Entry 2 : Bjorn and Sigrid
My parents’ union was the kind of which songs are written. I must have heard the story of their pairing one-thousand times over, but each night around the campfire I begged to hear it again. Bjorn would puff out his chest and swagger across the floor.
“I was our clan’s finest warrior and the chieftain’s eldest son; as you can imagine, I was tripping over young women begging for my hand—”
“More like tripping over his giant ego,” Sigrid whispered into my ear.
“But,” his face softened, “there was no man or woman so exceptional as your mother.” Here, she always blushed, though it was a compliment he gave her often.
“A hunter of unbelievable skill, I saw her feed the clan almost single-handedly winter after winter. Her voice, like celestial song, blessed our souls every night. And, when I saw her in battle!” Bjorn laughed uproariously, “Why, her speed and grace was enough to make a Crag Cat look clumsy. This was to say nothing of her beauty, which held all men captive as she walked among them. Hair spun from the finest midnight silk, a face so radiant and discerning it made celestials weep, and thighs sculpted like—”
“Bjorn!”
My father chuckled and swept her into an embrace where he showered her with kisses in spite of my youthful protests. He held her there as he continued, “I was so smitten that I could not even bring myself to speak to her in a manner befitting her value.”
“Yes, instead he thought to bludgeon me with his shoulder as we walked across the glaciers and claim he ‘did not see me’.”
“I didn’t!”
“There was neither tree nor bush for miles, my love, a blind man would have known my position.”
Fortunately, my father, too, had caught Sigrid’s eye, and their flirtatious courting blossomed into a partnership founded on both passion and mutual respect. Alone, each was a force to be reckoned with, but as a pair they were nothing short of indomitable. They neutralized each other’s faults and enhanced their respective successes, moving through life and battle as a single soul. When my grandfather passed and Bjorn became chieftain, it was at the clan’s unanimous approval. Questioning their leadership was unthinkable…at least for a number of years.
Among the obligations of a chieftain will always be producing an heir. Male or female, it did not matter, but we believed that Selune had chosen our tribe’s leadership long ago and bestowed her blessing upon his bloodline. This produced chieftains of uncommon talent, wisdom, strength, and wit.
When, in spite of their efforts, my parents remained childless, this was cause for great concern among the elders. After two years, they suggested a fertility ritual. After five, they thought Selune must require a sacrifice of fine game and raiding spoils. After nine, there were open debates about the validity of my father’s leadership and even questions directed at his piety. By the end of a decade, the elders convened and decided that a great offense must have been made towards the goddess. Bjorn and Sigrid were to repent and beg Selune’s forgiveness for their slight so that a child might be conceived. If my mother did not fall pregnant within the year, they would be stripped of their positions and exiled from the Nanoq Clan until the end of their days.
My mother once told me she was never afraid when the decree passed, nor did she feel any guilt. She knew Selune was not angry with her, but frustration and impatience began to cloud her thoughts. She wondered what reason there could be for this continual disappointment. As Sigrid often did in such moments, she went to the wilderness to pray. All through the night she questioned Selune, bathed by the moon and drowned in overwhelming silence. The goddess’ lack of reciprocation did not deter her, and stubbornness let her disregard the ice in her veins.
Sigrid bellowed her query over and over to the unrelenting skies, “Why? Why do my arms remain empty and my home devoid of a babe’s cries? When will you end this torment?”
It wasn’t until my father came and forced her to admit defeat that she finally received an answer.
In her distress, Sigrid had wandered deep into the glacial fields, far from any cover or plant life. It was there that my father found her, half-frozen and still hoarsely murmuring her pleas. She protested when Bjorn gathered her into his arms, but she could not argue with his gentle, firm reasoning.
“No child will come if you are not alive to bear it.”
She resigned herself to rescue and wept in my father’s embrace, but she could not resist one final, bitter question before they turned home.
“Will you give us an heir? Can you at least answer me that?”
The air grew still and the heavens seemed to hold their collective breath. Even the ever-shifting glaciers dared not utter a single groan. Moments passed in agonizing slowness, until a warm breeze finally washed over Bjorn and Sigrid, bringing with it the scent of a southern summer. They heard the ice beneath them split, and between Bjorn’s feet came creeping a bloom that is alien to The Dale. Selune’s Tear. As the deep blue petals, kissed with tips of white, shook off the last, errant snowflakes, my parents heard a still, small voice.
“Yes.”
It was no longer than a fortnight before my mother’s womb quickened, and a few months after that they decided to tell the tribe. There were celebrations, gifts, and congratulations aplenty, but once seeds of doubt have taken root, they are not easily subdued. Among the joyous still lurked a few that thought this delay a sign of malfeasance, and Sigrid’s pregnancy was monitored with uncommon vigilance.