AN at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 10
Læsanir
"III"
June 21, 2001
She feels like a ghost in this world. Her body seems ephemeral. Her mind seems but a wraith. But the Svartálfar — their presence is heady. Their skin is midnight dark, their eyes are white without even any irises, their hair is colorless — as white as their eyes.
Her translation stone allows her to communicate with them, but there is a distinct discontinuity between their words. She's never felt quite so insignificant.
Among her classmates she was separate — better, smarter, quicker, more powerful. Among the muggles she was a witch — she knew things they couldn't dream of. But among these dwarfs, deep in their foreign, remote world, she is inferior. It isn't so much that they are more powerful magically, they're just… more.
She sits against the wall, resting her head against the stone. Her eyes are half closed, combating the spinning still in her head, as well as a supreme sense of being overwhelmed.
She is now in a different massive chamber adjacent to the first large one she had stumbled into. She had explained to the dwarfs why she had come, in brief, after their questioning. They had then marched her into the new hall they were now in, and sat her down on the floor like a petulant child and told her to wait.
She's a bit relieved at the opportunity to rest though; she has no idea how long she'd been wandering around the maze of tunnels leading to the carved hall. And the Svartálfar's presence is very disconcerting, and she has this spinning in her head that is refusing to go away…
Her eyes drift closed of their own accord.
"Erilaz."
The voice comes again, "Erilaz," along with a little shake.
She starts awake, jumping to her feet in a small bit of panic, glancing around wildly. Instinctively she reaches for her wand only to find it missing.
The dwarf crouched in front of her looks startled at her sudden movement — well, as startled as they can, with their emotionless features — his eyebrows raising slightly.
"Sorry," she mutters, "sorry."
He stands and gestures for her to follow him.
He brings her to a much smaller chamber. This one is lit with a large iron chandelier like the one at the void entrance. The walls are carved and painted with many runes. She glances around in interest, trying to read them, and she notices that she recognizes a few common arrays — one for blocking evesdroppers, another for keeping anyone from lying.
In the center of the room is a massive stone table. It stands almost five feet off of the ground and is made of mirror polished black stone. It reflects the candle light off in strange patterns, the light seeming to sink into the stone.
Six dwarfs stand around it, all looking at her as she comes into the room, their faces impassive as always.
The one who seems to be the leader begins to talk, "Your story has been discussed and an agreement met."
He nods to her. She nods back nervously, hoping the agreement was something that didn't involve disposing of her remains.
"It has been beyond a thousand of your years since man has come here, even more since an Erilaz has made its way among us. We would like to welcome you." His voice rumbles like fallen stone, like the tumble of a waterfall.
"We," he begins, gesturing around at the six dwarfs beside him, "have decided to provide what you have requested, in exchange for your help."
She swallows nervously, "of course, I wouldn't presume to ask for your help without something to exchange. Do you have something in mind? I'm not sure what I can do for you that is great enough in return for what I am asking but I assure you I will do the best of my—"
He cuts off her nervous babbling with a sharp wave of his hand.
Get a GRIP Ginny, she thinks to herself fiercely, get a fucking grip.
"We request," he grates, "your magic."
"III"
February 15, 2008
Harry huffs, "they— they wanted to take your magic from you!? Di—did they?" he stutters incredulously.
Ginny shoots him a look, it was the first that either of them had said anything during her tale. They had both let out grunts of surprise when she recounted finding the void and meeting the dwarfs for the first time, but had let her continue her story uninterrupted.
"No, Potter, they didn't want to take my magic. I've obviously still got it, you just saw me cast magic…" she scoffs.
"Oh, right," he mumbles. Moody rolls his good eye.
"But," she concedes, "I was a bit worried about that at first myself. I asked them that, of course, a bit shrilly, I might add. I don't think I was making a great first impression upon them…"
"III"
June 21, 2001
"You want my magic!?" she squawks, a bit shrilly.
"Peace, manling, peace. The magic of the Svartálfar lies in the deep recesses of our world. It lies in our ability to build great things. But it lacks the intricacies of man. We would request some of those," he points to the pouch around her chest where she had tucked the translation stone.
Understanding washes over her in great waves of relief.
"My runestones? I can make you some, as many as you'd like. But, forgive me if I am overstepping, can't you create your own?" she gestures around at the carved walls, "our myths say you're the source of all runes, can you not use them?" she questions.
A rumble of disapproval moves around the circle of dwarfs.
"We cannot infuse our writing with magic in the ways of an Erilaz, there are no Erilaz dwarfs, only man may have that title."
"I'm sorry, but I don't know this word, Erilaz?"
"It means a rune master. A magician. One like you who can infuse magic into their runes."
"III"
"What range do you need?" she inquires. She's standing with two dwarfs at the polished black table, sketching out her plans for their request on some spare parchment she had in her pouch.
"Our land is four tonneland, two and a half landmiil til you approach our border from here."
Merlin, tonneland!? Landmiil? They really haven't had any contact with man for centuries. Alright four tonneland, is approximately thirty-two-ish… round up to thirty-three square miles. Two and a half landmiil, is what… times seven, seventeen… and a half miles.
Damn alright, 33 square miles, lets round up to 35, each stone can cover 5 square miles, that's—
"I'll need seven stones, in granite or quartz, about this large around," she says, looping her arms in a circle, about two feet across. She didn't want to have to do any more mental conversions. Merlin. Tonneland. They probably still use forearms for measurements.
Since the Svartálfar don't have their own magic, they won't be able to power the small rune stones she's going to be leaving with them. So she is creating anchor stones to draw magic from their world into the small runestones. Svartalfheim doesn't have any inherent ley lines, she's learned. She's going to have to connect the anchor stones to the sea of power that exists under their rocky world. When she focuses, she can sense it, shifting like a restless sea, deep below her feet. It grounds her and eases the spinning in her head.
They bring her the quartz next. Huge hulking mounds of jagged pink quartz. She gapes at the size of the boulders.
"An aln across would have been fine," she says, taken back by the quartz boulders: they stand taller than her five foot ten inches, and she doubts she could reach all the way around them.
"Will these not do, Erilaz?" one of the dwarfs asks. Does he sound worried? She cannot tell.
"No, no these are great!" she reassures, "they will more than do. They're perfect."
Merlin's pants, I sound frantic! I need to get out of here before I go absolutely batshit.
They lead her all over their realm, placing the quartz at the center of every five mile square. At each stop, she sets a band of brass into the stone. The bands are carved with complex powering arrays to provide the link between the anchor stones and the sea of magic drifting deep beneath the surface of this world.
It takes three days, by her reckoning, for them to place every stone and power them up. She hasn't gotten hungry, or thirsty yet. She hasn't seen any farm or source of water. Just endless carved caverns; all polished stone and covered in runes.
Another four days pass in a blur of stilted conversations and napping. They pass with her just sitting by waiting, trying to engage the four dwarfs who keep her company in reluctant conversation.
And they sit. And wait.
Oínn, the Svaltálfar who Ginny had picked out as their leader, arrives on the fourth day with his two guards. He carries something diaphanous in his arms.
She stands quickly, breaking off from her half-hearted attempts at conversation with the stoic dwarfs besides her.
"Erilaz," Oínn acknowledges her with a nod, draping the gossamer fabric across the stone table.
It's not fabric, she realizes as she draws closer, but fine thread spooled around and around in layer upon layer.
"You will need one more thing, before it is complete."
She pauses, her hand halfway out to touching it, glancing up at his studiously blank expression. She supposes her question is clear on her face, because he continues on at her glance.
"I know your myths may be a bit vague in the construction of such a thing, it is that way on purpose. We would not let man know of our secrets. You would need know of such things, Erilaz, if you may complete your task." He sounds grave, his gravelly tone slower and deeper than before.
"We left the tale of Gleipnir's construction with man in the ridiculous, made of six said impossible things: The sound of a cat's footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish, the spittle of a bird. We will not impart the truth of construction to you either, Erilaz, not from disrespect, or dissatisfaction with the gifts you have provided us. We need think of our own preservation."
She quickly nods her understanding, not trusting herself to speak.
He continues, "But you do need to know, to complete construction of the binding, you will need the gift from Gofn. This will lead your quarry to it's doom. I would not know it's location, we have not had word from man for a millennia until your arrival. You will need to search for it yourself."
"This," he grates, "is Læsanir," pointing to the spools of thread.
She takes the delicate thread in her hands, a bit apprehensively. It's so light, it feels like she's holding air, it feels like it's floating in her hands. It spools across the tabletop in a silken pile, red and vibrant in the candlelight.
It feels like liberation.
The feeling coils tight and hot in her stomach. Her skin thrums with the thrill of possibility.
A/N
What do y'all think Læsanir is for? Any thoughts on what it's name means?
Cheers,
-upstater-