Fell was awake foolishly early the morning after he learned about his child; not even all the birds were chirping or tweeting or cawing yet.

“We must go to Vaneurim’s temple,” he said the moment Mira realized he was not to go back to sleep and begrudgingly opened her eyes.

Mira knew Vaneurim was the goddess of Mothers. Dania prayed to her far more than any of the other gods.

Mira sighed, torn between the warmth of her furs and the excitement in Fell’s expression. His limbs were still, but the glint in his eyes and the eager smile on his lips revealed he was bouncing internally, desperate to visit the temple and far too eager to wait.

“Fine,” Mira said, wincing as she sat up and the cool morning air touched her skin. “But first... I would like to see that the new soter fares well.”

Fell nodded energetically. “And then we go.”

Rowan had been moved to the blacksmith’s workshop in town—he looked worse than the day before despite having dried and being much warmer. One eye was black and swollen shut.

“What happened?” Mira said as soon as she arrived.

“My lady, I’m not certain.”

“Did you fight?”

“I did.”

Mira laughed. “Then you know what happened.”

Rowan laughed as well. “I was trying to spare my lady the details.”

“You need not fight; just help Bjinn forge steel and spend the rest of your time eating, drinking… listening to music.”

Rowan looked as if she had spit in his face. “My lady, are you telling me to arm our enemies?”

Mira was taken aback. “As opposed to dying? Yes.”

“My lady, I fear sacrificing my honour much more than I fear death.”

Don’t be this way, Mira begged silently in her head. She changed tactics. “And what of me? You’ve come all this way to die in front of me? To give me a final sliver of home and then rip it away?”

It was Rowan’s turn to be taken aback. “My lady, I would never wish to cause you pain....”

He is going to say more.

“But you cannot ask me to betray myself and my countrymen.”

But that is what I’m asking, Mira thought. She could not find the words to express how foolish she thought he was being and so changed tactics once more. “Am I not also your countryman?”

“You are, my lady.”

“Are you not sworn to serve my father?”

“Your brother Dayne now, my lady, but yes. I am sworn.”

“And how do you think he would react? Knowing you left me here alone to fend for myself?” Mira’s voice wavered, betraying how strongly she felt about Rowan’s survival. She had never ordered any of her family’s subjects to do anything before, and the fierceness in her tone shocked her. Maybe the child makes me stronger.

“I don’t know, my lady.”

But you do know, Mira thought. She could see his pain. He grimaced as he was torn in two. You cared for me once. But his face betrayed him—he still did. Rowan would not die. At least not that day.

Mira stayed with her long-lost friend for half of an hour. He told her that Dayne was well suited to lordship, and many admired his mind and energy. Dayne hadn’t ceased focus since she was found to be missing; he thought only of ending the Northmen and, because of this, many of the serfs also admired him, for it was the folk in the countryside who were most brutalized when the Northmen came. He accepted any farmers who wished to fight and had sons old enough to carry on the fieldwork. He knighted several common folk and was beloved also because of this.

Rowan told her that Gaewen, the blacksmith and the man who raised Rowan for most of his life, also died when the Northmen came. Rowan said he’d taken on his own apprentice and had forged more steel since Mira was taken than the rest of his years combined.

“They will come,” he said again. “Dayne and Loric and the eastern Lords. One day soon, my lady, the Northmen will be no more.”

Mira knew he said this to comfort her, but his words had the opposite effect. She feared a war between her brother and the Northmen. In truth, it was the worst thing she could imagine happening, and to make it worse, she had no idea which men were stronger. Her stomach told her it was the Northmen.

An old habit crept up. Mira’s emotions were too much to bear, so she folded them up and put them away in a little crate in the back of her mind. This was the place where she put her childish fancies that her mother did not approve of and her wish to marry for love which became ridiculous to her the moment Loric proposed and the way her dreams sometimes touched her life. She composed herself and left Rowan where he was: tied to a post in the blacksmith’s workshop.

Fell was waiting for her atop a nearby fencepost, his legs swinging back and forth like an enthusiastic child.

“How fares the soter?” he said, leaping to the dry grass.

“Fine enough.”

Mira was impatient to be away from it all for the day, to abandon her thoughts and fears on the coast. The forest was thick and aged and wise, full of gnarled roots and mossy trunks and earthy-scented mushrooms.

Fell whistled as they climbed. He was especially lively that day, and Mira had trouble keeping up with him as he bounded over twisted roots thicker than her waist. Lately, she’d been growing tired more quickly, but that was to be expected.

Back home, women carrying children did not climb mountains to visit the gods. They sat by the window, maybe embroidered something. But the clean mountain air felt good in her lungs, and Fell often climbed ahead of her, lifting her up behind him where the path was difficult.

Mira knew that most of the time, women made this climb on their own for the wellbeing of her child to come. But if a woman died giving birth or was too unwell, then the father would climb. Fell must have decided to come as Mira could not speak the old language of the gods.

Occasionally, there were gaps in the lush deep green, and Mira could peer down to the village below. The sight reminded her of leaving her country: the land dwindling in the distance from aboard a Northern ship. It occurred to her that perhaps her whole life would be a series of endings, one after the other. That each time she became accustomed to the new way things were, everything would change again.

The wind picked up, tangling her dress around her legs, conducting a harmony of creaking and groaning and rustling—almost as a response to her thoughts. The wind seemed to be agreeing with her.

Yes, it whispered.

Mira’s heart sped, and it began to rain.

Maybe it was the soft lulling sound of leaves and stones being drummed upon by the sky or the rich earthy smell of damp pine or the thickness of the air as clouds gathered above and sparked in anticipation of the storm to come—whatever the reason, a name came to Mira’s mind.

Hyrold.

Mira had not considered the Northern gods to be anything more than fairytales before. But up there, in the misty mountain air, she would be lying if she said she felt nothing for them.

Fell took the sudden rain as a fair omen. He laughed and began to climb with more vigour than before, and Mira chased after him, thinking of poor Rowan tied up in town. The Northmen were at their most wild when it stormed, and she knew her old friend was soon to be terribly confused.

As Fell lifted her over a particularly large moss-covered stone, he said, “Hyrold is watching. Show him how strong you are.”

Mira didn’t know if she believed this, but she knew Fell did, so she steadied her breath and, when Fell next offered his hand to her, she didn’t take it. Instead, she pulled herself up over the ragged ledge without aid.

The summer storm boomed louder, and Fell laughed louder. He seemed invincible in the tempest—nearly mad—much like he had when the ship passed through the squall on their way to Gittenurg. His joy was pure and beautiful to behold, and Mira felt her spirits lift further. No matter what was coming, she would be well if she was with him.

White lightning struck the sea far off on the horizon behind them, and Vaneruim’s temple came into view as the blazing white light flashed between knotted trunks and fluffy ferns. Grander than any of the buildings down in Gittenurg, the structure was formed with impossibly large cloud-coloured stones, each one cut smooth with unthinkable strength. There were endlessly detailed engravings and statues of naked women with swollen stomachs that were larger than life. The forest’s leafy fingers spread across the smooth white and grey, leaving Mira wondering if the temple was older than the woodland.

It would still be nearly an hour before they would reach the entrance, but the rest of the path was carved into the stone, so it would be much easier. Mira was grateful for the gentle steps, but she did not show Fell her relief.

The winding stone path reminded her of walking up to the gallery back home. For the first time in a long time, she thought of the painting. The Sun God against the truth god. The curved swords. She thought of the man with the broken nose and his strange accent. Maybe he’d been brought to her country just as she and Rowan had been brought to the North? Mira suddenly felt sad for being so frightened of him.

By the time they reached the temple, Fell was drenched and covered in mud. Mira could only imagine she was just as filthy, but the Northern gods didn’t seem to care about cleanliness like the gods in her homeland did. When they entered the temple, Fell didn’t so much as wipe his boots.

The temple must have, at one point, been only a cave. There were many different building styles, and Mira could sense that the original temple was added to many times over several generations. The scent of dozens of candles and incense filled her lungs, and dizziness came over her. Her unbalance was only added to by the dripping sounds of cave water and the way the wind whistled through the cool, rocky terrain.

“Remember this?” Fell chuckled, pointing at the sculpture of the breastfeeding woman that had been stolen from the gallery in her home moons ago. The cave echoed his laugh back at them until it seemed like the cave itself was laughing.

A wave of emotion washed over Mira as she looked at the sculpture. Home. She set her hands on the cold stone, then her forehead, and took in a deep breath. The sculpture had none of the smell from the gallery still on it.

Fell led her deeper into the cave, past all sorts of mother-themed treasures, all of which were likely stolen on raids. Mira recognized the eye sigil on a tapestry showing a mother tossing her child up into the air as the little boy laughed.

Deep within the cave, where the only light came from candles, was the altar. Vaneurim sat cross-legged, weaving the hair of one of the many children chiselled around her feet. She was carved out of the cave itself and was the only Northern god Mira had seen not brandishing a weapon. A natural spring bubbled behind her, making it look as if she was sitting in front of a small waterfall. In the sculpture’s eyes, Mira could see the peaceful feeling she felt before Rowan arrived. The centeredness.

“Who carved this?” Mira said.

Fell laughed and shrugged. “It has been forgotten, some man from long ago.”

He collapsed sloppily at Vaneurim’s feet.

The Northern gods must not care for poise either, Mira mused. Fell whispered to the idol in the old Northern language, his voice blending with the wind and the dripping echoes and the rain pounding on the outside of the cave until the cave was whispering back to him. He sounded casual as if talking to a sparring buddy, not a goddess, his hands moving around as he spoke. Mira waited shyly, a few steps behind. She did not want to do or say something that would ruin it. Back in her country, the gods were easy to offend, but she sensed that the Northern gods were not so harsh in their judgements.

She could tell by Fell’s gestures that he was talking about her. He motioned for her to come and sit, and she did, but she chose to sit in the way she was taught as a child, on her knees with her hands clasped together above her heart. Fell laughed and continued to speak in the hushed voice he saved only for the gods.

That part is the same as back home, Mira thought.

I should probably also pray.

Mira had not prayed since she and Fell began laying together, and so she felt out of practice, and also, she did not know to whom she should pray. It seemed wrong to speak to any of the gods from her country in the temple, so she looked to Vaneurim. I know we don’t know each other very well, Mira began with her mind’s voice. But I do know the feeling I see on your face. Maybe like all women share the sensation of watching their men go off to battle, all mothers also share something. I don’t know if you offer protection, or good luck, or mercy, or health, but I promise you that I will do all I can to care for this child, and all that I cannot do, I place in your loving hands.

When Mira opened her eyes, she could have sworn Vaneurim was smiling at her. She felt the goddess wise and fair and imagined the statue saying to her: think of the child first, and I will care for the rest.

Fell was still whispering in the ancient Northern tongue, but his tone had grown serious; he spoke quickly and with deep, breathy emotion, seeming almost teary. There were pauses when he appeared to be only listening before he spoke again.

When Mira looked back to Vaneurim, the statue did not seem to be smiling any longer; she looked heartbroken—as if at any moment the spring that flowed behind her would shift and run over her face, and she would be crying.

What could he be saying to her? There were tears in Fell’s eyes; Mira could see them now. She took his hand, and, of course, he laughed. He spoke with more energy, gesturing to Mira, and after some time, he took a small wooden bowl from the altar and filled it with the spring.

“Drink.”

Mira did as she was told. The water was so frigid it hurt her head, but it was unnaturally sweet, and she finished it all. Fell took a small birch branch out of his bag along with several candles and incense sticks. He set them up around the altar and led Mira’s hand—first to an already lit candle to catch the flame and then to the new ones to light them. The incense he brought smelled of sweetgrass and lemon. They were not from the North; he must have picked them up on a raid.

Each time Mira lit a candle or incense, he would whisper the same phrase in the old words. Last, he pulled a small totem from within his bag: a tiny whale carved from wood. He set this on the altar as well, whispering the phrase one more time and nodding to Vaneurim.

“We can go now.” He shrugged and wandered out into the roaring rain.

Mira followed him down the mountain in silence. She had many questions for him, some about Vaneurim, some about him. Why had he seemed so sad? What did he talk to the goddess about? Why a whale? She thought of her dreams of swimming with whales; they’d only started when she stopped bleeding.

Fell was brought into a frenzy again by the feral storm and climbed down so quickly Mira thought he might slip. He didn’t, and Mira followed him as fast as she dared. The climb down was much easier, but by the end, her toes hurt from hitting the tops of her boots.

As she dried off in their tent, it finally occurred to her what vaneurigk meant. Vaneurigk, of course, Vaneurim’s gift.

***

That evening, Fell lounged shirtless in their tent, drinking strong wine by the crackling fireside. His eyes were on the flame as he drank, but Mira could sense his mind was far away. She knelt beside him.

“Why did you bring Vaneurim a—” She did not know the word for whale.

He laughed. “Picaarg.”

“Picaarg,” she repeated.

Fell shrugged. “She likes them… maybe because they are strong and gentle like she is.”

Mira lay her head on his chest, listening to his deep, slow breaths. “How did you know what to bring?”

He laughed again. “All Norsern know these things.”

Usually, it was easy to know what Fell was thinking, but Mira realized that day that this ease was something he allowed. It was something he could pull away from her at any time on a whim. His icy stare gave nothing away.

“Why—” she began in a whisper.

Fell shook his head. “Sad stories are not good for Vaneurigk.”

Tired from the mountain air and length of the trek, Mira fell asleep quickly, pressed against Fell’s chest. But in the middle of the night, she was woken by him. He left for many hours, returning just before sunrise after the storm had ceased. He slipped back into their furs, smelling like rain and pine and soil.

His fingers traced along her arms, her neck, and her cheeks, and though Mira did not open her eyes in her sleepiness, she could feel by his breath and his movement that he was much more lighthearted than he’d been the night before.

Fell placed his hand on her stomach and drifted off to sleep. Mira followed and dreamt of whales—only it was not a beautiful dream like the others had been. It was just as vivid, but this time, the whales fled as ships from the Isle crashed into them and pierced them with arrows.