Sharp Axe cleared his throat, pointedly. ‘Mithrén?’
Still no answer.
Sharp Axe raised an open hand and waved it rapidly in front of Mithrén’s eyes.
Not a flicker.
Sharp Axe was on the verge of taking Mithrén’s shoulders in his hands and shaking her out of her reverie, when Frygga spoke to him.
‘She is mesmerised by Baldr’s beauty,’ she said gently. ‘It will pass.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Sharp Axe, still some way short of being impressed. Looks like a bit of a wimp to me, he thought, then suddenly found himself hoping Frygga could not read the human mind, for fear of offending her. She was Baldr’s mother, when all was said and done; was she not entitled to dote on him the way she obviously did?
*
‘You can come down, now,’ called Fynn, as he looked up at the sturdy tree, to the trunk of which Fearless was clinging desperately, with each foot placed unsteadily upon separate, not terribly strong-looking branches.
‘Has he gone?’ enquired Fearless tentatively.
‘Yes, yes,’ confirmed Fynn, ‘I don’t think he was hungry, really. We frightened him away; he’s run off into – ’
‘No, no!’ snapped Fearless. ‘I don’t mean the wolf!’
‘Oh… right,’ nodded Fynn, understanding now. ‘Yes, Fearless; your father’s gone.’
Harald had, indeed, departed the scene. He had departed the scene chuckling to himself – with the kind of laugh which said something like, I knew he was no slayer of wolves! That name must have been bought!
Anyone who knew Fearless, but had not witnessed his frenzied battle with the wolves of Jarnvidr, would have had much the same thought as Harald, as far as the new name was concerned: there had to be some mistake!
To give Fearless his due, he had thought about making a fight of it, after Harald had thrust the sword into his hand. That particular thought had not lasted very long, though: the thought had lasted, in fact, precisely as long as it had taken the wolf to realise the figure in front of it was trespassing on its territory. This figure – the figure of Fearless – stood totally alone: Fynn and Aldaron had moved away, having had no stomach to witness Fearless being savaged by a wolf; Harald had moved away merely to get a better view.
Intrigued and outraged by the audacity of the trespasser, the wolf had approached him with practised stealth. Fearless had frozen to the spot. Interesting strategy, thought Harald, who was enjoying the proceedings no end.
When the wolf had come to within a distance which meant Fearless, in his own judgment, was in imminent danger – about thirty paces away – the latter changed strategy immediately. Harald found his son’s new strategy even more interesting than the previous one. It involved allowing the sword to fall to the ground, looking around in wide-eyed panic, selecting a suitably-tall, branch-laden and conveniently-located tree and scrambling up it, as fast as it could be climbed.
In the end, this had almost certainly been the right strategy for Fearless to adopt. It meant not only that he lived to run away another day, but that he succeeded in making his father’s day, into the bargain.
Now, Fynn and Aldaron stood beneath him, hoping they might soon be able to make their excuses and leave, given that neither wolf nor father was around to threaten Fearless’s existence.
Then, before anyone could speak again, there was a creaking sound. This was following by several cracking sounds, each a little louder than the previous one. Then, there was a worried groaning sound. The final sound had come from Fearless, whereas all the previous noises had come from the branches which had, up until that point, been supporting him. A fraction of a second later, one supporting-branch snapped noisily, closely followed by the other; Fearless’s feet slid down the branches, as each collapsed under his weight and folded vertically and neatly against the trunk, rapidly followed by the rest of him.
The sharp-eared Aldaron picked up, through all the other noises, something which sounded suspiciously like, “I hate trees!” as Fearless executed what was, by now, his familiar tree-evacuation procedure and landed painfully, less than a heartbeat later, at the base of the tree.
Both Fynn and Aldaron winced at the sickening thud, as Fearless became re-acquainted with terra firma. In sharp contrast to his reaction when a similar fate had befallen him in Jarnvidr following an equally-poor choice of arboreal support, however, Fearless did not spring back to his feet as if nothing had happened. In fact, for a while, he did not move at all.
Fynn moved over to Fearless, knelt down beside him where he lay on his back and helped him to sit up. With one hand, he supported Fearless’s head; with the other, he raised four fingers and held them out, just in front of Fearless’s nose.
‘How many fingers am I holding up, Fearless?’ asked Fynn.
‘Er… ’ Fearless replied groggily with a myopic squint, as he tried to focus on Fynn’s digits, ‘… six… teen?’
‘Close enough,’ conceded Fynn, glancing towards Aldaron. ‘Help me get him up; he’ll be all right.’
‘Really?’ frowned Aldaron, sceptically.
‘Oh, yes, he’ll be fine… ’ confirmed Fynn, casually, ‘… well… probably.’
*
In Asgard, Sharp Axe and Mithrén were alone again with Odin.
‘So, now,’ sighed the Father God, absent-mindedly pulling on the long hairs of his beard, to make its appearance a little neater, ‘you have seen whose life we are trying to protect.’
‘All right,’ said Mithrén after a few moments, nodding slowly and looking Odin determinedly in the eye, ‘I understand, now… I’ll agree to your terms. If you can do for me what I ask, then you can count on my help to protect Baldr, if you should ever need it.’
Odin smiled, contentedly.
‘Very well,’ he said quietly, with a nod. ‘I will do whatever I can.’
Sharp Axe breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed he would be going to Valhalla, after all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Valhalla
Mithrén and Odin were deep in conversation. Sharp Axe decided to keep his distance, thinking it best to allow the two of them a little time alone together, following Mithrén’s change of heart concerning the wishes which Odin had offered to grant.
Admittedly, it had been Baldr’s sheer, memorising, otherworldly beauty which had been responsible for changing the mind of his intended, rather than his own powers of persuasion, but that mattered little to Sharp Axe. He had no time for petty feelings of jealousy when he would soon be experiencing a privilege which, as far as he was aware, no other living Midgard resident had ever been afforded: a visit to Valhalla and, more than this, the opportunity to see his beloved, long-deceased grandfather once again.
What, though, wondered Sharp Axe, shall I say to Knut Cod Killer, when I see him? In truth, he had not actually thought that far ahead. Sharp Axe thought about it now.
What did it feel like to die?
Do you think about your family in Midgard?
Are you happy in Valhalla?
Sharp Axe wondered whether Knut would remember him. He surely would not recognise him, after all these years. Sharp Axe had been only five years old when Knut had died and, during those intervening years, had obviously changed beyond all recognition: his hair was somewhat longer these days than it had been when he was a child although, perhaps, almost as fair; the beard was a new addition, though, neat and closely cropped; the tall, strapping frame was also likely to make it difficult for Knut to recognise his grandson. No; he would definitely have to introduce himself – but what would he say?
“Hello, Knut! Remember me? I was your grandson in a previous life!”?
The shock might just kill the poor man all over again.
That could well cause complications.
No; this forthcoming visit to Valhalla would require some careful thought on Sharp Axe’s part. There was clearly more to being granted a wish by Odin, Sharp Axe concluded, than met the eye.
*
Odin and
Mithrén had arrived at an understanding.
Despite the elf maiden’s initial scepticism, she had finally come to accept that Odin was genuine in his offer of granting her the thing she desired most in her life. In return, she would lend her help to the Aesir, should it be required. As things stood, Mithrén could only imagine that any help Odin would want from her would involve preserving Baldr’s life and, consequently, putting off the onset of Ragnarøkkr and she would be more than willing to assist, if that were the case.
Mithrén could see the sense in it all, now. She left Odin’s side and made her way towards Sharp Axe; he was sitting alone on a stretch of welcoming, soft-looking emerald-green grass, close to the clearing to which Odin had first led them, taking in the extraordinary – yet somehow, at the same time, rather unexceptional – scene around him: Asgard and Vanaheimr deities eating, drinking and chatting relaxedly to one another.
Sharp Axe turned to see Mithrén walking slowly towards him; no one seemed to move quickly in Asgard.
‘What did you ask for’? enquired Sharp Axe eagerly and with genuine interest, as Mithrén joined him on the grass.
‘I asked Odin to see to it the Frost Giants annulled your marriage to Rind… so that the Elven Elders would allow us to get married,’ announced Mithrén brightly and with the slightest hint of triumph in her voice.
As he absorbed Mithrén's words, Sharp Axe suddenly felt as though someone had tied an anvil to his stomach, then released it, allowing it to plummet to the ground. Even sitting down, that felt very unpleasant.
Mithrén detected a certain and sudden degree of unease in Sharp Axe: perhaps it was his wide, staring eyes; it might have been the rapidly-darkening face; it could have been the sudden onset of mild hyperventilation; or was it simply an elf maiden’s intuition? Whatever it was that had aroused her suspicions, Mithrén sensed that all was not well with her beloved. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, as she watched Sharp Axe’s discomfort increasing with every laboured breath he took. Mithrén then did what any self-respecting elf maiden would do in the same situation: she went for the kill.
‘What did you ask for?’ she probed gently, with the innocent tone of an expert interrogator, as she laid the robust foundation of an incriminating trap for her unsuspecting prisoner.
Sharp Axe did not reply immediately which, under the circumstances, was not terribly wise. His feelings of guilt for not having come even close to thinking about enlisting the help of the Chief God to sort out his own wedding arrangements were far outweighed by the fear of Mithrén’s inevitable reaction, once she found out how selfish his own wish had been.
‘Well?’ pressed Mithrén, still gently but, nonetheless, mercilessly.
‘Well… ’ began Sharp Axe awkwardly, trying hard to think of a way to break the news to Mithrén without hurting her feelings, or giving her any reason to spoil the languid, wonderfully-relaxed mood of this Asgard scene by subjecting him to an act of wanton violence in front of the happy, carefree, socialising Aesir and Vanir. He concluded that, unfortunately, there was no such way and that, all things considered, the best thing would be to get it over with as soon as possible and face Mithrén’s wrath like a man.
‘I… I asked to visit my grandfather in Valhalla,’ said Sharp Axe and braced himself for Mithrén’s wrath.
The wrath, however, did not come.
‘Oh,’ said Mithrén quietly, with only the slightest trace of surprise in her voice. ‘I see.’
Despite her tone of voice, Mithrén still looked hurt. Sharp Axe would have preferred the wrath a hundred times over, any day of the week.
‘Of course, I’d thought about asking Odin to square it with the Frost Giants,’ lied Sharp Axe, in a doomed attempt to salvage the situation and save what might remain of Mithrén’s feelings, ‘but… er… I… was pretty sure that you’d ask for that… ’
Mithrén simply looked at Sharp Axe, in silence.
The silence with which she looked at him was absolutely deafening and Sharp Axe felt obliged to break it.
‘… so I asked for something else – just in case Odin counted our single wish as two!’ he concluded at high speed, with the feeling of partial satisfaction which might be experienced by someone who was appealing against his own execution and who knew he had just presented a compelling argument for his sentence to be commuted to life imprisonment, to be spent alternating between solitary confinement and frequent visits to the prison torture chamber.
All Sharp Axe could do now was to wait for the judge’s verdict.
The judge’s verdict was delivered swiftly.
When it came, however, it was not merciful.
‘I see,’ said Mithrén dully, her eyes looking down. Then she rose slowly and walked away.
‘Oh, well… ’ sighed Sharp Axe, to no one in particular, ‘… that could have gone worse,’ though, for the life of him, he could not immediately think how.
*
Following a brief period of sulking, pouting, moping around, feeling sorry for himself, kicking his heels, wringing his hands and racking his brains, Loki was finally in a better mood: a much better mood.
In fact, moods like the one which Loki was currently experiencing did not come along very often. They were reserved, in fact, for those moments immediately following the conception of what he considered to be an especially-brilliant idea, on his part.
In order to arrive at this particular, especially-brilliant idea, Loki had managed to calm himself down and thought the problem through, rationally. It had seemed impossible to solve no more than half an hour before, but he had refused to give in and was now convinced that his devilishly-cunning scheme just might bring him the result he craved.
Loki was not renowned for his modesty but, even by his own high standards of conceit and boastfulness, the amount of flattery, self-congratulation and praise he was heaping upon himself was quite extraordinary. He decided to take himself on a journey through his recent thought process once more, however, fearing he might not have heaped upon himself all the flattery, self-congratulation and praise he truly deserved:
Who had the information he needed? Frygga.
What was Loki’s best chance of obtaining that information? By deceiving Frygga.
How could Loki best deceive Frygga? By playing to his greatest strength and by exploiting Frygga’s greatest weakness.
What was Loki’s greatest strength? His ability to shape-shift.
What was Frygga’s greatest weakness? Her all-consuming love for her son, Baldr.
Where was the last place Frygga would expect to see Loki? Asgard.
Who was the last person Frygga would expect to find in Asgard? Loki.
As Loki gradually and reluctantly brought his euphoria under control, he sat himself down on the ground, took a deep breath, lowered his face gently into the palms of his hands and began to fine-tune the details of what he already knew to be the most courageous, devious, audacious and deceit-ridden plan of his entire life.
*
‘So… I can go now?’ said a rather surprised Sharp Axe, at the end of a brief conversation with Odin.
‘Yes,’ replied Odin. ‘If you want to, that is.’
Sharp Axe wanted to go, of course, but really wanted more time to prepare. On the other hand, if he did not take the opportunity when it was presented to him, who knew when or, indeed, whether that opportunity would be presented again? With this thought in mind, Sharp Axe took a deep breath and nodded.
‘May I take Mithrén with me?’ enquired Sharp Axe, once he had gathered his thoughts.
Odin considered this request. He considered it for much longer than Sharp Axe thought he would, which suggested the decision was not going to be the formality Sharp Axe had expected and hoped it would be.
‘It is not usual… ’ began Odin, ‘for a maiden to visit Valhalla,’ and Sharp Axe’s heart sank, ‘… but, then again… nor is it usual for a living human to be allowed access to Valhalla. Perhaps… another exception could be made, in this instance.’
/>
‘Thank you,’ replied Sharp Axe quickly, hoping to prevent Odin from having sufficient time to change his mind. ‘I’ll ask her,’ he added and took his leave hurriedly, to search for Mithrén.
Mithrén did not immediately acknowledge the re-appearance of her betrothed. Sharp Axe found her standing alone, staring at Bifrost in the distance, apparently lost in her own world.
‘I… er… came to ask you,’ began Sharp Axe, uncomfortably, ‘if you would like to meet my grandfather.’
‘What… ’ frowned Mithrén, a little puzzled but, to Sharp Axe’s relief, apparently pleased, ‘… go with you to Valhalla?’
‘Well, you didn’t think I’d go without you, did you? Unless you’d rather spend some more time here with Baldr, of course,’ goaded Sharp Axe, playfully.
‘Well… ’ grinned Mithrén, coyly, ‘… that is tempting… but I think he would probably be more interested in Freya.’
Sharp Axe blushed remorsefully, cleared his throat awkwardly, smiled guiltily and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. Mithrén released a short laugh, satisfied that her point had been made successfully.
‘All right,’ she said, after a moment, ‘Valhalla it is, then… oh… how do we get there?’
‘Odin said he would arrange the transport when he told me I could go straight away,’ replied Sharp Axe casually; Mithrén’s face fell.
‘Oh!’ she replied, suddenly looking wide-eyed and horrified. ‘You don’t think… ? ‘He wouldn’t… ?’
‘Hmm? What... ?’ said Sharp Axe distantly, then looked into Mithrén’s eyes and immediately understood her concern. ‘No… no, I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ came back Sharp Axe, with all the reassurance he could summon. ‘No… there’s bound to be another… no, no… don’t worry… ’
*
‘We don’t mind walking… really!’ pleaded Mithrén, as Thor lifted her effortlessly into the air as if she were weightless and deposited her in his stone chariot.
‘Believe me,’ insisted Thor emotionlessly, as he turned his attention to checking his chariot’s leather reins, ‘nothing would give me greater pleasure than to let you walk to Valhalla, but… ’
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