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His grandmother told stories of gods and monsters. She said, "When warriors die they are greeted by Odin at the gates of Valhalla, where the worthy live on." She whispered the tales of Ratatosk into his ear, weaving long and exciting stories about the pesky squirrel's days running up and down Yggdrasil, the tree of life. These were always his favourite because he too would run up and down trees for fun. At night as he fell asleep he would whisper to her all the things the birds had told him and she would whisper back, "It is sleep that calls now little Ratatosk."
Mother, however, thought these stories were nonsense, filling his head with air. She said, "Stories do not chop wood and it is the wood that heats up the house when it is cold." His grandmother had grinned impishly at this and brought her lips to his ear and said, "She's right, that is your father's job." To which mother would reply with a laugh, "Runa what would the gods do without you?"
Little Ratatosk never stopped to think about it back then. He was too busy climbing trees and playing warriors with sticks. Sometimes his father would join him after work and they would battle with great swords until supper was called. "A warrior needs to eat," his father would say if he whined for just five minutes more. Oh, how ironic it all seems to him now.
Grandmother would continue to fill him up with myths and legends until she was stopped.
He remembers the day vividly when two men in white uniforms burst into his home and took his grandmother. She hadn't protested at the time, sealing his forehead in a quick kiss she let the men carry her away. His mother was screaming, yelling at the men "VIDAR! VIDAR! She is an old woman, let her go she has done nothing wrong." She had pushed him into his grandmother's room and told him to lock the door. And he did out of fear because he was young then. Young and scared.
He doesn't remember much after that, just small snippets of time, mashed together into one dribble of colours. There was his father and what sounded like a scuffle of feet. Then there was a scream, a scream that ripped at his young heart and made him cry. He can vividly remember those tears; they dug canals on his cheeks and fogged his vision to the point where he could no longer tell if his eyes were open or closed. There was yelling and lots of it, followed by silence and a loud bang.
"Døyr fe, døyr frender. Døyr sjølv det sama. Men ordet om deg aldreg døyr," came from the silence.
Cattle die, kinsmen die. You yourself will also die. But the word about you will never die.
They had painted the galaxies on his father's cheek for his words because they hadn't understood him. That or—as he would come to learn—it was a punishable offence to speak any other tongue.
There were no more stories after that. His mother had warned him if he spoke a word of it she would cut down his tree herself. She said, "Ewan, stories are for children, tonight you are no longer one."
But Valhalla sounded nice. It still does. And it is so unfair to tell a dreamer to bind himself to the earth.
Ewan did and with it went parts of himself. Which brings his mind to where he stands now, in front of the tree he use to climb as a child. He could see her there, sitting with the fate spinners on the roots of Yggdrasil. He could see her scaling the bark with Ratatosk, accompanying him to tell Vedrfolnir the news.
"Runa, what would the gods do without you?" he says. But his face is emotionless if anything it is turned up in a slight scowl. Because maybe he is angry. Maybe Ewan is despondent.
It's not like his name is in a bowl too many times to count. It is not like even though there are plenty more, his name is likeliest to be chosen. It is not like he is a traitor. He would be surprised if he weren't chosen. Ewan will probably just volunteer himself if he isn't. He'll die either way. And death is something Ewan Bamal does not fear.
Death is what his mother and father dread, it is what took Runa, and that is what makes them weak. But he is strong. He is diligent. He could chop a thousand trees before collapsing. Death is not what stole Runa away from him. That honour lies with the bastard himself and his pathetic dogs.
Ewan is defiantly angry.
Knuckles turn white and skin turns red. He is bleeding but he doesn't care. Pain is good, he thinks, pain is human. Ewan wonders for a second whether President Snow feels pain and whether he bleeds red or clotted black ink because a man like him cannot be human. His grandmother use to joke that the wine in his cup was not wine at all and he's beginning to believe it. Evil is what President Coriolanus Snow is and evil would never be welcomed at the gates of Valhalla.
May Odin strike him dead.
Ewan places his hand over the metal bullet that has bit its way into Yggdrasil's skin, the same metal bullet that pierced Runa's. His eyes close and he is calm, or as calm as an angry boy can get. It is as if the blood he bleeds is the poison that blinds him because as he stands there painting Yggdrasil red, Ewan feels liberated. His head is clear and he can see.
"May Odin strike them dead," he whispers it and hopes his grandmother can hear him.
It is time to go now; he can hear his mother calling for him. Ewan does little to hide the blood coating his hand and when he does reach his mother she scolds him, quickly tying a bandage around it and then they are out the door.
"Where is faðir?"
"Don't say that," she hissed. What difference will it make, he thinks but for his mother's sake he does not voice it. "He will meet us there."
True to her word his father is waiting by the sign in tables with a frown plastered on his face. Ewan panics for a second. He's going to be sick. His stomach is swirling and with it he feels his mind spiral out of control. He knows, he thinks, he followed you that day, he saw you. But how could he possibly know? Ewan thinks what he is feeling is dread although another voice screams guilt. Whatever it is he must suck in a deep breath to regain his composure.
He doesn't know. He knows.
"You'll be alright Ewan," his father's voice rings in his ears. Oh, thank Odin he doesn't know. But maybe he should know. Maybe Ewan should tell his mother and father that today is as good of a day than any to die. It would be easier. He could tell them not to bother coming after his reaped, that way he wouldn't have to witness their despair.
Vidar brings him into an embrace that is short and awkward. Awkward because this will be one of the last hugs he will get to endure. Awkward because his father is barely a friend let alone family. He was never there and that will make it easier.
"I should go," Ewan murmurs. He wants to get this over with quick. It will be easier that way.
His mother kisses his head and leaves a ghosting hand on his shoulder as he walks away. He doesn't look back because it's easier.
It is a nice day to die, Ewan Bamall thinks, I will see you in Valhalla Amma.
TRANSLATIONS AND FURTHER INFORMATION:
Valhalla— The great hall in Norse mythology where heroes slain in battle are received.
Yggdrasil—The tree of life in Norse Mythology which connects all nine worlds.
Ratatosk—A squirrel in Norse mythology that spread gossip between Vedrfolnir and the eagle and Nidhug the dragon who lives off of Yggdrasil roots.
Vedrfolnir— The name of the hawk that sits between the eagles head at the top of Yggdrasil.
