Eidr stood before the open graves, each hollow in the earth a silent testament to the lives taken too soon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden light that felt surreal against the stark reality of the scene. Five graves, freshly dug and unevenly shaped, lay side by side like an unwilling battalion awaiting the inevitable.
Each grave cradled a body, the faces obscured by shadows but the weight of their loss palpable in the air. On the chest of each fallen warrior rested a weapon. Broken swords, their edges dulled from use, bows crushed and splintered, axes free of hafts, remnants of once proud arms that had defended their village against the She-Wolf Jorg, Daughter of the Earth.
The funeral crowd had dwindled, leaving only a few mourners whispering words of comfort to one another, their voices hushed as if speaking too loudly might awaken the spirits of the fallen. Eidr watched as the others trickled away, their sorrow etched deep into their faces. He shuddered at the thought of the She-Wolf, her tyrannical divinity looming over them all, a specter of dread that silenced their hearts.
He stepped closer to the graves, his gaze drawn to one in particular. Olof, the man he had met only hours earlier, lay there, his once vibrant presence now reduced to lifeless flesh. They had spoken of herbs and healing, a camaraderie forged in the fleeting moments of life. Olof had shared laughter and stories, and Eidr had hoped they would work together in the days to come. Now, that future had been cruelly snatched away.
Kneeling by the grave, Eidr reached into his satchel, his fingers brushing against the delicate herb he had chosen. He withdrew the Eljunseed, its fragile, serrated leaves glistening in the waning sunlight. It was an herb he’d seen before, bundled up among the herbs he’d been given as taxes over his time while serving as Master of Coin. He knew the scent of the prepared substance, taught as he’d learned what herbs worked with what, but he had only just learned its name. It was common in Runeheim, a stubborn survivor that thrived in the harsh northern soils. It was one of the many things Eidr had learned in his conversations with Olof.
With a heavy heart, Eidr dropped the herb into the grave. It nestled among the earth, a quiet offering. Folklore had taught that hanging Eljunseed in the home would ward off the malific, the cursed spirits of the dead that haunted the northern wastes. But Eidr knew better than to place faith in such tales. He had spoken to those whose knowledge he trusted, who had studied the spirits and the nature of the herbs. Eljunseed held no power against the restless dead. Yet still, it felt right to leave it with Olof, a connection to their shared knowledge.
Perhaps it could serve both purposes, he mused. The practical and the mythical could coexist, intertwined in the fabric of their lives. Maybe the comfort that folklore provided was worth something, granting the villagers courage in the face of death, allowing them to stand tall against the dark uncertainty of their existence. Though it would not prevent their deaths, he thought grimly. But their faith allowed them to be brave in the face of death.
Eidr’s thoughts spiraled deeper, the weight of his own guilt pressing against his chest. What the community believed mattered, and it could not be dismissed lightly. The faith in the White Lion and the ancient traditions of Njordr shaped their lives, woven into the very fabric of their existence, both of them. Though he knew better than to rely on the whims of any deity, that understanding felt like a hollow victory in the face of overwhelming grief. Faith was just a different kind of strength—one he felt slipping through his fingers like sand. It was a comforting lie that people told themselves to remain resilient against the storms of life. As he knelt by Olof’s grave, Eidr couldn’t help but envy those who still held on to such illusions, wishing desperately that he could believe in something, anything, to help carry him through the dark days ahead.
Lucien had been speaking passionately to Eivor just after the graves had been dug, his voice resolute as he urged every man to open their eyes and recognize the oppression forced upon them. He implored them to see the lies that their oppressors told themselves to justify their cruelty, to rise against the injustices that stained their lives. Eidr couldn’t help but agree with his sentiments, yet he struggled to dismiss the good that had emerged from their shared strength. In a land where the weak often perished and only the strong survived, the vulnerable in Runeheim were protected by the very community that rallied around them. It was this bond that had allowed Eidr to survive thus far, the knowledge that he was not alone, that he had found a refuge among those who would defend him when the darkness closed in.
Perhaps, he mused, two truths could indeed exist in parallel. Good and bad, lies and truths, they danced together in a complex tapestry of life, interwoven in a way that made the world both beautiful and grotesque. Hypocrisy was part of nature itself, an inevitable duality that shaped their existence. It was a bittersweet realization; while he yearned for clarity, for a black-and-white understanding of the world that other people seemed to see, he found himself caught in the gray.
