Standard Protocol: All rights to the characters and settings of this fanwork is owned by Disney, except for the increasingly large number of my OCs.
Additional Standard Protocol: Special thanks goes to FrozenRose1 for being my beta-reader. She's been doing quite the job as my Second Opinion.
Chapter 10
It's Just You and Me
Adam the Adventurer's journal stunned its readers with its last records. It wasn't hard to see why; the seemingly innocuous section the old book was an open door, leading to a dangerous world that shared reality with the mundane, just out of sight, and out of most minds. The dark night that shrouded Arendelle immediately became just a bit more oppressive, a little more threatening, for who knows what kind of eldritch secrets and creatures sheltered themselves beneath the moon and stars, in this kingdom, at this very moment?
Even worse was the revelation of the enemy's true capabilities. Elsa and Anna had always remembered their Father telling them the tales of Prince Adam, but never in these startling details. It made sense, given that they were merely children at the time, but that did little to ease the surprise.
The Spøkelse came as even more a shock. Sure, they remembered that this ancient spirit, one that has existed for more than three hundred years, had been attacking people indiscriminately, and was eventually left stranded in the Lost Woods, where it belonged.
What King Akthar never saw fit to tell the Royal Sisters, however, was that the monster plagued its victims with vicious and horrid memories, hammering those venomous thoughts into their heads until it left nothing but empty husks and begging, broken messes in its wake.
Helge and Kristoff, on the other hand, were hardly perturbed by the information, and displayed near-stoic expressions, looking remarkably like statues. Accepting the journal's contents came more easily to them; having lived in troll territory before, beyond the thin borders that separates mystical creatures and humanity, both mountain man and troll had their fair share of scrapes with things that go bump in the night.
Although, a closer look at Helge's stone face will reveal slightly narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. The little troll, one of Grand Pabbie's protégés, and a dabbler of memory magic himself, was severely insulted by the Spøkelse's abuse of power. To have his grandfather's signature field desecrated into something so perverse and destructive...
Such a reaction was not natural for trolls, who were raised with love and joy at the center of their focus.
Anna was the one to finally voice her thoughts. "I don't get it..." The princess crossed her arms, and leaned back against her chair, frowning in concentration. She tried looking bold, and even thought about raising her feet on the table, if Elsa had not been there.
"Hm?" inquired Helge. He faced the young redhead, his severe features reverting back into his usual troll expressions.
"Why doesn't this Spolkese-
"Spøkelse, Anna." Elsa corrected.
"Spolkese, Spøkelse, bleagh. Why doesn't just... well, you know..." Anna couldn't really bring herself to say the next few words. Instead, she raised a hand underneath her chin, index finger outstretched, and swiped sideways, imitating a cut across the throat.
"Anna..." Kristoff whispered, his eyes hardening. "Ghosts cannot directly kill."
Anna blinked at the mountain man. "Oh, oh! Well, that's good..."
Kristoff did not change from his dark expression at all, and Anna knew that she had hit a faux pas. The Princess raised her shoulders and cringed, internally cursing her running mouth. "...kinda. I guess?" she amended, brushing a hair past her ear nervously. "A-Adam wrote that the lady's brother was still alive and breathing!... Right?"
Helge knelt on the table, and laid a stone hand tentatively on Anna's shoulder. "Your Highness. If a victim does not perish first, he or she will indeed live." The troll leaned even closer, so they were seeing eye-to-eye. "...But what is a person without a soul?"
Anna blinked at Helge's severe gaze, and said nothing.
Helge stood back up, and proceeded by saying, "The Spøkelse's victims will continue to survive, but they will have no means of remaining so for long. The empty body will wither away, as one would without nourishment." His voice grew harsher as he flicked the old tome with his fingers. "There was still a body count. A battle between spirits and others of supernatural relations is a clash of wills," the troll reminded, repeating Adam's written words. "You lose everything the moment you no longer have any resolve to continue fighting..."
Helge sat back on the table with a dull clunk, rubbing his temple with stubby fingers. "Hm... In this context, the likely Spøkelse bullies its victims with memories of pain, until they no longer wish to fight back. That way, they would give the demon permission to absorb their souls. It will grow in strength as more souls are subjugated to its power."
Anna opened her mouth, but no sound escaped her lips. She had to try again to be more successful. "But that means..."
"You have to make the decision to give up yourself." Elsa said quietly, finishing her sister's sentence.
A slight breeze, blown in from an indeterminable origin, was the only sound that occupied the following silence.
"...Elsa," a sense of urgency began to creep in Anna's voice. "It's starting to freeze."
The Queen flicked her view upwards, and sucked in a breath in surprise. She saw everyone's breaths, thin wisps of clouds that floated from their lips, refract in the silver moonlight coming through the windows. Pages and papers rustled and flapped like miniature flags, as a chill wind was beginning to pick up within the library. Snowflakes began to fall, produced by magic bleeding from its unnerved source. Ice spilled from Elsa's body, small crystalline shards that clinked and tinkled, clinging to the chair she sat on, and spreading out onto the carpet.
Elsa's arms crossed themselves into a solitary hug, and she shut her eyelids in a futile attempt to isolate and calm her mind.
The last thing Elsa realized hit her too close to home.
What would it be like to be forfeit yourself to fate, because it was just too much work to fight anymore?
Who are you trying to deceive?
You already have, once.
"Elsa!"
The Queen snapped her eyes open, and was nearly blinded by white; a full-scale blizzard was now swirling within the room. She looked around desperately, darting her view everywhere, completely lost, confused, and scared.
The only truth she was aware of was that she feared for her life now. The Queen could just barely see the abandoned ships behind the snow, stranded on the desolate fjord. They tilted and turned with deep moans, the frozen sea an entire graveyard of skeletal beasts. Elsa would have been amongst them, had she not escaped from her cell room.
An echo of breaking ice was heard overhead, somewhere in the distance, cracking like a thousand whips repeatedly. The sound was quickly drowned in the howling wind, which screamed deafeningly at Elsa's ears with unrestrained fury.
She wanted to run further, away from the executioner's sword that was seeking for her blood, but the Queen was stuck to a chair, somehow. It served as her chain, her constraint, one that bound her tighter than those horrid iron shackles have ever done. She breathed rapidly, and clutched at her chest in pain. Something within Elsa swelled and constricted her lungs, and the Queen withdrew her arms even tighter together to push it back inside. The storm was getting worse, the pressure was building, she couldn't hold it back anymore-
And then, out of the raging blasts of wind, someone's lithe fingers shot forward and grabbed Elsa sturdily by the hand.
Elsa recoiled as fiery lightning bolted its way up her arm, and jolted her heart and brain. Her eyes followed the lady's hand to her freckled face, and spotted the clear, startlingly blue eyes of Anna, full of strength and resolve. Elsa hyperventilated, terrified that she was going to hurt her little sister, to freeze her heart again, and she was in half a mind to tear herself away and flee as far as her feet can take her.
Love thaws...
That's right... love. That was what she needed. Not to run away and reject the world for everyone's safety, but to realize she wasn't alone.
Bit by bit, reality started to piece itself together again. There were no barren ships to be seen, no shattering of sea ice. There was no one out to execute her, to cut her down for her unforgivable sins. The chair was no longer a restraint, but just as it was always intended to be; a simple wooden chair, to be sat upon in a quiet library.
Elsa inhaled slowly and fully, and exhaled at the same speed. The pressure that had been building up within her weakened and died down, like opening the lid slightly on a whistling teapot.
Gradually, she regained her composure, assisted by the warm hand that tingled with vibrant life in her hand. The wind ceased its howling, causing the snow to settle gently and harmlessly onto the carpet floor. Elsa was no longer on the frozen fjord; she was among rows of bookshelves, some furniture, and three visible figures of varying sizes, all coated in white snow.
Elsa brought a hand to her mouth in horror. "Please, forgive me!"
The largest pile of snow coughed once dryly, shaking clumps of powder from his blond hair and face.
Another, the one closest to Elsa, wiped snow away with the back of her hand to reveal a smile, earnest blue eyes, and cheeks colored pink from the cold. "Elsa," Anna comforted, "you're doing just fine."
"R-really?" The platinum-blonde woman didn't whether or not her sister was being honest, or just trying to prevent the Snow Queen from having another meltdown.
"Of course." Anna squeezed Elsa's hand assuredly, before going in for a full embrace. "Trust me, this could have ended much more badly!"
"I'm... I-I'm terribly sorry." Elsa said. She buried her face into Anna's warm shoulder, wiping away tears that were bound to fall anytime soon. The Queen melted in pleasure from being able to touch her sister so freely. Anna's hug was like a thick blanket, a warm fireplace, and the smell of fresh flowers all at once. Elsa couldn't help but wallow in the Princess's love and affection, a little child blissfully secure within her sister's secure and strong arms.
For thirteen years, Elsa had yearned for this wonderful gift, which used to be so commonplace when she was still a young girl.
Elsa found herself laughing waveringly, but detested the sound coming forth from her lips; the laugh was too bitter to be joyful, and too full of self-loathing to be genuine. "I'm a mess," she hiccuped. Despite wishing to hold onto her perfect sister forever, Elsa forced herself to push away, and raised her pale hands. "I cannot even control my feelings before my powers start slipping out of control!"
Anna opened her mouth to say something to the contrary, but someone beat her to the punch.
"I'd have to agree with the Queen here."
Elsa and Anna snapped their eyes to across the table, and were surprised the see that Kristoff was the one who spoke up. Elsa quickly moved her head away from his brown, calculating eyes, which she was ashamed to say have agitated her. His gaze pressed against Elsa and sent chills down her spine, an entirely different force than the wintry one within; she knew the ice harvester was judging her.
As a subject of Arendelle, and her sister's trusted boyfriend beside, he had every right to do so.
"You make it snow and hail whenever you feel upset or scared," Kristoff said. "I get that. You can't really prevent it, so you might as well stop trying." He braced himself for Anna's inevitable death glare, but nearly withered anyway when it came.
Standing on the edge of the table, safe from the line of fire, Helge grinned sheepishly.
Kristoff shot his adoptive brother a dirty look, and quickly added, "I'm sorry if those words came out wrong!" Kristoff diverted his eyes back to Elsa, partly to escape his girlfriend's surprisingly icy stare. "However hard you try... it's impossible to hold back your powers, because that would require you to restrain yourself from everything, from everyone. I-I think you both know just how well that worked..." The young man, visibly sweating and knowing he just approached a sensitive topic, was certain that he was in for a punishment before the morning could arrive. "I-I'm just trying to say that there's no use in bashing yourself over your own emotions. What you're doing, feeling negative thoughts, it's completely normal!" He sucked in a breath to steel himself, and placed a hand on his chest. "Elsa, you just happen to come with a- a bonus. It's a human thing, something you can't simply shut out... so forcing yourself is only going to make it worse. Just remember that you have us, instead."
Anna was still visibly irritated at Kristoff and his blunt wording, but stopped staring daggers at him. The ice harvester gulped audibly, aware that this pot of trouble was not done boiling over just yet.
Elsa, on the other hand, found herself mulling over his remarks.
There's no use in bashing yourself for something human.
Something about that phrase seemed to... relieve her, somehow.
Maybe it was because Elsa was desperate. Maybe it was because she sought confirmation that she was indeed not a monster, but a person who deserved to stand side by side with her family and friends.
Helge, knowing that he was nowhere near experienced enough in humanity to assist the three the way Grand Pabbie could, detected that the coast was clear, and cleared his throat to attract everyone's attention. He was ready to proceed with Adam's story in Ravendall.
Everyone dipped their heads to him, their faces set in iron resolve once more. The troll nodded back at them grimly, and flipped the old scripture to read from the next journal entry.
Page 86: Five. Four. Three. Two...
One.
The chimes of the old grandfather clock rang melodically and solemnly, signaling the farewell of the dying day.
As of today, this marks my eighth consecutive day without visiting Guðmundr. I was supposed to have visited tonight- no, yesterday.
It's done.
My deal with him is over.
I'm free.
I don't have to listen to his life-threatening demands anymore.
I don't have to risk an arm and leg, to fight the living embodiments of fevered nightmares that haunt reality.
I don't have to slave away in forest beds, to listen to the often inane chatter of people who don't register as human.
As I walked down the dark and foggy hallways of what is supposed to be my home, another realization dawned upon me.
I never wanted the agreement to end.
My footsteps echoed in the oversized castle, rolling into a muted, gentle thunder that pervaded for entire minutes, pushing through the thick mists as if they were veils.
I was more than familiar with this sound, for it has been more than a week since I locked myself in here.
One of the knight armor props turned its helmet to me, and raised a hand to its visor in a salute. I nodded back at it in acknowledgement, and looked down on the palace floor as the suit remained in its post.
The winding carpet patterns with vivid shades of indigo and purple, mixed with an array of gold stars, started to twist and bend on their own accord. The lines morphed into hissing, thick serpents, casting coiled silhouettes within the fog that snapped at my unprotected heels with razor teeth.
I brushed them off completely, fully accepting that the castle suddenly developed snake pits.
Frankly, I've been ignoring a lot of things in the last couple of days. Even the freezing cold that was overtaking the castle seemed hardly a thing of note, compounded by the fact that I didn't see ice crystallize anywhere. In all seriousness, I don't remember how to sleep anymore, and I'm certain my sanity has taken a dip for of it. After all, I'm fairly sure the suit of armor shouldn't have been able to see anyone, much less a Prince, through those impractical visors.
Voices boomed in my head, all of them irritatingly loud in the hollow silence of the castle.
Adam, what on God's graces has happened to Ravendall? I came out of my room, only to see a great, thick fog that smothered the entire castle! Next thing I knew, there was a brilliant flash of- Adam? Adam!
Why do you keep saying this is all your fault?
I'm sorry, King Trigve. It appeared your brother has developed insomnia...
More and more people are dying, Adam!
Your Majesty, he wouldn't eat his supper- force him down his throat!?
Can't you just defeat it like always said you have done?
No, I can't. I'm too weak, too worthless to cut down even a piddling little mouse.
I took another step, parting the fog that laid on the floor like splashing water. The smog had managed to invade indoors, limiting visibility even within my gilded cage. It gave the darkened castle an even more foreboding atmosphere as a result, which only exacerbated my desire to be rid of this place.
No... I can't. "It" is still out there, lurking, waiting for me. That was why I cannot leave. That was why I cannot sleep.
Sometimes, the grey smoke covered paintings, which I have occasionally mistaken for windows. There were a few instances where I swore I could have seen someone smile and dance to an unheard galliard at the corner of my vision, or a battle of massive proportions raging soundlessly between uniformed men on horseback. Such delusions always fade and disappear when I try to finally approach them, though.
Other times, the grey smoke seemed to collect in a single location, creating vague shapes that could even be considered humanoid. For example, this one column of darkened ash stood alone at a fork in the hallway ahead of me, dressed in red garments-
No, wait.
I squinted blearily at the hazy outline. With each slow blink, I was growing more and more convinced that what I mistook for dark patch of cloud was a real person, the genuine article. I stumbled closer for inspection, until I was finally able to discern a tall man who stood in the midst of the smog. His face wasn't recognizable, unfortunately, but the man was dressed in the tradition scarlet and gold royal garbs of a messenger. By the way he formally stood, he appeared to have been waiting for me.
I waved a hand, gesturing for the Royal Messenger to proceed with his job. "Fire away, mister."
The man bent down for a curt bow, and announced, "I have more recent news of the kingdom's current condition, sir."
"Okay..." I said, my head tilted slightly befuddlement. This man's voice sounded very peculiar and just a tad bit garbled, most likely because of the acoustics of the empty hallways. Yeah, that seems about right.
The man, at least seemingly catching on to my puzzled expression, raised a hand to his mouth to clear his throat, puffing a few wisps of smoke with a few coughs. "The Ravendall Military is still unable to find a path out of the vast mist surrounding the kingdom. The lands beyond the town borders have become impossible to map and plot. I'm afraid Ravendall will remain trapped and isolated from outside help until further notice."
I grunted apathetically, staring at nothing in particular. "Tell me something I don't know."
"The air is growing colder and colder, sir. Nothing has developed frost, miraculously, but Ravendall's vegetation and livestock are suffering, and the people along with it. The water, which should have iced over a day ago, has literally become too cold to drink, and many are struggling just to remain warm with what's left of the firewood stock.
Right, right. The recent chill...
The muscles in my brow tensed into a scowl, as my brain produced a clear thought for the first time in a week.
...In summer?
"This mysterious plague, sir... People are dying."
I winced, as if I had been stabbed by a sharp blade.
Why would I owe you a favor, Markus? you left me for dead!
No, it wasn't because the herald emphasized that last word.
Sir, what are doing with that soldier's sword? Sir!
Please... just- just her go. I'll come with you, I promise! Just don't hurt my daughter!
I winced, because of the fresh wave of flashbacks that now threatened to overwhelm my conscience.
They were... parting gifts. Gifts that were sent to me daily, much to my extreme discomfort.
I nearly lost my footing from the disorienting images, a tableau of random colors and scenes that flashed in no particular order before my eyes. As I staggered to a side of the corridor, I banged my head against the forehead of a marble bust, turning my entire vision scarlet with pain.
"And everything is all your fault, Adam."
"'Everything... is all my fault.'" I breathed, parroting the man's words.
Wait, what? I blinked at the messenger, as if I was seeing him for the very first time.
I had to thank that ugly replica head for nearly busting mine open, because the invasive memories vanished in the wake of the fresh bruise, kicking my wits back into focus. I nursed the injury as my brain painfully dusted itself free of the mental cobwebs and nightmares, until I could finally run trains of logic again... starting with this one.
Something was very amiss; even the most frank Royal Heralds shouldn't be this... direct. This guy would have been sacked out of the castle for his lack of tact and subtlety, months before he could even give a regular economy report. What kind of person would be running around at this moment, denouncing royalty?
More importantly, what was he doing, reporting to me, when its already established I'm not fit to help the kingdom in my current condition?
I peered at this messenger's face for a closer look, and was astonished to realize that I didn't recognize him, at all.
Contrary to popular belief, the royalty of Ravendall made it a responsibility to commit the identities of each one of their employees, in both name and face, to memory. Mostly, it was a strategy devised to prevent assassination attempts carried out in disguise. Seeing as I already have enough beasties in the Lost Woods waiting in line to kill me for what I have done to them, I hadn't bothered to study up the record books until a week ago; I was forced to develop the habit because I had absolutely nothing else to do in the barren castle.
All of this,
this destruction and pain,
all the blame can be laid at your feet.
The herald's voice, initially sounding just a bit erratic, as if it reverberated too excitedly through the barren halls, escalated in pitch and discord. A sneaking suspicion tugged at the back of my neck, which only increased in strength by the second. My blood ran nearly as cold as the air infecting the kingdom. "W-who are you..."
you have already forgotten me, have you
As the messenger spoke, I no longer worried about having to remember his face; the creature standing in the halls dropped its disguise for me. The scarlet shades of the herald's clothing washed down, fresh paint being swept by an invisible rain. More features began to melt away from its body, like candle wax rendered to liquid by an open flame. What I initially believed was human skin sagged off its cheeks and nose, dripping thickly onto the floor in pale drops of goop. The little splatters of slime boiled and frothed, pluming into thick grey clouds, touched with shades of rust. The monster's body writhed and elongated, until it was almost twice my height. It had to bend its back to accommodate the lower ceiling, conveniently looming over me like Death itself.
I stared up at the Spøkelse's true form, that hideous, twisted, scorched body made of tarnished metal and blotches of corrosion. Its face was almost skull-like in appearance, assisted by sunken cheekbones and disarrayed teeth. Each of its orifices and pores vented even more miasma that thickened the smoke in the castle. It was a relief that I only had to look at its empty eye sockets; the demon's eyeballs had either already fallen off or melted away, saving me from fainting out of sheer grotesqueness.
you tried to kill me
The creature rested a massive, skeletal hand on its chest, which contained the only attribute that was even remotely pleasant to look at; a clean gorge that stretched from the monster's pelvis, running all the way up to the its left shoulder. In the spewing clouds of soot, the scar managed to stand out by glowing faintly with a gentle, white light.
a hand for a hand
an eye for an eye
A bolt of smog, thick as the trunk of a full-grown tree, slammed right front of my left toe. The attack was a solid impact that cracked the floor beneath the carpets, rattling my feet all the way to my spine. I cursed my luck; these mind games, these torture sessions that the Spøkelse had been playing on me were increasingly elaborate.
I didn't spend time to mentally kick myself for being lured within the monster's proximity, and neither did I gape in shock. That would be a waste of precious seconds. I scrambled away, panting, my heart beating at the same rapid tempo of my pounding feet.
Pelting at full speed, I came to a corner at the end of the hall. Abruptly, I stomped my foot to stop myself and change momentum, so I wouldn't crash into the wall like an inebriated fool.
Just barely a second later, a whisper of wind sounded out, and something brushed past my face in a blur, sweeping a lock of hair. The object, revealed to be a massive and rusted shaft, slammed and dug itself into the wallpaper, quivering from the impact. Even in my frenzied state, I shivered; if I was a second slower, the spear would have been quivering by landing somewhere else.
Only one thought commanded my body at that moment, with such incredible clarity that I forgot I hadn't slept in an entire week: I have to get into my room.
The Ulfberht was in my room.
I sped through several corridors, many artworks and countless decorations, before the door to my bedroom was within sight. My muscles burned like fire, and my lungs wheezed for their last available breaths of fresh air. Desperately, my hand shot forward to grip the freezing brass handle. I gasped, and cringed heavily; the metal seemed hiss and steam, gluing itself my palms and fingers. Had the kingdom been so cursed the cold was intense enough to burn?
I shut my eyes, shoving away from my mind the icy needles that pierced and burned my skin, and swung the door open violently. I wrenched my hand free from the blistering doorknob, and darted into the threshold. I then slammed my back against it from the other side, hoping that I would be able to shut the Spøkelse out.
One... Two... Three...
There was nothing. No incoming footsteps, no ramming against my admittedly flimsy door, and no thunderous roars. Just the sound of my beating heart, which slowly faded to a regular pace.
Seven... Eight... Nine...
What on Earth are you doing, counting? You know very well how useless that tic is.
Hm...?
Pins pricked and poked at my back. The sensation was acutely painful, as if thousands of giant spiders with sewing needles for feet crawled up and down on my spine, biting and stabbing freezing venom into my flesh. The hairs on my skin stood at their ends, and I itched something fierce. I resisted the instinctual urge to scratch and twist in fright, because that is a good way to be distracted from impending death. Slowly I sat up away from the door, feeling the sensation come to pass with instantaneous relief. and turned around to a chilling sight.
A jagged blade stuck out of the door, evidently having punctured my back. The dark metal didn't even leave any marks or cracks behind, but passed through the wood as if it was nonexistent. As I watched in bewilderment, the blade seemed to drain the door of its color, spreading outwards like a bizarre sort of corrosion. The blade bleached everything else around it, until my entire room was in monochrome shades of grey.
Fourteen... Fifteen... Sixteen...
My eyes darted around for the Ulfberht, which I had stored in my room since my self-imposed house arrest. Trigve forced me into keeping it within, since I had been intimidating the servants by brandishing and swinging a naked blade around. He convinced me after saying I could potentially harm others with my rampant paranoia.
But... It's only paranoia if such behavior is unfounded.
My legs forfeited beneath me, and I slammed against the floor helplessly. They had reached their limit.
I had to pull myself up with my arms, which were barely of any use themselves, to trudge and crawl my way to where I stored it, underneath my bed.
Something hissed angrily behind me, so I spun around to watch as a grey figure, man-sized this time, slipped straight through the entrance, merely resisted by what amounts to flimsily elastic paper. I could literally see a spectral image of the door's decorative patterns fighting against him, a threshold that tried to protect its sole inhabitant before giving way completely.
I attempted to pull the the sword out by the handle, but I was now physically too weak to even lift it out by one millimeter. Choosing the other option, I backed away and curled against the corner, hugging the scabbard as tightly as a child would with a security blanket.
The monster, shrouded in cold soot and ash, stood over me like an undertaker, judging with lurid iron orbs for eyes. The Spøkelse waved an appendage to form a long spear, whose cruel point gleamed in rust-tinted rays. It raised the shaft above its shoulders, and then launched the weapon with the destructive force of a cannon.
In my perspective, even at the spear's breakneck speed, it appeared to be almost frozen in time. I was nothing but mere prey in the way of the lance's trajectory, impotent and trapped. I could do nothing but brace myself mentally as it glided in the air with sinister grace, in a near straight line.
With a sickening splat, it sunk into my gut, and embedded itself into the floor beneath me. I gasped like a dying fish out of water, feeling the unnatural chill of the iron shaft spread from my stomach, constricting my heart, and freezing my brain.
This is a mental attack. This is just an attack on your mind. You are not actually impaled. You are not even bleeding.
It sure felt like it, though. I groaned tortuously, releasing the sword from my hands onto the bloodless carpet, as my vision faded rapidly.
give up
Nobody wanted to lift me up on my feet, give me a warm embrace, or even do something as little as to touch me. If I wasn't treated with complete indifference, I was glowered at with pure contempt. Such is the way of a leper, forever cast aside because of his agonizing existence.
With each passing day, as I lived on the meager porridge the rare Samaritan would provide, I awaited the day when I could finally rest, once and for all. If only I could finally succumb to my disease, I would be able to ignore the stares, the harsh whispers behind my backs.
I don't have anyone to call a friend or a family anymore. They abandoned me as if I was trash, which would have been more useful to them anyway.
I couldn't even tell if the parasites gnawing at the insides of my skull were real worms, or just my psychosis acting up again.
give up
I couldn't forgive myself. I... I never will.
Hate, hate, hate!
I am a fool, a sick, twisted, perverted excuse of a human being.
What was I thinking, kissing her!? She was my best friend, the one bright spot of my life each day, and I had to be an idiot. I had to be reckless. I had to go and tear everything that I worked so hard for to pieces with a lousy spur of the moment.
Absolutely selfish. Completely disgusting. Not even a person, but a creature to be loathed.
Why couldn't I be happy with just being friends? That was supposed to suffice! That was supposed to be all I deserve...
She will reach her father soon. I'll be chased out my family and out of Ravendall, or be carried away by those demented doctors once again.
What is wrong with me? Why couldn't I just be the good person everyone expects me to be?
Why... why couldn't I find love the way a normal person should?
give up
My perspective couldn't really focus on anything besides the spear buried in my stomach. My mind was so scrambled, I took those invasive memories, the shades of the miserable souls, in stride; I didn't even have the energy or resolve to cry or writhe in agony anymore.
The blurry silhouette shifted its body a hair lower, and a gust of smoke-congested wind flitted through my hair. The Spøkelse... almost sounded like it sighed in exasperation.
A smoky hand coalesced on the spear puncturing my torso, gripping the handle, and twisted it in place. Nausea oozed its way upwards, and my breathing became more shallow, until I was almost huffing impotently, starved for air. Impossibly, beyond the flashbacks that wormed their way deeper into my conscience, and the blood furiously pumping into my head, I was able to see the color of my clothes starting to fade and bleach from the entry point, and the monster's blazing eyes.
give up
I wanted to. I really, really wanted do. It seemed to be a delicious choice, to no longer worry about maintaining agreements, to no longer be a disappointment of a Prince. I wouldn't have to suffer any more injuries or attacks that threatened either my life, or my sanity.
Really, if I finally surrendered, I could stop worrying about the pains of life in general.
My hand raised itself waveringly, and clutched at the handle of the Ulfberht lying on the floor. I became surprised when the blade slid easily from its sheathe, ridiculously so. I stared at the edge of the sword, not entirely certain on what I was about to do.
There was this one inkling of an idea, though, which didn't seem like such a bad suggestion at the time. I care not to explain it.
As I drew the enchanted sword closer to myself, I found myself rather unruffled to see images twinkling on the bright steel; I might as well be completely mad, anyhow. The smooth and flat sides of the Ulfberht reflected what I believed to be my face, except that I was in a much different condition; I expected to see my frail, pallid, draugr-like appearance, but saw a healthier me instead, full of laughter, pride, and joy.
With an air of nostalgia, I watched as the steel displayed memories of the many days I have spent exploring the Lost Woods, in all of its lush beauty and splendor. Like moving portraits, the white blade repeated the epic fights, wild chases and negotiations I have been involved in, a few of them tedious, many of them exhilarating, most of them terrifying. I had only managed to survive through each of them with a bit of quick wit, reliable companions, and heaps of sheer dumb luck.
Even so, after a hard day's work, I would always feel a little proud of myself, knowing I was able to help Ravendall the one way I could without typically screwing it over. Me, Prince Adam, the useless second-born heir, who couldn't give a toss about politics, too confused about the treachery of economy and business, and too short-sighted and silly to be a military commander, was finally able to make a difference.
Then, I considered my beautiful kingdom, and all the various people who call it home. I imagined as many people as my thoughts could muster, some who were lovingly detailed, and others who were more vaguely recalled. It wasn't possible to remember everyone who lived in Ravendall, but I tried anyway, because every one of them was a person that I would sacrifice myself for in a heartbeat. Heck, I even included my brother, King Trigve, despite everything we had been through over the past year.
They all looked at me, a plethora of faces in various levels of cleanliness, shapes, moods, jobs, and outlooks. Each citizen had their share of enjoyable qualities, as well as their flaws, some of which were severe enough for me to outright dislike them.
But, most of all, they were people of Ravendall. I would sooner be subjugated by the demonic spirit, rather than risk the kingdom further harm.
However... was that even a choice?
With this epiphany, a flashback, stronger than any of the parasitic invaders trying to conquer my conscience, shoved everything aside and replayed itself with great clarity. An icy pit formed at the bottom of my stomach, because the recollection was from my own head, taking place when I confronted the Spøkelse invaded Ravendall.
how much will you have to lose
until hope finally abandons you to the inescapable depths below
It said it'll kill me...
"But... did you promise?"
The Spøkelse's form flickered in response, bewildered at the sudden question.
what
"Did you promise for the safety of my people, after I'm gone? Did you say that you will stop consuming souls after you're through with me?"
The Spøkelse said nothing.
A fire burning white and hot started within my belly, giving me warmth that clashed against the unnatural chill. It spread to my entire being, melting away the fears, clearing my mind and sight, and reigniting my resolve.
I was many things, but a naïve moron was not one of them; I immediately understood from its lack of response that, even long after I'm no longer around, it will continue to kill others without discrimination, becoming nigh-invincible with enough time. If I were to give up here, how will anyone else be able to destroy it, to free the lost souls trapped within it?
I raised a hand to the spear planted deep in my gut. If I were to lose here, I would never forgive myself, even after an eternity in a purgatorial afterlife.
"W-will you stop killing people, even after I'm dead?" I asked, coughing. "Did you even bother to lie to me?" I heaved with all that was left of my strength, my arm quaking with fatigue as vivid pain sent spasms through my entire being. I sucked in a breath, and pulled even harder, sweat dripping down my brow and stinging my eyes. When the torment proved too much, I only permitted myself a couple of seconds to reprieve, before trying once more. The ghostly metal in my grasp began to smoke and char profusely, as if my fingers and palm were white-hot brands against it.
The Spøkelse watched me with unnatural stillness as I gave a final tug, and yanked the spear fully out of my body. It fell with a clatter on the floor, before dissolving into ash and burnt cinders. The hand which I used to pull the shaft out fell limply onto my stomach, which no longer had anything sticking out of it, or even an open hole. I smiled deliriously in relief.
all humans deserve the same fate that will come to you
"I see." A laughter bubbled in my throat, escaping with almost gleeful madness and scorn. "If that is your answer, then I'm not gonna just cage myself and watch while you march around all mighty and high. Go ahead, try swallowing me! I would probably just muck around in your insides until you vomit each and every soul out in disgust! No matter what, I'll make sure to wipe that smug expression out of your face, Holmgeirr!"
I couldn't even lift the sword with my other hand to point at the Spøkelse anymore, but I didn't care. I jeered at the great monster, and seethed, "So here's my answer to you: Bite. Me. You impotent, limped-staffed kut!"
The Spokelse did not make a growl in response, exactly. However, a rumbling that could have been mistaken for a miniature earthquake did strike my room, knocking over loose furniture and flinging books from their shelves. Soot vented everywhere as if by a volcano, nearly choking my bedroom in grey miasma. The smog solidified, forming thousands upon thousands of spears, casting vast shadows that couldn't even permit a single speck of light through. All I could do was watch as they aimed at me, gunning straight for my heart.
I shot an audacious, toothy smile back at them and the wrathful ghost in response. My entire body is tired, but that was perfectly alright. My conscience was fading, anyway.
A brilliant flash of fire, made of radiant blue and white flames that seemed to whisper in indecipherable gospels, burst in a near-silent explosion, blowing the Spøkelse and his weapons out of sight with an extraordinarily scorching and blinding gale.
I no longer paid attention afterwards.
I can finally sleep.
Page 91: Humans have an odd way of interacting with the world around them. Take the sun, for instance; its light is often dubbed as a ray of hope, a glimmer in the darkness, a rebirth, and a silver lining behind tempest clouds, inspiring a whole slew of five-coin proverbs. Farmers need it, poets and writers praise it, and many religions worship it. Even in secular circles, the sun was a thing to appreciate and revere, and that ball of fire is not hesitant to prove why; this monarch of the sky dances all day in its pompous glory for everyone on Earth to view, outshining its neighbors, the moon and the stars, with its majesty until retiring at nightfall. The fact that many cultures call the sun a deity should come to no one's surprise.
Yet, despite its love for attention, the sun is a fickle mistress. From a cynical viewpoint, this great light fixated in the heavens fire blinds anyone who dare lay their eyes upon it, and blazes all who remained beneath it for too long.
Because I wasn't in a poetic mood at the time, my thoughts about the sun were less than cheerful.
"That idiot dwarf cheated me," I grumbled, lying on a patch of grass. I blinked at the pinpoint needles of light seeping through the forest canopy, threatening to destroy my eyesight. "This isn't a perfect napping location; it's still too bright in here!"
A different voice spoke up softly in response. "Really? I think this spot is pretty neat."
I grunted, settling myself into a comfortable position on the grassy floor. A mop of storm-grey hair settled beside me, belonging to a young man two years my junior.
"This is some bizarre stuff, this little, uh... 'yard,' you said?" Algar ruffled his fingers alongside the gentle green blades, which, upon closer inspection, were nurtured in perfectly arrayed and latticed patterns. From a bird's-eye view, the small meadow would have displayed some sort of carpet design, the owner's name, or something else just as flamboyant.
"It's fjær-grass," I explained. Unique to Ravendall, this type of special foliage is absurdly rare in the wild; Lighter than the wispiest of clouds, softer than the highest quality of feather downs, and more insulating than wool, this plant was prized in all of Norway except in human society, where people are not even aware of the plant's existence.
A good number of the smaller critters that inhabit the magical realm forgo pelts and feathers, replacing them with this type of flora, for material to make high-quality mattresses and underwear. Due its comfort and rarity, the amount of fjær-grass in one's possession became a pillar of social standing, with wealthier folks from various species owning an entire wardrobe of woven emerald blades.
I myself purchased a grass-weave undershirt from a traveling troll merchant a few weeks back, at quite the cost. It was the loveliest piece of clothing that I've ever wore, although I've attracted a few curious looks from the servants while wearing it around the castle.
"...Naturally, Guðmundr's basin, where his ash tree was located in, contained the largest plot of fjær-grass in Ravendall, making the garden patch we are currently on a distant second." I said, finishing my impromptu lesson. The dwarf who owned it granted me permission to use his treasured yard whenever I liked, as payment for a certain favor, not that I mentioned that to Algar; both the dwarf and I agreed never to speak of that incident ever again.
The boy sat up to look at the surrounding woods, enjoying the pleasant scenery that could only be appreciated in the tranquility of one of the few safe pockets within the Lost Woods. The trees swayed rhythmically to the unheard beat of the wind, rattling their leaves in harmonic whispers. I just smiled contently at him, happy that I was able to share this special part of Ravendall's forest with a living, fellow human. For once, I felt like a friend, even a brother if I daresay; someone who can be looked up to earnestly, rather than always down upon.
I closed my eyes, and sighed exasperatedly to myself for indulging in this little delusion. Your relationship with Trigve, your own brother must have been beyond tattered by now, if you are becoming this attached to a lost child.
Algar turned his head to me brightly, commenting, "Guðmundr sounds like a difficult guy to work with, especially involving the ghosts."
"Eugh, like you wouldn't believe."
"So... why do you continue to serve him?"
"Eh?" I lifted a single eyelid to look at him questioningly. "Didn't I already tell you that we had a deal?"
"After he helped you back on your feet that time, you could've always walked away from the agreement." The boy hesitated a little, but added, "It would have saved you a load of trouble."
Hm... I opened both eyelids, and stared at a single leaf hanging on a tree branch. I lost myself in thought, as I watched dainty leaf valiantly dancing in the summer breeze.
Why did I stay, when I could have just left the Lost Woods?
I knew I was spoiling Algar, but I ought to give the kid some honesty about myself. Perhaps it would give the wannabe hermit some things to chew over. "Uh..." I started, noting the boy's full attention on me. "I guess that... that I didn't run away from Guðmundr after he saved me, because I was running a little low on people to call companions."
Admitting that was surprisingly simple and easy; I must've been in a talking mood today. "He's a callous jerk, but he was also the closest thing I had to a friend."
Algar's eyes grew as wide as tea saucers at my answer. "I thought you have a lot of friends."
I waved a hand dismissively at him. "The people in my kingdom liked me well enough," I explained, "but there's a difference between being liked, and having someone's back. Frankly, I'm sure a good number in Ravendall are only nice to me because they're afraid I might torture them for badmouthing, or something similar."
"Do you?" Algar interrupted.
Raising a single eyebrow, I wryly retorted, "Do I look like the type, kid?"
The storm-grey haired boy blinked in comprehension, and dipped his head quickly in embarrassment, aware that his comment was rhetorical. "I'm sorry... please, proceed."
I patted him on the back, wanting him to know I wasn't really offended by his remark. That's how friends are supposed to react... right? "Even King Trigve... Well, as far as I know, when he's not always calling me out, he cares; it's really hard to tell these days. We don't look at each other face-to-face anymore."
"I thought he's your family."
"Correction," I stated, raising an index finger upward to emphasize my point. "Only family. About a couple weeks after I agreed to become a Landvættir's personal lackey, Trigve and I were-..." I steeled myself for the inevitable hiccup in my mind. "…were left with only each other. He has no other choice but to put up with me, and my antics."
I could just see the wheels turning within Algar's messy hair, gears that tried to mesh together to fully grasp my situation. "I see..." he said slowly. "Then, I trust that Ravendall's forests do not have much companion material, either?"
"You're finally developing a good head on your shoulders, kid. True, I've got connections and companions all over the place, but they were mostly just for business. The closest people I have to true companions here was Guðmundr, and the ghosts, many who are just as ill-tempered as the old geezer. For them, it's an, ah, occupational hazard.
"The fact that I have an acquaintance that's human, friendly, and alive sitting next to me is a downright miracle!"
The boy's ruddy eyebrows raised themselves higher in surprise, now lost in his tangled bangs. "R-really?" he asked insecurely.
I grinned at him. "I'm being serious here."
"That's... that's pretty nice." he admitted, his face flushed. Algar turned himself to me, eyes still bright in color and curiosity. "You include ghosts as possible friends, right?"
"Sure," I answered, "I kind of have to, or else they will never find the peace to leave. I'm not going to bully them into moving on."
"That's incredible..." Algar breathed. "But... why help ghosts? No matter what you do, they are still dead."
I sighed, saying, "Yes, they are indeed gone forever, and nothing is ever going to change that for them. Despite what some of the kooks in the kingdom may tell you, death is final. No one, not even the most powerful spirits of the Earth, can bring someone back from beyond the afterlife.
"That won't stop me from giving ghosts the next-best thing, though," I continued. "They are still very human. They still have memories, their loved ones, and enough pasts to fill entire libraries with books detailying adventures, romance, and tragedies. These guys, these victims, they used to have hopes for their futures. Without them, they will need all the assistance they can get so they could find peace. Even if a shade is angry enough to act violently, I must help them understand that it's best they accept their fate; raging against the heavens and the world will only hurt themselves in the process, not to mention the potential collateral damage. They are still people, and someone has to play Good Samaritan."
Algar was near-silent, his eyes trailing elsewhere. The volume of his voice dropped so low, it didn't even register as a whisper. "Then... w-why do you want to help people?
"Come again?"
The boy's body twitched a little, and he mentally bashed himself for speaking too much. I can easily identify such a behavior, because I've seen those symptoms - the cringing eyes, the pursed lips, hunched shoulders, and the distant stare - looking out of my mirror for almost a whole year.
Nonetheless, Algar mustered the resolve to carry on, his voice strengthening with each syllable. "Um... Why do you go so far to help people?" The boy hugged his knees close to himself, curling into an upright human ball. "I've learned long ago that it was better to rely on just myself."
Now, this little comment had me very excited; the boy was persnickety enough when it came to divulging his own personal information, and this was the closest thing I had to a confession. I really, really wanted to push, and my mouth unfortunately moved on its own, before I could strategize a decent coaxing. "What about that little incident with the bear?"
Algar's head jerked as if he had been slapped, and he hugged himself even tighter.
Great job, numbnut. You blew the conversation just as it was getting interesting, and frightened your only friend into shutting himself away.
Huh. "Friend."
I accepted defeat, more or less in bitter disappointment, and figured that I might as well answer Algar's original inquiry. "I'm the Prince of Ravendall, which essentially means I was born with the duty to do what's best for my people, and all who step inside it. I'm supposed be the leader they can turn towards to in troubled times. I must support them with my leadership and abilities, especially if King Trigve is not around to do his job." I watched the trees as they engaged in their majestic, slow-tempo waltz. "Cleaning up after ghosts is just an extension of responsibilities, in my opinion."
The boy said nothing, but looked at me incredulously for my almost-casual tone.
"I mean, that doesn't mean that it wasn't dangerous, or that it wasn't absolutely exhausting!" I blurted. "I was subjected to some horrid stuff while helping spirits get back on their feet! I'm surprised I was not reduced to quivering wreck by now!
"Although... in hindsight, this job wasn't much more different from actual royal duties. It's just that I was so lousy at politics anyway, protecting Ravendall from the Lost Wood's shadows became what I perform best, what I could do to stand out from the rest of the royalty.
"Ah, I'm rambling. I'm starting to stray too far from the topic, aren't I?" I didn't check Algar to see if he nodded his head in agreement or not, because this question was more or less directed to myself.
"But the true reason is... um..." I snorted derisively. Look at me, trying to delay the inevitable. "Hm... I guess the true reason for why I would help my people, besides being Prince and all, is because they are just like me, even my brother."
I paused to sift more words from my conscience, hoping they would clarify my answer. "Do you know they call me 'Adam the Adventurer,' these days, Algar?"
The boy shook his head slowly, but I swore that I heard a titter. Kids.
"Yeah, I think the name's a tad ridiculous myself. It is also incredibly misleading, because the name implies I'm remembered for the journeys I've undertaken." I shook my head in slight disbelief. "Everyone seems forget that life in general is a journey. These guys, they all have their own hopes, their dreams, their own lives. They are living their own adventure, and I would be damned to deny them the pleasure of being alive and safe, even if that means I have to lump more hardships and pain on myself."
It was an incredible relief, as if a massive weight that I never noticed before was suddenly lifted from my chest. I was absolutely giddy from finally confessing my troubles out loud, and to a peer no less!
I stared at the tree canopy in wonder, the entire world seemingly painted in vibrant colors that I never noticed before, starting with the leaves of the forest. Owning up to myself was akin to lifting a heavy veil from my eyes, permitting me to see a potentially beautiful future. The sun didn't sting my eyes anymore, and I welcomed it as it slipped through the leaves and branches. Matching my revelation, the sun's light changed color, becoming radiant shades of pale gold. There was a reason why philosophers would wax poetic about the sun, this great monarch of the sky; it was an absolutely stunning work of nature.
The rays of light pierced the forest floor like tangible pillars, blocking sight of the scenery behind them. A shaft of light shining at my eyes seemed to swell, swallowing its surroundings with the hunger of an open flame. The light expanded further, spilling down the ridges of branches and bark, pooling into the forest floor and grass around me, painting my entire world in sparkling gold.
"Algar! I shouted to my side, my voice growing strangely hollow and modulated. "What's going on?"
Algar wasn't anywhere nearby. I was the only one to be swallowed into the sun.
Page 94: Even as I squeezed my eyes shut, the golden radiance still burned through my eyelids. I groaned tiredly, turning my head side to side in the hopes that the light will stop shining. When it didn't, I waved a hand above me briskly to block the sun out; I wasn't going to have something as silly as daylight ruin my perfectly good nap.
The back of my hand slapped against something warm and soft, eliciting a stranger's grunt of pain. The light faded away almost immediately.
Wait, what?
I struggled to lift myself up so I could investigate, only to feel a gentle weight push me back against the soft mattress. Curiously, I lowered my hand on my chest, and was surprised to feel heavy cloth reminiscent of the blankets in my bedroom. I blinked my eyes rapidly, coaxing them into opening wider, seeing flashes of a familiar ceiling as a result. An additional second's worth of examination proved that I was indeed lying on my bed, in the security of my room, within my palace home.
"Are you enjoying your respite?"
Ah, that unfamiliar voice again. It was definitely baritone and masculine, that's for sure. But, more importantly, what on Earth was he talking about? What did he mean about respite? Why was I here? I fought to sift through my head, trying to recall the last time that I was fully conscious.
A spectral image of a thick and wicked spear, its blade point glinting red and muted as it impaled and drilled through my gut, was brought forth from my mind. Instinctively, my breath shortened in fright, until I was almost light-headed. I convulsed like a dying fish, and curled my legs and arms toward myself, a futile attempt to cover my stomach.
A leathered and sturdy-looking hand rested itself on my chest out of nowhere. "At ease, young man. I've made sure the shadowed fiend will not be able to harm anyone for a while."
My breathing slowed down to a steady pace at those words, and I peeked at the man who spoke them. Much to my surprise, he did not look like he had any business within the kingdom.
Judging by his appearance alone, he seemed to have come from nowhere near Ravendall territory. His eyes crinkled at opposite ends, giving him an older face that was accustomed to laughing and smiling. His skin was bronzed and worn-looking, as if he spent years aging underneath the sun, but his straight posture and fluid hand-movements breathed of strength and energy. He dressed himself in thick, pelt clothing, with pale tufts of fur for trimmings. Adorning his head was a pointed hat, also sewn in fur. A hand-stitched sash, striped boldly in bands of red and yellow, wrapped around the man's waist, and his pants were dyed in a stark shade of blue.
His choice of footwear was the most intriguing aspect of his outfit; the stranger wore deer-skin shoes with toes that curled upwards, a sure-fire indicator of his race.
Frankly, I don't know too well of the Sámi. They were the indigenous people of Norway, natives who lived and thrived generations before the first arrival of Norse settlers. The tribe's presence was next to non-existent within the stretch of land that eventually became Ravendall; rumor has it that the Sámi refused to live anywhere close to the Lost Woods, for obvious reasons.
The fact that a man of their ethnicity was standing right in my room, at the heart of Ravendall, and in the middle of a spiritual plague no less, meant that there was an incredible driving force for him to be here.
"Excuse me," I said, my tongue feeling strangely thick. I tried to sound as polite as my slurred voice would permit. "Who are you?"
The man's broad mouth broke into a gentle smile. "I'm just an old man who happened to pass by." he answered. "It appeared that the people of this town needed some help."
"That's a bit of an understatement there, sir." I altered my position underneath my bed covers, reaching to scratch my head.
The elder held out another hand to stop me from moving further. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you." he warned. "The healing hasn't fully settled in yet, and I trust that you do not wish for a backlash."
Healing? Backlash?
The healer reached into his fur jacket, and pulled from within a simple string necklace, decorated with a single, large yellow crystal. The rock glowed by its own luminescence, a miniature star hanging from his neck.
My breath was taken away in recognition of the shining gem, and I stared at his necklace in awe. "Is that... is that what I believe it is?"
"Yes. This crystal is a keepsake from the trolls, proof of my credentials in their skills. I have been using their brand of magic to mend your mind."
Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, I tried recalling the memory of a leper living his daily routine.
I could still see the dark and lonely alley where he would hide to sleep, away from the curious eyes of pedestrians and law enforcers. I could still remember what made him an outcast; a grotesque scar occupying the sick man's left side, sores that opened deeper than the human body should be permitted to reveal to the open air, and bulbous boils of various sizes, some as large as full-grown grapes, that oozed a clear, runny fluid copiously.
These memories of different lives like this leper didn't disappear. Yet, all I could only feel was immense relief, even as these images repeatedly played themselves over. It didn't take me long to understand why: This time, I was now fully aware of myself.
Before the Sámi healer tinkered with my brain, I relived those terrible, maddening flashbacks as if they were my own. I hurt, I ached, I felt terror as they tore my breath away from me.
Now, inside the recollections that never belonged to me, I was no longer the main character, but a mere spectator to the event, an audience of a vivid, moving tapestry.
That didn't mean I should fully ignore these tragic lives now, pretending they never existed. To ignore the pain and suffering of a fellow person, human or not, may as well be an act of outright sociopathy. If I were to dismiss the fates of these men and women as if they were imaginary, my act would be a complete contradiction against everything I believed in, and everything I had been fighting for. I would be a hypocrite of the tallest order, and deserved to be punished accordingly in the darkest corners of The Lost Woods.
The better option was to learn from these experiences, to empathize with the victims. By understanding just how these events could create so much sadness, I can develop myself for the better, and prevent the next tragedy from ever occurring.
"I suppose the treatment worked well to your liking?" the elder asked tentatively, his hands clasped together out of anxiety. His thick brows hung low, as if he was experiencing disappointment within himself. "I'm not an expert," the man admitted, "but I hope I was able to take the edge off the trauma. If the procedure has gone through well, you should be relieved from your torment."
I... I felt incredible. My recovering body was sluggish as it can be, but my mind never felt so vibrant before, so free of its burdens. I gave it my all to smile at this miracle worker appreciatively. "You have given me more than I could ever wish for! You have my everlasting gratitude, kind man of the Sámi."
"I am but a wandering Noaidi."
"Even better!" I could have hugged and tossed him into the air out of joy, but my backside remained stubbornly glued to the bed. I had to make do by turning my head fully.
My elation vanished completely at the full view of my room, as if a candle flame inside me went out from a single puff of wind.
Through the threshold of my door, the grey, cursed mist crawled in snakelike tendrils, licking and lashing in empty air, clearly trying to invade and smother my entire bedroom in miasma. A sensation of impending despair replaced every last ounce of bliss I had only felt seconds before, my hopes crushed to leave behind a chilling emptiness.
The Spøkelse was still haunting Ravendall, wreaking havoc with its presence.
A sudden burst of strength overwhelmed me, demanding that I take action. I tore my bed sheets aside, and scrambled desperately out of bed, falling to my knees clumsily on the ground. The bedroom carpet scratched at my face as I pulled myself forward with trembling hands.
The older man ran over and knelt in front of me, understandably panicked in his tone. "Don't overexert yourself! You still have yet to recover both mental-"
"Please!" I grasped the man by his legs frantically. "You are a holy man! Save them! Help rescue my people!"
The shaman's eyes hardened, and he looked down on me with abject pity.
"Well?!"
"I'm sorry, Adam."
I stared at him in complete shock. He was supposed to be a hero, a champion over darkness, a worker of miracles!
"If you had just asked me sixty years ago, then I may be of use to you-"
"-Wait, just how old are you?"
"-But I'm far too feeble for such an adventure now. My days as a hunter have long past." The man's broad mouth stretched at the corners apologetically. "From what I hear, you have been doing an astounding job as a slayer within these woods. You certainly had a better track record with demons than mine!"
"What... what do you mean?"
"Combating hundreds monsters and spirits, without any training whatsoever? You are quite the walking phenomenon. As a matter of fact, you have been the talk of the magical community for over a year: People speak legends of you, Adam the Adventurer; fearless and bold, defending his home from the shadows that threatens the peace and sanctity of the world." The Noaidi chuckled fondly, and remarked, "You didn't even have to trap your targets in Helheim beforehand, instead choosing to face the monsters head-on!"
Helheim, the realm where all beings, sentient or otherwise, go to after death in the physical world. An alien plane of existence that serves as a checkpoint for souls that have accepted their fates, but are not quite ready for what lied Beyond.
A common tactic for holy men and slayers performing an exorcism was to trap spirits and malevolent fiends in Helheim, bypassing their defenses, before engaging in fights that would have shook the entire world. It didn't matter if participants were intangible, invisible, or invulnerable; in what was renowned as the Gateway for the Dead, the scales and odds between slayer and monster are balanced; both are stripped of their natural talents and attributes down to the soul; only the skills and the will to fight remain to stave off defeat by Subjugation. The only people daring and foolhardy enough to engage in such a risky method were humans, who had the least to lose for entering Helheim.
Can you imagine that? Humans, the physically weakest and least imposing sentient creature on Earth, with no natural weapons like claws or thick armor, and comparatively mediocre talents such as a questionable level of intelligence and pluck, benefited the most from being closest to Death's door, literally. Such irony can only be supported in Helheim, since the rules of the reality do not apply in the spirit.
I grinned sheepishly at the shaman. "To be honest, I never knew how to lure monsters into Hel. Everything that I have done, I've had help."
The old Noaidi laughed cheerfully. "Well, of course you've had help! Every man and woman who dedicate their lives to fighting evil had help to become legendary. It's how we survive our conflicts, how we endure our horrors and trauma.
"You may have not the traditional skills of a slayer or a hero, but I've seen into your heart for what you are." His merriment died down, but the elder continued to regard me with warm, twinkling eyes. "That was a beautiful memory, the one with that young friend of yours." He stood up straight, before bending his back forward into a low bow of respect at me. "I care little for the Crown, but you are a good man who deserves my attention."
A slow minute passed by in silence.
"So..." I asked dejectedly. "You really can't do anything about the Spøkelse?"
The healer brightened, losing years of age from his face, and raised a finger upwards. "Ah, I've apologized for refusing to defeat the Spøkelse, but I never said there was nothing I can do for your subjects."
A fire in my chest, originally reduced to charred cinders by misery, surged back into life with such a fierce rush of optimism, I began entertaining the irrational belief that the world wasn't unjust after all. This man truly seemed too good to be true. "Reall-"
"But I must warn you." The Noaidi interrupted, his voice becoming alarmingly chill. "You will forever live in exile from your home, never to return, unless you risk the spirit's wrath back on your people."
Of course.
My home. Ravendall. It wasn't just this bedroom that I have rested in for all seventeen years of my life, or even the old castle which had been the boundaries of my childhood. It wasn't just the bustling town full of smells and sights, the flowing rivers with their orchestra of trickles and splashes, or the enigmatic forests filled excitement and danger behind every turn.
"Prince Adam- Oh, I mean, Your Highness! What new story do you have to tell?"
"Have a seat, Prince Adam! You look like you're ready to dig your own grave!"
"Y-you were talking to me? N-no one has ever done this before..."
"When will tell us the bit where the serpent nearly took your foot?"
"If you're so strong, Adam sir, why don't you try tossing me up to that rooftop over there? I won't tell my mom!"
"Your Highness? This... I-it's beautiful, but I can't accept this..."
"Adam, I... Good night, brother."
Home was also my people, the citizens of Ravendall. Regardless of what I've said before to that boy Algar all those months ago, I was at my happiest when I am simply hanging around with the townsfolk. I enjoyed drinking with the workers, singing songs and dancing with the kids. I loved gathering everyone around who would be interested in listening to my not-so-tall tales, until I attracted a crowd that stayed for hours. How their eyes brightened with either happiness or amusement whenever I showed up, they way they showed their full appreciation of my company…
I've never been anywhere beyond Ravendall! What am I supposed to call home now? Why must my journey continue by leaving my birthplace behind?
Something in the distance fell with a dull thud. A piercing scream resonated through the haunted streets of Ravendall.
Another soft thud, and a fresh wave of screams.
No... I swore myself to protect Ravendall from the horrors beyond the human world. Bringing my fight with the Spøkelse to the innocent civilians was my wrongdoing, and I'm not going to abandon them just because I'm already feeling homesick. If I have to be forever exiled from the home I've known for all of my life, then so be it.
I sucked in a long breath, knowing just how tumultuous this decision will turn out. Bizarrely enough, I suddenly thought about the one guy who would have shot my choice down, with a full artillery if he could manage. "Does... does Trigve know?"
The Noaidi hardly seemed surprised by the question. "The King? We eventually came to an agreement, but not without a fight. He was quite adamant about you staying here, you know."
That... actually sounds very much like Trigve.
"Nonetheless, he finally concurred that leaving is for the best." The shaman pulled his sleeve back to reveal a muscled arm, and some sort of eccentric metal piece wrapped around his thick wrist. Clashing rather blatantly against his natural clothing, the gadget was evocative of the watches I've seen Southern nobles wear around their necks, except miniaturized. "There is still time before the break of dawn," remarked the Noaidi. "You can have a last chat with your brother, before we must say our farewells."
I reacted violently, choking and sputtering for what it was worth. "W-wait, talk? Look sir, I-I am grateful for everything you have done, but are you sure that's a good idea-"
"-I'll give you two some privacy." Before I could protest any further on how this conversation will be doomed from the very start, the Noaidi turned the handle with an audible click, and creaked the door wide open. "I've finished my care for the Prince." he called out. "You two are free to talk now."
My elder brother, King Trigve of Ravendall, stepped inside my room.
I do have a one, really important question to ask, so I won't get myself into some trouble: Does this story still fit in a K+ rating? I know there's a bit of violence in here, and I've been becoming paranoid about stepping over some lines. I really don't want to have this changed into a T rating though. Thank you in advance for your advice.
See you guys soon, fans of Frozen.