25: The Long Winter 25: The Long Winter Winter sealed Vetrulfr’s kingdom off from the world.
The northern seas were treacherous this ti of year; black, jagged things that swallowed fleets whole.
Only the most seasoned sailors dared attempt the crossing.
Fewer still had reason to try.
Ísland and Vestmannaeyjar offered little that could not be had elsewhere; at least, so outsiders believed.
And so, Vetrulfr ruled through the long dark; alone, but unchallenged.
He spent his days in worship and statecraft, reshaping his realm in the image of two worlds: the Eastern bureaucracies of Byzantium, and the ancient law of the Germanic tribes.
A strange marriage of scroll and saga, but one which bore fruit.
Grain silos in the Westfjords overflowed for the first ti in living mory.
Techniques he brought back from the East.
Crop rotation, irrigation, ordered distribution, had transford the harvest.
The granaries were full; none would starve this winter.
The excess was rationed and logged, moved with precision to the outlying provinces.
It was the kind of miracle that didn’t require a priest; just discipline, vision, and an iron will.
Now, at the turn of the year, Vetrulfr stood at the height of his works.
A new mountain had risen in the valley of the old gods; not one of earth, but of stone and sovereignty.
His fortress, carved into the heart of Ullrsfjörðr, was crowned by a mighty hall.
He passed through two gatehouses to reach it, each reinforced with double portcullises and watchtowers manned by his finest archers.
This was no timber palisade.
The walls were stone, mortared and quarried by slave and free hand alike, carved with runes and wolves.
At the summit stood the ad Hall of the High King.
A two-story behemoth of Norse form and Eastern foundation, its great beams locked by joinery unseen outside the lands of the Romans.
It was a hall of war and wisdom, a place where n drank and dread of conquest.
Inside, the fire pit burned bright.
Warriors feasted and sched.
Slaves brought trays of smoked lamb and kegs of ad.
At the far end sat the King’s throne; carved of ironwood, and furnished with bronze; wolf-faced, raised beneath the banner of the ochre vegvísir.
Vetrulfr took his place and gazed across his court.
It was not hunger for food that filled these n.
It was hunger for blood.
The war had forged them; but peace threatened to dull their edge.
When spring ca, the raiding would begin anew.
His fleet would double.
His army would swell.
The Christians would whisper his na like a curse at sea.
If only the winter would end sooner.
If only his father would break the ice and snow.
— Róisín rested beneath the covers of her bed.
Its thick wool was the only warmth she felt on these cold winter nights.
Her punishnt was excessive.
If being forced to fast for days at a ti was not bad enough, the removal of wood from her quarters’ hearth was practically a death sentence.
She was to endure suffering, so that she might learn “humility.” Or so was the mother superior’s reasoning for torturing her like this.
But the reality was, this was just abuse given justification through divine codex.
Still, the girl’s faith in God did not waver; only in man.
She was beginning to understand why Christ had allegedly sacrificed himself to pardon mankind of its sins and offer salvation.
Because even here, in God’s ho, His servants were so failing.
As she clung to the thick wool, she had stuffed her windows full of whatever spare garnts she had lying around, to seal off the cracks which allowed the cold winter air to invade her sanctuary, its icy fingers creeping in like ghosts.
Her stomach trembled, loudly aching with a grumble.
“So hungry…” Just as Róisín was about to faint beneath her sheets from famishnt, a slight knock resounded on the door.
Followed by a familiar whisper.
“Róisín, co quickly…
I can’t stay to talk, but you best fetch my gift while it’s still warm!” Of course, the girl recognized the voice.
It was her one friend, one family mber left in this world.
Though Eithne may not share her cursed blood, the woman was nonetheless like kin to Róisín, who had lost her own as a young child.
A newfound sense of vigor rose from the depths of Róisín’s aching body.
She sprinted from under her covers, unlocked her door, and found nothing but a tray of food from the ss sitting on the floor.
Atop it was a small letter, sealed with wax.
Looking both ways to ensure nobody had spotted her, Róisín fetched the tray and its letter as swiftly as a hare, before sealing herself back in her room, locking the doors, and bringing the tray to her bed once more.
She climbed under its warmth and devoured the food all while reading the letter.
The letter at first seed like nonsense and did not even seem like Eithne’s hand, causing the girl much grief as she saw what appeared to be daily ditations written for morization.
Feeling confused, and perhaps even a bit spited, Róisín tossed the letter aside.
It landed on her nightstand right next to her lantern.
She then shoved her empty al tray off her bed and lay down on her side.
Once more, she was just about to fall asleep, hating her very existence, when the parchnt began to change its hue from the warmth of the fire.
And when it did, new letters sprawled across the vellum until finally, Róisín realized there was a hidden ssage beneath the surface of what she had previously read.
“To my dear sister Róisín, I must apologize.
I had not been told the mistreatnt they were putting you through until I heard a whisper yesterday morn at breakfast.
Judging by the rumors I have listened to, if your condition is half what the girls speak among themselves, you will not last the winter without my support.
As your older sister, it is my duty to care for you the best I can, even if I must beco a martyr to do so.
These letters are the only way we will be able to communicate going forward, so after you have finished reading its contents, burn it.
And write your response with whatever you need on a piece of blank parchnt.
Included with your dinner should have been a small cup of vinegar.
Please tell you didn’t pour it on your food?
If you did…
I will need to provide another tomorrow.
If not, then write your ssage with the vinegar and leave it on your tray at the witching hour.
I will fetch it and dispose of it after I have morized its contents.
Stay strong sister.
These tribulations are clearly a work of our Father in heaven, even if I can’t understand why He would continue to put you through them…
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
-Your friend and kin, Eithne” Róisín imdiately broke out into tears and clutched the letter to her beating heart.
Now that she realized she had not been abandoned, there was still purpose to believe, to keep breathing.
And as long as that purpose existed, she would not fall prey to the ice-cold fingers of death.
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