The Åströms' Chronicles: Fiske

This story is a work of fiction with no relation to historical or cultural events, taking place in a world resembling ours—equally flawed, yet still vastly different.

***

Varg rolled forward, avoiding another slash of Fiske’s sword, and jumped up, parrying a thrust that immediately turned into a narrow cut aimed at his hip.

Varg jumped back in a clumsy attempt at a somersault and fell to the ground.

Fiske stopped and gave Varg a long look.

“Somersault? In a fight?” Fiske shook his head and sheathed his sword. “What am I, a hooker you’re trying to impress for a discount?”

Varg stood up, rubbing his shoulder, and scowled at Fiske.

“Either that or you would’ve cut my damned hip.” Varg spat blood on the ground and winced again, touching his teeth.

“Your real choice was between taking a small wound and being killed after you landed like a bag full of shit,” Fiske smirked and handed Varg a flask. “Stop checking your teeth. I’d have knocked one out only if I wanted to.”

Varg accepted the flask and took a long sip, which he immediately spat out before doubling over, coughing and trying to catch his breath.

“Oh boy…” Fiske took the flask back and sipped. “Since the day I found you on that beach, I’ve been wondering how such a tender crybaby made it to shore…”

Slash.

Fiske’s eyes widened as he barely managed to fall back, avoiding Varg’s sword.

Thrust.

Fiske rolled to the side and, with a speed close to unnatural, jumped up, dodging Varg’s sweep and catching another slash on his sword.

Varg groaned and lunged, aiming for Fiske’s eyes—a bait, as he twisted his wrist at the last moment, turning the thrust into a swipe at Fiske’s throat…

Fiske’s body turned translucent as he dodged the blade and, with abnormal speed, slapped Varg’s face, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Fiske returned to natural speed, breathing hard and looking at Varg with a mixture of anger and pride.

“Do you realize how unfair that was?” Fiske smirked, taking another sip from his flask, which he had never dropped.

Varg stood, smiling wryly, and shrugged.

“No more than using a power I’ll never possess.” Varg reached his hand out, and Fiske handed him the flask.

“You went for the kill with that last one,” Fiske said, watching Varg attentively. “I’d be a dead man if I hadn’t used it.”

Varg took a sip without wincing and nodded.

“I wanted to see it.”

“Why? You’re one of us, but you’re not of our blood. We accept you, but you need to accept that you’ll never master skunda undir.” Fiske frowned, his permanent smirk fading as he looked at Varg with genuine concern.

Varg nodded again, looking at the sun as it climbed toward its zenith.

"I'll figure out something else—something equal—to be worthy of being one of you," Varg replied, his eyebrows narrowing in determination.

Fiske thought for a moment, then shook his head slowly.

“Sometimes I think you’ll be our leader one day.” Fiske smirked. “Glad I’m unlikely to live to see it.”

Suddenly, Varg winced in pain, reached into his mouth, and pulled out a tooth, groaning.

“What the hell, Fiske?!” Varg threw the tooth at him. Fiske caught it and examined it as if it were a gem.

“Don’t try to kill me again, and you’ll keep all the rest…” Fiske said absentmindedly, then suddenly frowned at the tooth. “Shit, I meant to knock out the eighth.”

Varg just groaned in pain and spat bright red blood onto the grass covering the highest hill of Sommarøy Island.

***

An eagle sat on a tree, watching the two pesky animals below—first trying to cut each other with sharp pieces of metal, now drinking fermented honey and laughing.

The eagle sighed, tired of sharing this world with such reckless creatures, and took off. It was almost lunchtime, and prey wouldn’t catch itself.

***

“Will you finish yours?” Bjorn pointed at the half-eaten hot dog Rachel had left on her plate.

“Be my guest.” Rachel smirked but then immediately frowned. “Mr. Åström, I’m…”

“Bjorn.” He winced, grabbing Rachel’s meal and taking a bite. “For months, I’ve asked you to call me just Bjorn.”

“And for months, I’ve told you that unless it’s a professional requirement, I’ll pass, Mr. Åström.” Rachel smiled. “What I was saying is that I’m happy to go on an occasional trip, but I’d like you to understand me correctly…”

She gestured broadly, indicating the tiny diner where they were having lunch.

After almost a year of working for Bjorn, Rachel Landau had pretty much gotten used to her boss's weirdness—as long as he remained just an eccentric wealthy man with his overly strict schedule, unusual health habits, and odd food choices.

However, after he had miraculously saved Åström Corp., things had shifted drastically—and not in a direction Rachel understood.

First, there was the negotiation that had sent William Bray, the most powerful scumbag in the city, out of Bjorn’s office without receiving a penny—something that was very close to impossible.

Well, that’s not true. It was absolutely impossible.

Yet this weird and, let’s face it, handsome young man, the owner of a huge corporation he had inherited in ruins just a year ago, had smacked down the most experienced corporate shark—with an army of lawyers—within a twenty-something-minute negotiation.

Then came this trip—barely two hours after Bjorn had “read something in a good book,” they were on a flight to Norway, and then took a ferry to this tiny island. Again, without any explanations. Rachel was pretty sure Åström Corp. couldn’t possibly have any interests here.

After arriving, Bjorn had simply led them through the narrow streets, wandering from building to building until he announced he was hungry, and they had ended up here—in a tiny diner serving surprisingly delicious hot dogs.

On top of that, Rachel was afraid to admit that this was actually the best time she’d had in… well, life.

“... That looks like a nice getaway, which is totally understandable after such a tough and successful meeting,” Rachel continued, watching Bjorn, who was devouring her meal with enviable appetite, smirking at her. “However, I’d love to understand if we have some specific goal here, or…?”

“Well…” Bjorn finally finished the hot dog and took a sip of mead, wincing. “Damn, how did they drink this?”

“Who?” Rachel asked.

“Them.” Bjorn pointed at something behind Rachel’s back. “Varg and Fiske.”

Rachel turned over her shoulder and saw a large, gorgeous painting hanging on the diner’s wall. It featured a tall young man and a shorter yet wider older man, hugging and singing on a cliff.

“That’s why we’re having lunch in such a…” Bjorn hesitated, then smiled. “Downshifting manner. I must tell you—”

“Whoa. Almost not offensive.” A deep male voice, thick with an accent, made Bjorn shudder and turn to his right.

Carrying a huge tray stacked with dirty plates and empty glasses, a massive man in his forties—bald, with a long beard and piercing blue eyes, wearing a remarkably clean apron—approached their table.

With surprising skill, he switched to a one-handed grip on the tray and swiftly swiped the plates from the table.

“It’s a good place within its niche.” Bjorn nodded at the man, looking guilty. “I’m sorry if that sounded harsh.”

The man let out a loud laugh and bumped the tray down on the table, causing half the food leftovers to splatter.

Rachel winced in disgust, which only made the man laugh even harder.

“Ketty.” He offered a handshake to Bjorn and then to Rachel, which both accepted. “No offense taken.”

“Bjorn. And this is my…” Bjorn glanced at Rachel, hesitating. “Close friend, Rachel. Nice to meet you, Ketty.”

Ketty nodded and gestured toward the painting on the wall.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you calling these two ‘Barg’ and ‘Piske’?”

“Varg and Fiske.” Bjorn looked at Ketty with interest. “Why?”

“Well, nobody knows anything about this painting—except for you, I guess. It’s been here for decades, long before I bought the place.”

Ketty made a gesture to a waiter, sliding his finger across his throat.

“Our best beverage on the house—for Nordic art connoisseurs—a deadman’s mead!”

“That’s very kind of you, but that’s enough—” Bjorn gestured at his glass, but Ketty simply waved his massive hand dismissively.

“That’s not mead, that’s honey juice for tourists.” He winked at Bjorn as the waiter set a tiny glass in front of him. “This is a real drink.”

Bjorn eyed the glass hesitantly, then shrugged and downed it in one sip.

Shit.

Bjorn leaned back, his eyes widening as he struggled to catch his breath while his gut twisted into a tight knot, and—

It passed. An incredible taste lingered in his mouth, and a comforting warmth spread through his body.

Rachel looked at Bjorn, concerned, but he simply smiled and turned to Ketty.

“Well… That’s the best drink I’ve ever had.” Bjorn grinned. “Thank you.”

He straightened in his seat to stand and shake Ketty’s hand again when the chair broke beneath him, and Bjorn fell.

Or rather, he began falling.

Ketty’s eyes narrowed, his pupils shrinking into tiny dots as he leaned forward with unnatural speed and gently placed a hand on Bjorn’s lower back, stabilizing him before immediately pulling away.

Rachel blinked. Something strange had happened right in front of her, but so quickly she hadn’t managed to fully comprehend it.

Bjorn stared, bewildered, at Ketty, who grabbed his tray and smiled.

“My apologies. Or not. After all, broken chairs might be another part of what you called… downmoving experience?”

“Downshifting,” Bjorn corrected, frowning at Ketty. “But how did you…?”

“Sure! Downshifting!” Ketty laughed again and headed toward the bar. “Have a good one, Master Bjorn!”

Bjorn took a step to follow Ketty when his gaze landed on the painting—and he stopped.

Suddenly, he smelled iron, felt an insufferable heat on his skin, and… sorrow so deep he couldn’t take a full breath as his chest squeezed with pain he could never have imagined.

***

The last of the ships that had brought death to Sommarøy that night was burning down, filling the morning air with the repulsive stench of burning flesh, wood, and rope.

Louder than the moans of the wounded was only the silence of the dead—hundreds and hundreds of corpses covered the beach, slowly staining the sand dark red.

Varg knelt next to Fiske, whose breathing was slowing, each exhale accompanied by bloody bubbles forming at his lips. Fiske’s eyes were half-closed as he looked at Varg with a faint smile.

Tears ran down Varg’s face, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back.

“Varg…” Fiske’s smile widened slightly, but it was immediately followed by a cough.

“Don’t speak. They’ve gone for the læknir—you must stay silent…” Varg trailed off as Fiske’s coughing turned into laughter.

“Crybaby as always… Take this.” Fiske pointed at his sword and didn’t say another word until Varg placed his hand on it. “We’ll drink our mead again—I’ll be waiting for you. But now…”

Fiske closed his eyes for a second, making Varg’s heart miss a beat as he stared at him in horror.

“But now, you must listen very carefully,” Fiske said, frowning in concentration. “I once told you that you’d become our leader, and I meant it. You’re the only one who can stop this from happening over and over.”

Varg looked around the battlefield. Hundreds of invaders lay among dozens of his own people. His family.

“Fiske, I’m… I’m not like you… I can’t even stop crying like a child…” Varg stopped as Fiske raised a weak hand. His breathing was nearly gone.

Varg looked around at his people approaching—silent, emotionless.

“That’s it… It’s not about this… ability of ours,” Fiske said, smiling again. “It’s only about your heart and will, Varg…”

Fiske fell silent, his glassy eyes fixed on the sky.

A thunderous, deafening cry erupted from Varg’s throat as he collapsed over Fiske’s body.

***

“Bjorn! Shit, Bjorn, what’s happening?! Wake up now!”

Fiske… Gone…

Alone.

I’m alone among people who will never accept me, alone with my inability to be like them…

Wait.

Damn.

Bjorn stopped sobbing and opened his eyes, looking around and gasping for air with no trace of smoke beside the one coming from the diner’s kitchen.

He was lying on the ground behind the diner, tears streaming down his cheeks, the shadow of sorrow fading from his mind.

Rachel was leaning over him, looking terrified.

"Rach…" Bjorn leaned back, holding his head, which burned with pain. "Shit. I'm sorry."

“Bjorn, what’s happening?” Rachel stepped back, her expression shifting from concern to fury. “Either you tell me, or I quit. Right here, right now.”

Suddenly, Bjorn smiled at her, causing her to scowl even more.

“If you’re about to have another episode…” she started, but Bjorn just shook his head.

“You called me Bjorn,” he said, winking at her as he stood up.

Bjorn quickly examined himself and pursed his lips—his best suit was ruined. Still, he tried to dust it off while Rachel stared daggers at him.

“Mr. Åström, I’m afraid this situation goes beyond my professional—” Rachel started, but Bjorn raised a hand, stepping toward her, making her stop.

“Before you say something we’ll both regret, let me explain.” Bjorn paused, waiting for Rachel’s response, but she simply raised her eyebrows, so he continued. “I don’t do drugs, and I’m not insane… Well, I sincerely hope not. Something is happening, and I’m trying to figure it out…”

“Bjorn? Rachel?”

A tall blonde woman with eyes as blue as Ketty’s rushed into the back alley and stopped, sighing in relief. “I’m so glad you’re still here!”

Rachel winced and turned, irritated by the interruption. It was the second time Bjorn hadn’t managed to explain the mess they were in.

“And you are…?” Rachel asked, much less politely than usual.

“Orsala Lundgren.” She beamed. “I work for the Oslo National Museum, and I heard you talking about the painting in the diner.”

Orsala spoke at the speed of a machine gun, forcing Rachel and Bjorn to concentrate just to keep up.

Rachel shot Bjorn a look, but his focus had already shifted to Orsala, and he nodded.

“That’s amazing! Ketty refused to sell it for any money—and I mean any. We believe it dates back to the seventeenth century, but that’s all we know about it. However, we have another painting in the museum, featuring the same two men—but in a very different situation…”

“Fiske’s death,” Bjorn said, looking at Orsala.

She blinked and fell silent, staring at Bjorn, bewildered.

“The men in the painting are Varg and Fiske. The one you have shows the younger man—Varg—kneeling over the older one—Fiske—who’s dying. Right?”

“Yes…” It took Orsala twice as long to say that single word as it had for her entire previous sentence. She was now staring at Bjorn with careful awe, like someone recognizing a celebrity at a nearby table but hesitating to be sure.

“But how do you know?” Orsala continued, speaking rapidly again. “It’s been in storage for decades—”

“Can I take a look?” Bjorn interrupted her.

Orsala hesitated but then slowly nodded.

“Sure, Mr. Åström!” she said, beaming again.

Bjorn nodded, but Rachel frowned, stepping back from Orsala and placing her hand on Bjorn’s shoulder.

“Ketty didn’t know Bjorn’s surname, Ms. Lundgren,” Rachel said slowly, glancing around the narrow back alley behind the diner, where they were completely trapped.

Orsala stopped smiling and sighed.

“So stupid of me…”

She looked at Bjorn and began trembling.

“Mr. Åström, please, come with me the easy way,” Orsala’s silhouette shimmered and turned translucent, her pupils shrinking into tiny dots.

***

An eagle circled the tiny island, searching for lunch when it spotted three clumsy animals below. One of them stopped smiling, and something strange happened—almost as if she possessed skunda undir.

Which, of course, was impossible. The eagle’s ancestors had seen the last of those who did, slaughtered centuries ago.

A salmon surfaced from the water, and the eagle immediately forgot about the weird, pesky creatures below.

After all, it was none of his concern.