Meadow

Það er allt í lagi.

The apparition before him breathes more than hope back into the dying embers of his soul. She breathes life back into him, and he inhales sharply, closing his eyes - both blind and seeing - straightening to his full height. Revived, renewed. Ready to keep fighting as he waits for his fate to be revealed to him. Hrafna bows his head, murmuring upon his exhalation. “Ég er ekki einn hér,”“I am not alone here” . He shifts upon the cold, bleak earth. Overhead, clouds gather, and as if sensing them, the dark stallion tips his face to the sky. “Ég er ekki yfirgefinn.” “I am not abandoned.”

A sound like thunder - like the drumming of hooves - echoes in his bones, and a ragged smile graces his pale lips, taking what was only moments earlier broken in the stallion and making him beautiful. He might have turned from her then, in his grief not perceiving her to be mere flesh and blood like him but a vision meant to lend him strength. But she spoke again, that vision of beauty, and the implication of her words stole the breath from Hrafna’s lungs, so that he gasped at the revelation as he turned back to her with shining eyes, truly seeing her for the first time.

“Skjaldmær,”“Shieldmaiden," Hrafna whispers, seeing the truth of who she was as it was revealed to him, clear as the water of the fjords of his homeland was, no matter how deep the winter covered it over with ice. More than anything, he wishes to close the distance between them, to reach for her and root his heart in certainty that she was real. But his legs refuse to carry him to her side, tired and so weak with relief as they are. And his heart refuses too. She is already a great warrior in spirit, no matter the youth of her years, and he -

He is of little consequence.

“Þú ert vitur að fylgja hvert andi þinn leiðir þig.”“You are wise to follow where your spirit leads you,” he rumbles, acknowledging her words with an inclination of his head. His tangled forelock, pale and thick as heavy fog, settles like a veil over his eyes. But still he sees her. “Bara til að heyra rödd þína og sjá andlit þitt,”“Just to hear your voice and see your face,” Hrafna murmurs, breath catching in his throat, still raw from his grief and raging. “þetta er nóg fyrir mig.” “This is enough for me.”

And he bows his head ever lower, the last of his tears trailing down his cheeks and drying in the air that carries no song.

In the undercurrent of her voice, though, he had heard the battle-hymns long sung by his clansmen, and he took this as a sign. “En ef þú kemur með skilaboð, Skjaldmær...” “But if you come with a message, Shieldmaiden...” Hrafna does not move, even the air in his lungs becomes sluggish and slow, like the waters to the north as they slowly froze over. More than anything, he wished for her to speak further to him. “Vinsamlegast,” “Please,” he begs, praying that he was still considered worthy. “Talaðu og ég mun hlusta.” “Speak, and I will listen.”