The Viking's Promise

TVP | 1

801 AD

Norway

 

"You're sick," the old woman spat. Spittle slapped the girl in the face, and she flinched away, cowering into the corner. It was grimy, dirty. She could feel the rat bones digging into her bare feet. The disgust in the woman's eyes overcame the pain, though. Her eyes lowered to the ground. "Vile. Damn street rat—get out of here before I call the guards and let them deal with you."

If the old woman, who owned the cart she'd tried to steal a loaf of stale bread from, called the guards? She'd lose her hands and be sent to prison. She swallowed, jerking into the wall when the woman's foot slammed into her side.

She made no sound. Said no words. Didn't even look at the woman. When she faced a wild dog, it was the same thing she had to do—except wild dogs were friendlier than the people in this place. Her averted eyes and silence worked, because the woman was waddling away from her only moments later.

It wasn't until the woman's shadow had left the ally completely that the girl let a breath through her lips, the only sound she had made all day. She slumped into the wall, tension leaving as an aching pain set into her stomach.

That was meant to be her meal for the last three days. She hated stealing—hated the fact that she had no one to rely on but herself, that in order to survive, she had to take what wasn't hers—but if she didn't want to die...tears stung her eyes.

She quickly wiped them away. The girl didn't let herself cry. It wasn't allowed. She had to be strong, resilient. No weakness of any sort. She gingerly pushed herself to her feet, studiously ignoring the stinging in her eyes and the cramping in her stomach, and attempted to walk out of the ally.

It didn't work. Before she could take a step, the pain in her stomach grew so high that she had to lean her head on the wall, the only source of balance she had—if she could even call it that. She had no balance, in this life. It was steal or die. Cower or run. It was all she knew. All she could know.

Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, strayed to the floor once again.

The ground felt appealing. At least it was dry, and warm from the sun. It was freezing this time of year—with no hut or family to stay with, she was left to fend the elements by herself. It was no different than any other year that she could remember, though. The cold was ever present. The ocean breeze was chilled and the winter was settling in—unavoidable. Something she could barely survive in.

But she was forced to. She had tried to die from the cold before—letting herself sit in the cold ocean water, letting her muscles ache until there was no way to move them. They became so stiff that she couldn't keep herself afloat. She had started to sink...sink into the depths. Until it was dark, pitch-black, and cold.

Until she had blanked out, finally reveling in frozen embrace of death.

Something...something had happened then. She didn't know what, but something had happened, because here she was. A year later, alive. Still struggling to survive with as little pain as possible, still unable to die. She had found herself on the dock of the harbor, people in thick furs milling around, soaking wet and chilled to the bone—but not dead. No. No end for her in sight.

She was barely the age of six and ten. How much longer would she have to go through with this?

Her thoughts cut short when a child of similar age, maybe a year or two younger than her, ran into the ally. She flinched into the shadows when he didn't stop running until he was there with her. The boys here—they were cruel. Worse than the old women. They shouted, leered, threatened. Touched her. Teased her. She looked to the ground, wishing that it was as simple as thinking she was invisible to actually become so.