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18- Gods Give, Gods Take.
🕑 Added 2025-06-25 01:19:12 +0000 UTCBjorn stepped out of the church, leaving behind the sounds of looting and shouting, and paused just outside the door, squinting as a shimmering silver light flickered vividly in his blue eyes while they adjusted to the bright daylight.
He took a deep breath, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind after the dim, enclosed space inside. But the air outside felt unusually heavier than it had been earlier. Each breath required more effort, as if an invisible weight pressed against his lungs.
The sensation unsettled him, though he couldn't explain why.
He stood still for a moment, considering his options. There was little he could do about the strange atmosphere, so he decided to explore the area instead.
With a slow pace, he began to walk.
Bjorn's first stop was a low wooden building beside the church; a dining hall. Simple tables and benches filled the room, each set with rough wooden bowls and clay pitchers. A half-eaten loaf of dark bread lay abandoned, knife beside it. Nothing useful here; he left without a word.
Next, he entered the smoky kitchen. A cold fire pit sat in the center, iron pots hung on the walls. He sifted through sacks of dried fish, cheese, and oats but ignored them. Then his eyes caught the sharpened butchering knives. He picked up two, testing their weight and balance.
'Not bad at all,' Bjorn thought. He slipped the knives into his belt, already thinking about how to teach the blacksmiths a better way in the future.
From there, he passed a small workshop filled with wood shavings and the scent of beeswax. Half-carved chests and neat rows of carving tools sat untouched.
Then he found a sturdy two-story stone building and climbed narrow stairs to a dormitory. Straw pallets lined the room, each with a coarse wool blanket. The stale air smelled of sweat, and Bjorn felt an urge to leave.
Now only one building remained.
Bjorn's eyes landed on the scriptorium, the monks' quiet den of parchment, where Ragnar mostly is. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Well, well… Parchments. Daddy's coming for you ."
It was at that moment that he felt again that the wind was really more heavy than it should be, as if something unseen had stepped into the world, and is now watching him. His hand rested on his axe for comfort.
That's when a man appeared in his line of vision.
Dark cloak, long, straight with two ravens on his shoulder; larger and more imposing than common ravens. Their feathers were pitch black but had a subtle sheen that caught the light differently, almost like metal. Their eyes were sharp and unusually bright, showing clear intelligence and awareness beyond any normal bird.
A hood hung loosely over short, pale-gray hair that barely moved in the breeze. He didn't turn. He stood motionless, looking toward the sea beyond the hill ridge. From this side of the wall, only a thin trail led out toward the bluff. No one else should have been out there.
Bjorn took a step forward.
The man's posture remained still. Not tense. Not alert. But aware.
Bjorn felt it, though he couldn't explain how.
He opened his mouth to call out, but didn't as if something stopped him.
The man lifted one hand slightly, palm facing the ground. A single, deliberate movement. Then he lowered it.
And he was gone.
Bjorn blinked.
There had been no sound of footsteps, no rustle of clothing, no disturbance in the damp grass. The man had simply ceased to be there. The path to the scriptorium was empty. The air was quiet.
Bjorn could not move, his body felt locked in place.
Then, just as his fingers twitched, as if about to reach forward, a crow landed in front of him.
It was one the two that had been perched on the shoulder of Odin. The raven stood motionless, its small black eyes fixed on Bjorn. It didn't blink. It just stared.
And Bjorn stared back.
Then another landed on his shoulder. There was no sound, no sensation of weight. He had not felt the breeze of its wings; it had not flown there, it had simply… arrived.
It turned its head slowly. Then it pecked him just once, right above his heart.
Bjorn flinched, a purely physical reaction, a muscle contracting before his thoughts could form.
And the world dissolved.
----------------------
The light was no longer the sun. It was moonlight falling on familiar wooden floorboards. A narrow bed was pushed against the wall. The room was his own, from a time he had tried to bury. Bjorn's chest tightened with pain he almost gasped.
He saw a small boy, seven years old. Curled tightly into himself like he was trying to disappear. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and shining with tears that wouldn't fall. His hands clutched the blanket with too much strength for such a small body, his knuckles were white and his arms rigid.
Bjorn knew this moment. He did not remember it; he was in it.
He felt the cold in the room, the ache in the boy's throat. The silence was thick, filled with the feeling of something about to break.
The boy buried his face in the pillow, trying to muffle a sob. The fabric was already damp.
He was not trying to be brave, only tired, as the crying had already exhausted him. He whispered a name into the pillow, over and over, so softly that even the memory could not catch the sound.
Then, the door slowly and carefully opened.
And an older boy stepped in.
Outside the memory, older Bjorn sank slowly to the ground, crouching low on the cold earth. His shoulders sagged, not with sudden grief, but a quiet, aching weight. His lips curved into a faint, fragile smile, the kind that holds memories and pain all at once.
His eyes softened, blinking slowly, as if trying to hold back the swelling that threatened beneath the surface. The tears didn't come right away. Instead, his breath caught in his throat, and his gaze fixed somewhere far away, on a memory, on a hope, on a loss.
For a long moment, he stayed like that, unmoving and vulnerable, fighting the storm inside.
Then, with a voice barely more than a whisper, he spoke a name that carried everything he was trying to hold onto.
"Aaron."
He looked older than Bjorn remembered, not in age, but in wear. Like someone who had been holding in something for too long and was just now letting himself breathe. His eyes were red. His steps were cautious. He moved like he was afraid that if he made a sound, everything might fall apart.
The boy, sat up with a jolt. His voice was a dry, cracking thing, "You came back." The words held everything: a desperate hope, a deep fear, a child's disbelief.
Aaron tried to smile, and it was barely there.
From behind his back, he revealed something wrapped in cloth. He knelt beside the bed, moving with a reverence this small, plain room did not deserve. Then he unwrapped the cloth.
It was a small ship, carved by hand. Long, narrow, made of dark wood, almost black. The hull was sealed smooth. Each plank was tight, every piece shaped with care.
The boy reached for it, his fingers trembling, as if it were a living thing. "Eldingr..." he breathed, the name a sacred thing on his tongue.
Aaron nodded, his own voice trembling. "It's yours now. I made her for you." He turned the model slightly so the bow faced Bjorn. “Look at the front.”
The carved dragon’s head leaned forward from the prow, mouth open like it was drinking the wind. It was painted in a deep red, darker than blood, with black along the edges to shape the eyes and horns. Just behind it, tiny golden runes were inlaid along both sides of the ship, just above the waterline.
“What do the letters mean?” Bjorn asked, tracing them with his finger.
Aaron looked down at the ship, then at him. “It’s something just for us. One day, I’ll tell you." He paused for a second then continued, "I wanted to finish her before… before I left. So you would have something of me."
The boy clutched the ship against his chest. Like it could keep his brother there.
The boy clutched the ship to his chest, holding it like an anchor, like it could keep his brother there. "You're really leaving," he stated. It wasn't a question, and his voice cracked on the last word.
Aaron looked down at the floorboards, unable to meet the boy's eyes. "I have to, you know, for studies. But I don't want to. Leaving you is the last thing I ever wanted to do."
The silence that followed was louder than any shout.
Aaron reached out and brushed the boy's hair from his forehead. It was a simple, aching gesture. No drama. No poetry. Just a brother trying to hold onto a moment."I'll be back," he said quietly. "I promise. This isn't forever."
The lamp on the bedside table dimmed for a second, the flame shrinking to a thin thread of orange… then flared back to life. As if the world itself had heard the promise, and denied it.
Aaron stood. He looked at the boy on the bed for a long moment, his eyes trying to memorize every line of his face. Then, at last, he turned toward the door.
Bjorn, watching from outside the memory, stiffened, His breath caught.
No.
No.
Panic hit him.
He stumbled forward and slammed both fists into the invisible wall.
"STAY!" he shouted, voice breaking from the force.
He struck again, and harder.
"STAY, DAMN IT!"
The barrier didn't move, and the memory didn't change.
Inside the memory, Aaron reached the threshold and paused
Bjorn was gasping now, hands pounding the unseen wall in desperation.
"Tell him to stay, you idiot!" His voice cracked, warping into a sob. "Please, tell him! Don't let him walk away!"
Inside the memory, Aaron paused. His hand on the doorframe.
He turned and looked back.
"I love you, little brother," he said quietly. "More than all the oceans I'll ever sail."
Then he stepped through the doorway.
Bjorn pressed his hand to the wall, fingers spread wide like a child at a window. His mouth moved silently, over and over. Please... please... please...
The door shut behind Aaron with a quiet click.
In the bed, the boy didn't move. He clutched the ship like it was the only thing left in the world. His eyes turned toward the ceiling, but they weren't seeing anything now.
Outside the memory, the older Bjorn struck the barrier one final time, then staggered back. His legs gave out. He dropped to the floor, breath shallow and broken, body folding in on itself.
"No…" he whispered. "No, no, no…"
He stayed like that, curled on the ground.
His arms wrapped around himself. He didn't look up. He couldn't.
Each breath he took was uneven, catching on the way in like he'd forgotten how to do it right. His body trembled. Not from fear. Not even from grief. But from a feeling worse than either; powerlessness.
Time didn't move. Or maybe it did, but he couldn't feel it anymore.
His hands, once clenched, slowly opened. The skin beneath his nails was red where he'd pressed too hard. He stared down at them like they belonged to someone else.
The tears stopped. The pain didn't. It just settled deep inside him. Like a weight that wasn't going to lift. Not this time. Maybe not ever.
The air in the space felt thinner somehow. The room slowly and unkindly faded.
The bedroom dissolved, and Lindisfarne returned.
Bjorn looked around.
The stone beneath him felt colder than it had moments ago. But the world itself felt… unreal. Like he wasn't fully in it anymore.
His hands shook and his breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. His mouth opened once, then closed. He whispered, barely audible, "What the fuck was that...?" But there was no answer.
He swallowed, and this time the voice came out smaller and fractured. "Why would they show me that?" .he paused, "…Why that memory?"
He pressed a hand to his chest like he was trying to slow his heart with sheer force. Then he tried to speak again. He tried to say his brother's name.
But nothing came out.
His lips parted and moved. But no sound came out.
He frowned, blinked and tried again. Still nothing. A flicker of fear crossed his face. "What…?" he whispered. "What was it? David…? No, that's not—Michael? No. Come on. Come on—"
The fear turned to desperation. He grabbed at his hair, fingers tangling, pulling.
Nothing.
"What was it? David...? No... Michael? That's not it… come on, come on…"
He gripped his skull with both hands, pulling at his hair. "What the fuck was it? What was his name?!"
He stood, stumbling as he did. His eyes darted left, then right, wild with panic. He began pacing, hands gripping his skull like he could squeeze the answer out.
His voice cracked now.
"I, I, I saw him. I just saw him! I said it...his name...I felt it…"
He stopped. The memory… the face… it was already fading. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He tried to recall the soft curve of his brother's nose. The tilt of his smile. The way his hair used to be.
But instead...Nothing.
A blank face. A pale, empty mask. Like he'd never existed.
Then something clicked.
The ravens. Those birds. It was them. Those things.
He stood straighter. His breath hitched.
He looked around slowly at first, then with growing urgency. Spinning in place, scanning the rooftops, the trees, the clouds. Looking for wings. For eyes. For feathers.
But there was nothing. Not even the wind. His chest rose and fell faster.
Then, he looked up. Directly at the sky.
And something broke. He clenched his fists. And he screamed. "YOU FUCKING BASTARDS!"
"You're taking his name? His face?! That's mine, you hear me?! That memory... was MINE!"His throat strained with the effort, but the words kept pouring out.
"You think this is wisdom? This pain? You think it makes me stronger? You sick fucker!"
He turned slowly in place, arms out as if daring the sky to strike him. "You showed me what I lost just to rip it out again? If you are gods, then what kind of god does that?! Huh?! WHO DOES THAT?!"
Bjorn's voice dropped low. "I want his name back," he growled. "I want his face back. I want my brother back."
His jaw tightened. "You don't get to erase him. He was real. He was mine."
Then the fury shattered into something more fragile.
Bjorn stumbled backward, and fell to his knees. His hands hung limp at his sides. "Give him back…" he whispered. "Please. Just his name. That's all I need. I'll trade everything else. Just give me his name…"
The wind did not answer, as if it wasn't even there.
And the sky... The sky stayed silent.
Bjorn didn't move. Not for a long time. His eyes stared at nothing, lost in some space between memory and void.
Then, a shift. A whisper of movement overhead.
A single jet black feather, spiraled down through the air slowly. Like it had all the time in the world.
It landed beside him, and Bjorn stared at it.
It offered no answers. No warmth. And no meaning.
Just a sign. A quiet and cruel reminder.
Bjorn's fists clenched. His breath caught in his throat and stayed there.
"It's a fucking joke," he muttered. The words barely escaped his mouth, shaking with fury. His voice wasn't loud. But it carried weight.
He looked down at his axe and slowly extended his hand toward it.
From his fingertips, the nanites answered, spilling out like smoke in reverse, slithering over the cold iron edge. They coated the blade in a shifting sheen of silver-black.
The axe began to hum. Vibrate.
Then, A crack rang through the air.
A fissure split the head cleanly, light hissing from the seams as the metal warped under the strain. It seems he had yet to find the right way to do it.
Bjorn stared at the ruined weapon. And then he snapped. "FUCK YOUR SIGNS!" He screamed and hurled the axe to the ground, where it shattered fully.
He didn't pause, he opened his hands, and the nanites surged to meet his rage.
They surged upward, wrapping around his arms like liquid armor, shifting and adjusting with every beat of his heart.
He turned to the feather and struck.
Once. Twice. And again.
His fists rained down, hammering into the earth with precisionless fury.
But the feather didn't move. Not an inch. Not even a flutter.
It remained where it had fallen untouched and unharmed.
As if it couldn't be broken, as if it refused to acknowledge him.
Bjorn slowed. His breath came in ragged pulls and he stared down at it with his chest heaving.
And still the feather sat there.
Silent. Mocking.
He lowered his fists, then it happened, without warning, black fire bloomed along the edges.
There was no sound, and no smoke.
Then it was gone, and ash fell into the dirt.
And Bjorn was left staring at the spot it had claimed.
And in his eyes, there was no awe.
Bjorn turned from the scorch mark, breathing slow, deep, controlled.
He didn't look back.
The nanomachines peeled away from his arms, retreating beneath his skin.
With heavy steps, he walked away with the earth crunching beneath his boots.
Behind him, the wind returned.
It swept in quietly at first, then stronger, circling the place where the feather had burned. The ashes rose, dancing briefly in the air before the wind tore them apart, scattering them into nothing.
What remained was a dent in the dirt.
Not from the feather but from Bjorn.
Where his nanite-clad fist had struck, the earth bore the deep imprint of his knuckles; four fractured grooves, pressed like runes into the ground.
No weapon had made them. And no god had marked this.
He had.
And the land remembered... and so would its people.
