The Names We Carry
Thorfinn
Morning came without mercy.
The land was pale and raw beneath the sky, snow packed hard where blood had soaked it the night before. Thorfinn stood at the edge of the treeline, watching his people move behind him quiet, careful, alive. Every step they took away from Hjorvik felt heavier than the last, as if the ground itself wanted payment for letting them pass.
Freydis walked ahead, jaw set, shoulders squared. She had not spoken since dawn. Einar kept scanning the hills, bow half raised, eyes ringed dark with sleepless focus. Riqua lagged behind again, not from weakness, but from thought.
Thorfinn understood that look too well.
He felt it himself.
Every kill had a weight. Not guilt he had learned long ago that guilt was a luxury but consequence. Names he would never know. Faces that would return in dreams, silent and accusing. He had told himself once that violence was a chain. Now he wondered if it was a language the world insisted on speaking to him.
They stopped near a frozen stream to rest. Thorfinn knelt, pressing snow into a cut along his ribs. The cold burned, grounding him.
Freydis finally broke the silence.
"They weren't scouts," she said. "They were sent."
Thorfinn nodded. "Someone wanted us erased."
Einar frowned. "Who even knows we're here?"
Thorfinn did not answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the water beneath the ice, slow and dark.
"People who remember me," he said at last.
That quieted them.
Riqua stepped closer. "Your past keeps finding us."
"Yes," Thorfinn replied. "And it will keep doing that."
He rose, meeting their eyes one by one. "If any of you want to turn back"
"No," Freydis said sharply.
Einar shook his head. Riqua hesitated, then straightened. "I chose this road."
Thorfinn held their gaze, then nodded once.
"Then we keep moving."
But even as he spoke, he felt it the sense of being watched, not by men nearby, but by history itself.
Askeladd
Askeladd laughed softly as the report ended.
"So," he said, swirling the wine in his cup, "the boy bleeds again."
The man kneeling before him kept his eyes down. "Hjorvik lost nearly thirty men."
Askeladd's smile thinned. "Amateurs."
He leaned back in his chair, boots resting on the edge of the table. The fire crackled beside him, warm and indulgent. He had earned this comfort. Every scar on his body had bought him a moment like this.
"Thorfinn always was troublesome," he mused. "Even when he tried to stop being dangerous."
The messenger dared to look up. "Should we pursue?"
Askeladd tilted his head, studying the man as if he were a piece on a board. "No."
"No?"
"If you chase a man who wants to disappear," Askeladd said, "you only teach him where to strike."
He stood and walked to the tent opening, staring out at the grey horizon.
"Besides," he added, voice lower now, "there are other hammers I can swing."
He thought of Thorfinn as a child knife in hand, eyes burning with hate. Thought of him now, older, heavier, trying to carry peace on shoulders shaped by war.
You can't outrun what made you, Askeladd thought. Only decide what you do with it.
"Send word north," he said. "Thorkell will be nearby."
The messenger stiffened. "That monster?"
Askeladd grinned, sharp and pleased. "Every story needs a force of nature."
Thorkell
Thorkell was laughing when the messenger arrived.
Laughing hard enough that the men around him stepped back, wary. His axe rested across his shoulders, blade nicked and stained from the morning's practice. Two warriors lay groaning at his feet, ribs cracked, pride shattered.
"What is it?" Thorkell boomed.
The messenger swallowed. "Askeladd sends word. Thorfinn lives."
The laughter stopped.
For a moment, the camp held its breath.
Then Thorkell's grin returned wider, brighter, almost childlike.
"Lives?" he repeated. "Of course he does!"
He clapped the messenger on the back hard enough to stagger him. "Where?"
"South. Near the old settlements."
Thorkell turned, roaring orders. Men scrambled half excited, half terrified. Weapons were grabbed. Armor strapped on.
As Thorkell lifted his axe, his eyes gleamed with something close to affection.
"Little Thorfinn," he said. "Still running. Still fighting."
His smile softened, just a fraction.
"I wonder," he murmured, "what kind of man you've become."
Thorfinn
The ambush came at dusk.
This time, it was not careful.
Horns sounded from the hills. Too many voices. Too loud.
Thorfinn felt the shape of it instantly this was not erasure. This was challenge.
"Form up," he ordered.
They moved, backs together, weapons ready. The enemy came charging down the slope, screaming, reckless.
Einar loosed arrow after arrow, dropping men, but the line kept coming. Freydis met the first wave head on, shield shattering, sword carving red arcs through the air.
Thorfinn stepped forward and became what the world demanded of him.
He cut, blocked, moved. Every strike efficient. Every kill necessary. He took blows, felt bone jar, muscle tear. He kept going.
Riqua fought near him, wild but learning, instincts sharpening into skill. When he stumbled, Thorfinn dragged him upright and shoved him back into motion.
"You live first," Thorfinn shouted. "Think later!"
They broke the enemy line, but more came.
Then the ground shook.
A laugh rolled over the battlefield, deep and joyous.
Thorfinn froze.
He knew that sound.
The men parted as a massive figure strode forward, axe gleaming, eyes alight.
"THORFINN!" Thorkell roared. "THERE YOU ARE!"
The world narrowed.
Thorfinn stepped out from his people, knives lowered but ready.
"Thorkell," he said.
They stood facing each other amid the chaos, two legends cut from opposite ends of the same blade.
"You've grown," Thorkell said, delighted. "Still trying not to kill everyone?"
"Yes," Thorfinn replied quietly.
Thorkell laughed again. "That's boring."
He raised his axe.
"Show me anyway."
The clash was thunder.
Steel met steel, shockwaves ripping through the air. Thorfinn was driven back, boots carving trenches in the dirt. Thorkell's strength was monstrous, every blow meant to end wars.
Thorfinn dodged, slipped inside the reach, slashed deep along Thorkell's side. Blood sprayed.
Thorkell grinned wider. "There it is!"
They fought not for victory, but for truth. For what they were.
Around them, the battle slowed, men backing away from the storm they had unleashed.
Thorfinn ducked a killing blow, drove a knife into Thorkell's thigh, twisted, leapt back.
Breathing hard, he spoke.
"I'm done being your entertainment."
Thorkell paused.
For the first time, his expression changed not anger, not joy, but something close to respect.
"Hah," he said softly. "Good."
He lowered his axe.
"For now."
The horns sounded retreat. The enemy pulled back, dragging their wounded, eyes filled with fear and awe.
Thorkell turned away, laughing once more. "We'll finish this another day, boy."
As he left, Thorfinn stood shaking, bloodied, alive.
Freydis touched his shoulder. Einar exhaled shakily. Riqua stared at Thorfinn as if seeing him anew.
Thorfinn wiped blood from his face and looked to the horizon.
The past had found him again.
And it was not done speaking.
But neither was he.