Chapter 33: The Old Gods Whisper Still
Silence persisted in the Great Hall. Those gathered enjoyed their meal with respect and deference to their King.
But Róisín found this unusual. Uncomfortable, even.
Her mind still reeled with the reality she now inhabited. A queen — not a nun — and a pagan queen at that. So many conflicting ideas battled for control of her spirit.
On one hand, she was raised to despise heathens like Vetrulfr. On the other, her life in the priory had been nothing but cruel.
Vetrulfr, despite being her captor, was the only kindness she had received in this life — save for the friendship of Eithne.
It was too much. Her heart moved before her mind could reason.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis… da mihi consilium…”
Dear Father in Heaven, please… give me guidance…
The Latin words may have gone unnoticed by the others in the hall, but not by Vetrulfr. His eyes shifted to the girl beside him. Noticed the way her fingers curled into prayer.
When she grew quiet again, he made a gesture toward her — small, but deliberate.
“It might not be any of my business,” he said, “but He won’t answer you.”
He said it plainly, without malice.
“Even when Basil prayed in the Hagia Sophia, there was only silence. There’s a reason your kind kneel before the cross… your god is dead. You should accept that.”
Róisín’s eyes narrowed. Her cheeks puffed in indignation. She shot him a glare — then looked away.
“My God is all-powerful and all-knowing! He is the creator of all things! He is all that is good and righteous in this world!”
Vetrulfr had waged a war of words with Basil for years. Compared to that man — and his Patriarch — the girl beside him now was like arguing with a child.
His lips curled into a sneer as he drew the first blade of doubt across her faith.
“Now… that’s an interesting question, isn’t it? If your god is all-powerful, and all-knowing, and also righteous… why did he create the devil?”
“Why create him, knowing he’d tempt Eve? Why create Eve, knowing she’d fall? Why condemn all of mankind for something he knew would happen from the start?”
He spoke calmly — like a man laying out facts, not accusations.
She stared, wide-eyed, as he skewered a slice of sausage with his seax. He bit into it like a beast who had earned the right to eat in silence, grease glossing the blade’s edge.
“Answer me, girl,” he said after swallowing. “You worship perfection. So why does your perfect god make flawed things? Or worse — punish them for being what he made them to be?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Vetrulfr tilted his head, mock-thoughtful.
“Unless… he’s not perfect. Or not righteous. Or not all-powerful. It can’t be all three. Any more than I can be called merciful if I flay a man and say it’s his fault for bleeding.”
Her face flushed red. Not with embarrassment — but with fury. Or maybe shame.
She gripped her wooden bowl with both hands, as if it were the only anchor she had in a storm of unraveling beliefs.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she spat. “You mock what you never knew.”
“I knew your God,” Vetrulfr said softly. “I served an emperor who burned cities in His name. I saw bishops drown infants in baptismal fonts. I’ve read your scripture — cover to cover — in Greek, Latin, Syriac. And still, no answers. Only guilt. Only chains.”
He leaned closer. Voice low. Unrelenting.
“You believe because you were told it would save you. But the world doesn’t care what we believe. Only what we endure.”
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.
Not from cruelty. But from the creeping suspicion that… he might be right.
She did not look away.
“I would rather kneel before a broken God who forgives,” she said, “than stand proud beside one who conquers.”
For a moment, silence returned. Not reverent — but tense. Heavy with a truth that could not be resolved.
Then Vetrulfr smiled.
Not with mockery — but with something almost like… respect.
His brow furrowed. Not in anger, but with a strange sorrow.
“Forgives?” he echoed. “What sins have you committed, girl, that need forgiving? You’ve lived locked away in a convent like some ancient spirit bottled in glass.”
He leaned closer, voice lower now. Intimate. Like a knife sliding between ribs.
“Face it. The torment you received… was not because you were a bad Christian.”
“It was because you were never meant to be one.”
Róisín’s breath caught.
“It wasn’t the devil that made the nuns beat you. It was fear. Fear of what you are. The old blood in your veins.”
She said nothing. Couldn’t.
“You think Christ is the god of your people?” he scoffed. “He’s a Roman lie. A foreign chain, wrapped in incense and guilt. Pressed on your fathers with sword and fire.”
Then his voice softened — reverent, almost prayerful.
“Your true gods are Manannán mac Lir, the sea-lord cloaked in mist… Airmed, the healer of herbs and wounds… and Grian, the sun-maiden who danced before time.”
He leaned back slightly, as if finishing a rite.
“And Brigid… flame of the hearth, keeper of wisdom, mother of queens and poets alike.”
His eyes met hers. Steady. Sincere.
“My mother says her blood flows in you. And I believe her.”
“After all… none know the will of the gods better than her.”
He looked at her now not as a prize. Not as a captive.
But as something sacred.
“They haven’t abandoned you,” he said. “You’ve just forgotten how to listen.”
She did not cry. She did not argue. She did not run.
She simply sat there, unmoving — her wooden bowl still clutched in her hands, half-forgotten.
The Great Hall returned to its quiet rhythm: men speaking in low voices, firewood crackling, spoons scraping against clay.
But her world had stopped.
Across from her, Vetrulfr returned to his meal without another word — as if nothing had been said at all. As if he hadn’t just struck something loose inside her.
They haven’t abandoned you… you’ve just forgotten how to listen.
His words lingered longer than the smell of cooked meat or the taste of smoke on her tongue.
She looked down at her broth — and for the first time in years, whispered no blessing over it.
Her eyes traced the timber beams of the hall above her, the iron braziers that swayed gently with the heat. Everything in this place — every carving, every rune, every hide and horn — was foreign. Heathen. Barbaric.
And yet… it felt alive.
Not dead stone and sermons like the priory. Not the stifling fear of damnation in every action. Not the hollow echoes of hymns sung to ears that never listened.
Here, there was warmth. Strength. Life.
A realm not ruled by guilt, but by something older. Something closer to the bones of the world.
She turned her eyes toward Vetrulfr again. He didn’t notice. Or if he did, he gave no sign.
She hated that he made sense.
She hated that, deep down, she didn’t hate him at all.
And she hated most of all the quiet voice rising within her — the one that asked, What if you were lied to?