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Randvi is many things, but careless is not one of them.
And falling in love is careless.
That was what Randvi thought about the day her father told her she was to marry the future Jarl of the Raven Clan in order to ensure peace between their people.
“They will become your people,” her father had informed her gruffly, regret he could not voice gluing his words to the back of his throat, his eyes fixed on her and filled with something like shame (because he was in charge, because it was his job to protect her people, because marrying off his daughter had never been his preferred method of making peace). “But you are still other to them. Have a care with how much you trust.”
And what he did not say: until proven otherwise, assume the worst—keep everyone at arm’s length and maintain your own safety.
What he meant: have a care not to love them, not until they love you.
It is not a problem for Randvi. Not really.
(Not at first.)
Sigurd, her husband, from the moment she meets him, is easy enough to figure out. He is charming, if a little arrogant; competent and capable enough, though driven for self-glory to the exclusion of all else. Randvi makes three quick assumptions about him that all turn out to be true: he will not make a good Jarl, his ego will be his doom, and she will never be in danger of loving him.
But she does come to care for him. In fact, she comes to care for all of the Raven Clan. Rather quickly, too. It’s hard not to, she finds. How could one not care for Gunnar and his deep, booming laugh, the way he was there first if there was something someone needed doing? How could she not care for Svend and his beautiful art and the careful way he taught Tove everything he knew? For Valka and her kindness and immediate acceptance of Randvi’s place? For Sunniva and Norvid who went out of their way to ensure Randvi was comfortable? For Alvis and Holger, who despite their endless squabbling, had an unrivaled talent to amuse, to bring smiles to everyone’s lips?
And most of all, how could she especially not come to care for Eivor, for the way she lent an ear or offered a shoulder before Randvi even thought to ask; for the way she included Randvi in everything, even if her husband was absent, even if without him around her role was less obvious; for the way Eivor seemed to seek out Randvi’s opinion and thoughts, coming to her first with concerns and worries, acting as though they’d known each other their whole lives rather than just since her marriage to Sigurd.
(Falling in love is careless, and Randvi is not a careless person. She recognizes that Eivor represents a snare ready to spring, so Randvi quickly masters every step she must take to avoid being netted.
She will not be careless. Not even for someone like Eivor.)
x
Ultimately, she thinks there were many signs that pointed quite clearly towards what was to come, but the first one she is actively aware of is when they first make it to England.
Ravensthorpe is nothing more than a few scattered tents and a longhouse in disrepair. There’s quite a bit of work to get done. But the children (and many of the warriors, though they refuse to admit to it) are tired, hungry, and cold from the rain. Sigurd excitedly walks around the settlement with Randvi and Eivor, making lists of everything they need to do, not noticing or not caring about the exhaustion on his people’s faces.
Randvi is about to say something, about to interrupt and tell her husband that much of it can wait till morning, but Eivor (whose eyes had not strayed too far from the children, whose careful expression had turned sympathetic when one warrior wearily waved off her offer of help not minutes earlier) speaks up first.
“These are good plans, brother,” she says, clearly choosing her words cautiously, with care, her words heavy with the sense that she’s mulled over them, turned them over and over in her mind, ensuring they’re exactly right before she utters them. “But the voyage was long. Let me go for a hunt with Dag. We’ll bring back enough for a feast tonight. Then tomorrow, we can get to work.”
Randvi nearly grins, impressed with the ease with which Eivor makes the idea sound tempting, the way the careful words and tone seem to suggest it was all Sigurd’s idea in the first place and she is merely agreeing and volunteering for the job.
(More than that, it’s impossibly kind. She keeps Sigurd’s pride and authority in place, manages to help the rest of the Clan with something they need and want but could not ask for, and though she must be as exhausted as the rest of them, has offered to be the one to do more—take on more responsibility.
There are three quick assumptions Randvi made about Eivor the day she met her, and she’s not been proven wrong yet: Eivor has all the makings of a good leader; her selflessness and kindness and drive to do as much as she can for the ones she loves may one day prove to be too much; and she is remarkably easy to love.)
But Randvi, well, she is not careless. Not with her heart. So she shelves her admiration for her husband’s sister, shelves the gratefulness she feels towards Eivor, and she turns to her husband.
“You should tell your people, Sigurd. Tell them about the feast, Eivor and I will handle all the rest.”
Sigurd smiles, clearly warming up to the idea. “Yes, you’re right. I believe we have a few barrels of Tekla’s mead with us, too,” he says, lost in thought about this new grand thing to do as he walks away, heading over to one of the many tents.
Randvi waits until he is out of earshot. “This is a good idea, Eivor. Everyone will be pleased to have a night to relax before we get to work. You did well.”
Eivor’s shoulders seem to sag, as though all the tension has bled out of them at once at Randvi’s words. But otherwise, she acts as though Randvi said nothing at all. “I should get going.” She gives Randvi the smallest of smiles before she turns away, her eyes soft, and Randvi finds herself shelving that image away too.
x
The people of the Raven Clan are not blind, and as the weeks and months drag on, the signs that once only Randvi filed away for future reference are easily spotted by even those who aren’t paying much attention.
It starts, she thinks, with Dag.
None who have spent any time with Dag are confused about where his anger comes from, why he bristles at Eivor’s authority. Randvi has kept her distance from him for the most part, finding his lofty exaggerations of his accomplishments to be frustrating to listen to, but even she knows him to be a jealous man, a deeply insecure man, a man who cares only for his own glory and the honor of standing at the right hand of the Jarl.
Dag doesn’t try to keep his thoughts and feelings a secret: he tells everyone who is near enough to hear that he is the best of Sigurd’s warriors, that Eivor is foolish, weak, and only concerned with glory, and that one day Dag will take his rightful place at Sigurd’s side.
But Dag, who watches Eivor step up in Sigurd’s absence, who is forced to obey her orders while Sigurd is far away searching for something Eivor has confessed to Randvi she does not understand, is not entirely wrong when he accuses Eivor with his rather ominous I see you, Eivor .
He believes Eivor is trying to become their Jarl, that she covets Sigurd’s place, that she wants his authority for herself. And Randvi can see why someone like Dag thinks that way, why that is his assumption: because it is what he would do if roles were reversed.
It starts with Dag, planting a seed of Eivor not just being in charge while Sigurd is away, but permanently. But where Dag sees a power-hungry betrayal, the others see what Randvi sees:
Eivor, in the midst of trying to do her best by her Clan and her Jarl, slowly growing into a leader to rival the likes of Halfdan or Guthrum Jarl (and to Randvi, Eivor is more than that, she stands tall enough that she is on equal footing to the likes of kings like Aelfred and Harald).
It is confirmed the others share her thoughts one fairly warm afternoon, as Randvi helps catalogue some herbs with Valka, adding to Holger’s precise drawings with her own neat scrawl, recording all the benefits of the plant that Valka lists off quickly. They pause their work when Eivor comes back to the settlement with the children and a wolf in tow, getting down on one knee to tell the children something, watching carefully as they pet the enormous white wolf.
“She is favored by the gods,” Valka says, abandoning their work entirely, her eyes not on Eivor, but the raven that flies overhead. “It is clear to see.”
“Our prized drengr is most certainly something,” Randvi responds, watching as Eivor shoos the children back to their homes then eyes the wolf warily. She says something to it, almost like giving it directions, and the wolf shakes its head before stalking off towards the longhouse. Eivor grins and sits back on her haunches, turning her head a bit to look over at Randvi and Valka, a bemused expression on her face, as if to say look, a wolf, can you believe it ?
Valka hums thoughtfully. “She wears leadership well,” she says lightly, drawing Randvi’s attention away from Eivor’s smile. “But she will need help, I think, to believe it to be true.” At that moment, Sýnin lets out a kraa, swooping down from where she’s been hovering, landing heavily on Randvi’s shoulder and nipping at her ear, making Randvi wince. Valka chuckles. “Perhaps help from one touched by the gods herself?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, I’m afraid,” Randvi says carefully, very aware that Eivor is headed their way.
“I can see more than good or bad omens, and some things do not require any gift at all to notice,” Valka says almost teasingly, smiling benignly when Eivor reaches them. “Eivor,” she greets simply, offering Randvi one more knowing look before striding back towards her hut, clearly no longer intending to finish their catalogue today.
“What was that about?” Eivor asks, clear blue eyes full of amusement as she watches her raven nip Randvi once more before taking off into the sky.
Randvi can’t help but reach up and rub her ear, nose crinkling. “Good to see you making more friends,” she says, nodding towards the longhouse where the wolf has disappeared to. “Can you make some that won’t bite, claw, or otherwise maim?”
“I choose to believe the nips are meant to be affectionate,” Eivor says, her lips tugging slightly, as though she’s fighting off a smile. “And I am friends with you, and you do not bite.”
I could , Randvi thinks to herself, allowing herself an indulgent moment in which she imagines the entire scenario. She and Eivor would be alone, a moment of rest for them both. Perhaps it would come right after Eivor has gone for a wash after returning from the hard work of building alliances, water still dripping from her hair, rolling down her neck and onto exposed shoulders. And maybe Randvi would come up behind Eivor, press her forehead to Eivor’s back, then slowly replace her forehead with her lips, trailing soft kisses up to Eivor’s ear, and then her teeth would—
“Is everything all right, Randvi?” Eivor asks, looking concerned, her brow furrowed as her eyes rove over Randvi’s face, probably wondering about the flush on Randvi’s cheeks.
Randvi has to force herself not to turn and watch Valka’s retreating back, wondering what she knows, managing a small smile despite her thoughts and her inner embarrassment. “It’s warm today, don’t you think?”
Eivor eyes her oddly, but doesn’t challenge her weak deflection, and instead begins to fret about the children and how they are faring in the warmer temperatures. And it happens then, almost with no thought at all.
Randvi’s heart gives way and makes ample room for Eivor.
(Love is careless. And Randvi is many things, but she is not careless.)
And as she watches Eivor, eyes clouded and mind full of ideas for how she can make everyone more comfortable, Randvi thinks that Eivor, too, is many things, but never careless.
Somehow, the thought is rather tragic.
x
When she confesses her feelings of being cooped up in the longhouse, of the very unique ache of idleness, she doesn’t think much of it. Eivor is kind, she inquires after Randvi’s feelings at the slightest bit of change in her tone, but she is busy. She is too important to waste time on such silly issues, not when Sigurd is still in enemy hands, when so much needs to get done just to keep the settlement running.
(She cares, Randvi always knew that, but the fervor with which she takes to the idea of an outing is a sort of caring Randvi is not used to.
And it makes her wonder.)
But Randvi is not careless. That’s what she thinks as she holds on tight to her own thighs as they ride towards Grantebridgescire, careful about how much she allows herself to touch Eivor, to get near her. No, Randvi is the opposite of careless.
(She’s not careless, has never been careless, not even in her adventurous, glory-seeking youth. Even at her worst, her lowest of lows, Randvi has mastered the art of caution—of careful, thoughtful action.
No, Randvi is meticulous. She is pragmatic. She knows very well the dangers that come from carelessness.)
Randvi is careful. She is the ever dutiful daughter meant to bring peace to two clans, meant to rein in the impulsivity of a careless man. And she thinks, as she leans in to kiss her husband’s sister, when their lips finally meet and Eivor does not pull away, that this choice is not careless.
No, this is getting ahead of a feeling before it gets out of hand. This is being proactive, satisfying the feelings she has had for some time.
(This is not what falling in love is like, she convinces herself as she walks back to the settlement alone.
And if it’s not love, it can’t possibly be careless.)
x
Randvi has never been careless.
That’s what Randvi thinks about as Eivor digs Dag’s grave in the rain, refusing any aid whatsoever. Everyone else has returned to their homes, feeling uncertain and full of sorrow—for Eivor, for what she had to do, for losing Dag, a member of their family—but Randvi sits in the longhouse, right outside Eivor’s chambers, sure of nothing but that she had to be there for Eivor when she returned.
(Pain is a funny thing, she thinks. Hytham is in pain from his injuries. Yanli aches from missing her family back home. And Eivor....
Randvi wonders if she’s ever had a moment of relief from the pain.)
She looks up when she hears the slow, heavy footfalls against the longhouse floor, her heart skipping a beat when her eyes fall on Eivor.
(Eivor is haggard, clothes soaked and sticking to her body, eyes not on Randvi but on the floor as she slowly approaches. Randvi studies the battered and bloodied Eivor, and her heart skips another beat, and she has the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind and be a little careless—or as careless one could be in Eivor’s careful, safe presence.
But no, it was not the right time before. It is not right now. Not when Eivor’s wounds need tending, her pain need some soothing.)
“I have a salve from Valka,” Randvi tells her softly, holding up a small jar. “Come, Eivor. It’s time for you to rest.”
And it is there—guiding Eivor to her bed, helping her strip off her clothing, applying the salve to the wounds she could see, hoping the words of comfort from her lips would provide some comfort to the wounds she could not—that Randvi admits what has been true for quite some time:
All her attempts to avoid carelessly falling in love could not protect against a careful and graceful descent.
No, Randvi has never been careless. But loving Eivor is not careless.
It is inevitable.
x
Randvi is many things, but careless is not one of them.
That’s what she thinks about as she wipes sweat from her brow, glancing over at Gunnar who is nodding proudly.
“I feel like a mother bird, the first time she watches her chicks take flight,” he says, voice brimming with pride. “This is masterfully done, Randvi. Second to none but maybe myself.”
Randvi grins, setting Gunnar’s tongs—which he uses to handle his still hot creations—aside, dropping the small item in its grasp onto a gloved hand. “Do you think she’ll like it?” she asks, turning the item over, checking its engravings and designs for what feels like the hundredth time.
Gunnar places a gentle hand on her shoulder, his eyes soft. “I have no doubt. Our Jarl deserves the best, and she will have it.”
(She wonders if he’s responding to her question, or to the unasked one that she can’t quite keep from being written all over her face.
Questions about whether this is a good idea, about whether it will work, about fears of making a mistake.)
“Thank you,” Randvi says, choosing to just power on and not think too hard on Gunnar’s knowing eyes. “For teaching me. For working so hard on this with me.” She grinned. “For keeping this from the Jarl for so long, I know you do not like keeping secrets from her.”
Gunnar lets out one of his booming laughs. “It will be worth it when she says yes,” he says, still laughing even as he practically pushes her out of his smithy and towards the longhouse.
Randvi waves, hoping he knows just how thankful she is for his help, then strides towards the longhouse, glad for the slight nip of the evening, especially after so long in the boiling hot smithy.
As she walks, she notices eyes on her. Knud and the other children—not so small anymore—are sitting on top of Hytham’s bureau, cheering. Hytham himself is leaning against his doorway, offering her a smile as she passes. Reda, Wallace, and Petra stand together to her right, all of them giving her encouraging nods towards the longhouse. And though she doesn’t look back, doesn’t turn towards the docks, she thinks she knows what to expect: Birna, Rollo, Yanli, and the rest of the raiders and villagers, standing there and watching her go.
It seems, she realizes, her plans have not been much of a secret after all.
When she gets to the longhouse, she doesn’t go to her normal position next to the alliance table, doesn’t head to her chambers for bed. Instead, she gathers her courage and heads to Eivor’s room, trying hard not to smile as she approaches the doorway only to see Eivor sitting on the floor, back against her bed, the book she got from the Order member in Lunden open in her lap and Chewy resting with his head on her knee, her free hand in his mane.
“I’m glad I didn’t let Erke burn this, it’s rather informative,” she says without looking up, clearly not needing to in order to know who has come to see her. “Have you heard from them recently? Erke and Stowe?”
“Eivor, I think we should talk,” Randvi says, though she makes a mental note to send a letter to their allies in Lunden.
Eivor looks up, frown marring her expression. “Is everything all right? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I just—” Randvi pauses, reworking her approach. “You have made alliances and friendships all over England,” she says, holding out the item she’s spent days working on with Gunnar: a ring, etched with designs from every single place Eivor has visited, made friends, helped people. “You’ve joined our people with all sorts of others, for all sorts of benefits.” She takes a deep breath, letting the way Eivor’s eyes have softened spur her on. “But now I wanted to ask if you’d join once more. Just you with just me, with no benefits except for that which we can offer each other.”
Eivor lets her book drop to the ground, both of them not paying Chewy’s whine any mind as Eivor got to her feet and he lost his pillow. “Are you asking me to marry you?” she asks, taking the ring from Randvi, never once breaking eye contact.
“Yes.”
“You made this?” Eivor says, gesturing with the ring, voice thick with emotion.
“Yes, with Gunnar. He was supposed to keep it a secret, but I think all of Ravensthorpe knows.”
“You planned this? Are you sure?” she asks, almost awe struck, like she can’t believe someone would go through this much trouble for her. Randvi, who has never done anything without careful thought, without being sure of what would come next, can’t quite help her laugh.
“Is that a yes?”
Eivor seems surprised for a moment, like she’d been sure she’d already given her answer, but then she grins more widely than Randvi has ever seen. “Yes, of course. It’s always been you and me.”
And Eivor leans in for a deliberate, slow, and utterly careful kiss.