"There was one time, before came the world we know, when Odin, King of the Gods decided to go on a journey." A pause, for dramatic effect. "Odin was wise and crafty. Wise and crafty enough to know that he did not know much at all, in truth. And so he traveled across the Nine Realms, hunting for knowledge the way lesser men hunted for glory."

"Where did he go?"

One finger was held up. "First things first. There was another god who was famed for his wisdom. He was named Mimir, and he lived in Jötunnheim, beside a well that also bore his name. Some said he was also Odin's uncle, who was half-giant on his mother's side. Anyway, Mimir had gained his wisdom after drinking from his well, which was hidden under the lowest roots of Yggdrasil. Odin sought this knowledge as well, going to cold Jötunnheim in the disguise of a feeble old man. There, he was faced with a choice: he could take one sip from the fabled waters of Mimir's well… but he would have to sacrifice something of great value in exchange."

Eager eyes widened even more. "What did he do?"

A smile, wry, almost fond. "Odin plucked his eyeball out, throwing it into the well."

"Ew! With his own hands?"

"Mm-hm. I bet he hadn't even washed his fingernails."

"Double ew!"

"And from then on, Odin was known as the One-Eyed Wanderer, as well as the Wisest of All. Thus he learned the value of sacrifice, and how everything that is worth knowing always comes with a price."

"He's still super gross. Blergh."

A smile. After a while, the storyteller continued. "Not long after, the Aesir were at war with the lords of the earth, the Vanir. Both sides were powerful, and they had to come to a truce to avoid mutual destruction. In a show of good faith, Odin sent Mimir to Vanaheim, while the chieftain of the Vanir gave them Kvasir, a wise storyteller, in exchange. But the Vanir began to suspect treachery from the tricky Aesir, and they beheaded poor Mimir in retaliation."

"That's nasty! Mimir didn't do anything!"

"Such is war, love. It's never fair. The Vanir sent Mimir's head back to Odin, who preserved it with herbs and charms. Thus Mimir's head whispered counsel to the Allfather's ear while Odin went on his many journeys."

"Oh, come on! A talking head?"

That prompted one quirked brow. "Of everything I told you, that's what you find weird? Not Loki giving birth as a mare or Thor being made to look like Freya, with a flowing dress and everything?"

A giggle. "I liked that story. It was funny!"

"You like all stories about Thor, don't you?" There was something wistful in those words.

"Yeah! He's the best!" The little nose then scrunched up "Say, what did Odin do with Mimir's head? He didn't need it anymore now that he was all smart and stuff, right?"

"Odin commanded Mimir's head to watch his lost eye and the well of knowledge. That way, the Allfather could make sure no one else could partake in its knowledge."

A huff. "So he kept people from drinking from the well? That's kind of dumb. Wouldn't you want others to be as smart as you are?"

"Mm. I don't think Odin saw it that way. He was a god of war, after all. For him, knowledge was power. And you don't share your power with potential enemies, right?"

"That's stupid. If everyone was smart, there wouldn't be any wars. People would just solve their problems without fighting all the time. I think Odin was just selfish."

The storyteller laughed. "Well, now. You wear your name well, love. Maybe you're the Wisest of All in the end."

Bright Falls, 1988

Warlin drove in silence, the headlights of his car cutting through the misty gloom. He'd seen the sun peeking over the horizon when he had left the radio station, but here in the woods, everything was still as dark as the deepest night. It was easy to understand why the citizens of Bright Falls shared so many spooky stories about Cauldron Lake and its surroundings; one could easily film a horror movie in the vast, nearly untouched space of the woods around town, especially during the hours when everything was hidden under shadows and mists.

Any other city boy would have felt daunted by the depth of this darkness. But Warlin Door was a different sort; he sought out spooky stuff, being something of a spook himself. Truly, he had found himself a home in this strange little town in the middle of nowhere. More importantly, for nearly two years now his sleep had been untouched by the strange dreams that had plagued him since childhood. Warlin was a man who believed in portents of all sorts; it was hard not to see it as a sign.

Yes, Warlin was meant to be here, he was sure of it.

As he neared the bluff overlooking the caldera where Cauldron Lake was nestled, Warlin parked the car on the side of the road. This was a ritual he observed every morning he returned home after working the night shifts at the radio station. He did not know why he did it. Warlin simply followed his intuition because it was what his pa had taught him, and what his Nana had told her son, and what she herself had learned from her own father. They were a strange people, his family, always aware of what-could-have-beens, always catching a glimpse of the paths not taken in edgewise. Warlin supposed his behavior could appear strange to the eyes of an outsider, but that was how he went about his days, keeping a foot in every open door, so to speak.

He left the car, taking in the crisp morning air and relishing in the fresh smell of pine trees. Here, a bit of sunlight touched the calm waters of Cauldron Lake, which mirrored the orange skies above. Early morning mists spread around the lake, the colours of pale peaches—or the shade of Freya's blush whenever he crooned at her in his best impression of Sinatra. Warlin took a deep breath, savoring the solitude. No honking cars, no pedestrians cursing at each other, only the serene symphony of nature. Perhaps that was why Warlin felt drawn to the lake, he thought, a wry grin tugging at his lips.

Then he heard the telltale sound of gravel crunching under a foot. Heart leaping in his throat, Warlin whirled to look beside him. A rather short woman, clad in black, her face hidden by a mourning veil, had appeared next to him. Where had she come from? Had he been so lost in his contemplation of the lake that he had not heard her approaching? Breathing in deep to calm his pounding heart, Warlin chuckled and said, "Oh, God, I hadn't noticed you there. You gave me quite a fright, ma'am!"

The woman only glanced toward the lake. "Beautiful, isn't it." Her voice was strange, flat as the still waters below them. "Many sought to capture its beauty through their art."

Warlin let out another nervous laugh. "I'm sorry, but… are you lost?" There was a lodge for people suffering with various mental illnesses somewhere around the lake. Perhaps she had made a run for it in the dark hours of the night. The thought was disquieting. The poor lady. "If you need to go somewhere, I could give you a lift. Where do you live?"

"You're needed somewhere," was all she uttered. "I am where I need to be. Here to remind you why you came." And with a grand, slow gesture, she motioned at Cauldron Lake. Ah. The woman was batty, evidently enough. Good to know.

Warlin rubbed the bridge of his nose, stifling an urge to curse. Apparently, Freya was rubbing off on him, the foul-mouthed dear. "Alright then," he told the woman, giving a reassuring smile. "We'll go to my home, and then we'll call the police. Surely they will be able to help you. Is that alright with you, ma'am?"

Wordlessly, the woman followed Warlin back to his car. He hid his uneasiness as he helped her take a seat, never letting his smile waver. She was quiet even as Warlin tried to engage in idle conversation. After a moment, Warlin became silent as well, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

The sight of the trailer park where he'd made a life with Freya was a welcome one. As he was parking the car, the door to his house opened, and a familiar figure came upon the steps. Freya was clad in slippers, her pregnant belly bulging out of a faded pink bathrobe.

"Hey," she said, tiredly. "You're home…"

Warlin went to her, momentarily forgetting about the strange woman in the car. "Is something wrong?" he asked, stroking her cheek. "It's still early. Why are you awake?"

She shrugged, then yawned. "Started having contractions one hour ago. Figured I would wait for you."

Her tone was mild, as if she had just announced she would have eggs for breakfast this morning. Nevertheless, Warlin felt a rising panic seize him. "Contractions? Why didn't you call at the station?"

"Didn't want to stress you on the job." She motioned at him. "C'mon, let's get what we need for the hospital."

She remained nonchalant even as Warlin rushed inside. In the living room, he absentmindedly noted the TV playing some old horror movie, and the ashtray and empty mug (smelling of cocoa rather than coffee, a hard concession to make for a caffeine addict like Freya) on the table; she had been awake for a while, then. Beside their bed was the pack they had prepared for this particular event. Warlin made a quick check—toothbrush, fresh undies, a few pajamas… everything seemed to be here. Behind him, Freya made a strange little sound. He turned to face her, noticing that her eyebrows had gone high up her forehead.

"Huh," she said, so simply. "I think my waters just broke." Warlin muttered a curse, which made her snort. "Ah, c'mon, handsome. It'll be fine."

Warlin managed a rueful smile. "I know, I know." Freya put both hands over his face, brushing her nose against his. "You know me," he said. "I just love fussing over you, hm?"

"You fuss over everything. Now let's go, there's a baby that needs ejecting, and I don't want to do that at home. Would be hell getting those bloodstains out of the carpet."

As Warlin escorted her outside (prompting her to laugh and said, "Oh, c'mon, I'm pregnant, not an invalid!"), the memory of his previous encounter resurfaced, and he exclaimed, "Oh, fuck, that lady!"

"What lady?" Freya said, as Warlin hurried to swing the passenger door open. For a moment, he panted, not believing his eyes.

She was gone.

Warlin frantically inspected the ground, wet from the nightly rain, and found no tracks. The strange woman had simply… vanished. Like a character from those horror movies Freya loved so much (Warlin himself was fonder of old musicals). Speechless with shock, he took in his surroundings, the trailer park silent and still in the misty morning. None of this made any sense. Where could she have gone?

"Ohhh…" came a low groan behind him. Freya was wincing and holding her stomach. With her other hand, she clutched at Warlin's arm. "Oh, oh, oh, fuck, that one hit hard."

Warlin's heart made a painful somersault in his chest. Oh, this was going to be a long, long day…

"That's our cue, then," he said, squeezing her shoulders and kissing her brow.

To her credit, she managed a wry grin. "Yeah. Don't want to give birth inside the car and ruin that, uh, 'fancy' upholstery."

(Said car had belonged to her father; the 'fancy upholstery' already bore a few stains of dubious origins that just wouldn't come out in spite of all their efforts.)

Hours later, Warlin was utterly beat, nodding off in the uncomfortable plastic chair where he had slumped off. Freya was faring little better in her hospital bed, but that was to be expected; she had just accomplished a little miracle. Their daughter (their daughter! Warlin and Freya had a little girl!) was soundly asleep in her mother's arms after nursing for the first time. She was beautiful and healthy, with a smattering of fine black hair over her lumpy head.

Still, their little Saga was loud for one so small. Warlin expected she'd been blessed with a healthy amount of that characteristic Anderson stubbornness; in response to that assertion, Freya had flicked him with one finger, saying, "As long as she doesn't make bad puns like her daddy, I'm all good."

Eventually, Freya turned to look at him, yawning and asking, "Say, what lady were you talking about, before we left for the hospital?"

"Oh, um…" Warlin scratched the back of his head. "I picked up a strange hitchhiker on my way from work. She seemed to have wandered off while we were getting our stuff inside."

Freya quirked an eyebrow. "Okay. That's not creepy at all."

"I'll go call the police, eventually, but now…" Warlin gently stroked his daughter's head, heart overflowing with warmth. "I would rather stay here, just for five more minutes. This is… this is where I'm meant to be, yes."

Freya hummed in response, resting her head on his.

And for a bright, far too brief moment, all was right in the world.

"Did you know? Odin, King of the Aesir, Father to All, was known by many other names. Some were funny. Some were grand. All are the subjects of a story. Are you aware, for example, of why he was called the Lord of the Hanged?"

The little brows furrowed. "That sounds kinda creepy you ask me."

"Well, he was a god of death, after all. And the Nornir—that's the goddesses weaving the threads of fate—had seen the grim future that awaited him. They spoke of Odin's doom: Ragnarok—the twilight of the gods. The end of the world in flames and frost." The tone had been adequately sepulchral, and the little listener hid under the warmth of her comforter. "The Allfather, ever the trickster, refused to accept such a fate. He set out to find a way to stop Ragnarok before it could even happen."

"What did he do?"

"First, he went back to Jötunnheim, where he found Mimir's well under a root of Yggdrasil."

"Again with that well? Is he obsessed with it or something?"

"He was obsessed with learning about a lot of topics, you could say." One finger booped a round little nose. "Much like a certain someone I know."

That was followed by giggles. "You make me sound like such a nerd! Odin must have been like, King Nerd or something!"

More laughter. "'King Nerd'. That's one I hadn't heard before. Who knows, maybe he would have liked it." After a slight pause, the storyteller added, "Anyway, Odin returned to Mimir's well. Still, he knew that he would gain the knowledge he sought only with a proper sacrifice. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the prize, you see? So Odin decided to sacrifice himself."

"Wait, what? I thought he was trying, uh, not to die!"

"Oh, but as I said, Odin was a crafty fellow. He hung himself by the feet on a branch of Yggdrasil. That way, he could see the well below him."

"Upside down!"

Another chuckle. "Yep, upside down. For nine days and nine days he remained there, buffeted by the winds, without eating or drinking. Odin knew that he had to push himself to his limits. To vanquish death, one had to understand it, after all."

"And then what happened?"

"On the morning of the ninth day, Odin's life was hanging by the merest thread. Anyone passing by would have believed him a corpse. Then, finally, he saw them. The runes of power, written all around the well. Odin saw them—and he understood them. Those runes spoke of seidr—the strange sorcery wielded by Freya and the wise mortal seeresses who worshipped her. Odin was the first of the Aesir to understand their magical arts."

"Okay. So what did he do with the magic he learned? Did he teach it to the other gods?"

"He didn't. Odin valued his secrets, remember?"

"Oh, come on! Everyone's about to die, and he just keeps it all to himself? That's so stupid of him!"

"Perhaps in his newfound wisdom Odin had learned that he could not fight back against fate. That the end of the world—Ragnarok—had to happen for a reason. That something else—something new—was to follow."

A little huff. "Well, I think it's all dumb! I would have taught magic to the others so they could defend themselves too. And I wouldn't accept that something had to happen just because someone else had written about it. That's just giving up without even trying!"

"There she is," the storyteller said, with fond amusement. "My little warrior, stubborn as ever."

"It's not being stubborn, it's just being smart."

They cuddled, close as could be. Then the listener asked, "Can I have one more before I go to sleep, Mom?"

"Of course, sweetie," was the answer. "I will always have more stories for you."

Warlin was stirred out of sleep by a noise, familiar and distant all at once. He was sitting on a log by a gravelly shore covered in driftwood, with only the pitter-patter of light rain to keep him company. But now the spell was broken, and the silence was no more. Someone was crying in the distance, apparently. How odd, he thought. By instinct, Warlin let himself be pulled by the sound—

—and found himself wide awake, Saga's wails coming out all tinny-like from the baby monitor by his bed.

Next to him, Freya was groaning and pinching the bridge of her nose. She moved to the side, no doubt to get up off the bed.

"No, wait," he told her, patting her arm. "I'll do it. You checked on her last time."

"You wonderful, wonderful man," she muttered in reply, using her pillow to cover her ears. Poor Saga; she had a set of lungs that would have made her grandfather proud. "Call me if you need anythin', hm?"

Warlin kissed her on the cheek, then left the bed, heading to their daughter's room. Little Saga's face was scrunched up, and she was shaking her tiny fists as she wailed. Warlin cooed at her, taking his daughter from her crib as if she was a fragile, precious object. A thorough inspection told him she was not in need of a nappy change. Saga was surely hungry, then.

Humming and rocking his daughter in one arm, Warlin rummaged through the kitchen to prepare some infant formula. He then slumped into the couch with a weary sigh. Thankfully, Saga quickly latched on the bottle, drinking with a greedy appetite. Warlin passed a hand over his face, groaning again.

Someone came toward them on tiptoes. Freya, bleary-eyed and yawning, was holding Saga's favorite plush and blankie. The knitted deer wore glasses made of pipe cleaner; when Warlin had commented on his fashion choices, Freya had admitted in a mutter that the little hart had reminded her of him.

"Does that mean," Warlin had said, with a bright, face-spanning grin, "that I would be—"

She had glared at him. "Oh, don't you dare—"

"—a Father Deer?" He had laughed and laughed as she'd begun to chase him, one knitting needle raised like a murder weapon.

The blankie was red, like a superhero's cape. Warlin draped Saga with it, and one of her chubby little hands reached for her plush deer. She opened her big brown eyes wide, suddenly looking at him with quite a serious expression. Saga had been blessed with a truly exceptional pair of eyes, dark and round, the exact same shape as her mother's. A doe's gaze, Warlin often said, warm and expressive.

Freya sat beside Warlin, resting her head on his shoulder. She sighed, her breath warm on his neck.

"You could have gone back to sleep," he told her.

"Nah," she said. "I like to watch the two of you together. It's good fodder for sound sleep, I think. I've had sweeter dreams ever since you came around, you know."

"And I stopped dreaming altogether," Warlin murmured in response.

He could feel her curiosity. "You said you used to have weird dreams before coming to Bright Falls," she said. "You just never told me what they were about."

Warlin inhaled deeply, stroking Saga's head. "My family, we're… well, you're well placed to understand, considering your folks' unusual… abilities…"

"Go on," she told him, gently.

"All of us Doors, we've always had these… dreams. About other paths we might have taken in our lives. Other choices we might have made." At her nod, he felt bolstered enough to add, "I think we dream of other lives we might have had. Other worlds we might have lived in."

Her eyes widened. "No kidding? That's…"

Crazy, Warlin completed in his head. He was relieved that she had not said the word, however. "My father was a talented pianist," Warlin continued. "As long as I've remembered, he's always worked at a barbershop. Still, for his entire life he kept dreaming of going on tours, of winning prestigious awards for his performances, of taking his rightful place among those who left their mark in the world."

Freya remained silent. In his arms, Saga had stopped drinking, and she was closing her eyes. Warlin patted her back until she burped on the rag over his shoulder, then rocked her a little so she could ease back to sleep.

"What about the rest of your family?" Freya said, eventually. "You said all of them had these weird dreams."

Warlin grinned, ruefully. "My grandmother was a maid for a rich family, but in her dreams she was a famous lounge singer. Her brother, my great-uncle, worked in a factory, but every night he wrote world-famous songs and poems. I was told all of us Doors had this ability." Warlin was silent for a while before he added, "In all of these worlds they glimpsed, I never existed. It was sobering to realize they had given up their dreams just so I could be born."

Her brow furrowed. "And now…"

"And now here I am, the last in their line. I've wandered from place to place, hoping to find where I was meant to be… only to end my journey here, in this place where I can no longer peer in any other world. Do you know what it means?" Freya shook her head in a barely perceptible manner, and Warlin continued, frantically, "It means that every version of me must have come to Bright Falls. It means that every Warlin Door that ever came into existence chose to be with you."

Freya grinned, looking at him coyly. "Aw. Here's Mr. Charmer, working his magic on me again."

"I said it before," he said, smiling as well. "You're my muse."

They sat in silence for a while, cuddling on the couch while Saga drifted to sleep. Then Freya asked, in a more serious tone, "So, does that mean you had to sacrifice your dreams when you came here too?" When you chose to be with us, she must have truly meant.

Yes, was the answer to that question, but Warlin did not want to say it. Ever since he had been a child he had seen himself on a stage under the spotlights, making people laugh and cry and think. For the whole of his life, he had thought himself worthy of being heard. And yet here he was, in a dead-end job, faking smiles until his cheeks hurt, listening to inane stories and celebrating mundane achievements while no one cared to hear his true thoughts. Oh, people liked his voice enough, of course; it was the rest of him they pointedly ignored.

"Maybe," he finally admitted. "I would be lying if I said it didn't hurt, leaving deeper aspirations behind."

She nodded in sympathy. "You know, there was a time when I wanted to write children's book."

Warlin looked at her with his eyebrows raised. Soon enough, she continued.

"You know how it is. I worked my ass off whenever I found the time. I wrote and I drew until the small hours of the morning—til my hand hurt like hell. Thousands of people had done it before me, so I figured I'd have a chance, yeah? Go for the stars, they always said. So I put on my best spacesuit and sent my manuscript to every publishing house I knew." She gave a long, belated sigh. "And then, nothing. Not a goddamn peep from those fancy-schmancy suits. All these hours of work just to get the same letter, over and over again. 'Wonderful work, just not what we're looking for.' I guess I was good, but not good enough."

Warlin shrugged. He had heard these excuses as well. For every artist that managed to win their day in the limelight, nine were left behind in the dust, penniless and starving.

"I could have spent my time wondering if there was someone out there who had succeeded not because they were better than me, but because they'd had opportunities," Freya added. "A daddy in charge of a publishing company. Money to get into a good art school. Hell, just a couple of friends and family to support you…" She bit down her lip, looking away. "But it's all a fool's game, you see? Yeah, the world's unfair—but maybe I wasn't cut out to be an artist. Maybe it was better for me to stop angling for the stars and get back to solid earth. So I buried my dreams… and went on with my life."

"Yes, but…"

"So what does it matter that I'm not a best-selling author? You're here, and so is Saga. Your love's worth more than the love of a thousand raving fans. At least I'll always know you'll love the true me, not some prettified facsimile used to boost up sales."

Warlin looked at Saga's little sleeping face, mulling over these words. Freya could not understand, not truly. He had no doubt she had suffered many setbacks through the course of her life. But his father—his grandmother, his uncle, the whole of his family even—they had come into a world that would rather see them tucked away in a corner, unseen and unheard. Warlin had faced the same obstacles—suspicious stares and racist slurs and scornful laughs—and so would his daughter, he realized, the thought souring his mood.

"I guess you're right," he finally conceded. "It must all mean that I'm supposed to be here, with the two of you."

In response, she gave him a light kiss, then stood up. "Yeah. That's what I think too. Let's go back to bed, hm? Saga needs her sleep too, or it'll be hell dealing with her tomorrow."

Warlin chuckled, knowing all too well what she was speaking about; their daughter was a sweet-tempered baby, but she became a little hellion whenever she was tired. "Alright. Lead the way, love."

(Later that night, Warlin sat on the lake's edge, watching the sun rise over still waters and pale mists. This was the peace he had sought for so long. Finally, he was one with his own mind. Words and ideas flurried into his brain, a controlled bit of chaos amidst the quiet of his surroundings. He grinned, a maestro of his own symphony.

Then the hag was beside him. With a bony finger, she pointed at the lake and said, "Places to be. You would do well to remember why you came, Sage of Thresholds.")

Warlin awoke in a cold sweat, the bedsheets clinging to him. Beside him, Freya remained in the world of dreams, content and peaceful in her slumber. Panting, Warlin passed a trembling hand over his face. He could not banish the sight of the lake out of his mind; it had felt too real, as if he'd just been there instead of his own bed.

He had thought all doors closed to him. He'd been wrong, so dreadfully wrong.