Chapter 1: Waterfall
Then
This never gets old.
Wrapped in white gossamer, a comet speeds across the fjord.
The horse's footfalls leave no mark, ice blending seamlessly with the glass-like water. An ocean of stars glimmers underfoot, constellations whirring in the almost-dawn. It would be sunrise soon.
Anna's rarely woken up in time for the sunrise. Not that Elsa's never tried—there've been a few attempts to drag her out of bed to the balcony just in time to watch the sun set the fjord alight; Elsa had turned to gush to her sister about the wondrous sight only to see Anna slumped over the bannister, mouth open and snoring.
Meet me at eight, outside the library. Something important.
For Anna to set an appointment an hour earlier than she usually wakes up? Very unusual. Maybe a few months of being queen have finally knocked her sister's sleep schedule back on track.
Either that, or Anna's miswritten the time again, and she meant eight in the evening. Not that it would be the first time. Elsa chafes, huffing at the thought that she may then have to turn the Nokk back around, all the way back—
Then the sun casts its first rays, she forgets everything else, and she is aflame.
She catches it—literally catches it, as her arms spread wide to embrace the sunrise, the warmth spreading over her shoulders and arms, the glow a gentle burn over her closed eyelids.
The Nokk's icy body captures the liquid fire like a prism. Through the orange of its crest and withers she looks down on a sea of orange, glowing and glittering from a million facets. They pass under the shadow of a cliff face; the radiance of the morning is swallowed suddenly by cool darkness and the sea turns, in an instant, from a mirror into a window. The Nokk's hooves patter over the frigid water of the fjord; underneath, a shoal of fish scatter in a shower of flashing red and blue. The light spray of salt water is wet on her lips, bearing the warmth of first light—the morning is alive, breathing, here.
The reins are loose in her hands. The Nokk knows where to go. A mast rising from the sea, a monument of sloped angles and soaring towers in the Nordic fashion. It slumbers in the shadow of the coastal buff, its angular roofs a sleepy grey. Soon, the sun will paint it a brilliant shade of azure—and Arendelle will awaken, with its ships and market, its bustling people, its love and energy.
Already stalls are going up; boxes are unloaded, banners hoisted, thatched canvas roofs going over pillars of timber. A pair of dock workers spot her and wave; one of them bows clumsily.
"Gud mornin', Yer Majesty!" he calls out, as the Nokk begins to slow by the edge of the docks.
His partner elbows him sharply. "She ain't the queen no more, idiot!"
It is meant as a whisper, but years of being around loud ship horns and deafening ports means that what comes out is more a hissed shout. Elsa laughs.
She dismounts smoothly, the Nokk disappearing seamlessly into the ocean behind her as she lands on the pier. A few turn to stare; most continue about their business. Nothing to gape at anyways—the kingdom's folk have somehow become remarkably blasé about events that would shock just about anyone else. Ice queen riding a water horse. Tidal wave that explodes into a billion snowflakes. Rolling rocks that turn into walking, talking trolls. In other words, just another day in Arendelle.
She doesn't have to ask to be let in; already the guards are bowing, parting their halberds, pulling the doors open with the deftness born from years of service. The antechamber is familiar, the same portraits in the same place, and yet for some inexplicable reason her pulse quickens as the doors shut behind her and the noise of the markets vanish.
She peers at the great wings of the wide marble staircases, at the chandelier overhead, at the dusty corners of the high maroon walls, finding the memories of a childhood spent in near-solitude. This is her home—had been her home, until recently, and yet every charades night or dinner party brings the same feeling as she steps past the doors, that visceral guardedness, that discomfort. Why?
She told Anna about it before, after last weekend's charades (she won—a first!) Her sister had been deeply worried, and in typical Anna fashion, had confronted it head-on. "Are you hurt? You must be! All those years shut away, stuck in the room, having to hold it all in—maybe that's why the castle feels wrong to you."
Elsa had added her own half-remembered bits of theory cribbed from smarter authors who had written on the human mind. Anna suggested repainting the halls to cheer her up. She was vehement about 'bubble-gum pink.' Elsa thought it would be funny, if only to make Runeard roll over endlessly in his forgotten grave to have his great castle painted in such a garish colour. Eventually they exhausted themselves talking, falling asleep on the divan—Anna sprawled over its length like an octopus, Elsa curled up in one corner. That first step out of the doors the morning after had felt like a breath of fresh air.
Yelana, ever-wise, ever-ready, had an easier explanation. "Walls keep secrets, they trap you in. You've learned to live with the open sky above, in communion with the people of the sun; the tents are made of felt and barely walls at all. Why would you expect a free-roaming rabbit to return to its cage, and be happy?"
Elsa ascends the staircase, hands trailing along the bannister as she hikes her dress up to free her heels. Anna's letter had said eight o'clock, which means she wouldn't be awake until at least half-past.
Which is why the sight of Anna, standing by the door of the library fully-dressed, catches Elsa by surprise.
"Anna?" escapes her lips.
The dress whirls, the shade of pistachio melding into dark green, and suddenly Elsa is clutching her sister, all warm and heaving with energy. Her back, bare under the alabaster-white ice dress, shivers under her sister's fingers.
"Elsa," she hears the murmur, "you're here."
"Yeah—" She's off-balance. "Yeah. Anna. I'm here. Eight, right?"
"Yeah, I know." Anna sniffs over her shoulder. The brunette's messy locks are tied up in a regal bun, but Elsa knows bed hair when she sees it. "You're always the on-time one. Usually, at least."
They pull apart. Wintery-white strands of Elsa's hair snag on Anna's ponytail, and for a moment they struggle like flies in a spider's web before dissolving into giggles.
"Ever thought of a hairband? Or a scrunchie? It's everywhere!" Anna chirps, pulling a white strand snagged around her ear. "It's so soft, though. How do you keep it soft? Like, I leave mine alone for a day and it goes, like—" she waves her hands by her head, blowing out her cheeks. "—poof!"
"Reindeer milk—Yelana swears by it," Elsa stifles a giggle as she smooths out her tresses, pressing them down over her shoulder.
"Yeah, but Yelana braids her hair." Anna clamps her lips down, but Elsa doesn't miss the clench of her jaw and the huff of air from her nose. "Maybe I can ask Sven for some milk."
"Sven is male." Elsa's answer is flat.
"Right—see?" Anna pinches her brow. "My brain just isn't working today."
"You're yawning." Elsa puts a hand on her sister's shoulder. "You're not usually up this early."
"I'm not yaa—" Anna protests, then yawns for real. "Okay, okay, I am yawning. But no—I'm not up early. I've been up all night."
"Up all night?" A punctual Anna is one thing. An Anna pulling an all-nighter is another altogether. Elsa frowns. "What's going on?"
Anna pats her hair down, gently at first. Then frantically, as the strands bounce and flail, until she's pawing at her unkempt bangs like a kitten on a ball of yarn.
"Well—" she says, half-distractedly, "I've been cleaning out our parents' old stuff this weekend. In the library, I mean." She finally gets control of her errant tresses, blowing away one last rebel hanging down over her nose. "Old books, little bits and pieces. Like, all those things that we kind of just—left in there, you know, after they were, well, gone."
"Uh-huh." Elsa raises an eyebrow. "And you…did some spring cleaning?" Very, very un-Anna-like.
"Well, kind of." Anna scratches the back of her head. "You know I'm not very organised. At all. But it's just—you know, it doesn't feel right to just leave all their stuff out there and not use it. Like Mama's old maps, and Papa's books, and all those boxes and chests." Her eyes turn to the library door. "I think—they'd want it to be ours, now. They wouldn't want us to just freeze them where they are. They'd want us to move on."
Elsa clasps her hands together. A pang of guilt overtakes her. Freeze them—freezing them, that had been what she had done; maintaining the huge archive of their parents' work untouched, like relics in a sprawling shrine.
"Anna, that's—I think they would have wanted that." She means it. "But—you know, you could do it bit by bit. And I could help. You didn't have to stay up all night doing it. Wait, is that why you asked me to come here? To help you sort things out?"
"Well, yeah." Anna walks towards the door. "No, actually. Not really. Look—it's better if I show you."
She opens the door.
He blinks. In pain, in shock, in fear—his mind is a mist floating in a void, disconnected from his body. The demon watches from afar, red eyes burning within a reindeer skull perched atop a body of crimson.
The punch to his gut expels the air from his lungs, and suddenly his head is clear. He blinks again, staring at the vision with new clarity. Not a demon—no, a figure robed in red, clutching a staff topped with a reindeer skull.
The shaman is growling. Singing, rather; her throat rasping with harsh notes layered in a dual tone, rising and falling rhythmically. Her eyes are closed, her back bent almost double. She winces even as she croons, as if in constant pain.
Then he is dragged forward, and the stabbing agony in his stomach reminds him of his own pain.
"Stand straight, you Nordic filth. Etsegtei!" The tribesman cares nothing for his comfort. The grip on his upper arm is a vice, a chain pulling on an anchor. He hobbles, his feet struggling for purchase. "I said stand! At least die with some courage, you little shit!"
The night is dark; the sky is moonless and even the stars seem dim. He is tugged like a keelhauled sailor through the liquid night, his vision filled only by jagged silhouettes. A constant roar echoes through the air, rumbling and babbling, closer and closer.
The air is wet and sticky with moisture, dank with the scent of river sludge and mountain snow. At first he thinks of rain—then, as he is dragged closer, he knows.
The Dam—or where the Dam used to be. Where once stood massive stone pillars supporting a solid wall spanning the width and depth of the gorge, now there roars a titanic waterfall. Black churning water crashes down, tumbling over a dizzying height into the void beyond his vision.
A blow to his hip, and he crashes onto his knees. The snow-frozen soil slams into his legs without mercy; his eyes squeeze shut as he bends forward. Muttered curses fade into the background noise as the tribesman walks away.
"Fagra, grýttur land, heimr Árnadalr…"
The voice is quavering, cracking, reedy and weak. Heaven forgive me. He didn't make it out after all.
"Fylgið dróttningu ljóssins—"
He flexes his arms, shuffling his weight. His restraints cut into his flesh. Still, he fights to inch closer to the voice, to the silhouette of the broken man on his knees barely an arm's length away.
"Tostig," he rasps, "Tostig, I'm sorry. I'm here now. I thought you got out. I'm here now, I'm sorry—"
"Verðug dróttning stór…" the voice continues to sing.
"We tried—" A cough comes from his right; he turns. The ashen grey of the Northuldra tunic nearly blends into the night, but there is no mistaking the bright green eyes. His heart sinks further.
"No—Krihke, not you too—" he whispers.
"We tried, we did—Tostig and I nearly got to the forest's edge." Krihke bows her head. "There was a horse—we thought we could ride straight for Trostenn and then escape to Arendelle. But then they were there—"
"I'm so sorry—" His words are hollow, meaningless; foul on his lips. "If only—I thought—"
"Be quiet." A kick to his back, and his cheek grates against the soil. He blinks away the flashing lights against his vision. Tostig has stopped singing; in its place is heavy breathing, laboured and harsh. How badly is he injured?
"You remember this place? The Dam?" The voice is sharp, each syllable curt and spat rather than spoken. It's a woman. "Arendellian. I'm talking to you."
"Yes," he manages to reply.
"Four thousand of my brethren lie under that waterfall. Fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. Here, your king Run-aard murdered entire tribes of the steppe peoples who had laboured to build his Dam and worked his camps." She is standing next to him. The darkness reveals nothing of her features or clothing, only the lithe frame of a tall figure with hair bound in a topknot. Fading starlight glimmers off the tip of a spear, clutched in her hand. "Right here, Nord. Not a foot from where you are kneeling now."
He looks into the blackness of the silhouette, seeking the place where her face would be. "I don't—I wasn't there, I never—"
Thunder explodes across his face. His ear rings like a gong, his tongue brushing against the taste of blood.
"No, of course you were not." The butt of the spear drags over his neck. "It's a most curious thing. I've been at the killings of more than three hundred Arendellian guards, and they all tell me the same thing. That they knew nothing. That they were coincidentally on-duty elsewhere. Very curious."
Tostig is muttering something now. Something that sounds like 'please,' over and over.
"I can speak about the suffering of my people—I once did, you know. To every guard I killed. Until I realised just what a stupid waste of time it is." She walks around him, boots stamping on the ground, and the hairs at the back of his neck stand erect. "Why tell the dead about the dead, after all?"
The small hiss of the intake of air, the shuddering breath, and then Krihke is speaking.
"You're not the only one who's suffered!" she cries. "We Northuldra have been pushed from our lands, our homes, for so many years! You don't get to tell us about suffering!"
A barking cry from behind, and suddenly the tribesman is there, his bulk towering over Krihke's small frame. The dim starlight dances off the polished surface of a sword.
"Stay your blade, Bekter." The woman's voice scarcely even rises, but the command is obeyed instantly. The sword sheathes. "Let her speak."
Krihke pauses, swallowing; there is a lisp, a subtle escape of air with each syllable. She's lost a tooth. Maybe more. "Runeard wanted to kill us too—he would have succeeded, had he lived. We lost our leader, we lost so many of our own in that one terrible day. The spirits were angry against him, against us. His actions trapped us in this Mist, all of us—Arendellians, Northuldra, and you."
She spits, and he realises it is not out of spite or disrespect—her mouth is pooling with blood. "The Mist is gone now. We are free. Don't you get it? We're free. The Fifth Spirit set us free! We don't have to fight or kill or hate anymore! We can just go! There's a land out there that belongs to us! Why—" The cough cuts off her breath for a moment, but Krihke continues. "Why do you have to do this? Damn it—why cause more pain? Why can't you just—forgive?"
"Forgive, Northuldra?" The calm in the woman's voice is more deadly to his ears than the hiss of a viper. "Forgive who? You? The ones who denied us refuge when we escaped from the camps before the Mistfall, and sent your spirits to slaughter our people? Or the Arendellians, who continued to hunt us down in the forest until we gathered strength and began to hunt them?"
She is standing behind Krihke now. The spear scrapes along the soil, like a knife on a plate.
"I know what you're thinking." She lifts the spear, pivoting it with a swing of her wrist. "You Northuldra swim like fishes. You grow up alongside rivers and lakes. You live as much in the water as you do on land."
The warrior crouches, until her face is right beside Krihke's. He cannot see either of them, but he hears the Northuldra's breathing. Shuddering, unsteady, from pursed lips.
"What you're thinking," the woman continues, "is that when I throw you down the waterfall, there's a chance you could survive the initial plunge. A good chance, as a matter of fact. Your hands are bound, but your legs are free. Strong kicks, to break free of the eddies—then, freedom, perhaps."
An impulse seizes his head even as the icy cold fingers tighten around his chest. Dragging his eyes away from Krihke, towards the mighty cascading torrents of water crashing down into the night. Ploughing through the gorge, plunging into the abyss below.
The movement is so sudden, it's almost done by the time he can jerk his head back.
Krihke screams—screams to highest heaven, as the scent of fresh blood fills his nostrils. Holding the spear against Krihke's waist like the shaft of an oar, the warrior rips, tears. The Northuldra continues to scream, even as the head of the spear rips across her thighs, first one, then the other.
No clean cut, this—a drawn out, deep, gouging stroke driven by malice. Until at last the spear jerks free, and Krihke's howl drops to a soft keening as the hamstrung Northuldra totters on her knees.
"Swim, Northuldra." The warrior seizes Krihke by the neck, and he hears the words hissed from between clenched teeth. "Swim for your life."
A shove, and Krihke pitches forward. A short scream, as she tumbles head over heels—and then the night takes her, and his ears are full of Tostig's shrieks.
Elsa's first impression is that Anna's idea of organising must be somehow to make everything messier. Books are stacked in dangerous towers reaching almost to shoulder height, and boxes are piled haphazardly like rubble. The large mahogany table looks like the scene of a crime; letters and books strewn across its surface, some teetering on the edge. A tornado hitting the library would have left things neater.
Anna strides over, to a chest underneath the table. By instinct, Elsa's hand reaches out to shield her sister's head as it ducks below the table's edge.
"Urgh—this is heavy!" With a grunt, she pulls the chest out from under the table. "I think it's Papa's collection of iron weights!"
"Anna, what's this?" Elsa bends down, peering at the container. "I don't think I've seen this before."
"I don't think we were meant to." Anna wipes her brow. "It was hidden behind a panel at the back of the library, behind a shelf."
Elsa's eyes widen. "Hidden—how did you find it?"
"May or may not have tripped and accidentally kicked the wall." Anna shrugs, grinning sheepishly.
"A hidden chest?" Elsa runs her fingers over the chest—metal, rather than wood. Solidly made and seamless, unlike the wooden boxes used to store Arendelle's archived documents. Whoever made this was guarding it from more than just moths and woodlice.
"Look." Anna points at the lid. Engraved in immaculate workmanship—the crest of Arendelle, and below it, Agnarr.
"Papa's—" Elsa's fingers press over the name of her father. "What's inside?"
"I don't know. I can't get it open." Anna pulls at the lid by the handle. It barely jerks. "Of all the hundreds of boxes and chests in here—this is the only one that's locked."
"Really?" Elsa caresses the lid, feeling along the long edge. Her fingertips probe for a seam or gap—nothing.
"I went through the keys in the steward's office. Nothing labelled 'mysterious locked chest' in there." Anna shrugs. "Yeah—this took me all night."
Elsa circles the chest, her eyes roving over each detail. "There's no keyhole." The curved metal lid is smooth and unadorned, except for—
"Hang on." She kneels in front of the chest's forward-facing side. "Look." A network of shallow grooves criss-crosses the cast-iron surface, lined with brass and flanked by numerous markings. Elsa peers closer at one. "It's not in any language I recognise. Not runes, either."
"What could that be?" In a flash, Anna is on her knees, next to her sister. Her bed-hair is returning with a vengeance, stray strands rebounding like fraying wool from a sweater. "Think that could be the key to getting it open?"
"Key…" Elsa trails off. She stops, as her eyes pick out something she does recognise. The marking of a squirrel, perched at the very edge of the labyrinth of grooves. "Wait. I know this—"
Elsa leaps up suddenly, and Anna barely has time to call out before she disappears out the door.
Five minutes later, Elsa reappears, panting, her dress hiked up above her knees. And holding something up in her hand.
"Anna," she wheezes, "remember this?"
Her sister stares for a moment. And then her turquoise eyes light up, as her lips spread in a smile.
"Tock the squirrel!" She cradles the wooden figurine in her hand, as her sister closes her fingers around hers. "I'd forgotten about him! It's been so long!"
"Found him in your chest upstairs, along with the rest of your toys." Elsa smiles. "Papa always did tell us never to forget him, and to keep him safe."
"He taught us a little song about him!" Anna squeals. "Remember? During playtime? How did it go?"
She squints in concentration, and then belts out—
Tock the squirrel, in a storm
Seeks a home safe and warm
So he digs, under ground
Hits a rock, and goes around—
And as the familiar melody rises in the quiet library, Elsa joins in with her own voice.
Then he climbs, up so high
Till he sees the clear blue sky
Brings his children through the pass
Tock the squirrel, safe at last.
"I can't believe it! We still remember!" Anna does a little hop, clutching the figurine tightly.
"Anna," Elsa whispers, crouching by the chest. "I think Tock might be the key. Like, literally, the key."
Anna turns the squirrel over. The flat side of the figurine is smooth, except for a single stub cut in the cross-section of a symbol—a cross, except with the arms curving upwards instead of straight to the sides. "Elsa—does this mean Papa didn't give us a toy, but a key? A key to this?"
"Only one way to find out." Elsa plucks the wooden toy from her sister's outstretched palm. She surveys the grooves upon the chest—a puzzle. "I think the key fits somewhere here—but we have to move it in the right order to unlock the mechanism. We might only get one chance—or the chest might lock forever."
"How do you know that?" Anna asks.
"A novel I read—some time ago," Elsa says, eyes narrowing. "A mystery story, with a secret letter hidden inside a tumbler locked with a puzzle. Trying to open it without solving the puzzle breaks a vial of acid that destroys the letter inside. At least—I think so. It's been a few years."
Anna exhales. "Okay." Her brow furrows in thought. "You know, if Papa gave us the key—he must have given us the way to use it as well."
The idea hits both of them at the same time. "The song!" they cry in unison.
Anna is practically vibrating, her breath warm against Elsa's neck. Their fingers run over the maze of grooves. "Tock is in a storm. That's where he starts," Anna murmurs.
"There!" Elsa points at a symbol, just above a number of markings. A thundercloud.
Anna inhales, as Elsa grips the tiny squirrel between her fingers. Carefully, surgically, she pushes the stub into the groove just below the symbol.
A click—and the key sinks neatly into the groove.
"It worked!" Anna pumps her fist. "Okay, okay. What's next? He's looking for a home—so he digs underground—Elsa, move him downwards!"
Elsa slides the carven figurine down the vertical groove; it moves with barely any resistance. She's about to push it all the way down the groove, when—
"Wait!" Elsa says, as she stops just shy of a symbol. Rugged and irregular. "Tock stops at a rock. We need to stop here."
"Hits a rock and goes around." Anna points at the grooves, merging into a wide circle.
Slowly, Elsa manoeuvres the key along the circular path. "Now he crawls up."
With a click, the key slides into a vertical groove at the middle of the maze. Elsa pushes it upwards, until the tiny wooden snout of the squirrel bumps against the final symbol just below the lid—a cloud and three undulating lines; the sky.
The lid clicks, and something gives way.
Neither of them dare to breathe, as they grasp the handle of the lid. What had been heavy and impenetrable just a moment before, now jiggles easily on its hinges. This is it.
"Together," whispers Anna, and Elsa doesn't need to reply.
They open it.
At first, Elsa is almost disappointed. In that split second of infinite possibility before the lid swings open, her mind has conjured up a myriad of fantastical treasures—a dragon egg, a magical sword, a chest brimming with gold coins and jewels, a family of pixies fast asleep.
The sight of so many neatly stacked sheets of paper is almost underwhelming.
"Wait, that's it?" Anna frowns. "More paperwork?"
"They're dated." Elsa rifles through the stack with a dainty finger. "Back—back to when Papa first ascended the throne." The—letters? ledgers?—are each folded in half, arranged methodically along their long edge, and stamped with a date on the front.
"One's different." Anna reaches into the chest. Unlike the others, the sheet she retrieves is unfolded, bearing her father's distinctive scrawl neatly printed on brown letter paper. "Elsa, it's addressed to us."
The sisters sit side by side by the table, as they begin to read the letter from their father, hidden in a chest they had likely never been meant to find.
Half an hour later, they are still sitting at the very same spot.
Anna is staring ahead, blankly and in shock. The letter falls limply from her fingers, coming to rest in the shadow of the large table. Elsa takes her head in her hands, and begins to weep.
"Pathetic." The spear thumps the ground beside him. "Even in death—pathetic. The soldiers of Run-aard threw four thousand of the steppe people over the Dam here, thirty-four years ago. Odval bears witness," and here the tall woman gestures to the bent crone, "none of them made a sound when they fell. Not a single one."
"Tostig," he whispers, his breath hot and unbearably thick in his throat, "look at me—don't look at the water—alright? She—Krihke died instantly, she did, she didn't suffer—"
At first he thinks that a sword is being dragged over a rock, his mind summoning up images of an executioner's blade being sharpened on a whetstone. Then he realises it's a voice—grating, guttural, ancient.
"Tabin," the voice says, "turn them around. Let them see."
"Yaagad, Odval?" The warrior's tone drops, suddenly gentle.
"Speak in Nordic. We know the tongue as well. I want them to see. I want them to understand." A patter of thumps against the ground, drawing closer.
Black night spins above him, whatever dim starlight merging into a blur, and then he is sprawled on the ground, his face warmed by the light of a roaring fire.
"Chi itgeltei baina uu?" the female warrior speaks again. Her stern voice has softened.
"Yes, I am." The shaman's words are clipped. Her accent is thick, yet understandable. "What must be done, will be done. And I want my enemies to bear witness."
Suddenly he is aware of just how many there are. To his side, his left and right, are ranks of kneeling prisoners. Arendellians, Northuldra. Stretching into the dark, beyond the concentric circles of light cast by the bonfire.
In the darkness, the reindeer skull leers like a towering demon, its empty eye sockets aflame with firelight, the tassels of the staff merging with the crimson robes of the hobbling shaman. She limps nearer, and as her withered eyes fall on him, his heart freezes.
"We of the steppe," she croaks, her voice rising above the din of the waterfall, "have worshipped the eternal sky since before we emerged from the Altai mountains. The great Tengri, all-encompassing father above, has witnessed our oppression at the hands of the people of Araan-dool, and their king Run-aard."
She slams her staff upon the ground, and the sound tears through the air like thunder. "He is angry. I sense his wrath, beating within me, as it beats within each of his children. It is his aspect of war, the red sky, Daichi Tengri, that watches over us as we ride forth to slaughter the Northuldra and Nords."
Hisses and murmured chants echo from beyond the firelight. In the darkness, glints and slivers of metal flash like the teeth of wolves.
"Yet I am old enough to know of another deity, also. One ruling not over the grass oceans, but the oceans of sand—the great deserts of the Tasarkhai. Gurun-Khan, the Lord of All Deserts, who hears our cries for vengeance and answers them unerringly. I have sensed his wrath also—and know he calls for us to pay the price." The shaman steps closer, undoing the knot of the robe around her neck.
"His price is steep. It is brutal. For while Tengri Etseg demands the blood of our enemies—Gurun-Khan demands our own." The robe falls from her shoulders, and he sees that the shaman is naked. Wrinkled skin hangs over a tottering skeleton, the tattoos on her body folding and undulating upon a parched landscape.
He looks up. The tall warrior's face is bared in a grimace, her body tense. "Odval—you are the spiritual heart of the tribe. You do not—you need not do this."
The elderly shaman shakes her head, the motion swaying her sagging breasts like gourds. "Every life is a sacrifice to the tribes. My life is no different. Let our people watch, and take courage. Let our enemies watch—and fear."
A knife appears, clutched in knobbed rheumatic fingers, over the shaman's heart.
"As this blade pierces my heart," she rasps, "so too will Gurun's dagger pierce the heart of Arendelle. Upon that kingdom I call forth the wrath of Eternal Heaven—that its walls will be ruin, that its rulers be vanquished, that its people be scattered forever. Tengri biz menen."
"Tengri biz menen," he hears the young woman whisper beside him.
The dagger glints in the firelight, a promise of death—and then, in a flash, plunges into the shaman's chest.
A wail rises from beyond the fire, from that shadowed crowd of demons just beyond his sight. He shivers—by now he's given up all hope of controlling it—and the tug of his bladder is becoming a scream. His trousers are specked by droplets. He smells the acrid odour of urine—Tostig has lost the fight altogether.
The shaman's face is nothing but serenity, even as the dagger sinks deeper and deeper. Her wrinkled chest darkens, stained by the life-blood pouring forth like a libation of wine. Her cheeks pale, her eyes roll back, her fingers lose their grip on the hilt, first one hand, then the other—but through it all, the ghost of a smile never leaves her face.
Her knees give way—or perhaps she kneels willingly—and she is upon the ground, nearly bent over.
And suddenly, her body seizes up.
He recoils, his calves cramping hard, as the sight elicits a screech of horror from the gathered prisoners. Bound, fixated, he stares as tendrils of utter pitch-dark erupt from the shaman's body, bursting from the knife-wound. They plunge into the ground like pulsating, writhing tentacles—and then—
Gone.
The shaman topples over, with a soft thud. The wrinkled skin, once olive-coloured and liver-spotted, is now white—white as snow, as is her hair.
"Strong, in death as in life—" the warrior speaks, almost in a whisper. "Do you see, Nords? Northuldra? That is courage. Something you know very little about. Can you face death with such dignity, such calm?"
She sighs, then shakes her head. "One way or another, we shall soon find out."
She hooks her fingers on his collar, and the force that drags him back to the cliff's edge is as unopposable as a riptide. "You will have a chance to speak of what you have seen. When you go to Erlik's realm, speak of the bravery of Eelukgiin Odval. Testify truly, and perhaps in the next life he will allow you to be reborn a worm."
He kicks, struggles. His arms slip and chafe uselessly against the ropes. Through the night, he hears—at first scattered, then altogether in a rising tide. Screams. Screams, falling back into the water, into the night—into darkness.
It has begun.
All he can think of is I will not scream.
To his credit, he does not scream, even as the pain lances through his groin on both thighs, as he feels the spear-blade sever his hamstrings and render his legs useless.
He does not scream as he is pushed over the edge, lingering in infinity—
He does not scream during the fall as the night swallows him.
And then he does not scream again.
And welcome to the tale, of the White Hun.
There will be raw and violent moments throughout this story, both emotionally and literally. Frozen 2 tried to sell a packaged, rushed ending to its audience with a last-minute coat of paint splashed over it. I intend to tear it apart and scoop out its innards, to spread them out for scrutiny, to really examine what it means to live in a world after attempted genocide, after societal upheaval, and after near-apocalyspe.
So welcome, again.
And to those who are visiting The White Hun for the second time, read on.
So why the rewrite?
The White Hun enjoyed quite a good run, if I may say so myself. But after a while, I realised that even my strongest instances of writing had been used to compensate for increasingly obvious flaws in the story - flaws that got more and more apparent with time.
1. Lack of direction
2. Branching plotlines growing out of control
3. Dull and uninteresting character development (both canon and OC) - later chapters attempted to compensate for this, but first impressions stick
4. Lack of an emotional core
5. Clunky and overly cumbersome descriptions - leading me to switch to present tense for the rewrite
I had help and support from various other, more talented and far more popular authors throughout my journey, and it was their advice that motivated me to push the RESTART button.
If this is your second time around, I hope you see something here that's been missing from the first one.
Please review and leave me your thoughts!