Wolf626
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It is known that to traverse through the Direth Mountains is to court danger. The frozen landscape was a jagged collection of hills, mountains, and ridges as if the very earth sought to reach out to the cold sky. The frost winds were a constant, like razor daggers of ice, digging until they cut out every ember of warmth. And those were just the slow, honest ways the mountains could kill. There were the cruel ways. The monstrous ways of cursed things and vaesen of the night.
Left...
Right...
Thus, only the mad would journey through the mountains with the sun setting on them.
Left...
Right...
Only the mad. And the desperate.
And Thorrfen Vilkas was very, very desperate. It hurt to walk, it hurt to breath, it hurt even to think, but the pain was the only thing keeping the cold at bay. Left step, right step, left step, right step. That was his mantra, his god now. The ropes that he pulled were his prayer beads and the burden they pulled was his punishment. It wasn't heavy enough. Nowhere near enough.
Glaring hatefully at the dwindling sun, Thorrfen cursed the cowardly star and the ever-shortening days of winter. And he cursed himself, too weak to go any faster.
Such was his hate towards the great ball of fire that was being chased by Hati, he failed to notice a branch upon his path. It caught his foot mid-step and down he went. The snow did little to cushion his fall. His head hit a rock sending cracking thunders into his skull.
Darkness…
He woke to the darkened orange dusk sky. He could feel a hot line of blood running down his forehead. And then he could smell the blood. It smelled so… sweet.
Something stirred inside his heart. Something hungry and full of rage.
“No! Stop it!” he half-screamed, half-pleaded as he hugged himself.
He couldn’t lose control, not now, not again. Thorrfen didn’t want to wake up with a mouth full of blood, a full stomach and no idea how he got there. He didn’t want that to happen again.
“Please, please don’t…”
Then a voice called out. Old, rough yet kind and loving.
“It’s alright, boy. It’s alright. I’m here.”
All the fear, the bloodlust and rage went away. Washed away by the grief and sorrow. It was the voice of his grandfather Bjorn. It sounded just like it. It had the strong assurance that reminded Thorrfen of ancient oak trees, wizened old trunks that endured over the ages. It had the same hint of mischief that his grandfather loved to share. But it could not be his grandfather. No matter how much the boy wished it so.
“N-no, begone spirit! Begone!” he shouted, voice raw as he nearly came undone once more.
A noise came from behind him. Thorrfen rose and whirled around, hands leaping to his belt where his sword lay but he froze mid-motion. It wasn’t possible.
Before him stood a giant of a man. He was old, battle worn from the scars, but the wide smile that peeked from great grey beard was almost boyish in a way. It was his grandfather.
“Who are you calling a spirit, boy?!” Bjorn said. He rubbed his chin through his great thick beard, a gesture Thorrfen had seen his grandfather make countless times. “Seems that fall really knocked your head around. Maybe you should stop.”
Thorrfen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I am fine. Leave me be. I have wasted enough time as is.”
“Oh, my apologies o’ mighty person of great import! I was not aware that you had such pressing matters to attend!” the spirit mocked him, much like his grandfather, who had always been quick of wit and jest. “And where is his great Majesty headed off in such a rush?”
“Home,” he said by reflex. “Heimdall.” He amended.
“Looking for Old Farkas no doubt.” The spirit deduced, thinking Thorrfen sought shelter.
“No,” Thorrfen said, turning back to his burden. It was an old greatshield of his family, round on top but tapering to a point below. Using hemp rope he had tied the body to it and fashioned reins to pull. The body was of an older man, who without the mirth of his laugh and shining eyes, now seemed cold and small. It was Bjorn. “Burying you.”
“Well, look at that. You are lugging around deadweight.” The thing that wore his grandfather’s face mocked.
“SILENCE!” the young man snarled back. Anger burning in his veins like oil. “Insult me all you want! But not one word about him!”
The silence that hung between was the only reason that he could hear the next words.
“It’s not your fault,” it said in his grandfather’s voice. “You have to let go, Thorrfen.”
Eyesight blurring, he looked away. “I can’t,” the small voice of a sad boy whispered.
“You must! I did not give my life for you to join me!” His grandfather roared. Pleaded. “Please. For my sake.”
“It’s all my fault!” It had been because of him that they had to flee Ravndal. He remembered waking up covered in blood without any memory and his grandfather staring at him with fear in his eyes. He couldn’t forget that face ever. The realization of what he was. “I’m cursed!”
Aye. Thou art cursed.
A second deeper voice rang out. Thorrfen turned but did not see his grandfather.
He saw a shadow that lengthened and widened with each step. Darker than night, eyes of glaring silver. And as large as the gates of Heimdall. Fangs the size of daggers and claws like scimitars.
It was a wolf. It’s size and bearing shocked him beyond modesty, for Heims were taught that the wolf form was the most sacred and private privilege one could share.
“W-what?” Thorrfen managed to sputter out, staring up at the darker than night wolf.
Thou art cursed. A half-life. Both wolf and not-wolf.
“Are you… Skoll?” It seemed impossible, but what else could this giant wolf be, if not the God of Night and Moon. The protector in the darkness.
Why do you not end yourself? End the curse?
“I can’t.”
Why?
“Because then they died for nothing.”
Thou art pulled by life and death. Thus, is it always with your kind.
Silence…
I offer unto you an accord. A path to atonement. To be become a wolf once more.
Thorrfen’s eyes widened. The offer had tugged at his heartstrings, hidden beneath his melancholy. He had spared no thought to what his future might be. How could he? So much of his heart had been taken apart.
“What must I do?” Thorrfen asked.
Do you accept? No matter the cost or pain?
“Yes! Please tell me how to make it right!”
The voice boomed once more.
Seek hardship.
Seek suffering.
Seek evil.
I doom thee, Thorrfen Vilkas. I doom thee to my service. Be my fangs and claws against the wicked. Root out the foul. Rip out their hearts. Devour their evil. Become my Sin Eater. Thus I charge thee! FOREVERMORE!
With a great leap, the giant wolf slammed into Thorrfen, bringing him down. He just had enough time to look up to see giant fangs close in on his head.
Darkness…
Thorrfen woke up with a start, staring into the empty sky. The orange of dusk had dwindled. He looked around. He was alone again. Only him and the dead body of his grandfather.
He rose to his feet, shaking from more than the cold. His heartbeat pounding. He put his hands to his face and found only dried blood from where his head had hit a rock.
Had he truly seen a god? Had he really spoken with his grandfather? Or had he just laid there, dreaming of redemption.
He did not know.
Still he was glad.
He got to see his grandfather again.
Left...
Right...
Thus, only the mad would journey through the mountains with the sun setting on them.
Left...
Right...
Only the mad. And the desperate.
And Thorrfen Vilkas was very, very desperate. It hurt to walk, it hurt to breath, it hurt even to think, but the pain was the only thing keeping the cold at bay. Left step, right step, left step, right step. That was his mantra, his god now. The ropes that he pulled were his prayer beads and the burden they pulled was his punishment. It wasn't heavy enough. Nowhere near enough.
Glaring hatefully at the dwindling sun, Thorrfen cursed the cowardly star and the ever-shortening days of winter. And he cursed himself, too weak to go any faster.
Such was his hate towards the great ball of fire that was being chased by Hati, he failed to notice a branch upon his path. It caught his foot mid-step and down he went. The snow did little to cushion his fall. His head hit a rock sending cracking thunders into his skull.
Darkness…
He woke to the darkened orange dusk sky. He could feel a hot line of blood running down his forehead. And then he could smell the blood. It smelled so… sweet.
Something stirred inside his heart. Something hungry and full of rage.
“No! Stop it!” he half-screamed, half-pleaded as he hugged himself.
He couldn’t lose control, not now, not again. Thorrfen didn’t want to wake up with a mouth full of blood, a full stomach and no idea how he got there. He didn’t want that to happen again.
“Please, please don’t…”
Then a voice called out. Old, rough yet kind and loving.
“It’s alright, boy. It’s alright. I’m here.”
All the fear, the bloodlust and rage went away. Washed away by the grief and sorrow. It was the voice of his grandfather Bjorn. It sounded just like it. It had the strong assurance that reminded Thorrfen of ancient oak trees, wizened old trunks that endured over the ages. It had the same hint of mischief that his grandfather loved to share. But it could not be his grandfather. No matter how much the boy wished it so.
“N-no, begone spirit! Begone!” he shouted, voice raw as he nearly came undone once more.
A noise came from behind him. Thorrfen rose and whirled around, hands leaping to his belt where his sword lay but he froze mid-motion. It wasn’t possible.
Before him stood a giant of a man. He was old, battle worn from the scars, but the wide smile that peeked from great grey beard was almost boyish in a way. It was his grandfather.
“Who are you calling a spirit, boy?!” Bjorn said. He rubbed his chin through his great thick beard, a gesture Thorrfen had seen his grandfather make countless times. “Seems that fall really knocked your head around. Maybe you should stop.”
Thorrfen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I am fine. Leave me be. I have wasted enough time as is.”
“Oh, my apologies o’ mighty person of great import! I was not aware that you had such pressing matters to attend!” the spirit mocked him, much like his grandfather, who had always been quick of wit and jest. “And where is his great Majesty headed off in such a rush?”
“Home,” he said by reflex. “Heimdall.” He amended.
“Looking for Old Farkas no doubt.” The spirit deduced, thinking Thorrfen sought shelter.
“No,” Thorrfen said, turning back to his burden. It was an old greatshield of his family, round on top but tapering to a point below. Using hemp rope he had tied the body to it and fashioned reins to pull. The body was of an older man, who without the mirth of his laugh and shining eyes, now seemed cold and small. It was Bjorn. “Burying you.”
“Well, look at that. You are lugging around deadweight.” The thing that wore his grandfather’s face mocked.
“SILENCE!” the young man snarled back. Anger burning in his veins like oil. “Insult me all you want! But not one word about him!”
The silence that hung between was the only reason that he could hear the next words.
“It’s not your fault,” it said in his grandfather’s voice. “You have to let go, Thorrfen.”
Eyesight blurring, he looked away. “I can’t,” the small voice of a sad boy whispered.
“You must! I did not give my life for you to join me!” His grandfather roared. Pleaded. “Please. For my sake.”
“It’s all my fault!” It had been because of him that they had to flee Ravndal. He remembered waking up covered in blood without any memory and his grandfather staring at him with fear in his eyes. He couldn’t forget that face ever. The realization of what he was. “I’m cursed!”
Aye. Thou art cursed.
A second deeper voice rang out. Thorrfen turned but did not see his grandfather.
He saw a shadow that lengthened and widened with each step. Darker than night, eyes of glaring silver. And as large as the gates of Heimdall. Fangs the size of daggers and claws like scimitars.
It was a wolf. It’s size and bearing shocked him beyond modesty, for Heims were taught that the wolf form was the most sacred and private privilege one could share.
“W-what?” Thorrfen managed to sputter out, staring up at the darker than night wolf.
Thou art cursed. A half-life. Both wolf and not-wolf.
“Are you… Skoll?” It seemed impossible, but what else could this giant wolf be, if not the God of Night and Moon. The protector in the darkness.
Why do you not end yourself? End the curse?
“I can’t.”
Why?
“Because then they died for nothing.”
Thou art pulled by life and death. Thus, is it always with your kind.
Silence…
I offer unto you an accord. A path to atonement. To be become a wolf once more.
Thorrfen’s eyes widened. The offer had tugged at his heartstrings, hidden beneath his melancholy. He had spared no thought to what his future might be. How could he? So much of his heart had been taken apart.
“What must I do?” Thorrfen asked.
Do you accept? No matter the cost or pain?
“Yes! Please tell me how to make it right!”
The voice boomed once more.
Seek hardship.
Seek suffering.
Seek evil.
I doom thee, Thorrfen Vilkas. I doom thee to my service. Be my fangs and claws against the wicked. Root out the foul. Rip out their hearts. Devour their evil. Become my Sin Eater. Thus I charge thee! FOREVERMORE!
With a great leap, the giant wolf slammed into Thorrfen, bringing him down. He just had enough time to look up to see giant fangs close in on his head.
Darkness…
Thorrfen woke up with a start, staring into the empty sky. The orange of dusk had dwindled. He looked around. He was alone again. Only him and the dead body of his grandfather.
He rose to his feet, shaking from more than the cold. His heartbeat pounding. He put his hands to his face and found only dried blood from where his head had hit a rock.
Had he truly seen a god? Had he really spoken with his grandfather? Or had he just laid there, dreaming of redemption.
He did not know.
Still he was glad.
He got to see his grandfather again.