She looked out the kitchen window as the sun rose above the horizon. It was late in the year and the harvest was done and the rest of the year would be spent in individual growth and service to friends and neighbors. Winter nights had finished when the harvest did and there was still much time till Yule. Yes, there was still much time until Yule and she had prepared to take full advantage of the extra free time she would now have. But first, there were still chores to be done. The animals never cared what time of year it was, they still needed to eat, sleep, and be exercised. She moved toward the front door, wrapping her cloak tight around her before stepping out into the early morn. As her boots connected with the ground, loud thumps mixed with the crunch of icy grass beneath her, she looked up and out at the mountains surrounding her, her hands reaching up to touch the crook of her neck. The air was thin and sharp with cold and with every exhale her breath hovered in front of her in a soft visible cloud before mixing with the rest of the air. She reached into her pockets and removed her gloves, the leather worn and dirty from daily use. As she was inserting her fingers into the pockets of the gloves, she heard a soft cry from her right.

She turned and saw a dark crow sitting on the pasture fence. His feathers shined with the morning light, the mixture of black wings and an ashy-gray chest and back with eyes that were just barely turning dark brown from the juvenile blue it was born with. Those eyes...intelligent and questioning, waiting to see if she was going to yell and attack him. Crows were hated by farmers, they would come in swarms and eat at crops, destroying the food that the poor so desperately needed. The crow clicked his powerful beak, calling out to her again as his head bobbed up and down. He opened his mouth again, releasing several clicks in succession, those eyes continuing to watch her intensely. She felt a shiver run up her spine as she stared into those eyes, her arms becoming raised and bumpy. Other than being pests and crop destroyers, crows were also seen as harbingers of danger and death. And since this bird was focused more on her than the crops in the field behind it, it was hard to argue that it could be bringing good news.

She stepped back away from the fence and the crow perched on top and slowly moved toward the large barn nearby. Without taking her eyes from him she unlatched the door and slipped in. Once the door was shut behind her, she released the breath she hadn't known she was holding. This time her breath produced no condensation, the air warmer from the breathing and body heat of the animals inside. The quiet from outside also stopped at the closed door as the barn orchestration began as the animals awoke and moved towards their feed pens. For good measure she pushed the extra board down into its latch, securing the door from the world outside. As she stared at the door, she questioned why she was so afraid of a simple crow, she couldn't explain the uneasiness the crow had caused in her. She remained there, standing in front of the door, and would have continued her trance if one of the cows behind her hadn't called in annoyance at the delay in feeding. She blinked once, then again, before stepping back and turning towards the animals. "I'm sorry, old girl" she whispered to the cow, patting the top of her head lovingly. "I'm a bit sluggish this morning, forgive me?" She smiled at the cow as she stoked her head, the cow giving a small reply, closing her eyes as she was petted. Once forgiven, the woman made her way up to the ladder against the back wall. She climbed up to the second level of the barn, grabbing the pitchfork against the wall before scooping and tossing hay over the side into the pens below. Any animals that hadn't awoken by then were quickly stepped on and pushed as the others moved toward the freshly fallen food. The cries and calls that had filled the barn lessened and then died as everyone munched and crunched through breakfast.

While the animals were distracted, she used that time to open each pen, scooping out old bedding and replacing it with fresh replacements. As she worked, she hummed the tune to an old song she had heard in her youth. Occasionally a few words would escape her lips, breaking the chorus of chewing and steady steps of the animals around her. “Have you heard of the king? He who lives in kvinn, Lord of all Norwegian lands, He who rules deep set-keels, Reddened spears, and bloody shields, Tar-soaked oars, and foam-flecked sails" She smiled as she worked, imagining the conversation between the raven and the Valkyrie. Their discussion of Harald Fairhair, the first king of Norway. The Valkyrie’s chosen fallen are taken to Valhalla and the others go to Folkvangr to spend eternity in Freya’s fields. Of course, this was only for those who died in battle, and the old days of conquering kings and bloody battlefields was a long history. So many fields contained the blood and bones of those fallen, their bodies left to feed the land while their honored spirits traveled to either Odin or Freya. The woman, lost in her thoughts moved to the door, easily removing the wood that she had placed to lock it, stepping back out into the cold morning.

The cold brought her back to reality and she looked toward the fence where the crow had sat earlier. The fence stood strong, empty of the visitor from earlier. This pleased her greatly, it was a simple crow after all, not a beacon of danger. Free of the paranoia and dread that had been present earlier, she moved about the farm, completing the rest of the necessary chores of the day.

Long after, once the sun had traveled its journey across the sky, and had just begun to touch the mountains, the woman returned to the small cottage she called home. She shut the door behind her, trying to keep as much of the inside warmth as possible. She had begun removing her gloves and boots when a noise behind her caused her to stop and fully turn away from the door. At first, there was nothing that seemed to be the cause behind the loud noise. She stepped toward the fireplace that took up almost the entire wall opposite her, her hands nervously twisting together before her right hand moving to touch the bottom of her neck again. As she got closer, she saw that her treasured gold boar lay on the ground. Before its tumble, it had lived on the mantel above, and while it had sustained no injury, she was still upset and curious how it had managed to fall. She leaned over to pick it up, her long fingers enclosing around it when a black shadow emerged from the fireplace and made its way straight towards her hair and face. She attempted to defend herself against the enemy, swinging the arm that held the boar while her other tried to protect her hair. It was unclear whether it was the weight of the boar in her moving hand or the rug that lay before the fireplace that caused her to tumble backward. A fall that took mere seconds but felt like hours to her. In the time it took to fall she looked up at the mantel to see the crow from this morning perched upon it, its eyes staring at her intensely, its beak opening to give out a caw or two before her world went black.

The woman lay still on the ground where she had fallen. The boar lay still near her right hand, still undamaged, the light from the fireplace reflecting off its golden surface. The crow waited and watched the woman who now lay on the ground, still and silent. The crow wasn’t sure if minutes had passed, or hours, it didn’t matter to the crow. He continued waiting until finally, the front door opened, and in stepped a tall, old man. The old man bent as he entered the cottage, and when he finally stood up straight his face could be fully seen by the crow.

An old face with deep wrinkles and lines, a flowing white beard that touched the top of his cloak, and his left eye shined bright pale blue that resembled the color of the sky on a bright winter’s day when the frost is hard on the ground. Only his left eye sparkled that way, for his right eye socket lay empty and dark. On his shoulder sat a crow that was the mirror image of the one that sat on the mantel. Upon seeing his brother, Hugin, the crow that perched upon the man flew over to the mantel, preening the other soon after landing. Munin, the one that had been waiting in the cottage, cawed again, directing his eye towards the old man who was now making his way towards the woman who lay on the floor. In the time it had taken between her falling and the man arriving, blood had begun to form under her golden hair, staining each stand that it touched into a rusty, brassy color. The man bent down over the woman, his hands moving to touch her face and then to check her neck. He could feel her skin already becoming cold from death, the glow that her face had had just hours ago had faded, leaving her skin pale with purple discoloration.

He smiled sadly as he pushed a strand of her golden hair to the side of her face and behind her ear. “Oh Freyja” he muttered softly. “Hugin and Munin have searched the world over multiple times to find you, and here you were so close to home. Freyja, awaken, now!” As the last word left his lips he watched her long eyelashes flicker, and then open slowly revealing her forest green eyes that were speckled with rich gold around the irises. She blinked once and then twice, her eyes moving back and forth upon the ceiling before moving towards the man who stood above her. “I…I must have fallen asleep. I don’t remember how I got on the floor.” Her right hand moved up towards the crook of her neck, uncertainty, and confusion dancing upon her face when her fingers touched only her pale skin. “I…I…” She continued touching that area of her neck, still expecting something to be there, though there hadn’t been anything around her neck before. “Be calm, Freyja.” The man whispered calmly, his hands moving to wrap around hers, warming them with his body heat. “You were dreaming, lost in an imaginative world. I have been searching for you for so long.”

As he spoke, the woman stared at him in confusion, none of his words making sense. “My…my name is Eira. Why are you calling me…calling me Freyja?” Her eyes moved across his face, feeling comforted by his presence, though she really wasn’t sure why she felt that way around him. He smiled sadly, leaning down to kiss her fingers that peeked out from between his hands. “We had a fight, Freyja. I acted unreasonably and, in my anger, I said things that I didn’t mean, and you ran from me and from Asgard.” He slowly released her hands as he watched her begin to shift, his hands moving to support her arms and back as she slowly sat up. His hands continued to support her as she wavered upon sitting up, her hair and clothes no longer stained red with blood and her skin returning to a golden, rosy, natural color. “A-Asgard?” she questioned as she looked around her, her gaze stopping an extra moment or two as she gazed at the pair perched upon the mantel. “I think you have me confused with someone else…I was born here, my parents died here, I have only ever lived here.” She shook her head slowly, returning her gaze to him. “Who…who are you?” Her brows furrowed as she searched his face, trying to remember if she did or did not know him.

The man watched her, a soft smile upon his lips as he gazed at her, his eye filled with love and respect. “Oh, my dear Freyja. I don’t know what spell you cast when you fled, or if this is because of your fall. No matter, we will return you home and with rest and some Asgardian Ale you will feel good as new.” His eye left her face for the first time since she had awoken, they now moved towards the fireplace at the pair of eyes that had watched them silently. Though he spoke no words, the crows bounced and chittered at him before lifting their wings and taking flight towards the door. And without even a flinch, both disappeared through the closed door.

The woman watched all of this in a mixture of amazement and confusion, her face moving from the door back to the man before her. “Again, sir…who are you and how did you come to be here?” The old man returned his eye to her, his hands reaching into the pocket of his cloak, returning with a large golden necklace. “Brísingamen,” he said as he clasped the necklace around her throat. “I had Heimdall recover it, I should never have had it stolen from you. It was petty and childish of me to do.” The woman’s hands once again reached up to touch the same spot of her neck, but this time, instead of her fingertips meeting skin, they felt the warm, safe touch of gold, and in that instant connection between her and the necklace, her eyes moved, once again to the man. She stuttered for a second, before whispering, “O-Odin…”

© Katherine B.