Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  Fynn and Aldaron glanced at each other, clearly both thinking an opportunity to make an inconspicuous exit might soon present itself, once father and son had left the house for their expedition. The expression Fearless wore suggested he might actually have preferred to be skewered to the table by one of Harald’s swords, rather than to take up his offer of a hunt. Gunnhildr looked as though she suspected what was coming next.

  ‘Well, get up!’ barked Harald, clearly unimpressed with Fearless’s reluctance to spend a little quality father-and-son time with him, out in the forest.

  ‘B… but… ’ began Fearless, although he never seemed likely to be able to form anything close to a coherent defence.

  ‘We’re… going… hunting!’ Harald informed Fearless again, sensing he might be confused over the “invitation”, ‘so that you… Fearless… ’ Harald now curled his lip, as though finding the next words rather difficult to say, ‘… Wolf… Slayer… ’ (Harald un-curled his lip) ‘can show me just how you earned that name!’

  There then followed a few moments of awkward and, in Fearless’s case, horrified silence which was, eventually, broken by Fynn clapping his hands and rubbing them together in an overly-exaggerated fashion.

  ‘Well,’ he declared, too enthusiastically by far, as he got to his feet, ‘it’s been great to see you again, it really has… but I think Aldaron and I ought to be getting off now, back to Álfheimr.’

  Aldaron, unlike Fearless, needed no second invitation: he was on his feet long before Fynn had finished speaking. Harald, though, was having none of it.

  ‘And the two of you!’ he growled whilst pointing in the general direction of the guests, though still staring disdainfully at Fearless. ‘You’re coming, as well!

  ‘Oh... marvellous!’ sighed Fynn forcing a smile, with a tremendous effort. ‘Hunting… how kind of you… thanks… that sounds just… as I say… marvellous.’

  *

  Odin raised himself from his throne and set off, at a stately pace, towards the door of the hall signalling, as he walked, to Sharp Axe and Mithrén to follow him, with a broad sweep of his right hand.

  Sharp Axe looked back at Mithrén who, eventually and with some apparent reluctance, began to walk after Odin. Relieved, Sharp Axe waited courteously for her to pass him, then joined her, affectionately placing his arm around her shoulders – a tender, loving gesture which Mithrén showed absolutely no sign of appreciating.

  Odin led his guests down from Hlidskjálf, out of Valaskjálf and into the bright, warm sunshine of Asgard, the spectacular sight of Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, greeting them in the near-distance, as they vacated the palace.

  Sharp Axe breathed in Asgard’s pleasantly-warm, sweet, fresh air. The sunlight, glinting across the surface of the nearby pond on which the swans were swimming, caught his attention and he saw, once again, the three maidens, dressed in white. A man could be happy here, he told himself, until he realised Mithrén was glaring at him and he looked quickly away from the maidens; for no good reason, his gaze immediately settled on Bifrost.

  ‘Very impressive… rainbow… bridge… thing,’ he commented awkwardly, in Odin’s general direction. Mithrén grunted quietly; Odin forged on ahead without replying, leading them away from the palace, in the opposite direction from Bifrost and the pond with the maidens and swans.

  Odin did not appear to be in any hurry but, somehow, Sharp Axe and Mithrén found themselves breaking into the occasional jog in order to keep up with the Chief God’s huge stride. They were led along a wide path, which appeared to have been constructed from neatly-arranged white stones, all of which had been fashioned to the same, smooth, square shape, which meant not only that the stones fitted together perfectly, but also that the path was quite comfortable underfoot for those who walked upon it.

  The stone path led the small group through a collection of lush, leafy trees and, a short way further on, into a clearing surrounded on all sides by similarly lush, leafy trees. Within the clearing was another group, but a large one (large, that is, in all senses): this was clearly a gathering of gods and goddesses.

  Odin slowed to a halt whilst still some distance away, then turned back to face Sharp Axe and Mithrén, smiling pleasantly.

  ‘Behold... the Aesir!’ announced Odin grandly, then added, as something of an afterthought, ‘And the Vanir… who seem to spend more time in Asgard than they do in Vanaheimr.’

  *

  Harald literally had to drag Fearless out of the house to participate in the hunting-expedition, ignoring his son’s protestations that he had not recovered fully from his recent, energy-sapping, heroic exploits, that he was a wolf slayer, not a wolf tracker and, in a last, desperate and, as it turned out, futile attempt to put his father off the whole idea, that the weather was just not right for a wolf-hunt. Harald was clearly in no mood to be put off the idea; his mind was made up and he dismissed Fearless’s objections one by one.

  ‘You look fit enough to me,’ he growled, after giving Fearless the briefest of glances, from head to foot. ‘I’ll find the wolves… with him,’ added Harald a moment later, inclining his head towards Fynn, of whose consistently- and uncannily-good fortune Harald was aware. ‘And the weather won’t worry the wolves,’ continued Harald. ‘All they’ll be worried about is trying not to be slain by you!’ and he released a short, sharp, mirthless laugh, to demonstrate the lack of conviction he felt for this prediction.

  Fynn found himself, against all his instincts, almost feeling sorry for Fearless. A single, elderly, toothless wolf, with absolutely no interest in human flesh, would probably be too much for Fearless to handle; knowing Fynn’s luck, he would probably find half a dozen fit, healthy, ravenous wolves and he had visions of Fearless being viciously torn apart before his eyes. After the briefest of hesitations, Fynn decided that he wanted no part in that.

  ‘Er… to be fair, Har – er… that is, Mr Wolf Wrestler, sir… ’ ventured Fynn, to the back of Harald, as the former struggled to keep up with the latter’s blisteringly-fast walking-pace through the forest, despite the fact that he was still dragging an extremely-reluctant Fearless along with him, by the scruff of the neck, ‘… when Fearless killed those wolves in the Iron Wood… it was… well, it was sort of a... spur-of-the-moment… thing.’

  Harald stopped dead in his tracks. This took Fynn and Aldaron completely by surprise and it was all they could do to prevent themselves from colliding with the bent form of Fearless, who was thus positioned between them and Harald. The Wolf Wrestler spun on his heels and walked the short distance he needed to cover in order to face Fynn – which, since Fynn was now so close to him and a good deal taller than he was, required Harald to crane his neck rather uncomfortably.

  ‘What?’ barked Harald at Fynn, eyes blazing wildly, top lip curling, one hand on his hip, the other still holding Fearless’s collar very firmly.

  In his time, Fynn had faced fire-breathing dragons, Frost Giants, ferocious dwarves, a sea monster, the Hound of Hel, the Spirits of the Iron Wood, fierce wolves, the Jarnvidjur and, of course, Loki and Angrboda but, looking down into Harald’s crazed, psychotic features at that moment, Fynn would have gladly traded the Wolf Wrestler for any one or even two of those other, worthy adversaries.

  ‘Er… w… well,’ began Fynn, wishing now that it had never occurred to him to stand up for Fearless, even as a token gesture, ‘it’s just that… that Fearless acted on impulse… to save Sharp Axe and the rest of us… and I should know… I was… th… there.’

  Harald did not reply straight away. From this, Fynn deduced that the Wolf Wrestler was probably trying to decide how best to kill him.

  ‘Well, that’s no problem, then, is it?’ sang Harald, after a few tense moments of silence, occasionally jabbing a finger up into Fynn’s chest, as he spoke. ‘He can just act on impulse again, today… can’t he?’

  ‘Er… y… yes… I… s – s – suppose so,’ conceded Fynn, although he desperately wanted to tell Harald that Fearless could no more slay a wolf than he
could fly; that Fearless had been acting under the influence of a potion which had given him a degree of courage about the likes of which others could only dream; that Fearless could not even remember what had happened, when he had fought the wolves in Jarnvidr; that, if Harald insisted on introducing his son to one or more of the forest wolves, he would be mourning the loss of that same son by the onset of evening. Somehow, Fynn sensed that none of these arguments would come even close to changing Harald’s mind and, if anything, would probably only make matters worse; having taken all things into consideration, then, Fynn kept his silence.

  ‘Right,’ concluded Harald, with a curt nod of his head up towards Fynn, having satisfied himself that any objections had been successfully addressed, ‘let’s go find him a wolf!’

  *

  Sharp Axe could not escape the feeling that he was about to intrude on the Aesir. The gods, in whose direction he was now once again walking behind Odin, were milling around casually, enjoying the pleasant Asgard weather, breathing in the sweet, fresh Asgard air, drinking from goblets of gold, eating fruit and generally engaging one another in polite conversation. Sharp Axe had no wish to disturb them; Odin had other ideas.

  The Allfather strode on towards his fellow Aesir who, on noticing Odin’s approach, immediately ceased their various conversations and gave him their full attention. Odin offered them his greeting and presented Sharp Axe and Mithrén; the gods acknowledged their presence politely but, for the most part, without much sign of any real interest.

  Of the assembled deities, Sharp Axe recognised only Freyr, who inclined his head in greeting mainly, it seemed, towards Mithrén; Sharp Axe could have sworn she blushed.

  It was not Freyr, however, but a goddess who approached Odin and his guests. She walked gracefully towards them, wearing a long white dress, white leather sandals and a warm smile. Her face suggested she might be somewhat younger than Odin although, Sharp Axe reasoned, Odin did carry the weight of the Nine Worlds on his shoulders and that alone had to be worth a few deep wrinkles and a substantially-sized bag under each eye. The goddess’s face seemed to radiate peace and love; her light auburn hair came down to her shoulders and her dark-brown eyes had an inescapable look of maternal kindness about them.

  ‘This,’ announced Odin quietly to Sharp Axe and Mithrén, ‘is my beloved wife, Frygga.’

  Before either Sharp Axe or Mithrén could speak, Frygga was already expressing her gratitude.

  ‘I am so grateful to you both,’ she said with tears in her eyes and with a sincerity which was not lost on either of the guests. ‘I was foolish to think Loki would never devise a way to penetrate the magic protecting my list.’

  Sharp Axe shrugged and spread his hands, as if to say, Anyone can make a mistake, but Frygga lowered her eyes and shook her head sadly.

  ‘I am ashamed… but,’ she added, looking up again and brightening a little, ‘you have helped to buy us some time – some precious time, that we can spend with Baldr, here in Asgard, before he… before… he… oh… I – I’m sorry,’ at which point Frygga brought her hands to her face, then immediately dissolved into a fit of heart-rending sobs, whilst Odin placed a comforting arm around her. Sharp Axe and Mithrén shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, not quite knowing where to look or what to say.

  It was at this awkward moment that another goddess decided to introduce herself to the two guests: the golden-haired, blue-eyed, slender vision of youthful elegance, grace and loveliness that was Freya, the Goddess of Love.

  *

  ‘Wolves are, by nature, mistrustful of humans,’ protested Fearless, as his father dragged him relentlessly towards his unseen prey. ‘We’re probably wasting our time – they’ll likely keep themselves hidden, deep in the forest.’

  Harald did another one of his sudden halts and about-turns.

  ‘So… ’ he snarled menacingly at his son, whilst still maintaining a firm grip on his clothing, ‘not only are we a “slayer” of wolves... but, now, all of a sudden, we’re an expert on their habits and lifestyle, as well!’

  Fearless, for the briefest moment, considered whether this, against all evidence of past behaviour, might actually be his father’s way of paying him a compliment. Almost immediately, though, he decided that, on balance, Harald was probably not being complimentary. He was absolutely right.

  ‘N – no… n – not an expert, as s – such… ’ replied Fearless, trembling under the gaze of his father, ‘… b – but I was j – just about to say… we might be here all n – night and not even see a w – wolf… that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, right… ’ nodded Harald, slowly and rather too agreeably, ‘... I see… so tell me, oh, mighty Wolf Slayer… what’s… that?’ and he pointed to a distant, pale grey form, standing absolutely still, some fifty or sixty paces from them, amongst the trees. Fearless screwed up his eyes and squinted into the forest.

  ‘It’s a… oh… it’s a wolf,’ he confirmed, without even attempting to disguise his disappointment.

  ‘The Wolf Slayer has the eyes of an eagle!’ announced Harald to the world. ‘And I should like a new wolf-skin, to keep me warm, during the long, cold winter nights… so there you are… go get it for me and show me how you won your name!’

  Fearless did not look at all keen to hunt the wolf. Even to the eye of one largely untrained in the art of wolf-hunting, such as Fynn or Aldaron, Fearless definitely did not look keen.

  ‘But, before you go… ’ continued Harald gently, his voice now as sweet and pleasant as warm honey, ‘… just to show you what a fair man I am, I am going to give you an advantage my brothers once denied me, when I had to face a wolf, alone.’

  A flicker of hope was suddenly evident in Fearless’s features, as the thought occurred to him that his father might be about to pass on some indispensably-useful knowledge on the subject of single-handed wolf-slaughtering.

  ‘Yes?’ breathed Fearless, urgently and with uncharacteristic interest in something his father might be about to say to him.

  ‘Take this… ’ sneered Harald, drawing his sword and handing it to the Wolf Slayer, ‘… and good luck.’

  *

  Sharp Axe was making his way, languidly, through what seemed like endless, rolling fields of ripe corn. The sun shone brightly overhead, whilst a considerate breeze ensured he did not become too hot, as he forged his way eagerly through the waist-high crops. In the distance, Sharp Axe spotted a delicate female form, clad in white, with long, flowing, golden hair, running slowly towards him. Exactly why this figure was running in slow-motion, Sharp Axe could not say, but that was not important, for she was making steady, if only gradual, progress towards him and that was more than enough for Sharp Axe, given the way he appeared to feel about this ravishing creature.

  In fact, apart from the persistent, throbbing pain in his right foot which had started, inexplicably, just a few moments earlier, Sharp Axe’s world could not have seemed much more satisfying to him, right then.

  On ploughed Sharp Axe, through the corn, towards the oncoming maiden – a rather tall maiden, as he thought about it – but the pain in his foot had begun to hamper him, quite severely. Try as he might, he could not move any faster and the maiden’s progress towards him now appeared to have all but halted completely. How very annoying, was the last thought which ran through Sharp Axe’s head, before the scene in front of him slowly disappeared, to be replaced by a now-familiar corner of Asgard; the same corner of Asgard, in fact, where the gods had gathered to socialise with one another.

  Something else materialised at that same moment: the reason for the throbbing pain in Sharp Axe’s foot. Mithrén was stamping on it, repeatedly.

  ‘Wh… why… ’ groaned Sharp Axe groggily, as he slowly regained consciousness and withdrew his foot to a safer place, out of Mithrén’s striking-range, ‘are you doing that?’

  ‘You were dribbling,’ replied Mithrén, haughtily.

  Sharp Axe hurriedly dragged a sleeve across his mouth, hoping that Freya, standing directly in front of him
, had not noticed any dribbling which might recently have taken place.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ muttered Odin out of the side of his mouth, stooping slightly to lower his impressive height and winking at Sharp Axe, ‘Freya always has that effect on men.’

  Freya smiled coyly at Sharp Axe and, had Mithrén been in possession of a suitably-sized, sharp-bladed weapon of any kind at that particular moment, she would happily have decapitated the Goddess of Love, right where she stood, without a second thought.

  ‘Let me introduce someone to you,’ intervened Frygga diplomatically, clearly feeling the tension of the moment needed to be eased. ‘Come with me,’ she said, briefly extending her arms towards Sharp Axe and Mithrén before she turned and walked away from them, gracefully. Sharp Axe and Mithrén followed Frygga dutifully, past Odin and Freya, then past Freyr and the group of other, as-yet unnamed deities and out of the clearing, through more lush, leafy trees and, finally, into another, smaller clearing. Before them, seated on the ground, with a small forest bird held tenderly in each upturned palm, was the god whose life Sharp Axe and Mithrén had helped to extend: Baldr, the fairest of the Aesir.

  Frygga looked down, lovingly, at her son. ‘Baldr,’ she said tenderly, ‘you have visitors.’

  Baldr carefully raised his hands to encourage the birds to fly away and rose to his feet. He inclined his head, inquisitively, at the two strangers and approached them with slow, deliberate, almost dainty steps.

  Sharp Axe had never beheld a face anything like Baldr’s, neither in human, nor Light Elf, nor deity form: it almost seemed to shine, to give off some kind of warm, divine glow. Baldr’s undeniably fine looks, however, were not typically masculine: delicate, rather than rugged; beautiful, rather than handsome. Sharp Axe turned to Mithrén, to seek a female reaction to the enigma that was Baldr.

  Mithrén, Sharp Axe discovered, was utterly transfixed. She was staring, unblinkingly, into Baldr’s delicate, beautiful features.

  ‘Mithrén?’ ventured Sharp Axe.

  No answer.