Fimbulwinter's End

To you, who is reading this, wherever you are, it saddens me to say this will be the last of my personal scribings, which you have presumably been perusing for some time, possibly out of curiosity for a civilisation lost, as I assume it must be, following the events of this eve. 

I am writing these words by candlelight, wrapped in my wolf hide cloak, attempting to fend off the cold and unbearable darkness that has descended on my mother’s Hall and lands, not to mention the world, following the death of the sun.

Yes. That is what I wrote. 

The sun is gone. I don’t mean for the day. I don’t mean behind the cosmos-concealing storm clouds that clutch and claw at the sky as I sit here shivering, surrounded by treasures and fineries of the highest value which no longer offer any solace.

The sun is gone. Taken. Devoured.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

I am speaking of what occurred at the end of this last day of fimbulwinter and I must relate the day’s events in full. If I were to speak of the atrocity alone, you would think my vacation in Folkvangr ended without resolution to the threads left dangling in previous entries. 

That would not do, so let me return to this morning and tell of the return of Queen Freya, following a two-day quest to retrieve her necklace, Brisingamen, stolen by the dwarves she’d given sanctuary to, having saved them from Brynhilder and her valkyries (who have been a thorn in Mother’s side since infiltrating Vanaheim but are no longer a problem as of today. I will get to that.)

This day began the same as every other we have endured these endless winters, with the sun rising high above the snow-covered fields of Folkvangr, which surround the hall Sessruminir and stretch towards fang-like mountains in all directions. 

Or should I say that lifeless, white orb we continued to call a sun, despite it having provided no warmth or comfort since the death of Baldur and the commencement of fimbulwinter three years thus. At least it was something. Which was better than Nothing.

And Nothing is all Skoll has left.

But I am drifting, as Hnoss would say, nudging me to point out some attractive new male who caught her eye, living or dead, though more so dead since we’ve been in Folkvangr. Not that this deterred my sister. I fear she has worked her way through an army of Mother’s Einherjer in the three years we’ve been here, distracting them from their training and most likely ensuring they will not be at their best for the forthcoming war.

Mother has not been happy about her wanton behaviour, but what did she expect, inviting the Goddess of Lust to spend the seasons here, surrounded by witless neanderthals, all of whom withered on the battlefield of whatever wasteful wars they took part in. Not exactly the intelligence I’d invite into my bed but that’s Hnoss for you, anything with (or without) a pulse.

As I was saying, this day began the same as every other, cold, dreary, as lifeless as the lumbering corpses that lurch against the walls inside Sessrumnir. I emerged from my chambers in time to witness Hnoss casting a one-armed Einherjer from her bedchamber, another undead viking taken advantage of and discarded like dung. It gave me reason to mock my sister as we made our way to the banquet hall, lured as ever by the scent of slow-roasting, leftover Sæhrímnir, being tended to by father in the cauldron. 

Yes, he continues to defy cook’s orders to leave the animal alone to regenerate, completely sold on the belief that boar stew tastes better the second day. And he is King Oor after all. Who is Andhrimnir to argue with his Queen’s doting husband?

I will confess to feeling bad about eating that poor creature’s meat, morning, noon and night, watching it regenerate each day with sad, soulful eyes only to be slaughtered again at sundown to feed the mouldering masses. And us Aesir. We are horrible. But one good thing about the events of this evening is that it won’t have to endure that any longer. Sæhrímnir is free. I really should set him loose now. It seems only fair, since Hildi had a taste of freedom earlier.

Oh yes, Hildisvini, I must get to that also!

But first back to Mother. We had barely finished eating (as much as it pains me to admit it, two day old Sæhrímnir really does taste fantastic!) and wandered out into the gardens for a stroll when father spotted her aloft, circling Sessrumnir’s towers on her cloak of falcon feathers. Of course she had to make a dramatic entrance. That’s mother for you. A born show-off. She wouldn’t come down until she’d whipped the Einherjar on the ramparts into a frenzy and could descend to the battlecries of warriors.

When she eventually graced us with her presence, precious Brisingamen was once again secured around her neck. Those deceitful dwarves, she informed, had made it to the Asgardian mountains and were almost back in their own lands when she caught them and exposed their treachery. I won’t lie, I didn’t feel comfortable hearing her recount the tale. Not because she went into excruciating detail about what she did to the dwarves, lifting them into the sky and dropping them to be impaled on crystalline peaks. (Which seems unfair, considering Brisingamen is a dwarven treasure to begin with, one Mother acquired by sleeping with the four dwarves who forged it, dwarves who had no right to give it away, for silver, gold or a night with the Goddess of Seduction, in the first place. She honestly has no right to judge my sister.)

No, I worried because of the way she was looking at me, like she knew I’d hired the dwarves to steal the necklace from her chambers while I distracted her. Obviously, as the Goddess of Possessions, Brisingamen has long been on my list of treasures to acquire and since Mother will never part with it, not even in death, what’s a girl to do? They only had to reach the Valley of Crystals and hide it where I told them and the necklace would have been mine. But you can’t trust a dwarf. Not to carry out a jewel theft anyway. I was left wondering as to whether or not they had also betrayed my confidence because it was just as she was getting to the end of her story that Andhrimnir interrupted, to advise Hildisvini’s pen had been left ajar and my mother’s other pride and joy, her golden-fleeced boar, was nowhere to be found.

Have I mentioned Hildisvini? Mother’s swine, who she rides around Folkvangr like a horse? I did wonder why Andhrimnir would have checked on him, as he has not been, and never will be, on the menu. Perhaps it was out of annoyance at my father for cooking Sæhrímnir up again and prolonging the beast’s daily torment. Maybe he was going to slaughter Mother’s boar to make a point? Hildisvini cannot regenerate the way Sæhrímnir does, so that would not have been wise. We’ll never know.

In any event, Mother was distraught at this news and turned her ire on myself and Hnoss, as it was we who were left in charge of the boar while she was away. I knew it had been Hnoss’s turn to water the beast the night before. And I knew Hnoss had other activities in mind. So if anyone had left Hildi’s pen open it was she. Not that I would stand there and accuse her. That is not in my nature. Hnoss, of course, was pointing the finger, but if there’s one thing Mother is good at it’s being fair. We were both left in charge, we were equally culpable, and so we were both sent out into the snow-covered fields to find the boar. Not the way I would have chosen to spend the last day of vacation, but at least we got to travel in style.

As I have mentioned many times in these papyri, Mother’s golden chariot is another of her treasures I covet. Not as much as Brisingamen but close. As with all her worldly possessions, Freya is very protective of the chariot and until this day has never allowed myself or Hnoss to ride in it, the argument being she has seen how we handle horses and believes we wouldn’t have the skills to steer Bygul and Trjegul. Because of course she has to have a pair of cats pull her chariot instead of steeds. 

For the record, I am an excellent horsewoman. Horses are divine animals, the jewels of the animal kingdom, so why would I not be? Hnoss is another story, she handles horses like men, roughly, cruel. Mother recognised this today, when she granted us permission to use the chariot, giving instructions that I was to drive while Hnoss was to look out for Hildi. I doubt she would have let us anywhere near the cats or the chariot if not for the fact she was exhausted following her excursion to the mountains. 

We went out into the frost-encrusted meadows in pursuit of a golden-haired boar, and the cats handled like a dream, in particular blue-haired Bygul who was particularly responsive to my urging. Grey-haired Trejgul seemed to just lethargically follow his lead, kind of like my sister with me. I enjoyed powering the chariot through deep banks of snow, forgetting the task at hand on more than one occasion, deliberately steering in circles to prolong the fun (and Hnoss’ misery as she was splattered by sleet, a long awaited cold shower for my sibling.) The thought did occur to me that I could kick her off and abscond with the vehicle, a treasure in place of the torc I’d been deprived of. But sanity prevailed.

After some time, we made our way within earshot of the squeals and grunts of a clearly troubled animal. My first thought was Hildisvini had fallen into a crevasse concealed by a snowdrift and I wondered how in Hel we’d get him out. Then Hnoss grabbed me and had me draw the cats to a halt as we crested a hillock. Luckily, she’d spotted ahead the true cause of Hildi’s alarm - he had been captured by a quintet of decrepit-looking valkyries, Brynhilder and her companions, all of them refugees from Valhalla and on the run from Odin having abandoned their duties.

As I mentioned previously, those hideous wretches have been causing trouble in Folkvangr for months, preying on travellers, robbing and killing them, eating them, by all accounts, having reverted to cannibal instincts, and as I drew the chariot to a halt and saw them in the hollow below, with Mother’s boar tied to a stake next to a charcoal fire they were tending, it didn’t take the God of the Wise to understand what was happening.

And what were we to do? A harlot and a hoarder? Take on five feral valkyries to save a pig? That was never going to happen. We would have turned the chariot around and returned empty-handed, having ‘failed’ to locate the animal, so it was more than fortuitous my uncle chose that moment to reappear.

You will recall from earlier writings how Freyr, Mother’s brother, had been with us on vacation the first two winters but, unable to stop thinking of the Jotun princess Gerðr he encountered in the Domain of the Storm Giants on his way to Vanaheim, he had left at the start of the year to track her down. Against the better judgement of Freya and Oor, though I was in favour of the endeavour. If my uncle hooked up with a giant, my thinking was it would give me safe passage into Jotunheim where I might possibly get my hands on one of those gargantuan diamond rings.

Another dream that will never come to fruition.  

Anyway, just as we were about to turn tail and leave Hildisvini to his fate, Freyr’s boat Skíðblaðnir crested the hill on the other side of the valkyries’ encampment and thundered like a mighty sled toward them, causing them to abandon their dinner.

Yes, I did say boat. Skíðblaðnir is as capable of sailing through snow as it is water, flames and lava also, if my uncle’s tales are to be believed. But that wasn’t the most exciting part. The most exciting part was when Freyr, at the helm, flung his magic, self-propelling sword from his hand and let it have at the scattering valkyries, stabbing, slicing, chopping and decapitating until the white snows of the hollow were painted crimson and decorated with discarded limbs.

When I saw Freyr disembark from Skíðblaðnir to free Hildisvini and bring him aboard, I urged Bygul and Trejgul on down the hill to join him. I’m not sure he believed our story that we’d only just arrived on the scene, but Freyr isn’t one to make things awkward so he simply lowered a ramp to allow us guide the chariot onto the boat then began to sail it back towards Sessrumnir.

One more thing of interest occurred which I must relate before writing about the loss of the sun. Freyr told us he had indeed reunited with Gerðr and they had been living happily together for months, but recent revelations made it necessary for him to return to his family. Though pushed, he wouldn’t tell what those revelations were, though he was grim as he dwelled on them, which wasn’t in his nature, so I knew it was serious.

There was something he needed to check before returning to the Grand Hall, so he took us on a detour to the edge of the Muspelheim mountains. We didn’t have to get too close, he only wanted to see if a rumour he’d heard was true, that the Jotunn Eggþér, who’d gone missing from his home a month prior, had set up home by the mountains with his rooster Fjalarr, where he occupied his time by playing harp.

This rumour was easily confirmed, first by the sounds of the harp reaching our ears as we approached, then by the sight of the Jotunn himself, a monolithic presence who rose into the sky at the foot of the mountains like one of their offspring.

Freyr drew the boat to a halt and slipped deep into thought for several minutes, staring at Eggþér solemnly until the mournful tune the giant strummed came to an end and the large red rooster crowed, a harsh, tortured, sound that shook me to my core.

Still Freyr wouldn’t speak.

We returned to Sessrumnir then, leaving the giant playing melancholic tunes, and upon our return there was much rejoicing. Rejoicing for the rescue of Hildisvini. Celebration for the destruction of the valkyries. A feast was prepared in honour of Freyr’s return, or so I thought, though now I know it was just one big last supper.

Sæhrímnir was spared one final insult, as he hadn’t regenerated fully, or so went the excuse. I should have known that wouldn’t stop them. Three-legged, two-legged or one, it had never stopped Andhrimnir serving him before. But I was so enthralled, along with Father, Mother and Hnoss, by tales of Freyr’s adventures in Jotunheim that I didn’t notice. 

Not until the rooster crowed again mid-way through the feast, something we shouldn’t have been able to hear considering how far away it was, but all heard easily nonetheless. 

Father, Mother and Freyr went deathly quiet. The conversation dried up. The banquet hall was vacated. Hnoss went to fetch an Einherjar for one final fling. I think at that point, we all knew. 

I spent the remaining hours of the day wandering aimlessly, drawing, watching the Einherjar train, napping at the top of the Hall’s eastern turret. Until Hnoss woke me and told me we’d been summoned to the south-west battlements.

Which is where they were waiting. Oor and Freya and Freyr. Gathered together, close, arms around one another, watching as the sun set over the horizon. Hnoss and I were encouraged to join them, which was unusual, as we are not a family that hug. 

But we hugged tonight.

And Mother cried, glistening teardrops that turned to gold as they fell from her cheeks, clattering on the concrete like nuggets. Valuable nuggets that on any other occasion I’d have been gathering up in my skirts. As a rebellious child, my favourite thing to do was make Mother cry, then pawn the results of her sorrow for jewels, but the time for such frivolities was over. 

And that was before I noticed the sun, reversing its trajectory and crawling back up into the sky.

I don’t know how to write about what I witnessed. How do you describe, in any way that does it justice, the sight of the planet-sized wolf named Skoll, rising up over the horizon in pursuit of the retreating sun, kicking its legs as though it were running through sand rather than space, snapping its jaws at the cold, lifeless orb as it tried to escape, catching it at the apex of its arc directly above us, clamping its teeth around it, chomping it into its maw.

I don’t know how else to describe how I saw the sun be eaten, as Fjalarr crowed a third and final time.

The world is dark now. 

I don’t want to write anymore.

Ragnarok has finally begun. 

The age of the Aesir is ending and in the distance I hear the rumbling sounds of war.

I do not know what will become of us.

But our fimbulwinter vacation is over.

I’m just glad I got to spend it with my family.

-GERSEMI, DAUGHTER OF FREYA AND OOR