by Poppet
He's passionate about historical facts. I think I've found his geek muscle and it's just as developed as the rest of them.
“Where are we?” I ask, unable to hide my grin.
“If I had to try and pin it down precisely, I'd say right this second you're standing at the outer crust of Buachaille Etive Mor. We simple call this range the Beuckle.”
“That sounds like you just cursed me in an ancient language.”
He laughs uproariously, “It's the name for the mountain we're dwelling within. That's its original name. Mor means great. If you want to split hairs we're currently approximately 1016 feet above sea level. It was adopted as a Fingalian source, but I would argue with that, just because the Irish sent their warriors here for training. At one time this place was so thoroughly cosmopolitan without any of the divisions taken for granted today. It's a common misconception. As usual history has the bull by the udder.”
“What the frig is Fingalian?” I ask, running an appreciative hand over the wall of volcanic glass again.
“Simply translated it means territory of foreigners. But more precisely it's known as territory of Vikings. The word Fingal comes from Fionn gall, which translates as fair haired foreigner. That would be us because it's also a term for giant. There's even the legend of Fingal the giant from the Hebrides on Staffa Isle. The language Fingallian is a hybrid of Old Norse and Gaelic. And just because some of our kin lived in what is now modern day Dublin, history recorded it as an Irish settlement, but that's total pish.”
“Norse?” I squeak, finding that hard to believe.
He gives me his signature scandalous smirk, pulling me close with an arm around my shoulders, forcing me to sit with him next to the glowing quartz. “Deliah, our history in these isles is legendary. The isle of Man, Orkney, Caithness, Cumbria, York, Dublin, Northcumbria, and Shetland, were all Norse territories. The king of the Picts and Scots, Kenneth mac Alpin was our ally, and we didn't leave this fair land until well into the 1200's. There was a horrific battle beyond what is now named Glasgow and it put us off to be honest. But we love it here, it's our home and we didn't stay away long.”
“What battle?” I pry in my quiet voice. He looks blistered from his lungs to his testes with the recollection. He looks in pain.
“The Battle of Largs. We made up the bulk of King Hakon's army, not to mention our Norwegian brethren. Darling, it was Norse Scots who settled Iceland donchaknow? Just read their sagas, even our distinct horse saddles are written into them.”
I can't believe this. I'm sure he's just teasing me with his straight face on.
“I'm not falling for it,” I mutter, grinning at him conning me.
“Ever heard of King Robert Bruce? You must have heard of Robert the Bruce.”
Crivens, yeah, somewhere in my past. I wasn't raised here but I vaguely recall his name, so I nod.
Squeezing me closer, he explains, “His sister was the queen of Norway. He only got to the throne because of the ruler of the northmen in Caledonia. Without the help of Angus Og Mac Donald who was then Lord of the Isles, and Jamie (The Black) Douglas, he wouldn't have made history the way he did. The Norse element in Scotland was obvious right into the 1900's, and they continued to speak Norn. When I say we left, it was just the clan of Eagle who moved away for a time.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes, saying softly, “After Odin left... We'd lost Skadi, then to have her husband leave too, it just sucked sour balls.”
“So you're not kidding then? The Northmen really lived here all this time?” I say, to distract his rheumy introspection.
He gives me a half-smile, inhaling deeply as if to shake off the cobwebs of battles past, “Don't take my word for it lass. The government ran a genealogy survey last year in which they proved the Norse gene was established here in c3000BC, by females. It is a female genetic marker which only serves to validate the legend of how this land was started, by a giant female who left the land of the everlasting sun while having a temper tantrum.” He gives me a naughty wink, “A wee bit like you.”
“A woman?” I smile, a little pleased with that, ignoring the tease.
“Aye, according to the chromosome map a third of the men born in Scotland have northmen ancestry. That Y chromosome doesn't lie. The name Norman stems from the title Nor|thm|an. It's pretty basic when you know ancient history because anyone could walk to Scotland from Doggerland back in 8500BC. That channel was open until 4500BC which is why the northmen gene is in so many of the ancestors scattered in our land now. I'm not spinning you stories, this is well documented fact.”
“So how does the lighting work? These glowing stones are a bit flakey and new age for such a crowd of maniacs, right?” I ask, looking at the one we're next to.
“It's a gift from the old worlde. They are crystals, that once lit, can't go out until love dies.”
I search his eyes, gauging if he's teasing me or being serious.
“Liah, love is a powerful force not to be trifled with.”
His tone is on the verge of hoarse and I don't know what to say. The tension that just appeared between us feels awkward and unwelcome. It was so peaceful and easy when he was talking about history.
In a bid to get it back I say softly, reaching out to hold his hand, “Tell me more about this place.”
“Not far from here are the Am Monadh Ruadh mountains, well known for their granite aspects and the cairngorm quartz stones used in highland pins going back yonks. The darkness you see all around you is a testimony to this land's heritage. Granite is the second hardest stone in the world, not even a knife can scratch it. Fucking invincible is what it is. The locals mirror this. Hardy as god's testicles this lot are, and that includes you and me Deliah. Our goddess founded these lands, and don't you forget it.”
Ewan gives me such a fierce look, with the stone behind my shoulder glowing into the dark it lights his eyes the way a flash from a camera would. They're as brilliant as molten gold and I'm lost for words, gaping at him.
He's majestic.
He's like this mountain, indomitable and rugged, his eyes the sun cresting the morning and shedding the cold away from my soul. I don't think, I act on instinct, leaning closer and tasting his warm lips.
He yanks away like I burned him, “Don't play with matches lass. If you start a fire you might not be able to put it out.”
Standing abruptly he offers me his hand, “It's time you ate a decent meal and had a shower. Let's go empty the coffee pot.”
But... yeah alright... maybe he's right. Maybe my head isn't screwed on properly yet, and he's trying to save me from making an idiot of myself.
Chagrined I take his hand, letting him help me up, pleased when he doesn't release it as he strolls back the way we came.
Giving him a sidelong glance, the image of him in just a towel returns to warm my cheeks.
I don't need matches, the man is a furnace of hotness without me adding any kindling whatsoever.
Chapter 12
He was called Hrafna-gud, (the ravens god), because he has two ravens, Hugin and Munin, which he sends forth over the wide world to get intelligence : when they return, they sit on his shoulders, and tell him all they have seen and heard. As creator of heaven and earth, Odin rules and orders all things : he gives victory and riches, eloquence and understanding
~ Norse Mythology
Deliah:
Alone with Adam after showering and given gym clothes to wear, I'm marched into a huge cavern with the most decent lighting I've seen in here yet.
Guiding me by the arm, he indicates weapons like Ewan's, just smaller.
“You should find these easier to handle. I'm going to start by teaching you how to hit a target with a crossbow, then we'll move on to the shooting range. Ewan thinks you'll be fine in hand to hand combat so we'll skip that and go straight to weaponry,” he says.
I nod, listening with one ear as my eyeballs pop out on stalks at the way the guys training are thumping each other like they have a death quest.
&nbs
p; They're huge men too, many of them a fair sight larger than Ewan and his entourage. Gulping convulsively, the truth of his words finally hits me.
I'm in the temple of the Frost Giants.
Fingalians for sure!
*
Macala & Emma:
“Okay Em, I want you to concentrate. Focus on that mountain peak, with all your heart desire it broken and falling to the ground, collapsed instantly.”
I look at Mac, dubiously. “I don't know Mac–”
“It could save your life. It could save mine. Imagine those Eagles are running after us again and attacking, they want death, they're going to pick out my eyes and cut off my ears, they're going to stuff my mouth and nose with my own intestines... imagine it, picture it, now save me by commanding that mountain to fall on our enemies.”
Using my harii senses and sight, I focus on the snowcapped peak, reliving the adrenaline of running away from the big dark monsters who tried to kill us.
My rage, my fear, it coils up from my uterus and filters bile into my mouth, and I feel it. Energy. A weirdly hot energy burning through my veins as if I've got an intravenous drip attached to my spine churning acid into my plasma.
Fall! Now!
Focusing with every ounce of concentration I picture the lofty apex imploding, billowing choking dust into the atmosphere, crushing them and stopping them from taking away the man I love.
It wobbles. It literally wobbles like a custard just set and I squeal in excitement, ruining my focus.
Mac pats my shoulder as he steps into my line of sight. “It must be an attack. It must be a death strike. It must be immediate. Mean it as if it's the immediate difference between life and death, this second. The fight for survival must be your fuel.”
Sagging despondently I nod, looking back at the almost success of my first Thur exercise.
Mac moves away and I zone in on the summit.
Suddenly he has me by the throat with his thick hard arm, squeezing so hard it bursts pressure into my head, my ears pounding.
“I'm going to kill you, stop me, by collapsing that mountain.”
Struggling against his strength, I don't think, I just do. The angry grumble reaching across the silence of the deserted mountain range, up where the air is so clean and empty of noise or pollution, sounds like thunder rumbling in the distance.
Billows blow into the air like an exploding volcano spewing ash and Mac releases my neck. Folding over, gasping for breath, rage fires my fury and I snap upright to punch him in the throat.
Catching him off guard he goes into shock, unable to draw breath.
Yeah, I learned a thing or two during my training, one of which is to stop an attacker with instant effect. Punch him as hard as you can in the throat and he can't inhale. He suffocates and chokes.
He's wheezing, eyes watering, for an age, while I ignore him and turn back to survey my handiwork. Not bad for a first time, if I do say so myself.
After minutes he hobbles next to me, giving me a reproachful glare as he hoarsely whispers, “Now erect it.”
“What?” I snap, disbelief wiping my mind blank. “But, then why make me destroy it if you wanted it standing? How the hell am I going to put all that rubble back together again?”
“Emma, you are a Thur. They can rearrange the landscape at will. They rise mountains to halt the passage of their enemies. And they destroy them to crush their enemies. You have to do both, and you can because it's an inherent talent in your DNA.”
“How? How the hell do I do it?”
He grips me by the hair, pulling me over and sticking his knee at the point in my spine that would paralyze me, “You do it to save your life.”
But you love me! You wouldn't!
And then the pain begins as he applies pressure, and I know he would do it too because we have the juice that will heal me after he's broken me.
Fuck!
Scowling through pain glazed eyes, I fervently push my energy outward, using my final moment to scoot a whole new mountain where the last one was a moment ago, my scream buried by the cacophony when my vertebrae snap. Agony!
God! Oh God! Oh God!
I can't move. I can't feel anything.
“Mac! What have you done?”
We're so absorbed by our own dilemma that neither of us notice the high soaring eagle watching us.
*
Deliah:
Coh, I am starving! All this exercise is enough to make me skinny! I'm excited to tell Ewan how well I did as I run to the office where Adam pointed.
My greeting is on my lips with my smile, when I freeze.
There's a guy next to Ewan at the desk on a platform. The stranger's head is bent in concentration, forcing a dimple in his cheek to twitch as he mutilates his lip with nervous thought.
Well dang, who is he?
I'm fascinated by him, examining his features before they're aware I'm standing here. Tapping the desk as he points to something, he glances up, fixing me with aching slate eyes. He looks on the verge of torture, his eyelids bruised and puffy, his brows cursing the world as they knit together in black death.
Morbid gray irises flare with orenda-light; he swallows thickly, the words he was in the process of muttering curdling in his throat as a grunt. It simply pronounces the anguish in his pallid visage when his eyelids flinch and his pupils contract as if I just shoved a dagger between his ribs to cut through the membrane cloaking his heart.
He glances back at the table, jaw muscles flexing, lips thinning, saying to Ewan, “It happened here, and they're making their way along this shoulder to the northern face.”
Ewan nods, leaning on knuckles as he surveys the object of their debate. Snapping my stare between them I can't help but compare. The stranger looks persecuted, his wide shoulders hunched, the veins in his neck throbbing out in agitated stress.
He glances up at me again and just as fast looks away, standing up straight, facing Ewan, he says, “See you later. We have company.”
Ewan looks up, smiling when he spies me, “Deliah! How long have you been standing there? Come in.”
The scrummy curiosity doesn't wait for introductions, stepping down off the platform and stalking past me in t-minus negative ten seconds, his rush gusting the strong scent of fresh rain and pain on his way out.
Twisting, I watch him stomp down the corridor. He pauses as he swivels left to go down the tunnel to the mess hall, scowling at me as if I'm personally responsible for the tawdry state of the world, for global warming, pollution, every extinct species, every nightmare, and every broken heart.
In the darkness of the obsidian rock his hair vanishes against the camouflage, emphasizing his sallow drawn features. He looks like he's anemic, and bitter. It pings my reflexes. For some unfathomable reason I have the urge to run after him, give him a big hug, and beg him to cry so he can release the ghostly horde perching on his shoulders, slicing his happiness with their hisses of hatred.
It stings, the accusation suggested in a simple stare. My blood surges with dread at the unspoken disapproval. I feel judged!
Lifting his chin as if steeling himself for confrontation, he marches off, his ire and disdain fairly obvious.
What the hell did I ever do to him?
“Deliah?” calls Ewan.
Turning back to face him, I nudge my head in the direction of the mystery man, “Who was that?”
“Gunn. He's one of my strategists. Sorry, I should have introduced you.”
Gunn. Hoo-boy. Could a name fit the crime any better?
Ewan gives me his scandalous smirk, “Don't look so glum darling. Keep looking like that and we'll be throwing you a suicide party.”
I have anxiety chilling my intestines. “Me? I think Gunn would appreciate that gesture more than me. He looks like he took a double dose of despair with his morning coffee.”
“He always looks like that,” he says, dismissing my observation as inconsequential. “Get your cute arse over here and give me your opinion on this wild
card.”
I don't believe him. This is personal, I know it is. Strolling over to inspect the object of their discussion, I keep my tone congenial when I ask, “Why does he look like he sold his soul to Mordred?”
“Who?” says Ewan, distracted again, frowning at me as he pulls his thoughts back to our conversation and away from the map splayed open on the desk.
“Gunn, who else.”
His eyebrows pop up and for a split second he looks like he stepped in afterbirth and is skidding straight through the gates of Tombstone, “What's with the sudden interest in Gunn?”
“I dunno,” I shrug, knowing I'll seem neurotic if I tell him how Gunn makes me feel as though I sent a thousand souls for flogging and dismemberment before eating their children at the damnation feast.
Ewan stands erect, rolling his shoulders as if they're too tight, staring down at me. “Deliah do yourself a favor, don't go provoking a hornet's nest unless you wish to be stung.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I object. I simply asked why that dude seems so doomed, not why he manages to make me feel personally responsible for it.
