Erik, grandson of the shield-maiden Styrmey, was not the tallest man Svea would ever know, but he cast the longest shadow - one even kings and jarls would never fill. The fields had claimed his hands, but the thunder had claimed his blood.
"You remind me of her," Erik told Svea one night, a small smile playing as he wandered back into his own childhood. "She was born in thunder, and fought with lightning at her side. Her hair blew like storm clouds, and no ship she boarded ever knew calm waters - yet never once did a man fall overboard, nor did Rán claim a single soul. When the waves rose and the winds howled, she sang against them, louder, fiercer, until even the storm bent its head. They say she struck down a king, and as her blade split him, lightning split the earth behind her, a gift of Thor's blessing."
He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. "Styrmey would stand in the rain as if it bowed to her, not the other way around. Even so, you must come home to dry off," he mused, watching how Svea held her hand out to catch droplets under the darkening sky.
She glanced back at him as though his words were of little importance - more so his order to return inside. As much as she longed to hear more stories of her great-grandmother, the woman she would never know yet felt in her own wandering heart, she could not deny the call of the winds against her face, the strange lightness in the rain.
Erik tugged gently at her shoulder. "You have her eyes," he said, his voice lower now. "She could stare at the clouds until they broke apart. But you are much too young to wield that power yet, little one."
Svea pursed her lips, whining as he pulled her home. "Yet she was a thrall." she grumbled.
"Ay, yet chains cannot hold down a wild woman." Erik chuckled thoughtfully, grabbing clean linen to dry the child off. "You can bind the body, but never what is inside." He contemplated it further as he saw how unconvinced she seemed. "People are much like the year itself, we have seasons. To be a thrall does not make you less winter."
"I believe I'm spring." His daughter quipped, making him laugh as he ruffled her damp hair through waves made from her tight braid.
"Perhaps in ten summers, you might feel yourself autumn. My grandmother had been born a thrall, but she did not remain one. You see, life does not end in winter, Svea, it only waits beneath the snow. And no life ends in chains, not truly."
Crossing her arms as she sat down in the chair by the fire, she thought about it. "I believe we are all thralls, to something. Perhaps the gods or fate itself, faðir?" Her green eyes lifted towards him.
*faðir: father in Old Norse
With a small scoff in disbelief at his child, Erik's own gaze softened.
What other child speaks like this?
Still, he was proud of the complexity behind her thoughts. He took a breath inward, "This could be. To fate, to the gods, to hunger, even to the turning of the year." reached out, brushing hair from her face, a smile that carried more sorrow that she could name at that age accompanying it. "Until then, continue to my spring, if only for a while longer. For even winter must yield to spring, and no chain lasts forever. That is the way of things, mín hjarta."
*Mínhjarta: Old Norse for "my heart"
As the little girl settled into her bed, now in fresh clothes, and shut her eyes, she could not sleep. The barking of hounds grew closer and closer. She sat up.
"Stay here, Svea." Her father warned her, heading out into the pouring rain.
As much as she wanted to obey him, she could never deny her curiosity. Her father would need her help, she was sure of it. And if not? She may finally be gifted the pup she had been begging for. She found her boots, strapping them on, unaware of the shouting outside her door. The smell of wet door greeted her as she opened the door, just a crack to peek out without being caught.
Sparks flew across the sky from Thor's anvil, rain sheeting the world sideways, torchlight wavering in the distance where voices tried to cut over the thunder.
Crouching low, she made her way towards the fence, small hands clinging to the wood as she peered through the gaps. Her face pressed against the wet timber, narrowing her eyes to see without interference.
A man stood at the gate, broad but stooped. His cloak plastered to his back, rain shining on his beard like iron filings. In his fists, chains. When flashes of light lit the sky, she even made out the face of several hounds' snarls splitting the night, pulling at her chest with both fear and wonder. They were not the sweet pup she had been excited about; they were all ribs and muscle, their eyes catching the torchlight in a sickly glow. She couldn't be sure of it, but something in her knew they had torn the flesh of men before. They lunged and snapped at the figure huddled in the mud before them, a man.
A thrall.
His bloodied hands had been torn by chains that he had escaped. Even now, so close to freedom, he kept his head bowed.
Between them stood her father. He carried no axe, no sword, only the wooden haft of his hoe. Somehow though, he seemed taller than she had ever seen him. As shadows played on his face, Svea smiled. "Tyr. . ." she whispered, swearing that before them stood Tyr, the god of Justice, the god of farming.
Then she felt fear again for Tyr had his hand bitten off by the wolf Fenrir. Would the hounds bite her father as had happened to Tyr? Her father planted the tool deep into the earth as though he were sowing it, the dark soil swallowing its tip as he made his stand.
"This one is mine," the strangler growled, jerking the hounds so they yelped. "Bought and paid for. Stand aside, farmer, lest I see them loose."
Her father's voice answered like a drumbeat, each word deliberate, unshaken.
How she wished to be like him one day.
"On this land, no man belongs to chains. Not while I draw breath."
"Easily settled." The stranger assured in return.
The hounds strained forward, foam at the jaws.
Covering her mouth to stop a scream from giving her away, yet Erik did not flinch. His eyes only raised to the man before him. He glanced at the thunder above, Svea thought he may have been calling to his mother. He drove the end of his hoe into the mud. The crack echoed, the hounds stepping back.
She gripped the fence, her nails chipping against it while she tried to keep herself back. Seeing the stranger get closer to tease his dogs with a taste of her father, she could take it no longer. She grabbed a wide board, pulling it with her as a shield though it covered nearly all of her small frame, jumping in front of her father.
"Stop!" she screamed, her voice high and breaking but sharply carrying through the storm. She fell back against her father, pressed into his drenched tunic as she tried to plant herself in the mud as firmly as he had.
Father is like an oak, sturdy and unmovable. I can still be a tree too, though. . . a willow. I'll be planted, even if I bend.
It did not matter to the man before them. His hand went to the knife at his belt as the hounds snapped for the shield that rattled in her grasp. She shrieked, her knees buckling. Erik's arm swept in front of her, but it was too far, too slow -
"Enough!" the thrall shouted, speaking for the first time. He dragged himself from the mud, raising his shaking, dirty hands. "I will come. All I ask, please, Master, do not touch the girl." His voice trembled despite the bravery of his words.
Immediately, the man who had laid claim to him stopped. His torchlight lit the face of the runaway.
Now, Svea could see him.
Not as a thrall, or even as prey, but as a man. His knees quivered, his voice shook, she knew nothing of sins or good deeds he may have committed, but he gave himself back to chains for her.
The handler grinned.
He grabbed the bit of chain still on the man's hands, dragging him forward as the hounds surged at his heels. Mud splashed across his torn face, yet his gaze clung to Svea as he stumbled, not his captor.
Erik's hand came down heavy on her shoulder, steadying the board that still rattled in her grasp. "Svea. . ." he said, low and firm, pulling her behind him. Although it was easier to hide, she couldn't bear it. She leaned her head to the side, continuing to watch the scene in confusion.
There had been a brief breath of freedom that he had taken, now he had given it back, for her. The words spoken from his handler never reached Svea, for her heart had begun to squeeze in her chest with pain, with guilt. If she had listened to her father, remaining inside their home, the man could have gone free. He had a chance during the struggle, he simply could have run.
So why? Why had he given himself up when she was in danger?
The torchlight guttered, vanishing into the sheets of rain. The dogs panting faded. All that remained was the roar of the weather and her father's breath above her, heavy and uneven. Still, they knew they were there. "Wait!" Erik shouted, reaching his hand out in the dark towards them. "Tell me, what is your name?" He had been ready to sacrifice himself for a man he did not know the name of, but what had meant more to him was that this man had sacrificed himself for a child he would never know.
The slavecatcher growled, "He is a slave. He has no name."
"He has a name!" Svea shouted back, her voice sharp with fury.
She had come to understand this. Even thralls had choices, however small. And this man had chosen to save her. That meant something. That made him someone. No matter what the man who bought him claimed, he still had a name.
Silence followed.
Erik stood in the rain, watching the dark for movement.
Nothing came.
Svea lowered the board, her small hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Faðir," she said, almost a whisper. "You are a thrall too. To what you think is right."She looked up at him through rain and tears she could no longer tell apart. She had inherited her eyes from her father, but he had inherited them from his grandmother.
"You wear no chains. . . but I think Styrmey's are still on your wrists."
Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned toward the house.