An Ebony Flame

The Rune Cave

A frigid wind whips the pine trees outside the cave. Dark clouds scud across the sky. I pull my orange sabir-fur robe close about my shoulders. The sabir-teeth strung around my neck prick coldly into my skin. I am as chilled as Frozen Heimdall himself.

I duck inside the cave and sweep my hand across the Runes etched into the rock wall. The stone door rumbles down from the high ceiling and jars against the dirt floor. The Rune Spell that guards it clicks into place with a bone-rattling thud.

The large, open room seems to shrink down on me with that ominous echo. I hate being closed in. I shake my head to clear my thoughts,

"This is no good, Ebony," I murmur-a habit formed from so often being my only company. "Alone in this wilderness with provisions fast dwindling. Now there's a blizzard raging outside." I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. A sarcastic voice in my head wants to reply, "I am aware of all this, my dear," but I refrain from actually saying it. Answering myself can only mean the long silence and loneliness is getting to me.

And I am unsure where Far is, or when he will return. All I know is that, once again he is looking for my mother. A search in which I may not join, though secretly I dream of being the one to find Mor.

But a blizzard always makes me nervous and wish for his return. I do not fret about Far's safety. Much. To a skin-changer, especially a bear man, a blizzard is not quite the danger it would be for most people.

"Daughter," Far often teases. "Animal fur is much superior to human skin. What a pity you cannot shift, as I do."

I always laugh, for I know he is but teasing, not criticizing. Yet inside I wonder why. Do I take after Mor? She was...she is a Darkling.

I finger my necklace nervously. Far killed that sabir when I was a child. He saved my life.

Who can tell when he shall make it home? And who knows how long this storm will last?

I have know idea how long my supplies will hold out.

"High One, make them last," I whisper. Talking aloud to the Alfather makes me feel less alone. Though remembering Far's many stories, those told him in his youth by the Beornskar priests, I am unsure whether this really comforts me or not. The God of the Bear folk seems a fearsome being.

I move about the cave, counting my provisions. I have wood stacked in the back. If I take care, wear a lot of furs, it should last another two days at the very least. And for water, I can venture outside the door and melt snow when need arises.

My real trouble is food.

The dried jerky is nearly gone. I only allowed myself one piece this evening and my stomach moans to remind me of it. I can still taste the smoky flavor and how my jaws ached as I chewed the tough venison. One needs water just to wash it down.

I killed a brace of rabbits yesterday, and the stew I made of them should stretch a few more meals. I have edible lichens, roots, bark, tundra berries and the like packed away in the back of the cave. I often wish for the gift of a green thumb, like the pale Skandi folk of the south. Far claims they grow the most wondrous fruits and vegetables even in chest-high snow.

That is what he says. In my whole life I have never clapped eyes on this thing called fruit. It is hard to believe.

I kneel beside the fire, huddling into my robes and blinking. The pine-scented smoke tickles my nose. My eyes sting and water, tears trickling sooty tracks down my cheeks.