Ymir’s Striking Thought

“It was a wicked and wild wind”

–

 

To the untrained eye, there was nothing to see, but to Mem’s bloodshot and yellowish eyes, the distinctions were quite clear: A few feet away, blending in seamlessly with the twisted and ashen branches of the trees, were the antlers of an elk.

My prey isn’t imaginary after all, Mem thought. He had followed the elk’s trail through the forest for hours, through rain and brilliant sunshine and rain again, without having actually seen the beast. During the most arduous points of his expedition, after narrowly escaping a pack of rabid dogs and evading an attack from a camouflaged snake, he questioned his motivations. He wondered if the beast he was hunting so fervently was nothing but a figment of his imagination; a figment given substance by his fears and his desperation. Now, having caught sight of the beast’s antlers, he felt relief begin to wash over him.

In Mem’s mind, the beast was beginning to take form: First, there were tracks. Large and deep hoofprints which suggested that the elk was massive. Next there were the antlers. Structures which would have blended in perfectly with the environment, were it not for the eyes of a fledgling hunter. Eyes which perceived that the structures were too smooth and too symmetrical to be mere tree branches.

The picture was coming together, but there were so many details left to fill in. What color was the fur? How far apart were its eyes? Did it gallop with grace? Mem had been lying prone in the mud for a few moments now and was starting to feel irritated that he did not yet know these things. He had been expecting the elk to trot into full view, but, to his consternation, the scenery before him remained static.

How much longer do I have to wait? Mem thought. The leather of his pelt was still damp from walking in the rain, and it was beginning to itch where it made contact with his skin. In addition, Mem could feel millipedes crawling in the muck a little too close to him. His positioning, which had seemed tactical at the time, was fast turning into a liability.

What’s the point of being stealthy if the beast won’t show? Mem, deciding that his prey was probably asleep, moved to rise. As he stood up, he was caught off guard by rays of sunlight radiating through the forest canopy. It was dusk, and the sun was in the final stretch of its journey across the sky. The waning sunlight, passing through a filter of thin clouds, bathed the horizon in a purplish hue. The forest was deathly quiet.

Mem made his way over to the beast in small, soft strides. He did not want to startle the beast. He did not want it to flee. Of course, there was always the possibility that the elk would be jolted awake by the loud rumbling of his stomach, but Mem prayed silently to the totem hanging around his neck. He needed this, just as much as the totem’s other worshippers.

At last, Mem circumvented the large trees which hid the elk’s body. The beast was now in full view and it was such an impressive sight to hold. In awe of the antlers which spanned a distance roughly equal to his height, he eventually noticed that the beast’s snow-white fur rose and fell in harmony with deep, measured breaths. Just as he predicted, it was asleep.

What now? Mem thought. He set his faculties to work about how best to slaughter the animal. Surely slitting its throat or stabbing it to death were out of the question. The hide was simply too thick, and he was more likely to cut his palm that way. Deep in thought, he subconsciously began to finger the dull, jagged edge of his white knife. It was a knife he had carved himself from the rib of an infant mammoth. The elk before him remained oblivious to his presence and was almost snoring.

Then…

AAHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The sound of the horn cut through the quiet of the forest like a crack through glass. Up above, birds which had been nesting quietly started to flutter and to flee, causing feathers to rain down like spectral ice crystals. Terror gripped Mem’s throat as he realized–the elk had awoken.

The beast had red irises, like twin rings of fire. Its warm breath fogged the space before its muzzle like a miasma of death. Its antlers were poised, and it ground its hoof along the ground, preparing to charge.

In the heat of that moment, an image struck Mem’s mind, imprinting itself firmly in his memory. It was an image of his cold, dead body lying in the forest; impaled by the antlers of a giant elk.

Mem knew he had to move out of the way, but his body was locked in place. He felt like a rock; rooted, sedentary, paralyzed. The beast, in a frenzy, started to charge and the most Mem could do to brace himself for the impact was to shut his eyes. His brain went silent, but for some reason, he remained keenly aware of his heartbeat.

Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba-dum, his heart went; throbbing violently, beating loudly, thumping vigorously. I’m not long for this world, Mem thought. He fixated himself on his heartbeat, magnifying and distorting the sound. Hoping to lose himself in it and distract himself from his inevitable death. It was only a matter of time until everything was silent. It was only a matter of time until it beat no more.

Yet, several moments passed, and his heart still went: Ba-dum…

Eventually, Mem opened his eyes, and the sight which greeted him struck a fresh wave of terror throughout his body. He tried to scream, but his jaw was locked shut. The trapped sound pushed desperately against the walls of his throat and caused a dull aching. He wanted to swallow but was afraid he would choke on his own saliva.

No more than two inches away from him, obscuring all his vision, was the face of the elk. It was frozen in its motion. Frozen with a stillness which was unnatural for living things. The beast’s eyes no longer glowed with fury. Instead they were dull, placid and dilated; much like the eyes of pigs before the slaughter.

Mem was shocked, but before he had any time to make sense of the situation, the moment passed. The elk, broken out of its trance, turned and run. The ground thundered as it galloped away, and the birds above tweeted anxiously.

Mem drew his first breath in what felt like an eternity. Wheezing, he fell to the ground; supine. His heart still beat like a drum. The shock of the near-death experience was fading, but it wasn’t fading fast enough. In his mind’s eye, the image of the elk’s terrifying visage and the feel of its cold breath on his face, was fresh. Confused, he wondered why he wasn’t dead. His trembling fingers eventually made their way to the totem around his neck, and touching it, he had a thought: Maybe, Vanir, you aren’t dead yet.

The village-folk died by the number, ravaged by war, illness and other difficulties of the cold, dark world. There was little they could do against their predicament. The one thing they did perpetually was to pray. They offered tributes and made human sacrifices and yet Vanir, Lord of the Drowned Barrows, remained silent.

Though Mem wore their god’s totem around his neck, he had lost his faith a long time ago. Now, having miraculously made it out of what seemed like a nightmare, he found himself ascribing his good fortune to Vanir.

But, why?

Mem would have liked to lie there and ponder the question for a little longer, but he had to move. The village folk had sounded the horn; the great gates of the Homestead would soon be locked shut. The boy was bewildered, but regardless, he willed himself to rise.

As he made the lonely walk back to his village, he was assaulted by various emotions. Failure. Sadness. Anger. All came to him like old friends, perched on his shoulders and soured his mood. He tried not to think about the cruel irony of his situation, but his efforts were futile. He felt enraged by the sound of the horn, by the fact that his hunt was ruined by the same people he was trying to help. Feeling tears welling up, he shut his eyelids before they had the chance to roll down the side of his face.

The pitch-blackness offered solace from tears and emotional ruin, but it came with its own troubles. With his eyes closed, Mem involuntarily recalled the image of the Elk’s terrifying visage. In those horrendous moments, Mem wanted nothing more than to survive. Now, as he walked back to the village, as he walked back to his bleak, hard life, as he walked back to more days of meaningless drudgery, he thought; maybe, it should have killed me.

 

 

 

 

“I struggled with some demons, they were middle-class and tame”

–

 

With tears in his eyes, the ranger screamed, “Its true! I seen’t him!”

“Shut it, Banjo!” Lorne replied. “You’ve always had a sharp tongue, but no tell-tale will get you out of this. You know the rules as well as anyone.”

Banjo, the ranger who was tied up in chains, began to sob and whimper violently. With a broken voice he said, “Bu..but…it’s true! He was there! They were there!” The last words he spoke were barely audible.

“Enough!” Lorne bellowed. “Take him away lads.”

Immediately two guards stepped up to Banjo, grabbed him by the arms, and dragged him out of the hall. As the ranger trailed on the ground, his emphatic cries for mercy fell on deaf ears.

When they were gone, Lorne palmed his forehead and sighed. This came as a surprise to Mem, who had been watching everything from the sidelines. He had known Lorne all his life and had never once seen him show any signs of distress or fatigue. Did he care that much about Banjo?

“Wine!” Lorne ordered, and at once Mem grabbed the goatskin pouch and scampered over to the table where Lorne was seated. As he filled Lorne’s goblet, he steadied his hands, making sure not to spill a single drop.

“This is getting a bit too much, Bryn.”

Mem, realizing that Lorne was addressing his seated companion, scurried back into the shadows. This was the first time in a long time he had been assigned as Lorne’s cup bearer. It wasn’t an activity he particularly enjoyed, but eavesdropping was always better than dishwashing, he supposed.

The hall was free of occupants save for the three of them. The ceiling rose high into the sky. The two men were seated at a small, circular table at the far end, next to the hearth. Mem prowled the shadows behind them. He was trying his utmost not to be noticed. He was trying his utmost to appear distracted by the numerous banners and shields hanging on the walls.

After Lorne had taken a sip of his wine, he resumed his conversation. “I’m sorry you had to witness that Bryn. The timing could have been better.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, cousin.” Bryn said, speaking for the first time. Mem noticed, with a strange satisfaction, that the foreign man’s voice matched his effeminate features. Features captured perfectly by his shadow; a large, dark mass with a contour that was smooth, well defined and delicate. Next to it on the wall, Lorne’s shadow was burly, robust and rugged.

“So, is he to be executed?” Bryn asked. Mem had an absurd thought that a lullaby sang in Bryn’s voice would be ever so soothing.

“Not exactly,” Lorne sighed. “Live prey for the wolves. Corpses on the battlefield have given them a taste for human flesh and now they refuse to be lured by anything else.”

“My word!” Bryn exclaimed. “What did he do to deserve such a fate?”

“He abandoned his post,” Lorne snorted. “Claimed he saw a ghost. A spectral horseman.”

After a moment Bryn said, “And he deserves to be mauled alive because of that?”

Lorne’s tone became a lot more defensive. “What? I don’t make the fucking rules! It’s that or the noose. Give a single man a pass and all of them will turn to deserters.”

There was silence, and then Lorne added, “It’s this mad fucking world, forcing us to behave like savages. I don’t like this Bryn. I don’t like it at all, but at least this way, he can serve the Homestead. The wolves are becoming a little too rabid.”

“May the gods have mercy,” Bryn replied in low tones.

“Bah! Enough of this,” Lorne said, making a swatting gesture with his hands. “What news do you bring from beyond?”

“War and more war,” Bryn sighed.

Mem slipped out of the hall before the foreigner had a chance to elaborate. He did not care if he would be missed. He had had enough of their vile conversation.

…………….

Outside, the Homestead was eerily quiet. The sky was a brilliant canvas of twinkling stars and a full moon. It was past midnight, and almost everyone was asleep. The only people to be seen were guards and sentinels, patrolling and watching.

Mem ought to have gone to bed as well, but he didn’t think he could manage it. Not after the terrifying ordeal he had been through hours earlier. He needed a distraction. Something to keep the nightmares at bay.

And so, with conviction, he walked towards Frey’s hut.

…………..

Mem did not need to knock, as the door to Frey’s hut was unlocked. Upon entry, he noticed that the sage was in his bed. It was a small bed, made of wood, leather and fur. A bed which many regarded, but never admitted, was a death bed.

“Who goes there?” the blind sage asked. He was awake, just as Mem had expected.

“It’s me,” Mem replied.

“Ah, sweet one. You couldn’t have come at a better time. My back feels as though it was trampled by a wild boar. Could you please make me some elftail soup?”

“Already on it,” Mem replied.

“You should be asleep, little one,” Frey said.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Mem replied, as he struggled to find ingredients in the dim candlelight of the tiny room.

“Mmm, I see,” Frey replied. “Any news?”

Mem thought of his encounter with the elk and its weird departure. He thought of Banjo and his cruel fate. He thought of Lorne and Bryn. Nevertheless, all he said was, “same old.”

“Hmmm,” Frey hummed. “I’m afraid I just don’t have it in me for arguments or rhetoric tonight, dear boy. The pain is simply too much. Instead, why don’t I tell us a story? With any luck, it will bore both of us to sleep.”

Mem, lighting the stove, managed a chuckle. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Alright. Come a little closer my boy. This story begins before your father was born. It begins before your father’s father was born and his father and so on. It begins at the dawn of time.”

As Frey spoke, Mem couldn’t help but notice his milky white eyes. Unseeing eyes; a side effect of the herb he took to subside his great pain.

“At the beginning of time, the All-father took the form of an eagle and flew down from the heavens. Upon arriving in on earth, he had a single objective; to kill the giant Ymir.

“The All-father did not really want to kill Ymir, but he had no other choice. From the giant’s body, he would make the things of the world.

“The All-father threw his javelin with grace and it landed directly between Ymir’s eyes. Knocked out, the giant fell with a thump that shook the heavens.

“From Ymir’s skin, the All-father made the soil. From Ymir’s blood and sweat, the All-father made rivers and oceans. From Ymir’s teeth, he made stones and pebbles.

“From Ymir’s skull, he crafted the great dome of the sky. The milky-white streaks you see in the night sky represent Ymir’s brain matter. The comets and shooting stars you see, represent Ymir’s thoughts.”

Hearing this, Mem was fascinated. Though he wasn’t incredibly superstitious, he thought it extremely elegant that people regarded comets and shooting stars as the thoughts of a giant being in whose skull they resided.

Frey was unable to finish his story, for before he could continue, the bittersweet sent of sour soup pervaded the room. Mem, notified that the soup was ready, rose from his place by Frey’s bedside to pour him a bowl.

As Mem fed the dying old man, he thought about him. Frey was the oldest person Mem knew and though he seemed to have wisdom and knowledge beyond measure, the other villages shunned him and treated him with disrespect.

He is a coward. Those were the words Lorne said about Frey that day. He was worried the two of them were getting too close and tried to involve Mem’s parents in the matter. Only cowards live that long. He will never see the halls of Jarjenbjorn. Do you want to end up like that? Pick up a sword boy and hope for a glorious death in battle!

Before the soup got cold, Frey was asleep. Mem, lost in the cracks and crevices of Frey’s wizened face, was still pensive. Would it really be that bad to live a long meaningless life than to die young in senseless battle?

Mem adjusted Frey’s head on the pillow and pulled a blanket over him. Then, he poured the rest of the soup back into the pot, snuffed out the candle and headed back to his own hut.

Before he left, he kissed Frey on the cheek. As he did so, he wondered if that was the last time his lips would make contact with Frey’s warm skin.

 

………………..

 

It was raining, and Mem was in a watchtower along the northern wall of the village. Sentinel duty was always solitary, but on this particular occasion, there was an extra dimension of isolation seeing as most of the men were out hunting.

Mem watched as the thatched rooftops of the huts below him were drenched in rainwater. Many moons had passed since his terrifying encounter with the elk in the forest, yet Mem couldn’t help but think about how nothing would have changed if he had died there in the forest. The news of his death would travel quickly, propelled not by grief but by gossip. They would mourn, not because of anguish but because it was tradition. Then, they would forget, because forgetting was second nature.  When the rains came, they would place their buckets outside without a second thought, to capture what they could of the water trickling down the edges of the roofs. They would never pause to think that perhaps the weather was grim because the sky was weeping for him.

Mem sighed. He had promised Frey he would stop entertaining thoughts of his own death. Yet, standing there in the watchtower, he was discovering that it was a ridiculously difficult habit to break. It didn’t help that the weather and the depressing architecture of the village seemed to be conspiring against him.

Regardless, he was determined. He turned his gaze away from the south and towards the north. Away from the village and towards the forest and the wildlands beyond. Towards the direction the hunting party had ridden in. He wondered if their expedition was bringing them any success.

For a brief moment, Mem envisioned the men scrawling after a fat boar in the mud. He chuckled for a moment and then shook his head vigorously, trying to dispel the image. Winter was coming, and the village stores were looking woefully empty. It would be unwise to curse the hunters with his sardonic thoughts. He had enough bad luck already.

 

………………

 

Rousing from his nap, Mem realized that hours had passed and the hunting party were still away. It was nighttime, and the wooden roof of the watchtower still sounded with the light tapping of rainfall.

What’s keeping them away so long? The boy wondered.

Reflexively, he grabbed the horn tucked in the belt of his tunic. He placed his lips against the mouthpiece and drew a large breath. On the cusp of blowing, he hesitated. Thinking that their tardiness was nothing more than a symptom of another fruitless hunt, Mem put the horn away. He didn’t want to cause unnecessary alarm. He didn’t want to appear too nervous. No other job in the village gave him this much time to think or to nap.

Mem yawned, rose to his feet and started to walk along the wall. He could see other sentinels in nearby watchtowers. Some were engaged in conversation with their counterparts, but most were asleep. Those who noticed him hastily gazed away, denying him the chance to salute them.

Feeling the hostility, Mem turned to walk back to his station. Not today, he mused. Looking over the village walls, the boy noticed movement in the forests to the north. What could it be? Mem thought. After a few moments they rode into full view: The hunting party had returned.

The men on horseback were sullen. Their facial expressions told stories of bitter defeat. Their march was quiet and slow.

As the great gates of the Homestead swung open, Mem sighed. Vanir’s sons had returned empty handed. There would be no choir tonight, but come morning, there would be bloodshed. The Lord of the Drowned Barrows was not always munificent, but he was never not thirsty.

 

……………………….

 

It was nighttime yet again and Mem found himself as the lone sentinel atop the village walls. All the others had gone down to great hall. There was a war meeting going on and all the young men in the village were apparently so eager to join discussions about how best and how quickly to spill their blood.

Mem had been to such meetings before. Not as a prospective soldier, for back then circumstances were not so dire that underage boys were expected to join the army. He was there, predictably, as a cup bearer. The war meetings were always interesting. There was no other setting in the village in which the men, eagerly and obediently, surrendered themselves to the authority of the women. During the war meetings, when the women spoke, the men were silent. Where the women pointed, the men marched obediently. Who the women said to kill, the men slaughtered without question.

At his first meeting, Mem was fascinated. But subsequent meetings came with disillusionment. The frequency of the meetings, and the subject matter, made his head very light. It was for that very reason that the boy currently found himself the lone watchman of a distracted village.

Mem, sitting with his back against the wall, was falling asleep. Huddled in a woolen blanket, he secretly hoped that nothing would interrupt his sleep. Right before his heavy eyelids denied him totally of his vision, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

Mem jolted into full wakefulness. He stood up and strained his eyes for a better look. In the northeastern sky, against the black canvas of the night, a star was falling.

It was a magnificent sight to behold. The comet tore through the sky like a paintbrush, leaving in its wake a trail of sparkling light. Mem had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and standing there atop the village walls, he was almost moved to tears.

At once, the totem hanging around Mem’s neck started to glow. It glowed with such intensity that it burned his naked flesh. With a soft moan, he clenched the totem firmly in his fist, insulating it with woolly mitts.

He looked up once again, just in time to see the star impact the lands to the north. There was a brilliant flash of light, illuminating the night like daytime, and then, nothing.

The village was dark one more.

Did anyone else see that? If they did, there was no sign. The village grounds remained desolate. Not a single person rushed out.

Mem, still clutching the totem tightly, cogitated. What is the meaning of this? Is Vanir trying to tell me something?  As the boy felt the totem cool in the palm of his hand, he was arriving at conclusions.

He thought about that fateful day in the forest and the strange elk. He thought about the story that Frey told him about the connection between shooting stars and the thoughts of the Father Giant. He thought about how his totem glowed as the comet fell to the ground. These are events are all connected. There’s no way all of this is a coincidence.

What is Vanir trying to tell me? The only way to know will be to find Ymir’s striking thought. Yes, the key to all of this must rest with Ymir’s thought. A thought as fast and as fleeting as the life of King Long’s heir, yet infinitely more magnificent. A thought splendid enough to light up the whole sky. Yes, this must be god’s will.

The boy, pacing along the city walls, had thoughts which were rife with images of fallen giants and angry gods. Yet beneath the turmoil, there was a calmness. A calmness born from resolve. He had decided that, with the light of breaking dawn to guide his way, he would make his way out of the village and towards the fallen star. The others would not notice he was gone. Not until they needed someone to sharpen the blood-rusted axes. The object ahead of me is a thousand-fold more relevant that a whetstone, he thought. It’s the essence of a god. 

 

 

 

“There’s a lullaby for suffering and a paradox to blame”

–

 

 

The horse trotted slowly through the morning mist. Though it yearned to go faster, it was held steady at the reins by its rider. The sun was rising, and Mem had set off on his expedition. His load, which was quite light, consisted mainly of a slingshot, a blanket and his white knife. He was heading south, opposite the direction he ought to have been riding in. He wasn’t disoriented. There was something that needed to be done first.

Eventually, the horse and the boy came to a clearing. A semi-circular opening bordered by shrubs, weeds, spears and skulls. At the center of the clearing was a large, metal head, resting on a platform of stone. The facial features of the head were drawn out, with mathematical precision, into a grimace. Representing hair, the head sported several large tendrils; almost like tentacles, or snakes. Chiseled on the stone platform on which the head rested were the words:

“Vanir, Lord of the Drowned Barrows.

A god of all things, but first and foremost, a god of war.”

Mem, trying not to openly display his repulsion, dismounted from his horse and approached the giant metal head. He took off the glove of his left hand and whipped out his white knife with his right hand. He stretched his left arm outwards and slashed the palm with his knife. He began to bleed and making sure the drops of blood fell on the lips of the giant, metallic head, he uttered a prayer: “Accept my sacrifice lord, and let your will be done.”

Mem then withdrew his hand, bandaged it with a piece of linen cloth he had brought along, and sheathed his knife. Remounting his horse, he directed it towards the location of the fallen star and rode away silently.

When the boy was far enough from the ritual grounds, he allowed himself to think freely. Many times over the years, he had wondered why his people worshiped such a violent god. It had never made sense to him. Then, one day he realized, they pray to him because he appeals to their masochism.

Clutching the totem around his neck with his wounded hand, Mem hoped that his expedition would bear good fruit.

 

………………..

 

The boy was panting heavily. Hiding at the top of a tree, a party of horsemen galloped past him below. The hooves of their horses thundered so loudly that his thumping heart was almost put to shame. Clutching the totem around his neck, he prayed desperately that he would go unnoticed.

Just as the last of them made a turn deeper into the forest, he caught sight of the sigil on the rider’s back. It was an image of a vulture. A vulture whose eye was being consumed by a worm.

Those were Baroness Salazar’s men. Are they allies of the Homestead? Impossible to tell. The landscape of the war changes too quickly and too frequently. The riders are too few to represent a complete infantry unit. They must be scouts and spies. I can only hope that they aren’t moving against the Homestead.

Catching his breath, Mem descended from the trees. He looked around, but his horse was nowhere to be seen. After several moments of whistling, sounds which the birds above were happy to echo, he gave up. Just as he feared, the clatter of the approaching riders startled the beast and caused it to flee deep into the forest.

The boy sighed deeply. Mem felt his fingers approaching the totem on his neck and fought the reflex. Not this time.

Knowing he would have to make the rest of the journey to the fallen star by himself, Mem hastily set off. At his current location in the forest, he was too close to the road. To close to war-beaten deserters, eager to steal, to rape and to kill.

It was dusk, and as the boy headed deeper into the forest, he heard the far-off sound of howling wolves. The feral sounds caused his blood to curl. His fingers reached for the totem around his neck. This time he did not stop them.

 

……………

  

It was midnight and Mem’s legs were too weak to carry him any further. They boy sat against the trunk of a large tree and heard wolves howling in the distance. He was afraid, but his exhaustion eclipsed his fear. The sound of his rumbling stomach needed more immediate attention than the sound of gathering wolves.

He was cold, but he had no tools to make a fire. All he could do was nestle in his leather cape and try to get as much cover as possible from the biting winds of the dark night. Though the sky was overcast, it did not seem like it was going to rain. For that, at least, he was thankful.

Mem wondered what secrets the forest was keeping. He had never been this deep into it. Were there ogres, as the stories told? Were there witches, as the histories implied?

KRA-KOOM!

The clouds above him thundered violently, striking a fresh wave of terror through his entire being. There was nowhere to go. All around him, the darkness was unrelenting.

Speaking out loud, Mem said, “I hope I die here tonight.”

Immediately, he was filled with strong, bitter regret. He didn’t exactly know what drove him to say such a thing. Perhaps he uttered the most shocking thing he could think of in order to regain some sense of self control. In order to regain confidence that he was not at the mercy of the dark and dangerous forces of the night, and that he still had free will. It was illogical, he knew. But in his mind, he had to. Regardless, he succeeded only in frightening himself more.

The words had been uttered and there was nowhere to go. All around him, the darkness was unrelenting. An invite had been made to the creatures of the night. The only refuge he had was sleep.

So, he slept.

 

…………….

 

Mem was approaching the site of the fallen star. He knew it because the leaves and branches of the trees were singed, as if they had been exposed to some tame flame. Very soon, he would know Ymir’s striking thought. Very soon, he would fulfill his lord’s will.

Approaching the crater, Mem observed that the landscape was warped. The trees, instead of pointing directly upward, were pointing in all manner of directions. Some of them had even been uprooted. This was, no doubt, a side effect of a seismic wave that had rippled through the land on impact of the star. The entire place looked twisted: As if the gods, as they shaped that land into being, were too tired, or too apathetic, to be precise.

Mem was suddenly getting cold feet. What good would it do anyone to know the thoughts of a being older than time? Some part of his mind pleaded to turn back, but, with purpose, he continued to march forward. Persistently, he treaded on. It wasn’t that he had come too far to turn back. No, this was…something else.

All of a sudden, the totem around Mem’s neck began to glow violently. It vibrated, causing the bones of his clavicle and ribcage to rattle. He tried to reach for it, but he couldn’t. The only action his body permitted him to take was to put one foot in front of the other. What’s happening? The boy wondered.

Then, they started to appear. At first they were few, but they soon increased in number. Hiding behind shattered rocks and uprooted trees, they watched him.

They were people, yet they weren’t people. They looked…dead. Some of them had empty eye sockets. Others had lost the tissues that made up their lips and hence wore wide, unamused grins. Others had skin which receded from the tips of their fingers, leaving their phalanges bare. And many others appeared unbothered by the guts spewing out of their stomachs.

Mem, with his face as solid as a rock, felt a cold tear silently roll down the side of his face. Vanir, is this your will? He felt anger in his heart. He felt his nostrils flare with rage. He wanted to shout, to scream, to cry, but he was unable to do any of that. All he could do was march on. With every step, he felt himself losing a bit more willpower.

Mem struggled to remain in control. He directed all his willpower towards his arm and forced himself to reach for his totem. Slowly, his wounded hand made its way over to his neck. Just as his fingers started to enclose the totem, just as he felt the heat of its violent vibration, the totem shattered, causing splinters to fly into his palm.

Defeated, Mem let his arm fall and felt it swing limply by his side. Blood flowed out of his wounds and down the tips of his fingers like hot lava, leaving a thin, red trail on the ground. The tears came in torrents, but his face was still a mask of perfect composure. He was alone.

Eventually, approaching the center of the crater, Mem saw him, positioned at the very nexus. Mounted on an undead horse, the Spectral Horseman glowed with the unnatural greenish hue of the underworld. The horseman was huge, and just like his horse, appeared only partly corporeal. He had a crown, made of what appeared to be numerous tiny fingers, and his eye sockets were empty. He grinned with a mouth of fully set teeth; with perfectly square incisors and perfectly sharp canines.

Mem could feel himself losing his mind. Compelled by the otherworldly incandescence of the Dead King, he felt his self-consciousness burning and wafting away. The Horseman had a terrible purpose, that much he could tell. That much he could feel.

The undead horse neighed, and when it did, the sound was distorted. It neighed with four overlapping voices, the timbre and pitch of which were haunting.

With the last of his self-consciousness, Mem said, “So…..Ymir thought……to end the world….”

The undead horse neighed again, raising its forelegs high into the air. The Dead King, pleased, lifted his own sword as well. Dark energy burst out from his sword and radiated throughout the forest. All who felt it were chilled to the core.

When the dark wind arrived at the Homestead, concerned mothers hushed their noisy children and put them to bed. They closed all windows, locked all doors and snuffed out all candles.

In the forest; wolves howled, bears roared, and ravens shrieked.

Mem watched, dumbfounded.

Then, all was perfect darkness.