Snippets

“Norns are incredible architects. They simply use death as a building block.” Andacellus, Viddion marah.”
― Taylor Grace

And so the Norns intertwined our threads; they carefully spin and tied the cords that knotted us together. May that torn and worn out tapestry remain as a memento.

June, 11th 1461

A golden lock of hair slided sluggishly over the fair skin as she tilted her head to let the moonbeam stroke her face in an opalescent, nacreous caress. There was an insinuation of a smile tickling at the corners of her lips, curling them subtly; she couldn't have been really specific about its cause, however, nobody was there to ask but an untimely and uninterested nightingale.

Resting against the stone wall as she was, she took the goblet by the stem and moved it in an open slow circle first, quickening her pace then, letting the burgundy liquid chant its slosh and squelch against the glass, accompaning the sound with her own giggle. To say that she was inebriated would be an understatement.

The blonde figure gave her back to the hollow and took the sealed manuscript, taking it to her lips before throwing it to the fireplace. Again, without her being really conscious, her life revolved around unopened letters. Like the butterfly that flaps its wings in a Southern rainforest and causes a hurricane in the Northern Sea, little did she know what that small gesture unchained.

In a distant Kingdom, someone dropped a glass.
In another time, a man fell on his knees with his enemy's axe buried in his back.
In another place and time a thunder wounded the skies.

By the roots of the Ash, beyond place and time, a lily white hand tugged at the threads, partially unweaving the tapestry she was working on.

June, 16th 1461

- [...] and would thee die for me? For thou art loyal, that I know, but would thee die for me? - the silvery voice somehow held the promise of laughter, as if she was about to burst out in a chuckle, seeming to not take it seriously; there was something in those silences that linked the words together that made the words float like a sheer mist around her, between them. She didn't turn to look at him, her eyes fixed on the curved talons of the bird. Yet the seasoned observer could have noticed how she was holding her breath, that subtle inclination, like trying to notice the slightest movement from behind, the stance that suggested almost impatience.
Wathever she was waiting for, didn't happen in that dimension, since the moment was abruptly interrupted by the flapping of the hawk.

- The hood - she muttered with that tone that shows displeasure with oneself - I am still unable to put it properly. - The words didn't seem directed to the falconer, but to someone behind her.

Once she was freed from the animal, she turned around, sliding her arm out of the beautifully crafted deer gauntlet and smoothing down her green sleeve. There was a half smile dancing across her lips.



She woke briskly and sat upright in bed, a thin layer of sweat adhering the modest linen chemise to her chest. Again that dream.

Her gait to the basin was unsteady and shivery. The cool, invigorating caress of the cold water on her face helped to pull herself together. She was already dressed when the peal of the bells made her hustle. Matins. The young woman exhaled a long sigh when she put on the bonnet required to every married woman in sign of female dignity and decency, one would think the garment weighed tons.

She didn't quite understand these peoples, their God, their rites; and to think that now that was all she had... Walking on thin ice, she couldn't afford the luxury of not appearing in the chappel. And on her knees she prayed, she prayed to her Gods, even to their; they were right, she was praying for her husband and lord, praying that for all that was holy he would have died in the battle.

July, 3rd 1461

- Will thee take me to the place where the sun sets? - her voice sounded impatient, expectant, dreamy.
The day was coming to its end and the fleeing, orangish sun made her hair look like lava as they cantered under the twilight. The girl was straddling her palfrey like she was a knight; she didn't remember the last time she had so much fun, if that ever even happened, when she felt so free: at full gallop, with the wind carrying her laughter and disheveling the Titan coloured mass of hair that cascaded loose over her back, as if she was an unmarried maiden.

Her breathing was getting heavier and a thin layer of perspiration was making shine the muscles of the dapple gray horse under her. She felt herself a cheeky droplet forming at the back of her neck and travelling down her back, which made her squirm on the saddle. If she had been alone, she would have even gotten rid of her shirt, maybe even of her undershirt. But if she had been alone she would have never go riding like that.

- They will send a search party to find us... - Not that she seemed to care, judging by her carefree tone. She reined in the animal to wait for the man, panting.

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She woke from the dream covered in sweat,her heart beating so hard she thought it would explode.
Still no news from the front.

August, 1st 1461

She didn't notice that she was holding her breath until a sigh escaped her lips when she realized that the arriving knight was only a banneret.
She left the crenel and gave orders to the servants to look after him and offer him all the conveniences he could need, but she wasn't interested in receiving him yet; she retired to her chambers instead, he surely would need some rest and she needed to think... there was only one question on her mind, one that she wasn't supposed to ask.


Once in her chambers she let the maidservants undress her and help her to the copper tub, her eyes on the mirror, her mind miles away. Her hand travelled distractedly along the ugly scar on her belly, her husband's gift on their wedding night. She submerged in the tepid water, lost in thought, letting the muffled sounds around her disappear and help her travel to the the only place where she felt safe, at ease: her memories.

With closed eyes she thought about his flaxen hair, that reminded her of the pale sun at home, in Bergen; his calm hypnotic eyes, the Norse glow.

- Du er min sol*...

She couldn't but remember how at ease he made her feel, how close to home while being so far. His reassuring gentle voice, the tacit promise of the haven of his arms, that she never dared to use. The unspoken plea when they bid farewell, when she gave him her favor, creating that small bit of assurance that he would return from the battle alive... her assurance was starting to break.

*You are my sun.

August, 7th 1461

She shared an unsatisfactory dinner with the knight; it might have sated the body, but not the spirit, he couldn't quench her thirst. No news for her, nor good, nor bad.
The man politely said that surely Fernando was alive. She politely pretended that it would brighten up her heart.

The redundant, superfluous ballet of courtesy, hidden thoughts and polite graciousness. She felt sick. Yet he was a good man and deserved more than cold refinement. The empty shell that Kristin had become, did her best to offer him the shimmering illusion of a warm welcome.



Three days after and still no news. The quondam smiling young lady had become a sighing wisp, a mere shadow wandering in the too big, too cold castle. Almost two thousand miles and too many months away from home. She couldn't bear the uncertainty anymore, maybe she couldn't move to where her thoughts were, but she could, at least, try to get closer, even if it meant getting closer to the picquet line.
Kristin sat at her husband's writing desk and took out of the drawer a vellum and the little bottle of iron gall ink. She bit the end of the quill; she was about to desecrate the vellum with a huge lie... and she was anything but proud of it.

My dearest sister,

I cannot handle the anguish of the lack of news from my Lord and husband, therefore I must take leave. I beg thee not to worry, I have took all the preventive measures and am not travelling alone. I need to be... closer.
I know thou will understand.
Yours,

Kristin.

She took the indigo candle and spilled a drop of wax over the closed letter, pressing then her ring against it. A single teardrop ran down her cheek as she did.

She needed to get closer, in case he was alive, in case -he- was trying to get back...to her. She lied, she was not seeking for Fernando, and she didn't put at risk a single life but hers.
That night she left for Guildford, the last bastion that she knew almost safe. She travelled alone.

August, 13th 1461

She rode indefatigably under the dim moonlight, spurring the stallion ruthlessly, ignoring the froth in his mouth, disregarding her own exhaustion. Her only companions were the ocasional neigh of the beast, the popping sound of the riding crop and her own heavy breath. She barely stopped a few hours in Kidwelly to let the animal rest; for a moment, she thought she'd kill him, she needed to get there at any price. Damn, she would have dragged and pushed him if she wasn't so wearied.

She slided some pieces of gold in the innkeeper's hand, enough to vanish from his gaze the disdain toward that desperate woman travelling alone and get a clean place to rest for some hours. Once in the stable, Kristin kissed Hengroen's forehead, patting his neck as the animal nuzzled her hair, like he understood.

The blonde woman climbed up the stairs and, after her ablutions, dropped herself on the scarcely comfortable bed. She would have been able to sleep even on the ground.



After an insufficient rest, snubbing her aching muscles, she sat on the saddle again. She did not see or hear anything but the path before her and Hengroen's hoofs treading upon the soil, there were no breathtaking landscapes or early birds' trills for her.

Kristin was about ten furlongs away from Guildford when she noticed the black smoke. She reined in her stallion, her gaze glazed, feeling the burning tears about to flood her eyes. If Guildford was taken... She shook her head and with a reckless resolution made the stallion gallop, there was anywhere to go but ahead.

August, 15th 1461

And Kristin marched in.

She clenched her thighs and freed one hand from the reins, letting her cloak fall and commending herself to Týr as she pulled the bowstring of her crossbow toward the cocking mechanism. She let the charged weapon at her back, ready to use, and unsheathed her sword; it was a light one, not a deadly one at all, but at least she could use it with one hand and hoped it would help to keep any possible foe away.

Father had made all his daughters learn the basics of the art of war, but she never ever fought before. Would she be able to shed blood?

- Sword in my hand, axe on my side... Valhall awaits me, when I die. Bear skin on my back, wolf jaw on my head...

She muttered the old chant she had heard so many times before.

- Valhall awaits me... WHEN I'M DEAD!!


Her blood was pounding at her temple, her heritage and lineage had taken over her body, commanding her actions.

She kicked the first man's face when he approached her, a covetous look in his eyes, possibly thinking about pillaging her horse, she thought. She wasn't bloodthirsty yet her actions were. She tried to withdraw herself from the cries, the horror, the scattered bodies and bloody carcasses, the smoke that filled her eyes with moisture.


Kristin saw a young blond man at her side, shielded, firmly grabbing his sword. He was one of "ours". She also saw the shine of the steel behind him... with economy of movements she dropped the sword and tugged at the crossbow's strap. The bolt went right to the enemy's neck, making him fall down, writhing in agony.

She did not notice that her silver chain with the medallion fell from her neck too with the sharp movement, laying on the ground, half covered by the dust.

Still August, 15th 1461

Something made her look back, turning her head quickly to repel another foe. Suddenly everything seemed to occur in slow motion, the sounds were muffled, steel pounding on the steel, the cries, the... almost roaring of the powerful tongues of fire that devoured the watchtower... She barely noticed anymore the scent of the smoke, of her own beast, the sickly sweet metallic pungency of the drying blood...her senses were dulled.

Kristin blinked as a bead of perspiration fell from her eyebrow to her lashes. No, it was not possible, her eyes were fooling her. Him... already there?
She caught a glimpse of that man with the now sullen expression, that pale flaxen hair, the broad shoulders, the bloody chain maille, the dirty tattered doublet under it... but most of all, it was the way he tilted his head while wielding the broadsword, she had seen the curve of that neck so many times before, the outline of that ear... she did not need to see the coat of arms to know, to feel, it was him.

She did not saw the man charging, all she felt was some sort of stinging heat on her side and the ground under her. She blinked again as her vision turned blurred. A slow, almost timid stream of blood came to her mouth to accompany the burgundy vital fluid flowing from her side when Hengroen fell on her, not kicking against her on his fleeing by mere chance. The man ran after the animal, determined to not miss such a profitable bounty.
The last image on her retinas before she lost consciousness was his bleary, unreal contour.