Are
The days past seemed like a fevered dream now that he had time to contemplate on them. At least I feel alive. Are mused as he toiled away, sweating in the still air that had yet to let go of the last bite of winter. It was a welcome change of pace, hard, but honest work that kept him occupied and staved off the last threads of doubt. Up 'til even the day before, Are had not been able to stop seeing his place in the new world as temporary. A small respite before thing's returned to the way they where supposed to be. At any moment he would be back in the lake, soaked to the bone and treading water, but home.
"Home..." he said out loud, his voice felt familiar but the words disconnected from himself. This is home, now. I will make it home, our home. He thought to himself as he pitched another armful of crumbled plaster and cracked bricks out the gaping hole in the side of the low house. It had looked perfect from the outside, at least from the angle Are had approached. Although the damage was extensive, a boulder the size of a cow had crushed the south wall and broken into the cellar. The thatch roof had followed along and not much livable space remained, yet it was one of the few standing structures that had caught his eye.
He knew it was only a matter of time before his racket attracted onlookers, and for that he was prepared. Shirtless, but belt still in place on his hip, a comforting weight kept prodding him when he bent and moved. From a frog held together with chewed sinew and the hope, his axe dangled as he worked, providing what little comfort it could and assured Are that even dead he would not give in. Cautious, prepared. It pays off. His train of thought was cut short by the sound of footsteps and made his heart sink. Somewhere in his slow mind he had hoped to go by undisturbed, to be left alone to make his mark.
"Heill og sæll!" Are shouted from what little roofed space he had managed to clear. With a hand on the axe anxiously awaiting an answer.
"Home..." he said out loud, his voice felt familiar but the words disconnected from himself. This is home, now. I will make it home, our home. He thought to himself as he pitched another armful of crumbled plaster and cracked bricks out the gaping hole in the side of the low house. It had looked perfect from the outside, at least from the angle Are had approached. Although the damage was extensive, a boulder the size of a cow had crushed the south wall and broken into the cellar. The thatch roof had followed along and not much livable space remained, yet it was one of the few standing structures that had caught his eye.
He knew it was only a matter of time before his racket attracted onlookers, and for that he was prepared. Shirtless, but belt still in place on his hip, a comforting weight kept prodding him when he bent and moved. From a frog held together with chewed sinew and the hope, his axe dangled as he worked, providing what little comfort it could and assured Are that even dead he would not give in. Cautious, prepared. It pays off. His train of thought was cut short by the sound of footsteps and made his heart sink. Somewhere in his slow mind he had hoped to go by undisturbed, to be left alone to make his mark.
"Heill og sæll!" Are shouted from what little roofed space he had managed to clear. With a hand on the axe anxiously awaiting an answer.
