#revenge

galwednesday:

perennial-lee:

Anti-revenge narrative this, anti-revenge narrative that, I personally think that Inigo Montoya had the right idea when he stabbed Count Rugen in the gut and said “I want my father back, you son of a bitch”

A lot of revenge arcs end with the hero saying “there’s nothing you can do to bring my loved one back, so me seeking revenge is pointless.” The Princess Bride’s revenge arc ends with Inigo Montoya saying “there’s nothing you can do to bring my loved one back, so there’s nothing that can save you.”

Astrid Grímsdóttir was thankful that her sister Dagmar remembered the lamp, for she knew he would come once the lights from Njardarheimr faded into the black night to retrieve it. It was near the end of summer, the rolling hills and vegetation at the glistening fjord walls were lush and vibrant. She had seen them in the morning.

She sat among a pile of stones, fiddling absentmindedly with a collection of marbles. 

Dagmar and herself used to sit her in the evenings, just as a dark streak lined the horizon, telling ghost stories. Whether daugrs were more frightening than haugbui. Dagmar was terrified of both, but Astrid knew the difference.

Mama would call them both from their house at the edge of the village. Her mother would be angry with her, sitting plainly in the dirt, in her finest wool dress and petticoat. Astrid always wondered how she noticed such things, given that her dress was that same earthy brown as the soil, the shades blending together like how the waters mirror the sky. They never told her about their discussions on ghosts, knowing would only make her anxious. Bad luck follows those who mock the dead.

There were no stars, and for that she was glad. Only a sliver of the moon offered any light.
When the last light died, Astrid stood and sighed. He would keep her waiting, she knew. Her mother complained for the same reason: he was a good-nothing, with no sense of time or goodness. Yet he always brought her berries, and for that Astrid had kept a warm place in her heart for her uncle, her father’s brother.

He sought, perhaps, to become her father, too.

But it was too late for that now.

Astrid noticed a small light, red and low, like a smoldering coal near the gates. She held her breath.
She knew he would come.

And he did.

Erik Sturluson, her father’s brother, blue eyes and blond, like herself, dressed in a pair of ragged pantaloons and tunic, a shovel at his side.

Astrid said nothing, but watched him as he began to dig into the soil, freshly turned.

Dagmar, her sister, had listened. They were not a rich family, not even a moderately well-off one, but she had told Dagmar about her love for that silver lamp, often in the presence of mama. It would fetch a good price, Astrid knew.

That’s why her uncle had come.

She snuck closer to him, aware that when she walked, only silence echoed. Astrid shot her hand out and grasped Erik’s wrist with all her strength.

He nearly jumped back, his thin frame, eyes wide in terror. His lips began to tremble, in the same way after Astrid’s mama would criticize him. When she had been younger, only eleven, it used to make her laugh, that pitiful tremor. Perhaps that’s why he pushed her into the lake and let her sink.

She took from her belt a knife and plunged it into his neck. She watched him squirm and wither beneath her grasp, croaking out the word, haugbui, haugbui. Ghost, ghost. Mound-dweller.

Astrid did not like the term, and yet it was better than a drauger. A haugbui only disturbs grave robbers and thieves.

She watched as his face took on a cold, waxen parlor, blood leaking into the soil. And she was thankful Dagmar remembered the lamp. Otherwise, he would not have come.

_______

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Connor the plug pt1-*