This is the 33rd time joining @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thank you for the fun prompt! This story is set in the Viking Age. Hope you enjoy!
Sigurd looked at the grey ocean beyond his family farm. He could smell the storm in the heavy air. He felt a dull pain in his right knee - the scar that never faded. It was a symbol of his loss, the broken dream. He sighed deeply and went back to the old house. The familiar warmth of fire could be comforting for others but not for him. It could never rekindle his cold heart. Sigurd hated storms. The black clouds gathered steadily, building an intimidating fortress on the horizon. The bleak landscape resonated with his empty soul. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could picture the remains of his beloved longship floating between the rocks and his shattered right leg lying in front of him like a strange twig. He did not lose his leg. Yet, his dream of becoming a great explorer was scattered, sunk to the bottom of the dark ocean with the corpse of the ship. What hurt Sigurd was his father, Bjorn, a formidable chieftain. Sigurd could see the disappointment in the old Viking’s eyes and he could not tolerate that gaze. Eventually, the silence took over the lively chatter and heated discussion on the next raids.
He murmured. He did not have time to lose himself in the memory, though. The cattle had to be collected before the storm hit the shore. It was the season of raids, so there were only a few men left in the house. He took a walking cane and arrows. He ran his fingers on the protective rune carved on the bow made of a yew tree, then tightened his lips. Archery was something he had always been good at, even after the tragic injury. His loyal hunting dog, Brunn, followed him like a shadow. With Brunn, the job would be done in no time.
However, Brunn found something much more troublesome than the cattle - a stranger. He was covered with mud from head to toe, yet Sigurd could recognise a fair wolf coat and embroidered trousers. He was not an ordinary man - someone who held a high rank. Nevertheless, he pointed his arrow towards the stranger’s face. Brunn growled, ready to jump onto the man.
‘Who are you? Tell me your name.’
The man’s voice was hoarse, almost fading in the strong wind. Brunn snarled again.
‘And what are you doing in our land?’
Thormod dropped his dagger and longsword in front of Sigurd. Then he brushed the ash-blonde hair off his face. The stranger was surprisingly young - maybe two or three summers older than Sigurd.
‘Pardon me. You must be a young lord of this land. I did not come here for a fight or revenge. I’m lost and separated from my hunting fellows.’
Given his exhausted, dusty face, it must be true. Sigurd slowly lowered the arrow, hushed his anxious dog. It was not a good idea to let someone in the house while most warriors were away. However, abandoning non-enemies in the storm was dishonourable.
Stumbling, Thormod barely managed to follow Sigurd. Sigurd led the cattle to the safe place then headed to the house. The warmth embraced both of them, and Thormod let out a sigh of relief. Some women gave a suspicious look, but Sigurd shrugged shoulders.
‘He is my guest. Bring some hot water and food for him.’
Sigurd offered Thormod the seat closest to the fireplace.
Thormod thanked him cheerfully, digging into the bowl of food. Although he was gobbling up the food in the muddy clothes, Sigurd could sense a sort of elegance and dignity in Thormod.
'He must be a warrior of high born. Just look at him.'
Sigurd could hear the whispers among the family.
'Only if our lord Bjorn had a son like him. He must be an excellent warrior.'
Sigurd bit his lips, then furiously wiped the drenched arrows and bows.
Sigurd glanced at the empty bowl in Thormod’s hands.
‘No need, but thank you for the offer.’
Thormod’s carefree smile irritated Sigurd yet also brought relief to him. Sigurd knew too well how it felt like to be left in the wind, all alone, exhausted, and starved.
Thormod looked at him with the eyes of a curious child. That annoyed Sigurd more. Sigurd nodded, then sarcastically added.
‘I can see you are gifted.’
Ignoring Thormod’s remark, Sigurd asked.
‘So why did a great warrior like you were wandering around the strange land? You are supposed to be sailing right now.’
‘Hmm…good question. I have a mission to do on land before I sail off, actually.’
There was an awkward silence between them. Then, suddenly, Thormod leaned toward him.
‘Hey, are you interested in sailing to the East?’
Sigurd startled, nearly dropping the bow he was cleaning.
‘I’m recruiting shipmates who are reckless enough to venture into unknown lands.’
Brighter than the fire, Thormod’s eyes were shining with excitement. Sigurd used to have that sparkle, too.
‘Are you an idiot? Can’t you see my canes, my useless right leg?’
‘No, I didn’t see it. What I see are honesty and loyalty. A bit frigid, but I like your straightforwardness. And you have a kind heart.’
Sigurd felt the warmth filling his empty heart. Yet, he did not give in that easily.
‘I used to be a warrior like you. But I’m not sure whether my body can take a long journey anymore. And my leg…’
‘That’s the words of an old man.’
Thormod looked at Sigurd eagerly.
‘Don’t let your past stop you. And your injured leg is not your weakness. It’ll be - and it already has been the source of your strength. I was looking for a person like you.’
So that was the beginning of their journey - Sigurd the Hawkeye and Thormod the Reckless.
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