I was assaulted by a wave of whiteness as soon as my heavy eyelids split apart, a slow throb nestling deep inside my mind. A grunt of discomfort escaped me, and I lifted an arm to provide some much-needed aid against the light, or at least intended to. Questioningly I repeated the command discovering that I had lost all authority over the limb, similarly to all the others. My heart gained momentum, dire thoughts bubbling to the forefront of consciousness, spewing vile outcomes as my vision adjusted to the surroundings.
Though movement had been robbed from me, my eyes retained their allegiance, swivelling about in inspection. A whimper filtered out into what I now recognise as an alien room, light fixtures embedded into the walls, lacing the whole area in bleached illumination. The gradient was reminiscent of those that illuminated pristine halls and disinfected wards, untainted by the horrors within, the similarity evoking a horrifying thought. ‘Please don’t tell me it was all just a dream!’ Fear’s corrupting touch twisted truth and illusion as phantom screams chewed through my psyche. It was the sight of my brown childish hands that prevented me from falling into the pits of despair, reassuring me that, at the very least, I was not back there.
I closed my eyes and took deep, steadying breaths, tumultuous thoughts, yielding to a steadfast mentality I always strived to maintain. I threw that incurable memory into the deepest recesses of my being, lest it attracts something I rightfully did not want to face. Some things were better left buried, eroded into nothingness by the sands of time.
The space was without apart from the bed I lay on, a bedside table topped with a bowl, cloth hanging off its rim, and some bandages. The scent of what I knew to be menthol permeated the air and was another piece in a developing picture that was beginning to take shape. ‘A white room with walls composed of virgin marble, reflecting a purified light and a table topped with items used for healing.’
Grogginess made it tiresome to put two and two together to draw what I knew to be an obvious conclusion, so I opted to drift between dreams and reality, intending to recover as soon as possible. I was safe for now and would use this respite to the fullest.
I was aroused from slumber by a noise I had grown accustomed to, the grinding of stone against stone, weakness still restraining my movements. While my sight adjusted, I heard the tell-tale signs of someone approaching, their steps light yet purposeful. They placed something on the bedside table to my right, revealing themself to me. The woman wore a green apron skirt complemented by a hay-coloured underdress, brown hair flowing out of the covering on her head, emergent white strands giving away prospective age. She brought a cupful of something to my lips without breaking expression, one of apathy that depicted neither warmth nor disdain.
Gently tipping my head forward with practised hands, I sipped on what I thought was some sort of herbal concoction by the medicinal taste lingering on my tongue. The liquid was magical, breathing new life into a body that had been taken by feebleness. I could feel my chi dawn like the sun on a newborn day under the tonic’s stimulating prowess, pumping with renewed vigour. A healthy warmth spread from my belly to the tips of my extremities, mending the wrongness that ailed me. Tentatively, I attempted to lift my right hand, barely getting it off the bed before losing strength, a frustrated huff leaving my mouth.
Noticing my failed endeavour, the… nurse, I assume, broke the silence. “Now, now, don’t struggle, little one. The initial effects of the mending brew are only temporary. You are nowhere near recovered enough to move yet.”
At the very least, the concoction gave me enough strength to speak. “What happened?” I croaked in response, voice scratchy due to extended disuse.
Her facial expression changed for the first time crumpling in scrutiny. “Do you not remember what caused you to reach such a pitiful state?” she questioned. I tried to recall my most recent memories, but all I got were disjointed images of rage, fire and blood. I looked into her blue eyes, shaking my head in denial, observing the subsequent anger that flashed through them. “Those fools know no restraint, even when it concerns a child. Don’t worry, little one; you will regain your memories in due time if the Great Guardian wills it. Right now, the most important thing is for you to rest and recover.”
Her response did nothing to dissuade the worries brought on by my failure to recollect past events; nonetheless, she was right. I needed to recover as soon as possible, as being bedridden helped me in no way. If there was anything positive to take out of this situation, no permanent damage had been wrought upon my flesh, unblemished chi pathways proving the conjecture. Nodding my head, I gave her a smile in thanks before closing my eyes. I would not waste even a single moment. All that mattered right now was the recuperation of mind and body.
The process trickled by, with me being roused from hibernation at intervals by nurses that tended to my various bodily needs, like eating, cleaning and waste collection. The ever-present pallid luminance robbed me of any sense of time, the lack of a window in the room only adding to the torment. I was left with nothing to do but sleep, not knowing if a day or year had passed. Solace was only found in the short conversations I had with the few nurses that tended to me and the reclamation of strength in my limbs. Eventually, I was able to sit up and move my upper body without much fuss, though my legs were still noodly, failing to support my weight for more than a few intervals.
My meals also shifted from soups and porridges to solids like fruit and bread, though much to my dismay, no meat was in sight. During one such feast, containing tasteless and unsubstantial food, a nurse came in. She placed a set of neatly folded clothes at the foot of the bed, instructing me to get changed immediately and meet her outside. The blonde woman gave no credence to the idea that I might have had a query or two, ‘I don’t’, vacating with haste, much to my delight. Removing the grey robe I had on leaving me in the nude, I hurriedly got changed, the prospect of getting out of this dump steering my actions.
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A green tunic, brown pants and leather shoes served as my garb, and I wasted no time re-joining the nurse outside. She scrutinised me up and down, tidying my messy hair with a hand before motioning me to follow her through the dimly lit halls, creeping shadows of my past lingering around every corner.
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Many fathoms beneath the earth’s crust, beyond the reach of avaricious men and ravenous beasts, ran a network of tunnels and pockets left in the wake of an uninhibited flow of magma of eons past, aptly named Glóande-myrker. A vein of terrene blood remained till this day, entwining with old ways, suffusing the tunnels in a fiery glow and, of course, the accompanying heat. It was within one of these ancient chambers that the Nine Pillars convened, as they always did when discussing matters of utmost importance.
“—and how is the harvest of álfursteinar coming along Thormoth? Our supply has been dwindling in recent years,” a sage-like man asked another, running a hand through his beard that fell past chest, stripped of pigment.
His target, a middle-aged man of greying hairs and wizened bearing, spoke up. “It has been rough, Herra Háseti. We have barely surpassed our quota of returns this time around. I fear we may not have enough to last another three years, especially now with the draugr exhibiting odd behaviour.”
Háseti exhaled tiredly, rubbing his eyes in worry, ruminating over the war effort. In all his years serving the council, there had never been an instance where their stockpile dwindled to such precarious levels. They were essentially on a knife’s edge. “That is unacceptable, Captain, we have been getting less each cycle from those conniving war houses, but I cannot afford to turn a blind eye any longer. Force it out of them if you have to; as long as your actions aren’t out of line, you have my full support. Do you understand, Thormoth?”
Though Háseti was a man of average size, by warrior standards, his mind and spirit tempered on the forefront of battle surpassed all bar a few. A knot of anxiety formed in the pit of Thormoth’s stomach, the cold eyes looking his way seeming to peer into all his darkest secrets. “Yes, sir, I will assemble my men as soon as this gathering ends.” His servility elicited a few chuckles from the other members, and though bitterness brewed on the cusp of his lips, he suppressed any bite back in fear of the man that had made a name for himself as Háseti The Unsated.
“Thank you, Captain. I expect good news at our next meeting,” Háseti nodded. He needed to ensure the rats didn’t take more than their fair share lest the dogs go hungry. “Onto the next matter of importance, Garðkell, how is the bolstering of our defences along the northeast coming along?”
“We are keeping up with schedule Herra, more than half its length has already been fitted with the forged measures supplied by the Master Forger, and the wall has been raised as per the specifications,” said a hulking mass of a man. His exposed musculature glistened in an orangey tint owing to the unique source of illumination native to this region. Still, despite the boiling temperature, none showed any discomfort, at least outwardly. Though Garðkell was convinced, he would be a few pounds lighter by the end of the day on account of his profuse sweating.
“That is good to hear, Garðkell, but do not let your guard down. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt after all these years fighting those hel spawn is that they always find a way to fuck you over when you least expect it.” Murmurs rang out amongst the members in agreement. They had seen it first-hand far too many times to remember. Draugr were like a phantom limb, posing most potent when overlooked, lulling one into a false sense of safety before striking at the heart. “Keep vigilant. The winter season is at an end; you will likely face one if not more waves in the coming days with the way they have been acting lately.”
“I will carry your words of wisdom in my bosom, Herra Háseti,” Garðkell assented, cupping his fist in respect.
“No need to be so respectful, Garðkell; we’re all equals here. Anyway, that settles everything on the agenda for this month. Does anyone have anything else they want to discuss?” Háseti asked, looking to all the attending members. Only four of the nine—not including him—had made an appearance this time around, but he expected nothing more from battle-hardened eccentrics with their own problems and responsibilities to deal with. He was thankful to have managed to get through as much as he did, dealing with the most pressing issues. Confirming there were no takers, he intended to adjourn the proceeding but was cut short.
“Don’t I get a turn, Háseti?” A slithering voice echoed into the chamber, sounding both far and near, here and there. The others squirmed in their seats, knowing the culprit responsible for the disturbance. A man emerged out of the shadows occupying the entrance, draped in black, accented by deep greens. His eyes shone like emeralds glinting between swaying hair, pairing with sharp facial features giving them the impression of a beast in man’s clothing.
Háseti eyebrows creased at the arrival of such a troublesome figure. “I did not expect you back so soon, Dread Wolf Ívarr. Last I checked, you were exterminating a nest in the southeast,” Háseti said, pondering the cause behind him. ‘What is he planning?’
“Ah, that’s been taken care of. I returned just last night,” Ívarr answered, not even bothering to meet the gazes of anyone as he made his way to a particular seat.
“That’s good to hear, Ívarr. Now, what matters do you want to discuss?” Háseti ignored the clearly disrespectful behaviour, age rendering such slights fruitless. He was more interested in the reason Ívarr deigned to appear before the council instead of meeting with himself in private.
“I heard an interesting rumour and was wondering if there was any truth to it,” Ívarr said, leaning back and placing his legs atop the table.
All the members had various degrees of disgust plastered on their faces at the blatant disregard for decorum but stayed their tongues in deference to Háseti. If he, as the head of the council, didn’t say anything, why should they.
Ívarr’s cryptic way of speech and lack of honour for the sanctity of this chamber was even starting to get to Háseti. Sick of being caught up in the flow, he forcefully stated, “Rumour? Boy, if you are just here to play games and make a fool of yourself, do it on your own time.”
The bored expression on Ívarr’s face melted, locking eyes with Háseti ensuing in a stare down. Realising he couldn’t rile up the old man anymore, he regained his previous demeanour, saying, “Oh, it was a peculiar story about how a child made a fool out of everyone during the Vesperal Labyrinth.”