Svea's shoulders dropped beneath the weight of the moment, as though the gods themselves had pressed their hands upon her back to keep her there. Her chest sank beneath the fabric of her shirt as she exhaled, her breath catching like a dying ember before it slipped free, intruding on the morning air. Around her, the field at the village's edge churned with chaos, steel clashing in waves, a tide of warriors colliding.
Time dragged like an old wound: sharp and heavy, yet blurred at the edges.
Valkvann, their home, was hardly worth stealing. This was something Svea knew, she even suspected the enemy could see it. A glance would reveal it easily: sagging timbers, weather-beaten roofs, tattered structures clinging to their promise of shelter as stubbornly as yellowed grasses clung to the dry soil around them. Poor and unlovely, yes - but it was theirs. It was all they had. And home, no matter how meager, was always worth fighting for. At least to the maidens.
Before she even saw it, Svea sensed the incoming axe swinging at her. She ducked low, her braid trailing behind her like a banner of retreat. The blade whispered just above her, brushing the air as though coaxing her to its mercy. She spun her own heavy axe, settled into her grip and buried the blade into the side of the raider's neck. His gasp came sharp, eyes wide in disbelief. Blood sprayed warm across the frozen morning, painting her hands and the dirt alike.
"Watch your right!" Svea's voice rasped, hoarse with effort. She glanced toward Asvoria, tall and blonde, hacking her way through the fray with a rusting sword already fit for the pyre. if not snapping in half on the battlefield. Asvoria was her mother's daughter - the previous chieftain's fire burned in her veins. In battle Svea could glimpse her mother's reflection, alive again in the rare glints of that aging, inherited blade. Still, Svea wondered with only seconds to spare, if even fire was enough to keep them alive. There was no time for answers. Only the fight.
Svea turned back, raising her axe once more with a silent prayer that the gods were watching. If they weren't, then it would be blood - not faith - that decided the day.
Asvoria pivoted sharply, dodging the axe which had been aimed at her ribs. The attacker stumbled, thrown off balance, and Asvoria drove her weary sword into his chest. The old steel held up, yearning to be laid to rest as it bit into flesh, blunted but still loyal to its purpose. She shoved the hilt forward until his breath spilled out in a wet, rasping wheeze. With a grunt, she snatched her shield from the dirt, its weight a comfort against her arm. "Remember your shields!" she shouted.
Not far from the clash, Vilhelmiina stormed in - a streak of unruly orange hair flying like a warning. The villagers had long called her a menace, and rightly so. She hurled her shield into an enemy with reckless glee, finding joy in battle no matter how bloody or routine. The rim cracked against his skull, dropping him to the ground. Without pause, she yanked the shield back to her chest and swung her axe with a feral intensity that unsettled even Svea when the frenzy took her. Again and again the blade slammed into an attacker's shield, each strike driven not just by survival but by the raw thrill of the fight - the need to shatter, to break through, to leave her mark. She had decided it was time to truly send a message.
"Vilhelmiina!" Svea's voice cut through the noise. "Use your head!"
Never had she expected her friend to take her words so literally.
A grin followed onto Vilhelmiina's face, wicked and alive. Her opponent faltered at the sight, unnerved - was this truly a shield maiden? Or something else entirely? She tilted her head mockingly, then lunged with a laugh. "Good idea!" Her forehead cracked against his with the force of a bull. Dazed, he staggered back, and she wasted no mercy on him - her axe ripped into his side, blood spilling out darkly as he crumpled.
While it was true that a fight for survival warranted any method to stay alive, he had never met a fighter with so little tact. Nor had he ever thought it could be so effective.
Svea clicked her tongue, irritation tugging at her lips though a flicker of amusement flirted with the same features. She might have laughed if they weren't so outnumbered. Instead, she carved on through the fray.
The raiders' numbers began to thin, desperation edging their strikes.
Two more women finally joined them, and Asvoria's temper snapped.
"It's about time!" she roared. "There's been only three of us to fend them off! What kept you? Carving the arrows yourselves?"
Stepping forward, Eumelia's four dark braids swung against her back as she drew her bow. Her worn leather cracked under the strain, the crumbling imperfections made even more obvious by the glare of the sun, but she paid them no mind. Her first shot flew true, the arrows striking a man creeping towards Svea's blind side. The second shot went wide; her lips tightened in frustration. Asvoria was already moving, cutting down the enemy bowman before he could release his own arrows. Eumelia was quick to step back as the woman she had arrived with swung her axe, gaining distance that would allow her bow to do its work.
The five fought with the rhythm born of survival, their movements carved from years of living the lives of warriors. Dirt thrown into eyes, leaps over treacherous ground, each trick learned from toil in the fields now turned to wars. The raiders faltered. The fight was nearly theirs.
"A village full of people," Svea growled through clenched teeth, her fury boiling, "and only five answer its call!?"
Asvoria lifted a hand. She was more forgiving of the reality they faced. Whilst she bore the same frustrations, she couldn't permit them to create a scene. "Enough, Svea. It's handled," she swatted the concern away.
A villager stepped forward, dirt streaking her face, a hoe gripped like a weapon. "This is a farming village," she recalled quietly. "We are not warriors. Those who could. . . came."
The truth landed heavy. It was clear enough. Although the villagers could say it for the rest of their lives, Svea couldn't accept it. She never would. Every drop of blood, every hour of pain carved into the Earth - to dismiss it was another kind of desecration. With her thoughts as sharp as a blade's edge, she realized the cruelty of it - it was not forgivable. The problem, she thought bitterly, was that the cost of survival was far too high. Consequences which could never be undone sat amongst them. To ignore the sacrifices made, to look away from the women who bled for their freedom, would be a dishonor to their memory. Valkvann, once known as The Land of the Valkyries, was now a shadow of its former self. And Svea, in her heart, felt like one too. They had both grown foreign in her eyes.
She could almost hear the wind whisper the names of those who had walked here before: Shield Maidens, women of strength and purpose. All that remained now was Herja's old shield, hung solemnly above the mead hall, guarding the land she had loved so fiercely as her final act.
While it was true the women farmed to survive, it had never been their purpose. As girls, they had proven themselves worthy of more. They had fought for the right to live in these lands, not to toil, but to breathe the same air as true warriors. The standard has fallen. Survival was enough. Those who remembered the old way, however, such as Svea and Asvoria, knew better. Once, they had been chosen.
Silence fell over them.
One woman, fresh from the fight, still gripped her axe awkwardly, her doubt as heavy as its weight.
Vilhelmiina, by contrast, flexed with pride. She examined her body, almost entirely unscathed. "Look at us. No real injuries. Not bad for farmers." She shrugged, dismissing the others with her careless taunt.
But Asvoria, standing near the fallen, found no humor in this. "We are farmers, yes," she said. The bodies surrounding her did not bother her, they were dead and done with. No, it was Vilhelmiina's tone. The attempt to belittle the reality of the fight stung. When had their home become a jest? Her voice was steely with the acceptance of their new, painful truth. "But we are also shield maidens." Her prideful words failed to capture their reality. How could they claim the mantle of Shield Maidens when they had failed time and time again to prepare for the battles that sought them out?
Vilhelmiina snorted, nudging Svea. "I don't recall using my shield much. Did you?"
"How many attacks have we faced this season?" Asvoria demanded.
"Six." Eumelia answered softly. The number struck like a stone to the gut.
Asvoria's eyes dropped to her sword, the same blade that had been passed down through generations, for as long as stories had been told. She hadn't expected that number, especially so early into the season. Each time she held it, she had felt worthy of it. Now, she could feel each hand that has wielded it before, raising the sword, honoring it, and although the sword had stopped feeling too heavy for her after years of training, it had begun to strain her arm once again. Is this it then? The weight of unworthiness? She asked herself while maintaining a neutral face. Does this steel now carry the bitterness of my failures?
"Six times? Six time and no better prepared than we were for the first." Disbelief still managed to lace her tone.
Another villager, dirt-streaked and tired, spoke cautiously. While she had not fought, she had carried the weight of the land nonetheless. "We've fortified what we can. It still isn't enough. The Jarl demands tribute, while -" her words faltered as she spoke his name for doing so had grown dangerous. Those who spoke against him would pay the price so long as Eumelia was present.
At one time, the women would have shared a mutual outrage with Asvoria at the demands of Jarl Aeneas, before that no man had ever dared to claim himself Jarl of the Valkyrie blessed lands. However, Eumelia now stood at his side as one of his closest allies. Asvoria felt the sting of betrayal as the words caught in her throat, "I know." she muttered, swallowing down the anger which had built in her chest.
Eumelia did not hesitate to continue the conversation, her voice smooth with the kind of conviction that only loyalty to power could afford. "The Jarl is generous." she said, as if defending a great honor. "He has every right to make demands. He keeps the peace and gives us land. He allows us to live."
Svea's temper flared.
The women of Valkvann had not been born nor raised to be subservient to a distant Jarl - to anyone but the gods themselves. She stepped forward, turning to Asvoria, her voice harsh. She needed for someone to understand what was bubbling within her. "We are not worthy of the name Shield Maiden. We are pathetic. We need to train. We need to rebuild what came before us." Her hand moved to the blood drying on her arm, flaking against her skin as she tapped her bruised wrist for breaks. "We must train and invite more women. We need to make those who came before us proud."
There was more to be said: she could have reminded Asvoria that when you live in another's boots, you should have the good decency to make sure you fit them.
Idolization paired with grief was a dangerous spirit.
Asvoria lowered her gaze, feeling the weight of every eye. She couldn't meet them, especially not Svea's. "What we need. . ." she faltered, knowing the truth would bring them all. Her words slipped out before she could stop them, "is to leave."
She had been born to this land, the land that had shaped her, but her dreams were no longer welcome here.
One of the maidens who had come to fight broke the silence that followed. "Where would we go?"
Asvoria swallowed, shame tinting her cheeks even as she tried to own the decision. She had hoped she would never need to admit it, but the truth could no longer be ignored: she would abandon her family's land, the only home she had ever known, the land entrusted to her line. She would abandon it for her ambitions.
Crops no longer grew as they once had, the population dwindled, and those who remained were quantity, not quality. She could pick the true fighters out on one hand - and would have traded most of them for a single good warrior.
She steadied herself, voice firm. "Jarl Aeneas has offered us a place among his guard. A home where food flows freely. Where survival is no longer a question."
The mention of the Jarl's offer struck Svea. "You'll leave us for him?" she spat, her voice dripping with accusation. Asvoria did not flinch.
Instead, she stood tall. "I would rather die with a sword in my hand than remain here, a farmer who cannot guarantee she'll see the next winter." Her voice was resolute, the finality like a thunderclap sent by the god Thor himself.
The maiden who had first spoken shook her head, disbelief raw. "What will happen to those who stay?"
"You'll truly go? You, flesh of Herja?" Svea demanded, her heart hammering within her chest.
"I believe I am meant to accept this." Asvoria said steadily. If she pretended to believe it then one day she might. "And so, I will. I am not blind to the will of the gods."
The maiden narrowed her eyes, snapping, "Do not presume to speak for the gods, Asvoria."
"As long as I remain here, I will only ever be a farmer." She explained. "And not even one who can ensure she'll live to see her harvest. I am meant to be something greater. When my time comes, I will burn with a sword in my hand, not a clove of garlic."
Once more the maiden repeated her question, her voice smaller now. "What will happen to those of us who stay?"
But Asvoria was done giving answers. Eumelia stepped forward instead. "Why would anyone stay?" she asked coldly, eyes sweeping along the women.
A murmur spread through the group of doubts, accusations, and loyalties clashing. One by one, choices began to emerge. Some were willing to follow Asvoria, others rooted in the history they shared. "I will go with you," one woman said, her voice quiet but resolved.
Asvoria returned this show of loyalty with a small, grateful smile. "Then it's settled. By nightfall, we will know who follows."
But Svea, stubborn as ever, would not allow her to leave so easily. She chased after her, bitter words spilling from her mouth at the taste she could not stomach. "How can you think of leaving? All these women who came here for you. . . for your mother, Herja. . ."
"I know why they came." Asvoria's words cut sharp, though beneath them lived the doubt she refused to show. "But to survive, they must leave."
Svea's jaw clenched. "We can survive here, but we need -"
Asvoria's patience snapped, her jaw mirroring Svea's. "We need to be honest with ourselves. This -" she swept her arm wide, encompassing the dying land, the crumbling future around them - "was my mother's dream, and her mother's before her. It is not ours. We are not bound to their hopes. We can leave, Svea. We can become something beyond the decay."
Bitterness sat on Svea's tongue like a wine pressed from grapes which had been denied the chance to properly age.
"How you bow would disgust Herja!"
"Do not speak for her." Asvoria hissed her warning, venom in her voice. Her fist clenched tight at her side, as though she could crush Svea's words into silence. "You knew nothing of her. She was my mother."
Svea's breath caught, her chest tightening at the sting of the words. She felt them settle deep in her bones, into the cracks of old wounds. Her lips trembled as she met Asvoria's unforgiving gaze. "Then you will be the one to disappoint her, Asvoria." she whispered, nodding as though to concede to the truth, "in the way only a daughter can."
Silence sat between them again, pulsing with years of love and resentment, festering into something neither could name.
Svea's voice fell to a murmur as she turned away. "Do you remember when they left? The women we called the Valkyries. The ones who raised us, trained us. They were everything. We all shared that title, though none more fiercely than Herja. She lived by their rules. She embodied what it was to be one amongst men."
Asvoria nodded, her throat tight. She knew all too well the woman Svea held in such esteem - the woman they all had, even back then. They never saw her cold streak; they admired her for it. Her mother's name was a curse she could not escape, a ghost she could not lay to rest. She wanted to remember alongside Svea, to feel something other than the guilt pressing down on her. She longed to relive the pride she had once held for her lineage. But even now she knew it was slipping away, dying on the vine like the land itself.
"I remember," Asvoria said softly, her words almost like a confession.
It was not lost on Svea that at Asvoria's side, her hand was clenched in a fist.
Then her eyes hardened. "And when you came to us. . . you were nothing more than a thrall." A slave.
"Never yours, Asvoria," Svea spat, her lip curling in disgust. "Never your thrall, despite your fascination." She would never forget the endless days Asvoria had pressed her for details about her time as a thrall but never about the days before it. Even now, Asvoria could reduce her to that time in her life when she had been valued below a loaf of bread, as if the brand on her skin didn't do it already.
Even now, Asvoria couldn't admit aloud that she had never known the right questions to ask. She had never met someone like Svea before. She had been fascinated by the scars beneath her skin, the life before Valkvann, but she had been blind to what it meant to live in servitude, to be valued only for the labor of your hands. All she had wanted was to feed her hunger for every sordid detail. The brand on Svea's body was a mark Asvoria had never fully understood, and never wanted to. Yet there they stood: two women bound by fate, by hatred, by love, standing in the shadow of a future that had once promised greatness - and the giant who had done his best to steer them there.
The worst of their words hung in the air, heavy as stones, raw and unspoken, pressing down upon them like the sky itself. It was the kind of silence that outlasts battlefields, the kind that lingers when the blood has dried and the land has grown empty. A silence that would rage on between them, a war neither blade nor shield could ever resolve, long after the land itself was dust and forgotten by men.