Mind over Matter | Armin Arlert

Echoes of the past

Freyja's life had been one of woe. 

She never knew much about her parents, for she was only eight when they had died, and left her to fend for herself in the cruel and merciless world. There were some talks here and there about her mother being a prostitute, a worthless whore who couldn't grasp the value of her own existence. But Freyja had hoped she wasn't, not because there was any shame in it, but because she knew a little bit of what it's like to be touched when you didn't want to be. 

The only memories she had of her father was of being a drunkard, the typical source of a broken home and torn family. Her father had been the first person she ever hated. She didn't like her mother very much, but she also didn't enjoy watching her get hit by him. As far as she ever knew, her house was never really a home. 

Freyja never really remembered how they had died. But after they did, and she was all alone against the world, she had sought out the only person she could think of; her half-brother. 

She had heard talks through the thin walls of her room, seen across shattered glass and fallen bricks of her life. She remembered hearing the cries of her mother, the thuds of a body against the wooden flooring of her house. Her father often visited a brothel, even after Freyja was born. But her mother had only found out about it after one of the women he slept with had a child. 

 "She is the same as you, can't you see that?"

Those the words she recalled the clearest, spoken in her father's deep voice. Somehow, that phrase stood out the most to her amongst the amount of screaming and crying that was going on. And she had remembered what she felt at the time, the burning fury in her chest that ate up her insides in a rush of anger.

"Freyja."

That was the name she had chosen for herself. She didn't like her parents, and she wouldn't like the name they had given her as well. From the moment her parents died, her past had died with them. 

"Whether it's alcohol, woman, there's even god. Their family, the king, dreams, children power, everyone must be drunk on something, otherwise they wouldn't be able to continue. Everyone was a slave to something."

A fit of sickening coughs erupted from Kenny's throat, blood splattering on the fresh grass below. 

"What are you? A hero?"

At that, Levi put both of his hands on Kenny's shoulder's, shaking him aggressively. 

"Tell me everything you know!"

"Who were you to my mother?"

A grin hitched on the edge of Kenny's mouth, his eyes shutting. 

"You idiot...just Kuchel's brother."

Kuchel; that was the name of the prostituted her father had gotten pregnant before she was even born.

Freyja watched as her brother's eyes widen, the emotion behind them unreadable. His expression fell silently, the words weighing down his chest like a ton of bricks. 

"At that moment...why did you leave me?"

By now, his hands had left Kenny's shoulders, dropping down to his lap. 

"I can't become a parent for someone."

That was the last thing he said, before shoving the small box in his hand right on Levi's chest. Freyja eyed the small box, wondering why Kenny had decided to be so kind. But then again, Kenny Ackerman had always been impossible to understand.

Sadly, by the time they headed back, the coronation ceremony was over. Freyja's lips settled on a sad pout, wishing she could have at least seen the royal crown. Her eyes glanced at the horizon beyond the ceiling-to-floor windows, watching the rays of sun escape through gaps of the forest. Levi and her stood on the marble floorings of the Mitras castle, it's architecture the finest she'd ever seen.