The wind moaned against the high timbers of Ullrsfjǫrðr’s great hall, but within, the hearthfire burned steady, throwing light across painted shields and carved pillars.
Roisín sat at the long table, a quill of swan feather in her hand, her youngest boy asleep against her breast.
At her side, Branúlfr, barely five winters, leaned over the table’s edge, mimicking her motions with a scrap of charcoal.
His tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration as he scrawled crude runes, each one a reflection of his father’s lessons etched into his eager heart.
Parchments and wax tablets covered the table: manifests of grain ships bound west, reports of timber-cutting in Greenland, lists of tribute from the Skraelingr villages in Vinland.
Runes carved by scribes marked each cargo’s weight and worth. Roisín read them with sharp eyes, delegating with the ease of a woman long used to carrying burdens greater than herself.
"Send this timber to Heimaey," she told the steward, tapping the wax seal with her quill. "And the iron nails, Greenland. They’ll need them before the thaw."
The steward bowed, tucking the order under his arm before hurrying off. Another came forward with a different tablet, this one marked in ogham.
A druidic apprentice, flaxen-haired and cloaked in green, bowed low.
"My lady," he said, "the circle in Ynys Rós awaits your guidance. The sacred grove is planted, but they lack a rite to sanctify it."
Roisín sighed softly, brushing a strand of white-blonde hair from her son’s face.
"Tell them the rites of Brigid are not lost.Tomorrow, I will speak them myself. Until then, let the fires burn and the cauldrons boil. It is not the grove that makes the gods listen, but the devotion of those who tend it."
At the edge of the hall, Brynhildr watched, her pale eyes gleaming in the firelight.
She was as she had always been: ageless, untouchable, a shadow of prophecy draped in wolfskins. She stepped forward only when the others had gone, laying a hand on Roisín’s shoulder.
"You balance fire and frost well," she murmured. "A mother, a queen, and now the high priestess of your own kind. Ullr would be proud."
Roisín looked up, weary but unyielding.
"It is not pride I seek. It is order. If Vetrúlfr carves a kingdom with steel, I must hold it with parchment and prayer. His wolves rage abroad, but here..."
She glanced at Branúlfr, who looked up from his childish runes with a wolfish little grin.
"...here we build the walls that will keep them fed, clothed, and remembered."
Brynhildr’s lips curved faintly, an expression neither smile nor smirk. "Good. For when the wolves return, they will need a hearth worth returning to."
And as the horn of the watchtower boomed in the distance, announcing another fleet departing westward, Roisín returned to her quill, steady as stone.
The sea about Ynys Rós shimmered with cold fire, the pale light of dawn breaking over waves that struck its rocky shoals.
Once it had been no more than a desolate, wind-scoured rock, one of many forgotten isles scattered in the grey waters west of Iceland.
Now it stood reborn, its name remade: Ynys Rós, the Isle of the Rose.
Its heart was no fortress of stone, no hall of timber. It was a circle.
Great oaks, uprooted from Vinland and brought across the sea as saplings, had been planted in perfect ring formation.
Around them, men in stag-hide cloaks and helms adorned with antlers stood like living pillars.
Each carried a spear tipped in steel and a round shield painted with the mark of the white stag. They were sworn not to any jarl, but to the goddess Brigid herself.
No man entered the grove unless blessed. No priest, no trader, no wandering skald. Not even Vetrúlfr himself had passed the circle’s threshold. This place was Roisín’s.
The druids’ college lay upon the slope above the grove, a cluster of whitewashed timber halls, thatched with reeds and capped with bronze sun-disks.
Smoke rose from their chimneys, scented with juniper and sage.
Young acolytes studied ogham scripts etched on tablets, or ground pigments for ritual paints.
Others practiced chanting prayers to Brigid, their voices mingling with the low roar of the sea.
Roisín crossed the stone causeway that led to the island’s gate. The stag-helmed guardians bowed, their spears lowered in salute.
She carried no crown. Instead, a cloak of woven green and gold fell across her shoulders, fastened with a brooch shaped like the sun wheel.
Her hair was bound back, streaked with braids of copper wire, and in her hand she bore the white ash staff of the Archdruidess.
Behind her trailed two young druids, bearing baskets of grain and bowls of milk, the first fruits of Ullrsfjǫrðr’s spring. These would be offered to the goddess.
When she reached the grove, the chanting stilled. Silence fell. The druids bowed, and the stag-guard drew their weapons upright.
Roisín entered the circle.
The earth was damp, fertile; a mossy carpet ringed by oaks that now rose strong and tall after only a few winters, a miracle the druids whispered was Brigid’s blessing.
At the center burned a perpetual flame, tended day and night by the order. It had been lit with embers carried from Ériu, preserved across the sea.
Roisín lifted her staff and spoke:
"Here stands the root of our people’s soul. Here stands the fire that Rome could not quench, that steel could not silence, that no cross could bury. It was Brigid who carried our blood through the dark years, and Brigid who blesses our hearths anew."
She cast grain into the fire. The flames leapt.
"On this isle, no king rules, no wolf prowls, no priest preaches. Only the gods remain. And we, their chosen, must guard their memory, until the last tide recedes."
The druids answered as one, their chant shaking the oaks:
"So it is written. So it is done."
Beyond the circle, the stag-guard struck their spears against the earth in a steady rhythm, echoing like a heartbeat.
And above, in the halls of the college, students wrote the words in rune and ogham alike, ensuring that what was spoken in the grove would carry far beyond Ynys Rós.
The wind was still in Roisín’s hair when she returned from the sacred isle.
The salt clung to her skin, and the faint tang of smoke from the perpetual flame followed her cloak.
She passed through the high doors of the great hall of Ullrsfjǫrðr, its timber beams carved with wolves, ravens, and serpents.
Inside, the warmth of the hearth washed over her. Brynhildr was already there, seated in her accustomed place, her staff of driftwood across her knees.
The seidkona’s eyes, pale as winter skies, studied Roisín without a word until the younger woman removed her cloak and bowed her head in respect.
"You were seen crossing the causeway," Brynhildr said softly. "The guards speak of the fire leaping high. Brigid was pleased."
"She was," Roisín answered, her voice calm but proud. "The druids grow stronger with each season. Their rites take root again in soil once thought barren. I have done as you guided me."
Brynhildr’s lips curved faintly. "Yes. You have revived what the cross sought to smother. You are Archdruidess now, and Queen. Two thrones rest beneath your feet."
Roisín tilted her head, uncertain. "I serve my husband’s people. And the gods. Nothing more."
The seidkona leaned forward, her voice dropping low.
"And that is why you must tread carefully. Men forgive a queen who holds a crown by her husband’s side. But a woman who commands both steel and spirit? That they fear. Fear, and envy. They whisper already, that the druids bow more readily to you than to Ullr’s son."
Roisín stiffened. "He gave me this charge. It was his will that I lead them."
"Aye," Brynhildr said. "And he was right. But hear me, girl, the druids give you power he does not see, for his eyes are fixed on England and war. You are building not just an order, but a faith reborn. Men will fight for it, kill for it, die for it. And when that day comes, some will call you goddess rather than queen. That is a dangerous crown to wear."
The hall was quiet save for the crackle of the fire. Roisín held her child closer, Branúlfr’s small hand gripping her sleeve.
"I never sought to be worshiped," she murmured. "Only to keep what was left of my people alive."
Brynhildr’s gaze softened for a moment, almost.
"And that is why you are fit for it. But remember, Roisín of Ériu: empires fall as swiftly as they rise when two thrones pull apart. If you wish Vetrúlfr’s realm to endure, you must be his equal in wisdom... and his shadow in ambition."
The words sank into Roisín like cold water. She nodded slowly, the weight of her task pressing against her shoulders.
Outside, the wolf banners of Ullrsfjǫrðr snapped in the wind. And far across the sea, their king spilled blood in Albion, never knowing that at home, a quieter battle was already being waged.