The new day began on the back of a rooster crow, rousing a man from an uneasy slumber. He groaned, wishing to remain within the warm covers, the small extravagance denied by a building throb made worse by the unceasing ballad. The man fumbled on the bedside table in search of relief, bleary eyes providing no assistance, seizing it in the form of a small bottle. With memorised consistency, he popped the cork open and emptied its contents, amounting to merely two spherical pills no larger than a pea. Sighing, he swallowed the pitiful offering, making a note to get more on the way home while it worked its magic, reducing the edge to a subtle thrum.
Dragging himself out of bed, the chilling bite of an early rise making itself known just as quickly, he shambled his way through a dim abode yet to receive the gift of the sun, all while resisting the cobwebs of lethargy. Faint noises grew bolder as he neared the main area that doubled as a kitchen and whatever else it needed to be. A small pot bubbled over the quaint fireplace, tended by a greying woman preparing for the day. The one to first offer their greetings was her with a curt “morning” reciprocated by a grunt of acknowledgement; it was all he could muster.
She didn’t seem to take his rudeness to heart, but even if he were mistaken, her face didn’t betray a thing, not like he would have changed his response either way. He moved for the bucket of water that rested in its usual spot atop a small bench.
Residual water stained the roughly hewn stone, telling a thousand stories the man welcomed while freshening up. With no access to soap or herbal paste, he settled for a rag that had once been cloth, repeated use reducing it to its current state, ‘ironic’. The parallel managed to lift the corners of his chapped lips ever so slightly. When he was done, a bowl of what he named mystery gruel steamed on the table, his wife helping herself to a serving with insipid motion. They ate in silence, the bland food and colourless world infecting both husband and wife with resigned apathy. “The cure is no more,” the man finally said, without taking his eyes off the slop that clung to his bowl.
“Already?” his wife said, lethargy evident in her voice. “A bottle costs a month’s wage.”
He pursed his lips, meeting the eyes of his other. She was of pale complexion, cheeks and eyes sunken due to age and malnutrition. Grey hair, too brittle to twist into a braid like her younger days, fell past her ears to her neck, a few strands of brown surviving from brighter days. Though she tried to portray an image of concern, he saw through the façade, a skill he sorely wished he didn’t possess but after living with another for as long as they, it became something of a sixth sense. The crook of her bloodless lips, sagging eyes and downturned head exuded an aura of powerlessness that haunted him with an inescapable surety each passing day, a downward spiral that sought to erode till all that remained was dust.
“It encroaches with an ever jubilant vigour and onerous tenacity,” he explained. “I fear soon, not even those pills would keep me from this curse.” At times like these, you would expect a loved one to offer their hand in support or word of concern; his wife did neither, not that he blamed her. Their entwining was long withered, one subsisting of the other to barely eke out a living, the union reduced to necessity instead of emotion. The rest of the meal proceeded as it did before in abject quietude. After changing into his work clothes, he left their cramped house—patchworked tunic and pants that hardly kept the icy gusts at bay, along with splayed leather that just about counted as footwear.
With her husband gone, the woman cleaned up and prepared for the fields as an extra hand during the harvest. On the way out, she paused, buried memories changing her course for the kitchen and the container kept behind the bench. With some struggle, she retrieved her prize, unscrewing the lid to the rattle of a handful of slivers, savings that amounted to nothing more than children’s pocket change. She stood there, staring into the jar with a vacancy even after the sun had climbed well past the snow-capped mountains bathing Skuldsökaring and its ripe fields in gold.
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The man treaded along the weathered path, past stunted housing much the same as his, crammed so closely together that only the most undersized individuals would fit through the gaps. Their uniform makeup was said to induce a sense of unity, no one above the other, but those living here would tell you it was to cram as many of them together at the cheapest cost. Similarly, garbed people flanked him on all sides, all headed for the same destination exchanging pleasantries and small talk. The need to socialise was innate to human nature, which couldn’t be erased no matter the state. The man kept to himself.
Feeling a little indulgent today for no particular, he decided to take a detour through the markets where the sights and smells could help sate the hollowness brought on by off-wheat porridge. ‘It’s not like they’ll notice if I arrive a little later than usual,’ the man excused. He wasn’t so far gone to have no delights. Not yet.
The markets were rife with activity as they always were in the early dawn hours. Sellers with fresh produce from the farmlands picketing their stalls in anticipation of the morning rush. By the time the murkiness of the infant day lifted, the streets were packed, tenacious maids and their burly escorts fighting for the choicest pick of the day. Sometimes it was hard to believe these people were actually in service of those high-nosed karls, the poise expected of those in such coveted positions lost in transit and who could find fault with that? Nobody wanted to be on the pointed end of their employer’s ire for something as consequential as not buying the best ingredients.
If there was one thing, he knew, it was to never get between a karl and what went into their bellies, doubly so for the war houses. They gorged themselves on lavish meals and potent drink at every opportunity, wealth stretching the seam of their garments while those at the bottom rung fought over the scraps of their leftovers. A heat built in his chest as the scenes met his eyes but fizzled fast. There was no point getting worked up about something he couldn’t change or affect in the slightest, plus he was here to enjoy the varying items on sale, not sour his mood. Beetroots, carrots, potatoes, lettuce, pumpkins, chillies—a cacophony of colours out on display, whose taste he fantasised.
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This was probably his favourite time of the year. Harvest rarely disappointed its faithful despite none of its goodwill ending up in his belly. The elbowing and jostling nearby had become rather virulent, something his old bones could not weather, and he wisely gave the mass a wide berth wondering what the trouble was. A young man no more than sixteen was shoved out of the pack of buyers, drawing a trail in the muddy earth until he finally came to a stop. He glared at the one responsible, a steady man, probably a serf from a prominent household by the look of it. “Am I not allowed but one apple!” the youngster shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at his opponent.
The serf looked down in condescension, saying, “These have all been spoken for on behalf of house Vífi. Besides, the mere notion of a golden apple ending up in your hands is a gross misinterpretation of your lot in life.” The soiled teen gritted his teeth, the insult clearly making light of his gaunt physique and overall uncultured appearance. As the slanderer turned back, a wet splat halted the surroundings. He reached for the back of his head, feeling a cold, grainy substance that could only be one thing given the circumstances.
The man shook his head in disappointment before carrying on, uncaring for the fate of the foolish youth who would be lucky if the guards arrived before he suffered permanent damage. It wasn’t always like this, the thralls no longer conceding to their betters as readily as before. If he remembered correctly, this shift began a little over half a year ago, after the savagery at that child’s hands, ‘Saer something or rather?’ He left the markets behind, musing over the state of a city whose ferment was seeping into its very foundations.
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Wagons and carriages laden to the brim with ingots and building material rolled down the road at the behest of stout mountain bison, their constitutions perfectly suited to the task. The man gave way as one such carriage clinked past, contents revealed by the telling jostle of deviating wheels needing replacement. The journey was uneventful apart from the occasional transports, the man’s mood gradually correcting course from its previous stir to that of listlessness. Being of high spirit and active mind did not mesh well with his line of work and was truthfully more of a hindrance than boon. He spotted the tell-tale signs of his destination on the horizon, billowing plumes of smoke tainting the sky’s underbelly a pale grey.
Andvanir’s Hoard, a perpetual factory of ore and mineral operating northeast of Skuldsökaring that promised gruelling work hours and hazardous environments for its denizens. The raw earth it produced, processed and expelled was paramount to the battle effort. There was only so much rock and stone could do against an undying enemy that knew neither pain nor fear. As he passed the towering walls that had been turned a sooty hue over the centuries, the sight of a bustling mining settlement teetering on the edge of an all-consuming chasm came into view.
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It was as if the land were torn asunder, divorced from its mountainous siblings, leaving nothing but this scar to speak of its pain. The rift possessed a longstanding legend that purported it held no bottom and instead led straight to the frigid realm of Niflheim. This wonder that was the hub of focus for millennia, yet none had ever managed to confirm the voracity of the statement, with those few foolish enough to try never being heard from again.
The man passed roaring smelters, compactors and blackened workers on his way to the lifts, swallowing all forms of discontent for the task ahead. He joined others waiting their turn to alight the contraption responsible for lowering them into the depths in search of ore, minerals, and other treasure. Chains as thick as a man rattled as the carrier emerged from the void, grinding to a halt when it equalled sun-kissed land. The mass of bodied shuffled onto the square platform, a waist-high lip all that secured those on the edges from oblivion. The man was one of the last to get on, gripping the handholds for support as the platform shuddered to life.
The warmth of the surface, along with his sight, was quickly engulfed by a tide of frost, eerie silence lingering over the lifeless procession. Acclimating to the desolate environment wasn’t quite as harrowing as it used to be, one of the very few upsides to working as a miner for most of your life. The lift stopped at varying levels depositing its cargo according to their needs. A sea of orange dotted the subterranean world—mining encampments lodged into the colossal cliff face—and for a moment, the man paused, appreciating the fleeting concession amidst the inevitability. He got off at depth three and followed the directions till he reached his designated area, spotting the foreman.
“Sire,” was all that needed saying when he approached the surveying man, holding out his identification token. The foreman spared him an uninterested glance, handing him a pickaxe and waving him away. His joints ached as he lifted the rusty pick and trundled for the mineshaft boring into the wall, lit by the eclectic luminance stemming from the devourer’s tears or iötntár lodged overhead. He bypassed the other miners, most of an age much younger than him but just as jaded. ‘Should I be proud or ashamed?’ he wondered as the pointed end of his tool punctured the hard ground.
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A bell echoed through the tunnel, bringing the man out of his mechanical movements, who dropped the pick where he stood before heading for the exit. Lunchtime meant a bowl of watered-down soup and a slice of stale bread, barely fit for human consumption and doing more to fill the belly than provide sustenance. Still, it was better than nothing, and the man would do almost anything to silence his stomach’s pleading.
A familiar prodding asserted itself right then, his head pulsing in agony. Calloused hands pressed against his skull in an attempt to stave off the assault, sight phasing towards unreality. Though the urge to scream grew increasingly enticing, he vehemently rejected the idea. If this was indeed his end, he would go out with a shred of dignity and not as a raving lunatic. Sadly, he managed no more than a few staggered steps before impacting the ground face first, kicking up a small plume of dust. In his final moments, darkness bleeding past the corners of his vision, he saw what looked to be his wife running his way.
As the realm faded, he noticed what was clutched in her hand. He smiled, a single tear trickling down his cheek. “A sandwich… my favourite…”