Her cold blue lips parted anew, the words almost whispered, out of fear they might wash away the sensation "It is like.. I can almost hear her" it was tickling all over her skin, her hand almost trembling as she extended it to the tree trunk again. Gently as she touched it, feeling the strange warmth of the tree, in a place such as this where all else froze. The howling wind faded around her, the noise of creaking snow underfoot the creatures in the valley and the rustling of the leaves overhead. The Uthgardt stirred at her side, a slow nod made slower still by her absence of mind and distorted perception of time. As his fingers brushed against the tree gently, almost caressing the bark, her eyes slowly trailed to her hand and beheld the snowflakes emerging from above. She felt the tears in her eyes well up, humbled in this presence she closed her eyes as a single tear trailed down her cheek and froze fast, her thoughts straying far out of time and place.
Slowly they had fallen, spiraling downwards from above, gentle and calm as it made its descend. She had opened her palm and watched it land and melt, such beauty and yet so brief. The thawed snowflake that became a drop of water and ran down the lines in her hand on to the white sheet that covered the ground. She had giggled and skipped along, trying to keep up with her mother, her pace faster than usual, more determined.
It had been a rare day on Ruathym, a clear and bright summer day, with a mild temperature and only a few scattered clouds passing by, some brought summer snows and others just rain. But as they had left the warmth of the hearth and the comfort of Grímnír's Hall, her grandfathers homestead, the snow had fallen sparsely and on the horizon clouds had seemed as if to steer clear of their path.
”Keep up Sigrid” her mother had asked ever so often, though not commanding, but her kind and pleading tone, resonating with the fondness and love that the woman had for her daughter. When they had left the sun was still ascending its cloudy steps in the sky, but before they arrived it sat perched highest in its path and its brilliant rays shimmered in the defiant snow that had covered the ground. For her myriad of questions, Sigrid had recieved no answers, they would often visit the deep pine woods and collect mushrooms, fallen branches, leaves and a dozen plants and roots she knew not the names of then, but had learned since. Carving runes in the quiet of the forest and drawing them on the ground, listening to the northern wind as is blew through the groves and the gods spoke to them in their distant and otherworldly voices. Her mother knew them well and what each sign meant, how to read them and how to perform the rituals, each intricate curve of the carved runes and the magical seidr practice of how to draw upon this power. But that day was different some how, not only the weather had a remarkable and unique kindness to it, Sigrún had taken a path they had not walked before and the trees ahead were taller, looming as if keepers of great secrets in the distance and their faces had seemed unkind and unwelcoming to Sigrid.
Dragging their sledge behind her, Sigrúns pace slowed as they approached the entrance to this mystical grove. Wrapped from head to toe in wool and thick furs, Sigrid had stumbled along with widened eyes at the tall trees, larger than any on the island and seeming as mountains to the only six year old girl then. They stood as sentinels arranged in meticulous patterns and designs, not at random as any normal forest or grove and not woven by magic of mortal hands. The whole place emanating with a deep spirituality and a pristine, unspoiled serenity, a place of primordial peace and beauty. She had felt it in her bones, crawling over her skin as each hair on her arms had risen, her bright and clear icy blue eyes marveling at the wonders before her, even now the memory felt fresh and vividly detailed. ”Where are we?” she had asked her mother as she caught up to her side, the trees before them standing arched and parting as if a gate and the snow giving way for a green lush undergrowth of grass and moss. The seeress had paused and crouched, taking the hands of her daughter in her own and smiled warmly, ”We are home, where all stories begin and all shall end. Where the first verses are written and all the sagas take root.”
She had pulled the large cowl of her cloak back and let her golden hair fall freely over her shoulders, then her gloves and her boots, the thick woolen breeches under her skirt, she had taken it all off and wrapped it in a bundle on the sledge. ”Come child, take off your winter clothes and let the summer greet you in full” Sigrún had said and helped her remove the brooch that fastened her cloak and the rest of her furs and thick clothing, till she like her mother, wore but her ocean blue dress with its gilded stitching's and rope belt. It was cold but not freezing she recalled, the feeling of grass and moss under her bare feet felt almost warm, not like in other places on her island home. Hand in hand they walked through the arching trees, in to the brief darkness where the thick canopy above blocked out the sun almost, glittering gold raining in its lucid rays as it broke between the rustling leaves, even the wind seemed calmer here. How long they walked there she could not remember, only the haze of it all, how voices whispered in the woods, between the trees and above them, under her feet from the thick entwined roots and by the passing wind.
It had all faded in a sudden, like a hundred voices falling silent in an instant, as they emerged from the twilight and on to the clearing. There it stood, towering, massive and overwhelming, humbling to all else on Faerun, in sheer size and height not only, but its beauty and the awe which it inspires. She had stared in wonder, speechless for once and perhaps afraid, not knowing why they had come there but awash with a sensation of appreciation that manifested in to joy, tickling in her belly as she had giggled, so too did her mother laugh then and picked her up, planting a kiss upon her cheek ”You must remember what you have learned child, destiny is not given, it is taken. Do you remember Sigrid?” she had nodded then, as she did now thinking back on it, she remembered.
The grove and its encircling tress had seemed so large then, but it was all dwarfed by its centerpiece. She had wanted to play and try and see how long it would take to run around it, but she knew that was not why her mother had brought her there. They had walked alongside the towering Oak and its massive roots the size of larger treetrunks, her eyes constantly drawn to the intricate carvings that seemed to cover the bark of the tree and shimmering with faint magical energies. It was all around them and right there in front of them, life in all its beauty and purity, all its glory and splendor. Names of long lost heroes, legends of old, fabled kings and brave warriors of brief glory, the first shieldmaidens, the last jotun son and the first völva. Some far beyond sight, at the towering crown of the ancient tree, some sprouting still from the roots and climbing as their stories and lifes flourish and grow with it. Each had seemed so different and all part of the same story at once, she had studied many of the names since and recognized them as faces of men and women she knew or had heard of. But there at the north eastern side of the tree, on the trunk of the Child of Yggdrassil, there were names that she knew best. And that is where they had stopped that day, when she read them first, those of her father and grandfather, her uncles and her brother, her mothers name was there as well, though aligned in a different way and with others she had not known. All of her family and their distant kin, upwards and outwards it went, branching far and wide.
They had sat down together and read them, as her mother explained the importance of this rite of passage, for all the sons and daughters of Ruathym who carve their names in to the tree, shall grow with it, in legend and power. And there next to her brothers name and under her fathers, she inscribed her name too, in the old runes of the first Ruathen and with the craft her mother had taught her and by her encouragement and guidance, till they shone and shimmered in the bark, brightly with the magic of the tree and the likeness of so many others, in accordance to the old ways.
"It seems this day indeed is marked by the past" she muttered softly to herself as the wind of the Cloud Peaks recalled her to the present. "Heavy things. Not to dwell on now." Stigandr murmured in response, breaking away at last. She stood still breathing slowly, a palm placed on the tree, her eyes shut with a gentle little smile on her cold lips, remembering as her mother would have urged.
