I'm not sure how the story got mixed up.
"What are you writing there?" yells Sif, Idry's younger sister. She bursts into the hut like white lightening on a stormy day. Whatever room Sif, touches is like a spark touching earth, quick, bright, startling. Idry curses, looking at the smeared black ink on the parchment. She has been trying to write, but her thoughts get jumbled and then Sif always yelling or singing or distracting in some way. Sif's thin pink lips wrinkle into a small raisin, and her hands make a clapping noise as she plants them on her swollen hips. She is only four and ten, but no one told her body that. She had full breast like two gourds bursting through her pale, grey dress. Her hips pull at the seams of the dress that hung loose on her once thirteen year old body. Idry bites her lip, and looks away from her little sister.
"So, you won't answer me?" Sif says, her blue eyes bursting out her head.
"I'm trying to write," Idry says, turning back to her parchment. The ink well is almost dried out, not from use, but from a jar being left open in the dry, Norse air. Idry didn't like to cover it in case an idea flew in like a bird taking refuge in an open window. The windows were often open. The cold didn't bother mountain folk much. Cold is cold. No animal skin on a window will change that.
"You would think Odin would have told you by now, yea?" Sif says, plopping on the thatch ground next to where Idry sits, twiddling the whittled branch she was doubling as a writing instrument. On their travels to the mountains, she had learned many tricks, behind twigs and ink like catching and skinning a Fenir Wolf for it's coat. They had thicker coats this way and along with her sister batting her eyes at valley butcers and bakers, they were getting by. Her father would be proud if he would write back. Fathers don't like when daughters leave home, especially not two at a time without the company of two husbands. Idry had to go. Odin had visited her in her dreams for as long as she could remember. Now she was ten and eight and Odin no longer waited for her to sleep. She would be crouched low on a knoll, ready to catch a Dain deer for supper when Odin would snatch her mind, more like snatch the sight out of her eyes, and tell her things. It was always something that in the end would seem so obvious to her after he placed her back in her body; the way the earth moved around the hot sun, how the heavens were so full you can scares see the end. How He, the powerful Odin, can speak to whatever vessel he chooses. It was Odin who told her to leave. It was Odin who showed her women in Valhalla, eating with, not just serving the men. Her father didn't believe. He said it was the work of a demon. The night before she left, Odin gave her a sign, He showed her riding on the back of Huginn, one of Odin's sacred ravens, and in the vision when she looked to her left her sister Sif was riding on Munin, his other raven. It was a good omen. Sif needed scarce hear the end of the dream before she packed a lamb skin purse and mounted a horse, trotting behind her sister.
"Has Odin spoken again?" Sif says, leaning on her knees. Her wide hips spread under her like overstuffed cushions on a king's throne.
"He has shown me dragons," Idry says barely above a whisper.
"Ha! Those stupid people? They are frightful with their nasty, dry skin, but they are as dumb as grass. Dragons, indeed."
Idry expected a far worse rebuttal. Dragons were weak people. They lived in caves scarce spoke, or came out in the morning hours. If you had the displeasure of seeing their frightful, ghost-white palor, peeling lips, and frightful bright eyes clouded in dark circles, it was rumored bad luck would follow you for a year.
"They weren't weak or stupid. They wore crowns in my vision," Idry pauses, tucking her thick ginger hair behind her ear.
"Then you didn't have a vision about the dragon people," Sif giggles with a wink, rising from the floor. Her long blond hair sways as she sashays to the fire. She heaves fresh logs to the hearth, and the dying amber flames lap up the nourishment, and burst to life. The hut warms quickly, almost too hot. Idry prefers the cold.
"We need to go to town," Idry says, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead.
"Too hot? Sorry, once the sun sets you will thank me for keeping it stoked."
"There is barely frost on the ground and the sun is so high in the sky I must crane my neck to set eyes on it!"
Sif continues feeding the greedy fire, and Idry rolls her eyes before removing her black
Fenir skin coat.
"I'm going to town. Will you come?"
"No, the tanner keeps asking me to wed him. Though with his heavy tongue he might be saying bed. Neither seems good options. I do need a husband though."
"Bite your tongue, Siferina! Husbands aren't food, and shelter. They are more bobbles and wine."
"I like wine and bobbles, thank you! We've been atop every mountain south of Valhalla listening for Odin to sneeze or fart or shit! Either Odin is taking his time or he's gone mute!"
"He works in mysterious ways."
"Does he?" Sif chirps, dropping a heavy log in the fire. Sparks burst up, and Idry is sure her skirt will alight with hot flames.
"He is—painting a picture, I think."
"You think? We've been nomads for over a year. We should be wives, sewing for children, making hot soup to warm the bellies of our fat husbands."
"I thought the wives were supposed to get fat?"
"See? I don't even know these things. Maybe I will marry the tanner."
"You will not!"
"You rather I hold out for a prince? Not many among the Dain deers and mountain shegoats."
Idry scoffs, shoving a curved knife in her belt loop. A woman with a sharp tongue must also carry a sharp blade. She thinks or buying one for her sister.
"Ha! You'd be better off marrying a dragon," Idry says.
"Gods forbid. I'd be better off breeding with a snake. Temp me with more talk of Odin's scribbles and doodles and I might just."
Sif storms off, hips swaying, hair bouncing, and mouth cursing the foulest things to the heavens. Idry wants to follow her, but the yelling, Sif's monologue of woe, is so loud, she won't miss anything sitting put.
Idry stares into the fire, wrapping her mind around Odin's whisper, I'm not sure how the story got mixed up. She stares until her eyes tear up from the ash. The sleeve of her shirt catches the the thick wad of ash and tears pooling around her eyes. Perhaps it's because her sight was temporarily unavailable to her, that her other sense felt so heightened. The hair on her arms prickled with the sensation that she wasn't alone. Her ears twitched under two thick wads of hair that had somehow sprung loose from behind her ears, only separated by a deep part down the middle of her too round head. It sounds like heavy, labored breathing, like when her father would rise from his chair after drinking too much mead, but there was another sound that was nothing like father; scratching. Not scratching, but scraping the floor, like a sword being sharpened with meticulous, agonizing slowness. Sword? Where was Idry's sword? All she has is her dagger. It's one thing to fight off drunk men who lean on your bosom when drunk, and entirely another to fight a noise that sounded like it had travelled supernaturally into the hut. But what beast was attached to it? Idry peels her left eye open. It burns like wine in an open wound. The room is blurry, but the hearth has something the makes her retch her right eye open. A clawed foot. Not like a man's, or a goat's or anything she had every tows, no talons, scaly and clawed with black, onyx at the ends. Idry backs away from it. It scrapes the stone outside the hearth like it's trying to get out, but it's stuck.
"Sif!" Idry yells at the top of lungs, backing into a wood table.
No answer. The fire belches out smoke and wood crackles and crumbles as the foot fights to get out. Idry hears pounding feet outside and jerks her head to the opened front door. Sif's blonde hair dances in the wind as she runs back. When Idry looks back at the fire, it's calm. Flames ebb and flow like a stream barely disturbed.
"idry! Idry!" Sif bursts into the room smiling, her forehead painted by a thin sheen of sweat, and cheeks flushed deep pink.
"Good God! You took long enough!" Idry sighs, collapsing on the floor.
"Wait, how did you know already?" Sif' sounds whiney and her shoulders slump. She looks defeated for some reason.
"What?" Idry yells, rising from the floor, still looking at the now relaxed flame.
"In the valley! There are banners! Irish banners! And Norse! Wide as sails and made of rich silk it would seem though I can't sure from this height. We must go down and see for ourself. Tongues are waging and I don't know who's telling the truth."
"I don't understand. Is there war?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe, but some of the banners bear a HrimFaxi seal, in gold."
Sif is bouncing to contain her excitement, gnawing on her bottom lip so hard that it alternates between pink and white.
"Oh," Idry says, understanding, and still in shock from the vision.
"Yes, sister. Odin must have heard my swear. I mean prayer. Oh, forgive me kind lord of all and all that. You have heard my prayers. Oh, Idry! There is a prince in the valley."
CHAPTER 2
There wasn't exactly a shortage of money. Idry's father sent them away, begrudgingly, with much gold. Idry just didn't believe in spending it unless absolutely necessary. Apparently, a prince and a beautiful sister in shabby clothes is an emergency. Sif pouted and pouted and then swore on Odin's holy name. She swore on the entire pantheon and then pouted for days. Sif is beautiful enough that if she dressed in the rotting flesh on a Gullinkambi rooster, she would still be the most beautiful woman in the room. Woman, an odd way to describe a baby. Her skin is rich, pale alabaster, always spotless of any blemish. The progression to womanhood was favorable to her. She already had her blood, her breast and her skin just glowed with richness that made her seem the most desirable creature in the world. Sif sits on a faded cushion in front of a cracked mirror while her sister brushes her hair until it shines with the brightness of the sun on a still stream. Her perfect, straight nose lifts and bobs as Sif studies her own face and bobs with her sister's brushing.
Idry had bought new combs, dresses of fine silk, and embroidery. At least three. There is news of three parties open this week to commemorate the princes visit to the valley. Sif had invitations from many men already, but she would go unencumbered so the prince didn't feel threatened. No one, but Idry seem curious that the sons of the richest families are parading through a farming village like it's the courts of Vallhala.
"He will find you beautiful without this powder and scent," Idry says, tearing her eyes away from her sister's stare in the mirror. Her glassy blue eyes seem to be begging Idry sister for approval.
"You say that as my sister. I need to be sure. If not a prince, a member of court. I must bear children, Idry. All women should."
"I think my womb is dry." Idry scoffs. She never tried, but the only man she cared about when she was laid prostrate, when her head hit the rough floor of the hut was Odin. She didn't desire him the way Sif says she desires handsome men, but no one is more important to Idry that him. Odin is not lover, but he is the dearest of friends, and more importantly he seems to need her. Sif no longer needs her sister, and people must be needed.
"We should both get husbands. You can pick mine if I can pick yours. Perhaps this is Odin's will. Perhaps he brought us here for this appointed time. All women have their appointed time to be wives, and mothers—and duchesses and queens if they're lucky," Sif winks in the mirror.
Idry thinks on this. She had no desire for a man. There was nothing there, no lust, no longing. She saw more beauty in her sister than any man. Maybe Odin muted her desires so that she could hear him clearer. Idry's observations had shown her that women in love are both blind, and deaf.
"Don't look so glum, Id. You know I'm right. Why else do spinsters look so miserable? If we didn't need to be with men, why are spinsters prematurely aged and angry and downright mean. Think of Gulltopp, our neighbor. Her face is a shriveled prune. She grunts at people for heaven's sake!"
"Maybe she's just irritated of explaining herself. It's tiresome explaining that unconventional things make you happy. That can wear on any woman's visage."
"Ugh. She's mean as a bull. She needs a companion."
Idry had no desire to argue the point. Sif has no idea what its like to be devoted to one thing. She is in the phase of reaching for anything to be devoted to. She is drawing at anything with hopes, her reach takes root. Idry has been devoted, kept, bound since her youth. She is already bound.
Idry pins her sister's hair into delicate loops, framing her slim face. She leaves half of the back down to fall down her breast in soft blonde wefts. Their mother used to say that hair tells a man where he's allowed to look. It's why their mother wanted their hair long and father wanted it short. Both sisters keep their hair long. Sif because she has been hunting for a husband since she ten, and Idry because Odin has never cared about her hair. Odin seems to cares more about Idry's mind and sleeping habits.
"Will you let me brush yours?" Sif asks, pinching her own cheeks.
Idry looks at the red, dry straw, posing as hair creeping out of her scalp.
"No, thanks. I'm just coming to make sure no man takes more than you want to give."
"I would give a lot for a prince," Sif giggles.
Idry's nostrils flare and she drops the brush.
"It was a joke Idry. Can't we joke?"
"Yes. But men take things. It's why you have to hold back as a precaution. They will take. That's not the question. It's how much that's really the question."
"Oh, how would you know! You're a damn spinster in training!"
"And you a slut with that logic!"
Sif blanches and rises from the flat cushion. Idry instantly regrets saying it. She thinks it often. Idry often thought that Sif had already been with men. The thought made her uneasy. She couldn't place why, but the thought of her sister like that, made a biley film develop in the back of her throat.
"I'm sorry, Sif," Idry spits out.
Sif glances back at her, thick, blonde eyebrows knit together so tightly they could be one long hairy thread. Her cheeks were even bright pink through the think layer of white talc powder. Even through the venom she was spitting through her pores, Sif was radiating beauty everywhere else. In a see-through shift. She hadn't put on her gown yet for fear of ruining it with powder. Idry tears her eyes away from her and storms out of the hut. The air is cool outside, and the breeze a gentle tickle through the ravenous thicket she calls a scalp. Sif won't follow. She's angry, and she hates the cold so Idry is as good as alone. Idry tilts her head back, and her neck muscles groan and bones creak. She's tense, and wound up from fighting with Sif. The stars look back down as a balm and sooth her neck and her mind. They twinkle, urging her not to be angry. Sif looks like a woman, but she bears a child's mind cloaked with woman's urges. She is ignorant, an idiot really. You don't take offense to an idiot because she is only being herself. If a man takes her, it might be good for her to see that beautiful, strong faces can be attached to vile, treacherous hearts. Idry shakes her head banishing the thought. What kind of sister wants her sister to be raped to teach her a lesson? The breeze quickens like Odin is also chastising her. Idry mutters an apology and squats on the cold, half-dead grass. The moisture from melting snow, wets her bottom, and cools her temper. Yet, in the cool, images of scaly feet in a fire creep into her mind.
"What are you telling, Odin?" Idry mutters, wiping one stray tear from her left eye. The left eye is always the first to leak a tear. Her mother would say it's a bad omen, but it makes her feel better to wet her face. This way her heart is dry, and clearer to think.
The air grows still, and fine bumps cover Idry's arms. Odin has heard her. Idry pinches her eyes closed. What will Odin show her? He must take pleasure out of terrifying her. There is no gentle transition. He grabs her by her mind and yanks her out of her world into his. Seemingly unaware that he may hurt her.
"Oh, no!" Idry shrieks as she looks into the leathery face of some beast she has never seen before. It is blurry like it hasn't fully materialized in this world. Just the head is discernable. It's skin is layers of leathery scales, thick as books, and it's nostrils are two large bowls sitting atop a long snout. Wild, foul smelling zephyrs burst from it's hot, moist mouth.
"What are you?" Idry says, creeping backward.
The words of Odin weave into her mind like a threaded needle cutting through thick fabric, "I'm not sure how the story got mixed up."
The creature won't speak. It tilts its large head left and then right appraising her. It sniffs her, sucking the thick wool and fur of her coat into it's massive nostrils. It's head jerks back and it bares rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. Idry jumps to her feet, reaching for the cold-steel dagger flanked on her side. It opens its mouth, wide, so wide that nothing can be seen around it, not above or beneath but wet, tendonous jowls dripping thick beads of stinking spittle. Idry freezes looking into the back of the beast's throat as something yellow, red and hot spins to life in the rear of the wet, muscled mess of throat. The amber ball grows and grows in the back of the throat unhindered by the river of moisture, and now Idry can feel heat. It's fire, unmistakably. And the swell of hell is growing and growing and a deep growl builds in the back of the beast's throat like it's preparing to belch—fire.
"Master Odin!" Idry yells, covering her face.
The whipping of the cold air tells her it's over. The beast is gone. It's cold again and Idry exhales a sigh of relief.