songs and sagas of a fate determined

Not being able to speak has its advantages. The adults are not afraid to speak around them. And the disadvantages come when the adults are speaking and Ragnhildr wants clarity. There are so many questions. Such as, where the hell did one wolf go? Spending the last few weeks out of the den and exploring, it's strange that people come and go. And the way people speak of the missing sometimes...

He feels a pull to these conversations that he can't fully explain. There's a shadow over his back, like a dark pair of wings, and he stares at the adults with his golden eyes and wishes they would look at him plain and explain it. What is death? He feels he already knows; it's one of the things he feels instinctively following him. It does not scare him, for something tells him that he has died before and he will die again.

He finds the first adult he can and barks. But the action doesn't seem to get him what he wants. He twists his mouth together and bares his fangs, trying to find ways to express his thoughts. "Me!" he shouts, putting a paw down. It's not the word he wants, but it's a word he can force out. He wants to say "I have a question" but while the impulse forms in his head, the words don't seem to want to form. It's a barrier, and it's growing taller and stronger by the day.
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 There were still stones left unturned in their very home. All of them were growing fast, but their legs seemed to be smaller than their hearts and therefore, hadn't explored all of Northfall. But every chance she could get, Sylvi was poking her head out of the den, either looking for trouble or a new place to go. 

 Today she was out and about, not looking for issues, but to see the sights. The little warrior heavily moved through the cold mountains. Her gait was usually solid and loud. She was a child and had no care if anyone saw her coming. Later in life, she'd learn to be more graceful. Passing through the communal part of the vikings, she caught sight of Ragnhildr over by some adults, chatting away. Sylvi really had no interest in their conversation. She kept her head down and hurried past, but got caught in step when she heard Ragn speak — or rather, exclaim one word in their own way of speaking. With a wince in mid pawstep, she turned herself around. Giving a wiggle of her rump, she hopped over to where they were and bumped shoulders with them, leaning up and grabbing their ear, and chewing for a second. 

 "Hvað er það, Raggy?" — What is it, Raggy? Speaking in the native languages that their mother was teaching them beyond common, Sylvi favored one over the rest. It was easier to pick up for her, so she talked it in when she was around her siblings and mum, feeling kind of cool that their languages were coded. She also had found a good nickname for her sibling, smirking because they really couldn't protest, and even if they did, she wouldn't stop using it. 

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Words are hard. He rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if the motion could coax his mouth into speaking. But there's a blockade, and no way to communicate the thoughts circling through his head. The person he is, the people he was. How can he speak for the feeling of infinity within him?

He probably wouldn't protest the nickname, and if he weren't so distressed, he would have smiled to be called it. But language doesn't come quite so easily to him, and only a smattering of words seem to come to him. What is the word he wants? It seems that whenever he wants to say the words, they go away. Flying just overhead, out of his reach.

His tail twitches and he knows that the adults aren't going to pay attention to him. So he'll try asking Sylvi. She's smart, so perhaps she knows. "Wharoo?" Is that a word? No. He yawns in annoyance, then tries again. He gestures at the adults, then says, "Er? — Where?" It's the old tongue, and it's the version coming to him.
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 A brisk wind ran its chilled fingers through Sylvi's thick set of shoulder fluff, and yet she doesn't budge. The warrior standing firmly in her place, as if this plot of land was made for her and not the arctic chill. Ragnhildr doesn't seem to care about the nickname she'd made for them — it's almost like they aren't even concerned with her at all. It made her attention turn back to the adults, watching Ragn's head flicker back and forth as if trying to grasp hold of the information. 

 They make a noise, but one Sylvi lifts a brow at, still unsure of what he's trying to say. 'Er?' And that, she is still confused, but slowly, the dots start to connect — hearing what the adults had been talking about. "Ó konan? Uh, það..." — "Oh the lady? Uhh, the..." The shield-maiden glanced back between the others, something about some lady. She'd heard Ragnar speaking about it... "Konan sem datt af fjallinu?" — "The lady that fell off the mountain?" Her head tilted to the side as if trying to concoct the right set of words, the right scenario they might be trying to ask about. 

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It takes a few moments for Ragnhildr to piece the words together. A lady who fell off the mountain. Death. He knows what that means now, and it weighs in the pit of his chest for a few moments. He remembers long battles past. He remembers the ocean filling his lungs. He remembers death in childbirth. And then a memory strikes through his core: matching tooth and claw with an enemy, doing all that he could, and knowing that the only way to defeat his foe is to take his own life. Claws sink into flesh and the body falls backwards, and both tumble down to certain death below.

The words don't quite struggle this time, as if the lives past have caught up to Ragnhildr and given her speech. "Of mér. — Me too." A haggard grin, one that has seen too many lifetimes, crosses Ragnhildr's face, and the usual look of contentment and lack of thinking seems to recede. They-- for in this moment they are thousands-- cannot stop thinking this time. And it is strange.
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 A hint of recognition filled her sibling's face. And before long, they spoke in the same tongue that Sylvi did, giving her a haunting answer. First off, she hadn't really expected for Ragnhildr to be so... understandable. Most days, all they spoke in were chuffs and noises that were akin to the noises they made when they were children. While the rest of them grew, Raggy seemed stunted in some way. But not now. "Þú... féllst fram af kletti?" — "You... fell off a cliff?" She asked, very suspiciously, one eyebrow slowly raising at the other. 

 Little did the shield-maiden know she, too, had been reborn. She'd always had dreams of flying. Black-feathers lifting her high in the sky and watching down below, the mortals crawl on their four legs, while she was unbound. Untethered by gravity or responsibility. Fearless when taking a nose-dive off a high cliff or grasping prey within her talons. But she chalked those up to days spent watching the avians from afar. Not as a real before life. It wouldn't occur to her until much later that she had lived a life before this one. 

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If Ragnhildr had more presence of mind, they'd know it would be tied to their mother. Of course it would be tied to her; the goddess would bring any spirit to life, and of course an einheri would try to strive for her approval. Though a fertility goddess, perhaps protecting her or bringing her honor would be enough to end this cycle. And Ragnhildr stands there for a moment, trying to pull in the finality of their birth. Is this is the last in a cycle? Or will he die and be reborn again?

They have no thoughts in their head most of the time save for this nostalgia, this cycling, the memories. But explaining this requires words that Ragnhildr cannot speak yet. Single words are all they can manage now, and they yawn wide to show that. After that, a single syllable. "Ár. — Long Ago." Ragnhildr then hums, feeling their ability to speak receding slightly. They've said most of what they need to say, and realize now that the adults aren't going to offer any comfort with this. Perhaps it's better they don't know.

Perhaps it would be better to keep this quiet.
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 'Long ago.' It's reminiscent of her mother's tales to the eight children. History being stowed upon their curious minds. It'd been placed into each of their minds from a young age, that they too might possess flickers of past lives. "Manstu... manstu.. fyrri líf líka?" — "Do you... remember.. past lives too?" A twinge of jealousy in her assumption. She'd never experienced this — at least to her knowledge. But there was something sparking behind her eyes, happiness that her sibling finally found a way to confide in her, through their secret languages. The world felt like just the two of them, as they both stepped into the past together, finding their long forgotten paths that led them here. 

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But then Sylvi talks like she knows something. A talk of past lives. And Ragnhildr listens. It makes sense. Of course his sister would be similar. They are of the same blood, so certainly the ghosts of the past must want to cling to their souls. Suddenly, the need for adults goes away. "Nǫkkut — Somewhat." The words come slow, breaking them out piece by piece. But it's easier when talking about the past. It's almost as if the voices in Ragnhildr want to be heard. "Komur ok ferir. — Comes and goes."

And it does. Sometimes it wells within them so deep that it's hard to get out. And sometimes it's so faint that it almost feels like nothing. A cycle that never ends, a soul that never dies. "Einherjar," he says after a moment, a word that comes to him from nowhere.

Honored dead.
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 'Comes and goes....' Sylvi's eyebrows furrowed at this, thinking back to her dreams and trying to put pieces together that she didn't even know were there. But, nada. They weren't ready yet — or maybe she wasn't ready for the truth, and how she'd made it into a new, youthful body. "Áhugavert." — "Interesting." It leaves her lips, too young to quite put into words, 'We can always talk about it if you want. But her empathy surpasses her head, still lost in a void of childish innocence and egotism. 

 'Einherjar.' It's said with such conviction. Sylvi's olive eyes stare holes into her sibling. She knew they were weird, but damn, speaking was barely scratching the surface of it. All she could do was slowly nod along, as if she could understand the weight that they felt with the legacies lost in a cosmic path to make Ragnhildr. "Þú lést að minnsta kosti heiður." — "At least you died honored." She affirmed before looking back towards the mountain pass in which she'd meant to explore previous to when she got diverted by Ragn's soft yiffs for help. 

 "Ég er að fara að kanna. Viltu koma?" — "I'm going exploring. Want to come?" She asked, eager to change to subject before this conversation could get any weirder. 

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And so it passes. The clouds overhead part with the winds, and the thought of exploration is all that matters. Ragnhildr wags his tail, wordlessly agreeing to the exploration. Because even if words are not so simple for him, he can appreciate travel. One of these days, he thinks, he's going to leave Northfall. Not forever. His family matters, and he would miss them should he roam forever. But it is the way of the ancients to roam to distant lands and discover all that they can. It is the way of the ancients to bring back great treasures from these lands.

It would bring honor to him and his family if he were to have a truly great adventure.

And so, at Sylvi's side, Ragnhildr heads out into the lands of Northfall for a smaller adventure. Every little bit is to prepare for the day when this world will see them in full.

fin

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