Seeress’s Song

POV: Thyra

I walk out of my family’s longhouse. Fresh scents of pine, seawater, and hearth smoke wrap around me. The early-morning bustle of our communal hub buzzes like bees in a hive. Trade, craftsmanship, and agriculture shape each new day. The steady clanking of the smith provides a rhythmic heartbeat for the village. Over the hum, my faðir and the village Jarl, Sigurd Svensson, shout orders. His strong, confident voice weaves together the tasks that sustain our way of life. His fiery red hair is braided down his back. For this time of year, he wears a dark blue linen tunic over brown laced-up trousers. A silver Vegvisir rune sits proudly on his chest, symbolizing protection and guidance.

From the doorstep, my heart lifts as I spot my twin bræðra, Hugin and Munin, on the watchtower—named for Odin’s ravens, his thoughts made visible. Hugin scans the village below, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while Munin stands with arms crossed, eyes fixed on the horizon. Identical except for the birthmark on their necks, both are tall and muscular from years of farming and fighting. With fiery Mohawks, Norse runes across their scalps, and glacier-blue eyes, we show our family’s strength. Pride and relief mix as I recall they have defended the village along the fjords, living the strength, loyalty, and self-sufficiency taught to us since childhood.

While my bræðra are over 6’, I am barely 5’2”. My nearly white hair, usually worn loose with side braids to show my purity, contrasts with my mōdēr’s strawberry blonde, always in a bun. Glacier blue eyes tie my faðir, bræðra, and me together; my mōdēr’s rare green eyes make her stand out in our village.

Though my mōdēr, Lagertha, hoped I’d focus on household duties, my faðir pushed me into training with weapons. Their daily tension shapes my path, neither willing to yield. My skills now equal the village’s best. Still, I balance caring for craft and animals at home while longing for the sea and the adventure that longships promise, even as I fulfill my duties.

I abandon my boots in the warming Sumar sun, my bare feet splashing in wet mud from the prior night’s rain, as I head toward the hof, drawn by distant chanting. At the entrance, my mōdēr stands poised after making her offerings, surveying the people. She is always working to strengthen our people’s resolve as my faðir works to strengthen our borders.

Earlier, I worked with our Völva, tending a mōdēr who had just delivered her blond, blue-eyed barn, his first cry echoing through the village. It was my mōdēr who pushed me to work with Eira. To learn the importance of healing. Not to become a Völva, you see, but to respect the guidance that she provides.

Eira, our Völva, lives deep within the dark forest. Her dress is bright and colorful, with reds and yellows. The warmth of her kindness is evident in the colors she wears, which reflect her status in the village. Seasonally, she wears gloves and a fur hat. She always carries her staff, adorned with precious stones traded. Her staff is a beacon of magic, shining with colors when the stones catch sunlight. If faðir is our head and mōdēr is our heart, Eira is our soul. She balances tradition, magic, and authority in our village.

Despite Eira’s status, people both respect and fear her seiðr—magic and prophecy. They whisper Freyja favors her. I’ve seen her control weather and heal, but not her famed spás. My parents witnessed her last spá before I was born, a secret they refuse to share, though I know it’s about me.

The prophecy keeps my future uncertain. Otherwise, my parents would have arranged my marriage many Sumars ago. Keeping me “available” is unusual given our rank; alliances are common as the hearth’s fire. I can’t help but wonder: what about marriage would affect the prophecy? Would it cause a dark chain of events? These questions never leave me, and neither do the village whispers.

Eira’s older systir, Morana, was a Völva who turned to dark magic. Although I am uncertain of the events surrounding her betrayal, I know she harmed our village, fled to the mountains, and vanished. Rumor has it she joined a powerful Viking Konungr and now raids for power. Many fear Morana will lead these raids to our shores, bringing darkness we cannot overcome. Traders’ route villagers also fear her, believing she abandoned Freyja and Odin for Hel, goddess of the Underworld. Morana’s betrayal leaves our people doubting Eira’s loyalties. A doubt that would cripple us if the time came that Morana resurfaced.

It was the prophecy that left the people of our village with mixed feelings about me. The adults all cautiously approached me or whispered when my back was turned. Growing up, the adults all warned the children to be careful with me. Not one of them has actually heard it, but if there is a prophecy about me, then that has to mean I’m evil, right?

Idiots. My anger flashes hot, a shield against the ache their suspicions cause. Sometimes it’s all that keeps my doubts at bay.

Passing by Leif Ivarsson’s workshop, my closest friend joins me en route to the hof. Larger than my bræðra, Leif’s broad frame and dirty-blond hair, tied back with stones and metal, match his mysterious dark eyes. Village mærs swoon, but to me he’s the childhood friend who chased adventure with toy longships and wooden swords, helping me keep my doubts at bay.

“How was your evening?” Leif asks as I try to catch up to his ridiculously long stride.

“It was uneventful. I was saved from my mōdēr’s lectures on being a lady, so I have that going for me.”

Leif chuckles. “If only she knew how unladylike you really are. When was the last time she saw you wield a sword?”

“Hey now, nei need to air dirty laundry.” I pout at him. “Seriously, your legs are uselessly long. I have to sprint to catch up to you.”

“The ladies don’t seem to mind.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Really, Leif?”

I am left with a knowing smirk that, let’s be honest, I don’t want to know.

“How was your night?” Attempting to change the subject, I ask.

“I managed to complete the broach for Anulf, Jarl.”

“That didn’t take you long.” You can hear the pride in my voice when I talk about my frænds’ accomplishments.

“Nei, it was simple.” Leif shrugs, as if it were almost boring to create one of his masterpieces. His skill is renowned beyond the borders of our village. Traders come from far and wide for his work.

“Hopefully, when Anulf, Jarl, hears the word that it is complete, he doesn’t send one of his sons to obtain it.” I’m truly praying to Odin that luck is in my favor on this one.

“Why? You don’t want them tripping over themselves for your attention.” Merriment in his eyes at my torture, revenge is best served cold, my frænd.

“They are simple barns, Leif. They have barely grown into their voice, squeaky at best.”

Leif throws his head back in laughter, “They are better than the ones around here.”

“True, but I’m not looking.” I sternly respond, chin up and stubborn. There is not much to offer in these parts, which leads me to believe I will forever be unclaimed.

“You never are, Thyra,” Leif smirks at me, giving me a side-eye.

“I prefer it that way.” I don’t want to deal with any more torture from the village gossip chain.

“Alright, I know better than to push.”

Arriving at the hof, my mōdēr greets me with a silent, graceful nod—her presence commands attention. Leif bows before her, showing deep respect, before we enter together.

Inside, only a few linger. The central hearth warms the space and serves as a ritual fire for Norse ceremonies. A thatched roof shields us from the harsh climate. The altar for offerings links us with the divine. This place holds our identity, joining the Norse Gods, the divine, and mortals.

Leif and I give thanks at the altar, then return to daily work. Skilled in woodworking, Leif produces sought-after inlays and has had many orders lately, leaving us with little time together.

“Meet at dusk for Hnefatafl?” Leif calls as he re-enters his workshop.

“Yeah, I need to keep my winning streak going,” I reply, giggling as he rolls his eyes. Leif tries to claim victory, but strategy is my strength—even my faðir can’t beat me at Hnefatafl.

I head to where my faðir gives orders. The village forms a circle with its longhouses, hof, mead hall, pit houses, workshops, smithy, and boathouse, all protected by palisades. Despite the whispers, this—my home—is everything.

What would I be willing to sacrifice for this island of Björkö, for these people I love? The thought shakes me. My heart aches with the fear of loss, but a stubborn flame of defiance kindles inside me. Nei matter what it takes, I won’t let this home—or myself—fall to darkness.