Chapter 1 - Fjolnir
Weak rays of sunlight struggle to penetrate the frigid mist that blankets Central Asgard, not that it’s dampening the spirits of those busy preparing for tonight’s festival. A star could fall, and as long as it doesn’t destroy the Ritual Temple and the mjöd supplies, Hökunótt would go ahead.
It’s the last realm-wide event until Litha in midsommar. Last year, the revellers kept the bælfyres burning for three solid days - Asgard was drunk dry. A smile tugs at my lips as the hazy memories rise.
The smell of bread and sweet treats hangs heavy in the air from the nearby bakery, coating my tongue with a sugary film. Fortunately, the tannery closed a few moon cycles ago, but the smitheries are still operating. Thick, black smoke pours through the open doorway of the forge. Immune to the sooty cloud, Ivar nonchalantly leans against the door jamb whilst his apprentice coughs from somewhere deep inside.
“Til árs ok fridar,” he calls, clearly having recognised me despite the heavy cowl and cloak I wear to ward off the winter chill.
Dipping my chin in acknowledgement, I continue past. Tonight, he will be one of many offering the traditional phrase at the altar of my family, alongside those of the other elites. But it’s something I was hoping to avoid. I want to take in the atmosphere free of my heritage, and a small part of me hopes to run into Modi.
Whenever my family’s business brings me to Asgard, I seek him out. He’s the light in an otherwise bleak world and the only reason I continue to indulge my aunt in her matchmaking campaigns. Otherwise, I’d have no excuse to leave my home realm of Vanaheim, and I’m not ready to give him up. But he’s not one for crowds or people in general, and I don’t have the time to walk to his hùs in the forest.
Instead, I constantly scan the shadows in hope as I walk until a large bælfyre comes into view. Easily fourteen feet tall, large ash branches are secured at the apex by a ram’s skull. The centre is filled with smaller branches and kindling to keep them dry. By dusk, this pyre will be the first lit, and its flames will officially mark the start of Hökunótt.
Showcasing some of the finest craftsmanship in the Nine Realms, the outer rim is laden with offerings that hope to herald a prosperous new year. Clay figurines of varying sizes, all shaped into pregnant women, are scattered among the outer rim. My fingertips trace over their smooth surfaces before moving on to the bone runes, medicinal herb pouches, and other paraphernalia associated with childbirth.
Since I was born, fertility rates have been non-existent and with each year that goes by, the realms become more desperate for a solution. A cynical huff escapes into the cold air - as if such traditions and trinkets are helpful. The root cause of the problem lies with the imbalance of Soul Energy. Until the element of creation is restored, the prediction is that no new births will occur. The Nine Realms are dying, but Aunt Freyja has Mother convinced that all that is needed is my union with another prominent family.
If the fate of all the worlds rests upon my shoulders, we should accept our inevitable doom with grace, for my heart already belongs to another.
A rhythmic booming from nearby echoes in my chest, dragging me from my maudlin thoughts. Elk skin is stretched taut across a white pine drum as the musician tests the sound before the light fades from the day. Another man sits beside him, and together they create a captivating sound that raises the hairs on my arms. Unbidden, my feet drift closer as a woman beats a stick with shells wired to it against her thigh and begins to sing the festival incantation.
Come nightfall, only the pale tones of their skin will be visible under the dark leathers and furs they wear. The striking aesthetic of their kohl-lined eyes and runes drawn upon their skin will add to the vibrant atmosphere. Yet even now, in the watery light of day, they produce a mesmerising sound that captures the icy ambience of midwinter perfectly.
Not wanting to draw further attention my way, I turn and leave, passing by a rack of waiting procession torches. Sodden wood chips ooze water from underneath my boots as I make my way along the path towards Temple Hill.
Small squares of linen hang from twine strewn between the bare branches of the shrubs that line the route - each embroidered with runes that display wishes for peace, good crops, health, or vitality for the elite families. My fingers trail over my family’s rune, and I soak up the bittersweet emotions it evokes. My grandfather should be here to walk these trails and receive the cheers of the realms - so should my father. My mother and I are all that remains of the once mighty House of Vanir.
The bælfyre at the foot of the Hill is the largest yet. A group of revellers, already sampling the wares of the nearby festival stalls, are gathered around the impressive structure. One of the bartenders from the Tavern has a trestle table laden with ale and mjöd, besides which are several downed logs positioned as benches. There’s a line forming for drinks, and people are sitting on each other’s laps to make the most of the space.
The last open space before the final ascent to the Temple, where the Hökunótt rituals will take place, and in a short while, this will be the heart and soul of the party. Lanterns line the perimeter of the grassed space and continue up the processional route.
“On your left!” A gruff voice barks out from behind me.
I step from the path just in time for two men, who I recognise as the butchers from Market Square, to walk by carrying a suckling pig bound to a pole upon their shoulders. I track them as they peel to the far side of the pyre and hoist the hog upon a wooden A-frame. The pitmaster rakes over the glowing coals, readying them for the spit.
Beside them, a large soapstone cauldron bubbles with a thick broth, and the woman stirring it lifts the hem of her skirt to brush the sweat from her forehead. Another hog is almost ready to be lifted off. An apprentice sharpens his blade on a whetstone beside the carving block.
So much life and hope bubbles around me that I can’t help but take a deep breath, drawing it deep within my core. Even though I can’t be of any help with the preparations, this is why I came. Here, I am one among many - just a simple stranger with no special duties or elevated status. The sound of laughter and jovial banter washes over me in waves, absolving me of the weight of my pending obligations.
“Hey!” I glance around at the loud voice, attempting to pinpoint the source. “Yeah, you with the silver rings!” It’s the orchard sisters who call out to me.
“Come on Sugar, don’t be afraid,” says one as she beckons me closer. Her fingerless gloves likely provide little protection from the cold. “We don’t bite,” she tacks on before they turn to face each other and giggle. Both their cheeks are stained red, either from the frigid air or the cup of mjöd they share.
Against my better judgment, I find myself drifting their way, curious about what they want.
“You should taste our hazelnuts,” says the taller of the two as she stands. The hood of her cowl rests askew, and her dark hair falls messily over one shoulder. It reminds me of Modi’s hair.
Her sister, whose larger breasts spill obscenely between a custom-made slit in her tunic, takes a nut from the iron plate over the fire and holds it out, “Be careful, though, they’re ’ot.”
I reach for it with my fingers, but my hood slips. Their sudden gasps let me know they recognise me, and the taller sister elbows the smaller one in the ribs when she instinctively withdraws her hand.
“Forgive my sister, she’s just havin’ a bit o’ harmless fun.”
I shake my head, reaching into the pouch secured to my belt to see what I can offer for trade, but I’m interrupted. Dirty fingernails and calloused fingers latch onto my forearm, holding it still and forcing me to meet their stares.
“No, this is on us. Our apology to ya.” A linen pouch filled with hot hazelnuts is pressed into my palm, “Our secret?”
“Our secret,” I assure them. Opening the pouch, I pop a toasted nut into my mouth, and the full and sweet flavour bursts when I crunch it between my back teeth. Immediately, my thoughts turn to Modi. He would love these - he rarely indulges in luxury items.
A cunning idea begins to form in my mind, and I look each sister in the eye before replying, “Thank you.”
I secure the delicacy in my pouch and weave through the growing crowd. Later, when it’s fully dark with nothing more than lanterns and moonlight, it should be easier to hide among the jubilant population of Asgard. A wicked smile forms on my face, and images of Modi lurking under the cover of the nearby fir trees as he sucks my fingertips into his mouth in a show of gratitude fill my mind.
