The Crows Are Always Watching

The crows filled the sky, flying in smaller and smaller circles. Black wings set against the fire of the setting sun. Hoarse caws echoed in defiance of the night and whatever demons it brought. They repeated their evening ritual until they all found their spot in a tree. Black dots on high branches, watching the world below them. Watching.

Crows were always watching.

Ingrid tightened the shawl around her shoulders. The cold and darkness grew stronger every day, while the sun paled. Soon her trips to the marketplace would have to be shortened if she didn’t want to make the trip in near darkness. The stars and the moon brought some comfort, but provided no real help against the pressing dark and the sounds it brought.

The fire in the sky was now just a strip over the trees, the night sky pressing it down behind the tall trees. The trees filled with black eyes watching her, indifferent to whether she’d be safe or not.

A lone caw followed her as she reached the field, skirting its edge instead of taking the shortest path across. That’d bring her closer to the mound. Closer to him. Only, he wasn’t there. He was in Valhalla now, fighting and feasting. Ingrid was happy for him. Or she told herself she was, but the ache in her chest had not softened with time, only deepened, and her bed had never felt truly warm since then. No laughter echoed inside the walls of their, no… her house, as it used to.

The way he’d throw his head back, light hair falling back to catch the glow of the fire as his chest and belly moved. She’d been annoyed with it then. Now she prayed each night to the gods to hear it again.

She looked at the mound, large and round. Soft grass and flowers covered it now, but the door… the door still looked like an open mouth, ready to suck all of her happiness inside. A part of her soul tugged to be set free, to join him there.

Three years. Three years had passed since her husband had been laid to rest, next to her brother, protecting him in death as he had in life. Since Olav the Coward - she spat the name - had seized power by defeating Harold the Fearless.

Three years since her heart had been ripped to pieces.

Eirik.

Her Eirik fought bravely. They all did. But bravery holds nothing against betrayal, and so they were all laid to rest, while the surviving men swore their fealty to a traitor. And life went back to normal. At least for most.

With hurried steps, she cleared the field and turned onto the wider road. A final glance back made her frown; shadows moved around the mound. A tall shadow, crowned with horns. Was someone there to pay their respects? At this hour?

No, it must be shadows from the trees, dancing as if they thought themselves to be forest spirits. Or even more likely, a deer. No horned helmet, just antlers. She shook her head, chuckling. Most likely her tired eyes were playing games with her. It was dark and the distance long. Then why was her heart beating so fast, as if she was a small child still in fear of the dark?

Ahead of her lay the farm. Her farm now. She’d been allowed to keep it, along with most of their livestock and thralls. Only a few had to be given in tribute to the Coward, and she’d picked the most disobedient workers she could find.

She was home. Torches flickered around the courtyard, and warm light greeted her through the windows. The day had been successful. Her basket was empty and the coin pouch in her belt heavier than when she left. As she stepped into the light, something caught her attention. A short way from the road lay a pile of brown feathers; one of the chickens hadn’t made it to the coop in time. A pang of sadness surprised her. They kept the chickens for food, yet seeing one thrown to the side like this…

Picking it up, she saw that its throat had been torn open, but the rest of the bird was untouched. The blood was glistening, fresh and warm, so it hadn’t been dead long. Perhaps her arrival had scared the fox off. She smiled. The humans would eat well, not whatever thieving beast had done this.

“Mother!” As soon as she stepped through the door, Dagny came running, her ragdoll dangling from one hand as always. “You’re back.”

Small arms were thrown around Ingrid’s waist, and she smiled, all tension from the walk melting away.

“Take these to the kitchen, please.” She handed the basket and chicken to Helga, the thrall who had taken care of Dagny. “Have someone pluck and prepare it.”

“Of course.” She looked at the hen. “Fox?”

“I think so.”

“Probably the same one that took a lamb at Birger and Olga’s fields the other night.”

“Oh. I guess someone should hunt it down if it becomes a real danger to the livestock.”

“Yes. From what I heard, it might be killing out of bloodlust, since it didn’t eat the lamb. It was just like with this one. Throat opened and drained of blood.”

“That’s troublesome.”

“A good meal for us, though. Supper is ready, and Dagny was waiting for you to come home.” The little girl nodded so her short braids bounced. “It’s set up on the dining table.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

After they’d eaten, her daughter came up to her just as she was leaving the table. Dagny had the same soft brown hair as Ingrid – braided in two short braids rather than one long – and her father’s bright blue eyes. Eyes that now were looking pleadingly at her.

“Can you tell me a story tonight?” she asked, clutching the doll to her small chest, eyelids fluttering in a way that would break hearts ten years from now. Freya, have mercy on those boys…

“Of course. Go and change into your nightclothes.” They both enjoyed that evening ritual, snuggling up close to the fire.

The small girl lit up and bounced away, dragging Helga with her. Ingrid smiled, watching them disappear into the bedroom. Helga also watched her go, then paused clearing the table.

“Olav, the new chieftain came by earlier,” she said carefully, and Ingrid froze.

“I know who he is.” Olav the traitor. Olav, who seized power by attacking and killing Harold the Fearless, her elder brother, as well as the loyal men standing by his side to the last. One of them was her Eirik.

He slew my brother. He killed my husband. That treacherous coward.

“I know,” Helga said quickly.

“What did he want?” Surely no more gifts… please, Odin, no more.

“You know why.” Helga lowered her voice slightly. “Our chieftain was very disappointed that you weren’t here. You know he won’t give up.”

“Idiot man,” Ingrid snapped, then shook her head and smiled apologetically at Helga, who quickly picked up their used bowls. “I’ll handle him next time.”

Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? The answer, of course, was obvious. And sickening. Harold had been well liked, and while most of his people had officially accepted Olav, their loyalty had not shifted. Marrying the former chieftain's sister would significantly strengthen his power.

It was a good offer, a good match, and had it been anybody else, she would have considered it no matter how much she loved her late husband. As chieftain's wife, she and Dagny would be secure, but just the thought of sharing her bed with that man was unthinkable. She didn’t want him anywhere near her.

“I’m ready. Can you tell me the story about Fafnir again?” Dagny stood there, her linen gown a little long, doll in hand, stifling a yawn.

“Of course. It was your father’s favorite story too.” A traitor turning into a monster, then justly slain… But not all monsters turned into serpents for all to see; some basked in glory.

Later, when Dagny slept safely close to the fire in the main room, Ingrid headed to the small room she’d shared with Eirik, settling at the desk. Things had gone well at the market today, she thought as she counted the coins and made meticulous notes in her large ledger. They would be fine on their own. A wealthy widow and her daughter.

Ingrid was strong; she didn’t need a man, but by Odin, she missed Eirik. Missed him so much that the hole in her heart was still as painful as that day.

Eirik, my Eirik. The gods should’ve left you here with me.