2 Among Strangers

Erik had made me change out of my silk and into a tunic and woolen trousers. The tunic hung loose on my frame, sleeves too long, trousers cinched awkwardly at the waist. I’d never let anything so abominable touch my skin, nor did I plan on it, until today. He told me today I was supposed to learn how to be a nobody, which part of me dreaded. But I reassured myself—it was the only way I was going to stay alive.

Vikings walked along the path carrying their weapons. Women tended fires and worked with leather, while children darted through the streets, some walking in the same direction. Erik spoke up. “The healers’ den. You’re no warrior... so you learn to mend instead of bleed.” He turned to me suddenly. “And fair warning—don’t say anything that sounds remotely royal.”

“If the healers require assistance, then it is only proper—” Quickly, I bit my tongue, trying to mask it, fumbling for something plainer. “—it's polite that I lend my hands.” However, the phrasing carried the echo of marble halls, no matter how desperately I tried to sand it down.

“Lend your hands,” Erik repeated, voice coldly mocking. “How noble. Your highborn hands—which’ve likely never held anything heavier than a wine goblet—are ever so generous.” I stared at him in disbelief. He was practically insulting me. I held myself back from saying something.

The healers’ den was a stark contrast to the stronghold. Soft light filtered through woven rush screens, catching the scent of crushed herbs and pine needles. Shadows of healing plants hung from clay-lined walls, and furs were scattered along smooth wood planks. Simple but neat—wooden shelves lined with herbs, rolls of fresh linen, and jars of salves. A stooped elderly woman with braided white hair glanced up, then froze at the sight of me. A younger woman, looking around my age with sharp eyes, glanced up as I entered behind Erik.

“Morning, Erik—” the elderly woman started. “By Odin’s beard,” she breathed, surprise heavy in her voice. “Who’s this?”

Erik stepped slightly in front of me—just enough to shield me from the full weight of their stares. “A stray,” he said, voice casual but firm. “Nearly bled out in the snow. Needs work, not questions.”

The old healer narrowed her eyes, studying my features. “Strays bring trouble,” she muttered, “especially pretty ones.”

The younger woman I’d noticed earlier snorted from the table she was at. “Looks like she’s never lifted a cauldron in her life.”

I didn’t rise to the comment. It was true. But sometime during the walk from the stronghold to the healers’ den, I realized—maybe I did care about my life, especially since I had no idea what type of brutal punishment awaited me if and when they found out I was a Nyrean princess.

Erik reached back without looking and handed me a bundle of dried yarrow tied with twine.

“Start with sorting herbs,” he ordered. “Don’t crush them. Don’t smell them. And don’t talk unless spoken to.”

I glanced at the bundle and let him drop it in my hands, observing it a bit too intensely to avoid looking at him directly. However, he wasn’t the only pair of eyes that almost burned through my skin. The eyes of the young woman who’d commented never stopped following me as I worked. The healer, though, studied Erik almost in disbelief. “Erik.” Her voice was soft but firm. “Can I speak with you in private?”

With a nod, he turned and followed the healer into the next room.

I couldn’t shake the nervous, vulnerable feeling inside me now without Erik. It was mostly silent besides the sound of that young woman stirring a salve like she wanted to murder it while continuously staring at me.

“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly—accusatory, like my silence was a crime. “Too quiet. What are you hiding?”

I didn’t look up. Just kept sorting—yarrow here, feverfew there. My fingers are careful not to crush the brittle leaves.

“Maybe she’s dumb,” she mused aloud, “or just scared stiff.” She stepped closer, boots loud on the wooden floor. “Or maybe,” she leaned in slightly, “she’s one of those southern nobles.”

I stayed still, my breath betraying me anyway as it quickened slightly beneath my ribs. Then a soft click as the chamber door opened. Erik returned first. His presence filled the space instantly.

“Astrid.” His voice was low—a warning in two syllables. “Stop pestering my patient.”

Astrid, the younger woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, straightened but didn’t back down entirely. “Just asking questions is all.”

"I already said she doesn't need a question.” He moved past her and stopped beside me. Not touching—but close enough that his shadow fell over my hands. “Keep working. And stop sorting so perfectly,” he paused, observing for a couple of seconds before continuing. “Be... messier,” he murmured.

I nodded, trying to ignore the tremble that ran through me as he was a bit too close for comfort and the soft rumble of his voice. I fumbled the herbs just slightly. A stray leaf slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor. Then he stood abruptly.

“Astrid.” Cold. Commanding. “Show her how to grind mallow root. And stop acting like you’ve never seen a woman before.”

I managed to look up. Astrid let out a huff as she moved toward me. Erik was already at the door. He took one look at me, then turned and left. As soon as he left, Astrid’s gaze shifted to me. Great.

“So,” she said, too casually, “where are you from?”

It was no surprise that I couldn’t say Nyreas, so I ended up being vague. “Oh, I’m not from around here.” It was the first thing I’d spoken since I’d arrived in the healers’ den.

Astrid smirked. “Not from around,” she repeated mockingly, continuing to stir slowly. “How about a name then?”

“Marielle,” I answered, dropping the titles and all the other details Erik had told me to exclude.

Astrid paused; her stirring of the mallow root slowed. “Marielle,” she repeated, testing the name like foreign metal on her tongue. “Never heard it before. Sounds soft. Southern.” She leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. “You’re not one of those perfumed nobles who bathe in wine and cry at sunsets... are you?”

Before I could answer, she jabbed a finger toward my hands. “Real commoners have calluses,” she sneered. “You don’t look like you’ve ever worked a day in your life.”

I was speechless. I’d never been accused like this before in my life. How was I supposed to reply?

“I grew up on an island,” I replied. It was the quickest lie I could think of, though it made no sense.

Astrid’s eyes narrowed—but before she could press further, the healer’s voice cut in from across the room. “Leave her be, Astrid. If Erik vouched for her, she stays.”

Astrid huffed but obeyed, turning away and leaving her station, wandering elsewhere.

I sighed. Hopefully, the lie was enough to keep me alive a little longer.

Across the room, I watched the healer begin sorting through a mountain of fresh herbs—wild yarrow and chamomile, the likes of which I’d never seen until now. I pushed myself up from the stool. The pain from yesterday’s injury—when I’d been bleeding out in the snow—surged through my right thigh and down my leg, hitting me like a hard wave. Wincing, I shifted to my good leg, making my way to pick the next bundle when I caught the sound of Astrid’s voice ascending the stairs from what seemed like a basement. She snorted, talking to another worker, perhaps.

“Don’t tell me it’s because he pities her,” she said. “The man has as much mercy as a bear with a thorn in its paw.”

“Maybe he keeps her as a plaything.” She added. I was just as surprised to hear that as the other two workers. The healer’s head snapped up from sorting, scowling. “Watch your tongue, apprentice.”

Then, suddenly, one of the other workers spoke up. “Oh, please, Astrid, we all know you’re jealous because Erik wouldn’t ever give you a second glance.”

Astrid shot to her feet, face flushing crimson. “I am not jealous!” The mortar clattered as she slammed it down. “You think I care if he brings in some strange-eyed girl?” she spat. “He’s never looked at me like—” She cut herself off abruptly, then quieter: “...He doesn’t look at anyone like that.”

Astrid stewed in silence, glaring at the worker with obvious resentment until the healer’s voice cut in again. “That’s enough gossiping for one day,” she said briskly. “The salve won’t mix itself. And if you’re quite done sulking, Astrid...” she nodded toward the door. “...There’s frost fever patients in the west longhouse who need your attention.”

With a grumble, Astrid grabbed a basket and stalked out. The moment the door shut, the other worker let out a sigh.

“Sorry for her. She gets like this when—”

“When she’s jealous,” the old healer finished, shaking her head. “I’ve tried to steer her in a different direction for years, but some people are as stubborn as goats...” She moved back to her table, sorting herbs.

The other worker smiled over at me. “Ignore Astrid,” she reassured. “She’s the best healer here, just... not the warmest company.” The worker chuckled, a warm sound.

“Name’s Livi,” she said with a wink. “Short for Olivia. Not that anyone remembers anymore.”

I smiled at Olivia. “Pleasure meeting you, Livi. I’m—”

“Marielle, was it! Yeah, I know... Soon everyone will! Word gets by pretty fast ‘round here!” Olivia chuckled and handed me a pestle, motioning to the mortar. “Time to test those grinding skills. I need three scoops before sundown, or old Halla here will have my head.”

I leaned over the mortar, rolling up my sleeves, focusing on the herbs in front of me once again as Olivia explained. “Now watch carefully. Too much of this—” she added a pinch to the paste, “—your patient gets stomach cramps. Too little—” she stirred carefully, “—your patient survives without any pain relief whatsoever.”

I copied what Olivia was doing, mimicking her technique with my own paste. By noon, she’d successfully taught me how not to poison someone accidentally.