currently writing: chapter two (of six)
current page: 100
current wordcount: 26,852
Helen climbs, clasping fingers round rock, making an ascent through a shaft of a passage. Somewhere ahead of her, her troll guide is moving swiftly at one with the rock. She hears her own words echo back at her—
…even then only the chosen are ever able to make the crossover
She smiles smugly to herself at the thought. I’m going to crossover. I have crossed over.
Under a heavy sky with rain lashing at the window the bus slows and turns off the highway into a driveway, curbed against rock and lava, of cold-cracked tarmac. There are a few cars parked near the corrugated roofed hut and the few tents still pitched n the inclement weather on the gravel site.
The two siblings, with waterproof hoods pulled up over their heads, pull their bags from the slatted hold under the bus with their cousin running over ahead to the hut beyond.
Helen looks behind her, back down the passageway. Her guide, in the dim light, is merging back into the stone. Ahead, she stands at the threshold of the bridge back home. Two huge columns of lava etched with designs centuries old, flank a stair shimmering in light.
She takes a step forward, onto the first step. A rush flows through her. She feels the magick that contains the bifrost seep into ever bone, every muscle. As she proceeds she allows her fingers to trail against the walls of the passage.
A shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds, it slices through the rain throwing its glare across the hillside. Freon stops in his ascent, standing hawk like on the ridge, silhouetted against the drama unfolding in the heavens. Around him, Aðli and the rest of his party wait.
Helen pauses on the stair, taking a few moments as breather. She looks on the rock wall, seeing every scratch and formation in it. And beyond she seems to see a mountain landscape dowsed in storm. Making their ascent up a narrow ridge she sees a party – and recognises a face.
Helen throws herself forward, the palms of her hands lieing still on cold rock, “Freon!” she calls his name.
Freon stops. Across the hillside he has heard his name in calling. A rainbow fades into view, and for a moment he thinks he sees her face.
“Helen?” he utters her name softly, almost choking on the words.
“‘Tis the wind,” Aðli reaffirms to his friend, “Come. We still have far to go today.”