This essay was originally drafted to analyze and compare the views of Fantasy held by Tolkien, Lewis, and Chesterton. However, as I began to write it, it became something much more meditative. This short essay articulates the end to which I think Fantasy strives. It does so from a Christian framework with Christian presuppositions.

Story is, I think, the first occupation of Man. Man, made in the Image of God, partook (insofar as he was able) of God’s creative nature and presided over the bestowal of identity within creation. Our grandfather named the beasts. He did not give the lion its fangs nor its claws, but he did give it its name. He recognized its identity.

Any identity within time is something revelatory; it is something unfolding through its inherent nature and characteristics. The story wherein these things would be revealed was not completed within Eden, but begun. Their fulfillment became something anticipated. The lion was not only something known but something which would be more fully known, and its name was the first word of the story in which that would be told. We speak names over creation as a picture of the Eternal Word who creatively sustains all things through His own expression. Our verbalizations of creation, our story-telling, is the first exercise of our image-bearing role.

In transgression, Man violated his identity, exiling himself from unity with creation and diminishing his dominion over it. Even so, we never forgot our original role. We continued to hear Nature’s silent song through which she sings the glories of her Creator. And so, we continued to name. We named the roaring strikes of thunder and the turbulent swells in the open waters. We named the rich soil with its plentiful harvests, as well as the scorch of the west winds. We never stopped telling our stories: our explanations of the reality around us and our participations in the songs which Nature sings.

We sang of Heracles, a son of a god who tamed the wilderness for the thriving of humanity; Pandora, through whose curiosity the evils of the world emerged; Orpheus, who descended into Hades to retrieve his lost bride; Odin, who sacrificed himself on a tree for the pursuit of wisdom. These songs are interpretations of the world in which man lives. They’re Nature’s voice translated. They’re participations with Divinity’s revelation, imperfect though they may be.

We, broken, feel a wound. And though we cannot yet know what it is to be whole, we can trace the crevices of the privation within ourselves. We explore its emptiness and learn something of its shape. Though the shape we find is only a crude estimation, it nonetheless resembles the image of Truth from whose presence we have been estranged. Myth is a shape cast by shadow.

Yet, the form of our privation has now been made known to us on a cross in Judea, and we can see the place to which all the expectations of myth pointed. There were still monsters after Heracles. Odin remained powerless to stop Ragnarok. Orpheus failed in his quest to save his bride. Myth traced the wound, but it could not heal it. Yet, Christ does. As C.S. Lewis wrote in a letter to Arthur Greeves on October 18th, 1931:

...[the] story of Christ is simply a true myth: a myth working on us in the same way as the others, but with this tremendous difference that it really happened.1

Christianity is myth fulfilled. It does not abolish mythic imagination, but validates it. Myth has not been abrogated, but baptized by Scripture’s clarifying word. The things to which it points are no longer guessed at, but known. And so, we continue in that ancient pursuit of Adam and our ancient ancestors by inventing new songs and participating with the voice of Nature, as we join in singing the glories of God.

This baptized pursuit finds its form in Fantasy. Fantasy is the form of story that feels the ache within the heart, looks at the world, and asks: What if it were ordered rightly? What if the lamb could lie with the lion? What if the dead could live again?

It embodies what is invisible, gives voice to what is silent, and language to what is inarticulate. It sensitizes us to the underpinning logic of the world so we might converse with dragons. It is rehearsal for already-won beatitude, where our lost blessings are reclaimed. It pulls back the veil from our still-dimmed eyes and reveals the creative Truth governing all things.

This is Fantasy’s telos, the goal to which its form was made. When it rejects its goal, it in essence rejects itself. It becomes something deprived.

Fantasy, rightly done, is sub-incarnation — eternal truth clothed in an imaginative image. It exists so we might look at it and leave with faces shining.

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Thank you so much for taking the time to read! The above is my philosophy of writing, the end to which I’m striving. If you’d like to support me in my or endeavors or see how my career unfolds, please consider subscribing to my Substack.

About the Author

Kyle Metz is an aspiring fantasy novelist. He is building his own publishing house and will be releasing an illustrated edition of At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald this summer. If you’d like to follow what he’s doing, you can follow him on X at @_kylemetz or subscribe to his Substack A Story Told.

This recently passed November was Novel November, or NaNoWriMo. It’s a nationwide, annual celebration of writing where prospective and established novelists challenge themselves to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. It was my first time attempting it, and it was an incredibly educational experience — as well as the inspiration behind this article’s title.

As those who have been following my Substack already know, I’ve been working on a project called Seidrmadr. I used to make weekly posts where I’d share 1.5k–2k words of a new scene. Once all of the scenes of the first chapter were completed, I edited them and shared the full chapter.

Writing Seidrmadr this way was an entirely awful idea.

What ended up happening was that I took myself far too seriously during what should have only been a sloppy and exploratory first draft. Writing and editing should not be done side-by-side. The fact is, I have very little of the story after the first arc figured out (I don’t outline), and whatever ends up on the page later will inevitably affect the beginning chapters. Foreshadowing will be added, geographical and political details refined, and characters will be outright changed. I had no business writing Seidrmadr the way I was, which is why I stopped making those weekly posts a few months ago.

But even after stopping, I was still taking myself way too seriously. I hated my bad prose and would cringe at what I produced at the end of an hour of writing. My progress slowed to a snail’s pace, and the truth is, I’m a complete nobody. I have no business worrying about the quality of my first draft as much as I was. How about I prove myself first?

So while all of that was going on in my head, and I was wondering how to approach the story I have unreasonably grand hopes for, the clock turned to November 1st. I didn’t even remember NaNoWriMo was a thing until I saw a post about it on X, but I did the math in my head and figured it would be around 1,700 words a day — totally doable.

I decided to write 50,000 words of a brand-new story — one I did not care about at all and had no emotional attachment to.

I started that day and wrote about 2,300 words. Every night around 8 PM, after my daughter was put to bed, I would spend at least an hour writing. (Sometimes I hit my word goal in that amount of time; sometimes I didn’t.) My second daughter was born on November 5th. Thankfully, the birth went smoothly, my wife is recovering well, and I was still able to keep up with the writing schedule despite the added responsibilities of a newborn. I even increased my daily word goal to 2,000 to allow for occasional days off, and to guarantee myself a rest day on Sunday.

The month of writing honestly went pretty smoothly, and I finished with 50,016 words written. They are sloppy words. The story is inconsistent. The POV randomly changes from first person to third, and I’m thinking about changing back to first. But I now have over 50,000 words in a project where the most I’ve ever previously managed was the 20,000 I currently have in Seidrmadr — which took a much longer period of time. The story also isn’t done, and I plan to continue writing 2,000 words a day through December, and however far into January it takes to complete it. That should leave me with a story of over 100,000 words.

I want to share some lessons learned.

1. Write Something You Don’t Care About

I already said it — it’s the title of the article. WRITE SOMETHING YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT.

If you’re like me (and I think you are), you’ve had a project marinating in your mind for years, and it must be perfect, or at least as close to perfect as you can manage. The simple reality is you don’t know how to write a story yet. You don’t have the experience, or the writing (or editing) muscle.

Even if you’re way better than I am, isn’t it obvious that you’ll do a better job writing your passion project with another book’s worth of experience under your belt?

Let the project keep marinating, and become a better writer while you do so.

Take a month to build the habit of writing daily. Then keep it going.

2. Hold Yourself to a Word Count

Time goals just aren’t as effective. Maybe your goal is to spend an hour writing daily instead of hitting an arbitrary word count, but what will often happen is that much of that “writing time” will go into notes, worldbuilding, or scrolling through a distraction.

Books are measured in words — so measure yourself in them too. You’ll see your productivity skyrocket.

And by the way, time goals are arbitrary too.

3. First Drafts Should Suck

Just let the words flow. Let the ideas flow. Let the dialogue flow.

When I had a block, I simply started a new scene, in a new place, sometimes with new people. Then things started flowing again. Editing is when you make it good.

4. 50,000 Words Is Not That Much

I’ve been reading for the longest time that 100,000 words is the genre standard for fantasy and science fiction. Maybe I just tend to read big books, but I imagined that meant 100,000 words would come out to about 500 pages. Nope. In my writing, it will come out to about 260. Meaning the 50,000 words I have right now is only about 130. That’s barely a pamphlet in my eyes.

The experience helped reset expectations. I used to think Seidrmadr would be about 100,000 words, but I now know it should be at least 200,000 — which, at my current pace, is doable in about four months for the first draft. I won’t be returning to it until my current project is done anyway, though.

Now that that’s all shared, I have some other things I’d like to share.

I’m Building a Publishing House

Most of us here are indie writers. I’ve become involved in the SFF indie space online over the last year or so, and it’s been a blessing, but the honest truth is I doubt the scope of the indie space.

Many of us are in this space because we’ve been pushed out of traditional publishing. Not to mince words, the vast majority of trad-pub companies are run by people who drink children’s blood. So we conservatives — and especially we Christians — simply don’t fit in.

I don’t believe KDP self-publishing is the way forward for the Christian-conservative fiction industry. Our predecessors failed in their stewardship of the institutions, but that doesn’t mean we must go forward without any institutions at all.

What makes A Story Told Publishing different?

We will focus exclusively on fiction, and specifically on genre fiction. We will not produce expressly theological or political works, but only fictional ones. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s wonderful what companies like Canon Press are doing, but a quick scroll through their catalog shows that fiction is their side thing; we want fiction to be our central thing.

Why should you publish with me?

You absolutely shouldn’t — at least, not yet. I’m learning the ropes right now: how to get books into brick-and-mortar stores, commissioning editors and artists, typography and all things design-related, book promotion, and all the other moving parts involved in marketing.

My first project is currently in progress: a re-release of At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald. The introduction is being written by Andrew Snyder from Mythic Mind, and the book will have ten new illustrations throughout. I want to use this project to prove that I can make something beautiful — that I can provide a beautiful edition of a novel that, in my opinion, doesn’t currently have one.

I will then continue with other public-domain novels that fit what A Story Told Publishing is trying to accomplish. My first contemporary novel will be the first book of Seidrmadr. I’m currently targeting 2027, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it drifts into 2028. Then, once that’s done and I’m confident in my ability to market your books well and provide real value commensurate with a publishing contract, I’ll begin accepting submissions. But if your worldview is ugly, then don’t bother.

I’ll also say that I have grand plans beyond just publishing. I envision an app for weekly serial fiction, an animation studio, and games.

My plans are very grand, and I’m self-confident (delusional?) enough to think I can do them. At the very least, if they are part of the good works God has prepared beforehand for me, then I know I can. So I’ll just try to be faithful to the steps in front of me.

Project Sica

Project Sica is the current codename of my NaNoWriMo WIP. I said earlier that I’ll finish the first draft in January. I’ll then put it through three rounds of editing, and once that’s done I’ll release it serially here. Why not through my publishing company? Because it isn’t that deep, and it doesn’t fit what my current intentions are with AST.

I see it as the first entry in what could become a long-running adventure series, and it’s the sort of thing where my only intention is to have fun with it. With all the other things I’m working on, I’m hoping to produce a new entry once a year (maybe that’s optimistic). There will be no professional editing like with Seidrmadr; it will just be me, myself, and I — so the project should go much quicker.

Thank you for reading this far. I’ll try to have monthly updates here for those who are interested. Or follow me on X — but know that I do a lot more poasting than posting, if you get what I mean.

God bless!

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Ruka lay in a place where Heaven would not be denied. Ancient trees,

hundreds of feet tall like sentries in the dark, aspired tirelessly to meet the hosts

in the air yet fell hopelessly short, far off of the sky’s boundary. They shone with

care, painting the frostbitten ground with foreign brilliant hues—colors he had

no name for but which stirred in him a familiar longing. The ice itself danced in

response.

Wood from the fire crackled and popped as a stream of ash and sparks shot

upward, leaving a faint trail of gray in its wake. He breathed in cedar and smoke,

warmth curling through him as he rolled over to his side and clutched the thick

fur of his hood more snugly around his neck. One more day, he thought to

himself. Willow neighed softly as if in response.

When morning had come, sunlight peeked through the naked boughs, falling

on Ruka’s closed eyes and tangled dark hair. Willow was picking at small tufts of

grass poking from the snow. Her chestnut coat was a flare of warmth in a world

that seemed to have forgotten the sun.

Still groggy, he staggered over to her. The ice crunched under his feet. He

delved into the saddlebag and took out a thick piece of dried venison that he had

bought from the next village south — it was the last of his provisions.

Willow snorted as he petted her mane. He grabbed her reins and pulled to

escort her out of the forest, through the deep piles of snow, and onto the road. A

thin crack stretched along the leather strap. Ice had crept up through the night. A

single teardrop remained frozen mid-fall.

The locals called the valley Jötindale — Giant’s Valley — though no one could

agree whether the name honored the trees or the bones said to be buried beneath

them.

A slender crystalline river flowed down from the mountain peaks, through

the city, and curved its way beyond the hills and forests until it rested in the sea

to the west.

By late morning, Ruka ambled north atop Willow along the frozen river’s

edge. If he were not so numb to the saddle’s sting, he would have felt it grinding

his bones. Willow’s hooves clicked like hammers on stone as they passed by

fishermen’s cottages and homesteads. Wrinkled men in sealskin suits wore away

at the ice with pickaxes as they waded half-submerged in the shallows yet

unmoved by the cold.

Tall walls of pale stone rose in the distance. Archers stood posted above, and a

thick iron gate barred entry. One of them hailed below when he saw Ruka come

into view. Ruka cantered across the wooden bridge and over the river before

stopping short of the threshold.

Two guards flanked the entrance. They wore light-blue gambesons, held a

spear in their hands, and sheathed a seax at their waists. “Name?” asked the

taller of the two while he took hold of Willow’s reins. A pale scar ran from his ear

to the corner of his crooked jaw.

“Ruka. Yours?”

The guard scowled. “Ulf. What’s your business?”

“It’s University business.” He rummaged through his satchel, moving aside

loose sheaves of parchment and charcoal before emerging victorious with a

canister of treated leather, inside of which was a bundle of documents. The

University’s insignia—a swooping eagle with a scroll in its claws—was stamped

in the top right corner of each page. “Inside here you’ll find my papers, which

allow my travel.”

Ulf released Willow, snatching the papers from Ruka’s grip. Ruka watched

him slowly shuffle his way through the pages. Quiet pressure built in his chest.

He noticed his breathing, as if he couldn’t trust the air.

“Seidrmadr,” the guard said under his breath, glancing up.

A soft clack sounded, a palm meeting pommel. “We didn’t know the

University hired your sort,” Ulf said.

“They hire all sorts. I’m a researcher.”

“A researcher with magic?” Ulf asked, incredulous. His companion kept his

hand on his seax. They looked at with narrowed eyes.

“It’s not magic. It’s—never mind. All seidrmadr employed by the Imperium

carry these documents. They allow us to access our funds and gain entry into

restricted spaces. Spaces like neighboring allied city-states, for example.”

Ulf’s face blushed and his brow turned sharp. “You’ll forgive our lack of

hospitality,” he said. “Nobody gets into the city now. You’ll need to prove you

are what you say you are.”

“Is the University seal not credible enough?” He did not hide the annoyance

in his voice.

“Your word is not enough. You might have forged these or stolen them. And

why would a seidrmadr travel north to visit Jötindale in winter?”

“I bet you know why,” Ruka replied. Ulf quickly opened his mouth to answer

but stopped himself from doing so. They stared at each other. Light wisps of

snow blew across their faces and noses. Ruka resigned himself. “Very well.”

Satisfied to have won, the faint hint of a smile on his face. He took in his

surroundings, then approached the dirt patch near the wall and got on his knees.

He plucked a flower. “Turn this to ice,” he said.

“That’s not how it works,” Ruka said.

His jaw clenched. “I’ve seen your kind do it.”

“And I’ve seen a spear used to cut cheese.”

Ulf spoke in an even voice, contrasted only by the white knuckles clutching

his spear. “How would you like to prove yourself?”

“Give me the flower.”

Ruka hopped down and walked over, stretching his open hand. Ulf raised an

eyebrow but handed it over without issue. He placed the flower back on top of

the newly overturned dirt and knelt on one knee before closing his eyes. Then, he

listened.

He heard the noises of the city — the clang of a ladle on a pot, a merchant

hawking salted fish in the square, and braziers roaring as they burnt upon pine

resin. He heard the river stream as it burbled nearby and the fisherman chop at it

further downstream. He heard the birds singing in the forest, and the critters

crawling on the floor beneath them.

Further and deeper he went as the sounds filled his veins like water in an

empty vessel. He became warmer and eventually felt as though he were sitting

next to an open hearth rather than kneeling in the cold. Soon after, the tremors

yielded to stillness, and when stillness yielded to what could only be understood

as death, he heard the music. It was a heartbeat, a pulse within all things. He

listened to it, submitted to it, and only when he was ready did he ask something

of it. Ruka opened his eyes and softly uttered a word. The stem of the flower

grew green again, and it stretched out while its new roots burrowed into the

earth. Its missing petals returned with an azure hue interlaced with the golden

and orange hues of a sunrise. It straightened toward the sky in the natural way of

living things. Ruka exhaled.

His hearing slowly dulled. A ringing in his ears brought him back into the

realm of the living.

“You can make things alive again?” Ulf asked.

Ruka stumbled as he rose from his knees. “It depends. How easily can you

believe that what is dead is meant to live?” He straightened his back and patted

Willow on her mane as she snorted. The ringing slowly subsided. “I can do small

plants. And that’s more than most.”

Ulf’s stance had softened. The wariness didn’t disappear; it might have even

increased, but Ruka no longer fit in the category of stranger. “Let him in!” he

called to the men above. The gate creaked as it rose, opening the city wide to

him.

The breeze whistled through the cramped alleys of Jötinborg. Raised wooden

thoroughfares crisscrossed the city, and smoke curled from the cedar fires that

burned in the scattered iron braziers. Men gathered around them, roasting fish

over the flames. The curious gazes — inflamed by the firelight — found their rest

on the escorted seidrmadr.

The crystalline river of the Fjallgarðr, the mountain pass, flowed through the

city before it snaked its way south. Men sat atop barrels with fishing lines cast

and pipes in the mouths while their lures danced in the stream.

He passed some tables where women were shaping blocks of ice. When they

looked satisfied, they placed them in barrels of water to test their balance. If they

wobbled, the women shaped more.

Ulf took Ruka through the city, guided by the river, until fatigue tugged at his

knees, still sore from the journey north. He thought of his horse while he

dragged himself onward, eyes searching for the Jarl’s longhouse. A shiver crept

up his spine.

As they went further, the alleyways grew wider and became paved with

cobblestones. The streets were more deliberate and geometric. Intricate

decorations carved the pale stonework — though the light only caught them

faintly underneath the frost.

Almost as if hearing his thoughts, Ulf spoke. “This part of the city is ancient.

Much older than its outskirts nearer to the walls.”

“Built by the Jötunn?” Ruka asked.

“That’s my guess.”

At last they stepped off the thoroughfare and walked along a wide road with

market stalls neatly placed on each side. An indecipherable rumble grew, and as

they turned a corner into a smaller square, they found a crowd gathered in a

circle. A red-haired woman trembled on the ground. She covered her face with

her hands. A man loomed over her. Her voice cracked, too soft to be heard, but

the sobs rippled through the air.

The man, tall and with short gray hair, shouted. “You could lose your mind!

You’d become a babbler—would you?” A tremor ran through the crowd and

coalesced into a soft hush. Curiosity turned to fear.

“No.” The word was fragile, already melting into the air.

Her eyes remained cast down at her feet. Strands of hair, like a flame frozen,

clung to her cheeks.

“A babbler?” Ruka asked.

“Yes.” Ulf chuckled. “It happens sometimes to people who stray too close to

the old city—outside the walls.”

Babbler. The word was silent in the flurry of snowfall.

The girl remained crying. Inside the man’s eyes was gentleness buried

beneath the fury. The crowd dispersed as it lost interest. Ulf walked onward, but

Ruka didn’t follow. His gaze, immobilized, remained fixed on the woman.

“Yrsa,” she spoke again. “I need to find Yrsa.”

He knelt down and took her hands into his. “Yrsa is gone.”

“Mimir will know. Mimir will tell me where Yrsa is.”

Tense silence hung. They’d had this conversation before. “The cold will kill

you. Or the wolves. Or something else. And even if nothing else does, and Mimir

is real and you find him, you’ll be gone. A husk.”

“But will I see my daughter again?”

The question clung like ice to stone. Snowflakes drifted like petals in the

wind.

She met his eyes, and he could not answer. He tried to speak, but his voice

rebelled. So instead he left her there, still frozen in the snow.

Something was trying to rise in Ruka’s mind but couldn’t.

“Yrsa?” Ruka asked Ulf, hurrying to catch up with him.

“A young girl. She went missing about a month ago. I suppose she’s her

daughter.” Ulf gestured to Ruka to come forward. “Come on. Time to meet the

Jarl.”

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The Jarl’s longhouse loomed at the heart of the city. Its shadow was pale

against the slow-moving river; the pop of pine resin occasionally broke the

silence.

Two guards with unreadable eyes flanked the doorway. They held their spears

in hand, mirroring the postures of the guards stationed at the gate.

Ulf received a glance. Ruka received none. He swallowed and felt the heat of

the brazier’s flame prick his skin.

The carved eaves below the roofline bore faded reds and blues, smudged

where icicles clung to their surface, poised like teeth.

The stream murmured.

“Come,” Ulf said as he stepped into the building through its threshold.

Ruka followed him through the bare antechamber and into the main chamber.

A fire pit stretched through its length, flanked by rough-shod bare tables. Their

emptiness felt audible. The coals burned low but smelled of cedar, an eerie

warmth in the hush.

The Jarl, stout with a blonde braid that stretched the length of his back,

occupied an elevated table at the back of the chamber. A group of eager

counselors, competitive for his ear, surrounded him on both sides. They were

discussing something, but Ruka couldn’t hear what.

Behind the Jarl was a place Ruka couldn’t quite see. It was as though the light

bent around it and left an eerie darkness. The sensation was familiar, like looking

through a hole in the world’s fabric.

The emptiness moved, and Ruka noticed its shadowy figure possessed the

vague shape of a man. He whispered in the Jarl’s ear. His counselors quieted.

One flinched.

The Jarl stood with a wooden goblet in his hand. He twirled it in his fingers,

watching the wine spin, and then looked up. He caught Ruka’s gray eyes and

took a long sip before speaking.

“Welcome, seidrmadr.”

Ulf was already kneeling. Ruka hadn’t noticed. He remained there standing,

his eyes still drawn to the shadow.

Ruka was jolted from his trance when Ulf caught his eye with a distinct plea,

making him kneel in response.

The Jarl shook his goblet again before speaking. “You’ve come at a strange

time. Why?”

“I’ve heard rumors that attracted my attention. I now believe they were

regarding your babblers.”

The Jarl raised an eyebrow as the shadowed man whispered more words into

his ear. “What is dead should stay dead,” the Jarl responded.

The goblet shook faintly in his hand, but his jaw hardened into a scowl.

“What is dead should stay dead,” Ruka agreed evenly, almost daring the

words back. “But I would not call them dead just yet.”

Ruka rifled through his satchel, a flash of anxiety growing as his fingers failed

to find the familiar parchment before they brushed against the broken wax seal.

“As you can see here,” he gestured, “my research is approved by the University.

The Imperium guarantees I won’t meddle in city matters. To turn me away

would be to insult your southern neighbor, and your great ally.”

The Jarl considered this for a long breath. He summoned Ulf forward. Ulf rose

with care before taking the papers from Ruka’s outstretched hand and bringing

them to the back of the room.

The seer was trying to peer into Ulf’s eyes, his gaze like needles. Ulf kept

them cast on the ground.

“What has the Empire heard?” The Jarl asked.

“Only of rumors. Shadows.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I will investigate and learn what I can. Then I will have a better idea.”

A cracked and gnarled voice, dry and weightless like the ghost of a feather,

drifted like ash through the air. “You must not trust this foreigner, my lord.

Sleeping things must sleep. Lest they be awake. And things… woken…” he

trailed off in a high-pitched voice. The emptiness surrounding the voice grew.

He looked long at the fire, sighed, and shook his head with the vigor of

conviction. “You may remain, seidrmadr. Explore the city at your leisure.

Investigate these babblers.”

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The stars were brighter in the north; they painted the pale stonework and the

clinging frost beneath their watch from Heaven.

He wandered for some time, past many closed doors and soft glimmers of

hearth-light shining through window panels. The cold seeped into his body. He

had been in the north for weeks now. Outdoors after the train took him as far

north as it could go. Yet, it was the first time he really felt the chill. His

anticipation, uncertainty, worry, and tension — all the things he dragged up the

valley with him — dissolved. His goal was finally clear and the misty vapors of

the future cleared under the moonlight.

He closed his eyes for a moment to listen, still, until he heard the faint but

familiar thrumming—the ever-present music which coursed through the biting

air.

His only destination was a place to sleep, so following nothing, he stepped off

the thoroughfare and turned left into an alley and then into a familiar market

square. The watchful silence was a stark contrast to the scene from earlier. Names

whispered from the flurries. Yrsa. Mimir.

The muffled patter of conversation and laughter broke the hush. His knees

responded with their weariness, and he turned his face to find light streaming

out from a nearby building.

He walked to it, and once he opened the heavy door, cheer spilled outward

into the street. Warmth hit him. Two barmaids weaved between tables while the

bartender polished glasses behind a gleaming walnut counter. A narrow staircase

was in the room’s left corner. It creaked under a man’s footsteps as he ascended

them shakily.

Four of the six tables were occupied. Three men nursed their drinks at the bar,

minds elsewhere. Four others played darts on a board that was in poor condition,

fastened to a wall of rough planks that looked like bear claws had torn them

from a trunk.

Ruka removed his hood, letting his dark hair fall to his shoulders. For the first

time, nobody seemed to mind him. He supposed it helped not to have an armed

escort if one wished to avoid attention.

He walked to the counter and pulled out one of the empty stools. The

bartender shot him an expectant glance.

“A beer and a room, please.” Ruka pulled his leather wallet from his satchel

and placed two coppers on the marbled wood.

The man nodded and filled a tall mug from the keg in the corner, then pulled

a thick key from below. He placed them both in front of Ruka. “Up the stairs.

Third room on the left.” His voice was gruff and matter-of-fact, his attention

never leaving the glasses he was cleaning.

“Thanks.”

One of the barmaids passed behind the counter, loading used dishes into the

washbasin at the back of the room. She cast him a curious glance, but when their

eyes met, she looked away quickly, a flush rising to her cheeks.

Ruka sipped from his mug, allowing the warmth to spill into his chest.

She scrubbed the wooden plates with a sea sponge; the scent of the water was

sharp with lime. Her blonde hair, soft as the sunrise before its zenith, caught his

eye. Pale skin dusted with faint freckles made her seem younger up close.

He shifted in his seat and pretended interest in the game of darts across the

room. The players weren’t skilled — they were actually quite bad. But they gave

him an excuse not to keep staring.

She turned to him quickly again before looking away. Her hands fidgeted

with the sponge in her hand, and the water splashed loudly. “Have you played

before?” Her eyes did not leave the washbasin.

Ruka shook his head, conscious to hide his own blush. “No—well, yes. Not

for some time. I used to play as a student.”

“A student?”

He shifted towards her. “In Mora. At the University.”

“University? Huh.” Her scrubbing slowed; and her gaze caught in unfocused

thought. The silence stretched, pressing down on him.

Then, with a lightness in her voice, she asked, “So you’re from the Empire,

then? What brings you north?”

“Research,” he said, careful not to divulge too much. He didn’t know how the

typical townspeople would react to his presence. “I specialize in cultural studies.

Folklore.”

“Oh! Snølykt, then?”

Snølykt? The word meant nothing to him.

She saw his puzzled face. “It’s our solstice celebration. We carve lanterns out

of ice and set them floating in the river. It’s coming up in just a few days.” Her

voice elevated cheerily as she spoke of it, clearly eager.

Ruka imagined the sight, and he remembered the women he’d seen earlier as

they carved the ice blocks and tested their balance in the barrel.

“But you’re not here for Snølykt, then. So what are you here for?”

Should he be forthright? She was talkative, at least. Maybe he could learn

something, he decided. “Mimir,” surprise struck him for what came out.

Her hand stilled on the sponge, and the room seemed to quiet. Her scrubbing

sped up. “Mimir? I haven’t heard that name before. Are you sure you came to the

right place?”

“Maybe I haven’t,” he responded with a laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Barda,” she said. Her shoulders tilted forward, towards him.

His shoulders eased with relief she wasn’t put off. “That translates to ‘poet,’”

he said. Then, quieter, “I’m Ruka.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, with a subtle bow of the head.

Might as well try again, he thought. “If you don’t know Mimir, maybe you’ve

heard of something else. Babblers?”

A sudden draft swept through as someone slipped through the door outside.

The candles beside Ruka guttered, then snuffed out; thin trails of smoke curled

upward. Cold air brushed the nape of his neck.

The bartender, who had otherwise ignored their conversation, glanced up—

his raised eyebrow a subtle warning.

She glanced down, and a shadow fell over her eyes. “Come on a walk with

me when I’m done?”

He wondered at her—the brief flicker of fear in her eyes hadn’t gone

unnoticed. “I’d be glad to,” he said. His grip tightened around his mug and he

took another sip.

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Steady streams of fog blew from Barda’s parted lips. The snow crunched

beneath her feet while wisps of snow floated as the breeze swept it from white-

capped roofs.

She had a thick woolen shawl pulled around her head. Wind clawed across

the stones like talons from the braziers’ flickering shadows.

“The city is quiet,” he said.

They kept walking. West, he guessed by the moon in the sky. The buildings

grew disjointed, and they turned from stonework into woodwork with pitch.

“What have you heard about them?” she asked. Her expression was fierce and

protective. “You called them ‘babblers.’”

“Just a passing comment. There was an argument in the square earlier—the

same as the tavern. A man shouted at a woman that she’d lose her sense.”

She was silent beside him. A few minutes had gone by before Ruka spoke

again. “There is a silence in this place. Not merely quietude or meekness, but a

silence. Silence isn’t natural. The world sings. It groans, it cries, and it rejoices.

But silence? Only the dead are silent.”

Barda’s gaze drifted to the sky. She kept walking.

The city’s wall was now looming overhead. She led him to an alcove cut in the stone, ducked under it, and climbed a wooden ladder to the walkway above.

Ruka ascended behind her, and when they both rose, the icy plains were clear

before them. They led all the way to the forest’s edge with the mountains

beyond. He was once again amazed at the height and width of the trees, and the

way they beckoned upward, challenging the sheer cliff-face itself.

A lone figure stood dark in the white landscape. Light bent around him. It

was the second time he had seen such a thing that day. The man’s skin was not

pale nor dark.

The color… wasn’t.

“See him?” She asked.

Ruka nodded as the man stumbled through the snow.

“I call him ‘Dumbr.’ Nobody remembers his name.”

Ruka kept watching the man, at a loss for words. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Ruka looked at her and saw her body shake. She bit

her bottom lip, and a lone tear slowly slipped from her eye. “I don’t know who

he is, or what he did. The only thing I know is that I should. I know the hole

within myself. That’s it.” Her even voice broke. “He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look

you in the eye, doesn’t even eat. But he’s been there wandering around in the ice

for months, and he still looks the same as the day he returned.”

Ruka watched the shell of a man before him. So that’s what it was like to

become a babbler.

The ice cracked under Dumbr as he fell face down.

He was still, then rose with the snow clinging to his eyes, but he did not wipe

it away. He did not even blink.

“Can you help him, Seidrmadr?”

His hands tightened into fists, and his fingernails dug into his palms. Why did

I let myself relax? He wondered to himself. The place was broken, and he let the

excitement of a mystery drive the anxiety from his bones.

“You know I’m a seidrmadr?” he asked.

Barda laughed, the sweetness breaking the tension growing in the air. “Of

course I do. The entire city knows about you. When you introduced yourself as a

southerner from the University, well, I imagined there was only one of those in Jötinborg. And… I heard about what you did with the flower. I’ve met magic-

men before, but never met one who could do that.”

“You’ve never met one like me,” he said grimly.

Torchlight lit her face and reflected in her green eyes, but it was her fear

which colored her expression. “Ruka, can you help him?”

“Maybe,” he paused. “I don’t know.”

“Can you try?”

“Yeah. I can try.”

The heavens were not in view, and Ruka did not try and listen to their song. Instead, he kept his ears focused on Barda. Steady streams of fog blew from her parted lips, and the snow crunched softly beneath their feet. Wisps of snow floated gently in the breeze as it swept it from the white-capped roofs.

She had a thick woolen shawl pulled snugly over her head. The fire-light did not reach her eyes. The wind clawed across the stones like talons from the braziers’ flickering shadows.

“The city is quiet.”

They kept walking. West, he guessed, closer and closer to the walls. The buildings grew more disjointed, and they slowly turned from stonework into woodwork with pitch.

“What have you heard about them? You called them ‘babblers.’” She looked at him from beneath her shawl. Her expression was fierce. Protective.

“Just a passing comment. A man shouting at his sister—said she’d ‘lose her sense.’”

Her voice was low, but something trembled beneath it. “You asked because of a single mention?”

Clouds parted in the sky revealing the lights above. They shone down, and the snow before them glittered like a field in the golden light of day.

“No,” he answered. “I asked because there is a silence in this city. Not a mere quietude, or meekness, but a muffled silence like a woman with a rag stuffed in her mouth.

“Silence isn’t natural. The world sings. It’s singing all the time. It groans when it’s hurt, it cries for vengeance, and it rejoices in gladness. But silence… Only the dead are silent.”

Her gaze drifted to the sky, to the ones watching in song. And she kept walking.

The wall was now looming overhead. Barda led him to an alcove cut in the stone, ducked under it, and climbed a wooden ladder to the walkway above. Ruka ascended behind her, and when they both rose up, the icy plains were clear before him, leading all the way to the forest’s edge with the mountains beyond. He was once again amazed at the height and width of the trees, and the way they beckoned upward, challenging the sheer cliff-face itself.

A lone figure stood, dark in the white landscape. Light seemed to bend around him, unwilling to touch his face. His skin was not pale nor was it dark.

The color simply… wasn’t.

Ruka became aware of the breaths he was taking, afraid he’d stop breathing unless he kept his attention on them.

“See him?” She asked.

Ruka nodded as they watched the man stumble through the snow.

“His name was Heimskr. We call him ‘Dumbr’ now.”

Ruka kept watching the man, at a loss for words. “What happened?”

“He wanted to prove himself to a lady—said he’d go to the Old City, where the Jötunn used to live. Where they still live, some say. And he came back like this. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look you in the eye, barely seems to eat. Yet, he’s been half-naked there, wandering around in the ice for months, and he still looks the same as the day he returned.”

“The Old City? Ulf mentioned that. It’s where they all come from?”

“‘All’ isn’t very many. Only a few; most simply wander mindlessly into the river to drift away and never be seen again. But yes. That’s where they come from.”

“What keeps leading people there?”

“Riches. Glory.”

“Mimir.”

Barda looked at him. “I have heard of that name, thinking of it. From an old brazier-side tale. Yes, I suppose so.”

The ice cracked under Dumbr as he fell face down.

He was still, and then rose mechanically with the snow clinging to his eyes, but he did not wipe it away. He did not even blink.

“What do you intend to do, Seidrmadr.”

His hands tightened and his fingernails dug into his palms. The coldness clenched his wrists. So it’s known, huh.

Barda laughed, the sweetness of it breaking the tension growing in the air. “The whole city knows about you. When you introduced yourself as a southerner from the University, well, I imagined there were only one of those in Jötinborg.”

“That’s why you’ve taken me here, because of what I am?”

“I’ve heard about what you did with the flower. I’ve met magic-men before, but never met one who could do that.”

“‘Magic’ is a misleading term. Regardless, most who call themselves ‘seidrmadr’ are fakes. I’m probably the first one you’ve ever truly met.”

Torchlight lit her face and reflected from her green eyes. Her shoulders were drawn in, and her jaw was stiffened. The hint of pity touched her eyes. “You’ve brought a flower back to life. Can you help him?”

“Maybe,” he paused. “I don’t know.”

“Can you try?”

“Yeah. I can try.”

Ruka wandered throughout the streets of Jötinborg, enveloped in a cold hush at the departure of the day. He closed his eyes for a moment to listen, hearing the faint but familiar thrumming—the ever-present music coursing through the air, even as it bit. Firelight appeared brighter, casting colorful, foreign hues onto the drab stonework.

He didn’t have any destination in mind except a place to sleep. Following nothing, he stepped off the thoroughfare and turned left into an alley. At the corner stood a well, a few mushrooms scattered in the snow. The watchful silence was a stark contrast to the scene from earlier. Astrid, he remembered. The same place he’d seen her and her brother, Thenn.

One of the buildings in the square glowed with light streaming from its frosted windows. The gentle patter of conversation broke the hush, followed by laughter, muffled by thick walls. Ruka felt his shoulders ease for the first time since he’d ridden into the city.

As he opened the door, cheer spilled onto the street. The warmth hit him, and he found a bustling tavern. Two barmaids weaved between tables while the bartender polished glasses behind a gleaming walnut counter. A narrow staircase climbed from the room’s left corner. He watched it creak under a man’s footsteps as he ascended groggily, presumably to his rented chambers.

Inside were six tables, four of which were occupied. Three men nursed their drinks at the bar, minds elsewhere. Four others played darts on a board that had seen better days, fastened to a wall of rough planks, as though torn straight from the forest during the stags’ rut.

Ruka removed his hood, letting his dark hair fall to his shoulders. For the first time, nobody seemed to mind him. He supposed it helped not to have an armed escort if one wished to avoid attention. I’ll still need to find Ulf in the morning, he thought.

He walked to the counter and pulled out one of the empty seats. The bartender shot him an expectant glance.

“A pint. And a room.” Ruka pulled his leather wallet from his satchel and placed two coppers on the marbled wood.

The man nodded and filled a mug from the keg in the corner, then pulled a thick key from below. He placed them both in front of Ruka. “Up the stairs. Third room on the left.” His voice was gruff and matter-of-fact, his attention already back on his work.

“Thanks.”

One of the barmaids passed behind the counter, loading used dishes into the washbasin at the back of the room. She cast him a curious glance, but when their eyes met, she looked away quickly, a flush rising to her cheeks.

Ruka smiled. “Hi.”

She scrubbed the wooden plates with a sea sponge, the water sharp with the scent of lime. Her blonde hair, soft as the sunrise before its zenith, caught his eye. Pale skin dusted with faint freckles made her seem younger up close.

He shifted in his seat and pretended interest in the game of darts across the room. The players weren’t skilled—in fact, they were quite bad. But they gave him an excuse not to keep staring.

Then, in a flicker of curiosity, he caught her glance before she turned away. Eventually, she spoke.

“Have you played before?” she asked, her attention still fixed on the washbasin.

Ruka shook his head. “No—well, yes. Not in some time. I used to play as a student.”

“A student?”

“Mm.” He shifted. “In Mora. I’m a graduate of the University. I specialize in regional folklore.”

“Folklore? Huh.” Her scrubbing slowed, her gaze caught in unfocused thought. The silence stretched, pressing down on him. I blew it, he thought.

Then, with a lightness in her voice, she asked, “So you’re from the Empire, then? What brings you north?”

“Folklore,” Ruka answered.

“Snølykt, then?”

Snølykt? The word meant nothing to him.

“It’s our solstice celebration. We carve lanterns out of ice and set them afloat in the river. It’s really something!”

“Sounds like it,” Ruka said, imagining the sight. He remembered the women he’d seen earlier, carving the ice and testing its balance in a barrel of water.

“But you’re not here for Snølykt. So what are you here for?”

He set his eyes on her, watching her scrub. The word rose slowly from his lips. “Mimir.”

For a brief moment, her hand stilled on the sponge. Then she chuckled. “Mimir? I haven’t heard that name before. Are you sure you came to the right place?”

“Maybe I haven’t,” he responded, laughing with her. “What’s your name?”

“Barda.” She met his eyes, her smile soft and unguarded, her blonde hair cascading in smooth waves down her back as the light caught in her curls.

He smiled. “That translates to ‘poet’. It’s a lovely name.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “I’m Ruka.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, rising into a curtsy. Only now did he notice how tall she was—not as tall as him, but taller than most women from Mora.

“If you don’t know of Mimir, maybe you’ve heard of something else. Do you know what a ‘babbler’ is?”

A sudden draft swept through as someone slipped into the cold mist outside. The candles beside Ruka guttered, then snuffed out, thin trails of smoke curling upward. Cold air brushed the nape of his neck.

The bartender, who had otherwise ignored their conversation, glanced up—his raised eyebrow a subtle warning.

“I know what a babbler is.”

She glanced down, a shadow falling over her eyes. “My shift finishes as soon as I finish scrubbing. Come on a walk with me then?”

He wondered at her—the brief flicker of fear in her eyes hadn’t gone unnoticed. “I’d be glad to.” He wasn’t sure who that smile was for—her, or himself.

The longhouse loomed at the heart of the city, its shadow pale against the slow-moving river beside it. The square was hushed, broken only by the popping of pine resin in the iron braziers on the thoroughfares.

Two guards flanked the doorways with spears in hand, mirroring the postures of the guards stationed at the gate. Their eyes were unreadable. Ulf received only a glance. Ruka received none. He swallowed, anxious for the coming meeting.

The carved eaves below the roofline bore faded paint. Reds and blues had smudged where icicles clung to their surface, poised like teeth.

The stream murmured and the cold bit at his fingertips.

“Come,” Ulf said as he walked ahead.

The precipice was marked by a carving of a serpent with its head crushed underfoot that traced the frame of the door. A long fire-pit stretched through the room, flanked by bare tables meant for feasting. The coals burned low but smelled of cedar, an eerie warmth in the hush.

At the back in raised seats was the Jarl, a thick and burled man with a blonde braid that ran down the length of his back and a large counsel of people, all eager for their voices to be heard, leaning closely. One of them wore a wolf’s pelt over his shoulder, and he seemed more interested in Ulf’s arrival than Ruka’s.

A pale and wrinkled man in a dark cloak, his face hooded and hidden from view, leaned into the Jarl’s ear to whisper something. The others quieted and shifted uncomfortably when he moved. One visibly flinched.

Thick silence overtook the room, the embers whispering. Ulf stopped mid-step, Ruka tripping forward after noticing.

The Jarl stood up with a wooden goblet in his hand. He twirled it in his fingers, looking at the wine, then looked up. He caught Ruka’s gray eyes and took a long sip before speaking.

“Welcome, seidrmadr.”

Ulf straightened and knelt at once, the motion practiced. Ruka remained where he stood, looking ahead. Who was the cloaked man? Ulf caught the corner of his eye with a visible plea before Ruka was pulled out of his trance and knelt likewise.

The wine stirred softly in his goblet. He spoke again, “You’ve come at a strange time. Warlords to the east are gathering their strength, and long-dead whispers are emerging from the earth. What brings you here?”

“Your grace, I am here to research those ‘long-dead whispers.’”

The Jarl raised an eyebrow and the cloaked man whispered more words into his ear. “What is dead should stay dead,” the Jarl said.

“That is often not our decision.” Ruka rifled through his satchel, a flash of anxiety growing as his fingers failed to find the familiar parchment before they brushed against the broken wax seal. “If you’ll look here,” he gestured with a proffered arm, “you’ll find my objective granted by the University, with the Imperium’s guarantee that I will not disturb the affairs of the city.”

The Jarl considered this for a long breath. He summoned Ulf forward with a casual wave of his hand and Ulf rose with care before taking the papers from Ruka’s outstretched hand.

The seer was trying to peer into Ulf’s eyes, his gaze like needles in the back of his neck, but Ulf kept them cast at the ground before raising them only to pay respect to the Jarl, and to the man in the wolf’s pelt beside him.

“What has the Empire heard?” He asked.

“We’ve heard of shadows. Sleeping things disturbed.”

“Sleeping things…” Murmurs stirred within the room. “So the omens lead beyond Jötinborg? Even to the south?”

“And the west.” Ruka nodded solemnly.

“What does the Empire, or the University, intend to do?”

“We intend to research. To learn what we can.” He felt the humming beneath his feet, steadying him, lending him strength and surety. “Then, we will better know what to do.”

A cracked and gnarled voice split the air. A tremor interfered with the song of the earth, dry and weightless like the ghost of a feather. “He smells of old bones and speaks of taboos. Let the sleeping city lie. This is what the runes have told us.”

“The city is no longer sleeping. That is the problem here. Or, would you like more ‘babblers’ within your gates?”

The seer did not respond, but the Jarl looked long at the fire, sighed, and nodded. “Very well. You may remain. It would be… without tact of me to deny the request of the Imperium anyway, especially with their promise that you are only here to research. But know this, there will be no grace. If you bring misfortune, you’ll leave scarred.”

The breeze whistled through the cramped alleys of Jötinborg. Raised wooden thoroughfares crisscrossed the city, smoke curling from cedar fires that burned in the scattered iron braziers. Men gathered around them, roasting fish over the flames. The curious gazes — enflamed by the firelight — found their rest on the seidrmadr.

The crystalline river of the Fjallgarðr, the mountain pass, flowed through the city before it snaked its way south. Men sat atop barrels with fishing lines cast and pipes in the mouths while their lures danced in the stream.

He passed some tables where women were shaping blocks of ice. When they looked satisfied, they placed them in barrels of water to test their balance. If they wobbled, the women shaped more.

Ruka and Ulf walked through the city, guided by the river, until fatigue tugged at his knees still sore from the journey north. He thought of his horse while he dragged himself onward, eyes searching anxiously for the Jarl’s longhouse.

As they went further, the alleyways grew wider and were paved with cobblestone. The streets were more deliberate and geometric. Even the pale stonework was carved with intricate decorations — though the light only caught them faintly underneath the frost.

Almost as if hearing his thoughts, Ulf spoke. “This part of the city is ancient. Much older than its outskirts nearer by the walls.”

“Built by the Jötun?” Ruka asked.

“That’s my guess.”

At last they stepped off the thoroughfare and walked along a wide road with market stalls neatly placed on each side. An indecipherable rumble of a crowd grew, and as they turned a corner into a smaller square, they found a large crowd gathered in a circle. A red-haired woman was cast on the ground with her head in her hands while a man loomed over her. Her voice cracked, too soft to be heard. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, a collective breath held in trepidation.

“You absolute dimwit!” the man yelled. “You could have lost all your sense. You’d become a babbler, would you?”

“No,” the woman answered, her eyes cast at her feet. Her red hair was loose and tangled, with half-frozen strands clinging to her cheeks.

“A babbler?” Ruka asked Ulf standing next to him.

“Yes.” Ulf chuckled. “It happens sometimes to people who stray too close to the old city—outside the walls. Some say it’s a curse of the land. But me? I say it’s the mushrooms.”

“I see…” Ruka trailed off, “babbler” still hanging like a breath in cold air.

The crowd began to disperse, seemingly losing interest. Ulf walked onward, expecting Ruka to follow, but Ruka’s gaze remained fixed on the woman.

“Yrsa,” she began to speak again. “Thenn, I need to find Yrsa.”

Thenn knelt down and took her hands into his. Ruka couldn’t see what it was, but Thenn took something from her and clenched it in his palm. “Yrsa is gone, Astrid.” His voice became gentle, a stark contrast to his earlier shouting.

“No… I don’t believe it. Mimir will know. Mimir will tell me where Yrsa is.”

A tense silence hung between them. They’d had this conversation before. “Astrid, the cold will kill you. Or the wolves. Or something else. And even if nothing does, and Mimir is real, and you find him, you will lose your sense.”

“If I lose my sense, will I see my daughter again?”

The question clung like ice to stone. Snowflakes drifted like petals in the wind.

She finally met his eyes. Thenn could not answer. He tried to speak, but his voice rebelled. He rose like a storm and left Astrid there, still cast where she lay in the snow.

Mimir. In the old city. Babblers. Something was trying to rise up in Ruka’s mind but couldn’t, like a breath not taken, tiring his lungs.

“Yrsa?” Ruka asked Ulf, hurrying to catch up with him.

“A young girl. She went missing about a month ago, either to the wolves, slavers, or to Rolúfr. That woman, Astrid, is one of his wives. But she’s run off and come here to live with her brother there, Thenn.” Ulf turned around and saw Ruka was not keeping pace. “Come on. Time to meet the Jarl. You can wander later.”

Thank you SO MUCH for your attention to my story: Seidrmadr, a fantasy. My plan is to post a scene each week, until the conclusion of the first of what I hope to be many adventures of Ruka within the world I am building. If you enjoyed the story, I humbly ask that you would leave a like, and tell me what you enjoyed! If you disliked it, please give me your criticisms. I have a FAR WAY to go as a writer, but to write is an itch I have had for the near entirety of my life, so if I’m laying on my deathbed one day having produced nothing then that will be to my shame. So please help me in this. My gratitude would be eternal.
Yours,

Kyle Metz

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Ruka lay in a place where Heaven would not be denied. Ancient trees, hundreds of feet tall like sentries in the dark, aspired tirelessly to meet the hosts in the air yet fell hopelessly short, far off of the sky’s boundary. Nonetheless, they shone with care, painting the frostbitten ground with foreign brilliant hues—colors he had no name for but which stirred in him a familiar longing. The ice itself might have danced in response.

Wood from the fire crackled and popped as a stream of ash and sparks shot upwards leaving a faint trail of gray in its wake. He breathed in cedar and smoke, warmth curling through him as he rolled over to his side and clutched the thick fur of his hood more snugly around his neck. _One more day_, he thought to himself. Willow neighed softly as if in response.

When morning had come, sunlight peeked through the naked boughs, falling on Ruka’s closed eyes and tangled dark hair. Willow was picking at small tufts of grass poking from the snow. Her chestnut coat was a flare of warmth in a world which seemed to have forgotten the sun.

Still groggy, he staggered over to her. The ice crunched beneath his feet. He rummaged through the saddlebag and took out a thick piece of dried venison which he bought from the next village south — it was the last of his provisions.

Willow snorted softly as he pet her mane. He grabbed her by the reins and pulled softly to escort her out of the forest, through the deep piles of snow, and onto the road. A thin crack stretched along the leather strap, ice which had crept up through the night. A single teardrop remained, frozen mid-fall.

The locals called the valley Jötindale — Giant’s Valley — though no one could agree whether the name honored the trees or the bones said to be buried beneath them.

A slender crystalline river flowed down from the mountain peaks, through the city, and curved its way beyond the hills and forests until it rested in the sea to the West. It was frozen now, but beneath the translucent barrier could be seen Pike, Perch, and Salmon feasting on the riverbed.

By late morning, Ruka cantered north atop Willow along the frozen river’s edge. If he were not so numb to the saddle’s sting, he would have felt it grinding his bones. Willow’s hooves clicked like hammers on stone as they passed by fishermen’s cottages and homesteads. Wrinkled men in sealskin suits wore away at the ice with pickaxes as they waded half-submerged in the shallows yet unmoved by the cold.

Tall walls of pale stone rose in the distance. Archers were posted above, and a thick gate of iron barred entry. One of them hailed below when he saw Ruka come into view. The gate creaked as it slowly rolled upward and into the recess in the stone. Ruka cantered across the wooden bridge and over the river before stopping short of the precipice.

Two men who could have been mistaken for bears from a distance came out to greet him. They both wore a light-blue gambeson, held a spear in hand, and sheathed a seax at their waist. “Name?” asked the taller of the two while he took hold of Willow’s reins. A pale scar ran from his ear to the corner of his crooked jaw.

“Ruka.”

“What’s your business?”

“University business,” Ruka answered. The man glowered at him. Rather than try and win a battle of intimidation, Ruka averted his gaze to search through the satchel he wore around his shoulder. After a few seconds with the two curiously watching him as he rummaged through loose sheafs of parchment and charcoal, he emerged victorious with a canister of treated leather, inside of which was a bundle of documents. Sealed with gold, wax, the University’s insignia — a swooping eagle with a scroll in its claws. “Inside here you’ll find my papers which authorize my travel.”

The guard let go of Willow and snatched the roll of papers from Ruka’s hand. His eyes became wide once he read the third sheet. Ruka’s shoulders tensed. He forced himself not to look away, but the shivering in his spine betrayed him. Quiet pressure built in his chest, making him aware of his breath like he couldn’t trust the air.

“Seidrmadr,” the guard muttered, glancing up.

Ruka heard it — the snow cracking beneath the companion now walking over, and the soft clack of a hand reflexively finding its way to a pommel. “We didn’t know the University hired your sort,” the guard finally said.

“They hire all sorts, but I am just a researcher.” The guards were clearly not convinced. “It’s important I carry those papers with me if I’m ever to need them, but they are not relevant to why I’m here.”

“Regardless, we now need you to prove you are what you say you are.”

“The University’s seal isn’t trustworthy enough?” Ruka asked, the annoyance not hidden from his tone.

“These papers claim you’re a seidrmadr, a spell-sword. This gives us reason to be wary of you, regardless of what ‘papers’ you might have,” he annunciated like he was eating something sour. He then continued, “If you are lying to gain entry, we must know. If you are truthful, we must know. Many have died at the hands of you spell-swords, and not even from malice but incompetence. We need to know you can control yourself before we allow you in.”

What he said wasn’t strictly true, Ruka thought to himself. Spell-swords have surely killed from incompetence, but not seidrmadr. He resigned himself, “Very well, what would you have me do?”

The guard took a step back and surveyed the surroundings. “Ah, here,” he said. He walked over to an exposed patch of dirt near the wall and then knelt to the ground. A dead flower missing most of its petals was half-buried. He pulled it up and brought it over to Ruka. “Turn this to ice.”

“That’s not how it works,” Ruka said.

The guard’s eyes narrowed, “I’ve seen your kind do it.”

“And I’ve seen a spear used to cut cheese. That doesn’t mean you know how to fight with it.”

The grip around his pommel seemed to get just the slightest bit tighter. “Very well then. How would _you_ like to prove yourself?”

Ruka thought for a moment, not only about the test but about his options. What would happen if he chose not to participate? Or simply to leave and try again later, hopefully with a different watch? What would happen if he was branded a threat, so far from the Mora? His eyes found their resting spot on the guards shuffling hands. “Give me the flower.”

Ruka hopped down and outstretched his open hand. The guard raised an eyebrow but handed it over without issue. Ruka walked back to the bare patch of dirt beside. He placed the flower on top of the newly overturned dirt and then knelt on one knee before closing his eyes. He listened.

At first, he heard nothing but the guards beside him as they shuffled from foot to foot. Then he heard the noises of the city, the clang of a ladle on a pot, a merchant hawking salted fish in the square, and the braziers roaring as they were fueled with pine resin. He heard the river stream burble beneath the ice, and he heard the fisherman chop away at it further downstream. He heard the myriad songs of the birds in the forest, and the critters crawling the floor beneath them.

Deeper and deeper he went as the noises filled his bones like water in an empty vessel. Eventually, when he felt so warm he was sure he must have been glowing, he heard the music — that eternal music to which all were deaf — all except for the seidrmadr, that is. Like a heartbeat within the earth, within all things, calling you further up and deeper in. Ruka then opened his eyes and softly uttered a word. The stem of the flower grew green again, and it stretched out while its new roots burrowed into the earth. Its missing petals returned to it with a wonderful azure hue and the color of the rising sun in the center. It straightened toward the sky in the natural way of living things. Ruka exhaled.

The guards stared, mouths parted in silent awe. “My… that is a trick I have not seen before. You can make things alive again?”

“It depends,” Ruka answered slowly, not quite ready for the familiar sounds of voices yet. He stumbled slightly as he rose up from his knees, his ears still ringing. “How easily can you believe that what is dead is meant to live?” A long moment passed between them. ”I can do small plants, but no more than that. And I can do more than most.”

“It’s more than I’ve ever seen.” The attempt to hide shock had clearly been abandoned. “I’m Ulf. Allow me to greet you to Jötinborg.”

Ruka gave a shallow nod, unsure if he had gained the man’s trust or simply confused him into politeness. Still, Ulf’s stance had softened. He no longer walked as a guard, but as a man escorting someone he didn’t quite know how to categorize.

Thank you SO MUCH for your attention to my story: Seidrmadr, a fantasy. My plan is to post a scene each week, until the conclusion of the first of what I hope to be many adventures of Ruka within the world I am building. If you enjoyed the story, I humbly ask that you would leave a like, and tell me what you enjoyed! If you disliked it, please give me your criticisms. I have a FAR WAY to go as a writer, but to write is an itch I have had for the near entirety of my life, so if I’m laying on my deathbed one day having produced nothing then that will be to my shame. So please help me in this. My gratitude would be eternal.
Yours,

Kyle Metz

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