Chapter 24 The Lady of the Chariot
twenty-four
The Lady of the Chariot
Thori
Njord’s private bathing house was breathtaking, and Thori was a little miffed that while the room might not be more splendid than the beautiful halls of Asgard, it was undoubtedly…
impressive. Walls of hewn black stone, windows looking out over the vast ocean, and a huge tiled bath to soak in.
Luxuries beyond imagination in the halls of men.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Njord pull off his pants, stained with Thori’s release, and Thori allowed himself a moment to drink in the sight.
His gaze followed the intricate tattoos covering Njord’s broad back: waves and whales, and longships tossed about by a storm.
Njord opened his braid and shook his head so his long brown hair fell freely over his shoulders, and Thori longed to bury his hands in the dark strands, to press his lips to every inch of that sun-kissed skin.
They’d fought each other in battle, killed each other’s kin, and hurled words of hatred at each other.
But he couldn’t loathe Njord anymore, although part of Thori resented that he’d enjoyed the spanking, that he’d loved Njord’s fingers inside him.
But a larger, traitorous part of him liked everything about the fact that Njord had found a way to punish him and look after his needs at the same time.
Could this be his way out of this mess? Could he charm the Lord of Nóatún into freeing him?
Maybe even forge an alliance? His father wouldn’t like it, but Thori was tired of living up to Odin’s impossible expectations of greatness and warrior pride, while the Allfather had no qualms about debasing himself, committing atrocities, and indulging in all manner of carnal indulgences if they only served his purposes.
Thori knew the stories; had watched his mother hide her sadness behind elegant grace and unwavering dignity.
“On what dark path do your thoughts wander, elskan?”
Thori blinked. He hadn’t realized that Njord had stepped in front of him, tilting Thori’s chin upward with a gentle touch. Exhaling a deep sigh, Thori melted into the touch, into the warmth Njord was radiating.
“My thoughts were in Asgard. But I’d rather be here. With you.”
Njord’s eyes widened, his expression morphing into something very soft, and suddenly Thori knew what he had to do. His sister Freyja would be proud of him.
“Do you want me to wash your hair?” he asked, reaching out.
Njord’s hair felt as soft as it looked, and Thori marveled at its thick, velvety structure.
“I want you to get warm. Come.”
Taking his hand, Njord guided him to the back of the room, where the black rock felt like a sea cave. Thori had expected to be led into the basin to soak, but Njord put a hand to the stone and mumbled words of seier too quickly for Thori to understand properly.
“What are you—”
A deep rumble resonated through the mountain, and Thori flinched as water started to stream like a waterfall from the stones above them. Chuckling, Njord pulled him under the warm spray.
“There are hot springs deep in Nóatún’s belly. I can call to them.”
“Marvelous trick,” Thori said, equal parts delighted by the seier and annoyed that Njord managed to surprise him.
It felt like standing under a waterfall, but the water was indeed warm like a hot spring. They lingered for a while, washing each other, and Thori felt the tension bleed from his shoulders. Whether his plan was going to work out in the end or he should fail, he was glad he could have this moment.
Finally clean and dressed in warm clothes, they settled in front of Njord’s fireplace like the night after the drowning. For Thori, it felt like years ago.
Njord stood to call for supper, not before pressing a swift kiss to the top of Thori’s head. What was happening to their enmity? The strange domesticity combined with Njord’s unexpected softness overwhelmed Thori’s defenses, making him want to curl up in Njord’s arms.
“I have to talk to Gylfa. I’ll be back soon.”
Norns, Thori could get used to this, but he shouldn’t let his guard down.
Maybe Njord was just toying with him. To distract himself from his tumultuous feelings, Thori stood and stepped over to inspect the books and parchments lining one wall of the room, a private library organized with meticulous care.
Treaties and trade agreements. Histories of the Vanir and the Nine Worlds.
Texts on seier and runecraft, some written in runes, others in the flowing alphabet popular in Midgard.
Thori trailed his fingers along the spines, unsure what he was even searching for.
Hrothgar had babbled about the Bog Mother, and Njord had known what he was talking about.
An old goddess. One of those forgotten deities that came before the reign of the AEsir, before the Vanir walked among their green lands.
The runes in the farmer’s house in Njareby had spoken of awakening, too.
And indeed corpses had risen from the bog.
Had these men been offerings to the Bog Mother, serving her even in death?
It was likely that Svanhild served the Bog Mother, for Thori had seen her idols in Svanhild’s tent, even though he hadn’t known what he’d been looking at back then.
And if Svanhild had learned her trade in Asgard, then surely the Allfather knew about the Bog Mother too.
Thori was no vala by any means, but he was the son of the goddess of clairvoyance and the god of magic, and Frigga had taught him well, even if Odin hadn’t. The pieces were there, scattered like cast rune stones waiting to be interpreted. He just had to see the pattern.
An ancient tome caught his eye; its leather binding cracked with age.
Books like this one were incredibly rare, worth a fortune to those who could afford and appreciate the art and wisdom poured into making them.
He should probably stay away from the book if he didn’t want to offend Njord, but something about it called to Thori, his thunder prickling restlessly under his fingertips.
He had seen this particular design before: a book his father had forbidden Freyja to read.
Thori hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now…
He opened the book and was amazed by the careful handwriting and delicate drawings on the first page. Even though they had faded with age, the colors were still beautiful.
About The Deities of Old by Snorri Einarrsson.
Peculiar.
In the time before the ordering of the worlds, when the Nine Worlds as we know them hadn’t been formed yet, strange beings walked vast, empty lands, half beasts, half gods, to the unfortunate men living in their domain, Thori deciphered.
His grasp of the old language was a bit rusty, but he could read the archaic runes well enough.
Leafing through the pages, he marveled at the hand-drawn pictures of dark deities from the dawn of time.
Mountain-high giants, shapes of bears and wolves, and horned beings lurking in the shadows.
A strange, foreboding feeling made his stomach churn.
His father had told him how he’d battled giants at the start of everything, but had it really been the beginning as the Allfather claimed?
Or had there been those who came before?
A particularly disconcerting picture made Thori stop. The drawing showed what must be a bog shrouded in mist, and from the bleak landscape a shadow rose to the sky, clearly female, with flowing hair and slits for eyes, glowing purple-red.
Myrmóeir was written underneath the picture. The Bog Mother.
Norns.
There dwelt in the marshlands a powerful goddess of old.
The bog dwellers called her Myrmóeir, and in her name they drowned their offerings in pools of standing water.
Other tribes living among the sea called her the Bog Mother or Mother Earth, and she walked among her peoples, meddling in their affairs.
It’s said her dwelling place was hidden in a sacred grove on an island far out on the wild eastern sea, and on this island, there was a sacred chariot shrouded by a cloth.
Only a chosen priestess was allowed to touch the chariot, and only she was permitted to visit the goddess in her innermost sanctuary, accompanying her with great reverence.
When the goddess stayed among her people, there were great celebrations, and no one went to war during this time, until the goddess grew weary of human society and the priestess brought her back to her grove.
Afterwards, the chariot, the cloth, and the goddess herself were washed in a hidden lake, and the slaves who performed this labor were then swallowed up by the waters of the same lake so that they could not speak of what they had seen.
Thori kept reading, heart beating frantically.
It’s said that the hort of Myrmóeir was splendid because the people of the coast drowned many offerings in her name. Swords and axes. Gold and jewelry. Animals and captured enemies were sunk in the bogs and lakes.
Warriors drowned in the bog wearing the bronze armor of old times like the draugr they’d encountered at Njareby. This only proved what they’d already suspected: the creatures belonged to the Bog Mother. But the huge hidden treasure reminded Thori of something else.
There were some items in particular that made the hort of the Bog Mother legendary.
Weapons of godly power, like the magical hammer Mjolnir and the sword Brimskeri forged from a fallen star.
There was also the Plow of Renewal, and a legendary vala’s staff made from knotted birch and a clump of enchanted peat.