Ice spreads across her skin like a slap to the face. It's needles seeping beneath her flesh, the pain so sudden she can't shake it. The world is blurred and she can't remember who she is or where she may be. If she exists at all. Only the cold. So freezing she wants to scream.

Except she is screaming. It's a short burst, and over before she can quite realize she's done it. The blurred world above comes together like the river when it's muddled with mud and rock after a storm. A singular figure stares down at her form on the straw heap her mother dares to call a bed. Something large and round extends off their arm. Though she can't quite pinpoint what it is exactly.

It moves, and the cold returns. It's wet. She gasps once more and her body propels forward. As if by another entity, she is eye level with the figure that has turned her into a cold, wet, heap. Her body shakes like Thor's thunder. Muscular arms wrapping around a soaked torso.

"Dagny! Wake up." The voice of her sister, Yir is shrill, and more effective waking her than the water.

They are eye to eye when Dagny's vision clears. Her sister's eyes are wide as saucers, her pale lips in a pout. It is as if she is looking at a younger reflection. With honeyed tresses in an intricate plait, cheeks littered with freckles.

In Yir's grasp is a mug large enough for the men to fill with copious amounts of mead. Except she's filled it to the brim with water from the river, and Dangy can no longer feel her limbs because of it. She wants to shout at the younger girl. But she knows it is not Yir's desire to wake the eldest from a deep sleep. When their mother gives a command they obey. No matter the consequences.

Dagny continues to tremble, her lips barely form words. "W-Why the water?"

Yir shakes her head. "Nothing else worked, and mother is growing impatient."

They know why she is pushed to the brink of exhaustion. But they do not speak of it out of fear of their mother. The woman has refused to hear talk of it in her home. So it's become the silent secret that grows exponentially with every day that passes. Only a fool would bring up why Dagny is still there at all. Instead of with a husband to care for her while she bears his children, and visits him on the docks before he departs for a raid.

The sun is just beginning to rise, and they are already behind. She can see the golden rays through the crack of their home. Enough evidence to support the fear in Yir's gaze. If their brother's are smart, they will have already started with work for the day. But one could never be sure.

Dagny does not waste time in dressing for the morning. Her breeches are too short, as they only come up to her shins. In the summer months it is a welcome reprieve, but as winter approaches it makes the farm work increasingly unbearable. The cold often nips at her bare ankles until they are the same shade as blood. Her boots are worn from years of use, and do little against the wind and cold. Her tunic that was once her father's is too large in the middle. An awkward fit, but he is the only member of the family who was as tall as she is now. The arms fit, and the length. But she only has muscle and an awfully long torso to thank for that.

Her hair is too long. But her mother will scold her to no end if she cuts it. So she says nothing as it's almost grown down the expanse of her back. A simple plait is all she can do to keep it out of her eyes. She does not like the intricate beads or mixture of plait and loose hair that her mother and sister often opt for. It is too elegant for a woman like her. She is a bull and they are lambs. That much she has always known.

The gods have blessed her that morning, for when she leaves the sleeping area of the home, her mother is not yet weaving with Yir beside the fire. Yir fumbles with the yarn and rushes to make up for the time she lost waking her elder sister. They do not say anything more to one another as Dagny exits their home. For every word spoken is more time lost to the impending day.

A pair of small heads bob in the distance. One is kissed by fire. His hair bright enough to be seen in the cover of darkness. The other matches Dagny's, a warm honey shade. Their mother keeps Hlodvir and Bardi's manes shorter than most. They despise it, but have learned from their elder sister's that it is best not to argue. The dirt and sweat from farm work is too difficult to keep out of the tresses of young boys. Too often when they grow it out, the strands grow matted and look horrific. Hlodvir appearing more like a troll than a young man of fifteen.

Bardi is laying hay down for the horses. Their long snouts inspect his back while he spreads the food across their pen. Behind him, Hlodvir is mucking the pen for shit and dirt--mostly shit. His face has already grown the same shade as his locks, mostly from the cold. One of them will have to trek to the river with large pales to fill with water for the horses. Bardi is still small so that will be a difficult task if he chooses it. He is not yet like Hlodvir and Dagny who tower over their mother and Yir. Only a boy of twelve, their mother does not expect his growth to come for a few more years. But he still asks Dagny on a daily basis if he is cursed to be small like their mother, and not a giant like their father.

"Have either of you gotten the water yet?" A question she already knows the answer to.

They look up simultaneously, a mixture of annoyance and fatigue fills their faces. Because she has slept in they've had to make up for it. The horses are her job. While Hlodvir handles the unpredictable hogs and Bardi tends to the stagent cattle.

"No." Hlodvir's tone reminds Dagny of their mother when she is irritated. Never raising her voice, but there is enough bitterness on her tongue to make up for it.

"I will go to the river now, then. You can go back to your duties while I finish up."

Bardi shakes his head. "No, we are almost done with your tasks and have barely started our own That isn't fair."

Hlodvir bites down on his lower lip and Dagny can tell they've been cursing her since they woke. Probably tending to the pen since darkness still covered the sky. She would be angry too.

With a sigh she replies, "Then I will take one of your tasks to make up for lost time, and you can finish with the horses."

Bardi wants to give up the cattle, but Hlodvir beats him to it. "Take the hogs." He grunts. "They haven't stopped squealing since we came out here."

Dagny sighs, but she doesn't argue further. It is an apt punishment, and she will take it in stride. Hlodvir will be revealed to avoid his awful duty for one day. It will not be long until the largest pigs are butchered for the winter. Their meat meant to last until the frost subsided once more.

She feeds them the moment she arrives at the pen. Their pink noses wiggle feverishly as she tosses the slop into the pen. Dagny has always referred to it as such, since she never could quite figure out what it was. A mixture of whatever they didn't eat the night before, rotten vegetables, and oats. The smell is putrid when it hits her nostrils, so she breathes from her mouth. The hogs squeal and shove one another to get the largest fill. Some of them expansive enough to knock the smaller ones off their feet. She ignores them, taking the moment of distraction to begin ridding the pen of shit.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It isn't until the sun has risen to midday, and sweat has pooled beneath her tunic that Dagny is finished with her tasks. Most of it is labor. Bardi milks the cattle and goat while she tends to their pens. Hlodvir brings out planks of wood to repair some of the pens that will rot and crumble when the first snow falls. They have little crops to care for as the harvest has passed. But they still have to ration out enough for the evening feeds, and of course for their own supper.

Bardi lays on the cold ground, short breaths passing through his thin lips. Hlodvir chops one last log of wood before announcing he is going to check the fish nets by the river. Dagny sits on a rock, her gaze on the hills beyond their farm. Sometimes she imagines herself a wild animal running through them. Perhaps a wolf or a bear.

Her youngest brother must know she's daydreaming as he tosses a pebble at her face. She swats it with a frown and he chuckles. Though the sound is more like bells to her then the deep chortle of a man. He is still too young for that.

"Are you going to run off now?" Bardi questions.

Dagny raises a pale brow. The answer in her eyes is obvious. "Once I've rested a bit more."

Bardi takes this time to press, as he always does. "Can't I go with you? Mother always forces me to ride into Kattegat with Hlodvir to trade, or help Yir with supper."

Mother doesn't want you to be like me. She thinks. She wants you to be a good farm boy, and not tempted by war like the rest of them.

But war haunts her dreams. Every night she hears the clatter of swords against shields, and battle cries. Her hand trembles at the thought of an axe grasped within it. She longs to be like Thor, but has settled for Loki. A secretive woman, wielding her bow and arrow under the cover of the forest.

She envies the shield maidens. How they walk through the town with shields strapped to their backs, and bloodlust in their eyes. As a child she would watch them train from afar. Her father bartered his crops while she watched the women dance perfectly in sync. Their bodies filled with muscle and adrenaline.

But like the men they never live long. Her mother scolds. They think we are strange for not wanting to charge into war. We are smart! We will live long lives with plenty of food.

"Mother will want you to go to town with Hlodvir." It's all she can say without disappointing Bardi further.

He is not his mother's son. He is like Dagny. He will challenge their mother the way she does now, and she knows it. That is why he's forced to go into town and barter. Why he always assists Yir with mundane tasks. The old crone believes she can beat the farmer into him. And maybe she can. But Dagny's mother could never beat it into of her.

The boy huffs in protest, digging the heels of his worn boots into the soil. "Fine."

He is angry with her. She can tell from the twisted scowl on his thin face. Just as she begins to speak the voice of their mother cuts across the barren field. "Bardi! Your sister needs help peeling the onions for supper."

Her silver hair flies in the wind behind her. Like a sheet of ice, Dagny can't help but stare at it. Bardi grumbles something she cannot make out and stomps toward the house with heavy feet. Dagny remembers when she used to peel the onions. She often rushed through it, as they made her eyes burn. Her mother would then scold her for ripping the layers apart so terribly. Sometimes she would still attempt to do it when Yir was behind. Dagny was more careful, but still dreadful nonetheless.

Dagny's mother remains outside, a silent invitation to come back to the home. The woman wants something, and she will wait out the rest of the afternoon to tell her daughter of it. Their stubborness was the only attribute they shared.

"You need to take care of the sow tonight." Her mother commands as she approaches. "The very fat one. I was going to save her, but we have the others to breed. None of the males are big enough to butcher yet."

It's been Dagny's job to kill the hogs since their father passed. Bardi is too small, and he would be too reckless with the hammer. It wouldn't surprise Dagny if he missed and swung at a tree stump instead. Hlodvir claims he can do it, but shakes like a leaf whenever the hammer is in his grasp. His face grows green, and Dagny is forced to do it alone. But she doesn't mind. It is only the pain radiating in her back whenever she has to try and lift the pig alone to drain the blood. She always needs Bardi and Hlodvir to help her lift the thing and tie it to the tree.

She nods.

"Bring your brothers. But only Hlodvir can try." It's a silent plea that her eldest son will grow a backbone. Or that the youngest will gain enough curiosity from the task that by the time he grows big enough, he will want to do it too.

Perhaps if you made them warriors instead of farmers they would enjoy killing things. "Yes, mother."

The woman's forehead crinkles as she frowns. Her age evident as ever with the harsh winter approaching. Dagny's knows she's paranoid. The gods are punishing them all for the mistakes of the few. "We are short on meat. That is why we need it."

Dagny interjects. "I could hunt a stag."

Her mother shakes her head. "Not enough."

"But it's something." She presses. "And it has plenty of fur on its pelt. It will be easier to weave into a cape than several of the foxes that Hlodvir traps."

Her mother knows she is right, but the stubborn thing will never admit it. "Just kill the hog when you return."
And just like that, she's dismissed. Her mother whirls back into the home with smoke on her heels. Dagny desires nothing more than to scream. Have I brought you that much shame that you refuse any help?

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She runs until her lungs burn. The hills are never ending, but she welcomes the pain radiating in her legs. Her late father's bow and arrows are strapped to her back. The designs engraved into the bow are too intricate and beautiful for someone like her. But she cannot afford to be picky. She wouldn't have a bow at all if it weren't for this one. It was once heavy on her back, but she's grown used to the weight of it. Some days she runs with the hog pales filled to the brim with water. Gasping for air while they slop and spill onto the forest floor. But most days she runs like this, if only to pretend she's running into war.

She sprints until the familiar training ground comes into view. To the average hunter passing through, it is long abandoned. A forgotten stronghold where she pretends that warriors once trained. The grass has grown to her knees and the planks that once held targets have rotted. But that doesn't deter her from returning every day. The best of King Ragnar's men fought here , she thinks. Or perhaps that's what she hopes. That it wasn't just a group of bored men looking to let loose with their swords and bows. It was far more exciting to imagine she trained on the same ground as famous warriors.

The stag head she placed on one of the targets days prior has begun to rot. The flies surround it feverishly in attempt to get their fill. It won't be long until it is nothing but bone. The smell alone reminds her of such. Nose wrinkling in distaste at the scent of death and decay. It will not be long before she has to replace it with another. Her mother will receive that pelt whether she wants it or not. But Dagny knows her well enough that the woman will make use of the pelt without showing any gratitude. Only for the sheer nature of why her daughter obtained it.

The removes the bow from her back, studying the designs in the wood for a moment. If her father knew it would fail him would he have put so much effort into its construction?

Before she can linger on her thoughts longer a cry fills the trees, sending her a good foot off the ground in fright. She raises the bow despite the lack of arrow and whips toward the sound. Though relief and embarrassment fill her at the source of the sound. A raven, large and obsidian stares down at her from a branch. Humor glints in its eye as if it wanted to frighten her. She would think to shoot at it, if it weren't for the creatures tie to Odin.

As if Odin would be watching you of all people right now.

Regardless, she stifles a sigh and lowers the weapon. The bird continues to stare and squawk, but doesn't move. It does not fear her, as it shouldn't. She will not harm a creature of the gods. No matter how annoying it may be.

Dagny turns back to the stag, and pulls an arrow from the pack on her back. She doesn't think of the raven watching her back with beady eyes. As her gaze focuses on the head hundreds of yards away, she channels her thoughts on other things.

Yir, who suffers everyday because of her. As a girl of seventeen, she should be married by now. But their mother needs her to do what Dagny cannot. They couldn't afford the luxury of a slave or servant. So Yir takes that position. Only a blind fool would miss the way she gazed at the men in town. Longing for someone simple like a farmer, not even a jarl. She often argues that Dagny will never marry, and that their mother will always have her around to make up for Yir's absence. But the woman does not listen.

Hlodvir, who is not one ounce their father except in appearance. He is soft and timid. He prefers the secluded area of the farm to Kattegat only a couple miles away. When he barters he does not get the best price. For he fears that he will anger the merchants or find himself beneath another man's sword. He is a mouse, and Dagny wishes he knew his own strength. Nothing ever fared well for a gentle giant.

Bardi, who is so much like her that she feels an endless pit of guilt. He dreams of weilding a sword and shield, and crossing the sea in a longship. When they do the daily chores on the farm his eyes grow dull with boredom. She wishes to tell him that it gets easier with time. That the itch to do more than scoop shit or till vegetables will fade, and he will be satisfied with a simple life of isolation. But if her daily escapades are any indication--the desire never leaves. He will be like her, and leave their mother with a permanent scowl. As a man he can do as he likes without repercussion. Something she has never quite been able to achieve.

Her mother wasn't always that way. Or perhaps she was and Dagny was too young to remember. But red hot rage surrounds her vision like a tidal wave at the thought of the elder woman. Her own fear kept them isolated. Her doubt of the potential her children held outside of farmwork. They were vikings, but behaved like the English. She could run. Barter a group of sailors to take her with them, find work in another kingdom.

But what use was a woman who acted like a man, and only mastered a bow?

No use at all.

The arrow flies from the string. She doesn't need to look to know it's pierced right through the rotting head. The loud thump of the arrow piercing the skull is enough confirmation.

Piercing blue eyes stare down the carcass. The flies have scattered from the rapid movement, and the melted flesh and matted fur stare back. If she looks hard enough she can see her mother. A rotting old thing, miserable and alone. Outside of them she has nothing. Sometimes she thinks she can see her father. His head rotting the way the stag's was now. The anger subsides when Dagny's thoughts turn to him, she has nothing to blame him for anymore.

A snarl rips from her lips. It's raw and deep enough to fool one into thinking she were a wild dog. Pain radiates from her right hand. So full of anguish she doesn't notice the blood that pools in her palm from piercing the flesh with fingernails. She's learned not to flinch from it anymore. But she can't resist looking down at the mess of crimson. It pours down her wrist, and she can just make out the half moon rips in her palm.

Blood has never frightened her. Not in the way it should. When Yir was just a girl Dagny taught her how to slice the carrots. But the girl had fat fingers and was clumsy from the lack of experience. The blade sliced through her finger like soft margarine, and the blood refused to cease. Yir wailed and wailed, but only from the sight more than the pain itself.

But Dagny could only stare, fascinated by the entire spectacle. How could so much blood come from such a small girl? Were all humans so easy to cut and bruise?

She wants to hit more than a rotting stag head, or witness something truly exciting instead of Yir slicing a finger on a dull knife. There are tales of their king's great army. How they cut through men like nothing, and conquer kingdoms near and far. But a farm girl will never know the trials of war. She has to settle for the tales she overhears from others when her and Hlodvir scour the market.

She rubs her palm on the dirty breeches. They are covered in enough dirt and muck that blood won't make them any more awful. More pools through the cuts but she ignores it. The sting is a welcome reprieve from the numbness she's felt since Yir poured the water on her.

Her gaze falls to the pale winter sun in the sky. The days have grown short. It leaves very little time to get much training done anymore. Dagny will run home, and she will butcher the sow as her mother requested. Her brothers will gawk and likely turn varying shades of green. But the act will sate her long enough until she can kill another stag tomorrow. Hoist its large head onto the old target, and do more than howl like a spoiled brat.

She takes a few more shots at the rotting head. Each of them hit near the first. Blood stains the bow string, and some of it splatters onto her cheeks like paint. But she is no more satisfied than with the first shot. A still target provides no fun. It cannot fight back.

The raven squawks in the tree above. It's been silent as death, and Dagny forgot it was even there. It stares down at her, louder than ever. It continues to squawk as if it were screaming at her.

"What do you want from me, you stupid bird?" She hisses.

It only continues it's tantrum. Great black wings flap against the tree branch, and she wonders if it will fly away. But it only settles on a lower branch. They are eye nearly eye level, and she can feel its sharp gaze on her. A chill runs up the woman's spine. No it was not Odin watching over her this day indeed. Perhaps it was Loki playing a terrible trick on her.

She pulls the bow from her back, slowly loading it with an arrow from the pack. Her movements are slow as she aims at the creature. It seems to notice, but takes no care. It only squawks and squawks until Dagny's ears ring. She pulls back the string, and the bow whizzes upward into the tree. With a defeated squeal, the bird is punctured in the throat, and satisfaction fills her.

Its limp body falls to the ground and she kicks it as she walks by. "Stupid bird, you wouldn't shut up."

The sun is about to set as she begins her run back to the farm. Dagny's strides are long, knowing that her mother will be flustered. They will have to kill the hog just before darkness covers the farm. The temperature will be cold, and her hand may shake with the hammer in hand. Her brothers will be exhausted, and the blood may drain sloppily. But she will make up for it tomorrow. She will wake when she is supposed to, and finish her tasks early. If only to return with a deer pelt and more meat. Her mother can't shake her head at that.

Then she will only find something else wrong with me. So I will shoot at the stags and howling ravens until they turn into her.