“You didn't come up with it?” Milea asked.
Varg shook his head and answered, “It was never a name I would have chosen for myself, but with time I accepted the title as if it were my birthright.” Varg shifted in his seat and then continued, “I journeyed north until I could see no more signs of civilization. The air had grown so cold and bitter that no mere human could live comfortably, but to even a mere half-blood jotun, it was paradise. I found the mountain where the jotuns settled on thanks to the stories my mother used to tell me about them. I searched for days, but all I found were empty huts and stone halls. Everything had been exposed to the elements for so long that hardly anything regarding the jotun way of life survived.
“Then I reached the highest peak of the mountain and found the ancient keep where the elders, the governors of all the clans, once lived. The outside of the keep was decayed, as was expected, but to my surprise the inside was amazingly intact. I searched through the ancient corridors and found numerous texts, but I could not understand the language they were written in. None of the faded murals nor the crumbling statues revealed anything about their nature, culture, or temperament.
“I almost gave up when I found a strange door with an even stranger symbol carved into it. The door led outside to a path leading further up the mountain. With nothing else behind me, I marched up the path until I came to the highest point of the mountain. It was so cold that even I felt the winter's chill, but before me stood the most magnificent sight I would ever see.” Varg drew his battleaxe and held it up proudly, then continued, “I found Frost Fang standing in solid ice atop a snow-covered platform. It was obviously a weapon that was highly revered given its state, so I grabbed the handle and pulled with all my strength. It was an exhausting effort, but I finally freed it from its ice prison.
Once I held the battleaxe, it felt so natural, like it was made for me. It was then that I made the decision to leave my past behind and start anew with Frost Fang strapped to my back and my head held high. Even though I never found the jotun knowledge I sought, I found solace in the fact that I had one piece of my father's people to hold on to.”
“That's an amazing story,” Milea said.
Varg ran a hand through his hair, then resumed, “You know, I spent ten years of penance on that mountain until I finally made the decision to never become emotionally involved with anyone again, but the day I met you, that all changed. When you told me you were a half-breed like me, I broke my vows and reached out to you so I wouldn't feel alone.”
Milea took Varg's hand and locked her fingers with his, then answered softly, “I'll be here. Always.”
Varg met her gaze, then smiled and said, “I look forward to it, Love.”
As the sun soon began to set, Milea kissed Varg on the cheek and went back to the party after he assured her he'd be along soon. He stared off into the sunset and closed his eyes. One last ghost from the past came to him, another day he remembered a similar sight. As he stood and walked away from the amber horizon, he smiled and allowed himself to slip into the past one last time.
In his hundredth year, Varg made a pass through Fellen in the east and stopped in a small village near the Eastwold border. He devoured his second pint, which was better compared to his drinking habits in his younger years, and happened to catch sight of two women who entered the tavern. Normally he wouldn't pay other patrons another thought, but the women stood out and he couldn't help but watch them.
Both women were elderly, but one was far older than the other. The younger woman led the older one to a table behind Varg and sat her down. Varg felt compelled to draw his attention to them, but he managed to keep it subtle so as not to alarm them.
As the younger woman set the older one into a chair, the latter shook her head and scolded, “I told you I can find it myself.”
“Mother, you're blind. Please let me take care of you,” the younger woman said.
“I hope you allow me a little more independence when we arrive in Wild Valley,” the old woman said.
Varg's ears perked up when he heard the words 'Wild Valley,' and though he swore he would forget that place forever, he found himself wanting to speak to this old woman. He turned to see her daughter walk away, stating that she was going to run outside and ask for directions, and he just took a moment to study the woman.
Varg wouldn't be surprised if this woman was almost as old as he was. Her eyes were white, which came as no surprise. Not a speck of her skin wasn't worn and wrinkled, and her posture was hunched and fragile. Her long, bony fingers grasped an old wood cane as she stared off into space, lost in thought.
Before he could stop himself, Varg asked, “Did I hear you say you were going to Wild Valley?”
The frail woman lifted her tired head and formed a smile in her wrinkled face. “I was born there. Now that my health is failing, I wish to be home one last time. If fate should decide it, then I will also be buried there.”
“I see,” Varg replied.
“Have you been to Wild Valley before?” the old woman asked.
Varg gave a weak, sad smile. “I have.”
“It's beautiful, is it not? I left home more than eighty years ago. I only wish I would be able to see the flowers one last time, but my sight has been gone for some time,” the old woman said. To Varg's surprise, the woman then said, “Would you spare an old woman some of your time? I would love to talk more about home with someone who remembers it so I may picture its beauty in my mind once more.”
Varg didn't want to remember, but the old woman won his heart over, so he smiled and replied, “Of course.”
The old woman's face lifted with joy and Varg could see a small trace of a tear in her eye. “You are so kind, young man.” Varg smiled again, but he froze when the old woman then added, “My name is Treasa, pleased to meet you.”
Varg's heart nearly stopped. He tried to speak, but his throat became so dry that no words could escape. All he could manage was a small, choking gasp.
“I'm sorry, what did you say dear?” Treasa asked him.
“You're name . . . is Treasa?” Varg managed to ask.
Treasa nodded her heavy head. “That's right, dear.”
The shock of long lost love of his life sitting before him again froze Varg in his seat. What's more, because she was blind, she couldn't see who he was. He wanted to tell her, but at the same time, something was holding him back. Would she remember the last time they saw one another, the terror she felt when he viciously slaughtered the bandits with his bare hands? Would it even matter to her now?
Varg ignored his inner war and simply chose to say, “A pleasure to meet you.”
When Varg sat down in the chair across from her, Treasa continued, “I used to love Wild Valley so. I never thought I would leave, but one thing led to another and I found myself running off to the city for better opportunities. I don't regret it, of course, because I met my late husband there.”
Varg's chest tightened. “Your husband was a good man?”
Treasa smiled. “Oh yes, a very good man. He treated me and our children quite well. We weren't very wealthy, but we lived comfortably and I loved him so. It was a simple life, but one I always hoped for.”
It was that moment that Varg realized that Treasa's leaving him was the best thing that ever happened to her. It was true that he wanted to be the one to give her the life she deserved, but not until she told him about her life did he finally realize a most agonizing truth. Though he still selfishly wished things could have happened differently, Varg realized he would never have been able to give Treasa the life her husband, her true love, gave her.
Varg allowed a tear to fall from his cheek when he felt a weight lift from his heart. He was overcome with joy he hadn't felt since he last held Treasa in his arms. Even though he lost her, he couldn't ask for anything more than her living her life the way she wanted with the man she loved.
Once he dried his eye, Varg dared to ask, “Treasa, why did you leave Wild Valley if you loved
it so much?”
The old woman lowered her head. “There was . . . a young man.” Varg's heart felt heavy once more, until the old woman continued, “He was my first love, and we were actually going to get married, but . . .” the old woman collected herself, then added, “. . . I left him.”
Varg tried to fight back his tears. “Is that so?”
“That was the day I left home, actually. I ran home, packed my things, and without a single word to my parents I fled Wild Valley forever. It was the most painful thing I've ever done. I deeply regret the day I broke his heart and ran away from him. It was a terrible ending to such a beautiful love. I don't know if he still lives, but I pray he found it in his heart to forgive me for what I did.”
Varg could barely contain himself, but calmed himself enough to say, “I'm sure he realized you were too good for him, and that he knew you would find the happiness you deserved.”
“Mother?”
Treasa's daughter came back into the tavern and shot a questioning glare at Varg, then marched over to Treasa's side and said, “Mother, who is this man?”
Treasa shook her head, then said, “Actually, I never did get your name, young man.”
Varg smiled, stood up, and said, “Let's just say I'm a friend.” He then reached over to Treasa and spared himself one last embrace from the only woman he ever loved.
Treasa gleefully accepted his embrace and laughed tenderly. “Oh my, such a strapping lad.”
Varg approached the tavern door and stepped into the doorway, where the approaching sunset greeted him. He stopped briefly to look back at Treasa one last time and said, “Goodbye Treasa, I wish you all the happiness in the world for your final days.”
Before he stepped outside, Varg heard Treasa's daughter say, “Mother, what are you doing talking to strange men?”
“Oh come now, child,” Treasa said, “he was only providing me with some company. Can't an old woman have a bit of comfort from someone who's actually seen the beauty of her home?”
“Comfort? Mother, the man had white hair! He didn't even look human!” the daughter said.
Just as Varg allowed the door to close behind him, he heard Treasa gasp and whisper from her aging lips, “. . . Varg?”
To Be Continued . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brittany Comeaux lives with her husband and daughter in Eunice, LA. She started writing at an early age after being inspired by Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. In her spare time, she enjoys drawing, painting, and killing dragons in Skyrim.
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The White Wolf (Half-Breed Book 1) Page 26