"To pacify her people, the Frost Queen separated them into different tribes, sending them deep into the northern lands and chose fertile land for them. Then, when everyone had settled and lived happily, she collected their weapons, and smelted for them ploughs and harrows and scythes. But the northerners were a feisty people, and even with these blunt tools they started to quarrel and fight."
-Freljordian Folklore
I climbed up the horse Lis prepared for me and rode south. It was a fine mare, gentle and tame; when I went near her, she whinnied in fear, sniffing the complex of negative emotions on me, but still lowered her neck submissively.
The darkness sedimented my thoughts, reawaking me from the lull during the flight downhill. I cried again.
I rode at night, I rode in the morning; I sped south chasing the lively scent of grain and flowers floating around, but the sunlight pierced my eyes, so the next morning I decided to shy away from the sun. I screamed soundlessly, whipping my gentle mare till streaks of blood dripped down her hazel mane, escaping the light that would render me bare and visible to everyone.
The world was bright, white snow reflected the light into my eyes, it stung like hell. A lot of times I found myself crying, tears dropping to the ground then freezing into the snow. More choked in my throat, cold and sour and itching; I opened my mouth, freezing gusts pouring down to scrape my lungs-it didn't feel solacing.
There was still hope, I knew, there was still a lot of things to be redeemed and retrieved. But it was difficult-exceedingly so. What to do? I had honestly no idea; power pulsed through me, but I couldn't use it to move a hill; even if I could use it to move a hill, it wouldn't provide my tribe with food.
I counted the ones that depended on me: my whole tribe: Joana, everyone else, Lis, perhaps Samus-she needed me to clarify I wasn't an Unbeliever. That was well over three hundred of them, and I had no idea where to start. I had no idea where I was, and time trickled.
It was too heavy for me to think. I...simply ran away. I didn't know what to do, I was weak, I couldn't defeat the Arbiter, I couldn't punish the tribes for killing my people, hell, I couldn't even have my fist on Saar's nose. So I ran away.
I rode until my mare wailed agonisingly. Impatient, I jumped off her; her head stooped, sweat frozen in her mane. Her legs buckled, she couldn't run anymore-nor could I, but I had to. I needed sights and scenes to keep my occupied, even if those were just endless terrains of snow.
I left her in the snow. Perhaps she would survive, perhaps she wouldn't, I had no such concerns then. And then I ran again, away from the sun, away from my shame and guilt.
At one point the emotions had taken over me. It felt like a gradual process of sinking deeper and deeper into a tank of mercury, until one moment when you snapped under pressure. And then...I didn't know what happened. My cause was lost, my hopes and wills erased from my memory. All I did was escape even further, but no matter wherever I went, the whiteness followed in pursuit.
The paranoia went on for more than a day. When I was hungry, I grabbed something from my bag and swallowed; when I felt cold, I ran even faster. The inauspicious sun trailed me.
Then, I saw men fighting. I hated seeing people fighting-so inefficiently, wasting their strength and time in self-proclaimed heroic moves that killed people a hundred times slower than I did. So I joined them.
My intent wasn't something stupid like "teaching them how to fight better", everyone would identify that as trash. Nor was I assuming a stance: one side had more people than the other, and the side with less people had women inside: I would, under normal circumstance and mentality, stand them, but I didn't consider such details. I wanted to kill people.
It was cowardice, I admitted. I couldn't eaxct revenge on those who harmed my people, so I destroyed similar beings-humans, for consolation. It was bad. Really bad. The northern land regarded survival as its primary ideology, and sometimes I had to kill other people to survive. Yet this wasn't one of those scenarios.
I charged into the fray, the duo of blades whipped out like a tempest of cold steel. The blades-long, slightly arched with jagged teeth, glimmering a frigid, eye-catching blue. Not expecting my sudden entry, the soldiers yelled in anger and surprise. They tried to fend me off, but my sharp blades sliced through their plates and drew blood out of them, spluttering in beautiful, crimson stream.
I struck, I parried, I attacked and defended. These men stood no chance before me-I glared at them like lion to rabbit, executioner to prisoner; their fate was predestined. My clothes were drenched in blood, some splashing on my face; I licked, and it wasn't tasty.
It was rusty and sour, like the shame and confusion in my astrayed mind.
I killed like-ten, twenty, I stopped counting after that. There were a lot of men, tens after tens that would charge at me with their longswords and wooden bulwarks, looking at my thin frame with disdain before dropping, twisting madly, terrified. There were a lot of men, and gradually, bathed in blood and other miscellaneous fluids, I was fed up. But now the soldiers were scattered and horrified, the smaller group broke from their defensive formation and started attacking.
When the men had spread out, I saw the women the soldiers were protecting: one was a fair girl of about sixteen, her white smock and dress grey with dust, confusion and fear running astray on her face; the other lady was fairer still. Her eyes were big, and deep like the ocean; she had a tall nose and delicate lips, stretching in an meticulous curve. But her most prominent feature was her hair-a silver waterfall of smooth, refined strands, tumbling all the way down to her waist. It glazed in the mellow sunlight, like a fine piece of silk with elaborate texture and hues. She wore a simple crown of mythril with a piece of ruby in the middle. She wore a blue dress and a golden sash around her slender waist; a long, white shawl with silver embroideries draped over her shoulders, fluttering. She was such a beauty, the world seemed to suspend when she entered my vision; I could not guess her age.
She wasn't your ordinary damsel-of-distress though. I watched as she drew several arrows from her silver-embellished quiver, and fired them one by one; her aim was perfect, every arrow she sent claimed a soul. She stood in corpses, but she looked pristine, not defiled by the blood and death around.
Out of the blue, several dead men sprang to life. They leapt relentlessly at the lady with weapons of all kind; she was surprised, but stayed calm, deflecting the first strike with her bow; it snapped, but it deflected the blow before breaking. Then she jumped to the right, narrowly dodging a spear.
I saw the tattoos at the back of their necks. My first reaction was to grip my blades firm; then I cringed and my hands started shivering. Regardless, I let out a loud roar and went at them ferociously.
My blade passed through the first Watcher's back and came out from his chest. Blood spurted like a fountain as I found his heart, and he instantly collapsed. The second one retaliated, but not for long; I grabbed his fist, ripped the bones out of place, and cut off his whole arm in a clean strike. Then I plunged my other blade into his tender stomach, and left him rolling on the floor, clutching his fresh, hot intestines.
The remaining two abandoned their target, instead going for me, the one with more threat. The lady propelled herself up to stand, looking for something useful for fighting. The Prospector-I recognised his tattoo, even though it was old, fading and scarred-muttered quick words, and sent her flying back, colliding against a rock.
I growled fiercely. I saw the laughter on their lips, they couldn't conceal the contempt they had for me; apparently, ambushing and killing two Watchers was no big feat in their eyes.
I hated being insulted. The laughter, the nonchalant, teasing jests, they reminded me of my despised memories; in the course of fighting I had slowly regained sanity, but the jests, they triggered my dark side again. In the past month, so many people had displayed the same face to me; it wasn't amusing. It didn't matter if they were stronger or weaker than me, or if they knew anything about me at all; they laughed, and scorned me, because I am I.
It was as if the broiling volcano of anger and shame inside me suddenly discovered a way to channel its heat. And so I erupted with indescribable fury.
The sky was white, everything else was black. I saw no blood, since nothing was red. I saw no Prospectors; I saw faces of the dead, spending their final minutes lingering in this world.
It was a clash of blades, a tempest of magic. They threw endless spells at me, but I destroyed every one of them-I still didn't know how to use the pulses offensively, but they were so strong today, they radiated around my body; my proximity was magic-free.
I had to toss behind everything-my quest, my sadness, in order to focus fully in the battle. Yes, I would call it a battle instead of a mere fight; this was me against my fear, a deeply ingrained fear in my mind. If I deserted instead of destroying them fully, I would never be able to face the Watchers again, and become the despised person they laughed and teased.
Even without the assistance of magic, the Prospectors were extremely potent, their movement swift and precise like fine clockwork. If I were one step behind, I would be dead. There was still fear in me, but I felt it leaving my body, along the streaks of sweat and blood. And with each passing moment, I fought stronger.
The end had begun when one of the Prospectors went down, his scream transformed into a muffled gurgle as blood bubbled in his slit throat. At the same time, something passed through my body; I felt my muscles split apart, ripped to the sides by the object.
The second Prospector was almost unscathed. I looked at my hands: they were scarred and shaking, the fingers sore and complaining. Blood rushed to my left arm and flushed to the skin at the place of the previously broken bone; it swelled, and though I didn't feel pain, it did become unwieldy and slow. I didn't know pain, but I knew my body rattled.
He didn't use his blade. He swung his mace at me. I didn't doubt that, if I was hit solid, I would be dismantled into bloody pieces. Oh, but for the first time in days, I was tired.
It was good to have already killed a Prospector, I told myself. I did well.
I remembered the first hunt I had, six years ago. I was eleven back then.
The sky was getting dark, but I was still chasing my prey-a young buck whose sauntering motion brought him to my eyes. It was summer, and less cold than now, so patches of bushes and wild grass straddled the northern lands; the buck went into one of them. I struggled to find away in the bush-the plants were low, but I was also short, and small-hacking the leaves with my blade. I found the buck, drinking water leisurely from a small, clear pool; it must have thought it escaped danger; I tossed a knife, which bit into its hindleg. It snorted in panic, shaking its head around; it was then that I snuck out of the bush and slit its throat. I yelled triumphantly.
Except that he screamed at me desperately, and jutted his antler-it was a tender thing, the soft, velvety on it not yet fallen off-into my chest. It stopped between my ribs, but went deep. I couldn't remove the peculiar object from me; if I used force, the intense pain would instantly black me out. I thought I was going to die, and wailed; and in fact I would have died hugging the buck, if Arte and Joana didn't come to my aid, hearing my pathetic cries while searching for me.
He used a mace-because his sword was still in me. Like the buck's antler. Except that this time there was no Joana, no Arte around, and the person opposite to me was not a dead deer, but a Prospector of the Watchers.
What in me changed in these six years? I...didn't know. I was just a pretty outstanding hunter in my tribe until fairly recently, then the known world of mine shattered to scraps. Responsibility? No, responsibility wouldn't change anyone, I was still I, running away from it.
His mace edged towards my body. I could try and block it, but I was as powerless as against the buck six years ago. My left hand winced, and with a clatter my blade sunk to the ground.
I turned and braced the iron mace with my left side, then leapt back. Its blunt head smashed into my arm, and whipped me away like a cannon ball. But before that happened, I let go of my other blade as well.
I dropped to the ground. I feel absolutely shattered, as if I was cast down from the sky; but there was no follow up. A wisp of ghostly smile appeared on my lips-the first since a week perhaps. The blade didn't disappoint me.
The lady in blue ran scrambling at me, her maid following, carrying a bunch of vulneraries with her. Oh, I must look battered and crushed now, I was exhausted beyond the limit and my body protested wickedly. Their faces were white and sober as they saw my state; I probably was hurt quite badly.
But I survived. Nothing had changed, I realised; I survived then, I survived now. It mattered not whether I needed help or lot.
It was then that I looked down at my chest. Oh, and saw the gleaming sword stick out of my chest; it was a fairly big sword.
Colour returned to my vision, and suddenly the world around me was red, all red, different kinds of red all splashed onto a single canvas. I blacked out.
It was dark. Very dark. I dreamed no dreams, but the endless silence and solitude haunted me. Something trickled down my throat, moisting my sandpaper-like tongue in the process; it was sweet, and soothing. It restarted my body like a trigger, and one by one my senses returned.
The pain came first. It wasn't fiery and aggressive, but I felt my whole body engulfed in pulses after pulses of blunt, crushing sensation. Then my skin responded: the cotton pillows were soft, the mattresses thick and heavy. I smelled the fragrance of lilies and the spice of herbs being ground. My fingers moved around, entangled in the mattresses, and I tried to push myself up; but great jolts of stabbing agony from my chest stopped me to doing so.
Then I opened my eyes. They were heavy and tired, but I forced them open nonetheless. The young maid I saved (I supposed they would kill her if I didn't kill them) was sitting on a chair next to me, feeding me honey water with an iron spoon. I gulped down several more spoonful, the thick liquid wetting my parched lips, before she noticed I was awake and went to inform her master.
I had never experienced this hunger before. My stomach was practically a deep void, empty and hollow that its rumbling was resonated and amplified into a loud noise. But I had no information where I was, or where I could get food, so I could only wait. Staring at the stone ceiling, the grimness returned; I accomplished absolutely nothing in the last week, apart from injuring myself that I couldn't continue with the quest.
Even though my sanity was no longer divested by grief, I felt quite hopeless. I made a count-I didn't know how long I had fainted, but wouldn't be less than a few days, judging from the rusty state of my body. That left no more than two weeks before my tribe would run out of supplies and starve. That meant, help had to be sent now so it could be delivered in time. Which was almost impossible.
The door was opened again, and in came two people. One was the lady in blue I saw the other day; today, her haired was braided in an elegant style, and she wore a casual white dressed. Her eyes seemed more beautiful without the crown. The other man was a huge fellow, perhaps two heads taller than me; his head was bald and round like an egg, with carefully trimmed mustache curling up in a comical manner. His upper body was bare, muscles in gigantic slabs; there were numerous tattoos and inscriptions on his chest.
"Ah, so this is the hero that saved our little Princess." He had a thick, northern accent. "We were afraid of you that day. When you charged against all those soldiers, I thought you were a madman committing suicide."
"I was angry." I muttered quietly.
"Hah, you must be very angry then." The burly man quipped, "You looked like a maddened bull! I rarely see people braver than Braum, but you won my respect, boy, even if you're skinny as hell." I probably wasn't very skinny, but compared to him, I could as well be a willow.
Despite all of Braum's efforts to cheer me up, I remained sullen and glum. So apparently I saved a princess; but since when were there princes and princesses in the northern lands?
"Where is this place?" I asked.
"This is Freljord." The lady answered. Braum laughed, and followed, "You must be missing home a lot, boy. You muttered a lot of stuff while fainting..."
I sighed. I didn't even attempt to coordinate with Braum's joke to show minor embarassment. It would be difficult for me-and them.
"Speak no more for now, Braum. This stranger that has saved my life possesses more worries than you think." Her voice was rigid and clear, and very composed, never varying too much in tone. "There is grief in your eyes, but it is much deeper and sorrowful than simple nostalgia. Your brows shouldn't be creasing at such a fine, young age, but indeed they are; you are distressed, and overwhelmed, by whatever is plaguing you. I know nothing about your past, kind stranger, but I know you are bereaved, bereaved of hope and sanctity."
Her blue eyes started into mine; they stunned me, but at the same time I felt safe and secure. "Despite your physical prowess and keenness of battle, you aren't old, barely grown up. Right?" I nodded.
"You are confused and disheartened because of the responsibility you forced upon your frail shoulders, and you don't know how to respond to failure." She sighed, "I understand it, I had it younger than you."
She began recounting her past. "I was fifteen back then, thinking I was strong, and capable. I was the best archer in my tribe, but the world isn't about who aims sharper or shoots farther. If that's the case, it would be easy. One day, as I was out scouting alone, a neighboring tribe ambushed me and took me captive. They tied me on a stake as an offering to their spirit."
Her voice trembled, "My father and mother led my tribe to the rescue. But it was planned all along, they knew my parents would come. I was there, tied up high all the time, and I shouted to warn them until my voice was raspy and broken; but no one heard what I said, they thought I was scared. They came for me, one by one, and fell in the process. My father was stabbed to death in front of me, his hands circled round me feet. My mother died after untying the ropes for me."
"There was a time when I sat on the cold stone chair known as my throne, mind empty as void. My gaze was hollower than yours, and much colder; I almost gave up. Several times I contemplated on whether I should just kill myself to end this grief, but in the end I decided to face my life again. It wasn't easy, but I'm sure your scenario is much less desperate than mine."
"A man who died once wouldn't consider dying again. You will be fine; recollect your emotions, then we can sit down and talk more. Ah, feel free to cry; don't feel ashamed at all."
They left the room. And so, heeding her advice, I started weeping. It was hard to stop.
