Chapter 2 #2
We are Vikings, after all, and Vikings do two things.
No, not those two things. We travel, and we build.
Our society has stood the test of time, through eons of war.
Our clan, the Frayer, is considered the most learned and advanced of the clans.
Traditionally, our society was arranged around bloodlines, but it is too large to do that now.
The Frayer contains millions of souls. But blood still matters, and that is why my father’s house still stands, and why everybody in this city owes something to our family.
Our greatest enemies are the Vikar. None are to be found in this city. They are a brutal clan of raiders who spend their days traveling from world to world, wreaking havoc on unsuspecting colonies.
Weltheim is regarded as one of the capitals of Frayer civilization. Our ferocity has been turned toward a conquest of the mind and of the material world. We think, philosophize, and build—weapons, actually. Quite a lot of them.
That’s the dirty little secret that a filthy goatherd like me would never be permitted to bring up in polite society. All this wealth around us is in large part built on the back of weapon sales. And who do we sell most of our shiny wonderful weapons to? Well. Best not to ask, isn’t it?
I used to romanticize the Vikar. I used to read books about them, and imagine how it must be to travel in vast spaceships, wreak havoc on civilized worlds, and be fearsome and terrible always.
My father indulged my fascination, though he also told me that several wars had been fought between our clans, and that it would be best for me not to encounter them if I could help it.
As a grown woman, my fantasies have evolved. I imagine, sometimes, what it might be like to be taken by a rough, brutal lover who has no concerns for finery or height requirements. I’d never admit it to my sisters, but I do want a man. Maybe. Or maybe not.
I get onto the shuttle. It’s somewhat busy, full of brawny men with thick beards all oiled and well-trimmed, and hearty women of greater height.
My mother was sick when she was pregnant with me, and I think she passed because she gave birth to me.
They tell me that’s not true, but somewhere in my marrow, I know that it is.
Some say that’s why I’m small compared to an average woman.
We’re Vikings. Most adults are six foot tall minimum.
But they say there wasn’t enough strength in her body to grow me.
I think it’s because I’m a different kind of woman.
I was made to exist in the wilds, slink along with the stars, and generally avoid civilization.
I ride the several stops to the special bread shop and get off. There, I buy three loaves of the special bread so Freya won’t run out of it when everyone eats her bread by mistake, or Bjorn decides to stuff one of the loaves into the toilet. He truly is a feral little beast, and I love him for it.
On the way back, I think about selection for the away mission.
There is one on the pad now, a voyage to the stars to explore and perhaps even settle a new colony.
They are looking for men and women of strong body and sound mind.
It’s not easy when most people have been married and are busy having babies to inhabit all the big buildings they keep putting up, so I think I am in with a chance.
My sisters don’t really believe I am going to go, but I am quite serious about trying.
The selectors might reject me, but I have to at least try to get some kind of true freedom.
My days in the countryside with the goats were pleasant, but I am too young to retire.
I want to have adventures. I want to make something of myself, especially before I so much as think of having a baby.
I smell smoke when I get off the shuttle at my home stop.
That’s strange. I’m used to smoke in the country, but it’s prohibited in the city.
I pick up my pace as I hurry toward the house.
The smoke thickens, and I hear sirens. Fire engines come racing past, each covered in big muscly men clinging to the exterior as they rush to put out the blaze.
“No!”
I cry out in dismay as I realize that the family home is on fire.
The longhouse my father built is almost fully engulfed in flames.
A crowd has formed on the sidewalk, which makes getting through it difficult.
I elbow and curse my way through until I find Mila outside, holding Bjorn, who is crying his head off.
The traffic on the road is holding up the engines.
I don’t see Freya.
“Where is…?”
Mila points to the burning house. “Freya!” she cries out. “I couldn’t get her…”
I drop the special bread and sprint for the door. Mila probably only just got herself and Bjorn out, but if Freya couldn’t move because of her hips, she’s probably sitting in there… I can’t even begin to bring myself to think the rest of that horror.
I reach the door of the house, but just as I am about to enter, a massive hand grabs me by the back of my jacket and hauls me backward, throwing me away from the flames as if I weigh nothing more than a child’s doll. I tumble head over heels away from the longhouse as he dives into it.
Time slows down as I scramble to get up. I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s not my brother, and he’s not my father, which means he doesn’t love my sister as much as I do.
I try to follow him, but the heat being generated through the door is intense, and the smoke is billowing and there actually isn’t time. What feels like less than five seconds later, he is charging back out of the house, carrying Freya.
I chase after him as he runs her to the ambulance on the street. The medics are prepared for her with oxygen and a mask and a special blanket.
Bjorn is screaming for his mother as she is laid gently on a stretcher. She tries to sit up, but she is pressed back down again, and an oxygen mask is secured on her face. She looks okay, but I know that doesn’t mean anything necessarily. Fire is dangerous in so many ways.
I look at the man who rescued her, and who pushed me away from the fire. He is still standing next to the stretcher, having pulled off his respirator and shed his jacket. It looks like it has been melted a little in the flames. How did Freya survive? The gods must have been looking down on her.
The man is focused on her entirely. He has dark reddish hair, and brown eyes in which fire licks when he turns to glance at me.
He’s handsome. But most men are. Being visually appealing doesn’t mean anything.
The fact that I feel like I just got kicked in the gut when he makes eye contact with me might mean something, but there’s no time to think about that.
The medics start to load Freya into the back of the ambulance.
“Go with her!” Mila insists. “Don’t let them take her alone. I’ve got Bjorn. I’ll come after.”
She needn’t worry. I am not going to let Freya out of my sight.
“I’m coming with her,” I say, moving toward the stretcher and the ambulance. “I’m her sister.”
The medics don’t say yes, but they don’t say no either, which I think is the same as yes in this situation. I scramble into the back of the ambulance with the medics, and with the firefighter who saved her. It’s a tight fit as we take off for the hospital.
I keep silent to allow the medics to work on Freya.
I take her hand and I hold it and I pray that she is going to be okay.
The memory of the fire is seared into my mind.
How quickly everything can be destroyed.
All the work. All the love. All the life that was lived in that home.
And now all I really care about is that Freya is okay.
The ride is not long. Seven minutes, and she is being wheeled away into the emergency room, and I am not allowed to follow. I find myself standing outside the hospital with the firefighter.
“What’s your name?” He speaks with a gruff tone that immediately puts my back up. I am not in the mood to be hit on right now.
“Oh, fuck off,” I say.
It’s already starting. He’s going to want to know who I am, and then he’s going to want to know if I’m married. I should have worn a fake ring when I went out to get bread.
He gives me a frown.
“I’m not interested,” I tell him.
“I’m not interested either,” he returns in a low growl. “But I need your name.”
“Why?”
“For the incident report.”
“Muffy Hoffbrau,” I say, giving him the name of the girl I didn’t like in kindergarten.
I step past him, intending on storming into the hospital.
I did hear them say I couldn’t go in, and should wait in the waiting room for an update on her condition, but fuck literally everything about that.
Freya doesn’t have anybody besides me right now, and if anything happens to her I won’t forgive myself.
That same hand from earlier grabs the back of my collar and yanks me back with the force of my own momentum.
“The hell are you doing?” I curse at him for stopping me.
“You’re not allowed to run into the emergency room. You’ll get in the way.”
“What’s your name?”
“Thor,” he says.
“Of course it fucking is,” I curse. “Let me go. I need to be with my sister.”
“They will call you when she’s stable enough to be seen. If you go in there now, you will be underfoot and will make everything worse.”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Exactly,” he says, giving me a slight tug, because he still hasn’t let go of me.
I feel like Bjorn must when people are restraining him from one of his many excellent ideas.
It’s frustrating as hell. Bjorn screams at the top of his lungs and bites when that happens.
I’m actively considering both courses of action myself right now.
“She needs me.”
“She will be sedated,” he says. “She won’t even know you are there. Can I let you go, Muffy, or are you going to keep being a problem?”
“What do you think?”
He snorts.
“Let me go.”
“No.”