Inheritance

This flash piece is a rough draft of scenes 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 (this story)
• 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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Geiravor, my heart. I haven’t forgotten, and I haven’t forgiven.

The voice jolted Hel awake and she sat up with a loud gasp. With wide eyes she looked around frantically for the source, throwing off the sheets and pushing herself out of bed. She managed to take a few steps before her legs gave way and she stumbled by the doorway. Clutching the doorframe feebly, she sank to the floor on her knees.

Her caretaker appeared a moment later, shocked and distraught by her unexpected activity. "Slowly, child," the old woman admonished.

"I heard him," Hel insisted, a manic light in her eyes. "Not his name. I heard him, Amma." She began to cry. "It wasn't a dream. I heard him." She thought of him every day and dreamed of him every night, and her dream was always the same: a golden throne room frozen over, his brother holding him down on the floor while his father pushed his head back and held the tip of a dagger to his eye—

Something seemed to occur to her then. She gripped the old woman's arms, her expression pleading. "Take me to the river."

"My dear girl, you have not been well enough—"

"Amma, please." In the beginning, the wind only whispered the names of the dead. As time passed in the world of mist, Hel started to hear other things. Mostly songs, faint and faraway but powerful enough to bring her to tears. Sometimes there were other voices, heartbroken and grieving; she could not usually make out all the words, but she'd gathered that they were eulogies and farewell messages.

But this was the first time she recognized a voice. More importantly, the message had been directly addressed to her. The Dead may not know who she was — other than the crazy woman who lived alone in the palace of ice — but she remembered everything. She remembered her life and her love. And she remembered how it had all been taken away from her.

The Dead did not approach, though she knew they watched her march to the bank of the river Gjoll. She likely did not look any less deranged than they all gossiped she was. Her blond hair had turned almost white, and had grown long enough that, even in a braid, it trailed behind her like a snake. Her skin remained deathly pale on one side of her body, while it was burned and blistered on the other, with dark patches of rot appearing in places. She had become gaunt and frail, unable to stand or even walk on her own, and her eyes were perpetually red-rimmed. She hadn't looked at her reflection in years, but she wouldn't be surprised if her tears had hollowed out a path down the good side of her face.

His voice grew louder, his words clearer, the closer she got to the river.

Know that I’ll find a way home when I can.

Something had been washed up on the bank. It was not a human corpse, but a dog's. An unusually large dog with dark, bloodstained fur.

If you see her on that other plane, tell her that I love her still.

She knelt beside the creature, frowning in confusion. So it was not only humans who found themselves waking up in the Mist. Did that mean he might, one day, find his way here, too?

It would take an awfully long time, if so. Even gods died, though they did not die easily. Battle might claim him sooner rather than later, but illness? Old age? Odin had been around for centuries and he still looked like a Midgardian in the pinnacle of youth.

But she would wait for him, however long that might take.

Keep her safe, show her how to open her heart again like you did mine.

The dog stirred. He rose like he hadn't just died, and he was larger and taller than her while she remained kneeling. He looked at her, really looked at her, his tail wagging excitedly. Then he licked the disfigured side of her face. His tongue was as cool as ice.

The wind returned and reminded her of the creature's name. "Garmr," she repeated after the wind, her voice barely above a whisper, but even with that smallest of acknowledgments, he lit up as if she'd called him a good boy and gave him treats, and tackled her playfully to the ground.

Slowly, tentatively, Hel buried her hands into Garmr's thick fur, and wept.

- ✵ -

Yrsa rapped on the surface of the table to announce her presence, before sliding into the bench across Hodr and setting down the flagon of mead she'd been carrying. Valhalla's nightly feast had only just started, yet most of those in the hall were already getting rowdy. "I heard about Garmr. I'm sorry."

"He was a good boy."

"He was."

"Yrsa." He sighed. "Not that I don't appreciate your company, but..."

She realized he wanted to be left alone. Of course he did. But she had something more to say, something important. "I'll leave you be in a second. Listen, Hodr..." Leaning forward, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Aelfhun had the strangest dream last night."

He made a noncommittal noise but didn't tell her to stop, which she took as a sign that she was allowed to stay and continue with the conversation. "There was a woman—"

"What does this have to do with me?"

She exhaled nervously. "She called you by name." She caught the way he stilled, and she continued, "Hodr Odinson, Prince of Asgard. Is it really you? Those were her exact words, Aelfhun said."

Frowning, she watched him with concern. All of Valhalla had heard about what happened to him during his mission in Alfheim. How he'd been captured and enchanted by a lady of the Fae court, then used to take over Jotunheim and march on Asgard. How Odin had gone ballistic and had taken it upon himself to bring him back, with the help of Hodr's twin brother Baldr. How he'd returned broken and blind.

Asgard's second prince had always been something of a lone wolf, unlike his charming, more extroverted twin — something that Yrsa knew even before she'd been assigned to his unit in the years leading up to the Alfheim incident. After all, who hadn't eyed the twins? They were the Allfather's heirs. But over time, despite his deep-seated melancholy and occasionally hair-trigger temper, through many missions to the Worlds and the camaraderie of the battlefield, Hodr had won the loyalty of his Einherji and Valkyries. Even now, long after their unit had been decommissioned and Yrsa had been reassigned to Heimdall, she was still loyal to her former commander.

"Are the Fae still after you?" It had been nearly a decade ago, long enough for the Fae to have regrouped and recovered. It would be unwise to underestimate them.

"What... what did she look like?" Hodr asked, his voice strained.

"Blonde..." When Yrsa couldn't recount the woman's appearance to his satisfaction, she twisted in her seat to beckon someone else over from another table. "Just tell him, Aelfhun," she hissed when the other arrived, poking the Einherjar's shoulder. "This could be a matter of life and death."

Aelfhun proceeded to describe the woman in his dream to the best of his ability, though as a Valkyrie, Yrsa knew very well that dreams were fickle things. But the description seemed to satisfy Hodr: tall but frail, with one green eye and the other half of her body disfigured, like she'd been halfway through being burned alive. "She stood on the bank of a river with a large black dog, and they were surrounded by mist." Aelfhun blinked then, just realizing something. "Actually, come to think of it, the dog looked like Garmr."

"You didn't tell me that!" Yrsa reacted like she'd been betrayed, shifting to give Aelfhun an incredulous look and a light punch to the arm.

That she did so made her miss how the surface of the table beneath Hodr's hand had started to frost over, and how he'd quickly drawn his hand away.