(Hel speaks.)

They say that I am cold,

and they are right, for I must be

that which is implacable, a wall

of grey ice that never melts and

the darkness of earth falling

over a silent mound of bones.

They say too that I have no heart,

but in that, they are not correct.

 

One half of me is bone, draped in

rotting flesh like pennants, and

one half of me is living flesh. As I,

in all my fabled monstrosity,

am both in one body, so my heart

beats, divided, alive and dead –

one half blackened, softening,

the other hard as adamantine

and colder than Niflheim itself.

 

It is that latter half that I,

waiting at the gates of my kingdom,

call upon as I see them coming

up the road, heralded by my guardians,

escorted by the banners of the dead:

he in his bright cloak of shining,

golden hair, eyes as blue-grey

as the ocean sky, walking upright

and supporting the one at his side.

The gate swings open to admit

the son of Odin and Frigga and

his faithful, loving wife.

 

They catch sight of me, a terrible

and strange sight in a landscape

which they were told, all their lives,

was a place of horror. They gasp

with the still breath of the dead, all

their fear vanishing, replaced by

only wonder. I have seen this

so many times now I have not even

come to expect it; it simply is

what the dead do, upon reaching

this their eternal home, lovelier

than most of them ever imagine.

My lady, he says, bowing, with

one hand, the one that does not

grasp that of his beloved, placed

gently over his heart. There I almost see

the green leaves, the white berries

and the blood, the work of my father,

the work of another more ruthless.

An image swims into my thoughts, that

of Loki, drawn and pale, listening

to the accusations, to the lies…

hindsight is always clearer when

there is reason to blame one person

for the mistakes, the blindness of all.

I shut Father out of my mind’s eye and

extend my living hand to them.

Will they take it, or will they shudder,

turn away, pass me by with averted,

downcast, tear-dried eyes?

 

I wait patiently.

Baldur meets my gaze. He does not

shiver or look away. He is thoughtful,

seems about to speak, but then

that dazzling smile comes, like the sun

which only seldom breaks through

the gentle veil of cloud here in my land.

His face is gentle and sad. There is

nothing to say, nothing that both he and I

do not already know, unsaid words heavy

like ripening fruit in the air around us.

Nanna raises her smooth, fair head

for the first time. She smiles too,

tremulously. It surprises me,

but I slowly nod back to her.

Then they reach forth

to take my hand,

and it is done.

 

But next time Mordgud’s horn sounds, I cannot

meet the newcomer with my heart of ice.

 

Garm comes, looking up at me, his eyes

momentarily dimmed, quizzical, wary.

I rise from my throne. The dead, bowing,

make way for me and I rest my skeletal hand

on Garm’s dark, bristling flank.

Go to him, I command, and my servant

hurries forth, not rushing or snarling,

but attentively, passing through the gates

to meet the small figure in the distance.

 

He stops, startled, at the sight of the hound,

but then with the insight of the dead, sees

who and what Garm is, and I watch as a hand

tentatively reaches out to touch Garm’s side

right where my hand lay before.

They come towards me. I tell

the watchers and the bearers to leave us,

not because I do not wish him to have honor,

but because I would have words with him,

my poor little half-brother, alone and unheard.

 

He approaches slowly. He has

his mother’s gentle, rounded face, our father’s

vibrant eyes tinged with grey instead of blue.

His hair is brown. He is pale and slender

and no more than fourteen winters old.

Nor will he ever age, I think, while

his tragic brother roams the worlds over

growing to manhood alone and exiled.

I feel my lips tighten, half stretching taut

over bone, and Narvi halts, afraid at the wave

of cold rage he senses coming from me.

But then he speaks, bravely.

 

Father told me about you, that I

shouldn’t fear you when one day we met,

he says, tensing. I nod, letting the rage drain

into the earth of my realm. I miss him.

I miss Mother and Vali too, he adds.

I know, I say, thinking that our father

had hoped, with all his heart, that

this tender child of his child-bride

would meet me only when age had

had its chance to work its inexorable magic.

 

We are silent. Garm shifts, sitting down,

his eyes keen in the distance, but no one has

followed the boy here. No one would, I remember,

although his predecessor had mourners

in plenty. Before the anger can rise anew,

I say to Narvi, Do you understand what

has happened here? Do you know why?

The boy’s face clouds, and he begins

to shake his head, but then slowly,

reluctantly, he nods. His father’s son,

then, in ways no one in that walled land

probably ever thought to discern.

I feel myself growing remote again.

 

Take my hand, my brother, I say,

holding it out. He studies it, considering,

but at least he nods, and I see a trace, in

his mingled expression of resignation and sorrow

of the man he might have become one day.

And it is no use. The soft, blackened half

of my heart pulses with pain, shedding tears

of black blood, and ignoring his hand,

I kneel and take Narvi in my arms, holding him

with both bone and flesh. My eyes do not weep.

His tears dampen my gown at the shoulder.

I think of Father, imprisoned, raging,

following his other son into slow madness,

and further back in time, his choking as he

ejects my mother’s heart from his breast

and summons all the dread magic he knows

to bring her again into the living world.

I think of what Father said to me when

he left my side last, when Mother and I

forced him to do what he knew must be done.

 

Daughter, you are quite as ruthless

as Odin himself, whatever your differences,

he said, ironically, sadly, before he went back

to that shining land, to his terrible duty,

to the sacrifice of his wife and children

which only I knew he would have to make.

 

 

Ruthless, yes, but not

without remorse, not unable to love,

no matter what they say of me,

no matter how true some of it is.

Narvi and I rise to our feet.

I take him into my realm, telling him

that now I will care for him, until the day

when all our kin return to us, and the

rotting, decaying half of my heart

fills with an endless ache, knowing

that if there is weregild that must be paid

to my father, I will pay it, over and over,

every time I see my half-brother’s face.

 

(Artwork by Ian McEwan.)