The return to the Stórbrodir stronghold was a journey made in silence. The Sea-Wolf cut through the iron-grey waters of the fjord, its repaired sail straining under a brisk, cold wind that seemed to push them relentlessly toward a future Eirik no longer desired. The familiar landmarks of his homeland—the towering, snow-capped peak they called the Old Man’s Tooth, the dark slash of the Pine Serpent Gorge—unfurled before him, but they were like paintings seen through a pane of dirty glass. The vibrant, terrifying reality of the croft had rendered his own world two-dimensional.
As the longship rounded the final headland, the settlement came into view. A collection of sturdy longhouses and storehouses nestled at the foot of the mountains, smoke rising from their roof holes into the still air. The sight of it, once a symbol of safety and power, now felt like the bars of a cage being lowered around him.
A shout went up from the watchtower. Horns blared, their deep, mournful notes echoing across the water. By the time the Sea-Wolf slid onto the gravel beach, a crowd had gathered. Men, women, and children lined the shore, their faces alight with relief and excitement. They saw their heir, returned from the clutches of a legendary storm. They did not see the ghost who stood at the prow.
His father, Jarl Halfdan, was there, a bear of a man even in his advancing years, his beard a grizzled grey and his eyes the same piercing blue as Eirik’s, but colder, hardened by decades of rule and conflict. He clasped Eirik’s forearm, his grip like iron.
“You are late, my son,” Halfdan said, his voice a low rumble. There was relief in his eyes, but it was quickly masked by assessment. A jarl could not afford public displays of softness. “The storm was fierce. We had begun the death-songs for you and your men.”
“The storm was a worthy foe, Father,” Eirik replied, the rehearsed words feeling hollow on his tongue. “But the Sea-Wolf is stout, and our luck held.” He did not mention the cove. He did not mention her.
That night, the great hall of the Stórbrodir was a riot of noise and light. The longfire roared, sending sparks dancing up towards the smoke-blackened rafters. The air was thick with the smells of roasting boar, spilled ale, and unwashed bodies. Skalds sang of Eirik’s bravery, inventing epic battles with sea monsters and storm giants, their verses growing more extravagant with each horn of mead.
Eirik sat in the place of honour at his father’s right hand, a hero returned. Horns were thrust into his hand, his back was slapped, his name was cheered. He smiled, he nodded, he drank. He performed the ritual of homecoming with the weary precision of a trained hound.
But his senses, sharpened by the quiet of the croft, were assaulted. The roar of the crowd was a physical pressure. The boasts of the warriors seemed childish and empty. The skald’s songs, once a source of pride, now felt like lies woven into pretty verse. He looked at the faces around him—the loyal Bjorn, drinking deeply but with a new, thoughtful quietness; the young Leif, basking in the reflected glory; his father, surveying his hall with a satisfied, possessive gaze—and felt a profound, isolating distance.
A young woman from a nearby allied clan, Freydis, with hair like flame and a bold, laughing gaze, was brought before him. She placed a garland of winter berries around his neck, a traditional gesture of welcome and potential alliance.
“The hall is brighter with your return, Eirik Stórbrodir,” she said, her voice carrying a suggestive lilt.
He looked at her, at her obvious beauty and calculated charm, and felt nothing. Her words were just more noise. He thanked her, his manners automatic, and watched her walk away, her form seeming to blur into the cacophony of the hall.
His mind was in a silent croft, where a single voice spoke truths in a calm, measured tone. His eyes saw not the roaring fire, but the gentle glow of embers on a face carved by moonlight and resolve.
Later, when the feasting had reached its drunken, slumbering peak, Eirik stood with his father on the high platform overlooking the hall. The jarl placed a hand on his shoulder, the gesture heavy with expectation.
“You are quiet, my son,” Halfdan said, his voice low. “The storm stole more than just time from you. It stole your fire.”
Eirik stared out at the sea of sleeping, snoring warriors. “I saw things, Father. The storm… it changes your perspective.”
“Perspective is a luxury for farmers and skald,” Halfdan grunted. “For a jarl, there is only strength, territory, and the will of the gods. You faced death and you conquered it. That is the only perspective that matters. It has tempered you. Made you harder. This is good. The Svartfjell grow bold. They test our boundaries, our patience. We will need your hardness soon.”
The word ‘Svartfjell’ was a key turning a lock in Eirik’s heart. He kept his face a mask. “What have they done?”
“Raided a trapper’s camp in the disputed woods. Took the furs, burned the hut. Left their mark—a black mountain painted on a splinter of wood.” Halfdan’s hand tightened on Eirik’s shoulder. “A small thing, but a provocation. They sniff the wind, seeing if we are weak. Seeing if the storm cost us more than two men.”
Eirik’s mind raced. A trapper’s camp. It was the kind of petty, deniable aggression that was the feud’s lifeblood. But was it true? Or was it just another story, like the poisoned well? He thought of Astrid’s words: “The feud is an old, hungry beast. It does not care who feeds it.”
“Perhaps it was outlaws,” Eirik suggested carefully. “Using the feud as a cloak.”
Halfdan turned to him, his eyes narrowed. “Outlaws? Since when do you give our enemies the benefit of the doubt, boy?” He studied Eirik’s face, his gaze probing, suspicious. “The storm did more than temper you. It put strange thoughts in your head. You will purge them. You are my heir. Your duty is to this clan. To our strength. To our vengeance.”
The word ‘vengeance’ echoed in the vast, smoky hall, a cold, dead thing. Eirik looked at his father, at the unyielding certainty in his eyes, and knew that the truth he carried was a poison he could never share. To speak of Astrid, of her mercy, of the lies, would be to brand himself a traitor, weak, and unfit to lead.
He was home, surrounded by his people, his family, his destiny. And he had never felt more alone. The ghost of the woman from the cove walked beside him in the hall, her silent presence a constant, painful reminder of a world where he had been more than just a jarl’s son, more than a weapon in an ancient war. He had been a man. And that man was now a prisoner, sentenced to a life of playing a part in a story he no longer believed. The feasting hall was his new cage, and the cheers of his people were the sound of the lock clicking shut.