Tales from a Tangled Skein

Prologue: Frayed Ends

Steve Danielson is your typical teenage overachiever; popular, athletic, and bright, if a bit shy. But an ancient legacy is about to change his life forever.

Flames danced merrily on the hearth, casting a warm amber glow that filtered through the room, chasing furtive shadows about the chamber's vaulted ceiling. Seemingly hewn from a single towering block of weather beaten granite, much of the stone's base had been removed to make way for the enormous hearth, fully six feet in diameter. This was surrounded by circular sheets of inch thick glass connected with thin links of solid bronze. The fireplace was like the room that contained it; large and eclectic. Flat panel monitors streaming the latest news in dozens of languages vied for wall space with rich tapestries, beautiful paintings and fragments of parchment dating back thousands of years. Here and there finely wrought links of chain armor were mounted beside blades, axes and hammers of all shapes and sizes, many carved with intricate runes that seemed to catch and hold the firelight occasionally before winking out. A whisper of wind stoked embers as smoke wafted lazily up the granite flue as if reluctant to leave the presence of the three woman warming themselves on the marble bench that surrounded the hearth.

The women reflected their environment. The youngest was clad in the skintight leather of an avid motorcyclist. Her shock of coal black hair, shot through with violet highlights fell about her face in a severe bob. Ice blue eyes twinkled as the tiny pixie of a girl grinned at her companions, propping her heavy motorcycle boots up on the glass and steel coffee table with a satisfying “thunk” as she leaned further back towards the welcoming warmth of the hearth. This earned her a scowl of reproof from the eldest of the trio.

"Sister, I'll have you know this table is worth twice that chugging banshee on two wheels that you insist on polluting my peace and quiet with.”

The silver-haired matriarch's green eyes glared at her youngest sibling as she smoothed the hem of her long burgundy gown. Tall and willowy, Urd's attractive face was etched with many lifetimes of joy and sorrow.
Skuld grinned, flexing her boot-clad feet.

“It's called a Valkyrie, not a Banshee. Besides, maybe if you took the rune stone out of your ass and lived a
little, you wouldn't be so concerned about my current steed.”

“Sisters please, now is not the time for this pointless bickering,” the middle sibling pleaded in a reasonable
tone.

Taller than the pixie, but lacking the regal stature of her elder sister, Verthande's voluptuous form was clad in a rich sky blue. Her pale skin contrasted well with rich reddish-blonde hair and warm topaz eyes.Thande gestured towards the far wall where three looms stood beneath a tapestry that was beginning to take shape.

“The strands haven't been this tangled in an age. We must find a way through this knot. The golden thread
grows thin. You both know as well as I that now is not her time to be cut.”

The eldest rose and regarded the sister's handiwork. Forest green orbs surveyed a tableau of dark skies, flame and clashing weapons.

“Ours is not to intervene directly sister,” she said thoughtfully, smiling slightly at the frown which formed on Thande's face. “But perhaps there is a way to bolster this strand against the approaching storm.”

Skuld rose, moving her tiny form to stand beside her older sister.

“An infusion of new blood perhaps? This strand,” her slim fingers grasped a golden-brown thread from her loom, “is a descendent of the same line, though the strands must be woven to ensure her legacy is passed on.”

Verthande smiled gently and nodded to her sisters as she took her place at the middle loom.

“Then let us begin and see where the weaving will take us.”

Moments later the rhythmic sound of looms filled the air, joining the past with the present towards a very uncertain future.

* * *

1. The Lock of Golden Hair

It began with a dream. Steve's eyelids fluttered rapidly, his brown orbs reflected waves of shimmering gold. An oppressive heat licked at his limbs bringing another disturbing fact to mind . . . he was naked . . .

“What the . . . ?” he murmured, “Where am I?”

Sitting up, the 17-year-old blinked, bringing a blasted furnace of a world into focus. He sat within the remains of a field of grain.

“Wheat,” his mind registered even as a wall of orange and red pressed ever closer to him. “I'm in the middle of a wildfire.”

Jumping to his feet, the athletic young man turned in a rapid circle looking for some way out of the firestorm. Frantically he scanned the field before his eyes were drawn to a path of wheat that seemed to defy the onslaught, even as the hungry flames sought to consume it. Crouching to the earth to avoid the haze of smoke overhead, Steve filled his lungs with as much air as he could, then burst from the clearing just as a gout of orange seemed to leap towards him. Not daring to look back, he felt the heat pursue his footsteps. Grain stalks hissed and popped as the flames seemed to move with a malevolent will, bearing down on his retreat.

“Renn!” Steven heard a strong female voice shout even as he felt the skin on his neck, back, thighs and shins begin to blister and smelled the foul odor of burning flesh. Still he ran, fighting a blind panic and his lungs burning ache for air. Steven heard laughter above the roar as arcs of fire leapt out scalding his body. Pain shot through his adrenaline filled form for a timeless moment before being replaced by a cool wave of relief as an odd weight tugged gently upon his head and the world dissolved into a curtain of spun gold.

* * *

Steve gasped and shook himself awake. He shivered and bolted upright, the scent of burning flesh still filling his nostrils.

“God, what a nightmare,” he whispered as he took several ragged breaths.

Shafts of pale light from the full moon illuminated his bedroom as he tried to shake off the lingering images of flames and blackened earth. His eyes cast about, trying to ground himself in the familiar reality of his room. Against the far wall stood a large bookshelf full of volumes on the history and mythology of the Greeks, Romans and Norse. These sat beside sci-fi and fantasy paperbacks by William Gibson and Glen Cooke. The books fought for space with photographs from sports teams and organizations that Steven belonged to, along with academic, athletic and citizenship awards. The prominently displayed trophies both pleased and slightly embarrassed him. He was proud of what he had accomplished, but Liz and Henry Danielson's insistence on what he saw as a mini-shrine to their youngest son made him feel kind of self-conscious. Steve grinned a bit ruefully to himself. His parents had done the same for his two older brothers, Brent and Jacob, so he shouldn't be surprised.

“Besides, not like I have to worry about any girlfriends seeing it.” he thought to himself.

Popularity wasn't Steve's problem. Most girls found his dark, curly shoulder length hair, hazel eyes and ready smile attractive. He was also smart and a starting athlete at his medium-sized rural high school. The young man's romantic roadblock was utterly self-imposed. He'd just never felt confident enough to ask many girls out on dates. Often he'd pine for a beautiful classmate's attention, only to end up in the good friend category.

“Shy guys just don't get a lot of dates.” his friend Lisa had said as the pair talked at the willowy blonde's house earlier that night.. “You have to be willing to make the first move.”

Steven sighed bitterly and looked at the angry red of the alarm clock. 3 AM glared accusingly at him from the bedside table.

”Two hours, feels like I've been asleep two days.” the 17-year-old whispered.

He winced as he pushed back the covers. Why did his arms and legs hurt so much? Steve swung over the side of the bed and rose to his full 6' height. Blinking bleary eyes he walked slowly over to a large chest of drawers and the tall oak framed mirror that sat on top of it. Switching on a lamp, he glanced into the silvered glass at his reflection. As his eyes focused, Steve had to wonder if he wasn't still dreaming. His hair was . . . odd. Perched in the middle of his formerly dark brown curly mane was a single lock of bright golden hair.

“What the hell was going on?” he thought. “Hair color doesn't just change overnight. Was this someone's idea of a joke?”

Reaching up a lightly tanned, muscled arm, Steve touched the offending lock with his fingers, pulling the hair down in front of his eyes. It was very soft,yet thick and strong. Unbelievably it seemed to be his own hair. The spun gold began at the root, directly in the center of his hairline. Leaning forward, Steve let the curl go and looked further back. Impossibly the golden strands didn't stop with one lock as he had first thought. Instead they flowed like a sunlit stream through the middle of his otherwise dark brown hair before falling over the back of his head to hit just above his shoulders where the rest of his hair ended. A quick tug at the strands simply produced sharp pain.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, before biting his lip and glancing at his closed door. “Just what I need, for Mom and Dad to see me like this.” he thought.

After several seconds of silence, the young man turned back to the mirror, trying to make some sense of what he was seeing and feeling.

“Okay, I'm awake, and I've apparently sprouted golden locks overnight. Geez, golden locks . . . Goldilocks, I can hear the guys now. I'll never live this down.” he muttered.

Steve's fingers returned to his hair, comparing the gold with the brown on his head. The blond hair seemed a bit thicker, yet silkier than his brown curls. As he continued his investigation a dull ache in his limbs caused him to look sharply at his upper arms. From his shoulders to his elbows, his tan was gone. In its place the skin was a deep crimson that was tender to the touch and devoid of any hair. Fear gripped Steve's gut as he looked over his shoulder at the back of his legs. The same hairless, red, nearly blistered skin met his eyes. Suddenly he recalled the dream, his desperate race to safety, the flames that lapped his arms and legs. What was going on? How could a dream have impact on the real world? It was insane, but the evidence was just as tangible as hardwood floor beneath his feet. Panic rose in his throat as blackness began to creep around the edges of his vision.

“Calm down, dammit. This is just some crazy coincidence. Think it out.” he told himself. “Lisa. I can get Lisa to help me fix this hair mess. She'll know how to get rid of this, this skunk stripe.”

Steve turned back to his alarm and set it for 6 AM. His parent's usually slept in until seven on Saturday's. It was one of the few luxuries the Danielson's allowed themselves on their thousand acre ranch. That should give him enough time to quickly shower and get over to Lisa's and try to get things back to normal. As he settled back into bed, he just hoped no more dreams would come.

* * *

As the teenager slid gingerly out of consciousness, Urd, Verthande and Skuld ceased their timeless weaving.

“It's begun.” the eldest said as she examined the sister's handiwork.

Skuld pulled her leather jacket back on and zipped it tightly as she prepared to leave the house.

“We've done our duty, now it's up to him.” She grinned wickedly at Urd. “Care to join me for a ride? If he fails it could be your last chance.”

The matriarch laughed, a silvery peel of mirth that belied her stolid exterior.

“Why not?” she smirked. “Just let me see someone about a certain rune stone first.”

Thande smiled gently as her sisters left the longhouse and she heard the roar of Skuld's Valkyrie split the night. Turning back to the tapestry she gently caressed the woven figure of Steve Daneilson.

“Gods-speed on your quest young one. You carry the hopes of many with you.”