The phrase 'rude awakening' doesn't fully cover the experience of being woken from a sound sleep at 8am in the morning after a ten hour flight, not to mention the two hour car ride, by having one's warm, cozy comforter ripped from over one's body while on vacation.
Under such circumstances, one might be excused for responding by flailing wildly and cussing at one's own mother.
She is the sort of woman who has never fully grasped the concept of sitting back and doing nothing, even on vacation. Family trips are carefully planned and always located in places where every day can be filled with new and interesting activities. Any desire for idleness is treated with anything from suspicion to outright horror.
Even then, someone who knows her well would notice a certain urgency, a tension in her that is not usually present as she ushers her only daughter out of bed and into the bathroom to get ready for the morning. Breakfast is going to be at the inn down nearby, and then they are going to take a walk over to see the medieval parish church, perhaps visit the museum after, and wouldn't it be lovely to take a drive around the countryside later? Oh, also Mormor called and – what is that look supposed to mean? You like Mormor. No, she didn't mention her neighbor's lovely grandsons, and while imitation may be flattery mimicry is rude and uncalled for. Yes, you have met them before, several times. I don't know why you can never remember them. Just give her a call when you get the chance, won't you?
Her daughter gives her a pained look over her toothbrush despite the soothing noises she makes about 'no awkward questions' and 'want you to come stay with her in Norway for a few weeks'. She responds by flashing the 'OK' sign. Her mother finally leaves, reminding her to hurry up.
Catching her reflection in the mirror set into the door of a beautiful old wardrobe, the girl finds herself frozen in thought for a moment before she shakes her head roughly, dark hair flying about her face. That is her problem, really, thinking too much. You wouldn't think it could be possible, but when your mind is almost invariably drawn to dark, ouroboros loops that twist around and strangle everything else, the only defense sometimes seems to be to do your best not to think of anything at all.
She dresses quickly, remembering that her parents are waiting for her. She smooths her hair down one last time in front of the mirror and practices a bright smile and cheerful 'good morning' before opening the door to her room and stepping down the hallway.
Her hiking boots must be quieter than she would have thought on the wood floorboards. Her parents don't hear her approach through the cracked open door to their bedroom.
Too caught up in work to see.
Too blind until it was almost too late.
Not the man I married anymore.
Can't tell her about the divorce yet.
Still too unstable.
Something like a stone lodges in her throat. She races past the door, yelling that she is going on a walk by the river. Paying no attention to her mother calling to her about missing breakfast, she grabs her jacket from the coat rack in the entryway and runs down the stairs half-blinded by the sting behind her eyes.
There is a park within walking distance from the quaint old cottage they are staying in. The Michaels family has never been the sort to flaunt their connections, but they have never shrunk from using them either, especially if it means staying in an authentic English cottage while old friends are away.
She is briefly grateful her mother woke her up so early. There are few others on the streets, and it seems like she won't be disturbed on her walk. She passes through the town, past the ancient church, and through the entrance to the small, wooded park. She hunches her shoulders and digs her hands in her pockets against the early morning chill. There are small paths throughout, and she finds herself taking one at random, ending up standing before a brook.
It is clear and peaceful. The sound of the water soothes her racing heart and she takes a breath for what seemed like the first time since she fled. Yes, she has to admit to at least herself that's what she's done. Was it cowardly of her? Or was her father right? Is she just too unstable to confront her parents about what she heard?
Something glints in the water, pulling her from her thoughts. Later, she won't be able to say what about it had caught and held her attention, or why she feels such a strong urge to step forward and get a closer look. All she will know is that as she steps forward something shifts suddenly. She must have stepped on something that was still slippery from the morning dew or last night's rain, or perhaps her bad leg gives out beneath her, because her foot comes out from under her and she finds herself pitching over.
The water isn't far below her, and the brook itself should barely reach her knees at its deepest, but somehow she feels as if she is falling a much greater distance, or maybe it's that time itself has slow down. The impact with the water seems greater than it should be. The water that suddenly surrounds her is dark, almost black, and she looks up to see that there is almost no light shining in above her, despite the seeming clarity she saw before. As she begins to struggle to swim upwards she finds that her feet have yet to touch riverbed. She begins to move in earnest, but she feels strange and sluggish. Her mind is quickly going foggy. Something seems to twine and tug around her ankles.
She finally begins to panic as everything burns from breathing water, and she desperately fights against whatever ghostly thing is now pulling her down. Her vision begins to go black. The one bright point of light she can see begins to grow dim, smaller, before vanishing completely.
The last clear thought she has before losing consciousness is the great irony of a former member of the swim team dying by drowning in nature's kiddie pool, and that she hopes her parents will know it was an accident.
*.*.*
Hey Ed,
Guess where I am right now? Well, if you guessed London then you are WRONG. At this very moment, I am on a plane flying to London. It was all planned pretty short notice, but I guess everyone thought I could do with a "change of scenery."
How are you doing? I hope they let you get mail over there, unless you're in some sort of solitary confinement. Is that where you are right now? Do they have solitary in rehab? If not, they're probably going to have to invent it just for you, hahaha. Seriously though, I hope you're okay.
Anyway, I imagine you've heard about my epic crash and burn. I just wanted to let you know that you don't need to worry about me. It was really all quite disappointingly unexciting, no strait jackets, not even an involuntary committal. So don't even think about busting out to come support me, or something equally as stupidly heroic (Heroically stupid?). If you do, I will find you, and I will kill you. Just promise me you will stay put and see this through, no matter what, okay? Focus on getting better. I will too.
That's pretty much it for now. I'll have to find a way to mail this once we land. There should be something at the airport, hence the London postmark. We'll be driving over to and staying in that little village Dad's family came from. Remember him telling us about it? It's not terribly exciting, but it does have some unusual history, so there might be enough to keep me occupied for the week.
Love you and really, really miss you.
Your Rowan
This work was partly inspired by the Chinese novel Bu bu jing xin, and more specifically the Korean TV drama adaption, Scarlet Heart: Ryeo because...
1) I was really amused by the parallels between the main character in the show and Ivar, and thought the idea of a modern girl with modern ideas trying to survive in the Viking Age could be really /
2) I am vaguely curious as to the amount of crossover between The Vikings and K-drama fandoms.
You don't have to read/watch any of the original material to understand this story. On other notes, I'm a bit of a history nerd, and I'm trying to keep this story as historically accurate as possible. Like, if the Vikings series is 50% accurate, then I'm trying to be about 80%. So use of period appropriate names, clothing, sensibilities, etc.
Finally, the narrative is a bit experimental for me. I'm not used to writing in present tense, so I apologize for any wonky-ness.