Varigoth

Varigoth, cloaked in Kvikne fox fur, Falningjoen shoulder plates, and Grontjonnan chain belt, stomped his foot fiercely on the ground. The land was a softly rolling hill: a patch of old growth trees with peaceful oak leaves, green and alive on the tree and brown and rolled up into a soft cover on the ground, an open meadow with stout grass blades soaked in droplets from the low clouds that tore through the landscape in torn, raggedy shapes, and a blood alter stone inscribed with runes and encroached by crumbly moss. Beyond the sphere of vision, stretched out the whole planet, a roundish rock suspended in space. Varigoth wished the rage of his stomp split the rock with a crack running in both directions to the equator. The Earth didn't budge, but Varigoth kept shooting his black, evil anger into the only thing at hand for kicks and punches.

Aye, a band of four skirmischers rushed across the grassy hill: the yellow banner with the blue lion flying high, the men in raggedy rank and file leather armor, and haggard worried faces with dark pillows underneath the eyes from days without sleep. Varigoth lowered his head. His eyes shot red with blood. He hissed his nostrils with air into the cold, damp afternoon with cloud covered sun. He raised his battle axe: a ten pound, 180 degree, shiny-sharp metal head and a wooden grip marked by swords and dried blood. Finally, flesh to sink his anger into.

One of the skirmishers with a silly metal head that looked like a finger guard for sewing stepped, raised a crossbow. The sharply whistling arrow flew in a straight line into Varigoth belly. Ah, that familiar feeling, the sharp pain that was once terrifying, no longer was, because he could feel the warm sensation of blood soaking his insides, a lull and pleasant feeling. With the left hand he broke off the winged end and pulled the on the tipped front that stuck in his back. There was no need to break stride for such a petty occurrence.

The first lad, a tall, skinny fella with braided hair down his back in his early twenties, stormed at Varigoth with a raised broadsword a battle cry. A swift reflex with Varigoth's battle axe to the lads head cut the skull from the side, entered beneath the eye, and dented the bronze helmet that should have protected. The blade got stuck at the depth of the nose. Varigoth retracted the battle axe. The lad's head fell to the ground with a cut through half his skull, red blood, white bone, and liquid brain was visible.

The second lad, black haired, a dead crow on his head, green bile on his coat from throwing up, ran with a ten foot long spear at Varigoth. Varigoth stepped 10 inches to the side, caught the spear under his armpit, and tilted the tip to the ground. He let the momentum of the lad and resistance of the spear with the firm grip of the lad carry the lad high into the air like a pole vaulter. When the lad realized that he was in the air above Varigoth, the lad released his grip. With the momentum of gravity, he fell towards Varigoth. Varigoth steadied his head. With a might crack, the foreheads butted with the power of the full body weight of the lad. The lad's neck broke. His lifeless ragdoll body fell to the ground.

The last two skirmishers ran back in the direction that they came from. Varigoth roared his anger at them to come back. The fierceness and brutality of the fight had released the anger that was brooding in him. He wanted more. Now, he was walking alone again aimlessly across the landscape of hills, forests, meadows, and ceremonial rocks. A white wolf snarled at Varigoth with sharp white teeth, never letting go of the corpse that its teeth were tearing. A faint drizzle set in soaking his body. The little lines of smoke stretching to the sky weakened. The devastation of war was everywhere. His coat of arms was torn of his shoulder.

By nightfall, the path reached a little patch of forest. A giant granite bolder blocked the right side. Thick bushes lined the left side. The thick canopy of the trees formed a dark vegetation cave. Not a single bird was chirping. This was a perfect place for an ambush. A little smirk dashed over his face. He would finally find peace. He'd get to run out his anger into flesh until his heart would stop. For the first time in days, he felt a lightness and spring to his step.

The air carried more oxygen in the forest cropping. Darkness closed in around him until he could only see in gray tones. A man with proud posture, a shiny iron breast plate, and a helmet with yellow feathers stepped into the center of the path ahead of him. His sword's blade was shiny. The man had good, even proud posture. He raised the iron gloved hand to signal Varigoth to stop.

"In the name of the king of Innerdalsvatnet, I command you to surrender and return for your judgement."

Varigoth looked around. Another sword soldier had stopped into the light at the end of the vegetation tunnel behind him. Two more of them rustled in the bush. Varigoth threw his battle axe to the ground. He wanted to feel the raw power of his fists, the muscles of his whole body driving the knuckles into flesh and bone. The leader raised his sword high. Varigoth pared the downswing of the blade with the metal brace around his forearm. Close enough, Varigoth launched his fist forward. His whole body pushed forward: The toes dug into the dirt. The ankles sprung forward. His hip turned into the blow. His obliques torqued hard. The release was the face of the leader: The nose bone crunching softly, a hard cracking sound in the skull, the spray of blood, the last moan of the lungs, the gentle foot movement backwards. The satisfaction that finally someone could feel Varigoth's pain. Finally, the lifeless body fell with a wet thud.

Swift grab for the dagger in his chest sheath. The presence of the soldier that blocked the backside was close. Without looking, he swung the outstretched arm with the dagger tip towards the back. The soldier was stopped mid-run with the short blade fully dipped into his heart.

"Nobody loves you." His countrymen only saw the powerful warrior in him. He was a tool. They'd listen to his jokes, feign laughing, and impatiently waited for him to fight their battles. He didn't know how to speak to charm himself friends. A teacher had taken all his loot from the last war. Over and over, he had told him over and over that Varigoth needed more perseverance and more commitment until all the gold and jewels were gone. His battle-scarred face was ghastly. Only drunk Marty and the insane Elizabeth talked with him. There was no place for him in this world. One faint hope made him march on.

The other two crawled back into the bushes, thinking it better to hide and let him pass.

Where the path crossed over the Hedmark on a little stone bridge was an inn. The iron cage next to the door was flickering with a flame to draw in weary wanderers. Varigoth stepped in. The place was packed with dirty, stinking people who were eating oily chickens with their hands. Fermented grape juice flowed in big horn cups. A few well-fed ladies in ruffled bloomers sat on laps of red faced men, while feeding them chicken pieces into their mouths. A haggard bard played on a harp in the corner. The noise of open mouth smacking on food and cheering was way louder than the pling-plong of his harp.

A busty made cozied up to Varigoth standing in the doorway. She put her hand on his chest to undo the leather string holding his fur in place. Her lips were painted red and eyes darkened with black ash. Seductively close to his face, she held her head, looking deeply into his eyes. Varigoth stood steadfast and unmoved.

"What are you looking for, might warrior?"

"I'm looking for someone, a girl."

"I have many girlfriends. She might be one of them. Why don't you come with me and describe her to me?"

The tavern wench pulled Varigoth into a corner with a pile of hay. He followed with stiff legs and let himself be pushed down. Before his eyes did a second glance of the tavern, she had already undressed his chest. The curly chest hair was out. The inches thick pec muscles were on display. On a nearby hay pile, another woman was leaning on top of a drunk man and servicing him with her hand.

"I'm looking for Theresa. She's about twenty years old. Her eyes are green. She likes singing. She makes me feel so happy when she tenderly plays with my hair and asks me to continue telling my stories. I look at her, and I know the world is okay. I've travelled the land searching for her. Where is that girl, where I can lay down my head and feel safe when she softly caresses my hair and tells me to shoo my tears?"

"Have a drink!" the tavern wench raised a cup to his lips. He didn't want to drink, yet sucked up the wine anyway to keep it from spilling on his chest. There was a subtle, yet unusual bitter taste to it. The tavern wench lowered her lips to suck and bite his nipples. She let her voluptuous breasts fall out of the blouse.

Annoyed, Varigoth pushed her away and stood up. When he stood, the blood rushed strange in him. He felt a little unsteady. His vision turned all black. He reached into the air around him. The tavern had gotten quiet. Benches gently grinded on the floor. He heard the footsteps of people retreating from him. The sounds of horse spurs hit the ground and stepped closer to Varigoth.

"My dear friend Varigoth, a bounty is a powerful thing. You've cost me a thousand Krones."

A bag of coins flew through the air. A sword drawing out of a sheath made a metallic sound. A commoner whispered to another commoner: "Run!" The fire crackled in the heath. Everyone kept quiet and Varigoth could still not see. Yet, the sound of horse spurs ran closer to him. When he thought the challenger was right on him, Varigoth raised the battle axe. He hit something hard. He kept bashing into the same place where he had felt the heart resistance to his blade. Fleshy pieces fell to the ground as he was hacking into the space of resistance.

He stumbled out of the door and into the night. The sense of his eyes were slowly coming back. He was a 225 lbs. man. Poisons had a weak effect on him. He kept walking through the night and darkness. The solitude was healing. The feeling of being lost to the world, not mattering was soothing. It was the self-inflicted emotional pain from telling himself that he didn't matter which was soothing. He hadn't gone to the officer training school. He was simply a stray orphan in the streets who had a knack for battle. He fought in the kennel fights to gain the favors of a battle general to be hired into the army. He had done well winning battle loot in the deathly war. Yet, he was alone, an outcast.

When the first light of the sun raised a quiet mood over the glen and wild flowers, the little bees and butterflies already doing their duty with bodies still stiff from the cold, he came upon a little pond with a twenty foot waterfall. The dousing sound of the waterfall sounded calm. The surface of the pond was glassy, except for the mellow ripples running away from the waterfall.

Varigoth stepped into the pond. Knee deep, he waded to the curtain like waterfall. He stepped through. The falling water pounded his head and shoulders. In the half-light underneath the waterfall was a small cave. An old yogi sat on a blanket. His legs were crossed. He had a white beard down to his belly button. The bare body was hollowed out: The bones were like a drum frame. The skin was like a drum hide sticking to the bones. Varigoth kneeled with a low bow. Without opening his eyes, the yogi addressed Varigoth.

"Why did you come here?"

"I am searching for a girl."

"Tell me about the girl."

"In the days of my youth, I wandered to the garden of Thor. Next to the raspberry bushes, I spotted Theresa. She had fair skin, almost translucent. She laughed and touched my arm with the tip of her fingers. That sent a tingling through my whole body. Goosebumps chased across my skin like a gaggle of song birds taking flight all at the same time."

"(Continued) She asked me who I was. Her eyes told me that I was her entire world. In the reflection of her facial expressions and tone of voice, I felt myself to be beautiful, charming, and intelligent. Listening to her talk, I felt optimism about the world. I could see us holding hands. I could see us traveling to faraway places."

"(Continued) When she told me to lay my head on her lap, she said that she could feel such deep sadness inside of me. The tears were bursting out of me. I could feel her soaking up every tear like it was the most precious thing. I never knew that I had such sadness in me. On the third day, she vanished. I forgot about her for years. My quest now is to find her."

The yogi looked him over and replied, "The girl that you say you are searching doesn't exist. Sure, there is a Theresa. I can see her right now. If I told you were she is, you'd find a body. You wouldn't find the girl that you are looking for. Age has made you lose your innocence, hope, and love. What you are yearning for doesn't exist in the girl. The yearning you feel is the reflection of the innocence, hope, and love that is inside of you. You are one of the few who still believe in them. You must strengthen that feeling inside of you and bring it out to the world."

"(Continued) Did you notice that you started singing when you talked about her? I heard your baritone adulations and the sweetness in your voice. Art creates mythical places that don't exist but in our emotions. The girl that you are searching is already inside of you. It is your sacred duty to nourish her: bathe her, love her, and cherish her, so that she growth. Then, bring her out to the world. Sing about her. Make everyone feel that the kingdom hasn't fallen yet. Make them remember in their beer drunk stupor that there is more. Your soul has been touched. Share that spark of love with the world."

The yogi sunk into a deep meditation. He walked through the waterfall and out onto the wildflower meadow. The clouds had lifted. The sun in his eyes made him sneeze. The sneeze felt refreshing. His energy had shifted.

That night, he sat in the corner of a tavern and sung. He let the baritone voice of his massive body resonate against the tavern wall. The image of Theresa in the lush green garden of Thor was vivid in his mind. He felt the warmth and playful innocence mixed with lightness in his body. All those powerful emotions, he brought out into his voice. A rotten tomato hit his face. A cabbage leaf hit his shoulder. A bawdy, laughing female voice followed the insult. He kept focused on the beauty that he found inside of himself and made it big.

A shaky old fellow with a walking stick and the back stooped forwarded waved at Varigoth. With trembling legs, the old man shuffled closer. "I know that girl," he said with dreamy eyes. Varigoth knew that the old man wasn't talking about Theresa. He was talking about another girl from the youth of the old man. The company of the old man felt good. There was a warmth in it.

"You know you can't put love into a person," said the old man thoughtful, his bad eyes squinting into the ceiling. "All you can do is resonate to the pocket of love that another man carries in his own body. Those yelling folk are lost and empty. But you and I, we both knew that girl. The girl touched that pocket of love that was already inside of you. Is there anything more precious?"