[Vorkund] Breathe II

[Hal]

3rd of Vhalar, 719

Hal awoke with a start, breath heavy and wound tight in his chest. Cold sweat clung to his face, and his eyes darted wildly across his bedroom. His breath steamed as it poured out of his mouth, oxygen tearing through his lungs at a frenzied pace. His hands gripped tight to the light linen sheets which wrapped around his body, and in the dull light of his underground room cold eyes seemed to rake over his form. Brilliant blue they shone, slitted in the middle like a predator whose interest had been piqued. They circled each other around the wall, slithering closer and closer to the Ellune trapped on the bed. One pounced from the wall, racing towards Hal with its hungry stare. His heart seized, his breath grew still, and chill that could cool even his frozen blood seeped through his veins.

He blinked.

The vision was gone, and he was left alone with nothing but shadows which danced in candlelight and the confused torrent of his thoughts.

Breathe.

Halar let out of choked gasp as cold air rushed over his tongue, his unconscious command forcing his body to regulate itself again. His hands, bone-white with tension, shook violently even as his nails carved into the grey-blue flesh of his wrists. He could feel his shoulders rise with anxiety, the muscles of his back winding and knotting themselves as the terror of his waking dream lingered in his mind.

Breathe.

This time it was his father's voice that guided him. Suddenly Hal was a child again, back when the night terrors had been new and strange to him. Tears, both then and now, stung his eyes, so filled with fright that he could barely contain his ragged sobbing. In his memory he could feel his father's hand on his back, tracing small and soothing circles in an effort to unwind his panic-stricken mine.

Breathe.

He ordered, and his body obeyed. He was no longer a child, screaming for his father in the night, and the dark dreams that haunted him were no longer so foreign. Hal had spent years with them, building safeguards in his psyche to wall the terrors out. With every breath, he forged a new piece of armor to protect himself. On and on again until he was wrapped in plate built to be a bastion against the monsters of his mind. He focused on shaping every inlay, carving every crevasse of that glacial guard. Vambraces to keep his wrist clear of scars. Boots to ground him, to grant him stability of self. A breastplate, to shield his heart against the horrors of his own thoughts. A helmet, so that his gaze may be guarded against the eyes of that endless abyss.

Breathe.

Slowly, the freezing grip fear began to leave his body. His eyes cleared of tears, his back unwound of anxiety, and his hands clasped together instead of tearing wounds into his wrists. With a shaking smile, Halar opened his eyes. He was alone in the room.

It had just been a dream. Just a horrible, waking dream.

[Hal]

Blood trickled slowly out from the shallow cuts that lined his wrists. Like tiny, crimson rivers they streamed and separated and reconnected at their own accord along the rough topography of his forearm. He ran his thumb over the ridges of his scarlet stained wrist, wincing as needling pain shot up his arm. Hal's own blood filled the minuscule fjords which lined every ellune's body, stealing the space that should have been reserved for frost and snow. He breathed out the pain, short and choppy breaths lengthening to a controlled and peaceful pace.

There was still a slight tremor in his hand. A reminder of the fear that chilled his now escaping blood. He watched the waver of his fingers with equal part disappointment and curiosity. Hal was usually one of sound and sturdy, so for a dream, a vision, such as this to shake him? It had to mean something.

"By Ymir's beard," he swore. Adrenaline and panic had numbed the full force of the pain, but as his waking mind demanded order so too did his wrist now angrily throb at him for the injury.

"Wrist first, ruminations later," he decided.

Focusing in on the pulsating pain which rolled off in waves from his wrist, Hal began the cycle of breath once more. Breath is where Nilas gained its power from. The stillness of it, or the sharpness of it. Controlled and calm or wild and rampant. Long, luxurious breaths, or sharp, stabbing ones. The type of breath he had determined the quality of frost freed from his soul, and though his family had been so far removed from their ancestral homeland that they knew not where their cold souls drew power from, they had taught him the process of summoning better than most native ellune could claim.

From breath came control, and from control came the cold.

Crystals of ice began their slow crawl up his arm and towards the still leaking wrist. Hal could feel the power pulse through his blood, dark veins brightening with blue and gaining strength each time he tasted the air upon his tongue. Fractal figures of frost took shape along his forearm, a white mist forming around him as the chill of his body met the air. The movement of the scarlet streams began to slow, and then stop as the cold overtook them. Crystallizing crimson bands solidified in their place, the blood freezing as the chill of his soul commanded it to stop. Slowly, Hal moved his hands over-top the tender wounds along his wrist, and where small gashes once stood were now replaced by a gauze of his own frozen blood.

With a final breath, Hal released his hold on Nilas. Despite his slumber, he felt exhausted to his bones from the effort of the nightmare and coaxing forth the frost. Still, snowblind eyes downcast to the source of his frustrations, Hal couldn't help the crooked smile which crawled upon his face. His handiwork was solid, ice well formed and unshaking as he moved his arms. It was only a temporary fix, a thing for small cuts and not for wounds of war, but still he felt a surge of pride. His grasp of Nilas was growing, even faster then he believed his father let on. Soon, perhaps, he would be able to man the frozen forge without his father's aid. Then, he could coldforge a blade worthy of Tyrfang's glaring hilt.

His his mouth dropped open with surprise.

The eyes. The eyes from his waking dream, They were so familiar. So fresh in his memory, but in the moment and in the panic he could place where he had seen the slitted gaze before. But now, now he knew.

A still trembling hand reached under his pillow, fingers curling around the cold metal as withdrew the object. The weight of it, weight that had felt comfortable not a trial ago, now felt so heavy in his hand. His eyes traced the smooth curves of the item, masterful craftsmanship which he once admired now filling him with dread. His eyes met the radiant blue of the gem in its pommel, staring hard at what he had thought to be a simply fracture in the jewel before. Tyrfang. The name he had given the hilt taken from his father's forge.

In his dream, Tyrfang had been watching him.