“Tired, so tired. How long has it been since Gunar left?” said the troll as he climbed the steep slope.
Trundle was the last of the Icelandic Trolls. There had once been hundreds, but time and humans took them, leaving only one.
“The moon is lovely tonight,” thought the troll. He decided to climb to the top of Hvannadalshnúkur and try to spot Gunar’s bonfire in Norway.
As he walked, he remembered when his friends and family lived on the island. Each step took him higher and further back into his past.
“I remember the time Dunkell fell into the volcano and was shot out like a bullet to Finland. It took a year to walk back,” muttered the troll as he climbed.
Reaching the peak, Trundle sat down and searched the horizon for his friend’s flames. “I think Gunar has gone like the others,” whispered the troll.
Trundle liked spending time high up by himself. “Seeing far away puts life into perspective,” the troll often said.
The stars winked at the troll. “So many stars shine, the same as the trolls of our past,” thought Trundle.
He missed having company and playing games. “Every day I do the same and will do the same every day forever,” mumbled the troll to himself.
Dark thoughts filled Trundle’s mind, causing him to become angry. Getting angry was easy for a troll, but something had changed; the anger felt empty.
The moon was setting, and he knew he had to climb down the peak before dawn, and the sun rose.
As he started to get up, he thought, “Why do I need to keep going? Who am I doing this for?”
In a flash, Trundle, the last Icelandic troll, knew what he needed to do: nothing.
The troll sat atop Hvannadalshnúkur and felt the cold air flow over his body as he waited for the sunrise.
“I wonder if I’ll dream?” he thought as the sun’s rays transformed him into stone.
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