Chapter Text
At first, all things lived in harmony. Then the mighty people of Asgard, the Æsir, began conquering the nine realms one by one. With their superior fighting and weaponry, they soon dominated every realm beneath Yggdrasil—except Vanaheim. That land was filled with powerful folk who possessed an extraordinary affinity for elemental magic. Both Njörður, king of the Vanir, and Odin, king of the Æsir, let pride cloud their judgment. Neither would bend the knee. Their stubbornness fueling a battle that raged for a millennium, claiming terrible losses on both sides.
Odin, desperate and consumed by a gnawing fear of defeat, sought out the three Norns of Urðarbrunnur.
Urður, Verðandi, and Skuld were said to be guardians of the well that fed Yggdrasil. There they resided, tirelessly weaving the destinies of gods and mortals. With every thread, they shaped the course of history.
“Father of All, we have sensed you coming,” said Urður, her voice radiating the profound wisdom of countless ages.
“You seek our counsel, Kin slayer,” Said Verðandi, her voice the ever-comforting balm of the known.
“You wish to look upon the face of fate, One Eyed King,” Skuld said, her voice conveying all that was yet to come.
Odin, determined to conquer all those who would defy him, asked the Norns to strike a deal. He would look upon the fruitful waters, and in return, Odin would surrender one of his eyes to the Norns.
“You are permitted to gaze upon the waters, young king, but be wary for the waters of fate show not what you want to see, but what you need.”
As Odin knelt before the crystal waters, a vision shimmered before him. A woman wreathed in fire appeared, her hair blazing like the dawn, wielding a sword of living light against a shadowed foe. Then, a thunderous voice echoed through his mind:
“A daughter born of whom you seek to kill
Shall bear the power of the flame at will.
Shall you bear the mark of death
Asgard will face its final breath.
For Ragnarök conquers all
Save for her who shall heed its call”.
“What is this trickery!” Odin bellowed as he rose from the water’s edge
“We have no use for trickery, young king; the only thing that holds value is truth”, the Norns said in unison. “ And now even half blind you see it. Kill your enemy, or don’t, fate spins along either way. But know that it will bring upon your downfall”.
With the weight of the prophecy heavy on his heart, Odin, troubled and anxious about his future, sought a ceasefire with Vanaheim. The terms of the agreement were that Vanaheim must produce a female heir within the next 100 years. If they were able to do so, she would marry Prince Thor and become the next queen of Asgard. If not, the Asgardians would summon all their strength and break Vanaheim once and for all.
One thousand and five hundred years later
Sunlight dances on the lake’s surface, its rays filling the water with golden hues as the water moves. The warm breeze dances across your skin as you lie in the clearing, watching the lake's calm surface ripple. Wildflowers in every color cover the clearing as birds hum in harmony.
“Nothing shall ever compare to the beauty of a summer’s day. Don’t you agree?
Garpur gives a loud snort.
With a fond chuckle, you rise from the grass, watching as your horse greedily devours the lushest patch he can find. As you approach, he attempts a playful sidestep, but you deftly gather the reins in your hand.
“Please, you act like I don’t feed you,” you say and gently stroke the forelock away from his eyes.
“Freyja!”
“Oh, by the grace of Njörður,” you whisper to yourself as you watch your brother slide off his horse and walk across the clearing.
“Why are you out here? We are leaving in less than an hour! The maids have been running around the palace like headless chickens trying to find you!”
“Freyr, calm yourself. I was heading back in a moment, no need to give yourself a heart attack.”
Putting one foot in the stirrup, you gracefully swing onto the saddle and pull in the reins as you try to look anywhere but at Freyr.
Freyr’s face softens, and his concern is apparent as he speaks. “I know this is difficult for you, and believe me, I wish it needn’t be this way, but we don’t always get to decide our fate.” His earlier irritation replaced with sympathy.
You look down at where he stands. His face is as soft as his voice. Golden locks fall in waves past his ears, his narrow nose demure between a pair of icy blue eyes. People always thought you were twins. Even so, the strong set of his jaw and sharp arch of his eyebrows hold an edge that yours never did. Where he is sharp and strong, you are softer—the straight slope of your eyebrows, your low cheekbones, and your round eyes. Looking at him now, he doesn’t look like your older brother; he looks like your father—regal, refined, ready to take on the heavy burdens of being heir to the throne.
You swallow hard, trying to push down the sorrow rising in your chest. "I know," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with longing. “I just wanted one last day in this place.” Your gaze lingers on the clearing, eyes shimmering as you try to commit the scene to memory. This place has always been your refuge, where peace soothes your worries, where the gentle babble of the stream and the dappling sunlight calm your restless mind. Every detail—the brilliant wildflowers, the hum of insects—evokes a sharp ache of loss, reminding you that soon it will all be out of reach.
You startle at the neigh that escapes your brother’s horse. “Ready?” Freyr calls out.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you whisper to no one but yourself as your brother heads for the makeshift road to the palace.
As you start to follow him, you glance back at the clearing. You feel a single tear make its way down your cheek. You squeeze your eyes shut and breathe deeply. One tear, one tear is all that you’ll allow yourself. You are Freyja Njarðardóttir. Princess of Vanaheim, and you will not cower, not for Asgard nor its king.
You never noticed how large and menacing the oak doors of the courtroom look. It is as if they are growing larger by the second, preparing to swallow you whole.
Just open the damn door, you think to yourself as you try, and fail, to muster up the courage to turn the handle.
Suddenly, the door swings open, and a large male figure steps out. You recognize the man as your father's most trusted advisor and general, Baldvin.
His face is soft and wrinkly, marked by prominent smile lines and crow’s feet, and his brown hair is streaked with wisps of graying hair. His face is broad and has a large scar down the right cheek. Despite his menacing look, he has always been kind and gentle. For every sharpness your father had, Baldvin made up for it with softness.
Baldvin is thought to be one of the most formidable fighters in all the nine realms. Many have speculated that it was his profound wisdom of strategy and battle that held the Asgard army at bay in the Æsir-Vanir war.
He and your father have been friends since childhood, growing up together since Baldvin's father had been your grandfather's general.
“Ah, Princess, you have returned! The Norns have not abandoned us, yet it seems. Though there is still time,” His soft brown eyes radiate warmth as he teases you. “Thirty-two minutes to be exact, if you feel like making a run for it,” he says with a father-like wink and a wide grin.
You chuckle as you respond with a small smile, “Yes, I’m back, and still have all ten fingers and toes.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I thought you had returned missing a head or leg with the way Hildur was swearing up and down the hall.” His deep voice booms as he laughs. You cringe as you remember your handmaiden Hildur greeting you in your chambers, swearing like an Asgardian, scolding you for disappearing.
You look up at Baldvin, meeting his eye, “Is he alone?”
“Yes,” he says and clears his throat awkwardly, refusing to meet your eyes, “and not in a festive mood”, his lips form a straight line.
“Hmm, how shocking,” you note sarcastically. “I'd best head on in, I’ll see you before I go,” you say, walking towards the door.
“Of course, princess,” he says with a low bow. “You look beautiful, so much like your mother.” He gently puts his hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Your heart tightens with a mix of gratitude and sadness, and you swallow hard, fighting to maintain composure. “Thank you.” Your voice trembles, coming out much softer and smaller than you intended. You give him a curt nod, the effort to hold back tears evident, before turning away and forcing yourself to face the imposing door.
When you enter, your father sits at a large wooden table in the center of the room. His face is obscured by the papers he holds in his hands. You feel your heartbeat quicken as your mind reels;
He probably didn’t even notice me come in, maybe I could make a run for it? No, then I would have to run away to another realm in hopes of escaping his wrath. Besides, there is no way I can make a run for it in this dress.
After Hildur finished scolding you, she sat you down by the vanity. Then she went to work. “Everything has to be perfect,” she insisted until she was blue in the face. Your hair is parted neatly in the middle. She twisted your thick, long hair into a low bun. Around it, a small golden circle spreads in all directions, creating a halo of flames emanating from the bun. Your dress is long, off-the-shoulder, and golden, hugging your waist, with a loose white and gold skirt pooling at your feet. At the center of your chest, a delicate sun-like pattern blooms. It’s one of your favorite gowns. You’d be thrilled if the circumstances for wearing it weren’t so daunting.
“I heard you caused quite the commotion with that disappearing act of yours.”
You nearly jump out of your skin as your father’s voice carries across the room, pulling you from your thoughts. His tone is neutral, calm, and authoritative. He doesn’t even look up from his papers as he addresses you.
“Not that I’m surprised, doing as you're told has never been your forte.”
Ah, and there it is, the unmistakable sound of disappointment. How utterly unsurprising.
“I really don’t get the obsession with this topic; I was gone for less than an hour. I was just taking a ride in the forest.”
You made it a point to never tell anyone about your special little sanctuary, well, except for Freyr and Baldur, but they wouldn’t tell anyone. They learned from a young age not to bear the brunt of your ire.
“This is the most important day for Vanaheim in a millennium, the fate of the realm hangs in the balance, and your galivanting around the forest”. His face is carefully blank as he finally deigns to look at you.
His black hair is streaked with gray as it hangs loosely to his shoulders. His eyes are as blue as the harsh and unforgiving sea. Your father has always been a handsome man, and the low light of the room seems only to enhance his stark features. As you look at him, you can see the signs of age on his face. His wrinkles and the bags under his eyes stand out to you more than before.
You narrow your eyes as you bitterly think to yourself, his only daughter is being sent to Asgard to marry the son of his biggest (former?) enemy, and all he can think to do is nitpick at how I chose to spend my last day at home.
You swallow your anger. “No pressure then. Only the most important day in a millennium.” You say with thinly veiled sarcasm. You know it’s childish and petulant, but you just want some kind of reaction. Some slight confirmation that he cares that you are leaving, or for him to acknowledge it in any real way. Just something other than this bored, unaffected mask he has on. Perhaps it’s not a mask; perhaps he just really isn’t that affected by the prospect of you leaving.
A knock sounds at the door, tearing you from your thoughts.
“Yes?” your father calls out in a monotone voice.
The door opens, and Hildur stands in the doorway along with Iðunn, your other handmaid.
“Sorry to disturb your majesty, but they are ready for your Royal Highness,” she says with a low bow.
You turn back to meet your father’s eye as he stands up and walks your way, stopping at arm’s length.
“Be good. This union is the most important thing that you will do for this realm. Don’t disappoint me.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
It feels like a heavy rock slowly sinks in your stomach, filling you with dread, as a lump forms in your throat.
"I won’t, Father," you say, your words tinged with resignation as you fight to ignore the surge of sadness and uncertainty threatening to spill over.
You turn, but before you can, he grabs your arm gently. You look into his eyes and see something unspoken swimming in them. He hesitates for a moment.
“Be careful. The Asgardians can be fickle, but they are no fools.” He states seriously, “ I will come to Asgard the day before the wedding ceremony.”
“Very well, Father, will that be all?” you say, searching his face for anything other than plain indifference.
“Yes, that will be all,” he states simply as he removes his hand from your forearm.
With a low curtsey, you turn to take your leave.
With every slow step toward the door, the ache of homesickness and dread presses heavier on your chest. Hildur and Iðunn stand waiting at the door in their royal handmaiden dresses. The dresses are simple, with dark brown sleeves and skirts, and a golden corset around their waists. On it, a delicate embroidery of the sun lines the stomach, the Vanir's coat of arms. Whereas it had brought you comfort in the past, it now stirs a deep longing for home, for a life slipping beyond your grasp.
You look back to where your father stood, hope and anxiety twisting together as you half expect him to call you back, to give you a last-second reprieve. But when you turn around, he's already gone, and the ache of disappointment settles deep inside you.
Feet crunch on gravel as you walk toward the palace garden, Hildur and Iðunn trailing behind. The warm air, sun on your skin, and the garden's aroma fill your senses. Ahead, two familiar faces stand, speaking quietly, in fine clothes with matching brooches with the Vanir’s coat of arms.
“We came to wish you farewell, princess,” says Baldvin beside your brother, his voice warm but edged with pride and sadness. “You will bring honour to Vanaheim; I know it,” he adds, gently squeezing your hand, his touch lingering as if reluctant to let go. His face is soft as he looks at you, emotion flickering in his eyes—proud, anxious, and full of hope.
“And more importantly, mayhem to the Asgardians. They won’t know what hit them,” Freyr adds with a wide grin.
You can't help but let laughter bubble up as you give your brother a playful slap on the shoulder, affection and anxiety twisting together inside you.
A sudden burst of panting and the sharp crunch of gravel reach your ears, breaking the quiet anticipation.
You turn to see Baldur running toward you. Best friends since childhood, you grew up together in the palace, where Baldvin, his father, trained him to become Vanaheim's next general.
Baldur is a once-in-a-century kind of beautiful. His features seem sculpted by the Norns themselves: high cheekbones, eyes that capture the vivid green of newly bloomed leaves, and hair that seems to flow like liquid sunshine. People are drawn to him, like petals pulled by a gentle breeze towards the sun.
You did everything together as children, from learning to fight to tedious dance lessons. Every high and low, every scrap and scab—he was there. He was even your first kiss, and last, before you both realized your preferences diverged.
He skids to a halt just short of you, chest heaving, eyes alight with excitement.
A delighted squeal escapes you as you bound forward, arms flung wide, closing the distance in a heartbeat before enveloping him in a fierce embrace.
“What are you doing here!?” you say breathlessly as he squeezes you tightly.
“You think I'd let my best friend leave without a proper goodbye?”
"Well, no... It's just—I haven't seen you in six months, and your father said you would be in Ársbrú until next week," you stammer at his sudden arrival.
“Well, having the general for a father has its perks,” he says teasingly as he gives you a crooked grin.
You hug him once more, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, sandalwood and pine. You feel tears welling up in your eyes. “I don't want to leave,” you whisper as your voice trembles, “I'm scared, Baldur. What if Odin doesn't approve of me, and-and I'll be sent home in disgrace”. You pull your face from his neck as you look at him, tears falling silently from your eyes.
“Don´t even think that,” he says calmly as he wipes the tears from your eyes. “You'll be great, you have nothing to worry about, and besides, Odin needs this to go well if he were to send you back, he'd be risking outright war with Vanaheim”.
A stone seems wedged in your throat as you force yourself to swallow. You nod, struggling to steady yourself, as your heart pounds so hard you think it might burst free.
Baldur takes your face in his hands. “When you get frightened, just repeat these words: I am Freyja Njarðardóttir. Princess of Vanaheim. I am a fierce warrior, and I cower for no one.” There is a sheen of tears forming in his eyes. “I'll write to you as much as possible.”
“You promise?” you say firmly.
“We all promise.” You feel two separate hands land on your shoulder as Baldur releases your face.
You turn around, meeting Baldvin's kind eyes. “We are not going anywhere, we will be here for you no matter what,” he says with fatherly concern, painting his features.
As Baldvin’s hand slips from your shoulder, you turn to your brother. You embrace him, tears pricking at your eyes. You swallow hard, summoning your resolve.
“Don't do anything rash or foolish while I'm gone,” you say teasingly with a small laugh.
“Ha! You should be saying that to a mirror, not me. If anything, it's you I have to worry about.”
You pull back as you playfully roll your eyes at him.
Beyond his face, a towering passageway unfurls, both breathtaking and formidable. It shimmers with every hue of the rainbow, glittering and glowing as if spun from a thousand living crystals.
“The Bifröst” you whisper in awe.
A fresh wave of nausea crashes over you. This is it. Years of careful preparation dissolve in an instant, and now Asgard’s call rings out, claiming you at last.
You tear your eyes from the shimmering gateway, looking back at the faces of your loved ones.
“I'll miss you all, more than you will ever know.” You say, trying to convey all the fondness and love you have for them.
As you turn to look back at the Bifröst, you catch a figure standing in a large window of the castle. Eyes like steel, mouth pressed in a thin line, and hands behind his back. Your heart seems to stop as you meet your father's eyes.
He couldn't even be bothered to come down to say goodbye, you think as you grit your teeth.
Anger blazes through you, painting your cheeks scarlet.
When you are crowned queen of Asgard, you will never bow to the whims of lesser men again. You will never again have to crawl on your knees to those who claim to love you.
Without so much as a second glance in your father's direction, you turn and let the radiant light of the bridge swallow you whole.