The moment Stark's jaws had crushed Birk's shoulder, he had known that the fight had been lost - the pain itself had been so severe that with his last strenght he had fought to get away from the dark man. And then without losing any time - to put distance between himself and the damned place he had once called home.
In the beginning he had hardly realized that something was amiss with his limb and only several hours later the pain had grown more and more intense and he was not able to put weight on that foot. For few days Birk had hid himself in the Fox's glade - he would have been happy to have not stayed so close to Easthollow, but due to the wounds that grew worse every single day, he hadn't been able to go anywhere.
There he had lied in fever, drifting from a state of consciousness to the one of black numbness and horrible nightmares. Only a week later had he realized that his situation was impossible - he was unable to hunt and yet he was not bad enough to die on the spot. Which meant wasting for god knew, how many days.
It did not mean that he did not try to stay alive, to fight for whatever strand of life was there left for him, but even the greatest warrior has to admit a defeat. And on the single sunny morning of a fine spring day, Birk, who had dragged himself to the edge of the small lake, met his. By that time his once tall and strong body was weak and emaciated, the wounds were festering and were reeking of rotting flesh.
And yet, when he saw ice on the lake, his blank and dull eyes lit up. In his homeland they used to say that once you were born an ice giant, you were meant to die as one too. Birk stepped on the ice-cap - it had already started to melt in the middle and was unsteady - but this did not deter him in the least. He continued to walk on and on, until at one moment the ice gave way and he disappeared in the deep dark waters of the lake.
From ice he had been created, to ice he had returned.
In the beginning he had hardly realized that something was amiss with his limb and only several hours later the pain had grown more and more intense and he was not able to put weight on that foot. For few days Birk had hid himself in the Fox's glade - he would have been happy to have not stayed so close to Easthollow, but due to the wounds that grew worse every single day, he hadn't been able to go anywhere.
There he had lied in fever, drifting from a state of consciousness to the one of black numbness and horrible nightmares. Only a week later had he realized that his situation was impossible - he was unable to hunt and yet he was not bad enough to die on the spot. Which meant wasting for god knew, how many days.
It did not mean that he did not try to stay alive, to fight for whatever strand of life was there left for him, but even the greatest warrior has to admit a defeat. And on the single sunny morning of a fine spring day, Birk, who had dragged himself to the edge of the small lake, met his. By that time his once tall and strong body was weak and emaciated, the wounds were festering and were reeking of rotting flesh.
And yet, when he saw ice on the lake, his blank and dull eyes lit up. In his homeland they used to say that once you were born an ice giant, you were meant to die as one too. Birk stepped on the ice-cap - it had already started to melt in the middle and was unsteady - but this did not deter him in the least. He continued to walk on and on, until at one moment the ice gave way and he disappeared in the deep dark waters of the lake.
From ice he had been created, to ice he had returned.
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Spring confetti - by Birk - April 14, 2018, 01:41 PM