Title means "Under the root of the mountain" in Swedish. Taken from Finntroll, which have absolutely nothing to do with this except for filling my brains with weird ideas with their music.
Norse mythology: He is the goddess of Helheim, where those who die the straw death (= don't fall in battle) go; the Gjöll is a river that leads to Helheim. It isn't necessarily what's going on here, just Berwald's interpretation. Enjoy if you can ;D
In the early hours of the morning, he beheld the mountain. It called him, and Berwald wasn’t sure why; the sun barely rose above the hill, making it gleam in orange light, but what he heard was a song, and where it came from, he didn’t know.
In the late hours of sundown, he beheld the mountain again. He could hear its people calling.
He climbed down the rocks framing the blood red river. He was a tall, stoic man; his father had been a Viking still, but under the influence of his Christian mother he had been baptized.
He wondered where he would go when he died. Would the Heaven his mother told tales of be open for him, or would he fall as a soldier and go to Valhalla? Or would Hel consider him unworthy of either and kiss him with her icy mouth?
He did not know; he descended a rocky path and a river was by his side and he thought of the Gjöll.
The river went into the mountain, and he stood in front of a gaping opening. The laughter and chants of the folk underneath the very root surrounded him, and he climbed down.
He found himself in a tavern of trollfolk.
He sat down at a round table, waiting. He watched all of them wearily; the big ones in the corner, with their empty eyes and long noses; the musicians, playing instruments of gruesome origins, a green shade to their skin Berwald was sure wasn’t painted on; the many-legged girls on the stage, lifting their skirts to reveal what they so generously possessed.
He drank something. It was of a poisonous orange colour.
There was a man or a boy or a… a what? A troll; a fae; Hel in the body of a man, a blond someone, and he was watching him, yet when Berwald looked back at him, the boy turned red and trembled and recoiled.
He was gone as soon as he had stolen Berwald’s heart.
A Song of Ancient Fathers sounded around him, and from within he felt the words to it, bubbling up in his ribcage, trying to fall out and make him sing it too.
He remembered the man or the boy or the someone, and he ran.
He beheld the mountain from afar, fearing the song that would damn him to be at the mercy of the children of the tribe of the rocks, yet at the next sundown he was there again.
The stones were still foreign under his feet, scraping his clothing, but he slithered into the cavern and was greeted by its songs and cheers.
The boy’s smile was hesitant, but it was there. Berwald had never been good at talking and was even worse at letting his body talk, so when he approached him, tall and looming and cryptic behind icy blue eyes, it was normal that the small one, the someone, receded.
The song of ancient fathers sounded again, and the boy’s eyes were wide. He looked to his sides, then leaned up to Berwald and said, “Tino”.
They both ran off in different directions.
Each morning at sunrise he beheld the mountains, and returned at sundown, and under the root of the mountain were a cave and a tavern and a man named Tino with smiles who trembled less and less as he learned to read him.
Berwald slept during the day and only lived during the night, when he could come and see Tino’s wide smiles and his laughter and his warmth, yet it was good, because Berwald fell in love, and love was good.
Tino was not even remotely Christian. His tongue twisted the words of Berwald’s language in a way that made it sure that he had more in common with the Pagan Finns from across the sea than his own people; his eyes shown in a violet colour that no human should ever possess; and when his smile was really, really wide, Berwald could see a hint of tusks in his lower jaw. He was a troll, or something similar.
Under Bergets Rot [1/4]
Norse mythology: He is the goddess of Helheim, where those who die the straw death (= don't fall in battle) go; the Gjöll is a river that leads to Helheim. It isn't necessarily what's going on here, just Berwald's interpretation. Enjoy if you can ;D
In the early hours of the morning, he beheld the mountain. It called him, and Berwald wasn’t sure why; the sun barely rose above the hill, making it gleam in orange light, but what he heard was a song, and where it came from, he didn’t know.
In the late hours of sundown, he beheld the mountain again. He could hear its people calling.
He climbed down the rocks framing the blood red river. He was a tall, stoic man; his father had been a Viking still, but under the influence of his Christian mother he had been baptized.
He wondered where he would go when he died. Would the Heaven his mother told tales of be open for him, or would he fall as a soldier and go to Valhalla? Or would Hel consider him unworthy of either and kiss him with her icy mouth?
He did not know; he descended a rocky path and a river was by his side and he thought of the Gjöll.
The river went into the mountain, and he stood in front of a gaping opening. The laughter and chants of the folk underneath the very root surrounded him, and he climbed down.
He found himself in a tavern of trollfolk.
He sat down at a round table, waiting. He watched all of them wearily; the big ones in the corner, with their empty eyes and long noses; the musicians, playing instruments of gruesome origins, a green shade to their skin Berwald was sure wasn’t painted on; the many-legged girls on the stage, lifting their skirts to reveal what they so generously possessed.
He drank something. It was of a poisonous orange colour.
There was a man or a boy or a… a what? A troll; a fae; Hel in the body of a man, a blond someone, and he was watching him, yet when Berwald looked back at him, the boy turned red and trembled and recoiled.
He was gone as soon as he had stolen Berwald’s heart.
A Song of Ancient Fathers sounded around him, and from within he felt the words to it, bubbling up in his ribcage, trying to fall out and make him sing it too.
He remembered the man or the boy or the someone, and he ran.
He beheld the mountain from afar, fearing the song that would damn him to be at the mercy of the children of the tribe of the rocks, yet at the next sundown he was there again.
The stones were still foreign under his feet, scraping his clothing, but he slithered into the cavern and was greeted by its songs and cheers.
The boy’s smile was hesitant, but it was there. Berwald had never been good at talking and was even worse at letting his body talk, so when he approached him, tall and looming and cryptic behind icy blue eyes, it was normal that the small one, the someone, receded.
The song of ancient fathers sounded again, and the boy’s eyes were wide. He looked to his sides, then leaned up to Berwald and said, “Tino”.
They both ran off in different directions.
Each morning at sunrise he beheld the mountains, and returned at sundown, and under the root of the mountain were a cave and a tavern and a man named Tino with smiles who trembled less and less as he learned to read him.
Berwald slept during the day and only lived during the night, when he could come and see Tino’s wide smiles and his laughter and his warmth, yet it was good, because Berwald fell in love, and love was good.
Tino was not even remotely Christian. His tongue twisted the words of Berwald’s language in a way that made it sure that he had more in common with the Pagan Finns from across the sea than his own people; his eyes shown in a violet colour that no human should ever possess; and when his smile was really, really wide, Berwald could see a hint of tusks in his lower jaw. He was a troll, or something similar.
Berwald still asked him to be his wife.