A crowd had gathered in the square in front of King Harold’s palace. An old priest was performing a ceremony to praise Odin at the fortress gates, with the noisy crowd cheering him on. Behind him, on a raised platform, the king himself stood watching the proceedings gloomily.
Harold honored the gods, as his ancestors’ traditions demanded, but in matters of war and governance, he relied only on his own wits and strength. And as such, the will of the gods often seemed to be in his favor.
But on this day, even Harold could not shake the uneasy feeling that gnawed at him. This was because the weather for the ceremony was particularly unfavorable—heavy, leaden clouds swirled and writhed in agony under fierce gusts of wind, while lightning flashed somewhere in the sky. Such foul weather was always interpreted by the priests as a bad omen, and it was usually the king who had to deal with the consequences.
But then, a lightning bolt struck, splitting the sky in two, and a torrential downpour began. Cold raindrops drummed against the fortress walls and the gathered crowd, drowning out the chanting of the frail old priest in his robes.
Something small, almost weightless, like a piece of silk fabric, slipped through the rain and fell to the ground at the priest’s feet, splashing sticky mud. The thunderclap deafened the onlookers for a moment, gifting a fleeting silence that lent the scene a sense of sacredness.
The old man laboriously bent down to examine the strange object, leaning on his staff, and then straightened up, holding a fair-haired child in his arms. Despite the dark mess beneath his feet, the child’s platinum curls and snow-white clothes remained pristine, as though the dirt repelled from him.
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The child’s eyes were green and so clear that those watching felt as though his gaze pierced through them. In his hands, he held a long branch, adorned with shimmering golden leaves.
- Who are you, child of the heavens? - croaked the priest, as the crowd waited in silent anticipation.
King Harold, standing behind him, nervously rose from his seat - for the first time in a long while, he was genuinely confused and unsure of what to do.
The child’s gaze finally turned to the old man. He blinked, as though considering an answer, or perhaps not understanding the question at all.
- I am Skuld - the weaver of fates... - the child quietly and uncertainly whispered into the priest’s ear.
- What?.. What?! - murmured the crowd, their voices filled with anxious confusion.
In response, the priest struck his staff, calling for silence, and said:
- Odin has sent us His messenger, - the old man grumbled in a solemn voice, - Huld, the one who knows the fates!
The fair-haired child was surprised by such a spectacle, but the crowd gasped loudly and pressed forward to get a better look at the divine messenger. Skuld was frightened, both by the strangers and their sudden obsession, so the words that the old man had distorted her name were lost, as if by themselves.
The confusion was caused by the simple fact that the elderly priest was nearly deaf and had simply not heard Skuld properly. But among the common folk, thanks to his words, the rumor spread quickly, glorifying her new name.
