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. Entitled even. 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 times 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."