The first thing Blader saw on awakening was a bright blue sky completely devoid of clouds. The first thing he felt was the cold. He felt it in his legs especially. Slowly, he blinked, before trying to move his arms and legs. All of his limbs moved easily and he sat up, glancing around at his surroundings.

Blader was sitting in the middle of a barren ice wasteland. The ice covering the hard ground was cracked into small, uneven plates. Before him, in the distance, was a mountain range, rising high up into the sky. The tops were covered in snow from what he could see. The air around him was chilly, his tunic thick enough to provide enough warmth for now, but he'd hate to see how much the temperature would drop once that sun set. He stood up, shading his eyes as he gazed at the mountain. The sun was shining down, striking the ice and bouncing up, trying to blind him.

No water. There will probably be water in the mountains. I should head there. Blader twisted, studying the rest of his surroundings. There was nothing else in the barren wasteland in any of the other directions, just ice stretching out to the horizon. The mountains it is, then.

Blader started walking towards the far mountain range, hoping to reach it by nightfall, at the latest. He did not want to be stranded out here once the sun went down. The edges of the ice cracked under his boots as he walked, his shield and sword feeling normal against his back by this time, after all his training. He was used to their weight; it was actually comforting.

As he walked, Blader tried to figure out where he had landed. The ice and the mountains reminded him of everything he'd learned about Jotunheim. This didn't seem like the icy cold hell Niflheim was reputed to be, so he was going to go with Jotunheim as his guess.

Jotunheim...Jotunheim...the home of the jotuns and extreme weather, the place of Loki's origin. Jotunheim. Jotuns live here. I do not want to run into them.

The weak sun was high overhead, shining down on Blader's shoulders. Although he couldn't feel the heat, the light continued to reflect off of the cracked ice and strike his eyes. Keeping his eyes narrowed, he fixed his eyes on the mountains before him, his ultimate goal.

Blader didn't know how long he'd been walking when he noticed figures in the distance. Stopping, he shaded his eyes and peered at the approaching small group, wondering who they were. Other einherjar, perhaps? Or were they some kind of rekkr?

He swung his weapons down from his back, slipping his shield onto his arm and holding his sword defensively as he watched the figures, weighing his options. Should he continue on to the mountains, or should he wait to see who the figures were?

Blader thought for a moment. If they were einherjar, he could possibly ally with them. One of his friends could be a part of that group of figures. But they could also be jotuns, in which case Blader didn't want anything to do with them. So after another moment of hesitation, he started heading towards the mountains again, quickening his pace.

The group continued towards him, although they were still at a distance. He couldn't tell how many there were. Blader broke into a jog, breathing out thanks for all the hard runs he had been put through over the last two months. Even with the cold air scraping down his throat, he was able to easily maintain his faster pace as he watched the mountains slowly grow larger before him.

With his jogging, Blader was able to keep a good distance between himself and the approaching figures. But as he kept glancing ahead to the mountains, he noticed that something was lying on the ice before him, disrupting the barren wasteland.

As he kept moving closer, the object eventually became clearer, although Blader still could not tell what it was. It was long and low, a dark color compared to the ice it lay upon. But it was only when he was nearly upon the object that he realized what it was.

A body.

The dead einherjar stretched across the ground, legs bent awkwardly, his sword several feet away from his hand, his shield over his stomach. The bloody wound in the recruit's neck had stained the surrounding ice, the blood dried and cracked. His eyes were glassy, gazing up at the sun he couldn't see.

Blader stumbled to a halt, staring wide-eyed at the dead recruit. The first day of the Reenactment and already there had been a death. Who had killed him? He looked again at the face and recognized him as being from Unit 232. It took him a moment to remember that kid's name. Nibel, he recalled. Sigurd Nibel. Bunk Eleven.

Dead.

The screams...the explosions...the blood in the street....

Blader winced, his body trembling, feeling the events from Thor's Bridge come rushing back over him. Even though it was only one body, only one casualty compared to the many on Thor's Bridge, it was already too much. One life was not a price to pay. No lives were such a price that should have to be paid. But yet, they had to.

Taking a deep breath, Blader forced his mind back on track. It had been years since his fireshock, a trauma induced stress disorder, from that fateful afternoon had afflicted him, years since Ivan would spend the night singing soothing lullabies to him to keep him from waking his parents when he couldn't sleep, years since Hilda would break down in the middle of a meal and fall off her chair in her lashing out. He thought he had beaten it.

Breathe...breathe...just breathe.

There's nothing I can do for Sigurd Nibel now.

Shaking his head to clear his mind and breathing deeply, Blader forced his mind out of its fear and forced himself to move, the knowledge of the mysterious group behind him giving him the strength to keep going. He gave the body a wide berth, training his eyes on the mountains before him and starting to run again.

In the past, Blader used to ride to escape his fears and flashbacks. His father would tack up Fjorsen and Sig and the two of them would ride across the fields every Soldagr, the wind helping to chase away the fireshock triggers. If Karl couldn't ride that day, Ivan would take him out, urging him to ride fast into the wind. Combined with his counseling sessions, he had been able to cope, to move on.

Hilda had gone through similar therapy, except braiding had been her coping mechanism. She learned how to do all kinds of intricate braids, on hair, fabric, flowers, rope. She'd even braid the horses' manes on bad days, her fingers flying too fast to watch as she gathered Sig's mane into tiny, intricate braided bunches. Freyja had been a perfect test subject, her beautiful blonde hair excellent material for Hilda to work with, and the little girl loved having her hair braided. During the summer, flower wreaths created by Hilda would decorate the house and in the winter, she'd braid fabric and ribbons she'd purchased using her flower wreath money, creating accessories for her clothes and Freyja's doll. As she'd grown older, she'd taken up weaving, which she claimed was just "braiding, but for professionals."

But there was no horse for Blader to ride now, just his feet to carry him forward towards his goal. He didn't want to end up on the icy ground, his own blood adorning the cracked plates. In order for that not to happen, he had to keep going, he had to make it to the mountains.

A glance back over his shoulder revealed his pursuers had managed to significantly close the gap between them. Now, Blader could see that they were certainly not fellow recruits but were jotuns, all armed with axes and broadswords. There were three of them, wearing thick animal skin tunis, their dark bushy hair bound back on the napes of their pale necks. It was their paleness that marked them as frost jotuns.

If Blader hadn't known they were rekkr, he would have thought they were real. Even knowing they were rekkr didn't make things better, knowing they were here to kill him and had been summoned with the ability and the mental capacity to do so.

Just like they must have done to Nibel.

Blader had two options: keep running or turn and fight.

I'm going to have to fight them eventually; reaching the mountains won't stop them from chasing me.

Blader halted, pivoting to face the oncoming jotuns. Shield up, sword ready, he gritted his teeth before charging towards them.

Out of live or die, I'd rather live.

As he moved, his eyes took in the weapons of his opponents. Two axes, one sword. None of the jotuns had shields, only thick leather and metal gauntlets around their wrists that he had heard could act as a shield in case there was a need. All three were taller than Blader, reaching about seven feet, easy, with broad, strong builds. Blader would look small next to them, and he was outnumbered. But perhaps both could be twisted to his advantage.

The jotuns, after a moment of hesitation, surged forward to meet Blader. At the last second, right before they could swing their blades at him, Blader threw himself into a slide, lifting his shield up to cover his abdomen and head as he lashed out with his sword. He felt it bite into something, probably a leg, as he skidded past them, sliding between two of them, and rolled, coming up on his knees, his sword and shield up.

As the jotuns whirled to face him, Blader was already up on his feet, running back into combat. His instincts were taking over, his mind racing to take in all the details his eyes and ears were sending it as he raised his shield to block the first strike, dropping into a crouch to throw his opponents off balance as he struck out at their legs again, managing to inflict a good blow on one.

The injured jotun jumped back, blood staining his thick trousers, as Blader jumped up into a standing position and pressed closer to the other two. Using his shield to bash into one while his sword deflected the other's blade, he kept his senses on high alert and when he heard the footsteps behind him, he pivoted and ducked, allowing the axe meant for him to cleave into one of the other jotuns.

Stunned, the frost jotun fell, the rune flickering inside him as his body faded. One down, two left to go.

Blader didn't waste any time, just slammed his shield back into the jotun behind him as he rose, thrusting his sword towards the other jotun. His blade was parried and Blader jumped back, away from his opponents, his weapons raised defensively. His mind assessed his situation.

One axe, one sword, one of them has an injured leg.

The jotuns turned, facing Blader with their weapons ready. As they started towards him, Blader breaking into a steady run to meet them, he couldn't help but notice the sudden clarity he felt in battle. It was like his entire body knew to place all focus on this one task, on surviving to fight again another day.

Blader's sword slammed into the axe as his shield blocked the sword blow. Flinging his shield arm out, he threw the sword jotun off balance as he kicked out at the axe jotun, striking the injured point on his leg and forcing his limb to cave. With that, his sword thrust into the jotun's chest went unblocked.

The sword jotun regained his balance, striking out with his weapon at the young recruit. Blader twisted to the side, receiving a cut across his shoulder. A hiss of pain escaped through his teeth as he plowed forward, swinging his sword up and around as he drove it into the jotun's stomach.

Panting, blood dripping from his wound down his arm, Blader watched the last jotun fade away, all traces of the battle gone. His heart was racing, his mind still working overtime as he turned, almost expecting someone else to come barreling toward him. But there was no one else, no one to be seen on the barren ice. He was alone, once again.

Slowly, it dawned on Blader that he had just defeated three jotuns in combat, all by himself. He furrowed his brow, gazing at the marked ground all around him. His first fight in the Reenactment, and he had survived.

You're injured. Check your shoulder.

Blader knelt down on the ice, placing his weapons down before glancing at his shoulder. His tunic had been cut, blood now staining it, but he couldn't see the severity of the wound. Unbuckling his belt, he stripped his tunic off, his fingers gently feeling the wound.

It wasn't deep, but it certainly did hurt. There wasn't much he could do about it now, especially one handed and at this awkward angle, but he did use his sword to cut a piece of fabric off of the bottom of his tunic before slipping it back on and replacing his belt. After sheathing his sword and slinging both it and his shield over his back, Blader pressed the fabric against his wound to put pressure on the bleeding, and kept walking, his eyes trained on the mountains.

/**/

First fight of the Reenactment! What did you think of Blader's trek across the ice, his fight with the frost giants?

Thanks for reading! Please comment and vote, let me know what you think! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Skylar Wittenborn