Asgard. The fair, the glorious. Home of Gods and Summer Eternal, seeing neither snow nor cold. On Midgard it is winter. The longest night has come and gone, but fire and candles are still lit against the dark, or were, once. Today the mortals play at being wizards, summoning light with the flick of a wrist. So simple a task that one of their children could do it, provided that she is tall enough to reach a switch.
For me Yule harkens back to a darker, colder time. A time when would men huddle fearfully around a communal fire, feeding it bark and branches and carefully stored and hoarded logs. A time when the coming of summer was not a certainty and winter held Her sway far longer than would seem now. A time when coming of spring demanded a sacrifice. Hot blood and pain, offered freely by one who was crowned King for a day, given the choicest meat and finest flesh to warm his bed. One who would, come morning, don a Stag’s horns and run through the frozen woods, only to be chased down by those who had worshiped him the previous night. Knowing, even as the light fades from his eyes, that his death would ensure the coming harvest and that one day he too will return, like the wheat in summer.
Silent, and unseen I slip along the bridge and into the winter of Midgard. If Heimdal witnesses my temporary absence he makes no move to stop me. He knows well enough the reason behind my seasonal restlessness. Especially now that the eternal winter of Jotunheim is forever barred to me.
Ignored I walk along their brightly lit and decorated streets. They pass me by, hurrying along to feast in their homes, or to their malls for further ‘shopping. How much they have lost, how much they have forgotten. It begins to snow, slowly at first, increasing gradually, until I can barely see my hands in front of my face, or couldn’t, were I was human. I take a step on a paved roadway, setting my foot down in a forest, the quiet, silver glory of it reminding of me of Jotunheim, the home I never knew and almost destroyed. The chill quiets, soothes the restless hunger, the desperate need I cannot, or will not name, raging inside me.
I feel him, sense him behind me, before I hear the sound of his voice, before he takes a step. I already know his words. Brother, he will say. Why do you wander alone in the forest? Come back to Asgard! It is Yule, we will feast and the skalds will entertain us with song and tales. He doesn't understand, my bright, sun-kissed, beloved by all 'brother'. How can he, when I barely do, or rather refuse to. I'm not your 'Brother', I snarl, turning to move deeper into the forest.
He purses me. As I had always known he would. As he has always done. There is no lack of perseverance in this golden brother of mine, whatever other qualities he might be lacking in. Particularly when there is challenge, or a prey at hand.
We run, swift as coursing hounds through the cold, winter night, past trees laden with snow and the promise of spring. Broken promises are something which I know enough of to fill a library. For all that I am the one called Liesmith or Silvertongue, the lies told me, far outweigh the ones I have myself have given to others.
Is this, how, I wonder did the Stag King feel, chased by the hunters to whom his life had been promised. Running from the inevitable. He catches me eventually of course, for all that I may have truly evaded him, had I put any real effort to it. It's bitterest irony that the Liesmith cannot convince himself of his own lies. Brother he asks, his smile sweeter than summer honey, eyes warmer than a lazy May afternoon, why do you run from me? If you would rather spend the night in a cold forest, than by a roaring fire, I would spend it alongside you. It is not right that you should spend Yule alone.
I am not your Brother! My scream shakes the snow from the trees, where our passage did not. An avalanche buries him briefly, and I think myself safe, when his hand flashes out, pinning me by the throat against the trunk. It's only surprise and shock that forces the gasp from my mouth, I lie and tell myself. The heat I feel deep in my chest is merely from our run, and owes nothing to the feel of his sword-callused fingers wrapped around my neck.
His smile changes. I can name the precise moment. I feel it in the air surrounding us, taste it in the snow as it melts in my mouth. No longer my brother, but a predator toying with his prey. The fingers holding my throat so gently tighten and I gasp in earnest this time, speechless and frowning, wondering what new game this is, or if he's finally grown so tired of mine, that he plans to put an end to them, once and for all, here in this snow-covered Midgardian forest.
Well then, if you are not my 'brother', he says with an expression I do not recognize, you will not mind if I do this -
His mouth tastes of spiced mead and venison and the pines that surround us. I can't hold back the moan that rips from my throat as his tongue tastes me for the first time, with the ease of a long-time lover. No awkwardness as he kisses me, unhurriedly exploring my mouth, as if we have all the time in the world. My hands clench helplessly at my side, uncertain, while the hand still wrapped around my throat, turns the chocking grasp into a clench. The other moves slowly over my shoulders, unlacing the ties of my coat, pushing it down, past my arms, leaving me half-bare in the snow. My head falls back, opening my throat further to him. He bites it, like the wolf he is. Those who thought they knew my brother have compared him to a lion, powerful and golden, but I have long known better. My brother is a wolf. A winter one no less, hungry and powerful. And I, it would appear am meant to satisfy his hunter.
His hands make short work of my remaining garments, pushing me back against the tree, while he stares at me, as if for the first time. I have often been shamed to stand nude in my brother's company, for all that I have been assured by those who have had cause for comparison, that I am no less comely, nor blessed in their eyes, in spite of my leanness, paleness, next to his golden beauty. Feeling my brother's gaze on me, I start to turn my head, only to find my face clenched in his fist, forced to look back, meet his eyes. Brother, he whispers, words falling on me like a benediction or a prayer. You are fair. How have I never seen this? He has never been much of a liar, the entirety of that skill having gone solely to me. He stares at me like a parched man looking at a glass of water. Like a sculptor finding a singular piece of perfect stone. He stares at me as I so often lied to myself and claimed to not be staring at him. I start to take a step towards him, but he pushes me back, silently against the tree trunk. I feel the bark, coarse on my back, the icy bite of snow on my bare feet, dusting down around us. His hand as he wraps it around my hip, keeping me in place, while he takes me slowly me into the burning furnace that is his mouth. No sounds come from me. I gasp, breathless, for all the air filling my lungs with frigid winter. He kneels, like a supplicant at my altar, worshiping me with his strength, his grace. I wonder if this is what his other lovers experienced, and if they too perished from too much wanting. I wonder if this how the Yule sacrifice had felt, and if he too had gone gladly to his death the next morning. If this is what it is to be sacrificed, then I too would go willing.
I must have spoken, out loud without realizing, he chuckles around me, the unexpected movement sends me tumbling, falling desperately me over the edge. I tremble, with cold and sudden loss, eyes squeezed shut, expecting any moment the punch-line, the cackling, caterwauling, braying asses of a choir that follow my brother where ever he goes, but the woods remain silent. Hushed, but for the ragged sound of matching breaths. Only the quiet sounds of him shedding his clothes into the snow, standing to brush his hands down my face, over my lids, disturb the air. I taste myself on him when he kisses me again, gently, like the falling snow.
I would have you, if you'll allow it. He doesn't say 'brother', though I hear it, unspoken in his voice. I only nod wordlessly. I, the Liesmith, silent and distrusting myself to speak. That I have been reduced to... to this. He kisses me again, deeper this time, chasing away the traces of my remaining bitterness with the taste of my own bitter salt. With the same gentleness lifts me, easily holding me against the tree, parting my legs, finding his way inside me.
I do not cry. It is the snow, melting on my face that runs down my cheeks. It is a need for balance, that causes me to wrap myself so tightly around him, shuddering at his each and every move. It is a need for air that sends me gasping, begging, calling his name again and again, as he whispers softly to me. His hands so large, so terrible in their tenderness wrapping around me, forcing me to spill again and again on the snow between us, even as I feel him spill deep inside me, hot as the blood from a stag's heart.
There are, the Norns teach us, many kinds of death. Rejoice Midgard for your willing, Yule sacrifice. You will have Spring once more.