☾☾☾ IN DREAMS ☽☽☽
In his dreams, he kills his father. It is the same dream he has had for over a year now, and it always begins the same. His name is something else - it is not Aatu, the young wolf, it is not a name in his father's tongue. It is a name in his mother's language. It is Argr, not so different from Aatu, but this is the name that means Raven-Starver, the name that means not fit to live. The Raven-Starver did not die in battle, the Raven-Starver was a kin-killer. But above all else, the Raven-Starver was accursed. Perhaps the Raven-Starver is accursed because he is a kin-killer, but when Aatu's hands are in his father's bedsores, he never feels more blessed. In his dream, the Raven-Starver sits next to his father in a room that is unbearably warm, kept incubated by fever and by a meal of ashes and coals to sweat the infection out. This infection is not merely of the flesh, the Raven-Starver things, as he watches his father's eyes sink deeper and deeper into his skull. The eyes begin to vanish in the hollows of their sockets, until they are nothing but tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness of a man who is soon to die. His father's mouth kept gaping and flapping, as if he could make a sound beyond the guttural moans of a man who is lost. The Raven-Starver realizes, in one horrifying moment, that his father is no longer in the sick-man's head. All of his father's nerve connections are blocked by the plague that consumes him, his veins running with sickness. His veins have atrophied, to the point that his father's brain could no longer speak its will upon the body. What was Regin is trapped in the skull, sealed off and silent. In that moment, Argr is aware that his father is truly in hell. But the man before him is Regin, not his father, he reminds himself, promising himself that he will not make that mistake again while all the while knowing he will make that mistake again. Argr watches Regin.
The Raven-Starver watches for a while. He can see the silent, helpless suffering the man who he once called father. His brain is starving behind the man's sick and weary eyes. Argr says and does nothing. He feels his mother behind him, pressing her stomach up against his spine. She is pregnant again, and the child is his. His mother is calling the child Urðrinn, the one who is the Hand of Fate, the Godhead. He does not know how Ádis can call the child this, when the gods she believes in are well and truly established, and this child is surely not one of them. The pressure of his mother's stomach against his back does not unsettle him. The Raven-Starver finds himself thinking that this is well and truly right, that he should be the one to bear the child of prophecy. Regin was unsuitable, his uncle was mad, and now there is only him left, the unwanted child. He is no longer a child. Argr feels his mother's arms wrap loose around his neck, feels the brush of her nose against his neck. He does not look at her, but he knows exactly what she looks like. She is tall and pale, with long braided white hair and eyes too big and too blue for her pale face. All of her children look like her. Their child will look like him, and then she will dash its brains against a rock and offer them up towards her gods. The Raven-Starver does not look at her because he is afraid of what she would see. She would see his blood, and she would know that he is not hers. Instead, Argr who is Aatu, watches the sick man, his father who is Regin, die. His eyes are entirely black now, save for the pinpricks of pupils that still reflect the light of the coals Argr has fed him. Characol clears the stomach.
Argr's mother presses her lips against his ear. They are warm, soft lips and when she speaks to him, he wants nothing more than to look away from Regin, and give her nothing but his heart, pulled from his chest. She tells him a story, like she used to. She tells him a story about Sigrvarðr, his favourite stories. She tells him that Sigrvarðr was born of Systkin; the seed of his uncle and the blood his aunt. It is this union that makes Sigrvarðr strong. His mother is a prophetess, she is Gildis, who is revered. His father is Miklar who is made great through the blood. The story comforts the Raven Starver. It is a beautiful story. Gildis' words all come true in the end, and she is the soruce of all of Miklar's strength. Miklar dies. She marries his son, Sigrvarðr, and their child is the One Who Devours Worlds. Ádis does not tell Argr the name of the child, because to speak his name to to damn you and all of your kin. Gildis carves runes for her son and her grandson-son both. She says nothing, as she watches her son and grandson-son war against one another. She cannot choose a side, because they are both her children, and in the end, Gildis does not stop the One Who Devours Worlds from eating his father, limb to limb, tongue to toe. She bears another son from her sorrow, and his name is Argr too. He is called this because Argr kills his half-brother. Gildis marries again, not by choice, but by force. The man who marries her is cruel, and not of her people. Her new husband, Atli, forces her to give birth to two sons. The sons are not named, because she has lost all her prophecies by now. Atli's sons are good, but she hates them because they remind her of his bloody crime. She brings them close to her breast one day, and tells them that she will kill them, her knife is against their throat. The Raven-Starver listens as his mother tells them what the children say; there will be no fame for her in this act, only shame. She slits their throats, and feeds them to Atli in pieces. He curses her, and says that this is the end of her, and she says, so famously, "Yes, this is my death. But it is also yours." Atli grabs Gildis, and strangles her, but the exertion causes one of his sons' teeth to rise in Atli's throat, and he cannot breathe. Argr watches the story play in his father's eyes, guided by his mother's words. He sees himself reflected in Regin's eyes, becoming Miklar, Sigrvarðr, The One Who Devours Worlds, Gildis, Atli -- and finally back to Argr. Reginn's eyes dim. His father's brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them.
The Raven-Starver realizes that his mother is gone. His hands are sticky and hot, and when he looks down, he is alone with blood on his hands. His father's mouth is slack and open, dripping out his life. Argr who is Aatu reaches to wipe the tears from his eyes, but only smears his father across his cheeks. He watches his father's skin peel from his muscles, and all of the flesh begins to boil and froth. Beneath his flesh, Argr can see the bones split into many maggots, which crawl across the bed, and into his hands. His palms hurt, and the scar across them has not healed. The maggots are inside of him, and the Raven-Starver realizes that all the plague, all the disease in the world is within him. The parasites have crawled up his throat and risen up to sing to him. He can taste blood, and he is happy. Tears run down his cheeks. He imagines that this is what it must be like to be in love. He is hungry and lustful and wrathful, and his father is dead, and his mother speaks of heroes. It does not matter what giant she came from. He carries his father's blood too. Blood speaks the truth, when dreams do not. This is the final dream. The dream he will have until he dies.
☾☾☾ AFTERNOON ☽☽☽
Argent was what they called the fortress. It was massive and impenetrable. with stone walls and eager archers whose fingers twitched on their arrow-shafts. Slugs crawled amongst the moss and lichen that spanned the structure, and even they seemed hesitant to move up the walls. A warm breeze whipped across the man's face, tousling mousey curls. His dark eyes watched the archers watching him. They drew their arrows back, as if ready to shoot, but their grip - and their arrows - slackened at the sight of the paper in the man's hand. The letter had been well-red, and the edges of the paper was fraying from too many frequent readings. The ink had smudged in places, and the signature of Rhyzen had nearly melted away entirely. The seal remained though, broken but present, and it was a sure sign of a safe passage. The man kept the paper in one hand, and held the reins of his mare in the other. The mare, an elegant grey horse with a curved man and long white hair looked more a knight than the man. His eyes were small underneath furrowed browns, his small nose constantly wrinkled with a frown that did not speak so much of displeasure than it did of deep and unknowable thought. His skin was too pale to be from The Binnes, but too dark to come from anywhere else; and his clothing spoke for him. Embroidered green and brown wool, edged with gold-threaded samite and well worked bronze fastenings for his steel and leather armor. From his side hung a sword, and on his back rested a shield. Although it was warm, perhaps unseasonably so; the Binnesman wore thick leather gloves. Perhaps the archer's found this odd, or perhaps they did not. Whatever the case, the man did not speak or sign to them, merely dug his knees into the sides of his mare and egged her onwards, towards the gates.
A man approached him, a man clad in brass armour that caught the mid-afternoon sun. The Binnesman's face was reflected in its shine, but he did not look at the reflection. The man's dark eyes were locked with the eyes that peered under a grey-feathered cowl. Those eyes traced the Binnesman's hands, watching the scrap of paper flutter in the breeze. Without a word, the man had snatched the letter from the Binnesman's hands, his beard wrinkling and nostrils flaring as he squinted at the text. The Binnesman's face did not smile, and he did not offer introductions. The Binnesman's eyes looked down, gently fluttering eyelashes giving him a demure look. His eyes found a place to rest on the delicately-sewn badge attached to the brass-breastplate's shoulder. As the man reviewed the letter, the Binnesman's eyes went around the four stars, tracing their points with the tips of his pupils. He traced those stars many times, before the Brass-Breastplate finally cleared his throat. The Binnesman lifted his head with a start, causing his furrowed brows and narrow eyes to open slightly more widely. They were bloodshot eyes, as if he has been crying or drinking. But there was no wetness in his eyes, nor was there the stench of week-old vodka. The Brass-Breastplate was Blennghammen - his greying hair, grey beard, and pale skin made that clear. His accent further solidified the point. The letter made it clear where the Binnesman had come from, if his appearance did not. Whatever accent he had, went unspoken, as he remained silent while the Blennghammen inspected him. The Binnesman traced the stars. The man's voice came out grunted and dismayed, as if disappointed in what had arrived at his doorstop; "Wait here." The Binnesman did not ask questions, and he did not waste time with introductions. He simply nodded.
Others were already here. A giant man clad equally in pelts and scars had come, a massive cat-creature at his side. The man smiled as he stroked his beasts ears, but the smile did not last as annoyance flared across his face. As the Binnesman approached him, he offered the man a small nod, and a small smile. The smile did not reach his dark eyes, and the expression was quickly replaced with a knotted brow and a frown that crawled across his face like a worm on its belly. The Binnesman was cordial, but not friendly, and rose past the Scarred Man without a word. He kneed his horse in to sides, putting the mare some distance from the massive cat's claws. He walked the side of the motte, his eyes skimming the others who must be waiting, waiting just like him, for something to happen. A massive man leaned on a red-sword, lazily leaning on the hilt of it. The Binnesman's eyes searched his face, watched the shifting of his armored plates and felt his eyes connecting with the blankness in the Abbelestians own. He was the first to break the stare, his eyes fluttering down to the ground, lashes brushing against his high cheekbones. He squeezed his mare's shoulders with his knees, bringing her forward and away, shifting slightly in the saddle. His eyes had a lack of light in them, glossy and smooth like river rocks. When they were down turned, they gave him a doe-like appearence, and the cautious steps of his mare added to the notion. he did not look like a hero. He looked like a blushing first time whore, or a peasant girl courted by the local butcher. He offered the Abbelestian a nod, but did not smile to him. The reins shook slightly in one hand, while the other crunched tight on the paper, making wrinkles erupt along its surface. The words were illegible amongst all of the creases. The mare moved forward, and so did the Binnesman.
He lifted his eyes to meet a dark-haired Meadowfolk. The Meadowfolk was peeling grass from the walls, and the slugs along with it, with his Rewriton. The Binnesman's eyes widened as he watched the magic work through the dark hands, the ripple of Rewriton move through his skin. The slugs on the moss stretched out their eyestalks, as if to beg the man to stop uprooting them from their homes. The dark circles at the end of their eyestalks were as cold and dead as eyes could be. It was as if their eyes has gone out, and there was no feeling in them. The beating of the Meadowfolk's heart was almost deafening in his ears. He shook his head from side to side, and looked away. His eyes refocused on the trees, on the grass, on the afternoon sun, on anything else but the working of magic. When he looked back, his eyes traced the Meadowfolk, watching his doubtful eyes, wide and wondering. The Binnesman said nothing to him, but nodded once, and gave him the same smile that was not friendly but cordial, and did not meet his own, lightless eyes. The Binnesman could still hear the pounding of a heart that was not his own, and so, he kicked his mare a little harder than before, and she trotted a small cluster of trees. The sun shone through the leaves, bathing the woman beneath them in a bright golden light. She made vigorous but idle movements with her arm and a whetstone, sharpening the point of a lance. She wore a crest across her chest, and something sparked in the Binnesman's eyes, a small but recognizable spark. His eyes became locked on the movements of her hands, and he didn't seem to see her face. It was not reflected in his eyes, just the movement of her sharpening. But when the sound of the blade being driven across the whetstone ended in a scrape, he lifted his head and his eyes. He stared at her, and bowed his head to her. He did not lie to her with a cordial smile, only the slightest inclination of the head. He did not wait for her to speak to him, before he dismounted from his horse. He pressed his hands against the mare's mane, and his hands shook and twitched against the elegant and arched neck.
He led his horse away, taking her by the reins to rest under the shade of a tree near the Lancer-Woman, but not so close as to disturb her. The horse bayed quietly, before bowing her head to pull up whole clovers by their interconnected roots. As he patted her neck with spastic fingers, the Binnesman watched the others. He watched the man with white hair and wrong eyes smile to himself. White-Hair whispered something that he could not hear. It was not magic, that much was certain. His posture, the straight back and elegantly folded hands, spoke of a noble uprinining. The Binnesman wrung his wrists and twisted his fingers. They seemed to shake uncontrollably, from the tips of his fingers to the palms of his hands. He wrapped his left hand around the rights wrist, as if strangling it. The hand stopped moving on its own. He performed the same rite with the right hand and the left, killing all of the trashing. The Binnesman looked away from White-Hair, and landed on the dark and silent one, who could not be more different than the whispering and smiling creature. The Black One stood like a stature, and did not seem to breathe. The Binnesman's eyes traced the Black One's hands. The hands did not move, they did not twitch. He did not meet the Black One's gaze, he could not find his eyes. The Binnesman looked away readily, and his eyes returned to the solider woman. He bowed his head again to her, but he did not lower his eyes, instead staring at her face, his mouth neither frowning nor smiling, his brow ever furrowed, wrinkles sprouting across his skin.
He finally spoke to her. His voice was strange, disorderly. He did not pronounce syllables correctly, his emphasis in the wrong places. It was as if he was speaking a language that was not his own. The sound of his voice was not unpleasant, his words were softly enunciated, and he put no pressure on the hard consonants or rough vowels. A warm tenor, neither nasal nor throaty, but not well versed in the common tongue. "Were you told to wait as well?"
