Hidden behind the thicket came a rustling so fine that not even a trained falcon, sharp-eyed and hungry for the hunt, would have found it.
The village hounds barked themselves hoarse yet would not go near.
Svea tilted her head, reaching for a farmer's scythe, the nearest thing at hand that would pass for steel, then slipped into the trees to quench her own curiosity. She pressed her back against a thick-barked trunk and watched.
A boy, or at least a man young enough to look like one coming of age. He crept forward alone, his movements half-cautious, half-clumsy. At times, he lifted his legs with careful precision, skipping over the traps set to catch rabbits or foxes, or even intruders. Yet for every deft step, there was another that betrayed him. His balance would falter, his strength following shortly after. His weight slumped against the trees as he gave in. A groan escaped him as his forehead pressed to the bark, black hair fell in damp strands, clinging to the cracks of the old trunk like seaweed to stone, which had both been beaten by the ocean. He breathed as though each exhale might be his last, letting his body slide lower against the wood. If Svea did not like his answers, then he would be right.
"What is it you seek?" Svea demanded at last, stepping out of cover with the scythe low but ready in her grip.
The young man raised one hand from the trunk quickly in a gesture of surrender, desperate to appease the woman in exchange for his life. "I - I'm lost," he said, flinching at how feeble his own voice had come. "I have been heading to Jarl Aeneas's village for days, it's only that -"
"You cannot reach it by land. Not from here."
"Oh."
"Are you lying to me?"
He shook his head quickly. It had been a fair question.
"No. I've not the strength left in me to lie," he said, easing back against the tree. "I wish I had never left home." He shut his dark eyes with a kind of tired trust, as if welcoming her judgement: if she meant to send him from Midgard, then let it be quick and merciful - or perhaps hoping that in surrender, she might believe him.
"Then go back."
"I cannot," he said simply. "I don't even know where I am." His hand lifted weakly as though to introduce himself, though the gesture sagged midway. "My name is Leif -"
"Svea Eriksdottir."
How strange, Svea thought, to say my name so freely. It was only a few years before that her name had been twisted into something else entirely, stripped of part of it in a way meant to break her spirit. She had once been branded with ownership that had nothing to do with her blood. Only known as "Svea", property of a Jarl. Now, however, she named herself as she should be named, by her father's blood, by her own right. Free. Always free, no matter how chains and brands had tried to otherwise claim her. Years had passed since her time as a slave, even if the memories lingered.
Tradition dictated that a child be named after their father by taking his first name for their last, adding son or dottir to her. She was Eriksdottir, for she was the daughter of Erik.
"Leif Ullrson," he said, swallowing hard, though the motion itself looked painful. His dark eyes fluttered. "I do not know your father."
"Nor I yours," Svea replied, crouching low to inspect him more closely as he sat on the forest floor. "If you swear not to speak of this place, its numbers or its people, if you swear to leave and keep your word to never lift hand or army against us, I will bring you food and water. Enough to see you on your way, Leif Ullrson."
"I swear." Leif nodded eagerly.
His words were genuine. He didn't have true malice in his body; his thoughts had only been pointed towards arriving at the Jarl's village in one piece to enjoy the Midsommer festival that was being so generously hosted. He had never expected to find such a village. He hoped to prove himself this year, for if he did, he would be invited to a raid, able to finally call himself a warrior.
Though she was slow to trust, Svea could see he didn't carry the greed of raiders nor the cunning of spies.
Shortly after, she returned with water drawn clean from the well, bread, and two apples, laying them out before him. "You're little more than a boy." she recognized, though her scythe still rested across her knees.
Leif bristled faintly, though he bit into the apple with a hunger that left juice running down his chin. Svea rolled her eyes.
"I will be a great warrior," he insisted, gulping water too quickly before forcing himself to slow. Water needed to be rationed. "This season will be mine. I feel it."
Studying him with a quiet sadness, she bit the inside of her cheek. She had felt that same fire once. A rattle in her bones yearning for wind not yet known, for lands unseen, for the taste of iron and salt. To connect with one's own destiny. She knew that call too well.
"Where are your parents then, Leif?" she asked, curious. She leaned against the tree opposite his, leaving distance but never betraying her own cautiousness.
His gaze dropped, thick brows furrowing as he toyed with the stem of the second apple. The breeze swept through, tossing leaves and shadows alike. He tucked the apple away. He couldn't be sure when he would come across food again. "I am a man," he answered her, voice hardening. "It does not matter where my parents are."
Svea's smile came gently this time, almost pitying. "You are still but a child."
She envied how carefree he was. He didn't seem to know betrayal or war. Not truly.
His chin lifted stubbornly. "I am old enough to raid. I will prove myself."
Her breath left in a sigh. She did not press further. Instead, she offered her blessing. "Then may the gods guide you, Leif Ullrson," she said, standing as Eydis's voice rang faint in the distance. "I will hope to hear of your stories. Rest here. But begone by the morning."
She took a final look over him, wondering if she was bidding another farewell to the endless wars that their people seemed to find themselves in. She dusted off her clothes, heading back into the village.