Beneath the Sunless Sky

Chapter Ten

—Éljúðnir—

There were more books here than she could ever hope to read in a lifetime, or even three for that matter. It was overwhelming looking at them all. So much knowledge at her fingertips, so much she could learn, but her time here was so short. They were lingering only so long as the Snow Maiden, Rhaena, remained unconscious. The moment she woke up they would be off again. Perhaps, Hel would let her return one day.

"Of course you can return!" Hel exclaimed loudly just over her left shoulder. Idelle spun around, eyes wide, heart racing, but the Goddess of Death seemed not to notice as she twirled around, arms flung out. "Who wouldn't want to return here?! You are, of course, welcome to take any books you like with you on your journeys, wherever they may lead. Oh! Come to think of it, I know just the one, too!"

She bounded off toward the north wing of the library, her pink skirt flouncing about as she moved hurriedly. Idelle couldn't help but wonder how Hel knew where anything was located in this enormous place. She was busy every minute of the day, flittering to and fro. It was difficult to not be impressed with the efficiency with which everything was done in Éljúðnir. Nothing escaped Hel's notice, and she met each and every task with pure dedication. Undoubtedly, this was a job reserved for a Goddess. Only a member of that ancient race could have the patience and the energy to deal with it all every day.

And, yet, despite the number of concerns that were constantly on her plate, Hel complained not once. She smiled at everything. Idelle wished for that sort of optimism. But, then, perhaps, a lifetime spent in this palace had shielded her from the harsher realities of the world.

Hel grasped one of the nearby ladders, climbing it swiftly to reach a shelf nearly at the top of one of the bookcases. Even were a Draaga to move about in these halls, they, too, would find the palace to be very spacious indeed. They were the largest of the civilized races, but this palace seemed able to accommodate any person or beast regardless of their size. Once she had the tome in hand, Hel loosened her grip, allowing her to slide down the ladder, reaching the floor in the blink of an eye. Hel beamed proudly, gaze dropping to the leather cover. She ran a hand gently over it.

"This isn't the happiest story out there. In fact, it might be one of the saddest, but...Well...I've read millions of books in my lifetime. This one, this one stuck with me for the last thousand years." She held it out to Idelle.

Idelle handled it with care and reverence, knowing how old this tome must be. But, as she looked at the cover, she saw no title, no author, no design of any kind, only a thick leather strap keeping the worn volume closed. It was held in place by a buckle she was careful to undo. Opening it, the musty smell filled her nose, one she had always found comforting. The handwriting on the front page made her blink in surprise. This wasn't a book like she had imagined, but a journal. Despite its age, the ink was still dark and legible. Clearly, Hel had taken great care of the volume.

Is there anyone out there? Are my words the last my kind will ever say? How sad it would be if they were. I'm not a poet or even an academic. I can't provide a history of my people or leave words that will echo throughout the eons, evoking a stirring of the spirit for generations that may not even remember we Velarans existed. I can do neither of these things justice, so, I won't even try. What, then, am I to write? I sit alone beneath this sunless sky, waiting my inevitable death. There is no food, and only the shallowest source of water. It'll be a slow death. I have plenty of time to recount my life.

But, is it enough?

To whomever reads this...if you can read it...if there is anyone out there to remember us...I hope you can forgive these last ramblings of a dying man. I offer no grand history, no epic poetry, or even the nicest written prose. I am a soldier, have been my whole life. All I can offer is a stumbling recounting of my life, such as it was.