XXVII – King for a Day #3

Turning back to her in response to what he had just said, he found a dreamy smile.

Curious, he watched her lean forward slowly, one hand upon her hip, until she reached for the notebook.

With her eyes closed, she pressed it to her chest and let forth a soft sigh between her wrinkled lips.

Arwel sensed that his hunch was not far from the truth.

Miar’s countenance appeared refreshed, even though she had scarcely slumbered in the attic gaol , neither had she been able to sleep in that damp-smelling bedchamber.

'You know, when you reach my age, there are good days when you long for eternal life and, from dawn onwards, you try to make the most of your time on this earth.

And then there are others when the weight of what you have lived through bears down upon you, and there are so many waiting on the other side that, well… '

The sound of her voice, somewhere between a child’s and the rustling of the wind, reassured Arwel, who nodded and stepped towards her.

'Young man, sit down and let us see what the magnificent Maltón has left us.'

He shifted the length of his cloak, which reached halfway down his thigh, to one side and sat down upon a red wooden chair next to the lady. His pulse began to slow beside the maternal figure that Miar evoked, much to his regret at not having been able to father a child.

Now calmer, and whilst playing with a thread that had come loose from the velvet cushion beneath his buttocks, he told her about the symbol upon the temple’s main pillar and emphasised that it was the first divine manifestation. Then he handed her the piece of bark he had gathered in the forest.

He did not know if it had been there all along, or if it was Owin or the storm that had left it there; then he remembered that it was where he had abandoned Bartón.

Silently, he bowed his head so that it would droop under the weight of guilt, and his fringe, now dry, concealed the reservoir of his eyes.

Miar gave him space whilst observing his calloused hands, the scars upon his fingers and right forearm.

She traced the swollen veins upon his long neck that extended until they were hidden beneath his angular jaw.

She traced his collarbone, which peeked out from the folds of the chainmail, intertwined with the ribbon tying his cloak, and paused at his chest.

'What does Tyr mean to you?'

Arwel lifted his head and, behind his hair, met the index finger pointing at the silver-forged pendant hanging from his neck.

'He is the only one who governs my faith,' he replied, puffing out his chest, as if the deity so very his own, and no one else’s, filled him with pride. 'By blood we live and by it we die.'

'You know, in certain odes—such as those upon which I was reared—Tyr is both the son of Odín and his extension.

The beginning and the end. The rune upon your pendant, the one that bears his name—the arrow pointing north—signifies unbreakable will, resolve and courage.

And behold, it is present in both objects. '

'By the sharp edge of Tyr’s sword,' he said excitedly, and Miar hid her laughter behind her hand. 'There are four runes, one at each cardinal point surrounding the Hulinhjálmur.'

'Nay, this is the Vegvísir, fashioned to guide the way and the truth,' Miar corrected. 'Moreover, not all of them are runes.'

She pointed to the symbol engraved upon the southern side. It was Gungnir, a union of two runes signifying the spear of the Father of All.

'Behold,' she added, bringing the objects closer to the window so that the light would bathe them.

Arwel cast his gaze from one to the other whilst the widow permitted him to draw his own conclusions and confirm whether he beheld the same thing as she did.

For a moment, Arwel slowly closed his lashes, which appeared whitish in the evening light.

He passed his fingers o’er the bark; the virtue streaming from it filled him with the same valour he knew when he hurled himself into battle.

He opened his eyes and beheld it, then repeated the action with the book’s cover.

He perceived every minutiae of the carving as a strange force prickled through his fingers, and he began to smile.

It was not the likenesses that appeared identical at first glance; he realised this when he noted that the rune of Tyr was carved deeper into the rough bark, at the summit of the seal and the upper quarter towards the right-hand side of the Vegvísir, down to the horizontal midpoint.

As for the book, it was Gungnir at the base and the remainder of the right-hand quarter, from the centre horizontally downwards, which was several millimetres deeper and completed the missing particulars in the volume.

The other two outer signs and the remainder of the symbol’s circle lacked definition upon both objects.

They were excited. For a long while, Arwel forgot the pressure and let himself flow like a spring. As for her, she cast aside the weariness of a long, solitary life, feeling useful and grateful to be so.

'What do you want to bet that the symbol on the temple beam completes the clarity of one of the signs?' she said, rocking back and forth in her chair, like a child agreeing on the final rules of the game before it begins.

'I could not wager against it, milady , for I believe the same. It would be an honour shouldst thou join me, and together we might raise a canticle so that Tyr may guide us through this darkness that devours us,' Arwel invited, and with his hand he helped her to her feet.