The young girl sprinted through the frozen streets of the city’s slums, her ragged breaths blooming into pale clouds that dissolved into the thin fog beneath the gas lamps. Every so often her feet skidded across frozen puddles or patches of snow, yet she never quite fell.
“She’s this way—don’t let her get away.”
The shout spurred her onward. Her pale face, tight with anguish and fear, flushed red as her copper-colored braid lashed behind her in the wind.
At last she faltered, stopping to catch her breath. Hands braced on her knees, head bowed toward the ground, she noticed a shadow creeping across the cobblestones, slowly swallowing the glow of a gas lamp. She snapped her head up.
A man stood there, watching her. His grin was crooked, several teeth missing, his eyes gleaming with something feral.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he rasped, his voice like gravel dragged over iron. “You know you owe us.”
“No… no! I don’t want this!” Terror broke her voice as she turned and ran again.
Her flight carried her through deserted streets until she rounded a corner—and froze. One man stood there. Then another. And another still. No path remained, nowhere left to flee.
She plunged her hands into the pockets of her tattered dress, frantic fingers searching for anything—anything at all. She found nothing.
“Looking for this?” One of the men chuckled darkly, raising a dagger so it caught the lamplight. “You dropped it when you ran from me.”
He began to advance, slow and deliberate, backing her into the wall of a narrow alley.
“A proper young lady shouldn’t be carrying something like this,” he went on, almost gently. “You might cut that pretty face of yours.”
He pressed the blade’s tip against her cheek. A thin line opened, and a single drop of blood slid down her skin.
“Please…” Her voice trembled. “I’ll pay you. I promise—I will.”
“Oh, sweet girl.” His smile widened. “You are going to pay us. Just like before. Only this time, it won’t be with coins. Hold her still.”
Hands seized her arms and legs. The man with the knife slipped it back into his coat and stepped closer. She couldn’t scream—something had been forced between her lips. All she could do was watch as his looming shape, that horrible smiling face, drew nearer and nearer…
***
The stands roared with cheers and howls as the match raged on. It would be the last of the season—the cold had grown too savage for sport.
Both teams lined up across from one another, the oval ball poised to fly.
The whistle shrilled. Bodies collided. The ball snapped from hand to hand as players crashed together in a storm of offense and blocks. The score was tied. One more touchdown would decide everything.
Amid the chaos, the ball arced into the air, suspended for a heartbeat before falling. A massive figure hurled himself beneath it, trapping it tight against his side with one powerful arm. Then he ran.
“Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” The crowd thundered his name as he charged for the end zone.
With only a few yards left, his right leg suddenly felt heavy. He glanced down to see an opposing player clinging desperately to his calf.
Johnny fixed his gaze back on the goal line and kept moving, dragging the man along. Shock and panic twisted across the defender’s face. Then another weight slammed onto Johnny’s shoulders. A third opponent latched onto his left leg.
The crowd’s roar faltered, shifting into uneasy murmurs. Johnny stood still now, three men hanging from him, locking him in place.
A moment later, two more opponents sprinted in, lunging to tear the ball from his grasp. Johnny closed his eyes. He drew in a slow, steady breath—and waited.
When they struck, he unleashed everything.
Muscles coiled and snapped. With a violent surge, he drove his foot into the ground and exploded forward, ripping free. The men clinging to him were flung aside, crashing into those charging from behind in a tangled heap of bodies.
What followed was a surge of pure determination, locomotive-like in its inevitability. Johnny did not slow until he reached the try line, drove the ball hard into the turf, and then twisted and collapsed onto his back. The impact shook the ground beneath the green leaves, sending up a faint cloud of dust.
The crowd erupted, leaping to their feet, chanting Johnny’s name in a single roaring voice as the referee’s whistle cut through the air, signaling the end of the match.
The scorer remained sprawled on the grass, chest heaving, eyes shut tight, until his teammates rushed in and hauled him upright—a task made difficult by the sheer bulk for which he was already known.
A couple of minutes later, after both teams had exchanged their sportsmanlike greetings, the game was officially over.
Victory belonged to the team of the man they called Johnny. He raised a hand to the stands, acknowledging the crowd that refused to stop shouting his name—all but one man, dressed in elegant clothes, who watched him silently from the highest tier of the stands.
***
When the match ended, Johnny changed in the locker room. Shortly after, he left alongside the man from the stands and climbed into an elegant carriage that carried them to a grand mansion in one of the city’s finest neighborhoods.
Once there, with barely a word exchanged, the young man went straight to his room and donned the clothes laid out on the bed, garments chosen for the occasion.
“Come along—we can’t afford to be late.” The man gave him a brief inspection, satisfied, and gestured toward the door.
They boarded the carriage once more, and it rolled away from the mansion, rattling toward the streets of London.
The city still glowed beneath the sun as it sank slowly toward the horizon, soon to be relieved by the gas lamps that would take up the nightly task of guarding citizens from the dangers that lurked after dark.
After half an hour, the carriage came to a halt before an expansive estate. Other vehicles were already lined up outside, their passengers disembarking in finely tailored attire and making their way toward the mansion at the center of the grounds.
The man and the young athlete followed the flow of guests inside.
Wealth hung heavy in the air. Tables overflowed with exquisite food, gifted musicians performed works by the most celebrated Austrian composers, and everywhere there were drinks, laughter, and whispered gossip—everything one would expect from a gathering of aristocrats.
“Stay close,” the man said, leaning in just enough to be heard. “I want to introduce you to a few associates. After that, you can devour the snack table, court some young lady, or whatever it is boys your age do these days.”
“I—I'll do as you say,” the young man muttered, falling into step beside him as they disappeared into the crowd.
They moved through different sections of the hall, stopping often as the man greeted acquaintances from various industries. Suppliers of machine parts, mine owners dealing in assorted minerals, fashion designers, writers—people whose names and faces blurred together for the young man.
He was introduced again and again, each conversation stretching on for several minutes, every topic equally uninteresting to him.
At one point, the man ran into an old acquaintance he claimed not to have seen in years. His delight was immediate; after a firm handshake, he pulled the other man into a hearty embrace, the kind shared only by true friends.
“Oswald!” he exclaimed. “Look at you—you’ve grown fat, you old glutton.”
“And you’ve grown thinner,” Oswald shot back with a grin, eyeing the cane in the man’s hand. “Almost as thin as that stick you’re leaning on. And who’s this young fellow with you? He doesn’t look like a servant in that suit.”
“My grandson,” the man said proudly. “Mary’s son. I found him a few years ago and have been educating him ever since—raising him to be a proper gentleman. He’s at university now and the star of the rugby team. He’s grown into quite the man. Go on, Jonathan.”
“Good evening. My name is Jonathan—it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook Oswald’s hand, his grip careful but sincere.
“You’re the very image of your grandfather when he was young,” Oswald said, studying him. “Just with a bit more muscle. You must have fed him well, Jacques.”
“He eats plenty, I’ll give you that,” Jacques replied with a wry smile. “But aside from sport, he’s got no real talent—nothing for music, nothing for study. I only wish he were a scholar of letters like you.”
“I understand,” Oswald said, nodding. “You know, I brought my grandson to this party as well. His father is always dodging work, and the woman he married spends more time in shops than at home, so this boy is the only good thing that ever came of the two of them. William, come here—I want to introduce you to a friend!”
He turned and called toward the table of appetizers behind him.
A young man standing there looked up and made his way toward the trio. He wore a flat cap of the sort favored on summer golf courses, and though his clothes were part of a fine ensemble—no less elegant than those of the other guests—they sat on him a bit carelessly. As he approached, boredom and quiet irritation lingered in his eyes.
“This is William, my only grandson,” Oswald went on. “He’s not as skilled with the pen as his grandfather, but when he puts his mind to it, he can speak straight from the heart. Don’t be shy, William. Greet the Yorkshires—they’re old friends of mine.”
“Hello. My name is William. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He lifted his wineglass in a restrained gesture of courtesy, his voice flat, almost indifferent.
“He doesn’t much care for events like this,” Oswald added with a sigh. “You know how young people are. He’d much rather be in a tavern breaking a scoundrel’s nose or in a brothel charming some fortune hunter.”
“And how old are you, young man?” Jacques asked.
“I turned twenty last September,” William replied.
“What a coincidence. My Jonathan turned twenty at the end of August—beat you by a few days. And tell me, would you like to be a playwright like your grandfather?”
“Theater doesn’t interest me much,” William said. “My grandfather’s taken me to several plays, but they bore me. Most of the time I fall asleep before they end.”
“As I told you, gentlemen,” Oswald said, disappointment creeping into his tone. “The young don’t know how to value their time. One day inspiration will come to him, and he’ll see the wondrous world of theater for what it is.”
Jonathan listened absently as Oswald launched into a fervent recitation, praising story after story, author after author. It went on for several minutes, until Jonathan noticed a woman crossing the hall stumble. William caught her by the hand before she could fall. He helped her upright with careful politeness; she apologized in a rush, then hurried away, flushed with embarrassment.
“Fjandinn!” William muttered when he spotted a wine stain spreading across his suit. “That’s another one ruined.”
“What was that you said?” Jonathan asked.
“Oh, just some nonsense he blurts out sometimes,” Oswald waved it off. “Probably something he picked up on the streets. Don’t pay it any mind.”
“Actually,” Jonathan said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “I think it’s a language they taught us at the university. If you’ll allow me, I can try a bit of it. ‘Which one of them are you?’”
William stared at Jonathan, his expression collapsing into pure astonishment. After a few stunned seconds, he answered in the same tongue.
“I’m Sigurd. I don’t think you’re the captain.”
“I’m Holger—and you’re the first one I’ve found,” Jonathan replied.
“You’re the first I’ve run into as well. Let’s leave these old geezers behind and talk somewhere else.”
They exchanged a quick nod and headed toward the door that led out into the back garden.
“Excuse me, Grandfather,” Holger said to Jacques. “I’ll help Sig—I mean, William—clean the stain on his clothes.”
“Yes, you know how careless I am, Grandps,” Sigurd added as he walked off beside Holger. “We’ll see you later.”
The two older men watched them go, then glanced at each other and shrugged, baffled by the curious scene they had just witnessed.
Out in the garden, Sigurd and Holger dropped onto a stone bench, laughter spilling out of them as the excitement finally caught up. When they’d calmed down, they looked at each other, and Sigurd spoke first.
“I’m glad to see you again, big guy.”
“And I’m glad to see you too, my friend,” Holger said. “I think I would’ve recognized you right away if not for that cap.”
“Don’t remind me.” Sigurd pulled it off, revealing white hair—straight, unruly, and hopelessly unkempt. “The old man insists I wear it. Says people might think I’m sick or something like that.”
“It doesn’t look that bad. Young people wear it all the time these days.”
“Oh? Since when do you know anything about fashion? High society’s turned you into quite the little gentleman.”
“And they dragged you away from the fights and stuck you in theaters,” Holger shot back. “Maybe you’ve grown a romantic streak.”
They talked and laughed for several minutes, trading memories of the old days and catching each other up on everything that had happened in their lives since.
Holger told him that in this life he had been born as the son of the youngest daughter of Jacques Yorkshire. She had married a man of lowly birth, and from that union came him. Tragically, that man was killed by robbers before he was born, leaving his mother alone.
She remarried, this time to a man who ran an inn in the city’s poorer district. He spent his early years there until the second husband was murdered by debt collectors. When his mother’s life was nearing its end from an illness that husband had passed to her, she used the little money she had left to contact her father, asking him to look after the boy.
By the time he turned twelve, old Jacques arrived and took them both to his mansion. They did what they could for his mother, but death was unavoidable. The old man told him he would be made his heir, as his eldest daughter had been unable to bear children, and the next had been murdered by her husband after he discovered her infidelity. He was the only heir he could have.
Soon after, his mother passed away, and he began his education to become a man of standing. He was taught to read, write, do math, study literature, dance, and master etiquette—everything expected of high society. It didn’t come naturally to him, but he worked hard to excel as best he could.
It wasn’t until puberty that his true talent emerged in sports, particularly contact games like rugby, which earned him a good deal of fame among enthusiasts.
Sigurd, on the other hand, said his life had been a little duller. His father was the son of a famous playwright but the sort who spent without ever working. He married a girl from a family of fur merchants, and from that union came Sigurd.
Because both his parents were largely absent, he was mostly raised by servants, tutors, and his grandfather. The latter ensured he was reading from an early age. Unfortunately for him, he had no interest in the dramas or romances so popular at the time; the epic tales of Norse warriors, like the legend of Beowulf, fascinated him far more—but he was seldom allowed to read them.
The rest of his life consisted of studies, manners, and tedious plays—until he reunited with a companion he hadn’t seen in years.
“You’ve had a good life,” Holger said. “That man seems like someone who only wants the best for you.”
“I can’t complain,” Sigurd replied. “He’s melodramatic and stiff, but he knows how to win over an audience with his works and words. He treated me better than my previous parents ever did.”
“I hope everyone else is doing as well as we are.”
“Can you imagine Hjørdis as a noble? All dressed up in some fancy gown, with makeup that would make her look like a display doll?”
“Or the captain at a fancy dinner, getting drunk and pulling one of his axe tricks?”
They laughed heartily, then slowly let their smiles fade into more serious expressions. Holger asked,
“Do you have any idea where they might be?”
“No, I haven’t heard from any of them,” Sigurd admitted. “I’ve tried taking off my cap in various places to see if any young person recognized me, but they just thought I was a kid with white paint spilled on his head.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I haven’t had any luck either. I tried speaking Icelandic with a few people, but they all turned out to be sailors or merchants from our homeland these days.”
“I’ve overheard some conversations in our tongue too, but the dialect has changed so much that I only catch a few words…”
They brainstormed for minutes trying to make an effective plan to find their comrades. Then Holger asked:
“Your grandad seems to know a lot of people. Can’t he help you to find the rest of our group?”
“Maybe, but it’ll be difficult.” Sigurd confessed “First I’ll need to explain to him why I need to look for those people in specific. Also, this city is humongous; even if we publish something in the newspaper, there’s no guarantee the captain and the rest will read any message—” Sigurd paused for a moment. “Oh...”
Holger looked at him confused, “What’s the matter?
Sigurd fell silent, staring at the ground and resting his hands on the sides of his head. Holger watched him with concern, but before he could ask if he was all right, Sigurd lifted his head and said,
“I maybe have an idea… though I don’t know if it will work.”
“Better one than none,” Holger said. “Tell me—I want to hear it.”
“A few years ago, I made something like a deal with my grandfather. The old man said that if I ever wrote a play, he would speak to all his contacts in the field to at least get me one performance—a way to push me to follow in his footsteps. The thing is… I did start writing a play, but I never finished it.”
“Why? Is it very difficult?”
“My grandfather taught me tirelessly how to do it, so that’s not the problem… The problem is the story isn’t finished, at least not where I drew my inspiration from.”
“Is it one of our village songs? Or one of those countless legends we’ve heard from other countries?”
“It’s ours.” He said seriously, fixing his gaze on Holger. “Since I’m not good at making up stories, I used the best one I know. And what could be better than the tale of seven northern warriors who travel through time, fighting in wars and exploring the world?”
“That’s… that’s a very good story.” Holger admitted, a note of surprise in his voice.
“Though I don’t know how people today will take to it.”
“It’s the best I have, and it’s the only thing I can think of to make others notice us.”
“How will a play make people notice us?”
“Think about it. If those fools see that their lives were turned into a play, they’ll realize someone in the production must have had the idea to create it—and then they’ll look for that person.”
“I understand… and how much have you written?”
“I finished it a couple of years ago, but I stopped at the part where we die in New Granada. I can’t write about things I haven’t lived through. It must be tucked away on one of the shelves at home.”
“And you could show it to your grandfather?”
“I could try, though I don’t know if it will help.”
“Just try. It’s the best we have for now.”
“I will—but for now, let’s head back.” Sigurd said, rising from the bench and settling his cap back on his head. “Those old folks are probably wondering where we are.”
“Yes, I think we’ve talked enough for today.” Holger said, standing and brushing his coat with light pats of his palms. “How will we see each other again?”
“Don’t worry. The old man knows everything about everyone. I’m sure it won’t be hard to communicate by letter—or visit each other—if I ask for your address.”
“That’s a relief.”
“By the way, your name in this life is Jonathan Yorkshire, right?”
“Yes, that’s my name and surname. Why?”
“I think I’ll call you ‘Joyo’ when we’re around the old folks.” Sigurd added with a soft chuckle.
“Please don’t. You’re not the first to give me that nickname, and I’ve never liked it.”
“What a shame. That’s how William calls his best friend, isn’t it? Joyo?”
Sigurd laughed a little more as the two of them walked toward the main hall to reunite with their grandparents.
The party ended, and all the guests returned home. Both Sigurd and Holger told their grandparents they had become friends and wished to see each other again. Their elders were pleased and promised to arrange a meeting in the coming days.
The next day, Sigurd spoke to his grandfather about the promise he had made years ago. Upon hearing it, Oswald showed him the manuscript he had written, recounting his story alongside his companions through the ages.
Mr. Oswald took his time reading what his grandson had prepared for him. Hours passed, and Sigurd waited patiently in the living room. When his grandfather finally emerged from his study, he fixed Sigurd with the sternest look the boy had ever seen in his twenty years of life.
“This… needs a proper title.” Oswald said, holding the manuscript up to eye level.
