In the land of the fire giants.
Returning to the halls of Fjalar, longtime friend of her family and the subject of her own oldest alliance, is always a bittersweet thing for Skaði. On the one hand, she genuinely likes the old giant, and he knows how to show his guests proper hospitality; but on the other hand, visiting him is a window back onto the darkest times in her family's past, as well as her own.
And then there's the drinking.
Her grandfather was a legendary drinker, so famous for it that he alone, of all the guests ever to stay in Fjalar's halls, had his own personal cup--it was to have been a wedding gift from Fjalar to welcome her grandfather into his family, but it was not to be. Since Skaði had reached adulthood, whenever she has come here the men of the hall urge her to drink as her grandfather had done; and to prove that she is the equal of any man, she obliges. But she cannot drink as much as he did--she sees no shame in that; Thor himself could not have bested her grandfather at drinking--and so she always stops, one massive cupful fewer than her grandfather's usual amount. She passes it off as respect for the dead, but in actual fact it is to keep from losing all control of herself in public.
Even so she is unsteady, even now after the feast has wound down and she has followed Fjalar to his chambers to speak with him in private, past his concubine's alcove and the much larger bed where his wife sleeps, up to the opening in the rock that looks out over the land of the fire giants. Below them, leading up to the mountain, is the path she had walked so many times in her younger days, first as a frightened child of eight and then later on errands for her father. These days, her visits are much less frequent.
"Sanngriðr sends her love," she says, leaning against the rock wall. "She wanted to come, but someone had to stay behind to watch over the mountain."
"You need servants," he says. He is a huge man, even taller than her father and much more stocky, and his red hair and beard show no more grey in them now than they did thousands of years ago when she'd first met him. She wonders idly whether her father had made him some sort of youth-preservative as he had made the apples for the gods; other giants had grown old and died, but Fjalar remains the same.
"You have some you'd like to give me?" she asks. "Servants are easy to find. Trustworthy servants, far harder. Especially living where we do."
"Then you need more children," he says.
"Are you offering?"
"I already gave you my granddaughter for a concubine," he says with a laugh. "You said you didn't want another of my sons, and I couldn't spare them from here anyway."
"I've got no need for a man," she says. "I'm all the man my lands need, right now. We just need servants, as you say, and I'm not going to breed them."
"Then you should take another, less barren concubine. But my Sanngriðr, she's a jealous one. She wouldn't want to share."
"Then she'll never be able to visit you." She presses a hand to her temple, trying to focus on the man standing in front of her. "At least not while I'm away from home, and my duties are more important than her visiting family."
"Of course," he agrees, "but that won't make her less unhappy."
"She's happiest when she's most unhappy."
"Like her mother, and her grandmother."
Off in the distance, a volcano sends its plume of lava into the night sky. She remembers the first time she ever saw one--it may have been the very same peak as this one erupting now. It had terrified her then, even as its glow had helped to light the way along the path to his halls. For a woman so used to ice, the land of the fire giants is still an alien place, even after everything that she has done.
"My mother was the same way," she says with a light shrug. "Many women are."
"Your father should have married a giantess," he says. "It would have solved all his problems, and yours. I offered him a daughter, you know. I offered him his choice. But he was always stubborn."
"It runs in the family."
"I know. Your family are the only ones more stubborn than mine." He looks back out the window, mouth opening as though about to say something else, only to be interrupted by the hurried, apologetic arrival of a guard.
"Sorry to bother you so late, Sire, but the woman from the forest is here for you."
"Send her in," he says; and to Skaði, "I'll only be a moment."
He moves back toward the antechamber to his quarters; after a moment of hesitation, and a few more to make sure he won't be listening for her, Skaði pads silently after him.
The woman from the forest is a corpse-pale, emaciated creature with long, unkempt dark hair and a tattered dress that may once have been white. She stands silently in the antechamber, clutching a large wooden box to her bony chest, lifeless gaze fixed on the floor; she does not look up when Fjalar approaches.
Something about the woman is familiar, though, and so Skaði moves forward more quickly than she had intended, into the pool of torchlight in the antechamber. Fjalar turns to stare at Skaði, but she doesn't pay him any attention, just drawing closer to the woman.
The woman has no scent. She looks like a draugr, but not only does she not smell of decay, she has no scent at all. And coming from the box, made of wood and banded with iron, is a faint tingle of a magical energy she has sensed once before... a very particular magic, her father's, but where--
The bar. She had followed its traces into the bar but not seen any sign of him, nor had she met anyone who could answer her questions about the energy. But why would this strange creature here, in the land of the fire giants, have something of her father's? And why would she be bringing it to Fjalar? She reaches one hand out to touch the box.
"Skaði."
Fjalar's voice is so unexpectedly sharp that she pulls her hand away, like a scolded child. He reaches to take the box from the woman, and where she had carried it as though it were almost weightless, it seems to require more effort from him.
"For your father," the woman says in a voice so hoarse and disused that it could well have come from the throat of the dead--and then she vanishes.
Skaði stares at the space where she had stood; she even circles it once, but the woman does not reappear, so she turns her attention to Fjalar. "Who was that?"
"No one," he says.
"What's in the box?"
"There's no box," he says.
"She said it's for your father." She folds her arms across her chest, and takes a step closer to him.
"There was no one here."
The woman from the forest. Her voice, her appearance--something familiar--
"My father's cousin, from the Ironwood," she says after a moment. "Gullveig. What would she be doing here?"
"Nothing," he says, "which is why she wasn't here. Skaði, you're still very drunk. You should go to bed."
"You're still holding the box she gave you." She reaches for it again, but this time he turns away, starting back into the further rooms of his chambers.
"I'm doing no such thing. I can have one of my men put you to bed, if you like."
"I'm fine," she says, following after him. "She has my father's sword--holding it safe for your father until the end of the world. Where did she get that?"
His steps falter, but just for a moment. "Your father's sword? You remember; you saw to it yourself. Surely it hasn't been so long that you've forgotten."
"I mean what's in the box."
"There's no box."
"Fjalar," she says, an edge creeping into her tone; she takes a deep breath, tries to concentrate. "I'd like to visit your father; I haven't seen him for a very long time."
"No one sees him," he says. "He's a very busy man. I can give him a message if you'd like, but you can't see him."
"Tell him I'd like to see him."
"I'll tell him, but he won't see you."
As they walk past the concubine's alcove, the woman murmurs something in her sleep.
"You and I," Skaði says, "we've known each other almost all my life. You took me in, when I was a child. I grew up with your son."
"Which is why, in the morning, when you're sober, I won't hold any of this against you."
"I can give you a son," she says, a little too quickly, reaching to touch his arm. "A fine, strong son to carry my father's sword to the end of the world. You know its magic is strongest for those of my family--"
"I don't need a son of yours," he says, pulling away. "We'll manage at the end, believe me. My father will carry your father's sword, and you and I will each do our part. So it is written."
"Our families have always been close. My grandfather--"
"Could hold his drink better than you can. Go, sleep it off--climb into bed with my wife or my concubine if you like, if you don't want to be carried back to your own bed. I don't really care. Just go."
She is suddenly very tired. Tired of arguing with the one man she can't ever threaten, tired of being treated like a child, but most of all physically exhausted, and so she eyes him, arms still folded across her chest. "I'll steal them, you know. Your wife and your concubine both--how would you like that?"
"I wouldn't mind at all," he says with a quiet chuckle, and pushes open a heavy stone door in the room with the view of the volcano. "There are always other women."
She tries to follow him, but he is a little too quick for her, disappearing through the door and closing it behind him. There is nothing left for her to do now but go to bed; in the morning, when she's sober, she'll plan her next move. For now, she will see how amenable Fjalar's concubine is to being stolen, at least for the rest of the night.
And then there's the drinking.
Her grandfather was a legendary drinker, so famous for it that he alone, of all the guests ever to stay in Fjalar's halls, had his own personal cup--it was to have been a wedding gift from Fjalar to welcome her grandfather into his family, but it was not to be. Since Skaði had reached adulthood, whenever she has come here the men of the hall urge her to drink as her grandfather had done; and to prove that she is the equal of any man, she obliges. But she cannot drink as much as he did--she sees no shame in that; Thor himself could not have bested her grandfather at drinking--and so she always stops, one massive cupful fewer than her grandfather's usual amount. She passes it off as respect for the dead, but in actual fact it is to keep from losing all control of herself in public.
Even so she is unsteady, even now after the feast has wound down and she has followed Fjalar to his chambers to speak with him in private, past his concubine's alcove and the much larger bed where his wife sleeps, up to the opening in the rock that looks out over the land of the fire giants. Below them, leading up to the mountain, is the path she had walked so many times in her younger days, first as a frightened child of eight and then later on errands for her father. These days, her visits are much less frequent.
"Sanngriðr sends her love," she says, leaning against the rock wall. "She wanted to come, but someone had to stay behind to watch over the mountain."
"You need servants," he says. He is a huge man, even taller than her father and much more stocky, and his red hair and beard show no more grey in them now than they did thousands of years ago when she'd first met him. She wonders idly whether her father had made him some sort of youth-preservative as he had made the apples for the gods; other giants had grown old and died, but Fjalar remains the same.
"You have some you'd like to give me?" she asks. "Servants are easy to find. Trustworthy servants, far harder. Especially living where we do."
"Then you need more children," he says.
"Are you offering?"
"I already gave you my granddaughter for a concubine," he says with a laugh. "You said you didn't want another of my sons, and I couldn't spare them from here anyway."
"I've got no need for a man," she says. "I'm all the man my lands need, right now. We just need servants, as you say, and I'm not going to breed them."
"Then you should take another, less barren concubine. But my Sanngriðr, she's a jealous one. She wouldn't want to share."
"Then she'll never be able to visit you." She presses a hand to her temple, trying to focus on the man standing in front of her. "At least not while I'm away from home, and my duties are more important than her visiting family."
"Of course," he agrees, "but that won't make her less unhappy."
"She's happiest when she's most unhappy."
"Like her mother, and her grandmother."
Off in the distance, a volcano sends its plume of lava into the night sky. She remembers the first time she ever saw one--it may have been the very same peak as this one erupting now. It had terrified her then, even as its glow had helped to light the way along the path to his halls. For a woman so used to ice, the land of the fire giants is still an alien place, even after everything that she has done.
"My mother was the same way," she says with a light shrug. "Many women are."
"Your father should have married a giantess," he says. "It would have solved all his problems, and yours. I offered him a daughter, you know. I offered him his choice. But he was always stubborn."
"It runs in the family."
"I know. Your family are the only ones more stubborn than mine." He looks back out the window, mouth opening as though about to say something else, only to be interrupted by the hurried, apologetic arrival of a guard.
"Sorry to bother you so late, Sire, but the woman from the forest is here for you."
"Send her in," he says; and to Skaði, "I'll only be a moment."
He moves back toward the antechamber to his quarters; after a moment of hesitation, and a few more to make sure he won't be listening for her, Skaði pads silently after him.
The woman from the forest is a corpse-pale, emaciated creature with long, unkempt dark hair and a tattered dress that may once have been white. She stands silently in the antechamber, clutching a large wooden box to her bony chest, lifeless gaze fixed on the floor; she does not look up when Fjalar approaches.
Something about the woman is familiar, though, and so Skaði moves forward more quickly than she had intended, into the pool of torchlight in the antechamber. Fjalar turns to stare at Skaði, but she doesn't pay him any attention, just drawing closer to the woman.
The woman has no scent. She looks like a draugr, but not only does she not smell of decay, she has no scent at all. And coming from the box, made of wood and banded with iron, is a faint tingle of a magical energy she has sensed once before... a very particular magic, her father's, but where--
The bar. She had followed its traces into the bar but not seen any sign of him, nor had she met anyone who could answer her questions about the energy. But why would this strange creature here, in the land of the fire giants, have something of her father's? And why would she be bringing it to Fjalar? She reaches one hand out to touch the box.
"Skaði."
Fjalar's voice is so unexpectedly sharp that she pulls her hand away, like a scolded child. He reaches to take the box from the woman, and where she had carried it as though it were almost weightless, it seems to require more effort from him.
"For your father," the woman says in a voice so hoarse and disused that it could well have come from the throat of the dead--and then she vanishes.
Skaði stares at the space where she had stood; she even circles it once, but the woman does not reappear, so she turns her attention to Fjalar. "Who was that?"
"No one," he says.
"What's in the box?"
"There's no box," he says.
"She said it's for your father." She folds her arms across her chest, and takes a step closer to him.
"There was no one here."
The woman from the forest. Her voice, her appearance--something familiar--
"My father's cousin, from the Ironwood," she says after a moment. "Gullveig. What would she be doing here?"
"Nothing," he says, "which is why she wasn't here. Skaði, you're still very drunk. You should go to bed."
"You're still holding the box she gave you." She reaches for it again, but this time he turns away, starting back into the further rooms of his chambers.
"I'm doing no such thing. I can have one of my men put you to bed, if you like."
"I'm fine," she says, following after him. "She has my father's sword--holding it safe for your father until the end of the world. Where did she get that?"
His steps falter, but just for a moment. "Your father's sword? You remember; you saw to it yourself. Surely it hasn't been so long that you've forgotten."
"I mean what's in the box."
"There's no box."
"Fjalar," she says, an edge creeping into her tone; she takes a deep breath, tries to concentrate. "I'd like to visit your father; I haven't seen him for a very long time."
"No one sees him," he says. "He's a very busy man. I can give him a message if you'd like, but you can't see him."
"Tell him I'd like to see him."
"I'll tell him, but he won't see you."
As they walk past the concubine's alcove, the woman murmurs something in her sleep.
"You and I," Skaði says, "we've known each other almost all my life. You took me in, when I was a child. I grew up with your son."
"Which is why, in the morning, when you're sober, I won't hold any of this against you."
"I can give you a son," she says, a little too quickly, reaching to touch his arm. "A fine, strong son to carry my father's sword to the end of the world. You know its magic is strongest for those of my family--"
"I don't need a son of yours," he says, pulling away. "We'll manage at the end, believe me. My father will carry your father's sword, and you and I will each do our part. So it is written."
"Our families have always been close. My grandfather--"
"Could hold his drink better than you can. Go, sleep it off--climb into bed with my wife or my concubine if you like, if you don't want to be carried back to your own bed. I don't really care. Just go."
She is suddenly very tired. Tired of arguing with the one man she can't ever threaten, tired of being treated like a child, but most of all physically exhausted, and so she eyes him, arms still folded across her chest. "I'll steal them, you know. Your wife and your concubine both--how would you like that?"
"I wouldn't mind at all," he says with a quiet chuckle, and pushes open a heavy stone door in the room with the view of the volcano. "There are always other women."
She tries to follow him, but he is a little too quick for her, disappearing through the door and closing it behind him. There is nothing left for her to do now but go to bed; in the morning, when she's sober, she'll plan her next move. For now, she will see how amenable Fjalar's concubine is to being stolen, at least for the rest of the night.