Chapter Text
When Loki was very young, his mother would sit by his bed at each night and read him a story. Loki loved those quiet moments with his mother, even more than when his father, King Laufey, took him riding or exploring. Queen Farbauti was wise and beautiful and patient, and Loki always knew that during their private moments together, his mother gave him her undivided attention. Bedtime became a ritual for the two of them, and both looked forward to it.
So each night, when he’d been tucked beneath his blankets, he waited eagerly for his mother to come in, sit on the bed next to him, arrange the rich skirts of her gown, and open the book she’d brought, the illuminated pages bright with gilt and heavy ink. As he’d gotten a little older, Loki realized that most of the tales she told had a lesson or moral hidden in them, carefully explained by his mother so that he understood what she was teaching him, but that revelation did not distract from his enjoyment of the tales any less.
Like any boy, he had his favorites and they changed as he grew. But through every book, tale and tome his mother read to him, one remained his favorite.
“Tell me again,” he said one night, pushing away the book she’d brought.
Queen Farbauti raised one slim brow and gave her son an arch look.
“Please, Mother,” Loki amended, flushing slightly. “I want to hear about Svadilfari and the Princess again.”
His mother smiled and set aside the book she’d brought. “You will make a fine king one day, with your love of that story,” she murmured snuggling him close. “Let’s see if I remember.
“The tale begins like this….”
Once upon a time, when the world was still young, there lived a King. His name was Gangleri and he was a wise King, and a good King, and he ruled his land with a fair and even hand. And King Gangleri had a daughter, Gefjun. She was as beautiful as the risen sun, and she was the most precious thing he possessed.
Gangleri loved Gefjun so much because she was his only child, and his beloved Queen had died giving life to their child. There was nothing the King would not have done for her.
Now, in those days, Andlang was not as we know it now. Oh, there were the nine holds and the nine jarls, but there was no High King. Each jarl was ruler of his own land, and though they stood together in bonds of friendship and brotherhood, Andlang was still divided.
For many years, all was well. Peace and prosperity were all the people knew. But one dark day, a terrible army came from the East. They brought war and terror with them, and slowly, little by little, one hold after another fell to them as they cast their shadow over Andlang.
The people despaired, and the jarls came together to try and save their land. Gangleri, because of his wisdom and courage, was proclaimed King, and it was decreed that if he could save Andlang, then he and all of his descendants would be named High King, and all would swear fealty to them forevermore.
Gangleri was honored, but also troubled, for he had no idea how to save Andlang. He loved his land and his people more than he own life, so he gathered his seers and his wise women, his wizards and his sages, and asked them to help him. From all corners of the realm, they answered Gangleri’s call, and gathered at the King’s hall, Gladsheim. They cast runes and spells, bargained with spirits and prayed to the gods. For nine days and nine nights they did this, until finally they came before the King.
Gangleri looked at them and asked, “Have you found a way to save my people?”
An old wise woman stepped forward, her back bent with age and her hands gnarled upon her staff. “My King,” she said, “we have. But we fear to speak of it to you for the price is too high.”
“Speak!” the King cried. “Speak! For if you have a way to save all that I love, then no price is too high.”
The old woman bowed her head. “So be it. We have prayed to the gods and they have answered. You must make a sacrifice, my King. A sacrifice of your body and your blood must be made to the gods at the top of Yggdrasil, and in return they will grant you the power to defeat your enemies.”
The King paled, but nodded his head. “If it is my life that the gods require, then so be it. I shall pay that cost, and gladly.”
But the wise women shook her head. “No, my King. You misunderstand. They gods do not want your body and blood, but only something of them—the Princess Gefjun.” And her keen eyes looked to the princess.
Gangleri gasped and cried out. “No! Not my daughter! She is an innocent. She has done nothing wrong. Her blood should not need to be spilled to save us.”
“Father,” Gefjun said quietly, standing from her seat, for she was as brave as her father. “If the gods require my life, then I give it freely to save our people and our land.”
The King cried and despaired, as did all those who heard, for the Princess was innocent and pure and all loved her. But there was no other way, and Gefjun was resolute. So it was with a heavy heart that the King watched as the Princess, dressed in her finest gown and accompanied by the mightiest warriors, was taken to the very top of Yggdrasil, where she was chained to an altar.
King Gangleri kissed his daughter goodbye, and they wept bitter tears at being parted so, until finally the wise woman bade them to return down the mountain, leaving Gefjun alone.
Now Gefjun was brave, with the heart of a dragon, but even the mightiest warrior would find their spirits quailing at being chained, cold and alone, until their doom came for them. So the Princess wept, because she was afraid. And she was still weeping when she heard the first sweep of great wings in the cold night air.
Before her, a large form descended from the darkness and landed before her, ice and snow swirling around her as the great dragon settled.
For a moment, Princess Gefjun forgot her fear and her tears stopped as she caught sight of the magnificent god before her. Svadilfari, the Horse-Dragon, sat before her. His scales were dark blue, the color of the deepest ocean, and his wings and legs were the deepest black of a night sky without moon or stars. His great head, with its curling horns, inky mane and long teeth, lowered until he looked directly at her with his scarlet eyes, his icy breath freezing the tears on her cheeks.
“Why do you cry?” he asked, his voice rumbling like thunder.
“Because I am afraid,” Gefjun replied.
“Of what?” Svadilfari asked, curious.
“Of death,” Gefjun said, shivering as her terror returned.
“Then why come?” asked the god. “If you are so afraid, why do you wait here?”
“I came because my love for my people and my desire to save them is stronger than my fear. I am afraid, but I am sure. I would give anything to save Andlang.”
Svadilfari drew his great head back and stared at the Princess for long moments. Gefjun, seeing that the god was kind enough to speak to her before eating her, gathered her courage.
“Might I ask a boon?”
“Ask,” Svadilfari rumbled. “And I shall see if I grant it.”
“All I ask is that you not make me suffer. You may have my life, and I give it gladly, but I would ask that my death be gentle.”
The Horse-Dragon lowered his head once more. “You would truly give your life so freely?” he asked.
“Yes,” the Princess answered.
“And if I do not grant your boon, do you still give it freely?”
Gefjun shook in her chains, but she nodded. “Yes, I will bear any burden for my people.”
“A noble heart you have, Princess. And what if I asked for some other sacrifice? Would you still give it to me freely?”
Again, the Princess nodded. “If it is within my power to give, then yes. Whatever I posses, it is yours.”
At that, Svadilfari drew back, and Gefjun felt the crackling of his magic in the air. Snow and ice swirled in a great whirlwind, and when it settled, the great dragon was gone. In its place stood a man, tall and broad and fine-featured, with cobalt skin, inky hair and eyes like rubies, and the Princess knew that Svadilfari stood before her still.
He came forward, unashamed of his nakedness and untouched by the cold. And he reached up to gently wipe the last of Gefjun’s tears from her face. “If you accept, Princess,” he said, “then we shall make a sacrifice of your body and blood, and there will be no pain and no more fear for you.”
“Yes,” Gefjun said softly, unafraid. For, indeed, when she gazed upon Svadilfari in the form of a man, her heart was lost to him, no matter his strange appearance.
Svadilfari came forward and with his bare hands shattered the chains that held Gefjun. Then he lifted her into his arms and took her to wife.
The next morning, King Gangleri and his court were shocked to find Gefjun sitting calmly in her own chambers, unharmed and smiling. But the good King was so relieved that his beloved daughter had been spared that he did not question his good fortune, and embraced her eagerly.
It soon became apparent that the Princess was with child, and all waited to see what blessed child her union with the god would produce. The seers and wise women gave their blessings and prayers of protection, and the Princess quickened with an unnatural haste. Within three months, she brought forth from her body a tiny, eight-legged colt, who, like his sire, had skin of the darkest blue, a mane and tail of the deepest black, and eyes of a fiery red.
Now the people of Andlang were troubled. Their Princess was sent to the top of Yggdrasil to save them, and they had thought her child to be the key. But they wondered how such a creature could prove to be the turning point in the war against their enemy. But the old crone bade them be silent and wait. She warned that the gods worked in their own time and in their own ways, and it wasn’t for mortal men to question them.
The colt, named Sleipnir by the Princess, grew prodigiously, and within a month was already the size of a yearling. Within three months, Sleipnir was full grown, and the finest horse to be found in Andlang.
Yet the warriors were still troubled. For though Sleipnir was the noblest of beasts, how could a horse possibly turn the tide of their war against their foes?
But there was no time to ponder that question. The army from the East came closer every days, pushing deeper and deeper into Andlang, until only the holds of Jotunheim, Vanaheim and Asgard stood untouched by the ravages of war. And so King Gangleri called his brother jarls, his thanes and his warriors, and gathered them to face their enemy in one great battle, though he knew that the Valkyries would have much bloody work to do, and that by sunset most of his men would likely be feasting in the halls of Valhalla.
The King and the warriors of Andlang girded themselves for war, and with hearts full of courage, stood shoulder to shoulder upon the battlefield, Gangleri at their head, clad in gleaming mail and wielding a heavy sword. But just before he gave the order to charge, there came Sleipnir beside him. The mighty beast pawed at the air with hooves as hard and sharp as steel, and he bellowed his challenge to the dark forces amassed before them.
Gangleri was unsure what to do. Clearly, his grandson desired battle, but how could he lead his daughter’s son to his death? He attempted to send Sleipnir home, but the horse stood his ground, stamping at the earth in defiance. And then he knelt on the ground before the King, and Gangleri had no choice but to grant Sleipnir his request, and so he mounted the beast’s great back.
But a strange thing happened when he did so. The King felt stronger, braver and more confidant. He saw the line of his men ripple as they too felt the same greatness swell in them. Gangleri felt hope bloom in his chest, and when he raised his sword aloft, the host at his back roared their support and charged without fear.
Into the fray Sleipnir leapt, his hooves crushing bones and skulls beneath him, while on his back, the King swept his sword in mighty arcs, felling all who came near. And Sleipnir’s coat, which had seemed no more than soft skin, was suddenly as hard as dragon scales. Arrows bounced harmlessly off of him, swords, spears and axes all turned aside when they tried to pierce his flesh.
And the great horse and his rider did not falter. On and on he and the King fought, indefatigable, until they ran red with the blood of their enemies. So, too, did his men fight without tiring, and though many were wounded or killed, it was only by the most egregious of wounds. Gangleri’s forces held, and then pushed forward, until the sun set and they stood victorious upon the battlefield.
They returned home to Gladsheim, where the warriors celebrated their victory with a feast that lasted three days and three nights. And Sleipnir was proclaimed a hero, and the people clamored to see their strange and wondrous prince who had saved them all.
And when the feasting was done, once more did the armies of Andlang set out, Gangleri mounted upon Sleipnir’s broad back. And town by town, city by city, hold by hold, they drove the vile host out, back beyond their borders, until the day came when all of Andlang was free and unshadowed by the clouds of war.
Then did all return home, and the jarls knelt before Gangleri and proclaimed him High King, and swore fealty to him and his heirs. When the last jarl did swear, the form of Sleipnir, standing beside Gangleri, did shimmer with magic. And there, where the great horse had once been, stood a man. He was tall and broad, with hair of the darkest black and eyes of the deepest blue. And Princess Gefjun rushed to her son, to hold and embrace him as she’d been unable to do before when he’d worn his first form.
King Gangleri, too, embraced the man, and called for robes of the finest silk to be brought and a crown fitted for his head, and with joy proclaimed Sleipnir his heir. And Sleipnir also received the fealty and oaths of the people.
For a time, King Gangleri, Princess Gefjun and Prince Sleipnir lived in harmony and contentment. But the longing looks Gefjun cast up Yggdrasil did not go unnoticed by her father and her son, and one day, Gangleri awoke to find his daughter and his grandson missing, with only the reports from a guard that he had seen them going together up to the top of Yggdrasil.
A week later, Sleipnir returned alone, and told Gangleri that his father had come for his mother atop Yggdrasil, and that she would not return. The good King mourned the loss of his daughter, but was comforted by the fact that would always be safe and happy.
In time, Gangleri grew old, and when his hair and beard were as white as snow, he bid his people goodbye. He embraced Sleipnir, and told him that he would be a fine king, and then passed quietly in the night, his soul joining those of his forefathers.
King Sleipnir took a wife, and she bore him strong sons and lovely daughters. And each year, he and all the people of Andlang honored the sacrifice of his mother and the benevolence of his father, and in return their realm was blessed with good fortune and prosperity.
“And so,” Loki’s mother continued, snuggling her sleepy son tightly into his blankets, “that’s why we honor Svadilfari and Princess Gefjun each year.”
“At the festival,” Loki murmured.
“Yes, that’s right, at the festival.”
“How come I can’t go? I want to,” Loki complained sleepily.
“You will someday, dear heart,” Farbauti said, placing a gentle kiss on her son’s brow. “Someday. But you’re still much too young to worry about that right now.”
“Promise?” he mumbled.
“I promise, Loki.”
“Love you, Mother.”
“I love you, too, my little prince. Now sleep.”