SWANHILDE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE BROKEN PATH

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE BROKEN PATH

What Was, What Is, What Will be.

The flames flared up once more as old Agata, grand dam to Swanhilde, who Hrolf knew of old but felt he now knew, not at all, fed more powder into them.

The Ironborn respected the arts of the tellers, but he knew enough to realize the old woman was putting on a show ... a spectacle to enthrall her audience and gain their fullest attention before she began the true business of the night.

If so, it was wasted on the three who sat cross legged around the fire. Hrolf waited patiently for her to begin - the White Woman appeared used to such proceedings and although attentive, not impressed. As for the one eyed shield maiden, only anger and impatience suffused her features - Hrolf knew who she was and saw that within her small frame was held a barely checked fury.

He sat back and let the drink he had been given moments before, warm him through to the hollows of his aching bones. In truth it was not unpleasant and brought some semblance of relief to his crippled limbs.

'I will tell you now, of things that were and things that are and things that will never be,' began Agata, her voice raising dramatically.

'Tell us of the girl Swanhilde, old crone,' Sigrun snarled.

The tall woman with the snow white hair, beside her, laid a hand upon Sigrun's shoulder. 'Quiet.'

Sigrun instantly obeyed, which caused Hrolf to raise an eye. What manner of woman be this, that could quell the daughter of Volund with a touch and a word? Though they had not met in person, Hrolf had heard tell of Sigrun Volundsdottir - he had heard tales told of cruelty and torment, both inflicted upon and by the personage that sat before him.

'First I will tell you of coincidence,' continued Agata, staring into the flames as if to divine their secrets.

'What coincidence?' inquired Sigrun, but now her tone was respectful in deference to the will of the White Woman.

Agata pointed a gnarled finger at Hrolf. 'Name the grandsire of your father. Call him by that which he was most well known.'

Hrolf frowned. 'You speak of Eric One Eye.'

'Aye, of the line of Olaf Giantsbane. Mine own line, of which Swanhilde is the sole heir, descends from Volsung, a mortal some call the great grandson of Odin, our lord who plucked one of his own eyes out to gain insight from Yggdrasil, the great tree of knowledge that connects our realm of Midgard to the greater spheres beyond and Asgard itself.'

'I did not know this of Swanhilde,' stated Hrolf. 'Nor do I suspect, did she, for the girl I knew would scarce restrain herself from claiming descent from divinity, even though the eddas do say that Odin merely facilitated the delivery of an apple of fertility to Rerir, mother of Volsung.'

The White Woman addressed Hrolf directly for the first time, a tinge of emotion coming over her formerly cold and stationary features and an edge to her voice. 'There is nothing mere about the Allfather.'

The young man held up his left hand in a gesture of peace. 'I mean no disrespect, and indeed it is said that mighty Odin visited mine own sire and told a tale that came true, of me and of my destiny.'

This caused the rise of a snow white brow. 'Indeed? A hermit I met did speak of such things but not in great detail. Will you not tell your tale?'

Hrolf nodded his ascent. 'I will, presently, but we must needs let the seeress finish, what I sense to be part of the revelation she promised.'

All eyes turned back towards Agata, who smiled. 'You show proper respect, young Jarl and indeed, for all the pieces to fit together, there must be order. I shall first address your remark concerning the demeanour of my granddaughter. The maiden who visited me here within this lodge was the same individual you knew, but not it seems, the same person.'