Nine worlds at blade's edge: Twilight, world's end, final battle, looms close. This is where light and darkness meet.

She, driven mad by the darkness within her, can only seek comfort in the cold arms of demanding Mother. The rocky caverns offer her no solace, yet her curiosity for the Outside will bring more than just danger.

He rebeling against his chartered path. Bitter anger and without purpose. He only wants to go home, to the idyllic pastures and share his life with goats and the one he had once called almost-sister.

And into these tangled threads of fate's rather dubious choices, the Sisters spin into it the Nameless Beauty, alluring and distant. They frame it all with eyes which watch all with sardonic detatchment and a shadowy adoration.

The time of the gods have past, as they gather their heavenly hoards and army of shades, the fate of all Nine worlds rest on the indecision of a goatherd and an amnesic.

Author's Notes

Thank you for clicking on the link to my story... it'll make me feel better when I look at the statistics... :)

It must be noted that this story is very loosly based on Norse mythology and Viking traditions. It is not, and was never meant to be, a detailed and accurate retelling of the Norse myths. I do not claim mastery over the traditions, cultures and dynamics of the times. There will be many differences, new characters and probably anachronism. This is, obviously, completely fictional so, if you happen on something that contradicts what you know, please, humour me.

This is a very long story, a novel, even. It's a very, very ambitious project and I'd appreciate some form of feedback to keep me going. Okay, understatement. I'm begging. Enjoy the tale.

My gratitude to the Viking Answer Lady () and the Regia Anglorum, the living history society (), whose advice I had meticulously archived and forgotten.

Like all stories, this begins with a prophecy. I'd advise you to skip it and go straight onto the Dark Child and her maddness, if you're the type to likes to skip the prologue and come back later when things will just slot into place. Nig kapedir dis frueil,
Jetso, the Red Red Sky Tail

Prologue: Of Fate

Beside the dark waters of the well of Urd, the three Sisters of Destiny sat hunched, spinning, weaving, embroidering. Their golden eyes gleamed from under the dark shadow of their hoods.

The oldest of the ageless three spun. She drew her thread from the raw darkness of death. With subtle twisting, winding and pulling, her long fingers tirelessly spun from the dark entangled masses of shadowy darkness, winding the floss around the spinning spindle, occasionally pausing in her twists to retrieve a pin beater from her pocket and straighten the thread. She held the past, spinning it into the present and thus into the future. All life is held within each other. The slim difference of dark death and lighted life lies within her.

The other wove the brilliant threads of life into an incandescent tapestry of fate, raising and dropping the heddle rod, passing the weft back and forth. The cloth stretched over a vertical loom, dazzling colours blending into one another. She weaved the fate, the future, though it is not her who decides the morrows. The wriggling threads held a life of their own and the hard cast of her heddle and loom guide her hands not the hands them.

In one hand, the youngest held a batten, which she pushed against each new row of threads to keep the cloth tight. In the other, she held a needle of unrecognisable bone. She fluttered about the cloth, embroidering unforeseeable details and making delicate changes. At her waist dangled her dagger, which in times of fury, desperation, danger or whim, she shredded the tapestry she and her sisters spun, wove and sew. It was she who holds the present. She saw and altered the tapestry, the fate, which is still subject to change. The dagger she does not often use, but will, to alter the flow of cloth.

"Sisters," hissed Wyrd, the oldest of the trio. She peered closely into the masses unsettling darkness that swirled inside her woven basket.

"Remember the age old war,

The one which continues evermore?

Battle is over, but hate is not,

It festers within, beneath the rocks,

Within the halfblood who holds deep grudge

Deserted by brothers who were bonded by blood.

Chained by innards, slivers from death,

All feeling and soul has from him bled

Fury remains but nothing more,

Fury that rots his very core,

Blind loyalty and love still by him stand

Though power has long left his hand."

"What happenings do you see in Midgard, Skuld?" asked Verdandi, the weaver.

Her needle paused, still raised. Skuld stared at the embroidered tapestry, which she had newly embroidered, the present, seeking her answer there and said:

"Two seasons ago, a wintered morn,

Darkling bane, light 'twas reborn.

Eyes of sky and hair of amber,

Heart that's filled with heroic fire.

Burnished shield still unpolished be,

Awaiting bright and shining he,

Sword unforged, sword-smith gone,

Companion in flight ungrown, unknown.

Shield-less and sword-less,

Stead-less and skill-less,

He is and will be the chosen one,

Wielder of Brightness, son of the sun."

"I hoped for it to differ," muttered Verdandi.

"What is to be?" asked Wyrd. "I see the tapestry bright with anger and battle's glory. I trust it is not of the best? Share the worries, sister."

Verdandi paused in her weaving, and read the signs from the loom.

"A child born this very night,

She of darkness, bane of light.

She born seeped in Yimir's blood,

The world with darkest darkness flood

Pale light overpowered be

Sparks of Muspell dimmed for she.

Worlds of power in her hand,

Demons, darkness at her command.

Both hair and eyes of murky dark

Is by boundless Seidr marked."

Verdandi paused, as though scared read on, the newly woven fate of the Nine Worlds was not bright. "The future," she murmured. "The feared, forbidden future."

"Yes, the future," echoed Wyrd, "Is what I fear most. Continue, Verdandi?"

"Battles won, are but battles lost,

And descend shall the wintered frost.

Arise a-freed shall the demon-spawn,

Devoured sun could not rise at dawn.

Lust of blood and lust of pain,

With this shall rise the Aesir's bane.

Battle nor war shall be fought by she,

Bloodless hands hers will not be.

Innocence lost and gained once more,

Lost memories are a fatal door.

Many are both fiend and friend,

But neither can help them in the end.

Fiends will spring where friends should be,

Betrayal will line paths of destiny.

She of beauty is a deadly guide,

Dark can in the daylight hide."

The eyes of the other two sisters mirrored her fear.

"Skuld, Verdandi, All is not as well as I wish it to be," whispered Wyrd. "With Nine Worlds and more at stake, a cunning plan we must make."

"All well laid plans of gods and men have never stayed on track. And this one, dear sisters, will not differ," warned Verdandi.

"A cunning plan we need not make, as one is already laid," smiled Skuld mysteriously, her lithe fingers drifted to unadorned handle of her dagger.

"What have you in mind?"

"Ears close, this must not be heard," hissed Skuld, barely audible.

The two sisters leaned towards Skuld, and she whispered her plans, but to any other creature it just sounded like the wind in the World Tree's leaves.