Chapter Text
Worn dirt roads slowly become ancient cobbled streets, bumpy and rough under the thin soles of Mathias’ boots. Around him, the great, slumbering oaks and the snow-covered pines melt into quaint two-story buildings, the vibrant paints diluted in the gray glow of a winter morning.
It has been a brutal winter for the village of Brekka. In the very beginning, many had been relieved when the air took a much-desired chill, however reality set in soon enough. After a summer which killed much of the harvest, and even fewer people to harvest what was left, the cold became punishing, trapping most in their homes for weeks at a time and all but stopping the trade in and out of Brekka. It is a miracle so many had survived the winter so far, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.
Which is why Mathias is off put to hear a distant rumble of many voices. Festivals in Brekka were frequent and loud, but in this weather, with many barely having enough grain to bake a loaf of bread, it didn’t make sense for there to be one out of the blue.
There is nothing worth celebrating this year.
Mathias turns a warry blue gaze towards the steely gray of the sky, the clouds weighing heavy with their burden of snow. The wind blowing sharp through his thin coat cuts across his skin like a warning.
His feet start to move.
The center of Brekka has been nicknamed Balder since before anyone can remember. An area that could be considered the town square if Brekka was big enough for either title, every significant event in Brekka’s history has been announced, celebrated, or mourned on Balder’s weathered stones. It is there that Mathias met the people who would change his life forever, and there that, many years later, he would say goodbye to the only true family he had left.
A meter or two away from the entrance to Balder, Mathias slows from a jog as he tries to understand what he sees before him.
The source of the ruckus was nearly everyone Mathias has ever known, herded into Balder as if they were little more than cattle. Almost two hundred people, ready for the slaughter.
A pride of Brekka is the buildings in Balder, three stories high and regal in both their age and grace, yet in this moment they act as a cage, trapping his people between their stone faces.
There is a battalion of men in forest green and blood red uniforms, encasing the villagers with their bodies. Looking closer, Mathias sees that they have guns, the newest kind capable of killing five men with the space of a minute.
The men are military, but not of their nation.
These are the people just over the mountains. Those who’ve been at war with their king for much of Mathias’ lifetime.
Svaren.
Mathias realizes all at once that he is in the open and vulnerable. All it would take is just one of the men to glance over in his shoulder and Mathias would either be shot or dragged into Balder. Intuition tells him that either way he would die.
His mind and heart begin to race, scanning his memories of Balder for someplace to hide, somewhere he could see without being seen.
Then it hits him.
The Alcove.
The Bushes.
Inside the foliage of the alcove, a small nook of plants encased in a low wall of stone, the earth is hard and cold, but it is dry, and in some ways warmer than in the open air. There is just enough room in between the leaves and pine needles of the alcove for Mathias to see through while still feeling hidden. Situated at the entrance of Balder, it gives him a perfect view of what is happening.
Mother and fathers hold their children to their chests, comforting their crying babies with empty words and promises. Spouses, siblings, uncles and cousins, even people who simply knew one another and nothing else, stood united in a singular wariness, in a singular shared terror.
He feels more fear for them than he did for himself.
Mathias follows frightened gazes to a makeshift platform just to the side of the temple, resting proudly under the bell tower on the farthest side of the square. It was currently occupied by an older man in a military uniform, beside stands two burly men, in uniform as well. Mathias feels his heart drop into his stomach, the full scope of what they were dealing with right before his eyes.
The snow quietly falling around Mathias begins swirling in violent gusts of wind. He silently prays to any gods that happened to be listening. He hopes that they aren’t within this sea of familiar faces, not when they are all he has. Mathias prays, to the old gods and the new, that the reason he couldn’t find her and her sons was because she had taken them to collect more medicinal herbs, not because all three of them were huddled with the rest. It is a foolish wish, and Mathias knows it is foolish, but he hopes anyhow, desperate gaze hunting for their faces.
A man spoke for the first time since Mathias had arrived, the cadence of his voice tinged with mocking, and it sends piercing red-hot spikes of anger through the fog of fear in his mind.
"We offered you a deal,” started the man. He speaks to them as if they are all children. He has the build of someone well fed, and it is easy to pick him out in this sea of faces clearly starving, his soldiers included.
He makes Mathias sick.
He continues, "Yes, we offered you a deal. A compromise! One I don’t believe is asking very much at all! Hand over food for my men, and in exchange for your cooperation and your silence, I would leave you and your village in peace.” For the first time, genuine emotion creeps into his voice.
Rage.
“And what do you do? You resist, you fight.” He takes in a breath, as if the next sentence hurts him to say.
“You kill one of my men! ” The commander seethes, his face blooming red despite the cold. The line of soldiers visibly tense, some clenching their jaws or tightening their hold on their rifles.
Mathias’ minds races, glancing from familiar face to familiar face, trying to imagine who could have done it. Brekka is a mountain village that sits upon the only easily traveled passage over the Northern Mountains, and hence this was something the people had braced themselves for.
But there is usually a battalion of the king’s army stationed within and around their village, men, and boys that have grown close to the people of the village after too many years of war. They’re meant to keep the village secure, to protect this last stronghold of the north. If Svaren makes it past Brekka, they have a clear path to the capital with little to no resistance. It is the military’s disaster scenario, the path that could end the war and mean devastation for their kingdom.
However, after the General Wolfsheim's disastrous Western Campaign, the king ordered the battalion to come back to the capital, reasoning that Brekka is practically impenetrable during the winter, and so the boys left before the first snow came.
No one has ever said the king isn’t a fool.
The commander focuses a steely glare at the crowd assembled in front of him, regarding Mathias’ people, regarding his home , as if they were all worth less than the dirt they stood upon. Images of bursting into Balder and wrapping his hands around the bastard's neck for even daring to point guns at his people, of knocking him off the pedestal he has placed himself on, flash behind in his mind. They are satisfying, even if the feeling is hollow.
Some faces are openly terrified, but most have a quiet apprehension, anticipating what they all feel is coming.
There is the crunch of snow under a boot. Right outside of the alcove.
The hand of dread wraps itself around his heart and squeezes. He feels a very strange swirling mix of rage and nausea in the pit of his stomach, suddenly aware of the frost biting at his skin.
The snow begins to come down with a vengeance, stinging Mathias’ face even through the leaves, as if the heavens themselves are sending them a warning.
Mathias goes very still, every joint locking with terror. He feels the skin of his eyes pull taught, pupils blown wide, staring at the pair of boots not a foot from his face.
One of the soldiers in line speaks in a low tone, “You find any of them?”
The man in the boots makes a sharp grunt in return, voice gruff and weary. “No. They disappeared into the trees, probably going to hide out in whatever cave they crawled out of this morning.”
The first man makes a dismissive sound, “I’m sure the commander will send us after them after we’re done here.” His voice is a bit thin and rough around the edges, like it hasn’t quite settled into itself. He can’t be much older than Mathias himself.
The boy takes a pause. “I can’t believe they killed Thomas.”
The grief in the boy’s voice is fresh and raw. Mathias can’t help but feel a pang if sympathy for him. In the end of the day, this war hasn’t been kind to any of them. Especially for boys like this one, losing their lives in a fight that was never their own.
Wars don’t care, they take and they break the lives of everyone involved. Neither do the people who start them. The fact that the invasion of Brekka is even happening should be evidence enough.
The crunch of snow returns as the man moves away from Mathias and falls back in line, a hand hitting shoulder in camaraderie. Mathias lets out a tentative sigh of relief.
“We’ll get him, Toris. I saw the way the bastard ran, and there’s not going to be any hiding once we burn this place to the ground. I swear to you, kid. We’ll get him.”
“Thank you, Marcus.”
“No thanks needed, kid. Now stand guard before Lieutenant Hagen catches us slacking.”
The urge to run is nearly overpowering, but fear holds him in place, the conversation of the soldiers directing his attention back to the commander.
“I could forgive fighting back, it’s understandable, even if it is a death wish.” The commander sneers, “but killing one of my men is unforgivable. When we asked for so little-“
“We are starving!”
Mathias immediately focuses on the man who spoke, as does everyone else. Filip, the owner of Brekka’s bakery. The man has always been plump, but the lack of food has made its mark even on him. A kind man, baking as much bread as he possibly can with their dwindling reserves of grain and selling it to the people of the village for dirt cheap, he does his best to help in any way he can. He’s been almost like a second father to Mathias, giving him a small salary to work at the bakery and a warm meal at least once a week after his father… left.
Now that same man is staring up at the commander, shoulders and jaw squared, shaking from the cold, or fear, or perhaps from the force of his anger.
The commander regards Filip with cold malice. “What have you to say, my good man?”
“We had a drought this past summer, we have barely any grain in reserve, and even the animals around the village are starving. We cannot trade, the mountain pass snowed over months ago. We are barely surviving as it is! And you want us to hand over everything we have to you ? Whether we comply or we resist, we still die. And I believe I speak for us all when I say I would much rather die than aid you in destroying our lives!”
Everyone roars their approval, enraged shouts and spouted curses fly freely and in abundance. Mathias’ people are a proud one, hardy mountain folk, and stubborn to the bitter end. He resists the urge to shout as well, to come out of his hiding place and join his people, to die with them. But he allow himself to die yet, because it is in this moment that he spots her. Elsa Bondevik, village healer and mother of two. Mathias’ caretaker, the mother he never had, the provider of love and a warm home to rest his head after his father had gone and his house became too empty and cold for Mathias to stand. A woman who is a fixture of his life, just as much as the stone walls of the village and the mountains surrounding them.
A woman who is standing with a rifle pointed at her chest.
Elsa sees him despite everything. Through the tension and the living wall of death surrounding her, through the literal shrubbery obscuring his face, she’s able to find him. She always finds him.
Her warm gaze thaws the ice surrounding his joints, and almost without his meaning to, he begins to stand. However, the curve of her mouth turns stern, her brows furrow with apprehension. With glances to the men surrounding her, Elsa shakes her head, fearful but certain.
‘ Go.’ Elsa mouths to Mathias. ‘ Quickly.’
Mathias won't allow himself to consider it. He will not leave the woman who has been the only mother he’s ever known to die. At the very least, he won’t leave her to die alone.
He shakes his head.
Elsa gives him a look that is remarkable for how much it holds in it. There is fear, for his safety and Mathias hopes for her’s as well. There is also worry, that he won’t listen to her, that he’s going to pull something stupid and that it will get him killed. But above all, there is an authority, it holds the surety of a mother. Willingness to stare into the abyss if it means her children get to see another day. Mathias will never stop being grateful that she has taken him as one of her own.
The villagers continue to holler, flinging curses and threats at the commander’s feet.
Elsa doesn’t acknowledge it, gaze boring into him as chaos expands around her.
‘ Please. Go.’ She pleads with him.
Mathias would do anything to make her happy.
He nods.
Some of the tension in her shoulders loosens, and Elsa smiles. Even from a distance, he can see her memorizing his face just as he does to her, drinking in the sight of him.
The moment feels like it spans eternity and in the same instance like it barely happened at all. And then it is ripped away from them.
Bang!
Suddenly, Mathias is watching in horror as Filip falls to the ground, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut. The commander holds a smoking pistol in his hand, gazing down his nose at Filip’s body with a forced detachment.
Everyone falls into a stunned silence. The sound of Filip’s labored breathing is like a gunshot in its own right. Filip’s wife rushes to him, gathering his limp body in her arm, pressing his head to her chest. They all stare, the weight of their collective gaze heavy on Mathias' heart even though they don’t rest on him. People start towards drift to the edges of Balder, sizing up the side streets and alleys leading out of Balder and into the rest of Brekka.
They all freeze in terror when they hear the foreboding click of a soldier’s rifle.
It feels like years have gone by before Filip stops breathing.
A part of Mathias breaks when Filip’s wife lets loose a howl of grief, replacing his previous outrage with an empty sort of stillness. The sort that comes when you have felt too much too fast, when the rest of your body needs a moment to catch up to your mind. Like holding your breath, bracing for impact as the ground rushes up to meet you.
He feels a scream forming in his throat, and cups a shaking hand over his mouth to keep it inside. Mathias feels his world crashing down around him. He trains his gaze on the clouds, seeking out gods he is no longer sure are there.
Even with all of his winters and storms, he could swear the sky has never looked so gray.
The commander speaks, a chilling rage thundering just underneath the surface, “Is this what you wanted?! A life for a life, it is only what is fair. And now that we all have blood on our hands, will you reconsider my offer?!” His face has become grave, yet his gaze feels like hot coals on Mathias’ skin. “This is the final time I will ask.”
As if on cue, a distant crackle of fire just on the edge of their senses becomes a roar. To Mathias’ right, the blacksmith’s shop goes up in flame, quickly engulfing the building and spreading to those next to it. Almost simultaneously, the surrounding homes and shops fall to the same fate until almost every building, home or cabin in sight has become a part of a raging inferno. They become a manifestation of the Brekka’s fury.
This their last line of defense, an ultimatum Mathias never thought they would reach.
If Svaren ever manages to take the village, burn it to the ground before they can. It is the resolution of Mathias’ people to die with their pride.
The commander snarls, looking at the mounting desolation around him. He looks into the steely gazes of the people in front of him, finally seeing they had made their choice long before he had stepped foot upon their soil.
“So be it.” The commander turns to his men. “Open fire!”
Too many years of war have steeled these men to be shadows of who they once were. Mathias can probably imagine some of the awful things they must have done in service of their home and country. He knows that they carry in their souls the lives that they have taken, the blood that stains their hands long after they have washed it off.
He knows because he has seen it in the men stationed at Brekka, the newest arrivals who cling to their rifles with white-knuckled fists and scream themselves out of sleep, clinging to ghosts only they can see. He has known men who have lost the ability to think for themselves, who have learned it is easier to follow orders and not look at the face of the man on the other end of the barrel. He knows what these men will do.
This war has been kind to none of them. But it has been especially cruel to those who fight it.
Screams ring out as the soldiers pull their triggers.
Mathias can do nothing but watch in horror as he witnesses a different kind of chaos unfold, the sort painted on a canvas of blood and flame. The most naive part of himself entertains the thought that this could all be some terrible nightmare, the overactive imagination of a child terrorized by a life formed in the ashes of war.
And then the bush catches on fire.
He first sees Elsa’s eyes fill with horror, laying on the snow and ash, gaze still locked on him despite everything. And then he feels the heat, the smoke filling the space between leaves with speed and precision. He resists the urge to scream when a spark lands on his cheek, eyes watering in the smoke. He sees the soldiers in front of him, firing at the crowd. He keeps his gaze steady, if only so Elsa doesn’t see the mounting pain he in.
He watches as her love betrays her.
“Mathias! Mathias, stop! Go!”
The heat becomes too much, and he jumps out of the bushes, heaving in the clearer air.
Immediately the two soldier’s turn towards him, a young man and an older one.
“Get him Toris!” The older soldier barks.
“Run!” Elsa shrieks. “Go to them!”
Mathias runs.
His eyes still burn from the smoke and his feet are stiff with cold, but he runs. He runs until the screams of his people fade, and then he runs farther still. He runs until the cobblestone streets become worn dirt roads once more.
All the while the sound of military boots crunching in the snow follows him, never letting up no matter how far he goes.
His head is spinning, and he knows his malnourished body isn’t going to be capable of carrying him much farther. He coughs, his lungs still not completely clear and certainly not up for the marathon he is putting them through. At this rate, he’ll drop dead before the man behind him can catch up.
It is either be caught or outsmart him. And though Mathias might not be the smartest, he knew the forests better than he knew himself, and this man has never stepped foot in them.
Hopefully that ends up being enough.
Mathias quickly veers off the forest path he had been following, taking a sharp left into the dense line of trees. He hears the soldier behind him swear, then the crunch of snow and leaves as he turns to follow.
Admittedly, Mathias knows very little about Svaren’s weather, but if the curses echoing from behind are any hint, this man has never had to run through two feet of snow before.
Thank the gods, as it gives him just enough time to find what he needs. A clearing with a fallen tree, hollowed out by animals and time. He makes a run for it, shimmying inside, forcing the new broadness of his shoulders to fit.
He holds pulls in a shuddering breath and holds it. For a moment, all he can hear is the howl of wind and his racing heart. He lets it go.
The sound of boots in snow comes soon after.
They come closer, the pauses in between the steps making the noose of dread wrapped around his neck tighten until he can barely breathe.
“I know that you’re in the log.”
His heart drops. He hears the click of a rifle.
“Come out. Make this easy for yourself.”
Mathias is faced with two choices. Hide and die like a coward, or stand his ground, face the end without flinching.
He climbs out of the log.
Toris really is not much older than Mathias himself, jaw bare despite having no way of shaving, mousy brown hair dusting his chin. He looks at Mathias with eyes of vivid green, the confidence and resolution in them more forced than natural. Toris’ hands tighten around the rifle, his feet shift in the snow as if he’s unsettled.
He looks Mathias up and down, taking in his ragged appearance. Mathias wonders what he sees, if he sees the lankiness that had outpaced the rest of his body over the summer, leaving him awkward and painfully young looking. Or if he sees blued lips and curled fists, broad shoulders giving a hint what Mathias will look like in years to come. He wonders if Toris could allow himself to see Mathias for the child that he is.
“Will-” Toris hesitates.
“Turn around.”
Mathias is confused. No matter what direction he is facing, towards him or away, north or south, he is going to die. Would it not be better to see it coming? In this man’s eyes, does he not deserve the last shred of dignity he has left, the right to see the end before it comes?
This may be his death, but Mathias refuses to let it be his execution.
“No.”
Toris’ knuckles go white around the barrel of his rifle.
“What do you mean no? Just do it, kid!”
“I said no! Just shoot me, dammit, what the hell are you waiting for?!”
The rifle swings upwards, pointing directly at Mathias’ chest. There is a moment where the two look at each other, and Mathias sees it, the ghosts that haunt the eyes of all those who have been forced into this fight. Mathias wonders who Toris sees when he looks at him.
The moment ends, and with a confidence he does not feel, Mathias speaks.
“Do it.”
Toris’ hands shake.
And with a cry of rage, he throws his rifle into the snow.
Mathias stares with shock at Toris, staring down at his feet in shame.
“I can’t do it,” he says. “You’re just a kid.” He buries his face in his hands.
“So many of them were just kids.”
The urge to comfort him arises, strange but strong. Mathias moves to put a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey-”
“Don’t.” Toris looks at him, a small, bitter smile on his face. “Just go. Get out of here before they find you. I’ll just say that I lost you in the forest.” He laughs without humor. “Technically I won’t be lying.”
Mathias finds out very suddenly, that it’s difficult to accept being able to live when you’ve accepted the reality of your own death. But he barely hesitates, driven by a stronger purpose that usurps his reeling mind.
On his way out of the clearing, he turns back, just once.
“Will you be alright? Will they hurt you?”
Toris looks up from where he stares at his rifle, already dusted in white. His smile is still small, but it is also more genuine. His smile is kind.
“I’ll be fine kid. Now go. Stay safe.”
Mathias nods and gives him a tiny grin in return.
“Thank you.”
Then Mathias leaves and runs towards the outskirts of Brekka. He has two people waiting for him, and they are all that matter, above the war, above the village, above any other people living or dead in this world. Because in this world, they are all Mathias has left. And if the emptiness in his heart is correct, he is all they have left too.
And so he runs.