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elainapendragon · 18 days

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An Eternal Hope: Departure from Home

Summary: The triplets leave Izana for the worldtree, into the unknown and into a world where at any second, they could be recaptured. At the docks, they find an unexpected surprise waiting for them.

Rating: 18+

Trigger warnings: Mentions of death, battle, wounds, slavery, dealing with past trauma, fear of torture/capture, let me know if I missed anything!

All rights reserved. This work has been copyrighted. No part of this book may be copied or used in any form. [Don't mind my crappy attempt at quoting my copyright page. I don't think I'm allowed to actually use it here. I don't mind reblogs or anything like that, but please don't repost without my permission and especially without credits to me. Thank you! <3 ]

Refer to the pronunciation guide or send me a message if you have any questions!

We arrived in Izana aching and tired the next morning. Waiting for us at the edge of the docks, excited and holding an odd bundle under one arm, was Byardölf. “Lo!” He called, waving at us with a huge smile on his face.

“Byardölf!” Alf chirped as she leaned over the edge of the ship. “How’d you know we were gonna come?”

He waved a hand dismissively, catching the rope Jarnir tossed to him to tie us down. “Bah! Call it my elven instinct. I knew you would depart for the competition as soon as Jarnir arrived with the flier yesterday. I’ve horses with supplies saddled and ready; the carriage abandoned our previous arrangement last-minute, but the horses I’ve managed to acquire for you are fresh and eager for the journey ahead; they can get you to the Worldtree in nine days if you ride at a gallop and give them rest and sustenance in the nights.”

“How much do we owe–” Nana began to say, but Byardölf cut her off by waving his free hand around wildly.

“No no no, I’ve taken care of everything! You need not worry yourselves; your only fee will be that of the entry cost. The rest of that gold is for any emergencies or other spare expenses!” Byardölf rushed up the plank as we let it down, before any of us could even disembark. “I know you must be off as soon as possible, but I will be quick.”

He turned to us triplets and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed worried, like Ma. Even the promise of immediate revival wasn’t enough to keep anyone from worrying– accidents could always happen. I knew next to nothing about magic, but I knew that anything could have complications. One wrong word on Svartlsson’s part and we’d never return from Valhalla.

His white-on-black eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ve gifts for you.”

“Really?!” Jarl’s eyes bugged out of his head in amazement. Alf and I shot each other curious glances as Byardölf approached us– it wasn’t often we got gifts. Gifts were expensive, and hardly anyone in Izana had enough money for such a thing but the ruling House at the time. And we never even got handmade gifts– it was rare for someone to like us enough to do so, so we’d gotten used to only getting gifts from each other, when we had the time to make them; which was rare.

“These were given to me by a very special friend. And now I want you three to have them.” He handed each of us one of the bundles as he spoke, and they weighed more than I’d expected; they were so heavy, I almost dropped mine. Regardless, we hurriedly unwrapped them.

Our breath collectively caught in our throats.

I’d seen these swords on display in Byardölf’s house, the few times that I’d actually been inside. He kept them deathly sharp, spotless, and they were always polished to mirror shine. I never thought I’d actually get to touch one, let alone have one given to me.

The blades were made of the rarest metal in all of Valhöll: black steel.

Which, for anyone, anywhere, was literally unobtainable, unless it was stolen or given to someone as a gift (which, it was probably stolen then anyway)– or unless you were a dwarf. Not even the elves could forge black steel. It was a magical metal originating in Nídavellír, after all, made and distributed by the tunnel-dwellers alone. The sheer amount of detail confirmed the undoubtedly dwarvish origin of the blades.

The rainguards and crossguards were shaped like the leathery wings of a firebreather, with the pommel its roaring head; in its mouth, molded and set firmly in, was a circular, glistening gem: a blazing ruby for Alf, an odd purple-gray stone for Jarl, and for me, a glittering sapphire that shimmered all shades of blue. The scabbards and grip were made of soft black leather, and the lockets and chapes were made of the purest silver. Byardölf called them the “Drekibrandrs,” but he would never say where he’d gotten them from.

“Whoa...” Jarl finally managed, his voice barely a whisper. “That... That’s...” He attempted to hand the sword back to the generous dark elf. “I-I’m... I’m not worthy... I’m not even worthy enough to breathe around this thing.”

“Are... Are you sure you want to give these to... us?” Alf breathed out, staring at her sword in awe.

My voice wouldn’t work. I was too stunned that Byardölf was giving the Drekibrandrs– his most prized possessions and the most expensive objects in a five hundred mile radius of Izana– to three poor pirate triplets who had nothing to give him in return. Rare, priceless... Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. It took all of my willpower to keep from bursting into grateful sobs.

“Of course I am sure,” Byardölf replied to Alf, “My friend would have wanted these swords put to good use rather than hanging on my wall collecting dust for the rest of my life. And besides– this saves you from spending extra coin to buy blades, or borrowing some from whatever armory is available. These blades will not break in any of your battles, that I can assure you. They are impervious to rust, and their razor edges will never dull.”

“This is very kind of you,” Alf whispered gratefully, running her hand down the length of the pitch scabbard. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

“I...” Jarl unsheathed his sword. The satisfying sound of the metal running against the smooth black leather caused shivers to run up my spine. His amber eyes were wide with a mixture of gratitude and newfound respect for our friend. “I don’t know what to say...”

“I-I’m honored, Byardölf... Thank you.” I wanted to say more, but that was all the coherent words I could form. A lump had formed in my throat. I looked up at him, hoping my eyes would relay to him how deeply thankful I was.

Byardölf smiled proudly, his white teeth a stark contrast to his ebon skin, an ethereal kind of beautiful like the sliver of a crescent moon on a starless night. “I am glad you are happy; alas, I must get back to the forge now. The horses I’ve gotten for you are waiting for you in the main square. Myennr will see you off from there.” He turned to leave, then hesitated, turning back to face us; his dark elven eyes were filled with an emotion I couldn't place. “I wish you safe travels, my friends. May you win victory in all of your struggles.”

With that, Byardölf left the Skídbladnír, and as we watched him go, I had a feeling that would be the last time we would see him for a very long time.

With our new swords strapped to our hips proudly (I could hardly walk; that made Jarl laugh), we headed into Izana. It wasn’t until we got to the horses, only three of them, that I realized our family wouldn’t even be able to follow us to the Worldtree. They’d be far too busy working double-time with our sudden absence to make up for what coin the three of us would make alongside them on a normal day.

A lump formed in my throat– the journey ahead suddenly seemed far less appealing. We walked toward the steeds very slowly, savoring every second of being near our family. They’re all we’ve ever had... Leaving them... It feels like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind.

I didn’t dare look at their faces. Grandpapa, I knew without looking, would be stoic. He wouldn’t show his emotions unless it was around Nana only, because he felt he’d need to be strong for his daughter and grandchildren. Nana would be crying; I could already hear her sniffling. Jarnir would be looking off in every other direction to hide his tears, masking his grief with his eternal craving of drink as he kept guzzling from his flask of brandy; already, Ma was fighting her own sorrow at seeing us go. My throat tightened as I tried to stifle my own emotions, my chest constricting.

Myennr was waiting for us by the horses, holding their heads. She stood weeping in her blue gown, the hem muddied by the streets; she held a handkerchief by her face, promptly bursting into tears and rushing toward us when we’d pushed through the throng of people. The horses snorted in surprise at her sudden outburst. With a cry of grief, she threw her arms around us and we gathered closer for her convenience. After a few tear-soaked moments, she pulled away, dabbing at her tears. “I must help Byardölf at the forge, but I could not bear the thought of missing seeing you off. Do be careful, dears.”

Alf nodded stiffly, speaking around her tears as well as she could. “We will, Myennr, don’t worry.” Jarl said nothing, but nodded respectfully as he tried desperately to hide his tears. I wasn’t so fortunate in that sense, crying silently, and gave her one final, tight embrace.

Myennr sobbed harder, squeezing my hand briefly as she stepped over to Ma. “I will be here whenever you need me, dear.” Ma nodded, but then, I realized that she was crying outright, now; I whipped my gaze away in a desperate attempt to regain my composure.

“Ma…” Jarl pulled her into a hug, making her cry harder. “We’ll be fine… We probably won’t die, and Svartlsson won’t have to, you know, revive us... Oh forget it. Just c’mere.” He tightened his grip, silently pleading to Alf and I with his eyes to give her comfort instead.

Ma pulled away from Jarl to wipe the tears off of her cheeks, trying to compose herself. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just... I’ve never been away from any of you before... You could get hurt, and I won’t be able to help you...” Her words tore at my chest; I tried to imagine myself in her position, seeing my own kids off on an unpredictable journey... I couldn’t even begin to imagine what she might be feeling.

“Here,” Grandpapa passed Alf a few sheets of paper lashed together by some holes poked along one side, tied tightly with interweaving twine that was already fraying. His smile didn’t reach his teary blue eyes. “I described some moves as best as I can for you to practice when you get the chance, and drew some figures as examples. Don’t lose that.”

“We won’t, Grandpapa,” Alf promised. Of course we wouldn’t. Living in a place like this, we knew better than to misplace our things, especially important objects.

All of us gathered together in a group hug that was cut far too short far too quickly. Jarnir was the first to pull away, his green eyes watery, and gave us a slight shove. “Now go.” He took on a dramatic tone, swaying forward with leftover drunkeness as he swung his hands around dramatically: “Your steeds await!”

We said goodbye and I love you one last time before the three of us reluctantly moved over to the jittery desert horses. It felt like some deep part of my heart was getting torn apart. It took all my willpower to keep from crying– and even then, I wasn’t doing very well. They’re all the family I’ve ever known! A voice in my head screamed incessantly. I can’t leave them!

I forced myself to remember that, if we could win, if we could do this, then we’d be free. We could get honest work and live without worry in a normal town. That’s all that matters. This pain we were feeling now would be totally forgotten when we come home, with pardons or without.

The horses were already saddled and carrying supplies: food, plenty of water, and camp necessities, along with shawls, cloaks, and desert hoods for us during the hottest parts of the day. Jarl hopped onto the largest of the three, as heavy as he was, while Alf, with some effort, hauled herself all the way up into the saddle of the next. I loved horses, but didn’t usually get to ride them; on any other day, I would have considered this a huge event. But with our family staying behind, I sullenly pulled myself up into the saddle– with a lot of struggle. I was so small, and weighed down by the sword, it took Jarl edging his horse closer to lift me up by the back of my shirt most of the way for me to swing myself up.

After gathering up the reins, Alf took the lead, guiding her horse to the main road at a walk. Jarl and I followed diligently; our horses seemed to know we were going to open desert, and were excited to get out of the busy throng of people. Every clop of the horses’ hooves seemed too pronounced, exaggerating every step away from my family. Alf, with her head held high, glanced back once, then continued leading us around the corner. Jarl hesitated, taking the time to look back; I couldn’t look directly at him, unable to bear seeing tears in my brother’s eyes. After a moment, he waved with a faint smile, then urged his horse to catch up with Alf’s. I drew my own horse to a stop, not wanting to turn, but doing so anyway. I can’t refuse to look back; I have to see them one last time.

It was a mistake. My composure was shattered when I saw that Nana and Ma were in tears; but Grandpapa and Jarnir, standing tall and grim-faced, were doing their best to be strong. Even though my head was pounding with the effort of holding sobs back, I did something I hoped would make them feel better: I crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out. It was a childish gesture, but I wanted to make them laugh. I felt bad immediately after; even though it made them chuckle a bit, it only made Ma cry harder. I dropped the face, and forced myself to smile a little.

“Bjalla,” Called Jarl’s voice; Alf and Jarl waited with their horses just ahead of me on the old cobblestone road, around the corner and hidden from the view of our family. Reluctantly, I turned away and nudged my horse with my heels. With a heavy heart, I looked away from my family and let the corner of the street hide the fact that I was crying. I was still crying when we got to the front gate of Izana.

On either side and as far as the eye could see, black sand and huge dunes spread for miles. In the distance, the great jagged overrocks rose up for hundreds of feet, shielding cities built beneath their clefts from the searing desert sun, which was just rising. We still had the whole day– and nine more days– to go. In the distance, far but close, looming over everything, was the Worldtree. Clouds wreathed its topmost branches, which were blushing pink and green with flowering blossoms and summer foliage.

We wrapped ourselves in our shawls, hoods, masks, and cloaks; sullenly, we stood there, trying to come to terms with the decision we were about to make. An unspoken question passed between us: Are we really gonna do this? Silently, we evaluated our options. We could either go back and stay with our families, living out the rest of our days in Izana and slaving away to survive, hoping no einherjerii storm the islands or market to return slaves to their owners; never hoping of even dreaming for freedom or honor. Never would we be able to participate in something like this again; this was the first time any rogues or pirates had been allowed to enter an event like this, and it was probably the last.

Or, we could set off on the road, sign the contract and send off the gold, get in a Gryphyn-Basket, and set a course for a guaranteed adventure. We could change our lives forever, right here, right now.

Together, we made our final decision.

With a deep breath, Alf kicked her horse into a canter down the road. Jarl and I followed her lead without further question. We’ve come this far. Why go back?

That evening, after we’d made camp, we signed the contract with our fifty coin on top of it. It disappeared in an explosion of glowing purple geometric shards, and in return we received a confirmation ticket with our names, and that of Blakkr Svartlsson’s approval. Just like that, we were in the competition.

I have to say, I didn’t feel like the glorious adventurer that I thought I would.

If you'd like to be added to a taglist, just let me know! If you'd like to read the full novel, you can find a link to it at the bottom of my masterlist.

#dragons #romantasy #aneternalhope #bookblr #drakablodsogur #elainapendragon #fantasy #dragonriders #norse mythology #vikings

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elainapendragon · 18 days

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An Eternal Hope: Practice at Sea

Summary: With the blessing of their mother, the triplets are on their way to Izana so that they may depart for the Worldtree, where Gryphyn-Baskets shall await them; but first, their grandfather believes they need a bit of training...

Rating: 18+

Trigger warnings: Mentions of death, blood, gore, descriptions of a hand wound, slavery, mentions of past trauma, fear of capture/torture

Refer to the pronunciation guide or send me a message if you have any questions!

The next morning, we set out for Izana as though we were just going back to work, but there was an enormous sense of change aboard. None of us could bring ourselves to speak, so the only noise was the sound of the ship’s bow breaking the waves, which seemed too loud for the first time since we’ve been on the sea. We could only hope that Byardölf kept his word about the sandcrawler, and we wouldn’t have to use all of the two hundred coin bonus he’d given us before we even got to the Worldtree.

Other than the silence, I expected the trip to Izana to go as it always did; using Alf and Jarl’s combined genius of a rope-and-pulley system that allowed just one person (Jarl, at the moment) to work the sails alone, while a different system they had installed within the very walls of the ship allowed one person to work all six oars at once with a fair amount of ease. That left one person for the rudder, which I stayed well away from, after nearly wrecking us in a storm– twice. Otherwise, we’d take turns working these ingenious contraptions, while resting in-between.

But instead of my expectations, I was yanked out of reading when Grandpapa suddenly took the book out of my hands and snapped it closed. He proceeded to nonchalantly take Alf’s paper and pencil (which she was using to either design something new, or to write down a new song she’d thought up), and put both of our items in the chest beside the one that held all of our coin after work. He turned to Jarl, who worked the rudder. “Up. Hildegardr, you’ll have to take the rudder.”

“Uh…” Jarl warily stood, eyes darting to each of us in a silent question. He didn’t let go of the rudder until Nana had a good hold of it. Grandpapa looked down at Alf and I expectantly in turn. When neither of us moved, he said impatiently, “Up, both of you.”

“...Why…?” Alf asked slowly, though we were standing anyway.

“Because I said so,” Grandpapa replied plainly. He waited until the three of us were standing side-by-side in front of him, then continued. “We won’t be able to come with you on the Gryphyn-Baskets, I’m sure you realize.” I tried not to show any form of reaction, because no, I hadn’t realized. Suddenly, the trip to Vanaheimr seemed a lot less fun. “We’ll be at Izana in three days, where the three of you alone will set off for the Svartl Worldtree. Going into the competition knowing nothing about swordsmanship is foolish and reckless. These few days are all I’ll have to teach you the basics.”

Grandpapa drew our iron sword from its tattered frog at his hip. “We won’t use this. There’s only one, and even if there wasn’t, we don’t need to accidentally chop each other’s heads off.” He passed the sword to Jarnir for safekeeping; he seemed just as confused as we were, but only shrugged helplessly and went along without any questions. Grandpapa then reached into our chest of belongings and withdrew two well-carved wooden practice swords– we’d had them forever, but had never thought of using them; we’d never had the time, nor the energy, to practice. He hefted each of them, testing their weight I suppose, before tossing one to Jarl, who impressively caught it with one hand and no effort.

“Jarl,” Grandpapa pointed the tip of his sword at him in challenge. “You first, grandson. We need to work on your grip. No offense, but… it’s awful.” Jarl laughed, then waved his practice blade around a few times, testing its weight. “Let’s start with teaching you how to parry a basic downward swipe. Swing downward at me, slowly.”

My brother hesitated, then hacked downward in slow motion. Grandpapa lifted his sword and held it horizontally, palm on the flat of the mock blade, blocking Jarl’s harmless blow. “See how I’m holding my sword? I’m going to swing downward at you now, and I want you to raise your sword how I just showed you.”

Grandpapa and Jarl lowered their swords, then repeated the move in reverse. Jarl quickly raised his sword like Grandpapa had shown him, and Grandpapa smiled. “Well done. Now, let’s try it faster.” They did the move again, but Jarl was too slow. Both Grandpapa’s sword and his own slammed into his chest with a dull crack, knocking him backward. He fell to one knee, his eyes wide with shock as he struggled to breathe.

“Jarl!” Ma nearly leapt off of her seat.

Grandpapa raised a hand to stop her without taking his eyes off Jarl. “I only knocked the breath out of him. He’ll be fine.”

Ma pressed her lips into a firm line and watched with worry until Jarl shook his head clear of dizziness and stood, staggering slightly. “Wow, Grandpapa. You’ve got a hard hit…” He coughed, wincing as he massaged his sore chest. “Really hard...”

“Again,” Grandpapa ordered without hesitation. The two of them continued to repeat the move until Jarl could effectively block Grandpapa’s attacks, then they tried it even faster. When Jarl could block Grandpapa’s downward strike at full speed, it was Alf’s turn. Jarl, breathing heavily, slouched down beside me and closed his eyes.

Grandpapa faced Alf with his sword ready. “You saw what I did with Jarl.” Alf nodded in response, eyeing Grandpapa’s sword nervously. “We’re going to do the very same thing. I won’t go easy on you because you are my granddaughter.” His blue eyes narrowed meaningfully, and Alf nodded.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” she said, and they began.

Alf and Grandpapa started the move in slow motion, just as he had done with Jarl, before repeating it until Alf had almost mastered it; she was quicker in learning, having watched Jarl’s lesson closely. By the time they were done, Alf was panting and dragging her sword behind her, and Ma was very concerned. “Don’t give me that look,” Grandpapa told her firmly with a stern glance. Alf sat down beside Jarl, huffing with exhaustion. “It’ll be a lot worse for them if they get no training.” Grandpapa whipped around and jabbed his sword in my direction. “Your turn.”

I slowly lifted up the wooden sword (which was, sadly, very heavy for me) and held it in front of my face vertically, as best as I could. “I’m not here.”

“Bjalla!” snapped Grandpapa in a warning tone, making me jump to my feet immediately. “We don’t have much time.” I mumbled an apology, face burning with embarrassment.

We faced one another; slowly, he brought his sword down at my face. I lifted my sword to block it, just like I’d watched Jarl, then Alf do– but I wasn’t strong enough to even try and block him. Grandpapa frowned when he realized that he was able to push my sword down, despite the fact that I was straining to keep my sword still– with both hands.

“Again,” Grandpapa ordered, and we did it a second time; but this time, he was able to knock my sword away entirely before swinging the tip of his own up to meet my throat.

Jarl burst out laughing. “You-You can’t even–” He started laughing even harder and fell onto his side, joined by Alf; she covered her face, wheezing hard. Ma glared at them.

“Both of you, stop it.”

Dejectedly, I slumped over. “Well, Drakonsson’s gonna take one look at me and send me home...” The possibility was serious enough to make me worry. If Alf and Jarl can’t compete because of my weakness, what will happen? How will they react?

“That’s nonsense,” Grandpapa said firmly. “There are plenty of people, I’m sure, who will have trouble lifting swords high, or even lifting them at all, in the competition. You have to remember, most of them were rogues, criminals, and thralls, like us, who may never have learnt any skills either. And there are dozens of other weapons to work with. Bows, for example.”

I scoffed. Byardölf once had a bow in his smithy that needed a new nocking point and grip, and Byardölf had tested it after we’d fixed it to ensure the quality of the weapon hadn’t been tampered with by repairing it. I wanted to try, and could hardly pull the string back to nock an arrow. And when I’d loosed it, the arrow didn’t even hit near the target. It fell harmlessly to the ground and the string smacked into my fingers so hard it had left cuts to the bone. “You obviously forget the time I tried one at Byardölf’s smithy...”

Grandpapa huffed, irritated, and when he began speaking with his hands, started flinging his mock-sword around dangerously without even thinking about it. “Well, maces, daggers, axes, scimitars, crossbows; there’s a number of weapons out there. If you’re not good with swords, even after a few weeks of training, try something else.” He held up his sword in front of his chest, the flat of the blade facing me. He held his free hand up against the side of the sword facing his chest. “Strengthen your stance, plant your feet firmly, and remember to hold it like this; you won’t cut your hand, and you’ll have extra strength to push back with. You saw my example earlier, didnt you? Pay attention. Of course, don’t do it without thinking, because you could accidentally grab the sharp part of the blade, and risk cutting your hand in two.”

I visibly flinched at the mental image that gave me. Alf and Jarl, on the other hand... “Do it, do it, do it,” They chanted in perfect sync with broad smiles; I scowled at them, but that only made them want to do it more, until Ma silenced them with a harsh command.

“Lets try the move I just showed you,” Grandpapa ordered, more gently this time, “Try and keep your sword up, no matter how hard I push.” He slowly swung his sword downward, and I brought my own up, holding it like Grandpapa had showed me.

It was only after he started pushing again, all the pressure on my sore hand, that I remembered the gash on my left palm. I almost let go of the sword, then forced myself not to; of all the injuries I could get in the arenas that I’d have to keep fighting with–stabs, gashes, severed limbs– a cut on the hand didn’t seem so bad.

Grandpapa pushed on my sword even harder, and as I pushed back, the cut on my hand split back open. I bit my lip to silence my yelps, and kept my stance, refusing to be weak. I cannot enter this competition weak. I cannot enter this competition weak. Grandpapa and I stood like that for several moments, until he finally smiled and stepped back. “Well done.”

I staggered forward. When I steadied myself, I held up my shaking, bandaged hand. The bandage and the sleeve of my jacket were soaked through with blood, freely dripping down my hand and arm and leaving a good-sized splat on the deck. My vision swam and my stomach churned. Better learn to get that under control...

“Bjalla!” Nana yelped.

Grandpapa blinked at me a few times, dumbfounded, before looking at the wooden sword he held accusingly. “...Did... Did you cut your hand on the practice sword? ...On wood?”

Ma practically bowled me over in checking my “wound,” making me chuckle a little despite the sheer throbbing pain pulsing up my arm. “Oh, I didn’t mention this? Yeah, I cut myself on Byardölf’s new dagger the other day.”

Ma scowled at me, but it was quickly replaced with worry. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me off to one end of the ship, out of everyone else’s way. “Come over here. We need to rebandage it.”

Grandpapa swatted me upside the head. “I completely forgot about that. You shouldn’t have pushed back so hard with an injured hand.” After Ma had rebandaged my cut, Grandpapa and I continued to repeat the move until I could do it... Somewhat easily. I never came close to Alf or Jarl’s level of strength or resilience.

For the rest of the day, Grandpapa taught us the basics of parrying, dodging, and attacking, only giving us breaks when we needed to eat, rest, or, in my case, rebandage my damn cut, which happened too many times for me to count. By sunset, I felt more worn out than I had in years. My legs felt like lead, my back hurt, my head hurt, my chest hurt, and my sword arm was throbbing painfully. Every bone in my body felt like it was going to splinter– and from the way Alf and Jarl were wincing and hobbling to their bedrolls, they felt the same way I did.

By the time Izana was in our sights, I felt twice as badly, and we were covered in welts and bruises. Eventually, Grandpapa told Alf and Jarl to practice on one another under his supervision, leaving me to spar with him.

“You won’t be able to practice on the Gryphyn-Baskets,” Grandpapa muttered quietly to us as we readied ourselves for bed. “And I’m guessing the rest stops for the passengers will be short, since you can eat and sleep in the baskets themselves. Be sure to use every break you do get for practice.”

Without much else to say, us triplets collapsed onto our bedrolls, falling into heavy, deep sleep.

If you'd like to be added to my taglist, send me a message! If you'd like to read the full novel, you can find the link to it on the bottom of my masterlist.

#dragons #romantasy #aneternalhope #bookblr #drakablodsogur #elainapendragon #fantasy #dragonriders #norse mythology #vikings

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elainapendragon · 18 days

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An Eternal Hope: Hard Decisions

Summary: Recently freed from thralldom, Valdyrbjalla and her family long for freedom; and now, after two years of hard labor, they may finally have their opportunity in a competition hosted by none other than the legendary elf general Keifdel Drakonsson and his dragon Vedthrelta-- the only issue is getting their mother's blessing...

Rating: 18+

Trigger warnings: Mentions of death, battle, wounds, slavery, dealing with past trauma, fear of torture/capture, let me know if I missed anything!

Refer to the pronunciation guide or send me a message if you have any questions!

As soon as the working part of the day was over, Grandpapa and I headed straight for the shop where Ma and Nana worked, after bidding Byardölf and Myennr goodnight. I was practically skipping; somewhere between a mace and a sword, I had made up my mind, regardless of the risks. I want this. Hel, I’d probably try to go even if Alf and Jarl didn’t want to, which I thought was safe to say that it was highly unlikely they wouldn’t want to.

The two older women walked out of the dirty, sandy doors right before we reached them. I meant to have self-control, but I just couldn’t help myself, my legs carrying me over to her before I realized what was happening. “About that competition…”

“Wow,” Came a voice, unsurprised and annoyed. I turned to see Alf leaning against the slimy corner of the building in waiting, she and her old clothes covered from head to toe in stable dust. Her work clothes once had been a simple shirt and trousers, but after two years had become a maze of sewn patches and fraying threads. I noticed a new tear in her haphazard boots, and briefly wondered how we’d fix that this time. She tossed a few strands of thick golden hair out of her face as she rebraided it. “You wasted no time with that, did you?”

Without question, Alf was in charge of us triplets, even though she was the youngest of us by a few minutes. Her shimmering golden hair fell down to her waist, and her eyes often changed from sapphire blue to a stormy gray. Whereas I was thin and frail, she was athletic and tough, her porcelain skin free of any mars or scars. Maybe she was considered the leader because of her temper, which was tough for anyone to handle when it was fired up– especially if she were challenged.

Pointedly, I locked eyes with her and held a very serious, firm expression. “No. No I could not.”

Nana slowly shook her head with amusement as she passed me to get to Grandpapa. She was the one who always remained calm, no matter the situation. I don’t think I’d ever seen her angry, even once. The End Times could come again and she’d still be sweet and perfect and calm. Her and Grandpapa were extremely close; as soon as she reached my grandfather, he warmly wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her ruby-haired head; these times were harder on them than the rest of us, I knew. They’d been in retirement when we were taken as thralls. They hadn’t had many days together since.

Ma raised her hands as if to brace herself for whatever pleading and begging she thought would inevitably come to pass. “I’ll think about it… I’ll give the three of you my answer in the morning.” Her sea-green eyes were full of concern, voice filled with a melancholy undertone, half-smile clearly forced– for a mother, it would be an easy choice to make. No. But we’d just turned sixteen in the middle of last winter, now considered full-fledged young adults. We could technically make our own decisions… and that was where her worry came in. She knew that we would listen to her word, but she also knew that if we really wanted to, we could leave anyway. She also didn’t want us to follow her wishes and decline to go, because then we would be miserable.

Ma had given her answer for the moment, though, so I slumped over and heaved an overly-dramatic sigh. “Fine…”

The six of us trekked back to the Skídbladnír through the eerily quiet streets of Izana; as soon as night fell, the locals always hid themselves away, leaving the city silent and empty, save for the occasional tavern here and there. Crooked dark alleyways yawned widely on either side of us, where odd sounds echoed from seemingly vacant corridors– only the homeless and rodents, but it still put us on edge. We treaded carefully through the more moonslit streets, warily looking out for anything suspicious that could end with a sword in somebody’s gut.

When we reached our ship (a much smaller version of a longship, built to be worked by only a few people), Jarnir was snoring loudly near the aft, while Jarl was trying to practice swordfighting on invisible enemies. His thrusts and swings were powerful, but the sword kept slipping or flying out of his grasp, coming dangerously close to flying off the edge of the ship, or impaling poor Jarnir in his sleep.

As soon as he saw us coming, Jarl sheathed the sword and vaulted over the edge of the ship. The rickety dock shook dangerously under the impact of his weight, rocking back and forth violently on its thin stilts in silt and mud as he bolted up to us with a huge dumb smile on his face. He was barely able to come to a halt in front of us without careening over the edge and into the dirty water lapping at the shore. “So–”

Alf interrupted him with a rough smack to his chest. “Seriously? You too, Jarl? Give her a minute, would you?”

Childishly, Jarl stuck his tongue out at her. Ma patted his arm in reassurance as she walked by him toward the ship. “I’ll give the three of you my answer in the morning.” Grandpapa and Nana watched on with worry and followed Ma around us. Maybe they’d help explain all the reasons we should go, or maybe they’d add to the accompanying reasons of why we most definitely should not. Or maybe both.

Jarl, on the other hand, reacted to Ma’s words by throwing his head back and crying out, “Oh, come on!” He went ignored, however; but not by Alf and I, who snickered at him.

“What if Ma does say yes?” Alf asked quietly after a moment. Her gold eyebrows were knit together with concern. It wasn’t like her to be so quiet; us triplets hung back as the older family members kept on a steady course for dinner. “Will we even be able to do it? We’re not the healthiest bunch.”

Jarl crossed his huge arms over his chest and considered her words for a moment. “I read the details of that flier a hundred times over. I guess Drakonsson’s got some kinda training program for people like us.” The implications, we all knew and understood. Ten years of constant stress, starvation, and less than favorable living conditions takes a serious toll on the body. We were out of shape, unable to handle much labor, exertion, or lifting something heavy, or even the simple act of going up stairs was difficult without getting winded. I doubted I’d be able to lift a sword, let alone actually swing it.

“Yeah, I read that,” Alf nodded in agreement, and I wondered why I didn’t read the details, “But even if we make it through that, what about… what if we lose? There’s no way to ask questions from here; we can’t know for sure even if there was that they won’t just haul off the rogues and pirates back to their slaveholders.”

“No,” Jarl answered, shrugging a bit, “But we should take the risk. Seeing the world, learning to fight, having adventures…” A smile slowly grew on his face as he looked out over the ocean wistfully. “Not many people get to do that. I heard the average human hardly sees anything spectacular but the Worldtrees outside of his hometown. Have any of us ever seen a gryphyn? No. What else would we see on a journey like this? Hel, we’ll get a chance to learn from Keifdel Drakonsson himself. We should do it.” His confidence– and his positive outlook on literally everything– was admirable, but annoying.

I shook my head, but it was Alf who responded. “I just don’t know if an adventure like that is worth risking getting imprisoned for the rest of our lives… or worse.” If we went back to the duke, we would surely be tortured…

Jarl only scoffed, trying to play off the threat. “Let’s follow Ma’s example: let’s think about it tomorrow.” Following him, we went back to the ship.

I was dreaming of a beautiful white embrace of light.

A gentle voice was lulling me to an even deeper sleep with a song that I couldn’t understand. There was a fresh spring breeze in the air, and I could see the silhouette of a man hovering over me, though I couldn’t see his face.

However gently, I was pulled out of the dream by someone shaking my shoulder; I found myself in reality far too soon, and stared at Ma with glazed-over eyes. She hovered over me for a moment, concerned. “You alright?”

“Ma,” I croaked, trying to relieve her worry, “I had that dream again.” I’d had this dream for as long as I could remember, and quite often. Ma speculated that it’s a memory of our father.

A shadow crossed over her face, one I knew well. She always got that look when we mentioned him. It was grief, we all knew it, but I doubt I’d ever seen her cry longer than a few minutes about it. “Get up; breakfast is ready.”

Ma headed for the cooking pot at the fore of the ship without another word, and that was the end of talking about my dream. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, trying to pull myself fully from the warm embrace of sleep. After I noticed, I realized that Grandpapa, Nana, and Jarnir were nowhere in sight. Jarl leaned up against the spine of the figurehead, wolfing down his food like he thought it was going to run away. Beside him, Alf ate more slowly, reading one of the few books we owned; it merely told the ancient stories of the Old Gods. It had been a Yulemas gift– the only one we’d ever gotten– from Byardölf and Myennr last year. It had kept Alf and I from being bored so many times in the last two years; Jarl didn’t really care for it, preferring to spend his time practicing swordsmanship and exercising.

I got up at a snail’s pace and rolled up my bedroll before ambling over to join them with my eyes half-open. I tried– really, I did– to keep from asking any questions, but I couldn’t help myself. “So…” I tried desperately to sound casual, clearing my throat softly. “...About the competition…”

Ma sighed heavily and handed me my plate before I could grab it. “I’ll be thinking about it over the next three days.” My heart sank. “Whether I say yes or not, we have to go back home and pay the rent. I’ll decide then.”

Jarl shrugged, somehow entirely confident she’d say yes. Alf looked a little relieved, actually; I wasn’t sure how I felt– three days to think about it more thoroughly might knock some sense into my head, but I’d already decided.

I wanted to see the Worldtree up close and personal. I wanted to get in a rickety basket held by a gryphyn. I wanted to go to Vanaheimr, our birthplace, and see if I remembered how green and calm it was correctly. I wanted to fight a bunch of monsters in the name of glory and freedom. I wanted to meet Keifdel Drakonsson, the light elven general of the Drekivörðr and his huge gray dragon, Vedthrelta– they were my heroes. I can’t remember how many times I’d stayed up reading by a singular candle stories of their bravery, amazed that they were real and true legends come to life; and I’m living in the same age as they are!

I imagined myself meeting them– a tall elven warrior clad in red leather armor, and his massive companion who would shake the skies with a roar like thunder. My mind wandered, to far off places meeting far off people… Until Alf quite literally kicked me into the real world, jerking her head toward my plate of uneaten food pointedly.

Grandpapa, Nana, and Jarnir all returned just as we were finishing our breakfasts, carrying the coin we’d earned over the last two weeks. “We’ve got enough,” Grandpapa said, relieved, “A little more than enough, actually. Byardölf gave us a bonus.” He swung the bag off over his shoulder, heaving as it landed by his feet with a dull thud.

There was a collective turn as everyone stared at him in astonishment. It was Ma who spoke, tentatively asking, “How much of a bonus…?”

Grandpapa took from his belt a leather purse that I’d never seen before. “Two hundred coin, that’s how much.” Our excitement must have been clearly written in our expressions, because he added as he inclined his head toward us, “Looks like he wants these kids to go win a name for themselves just as much as they do. Says if we decide to go, to stop by the smithy. He’ll have a sandwalker and carriage waiting for us.”

Us triplets beamed at each other, but Ma was still undecided, worry clouding her features. I felt bad for her; if it were my children, I would respond with a firm no and leave them on Hneflagi until they came to their senses. Stiffly and silently, she took the coin and put it in the chest we kept under some boards near the aft, and she refused to say another word about it for the rest of the day.

It was a three day journey from the docks of Izana to Hneflagi Island, if it was a good day. Thanks to the good weather, we made it there a little earlier than we usually did. We were met by Geirrod, who also lived here; he worked the docks half the time in return for his rent being halved. He was a burly man in iron and leather armor. His beard was long and tattered, matted with dirt– but it wasn’t nearly so bad as his hair, which had become an uncombable dreadlock, or his mangled teeth, which often fell out. Despite appearances, he was friendly, and we had never had any trouble with him. “Aye!” He called, setting down the netting he was repairing as he saw us approach. Jarl and Grandpapa hopped onto the docks to pull the Skídbladnír along, and Geirrod came forward to assist. “Welcome back!”

“It’s good to be back,” Grandpapa replied as Geirrod helped us tie the Skídbladnír down. I felt both relief and tension at being back home.

Hneflagi Island was one of the smallest, and poorest, communities of the Archipelago. Each island had a landlord, and each landlord had his rules– ours was one of the worst. He bathed in the collective coin his tennants gave him once a month, setting up strict rules: no hunting, no one’s late on their payments, no one uses this or that or goes here or there… And if anyone were to break any of these rules, it’s off to the einherjerii. A bunch of hired mercenaries will show up and drag a person off, and they’d never be seen again.

Luckily, judging by Geirrod’s cheerful attitude, he wasn’t around today. With the men taking the heaviest loads of our fresh supplies of food and water, we carried the sacks off the ship and headed inland. A short path, lined with the spare few fish that can be caught in these extremely salty waters hanging out to dry, took us right into the heart of our miniature village, surrounded on all sides by sparse, unhealthy trees. Shaped like a rectangle with one of the ends missing, the halls were set in a clearing and on a hill, overlooking the path. One of them, the end hall, was used for cooking, eating, and celebrating on holidays, while the two longer arms of the building held several small rooms separated by even smaller hallways, thin walls, and creaky doors.

There weren’t many people out today; on this island, most families worked as a whole in one Black Market or another, often leaving for months at a time before being seen again. The only people out today were Magnar and Froddur, an elderly couple who lived with their adult children; Himme, the wife of Nolmar and the mother of the two tiny children who played in the courtyard, home alone while her husband worked in the Niflian Black Market; and Agnes, a young woman who was in her final stages of pregnancy.

We nodded with quiet greetings on our way to our room, entering the little hallway single-file. Our room, like all the others, was just a ten-by-ten block. On one side of the room were seven little cubbies lined up against the wall to hold what little personal belongings we had, adjacent to seven makeshift beds made up of pelts stacked on the floor. Two haphazard frames of sticks held up thin sheets that squared off a section of the room for private changing and bathing. Closest to the doors was our icebox, concealed under the floorboards and accessible via an old iron handle.

It was a tight fit for seven people, but it beats a dank, moldy cell at the bottom of a palace.

Ma and Grandpapa dutifully counted out the eight hundred and fifty coin from what we’d earned this month, while Jarnir unloaded the meats, cheeses, and milk into our icebox; the water and bread went into a different cupboard, set alongside it. Nana left to check on Agnes, and like dogs waiting for strips of bacon, us triplets sat across from Ma and Grandpapa and waited to see what was leftover. My stomach was writhing with a combination of anxiety and excitement. I couldn’t read Grandpapa’s expression as he sat back, once the pile was carefully separated from what was left– about three hundred coin today in total, the most we’d ever made thanks to Byardölf’s bonus.

“Alright…” Ma pushed the pile of savings toward us. “Put that in the chest.” When we didn’t move and just stared at her in waiting, she added with a barely-concealed roll of her eyes, “We’ll talk later.” They hurriedly put the coin for the rent in a sack and left the room, headed to the designated lean-to where rent was marked and laid out for the landlord’s inevitable return. The size of the piles of coin-sacks in there was absurdly ridiculous.

Jarl locked the door behind them, and we pried up the floorboards. Everybody hid their savings this way; if the landlord got word of us having more than we needed, he’d take it for himself forcibly. He’d done it to poor Himme and Nolmar just a couple of months ago, and after finding theirs hidden in a mattress made of sheepskin and goosefeathers, ransacked everyone else’s quarters; luckily, he was too stupid to check beneath the floorboards. Everyone had donated to them a bit in secret to help with what we could, but nobody could do much for them. We stuffed the coin inside the old chest and replaced the floorboards, padded on the underside so that it didn’t sound so different from the rest of the floor when inspection time came around– just in case.

When it was all said and done, I went to my own personal cupboard, taking the key from its place around my neck to unlock it. Inside wasn’t a lot: a couple of dragon figurines I’d made shifted out of driftwood and one old book about Keifdel Drakonsson and Vedthrelta on their numerous heroic exploits. Out of habit, I immediately grabbed it. “I’ll be at my spot if anyone needs me.”

“Guess what?” Jarl scoffed with laughter, “Absolutely no one cares.”

Alf gave me a shove out the door. “Get out, idiot.”

With a snort, I went down the hall and outside. My spot was really just a place a little away from the halls, hidden behind some underbrush and perched on the huge arching root of an oak where I could hear only the cry of the seabirds and the crash of the ocean against the shore down below a couple of sandy ridges. It wasn’t exactly private, or mine, but no one really invaded anyone’s space on this island, so I felt comfortable reading there, knowing I wouldn’t be bothered.

The root was a little higher than my hips, so it took me a bit of effort to climb on top of it, but once I did, I sat down with my back against it, treating it like a hammock. I flipped the book over carefully in my hands for a moment, just admiring it; it was old, and battered. It had been Myennr’s once, but she had given it to me when she realized how much I loved dragons and how fascinated I was with the elves; and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Before it, I’d only known about Drakonsson and Vedthrelta through Ma’s stories, which she had heard from Grandpapa. With this book– meant for children, between the ages of ten and twelve, unfortunately– I’d gotten my first glimpse of what they really looked like, and more tales of adventures than I could ever dream of. The pictures showcased lovingly-painted landscapes of his homeland, Alfheimr, the Sky Isle which looms so high overhead; they depicted scenes where Drakonsson fought his way out of a goblin stronghold, where he and Vedthrelta battled basilisks in some far-off lands, or when both dragon and rider opted for diplomacy rather than violence when orc troops had been trying to invade Valhöll.

The images showed me full-color portraits of Drakonsson and Vedthrelta: the former, a noble light elf with striking orange eyes, features like a hawk, and long dark hair, unusual for a light elf; the latter, a sixty-foot tall, one-hundred-foot long reptile with a crown of bony frill decorated with horns framing a great head like that of a rhinoceros, which sat upon a long, thick neck. Both were scarred from a long life of battles and skirmishes, and over six hundred years old. Drakonsson utilized astounding magic spells that glowed like yellow lightning and used a long, elvish blade of pure silver, while Vedthrelta’s roar was said to be able to bring whole armies to their knees.

“Valdyrbjalla,” Ma’s voice broke into my admiration of my heroes, and I almost fell off the root when I jumped. I made a surprisingly quick save and turned to face her as she approached, clearly worried.

“Hi!” I chirped cheerfully, hoping to curb her concerns with some eagerness on my part, “Come to any final decision about the competition yet?”

She came closer without answering me. After just staring over the ocean like she was debating on what to say, her eyes landed on the book about Drakonsson. Slowly, she took it from my hands, carefully flipping through it so as not to crack the old pages. She lingered on a picture where Drakonsson stood consulting with an orc chieftain, wearing his full red leather armor and peacefully attempting to negotiate while the threat of Vedthrelta loomed overhead, less than pleased. It was one of my favorites. “...You do realize what they’re asking you to do, right?”

“Huh?” Her sharp sea eyes met mine. “The competition. You realize you’re going to have to go into those arenas, to fight and kill, right? Injure, maim, and end the lives of living creatures caught from the wild, sometimes innocent, solely for this purpose?”

I thought about that for a second. Ma– and everyone else, actually– knew how unfortunately gentle I am. I feel bad for even smashing the occasional bug that snuck into our room. I knew these monsters were probably mostly caught after causing damage and harm, but some were probably just examples of how monstrous the species could be.

But, I also knew how Drakonsson and Vedthrelta were, if anything from the books was correct. They detested needless violence and sought to make peaceful arrangements even in the worst of situations. I’m sure he wouldn’t throw a bunch of kids into an arena to kill an innocent creature. I also knew that, if I were fighting for my freedom, and my family’s freedom… I knew I could do what needed to be done. A chance to live instead of survive. A chance to be free. A chance to become someone great. A chance to become a dragonrider. A chance to have even just my own room, all to myself. We’ve had enough of this life. We deserve better. Or at least, we deserve what was taken from us.

So with steel resolve, I looked up to meet her eyes again. “...Yeah, Ma. I understand.”

She frowned. “And you think you’ll be able to do it?”

My vote toward our uncertain fate would be counted right here, right now. This could mean everything. A heavy weight seemed to sit on my shoulders as I nodded firmly, as if to convince myself that my actions were just. “Yes. I do.”

She held my gaze for a moment, probably searching for some scrap of doubt or worry that she could latch onto and expose in the hopes of keeping us from this reckless danger. I gave her nothing, keeping my will steady. “You’ve thought this through carefully? You’re sure you want to do this?”

After a deep breath, I released it with a breezy, “Yeah.” I hurriedly added, “This is what I want. I know we’re fine as we are, but it’s a chance to see the world, and be completely free, even if just for a little while. We’ll win honor, that way even if we spend the rest of our lives here, we might go to Valhalla when we die. We’ll see and do so many things we wouldn’t otherwise be able to… This is a chance we’ll never have again.”

Tears pricked at her eyes as she looked back down at the book’s pages. “...You know what will happen if you lose, right? They could send you straight back to the duke’s. You think you’ll escape a second time?”

My spine stiffened. She was right; there was a very good possibility of that, and there was no doubt that we would be locked away. I still had nightmares about being captured again. But… “I don’t think Drakonsson would let that happen. He doesn’t agree with slaves; I’m sure he’d send us all back here rather than to our former captors.” I hope…

Ma smiled softly, eyes clouded as she regarded me with a frown that clearly stated she was thinking of how young and naive I still am. “You put an awful lot of faith in words on a page, Valdyrbjalla.” She waved the book around for emphasis. “Even if it is a supposed hero.”

“I didn’t say he was a hero,” I countered, grinning, “You did. You raised me to believe in Drakonsson and Vedthrelta more than anything else.”

Her frown deepened, and as she squeezed her eyes shut I realized that she was fighting back sobs. “So I did…”

I abandoned the comfort of the root and came to give her a tight embrace. “Whatever happens, it’s meant to happen. I feel like we should do this; like we can do this. I know we probably won’t win, but we’ll make names for ourselves in any case. This is something I know we can do; and… If we are captured, and the worst does happen… I’m sure we could escape, and find our way back here. By that point, we’ll have been trained by Drakonsson himself. We’ll be fine.”

Actually, I wasn’t so sure about that myself, but I had to assure her otherwise. I want to go to this competition. I wasn’t thinking about the prize– or, maybe I was, a little. On the off chance that we did win, we’d get to go to the most prestigious, well-known academy in all the Eight Worlds of Valhöll. We’d be trained and educated on whatever subject we wanted– I’d get my dragon. The mysterious outline of a dragon had been in my daydreams for as long as I could remember, an unattainable fantasy.

But most importantly, we’d be free. Free to go and do whatever we wanted to without living in constant fear of being recaptured or sent to prison. I think, once we actually got in the arenas, we’d be so determined to win our freedom that even without Drakonsson’s training, we’d fight pretty damn hard for it.

She pulled back, wiping tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “You don’t know that…”

“No, I don’t,” My admittance was met by an already-grieving sea-green gaze sharply locking on mine. I swung back on my heels, trying to act as nonchalant as possible for her sake. “...But I’m willing to try.”

Ma started crying harder, and I hugged her again, unsure of what else to do. Her grip was tight enough to leave me breathless– I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I couldn’t breathe. “You have to listen to me; do you understand? You stay with your brother and sister. And if you’re not going to be kept together, you don’t go anyway. Do you understand?”

Relief flooded through me, but also guilt; how could we leave her like this? How could we willingly hurl ourselves into danger when we knew it would worry her nearly to death? Because… If we win… We’ll free us all. “Yeah, Ma; I understand.”

She stepped back, trying to regain control over herself. She took a deep, difficult breath. “I think… I think you’re right. I… A part of me trusts Drakonsson to get you back here safely– if the stories are true about him. Another part is terrified of what might happen anyway, out of his control.” Her eyes seemed to pierce through me. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. If you don’t go, you’ll never get this chance again, and I can’t let that happen. You have to go; I’ve already talked to Alfhildr and Jarl, and they both said the same thing. That you’re confident, and that you all want this. You’re all sixteen now… You have the right to make this decision yourself. But…” She stuck her tongue into the back corner of her mouth, shifting her jaw as she struggled to keep from bawling. “I’ve already made them promise– now you have to, too. Promise me, Valdyrbjalla, the first wind you get of anyone being sent back to their captors or to the dungeons, you three take. Off. I don’t care where you are or how deep into the competition you’ve gotten, I want you out of there at the first sign of it. Do you understand?”

It was the least any of us could do with where we were going. That terrifying uncertainty that persisted in looming over everything obsessively suddenly seemed a lot more real and dangerous than ever before. “I promise, Ma.”

Regret and relief clashed almost painfully in her eyes, and she turned away before I could see more. “Then… if you keep those two promises… if you really want to go, you can.” The words were difficult for her to stomach. She sounded almost ill.

For a minute, we just stood there, staring out over the endless blue-green seas that seemed to merge with the sky at the horizon. With a mind of their own, they tickled the white sands of the shore before retreating in on themselves with a laugh lost to time. The shore remained blind to its efforts, though little by little, was stripped away of itself and taken somewhere far off. Seabirds cawed lazily overhead, blind to our conflicts, carried on the same wind that stirred the branches into their own kind of music. As a kind of security, I held onto Ma’s arm with one hand and my book with the other, holding it to my chest. What will we do without her? Without this comfort or security? That unknowable lingering overhead? What will we do?

“...Thank you, Ma.”

I was simply glad we were going with her blessing, rather than against her wishes. Stiffly, she nodded and turned away, back to the halls. “We’ll set off for Izana tomorrow; you should sign the contract on the way to the Worldtree, it will give you more time.”

I tugged on her arm, making her look at me. Despite the tears pricking the corners of her eyes, I still said what I needed to, although I was sure it would only make her cry more. “...You know we’ll always come back to you, right? No matter what happens?”

She all but burst into tears. “Oh, Valdyrbjalla…” Her arms locked around me in a bone-breaking mother’s hold, and after a moment of sobbing into my shoulder, she composed herself and stepped back, wiping her face. “Let’s hurry back. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

I linked arms with her, and we went back up the hill together.

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elainapendragon · 2 months

Text

An Eternal Hope: Flier of Fate

Summary: Recently freed from a lifetime of thralldom, young Valdyrbjalla is eager to earn her freedom as she works in the Pirate Archipelago alongside her family. Thankfully, her friend Jarnir may have just found the key to doing so...

Rating: 18+

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death, battles, necromancy (?), slavery, dealing with past trauma, PTSD (?), fear of torture, let me know if I missed anything!

Refer to the pronunciation guide if you have any questions!

The deafening sounds of metal-on-metal filled the air. The Main Square of the Svartl Black Market, Izana, was full of conversation and bargaining. Women calculated how to buy food, or clothes, clutching skinny children or chastising them if they tried to scurry off without permission as they hurried from trader-to-trader. Young men, most of them eldest sons, guarded their families closely, grim-faced as they surveyed their surroundings with their hands prepared to brandish a sword or axe. The husbands of these families were closeby, working various jobs for various trades throughout Izana, doing what they could to provide those few coin for their struggling families. In this part of Valhöll, life was hard, and cruel, and it was every man for himself. The people who lived within or worked in Izana were mercenaries, rogues, pirates, criminals, poachers, opportunist traders and merchants; anyone and everyone who was on the run from the law could find a safe haven here.

Stands and booths with old weathered flags of all colors were set up around the stagnant fountain, which smelled of must and mold even three blocks away. The merchants had on display various wares such as foods, rustic handwoven clothes, modest jewelry, or weapons fashioned from whatever could be scavenged. Looming over the Main Square were old, rickety gray buildings with failing black shingles, sparkling with hundreds of years of sand blowing into their cracks and crevices from the black desert of Svartalfheimr. Their wood was rotted, their walls bowing, and each and every one of them threatened to collapse if the wind blew too hard. These buildings were mainly shops, but inside one or two were rowdy taverns to house civilians or traveling merchants.

The people of Izana were as harsh and unforgiving as the habitat in which they lived: rogues, mercenaries, pirates, criminals, poachers, opportunist traders and merchants, even jewel thieves– anyone who was on the run from the law resided and worked in the Black Market. The einherjerii and the royals who commanded them all knew of Izana’s presence, but its location had been hidden long ago by wizards who feared for the safety of the children in Izana. If any approached with intent to do harm to anyone in the Black Market, an impenetrable fog would appear, hindering all progress. Any who dared to venture near enough quickly turned back when they saw the graveyard of Svartl Army and Royal Einherjerii ships scattered throughout the surrounding waters. For now, the location of Izana had the security of being hidden.

A few children occupied themselves by crowding by the smithy, watching my grandfather, Fjörr, and our employer Byardölf, a dark elf, forge weapons and tools from ingots of steel and iron. Down the street, our close friend Jarnir and my sister Alfhildr were hard at work as an ostler and a groom at the only stable in town. On the other side of the circular marketplace across from us, my mother Rúnhildr and my grandmother Hildegardr were helping a sweet old dark she-elf named Lesnir make tapestries, rugs, and jewelry. Outside of Izana entirely, my brother Jarl remained with our small longship, the Skídbladnír. With him was our only sword, as it was up to him to ensure the safety of our ship and belongings. It had our coin from our last few weeks of work, our clothes and food, and the ship itself was in near-perfect condition. Too many bandits and pirates would try to steal it for themselves were it left unguarded; but there were no strong alliances in this place to form a formidable group, and few would take on a man with a brand-new sword when the blade might very well shatter their dull ones, or cause an injury which, in Izana, would almost always go untreated. It was up to the gods if you survived a wound here. The risk of an inglorious death by infection wasn’t on anyone’s itinerary.

For the last two years, we had worked every day from early-morning to mid-evening, slept on our ship, then repeated the process all over again the next day. Every month, we had one week off. We would take that time to sail to our small home on Hneflagi Island, have a day to rest, then return to Izana and our jobs. It was all to survive: coin to stock up on food and rent for the harsh winter months when the waters of the Pirate Archipelago and the northern shores of Valhöll would freeze over– nobody dared to sail during that time.

It took nearly all of our coin just to pay for the rent on Hneflagi. When the Pirate Archipelago had first been established, it was a safe haven for escaped slaves, rogues, and criminals of all kinds. People homesteaded off the land and built small cabins, hunting and fishing– but it fell prey to greedy jarls who claimed islands as their own, from various parts of Valhöll, showing off titles and deeds to wild lands and therefore claiming also the people as their own. Those who escaped thralldom were, once again, enslaved, if not as under poor conditions. Hunting, fishing, and growing crops was not permitted, punishable by return– a term used to mean either return to one’s previous life, previous owner, or to the einherjerii. I myself had witnessed several people, especially during the winter time, break a rule set by our jarl and be taken away. The archipelago wasn’t protected by a magical veil like Izana was. It was all too easy to get captured, and living within the walls of Izana was far too expensive. Our jarl demanded an obscene amount of coin every month in order for us to live there, even though it was simply a ten-by-ten room with eight sleeping rolls and eight little cubbies for what few belongings we possessed, one of many units within a large hall designed only for sleeping in at night.

Wodensdäg was the only day of the week where we could sit and rest. A good portion of the day most people spent in worship of the Old Gods such as Odin and Thor, while some still, even after their unfairness, preached of Baldr and his following Æsír. We, however, did neither, resentful toward the New Æsír for their handling of the slave issue across Valhöll that we had fallen victim to, and none of us felt that praying to gods long dead would solve anything. So we slept and ate, regaining our strength. Without that single break in a long week of hard labor, I doubt that any of us would have made it these last two years.

I often wondered what it was like to live free. To have a home somewhere, with actual rooms and windows and places for us to put real beds, real tables and chairs and decorations. Maybe a large yard with a garden, but at this point, I would settle for a small house in the bustling city. I wondered what it was like to not feel worried over if we would lose our home, or where our next meal would come from. I was tired of feeling the difference between surviving and living, we all were. But there was not much we could do about it; our freedom was ridiculously priced, solely for the purpose of keeping us in a form of shackles forever. In order to be free, we would either have to live as rogues and risk getting caught more easily, or leave Valhöll entirely, and we didn’t have the resources to do that either.

My mind drifted to far-off places as I worked, exploring vast wilderness I’d only read about from a bird’s eye view as a way of escaping the thick, charred air of the smithy. No one could come close enough to me to watch me work, Byardölf had seen to that personally. Izana’s only smithy did noble regalia for lords and ladies miles in any given direction, even if they didn’t know it, and if anything tarnished his reputation, he would lose business– so my concentration on carving designs into the leather of grips and sheaths had to be undisturbed.

I had my own personal workshop, set toward the back of Byardölf’s open smithy by the wall of his house. A long stone table was before me where I could set up various tools and lay even a greatsword down to tend to its handle, adding a secure grip and any designs requested. The weapons came from people who came to Byardölf asking for repairs, or new designs to be added, and that was the majority of what we did here: repair and replacement. Only rarely were brand-new weapons made, as no one could afford the obscene costs of the materials.

That was why today, it was so crowded with observers.

They were forging a new weapon.

It was only an axe, but that didn’t stop anyone from being impressed. Especially the children. The process had taken place over the course of the last several hours, and the people of Izana had watched from the melting of the iron ingots to the first hammer blow and everything beyond. Now, it was nearly finished as Grandpapa plunged the red-hot woodcutter’s axe blade into a barrel of oil, quenching its fire. After a few moments, he removed it and gently eased it into the furnace, ensuring that the blade was evenly treated before bringing it back to the anvil. On the opposite side of the smithy, Byardölf’s dark gray face was set with concentration as he sharpened a dagger to perfection on the grindstone– his work was repair work. I had seen that dagger a million times by now, always returning to sharpen dull edges. I often wondered what the owner used it for, and so carelessly, and how the blade had not been reduced to a thin needle by this point.

The heat of the forge and the midday desert sun baking the cobblestones made it even hotter inside of the smithy, underneath the overhanging roof and surrounded by fire, smoke, and ash. The air was thick and hard to breathe, nearly choking. My eyes stung and burned like they did every day, watering so badly I kept a dry rag by my side to dab them, only using the inside as the outside was covered in a layer of soot and grime. Strands of my pitch hair were stuck to my forehead, my skin so soaked with sweat that my clothes dripped and reeked of it, plastered to my body uncomfortably.

One mistake with my fingers– slightly swollen and red as my heart struggled to pump blood in this sweltering heat, pounding in my wrists and legs and neck and head all at once– and my tool slipped out of my slick grasp, falling quickly to the floor with a clatter of metal that was thankfully inaudible, cloaked by the sounds of butchered conversations and the grindstone chipping away at the dull edges of a steel blade, muted by the gentle taps of Grandpapa’s hammer to the axe. The failure to properly hold the weapon made me frustrated, and a half-stifled huff burst from my chest before I could stop it. Byardölf glanced at me, his sharp elven hearing catching my irritation as well as the noise of the tool falling, but paid neither any mind and went back to his work. I tried to move as little as possible when reaching for it, grimacing as my thin clothes clung to me without any slack. With exaggerated care, I sat the tool on the desk before tugging and pulling at my shirt until it had released its death-grip on me. I barely stifled a grunt of frustration, and Byardölf turned to raise a thin eyebrow at me meaningfully, his white-on-black eyes boring into mine with a message I didn’t miss.

Byardölf typically didn’t like people showing irritation in his smithy. “If you’ve got to let off steam, go to the back of the house and ensure nobody sees you.” Showing frustration could let people get the wrong ideas– if you’re angry with the work and with yourself, then how well will the job be completed? It also shows the public incompetence and childish responses to an important job that needs to be done well. Even working here for two years, however, I’m still considered an apprentice, so repercussions wouldn’t be as severe as they would be if, say, Grandpapa threw a half-finished sword out of anger. The worst punishment I might get is scrubbing the whole smithy free of soot with a toothbrush (which is an exaggeration, I hope; I’ve heard Byardölf threaten such a thing, but he’s never actually forced me to do it).

I lifted my hand a bit in acknowledgement, letting my frustration slip away with a slow exhale. Byardölf nodded appreciatively and went back to his own work. Heaving a sigh, I did the same, leaning down close to the strip of leather I’d been working on, my nose practically touching it as my eyes struggled to focus. The design that had been requested for this particular piece was a symmetrical knotted rope design on a backdrop of triangles– it was difficult for me to draw the stupidly straight lines required, and my hands would barely work now from how long I had been straining them. They felt numb, like they’d just turned to jelly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw skirts and a ruff of lace. It caught my attention immediately and I quickly looked up, smiling as I saw Byardölf’s wife, Myennr. She wore a lavender dress with white faux-silk lace, her pitch black hair drawn up in an elaborate dark elf style that was adorned with glass beads in a variety of light purples and whites to match her attire. She returned the smile warmly, holding a well-crafted tray that Byardölf had made. Balanced on it were three pottery cups, and beside it, a plateful of freshly-cut cubes of cheese. It wasn’t much, but at least it wasn’t chewy, stale bread, or horse, or camel, or sandwalker steak– I swear, I’ll never eat sandwalker again. The stringy white legs twitching on its roasted body had made me so queasy that I couldn’t bear to even be near it.

Myennr couldn’t get everyone’s attention without yelling very loudly to be heard, so she took a few more steps toward the forge to get the attention of the toiling blacksmiths. Grandpapa saw her first, and with a warm smile, he paused only briefly enough to snatch a handful of cheese and shove it in his mouth, washing it down with a loud swig of water. The crowd of children dispersed as they realized that it was time for lunch, thankfully giving us our privacy.

Byardölf looked up, alerted by the sudden silence of the forge and by the departing crowd, swiveling his head in confusion. He glanced over his shoulder to see what had caused the commotion, then quickly turned back to the blade and grindstone before he accidentally sharpened his finger– we’d been here for two years, and so far, I hadn’t seen a smithing accident yet. I had to fight a shudder at the thought of tearing flesh and bone splattering all over the forge.

In his thick dark elven accent, Byardölf said, “Give me just a moment, my darling! This blade is almost perfect!”

Myennr rolled her eyes at her husband’s antics. The smithy’s cacophony of sounds had calmed significantly compared to what it had been as the grindstone slowly halted, allowing for only the hollow clank of the iron mallet on the red-hot steel. She turned her attention on me– she always doted on me, fearing the smithy was no place for a girl my age. It was an excellent place for me, actually. I didn’t mind the soot, bruises, cuts, or crushed fingertips that sometimes accompanied the job. “How is it coming with your end of the work, dear?” Her accent wasn’t as easy to understand as Byardölf’s. Whereas he had learned to speak Valhöllian fluently many decades ago and had kept it a part of his daily language, Myennr had only recently learned it, comparatively. She wasn’t extremely difficult to understand, but there were some times when she lapsed into Dark Elven in the middle of a sentence.

I shrugged, making a face. “I don’t know, Myennr…” I chuckled a little to myself, subtly trying to cover my half-finished designs– I’m usually better than the sorry excuse that lay before me on the unfinished grip, barely clinging to the hilt by thin straps of leather.

Myennr laughed softly, patting my head with a dainty smile that bunched up the apples of her cheeks, pushing her eyes into a squint. “I’m sure you’re doing fine, dear.”

Humbled by her faith in me, I nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Myennr.”

Byardölf stood then, dusting fine shavings of metal off of his pants with an old leather glove. He held up his repaired dagger proudly, a huge grin on his face as he watched the sun glint off of its fine edges– it was a prime example of the unmatched dark elven craftsmanship. The curved blade was wickedly sharp, perfect for cutting just about anything. Its newly-polished crossguard was practically blinding when it caught the light, twisting asymmetrically. It was a ceremonial dagger, one that you now couldn’t tell had been crushed underneath a longship. “Perfect, if I do say so myself!”

When prompted by Grandpapa’s outstretched hand, Byardölf eagerly passed the knife to him. Quickly, so as not to lose the shape of the axe, Grandpapa tested its sharpness with a quick swipe to his thumb; he hardly needed to graze it across his skin to leave a mark. He chuckled as he saw that the blade had made a clean, easy cut, then handed it back to Byardölf, wiping the blood from his thumb onto his apron and very clearly impressed. “You go right ahead and say it! That blade is possibly the finest you’ve done yet!”

Without asking, Byardölf passed the blade to me also– always, he treated me like a regular blacksmith, valuing my opinion as much as my grandfather’s despite my lack of experience. Without questions, I took it, excitedly admiring its sleek, shining form. But, without a proper grip, and with how sweaty my palms were, the dagger slipped backward out of my hand and cut my left palm clean open when I attempted to catch it. White-hot pain shot up my arm, starbursting from my hand. My fingers went numb immediately. Blood flooded freely from the wound, staining the sooty ground a sluggish black. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Well, shit,” I hissed, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. Grandpapa glanced over once to ensure I had all my fingers, and frowned.

It was Byardölf who said, “Oh, dear. Can you still work?”

It was an effort to move my hand; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite close it and make a fist. I always stopped short, the muscles refusing to cooperate. “Not with my left hand. My right is fine.” My face lit on fire with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment because I was so stupid as to try and catch it, anger because we would lose precious coin if Byardölf wouldn’t let me work with this injury.

“Let me see it,” Byardölf ordered gently, and I obliged with a grimace. He took my hands, turning them over and inspecting the damaged one with a deep frown. Unexpectedly, my head snapped to the side, and it took me a second to realize that he’d smacked me upside the head. “Stupid girl! Jhah’ksah! Have you learned nothing? You are lucky I will let you work with that!”

“Yessir,” I mumbled dejectedly, swallowing my embarrassment. Grandpapa looked on and saw him reprimanding me, and I knew he approved of the lecture because, had he not been occupied with the axe, he would have given me much more of an earful. “Th-that’s… Very sharp, Byardölf. Very sharp. I don’t think you need to work on that anymore.”

Byardölf huffed, shoving my hands back toward me. “Do you think sarcasm will make up for the speed you just lost?! Will it heal your hand?!” When I meekly shook my hand, he added, “Then silence yourself!” He gestured to Myennr, exasperated. “Will you patch her up, dear?” She nodded in agreement, and Byardölf collected the blade from the floor to clean it.

Grandpapa sighed and shook his head. “You have to be more careful, Valdyrbjalla. What if that wound gets infected?”

“I’ll keep it clean,” That wasn’t a promise I was sure I could keep. Already, soot was clogging the jagged edges of the gash as it drifted about from the forges, caught on the breeze. If it did become infected, there was a very good chance I could lose my hand. Worry, fear, and nausea settled in my gut, making me a squirming, sick mess as I tried to ignore the sharp throbbing in my arm. I was just glad it wasn’t my right hand, else I wouldn’t have been able to work.

Myennr set her tray down on the most empty edge of the table, then rushed inside to grab the necessary items; I closed my eyes tightly and struggled to focus on anything else but the open flesh, gushing blood, and the pain. I balled up my good fist and pressed my knuckles against my lips, refocusing on the pillar as I willed my stomach to calm. Myennr soon returned with a clean but tattered rag, a flask of alcohol, and a bandage. I squinted hard and tightened my jaw as she poured the stinging liquid onto the cut and made sure it seeped deep into the wound by pulling it apart. A sensation like hot fire erupted in my hand, down to the bone, numbing any feeling except pain. Burning tears sprang to my eyes, a few slipping past my eyelashes and leaving tracks on my ash-stained cheeks. A low grunt and a small flinch were the only signs of discomfort that I allowed myself to show.

As soon as it was over, a combination of the searing pain and the shock had left my arm nearly completely numb. Myennr carefully bandaged my hand and let it rest on my lap, which I thanked her for, because I couldn’t move my arm very well now. “Please try to be more careful with sharp things, won’t you?” I could only nod in response, still in too much shock to say much of anything.

Grandpapa continued his dutiful work on the axe blade, while Byardölf put the dagger, now wrapped neatly in cloth, in a locked chest by the door of his house. That was where he kept all the weapons that were repaired or crafted during the day; he would move them inside before the closing of his shop.

Myennr went back inside the house to tend to her own duties, and we returned to our work. Slowly, realizing that the action was picking back up and our lunch was over, people returned to crowd around the smithy. Though my wound still ached and throbbed, shock caused the pain to lose its edge. I pushed it to the back of my mind and focused, soon nearly forgetting it as I went back to cutting and shaping the leather; although it was much more difficult with only one hand. I had to improvise, using the heavy hilt of one tool to hold the leather down so that I could work on it.

Only a few moments had passed when a loud, drunken shout rang clearly through the smithy: “Hey!”

I nearly cut my good hand when I jumped, scrambling to catch my cutting tool as it tried to leap out of my hands. Grandpapa momentarily paused in shaping the axe, his head snapping up with surprise. Byardölf stopped in the middle of shoveling chips of dark wood into the smelter, trying to find the source of the yell. The three of us scanned the crowd in confusion for a moment, and then Jarnir waltzed into the smithy as if he owned it, swaying as he shoved through the people gathered near.

Byardölf heaved a deep sigh as Grandpapa shook his head, both returning to work irritated by his drunk and dramatic entrance. Jarnir sauntered over to me instead of either of them, knowing he’d have to yell in order for them to hear him well; I was somewhat out of the noise, here toward the back of the smithy. I leaned back, letting out a sigh of my own. Typical Jarnir… This wasn’t the first time that Jarnir’s shown up drunk, and I very much doubted if it would be the last.

“What are doing here, Jarnir?” Involuntarily, my nose wrinkled as the strong stench of rum washed over me when he leaned closer. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. He’d often come into the stables drunk after work, but he’d never left work. “S-shouldn’t you be in the stables?”

Dismissively, he waved a hand, the gesture nearly causing him to fall over. “Bah. Drank too much during lunch.”

Jarnir, unlike the rest of us, was born and raised a pirate. He looked the part– greasy dark hair held back by a dirty bandanna, a worn leather vest over an old tunic, ratty trousers and boots that were barely holding themselves together. This wasn’t out of a lack of coin to buy new, but rather laziness. He had been a pirate all his life and didn’t see personal hygiene the same as we did. He had been captured on the open seas shortly after we were, and soon he became our only friend during our thralldom. Here, he was renowned as one of the worst pirates around, his love for drink hindering even his basic functions. When we had first arrived here, he had been offered several jobs after proving his prowess in a raid, but after getting himself the first of many, many bottles of rum, he was never called upon again. If he were to beat his alcoholism, we could easily make extra coin, but it was a difficult road for him to take.

My eyes widened as the realization struck me that he’d meant that he’d gotten drunk while working. If he lost his job, again, we’d have that much less coin until he could find another. And after trying every place in town and failing to complete basic tasks because of hangovers or drunkenness (or stealing from them outright), it would be very, very difficult. He would have to risk traveling somewhere, and with his lust for drink so strong I doubted he would make it twenty feet through the desert before turning back.

“Did Cedrir fire you?!” My heart was in my throat.

Jarnir snorted– or, he tried to, anyway. It sounded more like he’d just choked. “Hah! No. Wasn’t my fault, see; other stablehands brought in some rum. Couldn’t help meself. Cedrir promised I can still work, s’long’s I can control meself next time.” It took me a moment to process his slurred speech, but when I did, I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I slumped back in my seat, relieved beyond words. We always worked so hard, and earned so little… Our landlord was one of the cruelest in the Archipelago. If the rent wasn’t paid in full, and on time… He had no sense of compassion or empathy. I’d seen on numerous occasions what he’d do, summoning hired sellswords to drag someone to the nearest battalion of einherjerii. Getting taken back is a fate worse than death. “Don’t scare me like that…”

Jarnir mumbled an apology before leaning down to look at the grip of the mace I was working on. After a quick, drunken examination, he smiled proudly and ruffled my hair a bit too roughly, nearly shoving me clean out of my chair. I shoved him off and he swayed drastically, stumbling back a bit. He paid no mind to it, smiling like an idiot. “Yer doin’ good!”

Shaking my head, I turned my focus back to the grip, trying to give him the signal to leave. “I think you should go keep Jarl company on the Skídbladnír, Jarnir…”

Jarnir almost fell over when he nodded. “Aye. But first…” He dug around in his pockets sloppily for a few moments. He took so long, in fact, that I had the time to finish one of the triangles of the design, and I almost forgot what he was doing. Finally, though, he managed to yank out a piece of crumpled paper. Frowning, he examined it with disappointment before his dark eyes flicked to me to gauge my reaction; because apparently, I should have one for the mystery paper that I knew nothing about. “Oops.” With some difficulty, he flattened it out as best as he could and carelessly shoved it in my face. “Take uh look!”

Gingerly, I plucked it out of his hand and turned it over. The paper had fancy writing and blue swirls decorating the edges underneath the framing, which was a pattern of shimmering golden knot designs. When he realized I’d started reading it, Jarnir waved his hands about frantically like I was doing something incredibly wrong. “No no no, so everyone can hear it.”

Stifling a sigh and barely concealing the roll of my eyes, I began to read aloud in the loudest, over-exaggerated story voice that I could muster. “‘Keifdel Drakonsson, renowned Drekivörðr general and Headmaster of Hyveldirin, is hosting a gladiatorial competition that will start in Vanaheimr in two week’s time.’” Pausing, I squinted against the harsh light of the setting sun bouncing off the cobblestones to glare at Jarnir pointedly, shaking the paper a bit for emphasis. “What is this?”

Jarnir only gave me a huge grin, a gold tooth flashing in the firelight of the forge. “Keep readin’.”

Just oblige him, I told myself, so he’ll let you get back to work. Reluctantly, I continued to read, this time unable to hide the irritated shake of my head. “‘All are welcome, including…’” The next words caused me to abruptly stop, my heart in my throat. I reread it a couple of times, excitement bubbling up before I could stop it and making my leap up from my seat with a shout, “‘In-including pirates and rogues!’” My cry alerted Grandpapa, who whipped around briefly before returning to his work when he saw nothing was the matter. Byardölf, however, had been listening the whole time, working the bellows while simultaneously paying attention to what I was reading.

He furrowed his brow. “My, this is the first I’ve heard of any competition that accepts pirates and rogues– and I’ve lived a long while.” Byardölf had never actually told us how old he really was, but his references and quips led us to believe that he was at least six hundred years old, maybe older; his surprise and interest only added to my own.

“‘...B-between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one…’” I finished hurriedly, gripping the paper so tightly it began to rip. The next sentence made me even more excited than the last, and I repeated it with a wild cry of exhilaration. “The entry fee is only fifty coin!” I let out a whooping laugh, my eagerness exploding and wholly ceasing any rational train of thought. “We might be able to…! W-wait…” As Grandpapa, hearing this part, and Byardölf both shook their heads, I realized the issue here. All my hopes smashed themselves to bits on the hard stone of reality, and I shot Jarnir a dejected glare; although really, the fault was mine for getting so excited. “Vanaheimr is an entire month’s journey away, Jarnir. We’d never make it in time.” I thrust the paper at him, frustrated. “Why would you even–”

He dodged my shove and spun his hands in a wheel-like motion, smiling like some goofy kid who’d just been given the keys to all the candy shops in Valhöll. “Keep readin’, Bjalla.”

My tight grip on the paper turned to clenched fists, shredding the edges. I found myself wanting to toss it into the forge; it was too late. What was the point of reading any more? Jarnir hadn’t found the flier in time– none of us had. “Jarnir, there’s no–”

He reached forward and pushed the paper further towards me. “Yes, there ‘s. Trust me.” He tried to wink, and tapped the flier repeatedly. “Just do it.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not–”

Jarnir jabbed a finger at the page. “Look ‘ere, Bjalla, look!” Of course, he was pointing to a part of the paper that I’d already read, so I reluctantly continued from where I left off. “‘In order to ensure all participants arrive on time, they’re required to take…’” My eyes flicked back and forth between the paper and Jarnir’s dumbly pleased face, and I was confused. “Gryphyn-Baskets?”

Gryphyns were beautiful, majestic creatures; ones of legend that few humans were granted the privilege of seeing. With the hind end of a lion and the front end of an eagle, they were roughly fifteen-to-twenty feet long and were the gentlest of creatures, only resorting to violence if it were an absolute must. Because of this, they were tamed long ago and used to carry huge baskets that could hold small groups of people.

But Gryphyn-Baskets were also highly expensive, only getting more expensive the greater the distance was that you wanted to travel. Only the rich got the luxury of such quick transportation; gryphyns were magical in nature, and could travel between worlds in mere days. Not to mention, almost every registered Gryphyn-Basket in all of the Surface Worlds left for their destinations by way of the Worldtrees– it’s a lot easier to take off with a basketful of people from the mid-branches of the spawns of Yggdrasíl that straight off from the ground.

Entrance to those Worldtrees is very strict and secure; rogues or pirates getting in is unheard of. Death or imprisonment are usually the outcomes if anyone is stupid enough to try. I lifted the paper in a half shrug. “What I’m reading is absolute nonsense, Jarnir, this is–”

“By the sands, girl, just keep reading!” It was Byardölf who spouted off, surprising me; I did as I was asked and realized with a jolt that I hadn’t even finished reading the sentence I was on; and that changed my whole understanding of the situation.

“‘Of which all fees are paid for by the hosts in advance!’”

“See what happens when you stop complaining after every pause and see the whole thing through?” Byardölf chuckled, more to himself, with a shake of his head.

I barely heard him. My heart was pounding in my ears, my hands trembling. Only fifty coin. All travel expenses paid. Is this really happening? Do we really have a chance to go? With a shaky voice, I continued reading. “‘Anyone wishing to participate must fill a contract, obtained by stating the specific words, “I, state your name, wish to enter” on the flier you hold; on signing, the contract and the fifty coin placed on its surface will be immediately transported to the hosts and you will be expected to arrive at your closest Worldtree in nine days.

“‘The competition will begin once Sir Drakonsson sees the competitors are fit enough to pose a challenge. Once in motion, the competitors will face the most feared monster of each world in a gladiatorial arena. Blakkr Svartlsson, the most powerful Seiðberendr in all of Valhöll, shall revive anyone who has been killed immediately, and they shall continue onward with their team should they win. There is no real threat of death here.’” It was the prize that made me choke on my own words for a moment, the prize that caused Grandpapa to nearly drop his hammer: “‘Th-the prize for the winning team will be full training at Hyveldirin for any subject they so choose. Additionally, if any of the members of the champions are pirates or rogues, they will be granted their complete freedom and a full pardon, so long as they have never committed a murder.’”

My chest rattled with a shaking inhale. The Svartl Worldtree wasn’t exactly close; but its huge creaking branches could be seen even from here, wreathed in clouds and unearthly large, a soft pink with new spring blossoms that were the size of whole towns. I’m sure, barring any sandstorm, we could hire a sandwalker carriage that could take us straight there in nine days.

The entry fee? The traveling expenses? Hel, even the time period in which to get to the Worldtree? All of them fell nicely into place. It sounded far too good to be true. I let my arms fall to my sides, gazing dumbfounded at Grandpapa and Byardölf. Even if we don’t win… It’s a chance to do– to be– something more…

“What d’ya think?” Jarnir cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds fun, eh? And you three c’n actually join this one too! Worldtree’s less than a week away by wagon. Left for the journey meself to trade those horses of Cedrir’s last summer, y’remember.” I nodded for emphasis; it had been a worrisome trip, as Jarnir’s fence was to meet him in the roots of the tree closest to the entrance, and we were scared that he’d get captured. But the journey had been quick, and that only gave me more hope. Jarnir tapped the paper sloppily for emphasis. “I’m showin’ Alf next, and Rúnhildr and Hildegardr. Poor Jarl’s up last, but only ‘cause he’s standin’ guard on the ol’ Skiddy.” His crude nickname for our precious ship made me visibly cringe. He snatched the paper out of my hand before leaving the smithy, stumbling into a table stacked high with iron and steel ingots on his way out and nearly knocking it over.

Slowly, I looked over at Grandpapa, silently asking him his thoughts on the matter. He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know… Winning honor is one thing, but if you don’t win, they may very well send the three of you back to the duke’s when it’s all over. And with how many contestants there will be, there is a very high chance that you might not succeed.”

Even here, we’re constantly under threat of being returned forcefully. One wrong word or action, and off we go. We barely escaped by the skin of our teeth last time; I doubt we’d be able to pull it off again. If we could win… Hel, even if we didn’t, we’d still have been trained by Keifdel Drakonsson himself. We could gain the skills needed to become excellent sellswords, and earn far more coin than we do now. I was suddenly filled with a surge of determination.

We can do this… Jarl, Alf, and I, we could do this. Even if we didn’t win, we’d have made names for ourselves. We could win honor and glory through battle, just like the old days in the legends. We would see sights we never would otherwise– the Worldtree, gryphyns, dragons, all eight worlds, including the difficult-to-reach Sky Isles that loomed overhead… We would meet our heroes, and be trained by them. The competition itself seemed enough of a prize for me.

What Grandpapa said, though, still rang in my ears. The thought of being returned to the duke, after that lifetime of Hel he’d put us through… he’d surely torture us. We would never survive a second round. Before convincing any of my family that we could do this, I would have to convince myself that it was a risk worth taking first.

My hands were still shaking with excitement as I went back to work.

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elainapendragon · 2 months

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An Atlas of the Worlds of Valhöll

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elainapendragon · 2 months

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Pronunciation Guide:

Drakabloð Sögur: DRAK-ah-BLODTH SOH-gur

Valhöll: VAL-holl

Alfheimr: ALV-hey-MUR

Ljósalfar: LYOS-al-VAR

Dökkalfar: DOCK-al-VAR

Svartalfheimr: SVART-alv-hey-MUR

Svartalfar: SVART-al-VAR

Íssalfar: EES-al-VAR

Jötúnheimr: YOET-oon-hey-MUR

Hýrralfar: HYEER-al-VAR

Múspellheimr: MOOS-pell-hey-MUR

Skögralfar: SKO-gur-al-VAR

Grœnnfell: GROEN-vell

Vanír: VAN-eer

Vanaheimr: VAN-a-hey-MUR

Þokalfar: THOK-al-VAR

Nídavellír: NEE-da-VELL-eer

Nærnin: NAYR-nin

Seiðberendr: SAYDTH-ba-REN-dur

Seiðragaldr: SAYDTH-ra-GAL-dur

Fafnir: FOV-neer

Vaeryn Téhlladen: VAY-rin TAY-la-DEN

Zephysus: ZEH-fi-SUS

Höddgardr: HOD-gar-DUR

Kuningaz Xekaara: KOO-ning-GAHZ za-KAR-ah

Raameshaz: rah-MEH-shaz

Hemaara: HEY-mar-AH

Zou’maal: zoo-MAHL

Ne’daag: NAY-dahg

Tal’mar: tal-MAR

Friðrs: fridth-THURS

Iilr: EEL-urs

Bilfjord Beast: bil-FYORD beest

Skjelkii: SKYEL-key

Fjorlagforað: fyor-LAG-vor-ADTHS

Nornadäg: NORN-uh-DAHG

Súnadäg: SOON-uh-DAHG

Múnadäg: MOON-uh-DAHG

Týrsadäg: TEERS-uh-DAHG

Wodensdäg: WO-dens-DAHG

Thorsadäg: THORS-uh-DAHG

Friggsadäg: FREEGS-uh-DAHG

Niflheimr: NIFL-hey-MUR

Hvergelmír: HVER-gel-MEER

Elivagar: EL-iv-AH-gar

Svöll: SVOL

Gúnnthra: GOON-thra

Fjörm: FYORM

Fimbulthúl: fim-BUL-thool

Slíd: SLEED

Hríd: HREED

Sylg: SILG

Ylg: ILG

Vid: VEED

Leipt: LAYPT

Gjöll: GYOLL

Ginnúngagap: GI-noon-GA-gahp

Ymir: EE-meer

Aurgelmír: ARE-gel-MEER

Audhumla: ODD-hum-LAH

Buri: BUR-ee

Börr: BOR

Bergelmir: BER-gel-MEER

Ask: OSK

Embla: em-BLAH

Sol: SOL

Mani: MAHN-ee

Bil: BEEL

Hjuki: HYOO-kee

Hati: HAH-tee

Sköll: SKOLL

Yggdrasíl: IGG-dra-SEEL

Hraesvelg: HRAYS-velg

Nídhöggr: NEED-hog-UR

Ratatösk: RAT-at-OSK

Modsognir: MOD-sog-NIR

Durin: DUR-in

Æsír: AY-seer

Frey: FRAY

Valfreyja: VAL-frey-YAH

Heimdallr: HEYM-dall-UR

Bïfröst: BIE-frost

Baldr: BAL-dur

Nänna: NAHN-nah

Ragnarök: RAG-nah-ROHK

Fimbulvetr: FIM-bul-VEYTR

Fenrisúlfr: FEN-ris-OOL-fur

Jörmúngandr: YORE-moon-GAHN-dar

Naglfar: NAHGL-var

Vígrid: VEE-grid

Gjállarhorn: GYAE-lar-HORN

Einherjar/Einherjerii: AIN-her-YAR/AIN-her-YAER-ee

Valhalla: VAL-hall-AH

Surtr: SUR-tur

Líf: LEEF

Lífthrasir: LEEF-thray-SEER

Gimlé: gim-LAY

Brimir: BREE-meer

Okolnír: oh-KOL-neer

Sindri: SIN-dree

Nidafjöll: NEED-ah-FYOL

Nastrond: nas-TROND

Drekivörðr: DREK-ee-VOR-dthur

Vandr: VAHN-dur

Rígurd: REE-gurd

Dögúl: DOH-gool

Bïfröstblaða: BIE-frost-BLADTH-ah

Sígarsholm: SEE-gars-HOLM

Galdyrbrynja: GAL-dur-BRIN-ya

Gleipnír: GLEYP-neer

Ellída: el-LEE-da

Vaettrhaerr: VAY-tur-HAYR

Izana: AYE-zan-AH

Fjörr: FYOR

Byardölf: BYARD-olv

Jarnir: YAR-neer

Alfhildr: ALV-hil-DUR

Rúnhildr: ROON-hil-DUR

Hildegardr: HIL-de-GAR-dur

Jarl: YARL

Skídbladnír: SKEED-blahd-NEER

Hneflagi: HNE-flah-GEE

Myennr: MYEH-nur

Keifdel Drekínalen: CAVE-dell drek-EE-nah-LEN

Vedthrelta: VED-thur-EL-tah

Lydia: lid-AYE-ah

Feldûrröst: fel-DOO-rost

Fjoðrbrandr: FYO-dthur-BRAN-dur

Asbjorn: AZ-bjorn

Zazyr: ZAZ-ur

Hráfnfär: HRAE-vin-VAR

Valdyrbjalla: VAL-dyur-BYAL-ah

Dàlr: DAH-lur

Múfnir: MOOV-neer

Ylette: YIL-ett

Reiyr: RAI-ur

Denris: DEN-ris

Laefden: LAYF-den

Alyr: AH-lyur

W’ei: wuh-AY

Aallviinaax: ALL-vee-NAX

Norðrljós: NOR-dthur-LYOS

Bleiðarak: BLIE-tha-RAK

Ornúsüm: OR-noo-ZOOM

Iirvaedín: ur-VAY-deen

Araelys: uh-RAY-lis

Ómakligr: OO-mok-LEE-gur

Eljúðnir: ael-YOODTH-neer

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elainapendragon · 2 months

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An Eternal Hope: Prologue

Summary: The wood elf Ilandian reads an excerpt from an ancient book recording the history of the lands of Valhöll, back to the time of the Old Gods. Briefly, its inconsistencies and falsity gets his mind off of his human mentor Torvir's failing health...

Rating: 18+

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death, battles, use of poison, depictions of loss and grief, if I missed anything please let me know!

Refer to the pronunciation guide if you have any questions!

In the beginning, before you or I or our ancestors lived, the world was born to ice and fire.

In the south, there was a realm called Muspell. This realm was made of magma and volcanoes; it was a barren wasteland of basalt and brimstone. Few things lived there, and those that did were inherently hellish. To the north was another realm, called Niflheimr, and this world was vastly different from its counterpart; cold and unforgiving. Great mountains of ice and snow rose into a deep blackness, lit only by the distant light of Muspelli flames. It was a lifeless emptiness of windswept tundra, save for one thing: Hvergelmir, the spring that is the source of the eleven rivers called the Elivagar. They were Svol, Gunnthra, Fjorm, Fimbulthul, Slid, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, Vid, Leipt, and Gjoll.

Between these realms was a great endless chasm known as Ginnungagap. The rivers that sprang from Hvergelmir tumbled into this chasm thick with congealing venom and it turned to slag, which froze into slopes. The drizzle that fell from the venom-rivers was met with slag and turned to rime.

From the south, the warmth of Muspell carried up and north on the winds, meeting the rime of Niflheimr across even the chilling depths of Ginnungagap. The hoar-frost of Niflheimr began to melt and drip, and from this began life, as it formed Ymir, the first and most evil of the frost giants. He was the father of all frost giants, and by them, he was called Aurgelmir.

From the drops came also Audhumla, the Sacred Cow, who fed Ymir in his youth and nursed him to adulthood. She licked the salty blocks of ice, and slowly, over the course of three days, revealed a man. This man, Buri, was the first of the gods, the immortal men, and he married a frost giantess of Ymir’s line and had a son named Borr. Borr was also married, and he had three sons. They were called Odin, Vili, and Ve.

The sons grew hateful towards the frost giants as they became grown men, and so slaughtered Ymir. From his wounds burst rivers of blood so violent it flooded Ginnungagap and destroyed all the frost giants. From the corpse, the three sons created a world made for life to flourish, and they called this Nærnin. To light this world, the sons took the sparks from the ruins of Muspell and used them to create constellations of stars and the sun. To accompany the sun, they crafted a moon from the ice remnants of Niflheimr. All were placed in the black heavens above.

Upon admiring their new home the brothers came upon two fallen trees, an ash and an elm. They lifted them and formed the first man and woman, Ask and Embla. Odin gifted them with the spirit of life so that they may move and speak freely; Vili bestowed upon them wit and kindness; Ve gave them ears so that they could listen twice as well as they could speak, and sight so that they could gaze on the beautiful world the brothers had made. They gave solely to the first humans a realm known as Midgard for them to grow and flourish.

So that the mortals could keep track of time, they took Night, a daughter of a frost giant who had wed one of Buri’s line, and her son Day, kind and fair, and they were determined by the brothers to make rounds of Nærnin, patrolling its borders and protecting its peoples.

Upon Midgard, a man descended from Ask and Embla had two children, and they were so beautiful he named them Sol and Mani, after the sun and moon. Odin, Vili, and Ve were so angered by this that they swept both children away, and after placing them in chariots, bid them to race across the sky in turns to guide the sun and moon on their courses. Mani leads the way, accompanied by two children called Bil and Hjuki. Behind Sol is Hati, a wolf who will one day catch and devour her at the End of Days. In front of her is Sköll, another wolf, who will catch Mani.

The Sun, so scared was she of Hati, shed tears of gold. These tears fell upon the surface of Nærnin and when they festered in her light, became tall, fair elves. Some of these fell into the shadows of the world, and these became dark elves and orcs. Mani shed tears of sympathy for his sister, and these too fell on Nærnin, but upon distant lands, and became the shape changing drakes. Elves and drakes were considered to be noble races, but they chose their lands and went far off on their own separate adventures.

Over it all stands the Worldtree, Yggdrasíl. Its topmost branches can never be reached by mortal man, and a mountainous root descends each into Asgarð, Jötúnheimr, Midgard, and Niflheimr. Deer frolic upon it and eat its moss and bark. Atop it sits an eagle, Hraesvelg, the source of all the wind in the Nine Worlds. Below, in Niflheimr, rests Nídhogg, and he chews vehemently upon the root of Yggdrasíl in an attempt to weaken her and chew through to Hraesvelg. Between them scurries Ratatösk, who carries false insults from one to the other, causing eternal conflict between the two.

When all was done and the world was new, Odin, Vili, and Ve remembered the maggots that had crawled in Ymir’s flesh. They gave them the shape and speech of men and they were called dwarves, but they were stout and stocky in body with unusually large ears and eyes that could see in both complete darkness and daylight. They took to living in the depths of the earth, unseen or heard by most. Their chief was Modsognir, and his deputy, Durin. Though their origins were questionable at best, none could question the craftsmanship in the handiwork of dwarven smiths; it was unmatched by all in the worlds, and would forever remain that way.

Now Odin, Vili, and Ve went and summoned the guardians of men. They together built the stronghold of Asgarð, a shining golden city, upon sheer gray cliffs that rose hundreds of feet into the air. This is where the gods, or Æsír, resided, watching over their lands. There are far too many to be named here, but most notable among them were Odin All-Father, the strongest and oldest, and his wife Frigg, Goddess of Marriage; Frey, God of Life, and his sister Valfreyja, Goddess of Love; Thor, son of Odin, God of Storms and Battle; Loki, blood-brother to Odin and God of Mischief; Heimdall, Guardian of the Bïfröst; and Baldr, son of Odin and future King of Æsír. Aside from these, there were twenty-four well-known Æsír, twelve male, and twelve female, and then many more lesser Æsír. Among them lived the Great Elvenkings and Elvenqueens in the City of Gold, and worthy lords and ladies of all races were brought to the Capitol of All the Worlds in a great center of commerce and trade.

The Æsír spent many thousands of years together in peace, antagonized by their enemies to start Ragnarök, the End of All Things, earlier than foretold by the three Norns, those who wove the fate of all creatures. They lived like great kings of men and went on many adventures on many worlds, becoming ever more powerful. But, despite all they had done to prevent it, Ragnarök came.

Foreshadowed by three years of winter, Fimbulvetr, war soon followed. This war lasted three hundred years and took many lives, and this suffering brought about the End of All Things.

The sky ran red when Hati caught Sol, spilling her blood. The clouds were stained with the smoke of war and turned black as a crow’s wing. Fenrisúlfr broke free of his bonds and gobbled up the sun, while his brother Jörmúngandr slid from the oceans onto land, destroying anything in his path. Naglfar, the Ship of the Dead, set sail from Niflheimr for Vigrid, the prophesied final battlefield of the gods. The Bïfrost broke under the weight of a thousand horses’ hooves, and Heimdall blew Gjállarhorn, summoning the einherjerii of Valhalla to battle. The Æsír and the giants with their undead and evil creatures fought to the death on Vigrid’s shores. Amid the chaos, Surtr, the king of Múspellheimr, swung his flaming sword, engulfing all of the world of Nærnin in a hellish inferno that scorched the land to blackness and turned oceans to steam.

When the ashes cleared, not much was left. The world had been cleansed but at a terrible cost. Only a mere handful of the Æsír had survived. Of them, Baldr, son of Odin, with his wife Nänna, came back from Helheimr and took the throne. Líf and Lífthraisír, the last humans, were escorted back to Midgard by way of ship, guided by Magni and Modi. But it was only days after leaving that Midgard, and all it once was, sank into the depths of the oceans without the support of Jörmúngandr at its base, leaving nothing more than an island chain.

As the sons of Thor reached the broken harbors, so did another ship. A great ship of white wood, it carried dozens of well-armored hominids resembling elves. They were the drakes, coming back to the worlds of the Æsír to fight in Ragnarök, but too late. The Norns had delayed them so the proper fate could pass. Their true forms were dragonesque in nature, their king unimaginably large in size. He was called Fhyrisaal King, and now with Ragnarök ended he had changed his intentions to make an allegiance with the god-kings. The Golden Gods gladly agreed to his peacemaking.

A spawn of Yggdrasíl, with the great tree of life long gone, took root in each world, both surface and sky and even deep below in Helheimr and Nídavellír. These were called the Worldtrees, and they became centers of trade, where peoples of all races and worlds, even from distant shores, could meet one another and share tales. Their topmost branches, inaccessible to most, could be seen from most corners of whichever world they were in. These were a memory of what had been, a gift to those who remembered the Golden Age and to those who would hear stories of it.

The courts of Gimlé in Asgarð, Brimir in Okolnír, Sindri in Nidafjöll, and Nastrond at the Shore of Corpses were established, all good halls for good men, save for the last, where the dishonorable dead would eternally wade in the poison issued from the snake-mouth walls. Baldr lifted some of the worlds above the surface, letting them float as sky islands, and also put three more moons into the sky and a new sun, and made them take up the positions of their predecessors. This rebirth had the Eight Worlds renamed Valhöll, after Odin's Hall of Warriors.

A millennium later, a chain of disturbing murders started in Vanaheimr. When the murderers were caught, it was revealed that they belonged to a cult, their only symbol that of a shadowed skull wreathed in black flame. They claimed they were on a mission to end the peace of Valhöll, thinking the purity of the land obscene. They wished to restore disorder and chaos. The Æsír ordered a dungeon to be built to house these criminals, and a search commenced to find the leaders of the cult, but the damage had already been done. Spies had infiltrated the houses of kings and civil wars had started between the Surface Worlds over territory and game. In an attempt to stop them, Border Walls were erected between the worlds. They were practically insurmountable slabs of stone ten meters high, placed on the exact borders that Baldr had previously determined.

No number of dungeons could hold the surge of convicts. The nobles of the worlds began to take prisoners of war and the poor among them as slaves. Any criminals, rogues, or slaves who had escaped fled to the chain of islands beneath the Sky Isles, creating the Pirate Archipelago. Black Markets were established by them on the northern shores of Svartalfheimr and Niflheimr, as Vanaheimr was too closely watched.

When the unfinished dungeons grew full, the Æsír had any further criminals caught and placed on the wild, overgrown isle between Höddgarðr, that place which houses Asgarð, and Alfheimr, to be retrieved once the dungeons were finished: Midway Isle. But they could not be found, for they had all seemingly vanished.

Baldr, busy with trying to amend the situations of the Surface Worlds with his fellow Æsír, recruited a light elf general by the name of Vaeryn Golden-Eye to investigate with his troops. They found that a few of the prisoners had leapt off of the isle to their deaths, but the majority of them had fallen prey to the isle’s inhabitants: somehow, dragons had roosted upon the isle. They had built a city of pale stone that they called Tal’mar, where the dragonic royalty lived, and they had assumed that none would miss the humans that had been dropped on the isle, which they called Zou’maal.

Baldr was going to destroy the dragons, but Vaeryn desperately urged him not to. Despite the deaths, he thought that they would miss a grand opportunity– an opportunity to make allies with one of the most dangerous races of Valhöll. So Baldr reluctantly allowed him to observe the dragons for one year. Vaeryn gathered a few apprentices and began his work at once.

The dragons upon the isle were highly intelligent, able to do complex math and communicate through a special form of racial telepathy if they weren’t speaking– and only the eldest among them performed the latter. They were primarily solitary creatures, but some, especially siblings, traveled in groups– very few of them dwelt in Tal’mar. They were so quick, they knew of Vaeryn’s presence immediately, and allowed him to study them up close with the shared interests of their races in mind. A great silver quadruped dragon, Zephysus, was to be their guide, but before the year was out, he had Chosen Vaeryn as his companion. Between them was the first Mindbond of dragon and rider.

As it had never been recorded before, Vaeryn reported that he and his companion could now speak through the mind. They shared pain, and emotions; his Bond with his companion gave him further strength and magic, as if he as Zephysus were one. Even without a Mindbond, dragons and their riders were so close, they were inseparable.

They together requested to build a school upon the Sky Isle north of Alfheimr to teach not only what would soon become the newly-formed faction of the Drekivörðr, but to return factions of einherjerii, valkyries, and even healers. This academy he called Hýveldírin, after his father. Baldr bid them do so quickly, and thus it came to pass that dragons, men, and elves formed a new class of warrior.

Crime was diminished as dragons became more frequent, and peace was returned to Valhöll once more. For ten thousand years, peace was upheld.

The Æsír were not surprised when once again, the cycle returned to war as armies of undead and demons began attacking the coasts of the Surface Worlds. Captured individuals claimed to work for a godlike entity known only as Vandr, but his future warmongering actions gave him the title of Lord of All Evil.

At the same time, nine haphazard warriors became einherjerii. Their real names are not known, but they were called by all who knew of them Owlheart, Wolfheart, Falconheart, Bearheart, Hawkheart, Ravenheart, Ramheart, Deerheart, and Tigerheart. All nine of them had come from hard lives of slavery, roguehood, and piratehood, and had worked hard to win their half-freedoms in service to the Æsír.

At a battle in Jötúnheimr, Vaeryn’s ancient great-grandson, Rígurd, saw their potential, and put them through a series of perilous tasks to prove their worth. Once they had shown beyond doubt that they were the most capable out of the sponsored “heroes” that had been put through the same, they were given special permits and became Drekivörðr. The more they fought, the more it was clear to Rígurd that they were not average warriors. To test his claim, the Æsír tasked them first with finding the fabled Treasure of Fafnir.

Following clues in ancient legends, they searched for twelve days and nights before locating the treasure, despite everyone’s low expectations of them. It had been hidden within the cursed dragon’s old lair, guarded by a pack of dögúl hounds, out of Vandr’s number. In the excavation of the treasure with the help of the einherjerii, they found another treasure that they did not expect: a Shard of Bïfrost, a piece of the ancient Rainbow Bridge that had bound Asgarð to Midgard so long ago. When they brought it to the Æsír, they were told to find the remaining eight Shards.

It took them four turns of the moon Týrs to find them all. Once brought to the Æsír, they were forged into nine magical swords and nine magical shields, which were henceforth known as the Bïfrostblaða and Seiðskjöllir. The Norns beheld a vision of the nine as heroes, the slayers of Vandr. At their behest, the Blades and Shields were gifted to them, and they were dubbed Drakahalr, held above even the Drekivörðr general in ranking.

They were put through several more grueling tasks, which included finding the Shield-Breaking Blades of Sígarsholm and forgotten relics that had once belonged to the gods themselves, which will not be mentioned here. When all of these were located, the Æsír gifted the forty-two blades to the greatest of valkyries, and the Treasure of Fafnir was melted down and fitted to the most accomplished of the einherjerii as armor. As a final gift, enchanted armor, Galdyrbrynja, for the heroes and their dragons were made by master dwarven smiths, crafted out of materials as Gleipnír, the ribbon that had bound Fenrisúlfr, was.

War came to Valhöll’s soil, and lasted for many years. This span of time later became known as the Uprising. At the end, the Drakahalr met Vandr himself. He challenged the heroes to face him on Vigrid, with their armies at their backs to face his own.

On the dragon-ship the Ellída, the Drakahalr set sail, followed by ten thousand einherjerii, valkyries, and the magic-made vaettrhaerr, born only to serve the heroes. Flying above them was the drake’s army, led by Fhyrisaal King himself.

Waiting in the center of Vigrid, amidst the ancient remains of Fenrisúlfr and Jörmúngandr, was Vandr, surrounded on all sides by his army of undead, wraiths, and demons. The two forces met in a clash worthy of songs. The battle lasted three days and nights, and at the end of the third, the Drakahalr finally met their opponent.

Their dragons now dead, they had each other alone as they fought the mad king. By command of the Norns, they brought him to a yielding point, and bound him in the ribbon Gleipnír, the very same which had held Fenrisúlfr an age ago. They locked him in a steel coffin with magic chains, and with the help of Fhyrisaal King, buried him eight fathoms beneath the earth.

It wasn’t long after that they fell in battle, pelted with poisoned arrows before any could come to their aid. Fueled by rage and grief, the armies of Valhöll prevailed over the failing regiments of Vandr. Upon their return to the Eight Worlds, a proper funeral was held for the heroes. The Norns had more visions of a time when Vandr would return, prompting the Drakahalr to be reborn; next time, they would have even greater strength, gifted with immense power.

The Æsír hid the Bïfrostblaða, Seiðskjöllir, and the Galdyrbrynja in places that only the Drakahalr would find them.

And for six hundred years, they waited...

Ilandian replaced the book in its proper place on the shelf, brow furrowed. He glanced over his shoulder; his mentor was too engrossed in ensuring several old documents were in their places to notice him slacking on his own work. Ilandian heaved a sigh and documented the presence of the book he’d been reading, the time, and date, in the record book that his supervisor Torvir had given him.

Outside, through the thirty-foot high stained glass windows, the young wood elf could see that twilight was settling on the city of Asgarð. It was a mournful look, he thought. Or perhaps it was his superstitions, having grown up in a place where twilight was considered a time when the spirit world and the world of the living intersect. Ilandian stood from his crouched place at the end of the shelf, glancing at his mentor.

For a mortal man such as Torvir, this work was days long and grueling. Often, Ilandian heard the old man’s bones creaking and popping in protest as he tried to sink to the floor, then his body would not allow him to stand again. But for him, it was easy, if boring, and fast-paced. He wondered if Torvir had been a faster man in his youth...

No time for those thoughts now, he scolded himself, and whipped back around to sign his name in the log beside his previous recordings. The old man does not have much time left...

Torvir was ninety-three, with scarcely any hair upon his head and a scraggly white beard. His eyes and hearing were failing rapidly, but his mind was still fresh and young. He wore the red and gold robes of a noble scholar, such as he was, which hung on his frail, shaking body. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment. Nevertheless, he was considered a sort of priestly figure, insisting on going to weekly sermons despite his poor health and preaching of the Æsír’s greatness. He was a hero of sorts to the people, having even in these recent days been a leader in the hunt for clues on the whereabouts of the Shadowskull Order that even still plotted the Æsír’s downfall.

As Ilandian’s deep maroon-on-black eyes scanned his supervisor’s fragile form, he could not help but to feel sorry for him. Filled with premature grief, he closed the record book and crossed the space between the shelves, tables, and seats. “I am finished,” Said Ilandian, louder than he liked to speak.

Torvir weakly responded, moving his head vaguely in the direction of Ilandian. His pale blue eyes squinted to focus on the elf’s tall and slim figure. “Oh? Done already, my boy?” His croaking voice scratched roughly out of his throat.

Ilandian winced. For seventeen years he had worked under Torvir, and the thought of losing him was a taxing thought indeed. “Yes, my lord.” After a moment of hesitation, Ilandian added, “I could finish your rounds for you, if you’d like.” It was the very least he could do, although it was by no means any repayment for the long years of kindness that Torvir had gifted him.

Torvir waved a bony hand. “Nonsense, dear boy; I can finish on my own.”

“Then would you at least have me by you?” Asked Ilandian, coming closer and setting his record book down on a nearby table. If Torvir lost his balance, he would not be able to get up. Or if a heavy book fell, he would be hurt. Many horrible accidents swam through Ilandian’s mind, but none so vile as the event which he knew would soon occur. Again, Torvir waved him off, dismissive with pride in his old age. “No, no; go and get yourself ready for the evening tea, Ilandian. I will be there, on time and as promised.”

Ilandian hesitated for a long few moments, but finally, he bowed at the waist, inclining his head. If he will not accept aid, he is forced to accept my respect. “If you are... Absolutely certain, my lord.” Ilandian grabbed his record book and quill and made his way to the manifest room, where he could return both items. Silently, he vowed to come and check on Torvir if the old man did not show up for tea on time.

In recent years, as Torvir had aged, it had become a tradition for Ilandian and his friend to meet for tea once a week on Wodensdäg. This one would be different; Ilandian knew that it would be his last. With the utmost care, he returned the record book to its rightful place, and he did the same with the quill. He left the room with one final glance to his supervisor before setting off for the Gathering Room.

All the doors of the palace of Valaskjalf were huge, crafted ornately of oak straight from the Ironwood to the north of the golden city. Torvir struggled with them, so Ilandian left the doors open for him. Turning right, he traveled down the golden hall lit by the huge arched windows with the setting sun. He passed very few individuals, as these halls were restricted to all but those who were chosen Master Scholars or apprentices. Up a winding staircase in a shining tower crafted beautifully with ancient knot and dragon designs, Ilandian was met with the second floor of a great rounded room. This was the Gathering Room, a meeting room for the Master Scholars of Valaskjalf, those who were chosen by the Æsír to continue their legends and legacy.

Positioned around the staircase was a long table, stools, a cooking area, and an entertainment area where the scholars could enjoy songs, music, tales, or plays put on by esteemed members of Asgarð. Tonight though, the room was empty, and Ilandian was alone. With the utmost care, he prepared the woodburning stove and the kettle, and even more carefully prepared the water and tea leaves.

Ilandian sat by one of the windows and looked out upon the shadowed golden city. Torches lit the streets, while dragons patrolled the skies. Against the distant rising moons of Týrs, Mún, and Dägsa, the silhouette of the Asgarðian Worldtree loomed over the mountains that surrounded the city like a protective girdle. What will I do with him gone? Will I leave this place, or stay?

The kettle whistled as Ilandian pondered; he hurried over and removed it from the stove. His advanced hearing caught the halting footsteps of his supervisor approaching the stairs down below; quickly, he retrieved two old cups from the cupboard. One of them was chipped badly, and after pouring the tea, he added to the unblemished one a few drops from a tiny glass vial he slipped from his sleeve. Regretfully, he replaced the vial and set both cups upon a tray, taking them to the table as he heard Torvir reach the stairs.

Ilandian rushed downstairs with all speed to greet his beloved mentor. Torvir was barely hobbling along, exhausted from the day in the library. Ilandian went to his side, assisting the old man up the stairs even as he waved him off. “You should not do such hard work anymore, my friend.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Puffed Torvir laboriously, “I can do just the same work... As I ever did...”

Ilandian remained silent and grim on their way up the stairs. He tried, desperately, to convince himself that what he was about to do was for the benefit of Torvir. He was old and in pain, overworked by the Æsír who did not think to care for him. They considered him replaceable, and already had chosen Ilandian to take his place, including the special duties of finishing Torvir’s work involving the Shadowskulls. If Torvir lived but a few more days, he could very well discover their stronghold and eradicate them from existence, at least for a while. Ilandian was certain that he would not do so well as the old man that he helped up the stairs.

The tea, he was sure, was cold when they finally arrived at the top. He assisted Torvir down onto one of the stools and, with a heart heavy with grief and remorse, passed the unblemished cup to his mentor. When his sight was better, Torvir had joked that Ilandian would one day die of paint poisoning if he did not stop drinking from the chipped cup– but scholars, despite their noble status, did not receive enough wages to both care for themselves and repair what they might have lost in their shared possessions– they all spent it on their own persons, rather than what they would commonly use at a gathering. Luckily, most of them detested any kind of socialization. Instead of letting his supervisor drink from it, he drank from it himself.

Ilandian had to look away as Torvir drank from the cup. Icy claws of guilt raked deep tears at his insides, and he truly felt as if he were bleeding. “Ah,” He said after a long sip, “That is refreshing, after a long day of work... And delicious! My friend, did you add something more?”

“Honey,” Rasped Ilandian, staring at his reflection on the surface of his own tea. “From the beehives of the Asgarðian garden.”

“You received such permission?” Breathed Torvir in awe. He coughed a laugh, weak and feeble. “My, you are full of surprises, Ilandian!”

You have no idea... Permission to even enter the gardens of Asgarð was seldom given. But as a gift for his dying master, one beloved by everyone in the palace aside from the Æsír, it was practically effortless to obtain just enough honey to flavor a final cup of tea. It was the least he could do… even if it had the double purpose of disguising the poison.

Finally, the agony of waiting was over. Torvir’s eyes bulged out of his head as he gasped, clutching his chest. Now, came the hardest part for Ilandian– acting as if he knew nothing of what was happening. He knew of many spells which could allow someone specializing in the necromantic arcane to see into the last few moments of someone’s life. He knew of similar incantations that could revive a soul long enough to allow them to speak of who killed them. He also knew that, with Torvir, such precautions would be taken– especially in the manner of his death. So close to discovering the hideout of the Shadowskulls, it would be all too convenient timing, despite his age, especially when the healers were trying their very hardest to ensure he lived long enough to at least declare without a shadow of a doubt where the headquarters of the Order resided.

Thankfully, honey made by Asgarðian bees is renowned amongst the cults of assassins for masking any type of poison, even from magical investigations– a little-used method and a little-known fact. He could present the vial with the poison straight to any sorcerer for investigation and they’d never know it had venom in it.

The reaction was fake, yes; but the grief... That was real.

“My lord?” Ilandian’s head snapped up. For all intents and purposes, Ilandian’s previous depressive state could have been because he was worried for what he knew would soon come, as everyone was. He had taken up the persona when it was stated by the healer who looked after the scholars that Torvir did not have much longer to live– it was not a terribly difficult thing to do, after all.

Torvir collapsed, choking and freezing up; the sound of his mentor’s dying gasps would haunt him for the rest of his life. “No!” Cried Ilandian, and caught his supervisor before he hit the ground. “No, you cannot die yet! You cannot!”

It was too late, as he knew it was already– the poison was deep in Torvir’s system. To any who were knowledgeable of human biology, it would look like an attack of the heart. There would be no evidence pointing to the young elf, and he could go about his work without risk of being put away.

Stiff with his own grief, Ilandian laid Torvir’s rigid body on the ground; his eyes were open wide, his hand forever stuck clutching at his breast, his mouth agape in a silent scream that would echo for eternity.

Ilandian let his gold-tinted tears fall; he regretted what he had done, but he knew it was necessary. I am truly sorry, my friend... I wish it did not have to be this way. Had Torvir been allowed to continue his work, and his body tolerate the weeks of slow poisoning Ilandian had done to him for just a while longer, he may have found the Shadowskulls.

And they had work to do yet.

Ilandian wiped the tears away with the backs of his hands, forcing himself to regain his composure. Using a special ward, he was able to temporarily shield himself from prying eyes, future and present; none would see his actions henceforth until he dropped the spell, but he could only maintain it for a few minutes at most. He lifted his left hand and incited, “Menora vaurae lietis.” A projection appeared over his palm– the projection of a cave, dimly lit.

A silhouette stood before him, awaiting a report. The leader of the Shadowskull Order had never been seen by his followers. All they knew him as was a shadowed figure with an altered voice, speaking from a cave none could find. Many had tried to seek him out– only to end up dead and displayed in the headquarters of the Shadowskulls as an example to others who would try it. He was merciless and relentless; just what the Order needed.

“Well?” He demanded shortly in a warped tone.

“It is done,” Ilandian replied evenly. His youthful elven face showed no sign of his grief, his expression having been trained into a perfect mask, but the words were heavy on his tongue. “Torvir is dead.”

“Good,” The Shadowed Figure leaned back in satisfaction. “I’ve prepared everything. You know to hold a substantial grieving period, yes?” Ilandian nodded; I’ve already begun... “And then you will, over the next few weeks, lead them to an abandoned cave five miles to the north of headquarters. You will then admit to either reading Torvir’s studies wrong, or that Torvir was wrong in the first place. You will later prove the latter, and start the research over. You will be contacted and be given further instructions at that time.”

Ilandian fought showing surprise or asking questions. It seemed dangerous to have a battalion of einherjerii and valkyries swarming a cave so close to home, but he knew better than to question the Shadowed Figure. He bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

The Shadowed Figure waited a moment, then, “...Well done, Ilandian. I know it must have been hard for you...” Ilandian fought a surge of emotion– guilt and grief slammed together, and he swayed with the effort of keeping a straight face. “...But we all must make sacrifices for the good of the people. You must understand how important it is for us to have a spy within the ranks of the Master Scholars; now, no matter how hard they try or how close they come, we can be certain that no one will find us.

“The time is almost upon us, Ilandian; rumors have begun to spread... Rumors of the Æsír, of the elves... And of him...”

Ilandian’s head snapped up, but the Shadowed Figure continued before he could say anything. “When the time comes, the Order shall rise once again, and we will vanquish the corruption that has filled the hearts of our leaders... Valhöll will be free of lies and deceit once again. Just remember who we do this for, if you ever feel doubts.”

Ilandian’s mind flashed to someone– the only one– that he loved. Someone he loved more than anything in the world: the reason Torvir lay dead on the floor behind him, and the reason he had joined the Order in the first place. The reason he was so determined to destroy the Æsír.

Without another word, the Shadowed Figure ended the contact. Ilandian let his hand fall for a moment, and then began another incantation that would further shield what had just transpired, sewing the gap of time together so that the transition appeared seamless. If any sorcerer, even any seiðberendr, attempted to scry the past to see Ilandian’s reaction, they would find no trace of spells. All they would see is Ilandian clutching his mentor as he died, just before he ran for help.

He raced downstairs, headed for the healer’s chambers. His hatred for the Æsír filled his every step.

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