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Chapter 2: The Keep

A throbbing pain is the first thing Freja feels once her sight returns. The next is the winged human on the ceiling above her. She's no longer wearing her war-cloth but rather an ill-fitting tunic too tight on the hips and too loose on the breast. She looks around the room, she notes only one other person than her, a human half covered in bloody bandages standing in the corner gripping tightly onto two bronze bars. She waits silently on her bed waiting for something to break the silence and to make the human move.

She smells the air once more, trying to pick up any scent. Only smoke and metal, she feels the singe of panic ping in her heart. She pats at where that human slammed the rod into her head, a nasty bruise and a small cut but nothing serious. She looks around the room once more trying to take in every detail, the swords and heros carved into the walls, the faux arches and strange patterns beneath them. She listens closer to the human noting his pained breath, shallow and difficult. Freja rises from the bed silently moving towards the door. She tries to open the door only to hear the thud of wood against stone.

`The human turns his head, two ocean blue eyes staring back at Freja. She had seen those eyes before, this is the same human, the chief-slayer. He looks broken physically but his eyes still burn strong.

“What name wolfess?" He demands.

“What?" Freja stammers

“What. Is. Your. Name." He says as if annoyed.

“None of your business human filth." Freja barks back.

“Your horde is destroyed, the bodies of our own are still being counted a day later. To the men of this keep you are mine. I didn't want that." He says ashamed.

“I am a maiden without master human." Freja barks.

“Not any longer, not to them." He says bitterly.

“Them? What about you, filth?" Freja responds with equal venom.

“I was going to use your unconscious body as a lure for your male ilk, but I nearly succumbed to my wounds. My kin dragged me back here and you with me. I never fancied myself a trophy-taker, nor a slaver. And yet here I am." The man answers.

“So to your vile kin I am yours, but about you?" She inquires.

“To me? A mistake." He says plainly.

“How so?" Freja demands.

“I should have taken your head when I was still able to fight." He says anger seeping into his plain tone.

“Kill a fallen enemy? How dishonorable." Freja mocks.

“Oh yes as if your fellow savages are much kinder, eating the wounded and the dead, truly bastions of honor and righteousness." He responds angrily.

“WHAT?! I HAVE NEVER EATEN A HUMAN!" Freja shouts.

“Emphasis on the I. I have fought your kind ever since I was a man, I have seen your race's worst." He says.

“Well human have you ever seen our best? Of the open forest, of a feast after a hunt. Have you ever considered how we view you?" Freja retort.

“My father always said, “You are judged by not what you do best, but what you do worst." Howev-." He says Freja cuts her off

“Oh yes cause mankind is perfect, living in caves keeping their women in stone cages" She spits.

“Cages? What?" The human says confused. His face almost perplexed.

“We hear that you keep your women in massive cages, I heard that from the keep-taker tribe." Freja says bitterly

“You mean behind a gate? To us humans we put our families before our lives, at least the men do." The human says.

“Gate, cage, what's the difference?" Freja says, seeming to lose her bitter edge.

“I-I mean a cage you're put in by force, a gate you close. Are you talking about Keep Fellreach?" The human says, still a little confused.

“I don't know the name of your homes." Freja snaps.

“Well, Fellreach locked the doors to their farms and left the surviving women and children in the farms to await relief. I would know. I was there." He says trailing off.

“Your women lock themselves away rather than fight?" Freja asks curiously despite her anger.

“All serve the war effort, men fight, women make more men. It's the way it is in the kingdoms of man." The human answers. “We have gotten wildly off topic, I am Hans, you are?" He follows up after shaking his head.

“Freja." She answers.

“Finally." Hans says before limping to the only other cot in the room. He falls into it and instantly falls asleep.

“Wait" Freja protests.

“What? “Hans says, opening a single eye sounding exasperated.

“Why is the door sealed?" She asks.

“It is torch-low, they will open it once the glow-patterns light." He says.

“What?" Freja demands.

“You'll know when you see it, rest for now" Hans says, drifting into sleep.

Freja crawls over to her bed, anger still boiling in her veins. She growls as she closes her eyes. After some time, she begins to feel at

peace, letting the soreness of her arms let her drift to sleep.

Hans is woken up by a set of claws pinching in his back. He knows his body is still much too broken to fight. He stares straight into the glow-patterns, the holy sword staring right back at him. His mind reads of the heroes of the old sagas, the great wizard king thronebound and strong, the Avatar of God wielding the first blade of man, the founders of each of the great kingdoms, Constus of the Byztanii, Old Man Christian of the Teutons, Francis of the Grailic, Shangshi of the Horselords, Kaito of the Eastern Knights, just to name a few. Hans turns his head to see the wolfess Freja staring down onto him.

“Is it day now?" She demands

“Yes, the glow patterns are bright." Hans responds.

He moves to get up, hesitant to do so. He decides there is no time like the present and rises, winching from the pain of his soreness and injuries. He shambles towards the door pressing against it. From the other side a guard asks if it's him or his trophy, he says it's him, obviously, while shaking his head to the word trophy.

The door creaks open at first a pair of naive eyes staring back. Hans leans against the door harder pushing it even more open. He then stumbles out limping.

“Freja. Follow." He says to the wolfess.

“Fine. Hans" Freja responds in kind.

Hans works his way through the winding passages knowing where to go. Freja follows Hans unsure of where she's being led. Thoughts of simply killing Hans and making a run for it slip into her mind. She can feel her claws slowly rising towards the back of the wounded man, she decides that he may be her best way out and follows begrudgingly. He pushes open one final door vanishing behind the iron. Freja too opens it and realizes that the world of man lies not under the sky.

She arrives at a forested path, she sees Hans resting on a bench covered in vines, looking solemn and peaceful. Freja approaches the resting man, staring him down before looking around. She sniffs at the air, the full scents of a forest, deer musk, flowers, fruit, and greens, her mind runs wild, the thoughts of how, when, and what she was in a forest.

“Where am I Hans?" Freja asks, still awestruck.

“The heart of the keep." He says softly.

“What?" Freja asks, confused.

“All the Norse Keeps are like this, some are colder, other warmers, dryer or wetter, but this is my home. We have two more levels to go before we come to my family's cavern." He gets up and resumes his limping down the path.

As the two walk down the path Freja inching closer to Hans with every step, soon the two are walking side by side, Hans's only slightly larger body just letting him keep pace with Freja despite his compromised body. Freja looks around once again, seeing a stream with a statue of some ancient hero wrapped in vines. Hans is dead focused onto the gold trims of the royal manner ahead.

The manor seems to jump from the forest, the guardian statues of every captain to have fallen in the service of the Keep radiate the sanguine peace they felt as their bodies failed their spirits. Freja looks onto the statues fearfully, something about them gives her the sense that they are not as unliving as they seem. The fountain the statues are centered around have three figures on three pillars, one frail man on a throne, one a strong old man with a beard to match the size of his axe, the last is featureless human, ambiguous in every sense.

“Who are the humans in the fountain?" Freja asks, cowering from the unmoving gaze of one of the fallen captains.

“The old man is Father Ulf, the wolf-slayer, king from when the wolf god besieged the last keep. He was there when the wolf god was slain, and under his rule the Norse reclaimed all the Keeps and built a hundred new ones." Hans answers seemingly at peace.

“The one on the chair?" Freja asks.

“The great wizard king, his name was lost to time, but when he was born weak in the body but was as strong as the gods of old in magic. He broke the elves' invincibility with a wave of his hand." He says, still calm and collected.

“And the last?" She asks

“The unifier. Yet to be born, or maybe they have. They will be the one to find the lost race and unite our Gods." Hans answers before continuing to hobble down the path away from the manor."

“Lost race?" Freja demands

“If I knew there wouldn't be that figure in the fountain." Hans answers backhandedly.

“Tell me of your legends, human!" Freja pleads

“Once I get home and rest wolfess." He says.

“What are you going to do once you heal, human?" Freja asks

“Tell you my people's story, buy a wagon and two horses, then head to the warmer lands south of here." Hans answers

“Why?" Freja asks.

“I haven't a future in this hold." He says solemnly

“How so?" Freja asks curiously

“Am I not in enough pain, wolfess?" Hans snaps.

Freja remains quiet, realizing she had unwittingly struck a nerve with the human Hans. Hans, however, remembers the utter hopelessness he felt the night his birth-betrothed had died watching someone he loved so much die with nothing he could do. He can still feel the warmth of her body leave through his hands, the bruising on his hands from how hard she had gripped them that night. He feels the resentment that he pushed away for so many years boil inside him once more, but rather than the anger that had once given him an edge in battle, the hollowness of sorrow is all that embraces him.

The descent is silent between the two, bar the occasional sniffs of Freja and Hans grunts of pain. The second layer is orchards and fields that seem to go on forever. The low hanging sky of sun-bright stars being the only constant reminder of the fact that they are underground. Some of the women in the field wave to Hans who raises a single hand, the strain of just doing that showing on his face. One voice calls to him from afar, a young man with hair the color of oak bark.

“Hans! How are you? You feeling better? The man asks

“Who are you?" Is all Hans asks.“Your former captain?" The man says sternly

“What?" Hans asks.

“I am the Captain of the Guard." He says adding a bit of coldness to his voice.

“I never saw your face, sorry sir." Hans answers trying his best to remain military-formal

“Forgiven. Now are you doing better?" The captain says.

“I really couldn't tell you sir." Hans answers.

“I think he's doing better" Say Freja

The captain glares at Freja before turning back to Hans. “Keep your pet in line, Hans." He says with contempt

“She's not a pet." Hans protests.

“Sorry. Trophy." The captain says, still disgusted.

“Yeah, about that, that was a mistake, I never meant to try to claim her as one. I was trying to use her as a way to break the male's focus" Hans confesses to the captain.

The disgust seems to drain from the captain's face. “Good to hear Hans, I always hated the trophy takers, but you know the rules." The captain says.

“Yes, but I will leave once I heal." Hans says.

“Oh. For what reason?" The captain

“My birth-betrothed died just before I entered the service, I have no future here." Hans says, still formal in his tone.

“My condolences Hans. You would be in the Guard if your body hadn't sustained so much damage last battle, but the price has decided to carve your name in the wall anyway." The captain says equally formal.

“For what reason would he have my name carved? I simply bore the banner." Hans asks, confused.

“You slew a wolf war chief alone, that is no small feat even for a veteran." The captain says.

“Thank you, captain, please give my thanks to the prince." Hans asks humbled.

“The name is Sven; I will fear not. Remember you are always welcome back home" The captain says.

The rest of the walk home is uneventful, a few “Welcome home Hans!" from old friends and one or two “Quality trophy!" from passersby. The Woeda family cavern is less so a cavern as it is a mix of a hold-within- a-hold, farm, estate, and clan housing. From the outside the hawk of house Woeda can be seen engraved onto the bronze doors. Above it is a polished stone wall with windows of blue glass looking outwards. Hans reluctantly goes to the door knocking it three times. He waits for a minute, his anxiety building but not showing. Finally, an older woman opens the door, her hair a mix of wheat-gold and silver, Hans sighs at her sight.

“Welcome home son!" The woman cheers.

“You too mother." Hans says his strength is nearing its end.

Lady Woeda fully opens the door and lets the two in, the maroon walls and checkered lapis and sapphire banners draw attention like a golden statue in an otherwise plain and empty garden. Hans' lip curls slightly in a mix of silent contempt and remembrance. His raising in this place had not been the way a proper Nord was supposed to. Freja shared Hans's distaste of the place but that was mainly for the absolute appealing color pallet in her opinion. Lady Woeda gestures to them to sit before calling for a Sir Otto.

“I see you've claimed yourself a trophy Hans, your father will be proud." Lady Woeda says, a

mix of formality and disgust strewn across her face.

“Thank you, mother." Hans says staring at the floor.

“Eye contact Hans, you know the rules." Says a maid from the corner.

“Your vigilance is always so respectable Olga but unwelcome for now." Lady Woeda chastises in a way that almost sounds complementary.

Lady Woeda almost struts over to Freja, inspecting her as one might a horse. “Mouth open wolf." the Lady demands. Freja turns to Hans who only gives the slightest of a nod. Freja lets the woman inspect her teeth resisting the urge to bite down snarling. Lady Woeda's face of disgust seems to fade to that of utter apathy to her son's trophy.

“Fine beast. What *was* her use to you?" Lady Woeda demands.

“Your intuition is palpable mother. She was supposed to cause disorder among the enemy ranks." Hans says as bitter as he was honest.

“And now?" She asks with a hint of intrigue behind the sternness.

“Unsure." Says Hans.

“Think of something before your father arrives, something appropriately hedonistic." Lady Woeda warns before leaving the room.

The silence and awkwardness of the interaction with Hans's mother has seemed to have driven Hans to silence. He sits his hand on his chin, a look of shame and deep focus carved into his face. Freja too is lost in thought, wondering why Lady Woeda had warned Hans about his father. Hans knew, he knew all too well his father's overt hedonism, more particularly his sadism.

“What is it about your father I should worry about?" Freja asks a drop of fear mixing with her voice.

“Nothing. Not if he has any shred of honor left." Hans says anger mixing with his stone-like demeanor.

Freja's hair stands up as if a thunderstorm is coming. Hans was accustomed to the feeling of dread; he had been around his father his entire life. Perhaps that was where his nye suicidal discipline came from Hans reflected. Freja was alien to the feeling, that sensation of tightening chains around one's heart, she felt exposed, bound, like a failed usurper awaiting his own death. The cold “be calm Freja" Hans tries to reassure her with only heightened her fear. Freja sees the man enter, she finds it hard to look at him for his skin looks as if rivers had been painted on it in scars.

“Son…" says the smiling man.

“Father…" Hans replies trying to sound formal.

Han's father has a look of absolute unhingement about him, the way his mouth sits unevenly open, the look of exceptional curiosity and fury in his eyes. The robes he wears are wrinkly, worn, and covered in stains of all varieties.

“How was war?" The disheveled man asks.

“Bloody." Hans says icy.

“Hmm. Any accolades? you know I don't follow politics anymore." He says a grin forming as he turns his eyes to the wolfess.

“I was for a day a member of the guard." Hans says plainly.

“How was that son?" The man says now twisting his fingers.

“I claimed this wolf." Hans affirms staring his father in the eye.

“I hear you have a statue being made on the crown dime I hear." Lord Woeda says inquisitively.

“Yes, I was a member of the guard as I said." Hans reaffirms.

“Good." Hans' father says, beginning to pace.

“... now for the wolfess. A gift for me or a prize of yours?" He says smiling ear to ear, shedding any semblance of sanity in a single grim.

“Mine to keep father. Consider it a testament to your raising of mine." Hans says a faux delirious grin.

Lord Woeda's grin sinks further into increasingly obvious madness “I raised you very well. I realize that now. Much more akin to me than I thought."

“I only realized that after I had sent an axe deep into the back of one of the hold-takers. I grinned, I felt joy in the melee, something unique, almost calming in a way." Hans confesses not a drip of insincerity in his voice.

“Good. Good." Lord Woeda says as he looks at his son's wounds. “You need to rest, take your wolfess with you."

Hans takes Freja's by the wrist and leads her through the winding hallways. With his spare hand Hans feels the family history of the carved-out cavern. He closes his eyes knowing the rest from feeling. Freja is increasingly anxious, the lack of anything other than the smell of dirt and iron. As the pair winds through. Freja notes that two doors are sealed from the outside with a metal bar, a metal plate with some markings on them above the doors.

“What are in those rooms, human?" Freja asks with anxious curiosity

“My stillborn brother in the one labeled Karl, and my grandparents in the one labeled Fitz and Katherinia." Hans answer's unphased.

“Why not bury them?" Freja asks

“They already are." Hans answers

“How so? They are in those rooms" Freja asks.

“Where are we?" Hans responds.

“Right." Freja says her eyes wide with realization.

“It's just how things are in this hold, some have other traditions, on the coast they throw the body to the sea, and towards the southern hills they entomb the skeletons in grand mausoleums." He says.

The pair continue on in silence once more, the occasional stumble of Hans keeping it from being a droning sound. Along one of the halls Hans stops, winces in pain, and falls to the floor breathing heavily. Freja approaches the man slowly, curious to his situation and to better hear his unintelligible mumbling. Between pained pants he seems to break a little more, every breath growing more and more shallow and strained. Freja stares into the eyes of the injured human, she realizes that he is not seeing whatever is in front of him at all

Hans feels the itch of anxiety become an onslaught of deep slashes of panic, his heart pounds as loud as the dynamite explosions in the mines. He stares out in front of him, staring deep into the carving of the first Woeda, the outsider, the lone horseman. He remembers his grandfather's stories about him, how he arrived soaked in blood, his sword broken at the hilt, so he held a simple axe with his sword arm, and in his left is the head of three elves, the last descendants of the elven general that sacked this hold so long ago. He was welcomed in, the heads taken by the king and encased in gold. The legend ends there, but his grandfather always knew more, yet he never told him, taking the story with him to the next life. He found it funny, how his ancestor came here for a new life, and he is leaving to have one.

Hans closed his eyes staring at the icon that was no longer there. He took in one last breath before trying to rise once more. Once he stood up he could still see Freja staring at him like some sort of trinket. She thought to herself why this human seemed to be so broken after what seemed to be such a short battle. She wants to go home, to the wilds, where the deer are plenty and the berries sweet. She also wants to find a life-mate, she should already have one at least if she were with her tribe. The more she thinks about her situation the more she realizes she may have already missed her chance. Anger begins to mount as she stares at Hans. Her mind begins to run through all the ways this human may have ruined her life, as she runs through these possibilities her vision goes a bit red, her mouth fills with saliva. Her jaw parts ever so slightly as she sees the unguarded back of Hans, she wants to taste his blood, to tear out of him in flesh as he tore from her in life.

She has resolved herself now, she knows what she will do. She will flee the moment she can and leave this human to die on his own. She stares still at Hans, her anger burning in her heart and determination she had never felt before. As Hans was forged and broken on the anvil of war, Freja would forge herself on the anvil of hatred.

Hans could feel the hateful glare of the wolfess behind him, and moreover he knew that if she were to attack him, he could do nothing at all. His mind accepted that he has well outlived his time at a mere twenty-nine years of age. With his mortality staring at him hatefully he reflects on life while limping through these halls. He rounds the last corner, staring at a bronze plate hanging over a sealed door. The hollowness in his heart seems to cry out and grow when he sees it, “I wonder what she would say now. What a disappointing return from war, covered head to toe in bruises and cuts, barely able to walk, and to little more than scorn" his mind screams. Pushing the thought aside he distances himself from the door to make it towards his room. Behind him it makes a set of noises.

“Human. Who was in this one." Freja says

Hans turns to face her “My would-be wife." he answers before returning to his silence

“What killed her?" Freja demands one more a snarl following.

“Consumption." He says saddened.

“What is that human?" She demands once more

“A sickness." Hans replies a drop of anger falling into his sadness.

Freja speaks no more, leaving Hans to enter his room alone. The sheets still perfectly straight as he left them, the spilt chalice of wine having long stained the stone, the hollow draft, and aura of crushing loneliness. This is Han's room, but this place was never his home. Freja only smells old musk, bad wine, and dead flowers, to her it is simply another cave in a set of them.

Hans crawls into his old bed letting out a relieved groan as he does. Freja glares down onto him. Hans turns to stare at the wolf, wondering exactly how to manage this situation.

“Well hop on it." Hans says

“No" Freja says.

“It's nicer than the floor." Hans tries to persuade.

“Fine, there's a book in the nook if you can't sleep." Hans says before turning back over.

“Fine." Freja barks.

Hans is asleep in moments, his breathing a constant droning. Freja cannot sleep, she is both too angry and too winded out, she stares at the book, its brown leather cover, the silver ornamentation on its spine. It seems to command attention, like a basket of sweets in a high spot, and the more she tries to look away the more it beckons her. Freja begins to think “Well the Human said I can, so what the problem?". For whatever reason she found herself trying to justify grabbing the book, and after resolving that it was okay, she creeped towards the leather-clad parchment. She comes to hold the leather-clad parchment as if it were some kind of holy text.

The content of the book disgusts Freja, while she cannot read the words she can see the drawings clear as day. Each page seems to be guide on torture of every variety, the victims of a species of both sexes. She looked at Hans, a look of morbidity on her face, she continued to flip through the drawing. It details races she had never seen before, humans with pointed ears and slimmer shapes, creatures akin to the mountain lions, beings akin to birds of all varieties. Between the full-page drawings, are pages of text, text she cannot read, so to her they mean nothing.

After “reading" the book through Freja is worn out, her anger spent. She decides that the foot of the bed is better than the floor and curls up there to sleep. A dream comes to her like none other before, it's her tribe, rather than celebration of adulthood the village of tents is somber and quiet. In the center the bodies of the slain are waiting burial, and to dig the graves only a handful of males are present, the bodies bearing the red markings of death in the horde-pack lay next those with the blue marks of those who died fighting other Vulfan. Rather than the wine and dancing there seem to be little more than a people whimpering and mourning. She approaches the village to look for her father, arriving at the family tent she finds empty except for her juvenile brother crying over a clay pot of blackberries.

She tries to console her sibling try to hug him and lick his ears as mother used to do, only to find she can't lay a hand on him, she leaves walking through the scattered village, towards the center the bodies lay, the chief's body is the first in the line, the one Hans killed in cold blood. She finds her mother's corpse next, a red mark freshly painted between her breasts. Her father's corpse is unlike the others, rather than whole or mostly whole, her father had his arms severed, his head separated from his body, and his heart cut out. Worst of all, it was not a red mark painted on his chest. But the blue of betrayal.

Hans dreamed, but he had seen it before, after all the last time he rested in this bed was the last time he cried, he was holding the hand of his late love just before she passed to the next life whispering his promises one last time. He woke up with a tear in his eye, still tired, in a room totally dark. Soon he returned to sleep, this time the blackness of the room enveloping his mind.