Seeress’s Song

POV: Thyra

Stepping from the threshold of my family’s longhouse, the invigorating sanctuary of morning air greets me—a sensory experience of Norway Spruce, sea spray, and the scent of the hearth. Birka rouses, a thriving hub of trade and artistry where the pulse of the soil dictates our rhythm. The smithy’s hammer strikes with a steady beat, the very heart of our village echoing through the Summer dawn. My father, Sigurd Svensson, the village Chieftain, boisterously issues his commands, his powerful voice weaving the tapestry of our daily toil. Clad in a dark blue linen tunic and leather-laced trousers, his fiery red hair is bound tightly down his spine. At his throat rests a silver Vegvisir—a sacred token to grant protection and ensure one never loses their way.

I gaze upward, and a warmth touches my heart at the sight of my brothers, Hugin and Munin, standing guard upon the watchtowers. Named for the ravens of Odin, they are symbols of the Allfather’s wandering thoughts. Hugin scans the grounds with a hand resting upon his sword, while Munin stands with arms crossed, his focus lost in the fjord’s expanse. Identical save for the marks upon their necks, they are forged of muscle from years of toil and combat. With their fiery Mohawks, runes etched into their scalps, and glacier-blue eyes, they are the living embodiment of our clan’s strength. A blend of pride and solace washes over me; they have held our shores against every threat, upholding the loyalty and self-reliance we were taught as children.

While my brothers stand formidable at over six feet, I reach barely five. My hair, nearly white and typically worn loose with braids signifying my status, stands in stark contrast to my mother’s strawberry-blonde tresses, which she keeps tightly bound. Those glacier-blue eyes bind my father, my brothers, and me; only my mother’s rare green gaze sets her apart from our lineage.

Though Lagertha, my mother, yearned for me to embrace the traditional wishes of the hearth, my father insisted upon my mastery of steel. The tension between their wishes carves the path I walk, for neither will yield their ground. My prowess now rivals the finest warriors of Birka. Yet, I find myself balancing the care of our livestock with a visionary ambition for the open seas and the glory promised by the longships, even as I fulfill the mindless labor required of me.

Leaving my boots behind in the Summersun, I walk barefoot through the mud left by the night’s rains, drawn toward the hof by the sound of distant chants. At the entrance, my mother stands with poise after making her offerings, her eyes scanning our people. She is ever focused on the spirit of our clan, just as my father remains vigilant over our borders.

Earlier, I assisted our Völva in tending to a young woman who had just brought a blue-eyed child into the world, his first cries echoing through the village. My mother urged me to work alongside Eira, wanting me to understand the sacred art of healing. She did not intend for me to walk the path of a seeress, you see, but to foster respect for the mystical counsel she offers.

Eira, our respected Völva, makes her home deep within the dark forest. Her garments are vibrant with reds and yellows, reflecting both her kind spirit and her high standing. In the colder seasons, she dons fur and gloves, and she is never without her staff, which is encrusted with traded gems. It acts as a beacon of her craft, shimmering whenever the light catches the stones. If father is the mind and mother the heart of Birka, then Eira is surely its soul, balancing magic and authority within our society.

Yet, for all her status, the villagers view her seiðr, a person of magic, with a mixture of reverence and dread, whispering that Freyja herself favors her. I have seen her command the winds and mend the broken, but I have never witnessed her famed spás. My parents were there for her last prophecy before my birth, a secret they guard with silence. Whatever they heard is inextricably linked to my fate, and that shadow follows every step I take.

The prophecy leaves my future suspended in uncertainty. Had it not been spoken, my marriage would have been settled many Summers ago. To remain “available” is unheard of for those of our rank; unions are usually as certain as the fire in the hearth. I cannot help but wonder if a wedding would avert the destiny they fear—or if it would be the very thing to trigger it. These questions haunt me, as do the village's constant whispers.

Eira’s elder sister, Morana, was once a Völva who succumbed to the dark arts' allure. Though the full story of her betrayal is hidden from me, I know she harmed Birka before fleeing to the mountains and vanishing. Rumors claim she has allied with a formidable Viking Konungr to raid for dominance. Many live in fear that she will lead a fleet to our shores, bringing a darkness we cannot withstand. Both traders and kin fear her name, believing she traded the favor of the Aesir for the cold embrace of Hel. Her treachery has cast a shadow of doubt even upon Eira, a suspicion that could break us should Morana ever return.

Because of that prophecy, the village looks upon me with fractured hearts. The elders approach with caution or speak in hushed tones when I pass. They warn the children to stay clear of me, fearing the destiny I represent. None have heard the sacred words, yet they assume that if a prophecy exists for me, I must be a vessel of evil.

Idiots. My fury burns like a hot flame, shielding me from the pain of their mistrust. Often, that anger is the only thing keeping my own doubts from consuming me.

Passing the workshop of Leif Ivarsson, my dearest friend joins me on the path to the hof. Towering over even my brothers, Leif’s broad shoulders and dirty-blond hair, adorned with stones and iron, match the intensity of his dark eyes. While other girls swoon, to me he is simply the childhood companion who once chased dreams of adventure with wooden longships, helping me to keep the shadows of my mind at bay.

“How did you fare last night?” Leif asks, his stride so long I must nearly sprint to keep pace.

“It was quiet enough. I managed to avoid my mother’s usual sermons on how a lady should behave, so I count that as a victory.”

Leif lets out a chuckle. “If she only knew the truth of your unladylike nature. When did she last see you with a blade in hand?”

“Now, there is no need to speak of such things,” I say with a mock pout. “Honestly, Leif, those legs of yours are a nuisance. I have to run to stay beside you.”

“The women don’t seem to complain.” I look at him with a raised brow. “Really, Leif?”

He offers a knowing smirk in return, one that tells me I am better off not knowing the details.

“And your night?” I ask, seeking to turn the conversation.

“I finished the brooch for Jarl Anulf.”

“That was swift work.” Pride for my friend’s talent warms my voice.

“It was a simple task,” he says with a shrug, as though creating a masterpiece were merely a chore. His reputation has spread far beyond Birka, drawing traders from across the lands to seek his craft.

“I only hope that when word reaches Anulf that it is done, he does not send his sons to collect it.” I offer a silent prayer to Odin for such luck.

“Why? You don’t enjoy them tripping over themselves to gain your favor?” He teases, finding amusement in my discomfort.

“They are mere children, Leif. Their voices have barely found their depth; they are squeaky at their best.”

Leif laughs heartily. “They are still finer than the men we have here.”

“True, but I am not searching,” I reply firmly, my chin held high with stubborn resolve. There is little here to tempt me, leaving me certain I shall remain forever unclaimed.

“You never are, Thyra,” he smirks, giving me a knowing side-eye.

“I prefer it so.” I have no desire for the gossip that follows such things.

“Very well, I know better than to argue.”

Reaching the hof, my mother acknowledges me with a silent, regal nod—her presence demanding the respect of all. Leif bows low before her before we enter the sacred space together.

The interior is quiet, with only a few souls lingering. The central hearth provides warmth and serves as the fire for our rituals. The thatched roof protects us from the elements, and the altar links our world to the divine. This is the center of our identity, where the Gods and mortals meet.

Leif and I offer our thanks at the altar before returning to our daily toil. His woodworking skills are in high demand, and his many orders have left us with precious little time to talk.

“Shall we meet at dusk for Hnefatafl?” Leif calls out as he returns to his shop.

“Yes, I must keep my winning streak alive,” I shout back, laughing as he rolls his eyes. He claims he will best me, but strategy is my greatest weapon—even my father cannot defeat me at the board.

I make my way to where my father directs the village. Our home is a circle of longhouses, the mead hall, workshops, and boathouses, all secured behind the palisades. Despite the whispers and the fear, this island is my everything.

What would I give for Björkö, for the people I hold dear? The question makes me tremble. My heart is heavy with the fear of loss, but a stubborn flame of defiance burns within. No matter the cost, I will not let this home—or my own spirit—succumb to the darkness of the prophecy. I will stand for Birka, and for those who make it my home.