Tales from the Lands of Winter Fay: Part 3: Hall of the King Returned
The Vanir were slow to age, and indeed Prince Sven, who was called the Whitemane, or Prince Reagent, or Commander, depending on who was speaking, wore his two century and one score years with the light-stepping grace of youth. But as Sven walked side by side with his father, who was called Hermóðr, or King, or The Hanged One, or He Who Has Returned From Death, or The Hangadrott, he could not help but notice that in appearance, his years were beginning to overtake those of his father. The king had not aged since his return from beyond the death’s curtain and except for the hanging scars left upon his neck, there was no indication of his great ordeal.
Sven had returned from the cave of the Desir’s high coven after speaking with the witches there. He had watched as they called upon the spirit trapped by the Desir acolyte from the corpse of the dying wolf-creature and had learned much regarding its rage and a man they spoke of with the most wicked curses who went by the name of Emperor Vral. The dead generally, and this raging spirit, who was caught by some sort of mysterious curse, in particular, were often difficult to speak with or make sense of, the Desir had said and so there was relatively little they could tell him otherwise. Now he was sharing these details with his father as they walked along the wooden ramparts of the walls of Éljúðnir. They spoke not only of the attacks of the wolf-men but of more day-to-day affairs. The king’s visit to the other side made it much easier for him to keep the affairs of man and mortals in perspective and to appreciate the need for patience, or so he said; he was prone to act quickly and decisively when the mood took him. They spoke of the Jarls and the nobility, of the scouts reports and of the Hirdling training. They spoke of Ulfric, Sven’s brother, and his son, the first of the king’s grandsons and Sven’s only nephew, who was now learning to throw a spear with uncanny precision befitting his noble lineage.
As they walked, the warriors who manned the walls parted around them, shielding their eyes with their hands at the brightness of the King and Prince’s glamour. The two were so thoroughly similar in features, especially with the King’s unnatural youth, that very few who could not pierce the glamour with noble blood of their own would have been able to tell one from the other if it were not for the king’s silver crown. Both were tall men, with the width of shoulders and ease of gait of men used to hunting and war. They both had long nearly white blonde hair and shining silver and yellow eyes like those of cats and both wore polished steel hauberks, broadsword and dagger at the hip. No… as they made their way along the walls, few could tell them apart. Except for the Tuatha princess. She parted the warriors and the royal entourage with the strength of her own glamour while her own noble blood easily pierced the prince’s glamour and did much to uncover the king’s. Her name was Eochaid Indai, amd she was daughter of Lugh, champion of King Nuada, of the
Tuatha Dé Danann who came from a distant island called
the emerald but which was known to the Tuatha and the Vanir as
Tír na nÓg. Sven thought her beautiful, a flowing creature, who like most Tuatha, were of the same height of men, but who like the Vanir, cloaked herself in glamour. The Tuatha were the ever-young and she was no exception, her age being known only to greatly exceed that of the king but her beauty to rival any of the royal court. While the Vanir had a glamour that suggested moonlight, winter and silver, hers suggested sun, spring, and gold and so too did her dress and modest smile. She strode towards the pair and with a lack of difference that Sven thought strange but which the king apparently did not, she took hold of both the king’s hands and leaned close to kiss him gently on the cheek. Turning to the prince with a smile she spoke to the king in a conspiratorial tone ripe with the musical tones of a Tuatha princess, “Have you told him yet?”
The king appeared apprehensive as he faced his oldest son, “You know that I loved your mother very much and when we cross, I will love her again. But… I have fallen for another, one with a beating heart and warm breath, who will love me in my eternal youth and for as long as my lungs draw breath and my heart beats, one with whom I can spend all my long long years with and bring me happiness and to whom I can also bring happiness. Son, I have decided to marry this Tuatha princess.”
His words were not completely unexpected. The prince had heard the rumors. His own memories of his mother were modest, fuzzy, golden-covered with the gentle fuzz of childhood recollection. He knew that his mother had been sacrificed on the alter to the dead goddess on the winter solstice of the last year of the silver comet, the greatest honor that could be awarded by the messengers and a death he and all his people were extremely proud of, and so, for most of his life, the queen had waited in the next life, sacred and distant and never really seen, at least to him, as partner to his father. He also knew that his father was a man, like him, and handsome and noble and that there had been dalliances, but nothing with any seriousness. Despite his lack of objection, he did not know what to say. Extending a hand beyond the wall, he watched a snowflake land and slowly melt in his palm before he spoke again.
This time he turned to the Tuatha princess, “Welcome to the family… Queen Eochaid Indai.”
The king beamed uncharacteristically and placed a hand gently on the stomach of his wife to be, stroking the thick ermine robes no Vanir would have need of, “Son… there is something else I must tell you,” he said with a glance at him, his wife, and at her waist where his half-brother or sister grew.
