[Supernatural][R][Liminality] Tales

[luorescence]

Full notes on the Masterpost
Note: also on AO3 and ff.net. A world-building post about the Kingdom just here.

Warnings: None, well a kind of wtf-ish situation at first.
Word count: 4,451
Summary: The party arrives at Heidarthorp at last, a welcomed pause where they will be able to eat and drink a little. Now, why is a giant pissing in the well in the middle of the main square?

Disclaimer: Everything that's not angel is mine, the rest obviously isn't. Oh, and the translation from Evening Harmony is mine too.



Readers, friends, if you turn these pages
Put your prejudice aside,
For, really, there's nothing here that's outrageous,
Nothing sick, or bad - or contagious.
- Gargantua and Pantagruel, François Rabelais

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They were approaching Heidarthorp at a steady trot, eager to tale a small pause in their ride to eat, drink and move their sore limbs. Their chatter stopped when the wall appeared in the distance though, tension filling the air. It was so tall the tip of his head, a white bush of spiky hair, was over the high stone fortification, making it visible from the distance.

Róta didn’t have to make a sign, nor deliver an order: she was already drawing her spear and shield out from the harness maintaining them fixed on her back. Next to her, Arnulfr had unsheathed his bow and the boys were doing the same with their own weapons.

They could have charged through the open gates, taking the creature by surprise. The veidimadr and her would surely have done that if it weren’t for the valkyrie módir, who made them slow down. She spoke a few words with one of the guards, all them unharmed if nervous about the colosse down the road, in the middle of the town’s main square.

Arnulfr was drawing the string of his bow back, aiming at the creature, ready to shoot on order. Kára’s grip on her weapons tightened and she braced herself for an incoming battle. However, Róta didn’t order them to attack; she simply lifted a hand in a peace gesture.

“Oh dear! Look at him!” She was grinning from ear to ear, not even trying to suppress chuckles as they advanced on the path, the sides packed with townspeople staring at the creature.

It was Kára’s first encounter with a brunnmigi. The most noticeable thing about it was how human it-him?-ooked. Its brows were thick and hairy and cheekbones high. A shaggy beard ran along its chin, as white as its hair reunited in a long braid in his back, with strands sticking everywhere, as if they were too savage to be tamed into a neat coiffure.

Apart from its gigantic height, the fangs she could see between its parted lips had nothing human. She couldn’t estimate its age because of the wrinkles of its leather-like skin of a reddish brown; not young but how old? With brunnmigi, it was impossible to say. It could have been anything from thirty to hundreds winters.

Róta wasn’t referring to his appearance, Kára figured, when she noticed what the giant was doing.

She struggled to keep her face serious. The creature was singing a popular local tavern song with lewd lyrics-An’ the damsel had it harde’ n’harde’, had it comin’n’cumin-so loud and so out-of-tune Kára suspected it was doing that on purpose. While she cringed her teeth to the insufferable bawdy ballad, she couldn’t help to marvel at its perfect Norse.

Also, joyously swinging to the melody’s rhythm on his feet, he was pissing in the village’s large well.

When they stopped, a couple dozen feet from him, he turned small steel grey eyes on them, brows making a pointy triangle as he furrowed them. The Allfather be blessed, he stopped singing. The horses whined when he lifted a large hand, and Kára readied herself to counterattack if needed. She didn’t though; at her side, Róta hadn’t moved, a large grin on her face and deep wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, sparkling with amusement. It simply scratched its large flat nose, then its chin. Kára forced her muscles to relax.

“I know these blazons, am I in trouble? What I’m saying? Valkyries and veidimadr. Of course I’m in trouble. Please your bow and weapons make me uneasy, would you aim it elsewhere? I’m not hurting anyone.”

Its spoken Norse was as neat as well, although extremely fast as it wasn’t taking time to breath. A word from Róta and Kára like the boys were sheathing their weapons. It seemed friendly enough, if a little weird, but she didn’t know what to expect of a brunnmigi. At least, it hadn’t tried to assault them, and that was a fairly good point for him.

Except for Arnulfr unsurprisingly, who was neither amused nor impressed. His body was tense, deep blue eyes cold and his mouth a thin line when he snarled, “You’re pissing in a well, brunnmigi.”

“Hárbjarg, not ‘brunnmigi’,” i- he corrected with a grunt. He had a name and so far had been civil, there was no reason not to treat him as a fellow overgrown human. “I’m not pissing in that well for the fun of it, you know. This is peaceful and friendly retaliation. I even payed for my share of mead of make myself piss like a fountain.”

Hárbjarg pointed a load of barrels. Perched on its top like she was a queen, was a familiar young Nord, dark strands of dark hair escaping from the scarf around her head, a isolent cheeky grin and laughing clear eyes. “He did!” Thyra exclaimed, her intonations similar to her older brother’s. Agmundr would be disappointed when he would learn they had stopped by his hometown.

Her intervention didn’t made Arnulfr bulge though, and the brunnmigi lowly growled, not tearing his eyes from the veidimadr’s. After a while, he shrugged, put his pants back. He wiped his hands on the cloth before smoothing the wild locks on the top of his head. That was gross. She heard the badly stifled laughs of the youngest ones behind her, as well as Thyra’s chuckles.

“Okay, look, valkyries, veidimadr. You Nords, it’s all your fault to begin with! You’re messing with my territory and hunting grounds: the animals are going crazy and some even became poisonous to my people! Made me and my family sick!”

“Why would that be our fault? The High King’s law decrees that humans must not attack pacific vættir. Humans didn’t attack you, did they?”

“Thick-headed veidimadr,” Hárbjarg grumbled. “Of course they didn’t attack me. Not that humans’ puny weapons could do me much damage anyway. And no!” He ostensibly rolled his eyes, looking fairly amused before he explained himself further, “No living humans attacked us. Your godforsaken undead did. Draugar are messing with my belongings. Your undead, your responsibility, your fault, me pissing in your well for a pacific revenge because I’m not fond of hurting people, I’m not a monster. And I couldn’t let such an affront just go unanswered like it was nothing, could I? My family was hurt!”

Kára asked herself if all brunnmigi had that kind of warped logic or if it was a trait unique to Hárbjarg. Not that she couldn’t see where that was coming from. Anybody would be angry to see their lands and possessions spoilt by enemies. And since draugar had been humans before their afterlife transformation, blaming the Nords must have been natural for the giant. At least, like he had said, his vengeance was quite peaceful for one such as a brunnmigi. The villagers wouldn’t be able to gather water from the well before it was purified, but there was plenty of waterways in the forest. Moreover no one had been harmed so far.

“I am very sorry to hear that, Hárbjarg,” Róta said softly. “Arnulfr, sheath your weapons.”

He frowned, obviously not happy but obeyed nonetheless: nobody defied a valkyrie’s orders, even ones as respected as veidimadar. Róta reached for him, patting his shoulder to reassure him. She turned to the boys then.

“Rik and Myr, go to the Gold Leave with Thyra,” she continued, pointing the large tavern on the other side of the village square, its bright red walls a contrast to the brown buildings around. People had gathered at the entrance of the building, watching them intently. “Thyra, tell your father I want three barrels of his finest ale, and ask him to take them here.” When the boys dismounted, she tossed Adalrikr a small purse.

After the younglings departed, Róta’s attention was back on the brunnmigi, smiling at him. “Speaking is always better with a good home-brewed ale. Heidarthorp’s is amongst the finest I’ve ever tasted. And trust my words, I tasted a lot.”

“I know. I just drank three barrels, remember?” He laughed loudly. “And I know about valkyries too. ‘The females that never stops’, my people call your kind. Anyway, you seem great for a human, valkyrie. I think I like you,” Hárbjarg said with a large childish grin from ear to ear, a little worrisome because it barred the brunnmigi’s fangs. He was about to add something, but stopped right in his track, mouth left open. Then, he scratched his chin. “Erm… I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Róta Áleifsdóttir. My sister here, is Kára Heimkelsdóttir and the veidimadr is Arnulfr’s Eisson, her husband’s cousin.”

“A valkyrie with such bright carrot-like hair could only be of the Himinsfall clan,” he said with a nod, eyes never leaving her for a while. Sensing her unease, Logior snorted. Eventually, he passed to Arnulfr who tensed. “A pup of a valkyrie who becomes a veidimadr.” His chuckles were low rumbles. “How unoriginal.” Finally, he crouched until his eyes were at her friend’s level. “And you, Róta-valkyrie. I remember you. You brilliant human. The pup that fought in the Battle of Loptbord.”

There was something disturbingly human in Hárbjarg’s fair eyes. This was a look that had seen grief and sorrow, horrors that couldn’t be described. The kind that the survivors of the Battle of Loptbord bore.

“You were there,” Róta muttered, her right fist over her heart. Then, her hand flew to her braid and Kára heard her whisper prayers. Next, she was stretching her arm to him, a sweet smile on her face. “It’s an honor to meet you, Hárbjarg. May the Allfather bless you.”

Hárbjarg engulfed the offered hand in his own, slowly kneeled; bent until his head was on the ground as if he was a Nord saluting their High Queen. There was a solemn silence that seemed to last forever. A moment where even though her smile didn’t falter, Róta’s expression were nothing but affliction.

“The honor is all mine, valkyrie módir.”

Loud chatters and laughters broke the moment, as Myr, Adalrikr and Thyra came out of the Gold Leave, bringing food and drink for all of them. Hárbjarg let go of Róta’s hand to sat on the ground, the small of his back against the well and even with that, his head higher than theirs on their mounts.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, gladness on his visage like nothing had happened. He let out a satisfied grunt while staring at the men who were transporting barrels from the tavern to them. “It’s better when I don’t have to bend in half to see your tiny human heads. Are the pups yours, valkyries?”

“The blond one is Adalrikr, Arnulfr’s liege and cousin, veidimadr in training. The one with the bow is Myr, a thrall whose family served the Himinsfall clan’s for four generations with him. His children will be born free clansmen,” Róta answered with a smile as the boys distributed horns to everyone, after what they mounted back.

Hárbjarg must have been pleased, because he turned to the boys with a large grin showing all his teeth. “Hey, pups, do you like stories? Because I like them: good stories with good ale. There’s not much better.”

“What’s the story about?”

Kára rolled her eyes at Adalrikr’s words. Obviously the young man would be excited about that. Every time he could, he would always be where the skalds were, attentive and eager to learn more about the stories they told. A precious trait for veidimadar though, as it was one of the means to hear about harmful supernatural beings that ought to be hunted. The valkyrie herself was curious about what sort of tales a brunnmigi could tell.

“War,” Hárbjarg replied with a large grin, glancing at Róta. “War and history. These are the best in my mind and even if I’m nothing like a skald, good stories are still goods. My words won’t change that. So now, pups, get confortable on your horses, this might be long.”

A few townspeople courageous enough to approach the giant took place around them, seating on empty barrels, or even the ground for some children. Hárbjarg let them settle before taking a long breath.

“You might’ve heard about brunnmigjar’s longevity. Know that it’s true. Like the alfar, my people live much much much longer than you Nords. I’m Hárbjarg, I’m a brunnmigi born in the Skyvollr Moutains, and I was still a pup, not much older than the pups here when this story began.

“Back then, there’re still thirty holds. The High King, like the others before him was the jarl of Winternid. You might’ve heard about him, Vébjörn called the Great for he had conquered lands from the Southern countries, the hold we called Sumardetta now. The High King had a sworn brother, Tyrfingr Strong-Arm of Himinsfall. Yes, your jarl’s grandfather himself.

“As you know, Winternid and Himinsfall are amongst the oldest holds of the Kingdom. Amongst the holds that never changed name since the Kingdom’s creation and whose rulers still are blessed by the Æsir themselves. And Winternid and Himinsfall have always been under the protection of the mightiest Ás, Odin himself. That’s why the Winternid era was so long: Nords always loved to bow in front of a god-chosen leader.

“The other main character from my story, even you pups, must know him. He was the jarl of Sólkell, a hold as ancient and powerful as Winternid and Himinsfall, also under the protection of an Ás, Odin’s sworn brother, Loki. Sökkólfr, the most powerful godi the Kingdom had ever birthed. Sökkólfr the Wise, we called him, whose galdrar were so strong it’s said he’d made a deal with Loki himself to obtain it. His name was as feared and as respected as the Great and Strong-Arm.

“Vébjörn the Great was sick, you see, and pupless. So when he eventually died, like everyone thought, he designated Tyrfingr Strong-Arm as he successor. But, as per Nord law, Sökkólfr the Wise defied him for the throne, and they set up a duel. All the Wise lacked in strength, he had in seidr. All Strong-Arm lacked in seidr, he had in strength. And there’s no winner, both incapable to defeat the other one.

“And, everyone, that was how it began. On one hand, Strong-Arm lost a lot of esteem from his peers. Part of the Nords no longer regarded him as the rightful High King since he hadn’t been able to win. On the other hand, the Wise gained many followers for having kept his ground against a mighty warrior blessed by Odin.

“Year after year, slowly, starting from little skirmishes to big battles later, the Kingdom broke into a full-scaled civil war with equal supporters to both pretenders. During that time when I wasn’t a pup anymore, but the full-grow adult I’m still am, many ancient clans fell, their bloodlines and holds were absorbed into others. The Kingdom was growing weaker and weaker because it had lost his unity.

“After thirty long years, Tyrfingr Strong-Arm and Sökkólfr the Wise decided it was time to finish their quarrel. For their battle, with the blessing of their respective Ás, they chose Ásglamdyrr, the hold that never belonged to anyone but the Æsir, where no other holds would be damaged. A sacred ground for a sacred battle!

“That was forty years ago and Strong-Arm had already begun to grow old, whereas the Wise’s seidr had only grown with his age. It was also the winter Himinsfall jarl’s pup, Heimkell turned a man by Nord traditions. He lost his father that same day, at Sökkólfr the Wise’s hands. On his father’s deathbed, Heimkell swore an oath to reconquer his clan’s lost honor and take revenge against Sólkell jarl. He didn’t act on the spot though, as Heimkell was far from an idiot. He was only sixteen and inexperienced where Sökkólfr was more than thrice his age and an exceptional godi. His own people were grieving too, destabilized by their jarl’s death. He clearly wasn’t ready, yet.

“So to keep his clanshold, Heimkell bowed to Sökkólfr. And years passed in a relative peace. Heimkell used that time to discreetly maintain and gather allies. When he eventually marched all the way to Sólkell, his army was bigger than everything that was seen before. They stopped at the gates of Loptbord, the Kingdom’s capital at the time, at the heart of Sólkell. That was the great Battle of Loptbord, twenty years ago.

“To protect his people and defend his city, the now-old jarl of Sólkell asked for Loki’s help. And the mischievous Ás answered his favorite’s prayers, casting the Midgard Serpent on Heimkell and his men in exchange for the Wise’s soul. I remember when hundreds men died with only one movement of his tail. I remember running away from him, panicking as I saw his head emerging from the water on the coast, with fangs that could pierce even brunnmigjar’s skin. There weren’t the proudest moments in my life, but I didn’t want to die and there’s no way one hit of the beast would’ve left me unharmed.

“That’s a chaotic battle, because it wasn’t only Nords, but also vættir. As Sökkólfr the Wise was no more, his clansmen were lost and confused. And Loki-as he always does-had deceived them since his damned son would kill Sólkell clansmen and Heimkell’s without discriminating. When Heimkell announced he welcomed any warrior willing to battle against the monster, since he’d no quarrel with them now that Sökkólfr the Wise was dead, it grew even more confusing.

“There were much more dead than anytime before, even more than the already deadly Ásglamdyrr Battle. No one seemed to know who they were fighting against anymore. Civil inhabitants of Loptbord were caught in it too, mates like pups. Even now, I still dream about the streets so full of corpses we couldn’t do anything than stepping on it. Many of us were starting to lose hope and there were lots of deserters.

“But then, Heimkell found the solution. Heimkell ordered his sorcerers to invoke Jörmungandr’s arch enemy, Thor. I still see him offering his own soul to him, as a sacrifice for the Ás to grant his wish to battle at his army’s side against the serpent. Heimkell’s generals also offered theirs, for Thor to take Loki away with him, to stop him for causing more troubles after the battle.

“That’s how, Heimkell gained his title Oath-keeper and to honor his sacrifice, the jarls left bowed to the one he’d designed as his successor and battle companion, his eldest pup, Líkreifr, our current High King.” Hárbjarg concluded, emptying his third barrel, long after everyone had finished their ale, “And that’s it. It’s how peace was achieved, pups, in the blood and of the bones of thousands Nords, because of the Æsir.”

There was sounds of claps all around them; people had slowly gathered around during the story, curious to listen to what the brunnmigi had to tell. Kára had to recognize that while Hárbjarg wasn’t really a good story-teller, even less a skald, his tale had been compelling enough to make her want to hear it through the end; she knew for a fact that the end of the story was true. She had heard that part so many times since her childhood: the glorious sacrifice of her father and his mates leading to a golden era the Kingdom hadn’t seen in ages.

Next to her, Róta was munching on her inferior lips, the rest of her face still and her eyes unfocused, slightly wet. Not for the first time, Kára asked herself how horrible the battle had been to make her friend that contemplative and sad. And Róta wasn’t the only one scarred. In a way or another, every survivors she knew first-hand had some issues. Reifr hadn’t been able to look at their parents’ portraits since then, pictures that their grandmother would always gaze upon, like it would give them back to her. And Skuld too: the valkyrie had taken refuge in alcohol, an unhealthy addiction so hard to shake off that even being effective in her duties hadn’t been enough. She only had found the will to stop when she had found out-four years later-she was pregnant with Adalrikr.

Said boy was currently chatting with Myr, making large gestures in the air. Both of them enthusiastic about how cool it must have been to meet and battle against the Midgard Serpent, at the side of the Allfather’s son nonetheless. Typical of them. Meanwhile, Arnulfr didn’t seem affected, his eyes fixed on the arrowhead he was sharpening with a dagger. His strokes were a little to harsh for him to be in his normal state of his mind though. Moreover, Kàra had spent enough time with him to know that he never squinted so much when taking care of his weapons.

“That’s an interesting story you told, brunnmigi.” A man stepped out of the crowd, a crooked smile that seemed a little wicked on his face. “So, you were in the Battle of Loptbord. Might I ask why one of your kind engaged in some petty human fight?”

Kára studied him as the stranger stood next to Hárbjarg, head high and proud and seemingly unimpressed by the giant. In fact his confidence reminding Kára of Reifr when he was the High King more than her brother, confident and arrogant like only the most important persons were. The ones who knew they stood higher than others. This one though, she was sure he wasn’t a jarl nor a godi, and didn’t remember seeing him in pictures. It intrigued her.

Hárbjarg bent to try to met the mystery Nord’s eyes. “You are an ignorant thick-headed Nord. I was born here, I grew up here, I will die here. Himinsfall is my home as much as it’s yours, Nord, so tell me why I wouldn’t fight for it? If you think my birth race has anything to do with how I feel for these lands, think again. Never assume humans are the only ones who care about that kind of things,” he growled lowly between barred teeth, defending his honor like a Nord. That made Kára appreciate the brunnmigi a lot more.

The crowd around him went silent, and some people stepped away, scarred by his aggressive tone, like he was menacing all of them and not just the mystery Nord, whom he was glowering at. That one however, was unfazed. He only shot a brow high in a mocking expression.

“Why are you mocking me, Nord? Did you think all of my kind were some savage beasts incapable of rational thinking? We are not. And I’m not some stupid animal, I have a name so use it. It’s Hárbjarg, not brunnmigi.”

“I meant absolutely no offense, my dear Hárbjarg.” Though the man put his hands in the air in defeat, the amusement was clear in his voice. “If you feel that way, please accept my most sincere apologies.”

The giant just shook his head, all belligerence absent when he answered, “No, no, don’t mind. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m used to it.” He shrugged and passed a hand in his hair. The next instant he was waving an index at Róta, like he had already forgotten about the man. “So, Róta-valkyrie, I remember you saying something about speaking earlier and I’ve been the only one to do so until now. Not that it’s your fault, but well, what did you want to talk about?”

Róta’s eyes lit when she replied and Kára lost interest in the conversation as soon as the valkyrie inquired about Hárbjarg’s family. She already knew where that was heading as her friend never had been of the unpredictable ones. She would ask him to join them if he could afford it: on their whole company, they were five against an unknown-they wouldn’t know exactly before reaching Angradr-number of draugar. It was certain there would be plenty of them to dispose of.

Brunnmigjar were the less tall race of giants, less sturdy and less powerful-in terms of giants anyway-but compensated by their speed and agility according to the documentations veidimadar had gathered. She didn’t know how much it was true-somehow, she was afraid to know how tall were the other giants and couldn’t really picture one-but she also knew it would be foolish to refuse his help if he was offering it. Anyway, Róta wouldn’t let that occasion pass, even if she could see from here Arnulfr’s disapproving scowl as he took another arrow from his quiver.

“Lady valkyrie,” the rude man said with a grating voice that caught her attention. He was staring at her left spaulder, its steel emblazoned with Himinsfall’s crest. It was the side view of a wolf and a fox looking at opposite directions. They were separated by the Allfather’s holy lance, Gungnir that stood in the middle of the crest. Like all valkyries, a raven with its wings spread out was on the bottom.

His eyes went up-he was shorter than her, but then, she was a very tall woman-to meet hers. Kára held back a surprised noise. It was the first time she saw that color in someone’s eyes. It reminded her of the torchlit hydromel drunk in taverns, shifting hues of a brownish gold. Here and there, she could also see speckles of an asparagus green. It was a peculiar mix, strange but beautiful, fitting perfectly with his light brown hair with blond highlights. The afternoon sunlight gave it a golden tone, like he had a halo around his head.

“Are you lot in some sort of quest?”

He punctuated his question by a wriggling of his eyebrows. Kára rolled her eyes at his silly action. Did he thought she was some young damsel waiting to be swooned by a some handsome traveller?

“Yes. The five of us are on a hunt. There have been a worrisome number of draugar attacks since last year. We’re hunting a large group of them and they’re going to the East, so are we.”

“Well, what a coincidence, I’m also travelling that way,” he answered with a charming smile. Kára stopped herself to openly laugh at the stranger. “By the way, I’m called Dolos Gaiuson.” He was definitely not a pureblood Nord, although he could have passed for one with his perfect Norse if not for his peculiar eye color. “My great-great-grandmother was a thrall from the Southern lands. It’s a tradition to give my bloodline a name from her natal hold,” he added after a while, caressing his beard. “It could have been so much worse.”

“Do you speak her language? What does your name mean?” Kára had to say the man’s origins had awaken her curiosity. The Southern lands had never been more than stories in books and songs for her, beyond the Kingdom’s borders, thus her reach. She had never thought she would even meet someone of Southern descent. That made Dolos-what a really weird name, she couldn’t even begin to guess what signification it had, maybe his eye color?- quite interesting. Now if he could stop with the stupid flirting, that would be better.

“Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just a meaningless name. And to answer your first question, I speak a lot of languages,” he announced proudly, winking at her. Behind her, she heard Myr and Adalrikr’s very badly repressed chuckles. “I’m a skald.” When he put a hand on Logior’s neck, the stallion snorted, making Kára mentally laugh. “So, Lady valkyrie, what can be your name? I’m sure that unlike mine, it’s quite lovely.”

“I’m Kára, daughter of Heimkell of the Himinsfall clan. You, skald.” She refused to use his name. Partly because she knew she wouldn’t pronounced it the way he did, mainly also because he was getting on her nerves. “Are one of the lamest person I’ve never seen,” she scoffed.

“That’s what ladies tell,” he replied back, a large grin eating half of his face. “But they like me that way,” he added his voice nothing but innuendo and on his face, the smoky leer of the seducers used to obtain what they wanted.

Kára could only roll her eyes, once again.