Niu eoa Ein

Ein

The world is still.

The deer perk their ears up at the crunch of snow under my fur-lined boots, curious. One paws at the ground nervously before taking flight across the open expanse, the herd following in his wake. They spring lightly over twisted roots and disappear in the fog. Another day, another place, perhaps I would follow, take thrill from the zeal of the hunt.

But today has a different purpose.

The World Tree towers no less than before; if anything, it is wider than I recall. The bough reaches into the very clouds, past hills, past mountains; perhaps even past stars. It matters not. I slide the pack from my shoulder, landing it with a heavy thump on the frozen ground, thundering across the silence. I leave it behind, save for Gungnir and a length of rope, padding my way to the Tree.

The bark is slightly warm – something hums in the air and the silence returns when I remove my hand.

The Tree demands blood.

Tveir

The blood has rushed and pooled into my fingers and hands, already numbed with cold and now with the prickle of sleep. The rope chafes into my ankles where I hang unsupported.

The world is different upside down. The sky becomes the earth and glimmers of snow my stars.

As always, the stars remain out of reach.

Prir

A fawn is sauntering below, playing with its mother among the roots of Yggdrasil. Further away, one of the harts snuffles about unconcernedly, grazing at the occasional tufts of grass poking from the snow. His fur ripples gently in the breeze. The wind shifts as he turns to look back towards the forest; another fawn comes bounding into the clearing. The hart turns back to his meal and the wind shifts again.

Fjórir

The sun is coming up. Or down. It's hard for me to tell anymore. There is no blood left in my feet anymore – they are cold, cold as ice, dead as ice. When the wind blows I can hear them clink against each other even through the thick fur.

There are no deer today – so far they have grazed below the branches of Yggdrasil every dawn, creeping up out of the fog on gentle footfalls. Their rusty coats stain the landscape red, splashing pools of color upon a blank canvas.

If the end comes…

When the end comes, the stains will not be quite so scenic.

Fimm

The Tree is droning louder. The hum has trickled into my very bones, crept along each limb and vein. The Tree is impatient.

The Tree demands blood.

Gungnir has maintained its post where I stabbed it into the bark, as though glad to be home. It pulls out easily with a slight snap, taking a few slivers of bark out with it. The next bit will be difficult.

The point rests between two ribs, as best I can manage. Blood. There needs to be blood. Old, old magic. The world began with the blood of Ymir – I could buy that world some time with my own.

The Tree drones louder.

Sex

Cold.

Cold.

The wound in my side has frozen over. Gungnir, spear of spears, is far out of my reach now. The drip of blood has long since ceased. A trail of red ice extends all down one side, my neck, jaw. Somewhere far below, the snow is a little less pristine.

Sjau

Moonrise dominates the landscape. The world is silver in its light, all fine filigree and sharp ice, the snow a soft blue sheen under its gaze. If I had Gungnir, I would cut myself down.

The end is near. It must be. I must be.

Something… in the distance. A hart… a hart, calling from far away. Its voice carried over the ice, a softer drone than that of the Tree. It felt like Winter, like cold and snow and the last embers of a dying fire, but also like the promise of sunrise.

A promise of something warm.

Atta

The deer have returned. The red of their coats looks duller to my eyes now. Nothing could be as bright – bright as your own lifeforce draining from your very body.

Fawns prance over the deep snow awkwardly as though they had forgotten what deep snow was like. Or perhaps my eyes were only faulty. Clouded. The sun on snow was blinding.

Cold.

Colder… I can only see the world through a fringe of icicles on my lashes. To close them now would be permanent.

If only for a moment I could…

One of the fawns calls to its mother; my eyes snap back open. The mother bounds over, nuzzling at her babe, before nudging its hindquarters. The deer moved on, over crawling roots, the lead hart taking the lead over the hill before turning back to oversee his herd.

Yes. This is why…

Níu

I cannot move. The blood in my veins has frozen. My bones are locked into place. Cold means nothing anymore – cold is a distant memory.

Something above creaks. The wind shifts and tugs – my rope is fraying at the knot. It has been for some time. But it's too far now. Too far. The wind pulls again, malice in its every twitch. The rope won't hold much longer.

The deer are grazing again below. They look so peaceful. The silence is so peaceful.

The rope snaps. The deer scatter. I am past feeling anything. The snow looks so soft.

Tíu

The world was still.