But his father shakes his head, his hand burying in his light locks.
“I can handle it.” Sigvid clenches his fists, feeling the blood pump under his skin like a faint drum calling him to battle.
This was not the second or fifth time he and his father danced this dialogue. Thord always shut it down, refusing to explain why his eldest son now spends his time reading about Sacred Stones and gods rather than preparing to don the Salt crown.
For the first and only time in his life, his bear-like father looks at him with pity. “When you are older, I will explain everything to you.”
Rage ignites in his thrumming blood, and Sigvid roars as crimson overtakes his vision.
“You revoked my title-”
“Calm Down!”
“Sig!”
His parents chastise his rising berserker.
“No! You revokedmytitle! I was heir to the Salt throne, your eldest son! You stole my fucking birthright from me!” Sigvid unleashes the pain he has allowed to simmer for six winters.
“Watch your words!” Frida chides while Thord flinches at the tirade.
“My son,” Thord softens, “your kingship has not been denied.”
Seething over his father’s obvious denial, Sigvid shoves past his parents and stomps further into their home. It is a long wooden building that has developed over the decades, giving it an overgrown look. He unsheaths his axe, sliding through his parent’s expansive bedroom to nick one of his father’s better sharpening stones.
He spends the remainder of the evening ignoring everyone while perched on a boulder outside the city walls.
The berserker fury drums in his soul. It always has him on the edge of a precipice. In one move, he is sure he will dismantle everything. He abandons his solitude once the moon takes its rightful place in the sky.
En route home, he detours to the longhouse next door. As his mother ordered, his father’s throne joins her’s to dominate the dark space. Sigvid slips his hand along the smooth wood, admiring the carpenter's work in smoothing the splinters and redefining the delicate knots of a wolf and a raven along the side.
His smile falls when his fingers traipse jagged carvings at the back.
He discovers his own name chiseled in a frantic, haggard manner that drops a stone in his gut.
Thrain.
“What a dishonorable act. To vandalize an ancient artifact?” Thrain appears at his side, with wood shavings clinging to his perfect pants.
Sigvid clenches and unclenches his fists in a vain attempt to remain calm. But he was fucking past calm and diving headfirst into berserker territory.
“That is Father’s throne.” His words barely make it out through his teeth.
Thrain slides his hands into his pockets. “Don’t worry, when my ass has to sit on that decrepit old thing, I’ll be sure to sand out your name.”
Sigvid closes his eyes and counts,one…
He never makes it to two.
He kicks Thrain to the floor without another attempt to reign himself in. Fuck his promise to his parents to wrangle his wrath. Thrain needs his ass beaten, and Sigvid is willing to do the Province a favor.
The young brothers roll around the ground of the longhouse with fists and feet jabbing into one another. Thrain’s leaner form allows him to slip free and bolt out of the longhouse with Sigvid quick at his heels.
He chases his brother back home, and they both stop short in the central hearth.
Their parents sit around the long wooden table, laughing with a small collection of Father’s confidants.
“Your throne is back in the longhouse, Father,” Thrain announces.
