Torn Strings

Link to article: Torn Strings.

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‘’She eats people!?’’

‘’Don’t know, but I wouldn’t risk it. You ever met a witch?’’

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[[module Rate]]
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[[div class ="blockquote"]]
Honored Kirke, Child of Helios, Keeper of the Sacred Isle of Aeaea and Guardian of the Ways of the Dead.

It has come to my attention that the esteemed Lord Percival Darke will be hosting an auction in East Galles in two day’s time. Among the items to be sold are Muspell lava vines, bubble berries and gloom ferns, which, if memory serves, will be of particular interest to you. I will be attending as well, naturally, though this “Abyssal Harpoon” is the only artifact to have truly caught my eye. I’ve always wanted to catch a real Leviathan; perhaps you have some wisdom to share?

Ever yours,
Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood,
Explorer and gentleman.
[[/div]]

------

"I told you! I //can't// do it! I just can't do it." Her voice cracked, barely holding back tears.

"Sejdørn of house Hjörvardr, I have been tutoring in service to your family for five hundred and seventy two years—"

"Please—"

"Quiet! Show some respect to your teacher. Mither above, I've never failed to teach a little boy how to sing -- and don't you start with //that// nonsense again! If you would just //listen// for once in your life, maybe you'll--"

She broke.

"I AM listening! I'm //always// fucking listening!" The scream tore through her room and she fell back on her bed. She gasped and sobbed as the walls seemed to close in on her. Choking her, crushing her. She couldn't breathe.

"You're grounded for three days. Your homework is to re-read chapters two to twelve and write a ten page essay on proper etiquette. Goodnight, Sejdørn."

------

“It’ll be alright. You’re still young, you’ve got plenty of time to learn. You know, the brilliant Sigurn Gold-Tongue couldn't sing until he was halfway to his first century?” Her mother's voice was soft but disinterested, as comforting as a glass of lukewarm water.

"I'm not Sigurn Gold-Tongue, Mom. And that's not even true, he understood everything perfectly fine." She was on her bed, looking away. Not daring to see the disappointment in those eyes.

"Don't you?"

"No! That's what I've been trying to explain, but no one ever listens. Every time I try it's like-- like worms are crawling in my ears. It's-- it's just too much."

Silence.

“You’ll find your place, Sejdørn. Everyone does.”

------

[[div class ="blockquote"]]
Blackwood,

I must say I’m impressed! I did not expect your courier to find me so easily, nor for him to be so well-mannered with the animals. It is a rare sight indeed when a human learns from his mistakes, and rarer still for him to pass on that knowledge to others. Many thanks for the invitation, explorer. If it is truly as you say, then I would be of great pleasure to attend this auction. I must be growing predictable, had you seen bubble berries and thought to notify me immediately, but I mustn’t complain. This is indeed a wonderful opportunity, and I would be glad to advise you with regard to your little “Leviathan”, as foolish as the endeavor sounds.

Regards, Kirke
[[/div]]

------
Viscous sweat rolled down her forearms, making her fingers sticky and heavy. The hall was long and luxurious; you could host a hundred Finnfolk there and still leave space for more; it smelled of fresh ambrosial flowers and glittered with the icy light of the chandeliers. This did nothing to disperse the claustrophobic nausea that pressed her shoulders in and squeezed the air out of her lungs.

‘’Are you ready?’’ melodied her sister.

‘’Oh! You know me, ready as I’ll ever be!’’ lied Sejdørn of house Hjörvardr.

You see, it was her last birthday, all these people were there because of //her//, for //her// performance. Looking. At. //Her.// What great //honor//, what a heavy //disgrace//.

She closed her eyes, the breaths slugging slowly in and out of her lungs, like thick worms making way through a tight hole. The space behind the stage was too small. The flowery scent was sickeningly sweet. The light was too dazzling and distracting. She could hear every little song and conversation that duetied between any two of the dozens gathered tonight. It was all— It— It was too much. All of it was far too much. She stepped up to the pedestal.

On their last birthday of adolescence, every child of the noble house of Hjörvardr must perform their best song. There was however, a single issue. Sejdørn did not know how to sing. Well, it wasn’t that she didn’t //know//, she knew everything about the songs; tempo, galdr, height, every type of melody; but every time she tried to perform it came out wrong. Too buzzy, too rough, like a stranger was using her voice. A copy of a copy of a copy.

The stage was vast and cold and the crowd was hungry. Her vision blurred, the crowd melting into a singular many-eyed beast. It coiled beneath her, leering, stalking, judging without a single word. She wanted to sing, or to say something, or at least to scream. Do //anything// to disturb that choking silence. Instead, she turned to run.

Her grandmother caught her by the neck and shoved her back up the steps.

"Insolent child! You dishonor yourself and your house, //my// house. You don't get to run from a rite of passage. Now //sing.//"

Sejdørn stumbled on the stage, eyes still unfocused. Her heart beat madly with the urge to run, a primal sense of danger overtaking her every thought. But her grandmother's voice was a heavy shackle around her legs, her stare a dagger to her throat. And so she sang the simplest song she knew, the first one she'd ever been taught.

Her voice was shrill and painful, like metal grazing ceramics. The air grew tense, the crowd cringing and shifting uncomfortably. She heard someone breathe sharply and the sound dug into her mind, crawling in her throat. This could not continue.

She stopped, and the silence that followed was somehow even more unbearable. Predictably, she had failed. Now came the punishment.

“Sounds like you could use a few private lessons, eh?” Leered one of her sisters with a song like a crow’s mating call. No-one came to her defense. A few awkward laughs spread through the crowd, and suddenly it was over. The cabaret of conversation continued as if she hadn't sung a single note. As if this wasn't //her// day, as if she hadn't proved herself the worst failure her house had ever seen.

As if she wasn't there at all.

------

New Finnfolkaheem is a city of sounds. A symphony that needs no conductor, no guidance but the voices of its people. Everyone seems to know their section in the choir.

All save one.

From the balcony that Sejdørn escaped to the whole city could be viewed, coiling spires towering over an orderly web of streets and alleys. The floor was polished white marble, rimmed by a railing that was sculpted to resemble river waters frozen in time. An intricate arrangements of seashells decorated the doorway, turning the wind into a scenic song. And like most songs, it was designed with the assumption that you would want to hum along, leaving space in the melody for the listener to chime in. How thoughtful. That space was now turned to a gaping silence that wailed into itself. The song was dead. It was as if the balcony was empty.

Sejdørn tried to ignore the songs, but it was like trying to ignore the world itself. Everyone seemed to learn them effortlessly. Some days she mused on the idea that there was some sort of secret music sheet that only she didn’t get. It wasn’t true, of course, but imagining that all that separated her from her peers was reading a manual… Well, it was a nice illusion. One as see-through as her skin, a birth defect that laid her scales bare in the cold evening air.

Then, a humming entered the space, but it did not fit. Shaky and flaked, the tune off, the sound didn’t fill the emptiness, rather simply hung beside it. It reminded Sejdørn of her own attempts, and she laughed.

//What a strange little melody you got there, stranger.// But all she said was ‘’Good evening sir, does your song ring true?’’[[footnote]] A normal greeting in Finnfolk high-society of the 18th century. Equivalent to a sort of ‘’how are you,’’ that isn’t interested in the answer.[[/footnote]]

‘’I don’t know darling, does yours?’’ The stranger was short and prim, his voice songless, his response unusual, his skin freckled, and his suit in black and white that definitely didn't fit tonight's dress code. He knelt and took her hand, but didn’t kiss it.

‘’May I kiss your hand, Lady Sejdørn of house Hjörvardr?’’ Again he was breaking the taught and practiced flow of the conversation. People don’t usually ask, it was just how it was. So many responses swirled around her mind; ‘’yes’’ and, ‘’who are you?’’ and ‘’what were you singing?’’ and ‘’where did you come from’’ and ‘’oh Mither above, please do!’’ Outside her head, she merely nodded.

His lips were soft and imperfect. She could feel half a dozen little scars marking stories that she wanted to hear more than anything else.

‘’Who are you?’’ she managed to finally ask with a rough tune.

‘’I am Karamat no-last-name, professional courier and amateur explorer, at your service.’’ Again, his voice was clear, but carried no song.

‘’Oh, a courier? And what does one such as yourself carry?’’ She dropped the melody as well, letting her voice flow unpolished and free.

‘’Letters, mostly,’’ and then added, as if sweetening a deal, ‘’but always secrets.’’

‘’Then I suppose I cannot ask for the contents of these… Messages?’’ Speaking like this was so much easier than the complicated dance she was usually forced to perform. There wasn’t a hidden lyric or an agenda, simply a question brimming with curiosity.

‘’I carry connections, information that can bridge the gap between worlds apart, but can also burn these bridges and start wars… Of my career as a courier I cannot speak, but my journeys as an explorer on the other hand…’’

Their eyes met and she took a step closer, her face a breath away from hers. ‘’Please.’’

His cheeks changed color as he sighed and said, ‘’Fine! Fine! I was going to tell you anyway, since you’re so curious. Jesus Christ. You know, you shouldn't get this close to strangers!’’

She backed off, mumbling apologies as her mind screamed at her. //What was she doing! This is no way for a person to behave—//

He snorted, and her thoughts melted away. ‘’You're fine, all good, really! Just want you to be careful, okay? People can be wretched things, no matter if it's down here or up there.’’

Her thoughts flooded back into her mind, then spun together like gears on a vast piece of machinery, like a spindle weaving threads.

‘’Karamat, I’ve got a question for you,’’ the certainty in her voice surprising even herself.

‘’By all means, ask away,’’ he grinned, unaware of how the strings of fate were tying around her, unaware of how this would change //everything.//

‘’You’re not from around here, are you?’’

The question caught him like a bear trap as he laughed nervously and said, ‘’Oh yes, the other side of Finnfolkaheem, truly.”

‘’Oh yes? Where from, exactly?’’

‘’Ah, um—’’

‘’I’m not stupid, you know,’’ she had no idea what she was saying, this was complete speculation, a leap of faith with a slim chance of landing, but she had to take it.

‘’You’re from the surface.’’

At first there was no reaction, her momentary confidence fading, then she saw it. It was a mere sliver, but it was there… fear. There it was, in the corner of his eye, fear that lingered like a tear of blood waiting to roll down his cheek. Confirmation.

‘’... What… are you talking about?’’

‘’You are! You're a human!’’ She almost started laughing, an opportunity on a silver platter, ‘’take me with you! You have to!’’

‘’I am not from the surface, I was merely born with a divergence within my auditory system that makes it hard for me to process singing. That is all. And now, if you’ll excuse me—’’
She closed the distance between them again, this time, for some reason Karamat was keenly aware of how close he was to the edge of the balcony. ‘’Take me, or I’ll tell grandmother.’’

This time when their gaze met, he saw something else, this girl needed an out… his eyes softened. ‘’Lady Sejdørn, there would be nothing I’d like more than to take you with me, but I cannot.’’

‘’I’ll tell everyone you’re an outsider! You would be locked up!’’

‘’Hold your horses, I never said I wouldn't help you.’’

“My… what?”

“You want out, right? I won’t pretend to know your circumstance, but I know a thing or two about being trapped.” He paused for a second, then continued, “but somewhere else isn't always better.”

“I know that, of course I know that, but does that mean I have to stay here and just—”

“No! No, that's not what I'm saying at all, if your soul tells you to leave, you leave, I'm just warning you that finding your freedom isn't as simple as leaving your prison. There will be people who want to harm you, there will be places you'll go and say ‘actually, this is much worse than where I began,’ there will be points where you just want to lay down or go back, //keep going.// I'm not telling you to give up on finding a place, I'm just warning you that it will take time, and persistence. You must continue, greener pasture after greener pasture, until you find the place where the grass is truly right.’’

He looked so tired, then a bit sad, and, finally, soft wistfulness washed across his face. ‘’What I’m saying is… good luck, kiddo, you’ll need it.’’

The balcony still crackled its broken hum, the city spindled with a song that to her was always a cacophony. ‘’Did you find your home, Karamat?’’

‘’No, darling, not yet… some people, after visiting enough pastures’’ — he chuckled with little mirth — ‘’find enough junk to build a home on their back. But that’s not a life I’ll wish on anyone. Find your place Sejdørn, you got this.’’

‘’But you won’t take me with you?’’

‘’I can’t. My way out of New Finnfolkaheem is through the favor of a very dangerous individual, a favor I'm afraid does not extend far… Trying to stretch a witch’s kindness is a sure way to end up on her plate.’’

‘’She eats people!?’’

‘’Don’t know, but I wouldn’t risk it. You ever met a witch?’’

‘’Yes actually, grandmother employs a powerful seiðkonur, and aunt Ægirbjǫrg used to be a vǫlva.’’

‘’Excellent, then I assume you’ll know how to act in good friðr?’’

‘’Um, yes, because my singing is… Well, I had to practice my manners.’’

‘’A final piece of advice then, extend the friðr not only to the witch and her servants, but to the beasts in her domain as well.’’

Sejdørn laughed, ‘’Friðr for animals? You must be—’’

‘’//No.//’’ She tried to find any hint of a joke in his eyes, and came empty. ‘’The witch cares for her land far more than she cares for any mortal being. She lives in a lake a bit less than nine songcalls from here, beside a village called Sehol-Dal. Once you even //start// to reach her domain you must act with perfect friðr toward all her creatures, from the most innocent of rodents to the vilest of the sea-snakes. Am I clear?’’

She nodded once, he smiled and kissed her hand, then he was gone.

------

On the night Sejdørn would lose her last name, she climbed to the very top of her family's mansion to bid farewell to her city of her birth.

Her perch overlooked the city beneath the false night sky. Even now it sang in harmony, the music a gentle embrace. The sound crushed her heart, wringing bitter sobs and cracked screams into the night's melody, her tears falling from her cheeks into the abyss below.

Was she really going to leave?

She would never be a part of this. //You just need more time.// She was a smear on this city, keeping it from greatness. //Every symphony needs dissonance.// No amount of tuning will save a torn string. //This is your home.// Not really. She’d never felt at home here. Was she to spend the rest of her days breaking her heart trying to heal the impossibly broken? There was no reason to stay, and every reason to leave.

Neither she nor her family would be worse off for it.

‘’To greener pastures,’’ she toasted. Maybe to herself, maybe to the wind, maybe to fate itself.

She had made her decision, and, dismounting from the mansion, she began her flight.

Hours later, with a stuffed backpack and a nervous step, she'd realized the city's song had ceased to follow her, and she couldn't recall noticing she'd left it behind

-----

The seiðkonur’s temple allegedly stood in the middle of a dark lake that the locals called ‘The Croon’. Whether this was truth or merely children-tale could not be gleaned from the crooked shore. Spirals of mist collided and intermingled all around her, covering everything with a silencing hum softer than midnight. The lake could’ve been empty or infinite or barely less than a songcall long, all she would see is the fog.

There did lay a small fishing village on the steps of the Croon, southeast of her and against the direction of the tides. Its name was Sehol-Dal, and its people were of a darker blood and a rumbling song. Always suspicious, but not without a reason. At the deepest midnights, every once in a while, the wind would carry strange songs from the lake. Monsters would come, creatures, not resembling the beasts of the wild, nor yet like men in body, but with a medley of limbs.

They would take things, rarely people, but not never. One time, a few days after a smith had dumped a pile of rusted garbage in the lake, the beasts dragged her out of her home screaming and crying for help. Her body washed up years later, perfectly preserved, save for the metal that now made up her bones.

If you were lucky the songs would just make the world grow quiet, softening the edges of sound and lulling you to sleep. It was better that way, sleeping through these witching hours was far preferable than having to witness the beasts. However, if you were unlucky… Some who heard the songs started singing themselves. Not the elegant song of the cultured and civil, a primal song, a howling, a screeching, a blood-curdling thing that would turn them inside out. These folk could never sing the culture-song again.

Shapeshifters were also not uncommon on these nights, a thing that looked like a Finnfolk would come and knock on a door, ask a few questions, dinner, a name. Sehol-Dal treated them with respect, reverence, but never warmth. What little warmth life on the edge of the Croon left them, they kept for themselves. It was for the third of these reasons that Sehol-Dal had no reputation for being of great hospitality. And why their reaction to Sejdørn was locking their doors and whispering protective galdrs.

She, however, did not know this. So on the first night of her journey she found herself wandering the cold streets alone, hearing no song but the drumming of windows shutting to her arrival, and feeling like the whole town despised her very presence.

But she couldn't go back now, and the Croon was her only lead forward. Sejdørn walked nervously along the docks, trying not to jump at the shadows in the fog. From up close she could hear the swaying of the lake beneath her. It sounded so… gentle. Inviting, almost.

“Looking for something, outsider?” She jumped and almost fell in. The song that startled her belonged to a short man who had a voice like far-off thunder. She pointed to the lake.

“You want out?” A quick nod. “Then it’s ten snaps for the moly.” She took out the coins, and he motioned her to follow him. As they walked, he took out a bell and rang it, the runaway cringing at the sudden sound. It rippled through the silence, the mists shivering around them. Then another figure emerged from the dark, and Sejdørn’s heart nearly stopped beating.

It was tall and muscular and walked on two legs, but that is where the resemblance to Finnfolk ended. Its skin was covered in striped fur instead of scales, alternating between black and orange. Long fangs protruded from a maw of razor-sharp teeth, yellow cat’s eyes darting between her and her guide.

“Get the boat ready,” He told the beast in a tune like cracked ice. It stopped, ears perked, before leaping and disappearing in the fog without a sound.

The boatman glanced at her, raising an eyebrow at her continued silence, then kept walking. They reached the edge of the docks, where a large fishing boat was waiting for them. She could make out a big wooden box inside. He looked at her again, and then spoke flatly and without song:

“It’s my son. The howlin’ is in his head. Won’t be long before he joins the others in the lake.”

“I’m– I’m sorry.”

“Oh, so you do ‘ave a voice. I was startin’ to think the seiðkonur took it.”

“I’m not great at singing.”

“Well, neither is he, at least not the way he’s supposed to. But there ain’t such a thing as being great or bad at singin’, long as it's yer own voice.” He climbed into the boat and opened the box, taking out a clump of dried flowers. Hesitantly, she joined him. “That’s why’ere bringing these with us. Put some in your ears. The rest we’ll spread ‘round the water once we’re close to… The center.”

They set out across the lake, the sounds of rowing becoming a comforting rhythm in Sejdørn’s ears. Drifting gently across the waters, she closed her eyes against doubt and fear. Soon she would be out there in the real world, seeing everything that it has to offer. It might take a while to find her place, but she has all the time in the world for that. And besides, her people lived so much longer than humans…

The air changed, shifted, wind suddenly blowing across her face. She sat up, seeing the boatman casting white petals into the lake. But they were caught up in the gale, blown off into the mists and beyond. Mists which should have been blown away themselves, and yet now hung closer than ever before.

“There’s somethin’ below!” He cried. “I’m trying to— agh!” A shadow erupted out from the water, sending freezing spindrift everywhere. Before she could realize what was happening the thing was slithering its way up the oar before leaping onto the man. Snakes, four or five of them conjoined together into one creature, wrapping around his limbs and his neck. She thrust her hand into the flower box and threw a fistful of petals at the monster. It hissed sharply, slithering down to the floor of the boat, where it began to writhe. Like a seed spreading roots through the earth, the tangle of snakes began to grow, heads rising from the mass as a dozen tails began weaving themselves into one giant serpent. Sejdørn yelped and scrambled away, back pressed to the stern. The beast rose and hissed from a hundred mouths, slitted eyes glinting like diamonds in a sea of black scales.

On the other side of the boat the man coughed, failing to rise. “We’re almost there! Just swim and—”
There was a great crack as the vessel snapped in half, the serpent tendrils hurling the bow into the fog. The fisherman’s scream echoed like his bell had before dying swiftly in a splash of water. Sejdørn froze, limbs refusing to move as the snakes swirled around her legs and raced along her skin. Where the boatman fell, the lake started blooming red. The hive-serpent tightened around her, every rib pressing in as her lungs began to scream. She tried to breathe in, but there was no place for the air to go. Her muscles were grinding against her bones, everything was starting to go black.

Then, that black deepened, and in the darkness she heard a song.

It didn’t sound like Finnfolk songs were meant to sound. Glutural with blood and ancient like the howling of the wind itself. It matched the hive-beast and ferocity, then it started calming. The song stabilized, freezing like molten metal in a cast, quietening and relaxing, and taking the snake with it. The coils that held her untightened and spread out, each snake satiated from whatever primal instinct guided them to attack. Soon, there was nothing on the broken boat except a few flower petals and a gasping Sejdørn. Then a cold wind blew and the mists surged, swirling and billowing, a presence forming within.

The Finnfolk coughed blood and saltwater and tried to rise up. Everything was blurry and painful, yet through cracked lips she said, ‘’honored seiðkonur, I am Sejdørn of the noble house of Hjörvardr, and I come bearing an offer.’’

‘’A simple seiðkonur? Is that what you take me for? Child, I am the dread god Kirke, keeper of the ways of the dead and the names of the wind, have you come into my domain not knowing my station?’’

There was a flash of orange light and her vision came back into focus as the mists burned away. He called himself a god, which could only mean one thing -- a Vættir[[footnote]] Finnfolk term for a Beast of Nature [[/footnote]]. The thing that stood above her on the ship was a thing divine. It couldn't have been anything else. His dress was the deep mountain green of wildness untamed, his hair an unquenchable funeral pyre, and his skin white as the death that comes for us all. Most striking however were his eyes. Two golden discs of sunlight that shone on Sejdørn from above and pierced through the fog. They were filled with the galdr of The Croon, and, right now, curiosity.
In her mind she was already cursing Karamat. Seiðkonur and vættir had similar friðr, but the vættir were much less forgiving. She had already insulted him once, there won’t be a second time.

‘’Apologies, I have been told that the one who lived here was a seiðkonur who could lead me to the outside world, clearly there has been a misunderstanding.’’

‘’You have been told?’’ The being moved closer to her, the freezing of the lake melting away with every step. ‘’There is no misunderstanding, I am the Lord of this lake, and I can lead you out, if you’ll tell me who sent you my way.’’

She knew the being before her — be he a dread vættir, a seiðkonur enchantress, or anything else — could kill her in an instant. But she couldn’t do it, Karamat had shown her true kindness and demanded nothing in return. She braced herself for impact, filled her lungs with hot honeysweet air, then said ‘’I am sorry, dread god Kirke, I— I cannot give away the name of the one who helped me. To elicit such a betrayal would be a grave wound on my friðr and yours.’’

The vættir’s eyes were burning with galdr stronger than she ever heard in her life, its music all around them, wisps of it swirled in the air and snaked on the ship like liquid fire. When they touched the wood, it began transforming. Growing long arches and sprouting thorns and leaves, branching toward the sky. She felt the ruined ship entombing her, fear filled her bones as all strength left them, and she fell—

On a comfortable leaf-padded chair. She blinked with confusion, clearing the tears from her eyes and seeing the room around her. What was once broken planks was now a lovely wooden hut, standing in the middle of the Croon, all seemingly grown from the wood of the ship. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

‘’So,’’ the vættir chuckled, ‘’you had an offer for me?’’ She sat on the other side of a small flowering table— She? Sejdørn’s mind was already filled to the brim with questions, but she could swear on her life that before her now sat a goddess, not a god. She realized she was staring.

‘’Honored Kirke, first I would like to thank you for the kind hospitality you have given me.’’

‘’Of course, any daughter of house Hjörvardr is a guest of mine, especially one who has a solid spine in her back.’’ She said it with a smile, but the way her lips curved made Sejdørn wonder at the ease in which Kirke could //remove// said spine.

‘’A moment ago, you told me you were the Lord of this lake. Is— is this still true?’’

She lifted her eyebrow. ‘’Sejdørn of house Hjörvardr, do you truly think I could be dethroned so quickly?’’

‘’No— I— I merely meant that—’’

Kirke’s laugh was like a spring sun on a perfect day, all around her the flowers began blooming, and the air tasted honeysweet. ‘’Relax, child, I understand your question, and appreciate it. But yes, you are quite right, at this moment I am guileful-Kirke, Lady of the Croon, and in few more I might again become a lord, or a lady, or anything else.’’

‘’May I ask how?’’ Sejdørn said before her brain could stop her. But her brain was distracted as well, never before had it looked out and saw a thing so beautiful, and never before had it found something to be so true within itself.

‘’I am a goddess of wildness, of change, of’’ — she laughed again, softly this time — ‘’//transitions,// life to death, seed to flower, beast to man, and man to ash. It would be a dishonor to my domain to be kept as merely one thing.’’

//Oh… it’s because she’s divinity.// Sejdørn didn’t know why disappointment washed over her, but it seemed that Lady Kirke noticed.

‘’I jest, child, I was like this far before I took my domain. You need not have a change-galdr to be a changing thing yourself. As long as you will it, it is true.’’

Sejdørn was no longer sure what they were talking about, so she switched back to her familiar goal. ‘’Lady Kirke, I have come with an offer to you, I desire to leave to the outside world.’’

‘’Oh? And what does a child of the Hjörvardr have to look for outside their comfortable home?’’

‘’I…’’ She tried to articulate it, years of misplacement and confusion just to find one conversation in which she could truly speak as herself. ‘’I go searching greener pastures.’’

//There it was again,// thought Kirke. A hint of a spine. A little hunger to //do// something. Kirke remembered her years in her father's home, she too was meant for a life of luxury and a politically valuable husband. Instead… Her mind wandered to the lush evergreen of Aeaea, a home she built by hand and song. What was it that the kid said? Greener pastures?

‘’Very well. This is not a rare favor, and its price I assume you know well.’’

Sejdørn did know the price, the favor of a god always cost one of three things: A life of servitude, a heart fresh off a chest, or a galdr. ‘’I will not give you my life, for I desire to experience it.’’

‘’Oh?’’

‘’Nor will I give you no-one’s heart, the act will taint any life I may have.’’

‘’Somewhat meek, but I can respect that.’’ She stood from the table and turned to leave, as if the deal was as good as sealed.

‘’I apologize goddess, you misunderstand. I will not give you my song either.”

“Oh?” the enchantress stopped. “You will not have much use for it, up there on the surface. Even the most brilliant of human composers barely scratch the surface of your people’s talents.”

“It is imperfect and clumsy, and does not fit here. But–”

“All the more reason to give it up, then. Or perhaps, you fear your song is not of sufficient quality to serve as an offering?”

“--I wish to find a place where it does.’’

Kirke turned, anger in her eyes. ‘’Then you wish a favor and offer nothing? Child, the only thing it seems you deserve is to be torn asunder by the snakes.’’

‘’No— I— I do have an offer—’’.

“So do I you wretched trǫll.” The roots around Sejdørn started encircling her feet as translucent vines started pouring from the vættir's fingertips, she s—

“Take my last name!’’

For a second there was no sound but the whisper of the wind and the sloshing of the waves.

Then the roots rescinded back.

‘’You wish…’’ Kirke brows furrowed. ‘’To be without a house? Without title or the influence of the Hjörvardrs?’’

‘’I would have no use for these things outside, would I?’’

For what must’ve been the first time in ages, surprise spread over Kirke’s face. This girl would rather sacrifice her noble inheritance than a broken, off-kilter song. It was madness, but it //was// a good deal. She sighed, and the galdr in her breath made wind quiet and waves to stand still. ‘’I accept your offer, Sejdørn of no house at all. But I must warn you, the world outside isn’t a kind one, watch your step and keep your tongue to yourself, I cannot protect you once you leave this domain.’’

Sejdørn no-last-name almost collapsed with relief, ‘’Thank you, Lady Kirke! Thank you so mu—’’

‘’Don’t mention it kid, I do it for your name, not your thanks,’’ said Kirke, but the little Finnfolk did grow on her, just a bit. ‘’I will give you a potion and a galdr that will give you human form, and I will take you with me to a city named Galles; I need to be there for a different occasion, but I will not accompany you." Then she added, in a harsher tone, "Once we reach Galles we will never see each other again, odds are, you’ll never see any Finnfolk ever again.’’

Sejdørn nodded, too excited to speak. This was the start of something new.

‘’Ah, and a final warning. My favor is not lightly granted, but it is easily lost. You are now part of my domain, of the wild and changing things. Treat the wilderness in kindness and you may keep your place, betray it and it will spit you out like a half-chewed bone.’’

‘’Yes, Lady Kirke, I understand.’’ She was barely listening at this point, thoughts running with uncontrollable visions of the city and the outside.

‘’Good. You may like the human world more than I did, but you can’t become a part of it. You and I will always be of the howling wind, child, not the concrete stone. Never forget that.’’

"Wait!" An idea sparked behind Sejdørn's eyes.

"What?"

"The transformation spell, can it make me look like a human woman? I know my body is, well--"

Kirke smiled. "Of course, Sejdørn, I hadn't thought to do it any other way."

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