevent melting. The structure rose as though it were composed of icicles set upside down, with a central spire that scattered shafts of blue and purple light across the town square whenever sunlight filtered through. Lene had always found the castle’s grandeur slightly ostentatious—why did one family need such an edifice if not as a mere symbol of their stature?

"Pa," Lene called softly to Brynjar, coaxing him forward. He had just taken a step when Lumi burst from beneath him, scampering down the steep, icy hillside with joyful abandon. Her paws flailed against the slick surface, failing to find purchase. Both Lene and Brynjar watched as the hapless fox collided with a pine tree at the hill’s base. Lene shook her head, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, while Brynjar simply snorted and continued down the hill with far more caution than Lumi, who shook off the snow from her unintended stop and bounded ahead through the frost-laden fields.

As they neared the city, Brynjar guided Lene through the farms to the imposing ice wall. Two Winter Guards, recognizing her by the subtle gray fabric and white lining of her parka, embroidered with the Hekser insignia—a frosted yew tree at the base of Vindvokterfjell—nodded and waved her through. Each guard bore a Winter Court broadsword at their hip, quite a sight, had Lene not been able to bring them to their knees with just a simple swipe of a sword or knife.

Upon reaching the city’s gate, Lene commanded, "Buga," and Brynjar obediently knelt to allow her to dismount gracefully. She held the reins loosely in one hand, knowing well that Brynjar would either remain steadfastly beside her or follow faithfully without needing guidance.

With a couple of hours to spare before her meeting with Kallias, Lene decided to explore the bustling open market, where merchants were just beginning to display their wares. As she meandered from stall to stall, Brynjar, an imposing presence, trailed behind her. Fae children craned their necks to gaze up at the giant elk, their fingers pointing excitedly.

Spotting a small fae girl whispering to her mother about how soft Brynjar might feel, Lene lifted her up to his neck. The child’s fingers delved into his thick, wiry coat, and Brynjar turned his head to regard Lene, his expression one of mild resignation. "How the mighty have fallen," Lene mused silently, a wry smile touching her lips as she considered the warrior mount now content to be adored by children.

Lene's fingers trailed delicately over the soft fabrics and blankets displayed by local vendors, appreciating their craftsmanship even though it paled in comparison to the wonders woven within Hellingdom Manor. After her great-grandmother assumed the role of matron, she had decreed that residency at the Manor didn't necessitate a warrior's life. This freedom had cultivated some of the Winter Court's most skilled craftsmen, chefs, and artists. In Hesker, excellence wasn’t just encouraged; it was expected, cultivated in every task undertaken.

Allowing herself a small indulgence, Lene purchased a floral tea blend for her grandmother, touted by the merchant as a direct import from the Spring Court, famed for its sleep-enhancing qualities.

Eventually, Lene made her way toward Iskronen. While Lysdal’s beauty was undeniable, few knew of the intricate ice caverns and frozen tunnels that burrowed deep into Skogtind Mountain, winding beneath the city. She stabled Brynjar at the mountain's base before descending the icy steps into the labyrinthine tunnels. Guided by the ethereal glow of fae lights, she ascended the ice-carved steps and passed through the castle's formidable walls.

Emerging inside Iskronen, Lene was momentarily blinded by the kaleidoscope of light refracting through the ice, casting rainbows that danced across the floors. Despite the chill implied by its icy construction, the castle's halls were surprisingly warm—a marvel of magical engineering designed to counteract the perpetual frost. Shedding her hood, she was approached by two Winter Guards.

"Good morning, I’m here to meet with the High Lord; he summoned me last night," Lene announced, extracting the summoning letter and its glass tube from her parka to hand to the guard.

"High Lord Kallias is currently with other guests; I will inform him of your arrival," one guard declared before turning sharply and striding away. The formality always seemed stark to Lene, no matter how familiar she was with court customs.

Her musings were abruptly interrupted by the sound of giggling. A pale, white-haired boy rounded the corner, his laughter echoing through the hall as he playfully sent a gust of frost in his pursuer's direction. Close behind was a child Lene hadn't expected to see—a young fae with darker skin and midnight black hair, his striking violet eyes almost hidden under his curls. But what struck Lene the most was the small wings protruding from the boys sweater. Illyrian wings.

"Good morning, Bo!" Lene greeted as the white-haired boy, Kallias and Viviane's son and the celebrated young pride of the Winter Court, rushed to her. He embraced her warmly.

"Good morning, Lene," Bo replied, his voice muffled against her neck. Meanwhile, the little Illyrian retreated, only the tips of his wings visible from around the corner.

"Who’s your friend?" Lene asked, setting Bo down.

"That’s Nyx," Bo pointed.

Nyx, Lene realized, recognizing the name as belonging to the heir of the Night Court, son of the famed Feyre and Rhysand. Likely, this was who occupied Kallias' attention.

"Nyx," Bo called out in mild frustration, "We aren't playing hide and seek anymore."

With a dramatic sigh, Bo trudged over, grasping Nyx by the arm and pulling him into view. Nyx shuffled his feet, his curls falling over his face shyly.

"This is Nyx, he’s my friend and he’s also a kid," Bo explained earnestly.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nyx," Lene said, extending her hand with a gentle smile.

Nyx glanced between her hand and her face before hesitantly reaching out. He quickly withdrew his hand after touching her icy fingertips. Lene chuckled, “I’m sorry for the chill, it’s in our blood.” 

Nyx’s quiet smile peeked out beneath his unruly curls as he listened silently. Bo, ever the spokesman of the duo, announced, “Mama and papa are with Nyx’s mama and papa.”

“I see,” Lene replied, her gaze lingering on the shy Night Court heir. “Have they been in there a long time or just a little while?”

“They’ve been in there forever,” Bo exaggerated, stretching the word to emphasize their boredom.

Nyx shuffled his feet, his attention fixed on his shoes.

"Nyx doesn’t really like to talk to strangers much, and he doesn’t like talking to grown-ups much either,” Bo confided to Lene, who offered a gentle smile in return.

“Well, that’s alright. I’m a new friend, but I’m certainly not a grown-up,” Lene joked lightly, her youthful spirit belied by her centuries of life—a trait she felt she inherited from a mother who herself refused to age.

Bo’s attention swiftly shifted as he eagerly grasped Lene’s hand. “I have a new sword, and it’s a metal one!”

Lene feigned shock, “That must mean your papa thinks you’re ready to learn how to fight,” she teased.

The conversation was suddenly punctuated by the familiar clip of heels against the hard floor. “No, he does not!” Viviane’s voice rang out before she appeared around the corner. The epitome of poise and grace, Viviane was draped in an emerald velvet dress that matched her jewel-adorned neck, her hair elegantly braided up.

Bo groaned at his mother's intervention. “Bo has strict orders that that sword is for looking at, not playing with,” Viviane clarified, approaching to envelop Lene in a warm hug, the scent of raspberry and frost emanating from her, with a hint of something more potent.

Lene’s eyes widened as she noticed Viviane’s slightly swollen stomach. Viviane, hand resting protectively over it, simply acknowledged, “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that!” Lene exclaimed, gesturing to the obvious pregnancy.

Viviane chuckled, caressing her belly. “Number two, on the way.”

“How long have you known?” Lene asked, pulling Viviane into another hug.

“The healer thinks no more than three months,” Viviane replied, her laughter light.

“Well, congratulations! I must not be paying enough attention to the news up at the manor,” Lene remarked.

Viviane took Lene’s hands gently. “No, we haven’t shared it with the city yet. Given how quickly this came after Bo, the healer cautioned us about potential risks. But so far, the little one seems very content.”

“I’m astounded,” Lene admitted, genuinely surprised. Bo was barely ten, and the prospect of another heir so soon was almost unheard of.

Viviane laughed softly, “You and me both. Believe me, if I had known I’d fall pregnant this quickly after Bo, and knowing how challenging his birth was, I would’ve resumed the tonic.”

Lene smiled, feeling a stark contrast between their lives—Viviane with her growing family and Lene, still under her grandmother's watchful eye.

“You’ll have to excuse my mate,” Viviane said as they approached the heavy oak doors of the meeting room, breaking the brief silence. “He’s never been one for punctuality.”

“It’s no problem. I’m early,” Lene assured her.

With a reassuring smile, Viviane led Lene towards the doors. “Don’t be silly. It’s 10:08, and if I don’t keep him on schedule, who will?” With a gentle push, Viviane opened the doors to reveal Kallias and the figures Lene assumed were Feyre and Rhysand, all turning at their entrance. A flutter of nervousness gripped Lene’s stomach as she stepped into the light.

Notes:

Buga: “Bow” in Swedish