~ where innocences burn in flames.
Beneath the naked branches he slumbers restlessly; the dull roar of the Falls drowns out the scraping hooves and muffled voices. The lifeless body of Osiris haunts his dreams, his soulless stare, and the dried blood that was caked to his onyx hide. An involuntary growl erupts from his lips as he thinks of what they had done. Their demise is imminent he can feel it deep into his bones. His glacial eyes flutter open a moment before he clenches them tight once again. He is not ready to come back to a world where Sigurdr is trapped in the Lagoon and there is turmoil within his own home.
-
"Faðir, segðu mér meira um eyjarnar," an adolecent Björn whispered to his father. Dögun turned his thick head to look upon his son, a grin on his lips. "Inntakið, sonur minn er fullkominn." Young Björn tilts his little bald face as he listened to his father as he continued to describe the Inlet, his mother, and all that the Isles could offer him. He hung on ever word that came from his father's lips, especially about his mother. He spoke of a time before Björn had been born and the kindness of his mother.
A smile crossed his lips as he thinks of his mother. He turned his head up to look at the gruff face of his father, a question on his lips. "Heldurðu að ég geti séð hana aftur?:" the question lingered in the small space between them before finally his father cleared his throat and looked at his son. "Ég veit ekki..." his words are strangled and barely audible.
-
Björn's glacial eyes open and his brow furrows, he will not allow his sons or daughter to grow up without knowing him. It is as if the Norns favor him, when a familiar voice filters through his groggy brain. Sauron It is just his scent that lingers on the breeze, and... Solomon. He snorts as he begins to peace it together. He gnashes his teeth together. What was his son doing here with Solomon? Why had Shaydowfax not brought the boy to the Ridge so he could show HIS son how to run a herd? A low inaudible growl rumbles from his chest.
Tíkasonur.
He pushes himself from the rough bark of the tree and through the shadows of the forest. But then a movement draws his glacial gaze. An unfamiliar figure stumbles through the shadows and crumples onto the hardened earth. His ears flick atop his crown, indecision clearly written across his bone-white face. Go and confront Solomon about his betrayal? Or aid the stranger crumpled in a pile? His tail lashes across his white splashed haunches.
"Skítur," he growls as he turns from Solomon and his son. First make sure this stranger will make it through the coming night; then go and rip Solomon a new one. He nods to himself and makes his way toward the crumpled pile. His ears go back as he looks upon the sopping wet woman. She lays prone and quiet beneath the naked branches, her body barely moves. He drops his quivering pink nostrils to her prone body.
"Ertu dáinn?" his voice low and thick on his tongue. Death is way of life. Oh the irony.
Translation:
Faðir, segðu mér meira um eyjarnar: Father, tell me more about the Isles.
Inntakið, sonur minn er fullkominn: the Inlet, my son is perfect.
Heldurðu að ég geti séð hana aftur?: Do you think Ill be able to see her again?
Ég veit ekki: I don't know.
Ertu dáinn?: are you dead?
Björn - Icelandic mutt - 10 years old - Grullo Sabino
Bera Konung of the Ridge