Yeah, I'm the 'Big Bad Demon Slayer.' Gotta Problem with that?!

Ari was gone. Reynardine stole him away from me, right out of my hands.

Kveðja, lítill Njósnari, he smiled sadly before he left. Say goodbye, little spy. Those were the first words he ever said to me. He was visiting Amma, and when he went to leave he looked straight at me and said those words. It seemed so long ago. After months of training as his pupil, after the kisses we’ve shared and the language and the culture, he was truly gone. I fell to my knees as a sob wracked my chest.

A reassuring hand found its way to my shoulder. Through tear-stained eyes I saw Bjartur’s face, smiling sympathetically to me. “He isn’t dead, Bryn,” Bjartur whispered quietly, using my nickname.

“He might as well be,” I hissed, sobbing even harder. “He hated demons, Bjartur, he hunted them all his life, and now…”

Bjartur patted my back, and I broke down completely, gripping the earth to make sure that I didn’t sink any farther. My mind went over his features over and over again, imprinting him into my brain so that I could never forget.

The light brown curls of his hair that shone like a halo where sunlight touched it. His dazzling, contagious grin that made me smile back. The dangerous, lethal glint in his eyes that flashed before he lunged in battle. His hands, worn and scarred, that gripped mine when he spoke with conviction. The dimples that indented his cheeks when he laughed, the sound musical and beautiful. His deep black ey—no, not black. I winced harshly, forcing myself to remember the warm, encompassing chocolate brown. Ari was not dead. He was far from it, and damn it I would make sure of it. A new vow surged within me, giving me strength. I was going to save Ari, even if it killed me.

A new hand found my back, making me look up through my tears to the familiar grey hair, crinkled blue eyes, and stern expression. Amma. She motioned for me to stand. “A true warrior wears her battle scars proudly, even if they are killing her inside,” she said softly, tucking a strand of my white-blond hair behind my ear. I sniffed and nodded.

I would not be who I was without Amma’s teachings. Since the death of my parents she had raised me into the strong, independent woman I was today. She was my link into the past, into my culture, and the only family member I had ever known. When I was a little one and cried during thunderstorms, she told me reassuring stories from Iceland. She was stern and tough like leather, but she was warm and smelled like home. Through the pain of my breaking heart, I found a way to force a smile and grip her hand.

Another hand steadied me as wobbled into a standing position. This hand was smooth, skilled and intelligent. Bjartur, despite his colicky attitude and dry sarcasm, had helped me through my most difficult obstacles. Perhaps it was his logical, tactful approach towards all problems, or even the sarcasm that made me smile wryly that helped me the most. Although he didn’t want anyone to notice it, I knew that he purposely irritated you to distract you from your troubles. Underneath of those calculating, harsh, icy eyes was compassion and understanding. He had somehow become my best friend and partner, and I was eternally grateful to him. I nodded to him and he squeezed my hand reassuringly.

We each stand against the harsh winter winds, strong in our own way. What does not kill me makes me stronger. Well, after this I should be invincible. Amma nods, and we walk back to the house. We have lost the battle, but we damn sure didn’t lose the war.

I am Brynja, the last of a dying clan, pupil of my amma. I am a female stríðsmaður, bonded with Bjartur the male töframaður but in love with Ari, one of the greatest warriors that had ever lived. Ari was my mentor, until a peculiar and wicked demon snatched him away from me. I plan to take him back, fighting fire with fire.

But most importantly, I am Brynja the “Big Bad Demon Slayer”. And this is my tale.