Chapter Text
“What exactly makes you think this is a good idea?”
Brynja squints at Auður across the table. They sit in the tavern- the one they’ve been coming to all their lives. They know everyone here, and of course, everyone knows them.
“Many reasons. Which I see no great need to share with you.”
They reply, clicking their tongue and smiling softly. Auður makes a face.
“You can't seriously expect us to change the traditions we’ve held here for a thousand years-!”
Brynja holds their hand up to stop her. They've heard this complaint ad nauseam in the few short weeks since they took over as one of the primary councillors of their little outpost; they've garnered some controversy among the small population of villagers.
“You’ll see. This will be good for us.”
Auður looks doubtful at best, like the rest of the village, despite their best show of conviction. The village’s seclusion has meant its survival for all these years, amid growing pressure from outside to buy, and build industrial plants on, their ancestral land. But the weather is becoming harsher, and they know that, despite their youth and percieved naivety, they need to adapt or be wiped out. Like all things. Like all life. A lesson they had learned early, on those bitter winter mornings of their childhood when their uncle would drag them out of their cot at the threat of dawn, into the deep wilds that surround their shielded little village.
“I, for one, am excited to see a foreigner,” a passing villager says. “Is it true they have blue skin?”
Brynja sighs deeply.
“No.” they bite their cheek. “I don’t think so.”
''Do you think they'll have two heads? Like in Invarr's story?''
The villager insists.
''No.''
Brynja replies, dryly.
''That's only ones from the East.''
Turning over the law that guaranteed the village’s safety hadn’t exactly won them the popularity vote, but they hoped that in time they would see the returns of their struggle. No foreigner had set foot on the land, if the stories were to be believed, ever.
Not that it's somewhere people are dying to go. They have little experience of the outside world, but they like to hope it isn't covered coast to coast in permafrost, biting, cold winds that soak through into your bones. And, in the same breath, Jarðvarmi. The Earth Warmth. Geysers, volcanoes, sulfur fissures. A land caught in a delicate balance between two extremes.
Finishing their 6th or 7th pint, they stand, adjust the mask over the lower half of their face, and tuck in any stray red hairs that fall from under their cap and hood. Making their way down the steps and onto the very last of the frost, they feel hopeful. The first shoots of green are beginning to shoot up from the ground, bringing life to the desolate landscape for the first time in months. In a few weeks, there will be flowers peeking through the frost, bringing foxes and birds and their little world back to life.
Their needs here are simple, but failing to meet them means death. The evergreen conifers, their hardy dark green spines poking out through the snow, tell them that they’ve successfully dragged everyone through the winter for one more year. Spending long days and nights hunting down the ever-dwindling numbers of game in the woods, forced many nights to hunt the unbeasts, feed their stringy meat to the village, they had often felt hopeless. But now, as spring creeps over the horizon, they can almost feel the energy in the air.
They feel the excitement in the pit of their stomach, just teetering on the edge of dread. Spring will beckon travellers- and who knows what they will bring. For all their talks to their people about how absolutely safe and beneficial it is to allow them here, they have very little idea of what one might be like. They imagine richly coloured fabrics, precious stones and metals. They imagine tall people, short people, round people, square people, blue-skinned, two-headed.
But then they wonder, as they reach their front door, who would come? To some bare bones little village on the edge of an unknown country- are they far from other places? They wouldn't know. Probably hobbyists. Scientists. Birdwatchers. Appreciators of natural beauty- they've got as many rock features as the next village. They settle into bed quite pleased with themselves- after having taken off the 5 or 6 layers of clothing they've grown accustomed to, they settle into the heavy furs that cover their bed and finally take off the mask now that they're alone. As they drift away, they grow more sure- ‘this will be good for us,’ they tell themselves. Birdwatchers. Harmless.