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Gamla Uppsala, 587
“Freyr, accept our sacrifice. Freyr, hear our prayer! Bless our lands with prosperity and peace. Freyr, accept our blót. Abundant one, King of Alfheim, ruler of peace, bestow us your strength! Let no storm ravage these lands. Let no jötnar roam these fields with the intent of destroying them. Freyr, god of fertility, heed our blót and bring forth the birth of rounded babes.
Freyr, we call upon thee as the god of our temple! Accept our blót!”
Quiet chants and words of courage are whispered among themselves. Their hands intertwined as they rock back and forth, seeking the presence of their gods above. “The allfather, Óðinn, watches. The protector of humankind, Þórr, watches. Freyr, the one we sacrifice for, is willing.”
Blood trickles down the wooden structure a bull’s head lays on. Dark red seeps into even the tiniest of cracks before trickling down onto the early spring ground. With Freyr’s blessing, even the remnants of frost will step aside for the incoming surge of fertility.
“Heads of nine animals, all of which carry the seed of prosperity, have given their lives for our peace.”
Carefully and with respect, the heads are brought up to the shrine. The hum reaching for the sky.
“Heads of nine men, all of whom carry the seed of fertility, have given their lives for our lands.”
Doused in sacrificial blood, the heads of nine are brought to the shrine.
“Freyr! In the sacred grove among the trees of life and death, your esteemed sacrifices shall hang.”
The rumbling hums and chants grow. Each and every devout is eternally thankful for the eighteen lives that were given to the gods. Now they shall hang in the grove, where the tree that never fades watches over them. They shall hang in the grove, built above Urd’s well—for it was faith that brought them all here.
They know he listens. They know Freyr has his face set on them. They know the year will be abundant.
What they don’t know is that in their midst stands a man with his sword sheathed and his golden boar at his side.
“I heed your sacrifice. I accept your blót. For I am Freyr, the god of abundance, fertility, and peace.”
- ・○・●・○・●
Gamla Uppsala, 2024
“Now, follow this sign!”
Chan makes sure to smile widely as he holds up his sign. None of his group needs to know that he’s already done with their poor attitudes. Even before their tour started, he saw one of them, an older man wearing socks and sandals, bend down and dig into the ground.
“This is sacred ground,” Chan had remarked, gently stopping the man from digging further. Two thousand years ago, sure. Now? Nothing more than soil and microplastics.”
Despite the ignorant words, Chan laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps you are right. Humans have not been kind to our ground. However, I must urge you to gather with the others. The tour will start in twenty minutes.”
During those twenty minutes, he’d seen even more horrendous behavior. Though he had found himself burying his face in the brochure he was meant to know by heart, it was difficult to do so, mostly because what he’d learned differed from the knowledge historians had discovered.
“Perfect, I think that’s all of you,” he says with a wide grin when his group slowly gathers in front of him. He keeps his sign up for a bit longer, the golden boar sticker shining under the sun. “My name is Bang Chan, but you may call me Chan,” he says and greets them with a courteous bow. “To make this experience a bit more personal, I will start by talking about myself for a bit. When you all have grown tired of hearing facts about me, I will take you on a trip around the grounds of this old temple.”
There are a few snickers and even a few younger women giggling between themselves. He makes sure to meet their eyes and offer a proper customer service smile. “Well, like I said, you can call me Chan. I am older than some of you, but I appear to be younger than others,” he waits for their laughs to settle before he opens his mouth once more. However, this time, a flurry of limbs and blonde hair interrupts him.
“Is this the guided tour of the grounds?”
A slim, blonde man jogs up to their group. His skin glistens from sweat that has started to pool at his temples. “It is,” Chan acknowledges. The blonde smile lets out a dramatic sigh of relief, and he practically leans on one of the older ladies. “The bus trip up here was horrendous. I thought public transport in Sweden was better than this!”
Chan’s group for today is a mixed one, though most appear to be from either Germany or North America. However, this one, the late one , has an accent that much resembles the one he has chosen for himself.
“Indeed, even Far North Queensland has better public transport than this. However, you all seem to have found your way.”
The blonde covers his face and lets out a laugh, murmuring something that Chan can’t entirely pick up, mostly because of the rustling chips bag one of the younger men seems to have brought with him. “Like I said, you’ll have to endure a few facts about me before we venture further.”
The wind around them blows gently, like a warm hug - almost as if it’s greeting them, too. “As you may hear, I am not from Sweden, but for the last nine years, I have dwelled here. How did I come to move here? Well, I was one of you. I visited these grounds in 2015, and ever since then, I knew I had to return.” He sways the golden boar back and forth as he speaks, humming to himself when the group seems to listen intently. “Norse mythology speaks to me in ways I can’t explain, but after that one visit, I knew I needed to know more. To feel more, and even to participate in the small communities who still find time to pray to the old Norse gods.”
“So you mean to say you believe in them?” an older woman asks, her gray hair swaying in the wind.
“Belief is a fickle thing. I do not only believe, I know. ”
She quickly snaps her mouth shut and grabs a hold of a silvered cross around her neck. Next to her, an older man shakes his head - an act of intrigue rather than judgment. “Elisabeth, keep an open mind.” The gray-haired woman huffs before she nods.
“But how can you know?”
Chan’s attention is brought away from the line of people in front of him. He looks up, almost having to squint his eyes because of the bright sun. “Know what?” he asks, unsure who had asked the question. “How can you know that they existed?”
It’s the blonde man, the one who came late. His head is cocked to the side, and an all too familiar smile adorns his face. The smile, it isn’t warm but it isn’t judging either. If anything, it veers into a territory of slyness.
“Ask me this question after the tour, and I may lend my voice to you. But I do think you might be able to know why after you’ve traversed the sacred grounds.”
He shifts his hip and places his hand on his belt, feeling for something that used to be there. The blonde blonde scoffs, but he doesn’t push the question any further. “Well, now that you know why I’m here, I would like to invite you to follow me.” He holds up the sign once more, the golden boar smiling as the sun shines down on it. “You will be able to walk around on your own, but when I call and lift the sign, I expect you to gather.”
Chan goes through a few more rules before he turns around and points to the landscape in front of them.
“Welcome to Scandinavia’s perhaps most sacred grounds.”
Gentle hills and long fields meet their eyes. At first, there is a path, filled with enough gravel so that when it rains it doesn’t get too muddy. Lifting one’s gaze, one can see endless trees. Some so old that they say they even existed when Odin dwelled here. In the distance, the newer church can be seen, but that is not the main attraction.
Even further back, three large mounds stand tall. Chan looks upon them with the same curiosity he has always done. The history that surrounds those three mounds is something he holds dear to his heart.
“It is said that the grounds here in Gamla Uppsala used to be one of the most important places during the Viking era when the belief was that the old Norse gods were the ones who created the world and took care of it.”
He speaks as he leads them up the gravel path, the newer church coming closer with each step. “However, this place has not only been grounds for what is now called Asatro. After Christianity started to take over Scandinavia, Gamla Uppsala became Sweden’s first archbishopric. This happened in 1164, but for hundreds of years before then, there was activity here.”
Chan makes sure to walk slowly, oftentimes turning around and looking at his group. He takes them in. Wondering how lucky he is that so many were able to come. Eight women and nine men. Well, after the inclusion of the blonde, there were now ten men. Such a thing didn’t matter. He was just happy they were there.
“I wonder why Jackie and Bill didn’t go to Uppsala when they were here. Jackie is such a fan of these things,” A stocky man with worn down suspenders says to what Chan presumes to be his wife.
“Well, it was a bit difficult to find now, wasn’t it, George?” The woman scoffs and promptly brings up the map they were provided back at the museum. “Did you remember to put on sunscreen today?”
“For fuck sake, Margaret. We’re in Sweden. They barely have any-”
Blonde hair and a flurry of limbs reclaim Chan’s vision. “So where are we going first?” Brought out of his intention of eavesdropping, Chan has to blink a few times before he registers the man in front of him.
“We’ll wander around the perimeter for a bit before we walk up to the church.”
“Ah, the new Christian church, blergh,” the blonde says and scrunches up his face. Chan watches as he dramatically tightens his fist, raises it up to the sky, and shakes it. Much like characters found in cartoons nowadays. “I take it you’re not a fan?” The gravel under them rustles, and Chan finds himself having to peel his eyes away from the animated man.
There’s no real other answer than an odd laugh and a sound most likely not meant to come off as judging, though it certainly does. “You can call me Felix,” the blonde suddenly says, both of them having walked for another good hundred meters.
“Felix,” Chan hums. The wind carries the syllables like gentle leaves. Though the wind seems to wish them well, the sun disappears behind a hidden cloud. “Fortunate and happy?”
“What?”
“That’s what your name means, isn’t it? Latin for fortunate or happy.”
A head of blonde nods, and Felix finds it easy to skip over the few puddles of old rainwater - his step quick and lite. “Did they have a version of my name? Back in the Viking era?” His his eyes shoot back capturing all of Chan in what he can only deduce to be a look of curiosity but also mischief.
“For such a name? No.” Chan leans raises up his golden boar, and quietly hopes the group behind him has learned to heed his request. “Though if you are interested in the old gods, then you ought to no that the name opposite of yours may derive from the germanic root of *luk-, which may mean knot.”
“How is that even remotely opposite of my name?” Felix laughs, his tone deep yet also brilliant and clear. It’s almost an endearing sight, and Chan feels a sense of familiarity in his bones. “Well the root of the germanic word of knot or hoop, may have cemented itself in all of the Scandinavian languages as Luki, Lokke, or Loke.”
Once more, Felix jumps into the air, this time he makes a deal out of a large branch in the road. “A worm,” he laughs and points at the wooden log. “Those can easily create hoops and locks.”
“They certainly can.” Chan comes to a halt, holding his sign high up in the air. “And one of the most important Norse gods was an expert in just this. Loki, the trickster god, never hesitated to loop himself and others around in a web of his own desires.”
The footsteps behind them come to a halt, and a quiet murmur spreads itself throughout the group of people. They look up at the old church, already discussing if it’s a Stave church or not. “But you said it was a name opposite of mine. Are you to say that Loki only brought misfortune and unhappiness?”
Large brown eyes stare at him with utter curiosity, and although Chan has to look past the slight twitch, he finds Felix’s interest fascinating. “Perhaps,” he says before he nods to the crowd. “I see you heeded my sign. For that, I must thank you.”
The quiet murmurs continue for a bit while Chan urges them to open their brochures. “Flip to the very first page, and you will see a map of the current church and the previous formations.”
Behind them, the church looms. It’s far from a large church. In fact, it lends itself to a far smaller crowd. The stone used is minimalistic. Only a few ornaments adorn the craftsmanship. Although its stature is relatively modest, the history behind it is great - despite Chan’s inner qualms about it.
“Most of the church follows the tradition of early medieval Roman architecture,” he says and points at the building. “Such a style is often characterized by its small windows compared to the rest of the wall and few ornamental designs, such as the ones you see in gothic or baroque buildings. Though the style is generally seen in most of Scandinavia, where they aren’t known for bombastic buildings, even the few remaining catholic ones.”
“Did the Vikings use this church to perform their prayers and rituals?”
A rather small man with round glasses and barely any hair pipes up, his hand waving a bit when Chan’s eyes find their way to him. “The ones we now usually call Vikings were not Christian for most of their existence. So no, they didn’t perform their rituals in a church,” Chan has to bite his tongue to not talk too hastily and emotionally. “I will talk about it a bit more later, but there are records of there being a temple in this area where they did indeed practice religion. Though, even calling it a temple might not even be correct, for we have surprisingly little information of how the Vikings used to practice their beliefs.”
Quiet murmurs and a whole array of cocked heads play out as a scene in front of him. Only Felix seems to keep his eyes straight, seemingly unaffected by the thought that other religions outside of the main five didn’t necessarily have set places for worship.
“The old temple was most likely razed to the ground sometime after the christening of Sweden.”
A quick heel spin has him turning to the doors before carefully opening them. “Take a look inside. Be mindful of the old paintings and relics, but feel free to sit down and take in the atmosphere.” He smiles as the crowd wanders in, all of their phones or hand-held cameras ready to capture what their eyes see. “Despite its Romanesque exterior, the interior has gothic elements. I invite you to look up at the ceiling to see the change in style!”
He watches the back of what he assumes to be the last person to step in. Only when he turns slightly to close the door does he see that Felix has barely moved. “The tour continues inside,” he says and urges the other forward. Felix does walk forward, but his eyes are set upon Chan, deep in thought. “If you wish to abstain,” Chan starts, but he’s quick to be interrupted by Felix.
“Not at all,” the other says, a certain strain lingering even after he swallows. “Though I wonder why your tour started here, would it not be beneficial to start at the very beginning and end here, for this is not so different from Sweden nowadays.”
He knows he should be annoyed or even frustrated at the audacity Felix has; questioning his choice of what to focus on or where to start is unheard of. However, he might not have been forged by patience, but he certainly has enough experience to reel himself in.
“Astute observation, Felix,” he comments and takes a step back when Felix finally enters the church. “I may have done it this way because I have a certain goal in mind with this tour.”
There it is, the same odd glint he saw earlier. Felix spins on his heels, far too dramatic for the rather solemn atmosphere within the church. “I hope it ends up in a large ritual of sacrifice!” His laughter rings loud, far louder than the old church bells could ever do, and his act is immediately rewarded by a “hush, young boy” from one of the older ladies.
Despite his urge to pay the other mind, he doesn’t. He keeps his face neutral before he wanders through the church with the others. With its simple decorations, it’s easy to keep his eyes from the ever-watching paintings.
It doesn’t take long before he has a head of blonde occupying his peripheral vision again. “Those paintings of Christ and Jesus are not too dissimilar from depictions of Wotan, are they?”
“So you are a bit familiar with Asatro,” Chan hums. He keeps his hands on his back as he walks forward. “Why do you come to that conclusion?” Felix immediately asks and attempts to run in front of Chan to stop him, but the other simply turns to the side and walks down a different path when such a thing occurs. “Your usage of Wotan is fascinating. I wonder why you chose that pronunciation when so many of them exist?”
“Whatever, he’s just an old man, half-blind as well,” Felix says and rolls his eyes. “Who even trusts a guy who has pet ravens? Like that’s seriously odd.”
There’s no opportunity to answer Felix and his odd comment, for Chan is stopped by a horde of tour-goers who wish to inquire into even the smallest details of the church. Although he manages to explain, albeit quite begrudgingly, he still keeps an eye on the blonde who has migrated to the very back of the church, his hands firmly crossed over his chest.
After what feels like an eternity spent answering questions, Chan once more waves his golden boar and sets his nose in the opposite direction. “We are now going back in time,” he announces, eyes fully set on Felix as he says so. “To a time where no Christ existed.”
He brings them out onto the gravel path again, but this time, he rounds the corner of the building and starts walking up to the large mounds. “As you can see, there are three mounds here in Gamla Uppsala.”
“What do you think hides underneath these large barrows?”
Socks and sandals. Suspenders and half-open Hawaiian shirts. Permed hair and smudged lipstick. Silver crosses and prayer beads.
Fright and awe.
The group stares at him where he stands, on a small, fallen branch just above them. “Treasure?” one of the younger men asks. Chan shakes his head. “There might be remnants of treasure, but it isn’t what lies underneath.”
“Viking mead!” another one yells out. This time, Chan promptly ignores the statement, earning him and the man a proper huff from Felix.
“What do you think,” Chan asks, eyes set on the mischievous one. “What has been covered by soil and dirt for centuries?”
“It’s a burial ground,” Felix answers, eyes fleeting from the mounds and back to him before they briefly look up at the sky.
Chan nods, and he jumps off the branch he stood on. “Indeed,” he starts. “Behind me, you can see three mounds, all of which are suspected to be burial grounds. But for whom?” He watches as the crowd murmurs between themselves, some even attempting to bring their phone up to Google the answer.
“Must be someone important,” Felix huffs. “Who else would earn such a fancy display.”
He knows more than he lets on. Almost as if his knowledge, previously caught in a tightly wound knot, is slowly unfurling.
“There are many theories of who rests under us, but historians do agree that they most likely house the bodies of people with importance,” he waves his sign again and has the group follow him once more. This time, they walk up to the mounds before he starts speaking again.
“Perhaps the old Kings of the House of Ynglings dwell here, Aun, Adil, and Egil? You may have heard of them in the epic poem of Beowulf, though there they appeared as House Scylfings.”
“I have heard of that poem,” one of the men says. “I saw the movie.”
“The 1999 version or the one from 2007?” Felix asks.
“1999.”
“Figures.”
The wind swarms around them, and the grass sways harshly in the wind. “See,” Chan urges. “They must know we are here.” He feels it. He feels the energy from the ground surge. It rattles under him, almost as if it tells him that he’s just where he belongs.
“We don’t know for certain who is buried here, but old tales and myths from the time Vikings lived in this area talk of gods dwelling here.”
“How can a god rest here,” the woman with the silver cross says out loud, her thin voice struggling to carry through the harsher wind. “Gods don’t die.”
Above them, a flock of ravens flies past, their shrieking voices deafening them all. With their passing, the wind comes to a still, and Chan once more feels like he is back with the people in front of him rather than a place of far more mystery.
“Norse deities are not immortal,” he states, earning himself a shocked scoff from the woman. “Death is not something a Norse god fears nor a Viking. Though some gods were indeed bound by faith, and their death will only come when Ragnarǫk kills all of us.”
Felix stalks around the crowd, his eyes boring into Chan as he speaks. His gaze is so penetrating that Chan has to force himself not to look away from the woman with her cross. “However, some who dabble in Asatro believe that it is Óðinn, the allfather, himself who is buried here, alongside the god of thunder, Þórr, and the Vanir Freyr, god of fertility and abundance.”
Chan inhales through his nose, feeding off the curiosity and wonder that he can practically see swimming in most of the crowd’s minds. They might have walked in here with preconceived notions of what they believe in, but it’s Chan’s true duty to make sure their minds slowly open up.
“Óðinn has decided that all dead should be buried or cast in the sea only after they have been burned. They must be laid to rest with their most treasured belongings, for only that way will they arrive in Valhalla with all their riches. Only those that, in Óðinn’s eyes, have made enough of an impact will be rewarded with a mound or a stone.”
He beckons them forward. “Come now, walk around the mounds. Take in the scenery and try to imagine yourself in a time when such burials took place.” The golden boar points them in the right direction. “Asatro believes that the higher your smoke rises when you are burned, the higher up you should be buried. How high would your own smoke rise?”
Like small ducklings, the group follows. They only veer from his path when he urges them to do so. By now, their white socks are dirtied, and Chan once more wonders why some of them decided to pair such socks with sandals.
“Are you indicating that Ragnarøk has already happened?”
This time, Felix doesn’t just walk in front of him. Now, he stops Chan fully, yanking the golden boar from his hand. “Taking back my gift,” the blonde laughs. “Gift?” Chan says, cocking his head.
“Once I give it back to you, then it’s my gift.” A sly smile dawns upon Felix’s face. A familiar wind passes by them, and Chan has to shake his head so as not to groan at the other man. “I am not stating that Ragnarǫk has or hasn’t happened,” Chan says sternly.
“Good, because I don’t feel like looking upon a ghost.”
“You speak in riddles, Felix. Sometimes I wonder where your thoughts go when they aren’t following a linear path.”
The blonde laughs once more, his entire frame shaking. However, despite the clear sound, something wicked bellows. “Who was buried here, you say?” Felix asks, leaning closer to Chan. “Which one of the fancy gods,” he murmurs, wiggling his fingertips in the air, laying up his dramatic flair.
“Some believe Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr are buried here,” Chan reiterates.
“Wotan, Thor, and Freyr.” Felix tastes every syllable, his tongue coming out to lick over his lips with each uttered one. “The two first ones are popular. Big superheroes apparently.” Chan wants to wring the other’s neck but also lean forward and simply flick his forehead, chuckling at the poor joke. “And the third?” Chan teases. “Freyr, is he not a superhero?”
Felix shakes his head, smiling once more.
“No, Freyr is the product of incest that doesn’t bode well in popular culture.”
Chan needs to bash his head in.
“Back then the customs were different, Freyr was not-”
Felix lifts his hands up and steps back. Mischief winds his face up into a smile so infuriating Chan can’t seem to keep his eyes off him. “I seem to remember part of a poem going along the lines of something likes this:
Cease now, Njörðr!
in bounds contain thyself;
I will no longer keep it secret:
it was with thy sister
thou hadst such a son
hardly worse than thyself.
You see, Chan? Freyr is the product of Njörðr fucking his sister!”
Oh, how he wishes Þórr would soar through the skies and manifest the largest lightning strike ever, for it is at that moment that he imagines Felix loom over even the tallest of trees - a perfect lightning conductor. “Við hamri Þórs!” he growls and pushes past the blonde whose face is drawled up into a terrifying Cheshire cat. He yanks the golden boar sign out of the blonde’s hand, muttering under his breath, “Not even Loki would dare reclaim the boar given by the dwarves.”
He waves his golden boar fervently and watches as the crowd slowly starts to gather; had it not been for the onslaught of question, Chan would have possibly lost his mind. Questions from the very smallest of things, such as seeking the reading behind the placement of the info-panels to the larger questions about how many people were buried in such a mound.
With intense eyes on him at all times, mostly from the blonde who seems to have taken to standing directly in front of Chan at all times, he answers them as earnestly as he can. He talks about burial rites and some prayers, but he also talks generally about the time they are imagining.
“So you see, whereas both the Danes and the Norwegian focused on settling and raiding, the Swedish vikings truly tried to understand the mythos behind their gods. It is through them that we have descriptions of how some religious rituals were executed and how most people worshiped from day to day life.”
“So you could say that the Danish and Norwegian Vikings fit the stereotype of being savage and brutal more than the Swedes?” A tall man pipes up, his voice surprisingly meek.
Chan shrugs. “It’s not as black and white as that, but I guess you could at least say that the Swedish Vikings were less likely to raid: They still did, of course. In fact, an old Buddha statue was once found here in Sweden, indicating that someone from here did travel almost all the way to the other side of the world.”
Whereas before their eyes shone with skepticism, the group now looked wholly interested and intrigued. Even the woman with her silver cross, had taken to letting it dangle instead of gripping it tightly. “I must thank you for all of these questions,” Chan smiles and lifts up his sign once more. “But now I will bring you to what most vikings all over Scandinavia regarded as one of their most sacred places.”
They don’t walk for long, for the sacred grove doesn’t dwell too far away from the mounds or the old temple. “Back in the day, the grove might have been bigger,” Chan says and gently points to the oncoming collection of old trees. “And while these might not be the same trees, they are certainly the offspring of the old ones.”
The very second he steps foot into the grove, a surge of energy courses through him. It’s almost as if he can feel the soil reach for him, reach up to accept the gifts he wishes to provide them. It is not yet spring, but the grass is lush and green, and Chan has to laugh to himself, wondering why the grass wishes for even more when it is already so abundantly green.
“Do you feel it?” Chan asks as he comes to a halt next to one of the largest and most prideful trees. “There’s a certain energy here that I-” The meek, tall man is rather abruptly interrupted by Felix’s low timber. “They must have been devout here, for the land screams in joy as we walk upon it.”
Even the tall trees and their long branches can’t hide the presence that seems to hover above Felix as he talks. “Even the tiniest of not yet bloomed seed rustles with the wind. Here is a place of worship and of utter devotedness.”
Chan lowers his sign. He allows the golden boar to once more stand on the ground, at his side, where it belongs. He reaches for the belt hoop on his side, sighing when he just barely remembers how his hilt used to be filled with a weapon so mighty even the oldest giants cowered in fear.
Their eyes lock. Felix stares at him with simultaneous wonder and intrigue, a look Chan can’t help but share. “The old temple and its surrounding area is believed to be built with the thought of Nose cosmography behind it.” He places his palm on the large tree behind him. “Think back to your time sitting behind a desk listening to your teacher; which tree was the most important for the Norse gods?”
The woman whose silver cross has vanished into thin air speaks up. “Yggdrasil.”
“Yggradsill, indeed,” Chan nods. “The World Tree.”
He beckons them forward, telling them all to feel the living, breathing trunk under his palm. Only Felix stands behind, though this time, Chan wonders if he doesn’t need to feel the tree at all to know what he’s talking about.
“Is this Yggdrasil?” The man in socks and sandals asks, his eyes glazed and full of wonder. “It is not,” Chan answers, his hand coming to rest upon the man’s back like an anchor to keep him in the world of humans. “But they say the ground was built upon Urd’s well, the well of fate , and that it mirrors the very great tree of Yggdrasil itself.”
They stand there for a while, a low hum starting to fill the air as Chan leads the very first tones. He keeps his palm on the man’s back, but he looks behind him to capture the eyes of Felix. “Rituals were common here, not only for Óðinn and Þórr, but also for Freyr."
Chan cocks his head to the side, seeing how the mischievous one reaches down and touches the ground. Felix pulls out a bundle of grass and rubs it between his fingertips. “There are many tales of how these rituals were conducted, but from what I have gathered myself, a ritual for Freyr happens every nine years.
“Happens?”
Mischievous eyes stalk closer, and soon Chan’s vision is filled with Felix. “Every nine years, the Asatro pray to the god of abundance, of peace and fertility, hoping that he will allow them years of good harvest and healthy births.”
He continues to hum, his eyes set upon Felix. The other stares at him with such interest, Chan feels it curl into the very depths of his body. Once more, he hums. This time, he can’t help but smile when the group responds even louder. “A melody of old,” Felix whispers, and Chan nods. “They would often hum and chant during these rituals. Not only did it help them stay grounded in their beliefs, but I like to think the wind carried the sound all the way into Asgard and the surrounding branches held by Yggdrasil.”
With each lick of wind, the group falls into a steady rhythm of humming. Chan doesn’t even need to start the chant for them to pick up on it. He steps away from the tree, leaving the dazed humans behind, their swaying bodies keeping them steady and devout.
“I didn’t quite believe my ears when Þórr spoke of dealing still happening in Gamla Uppsala,” Felix murmurs, the corner of his mouth raked up into something of a sly smile. “So now it is Þórr and not Thor. You must have found it awfully fun to compare him to a forlorn superhero,” Chan reaches out and pushes Felix back a step with his palm. “You must have found it awfully fun to pretend you didn’t know who and what I am,” he continues.
The smile that has always reminded him of someone familiar, turns even more so, when Felix’s body shimmers slightly. “Always a shape-shifter,” Chan says and shakes his head. “Though I must say you wear this body well. Blonde hair suits you far more than your previous choices, Loki .”
Intermingled with the steadfast chanting from the humans, Felix laughs. This time, it’s not clear and bright. No, this time, Chan feels it run down his spine much like the world serpent Jörmungandr.
“You curse me with your Lokasenna poem. You curse my father for bonding with his sister, Loki. But are you not the same god who changed into a mare and had a stallion impregnate you? If you ask me, such things do not bode well in popular culture. Yet here you are, the birther of Sleipnir, an eight-legged horse and the seed-giver of an abundance of monsters.”
“I never said I was without faults. Though I do wonder what the great Vanir god Freyr wants with nine men and nine women.”
“It’s not as much what I want but rather what they want. Who can resist the sacred grounds here at Uppsala. Here where the norse faith was and is at its all time highest. They know just as much as you and I do, that the following nine years will be bountiful only after the traditional blót,” Chan can’t help but smile fondly at the group of people. Their bodies sway together as they touch the three directly connected to the World Tree itself.
Next to him, Felix, Loki, comes to stand by him; Chan sees the qualms going through his mind, for what is soon to happen is something few devouts believe in. “Their lives are not for naught. They will be rewarded plentily in Valhalla. There, our brothers and sisters will welcome them with open arms, and they will feast for all eternity with the knowledge that the living ones are able to do the same for the coming nine years.”
He urges Felix to sit down, one of his hands coming to rest upon the other’s back. “It will take time, they have to find back to the old ways before the ritual can start.”
The two of them sit on the soft ground, surrounded by everything that is living and dead. Previously, Felix had carried a mischievous smile, the one of a trickster god so intrigued by everything around him, but now his face is stern and solemn - withheld of judgment.
With every passing breath, the humans move. Slowly, the two of them watch the women get in line, their eyes rolled back as they pray out loud. “Freyr, hear our prayer! Bless our lands with prosperity and Peace.” In front of them, kneeling, are the nine men, all of whom have their heads lowered, murmuring chants of old.
“Now you know why I am here, Loki,” Chan says under his breath. He keeps his eye on the sight in front of him, but he makes sure that Felix is well within his peripheral vision. “Now, why has the god of mischief decided to spare his old friend Freyr a visit? I thought you were busy fornicating with your giantess.”
A scoff followed by a harsh grip on his chin forces Chan to look away from the humans. Although saddened because the sight in front of them is something he only sees every nine years, he can’t complain when he takes in the shape Loki has decided upon for the day. Spattered freckles adorn his features, surely to play into the fact that this form holds a sense of youthfulness to it - something which Chan can’t help but find himself agreeing with. Coupled with the dots, his eyes shine bright under the sun, and his blonde hair dances gently.
“Freyr, the god of abundance,” Felix murmurs, his hand intertwining with that of Chan’s. “Freyr, the god of peace,” he murmurs once more and pulls on Chan’s hand so that it now lays in his lap. Booming through the ever-growing chant, Felix speaks. “Freyr, the god of fertility, of land but also of man.”
“I see,” Chan nods, he peels his eyes away from Felix, and smiles when he sees the women snake their hands around the men’s necks.
“Freyr, accept our blót. Abundant one, King of Alfheim, ruler of peace, bestow us with your strength!”
Fingers tighten, eyes roll back, and the chant leaves the men’s mouths.
“Let no storm ravage these lands. Let no jötnar roam these fields with the intent of destroying them.”
Fingers tighten, eyes roll back, and the men’s tongues are snipped. Their necks bruised.
“Freyr, god of fertility, heed our blót and brings forth the birth of rounded babes.”
Fingers tighten, eyes roll back, and the women surge their hands into the air, letting go of the souls they have just reaped. With a thud, the men fall onto the ground, eyes and cheeks becoming one with the soil they have just given their lives to.
“You seek my gift,” Chan rumbles, his entire body bustling with the power imbued to him by the sacrifice. He digs his fingers into the dirt and tips his head back, exposing his neck to the elements. “Who am I to disallow you, even though I do not know why you seek my seed.”
The trickster god doesn’t need any other consent, for he is quick to climb into Chan’s lap. “Freyr, the god whose phallus is at the forefront of his every depiction. I wonder if it is true what they have said about you.”
“Then, Loki, the god of mischief, show me what your shapeshifting body can do.”
Chan’s hand swarms Felix’s waist, his soil-clad fingers smearing themselves over the naked skin that suddenly bears itself. Gone are the clothes Felix wore, and in but a mere second so is his own. Wickedness spills over the trickster god’s face, and he leans back, exposing the two of them.
“It is true what they say. The depiction of your phallus is certainly fitting for a god of fertility.”
“Freyr, accept our blót. Abundant one, King of Alfheim, ruler of peace, bestow us with your strength!”
Patience and virtue are not something often found in the hearts of old Norse gods. Where the beloved gods of modern times preach of celibacy and the search for inner peace. Freyr does not, and he knows that Loki believes in such things even less than he does. Thus, when Felix wraps his hands around his cock and meticulously hardens it, Chan allows himself to lean into the pleasure.
He watches with interest as Felix ruts their groins together, the trickster god’s moans pairing with the chants behind them perfectly.
“Freyr, heed our blót!”
"Heed it, I will,” Chan laughs, grabbing onto Felix’s waist and bringing him forward. “I am no stallion, Loki. You’ll have to make do with me.” The blonde lets out a huff, obviously wanting to tell more about his previous deeds with all kinds of gods and creatures. He centers Felix right above his cock and slowly feeds it into the other.
Spearing the god of mischief may never have been on the scroll where his fate was written down, but Chan finds it easy to accept the fact that it’s now happening. He thrusts into the blonde and brings him closer, their chests aligned.
“Your golden boar was not a gift,” Felix moans. “The dwarves they-”
“Look at you, confessing that it was indeed you who tricked the dwarves. Pitting them against each other only proved their craftsmanship, little trickster.” Chan forces Felix back all the way until blonde hair lays flush with the soil.
Now, as he thrusts deep into the other, he has sight of not only a face full of pleasure but also the ritual. The women slowly emerge back together, and they line up in front of Freyr. Their hands rise into the air as they continue their chant.
“Do you see them, Loki?” Chan groans. “Do you see their sacrifice?”
Felix opens his eyes and peers up. Above them looms the old sacred trees. The ones that have been forged by the seedlings of the very first ones. “I do,” Felix breathes out, his body rattling with the force of which Chan takes him. “They look beautiful, don’t they?”
For it’s not only the trees and their branches that hang above them. Bound carefully by rope, the bodies of nine men sway in the wind. The sacrifice is done with love, and thus, their eyes are closed, and nothing but peace adorns their now cold bodies.
“They do,” Felix affirms and winds his arms around Chan’s body. “Oh, Freyr, bestow me with thy seed. Heed my prayer,” he teases, earning him a gruff response from the other, who suddenly wishes he could have hidden his embarrassment.
With the chant dancing with the wind, Chan and Felix lose themselves to the pleasure their bodies create together. As if thunder crackles above them, Felix throws his head back and jolts through his orgasm, spilling all over his own abdomen. Nothing has ever invigorated Chan as much as this has - not even when he finally got the hand of Gerðr. Unlike his pursuit of Gerðr, he has not been forced to give up something he loves. He doesn’t regret giving up his sword, but he finds himself much preferring to see Loki’s face wrung with pleasure without having sacrificed anything himself.
“Mere pleasure?” He groans and grips the soft thighs of Felix. “Or a proper seed that will one day turn into a seedling?”
With the choice at hand, Felix grins slyly. “I have grown far too old for another child. Bestow me with solely your own pleasure.”
Freyr heeds Loki’s prayer, and with the never-ending chant behind them, he finds himself filling up the god made of part jötnar flesh and part Æsir with his own orgasm. He rides through the waves of pleasure, making sure that his release is so well-imbedded that Loki may never let it go.
The two men re-emerge from their position, Chan helping Felix up by holding him gently to his chest. “What will you do with them now?” Felix asks, fully leaning back. “With the humans, I mean.” Both of them stare at the women, still lost in their prayer. Chan shrugs and looks up at the sky. “This sacrifice may have been for me, but these grounds are not only for me. I suspect Óðinn and the head of Mímir will take care of this; their appreciation for these grounds is almost stronger than my own.”
The wind passes through them once more before it calms to a gentle breeze. Their naked bodies still remain swaying, almost as if they, too, have become one with the nature that surrounds them.
“You asked me why I was here,” Felix murmurs, playing with Chan’s fingers. “I lost a bet to Þórr.”
“You have a tendency to lose to that guy,” Chan laughs, deep as thunder.
“Shut up,” Felix scoffs. “Who says I didn’t lose on purpose?”
Just as he had done the entire day, Felix turns around and swarms all of Chan’s vision with his bright face and blonde hair. “You are not a god of truth, neither am I. So does it matter if I lied to you or to Þórr?”
“It does not, dear Loki, for I have been without this much fun for centuries,” Chan murmurs and gently pushes Felix’s blonde hair behind his ear. He moves his hand down the trickster god’s bare chest before he lets it gently rest on his stomach. “Though I must warn you, this warm feeling only lasts for nine years.”
“And what if I come seeking the same gift in nine years? What will you do then?”
“I will heed your blót.”