The longhouse lay silent. Rotagǫll crossed the crunching snow to reach the open doorway, her boots leaving a trail of small snow pebbles on the wood floor as she entered. She peered across the massive room, a large table extending the length, massive beams standing vigil against any potential of the roof collapsing. A hearth full of crackling wood nestled itself in the right and left wall, both ablaze, both spilling their warmth across the bodies that lay bleeding.

Rotagǫll stepped around her brother in arms, his body wrapped in thick furs, his face pressed against the floor as drool and blood mixed together to drool from his gaping mouth. Rot peered at him and spotted veins bulging against his skin, spreading up to his bloodshot eyes. She turned her attention to the far end of the room, stairs lifted a section of the floor above the table’s height, and there, a large wood box lay open. She approached, avoiding the bodies and stepping over discarded weapons. 

The box’s carvings depicted snakes, twisting and churning around a baby. Rot let her pale fingers brush the smooth carvings, then peered inside. Claw marks and broken fingernails dug into the wood of the inner walls. Food scraps and urine mixed together to stain it with the scent of defecation, pungent only now that she stood next to it. Rot’s nose wrinkled and she turned away, spotting the second entry into the longhouse: a side door a few paces away. And there, in the snow, were footprints. Rotagoll turned towards the bodies of her siblings in the hall, and quietly, whispered a gentle prayer to Hel. 

Goddess, please send those worthy to Valhalla, and those who are not, care for in my stead. They have been worthy siblings, and do not deserve to be consumed by Nidghogg. 

Rot turned and strode to the door, where she paused, lifted her gaze to the trees, and saw a lone raven sitting at the border of the surrounding forest.

Have mercy on them, Odin, she added, hoping he would not notice her reluctance to give him a prayer. She stepped into the snow, picking the tracks out in the sea of white, and followed them through the village.

Wood huts with smoking chimneys filled her home, where her fellow siblings cooked and sparred. Many were not outside now, as night was quickly approaching, and the chill of encroaching darkness crept across the frost-covered ground like the hands of the dead seeking to pull them under the earth. They had built their homes out of the trees, along the edge of a river that spread into the sea. As more were born or came to join their family, more homes were built from the body of the land. Still, there was an end to the village, and the tracks guided her there.

A single hut sat before her, at the furthest outskirts of the village, removed by a few house-lengths from the nearest neighbor. This home belonged to Bófríðr Bríetsun, one of her sisters who died during the last raid. Her home was empty now. Or, Rot supposed, it had been until the unwelcome guest laid claim to it. 

Rotagǫll entered the house, pushing the door open and finding the rectangular home filled with furs of animals Bríetsun had kept for herself during their last hunt. A small table and a bed sat directly in front of her, at the corner of the home, and to her right, the furs led to a fireplace. There, a woman sat crouched in front of it, trying and failing to catch it aflame with a bundle of sticks.

The stranger’s hair shifted, and lifted up to look back at Rotagǫll. Ebony snakes, lined with bright blue streaks that only her right eye could see fully. Orange scales covered their heads, the color a muddy yellow for half her sight. She blinked a few times, attempting to give her mind a momentary break from the conflicting colors. With black eyes darker than Fenrir’s fur, the snakes peered at Rot curiously, before one twisted around and opened its mouth next to the woman’s cheek. With a gasp, the stranger turned around.

Beautiful warm skin, like that of a beach during a midnight raid, ran across the stranger’s long frame, across her flat nose and shallow brows. Pointed ears arched towards the roof, and a long neck held her softly pointed jaw. Dirty robes as Rot had never seen clothed the stranger in crimson and gold, long sleeves dirtied and stained with feces and mud. The vibrant colors made Rot think of the Christians they traded with to the South, but the woman’s skin, and the manner in which her clothes were tailored, gave Rot pause. The stranger found her voice before Rot did.

“Your eye,” she breathed, her voice warm and gentle, the words spoken in the language of the white-skinned Christians. Her fingers brushed her thin lips. “You’re like me.” 

“Fire won’t start,” Rotagǫll replied, struggling to grasp the language where she should be speaking her mother’s tongue. “Where is flint?” 

The woman blinked, the color of her eyes matching the orange of the snake heads. “Flint?” 

“To start fire.” Rot pulled off her shoes and set them by the door. She shut it, latched it against the cold, and walked to the window looking out over the forest behind the home. She pulled the shutters close, then went to crouch on the bear pelt next to the fire. The stranger stared at her, and so did the dozen snakes sprouting from her head. The flint sat next to the foot of the fireplace, and with Rot’s steady hand, she was quick to get the fire going. She tossed a few pieces of wood atop the infant flames from the pile nearby, then sat back beside the woman. She smelled of piss and sweat. 

“Your eye,” she began, resting her hands on her lap, atop the golden sash that fell from the deep red cloth tied beneath her breasts. “Were you cursed as well?”

Rotagǫll frowned and met the woman’s gaze. Her fingers reached up and brushed the thick wolven fur that filled the wound that once split her flesh apart. It ran over the curve of her cheek and across her brow, and where her human eye once lay, now a yellowed canine eye remained. 

“No,” she replied. “Gift from… Odin.” A blessing from Hel. She pointed to the sky, attempting to get across the position of the god compared to them. To explain how her eye would have been blinded without this blessing, that if the wolf had not healed her wounds she would still be recovering in the healer’s hut, would be too difficult to translate into the Christian’s words. The stranger’s brows pulled together and she looked away, towards the growing fire. She reached her hands out to it, warming them by the orange flames. The snakes on the left side of her head stretched out towards Rotagǫll, tongues flicking out to taste the air. 

“Are you Christian?” Rot asked, looking from the snakes to the woman.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m from the East.” She looked at Rot, then down at her hands. “Cursed by Greeks.” 

Rot continued to stare. The word Greeks was familiar. She had not traded with them, but she believed others had, other siblings further to the South. To curse someone with a head of snakes seemed more of a useful gift than not, however. 

The stranger’s cheeks flushed and she glanced at Rotagǫll again, before looking back at the fire. “What?” she breathed, a smile dancing on her lips. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Snakes… good.” Rot replied. From the look on the woman’s face, her meaning hadn’t gotten across well. She gestured vaguely. “Strong. Add… weapon?” She grimaced. She hated this tongue. “Do the snakes provide the power to kill my siblings in the longhouse?” she said, in her native tongue. “They seem powerful, if so. Less of a curse, more of a gift.”

The woman blinked. One of her snakes turned and opened its mouth towards her. She looked at it, watching it intently, then nodded. She looked back to Rot. “You aren’t angry about the people I killed?” she asked, her words clearly in Nordic. Rot blinked.

“You can speak my language,” she said.

“I can,” the woman replied. “My snakes can store knowledge. And this one has picked up the language of your people. They can pass it onto me.” She smiled, the expression hesitant. “I’m sorry for your people. I was frightened, and… my snakes protect me if they feel I’m in danger.” 

“You are unhurt,” Rot said, trying to collect herself. “The longhouse was full.” 

“They didn’t get close. My snakes don’t need to be close to kill.” She reached up and brushed a few of her snakes, the reptiles curling around her fingers. 

“And you do not fear me? You do not feel in danger?” 

“I don’t want to,” she breathed. “You’re like me. I’d like to hope we could… we could talk.” 

Rot eyed her, then looked to the fire. “It will be getting dark,” she murmured. “We will need to go before our Matriarch in the morning. We can speak until then.” 

The woman’s eyes shone with delight. “Thank you. My name’s Empress Shiori. What may I call you?” 

“Empress?” Rotagǫll repeated. “I do not know what word.”

“Oh. It’s not important,” Shirori replied. “You can call me Shiori.” 

“I am Rotagǫll Rakvisun,” Rot said after a pause. “Have you eaten?” 

“No, ah. I haven’t eaten in a long time.”

“I will cook us something to feast on,” Rot said, standing. 

Shiori watched her, her smile remaining. “Thank you, Rotagǫll. It has been a long time since someone spoke with me.” 

Rotagǫll dipped her head in response. “It is not out of kindness. It is curiosity.” 

Shiori giggled, the sound reminding Rot of a stoat. “That will do just fine.”