Prologue
RAVNUR
WhenRagnarökwasspokenof, it was rarely discussed what the worst of the carnage looked like from the view of the rest of the realms. Oh, us elves experienced it too in Alfheim. Not as a battleground, but as witnesses to the destruction as the Aesir, Jotun, and Loki’s monsters fought each other to so many timely deaths.
Timely because they had all been prophesized, and we knew exactly who and how each was going to perish once the fighting started. Before I'd met Freyr, I hadn't thought much about the gods. I hadn't honestly cared who among them would die duringthe cascade of battles. I didn't know them, and Ragnarök had felt like such a long way off when I was a boy.
It was different once one of the gods doomed to die came to be the person I loved most in the realms.
They were all reborn, of course. Everything was. But even after waking from a nightmare, one could still remember the trauma of its events while it had you. For me, the worst of it was the darkening of the sky and the distant flames of Asgard while it burned—whileYggdrasil, the World Tree that holds all the realms in its branches, burned as if the very foundation of our universe might be reduced to ashes.
And why was it burning?
Because Surtr the fire Jotun had faced off against my lord, my king, myFricco, and won. Freyr did not have his sword, his mystical flying sword that made him unstoppable in battle, because he had gifted it to his beloved Gerdr’s family as dowry when wooing her to become his wife. Without the sword, Freyr stood no chance against Surtr’s equally mystical blade of flames and was cut down. Cut down and set ablaze as the first signal fire to symbolize the end of all.
None of us knew what that would truly mean. Ragnarök was to be the destruction of all that had come before, making way for a new age, but in what ways? Only a few events, a few specific battles and deaths, had been prophesized with specifics. The rest was unknown.
As darkness swept over the realms, the only light being the fire that had begun with the loss of our king, us elves huddled together, mourned and wept together. In our awful misery, not knowing if we too would perish, we prayed for Freyr’s return.
Itwaslike waking from a living nightmare when the light of the sun returned as the first sign of Yggdrasil’s revitalization. The branches were rebuilding themselves, even where they had been blackened or broken. We had feared plummeting intonothingness, but for our realm, the end was not quite that dramatic.
The mortals on Midgard had it the easiest. Their Ragnarök was existential, though I suppose one cannot fairly say if that is better. They were simply poised to forget us as anything other than myth. Perhaps they will be better off, for to walk among literal gods and lose them—to lose Freyr—was a pain from which I may never fully recover.
YEARS AGO
“Whoisthisnewborncalf on such weak and wobbly legs?”
I looked down upon Freyr from atop the cart I had arrived on, one of many displaced elves who had lost their families during some petty war or another that had spilled across Alfheim’s borders. I found him instantly dazzling, a true embodiment of every story I had heard said of the Vanir god who ruled over my people. He was not one of us—partially perhaps, somewhere in his lineage—but even if not at all, hewasone of us for he treated us like kin.
The subtle point to his otherwise shorter ears hinted at some elven blood, but he was also immeasurably beautiful, with long auburn hair kept wild, though a handful of those naturally wavy locks were twisted into plaits. He had sun-kissed skin and leaf-green eyes, and his beard was shorter than most Aesir or Vanir,as if to be a bridge between the oft seen ruggedness of godly tribesmen and the fair smoothness of the elves.
It was Freyr’s smile that had most captivated me because it beamed with its own natural glow. Certainly something similar could be said of all the gods, but having met no others at that time, to me, Freyr was the most radiant of all.
God of sunlight, prosperity, peace.
Virility.
“A most beautiful faun indeed, if a bit bedraggled and world-weary. Come, join the others after your long journey home.” Freyr took my hand and helped me from the cart, me being the last to disembark. We had reached the largest village of our realm, and here, our god, our king, was welcoming us personally.
I blame how enamored I was with him for my blunt response. “I am no mere calf, my lord. I am of age.”
“My mistake!” Freyr laughed, a boisterous yet melodic boom that warmed my insides. “Only just, though, I take it? I meant no offense, only that you are in clear need of rest and a full belly.” His clutch at my shoulder, firm but supportive, sent a tingle through me like the touch of raw magic.
I did not know it yet, I did not understand it yet, but already that was the moment when I fell in love with him like some fable from the epics. Like his supposed love for his bride—instant and overpowering.
Knowing the king was already wed kept my mood sour for days afterward, despite having been given food and lodging and even fresh clothes. We were welcomed and cared for without scrutiny. Many elves lived out among nature in smaller encampments or villages in the woods of Alfheim, as our affinity for the natural world was strong. Yet many others—and what became true for me eventually—preferred the larger, city-likevillage that Freyr had erected as our capital, his seat of power, and a sanctuary for any elf who might seek refuge.
Seek we had. Jotun fought Aesir; Aesir hunted monsters; monsters sought dwarves; dwarves invaded us; we invaded them. It was an endless cycle across Yggdrasil of the same and every possible intermingling of discontent beyond that. For one such as me, who had no love of fighting, it seemed pointless. There was even a moment during that initial caravan to Freyr’s city, not knowing what future lay ahead of me, that I had longed for Ragnarök, for at least that would mean an end.
How I cursed that foolish thinking later.
My parents were gone, along with almost everyone I had known growing up, but in Freyr’s city, I felt like I belonged. Everyone worked together to build new homes as needed, to tailor new clothes as needed. Those who farmed shared what they had. Those who crafted made tools and wares for everyone, and bartering for purely aesthetic goods like bangles or pendants was common. We could choose any vocation so long as it pleased us and served the community.
I chose storytelling, for it was the easiest way to become well liked and known by all. I also chose to be a stable hand, which I quickly parlayed into stable master. Both professions meant access to Freyr regularly, and I was soon responsible for caring for his golden boar, the dwarven-crafted Gullinbursti.
Access only fed my obsession with him, reveling in every stray touch to my shoulder or hand or even my cheek once in a gentle pat. I thought if he was truly as virile as was said and as philandering as other gods were purported to be, perhaps he would take me to his bed some night and at least temper my desires for him. But his philandering days had been before he was wed. To his bride, Freyr was loyal.
That only made me love him more.
