It Lurks Below

Menglǫð sat beside a bed, wiping down her husband with a damp cloth. His faint breaths that came out as the occasional wheeze brought her to tears. 'No, no crying. I must remain strong for our family.' The herbs and remedies that were meant to allay his worsening condition scented the air in a balmy fragrance. As Skálpr showed no signs of improvement each passing day, her desperation and worry ballooned to the point that she was about to explode. She stroked his head, love in her eyes, sadness across her lips.

"I know you won't agree to what I'm to do, and I hope you can forgive me when things are said and done. This family will go on; I swear to you it will," she said, planting a kiss on his forehead. The man from just a half year ago was no more, replaced by a bag of bones that looked about ready to depart to the afterlife. Menglǫð was not doing too well herself. The heartache of those surrounding an ailing loved one was a unique sickness in its own right, one that had little to no remedy.

Bald patches were exposed by thinning hair, and her once-hale figure had wrinkled, displaying signs of discolouration. She was no different than those thrall women who worked their fingers to the bone, a fact that dissuaded her from leaving their home as of late. It was ironic, really. Despite living above such people for most of their lifetimes, in the end, everyone is the same.

"We come from the earth as equals and return to it in much the same way, but our descendants shan't suffer the same fate. It is time for us to move on and not remain tied to the past." She brushed away her tears and suppressed the turbulence of her heart, donning a stern demeanour. She cast one final gaze at her husband and left, the solemn glow of a sputtering fireplace mirroring the vibe of the atmosphere.

Pulling her dress closer, Menglǫð descended a flight of stairs that delved deep into the earth, lamp in hand directing her steps. The staircase gave way to a wide hall at its bottom, a sparse few onlookers giving her a glance before returning to their duties. The elderly woman approached a gruff man overseeing the construction, inquiring about the state of things. "How are we faring, Kollhart? When I was told you would be excavating a space beneath our home, I did not expect it to rival it in the area."

"I understand your concerns, Madam Menglǫð, and I assure you that none shall be the wiser of our existence," he explained. "These molemen are amongst the best and have been digging tunnels and spaces since they were mere babes. You have nothing to worry about." The confidence with which the pale man spoke somewhat calmed her, but she also noted that it seemed a little bit too scripted and came off more of an excuse than a genuine response.

"While this space may exist under the noses of those above, I am more concerned about the threat of other 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯 as you put it, coming upon us during one of their habitual forays." Menglǫð kept a close eye on his reactions while she continued, "I have heard that you all are adept at detecting what lies beyond the reach of sight, so I will ask once more. How is everything going?"

The man, who donned a copper skullcap, didn't bat an eye at the Menglǫð's probing, saying, "It's good to know we will have such an astute handler managing the business. We came to you with this offer for multiple reasons, but mainly because this house exists in a blind spot. This was concluded after numerous, thorough investigations of the area above and below. Therefore, my response stays the same. 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵."

"Fine, I will defer to your judgement for now, but don't make me regret that decision, or the guard will be the least of your worries," Menglǫð warned as the space took shape one stone at a time.

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A chunk of blue crystal emanated a cooling glow, highlighting the engrossed figure hunching over a thick tome.

"Hjarnar son of Eitri, Eitri son of Gottormir, Gottormir son of Rǫgnuðr, Rǫgnuðr son of Ióhan II, Ióhan II son of Ióhan I, Ióhan I son of Bó, Bó son of Valdemar, Valdemar son of Ímaldr, Ímaldr son of Hróðviti."

The space preceding Eitri's was scratched out, the depth of colour in each stroke betraying the anger of whoever had put pen to paper.

Fróði furrowed his brows, muttering something beneath his breath, finger tracing the lines upon lines of text. The yellowed pages and fading ink spoke of the passage of time, and one could only imagine the stories it held within. But as of right now, it offered the complete Illugi line of succession, which was in and of itself priceless for the scholar poring over its contents. "Is there nothing more?"

'There have to be more than nine generations to their family tree. Plus, the venom with which this entry is crossed out raises more questions than answers. They adored the first son, and his passing was tragedy manifest, right?'

Fróði flipped through the hardcover from back to front and back again on the off chance he missed something but came up empty. He exhaled, rubbing his brows, frustration plastered across his face. "Damn!" he spat in a suppressed whisper. "How long will I be sent for a loop by these people! Am I on a fool's errand, or are the answers I seek really locked within their deepest chambers?!" His lamentations were put on hold by the sound of approaching footsteps, forcing him to spring out of his seat. The tome was slammed shut, and Fróði lugged the girthy thing off right as the door to the archives swung open.

A woman walked in, book in hand, raven hair tied in a neat bun, face highlighted by the pair of glasses perched on a high nose, behind which two emeralds were displayed. She surveilled the room, shelves brimming with historical records, literature, and anything in between going as far as the eye could see, brought to light by sprouted iötntár that crept out of the ceiling. Her feet made light thuds on the wooden flooring as she walked down the centre aisle, stopping at the table that served as the focal point for this hall of knowledge. Noting that everything was as it should be, she took her seat, simultaneously placing the book down on the table.

The act caused the layer of dust to shift ever so slightly, something that didn't escape her hawkish eyes. She ran a finger over the ringed timber, leaving a line on the tabletop. Her face darkened when she felt the offending material between her fingers. Dust didn't build up this fast, especially because she was meticulous—some would say borderline obsessive—about cleanliness. The chair clattered to the ground as the woman shot up, a scowl distorting her otherwise pleasant features.

'An intruder, in the archives no less? Who dares to steal from my Illugi!'

She glared down the concentrically arranged aisles that encircled her with wholehearted proficiency, proceeding to strut in a particular direction. Writing mediums of all shapes, colours and sizes whizzed past her sides, carrying the distinctive woody waft of aged fibre and leather binding. The space between multicoloured blooms of crystalline light succumbed to the darkness, and while not ideal for the current endeavour, she knew this area like the back of her hand and had the ability to back it up. Though this wasn't the most glamourous or sought-after position, it was nonetheless significant and demanded high standards of its keeper. And in the unlikely scenario that the trespasser did give her the slip, 'an unlikely conclusion,' the mere location of the archives made it impossible to escape the clutches of justice.

Neither sun nor moon ever bequeathed these walls with their radiance, owing to their position deep underground. How else would families with a tenure that spanned centuries live in such close proximity and not suffer land disputes? Of course, expanding your abode downwards as a community of earthbenders was not the most assuring solution, and in an effort to prevent prying hands from tunnelling to places they should not, all the walls were lined with a layer of metal. This also had the added benefit of cutting off all sources of earth, rendering this space a so-called even playing field in an ironic twist.

This was why the interloper was already as good as apprehended in her mind.

In the distance, a faint pitter-patter threw the woman's instincts into overdrive, inciting her feet to sprint after the disturbance. Her footsteps remained steadfast in pursuit of the shade, undeterred by the uneven lighting, allowing her to catch a glimpse of the runaway as they turned the corner. A triumphant grin spread across her face when she knew what lay beyond the bend.

'I got you!' she rejoiced, rounding the bookshelf that led to a dead end. Contrary to her expectations of a cowering figure begging for mercy, no one received her in the shaded corner. She stood there in unbelief before the revelation dawned on her a moment too late. A shadow descended, slamming her into the wall, her lungs emptying upon impact.

Disoriented by the loss of her vision, she did her best to retaliate as a firm grip arrested her arms while, at the same time, a leg between hers prevented any other avenues of resistance. She was helpless as the intruder pinned her against the wall, in an outcome utterly antithetical to the one she had pictured. "You won't get away with this!" she seethed through grit teeth.

"One day, that impulsiveness will be the death of you, Valdís."

Her eyes widened in shock. She recognised the voice. "Fróði! What the fuck are you doing, skulking around in the shadows like a bandit!"

"To surprise you is all." His whispers tickled her ear, awakening something within her.

"Surprise! You call this a surprise! You shouldn't even be down here!" She tried to hold fast to her anger, his breath on her neck a dark temptation.

"In that case, you shouldn't have left the door unlocked," he explained as she felt his thigh ride up, her resistance faltering to his wiles.

"No, Fróði, we can't," Valdís pleaded.

The grip on her wrists loosened as Fróði's hands roamed down her arms, past her shoulders, trailing the line of her neck to caress her face. "Why not?"

"You know why," she rebutted, though her body moved in defiance of her thoughts, even when his lips found hers. Their entanglement went unchallenged in the depths of the archives, a piece of hidden history whose attestation manifested in the grunts and moans that bounced off winding aisles, eager to bestow their knowledge to whoever had a worthy appetite.

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Brittle leaf litter crunched underfoot, a swathe of warm tones, the chaff of deciduous trees shoring up for a bitter winter. Páli ran, dishevelled blonde hair pelting his face, holding steadfast on the sweeping wound that rendered one of his arms mute. The bleeding had slowed to a dribble, his hand coated in a cloying heat, yet it did not spell good news for him, so his swimming vision and creeping chill made clear. Even now, he still hadn't come to grips with what happened. A routine patrol, that's all it was. How did a routine patrol through the Alderwood become horror incarnate? A wail emanated from afar, sending his thoughts haywire. It was ghastly, an unholy amalgamation of anguish, rage and desire that shook him to the core.

His feet sped up despite his better judgment, carrying him deeper into uncharted forests, only caring to escape. To make this nightmare come to an end. The world was warped in his view, a malefic landscape of twisted souls embalmed in the ashen skin of willow trees whose branches drooped low, clawing at his flesh, washing the ground red with the blood of its victim. On the brink of succumbing to their baleful reach, Páli was set free, soaring high in the sky, whipping winds coaxing what was left of his tears from squinted eyes. But this world was far too cruel for that, and like a demented torturer, the high lasted for barely an instant before the gut-wrenching sensation of earth's mighty pull dragged him back.

His attempts to scream were stifled by the force of descent, made to choke on his own tongue, yet torment was far from over. What could be worse than the sensation of one's body shattering upon the jagged rock face amidst a plummet? It was to be denied the right to express the wrongs wrought upon one's self. Páli was powerless to do more than witness the gouging of his flesh and breaking of bones, his sight interchanging between light and darkness that loomed all the more harrowing. All went blank on the back of a crack jolting his skull, rendering him free of all suffering his inevitable impact at the bottom of the chasm would have otherwise bequeathed.

A crumpled figure landed with all the weight of a comet in a heap of gnarled limbs and jutting bones, face down in a slithering stream. The slow trickle of water fouled by the presence turned a dark crimson, trickling to who knows where. Páli's eyes shot open, coughing out his waterlogged lungs, so broken, the mere act caused him to convulse over. Still, he was not a warrior without reason, and his training kicked in. Using his one barely functional arm, he dragged himself belly first to a rocky wall and propped himself up, on the brink of passing out. A stifled cry echoed at the sight of one of his legs hanging on by a thread of pinkish flesh and sinew, while the other was lost in its entirety from the knee down.

Rummaging in his satchel that miraculously survived the fall, he pushed through the twangs of his broken fingers and came up with a few crushed crystals. He cast them aside, bloodshot scleras flaring up with newborn tears. "So this is how my end arrives," he sobbed. At the end of one's life, they say it flashes past you, the gods judging if you are worthy for their bedazzled halls or the frozen wastelands that only the evilest men call home, but Páli saw no such thing, something he was thankful for, in all honesty. There was not much worse than the agony of regret or what could have been, and he was content to live out his last breaths with some semblance of peace, or as some would say, ignorance. His eyelids fell, breaths growing shallower and shallower. On the final throes of existence, two beads of light appeared on the horizon, captivating his withering psyche.

They danced, swaying in unison, his blue lips stretching to form a semblance of a smile. 'Is this what they call a fylɡjɑ?' he wondered. Right then, the orbs passed through a ray of light, one of the few that managed to piece the depths of the chasm, destroying the mystical illusion.

It was not a guardian spirit coming to carry him to the heavens but the glowing eyes of a predator on the prowl, dying to condemn a sinner. When the beast's true form was revealed, he knew it was not of this realm, its claws too sinister, teeth too harrowing, stare too malevolent, and this was without mentioning the bloody sinewed skin—rife with pustules and warts—clinging to its carcass. Even in his current state that teetered on the edge of oblivion, Páli went cold, his heartbeat coming to an abrupt stop.

That's when it occurred. Páli's life flashed before his eyes. A carefree childhood, the discovery of adolescence, maturing into a young man and earning the respect of his peers, and he couldn't help a cry leaking out when the image of his fair wife and their newborn played across his mind. Everything shattered before his eyes as the corpse-hound released a baying yowl that had the weight of a hammer behind it, causing a mouthful of blood to gurgle out his lopsided jaw. Rocks and stones fell from above as the narrow crevice did little to slow its suicidal approach, a broken man wallowing in futility to put up a fight.

The man's dying shrieks rang over the silent wood, his final moments nourishing the festering blight that crept evermore into the lands of Vigrid.