Thorolf's Arc

Chapter 12 of 10

Astrid left for Hel the next morning. Before she went, she pressed a ring into Thorolf's palm. Its stone glowed pale green, winged with gold. "Isis gave me this," she said. "The Ring of Acceptance. Wear it when you seal. When the grief wants out, let it out." He closed his bad hand around it and nodded. He did not believe a ring would fix him. The breaches spread faster than Astrid's horse could carry her away. By the third day, a cold spot opened near the burial mound. Thorolf went alone. He knelt in the old soil, propped his black shield against a grave-stone, and tried the sealing. The amber warmed in his broken hand. He spoke the words. Then the rage came, the way it always came, and the seal cracked and the breach stayed open. He struck the ground. He struck it again. The ring sat heavy and useless on his finger. He did not wear the ring to grieve. He wore it to win. That was the trouble, and he knew it. Wind moved through the stones. An old man stood at the edge of the mound. One eye, a wide hat, a staff. Thorolf had seen the carvings in the Temple of Odin enough times to know the face. The Allfather. He did not kneel. He had no kneeling left in him. "You force it," Odin said. "Force seals nothing." "I buried my father here," Thorolf said. "I did the rite. The anger loosened. I thought it was done." "You grieved your father." Odin looked at the broken hand. "You never grieved that." Thorolf stared at the ruined fingers. He had let them heal wrong on purpose. He thought he deserved the damage. He had carried that choice for years and called it strength. "I measured my sons wrong for a long time," Odin said. "I measured the wrong things. A man can lose a hand and still be whole. You decided otherwise. That lie is in your seals." Thorolf's throat closed. He had never said it to anyone. "I hated it," he whispered. "I hated my own hand. Every day." The anger did not rise this time. Under it was only loss. The loss of the man he was before the blade. He let it come. His shoulders shook. The ring's green stone brightened against his skin. "Now," Odin said. "Seal it now." Thorolf lifted the amulet in his crooked hand. He did not fight the grief. He held it, the way the ring asked. The amber flared gold. The light sank into the cold ground and spread. The breach closed and held. Clean. When he looked up, the old man was gone. Thorolf wiped his face and stood. He could teach the sealing now. The rage would not break it. But the breaches kept opening across Indigowood, more each day, and he was still one man with one ruined hand.