Ambient Music

Srelly hated the sea.

There was an irony to be found in that, she knew. She’d crossed it more times than most Freefolkers ever had. She’d married into a bloodline that called the Shivering Sea their domain. She had birthed a son who would rule a land surrounded by it. She ate a bounty of food from said sea near-every night-- crustaceans, her husband had said they were.

The sea had given Srelly much.

It had also taken much away.

Her birth land was far away, now, across the sea, and Srelly doubted she would ever see it again.

(birthland, not home.

the True North hadn’t been her home for a long time.)

Her brother had sank like a stone when her tribe had fled from said birthplace. Too many others had followed him. The sea gods of old were hungry, jealous beasts-- they took and took and took some more.

They had taken her brother, and Srelly would never forgive them for that.

Which was why she’d trembled so as Joramun and his thegns sailed away to war. She watched as the seas frothed and churned and writhed beneath the Einhyrningur, as if eagerly lapping for a taste of a meal to come.

Joramun’s body, sinking beneath the waves. Joramun’s blood, painting the sea crimson.

Srelly’s free hand curled into a fist.

No. Srelly did not like the sea.

Yet, there was little she could do of it, but wait and pray. For better or worse, her husband was absent, and she’d been left to rule in their newborn son’s stead-- something she took to with great fervor, if not enthusiasm. It did not matter whether she enjoyed managing the admittedly unruly people she now called kin (how did Jora deal with this all the time? Her husband was more patient than she’d given him credit for), because she did not do so for her.

It was for Knut.

Everything was for Knut, and it would stay that way until she died.

As if hearing her thoughts, Srelly’s baby boy cooed in her arms, and she smiled. “My sweet, little boy,” she murmured, planting a kiss on the child’s brow, to his infantile joy. “You deserve the world. You’re father’ll show it to you when you come of age. When he comes home.”

(...If he came home.)

...

The Stoneborn called her Magnar Móðir, now.

Before, after she’d been stolen by her ‘Mun, the people of Kinghouse-by-the-Bay had not know what to call her. She’d learned quickly that there was no woman-word for Magnar in the Skaggatungu, so they simply called to her as Srelly of Magnar, or as Joramun’s wife-- or as Lass by Olvir, the fond old man.

Or, between her old clanmates, just Srelly.

But now that she’d born Joramun a child, they called her Magnar Móðir now. Lord Mother. Mother of Lords.

She would admit it to no one save herself, but she took no small amount of pride in the title. It was hers and hers alone, and it was all for Knut.

It also came with more responsibilities than she’d ever had before-- the ruling of the Kinghouse in her husband’s absence and her son’s name, the acceptance of birth-tithes minor chieftains and magnars had sent for her Knut. Taking care of her Knut, a handful in his own right.

You’re a wild thing, aren’t you? Srelly grinned, gently rocking her child as he slept. Just like your--

“Móðir Magnar!”

The sudden call jolted Srelly out of her thoughts, and brought all conversation in the Great Hall to a halt. An Heksemøte acolyte of Heisi’s had burst through the door, panting. “Móðir Magnar--!” she continued, gasping for breath. “The ships-- the Magnar’s ships! They come from the north! They’ve come back!”

A moment passed before a great commotion burst to life in the hall.

Srelly did not stay behind to hear it-- for, the moment she had processed the fledgling Guðsrödd’s words, she had raced out of the room, Knut held securely in her arms and a hopeful smile spreading across her face.

Joramun’s come home.

---

A gust of saltwater sprayed through the air, the ship’s bow cutting a frothing weather through the sea. Behind him, he could hear his thegns and thanes hollering and hooting, rejoicing at the sight of Skagos.

He’d kept his promise.

He’d come home.

When Joramun had taken his men and left Skagos at the bidding of the Magnar of Bolton, he had done so with great reluctance. South was not the way he had wished to direct his ships, but to leave his liege lord’s summons unanswered after having attended the wedding of his kin was not something Skagos could afford-- so, Joramun had made for White Harbour.

Only to discover, upon arriving, that the Bolton fleet had already left.

The Mainlanders had forgotten them.

Perhaps, had Joramun been someone else of a different temperament, he might have raged at the perceived slight.

Instead, Joramun had laughed.

They’d forgotten.

Skagos had been forgotten, left alone!

No longer did he have to fear of dying on a soil he cared not for, in a land he care lesser for still, for a lord accursed and forsaken by the Gods.

So, he’d turned around, then, before roaring to his magnars and warriors to turn the ships around.

"TO THE NORTH!" he had howled, and his thegns and thanes and magnars had roared back.

They had gone to the North-- the True North, beyond the Wall. The True North, the lands from which his beloved hailed. The lands from which the raiders had come. The lands where their villages and settlements lay.

The land Joramun intended to raze for all they were worth.

And twas indeed what they did-- the first wildling village his fleet had come across had been quick to fall to Skagosi iron and steel, the survivors quick to point them in the right direction. On and on that went, burning his way up the east coast of the True North, till the raiders’ village was reached.

He had led his thegns and thanes, then, and had led the charge himself. Oh, the wildlings had put up a fight, aye, but his warriors were Stoneborn, and armed with steel.

In the end, Joramun had slain the raider’s chieftain himself, taking his skull as a trophy. Those of the chieftain's clan who survived-- the menfolk, at least-- had been chained and thrown into the hulls of his ships, doomed to be bound for Skane.

(He had promised his men a Feast, after all).

And, when all had been said and done, he had found his captive subjects who had been stolen away from their home all those moons ago, and had nearly wept for joy.

He had not failed.

And then, to hoots and howls and cheers alike, his host had set sail for home-- a home that grew closer by the moment. Close enough to spy the docks of Kinghouse-by-the-Bay, and the crowd gathered upon it, cheering.

Close enough to see his wife at the forefront, their son in her arms.

And then, before Joramun knew, he had discarded his arms and hauberk, tossing them behind him, and dove into the the Shivering Sea.

Joramun swam for home.

And, when he emerged from the water on the shoreline next to his keep, cold and wet and grinning madly, Srelly was there to meet him, a joyous laughter the only warning he had before she flung herself at him, and him at her.

They met in the middle.

“Joramun,” she breathed, before she sighed-- a long, relaxed thing. “You came back.”

“Aye,” he returned, smiling. “I promised, did I not?”

A happy gurgle cut into their conversation, and Joramun’s smile somehow brightened even further as Srelly carefully passed Knut over to him. Joramun’s baby boy looked up at him, then, and cooed at him.

The Magnar’s heart melted.

“Hello, my son,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the boy’s brow.

“I’ve come home.”

---

Klára.