Greenland, early 15th Century
Bluebells are braided into her hair. The flowers waver between purple and blue, just like the treacherous sea that has us all captured. Beneath the sea of flowers, her curls shine like the amber rocks we pick out of those waves. Her green wool dress, colored from seaweed picked on the jagged rocks where the water breaks, is simple--because on these shores there's no use for frivolous fashion--but somehow makes her radiate even more.
Gudrun's the most beautiful bride. She's everything I ever imagined her to be on her wedding day.
I always thought her wedding day would be mine as well. Because it was always us. Björn and Gudrun. I don't even remember a day when I didn't love her. My first friend, my first love, my first everything.
But this isn't my wedding day. It isn't me who will be her husband on this day.
I didn't cry when I, a mere boy of twelve, looked into the eyes of a ferocious bear trying to end my life. I didn't cry a year later when we received news that my mother had perished, lost at sea in a fruitless attempt to sail to greener shores. I didn't even cry when my little sister wasted away soon thereafter, in what would be known as the winter that went on forever. For seven months there was nothing but snow, death, and despair. Every winter since has been the same.
Today I cry. I cry as my father Trond marries the wondrous woman who was supposed to be my bride.
During the summer solstice celebration--when we for a brief moment enjoy the basking sunrays and forget about what is to come on the other side of this brief respite--he takes her delicate hand into his giant paw. He's taking her not because he wants her golden curls, her challenging smile, and her witty demeanor. He's taking her because he wants to show everyone that he can. The chief of the island can take anyone he wants, even the woman who was promised to his son.
He's taking Gudrun because he believes her mysterious powers of premonition might save us all.
I don't believe anything can save us anymore.
As her apologetical gaze meets mine, I can't take it anymore. I leave the circle of witnesses to the ceremony, gathered outside the chapel where we used to pray. No one goes there anymore. When the children started to die in the winter, we abandoned the new god on his cross. But all we know of the old gods are what our forefathers, the ones who sailed to this damn island at the end of the world, told us. I know that Thor rules the sky above us and that Odin governs us all, but that's all I know.
We're all godless heathens here in Greenland. We Northmen are hardly better than the seal skin-clad skrälings in their silent canoes. At least their children don't seem to die like ours.
What I believe in is the nature around us. The rugged cliffs, the billowing, and the skittering animals. The constant winds, the never-melting snow, and the deep waters. I believe all those things are out to kill us, and honestly, I don't blame them. We came here as intruders and we'd leached on this land's shores until there is no blood left. Either we or the lands themselves will die.
Watching the sea, I wonder if there may still be a way to save ourselves. Maybe we could leave. Maybe I could take Gudrun's hand and sail into the sunset toward unknown shores. Although despite the temperate summer weather, the icebergs are still mounting in the distance. We can't go back to where our ancestors came from. The route to Iceland is closed.
But maybe there are other lands. Around the flames at night, stories are told of Leif the Red. I've heard my family descends from him. The sagas tell us that he sailed west to warmer and lusher lands before heading back again.
From the chapel, I can still hear the celebrations. Hopefully, no one has noticed my absence. My father might send someone to pull me back by force. Control over one's children is a sign of power in our world.
Little does he know that he lost both me and my brother ages ago. My rebellion might be more overt while Ivar hides his secret liaisons, but neither of us is proud to be his son. We're both looking for our chance to escape his grip, even as we're trapped at the edge of the world.
The smells from the feast reach me through the chilly night winds. Smoked lamb leg, dried fish, and fresh potatoes roasted with herbs. All served in abundance. All food we could have saved for the forever winter. Because even on the warmest summer day, we all know it's coming. There will be days of constant darkness with nothing but snow to feed our starving children.
Twelve children died last winter. We couldn't bury them until the snow melted. By then, it was already almost summer, which gave us little time to grow crops. Our meager reserves guarantee that this winter will be even worse. There might not be a single one of us left when spring drips in.
"Björn." Her voice ripples through the air like the soft waves below. "I saw you leave."
"Gudrun," I reply, refusing to look at her. "You should go back to the feast. The groom will miss his bride."
"The groom has drank too much mead to even know where he is." She folds up her skirts and curls up beside me on the cliff. We've sat just like this so many times, dreaming what life could be if we could go elsewhere. "I wanted to talk to you."
"What is there even left to say?" I mumble. "You're his now."
"You know it wasn't my choice."
"You could at least have tried to refuse."
She sighs, gazing out over the waters that are never warm. "I had to do it," she says. "I know you won't understand. You never believed in my powers. But I saw our world crumble in my dreams."
"Our world is already crumbling."
"And this may be the only way to prevent it. I don't know how. But I can sense it. This is what I have to do."
I snort at the mere notion of there being a way to halt the inevitable. "It's too late. We should have run long ago."
"Where would we have run?" she asks.
I point to the west, toward the only dream that is left. "Vinland," I proclaim. "Just you and me."
"Vinland isn't real. It's just a saga for children."
"I'd rather live in a saga than here."
She takes my hand. Her fingers are cold as ice. It's a constant state here in Greenland. We're born frozen to the core.
"I'd rather be alive here than dead at the bottom of the ocean."
"You'd rather live with him than die with me you mean?"
"If I had a choice I would live with you, Björn. But that was never an option."
When the place you live in is about to tip into the ocean, pushed away by constantly growing sheets of ice, you don't have many options left. I understand that, but I can't accept it.
"There must be a way," I mumble. "There has to be a way to leave this place. There must be a way for us to live."
I'm not sure where my sudden burst of hope comes from. Frustration and fury probably. Even as my brain knows there is little hope left, my heart can't accept it. I will leave this island somehow, even if it kills me.
She doesn't reply. Instead, her chin nudges my shoulder. She rests there for a while as we watch the glowing red sun that is constantly awake. When constantly preoccupied with how dreadful this place is, it's easy to forget how beautiful it also is. As beautiful as Gudrun.
"I came to give you this," she whispers, digging through the pockets of her wedding dress.
Soon, I feel a smooth object in my hand. I know what it is without even looking at it. The runes are familiar to my fingertips as I carved them myself.
It's the tooth of the first polar bear I ever slayed. I was twelve. I was terrified. Giant paws dug into my shoulders as I stabbed my dagger into its skull. Ever since they called me the Bearslayer. Björn the Bearslayer has quite a ring to it.
I don't have anything against the huge white bears. They're mostly peaceful creatures that won't attack unless forced to. Although with the ice getting closer, so are the bear. In a world with scarce resources, bear meat is a feast. Bear meat can save children from starvation.
"It's yours," I protest, trying to shove it back into her hand. "I gave it to you."
"You know I can't keep it." She closes my hand atop the symbol of our wasted love. "He'll know it was from you." Gudrun looks toward the feast, perhaps worried my father has noticed her absence, and gathers her skirts to rise. "I need to head back."
Reluctantly, I take the item, weighing it in my hand for a moment. Then, I throw it as far into the ice-cold waters as possible.
Author's Note: So this is the 2nd POV... the plan is to alternate between Saga and Björn, to hopefully create a tapestry of Greenland's past and present. Hopefully, it works :)