Caer watched, trying to catch her breath. What could she do? She wanted to see him, to seek the council and the comfort she found with him in her dreams.
But he became a stranger to her. The man she knew as she slept never existed.
Hestonath.
Caer stood still and listened as the word reverberated in her mind, the musical lilt of the Fairy Queen’s voice running over and over, overlapping.
He does he does he does he does he does he does he does.
“He does not exist, nor love me as I loved him,” Caer whispered. “He loved me because of an enchantment. ‘Tis a curse for him to be bound to me.”
Caer ibanestilith? Caer, will you go to him?
“Why would I go?” Caer wondered aloud. “He stands beyond me, in the worlds not yet come to be.”
He stands in his circle, the sacred circle. Your blood draws you to it, to him.
“What do you see in visions, oh stranger who walks in my dreams?” she whispered, unheard in the silent woods. “Does magic call me to you, to visions?”
Caer ibenilith. Go to him, Caer.
Her hand reached out to the circle and felt its warmth and power.
Soon you will know the answers to all the questions your heart desires…
The circle spun around her. As Caer’s body fell into the snow, one hand within the circle of light, her mind stood beside her love in the circle, the world opening before her, revealing its secrets.
Caer saw visions in light, as Miðgarðir shattered around her, replaced by a realm of cold and ice. The light of the moon caressed her face, and an ancient crown, long hidden, lay upon her brow.
And-- nothing.
*****
The world changed.
Caer perceived light and color, Miðgarðir before the fall. She glimpsed what she heard of in legends, what no longer lived, now buried underneath the ice and the snow.
Green fields of grass and budding trees, so much green in Miðgarðir as it once existed. She heard it all too, the centaurs as they walked in forest glades, the nymphs as they danced in the light of the moon, the fairies as they laughed and sang in halls beneath the world, as mortal children laughed and played.
And far away, beyond the dark mountains, it began.
Like a plague of death it swept over the land, shadow and fire, burning, destroying all. In the black forest in the east of Sul, the fires quelled, and the land became silent.
And the winter came.
Ice and snow poured from the heavens. All once green and living lay in cold death under the winter’s grasp, a winter which came upon them with the change of seasons, and so the people prepared. Foodstuffs they stored and kept for years, ever dwindling, and the fiercer game they hunted for meat. Ever and always winter came, each howl of the wind the sound of Belial’s maniacal laughter.
Caer fell, hand in hand with Headred, to the kingdom of Sul in the realm of Miðgarðir, and looked out at the kingdom. Caer touched the soft snow of the sacred place and saw the standing stones rise before her. In her blood she felt their power, the power inside her.
A woman walked there, weeping in the light of the dawn. Long tresses of white hair fell down her back, streaks of auburn within it, and her skin pale and cold.
“Here she walks and here she waits,” Headred murmured.
“Why does she walk and wait?” Caer asked, when he did not finish.
“For the coming of the light,” he whispered, as the woman looked up.
Her eyes bore into Caer, like a light peering into the dark places. Caer realized she saw this before, in her dreams, the woman who gave her life.
Caer studied Beren’s smile and looked upon her mother, the Ice Queen.
The time now comes…Beren’s voice echoed around her..
Caer perceived the winter around her as she walked to her mother. There the path into the forest opened, and the trees arched to make a doorway.
Your time comes upon us all, my daughter.
The Ice Queen stood in the clearing, not far from her. Tears streamed down her face, and yet…
And yet the woman of Caer’s dreams looked upon her in hope and happiness.
“You have returned to me at last, my daughter.” Beren’s tears of joy fell onto the ground and shattered on the ice and snow. The shadows of Caer’s mind overcame her. She flew into the dark visions.
Do you hear the call, the voice of Beren whispered in the wind. Do you feel the call of the world forgotten by you?
Ull, the White City, rose tall before her, glistening and dead in the dawn light. And they stood again in the sacred place, the child of light and the Ice Queen. Beren turned and entered the hall of the woods.
“I hear it,” Caer whispered and followed her.
Headred and her mother disappeared. Torches, held in brackets in the trees, burned blue. Caer slipped twice on the ice covering the forest floor. And she fell.
Caer stifled her scream, as she looked down at the woman she knew as her mother, entombed in ice in the forest floor, weeping within it, alive and cold, alone for all eternity as she waited. She listened to the sound of drumbeats in the distance, the howl of wolves and the march of golems. Caer recognized the sound: an invasion, and she could not escape.
Caer ducked behind a nearby fir, thick and cold, and waited for the enemy to pass.
But no invasion came. She peered out from her vantage point and saw the Dark Lord walking in the snow beyond the Vingólf. Her mother Beren lay frozen beneath her in the ice coffin, crying crystal tears shattering in the cold.
“Tell me where you hid her, sister,” Belial growled. “End this now and tell me.”
The Ice Queen said nothing.
Belial’s dead face contorted in rage. “Have it your way, fool!” Belial screamed. “Her blood will yet run through the world in rivers.” Lightning forked from the skies, and touched the demon’s heir. Swirls of mist surrounded her and exploded. In raging clouds and shadows, Belial disappeared.
“Your desire does not change, sister,” Beren whispered as her spirit walked in Sul, crying.
And as Caer looked on, with Headred again by her side, the world changed again.
*****
The wasteland of Óskópnir rose before them. Spirits of the dead moved over the cursed earth, into the depths of evil and despair in Belial’s domain.
Far below a great disturbance commenced. Wolves sparred in great, shadowy pits, some tormenting the men they captured, and others battled among themselves. Golems wrestled other golems with swords cast of iron in the shadows before the dark towers of Eliudnir. And in the sky, lightning crackled.
The storm clouds in the shadowed skies whirled over the parapets of the iron fortress in the wastelands. Demons’ laughter cackled amidst the thunder of a land crumbling, burned and smoked as if the very depths of the underworld.
And some might have called it so, including the one in the highest tower of the citadel, a sorcerer who holding the demon’s orb.
Inside the tower there no laughter emanated. The sorcerer lifted the glowing blue orb above his head and watched the images inside. Hundreds of places flashed through its eye, never pausing, never showing the one he sought.
Lightning flashed as Belial looked on from the shadows beneath her hooded cloak.
The other man beside her possessed no face, his soul just as evil as his master. Gorga, Lieutenant of Belial and chief of his clan, growled beneath deformed scales, the sole, visible part of his face his wide mouth. As he growled it opened just far enough for Waermund to notice the rows of sharpened teeth within.
We are close now, Belial thought.
The sorcerer held the shining globe up, illuminating the land around them, as worlds of wonder passed by, worlds of castles and trees, of death and of life, of destruction and chaos, and of order and perfection. Walls built as others crumbled, empires destroyed as others rose. Finally, a world Belial knew, a land of peace and winter, of forests and trees, of deep rivers and ancient roads and tho
se who walked over them praying for the spring and the thaw of the light, of people and of things Belial would never understand.
“There, in the safe havens,” the sorcerer announced. “In Fensalir, the light survived, the one whose birth defeated you lives on. To save the lands of ice, she must return. Destroy her when she remains weak, and you will have this world for your own.”
Belial cackled and shook with delight, as the globe became red with the blood she prayed to spill.
Caer, looking on, covered her mouth and cried out.
“Who goes there?” The demon demanded, “Imp or wolf, man or golem? Answer me now.”
Caer said nothing.
“She watches now,” Belial hissed. She peered around unaware of Caer’s presence, looking for her sisters form. “She watches as she walks, and she walks while she waits.”
Belial neared Caer, who could smell death on the demon. Belial sensed her too, the light in her presence she could not destroy. Belial screamed in rage.
The moon waxed high in the sky and the ground became heavy beneath Caer and Headred, together again as their spirits fled the fortress of Eliudnir. Above the travelers, a few bright stars glimmered. Clouds obscured the moon, the home of the goddess who watched the night world.
The trees became shadows again, tall and thick. Caer and Headred passed a frozen stream and ice-covered rocks. In the starlight and the moonlight, wood and water nymphs waved in the wind kicking around them. Gentle breezes flowed through the shaggy hair of the nymphs, the call of the north waking them to the frozen winter.
Above rose the western mountains. Caer gazed upon Niðafjöll, the black mountains of the west. Without blankets of falling snow to shroud her view, Caer floated high in the air. The life in Myrkviðr Forest beneath the Niðafjöll Mountains became shrouded and weak, the trees dark and dead in Myrkviðr, the black forest of Sul. Once she thought she saw movement in the wilderness, as they stood atop the great precipice and the narrow path into the valley.
Before them now lay the mountain Kern. By far the tallest mountain in the kingdom, taller than any she could imagine. The mountain’s snow-capped peaks disappeared in the clouds. Beoreth recounted the legends as Caer’s bedtime stories, of the gods ascending to the mountain’s hidden top and looking down upon the world they made.
*****
Night turned to day again. The sun moved through the skies, soon sinking beyond the distant western mountains. Its amber light flooded the heavens with color. The glade became dim as they dreamed, and the one remaining light the glowing circle Headred drew.
In the snow beside Caer and Headred lay an oval pool. She could not tell what hid from her within the reflective surface of the icy pool. It seemed to be water, but when she looked closer she saw a silvery liquid, like a thousand tiny strands of silk. A single light within it moved, up and down, hitting the flat sheets of ice and moving on, lingering on the intricate knot of metal encasing the glass and moving into air.
The world of her dreams, Caer realized. She fell into the pool and again into visions.
The Silent Vigil opened before them, the circle of trees guarding the Ice Queen in quiet, eternal, cold sleep. The clear coffin of ice encasing Beren revealed her hair splayed back, more white now than auburn, her lips still as red as roses, and her skin as pale as snow. The tomb, though ice, seemed made of glass, holding her beauty forever, beyond Caer’s reach.
Caer looked upon the face of the woman with recognition and with hope. The Ice Queen called to her in her dream.
“I am the one Belial seeks,” Headred’s deep voice murmured into her ear. For a moment it seemed she watched a shade of herself and Headred together in the woods. Before she knew what happened, Caer laid beside him.
“Why does the Demon seek you?” she questioned, fear filling her heart. Where am I? she wondered. The sounds of the coming spring, moments before surrounding them, disappeared. Not even the whispers of creatures’ movement could be heard in the trees.
“Because she desires power, and power she will have if she possesses the future and those who see it,” he murmured. His deep brown eyes looked into hers as his chestnut hair spilled onto his crimson-velvet clad shoulders. Soft breeches the color of the forest floor covered his legs, the knee high black boots rising from his feet. It all seemed so real.
“Do you fear me, my love?” he asked. “I have known you for as long as you have lived, from before the coming of the winter, before our handfasting made our destinies one.”
“I remember the dreams,” she told him. “I sat here as a child and looked at the boy who lingered in my dreams.”
“You spoke to me,” he whispered. They grew so close their bodies pressed together.
“You waited for me, though you did not know why,” he moved so close she thought she could no longer breathe. He seemed more beautiful and handsome than she could have imagined.
“I didn’t wait. I wanted what waited beyond me,” she murmured back. His lips closed on hers, surprised her as they brushed together, and she felt warmth and longing in her stomach.
“Wait for me now, for I am yours to have when your heart thaws.” His voice became husky.
“Caer!” Beoreth shouted from far away.
Caer turned, feeling like her body became a rock hurtled off a cliff. Her head swam, but not as if she fell into dreams. Now she awakened from them.
Caer looked up and hers eyes locked with Beren, whose spirit watched.
Come to the sacred places and lay at the foot of the mountains of mist, the Ice Queen spoke. Beren pointed through the Vingólf gate to the standing stones of Glasheim.
For a brief moment Caer saw her mother Beren, watching her as tears clung to her cheeks. The time becomes short… her words echoed over the winter and the darkness. Be safe, my child. Your destiny awaits you.
Come, Beren said. Your people await you.
The shattered world reformed.
*****
“Caer!” Beoreth called through the dissipating haze of the visions.
A hand stroked Caer’s hair, not the withered hand of Beoreth, but another. Caer opened her eyes and saw Headred, a mix of worry and annoyance on his face.
“You should not have entered the circle,” he informed her. “Such action gods and men forbid.”
“She did not know,” Beoreth snapped, and with strength beyond her years pushed him away while she tended to her charge.
“’Tis all right now, Caer,” Beoreth murmured, stroking her hair and holding her close.
It seemed as though the entire day passed while they sat in visions.
“’Tis not the place of witches to see the future,” Beoreth whispered. “If the gods intended witches to do so, the power would be given to them.”
“Aye,” she murmured and glared at Headred. He opened his mouth as if to say something, turned, stifled his anger, and stalked off into the woods.
“Come, child,” Beoreth hugged Caer’s shoulders. “Let us go home. I’ve made stew. The food will do you good.”
Caer allowed herself to be lifted and led, and stared at the Headred’s back as he walked ahead.
He never believed Caer would violate him in such a way as this, he thought. Prophets shared what each willed. Not like Belial, not like the demon corrupting his visions. And yet…
Yet Caer now corrupted his visions and peered into his thoughts and into his gift. He did not think he could forgive such a violation.
But it seemed to him as it seemed to her, for their bond, for their dreams, they remained a man and a woman who did not know each other, whose lives seemed as separate as magic they held.
And time, not magic, would overcome.
*****
“We must go to the north,” Headred whispered, unsure of the meaning of his recent visions. He knew Caer heard the call of the north. Her heart drove the vision. “The shadow rises in the west. We must go to the sacred place where the four races gather, and there we may be safe for a time.”
The hovel glowed with the dying light of the hearth fire; the moon shone on the earth and filled it with light, even as clouds moved into the sky. Beoreth went to the hearth, where she stirred her brew and held back tears, knowing now the time she long feared came.
Caer glanced at Headred. He stared at her, his eyes deep and dark. Beautiful, she thought, framed in his strong face and his long, dark hair, the firelight flickering on his face, in the deepness of his eyes.
“We need to speak,” he informed her, his deep, rich accent flowing through her mind. His eyes turned to stare at a pendant glowing on the table, spilling soft, silvery light around her.
He touched the pendant in his pocket, the moonstone woven between the moon and the stars and the sun, and stared at its mate on the table between them.
“Long ago, when your mother yet bore you in her womb, she made this for you,” he murmured, fingering it, remembering the horrors of the day before, and of her discovery.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered and touched its surface.
“As I said, we need to speak,” he settled in. “Caer, you must know the truth of what we tell you,” he told her. “Belial comes back into Fensalir to hunt you, to take your life. You are in danger. As,” he said, “am I.”
He stared at the stone and murmured in a language she did not know.
“Come with me,” he whispered. “We will find a place where we can be safe until the morrow’s night.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, pushing herself up from the chair.
“All they did for you would be thrown away for your vanity and pride,” he said. “Yet you enter my visions and share my power for selfish gain.”
“Should I be grateful?” she shouted. “I didn’t ask for you to come here. I didn’t ask for a destiny to save the world. And I didn’t ask anyone to do me any favors!”
“Perhaps you are not the one I have known,” he railed at her. She did not want him. There must be a way to convince her. She stared at him in disgust, remembering his tale, remembering her dreams, her love she gave him, as embarrassment washed over her.
“Perhaps I’m not,” Caer spat.
“I need some air,” he said, pushing away from the wooden table, and walked out of the hovel, into the moonlight and chill of winter.
Headred padded through the snowdrifts, numb with cold, and looked in the window to see the calm, cool face of Caer, clutching the pendant of her mother to her heart.