Birka POV
I was spinning the wheel, my feet slowly loosening on the pedal as the familiar rhythm filled the quiet of my room. The fiber had nearly all been transformed into yarn, each strand carefully wound and ready for the next step.
Soon I'd knit it all together and make a warm, cozy blanket to lay on during the long winter nights ahead. Yeah, that would be perfect. Especially with winter coming fast upon us, I absolutely hated cold things.
Too much snow meant too little food, and worse yet, too many dragon attacks. They grew all rowdy during the cold times, their tempers as short as the daylight hours. Maybe the cold got to them too, made them as miserable as it made the rest of us. The thought of huddling under a thick, hand-knitted blanket while listening to the wind howl outside was the only thing that made the approaching season bearable.
The steady creak-creak-creak of the spinning wheel was quite soothing, I hated this at first, too much damn time on the wheel, but after mom died and I wanted more blankets, I gave this a shot, in time I grew to love it, spend my days in a warm calm.
The sound of my door creaking open shattered my peaceful reverie, making my hands stop mid-motion and tearing my gaze away from my work. Standing there in my doorway like some unwelcome harbinger was my older brother, all nineteen years of him.
A viking at the prime of his life, as he never failed to remind me. He was burly in that way all the men in our family became, with a beard growing in preparation for winter, though it was little more than stubble right now. He had short, almost bald brown hair and his hazel eyes held that familiar look of brotherly determination that I'd learned to dread.
"Birka, come on. You'll have to leave your room sometime," he said, his voice carrying that patient-but-exasperated tone that meant he'd been planning this intervention for days.
Ugh, this again. We'd had this exact conversation at least a dozen times since the weather started turning cold.
"I don't want to, let me knit in peace," I replied without looking up from my work, hoping he'd take the hint and leave me be.
"This isn't healthy. You need sunlight, fresh air, interaction with people your own age."
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much."
But he didn't mind my words, he never did when he got like this. Instead, he walked deeper into my room. Blankets were draped across each wall to keep away the coming cold, creating a cocoon-like atmosphere that I found infinitely more appealing than whatever waited outside. He reached out and put his hand on my wrist, then looked me directly in the eyes with that questioning silence that meant he wasn't giving up easily.
"What do you think you are doing?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"I'm pulling you out of here. You're thirteen years old, Birka. Go live your life a little, make friends for heaven's sake."
"I have friends," I protested, though even as I said it, I could hear how weak it sounded.
"Do you?" he asked, raising one eyebrow in that infuriating way he'd perfected over the years. "Real friends that you actually spend time with?"
I considered lying, but he knew me too well. "I think they qualify as friends."
"Then go out with them or something. Do whatever it is thirteen-year-olds do when they're not hiding in their rooms like hermits."
"They're training to be a fire brigade squad," I explained, as if that settled the matter entirely.
"Then go train with them."
"But that is so boring," I complained, finally turning to face him fully. "They aren't even killing dragons, just throwing water-filled buckets at fires, which do pretty much nothing anyway. It's like trying to stop a gronkle with a handful of pebbles."
He sighed then, a tired look crossing his face that made him look older than his nineteen years, he looked exactly like dad used to at this moment, almost pleading, like he was running out of options and patience in equal measure. The sight of it made something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
And I could deny him no longer.
Despite all my protests and preferences for solitude, I loved my brother. He was the only family I had left, and seeing him look so worried about me made me feel guilty for being so stubborn.
"Fine," I said with an exaggerated sigh. "I'll go meet with them. Just stop grabbing my wrist."
He released his grip immediately, and I stood from my seat with great reluctance. My eyes lingered on my unfinished work, the partially completed blanket that would have to wait for my return.
A familiar itch scratched at the back of my head, I hated leaving things incomplete, hated the way unfinished projects seemed to call out to me until they were done. But my brother's relieved smile was worth the discomfort, I supposed.
"You look stupid, smiling like that," I told him as I walked past, unable to resist the urge to deflate his obvious joy just a little. "Stop it."
His grin faltered for exactly one second before returning full force.
I made my way down the narrow stairs, through our living room that was quiet as always - too quiet, really, but that was a thought I tried not to dwell on. The emptiness of our house was something we both felt but never talked about.
I grabbed my heaviest cloak from the rack by the door, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders. It was getting really damn cold, and the wool I'd been spinning would be put to good use soon enough.
"Oh hey, Birka!"
I looked to my side as we stepped outside. Our neighbor Borhut was sitting in his usual spot on his covered porch, waving at me from his ancient rocking chair. He was old, ancient, really, and as such he spent almost all his days in that chair, rocking back and forth while watching the world go by.
The only time I ever saw the man out and about was during dragon attacks, when he'd emerge with a butcher knife that looked older than he was and proceed to slit dragon throats.
"Hello, Borhut," I waved back, genuinely pleased to see him. He was one of the few people on Berk whose company I actually enjoyed.
"What are you doing outside on such a pleasant day?" he asked, a cheeky smile spread with those thin, chopped lips of his.
My brother answered for me before I could respond. "We're going to the fire brigade training for teenagers."
"Why in Thor's beard would you go to such a horrid place?" Borhut questioned, his laughter carrying across the space between us.
I liked Borhut even more now. Finally, someone with sense.
"Please don't say that," my brother sighed, giving Borhut a pleading look. "Otherwise she'll go back inside and I'll never get her out again."
Borhut's laughter grew louder at that, the sound warming despite the cold air. "And a good choice she'd make! It's freezing out here. This weather isn't fit for man nor beast."
"Then why don't you go back inside yourself?" I called out with a grin. "Or have you become too senile to remember how to walk?"
"Maybe so!" he laughed, slapping his knee with obvious delight. "Would you be willing to show this old fool how it's done?"
My brother and I both shook our heads, chuckling despite ourselves as we waved goodbye to Borhut. His laughter followed us as we made our way through the village, and I found myself feeling slightly less resistant to this forced social interaction.
We walked across the village at a leisurely pace, stopping every few yards to exchange greetings and pleasantries with neighbors and acquaintances.
My brother seemed determined to make this as social as possible, probably hoping that once I started talking to people, I'd remember why I used to enjoy it.
The truth was, I did enjoy talking to people, I just preferred doing it on my own terms, when I felt like it, rather than being forced into social situations.
The village was bustling despite the cold, with people hurrying about their daily business. Smoke rose from chimneys in neat columns, and the smell of cooking food drifted from various houses.
Children played in the streets under the watchful eyes of their parents, their laughter mixing with the general noise of daily life. It was pleasant enough, I had to admit, even if I'd never say so out loud.
Eventually, we stopped in front of a medium-sized building that was slightly smaller than the average home here on Berk. It was sturdy-looking, built to withstand both weather and the occasional dragon attack, with thick stone walls and a reinforced roof.
A wooden sign by the door proclaimed it the Youth Fire Brigade Training Center, though someone had crossed out Youth and written Future Heroes in what looked like charcoal.
My brother squeezed my shoulder once, gave me an encouraging smile, then walked away to attend to whatever other duties awaited him. I watched him go for a moment, feeling suddenly nervous about facing my so-called friends. It had been weeks since I'd seen any of them, and I wasn't entirely sure what kind of reception I'd get.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The warmth hit me immediately, a welcome change from the bitter cold outside. The interior was larger than it looked from the street, with high ceilings and several tables scattered around the main room. Training equipment lined the walls, buckets, ropes, crude fire-fighting tools, and little else.
Sitting around the largest table, dining with enthusiasm that only teenagers could muster, were four of my friends. The sight of them brought a mixture of relief and apprehension, relief because they seemed genuinely happy to see me, and apprehension because I'd forgotten how loud they could be when gathered together.
Hedgelout, a distant cousin of the main Jorgenson family, was gesticulating wildly as he told some story or another. Like everyone else in his family, the boy was impossibly loud, I could probably hear him clearly from three buildings away. His black hair was even more unruly than usual, and his face was flushed with excitement.
Molder sat across from him, his blonde hair carefully braided to keep it out of his eyes during training. He was shorter than most. He was nodding along to whatever Hedgelout was saying, occasionally interjecting with comments of his own.
Wartina, meanwhile, was steadily working her way through what looked like half a roasted chicken. She was a somewhat heavy girl, but that extra weight translated into strength that could rival most of the adult vikings in the village.
She could hit like a damn mountain, though the same could be said for half the people on Berk. Even our chief, Stoick the Vast, was heavy-set, and legend had it he'd torn a dragon's skull clean off when he was just a child.
Finally, there was Kamikaze, whose black, ruffly hair seemed to have a life of its own. She was jittering so much she looked like she was blurring around the edges - the girl simply couldn't sit still, ever. Even now, while eating, she was bouncing slightly in her chair and fidgeting with everything within reach.
"Hey, Birka!" Wartina bellowed as soon as she spotted me, her voice carrying easily across the room. She stood from her chair, revealing that she now stood a full head taller than me despite us both being thirteen.
Before I could react, she'd crossed the room and engulfed me in a hug so enthusiastic I felt like my back was about to break under the pressure.
I tapped her shoulder frantically, and she released me with a laugh, then practically pushed me toward the table to join their meal.
"So how have your days been going?" Wartina asked as I settled into an empty chair. "Anything interesting happening in that room of yours?"
"Same old, same old," Molder replied before I could answer, apparently assuming the question was directed at the group in general. "Getting a bit bored of just helping deal with fires, to be honest. When do we get to do something actually exciting?"
"I know!" Hedgelout yelled, his voice booming through the room with typical Jorgenson volume. "Especially when that guy is getting free reign with dragon attacks! Like, why does he get to kill dragons just because he's chummy with the chief? It's not fair!"
Kamikaze grabbed a piece of mutton from the communal platter, tearing off a large mouthful before beginning to wave the remainder around as she spoke. Pieces of meat flew from her mouth as she talked, adding emphasis to her words. "Yeah, I heard he killed two gronkles and a zippleback in the last attack alone!"
I knew exactly who they were talking about, of course. Everyone in Berk knew who they were talking about.
There was only one person on the island who fit that description, only one person who'd earned that kind of reputation at such a young age.
A boy who'd washed up on our shores eight years ago, barely alive from what was said. A boy who was now basically the adopted son of Stoick the Vast himself. A boy who'd killed his first dragon at the impossibly young age of five, making him something of a living legend among the younger generation.
Thorfinn the Mute.
That was the name we'd given him, though whether it was accurate or not was anyone's guess. None of us had ever actually heard him speak, but that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't. He might just choose not to.
"You guys really think he doesn't speak?" Wartina asked, echoing my own thoughts.
"I've never heard him say a word," Molder replied with certainty.
"Neither have I," Hedgelout agreed.
"They say he spends a lot of time with Gothi," Kamikaze added thoughtfully, finally swallowing her mouthful of meat. "Maybe he caught being mute from her, you know? Like a contagious disease or something."
Some of them nodded in agreement as if that was the most natural explanation in the world, as if being mute could spread from person to person like a cold. The logic was questionable at best, but it was the kind of theory that made sense to teenagers looking for simple answers to complex questions.
Wait a minute. Didn't Gothi sacrifice her voice to the gods in exchange for her healing powers? Maybe Thorfinn had done something similar, traded his voice for his incredible dragon-killing abilities. It would certainly explain a lot.
"To be fair," I said, finally joining the conversation properly, "have any of us actually interacted with him? Like, really talked to him or spent any time around him?"
We all looked around the table, exchanging glances that confirmed what I'd suspected.
"He is our age, right?" I asked, though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.
"We think so."
A/N: Power stones and reviews are appreciated, author out. P.S Thorfinn the Mute isn't gonna be his actual nickname after he's grown it's just the one he has now lol