04-10-2019, 03:34 AM
Her shifted scents were a relief. Nimeda’s emotions swayed from one extreme to another; neither did Tristan fare well on the heaving decks of arctic ships. Steady, the spirit pleaded with a voice only Thorn Paw would hear. Her question puzzled, and he contemplated an answer. “I have seen Thorn Paw,” he glanced over one shoulder. The wolf lounged, lifting its head now and then to study him discriminatively. Tristan dismissed his scrutiny with the wave of a hand. “Rather, Thorn Paw found me. Maybe because he was the only one swift enough to catch me on the run,” humor rumbled his chest, knocking loose the strain that bound him tense.
He thought back to the days – nights rather – running wild. Tundra to grass; glaciers to beach. Iceland was sparsely populated in the Solid World. Here in the Otherworld, it was abandoned. “The land we walk is called Ice Land,” he said, uncertain if she would recognize the name. To that humorous point, Nimeda’s hair melted of its shards. Tristan’s chest dripped fresh water as his beard did the same. “Few live here. Perhaps that is why the Huldufólk favor it so well. The Hidden ones are wise.”
There was another race that populated the land of ice: the giants of frosty myth that some called Trolls. The sun is their demise. What better a place to reside than a part of the earth where the sun is weakest. If Antarctica was even slightly habitable, Tristan would assume they conquered it also.
Legends of frosty giants wove like deadly fingers throughout the Nordic lands. Certainly their ancestors were enormous, a trait of necessity that bred strength throughout the Viking race. Trolls, however, were nearly immune to the cold; the heat of the sun entombing them into the famous ballast stones that stood sentry around the island. Tristan knew the blood coursed his veins, Úlfar was troll; but his father, Rurik, his father was wolf. An anomaly? Or was it fate? Were the races of troll and wolf entwined throughout his ancestry? Had some long ago forefather, born of the Land of Frosty Giants, sire sons of wolf and troll-blood as had Grímur sired Úlfar and Rurik? Questions Tristan would never reconcile, though he believed there was purpose to all these conditions. As Thorn Paw pressed, the breaker of chains he was, monstrous enemy to those that meant them harm. He should focus on his own kind.
The fire blazed with Nimeda’s glance. Tristan warmed his own fingers, wondering why he hadn’t thought to do that previously. Yet she huddled under a blanket for more warmth, and Tristan joined her. Well, he sat alongside her at least, shoulder to blanketed-shoulder. “I lived here alone in the Solid world,” he said thoughtfully, orange dancing in the gold of his unblinking gaze. His voice trailed a moment before glancing at Nimeda’s cheek and ruefully smiling at her, “mostly because no sane would want to live here with me. Especially a pretty girl.”
The humor was light-hearted, nary intense or suggestive. A chuckle followed, “you live here alone: completely alone. Girl who has one friend,” he said. Thorn Paw warned him against her oddities, but Tristan was himself a walking peculiarity – at least in the eyes of his neighbors. “My ancestors resided here. Our roots delve deep. The Trollstone beyond is my grandfa— uncle,” he said, correcting himself. “The hidden one told me something too,” he added, returning his line of sight to the dancing hearth.
He spoke her prophecy to none, not even the living statue of his uncle. It felt a betrayal to her confidence, but Nimeda’s innocent curiosity soothed the ache that silenced the tongue. He whispered as though hearing it for the first time. “She said, ‘Stop running in the dream and you will be found. Look to far shores and you will find your true family. Return to the beginning and the end will finally arrive.’””
He glanced at her to read her reaction. Thorn Paw long ago ceased listening. The wolf was asleep, as much as one slept in the Otherworld. “Who is the Grimnir?” he asked on the heels of Moscow.
A city.
An enormous city. Reykjavík pounded his heart, but Moscow was someplace he could not go.
“I don’t know if I can go to Moscow,” he said, throat tight. “There are so many people. How would we even begin to find your one friend in such a city?”
He thought back to the days – nights rather – running wild. Tundra to grass; glaciers to beach. Iceland was sparsely populated in the Solid World. Here in the Otherworld, it was abandoned. “The land we walk is called Ice Land,” he said, uncertain if she would recognize the name. To that humorous point, Nimeda’s hair melted of its shards. Tristan’s chest dripped fresh water as his beard did the same. “Few live here. Perhaps that is why the Huldufólk favor it so well. The Hidden ones are wise.”
There was another race that populated the land of ice: the giants of frosty myth that some called Trolls. The sun is their demise. What better a place to reside than a part of the earth where the sun is weakest. If Antarctica was even slightly habitable, Tristan would assume they conquered it also.
Legends of frosty giants wove like deadly fingers throughout the Nordic lands. Certainly their ancestors were enormous, a trait of necessity that bred strength throughout the Viking race. Trolls, however, were nearly immune to the cold; the heat of the sun entombing them into the famous ballast stones that stood sentry around the island. Tristan knew the blood coursed his veins, Úlfar was troll; but his father, Rurik, his father was wolf. An anomaly? Or was it fate? Were the races of troll and wolf entwined throughout his ancestry? Had some long ago forefather, born of the Land of Frosty Giants, sire sons of wolf and troll-blood as had Grímur sired Úlfar and Rurik? Questions Tristan would never reconcile, though he believed there was purpose to all these conditions. As Thorn Paw pressed, the breaker of chains he was, monstrous enemy to those that meant them harm. He should focus on his own kind.
The fire blazed with Nimeda’s glance. Tristan warmed his own fingers, wondering why he hadn’t thought to do that previously. Yet she huddled under a blanket for more warmth, and Tristan joined her. Well, he sat alongside her at least, shoulder to blanketed-shoulder. “I lived here alone in the Solid world,” he said thoughtfully, orange dancing in the gold of his unblinking gaze. His voice trailed a moment before glancing at Nimeda’s cheek and ruefully smiling at her, “mostly because no sane would want to live here with me. Especially a pretty girl.”
The humor was light-hearted, nary intense or suggestive. A chuckle followed, “you live here alone: completely alone. Girl who has one friend,” he said. Thorn Paw warned him against her oddities, but Tristan was himself a walking peculiarity – at least in the eyes of his neighbors. “My ancestors resided here. Our roots delve deep. The Trollstone beyond is my grandfa— uncle,” he said, correcting himself. “The hidden one told me something too,” he added, returning his line of sight to the dancing hearth.
He spoke her prophecy to none, not even the living statue of his uncle. It felt a betrayal to her confidence, but Nimeda’s innocent curiosity soothed the ache that silenced the tongue. He whispered as though hearing it for the first time. “She said, ‘Stop running in the dream and you will be found. Look to far shores and you will find your true family. Return to the beginning and the end will finally arrive.’””
He glanced at her to read her reaction. Thorn Paw long ago ceased listening. The wolf was asleep, as much as one slept in the Otherworld. “Who is the Grimnir?” he asked on the heels of Moscow.
A city.
An enormous city. Reykjavík pounded his heart, but Moscow was someplace he could not go.
“I don’t know if I can go to Moscow,” he said, throat tight. “There are so many people. How would we even begin to find your one friend in such a city?”