The Northmen

850 A.D. — The Northern Shore of Nordland…

The wind howled like a wolf's lament, carrying the smell of salt and pine through the jagged coastline and into the forest. The sky, heavy with gray clouds, wished to rain, but none fell—only the distant rumble of Thor echoed over the jagged cliffs. 

Jonathan walked in silence, his wrists raw from the hemp binding him. Haiden, his brother, trudged beside him, his gaze unreadable toward what lay before them. A mighty Viking, a behemoth of a man draped in wolf pelts, barely acknowledging the boys as he led them like oxen by the yolk.

Jonathan curled his toes. The soil beneath his bare feet was hard and damp, layered with patches of frostbitten moss and clumps of soil. The smell was off closer to the ground—damp earth, briny sea spray, and something else. Not piss, Jonathan thought, which was a relief. But shit? Definitely. It was enough to make his stomach churn and mind race, though anything to distract himself from their current predicament was welcome.

A few days ago, two figures emerged through the trees—boys, one no older than his late teens, and another much younger boy, speaking in excited tones.

"Durinn! Did you see the ship, yet? Father told us to keep looking. 'Don't fight, just look,' he says," the younger one joked, his voice carrying over the hush of the forest---his long golden hair gleaming in the dim light. It was wild and unkempt.

Durinn, the older of the two, snickered, glancing at his brother with amusement. "When will you cut those girly locks, Sigrun? You look like our little sister."

"Durinn!" Sigrun shouted, shoving him with more force than expected. "You always talk about my hair! Father says real, Viking, men have long hair."

"Real men?" Durinn scoffed. "Did Volstagg have long hair? Did Sven the Reckless? Does Ivar?"

"Does Father?" Sigrun countered, folding his arms. "He's the greatest warrior of them all, and if he has long hair, so shall I!" There was a second of silence, "I'm sure Volstagg had long hair," he muttered to himself.

As if summoned by the shouting, a crow suddenly launched from its perch, wings beating fast, and swooped low. Before Sigrun could react, sharp talons tangled in his golden locks, yanking and pulling at a few strands for good measure.

Durinn burst into laughter. "See, Sigrun! Even the birds hate your hair!"

Sigrun flailed, swatting at the crow as it cawed sharply and spiraled back into the sky. His face turned red with fury. "I'm going to skin it!" he shouted, voice cracking.

"Wait, Sigrun!" Durinn called exasperated, but his brother had already bolted after the bird, sprinting between trees and leaping over roots like a hare.

Durinn sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "That idiot," he muttered before taking off after him, albeit at a slower pace. He had no desire to chase a reckless child through the underbrush.

Yet, as he watched the boy disappear through the trees within moments, "tsk," he spat and he quickened the pace after him.

Sigrun ran until he couldn't feel his legs anymore against the cold air. "Where are you bird?!" He shouted crazily. From afar off, perched on a thin tree whose leaves fell like snowflakes, the bird cawed into the air. "There you are!" He shouted in response to the noise. With a push of his calf he was off again.

Durinn huffed as he caught up, only to find the energetic boy running again. He inhaled the cold air deeply, rested his elbow on the tree, and let out a stark shout which shook Sigrun and the trees. 

"Stop Sig, the cliff!" Sigrun turned ignoring how dangerously close to the edge of the cliffs he had become where the sea churned violently below.

The bird perched on a crooked tree at the precipice, watching, taunting. Sigrun skidded to a halt "What cliff?" He asked just as the soil beneath his feet crumbled. "Ahhh!" He cried. He searched despairingly, reaching for any branch, but his grip faltered, and suddenly, he was falling. 

"Durinn!" he cried again and again, fingers clawing at the loose earth. "Durinn!"

Durinn reached the cliff's edge, breathe ragged and hoarse, just in time to see his brother dangling from a gnarled root jutting from the cliffside. Below, the tide ebbed and crashed against jagged rocks.

Durinn inhaled hard, "You are an idiot, Sigrun!" he growled, dropping to his stomach and reaching for his brother. "Grab my hand, now!"

"I can't!" he said strained, his fingers slipping. "I can't reach it!"

Cursing under his breath, Durinn yanked his axe from his belt and lowered the hilt. "Take this!" The stunning weapon was covered in runes which glinted against the sea, "Father's going to kill me," He whined.

"I've got it!" Sigrun latched onto the axe with all his strength. Durinn with a strained heave, pulled him up and over the ledge, the axe slipping from his grasp. Sigrun tumbled childlike into his brother, gasping, eyes wide with lingering fear. "Dur-" He began, eyes full of tears.

Durinn shoved him off. "You reckless fool!" He glanced down at his axe—only to see it rolling toward the cliffside. "No—!" He lunged, but it was too late. The weapon tipped over the edge and vanished into the sea below.

"Father gave me that...I carved those runes myself." Durinn stared for a long moment into his palms, his jaw tightening. Then, very slowly, he turned toward Sigrun. "You..." He clenched his fist. "You absolute little—" He hesitated, eyes narrowing.

Below, past the rocky shoreline, was something unexpected.

"The ship," Durinn whispered.

Across the beach, tangled in seaweed and battered against the stones, was the wreckage of a longship—one that had not belonged to their people.

"The slaver's..." Durinn's gaze darkened. He smacked Sigrun hard on the back of the head. "Do not ever run off again, boy, or I will have you by the balls."

Sigrun winced, groaning, "I'm sorry, brother."

"Come on." Durinn ventured, then shook his head. "No, let's go find Father first."

With one last glance at the wreckage, they turned and ran.