Chapter 2: The Gift of Fire
The bucket hit the deck between Kenji’s legs, sloshing greasy water onto his jeans. Ragnar loomed, a wall of fur and muscle, and pointed a thick finger first at the bucket, then at Kenji’s filth-caked arms. His expression offered no debate.
The soap was a lump of waxy, foul-smelling tallow. “You’re kidding,” Kenji muttered, picking it up. It smelled like a barnyard. A Viking across the hold chuckled. “It cleans, demon-eyes. Or do they not have dirt in your land?”
Kenji scrubbed, the soap barely lathering, leaving a slick film on his skin. The Vikings watched his every move, their talk a low rumble of Old Norse he couldn’t understand, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Ragnar remained, arms crossed, observing. Kenji finished, the water now a cloudy brown. He looked up, shivering. Ragnar grunted, seemed to consider, then tossed him a coarse, damp blanket from a pile.
It smelled of mildew and sweat, but it was warmth. Kenji pulled it around his shoulders. “Thanks,” he said, the word feeling absurd. Ragnar merely gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, then turned to mend a net, his huge hands moving with unexpected delicacy. The gesture was the first thing that hadn’t felt like a threat.
Kenji huddled in the blanket, the ship’s groan a constant reminder of his dislocation. Bjorn’s words echoed: A living man with fire in his gaze is a spectacle. He was not a person here. He was a curiosity to be displayed. The reality, cold and absolute, finally seeped past the shock. He was trapped in 1300, and his only worth was the color of his eyes.
The ship’s motion shifted, the relentless forward plunge softening into a sluggish roll. A muffled shout came from above, and the oppressive creak of timbers gave way to the sound of ropes whipping through wet wood. “Make fast!” Bjorn’s voice boomed down into the hold, followed by the heavy thud of the gangplank.
Ragnar stood, his shadow falling over Kenji again. He jerked his head toward the daylight now streaming down the hatch. The message was clear: move. Kenji stumbled up onto the rain-freshened deck, blinking against the grey light. They were in a sheltered cove, the water a sudden, shocking turquoise against the dark pine forests crowding the shore.
A settlement of low stone huts and wooden piers clung to the rocks, smoke curling from roofs. Warriors from other ships mingled there, their laughter sharp and loud. A woman stood at the end of their dock, her fiery red hair a violent contrast to the drab landscape. “Bjorn Ironside,” she called, her voice cutting through the din with a sultry, familiar confidence. “Still riding the same old tub, I see.”
Bjorn leapt onto the dock with a grim smile. “Isis. Still running your father’s little sanctuary for miscreants.” She was young, with a curvy frame emphasized by practical leathers, and her green-hazel eyes appraised his crew. “The rules are the same. No murder on my island. You have a grievance, you issue a challenge. Settle it with steel, not stealth.”
As if summoned, a brawl erupted further down the pier, two men rolling in the fish slime. Isis didn’t even turn her head. “Alrik. You know the price.” One of the brawlers, a bearded man with a broken nose, shoved the other off and stood, heaving. He pointed a thick finger. “A challenge, then! For my honor and three silver coins!”
The other man spat, nodding, and the crowd instantly formed a circle, buzzing with wagered bets. Kenji watched, frozen. This was the law here. Disputes were settled in the dirt, publicly, violently. His modern mind recoiled at the brutal simplicity. Bjorn glanced back at him, at his probably wide, crimson eyes, and a slow, calculating smile spread across the captain’s weathered face. The island’s rules, Kenji realized with a sinking dread, applied to people. He was still just property.
Ragnar’s heavy hand guided him off the bustling pier and up a worn stone path to a squat, turf-roofed building that smelled of damp wood and smoked fish. Inside, Bjorn jerked his head toward a three-legged stool in the corner. “Sit. Don’t move.” The door to an inner room closed behind Bjorn and Isis, leaving Kenji alone with the silent giant’s unblinking stare.
Through the thin wall, their voices were muffled but clear. “You found him in the river? With those eyes?” Isis asked, curiosity plain. “Like living embers,” Bjorn grunted. “Never seen their like. What’s he worth to the right buyer?”
A chair scraped. “A man from a land no one knows? Skin and hair like that?” Isis’s voice was a low, evaluating murmur. “He’s a different race than ninety-seven percent of the scum on this island. That rarity alone doubles any offer. Those eyes triple it.” There was a long pause, filled with the sound of a drinking horn being set down. “I need to think on it,” Bjorn finally said, his tone shifting.
The next sounds were unmistakable: the rustle of clothing, a soft thud against the wall, Isis’s sharp, gratified laugh. Kenji stared at the floor, his face burning with a mix of humiliation and a strange, detached pity. They were bartering over his life in one breath and coupling in the next. Ragnar’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes held a faint, knowing glint. After some time, the door opened and Bjorn emerged, fastening his belt. He glanced at Kenji as if remembering a forgotten tool. “Ragnar, keep him here. I’ll mingle with the crew.” The captain left without another word, the door swinging shut on Kenji’s uncertain future.
Ragnar stood, the floorboards protesting his weight, and motioned for Kenji to follow. They moved through the chaotic market, past stalls selling rusted nails and live chickens, the air thick with smoke and shouting. The giant led him to a smaller hut where greasy smoke poured from a hole in the roof, the scent of charred meat cutting through the fish stench.
Inside, skewers of grilled meat were splayed over hot rocks, their skins glistening and blackened. Ragnar pointed a thick finger at the array, then raised a questioning eyebrow at Kenji. Kenji’s stomach clenched with hunger; he scanned the options and pointed to a skewer of glazed, smaller cuts that vaguely resembled yakitori.
Ragnar tossed a small iron token to the vendor, took the skewer, and handed it to Kenji. They stepped back outside, leaning against the sun-warmed wood of the hut. Kenji ate slowly, picking the tender meat off the stick with his fingers, careful not to burn himself.
He chewed thoughtfully, the flavors familiar and alien all at once—gamey, sweet from a honey glaze, smoky. Ragnar watched him, his arms crossed over his broad chest, noting the deliberate, almost ritualistic way Kenji ate. A slight smirk, the barest upward twist of his beard-framed mouth, appeared on Ragnar’s normally stony face.
Finished, Kenji carefully placed the clean skewer on a barrel. He felt the giant’s amused gaze and looked down, a flush of self-conscious warmth on his neck. He brought his hands together and gave a short, respectful bow from his waist. “Thank you for the meal,” he said, the Japanese formality starkly out of place.
Ragnar’s smirk deepened, and he gave a single, slow nod. It wasn’t warmth, but it was a recognition. The moment broke as a commotion erupted near Bjorn’s ship—raised voices, the metallic ring of a drawn blade. Ragnar’s head snapped toward the sound, his body coiling. He locked eyes with Kenji and jerked his chin toward the noise, his message clear: Stay close. Now.
They pushed through the gathering crowd toward the ship, the air sharp with the scent of spilled ale and aggression. A merchant in a stained wool tunic was scrambling backward on the slick stones, his face a mask of terror, as Olaf “Brass” Nicovich advanced with a bored, predatory smirk. Olaf’s boot stamped down on the merchant’s outstretched hand, the crunch of bone clearly audible over the crowd’s excited murmurs.
“A few clipped coins in a bag of silver,” Olaf drawled, lifting his axe. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” The merchant screamed, a high, desperate sound, as the axe began its descent. The blow never landed. Bjorn’s forearm intercepted Olaf’s wrist, stopping the axe mid-air with a solid thwack of muscle against bone. “You know the rules here, Nicovich,” Bjorn growled, his face inches from his former crewman’s. “Isis said no murder.”
Olaf wrenched his arm free, his eyes scanning the crowd with venomous disgust. Those eyes locked onto Kenji, who stood frozen beside Ragnar. A new, different smirk spread across Olaf’s face. He shouldered past Bjorn, his gaze fixed on the red-eyed stranger. “What should this fragile thing?” he said, his voice oily.
Ragnar shifted his immense bulk, placing himself squarely between Olaf and Kenji. Olaf laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. “Hiding him, Ironside? Smart. But those eyes… he’s not for fighting.” He leaned slightly, addressing Ragnar as if explaining something simple to a child. “He’s for a different kind of service. Breeding brothels for the elite pay a fortune for novelties like him.”
Ragnar’s fist moved faster than Kenji could blink. It wasn’t a wild swing, but a brutal, precise hammer-blow that connected with Olaf’s jaw. The crack echoed off the stone huts. Olaf staggered, spitting blood onto the wet ground. Ragnar pointed a thick finger at Kenji, then at the deck of Bjorn’s longship, his other hand forming a tight circle with his thumb and forefinger—the crew’s sign. He is one of us. Not property. The silence that followed was heavier than the blow.
Olaf wiped the blood from his split lip, his eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at Ragnar’s impassive face. He then shifted that venomous gaze to Bjorn, who had moved to stand beside his silent warrior, his own hand resting on his axe handle. Bjorn’s voice was a low, dangerous promise. “You heard him. Touch the boy and lose the hand.”
A tense, grinning cruelty flickered in Olaf’s eyes, but he took a deliberate step back, the calculation clear. The profit wasn’t worth the fight—not here, not now. “A pet, then,” he sneered, turning away. “You always did collect strays.” He stalked off, his crew melting back into the market’s chaos.
Bjorn watched him go, then turned to Ragnar with genuine astonishment. He clasped the larger man’s shoulder. “By the gods.” He looked at Kenji, who was trembling against the longship’s hull. “He hasn’t stepped in like that for anyone since before the silence took him.” Bjorn’s voice softened, just for Kenji. “If Ragnar says you’re crew, then you are. You’re a person on this ship, not property.”
He raised his voice to the gathered men of their crew. “This one is under our protection!” A beat of silence hung, then a warrior with a grizzled beard nodded. Another grinned. A rhythmic stomping of feet and the thumping of axes against shields began, a deep, wordless chant that built until it filled the cove. The sound wasn’t friendly, but it was an acceptance, a brutal welcome that vibrated in Kenji’s bones. He stood wrapped in his damp blanket, the red of his eyes wide and unblinking, engulfed by the thunder of his new reality.