But I wanted to do more than just survive. I wanted my days to be more than time I needed to endure. I wanted to live them, to relish them. To find passion and excitement in them the way I had for that fleeting moment on the beach with a stranger.
It was the wanting that made my life hard. If I could only stop wanting, perhaps I might find some happiness in what I had. Even as the thought rolled through my head, I cringed, because it was exactly something my mother would say. Quit wanting more, Freya, and you shall be content with what you have.
Gripping the wrapped fish under my left arm, I bent and snatched up a stick. Twisting, I cracked it against one tree and then another, moving down the pathway as though the forest around me were a horde of raiders, not caring that I was acting more like a child than a grown woman. I lifted my package of fish like a shield, knocking back imaginary attacks, my breath turning to rapid pants, sweat dampening the hair clinging to my temples.
I relished the burn in my muscles as I attacked and defended, savored every gasped breath, delighted in the sting in my palm each time my stick struck a tree. This was what I dreamed of: not of gutting fish next to the fjord to sell to the same villagers every day, but of fighting. Of joining the jarl’s war band in raids against our rivals to the east and west. Of standing strong in defense of our lands against Nordelander raiders, and of earning wealth with the strength of my sword arm. Then to spend the winter with my family, feasting and drinking and laughing until raiding season came again.
My older brother, Geir, had pursued the same dream, and he was well on his way to achieving it. When I was fourteen and he was sixteen, our father had brought Geir to the allthing and Jarl Snorri had gifted Geir an arm ring, inviting him to join the raids. Now, at twenty-two, my brother was a respected warrior.
Yet when I’d voiced my desire to follow in my brother’s footsteps, my words were met with laughter until my family realized I was serious; then their humor had changed to silent horror.
“You cannot, Freya,” my father had finally said. “It would be only a matter of time until they discovered what you are, and then you’d never choose anything ever again.”
What I was. My secret.
My curse.
“Once you have a babe, Freya, you’ll give up these foolish desires to always do what your brother does,” my mother had said. “You will be content.”
“I am not content!” I shouted at the memory, flinging my stick into the trees. But as I did, one of the fish slipped from its wrapping to fall on the forest floor.
“Shit.” Kneeling, I picked it up and did what I could to clean away the needles and dirt that clung to it, silently cursing myself for thinking the thoughts I did. For dreaming about things I couldn’t have.
“I hope that wasn’t intended for my belly.”
I leapt to my feet, whirling to find my brother standing behind me.
“Geir!” Laughing, I closed the distance to throw my arms around his neck. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing my lunch, it would seem.” He straightened his arms, giving me a critical once-over, and I did the same. Like me, my brother had pale skin, hair so blond as to be nearly white, and amber eyes that glowed like eclipsed suns. He’d put on more muscle since he’d gone to live in Halsar with the jarl, his frame no longer slender like mine, but thick and strong.
“You should eat more—you’re scrawny,” Geir said, then added, “Jarl Snorri is in the village speaking with your husband.”
My skin prickled with unease, for while Vragi was often summoned to speak with our lord, the jarl had never had cause to come to him. “On what matter?”
Geir shrugged, then took one of the fish, making its gills flap with his thumbs. “Fish, I expect. What other reason is there to talk with Vragi?”
“Truer words were never spoken,” I muttered, snatching the fish from his hands before starting down the path toward our family home.
“How swiftly the glow of new marriage fades.” Geir fell into step next to me, his weapons clinking. The axe and seax were familiar, but the sword was new. As was the mail he wore beneath his cloak. Either plunder from raids or paid for with his cut. A flicker of envy soured my stomach. Shoving the sensation away, I cast him a sideways glare. “What glow? There was never any glow.”
“Fair.” My brother kicked a rock, sending it toppling down the path ahead of us. He’d grown a beard over the last year and it was decorated with silver rings. It made him look older than his years, and fiercer, which was likely his intent. Reaching up, I gave it a tug. “What does Ingrid think of this?”