Chapter Text
Sometimes Eivor wondered if the universe hated her.
One of her knees was shaking. Her throat was dry, and her head felt stuffy. To make things worse, the goddamn neon light above their head kept buzzing and flickering like they were in a shitty horror movie. Eivor was tempted to rip it off the ceiling before she went utterly barmy.
Next to her, Birna was saying something to Soma, laughing all the while. They’d been stuffed in this room backstage while they waited for the show to start; Eivor’s heart did another somersault at the reminder that, oh fuck, they were finally going to play before an audience that wasn’t furred and four-legged and far too judgmental of their musical talents (Nali was a very wonderful cat, yes, but as a music critic he still had a long way to go). Birna was giddy as all hell to no one’s surprise, while Soma was cool and collected, leaning beside the door all badass like, because of course she would. Valdis, their new bassist, was silent, as always. Eivor had probably exchanged all of five words with her since she had jumped aboard this ship full of crazies they were now all happily sharing. Valdis was the quiet sort—and frankly Eivor respected that. Her dumbass brothers were windbags; maybe Valdis tended to keep her mouth shut because they had never let her have a word in edgewise growing up.
In other circumstances Eivor would have shared Soma’s nonchalant assurance and/or Birna’s gleeful anticipation. In normal circumstances she would have been over the moon; they had all worked so goddamned hard to get this jig, practising for months on end (Eivor’s fingers sure felt like they were going to fall off, for one) and greasing all the right hands to have a place at this joint (it stank of piss and cheap beer, but hey! at least she and the girls would have free drinks after the show!)
And yet Eivor’s current predicament was all of her own making. Indeed, she had no one else to blame for the nausea sloshing in the pit of her stomach, for the jitters that left her hands shaking like a leaf in a storm.
After all, she’d been the one to have the fan-fuck-tastic idea of inviting Randvi to the show.
They had stayed in contact over the last few months despite the unusual circumstances. “You’re not responsible for what Sigurd did,” Randvi had texted her earlier this week. “I don’t want this to ruin our friendship. I care a lot about you, Eivor.”
I care a lot about you, Eivor, and oh hell, somehow those few words made Eivor want to either do a victory lap around the place or burrow ten feet in the ground; she wasn’t quite decided yet. But then, there’d been that other thing, that whole I-don’t-want-to-ruin-our-friendship thing. That made her want to scream too, but in a whole ‘nother way. It was like that stupid meme. Inside of Eivor there were two wolves, and both wanted to scream. Or something. She needed a few more drinks in her system to get in the right mindset and unleash her inner poet upon unsuspecting victims. Maybe later that night, once Eivor would find herself seeking the sweet oblivion of alcohol after what was sure to be yet another fuckup.
“You okay, there, Sunbeam?” Birna asked, smirking at her. “’s not like you to be so quiet, usually.”
“It’s just nerves,” Eivor mumbled, and now Birna was raising a brow, clearly not buying that bullshit excuse. “Never played before so many people before.”
Birna snorted. “Hell, Eivor, half of those people are your own damn mates. No one came to see me, that’s for sure.”
“Valdis’s brothers came to see her,” Eivor said, jabbing a thumb at their bassist. The latter simply shrugged. “Not me.”
“But one of them’s your ex, isn’t he?”
More like an old pity fuck of mine, Eivor thought with a grimace. “Yeah, so?”
“So, Valdis’s brother, and that dumbass Vili, plus—” Birna suddenly frowned. “Wait. Eivor, you stupid, stupid slut, you didn’t…”
“I didn’t what?” Eivor said, tiredly.
“You invited your exes to the show—but just the guys? What the everlasting fuck?”
“I still hang out with them. What gives? You don’t have a dog in this fight.”
“Sunbeam, if you’d asked your female exes to come, you coulda introduced me. I coulda been the best rebound ever!”
“You want me to help you hook up with my exes?”
“Ladies, ladies,” Soma said, holding out her hands. “Seriously? We’re about to have our debut show, and that’s what you want to talk about?”
“C’mon…” Birna elbowed Valdis in the ribs, and the latter rolled her eyes. “Aw, no one’s with me on this? Some wingwomen you are…”
“Alright,” Eivor growled. “I’ll set you on a date with Ciara or Petra.”
There would have been Estrid too, but as far as Eivor knew, the honey-tongued Frenchwoman was still married to that wanker Birstan, the owner of the hardware store where Eivor had been working a few months back. “Oh, we’re in an open marriage,” Estrid had told Eivor with a laugh, “he’s got someone on the side too, there’s no reason to worry, cher amour,” which was, well, good for them, but in the end, once she’d left the bed and shimmied back into her jeans (Estrid’s favourite pair, of course, since they fit Eivor’s arse all snug like) Eivor had decided she was done messing around with married people.
(The fact that Sigurd had been discovered as having cheated on his fiancée around the same time surely had no role to play in that realization, no siree…)
“Ciara?” Birna bounced her eyebrows. “That hot Irish redhead with the cute lil’ tush?”
Eivor sighed. Oh, yes, she sighed, remembering said lil’ tush all too well. Nice and curvy, just as she liked ‘em. “Yeah. She’s still studying in London. I’m sure she’d be up to go for a drink or two.”
“Man, I take back what I’ve said,” Birna said, grabbing Eivor into a tight one-armed hug. “You’re the best mate a girl could ask for, Eivor Wolf-Kissed. I’d kiss you, but of course, that’d be gay, innit?”
“Sure would,” Eivor said, smirking and tussling with the madwoman as if they were a pair of wits-addled jocks.
“I saw Randvi too,” Soma said, looking at Eivor. Her brows were slightly furrowed. Eivor swore under her breath, losing her gormless grin. She’d always been a perceptive sort, Soma. Sometimes you were glad she was on your side, but on other occasions, she sure was good at making you feel like a goddamn ninny.
“Randvi?” said Birna. Fuck, Eivor thought, all too aware of what was to come. “Your brother’s ex?”
“Randvi-my-friend,” Eivor said, with some gruffness. “She’s her own person, y’know.”
Soma crossed her arms. Her dark eyes remained fixed on Eivor, who looked down, unable to stand the heat of that stare. Soma was a military brat, born and bred on a naval base, and it showed.
“Eivor Varinsdottir,” Soma said, “you’re an idiot and a masochist.”
“Wha?” said Birna. “How comes?”
“I’m over her,” Eivor muttered, prompting Birna to gasp dramatically like some dewy-eyed lady from a period drama. “She’s my brother’s ex. Didn’t want to make things awkward and all. But we stayed friends. We did,” she added with much emphasis as Soma raised a brow. “She’s here because we’re friends. Not because…”
“You clearly still want to bag her, eh?” Birna said. “Aw, man, Eivor you should have told us! We’d be your wingwomen! I’d be your wingwoman!”
Soma paced, pinching the brow of her nose. “Oh, to hell with this,” she finally said, grabbing Eivor’s hand and dragging her out of the room. Birna whooped, jumping from the couch and following after them, tailed by an ever-silent Valdis.
“The show’s about to start,” Eivor protested, to which Soma answered, “This won’t take long. I need you to have a clear heart and a clearer head tonight, Eivor. Talk that shit out with Randvi or so help me, I won’t let you set a foot on that stage.”
Eivor stifled a curse as Soma dragged her into the bar, which was filled to bursting with people—punks and metalheads of all stripes and sorts—waiting for the show to start. She grit her teeth at the grating sound of drunken laughter, blinking to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. It was even hotter here than backstage, the air sticky and stinking of sweat. Eivor’s head swam a little, but she forced herself to focus, hanging on to her (admittedly rather sizable) pride. It would do her no good to swoon like a delicate flower in front of this crowd, oh no siree.
“Where is she?” Birna asked. “That ‘friend’ of yours?”
Eivor did not even have to look. Randvi was propped against the counter, a beer in hand. That bright red hair was a dead giveaway, though in truth Eivor felt drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
(Fuck. Since when had she gotten so corny? If they were still on speaking terms, Sigurd would have laughed his arse off, the wanker.)
Randvi was wearing a bomber jacket. And jeans. Tight jeans. Her tush was nice and curvy, just as Eivor liked ‘em. Damn. She tried not to stare. If she had been religious, Eivor would have said that the Lord was testing her—and of course, just like most classes she’d taken in her life, Eivor was failing. Miserably.
(Well, at least that was not unusual. The only way to go after you’d been stuck eating dirt for a while was up, right?)
Someone next to Randvi waved to motion them forward. A tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair shaved on the sides. Vili. “Eivor!” he shouted—because of course the pisspot had no concept of an indoor voice. “There you are, chickenshit!”
“Arsestick,” Eivor drawled in greetings, prompting a chuckle from Randvi. Goddamn, but wasn’t that the most precious sound she’d ever—
“Good evening, Eivor,” said their third companion. Valka. Eivor’s best friend since childhood had one eyebrow quirked in puzzled amusement; she was probably the only goth in attendance, which was a damn shame—goths were the coolest people in the world, according to Eivor’s very unbiaised opinion. Valka was stirring a cute-looking lil’ cocktail that smelled strongly of pomegranate. “I thought you said we wouldn’t see you until after the show.”
Soma glanced at Eivor, who mumbled, “Just wanted to, er, give a quick holler while my vocal chords are still in workable order, yeah? Not sure I’ll be much of a chatty sort after all that screaming, I mean.”
“It’s good to see you again,” Randvi said, warmly. “I missed you, Eivor.”
Eivor briefly wondered how Randvi would react if she were to throw Birna over the counter. The latter was cackling, like they were in one of those bullshit anime romcoms Eivor’s cousin Hunwald always harped about and not, like, the real goddamn world or anything. Valka sighed, reaching for her drink. No doubt she would question Eivor sharply over a cup of herbal tea later on.
“Yeah,” she croaked. “I missed you too. It’s, er, nice of you to come.”
Birna’s smirk was something to behold. “Nice of her to—oof!” Valdis had just driven the point of her elbow into Birna’s side. “I mean,” the latter said, “it’s nice to meet you. You’re Randvi, right? The name’s Birna.”
“Eivor often talked about you,” Randvi said. She turned to Soma and Valdis, adding, “And the two of you must be Soma and—”
“Hey, Eivor!” another voice hollered. From a nearby table, a man, his red-blond hair gathered in a messy bun, was raising his mug in a salute. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“Erke!” Eivor said, reaching to clap his hand. Her grin widened at the sight of the man who stood behind him. “And what’s that? You’ve dragged your grumpy Englishman along for the ride?”
“Hey, Eivor,” said Stowe, shaking her hand as well. “Why so surprised to see me?”
“Always took you for the strait-laced type,” Eivor said. “Gotta give the example to those young ‘uns you watch over, yeah?”
“’Straight’, she says,” Erke chuckled, prompting his partner to roll his eyes in a good-natured manner. “You should have seen us in our wild youths, Wolf-Kissed.” He bounced his eyebrows at Stowe, who pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Me and Stowe, we met during a bar fight, after all.”
“You did?” Randvi said, directing her smile toward Stowe and—alright, alright, Eivor wasn’t the jealous sort (and to be fair, she’d drunkenly flirted with Stowe the first time they’d met before realizing, oh hell, that was Pride, wasn’t it, and wasn’t he accompanied by an equally handsome fellow who seemed just about willing to either bust her kneecaps or burst out laughing? oh yes he was, oh my, but this is awkward), but at that sight, the blood boiled in her veins, and by God, but she would have been ready to throw hands right there and then, never mind the fact that Stowe was a boxer with many wins under his belt, and that Eivor happened to need her knuckles tonight. “Never would have believed it, from the respectable looks of you.”
“Respectable?” Erke mouthed, while Stowe shook his head, a slight smirk showing on his lips. “Maybe,” he said, “but I did spend my youth getting into scraps with people twice my size.”
Soma mirrored his smile. “And now you work to keep kids from making the mistakes you did.”
Her words brought unpleasant memories at the forefront of Eivor’s mind. Both Stowe and Erke were social workers specializing in cases involved troubled youths. Hell, but she would have given about anything to have had someone like them in her corner back in those dark, dreary days where she’d been nothing but a little shit shouting into the void hoping that one day she would eventually be heard. She’d had Sigurd instead, which was—Eivor scowled, unwilling to go there. No, she didn’t want to think of Sigurd, not now, not tonight.
“You call them mistakes,” Vili said with a laugh, “I call them ways to build one’s character!”
“You would,” Valka said, rolling those pretty blue eyes of hers.
Before she could say anything else, another voice called Eivor’s name—and something barreled toward her, crushing her midsection into a vice-like embrace. She wheezed, looking down and finding a pair of brown eyes—guileless and dumb as a puppy’s—staring back at her.
“Ah, Eivor!” Hunwald exclaimed. “My dear, dear cousin, so good to see you!”
“Hunwald,” Eivor croaked, “didn’t think you would, er, that you’d come…”
In truth, she hadn’t wanted him to come. This place wasn’t exactly somewhere you hosted fancy shindigs. Already dozens of punks—scruffy, scrappy punks—were eyeing him as if they could smell the stench of Daddy’s money clinging to him. Hunwald was a dandelion, bright and loud, among dry grass—and quite a lot of people would have loved nothing more but to pluck him from the ground. Eivor usually beat the crap outta these people.
To make matters worse were the two slight figures standing nervously behind him. “Good evening, Eivor,” said Oswald, Hunwald’s step-brother. Unlike the former, he seemed fully aware of just where he’d ended up. After all, as the eldest of three brothers, it was his job to be an overprotective, overly anxious mess. “Er, nice place this is. Not what I would have expected, but…”
Eivor grinned weakly at him. “At least it was cheap?”
“Right,” Oswald said, deadpan. Behind him, a wild-haired drunk began to vomit copiously over his friend’s Converses, to the great amusement of all their mates. Oswald sighed, massaging his temple. This was going to be a long night, Eivor could read in those pretty peepers of his. She squeezed his shoulder in silent support.
“Hi, Eivor,” said the last of the three brothers. Ceolbert had grown a few inches over the last few months—and were her eyes deceiving her or had he bulked up slightly as well? “Long time no see.”
“Lookit you, cuz!” Eivor said, grinning and grabbing him by the shoulders. “Being on the school football team sure is treating you well, yeah?”
“It does,” said Ceolbert, smiling slightly as well. “You’re looking good too. Aren’t you nervous?”
‘Nervous’ was putting it mildly; Eivor felt as if she was on the verge of going off the deep end, and she either wanted to scream at the top of her lungs or pummel something into oblivion—which was why she’d joined a punk band, in hindsight. Instead, she forced a (twitchy) smile and said, “’Course not. Why would I be nervous?”
“I remember the lot of you,” Randvi said, smiling. “You’re Eivor’s cousins, right?”
“Yeah,” Eivor said, nodding. They weren’t really kin, technically; Oswald’s mother was Styrbjorn’s sister, and she’d married Hunwald’s dad after divorcing her wanker of a first husband (dude apparently had been landed gentry, with a bloody title and everything), a union which had then produced the human-shaped ray of sunshine that was Ceolbert.
Oswald, of course, held out his hand like he was still in some posh private school, and not some seedy spot where people got shivved on the regular. “Nice to meet you. My name's Oswald.”
Soma shook his hand. Because unlike Eivor (and especially Birna), she was actually a sane person who’d been blessed with social skills. “Soma. Glad you could come.”
“And I’m Hunwald, and this is Ceolbert!” Hunwald said, grabbing their youngest brother and pointing at him with a madcap grin.
“Ceolbert,” Birna said with a snort. “And Hunwald.”
“Dad teaches the Old English classes at uni,” Ceolbert mumbled.
“And Mum is a specialist of Anglo-Saxon studies!” Hunwald added. “That’s how they met. Romantic, isn’t it?”
“That’s all nice and good, but, er…” Birna jabbed her thumb toward Ceolbert. “Isn’t he a bit too young to be here?”
In response, Hunwald exclaimed, “It’s his eighteen birthday!” Oh hell, Eivor had totally forgotten; that explained why they had all come. Hunwald pinched Ceolbert’s (admittedly adorably) round cheeks, ignoring the latter’s feeble protests. “Our boy’s old enough for a first night of nightly revelry!”
“No, he’s not,” Oswald growled, in a decidedly un-Oswald-like manner. Hunwald just continued to grin stupidly, because of fucking course what younger sibling had ever been cowed by a threat made by their elder? It was simply the way of the world, like the tides being commanded by the moon. Or something like that. Eivor’s metaphor-making (metaphor-mangling?) skills only kicked into high gear after a few beers, after all.
As entertaining it would be to watch choirboy Oswald (try to) tan that dumbass Hunwald’s hide, it seemed Soma had other ideas. “Alright, that’s enough. We need to get going, ladies.”
Eivor’s friends swarmed her, cheering and clapping; this time, even Valdis’s dumbass brothers joined in the fray (she hadn’t even noticed they had gotten here—which one was the twin she’d bagged, again? Eivor didn’t rightly remember). She looked over their shoulders, meeting Randvi’s gaze. It was corny as hell, but it felt as if they were worlds apart. She only distantly heard Soma saying, “Eivor, c’mon. It’s time to go.”
“Sure,” Eivor said, absently. Randvi was waving and mouthing, “See you later,” and again Eivor’s brain went haywire: was she being polite—because of course she would, Randvi was a classy lady, she’d always been, that was why Sigurd was currently still in possession of that wandering dick of his—or was it something else? Was Eivor clearly reading too much into the way that lovely, lovely mouth had curled up to form that beautiful smile?
Eivor’s legs walked of their own accord, taking her away from Randvi and that pretty, pretty smile. She went through the motions almost on autopilot; the girls were talking together, but all she could hear was the blood thumping in her ears. The moment Eivor set foot on stage, guitar slung over her shoulder, there was a deafening cheer from the crowd, loud enough to rattle her bones. Eivor blinked a little, shielding her eyes from the blinding light of the projectors with one trembling hand. God, but she was drenched in sweat. Good thing Eivor hadn’t planned on chatting up Randvi tonight, because she must have reeked to high hell. Soma approached the mic, wincing at the feedback. Birna huffed, passing a hand through her hair, which was so wet that it clung to her brow. Valdis remained silent as ever. Eivor wondered if there existed something in the world that could shake that cool countenance of hers; probably not, she surmised.
Soma breathed in, deeply, before moving to the mic to say, “Good evening, ladies, gents and other folks of London’s underground, we’re the Raven Feeders—and we’re here to fuck up your world for one night!” It had been Soma who had come up with the idea of naming their band after a kenning from an old saga; since she had been a child, she’d loved the stories from their distant past, those tales of skalds and shieldmaidens, of drengir and draugir, of wyrm and wyrd—and she’d hated that right-wing wankers and goddamn Nazis had claimed that ancient, proud culture for their own shitty ends. After a few duds (‘Shield Gnawers,’ ‘Birds of the Battlefield,’ and ‘Swans of Blood’ were the ones that Eivor remembered best), they had settled on ‘Raven Feeders’. The first time Eivor had told Valka about it, her best friend had laughed and laughed. It had stung, really. The name had been Eivor’s suggestion, after all.
There were a few drunken cheers from the crowd. Of course that mad lad Vili shouted, “Fuck it up, ladies!” which wrung out a rare smile from Soma’s lips. Then, Birna struck her sticks together, screaming, “One, two, three, four!” and that was it. There was no going back; they’d all jumped into that chasm, feet first. Eivor’s fingers danced over those strings, never faltering, never stumbling. Birna’s drums boomed in a maddening rhythm, echoing through Eivor’s ribcage like a second heartbeat. Valdis’s bass line held the entire thing together, a steady presence to anchor all that rage. And Soma—
Soma was fucking everything.
Because yes, Birna was passionate, but she was only a passable drummer. Valdis was talented, but she had no stage presence whatsoever. Eivor had only been brought into the band, “because she looked like a punk-rock Valkyrie,” according to Birna. But Soma—Soma was the real deal. Soma had the voice. The writing chops. The passion, the engagement, the rage. Soma grabbed that mic and screamed in it like she had something real to say. If anything, she was the Valkyrie; Eivor would have followed her anywhere if she willed it so, and she knew Birna and Valdis felt the same way.
Eivor grinned, feeling a pleasant surge of warmth in her ears, a roar that made the blood sing in her veins. She was alive, fucking alive. A moshpit had formed in front of the scene; Vili dragged Erke along, the two men losing themselves in the cleansing revels of violence. Hunwald made as if to follow them—but Oswald grabbed his arm, bodily dragging him backward. Valka sipped her drink calmly, as if she was simply lounging at home with a cuppa tea and a cat in her lap. She was smiling at Eivor as if to say, “Why yes, I am the one who made all of this happen, that is the fruit of all my labour you now see on stage.” And she was right, because Valka was the one who had kept Eivor sane through all those shitty years in their shared youth, she had been the lighthouse leading her home throughout all those dark, stormy nights. Eivor locked eyes with her, slightly nodding. In response, Valka raised her drink in a cheeky salute.
The crowd roared as one as that first song came to an end. It was exhilarating. Eivor was panting as if she’d just run a marathon—and yet she felt filled with a manic sort of energy, something that made her want to roar right back at the mad lads and lasses massing before her, whooping and asking for more. And Soma rightly answered, pouring her heart right into that mic. There was anger, yes, there was pain—but if they had to go, then they’d go down fighting, if they had to burn, then they’d make the world burn alongside them. For one night there was a little sliver of hope back in their lives, one as sharp and angry as steel, but a sliver of hope nonetheless.
They had just finished their rendition of The Clash’s London Calling (“Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river!” Soma had screamed, and the crowd, whisked into a frothing frenzy, had screamed right back, Joe Strummer’s refrain as familiar to their weary ears as the sound of their own names) when Valdis let out a strangled sound, one hand dropping to her side while the other came to her mouth. Before Soma could say anything, the bassist hurried backstage. Soma exchanged a glance with Eivor, going to the mic to utter, “One moment, please,” and they all followed Valdis behind the curtains.
“What was that?” Birna hissed; Valdis was standing in a shadowed corner, hugging herself as if to keep her warmth from escaping her body. “Val, you can’t just bail on us in the middle of the show!”
“I… I can’t,” said Valdis. “Back there, I saw…”
Soma put a hand over her shoulder. “What is it? You know you can tell us, Valdis.”
“My ex,” Valdis mumbled, and at this, Birna cursed. “He’s supposed to be in København, I left the city, moved to fucking England to be rid of him, and yet…” Her voice died down to a mutter. Soma and Birna shared a wary look.
“We’ll have the bouncer kick him out,” Soma said. Good old reliable Soma. If someone could keep a cool head through this mess, it was her. “We can call off the rest of the show if that’s what you'd rather—”
“No,” Valdis said, eyes flashing. “Bastard ruined enough of my life already, I won’t let him have this too.”
“Nice,” said Birna. “Using spite as a motivator. I dig it. Let’s make it a show they won’t soon forget, eh?”
“Good,” Soma said, decisively. “Get back there, I’ll see it done.”
A sea of confused—and angry—faces welcomed them back on stage, with a few entitled arseholes even making rude gestures. Something prickled at the back of Eivor’s neck. She wanted to shout at them, so fucking what? Out of the corner of her eye, she could still catch a glimpse of Valdis; even now, their bassist remained unusually subdued, and that pissed the right hell out of her. Birna said, rather softly, “Where is he? That piece of shit stalker of yours?”
“Back there,” Valdis muttered as she pointed a spot toward the end of the bar. “The bastard with the black ponytail. That’s him. That’s Rued.”
The man was tall, with a sneer that seemed perpetually etched on his hateful features. He was accompanied by a few other goons who were all smirking like a pack of total tossers. Good, Eivor thought with a snarl. It’d have been too easy otherwise, and that wouldn’t have made it any fun, would it?
Then she caught sight of the weaselly-looking man standing next to Valdis’ wanker of an ex.
“What,” Eivor rasped, “the fuck…”
“What is it?” Birna asked.
Gorm was there. Gorm Fucking Kjotvesson. All of a sudden, Eivor was taken back—far back when she had been young and stupid and angry, angry at everything and everyone, angry at the world. Back then, it had seemed a good idea to run with Gorm and his gang, it'd seemed a swell strategy to make some quick and easy cash by selling low quality grass to the stupidly rich kids attending that stupidly rich school where Styrbjorn had forced her to go, but then—then she’d caught the bloody bastard and his mates messing with some poor girl, and she’d—well, Eivor had been young and stupid and angry, angry enough to go against a group of boys taller and stronger than her, but not stupid enough to keep her blackened and bruised arse from going to Styrbjorn to tell him what had truly happened. Gorm and his gobshite goons had been sent to juvie—where they had rotten for a good few years, Eivor hoped.
What were the fucking chances that he would team up with Valdis’s arsehole ex, of all people, to crash their debut performance?
Nah, the universe hated Eivor’s guts: there was no other explanation.
Valdis made another pained sound. Birna stroked her back, saying, “Chill, girl, chill… we’ll kick his arse if he gets within breathing distance of you, don’t you worry.”
“He’s not the only one,” Eivor growled. “Gorm’s here. Fucking Gorm, of all people.”
“An old mate coming to call on you?”
“A thorn in my arse, more like.”
Birna bared her teeth in a grimace. “Oi, what is this, Arseholes Anonymous? They all gave themselves the word or summat? Shittiest team-up ever…”
At that moment, Gorm turned his head, meeting Eivor’s gaze from across the distance. He smirked—the tosser actually smirked. And then the arsehole next to him shouted, “You all fuckin’ suck!” prompting Gorm to laugh and laugh.
For some reason that got Eivor going, and she lunged forward to roar in Soma’s mic, “What the fuck did you just say?” She didn’t wait for the laughter that was sure to follow; tossing her guitar aside, she leaped from the stage, making for Gorm and his lackeys.
“Fight!” screamed some punk she passed by, punching in the air, studded bracelets jangling on his bony wrist. “Fight!”
He wasn’t the only one. “FIGHT!” cried the crowd, jubilant at the promise of blood. “Kick his teeth in!” shouted a—rather cute, Eivor noted, turning to look at her for a brief moment—girl with green hair and very short shorts.
That was a bad idea; the moment she had her eyes on the green-haired girl was a moment where she wasn’t looking at the enemy. Almost in slow-mo Eivor felt the imprint of someone's knuckles upon her jaw; in the distance she heard someone cry out her name. Eivor fell to the ground, her face exploding with pain. People laughed and jeered around her, the sounds distorted by the ringing in her ears. “C’mon, get up!” someone was saying. Eivor’s head was pounding. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself off the floor. Through blurry eyes she saw a figure surging toward the bastard who had downed her. And then another, and then a third. Soon, the air was filled with pained shouts and angry bellows—and the blunt, oh-so-familiar noise of fists against flesh. A bar brawl on her first show. If he were here, Sigurd would have clapped her on the back and said, there’s my lil’ sister.
Well, Soma had said they would fuck up their world for one night. And Eivor—and the rest of her mates—were intent on keeping that promise, apparently.
Fight, Eivor, fight! That was Sigurd’s voice in her head. He’d taught her how to throw a punch—how to keep a low centre of gravity when moving around, how to duck and evade any incoming blow going her way. But Eivor hadn’t kept up with her training those past few years. She tried to think through the fog of pain: when was the last time she had been in a fight? One year ago, two years ago?
The last time—she groaned, spitting a glob of blood by the side—yes, the last time she had gotten in a fight, it had nearly ended in a (admittedly well-deserved) murder. Back when she’d been working at that piece of shit Halfdan’s gym, Ceolbert had sometimes come to hang out; lad had just joined his school’s football team, and he’d become fairly serious about staying in shape. Then Eivor had noticed just how often her boss’ creepy brother came round sniffing whenever the kid showed up for a quick workout. When Eivor had asked Ivarr, hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, why a grown-ass man felt the need to hang around a sixteen-year-old boy so much, he had only smirked and said, “Well, I go wherever I please, and this fine establishment belongs to my brother, doesn’t it? Besides, the lad’s glad for the extra coaching. Isn’t that right, boy?”
He’d then flung his arm around Ceolbert’s shoulders, and the latter had winced. At that, Eivor had seen red, and—well, back when she’d been a kid, her social worker had always said she was bad at keeping her temper in check, hadn’t she? Sometimes about not processing her trauma in the right way or whatever the fuck that meant. Anyway, not long after, Ivarr Ragnarsson’s face had become a bloody paste under her fists. Fucking lunatic had been laughing when his brothers had dragged him away from Eivor, who had to be held back by Vili and both Eiriksson twins. Halfdan had decided not to press charges, telling Eivor and her family that he would prefer if the matter remained forgotten, swept under the proverbial rug so to speak, but Ceolbert’s dear mum—ever sweet Edith, his female doppelganger in looks and temperament—had chosen this very moment to show that she had a vindictive streak the size of a continent. In no small part thanks to her stubbornness Eivor had gotten scot-free, and that bastard Ivarr had been slapped with a restraining order (and the tacit threat of being hit by something else if he ever tried anything funny in the future).
Eivor pounded her fist into her other hand, cracking her neck. Ivarr had deserved his pummelling; she’d gladly unleash hell on these arseholes as well.
With a roar, she lunged forward, one fist colliding with—well, some random pisspot who had been unfortunate enough to be in the way. She was only vaguely aware that Vili was beside her as well, shouting and pummelling the guy who had first sent her to the floor. Everyone was here: Stowe and Erke, Broder and Brothir, even Randvi—a whole pack of Eivor’s mates had jumped into the fray, hungry like wolves out for blood. Hell, she thought with a reddened grin, but this was as exhilarating as being on stage.
“Aw, hell no!” screamed a familiar voice, and without looking Eivor knew Birna had leaped from the stage to lend her fists to the cause. Valdis followed after her, and then it was Soma, climbing over a table and shouting and pointing like a battlefield general directing her troops.
Because by that point the whole bar had become a combat zone of sorts. Stowe and Erke stood back to back, fists raised in a boxer’s stance, while Randvi was already grappling with one of Gorm’s goons. Eivor’s heart lodged in her throat at the sight—but there was no time. Gorm had just met her gaze across the distance, bloodshot eyes promising violence. Eivor growled, ready to give him as good as she got.
“All of you, stop—” Oswald called out, trying to be heard above the clamour, but of course no one listened to him. He froze on the spot as some fuckfaced friend of Gorm’s came crashing on the table in front of him; Eivor gave Birna two thumbs’ up, and the latter answered with a overzealous salute.
Ceolbert, for some unfathomable reason, was holding a pool cue with shaky hands. Two guys, built like goddamn panzers, were marching toward him, and Ceolbert hastily backed away, tripping on a fallen bottle. Eivor watched in horror, crying out his name. He was too far away, she would not reach him in time. She’d always beaten the bullies off his back and now—he’d come to see some stupid band playing a kind of music he didn’t even like just because he wanted to support his beloved big cousin, just because he missed her—and that was how Eivor was going to repay him? By letting some sour-breathed tosspot kick the crap out of him? On his birthday, no less?
And then Randvi jumped in front of Ceolbert, swinging a folded chair. With a satisfying ‘twang!’ the piece of metal hit one of the bastards right in his ugly mug. Eivor stood gaping like a total fuckwit, thinking, oh God, that woman, that woman! Randvi roared, “Get away from him, you fucking creep,” and Eivor wheezed, feeling as if she was about to swoon like some lady from a cheesy Victorian novel. Then, Randvi was holding out her hand to help Ceolbert to his feet and—fuck, but didn’t she look like an angel whenever she smiled like that? An angel wielding a steel chair like she was in a wrestling match.
God-damn, but Eivor was in love.
The two stood back to back—Randvi with her chair, Ceolbert with his pool cue—and Eivor could have wiped a tear off her eye right here and there.
That only left Eivor squaring off with that weasel Gorm.
And from the expression on that ugly mug of his he wasn’t exactly forward to the beating that was sure to follow.
“Already regretting your life choices, are you?” she said, with a cocky grin.
“You ruined my life, you fucking bitch!” he screamed in response, and Eivor rolled her eyes. He had not grown more eloquent over the years, it seemed. Hell, but how she hated tossers like him, stupid manbabies who couldn’t handle the consequences of their own actions like goddamned adults.
“As if you already had a life to ruin,” Eivor shot back, and he surged forward like a bull charging a red flag, with no subtlety, no finesse, at all. Eivor stepped sideways, just a wee bit, using his own momentum to fling him over a table. With a loud snap, the wooden splintered under his weight, and Gorm crashed on the ground in a fracas which would have made Sigurd glow with pride. A frail wheeze escaped his mouth as Eivor towered above him, rage radiating from her body in cold waves.
“Nothing more to say, eh?” Eivor said, putting one foot over his throat. He gurgled in response. “Good. Maybe you ought to keep that mouth of yours shut for a while.”
He didn’t say anything; perhaps the lesson was sticking, Eivor thought spitefully. She sucked in a breath, casting a glance around. The clamour had died down; the punks had stopped screaming for blood. She met Erke’s gaze, then Vili’s, eventually returning their manic grins. Her friends stood victorious, their enemies groaning and wheezing under their (sometimes not so proverbial) boots. Eivor wanted to laugh and laugh until her ribs were hurting.
Then someone—Valka—came running, crying out, “Eivor, Eivor, you have to come!”
“Wha?” she said, abruptly brought down from her high. “Wh-What’s going on?”
“It’s your cousin! Come on, Eivor!”
Too dazed to answer, Eivor let herself be guided by the hand, Birna and Soma following after her. A few people had gathered in a circle around two figures, one with his head lying in the other’s lap. Eivor felt her blood icing in her veins.
“Why are you all looking at me like that…?” Oswald mumbled as Valdis pressed a damp cloth to his head. "Did something happen…?"
“What's wrong with him?” Eivor said hoarsely, crouching to lay a hand over his shoulder.
“Rued clocked him,” Valdis murmured, brushing a few blond curls from his brow. “And he hit his head on a table as he fell.”
“Shiiit,” said Birna. “This wee fella against that psycho over there? Fucking hell, man…”
Something soft showed in Valdis’s green eyes for a brief moment. “He did land a hit on Rued before going down, however…”
“That was brave of you,” said Soma all the while Birna muttered, “That was stupid more like.”
“He was going to hit you first,” Oswald uttered. “And from behind, too. I hadta stop him.”
Eivor winced; ace student Oswald was losing his English, which meant that the situation was more critical than she would have first believed. “You need to go to the hospital, Oswald,” she told him.
“I called an ambulance,” Valka added. Eivor smiled gratefully at her, glad for that blessed moment she’d decided to go and buy weed at her place. She had gained a true friend that day (and gotten some quality grass in the process, which was a plus). “They’ll be here soon.”
“I’m fine,” said Oswald. Considering that one of his pupils was blown wide enough that Eivor could barely see the blue of his iris, that was one fat, stupid lie. His gaze edged downward, and he suddenly blurted out, addressing Valdis, “I like your boots. Vintage, aren’t they?”
How the hell does he know what vintage Doc Martens look like? “Fuck,” Eivor mumbled, exchanging a worried gaze with Randvi, “it’s worse than I thought.”
“You’re not fine,” Valdis said. “You have to go to the hospital.”
“But I’m fine—”
“Hospital,” Valdis repeated through grit teeth, and thankfully Oswald had enough sense to keep his mouth shut this time. “And I’ll go with you.”
She’d thrown a significant glance toward her ex, who was still tossing on the floor and cussing up a storm, arms pinned behind his back by Brothir while Broder pressed a boot to his neck. Eivor nodded, standing up and cracking her knuckles. “Yeah, you go with Oswald,” she said. “We’ll take care things on our end.”
Valdis managed a slight, shaky smile, saying, “Thank you.” Damn, but how Eivor hated seeing her acting that way. She vowed to take a swing at her ex for good measure.
At that moment, someone crawled from under a table. “Is it,” Hunwald said, eyes wide, “is it over?”
Ceolbert went to help him to his feet. “Everything’s fine. We’re all safe now.”
Hunwald stared at him with his mouth open. Like a goldfish that had just suffered a seizure. “Wait, you were fighting, Bertie. You… you fought to defend me!”
“Cut it out, Hun,” Ceolbert mumbled. Grim-faced punks were nodding to show approval, while a pair of (rather cute) rude girls cheekily grinned at him. The poor boy went utterly crimson, up to the tip of his ears.
Hunwald laughed, nervously. “Oh, man, is my girlfriend going to freak when I tell her about this!”
“You mean she’s real?” Eivor sputtered, looking at Ceolbert in shock. “She’s not just some big-titted anime girl on a computer screen?”
“Of course she’s real—why would you think—”
Eivor tuned out his rant. Ceolbert was dragging Hunwald away now that the ambulance had finally arrived. As she watched them go, Eivor’s heart slowed down; the world seemed to slow as well. Dimly, she heard Vili telling Birna, “You should see the other guy. I might have lost a tooth, but I kicked ‘im in the ballsack,” to which Birna replied, “A man after my own shrivelled heart you are, shitsticks.” A grumpy-looking Valka was massaging her temples, explaining to Stowe that she’d clocked the guy at her feet because he’d made her spill her drink on her dress, “And do you know how much it cost to dry-clean so fine a fabric, do you?!” Brothir and Broder were spinning a yarn to the bouncer about how Rued had tripped over his own laces (white on black boots, Eivor noted with some disgust), which had resulted in the tosser hitting himself—repeatedly—in the nads on the way down; the bouncer—a lovely chap indeed—agreed with their story, 'accidently' stomping on Rued's nose once the twins were done.
And then Eivor was meeting a very familiar pair of clear, twinkling blue eyes. Half of Randvi’s mouth was cocked into a smile; Eivor’s heart sped up, fluttering like a bunch of butterflies. Ah. She had fallen back to shitty metaphors, and she hadn’t even had a drink yet. Nice.
“It’s a shame, really,” Randvi told Eivor. “I would have looked forward to hearing the rest of your show.”
“We could still play,” Eivor said, dumbly, because of course she did. Once more the clear tinkle of Randvi’s laughter rang in the air. Eivor’s insides turned to mush. Those poor butterflies… “You, er, you throw a mean right hook.”
“It’s as your friend Stowe said. I also spent my youth getting into scraps with people twice my size.”
“I would have paid good money to see that,” Eivor blurted out, and here came that sweet laughter again. Eivor puffed out her chest, feeling a surge of almost chauvinist pride; maybe she was doing something right, in the end. “'Til then, I can pay you a drink. Or two.”
Randvi smiled—a cat’s smile, full of delicious promise. “Good. I’d wondered when you’d ask.”