(no subject)
The fourth and final part of the Viking story is done.
Now, for those of you who care about my FFVI fic, this means I will finally be getting around to part four. For serious.
Anywho, it's be low the cut, skip if you want to, etc. etc.
The last three nights had been cold, far colder than any I remembered, and Asmund's body did nothing to keep me warm. I lay awake in our sleeping chamber, listening to the wind howling and the far distant thunder of Dettifoss' water. Save for the chill on this Heyannir night, all was right: the sun still shone, Asmund's horse was stabled, the children were sleeping and the thralls were in their homes. Save for my being awake, there was nothing that was beyond what one would expect. The mý buzzed about the hall and, in the sound of their wings, I thought I heard something - a voice I'd not heard in many years calling my name.
Sliding open the door to the sleeping chamber, I strained my ears and, again, I heard the voice. Putting on a cloak of furs Asmund had bartered from a Dane in Neskaupstaðir, I stepped out of the chamber and slid the door close behind me. The voice was still calling to me, from somewhere outside. Taking a knife from the dining table, I unlatched the door and stepped out into the light. I stopped, struck still by what was before me: a cloud of mý were swarming before the lake and from that swarm came the voice again.
"Hild."
It was his voice, even through the years and the buzzing of the mý I recognized it. I took a step away from it, retreating to the threshold of the hall, and shook my head. It couldn't be what it seemed.
"Hlid." Again that voice, carried on the buzzing of wings, came to me.
I felt the tears come to my eyes then and, as the first tears rolled down my cheek, the cloud of mý dispersed, and a glimmer of light caught my eye. I took a cautious step to it and saw, there on the ground near Mývatn's shores, a thin ring of silver, made poorly and clumsily enlarged to fit a man's finger, but I knew it immediately.
Taking the ring, I went back into the hall and latched the door behind me. My son stood at the entrance to his chamber, sleep in his eyes and his dark hair - so unlike mine or Asmunds - in his eyes. "Mother?" he asked quietly. "Was there a visitor?"
I shook my head and pointed to his chamber. "No, dear one," I said, "No visitor. Go back to bed."
He nodded and smiled as he slid the chamber door behind him. "Good night, mother."
"Rest well, Røgnvald," I whispered as I returned to my bed. "Rest well."
Now, for those of you who care about my FFVI fic, this means I will finally be getting around to part four. For serious.
Anywho, it's be low the cut, skip if you want to, etc. etc.
The last three nights had been cold, far colder than any I remembered, and Asmund's body did nothing to keep me warm. I lay awake in our sleeping chamber, listening to the wind howling and the far distant thunder of Dettifoss' water. Save for the chill on this Heyannir night, all was right: the sun still shone, Asmund's horse was stabled, the children were sleeping and the thralls were in their homes. Save for my being awake, there was nothing that was beyond what one would expect. The mý buzzed about the hall and, in the sound of their wings, I thought I heard something - a voice I'd not heard in many years calling my name.
Sliding open the door to the sleeping chamber, I strained my ears and, again, I heard the voice. Putting on a cloak of furs Asmund had bartered from a Dane in Neskaupstaðir, I stepped out of the chamber and slid the door close behind me. The voice was still calling to me, from somewhere outside. Taking a knife from the dining table, I unlatched the door and stepped out into the light. I stopped, struck still by what was before me: a cloud of mý were swarming before the lake and from that swarm came the voice again.
"Hild."
It was his voice, even through the years and the buzzing of the mý I recognized it. I took a step away from it, retreating to the threshold of the hall, and shook my head. It couldn't be what it seemed.
"Hlid." Again that voice, carried on the buzzing of wings, came to me.
I felt the tears come to my eyes then and, as the first tears rolled down my cheek, the cloud of mý dispersed, and a glimmer of light caught my eye. I took a cautious step to it and saw, there on the ground near Mývatn's shores, a thin ring of silver, made poorly and clumsily enlarged to fit a man's finger, but I knew it immediately.
Taking the ring, I went back into the hall and latched the door behind me. My son stood at the entrance to his chamber, sleep in his eyes and his dark hair - so unlike mine or Asmunds - in his eyes. "Mother?" he asked quietly. "Was there a visitor?"
I shook my head and pointed to his chamber. "No, dear one," I said, "No visitor. Go back to bed."
He nodded and smiled as he slid the chamber door behind him. "Good night, mother."
"Rest well, Røgnvald," I whispered as I returned to my bed. "Rest well."