Chapter One
Marceline Abadeer, Nightosphere heiress and glam rocker galore, couldn't recall the last time she had read a book.
Certainly, those many years ago before she and Bonnibel had called it quits on their friendship, the bubblegum princess offered to her to browse through whatever assortment of novella and text that Turtle Princess had lent to the kingdom at the time, but the Vampire Queen thought it too much of a waste of time.
Marceline's memories then drifted off to much more distant times, where the sagely -both figuratively and literally, in a manner of great respect- Simon Petrikov would read to her these hefty textbooks during his self-imposed curfew; her bedtime hour, as she was only seven years old at the time of the Great Mushroom War. A bout of laughter found itself bubbling in her throat, once she recalled a fond memory of the older man having his brittle fingers caught underneath his copy of The Nordic Gods and Goddesses and begotten foul curses upon the tome, his usual soft tenured voice becoming something akin of that of a raspy screech. In his eloquent, yet whimsical way of speaking, Simon told of how the All-Father Odin and his brothers slew the giant Ymir, and from his decaying body the mortal world of Midgard was formed through their combined efforts. Tales such as these both inspired and frightened the young half-demon girl, but in a way it strengthened the bond shared between the two survivors in that Old World.
Having kicked off of the top of her former tree house, where the 'weenies' Finn and Jake made their home, Marceline set off for the cave over yonder. Thoughts of various gods and goddesses waging war over the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil kept her in a state of dream-like wonder as she flew, and even she began to think that her guardian would have been made a proper einherjar: a slain warrior chosen by the valkyries to fight alongside them during Ragnarok.
Pfft, Simon in clunky armor waving a little sword around a bunch of Bonnie-like chicks. That'd be something to see, the vampire inwardly chortled once she reached the cozy little abode, and having run into the zombie canine that was pawing with no end in sight at the door that led into her home.
"Schwabl, I'm home!" She gazed down at the toy-like poodle, and patted at his head affectionately. "Time for dinner, I guess!"
After having scrounged up some fresh tomatoes for a quick supper, poured the contents of a bag into Schwabl's food bowl (as to why she did this, she didn't even know; the dog wouldn't bring himself to eat it, anyway), and took a much-needed bath, Marceline prepared herself for bed, but not before her hands found themselves groping about at the nearby shelf, looking for that one text in particular. A smirk having crossed her features in triumph, her hand clutched the heavy tome and began to thumb through its contents upon having plopped herself down on the bed nearby.
"Earendel, Eastre…" the vampire quietly spoke to herself, swiftly scrolling through the 'E' section before she had gotten to what she was looking for, and her expression immediately brightened. "…here we go! Einherjar: a fallen warrior…blah, blah…huh, the winged chicks look pretty cool. Guessing they're the valkyries."
Marceline yawned loudly, and rubbed at her eyes. She was never one to become so enthralled with literature, whether it would be factious or fiction, but she always made an exception if it involved her very much-cherished friend.
Simon. The man's name alone sent pangs of longing to stir in Marceline's heart, and to hug the book tightly to her chest as she turned to lie on her side, the memories of his kindness causing her to fight back the tears that welled in her eyes. Though her friendship with the Ice King remained steady, and at times refreshingly hilarious, it was the man underneath the worn, cyan skin and the bushy beard whom she believed could return, only if it not were for the loathsome crown that resided atop his head.
Come home!
With an inaudible whimper and a sigh, Marceline pulled back the duvet, and sought the comfort of slumber underneath, her hands still clutched at her forearms. Schwabl took the opportunity to jump onto his master's bed, and laid his head on the hill of where Marceline's knees met.
Please.