Regina et Equi Nox

by NejinOniwa

Prelude: Ragnarök

Prelude – Ragnarök

The wind was a light breeze that swept somewhat lazily around the valley, making its way through the throng of snowflakes without considerable hurry.
The relenting windspeed didn't matter much, however. After all, the temperature hadn't relented for almost three years, now. It didn't really matter how cold it got anymore.
No matter what, it was always, always cold.

Thorulf Hrimgjärsson let his eyes wander across the whiteness. Gyldvik had once lived up to its name – in the past, golden heads of dragon and eagle had shone on every longhouse roof, and gilt crimson shields furnished every inch of wall in the village hall. Back home, they would have appealed to some king for city rights or whatever, but the lords that ruled the lands of Asgård didn't really care much for the details. So, Gyldvik had remained a settler village. Hardly likely it'll ever be anything more, now.

The eagleheads, to be fair, were still in place. Probably. Nobody had bothered to check, but then again, nobody would've bothered to steal them, either. Probably. Either way, they would still be just like anything else that wasn't under a roof or shoveled clear twice a day. Buried beneath a year's worth of snow.
He ran his mitten-clad hand through his golden beard – not a single streak of gray yet despite his proud age of fifty-seven years, a fact that he was proud of. He tugged a bit. Felt the pull downward, the slightly prickling sensation that weaklings would call pain. At least that was still around, stubbornly sticking on like a leech in a stream. The rest, on the other hand... Thorulf turned his gaze on the tall pole in the center of the village square, and then let them wander a bit further until they settled on an undefined spot in the whiteness beyond. There used to be water, there. Seawater, salty blue painted white with cresting waves and nesting gulls. Now it's ice all the way through. They'd had a massive stroke of luck in that their icefishing pit had been open the day the shallow fjärd had frozen solid. The fish, having nowhere else to go, had actually gushed out of the fifteen feet hole, like some freak frozen variant of a geyser.
That was one and a half year ago, now. They'd dried and salted the lot of it and saved it all; rather than – as some fools had proposed – prepare them all right away and sacrifice half in a grand feast to celebrate the gods' favor returning to them. Once again, Thorulf's wisdom and harsh words had gotten his village – his clan, his people – through a crisis without much more than a few groans and bruises. Rationed well, it would last them another half year. Another half year of hoping for this blasted winter to finally end. Then again, it was just that. Hope. Only fools trusted hope.
Three years of winter, growing harsher every month. The first year had been cold enough to snap-freeze the sap of the trees, making scores of them burst open with terrifying cracks on the worst nights. The second year the wind had blown down twice as many in furious blizzards, that screamed across the land like a pack of wolves.
This last year hadn't been particularly cold or windy, true. Despite that, his heart felt heavier than ever. He hadn't seen the sun, or the moon, or even a pocket of sky for a whole year. Hel take me, I wonder if the mountain on the other side of the lake is still there. You never know with this damn weather. Can't see anything in this damn world anymore.

In the past, he would've been able to see to the north the whole blue width of Gyldfjarsvatna from where he was now standing, along with the ever snow-capped peak of Efstfell on the opposite shore. The green, forest-spotted reaches of Merrmonland would spread out in the south and west, and the roaming herds of wild horses would be as little spots in the vast plains. On rare occasions one would even be able to spot the outermost parts of the Aesir holdings, as tiny glimpses of gold and silver just on the horizon – like someone had taken a handful of stars and rooted them in the earth.
In the east, the only difference would've been the addition of mountains far in the distance and the occasional stray giant wandering out of Jötunheimr. For a village so close to giant territory, the strategic placement atop a decently high hill was important; perhaps even more so than the palisades that marked the village's border. After all, while giants could quite easily break through a wall, they'd be hard pressed to hide in plain sight.

As the winter had gone on, however, the regular bergrisir had slowly been replaced by vast numbers of hrimthurs. True, the frost giants were smaller and weaker physically. In a winter like this, however, their magics were fiercely strong, and their wintery coloring made them damn near invisible to all but the sharpest of lookouts. Many battles had been fought until he'd finally led a massive raid into Jötunheimr himself and razed the two mountain passes leading out of the giants' fortress-kingdom, trapping them all inside. It had cost his clan a lot of good blood, but it had been worth it – all of Asgård was now safe from the giant threat.

The week after they'd come home, the snow had started falling. A year ago now, and while no giants had come, nothing else had done so either. He was thankful, still – with this visibility, the hrimthurs could've marched up all the giants in Jötunheimr to his doorstep without him even noticing until their horners blew to charge. Even from the lookout tower on the crest of the hill, all he could see was the village itself. Not the palisades, definitely not the snow-covered plains beyond, and not by a long shot Efstfell on the other side of the fjärd. The whiteness covering the sea was indistinguishable from that covering the sky, and they simply melted together to his eyes. Not fading away into the falling snow, like the edges of the village did – it was as if the world simply ended at the edge of the pier. A pole in the water, a single boat that hadn't been taken up in time, and then – nothing. Nothing but whiteness and a tiny smudge of-
Wait a second...

Almost unnoticeable at first, then slightly larger – then immediately emerged from the sheet of white a great form clad in fur. His fair hair flew gently in the wind, and atop it burned pale an image that was not there, yet was just as true nonetheless.
Freyr, lord of the Vanir, ruler of Svitjod and its domains, fairest of all the gods in Asgård. The crown of horns flickered slightly as its flames were stirred by the wind, but the image stayed alight.
Thorulf stared for a moment, then took his horn from his belt and put it to his lips. He shaped the call in his mind, before he put the words in his mouth and blew.
The King has come! Hear, Gyldvikings! Hear, Ynglings! The King has come!
The call echoed bright and clear from the tower on Gyldhädh's crest, reaching miles further than the village as it spread its message throughout the lands.

Before long, the long hall was bustling with his clansmen. Not to the brim, of course; the wars of the long winter had taken its toll, and not enough people were left in the village and its hinterlands to fill the enormous building. Even so, the benches around the long table didn't have much space to spare. Like most clans, Ynglings weren't exactly known for being small, quiet people who calmly shuffled themselves into their seats without ruffling any feathers.

Tankards and horns were filled and the mead passed around the throng of burly berserkers and their often equally burly shieldmaidens. Blacksmiths and old shipwrights were engaged in hearty shouting matches with the warriors – crafters and warriors always had some differences they needed to solve – and and a few teeth had been lost already by men who were too drunk or stupid to realize when to stop. Weapons had been drawn, but that was in the other end of the building where the less rowdy folks were engaged in an axe throwing game.
Thorulf had planted himself in the high seat, and he was rebraiding his beard. He was feeling rather small at the moment – despite the fact that he was a very large man, measuring over six feet of length and three of width, his burly arms well a foot wide each. At his side stood Freyr – who had no high seat beneath him, and yet stood well over a foot taller than Thorulf. Though not quite as burly as the chief, and not nearly as big as your average jötun, he was still a giant of a man standing well over eight feet tall on his feet. That, along with the great crown burning atop his head, made him resemble a moose standing on its hind legs.

Yet, for all the majesty of his king and forefather, he could not bear the foreboding signs that were building in his heart. Whenever he set his eyes on the king, he saw disaster and downfall; not at all the best signs for your king and clanfather.
Thorulf, like all Ynglings, had as kin of Freyr the blood of the Vanir in his veins. The gifts of the Vanir were weakened from ten generations of human blood now, true, but at times the diluted bloodline rang truer than most. Thorulf bore the strongest gifts of Van the clan had seen in centuries, and all of his men praised him and his forebears for their strength and luck. He could read the lines of fates future and past nearly as well as the Vanir gods themselves – Norns aside, of course. Truly blessed a man must be, favored by fate so greatly that it reveal its face to him!
The truth was both lesser and greater in glory than that, however. His father Hrimgjär had been a bastard, son to king Thorberg, the shieldmaiden daughter of Erik, king at Upsal. Half a century and eight years ago he, as cousin to the reigning kings Yngvi and Alf, had been selected to lead the great Viking expedition to Asgård. However, when Bifröst had opened and was to be crossed, the Danes – who had arrived under the leadership of the royal Skjöldung clan – refused to accept the leadership of a bastard, and fighting arose between the Swedes and Danes upon the rainbow bridge itself. Hrimgjär was severely wounded in the melee, and got lost on the pathways; eventually ending up in a great field, where he was rescued by a woman named Ynga.
A year and nine months later, she had borne him a son – Thorulf – and by powerful magics healed his ails and wounds fully, whereafter she sent him to where Bifröst stood opened to send them both to Asgård, so that Hrimgjär could join his men.
As the story that his father told him as a child went, Thorulf had thus figured himself the son of a strange sejd, or even a disa – but nonetheless, a witch of the outer worlds. Which would've been a further shame to the son of a bastard, but other than that, not much to care for as long as he brought himself enough glory in battle to make up for it.

If that had been all there was to the story, that was. Twelve years later, as his father laid on his deathbed, their Vanir ancestors had come to Gyldvik in score from Vanaheim to witness the chieftain's passing. With them, scores of valkyries and their chosen einherjar. Among them, the host of the valkyries herself, king Freyr's sister, Freyja.
Despite his father's sickly disposition, the old chieftain had managed to stay smug when revealing his mother's true identity – something that could definitely not be said for Thorulf himself.

So it was. Thorulf was not one-thousand-twenty-fourth Vanir, like all other Ynglings of his generation. He was half-and-one-thousand-twenty-forth Vanir. Which was considerably more. After he had learned of the fact, it was his one source of shame. Before that day he had taken great pride in his gifts, and praised the blood of his ancestors for it – after, he felt as if he had cheated the gods of their gifts, rather than earn them properly. As time had gone by however, his father's last words had entrenched themselves in his mind, and he was now mostly at ease with that part of himself.
Cheated? Gods, son! With Odin as my witness – aside from all others gathered here today – the god you have your gifts to thank for was cheated of nothing. Those gifts she was ever so willing to give, as willing as I am giving myself to Valhalla!
Chills went down his spine as those thoughts went through his head, the flaming hearths be damned. Well, as much at ease as any sane man could be with the fact that he's half god. He shook his head and returned his attention to the scene before his eyes.

The din had surmised in the long hall, and Thorulf looked to his king – he methodically avoided thinking of him as his uncle, because that was just wrong – who gave a slight nod and drew himself up to his full length. The crown of horns grew with him as his muscles and bones filled themselves with his power, swelling and bulging with blood and magic. Lines of silver smoke formed in swarms around the pumping veins, and his kneecaps burst free of their caging with a violent crack that sounded through the already quiet room, leaving an ominous echo behind. The smoke cords finally settled around his neck and shoulders in a tight net, like glowing chainmail crafted of the clouds themselves. A few ends stayed free in the air, though, and they rose and bulged like serpent heads as Freyr drew breath.
“YNGLINGS!”
Ten feet tall and four feet wide stood the king in his Visage, but his mighty bellow of a call must've reached all the way to Valhalla itself. The pillars supporting Thorulf's high seat were shaking like willows in a storm, and he could swear he'd heard the ice crack down by the lake. The strength of a god – even one only using his voice – was not to be trifled with. That was, after all, what made them gods, rather than simple magicians and outworlders.

“My kinsmen,” Freyr continued as the minor earthquake he'd caused died down. “Greatest of all honors upon ye all, Gyldvikings. When the ice came, I feared the worst from the jötuns of the east. As did the court of the Westbound jötuns – my wife has been sending me the most important tidings, and they were close to panic until your host shut the Gate of Jötunheimr. Ynglings, my kin! Raise your horns in honor of those brave warriors. Raise your horns for those who lived that day, for those who fell raise theirs in Valhalla every night!” The serpent heads rose again, and the bellow sounded once more – though not quite as violently as before, merely as a measure to sound his words across the steadily rising din of cheers and shouts. “Tonight we shall feast in honor of this victory! To you it may seem distant, but every night Odin's table honors the victory of your fallen kin. Time enough now for the survivors to share the glory of the slain. My horns I raise to Thorulf, son of Hrimgjär, without whose bravery and cunning we would not be here tonight!” The cheers rung sharp and bellowing that rivaled the King in terms of sheer volume, as Thorulf stood up on the high seat and raised his horn. Horns rose and were emptied, refilled and emptied yet again, and a second round of cheers erupted – yet louder, albeit somewhat more scattered as the men finished their drinks in turns. Not that they all couldn't drink fast, but there were only so many people refilling their horns. This was not Valhalla, after all.
Once those cheers had died down, the King raised his horn again. “My horns I raise to Anund son of Audun, without whose axe and shield our Chieftain would not be here tonight!” Indeed, the man standing on the end of the long table had been his savior many times during that rampant melee. He had lost three fingers for a hrimthurs' blade, but saved Thorulf's neck. The triumphant roar he let out now was loud enough to be heard even across the shouts and cheers of the entire clan.

“My horns I raise to Ragnvald, son of Ingjald...”
So the evening went on – though the pace slowed a bit once the first few had been honored. Each of the 58 warriors who had survived that fateful battle had their moment of standing roaring on the long table, with the horns of the entire clan and the king himself raised to his honor. Tears were shed by some, most of all by the ever emotional berserkers; and those crying who were not, would probably join their ranks within the week. Their magic, their strength lay in their emotions – and those who had that strength were few inbetween, especially since they had a fantastical talent of getting to Valhalla early.

The loud chorus of cries and shouts eventually settled down into a more orderly din. It wasn't much a difference in volume, but with the youths trundling back home to sleep the mead away, you could at least hear yourself think again. Crafters and warriors were separated into small clusters of drinking, boasting and talking business in their respective corners. Thorulf had mediated some disputes between the warriors who managed the few mines they still could reach, and the blacksmiths; Anund was apparently arranging terms for his eldest daughter's marriage, among other things. The evening had been a feast, but even that had held its moderation – they had very limited resources, after all. Now the nightwinds had started rolling in, waves of chill from the frozen sea, and it was time for chieftains to be chieftains. And, he thought grudgingly, for uncles to be uncles.

He made his way back to his high seat, weaving through the crowd – although smaller than before now that the youngsters had left, it was still fairly packed – raising his horn to whomever raised their own to him. Soon enough he was planted upon its meager cushioning consisting of a single wolf pelt, and face to face with the king – who was still standing right where he had at the beginning of the feast, his feet burrowed into the floor at the right side of the high seat.
Freyr had a brooding look on his face. The Visage was mostly back down, but some of its magic still persisted in the air around him, floating free like wisps of silver-blue smoke. “Thorulf.” A pair of wisps departed from his lips as he spoke, fleeing swiftly to the roof before bounding down to join its friends in orbit around the king. Thorulf wasn't too sure of what was to come, but he didn't have any patience to wait further tonight. He raised his eyes, and locked them against Freyr's. “Freyr. I have read the signs of fate, and they show nothing but doom for us all. What tidings are you bringing from Valhalla, uncle? What events could be so grave that the Aesir risk your absence from the halls at this time? I know they've been hogging every single god they could get their hands on ever since the winter came. Are they calling for us now, as well?”

Freyr stood silent a few seconds, a frown creasing his forehead. He drew breath – then hesitated, and let it out again. A slight shake of his head, rustling the horns like a strange wind, and then-
“Muspelheim is marching.”
It was merely a whisper, but from the king's lips it pierced the hall all he same. Conversations cut short in a swift wave spreading from them, and heads turned, eyes widened. Thorulf felt as if his spine had turned to ice, that very instant – and so would many of his men. Which the king knew, all too well. Not a moment later, the Visage lit aflame on Freyr's body, and he raised his voice to thunder yet again.
“MUSPELHEIM IS MARCHING!”
Freyr's voice did not shake the earth or the pillars of the building, this time. The hearts of the men inside shook far more than enough.
“The fire giants of the south are marching on Valhalla,” he continued as the whispers died down. “The dragons of the north have all left the realm of Asgård – the last pair took off on Bifröst not a month ago. And while the eastern giants have been locked out by your bravery...”
The king hesitated again, and the Visage shrunk greatly – before disappearing entirely, crown and all, with a small fizzle. Gasps went through the crowd, and Thorulf was hard pressed not to do the same himself. Freyr went on.
“The Westbound court have slain our envoys, and turned their arms and walls against us. They have broken the prison of the deceiver and his spawn – Loki once more walks free!The wind giants of the west stand with Muspelheim in their deceit!” He struck his fist against the wall, and the stone cracked like dry leaves before his rage.
“MY WIFE HAS FORSAKEN ME, AND BROUGHT HER ENTIRE PEOPLE WITH HER IN HER BETRAYAL!”
Tears ran down his cheeks in silent sorrow and rage, and a chill wind went through the hall as the stray wisps of his Visage fled the scene. A moment later, the scattered berserkers gave a unison cry of rage and hatred; so timed as if they were of one mind. Shouts and bellows of malice soon joined theirs, the warriors and crafters alike cursing the blood of the traitors. All they roared, except Thorulf.

Thorulf was experiencing something extraordinary. To be precise, an extraordinary amount of pain, that had joined in in a little personal chorus with his rage when he was just about to scream it out. Every bone and joint in his body was in uproar, burning with a fire he had never thought was there. Faintly glowed wisps of red and black, that floated around his sweaty hands and feet; as he drew breath, the fire spread to his throat and lungs. That forced him to pause for a second, and made a curious thought form in his mind. I wonder if it hurts this much when he does it, too? He eyed the king, but he – as the rest of the clan – seemed too caught up in screaming at distant traitors to notice what was going on. Or form any sort of coherent ideas, for that matter. Then we go, Thorulf thought. He spoke.

“YNGLINGSowwww my ears.”
That, Thorulf stated to himself, was entirely too loud. The sheer force of his voice had actually blasted the closest table into pieces, and thrown the men around it to the floor. Not to mention, it had probably broken several eardrums – his own had likely escaped total destruction only thanks to the same magic that projected his words.
It had very definitely caught the attention of everyone in the hall, however. So, he went on.
“Last year we broke the Easterners, by the force of our axes and swords. We paid a price in blood to Odin, god of war, for our victory. Now, Odin needs our favor – and the blood we paid march with him as he meet the hosts of the Westerners and Southerners in battle!”
He slammed his hand on the armrest of his high seat, and the fire in his lungs once again burst to life – he paid heed to control its inferno this time, however. “Our fallen march before us in battle, ready to again take the highest marks! Ynglings, what say you to this contemptuous greed of our brothers? That they be the ones to steal all glory from us, who still walk the world outside the reach of Valhalla's horns? That once more we who remain to guard and strengthen the Clan, shall be sung of lower tones, of lesser words? Or, pray tell, remain unsung?”
A unison cry rose in response from the warriors. “NAY!” Feet thundered as they stomped the ground, and within moments an impromptu drumbeat arose from the shivering planks of the floor. Not seconds later that too was drowned out, when someone found an actual wardrum and started beating it steadily with all his might. Thumm. Thumm. Th'thumm. So Thorulf, again, went on. “Then, hear me, Ynglings! We shall be the ones to hold the gates of Valhalla! We shall make war side by side with our fallen brethren, and bring the greatest of all glory to the name of our clan! None shall forget Gyldvik, who remember Asgård! None shall forget Clan Yngling, who remember Asgård! None shall forget...”

So the night went on for quite some time, the men drinking and drumming, until even the hardiest of warriors had gotten enough mead in their bellies to waggle home swaying like overloaded longboats in a storm.
Left were only those two who were to share the hall's sleeping quarters for the night. As the last of the warriors passed through the door into the snow outside, Freyr put his hand on Thorulf's shoulder, and eyed him intently. “I think it's good time we had a little talk, my dear nephew,” his uncle said, a thin smile on his lips. Thorulf managed to smile back, but he didn't need to read anyone's fate to know that this night wouldn't end in his favor.

Then again, that was all secondary. There was little time to worry about his own – divinity – now, when all power that could be found was of enormous importance. Nothing else mattered, now. The war was coming. The war to end all wars, the war to end the god of war himself.

The end of Asgård was at hand, and Thorulf was now the end of its line – twilight had come for the line of the gods.

Ragnarök has arrived, he thought sleepily, before he fell into a deep slumber.

-/-/-/-/

A certain pony stood on the crest of a small hill. At least, such was the appearance of it to others, unaware of her actions on planes beyond what could be seen with the naked eye. Then again there were no “others” except a small family of feral werehamsters trying to hide from the horse-beast lumbering across their territory, so appearances didn't really matter much.

She had climbed this hill crest every night for almost two months now, and frankly, she was getting tired of it. Luckily, tonight was going to be the last. She could feel it. It was a strange feeling, true, one that made her insides squirm and shiver in anticipation – not altogether enjoyable, but not all too bad either.
She had tied the last knots. Drawn the two strings out. She had, rather surprisingly, found the pole – thus sparing her the effort of making one of her own – and tied them together around it. She had bound it all together, and though it was rather makeshift, there wasn't exactly anypony else around who could do it better. Or at all, for that matter.

Now, it was time to make the pull. The pony steeled herself – this was going to be, if not painful, then at least very, very weird. Then she smiled. Oh well!

She pulled.

Comments

[Alalic]

Hm, that's a very interesting description you have there. Let's hope that your story can live you to it, then

[NejinOniwa]

219511
Oh quite. I always have to restrict myself a bit when writing short bits, you know, lest it get way too eloquent and long and all that. So instead of being flowery I focus on the sticky parts! The parts that stick. And glue themselves to your eyes. GLUE IN YOUR EYES CAN YOU FEEL IT-

(Dear readers, a word of advice. If you ever start writing, please refrain from staying up all night finishing a story - for the sake of your own health and sanity. Or at least, for the sake of those around you, refrain from using the internet the day after. It never ends well. )

[NejinOniwa]

MORE EDITS. This has gone through a fair amount of reviews now, and I feel the story is shaping up to get better and better.
The intro is still the weak link, though. Which is sort of sad. But meh.

[alexmagnet]

Yeesh, man that took a lot longer to get through than it should have.

Well, Nejin, you've got an interesting premise, if nothing else, but I can't help but feel overwhelmed by the massive infodump that takes place in this chapter. I'm being told all these words and names and places that I don't know, much less know how to pronounce, and then given backstory on a bunch of them. I felt like I had to go back and re-read large sections just to understand what the hell was going on. Now, I'm willing to accept that that may be a failing on my part, but this is merely me stating what my reading experience was like.

One of the major problems I have, and I'll admit, it's more of a stylistic thing I suppose, is the way you use bolded text. To me, that just feels lazy. I understand that you're using it to show the strength behind the words, but I can't help but think that you'd be better served with some equally strong description. You don't even have to describe it every time, just once would suffice. Also, that's not to say that you can't or shouldn't use bolded text, just that maybe you should tone it down a little in favor of some better description. (Which, if you'll recall, was also my complaint about portions of The Late Clock)

Without the last handful of paragraphs, I would've found myself asking "Why is this on FiMfic?" because it doesn't feel pony... at all. Granted, that's not necessarily a bad thing, but it certainly is not going to attract many readers on a site dedicated to ponyfics.

So, having said all that, I do want to point out that I did enjoy some of the descriptions quite a bit, and I found some parts of it to be very interesting. However, if I were reading this randomly, I don't think I would've even finished the first chapter. Nothing about it really tickles my fancy. About the only thing keeping my invested (and I use that word loosely) is the prospect of more Norse mythology (aka best mythology) being incorporated.

~alexmagnet