Lore: When a Trickster Meets His Match

Chapter Three: Runes

When Sigyn found that she could cry no more, she decided to put herself to better use by searching the room in which the frost giants had imprisoned her.

Sigyn's boots made the crunch of snapping icicles as she moved further into the chamber. Very much like the timeworn stone in the throne room, this room was tiled completely in dark herringbone - not even a rug or a carpet to capture any errant warmth, though she searched doggedly under the furniture. The next thing she tried to do to conserve her warmth was to unpin the curtains, the colour of light bistre, from where their fixtures were mounted on the walls but they were too tall for her to reach. Pushing one of the heavy ironwork chairs away from the small writing desk, she positioned it as close to the walls as she could get it and then pulled with all her might. The princess tried again and again, but the clasp held fast. Hands stinging now from cold and ropeburn, she rubbed her aching palms on her dress and blew into them to try and abate the cold.

Next, the princess went over to the fireplace. Just as large and grand as those on Asgard, it was made from the same dark stone as the floors yet its mantlepiece was made of something that felt almost distinctly of a mineral. She wondered if it would shine like a diamond held up to the light once she got it to light. When she pulled apart the screen, she breathed in relief to see that there were already slates of wood stored in the grate. But how would she light it?

The girl opened all of the cabinets, fastened to the walls, scrounged through the cupboards, pulled open the drawers and pilfered the wardrobe but she found not even a drop of candle wax, a measure of flint or a smear of oil. What she did find was another blanket, albeit small and dusty, which she wrapped around herself tightly. Kicking the panels shut in a moment of frustration, she doubted that the fireplace had ever been lit. For why would a frost giant ever require something that makes heat, why would they ever require a match or an oil lamp, if their skin was as impervious to cold and their eyes possessed the acuity that the legends claimed they were to have?

Shivering in the blankets that she clung to herself, Sigyn tried the final thing she could think of to warm her: she thought of her father.

Freyr had always been a loving father to his daughter, though he was renowned throughout his kingdom as having mercy on the children of his people. Unlike most kings who held their subjects at a distance, he encouraged families to approach him and always embraced or joined in on the games that the children played in his castle gardens. It was in this way that he had taught Sigyn to have respect for the people that she would one day be queen of, as she would play with other children from all manner of positions: the sons and daughters of lords and ladies, merchantmen, carpenters, stablehands, soldiers and even the visiting princes and princesses. It was an approach that meant that other well-born people often gave him looks of reproach for "allowing the pure Vanir-blood to mix with the commoners", but it inspired fierce loyalty in those of his kingdom's subjects.

Now, in the cold, twisted heart of Jotunheim, Sigyn tried to picture her father's face. Radiant like the sun, it was his blonde hair that captured the golden rays of the light. As a toddler, his daughter had often sat on his lap and reached out and tugged on his golden locks to see if they were real or just beams of light. There were scintillas in his eyes, the bright and bold tone of an evergreen forest, and around his pupils, a thin sliver of silver-blue like a stream of water surrounding healthy soil. Attempting to bring more warmth to her heart, Sigyn thought of her father's laugh - which always made her giggle because of how her mother had compared it to a donkey's braying - and remembered how warm and safe she felt when he embraced her. It brought back a memory.

"Why did you not call me Freyja, father?"