Forsaken

This flash piece is a rough draft of a scene from the prequel novel of The Prophecies of Ragnarok, a Norse mythology based new adult series I'm currently writing with Meri Benson. It may or may not end up in the final version of the novel. This was also written in response to 8Letters' #31Letters challenge, an invitation to write every day for the whole month of January.

Here are the shorts we've written so far for the prequel, in chronological order:

• Birthright
• Ice Queen
• Brother's Keeper
• Final Hour
• Resistance and Steps
• Forsaken (this story)
• Goodbye, Good Friend
• Inheritance
• A Winter's Bargain
• Death Finds All
• Homecoming
• Reconnection
• The Hour of the Wolf

Hotel Fen, the first published book of the series, follows after this point.

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In Norse mythology, Hel is said to preside over an underworld realm where she receives a portion of the dead. She is referred to as a daughter of Loki, and is described as having been appointed by the god Odin as ruler of a realm of the same name, located in Niflheim. Her appearance is described as half blue and half flesh-colored, and further as having a gloomy, downcast appearance.

Hodr is the blind son of Odin and Frigg, who is tricked and guided by Loki into shooting a mistletoe arrow which was to slay the otherwise invulnerable Baldr, his twin brother.

(Wikipedia)

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A palace ice appearing from out of nowhere was a fairly regular occurrence in Niflheim. Not the palace specifically, or that it was made of ice, but the fact that the landscape was ever-changing. Souls were constantly being washed up the banks of the river Gjoll, and the land, somehow, always managed to accommodate them, expanding on their own accord as the Dead built communities and settled into their afterlives. There would suddenly be trees in areas where there were once none. Longhouses would be constructed overnight without a single worker in sight. Barren fields would become farmlands the day after they're occupied. The palace, while a first, was far from the strangest addition to the land of the Dead.

The only constant was the mist, which bathed the realm with an eerie glow.

Most of the Dead did not question it. Those that did would recall the stories they'd been told while they still lived, of how Niflheim had emerged from the Ginnungagap, the primordial void of magic and power from which all life in the Nine Worlds had sprung. In the grand scheme of things, however, the mysterious source of their bounty mattered little. If there was one thing this particular realm had plenty for the Dead, it was peace, and thus they were content.

What made the Dead curious about the ice palace was what happened before it appeared. Some said golden runes lit up the sky like stars. Others swore hearing the gods' angry roar, though which gods they couldn't tell for sure, therefore they couldn't offer the necessary sacrifices to appease them.

And then there was the girl. Pale as a ghost, long hair gleaming in the moonlight. Witnesses claimed she was lying on the ground, screaming and sobbing and writhing in pain. No one dared to approach; she was cursed, the Dead whispered among themselves. Something they were all the more certain when she lifted her head and they saw that half of her face had been burned.

In spite of the testimonies, nobody ever saw the girl again, though shortly after the incident, passersby began to hear wailing from the palace of ice. And the Dead, fearing the wrath of both old and unknown gods, left offerings in front of its doors. Food, flowers, clothing, jewelry, weapons, mead... anything they could think of, and anything they could spare.

The jewelry went entirely untouched. Occasionally an item of clothing disappeared, though never anything fancy; a cloak, perhaps, or a dress. But food was always accepted, no matter how stale or foul, which led to a worried old woman braving the palace one night. The wailing was particularly distressing then, but she did not let it deter her, believing that whoever had taken refuge in the palace was no monster and had actually needed help.

True enough, she found the girl the Dead whispered about. She was curled up in a corner, feverish on one side and practically frozen on the other.

The old woman took it upon herself to nurse the girl back to health, or at least back to some semblance of herself, though the girl never once spoke directly to her or gave her name. She called the girl Hel, because the girl had kept herself hidden, not just within the palace but within the shell of herself.

Some days Hel would just sit and stare at nothing. Most days she would cry. She cried while she slept, repeatedly pleading with the Allfather, her words incoherent and nonsensical, and she would wail until her already hoarse voice disappeared, leaving her barely able to speak. Then she would spend hours quietly muttering to herself in a language the old woman did not understand. But the old woman did not fear Hel, even if the rest of the Dead did; she was only a broken girl, and the old woman's heart had already gone out to her.

"I hear the wind speaking," Hel suddenly said one evening, surprising the old woman. She looked terrified, knees tucked into her chest while she pressed her palms against her ears.

"And what is it saying, child?"

Hel met her gaze. The old woman noticed, for the first time, that her eyes were green, though the light in the eye on the burned side of her face had already faded. She also noticed that the burn marks on the girl's disfigured face bore patterns, almost looking like... runes.

"Names," Hel answered in her raspy voice, her expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Just... names. I... I don't know. It won't stop." She looked at the old woman imploringly. "Please make it stop."

The old woman placed a hand on her forehead, but the girl was fine. "Perhaps," she contemplated, the lines on her face deepening, "you hear the names of the Dead."

"Why? What am I to do with them?"

"I don't know, child. But I think the gods sent you here for a reason. The Allfather—"

Hel's laughter, dark and bitter and sharp, cut through the old woman's musings. "The gods have forsaken me." Her eyes seemed to catch fire in the moonlight, and they burned with rage. "And I forsake them too."