Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

  “And orange,” Kallan mused. “And far away.”

  She shifted her glossy gaze to Nordri.

  By the fire, he sat, watching, eagerly waiting for the moment when Ori would walk away. Ori never walked away, not since the night he had found him chanting his rhyme. Occasionally, a verse or two of the dreadful ditty carried through the caves to wake Kallan or lull her to sleep. Always Nordri stared.

  Kallan rolled her head away and peered up at the black ceiling. She no longer noticed the bitter tang or the weight of the elding chains or the endless fire that scorched her broken ribs. She was too broken to feel anymore. Deep, thick scabs formed where she laid on the stone the most, and she was always thirsty.

  “Forever thirsty.”

  Kallan watched a drip of water desperately cling to a stalactite overhead.

  Her parched lips—swollen, cracked, and bleeding—left her face numb to the beatings Durin and Blainn eagerly provided. Only after her senses shut down to preserve her sanity, after she surrendered all likelihood of survival, did the Dvergar beat the last of the hope from Kallan.

  * * *

  The voices behind the haze were silent. Eventually, they too abandoned Kallan, despite their best efforts. The haze of silver, blue, and white clouded Kallan’s mind. There, shapes waxed and waned as they came and went, spilling through the empty, endless room of smooth, silver stone. There, behind the iron wall, images of forgotten memories and ancient voices stirred. It was there Kallan went when she slept, when she slipped into the shadows to hide.

  Here, no pain could reach her. Here, Dvergar eyes couldn’t find her.

  The haze billowed as Kallan moved with ease through the mist. Distorted shadows of forgotten faces peered from a distance where they were the most obscure. Their voices carried through the silver blue like an endless echo, repeating words they once uttered long ago. Like eternal darkness into the endless moonlight, the haze stretched on.

  Aimlessly, Kallan wandered wherever the impulse drove her. She passed many hours like this. Never looking back, she roamed the great Void behind her ironclad wall, drifting about, desperate to lose herself in the haze.

  For if I were to lose my way, Kallan reasoned, perhaps I should not return at all to the other side of dreaming.

  It was like this, roaming about as it pleased her, that a glint of silver caught her eye in the shadows ahead where the mist was thinnest. Curious, Kallan glided toward the pale, silver light that glistened through the ice blue white.

  Through the mist, Kallan slipped over the cold, polished floors following the gray figure in the distant shadow. What began as an ambiguous shade became a woman standing alone in a beam of pale moonlight where the haze diminished.

  Solitary and alone, she stood. A lilac gown hugged her form and flowed to her feet without a blemish or ornament to distract from the subject. Her hair hung in long russet ringlets, as dark as clove flowers, past her waist. Simple elegance encompassed the woman whose high cheekbones and slender figure matched Kallan’s perfectly, all but the eyes. Almond eyes with bright rings of gold enclosed black pupils.

  Hot, unfallen tears burned Kallan’s eyes and clamped her throat closed. The end of her smashed nose burned and she lowered her gaze to the woman’s left hand. Black characters encircled the base of the woman’s index finger in a ring of Ogham runes. The lines and dashes flowed like webbing, down the back of her hand to and around a tri-corner knot intertwined with a circle. Like a climbing vine, it wove runes around her wrist until an intricate, black bracelet, etched in ancient letterings, had formed.

  Kira gave Kallan a soft smile, displaying her perfect, pale face. With burning cheeks, Kallan dropped her eyes to her own bare feet, maimed and calloused from the cave floor. She scrutinized the shredded remnants of her chemise.

  “Here she stands,” Kallan whispered. “Lorlenalin’s queen, Dokkalfr and daughter of Eyolf. Here in my glory, my filth, and rags.”

  “Kallan.”

  Her mother’s voice, so soft, so clear, as she had heard it long ago, lanced her, choking the breath from her, and only then did Kallan realize she had spoken aloud.

  Despite the cuts and bruising, her tangled hair matted with filth from the caves, her blood and vomit, the red, black, and broken limbs that made up her body, Kallan raised her eyes to her mother.

  And Kira smiled.

  They stared at one another, neither speaking for a long time as Kira studied the woman her child had become and Kallan relearned every strand of hair, every curve, and every movement her mother made.

  After a while, Kira furrowed her brow.

  “Where is the pendant?” she asked without a hint of a reprimand.

  The question weighted Kallan’s chest.

  “I lost it,” Kallan said, lowering her eyes, and every bit of Kallan ached to fall through the mist and hug her. Her mother’s golden eyes were as sharp as ever. They had never been any other way.

  “And the hunter?” Kira asked, adamant and sincere.

  Kallan’s shoulders slumped lower. Twice she would disappoint her mother within a single breath.

  “I lost him too,” Kallan said and looked at her feet.

  A tuft of wind blew, spinning a bit of the haze into a mini tornado at her mangled feet.

  “Where is it?”

  The deep amber voice rolled over Kallan like warm, sweet sap and Kallan looked back to her mother, but all that remained was the pale moonlight beating down at the empty silver-blue shimmering in the mist.

  Behind the haze, Ori sat on a slope of flowstone that had poured and hardened from the stalagmite that fastened her chains. He sported his usual leather overcoat and casually, comfortably, rested an arm loosely on one knee. He stayed in the shadows, seemingly indifferent to her appearance.

  “My mother’s gone,” she said, forcing the words from her throat.

  If Ori was put off, he didn’t show it. Kallan lay where they had dumped her on the floor of the cave, believing she still stood in the haze.

  “This will all end if you give them the pouch,” Ori said.

  Kallan cocked her head, unsure if pity clung to his words. An audible grunt of disbelief escaped her throat. It sounded too much like Gudrun and she made a mental note never to do it again.

  “I don’t believe that,” she said, “and I’d be the greater fool for thinking it.”

  “You look like you don’t believe anyone.”

  He didn’t move, but sat quietly as if waiting for an opportunity to come.

  “I shouldn’t,” Kallan said and looked back to the pale moonlight. The disappointment was visible on her face. From the corner of her eye, Ori stood from his seat on the flowstone. Having learned to associate any movement with pain, she twitched and Ori froze, allowing her security in his distance.

  “You don’t trust me, do you?” Ori asked.

  His large figure in the shadow loomed where the last of the mist swirled and diminished around his boots. She met his black, round eyes, unable to see past the smooth, pale skin and black beard.

  “You’re one of them,” she said. “You’re the same.”

  It was the first time he showed any emotion and the cold, hard calculative stare vanished. Ori held Kallan’s gaze for a long time. She pondered the whys and wherefores of his visit and cursed herself for not seeing it sooner.

  “Why are you here?” Kallan asked, irate that she hadn’t asked this first.

  Ori shrugged, closing his eyes briefly as he did so. It stirred a distant memory behind her wall.

  “We collect trinkets.”

  “Lie,” she said, suddenly aware that she had been slurring through the entire conversation and immediately made the effort to stop.

  Ori studied Kallan’s eyes.

  “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Lie again.” Kallan spoke more boldly. The haze was clearing.

  “No.” Ori shook his head and pointed to the shackles she had forgotten were there. At once, her wrists were heavy again.

  “The c
hains,” he said. “They don’t suit you.”

  “Don’t you have someone else’s dreams to invade?” Kallan asked, growing more irritated with his presence.

  “You think this is a dream?”

  “I know it is,” she said.

  Anger was flooding back as energy surged through her. It engulfed her as if taking in a long, deep breath of fresh air. On suspicion alone, she reached her consciousness down to her core, and, like the dragons of lore, the Seidr sparked to life.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered, realizing he had evaded her question. Her voice was strong, though raw from disuse.

  A grin was his answer, a kind grin that stretched the face beneath his beard.

  “You haven’t changed at all, Kallan,” he said with a deep sigh. “And you were right.” He pointed to the chains and solemnly added before walking away, “Sometimes, the dragons are real.”

  “Kallan!” A voice called through the mist somewhere behind her iron wall. “The dragons are real!”

  It came from far away.

  The high, soft twitters of a girlish giggle mingled with forgotten squeals and laughter.

  “There he is, Ori! There the dragon is!”

  “Ori,” Kallan whispered as the voices faded with the haze.

  One last time, Ori gazed at the elding chains. The two links that trailed from Kallan’s wrists were free from the single run. The bowl that burned with the bitter tang lay upturned on the floor.

  In the darkest corner, at the root of despair, a fire erupted to life. Long abandoned hope awakened, flooding Kallan with a bloodlust only Dvergar blood could sate.

  Ori, Nordri, Durin, Blainn, and Motsognir.

  If she was going to make a run for it, they would all have to be down, and once she started running, she would not be able to stop, not for a while, at least.

  Kallan stood on shaking legs, reminding her that the drug was still clearing her system. She collected the chains in her hand and charged for Ori. Swinging the links down, she smashed them into the back of his head. He was down before she had time to study the room.

  Vindictiveness in its rarest form exploded to life as Kallan located Nordri, who sat by the fire alone. She imagined that sick smile of his and fired a double shot of pent-up Seidr from both palms. He fell before he had time to reach for his axe.

  Not bothering to watch Nordri fall, Kallan ran in a direction she guessed would take her to the mouth of the cave, already pooling the next ball of Seidr in both palms as Blainn came at her with his axe, but her inhibitions were gone.

  Lunging ahead, Kallan threw herself toward Blainn, stopping so close they could have touched. Before his axe came down, Kallan grabbed his face with her left hand, his chest with her right, and fired her Seidr through him.

  The blast propelled his body back. He was dead before he hit the wall behind him. With the mouth of the cave in sight, Kallan collected her next round of Seidr and grabbed the chains at her wrists.

  So close to the end, Kallan sprinted, battling back the urge to vomit. With every step, pain gored her gut. Fire ate her legs and burned her chest. From the mouth of the cave, Durin emerged, each hand gripping an axe.

  While channeling the Seidr through the links, Kallan whipped the elding chains and Durin dropped beneath the lash. Infused with Seidr, the metal whips lashed the air. Swinging the axes toward her feet, Durin lunged. Kallan leapt back, snapping her chains as Seidr flowed from her palms down into the links.

  She grazed his back and Durin howled. Her final lash flogged his chest, and Durin fell. At the cave’s end, the clear night sky beckoned her. A breeze blew and the Nordic wind swept her face as she stepped from the stifling Hel of the caves.

  Hope engulfed her, easing every fire with the cold, sweet air and the fresh winds, but before she could feel soft grass beneath her bleeding, broken feet, the handle of an axe splintered the back of her head and sent pricks of light through her vision.

  Before Kallan hit the ground unconscious, she knew she was no longer in Alfheim.

  CHAPTER 40

  Darkness clung to Kallan’s skin. Like a disease, it devoured her, suffocating her and sucking out the light a lifetime of laughing beneath the sun had soaked in. It weakened her as she lay dying in the darkness.

  A distant beat drummed the silence. One. Two. One. Two. Kallan counted as she lay as still as her breath would allow. The agony rang in her shattered nose and she realized the drumming was her own pulse pounding her face.

  She tried to open her eyes, but the swelling had forced them shut, keeping her submerged in the darkness. Unable to shudder, she remained paralyzed by the pain, taking in every ache that spread from the tips of each finger to the core where her Seidr recoiled. And in every breath, she wished for death when the darkness would take her.

  * * *

  Fire poured through her insides. Kallan didn’t wince. She didn’t shudder. She didn’t flinch. Her body was too broken.

  A boot kicked her over, forcing the stale, stagnant air to rush into her lungs as the cave floor scraped her back. With much effort, she managed to open a single eye. A sliver of orange pulled back the black, and Durin stood, cursing, in what she could only imagine was a slew of guttural slurs that suggested he had been hitting the black root brew hard.

  She saw his mouth move, but heard nothing. Her eye wandered to the stalactites clinging to the roof of the cave.

  Durin landed another kick.

  Kallan gasped this time and studied the limestone tips above her as her body shook against the pain she could no longer feel. Color flowed through the stalactites glistening in the fire light.

  Durin’s foot stomped her hand. She felt a snap and he ground his heel into her smallest finger. A tear rolled from her eye. The orange light gleamed off the minerals embedded in the cave wall. Durin’s boot slammed into the side of her head. She felt nothing.

  Shadows danced against the stone, awakening her to the hidden treasures buried within the earth. It breathed and moved with the land, its heart concealing a Seidr of its own, forever dormant, waiting forgotten in the bowels of the world. All who knew of it had passed on to become part of it. All who lived had forgotten generations ago.

  This was the Seidr Gudrun had spoken of, the Seidr that mingles and flows, the Seidr that is there. Living and breathing, it moves. Until now, Kallan had failed to see.

  Durin had stopped. Over her, he stood seething with drunken breath. Curious, Kallan lolled her head to the side where she could see. His face twisted as he screamed words she could not hear. Kallan relaxed and took in each breath. No longer fighting to breathe, she welcomed her death.

  His lips moved and he spat, but Kallan didn’t hear. She watched Motsognir pull on Durin’s shoulder. They were shouting for a long while before they stopped. With flask in hand, Durin took a swig. Droplets of liquid—so dark a red they looked black—dripped into his beard, where he left them.

  Behind him, Nordri watched with the same sick grin, now mingled with darker thoughts. His shredded tunic hung from his shoulder, revealing his chest she had seared with her flame.

  In the shadows, at a distance, Ori stood silent. His eyes, as pensive as ever, fixed on hers, blanketed and empty, unreadable, as always. If he heard what Motsognir was saying, he didn’t acknowledge it, engrossed instead with Kallan’s mangled body dumped carelessly on the ground.

  She didn’t move to communicate. She didn’t try. She didn’t care. She rolled her head back to the stalactites that greeted her where the Seidr glittered and danced in the Dvergar’s fire light.

  Cruel, cold hands clutched her wrists, forcing her gaze from the rivers of Seidr. Desiring her final breath, she watched as Nordri pulled a ring of keys from his leather belt. He located a silver-black elding key, and fumbled with the chain that bound her to the floor.

  With indifference for her broken, bleeding body, he violently shoved his arms beneath her. Each jolt sent splinters screaming through her and, when he stood to lift her, he jostled her harshly. Pain
surged through her and the world fell dark once more.

  * * *

  Silence.

  Kallan lay, unmoving on the floor. Her breathing rasped against her dry throat. She tried to remember time and failed. Pain reared its merciless claws, digging its way as it burrowed through her, but she didn’t move.

  Tears flowed in their stead and Kallan stayed in the darkness, waiting to die.

  A hand brushed her face. She tried to flinch and failed. Long fingers, gentle fingers, cupped her head and she relaxed, accepting the pain that followed.

  Cold and wet flowed over her dry, cracked lips. They parted with relief, and she gasped. Water sloshed mercifully into her mouth, quenching the fire burning there and she gulped hungrily for the drink given to her.

  The water stopped, allowing her a chance to breathe. The moment she stopped to catch her breath, the thirst returned stronger than before. Whoever showed her mercy saw her need, and again allowed the water to enter her mouth.

  She drank, but not enough to have her fill.

  The water ceased and a gentle hand lifted her from the hard stone. She needed to know. Forcing her one good eye open, she saw the faint, orange light of Ori’s lantern. Relief flooded his eyes, and he smiled.

  “W—Where,” she said.

  It was the first sound she had uttered in days. The word ripped her dry throat, sending her body into a fit of convulsions. Ori tightened his grip, holding her body still. He waited until the coughing subsided before he answered.

  “Sleeping,” Ori said. “They all are sleeping now.”

  “Why?”

  “You really don’t remember,” Ori said. “Do you?”

  Knowing she couldn’t answer, he didn’t pry further.

  He released a deep sigh and once more submitted the water, letting the few droplets run from the cup he held to her lips. Kallan gasped and he gave her a moment to catch her breath again.

  “Motsognir makes no plans to feed you until Svartálfaheim. I know how long it’s been since last you ate, since you drank.” He shook his head. “You won’t make it that long.”