With a great gasp, Bjorn sat up. His heart was racing, fighting to take deep breaths, trying to fill his starved lungs. The dark was all consuming. It enveloped him and held him hostage to the unknown. It was so cold. So different. He wanted to go back to the love. He wanted to bask in the fire again. Fire… Fire? Love? There was something there, but it was quickly fading. He couldn't understand his own thoughts or emotions, and for some reason, he wanted to weep. Weep for something lost that he never knew he had.
So he sat there, water up to his chest, hands covering his shame, and wept. For the first time since he had reached his majority, he wept. Wept until tears streamed past his hands, and he gasped to fill his lungs with air, yet he could not understand why.
“The Mother has spoken. Bind his hands and bring him.” An old voice emerged from the dark, steeped in gravitas. The speaker would not, could not be denied.
Bjorn saw shadows move towards him in the dark, many shadows. He tried to stand, to fight, but he was too weak. His hand fumbling down his body, felt for his knives, his axe, but he was naked. He only had his skin to protect himself and his fists that he could barely lift. Then he saw them. The Mother's maidens. The handmaids of the Mother, and he knew he was home. “Stand!” They said, and he stood, his legs weak and shaking, but he stood. You did not deny the will of the Mother, and the Maidens were her voice.
They bound his hands behind his back and led him through the dark until the light blinded his eyes. He knew these woods. They were the woods he had played in during his childhood. The village was just a few hundred steps away. His home was just a few hundred steps away. He wanted to see them, his Mother, his father, and his sister. He needed to see them.
“Why have you bound me?” He managed to croak out. His throat felt raw, like he had been sick with the cough and sweat. No one answered him. They kept leading him toward the village. He tried again, “Why have you bound my hands?” One of the maidens behind him must have taken pity on his wretched state and answered, “By orders of the Jarl, now be silent.”
Bjorn didn't have long to think about what that meant. They were in sight of the village walls, and he could see the people he had known his entire life lining the road from the entrance and into the village.
What had he done wrong? They were treating him like a criminal of the worst sort. The faces of the people he called neighbors, grew up with, danced, and laughed with all turned away from him. Some openly wept silent tears while others watched in contempt or scorn. It was too much. What had happened? What had he done?
Coming up to the Jarl's house, seeing his parents and sister by the door turn their gaze away from him was too much. Something broke inside him then. He was marched past them, and he could not look at their faces again in shame, even as he was confused about what he had done.
Inside he was led past his fellow warriors toward the Jarl's throne. None of them would look at him either. Even his cousin Bragi looked away, tears running down his face. The Jarl sat on his throne, face more stern than he could ever remember seeing it, his sword in one hand and surrounded by the priests of the gods.
“The one known as Bjorn Thorvaldson stands before the throne to be given my judgment. What do the gods say?” The Jarl's deep and measured voice said as he looked Bjorn in the eyes. There was no pity or mercy in the gaze. Only duty and iron.
The first to step forward was the priestess of the Sister. In a clear voice that Bjorn could listen to for hours, she said, “The Sister passes no judgment on this being that once was a brother and warrior. It is not for her to speak of the dead. The Sister will follow the will of the Father and Mother in this.”
Next was the priest of the Brother. “The once brother and hunter standing before the Brother has been lost to his sight, and he can no longer discern his fate. It is for the Father and the Mother to speak of his sin. Only they can say what fate is to befall one who has been lost to the world of the living, for theirs is the afterlife.”
He wanted to go home. To go to his bed and sleep away this nightmare. Everything suddenly felt so heavy. Even breathing seemed to be difficult.
The priest of the Father stepped forward, the wrinkles on his face set in pain and sorrow. Bjorn had known him all of his life. He was the one he went to when something was troubling him. He had been like Bjorn's own father's father since his own had died on a raid before he was born. “The Father sees the once son standing before him. It is with the pain of a father losing a son that he sees this being lost. It can no longer walk among the living.” Bjorn could see the moisture in the priest's eyes. He knew he must have done something terrible, but to declare him lost to the gods? He looked at the Jarls sword, knowing the end would be swift at least.
One of the handmaids behind him walked out and stood before him, looking him in the eye. She was beautiful, as they tended to be. Her black hair was long and silken, her eyes pale blue with her intellect shining through. The face was symmetrical with a strong jaw but a pert nose, lips full and red, and the hips and breasts of a woman meant by the gods to one day be a mother. He did not find it strange that she was chosen by the Mother. “The priestess sends her word. She has gone into seclusion to commune with the Mother. The Mother has embraced the man standing before us and healed his flesh but not the spirit. The Mother wants it known that this one may not seek succor among the living or in the halls of the ancestors until his spirit is made whole.” She then walked behind Bjorn again.
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A clamor had started while she spoke, but Bjorn didn't understand why. Was he living or dead? He understood he had done something so heinous the living could have no more to do with him, and the gods had turned their eyes away.
The Jarl stood, the crowd grew silent. Walking slowly towards Bjorn, he said. “Turn.” The Jarl said when he stood a step away, looking Bjorn in the eyes. He could see the Jarl's decision in the man's eyes and knew it would soon be over, but to be slain like this? A blade through the back without so much as an eating knife in his hand? It was too cruel. He had to ask. “Why? What was my sin?”
“Turn,” The Jarl said in a voice that told him the next time would only bring force. Very well, at least he would not bring any more shame to his name. Even now, the Jarl hadn't stripped him of that, so there was a chance for his spirit to find its way to the People again in the hall of the ancestors one day.
He heard the soft sound of the Jarl's woolen shirt moving. It was strange how clear everything seemed before the end. Everything was brighter. He could have sworn he heard every breath of every single person in the room. His life braid was cut, the lock hanging from the back of his skull. Pieces of metal and crystals clattered as it hit the stone floor. The Jarl had taken his story among the People. The time with his family, his raids, his loves, his rivals. His victories and losses in battle. It was all gone. Any who saw him now knew he had led an empty life, a worthless life. He had done nothing of value. Then he felt the sharp iron against his wrist, and the bonds around his wrists were cut.
Confused at first, Bjorn didn't understand. He looked around and saw everyone turn away from him. No one would look at him. Then he noticed his hands, and he screamed. He screamed the scream of the doomed, the lost. Turning around, he begged as he frantically scratched at his hands. “Cut them off!” over and over. He fell to his knees and begged for it not to be true. For a moment, the Jarl will broke in pity and answered Bjorn. “We tried. Over and over, we tried.” His eyes spoke the truth and of the sorrow of losing one of his own. One of the People was gone, not lost in battle but in shame and disgrace.
The world was spinning. He had trouble breathing. Then he heard the words of the Jarl. “Bjorn Thorvaldson. You are no longer fit to stay among the living. Your presence is shameful to the People. From this moment, you are no longer the son of Torvald. You are no longer of the People. I leave you with the gift of the name Bjorn. It was once the name of one of us. He will be mourned. Word will be sent to the clans about Bjorn Torvaldsons passing and that giving aid to the revenant that walks this land with his face and voice will be punishable by death. Begone wight, you are banished from the hearts of the People.”
In a daze, Bjorn looked up, but the Jarl was already walking towards his seat. He looked at the people surrounding him, but only the handmaidens of the Mother would meet his gaze. Managing to stand up, he turned and slowly began walking towards the light outside. He passed his father, his mother, and his sister without looking at them. He passed Sigrun. They were supposed to be married in the fall. He didn't know her well, she had just come to maturity, but he could see that she was crying. Hopefully, she would find a better match. Numb to the world, he walked, refusing to look down.
Until the gate of the village, where only his cousin stood now. How he had gotten there faster than Bjorn, he did not know. As he was passing by, he looked him in the eye, and he could see the sorrow he thought he himself should be feeling, but there was only numbness. He heard his cousin whisper, “By the three rocks at the waterfall after sundown.” Bjorn didn't react, just kept walking. How could a revenant react to the words of a living?
He didn't know where he was walking, only that he needed to move. If he stopped, he would start to think. After some time, he came around a bend in the forest and saw the priestess of the Mother blocking the way. She was short, and her body was bent, but she had been around since before his father's father had been born they said. With a hulking gasp, he realized it was no longer his father's father.
Stopping in front of the priestess, he stood there dully, not knowing what he should do. By law, she should not speak to him, acknowledge him or even give an indication that he was there. Yet, there she stood, looking him in the eyes. “Well, aren't you a sorry sight, young man. All the doom and gloom of one who is truly lost.”
Bjorn just stared at her for a moment, trying to get his mind to work. All he could come up with was, “You aren't supposed to speak to me. I'm cursed.” At his words, she laughed. “Pish posh. If I always did what I was supposed to, I wouldn't have snuck into Fletcher Birger's bed and given him a night he hasn't forgotten to this day, which is strange because he forgets everything else these days.”
Bjorn tried to picture it, but it was impossible. Fletcher Birgir was older than most of the houses in the village. He only moved from his bed to his porch with how crooked his back was. Even that was a miracle. He managed to get out an “I.” but his mind refused to continue.
“At least I managed to make something moving around in there. If I was younger, I would make something else move too. Now listen here and listen well.” She gave him a look that brook no argument. “There will come a time when you are done with self pity and sorrow, have moved passed anger and hate. A time of acceptance. When you reach that point, you must travel to the city of glass and stone in the great ocean of sand. There they can help you with what you think ails your soul. A time of great change is coming, my boy, not only for the People but for everyone. We will need you then. I know that it is difficult for you to understand now. Before long, you will feel wronged by the people who one day will need you. Try to find it in your heart to forgive. Remember, the Mother has taken you in. You are marked by her as much as anyone else. Despite what has been said, you are never truly lost until you lose yourself.”
Bjorn tried remembering all she said, for despite everything, she was the priestess of the Mother, she was the Mother's will in this land.
She stood there for a moment staring at him. “Go to the waterfall by the rocks you used to hide behind to escape chores. I have instructed your cousin on what to pack. Worry not, I have told him to leave before you go there. Now come here, Bjorn.” She put her arms around him, embraced him.
Then she was gone. He stood looking around, confused at the sudden departure, but somehow he felt better. Had he dreamt it? Looking at his hands, he knew he had not. A line of deep red, starting on the tips of his index fingers and wound its way around the fingers in a pattern of dancing flames. It continued up his arm, and he knew that if he removed his shirt, he would see the same pattern on his chest. He was unclean, marked by the great deceiver, he was a witch, and now he was a revenant. He was an outcast from the People.