Their journey should have really ended here. It was nothing more than a simple scout mission at the edges of Niðavellir, meant for the Order of Heroes to find any scoundrels who lingered in the great city's shadows. Ótr should have led Bruno back home, returned to his room, and picked away at his small stash of sweets.
He did not know what prompted him to go deeper into the ruined house that they had chanced upon on their way back to Askr. He had a premonition that something awful would happen, yet he had foolishly ventured into the shaky maw of the building's interior. What had he been hoping to find within its mangled innards? There was nothing but rot here. But perhaps that was precisely what attracted him to the old stones and hole-bored roof. There was something about decay that was irresistible to worms.
Ótr had left Bruno by the entrance, snappily telling him to stay put. He had made this foray seem more important than it really was, just as he often made himself seem more important than he truly was. Whatever. It was not as though Bruno could understand.
He stepped into the den. Molding furniture arranged around a circle, and rusted metalwork ornaments greeted him. There were no signs of intrusion, but he could have guessed that a small family lived here before they abandoned it. Maybe they were three. Maybe they were two brothers and a little sister. His fists clenched. Quickly, jerkily, he backed away from the center of the room.
Snap! His shoulder collided with a rotting beam, splitting it in two. The fracture spread from the column to the ceiling, and the second floor of the house gave way, burying him beneath kilos of rock and wood. Dust shrouded the collapsed house, and for a few moments, there was nothing to see but pure gray. Then, it settled.
A toppled wall had Ótr pinned to the ground, where he could see Bruno just a pace or so ahead.
He glanced up at Bruno. The man was inscrutable—nevermind the mask he wore, there was something about his expression that was eerily even. Ótr did not dare speak any words. His pride would not let him. But his eyes betrayed what his tongue could not. I don't want to die…
Though he had coveted that eternal darkness at every turn, now that it was greeting him, fear gripped his body like a tightly clasped hand. As the stone continued to press down on him, the pressure building up by his sternum, something base and animal began to emerge from his beating chest. I don't want to die. He heaved. Gloved hands clawed at the dirt, struggling to find purchase in the wet mud. He looked pathetic. Yet even in his lowest he could not bring himself to beg for help.
"Leave me…" he finally rasped, "Just leave me."