Early morning mist rises from the river as I make my way along the moss-covered rocks. The sun is just along the horizon, the delicate hues of dawn painting the forest in a softer light. Birds have started to rouse from their nests, their song a victorious thrill to the new day, echoed by the gentle roar of the river. The air is heavy with the scent of dark, rich earth mixed with the brisk, bright freshness of the forest. Beneath that is the metallic, crisp, clear note of river rocks. I breathe in deep. It’s grounding, this scent. Back in the village, wives and mothers are just starting to stir, rising from their straw pallets to stoke burning embers back to life. White whips of smoke lazily rise from their cooking fires as they fetch water and ready the morning meal. In the huts, children and fathers are still abed, enjoying a few more blissful moments of rest before the day starts. Soon they too will rise. Children will rush off to tend to livestock as fathers ready their weapons and armor for the battle to come. In a hut on the outskirts of the village, my sister Maeve will just be waking, the smell of the sweet straw and heather she weaves into our pallet greeting her. She will notice the string of waterskins is gone from the hook and know that I have gone to fetch the water and bask in the calm of the dawn. She will head outside to add kindling to our fire, before she heads to the livestock pen to gather eggs and fresh milk for our morning fast. She will worry a braid between her fingers as she works, fretting about the day and offering up prayers to the gods for good fortune. She will say extra prayers for me, knowing that I will not say them myself. Gods do not bless the cursed. My boots are silent as I walk along the riverbank, breathing in the crisp morning air and tranquility. I will it to seep into my spirit, wanting it to become as much a part of me as blood and bone. I stop on a large boulder, feeling the cold damp through the leather of my boots. In my hand, I hold a talisman. The slim disc of metal is cool between my fingers as I trace the whirls etched in it’s surface. My mother had given it to me, telling me a tale of a strong, gnarled oak tree that grew with strength and courage, withstood the storms that threatened to tear it down, and provided the woodland creatures with protection. Before her passing, she had told my sister Maeve and I legends every night as our eyes grew heavy and we nestled in our bed. My father had listened, a smile on his face as he sharpened his sword. The very sword that now hung at my side, ready to once again serve my tribe and my family. My fingers still on the metal, my eyes closing as I hopelessly offer up a prayer to gods that have never before listened to me. I bring the talisman to my lips, my breath fogging it’s surface before I toss it into the river. I had come out here, alone, to offer the gods my most treasured possession in hopes that they might grant me protection and fortune today. Never before in our tribe had a woman risen to the rank of warrior and many of the men had already placed bets as to my survival on the battle field. Some even had their eyes set on my sister, should I be struck down. I watch as the talisman sinks below the surface, old anger rising at the thought. She would not be claimed as I had. My eyes bore into the river, willing a sign, an omen to come forth and tell me my fate. A solitary crow caws from above, flying across the river and coming to roost on the branch of an oak. “An omen,” a lyrical voice says, jarring me from my musings. My eyes scan the riverbank as a mournful humming rises above the sound of the river. They come to rest on an elderly woman in a pale blue wool shift crouched on the opposite bank, a basket of clothes by her side. Silver hair frames a round face, delicate lines drawn around her eyes and mouth. A thin band of silver encases her slim arm, the metal glinting as she reaches in the basket and pulls out a man’s tunic to wash in the river. The tune she hums is woeful and haunting. I tilt my head in her direction. “Pardon me mother, I thought I was alone.” My voice rings clear and I realize the birds have stopped singing. The entire forest is silent, as if holding it’s breath to see what comes next. “You are never alone, maiden.” Her dark eyes flash to me as she dips the tunic into the water. Her gaze captures me and I find myself rooted to the spot, watching as the tunic in her hands rises from the water, stained red. “Oh, poor dear,” she tuts at the garment, placing it to the side as she reaches for another. My eyes widen. “The gods speak to us, dear girl. Even those who think they have forsaken them.” My hand rises to my face, fingers dancing across the marks that curl along my cheek. Her eyes follow the movement. She dips another tunic in the river, and it rises, unblemished from the water. “Fortune upon thee, young warrior,” She sighs, again reaching into her basket. My mouth goes dry. It can’t be. The gods have never paid attention to me before, never heard my prayers before. “Great queen,” I whisper. Her burning eyes alight upon me again as the mist from the river rises up to a hazy fog. I can barely make out the opposite bank. My hand goes to the hilt of my sword, fingers dancing nervously along the braided leather of it’s hilt. A twig snaps behind me. I whirl around, careful to keep my footing on the slippery rock. I do not draw my sword thought every fiber of my being screams for me to do so. What good would it do against the goddess of battle and war. Behind me stands a woman, covered in blood. I will myself not to jump at the sight of her, beautiful and gruesome at the same time. Her dark hair is slicked back with it, and it’s smeared along her skin, dark-red against the otherworldly paleness of her skin. On top of her head rests a circlet of animal fangs. The leather of her armor glistens with fresh blood. Her eyes are completely white, both seeing me and the beyond at the same time. Her arm raises slowly up, her palm outstretched toward me. The crow on the branch flutters over, dropping something shiny into her palm before alighting to her shoulder. It’s my talisman. “You ask for fortune and protection, warrior?” I swallow, eyes darting from the talisman to her face. She holds the talisman by its leather strap, spinning it as I had done so many times. My thoughts drift to my sister and our tiny hut, to the coming battle threatening our home, to the warriors who would take her away from me. My jaw clenches. A twisted smile slowly breaks out on the goddess’s face. “Ah, I see,” she says, her white teeth stark against the dark blood on her face. Her eyes close and she touches a finger to the talisman, stopping it from spinning. I forget to breathe. Moments pass. Then her eyes snap open and she extends the talisman out to me, not a drop of blood on it. I stare at it, nervous to accept the goddess’s blessing. The gods always demand a price. “Clever warrior,” she says. The crow on her shoulder pulls something that looks like bone from her hair and drops it to the ground. “Many are so eager to accept the gift, that they don’t ask the cost.” I lick my lips, eyes darting to the talisman again. “What is the price, my Queen?” “Blood, my warrior.” Her voice is low, eager. I feel it crawl along my skin, sharp as if her words themselves could tear me apart. “Who’s blood?” Her smile widens. “Wise beyond your years. For now, the blood of your enemies,” she says. I wait. “For this I will grant you fortune and protection in battle. You will be unmatched. Your legend and strength will grow with every swing of your sword, and your glory will bring prosperity and safety to your tribe, to your family.” My fingers itch to take the talisman. I raise my hand, hesitating a moment. “For how long?” “Nothing lasts forever, my warrior. After each battle you will coat the talisman in the blood of the battlefield and bring it back to wash in the river. One day it will not come clean. On that day, you will owe me something more.” “What?” I ask. “We shall see, warrior.” I pause a moment more, then reach forward, my fingers closing around the cool metal disc. The smile on the goddess’s face is carnal. She steps backward, the fog enveloping her as her voice whispers in my ears. “Let the bloodshed begin, mighty warrior.” The fog fades as I turn in a slow circle. The blood-covered goddess is gone. The elderly woman from the riverbank is gone, so is her basket. The birds are chirping again. I swallow, willing myself to calm. I turn to head back toward the village, taking my eyes away from the river bank and turning the over the talisman in my hand. On the back is etched a crow, wings spread and talons raised. I slip the strap of leather over my head, tucking the talisman beneath my tunic. The metal settles between my breasts, it’s touch causing me to shudder. I fill the waterskins quickly and head back for the village. Above me, a crow caws and takes flight.