Hilga gathered the last
of the logs Beld had brought in the previous night and set them near the
central hearth. She pulled out her hand axe and began chopping thin slivers
from a log, placing them on the coals. Once a reasonable amount of slivers were
in place, she lay across a few larger pieces. Taking a deep breath she blew
steadily on the coals, feeling the warmth of freshly born flame licking her
face.
She returned the stew pot
to its place over the fire, reheating the stew for the morning meal.
Her father did not expect
Beld to return soon. Though, he seemed confident he would. Hilga was scared for
her brother. She remained hopeful for his return, but she remembered the toils
of the trial. She had only taken it herself two years prior. It was unlikely
her father remembered the awful ordeal. It seemed the older a warrior was, the
more they reminisced on their youth, age forcing away the truth. Blinded by the
memories of so-called better times.
She opened the door,
squinting in the dawn light, she glanced outside. It was warmer. There was no
sign of Beld. She sighed. Soon. He would be back soon.
“Go ‘bout yer chores,”
her father limped up behind her, “he won’t be back today, took you two days,
gonna take him more.”
She closed the door and
returned to check on the leftover stew. “He will be back though.”
“He’s a stubborn kid,
that’ll see him through.” He winced as he eased himself back down into his
chair, carefully lifting his broken leg back into place, and tossing his crutch
aside.
For three days the sun
shone and the air warmed. On the fourth day the temperature plummeted. The sky
was grey with a coming storm, more snow to smother the hopes that were First
Thaw. And Beld had yet to return.
Hilga paced around their
cabin as the snow piled anew outside. Her right hand continuously scratched at
the coarse threads of her canvas pants. She rubbed at her forehead with her
left hand, running her fingers through her hair, tugging at handfuls. Over and
over again. Hours had passed and she paced. The sun, barely visible behind the
grey and black cloud coverage, disappeared entirely as the short day drew to an
end. And Hilga paced. And Hilga pulled at her hair, rubbed at her forehead, scratched
at her leg. And she paced.
Her stomach rolled, as
much with worry as with hunger. She had not eaten in… she did not know. The
storm rolled in from the north, a bad one. Beld was still in the Ice Wastes and
a storm like this in the Ice Wastes… She shook her head. Don’t let yourself
think on that.
Damn the gods!
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t continue to pace. She had to find him.
Hilga stormed through the
cabin as if the blizzard torn through the door. Digging through a scattering of
possessions near her straw bed, she found her pack and began stuffing it with
blankets. She pulled her heavy cloak over her shoulders and grabbed her sword
belt.
“You know you can’t do
that.” Her father was at the door, leaning on his crutch, his face flush with
the effort. “He must do this on his own.”
She glared at him. She
knew the restrictions of the rites. She didn’t care. She had lost one brother
already and would not lose another.
“He will return.”
Hilga stood for a moment,
sword in hand, pack slung over her shoulder. Her father’s eyes softened, and he
shifted his weight on his crutch, reaching out a hand and taking her shoulder.
“He will return,” he
repeated.
She nodded her head and
sighed. If she went and helped him, he would never earn his marks, he’d never
be welcomed on the Ice Breaker raids. She let her pack drop to the floor.
The wind picked up
outside, whistling over the cabin. The tall pines creaked under the weight of
wind and snow. She helped her father back to his chair before stoking the fire.
Her stomach continued to churn. She needed to eat. It would help no one to let
worry eat a hole in her stomach, it would help no one to starve. Better to put
on some dinner, if Beld returned he would need to eat as well. Hilga hoped the
chore would be able to distract her, if only briefly.
Despite the storm First
Thaw was only days away. If Beld did not return in time, he’s not be able to
finish his rites until the following. While Hilga’s concern rested solely on
his well-being, she knew he’d be torn apart if he returned too late. He’d
awaited this day for a long time.
Dinner made and set
beside the hearth, Hilga sat next to the door, picking off bits of bread and
listening. Time and again she’d crack the door, peering out into the darkness
of the storm. Time and again she’d gaze out to only find a fury of snow
squalling along a canvas of blackness.
Her eyes began to drift
closed as she leaned back in her chair beside the door. Faint sounds, whispers
at the edge of her perception, causing her to jump back to awareness until her
eyes began to slowly close, beginning the cycle of near sleep again. Another
whisper. Another jump. She slipped and fell from the rickety wooden chair. Her
elbow cracked against the floorboards. This is ridiculous. She needed to
sleep, her mind was playing tricks on her.
The door swung open,
creaking on its hinges. The wind swirled, blowing snow into the house, a pile
building up on the floor. She struggled to push it back closed fighting the
wind the whole way. A hand pushed through. Hilga jumped back taking in a
surprised breath. The door hung open and she stared at the figure standing in
the doorway, wreathed in darkness.
His face was pale. Paler
than any she had seen. His skin seemed almost translucent; it had taken on a
blueish hue. His jaw chattered. His hands were caked in dried, black blood. The
bloody, matted fur of a giant ice bear was draped over him, streaks of frozen
blood lined his face. He was nearly unrecognizable.
“Brother!”
