Being ‘God of Death‘ isn‘t as wonderful as it sounds. That first, prosperous, transformation was a big win, but since then it all seems to be less than ideal. I would be better if there were more people who deserved to die, or at least fewer who didn‘t. And then there‘s the problem of what to do with them.
As it stands, I have the one afterlife I‘ve created. And they‘re all but eating me out of house and hall… when they don‘t really need to eat. But I feed them. Then they kill each other. Then I reanimate them and feed them. Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking, but then I remember: Ragnarok.
In the future, I will need an army so that I can one day be defeated by the one person I don‘t want to fight. But I will fight. With my dead army. Against another dead army. Because… I‘m not really clear on any of this. I‘m doing what I have to do.
When I was a child, I had choices. Choice: a thing wisdom takes away. I thought wisdom was a good idea. One should never trust one‘s uncle. Mímir said it would be great. Then he charged me too high a price: Uncles.
I was on Hlidskjálf the other day, looking out over the realms, pondering why I look out over the realms—since, to the best of my knowledge, knowledge has never actually benefitted me—when I heard a wee voice calling up to me from the plinth. I thought I had locked the door. I looked down. It was Loki‘s daughter: Hel. I know that‘s an unfortunate name now, but it wasn‘t then. Y‘all hadn‘t condemned her yet.
Hel was looking up at me plaintively. I sighed and climbed down, then made her some tea. If anyone deserves tea, it‘s that child. She has more than enough on her lack-of-a-plate. And she‘s so competent. Jorðr knows she wrangles her parents better than I can. And that‘s when it occurred to me. She would know how to handle all these dead people. She‘s gifted at that. But how do I ask her, and retain her admiration.
She handed me some wild flowers. My assistant-of-the-day appeared, put them in a vase, then poured her tea. She still hadn‘t spoken. Neither had I. For me it‘s a well honed strategy. For her, it‘s her nature; gifted.
“Uncle Odin,“ she eventually whispered, “I think I‘m ready to join the world.“ I considered telling her that she was already in the world and it didn‘t get any better, but I reverted to my strategy.
“I‘ve been taking care of my parents for as long as I remember. Now, it‘s time someone took care of me.“
”You want someone to tell you when it‘s time to go to bed?“ I guessed.
“No. I want my own home. With breakable objects. and cutlery. And tarts: lots of tarts.“
I indicated and assistant-of-the-day fetched her a tart from the cupboard. She ate it like a starving person. Maybe that‘s why half of her is a skeleton. There really isn’t any food at her home and she has an odd way of carrying her lack of weight.
“So, “I suggested, “you‘d do a lot for these tarts?“
“And breakable dishware,“ she reminded. “I‘m tired of having to eat off rocks so no one breaks them.“
“and breakable dishware,“ I amended.
She nodded.
But, in one of those too-odd-to-be-coincidence moments, a group of drunken Einherjar stumbled in, one of them with a sword through his head. She didn‘t blink an eye.
“Do you need help with that?“ she asked, pulling it from him. He dropped to the floor where he disintegrated. I‘d be reanimating him later.
“Here,“ she said to the other two, getting up, then pouring them cups of tea. “Go into the other room and take turns counting backwards from two thousand.”
“How many is that?“ one asked.
“Ah,“ she said, nodding knowingly, “that‘s the challenge.“
“Ahhhh“ they both said nodding at her. One tried to wink, but blinked instead, before the two of them stumbled out the door and she returned her gaze to me.
“So, may I please have my own home? my own job? now, Uncle Odin? I could tend to a place. I could clean. I could cook. I could do laundry. Anything, really, around the house. And, in return, you could grant me a home… with a hall… I’d love a big hall?“
Just then, a chorus of drinking songs… all different… assaulted our ears.
She leaned past me, through the window. “Hush down out there,” she called, “or there will be no drinks with supper.“ Immediately they quieted.
“Yes.“ I answered. I do think I know the perfect arrangement. Ever considered being a queen?, with your own home, your own hall, and breakable dishes?“
She grinned and we sealed the deal with slug of mead… in ceramic mugs.
As always a pleasure to read.💕
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