Ljoldir was dying, that he knew for certain. The Elf's strike was shallow enough but true enough, and he knew he was doomed to die. Through the pain he managed a grin, for against his killer he landed a blow just as fatal, and at last he saw the Elf fall to its knees.
"Pray to your gods, Elf," Ljoldir spat. Red spurted out between his teeth. "And know it was Ljoldir, son of Hjallmund, who brought your doom." The Elf's helm shifted towards him, its armor-shorn arm bare and bloodied, cradling the blow to its side. It seemed to hold its gaze to Ljoldir, as he held his own. "What, you understand me then? Then understand this: Damn you and yours, may you be torn apart, gnashed by Orkey's teeth! May you feel it, every lash and tear!"
And the Elf had the gall to laugh. It rang hollow from the helm to Ljoldir's ears, bitter and-- it must had been a trick of his dying ears -- tinged with sorrow.
"Orkey has known me, boy," the Elf spoke in his words, and in a tone just as hollow. "And he flees from me." Her (he knew it was her, though he did not yet believe) spear-arm let the weapon fall to the snow as it climbed slowly up her shattered cuirass. The fingers fumbled behind the gorget, and finally the helm lifted and the uncut hair fell. She let the helm drop alongside her spear-arm, and with it fell Ljoldir's resolve. Half a face gave a small, bitter smile. "That's the face I'm used to," she said. "Now, let's drop the formality and talk plain."
Many breaths fogged the air between them before Ljoldir finally found his words.
"You speak our tongue like you were Atmora-born." He felt his stupid tongue move without his will. Idiot, he thought. Your final words were best suited to be a curse.
"Plenty of experience among you and yours. You lot are generous with your words when you have us strung up and dying." Half a face grimaced as she adjusted. Her shoulders dropped but she did not yet relax. "Say, move a bit. I need something on this back."
âStay where you are, Elf.â
âDidnât take well to the lessons of your father, then,â said the Elf. Ljoldir reached for his axe.
âSay that again, Elf.â Ljoldir found the hilt and failed to keep a grip. âSpeak ill of honored Hjallmund again--â
âYour father allowed me a stack of hay to lay on, and find some small comfort,â the Elfâs use of his language wounded him deeper than any sword or spear. She sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, too white and perfect for her position, as she drew her arm away from the wound. âOrkeyâs stained teeth, did you poison your blade? It burns.â
âThe make of my blade is none of your concern, Elf.â Ljoldir thumbed the leather weaves on the hilt, smooth now from years of use. He could just barely make out the braided strands, and when he tried to grab hold his fingers went numb. âYour breath is wasted in trying to plead with me.â
Again the Elf laughed, coarse and rough without her helm. âBoy, youâre the one wasting your final breaths. Now..â She walked her knees towards him, lurched forward, and broke her fall with her hand. âMove. If your father taught any measure of mercy, move.â
Ljoldir had not the strength to pick up his fatherâs axe and lay a final blow. He scarcely had the strength to sit upright, yet he shifted himself just so, and the Elf let her body fall against the stone with a heavy groan.
âThank you,â she said, and the words fell out of Ljoldirâs mouth.
Out of their sight, the sun dimmed and sank between the mountains, and took with it all color. Together in silence the final combatants lay, facing a sky as dark as a shroud.
âThey talk of you,â Ljoldir said in the cold grey of the night. âYou made an unholy pact, and youâre cursed to endure our justice.â He coughed up red, and found himself unable to ask if that was true.
âIs that so?â the Elf asked. Ljoldir felt her body shift towards him. âWell, from one point of view thatâs true. I am certainly cursed..â She laughed again, hollow and mirthless, then drew in a sharp breath. âTell me, can you move your fingers at all?â
Ljoldir tried again to grip his axe. The tips of his fingers only just felt the edge of his thumb. âSome. Sense is going though. Why?â
The Elf shifted closer. âGood. Move up, just a bit.. There.. You can come back down now.â When Ljoldir fell back, his head met not stone but warm skin. âNow weâre both more comfortable.â
âWhat trick is this--â
âNo trick. Not now.. I donât have the spirit.â The Elf groaned. âAnd besides, your head feels nice against that cramp.â Ljoldir glanced over and found her facing the sky. From this view he only saw hints of the twisted flesh that devoured half her face. From here it was uncanny: only small scratches on an otherwise perfectly pale face, an undocked Elven ear, pierced with a small, violet stone, expression softened with relief, her pale eye closed.
Ljoldir had never seen an Elf this peaceful. He almost thought her beautiful.
âWhatâs it like?â he asked, and found his voice was weak and thin.
âDying, you mean,â she answered, and Ljoldir nodded. âWell.. It depends. Howâs your pain?â
âMy-â Ljoldir moved his head, a heavy eye looked down at his wound, and he realized the searing pain dulled to an ache that had to be reminded. âIt.. Itâs manageable.â
âNot much longer then,â she said softly. âItâll fade just before the end, and you.. Drift. Like a piece of wood in a shallow sea. Itâs warm, warm enough that you forget all this cold. Youâd best start thinking though, of some comfort or fondness..â
"What do you think of, when it comes?"
".. My father had a garden. He would sing to his plants. It made the harvest easier, more bountiful. He grew berries, he used to bake them. I'll never taste anything as sweet again.. Now here boy, move once more."
Ljoldir adjusted himself with the last of strength, and when his spent body fell back he found himself in an embrace.
âWhat are you doing, Elf?â
âA final comfort, for Ljoldir, son of Hjallmund,â said the Elf, and shared the shreds of her warmth with him. âNow.. restâ The wind saw fit to still, so he would hear her.
Ljoldir fell back into the warmth, closed his eyes at last, and dreamed of home.
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