The freezing wind carried with it a fragment of song and a hint of wood-smoke. It danced up the hill, sighed through a grove of twisted birches, whisked away the mist on the man’s breath and blew a fine dusting of snow in his face. The man stopped abruptly, pulled down his red, fur-lined hood and cocked his head to listen, exposing his great white beard and mane of silver hair to the gentle snowfall. He didn’t recognise the tune, but it wasn’t a song for dancing. That meant he was making good time. The man put down his bulging sack and stuck his thick cane of polished black wood into the snow. He pulled off his mittens and then produced a battered hip-flask from somewhere deep inside his crimson greatcoat; a magnificent double-breasted garment with white fur trimming at the cuff and collar and two rows of polished silver buttons down the front. The man took a hasty swig from the flask and breathed a rumbling sigh at the warmth spreading in his chest.

Bloody black ravens but he was starving …

Speaking of ravens, a whole murder of the black birds had begun to gather around him as soon as he had stopped, fluttering about in the snow and looking shifty. Few things in this broken world are more pathetic than a commonly known omen of death and despair trying to look nonchalant … 

So, she was watching then. Well, in and of itself that was no surprise - she usually was. No, the odd thing was that she wanted him to know she was watching. Had something gone wrong? Perhaps. Be that as it may, for now there was nothing for it but to adhere to tradition. Tradition kept you safe … Tradition kept the peace … Humming a low, rambling tune to himself, he grabbed his black cane, slung a bulky sack over his shoulder and trudged on through the snow, with only ravens and snowfall for company. 

Bloody black ravens but he was starving …

A black shape detached itself from the shadows soon after the man had left. To call it a cat would not be incorrect, but not entirely accurate either. The creature was to a cat what a bear is to a poodle; it was massive. It had thick, glossy black fur, curiously long ears with tufts of hair at the tips and bright, malicious yellow eyes. It sniffed curiously at a deep footprint and then turned its eyes to the pair of ravens seated in a nearby birch tree. They stared back, unmoving. These two weren’t the Queen’s ravens. No, they were his. That one-eyed fool. He seemed to have his clever old hands in everything these days. This was a matter between the Hidden Folk and the Dying, he had no business meddling

The Cat hissed violently at the two ravens, and then slunk quietly down the hillside after the man in red. His mistress, the great troll Grýla, had told him explicitly that the Fat Man was not prey, which seemed a tragic waste. Perhaps one of the Dying Folk had neglected tradition this year and failed to give their child a new garment. These days that sort of thing had consequences.

Bloody black ravens but he was starving …

The singing could be heard more clearly now, here where a snowman marked the border between the wild and the little town by the sea. There were nine of them all told, encircling the little town, each portly figure bearing a large protective sigil on its breast that had been crudely wrought from sticks and stones and pressed into the hard snow. The man stopped once more and turned to face the darkness. A thin slice of silver moon hung over the mountains that dominated the horizon, and the Northern Lights; faint veils of green and purple, danced lazily across a backdrop of cold starlight. The snow-covered slope leading down to the village took on a hue of midnight blue in the darkness, against which the black shape, sneaking along the trail, was only faintly visible in the distance.

That fucking cat …

Ah yes. He could feel it now, a whisper of emotions at the back of his mind; red anger, black malice and a biting yellow hunger.

“I know you’re there, you great bloody weasel!” Shouted the man in red, then paused to listen … Silence, save for the moaning wind and the faint, mournful song of a choir.

“I may be fair game any other night of the year!” he roared. “But tonight, you let me go about my business, or else I’ll have your stinking pelt for a crotch-warmer! Your mistress and I have an accord, hear me!?”

The Cat froze in the inky shadow of a small tree with its long ears turned back, flat against its triangular head. Stinking pelt … ? Fine talk indeed, coming from one of the Dying Folk. They couldn’t smell a troll if it farted in their faces, how else could they live all together like that - all crammed into their smelly little hovels? Unhygienic … and everyone knew the Dying Folk were almost as deaf as they were blind. No, there was no way the fat man could see him. 

Unless … A man doesn’t spend his life, several lives for that matter, sworn to the Hidden Court without picking up a few tricks, now does he? The Cat released a great, echoing yowl that reverberated down the valley and out into the frozen fjord … and in response, floating on the icy wind, came the fat man’s distant, booming laughter.

“Ho … Ho … Ho …”

Still chuckling gruffly to himself, the man in red turned and walked towards the village. He’d give the creature a good thrashing if it tried anything. He didn’t carry an ebony cane topped with silver for nothing.

The village by the sea was among those little corners of the world where the Dying Folk could live out their short lives in peace - more or less. The crude, stone-and-wood fronted houses were dug into the ground and roofed with turf to preserve heat. In winter they resembled triangular drifts of snow; with bright little windows and squat stone chimneys protruding through the whiteness. The village was built around a long temple; the Great Hall, which stood at the edge of a ring of nine tall standing-stones - each with the weathered, angular face of a deity carved into the grey rock. 

But what’s this now? There was a ship at anchor out in the harbour - and a big one at that, with three masts and probably carrying a crew of dozens at least. What in Rán’s name were they doing this far north in the dead of winter? Traders only ever came in the summer, if they came at all.

Hmm … So there are outlanders present at the festivities on Midwinter’s Eve. What would the Queen make of that?  

The man had reached the centre of the ring of stones when his musings were interrupted by the shrill voice of a child shouting:

“Hey! You!”

Two children, who appeared to be mostly composed of woollen scarves, mittens and fluffy hats came running towards the man from the direction of the Great Hall, wading heroically through fresh snow that reached them to their knees. One carried a brass bell as big as its head and the other clutched a creaking old storm lantern in an outstretched hand. The children reached the man, breathless and panting, and then stood and stared, clearly unsure how to proceed.

“Ehm … Who goes there?” Asked the child with the bell, its little voice emanating from somewhere behind the confines of a blocked nose.

“A jolly fat man in a red coat … Who do you think?” said the man. 

He didn’t sound particularly jolly at all. 

“Have you two been good this year?” he asked.

This was followed by a few seconds of frantic whispering. A conclusion was reached.

“You’re late.” Said the child with the lantern, evidently a girl and, judging by her tone of voice; a Chieftain in the making. The boy merely wiped his nose on a snow-covered mitten, directing an awestruck stare at the tall man in the red coat - with all those shiny buttons! The Fat Man loomed over the pair with his black cane clutched in one hand and the great sack slung over his other shoulder.

“If I am late, then you two ought to be in bed … no?” said the man levelly from somewhere deep within his fur-lined hood. The girl knit her eyebrows in a fantastic frown that should have been accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder.

Why, the very idea …

“Jolly old men carrying a sackful of presents arrive precisely when they mean to, young Rúna, daughter of Kári. Hm? It is known.” said the old man, thereby interrupting the stream of insults rallying at the front of the girl’s mind. Most of which concerned the man’s alleged parentage and were, she later thought, very creative indeed.

“So, what do you expect to do next?” asked the man gruffly. The girl turned her attention to the boy with the bell, nudged him sharply and gave a commanding whisper. The boy rallied and raised his bell. It went clank!

“ … s’posed to ring the bell.” He mumbled, as a glittering blob of snot began its surreptitious descent from a small nostril.

“Well then, Ari, don’t let me keep you. These presents won’t open themselves you know,” said the man. The boy gripped the bell’s handle firmly in both hands, then raised it high above his head like an executioner’s axe. With every ounce of strength in his little arms the boy brought the bell all the way down between his legs, then right back up over his head and back down again; as if swinging a greatsword about on some ancient battlefield.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

The bell’s metallic song rang out across the village. It caused several heads to peer out of the Great Hall and a flock of children to come sprinting out to the ring of stones and begin bouncing about the man in red; pleading, singing, shouting and, well, brawling … The ringing stopped suddenly when Ari accidentally performed half a black-flip into a nearby snowdrift.

“Well done boy, well done indeed!” The man chuckled. “Rúna help him up, why don’t you? We had best go inside, I think. I’m sure you have all waited long enough!” Said the man and produced a laugh that seemed to emanate from somewhere down in the depths of his very soul - or at least his magnificent belly.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”

The children led the man through a pair of carved wooden doors and into the Great Hall. Here a heavy atmosphere of smoke, liquor, roasted meats and tobacco greeted the group as they stepped into the light. The choir’s final notes faded and silence descended on the hall which, the man was pleased to see, hadn’t changed much since last year. There were two large hearths burning brightly along its centre - with seats, benches and little private booths and corners along each side of the Hall. Here people sat, crowded together beneath richly detailed tapestries and intricate wooden carvings depicting the gods and their deeds - whether good or ill. Usually a bit of both. All eyes in the crowded hall were on him. The emotions in the room covered his mind like a cloud; the children’s golden anticipation and their bright blue curiosity, mingled with a dull grey apprehension from the adults. 

His stomach rumbled.

“Nikulás!” A steely woman’s voice cut through the room. There was a rough edge to it, which was appropriate, for it belonged to a steely woman with a rough edge to her. Still trailing a retinue of children and toddlers the man walked further into the room, past the two crackling hearths with their spits of fragrant meat roasting over them, and stopped in front of the woman who had called his name. The man put down his sack, pulled back his hood and knelt in front of the woman to present her with his sable cane.

“I bring these gifts from Her Majesty Queen Hulda of the Hidden Folk. Let them serve as a symbol of the forgiveness she extended towards your people for their part in The Burning of the World, and as a sign of the enduring peace between the Hidden Folk and the Dying,” said the man so the whole room could hear. The steely woman screwed the silver top off the cane and extracted a small gold ring from a discreet cavity. In a quick movement that spoke of much practice she replaced it with a similar, albeit silver, ring that she had been wearing, slipped the gold ring onto her finger and handed the cane back to the man in red. He accepted it and rose to his feet.

“We thank Her Majesty for the benevolence and forgiveness she has shown us. As is our custom every nine years, we accept Her Majesty’s gift of a gold ring and accept our obligation to send one of our own along with you, to serve as Her Majesty sees fit at the Hidden Court, until your return next year … ‘‘ To the Fat Man’s relief, she did not conclude with: “and so on and so forth … ” as her hurried, impatient rendition of the speech had implied. You never knew who might be listening.

,,Now … get out of that ridiculous coat, Nikulás, and let’s have some dinner, eh?”

At that someone whisked the red coat off his shoulders, and ushered Nikulás into a seat next to the steely woman, Hildur, who resumed her place in a throne-like wooden seat at the end of the room. Food and drink was brought; roast lamb and potatoes, dried fish, fresh flat-bread, smoked meats and salted butter, all washed down with a dry red wine, brought by the traders, and the dark, bitter ales the townsfolk brewed. God’s teeth but it felt good to eat … Nikulás swapped news and jests with the farmers and townsfolk as the meal progressed, and infuriated the impatient children by idly hinting that, well, having been so badly behaved this year … some of them might not be getting any gifts after all …

“So these outlanders …” said Nikulás to Hildur in a low voice, casually sipping the imported wine. “Odd thing, having such exotic guests present at Midwinter, is it not? And on a ninth year too …” 

Hildur smiled like a wolf.

“Actually, that’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” she said quietly. “Not just yet though. In private … Finish your food and give your gifts, Nikulás, and then we’ll talk in my chambers - just like old times.”

This did not bode well. Tradition kept the peace … Tradition kept you safe … He could guess what she might be thinking and he wasn’t sure the Queen would like it at all.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” said Hildur impatiently. “Drink and make merry, Fat Man, and have a bit of faith in me, why don’t you? I’ve earned that much.”

“I suppose you have,” said Nikulás and refilled both their cups. “But you still haven’t told me why they’re here in the dead of winter.”

“Plague,” she said with a shrug. “Took half the crew, and by the time the rest of them had recovered it was too late in the year for them to sail back. The fever didn’t seem to affect us so I let them stay and make themselves useful. They’re good workers, for the most part - though not much used to the cold, and they tell some good stories.”

“Have they learned the traditions?”

“Some of them. They mocked it all at first of course - at least until the Cat took one of them; that put things into perspective, I can tell you, and meeting Grýla’s thirteen rather hammered things home. When you run into one of the Brothers, you either learn quickly or not at all.”

Nikulás glanced over to where the troll Kertasníkir sat near the doors, chewing pensively on a candle as he adjusted the tiny cracked spectacles perched on his nose. He was always last in the procession of sons that Grýla sent down from the mountains every year. The first was always his brother Stekkjastaur, with the wooden peg-legs, who arrived thirteen nights before Midwinter’s Eve, followed by Giljagaur, who arrived twelve nights before, and so on.

“So the Cat’s been feasting on imported goods as well,” he grumbled. That explained why it had been so aggressive lately; it had been hoping to grab another careless outlander.

Hildur chuckled at his scowl.

“Oh yes, poor sod went out beyond the snowmen for a leak one night and wasn’t wearing the new scarf we gave him. That bloody Cat dragged him kicking and screaming halfway up the valley before it put him out his misery. Damn fool …”

Nikulás turned his gaze to the people gathered in the hall. They were eating, drinking and laughing - and occasionally a giggling couple would sneak out into the freezing night. The sailors seemed to have become conversant in the mother tongue, and mingled easily amongst the townsfolk. One of them was even learning a lurid song from Kertasníkir. Nikulás’ observations were interrupted when he felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see the boy Ari, wearing a half-toothless and extremely expectant smile. He leaned down so the boy could whisper in his ear.

“Presents you say? Hmmm …” Said Nikulás, in a conspiratorial whisper. ”And you’ve been good, have you?” 

The boy nodded eagerly. 

“Well there’s the litany first, of course. But I’ll tell you what, fetch me my pipe and leaves, and get someone to light it for me - it’s in my coat pocket. Meanwhile I’ll get ready to recite the litany, shall I? You’ll have your present in no time, boy - off you go!” 

The boy scampered off as Nikulás rose from his chair and moved it away from the table so he had space around him, then he put his sack down next to it and resumed his seat.

Hildur signalled to a woman who picked up a drum and came to stand next to Nikulás. She struck up a slow, steady beat.

Bom … Bom … Bom … Bom …

The guests slowly gathered around him, with the children, sitting on the floor at the front of the crowd, or clutched in the arms of their parents or siblings. Ari wrestled his way to the front of the throng, clutching a faintly smoking pipe and a small leather pouch which he handed to Nikulás.

Ari wrestled his way to the front of the throng. He carried a small, leather pouch, pressed against his chest like an infant, and held a faintly smoking pipe away from his body as if it might explode at any moment. These items he handed to Nikulás and then gave a deep curtsy for good measure. It seemed the thing to do.

“Thank you m’boy, have a seat now and I’ll begin, can everyone hear me?” An affirmative mutter fluttered through the crowd as Nikulás stuffed the leather pouch into the pocket of his waistcoat and puffed at his pipe a few times. Then, sitting in a private cloud of bluish smoke, with the drum keeping sombre time, he began.

“Once, our people tamed the lightning and used it to banish the darkness of night. Hot water flowed through our city like the blood in our veins and banished the cold of winter. We knew the riddles of steel and air and fire and earth. Great ships and flying machines brought strange food and clever machinery from distant lands. We could fly across the grey sea and back in less than a day, and speak to our brothers and sisters from beyond the horizon as if they were standing next to us. So great was our knowledge that not even the cold and distant stars could guard their secrets from us. In that time we revered the Crucified King, as some still do in the south. He was a kind god, for a kinder time.”

Nikulás paused, took another long drag from his pipe and exhaled to the steady rhythm of the drum.

Bom … Bom … Bom … Bom …

“Who it was that started the Great War is now forgotten. It does not matter. What matters is that mankind, in our cunning fury, set the world on fire. We blackened the earth and sky and reduced our empires to ash and bones. Even today; many, many lifetimes later, there are great plains in the lands west of the sea, where nothing thrives but death and sickness. In the bitter years that followed the war, the Hidden Folk, previously believed by most of us to be mere myth and legend, hunted us to the brink of extinction for our crimes against the Earth.”

Nikulás looked up at the enthralled crowd. He was pleased to note that the outlanders appeared to be listening intently as well. This was good; the litany was something everyone should hear.

“Allfather, the one-eyed god who is Grímnir, Óðinn and Valtýr, shaped the first of our people from ash and elm. He took pity on us after the Burning and brokered a peace with Hulda, Queen of the Hidden Folk. To preserve that peace we send one of our own to the Queen’s court every nine years, to serve until the following Midwinter’s Eve. In return, she sends her envoy down from the highlands every year with gifts for all our children. May we remember our past and, thus, preserve our future …”

The drumbeat ceased, and silence followed like a held breath … Nikulás leaned forward, ever so slightly, and cracked a smile.

“Would you like to see what I have brought this year?” He asked.

The children had hysterics. This happened every year when, after having waited patiently through all the songs and ceremonies and endless bloody rituals - in itchy new clothing no less - the time to unwrap their long-awaited presents finally, finally came … Still, they knew enough not to ruin their hard-won reputations as Good Children so close to the final payoff. So, instead of swarming over Nikulás, as every fibre of their little beings urged them to do, they gathered close around him in a twitching, excited little knot. Nikulás chuckled to himself heartily. 

He was, after all, the Jolly Old Fat Man.

He reached into his sack, sticking his arm all the way in, and rummaged around in it for a good long while - purely for dramatic effect; mumbling to himself and knitting his bushy brows as he did so. An eternity passed. Empires rose and fell and rose again. The sun grew old and dark and cold. The turning of the galaxies ceased, the stars winked out one by one, and the very Cosmos itself withered and died … or so it seemed to the children, before he finally said:

“Aha!” He pulled his arm out of the sack and placed the first little box into the hands of a little girl who he felt had shown exceptional patience.

“Go on, open it,” he whispered and she proceeded to slowly peel away the crimson wrapping paper. The children watched, rapt, as if the girl were unwrapping a beating heart … She had a good sense of occasion, this one. Beneath the paper was a little black box, from which she extracted a broad, white candle and a slender deck of magnificently rendered cards.

“A candle to light your present, and a deck of runes to illuminate your future. Both will show you the way in times of need,” he explained. “Show it to Hildur, she knows the use of such things.”

There were only nine cards in a deck of runes but the images changed each time the deck was shuffled. Nikulás owned a deck himself and had seen countless images on the cards, some were rare and some were common, but he was certain there were images he had yet to see. The candles however, were purely things of beauty. They burned with a clear, steady white flame and caused little veils of coloured light, like the Aurora in the night sky outside, to dance and flicker in the air immediately above the candle.

Nikulás handed the little boxes out, one by one, and the children ran off to eviscerate the wrapping paper and liberate the gifts from their boxes. Last came the girl Rúna. Nikulás looked her square in the eye with his bushy white eyebrows drawn into a mock frown.

“You’re late.” He said rumbled, flatly. 

There was a flicker of doubt on the poor girl's face, but then she smiled.

“Big girls who have been really, really well-behaved arrive precisely when they mean to. It is known.” She countered in an accurate impression of Nikulás’ voice. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hoho! Well said, so they do!” He said and handed her the last little box from the sack.

“A Merry Midwinter, to one and all!” He declared as the choir gathered hastily to strike up a tune once more. 

Then the dancing began.

Hildur tapped him on the shoulder and proffered a full cup of wine.

“Alright, enough theatrics. You’ve said your words, now come with me.”

Nikulás had been dreading this, but there was no sense putting it off. It was only once every nine years, after all. He rose slowly, rumbling and groaning and making all his best Old-Man noises, and followed her further into the long room. In front of a carved wooden door she stopped and turned to a young woman standing in attendance.

“Bring me Svartur’s son, Viðar, and his foreign girl. After that the evening is your own. Go.” She said curtly, and then led Nikulás through the door. Beyond it was a large sleeping chamber with a double bed, piled high with furs and blankets, and a small table surrounded by four chairs. Hildur placed two of the chairs in front of a blackened stone fireplace and gestured to Nikulás.

“Sit. Drink,” she said and then crouched to place some more wood onto the smouldering fire. He did as he was told.

“And damn you North and down Nikulás,‘‘ she growled with her back still turned. “Don’t give me that fucking look either …”

“I can guess what you have in mind Hildur. The Queen won’t like it. It was Óðinn that made peace with her, on behalf of his people. Us. Not these outlanders and their dead god.”

She turned to face him with her brow drawn in defiance, and was about to respond when someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” she answered and sat down opposite Nikulás.

In came Viðar, a tall, sandy-haired youth with grey eyes, hand in hand with the foreign girl. Hildur’s attendant shut the creaking door shyly behind the pair, thereby muffling the trill of music and the stamping sound of a lively dance over wooden floorboards. Viðar resembled his father more and more each day, it seemed, but it was the foreign girl who held Nikulás’ attention. She had olive skin and the strangest yellow-green eyes, almost the colour of moss in summer, and her short, honey-coloured curls were streaked with crimson. Plenty of steel in this one, certainly … But no, she’d never pass for a native. Nikulás sighed and took another sip of wine, then smiled at the girl. There were few things worse than rudeness towards a guest, after all. 

She didn’t smile back.

“You speak our language?” he asked

“Speak little. Understand more.” Her accent was atrocious, but that was to be expected.

“What is your name?”

“Chiara, daughter of Sofia. Name of father I don’t know.” Black teeth, if her accent was bad her grammar was worse.

“Chiara and Viðar plan on getting married, yes?” Said Hildur.

“We do,” answered Viðar, his voice trembling slightly. He cleared his throat. “My uncle Heiðar has no children, he says we can move up to his farm in the spring, and when the time comes we’ll inherit. It’s not bad land.”

“I know your uncle,” said Nikulás and nodded. “He served honourably at the Hidden Court. He’s always been a generous man. Shame he had no children…” He paused. That the man was childless was hardly surprising, given his time at the Court. “And you Chiara, you’ve been sailing your whole life?”

Chiara nodded.

“Whole life, twenty-one years,” she said.

“And you’d be willing to give up sailing? Live here amongst us?”

“Love sea, love him more,” she shrugged. Viðar just blushed. “Here, weather cold, people warm. Good home.”

Rubbish, of course. People here were petty, judgmental and deeply wary of anyone who was the slightest bit different from them. It was a good answer though.

“Well, that’s a lovely little plan you’ve made for yourselves,” said Hildur. “However, it would seem your destiny isn’t woven quite so simply, Viðar.” She stood up and slipped a gold ring off her finger - the very one she had received from Nikulás earlier. With a rueful, sympathetic smile she grabbed his free hand and placed the ring in his palm.

“I am sorry my boy, the bones chose you. That’s just the way it goes.” She returned to her seat as Viðar simply stared at the ring in his palm. “Unless, of course, you know of someone who’ll volunteer to take your place …”

Nobody returned from the Hidden Court unchanged. A woman had once come back with sky-blue hair; she could hear people’s thoughts and walked into the sea one day. Another could start fires with her mind; her life ended in the way you’d expect … A man had once turned to stone at the edge of the village upon his return. He was still there, covered in moss and lichen, wearing a look of surprise. Some came back a year later and swore they’d been gone for centuries, while others never came back at all. That could be something of a relief … 

“I go.” Said Chiara.

Hildur smiled.

“No!” Said Viðar.

“Absolutely not,” said Nikulás, glowering at Hildur.

“You’re very brave Chiara, I’m beginning to see why Viðar is so taken with you.” Said Hildur.

“I was chosen, so I will go,” said Viðar, his cheeks flushed beneath his patchy, reddish beard. “I’d rather die than let her go to that awful place.”

“Well, you might get that chance, if I’ve read the cards correctly,” said Hildur. She opened a little wooden box on her nightstand from which she removed a deck of rune cards and shuffled them. “Draw.” She said to Viðar. He did as he was told. “You too, dear. Don’t look just yet.” Chiara blew a curly lock of hair away from her face and did the same. Hildur shuffled the deck again and drew the top card.

Truth.

Hildur showed it to Nikulás, who scoffed into his cup of wine. Hildur slipped the card back into the deck.

“You first, Chiara.” she said. 

Chiara glanced down at the card and then held it up for all to see.

Journey.

“What’s that rune?” Asked Viðar.

“It means she’s going places,” Hildur answered. “Which isn’t necessarily bad.”

Nikulás watched in silence and stroked his snow-white beard. Rune cards could indicate the direction in which the course of events was likely to flow. Sometimes. To most people who tried to use them they were simply confusing. Journey could mean a great many things.

“Now you,” she said to Viðar who held up his card without ceremony

Death.

Nikulás groaned. If anyone could see truth in the runes it was Hildur.

“Meaning is what?” Asked Chiara.

“It means that if he leaves he’s unlikely to survive.” said Hildur.

Chiara nodded and tucked the stray lock behind her ear.

“I go.”

Viðar turned and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“No! You won’t! You’re not fucking go – ” 

Chiara clasped a scarred, weathered hand over his mouth.

“You are good man,” she said quietly. “Brave man. But … how to say?” She tugged at his grey woollen jumper. “Like this?”

“Soft.” Said Hildur.

Poor lad.

“Soft,” Chiara repeated. “I know many not-soft men … Do not love them.” She poked his chest. “Love you.” She removed her hand from his mouth and turned to Hildur. “You send outlander to protect home. I understand.” She took the gold ring from Viðar’s palm and slipped it onto a slender finger.

“I go.”

Nikulás sighed.

“The Queen will not like this.” he said. “But if you are all in agreement, so be it. Perhaps …” He paused, ran a large hand over his lined and weary face, and sighed. “Perhaps I can convince her this is for the best. You had better hope so,” he said to Chiara.

“I show her what outlander knows,” said Chiara.

“Yes … that is what worries me.”

Chiara shrugged.

“When we go?” She asked.

“As soon as you are ready,” said Nikulás. “But there is no rush, take your time,” he added, upon noticing Viðar’s slumped shoulders.

“You two kids had best run along now,” said Hildur and opened the wooden door to a flood of rhythm and sound; heavy stamping, rapid clapping and drunken singing. “Find yourselves a quiet corner and say your goodbyes,” she said and winked at Chiara.

Hand in hand, the couple slipped out into the hall and disappeared into the heat and noise. Hildur shut the door and leaned her back against it, drew a long, weary breath and let it out with a slight shudder. She glanced at Nikulás. With an innocent smile he turned his cup upside down and let the last drop of wine trickle down onto the table. Hildur laughed.

“Alright, you old tramp. I’ll get you some more wine. I could use some myself.”

She returned shortly carrying a clay jug, refilled Nikulás’ cup and poured one for herself.

For a long while they drank in silence and stared at the fire, lost in their private thoughts. Nikulás cleared his throat.

“You are taking a risk, sending this girl with me,” he said. “I do not know what I will say to the Queen.”

“Hmmm … ” said Hildur. “Tell her … well just tell her she’s getting the same thing she gets every nine years. I know she listens to you.”

“Usually the bones choose someone older. We do not usually send someone who is about to start a family. Is this not a cruel thing to do?”

“Maybe, but I can’t think of anyone more likely to survive. Can you? Did you hear how Chiara took on Bersir’s sons? She got away with a nosebleed, left the three of them out cold.”

“What did they do?”

“Don’t be naive Nikulás. They caught her alone and thought her a defenceless foreigner.”

“Ah, I see … What did you do with them?”

“Gave them to the sea of course, and about time too … Rán has been expecting those idiots since the day they were born.”

Nikulás wasn’t sure what to say to that. The boys were rotten, true, but only because their father was a rotten old sadist, and that was only because his mother had returned from her time at the Court with a sickness of the spirit. Still, In such a small community even a single act of violence was like venom in the blood, and if you didn’t act quickly the rot simply spread. People had to be able to trust each other. Life was hard enough already … 

Nikulás changed the subject.

“But what of Viðar? He was ready to go, does he not have that right?”

“Chiara was right, he’s soft. He’d come back in pieces.”

“You do not know this. I was like him, soft.”

“No, you were sweet, but never soft. You’re still sweet you know, just a bit weathered, that’s all …” Hildur took Nikulás’ hand in hers and stroked it gently with her thumb, his joints were knobbly and the palm callused, but his hand was warm. 

She smiled at him.

“I was sorry to hear of your husband’s passing,” said Nikulás.

“Mmm … I miss him,” said Hildur, and stared into the flames.

Nikulás opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, cleared his throat.

“Oh, spit it out, will you? We’ve known each other too long to be shy,” said Hildur.

“I never asked you … Why did you choose him, all those years ago?”

Hildur merely shrugged and let a long, slow silence fall over the room as the flames filled it with golden heat. Nikulás merely smoked and held her hand, listening to the whistling wind blowing outside. Hildur would answer in her own time. 

She always had.

“You left. He stayed,” she said finally. “It was as simple as that. I didn’t want to spend my life waiting for your visits.” She kissed his hand. “And someone was going to get hurt either way … I preferred hurting someone who was going to leave.”

Nikulás nodded. He wasn’t sure what he had expected her to say.

“What in Hel’s name are you picking at old wounds for Nikulás? I thought we were long past that.”

“I … I do not know. This boy, Viðar … I do not mean to doubt his honour, but he is handsome and his prospects are decent …”

“Will he remain true to Chiara?”

“Will he?”

“Probably not,” she sighed and finished her wine, then stood up. “Come,” she said and blinked. The room spun slightly. “I want to hear you sing that song with Kerstasníkir again, the one about his big, fat troll of a mother.”

The longest night of the year passed in a blur of song and dance, with plenty of food and drink enjoyed in a warm haze of tobacco and woodsmoke. Nikulás stepped out into the frosty, starlit night and buttoned up his big red coat. It had stopped snowing and the northern lights had disappeared in their mysterious way, leaving only the stars; scattered like silver dust across the night sky. Some of the villagers had gathered as usual to see him off, they stood laughing and gossiping as they cooled off after the night’s frivolities, clearing their heads in the frigid air.

Hildur wasn’t there. 

The crowd was larger than normal, large even for a ninth year. News of Hildur’s unusual decision must have spread. Nikulás noticed Chiara, wading through a fresh layer of snow towards him, through the mist of his own breath. 

Viðar wasn’t with her. 

She wore a lambskin jacket with the woolly side in, knee-high boots and a short sword strapped to her waist. Wrapped about her neck and pulled over her head like a hood was a thick, scarf of scratchy black wool. It looked new.

“You have said goodbye to Viðar?” Asked Nikulás.

Nikulás knew she had, he had felt it quite clearly; her hot breath in Viðar’s ear and the scratch of his beard against her cheek as he kissed her.

Chiara nodded.

“I feel you, in here,” she said and pointed at her head. “Yes?”

Nikulás jaw dropped.

“Well eh … yes. Sometimes I feel what others feel …”

She nodded again, her expression grave. “Also me,” she said, and put her hand on his chest, right over his heart. “You feel …” She touched her own chest. “I feel. Also dream, sometimes. I dream you, yesterday.”

Well, this was going to be an interesting year …

“I have underestimated you Chiara,” said Nikulás.

“Yes,” said Chiara. “Come,” she said and strode off towards the edge of the village, where the snowmen stood their silent vigil. Nikulás followed.

Yes, an interesting year indeed.

On the crest of a snow-covered hill overlooking the town stood a man and two wolves. A raven was perched on the man’s left shoulder and another clung to the shaft of his spear. The wolves turned and growled at something in the darkness. A raven squawked.

“Good evening your highness,” said the man. “I thought I smelled your perfume.”

“Good evening, Grímnir,” said a female voice in the air. The speaker was visible only as a vague bending of the moonlight in the shape of a tall woman. “New hat?” she asked.

“I thought it wise,” said Grímnir and adjusted the wide, blue hat he was wearing. Moonlight washed across his face and momentarily exposed the scarred hole where his left eye had once been.    

“Your man is late,” said Grímnir.

“He’ll arrive when he means to,” she said casually. “Hear that?”

Carried on the frozen wind, along with a hint of wood-smoke and a fragment of song, came a great, booming laugh.

Ho … Ho … Ho …

***