The Girl the Sea Gave Back(55)

He watched her pour the steaming water into the melted snow and they each took a linen cloth, folding it neatly before they dipped it into the warm water. She dragged it over his father’s shoulder and down his chest, cleaning the skin, and Halvard did the same on the other side, rinsing the cloth as he went. The sweet scent of herbs filled the house and he tried not to look up to his father’s face, keeping his attention on his work. He had been sick for days, and his mother wanted him to go to the funeral fire clean. She had already set out one of his dress tunics and oiled his boots, so he would look his best when he went to the afterlife.

She finished with the washing and sat beside his body on the table, taking her time to braid his beard in elaborate strands. Halvard dropped the cloth into the pail and listened to her hum a song he’d heard her sing his entire life as she fit silver beads onto the ends of the braids and tied them off with strips of thin leather.

It seemed wrong that his father would die of sickness when he’d survived so many battles. Halvard had sat in the loft for the past three nights, begging Thora to spare his life. And as he woke that morning, he wondered if he’d ever pray to her again.

The door opened and Iri came inside, his hands and arms painted with the same gray mud that stained his tunic. Dark red cuts and scrapes traced up his skin where he’d gathered the wood for the funeral fire. Halvard waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He pulled the dirty tunic over his head, dropping it on the floor, and his blond braids fell down his back as he washed the mud from his arms silently.

Iri had come into their home mostly dead only three years before, an enemy survivor from battle. But now, he was Halvard’s brother. He was Auben’s son. And there was no mistaking the pain that the loss of him had struck Iri with. His shoulders shook with his silent cries as he cupped the water, washing his face.

It was almost midday when Fiske opened the door. They were dressed in their finest linen, their hair combed and braided. Fiske and Iri carried their father on a set of planks and Inge and Halvard followed. His hand fit into hers and she picked up her skirt as they made their way to the ritual house in the snow, where the village had gathered to honor Auben. He’d been born in Fela and after forty-six years of life and six fighting seasons, he’d go on to meet his ancestors in the afterlife. There, he’d wait for his wife and his three sons.

Fiske and Iri set their father’s body atop the funeral pyre they’d built that morning, and then they took their places at Inge’s side. Iri set a hand onto Halvard’s shoulder as the Tala dropped the torch and together, they watched their father turn to ash.

When everyone had left, Halvard still stood, staring at the smoldering embers, trying to understand how his father could just be gone. He looked up to the sky, where the smoke was disappearing, imagining it taking him to the next life. But something about the thought didn’t bring him the comfort it seemed to bring the others.

The crunch of boots in the snow made Halvard blink and he looked back to see Fiske coming back up the path. He pulled an axe from his back as he reached him and held it between them, the image of a yew tree engraved in the blade. It was their father’s.

Halvard stared at it.

“It’s yours,” Fiske said, setting it into his hands.

Halvard looked up at him. “You don’t want it?”

“I want you to have it.”

Halvard hugged it to his chest, the weight of the iron heavy in his arms, and Fiske got to his knees before him, meeting his eyes. They were still glazed with the loss of sleep and the tears he’d shed. “It falls to me now to raise you,” he said.

Halvard looked at his boots, buried in the snow between them.

“Will you trust me?” He held out an open hand.

Halvard breathed through the pain in his throat as he set his small hand into Fiske’s. His brother stood, towering over him before he picked him up, and Halvard wrapped his arms around his neck, his muffled cry buried in his shoulder. And as the snow fell and the sun went down, Fiske carried him home.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


HALVARD


I walked the path through Hylli alone, stopping before the closed door to our home in the dark, my hand on the cold latch as I listened.

I’d spent the last hours after the ceremony with Latham and the others, crowded around the fire as we talked through the battle that lay ahead. I’d tried to meet their eyes as the leaders looked to me, asking me questions about what I’d seen in the glade and in the valley. How many Svell there were and how fast they were traveling. How they’d attacked Ljós and Utan. I’d answered them, trying to sound sure.

But now, my family waited inside, their voices low around the fire. And there was no way to be strong for that moment. There was no way to tell them how sorry I was and I wondered if I would look different to them when I came through the door. If they’d see the shame of it all on me, the way they always saw everything.

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard before I pushed it open.

Fiske and Iri looked up from where they stood before the fire pit as I stepped inside, the rusted iron hinges creaking. Eelyn stood behind them, her pale eyes red and swollen. She pushed between them, walking straight to me with heavy steps until she was pressed against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her as a soft, brittle cry escaped her lips. Fiske took the back of my neck, pressing his rough cheek to mine, and Iri did the same, putting his arms around the three of us. The familiar smell of them filled me, making my chest tight and my legs weak until they were the only thing keeping me standing.