The Masks We Weave - Part Three

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.

The Masks We Weave - Part Two

Finding Her Fears

The snow was left behind as Ingrid made her way down into the foothills. It was a long walk, but the path was well laid, and the sound of the wind twining through the trees helped her relax. She should make more effort to come out for walks like this. Too often she stayed in the lodge, not daring to pass the gauntlet of stares and not-so-subtle elbow nudges to escape the population of Hoelbrak. But it was peaceful here, and empty enough that she didn't have to keep her chin tucked a hair's breadth from her neck all the time.

The weather was cold but clear, and the air was fresh with the scent of recent snow melt and earth. When she spotted the clearing ahead where the training encampment was, she knew she's gone far enough, and turned off the path into the trees. The ground was still soft and springy, and her boots left clear footprints which she wrinkled her nose at – but no matter. Who would be tracking her? It was she who was the huntress, though she would barely admit that, even to herself.

After all, she wasn't hunting to make a name, only taking a walk alone, and if she happened to make a kill and prove she wasn't a coward – to Gudrun, so she could put an end to that line of her mother's complaints – well then, so be it. But she didn't care what other anyone thought of her, not really.

What was a reputation, anyway, if not a way of putting others down? All her life people had spoken of their great deeds, and in the same breath mocked her for what was beyond her control. Slow to talk and slower to talk without a slur, she had let them get on with it, forcing herself to care less and less each time the insults came her way. Kill or be killed, her mother tended to think, and why shouldn't she? Life worked out just fine for her. Even losing her partner had been a tale of note; she had carried his battered body on her back for a day and a night so his funeral pyre could be lit in safety.

Ingrid hadn't envied her that task and still didn't. There were other ways to gain glory, she thought as she spied the tracks of an alpine skelk and sank into a predatory crouch. Skills learned at the insistence of her mother, and honed avoiding other young norn came into play, and she moved noiselessly through the forest. Eventually she caught up with her target, and raised her pistol slowly; sword at the ready just in-case she had a misfire. The skelk stopped, and raised its head, sniffing the wind.

Exhale she thought, her father's voice echoing in her mind. Fire. The skelk dropped, a bullet lodged in its spine. The thrill of triumph Ingrid felt at her first solo kill was quickly dwarfed by regret that her father wasn't there to give her a bear hug or pat her on the shoulder, and then a lack of direction. What now? She'd killed the thing – and skelk were egg-stealing pests, so someone somewhere would benefit from there being one less of the dratted things – but it wasn't exactly something she could go home and boast about. Skelk were killed every day. She stood, and strode over to the carcass, no longer caring about the noise she made. Quickly and carelessly she beheaded it with her sword, and then spent a little longer over removing the claws. Cleaned, they might make a nice trim for a skirt or tunic.

She turned to go back the way she had come and nearly jumped out of her skin. Behind her stood a Raven shaman, eyeing her critically. She cringed, and turned her face away, then risked a look back. He was still staring at her, arms folded.

“Well, I see why they call you the Coward, Ingrid Gudrunsdottir,” he remarked eventually. “Cringing little thing, aren't you?”

Ingrid turned red with shame, and hung her head, saying nothing.

The Raven shaman spoke again. “I thought as much. You let your fears dictate you, child. Until you master them, norn everywhere will scorn your name.” Ingrid looked up, scowling. “Raven thanks you for slaying that egg-thief, and offers this advice: 'We all have fears; dark thoughts that eat away at the courage in our hearts. But until we seek those fears and learn their names, we cannot hope to banish them. True courage lies in facing down your flaws.' Think upon Raven's words, young norn, and find what it is that you fear. Only then will you be able to conquer it.”

The Masks We Weave - Part One

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?