| LOREL
the Teller of Ways |
|
There was the sound of a fight. It echoed so strongly within his dreams that Lorel began to hear it even in his waking hours, so that he could not escape the brewing fear. It draws him to the shores of the Crossing, not far from where Ivar had departed for battle. The frail frosted red male had always stood out as different from his brothers. Even the mares of his homeland were fierce warriors. Lorel was a kind apart. He’d never yearned for the thrill of battle, nor felt the drumbeat of war weaving its tunes about his bones. Something gentler, and quietly noble, sang in his blood. There were whispers along with the battlecries now, and he followed these across the sea. Lorel did not look back, and so he was unaware that he was being followed. The mare, all fire and ice like Lorel, made good time, but still the stallion beat her to the shore, and disappeared through the trees as though he was being guided. They both were. And the sounds of conflict no longer existed only in the Dreamer’s head. The deeper they went into the forest, the louder the sound became. And the mare tried in vain to call Lorel’s name, but if he heard her above the tumult, he did not turn aside from his course. When the Dreymandi cries out, however, his voice pierces through all else, and the silence that follows is frigid and deafening. “No, brother!” The mare following behind feels her heart catch as she glimpses that pale body through the trees, throwing himself between two warriors engaged in bloody battle. But, in the manner of her upbringing, she quells her emotions before they have a chance to take hold. Sorrow and guilt have no place within her. She has her duty, and this all that matters. And that is why, when she emerges from the shadows of the trees into the small clearing, the mare, Valkyrja, is sharp and cold in her clarity of mind. She moves with confidence and purpose, and remains untouched by all else. This is not the first battlefield she has prowled, but her wit, and her skill, and the whims of the Norns have kept her unblemished. She is no pacifist, like the Dreymandi had been. There is a savagery in her eyes that burns like fire as she stares upon the dark males with judgment. She knows of them. In her wanderings of the Norðurland, she knows of all who hearken from the place of her birth, and most know of her, or have heard of her and the mares she serves alongside. It is hers to know, to watch, as it is theirs to fight like the hungry and desperate souls they are. “Ivar. Ragnarr.” Their names drip like ice water from her lips. Her gaze dips to the prone form of Lorel, who is no longer breathing. The larger of the two brutes, the half-blind one, weeps over the body of his brother. Valkyrja would pity him, if she were capable of such sentiment. “I did not come for your Dreymandi,” she says. “I came for one of you. But you both live, for the sacrifice he made.” Her eyes narrow, and linger on the inky black form of Ivar, paying no heed to Ragnarr in this moment. “You best watch yourself, Óttastúlfur. You cannot escape Thought and Memory forever, not when they follow you on the swift, dark wings of the Hrafnar.” And there, Valkyrja lingers, just out of reach, poised in her repose, and yet ready to fiercely strike in retaliation if either kappi dares to seek vengeance upon her for the regretful consequence of their own actions. Though the Valkyrie remains detached from the scene – she has seen heart wrenching grief more times than she cares to recall – her expression does dour a little. It is always a shame when an innocent was killed so senselessly, especially one as gifted and gentle as Lorel had been. In this sense, she feels loss, though she does not allow it to swamp her like a wave. The world will certainly be a little less bright without the white and red Dreymandi in it. |