Winter's Grief

Even a deity cannot undo the past.

Hoðr strode through the towering pines and snow-laden conifers of the far north of the lands he and his kindred had ruled over since time began. They had nearly been broken, once, as all things had been threatened during the wars that it endured uncounted years ago. Many of his folk rarely visited the mortals anymore, choosing to reside in the divine realm removed from the material world.

A realm Hoðr yearned to return to.

Snow glittered in the dark where the deity stepped, not crunching underfoot, for it was strengthened by his presence rather than weakened. Wind howled as he summoned its freezing claws to him, its voice screaming with the pain he carried in his heart while he remained silent.

He was not meant to feel such agony.

Hoðr sent the wind in wild strokes, letting it tear through the woods before returning to him with building speed, carrying ice and crackling frost to sting all caught within the storm. Light was lost, and shadows grew in the mist.

Why do you do this, Brother?

Despite his eyes being sightless since birth, Hoðr closed them.

“Don’t. He’s gone. You’re only a memory.”

Hoðr drew another lancing wind to like with frost before throwing it out into the darkness. He never strayed near the villages his storms were inflicted on, but he knew they were out there. Suffering, as they should.

And all that I stood for, is that only a memory as well?

“No, but there are those who do not deserve light and joy. They robbed you of that. Robbed me of that.”

Hoðr listened to the scream of the wind, the cracks of hailstones against bark and rock, letting the winter night echo his wrath.

It will not bring me back, and it will not hurt him. You don’t need to cling to grief to remember me, Brother.

Shaking his bearded head, Hoðr refused the words. “They are his followers. They deserve no better than what he deserves. How I would freeze his blood to thorns, had I the opportunity.”

It would not kill him.

“Good. Let him suffer for what he did.” Shadows writhed as the cold intensified, frost becoming jagged glass wherever it formed around him. Defensive. Driving back.

Innocents are dying, Brother. Please, let me go.

“I won’t, and they are not innocent. They serve him, they strengthen him. If my winter has its way, they will die and he will weaken.”

And what would you gain?

“Vengeance. For you. For all he’s hurt.”

It would forever bar you from returning home.

“What home have I? They cast me out already for what I did. I have my wings of immortality, and my wings of the Elder, but they took the wings of the divine realm from me. They will not be returned no matter what I do.”

Spreading his four, feathered wings, Hoðr beat them to stir up a fresh flurry of suffering blizzard, swirling it around him and casting it out to punish all those who stood nearest. Let them share in his agony.

Brother, what of forgiveness?

“Forgive them?” Thorned ice sprouted from the nearest trees as their very sap was chilled and forced out of them as the water within it expanded. “Forgive them for robbing this realm of you? Nay, never could I do that.”

But they are not to blame any more than you are.

Hoðr clenched his fists, shadows pooling and boiling at his feet, chains of self-hatred that burned with frostbite.

“I’m not to blame?” Hoðr said, rising in shadow and stature to the form of a dragon, with spiraling horns of ice and white-speckled feathered wings; wings that still numbered four. “I am not to blame when it was I who cast the weapon that slew you? I was tricked and misled, but the deed was done by my hand, and I languish here in mortality for it! I deserve blame.”

Perhaps, but I forgave you even as I lay dying that day. I still forgive you, a thousand years later. I forgive you.

Hoðr’s tail flicked, throwing up new winds to tear through the forest, seeking those who would feel their bite. “I didn’t. I don’t.”

Brother-

Hoðr pinned back his ears. “Enough. You are not Dagr. You are only my memory of him. You wish for me to let go? Leave me be…”

The winds stalled, and thick clumps of wet snow pattered to the ground as the will to keep them aloft fell to sorrow. Hoðr dug his talons into the snow below him, feeling a drip of wet on his cheek before it froze and fell glittering to the earth.

Returning home to his tower, Hoðr felt the weight of the night burden his heart. Once more he had taken the form of a valkyrie, one of the species he felt closest with aside from the winter elves. A white beard, braided, tumbled down his front and his long hair was braided as well, tied behind him in two tiers. Feathered ears framed his face, and his pale silver eyes, sightless, stood in contrast to the gray-blue of his skin. A feathered tail drifted behind his taloned feet as he stepped across the threshold into his home.

The tower itself was magnificent, though Hoðr knew not how his creation looked. A spiraling pillar of ice, it was, with darkness flowing beneath the gleaming surface, sparkling inside with snowflakes of silver akin stars in the night sky. These twinkled with a cold light, pulsing with shimmering radiance whenever he was home.

It was a trifle compared to the grandeur of his estate in the divine realm.

Inside was a sparse, but clean residence. The foyer was tiled with the same ice as the tower had been made from while silver stairs curved in a graceful arc across the room. A silver-blue fire burned in the mantle, but it gave off no hear or warmth. A table to seat many guests took up the dining room to the right, unused, and a chandelier of silver and ice sparkled above the deity’s head as he entered his home.

Every step was measured with routine as Hoðr went about making himself food. He did not need it, of course, as he could not die of starvation even as an exile, but the mortal hunger for it plagued him. How he resented such bitter weakness.

Food acquired, Hoðr took it to his study. Books and scrolls lined his shelves, enchanted to use raised textures as letters for his hand to read. He ignored them for now. Sitting at his desk, Hoðr set his food down and picked up a small sculpture of gold that clashed with the shivering themes of his home and apparel. Warm and bright, the winged lion was, and he ran his thumb along its shape, feeling the curve of its shoulders, the feathers of its wings, and the rippling mane around its neck.

Setting the lion aside, Hoðr took a few bites of food, but nausea had him recoil. Food lost its appeal, and he pushed it away and picked the lion up again. Holding it to his chest, Hoðr’s wings folded around him, a hug he needed but had no one else to give it to him.

Not that he would have accepted it from anyone besides the brother who was gone. A grave he couldn’t visit in the divine realm. Only his familiar to hold onto, to remember. All else had perished or remained where Hoðr could not go.

He did not see the phantom of his brother in the doorway, watching over him. How the one dressed in gold and white had not left. Perhaps he would think it yet more wishful thinking, even if he had, but the ghost remained silent. Waiting.

When Hoðr was willing to hear his voice again, he would speak. For now, so long as they were in the Sanctum of Winter Night, he held his tongue.

There needn’t be a reminder of grief.

Hoðr, reluctant to put the golden statuette back, created a chain of silver ice to string through its looped tail and hung it from his belt before rising. Gloom lingered and gathered wherever the exile walked, and the years only deepened the shadow of Hoðr’s home. Climbing the stairs, he ran a hand along the frozen railing, unbothered by the cold. Reaching the room he sought, Hoðr pushed the door open.

White and gold hung in rich banners and fabrics across the room, and golden orbs of light floated across the ceiling with warm white light. While the floor was still the same ice as the rest of the tower, rich rugs covered it with tones of day and summer, sky blue bringing bright day to the place. Hoðr walked to the bed, running his hand along the soft covers, so different from the furs he preferred for himself.

The ghost followed him in, glancing at his old guest room. It wasn’t really his though, never having stayed here. He’d been dead already. But Hoðr could not bear to have a home without giving his brother a place to stay, even if he believed him gone. Even a cushion was set there for Sunna, should the winged lion ever wish to return to form without Dagr.

The pillow was stained with centuries of tears, and frost coated the rugs and hangings. Dimmed, the lamps were smothered by sorrow, and Hoðr lay upon the bed, the statuette held close to his chest as he added new tears.

The phantom watched, then touched his brother’s shoulder with golden dust upon his ghostly hand, easing the pain in his brother’s soul before drifting out of the room. The sounds of a broken man weeping followed him until he shut the door.

Next year, perhaps.

Next year.