The Violin
Not a request, an order. One that Hiraeth rises to like any other, the compliant hero. Because if no one else does this work, then who will protect the young and the old? The vulnerable and the weak? If he isn’t vigilant day in and day out, something will slip through the cracks, and it only takes one mistake for everything to be lost.
The snow falls. Frost arcs across silvered leaves, a cold touch. Winter is upon them. Families and friends and huddled indoors for warmth in the early hours of the morning, the sun still slumbering for a few hours more. Hiraeth knows he’s pausing for too long, knows that stroking the frozen branches even through his gloved hand is perhaps more touch than he’s allowed. And — yes, he feels the clamping hand of his superior upon his shoulder.
“A Blazing One does not waver,” comes the gruff reminder.
Hiraeth doesn’t need to be reminded. He has never wavered. He has never strayed from the mission, from the goal. Since the guild took him in, he’s never looked back. Not once.
The runestone in his pocket weighs heavier than ever.
“We proceed.” Not a request, an order. One that Hiraeth rises to like any other, the compliant hero. Because if no one else does this work, then who will protect the young and the old? The vulnerable and the weak? If he isn’t vigilant day in and day out, something will slip through the cracks, and it only takes one mistake for everything to be lost.
Hiraeth and his supervisor pass through the village quickly, heads down beneath their hoods and only stopping to fill their canteens with fresh and cold spring water. By the time they reach camp — never camp in a village, Hiraeth, never let them see your face — the sun is creeping up above the horizon in pink wisps.
His supervisor steps out to make a call. It’s always private, something Hiraeth is never privy to. Maybe someday.
For now, he’s trembling. Not from the cold. He reaches into his pocket where the stone lies hot and heavy, magic waiting to be activated, and he glances over his shoulder. Quick, furtive, like he knows he’s doing something wrong. Then, with a thumb pressed against the centred rune, he closes his eyes and breathes.
After that, all he hears is the plaintive wheedle of the violin. Calling out to him. Save me, keep me, remember me.
His superior’s feet crunch against the snow. He lifts his thumb and the spell is broken instantly, the music cutting out into the abrupt silence of winter.
“Hiraeth, it’s time.”
Forget me.
Author's Notes
little winter themed gift thing for ptarts09 of her character hiraeth, uploaded here at her request!
a few notes on symbolism for this piece:
- a "näcken" in mythology is a creature similar to a siren who lures mortals into the water by playing the violin; thus, the runestone is similarly luring hiraeth away from his duty and towards a symbolic "water" (reprieve, refreshment, a place of rest, but also potentially his own doom)
- näcken (the character) is therefore inherently connected to this symbolism
- the dichotomy of fire (hiraeth) and water (näcken) presents a conflict in the relationship between these two characters... can one soothe the other, or will hiraeth be extinguished?
- the lines "Calling out to him. Save me, keep me, remember me," are initially reminiscent of those wishing to be saved by a hero calling out to him (i.e. strangers), but begin to morph into the words of a figure from the past... näcken is, notably, a childhood friend of hiraeth
- these are followed by the later "Forget me," as he returns to his duty and leaves the safety of the metaphorical watering hole behind