THE WRONG VIKING

The giant doors swing open at my touch. The wind follows me, screeching and hissing. The great hall doesn’t care as it lacks the crowd. The battle preparations must’ve already begun. I walk in like a soldier—the one thing I’m not.

I recognise the place, but not the decorations. They were done recently. And the names of enemies written on the walls with blood. The sacrifices were done? I must’ve been there. No way I’d miss them. But those memories were gone too. My head aches at the echoes of my footsteps. The fear resurfaces and I calm myself. My feet don’t falter as I walk down the great hall. It’s okay, I repeat in my head. She’ll be okay. I’ll find her. I’ll bring her back.

The tables are empty, flea-ridden. Two soldiers sit at the end. Silent. Meat in their hands. Fatigue in their eyes. Not everyone in the kingdom is ready for war. The king knows it. Nevertheless, he goes forward. I can’t blame him. Why? It comes like a feeling. A hunch. However, I don’t remember why I can't blame him. Whatever reason I’ve discovered recently has gone into the abyss. I curse myself. I do it again.

“Bjorn.” Someone calls my name.

I blink and look around. Fylla walks out of the kitchen with a bowl of spitting steam. Hunger is lost on me. On any other day, I’d have eaten anything this woman cooks. Now, I don’t have the privilege. Time is of the essence.

“Anyone seen Torsten?” I ask her.

Fylla laughs. She walks toward me, amused. “Have you gone blind, boy?”

I wince. No one has called me a boy forever. My mother called me once, but my father warned her against it.

“Why?” I ask.

“I’m here.” My back receives the voice.

I turn and Torsten sits, biting into a chunk of meat. My skin crawls at the sight of him. He’s one of the two soldiers I’ve passed by. How foolish of me.

“What do ya want?” Torsten asks, his voice uglier than always.

I look at his side. As expected, the wolf sits by his leg, its tail coiled around his ankle.

“I need to borrow your beast,” I say.

Fylla shakes her head as if disappointed.

Torsten drops his meat and growls. “Call Loki a beast one more time and see what happens.”

He named his wolf Loki. He’s an idiot. But I need his help.

“Can I borrow Loki, please?”

He picks up his meat. “What for?”

“I need to find someone.”

Silence rules the hall. Even Fylla says nothing. It’s unusual for my kind to ask for help with such a thing. Torsten studies me. I study his beast. Eyes of the colour of the sky during a sunset, and the fur of soiled snow. Head resting against Torsten’s calf. All of it’s useless for me. I tilt my head. There are spells carved into its skin on the left side. Relief washes over me. I’ve got the same spells carved into my skin, too. The beast and I are carved out of the same pain and for the same purpose.

“No.” Torsten stands. “You do it yourself.”

He easily towers over me. I don’t tell him why I can’t do it. So, I find a less stupid reason. “I don’t remember the path.”

He laughs. Fylla doesn’t. She eyes me, concerned. Again, she’s concerned about everyone in the kingdom. Her heart is as big as the feasts she always prepares.

“Are you hearing this, Fylla?” Torsten shakes his hand over his bowl. “He doesn’t remember the path. I swear by Odin's beard I heard nothing funnier.”