Blood Oath

Excerpts from Blood Oath, a retelling of the Norse myths from Snorri Sturluson’s “Prose Edda,” featuring Tyr, the god of war, and Freyr, the god of fertility, as central characters. Original work.

Full sample available upon request.

Nerthus gave a secretive smile of her own and called in the siblings. Tyr thought his heart would stop at the sight. The pair were radiant, just as their parents, their skin so golden that it melted from polished brass to a deeper bronze hue depending on where the sun had fallen upon them throughout the lengthy southern summers. While their skin had darkened, their lengthy winding locks had instead been lightened to fire by the hot sun of their lands.

Both of the twins were dusted with freckles atop their features and shoulders like a snowfall of sand, and boasted a hard build somewhere between warrior and rancher, to the point where it would be impossible to say whether their time clearly spent in the fields was used reaping crops or men. It was as if their parents had been aged down back to their prime, dressed in an autumnal palette, and sculpted to perfection.

It was true that Tyr never would have had reason to meet the prince outside the theater of war… because that was exactly where they had met.

With increasing horror, Tyr recalled the night after the final battle had ended. Both armies had still been stationed on the field, the bloodshed finally ceding to celebration as both sides mingled and drank. It was that night in particular that Heimdall had succeeded in convincing Tyr to drop the stoic demeanor and join in on the revelry, droning on about how the battle had finished and he could at least pretend that he knew how to smile.

But the night had come to involve far too much wine, and Tyr’s recollection of the events was foggy at best. The warrior dimly recalled an enrapturing redhead with a charming accent descending upon him like a starving wolf to a feast, hardly deterred that the pair were both still covered head to toe in grime and gore from the battle.

At the time, Tyr had justified the carnal act by telling himself that at least the man would be a low-ranking soldier; nobody would believe this stranger if he claimed to have bedded Asgard’s finest warrior. Now that the harmless soldier had transformed himself into a prince, however… Well, saying the accusation would hold far more clout would be an understatement. And from the proud smirk plastered across the other man’s face, Tyr could tell that he knew it, too.

The warrior shook his head in disbelief, cursing whatever powers could give a thrice-damned prince the ability and—somehow—the motivation to disguise himself as a lowly soldier.

He’d never take a drop of Heimdall’s drink again.