The Fanged Wolf

Weavers of the World

In the heart of the World Tree, where the dark paths tangle deep into the roots, and the threads of Fate hang in ribbons of glowing light, there is a chamber that can't be found by anyone who is not summoned to it.

It is warmer than the underworlds that lie beyond it, lit by crystals that know no sun, and at its center sits a black pool.

From those waters, Fate itself is drawn up in wooden buckets and offered back to the roots.

It is the home of the Norns, and tonight, as most nights, they are spinning.

Urd, who is ancient, draws the threads of what has been. Vereandi, who is steady, works the spindle of what is. Skuld, who glows, sits high in her root-nest and watches the threads of what is coming.

"He is waking," Urd says, her fingers moving across threads so old the light in them has faded to the color of bronze.

"He is woken," Vereandi corrects, her spindle steady. Her threads are silver and new. "It began an hour ago. He has crawled out."

Skuld smiles, and it is a tender and terrible thing. "Good. I was getting bored waiting."

The sisters work in silence for a time. The threads move between their fingers, weaving and cutting and binding, and the pool at their feet ripples with a wind that comes from nowhere at all.

"The great darkness that devours worlds is nearly here," Urd says at last. "Men will feel it soon. The songs will grow quieter. The stars will grow fainter. Men will blame each other for what only gods could have caused, and they will be wrong."

"They are always wrong," Vereandi says.

"They are," Urd agrees. "It is why they need stories.

They need to be told the wolf is the monster, so they will fear the right thing.

They need to be told the trickster is the villain, so they will not trust him when he comes to save them.

They need to be told the silent one is an avenger, so they will not see him weep. "

Skuld leans forward, threads sliding through her pale hair. "And what is the truth, sister?"

"The truth is Gebo." Urd's old mouth curves, and she pulls a stone from her pocket, a shining golden rune carved upon it.

"The gift. The thing freely given, which binds giver and receiver both.

The wolf gave himself to his binding so his children might live safely in a world that fears them.

The trickster bound himself under layers of the dead so the world might not burn before its time.

The silent one upheld his exile so he might become a weapon when it was needed.

Three gifts. Three sacrifices. Three chains. All of them willing."

"And in return?" Vereandi asks, though she knows. She always knows.

"In return, Fate owes them three gifts." Urd's eyes, which see everything that has ever been, lift from her threads for the first time. "Each is a counter-gift. Each is the thing the god himself did not know to ask for. The first is coming into daylight as we speak."

"Does she know?" Skuld asks.

"She knows that she has failed him, and she has not. She knows that she is not wolf enough to be chosen, and she is wrong. She has been chosen since before she was born. She does not yet believe she deserves to know it."

Vereandi's hands go still on the spindle. "And the wolf?"

"The wolf knows her. He doesn't know what to do with her. He will believe he will damn her by claiming her. He doesn't understand that she was made to be his light in the dark that is coming."

Skuld laughs, a sound like small bright bells.

The three sisters bend back to their work. Above them, Yggdrasil stirs and sighs, branches shaking hard enough to send Ratatoskr scrambling.

In a frozen forest in Midgard, a scarred wolf lifts his head and breathes in the scent that has been haunting his dreams. In a cave beneath the earth, a volv? gathers the last of the silver ribbons and black fur into her palms and turns toward the stone stairs that lead back to daylight.

"Spin," Urd says, drawing in the past.

"Spin," Vereandi says, drawing in the present.

"Spin," Skuld says, and all the possibilities of the future tangle in silver and gold around her.