He runs a soft hand down my neck. I half-close my eyes as he does; I trust only him enough to do this.

It took me many turnings of Seasons to be sure he is, in fact, a he – he had changed so quickly from his foal self, and it is difficult enough to tell with his herd. As he carefully straps in the different pieces of my Journey armour over and under me, I amuse myself with thoughts of this.

Our first Meeting was unplanned, and, it seemed, troublemaking on his part – his Mother Mare's voice had risen higher than normal and her tone was unmistakably furious. But I had not regretted Meeting him so young. His tiny foal self had held so still, almost lost among the hay and shadows of my normally locked stable, while I had sniffed and turned my head about to See him properly. I did not meet Little Colt again for some Seasons, and by then, he looked and cantered so differently, though my name for him remained. Only by his scent half-buried in my Memory did I recognise him.

But it seems the others of his herd treat him with the same kind of rough play as they do their other stallions and colts. Especially his elder Brother-of-the-Heart, the one who accompanies him often when they enter the stables. It had not taken so many Seasons to understand Little Colt was also Youngest Colt. Since he and his Heart Brother had begun riding, I remember – his hands spanned the least length of my nose; his voice always higher; his build shorter and thinner. Little Colt and his Heart Brother are like a swaying willow tree growing beside the tallest thickest oak.

Then he rubs my nose, and I finally feel his Worry, which is like a seed immediately sprouting inside my own Heart. I would have realised as soon as he opened my stable door if he were another of his herd, but Little Colt has managed to hold it well inside himself again, just like Leader Sleipnir when he once tried to avoid his own Worry from spreading through our herd like a virus, about a storm that was to pass over our land. It is like a heavy chain weighing Little Colt down as he walks, rather than something that radiates like it does from the others.

I nicker softly, inviting him to speak his woes with me while we are alone, though my Ear usually grasps the moods rather than words of his herd's Language. But sometimes it works, he murmurs to me quietly between my leaps and sprints, and – at least I think wishfully – his gait and heart are lighter when he exits my stable after our journey.

This time, however, he remains silent as he dresses me, and his Worry seems to stiffen his shoulders. His eyes are liquid dark in the shade of my stable, and sad. It changes once we step into the daylight – his eyes are almost green again, and the Worry is hidden behind a straight back and slight swagger.

I feel his hand again stroking my neck, coaxing me forward and as if he is trying to brush away his Worry that has stained my coat. "Come on, Hulda." His voice hovers in its rightful place, somewhere behind my head like a second Mind to guide me where I cannot See.

"Brother says we're going to Jotunheim."


It has been many, many Seasons now, but even in the midst of panic, I wonder if Little Colt will return.

Alarm is spreading swiftly through us – each of us individually and as a herd – like a forest fire, not even Leader Sleipnir pretends that he is in control. The sounds of Little Colt's herd at war is too close to our stable – noises like metal on metal, his Heart Brother's rage-said-in-storms, and screams – and we can see things in the sky that do not belong there.

When will he return?

Laga pushes me urgently towards the stable door the others are kicking down to escape. He will not rescue you, She whinnies softly. None of our Riders will. We are alone.

We break down the doors, and we run through his herd's ancient gold city towards their bridge of rainbows. It is deserted like the frozen mountains on the horizon, but we can hear his herd's cries from the bridge as we near.

One of the smaller pieces of sky debris – a motor-air-wing-vessel – zips across the storming sky like a gadfly, towards the Gold Mountain Stable where Little Colt lives. I almost do not notice it.

The last time I had been this afraid was once in the Realm of Fire, but even then I had Little Colt on my back and wielding his cold Magic that had chased the heat and burns away.

Thinking of fire…

"Tremble before me, Asgard!"

There is a monster of fire rising above us. And then above the trees, the Gold Mountain Stable, the very clouds...

None of us will outrun it, but I know none of us stop running.

The last thing I See before the monster fire overtakes me is that little gadfly-like air-motor-ship whizzing across the sky back the way it came.


I wanted to write about and post other things while working on another larger Christmas multi-chapter fic, but also I was wondering the other night how my dog views our family, and eventually applied that to the Asgardian royal family. Then I remembered that they don't have dogs in Asgard, so thought about the horses.

Although maybe the Asgardian race of horses aren't completely related to the Earth ones, like maybe they're stronger and faster than ours similar to how Asgardians look like humans but are basically relatively indestructible?

Happy almost-Christmas, by the way, if you celebrate it :)