A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

When Steve woke, he was in danger of being covered in bodies. Sleeping bodies, some snoring, others twitching, one drooling, but bodies. The hut he was in had a single large fur on the ground, and a number of smaller ones as blankets, but it seemed that Steve’s natural body heat had been deemed to be the superior option, as every occupant huddled for warmth.

Helga, the woman with the limp who had been caring for Frelja’s brother, was on the other side of the fur from him, and between them were the children. Frelja herself was burrowed into his side, drool sticking her hair to her cheek, and her brother, Torygg, was likewise burrowing into her. Helga’s own three children completed the mass of limbs.

Outside, Steve could hear the wind howling, and the hides stretched over the wooden frame of the hut were near thrumming. Even without checking, he knew it would be bitterly cold outside. The scent of cooked meat drifted past his nose, and his eyes were drawn to the rack near the entrance flap that held a good amount of the bear he had dragged into the village the day previous. His stomach rumbled.

Gingerly, he tried to ease away from Frelja, but the girl was not agreeable. She clung tighter to him, one hand scrabbling for purchase on his suit. The movement disturbed Torygg, and Steve froze. He considered the benefits of eating against the downside of being stuck in a tent with five children who couldn’t go outside. After a short moment, he settled, closing his eyes again. He could wait.

When Steve woke for the second time, he was alone, and the wind outside had faded. The bear steaks were still on the rack, and he was quick to take a heavy cut for himself, gnawing on the cold and tough meat. Hunger made it delicious, and he finished it quickly, taking another and chewing it down to the bone. He checked his pockets, finding all his tools where they should be and his shield over by the back of the hut where he had left it before giving in to his weariness the day before. A bucket of water by the entrance made him realise how thirsty he was, and he drained it in several long gulps, revelling in the pure drink. Manners demanded that he refill the bucket that he had drained, and he took it with him as he ducked outside, back into the frozen hell.

He was not alone, the sun overhead and the activity in the village suggesting that it was at least midmorning. Helga sat on a log nearby, scraping bits of meat and flesh off an animal skin that was stretched out over a triangle of branches slotted together. Steve realised it was the bear he had slain.

“Helga,” Steve said, raising a hand in greeting.

Helga glanced up at him, the shifting of the tent flap having alerted her to his presence. “Stev,” she said.

Steve held up the bucket and shook it, showing it to be empty.

Helga swallowed a sigh, putting down the stone she was using as a tool and starting to get up.

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head. He pointed at the bucket, and then at himself, before gesturing around.

A vague gesture to one of the many nearby snowbanks was his answer, and Helga returned to her task, though she kept one eye on him.

Going about his self appointed task, Steve noted that he was not the only one with chores. No one idled, from the greybeard whittling arrows to the children sorting the firewood into piles. Frelja was ordering the other children around like a general. As he packed snow into the bucket, two men brought more wood to be sorted. They were armed, tense and alert even though they only ventured into the forest immediately around their village. This was not a land that made for easy living.

Steve returned the bucket to its place in the hut, and sat down beside Helga, sharing the log. She looked weary, but continued to scrape away with a dogged determination. “Thank you,” he said. The woman had shared what food she had with him last night, and opened her home to him. He knew she didn’t understand him, but he still needed to say it.

Something in his tone must have gotten the point across, because she nodded slowly, and said something in return, tone accepting. She continued to scrape away with her rock; it looked to have once held something of an edge but now it was worn down.

From one of his belt pouches, Steve retrieved a small pocket knife of dull black metal. Holding it before Helga, he unclasped it, showing off the different tools it had and how it worked. Her brows raised as he did, ensnared by the tool. He closed it, and held it out to her. She shook her head, but he pressed it towards her, insistent.

Still, Helga hesitated, but only for a moment more. Carefully, like it was made of spun glass, she unfolded the main blade and returned to her task, smiling at the sudden ease of the work.

Torygg ran by them, giggling madly, Helga’s children and Frelja at his heels, shouting at him in high spirits.

Steve frowned. Of the fifty or so villagers, they were the only children, and it seemed they were being kept close to the village…so why had he encountered Frelja where he did?

“Helga,” Steve said, drawing her attention. He drew a circle in the slush, and from it he drew three lines down, and then another three circles. He pointed at the first circle, then at Helga, then at the other three, and then at her children in turn. He drew another two circles, separate from the first. “Frelja, Torygg,” he said. He drew a line up from them, and another circle, and looked at her with a question on his face.

Helga grimaced, her short nose screwing up in distaste. She reached out and grabbed the ground that the last circle was drawn upon, taking it up in her fist. Then she tossed it, scattering it.

Steve drew a finger across his neck, but Helga shook her head, gesturing out behind her hut towards the forest, before making a fist. She grabbed the neck of her furs and pulled on them, pantomiming being grabbed. Steve’s frown deepened.

Footsteps splashing through the slush caught his ear, and Frelja near skidded to a stop before them. “Stev!” she said, out of breath.

“Frelja,” Steve said. “How are you?”

Frelja said something in reply, still panting from wherever she had chased her brother. Neither of them could understand the other, but he had saved her from a bear and she him from the cold, and they smiled with the helpless cheer that came with it. She turned to Helga and asked a question.

Helga sighed. When she answered, whatever joy the girl had felt disappeared, and she turned and marched away, heading for the treeline.

Steve made to rise, but Helga placed a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. Frelja vanished into the trees, and Steve’s mind helpfully reminded him of the various predators that might be on the hunt in such an environment. He was about to ignore Helga and go after her, only for the girl to reappear, marching back towards them.

The redheaded child came to a stop before them, and held her closed fist out to Steve. Her fingers had streaks of fresh dirt on them, like she had been digging. He held out his hand, and a number of small stones were dropped into it. They had small flecks of something shiny in them, and a mottled blue and grey colour beside. Pretty, but ultimately worthless.

Frelja spoke, demanding.

The soldier glanced at Helga, and saw the sad expression she wore. The woman leaned down, and redrew the circle she had taken up and scattered. She pointed between it and the stones in his hand.

Frelja spoke again, but softer. A plea.

Steve closed his fist around the rocks. There was only one answer he could give. He met the girl’s eyes, and nodded.

A new dawn broke over Frelja’s face as she smiled. She was missing a canine tooth, and Steve found himself returning her grin, unable and unwilling to resist the urge even under the weight of his current circumstances.

The moment was broken when Frelja dashed off, across the circle of the village and into a hut that he was pretty sure didn’t belong to her. There was the sound of rummaging, and a muffled conversation, half loud and excited, half bewildered.

Helga muttered a short prayer, staring up at the sky. She pursed her lips, but it was resigned, not disapproving, and she set aside the skin she was working at. She rose to her feet and approached the greybeard who had been whittling arrows, speaking with him. The man looked over at him, thoughts hidden by his enormously bushy beard, but he nodded.

Frelja returned, carrying what looked to be a crude backpack made of hide, with old ropes for straps. A young woman peered out of the hut she had come from, watching with worry in her eyes. The bag was empty, but it reminded Steve that he had no supplies whatsoever for the quest of who knew how long he had just volunteered for. He glanced between it and the girl. Well, maybe he could use it to carry her cross country in. Slowly, giving her plenty of time to step away, he reached out and ruffled her hair.

A dubious look on her face, Frelja stared up at him, bearing the intrusion. He removed his hand and she frowned, lower lip jutting out ever so slightly.

A woman approached, the one who Frelja had commandeered the backpack from. She held a slab of something out to him, wrapped in cloth. It smelt of meat and berries, and he opened it just enough to peek inside. It was a type of pemmican, a mixture of fat, meat, and berries that lasted forever. He looked up at the one who gave it to him, and the look on her face dared him refuse her gift. He nodded to her, putting the food into the bag.

Another villager approached, a man, and he carried a small sled with him. It was a simple thing, but it couldn’t have been easy to make with the kind of tools he had seen about the village. It looked to be about the right size for a child.

Word seemed to have spread quickly amongst the small village. The greybeard was next, pushing a well used flint stone into his hands, and a quiet parade began to pass by, each weathered and weary villager handing over some small token that they could bear to part with. A rolled length of catgut twine, a pair of child’s gloves, a metal hook, some furs for warmth and shelter. Things that had value in the hellish conditions these people survived in, but now chose to give away to a stranger.

Steve glanced at Frelja, seeing her holding her brother tight to her side. Torygg was crying silently, clutching at his sister as he understood what was happening. No, not a stranger.

When the solemn procession came to an end, the bag was near full.

“I will bring Frelja back to you,” Steve said to the gathered crowd. Many of the faces were the same as those who had watched him arrive only the day before, but the mood was starkly different. “Even if I don’t find her mother, I’ll bring her back alive.”

They couldn’t understand him, but they could understand the promise in his voice. Some were hopeful, others resigned as they looked between the two redheaded children, yet more hid behind blank faces.

“Come on Frelja,” Steve said. “Let’s go find your mother.”