L
eif hated them all. His
föður. His
móður. They both have been so concerned with their own persuits, that young Leif had been pushed to the side. The forgotton son. Leif sulked in the shadows, his anger and hatred brewing. Day by day it seethed within him - at first - it was just a tiny ember. But with each passing day, it grew into an enferno that engulfed the roan child. He hated the way they fawned over every new child (his replacement) and coddled them - he never had such privilage of doting parents.
While they slumbered the young boy woke from his bed and left. At first the fear almost outweighed the liberty but with each step between them he felt the independence. At first, it was the school of hard knocks, he was chased from plenty of lands. Again the unwanted child, but as time passed he grew smarter. Cunning even. He knew when the best times were to sneak into a land, taking what he needed and leaving without a trace. He learned to watch and be wary of anyone, distrustful. Learned survival is above all else. All valuable lessons that kept him one step ahead.
ᛤ ᛤ ᛤ
The roan Icelandic mutt steps through the frothy surf. The Isles. It has been years since his hooves have touched the sands of their shores. Life has brought him far from this land, and it seems the
Norns have returned him. He wouldn't call this place home, never has it felt warm and fuzzy. Never has he felt the pull to return. Never. AND If he were to be honest with himself, the
Norns are idiotic. An imagined group of women who set his way? Idiotic. But the belief is deep rooted - from his childhood - so he can not help feel the ties to his
föður's beliefs. A deep rooted fear that if he were to upset them that their would be dire consequences. So he believed and followed their lead.
Water ran in rivulets down his sides, across his rippling muscles and to his feathered legs. He steps across the sandy shore and to the dry grasses at the edge. A quick shake rids himself of excess water and allows the soft breeze to dry his pelt. Dark eyes take in the vast clearing that speads out in front of him, a few horses dot the clearing. Uninterested - he sticks to the sparse trees and traverses across the land. He takes his time, grazes on the dry grasses, growls at horse here and there. But as the afternoon draws to a close and evening begins to spread across the clearing. Leif settles beneath the branches of an ancient willow; he leans his side lazily into its bark and cocks a hind hoof.
The land around him grows quiet as the sun descends and the light fades - a brilliant show of pinks and vibrant oranges brings the day to a close. Leif would be lying to himself if he did not admit that in this moment - he could feel a sense of peace.
And this put him on edge. Because he knew that in his life, peace NEVER lasted long - soon chaos would follow.
