Curse Of Blood: Gods & Monsters

Chapter XXXII - Aila

Langhús — Viking Longhouse.

Drengskapr — Honor. A drengr is a valiant warrior.

Glíma — is the name of the Scandinavian martial arts system used by the Vikings.

The old man's body was white as the winter glaciers, his bloodless flesh tinged with the same cold, pale blue as the perennial ice mountains.

It had been on her land that his life had been snuffed. An animal, or so they thought. Only a white bear could have caused such destruction; or perhaps a pack of wolves. Let them think that, but Aila knew better.

She turned her head to her right where Roth was standing, his face impenetrably formidable; and so like his father's.

"Tell me you would not ascribe evil to an unborn child?" Loki's words haunted her now as they had when he'd first said them.

They were, neither of them, evil! Her sons were good men!

"I had hoped your sons would be more like their mother than their sire."

Had she dreamt those words? Would that her offspring had been sowed from mortal seeds ... and not a scourge of nature.

"But I see now that I was wrong."

Yes, Loki; how wrong you were, she thought now. She should regret him. But how could she. She loved him and she adored her sons. Moreover; life was for living, not regretting. And where better to appreciate that sentiment than beside the worsted remains of a fallen friend.

It was as though Loki's personality was split in twain, and each of his sons possessed half of the essentials of their sire. Although, Roth, she thought, was more remindful of Loki's darker nature and Renic's mien an exemplification of his more exalted traits. Roth was mischievous, unpredictable, mordant, and ruthless, whereas Renic was equanimous, thoughtful, and playful. Or he had been. Her youngest son was even more of a riddle to her now than her firstborn ever was.

Still, it was surely unmotherly of her to think better of one son than the other? To wish it was Renic that would lead her people and not Roth... But those were her quiet contemplations, for she did love her sons equally despite esteeming one slightly above the other.

He used to talk to her. He used to smile a lot more too, but those memories of grins and laughter were merely the redolence of bygone years and he only the husk of the boy he had been. Furthermore, she knew not how to help them. How could she possibly explain herself or condone the secrecy of their lineage. However, even if she had wanted to, she had promised their father that their divine heredity should be his privilege to disclose if and when he chose to do so.

She had conceded that to Loki, mindful of the fact that it was indeed dangerous to confess aught that might slip innocently from a child's mouth and into disloyal or treacherous ears. Ergo, he had thenceforth watched from afar once they grew old enough to speak; to understand; to remember. Yet still and all he watched them.

Had he always known what his sons would become? She could not say for certain, but he always denied that he had any knowledge of what exactly would come of their being his progeny. Of his blood. And she believed him. But they could no longer declaim against the truth of the matter — Rothgar and Renic were accursed.

Loki had told her once that there must always be balance in nature. That nothing good could come of a god loving a mortal, and that they would find no impunity for their actions.