A Day in the Life: Frigg

The Distaff

Fensalir, the Hall of Mists, is quiet.

Frigg sits by her loom. It is not a loom of wood and thread. It is the horizon itself.

She holds her distaff. She spins the clouds. Pulling strands of mist from the wetlands, she twists them into the long, thin cirrus clouds that herald a change in the weather. She knows the weather before it happens. She knows everything before it happens.

This is her power. This is her curse.

She sees the thread of a young warrior in Midgard. It is short. It will snap today at noon. She sees the thread of a king. It is knotted and dark.

She says nothing.

Odin asks the head of Mimir for secrets. He hangs from trees. He sacrifices an eye. He hunts for knowledge like a starving wolf.

Frigg sits. She knows. She does not need to hunt. But she keeps her lips pressed together. To speak a fate is to seal it. Or perhaps it is simply that some burdens are too heavy to share.

The Keys

She walks the halls of Asgard. At her belt hang the keys, a heavy iron ring of them. They jingle softly.

She is the ward of the household. It sounds domestic, small. It is not. Asgard is a fortress, and she is the one who locks the doors at night.

She checks the stores. The apples of Idunn are counted. The mead is fermented. The armor is polished.

She passes Thor. He is laughing, loud and boisterous, swinging his hammer. She sees the shadow that hangs over him. The serpent. The poison.

She passes Loki. He offers her a sly smile. She sees the stitches that will one day bind his lips. She sees the mistletoe.

Her heart clenches. Balder. Her beautiful boy.

She walks faster. She touches the keys at her hip. She wants to lock him away. She wants to find a room where fate cannot enter. But she knows there is no such room. She extracted oaths from every stone, every tree, every metal. But she missed one.

She always misses one.

The Falcon Cloak

She needs the sky.

She puts on the Falcon Cloak. Her form blurs. Feathers sprout from her arms. Her vision sharpens to a pinprick.

She takes flight.

Soaring over the nine worlds, she sees the smoke of the dwarf forges in Svartalfheim and the frost giants moving like glaciers in Jotunheim.

The cold wind rushes over her beak. It feels clean. Up here, alone in the blue, she does not have to be the Queen. She doesn't have to be the Mother. She is just a hunter, riding the currents.

She spots a hawk circling below. She dives. She plays in the air, banking and swooping. For a moment, the weight of omniscience lifts.

The Hearth

She returns. She changes back.

She sits by the fire in the great hall. Odin is there. He looks tired. He is worrying about the Wolf.

He looks at her. "What did you see?" he asks.

Frigg looks into the flames. She saw the end of the world. She saw the fire that will burn these walls. She saw the silence that will follow.

She looks back at her husband. She smiles, a sad, gentle curling of her lips.

"I saw the clouds," she says. "It will rain tomorrow in the valley."

He nods, satisfied. He turns back to his meat.

Frigg picks up her spindle. She pulls a thread of grey wool. She begins to spin.