As part of an Assignment
and as a balm for all the butthurt, here is something I wrote today about Freyr discovering love for the first time.
I want to make it clear that THIS IS NOT BASED ON UPG, MINE OR ANYONE ELSE’S UPG. I guess you could call this a “new myth” or “queer writerly musings” or “religious fanfic” or whatever. Please excuse all the historical inaccuracies, awkward dialogue (it just kind of came to me) and anything else I might have screwed up. As usual, I just finished this, so it’s raw, unedited, blah blah blah.
In the days of Freyr’s youth, when it seemed the skies were bluer, and the ocean endless, when grain grew taller, as golden as the sun, and the stars seemed so far away.
That was when he first fell in love.
His name was Falki Orvarson, skilled in use of the sword and bow. A great warrior in the making, they all said, like his father, and his father’s father.
But, Falki did not have a taste for battle, he did not yearn for it, for the blood and death and glory as other men did, nor did have a taste for poetry, as the skalds, or the quiet, honest work of the farmer. Falki did not know where he belonged. His mother, Dalla, tut tutted and imagined he would grow out of it.
But Falki did not, days and days and weeks passed, and he grew restless. “I must find a purpose,” he said to himself.
He threw himself into his swordplay, say in and day out, drew the bow until his arms ached, ran until his legs cried out in protest, until he collapsed, spent.
The god found him in a field of golden grain. For the longest while, the god stood, staring down at the young man, feeling something the like he had never felt before in his chest. An ache, the strangest thing.
Falki sat up, eyes widening at the sight of the young god. “Who are you?!” He demanded.
“I am the grain in the fields,” said Freyr.
(At this point, you will forgive Falki for thinking the god was a little mad.)
“Who are you? Who are you really?” asked Falki.
Freyr remembered then that he was not among the alfar, and that humans used different names for themselves.
“Call me Ingvi,” he said, offering the man his hand to help him up.
“Ingvi,” the name felt strange on Falki’s tongue, sweet like honey, harsh like sunlight. “My name is Falki. My father is Orvar Battle-Valiant.”
“What are you doing here, Falki Orvarson?”
“I am searching for a purpose,” said Falki.
Freyr did not really understand the concept of a purpose, for he just was, but he nodded and smiled, and his smile was like the moon on a clear night.
Falki felt something stirring in his chest.
They walked together, mortal and god, and as they walked, they shared things with each other. Falki bragged of his prowess with sword and bow, Freyr taught him how to take honey straight from a hive.
“But, won’t the bees sting you?” he asked, watching as Freyr reached into the nest.
“The bees are my friends,” he answered, presenting him with a honeycomb. “See? Eat.”
So they ate together, the god and the man, and then they renewed their exchange, Falki telling Freyr of his life, of his mother cooking at the fire, of his father’s tales of blood and death and glory.
And Freyr listened, and said. “You do not care for such things?”
“I care for my family, and for the land we’ve settled,” said Falki.
Freyr was puzzled by this, for the ways of mortals are not the ways of gods, but the two parted amicably, vowing to meet again on the morrow.
On the morrow, and the next day, and the day after that, Falki returned to the field, where Freyr waited, and they talked for a long time. Freyr took Falki’s hand and showed him things hidden from the eyes of mortals, the insects crawling under a rock, the small fish in a pool of water, the delicate whorls on a stone, a shell. Falki told Freyr of his sister, Alfdis, who was to be married soon, and as they talked, Freyr felt a great swelling in his chest, and it grew and it grew until it was an ache, a hunger, longing.
And there amid the grain, the god kissed the warrior, and his kiss was like soft rain falling upon the fields, like the first ray of warming sunlight after a long winter.
That day, and the day after, and the day after that, they shared more kisses, soft ones, as light as a butterfly’s touch, as hot as the sun, as maddening as the rays of the moon, ‘til at last they lay together in the fields, man and god, and the Earth sighed as they cried out in shared pleasure.
At last, they rose from the fields, shaking the remnants of golden wheat from their hair.
They continued in this way, desiring each other, when, one day, Falki said “I have to go.”
“Where?” Freyr asked.
Falki turned to gaze at the horizon. “Battle,” he said, as if that explained everything, and perhaps it did, and he looked at the young god, and there was fear in his eyes. “Ingvi, I’m afraid.”
And Freyr took him in his arms, and when they parted in the evening, he went to speak with his Sister.
Falki lay dying of a great wound to the gut, his innards arrayed before him like dice from a dice cup. He had fought bravely, but it was not enough, it would never be enough, against men who craved blood and death and glory….
Falki opened his eyes. There was Ingvi, staring down at him, like that first day in the field of grain.
“Who are you, Ingvi? Who are you really?”He asked.
“I am the Lord of the Dead,” said Freyr.
My epilogue to the story is that Freyr takes Falki to his hall and gives him a cushy job. They have lots of sex, and then Gerda comes along and she’s, you know, cool with Falki. Maybe he’s buddies with Skirnir, I don’t know, make up your own headcanon.
So, I knew Falki’s name began with F, I literally just picked the first interesting sounding “F” name I could find that didn’t have “Frey-” in it.
Why does Freyr have that chat with Freyja if he says he’s Lord of the Dead? Because he doesn’t want to take the chance that Odin will snatch him up. He’s not a very good warrior anyways, but he is GOING TO PULL STRINGS, DAMMIT!
Why does [insert inconsistency here]? because a wizard did it, and my sole research for this was the Viking Answer Lady. This isn’t a head-story, this is a heart-story.