Chapter 1: The Shadow Falls

The old river whispered of change long before the rumors reached Fenna’s village. All winter, the wind had carried strange omens—flocks of crows swirling above the frozen meadows, the faint, sour smell drifting from the west, and the sickly pallor in her brother’s cheeks. It was a bitter January in the lands of Frisia, where the low sun cast a pale light over the sodden fields and the thatched roofs bristled with frost. Fenna was the daughter of a freeman, a kin-keeper in the village of Uskwerd, nestled beside the restless Wadden Sea. Her life, until now, had been one of familiar hardship: tending the sheep, grinding grain, and listening at night to her father’s stories of the old gods and the Frankish threat. But that year, the shadow was heavier. The news came with a trader from Dorestad, his eyes wild above the scarf that covered his mouth. “Death rides with the mists,” he croaked to her father as she poured him a cup of thin ale. “From the south, past Utrecht—the Great Plague. Frankish cities emptied, and the priests say it is God’s wrath.” Her mother, Gertruda, spat into the fire. “God’s wrath? Or Frankish lies?” But they all saw the fear in the trader’s eyes. He left before dawn, refusing bread, muttering prayers in the new tongue—Latin, the tongue of the priests. That night, Fenna lay wrapped in her blanket, shivering not from cold but from unease. Her father, Aldrik, spoke quietly to Gertruda by the hearth. “They say the Franks are coming, too. Charles Martel’s men. The land is weak—plague and sword together.” “Let them come,” her mother whispered. “Our people have survived worse.” But Fenna heard the tremor beneath her mother’s defiance. —

Chapter 2: The Priest’s Arrival

The plague was slow to reach Uskwerd, but the priest came first. He arrived with two Frankish soldiers, their cloaks slick with road-mud, their faces pale with exhaustion. The villagers gathered in wary silence as the strangers approached the old wooden hall. The priest—Father Willibrord—was not young, his hair a crown of white, his eyes sharp beneath his cowl. He spoke Frisian with a Frankish accent, but his words were clear. “The Lord sends His mercy,” he intoned, raising a hand in blessing. “But your souls must be cleansed. Forsake the old ways, and accept baptism, or be cast aside when the Franks return.” Aldrik met his gaze, arms folded on his chest. “We have lived by our gods for generations. Why should we trust the words of outsiders, especially when death follows in your wake?” A murmur rippled through the crowd. The Frankish soldiers shifted, hands on their sword hilts. Father Willibrord’s eyes softened, but he did not yield. “The plague spares no one. In the Frankish cities, those who accept Christ find comfort, if not always safety. You must choose.” Fenna watched her father’s jaw tighten. But it was the faces of the villagers—her neighbors, childhood friends—that troubled her most. Some, like her uncle, looked at the priest with hope or desperation. Others, like old Eelke, muttered curses and clutched charms of ash and bone. That night, the village divided itself with glances and whispers. Fenna felt the world tilting, the old certainties slipping away. —

Chapter 3: The Sickness Creeps In

The first to fall ill was Fenna’s younger brother, Wulf. It began with fever, then the swelling beneath his jaw, and finally the blackened blotches on his arms. Gertruda and Fenna tended him with cloths soaked in vinegar and recited the old prayers. But nothing soothed his agony. Neighbors began to avoid their house. At night, Fenna heard the distant keening from other cottages, the wails of mothers and wives. The sickness was no longer rumor; it gnawed at the heart of Uskwerd. Father Willibrord returned, offering holy water and prayers in Latin. Some villagers, desperate, accepted baptism at the riverbank. Others hid in their homes, whispering that the priest himself had brought the curse. Aldrik’s resolve faltered as Wulf’s breathing grew ragged. “Let the priest come,” he said at last, voice hoarse with grief. Father Willibrord sprinkled water over Wulf’s brow, tracing a trembling cross. Fenna held her brother’s hand as his fever broke, but he did not recover. He died at dawn, the light weak and gray. Fenna’s mother wept until her voice was gone. Aldrik stared into the fire, hollow-eyed. Fenna, numb, washed her brother’s body in silence, the motions automatic, her mind drifting to the stories of Hel and the underworld. Outside, the air was heavy with the scent of rot and fear. —

Chapter 4: The Seeds of Division

The burial was a hurried, joyless affair. Some villagers refused to stand beside the newly baptized; others shunned those who clung to the old rites. The village, once knit tightly by kinship and shared hardship, began to unravel. Fenna felt it most sharply when her friend Hilda, whose mother had been among the first to accept the priest’s blessing, avoided her on the path to the fields. “My mother says we must not linger with the unbaptized,” Hilda murmured, eyes downcast. “She fears for our souls.” Fenna’s anger burned hot. “Were we not friends before this winter?” Hilda hesitated, then hurried away. In the evenings, the men gathered in Aldrik’s hall to argue. Some urged alliance with the Franks, believing it would bring protection and food. Others, including Fenna’s uncle, spoke of rebellion—of joining Redbad’s son, Poppo, in resisting the Frankish advance. But the rumors from the west grew more dire. Charles Martel’s armies were said to be burning villages, forcing conversion at the sword’s edge. In the south, whole communities had been emptied by the plague or fled to the forests. Fenna listened, torn between the fear of invasion and the fear of losing her people’s soul to the foreign god. At night, she dreamed of Wulf standing at the riverbank, reaching for her with empty, blackened hands. —

Chapter 5: Between Two Fires

Spring came late and weak. The fields were thin, the sheep sickly. The river, once the lifeblood of Uskwerd, now seemed a border—a line between old and new. One morning, Fenna found her mother kneeling before a wooden statue of Freyja, lips moving in silent prayer. “The gods do not hear us,” Fenna whispered, bitterness thick in her throat. Her mother’s eyes flashed. “They hear. But perhaps they are angry.” That day, a band of Frankish soldiers appeared at the village edge, their shields emblazoned with the cross. They demanded tribute—grain, livestock, and the names of those who refused baptism. Aldrik stood before them, head high. “We have little to give. The plague has taken our children, the winter our crops.” The Frankish captain, a hard-eyed man named Gerard, was unmoved. “The price is obedience. Those who resist will answer to Charles Martel.” Father Willibrord watched, silent, as the villagers surrendered what little they had. Some wept. Others seethed in sullen silence. That night, Fenna’s uncle called a secret meeting in the woods. “We are Frisians,” he hissed. “Not slaves. The Franks bring only death. We must fight.” Fenna listened, heart pounding. But as she looked around at the gaunt faces, she wondered whether there was enough strength left in Uskwerd for rebellion. —

Chapter 6: The Choice

The following days brought more fever, more burials. The village was broken, its people hollowed by grief and hunger. Fenna’s father grew ill, his skin hot and dry. Gertruda begged Father Willibrord for more holy water, but the priest had little left. “Pray,” he urged. “God listens to the desperate.” On the third night, the rebels struck. Fenna’s uncle and his followers attacked the Frankish patrol, killing two and driving the rest into the marshes. But the cost was high: the next morning, Frankish reinforcements arrived, burning two cottages and dragging the rebels away in chains. Father Willibrord pleaded for mercy, but Captain Gerard ignored him. “This is the price of defiance.” Fenna watched as her uncle was led away, bloodied but unbowed. She felt nothing but exhaustion. Her father died that night, his hand clasping Fenna’s. “You must choose,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Survive, but do not forget who you are.” Fenna buried him beside Wulf, her tears spent. Her mother, broken, stared into the distance. —

Chapter 7: The Winter Breaks

The plague’s fury waned as the days grew longer. What remained of Uskwerd was a shadow of its former self—half-empty, divided, and subdued. Father Willibrord stayed, tending the sick, burying the dead, and offering comfort in the only way he knew. Some villagers, including Fenna’s mother, accepted baptism, believing it the only shield left against the world’s cruelty. Fenna hesitated, torn between the memory of her father’s words and the reality of her village’s ruin. She saw the old gods in her dreams, fading into mist, their voices drowned by the tolling of the priest’s bell. In late summer, as the fields struggled to green, Fenna stood at the riverbank where the priest baptized the new faithful. Hilda, her friend, beckoned her to join. Father Willibrord smiled gently. Fenna stepped forward, the weight of loss and hope mingling in her chest. She knelt in the cold water, feeling the current tug at her. She did not know if the ritual would save her, or what kind of future awaited Uskwerd under the cross. But as the water closed over her head, she remembered her father’s last words. Survive, but do not forget who you are. When she rose, gasping, she looked back at the village—her village—and saw, for the first time, both the cost and the promise of change. —