First Frost (ONC 2023 Novella, MxM Paranormal)

10: Ice Age

"His name was Jokul Frosti," my grandfather starts, taking a bite of his sandwich—originating from the snack pack Ida gave me—before continuing. "The first of our kind."

I curl up on the thread-worn couch—which I jumped on so many times as a child—in front of the flickering fireplace while gulping down the content of a juice box. Ida really knew what she was doing when packing that lunch.

"Our kind?" I ask because that is not a normal thing to just throw out in conversation.

"Frost sprites," my grandfather answers as if that is a more normal thing to say. "That's what he was at least. But you're part of him as well. You carry his powers over snow and ice."

I shake my hair in disbelief, making thawed pearls of water dance in the air. What my grandpa is talking about can't be real. It's the kind of saga told to children, to make them feel they have a special place in this world.

I'm not a child. I don't believe in such illusions. I don't believe I'm special.

"You don't believe me," my grandfather says, somehow reading my mind. Hell, maybe that is possible? Who knows anymore what madness this world harbors?

"I don't know what to believe," I mumble, focusing on opening a box of raisins.

"You'll know in due time," he assures me. The warmth in his eyes, enhanced by the reflecting flames, almost makes me believe him.

"So... who was he?" I cautiously ask, wanting to hear more of the saga, regardless of whether it's true or not. Storytime by the fireplace can never be a bad thing.

"He lived here long before humans did," my grandfather says, poking the fire. In the flames, swirling shapes appear. A man—or perhaps not quite a man?—with white hair walking a world made of snow. "When ice sheets still laid atop every part of what is now Scandinavia."

"The last Ice Age?" I ask, remembering how we in middle school went on excursions to look at the remnants left in nature from that era. Giant boulders, hills made of rolling pebbles, and soft hollows in the bedrock.

My grandfather nods. "That's our name for it now. But then, it was the age of the frost giants. They ruled the snowy plains. We know them now as Norse gods. Jokul lived among them, although being a sprite he wasn't nearly as powerful as the giants. Sprites were the giants' minions you could say, traveling the lands to do their bidding. Jokul served a giant called Forn, who lived in a castle made of ice as far north as one could go, making sure the snowfall never stopped and the time of frost remained."

My head spins from all the outrageous facts. The Norse gods—Tor, Oden, and Freja, and the rest of them—once were real and lived atop the ice sheets covering this part of the world.

"So that's why he had these... powers?" I ask, looking at the spindling blue lines on my own hands. As my grandfather puts his hand up toward the fire for warmth, I notice that he has them too. They're duller than mine but still noticeable. I wonder why I've never seen them before. Perhaps I just figured they were the aging veins of an old man.

"Probably so," my grandfather says mysteriously. "But he didn't know it. Not until humans came to the lands of frost. Because as warm winds blew from the south, the shores started to thaw. Humans came to hunt and gather in lands that were new and untrodden. Jokul saw them come ashore. He saw a girl with hair like sunshine and couldn't resist his curiosity. So he greeted the newcomers and showed them how to survive among melting snow and ice."

It sounded picturesque so far, but if I knew something about sagas, it was that such peace rarely lasted. "So what happened?" I ask, like a kid at storytime. I can imagine Embla and Mimer listening as keenly to this story as me. Perhaps I should narrate it for them once I get back to Ida's place to return her car. If I manage to drive it home safely that is.

"Forn saw them," my grandfather says, confirming my suspicions of a dark twist. "And he sent a storm toward them, threatening to extinguish the fragile humans. But Jokul stepped in its way, saving the sunshine-haired girl and her kind. He absorbed the storm in his veins, making it part of him."

"Did it kill him?" I ask, now completely wrapped up in the saga. Whether I believe in it or not doesn't really matter. I need to know how it ends.

"No." My grandpa chuckles lightly, breaking the aura of seriousness building around us. "This isn't that kind of tragic saga, Joakim."

"So it's a happy saga then?" I ask, hoping for a fairytale Disney ending in my naive mind. I guess perhaps I'm Elsa now, belting out an anthem of letting it go while snow flowing from my hands threatens to consume the world.

"It's a complicated saga," my grandfather counters. "Because while Jokul didn't die, he couldn't control the storm. He became the threat he'd tried to stop, forcing the humans to flee as snow and ice whirled around him and caused destruction. And the storm only grew as he tried to control his newfound powers. There was only one thing that could save him."

"Love?" I ask, somewhat in jest.

"How did you know?" My grandfather lifts his eyebrows.

"I've seen Frozen with Ida's kids..."

"Well, I suppose this saga may have trickled into that plot somehow, anyway..." He stirs the fire again, where white strokes swirl around an indistinguishable figure. "Because love did save him. The girl came back. With hair like sunshine, she braved the storm. Somehow, it couldn't hurt her. And when she kissed Jokul, the storm dissipated and spring sprung around them. It ushered in a new era in these northern lands, allowing for humans to thrive after the ice melted."

"And how do... we fit into this?" I ask cautiously. Because connecting myself to the story shatters the illusion of fantasy.

"We're their descendants," my grandfather replies. "The storm still lives in our veins. But there are only a few that carry it and it jumps between the generations. Sometimes, it jumps really far... several lifetimes even. And the last one with the powers has to wait for the next one to appear."

Wait, what? How old is my grandpa really? I gaze toward him, befuddled by this information. I realize I don't actually know when or where he was born. This is perhaps odd but since he never talked about such matters to his grandchildren we never brought it up either.

Familiar lyrics start to play in my head as I ponder what this intel may entail for my own future.

Forever young, I want to be forever young

Do you really want to live forever?

The words play on a loop. Over and over. Louder and louder. And they become more and more real.

Suddenly, the cottage feels too small for my thoughts. I need to breathe. I need to think.

I need Anton.

"Joakim!" my grandfather calls after me as run toward the door. "Be careful out there! The story isn't over yet. Forn is still out there somewhere, lurking. He wants to turn these lands back to what they once were and he needs your powers to do so."

I can't take in the information. It's all too much. So without even saying goodbye, I venture outside, stepping into a turmoil of whirling snow.

The storm has returned, or maybe I brought it with me.

Author's Note: This chapter could also have been called "Lisa Butchers Norse Mythology For Fun". I do apologize for that... I am definitely totally winging it for the paranormal aspect of this story.