Wind by Naomi kritzer(5)

Years passed. Dagmar delivered babies, splinted broken bones, brewed tisanes. She fought with her husband—the same fights, over and over, every time. Her children grew up, and Dagmar’s hair began to go gray. Every once in a long while, a traveler would bring news of Gytha to the village—her glorious cathedrals, her honors, her acclaim—and Dagmar would quietly leave the gathering, unable to bear hearing it.
Then one day, two of the shepherds carried a stranger into the village, cradled in a thick blanket. They’d found her in a field late one afternoon, when the mountain’s heights had cast everything into shadow. She had no bag or pack, one of her legs was twisted into a strange position, and she was completely naked save for her long black hair. They brought her, of course, to Dagmar.