Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Binding of Fenrir ❯ Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is an original story. The characters are based on Norse mythology, but the content is original and owned by me.

 

The Binding of Fenrir

 

He watched her trembling chest rise with each breath as if it may be her last. Her skin had grown thin and transparent, the intricate web of veins beneath adding to her deathly pallor. He knew that if he was to rescue his daughter from the wasting sickness that gripped her he would have to finalize the details of the arrangement soon.

 

* * * *

 

Fenrir lifted the hammer shaped knocker and let it fall back to the iron mounting plate. The sound was loud but dull as both the plate and hammer were worn and beginning to show signs of rust. As the door swung open the air from the hearth rushed out to greet him with the stench of sweaty leather and musty furs. Fenrir wrinkled his nose in offence, as the dusty haired man inside reached for his hand.

 

"Welcome, Fenrir, son of Loki." Tyr greeted the younger man.

 

"Whatever, old man." He scoffed as he pushed aside his host to enter the poorly lighted home of the older warrior. "What do you want with me?"

 

"As the note I had delivered to your father stated, I have a proposition for you, but first, please sit and partake of my humble hospitality." Tyr continued with the formality that was customary of a man in his position. I do this for her well being, he reminded himself as he lead the ungrateful youth to the table that had been set for their meeting.

The small wooden table was flanked by two high-backed chairs draped in furs. On the table, itself, sat a large jug of warmed mead and a pair of steins. Fenrir took the seat on the left and reached for the pitcher on the table. If I have to be here, he told himself, I might as well be drunk so I can enjoy it.

 

Tyr intercepted the other man's hand and quickly filled the prepared mugs with the amber coloured ale, his guest's to the brim, his own only half. Lowering himself into the remaining chair, Tyr lifted his own mug in a toast to his guest. “Honour and health to the son of Loki."

 

Fenrir drank deeply, warmed and relaxed by the intoxicating liquid, though still wary of the wily old warrior. As he drained his mug and slammed it to the table he made ready to interrogate his suspicious host.

 

"As I am sure you are aware," Tyr started while refilling the empty vessel before his guest, “I am without a son or heir to inherit all that is mine."

 

Fenrir nodded curtly as he lifted the second helping to his lips. "Your father's hearth, however, has been blessed, indeed, with both your brother and yourself." Draining his cup once again, Fenrir smiled smugly. Now he understood the motivation behind the formal invitation and the excessive hospitality. And what better choice was there than the man destined to overthrow the current leader. The old fool probably thought that by securing him as a son he would be able to convince Fenrir to overlook him when the time would come.

 

"I wish to share something with you." Tyr's voice broke into his musings. "Something most dear to me." Fenrir refilled his mug from the cask on the table and moved to follow his host.

 

Heavy damask covered the windows of the small room; the thickness of the air swallowed the light from the hall before it could reveal the precious contents. Fenrir found himself squinting to make out the shadowy shapes of the furniture. Taking one of the sputtering oil dishes that lined the corridor, Tyr entered the musty room. The small light fought against the hungry darkness, as the two men made their way to the large wooden structure that dominated the small room. As they moved closer, Fenrir could make out the familiar form of a grand bed piled with rich fabrics and furs. As they reached the head of the bed, Fenrir nearly drowned in a swallow of his ale.

 

"This is my most precious treasure." Tyr said in a hushed tone as he moved the lamp to better illuminate the sleeping face nestled among the over stuffed pillows and heavy blankets, "Gleipnira."

 

The whispers in the feasting halls had been true, the aging God of War did have a child, a female child. Fenrir stumbled backwards as the truth rushed over him. The old man did not mean to adopt him as a son and heir, but had lured him here to arrange a marriage between this girl and himself.

 

"Never." Fenrir exhaled as he continued to back away. "How could you think I would ever...no...never..."

 

"But your father has already committed you...when he sent you to me."

The heavy silence shattered on the stone floor as the ceramic mug of ale slipped from the frozen fingers of Fenrir.

 

* * * *

 

There she sat, in a place of honour between Freya and his morbid sister, Hel; the flimsy thread with which Tyr hoped to bind him. It's not that she's unattractive, he told himself as he admired her flawless skin and clear watery eyes, I just refuse to be forced into anything.

 

"We are gathered here this day to see honour served." The loud commanding voice of the Aesir chief, Odin echoed through the hall. "Who brings the child, Gleipnira, to this place?"

 

"I do, my Lord." Tyr responded as he dropped to one knee and bowed before the Lord of Valhalla.

 

"And to whom has her hand been offered?" Odin continued, motioning for Tyr to rise.

 

"Me." Fenrir answered with a displeased growl, "But I don't want her!"

 

"Then you shall duel in this hall of heroes to decide her fate."

 

Tyr bowed low to his daughter before turning to face his opponent. She appears healthier already; he mused, and was that a smile that pulled at her lips but a moment ago?

 

Fenrir drew his sword as soon as the Aesir leader had stopped talking. Who cares if the old man still has his back to me, a real warrior would know better than to leave himself open. Stupid old man and his stupid formality. Fenrir began his lunge forward, but quickly threw himself back as a rush of steel flashed before him. Regaining his feet, his eyes fell on his opponent. The rouse of the feeble old man that he had challenged was cast aside like a dusty cloak to reveal the true nature of the God of War; his slumped shoulders now stood square and the weariness that had lined his face had retreated from sight.

 

"This blade may be rusted, boy, but it shall not be broken so easily."

 

Fenrir was not accustomed to feeling fear, but he had to admit, if to no one but himself, that his original confidence of victory was beginning to waiver. "Enough talk, old man. Let's get this over with."

 

The hall rang with the clash of metal on metal. Each man swung to subdue the other. Each blow deflected by the other's blade each time. Each knowing that a miss could mean a loss. And each was determined to win.

 

As the fight dragged on, Fenrir began to notice a change in his opponent, an increasing slowness, a growing fatigue in the strikes and blocks of the other man. And then he found his opening. As the old man swung, he over committed his weight and was forced to drop his shoulder and take a heavy step. Without hesitation, Fenrir quickly side-stepped the sloppy blow and carried his own through the muscular flesh of his opponent's arm.

 

Tyr's sword clattered loudly on the stone floor. No one moved. A female's cry was quickly stifled. Finally, the uncomfortable silence was broken by the booming voice of Odin.

 

"Fenrir, son of Loki, I hereby free you of your contract of marriage to Gleipnira, daughter of Tyr;"

 

"Good!" Fenrir smirked as he turned to take his leave of the stuffy hall.

 

"However," Odin continued, the cold tone of his voice stopping the smug wolf in his tracks. "You have deprived this child of her only provider and protector. By the laws of both the Aesir and the Jotuns, you are now required to assume these rolls. And since there is no woman currently tending your hearth, this shall be her position in your house."

 

"In other words, son," Tyr spoke up, the loss of his arm permanent but not fatal, "You just won yourself a wife. Welcome to the family."