07-26-2020, 12:41 AM
Tristan’s hulking arms pulled him to the surface in one wide sweep. Once there, he walked to the shore, emerging like some monolithic creature released from the depths. Perhaps he had? Nimeda called him to the watery lair of another, and kind called to like kind. His face was writ in determination, staring up the slope toward the place he first met Thorn Paw.
He passed Nimeda poised on the rock. Her dress slapped her flesh like a second skin, and his pace naturally slowed. She waited for him to do something, and he second-guessed the moment. A rumble rippled from dirt to pebble to water, and Tristan’s gaze was drawn away upward. His hand reached for the symbols on his chest as he moved. The last time he was here, he was a different man. The lost boy who ran the world alone, wounded by the uncle who judged him for what he couldn’t control. The man who returned stalked away from the fjord a warrior. The markings on his chest began to churn. The lines of war paint returned to his face. The leather pants creaked. To his hand came an axe that he gripped so tight the wood of the handle creaked.
The ground quaked beneath him as he stomped upward. Sparks sprayed and rumbles reacted. The boulders of the very mountain seemed to respond, but it was the basalt column that he ran toward, a roar growing from his throat as he did.
The trollstone twisted this way and that. Its surface pooled to black glass. Inside, the shadows churned into a silhouette. Úlfar called his name in a mangled language he hated yet somehow understood.
Hefting the axe, Tristan hurled himself at the basalt column. When the blade struck the stone, a thousand cracks snapped the surface. With a snarl, he reared, and thrust his hand deep into the troll stone up to the elbow. The shadow within screamed and tried to flee, but Tristan’s grip found purchase. He clawed and yanked, muscles of his back and legs pulled to intensity fighting and snarling. The battle waged across two realms only he could bridge, but he would not relent.
With a final cry, Tristan pulled, breath heaving. The axe was lodged in the surface of the stone and in his crushing hand something waited. Tristan turned, and when he did, he was only a shadow of himself. Husks poked like teeth from his lips. His eyes were black. The skin of his bare chest swirled green behind the chains of glepneir. The troll cross blazed like blood. What he saw behind those black eyes would etch forever in his mind. Every basalt column across the world howled in reaction. For what had struck the heart of the troll.
More accurately, what snatched the heart of the troll.
“Hear me,” he spoke to the realm of the trolls, language mixing guttural and clipped with theirs. “You sealed your fates. I will not free you. Sleep now and disturb none, or I will snatch all your hearts and wear them as a garland in my beard.”
He was himself moments later. Golden eyes saw the world anew. He looked down at what he held, in awe.
Finally, he yanked the axe from the troll stone. It disappeared and the stone healed itself to quiet contemplation once more. Tristan squat to the ground, leaning his head against the surface like a throne.
He held up the heart of the troll to study it as if it was his own. It glowed a few more moments before falling quiet. He breathed easy, but the trolls were not the only ones to hear his threat. The wolf dream stirred distant as the Endless Stars as if readying for battle.
Let it come, he thought.
With a satisfied growl, he looked for Nimeda.
He passed Nimeda poised on the rock. Her dress slapped her flesh like a second skin, and his pace naturally slowed. She waited for him to do something, and he second-guessed the moment. A rumble rippled from dirt to pebble to water, and Tristan’s gaze was drawn away upward. His hand reached for the symbols on his chest as he moved. The last time he was here, he was a different man. The lost boy who ran the world alone, wounded by the uncle who judged him for what he couldn’t control. The man who returned stalked away from the fjord a warrior. The markings on his chest began to churn. The lines of war paint returned to his face. The leather pants creaked. To his hand came an axe that he gripped so tight the wood of the handle creaked.
The ground quaked beneath him as he stomped upward. Sparks sprayed and rumbles reacted. The boulders of the very mountain seemed to respond, but it was the basalt column that he ran toward, a roar growing from his throat as he did.
The trollstone twisted this way and that. Its surface pooled to black glass. Inside, the shadows churned into a silhouette. Úlfar called his name in a mangled language he hated yet somehow understood.
Hefting the axe, Tristan hurled himself at the basalt column. When the blade struck the stone, a thousand cracks snapped the surface. With a snarl, he reared, and thrust his hand deep into the troll stone up to the elbow. The shadow within screamed and tried to flee, but Tristan’s grip found purchase. He clawed and yanked, muscles of his back and legs pulled to intensity fighting and snarling. The battle waged across two realms only he could bridge, but he would not relent.
With a final cry, Tristan pulled, breath heaving. The axe was lodged in the surface of the stone and in his crushing hand something waited. Tristan turned, and when he did, he was only a shadow of himself. Husks poked like teeth from his lips. His eyes were black. The skin of his bare chest swirled green behind the chains of glepneir. The troll cross blazed like blood. What he saw behind those black eyes would etch forever in his mind. Every basalt column across the world howled in reaction. For what had struck the heart of the troll.
More accurately, what snatched the heart of the troll.
“Hear me,” he spoke to the realm of the trolls, language mixing guttural and clipped with theirs. “You sealed your fates. I will not free you. Sleep now and disturb none, or I will snatch all your hearts and wear them as a garland in my beard.”
He was himself moments later. Golden eyes saw the world anew. He looked down at what he held, in awe.
Finally, he yanked the axe from the troll stone. It disappeared and the stone healed itself to quiet contemplation once more. Tristan squat to the ground, leaning his head against the surface like a throne.
He held up the heart of the troll to study it as if it was his own. It glowed a few more moments before falling quiet. He breathed easy, but the trolls were not the only ones to hear his threat. The wolf dream stirred distant as the Endless Stars as if readying for battle.
Let it come, he thought.
With a satisfied growl, he looked for Nimeda.