BRŒÐRSLIF [ᚾ]

[don dada 579]

      [x]

 

 

"He may not live through this." The thegn, in an adjacent

room admits. Whispers a-plenty scour the mood of the small

house by the lake.

 

"No, no," the other's eyes begin to widen. Her words come to

a stutter, as desperation seeps in. "There must be a way—"

 

"Please. There has to be."

 

Branded, for death, for agony, for suffering. It came upon

three. Surtr, Haraldr, and Conan. It brought with it a horde,

upon Deia's doors, and so the three fought. And at the end,

 

Surtr could do nothing but whine on a bedside, littered with

ichor from his self, and much else from what they'd faced.

His voice stretched to speak, but a strain came instead.

 

Conan could do little beyond the cleansing of himself, in

that they'd carried them within, and had nothing more to

provide for the wounded man, no matter the plea to ear.

 

Haraldr, however, stood beside him. He knew little of him,

admittedly, in that he were merely friend to the one in the

next room. He stared at a dull, sullen eye that sought to

close, up until a palm settled on his arm.

 

A soft realization settled. The soot, the ashes, the embers.

It came from Surtr, where a glow settled upon the nape.

The brand of Izel—no, it were the brand of Azdromoth.

 

And as the silence bid the house, where they made intent

to hearken that long silence that washed over them, Haraldr's

hand held Surtr's own. And so he spoke in whispers,

 

"You'll be alright."

 

With a hearty breath, one stranger to another, he invoked:

 

"D̴͎͎̈́̃͝o̸̹̱͋̓͠ͅv̵̧̘͚̊̾͊ṙ̷͚̈̅ă̶̜͘͝ ̶͍̕k̴̢͙̹̂̎̚u̴̺͓̗̓l̷̩͂.̴̣͔̔̿"

 

 

      One Day Later...

 

 

"I should thank your man," he greeted Conan with. Surtr

and Deia were both brought to the castles of Sólgaard to rest, and

heal. Whilst the latter sought to make leave, the Herald opted to

stay, by rites of a guest and to accept their company.

 

"I did not know that he was—the same as I." The admission

carried gratitude, but it also sowed some surprise. One that

the Thegn of Sólgaard did not reciprocate, in a silent gaze.

 

"You should find much of what you require here. For as

long as you need it, you will be welcome in our Halls to

recover." A pointed statement, but one cordial.

 

A nod is carried, and feet to bring with it. When they part

ways, Surtr sought the entrance of the motte, only to stay

for the shortest while. His gaze found the high castle.

 

But he would not urge it, yet. A feeling of belonging,

among Norns. He would not dare to ask it, the question

of what lies of the people he were saved by: brotherhood.

 

Perhaps in time, he'd learn. Or perhaps he'd die, among

those of his own. All that he could truthfully think of is

the thought of another, like Haraldr, among them.

 

And so without the man to greet, he bid away, long to

greet them again of his path. A path he did not quite

think that they would become more than he'd hoped.

 

                Five Winters Later...

 

 

The man's helmet shifts, and it adjusted steady on Surtr. 

"For how many years have you roamed, how many seasons?"

 

Surtr pondered quietly, at that. He looked up at the skies in

short rumination. "I'd landed on this place at the age of ten,"

he reminisced.

 

"..Held my first sword at thirteen. First bounty— at fourteen."

To count the years, softly. "A quarter of my lifetime has passed

since I began roaming. Perhaps a little more then."

 

There's a slow nod from the thegn afterward. "Tonight, I will

be forty," he said. And he looked up, pausing to point towards

the skies, namely two stars upon the northern stretch.

 

"Every year, on this night, I see how much they change.

Sometimes, they look... bright. Were it  not for these

clouds, I'd get to count it all—how far, how few, and

how bright."

 

"Time is demanding, I've learnt. All-consuming;

a great vast of ocean of nothing, and yet everything.

Perhaps that's where the stars come from; all the

grain from all the hourglasses in the world. Maybe

it's a thousand eyes with a thousand stories... eh,"

 

"I ramble—"

 

"..Was there ever a time where they did not shine

so brightly; where there was nothing but darkness,

and you could only ever do anything but walk forth,

into the unknown?"

 

The helm lowered, looking back toward him. The

scarred man returned the look, of a desperation

for that answer. He hearkened from Conan,

 

"Always."

 

"Every night is different, every twinkle or drift

of the starlight especially when the fall, is different.

There was a time where I had once counted four

stars. The bear's snout and jaw, and it always

led me to my next meal."

 

"When I were sixteen, they vanished. I did not

see them until it was this camp was built, and

when I had turned twenty. On that night, they

reappeared."

 

And when Surtr looked up, he found the culmination

of all that came to be trial to Norn; the appearance of

the cosmos, that had long scoured with stars aplenty.

 

"It could very well be that my mind was playing

games on my soul. It could have been the manipulations

of the witch who'd cursed me to be doomed. Riddle,

rhyme, song and all."

 

"Or perhaps they were meant to be gone."

 

"When I lost the bear, I followed the antlers. They

always guided south-west."

 

Both men took a turn to continue the gaze, to see

the constellations as they were, and as they saw it.

Conan saw a bear, again. Surtr saw a wolf, instead.

 

"I followed a trail, every few winters. It was not as

vivid as yours. It had never led me to much else; a

mountain, a nation, a fell beast."

 

"..Except this." His digit raised to trail the wolf,

in that Conan watched him do so, silently.

 

"I'd never stopped to take a look. Ever."

 

The present tension on his shoulders was lost.

The rigidity of his militant body - settling itself.

And so he sat, on those steps, gazing off.

 

"Same mistake as I. I were eight, and just lost

my father to the sabretooth. For years, I never

looked up, and I scorned the very notion of

taking my gaze off the ground out of fear

I'd fall into a rock and get stuck, like he."

 

"Many will downplay the strength of a wolf.

A bear. They'll take a hunt and make a

mockery or a game about it."

 

"The advice to you is the same as I gave to

the king's bastard: Learn to look up. Learn

to love life for what it is."

 

"Appreciate the wonder, and spend less time

sulking. To brood is one thing - to rummage

in a bile of shadowed woes is another."

 

"You'll find yourself on a path. Whether that

is war, in solitude, in reading—keep to that

path. The path is never a tragic thing, you

know. It's only the ignorance of others that is."

 

And so tears fell. For the first time in his life,

to stretch beyond that which once hexed him

cruelly to never feel again. Surtr felt it all come

together, the end of that part of his life, and

the beginning of another.

 

"..I suppose I was always in the wrong crowds.

To never take my gaze off where I walked, to

tattle about long shadows that never came

closer." He grits his teeth.

 

"This is nice," he adds, wistfully. "I'm glad to

have come here, I speak it true, Conan."

 

Surtr's head rose gently, to the motte, to the

crowd that gathered—small dips of his head

in a flusteredness having not noticed them.

 

And then, he looked back to the thegn,

"I've... yet to know what I shall follow next,

what direction it shall lead me. I'd never

taken a hold, a keep, nor a home to call mine

own since I were but a boy landing on a small

sailboat at the rivers of Vjardengrad,"

 

"..I do not imagine you, or your people would

welcome me yet, but perhaps after I've tied

loose ends."

 

"Even just to look at this, every now and then."

 

"You would be surprised to know what you

might find up this way," a life, a love, a joy.

"If such is what you wish, then know that it

is possible- yet to become part of the tribe will

mean that you will take responsibilities."

 

"When I told the prince who wept false tears

that you were thus under my claim, I had

meant my word then. You are of Norland;

whether you choose to accept any invitation

is to your decision alone."

 

"..I do not own you, though I put forth claim.

In my duties as chief, as the High Keeper's

companion, and as this thegn."

 

"I'll take the time to think on it, then," than

to outwardly decline as he always had. "You've

given me more than I deserve. More time to

settle things, before I accept."

 

"I would not wish to bring the vestiges of

a past life upon you, nor your people."

 

"One torch in a sea of shadows has only

so much influence, Surtr," he nods. "You

are welcome to my words, for what worth

they may be. You are welcome to my torch."

 

"I suppose you are right in that," he cleared

himself in the sea of tears that fell on his face.

 

"..Surtr," he coos. "It was a name given to me

to hide among the southron folk. The Aesŕ of

Flame," by an old, mythical man.

 

"Æthelwulf. I remember it as it came from my

mother, before she'd passed to the seas and left

me to arrive to shore alone."

 

"A nice name, I think."

 

"A name of my great-uncle. It is a strong one.

Wear it with pride, and if you should fall—

die well."

 

       Ten Winters Later...

 

 

"ÆTHEL!" Haakon yelled, as his arm made to curl along

the backside of the giant-turned-Norn. "Did you see, brœðr?! How

their faces reclined in fear of our might. Hah-haha!"

 

"Haraldr, my—" he winced. "OH—Oh, sorry. Heh. Does it hurt?"

 

Coming victorious of a long quest, Haraldr, Æthelwulf among

those other Norns strode into the Great Halls bolstering with

visitors. Ale was served all across, whilst Nornvikingr and their

company alike sought to cleanse themselves of the battle.

 

"You know, I could do that again, but where is the fun in

recovering so quickly? Battle-scars, brœðr."

 

"I would oblige, but your mug and your touch would only

make me wither away. Huh-huh-huh. Ack—BASTARD!"

 

The Nornishmen both sought to chase one another, across

the hall. A wounded giant and a sneaky Nornishman, who

dashed across tables and flooring and servants. Those within

the hall can only bear witness as they skipped and hopped

about. Play-fighting, even with...

 

"HAH-HAH-HAH!"

 

"We'll pay the damages for that."

 

The ambiance of chaos wreaked by both men. At the cusp

of it all, Æthelwulf decided to sit, finally, to let the de Lorraine

address his wounds along the bench of the Great Hall.

 

Haraldr came after, standing before the man as another

matter birthed itself of conversation aside from other kinsmen.

In dated whispers, he spoke to Æthelwulf,

 

"You are well, aren't you?" The question seemed to seep

of something that had happened in their quest. "You have

never raged the way you did before." His set of blues settle

on the man's form, of which was smoky whilst being tended to.

 

"I am, tsk—I am, Haraldr, I assure you. It was just...

something I'd never expected to bear witness to. Not

again. Not after all these years of twining and enjoying

what I have here."

 

"Temper yourself, brœðr. What would the lady Rezalisa

think of such an endeavor, for you to've thrashed like so?

It is unbecoming of you. But that you came out of it well,

I am merely gladdened."

 

"They would think of it little," though the eye of the de

Lorraine erred a meek look, and so he lowered his head.

"But," he clears his throat. "Yes, maybe."

 

"It has been quite a while since you were once a dying

man on his deathbed, and the bond was shared. Shown,

even. But I only ask this,"

 

"If it was myself, I'd hope you would come forth and

direct the acknowledgement to my ear. Imagine that

I'd unfolded into the rage, and had hurt kin of ours.

Would that not sour your mood, as well?"

 

"It would," he sighed. "Truthfully, it was my fear. I

had long spent enough time without it that with it,

I come to be unpredictable. Imagine a life where you

were made never to feel, and you are now again able."

 

"A damning concept," he readily agreed. "But one I

and our kin would triumph over, even then. You

think too little of yourself to not be able to see yourself

thrive, instead of returning to the darkness you sow."

 

"What worse will be that you see the death of kin, too?

Will you damn yourself there? Seek a rage that can do

nothing but hurt? Or perhaps you will toil, and lament,

and seek to cast all aside beside the path you walk?"

 

"I cannot ask for more than what you ask of me, then.

Maybe. Just maybe. But I can only rely on you to seek

me, as would you ask of me to seek you in those times of

a strife that may come."

 

"So would I not have it any other way." His smile grows,

before a pat on the shoulder, much to Æthelwulf's disdain.

He carried himself with a staunch confidence, one that

evoked the same from the newly-accepted Nornish giant.

 

And yet, for a while, there was a silence. A contemplation.

What could they really do, in a time of need? Haraldr were

ordained with the blessing, whilst Surtr always remained a

fledgling. Worry sets in. A dread that comes in short waves.

 

..And so he would worry, forever. Worry of their fates, and

what the world may come to throw at them. And too, would

he grieve, when...

 

      A Winter Later...

 

 

"NO!"

 

A blood-curdling scream. His hand reached for his, and

yet he was unable to come to a connection.

 

"HARALDR!" 

"HARALDR!" 

"HARALDR!"

 

It was dark. Too dark. Imagine that you were in a room

where you could see nothing, feel nothing, and only barely hear

the voices. Voices of men and women, before a sobbing, then silence.

 

Æthelwulf found himself belittled in that room. The dark corner

of his mind, where he would be able to do nothing beyond the

processing of what had just happened. Fighting a giant on the

way to the Top of the World, it all came in slow droves, tormenting.

 

Faenor made to flank the giant at the front. Conan, Hundr, and

Warlock, and many others sought to do damage as they could.

Both Norns Æthelwulf and Haraldr came to understand what

they must do, and so they mounted the trees, the banks, the

camps to make for higher risings.

 

And just as Æthelwulf, with a blade damned by its maker,

and Haraldr, with a blade blessed by its own meant to make

the final blow; the Norns looked at one another. A wordless

gaze at the eye. And it only told one thing, that would carry

the sorrows of what came after.

 

"Sorry, brœðr."

 

It was not here, that he would grieve. Not even in the halls

of Sólgrunnr. Neither in the house with his beloved, who

sought to soothe the man of his ails, and yet could not do

more beyond her words, her touch, which he sought and

yet could never feel anything more than that stricken heart.

 

It ate at him. Everyday. The way he walked came limp. The

way he spoke became lifeless. When he stood, he stood meekly.

And when he sat, he froze into it, alike to confine himself to

whatever would allow the passage of time. Time Haraldr

was not given, to be before him.

 

To be given life after a wandering, and to watch it be taken

away from the man who once allowed him to continue on,

only so few would recover from such a damnation of the mind.

 

Æthelwulf took the bidding whispers of his beloved, who

worried for him, worried for his future, and where he'd go.

Rezalisa, for all her ails, mounted the task of comforting the

broken man she sought to reel away from it all; as did he once.

 

"His soul is not here," he tearfully says. "..I cannot feel it. I can't."

 

No matter what had happened between them, all the Norn

can do was to wander. Towards what he could seek, to find

that flame that once bonded himself to Haraldr. But it was

no longer there. It was weak. A plague upon Man.

 

The life that Conan described was no longer there. At least,

for a time. Until he would return. Until he would mount the

scales again, to seek the most out of what remains. Until he

could see a son, which was birthed of a promise between

to return, for even a small amount of time.

 

But for that time being, all he can do was think of what

was lost.

 

And so the lost, he would travel towards.

 

        [x]

 

Twenty Winters Later...

 

 

   "I once thought myself damned.

All that I truthfully knew was that

life will never be what you imagine

it to become."

 

  "So when I'd watched you die, it

threw me into an emptiness. I'd

seen many men die before, but not

of kin."

 

  "To seek one another. You told

me this, but went where I could

never find you. Not unless I wish

to leave her. To leave them all."

 

  "Perhaps you meant it. Perhaps

you meant to leave, to show us

that it can come at any time, at

any place, in that you ask us to

cherish what we have here. To

cherish the life that we were

given."

 

  "Were it that I'd asked you if

when you spoke those words

you meant that your time was

coming, you probably wouldn't

have said. That you didn't know,

either."

 

Tears fell unto the snow. An

eye can do nothing but gaze,

before wandering away to

behold the sights around.

 

  "We all miss you, brœðr. The

sons you never got to see grow

now, even as I might not see it

myself until I finally return to

see my own son."

 

  "And, and—" his heart churns,

and so he sought to dig nails in

the snow when he fell on his

knees.

 

  "We all loved you, brœðr."

 

...

 

  "I w—will return. Not in shame,

but in celebration of t—the life

that you l—lived. The life you

shared with us. The life that

birthed, even as you'd gone."

 

  "And so it is that I leave this

place to thank you. To thank

you for everything you've

done, and shown, and 

allowed us to have."

 

  "Haraldr Fairhair. It was

an honor to be your brœðr."

 

And so he rose, mounting

leather tips to the surface,

and his head held high to

greet the skies that shroud

the mountaintop.

 

     "Goodbye, friend."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spoiler

A long time coming. This serves as a post to honor @Milenkhov who played Haraldr Fairhair, beyond the tale of my character Surtr—now Æthelwulf's journey from being a simple ally, to becoming Norn, and to be part of the council that is Sólgaard that has given me and many others nothing but the greatest time of our stay in Lord of the Craft.

 

So it was that this post has been a draft since I'd broken my leg, and returned to nothing but pure roleplay on this server. I finally finished it when I'd gotten the time, though it may be rushed as I come rusty in writing despite what my previous posts may discern. I'm not going to lie in that I'd cried while writing the last bit, because it was not only a thank you to Milen's character, but a thank you to everyone that has given me such an amazing time on this first character.

 

While it may come across strange for me to say all of this, I was emboldened by just looking through all my past logs of roleplay with everyone I've come across, and I'm glad to still be here after so many had helped me recover to continue writing. It may come in mishap, but it all blends into one beautifully tragic story that will see us looking back and smiling knowing that roleplay has come this far to birth such eccentric, unique stories.

 

Thanks all, and let's keep it going.

 

 

 

 

 

men love men @M1919

Edited April 30, 2025 by don dada