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This story is set in Halogaland, a region of Norway, around 600 CE, in the pre-Viking era. All sexually active characters in this story are over the age of 18.

* * *

Herta Einarsdaughter was different from other girls, not in a good way: her parents let her know this early and often. The boys of the village would not let her play with them, and she had no interest in the games the girls played. Trollgirl, the other children called her. So she played by herself, games of her own invention, out in the meadows and forests, away from their coastal village of Holgur’s Bay, when she wasn’t working at the many chores her mother had set for her. Off in the woodlands, she found the companionship of the gods, particularly Freyja and Freyr, who made her feel loved, even if they were not, she suspected, “real” in the ordinary sense of the word. She knew better than to speak of this friendship to anyone.

As she neared womanhood, her mother told her she would have trouble finding a house-bond. Her father was landless: he would never be anything more than a dogsbody for his kinsman the Jarl. There is a man, her mother said, meaning the Jarl, not her father. But the trouble was mostly Herta’s own fault: no man wanted a wife with trollish ways. Herta never understood what was trollish about her: perhaps it was because was, she supposed, not very pretty, with her red hair and big-boned build, or perhaps because she enjoyed the solitude of the forest. But there was nothing to be gained by asking her mother to elaborate on her defects.

In the spring of her fifteenth year, however, her father came home with good news: old Ivar Bjornsson the tanner would take her as his wife. Herta had seen and smelled old Ivar, and she did not consider this good news, but she kept her opinion to herself. It was excellent news, her mother said, she should be grateful. The wedding would be in three days.

* * *

So that night, Herta bundled up her furs, her knife, an axe, a small kettle, a flint, and some bread and cheese, snuck out of her parents’ house, and set off into the forest, praying to Freyja and Freyr to guide her steps. She walked through the night, wanting to put distance between her and the village: her father might come after her for the axe and kettle. By moon-set, she had reached the summit of Wolfsback Mountain. It was too dark to walk further, so she lay down in her furs, gripping her axe, trying not to think about the wolves she heard howling in the distance. She slept for a few hours, till the sun came up. Then she continued on.

Three more days’ journey upland brought her into mountains that had no name. The following day, Herta descended into a broad highland meadow, ringed with sheltering firs and birches. A stream ran through the meadow, feeding into a nearby lake. She spotted a patch of wild asparagus growing, which she gobbled down raw, for her bread and cheese were long gone. Is this the place for me? she asked the gods. She filled her kettle in the stream and drank. Just then, a wild boar, Freyr’s beast, trotted by, thirty or forty paces off, stopping to regard her. With a stately grunt, he continued on into the forest. Perhaps the gods are realer than I guessed. Thank you, Freyr.

With her knife, Herta sharpened the end of a long, straight stick she found, and speared three good-sized fish from the stream. Then she set to work starting a fire with her flint and axe. The fire would keep wolves and bears away. Once it was roaring, she cleaned and grilled the fish, and threw some more of the asparagus in her kettle, which she set in the embers to boil. For the first time since she could remember, Herta ate her fill – her mother was not here to grab food away from her – and she put the remains aside for later. Taking her axe with her in case of predators, she then went into the forest to relieve herself, and walked down to the lake afterward to bathe, for it was a warm, sunny day. Walking back naked to the spot she now regarded as “hers”, she noticed rabbit holes in the ground, and so she spent the afternoon setting deadfall traps, baited with asparagus. As the sun went down, she finished the rest of her fish. Then she wrapped herself in her furs, still naked, and she reached down between her legs and rubbed her cunt till the pleasure came. Then she fell asleep, with a prayer of thanks on her lips to Freyja and Freyr.

The next morning, Herta noticed clumps of wintergrass growing nearby, the grains of which could be boiled into a porridge. This she ate for breakfast, wishing she had a pinch of salt to give it some savour. By the lake she found some flat, sharp-edged stones she could use for wedges, and went to work selecting birches with a straight grain, felling them with her axe, then using the blunt side of her axe-head to drive in the wedges, splitting some of the timbers into clean planks for a roof. The other timbers she dressed and notched. This task occupied her for many days. She worked naked most of the time, to bursa yabancı escort save wear and tear on her clothes, enjoying the warm sunlight on her skin, enjoying not having to worry what other people would think. Meanwhile, she lived on the rabbits she caught in her traps, plus the hazel nuts she gathered in the forest – they were from the previous autumn, but still good – as well as fish, asparagus, and wild radishes she found. It rained once, but Herta was able to take shelter under a large fir before getting too wet. By the time the next storm came, Herta’s hut was completed, snug and dry inside, with a table and bench for preparing food and eating meals, and a raised wooden bedstead to sleep on.

It was high summer now. The forest was full of berries and wild apples, which Herta harvested. She dried what she could not eat on the planks of her roof. The birds that swooped down to grab them she killed with a sling she had made from her belt. Fowl made a nice change from fish and rabbit. Soaking wild flax fibers, she made a linen string, then shaved a sturdy ash rod into a bow. She split a thin birch plank into rough but reasonably straight arrow shafts. Obsidian flakes from the lakeshore she set into the ends as arrowheads, and grouse feathers made fletchings. Now Herta went hunting. She brought down three deer before the weather began to turn cold, drying most of the meat over the fire. The hides she scraped and smeared with the deers’ brains, tanning it into supple leather. And the forest was full of a new crop of hazel nuts. With stores of carrots, turnips, wild barley, nuts, dried venison, and dried fruit, and a pile of firewood bigger than her hut, she settled down for the long, dark winter.

She sang to herself, she carved useful things out of wood, she talked to the gods, she fingered her cunt to comfort herself, and she slept. Sometimes she cried in her loneliness, when the company of the gods was not enough.

In the month of Afteryule, Herta was out one morning, wrapped in her furs, checking her traps for ermine. Instead, she came upon a lone wolf pup, less than a month old, with a wounded front paw. There was no sign of his pack. Cautiously, she held out some dried venison she had in her pouch. Warily the pup sniffed it, whined, and licked his lips. She tossed it to him and he snapped it up. She held out some more. He tried to get up, to come get it, but the pain in his paw prevented him. Slowly, Herta approached him, gently stroking him behind the ears, feeding him more bits of venison from her hand. He whimpered appreciatively. She scooped him up in her arms, taking care not to touch the injured paw, and carried him back to her hut. Within a few days, the wolf, whom she named Silver, was able to limp outside the hut to relieve himself. Then he limped back in of his own volition, drawn by the den-like warmth and darkness of the hut, and by the bowls of venison stew Herta fed him. Silver shoved his nose into Herta’s hand when he wanted his ears scratched or his chin stroked, and he slept curled up next to her in her furs. His paw healed. He grew. She laughed as he frisked in the snow, chasing after sticks she threw. At night, Silver’s full-throated howls seemed to keep other wolves away. In the spring, she taught him to retrieve the birds she brought down with her sling. For the first time in her life, Herta had a companion.

* * *

At the end of her second summer, after replenishing her stores of food for the winter, and replacing the hut’s smokehole with a good stone chimney, Herta set off with Silver, back down to the coast, carrying on each of their backs a heavy bundle of ermine and rabbit furs. She was careful to choose a village several days to the north of Holgur’s Bay. She had no desire to see her parents again. The villagers of Raven Thorpe initially looked askance at the strange, raggedly dressed girl who walked into their midst with a wolf at her side. But their eyes lit up when they saw the quantity and quality of the furs she had brought, fine enough for the priests in Uppsala. In return, she only asked for a young ram and a ewe, and a handful of household items – some needles, an awl, a bolt of linen cloth, a spade, a wooden comb, a sack of salt, and a skillet. Herta Wolfsfriend, the villagers called her.

On the way back into the mountains, the sheep were clearly nervous around Silver, pulling at their halters to keep away from him, while Silver followed after them with keen fascination. But under Herta’s watchful eye, everyone behaved themselves. By the time they were home, the sheep had become more or less inured to Silver’s presence, while Silver had decided that the sheep were now members of his pack.

As the sheep busily acquainted themselves with the lush grasses of Herta’s highland meadow, Herta set to work making herself a new set of clothes. In the past year, she had grown from a half-starved girl into a healthy young woman, and her old clothes were now bursa sınırsız escort coming apart at the seams. She cut and sewed herself a linen shift as her undergarment. For her outer dress and footwear, deerskin leather would be the most practical material. And warm rabbit fur would serve for her winter coat, leggings, mittens and boots. The rest of the linen cloth she made into a mattress, stuffing it with all the feathers she had saved up over two summers. Then she combed out her wild red hair and plaited it into two tight braids, coiling these into a bun, to keep them clean and out of her way.

That second winter was more comfortable than the first. In the spring, her ewe lambed, and that summer, she had good sheepsmilk cheeses to trade, as well as furs. The summer after that, she added honey from her beehives. She traded for a packhorse, to help with her journeys, each year travelling to a different village. She built a barn for her animals onto the side of her house – it could no longer be called a mere hut. She broke her foot one winter, dropping a heavy timber on it, and had to hobble around on crutches for a month or so. But the injury healed up without any lasting lameness. She was lucky: for any debilitating injury or illness, with nobody around to help her, could easily have meant death.

Having seen what her wares were worth, if a village lacked certain goods that she wanted, she began asking for part of her payment in gold coins. For with gold, she could buy the things she wanted from another village the following year, over and above what her wares of that year would fetch.

In this manner, twelve winters passed. Herta was now a plump, well-filled-out woman of twenty-seven.

That summer, in the village of Egil’s Rock, she found herself negotiating with the local Jarl, one Gunnar Arvidsson. Who did she think she was, to demand gold from him? She was nobody, the Jarl spat, a troll-woman living in the wilds. To teach her some humility, he would take all her wares outright, giving nothing in exchange. She had no kinsmen to avenge her. She should grateful he let her leave the village without raping her. So she left Egil’s Rock empty-handed.

It was a bitter lesson for Herta, but the Jarl had put his finger on the cynical truth. Without kin to protect her, to avenge injuries and insults to her, she was at the mercy of the strangers she traded with. She had to figure out how to get through the winter without the trade goods she had been counting on.

* * *

It was early afternoon, three days after her return: Herta was sitting in front of her house weaving a basket, naked as usual, when Silver gave a low growl. A minute later she heard the clop clop of hooves. Heart pounding, she ran inside the house to pull on her shift and grab her bow and quiver, and as she reemerged, she saw, at the edge of the clearing, a heavily laden pack-horse, led by a petite girl of eighteen or nineteen years, with light-brown hair.

“Herta Wolfsfriend, have I found you at last?” the girl squealed excitedly.

“Who are you? Do you come alone?”

“Yes, I am alone, except for this mare. I mean you well, Herta Wolfsfriend. May I approach?”

Herta lowered her bow. “Who are you?”

“I am Solveig Gunnarsdaughter, from Egil’s Rock.”

She raised the bow again. “The Jarl’s daughter?”

“Yes. But look: I’ve brought you all the things on your list, as well as three sacks of fine wheat flour, and five Frankish gold pieces. That is more than you asked for your furs and other goods. Plus this mare.”

“The Jarl sent you to make amends?”

“No, I stole them from him, to bring to you.”

Herta dropped her bow and calmed Silver down, as Solveig approached. Silver, sensing now that Solveig was not a threat, put her in the category of new pack recruit, and bounded up to her, wagging his tail.

“Whooza good wolfy boy then? Whooza a great big shaggy grey puppy?” Solveig stroked his fur, laughing musically. Her laughter tugged at something in Herta’s heart.

“I still do not understand why you have come.”

Solveig did not respond, looking about her and marvelling at Herta’s house, the barn, the sheep pen. “I heard that you ran away from your village when you were a girl. But how did you ever find your way to this well-appointed farmstead, here in the middle of nowhere? However did it get here, even?”

“Freyr helped me find this meadow, but the buildings are my own work.”

“But … this house is finer than many in my village! I expected to find you living in a … a hovel, or a cave or something – if I found you at all.”

“I have worked hard at it. But wait. I have many questions for you, Solveig Gunnarsdaughter. Why did you come here? How did you find me? And what will your father do to you when you return?”

“It will take me some time to answer. First, may I unload my mare and give her water from the stream?”

“Of course. görükle escort I forget my manners, living alone. You may stable her in the barn, beside my horse. Then come into the house, are you hungry? I can give you some grouse with apples and turnips.”

When Solveig entered the house, there was only the one bench to sit on, so she squeezed in next to Herta’s ample bottom. “I will answer your last question first, Herta. I hope I never have to return to Egil’s Rock. Next question: how did I find you? My brother Leif taught me some tracking skills. For much of the way, the trail of your pack horse was not hard to follow. But in truth, I lost your trail this morning, after crossing through a stony pass in the mountains. I prayed to the gods and travelled on blindly, and my mare led me here. In case you’re worried that others – my father’s men in particular – might follow us here, I also know how to hide my tracks. I made sure there is no trail for them to follow.

Solveig hungrily bit into the grilled grouse Herta gave her.

“Final question: why did I come? My father wronged you. For my own sense of honour, I wish to make restitution. But that is just part of the truth. The deeper truth is, I have long been curious about you, Herta Wolfsfriend. More than curious. Ever since I was a girl, I heard stories about the mysterious leatherclad troll-woman from the wastelands, with her magnificent furs and honey. When you came to my village I saw a strong, beautiful woman with hair gleaming like the sun. You live as you please, with honour and dignity, calling no man your master. I too want to live with honour and dignity. I don’t want to live under the thumb of a dishonourable man like my father, or whichever of his henchmen he decides to marry me off to. So I thought, I must see how this amazing woman lives. I must know who you are. I must learn what is in your mind and your heart . . If you will let me.”

Herta was silent for a moment. “I do not know what to say. Your words are very kind. But it shocks me a bit, to hear that this is how you think of me. I’m afraid there is nothing amazing about me.”

Solveig shook her head. “Now that I am here, and I see this magnificent farmstead you have built, I know you are stronger, cleverer, you are more capable, you are more amazing than I had imagined. I wish to live here with you, Herta Wolfsfriend. I can make bread for you. I can tend the sheep. I can cook your meals. I will do whatever you ask of me and more.”

“Of course you can stay here, for as long as you wish. I shall be very glad of your company.” Herta looked sideways at her. “No one has ever called me beautiful before. Least of all a truly beautiful maiden such as you.”

“You think me beautiful?” Solveig laughed nervously. “I have been travelling for five days; I’m mud-spattered and dishevelled and I probably stink.”

“You do not stink, Solveig. You smell like … meadow flowers.”

Solveig blushed. “These flowers are in need of water then. May I go bathe in your stream?”

“There is a lake, just a short walk to the east of here. It is more pleasant for bathing.”

“Come bathe with me then, Herta.”

* * *

The two woman walked down to the lake, Silver running happily ahead of them. The sight of Solveig’s flawless body, as she disrobed, gave Herta a powerful jolt of excitement, like when she touched herself. The feeling grew even stronger when Herta pulled off her own shift and saw the look of rapt approval in Solveig’s eyes.

“Oh, but you … are … beautiful, Herta Wolfsfriend!”

Confused and thrilled, Herta moved into the water, retreating from the smouldering intensity of Solveig’s gaze. The honey-haired woman laughed and ran in after her, splashing happily. Herta splashed back. Silver stayed on the shore and barked at them.

Afterwards, they combed out their hair and lay beside each other on a large flat rock to dry off in the sun.

The pleasure Herta felt lying so close to Solveig made her head swim, made her heart soar, made her skin tingle, made her cunt moisten. She ached to touch Solveig, to hold her, to kiss her honey hair. How will I ever keep my hands off this girl? I can’t possibly let her live with me, I’ll go mad! And yet the thought of Solveig going away, leaving Herta alone again, was unbearably bleak. She had known the young woman for only a couple of hours now, but after a lifetime of dark loneliness, Solveig’s arrival had been a ray of warm sunshine in her heart. She could not give up that sunshine now.

Cautiously, she reached out to touch Solveig’s hand. Solveig took her hand, squeezing it warmly, giving a Herta a lightning bolt of pleasure that went straight to her clitoris … With a surpressed cry, the older woman rolled off the rock and slid back in the water, to hide the orgasm that was still ripping through her body.

“Are you all right, Herta?”

“Sorry, just a … a sudden cramp that came over me.”

“If it’s a cramp, you should come out of the water at once. You’re all wet again now. Let me dry you off with my shift.”

“But your shift will be wet.”

“I can remain naked while it dries, if that does not offend you.”

“Of course,” Herta answered flatly, exasperated, delighted. The boldness of this girl!

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