A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.
21. The war I remember, the first in the world,
When the gods with spears had smitten Gollveig,
And in the hall of Hor had burned her,
Three times burned, and three times born,
Oft and again, yet ever she lives.
22. Heith they named her, who sought their home,
The wide-seeing witch, in magic wise;
Minds she bewitched, that were moved by her magic,
To evil women a joy she was.
The Poetic Edda, Chapter I, Voluspo
By Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]
The mornings are spent in the comfort of a transfigured chair - an overstuffed wingback - enjoying the written works of the Nine Realms. The Royal Library has much to offer, and it is a tragedy that it is locked away from enquiring minds. The other fraction of his time not devoted to the upkeep of Asgard is spent in the tutelage of Frigga or the Healers.
Frigga knows of many things - times of peace and gates wide open. Halls bright and welcoming to beings and creatures of every shape and size. But all these are memories of a little girl, of times past and unlikely to return. Before plots and treacheries wiped the peace and joy with jealousy and suffering, and injected revenge into the gaping maw.
"The Prince became a King upon the return from a long journey - father and brothers slain in underhanded fashions."
From her and the Healers, he learns the art of weaving - weaving seiðr into word. Words set into a tune - a song. Much like intent and wand movements - swishing and flicks. But what he learns is old magic, precursors to curses and blood magic, long before the ultimate classes of Light and Dark. This is magic, raw and unbridled, from the fabric of the universe.
Frigga has her loom, the healers their soothing voices and herbs, but Harry finds out that he can achieve the same with his hands and intent, a skill drawn from his heritage.
Other than that, weapons practice is held every few days in the afternoons when either he or Hallvarðr can afford the time, and it makes his fingers shake and muscles twinge far too much afterword to enjoy anything that requires fine motor skills. But he is slowly getting used to hefting the absurd behemoth of steel that Hallvarðr calls a training sword in the basic forms, and even steadily working his way up, faster than his mentor expects, but then again, Asgardians have more than enough time to be skilled in their chosen craft, and he has been living a human's lifespan, where every moment is significantly more precious than that of a near-immortal.
But today is different.
The outdoors calls out to him today, the sun flooding the gardens outside with warmth. It's a pity that he does not have any of his brooms - he would settle for a Cleansweep, even - because swooping in between the mountainous faces of Asgard would be thrilling.
The gardens are relatively private, so he settles on a patch of soft grass to look up into the endless skies, where the clouds wade past a beguiling mix of blue sky and starscape. If he closes his eyes, he can remember the rare days of sunshine in his homeland. The wind combing his hair back with its fingers, pulling the folds of his robes so much so that it feels like freedom.
He is jolted out of his meditative state when the not-quite whispers break into his bubble of solitude. The clouds overhead stem the beams from the sun, and the warmth fades.
"There! He doesn't look as scary as the rest said he was! Lifa said he helped her with the broken goblets all those months ago, don't you remember?"
"But he doesn't feast with everyone else in the great halls, so why would he be there to help her? Snorri said that he journeyed from the realm of the dark elves, that's why he's all pale skin and black colouring. And that he eats the hearts of those who cross him, and drinks blood from goblets made from the skulls of his enemies!"
The children start to squabble amongst themselves, the presence of their subject of conversation forgotten. He can't quite help but chuckle mirthlessly at the rumours that surrounds his reputation. Rumours passed on by word of mouth embellished with each telling – all he had eaten and drunk during the assembly all those months ago was an apple and a goblet filled with water.
"Shhhh. Quiet! He'll hear you!"
The warning of the littlest one goes unheeded, and Harry briefly wonders if he had been like that when he was eleven, armed with new friends and getting into all sorts of trouble as a trio. A wave of his hand produces an illusion, and he makes his way silently to their back.
"Now, now, children. You were expressly ordered not to go near him," they turn, faces ready to shoot him an annoyed look, only to squeal and run when they realise that he is the man that their parents talk of when children misbehave. To them, he eats hearts half-raw, and gnaws on the bones of little children.
The expressions of fright and horror are priceless, but he refrains from quoting a few choice lines by the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. A wandless Wingardium Leviosa catches all of them, and leaves them floating somewhere close to his line of sight.
They flail, and he tries to keep a straight face when the conversation starts with an almost predictable, "Please don't eat us!" and then they stare at him like they really, really believe that he eats hearts and drinks blood.
From the skulls of his enemies, no less.
They are young. Impressionable. Their colours denote the nobility in their bloodline, and from the tiny crest that adorns the collar, all are from the House of Odin. They are slated to become warriors, from the cut of the clothes. What they wear is the base; many layers of leathers and metal are yet to be added, year after year and challenge after challenge.
It will not do to contradict their upbringing.
Past childhood fascinations with the fantastical conjurations
warping into ugly feelings of deceit and trickery under the heavy
layers of leather, metal, blood and… souls
They plead their case of curiosity, so he listens as the story turns to the Lifa that they had quarrelled over earlier. He pretends to think, and then dismisses them with infinite care to show carelessness in his of them dismissal. They scramble off, glad that the scary sorcerer has not yet worked up an appetite for hearts, livers or blood.
He watches them leave, these future warriors. They will learn to not associate themselves with the staff of the kitchens, much less male practitioners of seiðr. They will learn to take rumour in their stride, conduct witch hunts of their own.
Harry has a hold over Death, but he cannot prevent the events leading to it. He cannot prevent rumours and suspicions and the secret inner workings of the minds of Asgardians. Not yet, not at the moment, that is. He wields the façades of power and mystery, but he needs it to solidify before he can change the ancient mind-sets of Asgard.
In the dead of the night, two hours is all it takes - the kitchens have amassed enough ruined dining utensils in the hopes of his repeat performance instead of sending it to the smithies to be melted and recast. The bulk of the spells that he casts are repairing and strengthening charms.
He rarely exchanges words between himself and the staff of the kitchens, but he does get hot food sent up to him by Lifa - fair repayment for his monthly chores and petty tricks - in rooms far away from the dining halls.
He still sees the boys from time to time, but they are adorned with the beginnings of young warriors, and have long since stopped in their attempts of trying to tail him.
The chill in the air is unmistakable. It has been present for some time now, and the morning frost thickens with each day. There is the sense of anticipation and thrill that he catches, though he admits that he has not been catching up with the going-ons that the rest of Asgard has been up to. His attentions have been drawn to a certain celestial body, the third one revolving around a certain star. It is so different from the one in his memory.
"Winter Solstice," Eir tells him, and continues to elaborate, amusement colouring her voice when she realises that he doesn't even have the barest beginnings of an idea of what goes on during the Solstice. But he does, the more she speaks of it – their Sunwheels are the Christmas wreaths in his memory, and actual logs carved with runic wishes are the yule log cakes in his time.
This year's celebration is most anticipated, or so she says, because the weather seems to be cold enough for snowfall.
The women are a bit sceptical when he offers his help in furnishing the entire hall, but he manages to persuade them to take a little break and supervise his work. There are so many parallel similarities between the two cultures, and when he is done, the women are speechless.
They are beautiful, these things that Haraldr has created with his hands.
The lights drift along invisible currents, wavering like fireflies. Enchanted snow drifts from the ceiling - it seems familiar - and they disappear without a trace before they reach the floor. She catches one in her palm, and they carry just a hint of the cold of real ice.
Boughs upon boughs of holly and sunwheels line the side of the Great Hall, rich in their colours, as though freshly picked from the forest itself. Haraldr Hjortrson comes from a beautiful world, it seems. It is no wonder that he seems so sad sometimes, lost in his mid.
Still, Frigga notices his frown, like he has not quite captured his memories. The rest of them are speechless for having doubted him, and his smile is forgiving. There is a trickster behind the forbidding visage of the Independent Advisor it seems, because the man derives much amusement from watching the people with their gaze stuck to the ceiling, walking into tables and benches and each other.
He stands still, but when Harry moves closer, he starts. Skittish, like most animals on first contact with him. But all of them step closer to him once they realise that he is not there for them - not in that way. A black stallion, yet young, but very powerful.
"He is mine?"
The stable hand jumps, "Yes. A fine stallion as a gift from the twelve houses. Do be careful, Milord, he is yet to be trained properly - nearly kicked off the door when they brought him in, sir."
"His name?"
"Eylir, sir."
Fighter of all, it means. A well given name, because they hope that Eylir will be temperamental enough to throw him off and trample him underfoot. He coaxes Eylir closer with an apple, and looks at Eylir in the eye.
'Hello, Eylir.'
The young male calms, and when he rides Eylir out the morning after, there are disbelieving stares that follow after him.
The horseshoes strike the glassy sheen of the bridge, and Harry places a firm hand on the neck of his horse to calm him. It is disconcerting for Eylir - the light flaring under his feet - but the young stallion makes it all the way to the end of the bridge.
The voice is resonant, even in the empty space, "Haraldr Hjortrson."
"Gatekeeper," he replies in acknowledgement, before falling silent. He perches on the edge of the bridge, looking down into the endless depths. He can feel the revulsion crawling up his legs, sticking in his calves like a deep seated ache. The memory of falling is still fresh.
"What do you see, Heimdall?"
"A single dew drop falling from a blade of grass a thousand worlds away. The Dvergar forges in a shower of light and heat as a hammer strikes metal. I see all, Haraldr Hjortrson."
His head turns to watch the Gatekeeper, making sure that Death is in the corner of his vision, "Are we alone on the Bifröst?"
"Yes." Without hesitation whatsoever.
Harry leaves, walking to where Eylir awaits.
She turns her gaze to the sable-haired man reading silently in front of her. His lips mouth the passages that he reads through, a reminder that he is not Æsir by birth. There are many whispers about Haraldr Hjortrson - how he can instil fear into the hearts of men simply by just looking at them and telling them odd sentences. How he now wields weapons with a startling proficiency - proficiency that he has never had prior to his arrival from Asgard.
She has never seen those sides of him before - he is gentle with rare streaks of mischief - but she knows that he is a broken person, not unlike a handful of men who return from war scarred, those who throw themselves into work just to stop their thoughts from wandering into more unpleasant memories. His hands are in constant motion – when they are not occupied in the weaving of seiðr or the reading of books, his fingers tap a staccato beat along his leg. The young man doesn't smile at all, only a mere twist of his lips in reaction to a situation that appears to be funny to him.
But sometimes, she sees a shadow of the young man in front of her, when he asks questions, or recreates astonishing weaves of seiðr from his world. She will accommodate him in this aspect as far as she can, for his services and sacrifices rendered to the kingdom, by listening to his recounts and questions and answering them as best as she can. She doesn't know of any other way to save this lost soul, because he seems so distant even when he is sitting right in front of him.
All she can offer is her company.
For one, he misses Firewhiskey… and a good steak.
Not forgetting fish and chips, or the delicious treacle tarts, and not forgetting… the chocolate phoenix cakes. He just has to figure out the methodology of making them, right after he can ensure the procurement or substitution of the ingredients.
They have recently worked out a system, the two of them – Death and he.
It's a cross between sign language and visual communications; she uses both to reply his questions, and he uses the latter when he is in the company of others and prefers not to be thought of as crazy. She doesn't really understand the concept of 'letters' or 'words', and more often than not she answers his questions with misleading gestures.
It's not a perfect system, especially when it's a series of trial-and-error attempts to communicate with a being whose only interaction with living beings is the instance where She takes souls and life away. Their mind-link is a flimsy strand of spider's silk – strong yet weak – but it's the best that they can do, because any more and he risks his psyche being splintered across every square meter where life exists, in every speck of the universe.
But he can sense the foreboding in the tenuous connections with Her, and from what he little he can glean, war rumbles at the very core of the World Tree. It lies over Asgard like an avalanche waiting for the slightest trigger, but it won't come just yet. There is still time.
And with war, the presence of Death is inevitable.
She watches as he slides his finger across the spine of the book, and sends it into spiralling off the table. The book does not hit the floor; it simply vanishes into thin air. His fingers rub across his tired brow, and Haraldr seems at a loss for words at his lack of ability to find what he is looking for.
He is more than proficient in layering the weaves now, but it seems that whatever he wants is out of his knowledge.
"What ails your thoughts, Haraldr?"
He literally jumps at her voice, and Frigga watches as he recovers admirably to stand up and bow customarily, "Nothing of great worry, my Queen. Merely an excess of thoughts that have no outlet by which to exhaust themselves," she thinks that he could redirect even a raging river with words alone, let alone a conversation, "the court session is to be started soon?"
The way to the Hall of the Slain is a long one - but there are shortcuts through the servant's quarters. He makes good time, but arrives far too late; the floor is already stained with congealing blood and ash, littered with spears, and amongst what is left of the tattered clothing not stained by the copious amount of blood, are the colours characteristic of the Vanir.
He is, however, just in time to see the mangled body raise itself onto its knees, only to be pierced once again by spears, and then set on fire. The fire burns longer and brighter than any dead body should, and then all his muscles freeze when from the ashes, when a figure rises from it.
He arrives far too late; A woman, he realises, not unlike those old stories where a wise sorceress would rise from underneath the skin of beasts or old hags.
The magic swirls, suffocating.
Then she foretells of the war that Harry has been dreading for countless weeks. It falls upon them, swiftly.
There is nothing out of place - but that is the touch of a master assassin.
The doors to his rooms are no longer a hairsbreadth open; someone has been into his rooms unannounced, and there is the possibility that they are still inside. Vanaheim and its allied Realms are not to be belittled - their veiled executioners have already brought down many prominent figures of late.
He slips threads of seiðr through the gaps of the door, searching for a heartbeat. The threads snare his prey as soon as he finds his assassin, and he Apparates in a crouching position onto the bed, right behind with a blade pressed to where the neck should be.
There is a gasp, and Harry immediately releases the tension from his knife-arm - not an assassin. Eir turns around in his arms to look at him with widened eyes and fingers trailing the thin line of blood at her neck, and Harry steps back.
"Healer Eir. I apologize."
His voice slips a shiver down her back, and Eir sees the haunted look in Haraldr's eyes even in the dim light. He has not been sleeping well, ever since Heith's prophecies of calamity befalling Asgard. She had only meant to… comfort him.
His eyes slip downward from her face, and she feels her face heat up and her courage falter when he finally realizes her attire.
Nothing at all.
It is not the first or the last that she will do this for a man. But it is the first encounter where her heart is involved. There is wonder in his eyes as he regards her, and she ponders if he has ever been with another woman if he is looking at her like that.
So she takes the opportunity unawares, and closes the distance between them.
And just like all her encounters with him, she is woefully out of her depth. He sips air from her lips, leaving her breathless. There are trails of heat when he traces her body with lips and fingers, and when the rounds are over, he has drawn enough sound from her throat to make it raw and achy. There is blood underneath her fingernails, left behind by the indescribable need to curl her fingers and toes. His hisses of pain and pleasure still ring in her ears.
He has removed her bones and replaced it with liquid satiety, and she falls asleep with him and his deep voice half-choked on a garbled name.
She wakes up alone to the light of the half-dawn and the joyless bellow of war horns - Asgard's descent into war has been called every man to the battlefront, and the only reminder of her claim is the lines of blood on the sheets and the blood under the crescent of her nails.
Eir watches his form slumped over the table, and knows not to wake him, unless she would like a blade drawing blood at her neck. Haraldr Hjortrson has spent countless days working himself into a frayed mess; he has been at nearly every battlefront, and the force of his presence is evident in the low death tolls of either side. Bifröst travel and heavy seiðr use make his exhaustion a palpable thing, and her eyes trace his features and lank hair. The fabric of his clothes is swathed in several layers of blood, and the leather is flaking dull red crusts onto the floor.
Between an eye blink, he is already up, woken up by no sound that she can hear. And in the time that it takes for her to gasp, he has disappeared from her sight.
The Cloak settles around his shoulders, and the weight of it is familiar. There have been ten simultaneous deaths around Asgard, and more are falling.
Asgard has been breached.
The palace is in full alarm, and yet it is too late - the intruders have been dealt with. Heimdall knows that Haraldr Hjortrson has been nothing but remarkable in the matters of the court and in the training halls, but the man is impossibility on the battlefield.
The man picks at the blood from his clothes - the slashes in his clothes are the sole lingering evidence of deep slashes, but no wound is in sight - and looks up to regard Heimdall in the eye, "You have questions, Gatekeeper."
"What were your methods of traversing such great distances?"
Hjortrson eyes him for all of two seconds before slowly blinking, "It seems that Vanaheim has discovered how to use the Heart of their Realm for inter-Realm travel. Something like the Bifröst - though I suspect that the Asbrú is not powered by Asgard itself."
It still does not answer his question, and Heimdall watches Hjortrson turns away from him. The man's face does not show the barest change in expression as Heimdall watches from another angle, "I… followed the energy traces from the portals, and subdued them."
The last words are swallowed by the silence, and there is nothing but the soft breathing of the incapacitated men at their feet while they wait for the Allfather and his entourage of advisors.
Frigga forces herself to loosen fingers from her dress - the fabric is far too delicate for her anxiety, "What do you see, Heimdall?"
The gatekeeper's eyes are lost in his vision, "Njörðr has granted his children Freyr and Freyja permission to act as messengers of peace. Hœnir and Mímir will remain with the Vanir."
It will be a joy to see her sister and brother once again, but the circumstances are far from ideal - Freyr and Freyja are war hostages.
The man truly is a shadow - silent and hard to notice - and has slipped away the moment Freyr and his sister have their feet firmly on the ground after travel by Bifröst. There is a parade that reeks of the Æsir 's victory, even though it has merely been a truce to stop the bloodshed.
Under the table, Freyja's hand tightens around his fingers, as the toasts and cheers become nearly unbearable. Across the table, he watches as his elder sister maintains her composure. He is happy to see Frigga, though her countenance is grim at the accounts of bloodshed and glory by the masses in the hall; though she has lived in Asgard, Vanaheim will always be her home Realm.
Haraldr Hjortrson appears again at his elbow, out of nowhere amidst the drunken crowd, "Please come with me."
Freyja touches his hand, knowing that Freyr is close to violence. Her brother has been stretched to the point where he will break something or someone, and Hjortrson may just be the one. The man does not seem like the wretched killer that the Vanir warriors swear he is - not with his emerald eyes swimming in a face full of mournfulness.
She takes his offered hand, and her brother follows on the other side of her. The walk is long and the company is silent. His hand is chill against hers, while her brother's fingers are a searing sensation against her palm.
The door opens, and Frigga gets to her feet.
"My Queen," Haraldr's voice is low and hushed; quickly smothered by the rustle of cloth and shuffle of feet as her siblings rush to greet her. It has been a long while - Freyr now towers well over her, and Freyja has a river of gold tresses falling down her back.
She stays there, wrapped in a long embrace, and thinks that there is still the smell of Vanaheim's earth after the spring rain lingering on their clothes.
It really has been a long while.
"What… will happen to her?"
Harry looks up to regard Freyr, who is looking at his sisters as they talk quietly, "Lady Freyja will remain with the Queen here in Fensalir. The Queen holds supreme authority in her Hall, second to no one else. As for you, Lord Freyr, you will have the choice of staying here in the Palace and anywhere else in Asgard, though you will be under scrutiny as the King sees fit."
"Then I am relieved."
The caves have the same signature workmanship as the dungeons, uniform in its construction, ceiling parallel to floor, walls perfectly perpendicular to the ground. And all the surfaces practically shimmer with runes ensorcelled against collapse.
He mutely accepts the blindfold before they guide him into the sprawling maze of twists and turns, his guards none the wiser to his mapping out of the tunnels with his magic.
His guards lead the way down, far away from the 'deadly' orange sunlight. It turns them into stone, and Harry feels the beginnings of amusement – maybe they are the inspiration for garden gnomes, despite their comparable stature to his own. The walk continues for nearly ten thousand steps when his escorts start to slow.
They reach the end of the tunnel, the blindfold comes off, and then he sees it. The light from countless windows of the massive structure spill out to illuminate an impossibly large cavern, as well as a mind boggling number of bridges. It almost seems like a spider's web over an abyss, and in the center is a mutant of a spider with a million eyes.
Harkalegasta, the 'fiercest' citadel.
They take the largest bridge, the only one crafted of stone, and lead him far below the citadel, passing many curious eyes and gabbing tongues before reaching a set of massive doors. The doors that he faces are massive, and light peeks out from the minute spaces, blinding bright against the white marble floors.
Ivaldi has watched the comings and goings of many, witnessed many times as the spell-craft of his people metamorphosed simple rocks into shining jewels. He has unearthed precious metals with his own handcrafted tools, and felt solid rock tremble under his feet as caverns collapsed upon themselves. He no longer sees after a lifetime of sights and sounds, but that does not mean that he is insensate. It merely means that he is old, pains and aching joints and memory and regret.
With the loss of his sight, came the keenness of his hearing, and the sensitivity of his skin, calluses and all.
He feels the murmur of the Asbrú as it cuts through a finger's width of dirt, and feels the echo of seiðr as the tendrils investigate down the tunnels that lead to the Dvergar citadel that he was born in. Few surface dwellers make it far into the depths of the Dwarven Realm, Ivaldi muses, and none have had the distinction of half a dozen of the highly skilled soldiers of Harkalegasta as escorts.
Ivaldi does not let the apprehension cloud his concentration – steady fingers lower slender bars of his latest alloy into the mould. The heat from the forge takes hold, and the hiss of the metal slowly turning molten is music to his ears.
His esteemed unexpected guest comes to a stop before his doors, and Ivaldi steps thirty paces from the forge before nudging the doors open a crack for his voice to carry through, "Who is it, who dares disturb my work?"
There is a pause, before the unknown stranger replies, "I ask for forgiveness in the interruption of your labours. I came at the commendations of my Queen, the Lady Frigga, who declared that the works of Ivaldi are treasures beyond any measure."
They are pretty words, well-rehearsed, even. But there are no lies that Ivaldi can detect, and the words of the Lady Frigga carry much weight. He remembers her from his youth - divine smiles and genteel manners.
"So be it," and he pushes the door wider to allow his… customer in. The heat from the forge rushes out, and there is a dark undertone of amusement when he hears the man hiss in surprise. The searing heat penetrates even insulated layers of armour, and Ivaldi waits or the man to recover his sight from the blazing light of the forge.
His eyes take a moment to adjust to the light from the blazing forge, and when his vision clears somewhat, he sees Ivaldi, a sight made rare in Asgard by Iðunn's apples – hunched back, wrinkled skin and thinning hair. And yet, the fabled master craftsman is hardly diminished by his seemingly advanced age, and from under the soot-dusted fabric are strong arms.
"My question has not yet been answered."
"I am Haraldr Hjortrson. I am but a simple aide."
The wizened man snorts, "A simple aide indeed. One who bears the backing of the Allfather and his bride. A man who claims the birth right of the Stag. Which one of the Five do you hail from, Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr, Duraþrór or Eikþyrnir?"
Harry shakes his head, belatedly realizing that Ivaldi cannot see his movement, "I merely uphold my oaths to the King. Thusly, a simple task. As for your last question, I have no answer."
"Well answered. My next questions will not be so easily deflected, Hjortrson. I shall not be the one to deny the request of the beloved lady of Asgard ."
The aged craftsman beckons him to an adjoining chamber, seemingly deathly cold in contrast to the forge, and Harry realises one thing – Ivaldi is nearly blind; milky cataracts threatening to swallow his pupils.
There are brief undertones of realization, when Ivaldi turns to look at the self-proclaimed simple aide of Odin Allfather with his sightless eyes. Haraldr Hjortrson realizes the lack of sight that Ivaldi has been afflicted with, and Ivaldi feels the presence of the man's companion.
And somehow, he doesn't feel any fear. Not anymore. Not when it is so close.
He watches with his mind's eye, before regarding Hjortrson, "Do you wish to gaze into my eyes for much longer like a swain stricken with heartsickness, or shall we move on to the business of my expertise?"
The man sputters, and Ivaldi presses forward, eager to pursue business. There is little that challenges him of late – blade-craft and trinkets made from his hands are without a doubt exquisite, but there is little variation to be had in either the sharpness of edges made to slice through hard rock or the fineness of spun silver in the likeness of spider threads – the Lady Frigga has sent Hjortrson, so Ivaldi will gladly relish the task.
Hjortrson speaks, and Ivaldi listens, his attention drawn away from their ghost of a spectator.
And as he expects, the task is nigh impossible. A sturdy structure – indestructible, if possible – to hold transient things and preserve them as they are. He turns it over in his head, and looks at it in his mind's eye from inside out, only to be startled back into reality when Hjortrson touches his hand.
His hand is guided palm up, fingers and thumb folded to press together. Something a little denser than air is dripped into the shallow pit of his hand, and the liquid maintains its silky quality as his finger passes through it. It is worn and old like the pages of a well-loved book, kept preserved.
Ivaldi gets his rush of inspiration – amalgamates to be concocted and tested, with whole runes to be designed and crafted into existence. He is reluctant to part with his hive of thoughts when the subject matter of compensation comes up – there is little that one's heart will desire when one has had more than his share of turning the fates. He refuses the gift of vision, for he is content to live in his perceived world – his memories will stay bright and untainted without his sight.
And thus begins the bartering process, for Ivaldi has no short of riches and boons from the wealthy and the wise.
"So… you do not want any service that I can offer?"
"Nothing that you can conjure with your weaving."
It takes a little while, but Hjortrson offers up something that Ivaldi accepts. It is raw like rock freshly mined, and it is a wondrous and impossible thing - boiling magma trapped in rock. It is the simplest but most heartfelt of all, because it has been made with much dedication and experimentation, and Ivaldi can taste the sheer potential in the hard drink that burns sweetly down his throat and lingers in his veins.
It is from one craftsman to another – Hjortrson will refine the drink in time, and at that moment, Ivaldi will be proud to declare that he has had a part in the perfection called Firewhisky.
The alloy hums smoothly under the caress of his fingers, and Ivaldi turns up the corners of his mouth. It is a fifth-generation alloy since Haraldr's commission, and the most malleable yet. And with the repeated tempers with star-flame and ice-melt, it will be the strongest yet.
Some days he hears the murmurs, and for the most of those days, he memorizes nearly enough to hum along with it. Today is mercifully silent – Hjortrson has come on Ivaldi's request – and the man's admission into the forge brings with him the lingering traces of tanned leather and whispers of seiðr.
"You have been busy, it seems. Has Njörðrson been teaching you the thrills of the hunt?"
The man chuckles, "Freyr's love for it is infectious. I fear that my Queen has nearly had quite enough of the gifts of venison, though Lady Freyja is happy with the furs that her brother provides for her."
There is a hint of anticipation in Hjortrson's voice; Ivaldi has been the one who has sent for the man.
Ivaldi gestures to the objects on the table that he knows to be there, "This is the archetype, and here is the amalgamate block for the final casting. "
Hjortrson takes care not to muffle his footsteps, and the heavy footfalls let Ivaldi know that the man has stopped a good distance away from the complicated mass of structured runes, "I am certain that it is not the norm to have foreign observers to encroach on an artisan's work, Master Ivaldi."
"If I had stuck with tradition, you would have no one to work on this commission of yours, and you know that, Haraldr Hjortrson," and besides, Hjortrson's companion has already been involved in his crafts, brushing fingers against the alloys and runes.
The man chuckles, and leaves after confirming that Ivaldi's latest artefact is to the specifications, and finally, finally, his limbs get to work in inspired motion.
There is creation to be made by his hands, and every single piece will be made to perfection and beyond, as long as he can.
The murmur begins anew, louder, even, now that he has put down his tools. The metal construct will have to brave the star-fire for at least the turns of three seasons, all the way till the coldest ice-melt can be harvested from the furthest reaches of the landscape that is Niðavellir.
That is entirely too much time to sit around and do nothing at all - for he has turned down other commissions in order to work on this last one - and Ivaldi fears that his mind will be lost by the time the metal has been properly tempered in the star-furnace. He opens his mind to the mesmerizing quality of the monophony, listening to the entity that has not followed Haraldr as he departed from the citadel. His hands fall upon the last of the wondrous alloy that has been left over from the final forging - too little to be an adequate sword, and far too precious to be wasted as a set of pretty trinkets.
Not to mention that there would be no happy end for those unfortunate enough to be presented with a ring or necklace made from the metal; for the metal holds and binds energies like no other. The paean-like verse lends inspiration to Ivaldi, and he decides upon daggers. There is enough of the metal to form two decent daggers, but the material is heavy to the extent that it is unwieldy in battle.
Perhaps four tiny throwing daggers, enough to conceal in the palm of one hand, he thinks, and Ivaldi sets to work dreaming up the runes and design that would make such a set of weapons legendary.
Eylir follows his subtle directions well, more silent than he could ever be in the undergrowth. Slowly and steadily forward… until he sees his quarry, browsing through the undergrowth.
The string draws taut – deep breath in, and then half let out through the mouth – and then the near-silent twang of the string, the passage of the arrow through the air, straight through the ribs into the chest cavity… the rustle of the undergrowth as the animal falls over.
He jumps off the horse, Death in the corner of his vision. He has not quite killed the doe in one shot, and she feebly struggles. He kneels down at her back, away from the kicking legs, pushing down at the shoulder and neck, and pulses a wave of magic through. He takes the pain and awareness away, and whispers soft apologies as he snaps the fragile vertebrae.
The soul goes to Death, and he watches as She disappears back into the forest. His horse Eylir waits patiently as he secures the carcass to him, and he rewards him with some of the forest fruit, and when they return to the stables, Eylir has his favourite treat of bread and carrots.
The carcass he hefts to the outside of the kitchens, where he begins the systematic gutting and slicing of the flesh. The meat goes to the kitchens, where they jest with him, before they set him loose on the latest mound of bent cutleries and shattered goblets. They are insistent on recompensing him, and he decides on some more grain this time – he never tires in the experimentations and reinventions of the culinary delights of his past.
The Firewhisky is coming along well; Ivaldi is a master brewer in his own right. It leaves him time to… experiment. Not forgetting fish and chips, or the delicious treacle tarts, and not forgetting… the chocolate phoenix cakes. He just has to figure out the methodology of making them, right after he can find his ingredients.
The hide he brings to the tanneries, the very last piece of raw hide that he will need for a very long time. He has already tried and tested the optimum integration of spell casting and seiðr weaving on countless samples of hide, and now has all he needs to make a complete set of armour.
A set of armour more than fit for fighting an entire congregation of Hungarian Horntails, but he knows not where and what the enemies are this time.
The wrapped bundle lies upon the table, and Harry tears his eyes away from it to concentrate on the task at hand.
The quadruple daggers are hot to the touch, despite the fact that he has been handling them for the better part of the day. Maybe this is the power of the heart of a dying star, he muses, and a testament to the sheer mastery of the Dvergar over their craft.
He hefts the daggers once more; blades stained with his own blood, and sends them flying towards the makeshift targets.
Dead center in the bull's-eye for the hundredth time, out of one hundred times.
A few claps sound out, "One of the more challenging works that I have done, Haraldr Hjortrson. I would not have made them for anyone else."
"I am glad to receive the honour that you bestow upon me, Master Ivaldi. Will you consider my offers of recompense?"
The dwarf craftsman is already fully blind from the fires of the forge, and yet Ivaldi shakes his head, "I refuse your offer of restoring my sight, Hjortrson. There is nothing in my forge that I do not know my way around, and my eyes afford me no distraction from light and darkness." And thusly I do not see the bloodshed that stains my masterpieces, is the implied and unspoken.
The mood lightens when Ivaldi grins, "I believe that my reward is due now."
Harry laughs at the man's unshakable determination, and then the casks appear in the corner that the master smith himself has cleared a space for with unerring precision - there are fourscore casks for every decade that Ivaldi has worked.
"I will see you again, soon."
"I will come when you send word, then, Master Ivaldi."
"I will not send word. You will know."
"What do you mea-"
"You will know."
Author's notes (25/10/13):
More mythology canon to pave the foundation and to plug the loopholes for the future, and I finally put some of the backstory into actual words instead of thinking it to myself. Eir's story is something that has existed (in my head) for a long time, but I'm afraid that fleshing it out even more at this point will backfire - it calls for more world-building than I am prepared for at this point. The following chapters will more or less retain their original content.
Also, as I have no beta or proofreaders, do let me know if I have errors in my writing (FFnet's grammar check scares me, and reminds me of my poor grasp of the language). It kills me inside to know that I've left a word horribly misspelled for all the world to see, sometimes.
As always, your words are the ones that keep mine going.
Cheers,
ikki.
*Kudos to Swallow-Tailed Kite for spotting errors.