PASSAGE 48: HVERGELMIR

Alaric and Hrimr trudged against the relentless wind, their boots sinking into the ever-present snow with each step. The frigid air bit at them, a constant reminder of the unforgiving nature of Niflheim. Despite the cold, a smile tugged at the corner of Hrimr's lips.

"Sir Alaric," he declared, his voice laced with amusement, "your deeds would surely be sung by the bards for generations to come! Your skill in battle mirrors the might of Thor himself!"

Alaric blinked, momentarily confused. "Why do you say that?"

Hrimr threw his head back and laughed, a sound that echoed across the desolate plains. "The way you dispatched those Sjora! It was like watching a Valkyrie dance among wolves! Their clumsy attacks were nothing but a feeble breeze against your storm-forged fury. And even now, the very frost of Niflheim seems to retreat before your unwavering spirit! Are you perhaps kin to the mighty Jormungandr, with such resilience coursing through your veins?"

His words sparked a realization in Alaric's mind. He glanced down at himself – just a hoodie, a flimsy barrier against the biting cold. The adrenaline from the earlier fight had faded, and the biting reality of the situation hit him. He shivered involuntarily, a sneeze escaping his lips.

"I-I almost f-forgot that i-it was c-cold..." he stammered, regretting his earlier boast about not needing shelter.

Hrimr's booming laughter filled the air. "Freyja's laughter dances on my lips, Alaric!" he exclaimed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Your battle prowess rivals Heimdall's, yet your tongue stumbles adorably, weaving tales that could rival Bragi's songs! A true warrior and a bard in one flesh!"

Clapping Alaric on the shoulder, Hrimr reached into his pack and pulled out a magnificent pelt. Its fur, as black as a moonless night, glinted with a faint sheen. "Here," he offered, handing it to Alaric. "Wear this pelt of the Nífhundr. May its warmth defy the icy grip of Niflheim!"

Alaric gratefully accepted the gift, wrapping the luxurious fur around himself. The warmth seeped into his chilled body instantly, a wave of relief washing over him.

"Alaric nodded his thanks, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "This pelt is a lifesaver, Hrimr. I can't believe I underestimated the bite of this Niflheim wind."

Hrimr simply chuckled, his earlier amusement replaced by a warm camaraderie. They continued their trek, the rhythmic crunch of their boots on snow the only sound that disturbed the desolate silence. After what felt like hours, Hrimr came to an abrupt halt.

"Behold, traveler!" he declared, gesturing towards a sight that filled Alaric with a wave of confusion.  "We have reached Hvergelmir, where the icy breath of Niflheim whispers through the frozen stones!"

Alaric squinted, following Hrimr's outstretched finger. His eyes widened in surprise. Nestled within a slight depression in the vast expanse of white lay a… village?  But village was a generous term. It consisted of no more than a dozen small, ramshackle structures, all seemingly made entirely of wood, from the sagging walls to the snow-laden roofs.  

But what truly struck Alaric was the state of these structures. The wood, once a sturdy brown, now appeared bleached and weathered, as if gnawed by time and the harsh Niflheim elements.  Patches of exposed wall revealed a dark emptiness beneath, and several roofs sported gaping holes, offering an unobstructed view of the cloudy sky above.  

A sense of unease settled in Alaric's gut. This wasn't the warm, welcoming haven he'd pictured.  "Hvergelmir, huh?" he said, his voice barely a whisper.  "Looks… lively."

A sense of dread coiled in Alaric's stomach as he and Hrimr stepped through the sagging doorway of Hvergelmir's first structure. The air inside hung heavy, thick with a suffocating despair that mirrored the decaying state of the buildings themselves. Gaunt figures huddled within the shadows, some slumped listlessly against walls, others sprawled groaning in the unpaved street, seemingly ignored by the rest.

"Hey, Hrimr," Alaric murmured, concern creasing his brow. "Are those people… alright?"

Hrimr, however, seemed unfazed. He chuckled, a light, hollow sound. "Fear not, friend," he assured, waving a dismissive hand. "They are merely reveling in the after effects of Járnheim mead, a potent brew that could floor even the mightiest Einherjar. A good night's sleep will mend their spirits, as surely as the sun melts winter's frost."

Alaric couldn't help but hope Hrimr was right. The sight of their despondency sent a shiver down his spine, a chill far deeper than the Niflheim wind. A suffocating weight settled in his chest, a feeling he couldn't quite place. It was a heavy, oppressive atmosphere that reeked of something far worse than simple drunkenness.

"By the blessings of the Allfather," Hrimr boomed, gesturing towards a low, squat building ahead. "You have crossed the chilling bridge and ventured into our humble hall. Enter, friend, and find solace by the hearth fire. Niflheim's embrace is ever-present, and its touch is always cold."

Alaric hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on the desolate figures outside. Then, with a nod, he followed Hrimr. Before stepping onto the wooden floor, however, he surprised Hrimr by bending down and removing his boots.

"Oh!" Hrimr exclaimed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "A curious custom, friend. But by all means, make yourself comfortable!"

"It's a tradition in my homeland," Alaric explained, offering a small smile. "A sign of respect to the homeowner."

A flicker of warmth, a genuine human connection, finally sparked in Hrimr's eyes. Stepping aside, he ushered Alaric into the unknown, the weight of the village's despair momentarily pushed aside by a simple act of courtesy.

Pushing open a creaky wooden door, Hrimr stepped aside with a flourish. "Father! By the blessings of the Allfather, I have returned from my ventures!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the cramped space. "And at my side walks another, whom I present to you with honor!"

Alaric followed close behind, stepping into a dimly lit room that mirrored the unsettling state of the village outside. The ceiling sagged precariously, threatening to unleash a cascade of dust and debris. Walls cobbled together from mismatched planks displayed more gaps than wood itself, offering little insulation from the biting Niflheim wind. A single, flickering oil lamp cast long, distorted shadows that danced on the uneven floor.

Despite the bleakness, a sliver of relief snaked its way through Alaric. At least this hovel offered a marginal reprieve from the Niflheim wind's icy grip. He swept his gaze across the room, his eyes landing on a figure huddled pathetically beside a sputtering fireplace. It wasn't the wizened figure he expected, but a man far worse for wear. An unsettling thinness clung to him, an aura of sickness hanging heavy in the air.  

Alaric's brow furrowed in concern. Was this… Hrimr's father? The jovial boy who had boasted of battling Sjora seemed a stark contrast to the frail man before him.

Before Alaric could voice his question, Hrimr launched into action. "Father, by the beard of Odin, I warned you about this!" he boomed, his voice laced with a surprising amount of urgency for such a lighthearted soul. "Neglecting the healing draughts weakens you like Yggdrasil stripped of its leaves! Drink this, and channel the might of Thor once more!"

Hrimr bustled around the room, a whirlwind of activity in the dim light. He retrieved a mortar and pestle, grinding what looked like dried herbs with an almost desperate fervor. Alaric watched, a knot of unease tightening in his gut, as Hrimr then mixed the concoction with water and helped his father sit up.

The old man, who Alaric now understood to be Njord, coughed weakly as he sipped the murky green liquid. "How remiss of me!" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.  "Father, witness the one who pulled me from the clutches of misfortune! This is Sir Alaric, a warrior worthy of Valhalla's halls! And Alaric, I present my father, Njord, bringer of bounty and guardian of the frosted shores!"

Njord slowly turned his gaze towards Alaric, a glimmer of something akin to gratitude flickering in his rheumy eyes. Alaric, however, found himself caught in a maelstrom of confusion and a burgeoning dread. Why did everyone in this village look like death warmed over? What was happening in Hvergelmir. A creeping suspicion wormed its way into his mind. Something was terribly wrong in this desolate village, was it connected to Nidhogg and Alaric, was determined to find out what.