Ad Astra - 2nd Chapter: A Promise for a Future.
Title: A Promise for a Future.
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Iceland
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: Where did the floating worlds come from? Where indeed.
A Promise for a Future
With a final red glance at the Sky it would now leave behind the sun went down. The second night after the end of the world called Gimli began. They had decided to tuck in for the night and most of the children were already sleeping. Amazing how the children had changed: strangely docile in manners, no running around and very little by the way of temper tantrums, the good behaviour of the children was an eerie reminder of both that what has passed and that what still lie ahead.
It was unusual for women and children to travel on longboats but it was not unheard of. It was therefore to be taken for granted that everyone knew the code on board. No heightened emotions were allowed, especially not the negative kind. No dishonourable acts could come into being, and if someone portrayed even a hint of those they would be quickly and mercilessly suppressed. If the problem seemed to be of incurable kind, they would also be unceremoniously disposed of. This happened most often to people with severe mental issues, people whose fever made them rage and those who tried to cause a riot for their own personal gain. It sounded as harsh and cold as it was, and unfair as well when it was applied to people with little to no control of themselves, but it was necessary for the survival of the rest. Side voyages on longboats were never safe and trouble free, and not a single unnecessary risk could be taken. More than ever, now was not the time for tolerating others disruptive behaviour, and everyone was keenly aware of this.
Iceland rubbed his ankles. The straps were beginning to wear them raw and he was happy to have another scout around to shoulder half of the task. He lied on his back inside the sleeping tent, listening with half an ear what the people around were talking about. A man was discussing suitable last rites for someone who had died: he and his companion, his wife, were both gloomy but seemed oddly free of other emotions. Nearby a mother was telling a warning story to her sniffling child about how crying on board would fill the bottom with tears and sink it instantly.
Iceland knew all those stories. He had heard them so many times over the years. He let his heavy lids close and in a moment Iceland was asleep.
Once upon a time things had been different, or perhaps it was once upon another world. It was so far in the past that Iceland no longer remembered any of it, the past was as lost and forgotten as the contents of his library now. Yet it sometimes visited him at nights, leaving him feeling blurry and jumpy for the next day. You see, once upon a time Iceland had had people no one else had known.
They had not existed when the first boats arrived on his shores, sailing with much less speed than he was now used to, and all without scouts. The cloud layer below them looked unusually wet in his dreams, almost solid, the ships floated on it as if they could never sink in it and watching them rock on top of that endlessly grayish blue layer soothed him. On those boats were but humans. The people that made nations. What other people there were were those that did not nations make, rather existed within them whilst avoiding contact. Trolls, fae, landvættir.
Years went by and Iceland grew older, poorer, ill at health and heart. His people hardly survived a year after a year: it was a miracle to see them emerge every spring after the long cold that had laid upon them, the cold that no one on Gimli had ever experienced. There was nothing Iceland could do for them despite being their - ship höfðingi? Scout? No, there had to be a better word for it but not even in his dreaming could Iceland remember what exactly had been his position that he had been called to. All he knew was that his people had relied on him so, so very much.
He had not fulfilled his task very well, no matter what it had been. A leader's responsibility was to keep his crew at its best possible health, and what had he managed to do, he who could barely keep a handful of his people alive at a time! Iceland heaved a long sigh in his sleep and turned to his side, curling up against the chill of the night air. The only thing he could do back then was to dream. Dream of a better world where the people had everything they needed and more, a world where people wanted nothing. People who were more beautiful, healthier, happier, people who had enough time to appreciate the beauty around them before death took them. And so, little by little, Iceland's dreams called these people into existence.
Yes, they had been magnificent. Tall, beautiful race clad in the richest blue, owning cattle that could feed them so well they never grew bone thin and pale like humans, so long-living and capable that they only perished out of ennui. He had helped them hide from humans whom they despised and had turned a blind eye to their attacks on the more or less helpless humanfolk, only stepping in if the violence threatened to blossom out into an all-consuming war.
But the humans proved not to be weak. It should not have been a surprise either that his people who clung to life tooth and nail could stand against adversary many times stronger than they were, eventually succeeding in causing so much havoc among the attackers that they hid themselves even better, vowing to never come across the hated human race no matter what.
As time went by the resolve of the hidden people strengthened by every near brush with humans that they had. Their reactions became volatile and out of proportion, and Iceland's heart swayed away from the hidden people that he had once loved with so much passion, and turned instead to the ugly, short-living humans' side. Building where he could, using every measure he had, he had finally succeeded in elevating humans onto the same level as his fair folk had once been: longer in life, healthy, rich, capable of getting anything their hearts desired, with enough time left over from the daily struggle that they could turn their eyes outside of it and admire the life they lead. It was then when Iceland realized to his greatest surprise that humans did not change. Despite their difficulties and trouble they had always been fully capable of seeing beauty not only in things that were admirable but also in things that were dangerous, horrifying, downright evil even; humans could look at their very own demise with a smile on their face.
Humans thought the hidden people were beautiful. They did not care that the fair ones had everything better than they did. They were vary around the hidden, knowing how easily they flew into a murderous rage. They tried their best to get by with them even when they killed humans by dozens, even then humans looked at the hidden ones and agreed without a speck of jealousy that they were beautiful, lovelier by far than any human could ever be.
Iceland had slowly began to trust humans instead of the fair ones. In time he began to forget that the hidden existed at all. They became features of myths and legends and once Ragnarök arrived he forgot to tell them, forgot to save them along with his humans, did not take them with him to Gimli. Far as he knew they were all dead now. Gone were their majestic houses, their art and their beauty. Gone, all their achievements, up in flames. They had died on the old world with tears of betrayal and words of anger, curses and vows of revenge. This was what Iceland had forgotten but not well enough, and this was what his thoughts turned to after his consciousness drifted away and into sleep in the evenings. The eternal guilt of not being capable of loving his own children, no matter how much better they were than the stranger ones living upon him.
Iceland sat up so quickly that for a moment he did not realize he had just woken up to something and stared into nothingness for a long time without moving. The ship around him was silent and dark, the sleeping tent full of people living through various kinds of dreams. He rubbed his eyes and watched them. Some were having nightmares, that was to be expected: they trashed in their sleep, sweating and frightened. Others were smiling and peaceful, perhaps reliving some happy memory or just entertained by some inexplicable sight in their dreaming. Most were in the deep stage of sleep, however, where no pictures of any kind could enter their mind.
He stretched his legs and decided to take a small walk. He let his footsteps fall carefully among the sleeping, trying to not disturb them on his way past them.
Outside the night air was already cold. Iceland wrapped his cloak tighter around his body, walking a bit faster to get the blood flowing in his legs. A sound by the side of the boat caught his attention. A small bundle of cloth - a child with a blanket around it, he corrected himself - was leaning against the side of the ship. He knelt down next to the child, noticing it was the same little girl whose mother had warned her against crying earlier on, realizing immediately what she had been up to. Standing there with her head hanging over the side she was carefully letting her tears fall into the space beyond so as to not, as she understood it in her child's mind, cause the whole ship to sink.
Iceland leaned his head against his palm, thinking for the first time how cruel the rules of being on board were in an unexpected situation like this. Patting the girl on the back he carefully pulled her onto the ship - her buckles were on but there was no point in risking her falling over just the same - and spoke to her quietly, drying her face with the hem of his cloak. She was perhaps about four years old, and, Iceland noticed with a pang of alarm, quite unusual-looking. Her hair was deep red in colour and hung all the way to her ankles and her eyes were so dark brown they were almost black. Her features were graceful beyond her years and bore a promise of greatness for the future to come. Something about the dream he had just had flashed in front of Iceland's eyes for a split second. He had dreamed about beauty and something that related to it, but in another moment the dream was gone again.
Iceland rubbed his eyes, willing the dream to return but it would not. Then he looked at the girl again and saw her hurriedly wipe off more tears that she seemed unable to hold back. He was a little bit at loss with words. Iceland had never been good at talking to little children, especially little girls, and therefore the words of comfort were so jumbled up within his mind that what came out of his mouth was:
“Hey, want to go see the night Sky with me?”
She looked at him with big eyes. This was not something a child would be easily allowed, and her whole face lit up at the thought. She nodded. Yes, she wh-wanted to s-see that. But sh-should she not thel-tell her auntie first?
Iceland assured her they'd only be gone for a small while, it was better to not wake anyone up. He attached the girl's buckles to his own and then bent down to wear the scout straps again. They stung a little on the areas where his skin had worn red and sore but he ignored it. Climbing on the dragon's head he asked the girl whether she was afraid, but she shook her head vigorously, almost too eager to go. He tilted his head back, told her to hold onto him tightly while he leaped since he'd need both his arms to steady himself midair. After that, once his position was secure, he could grab onto her again, so if she fell she'd have to wait calmly for that moment - was that clear?
The girl was almost bouncing of excitement. Yes it was. To further prove how well she understood she grabbed at his shoulder buckles with all her might. Iceland smiled, raised his arms to his sides and jumped.
3rd Chapter: On Heavy Shoulders.
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Iceland
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: Where did the floating worlds come from? Where indeed.
A Promise for a Future
With a final red glance at the Sky it would now leave behind the sun went down. The second night after the end of the world called Gimli began. They had decided to tuck in for the night and most of the children were already sleeping. Amazing how the children had changed: strangely docile in manners, no running around and very little by the way of temper tantrums, the good behaviour of the children was an eerie reminder of both that what has passed and that what still lie ahead.
It was unusual for women and children to travel on longboats but it was not unheard of. It was therefore to be taken for granted that everyone knew the code on board. No heightened emotions were allowed, especially not the negative kind. No dishonourable acts could come into being, and if someone portrayed even a hint of those they would be quickly and mercilessly suppressed. If the problem seemed to be of incurable kind, they would also be unceremoniously disposed of. This happened most often to people with severe mental issues, people whose fever made them rage and those who tried to cause a riot for their own personal gain. It sounded as harsh and cold as it was, and unfair as well when it was applied to people with little to no control of themselves, but it was necessary for the survival of the rest. Side voyages on longboats were never safe and trouble free, and not a single unnecessary risk could be taken. More than ever, now was not the time for tolerating others disruptive behaviour, and everyone was keenly aware of this.
Iceland rubbed his ankles. The straps were beginning to wear them raw and he was happy to have another scout around to shoulder half of the task. He lied on his back inside the sleeping tent, listening with half an ear what the people around were talking about. A man was discussing suitable last rites for someone who had died: he and his companion, his wife, were both gloomy but seemed oddly free of other emotions. Nearby a mother was telling a warning story to her sniffling child about how crying on board would fill the bottom with tears and sink it instantly.
Iceland knew all those stories. He had heard them so many times over the years. He let his heavy lids close and in a moment Iceland was asleep.
Once upon a time things had been different, or perhaps it was once upon another world. It was so far in the past that Iceland no longer remembered any of it, the past was as lost and forgotten as the contents of his library now. Yet it sometimes visited him at nights, leaving him feeling blurry and jumpy for the next day. You see, once upon a time Iceland had had people no one else had known.
They had not existed when the first boats arrived on his shores, sailing with much less speed than he was now used to, and all without scouts. The cloud layer below them looked unusually wet in his dreams, almost solid, the ships floated on it as if they could never sink in it and watching them rock on top of that endlessly grayish blue layer soothed him. On those boats were but humans. The people that made nations. What other people there were were those that did not nations make, rather existed within them whilst avoiding contact. Trolls, fae, landvættir.
Years went by and Iceland grew older, poorer, ill at health and heart. His people hardly survived a year after a year: it was a miracle to see them emerge every spring after the long cold that had laid upon them, the cold that no one on Gimli had ever experienced. There was nothing Iceland could do for them despite being their - ship höfðingi? Scout? No, there had to be a better word for it but not even in his dreaming could Iceland remember what exactly had been his position that he had been called to. All he knew was that his people had relied on him so, so very much.
He had not fulfilled his task very well, no matter what it had been. A leader's responsibility was to keep his crew at its best possible health, and what had he managed to do, he who could barely keep a handful of his people alive at a time! Iceland heaved a long sigh in his sleep and turned to his side, curling up against the chill of the night air. The only thing he could do back then was to dream. Dream of a better world where the people had everything they needed and more, a world where people wanted nothing. People who were more beautiful, healthier, happier, people who had enough time to appreciate the beauty around them before death took them. And so, little by little, Iceland's dreams called these people into existence.
Yes, they had been magnificent. Tall, beautiful race clad in the richest blue, owning cattle that could feed them so well they never grew bone thin and pale like humans, so long-living and capable that they only perished out of ennui. He had helped them hide from humans whom they despised and had turned a blind eye to their attacks on the more or less helpless humanfolk, only stepping in if the violence threatened to blossom out into an all-consuming war.
But the humans proved not to be weak. It should not have been a surprise either that his people who clung to life tooth and nail could stand against adversary many times stronger than they were, eventually succeeding in causing so much havoc among the attackers that they hid themselves even better, vowing to never come across the hated human race no matter what.
As time went by the resolve of the hidden people strengthened by every near brush with humans that they had. Their reactions became volatile and out of proportion, and Iceland's heart swayed away from the hidden people that he had once loved with so much passion, and turned instead to the ugly, short-living humans' side. Building where he could, using every measure he had, he had finally succeeded in elevating humans onto the same level as his fair folk had once been: longer in life, healthy, rich, capable of getting anything their hearts desired, with enough time left over from the daily struggle that they could turn their eyes outside of it and admire the life they lead. It was then when Iceland realized to his greatest surprise that humans did not change. Despite their difficulties and trouble they had always been fully capable of seeing beauty not only in things that were admirable but also in things that were dangerous, horrifying, downright evil even; humans could look at their very own demise with a smile on their face.
Humans thought the hidden people were beautiful. They did not care that the fair ones had everything better than they did. They were vary around the hidden, knowing how easily they flew into a murderous rage. They tried their best to get by with them even when they killed humans by dozens, even then humans looked at the hidden ones and agreed without a speck of jealousy that they were beautiful, lovelier by far than any human could ever be.
Iceland had slowly began to trust humans instead of the fair ones. In time he began to forget that the hidden existed at all. They became features of myths and legends and once Ragnarök arrived he forgot to tell them, forgot to save them along with his humans, did not take them with him to Gimli. Far as he knew they were all dead now. Gone were their majestic houses, their art and their beauty. Gone, all their achievements, up in flames. They had died on the old world with tears of betrayal and words of anger, curses and vows of revenge. This was what Iceland had forgotten but not well enough, and this was what his thoughts turned to after his consciousness drifted away and into sleep in the evenings. The eternal guilt of not being capable of loving his own children, no matter how much better they were than the stranger ones living upon him.
Iceland sat up so quickly that for a moment he did not realize he had just woken up to something and stared into nothingness for a long time without moving. The ship around him was silent and dark, the sleeping tent full of people living through various kinds of dreams. He rubbed his eyes and watched them. Some were having nightmares, that was to be expected: they trashed in their sleep, sweating and frightened. Others were smiling and peaceful, perhaps reliving some happy memory or just entertained by some inexplicable sight in their dreaming. Most were in the deep stage of sleep, however, where no pictures of any kind could enter their mind.
He stretched his legs and decided to take a small walk. He let his footsteps fall carefully among the sleeping, trying to not disturb them on his way past them.
Outside the night air was already cold. Iceland wrapped his cloak tighter around his body, walking a bit faster to get the blood flowing in his legs. A sound by the side of the boat caught his attention. A small bundle of cloth - a child with a blanket around it, he corrected himself - was leaning against the side of the ship. He knelt down next to the child, noticing it was the same little girl whose mother had warned her against crying earlier on, realizing immediately what she had been up to. Standing there with her head hanging over the side she was carefully letting her tears fall into the space beyond so as to not, as she understood it in her child's mind, cause the whole ship to sink.
Iceland leaned his head against his palm, thinking for the first time how cruel the rules of being on board were in an unexpected situation like this. Patting the girl on the back he carefully pulled her onto the ship - her buckles were on but there was no point in risking her falling over just the same - and spoke to her quietly, drying her face with the hem of his cloak. She was perhaps about four years old, and, Iceland noticed with a pang of alarm, quite unusual-looking. Her hair was deep red in colour and hung all the way to her ankles and her eyes were so dark brown they were almost black. Her features were graceful beyond her years and bore a promise of greatness for the future to come. Something about the dream he had just had flashed in front of Iceland's eyes for a split second. He had dreamed about beauty and something that related to it, but in another moment the dream was gone again.
Iceland rubbed his eyes, willing the dream to return but it would not. Then he looked at the girl again and saw her hurriedly wipe off more tears that she seemed unable to hold back. He was a little bit at loss with words. Iceland had never been good at talking to little children, especially little girls, and therefore the words of comfort were so jumbled up within his mind that what came out of his mouth was:
“Hey, want to go see the night Sky with me?”
She looked at him with big eyes. This was not something a child would be easily allowed, and her whole face lit up at the thought. She nodded. Yes, she wh-wanted to s-see that. But sh-should she not thel-tell her auntie first?
Iceland assured her they'd only be gone for a small while, it was better to not wake anyone up. He attached the girl's buckles to his own and then bent down to wear the scout straps again. They stung a little on the areas where his skin had worn red and sore but he ignored it. Climbing on the dragon's head he asked the girl whether she was afraid, but she shook her head vigorously, almost too eager to go. He tilted his head back, told her to hold onto him tightly while he leaped since he'd need both his arms to steady himself midair. After that, once his position was secure, he could grab onto her again, so if she fell she'd have to wait calmly for that moment - was that clear?
The girl was almost bouncing of excitement. Yes it was. To further prove how well she understood she grabbed at his shoulder buckles with all her might. Iceland smiled, raised his arms to his sides and jumped.
3rd Chapter: On Heavy Shoulders.