Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on May 12, 2024 17:02:49 GMT
- ᚢᚦᛁᚾᛋ ᛏᚱᛅᚢᛘᛦ -
The boy dreams of rivers of lights streaming through a black night sky, the moon and the stars drowning in undulating hues of green, blue, and purple.
He dreams of walking through a forest, feeling the crunch of grass and dead leaves under his boots, where the trees bear corpses on their branches. He knows those faces well. Ned, Fela, Father Jonathan, Hieronymus, all his neighbours — each with a spear through their bloodied chests, limp bodies swaying gently on creaking ropes. Their milky eyes, lightless as they are, are watchful.
The boy is terrified. He always is whenever he finds himself in this dream. But this time, he does not freeze or run away. His legs carry on walking down the invisible path through the forest, the way ahead illuminated solely by the rivers above.
Something here is calling to him. Something at the end of the path, where all roads lead.
“Víðar?”
The boy whirls around. His attention had been occupied by a straw-hatted halfling farmer swinging a rake at the crows menacing their crops that he failed to notice Agnes coming out of her house, a basketful of laundry tucked under one arm.
She places her free hand on her hip and gives him a slow and appraising once-over. “Have you been eating at all? Nevermind, I suppose we need to thank the Fates for every day you still walk this plane.”
And then suddenly, like the sun bursting from behind a bank of clouds, she breaks into a wide smile. “Welcome back! How have you been? Are you staying the night?”
The boy shifts his weight from one foot to the other back and forth. “I’m… I’m alright, thanks. What about yourself? And the weans?”
“I long ago decided complaining about a thing won’t make it better, so I shan’t. The kids have yet to take that lesson to heart, but they still have time.” She laughs and the lean muscles of her neck stand out. “Bernard and Leo have taken an interest in trapping, so you are in luck! We have a brace of coneys in the stew pot for dinner. Frida will help with the tasting. Come! Let me drop off this basket and then we can settle in.”
She turns to walk, inviting the boy to walk with her. “But what brings you here? Besides the rabbit stew, of course?”
He outstretches his arms towards the laundry basket as an offer of help. “I… Uh… I’ve got somethin’ to ask of you. I-I don’t wanna live in Bloody Creek anymore. Can I…um… Is it alright if I move in here with you?”
He holds his breath and clenches his jaw as soon as the words come tumbling out of his mouth, bracing himself for rejection. She would be right to refuse him. Their life is hard enough as it is, and their house is a cramped hut compared to the Southwind Manor back in Bloody Creek; they don’t need a self-pitying layabout taking up their space and food.
And besides, a lone crow in your house is a bad omen waiting to happen.
The moment of silence stretches for what seems like an eternity. A cloud moves to cover the sun, the day’s light dimming. The boy can see Agnes’s own jaw muscles clench in turn, her blue eyes staring unwaveringly into his.
“Víðar, you moved in that night you came in from the cold. You may not have known it then, but I could see it in your eyes. You have been wandering, and now you have returned. Of course you are welcome here, in our little hovel. The children and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She smiles that radiant smile, and the sun bursts forth once more, unconstrained. Then she thrusts the laundry basket into the boy’s arms. “Of course, I will expect you to do some chores, starting with the laundry, followed by some wood-chopping, while the sun is still out. Everyone’s got to pull their weight around here!”
Then she pats his cheek affectionately and winks.
“Welcome home.”
Something pricks at the boy’s eyes and rolls down his cheeks, blazing a warm trail on his cold skin. He quickly wipes it away with the back of his hand; a man never cries in front of others, even in the face of undeserved generosity. He inhales a deep breath and straightens up, swallowing the pleasant lump in his throat.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Þakka þér kærlega fyrir.”
Then he hoists the basket dutifully under his arm and begins walking alongside Agnes to the stream.
Little by little, the boy’s possessions are moved to the little house in New Hillborrow. A bedroll in front of the hearth, personal effects in a small chest tucked in the corner, and a variety of artisan’s tools — tools that once belonged to the deceased villagers of Bloody Creek — stashed haphazardly behind the house. He thinks about building a shed before the hottest time of the year comes rolling around.
He has been spending his time chopping wood, washing clothes, and teaching Agnes’s twin sons how to hunt. Occupying his hands, putting structure back into his life. It’s good busywork.
And yet. Sometimes, he finds himself stopping in the middle of a chore for no reason, staring out into the distance, past the murder of crows swarming around the fields of grain, who are wholly undeterred by the many scarecrows that have been planted there since he moved in. His gaze searches for something beyond the horizon, calling out to him without making a noise.
When the village is quiet, he can almost hear it. The faint creak of a rope on a lone branch.
Despite what Agnes said, despite finally finding his home, he isn’t done wandering. Far from it.
His path leads not back to Bloody Creek — he knows that much — but a small, numb, aching part of him remains there still, buried deep in the blackened earth.
He needs to leave it behind. He needs to make sure that he doesn’t run back there ever again.
After a morning of showing Bernard and Leo how to hide their snares better, the boy clears his throat awkwardly.
“Listen, lads, I’ve got a favour to ask of you. No need to trouble your mother with it. But, um… I’ve got one last thing I need to do back in Bloody Creek, a-and I can’t do it alone.”
The auburn-haired twins pique up; they are thirteen years old, but the horrors they have seen already would satisfy five lifetimes. To them, Bloody Creek is a yawning nightmare pit, which has just reopened its broken-toothed maw.
“You… You want us to go back?” Leo ventures. “…To Bloody Creek?”
“Aye, just…just for a bit. In my homeland, we carve and raise stones in memory of the dead. Runestones. I’ve been carvin’ one — i-it’s almost done — but I can’t raise it all by meself.” The boy pauses to rub the back of his neck, feeling a pang of guilt for asking this of these poor bairns. “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”
“No.” Bernard takes his brother’s hand. They share a silent look, nod at each other, and they both straighten up. “We will come with you. This feels important.”
The boy gives them a nod of genuine gratitude. “Thanks, lads. We’ll make sure…they’ll be remembered.”
He will leave that part of himself behind, but it will not remain buried. They will pull it out of the dirt and raise it up on the ground for all to see.
Travellers on the northward road from Daring Heights now see a stone, standing taller than a man, at the border of the former village of Bloody Creek, before the cluster of ruined and empty houses.
The runestone’s crimson-dyed lines depict a hero stabbing their sword into the throat of a titanic, four-legged, serpentine beast, its monstrous jaws agape in a silent death-wail, as a pair of crows soar overhead. Giant-tongue runes carved within the beast flow along the winding path of its body:
And on the back of the stone, a Common translation:
Co-written with Ian
The boy dreams of rivers of lights streaming through a black night sky, the moon and the stars drowning in undulating hues of green, blue, and purple.
He dreams of walking through a forest, feeling the crunch of grass and dead leaves under his boots, where the trees bear corpses on their branches. He knows those faces well. Ned, Fela, Father Jonathan, Hieronymus, all his neighbours — each with a spear through their bloodied chests, limp bodies swaying gently on creaking ropes. Their milky eyes, lightless as they are, are watchful.
The boy is terrified. He always is whenever he finds himself in this dream. But this time, he does not freeze or run away. His legs carry on walking down the invisible path through the forest, the way ahead illuminated solely by the rivers above.
Something here is calling to him. Something at the end of the path, where all roads lead.
“Víðar?”
The boy whirls around. His attention had been occupied by a straw-hatted halfling farmer swinging a rake at the crows menacing their crops that he failed to notice Agnes coming out of her house, a basketful of laundry tucked under one arm.
She places her free hand on her hip and gives him a slow and appraising once-over. “Have you been eating at all? Nevermind, I suppose we need to thank the Fates for every day you still walk this plane.”
And then suddenly, like the sun bursting from behind a bank of clouds, she breaks into a wide smile. “Welcome back! How have you been? Are you staying the night?”
The boy shifts his weight from one foot to the other back and forth. “I’m… I’m alright, thanks. What about yourself? And the weans?”
“I long ago decided complaining about a thing won’t make it better, so I shan’t. The kids have yet to take that lesson to heart, but they still have time.” She laughs and the lean muscles of her neck stand out. “Bernard and Leo have taken an interest in trapping, so you are in luck! We have a brace of coneys in the stew pot for dinner. Frida will help with the tasting. Come! Let me drop off this basket and then we can settle in.”
She turns to walk, inviting the boy to walk with her. “But what brings you here? Besides the rabbit stew, of course?”
He outstretches his arms towards the laundry basket as an offer of help. “I… Uh… I’ve got somethin’ to ask of you. I-I don’t wanna live in Bloody Creek anymore. Can I…um… Is it alright if I move in here with you?”
He holds his breath and clenches his jaw as soon as the words come tumbling out of his mouth, bracing himself for rejection. She would be right to refuse him. Their life is hard enough as it is, and their house is a cramped hut compared to the Southwind Manor back in Bloody Creek; they don’t need a self-pitying layabout taking up their space and food.
And besides, a lone crow in your house is a bad omen waiting to happen.
The moment of silence stretches for what seems like an eternity. A cloud moves to cover the sun, the day’s light dimming. The boy can see Agnes’s own jaw muscles clench in turn, her blue eyes staring unwaveringly into his.
“Víðar, you moved in that night you came in from the cold. You may not have known it then, but I could see it in your eyes. You have been wandering, and now you have returned. Of course you are welcome here, in our little hovel. The children and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She smiles that radiant smile, and the sun bursts forth once more, unconstrained. Then she thrusts the laundry basket into the boy’s arms. “Of course, I will expect you to do some chores, starting with the laundry, followed by some wood-chopping, while the sun is still out. Everyone’s got to pull their weight around here!”
Then she pats his cheek affectionately and winks.
“Welcome home.”
Something pricks at the boy’s eyes and rolls down his cheeks, blazing a warm trail on his cold skin. He quickly wipes it away with the back of his hand; a man never cries in front of others, even in the face of undeserved generosity. He inhales a deep breath and straightens up, swallowing the pleasant lump in his throat.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Þakka þér kærlega fyrir.”
Then he hoists the basket dutifully under his arm and begins walking alongside Agnes to the stream.
Little by little, the boy’s possessions are moved to the little house in New Hillborrow. A bedroll in front of the hearth, personal effects in a small chest tucked in the corner, and a variety of artisan’s tools — tools that once belonged to the deceased villagers of Bloody Creek — stashed haphazardly behind the house. He thinks about building a shed before the hottest time of the year comes rolling around.
He has been spending his time chopping wood, washing clothes, and teaching Agnes’s twin sons how to hunt. Occupying his hands, putting structure back into his life. It’s good busywork.
And yet. Sometimes, he finds himself stopping in the middle of a chore for no reason, staring out into the distance, past the murder of crows swarming around the fields of grain, who are wholly undeterred by the many scarecrows that have been planted there since he moved in. His gaze searches for something beyond the horizon, calling out to him without making a noise.
When the village is quiet, he can almost hear it. The faint creak of a rope on a lone branch.
Despite what Agnes said, despite finally finding his home, he isn’t done wandering. Far from it.
His path leads not back to Bloody Creek — he knows that much — but a small, numb, aching part of him remains there still, buried deep in the blackened earth.
He needs to leave it behind. He needs to make sure that he doesn’t run back there ever again.
After a morning of showing Bernard and Leo how to hide their snares better, the boy clears his throat awkwardly.
“Listen, lads, I’ve got a favour to ask of you. No need to trouble your mother with it. But, um… I’ve got one last thing I need to do back in Bloody Creek, a-and I can’t do it alone.”
The auburn-haired twins pique up; they are thirteen years old, but the horrors they have seen already would satisfy five lifetimes. To them, Bloody Creek is a yawning nightmare pit, which has just reopened its broken-toothed maw.
“You… You want us to go back?” Leo ventures. “…To Bloody Creek?”
“Aye, just…just for a bit. In my homeland, we carve and raise stones in memory of the dead. Runestones. I’ve been carvin’ one — i-it’s almost done — but I can’t raise it all by meself.” The boy pauses to rub the back of his neck, feeling a pang of guilt for asking this of these poor bairns. “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”
“No.” Bernard takes his brother’s hand. They share a silent look, nod at each other, and they both straighten up. “We will come with you. This feels important.”
The boy gives them a nod of genuine gratitude. “Thanks, lads. We’ll make sure…they’ll be remembered.”
He will leave that part of himself behind, but it will not remain buried. They will pull it out of the dirt and raise it up on the ground for all to see.
Travellers on the northward road from Daring Heights now see a stone, standing taller than a man, at the border of the former village of Bloody Creek, before the cluster of ruined and empty houses.
The runestone’s crimson-dyed lines depict a hero stabbing their sword into the throat of a titanic, four-legged, serpentine beast, its monstrous jaws agape in a silent death-wail, as a pair of crows soar overhead. Giant-tongue runes carved within the beast flow along the winding path of its body:
᛭ ᚢᛁᚦᛅᚱ ᛭ ᛅᚢᚴ ᛭ ᛚᛁᚢ ᛭ ᛅᚢᚴ ᛭ ᛒᛁᛅᚱᚾᚼᛅᚱᚦᛦ ᛭ ᚱᛅᛁᛋᛏᚢ ᛭ ᛋᛏᛅᛁᚾ ᛭ ᚦᛁᚾᛅ ᛭ ᛅᚠᛏᛁᛦ ᛭ ᛒᚢᛅ ᛭ ᛒᛚᚢᚦᛚᚢᚴᛁᛅᛦ ᛭ ᚦᛅᚢ ᛭ ᚢᚬᚱᚢ ᛭ ᚴᚢᚦ ᛭ ᚠᚢᛚᚴ ᛭
And on the back of the stone, a Common translation:
VÍĐAR AND LEO AND BERNARD RAISED THIS STONE IN MEMORY OF THE PEOPLE OF BLOODY CREEK. THEY WERE GOOD FOLK.
Co-written with Ian