Happy Valhallidays!

CW: sacrilege/irreverence.

The snowstorm raged outside the little cottage, and a smaller storm raged within. The wife saw her husband rooted in his faded green armchair, glowering at the roaring fire. At his right hand stood a small table with a glass full of amber whisky. On the floor lay a half-filled bottle, and another beside it – empty.

She knew better than to disturb him on this night but it still took all her effort not to step in and say something.

The kids will call when they call, she might have said, and he’d grunt, Ingrates.

The people still remember you, she might add, and he’d growl, They don’t even know my name anymore.

You’re still respected and feared, she might try, and he’d snarl, Pshaw! Nobody needs an old has-been like me.

And then she’d finish with a meek, I need you. And he’d just shrink into himself and sulk, his one eye smoldering like an ember.

It was a conversation they’d had thousands of times before, and it was worst at this time of the year. Her heart cried for him, but a part of her also thought him childish. But tell a man he was childish, and behold the tantrum he’d throw.

It was a shame, she thought, that they couldn’t just enjoy the holiday season like normal people.

“I baked cookies,” she said.

He grunted.

She looked at the tray of fresh baked goodies in her oven-mitted hands. “Can you smell them? Isn’t that lovely?”

He took another sip of whisky. “I hate cookies.” He didn’t even look at her, just kept staring into the fireplace.

“You do not. Don’t you lie to me.”

He raised his glass again, but lowered it before taking a sip. “Is there coconut on them?”

“Yes!” she said. “I know how much you’ve grown to like coconut. I thought I’d make a special treat–”

“–Changed my mind. I hate coconut now.”

She pursed her lips. “Well, I lied. There’s no coconut on the cookies, so you’ve run out of excuses.”

The armchair groaned when he shifted to look over his shoulder, to glare at her. Even after all these years, the gaze of the one eye and the other empty socket was fierce – but no matter how hard he scowled with his bushy white eyebrows, she wasn’t moved. She was a fierce scowler too, and she had enough sulking.

“I hate cookies,” he muttered. But, his nose – quite red from his festivities – betrayed him, as he started sniffing the air and the delectable aroma of cookie dough and chocolate. His stomach grumbled.

They stared each other down, each preparing for one of their famous winter standoffs, but before they could really get uncivil there was a knock at the door. They both glanced toward it and then back at each other, their glare broken.

“A visitor?” he grumbled. “Tonight?”

“I wonder who it could be?” she said. Then a smile played at her lips. “Maybe it’s for you, dear?”

For a moment he considered it, but then he frowned and turned back to the fire. “No!” he said. “Nobody comes to see me anymore. Everyone forgot me. It’s a salesman or something. Let them freeze to death.”

She rolled her eyes and set the tray of cookies down beside him – noting a hand surreptitiously dart out and snatch one – and then she went to the door. When she cracked it open the wind howled and a drift of snow bellowed into the cottage, along with a shivering little figure in green. She pulled the little man in and shut the door behind him.

“Oh goodness!” she said. “Snorri, dear, is that you?”

Snorri – wearing apparently green tights of all things, and a hat with a bell on it – nodded his head and chattered his teeth. She made a fuss and took him to the kitchen, where she immediately wrapped him in a blanket and gave him a mug of piping hot chocolate.

The old man on his armchair heard them chittering in the kitchen. He tensed, expecting them to come bother him at any moment, with all their inane babbling and noise. It seemed like everyone was always bothering him, and nobody had the decency to let a man stew anymore. That was the problem with young people nowadays – nobody appreciated a good stew.

But nobody came to him.

He continued to hear them in the kitchen, and heard a burst of his wife’s laughter – such a rare thing this time of the year. He glowered at the fire. Then he shoved two cookies in his mouth and got up, and stalked to the kitchen.

“Just what in the devil’s boot is happening here?” he bellowed, spraying crumbs everywhere.

His wife and Snorri were red-faced with laughter, enjoying a punchline he had missed.

“Snorri!” he roared, recognizing the tiny man. “What… just what is that horrible costume you’re wearing? Is that a bell on your hat?”

“Hey, boss!” Snorri said, jumping from his seat. “This is my work uniform.”

The old man’s face grew hard again. “Your work uniform.” He jabbed a finger out at Snorri. “How dare you come into my home, you little traitor? Leaving me to go work for that, that… usurper!”

Snorri’s face fell. “I’m sorry, boss. But you know how it was! You furloughed everyone and, well, bills don’t pay themselves.”

The old man grit his teeth.

“Lay off, dear,” said his wife. “Snorri’s come to see you. He has a very important question.”

“Oh?” said the old man. “I don’t care. Go away.” He turned to leave the kitchen, but stopped when Snorri spoke.

“Boss, please! We need you!”

“Nobody needs me,” he muttered. “And anyway, shouldn’t you be out doing your stupid job?”

“Well, that’s just it, sir. Boss – er, my new boss – has come down with something fierce. The holiday spirit’s coming out both ends, if you catch my meaning.”

The old man grinned. “Good. Serves him right.”

“As I was saying, Nick’s sick, boss. He needs someone to cover for him. He needs… you.”

The old man’s one eye widened, and he tugged on his white beard, deep in thought. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Please, boss! The whole world’s counting on us, and I’m really in a bind.” Snorri dug in his pockets and produced a hat similar to his own, except it was red where Snorri’s was green, and instead of a bell on top it had a white pompom.

“Well,” the old man hummed and hawed.

His wife rolled her eyes. “Are you afraid your armchair’s going to run off if your butt’s not holding it down?”

He glared at her. “I’m not afraid of anything, woman!”

“Oh?” she said. “In that case?”

A fire lit in his eye. “Yes,” he said. “Yes! I’ll do it! I’ll show them all how it’s done!” He snatched the red hat and put it on.

“Oh, thank you boss!” Snorri said.

The old man grabbed his wife and spun her around. “Did you hear that, dear? It’s happening! It’s happening! Tonight, I ride again!” She giggled with glee, hugged him tight, and kicked her feet out.

“Tonight,” he continued bellowing, “we will terrorize the mortals like never before!”

Snorri tugged at his sleeve. “Actually, boss, we’re delivering presents to children the world over.”

The old man set his wife down and clapped Snorri on the shoulder with a deep laugh. “Ha! Yes, we’re delivering – what!?”

“Presents, boss. For children.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Fine. I’ll give them the gift of mortal terror.”

“Er, no boss, it’s toys. There’s a list.”

“Toys!?”

“Yes, boss. Like, dolls and trains and socks.”

The old man ran his hand down his face and grumbled.

“But they leave cookies and milk out for you,” Snorri added.

The old man grunted. “A sacrifice, eh?” He pondered it. “It’s not quite the blood of the slain, but… fine. Cookies are acceptable.”

“So you’ll do it?” Snorri was almost jumping with excitement.

“Yes, yes,” the old man grumbled, and then tried to hide a grin. “Let’s go already, before I change my mind.” He grabbed his spear and his horn, kicked open his cottage door, and entered the blustering snowstorm. Snorri covered his face and hurried after.

Just outside, they found a red sleigh parked, with about a dozen grazing reindeer harnessed to it.

“These are the noble steeds that will pull the sleigh,” Snorri shouted over the howling wind. “Their names are–”

“–Don’t care,” the old man said. He stabbed at the harness with one well-placed spear strike, cutting the reindeer loose. Then he slapped them with the flat of the blade and roared at them. “Get out of here, you filthy rodents!” The reindeer panicked, tried to flee in all directions, got tangled together, and rolled into a ravine.

“Oh no!” Snorri mewled, already envisioning the trouble he’d be in back at his job.

The old man let out a whistle, high and shrill, and it was loud enough to humble even the raging storm.

“Sleipnir!” he called. A moment later a whinny answered him, and a giant eight-legged horse landed. The old man stroked its mane with a hearty laugh and then harnessed it to the sleigh. Then he leapt into the sleigh himself, and turned to Snorri.

“Well?” he said. “Get in, Snorri! We ride.”

Snorri scrambled into the sleigh, wondering if this was all just a huge mistake and if it wouldn’t have been better to cancel the holidays after all.

“Are you armed?” the old man asked. “Where’s your sword?”

“We don’t need weapons tonight!” Snorri screamed, clutching his hat. “We’re not fighting the children!”

“Eh,” said the old man. “We’ll see.” He snapped the reins and Sleipnir lurched forward, pulling the sleigh into the night. Snorri held on for dear life, because the horse left at a mad gallop instead of the jaunty trot of the reindeer.

The old man smiled, looking at the horizon ahead of them and the sparkling night sky above. He turned to Snorri and hugged him with one meaty hand. “Thank you, Snorri. I… I needed this. I know maybe I haven’t ever really said it, but, I appreciate you.”

Snorri’s heart swelled and his fears melted away. “Oh, of course, boss!”

“Ah,” the old man said. “I’m not your boss anymore. The world’s changed, and we’re not going back to those glorious days ever again. Tonight, we’re friends. Just two friends, cruising the night sky and terrorizing… er… delivering presents. Call me Odin.”

“Yes, boss–Odin.” Snorri couldn’t stop grinning. He took Nick’s bell out of the glove compartment and handed it to Odin with a hopeful twinkle in his eye. “It’s tradition.”

Odin took the bell and casually tossed it over his shoulder, and Snorri’s stomach dropped anew just as the bell fell somewhere down to earth.

“Nah,” said Odin. “Bells are dumb.” He raised his hunting horn to his lips and blew, and the nightmarish bass note reverberated across the heavens and the earth. The living who heard it were deeply unsettled, and the dead who heard it stirred from their slumber and became restless, walking the earth for one more night. And the elves of old heard the summons, and gathered their bows and spears, mounted their dread steeds and riled up their horrid hounds, and rode alongside the red sleigh.

And all that night long, the Wild Hunt rode again, once more terrorizing the mortal world and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas as they went.