PROMPT: Write a story that features a Norse god.
CW(s): conversation around death, implied mental illness and its stigmatisation, brief mentions of violence and torture.
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"Is this how you imagined it?"
Signe almost makes the mistake of looking up. It's instinctual, to look when spoken to, to gaze upon another's face and read the silent words there, all those little secrets etched into skin. But she resists the urge, keeps her eyes on the hard shine of her plate and silverware.
Somehow, the urge to fill in the gapping silence is harder to quell.
"I ... I don't—"
what are you doing?
do not speak to Her, you idiot!
Signe snaps her mouth shut and hunches over in her chair, clutching the fork tighter in her pale hand. She's not quite sure when or why she'd picked it up. It isn't like there is any food to eat. Doesn't make for much of a weapon either. Not that there is any point to one anyway.
There is quiet for a short while. Or maybe not so short. Maybe hours pass, or days even. It's hard to keep track of time in a place where nothing ever seems to change.
But nonetheless, Hel waits, ever patient, letting the weight of the silence settle before speaking once more.
"Everyone imagines it at least once. Even the Gods of Asgard wonder about their inevitable end, wether that be in the glorious halls of Valhalla, or in my humble realm."
Like much of the Goddess, Hel's voice lingers in echoes, distorted and broken in two; half growl and half whisper, all encompassing yet sharp, booming yet soft. Loud or low, it drowns out everything, even the voices in Signe's head, until it becomes the only noise in the world.
It's overwhelming.
And yet ... somehow comforting.
"Tell me, human, do the songs do it justice? Do I measure up to them?"
There is a teasing note there. Or at least it feels like there should be. And it's that curiosity that finally makes the young woman's resolve crumble to dust.
She looks up from her plate and across the table, to where the Goddess sits, facing her.
Monstrous.
There really is no other word to describe the violent contrast between the two halves of Hel's face; the pale skin, smooth as marble, that covers one side, and the rotten, decaying, darkened flesh that clings to ashen bones on the other.
There is no smile there, at least not on the side that had any lips to smile with. There is just half a scowl and one dark eye staring down at her.
She is h i d e o u s
do not look at Her!
She will curse you
look A W A Y
But she can't.
She is trapped under that stare, unable to focus on anything but that one bared, milky-white eyeball surrounded by flaky skin.
"It is rude to stare. But I will take that as a yes."
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