She had tried. Had tried and failed to fix what had fractured within her all those years ago, to fill every crack and crevice with his love, with her own love for him as if it might restore her soul. Restore what had been torn in her spirit, make it anew. She had tried with all her might to ignore the signs, to ignore the little time she and Hakon spent together, tried to ignore the emptiness that often swelled in her chest, beneath her breast, where her heart beat.

Because she had loved him. That love had rang loud and true, as she'd sworn her blood to the demon who in turn promised her an eternity beside him, unwilling to be shredded by loss again. But now she knew, she saw it clear as day.

She had been trampled. Walked over and used by a King whose own heart had been broken, who had used her as a band aid to slap over a gashing wound left behind by a woman who was her complete opposite. Sun and moon. Where Svana was brash and direct, sarcastic and wild, Astoria was collected, snarky, sensuous. 

Svanhild had lost herself trying to fit into the mold that being High Queen entailed. Standing aside while her husband's commanders took charge of the work she had once loved, the work she had immersed herself in to lull the pain away. She had forgotten who she was, even more so when the truth had broken free.

Hakon had had an affair. For how long, she didn't know. She should have suspected as much when Astrid was born, and the King had chosen to name the princess after Astoria, yet again a cruel reminder of everything Svanhild had failed to be. Of everything she hated and could not understand. But she'd let it slip, choosing instead to embrace the name as something different.

Astrid. Aster. Her shining star, her sun, the light of her life that only burnt brighter with every child she bore and had.

A mare to breed.

Perhaps none of the horrible, dark thoughts that swirled around her mind where true. But that hatred festered so deep within her, the feeling of betrayal red hot in her veins, that the song of death had returned to her. The melody that had urged her forward, inch by inch in battlefields, in training rings and in long journeys. The melody of fire and destruction and revenge, of protection and of a brighter future, that had made Svanhild into the great warrior she had once been. But even in her role as High Queen, not once had the woman neglected her body, keeping it honed for battle, toned, athletic, powerful. A weapon in itself, larger than the immortality she had bargained for herself.

And now she was made again. Forged anew from the ashes of her broken, spiteful self, of the mother and wife who had been dishonoured and tricked by her own husband. By the man she had sworn her life to, her love, her relentless company and eternal support. If she could not defend her pride and dignity, then she would defend her people.

So Svanhild had undone the beautiful braids of golden hair that kept her crown on her head, staring at her face, grave and wise despite the fact she looked no older than thirty, while she left it atop the nightstand in their room at the Inn. She had slid her wedding band off her finger, leaving it beside the crown.

She couldn't sleep another night beside him. Beside the warmth she had craved and desired all those years, but she had now grown to hate.

And before Hakon could return from the God's knew where he'd gone, Svanhild had written up a letter to explain her absence. To keep him from worrying, to keep her children from feeling abandoned. Because she would not step away from battle, would not cower or fear their fate as they went head to head with the Mistress of Armaggedon, with the apocalypse itself. In a yellow piece of paper, written in ink, her handwriting sloppy but undoubtedly her's, the letter read:

I know the truth. I think I have known it for a while, but had not wanted to acknowledge it.

I don't blame you for loving someone else. But if I could turn back time, I would have preferred to hear it from your lips rather than marry a man whose heart did not belong to me.

I want you to know that if I am to die in a battlefield, it is not your fault. It never will be.

I am your servant. Your warrior.

I was never your Queen.

I will meet you tomorrow before we leave to Paradisum. And I ask one final thing of you.

Don't tell the children.

—Svanhild Osouf.

She signed with her name purposefully, each stroke of the feather in her hand filled with anger, brisk and tight, using her mother's name instead of the proud title she had received by wedding Hakon. Svanhild Osouf, not Svanhild Stormblade. Not anymore.

And so, clad in her heavy iron armour, the former High Queen left the Inn, her hair shining like tendrils of gold beneath the evening sun, a stark contrast with the darkness of the metal protecting her, a song of light beside the sword strapped at her hip. Despite the end it would bring upon many. That burning, passionate fire burnt in the ocean contained within her eyes, the flame that had stared down armies and enemies and judgement for decades until everybody kneeled before her sword or her iron will.

Svanhild was a warrior. Not a High Queen. Not the consolation price for some princeling.

She would not yield to anyone, to anything, but that rolling anger and dread that roared in her ears. To the reminder of all that had been lost and all that she was yet to watch die. 

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WElP I am angry at love today and I took it out on Svana. But this is how I imagine things would go after she finds out about Issadora, right before they go to Paradisium in savy-lowkey's Fate Saga.

Up to ya'll if you make it cannon, but I'm certain this would be her reaction xD

PainfullyAlex

Xandra_Dee

colbyarys