* VALHALLA, I AM COMING

“ According to "The Life of Ansgar" only the gods can decide who can be elevated to divine status (to be worshiped as a god) as was the case of Erik III (very uncertain what Erik is about). But according to some sagas the kings who governed times of peace, prosperity and good harvests were associated with the gods. “  some heroes are considered to be elevated then to myth status too, such as beowulf. 

The eyes that had pierced the girls skull are pale,  glowing from within the cavern of a man’s torso,  like eyes peering out from the hollow.  That which has snared Moder’s interest will not spy the young goddess amongst the trees —  in much the same way as the rabbit does not,  and then to its doom.  A cloven hoof at least thrice the size of that meagre coney saves the girl her trouble,  long after her dinner has fled from her sight.  That thud resembles a falling tree that one can’t see,  but rather feel its impact upon the gelid earth.  Through tall tree trunks,  the shadows appear at play.  Pallid morning light burgeons that dance,  elongating shards of darkness that may or may not belong in the place they’ve begun to inhabit.  

A frozen fog hangs by the ground,  encircling Loki’s feet.  He does not feel the weight of it,  nor its bite —  perhaps that is the only blessing granted to he who always feels somewhat welcomed by the dead and rotting,  now.  Jötunheimr’s king is the only one who makes himself known,  once he has been misnamed.  He brings with him a cold far more persevering than the one she’s come to know,  and does think to save her the vicious cut of another winter.  

Chaos envelops the grove within which they find themselves.  She’ll begrudge him for how all manner of critters swiftly flee from that tempestuous swathe,  which swiftly grows teeth.  She is spared the gnawing sensation,  though only as he wills it.  He watches her and glimpses waves;  and how fluid fills the lungs.  Perhaps that,  and the child hidden amongst the trees,  has softened his outer edges some.  

Moder,  too,  appears nigh-shy to him.  And he does not draw her from her hiding place,  where she plucks her earlier catch from the snow,  headless,  but otherwise whole.   “  No games here,  ”   He draws attention through the trees,  and though the ostensible promise is frangible at best.  Canting his head knocks forth his chin,  toward her.   “  I’m not one for concealing myself entirely.  ”   Humour oft is tied to his tongue,  as though he finds jest where others never can,  no matter circumstance.  Hers is bleak,  that much he feels —  as much as any soul abandoned here,  maybe moreso.

“  You lack a catch.  ”   His observation is meant to be guiding.  A headless rabbit still sits between the human hangs that frame Moder’s shadow-dwelt face.  She has yet,  however,  to reveal the prize.   “  Ironically the beasts here appear lively.  ”

𝙸𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝙻 𝙵𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙷𝙰𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚂, 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙽𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙰 𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴!   she cannot make it out entirely, nor would she try when cannot even will her eyes to do so.   her cold, pink mouth agape and out of breath, lungs grasping for a single gulp of air that will allow the girl to scream.  she can’t.  and if she did, no one would come to help her anyway.  and the man, born perhaps from the remains on domaldi's altar.  IT IS HELL IN THOSE EYES.  they hold an emotion she has never seen before.  something she dares not try to name.   the girl’s eyes dart between the trees, searching for monsters, for teeth within swollen flesh, and the metal metal trap is left forgotten and NARROWLY AVOIDED by the circling of her feet.       will she be swallowed by the fog?

                                        “    good.   i ... i  don’t like games.   ”

it must be courage... perhaps a touch of stupidity, sting her trembling heart, now thronged with the stuttering anticipation of the pain of being eaten.   adrenaline drowns her.    an arrow is against the drawstring before even astrid can stop the burning in her arm.   a thousand stories from her father’s lips prepared her for the fiends.  crunching bones and snapping organs would soon be the medley that her stinking innards would play.   the tattered rope groans between her fingers,  and her distant, glossy eyes fight to contain the wetness of her fear.  she will not look weak to any man nor beast! 

         lo,  the woman is still a child.   there is innocence beneath the swathe of quaking fear,  and she can feel the water closing around her throat, surging through her lungs.   astrid’s fingers slip, the wooden bow shakes and the arrow sways off-center,  realigned only to sway off again. 

“   i’m starving.  i haven’t eaten in days, none of us have.   ”    astrid’s voice shakes with the weight of winter’s touch and her surmounting fear.  in her head she replays the sound.  can she pass for freezing cold?   no. there are more important things to worry about that appearing weak before a foe.   SHE WON’T BE FOOD FOR THAT BEAST BENEATH THE ROOTS!     

𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙻𝙴𝙳  𝙸𝙽  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺,  𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙻𝙴𝙶𝚂  𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙳  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝙹𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳  𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙲𝙷.    the sun’s cloying rays died far behind her, bidding the girl farewell whilst she plunged into a set of grueling tunnels where its light could never reach.   only a thin, gray light penetrated the murk and gloom, thwarting her with dizziness that caused the cavern to spin.   her eyes fought fiercely to adjust to the blackness.    not a soul could see her now, or hear her if she screamed.    whatever monsters lurked in the wall of black before her could feast upon her flesh, and not a man above the mountains would be any wiser of the tale           she had ought to be afraid, and she knew.   but too:   no one was watching her. no one was there to judge her as she trekked into the unknown without so much as a match to light her way.

it was meant to be that way. such darkness was present at the beginning of time, and it would be again at the end.   the ginnungagap.   the force of blackness, of serene and quiet nothingness that surrounded the roots of the tree of life, cushioning their descend into the three most sacred wells.   never quite captured in the thrilling stories told through tapestries, though her mother once had tried.   she remembered her mother taking her little hand along the edges of embroidered, golden thread, being scolded for not remembering the names of the aesir who fought against the vanir.    odin, frigga, höðr, thor, baldr and týr.    she never would forget again. 

her dagger slipped halfway out of its scabbard, scraping and screaming on the rock until it clattered somewhere further, far out of reach.   the scrape of metal on stone made her hair stand on end,  made her bile raise in her throat.   astrid cursed, reaching her fingers into the dark, groping for the pommel along what felt to be a ledge.   what she found instead startled her, frightened her beyond all imagining.   it stopped the blood in her veins, the breath that would be scream, the beading sweat that clung against her brow.   it was the set of dark eyes staring back at her, blistering like electricity through storm clouds, somehow visible in the darkness, though darker than the shadow.  her mouth wouldn’t open.  her face was still as stone.

𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝙳𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙰𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝙽-𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙲𝙸𝚃𝚈.   toward the heart where citizens bustled through busy market streets in search of meat, fish and vividly dyed fabrics of every kind of texture.  just on one stall astrid could pick out half a dozen textiles that would have made her sister smile.  they made her stomach churn.  

only a few vendors would even sell to her in faurhus; most were too proud to speak to an outcast like her, or any of her companions in the woods, for that matter.   their pious stares made her hands curl until they shook.   once, she threw a rock at one of their heads and was thrown out for the remainder of that whole autumn.   gathering skins to stay warm had been a challenge, but...  he deserved that bruise, laughing at the furs she’d brought to barter, calling her a thief, suggesting them stolen. 

her mouth went dry as she padded around the muddy streets, ducking her head in the cowl of her cloak to conceal her face from the townsfolk. it would be infinitely better if they thought her a stranger;  a trouble-maker had even fewer friends.           no, enough.  thinking of every living thing in the realm as her enemy would only drag her down.  she needed to make friends.  even if it meant only pretending to be friendly.   the last thing that would help any of them was her loosing another stone.

it was when she broke free of the markets that she felt most at home, walking along the beach to crack shells and little sticks beneath her boot, and eyeing pieces of driftwood that would be perfect kindling for a fire, or even a table where she could eat her meals in peace. 

astrid swiveled just in time to see her       the woman with blonde hair, far more muscular than she was, and leans hard to avoid colliding with her shoulder.