INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 37 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.

Today, we’re back with Frigg. It’s been quite a few chapters since we’ve been inside Frigg’s head. We’d last seen her having an argument slash discussion with her husband, Odin, over various things: the sickness that comes over Baldr at night, the Jotunn attack on Hals, Odin leaving her alone to rule Gladsheim for so long.

The events in this chapter are basically the morning after Odin returned home to Gladsheim from helping Vidar. So although there’s been quite a few chapters, the actual time in-the-book isn’t all that much.

So, let’s join Frigg on her way down to Ithavoll. 


Let’s do this.

Chapter Thirty-Seven
Frigg
On outstretched falcon wings, feathers fluttering, Frigg shrieked with the sheer exhilaration of flight. She burst from the dim tunnel into the bewildering, expansive night sky in which Yggdrasil lived.
A deep voice called to her. Her sharp eyes spied dark-haired Tyr near the ramp’s top, the spike he wore in place of his devoured hand raised in greeting. Tyr led Gladsheim’s army, alongside Ullr.
She shrieked again, folded her cloak-granted wings, and dove. The stars blurred into white streaks alongside the billowing trails of Muspell’s fiery sparks. The wind howled past her ears like Odin’s wolves.
As she dove, she tried to leave behind her annoyance at awaking to an empty bed. She had thought she and Odin would ride to Ithavoll together. More time to talk, especially after the confrontation they’d had last night. It hadn’t ended badly, though it could have ended better. Even so, she’d still awoken alone—then washed, dressed, eaten, and dealt with the never-ending urgent matters. All alone.
Plummeting now, she thought she might never remove the cloak. The falcon’s shape brought unfettered delight at the feel of the wind rippling through her feathers. She spied the first hint of mist, flared her wings and rode them into a swooping, wheeling, much more patient downward progress.
Odin had said he would speak with the Norns before the council. She looked for the golden gleam of the Norns’ longhouse. She spotted the prow of the roof jutting from the swirling mist like a ship’s sun-touched figurehead and, the wind still howling, drifted toward it.
Maybe this time Odin would wring some answers from the Norns. Or maybe she should try. They’d never acknowledged her before, but being women themselves, maybe they’d sympathize.
The wind’s howl rose even higher until she realized it wasn’t the wind at all but the baying of Odin’s wolves. She’d heard them often enough, clearing the way through Gladsheim’s streets or, in earlier days, fighting. Which is how they sounded now.
She beat the air with her wings, darting forward, till she passed through the white mists and the vibrant grasses swelled before her, white moths fluttering above them.
Another series of short barks and long howls were split by Odin’s rage-drenched voice. Stark shadows were stamped upon the mist by flashes of golden light.
There he was, several dozen spear lengths away, Gungnir spinning in long arcs, glinting in short jabs, as he fought long grasping, watery limbs rising in ropey coils from the waters of Urd’s Well. 
Odin fought them all, his spear flashing in quick thrusts and wide sweeps. Where the spear struck, golden light flared and blew the limb apart. Where the water splashed down, the grass hissed and blackened.
She flared her wings, and they became a billowing, feathered cloak even as her booted feet touched the thick grass.
Her eyes grew wide as she watched. “Odin!” she screamed.
He gave no sign that he heard.
But Freki did. Her big head, with its white strip of fur like a scar across one eye, swung toward her. She woofed then dashed toward her. Geri slipped into the spot his sister had vacated. She slid to a halt, butted her head into her belly, and started pushing.
She ran a hand through her wet fur. “No, Freki, he needs me.”
Freki pushed again, driving her back a few paces.
“Freki—”
Welcome, daughter of earth, a voice said, resounding both in her mind and, oddly, the air around her.
She spun, head lowering even as Freki’s growl rumbled out.
A long tendril of water, stood before her, thick and coiling like the snakes that hung in Alvheim’s wet forests. Have you seen me yet in your visions?
Freki backed away, her growl deepening. Shocked though she was, Frigg held her ground.
No, you haven’t. I see it now. The voice, slippery like a damp rock, came from the rope of water. That’s all right. You will soon enough. When you do, tell the little father that though we fight, I’m not his enemy. Not really.
The tendril shifted slightly, as if looking back toward the battle. Gungnir boomed, scattering water like leaves before the wind. Except where the water struck, the grass sizzled. Odin’s leather armor was black and steaming from the burning water.
You can’t prevent what’s coming, Almother. None of you can. The voice spoke with the hiss of water boiling away. But you’ll try. And those efforts will accomplish as much as the Alfather’s does now. Fighting water, indeed. When hatred strikes, Hár Frigg, remember that we spoke.
The tendril of water burst. Droplets popped and sizzled on her skin like animal fat that had leaped from a hot stone.
At the same time, the tentacles Odin fought collapsed, dousing him. He roared as the water burned him. Gungnir’s tip whirled about, dragging Odin along behind it, looking more like a hound hunting for prey than a Svartalvar-forged spear. When it pointed at her, the blade lifted, seeming to curve upward in a wicked, wet smile that, a heartbeat later, was mirrored on Odin’s face.
Even at this distance, Frigg could see no trace of her husband in the golden glow that bled from his eyes. It was his fylgja, a realization made all too clear by the predatory hunch of his shoulders and the sharp, quick movements of his head.
Freki woofed, looked up at Frigg, and made a “go away” gesture with her head.
Odin charged, spear lowered, his booted feet making no sound on the thick wet grass. A ragged yell tore from his lips.
Her world narrowed to Gungnir’s tip.
“Odin, stop!” Frigg shouted, her voice a scream as she blurred into the falcon’s form and flew upward out of his way.
Freki launched herself toward Odin. Geri moved to block his master.
With powerful beats of her wings, she rose higher, spiraling in quick, panicked arcs, again looking for gleaming roof of the Norns’ dwelling. 
There it was. 
She risked a glance down and saw Freki slam into Odin. Gungnir spun away and vanished. He’d been about to throw his spear. If Freki hadn’t—
No, she couldn’t think about that. She had to focus on where she was going. But would the Norns even help? She didn’t know, but she had to try.
The mist swirled apart and she darted through it, streaking downward toward the long stone table where the Norns worked. She shrieked for their attention, but none of the three even looked up.
She flared her wings, her boots touched the earth, and she fell against the stone table. Pots of ink wobbled and nearly spilled until stained hands stilled them.
“Please, help me!” she cried into their faces.
Too close behind her, Odin’s raw scream ripped through the glade. One of the wolves yelped.
The middle Norn looked up. Her skin was smooth and brown; her eyes were cold chips of emerald. “I think not,” she said. She looked back down to the chisel in her right hand and the bark in her left.
Her sister Norn, white as snow, looked up. Her coal-black eyes yawned like a pit. Her voice squeaked like frozen hinges. “You’ll live to see sadder days.”
The third sister, skin a rich blue-black and eyes a startling wolfish gold, pointed with a red-tipped brush to a spot behind Frigg. “Prepare yourself, Hár Frigg. Your husband, ever faithful, approaches.”
She spun, her hands gripping the table’s cold stone. Odin sprinted at her, spear lowered, a roar pouring out his mouth and eyes glowing gold. His wolves ghosted along behind him, snapping at his heels, trying to slow him, distract him.
The scrape of the Norns’ chisels resumed as if none of this were happening.
She glanced to her left, gauging the distance to the Norns’ house. If she could get there, maybe the barred door would give her enough time to talk Odin out of his fury—or maybe he’d calm down on his own.
Maybe.
She bolted for the house, spying the welcoming glow of a low fire through the open door. Gray stones of the foundation, wet with dew. Logs piled lengthwise above. Daubed between. Low thatched roof, golden brown against the ever-present white mist.
Two dozen strides, if that. Almost there.
Gungnir slammed into the ground before her and she tripped, reflexively rolling like she’d been taught ages ago by some of the nastiest warriors her father had been able to find. She sprang back up and launched herself at the open door.
Odin knocked her down with a sweep of his arm and she rolled and banging her head against the foundation. The world shuddered; warmth bloomed on her head. She pushed herself to her knees, the door’s welcome still extended.
As she stood, a dark blur cracked into the stone beside her. Wobbling, she tried to push past Gungnir into the house’s dubious safety.
A big hand dropped on her right shoulder, tightened, and then flung her hard against the wall. Her breath whooshed out again. Blackness spun around her head. When it receded, she saw Odin’s bearded face, distorted, scalded, and swollen. The golden-eyed fylgja leered out from behind his deep-set eyes.
She kicked at his crotch. He smacked her leg aside and she nearly fell again, only just catching herself with one hand on the wet, rough stone behind her.
His other hand darted out, but Freki clamped her jaws down on it with a landslide rumble from her belly. Frigg saw in an instant that Freki was biting hard enough to dimple the thick leather but not hard enough to draw blood.
Odin hammered a fist into Freki’s belly. Frigg heard a forge bellows whoosh followed by a harsh yelp. Odin pried Freki’s jaws open, grabbed the thrashing wolf by the scruff of the neck, and flung her tumbling away.
Geri darted in low, trying to clamp down on his master’s leg, but Odin spun and struck such a blow that Geri seemed to bounce off the grass. He too was flung away.
Free, Frigg darted to her left, banged against the forgotten Gungnir, and tried to duck underneath, but she’d bungled her chance. Odin grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the wall of the Norns’ house. She kneed him in the side, but it was like hitting a tree. She chopped at his elbow, but it didn’t buckle. She glanced left, caught Gungnir’s bright smile and, beyond the blade, the low fire burning cheerily in the house.
She brought both hands up and clawed at his hand, her nails opening long red wounds. But the grip didn’t loosen. It tightened.
She was gasping for air. “Odin, it’s me.”
She dragged again at his hand, trying to break his grip. Again, she kicked, but he didn’t even grunt.
He leaned in toward her then, his arm flexing until his breath was hot on her face. The fylgja’s golden light danced behind his eyes, and it used her husband’s face to grin at her.
Odin yanked Gungnir out of the wall.
She writhed again, kicking, fingers clawing long flowing lines of red down his face. She ripped at his throat, dragged on his bent elbow, tore at the hand around her throat. Nothing worked. She might as well claw at the wall behind her.
Freki and Geri sprinted back in. Their jaws clamped around his legs, this time drawing blood. She could see it, bright around their teeth. Odin ignored them. His grip tightened.
Her vision was graying at the edges now, narrowing with every breath she was able to drag in.
She stopped struggling and, instead, stroked his face. She wiped the blood from his forehead, caressed the burns, and cradled his cheek in one hand. “Odin. It’s me, Frigg. Your wife.”
The water on his skin seared her hand, but the pain was distant. She looked directly into Odin’s eyes, trying to look past the fylgja, to see her husband.
Her voice was a croaky rasp. “Odin... please...”
The golden haze behind his eyes flickered, surged, and vanished, replaced by Odin’s own eyes.
“No! It’s Frigg!” he shouted.
His fist unclenched from her throat. She slid down the wall, gasping and coughing. Air burned sweet pathways into her chest.
He tried to catch her, but she slapped at him until he pulled back. She realized her feet were on the ground and she slid away, staggering, one hand dragging along the wall until she fell onto all fours by the open door, hauling in breath after shuddering breath.
Freki and Geri released his legs, and Odin crashed to his knees beside her.
A too-ragged breath later, he said, “Frigg, I’m back. I’m—”
She held a hand up, demanding silence, and dry heaved into the vivid green grasses. The Norns had been right. Today was not her day.
OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 37 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. 

We were with Frigg as she got attacked by Odin as he, much like Vidar did many chapters ago, lost control of the spirit within him.

There’s not much going on here myth-wise that I haven’t mentioned in previous chapters…or deliberately chosen not to discuss because of spoilers.

Next week, we’re back with Hodr Odinsson who we also haven’t seen in a while. He’d been trampled by a horse in the city of Ifington.

Before 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.

And if you’re so inclined, shoot me an email at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com.

I’d love to hear from you.
  
As always, I’m going to read from the Havamal, sayings of the High One, Odin himself.

As usual, I’ll be reading from Bellows and Larrington. 

Bellows, Verse 37

Better a house, though a hut it be,
A man is master at home;
His heart is bleeding who needs must beg
When food he fain would have.

Larrington, Verse 37
A farm of your own is better, even if small, everyone’s someone at home;
a man’s heart bleeds when he has to beg for food for himself at mealtimes.
 
Thanks for listening.