2 II : Félagi Svik part I

The prince's bedchamber — if it could even be called that — was easily the size of a town's chapel sanctuary. The masterly crafted ceiling beams seemed high enough to rival clouds and the white, polished floor shimmered like porcelain procured from some elvin stone. The air within smelt of candle wax and incense; not so much to be overwhelming, but enough to bring peace. There was also another constant smell that some could just not handle. Despite the room being so vast as it was, it seemed there not a rat-hair width of space to move about in or be remotely comfortable.

Bookshelves filled with accounts of history, magic, geography, religion, and even studies on herbalism reached the rafters and were placed tightly against the walls. Although this allowed for little sunlight, the occupant of the bedroom had little thought of removing the literature. Within this encasing of true and untrue knowledge laid even more shelves full of various collections. Some rows were dedicated to ingredients for spell castings. There was the occasional taxidermy and mounted insect. Other rows the cleaning servants suspected that even the prince did not know their purpose. Swords, daggers, arrows, and other weaponry were also organized in their own way that was of easy reach for those who knew of their existence.

Through a mere glance such as this, any unknowing servant or noblemen who happened to come across the prince's bedroom would instantly come to conclude just how much he was enthralled in the art of knowledge. Servants and noblemen who did know of the prince's character, however, understood that the king's second son preferred pastimes of a somewhat different venture.

His lips brushed against hers, a mere tease although her pouted lips begged for more. He spread his fingers through her hair so fine, there was no resistance. Her breath, smelling of cool herbs such as lavender and mint, tickled his skin and raised bumps behind his neck. He paused again, lifting her face to gaze at her eyes. Despite being of the human race, her eyes were uncanny in their resemblance to icy zircon — a gemstone which was laid within the simple diadem upon her forehead.

His skin was just as pure as the maiden's, perhaps even more so. Being of near-perfect blood, Prince Jarl was also slightly taller than the average man and although he was not one to sweat under the sun with sword or hoe in hand, he was neither overweight or fit. Like the lady, Prince Jarl's hair was soft to the touch, albeit thicker. He took pride in the long length of his hair that was unbefitting of a prince and the raven color was of clear contrast to the maiden before him.

"Prince Jarl," The golden maiden near whispered, her soft voice like a leannán sí hiding her wings to seduce yet another lover. However, as the prince yet knew her, this blue-eyed beauty was one of the more untouched maids he had called upon. "Prince Jarl, I do not think this seemingly. If anyone were to spy—"

"If anyone were to spy, my dear Lady Isolde," The second prince countered, running a warm — rather, almost hot — hand down her cheek to caress the side of her chin to bring her closer once again. "There would not be a word spoken from their lips." At the word, he brushed his thumb over hers. "Even if they dare, what would they say but not of my affection for you?"

His half-truths rolled off the tongue like a butter knife against boar lard. Truly, it would be odd for the lady, Isolde, to believe the words of Prince Jarl. Just as his father before him — or rather, during still as the king had not ceased his own actions — the young man of just over five and twenty years was infamous for seeking the warmth of another, be it day or night. Tales of his embraces were brought up in chapel sermons against adultery and in brothels to do just the opposite. Still, it is possible for the daughter of a councilman to be sheltered enough not to know of Prince Jarl's constant avocation.

Most unfortunate for Isolde, she was one so sheltered. In her fortune, however, it was at that moment just before the prince would guide her into his chambers, that a red-cloaked scholar ventured the stone hallway.

The clack of his staff gave warning of his presence, the limp in his left leg a more subtle noise. He approached with shoulders firm and back straight despite his old age. Although his back was towards the scholar, it was Prince Jarl who first noticed Tancred the Mighty, his sharp ears picking up the sound before the man had turned the corner before them.

Prince Jarl tried to ignore Tancred and distract Isolde with another kiss but the not-so-accidental cough from the scholar jolted the lady from the trace which ensnared her.

"Prince Jarl, Lady Isolde," Tancred acknowledged with a nod, ending his stroll alongside the would-be lovers.

"Sir Tancred, I—" Isolde's cheeks were a renewed pink, this time more caused my embarrassment and shame than love-struck shyness. Her light eyes met with the ground and she somehow managed to force herself deeper into the wall to add distance between herself and the prince.

"Tancred," The prince spoke this time, a hostile smile his greeting. Although he did not make any move to separate himself from the lady of eighteen years, he did not discourage her further withdrawal. "What brings you to towards my wing at this hour? Did you forget to collect any hairs that fell from your head last time you were here?"

"Indeed, that is not my plan, nor was this pure happenstance," The balding man replied in a civil tone despite he obvious insult. "Prince Jarl, you are to bring yourself before the queen."

"The queen?" He repeated. If Isolde had completely left at this time, Prince Jarl would not have cared or been filled with surprise. She was, however, yet by his side, albeit a yard or so away from where they were embracing only minutes before. "For what reason?"

Tancred's answer was as curt as his limp apparent. "It is not my place to question the queen's orders, just as it is not yours to delay because you were too busy tempting another poor maiden."

"Did you just blatantly insult me?" The raven-haired man shot back, nearly losing himself before the lady he had just bewitched with false kindness and care.

"Did I?" Tancred wondered, stroking his straight beard that dangled just above his navel.

"Um, Sir Tancred," Isolde's voice came as a siren's call to Prince Jarl despite the fact such a mood had already long vanished. "Unless you require me, I intend to return to the courtyard for some fresh air."

"May you breathe easy, my lady," The old man gave her a closed smile. "Thank you for entertaining the prince his tutor's absence."

With little more than a bashful glance and quick bow to the raven-haired prince, Isolde hurried from the scene.

"Now," Prince Jarl turned to face the elder again. "Just what is it that—"

"Nothing," The scholar interrupted the prince, completely disregarding the courtesy that should be required of him. The courtesy that should be required of him, rather, had the raven-haired skirt-chaser not been the king's first bastard. "However, Lady Isolde is not one who should be treated like one of your play-things to be discarded so soon after you lose the lust for them."

"And what gives you the right to dictate who I decide to bed, sir Tancred?" As he smiled in challenge, Prince Jarl's ears raised sightly, easily peaking out from his hair. Longer than a human's but not so as a true elf, the half-blood — son of one of the king's many consorts — was the eldest of the king's known offspring not to be 'pure-bred'.

"Nothing does," Tancred the Mighty confirmed, gracefully turning on the balls of his feet despite his limp. He walked the halls the same as he had come. "Now what lesson were we on? Ah, that's right. Beadu DreÓr, and the very battle in which the rightful king of Wær, Adalbern of Valee, died."

Watching his tutor hobble away, the prince scoffed a laugh first in disbelief and then another in minute regard to Tancred's crude response. Had he been the son of Berengar the Fifth and his high queen, Acacia the Fair, Tancred could very well already been executed for his blatant insolence. As his light skin and pointed ears constantly reminded, however, Prince Jarl could do nothing about the matter other than complain. And so, he followed Tancred to once again become a slave to his studies.

Stooping before the water's edge, Brünhild placed the empty, wooden chamber pot beside herself. Using the river to wipe away fecal matter from her arms, hands, and unfortunately, nose to include the right nostril — 「Loki should consider himself blessed if I don't kill him in his sleep」, the young woman threatened internally — Brünhild used this moment to rest. Again splashing the cold water against her face, Brünhild let gravity take her toned arms, not even batting an eye when her hands crashed unto the surface and the river retaliated with a splash of its own. Letting out a deep breath, strands of hair the color of kaolin clay fell in front of her face as she looked at her reflection in the slow waters.

Droplets of water yet clinging to her skin, the stained color from years of work under the suns proved she was no fair maiden of some rich land. Freckles dashed around her face and shoulders, even her arms were not without the so-called blemishes. Brünhild was short, that much was clear, but anyone would be a fool to say that she was weak. As the daughter — the only child at that — of a blacksmith on an island once known for mining, Brünhild had earned her place in the community through blood, sweat, and tears. This, her prominent muscles constantly decreed.

Again turning her eyes to her visage, Brünhild brushed away knotted locks. Of the near-white hair that was not shaved from her skull was half braided, a symbol of her proud yet little-known heritage. Besides the freckles and sky-colored eyes, there was another striking feature to Brünhild's visage. Upon her left cheek was two scars, twins in their direction although each with their own edge.

According to her father, Brünhild had acquired the wound from a wild draca when she was just a child — one of the last wild draca known on the island. Despite the injury, Baldr noted that Brünhild did not cry when she was attacked. Instead, she laughed; her innocence and joy having been overwhelmed at seeing an untamed draca was better a dream come true at three years of age than Brünhild had still yet experienced. Baldr would later remark he was certain that it was at that moment his daughter became obsessed with the beasts and gave her the aspiration to become a draca ryder.

Distracted in her own mind, Brünhild noticed that Loki came to join her only when he was right behind her. She straightened her back and moved her head to face him. Raising her hand to greet him, she was met with a splash of unpleasantly warm water.

"Loki!" She gasped in only half astonishment. Not withholding the sign as she audibly cursed, Brünhild spat out the trace amount that had entered her open mouth. "How dare ye?"

His eyebrows lifted together and his lips taunt. Scratching his check with two fingers, he looked around as though he was expecting to a bear to ambush them at any moment. His message was as clear as it was jest: You should have been more wary.

"'Wary'?" Brünhild barked a quick laugh and returned her own playful jeer with sign and words. "What's there to be cautious about — that I might come across a fox who scares me away with a screech? That I might trip and break put a whole in my tunic?"

Stroking imaginary horns from his head and standing firm with head tilted up — the motions coined for draca ryder — Loki repeated her name and looked about. Then, he forcefully brought his fist down from his heart and an angle before pointing about. Finally he motioned to his ears, eyes, and nose, taking her hand and running his against it as though he could absorb it.

「As a draca ryder, you must always be wary. Enemies are all around. You must hear them, see them, smell them — feel them.」

"Since when did that have to do anything with cleaning chamber pots?" Brünhild questioned, curious as to Loki's sudden experience on draca ryders.

Loki paused at her signs and then gave a shrug. Letting out a deep giggle when Brünhild finally returned his water attack with her own, the bald youth helped his slightly younger friend carry the chamber pots into the village to re-disperse.

Brünhild took two into the chapel, both to be placed in hidden corners for some privacy. Just like most buildings in Stakhlijan, the religious sanctuary was crafted through wooden beams on the inside, supported with packed soil and earths that covered even the roof. There were a few openings for suns-beams to come in, although candles provided the most light. Incense brought fragrance to the air within and a tiny creak — however dried up since before Brünhild's time — had crafted a minute scar from the mountains and into the lounge. Despite how the people of Stakhlijan mostly used tall-standing chair and tables, there was no such support in the chapel. All attendees, even the religious leaders and village elders, sat upon the ground to humble themselves and show further that none of them are higher than the other.

Tapestries served more as history and spiritual guides than for decoration. Brünhild's favorite depicted an amphithere and a drake. Master of the breeze, amphithere had no need for legs, instead relying on the speed of their wings, razor teeth, and quick wits. Some breeds were even clad in feathers, the beautiful hues painting the sky like thousands of foreign parrots. In almost completely contrast, drake did not have wings but instead four legs. Although they were the smallest of all draca, they were just as mighty in their own right. Hide clad in thick, scaled armor that often rose as spikes, drake could make up for their average speed through powerful attacks and endless courage; almost like a berserker.

"You are drawn to Félagi Svik again, child?" A wrinkled voice called out, prickling the back of Brünhild's neck as though the elder had whispered upon her skin.

Maybe I do need to be more wary... Brünhild frowned, irked that her friend was right. She glanced at the elder in greeting before turning her eyes upon the tapestry once more. "I don't understand, Seiðkona. All these tapestries..." The blue-eye young woman asked, her hand lazily gesturing to the other textiles. "They speak of the past or of the God — even of the old false gods," the old woman had reached Brünhild's side now. "but we've never spoken of Félagi Svik. If it is a history why do we not know more?"

The woman, tattoos covering not only the pale skin of her arms and torso, but also upon her face. Two black lines stretched from ear to ear and made the whites of her eye — stained slightly red from old age and smoke — stand out even with her dark pupils. The symbol of the old gods was once under her left eye, now scratched away with the claws of a raven to show the change in her spirituality.

"Why don't you ask that again?" The seiðkona spoke, calmly yet with a purpose. "I believe you know the answer."

"Well, it's..." Brünhild frowned once more. The tapestry's colors had long faded, the drake could have been any number of hues and the mountains which stood behind the two draca were a dull, almost urine-like brown — unhealthy urine, yes, but still urine. 「Shite, piss. Is there no end to it?」

"Child?"

"Shite," Brünhild repeated aloud. Whether it was spoke as a curse or as her own history not an hour prior, the blacksmith's daughter was not to say much things to the spiritual leader. Her eyebrows unwrinkled and eyes widened as she realized her disrespect. "I mean—"

"Is it history?" The elder ignored her insolence, prompting again for Brünhild to figure out the tapestry's tale did herself.

The imagery did not refer to a god — old or new — nor other spirits. The drake was raised on its hind legs, a clear fighting stance against the amphithere which spewed fire down upon its pale opponent. Human, elf, dwarf, goblin, and soldiers of other beasts fought below the draca in an endless battle caught in the frayed cloth. The suns were almost hidden by the visible moon, an occurrence which had not happened in hundreds of years.

"It's not history," Brünhild finally voiced. "It's a prophecy, isn't it?"