I.
Quiet yet heavy sobs rattled out from round and pallid lips. Cracks had spidered along the skin, with some lines more red than others. Balm was the only solution to fix their sorry state, though little time could be spent worrying about the taste of blood, when the darkness that surrounded the young girl was all-consuming. She had wandered into a place that did not belong to her. What a cold morning meant for fishing out at a lake that had thawed some, turned into an adventure that spiraled out of the young girl's control. No older than about eight, the girl had accompanied her mother and mentor to start learning how to hunt. In Höfn, a fortress constructed over a century ago, tradition insisted that all children begin training before age ten.
The exact time depended on a test they had to perform, which involved bringing home their first piece of prey. Whatever animal, caught in whichever way the child could manage. It was their first lesson of both courage and forgiveness. Höfn was nothing near a paradise. It was a cold, dismal winter wasteland, which told a joke to its inhabitants each time summer peeked around the corner. Snow was a constant factor— at least an inch or two expected every single day. Winter was the worst, of course. Fall was a slow killer, with the winds getting colder and harsher. Then, before the local Kaini knew it, winter would create a tomb for them made out of the densest snow. Many villagers struggled to survive around the beginning of its founding. Höfn's population was up and down, then left to right, before a few lucky survivors learned enough of nature's lesson.
In Höfn, one needs three things to survive. Food, which included a sturdy population of lamb, bartered for by the founding járl's grandson. In exchange, precious tools, such as axes and oars, were parted with. Lamb could have never been enough, which led to the respected trade of fishing. It was a gamble to board those long sailing boats, seeing that the waters were an unpredictable force. Höfn's diet lacked much greenery, since the climate was ill-suited for growing most crops. Still, foragers raced to harvest barley, always planting it midway through March. Rations were cherished, with the fort's chef always making enough to fill each person. Food had never been a coveted luxury, though there would often be feasts put together for holidays.
The second thing needed was a good shelter. The granddaughter of the founding járl, who happened to be the little sister of his grandson, had a special skill in carpentry. Stone bricks formed the foundation, which was always long and rectangular. A wooden frame, swapped between oak and birch, created two slants that met each other at the top. Moss or straw would then coat the wood, adding insulation from the air outside. The interiors were never the focus, as the exterior had to stand above all else. Therefore, these homes would contain one large room, with space always carved out in the middle for a campfire. Sleeping rolls were mostly made of cloth and leather, which the latter had to be bartered for quite frequently. If ever out of valuable resources, then Höfn could always be depended on to send competent villagers.
Third? Everyone needs each other.
The girl remained put, set atop a rocky incline that had curled up towards the cave's ceiling. From her position, stalactites loomed ahead, gathered in the masses. Her mind played out the story of one snapping and careening down, resulting in a game of 'lights out'. This vivid picture only added to her grief, which tumbled out of her throat in momentous waves. A sharp nose had tracked the scent of some fauna, which smelled no different than the chunks of venison that always made the best stew. In her mind, she saw an opportunity. Why not make her mother proud by taking down a beast that no normal child was capable of seizing?
That question had an enticing answer, prodding through her lips with a metallic hook that caught at her tonsils. She was reeled in right away by the thought. If she squinted just enough, then the praise imagined— fellow children cheering, elders clapping- nearly tasted real. Her mother had instructed her to wait near a fishing hole, which had been cracked open by the help of a sharp knife. Eydís listened to her mother for a good five minutes. Then, that scent, terrible and pervasive, had lit up her mind with too much wonder. She left behind tracks in the snow made by her boots, with the sound of snow crunching beneath becoming a familiar harmony.
Her mother had allowed one weapon to be brought, which was an old hunting knife. Anna was a smart woman, with her brain rivaled by her sharp tongue. She knew very well that her child would have to learn the way of a fighter one day. Preparing sooner rather than later might as well have been the hardest decision of her life. Didn't her child, any child, really deserve the freedom of their own youth? Did that wild imagination have to be snuffed out so soon? Was there not enough time to play pretend in their home, then go and watch the stars late at night? It was only because of Hinrik that she had settled on weaning her child away from the simple life. In truth, it had never been so simple. Eydís was not the most social of children. She held back in crowds— often caught hiding behind her mother's leg. Anna had tried her best to push her child, though she could never get past the fear of scarring her for life. Anna didn't have her parents around. Her story was a sore subject that almost every villager knew the truth of. In short, her child was all that mattered, with the fort's prosperity reaching a comfortable second.
Eydís maneuvered down a narrow slope that bowed into a flat clearing, where it looked like the earth had sunk in on itself. From this point, nobody at that frozen lake would be able to catch sight of her, as she disappeared into the white expanse below. She had to be careful with her feet, slipping once or twice while stepping down. Thankfully, the girl did not trip, which would have resulted in the most embarrassing of tumbles. She squatted low after touching flat ground again, keeping her head on a swivel to look for wherever that taunting elk might be. If she strained her ears enough to invite in a deafening buzz, then it almost sounded as if the endless snow began to speak. It did not use words, no, but sensations. Pulses, even. Some sort of primal energy, which was the same voice that told a flower to bloom, or for a fire to rage and engulf an innocent field of cattle. This snow gathered along her palms and fingertips as she submerged her hands into it.
Hands, which were wide but thin, and coated in a layer of dark brown fur. When Anna gave birth, one of the questions that floated about was if she had bedded an Asha. Anna met the question with a loud laugh. The sound was not a mocking one, but instead full of disbelief. "Have you ever seen an Asha this far out North?" she would ask while cradling her newborn close. Such questions quickly met their end, after an elder versed in alchemy tended to the fort's new infant. Births were not so frequent. Most would only raise one or two children at a time, with at least five years set in between. It was all anyone could talk about, then, after discovering that Anna was with child. Only Hinrik picked up on her meetings with a stranger who had passed through the fort, right around the time that they were seeing a concerning uptick in Daemons.
Gods above, what an issue those were.
Nobody knew where they came from. Scribes had poured through all preserved records that dated back to the founding járl's days. His name was Olaf Pálsson, forever remembered as a great warrior. Some superstitious members of the fort believe that he often challenged Daemons from across the seas to fight him, so that he could prove his valor and right to lead. Others believe that the land Höfn was constructed on had been traversed by spirits that crossed the strait from Jorrhildr to the Cains, where faceless entities hungered for more than just the Hjordi. The latter has been considered as the truth by most, given that few wished to invoke judgment on the man who founded it all.
Attacks came in an unpredictable pattern. At first, when Olaf still lived, there was only one onslaught that had been recorded. This fight saw the full population of around a hundred against a small group of six. Only one of these Daemons posed a major threat; puppeting the body of a Nordskag general that had gone missing around the third Skagger War. Some thought of him to be an Undead, risen from the ground for a second chance at living. Yet, the perplexing part of this writing detailed how the body was fully monochromatic. And, doubly strange, was the fact that his face lost all of its features after one look. This was not the work of the Hollow. Whatever it was, though, the scribes had no name for it. Each attack recorded has been branded with a term that roughly translates into 'doomsday'. Not once had the Daemons launched their attack during the night, as they always seemed to 'prefer' the early morning.
Each attack seemed to gradually worsen as time went on. Olaf imagined that there would only ever be a horde of six, which was what he trained his people for. His death was recorded after the number seemed to triple for the second attack. Again, these shambling husks, all gray and withered, had nothing to their appearance that stood out. They would use weapons and magic, often seeming to pull ice and shadow together. Höfn was not known for its arcanists. There was no purist belief that had been settled, but instead a simple lack of those who were connected to any alien plane. While the Daemon infestation only seemed to get worse, Höfn's people adapted in the ways that they could. Thus, traditions such as training a child no later than the age of ten began.
Almost a year before the birth of Eydís, Höfn faced its worst attack yet. The járl in charge, Brynjar, was out patrolling the surrounding lands when he first saw the horde. In some cruel irony, it looked as if hundreds of Skaggers had risen from the dead, with their bodies perfectly intact because of the severe climate. Höfn had grown tremendously since its initial founding, yet it only boasted around four hundred. Brynjar knew that his numbers were not enough. He rushed back to the fort, pushing past everybody who was in his way. Brynjar was known for his charming smile and pitch-black hair, which was quite unique, seeing that most of the villagers had blonde hair. He wrote a pile of letters to be sent around the Northern Cains, calling upon all surrounding járls to lend a hand in a time of need. While Höfn was fairly respected for its production of fish and offering of men, most of the surrounding járls preferred their own preservation. Only one answered the call. She was the chief of a hamlet along the western coast, thought to be the love of Brynjar's life.
The fort did not even last a day against the Daemons. Between sending off his letters and receiving any proper aid, a full siege had already been launched. The front gate was torn through, weapons of ice and shadow treating thick steel like soft paper. Thirty-two villagers died over a few hours. Every warrior was pushed to their limit as they fought with all of their rage to protect what was slipping through their fingers like water. Anna, with her face covered in hot blood, felt a chill run down her spine unlike anything else. She saw in her peripherals as a tall man with dirty blonde hair marched through their fallen gate, carrying a long axe over his shoulder. He barked out a chain of command that even Brynjar could not deny the might of. Together, what few soldiers remained united as one, with the mysterious stranger cleaving through dozens of spirits in a practiced manner. Most of the mindless husks began to flee after their numbers nosedived. But that aching hour was not the end. The stranger insisted that more would come on the morrow. While he was treated with a fair amount of suspicion, given that he was not one of the men sent from the west, it turned out that he was exactly right.
Anna hadn't shared much else of that story. Three months after he disappeared, with Höfn returning to its amicable life, Anna started to dream of what she swore was Arne. Each night, in her sleep, she would sit beneath the ancient being, feeling in her bones that her child would be special. When visited by the elder alchemist, some three days after they helped with her delivery, all rumors came to a dead stop as the newborn was reported to have a glowing tattoo on her back. It was dark as the night sky blue, rolling in and out with varying hues of that rich color. Brynjar, who had thankfully survived the previous invasion, spoke to Anna about how her child was going to change the whole fort's future. The two had gotten along fine enough, though Anna felt a line had been crossed when Brynjar spoke with a modicum of authority over her own child. She refused to have any further conversation, such as it, not until her child would live a few innocent years.
Eydís had spotted the mouth of a gray cavern, which she believed to be the hiding place of the cruel elk. Out of breath, the young girl hesitated in the wide opening, trying to recall the breathing practice that Hinrik had taught her. In through her mouth- hold, hold- then back out through her nose. She ran through the thought thrice, then bundled herself further into her long cloak, which was an old belonging of Hinrik's. She trudged into the cave, her irises alight with an insatiable curiosity. The dark had never been so hard for her to see in, though this cold space was testing her limits. She had never been too good about walking without a sound, no matter how many times Anna had tried to teach her careful footing. At the very least, she knew to move slowly so that nothing lurking about would be startled by any sudden movement. Past the entrance, there was a wide tunnel that curved to the right until it opened up to a larger clearing. The girl came to a halt, getting an odd sense that something had its eyes on her.
Right there, Eydís would make eye contact with the beast: an old elk with antlers that looked like tree branches. Its head was a dark brown, while the rest of its body was a lighter tan shade. Its eyes, beady and black, were glossed over with a frightened sheen. The girl froze again, feeling her face scrunch up with the barest hint of confusion. Why did it look afraid? What had she done, other than walk into its home? For a moment, she considered if an elk was entitled to complain about trespassing mortals. Was there a jury of rodents that would collect, to declare a person like herself guilty or not? She might have laughed, entertained by her own thoughts, if it wasn't for the sickening fear that puffed up from the elk's pelt. It's not like there was much of a similarity in their forms. The elk was far larger than the child, with at least fifty pounds secured by its mighty antlers alone. That fear, though animalistic by all means, sent the creature into a state of panic. Things moved far too quickly for the child's comfort. Its body shot up from the ground below, where it had been lying on a pile of moss collected from the cavern's walls. Eydís blinked once, then twice, before realizing that the elk was rocketing towards her. The child yelped, veering towards the left with her awkward body. A smart creature, the elk proved to be, as it thrashed in her direction with razor-sharp antlers. Several gashes resulted in the unsightly color of crimson, which splashed onto the ground in an uproar. The girl did not have a chance to cry over her newly acquired cuts, as her own instincts went into overdrive.
She couldn't see a thing, as time seemed to fold in on itself. The feeling of her claws stabbed through a wall far too delicate to be stone rock. Flecks of red splattered onto her face, while an awful whine was released from the elk's throat. It followed up with a strained bellow, buying the girl enough time to run further from the entrance. She still couldn't see, or, no, she was seeing too much at once. Elevated rock, which formed something like a naturally made pillar. Bloodied claws jabbed through exposed crevices, with shaking arms doing the hard work of hauling a body up. Had the monster been chasing her? She couldn't tell. Only the sound of blood pumping through her veins was registered, being louder than any storm that she had ever heard. On top. She was on top of the incline. Pulling herself to its middle, the girl kept on the ledge, then turned around to see if the elk had pursued.
The sight of its twitching body caused her to start crying. Quiet yet heavy sobs rattled out from round and pallid lips. Cracks had spidered along the skin, with some lines more red than others. Balm was the only solution to fix their sorry state, though little time could be spent worrying about the taste of blood, when the darkness that surrounded the young girl was all-consuming. She had hurt a creature, but it hurt her, too. Was that how it worked? A knife for a sword? An eye for an eye? How could the world be so cruel, and how was she ever expected to have a part in it? What felt like hours must have only been thirty minutes in total, before something interrupted the silence that had a hundred thousand unblinking eyes. It started with a crash, then a loud series of footsteps. The child's eyes, although now swollen from her tears, could make out the glimpse of a large shape that must have been standing on two legs. Its eyes looked like burning pools of magma, with two tiny chunks of basalt making up the pupils. They flicked up and down, scanning the area for something. Someone. Eydís could allow herself a moment of relief, knowing those eyes better than most.
Hinrik had found her.
He rushed forward again after spotting the child, easily scaling the inclination that had become her zone of safety. While steam curled out of his lips and from both nostrils, he rasped with a soft noise, his baritone voice far warmer than the miserable shard of reality that had impaled the poor girl's heart. In a flash, strong arms wrapped around her frame, inviting an extra layer of security to the child's mind. Her cries quieted down, though she took full advantage of Hinrik's affection, leaning in to softly weep.
"Running off on us like that," wheezed the large man, his words slurred with amusement and anger. She knew that tone. Whenever he was scared of something hurting her, a wave of frustration often overshadowed the deep care that was given unconditionally. Hinrik had no children of his own. In fact, he was barely seen as a romantic companion of Anna, even though the two had shared some flirtatious moments. Anna believed in him enough to serve as a figure in Eydís' life, anyway. She never needed to ask about the history that always seemed to trouble him. Perhaps it was best identified in the quietest of times, where the child of Fury would sprawl out into the snow, staring up at the sky as if something was waiting there for him. Anna was not the pushy type, instead preferring to let people approach her at their own accord. There were only some issues with that method, at least with her and Hinrik's relationship. The latter formed his feelings into blacksteel cannonballs, which he shoved deep beneath his psyche, certain that nothing could unearth them. Hinrik had yet to learn how to handle his emotions with a different method, which left his relationship with Anna feeling incomplete.
Love was a fickle thing, and at times, one could only ever truly love a fraction of a person. If the other pieces were added in, then the person wouldn't look all that interesting anymore.
So, they went back and forth. Comfortable in each other's presence, but driven to madness if they ever slept under the same roof for too long. While it was a bond formed on a base that lacked complete stability, it had never shown itself as a danger to Eydís' well-being. If the two adults were sure of anything, then it was their love for the bearish child.
"The- there were fresh tracks," spluttered the child, who at least caught her breath while safe in Hinrik's arms. "I wanted to see it. To see if it was worth bringing home."
"To see it?" the large man repeated, exhaling into the air a puff of smoke. He readjusted his hold on the child, looking to keep her close to his chest while attempting to scale back down the rocky incline. It was not much of a challenge, given that his strength was often likened to a herd of reindeer. By the time they reached the cavern floor, his tongue clicked, allowing a second response. "Curiosity. That is what you are full of. When I was a boy, I terrorized my mother all the same. Likely why she had a heart attack so young."
Well. That was awkward. The child understood that much, reminded of Hinrik's sardonic humor. She kept her tongue still; her feet touching the ground after the man let her down. He had stopped the two of them before the elk's body. It had died at some point during the last half-hour, with a pool of thick blood collected underneath its head. It must have been an artery that Eydís hit with her claws. The girl could not look at it for too long, as her lungs constricted with frigid shame at the sight of the poor thing. She had forgotten about her own wounds collected by the great beast, yet if she was still standing, then they were not as fatal. Therefore, she suffered less. And, if she suffered less, she could feel no pain at all.
Hinrik took note of the girl's apprehension, glancing her over with those scathing eyes of his. He sighed, bringing up a wide hand to pluck at his graying beard. The man preferred to keep it trimmed, but allowed for his hair to reach past his shoulders. More often than not, Anna would tie it back into a simple braid for him. "You should not be holding this against yourself," he quietly rumbled, afraid to make the girl even more uncomfortable.
"But- it was alive. It was- I did not want to-" she fussed, her eyes glossing over with a fresh new coat of bitter saltwater.
"Child," Hinrik spoke, crouching down to meet her at eye-level. He put his hand out, resting it on one of her shoulders, "this is only the way of life. You have done nothing out of order. You must understand that this is the circle each of us lives in. Death is equally natural to life. Without one another, our lives would have no purpose."
"Why does it hurt, then? The acceptance of death?"
"Think of it like this. Why might a mother love her child? Why would we celebrate the marriage of however many? It is because of our hearts, my child. They are the drums that we beat against with each sensation that we experience. It is the gift given by the Gods: to feel. To live."
Eydís gave a soft exhale, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She nodded her head some, though she did not dare to believe herself as innocent. Her eyes moved back down to the dead elk, glancing over its thick hide. "It would be a waste to leave it here."
"Yes. You are right. If it is not taken home by us, then it might sit here and rot. It will have nobody to feed- to provide- if it is not handled by us. When we deal the hand of death, we clean up what comes after. Understand?"
"... yes. I do. I- yes," she nodded, then leaned down to grasp one of the elk's legs. The girl could not handle carrying it alone, but was still rather strong for her age. Hinrik sighed, then bent over, helping her with the rest of the body. He positioned his front over his own shoulder, so the girl would not have to get blood over her own self. Anna was outside of the cavern waiting for the two, forced to push down her immense sense of relief at the sight of their safety. She spotted the wounds that her child bore, keeping them in mind to deal with later. An additional set of hands reached out to keep up with the elk, although Anna clung close to her daughter, terrified of losing her again.
Then, the memory was over.
She looks over her own arm, cursed with a small smile that lit up her face. Brooding was the regular expression. These past few days, though, her cheeks had begun to hurt from the overwhelming warmth in her heart. Pink was her new favorite color. Pink clothes, pink sunsets, and pink bracelets. Perhaps Hinrik's body had never been found, but maybe that sign of pink, all-consuming, was worth giving it all up for.
One day.
