INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 93 — the final chapter — of the Kinsmen Die podcast, home of fantasy fiction based on Norse mythology that’s written and read by me, Matt Bishop.

In this podcast I read my first novel, Kinsmen Die, one chapter at a time. And, with each episode, when it makes sense, I provide some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text.

This week, we’re back with Frigg. The last time we were with her was Chapter 88, when her son Hodr killed his brother, Baldr, right before her eyes. 

Let’s rejoin her, now.

Chapter Ninety-Three
Frigg
The spear that killed her son lay on the table before her. The light of a dozen witchlamps pooled about her, making longs shadows of the carved posts. An untouched cup of wine stood by her elbow.
Frigg had sent her thralls into one of the nearby longhouses, but Nanna—dosed with a sleeping draft—slept on Frigg’s bed. Now that she was alone, still alone—but she shoved that thought, and where Odin was to the back of her mind—she had time to be quiet and think.
Not that she wanted to, not with this wicked thing in front of her. She ran her fingers lightly along the spear. She’d already wiped it clean and burned the rags. 
A lighter, golden strip had been spliced to the darker, stronger wood of the spear shaft. She recognized the runes etched into the leaf-shaped blade and carved into the shaft. She also knew the oils rubbed into the wooden blade and the dark paints used to color the runes. And she knew it’s secret name, for it could only have one Mistilteinn, in the Old Tongue. Mistletoe in today’s. 
That lighter strip of wood and the long, leaf-shaped wooden blade was the golden bough…the very mistletoe in which she had hidden her son’s spirit. And because of that, for all his long life, Baldr had suffered no injury. Until now, at the hand of his own brother.
Silence rang in her ears. The roof creaked in the building winter wind. The central hearth’s flames popped and crackled.
She slammed her fist against the table. The spear jumped, rolled and clattered to the floor. Her full cup toppled, dark red wine flowed and pooled on the table till it began dripping from the edges to patter on the floor.
She hadn’t seen Baldr’s blood pooling on the floor of the great hall. She couldn’t have, not from where she had stood. But this growing puddle must have been what it looked like.
Frigg sobbed and smashed the table again and again. Wine splashed all over her face and chest, into her mouth. She’d fought warriors, killed warriors…men her size and bigger. Their hot blood has splashed on her just as this cool, sweet wine had.
“Mother?” Hermod asked, her voice quiet, nearly the little girl’s voice it had once been.
Frigg froze. She was red to the shoulders, her hands stained and her sleeves, sky-blue moments ago, was now bruised like the evening sky after a storm.
She stared at her ruined dress and laughed, the sound harsh and wild and maybe even a little mad. How many dresses had she ruined in the last week. Two? Three?
Hermod laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her golden-brown hair, normally so carefully kept in warrior’s braids was a frizzy cloud around her tanned, tear-streaked face. In the witchlamps’ glow, Hermod’s eyes were red-rimmed and blood-shot. She looked far older than she should. She’d wrapped herself in a heavy wool blanket.
Sweet Aegir, she had been selfish. Frigg pulled Hermod into a hug and rocked her gently back and forth, their heads side by side. She smoothed her daughter’s hair. Not too old that she couldn’t still comfort her, but too old for it to actually work. Hermod had seen battle and death, and she would again, but she’d just seen her own brother murder her other brother.
Frigg drew Hermod down to sit in the one of the two oak armchairs beside the hearth. 
Hermod looked over her shoulder at the spear lying on the floor, it’s tip in the pool of wine. “That’s it, then?” Her voice was distant.
Mistilteinn. The name echoed in Frigg’s mind.
“Yes. Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it here.” Except that she’d needed to understand what manner of weapon had killed her son.
“It’s just a thing. A weapon.” Hermod shrugged. “Why’d he do it?”
And there it was. The question that circled around and around in Frigg’s mind like a carrion bird. Why. Why. Why.
Frigg stood and stepped out of her ruined dress. “I don’t know.”
Hermod didn’t reply.
“I’ll be right back,” Frigg said, holding the stained dress and motioning toward her sleeping room.
Hermod shrugged and stared into the fire. As she did, the flames of a vision began to kindle above Hermod’s head. Of course it would happen now. She did not want to see her daughter’s future death. Not now. Not ever.
She closed her eyes breathed in slowly. Her old shaman had taught her to control the visions. You can decide when to see what the storm wants you to see. The storm is not your foe, little one. It chose you for this gift, to see…at least in a small way…how it sees. Ask it to withdraw and it will. For a time.
So, she asked, and the storm did not impose itself upon her. But the vision-flames still formed above Hermod’s head. 
Fine, Frigg said to herself, but at least let me change first.
The sense of forbearance persisted, so Frigg tiptoed into her bedroom, Nanna a dark, still shape beneath the blankets, and pulled a sleeping gown from her wardrobe—green, with subtle, silvery lines that glinted in the low light. She returned to Hermod, stomach clenching as she braced herself for the vision.
This one was different than the others. Hermod stood...
... tall in the vision, armed with axe and shield. But from the way her shoulders slumped, she seemed tired. A familiar raven landed on her shoulder. Hermod turned back to the battlefield, the dead lying like harvested wheat left to rot. Beyond Hermod, a silvery river glinted like ice. Ships were trapped in the ice, many were burning, still others seemed to have run aground, while a pair of longships…one with yellowed strakes like old nail…were locked together, warriors clashed upon their decks. From the other side of the river, thousands upon thousands of warriors streamed down from a chopped-down forest to the river’s edge. And beyond them, taller than the hill on which Gladsheim stood, a black wolf slavered.
“Mother? What is it?”
Frigg blinked the vision away.
Hermod had taken a step forward, one hand reaching from beneath the blanket.
“What? Just…lost in thought for a moment.” Frigg smiled and bent to pull on her gown.
“Your underdress is stained, too,” Hermod said.
She sighed, handed the gown to Hermod, and pulled off the underdress. She scrubbed her body with it, balled it up, and flung it back toward her sleeping room.
“We were right to worry that father wouldn’t return, weren’t we?”
Frigg knew well enough what Hermod was about to say—that maybe if Odin had been here, Baldr might still be alive. Maybe Odin could have stopped Hodr. But the Norns had cut and painted the runes signifying Baldr’s death, which meant that Odin couldn’t have stopped it any more than she’d been able to. And yet the Norns had also promised that if Baldr’s spirit were protected, then he could not be killed. She could only see two possibilities: they had either lied or not told the whole of what they saw.
“I believed him when he said he’d be back in time, Hermod,” she said. “I expect something happened to him, particularly since Heimdall wasn’t able to find him.”
“But what could happen to him?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?”
She pulled the underdress on, shivering as she did. What could stop Odin? That thing, that spirit, beneath the Urdarbrunnr had badly hurt him. Maybe it had struck again. Or perhaps something equally deadly had emerged from the cold shadows lining the road down to the Gjoll.
If Odin wasn’t back by tomorrow evening, she would fly to the High Seat and look for him herself. If she could find him, she would send Thor to rescue him.
But what of Hodr?
She’d have to preserve his life so that he could be questioned. Which meant staving off the execution the folk of Gladsheim would no doubt demand. Part of her wanted Hodr punished, of course she did…he’d murdered his own brother…but she simply could not understand why. He’d been gone for so long and had seemed so at peace with himself and his life—and she knew that from watching him from afar. It made no sense that he threw it all away.
“I don’t know where your father is. But you and I, Hermod, we’re here. We’ll deal with this. We’ll be brave, both for ourselves and for the folk of Gladsheim.”
“But, Mother, it was Hodr who—”
Frigg rose and embraced daughter. “I know, Hermod. I don’t know why he did it. It doesn’t make sense. But we’ll find out why.” 
And if needs must, he’ll pay for what he did, she promised herself.
She leaned back and brushed a stray golden sheaf of Hermod’s hair back behind one ear. “But you and I, Hermod, we must be brave while we grieve. Everyone heard Heimdall’s horn. Everyone knows something awful happened, but only our enemies know exactly what happened.”
She looked directly into her daughter’s eyes. “We must show them—show everyone—that we are still strong.”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 93 of Kinsmen Die.
 
The book began with Frigg worried that Baldr would die. The book ends with her fears realized. Many questions remain, but the story is complete. I hope you enjoyed it.

The murder of Baldr by Hodr, thanks to Loki’s influence, is the turning point in Norse myth. That’s why I picked this event for my first book. From it, you can look back and see Loki as a trickster…but looking forward, Loki becomes a true villain. I think Odin is much the same. My second and third books explore that perspective in much more detail.

As for the podcast version of my second book, Dark Grows the Sun, I will probably begin recording it in the Fall of 2024.

Until then, I’ll be doing two things: the first is taking a break. Second, I will keep the feed alive with some bonus episodes…maybe some more readings of the Havamal and maybe a deep dive retrospective on each character arc…why I made the writing choices I did, challenges that cropped up during the writing process…that kind of thing.

I will also republish the book version of Kinsmen Die to Amazon. I’ve made many edits…nothing plot related, just refined the writing. I may also publish an audiobook version of Kinsmen Die.

Until then, if you have the time and inclination, please rate and/or review the podcast — that helps boost the show’s visibility. As does sharing it. Many, many thanks to all of you who have done & who will do so in the future.
  
As always, I’m going to read from both the Bellows and Larrington translations of the Havamal, the sayings of the High One, Odin himself.


Bellows, Verse 93

Fault for loving let no man find
Ever with any other;
Oft the wise are fettered, where fools go free,
By beauty that breeds desire.

Larrington, Verse 93

No man should ever reproach
another for being in love;
often the wise man is seized, when the foolish man is not, by a desire-arousing appearance.

Thanks for listening.