Chapter One: “Glettask Hjarta” (With Heart)

We get a peek inside of the mind of Menskr's most intriguing thrall, Brynja Idunn.

Chapter One: “Glettask Hjarta” (With Heart)

Brynja

Winter will approach soon, this I am sure of- I can smell it in the air, see it in the forest. It has been nearly eight years since Udyr (You-dare) brought me to this estate, his estate. I have paced the stone halls so many times I feel that they know my steps by heart, they know the rhythm of my steps and the sway of my gait. He has been kinder to me than any thrall would have the right to expect of a master- he clothes me well, treats me as though I am not a simple lowly servant, and although we have bedded together I know he will never say that he loves me, as his servant, it would be a fair death blow to his esteemed status. The princess herself fancies him- what right have I to stake a claim to his heart?

At this point, it has been a year and seven months since I last saw him. Snow will start to fall shortly, and yet the call of battle still keeps him. I worry not for his life, he is a skilled warrior, and so I simply go about my chores this time of year- cleaning the stables, making new blankets for the horses, chopping enough wood to fill the storehouses, preserving enough food to last through Frostfall, dusting and sweeping and polishing. My days are long and often lonely, but I work dutifully so that I may not disappoint my master when he returns home.

There is a loud ‘crunch!’ as the wood chopping axe slices clean through the yew log with a single mighty blow, for a moment my mind flashes back to my times of battle, when my blade would slice flesh in a similar fashion, but those days are gone now. I stack the split logs in an orderly fashion and grab the next, setting it on the block and looking at my worn hands.

Worn. Broken. Beaten. I am not yet old, a woman of twenty-seven, but my hands resemble that of an old spinster. The calluses cannot be hidden, the skin of my hands has cracked many times with the cold and the heat, the dirt beneath my nails, the short beds for them- for as long as I can remember they have been this way. My hands are not soft like those of any other woman, and neither is my body. It is muscled, from my core to my limbs. What “padding” I have has been negated by the strength of my body, one cannot be both strong and beautiful- none save the gods. My hips may flare out like those of a bar wench, but they hold not the same temptation.

As I cleave the next log I hear what could almost be the sound of a horse coming up the path- but when I stop, I hear nothing in the distance, so I continue my task. Only when I hear what seems to be the sound of the large double doors of the main hall scraping open do I look up again, the hounds bellow and their claws scratch against the freshly swept floors. My hands shake, but I do not show my anticipation. I pick up the split logs and bring them to the storage shed before I go inside, through the back servant’s door. For as long as I have known, I have been the only one to ever use this door.

As I round the corner to step through the kitchen doorway, I ram right into a wall of battle hardened muscle and sinew.

“I did not hear you inside.” Udyr states, pulling me back and straightening me, he looks into my face, tilting my head upwards by my chin. He does this every time he returns, before anything else. As though he wants to ensure I have done no harm to myself while he was gone.

“I was outside, chopping wood. I will have the storage houses full before Frostfall.” I state, leaning into his touch as he weaves his fingers into my tangled golden hair. Tangled, it seems it is always tangled. Rarely do I ever brush it….

“My Fire Eyes is always so industrious…” This he always calls me, Fire Eyes, he says this endearingly, a sort of pet name. When he presses his lips to mine, I let him.

“You have been gone a long time….” After our greeting I follow him into the main hall, as the hounds nip at his heels and bark happily. It seems I am not the only one pleased with his return.

“Indeed I have, war makes one quite tired, Brynja.”

“I do not doubt that.” I pour him a tankard of mead and bring it to him as he sits in his sturdy chair, lighting up the fire in the fireplace. I have never witnessed another man sit in that chair, none could ever fill it as he does.

“We will be having visitors this evening.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. Visitors. Important visitors. I will need you to prepare the guest rooms and keep the fires stoked.” The way he said this would have been an ordinary strict order for most, but the way he wound his fingers in and out of my golden hair made it less of a command and more of a request, the hair he had let me grow out rather than slice off annually because he preferred it this way.

“I will see to it at once.” I bow my head, not out of shame or servitude, but as a sign of my deep and endless respect for him.

“There is no reason for that.” He continues to weave his fingers in and out of my unbrushed hair, as though the motion soothes him. “I have just returned, I would like to enjoy your company for a while. Sit with me, your chores can wait for the hour.”

I slowly sit in one of the chairs, the wood creaking only slightly beneath me. I hold my calloused hands in my lap, I never try to hide them. They show who I am, and what I have done. I need not the supple hands of the rich and blindly faithful, I have the hands of one who has worked day after day, tirelessly and without end, for every shilling and every moment of survival. Those who believe with blind faith are comforted- but they do not see that it was not the hand of any god that gave them victory in war, that saved their way of life, but the hand of man. The hand of strong men who lived by the blade, and died by the blade. Warriors are the real gods of the world. Those who are willing to fight, and give their all and everything they are, for the good of mankind, for themselves and everything they have ever held dear. This is what my years in the battle field, and years of knowing Udyr have taught me. This is both a lesson and a way of life that does not make me particularly popular, but nonetheless I will testify to the truth.

Our eyes do not break from one another, even when we do not speak. They hold each other in the silence, as though holding a conversation without the use of words. And then, I break the silence.

“How did your battles fare?” I ask as one of the hounds, Bita, a she hound so named because she has a habit of biting into prey when sent to fetch it and puncturing the skins, forces her head into his lap.

“Long. Weary. But successful.” He pauses for a moment to rub Bita behind the ears. “I left them in good faith that they could handle themselves for a month or so while I returned home.”

“Home is where the hearth is warmest.” I state, as I pick up a reed woven basket from beside my chair. My hands feel uneasy, doing nothing like this. So I pull the half finished shawl from the basket and return to sewing the warm furs inside as we sit there.

Udyr laughs for a moment, a deep rumbling sound that comes from deep within his strong chest that often times sounds more like a beast growling.

“I’ve started hearing that ‘home is where the heart is’.”

“I wouldn’t know. My heart is never here.” As soon as the words slip past my lips, I feel a bitter resentment towards myself. How could I speak out so rudely? How could I scorn, even if it was lightly, the only man whom I truly cared if he lived or died?

“Is that truly how you feel, Brynja?” His laughter feels like a distant memory.

“Think nothing of it, I was simply speaking out of resentment and anger.” I try to dismiss the slip up, but he will have none of it.

“I want you to be able to speak to me honestly.” I keep my eyes down, focusing on plunging the needle in and out of the skins. But it is as though his eyes are a knife, stabbing through me over and over.

“I don’t like it when you’re gone so long. But you don’t need to fret so much, I know it is for the greater good…”

“I want you to be happy here…”

“And I am, when you are home. But over the years those days have become fewer and fewer.” I have to put the shawl down, my throat starting to close in on itself.

“I didn’t take you to be the wistful type.”

“Yes, well, maybe I am. Only towards you.” I stride past and shrug off his hand when he tries to grasp my arm. “I should prepare the guest rooms.” luckily, he does not call after me as I quickly walk away, otherwise I would have felt obligated to return.

I open the thick curtains to allow sunlight into the long vacated chambers, and wipe down the thin layers of dust that have accumulated on every surface since their last cleaning. I polish until everything gleams, and sweep the dirt and grime that congealed on the floor out into the hall, which was then swept out of the back door. The wooden floor was then mopped and scrubbed until I could see my eyes in its surface. All of the floors in Udyr’s estate are made of fine aged wood that must have been smooth and flawless when they were installed, but are now covered in divots and grooves from heavy steps and exhausted shuffling. I expect the people coming will be the same as they usually are, several of his friends, old or new, from the battlefield. They are always strong, sometimes weary from battle, and most of the time they are respectful. But of course, a house where warriors stay will not keep smooth floors for long. Not that I would ever wish to change them, each divot is a memory, every dent a story.

In the entry hall, there’s a large and quite noticeable scratch where Bita tried to drag a buck’s antler through it when she was just a pup. A memory that to this day makes me smile. In the dining hall, there’s a particular groove in the floor from when Sir Yager had a bit too much ale and completely fell over. In Udyr’s quarters, there are countless small grooves and divots from the repeated stripping and polishing of armor, and a particular one from when we attempted to move the bed before.

I wet my lips slightly as I look at my somewhat warped and dull reflection, pushing away all of the memories that have worn themselves into the wood.

I wipe down the windows and glance outside of them, and that is when I see the horses. I see them before I hear them, and I know almost at once that something is not right. They have been poorly sodden and dirtied in an attempt to make them look more, I suppose “common” would be the word, but it is obvious by their gait and prance that these are very well bred animals. No amount of dirt could hide that, they were just punishing the animals now.

I watch with cautious eyes as two wagons with covered tops, a sort of poor man’s carriage if you will, pull up to the front of the estate. Then I turn and start to make my way to the entry hall. I stop a good distance away, because what I see stops me cold.

At the end of the hall, I can see Udyr, kneeling. Not the sort of kneel like when we sit by the fire at night, or pray for another good year, but a full fledged regal pose. One full of respect and reverence. And then a woman steps into my range of sight and sheds her cloak, not even a reasonable cloak made of fur or wool for protection against the impending cold, no. Simply a cloak of thin cotton, made for one thing only- to hide one’s identity. Her head turns and our eyes meet- instantly I feel violated. Her eyes are hazel, very pretty to some, but they have the aspect of a hawk, a nervous one at that. A trapped animal that would do anything simply because it was afraid. Those, I’ve come to find, are the most dangerous of all.

She has a smooth waterfall of brown hair, so unlike my nest of frazzled golden curls which rarely ever finds its way to a comb, and her skin is fair, fairer than even snow. Her soft pink lips seem turned down ever so slightly, and her lower lip is the tiniest bit larger than her upper lip, giving her a sort of sumptuous pout at all times. She is tall, taller than I, but not taller than Udyr’s roughly seven foot frame, kneeling he comes to just below her chest. With her tall stature there is no real substance, she is willowy, almost boyish in her nonexistent curves. She looks like the slightest breeze of wind could throw her off balance.

“You are the thrall then?” I flinch at her voice, it is unpleasant to my ears, high and almost whine-like.

“Yes...I am….” I speak slowly, not really knowing how to interpret or deal with the situation at hand.

“Why does your thrall not bow to those above her station?” The woman steers the pointed remark towards Udyr as though it is meant to degrade and demean, I cringe. She is not the sort of woman I would bow to. Preferably, I would bow to no man, or woman.

“She is full of spirit. I do not have her bow to someone as lowly as me, she knows no better.” Udyr speaks without looking up.

“Well then, she will start now.” She turns her eyes towards me again, my body braces as though I am about to take on an opponent twice my size. Which I suppose, not in stature but in class and nobility, she would be.

“Your name?” It is less of a question, more of a command. I do not want to give my name to this woman. My name is all that have, I am no longer a warrior, no longer a real woman, I no longer believe in gods above, to give my name is something intimate. I would never want to do anything remotely intimate with someone like her. Privileged. Always scared. Always looking for something she will never find. Always having others fight for her instead of taking up her own arms.

“Brynja Idunn.” I force the words out, they burn like fire against tender flesh. She looks me up and down, as though I am merely an ant because of my station. She does this for a long time.

“And yours?” I know I should not ask the name of someone so casually, especially someone of such clear esteemed nobility. But she seems not to know the intimacy tied to her name.

“Nadhara Konugur.” She says it like it is a prize. I didn’t really need to ask who she was, within my heart, I suppose I already knew.

“Bow. Brynja Idunn.” I don’t like the way she says my name, don’t like the way it sounds in her pompous throat. I purse my lips, but I do not bow. Any good thrall would quickly do as she instructed, but then, I suppose I am not a good thrall. Instead of heeding her words and dropping to my knees like someone smitten by the hand of the gods, my muscles lock up, unmoving.

“Why don’t you move? I said bow.” Her voice gets the slightest bit frantic.

“I will not.” I state calmly.

“And why not?” She inquires sharply.

“You have done nothing to earn my submission, nothing to earn my respect.” This statement was simply the truth, but she reacts as though I have blatantly exposed a knife meant to slit her throat.

“Are you saying you will not obey the crown?!” She shrieks, recoiling.

“Do something to prove you are worthy of leading, then I may follow you.” I do not look at Udyr as I speak, sure that this display will displease him. I am sure Princess Nadhara is not used to people saying “No.” and saying that simply because royal blood is within her veins, it does not make her a leader.

“This is blasphemy!”

“This is the truth. You expect the people of Menskr to follow you? Even a simple thrall will not bow to your supposed might. You hold no power, your majesty. Your power lies in the hands of others. Hands that can easily betray you, and one day will. Humans are fickle things, we are not godly, not saintly. Betrayal is in our blood and bones. Unless you give us something to respect, something to fear from you personally- you will never lead the people of this kingdom you so badly desire.” She looks at me like I am a bug that needs to be squashed, like I am the first infected of the Unnr Mein, like I am diseased, impure- like I am the most dangerous thing she has ever seen.

“You lowly, disloyal curr!” I feel the blow before I see her hand move. Her bony hand cracks against my cheek with such force that I know the intense magnitude of fear I have stirred up inside of her.