A Day in the Life: Freyr

The Golden Dawn

Alfheim does not have a sun like Midgard. It has a pervasive, golden luminescence that seeps from the very air.

Freyr stands on the balcony of his high hall. He is not asleep. He rarely sleeps. He is the Lord of the Vanir, and his duty is to the growing things.

Looking out over the endless fields of grain that surround his home, he sees amber waves frozen in a moment of perfect ripeness. The air smells of honey and heated earth.

He holds nothing in his hands. He once held a sword, a blade that could fight on its own. He gave it away for love. He does not regret it. His hands are open now. They are strong, calloused from the plow, not the hilt.

He breathes in. The light intensifies. The day has begun.

The Walking of the Fields

He walks through the wheat. The stalks part for him. They do not bend or break. They lean in, as if seeking his touch.

He does not walk with the heavy, martial stride of Thor, nor the one-eyed, wandering gait of Odin. Freyr moves with the rhythm of the seasons. Slow. Inevitable. Generous.

He stops by an apple tree. It is heavy with fruit, the branches bowing low. He reaches up and touches a single apple. It blushes a deeper red under his thumb.

A Light Elf approaches. She is tall, slender, her skin shimmering like pearl. She bows. She does not speak. There is no need for words here. She offers him a cup of mead.

He accepts it. He drinks. It tastes of summer sunlight distilled into liquid. He hands the cup back. He smiles. It is a smile that could end a winter.

To be a god of peace is a heavy burden. It requires constant restraint. It requires the strength to not strike back. He feels the anger often, the old warrior instincts flaring when he looks down at the chaos of Midgard. But he pushes it down into the earth, where it becomes fuel for the roots.

The Boar

Gullinbursti is waiting for him in the clearing. The great golden boar shines so brightly it is hard to look at him directly. His bristles are spun wire of pure gold.

Freyr approaches his steed. The boar grunts, a sound like grinding stones, and nudges Freyr’s chest with his snout.

He mounts. They do not fly, but they run with a speed that blurs the world. They race across the sky, leaving a trail of sparks that fall to the earth below. In Midgard, mortals might look up and see a shooting star, or feel a sudden, warm breeze in the dead of winter.

They ride the borders of his realm. He checks the wards. He ensures the encroaching frost of Jotunheim is kept at bay. He fights the cold not with fire, but with sheer, overwhelming vitality.

The Long Wait

The golden light fades to a soft, twilight purple.

Freyr returns to his hall. He sits on his high seat, which is made of living wood, roots twisting to form the armrests.

He thinks of Gerðr. He thinks of the sword he lost. He thinks of Ragnarok.

He knows it is coming. The Fimbulwinter. The time when his peace will shatter, and he will face Surtr with only an antler in his hand.

He looks at his empty open hand. He curls it into a fist, then relaxes it.

He will not fight the destiny. But he will grow the grain tall enough to feed the survivors. He will make the summer so sweet that the memory of it will keep them warm through the long dark.

He closes his eyes. He listens to the earth breathing. He waits.