42. Before Nightfall
“Boy?” Jorg called him, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Wake up. You gonna keep drooling there?”
Tryg blinked his teary eyes. A moment later, he shook his head and brought a hand to his aching temple, which throbbed as if there were an irritating woodpecker inside his skull, pecking at it without pause. But the pain was nothing compared to the confusion, deep as if he had just been torn from a dream.
Tryg did not remember falling asleep. He never dozed off during work; he knew how badly Jorg would react if he did. Besides, why in Hel was he crying?
“Don’t tell me you’re sick,” said the old man, crossing his arms with his famous grumpy expression.
“What?” Tryg replied, wiping his face and finally managing to look at his boss. “No, I’m not sick... I think.”
“Well, if you’re not sick, get back to work. That is, if you still want to go home early,” Jorg said.
As he watched the old goat keeper walk away, Tryg’s headache gradually faded, as did his bizarre confusion. A few minutes later, he remembered that Jorg had asked him to change the water in the goats’ trough, and he remembered why he had asked to be dismissed early... and the lie he had told to make that possible.
I need to hurry, he thought, walking with long strides through the fields toward the pen. The more time I spend near him, the more likely he is to find something out.
Jorg was a sharp old man, too sharp in Tryg’s opinion. The slightest reaction would be enough for him to discover that his young employee had no intention of staying home to care for his mother, as he had claimed earlier.
He felt a little bad for using Frida’s illness that way, but the idea had been hers. Not only that, his mother had insisted that he use her as an excuse, saying that Jorg would never agree to let him go if he knew the truth. And that Tryg needed to go out a little.
He had tried to argue, saying he could change the day of his appointment, which, in his view, was not important enough to risk losing the payment Jorg would give him next week. But Frida insisted, and when his mother insisted, there was no changing her mind. A stubborn woman.
After finishing changing the water in the trough, using the barrel he himself had filled earlier at the river, Tryg said goodbye to Jorg as briefly as possible and left, running through the green pastures. Soon, he reached the muddy streets of the village and climbed toward the only little market in the region. A modest old wooden establishment, with a thatched roof that, for some reason, always smelled of morning dew.
“Hello, Tryg. How are you, young man?” Helga greeted him, the owner of the little market — a woman in her forties with sharp gray eyes and brown hair with a few, but noticeable, white strands.
Tryg smiled. “Very well. And you, Mrs. Helga?”
“Well, thank you.” Helga left the counter to help an elderly woman pick up a jar from a shelf too low for her back. It was Mrs. Völva. “You’re welcome, dear. So, what will it be today, Trygve? I received a new shipment of those tea leaves you buy so often.”
Separating a few carrots, Tryg suppressed his sorrow and kept his smile. “Not today, Mrs. Helga, thank you. I’ll just take a few little things I forgot to buy yesterday.”
“Carrots... Ah, yes, your birthday is coming up. It’s the day after tomorrow, right?”
He nodded. Everyone knew that his favorite cake was carrot cake. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I see...” Helga sketched a mischievous smile. “I thought you’d come looking for Astrid, but I suppose I was wrong.”
Tryg felt his cheeks burn lightly. “No, ma’am. I really just came to do some shopping. Nothing much, nothing at all.”
The owner laughed. “If you say so... Ah, how is Frida, by the way? She seemed quite well yesterday. I saw her walking around the village center, but I was too busy to speak with her.”
“She’s better,” he lied, “thank you.”
“That’s good. Well, take your time. I’ll be here if you need any help.”
“Thanks.”
The truth was that Frida never got better, not truly. From time to time, she had something like a brief burst of health, as if her body gained, after weeks of struggle, a few days of vitality, energy, and rest. It was not much — the coughing fits, the weak legs, the high fever did not disappear, only diminished — but it was already enough for her to leave the house a little.
However, the weakness that had always cursed her eventually returned, as debilitating and painful as ever. And Tryg no longer knew what to do... The throbs in his head returned, even sharper than the first, and he groaned and bent slightly, overcome by pain. Something seemed to be tearing through his mind.
Taking a deep breath, he endured the pain until it passed, then straightened and approached Helga’s counter with a few carrots, a sack of flour, and half a dozen eggs. The owner checked the items.
“That’ll be 10 hacksilvers,” she said.
Tryg began to search through his coin pouch, but stopped and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, I think you counted wrong, Mrs. Helga. I’m sure that—”
“I didn’t.” She pushed the groceries toward him. “It’s your birthday present.”
Tryg was going to shake his head in denial, but hesitated. Winter was near, and things would soon become scarcer and, consequently, more expensive for everyone, including Helga. Perhaps those 6 or 8 extra hacksilvers would make a difference to her, just as much as they would to him.
“Don’t make that face. Just accept it, please.”
The owner’s smile widened, and Tryg returned the gesture, abandoning his sorrow and smiling as well.
“Thank you, Mrs. Helga.”
She nodded. “You’re welcome. Send Frida a kiss for me, please.”
“I will.” Tryg carefully gathered the groceries and left.
However, as soon as he opened the door, he froze. A... ghost appeared in front of him, walking in his direction, bumping into him and knocking his groceries down. Tryg backed away quickly, once again feeling his head throb, and then the figure changed and the collision vanished.
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“Oops!” she said, surprised, stopping as well. “Hi, Tryg... Hmm, are you all right?”
What was that? he wondered, confused and aching. However, the pain soon passed, as did the confusion, and Tryg managed to straighten and look at the newcomer.
A girl a little shorter than him, though she was one year older. She had red hair, a cute collection of freckles on her cheeks, and eyes as green as emeralds, glittering in the sunlight. Her thin, pale arms held a plump bag, and her body was covered by a simple dress, outlined by a belt fastened around her waist.
“Ah. Hi, Astrid...” he said, feeling his face burn again. Gods, he had almost bumped into her. “Yes, I’m fine. I just have a little headache, nothing much.”
“Are you sick?”
“I don’t know, honestly. Maybe.”
Her eyelids grew heavy. “I hope that doesn’t... you know?” She looked away. “I really wanted to see that merchant who arrived. I heard his tricks are pretty interesting...”
Tryg almost refused, but then hesitated, thinking. Perhaps the right thing really was to decline. Sick or not, the fact was that the constant pain and confusion were already bothering him, and that could easily ruin their night. Besides, there was his mother.
Yes, Frida herself had insisted that he lie to Jorg so he could meet Astrid. She wanted it very much, almost as much as he did. But caring for her was more important. Spending his money on her was more important, even if the show was not that expensive.
But, gods, he wanted so badly to go out with Astrid. Never before had he felt so drawn to a girl as he did to that beautiful, kind soul who had just moved to the village; and because of that, his desires and his guilt clashed inside him.
However, in the end, his mother’s insistence and his own desire won.
“Well, as long as you don’t mind going out with a boy who might give you a cold, I’d still like to go see the show with you later.”
Astrid turned to him, smiling awkwardly. “Of course, no problem. I’ve always been pretty healthy.”
He laughed. “Great. Then I’ll stop by your house later.”
And so, with a promise, the two parted ways, both happy and anxious for what was to come. Tryg walked along the muddy street, unable to stop smiling, and climbed the hill toward his home, greeting each of the villagers who passed by, even the grumpiest ones who never answered him.
What was wrong with going out a little? His mother had been right when she told him he needed to have more fun with young people his age, without spending so much time inside the house. And he wanted that. He had friends, but none he could describe as “the brother he never had.” He wanted more. A girlfriend, perhaps, who might become his wife. Maybe even the mother of the daughters he dreamed of having.
A short while later, Tryg spotted his house at the top of the hill, eager to tell his mother about the unexpected encounter with Astrid. A moment later, he reached his house and gripped the door handle.
The sun descended to the horizon, as fast as lightning, and the crimson tones of twilight lasted no more than a single miserable instant. Night fell over the world, starless, moonless. The oil lamps in front of the houses lit up, not with their typical yellowish glow, but with shades of red.
Tryg entered the house calmly, as if nothing had happened, announcing his arrival and leaving the groceries on the small kitchen table. The wood stove was lit. An iron pot sat over the flames, bubbling with something. As he approached, Tryg saw that less than a finger of water boiled inside it, not nearly enough for even a cup of tea.
He raised an eyebrow and spoke loudly, trying to reach the room at the end of the corridor. “Mother, you forgot the pot on the stove.”
Silence.
“...Mother?”
Frowning, Tryg walked to her room. He opened the door.
Two Valkyries. Both stood there, carrying threatening, dark glaives that glittered with golden particles, and wore armor with golden engravings and helms that hid their features behind emotionless iron masks. At their feet...
A terrifying shiver radiated from one end of his body to the other. His jaw went slack. His lips trembled with the words and cries that wanted to escape, but shock would not allow them. Confusion.
Frida was lying on the floor. Bloody wounds marked her body, staining the floorboards beneath her. Her face was twisted in pain, forming deep wrinkles Tryg had never seen before, accentuated by the red lights coming through the window. Only one of her eyes was open, the other closed by the blood running from her drenched hair.
His mother looked at him. She stretched a trembling, injured hand toward him. And one word from her lips reached him, weak:
“Don’t...” A wet coughing fit, which stained the floor with more red. The room was bathed in red light.
Tryg gritted his teeth, waking from his stupor. Then he advanced without thinking. He did not care that two Valkyries were in his house, two of Odin’s most loyal and lethal servants. He did not care that he would probably die if he attacked them. His life meant nothing in the face of the suffering of the woman he loved most in the world.
As he reached for the hilt of the sword that did not exist at his waist, the strange figures appeared again. Different from Astrid’s, perfect but transparent copies of the two Maidens. The two copies attacked him simultaneously, one striking his stomach with the shaft of the glaive, the other hitting his head right after. He needed to dodge that, he knew it, even with the pain afflicting his mind.
“Stop!”
Tryg planted his feet on the floor and backed away at the desperate plea. The Valkyries moved their weapons a few inches, but they stopped as well, frowning.
“Mother...?” he asked.
“No, Tryg...” Frida said.
He clenched his fists. “But they—”
“It wasn’t us,” said one of the Valkyries, her tone neutral.
Tryg narrowed his eyes, suspicious for an instant, but then noticed that their weapons were clean, immaculate. Perhaps they were telling the truth... perhaps. In any case, he ran again, not to attack, but to kneel beside Frida. The Valkyries allowed it and gave him space.
“Mother!” he exclaimed, not knowing what to do with his hands, wanting to take her in his arms. “What happened?!”
She coughed again, blood staining her teeth. Pale as a ghost. Sweating and hot as the pot of boiling water. Panting and breathing as if she had run for dozens of miles without stopping...
The claws of death squeezed Tryg’s heart, sinking their nails in as if they wished to pierce it, crush it. It was a lie. It could only be a lie. This was not happening.
His mother was fine. She had improved recently, enough to take a walk through the village.
Today was supposed to be a special day. He would tell her about Astrid, and the two of them would laugh about it while Frida helped him get ready for the night he would go out with her. Then, they would share the news of the meeting the next day, during the breakfast he would prepare for her.
His mother was fine, surely. This was only an ordinary relapse, it had to be...
“Tryg...” Frida called him, her voice slowly fading.
“No!” he exclaimed, desperate. “Don’t speak. I’ll get help. You!” He looked at the Valkyries, his eyes burning, wet with tears. Tears ran down. “There’s a healer. She works near the little market. Bring her, please...”
They did not answer; they only looked away.
Tryg gritted his teeth. “Damn it, then I’ll go!”
He was ready to run out, when his mother called him again, this time in a sharp tone, though faint:
“Tryg, stop.”
He looked at her. It was difficult to focus on her with so many tears in his eyes.
“You need to go with these women.”
“What?!” Tryg held Frida’s hand and squeezed. She did not squeeze back. “No, never. I’m not leaving you! Wait here, I’ll get help.”
“No.” She coughed. Tears ran from her eyes. “Please, just stay here with me. That’s all I want...”
Tryg collapsed. Bent over. Those words were too heavy, too cruel, and Tryg broke down as he never had in his life, bending over his mother’s face, touching her cheeks, as if that simple gesture were enough to cling to and preserve the woman who had raised him.
“Don’t do this to me,” he begged, pressing his forehead to hers and closing his eyes. “I can’t live without you, please. Don’t go...”
“...Look at me. I want to see you before I go.”
Tryg forced himself to lift his eyelids. He found her dark, tearful iris... and a peaceful yet devastating smile. She did not want to leave him. She wanted to spend eternity caring for him, sharing her life with him. But she would never tease him about Astrid. Never make his carrot cake. Never complain when he forgot to drink his tea. Never smile at him from the doorway again.
She had no choice. Neither of them did.
“I...” he said, sobbing. “I’m nothing without you.”
“You are. You’re much more than I could ever be. And you’ll be more than I could ever dream of being...”
Using the tiny remnant of strength she still had, she touched his face, wiping his tears away, staining his cheek. Her smile softened.
“I love you, son.”
He sobbed.
“Me too—”
Her hand fell.
With his jaw locked, Tryg wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, into a tight embrace, gripping her dark hair. The smell of metal and chamomile.
“I love you too, Mom.”