Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on Mar 8, 2024 5:10:18 GMT
Víðar ran and hid for as long as he could. He could see the Butcher’s gigantic shadow looming over the houses and the misshapen vultures circling overhead and hear the anguished screams of those who got caught. He crouched and weaved between buildings, peeking through windows and around corners, trying to quiet his shuddering breath. He should have made for the Angelbark and tried to lose the trail there, but he was searching for someth— someone.
Perhaps if he wasn’t, he would have survived. Perhaps if he just ran for the forest, the Butcher’s long arm wouldn’t have found him. Its talons wouldn’t have closed around his body; wouldn’t have crushed his ribcage, shards of broken bone stabbing like knives into his organs; wouldn’t have his own blood flooding his lungs as he gurgled out a scream.
Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve. Pointless hypotheticals. Víðar had given it a good try.
In the last moment of his short life, as his vision was clouded by black and red, he heard a woman’s voice shriek.
“Take me instead!”
That half-torn page in Fortunes & Fables has been tempting the boy for months now. The mirror in the archives has only compelled his curiosity even more. So finally, on one mild morning, he gets out of bed and makes his way to Daring Heights with the golden compass in hand, the black swarm-cloud trailing behind him as usual.
The needle points towards a spot near the Academy again. He picks up a few companions along the way — Fate seems to will it — along with their childish teasing, before finding a door and taking the long descent into the Harbour.
The Keeper narrows his eyes at the boy when he tells the older man where he intends to go. “The compass always points to the Heart of the Harbour. You’ll need to go in the opposite direction of where it points,” the Keeper instructs. “But be careful. Many who are lost in Time never find their way back.”
A tunnel stretches into the void-like darkness ahead of them. The stone here is different — older, it seems — than the rest of the Harbour.
The beating of wings in the distance. The crows in the shadows have not moved, still in reverent silence. This is how he knows he’s going in the right direction.
The tunnel meanders, wanders, splits, branches, and scatters. It’d be all too easy to get lost here indeed, if one hasn’t the back of the compass needle to guide them.
Time is everywhere here. Time is the only thing here. Time has no meaning here.
In the tunnels beyond Time, they find small puddles of viscous, pale amber liquid, outlined by tiny, golden crystalline deposits on the ground. “It’s honey,” Keros says after tasting a dipped finger. Remnants of the Starless Sea, the boy thinks. The mead of knowledge.
Next, they find two pages. One is in the shape of a star, but the other has a familiar typeface and feel to its paper. It must have been ripped from Sweet Sorrows and found its way here…somehow. Keros and Raine, unsurprisingly to the boy, are shocked by the contents of the pages’ writing — unnerving insights into their private struggles and innermost thoughts.
And then finally, they find the doors.
The boy’s hands are nearly trembling with anticipation as he pushes them open.
He doesn’t quite know what he was expecting, but the room beyond the ancient doors is certainly not what he expected. It is a crypt, with half-ruined walls that expose the natural cave it sits in. Stone and iron statues — the likenesses of sword-and-shield warriors, crossbow archers, and mages with curling staves — stand solemnly in silent guard in its halls. Each sarcophagus that lies within it has a stone crow sitting perched atop the lid, a roll of parchment held between its beak. The papers almost crumble in his hand when the boy holds them up delicately to read the words written upon them.
sings to herself when she thinks no one is listening
walks barefoot through the halls, quiet as a cat
These must be the graves of Acolytes, Keepers, and Guardians of ages past. But…why the crows? There is a belief among the folk of Norheim that crows carry the souls of the dead to the afterlife, but…
The boy suddenly feels the warmth of a large hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, Crow,” Keros says. “You’ve helped me out a lot, so if there’s something here that can help you, then just tell me what to do.”
The boy looks up at him in confusion. “What? Why are you saying that?”
“Crow, this is the most I’ve seen you excited about anything.”
“I…I just want to know. Is that so strange?”
“Not at all.”
This does, however, give the boy pause. Why does he want to know what’s down here so badly?
At the head of the crypt, there is a book. It sits open on a podium and it seems older than Time itself.
When the boy, unable to hold himself back, lays a finger on it, the book begins to disintegrate.
“No, no!” he cries out. “Damn you, give me your secrets!”
His keen elven eyes desperately try to catch as many words on the pages as he can before they turn into dust. And in that fleeting moment, the book seems to…speak to him.
Before he has time to process any of this, the guardian statues begin to shudder and move.
Fate had been separated from Time. That is what Allegra has done. Time marches on in the Harbour, drying up its sea of honey, emptying out its hallways, yet it cannot die properly.
Returning Sweet Sorrows to the Harbour had begun something, said Mirabel. Its ending, she said, for all stories must end.
Allegra and her Collector’s Club are afraid of letting the Harbour go, but is it right that Fate should be stalled? The library is but a husk of its former self now. Because it refuses to die, nothing new can be born in its place.
Three things lost in time: book, man, sword. The book has been found. Finding the man Keating and the king-slaying sword will surely spell the words of the Harbour’s final chapter.
But…what of the boy’s own Fate? For as much as he wants to deny or run from it, what he saw in the seiður mirror is his Fate.
Perhaps he can’t escape it forever, but he can resent it. After all, why him? Why did Fate choose to bring him and him alone back, whilst cursing everyone else in Bloody Creek?
It feels childish to say, but it isn’t fair. Every single one of them lived lives as rich as his; they were kind, funny, interesting, honest, and good. There are many of them who would have put a second chance at life to much better use than him. He is squandering it, wallowing in his own sorrows every day. He is undeserving. He should have stayed dead.
The iron statue kneeling before him lays down its sword on the floor. Its brothers and sisters lie in shattered ruins nearby, but it pays no mind, though it likely has none anyway.
The crows — they’re what made the statue stop its hostility. Deep down, the boy knows it to be true.
Though he fears what he is about to discover, he steps in closer to examine the statue. It was, undeniably, sculpted in the Northlander style — a berserker biting down on the top of his kite-shield in feverish arousal from battle-lust. Its armour looks strange to the boy, because it’s not the likeness of mail that covers the berserker’s arms upon closer inspection, but rather a pattern of feathers, almost like the feather-coat of ancient legend.
No. It-It can’t be.
The boy turns his face sharply away from the statue, and that is when he sees the back of the crypt doors for the first time.
A carving of a cloaked figure wearing a beaked mask looms in the centre of the stone doors, surrounded by flocking crows on either side of him. Whatever colours once painted the image have long faded away, leaving only grey rock. Jötunn runes are cut into the sill above:
“We are leaving,” the boy says abruptly. He sheathes his sword and begins briskly walking towards the door.
“Just wait a second, Crow,” says “Rosemary”.
“Crow, I’ve seen you wear that mask,” says Keros.
“That image is clearly supposed to be you. Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?” says Raine.
“There is nothing left here.” The words come out of him through gritted teeth. “We are leaving now.”
It isn’t until the boy has returned to his dormitory room at the Harbour and doffed his equipment when he notices the little pink ribbon tied to the back of his hood. It must have been Thughror, trying to say, I’m here if you want to talk.
The others expressed similar sentiments as well. And of course, there’s Agnes in New Hillborrow too. It’s…nice to hear, even if he has rejected all offers thus far. They don’t deserve to be burdened with his troubles.
What would I even say to them? I was killed and then brought back by someone or something. I am haunted by the voices of my dead neighbours, but my mother seems to have vanished. I don’t remember much of my old life and I don’t feel like me anymore. I don’t know why any of this is happening and I’m scared to find out. I should not be alive. I may be destined to become…to become…
He gets up from the bed to pick up a handheld mirror lying face-down on the desk. With held breath and quivering hand, he turns the mirror slowly, praying that he will not see a one-eyed man with a pair of crows on his shoulders.
…a man of many stories and many names…
But the only face in the mirror that looks back at him is the boy’s own. Despite everything, it’s still him.
Perhaps if he wasn’t, he would have survived. Perhaps if he just ran for the forest, the Butcher’s long arm wouldn’t have found him. Its talons wouldn’t have closed around his body; wouldn’t have crushed his ribcage, shards of broken bone stabbing like knives into his organs; wouldn’t have his own blood flooding his lungs as he gurgled out a scream.
Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve. Pointless hypotheticals. Víðar had given it a good try.
In the last moment of his short life, as his vision was clouded by black and red, he heard a woman’s voice shriek.
“Take me instead!”
Maybe, down belo
That half-torn page in Fortunes & Fables has been tempting the boy for months now. The mirror in the archives has only compelled his curiosity even more. So finally, on one mild morning, he gets out of bed and makes his way to Daring Heights with the golden compass in hand, the black swarm-cloud trailing behind him as usual.
The needle points towards a spot near the Academy again. He picks up a few companions along the way — Fate seems to will it — along with their childish teasing, before finding a door and taking the long descent into the Harbour.
The Keeper narrows his eyes at the boy when he tells the older man where he intends to go. “The compass always points to the Heart of the Harbour. You’ll need to go in the opposite direction of where it points,” the Keeper instructs. “But be careful. Many who are lost in Time never find their way back.”
A tunnel stretches into the void-like darkness ahead of them. The stone here is different — older, it seems — than the rest of the Harbour.
The beating of wings in the distance. The crows in the shadows have not moved, still in reverent silence. This is how he knows he’s going in the right direction.
The tunnel meanders, wanders, splits, branches, and scatters. It’d be all too easy to get lost here indeed, if one hasn’t the back of the compass needle to guide them.
Time is everywhere here. Time is the only thing here. Time has no meaning here.
In the tunnels beyond Time, they find small puddles of viscous, pale amber liquid, outlined by tiny, golden crystalline deposits on the ground. “It’s honey,” Keros says after tasting a dipped finger. Remnants of the Starless Sea, the boy thinks. The mead of knowledge.
Next, they find two pages. One is in the shape of a star, but the other has a familiar typeface and feel to its paper. It must have been ripped from Sweet Sorrows and found its way here…somehow. Keros and Raine, unsurprisingly to the boy, are shocked by the contents of the pages’ writing — unnerving insights into their private struggles and innermost thoughts.
And then finally, they find the doors.
The boy’s hands are nearly trembling with anticipation as he pushes them open.
He doesn’t quite know what he was expecting, but the room beyond the ancient doors is certainly not what he expected. It is a crypt, with half-ruined walls that expose the natural cave it sits in. Stone and iron statues — the likenesses of sword-and-shield warriors, crossbow archers, and mages with curling staves — stand solemnly in silent guard in its halls. Each sarcophagus that lies within it has a stone crow sitting perched atop the lid, a roll of parchment held between its beak. The papers almost crumble in his hand when the boy holds them up delicately to read the words written upon them.
sings to herself when she thinks no one is listening
reads the same books over and over again until each page is intimately familiar
walks barefoot through the halls, quiet as a cat
laughs so easy and so often as though the whole universe delights him
These must be the graves of Acolytes, Keepers, and Guardians of ages past. But…why the crows? There is a belief among the folk of Norheim that crows carry the souls of the dead to the afterlife, but…
The boy suddenly feels the warmth of a large hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, Crow,” Keros says. “You’ve helped me out a lot, so if there’s something here that can help you, then just tell me what to do.”
The boy looks up at him in confusion. “What? Why are you saying that?”
“Crow, this is the most I’ve seen you excited about anything.”
“I…I just want to know. Is that so strange?”
“Not at all.”
This does, however, give the boy pause. Why does he want to know what’s down here so badly?
At the head of the crypt, there is a book. It sits open on a podium and it seems older than Time itself.
When the boy, unable to hold himself back, lays a finger on it, the book begins to disintegrate.
“No, no!” he cries out. “Damn you, give me your secrets!”
His keen elven eyes desperately try to catch as many words on the pages as he can before they turn into dust. And in that fleeting moment, the book seems to…speak to him.
Hello
haunted
one
and
his
flock
there are three
things lost
in time
sword
book
man
find
sword
find
man
Before he has time to process any of this, the guardian statues begin to shudder and move.
Fate had been separated from Time. That is what Allegra has done. Time marches on in the Harbour, drying up its sea of honey, emptying out its hallways, yet it cannot die properly.
Returning Sweet Sorrows to the Harbour had begun something, said Mirabel. Its ending, she said, for all stories must end.
Allegra and her Collector’s Club are afraid of letting the Harbour go, but is it right that Fate should be stalled? The library is but a husk of its former self now. Because it refuses to die, nothing new can be born in its place.
Three things lost in time: book, man, sword. The book has been found. Finding the man Keating and the king-slaying sword will surely spell the words of the Harbour’s final chapter.
But…what of the boy’s own Fate? For as much as he wants to deny or run from it, what he saw in the seiður mirror is his Fate.
Perhaps he can’t escape it forever, but he can resent it. After all, why him? Why did Fate choose to bring him and him alone back, whilst cursing everyone else in Bloody Creek?
It feels childish to say, but it isn’t fair. Every single one of them lived lives as rich as his; they were kind, funny, interesting, honest, and good. There are many of them who would have put a second chance at life to much better use than him. He is squandering it, wallowing in his own sorrows every day. He is undeserving. He should have stayed dead.
The iron statue kneeling before him lays down its sword on the floor. Its brothers and sisters lie in shattered ruins nearby, but it pays no mind, though it likely has none anyway.
The crows — they’re what made the statue stop its hostility. Deep down, the boy knows it to be true.
Though he fears what he is about to discover, he steps in closer to examine the statue. It was, undeniably, sculpted in the Northlander style — a berserker biting down on the top of his kite-shield in feverish arousal from battle-lust. Its armour looks strange to the boy, because it’s not the likeness of mail that covers the berserker’s arms upon closer inspection, but rather a pattern of feathers, almost like the feather-coat of ancient legend.
No. It-It can’t be.
The boy turns his face sharply away from the statue, and that is when he sees the back of the crypt doors for the first time.
A carving of a cloaked figure wearing a beaked mask looms in the centre of the stone doors, surrounded by flocking crows on either side of him. Whatever colours once painted the image have long faded away, leaving only grey rock. Jötunn runes are cut into the sill above:
ᚢᛁᛦ : ᚢᚬᚾᛅᛋᚴ : ᛅᛏ : ᚦᛅᚢ : ᛒᛁᚱᛁ : ᛋᛅᚴᚢᛦ : ᚢᚬᛦ : ᚼᛅᛁᛘ
may they carry our stories home
“We are leaving,” the boy says abruptly. He sheathes his sword and begins briskly walking towards the door.
“Just wait a second, Crow,” says “Rosemary”.
“Crow, I’ve seen you wear that mask,” says Keros.
“That image is clearly supposed to be you. Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?” says Raine.
“There is nothing left here.” The words come out of him through gritted teeth. “We are leaving now.”
It isn’t until the boy has returned to his dormitory room at the Harbour and doffed his equipment when he notices the little pink ribbon tied to the back of his hood. It must have been Thughror, trying to say, I’m here if you want to talk.
The others expressed similar sentiments as well. And of course, there’s Agnes in New Hillborrow too. It’s…nice to hear, even if he has rejected all offers thus far. They don’t deserve to be burdened with his troubles.
What would I even say to them? I was killed and then brought back by someone or something. I am haunted by the voices of my dead neighbours, but my mother seems to have vanished. I don’t remember much of my old life and I don’t feel like me anymore. I don’t know why any of this is happening and I’m scared to find out. I should not be alive. I may be destined to become…to become…
He gets up from the bed to pick up a handheld mirror lying face-down on the desk. With held breath and quivering hand, he turns the mirror slowly, praying that he will not see a one-eyed man with a pair of crows on his shoulders.
…a man of many stories and many names…
But the only face in the mirror that looks back at him is the boy’s own. Despite everything, it’s still him.
