Updated/edited Ginnungagap and removed the JPOV chapter from the middle of the story. This chapter is set at the beginning of Ginnungagap, when Izabel first meets Jarpr.
It was early morning when I departed from my family, six pairs of honey gold eyes looked on worriedly to me as I said my goodbyes. They knew I would not be far, not more than a half-day's run from our home, but it was goodbye nonetheless. The moon had already surrendered its hold on the night, but the sun had yet to rise. Cool air met my skin, although it failed to chill me. Although I could feel the various temperatures, heat would never again sear my flesh and the cold would never freeze my bones.
Immortality had its few benefits. Although a long life – if it could be described as such – did come with many disadvantages. While my family had their mates to share their many lifetimes with, I was alone. The odd man out who was forced to watch their loving interactions while my own still heart felt the pangs of loneliness that accompanied the fact that I was, in a way, alone.
The mere separation from one's mate – both through distance and time – was painful for my kind. Though the distance was not far, I knew that none of the others would be able to withstand the separation and successfully complete the mission at hand, nor did they possess the same advantage that I did. And so it was with these thoughts, and a guilty longing to separate myself from the reality before me of being without my own mate, that I had volunteered to go.
This journey would be a reprieve of sorts, freeing even, and would allow me the ability to focus only on the task at hand.
Clothed in the garb of a Tyr guard and servant, I ran to the land of Dagez. I would become a servant to the King, a position that would allow me the most access to the inner workings of the newly ascended leadership of the realm. Tucked securely in the side of my leather trousers was a letter from the King of Tyr. A letter that announced me as a gift to the King to celebrate his new marriage and would ensure the appointment I needed.
Trees blurred by as I ran through the forest, the stars retreating as the sun kissed the lines of the Iza Mountains behind me. As I ran, I could hear the stirrings of the human farmers and land workers who rose and prepared themselves for various tasks of the day. Though this new King had only taken power two months prior, his subjects already worried themselves with how they would meet the rising taxes, they worried for the crops that they desperately needed to meet the demands of their Jarls and their families. Worry seemed to slosh over in every thought that assaulted my mind as I ran.
It was these outer regions, these outer landowners, farmers, and even whole villages that in turn worried us. Immortals that had not been bothered by humanity in centuries now turned and looked upon these people with concern. Even now, as I ran and pushed my limbs faster so as to outrun the thoughts of those waking, the ugly vision remained in the forefront of my mind. The völur had seen visions of Yggdrasil, the Great Ash tree, shaking as if in the midst of a great storm; leaves fell from the far-reaching branches in great piles to the land of Midgard. The leaves were without number and as they touched the realm of man, then slowly became saturated and drowned in steaming baths of blood. The determination, the certainty of the vision drove my compassionate maker to prevent such horrors from befalling the land.
However, we did not know – only suspected – what would set in motion these tides of events that wash the land in blood. The völur sought the decision, the one action or human, that would begin the tumbling of events, but every vision seemed to hinge on the death of one human. The death – possibly murder, of one man would send his kingdom into utter darkness. Immediately, we had visited Dagez in search of the King, to seek him out and ascertain his health, and the intentions of those around him. There were of course those who sought to ascend to a position of power, those who wanted to better their standings and holdings – but none stood out as murderous. And so, after several days in the forest, we left empty handed, without any more information than before. The woods flickered across my memory and a familiar tug ached inside me, but I quickly pushed it aside.
Assumptions were not something we were familiar with, had never been faced with – the clarity of visions had always before been able to find the one action that altered a future. Yet, doubt – murky and thick, pooled around us. We had to assume that someone murdered the king, that someone who would ascend to the throne in his steed – his daughter or perhaps her intended husband would be the catalyst to bring about such destruction. But to murder these rulers outright seemed to bring forth even worse disasters. Despite the impression that immortals were blood thirsty, satisfied only by the mortals in their charge, murder was not something we considered without much debate – to slay the rulers of a land came with steep consequence – both to the many humans that would be impacted, and ourselves - the secrets we kept. A land without a ruler was a land in darkness, in turmoil, and it was something to be avoided at all costs. The humans of this realm would limp on before like a dying fire, would flicker and fade into ash, but it was our family that would fall into utter ruin. And so, instead of immediate permanent action, we chose to spy.
Never before had we sunk to playing human in such a manner, to not only walk among them, but to resort to their own mortal methods of information gathering. And while my family – and myself, previously – were not bloodthirsty animals sated only by the violence that accompanied a slaughter, I found myself wanting to stain the walls of the Dagez palace in deep, crimson blood. I imagined it – thick, warm beads that rolled down the stoned walls, stained the floors, and gathered in sticky puddles. The night would blanket the palace as I walked from room to room, killing those in my path, leaving only the truly innocent alive to face the horror that would come with the rising sun. Like the avenging, angry, murderous god that so many mistook us for, I would kill in the night and vanish without any knowledge of my coming or going, and the stories would circulate for generations of the sudden, violent end of their rulers.
No, though these fantasies seemed to run rampant, paced only by my anger at the death of the king – the very man who seemed to embody goodness itself, I would remain true to the path and plan set before me. I would remain focused on the mission at hand, and only satisfy my deep, coursing anger with the blood of the guilty. I imagined it would not take long to find the source of this upheaval, to find the proof of their guilt, and then with great satisfaction, slowly end their life and with it, the vision of horrors that had awaited the realm.
It was midday, cloudless when I arrived on the village edge. As I neared the bustle of people, I slowed to a human pace and secured my cloak and hood in place. On the outlying edge of the village were several homes, scattered about with their sod roofs and small backyards with tiny gardens. From the windows of the homes, smells of the midday meal wafted in the air, the sound of children setting tables and protesting washing prior to the meal seemed to ring through the air, and the steady sound of boots hitting the dirt and grass as they walked eagerly home to their families created a beautiful music. People living their normal, mortal lives was something our family of immortals envied; to love, to sleep, to have children – all were treasures we would never be able to have, to create. And so, we listened and we coveted the simple pleasures that most humans took for granted.
My steps slowed as I allowed the normalcy of the day to sink into me, to take in the smells – albeit nauseating – of the prepared meals and the comforting thoughts of the wives busying themselves with preparations for their husbands returns.
I do hope he enjoys the cheese today; it is his favorite after all.
Must complete the mending after lunch.
Tonight I will best him at the game.
Please have earned enough money at the market.
When the thoughts turned sad, I attempted to tune them out and continued walking through the dirt path littered with pebbles and stones along the edges. Town came into view fairly quickly, also spackled with small homes but these homes were settled above merchant stores, and the roads here were far more crowded as people milled about between the taverns and merchants selling fresh game, produce from gardens, and the blacksmith who sold shields, swords, bows, and arrows.
Separated by a tall wall, was the palace with looming gates that allowed entry. I had visited this land before - decades before. I remembered the kings that came before this one. Kings who were noble and worked alongside their people to instill honor and loyalty; Kings who hosted The Thing twice a year and worked hard to ensure their people's successes; Kings who could be trusted. I scowled and pulled the hood tighter to my head and began to walk towards the palace. Along the far side of the wall, nearest the village, a small group was gathered. My ears made out many murmurs of, "thank you". Curious, I walked towards the group to see what act had pleased the crowd so.
A peasant woman, clothed in a shapeless pale blue tunic and an olive green head covering, had several baskets at her feet. Inside the baskets appeared various produce, grain, and even fresh game. People approached her in a surprisingly orderly fashion, hands out and palms up as they neared her. Although he face was bathed in the shadow of her covering and the sun, I could make out her beautiful, delicate features and the strange tug pulled at me again.
Kindness shined through her large brown eyes as they met the gaze of every person who approached her, her pale skin contrasted the covering of her head and the dark brown color of her braided hair. She smiled at each person, a seemingly genuine smile as she whispered, "You're welcome," and "How is your family?" to each person she gifted with food.
Curiosity seemed to overwhelm me as I felt a sudden need to know if she were as genuine as she seemed. Reaching out, I focused my mind on her, sifted through the voices surrounding her, and attempted to read her thoughts.
Nothing.
Silent.
With a shock, I realized that her mind was closed to me, it was something I was unable to access. Was she a human? Or was she like me, in disguise, pretending to be a mortal? This would explain her ability to so completely block me from the privacy of her thoughts. Again, I turned my focus to her and listened; there was a heartbeat, blood flowed through her veins – she was, in fact, a mortal. How could this happen? Never before had a mortal, a human, ever prevented me from accessing their thoughts.
The need to know more surged once again and I searched the thoughts of those gathered around the woman.
A gift from the gods.
Everyday she is here.
If it were not for her our family would not have enough food.
Always so kind.
A shame really.
The last thought captured my attention and I returned to that mind. It was an old woman, who stood at the edge of the group, gazing at the young peasant woman. The older lady's face seemed compassionate, but sad. Probing again, I immersed myself in her thoughts.
The match is unsettling. Everyday she comes to the wall and feeds us, and yet her husband remains essentially unseen. What did her father envision when he agreed to this arrangement? I wish she were happy.
The tenor of these thoughts seemed to imply an unhappy union between this young woman and her new husband. Quietly, I walked towards the back of the group and lingered on the edge. Although I did not need to be so close in order to hear the people and the young woman converse, I wanted to be closer and perhaps inhale what I imagined to be her sweet scent.
"Thank you," a young man stated, and bowed his head quickly.
"You are very welcome. Come back again tomorrow." Her voice was musical, with several beautiful notes that seemed to resonate with the very core of me. The tug pulled harshly at me, urged me forward. The need to protect her throbbed through me, I wanted – no needed to touch her, inhale her scent. All else seemed to fade away as I observed her; nothing else existed except the woman mere feet from me.
My mate.
The realization was quick and almost instant. I had found my mate on this journey. Equal elation and anger coursed through me; happiness to finally discover the one I was made to share eternity, for the completion that would come, and anger at the mission before me, the mission that would keep us apart for a bit longer.
And anger at her husband, whoever the poor bastard may be. When the mission was complete, when the guilty had been discovered, I would take my mate and leave this land, return home, and would leave one additional body in my wake. That of the unfortunate bastard who had not only been matched with my mate, but who also made her unhappy.
Unhappiness seemed glaringly obvious as I drank her in, although beautiful, her entire being seemed to radiate a sadness. Hands twitched at my sides, hands that wanted to touch her, feel the heat of her skin against the coolness of my own. While human, her touch would burn against my body; her scent would create a hunger, a burn in my throat. I would have to be very careful and seek her out in the village when I could. When we left – together – I would change her, make her like me, and share eternity together. No longer would I walk alone or ache at the emptiness inside me, ache from being incomplete.
"Thank you," another voice murmured, a young mother perhaps, as she took food from my mate.
The old woman, whose thoughts I had indulged in earlier, had moved from the edge of the group and now stood in front of the beautiful, unknown peasant. She bowed her head slightly in gratitude, took the offered food, and whispered so low I almost missed her words, "Thank you, Your Highness."
The shock that seemed to engulf my mate's face most likely equaled my own. The Queen? Surely not. As good as the previous King had been, whispers and rumors of how terrible his daughter was had reached even our ears. The young woman bearing food for the people was not the Queen, could not be the Queen; the rumored young woman who hide herself in the palace; the woman who after her father's death had immediately married and ascended the throne; the woman who ignored her people as steadily as her own father had participated and lived amongst the people, the very Queen who was suspected of murdering her own father.
Eventually, the woman's baskets were empty and she stacked them into one another into a nice pile and began carrying them away. The group dispersed and I hid myself in the shadows of the homes and stores while I watched her. Her hips swayed gently as she carried the stack of baskets, and she hummed quietly to herself an unknown song – probably a local bard creation.
Do not go into the palace. Do not be the young Queen. My mind begged the unsuspecting woman to turn away from the gates of the palace, to walk to a small home with a sod roof and a hard working village husband. And so, when she turned towards the gates and entered, my heart seemed to sink into the marrow of my bones. Once inside the gates, her eyes seemed to watch the area around her, and satisfied she removed the hood from her head. Clearly, I could make out every detail about her. If she were the Queen, I would see her again – probably in the space of a few hours. I would use my perfect recall to match the face of the Queen to the face of this, my mate. No decision would be made until I knew who she was.
My mission suddenly became infinitely more challenging.