The Twelve Stars

Chapter 11

I had just made a deal with the dead. With Robyn back home learning how to do Rune Magick and Quentin remaining at the med-bay to allow room for Finn overnight, I took that moment of solitude to head to the barn, vial in hand. If Solomon had been telling the truth, there was only one way to be sure. I left for the barn at sunrise. A place where Robyn and I used to spar. Upon reaching it, I couldn't help but wonder what I'd see.

The door creaked open on its rusted hinges. The barn itself stood as a workshop for Quentin's smith skills. There was his bench of tools and gadgets sitting to the wooden wall on my left. Axes, hammers, shafts, punches and chisels hung on a rack above. His best weapons had been mounted on the wall to my right, just before the stairs. The forge had been placed further down, under the stairs, the bellows and anvil included. Hay covered the concrete floor in messy heaps. The barn had a loft with shutters that looked out to the green scenery of Kjode.

I made my way up. I hadn't come up here for a while, but I normally did when I needed to clear my head. The past week's circumstances stood that accountable for. Alone, I sat down. My legs dangled over the edge of the open shutters. I held up the vial before me, inspecting its questionable contents. I didn't trust Solomon for a second. But how else would I truly believe I was Ragnar if I couldn't remember my past?

Looking at the vial, I realised this was my one chance to remember a life I had forgotten. No. A life that was taken from me. It was in that instant that I pulled out the cork and drank the fowl, blue liquid. It tasted awful, and for a frightening moment, it felt like my eyesight was fading. Everything blurred and my vision became darker. My hands rubbed at my eyes, dropping the vial in the process, until they came into focus again. Blinking them open, I was met with an entirely new scene.

I was sitting at a round table. The window behind me showed hilltops covered in snow against a grey sky. To keep us warm, a fire had been lit in the hearth of the small room that we were in. A private scholar room from what I gathered in its architecture of mosaic stone walls. By we, I meant myself and Finn. Old leather, bound books lay open on the table before us. A rug covered the wooden floor. Historical ornaments had been displayed on the mantel that worked in accordance with the paintings above. A thud startled me.

"By the gods, I'm never going to remember this," Finn groaned as he reached down to pick up the bottle of ink that he had accidentally knocked off the table.

"You're lucky father isn't around to hear you speak like that," I said.

"Father doesn't know what we can do," he responded.

"And it's going to stay that way," I assured.

From what I could remember, I was studying the monarchy of New Midgard, using the world map on the table as a visual guide. It was a compulsory part of the curriculum of the royal line's education. And it wasn't easy remembering all those names and their capital cities. Who ruled which lands and when. Eleven-year-old Finn's complaint was interrupted by exterior sounds of thumping feet and startled shouts, having us look up from the books to the front door in alarm.

Other memories flashed by in those seconds. Memories of learning to ride a horse, to spar and royal etiquette. There were banquets that I had forgotten where peace treaties had been formed between New Midgard and Hibernia. I had also forgotten how often Finn and I used to sneak around the castle in our free time. It took me to the memory when we had carved our names under our father's desk in the library. It was after our eleventh birthday. In news of an incoming siege, Father had left in hopes of averting such onslaught. Worried about his safety, he assured of his return by giving us each a dagger of our own.

We were resting on our backs under the table, carving the letter of our first names into the fine wood. "Finn?" I said. My eleven-year-old self was questioning his choice of shortening his name. "What's wrong with Griffin?" We brought our hands down to admire our whittling skills.