NorseQuest (A Norse Xianxia)

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Gotland Calls
As you step foot on the grassy shoreline, it's like walking into the embrace of your father. It's like you've torn down a wall to find a door hidden away long ago and only now passed through it. A threshold was crossed the moment your boot touched the sand, the threshold of all doubt.

The air sings to you, begging you to come home. It calls to you, Gotland calls to you, to that part of you that never knew what it was missing. A full half of your soul—the portion of your father you carry even now—was always meant to resonate with Gotland.

But it was not to be, for Gotland is gone.

Your knees buckle and you collapse against the sand, head bowed as the tears flow freely. Mourning sobs rip free of your soul as you take deep handfuls of the ground. This land is that of your ancestors, the place your kin once called their own. But it was destroyed, ripped from them, from you, and from your children. And so you cry.

You cry for the lost land of your father. You cry for the lost souls who would never know how empty they really were. You cry for your past self, for all the time you spent not knowing how much you really lacked. At the edges of your senses, you feel your bloodkin having similar episodes down on the beachside—the blood of Gotland waking up after a long slumber.

There can be no doubt in your mind. This is Gotland.

The hand of your husband helps your to your shaky feet. Leaning into him for support, you turn your gaze across the cliffside, towards the bluff overlooking the beach—and the black speck of a figure standing atop it.

Setting your jaw, you push away from Abjorn and make your way up the cliffside. He calls to you, Abjorn, but his words are meaningless compared to the expanse before you. Whoever that speck is, they have to know... You don't even know what you want them to know, just that they must.

Abjorn follows in your footsteps as best he can, but he's not you. He can't keep up and so you leave him in your wake. The distance, once massive, disappears under your moving feet. Exactly when you started sprinting you don't know, but the stomp of your feet devours the expanse in the blink of an eye. How long you spent moving, running, climbing, leaping, flying... It passed like that.

You skid to a halt as a cloud of dust rises in your wake, eyes fixed to the graybeard silhouetted against the orange-gold horizon. Long, wanderer's robes cascade down his shoulders in old, faded blues and deep, flowing greens. His beard is as white as snow and covered with all sorts of feathered and beaded knick-knacks it dangles at his waist. In his ancient, withered hands is a long staff of hickory wood with a surface as gnarled and well-travelled as its master.

"The Nornir," the man's voice is gentle and kind, like a warm blanket on a cold morning, "have taken pity on you and yours, Halla Steinarsdottir, and allowed you to step foot on Gotland before the time is right."

"When I leave," the words come easier than most, "I won't be able to come back, will I?"

The man bows his head, "I'm afraid so."

"Who," you blink the tears away as you take a deep breath, managing against all odds to master yourself in this moment, "who are you?"

"A simple traveler of distant lands, a far-wanderer. Nothing more, nothing less," the old man chuckles as he turns to face you, his egg-blue eyes striking in their gentleness, "But, I was given the name Absalom by my father, so that is the name you shall have to use." He takes a step towards you, his movements odd and almost airy as he hovers a hand over your shoulder, "I would advise giving your father his proper burial while the Norns allows you and I this time." His eyes flick towards the horizon, where the sun just now brushes up against the horizon, "Who knows what things may lurk in the shadows?"

"R-right," you nod, blink, and he's gone—a whisper of wind all that remains.

'They always do that sort of shit,*' comes the grumbling Blackhand as you finally hear his voice and not the quiet sobs in the back of your head.

It doesn't take long for your family to catch up to you. With drawstring in hand, you hold the pouch of Steinarr's ashes out over the waves lapping against the shore.

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AN: I like Absalom.

15-minute moratorium.