#famine is her knife; idler her thrall.

[hoggormurinn-blog]

Asgard...is dead.

[howlteeth-blog]

in his sleep, he dreamt of war. Great gouges of flame and blood spilt upon the earth, jagged-tooth cracks ripped through life and limb, earth and realm, until all lay a devoured mess. The blood of the sun shone between his young son’s teeth, the moon’s ichor stripped as glistening ribbons between the teeth of the other, and all the realms screaming at their paws.

In his sleep, he dreamt of kin. Glistening scales scratching in a familiar patter over an icy floor, the softest hiss flicked out to nestle in the comforting, familiar stone; a young babe’s gurgle, hiccuped humour shining bright in the damp curve of spit-bubble lips, child’s pleasure construed in the smooth curves of grasping, chubby fists ( flesh and bone alike; the tattered memory of infant skeletal fingers smoothing wildly over the curved shell of a playful pup’s ear where he had pounced, careful with his too-large paws and heavy frame, and lapped impishly – once, twice, thrice! – upon her bony cheek ).

In his sleep, he dreamt of a maternal flame, returned to life and bare throat restored. No blood lingered on the pale patter of fresh snow; no steaming gore drove horror into the hearts of babes three; no damage to a countenance fair was there but the crooked creep of a familiar smile, whispered tricks shared exclusively between pup and mother in a bond undecimated in the land of dreams.

In his sleep, he dreamt of family; of mother-brother-sister-sons, and all that had once been his.

[alexasscribbles]

“Angrboða was the name of a certain giantess in Jötunheim, with whom Loki gat three children: one was Fenris-Wolf, the second Jörmungandr, the third is Hel. ...Allfather sent gods thither to take the children and bring them to him…

Hel he cast into Niflheim, and gave to her power over nine worlds, to apportion all abodes among those that were sent to her: that is, men dead of sickness or of old age. She has great possessions there; her walls are exceeding high and her gates great. Her hall is called Sleet-Cold; her dish, Hunger; Famine is her knife; Idler, her thrall; Sloven, her maidservant; Pit of Stumbling, her threshold, by which one enters; Disease, her bed; Gleaming Bale, her bed-hangings. She is half blue-black and half flesh-color (by which she is easily recognized), and very lowering and fierce.” -Prose Edda

[howlteeth-blog]

Bruised skin slung beneath the god’s eyes, mottled purples and darkened shadows, spoke of the horrors of the night. A myriad of voices, distorted in the far off way of dreams yet sharp and clear enough to drive a blade into the great wolf’s heart, beckoned in his dreams, speaking with haunting clarity the secret fears of his roiling soul.

You failed us, brother! You could have done more! I know, systir, I know. You could have held tighter; our brother, our defender. I tried, bróðir, I wasn’t– Strong enough? Oh we know that, child. You let me die, you let them take your brother, your sister, your sons! You left us, faðir, you said you’d be back!

You said, you promised, your word, yousaidyoupromisedyoufailedyoufailed you failed us!

The thoughts of those dearest to him held the most value, yet a tremble struck out to unsettle the beast’s arrogant soul. Should they believe as he did, and find error in his lack of activity ( a hand upon his throat, tearing brother from brother, grasping skeletal hand yanked from the fur of his shoulder and slammed through the floor; a sword at his mother’s throat, warriors surrounding her; a thick fountain of blood, another slump of a lifeless body, and a maternal head rolling in the clinging, bloody, strands of her own thick hair ) to save and preserve as all brothers and sons were to, no aid nor soothing balm existed for the damage that would be done to the furious skin of his immortal soul.

No matter that he had been but a pup, a fledgling warrior in a world of monsters and men; Fenrir’s failure to defend and protect struck deep into the cage of slumber’s nightmares. In that golden hall of dreams and fears, sleep and soulful rest, the worst imaginings of a maddened mind came to light, and so drove Fenrir to face the new day grim of countenance and choking the world in a geyser of it’s own blood.