Ingrid the Coward
A young norn sat cross-legged some distance from the fire, head resting on her left hand; fingers splayed over her cheeks up to her eye. The skaald regaling her and the other youngsters with a tale of heroics and cunning watched her out of the corner of his eye, shifting slightly to face her.
“And as he slew his mighty foe; felt the breath leave those lungs for the final time, he felt a moment of sadness. For he knew that his greatest foe was now defeated. His legend had been made, and there was no deed great enough left to equal it.
“He learned, as all must, that the greatest joy in life is the fight not yet won – the challenge still to best. What good is a life wherein your proudest moments are all behind you? When all your foes are gone, what is left to strive for? A life hard fought is the best life. Battling the odds, and overcoming our disadvantages are how the greatest stories are made.”
He nodded imperceptibly to himself as the young norn – Ingrid – cowed slightly during his last sentence. There was something different there. She just didn't seem to respond as the others did. Thirteen and yet to seriously attempt a hunt? As the youngsters thanked him and drifted away in groups, he shook his head to himself. Any other norn would have worn a face like that with pride; have deemed it a mark of individuality, the better to be remembered by. Ingrid hid herself away with a downward stare and mass of hair swept over her cheek.
*
Ingrid sat on her bed with her knees resting just below her nose. Gudrun, her mother, was on a roll again, proclaiming her shame that her one daughter should turn out to be so unlike her, so cowardly-
“I am NOT a coward!” Ingrid yelled, cutting her mother off. She stood up, so furious at the insult that she held her head high. “Take that back.”
Her mother didn't bat an eyelid. “Is it a wonder folk call you a coward when you've yet to even try for a hunt? Oh, you tuck yourself away at the firing range with that pistol of yours, and you'll turn out with a sword now and then in the evenings, but I've yet to see you test your mettle against a foe.
“You should be out in the mountains with your gun and your sword, facing down foes and building your courage. It's no life sat here in Hoelbrak all the time, hiding from the others. What will you do with yourself? How will you be remembered – as Ingrid the Coward? Is that the legacy you wish for?”
Ingrid felt hot tears brimming in her eyes and blinked them away, furious and shamed in equal measure. Her mother came and put an arm around her, awkwardly. There was a silence, and then:
“I don't want that for you. I want you to be proud of yourself and your deeds. Wolf's fur, I know you have it in you somewhere, but who else can say that? Can you? Face down your fears and find something to be proud of, something you can build a legend around.”
She patted her daughter on the shoulder, and strode quickly from the room. Ingrid slumped as she left. Face down her fears? She wasn't afraid; certainly not too afraid to go out on a Hunt. But what was the point? No one would remember her deeds, only her face, her spirits-be-damned face, with it's stupid eye that wouldn't open all the way, and a mouth that could never smile on both sides. Ingrid the Coward? Hah! Ingrid the Ugly, more like; Ingrid Squint-eye, Ingrid Lop-sided. That was what all the others called her. And how was she ever to ride out a name like that?
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