Chapter Text
Bor was formidable.
He stood regal and in full armour. Odin noted the horns on his helmet, reminiscent of the Jotun form that was so intertwined with the Asgardian culture, and they ran down his shoulders like large locks of hair. The beard on his chin was long and rough, pulled together at the ends into a strange and intricate braid. It made him look special. Odin struggled to turn his eyes away from the furs on his shoulders and the scuffs to his armour . . .
This was his hero. This was a man that commanded an empire. He stepped towards the throne, while tiny fists rubbed at chubby cheeks, and he noted how Bor stared down at him with cold blue eyes and lips pursed into a thin line, until wrinkles deepened about his flesh. The grand hall was warmer than usual; shutters remained closed on the windows, while fires raged at all corners with crackling flames, and – while the nobles stood tall and proud – Odin moved from foot-to-foot with a sticky sweat. He choked out in a mumbled voice:
“Where is Momma?”
Bor parted his legs and steeped his fingers, while he narrowed his gaze over Odin, until – with a shiver – Odin lowered his head and kicked at the tiles underfoot, desperate for a distraction from the analytical gaze that seemed to penetrate every inch of skin. It only served to make him feel further an outsider. The blue flesh was covered with sweat, while his blond hair clung to the ridges on his forehead, and he knew no one else suffered with the heat, instead relishing in the warmth and comfort. Bor rolled his eyes with a loud scoff.
“Your mother is a traitor,” said Bor.
Odin flinched. He stared back with wide eyes and open mouth, while he looked at the faceless crowd of nobles that stood in close proximity to Bor, and yet not one single mouth revealed any sign of emotion . . . no smiles, no frowns, no yawns . . . the words hung heavy in his mind, as he tried to process the information. The room spun around him, until his head grew light and he swayed where he stood. Odin fought to answer back.
It was if the world had tilted on the side, as he lost all balance and fell onto the tiles. A sharp pain ran through his hip and eyes watered and lips trembled, until he pulled himself up into a cross-legged position and rubbed awkwardly at his face in an attempt to brush away the tears, and yet his one source of comfort was gone. The men would not comfort him. Bor would not hold him. It was difficult to see through tears and fear, as he gulped down the air and choked on nothing but saliva, and he shook his head over and over and over.
“I want my momma,” said Odin.
“Your mother rejoined her kin, my son.” Bor curled his lip. “Bestla has abandoned those to which she pledged her life, and instead swore allegiance to those that would do us harm. I have been left with you in my care. You are my heir, son; I will make sure you never become like those monsters, and I will make sure you are protected from their cruel natures.”
“Momma isn’t cruel,” murmured Odin. “Momma loves me.”
“That woman has sided with the Jotun! In this war between our worlds, she has chosen to reject her husband and abandon her son. Do those sound like the actions of a woman that loves you? Do not be foolish, my boy. You were nothing to her. We were nothing!”
Bor slammed a fist on the throne. The sound echoed out about the hall, hurting the ears of all in the vicinity, and – when he lifted his hand – the skin was pink and grazed from the violence of his action. Odin said nothing, even as Bor stood with head held high. He simply listened as loud footsteps filled the hall, along with the familiar clinking and clanking of armour in movement, while a long cape swept out from behind Bor and wavered in the air until he finally came to a stop just a few inches from Odin. He stopped.
Odin stared at the boots before him, as he traced the patterns with his eyes, and he wished he could lose himself in the image of Jotuns and Asgardians side-by-side, like when he played in the snow with distant cousins and old friends. He sniffed and sobbed, as he felt his mother’s absence as keen as a missing limb, only for Bor to let out a guttural growl and lean forward, until his callused fingers touched on the blonde locks of hair. Bor spat out:
“You will thank me for this change.”
A familiar tingle of seiðr. It washed over him, until every inch of blue skin prickled and shivered, as an array of goosebumps transformed otherwise smooth skin into a rough expanse, and slowly – like water down a drain – the colour was drained from his flesh. The blue that always reminded him of his momma was gone . . . eradicated . . . the seiðr came to a stop and he raised his hands with a sickening sense of dread. Bile rose to his throat.
These were not his hands! They were the hands of an Asgardian, meaning – with hair and eyes and features – he now looked like his father . . . too much like his father . . . there was nothing left of his mother except a few stray remnants . . . soft cheekbones, plump lips, a rounder face . . . he would have to search for her now in the mirrors. Odin tasted tears on his lips, as he sobbed and looked back to the faceless crowd, but now he saw the change . . . smiles . . . they were happy he was different. They were happy. Bor whispered to him:
“Go back to your rooms, boy.”
Odin stood shakily with blurred vision. There was no offer to help him, even as Bor stood with arms folded and eyes cast forward, and – before he could even turn around – he heard the doors of the hall thrown wide and a cool draught blow through the hall. No one mentioned Fárbauti. He wondered if Bestla had taken her away . . . an heir to a king, a daughter to a woman . . . Odin lowered his head to hide his shame and fear, as he turned his back on the court. He walked away. He prayed they would not see his pain.
* * *
Odin wiped at his eyes.
The tears stung and mixed with his sweat. They blurred his vision, until the full moon and stars became shimmering beacons in the night, and – as he sniffed and drew in a choked breath – he pressed his bare forehead to the cold glass. He raised a hand and touched at the condensation, while his lips trembled and his body grew weak. Odin lowered his gaze. The gate to the courtyard was still closed and still locked, with no sign of any disturbance.
He fidgeted on his bed, as he struggled to keep his strength. It took all the energy in his muscles to hold his body upright, as he pressed his forearm on the windowsill and blinked rapidly to clear his vision, but no one appeared. A clock chimed in the distance. He counted the rings . . . ten, eleven twelve . . . no, she would not come after midnight. Odin ran his arm under his nose, as he sniffed and sobbed, before he pushed himself away from the windowsill and plopped down onto the bed, and crawled to the to top by the headrest.
It took a few seconds to find his quill.
Odin pulled it from beneath the pillow, before he climbed off the bed. He padded along the bedroom floor to the en suite door, and – standing on tiptoes – reached as high as he could to the calendar that hung against the wood. A cross marked off today’s date. It was the fourteenth cross in a row, with the huge anxiety that more crosses would be to follow. There were butterflies in his stomach, while his skin broke into a cold sweat and his head grew light, and he hunched his shoulders with another sniff. He crawled back over to bed.
“Boy? I hear footsteps. Are you awake?
Terror coursed through him. Odin scrambled to climb into bed, as he panted for breath and struggled to hold down his lunch, and – throwing the sheets over him – he pulled them up to his chin and held them as tightly as he could in tiny fists. He scrunched shut his eyes and buried his head into the pillows; footsteps slowed outside the bedroom door, it creaked open with a familiar sound, and a light flickered into life. Odin stayed still. He froze.
“You are asleep, yes?”
Odin said nothing. There was a long silence, until a loud sigh penetrated the room, and – finally – the light was turned out and darkness restored, while the door closed and Odin was left alone once more. He missed the hugs. He missed the stories. Odin sniffed and looked to his window, where the moon stood high in the sky and shone down a bright light on him, and he knew . . . he knew . . . wherever she was that she looked at the same stars. He smiled weakly until the tears spilled from his eyes and saturated his pillow.
Odin wept in earnest.
* * *
“Bestla is dead.”
The words cut deep. Odin brought a trembling hand to his bearded chin, as the armour about his frame grew too heavy a burden to bear, and he struggled to control each and every breath, as he was brought back to that moment decades ago . . . he had lost her again. Old wounds were wrenched open. Tears threatened to spill. He closed his eyes and listened to his racing heart, before he found courage to stand straight and lock eyes with Bor upon the throne.
It was difficult to endure the stench of paint, as men climbed the scaffolds around the main hall, and – every few minutes – splashes of liquid would fall from the ceiling like rain, as the images of two familiar Jotun faces were erased from view. A few fires raged in the corners, where scholars and librarians took piled parchments and cast them into the flames, while a variety of Jotun heirlooms and antiques lay ready for destruction. He saw the furs from Fárbauti’s bed and leather accessories from Bestla’s closet. Nothing would survive
Odin turned his gaze to the burning portraits. The image was one he strove to commit to memory, but already the fiery edges closed further and further around a beautiful blue face, until all that was left was ash and dust. Odin brought a soft hand to his chest, as he thought back to snippets of nursery rhymes and the cool touch of blue lips on his forehead . . . no chance of a reunion, no opportunity for reconciliation . . . Odin whispered:
“My mother is dead?”
Bor turned his back on Odin. He walked away with strong and study footsteps, with hands clasped behind his back, and Odin struggled to keep up with his pace, especially as his stomach churned and acid burned at the back of his throat. The nobles parted before them, while servants bowed deep in deference, and yet there was not a single blue face to be seen, even as he searched in the searing heat of the halls for one sign this may yet prove untrue. It could be that his mother lived or his sister returned, but yet he knew it was a false hope.
“What about Fárbauti?” Odin asked.
“Bestla brokered a deal with their king.” Bor spat at the floor. “Laufey Einarsson has married Fárbauti and Fárbauti has chosen to bear him an heir. Do not pay it any further mind, son; after all, how can you have lost a sister when you have no sister? I have disowned that ungrateful child and she will be written out of how history. I will endure her no longer.”
“Can I not mourn for my mother? Will there be no memorial?” Odin swallowed hard. “I am still allowed to visit the sister that no longer exists, correct? I need to know how Mother died, Father. Did she die in battle? Did she die of grief for the child abandoned? Why did she –”
“What does it matter, my son?”
“It matters as she left me here with no further word. I have lived my life constantly wondering why my sister was worth more, whether I was a bad child or an unworthy child or a child who was simply inferior to the one chosen! Did she ever love me? Did she fall out of love with me? In these two decades, why was the simple act of a letter too much a chore?”
Bor stopped before his throne; the hall was awash with muttered whispers and stolen glances, as each and every person turned their heads towards their king, and Odin – with head hung low – realised his voice grew too loud for the accepted decorum. He brought his hands to his mouth and cupped them over his lips, as he took in a deep breath and lowered them with a long sigh, but his thoughts were too scattered . . . too lost . . . too many questions competed for attention, even as Bor turned to face him and sat with his usual elegant grace.
“Do not blame yourself,” whispered Bor. “It was the Jotun that corrupted Bestla.”
“Why is it that I could not save her?”
“You cannot save a person from their true nature. This is a lesson you must learn as king, for the Jotun are a barbaric race that will wage war until the day you stop them, and it will be your foot on their throats that silences their wretched tongues. Bestla succumbed to her nature and stole away your sister, but you are better than that woman. Do not succumb.”
It was a futile warning. Odin could not help but to think to his childhood, where better behaviour or greater character could have convinced her to stay, and instead he allowed her to slip from his life . . . fall into the Jotun clutches . . . ‘succumb’ to her nature. He raised a hand and looked to the white skin, but – despite appearances – he felt the sticky sweat that clung between his digits and followed always from the muggy climate. It was his nature, too.
A strange look must have marred his expression, as Bor stood and clapped a hand hard on his shoulder with a loud slapping sound, and – as Odin jolted under the pressure – Bor forced a bright and wide smile that cracked the lines at the corner of his eyes. He squeezed and lightly shook Odin, before he brought his hands to his hips and cast his eyes high to the ceiling above them. It drew Odin’s eye in turn. He struggled to focus at first, but soon saw men painting a new mural where Odin stood with white skin beside a proud father. Bor swore:
“You are an Asgardian, Odin.”
Odin parted his lips with an unsaid retort. He saw the rare smile that graced regal lips, along with unshed tears that threatened to fall with pride, and a rift of emotion tore through him, splitting apart pity from fury as he brought his hand to his chest. It helped to rub at his heart, as if he might be able to reach through his ribs and ease the organ. Bor caught sight of the gesture. The smile turned into a curled lip, while his head lifted high enough to cast shadows under his eyes, and Odin at once fell to his knees and said in a low voice:
“I will do you proud, Father.”
He masked the involuntary reflex with a show of strength. Odin clenched his fist and bowed his head, as he strove to give the impression that the bow was intended all along, and – with a barely audible sigh of relief – he stood once Bor signalled him to rise with gentle laughter. A pair of hands clasped around his cheeks, holding him close with warm and callused fingers. Bor leaned ever closer and said with a voice barely a whisper:
“I know you will, boy.”