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Farewell (Iceland)
#1
Once the decision to move settled in his mind like rocks sinking in water, Tristan was eager to begin the journey. Alas, his impatience stretched his mind like a pacing dog. Other regional farmers bought the animals, but his horse he sold specifically to Svant, being incapable of delivering a beloved breed to the care of strangers as he was. Where he was going, the goods of his trade weren't needed, so off they were sold also. A few of Úlfar's antiques fetched higher prices with collectors than locals, thanks to the internet. By the time all not bolted down was stripped and sold, Tristan had enough funds in his back pocket to set a new life up in the CCD.

When the day came to leave the homestead behind for good, all the tension of the past few months crashed like stormy waves on rocky shores. He just stood in a cold rain as it drizzled down upon his shoulders not unlike the frozen remains of his trollish uncle's grave. A levity befell his eyes, bright and golden now. From where he stood he could see the distant Fjord, the inlet of the sea stretching its cold fingers into land. Birds darted tiny black dots farther than he ought to be able to detect. The scents of his youth curled his nose and clung to his beard in a way he hoped would never waft away. He'd already said goodbye to the cropping where he first saw the Huldufólk woman whom revealed the truth to him. He laid bare his plans like a sacrifice before a sacred alter. The house he built for her remained, and he prayed to the gods it would continue to do so on her behalf, but if she wanted to come visit in Norway, he would built her a cottage that she might visit. For some reason, he had the sense of someone smiling back, and in that sense, the goodbye was peaceful.

It wasn't to her that he presently spoke. It was to the basalt rock that encased his uncle (though he still thought of Úlfar as a grandfather). For some reason, the events that led to his uncle's demise seemed less of a betrayal than the abandonment of their ancient lands. Tristan felt it too, like a ballast tugging at the weight of his heart.
"Your accusations are not wrong, Uncle," Tristan told the stone's face even as he rubbed the mist from drenching his eyes. He was glad for the rain's obfuscation of emotional displays.
"I can't stay here, though. You know that I am like Rurik. I am my father's son and I will be driven mad if I stay. The east calls me like the bleating of a golden horn. I am sorry for your fate. I am sorry our line ends here, but I will not end, though I step away, my home will not be forgotten. I will bring my children back here, someday and their children after that."

Sometimes the planes and crags of the rock flickered like shadows of a face moved, but no such motion answered Tristan's explanation. His golden gaze fell to the soggy ground, drowning in the weight of his uncle's disappointment. Is that how Rurik, his father, felt before the end? Disappointment in what he was? Or defiance because of what he was?

Tristan's jaw tightened, "You will always remain, uncle. When generations have passed and all of Iceland forgotten, you will remain our guardian. Bear the duty honorably, uncle." Tristan lifte his chin, "Fare well."

When he left, he never glanced behind though he felt the stare of eyes on his back the whole way.
"Don’t waste your time looking back, you’re not going that way."
Rognar Lothbrok
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