Tales of the Vangen: The Siege of Middengard (Book 2)

Chapter 48: Grief

(The death of a man is nothing special. Their lives are cheap, numerous, and easily spent. But the death of a child is a type of pain none should ever experience. So much potential wasted. The agony of it all like a rock dropped into a still pool, its ripples felt through time itself.)

-Margot Oliander, an excerpt from, "The Seven Poems of Grief."

"Well don't just stand there. If you're going to watch me work you might as well sit down." Astrid paused from her carvings to pat the chair beside her. "I may not be the most captivating of prisoners, but I do appreciate the company."

Regis blushed, which was surprising given he hadn't done such a thing for a very long time, or at least as far as he could remember. He pulled the chair out and sat down and watched as Astrid continued her work. She picked the small Star Steel knife back up and continued working on an inlaid groove in the charm, a gentle sweep that would eventually spell the rune term for wind. They sat there together in a gentle quiet, the occasional groan of grinding stone filling the still air.

"I take it you're a man who enjoys silence?" Astrid asked, her eyes still fixed on the charm.

Regis swallowed. What the seven hells do you even say to a question like that? "I do." He paused to see if she would say more, but she didn't and he continued. "In my line of work you start to cherish the little things in life. Silence. The warm crackle of a fire..."

"The soft sounds your children make when they're sleeping." Astrid added. She had a far away look to her eyes as she spoke, knife poised over the crook of the rune.

"Aye. That too." Memories came and went like the passing of old etchings as Regis recalled his own children. Good sleepers, they were. Bjarni could have slept through a raid given how heavy lidded he could get. And Freya, by the gods she could have ripped a troll to pieces if it disturbed her slumber. Good sleepers. Good children. He grit his teeth and pushed the memories down. "That too."

"You and I are a lot alike it would seem."

"How so?"

"You're Danicborn as well, aren't you?"

Regis ran a hand over an ear, the one holding the ruby stud. "I suppose the accent gave it away?"

"Perhaps." Astrid continued her carving, leaving Regis to wonder why she'd asked in the first place. When the silence grew too heavy, he found himself speaking again.

"Where did you learn to make Wyrdstones?"

"Oh, the same way as everyone else, I reckon." She paused to croon a loose strand of hair from her face, a simple act that left Regis rather entranced. Astrid had that type of beauty. Like a verdant grange you stare upon at the top of a hill, wind tugging at your heels, making waves in a sea of green. She reminded him of home. As far as he could tell she was home. And deep down he didn't know what he longed for most.

"A Wyre Witch trained you?" he asked.

Astrid shook her head. "As if I could ever gain an audience with such a coven. No, it was my Mormer, my mother's mother who taught me. She had the gift for the Wyrd, but never formally joined. We'd spend hours carving runes together when I was still young. At first I thought she was just eccentric, believing that superstitious bobbles could protect us, but as I grew older I began to understand what she was doing. What she was planning for me." She narrowed her eyes at the memory. "When King Hadrada came for my village, it was her runes that protected me."

"Hadrada." The name tasted bitter. Regis ran an anxious hand through his silver-wheat beard. "I haven't heard that name in a long time. Not since my first and last encounter with the man."