Rite of Passage (2/2)

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!”

He stepped in, a distant look in his pale eyes. He was hesitant as she raised her arms to him. Finally, he fell into her. They wrapped each other in a tight embrace as she drew him in towards the hearth.