Post by Jet Somers on May 3, 2013 2:09:24 GMT -5
Night falls.
One by one, stars twinkle to life as the strange world goes to sleep.
In Braedownie, the folken are bedding their children by candlelight.
Tender kisses brush temples, loving hands brush locks of hair away from
drooping eyes. One by one, the windows go dark in the huts.
On a distant hillock, however, one blazing red flame burns into the night.
Halldóra, ten year old daughter of Guðmundr the fisher, has been feverish
this day, and her rest is fitful.
Worry creases the brow of Guðmundr as he places a wet cloth across her
forehead. The gentle gesture causes her eyes to flutter open.
"How do ye feel, child?" he mutters, reluctant to pull her from her
dreams.
"Better, poppa," she whispers.
"Does Hodur send his horses after ye this night?"
"No, poppa," she smiles weakly, and coughs pitifully, "I dreamed of the
play we saw last gathering by yon loch."
"The tale of Andvari, yes, I remember," Guðmundr smiles.
"Poppa," Halldóra furrows her face up in thought, "why is it that the
womenfolk always dress up to play Loki?"
The fisher laughs at the question.
"There are many theories, child," he reaches to pour water from a clay
pitcher into a stone goblet for her. He checks the candle, knowing that
he will be soothing his daughter back to sleep with stories.
Not that he minded.
"The simplest, of course," Guðmundr begins, "is because many say that
the god of trickery is effeminate."
"Effeminate?"
"It means he has the aspects of a woman," Guðmundr leans back on the
heavy oak frame of the bed, "many say he is beautiful even by Asgard's
standards. Fair skinned, silken hair, nails as polished as Freja's."
"There are pretty boys who don't go on the hunt," Halldóra thinks aloud.
"Some say he even paints his face," he chuckles. "But, mind ye, the
womenfolk say he is the most beautiful of the gods. Who knows the mind
of a woman?"
He fixes his beloved daughter with a mischievous look, "Maybe he takes
the form of a woman because only a woman could irritate a man the way
Loki does."
"Oh, poppa," she grins.
"Some say that Loki is able to take the form of a woman, body and
voice," Guðmundr tugs at his great red beard as he warms to his subject,
"there are stories that he sometimes disguises himself as Sigyn, and
sometimes even Lady Sif."
"Why would he want to look like Thor's wife?"
"Why, to trouble Thor, of course!" Guðmundr leans toward his daughter,
who looks happy for the first time all day.
"No one can trouble Thor!" Halldóra throws back the bearskin under which
she had spent the day sweating out the sickness. "Thor is my favorite!"
"I know, child," he nears the meat of the story slowly, "but ye see, Loki
is the god of mischief, and perhaps only he can get beneath the skin of
Thor. His favorite target is Thor, ye see, and many great battles have
been and will be fought between the brothers."
"Why would he fight with his brother?" Halldóra has no brothers or
sisters, and doesn't appreciate the subtleties of sibling rivalry.
"Envy, perhaps," Guðmundr begins to recline across the bed, and,
removing his cap, rests his head on his open palm, "ye see, Thor is Odin's
favorite. Odin, wise and loving, placed his firstborn above all things. He
trusted him with the legendary crusher itself, Mjölnir. He even sacrifices,
at times, his better judgment, to groom Thor to rule Asgard."
"Thor should rule," Halldóra crosses her arms, "he is the mightiest."
"Some believe ye should rule with this," he puts a finger out and touches
the center of her forehead.
"Is that what Loki thinks?"
"It's no secret that Loki thinks himself wiser than his half-brothers and
sisters," Guðmundr nods, "or at least craftier."
"Half-brothers?"
"Haven't I told ye before?" Guðmundr's eye's widen, "Loki is part Jötnar."
"No!"
"It's true," he assures her, "When the Asgardians invaded Jötnarheimr,
they adopted Loki and raised him as one of their own. Many of his
schemes and plots put him in a position in which he has to choose
between the Jötnar and Asgardians."
"Why doesn't Thor just kick him out?" Halldóra asks, "Why doesn't he just
beat him!?"
"Some say he can't," Guðmundr holds up a hand before his daughter can
protest this blasphemy, "but most say he won't. No matter where he
came from, Thor has a sort of love for his half-brother, even if Loki
sometimes sets Fárbauti himself against Asgard."
"I hate frost giants," Halldóra wrinkles her nose in disgust, "Especially
Fárbauti."
"Well," the fisher smiles, "ye'll be glad to know that Loki himself has
stopped Fárbauti from beating the Asgardians a few times."
"I don't understand," she pulls the blanket up again, and Guðmundr
presses his hand against her forehead. Her fever seems to be breaking.
"Why does he help both of them?"
"Loki wants to rule, ye see," he explains, "and Fárbauti only wants to
destroy. Loki thinks himself clever enough to use the giants against
Asgard so that he can take over, but oft finds himself in too deep, as
they say, and has to quickly switch sides to keep them from overrunning
a place that he won't admit he actually feels at home."
"I still don't see why they let him stay," she shakes her head, "I
wouldn't."
"If ye had a brother or sister, Halldóra," he smiles, "ye would probably see
it differently. Thor is a mighty warrior, but he has a kind heart. And he
believes in family. He will constantly forgive Loki, and try to reform Loki,
and sometimes he will even fight Loki. But he will always look out for
Loki."
"Do ye think Loki could beat Thor if he had Mjölnir?" she almost seems
worried as he leans back against the great feather pillow that could
cover the entire bed.
"I think Loki would have to beat Thor to be worthy enough to take
Mjölnir," Guðmundr says, "and maybe one day Loki will be able to lift that
magical hammer. But I don't think he's ready. I think he still has a lot to
learn before he can beat the mighty Thor, don't ye?"
But she has already slipped into a much more peaceful sleep than the
one he roused her from. He smiles and leans forward to plant a fatherly
kiss on her nose, then gets up to tuck the bearskin around her. Checking
her forehead one last time, he smiles and snuffs the candle.
---
Outside the hut, just to the left of Halldóra's window, stands a slight
figure. If ye weren't looking directly at it, ye wouldn't see it. Fair skinned,
silken hair, nails as polished as Freja's, which he picks clean carefully
with an ornate bejeweled dagger. An impish smirk splits his face as he
reflects on the biography he's just heard of himself.
"We'll see," he whispers, the words dripping with ire, as he examines his
nails in the starlight. Behind him, on the wooden sill of the window, he
has scrawled letters that won't be noticed until someone looks directly at
them. Imagine the face of Guðmundr when his loving daughter discovers
the vulgarity etched into her window:
"Thor Odinson er dritt"
He chuckles as he walks away into thin air.
---
One by one, stars twinkle to life as the strange world goes to sleep.
In Braedownie, the folken are bedding their children by candlelight.
Tender kisses brush temples, loving hands brush locks of hair away from
drooping eyes. One by one, the windows go dark in the huts.
On a distant hillock, however, one blazing red flame burns into the night.
Halldóra, ten year old daughter of Guðmundr the fisher, has been feverish
this day, and her rest is fitful.
Worry creases the brow of Guðmundr as he places a wet cloth across her
forehead. The gentle gesture causes her eyes to flutter open.
"How do ye feel, child?" he mutters, reluctant to pull her from her
dreams.
"Better, poppa," she whispers.
"Does Hodur send his horses after ye this night?"
"No, poppa," she smiles weakly, and coughs pitifully, "I dreamed of the
play we saw last gathering by yon loch."
"The tale of Andvari, yes, I remember," Guðmundr smiles.
"Poppa," Halldóra furrows her face up in thought, "why is it that the
womenfolk always dress up to play Loki?"
The fisher laughs at the question.
"There are many theories, child," he reaches to pour water from a clay
pitcher into a stone goblet for her. He checks the candle, knowing that
he will be soothing his daughter back to sleep with stories.
Not that he minded.
"The simplest, of course," Guðmundr begins, "is because many say that
the god of trickery is effeminate."
"Effeminate?"
"It means he has the aspects of a woman," Guðmundr leans back on the
heavy oak frame of the bed, "many say he is beautiful even by Asgard's
standards. Fair skinned, silken hair, nails as polished as Freja's."
"There are pretty boys who don't go on the hunt," Halldóra thinks aloud.
"Some say he even paints his face," he chuckles. "But, mind ye, the
womenfolk say he is the most beautiful of the gods. Who knows the mind
of a woman?"
He fixes his beloved daughter with a mischievous look, "Maybe he takes
the form of a woman because only a woman could irritate a man the way
Loki does."
"Oh, poppa," she grins.
"Some say that Loki is able to take the form of a woman, body and
voice," Guðmundr tugs at his great red beard as he warms to his subject,
"there are stories that he sometimes disguises himself as Sigyn, and
sometimes even Lady Sif."
"Why would he want to look like Thor's wife?"
"Why, to trouble Thor, of course!" Guðmundr leans toward his daughter,
who looks happy for the first time all day.
"No one can trouble Thor!" Halldóra throws back the bearskin under which
she had spent the day sweating out the sickness. "Thor is my favorite!"
"I know, child," he nears the meat of the story slowly, "but ye see, Loki
is the god of mischief, and perhaps only he can get beneath the skin of
Thor. His favorite target is Thor, ye see, and many great battles have
been and will be fought between the brothers."
"Why would he fight with his brother?" Halldóra has no brothers or
sisters, and doesn't appreciate the subtleties of sibling rivalry.
"Envy, perhaps," Guðmundr begins to recline across the bed, and,
removing his cap, rests his head on his open palm, "ye see, Thor is Odin's
favorite. Odin, wise and loving, placed his firstborn above all things. He
trusted him with the legendary crusher itself, Mjölnir. He even sacrifices,
at times, his better judgment, to groom Thor to rule Asgard."
"Thor should rule," Halldóra crosses her arms, "he is the mightiest."
"Some believe ye should rule with this," he puts a finger out and touches
the center of her forehead.
"Is that what Loki thinks?"
"It's no secret that Loki thinks himself wiser than his half-brothers and
sisters," Guðmundr nods, "or at least craftier."
"Half-brothers?"
"Haven't I told ye before?" Guðmundr's eye's widen, "Loki is part Jötnar."
"No!"
"It's true," he assures her, "When the Asgardians invaded Jötnarheimr,
they adopted Loki and raised him as one of their own. Many of his
schemes and plots put him in a position in which he has to choose
between the Jötnar and Asgardians."
"Why doesn't Thor just kick him out?" Halldóra asks, "Why doesn't he just
beat him!?"
"Some say he can't," Guðmundr holds up a hand before his daughter can
protest this blasphemy, "but most say he won't. No matter where he
came from, Thor has a sort of love for his half-brother, even if Loki
sometimes sets Fárbauti himself against Asgard."
"I hate frost giants," Halldóra wrinkles her nose in disgust, "Especially
Fárbauti."
"Well," the fisher smiles, "ye'll be glad to know that Loki himself has
stopped Fárbauti from beating the Asgardians a few times."
"I don't understand," she pulls the blanket up again, and Guðmundr
presses his hand against her forehead. Her fever seems to be breaking.
"Why does he help both of them?"
"Loki wants to rule, ye see," he explains, "and Fárbauti only wants to
destroy. Loki thinks himself clever enough to use the giants against
Asgard so that he can take over, but oft finds himself in too deep, as
they say, and has to quickly switch sides to keep them from overrunning
a place that he won't admit he actually feels at home."
"I still don't see why they let him stay," she shakes her head, "I
wouldn't."
"If ye had a brother or sister, Halldóra," he smiles, "ye would probably see
it differently. Thor is a mighty warrior, but he has a kind heart. And he
believes in family. He will constantly forgive Loki, and try to reform Loki,
and sometimes he will even fight Loki. But he will always look out for
Loki."
"Do ye think Loki could beat Thor if he had Mjölnir?" she almost seems
worried as he leans back against the great feather pillow that could
cover the entire bed.
"I think Loki would have to beat Thor to be worthy enough to take
Mjölnir," Guðmundr says, "and maybe one day Loki will be able to lift that
magical hammer. But I don't think he's ready. I think he still has a lot to
learn before he can beat the mighty Thor, don't ye?"
But she has already slipped into a much more peaceful sleep than the
one he roused her from. He smiles and leans forward to plant a fatherly
kiss on her nose, then gets up to tuck the bearskin around her. Checking
her forehead one last time, he smiles and snuffs the candle.
---
Outside the hut, just to the left of Halldóra's window, stands a slight
figure. If ye weren't looking directly at it, ye wouldn't see it. Fair skinned,
silken hair, nails as polished as Freja's, which he picks clean carefully
with an ornate bejeweled dagger. An impish smirk splits his face as he
reflects on the biography he's just heard of himself.
"We'll see," he whispers, the words dripping with ire, as he examines his
nails in the starlight. Behind him, on the wooden sill of the window, he
has scrawled letters that won't be noticed until someone looks directly at
them. Imagine the face of Guðmundr when his loving daughter discovers
the vulgarity etched into her window:
"Thor Odinson er dritt"
He chuckles as he walks away into thin air.
---
2013, '18, '23 
2013 