Homecoming

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
• Goodbye, Good Friend
• Inheritance
• A Winter's Bargain
• Death Finds All
• Homecoming (this story)
• 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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The Dead were moving, gathering on the bank of the river Gjoll. Like Hel, they had, over the years, become attuned to the arrival of the newly deceased. Watching from the highest point of her hall, she could see no better than them through the thick mist that enveloped the waters, but she was certain that a soul was on its way to them.

She released a shaky breath. The wind had told her the soul's true name the moment it crossed the threshold into her domain, as it did for all the others who'd come before. And she knew this one.

She took the stairs two at a time and whistled for Garmr, who came bounding up to her almost immediately. The canine had seemed to recognize who was coming, too. She climbed onto the massive hound's back and together they hurried away, out of her hall and down the road, to the river.

The crowd parted without her needing to say a word, though it was not out of fear, but respect and reverence. The Dead did not fear Garmr; despite his monstrous size and bloodstained fur, the children loved to play with him. Even while she dismounted, several little ones came rushing over to greet him, a parent or guardian on their heels to keep them away for the time being given the situation at hand.

The Dead did not fear her, either. Not anymore.

She stepped into the river, the water coming up to her ankles. She was barefooted and it was freezing, but she hardly felt any of the chill. She waited anxiously, glaring at the mist as though she could make it disperse by sheer willpower alone. Behind her, the Dead huddled closer, and their number continued to grow by the minute.

Then the water grew still.

Out of the stillness, the strains of a funeral song echoed, and she choked back a sob. It was faint, but she recognized the voice. She hadn't spoken to her father in many years, yet there was no mistaking it; Loki had sent off this one. Loki had sent him to her.

The stone ship appeared out of the mist and she did not wait, wading further out the river to grab it by the prow and drag it to shore. The Dead gave her enough room to do her work, but they were closing in all the same, wanting to see who had arrived.

It wasn't a fancy ship, which told her it had been constructed in a hurry. But tied securely to the prow, where the carved head of a dragon or snake normally would've been, was a small bouquet of silver-colored flowers.

Only then did she dare to look at the body.

He looked like he was merely sleeping, though a slight curl of his mouth hinted at some pain during his last moments. He held no weapon in his hands, only a walking stick and more of those strange frosted flowers. A cloth had been wrapped around his eyes, and embroidered on it were two golden snakes circling each other — the sigil of her family, of her bloodline. They remembered. They remembered her.

All that, and considering the situation he'd been in as well as her father's typical underhanded methods, led her to conclude that the manner of his death had been through poison. A kind death, and one that very cleverly ensured he would be bound for her Realm. Loki, truly, had a flair for the dramatic, complex plots, and hidden messages.

She stepped into the boat and knelt beside the body, fingertips gently caressing the man's cheek. She had always been kind to the Dead, but this, now, was pure affection. "You didn't die an Odinson," she whispered, torn between laughing and crying, much like the half-living, half-dying parts of herself.

The weight of everything, of all the years of solitude and loneliness and despair, crushed her then, and she threw her arms around the body and sobbed. She cried for his death. She cried for all that he had to suffer, and for all that he had to lose.

But most of all, she cried in relief. He no longer had to run. He no longer had to hide. He was safe.

"Geiravor Lokisdottir." His voice was hoarse, but she'd know it from anywhere. His hand found her hair, and then her face as she lifted her head to look at him.

She sniffed, fighting back the new wave of tears that threatened to fall. "Hodr."

Slowly, gently, he ran his fingers down the disfigured side of her face, feeling along the marks and the rot. In a way, she was glad he would never get to see what exactly his father had done to her.

"Geiravor," he repeated, more urgently this time. He slid his hand to the back of her head and pulled her to him, resting their foreheads together.

"It's Helreginn now." Or Hel, as the mortals had taken to calling her.

He shook his head. "I know who you truly are, my love. I have never forgotten."

Behind her, the Dead's murmurings began to grow louder. Many of their number knew him, too. Some had met him on the road, but most of them he'd visited on their deathbeds, offering companionship in their final hours and aid in their passing. He'd promised them that death would be kind, and she saw to it on the other side. They hadn't planned any of it, much as they hadn't planned to fall in love all those years ago, and now here they were. The Winter God and his Goddess of Death, together at last.

She stood and helped him up, then stepped back to the riverbank to address the crowd, who promptly fell quiet upon seeing their Queen in tears. And where her tears touched the ground, silver ice-flowers bloomed.

"Your King," she proclaimed, "is home."

One by one, the Dead knelt. Rows and rows of them.