LOST

“Modeos, what are you doing?” Tófa asked, watching him dart from one end of the longhouse to the other, gathering various supplies and clothing in an elk skin.

“I’m going to find my brother,” Modeos said, stepping around the fire circle to grab a spear that was leaning up against the wall.

“Xamn is gone,” she said, raising her voice. “Zachary killed him. You had to have seen that.”

“No! I saw my brother disappear into thin air. I do not know what that Celt bastard did to him but, he’s not dead. He’s just…” Modeos closed his eyes, refusing to accept what was evident.

“Just what?”

He took a deep breath before opening his eyes. “Lost.”

“What’s going on?” Brandr asked as he came through the door. Behind Brandr, Astrid pushed her way inside, looking around nervously and quickly sat on a bench in the back of the house.

“Modeos, are you going somewhere?” Brandr asked, one eyebrow furrowed.

“I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m just asking you to let me believe.”

“He thinks Xamn is still alive,” Tófa remarked.

“Still alive?” Astrid asked as she ran towards Modeos and grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him around. “How do you know?”

“He doesn’t,” Brandr told her. “Don’t be a fool, Modeos. For whatever reason, we survived our execution and Xamn did not,” Brandr argued, trying his best to reason with him. “The people of Thórsholr now view him as a hero, and the site of the burning as a holy place. They think we’re gods. Whether we are or not, I don’t know. But you saw what happened. If Xamn were like us, he’d be right here with us, enjoying his immortality.”

“Zachary is sick,” Astrid explained. “We had no idea of the trouble he would bring when my family adopted him or we would have sent him to the Franks. I’m sorry for the loss of your brother, Modeos, but it is my loss, as well.”

“Put your hand on my heart… Anyone!” Modeos demanded, “And tell me you do not feel him. We are family.”

Brandr put his hands on his hips, bit his lip and did nothing. Modeos pulled the neck of his tunic to the side, baring his chest. Brandr and Tófa stared at him, stubborn and unwilling to budge. Astrid sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands.

“Do it!” Modeos yelled.

Still they made no attempt to fulfill Modeos’s request. “Give me your hand,” he commanded as he grabbed Brandr by the wrist and put his palm to his chest. “Do you not feel him?”

“No,” Brandr replied. “I do not.”

“Then, we must no longer be family and I will travel with no one but Gås.”

“If the dog follows you…,” Brandr pointed at Gås, who was monitoring the argument with trepidation, “then, he’s a fool, too. Where, exactly, are you going to look?”

“Wherever the gods lead us.”

“And if they lead you off a cliff?” Tófa asked in desperation.

“Then, I will search among the rocks at the bottom! What harm awaits me there if I’ve already lived through being burned alive?”

“Go, then, on your quest,” Brandr said snidely. “But we will not wait for your return.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Modeos replied as he tied up the supplies he gathered in the elk skin. “You’re hunting down Zachary, then?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when you find him, give him my regards. Gås,” He motioned with his head for the dog to follow him, hunched the pack on his shoulders and left the longhouse without another word, using the spear as a walking stick. With his tail tucked between his legs, Gås followed after him.