Chapter Text
The cold always finds its way inside, even when the hearth burns hot.
I remember the chill of December 982 AD, not just in the air of the New World, but settled deep in my bones. It was the same hollow ache that had plagued me since the Winter of 978 AD. I was nine years old then—a seasoned veteran of misery—and the weight of the secret I carried felt heavier than any shield.
Freya was gone.
Esther, my mother, told everyone the sickness took her, a swift and brutal fever. It was a damn lie. Freya was taken. By that wicked woman my mother called a mentor—Ayanna. I heard the whispered exchange, the fear in Mother’s voice, the raw, ancient power in Ayanna’s promise to take Freya to a place where she would be safe from him. Safe from Mikael.
But safe from us, too.
I hated my mother for that lie, for the forced cheer she wore like an ill-fitting cloak. Freya was the only warmth I had ever known. She was the one who shielded me from the glare of Father’s perpetual disappointment. When Mikael looked at me, born in 973 AD, he didn’t see a son; he saw a mistake. He saw the weakness of my soft hands, the contemplative frown that sat perpetually on my brow. He had loved Freya fiercely, though, and while she lived, I had a buffer. No one, not even Mikael, could truly defeat my beloved Freya.
When Freya vanished in 978 AD, Mikael’s rage turned singular and sharp, focused entirely on me.
"Why you, Finn?" he’d boom, his voice shaking the timber walls. "Why couldn’t it have been you who withered? Then your mother would finally know peace."
He didn't mean my death would bring Esther peace; he meant my death would remove the irritating reminder of his own flawed bloodline. I knew my mother had let Freya go because she was frightened—frightened that Freya, with her burgeoning power, would draw Mikael’s ire, or worse, expose some foundational betrayal Esther had committed. She was scared I would say something, scared I would tell the truth about the cold silence that followed Ayanna’s departure, not the sound of a dying girl’s cough.
That Autumn of 978 AD, Elijah was born. Suddenly, I ceased to exist. Mikael looked at Elijah and saw a true son: strong, honourable, utterly dedicated to the hunt. Mikael forgot I even breathed, devoting himself entirely to the golden boy. It was a reprieve, but it was also a confirmation that I was, truly, meaningless.
Now, four years later, here I was, nine years old, trudging through the snow behind Mama Ayanna, who was silent, her face grim. She had delivered the news brusquely: Mother had given birth to another son.
I walked into the main chamber. The fire was roaring, but the air still felt thin. Mikael stood over the cradle, his massive shadow consuming the small space. He was smiling—a rare, terrifying sight, usually reserved only for Elijah’s triumphs.
I watched him lean down, his thick, calloused finger tracing the line of the baby’s jaw. Mikael was a wolf in the sheep pen, and every new lamb born was simply another potential weakness to exploit or discard. I knew this new brother wouldn't make Mikael friendly to us, not unless he was a carbon copy of Elijah, or somehow miraculously, a reborn Freya.
Elijah, now four, was perched on a stool, peering into the cradle with the possessive curiosity of a child examining a new toy. He reached out a hesitant hand, touching the wispy hair on the baby’s head.
I stepped closer, my worn boots silent on the packed Earth floor. I studied the newest addition to our doomed lineage. This child was different.
His hair wasn't the flaxen blonde of Freya or Esther, nor the harsh, sun-bleached gold of Mikael. It was the colour of damp Earth after a rain—dirty-blond, perhaps dark blonde, a shade that belonged neither to the Vikings nor, exactly, to the villagers we had invaded. I have brown hair, dark and severe, like a shadow. This boy was a strange blend.
But then I saw his eyes.
A deep, dark blue. Not the pale, icy blue of our parents, but the rich, intense shade of the deep water, the cold fjords back in Norway, or the clear mountain springs we had found in this strange new land. They were vast and soulful, and for a terrifying, fleeting moment, I felt a connection, a primal pull that scared me. He looked defenceless, perfect.
"Finn, come meet your brother," Father commanded, turning, his rare smile freezing on his face as he realized I was not Elijah.
I approached cautiously. Esther, looking pale and exhausted, nodded to me.
"Finn, this is your baby brother... Niklaus." Mother spoke the name with a peculiar softness, a reverence that did not suit her.
I looked from my mother’s tense face to Mikael’s looming shadow. Niklaus. It sounded too grand, too stiff for the tiny, fragile thing in the cradle. Maybe Klaus, if he grew strong. Or simply Nik. But I knew better than to correct my parents, not when the air was already thick with unspoken tension.
Ayanna lifted the baby and placed him carefully in my arms. He was surprisingly solid, warm against the December chill. The dark blue eyes fixed on me, unblinking.
"Hello, Barn Bróðir," I whispered, the Old Norse words feeling heavy and meaningful. Little Brother. "I’m your Ellri Bróðir." Older Brother.
A tiny hand, no bigger than a dried plum, wrapped around my index finger.
Elijah, who had watched this transaction with mounting suspicion, let out a sharp cry of protest. "He’s mine! He’s the new toy! Give him back, Finn!"
Mikael frowned at me. "Give him back to your brother, Finn. Can’t you see Elijah wants to hold him?"
I bristled. Elijah didn't want to hold him; he wanted to control him. He wanted to possess the new focus of Father's momentary, terrifying benevolence.
I handed Niklaus over. The baby left my arms with a sigh, already settling into the familiar pattern of being the object of someone else's desire or disdain. I retreated to the shadows, watching as Elijah poked at the baby’s nose, feeling the immediate, sharp need to protect this small, fragile thing that had just entered our nest of vipers.