Twilight

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The sea was eerily calm as Jorn cast out his line, the canoe beneath him holding steady as he sat back to back with his brother Sigurd. The two were waiting for their lines to go taut, that they might haul in tonight’s supper. But nothing was biting as of yet.

“It seems the Norns do not favour us today,” said Jorn.

“Nor any day,” said Sigurd. “Or anyone.”

“Don’t talk such rot.”

“You know the signs. That winter was longer, colder and darker than any we’ve ever lived through. Even this thaw does not truly feel like spring.”

“If you speak true, we will know soon enough. Best worry about it then.”

“I would rather not be caught off-guard by the end of the world.”

“And I would rather not find my own end worrying about it.”

The sky above was dull and grey, the sun struggling to shine as it once did. The air was calm yet stale, and the water looked a shade murkier, showing little sign of its former abundance. To the men and their clan, nothing about the world felt right since the beginning of last winter.

Jorn felt a stirring beneath the surface of the water, and wondered if something was finally coming their way. But it felt much larger than any fish. Waves crested the surface, the boat rocked up and down, and the two Norsemen nearly dropped their rods into the sea as their hands gripped the sides of the dinghy.

“What’s happening?” said Sigurd as the waves grew larger and spilled over the hull. Not waiting for an answer, Jorn picked up a paddle, angling the boat with the waves rather than against them. For a moment, it worked, and they coasted along on whatever course the sea had suddenly plotted. But the waves grew larger still, violently rocking them back and forth, until they were overtaken.

Jorn and Sigurd were thrown overboard, and the canoe sank beneath the raging waves. The Norsemen were separated as the wicked current carried them forth, and both desperately tried to keep their heads above water. Though they were strong swimmers, they were no match for the strength of the sea, and they lost themselves in its dark depths.

A moment or an eternity later, Jorn came to, feeling solid ground beneath him. He struggled to his hands and knees as he coughed, choked, and spat up seawater and bile. He tried to wipe his eyes, but the salt water on his hands only stung them further, and he could do little else but shake his head and wait for the burning sensation to pass.

His senses regained, he felt the waves lapping at his feet, and he crawled forward, dragging his legs out of the water. He looked about and found he had washed ashore on the beach near the mouth of the fjord that led to his village. Jagged cliffs towered before him, and the sand-and-stone beach stretched in either direction as far as the eye could see.

He looked on, and a moment later, even through spotty vision, he found Sigurd lying face down a short distance away.

Jorn rushed to his feet and ran as fast as his sea-legs could carry him. He stumbled over stones and wet patches of sand before falling to his knees again at his brother’s side.

“Sigurd!” he cried as he turned the other man on his back. Jorn pressed down on Sigurd’s chest, his head still spinning as he desperately tried to drag his brother back from the gates of death. Just as Jorn’s hope began to fade, Sigurd suddenly coughed, and he turned to his side, spitting up seawater. Jorn stepped back to give him space, panting with both exhaustion and relief.

“You’d better not have kissed me to wake me up,” Sigurd said between ragged breaths.

“Luckily I did not have to,” said Jorn. “But would you not do the same for me?”

“No.” The two laughed half-heartedly, and Sigurd finally looked up from the ground. “No,” Sigurd repeated as his eyes went wide with terror. “No, no! It cannot be!” Jorn looked out to the sea, and beheld a sight that had haunted his dreams since he was a child.

A titanic form had emerged from the depths. A single body, devoid of limbs, covered in adamantine scales. Its head held wicked horns and frills, demonic yellow eyes, and monstrous jaws holding massive, curved fangs and a long, slithering tongue.

“By the All-Father,” said Jorn as he beheld the might of the World-Serpent, whose evil eyes found them on the shore. The beast gave a guttural hiss, and the waves changed direction as it began moving toward them.

“We’re doomed,” said Sigurd.

Suddenly, the sky turned several shades darker, and storm clouds gathered overhead. The World-Serpent halted, looking back and forth as thunder shook the sky, first in the distance, then closer. Lightning flashed as the booming grew louder, and Jorn and Sigurd forgot their fear as they beheld a storm that they knew could not be the work of Mother Earth.

An argent bolt of lightning erupted in the clouds, barreling toward the Earth. So bright was it that Jorn and Sigurd had to look away, momentarily blinded. The serpent hissed again, this time louder and with a hateful growl. When they re-gathered their nerves, Jorn and Sigurd looked to the great beast again, and saw that its attention had been drawn elsewhere, further down the beach. They let their own eyes follow the path of the serpent, and their hearts each skipped a beat at the sight before them.

A lone figure stood tall in the distance, hammer in hand.