Mark Maker # 4

Posted: December 30, 2012 in Viking novel
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My heart is ice. My heart is metal. I cannot remember what warm is. I cannot remember how warm she felt curled around me under layers of winter furs. The colour of her eyes has faded from my sight and the soft feel of her hair against my shoulder. Her comb lies on a shelf I made from slates. Dust covers it now. There is- I can see in a certain light-still a strand of her hair entwined in the comb’s teeth. I cannot touch it. I cannot look even near it to the shelf. I have put her clothes away in a chest. The chest I made and carved for her when she first came here.

“Asmundr!” calls my brother, ” I need food!” He is laid up on the platform under furs. I have packed his wound with dried mosss and carefully splinted the leg. I have strapped my own ankle and jaw. We have drunk all the beer I made to last the Winter in a week to numb the pain. But the beer has no effect on my frozen heart. Its warmth cannot reach there. There is ony one way to staunch that wound and because of my brother I cannot go and start that journey. So, every blink of my eye is measured as a century of winters. Every motion of my heart is a motion away from her. I do not even know if she still lives.

“Asmundr!”, he calls again.

I begin the aching slow process of assembling a meal.


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