Fiction
This Dead Heart of Mine
by Galen Weedon
When I was born, I was given the name of Hel.
Not by my father Loki — I like to imagine he’d have given me a different name — but by the frost giants of Jotunheim, where my mother Angrboda lived. My older brothers, Jörmungandr and Fenrir, would play and swim and hunt, but I did not join them. I preferred the company of dead things. When I spoke to them, they were respectful to me, and I to them. The living wanted nothing from me, nor I from them. They were rude, hateful and inconsiderate.
For eight years I stayed with my mother, visited occasionally by my father, until they came.
Two of the Aesir of Asgard: Thor Odinson, the Lightning God, and Tyr, the stoic God of War— the latter still had both of his hands then, but it brought me great pleasure to hear that my brother Fenrir had bitten one of them off some years later. The gods were angry with my father— apparently, Loki had that effect on people — but this time it seemed like they might actually kill him. Thor pointed his weapon, the hammer Mjolnir, at my brothers and me like he might strike us with it as a mortal would crush an insect. His blindingly blue eyes flashed with a dangerous fire like the lightning over which he was the master and named us monsters.
“Liar Loki!” he boomed darkly, the biting winds of Jotunheim catching up his red-brown hair and swirling his cape. “Loki the Liar, who lies with giants. The devilry that has sprouted from your loins will be taken, and killed if the All-father be kind enough.”
Loki snarled and went to step forward, but silent Tyr drew his sword and held it to my father’s gut, intent on running him through, daring him to move.
“If that is what mighty Odin wishes,” the trickster said finally, his teeth gritted.
For better or worse, it was. Jörmungandr was tied to a pine log and carried on Thor’s shoulder like a prize buck, while Fenrir was muzzled with strong leather and put on a leash. Both of my brothers were already large, being fifteen metres long and five feet high respectively. I, being the youngest and smallest and not considered a threat by the Aesir, was allowed to walk by myself.
During our journey from Jotunheim and along the roots of mighty Yggdrasil to Asgard — totalling five days — I had no dead or dying things to speak to. Loki was not a comforting presence, as all he did was try to bargain with Thor for his own skin, which I thought was pitiful. The trickster god reduced to begging rather than taking.
“Why do you smile, dead girl?” Thor asked, clutching his hammer. Overhead, the dark sky growled with distant thunder.
“That is my secret, Giant-slayer,” I replied icily.
The following eve we arrived to the golden gates of Asgard and the golden hall of Gladsheim. Upon a high throne of dark wood gilt with gold and silver he sat: the Gallows-god, Odin One-Eye. He gripped his magnificent spear Gungnir as the six of us approached, and the other Aesir who were gathered gaped and gasped at the sight of the children of Loki the trickster: the serpent, the wolf and the girl who was neither dead or alive but both.
As Jörmungandr was the eldest, Thor brought him first to his father’s feet, warning him of the reeking black venom my brother spat. Odin ordered him thrown into the oceans of Midgard, where he could harm none. Thor obeyed and departed immediately for Bifrost. Next, Tyr brought Fenrir, who had continued to grow and strengthen each day that he was now taller by a full two heads than the tallest of the Aesir. Such was the growl and snarl that rumbled from my brother’s dark, furry chest that all of Asgard trembled and shook, and Odin decreed that he be taken to a deep, dark cave and chained.
“And what do they call you, little one?” One-Eye asked me then, once Tyr had exited the hall. His two ravens clung to his shoulders as though they were part of him, whispering of the worlds beyond.
“Hel, if it please you, All-father,” I replied evenly, my arms straight at my sides. I could hear the mutterings of the gods as they pointed and stared at my body and face: one side youthful and pale and alive with eye of green fire, the other black and rotten as though in living death with a blind white gaze.
A small smile graced the face of the chief of the Aesir and he relaxed in his chair. “Well, you seem pleasant enough. You may ask something of me, and I will grant it.”
This was a rare opportunity, indeed! To ask favour from Odin himself? Even the mortals of Midgard could only dream of such treatment and honour. The gods were fickle beings, dolling out pain and pleasure, risk and reward as they saw fit and appropriate. He may be even more so with me if I were to speak harshly.
“As you can see, mighty Odin,” I spoke slowly and graciously, “I am not as the rest of the Aesir or even the Vanir. I, like my brothers, am a freak among my own family. Therefore, I would ask for a place of my own in which to live as I would. A place untroubled by those who would seek to harm me or speak unkindly towards me. I prefer the company of death, who have always treated me with a respect that I feel from no one and nothing else. That is what I ask of you. I hope that in your infinite wisdom you will grant me this wish.”
Odin leaned back in his throne and looked at me, his single eye boring into my mind. He had given it for wisdom and knowledge, that he might understand and know the runes and magic of the worlds. But this was neither a look of understanding nor wisdom, but of consideration. I, in turn, stared right back at him with my eyes of summer-green life and milky-white death.
He stood finally, and thrust the butt of Gungnir to the floor, its ringing filled the hall and echoed across all of Asgard.
“Very well,” he spoke, clearly and commandingly. “Let it be known that Hel, daughter of Loki is to be given rule over the deepest of the deep places. She will go to the icy dark of Niflheim and onward until she reaches the Misty Vale. Those who die under circumstances as to be unfit for Valhalla — be it old age, disease or suicide — will be under the rule of Hel their queen and they shall serve her.”
The spear thudded once again, and I was no longer in Asgard, but on the roots of Yggdrasil facing my new home. It was remarkably similar to the place from whence I had just come, but colder and darker and emptier. Where Asgard had the rainbow bridge Bifrost, so too was there a bridge in Niflheim, but it was old and made of cold grey-green stone and covered with moss and a multitude of fungi. There were, however, no mountain peaks of dizzying heights and the rushing of a golden river below, for all was shrouded in mist and if I were to speak, only my echoing voice would be heard, strange and hollow.
On the other side of the bridge, the ground was paved with flagstones and the air was heavy and dank with cold and rot. Every few dozen steps there would an exposed rot of some towering tree, its top lost to the dark fog above me.
After a several long hours of seemingly aimless wandering, it appeared to me that Odin had in fact tricked me into coming here, and that he simply plotted to be rid of me. Such were my thoughts until I came to a house set on top of a short hillock of grey-green grass. Upon closer inspection, the dwelling was less of a house and more of a small-scale hall, with a roof of brown thatch and walls of moss-covered stone.
The door creaked and groaned at my touch, and torches flared to life with pale green flames as I entered. A large, shallow pit of stones sat in the centre of the room, which also rushed to life with green fire. At the far end of the room was a chair carved of dead wood with a horned skull as a centrepiece. A bed was behind my new throne, in a curtained-off section of the hall.
I settled into my throne almost immediately, and as soon as my flesh touched the cold, hard, dead wood, the doors to my hall opened and two corpses shambled and shuffled towards me, bearing a silver cup and a tall jug. They spoke no words of greeting as they had no jaws, but there was a sense of respect to them. Wine was poured into the jug and the cup was offered to me. I took it and drank carefully, fearing some plot from Odin to kill me. But death did not come, so I drained the cup and sent the corpse-servants away.
The dull echo of the closing doors seemed strangely far away. I felt my throat closing up and my vision began to blur and fade. I collapsed from my chair and retched. Vile, black liquid puddled on the floor. It bubbled and steamed and then, from the puddle, flew dozens upon dozens of night-black ravens. Odin was trying to poison me!
No, child of Loki, came the All-father’s voice in my head. If I wanted you dead, I would have done so the moment you were pulled from your mother. I have seen many things, many dreams. I have seen the end of many gods and many mortals. But you, Hel of Niflheim… you do not die. I would go so far as to suppose that you cannot, for you are Death itself.
“Then what have you done to me?” I snarled as the birds flapped and croaked around me. Then I clapped my dead hand over my lips at the sound of my voice. I sounded older. I looked down at my body and, indeed, I had grown. My fingers were longer and slenderer, coming to finely pointed nails on each hand. My hips were wider and with a pronounced curve. My hair was longer, reaching down to the small of my back, but it was a wild, tangled mess of black.
You were a truly pleasant child, Odin continued. Let us see if you will be an equally pleasant woman.
And then the voice and the ravens was gone.
I shakily rose and staggered over to my throne, unused to my new adult height, before realising I was naked. I passed by the throne and inspected my meagre sleeping quarters. The bed was large and there was a window that looked out over a dark valley shrouded in thick white mist. On the bed was a dress of shadowy green-grey. I pulled it over my head and ran my hands along my body, feeling the material. It seemed to be made of some strange web-like wool, with splits and gaps that showed my pale bare skin beneath. It covered my arms all the way down the wrist, where it ended in pointed cuffs. It was perfect.
And as I returned to my throne and waited for the first of my new servants, I knew that I, Hel daughter of Loki the Trickster and Queen of Niflheim, was the most hauntingly beautiful thing I had ever seen.