Laugavegur, A Hinterland Journey

Chapter 13 - Fallen

Anja was all too happy to put Ravendome and her conflicted feelings about the Dwarves behind her. A great weight lifted from her as the glassy black hill retreated into the morning fog. She felt especially good stepping out into the fresh air, away from the stale scent of burnt peat and Dwarven sweat. She had been the first to rise that morning, her brother awakening with a gentle shove, Skari requiring a more concerted effort. Despite his grumblings and Ongrad's wish to send them on their way with a full stomach, the trio had managed to escape Ravendome by mid-morning.

The last few days of domestic life had softened Anja's shoulders such that her rucksack now pinched and irritated her after only a few minutes walking. If she wasn't careful, the growing abrasions on her collar bones and in the small of her back might welt up into full blisters, multiplying her misery. Skari plodded before her in silence. Probably regretting trying to drink Ongrad under the table last night, she thought. Behind her, she could hear her brother stomping through the wet snow. His legs were shorter, and he struggled to match her stride. He will be the one taking the larger strides in a few years, she reminded herself.

While traveling with Tokki, Anja had grown to see Tokki in a new light. He would always be her petulant younger brother, but she began to appreciate some of the qualities he had - his connection with animals and the way he could procure most of the medicines they ever needed by simply walking through an alpine meadow. She and Tokki had such different interests, it was sometimes hard for Anja to believe that they had both been born to the same parents. Then again, she never really knew her parents, so it was hard to judge.

Anja had been all of five years old when her parents passed. Some people may remember things from that age, but Anja remembered nothing. Did her mother love herbology as Tokki did? Did she fall in love with her father one day as he knelt nursing a lamed horse? Who was the fighter of the two; the one that gave Anja her determination and her temper? They were probably both stubborn, she mused as she remembered earlier in the morning when Tokki refused to carry a lighter load despite his smaller stature. She resolved to be a bit kinder to her younger brother, for he was all the family she had.

A shimmer of light caught her eye, which was surprising on two accounts; first, the sun was buried behind the clouds and shimmering was usually reserved for sunny days and second, she had seen naught but snow and fog in the hour of walking they had thus far accomplished. Whatever was flashing at her was significantly different from the surrounding landscape. "Skari, hold on a moment, would you?" she asked stepping out across the snow field toward the lump of snow from which the light emanated.

As she drew up upon the snow pile, she could see two protrusions sticking out. Initially, she could not make out what they were. But then, her breath caught in her chest. Arms. Armored, stiff, lifeless. She felt a shiver as the fog closed in around her. She tentatively brushed the snow away, unwilling to commit to the job, but her curiosity forcing her forward. As the snow fell away, she uncovered the left hand which firmly held a sword of great beauty. The sword must have reflected the light that originally drew her attention. In styling, it was much like Abyss, dark and shimmering. But this sword was not a showpiece. The blade presented all manner of nicks and scratches; the pommel, dented and gouged. The blade had lived, and Anja had little doubt that somewhere stories of its deeds were sung in both praise and lament.

She began to brush the snow away from the torso of the buried body. "Skari! Come quickly!" she called over her shoulder as she exposed a shield in the right hand. The shield was made from stout planks of rowan and was covered in flaking yellow paint. The boss was of hammered iron, riveted to the shield. Light and effective, Anja thought, appraising the warrior's choice of protection. The only adornment was a series of black stenciled runes that encircled the shield boss. She knew several runes, but Skari would know them all. Even Tokki would know some if they were used in healing arts. Neither Tokki nor Skari had yet joined her, but she chalked it up to Skari's hangover and Tokki's exhaustion from carrying too large a load.

She was surprised that she actually recognized most of the runes. They were many of her favorites. There was the arrow of Tyr bound with Uruz, runes of warrior strength. She smiled as she traced the inverted half-tree rune of Fehu, a rune that usually meant wealth, but when inverted, it meant homelessness. It was the one rune that Anja had etched more times than any other. While most of her people were shamed by poverty, Anja found strength in owning it. She inscribed the rune all over Fjallabak; on the bucket she used to fetch water, on the stall in which she slept, on her favorite birch tree that she sat beneath and looked out over Green Valley. It was too bad this warrior has gone to Valhalla, for he certainly would have had some stories to tell.

Anja looked around searching for evidence of the battle that had taken this warrior's life. If he had fallen, others must have fallen as well. She looked for other protrusions or lumps of snow, but the ground was pristine all around. There was no pool of darkened, blood-stained snow beneath the warrior, nor was the alabaster snow disrupted in the slightest but for Anja's own footprints. It was as if the warrior had simply fallen while crossing the highlands. Surely, a fighter as tested and battered as this would have died in battle and not just succumbed to cold or illness. How sad that would be! To live a life of hardship and service only to be denied entry into Valhalla by dying alone atop this plateau without the gods taking even the slightest interest.

The fog closed in around Anja and she felt a chill. Where were Skari and Tokki? She turned to call to them a second time, but she immediately saw that they were no longer in sight. The fog churned around her like angry surf, blocking her view and muffling her calls. She could see her own footprints leading off into the fog and she stood to retrace them. They are just beyond the fog bank, sitting on their packs waiting for my return, she thought. But she was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to clear the rest of the snow from the warrior. It was not curiosity that forced her hands to begin to brush the snow away from the upper torso and head. Nor was it an effort of respect and deference. If Anja was to put a word to the emptiness that had overtaken her gut since the fog closed in, it would be dread. Her hands trembled as she brushed the snow away from the warrior's face, her eyes growing wide. The warrior that lay before her was no man but was rather a shield maiden. And not just any shield maiden...

"No..." Anja whispered, her stomach churning. She held her hand to her mouth. The maiden could have been Anja's older sister; the same coarse features and small, upturned nose, the same smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Beneath her helm the warrior's hair was braided across her forehead, like a crown, and twisted again in smaller strands behind her ears. Anja hesitantly reached her hand up and touched her own braids.

Skari had talked about the sight, catching glimpses of the future, but his descriptions had been of dream-like experiences, devoid of color and sound, cloudy around the edges, and difficult to recall. Though there was mist all around her, the scene was haltingly real. Anja tapped the warrior's breastplate and it rung cold, metallic, and heavy. This was no glimpse and Anja was sure as she knelt; she was looking into the face of her own death. 

This must be terrifying for young Anja. What is going on with the mist?

Have you ever looked at Nordic runes? Do any hold significance for you?