Status: Updates will start after the third of May again due to holidays..
Thirst
Burn (1/5)
The clouds appeared to be burning that night, the undersides lit brightly by the burning of the houses I had considered home for fourteen years. The air felt thick and black, the heath like glowing coal as screams coated the sky in desperation and I stared at the death of my childhood with dry eyes. Seven small houses near the water burned, our ship burned, and for once people and cattle were even, slaughtered in bloodlust or taken onto the enemy's ship.
Hadn't I heard the men speak about it at night? The glory of raids, the beaty of blood, and the honour of killing those unable to protect their homes? We'd been sitting around the fire, our faces lit by the same flames that now ate my innocence near the water, and hadn't the men spoken about Valhalla and of gold, of countries far to the east, of rivers deep in the land of foreign people?
And yet, there was so little beaty and honour found in the scene of death I was now witnessing, as my mother tried to cradle me like a newborn as she, no doubt, searched for the voices of her sons and husband in the endless screaming below us, but I could not take my eyes away from the scene below me. It awoke something within me. A new feeling, born within the emptiness of my chest, and I had no time to give it a name as my mother turned us around and we hurried away from our village, my home, my childhood – and I held on tight to her arm and the hammer pendant around my neck, praying to Odin for my brothers and father, for them to be let into Valhalla tonight, as I was certain my mother wouldn't have guided me away if there was any chance they were alive.
For three days we walk and we sleep beside the path, sand sticking in our hair, tears drying my mother's throat and I have quit speaking. Words are unnessacery as we both know where the path leads and what has happened, and beside those things we have no future and the present is silent and grey, fire etched into our souls like a scar left unhealed. My mother speaks, though. She tells me tales of the childhood of my brothers and my father before I was alive, as if she is scared they will be forgotten, now they have found their path into death. And silently, I try to memorize each word, wondering who have killed them, trying to picture their faces – hard eyes, no doubt, beards and long hair stained with blood, their blood, swords that have tasted flesh, hands that roam our possesions, hands that strangle the life out of my brothers, Odin, let them die with their swords in their hands -
I have forgotten it already happened.
And on the end of the third day, we stumble into my uncle's village and my mother falls to her knees in the village square, mud sticking to her dress, and I look at the rainbow in the sky and pray to Heimdall, this time – that my brother and my father were to walk the rainbow bridge to Valhalla and then I see my uncle rushing over to my mother, falling into the mud himself and holding her shaking body. My aunt walks outside too, loudly thanking the gods, as they were certain we, too, had found our ends in bloody swords, and then she guides us inside, now both under the care of family.
I still have not spoken.
Hadn't I heard the men speak about it at night? The glory of raids, the beaty of blood, and the honour of killing those unable to protect their homes? We'd been sitting around the fire, our faces lit by the same flames that now ate my innocence near the water, and hadn't the men spoken about Valhalla and of gold, of countries far to the east, of rivers deep in the land of foreign people?
And yet, there was so little beaty and honour found in the scene of death I was now witnessing, as my mother tried to cradle me like a newborn as she, no doubt, searched for the voices of her sons and husband in the endless screaming below us, but I could not take my eyes away from the scene below me. It awoke something within me. A new feeling, born within the emptiness of my chest, and I had no time to give it a name as my mother turned us around and we hurried away from our village, my home, my childhood – and I held on tight to her arm and the hammer pendant around my neck, praying to Odin for my brothers and father, for them to be let into Valhalla tonight, as I was certain my mother wouldn't have guided me away if there was any chance they were alive.
For three days we walk and we sleep beside the path, sand sticking in our hair, tears drying my mother's throat and I have quit speaking. Words are unnessacery as we both know where the path leads and what has happened, and beside those things we have no future and the present is silent and grey, fire etched into our souls like a scar left unhealed. My mother speaks, though. She tells me tales of the childhood of my brothers and my father before I was alive, as if she is scared they will be forgotten, now they have found their path into death. And silently, I try to memorize each word, wondering who have killed them, trying to picture their faces – hard eyes, no doubt, beards and long hair stained with blood, their blood, swords that have tasted flesh, hands that roam our possesions, hands that strangle the life out of my brothers, Odin, let them die with their swords in their hands -
I have forgotten it already happened.
And on the end of the third day, we stumble into my uncle's village and my mother falls to her knees in the village square, mud sticking to her dress, and I look at the rainbow in the sky and pray to Heimdall, this time – that my brother and my father were to walk the rainbow bridge to Valhalla and then I see my uncle rushing over to my mother, falling into the mud himself and holding her shaking body. My aunt walks outside too, loudly thanking the gods, as they were certain we, too, had found our ends in bloody swords, and then she guides us inside, now both under the care of family.
I still have not spoken.