*Generic Pen Name*

“That is all I can see,” she murmured, her voice frayed and exhausted.

Even that small phrase—spoken in her own voice again—made everything feel frighteningly real. The trance was over. The vision was true. This was your fate.

You were to wed a man half-dead, guard him against the cold grip of the goddess Hel and her creeping hands, and somehow, somehow, give him a reason to keep living. To fight. To stay.

You didn’t want to.

That realization hit like a crack in your ribs. You hadn’t wanted any of it—but now, with the path laid out before you in smoke and shadow, your resolve faltered.

You had come here knowing you couldn’t escape it, and still, the urge rose in you like a wave: to run. To flee so far that even the ravens couldn’t find you. To vanish into the woods and become moss and bark and memory. Forgotten by fate.

But it would be useless.

The gods had eyes in every crevice of Midgard. And fate—fate would find you, drag you back, and place the burden in your hands all over again.

Chapter Two: Smoke

You could have sworn you were having a pleasant dream before you had set foot on the path again, before the songs of Hugin and Munin summoned you. They shriek from the trees, a command to make haste, so you do.

The grove is empty and green when you arrive, creme swaths of henbane peek out of the clover and grass. You creep into the space and only the sound of the ravens taking flight into the cloudless sky accompanies you as you make your way to the center. You know exactly where the middle of the grove is, it is instinctual; So is the abrupt stop you make.

The grove was silent, too silent, and too still. Without warning, a chill crept up your spine and you knew what -or rather, who it was. You turned and instantly the grove was filled with gore and the ground squelched under your feet, the man was half-way across the field; a blink, and he was a few steps away.

He was beautiful and terrifying, with deep brown eyes and long blonde lashes, but his pupils were dilated so wide that his eyes were almost black and he shook as though the blood of the grove made him frenzied. He was tall too, taller than any other man you'd seen, you craned your neck up as he got closer and spoke one word.

“Wife.”

Just like that, the grove swallowed you whole, bodies piling on top of you, grabbing at you. The smell of rot and blood filled your senses as the carnage pushed in around you, trapped you, absorbed you. You could feel nothing but blunt nails digging into your skin, pulling you further, and everywhere you looked you met the gaze of another dead man. Had that man done all of this?

They began to sing, to talk, to scream, “You are a bride bathed in blood, the sacrifice chosen by the gods to tame the deathless. Bind yourself to him and quell his rage. This is your purpose blood bride.”

—

The völva’s hut was warm and inviting, despite the skulls and strange herbs that crowded the walls. The scent of smoke and dried flowers clung to every surface, thick enough to taste. Solveig glided from the back room, elegant as always in her fine furs and bone jewelry.

“Hello, old friend,” she rasped, her voice frayed by smoke and prophecy.

You smiled. “Hello, Solveig.” You had come here often—for tinctures, for clarity, for the comfort she never admitted to offering. She was the only soul in the village who knew of your dreams. She had even held you once, when the visions had turned violent—when the gods showed you death and plague, and you sobbed, “I don’t want this. I wish the gods would take it from me.”

Her advice hadn’t been kind. “Midgard is made for our suffering and the gods do not unmake what they have given, no matter how awful. Spite it, spite them, and thrive.” But her presence—warm, steady, unyielding—had been kindness enough.

“What ails you this time?” she asked, drawing you back from the memory.

“Marriage,” you said, and frowned.

“Marriage?” she echoed with a scoff, already turning to usher you into her meditation room. “Gods preserve us.”

You ducked through the low doorway and followed her inside. The room was dim, lit only by a hearth and the soft shimmer of rune-etched stones. You settled onto the floor cushions as she stirred the embers, her back to you.

“Who is the lucky fool?” she asked, with no real interest in the answer.

“I don’t know,” you said. “But I’ve seen him in my dreams. I know his face. I know what the ravens call him. And I know I was chosen for him.”

Solveig straightened and she turned slightly, just enough to catch your eyes in the firelight.

“And what do they call this man?” she asked, voice low.

“The draugr.”

The name hung in the air like a chill, even with the hearth burning bright. Solveig didn’t speak right away. Her gaze drifted past you, to some point far beyond the walls of her hut.

“You’re certain?” she finally said.

You nodded. “They screeched it again and again. The same face, the same name. And every time he came to me, the ground bled.”

Solveig closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. “And have they called you anything?”

You nod, voice low. “Blood bride.” The words taste like iron. A blood bride is a sacrifice—to quell, or to feed. Either way, her fate is never kind.

“It’s why I came today,” you continued, your voice tightening. “There’s no avoiding it anymore. The signs are here. I can feel it closing in.”

You look up, eyes burning. “I know I can’t run. I know I can’t change what’s coming. But gods, if there’s a way—I want to survive.”

Solveig’s expression was grim, but slowly, she nodded. “I will see what I can find.”

She reached for a worn stone bowl and set it down with care, then began selecting herbs from her shelf. Her fingers moved with practiced precision—feverfew, juniper, angelica root—but it was the sharp scent of henbane that made your breath catch. The dried petals settled atop the mixture like a curse.

Chills ran down your spine. Last night’s visions surged back unbidden: a field of death, the sound of wings, the draugr’s voice like frost cracking stone.

Solveig paused, her hand hovering in the air. She had seen your reaction. Neither of you said anything as she slowly finished her ministrations. She looked at you then, truly looked—past the mask of composure you wore, into the fear and fire beneath.

“This won’t bring you peace,” she said softly, placing the bowl before you. “I may see your death—and if I do, I am godsbound to speak it.”

It was a warning, and a rare flicker of concern in her otherwise implacable tone. You drew a breath, steadying yourself. “Tell me what you see.”

Without another word, Solveig struck flint to tinder. The herbs caught flame, then smoldered, tendrils of smoke curling toward the rafters like reaching hands. You watched as it swirled—slow, deliberate, almost alive.

Solveig leaned forward and began to inhale deeply, her breath syncing with the rhythm of the rising smoke. Her voice followed, low and strange, slipping into an ancient tongue you never quite understood—one that tugged at something deep in your bones. A language not meant for mortal ears, yet one you yearned to hear all the same.

The air thickened as she chanted, smoke coiling like serpents around her fingers, her arms, her throat. The fire in the bowl pulsed with an unnatural glow—dull red, then violet, then black as emberless coal.

You felt it before you heard it: a pressure, like the air around you had been sealed tight. The warmth of the hut faded, replaced by a cold that sank straight to the marrow.

Solveig's eyes fluttered, then snapped open—pupils blown wide, all color vanished. Her head tilted, just slightly, as if listening to something far away, or deep below.

The chanting stopped. Silence followed—so complete it made the crackle of the fire feel deafening.

She spoke again, but it wasn’t her voice. Not entirely.

“He does not hunt you. He is hunted.”

The words freeze your blood, she continues. When she speaks again, her voice comes in echoes not her own—deeper, older, like wind through a burial mound.

“One foot in Midgard, one in Hel’s hall. The dead queen stretches out her hand.”

A low rumble passes through the floorboards, like distant thunder—or breath from beneath the earth.

“The bride is not the offering. She is the tether. The seal. The blade.”

The air snapped colder. You thought you saw feathers in the smoke—black, glossy, falling like snow.

“The ravens guide the bride. They whisper in her dreams, carry her to the stones where answers still speak.”

The fire flared, the smoke thickened. It felt suffocating.

“Guard the root. Kindle the flame. Make him remember the breath in his chest.”

The hut trembled. “Give him reason, and he will give you shield. Let him fall, and the gates will open wide.”

Silence fell. Then one last whisper, so faint it barely reached your ears: “You are both bond and offering.”

The silence in the hut was deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of dying embers and the echo of words that refused to leave your ears. The smoke had thinned, but it still clung to your skin, your lungs, your thoughts. The air was thick with what had just passed—too sacred to speak aloud, too terrible to ignore.

You felt dizzy, drained. The ritual always left you hollow, like the gods demanded a piece of you as payment for daring to ask help from someone else. Perhaps that was why you never told anyone else of your visions—because there was always a price.

Solveig remained seated, her posture still but strained, eyes closed and breathing slow.

“That is all I can see,” she murmured, her voice frayed and exhausted.

Even that small phrase—spoken in her own voice again—made everything feel frighteningly real. The trance was over. The vision was true.

This was your fate.

You were to wed a man half-dead, guard him against the cold grip of the goddess Hel and her creeping hands, and somehow give him a reason to keep living. To fight. To stay.

And you didn’t want to.

That realization hit like a crack in your ribs. You hadn’t wanted any of it—but now, with the path laid out before you in smoke and shadow, your resolve faltered.

You had come here knowing you couldn’t escape it, and still, the urge rose in you like a wave: to run. To flee so far that even the ravens couldn’t find you. To vanish into the woods and become moss and bark and memory. Forgotten by fate. But it would be useless.

The gods had eyes in every crevice of Midgard. And fate—fate would find you, drag you back, and place the burden in your hands all over again.

Because that’s what it did.

Solveig’s eyes opened slowly, the last tendrils of smoke curling away from her like breath. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. The hut was silent, save for the whisper of wind outside, brushing against the bone-charms hanging from the eaves.

“I’ve seen what I can,” she said at last, repeating herself from earlier. “The rest is hidden… or not meant to be spoken.”

Her voice was quieter now, the rasp of it more human, more worn.

She didn’t look at you—only at the bowl of ash, as if searching for something she knew she would never find.

“You’ll want to turn back. At some point, you will. It’s in our nature to run from what we can’t control. But the moment you do… others will pay the price.”

There was no cruelty in her tone, only certainty. She had seen enough paths unraveled to know the shape of consequence.

“You were not sent into this to be spared. You were sent to endure.” Her gaze finally met yours—steady, unblinking. “And in that, there is power. There always is.”

A pause. Then, almost gently: “Whatever waits ahead, meet it standing and with your blade drawn high.”

She closed her eyes again, shoulders slumping as if the weight of what had passed finally caught up with her.

“Go. The ravens are waiting.”

You left slowly, but silently dropping your payment in a bowl by the door. The door shut behind you with a soft thunk, and the weight of Solveig’s words clung to your shoulders like damp wool.

Just as she said they would be, two ravens waited outside—perched on the bare limbs of an old tree in her field. Their feathers caught the fading light like shards of obsidian. They watched you with knowing eyes.

Something close to anger stirred in your chest at the sight of them. By the time you reached the edge of the field, it had grown sharp, cutting through your ribs like a blade drawn too quickly.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to curse the gods—how dare they? How dare they lay this burden at your feet, carve a path in stone and call it destiny? How dare they grant you the sight only to torment you with it?

It was evening when you reached your home. The chickens clucked softly as they nestled in, goats offered lazy baahs as they chewed the last of their feed. The sky was brushed in soft golds and pinks, it was peaceful.

How dare they try to steal this from you?

Your anger gave you no rest. It carried you inside, drove you to your room with heavy steps. You packed with a fury, fists clenched, breath sharp. You would have waited until morning, but you knew better. The ritual’s cost would come for you by dawn- The ache in your bones, the sickness behind your eyes, the hollowing. You knew it well.

You skipped dinner. You finished packing in silence. And when you finally sank into your bed, sleep didn’t come. The unfairness of it all gnawed at your thoughts.

How dare they?

How dare they take your future and shape it with blood? How dare they drag you into a fate where love was a duty and survival a reward for obedience?

You stared at the ceiling, fists clenched beneath your blanket.

The fire in your hearth had long gone out, but the room still held its warmth, as if reluctant to let go of comfort.

You lay there, motionless, eyes wide in the dark. The packed bag sat at the foot of your bed like a silent witness, waiting.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. The wind picked up outside, brushing against the walls like a whisper, or a warning. You imagined the ravens still perched in that same tree, watching, patient as the grave.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to cry, but even your tears had been taken—wrung out of you by smoke and prophecy, by bone and fire.

Instead, you whispered into the stillness, your voice nearly lost beneath the wind: “Why me?”

No answer came. Not from the gods, not from fate, not even from yourself.

Only silence.

And then, finally, sleep took you—not gently, but with the sharp-edged weight of exhaustion.

-Chapter End-

Fun fact! Henbane is believed to have been used by völvas to prophesize- just like in this chapter. Unfortunately, henbane is a very toxic hallucinogen, so I don't recommend smoking it or inhaling its smoke. Side effects include: loss of muscular control, dilation of the pupils, heart palpitation, hallucinations, delirium, and in large doses; coma, and death.

Henbane also represents warning and danger, I wonder what it could all mean :0

A little about the other herbs placed in the bowl. Feverfew is used for migraines, headaches, and arthritis. Juniper is used as an anti-inflammatory and a diuretic. Angelica root can be used for a variety of things: heartburn, flatulence, loss of appetite, arthritis, circulation problems, nervousness, and trouble sleeping.

I chose those to show that the völva, Solveig, knew about herbs and used them to combat the side effects of henbane. In this fanfic, it apparently works, but irl please research stuff before consuming it 🙏🏼

He was beautiful and terrifying, with deep brown eyes and long blonde lashes, but his pupils were dilated so wide that his eyes were almost black and he shook as though the blood of the grove made him frenzied. He was tall too, taller than any other man you'd seen, you craned your neck up as he got closer and spoke one word.

“Wife.”

Chapter One: Ravens I

The cries of ravens haunt your dreams; this time, they sit on your shoulders, claws bearing into your skin as you walk through a beautiful and lush forest. The lush greenery does not distract you though, you have a purpose: someone is waiting for you and so, you continue to walk until the forest opens up into a grove where an elder stands. He awaits you. As you approach him, he begins to speak, “Völva, who performs seid through her dreams,” He turns, blue eye piercing through you, “You must bind thyself to the draugr favored by valkyries and blessed by Brokkr. To do so will spell your fortune and prosperity, to deny him will spell doom for us all.”

As if to demonstrate the man's warning, the grove began to wilt, and bodies began dropping into it, their blood seeping into the yellowed grass as the ravens took flight from your shoulders and began singing , “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr,” over and over as blood and carrion filled the grove. You turn to run only to be met with the most terrifying sight of all.

He was dressed in black furs with paint smeared over his darkened gaze, and blood, so much blood. It stained his scarred porcelain skin and white-blonde hair, and as your gazes locked the bodies began to scream and claw at your ankles. You are rooted in spot as he begins to approach. You want to scream, you want to run, but all you can do is stand as this predator stalks towards you and the ravens shriek and the bodies cry and it all coalesces into a terrifying cacophony of death and doom. “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr!”

You bolt upright, cold sweat clinging onto you and your underclothes as the smell of blood slowly fades from your senses and the phantom ache of claws in your shoulders leaves you wincing. This dream of yours has been haunting you for two moon cycles; ever since your father ordered your mother to begin preparing you for marriage. Each time, however, the visions grew more violent and each time, you never saw his face. It worried you, that the gods had assigned a mysterious and violent lover for you, were you meant to bear the brunt of his violence? You hoped not, you would not heed a man who laid hands on you.

Your dreams tended to fade away during the day, for there was always much to do but today it stuck with you. The stench of the corpses followed you when you slaughtered a chicken for food, then you heard the terrible song of the ravens as a crow flew by causing you to jump and almost drop the chicken’s carcass, and you nearly shrieked when you bumped into one of your villages vikings, his gaze dark and covered with warpaint just like the monster in your dream.

Your violent dreams nipped and gnashed at your heels like a feral animal, chasing you throughout the day causing you to be distracted and your work to be clumsy. It caused even your mother to stop and notice, she frowned as she asked if you were well, “I'm fine, ma.” You replied with a tired smile, which she frowned deeper at and went to get herbs to boil for you.

Gods above and below you needed more than just herbs, you needed a good night’s rest and not have Odin cursing you with visions of a murderous man the ravens called a “draugr”. If you were to prepare for wifehood, you needed rest to practice your duties. Unfortunately, the gods cared not for your mortal toils as you became more and more exhausted throughout the day. By dinner, you were slouching into your chicken stew trying to stay awake, your father sat at the head of the fire pit telling tales of the raid he had just come back from.

He spun tales of a new land made of ice and another covered with nothing but tall green trees, he droned on and on about trades and raids and other such viking things- “Daughter!” His voice cuts through your thoughts and you straighten, looking at him, “Yes father?” He huffed, “We were talking about your marriage.” Your gut, sank and you swallowed, slowly nodding.

“I met a jarl on my adventures, a fine raider, he is John Price.” You nod again, the ravens’ cursed song ringing in your ears “Bind thyself to the draugr…” “I will not force you to wed him, but you will meet with him. He governs his villages not far from ours.”

“Alright…” your voice is shaky, like a trembling leaf, so you clear your throat and clearer, say “Alright, give me two days before we leave,” two days, one to visit the Völva of your village and one to recover from her seid. You needed clearer answers, not cryptic advice from your dreams. If this really were to happen and happen this quickly, then you need to be prepared while you can still object from the wedding.

"...to deny him will spell doom for us all.”

***

That night as you help your family clean up dinner, you move sluggishly; struggling to keep your eyes open as you scrape scraps of food into the compost. Your mother watches you closely, frown deepening everytime you begin to nod off.

"You haven't been sleeping lately." She remarks, gathering the chickens into the coupe. You have never told her about your dreams, it seemed like a natural instinct to hide this part of you, granted, your visions have never plagued you in this way before.

You sigh, turning to look at her, "I've been having nightmares."

"About?" You don't know what to tell her. "Oh just about this murderous monster I'm supposed to marry because the All-Father said so otherwise I'm dooming everyone somehow." Now that would make you sound like a madwoman. You need to keep the answer simple.

"It's the same one most nights," the truth, "I appear in the middle of the village naked and everyone notices except me until the end of the dream." A lie, but your mother's face breaks into a smile, "Really?" You nod, "I'm going to the völva tomorrow to seek answers, such a ridiculous dream shouldn't cause as much sleeplessness." Your mother buys your explanation, nodding along, "I've brewed you something for sleep tonight, and I will give you something to trade with the völva tomorrow." You smile in thanks and quickly finish up your evening chores.

That night your mother gives you a horn of chamomile tea and you sip it gratefully, but you know as you rinse the horn and you know as you prepare for sleep and you know as you finally fall into the dregs of unconsciousness that the tea won't help.

-Chapter End-

Translations:

Völva: A Viking seeress, pronounced kinda like:: v-oo-lva

Seid: A ritual performed by Völvas in order to commune with the gods, see the future, and make prophecies. Pronounced kinda like:: "seed"

Draugr: Undead guardians of tombs, a mix of a zombie and ghost. Pronounced kinda like:: dr-ow-grr or dr-ah-grr

Brokkr: Norse Dwarf God of Blacksmithing, means "he who works with metal fragments"

Valkyrie: Norse warrior goddesses that chose who died in battle and led them to Valhalla (afterlife for warriors)

A/N Yay! Chapter One finished!!! What do you guys think? Also, how the hell do people add moodboards and headers on their blog posts cuz I wanna do that but have no clue. Anywaysssss blessed be!