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               When Hrothgar was gone, Edda donned her cloak and followed the pull of Freya’s anger, unable to resist how it called her. She met Helga on the way, and the two walked in solemn silence. On the outskirts of the woods, they found Ama. She fell in line with them easily, not speaking. They moved in a single file through the woods, down the earthen steps to the gully. Freya and Sif were in the Grove, talking with the Skuld. Edda felt Astrid’s presence behind her but didn’t turn to watch her sister’s approach.

               Freya was holding the wild magic, her whole body glowing, light seeming to stream from the ends of her hair. The Skuld looked skeletal, her face gaunt, her fingers as delicate as bones. She was hunched like a crone. Sif held Freya by her hair, which was still black, though it rippled white, like a flashing light inside a glass. Sif’s grip was so strong it turned her knuckles white.

“You cannot go!” Freya screamed. She writhed in her anguish and anger. “You cannot leave us when Edda is so reckless!”

The Skuld sank to her knees before the two Bairns. Edda had never seen her as weary. She caught a glance from her. The Skuld nodded to her surreptitiously.

               “You would let the spirits take you!” Freya accused, her voice ringing through the Grove. She tried to take a step forward, but Sif yanked her backward. Freya shook her head, trying to dislodge Sif from her locks, but Sif held firmly. She too glowed with power. Edda saw Astrid moving forward, sneaking around the party in a wide circle. Astrid’s face was full of light. It made her golden hair shine. Freya wailed. “You speak of breaking them, though it would take the wild magic from us!”

               “Not I,” the Skuld said, and she sounded like the earth, like the dust she would become. “Edda is the one who will break them.”

               All the eyes in the Grove turned to her. She recalled her steely resolve the previous night, when she had overcome the pull into the spirits’ realm. She locked eyes with the Skuld, and the crone smiled at her. “You are the Skuld,” she whispered, staring into Edda’s eyes. Edda could taste Freya’s anger, Sif’s shock, the surprise of Astrid, Ama and Helga.

               “She is not!” Freya shrieked. “She is too uncontrolled! She will be carried away!” The color fell from Freya’s hair and eyes. She looked like ice personified. “It should be Sif!” she wailed.

               Sif pulled Freya’s hair so hard that she jerked her to the ground. “Quiet,” she hissed. “You will be carried off if you don’t stop.”

               Freya went into a rage, clawing at Sif’s legs. Sif fell to the earth, and she and Freya rolled, wrestling across the grass. Freya pinned Sif to the ground, sitting on her belly, and beating her with one fist while the other held her in place. The Skuld made no move to intervene. Astrid approached slowly, watching in horror. Sif glowed with the wild magic, then shot a hand upward in between Freya’s blows. Her fingers clasped Freya’s throat, and Freya stopped swinging her fist. She pulled at Sif’s arm, but her grip was too strong. Astrid dove towards them, dragging Freya from Sif’s body. Ama rushed forward, helping Sif from the ground. She was red from Freya’s pounding fist.

               “Freya!” Sif yelled, her voice raw with emotion. “Freya stop! You will be like Ulfrun!” Sif’s tears streamed. She shrugged out of Ama’s grip and reached her arms towards Freya. Edda watched the fight and power flow out of Freya. She reached for Sif, and crushed her sister against her, sobbing into her shoulder. Sif stroked her hair, and her hand seemed to rub the darkness back into it. She took Freya’s face in her hands and kissed her. They whispered to one another, and Sif dropped her hands from Freya’s face. Ama put her hand on Sif’s shoulder to steady her. Astrid moved beside Freya, petting her head like she was a child. One of them was whispering “hush.”

The tension was gone from the Grove. Freya was no longer in danger, no longer angry. Sif turned on Edda, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “You!” she sneered. “This is your doing! You could have killed her! You shared the wild magic with a man!” she screamed, her face red with fury. “You should not be here! The spirits should carry you off the way they almost did to Freya!”

               Edda filled herself with the wild magic, almost to bursting. The call of the spirits barely registered. Their words floated through her without recognition. “You don’t have to listen to them, Sif,” she explained, feeling smug.

               Her sisters all grew quiet, staring at her wild-eyed. “What did you say?” Helga whispered from her side.

               She looked at Helga first, then at the rest of them in turn. Astrid had dropped her hold of Freya, and Ama stood just a pace behind Sif. If Edda didn’t know better, she would assume Ama was hiding from her. Sif’s fury had cooled, but Freya’s dark expression matched her dark eyes. “Don’t listen to them,” she instructed. “They don’t want to help us.”

               The Skuld laughed, and then all the focus was on her. Her laughter grew crazed. She seemed to shrink in on herself, hugging her body with her skinny, skeletal arms. “She is right,” the Skuld croaked. “All of you believed,” she said. It wasn’t a complement. “But not Edda,” she added softly, with a measure of awe and respect in her tone. “Edda doubted. And she will be the Skuld.” Her skin was shriveled now, she looked barely more than a husk. “Edda is the Skuld,” she whispered one last time.

               Edda watched in fascination and disbelief as the Skuld crumbled into dust. The earth seemed to swallow up the remains. All evidence of her disappeared into the brown grass. A rushing wind came towards her, and she felt the Skuld’s spirit pass through her, her laughter ringing in her mind. Edda reveled in pure delight. The wild magic danced inside her, ready to use. Her tingling limbs felt alive outside of her body. She wondered if she looked inhuman now, if Hrothgar would still want her now that she walked between the worlds.

               Then she smiled to herself. Hrothgar would always want her, even if he was afraid of her. She turned and began to walk out of the Grove.

                “You aren’t staying here, in the Grove?” Astrid asked at her departing back.

               Edda stopped, then spun to face the other Bairns. “No,” she answered definitively. “I am going to stay with Hrothgar.”

               Their confusion was delicious. She left them standing among the trees, wondering.

---

               Edda sat in the chair next to the window in her house, running her index finger over the runes of her true name. The edges of the runes were rough, but the stone itself was satisfyingly smooth. She thought she could express the name now, if anyone were to ask, though she didn’t think she would. The name held power. It held truth. Hrothgar did not believe in it, but she had to, after what had happened.

               She put the white stone away, not wanting to risk Hrothgar seeing it. He stirred in his sleep, stretched, then rolled over. She rose from the chair and tucked herself in next to him on the pallet.

She curled into him, like a leaf folding in the wind. She felt like a bud of power, waiting to burst open.

               “Yrsa had a boy,” she said smoothly, feeling satisfied.

               Hrothgar grunted in agreement. “Of course, she did. Sigrid made him.”

               She smiled to herself. “And Jorekr made a boy,” she continued evenly.

               Hrothgar opened his eyes, looking at her hard. There were several women who had given birth in the last few days. He, like everyone else, waited anxiously for one piece of information about each baby. “And Borr?” he asked. “Did he make a boy too?”

               She nodded. “There was only one girl among the five babes.”

               Hrothgar breathed a laugh, then smiled at her as he stroked her cheek. His eyes were still sleepy. “And this one?” he asked, touching her swelling belly.

               “I told you before,” she teased, pressing her hand against the child inside her. “You will make boys.”

               He hesitated before the question came forth. “You’re sure?”

               Her hand slid to the white stone in the pocket of her kirtle. If she were to tell him of it, she might say it said Man Mother, or Man Bringer, or Man Birther. Any translation would have been accurate. She nodded. “It was in the runes,” she answered, feeling the wild magic swirl through her.