Black Sun-krønikene

"King Harald will return, your grace. Alas, you gain nothing from running yourself into a mound." Some kinsmen is at my flank whispering words of counsel I can scarcely hear under my current condition. "Then you refuse drink, you refuse food . . ." My personal guard is droning on and on. Ruling was not my strong suit; it was his greatest ambition not mine. Halfdan The Black had said it best. "The Champion of Norway is all my brother dreams of becoming . . . How could either one of us be enough? More importantly, where is it his heart lies?"

For years all I wanted was nothing. Now I can’t imagine creation without Harald Finehair. And he is gone. He had been gone for months, off chasing whatever it is raiders are after, because let’s face it, it stopped being about revenge a while ago. It starts with a dull ache and gradually progresses until I wake up running and my blood is pumping raging acid. My muscles burned and around me all I could see was a headliner hanging in shreds, waving at me from far off and distant corners. It reads; Harald Finehair has conquered Wessex. The King of all Norway is our reigning champion.

"My lady", his grace calls out; he does not know it, but he seeks a crippled creature, and manically I shift around searching for him. Before I can blink, nearly matching speed of sound, I find myself facing his assault of supressed affections. There are other creatures you can hear singing songs of his return; familiar sounds of horns blaring are piercing my fragile senses and with each kiss he plants I can feel full unhindered pockets of air filling my lungs. "I return and hear you have vanished from existence. But if you were no longer of Midgard, surely, I would know for certain. The absence of you would be all I could feel. The world would make no sense." Carefully he brought a hand up and began stroking one of my cheeks just before he carried me up in his arms. "Did I not promise you a sacred spear?" he goaded as our march under silken moonbeams began. This is what love feels like; or it must be. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. The Gods keep you from dreaming or you’re done for.

For all it’s worth, I can’t remember precisely when I left our Great Hall and strayed from Tamdrup’s shoreline before I found myself lost and confused among greying forestlands. Either way, it’s no matter. This is not a rare occurrence. Nor is it a final one. What matters is he has made a red waste of England. What matters is Loðbrók and sons are no more. Thus, one more prophecy has been fulfilled. This is how it is being a Volva; after a certain point, everything becomes a copy, of a copy, of a copy. The distance from reality is so vast none could dream of reaching me and I could scarcely claw my way back from within. The only meaningful difference is his grace; my personal beacon, guiding us across black seas.