Baldr's Run

by ~shahriarshamim

Baldr ran through the wastelands of the Nordic ice ranges. Under normal circumstances this would have been quite impossible. The snow worms would have devoured any life that travelled over those ice-ranges. But the circumstances were not normal, and Baldr, even less so.

Second Son of Odin need not fear snow worms. Baldr, lord of the shadows, need fear neither fire nor ice. Baldr, the Vigilant, however feared his father’s wrath. Always had. And he feared his father’s death curse even more.

Baldr, the vigilant no more, ran as fast as his immortal legs could take him. For all of Ragnarok were at his heel and the time for diplomacy was long gone.

Images of the past few hours flashed through his mind. Loki, with his accursed poison spearhead.  That bastard traitor Tyr with his stumped hand and his blasted wolfhound. The memories were still burnt in his mind. Truth be told, he couldn’t care much for Odin. The old god had always treated him with contempt and disrespect. Yet, the arrogance!

He still remembered the words. Odin took Baldr’s shoulder, the first time in centuries, and he had taken the young demi-god to the Tree of Life, and had told him of his task. His voice was course, rough and old, “Baldr, son to Frigg. Mark this spot in creation well. There will come a time when you must stand vigil here. At the time of my death. Nine nights and nine days you’ll stand, without relief or sustenance. And you must carry my spear with you. Nine nights and your task shall end, and only then shall I pass on.”

The words echoed in his vast memory, and he recalled the moment, the exact moment when he was indeed standing vigil at the Tree of Life. He remembered hanging upside down by his ankle, naked to the skin. He remembered the snakes and the bees and the rats. He remembered the imps throwing their sharp stones at him. And he remembered holding on to the spear for dear life.

He flinched in phantom pain and almost stumbled on the slippery ice. He remembered the spear very well. It had been stabbed through his back and out into the front, skewering his internals all over the place. Battered, bruised, utterly destroyed, Baldr had stood vigil for three days.

A wake. Purposeful sleepnessness. He told them what they could do with the spear and the wake. He had condemned Odin to unlife of eternal unrest. And now they were after him, for he had broken his promise. He had broken his promise to his father, a promise any other of Odin’s children would have given their legs and more to make. And they were after him now. All Baldr could do was run. And pray to his dead father that his assassin Fenrir would not come to finish him off too.

[Note: The writer has taken liberties and has made use of extensive creative license.]