Hel Hath No Fury

I was born with my face half in darkness. Interpret that how you will.

Perhaps it’s literal. Perhaps when I was born, my mother’s back was to the fire. Her leg cast a shadow over one side as I was born into this world, a small mewling thing.

Perhaps it was a simple description of color. One half of my body was a deep charcoal and the other was white as a bleached bone. There could be a clear line along my nose dividing them. Or maybe the black and whites curve around each other, forming intricate patterns like a checkerboard or undulating waves. Always touching, but never mixing.

Perhaps I’m half dead. If anyone saw my profile, I would appear as a lively maiden with pink cheeks and a bright green eye. And they would wonder why such a spritely thing would walk by herself, nearly nude through the snow without so much of a shiver. Then I would turn and walk back. They’d now stare in awe at the cracked blue skin clinging to shriveled flesh and protruding bone, without so much as an eye left in the socket. I’d look like a corpse left out in the cold for the ravens to peck at. I like this interpretation. It makes my career far easier.

And perhaps I simply look like Cate Blanchett with an absurd taste in headwear.

Imagine me however you like. Either way my tale is the same.

I was raised with my brothers in the Iron Woods of Jotunheim, you’d know it as the land of the giants. I never liked that translation, my mother and her kin were larger than humans, yes, but giant goes too far. That title should be saved for my two brothers and them alone, but not until much later. I remember a time when the great Jormungandr, the world serpent and Fenrir, the wolf of the bog, were both far smaller than their tiny sister.

We frolicked in the Iron Woods and played games like “trick-the-trolls” and “eat-the-sun”. Trees and stones were our nemeses, fangs and claws were my brothers’ weapons while I made due with snowballs. And after glorious battles we celebrated by feasting on the setting sun. But sunlight fed only plants and once the sun was down our stomachs would rumble. Only meat would feed my brothers.

That was when our grim-faced mother came out from her long day of weaving and she sang to the trees. First she’d sing of necessity, and of hard love. In response to her song the tree would sway and drop the last berries or other fruits they’ve hid. Mother would take most of this for herself but save some for me as well. Then mother would sing again. Her song would grow faster, her voice deeper, and the notes harder. To this song the mice and squirrels of the forest would wander out in a trance right into the waiting mouths of my brothers.

At the end of a long hard day full of fighting evil humans and tricking prideful gods, my mother would lie by the hearthside and we would lie with her. Jormungandr, would coil his thin body around her neck. Fenrir, would curl up in a ball on her chest. And I would lie in her arms.

And sometimes, when the frost turned to dew on the grassy fields, Father would come home. Sometimes he’d arrive in the form of a horse tired from a long travel, other times in the form a man with wild orange hair and a scarred smile. Whatever form he took we’d know him by the smile on his face and glint in his eyes. Sometimes I’d pretend that Father never truly left us, and that he just took the form of ravens who can’t truly smile so we wouldn’t know he was watching. But raven eyes lacked all glitter and hope. When Father did come home, we’d have a great feast and he’d bring the heavy mead Mother didn’t normally let us drink. We’d sit around the fire and he’d tell us all the stories of his travels: how he saved Odin by tricking evil dwarves or how he convinced Thor to wear a dress. You may have noticed by now humor does not come naturally to me, but in those days it took very little for Father to get me squealing with laughter.

One day, Father was followed.

It was the dead of night when the gods broke down our door. I woke to Mother’s screams as they barged into our room with ropes and gags. They grabbed Jormungandr first, pulling him from around Mother as one would pull rope. He hissed and unhinged his jaw but they grabbed him around the neck and tail and tied him to a branch so he couldn’t move. Mother tried to stop them but a red-bearded god hit her from behind with a small hammer he was concealing, silencing her screams. Several went off to look for Farther who had escaped in the form of a fly. Another stayed behind to pull Fenrir out from under the bed and muzzle him. Finally, one came for me but stopped in his tracks when I turned to face him. I stood still, an island in the middle of the churning sea. Do not take my lack of reaction for lack of care though. It’s not that I was able to stay still, I was simply unable to move. Still, I suppose I was not as terrified as the shivering god was who bound my mismatched hands.

We waited patiently for the other gods to return, Fenrir whimpering the whole time. My mother woke up once or twice but another hit of the hammer was all it took to bring her back down. If I’m being honest I’m not quite sure if she was alive or dead when they finally abandoned the chase of my father and decided that we were enough. I have searched for her many times down here in the dark, but I learned nothing except that her name was Angrboda.

The gods led my brothers and me out of the Iron Woods. Many times Jormungandr tried to slither free of his chains, and many times they rebound him as he spit his poison. So scared were they of his long venom–drenched fangs that they refused to feed him until his stomach shrank to a thin line running down his body.

When we started the adventure, they feared Fenrir little as he too was little. He’d have to stand on his hind legs to even reach their knees so they had no fear in letting him off his leash and feeding him bigger and more succulent meat than we’ve ever seen before. In a matter of days Fenrir grew until he could lick their faces on his hind legs, and then until he could do it on all fours. At that point they were too afraid to not feed him. And still he grew.

One night, when all the gods had drunk themselves into a stupor, I nudged Fenrir from his sleep and asked, “Brother, you are far taller now than even mother was. You are unbound and could surely eat these sleeping gods right now and free us. Why don’t you?”

Now neither of my brothers were known for their way with words, so it surprised even me when he lifted his head and spoke. “I want to see where the funny men are taking us. We’re going on adventure, right? Like in father’s stories, where the heroes set out on a journey to fight monsters? I want to do that.”

The giant wolf cub spoke this to his half-blackened sister while their eldest brother watched through his serpentine eyes. Who did he think were the monsters in this story?

The next day we came across the rainbow bridge. While my subjects have argued against this, and suffered for their insolence, I still hold that such a dazzling display of blinding colors serve only one purpose: to disorient and confuse those traveling to Asgard. My captors must’ve thought I was trying to kill myself, I nearly walked off the bridge so many times. In retrospect perhaps I should have but then where would I be? Here just the same.

While keeping my eyes off the bridge though I did come across a small stroke of luck. I saw two ravens up ahead, flying in aimless circles looking for food that might never come. I had a plan.

At last we came upon the gates of Asgard. Father had told us about this place; the stone walls were built by one of our people, unceremoniously killed before he could complete his task so the Aesir could avoid paying their due. Only Father prevented all out catastrophe when he lured the wall-builder’s stallion away, though he never did explain how. The point is the west side still missed a few stones the builder was never able to place, and a small crack ran along the unfinished mortar where the red was far richer than the rest of the bricks. The gods led us through the steel gates into a land with neither grass nor snow. Rather stone grew in regular paths between the innumerable houses each filled with Aesir and Vanir that gawked at us as we passed. Above all these houses was the great Mead Hall of Valhalla, where dead warriors drank themselves to a second grave. In this hall stood a regal throne adorned with animal horns on which sat an older man with a long grey beard tinged with gold and an eyepatch decorated with runes I couldn’t read. Odin looked far more regal than Father had made him out to be.

“So these are the children of Loki?” Odin said, in a booming yet weary voice. “I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Slaughter the beasts, as for that thing in the middle-”

“Mr. Odin, if I may!”

A silence fell of Valhalla, even the ghosts stopped their drinking to stare at me.

“I have a present for you.” Before any gods could protest, I sang a song like Mother always did. I sang of Father’s gifts, of tricks and tactics. I sang of love for my brothers and of patience. The world heard me and responded. In through the window flew two ravens that circled the hall and perched on the horns of Odin’s throne, startling the king of the Gods.

“These are-”

“Ravens. A gift to you. Their names are Thought and Memory. I named them that to make it easier for you to command them. You can have them fly over the world for you and spy on everything. And they’ll tell you it all too, that way you’d know about stuff like my family much earlier!” I forced myself to smile and tilted my lighter side to him. I’ve never spoken so much in my life but once I started the words came spilling out, building on top of each other, forming new walls before my very eyes. Was this how Father felt when he told his stories?

Odin looked back and forth between the ravens, each cocked its head staring back at him on one side and at me with another. Then he turned to me. My green eye looked up into his eyepatch, and his hazel eye stared into my empty eye socket.

“I find your gift…acceptable. Thor, Tyr; bind the beasts. As for the girl, I have a gift for her as well. But that is for tomorrow, for tonight she is our guest. Freyr, take her to the spare room.”

I stood silently as my brothers were led away in chains. Jormungandr hissed and wiggled as well as he could as ten men took hold of his long, thin body, and pulled him out of the mead hall. Behind him one god gently coaxed Fenrir to duck so he could fit through the great doors, but not before he took one last look at me with his yellow puppy dog eyes. That was the last time I saw my brothers.

After the gods ripped them from me, they untied my arms and led me out of the room to leave the old man alone watching his new bird friends fly in pretty circles. They led me to a small windowless room which they said was mine for the night. By the window on a chair sat a woman, though I did not recognize her as such at the time nor her brother as a man.

“What are those things?”

“That is Ganglot, and the one next to her is Ganglati. They are to be your servants.”

“Do they ever move?” Neither had so much as lifted its heads the entire time we were speaking.

In response I had only a door click behind me. As soon as the guard was gone I crumbled to the floor and hugged my knees to my chest. I would die here, I knew. Odin would imprison my brothers in some bizarre zoo and kill me for speaking out of turn. He had promised me a gift and I was sure it was death. I was right of course, in a manner of speaking, but whatever irony found me in that moment I was blind to it behind a veil of tears

I suppose I must have fallen asleep at some point, for a banging woke me near evening. And what did I see upon waking but a grey rotting hand reaching toward me. I thought Ganglot was knocking on my head, though upon crawling away I realized she was only reaching for my shoulder. She was frozen, the moment before she could console me. Her brother was in his place beside the bed, though he now stared at the spot where I had just been. Neither acknowledged the pounding on my door.

Behind it stood an Aesir boy about my age with shining blond hair and bright eyes. He carried a plate with him, upon which sat an undersized chicken leg robbed of nearly all its meat and a knife too dull to even cut butter. “My father told me to bring you this, my lady.”

“Isn’t there more?”

“None, left I’m afraid.” The boy mumbled. Behind him a chorus of warrior ghosts cheered as they dug into their food, wrestling steaks from each other in a way Fenrir would never shame himself to mimic.

“What’s your name?”

“Balder.”

“I hope you die, Balder.” I slammed the door.

I sat in the corner with my back to the twins. The meat was stringy but I knew how to suck the marrow from the bones. I just never had to break them myself before, and the knife was no help. At last I put it down and stared at the bone shards.

“I name this plate hunger. And this knife famine.”

I turned back to room. Ganglati had worked his way into a kneeling position, and Ganglot was turning her head, perhaps if I waited a few hours she’d meet me eyes. I walked past them.

“My servants are Languor and Lethargy”

I nearly stumbled pulling myself onto the bed, and like the insolent child I was I jumped on it, throwing all the rage down onto the sheets only to be propelled back up again.

“My Castle is Sleet-sprayed. Its entrance is Stumbling Block. Its curtains are Gleaming Disaster.”

I missed a step and tumbled down onto the sheets.

“This is my deathbed.”

Before dawn the next morning Odin himself came to wake me. Gone were the regal robes. Instead he wore only a traveler’s cloak, plain black eye patch, and a broad-brimmed hat. One of the ravens still clung to his shoulder. “Come child, I shall take you to your gift.”

I followed him slowly out into the courtyard, and there waited a large dappled grey horse with twice as many legs as the few others I’ve seen on my way here. Odin went up to stroke her mane, “Her name is Sleipnir, and she’s your half-sister. Do you know what half-sister means?”

I shook my head.

Odin smiled. “It means, that your father is her mother.”

I didn’t want to smile. I refused to smile in his presence. But he made me think of Father. Father was a mother! I hid my face in Sleipnir’s side. She sniffed me then licked my blackened side. We hugged until a calloused hand pulled me off and onto my sister’s back.

“She’s not your gift, she’s just taking us there.” The humor in Odin’s voice was gone as if trampled to death. “Now get on, we’ll arrive there shortly.”

“What about Ganglot and Ganglari?” I’m not sure why I thought of them, in truth I was more worried that I had left the plate and knife there, though I knew not why.

“They’ll catch up, now come on.” Odin pulled my sister’s reins and she took off galloping. Within a mere second we were over the rainbow bridge again. Another took us to grass, a third to snow, and still we kept going. The world bled into one grey mess until I could see it, the sickly yellow pillar rising in the middle like a great yew tree. We were circling it and didn’t stop until we passed Jotunheim and the Iron Woods. Still we rode on past my home, descending straight for the deepest roots of the world.

Sleipnir slowed to a canter and stopped on the edge of a great canyon. I’ve known snow before, but this land was covered in nothing but ice. I dismounted to peer at the edge of the canyon and saw the shadowed valley held myriad transparent figures; mostly women, children, or the elderly. All of whom wandered aimlessly along a river bank. And they were only a fraction of the ones here now.

“Who are they?”

“The dishonorable dead,” said Odin gravely, “Unlike the valiant ghosts you met in my personal hall, these ghosts never amounted to much in their lives. They never died in battle, instead succumbing to simple pests like disease or childbirth. The cowards, they are unworthy of my hall.”

I thought back to the chorus of drunk dead men who watched me in Valhalla. The ones who looked on as children were bound and tried in front of them and did nothing. “Why should dying in battle make them better than those who die in other ways?”

Odin looked at me as if I asked why water was wet. Then he laughed and met me with the one depth perception-less eye. “At least you like them. Which is good, because you’re their queen now.”

Then he mounted my sister and rode off, leaving me in the cold.

That was millennia ago. As you can see, this place is no longer the desolate canyon it once was. You can thank Ganglot and Ganglari for that, they may be slow but they are dutiful workers if you’re simply patient enough. And I have all the time in the world down here in Helheim. Why look, they’ve nearly finished cutting your nails! Oh don’t be scared, you’re already dead, what’s a nice nail clipper going to do to you? I also found new helpers, the serpent Nidhogg and the great dog Garmr. I’m sure you met them on the way here. They’re no replacement for my brothers of course, but they are a much-needed reminder of them.

According to some of the earliest arrivals in my new kingdom, the gods have found a way to keep my siblings alive, stagnant in their bondage. They tricked Jormungandr into devouring his own tail, unable to break free or end the cycle of auto-cannibalism. They say he was a beast of glutton but that’s easy when they refused to feed him anything but himself. As for Fenrir, it took them much longer to find a way to even hold him for long. They had to resort to dwarf magic to forge fetters strong enough. And all the time, he thought their fruitless attempts to bind him was no more than a game.

And then there’s my Father, he who saved the Aesir time and time again. And what reward has the great Loki-Skywalker received for his service? Slander and betrayal! He’s bound now, not by chains or magic ribbons but the entrails of another one of my half-brothers. The gods placed a serpent above his head so that it may spray poison into his eyes every second of every day.

As for my Mother, I’ve heard no word.

And then there’s me. Do not mistake my title, I am as much a prisoner here as any of you. A pack mule forced to carry out Odin’s dirty work like my half-sister. It seems I’m not the only one who can give a curse in the form of a gift. No matter, Lord Odin knows I will never betray his trust. I have no quarrel with him, no fury. Just the same impersonal judgement I declare on all the dead. What Odin doesn’t know is that that includes him too.

Even the great Odin, king of the gods, will die someday and be trapped down here with us. Fenrir will get to kill monsters after all. But we won’t be here when it happens. We’ll need your help for that.

That’s why I cut your nails and told you this story, you see. Nothing grows in here in Helheim, so we must make do with what we have. Ganglot and Ganglari are building a ship made out of dead man’s nails, one large enough hold the all subjects of my realm. You are the first death of the final winter, which will soon freeze the bindings of my brothers and father until they can shatter, break free, and assault Asgard’s unfinished walls. And I intend to join them with my people. Whether they be women or children, pacifists or the sick, disfigured or disabled; any whom Odin may have judged unworthy of his great halls shall have a chance to sail back and take Asgard for themselves.

Will you join us?