son of nyx — mateo & vin

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

☾

blood from his hand billows in the bowl of water. ash tastes bitter in the air. the wax drips, pearlescent. in the glass, shadows lie in the depths, shaped with four legs.

there is something i know, the raven says.

hungry wolf, the colour of ink. in the darkness, i watch it sink and dissipate. i did not think him to be a killer. but his eyes flash sharp, as the heroes' are. Mateo, of name Izar.

i look to him in the dimness.

"you asked for your fate." the taste of metal sticks to me, dried like a rust coat. i cannot shake it from my bones.

i know not what to say.

he is shadowed, dark blue across his cheekbones, eyes flame-gazing. i hold his fist still, raised above the water, blood-stained and warm. "Sigurth, son of Sigmund, asked for his fate too from the wise king Gripir." careful, i open his palm. "and Gripir said of all men on earth, you will become the most famous beneath the sun, the most honoured of kings, the mightiest of warriors."

the cut is surface-deep but weeps without ceasing.

"Sigurth asked – wise king, tell me of the first journey i will take. and the king responded, first you will kill the hard, brave sons of Hunding and avenge your father."

i unroll the gauze, pull the bottle of alcohol from the case. the smell of antiseptic stings.

"again, he asked the king Gripir of what would become of him. will i, your nephew, perform deeds deemed as best beneath the heavens? and he answered, you will kill the dragon of Gnitaheith who lies in greed, you will kill both brothers, Regin and Fafnir."

the candle hums, pure and solemn. perched on a clavicle, the raven croaks, blinded by light. i wrap his hand, gentle. i did not think him a killer. but we eat.

"you will seize all the gold of Fafnir. and you will meet the valkyrie of Gjuki's realm, fair in armour, maiden who knows the language of runes."

i let go of him. Mateo, of name Izar. soft in the light of the emptied training room, we sit in stillness.

i smile, bitter. "Sigurth was not satisfied. he asked again of his fate." Gripir's prophecy. to live eternally in lays means the sacrifice of blood. no hero has ever died old and happy – it is what it means to enter Valhalla. like Vargen. Freyr, Fenrir. Svetlana. i look to him, his face lit gold in fire, eyes shining.

"would you have wanted to know, to the end of everything, if it had been you?"