WITH SPRING FINALLY taking root in the earth again, chasing away the last bits of snow, the city of Ulensk was celebrating. The annual festival was one Freya never attended before, always too far from the city on missions or stationed somewhere else. This year, the pull to go out into the city and see the celebrations – maybe partake in them too – was too great to ignore. The gods must've heard her prayer, because her commanding officer gave her a day off right in time for the festival.

So, when the day came around, Freya was all too happy to walk the streets and watch everything that was occurring. The entire city was alive, the children and adults alike scurrying through the alleyways and main streets. Some of them were only looking around like Freya was, others were selling pins, ribbons and little candies.

Wreaths of dogwood and vines decorated with blooming spring flowers hung from doors and large banners with 'tansyuavaj do maje' written on them stretched between two sides of the street. Dance into May, Freya smiled to herself, remembering similar words written on the banners in Halmhend when she was a child. The celebrations in Fjerda weren't too different from Ravka, holding many of the same perks.

The difference that seemed to be the biggest was Ravka's celebration of love instead of the coming of spring. Couples were supposed to kiss under blooming trees and secretly deliver gifts to their beloved's homes. In Fjerda, there was less of that and more of giving thanks to the gods for allowing the land to survive another winter. Girls would dance around a maypole until they grew too tired to, and the one that remained last would have a crown of flowers placed on her head and named blessed by the gods. The girls in Ravka also danced around a maypole, giggling and twirling with the long ribbon attached to the pole gripped in their hands, but it seemed more about having fun than anything else.

Freya found herself easily entranced by the dancing, standing off to the side as she watched the young girls with their long billowy skirts and braided hair with blooms and ribbons woven between the locks. Standing there with her hair loose and unadorned, her body dressed in a soldier's uniform of blue and violet instead of a pretty dress as most girls her age were, she felt unwelcome.

Had she remained in Fjerda, she would be like the girls spinning around the maypole. No weapon would've ever been put into her hands. The calluses on her palms and fingers would've been from work around the house and gardens and not from curling her fingers to summon and brandishing a blade. Something ached distantly as she thought about herself in that other life, helping Matthias ask a girl he liked to dance and weaving ribbons into Skadi's hair. Things would be so much easier.

Djel, she might've even been set to marry by now. There had been plenty of boys her age in Halmehend and her little village, most of whom were kind and handsome enough to garner her attention. Instead, she was stuck on the frontlines of a war she wanted no part in, taking the lives of people from her homeland, aching for a love she would never be able to have. Because the golden-haired prince with a charming smile wasn't there with her, instead a thousand miles away and across the True Sea. When he returned from his studies, they'd be such wildly different people that she doubted she'd recognise what they'd once had. A betrothal would be awaiting him, no doubt. And more battles and years of servitude would be awaiting her.

Her feet carried her along the outskirts of the crowd, taking in the stalls and booths with various merchandise. The excited shrieking and giggling from the maypole grew louder with each passing minute, the musicians bringing their music to a crescendo.

Maybe it was because of that lively music that she didn't notice the man walking up behind her from a shadowed alley. Maybe it was the foolish distraction of her thoughts and cravings for something she couldn't reach that she wasn't able to fight it.

A large hand cupped her mouth and nose, blocking off any scream that she might've otherwise let out. It took less than a second for Freya to be dragged away from the crowd and into the alley, stomping out any chance that someone might've noticed what was happening. She kicked and swung her hands, even tried to summon, but by then there were other men on her, seizing her wrists tightly and keeping them apart to stop her from doing that.

Tears welled in her eyes as one of them struck her across the face, hearing a crack as he hit her nose. Because of her tipped-back head, the blood flooded into her throat, overtaking her senses with the vile metallic taste of it. She was thrown to the floor, a knee on her chest keeping her down. The gravel beneath her dug into her back through her kefta. This time Freya did scream, no hands blocking her mouth now. It did little to save her. They were too far from the crowd and the music and lively celebrations stopped anyone from hearing her.

The air hitched in her throat at the sight of the man above her. He was large and burly, his pale hair cut short to his head just like his beard. The contempt in his eyes was enough for all her muscles to tense. A drüskelle pendant hung from his neck.

"Devil drüsje," he spat in Fjerdan, the lack of an accent on her mother tongue so strange to hear after all the years she spent away. "You will pay for your crimes." For a terrifying few seconds, Freya was certain it was over for her. She closed her eyes, preparing for the final blow, an axe in her chest or a knife across her throat. But that didn't come, instead, another man barked a command she didn't quite catch.

And then a cloth was put over her nose. The stench of something chemical invaded her nostrils. Everything spun, and then it all went black.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Freya's body swayed, rocking to a rhythm she didn't know. Her arms and legs ached, as did her neck and back. It was too difficult to lift her head from where it hung between her arms – raised and chained somewhere above her. Her eyelids were heavy too, but she forced herself to peel them open. The wooden floor beneath her feet was damp and reeked of salt, fish and blubber.

It took her longer than she'd admit to realise she wasn't moving because of dizziness. Chains clinked somewhere to her left, followed by a heavy sigh. Freya slowly lifted her head, forcing herself through the ache of her neck until her spine was as straight as her bonds allowed.

"Shit," she muttered as her eyes got used to the dim lighting. She was on a ship, that became all too apparent as her eyes zoned in on the wooden walls and the swaying lanterns. Barrels were stacked on the far wall, right next to hung nets. A dull thudding echoed through the space repeatedly as the water struck the side of the hull from the outside.

An ache came with her returned consciousness – the many bruises from the fight with the drüskelle and her nose. That one ached the most, a patterned thrumming that made her whole head feel like it would erupt. She looked up, groaning as she tugged at the bonds around her hands. A metal cuff around each wrist pressed tightly to her skin. Chains connected the cuffs to the ceiling, too short for her hands to be able to touch.

There were very few Grisha that learned to summon without their hands. Freya didn't think there was one at the Little Palace, except maybe the General, but even he had never demonstrated such an ability to her. If the General couldn't do it, how would she ever be able to? Hot tears burned her eyes, and she gritted her teeth to chase them away.

This was it, then. The realisation tightened something in her chest, and she shuddered. She looked around the hull again. She wasn't the only one there, she noticed. There were at least three other Grisha, but she couldn't look behind herself well enough to tell if there were more. Two of them looked to be asleep, but the third one was looking directly at her.

It was a rather ragged-looking man, his clothing hanging off him loosely, and his sickly pale skin was dirty. An overgrown beard and long, tangled hair hid most of his face away, but Freya could make out a gnarly scar over his forehead.

"Hello," she tried, voice rough and unsure. Her throat was parched and raw. "Do you speak Ravkan? Fjerdan?" She switched languages at the last word, just in case. The man remained unmoving for a bit, but then he nodded slowly.

"Ravkan. A little." He wasn't lying, the words were laced with a heavy broken accent, and he seemed to pause between each word as if mulling over its meaning. Freya nodded, sighing in relief. At least she could talk to someone and get as much information as possible. It would do little to help her, she was sure, but at least she could say she tried.

"Where are we?" she asked, despite already knowing the answer. The man raised a brow, probably knowing the same. A particularly harsh thud emanated from the side of the hull and the whole ship swayed abruptly. Freya's feet slid along the wet floor, but the chains and cuffs kept her from falling. Pain shot through her shoulders as the joints creaked under the pressure. When the ship settled, the man sighed.

"A drüskelle ship," he answered her question, some of the words mispronounced, but she understood them well enough. "But you knew that. Second Army." He nodded to her clothing. She looked down, finding her kefta covered in dirt and grime and her own blood. She wondered if they'd cleaned off her face after breaking her nose. She curled her nose, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through it. No, they hadn't. The skin was coated in something dried, previously sticky.

"Yes," she sighed her agreement. "How long was I out?" The man furrowed his brows. "Asleep," she corrected to something easier for him to understand. He drifted off in thought for a while.

"A day on this ship. I don't know where they found you." Freya frowned. It was a five days ride from Ulensk to the Fold. Had the drüskelle truly crossed the black stain? No, that couldn't be right. They must've taken her north, passed the border. Still, it would've been easier to take her directly to Fjerda's capital city, Djerholm, rather than take her aboard a ship. Not unless they planned to do more hunting. That thought terrified her.

"Djel," she cursed, squeezing her eyes shut. The man let out a gruff and short groan, making her look back up at him.

"You are Fjerdan?" he asked, looking rather surprised. When she nodded, that surprise bled into sympathy. "I am sorry. You are fentom." It was the first time she'd ever heard him speak a word in his own language. Fentom, the Kerch word for ghost. Or survivor, she remembered from the few lessons she attended. She doubted that was what he meant.

"We are all ghosts," she told him, smiling sadly. "There is no escaping the drüskelle." The man looked like he was about to answer, but there was a loud sound from somewhere above them. Freya's head jerked to her left, where the ceiling opened up and orange light flooded in. That corner of the hull had been so dark before that she hadn't noticed the slim stairs rising along the wall.

A foot came into view as a man began climbing down the stairs. The light moved with him, coming from the lantern swinging in the man's hand. Freya stilled, masking even her breathing as she watched the man descend into the hull. He was tall and burly like the drüskelle that had attacked her, but he was a bit slimmer. His hair was a dirty blond, and his face was clean-shaven. He hadn't earned his officer status then if he even was a drüskelle and not just some sailor.

The man froze when his eyes landed on her, like a dear that sensed a predator. His shoulders visibly heaved as he inhaled, and then he walked directly towards her. Freya squinted against the warm firelight coming from the lantern, blinking to get her eyes to get used to the sudden brightness.

She wished she didn't. When the man's face came into view, she was struck by how unchanged it was. All the child-like roundness had disappeared, and his jaw was a bit more visible than before, but otherwise, he was just as she remembered. All too familiar sea-green eyes looked down at her, and she felt a damn break open in her chest. Tears gathered in her eyes, and a strange sense of relief mixed with distress. A disbelieving gasp tore through her throat.

"Matthias."

A/N

Surprise :D

Act I is FINALLY finished! Act II is going to start a little before season 1 and continue on to the end of season 1, it should be a little shorter than this part of the story because Freya doesn't have much of a role in the events of this season (she's literally not even in Ravka).

This also means I'm going to start writing Luca's book soon (hopefully, I have a lot of stories I want to focus on and school is going to start kicking my ass again very soon). I'm super interested to delve into his character from his perspective!