WHAT THE GODS ATE
They found the settlement at dusk.
It lay in a shallow bowl of land where the wind softened and the trees grew thin and crooked. Smoke rose in weak strands from between low huts built of stone and packed earth. The smell reached them before the sound. Old ash. Boiled roots. Animal fat burned too long.
Thorfinn stopped at the edge of the trees.
Riqua crouched beside him, breath slow now, controlled. He had learned that much already.
"There are people," Riqua said.
"Yes."
"How many."
Thorfinn watched the movement. Shadows passing in doorways. A figure crossing open ground. Another sitting still, too still, near a fire. "Enough."
They waited.
The sky dimmed. The cold deepened. Finally Thorfinn rose and walked forward openly, hands empty, posture loose. Riqua followed a step behind.
A shout went up almost at once.
Men emerged with spears and clubs. Not soldiers. Their clothes were layered and mended many times. Their faces were hollow. One had a scar that pulled his mouth down, giving him a permanent snarl.
"Stop," the man shouted. "Don't come closer."
Thorfinn stopped.
"We want food," Thorfinn said. "We can trade."
The man laughed once, sharp and bitter. "Trade with what."
Thorfinn reached into his cloak and tossed a small coin into the dirt between them. It lay there, dull and useless.
The men did not move.
Another figure stepped forward. Older. Hair white and thin. His eyes were sharp though, burning with something close to hate.
"You should not be here," the old man said. "This place is cursed."
Riqua shifted. "Cursed how."
The old man looked at him. "By gods who are hungry."
The men parted slowly, reluctantly. They were led into the settlement.
Up close, it was worse.
The huts leaned inward, as if tired. The ground was churned mud frozen hard. Bones lay stacked near one wall, cleaned and cracked. Animal. Human. It was hard to tell which had been which.
A woman sat near the fire, rocking back and forth, whispering to herself. A child lay wrapped in cloth beside her, too still.
Riqua looked away.
The old man gestured toward a hut. "You eat. Then you leave."
Inside, the air was thick and sour. A pot simmered over low flame. The smell was heavy, wrong. Thorfinn did not ask what was inside.
They ate anyway.
The stew burned the throat and sat heavy in the stomach. Riqua gagged but forced it down. Hunger made no room for pride.
When they finished, the old man sat across from them.
"The land failed," he said. "The gods turned their faces. We prayed. We sacrificed. It did not help."
Riqua swallowed. "What did you sacrifice."
The old man did not answer right away. He looked past them, toward the fire, toward the woman rocking beside the child.
"Everything," he said.
A shout rose outside.
The old man stiffened.
Another followed. Louder. Closer.
Steel rang.
Thorfinn was on his feet before the sound finished. He grabbed Riqua's arm and pulled him toward the doorway.
Men burst in.
Not villagers.
Warriors.
They wore blackened armor and carried heavy shields. Their faces were marked with old scars, eyes calm, certain.
The first man swung without warning. Thorfinn ducked and drove his knife into the man's thigh, then up into his stomach. The man grunted and fell back.
The hut erupted into violence.
Riqua seized a fallen club and swung it hard, cracking a man's jaw. He screamed as another slammed into him, knocking him into the wall.
Thorfinn moved through them, low and fast. He cut hamstrings. He struck throats. Blood sprayed across the packed earth walls.
A shield slammed into his chest and sent him sprawling. Pain flared. He rolled as an axe bit where his head had been. He rose and drove his blade into the axe man's neck.
Outside, the settlement burned.
Villagers screamed. Warriors shouted orders, voices calm even in chaos.
Thorfinn dragged Riqua out into the open. Firelight painted everything red and gold. Bodies lay everywhere.
The old man knelt near the fire, hands raised.
A warrior stood over him, blade poised.
"Stop," Thorfinn shouted.
The warrior turned, surprised.
Thorfinn moved before thought could interfere. He threw his knife. It struck the warrior in the throat. He fell, gurgling.
Silence rippled outward.
More warriors turned.
They came all at once.
Thorfinn met them head on.
Steel rang. Wood cracked. He felt a blow glance off his shoulder, another split his lip. He tasted blood and salt. He welcomed it. It kept him present.
Riqua fought at his side now, no longer wild. He struck with purpose. He ducked when Thorfinn shouted. He stabbed when Thorfinn opened a gap.
A spear pierced Riqua's side.
He cried out and fell.
Thorfinn screamed.
The sound tore out of him raw and ugly.
He killed the man with the spear and two more after that. He did not remember how. Only the feel of resistance giving way. Only the heat.
When it ended, the warriors were dead or gone.
The settlement burned low, flames licking at collapsed roofs.
Thorfinn knelt beside Riqua.
Blood soaked through his clothes. It was dark and steady.
"Stay awake," Thorfinn said.
Riqua's face was pale, teeth clenched. "I am."
Thorfinn pressed his hand to the wound, hard. Riqua screamed and bit down on his sleeve.
The old woman from the fire knelt beside them. Her hands were steady.
"You'll have to open it," she said. "The point broke."
Thorfinn did not hesitate.
He cut.
Riqua screamed again, voice cracking, tears streaming down his face. Thorfinn worked fast, fingers slick, pulling metal free. Blood poured. He pressed cloth into the wound until it slowed.
Riqua shook violently.
"You live," Thorfinn said. "You hear me. You live."
Riqua nodded weakly.
When it was done, Thorfinn sat back, hands shaking now, unable to stop them.
The old woman looked at him. "The gods eat us," she said softly. "They always have."
Thorfinn stared at the fire consuming the last of the huts.
"No," he said. "Men do."
The woman did not argue.
They stayed until morning.
They buried no one.
At dawn, Thorfinn helped Riqua stand. He leaned heavily, but he stood.
They walked away from the ruins as smoke thinned behind them.
Neither looked back.
Somewhere, gods were still being fed.
But not by them.
They did not speak as they walked.
The smoke followed them for a time, clinging to their clothes and hair, settling into their lungs. Riqua leaned hard against Thorfinn, his steps uneven, breath shallow. Every few minutes Thorfinn stopped, adjusted his grip, checked the bandage. Blood still seeped through, slow but stubborn.
By midday the land dipped into a narrow valley where the wind could not reach. Thorfinn guided Riqua down and eased him onto a bed of dead grass and pine needles. He crouched beside him, hands already working, tightening the wrap, pressing where it bled.
Riqua's face was grey now. His lips trembled.
"It hurts," he said, almost apologetic.
"I know."
Riqua laughed weakly, then winced. "You always say that."
Thorfinn did not smile. He tore a strip from his own cloak and bound it tighter. Riqua gasped and clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.
"Don't sleep," Thorfinn said.
"I won't."
Hours passed in pieces.
Thorfinn foraged nearby, never going far. He found roots frozen hard in the earth, bitter and thin. He melted snow in his mouth and spat it into Riqua's. It was slow work. Ugly work. Necessary.
As evening crept in, Riqua's breathing worsened. Each breath rasped, shallow and quick. His eyes drifted unfocused.
Thorfinn knelt close. "Look at me."
Riqua's gaze slid back, sluggish. "I am."
"No," Thorfinn said, sharper. "Look."
Riqua forced his eyes open wider. He stared at Thorfinn's face, studying it as if committing it to memory.
"You ever think about home," Riqua asked suddenly.
Thorfinn stiffened. "No."
"I do," Riqua murmured. "All the time. I don't even remember what it smelled like. But I know it did."
Thorfinn said nothing.
"I don't want to die out here," Riqua said. Not begging. Just stating it.
"You won't."
Riqua smiled faintly. "You keep saying that too."
The night came down heavy and close. Thorfinn built a fire despite the risk, small and low. The cold was worse now. Riqua's skin felt wrong under his hands. Too hot. Too slick.
Thorfinn fed the fire until his fingers burned.
When Riqua cried out in his sleep, Thorfinn shook him awake.
"Stay," Thorfinn said. "You stay."
Riqua nodded weakly.
Something moved at the edge of the firelight.
Thorfinn rose slowly, knives ready.
Figures emerged from the dark. Three of them. Wrapped in furs. Faces painted with ash and blood. Their eyes fixed on the fire. On Riqua.
One stepped forward, hands spread.
"We saw the smoke," the man said. His voice was calm. Curious. "We heard the screams."
Thorfinn did not lower his knives.
"You killed them," the man went on, nodding toward the distant ruins. "The ones who fed the gods."
"Yes," Thorfinn said.
The man smiled thinly. "Good."
The others circled wider.
"We don't want trouble," the man said. "We want the boy."
Thorfinn shifted, placing himself fully between them and Riqua.
"No."
The man sighed. "He's dying."
"Then he dies with me," Thorfinn said.
The smile faded.
The men rushed.
Thorfinn moved first. He slashed at the nearest throat and felt the blade bite deep. Blood sprayed hot across his face. He kicked the body aside and turned as another lunged.
A spear grazed his arm, tearing flesh. He ignored it. He drove his knife into the man's eye and felt the skull crack.
The third man struck him hard with a club. Pain exploded in his ribs. He staggered, caught himself, tasted blood.
The man raised the club again.
Riqua screamed.
The sound was raw. Animal.
Thorfinn surged forward and buried his blade in the man's chest, once, twice, until the club fell uselessly from his hands.
Silence fell again.
Thorfinn stood over the bodies, chest heaving, blood dripping from his hands.
He turned back to Riqua.
Riqua was shaking violently now. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. His eyes were glassy.
Thorfinn knelt and pulled him close, pressing their foreheads together.
"You listen to me," Thorfinn said, voice breaking despite himself. "You don't get to leave. Not like this."
Riqua's lips trembled. "I'm tired."
"I know," Thorfinn whispered. "So am I."
He stayed awake all night.
He talked to Riqua about nothing. About the way the sea sounded at night. About walking without snow. About a place where the ground did not try to kill you.
Riqua listened when he could. When he could not, Thorfinn kept talking anyway.
When dawn came, pale and thin, Riqua was still breathing.
Barely.
Thorfinn lifted him carefully, ignoring the pain screaming through his body. He carried him out of the valley, step by step, breath by breath.
By midday they reached a ridge where the land softened again. Trees returned. The snow thinned.
Thorfinn collapsed there, back against a trunk, Riqua in his arms.
For a long time, nothing happened.
Then Riqua stirred.
His eyes opened.
"You didn't leave," he whispered.
Thorfinn shook his head. "No."
Riqua swallowed. "Good."
His eyes closed again, but this time the breathing steadied. Slow. Deep.
Thorfinn stayed still, afraid to move.
The fire of the ruined settlement was long gone now. The gods, whatever they were, had been denied.
Thorfinn looked down at the boy in his arms and felt something shift inside him. Something fragile. Dangerous.
He did not name it.
He just held on.