My name is Frey.
It's Freya, actually, but everyone calls me Frey. They seem to think it suits me.
Of course they do.
Freya Aurora Barbaric Brede-Lodewuk.
That's me, the third of five daughters belonging to Njord and Pheba. A Frey among Gratia, Jana, Kelda, and Eva, traditional Viking women. They cook, they clean, and they gracefully hack apart dummies with double-bladed axes. Good qualities in wives apparently.
The only one of those qualities I have is cleaning. I'm nothing like the rest, probably because I'm intelligent. I read, I write, I draw, I chart stars, and I hack apart dummies with smaller, easier to wield blades, like daggers.
I look nothing like them, either. My sisters are strong and blonde and blue-eyed. I'm scrawny, with brownish-reddish hair and green eyes.
Frey, indeed.
The only thing I do have in common with my sisters (besides stupid cleaning) is that we were all born in different port towns. Our father's a fur trader, and we live on his boat, the Asgardian. We never have a solid home, and probably never will.
I was born in a port town called Berk. It's pretty far north, and freezing cold; it snows nine out of the twelve months of the year, and hails the other three. It's located solidly on the Meridian of Misery.
We were lucky to be there on one of the few days a year where it was foggy during the day, but clear skies at night. The arctic air was clear and cold, the stars winking at us from their lofty perches in the cosmos. According to mom, the Aurora Borealis showed on the night of my birth, and instead of naming me Aurora, she decided to name me Freya, after the goddess of the night. The aurora was supposed to be a blessing from her.
Some blessing that turned out to be. But at least my mom calls me by my name, Freya, and not my nickname. I hate not only the fact that people call me Frey, but also the way they say it. Like I'm some little arctic cod that's too small to eat, the kind people sigh in disappointment at and toss back into the sea.
My life was pretty much one big ride on one little boat…until my eighteenth birthday, the day we docked back at Berk.
The day my story really began.
It started out like any other docking day: I fell out of my bunk from the impact of the ship hitting the wall of the harbor, and my sisters laughed at me, telling me to stop being such a klutz.
Please note that I did not get a single "Happy Birthday."
As usual, I was the last one off the boat, courtesy of my oldest sister, Kelda. There's only a difference of four years, and yet she treats me like some ten-year-old she's dying to beat up.
Which, on occasion, she has. But I always manage to win because she knows as much about battle strategy as I know about cooking. And by that, I mean nothing whatsoever.
It was only twenty degrees, but the cold didn't really bother me. I've never been one to be easily chilled, unlike my sisters. Whenever we go somewhere as cold as Berk, they always bundle up in so much fur, they look more like the bears the fur actually came from than humans.
Haha, sissies.
"Out of the way, Frey." Eva grunted, shoving me into the port-side railing. "Vikings first, remember?"
My ribs made contact with the thick, unyielding wood, and as I pushed myself to my feet, at least three splinters embedded themselves into my fingers.
"What determines whether I'm a Viking or not?" I put my hands on my hips, trying to look threatening. Or, at least, as threatening as a five-foot-seven stick figure can look. That saddest part is that they all have at least three inches on me.
Apparently, my fierce expression didn't have the correct effect on my sisters; actually, it had the opposite. Eva and Gratia laughed as they tossed their blonde braids over their fur-coated shoulders. "First of all, to be a Viking, you have to actually be able to pick up an axe." Jana and Kelda joined in, smirking in amusement.
"She's right, Frey," My father appeared out of no-where, cheeks pink with humor beneath his dirty blonde beard. "Vikings are strong, and I'm sorry, but you're the weakest one aboard this ship."
I rolled my eyes at my father. "Thank you for pointing that out, Dad," I replied sarcastically. "It means a lot."
"Oh, Frey, you know they're only joking." My father boomed, and clapped me on the back, forcing me to stumble forward. Thankfully, I didn't fall, but I could still feel a slight stinging pain where his sausage-like hand was.
My sisters smirked at me when our father wasn't looking.
"Let's go, Papa." Kelda said gloatingly. "You have more important things to do."
"Right you are, Kelda." My father nodded, stroking his bushy beard thoughtfully.
"You're just wasting your time." Jana agreed.
As they filed off the ship onto the docks, my sisters squinting at the cliffs with distaste, all I could think was how much I was wasting my time on them. It was literally impossible to strike up an even vaguely intellectual conversation on that ship. I tried once, and Gratia ended up taking an axe to the hull.
My mother materialized at my side whilst I stood sulkily on the deck. "I'm sorry about your sisters, Freya." She gazed up at the cliffs with a look I translated to caution, almost fear. "They just don't understand what it's like to think for themselves."
As harsh as that was for my mom to say, she was right. My sisters weren't dumb blondes, but they didn't exactly disprove the unfortunate stereotype. Again, axe to the hull.
"I've tried to reason with dad, but he just doesn't get that they aren't joking." I shook my head as I watched my father and my siblings wade their way through the crowd of people, disappearing into the thick fog which had settled over Berk.
My mother sighed. "Since it is your birthday, I can try to reason with him." As she said this, my heart leapt with hope. "You are eighteen, and I think it's time you start receiving the respect you deserve."
All I could think of was a life where I wasn't teased about being the shortest or scrawniest or smartest. My sisters would leave me be, and if they were genuinely curious, have me teach them about the stars or reading or drawing or some other skill they lack that I seem to have perfected. I was a wealth of valuable knowledge to people on that ship, and I felt that it was time they realized it.
"Thank you." I tried my best to contain my excitement. Respect! Me! Me, being respected! That would be more valuable to me than all the books in the world…okay, maybe just all the star charts in the world. Books are priceless, irreplaceable.
"You're welcome." My mother replied, and then placed something in my hands. "The last time we were in Kåln, I saw this. It reminded me of how much you preferred daggers to your sisters' preference of axes."
I unwrapped the cloth and found a long dagger in a leather sheath. Tiny carvings danced around the edge of the silver double-edged blade, which had been balanced with extreme precision.
"It's called 'bita-viðrtaka', or 'biting defence'." She explained. "The man who sold it to me said it was made from fróðdleikr silfr."
I nodded and sheathed the blade. If my mom thought it was really made of seraphic silver, then maybe I really was the only one on the ship that wasn't gullible. But it was a nice gift, all the same.
"And since your sisters all have their own axes, I thought you might like a weapon of your own." She finished, sounding satisfied...and nervous.
"I love it. Thanks, mom." I replied, and strapped the sheath to my belt. I may not be a Viking according to my sisters, but I at the very least feel like one.
"You're very welcome, Freya." She smiled proudly. "Happy Birthday."
"Thanks, mom." I replied, and left the boat for town.