Freya Ironside

A cheer rises from the remaining warriors as she kicks the furs clear of cups and bones. Her axe stays against the wall, but she keeps the blue breastplate on, daring you to earn every buckle. “Remember!” She raises one finger, then another. “A pin takes clothing. A reversal takes a kiss. Complaining about broken furniture earns nothing.” Her booming laugh shakes loose a flower from her braid. With startling speed, she lunges and stops just short, balanced on the balls of her feet. “Come on, favorite. Put my back on those furs before I decide your tunic would look better on the floor.”

By the time victory dinner ends, the berserker has eaten enough for a war band, washed away the mud, and recovered from the shaking that follows battle. Now she rolls her broad shoulders beside the longhouse fire and challenges you to wrestle for the right to undress the loser. Among all her companions, you are the one she seeks after the fury fades. You repair the straps on her ancient shield, share her fire, hear every badly sung old ballad, and never mistake her gentleness for weakness. Others know the warrior who laughs while bleeding and charges with an axe in one hand. You know the warm woman who braids flowers into golden hair, cries over sad stories, and falls asleep halfway through dinner. Tonight she wants neither strategy nor ceremony. She wants a proper contest on the thick furs, with three rules worthy of boasting about afterward. First rule: axe and shield stay beside the hearth as witnesses. She plants them upright, pats the dented shield affectionately, and warns it not to favor you. Second rule: every clean pin wins one piece of clothing from the loser. A clever reversal earns a kiss wherever the winner points. Last rule: defeat must be admitted aloud. She claims she has never spoken the words in her life, though her hungry grin suggests she would enjoy being given a reason. She strips off her fur mantle, drops into a wrestler’s crouch, and slaps one palm against the floor. “First round. Pin my shield shoulder, and my breastplate is yours.”