song of sitric
Save for the sound of fresh snow crunching beneath his feet, the world was quiet as Sitric trekked up the mountain to sell his soul.
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He was high enough that he could see the glaciers off the frozen coast. They floated down the whale-road beneath the vibrantly twisting northern lights shining from Asgard above. The sight bolstered his resolve. He pulled his furs tighter around his shoulders before plunging into the crisp early morning.
There was a legend amongst his people that told of a branch-- fallen from the sacred tree Yggdrasil, that plummeted from Asgard into Midgard. This gift from the heavens landed upon the highest mountain at the edge of the world.
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Over time, it sprang forth with new life.
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This sacred tree was said to be as white as the great wolf Fenrir’s fangs, and from it grew a fruit that had the power to change one’s fate. A vikingr once ate of its fruit and became invincible. He conquered many lands and monsters to become a king.
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Once, there had also been a mother who had sought the tree. She ate of its fruit and returned to her homeland, healing her dying son with a single touch of her hand.
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The last to find the tree was a young girl. After having made the perilous trek, facing wind and wolves, she did not eat the fruit.
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The cost had been too high.
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Sitric followed the mountain pass until he came upon the mouth of a ravine. In the center of the natural opening stood a great warrior. He must have stood 18 hands high and appeared as though carved from stone. His silver armor reflected the dawning sun like a beacon to the lost. Only when Sitric stopped a few paces before him did the warrior raise his winged helm.
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Sitric took an involuntary step back at the foggy, unseeing eyes of the warrior.
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“What do you fear?” Came a deep, rolling voice.
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Startled, Sitric resorted to a defensive stance. “I fear nothing.”
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“Do not lie to me, Sitric Eriksson!” The guardian’s voice boomed like thunder. “I already know the fear that eats at your heart. You must put it into words.”
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Sitric began to sweat.
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Two years he’d spent on the swan-roads of England, fighting with Jarl Halfdan Ragnarsson. He’d made his fortune and come home to wed his love. With eyes bluer than the ocean waves in the early morning light, and hair the softest hue of gold, Tove had captured his once frigid heart. He had loved her his entire life.
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Yet, returning from foreign shores, he found her wed already—to his brother, Erke.
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Erke was five summers his younger. He’d never been to war. He’d never even been on a single raid! Erke built ships and had many friends in the village. He could have wed anyone, but he’d chosen Tove. The betrayal was too much.
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“I fear my wrath,” Sitric answered through gritted teeth. “I fear what I will do to Erke if I stay in the village.” He met the guardian’s eyes boldly. “I fear watching Tove and Erke walk together, while I walk alone.”
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The large warrior nodded his head, stepping to the side to allow Sitric entrance.
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“To be found worthy, you must pay a debt of courage.”
As Sitric entered the ravine, shadows began to dance on the walls. They were beautiful... at first.
The further he walked, the more haunting the shadows became. The dancing became a jerking, tortured movement. Screams filled his mind, and he began to run as fast as he could.
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Noticing the shadow of a wolf running beside him on the right side of the ravine, his steps faltered as the shadow called out in Tove’s voice. “ Erke!” it screamed.
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He saw a flash of movement on the left side of the ravine. It was the shadow of a bear, keeping pace. “ Tove! ” it shouted in the voice of his brother.
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Sitric’s lungs caught fire—his heart threatening to burst from his chest as he drove himself harder. Faster. Forward.
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Relentlessly, the shadows chased him, pining and screaming for the other as they ran.
There was a heavy crunch beneath his feet that stopped his flight. Raising his brows, he turned to see what he had stepped on.
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It had been a piece of a human skull.
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Clenching his eyes shut, he forced himself to continue. With every step, the consistency of popping and crunching under his feet grew.
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Sprinting out of the hellish ravine, he bent over as he fought to catch his breath. Rising to full height, he laced his fingers behind his head to open his lungs and turned to face the haunted ravine. In the rock face, on both sides of the opening, the shadows sat in silence.
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Waiting for him.
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As his breathing calmed, he turned to see a field of bones that stretched as far as his eyes could see. A cold chill rippled down his spine, drawing an involuntary shudder. Hesitating, he looked over his shoulder at the wolf and bear on the rock face. They bowed their heads, entreating him to return.
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He spat at them.
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Making his way through the field of bones, it was hours before he saw a round, dark shape appear on the horizon. As he neared, a giant boulder came into view. He was surprised to find that a crone sitting atop it, her skin as gnarled as Yggdrasil’s bark.
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Stopping before her, Sitric waited until she raised her clouded eyes to him.
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When she spoke, her voice cracked like the twisting of a limb. “What do you desire most?”
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“All I’ve ever wanted was Tove. I want us to be happy.”
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The old woman eyed him without emotion. “There have been many to travel the path to the sacred tree. This field is the wake of their desires, littered with debts paid. Now is the time for a debt of truth.”
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“I am ready. Ask your questions.”
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“No questions, drengr. Your debt of truth is the burden of divine knowledge.”
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Her stoic face split into a wicked grin. “You want Tove, but she will never want you. Already she carries your nephew within her womb. You want Tove? You want happiness? These things are not the same thing. You will never know peace while you cling to both.”
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Fighting his sudden urge to knock the grin off the old hag’s face, Sitric forced his clenched fists to his sides. “You do not have the power to shape my destiny, fordæða. I have heard your ramblings. The debt is paid.”
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She lifted a wrinkled hand and gestured to a narrow stone path. “Go drengr. Shape your destiny for what you know to be best.”
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The further Sitric climbed the stone path, the thinner the air became. The wind howled against him, pushing him one step back for every two he took. Nearing the end, the path became so steep that he had to use his hands and crawl forward, but crawl he did.
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With the last bit of strength he possessed, he pulled himself up into the mouth of a cave. Sheltered from the wind for the first time in ages, he rolled over on his back and lay for a moment, soaking in the blessed moment of peace.
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“You have made it to the end, Sitric Eriksson,” an unknown voice called to him.
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Sitric scrambled to his feet, grimacing in his exhausted state. He saw a small child standing before him, no older than six summers.
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The child’s foggy eyes met his. “Follow me.”
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Sitric was led into a cavernous room that held a small pool. Within the center of the pool, on a patch of frozen earth, was the sacred tree. White as Mjölnir’s wrath, it stood tall and proud. It’s gnarled roots protruding from the ground like caps of snow. Wiping a treacherous tear of relief from his cheek, he laid eyes upon the silver fruit hanging from its branches.
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“Now you must pay a debt of sacrifice,” the child said without emotion. “You envy the life of your brother and therein lies the price. A life for a life.”
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Sitric hesitated. “What will happen to Erke?”
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“Does it matter?” the child asked. “You have already made up your mind. Now you must put it into words. Will you, Sitric Erikson, sacrifice the life of your brother?”
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Sitric looked at the silver fruit and willed his heart to stone. “I will.”
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As soon as he’d spoken, a fruit fell from the tree to the frozen ground below, sending a ripple throughout the surface of the water.
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He turned to ask the guardian what to do next, but the child had vanished.
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Tentatively, Sitric stepped into the pool and was slightly alarmed that the water did not react to his movements. The deepest part reached his waist, but the surface remained as smooth as glass as he made his way to the tree.
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Emerging from the water, he picked up the silver fruit. It shone like metal, but when he squeezed it with his fingers, it gave way to his touch. Doubt began to creep upon him, so he acted.
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As he bit down, the sweet fruit burst into his mouth—crisp like an apple, heady and sweet like honeyed mead. He took another bite, and then another, until he had consumed it entirely.
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Feeling no different than he had before, he looked at the surface of the pool to see if it had changed, but he only saw his reflection staring back at him. It was then that he noticed the surface of the water begin to ripple. Intrigued, he peered closer.
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His fascination soon became horror as his reflection began to change. His once long, braided, dark hair, shortened before his eyes, turning blonde. The scar on his cheek faded away to nothingness, and his blue eyes turned a light green. He gasped. They were his brother’s eyes. He swore aloud. His image was now that of his brother’s.
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The reflection in the pool suddenly began to spasm.
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Stepping back from the water, he watched as the reflection of Erke began to panic. His brother beat upon the surface of the water as though he were trapped under ice; yet despite his frenzy, the pool’s surface remained flat and calm.
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The Erke in the water looked to Sitric and yelled for help.
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Frozen by the sight, he found himself suffocating under the weight of his actions. He saw the exact moment in his brother’s eyes when Erke realized what he’d done. There was no anger there, only a profound sadness. Erke stopped his struggle and accepted his fate with a shattered heart.
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Shakily rising to his feet, Sitric swallowed heavily.
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Several hours later, heavy of heart, light of soul, Erke began the long trek down the mountain.
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