All shapes of noise and silence

Somewhere inland in Trøndelag, Year ~40 The sky was frosty blue, but a mountain ridge had already pulled a shadow over a small gravel quarry. The Rash thwarted the shape and purpose of the few buildings as if they were living beings. The structures lurked in that shadow, ambushing the descendants of their masters; broken windows bared their glass teeth, gates gaped or grinned split. The air stank of trolls. Or of rotten fuel, who knows. A black cat on the shoulder of a sturdy man in his forties was puffed up and sneezing. The other three hunters couldn’t be older than twenty. They all eyed the site from the shelter of a truck corpse, and two more older humans were signalling at them from behind a rock at a turn of the road. “A nice solid house,” the girl with a short and thick blonde braid whispered, wistfully staring at the one-story administrative building. “Warm enough for a giant. Why did I waste my turn on that stupid barn? Aww, Svein, it’s your turn to be a trollbait. Go enjoy.” A taller and heavier young man smirked way too smug. “You can have my turn, babe, if you kiss me.” The second, lean guy in a knitted cap snorted as the girl jumped at Svein to smooch him with too much enthusiasm. But she ran already off straight to the target house, as fast as the snow drifts let her. The two guys veered it at the flanks while the captain stayed back, hand resting on an assault rifle. “Hey, I know you’re there! Get your slimy giant ass outdoors!” The girl hopped in front of a half-rotten wooden door, a short sword drawn, then kicked it inside. The door crumbled into splinters. Her cheerful noise drowned out any vague sounds from the carcass of the building. But when a centipede troll darted to her from the freed doorway, it had its head chopped in half in a heartbeat. In the second heartbeat, a ghost window near the door burst out. The girl sprang back, screening her eyes from debris, but her sword didn’t miss a segmented sleazy leg of another grossling. They screamed together, feisty human battlecry and inhuman metal screech, and sprang at each other again. The blade hit and crushed the rotten head, while the other many monstrous legs hit only emptiness where the human was a split second ago. Her laugh rang in the frosty air as she was butchering the creature, spattering the snow around with putrid brown blood. When both trolls stopped twitching, she jumped into the house. The two guys ran after her. Einherjar following a valkyrie. Sort of. *** Nobody paid attention to an absolutely human figure between pines at the hill edge cut by the quarry. A young man was barely leaning on a ginger-yellow tree trunk and watching the scene below. Now and then a wind gust would tear at his fur-trimmed cape to reveal a dark purple sailor suit, so weird so high in the Norwegian mountains. Neither shadows nor distance could obscure the delightful sight and sounds to him. Neither sight nor sound would make him as much as twitch. Other Nordics (and other nations while they were alive) believed Norway to be an unemotional, quiet snarker type. No one, not even his dear younger brother, knew his passionate side because he never let it show, never felt any need to let it show, to express his elation in laughter, his joy in a smile, his love in words. It all stayed and shone inside. His love for his people, for their hunger to live, for their burning spirit so bright and piercing in several metres from death. Contrasts do wonders. It was like in his childhood when Vikings rushed to battle without any remorse or restraints for what they deemed right, be it loot or land. It was so simple and intense that it hit Nor as a shot of mead. Nothing in later history gave such vibes. In the modern era where safety and welfare eclipsed anything else, Norway was utterly bored. Even fishing was not a harsh, dangerous trade anymore. He was lucky to have offshore oil, it made life much easier, but gods, drilling was so boring! Now, that was in the past. Less people, more better. Surrounded by immediate horrible danger, people start valuing each other much more. They unite. Now they didn’t have time or resources to care for the environment or politics; just the same ancient blood rushed in their veins to attack, to kill without doubts, or to die without regrets. Trolls were monstrous enough not to stir any regrets. True, once they were people—his people—but they had to perish to distil the fewer, tougher ones. *** All three young hunters reemerged from the doorframe and windows in several minutes, after a lonely thud, and ran to the captain’s side. “Three tiny weaklings and the thickest pile of troll shit I’ve seen in my life”, the girl reported. The rifles hang on their backs, unused. “Uncle Magnus, bring the cart, there’s still some funny stuff and wires to rip off.” “Only after we find the giant and secure our backs,” the uncle retorted. “Continue, there’s just a couple of crappy hangars left. Sauron is never wrong, the thing must be somewhere here.” He patted an angry, bristling black cat on his shoulder. “Thurid, I’d give you my turn on the same terms”, the lanky young guy almost pleaded. Thurid measured him with a bored look. “No no no,” she yawned, leaning onto the Svein guy. “Go and die like a man. And don’t make me wait, it’s getting freaking cold here”. “Yes, the temperature is dropping, and soon a snowstorm will come down.” Uncle Magnus nodded towards the far mountains behind, shrouded in thick grey mist. “You may raise some noise, even beasts will be groggy. Just make it quick.” He shoved a couple of explosive sticks at the last acting trollbait. Still pouting, the guy took them and trotted to a long, once-metal-clad hangar. There, he waved his hands in front of a large, torn hole in the rusted wall. “Is anyone home?” he called and knocked on the metal with the sword pommel, making the other two snicker. They kissed once more before taking positions at the corners. Once their comrade lost hope to call out any grosslings and stepped inside over the pile of debris, they ran soundlessly to the sides of the opening and crouched there, swords drawn, while a rumble and quiet human voice wafted from inside. For a long time, the only moving things were the first rapid, slanting snowflakes and clouds creeping up the sky from inland. *** That was the problem. Humans grow accustomed to anything. His humans got the swing of things, and each year, as their skills were honed, the dire fight transformed into a routine task. Those three had spare time and attention for flirting! Einheryar, like Hel. Common sappy high-school-style stuff. Maybe it was time for Norway to stop convincing himself that it was not completely boring yet and that it wasn’t time to raise stakes. A generation passed. Most of the living people were born in the New Era and didn’t see anything abnormal around. So, the rules of the game had to change a very little bit. Troubles should be dispensed sparingly if he wanted Ragnarök to last forever. Norway hurried back into the forest shadow, to the main pit on the other side of the hill, where a stone wall was dropping into a pristine sheet of snow. He raised a gloved hand to a hairpin in the form of a Nordic cross at his left temple and ran a finger over the harmless decoration. “Hi, pal,” he said into the air. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important. I need your help. Yes, right now. Be a sweetie, grab a wolf or two, a wolf-beast will do just as well… but alive, please! And bring them to me. By the Paths-Under-Mountains. Bye.” How convenient it was that not even other nations could see his invisible friends or believe in their existence. Romania and England, the only two other magic wielders, might believe or guess, but Arthur had been too busy using his magic in petty politics, and Romania had been too busy making mysterious impression. Who knew if their magic helped them survive? Sure, the still-living Nordics might have remembered that Nor had called his best invisible friend a troll. Or that it was Nor who first coined that word, troll, to denote infected mutant creatures. Just for fun. No one got him pegged, though. A bunch of refugees from Africa was really the best cover story. Africa was brimming with all sorts of infections and was a very veritable source of the Rash. Who’d think it could be brought there by a guest from the north? Nor’s snicker remained inside. You can’t turn back time, literally, but if you have magic, you can reproduce an earlier state of life, the feel of childhood. And so he did. The others… Well, you can’t return just one advanced country into its tender Middle Ages, everyone shall go back too. He gave them all the chances to join the fun, and if they failed to see the fun, it was their problem. Save for Iceland. The little brother didn’t have it in him. And Nor did everything to keep him safe, and shared magic with him. That is, he instructed his fairy friends to fulfil people’s wishes when selected people would draw or carve certain patterns. Sweden and Denmark got the magic package too, as distant relatives, but they failed to notice it. Their problems. He took the finger off the hairpin and milled about the edge, kicking snow down and listening to quiet voices and rare bursts of laughter from the road and site. Not for long, though. The rock under his feet gleamed with broken lines forming a large gate, which let out a huge, barely human green-skinned figure. The giant carried a healthy-looking wolf under his arm. The animal seemed tiny in comparison, no larger than a spaniel. “Good.” Nor nodded to himself as the creature pressed the wolf down to lie in the snow. “Now let’s make a better whetting stone. Beasts are slower in winter, they say? Too much of an advantage here in the north. Let’s make it faster the colder it is.” And he chanted silently. Not a sound escaped his moving lips, but if it did, no one but rocks and his troll friend would recognise the Old Norse, and maybe the little brother Iceland would catch some words, but he was far away and blissfully ignorant, and hopefully safe. Wrapped in the vapour of breath, spelled non-sounds condensed into letters—or, rather, runes, glowing and writhing in the air, and twisting like ethereal chromosomes, rearranging into something new, hardly possible without magic. So magic was poured into the wolf, breaking its form to match the words. The resulting very furry and very large soccer ball on skinny legs might look funny if not for the glistening black maw filled with double rows of fangs. The beast snapped all its teeth in the air but could not reach the troll or break away from its grip. “So, what do I name you?” Norway mused. “Mm… Fenrir? A good name for a good boy in the good old Ragnarök era. Now run rapid, but stay silent.” Released and whipped by a stray wind blast, the beast darted around the rock in giant leaps, its grey hide fading into the rising blizzard. Norway squinted, nodded thanks to the troll, and ran back to his previous viewpoint. *** The acting trollbait walked out soaked to the knees and elbows in slime. “The giant was there,” he scoffed. “It’s just… it was sleeping. Crap, I had to dig and split, like, a dozen heads, some very deep.” “Just as I thought,” Thurid laughed. “And you wanted to sell that part to me. Sooo noble of you! No, thanks.” The chastened suitor muttered something along the lines of apology, but she wouldn’t listen. “Now let’s go help our old folk with plundering before we freeze to…” A horse neighing—or rather, a shriek—cut into the howling wind, followed by gunshots and more screams. All three young hunters pulled off their rifles and ran to rescue. Svein was the closest to the administrative house behind which horse carts for loot had been stationed, and the first to catch a glimpse of a grey beast. He even made one shot and most definitely hit the target, but the next moment the shadow fell on him, claws and fangs and stench, and sprang forth, leaving him in the snow with his throat ripped out. But that moment was enough for the other two to notice the monster too. In some fifty steps, Norway leant casually on a pine and prepared to absorb the scene. “Thurid, halt!” The other guy shouted, snatching an explosive stick from the pocket. “Come on, beast!” And the beast came. But before a blast of fire and thunder wiped out their dark silhouettes, there was another flash visible only to the observer on the hill. For a second or two, the spirit of the human, still uncalled by name, shone brighter than any explosion, shifting from realisation to despair to determination. And yes, love was there too. It felt delicious. It’s the most best. Not the grisly black and red and purple remainders of organic matter in the snow, which had been a dread and a resolve embodied just a second ago. No, but before passing on to Valhalla, the guy lit another light. The girl watched the scene, eyes wide and eerie, and the same spirit was kindling slowly up in her. She was alive, she’d check on the dead ones, put nearly dead ones out of misery, and stumble down the road to where their crew moored their dragon-headed ship. From now on, she’d attack the monsters differently. Would it be cold hatred or seething fury? Nor could not discern yet. But sure, he was going to enjoy every spark and every quantum of it. And looking in her face, other people would catch it. How did they used to sing? Men din hellige Flamme Blusser i Nordmandens Hjerte endnu. But your holy flame blazes still in the Norwegian’s heart. Nor waited till the girl turned away and slid down from the hill. Burning like that, she might see him, and he still had to walk all the way down to watch her steps. She shouldn’t trip from a cliff, freeze to death, or get spotted by other beasts or trolls. He’d make more Fenrirs later. A dozen would suffice for a while. Nor didn’t want that fire to be blown out together with the very lives of his humans. He loved them so much.