Hate and Ambition
Ingrid stared bleakly into the polished metal, hating the face that returned her gaze. But hate was good. It was a hard feeling, a strong feeling. You did things when you had hate – it was a motivator. And it was always better than fear.
Her mother had gone on a Hunt, and wouldn't be back for some days. Ingrid was glad of that – it meant she could put off the inevitable argument until it was settled. There was a knot of hope in her heart that might yet be dashed, and Gudrun would trample right over it without even noticing.
Looking down, she straightened her tunic, skelk claws neatly fastened onto the trim as she had promised herself those weeks before. She clung to that satisfaction, trying to drown out the memory of her mother's exasperated face when she had dumped the head of the thing beside the hearth.
“There, you're not the only mother of a thirteen-year-old who's never made a kill. Happy now?” she had said, in a rush of boldness that had taken them both by surprise. Her mother had responded with that deep frown which she saved for special occasions, and Ingrid had turned on her heel and stormed out before her nerve could fail her and the argument start again.
But today would be different. A whole new challenge, a whole new set of obstacles – fears – to overcome. And without the hate, that warm, constant undercurrent of loathing, she would never manage to get through it at all.
Mesmers weren't exactly common in Hoelbrak, and those willing to train youngsters were even fewer. Ingrid had learned by listening from nooks and corners that they tended to be a proud bunch, but then she had also seen warriors such as her mother look down their noses at them, and jibe that they dealt in illusions rather than real battle. To Ingrid, their pride looked all too familiar.
In the end, she had settled on asking Old Sigrid for tuition, in exchange for doing chores. Sigrid was ancient to Ingrid, and even her mother didn't remember a time that her face hadn't been lined with wrinkles and her hair the grey of snow-filled skies. But her eyes were lively, and although her hands were arthritic, they were danced over by illusionary butterflies and sparks when she waved them while telling some fellow twice her size to carry her ale over to her carefully.
The hulking norn ambled away muttering curses under his breath about the “old witch”, but Sigrid was no longer paying attention to him. She was watching Ingrid, who had emerged from a behind a nearby pillar, and, biting the left side of her mouth to pull it up slightly, walked quickly over, hands clasped in front of her. Sigrid was wizened with age, and sat hunched so far over that Ingrid towered above her standing. So she knelt, and looked up at a wrinkly face which caught her in its gaze and held her, frozen in place.
There was pressure on her head - not painful, but not gentle either - as though she was being poked in her mind as the students of warriors were prodded by hand when their masters took a look to see if they were worth the bother. Sigrid's face remained neutral as she looked Ingrid over, and Ingrid felt for a moment as though they old norn could see into the tiny recesses of her mind – or could she? The moment was fleeting, and insubstantial – was it just another illusion?
“So,” Sigrid barked eventually, in a voice as cracked as dry leather. “You're too old and cowardly for stories, so you must be here for training.”
Freed from the grip which had held her, Ingrid gulped. Sigrid looked her and broke into a broad grin.
“I may be old and weak child, but I'm not blind yet, and nor am I deaf. Oldsters like me hear all the stories, good and bad, and I'd be a fool not to have heard of Gudrun and Oddr's daughter when your face and your attitude mark you so. It's no mystery that I know who you are, and it's not much harder to guess why you're here.”
Ingrid blushed, and looked down, letting her hair fall in front of her face.
“You want me to teach you tricks of mesmerism, no? You think it will be easy, or fun?”
Ingrid shook her head. “No, Sigrid. I don't. But if I have a way with it, is it harder than making a face like this talk properly, or than learning to be silent as I move so the others don't see me? I'm not a shirker; I'm not lazy. If I start a thing, I'll put the work in, both studying and paying my debts.”
Sigrid nodded. “Well, I've had a look at you. You'll do. You won't be catching the best at their game, but you've a raw strength and a stubbornness in you, and there's a hint of a calling as well. You want this, child, for your own reasons as well as the little spark in your gut, and that's half the trick, I say. Very well. Come back in the morning, when I've less ale in my belly, and we'll get started.”
Ingrid said nothing, too relieved to speak. She simply nodded, backed up a few paces, and ran all the way back home to stare at her reflection in her father's old shield again. Soon, she thought, stroking her lopsided face. Soon I can say goodbye to this face forever.
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