Runa’s lodge sits atop the highest part of the village, and though the climb is not a steep one, Morwen’s stomach growls by the time they reach her door. Her hunger is only strengthened by the aroma of sizzling meats wafting out as the door opens. Runa stands there, beckoning them in with a welcoming sweep of her arm. 

With only a glance the wise old woman can tell that something has passed between them, that they come seeking her counsel already, but first things first. She goes to the hearth and pulls a steaming, aromatic pot off the fire. There are already three places for sitting drawn up in cushions and furs around it. 

“Sit. Eat.” she bids them. 

From the pot comes a rich, thick stew with vegetables and some kind of dark meat in it, and she pours the three of them a bowl and sits down. The heat of it spreads through Morwen’s body as she gratefully devours, realizing how famished she really is. 

Perhaps magic takes a toll on the body. She thinks to herself. 

She adds it to the growing mental list of things to ask the Volya, though she supposes if magic has really been dead for centuries, even she won’t know. So many questions and it’s only her first day awake among these people. Still… their kindness to a stranger and the way they have taken her in… Morwen trusts them, and feels among friends. 

The trio sit quietly eating in Runa’s comforting, unhurried presence. The old woman’s eyes seem brighter than before, but her bearing and posture communicate clearly; there is time, don’t rush. Morwen notices a long, black feather in her hair that wasn’t there this morning.

When the three have finished their meals, Runa stands, gesturing for the other to remain where they are. The old woman is taller than Morwen realized; she stretches her hands up to pull down a small roll of hide from a net in the rafters. Long and lithe and unbent by her age. 

Just how old is she? Morwen wonders.

Light glints off the crystals dangling from her antlers. Her colorful shawl tinkles with little bells and she sets the parcel on the ground between them. She unrolls it to reveal a map of the village, nestled at the foot of a mountain and the forest, artfully and masterfully inked into the leather. Morwen leans over for a closer look, but Runa places a soft hand on her shoulder. 

“I will speak.” Her voice is commanding, but gentle. “Are you those who will listen?”

Morwen recognizes the cadence of ceremony in the words, but has no idea what to do. Her generous hosts of course know this, and Frey nudges her with an elbow as she answers. 

“We will listen.” Frey says and touches her ear. Morwen mimics her, eyes never leaving the Volya.

“These are the hearth-lands, home of the Kuunafolk.” Runa sweeps an inked hand over the map. “To the south are the great mountains, the Serpent’s Spine. Long years ago our fathers crossed them, eight generations, to bring our people here.” Morwen admires the snowy, jagged peaks, the runes of their name written on the map seeming to wind through them like a river.

“To the north..the frozen wastes and the Pale. We do not go there, for it is death…All who walk into the north are lost to us, yet this..” Runa points to the edge of the forest. “Is where Frey Wolfmother found you.” Frey flinches a bit at the name, though there is no hint of teasing in Runa’s voice. 

Inked, gentle hands hold either side of Morwen’s face and those too-young eyes look deep into hers. It’s almost unsettling and Morwen is on the verge of speaking when the Volya finally lowers her hands and speaks again. 

“My child, the ways of our fathers are lost, I do not have the gifts my foremothers had. I cannot look into your spirit, nor read the wyrd, the fate-thread in the palm of your hand.” She sorrowfully takes one of Morwen’s hands and turns it over, tracing the lines with a wrinkled finger. “I cannot answer your questions, how you came to be here, who your people might be.” 

Morwen feels tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t really expect any answers here, yet despite herself she has to admit she had hoped the Volya might know something. Understanding, she nods her head. 

The Volya turns her attention to Frey, holding Morwen’s hand in one, and Frey’s in the other. “Frey Sigrunsdottr, long have I watched you grow. Your mother would sing proudly, could she see you now, her antlers would rattle with pride.”

Heat blooms in Frey’s face as she blushes, but says nothing, and an amused light comes into Runa’s eyes.

“Did you not think that I was watching? That I did not know the fox comes to you with injured paw, the hare asks you to break the ice for a drink, or that the wolf permits you to hold her cubs?” That rare, bright white smile graces the old woman’s face again at Frey’s flustered expression.

“I have a Path for you, little one.”