Upon planning my short story, I realized I had much on Tempest but awfully short and vague facts about Sweyn or his brother, who were both supposed to play major parts in the sequel. I know it's really late now, but I had rather give you the best I can or nothing at all. My belief lies in quality, not quantity or time, so please, bear with me.

A series of drabbles in order for me to get more used to Sweyn's perspective. I'm starting to like him better than Tempest now. Wow.

31. Instinct

It was an instinct, like how an animal knew when something was threatening its survival. Sweyn was the same. The moment that boulder started to topple downward, he bolted to the left, where he would be safe. Daylight. Far away from danger. Yes, he would be safe.

Combined with his natural speed and the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Sweyn made it. He rolled twice, then landed on all four like a tiger ready to pounce even as a dull but loud thud sounded too close to his head, wide eyes staring at the boulder that was now buried several inches into the hard soil. Its weight had not belied its size. Sweat poured off his face in rivers. His heartbeats were so loud he could hardly hear his thoughts above the din – not that there were any, of course.

In front of him was a war-hammer. He knew it. He saw it almost everyday in his life, and many times he'd seen it make its way toward his head or some part of his body that would hurt like Hel damned thrice over. For as long as he could remember, Sweyn had detested the sight of it and its wielder both.

Now there was no hatred. Just horror. Anger. And that tiny but growing corner of guilt. Sweyn wanted to tear his gaze away from the familiar weapon, but he didn't – because if he did, he knew his gaze would be drawn to the boulder and any body part that sticks out from underneath it while the main body was crushed beyond recognition.

Sweyn felt sick. Keg was dead. Just because Sweyn's animal instinct told him to run.

But there was still that small joy of knowing he was alive, and that was not him underneath that rock, dead in a very messy way.

Yes, there would be no honor or pride, but there would be joy. Dirty and tainted as it might be.

32. To Understand

"It's not your fault."

His brother didn't understand.

"I know," he forced out anyway. He didn't even attempt a smile.

A sigh. Footsteps. Then the mattress shifted next to him as his brother lowered himself down on the bed. They were quite close, their shoulders only five inches apart. Compared to the usual (fights and "wrestling lessons" not counting), it was quite close.

He didn't glance over.

The heavy silence stretched on like the most torturous of torments. Neither of them said anything, not quite knowing what to say without sounding corny, stupid or just outright inappropriate and insensitive in that situation. What was there to say? Someone they've known all their lives, even though not as a friend, was dead. And one of them was the murderer.

"It's not you who pushed that boulder," his brother said suddenly, his voice firm.

He glanced over, dark grey eyes tired and haunted. "It's also not me who pushed Keg out of the way."

"Not that I would blame you, really. At least that boulder flattened his two extra feet of attitude."

Ah, humor. The usual tactic his brother would resort to when he was either hopelessly depressed or in an extreme, murderous rage. The latter had not happened since…when? He couldn't even remember. But the former had happened several times.

He didn't think he was either. He wasn't depressed. No, really. He was just…

Tired. Frightened. Horrified. Disgusted at himself. Happy to be alive.

"I told him I would knock him down to his place some day," he said hollowly. "I…never meant it quite that way."

His brother snorted. "Leave it to the gods to make some lame pun, even in death." A pause. "It also wasn't your choice to run."

He winced visibly at this. Of course, his companion's sharp eye did not miss the reaction. Understanding dawned on the one-eyed Viking's face even as the younger of the two turned his own away, trying to find a way to avoid this. There was no hope, however. The former was a very direct person, and beating around the bush hadn't been a trait visible in any Vikings. This one was no different.

Silence again. This time even thicker and more awkward than the first.

It was he who moved first, who could no longer stand it and could no longer hold back the shame (don'tlieyou'renotshamefulbutafraid). The door slammed behind him as he fled the scene.

After nearly fifteen minutes of sitting silent like a statue, staring out the window at the gloomy rain beyond, Lugar started to move. Sweyn had left the house, he was sure. Either he would run to Tempest or he would seek his solitude somewhere else.

Either way, they needed to talk. And not about Keg's death. Not about Sweyn's reaction in that crucial moment when the boulder fell. Something else. However savvy and outright lame as it sounded.

Sweyn was wrong. He understood. With a bit of prodding and fifteen years of waiting, but he did understand.

33. Envy

As long as he'd lived, Sweyn could easily see the way Lugar was favored over him.

Whether it was a pat on the head or a compliment or a hug – rarely as those came – it was almost always Lugar who got it. Sweyn hardly did anything the "right" way in his life with his parents and everyone else, and so all he got was disappointment thinly veiled out of politeness (from his parents) or outright disgusted whispers behind his back when he could hear it or, in some cases, straight to his face. Even with his skills as a hunter and tracker, everyone liked his brother better than him.

Sweyn's name wasn't well-remembered. He was known as "Lugar's little brother" or "Lugar's sibling" more than Sweyn. Alfdis was the only one who didn't refer to him as such unless necessary, along with his parents. But they didn't really count. He knew them all his life and they he. The rest?…Well, Lugar just cast too big a shadow for him to step out of.

From fighting skills to courage to being a "proper" Viking to sailing to motivational preaching to adapting in different environments, Lugar always was the best. His age group was only a few steps short of actually worshipping the one-eyed young man. Lugar was all his mother would talk about when they got together in the trading seasons. Sweyn knew this because he often followed them from a distance.

It stung. The unfairness of it made him ache with envy, and sometimes the ache even turned into white-hot stabs that nearly made him spill tears, especially when he was younger. He never showed it, though. He was always good at concealing his feelings. Even when it hurts to be treated as though you were the little mushroom attached to the side of a great tree, unneeded but still there.

Many a year did it take for Sweyn to understand that Lugar, like every other creatures in the world, wasn't perfect. Yet it still stung, from time to time. Just not as strongly as before.

The pain wouldn't go away, though. Ever. Because unless his brother is dead, he would always be the lesser one. And that wasn't what Sweyn wished, no matter how much he wanted to beat Lugar at his own game sometimes.

34. Shame

"Brother?"

Lugar stopped his sharpening of his sword with an irritable sigh. The twelve-year-old boy with the single eye was still feeling quite fatigued, not to mention his newly-lost eye kept giving him one hell of pain almost constantly, although the healer had make sure it was not going to get infected. He'd been cooped up near his house for awhile, however, and the restraint was getting to him.

Undeniably, his mood wasn't exactly on cloud nine.

"Yes, Sweyn?" he hissed through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to raise a hand and touch the bandage covering half his face.

Silence. Lugar's mood quickly deteriorated, and he was about to snap when his little brother's voice, quieter but still clear in the silent Frigg's Day afternoon, continued.

"Am I a shame to you?"

The question startled Lugar into turning around and looking at Sweyn in shock. It was a regretful decision, however, as sharp pain shot through his head. He cursed vehemently, clutching at the aforementioned limb in agony. It faded in time, and when he looked back, Sweyn was still there. Grey eyes exactly like their mother's were drilling into him.

It was unnerving, but Lugar forced himself to stay calm. He was seven years older than this midget. What could hurt? The answer came to him quickly, but he hesitated. What if…? No. Brother or not, Lugar wasn't one who sugar-coats his words. It was blunt honesty or nothing at all.

"I would wish for someone stronger than you."

He was wrong. It did hurt. The grey eyes darkened, and the seven-year-old boy's face grew grave. For a second and a second only, Lugar saw something that in later years he would recognize as the disappointment and pain of hearing brutal truth. Then it was over, and little Sweyn nodded wordlessly. He turned and walked away, his posture only slightly stiff.

Lugar watched until his brother disappeared out of sight before turning back to his work. He tried to banish that little ache in his chest and grumbled when it refused to go away as fast he would like it. Sweyn asked him to say the truth, for Thor's sake, and he did just that. There was no way he could be blamed in this.

The young Viking lost a good amount of sleep that night, no matter how he kept telling himself that it was ridiculous to be so worked up over something so trivial.

Sweyn never talked much to him after that. Lugar didn't try too hard to close that rift, either. He would like to think he had no time for such thing, what with the dragon raids and all the misfortunes the winds blew to their lonely village in the middle of nowhere – but the truth is, it was pride that stilled his tongue.

To his credits, Lugar was indeed honest. He wanted a sibling whom he could show to his friend proudly instead of having to hurriedly steer the conversation away from that subject whenever someone touched on it. He just didn't know at the time how deep the knife cuts.

35. One-Strike Kill

Lugar stared at the dark-haired boy in front of him as though he'd never seen him before in his life. And maybe he hadn't. Well, he did see him before; just not know him. The boy he knew – or thought he knew – was a quiet individual who did his own things at his own pace and valued his life and safety above everything else. A coward by definition, really.

"Why didn't you tell me of this before?" Lugar asked in a fierce whisper. They were locked in their houses, with their parents nowhere in sight and two foreign enemies guarding the door. Even so, they were allowed the luxury of having the house mostly to themselves.

Grey eyes looked at him for a long moment, and Lugar felt himself being accessed by what seemed akin to a dragon trying to judge its prey's strength. Then the answer came, flat and matter-of-factly.

"I don't trust you."

It shouldn't have stung that much, but it did.

Four words. After all the shame and the negative feelings Sweyn had caused him, it only took four words for Lugar to bite the dust and be unable to get up.