Finbul's Breath and Ragnar's Gift

Svela. It was still early morning, with frost clinging to the grass blades like knife edges. Caw caw caw! I jolted awake to the racket of crows outside. Wrapping my tattered sheepskin blanket around me, I slithered out of bed. The sun hadn't even risen yet—why the hell were those bastards so damn loud? A flock of crows squawking like that was a sign the weather was about to turn nasty. Svela's instincts, born in this land, were warning me.

Creak. I shoved open the oak door, and a cold, salty sea breeze slapped me across the face.

"Ugh!" A groan escaped me before I knew it—the wind was fiercer than I'd expected. Brushing back my hair whipping in the gusts, I gazed toward the western fjord. The sea mirrored the gray clouds in eerie stillness, but with the crows darting about in frenzy, it looked like a frigid north wind was about to sweep down from the south. Folks here called it Finbul's Breath. Something about a giant's icy exhalation freezing the human world solid.

"Ugh, so cold. Screw Finbul and his breath..." I grumbled as I stepped over the threshold, the frost crunching crisply underfoot.

My name is Svela. Originally, I was just an ordinary... no, not even ordinary—some burnout guy from South Korea in my early thirties. I'd given up on the job hunt and was scraping by on convenience store gigs, living that meh existence. Then one day, I open my eyes and bam—I'm a stunning twenty-something maiden in this godforsaken land.

The shock when I first woke up in this body. Staring at my reflection in a water basin instead of a mirror, I sat there dumbfounded for ages. Skin white as snow, mysterious blue eyes, long and lush red hair. Objectively, subjectively—a face way too pretty. This... is me? At first, I thought it was a dream. Took three days to accept reality. While Svela's memories flooded my mind, I holed up in the hut, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crying one minute, laughing the next. I was losing my goddamn mind.

From what I could piece together, Svela had grown up under her older sister's family here since childhood. Parents died early from some plague, and her sister—ten years older—had run the farm with her husband, raising young Svela. But last summer, after the husband died and the sister remarried, she up and left, dumping the farm and land on Svela.

"You're grown now—you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can manage on your own." That's what she said, packing her bags and bouncing. Too harsh for a woman alone, but she didn't give me a choice.

The problem? Svela had the worst luck. Early autumn last year—mid-September maybe—a freak storm hammered the fjord. Three days of pounding rain turned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the millet field to mud and washed away the barley. Nearly all the crops ruined. To scrape together food for winter, I sold the two goats and five chickens her sister left behind. Best I managed was a few barrels of salted fish. Barely survived last winter on that.

And now another autumn. If this harvest sucks too, I'll starve this winter. Or freeze first—firewood's running low.

"Survival crisis already? Ha... life, man..." Pretty face, killer curves. Useless for shit.

"If you're gonna stick me in a woman's body, send me somewhere nice! Like a saintess in another world, or at least a romance fantasy lady. Why dump me in this freezing, backwater seaside hellhole with no clue what to do?!"

I was ranting at the empty air when a sharp scream pierced from the south.

"Kyaaack!" A woman's cry.

I whipped around. Eight strange men had surrounded my neighbor Yoren's house. Raiders? The land here's too barren for farming, so bandit scum thrive. Honest work doesn't pay, so they steal—faster bucks. Some sail out for raids or trade, but the lazy cowards hit easy neighbors.

Custom here: if a neighbor's attacked, you help. Community defense duty. Rush in with weapons, fight together—or no one helps you when it's your turn.

Biting my lip, I dashed inside, grabbing a heavy round shield and belting on a one-handed axe. The haft felt heavy against my slender waist. Should I just bail? Die helping? Honestly, scared shitless. My only fight was yanking hair with a friend in elementary school. Me, with an axe, against those raiders? Skip it, and the community exiles me. Break duty, lose all rights—freeze alone for real.

Hesitating as I geared up, I stepped out to see other neighbors already gathering near Yoren's. Adult men with shields and axes, women and kids with hunting bows. About eighteen total, including elders and children. That's the whole village left. Young folks mostly headed south to big towns or across the sea. Stuck here are those who can't or won't leave.

"Raiders over there! Form the shield wall!!!" A middle-aged man's bellow had the men overlapping shields into a wall. I squeezed in, hoisting mine. Didn't know shields were this heavy... We advanced slowly on the raiders. Flanks covered by women and boys loosing warning shots.

Whish whish! Most missed, but one thunked into an enemy's arm.

"Argh!" He screamed, yanking it out.

"Got one! Filthy raider scum!" A woman cheered, glancing at her comrades—then an enemy arrow pierced her throat.

"Gack!" She convulsed and dropped, going still. Blood gushing from her neck. Eyes frozen skyward.

"...!" Someone called her name—family, probably.

"What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the fuck." The curse slipped out. Heart pounding wild. Palms slick with cold sweat on the shield grip. Am I really gonna die?!

Stifling terror, I glared at the raider ahead. Bushy beard, filthy leather armor, axe in hand—but his shaking visible. Scared too, huh. As distance closed, both sides halted, bellowing to seize momentum.

"Waaargh!"

"WAAAAARGH!!!" My thin, furious scream mixed in. Throat raw from yelling. We outnumbered them two-to-one. They broke first, eyeing each other, grabbing stolen grain sacks, and fleeing.

"Don't let the raiders escape! Chase 'em!" Two took arrows in the back mid-flight, tumbling dead. Rest vanished into deep woods.

Quiet returned. After driving them off, a quick funeral—then home. Her body covered in stones; ground too frozen to bury. That was it. Life on frozen soil: harsh, unpredictable. Why locals see death as rest.

Days later, north wind raged harder. Hacking ripe barley stalks with a rusty sickle—scritch scritch. Golden heads falling like combed hair beside my worn leather boots. Farm work in a woman's body? Hell. Blisters on palms, back screaming. Bent double all day, couldn't stand straight by evening. No experience before. Yield pathetic: few barley sacks. Set one aside for seed, deduct taxes—barely two left. Survive winter on this? Won't starve, lucky.

"Haa... what's the point of being pretty. About to starve."

..........

Next morning, I picked the best grain, bagged it. Had to pay taxes in Yetebori, a bit south. Risky alone, but better than starving. Miss taxes, lose land—everything over.

Yetebori: village of about 800 souls. Big for here. Market, smithy, even a small church. Ruler Olgrafsson: hulking drunkard. Built massive brewery nearby, demands fresh grain yearly from farmers. Defy? Lose land, exiled. Worst: executed.

No choice. Pay up.

Over low fence, slogging muddy streets reeking of shit toward market. Yetebori buzzed. Merchants' tents jingling brass bells; fur-clad foreigners haggling mead prices.

"Too pricey! Half off!"

Silent smith hammering glowing red iron—rhythmic clang echoing. Shamans drawing charms on birch bark with reindeer blood.

Soon, warehouse. Olgrafsson's tax barn: sturdy log building, center village. Two armed guards at door.

"Svela from the north. This year's barley."

One-armed elder at front eyed my delicate hands, then rough grain, dumping it into wooden baskets.

"Taxes paid in full this year. May the gods grant bumper crops next."

He unrolled one of five vellum scrolls: map of northern Yetebori farmlands. Crude lines, dots for farms. Dipped finger in dark blue dye, pressed on my plot. Proof paid.

"Next."

Ignored now. Taxes done—maybe day labor in Yetebori for emergency cash? Wonder if a woman's body qualifies for anything.

A rowdy band of barbarians approached, hollering. One hand huge roast meat, other mead horns, singing. Fierce faces, iron armor, longswords and axes at belts. Mess with them? Bones crushed. I sidestepped quietly.

"Phew..." Sighing, head down—then a massive hand clamped my slender shoulder.

"Eek?!"

Whirling, the bearded giant leading them shoved a enormous lamb rib into my hand! What? This fucker? Thinks I'm hot, trying some move?

Wary glare up—he boomed laughter, snatching a comrade's mead horn, thrusting it at me.

"M-my mead!"

"You've had three already!"

Smile more hearty than lecherous.

"Mead from Britain! Try it—sweet as can be!"

Grumbling comrades grabbing for horn—then a familiar name hit my ear. Ragnar. Ragnar Lothbrok. Legendary Viking who conquered Paris, squeezed gold from bald king Charles. That Ragnar Lothbrok?

Fragmented memories flashed. This era... Ragnar alive? Like hammer to skull, I stood frozen.

Snapping to, the merry Vikings had vanished afar. Only warm lamb and mead in my hands proved it real. Their song lingered in my ears.