dionadair

[dionadair]

Works Cited

Hellekson, Karen. The Alternate History: Refiguring Historical Time. The Kent State University Press, 2001. 

Jenkins, Christine A., and Michael Cart. Representing the Rainbow in Young Adult Literature: LGBTQ+ Content since 1969. Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Incorporated, 2018. 

Red and Blue. “Overly Sarcastic Productions.” Edited by Indigo, YouTube, YouTube, 2013, www.youtube.com/@OverlySarcasticProductions. 

[dionadair]

My personal influences

So, for my final project (the reason I created this blog), I also have to discuss what other creators and trends of the 21st century have influenced my works and place my stories within that context.

A major theme in my work is using a historical or pseudo-historical setting. History is my major at university and something I've been passionate about for much of my life. It's a huge part of who I am as a person, so whenever I'm trying to come up with a story idea, I often call on my expertise in the subject for inspiration. History is a practically infinite source of stories, whether adapting real events or placing a fictional character within those events. My story "Warrior's Heart," about a semi-retired viking going on a raid to feed his family, falls into the latter category. It was specifically inspired by one of my favorite book series, The Saxon Chronicles, and its TV adaption, The Last Kingdom (there's also a bit of Vikings in there, but that show is awful so I try not to think about it).

I'm also a huge fan of alternate history. In my field of study, this genre is referred to as "counterfactuals," and is the subject of some debate. Some believe it to be frivolous, a pointless exploration into what-ifs that distracts from research into reality. However, as others have pointed out, alternate historians can use the hypothetical to understand cause and effect in the real world. If one can see why something didn't happen, one can then see why it did. (Hellekson 14-15) On the storytelling side of things, for someone like me who is fascinated by history, exploring a world that is so similar yet different is a compelling prospect, and it can be a useful tool for exploring some real-world ideas. Hence, "Just Another Day," a story about nationalism, militarism, the horrors of war, friendship, and love, but rather than being set in a real-world conflict like the world wars or Vietnam, it is placed in an eternal death struggle between fictional versions of Ireland and England, each bent on the destruction of the other.

Of course, not all of my stories are set in the past, real or imaginary. Others, namely "Tero," are set in the future, a very useful place to set a story considering that the author can simply make up future events that lead to their premise. This is especially the case for dystopian authors. Each modern dystopia has three main parts: first, a unique premise. No two evil regimes can be the same. Second, a personal investment by the protagonist in overthrowing said regime. Some people just want to live their lives, so why is this one risking their neck (common motivations include love, vengeance, or both)? Third, the climactic struggle against the ruling authority. Whatever it looks like, it has to be tense, and it can never be boring. Admittedly, this is a bit harder to accomplish in a short story, which is why "Tero" comes off as somewhat rushed, and why I'm planning on turning it into a larger story soon.

In the case of "Tero," my protagonist's motivation is to rescue the girl she loves. Queer characters and stories are something I love to both read and write, and as a queer individual myself, it's very important to me. This part of my writing has been influenced by a major literary movement of the 21st century, in which queer characters and stories have not only become more common, but also better written, providing genuine visibility, tackling real-world issues (or in some cases providing an escape from them), and exploring lesser-known identities. This has especially been the case in children's and YA literature. (Jenkins and Cart, 125-6) Indeed, my personal journey in figuring out my sexuality and identity has been helped along by authors like Rick Riordan and Leigh Bardugo, or the teams behind animated series like The Dragon Prince. The books I read and shows I watch have also made me fall in love with their queer characters, which has in turn inspired the fan content I've posted on this blog.

Finally, it's worth acknowledging the more educational sources of my creativity. I have taken several creative writing classes, and some of the stories I've posted here were created explicitly for that purpose, often to experiment and push my boundaries as a creator. I have also benefitted from watching the YouTube channel Overly Sarcastic Productions, which has enhanced my historical knowledge, improved my awareness of tropes and how to use them, and inspired me to keep up my creative productivity. Without both academic and outside sources, my writing would not be nearly at the level it is today.

[dionadair]

Tero

This story was written in the spring of 2022 for my Honors Colloquium course. Each student was tasked with creating a work of art in any medium they chose. I obviously selected the written word, and concocted a short story around the premise of a dystopian society exiled to the moon by the rest of humanity.

History class was worse than just a bundle of lies: it was incredibly boring as well. The same old story, repackaged for a different time period, repeated a thousand times. Aŭroro held back a yawn and shook herself, trying to pay attention to Mrs. Disvastigi as she asked the class a series of questions.

“Who can tell me what the first country to attempt True Unity was?”

Jakobo raised his hand. “The United States of America. They created a republic based on the ideals of equality and assimilation, forming a single nation untethered to any dispute or culture.”

“Very good, Jakobo. Now, can anyone tell me how they failed?”

Mikaelo spoke up. “Like the other nation-states, they became nativist, coveting their history and proclaimed culture, and went to war with each other and the Order of Unity, resulting in the Order’s evacuation and the destruction that lasts to this day.”

“Correct, Mikaelo. And now, we wait. For the nations of Tero to destroy themselves, or, hopefully, welcome us and our glorious ideals back.” Mrs. Disvastigi smiled so sincerely at her own words that Aŭroro thought she might actually be sick. Mercifully, the ding that announced the end of class sounded, and she stood, eager to get back to her quarters.

Aŭroro made her way to a transpod and entered her room coordinates, then slumped into a seat as the device sped off between the craters of the moon. With nothing else to do, she looked out over the landscape she’d be born into. Luno had been amazing to her when she was young, but after passing over the barren gray rock thousands of times, it had gotten old. 

Aŭroro looked up just then and smiled. Tero, on the other hand, never got old. Its vibrant colors of blue, green, and white were a welcome diversion from her bleak reality. Even the tan and beige of the Sahara was more interesting than the forsaken appearance of Luno. Narrowing her eyes, Aŭroro tried to spot as many countries as she could. Africa was facing Luno, and she immediately spotted Egypt, Somalia, Ethiopia, and Madagascar. After thinking for a moment, Aŭroro remembered South Africa. It was appreciated, if not especially liked, by the Order of Unity. They were all about unification of different groups, only they preferred to think of them as not different at all.

Aŭroro knew the truth.

Just then, her transpod stopped at her habitation deck. Getting out, she walked over to her chambers, put in the code, and stepped inside. The room was warm, heated against the cold of space. It was framed by comfortable beds and seats, and had a fully-stocked kitchenette. That was about all it had going for it, however, as, much like the rest of Luno, it was boring and utilitarian. There was not a hint of architectural inspiration in the smooth metal walls, no aspect of distinction in the photographs of stone tools hundreds of thousands of years old. Nothing that could be linked to a single nation, people, or history, in case those living in the room might start to admire or identify with a single part of humanity. What a load of crap.

Aŭroro could hear water running from the bathroom. Kuraĝo must be showering.

Tired from a long day of pointless education, Aŭroro flopped onto her bed and took out her holopad. Double-checking that the VPN was still working, she opened up three tabs. One was LingoLearn, so she could practice her English. The second was Gather, a Teroan social media website. The last one was Media+, a massive database of videos, movies, and television. 

After polishing her grammar and pronunciation (why was English such a chaotic language?), she checked in on her friends in Scotland, Kurdistan, China, and numerous other regions. She assured them she was still alright, and promised she was working on getting off Luno. Then, she flipped through a few history channels on Media+ before deciding to watch classical animation instead. Maybe something from the 2020s. After all, good entertainment was almost impossible to access from Luno.

Just then, the bathroom door opened, and Kuraĝo stepped out. Aŭroro closed her tabs and looked up, raising her eyebrows in admiration.

Kuraĝo was in the Athletics Track, and she had the muscles to prove it. They casually flexed as she dried off her hair, still a little moist from the shower. Aŭroro gave a small wave to her roommate. The other girl smiled back.

“Hey Aŭroro. How goes the History Track?”

Aŭroro groaned and leaned back. “So. Boring.”

“Bad day again? You really only have yourself to blame for trying to investigate a field rife with human division, nations, and warfare. It’s going to have some very heavy overtones.”

“I know, but come on, even geography is terrible. It’s all about the tragedy of Tero that mountains and rivers have divided us, when we could have been living on flat, open plains where we would all naturally come together as one.” Aŭroro snorted derisively. “How about you? Athletics treating you well?”

Kuraĝo smirked. “You bet. You should have seen me in the wrestling ring today. Not to brag, but I was pretty amazing.”

She sat down next to Aŭroro, who was suddenly very aware of the small gap between them. “Yeah, I bet you were. Nobody stands a chance against all… this.” She gestured awkwardly to Kuraĝo’s well-muscled physique.

They sat in silence for a moment while Kuraĝo tried to think of something to respond with. Communication had never been her forte.

At that moment, a banging sounded at the door. Both girls jumped as a voice called out.

“Aŭroro Stelo, this is the Milico! You are under arrest for violating isolation, corresponding with nationalists, and attempting to foster misinformation within the Colony of Luna! You have sixty seconds to open this door, after which we will enter by force, and you will be charged with resisting arrest!”

Kuraĝo looked at her friend in shock. “What are they talking about?!” she asked.

Aŭroro grabbed Kuraĝo by the shoulder. “Look, what they’re saying about me, it’s partially true. But only because they’ve been feeding us lies since childhood.”

“Aŭroro, I don’t understand.”

“Fifty seconds!”

Aŭroro lifted up her pillow, grabbed something, and put it in Kuraĝo’s hand. It was a data chip. “Take this to the launch bay. It carries everything you need to know, plus launch codes and coordinates to a landing spot on Tero. I wish I had time to explain, but--”

“Forty seconds!”

“Look, all I’m asking is that you trust me. Please, Kuraĝo. If you want answers, the only way to get them is this chip. Tero isn’t how we’ve been told it is.”

Kuraĝo hesitated.

“Thirty seconds!”

“Please, Kuraĝo!”

Kuraĝo took a breath. “Alright. I’ll do it. For you.”

Aŭroro breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Now, grab me and carry me out so they don’t suspect you.”

Kuraĝo nodded, hid the chip in her shirt, and moved to take hold of her friend.

“Twenty seconds!”

Aŭroro hesitated, then leaned in quickly to hug Kuraĝo. “Stay safe.”

“I will,” Kuraĝo assured her, then grabbed Aŭroro and carried her to the door.

“Ten sec--”

She opened the door. Half a dozen milicanoj stood outside, stun batons at the ready.

“Here,” Kuraĝo said. “You don’t need to add the extra charge.”

One of the officers raised an eyebrow, but shrugged.

She hesitated. “Please, sir, don’t hurt her. Whatever she’s done, I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

“Don’t worry”, the senior officer replied. “She’ll be just fine.” He turned to the others. “Take her away.”

As the other milicanoj marched Aŭroro off, the senior officer turned back to Kuraĝo.

“What happened in there?” he asked. “Why did it take so long?”

Kuraĝo took a breath, steadying herself. “She tried to convince me to help her. I almost did. After that, she tried to fight me, but I managed to get her to stop.”

The officer nodded. “I see. And are you alright? I know this must have been shocking for you.”

More than he knew. “I… don’t know. I think I need to sit down for a while.”

He nodded again. “Understandable. Before I go, did you have any idea about what she was doing?”

Kuraĝo shook her head. “None at all. I’m honestly in shock at it all.” That much was true.

“Alright. Get some rest.”

Kuraĝo turned around and closed the door behind her. She walked numbly over to her bed and sat down heavily. After a moment, she took out the chip and stared at it. Part of her wanted to break it, to smash it into bits and just forget about it all. Another part, the part raised to be loyal to the colony, told her to turn it in as evidence. But she couldn’t do that to Aŭroro. If this chip had been that important to her, then Kuraĝo owed it to Aŭroro to look at whatever was on it.

Steeling herself, Kuraĝo opened up her holopad, then hesitated. If the Milico had found out whatever Aŭroro had been doing, it probably wouldn’t take them long to do the same to her. Better to make a plan.

Thinking hard, Kuraĝo resolved to head down to Compartment A3, one of her favorite hiding places from childhood. It was an old storage closet, and one rarely used. Better yet, it was practically next door to the launch bay. If she needed to make a quick escape, that would be the best option.

Kuraĝo closed the holopad and put its frame in her pocket, then looked around, wondering what she could take without looking suspicious. She settled on a couple of snack bars in her other pocket. She didn’t exactly have room for anything else.

She made her way through the building, down to the launch pad. Part of her was terrified of someone becoming suspicious and calling in the Milico on her, but the other part knew it would look more suspicious to look around rather than to just keep moving.

Eventually, nerves thoroughly wracked, Kuraĝo made it to Compartment A3. No one was around. Slipping inside, she took out her holopad, turned it on, and plugged in the chip. Immediately, a message appeared on the screen:

Upload Virtual Personal Network?

Kuraĝo thought for a moment. Whatever that was, it wasn’t like she had many other options. She pressed “Yes”, and the screen changed, indicating the upload was successful. Next, a set of files appeared. The first was labeled “History”. Kuraĝo pressed on it, and began to scroll through a mound of data. History videos, essays, and not a few pages from something called “Wikipedia”. None of it meant much to Kuraĝo; she hadn’t taken a history class in years.

She closed the file and looked through the others. Some held apparent current events, others messages from individuals on Tero. Kuraĝo could barely believe her eyes. Was all of this real? Was Tero really…at peace? It seemed impossible…

A file at the bottom caught her eye; it had her name on it. It was a video file, with Aŭroro in the thumbnail. Kuraĝo took the earbuds out from a slot in the holopad, put them in, and opened the video.

Hello, Kuraĝo, video-Aŭroro said. By now you’ve most likely looked through the information on this data chip. Possibly with the exception of the history file. Fair enough; that was never really your favorite subject.

I included this video just in case something happened to me. Apparently, it did. Anyway, the point is, now you know that virtually everything we were ever told was a lie. At least, I hope you believe me. It would be pretty annoying if I did all this and you only saw me as a filthy traitor.

Kuraĝo wished she could tell Aŭroro that was the last thing from her mind. She might have had doubts before, but she had trusted her friend for years now, and if she went to this much effort, it wasn’t just for some dumb prank.

Anyway, the last file contains the launch sequence. Hopefully you remember what we learned in flight class. The universe knows I don’t. The coordinates will take you to a small town in the province of Kurdistan. I have a friend there. It will be enough for me if you escape and live your life happily away from this hellhole we call Luna, but if you could try and convince the Teroj to help us, well, that’d be great.

I love you, Kuraĝo. Be free.

Kuraĝo took a moment to think. It didn’t take her long to make a decision. She needed to leave.

Stuffing the holopad and data chip back into her pocket, she carefully opened the compartment door and jogged, as quietly as possible, to the launch bay doors. All trained citizens had access to the ships at all times, whether for practice, emergencies, or the odd (approved) race. After all, where would they go? They were all good Unitists.

Kuraĝo filled out a practice form, selected a standard one-person craft, and climbed in, putting on the flight gear as the bay doors opened above her. While the ship was lifted up into the airlock, she surreptitiously inserted the data chip. The ship read the coordinates and plotted them out.

At last, the bay doors closed, and the airlock doors opened. Kuraĝo breathed a sigh of relief and launched the craft. Almost immediately, a warning sounded in her ear.

“Kuraĝo Forto, turn your craft around immediately. If you do not, we will be forced to open fire.”

“Hmm,” she said, pretending to consider it. “I think I’ll open the throttle instead.”

Her ship shot off, but as it did, something flared in the corner of her eye. A laser bolt had scarred her wing, and the little ship was shaking unsteadily.

Kuraĝo summoned every bit of pilot practice, wrestling with the craft to keep it on course. She was too far out of range for any more shots, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still crash and burn. It took all of her effort just to keep the ship from flying off course. Mercifully, whatever “Kurdistan” was, she was already facing its side of Tero. She closed in on the planet, praying no one there was going to shoot her down.

As if on cue, a voice crackled in her cockpit. “Lunar craft, identify yourself.”

Kuraĝo pressed the com button and began to speak. “This is Kuraĝo Forto, of Luno. I have just escaped my colony, and am on a crash course with Kurdistan. I am attempting to control my descent, but I do not know if I will succeed. Please, do not shoot.”

There was a moment of silence.

“We have your coordinates tracked, Kuraĝo. We will activate the Hewlêr tractor beam. You’ll land safely. Please continue on your current trajectory.”

~~~~

Kuraĝo waited in a small room for over an hour. After docking in the city of Hewlêr, she’d been taken to a government facility and told to wait. She hadn’t been bored, though. They’d brought her something to eat, and there was a holoscreen in the room. The food tasted absolutely amazing. The fruit was somehow fresher than it was on Luno, and the baked bread was so much better than the synthetic kind. That wasn’t even getting into the meat (which she’d never had), or the pastries.

After stuffing her face with the food, Kuraĝo had turned to the holoscreen. Thankfully, it had an Esperanto setting among several other languages, including کورمانجی, English, اَلْعَرَبِيَّةُ, 普通话, and español. After going down a rabbit hole of content, she felt thoroughly overwhelmed. There was simply so much.

It was honestly a relief for her brain when she encountered the cat videos. Whatever those soft-looking creatures were, they were absolutely hilarious, and she really wanted one.

Halfway through an animated clip involving a very weird-looking cat with rainbows coming out of it, a woman stepped into the room. She was extremely well-dressed, in a crisp black suit and matching pants.

“Hello, Miss Forto,” she said, with a slight accent, holding out her hand. “I am Anastasiya Zelenskaya, president of the Federation.”

Kuraĝo stood, pausing the strange video, and shook the woman’s hand a little awkwardly. The title sounded important, and she wasn’t sure what to say. She decided a simple greeting was probably the safest option.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry, Ms. President, but I’m not quite sure what that means.”

The president smiled. “Please, call me Mrs. Zelenskaya. And it means I’m the executive leader of this planet.”

Kuraĝo’s jaw dropped open. “You came all the way here for me?”

“Of course. You’re the first refugee from the Lunar Colony to ever flee, let alone make it to Tero. I came in from Gibraltar, which is why I was late; it was a long flight. My apologies. May I sit?”

Taken aback, Kuraĝo nodded, returning to her own seat.

Mrs. Zelenskaya took a breath and then continued. “With that in mind, I can only assume you had a great deal of motivation, and some assurance that you would be safe here, for you to come.”

Suddenly, Kuraĝo felt guilty. Here she was, enjoying the luxuries of Tero, while Aŭroro was in prison, experiencing who knew what kind of punishment. The milicanoj had said they wouldn’t hurt her, but Kuraĝo didn’t think she could trust them anymore.

She nodded. “My friend, Aŭroro, was arrested by the Milico. Before they took her, she gave me a data chip. It had information on it; information about Tero. It also contained the coordinates of this city; I think she had a friend here.

The president nodded. “We’d had word that a citizen of the Colony had managed to break through their firewall and contact several citizens of the Federation. We were trying to help her escape, so we sent her those coordinates as well as any information she wanted. It seems we were successful, in a way.”

Kuraĝo shook her head. “Aŭroro and so many others are still up there. You aren’t successful--I’m not successful--until they’re brought safely back home. I was lied to all my life, and I just ate it all up. So did everyone else. They’re imprisoned and they don’t even know it. Aŭroro is actually in prison, where they’re doing who knows what to her.”

President Zelenskaya raised her hands placatingly. “I understand. But up until now, we had know idea what we would be going into. Your friend, Aŭroro, was only in contact with us for a week. She never sent us any schematics or information needed to launch any kind of assault or rescue mission.” She paused. “I don’t suppose you know anything about their defenses?”

Kuraĝo nodded. “Actually, yes. Not everything, of course, but I know where all the large batteries are, as well as the launch bays and Milico barracks. Will that be enough?”

Zelenskaya’s eyes lit up. “Yes! That’s more than we could have hoped for! I can’t issue a declaration of war, but I do have the authority to initiate an operation.”

Kuraĝo stood and looked the president straight in the eyes. “Then I want in.”

Mrs. Zelenskaya raised an eyebrow. “It will be dangerous.”

“So is flying a small spacecraft while being fired at.”

“Fair point. Can you fight?”

“I’m in the Athletics Track. That includes martial arts. I almost never lose. Besides, I need to get to Aŭroro.”

Now the other eyebrow was raised. “She must mean a lot to you.”

Kuraĝo nodded. “She’s everything I have. I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

“I understand.” Zelenskaya stood. “You have my permission to join the operation.”

They shook hands again. “Thank you, Mrs. Zelenskaya. It means the world to me.”

“You’re welcome. Just try not to get hurt while saving your friend.”

“I’ll…do my best.”

~~~~

It had taken almost a month to plan and organize the operation. In that time, Kuraĝo had channeled her worry and anticipation into training for what was to be part rescue, part invasion. She’d punched, kicked, and wrestled her way through more than a few soldiers and trainers, developed a moderate ability with a firearm, and trained with stun batons. At night, she’d barely been able to sleep as she worried over Aŭroro’s fate.

Now, Kuraĝo was sitting in a transport, surrounded by around fifty other soldiers, rocketing towards Luno. She glanced around and noticed a young man--Seamus--holding a string of beads with a lopsided cross attached, his head bowed and his lips moving quietly.

Curious, she asked, “What’s that?”

He looked up and spoke in his Irish brogue. “My rosary. I’m praying to Saint Michael the archangel to intercede on our behalf with God, so we’ll be protected during battle.”

Seeing her confused expression, he asked, “Do you not follow any god?”

She shook her head. “Religion was seen as a dividing factor on Luno. Worship was prohibited.”

Seamus nodded. “I can see why. Many used to think that the different faiths couldn’t coexist. Now, however, we’ve seen that, like all our differences, this one only makes our new society better and more vibrant.”

Kuraĝo thought for a moment. “I never thought of it that way. I’m not sure I believe in any higher power, but I think I’ll look when we get back.

Seamus smiled. “Well, you’ll always be welcome in my congregation, or any you choose to call home.”

Just then, the transport slowed and began to shake. They had encountered the laser batteries. All around Kuraĝo, soldiers tensed, readying their weapons and clutching their harnesses.

After a few tense minutes, the transport touched down, locking its front onto a section of the colony. The sound of cutting metal screeched through the craft, and then the doors opened. All at once, the harnesses released, and the soldiers poured out, joining the fray.

It was a terrifying rush. Adrenaline coursed through Kuraĝo’s body like never before as she and the others battled their way through the corridors, securing the habitation deck she had once called home. After the milicanoj in the area were all captured or routed, she went with a small squad to secure the prison deck. There was only a single milico on duty.

Kuraĝo pointed her stun gun at the guard. “Open the doors and give me the cell key for Aŭroro Stelo, now!”

“Alright, alright!” The guard slowly moved one hand towards the control panel, then quickly pressed a button and ducked down. Instantly, thick security doors clamped shut in from of Kuraĝo, sealing off the cell block.

Gritting her teeth in frustration and impatience, she took a small, circular device (the soldiers called it a “puck”) out of her pocket, stuck it to the doors, and set it to “Low”. Several thin rods extended out from the puck, then ignited. The laser cutters spun around like a fan before retracting back into the device. Then, the puck struck out with a captive bolt, tipping the cut section forward and launching itself back into Kuraĝo’s hand. She pocketed it, strode towards the stunned guard, and raised the gun.

“Try again.”

He complied. After the doors were open, she left him with one of the others and jogged down the hall, looking for Aŭroro. The other soldiers followed behind. Each cell had a panel with the inmate’s name and crime on it. A surprisingly large number were filled, and many of those had the same crimes as Aŭroro.

More people who saw through the lies, Kuraĝo thought.

At last, she found Aŭroro’s cell. Kuraĝo placed the cell key in the lock and opened the door.

There was Aŭroro, staring at her in shock.

“Kuraĝo? Is that you?”

Kuraĝo thought she might cry. She dropped the gun and rushed forward, picking up Aŭroro in a tight embrace.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

Aŭroro laughed. “I guess you believed me, huh?”

Kuraĝo lowered her friend to look her in the eye. “Yes! And I came back to rescue you! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Aŭroro assured her. “The worst they did to me was put me through endless hours of ‘education’ and attempted brainwashing. They’re honestly not very good at it. It’s a good thing you arrived when you did, though, or I might have been bored to death. You’re really my knight in shining armor.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll explain it later.” Aŭroro picked up the gun and handed it to Kuraĝo, then grasped her other hand. “For now, I’m just so glad to see you again.”

Kuraĝo smiled. “Me, too.”

Hand in hand, they emerged from the cell and began to walk back, reunited at last, and free to begin their new life.

[dionadair]

I began working on this piece on February 4, 2022, and finished it on May 6. While rewatching Arcane, I decided to try my hand at something I haven't seen a lot of fan content creators do: write out a novelization of events. It was a very interesting experience since it allowed me to explore the story from a new angle and show the events of the series from a more limited perspective. Also, this is one of my favorite ships, so getting into the emotions for this one was really fun.

[dionadair]

This is an older work that took me a while to dig up. I wrote it several years ago, posting it to a Facebook fan group while I was still in high school. In May of 2022, after finishing my Arcane novelization, I decided to dig up an old work, refine it to my new standards, and post the stories on my AO3 account. The whole process took over a month, and I finished it on June 24.

[dionadair]

Just Another Day

I wrote this piece in the spring of 2022 for a creative writing class in my freshman year of college and edited it on April 2, 2023. History is a passion of mine, and alternate history is a significant part of that. The idea was to explore a version of the British Isles divided by two fierce enemies and use that as a framing device to examine ideas like nationalism, militarism, and what impact they have on those caught in the middle.

Author’s note: This is a work of alternate historical fiction, and is not bound by accuracy. Any resemblance to real individuals and historical events is coincidental and not to be treated as actual fact.

Irish Dumnonia, 1892

Barracks Officer Domhnall Airm awoke, rubbed his face, and stumbled out of bed, shielding his bleary eyes from the inexorable light of day. Like all the rooms in the barracks, the one he shared with twenty other soldiers had east facing windows, and, as the highest-ranking soldier in the room, his bunk was closest. Officers got up first, those were the rules.

It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought for the thousandth time, if we weren’t kept up late with all the shit the higher-ups won’t deal with.

As the men and women around him stirred, Dom rifled through the low-urgency reports that had arrived while he slept. Technically, he was supposed to rouse the others, but that was what the windows were for, and he had letters to read. Nothing officially important, just the latest information on rations, troop movements, etc, but there was a notice that mail from home would be coming soon. Dom breathed a sigh of relief at that. He hadn’t heard from his wife in over six months, and she had been expecting when he last came off leave.

Domhnall stood up from his tiny desk and turned around. The soldiers of his barracks were busy getting dressed, buttoning shirts and pulling on trousers. Dom surreptitiously sniffed his own shirt (he’d gone to bed in uniform) and shrugged. There was no inspection anyway.

As the barracks formed up, Domhnall noticed that two soldiers were missing… again. He turned to one of his squad officers, a sense of irritation growing in him.

“Officer Beanna, where are soldiers Morrigan and Cú?”

Beanna, his childhood friend and right hand, stood at attention, her rich green uniform pressed to perfection, and replied without a hint of inflection, “They were given a leave of absence to go into Plás an Droichid last night, Officer Domhnall, and meant to return by dawn.”

Dom pinched the bridge of his nose. For Scáthach's sake… Morrigan’s grandfather was the marshall of their force, and the greatest authority in the region. While most relatives would prioritize procedure over blood, that family’s wealth had helped fund the war for generations, which meant they became nepotists, which meant he couldn’t properly discipline the happy couple without bringing the wrath of his superior down on his sorry ass. To add to all that, he had to go on patrol to fill the gap.

“Godsdammit. When they get back, tell them they’ve got cleaning duty for the next week.” It was the worst he could do. “Second Squad, head to mess. First Squad, patrol duty.”

Half of the soldiers tramped off to breakfast, while the others groaned. Inwardly, Domhnall joined them. Every soldier and officer in the Borderlands could agree that patrolling by itself was a shitty experience, and dawn patrol was plain fucked up.

For the past 1500 years, the Irish and English had been warring over control of Britain. After some long-dead kings had unified their respective peoples, the rivalry had escalated to a conflict of empires. The Northern Highlands saw the worst of it, as control of the region would allow one side to flank the other. Meanwhile, from Cumbria to Dumnonia, where he was stationed, the English were constantly craving the west coast of the island, and Ireland was forever trying to push further inland.

The two kingdoms hated each other, and employed a huge portion of their populations in keeping the old war going on every front. Kings and generals proclaimed the glory of the state and the Celtic nation, while druids said that to drive the invaders from a Celtic island pleased the gods. Frankly, Domhnall didn’t hate the English much, so long as they kept the rules of war. The higher-ups, on the other hand, were chosen for their hatred of the Saxons, and so had decided that, in order to keep an eye on the inherently deceptive and underhanded English, double dawn patrols were needed. Patrols where troops were tired, enemies were lurking, and the British weather hadn’t yet had a chance to warm up to a somewhat sensible temperature, even in summer. All of that conspired to make dawn patrol, as stated, fucked up.

As First Squad grabbed their rifles (and, in Séamas’ case, the machine gun), Domhnall took Beanna aside.

“Anna,” he said, using her childhood nickname, “I’m out of ideas for what to do about those two. I can’t punish them, and they don’t seem to care about their squad and barracks.”

Beanna shrugged. “Why would they? She’s set up for a lifetime of promotions, and he’ll be pulled up with her.”

“Then we’re all doomed. If they’re in charge in 30 years, then the war will be over in 31.”

“Then go higher than her grandfather. Write to the general, anonymously, and inform him of your concerns.”

“How many reports like that do you think he has to sift through every day?”

“Then you’ll wait. But it’s better than those two fucking up the entire southern front through too much conjugation and too little competence.”

“True.”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

One mile past the fort lay the Tree Line, a simple name for the massive complex of underbrush, forest, and growth running from the Northern Highlands to the Channel that both sides had let grow as a defensive measure. Unfortunately, this meant that patrols had to dig through miles of it before their shift was up, and Scáthach help you if you were late getting back.

Desperate to break the dull monotony of the patrol, Domhnall turned to Beanna.

“So, Officer Beanna, did you say you were engaged?”

She offered a rare smile. “Yes, Officer Domhnall. Three months ago. I’ve been permitted leave in two weeks for the wedding.”

“If thinking about her can make you smile, she must be something. What’s her name?”

“Mallory.”

“Occupation?”

“Blacksmith.”

“Let me guess, redhead? You always did prefer-”

She shot him a look. “Watch it. But yes, hair like fire, and a personality to match.” Her smile returned, softer than before.

Dom grinned and glanced back to preempt any eavesdroppers. “You really love her, don’t you? And here I was thinking you only had room in your heart for protocol.”

“Surprising as it may seem”, she replied, looking at him sideways, “I’m more than muscle and discipline. And I’ll have you know Mallory finds both attractive.”

“Well, then, you must be doing something right. Still, I’m the one with a wife and kids, so I think my method of being open and witty works better.” 

Anna elbowed him playfully and gave a gesture that was definitely not protocol. Domhnall smirked and returned the gesture. That’s the way it had been with them for a while. They’d been friends for as long as either could. Both were orphaned by the war and taken in by the army. Like all orphan soldiers, they had taken the army’s name as their own; a new family to replace the one taken from them, bound by blood. Morbid, to be sure, but when it was all you had, you took what you could get.

For years, Domhnall and Beanna had played, trained, and fought together. They’d spent their years in the army school playing pranks on teachers; or rather, he’d played the pranks and dragged her into them. The headmaster had often remarked that if he could combine Dom’s ability to command loyalty with Anna’s discipline, he would have the greatest officer to ever leave the halls of his school. As it was, he’d gotten a rascal and an annoyingly steadfast friend.

After graduating, their lives had changed. They’d gone to the front with over a dozen friends, most of them in the same squad. After 20 years of fighting, only five still lived. Despite the death and carnage, indeed because of it, they had only grown closer. They’d trudged through miles of muck and mud, tended to each other’s wounds, and saved each other’s lives more times than either could count. They’d buried friends and comrades, stood up to corrupt officers, and confided their deepest, darkest secrets.

There had been good times as well. Helping one another out of bars, celebrating rare victories, playing jokes on their fellow soldiers, and, of course, Domhnall’s wedding to the love of his life, Erin. Beanna had stood beside him as he made his vows to his wife and the gods. They’d been there for each other in everything, and Dom couldn’t wait to return the favor.

Domhnall shook himself out of his reminiscence. He needed to stay alert, not get lost in memories and thoughts of marriage. The squad kept a watchful eye out, peering through the brush. Most of the time, this was more or less for show. If any English soldiers were actually spotted, neither side usually cared enough to open fire. Unless, of course-

“Officer! Officer!” A soldier crashed through the brush, and immediately the entire squad tensed, guns at the ready. Domhnall placed a hand on the panting lad’s shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Skirmish… next patrol up… they had a unit officer with them… ” the boy replied, gasping for breath.

Domhnall cursed under his breath. Almost everyone that outranked him would jump at the chance to “kill the Saxon bastards”, and some patrol had ended up with one of the idiots. He turned around and nodded at Beanna.

She nodded back and ordered, “First Squad, move out, double time!”

As the others ran ahead, Dom turned back to the messenger. “Listen, you keep going down the line. Go all the way to the Channel if you have to, and tell every soldier and officer you find, got it?”

The soldier nodded.

“Good. Now, go!”

The ten-minute sprint to the fight felt like an eternity. By the time they arrived at the scene, another patrol had already arrived, and the sound of gunfire filled the air. Without needing to be told, the squad spread out, taking up positions in the brush and firing at anything that moved. Seamus set up his gun and began to empty bullets into the trees, the sound of his weapon joining the other automatics already in place.

Domhnall and Beanna crouched, side-by-side, behind a rock, and recited a tactic they’d perfected in training. While one took shots at the enemy, the other reloaded and glanced at those nearby, checking for wounded or panicking soldiers. Domhnall took his turn, firing off four rounds before he heard a scream from where his last bullet had gone. He squeezed off eight more bullets on either side of the source and turned back to reload. Beanna was by far the superior shot, or perhaps just more patient. She aimed more carefully than him, preferring specific targets to the standard spread. When her clip was empty, she grabbed Domhnall.

“That rock outcropping over there”, she said, pointing. “If I can get to it, I’ll have a better position to snipe at them.”

Dom nodded. “I’ll give you some cover fire.” He leaned over to yell at the squad: “Cover Beanna!”

The firing rate immediately intensified, and Beanna sprinted, crouched low, for the boulder. Then, three things happened all at once. First, a bullet tore through Seamus’ skull, shattering the back of his head and silencing his gun. Second, someone cried out, “Grenade!” Third, a great boom echoed, and Domhnall was thrown backward.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

The world was full of ringing, a sharp keen like banshees screeching in his ears. Dom shook himself, got his bearings, and glanced around to see Beanna’s prone form splayed out, twenty feet away. Heedless of the gunfire, he sprinted over to find his best friend, still alive, but missing her right leg. He yelled for a medic and tore off a length of his jacket to staunch the bleeding and make a tourniquet. When the medic and his second arrived and shooed him away, Domhnall paused, thinking for just a moment. Then he reloaded, fixed his bayonet, and charged, heedless of the bullets whizzing around him.

There was nothing in his mind but hot rage and pure instinct, mixing into an unbroken concentration that carried him relentlessly forward. Firing as he went, by some miracle Dom made it to the enemy line. There, he stabbed one Saxon with his bayonet, and cracked another’s chin with the rifle butt. He twisted and whirled, tearing through his opponents in a haze of vengeance, until at last more Irish troops streamed into the gap, routing the enemy, and, as poets and commanders would describe it, “winning the day”.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

That evening, as Beanna lay in the medical wing, struggling for life, Domhnall stood still as he received some pointless medal and a promotion to unit leader. While the officers acclaimed his actions, he felt numb. When the award was pinned to his chest, he felt sick. As he heard them clapping, applauding a day that had killed so many for no reason, he felt the nausea roil and condense into a red-hot rage. When asked if he had anything to say, Dom swallowed back his anger and asked to be allowed to stay in his barracks. Bemused, the overchief agreed.

The moment he was out of the room, Dom sprinted to the medical wing. If he stayed in that accursed room any longer, he’d choke on the anger stuck in his throat. When he arrived, Anna was unconscious, her breathing rapid and shallow. Dom collapsed into the chair and let out his anger as tears, weeping at the unfairness of it all. His friend was fighting for her life, having taken a grievous wound for her people, her country, and this fucking war, and here he was, without one wound.

What was the point? Why were they there, on some godsforsaken peninsula, fighting an made-up enemy after so many centuries? Why was he sitting in a new uniform, with symbols of valor and rank? He didn’t deserve any of it. He hadn’t saved anyone, only made it easier for them to kill the men on the other side of the line. What line? Why was there a line? Why was his worth tied to the ability to push a border on a map a few inches?

He didn’t have any answers. Only a thousand gods-damned questions that boiled down to wondering why the only thing he had ever known was a war that took everything without shame or mercy, that existed for nothing but itself and the ego of rulers. Perhaps he would never know.

When he couldn’t stand just sitting there anymore, Dom struggled back to the barracks and put pen to paper. First, he wrote to Seamus’ brother, a chiefling on the Highland front, and the only person he ever received letters from. Then, he wrote two more letters, one for a bullet to the chest, the other for shrapnel in the thigh. Finally, after a short deliberation, he penned one last missive to Mallory, copying her address from the last letter she had sent to Beanna. He spoke of his friend’s courage, her injury, and, unable to say anything else, assured Mallory that her intended was still alive, and would regain consciousness. Perhaps he wrote it for himself, as well.

With that horrible work finished, Domhnall ended his day with an entry in his journal.To my children and theirs, he wrote, today began as just another day…

[dionadair]

The "Incident"

This piece was written for a flash fiction course in the spring of 2023. I wanted to diversify my writing style, try something new, and just have some fun, so I wrote a little comedic piece designed to keep the reading wondering what the hell happened.

“Hey, Ryan.”

“Hey, Billy.”

“Well, that happened.”

“Yup.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know, maybe run for our lives?”

“That’s certainly a valid idea. I’m not sure how we’re going to explain this.”

“Yeah, the goat alone would be enough.”

“Not to mention the spandex.”

“Ugh, let’s never mention that again. I can’t unsee it.”

“Or unhear it.”

“I don’t think we can run, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, my license was revoked after the last time we tried this, and you were put on probation.”

“Which I then violated because you said ‘oh, it’ll be fine this time, don’t worry!’ I’d say I had plenty of reasons to worry, you dumb fu-”

“And second of all, no one was hurt this time! We only got arrested ’cause Larry was sent to the hospital.”

“The goat would beg to differ. We’ll be put away for animal abuse.”

“Hey, it’s not our fault the goat stumbled onto the tripwire. Besides, it’ll make a full recovery, and we have camera evidence showing that it wasn’t deliberate!”

“And showing us doing the exact thing the court ordered us not to do!”

“But this time we didn’t use any gunpowder! I see our sentence as a sort of constructive criticism. I bet we can clean this up, return the goat to Larry, and get this all settled without involving the authorities.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said last time, and then the FBI and KGB showed up. I didn’t even know the Soviets were monitoring us.”

“They weren’t, they were keeping an eye on the CIA operatives next door.”

“We have such a weird neighborhood.”

“Yeah. Come one, help me lift the goat. And mind you don’t step on the other tripwire, I’m not paying for your medical bill this time.”

[dionadair]

Eons

This was written for a short fiction class in the spring of 2023. The idea here was to tell a story on the geologic time scale, while still making it about something seemingly small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

They could not know it, but they were the first. Single-celled organisms, born from the primordial soup that filled the depths of young Gaea’s oceans, 800 million years after her birth. They fed, and they grew over the dark deep, covering the ocean floor. They evolved, covering themselves in slime to stay safe in the midst of earthquakes and sea volcanoes.

And then they died. Masses of them, expiring to give rise to the circle of life. But in death they grew stronger. Time, which had ended them, made them powerful, made them… one. They turned to stone, a mark of life’s first great achievement on the young world. Eternal in their end.

A couple hundred million years later, new life would begin to feed on sunlight, rather than the products of Earth’s creation. Nearly three billion years would pass from that before life became multicellular. All the while, life’s monument waited beneath the waves, unaware of the things to come, or indeed those that already had.

As life grew, so too did the land. The oceans began to recede, and dry land gave a new home to life. New creatures, monstrous and beautiful, appeared in the land, sea, and sky. All the while, the place that those ancient bacteria had called home began to feel light upon its surface. The oceans grew shallower, until, when dinosaurs roamed, that spot of earth was released from the depths.

Mountains rose, forests came and went, ice caps grew and receded. Then, after so much time, a new creature emerged, one more curious about the world than those which had come before. They did not know the true meaning of the stones they touched, but in the wavy patterns they found beauty.

Man became ever smarter, ever more cunning, and ever more curious. At last, they knew the mystery of life’s monument, the story of those first creatures that gave rise to all others. They searched and digged and explored, looking for more signs of these ancestors. They took them to museums, to be studied and admired for generations.

They could not know it, but they were found.

[dionadair]

Warrior's Heart

This is the first post in a blog I've created for my Creative Writing final. The purpose is to display my creative works and discuss some of my influences. This piece, written for a fiction writing class on April 28, 2022, was inspired by my love of history and historical fiction. I wanted to write a story that showed Vikings as more than just a historical legend but as a group of people living their lives and trying to survive in a harsh environment.

Trygve Knútrsson hauled in the last catch for the day and sighed. Weeks of fishing, and he still didn’t have enough to last his family through the winter. It was going to be a bad one, too. The weather had already begun to turn, chill winds blowing the land of Agðir from summer into fall. Shaking his head in frustration, Trygve hoisted the sail of his little boat and began the journey back to shore.

As he rounded a small peninsula, the town of Arnardalr came into view. It was not a great city like those in the Kristinn kingdoms to the south, but it was a lively place nonetheless. To the south and north, several farmsteads sat on the edge, eking out a living in the rocky soil. Further inland, atop a hill, sat the king’s mead hall, secure within its fortress. On the coast, the docks and market made up the town’s center, while most of the houses sat between the coast and the hills, the more recent ones nestled into the landmark that gave the town its name: Eagle Valley. Around it all, a palisade guarded the settlement from its enemies: Vestfold to the north, the Þilir tribe further inland, and Rogaland, once a part of Agder, across the mountains that rose above the town, even from a distance.

When Trygve arrived, the docks of Arnardalr were bustling with activity, despite the late hour. He slung his catch over his shoulder and looked around, wondering what was going on. He spotted Øgder Eiríkrsson, a young and wealthy warrior, and approached him. The younger man was a pain in the ass to all who knew him, but his status meant he usually knew things before anyone else. Unfortunately, he was perpetually smug about it.

“Good evening, Øgder,” Trygve said. “What is going on here? I thought I would be the last in.”

Øgder smirked at Trygve’s apparent lack of information. “Have you not heard, old man? King Haraldr is ordering a raid. One that he will be leading. It leaves tomorrow.”

Trygve’s mouth dropped open. “Really? The king himself wants to go viking?”

“Indeed. He is leaving his daughter, Åsa, in charge while he is gone. Good news for her lover, if she has one.”

“I suppose you will be joining in on it?”

“I will indeed. There will be men to kill, treasure to plunder, and women to enjoy, in that order!” Øgder laughed, then looked at Trygve more closely. “You should join us. You are a fighter and a sailor, even if your best years are long behind you.”

Trygve shook his head. “My days of killing men are over, and there is only one woman I rest with.”

“That is the problem, I hear. You have many mouths to feed, do you not? Come to Ænglaland. Raid a Kristinn temple. You will return with enough food and wealth to see your family through their lives.”

Trygve shook his head. “Not if I die.”

“Then you will go to Valhǫll! There is no greater honor! And you are running low on that account, I think.”

Trygve’s hands clenched as he resisted the urge to toss the impudent youth into the bay, and instead walked away before he lost control. “Or I will drown, go to Rán, and be trapped in her nets forever. Good day, Øgder.”

“Good day, old man!” Øgder called back. “Enjoy your eternity in Hel, then!”

Bastard. Trygve should have grabbed him by the throat. But he knew where that would lead, and it was a path he had walked for too long when he was that age. No longer.

Trygve walked home, his mind torn by his conversation with Øgder. Should he leave, risking his life and the lives of his wife and children for wealth and full bellies, or stay, and risk starvation in the place he knew? It was too much for his tired mind.

As Trygve drew closer to his humble dwelling, he spotted movement in the forest nearby. From the trees, Orm, Bjørn, and Hilda emerged, carrying a large elk with them. Trygve grinned and jogged towards them.

“What have we here?” he said when he reached them. “Who has the honor of this kill?”

Hilda straightened proudly. “I do, Father.”

Trygve clapped her on the shoulder. “Well done, daughter.”

Bjørn scowled. “Well, I was the one who scared it towards you.”

Hilda raised an eyebrow. “Yes, by being so noisy that this kill is practically a miracle from the gods.”

Bjørn kicked at his sister, but she danced out of reach, laughing.

“What is all this noise I hear?” The door of their home opened and Trygve’s wife, Revna, walked out, her face lighting up when she saw the elk.

“Well, well!” she said. “It seems your hunt was successful!”

Hilda stepped forward proudly. “It was my kill, Mother!”

Revna looked at her critically. “It is unwise to boast before someone has asked, Hilda. However, I am proud of you. Bring it inside; we will clean the kill and then have dinner.”

The house was filled with laughter and happiness that evening. Ulf, Hilda’s twin, talked of his exploits leading the local teens into mischief. Astrid spoke of the boy she was courting, the son of a successful merchant. Bjørn and Hilda, the largest and strongest, wrestled one another. Orm and Frida, clever and wise beyond their years, talked for over an hour, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. Trygve and Revna looked on in pride, but worry began to stir in Trygve’s mind.

That night, as their children lay in bed, he turned to Revna. “It is not enough.”

She sighed. “I know. Even with the elk, I do not know how we will survive the winter.”

Trygve hesitated. “There may be a way. You heard of King Haraldr’s raid?

Revna propped herself up on one arm. “You said you would never fight again. You told me you feared the berserkr far too much to continue.”

He shook his head sadly. “I am not sure I have a choice. Even if we survive the winter, what then? Our children will struggle their whole lives. Ulf, Bjørn, and Hilda can go viking, but that is a way to die young. Astrid is too poor to marry the boy she loves, and Orm and Frida have no prospects but the farm, and we both know that is no life for minds such as theirs.”

Revna frowned. “How can you speak of keeping our children safe when you throw yourself into danger?”

“Because it is my duty as a father to protect and provide for them for as long as possible.”

“That is my duty as well. I should go; I am as skilled a warrior as you, but without the risk of losing control.”

Trygve shook his head. “No. Losing me will hurt them, but losing you would tear them apart. But if I come home rich, they will have a place in the world.”

Revna cupped his cheek. “If you come back at all.

He took her hand and kissed the palm. “I promise that I will.”

Early in the morning, he kissed Revna goodbye, packed a bag with supplies, and grabbed his sword and shield. For a moment, he stared at the runes inscribed on the oak: symbols meant to protect him and give him strength in battle. He would need them soon.

Turning to his children’s corner of the house, he was surprised to find them all sitting up.

“Frida and I know we do not have enough to get through the winter, even with Hilda’s hunting skills,” Orm said, matter-of-factly.

“And I heard about the raid. It only made sense that you would leave,” Frida put in.

“Then they told the rest of us,” Ulf finished. “They are not very good at keeping secrets, and certainly not from me.”

Orm rolled his eyes. “We were not trying to keep it a secret; we told you readily.”

“Stop pretending you are smarter than us, it is embarrassing, brother,” Frida added.

Ulf frowned, but kept quiet.

Smiling, a little sadly, at their antics, Trygve knelt down beside his children. “The gods know how much I wish I could stay. But Frida and Orm are right; this is our only recourse.”

He looked at each of them in turn. “Ulf, you take my place until I return.”

Ulf smirked. “So, Mother is still in charge.”

Trygve chuckled at the truth of it. “Exactly. Bjørn, Hilda, protect the others. Orm, Frida, in case I do not return, figure out what you will need to survive.”

“But, you will return, right?” Astrid asked, her doe-like eyes pleading with him . “Promise us you will come back, Father.”

He hugged her close. “Gods willing. Make sure everyone’s spirits are kept high, Astrid. Including yours.”

She nodded solemnly. Smiling sadly, Trygve embraced each of his children, then stood and departed.

------------

Øgder had chuckled in satisfaction when Trygve had arrived at the docks, but after a week of sailing, no one was laughing. The clear summer skies of the West Sea were giving way to early autumn storms, and on the last evening of their journey, one hit. Þórr swung his hammer, sending booming thunder and bolts of lightning across the darkened sky; Rán buffeted the two longships with endless waves, each larger than the last.

But vikings did not give in so easily, even to the gods. Ropes were hauled, oars heaved, and songs sung as the men and women fought against the storm. Hours passed, arms strained, and throats went dry from the songs. Yet still they fought.

At last, the storm ended, and a sharp-eyed young warrior spotted white cliffs on the horizon. King Haraldr laughed in satisfaction.

“The storm failed to blow us off course! We have all but reached our target!”

The vikings cheered. Wealth and glory were within their grasp.

They came upon a large town on the Kentish coast, surrounded by several farmsteads. It was not the target; it was fortified, likely held a garrison of soldiers better-equipped for a siege, and did not possess the wealth to justify the effort. Instead, the vikings would be targeting the monastery outside the gates. It stood tall on a slight rise, topped by a bell tower, with masterfully carved oaken doors. Its chambers would be filled with gold, silver, and every other kind of treasure. The thought of the riches inside those doors energized the raiding party. Trygve was more cautious. He knew from experience that everything rested on the next few minutes, and how quickly the Kentish would respond. Either they would come home rich, or few would come home at all.

However, the raid began simply enough. Alarm bells sounded in the monastery, the doors were shut, and a chorus of screams and shouts came from the town nearby. By the time the two ships beached, a band of soldiers had emerged from the gates, sprinting desperately to the monastery. When they arrived, they would be tired and scared; much easier to kill than fresh, entrenched fighters.

It was all so familiar to Trygve, like the rhythm of a song that he still remembered from his youth. He could feel the rush of battle enter his veins.

“Come, drengr!” Haradlr called. “We have men to kill and wealth to loot!”

The vikings cheered and yelled, then leapt from the ships: eighty warriors, armed, armored, and ready for blood. They charged up the beach, formed a shield wall, and crashed into the Kentish lines, screaming their war cries. Trygve found himself in the front; what his father had called “Valhǫll’s gate”. He lifted his long knife and thrust it forward, feeling the soft resistance of flesh, then the warm burst of blood. Its coppery scent filled his nose, and his mind went crazed, like a shark. He drew the knife back and thrust, again and again, shoving forward with his shield, fighting like a man possessed.

An age later, or perhaps only a moment, he was beyond the enemy line, surrounded by the bodies of his foes, while the other vikings cheered and mocked the few men who were escaping back to the town. Then, they turned on the monastery. Trygve took a moment, however. By waiting, he risked losing the best pickings, but he needed to catch his breath and get back under control, or only the gods knew what he might do.

He caught up to the rest of the raiding party just as they bashed down the door. Most of them, filled with bloodlust and the thrill of battle, chased the monks and nuns through their halls. Trygve came in more slowly, grabbing any treasure he could find and shoving aside any monk or priest who tried to shove a cross in his face (unless it was silver; then he just took it). They were not worth giving in to the berserkr.

Trygve grinned when he found the pantry. It was stuffed with food, enough to last a village ten winters. His family would eat well. As he grabbed whatever he could still carry, he heard a noise. Glancing to the side, he saw a girl, no older than Astrid, shivering on the floor. She looked up at him, and he was struck by her eyes. There was fear there, yes, but courage too. She would not die screaming.

Just then, Øgder entered the room. “A good find, old man!” he called. “Plenty of food for the journey home--oh, and a far more delicious feast!” He looked at the girl hungrily.

Trygve stepped between them. “She is not for you, Øgder.” Seeing the look on the other man’s face, he continued, “Look at her. She is barely more than a child.”

Øgder sneered. “Just because you coddle your brood, Trygve, does not mean that I cannot take a Saxon girl if I want. Besides, knowing the Christians, she could probably use the experience!” He laughed and stepped forward, only to find Trygve’s blade at his chest.

“What do you think you are doing, old man?” Øgder muttered dangerously. “Threatening me, of all people? What is your stake in this?”

Trygve thought fast. “I claim her as my slave. You cannot have her without my permission.”

“As if you could stop me. I am taking her, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“Then I will take the matter before King Haraldr.”

Øgder’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. It will be your funeral.” He stormed out of the pantry.

Trygve finished gathering food and turned to the girl, who stared at him with wide eyes. Crouching down, he spoke to her in Ænskr.

“Do not be afraid, girl. I will protect you from men like Øgder. But you must come with me, do you understand?”

She shrunk back, curling into a tight ball. Trygve’s brow furrowed. How could he get her out? Then, an idea came to his mind. Taking the hammer of Þórr he wore around his neck in his hand, he held it up to her, then took a jeweled copy of the Kristinn holy book he’d found from his bag.

Speaking as gently as he could, Trygve said, “I swear by my gods, and by the words of yours, that I will protect you. Do you understand?”

Hesitantly, the girl nodded, and took his outstretched hand, standing slowly. She was a petite girl, with a soft face at odds with the determination rooted in her steel-gray eyes.

Outside the monastery, five makeshift pyres burned for those who had died. Trygve knew none of them, but he still paused by the flames for a moment to pay silent respects before continuing on. King Haraldr sat on a small boulder, surrounded by warriors, including Øgder and his father, Eiríkr. Trygve sighed. What had he done? Eiríkr was a jarl, with far more influence than a peasant.

Haraldr called to him. “I understand you have a dispute with Øgder Eiríkrsson, Trygve  Knútrsson. What have you to say?”

Trygve drew himself up, shielding the girl behind him. “Wise king, I claimed this girl as my slave. Øgder wishes to rape her, but she is mine now, and I will not have it.”

Haraldr raised an eyebrow. “Øgder says he had already made his intent to enjoy her known, before you claimed her.”

“He did, but failed to stake his claim.”

“Hmm.” Haraldr sat silently for a moment, looking between Eiríkr, Øgder, and Trygve. Then he spoke. “Here is my verdict. Trygve, you will keep this girl as your slave, but Øgder will have her once, after which your rights will be respected. If you will not accept this, then we will have a hólmganga.”

Trygve was surprised. “Is it not custom to wait at least three days before the duel?”

Haraldr shrugged. “We must leave soon, so it must be done now. Will you fight or not, Knútrsson?”

Trygve hesitated, then looked down at the girl. “I accept.”

“Very well.” Haraldr stood. “Hákon Hákonsson, bring the staves.”

A warrior laid out several hazel rods, forming a makeshift square. Trygve and Øgder stepped inside and began to circle one another.

Øgder struck first, thrusting out with his blade. It was a cautious strike, meant to measure Trygve’s ability. He batted it aside with his shield and returned the blow, then stepped back in turn. Now the fight was on. They exchanged a series of strikes and thrusts, swords and shields clashing. After a few blows, Øgder managed to cut Trygve’s arm, just below the elbow. He gritted his teeth against the pain. A large part of him screamed to be released, to unleash its fury upon Øgder, but he resisted the urge to give into rage. He would not lose himself again.

Trygve feinted, then pressed forward, putting his full weight behind the shield and slamming into Øgder, who stumbled back but remained inside the square. Shouting a battle cry, he charged back, raining a series of blows down on Trygve. He was young, fast, and strong. Trygve fell back, dangerously close to the edge of the square. The yells and jeers of the other vikings rang in his ears, trying to drain his courage. Between them, the effort of staying calm, and the pain from his arm, he was beginning to lose focus.

Trygve danced around the next few blows, trying to find an opening to strike at, but none appeared. He could feel himself weakening, the wound making it more and more difficult to keep a hold of his sword. Despair filled his soul. All of his promises, all of his caution, were worth nothing now. He would die, and his family would starve.

Then, he saw the girl. She was staring at him from behind Øgder. Øgder, who would rape her until she broke, then cut her throat when she was of no more use to him. No; he would not allow that fate to befall someone so innocent. He would not leave her, or his family, behind.

You are mine, Trygve thought to the berserkr. You are a tool of destruction, but I will use you to protect those who cannot defend themselves. You obey me, rage. Now, unleash our vengeance.

The fury that had been building up inside him screamed for release, and Trygve allowed it, unleashing a war cry like a bear’s roar. He ran at Øgder, giving everything he had in a burst of rage he had not felt in years. His sword flew like silver lightning, shattering Øgder’s defenses. Trygve pulled back his left arm, then thrust it forward with the force of his charge behind it, sending his shield crashing into his enemy. Øgder went down, and Trygve’s sword followed in an arc, piercing his opponent’s chest.

Blood spurted from Øgder’s mouth as he gasped for breath. His eyes darted desperately around until they fixed upon his sword, a few arm-lengths away.

“P-please…” he sputtered, “let me go… to Valhǫll.”

For a moment, Trygve’s rage told him not to consider it. Then he came to himself. Øgder had not lived with honor, but he was still a warrior, and was dying a warrior’s death. It would be more dishonorable to consign him to Hel. He picked up the sword and placed it in Øgder’s hand, wrapping the fingers around the hilt. Then he drew his own blade out of Øgder’s chest and watched him die.

-------------

After a day at sea, the girl finally spoke. “Why did you save me?”

Trygve sighed. “I have three daughters. If anything happened to them, or my sons, I would not be able to forgive myself. How could I let the same thing happen to you?”

After a long pause, she said, “My name is Æðelflæd. Thank you for saving me.”

“Trygve Knútrsson. You are welcome.”

On the second day, she asked, “Why did you give him his blade? And what happened to you during the fight?”

Trygve let out a sigh. “I gave Øgder his sword so that he could die as a warrior. Otherwise, his fate would have been one of misery and dishonor in the next life. I would be no better than him. And what happened to me is that I unleashed the berserkr. It is a blessing to warriors, but a curse to those trying to be good. For many years, I kept it locked away, but to save you, I let it have its day.”

“If you were willing to spare me, why not the others? They were kind, innocent; they did not deserve to leave this earth so soon. Why would you kill them?”

“My family would have starved otherwise; and I did not kill anyone who did not already raise a blade against me. I am sorry for those you lost, but I have no control over the actions of the other raiders.”

There was another long pause, and then: “What is my life to be now?”

Trygve put on what he hoped was a reassuring expression. “I have claimed you as my slave, but you are free; you will live as my foster child. Now, I think it is time for you to answer a question of mine: why were you living in the church?”

Æðelflæd sighed. “I am an orphan. The monks and nuns took me in.”

“I am sorry.”

“May I ask one more question?”

“Ask as many as you like.”

“Where did you learn Englisċ?”

“Many years as a raider, and the occasional preacher passing through town. Not to mention, it helps when you need to bargain with a Saxon merchant. Anything else?”

She shook her head, and, for the first time, seemed to relax a little. After a while, she even fell asleep.

The next few days passed in relative silence. The mood of the party had been dampened, and Æðelflæd tried to keep their attention away from her. Trygve did not blame her. He, too, feared the anger of his fellow raiders, especially Eiríkr. Laws be damned; the man’s son had died, and vengeance could still come in the night.

Trygve’s fears were confirmed when, on one of the last nights of the voyage, Eiríkr approached him.

He spoke in a low, gravelly voice laced with malice. “You may have won the hólmganga, but do not think for a moment that this is over, Knútrsson. A blood feud has begun, and I will destroy every trace of you and your kin from this world, do you understand?”

Trygve straightened himself to his full height and looked the old jarl in the eyes. “I understand that King Haraldr’s word is law, and that the gods favor me, or else I would have died that day. So, if you come for me, I hope you are prepared to die, Ǫrnsson. Do you understand?”

They stared one another down for a moment before Eiríkr sneered and walked away. Trygve released a breath and sat back down, his heart beating like a drum. The danger was far from over.

Despite the threat, Trygve survived the journey back to Arnardalr. They came upon the town just after dawn, and the sight of home invigorated him. He was not alone; the band began to call excitedly out to those on land.

Cheers and celebration greeted them when they docked, and Trygve looked down at Æðelflæd. 

“Welcome to Agðir,” he said, then looked up as familiar voices sounded in his ears. His family stood on the docks, waving at him excitedly. Grinning, Trygve hoisted his plunder and stepped off the longship, reaching down to help Æðelflæd up before Bjørn tackled him in a hug.

Revna raised her eyebrows. “Who is this?”

“This is Æðelflæd,” Trygve answered. “I rescued her from Øgder, and sent him to Valhǫll.”

Revna sighed, but smiled at the Kentish girl. “Does she speak Norrœna?”

“Only a little. How much Ænskr do you remember?”

“Enough.”

“Frida and I speak it,” Orm interjected.

“We learned it from the priest who passed through last year,” Frida explained.

“The one that King Haraldr had run out of town.”

“Before he could teach us any of their curses, unfortunately.”

“I would like to learn,” Hilda cut in, then paused and whispered something in Orm’s ear. He whispered back, and she approached Æðelflæd and held out her hand. Taking a breath, she said, “Welcumen, Æðelflæd. Mé lícaþ þé tó métanne.” Æðelflæd smiled shyly and returned the greeting, taking the outstretched hand.

Trygve placed his hand gently on hers shoulder, and said, “Welcome to our family, Æðelflæd. It is yours now, too, if you will have it.”

Æðelflæd looked at him, then at the others, each smiling in welcome. Tears in her eyes, she looked back and nodded. “I think I will.”

Trygve smiled. “Then let’s go home.”