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It hurt. Oh god, it hurt. Eiríkur felt spirals of pain run through his limbs, every inch of his skin on fire; literally. His skin was on fire. Flames licked at his pale skin, burning the skin into red and pink pus. Eiríkur’s skin burned like paper, unable to move, run, or scream. His right leg immobile, or more like not even attached. He couldn’t feel his leg, his body shook in pain at the realization of the missing ligament.
His ears rang, the hell around him loud and deafening. Eiríkur couldn’t even cover his bleeding ears, he couldn’t believe that he had gotten himself into this mess. The blond watched the world burn, no man’s land was covered in fire and drilled with holes from the bombs. Those damn bombs.
The soil was burning, brush and dust burned and gathered in clouds. He fisted at the ground, his throat dry and burned. This is it. Oh my god, this is it. His uniform had been burned away, the flames of the raging fire tore away still. The poor boy couldn’t even cry, his tear glands burned away. It was hard, but he desperately moved his arm, moving his hand towards his chest. He grasped at the ribbon tied around his neck, thankful that it had not completely burned to ashes.
The ribbon, god his beloved ribbon, it was a good luck charm of sorts. His brother, Sigurd, had given the ribbon to the boy at a young age. Eiríkur held it close, right at his heart. He prayed and whispered to the heavens, praying to any god that would listen to him.
He choked, blood splattering from his mouth and onto his chest. The blood was thick, he was slightly surprised that he even still had any blood left. The world spinned, the world was now just a blurry blob of brown, red, yellow, and orange. The heat of the fire bit of his left leg, the numbing, burning pain shooting up from the leg and straight to his head. Eiríkur’s mouth went wide, his voice finally working as he let out an ear splitting cry of pain. It echoed, joining the raging fire and yelling of other soldiers.
The ground rumbled, many feet above and around him. Eiríkur spluttered, his senses going numb as the world blurred further. He felt so lost, the pain started to drive him insane. Lost. He lost. I don’t want to die! I’m sorry god, if I have sinned! Please, oh please, I don’t want to die! Not alone!
“Eiríkur!” A scream, a heart broken scream.
The rumble of feet increased as someone approached the dying boy, approached the burnt body. Eiríkur’s body was numb, the burnt and peeling skin numbed his limbs. He was unable to move. It’s okay. Everything is going to be fine… I’m going to die here.
“Oh my god. Holy fucking shit. No, no, no!” Hands grabbed at his shoulders, the calloused hands pulling him into someone’s lap, “Oh Eiri… oh no.”
Eiríkur groaned at the touch, his skin lighting on fire as he was pulled forwards. He hissed, his grip on the ribbon as tight as ever. The air burned his eyes as he tried to open them, squinting at the figure that held him.
“Leon?” He coughed, his voice scratchy and dead.
The boy in question, Leon, let out a sob.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I should’ve never let go of you,” Leon put his hand over Eiríkur’s own, clutching the one at his heart.
“It’s okay,” Eiríkur coughed, trying to smile, “I’m alright, it’ll be okay.”
“No, oh god no. Oh Eiri,” Leon cried, tears plummeting onto Eiríkur’s cheeks, “FUCKKK... today was supposed to be a good day…god, it was supposed to be a good day...”
Leon choked over his tears as something cold touched his cheek, touching the tears. Leon tilted his head to lean into the cold hand that belonged to Eiríkur. Eiríkur’s fingers were black, burned with ash and peeling skin, but also blue with lack of blood. He was smiling, Eiríkur was smiling and Leon felt like his heart had just broken into pieces.
“Don’t cry,” Eiríkur smiled weakly up at Leon, “I love you. I love you so much.”
Limp. Eiríkur’s hand fell from Leon’s face, landing onto his bloody and burned chest. Eiríkur’s face was frozen in a smile, his poor, dear lover's eyes fell grey and dull, the bright violet gone. The corpse's hair was singed, his pale blonde hair burnt to black. The body did not move as Leon spoke to it,
“No,” Leon froze, the heat of the fire turning cold, the calls of his fellow soldiers falling silent, “Eiríkur. Eiríkur Steilsson, you speak to me right now. Say something.”
Leon’s shoulders fell, Eiríkur’s corpse resting in his lap. He shuddered, thick tears falling down his cheeks.
“Eiríkur. Eiríkur say something,” Leon grabbed Eiríkur’s face, “I swear to god if you don’t get up and speak to me I will kill you myself!”
Leon’s face contorted as he sobbed, he bit his lips, his face wet. His shoulders shook as the world around him burned and guns flared. Leon cried out, lilting his head back as he screamed. He weeped over the body, pulling Eiríkur’s corpse closer; clinging to the last thing he had ever loved.
“Wang! Xiao Wang!” A commanding officer, “Stand up! We still have a war to-“ The officer stopped speaking, staring at Eiríkur’s burned corpse, “Mother of god… Steilsson? Oh, poor Bondevik.”
The commander patted his back, “Come on, we’re almost at camp. This siege will be over soon.”
Leon sobbed into Eiríkur’s chest.
Sigurd groaned as he sat down, cigar held between his fingers. They were able to push through the enemy lines and take them down, the siege was a success. He silently thanked Hansen as he blew out the cigar smoke, bathing in the burning smell. The older man watched his squadron, eyeing each and every man and woman.
Clouds still hung high in the sky, his cigar only adding to the rotting, burning smell of the passing fire that engulfed no man’s land just earlier today. Sigurd rapped his foot against the dusty ground, humming a rhyme as he observed his healing soldiers. Many women and men were covered in bandages and some with open wounds, the burned skin cried and spilled pus.
The man sighed, his age (though only 29) seemed to be getting to him. His back ached, Sigurd knees wobbly and shoulders wound into knots. He knew he was lucky to only get away with a few scratches and burns.
His humming soon became the only sound throughout the camp, (except for the quiet cries of pain from the other side of camp) his soldiers turned to listen to the Norwegian. Some hummed along time the familiar nursery rhyme, smiling as thoughts of the past hung in the air.
Sigurd breathes in and out, the cigars fumes cradled in his lungs. His fingers blue from the cold, his shoulders aching and shuddering. The blonde rubbed his face with his free hand, rubbing away the ash. Sigurds humming softened, women and men alike gathering around to listen or sing along to the rhyme.
The cold nipped at his skin, causing him to unroll his sleeves and blow out the cigar smoke that collected around him. The familiar sound of his mother tongue warmed the air, the nipping bite of the cold slowly falling to a small, occasional breeze. It was almost like the siege had just been forgotten-
“Captain Bondevik,” Hansen, “I was.. looking for you.”
Mouths closed and eyes turned to stare at the two officials.
“Hansen?” Sigurd put out his cigar in the dust, standing up.
“I-I am sorry,” Hansen struggled with his words, shaking his head back and forth, “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this.”
“Tell me what, Hansen?” Sigurd glared at the other man.
Sigurd glances behind the man, knowing that his younger brother usually spoke to the fellow Icelander.
“Where is Eiríkur?” Sigurd frowned.
“I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry,” The man shook his head sadly.
A choked sob broke the silence of the crowd. Sigurd recognized the young man to be Xiao Wang, or what Eiríkur called him: Leon.
“Leon?” Sigurd turned to question the young man.
“I should’ve been there,” Leon’s eyes were red and puffy, his voice dry, “Sigurd, I lost him.”
The last phrase hit Sigurd like a bus, Sigurd, I lost him.
“You-” Sigurd felt his heart rise into his throat, “No. You’re lying.”
Leon shook his head, he was hunched over, hands up to his face.
“You’re lying, you have to be” Sigurd wouldn’t believe a word, “Where is he.”
“Medic tent. With the other bodies-“
Sigurd turned away from Hansen, not wanting to hear anything the other had to say. As he walked away Sigurd could hear the choking sobbs of his brother's lover. If he’s sobbing- No . Sigurd shook his head, his brother was alive. They had promised each other that they would live until this war was over and go back to the mountains of Norway and Iceland.
“Are you really joining the war effort?” Sigurd looked back towards his questioning younger brother.
“I have to,” Sigurd put butter on the steaming pan, “The letter came in.”
Eiríkur frowned, sitting at the table in the middle of the kitchen. They lived in a decent sized home in Norway, the house was cheap and suited both of the brothers' needs. Their father had moved to a nursing home just earlier that year, though their mother stayed in the small house. She was never home (god knows where she was). Sigurd worked at the local bakery with their neighbor, Magnus. While Eiríkur was in his last year of high school, getting ready to go to college.
“Does that mean my letter will come too?” Sigurd nearly dropped the frozen mackerel as he tried to put it in the buttered pan, most definitely surprised by the question.
“Why would you think that, Eiri?” Sigurd sighed.
“I’m not a kid! I’m of age!” Eiríkur shook his head, “I’m old enough.”
“Do you want to go to war, little brother?” Sigurds shoulders stiffened.
“...No,” Eiríkur slightly shook his head.
“Then you have no reason to want that goddamn letter,” Sigurd spat.
Eirikur crosses his arms in a huff, knowing full well that his older brother was right. Sigurd worked in silence as Eiríkur waited for dinner to finish. As Sigurd turned down the heat of the oven, a knock ratted at the door.
“Eiríkur,” Sigurd looked over his shoulder to look at The other, “Be a dear and get the door for me.”
“Yeah, sure,” The high schooler pushed out his chair, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He pattered down the hallway, opening the entrance door to be greeted with a frowning Magnus. Oh no.
“Oh, Eiríkur, Hey,” Magnus scowled.
“Magnus,” Eiríkur looked the other up and down, “Need something?”
“I-“ Magnus swallowed, “I have a letter. Um, for you.”
Eiríkur paused, “Me?”
“I assume Sigurd got his? Mine came in last week,” Magnus shook his head, handing Eiríkur the letter.
I assume Sigurd got his? Mine came in last week ; Eiríkur froze at the words. His heart beated rapidly in his chest.
“The conscription letter,” Eiríkur choked out.
“Yeah,” Magnus sighed, “That.”
“That?” Sigurd had appeared behind Eiríkur, whipping his hands off on his pants, “What is that?”
“The letter,” Eiríkur frowned.
“I’ll leave you two,” Magnus watched Sigurds face contort into horror, “I’ll see you then, bye.”
Sigurd slammed the door as Magnus left, rubbing his hands over his face.
“You’re too young. How could they think of bringing a kid into-“
“I’m not a kid, Sigurd,” Eiríkur scowled as he looked at his brother.
“I-“ Sigurd shook his head sadly, “I know that… but you’ll always be my little brother.”
“We’ll be stuck together,” The younger brother opened the letter, the words danced into a blurry mess as his eyes watered, “We’ll be with each other. We’ll have each other.”
Eiríkur sobbed, the impending doom of war hung in the horizon, just about to slip over. Sigurd swallowed hard, embracing his younger brother. His hands ran up and down the school boys back, shushing him into silence.
“Promise me something,” Sigurd kept his arms tightly wrapped around Eiríkur.
“What?” Eiríkur wrapped his arms around Sigurds middle.
“Promise me that,” Sigurd pulled back and cupped his younger brother's face in his hands, “Promise me that once this is all over, we’ll come home to Norway. To Iceland.”
“When this is all over?” Eiríkur’s lower lip wobbled.
“Yes,” Sigurds hands tightened slightly around the younger's face, “When this is all over.”
“I promise,” Eiríkur let out a sob as he moved his hands over Sigurds, “I promise, stóri bróðir.”
“Thank you, lillebror,” Sigurd pressed a kiss to Eiríkur’s forehead, holding his brother close.
He never wanted to let his lillebror go.
The flaps of the tent were sent to the side as Sigurd stormed in. He frowned as he stared at the dead bodies, so many had limbs broken or missing. He gagged at the smell of the rotting corpses, scrunching his nose in disgust. A few nurses gathered around the bodies, some closing the eyes of the ones who had died wide eyed. Sigurd shuddered.
“Captain Bondevik?” A familiar face appeared in front of him, her green eyes the same as her older brother’s. Marie, she frowned as she clasped her small hands together.
“Marie? How are you?” Sigurd rolled his shoulders, popping away the stiffness.
“I was going to ask you that,” Marie’s hands quivered.
“They speak lies, Marie,” Sigurd clenched his teeth.
“They are not lies. Sadly, they are the truth,” Marie’s voice shook, breaking as she thought of Eiríkur’s corpse and how he was brought in.
“He and I had a promise, Eiríkur does not break his promises,” Sigurd spoke quietly to the Belgian, “He promised that we’d go home after this is over. When this is all over.”
“Sigurd…” Marie sobbed, her voice small.
“I will not believe such things till I see him myself,” Sigurd spat, he balled his hands into a fist, his nails digging into his palms and drawing blood, “I will not.”
“I-“ The short woman bit her lips, “I will take you to him.”
Marie took the older man farther into the pit of death. The bodies were slowly -one by one- being towed out of the tent and pulled out to the outside world. Sigurds mind whirled. He had seen Leon and his cries, now he had seen Marie’s. The Norwegian shook his head, he had never liked Leon. Leon never had a good influence on his brother, though, Sigurd tolerated the relationship due to how happy it made Eiríkur.
The wind whipped at his face, dragging underneath the flying flaps of the fabric tent. He could see Marie rub her face and hands together to gather warmth. Suddenly, the biting cold rose again, no longer at rest as it was before. Sigurd frowned at the feeling of the wind, it reminded him of his home in Norway. The home he left behind, the home he spent his whole life in with Eiríkur. Sigurd dearly loved those times, the times where he’d and Eiríkur would run through the snow with their parents calling after them to come inside for dinner or to come in so they wouldn’t catch a cold.
But so soon, the war dragged him and his brother away, their elderly parents left to worry about their lives. Sigurd remembered the first day they had arrived, Eiríkur was shaking in his boots. Quickly, Sigurd was dragged away from his brother by the ear and into work. Days would be spent in the snow, training and filled with discipline.
A body was placed into the cot to his side, the male nurse frowning.
The early days flooded back to him, the days where he watched his younger brother gain friends and how he, Sigurd, grew much closer to the local mechanic and baker, Magnus Densen. He missed the smell of fresh bread, the clean smell of the mountains, the smelly stink of the bird Eiríkur had, his mother’s tea, and his room's candle essence. Magnus always smiled, keeping close to Sigurd and Eiríkur, he only knew the pair and family.
Sigurd watched a boy only a year younger warm up to Eiríkur, he watched in annoyance that this kid had taken over his brother's life.
“What are you, in love with him?” He remembered saying.
“Don’t be a hypocrite. You feel the same with Magnus. Even the Germans know that.” Eiríkur responded quickly, defending his actions. Sigurd remembered it too well.
He had watched the build up, he watched as Leon touched his brother on the shoulders and arms. He watched as Leon smiled and ruffled Eiríkur’s hair, he watched as Eiríkur blushed and slipped up his words like a school girl in love. Sigurd hated it, constantly complaining about Leon to Magnus. Magnus only laughed, Ah, young love~ Sigurd could never tell if he hated Magnus or if he loved him.
Though, that was years ago. Too many years ago.
A few coughs snapped Sigurd out of his reflecting, dragging him out to the real world again. Marie stood in front of a cot, blocking the view of the body.
“Sigurd,” Marie did not smile, “My condolences to you and your family.”
She moved, the view of the body clear. Sigurd froze, his chest swelling and his heart in his throat. Eiríkur. The corpse was blue and black, his skin burned and his leg gone. His hair was singed and his face burned. His whole body was burned.
“No,” Sigurd stumbled to the side of the cot, “No. no, no, no, no.”
His hands shook as he fell to the floor, his mind raced, heart beating rapidly in his chest.
“No, no, no, no,” Sigurd sobbed, his voice teetering, “Eiríkur, oh my dear brother, wake up.”
His hands reached up to grab Eiríkur’s face like he did all those years ago. His breath shortened, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Sigurd felt his body shake as he screamed out his brother's name. He shook Eiríkur’s body, begging for him to wake up.
“Eiríkur! Eiríkur, please,” Sigurd sobbed, tears turned into rivers, “Wake up. Oh my god, wake up!”
He screamed again, his voice shaking as he let out mangled sobs of sorrow. Sigurds heart hurt, his head hurt, his throat hurt, his soul hurt.
“You promised me!” Sigurd wept, “ When this is all over ! God, you promised me!”
He bawled, the river of tears flooding into a waterfall. They rolled down his cheeks in a race, they wet his shirt as he cried over his brother's corpse. My brother's corpse.
“We were supposed to go home! Home to Norway, Home to Iceland,” Sigurds hands gripped Eiríkur’s limp arms. He sobbed into the burnt fabric that used to be Eiríkur’s uniform. Sigurd burrows his face into his arms, his brother cold at the touch.
“Home…” Sigurd shook, his body shook at the force of his mourning.
“Please. Let this be a dream, lillebror.”
The warm smell of the bakery was all he could think about as he stepped in, the bell at the door ringing in welcome. Eiríkur shifted his book bag on his shoulder a bit higher, correcting the aching pain to be more soft and subtle.
Every afternoon he’d return from school and walk straight to the local bakery, it was small but it was the best in town. Eiríkur combed his hair with his fingers, thinking of what his mother had told him just that morning: “Don’t forget to tell Sigurd to get some fresh bread for dinner.” Mother always loved bread with her creamy soup, he had to agree.
He was definitely grateful for the warmth that the bakery provided in the late afternoon.
“Oh, Eiríkur!” A voice welcomed him as he was finally noticed, “It’s been so long!”
Though, the voice wasn’t Magnus’. He froze and looked around, searching for the voice who belonged to a person whose name was stuck on the tip of his tongue.
“Oh, over here silly!” Tino, that is what his name was, called out from a wooden chair at the large window. Berwald sat across from the Finn, Eiríkur certainly did recognize the stocky brother of Magnus.
“Tino. Berwald,” He nodded in a hello as he walked up towards the table the pair shared.
“How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages! What grade are you in now?” Tino was filled with questions, throwing one after another at Eiríkur. He did his best to answer them all.
“Have a girlfriend yet?” Tino teased.
“A w-what??” Eiríkur stiffened.
“Oooo!” Tino lit up into a smile, “Tell me! Oh, Eiríkur, you can trust me! I won’t tell Sigurd!”
“No!” The teen groaned, “Sorry, I just… haven’t met the right person, I guess?”
“Oh, too bad!” Tino sighed, “girls would be flocking from miles away to see you! Someone sooner or later will snatch you right off your feet!”
“Sure, Tino. Sure,” Eiríkur rolled his eyes at the conspiring male.
“Snatch who off their feet?” Sigurd popped up from behind Eiríkur.
“Oh my god-“ Eiríkur flinched, “Why do you always do that-?”
“Do what?”
“THAT!” Eiríkur cringed, “Appear… out of nowhere.”
Sigurd shook his head, dismissing the question.
“Momma says she wants bread for dinner,” Eiríkur said just before Sigurd dragged him out of the Bakery.
“I already have it,” Sigurd sighed, “I don’t understand why she thinks I’m the one who always forgets things.”
“She gets us mixed up a lot.”
Silence. Neither could ignore their elderly parents impending demise, their health getting worse weekly.
“It’s fine. She’s alright.”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t speak of it again.
-
Well. Tino certainly was right about someone snatching him off his feet. From the moment Leon had his hands on Eiríkur’s shoulders, he fell into a hole he knew he’d never be able to climb out of. Leon rarely left his side, worrying that if he ever did, he'd lose Eiríkur. It always made Eiríkur laugh and call Leon stupid, Eiríkur wouldn’t die. He knew that for sure, he had a promise to keep and he wanted to get out of this war and spend the rest of his life with his family. Including Magnus and Leon. They were basically family now.
He could not ignore the glares and huffs that always sprouted from Sigurd once Leon would appear next to Eiríkur in the mornings. People grew used to the loud calls in the morning and the dust picking up as Leon ran to greet Eiríkur. People smiled and laughed, “There goes Leon, You’ll spot Eiríkur soon enough!”.
Everyone had grown into a family, the years of war had made them gather and become close. Everyone knew Magnus and his cheerful attitude, Sigurd and his mysterious demeanor, Berwald and Tino as the two parental figures (go to them if you need help), Hansen and his Icelandic stories, and Leon and Eiríkur, the two that could never be separated (even to Sigurds distaste).
They stuck together, pilot, mechanic, medic, or soldier. Eiríkur has grown to love the smiling faces of the women and men he fought with. He loved the smile Marie would give him as they spoke late into the night and the cigarettes Lars would give him and tell him not to tell Sigurd about it. He loved the stories of his home that Hansen would recite to him, the stories that his elderly father used to share when he was a young boy. He loved the small touches and laughs he shared with Leon, those nights where they would stare at the stars and think, the days where they spend their time with guns and trying to not get a limb blasted off. The times where he and Sigurd would sit around, doing nothing, maybe talking about their parents. Just maybe.
The days went by slowly, each and everyone could write his death and he could just say goodbye to the people he loves. The days he noticed the longing looks Magnus gave Sigurd as the Norwegian would pass by.
“Why don’t you just say you like him?” Eiríkur had asked one day, alone while Magnus whipped off oil from his face.
“Dude. Have you seen the fits people throw about that stuff nowadays?” Magnus sighed.
“So?” Eiríkur rolled his eyes, “You love who you want to love. Sigurd thinks the same, he will not be able to deny his undying love for you soon.”
“His undying love?” Magnus thought wishfully, imaging Sigurd.
“That sounded gross,” The teen smacked Magnus’ arm, “Go get ‘em tiger.”
He left Magnus to drawl over his new found information and sped along the dirt path, scraping up the dirt. The sun wasn’t out, the day was gloomy but dry. The dust had not morphed into mud and had left his eyes to flutter to keep out the dust.
“Hey, Eiri,” An arm wrapped around his shoulders, Leon, “Haven't seen ya all morning!”
“Hello Leon,” He smiled, “good Morning.”
“Good morning indeed! I feel like something good will come out from today!” Leon cheered as he dragged Eiríkur down the path.
“Good? I heard a rumor about bombs and war… we might have to fight today,” Eiríkur frowned.
“What’s not fun about that? Maybe we’ll win the fight and end the war! This squadron could be the turning point,” Leon laughed as he spread out his arms dramatically, “Imagine! You and me, guns raised as those filthy traitors flee with their tails behind their legs. We stand alone, just the two of us!”
“Just the two of us? Wouldn’t that mean that the others are all dead?”
“Perhaps, depends on how you see it. It might feel like it’s just the two of us but in reality it’s us and the people we love! Our family!” Leon moved around to display his words into actions, like a play, “Or, you have a knife to your throat and I’m the only person who can save you!”
“I’m not a damsel in distress,” Eiríkur crossed his arms.
“Well now you are,” Leon smirked as he flicked Eiríkur’s nose, “Anyways, before SOMEONE interrupted me… I shoot the man dead and rescue you! You thank me and I get a few metals from the government and everyone sees me as a hero!”
“A hero?” Eiríkur laughed, “Yes, Hero indeed.”
“Hero indeed!” Leon pressed his hands onto his hips, “today is going to be a good day, a good day for the both of us. We have nothing to lose god, hit us with whatever you got!!”
Too bad.
Magnus raised his arm to wipe off the sweat that gathered at his brow, salty as it rolled down his lips. He pushed himself back into the open space, exiting the tight space under the truck. Magnus sighed, if only he could be at home with Sigurd, Eiríkur, Tino and Berwald at the Bakery. He flipped the wrench he held back and forth, a shiver going up his spine.
“Ugh…” Magnus huffed, pouting, “Really wish that this day was a bit better. Fuck whoever challenged god today…”
Magnus started to put his equipment away, fidgeting slightly. He started to feel eyes upon his back, and started to hear whispers. Why isn’t he with Sigurd? Aren’t they close? Magnus frowned, his shoulders going rigid.
“Magnus?” A stone cold voice came from behind the Dainish man.
“Lars!” Magnus smiled as he greeted the Dutchmen.
“So, you haven’t heard then,” Lar sadly frowned.
“Heard what?” Magnus tilted his head questionly, “I’ve been under that truck for a few hours, what’s going on?”
“Magnus. I’m sorry, I know he was like a brother to you,” Lars sighed. To Magnus’ surprise, he had no cigarette between his fingers.
“Who are you-?” Magnus stuttered, “You mean Eiríkur? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, he was a good kid,” Lars shook his head, looking down.
He was a good kid.
“Was?” Magnus froze, “Lars are you saying-?”
“The best of wishes to you, Sigurd and his family.”
Lars turned and walked away, Marie standing down the path. Her eyes red and puffy, cheeks stained with pink and dried with tears.
“Fuck. Holy shit fuck,” Magnus clutched the side of his head, “No. Eiríkur- god, not Eiríkur.”
The stares grew as his knees buckled, his legs hitting the dirt. The dirt flew, surrounding him with a dust cloud, burning his eyes.
“Oh shit,” Magnus felt like a rock had lodged itself into his throat. He struggled to get up again, nearly falling over his feet as he stumbled upwards. Dirt covered his knees as his legs stiffened as he struggled, trying to will himself to get up.
People frowned in pity as he dragged himself down the path, mumbling incoherent phrases as he was bound to the thought of Eiríkur’s death. Oh, he was so young. He was almost like a second brother. Magnus tightened his hand into a fist, cursing god once again.
The clouds that hung in the sky had darkened, worsening the mood. Rain, rain splattered onto the dusty earth, leaving pockets of mud as Magnus hurried to the medic tent. The rain flattened his hair, drenching his coat and pants. The slow downfall turned into a rabid storm in only a few seconds, leaving Magnus cold and shaking to his bones.
The tents flaps had been zipped shut due to the downpour, causing Magnus to fumble over the zipper and slow down the process of opening the tent. He finally stopped his shaking hands and opened the tent, stumbling in like he had just drank a few beers. He nearly laughed at the thought that he even felt like he did. His head spun, his steps off balance-
“Bånet legges i vuggen ned,” The voice was cracked, broken and soft. Magnus could hear the heartbreak that was embedded into the sound.
“Somtid gråte, somtid le. Sove nå sove nå, I Jesu namn,” The soft voice grew slightly, just slightly, louder as Magnus made his way past the bodies that littered the tents cots and floors. The smell of rot filled his nose, he almost immediately went nose blind.
“Jesus, bevare bånet,” Magnus spotted Sigurd down on his knees, hands holding the soft, blue, pale hands of Eiríkur’s corpse. He stopped in his tracks, unable to tear his gaze away from the boy who used to be someone so dear to him.
Jesus, keep the child safe.
The words spoken in the home tongue of the eldest brother will for the youngest to have a good afterlife, for one to be great and full of love.
“Min mor ho tok meg på sitt fang,dansa med meg fram og tilbake,” Sigurd held tighter onto his used to be alive little brother, who’s corpse still did not respond. The body did not breathe nor open its eyes to smack away the hands of the older, nor did it grumble and sing along. Magnus let out a silent gasp of sorrow as he fell next to Sigurd, raising his arm to rub the back of the humming man.
“Danse så med de små, danse så. Så skal borna danse,” Magnus rubbed Sigurds back up and down as he slowed to a stop, finishing his tune. Sigurd wept, choking over his tears as he bent down to press his head into Eiríkur’s frozen chest.
The Danish man could not bring himself to say anything, if he did he knew that Sigurd would weep himself to his death.
Oh how Magnus wanted to go back to that bakery.
Home, home wasn’t home anymore. The war lost and in the past as he returned to the old cottage he used to share with his brother, Eiríkur. Sigurd tightened his hands around the ribbon he held, the present he gave his little brother so many years ago.
“What is this?” Eiríkur had said, the childlike voice of the young child of his memories tore Sigurds heart.
“A good luck charm,” Sigurd remembered saying.
“Did you use one of your stupid spells on it?” Sigurd had rolled his eyes at the comment.
“So what? It’s a gift, accept it.”
“Fine, thank you big brother.”
Snow covered the driveway as he stepped onto the curb before his house, the pavement icy and slippery. He slowly made his way up the driveway, careful not to slip.
“Are you sure that you have everything??” Memories of Eiríkur’s first day of high school flooded back to him.
“Calm down Sig, Eiri has everything! I checked!” Magnus was like another brother at the time.
“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry. Make sure momma takes her pills,” Eiríkur was always so worried for their mother.
“Of course, be safe,” Sigurd remembered how he felt that day, pride but also worry. He had nothing to worry about.
“I will.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Sigurd reached the front door, raising his hand to knock- though he put it down, remembering that it used to be just him and Eiríkur. Their parents lived in a nursing home soon after the letters came in, father first and then mother later.
“Momma says she wants bread for dinner,” nearly a day later their mother moved out. She was never home anyways.
Sigurd unlocked the door with his old key, listening to the creaking of the old wood and metal. Dust coated the wood and furniture, the smell of dust making him sneeze. The house was the same, the same rug, the same windows, same chairs, same desks, same walls. Though it wasn’t home. There was no smell of bread, nor candle essence, no stink from the bird, or mother’s tea. Sigurd frowned, heart heavy.
“Eiríkur! Get your damned bird!” Sigurd remembered the moment where he was making dinner and the bird that Eiríkur kept, kept squawking profanities to the eldest.
“Mr.Puffin does what he wants, Sigurd. You know that,” Eiríkur has rolled his eyes.
“That bird is too spoiled!”
Even through all the arguments over Mr. Puffin, Sigurd loved the bird. The bird was family, sadly. He remembered the moment where they almost had to get rid of the mad thing. They needed to sell it, or give it away before they went off to war. Their parents certainly weren’t trusted with the thing. Thankfully, Magnus’ parents adored the thing and took it in. I wonder how he’s doing.
The kitchen was barren, no food littered the counter, nor no drinks. No food inside the fridge, the fridge wasn’t cold. The tiles creaked under his feet, old and cracking.
“Sigurd, go help your little brother with his hot chocolate,” His mother smiled, her bright blue eyes and blonde hair so prominent in the memory.
“Yes, mother.”
“Here, let me help,” Sigurd had taken the spoon from Eiríkur and stirred the milk and powder for the young boy.
“Thank you so much!” Eiríkur had always been such a polite child.
On days like that, the brothers would spend hours by the fireplace listening to their fathers Icelandic stories. Their mother would always butt in and tell her own Norwegian versions, always making little Eiríkur laugh in joy.
Sigurd smiled at that, his brother always loved stories. The hallway was as narrow as it always was, never two at a time. Pictures covered the old wall paper, the frames falling apart. Photos of him and Eiríkur as kids in the snow, family photos, his parents wedding, him and Magnus, Eiríkur and Mr. Puffin, And a family photo including him, his father, mother, Eiríkur, Magnus and Berwald. A picture of Tino and Eiríkur camping, the mountains of Norway and Iceland, Fjords, Mother and him in the home, Eiríkur is the snowy backyard, and Him and Eiríkur drinking hot chocolate near the fire.
They hung limply on the walls, their wires and wooden frames old and dusty. Sigurd smiled as he walked down the hallway, memories of the past keeping him sane. He still held the small, white ribbon in his hands, all the photos contained Eiríkur wearing the charm.
The doors were just as old and rotten, the wood falling apart like the rest of the house. The door was the door to his old room, he opened it slowly. His room was the same, nothing was moved. His bed still neatly made as he left it, his desk cleared and covered with dust. Years of mistreatment left the room dirty and smelly.
“Big brother?”
“Yes, Eiríkur?”
“I-I had a nightmare… can I stay with you tonight?”
“Of course, come here.”
“Tell me a story?”
“I’ve told you about the Nisse, correct?”
“Yes! The elves!”
“Elves..? Haha, sure. Well, one Christmas Eve a small servant girl wanted to pull a trick on her little Nisse.”
“Isn’t that bad?”
“Yes, you’ll see her consequences soon enough. She had decided to hide his butter for his julegrøt at the bottom of the bowl. The Nisse could not find the butter, he was thrown into a stage of anger and took his revenge: killing the best cow.”
“Why was he so upset about the butter?”
“Nisse love having butter with their julegrøt, they might take great offense to the ‘mistreatment’.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe, but you have to respect the Nisse, it works almost unpaid for the family. Let’s continue, he returned and sadly ate the rest of his julegrøt to only find the butter at the bottom of the bowl!”
“He judged too quickly.”
“Yes, most definitely. The Nisse felt bad, so he went towards the neighbors own shed and took their best cow.”
“So he stole to make up for his mistake?”
“Yes. Just a bad action piled up to another bad action.”
“Nisse are strange things.”
“Yes, yes they are.”
“Another, brother, please!”
“No, it is late. Maybe tomorrow by the fire, mother will listen with us.”
“Fine…”
“Good night, Eiríkur.”
“Good night, Sigurd.”
He smiled, the stories he used to tell his brother during nights of lightning and thunder, during nights where Eiríkur would run into his room and seek comfort from nightmares. Sigurd brushed his fingers over the windowsill, dust gathering on the tips. The rug underneath his feet stained with mold, the yarn stuck together in patches. Sigurd sighed and exited his old room, leaving the disintegrating wood and rug behind.
The hallways lights did not work, nor did the rest do the house lights. Seems like his mother did not keep the promise to tidy the house and pay the bills. Maybe it was too long or she forgot. Forgot was a much more liable answer.
He wandered across the hall towards the master bedroom, the door in the same condition as his own rooms. His parents never really let him and Eiríkur in, they kept their sons out of the room for years. Sigurd nearly hesitated as he grabbed the doorknob, though he pushed through and opened the door.
He frowned at the sight. The room had two beds on opposite sides of the room, old clothes that his parents never packed stashed into the corners of the room. The dresser mirror was broken, like a fist had broken the glass into shards. The floor was just as dirty as his own. Sigurd sighed, his childhood home was now in shambles and terrible condition.
“How do you think the home will look like when we get home?”
“What?”
“Like… will it be crumbling? Smelly? Redone?”
“We shall find out in due time.”
“Sigurd, we might not even go home.”
“When this is all over, Eiríkur.”
“Will it be over?”
“It will! Do not doubt our military.”
“I am not saying that, I am saying that this war might not end in my lifetime.”
“I don’t believe that… Home will be fine. Mother will pay for renovations.”
“She will forget.”
“She will not.”
“Sigurd, stop telling yourself such blinding things. I think you need to get glasses.”
“I am able to see fine.”
“I do not believe that, you are blind enough to not see reality.”
“And what is reality, Eiríkur?”
“We might never go home. This war might just tear that cottage to the ground or burn it, at least.”
“It will be fine. Eiríkur, you need to stop looking at the dark side of life. You are young and have many opportunities soon to face, home will be fine.”
“Blind I say, Blind as a bat.”
Eiríkur never did come home and the war certainly did not end during his lifetime. Sigurds knuckles turn white as he grips at the old dresser, frowning at the silent foreshadowing that Eirikur had spoken. He glared at the dim room, the room that had been torn into separate halves over years of mental grumbling. Sigurd held his nose high as he stalked out of the room.
The room next to his own, Eiríkur’s. The door was white, clashing against the dark brown wallpaper that coated the hallways walls. A small desk sat outside of the room, a single vase with a single Bergfrue. It wasn’t wilted like the rest of the house. Sigurd scowled, rushing down the hallways and up to Eiríkur’s door.
He nearly barged in, but the stone stuck in his throat cried to keep himself outside of his dead brother's old room. His hand rested on the knob, letting out a sigh, he pushed through and opened the room he dreaded to see the most-
A woman. She had long blonde hair that fell to the middle of her back, she faced the window while she sat on the clean covers of Eiríkur’s bed. She smiled as she looked through the window, daydreaming.
“Mother?” Sigurd choked in surprise.
The woman whipped her head around, her smile immediately deflating into a frown.
“You are not Eiríkur.”
“I… I am not, mother,” Sigurd nearly shrunk away, “it’s me, Sigurd.”
“Who?”