Gods' Deaths Saga

Two nights past Sólmánudr.

Gaela, my dearest,

Our home is settled now. Ásh and Mikael have been tending to the goats, they always make sure that our small keep is filled with beautiful things for their mother.

Ásh still hasn't abandoned his talents. We have woven bark baskets, reed sheets, and willow bundles all littering the yard.

His crafts are good for holding soaked wools, and for growing fruit through, they're good for drainage, but they are becoming cluttersome.

He is trying to sell them, just like you, but I think most of his success comes from his youthful charm.

Mikael is angry, like many boys of his age, more so when I tell him about our sagas. I stopped, for a while, but he demanded to hear more, and in truth, they breathe a passion back into my heart, too. A broken man's passion; my spirit is far from youthful now.

I'll have to read these for you later, I know that. I had to learn to write last winter. These new people of Boar Land, they're making 'abbots and nuns' out of good druið and völva. That is, those lucky few of us who are too popular to kill. The Wolf of Rome may have swallowed our Alfather, but our ways remain, as do the Celts'. For now, though, I am well, and I am loved,

as are you,

Frayrar.

— —

Mösurgr, nine nights before.

Beloved Gaela,

This cross hangs so heavily around my neck. I can only tell myself that Mjolnir is standing on his pommel so many times before I feel Thor's fury in the skies above me. The folk I'm surrounded with now... I cannot live among them.

Each person I meet is different. Some talk with the words of old Eire, some with the tongues of Caledonian men, and others with the confidence of southern soldiers. Everyone speaks to me of Christ, and I tell them what I have been told, and they are happy with what they hear.

The dark summers have cleared, so I guess this is a new age? Ásh has been taken away from me in a manner that my father would never have accepted, but it is what we do here. He is apprenticed to a cooper. He visits me with the birth of every moon and brings me good wines, meats, and clothing; when he can afford it. I love him as much as his mother, but he is so distant now. Mikael is with me, still, but he's far more distant than Ásh. He treats our land like a place of employment, a forge, a barn, a row of fields, but not a home. I am so lost; my eldest son cannot bear to be in my company outside of meals and duty. I know that he fights in town, and drinks. People have told me that much. He refuses to use the new words as I do, and he mentions you often. All I can do is worry about him, that is all men of this age are allowed to do. Worry, and wait for you.

Yours for all ages,

Frayrar.

— —

Twenty-six nights after Góa, 555.

Gaela,

Our boy is gone. People from Baile Cliath Átha rose in anger. He was drinking there during an evening, three nights ago, and they knew who he was; they called him 'heathen' and 'barbarian', and… now he is dead. Fintan, his employer, the cooper, a good man, was with him. He said he fought two off, but the rest won out. I do not know if he is lying, or if he told them that our son wasn’t Eireann, or if he watched them kill Ásh like a pig in the street.

He is seated in Valhalla, now. I have that at least.

Mikael will not return to me. He says that I killed Ásh by speaking their words and leading the worship of a single god. He left on the night of Ásh's death, and I have not heard from him since. I am too tired to run out into the night hunting a younger, much stronger man. We can only wait for him to return.

I am alone. I have been alone every day here, without you by my side.

I am lost,

Frayrar.

— —

The fourteenth day of Apriles,

568. Anno Domini.

My Gaela,

I am returning home! Mikael came to me, so many years after leaving he has returned, not with anger but with love. He tells me that not everyone left our lands when the mountains cracked. Some folk fled north and made a poor life fishing, but they survived, and now the land is fertile once more. The Papar are there, but they are few, and they are isolated, and our people have flourished. He wishes to take me back to our Ísaland.

Are you still there?

My memories of that day,

the burning rock and boiling fjords, of losing you to the fire and the smoke.

I will struggle to return, but my spirit no longer lives with me here, it waits on Ísaland. The sea routes north are safe and often sailed. I am too tired to make a hard voyage, but I have no choice. I have lost my place with the honoured dead, and I have stopped praying to the dead gods, but I will return to the wights of my homeland, to the hills of my youth,

to you,

the only love of mine.

Soon,

Frayrar.