Where Giants Lay
The bell rung once again. The tone coursing throughout the small fishing village. It seemed right that a storm was coming, for rain and snow to fall. He hoped for a torrent of ever worsening weather, of thunder and of lightning. He hoped for storms so strong that the buildings would topple, for the sea to rise, and a great wave to wash everyone and everything away. He hoped for it all to be swept up and disappear. Today marked the fall of a kinsman, his father. A fisherman of simple standing yet well liked amongst the villagers. He had been a solid figure of a man, stern and gruff, yet carried a kindness which glistened softly. Amund gazed upon the bundles of ropes and hooks that had been piled on the ground, thrown hastily to one side, awaiting their time to be useful again. The rope, which had once been so well wounded, was now knotted and worn, still wet from the sea. The hooks, while sharp, had a lost sense of purpose leaning against the rope as a child would lean against their mother for comfort. A token dangled loosely around Amunds neck, shining with a faint blue. He had been told that the runes had been inscribed by the Lights and the closer you came to them, the brighter the rune would glow. He played with it, almost unaware with what he was doing. The cold rock felt heavy in his hand. The bell rang once more. It’s tone empty and sharp. Bodies huddled together watching a boat set out. His little brother, Bo, towered over the rest of the family. He resembled his father in terms of appearance, yet cried the hardest of them all, great sobbing breaths that seemed to shake the ground. Mother held Bo’s large hand and looked to the ground, her eyes red and shoulders arched. Amund stood still, his eyes fixated upon the little boat. His breathes stilled and controlled. The wind blew fiercely, piercing cold and harsh gusts which howled and groaned. Horns blew. Amund picked up a flaming arrow from the fire beside him and slid it between the string. He pulled back upon the tight string, taking a deep breath as he did so, and raised the bow high. The bow string tugged upon his arm, pleading for release. He had always imagined a great pressure would befall him, yet now he almost wanted to miss. The rest of the village held their breaths in unison as the arrow took flight, leaving Amund and his bow. It seemed to suspend in mid air, lost in time, before suddenly resuming its decent and hit the small boat. Within moments the boat was engulfed by flames, thick smoke rising. Eventually the day grew darker and the flames grew dim. ----- Night drew, and the sky continuing to growl and cry. Through the winds and the snow, a small figure moved ever forward, awake while he should be sleeping. He had made Bo swear to not tell anyone of his departure, and despite his brothers pleas, had escaped and headed out through the gates. Amund had always laughed at the village stories of the Lights, of the magic that they possessed, but now they seemed to call him. They were also far brighter than he could remember, filling the sky with too many colours to count. He shivered uncontrollably. Thoughts pulsated through his mind. The cold seemed to bite through his clothing, chipping into his skin. Each step proved to be harder and harder, the wind ever present, hindering his every movement. Suddenly the ground beneath the snow cracked, caving in as he lost his balance and fell, sinking into the thick snow and freezing water. For a moment a feeling of desperate survival overcame him, and he raised his head as high as he could, gasping for breath. He struggled against the surrounding snow, and felt its icy presents as it quickly seeped into his clothing. He found himself incased, trapped within his icy prison. Then he wept. He cried for all could, for his lost father who returned without life, for his uncertain future and the fear that it brought him, he cried for his mother and how sad she was, he cried for the cold and how tired he felt. He cried, and cried, and cried. Amund cried until the tears no longer fell, and his cheeks were glazed by a thin layer of ice. His throat was rasp, tender and raw and his eyes felt heavy and warm. He stared beyond the sky, up into the heavens as he searched for the morning light. It was in this moment that he felt a heavy connection to this world and questioned his place within it. The Lights span and swirled, circling and twirling around him as he lay locked within the snow. They came ever nearer, their form shifting and dancing around Amund, their colours more brilliant than he could have ever imagined. Suddenly the snow didn’t feel so constricting anymore and he could easily stand. As he did so, shaking the thick snow off, the Lights continued to dance, yet slowly traveling further away. He followed them, his steps light and agile, until the ground shifted upwards and the sky was almost clouded by a large form. The mountains. They radiated a subtle heat and Amund found himself no longer shivering. Up and up he climbed, slowly pulling himself up, his arms aching and fingers sore. The rocks were sharp and warm, some had runes carved deep into their faces which glowed as brilliantly as his token now was. Higher and higher he went, never faltering and never falling, the stars growing ever larger and the ground growing ever further away. At last he pulled himself up and realised that he couldn’t climb higher. His token was now a radiant blue, shining cooly. Amund stood there, overlooking the world. He could just about make out his own village, seemingly toylike and he was surrounded by the Lights. From the top of the mountain he wished. He closed his eyes and wished with all his might. He wished, and wished, and wished.
