Prolouge: With Bated Breath, 01

9Hávaðinn situr eftir

The noise lingers

Um leið og ég loka augunum

As soon as I close my eyes

Umhyggjurnar, sorgirnar

The worries, the sorrows

Hverfa

Fading away

Ég kem til hvíldar

I come to rest

Þá heyri ég

Then, I hear

Þá finnst mér

Then, I feel

Það sem hefur alltaf verið til staðar

What has always been there

Kall guðanna…

The call of the Gods…

 .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Prologue: Chapter One

With Bated Breath.

"Promise me this, Ingiríðr." A hand pressed softly against your cheek and you melted into the touch which contrasted with the calloused hand that caused you to feel so soothed. "P-Promise me…" The voice that had spoken so calmly to you broke, the tremble in her feathery tone being clear. 

"Promise me... you won't turn out like your father."

What was a promise, anyway? A promise was what you would continuously tell Skadi whenever she wanted to play with you— seeing as her face would contort between discontent and miss-placed hope. But was that really a promise? You had never intended to fulfill that promise, as a matter of fact, you didn't even like Skadi. No one did. That was why you could see a dull look in her eyes after every swear you made to her. But now, as the world seemed to collapse and crumble from around you, you couldn't find yourself to deny your mother's words of pressure.

"I promise."

It came out in a rasp as your throat was sore from the exhaustion you'd braced upon it, and after that, you closed your chapped lips from speaking any further. Feeling a coarse hand leave your frigid cheek, you opened your eyes, seeing a dainty smile appear on shaking lips and before you knew it, a necklace pressed itself on your chest for a prayer.

"Megi styrkur Þórs

Og speki Óðins

Vertu með þér hvar sem þú gengur."

"Megi gnægð Freys

Og náð Freyju

Gangi þér vel alltaf."

"Megi auður Njarðar

Og eindreginn vilji Skaða

Vertu þinn svo lengi sem þú lifir."

With that finish, you could finally hear the cries of anguish and fear you had been trying so hard to vanquish from your ears. Your mother then turned to you, brown eyes widened with alert and panic— and yet as she turned to you, it felt as if she kept them soft and warm for you only. She pressed the necklace that was just held to your chest into the rough palms of your hands, and you swallowed. 

"I want you to run down this hill." A finger pointed to the wooded forest of reds and yellows behind you, her voice grim and low and you could feel your heart pounding in its bony cage. "And to never look back."

Ástríðr took a firm hold on your shoulders and hugged you tight against her bosom as if it would be the very last time she would ever be able to hold you in her embrace. You were sure it was and will be the last time. "Now, go." She gently pulled away from you, and you felt your blood run cold. How could she just leave you here, what could you have done to prevent her from twisting her ankle as you both raced to get away from the village? 

You faltered, a lump crawling up your throat as you shook your head. The same hand that had caressed your cheek so softly had now struck you on that same frigid place on your face. You let out a throaty sob as she glared at you, tears rimming both of your eyes. "Heimskur!"

"I'm not stupid!" You sobbed out defensively, tears falling from flushed cheeks as you wiped helplessly at them, heart feeling heavy where it stood. A deafening roar caught both your and hers attention and the grip on your shoulders tightened. Ástríðr's hard stare intensified, wiping her eyes that were already puffy from crying before her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Then run, go!"

"I'll be with you no matter how far you go!"

"Run! And don't look back!"

So you ran, just as she said, your feet picked themselves from the ground as golden leaves kicked in Ástríðr's face. 

Even if you fall, get back up and run!

You dare not look back as you hear a cry of torment burst from behind you. 

You're brave! And my dear, you've always been such a great runner.

You dare not stop running and bawl out in fear— and you dare not squeeze your eyes shut and shelter away, for the fear of him and your mother's words of prayer being the only motivation keeping you going as you clenched the silver necklace in your hand. 

Remember when your father would chase you around in the woods behind our house playing 'hunter and prey'?

With your heart pounding loudly in your chest with adrenaline, you ran as far as you could down the steep hill, blood rushed through your veins and you could feel your lungs burn and freeze all over when you tried to breathe in more than you could take in.

It's just like that again, my love.

You didn't know how far you ran for, thick-layered cotton boots crunching against the red and yellow leaves as they fell dry from the wise and aged trees— passing the large river you and your mother had gone to just this morning to prepare a soup for your sick grandma, Cecilía before everything had gone terribly. If it weren't for the surface roots from a nearby tree, you probably would have run for another five minutes before you tripped over your feet and collapsed. 

Imagine yourself as his prey, run swiftly, stealthily. and before you know it, you'll be back in my arms again.

A cry ripped from your throat as your elbow scraped against one of the roots, your body crashing harshly to the ground. You didn't bother to pick yourself up, instead, lamenting was your body as you curled in yourself— not even noticing the crippled boy lying up against the tree that had so rudely knocked you to the ground. 

When you did, however, you stared at him with a dull and shaken look, hesitantly picking yourself up from the soil. Your elbow bled, and the warm maroon liquid streamed down your arm as you planted your palms on the ground to gather a better look at the fainted boy. He seemed to be around your age, six. His hair was a buttery blond, meanwhile, his thick eyebrows completely contrasted that, being a dark beige blonde color that strangely complimented well with his hair. The boy's eyes trembled, and you scooted back warily, he had a blade strapped to his chest which had caused you to grow worried.

It was then he finally awoke, teeth clenched as he hissed in air through them. It seemed it didn't notice you yet, but you were fully aware of his presence. You froze like an alert deer and your breath hitched, what if he was English? Why would he have that dagger if he weren't?

Maybe he was a child warrior, or maybe perhaps he was going hunting? Was he from your village— and was sent to catch boars for dinner before eventide? But it's so dark out already, so did he pass out before the sunset? How would he respond to the massacred villagers? Why is he out here alone?

You had so many questions that needed to be responded to that went unanswered— but for now, you needed to be smart. You made sure to show your bleeding elbow once he woke, seeming like a threat was the last thing you wanted.

The boy's eyes widened when he took a look at you, kicking up dirt when he scooted away and he clutched his chest in pain. He was injured, that's for sure, but he showed no signs of faltering as his gaze fell upon you.

"I—"

"Who are you?"

Your mouth popped to a close as soon as he cut you off. His voice was scratchy, chapped lips moving at his words. It was obvious he hadn't had water in a while, and the way he carried himself made you consider food wasn't well-collected either.

But he spoke Norse, so that was good, anyway. You exhaled and you felt the throbs of pain in your arm release as you untensed. He wasn't English, and that sent thrums of relief through your body. The boy looked anything but relaxed, however, as he continued staring at you for an answer. He'll probably think you're English from how stunted you are in answering his question.

"Ingiríðr." You made sure to respond in Norse, assuring him that you weren't English and you noticed how he visibly relaxed his tense shoulders in response. 

Good. You let out a sigh of relief. That was good.

You didn't know why you wanted him to know you weren't an enemy so badly, maybe it was your brain trying to rationalize over the fact that he had a dagger strapped to his stomach, you tried to ignore the fact that he could unsheathe it and slash you in any second. 

He shuffled around for a while before speaking up awkwardly in a low voice. "Thorfinn." 

Thorfinn. Each syllable rolled off your tongue as you repeated his name. You saw his eyes flicker to the blood dripping down your arm and you quickly went to hide it with your other. His eyes went back to you slightly narrowed, you felt strangely insulted by his gaze. "You're hurt."

"I-It's nothing." You excuse, voice low, and you can feel the blood slowly spill from your fingers. "I've somehow managed to trip from running." 

His face contorted between an array of feelings you couldn't define. "What are you running from?" His eyes narrow accusingly once again, eyes flickering from your wound to your drained expression. "Who… are you running from?" He intentionally specifies 'who' as if he could sense the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

You turned your head around to avoid his piercing stare, you couldn't think straight and you struggled to piece your words together. "Why are you out here anyway?" You finally manage to say, your lips pressed together as you quickly turn the attention away from yourself and towards him, your tongue going dry. "Are you from the village?"

Heart aching, you felt your elbow tremble from beneath you. "Don't you know what's happening? Are you an escapee like me?" You didn't mean to sound so panicked-- if this boy… Thorfinn... didn't slice you down earlier, then he most certainly would now.

He spoke Norse, was he hiding in the village as an English boy like your family had? You would've seen him around if he were, the town you had lived in was small, albeit it being an English village.

Thorfinn only looked at you with confusion in his eyes. You bit down on your lip and pointed your head down, frustrated.

"Just ignore it..." You shook your head grimly, it took nearly every ounce of your being to not break down in front of him, just who is this boy?

Everything went silent, and you could hear the faint calls of sparrows as they soared above the trees. 

You closed your eyes. You were safe, you could breathe. 

There would have to be survivors, every cabin had a cellar that was large enough to fit two adults and a child– and the sickly Croxton family had a basement so spacious they could fit a horse and a cow down there. You opened your eyes, Thorfinn was now cradling himself as he leaned against the old tree, his own eyes hopeless and welled with tears. You averted your own since you had felt you were invading his privacy just by staring at him cry.

The sound of the wind blowing and crows cawing just barely covered the rushes and crashes of the river nearby you'd just crossed. He seemed to hear it as well because as soon he did, he forgot all of his surroundings including you, and dashed over to the location.

"W-Wait!" You croaked out as if he could still hear you, stretching your bloodied hand out before your nails dug into the mud below.

'We should stick together!' Your mind calls out, but your throat gives out and tightens. With a heavy heart, you picked yourself up from the ground and ran in the same direction as him. You needed answers, even if it meant heading back to your village. 

When you finally reached familiar sightings, you wanted to squeeze your eyes shut to avoid seeing ahead. You wished the boy would just keep his head down, savor the freshwater below, and satiate his thirst before turning around and ignoring the faint crackling of fire. But Thorfinn seemed to just notice ahead, and you felt your breath quicken in panic.

It was silent, and everything felt like it had slowed down. If it weren't for his words, you would've been paralyzed with fear.

"I-Is this your… village?"

Your widened eyes snapped toward his figure, crouched and knee-deep in the river. The boy knew your response just by your silence and stood up, heading towards the flaming town with bated breath.

She said not to look back, she specifically told you to not look back. So then why were you not only looking back but walking towards the danger? Tears bubbled in your eyes once you'd finally headed just outside the village, you could just barely pick up the screams of any survivors as they were slashed down or molested by a group of pirates who had just discovered the carnage. The houses were lit on fire, that must've been what pushed them out of the heating oven of their cellars– and once they exited, they were jumped and either slashed down or taken captive. Deep amidst the slaughter, a man caught your eye, a blonde, tall middle-aged man with a chest plated with secure metal armor leisurely strolling through as if the bloodbath around him were natural. You covered your mouth as bile rose to your throat, and it reached a moment where you had to turn away, hysteric tears falling down flushed cheeks.

He didn't need that armor.

What protective defenses did he need?

What hazard did this small, impoverished English village show that he was urged to wear that thick, metal chestplate?

Just briefly, you and Thorfinn's eyes met and for the first time, you felt connected with the isolated stranger. His eyes were prickled with tears of shared anger, grief, and solitude; and as tears stained your brisk cheeks you bated your breath.

"...Ingiríðr."

Time froze, and Thorfinn's voice easily found itself buried in the other sounds that flooded your head. Vikings; laughing and chuckling as they entertained themselves on the struggling women and found delight in their screams– children. And just over the sounds of carnage, Ástríðr's voice reached your ears, and your shoulders stiffened. 

"Then run, go!"

And run you did, leaving Thorfinn and everything behind.

Maybe you should've been more rational. But right then all you had on mind was getting away. Far, far away. Once again, thickly-layered cotton boots crushed and squashed the leaves and moist soils below, with tears streaming down your face and your adrenaline running high, you ran till the sun could no longer be sighted.

You were confident that at that moment, if it weren't for the chestnut-colored ground transitioning to a dark beige dirt path, and the increasing hunger and dread of your entire being, you would've continued running. But you couldn't help your body from collapsing shortly after you grew light-headed and dazed. The only softening for your blow to the ground was your head crashing into a nearby thorn bush just slightly off the end of the dirt path. heavy eyelids and heart, you gazed with reddened eyes at the moon above. It nearly took your all to not start crying once again, your home, your mother, granny Cecilía.

Tiny little Skadi, too. You grimly pressed your chapped lips together, heaving from your dry throat caused by dehydration as tears started bubbling from the corners of your eyes.

The thoughts contributed to no help when you started to feel your vision fade away, you wondered if your home was still on fire, the thoughts of being the only survivor frightened you. The original idea of Thorfinn being an escapee would've comforted you if it weren't for the fact that he had no idea the town existed till you brought it up. 

So when your mind had gone silent, along with your hearing, you had accepted your pathetic fate. If your hunger didn't deplete fast enough, then your will to live certainly would.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The smell of charcoal along with the wretched, all too familiar scent of animal manure had attacked your nose like the not-so-subtle thunder of Thor's crashing fist. As soon as you became somewhat aware of your senses, you could feel the difference in the texture of the soil beneath you. It was softer, easier on your back, and it strangely reminded you of your bed back home.

Before realization had gotten to you completely, you heard a door creak open and shortly after, footsteps. You kept your eyes shut alertedly, squeezing them sealed for extra measure as you heard them approach with slow and heavy steps.

It was then you realized that you were not in the forest that you had first slept in, and instead found yourself in a place that was closed off entirely. You were in a tight corner of a seemingly spacious environment— you weren't outside, though. When the footsteps seemed to fade, albeit in the same space as you, you clutched the fabric beneath you in the fetus positioning you were in. The texture was soft, but rough when you rolled it between your calloused fingers. You could just barely make out the feeling below the fabric, it was thin, and you could make out the length of every individual piece that seemed to be thrown together hastily. This was a straw bed, and by the smell of manure and compost as well you assumed this was a farm you were sheltered at.

"Well, well." A male voice, middle-aged, seemed to come almost out of nowhere. You jumped, squeezed your eyes together, and prayed that he hadn't noticed you were awake. "Look who we have here."

 "Megir þú hafa þak yfir höfuðið, þú hefur mat í kviðnum og styrk í útlimum."

"Megi sólin skína á þig þegar þú ferð út og göfugir frændur heimsækja þig oft."

You murmured underneath your breath in a hurried whisper, clutching the necklace that found its way around your neck to your chest— where your heart was.

"Megi friður sofa hjá þér og vekja þig af gleðidraumum."

"Og þetta spyr ég fyrir sjálfan mig: að ég sé fagur í hreyfingum og vitur í tali og megi ég vinna virðingu hinna vitru—"

Hearing you speak, the man hummed. "A Dane?" He was an Englishman, you felt your heart pound in your chest as your breathing quickened. "Well, no matter."

A large hand tugged on your shoulder, jerking your torso to your side to face the stranger as you let out a fear-stricken scream that echoed throughout the barn. The first thing you saw as you looked at him was that the man had bulging, large oddly white eyes that seemed to widen even further—if that was even possible— at your scream. And that his face was blotched as if they were burn-like scars that seemed to age despite still looking raw. It was a horrific sight.

The result of your scream caused many of the barn animals to let off a flurry of calls and cries. The man loosened his hold off you from shock long enough for you to jerk out of grip and scramble to the far corner of the sullied 8 bed. Now that you were wide awake, it was made aware to you that you were placed in a small stall intended for a small horse– and that the only exit was the wooden gate that the man was blocking with his body.

"Stop screaming! You're startling the animals." 

You ignored the man fervently and continued to make yourself as small as possible in the corner. What you also noticed, however, was that the man's pupils had a blurry gray film instead of the usual black. Swallowing, you grew silent and waited. The man stood still, continuing to alertedly block the exit, this time his eyes were closed and he seemed intent on being as quiet as possible. When you moved, he responded by tilting his body slightly so that he could guard the exit in the same direction he heard the sound, he perceived that sound as you.

 So you were right, he's blind.

"Listen… I have food, so just settle…" You perked up your ears at that, and despite being blind, he spoke confidently as if he knew you were still there. You could've climbed over the stable wall to your right and into the next stall or even found a way to sneak past him.

Either way, he still wouldn't know, so why…?

"Oh… You're a Dane, you can't understand me." He clicked his teeth at that and seemed to be in thought. You could understand perfectly, growing up as a Dane in an English village you had no choice but to understand. He didn't know that, however, and the man pulled out a tray that was on the floor near his feet, picked it up, and placed it softly on the straw in front of him. He didn't know where you were at, or if you were still even there, and yet he continued to speak in a soft tone, despite also not knowing if you understood English at all.

A very odd man, he was.

A blind man doesn't exactly prove to be much of a threat, seeing as he couldn't see anything except for a heavy blur. Not to mention you also had a language advantage, you spoke both Norse and English, but as long as you continued to keep the illusion that you only knew Norse; maybe he wouldn't see you as a threat.

Or, if he even did at all, especially because all evidence points to him being the one who found you unconscious on that dirt path. You didn't know how much he knew about your condition, if he knew you were injured or not. Either way, with the way his body language was alerted you decided to stay silent, moving silently against the straw to grab the tray and hurriedly move it beside you. The man noticed the shift and your body tensed, eyes widening as you held your breath for movement. 

Just who is this man?