Once she’d eaten and dressed, she stepped out into the bustling village. Children ran past, waving and giggling as they chased a hound through the fields. A slight chill tinged the morning air. Elara shivered, tugging the fur hood closer to her nape.
Her fingers sought the smooth stone of the rune hanging from her neck, tracing the lines as she made the march to Hlif’s secluded dwelling.
Lavender-tinted smoke billowed from the hole in the roof, the trees casting sun-dappled shadows on the mossy roof.
A deep breath expanded her chest, and Elara closed her eyes, counting the beats against her ribs until she reached ten.
Inside, Hlif sat on a rickety stool, stirring a steaming bowl of viscous liquid.
Thick scents of elderberry and sage clouded the small space. Hlif didn’t look up from her work, her deep, gravelly voice greeting Elara.
“The light misses its heart,” she observed, her ancient skin looking like wrinkled bark in the diffused morning light. “The shades move closer. Good. It fuels the flame. Sit, Seiðkona. Today we do not silence. Today we weave.”
Immediately, she obeyed, the wood creaking under her.
Energy crackled beneath her skin, making Elara’s entire body go rigid. She still struggled to make sense of Hlif’s riddled lessons, but deciphered enough to know that today, they’d start something new.
Clear eyes met hers. Hlif placed the bowl of stewed herbs aside and held up her hands, her bony fingers surprisingly dexterous.
A gnarled thumb pressed into the space between her brows, Hlif chanting in low, furious Norse.
Icy tendrils slither along the ridges of her spine, spreading through Elara’s veins. The air around Elara’s head distorted, the bowl of herbs rattling.
She shivered, her breathing labored as she waited for some unnerving judgement from the Völva.
“What have you seen?” Hlif asked, her eyes still closed, her thumb still anchored between Elara’s eyes.
“What?”
“When you close your eyes, what do you see that has not come to pass?” Hlif continued, her rough voice exceedingly patient.
The chill in her veins started to burn and Elara sniffed, her throat bobbing with a strained swallow.
Nothing remained hidden from Hlif’s intrusions. Nails dug into her cuticles, blood staining her fingertips.
Elara worried that speaking them aloud would will them into existence. When Hlif did not relent, Elara’s shoulders fell, her lashes fluttering.
“A few over the years,” Elara mumbled, tugging at a loose thread on her dress. “The first happened before I saw Freyja. Shadows of a man. Of Njáll. Recently, they’ve been hazier. Flashes of smoke. Glimpses of battles. Blood and ash.”
Hlif hummed, stepping back, her knowing eyes pinning Elara to the spot.
“Visions are but one future when there are many. Do not fall for the perils depicted by the draugar, for it will steal you to madness. Foresight is unpredictable. As changeable as the winds. Do not dwell on them for they only feed the ash that chokes your light.”
The hands shaking in her lap stilled, her nervous energy shifting to her teeth abusing her raw lower lip.
Since her first vision about Njáll came to pass, it was hard to believe the others weren’t also inevitable.
“If I can smell your fear, child, so can the draugar. Control it. Control your emotions.”
A frustrated huff hissed through her clenched teeth, and Hlif raised a brow.
Relenting, Elara closed her eyes, emptying her mind until her limbs loosened and her jaw unclenched.
“Good. Today we weave. You will learn to shackle the shadows and strengthen the veil.”
Hlif reached out, her callused fingers brushing the thin skin on the inside of Elara’s wrist, sending a pulse of chill through her.
This time, Elara didn’t shiver, her braided hair skimming the small of her back as she sat as still as a statue.
