The weight of days

The days had blurred together, marked only by the rising and setting of the sun. Elyswith stood in the middle of the farmyard, the hem of her dress damp as she carried a pail of water from the well. The chill of early morning clung to her skin, and her muscles ached from tasks she had never imagined herself doing. Farming was no life for someone who had once known the comfort of stone walls and servants.

She looked toward the horizon, as she had every morning, searching for any sign of Ragnar and Lagertha. The path to Kattegat remained empty, and the ache of their absence grew heavier with each passing day.

Inside the longhouse, the faint sounds of stirring could be heard. Gyda's laughter mixed with the clatter of wooden bowls, and Bjorn's voice carried a tone of authority beyond his years. Elyswith's lips pressed into a thin line. Bjorn had made no secret of his resentment toward her and Athelstan since Ragnar's departure. 

"Are you just going to stand there all morning?" Bjorn's voice cut through her thoughts. He stood at the doorway, arms crossed, his tone laced with condescension. "The goats won't feed themselves."

Elyswith's hand tightened on the bucket's handle. She forced a calm expression, though inside, her patience ran short. "I was fetching water for the fire," she replied evenly. "Unless you'd prefer your food cold."

Bjorn muttered something under his breath before turning back inside, his movements curt. Elyswith exhaled slowly, letting her frustration dissipate into the crisp air. 

Later, she had found herself in the barn. The smell of hay and livestock was thick, but she'd grown used to it. Athelstan was mending a fence nearby, his hands deftly weaving rope through wooden posts. She watched him for a moment, his quiet focus. He seemed at peace with the work, even if the lines of exhaustion were etched deeply into his face.

"You're staring," Athelstan said without looking up, a faint smile in his voice.

"I'm just wondering how you manage to look so calm," she replied, sitting on a low stool. "Doesn't this place... suffocate you?"

Athelstan paused, his gaze drifting to the open fields. "It does," he admitted quietly. "But I think of it as penance. Every task, every ache—it's what I deserve."

Elyswith's chest tightened. "You don't deserve this. None of it."

Before Athelstan could respond, a sharp cry rang out from the house. Both siblings froze, their eyes locking before they rushed outside.

In the yard, Gyda stood with her arms outstretched, her face pale but determined. A small group of villagers loomed near the entrance of the house, their expressions grim. Bjorn stood protectively in front of his sister, his hand on the hilt of a dagger. His eyes burned with the intensity of someone who wouldn't hesitate to fight, even against impossible odds.

"What's going on?" Elyswith demanded, stepping forward, her voice steadier than she felt.

A man with a thick beard and scarred face stepped forward. "We came to speak with the priest," he said, his voice low but threatening. "We've heard... rumors."

Elyswith's stomach dropped. "Rumors?"

"The priest has brought misfortune to these lands," the man continued. "Our crops fail, our livestock weaken. We've lost good men at sea since he came here. It's the will of the gods."

Athelstan stepped beside Elyswith, his shoulders straightening. "I've done nothing to harm you or your people," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I serve Ragnar and his family, as he commanded."

"Words won't change what's already happened," another villager snarled, stepping closer. His hand rested on the haft of an axe, and the gesture wasn't lost on anyone.

Elyswith's pulse quickened. She glanced at Bjorn, who looked ready to lunge, and Gyda, whose small frame trembled despite her courage. If this turned violent, they would be outnumbered—and the villagers wouldn't hesitate to strike.

"Enough" Elyswith's voice rang out, stronger than she expected. She stepped between Athelstan and the mob, her heart hammering in her chest. Meeting the bearded man's glare, she spoke with all the authority she could muster. "Ragnar left him in charge. If you defy Ragnar's wishes, you'll answer to him when he returns."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet but potent challenge. The villagers hesitated, shifting uneasily. 

The scarred man spat on the ground. gesturing to the others. Reluctantly, they turned and retreated down the path, their threats unspoken but heavy.

As the group disappeared, Elyswith exhaled shakily, her legs trembling beneath her. 

Athelstan touched Elyswith's shoulder gently.

She managed a faint smile.

As she turned back toward the barn, Elyswith couldn't shake the feeling that the villagers' anger was only the beginning.