This is an original and unpublished flash fiction story by Cliff Hansen. (C) 2024.

In a hall greater than you have ever seen, King Ødger nursed his mead sadly. He knew that once this cup was finished there would be no refill. The monuments surrounding him celebrated his many (now hollow) battle glories. What were those victories worth when an inglorious death awaited? He looked toward Estrid, his queen, but she refused to return his look.

The king recalled the legends of Hrothgar, Beowulf, and the monsters they fought. As dangerous as Grendel and its mother were, Ødger would have gladly confronted them over the insurmountable challenges of the coldest of winters that he and his people faced.

Few candles flickered and the massive tables once covered with the bounty of his land now lay bare. What remained of Ødger’s mighty people were clumped around the hall, quivering and huddling together. Only recently this hall had been the storied capital of laughter, revelries, sex, ballads, and drunken games to all Northmen. Now, the few who remain were resigned to death. Except, that is for the witch Yrsa, who mumbled to herself in a trance. She wore no clothes, in defiance of the winter gods, her snow-white body painted in blood with cryptic runes from an evil and ancient language the King was wholly ignorant of.

The witch Yrsa held a skull to the air and mumbled words he could not comprehend. He had always had a natural distrust of witches, and part of him wondered if somehow she was responsible. Had she offended the gods in some capacity? But she had always served the king well, never withholding truths the king didn’t want to hear, and always working toward the benefit of the Ødger, his kingdom, and the Æsir. No, she could not be responsible.

The king had made great sacrifices to the god of Winter Hunting Ullr and the goddess of the snow Khione but his appeals had gone unheard. Ødger had spilled sacrificial blood to the North Wind Boreas and the Lady of the Gales Oreithyia. Ødger had even made a special sacrifice of his favorite horse to the All-Father Odin himself, but if the gods had heard his pleas, they made no attempt to answer. Perhaps even the great Æsir had frozen to death in this winter’s storm.

Even in his lifetime, Ødger and his people had boldly faced great challenges. From an early age, they learned the legends of the ancient times when encounters with the Æsir were more common and harsh winters were frequent. They had thrived because they were always prepared for the worst. But not this time. But no myth or legend had storm’s equal to this. No elder had seen its like.

The king looked at the dozen children in the center of the hall. Some of them played, seemingly oblivious that the world outside this hall had so completely died. But most of them just quietly sobbed. He watched his own daughter Dagny play silently with a horse he had carved from an antler. Ødger felt the pains of regret knowing she would never live long enough to love a child of her own. No adult had eaten in days, as they had given all they had to the children, but now the last of the food was gone, as was all remaining hope.

“You know what you must do,” Queen Estrid whispered, hoarsely, tilting her head toward the children.

Ødger nodded solemnly and whispered back. “I will wait until they are asleep. They will feel no pain.”

“Fool!” Estrid hissed, “your duty is to your kingdom beyond anything else. The kingdom’s survival is more important than your life or the life of anyone one in it, is it not?”

“It is.” Ødger agreed, not sure where his wife was going with this.

“Have you not sent countless men and women to battle, celebrating their honored deaths with the knowledge that they will sing and drink in Valhalla while we live another day to celebrate here?”

“I have.”

“Then speak with the witch. Exhaust your last option. Protect your kingdom.”

Chills beyond the coldest north wind froze Ødger. “Not that.” He gasped.

“Then you will doom us all.”

Ødger looked at his daughter Dagny. He had never loved anything so much as he loved her. Had he not refused to eat so that she could have his food? He would happily forfeit his own life if she could live but one more day. Should he not die knowing that he had done everything he could, even if it meant a dark deal with the witch?

The king stood and walked down the hall. He paused and rested a loving hand on Dagny’s blonde hair before continuing his walk toward the witch. She uttered a few more incantations and then looked at him silently as he sat near her…but not too near. Even the great Ødger was uncomfortable around the likes of her. If he hadn’t known what she was, the King could imagine himself attracted to her. She had the appearance of a beautiful maiden, with stark raven black hair and eyes. But the king knew better: she was no maiden. She had advised his father and his father before him. Despite appearances, she was a crone of untold age. There were some who whispered that she had stolen a seed of the Æsir’s apples of immortality. But Ødger remembered his father’s strict warning to never inquire about any children who had gone missing near Yrsa’s hut, something which seemed to happen every few years.

The king was unfamiliar with the lump in his throat. “Tell me, witch, what must I do?”

“Nothing. We are lost.” She said.

The king swore an oath and pounded his fist against the table with what little strength he had left, “I will not accept that. I know you have ways of extending your life. Do it to those who yet live.”

“I will not do it.” She said, “the price is too high. You don’t know what you ask.”

“I am not asking,” said the king, “I will do anything so that my people will survive.”

The witch let out a long sigh, “I will hold you to that, King Ødger. Bring me your blood.”

Quickly, Ødger held out his wrist, “Take what you need, witch.”

“Bring me your blood. Bring me your daughter Dagny.”

The lump in the king’s throat filled his body. He’d already lost a son in battle, not Dagny as well! Desperately he looked at Estrid who seemed to already know what the cost would be, and she nodded solemnly. A good king must make no more demands upon his people than he is willing to pay himself. He had asked many sons and daughters to die in battle. This should be no different. But he knew it was. There would be no songs sung of this day, not celebrations of the dead in Valhalla.

The king arose and walked to his daughter. He picked her up without pausing, afraid he would lose his nerve, and he sat the girl down next to the witch.

“Dagny Ødgersdater,” the witch said, “remember what happened here tonight.” Then she looked at the king. “It is done.”

“What!?” The king asked, it felt anticlimactic. His daughter lived, and when he turned around, the tables were full of food. Yells of astonishment rose from his people as they noticed and gorged themselves on elk and geese, bread and porridge, fish and rabbits. The king felt relief for the first time since winter began as the best skyr, reindeer, and mead filled his stomach. It wasn’t long before he and all his people had eaten their fill. Enough food remained to outlast even this storm. Just moments ago, they had faced defeat and now they knew they’d survive.

“Daddy?” Asked  Dagny.

“Eat, girl!” the king insisted, but she refused.

“Daddy, where are my friends?” The king looked around. Indeed, all the children were gone.

“Witch!” The king demanded, “where are the children?”

“There is always a price,” the witch said, “they were transformed into your feast.”

“That was a heavy price.” The king said.

“No,” said the witch, “The price is that your daughter will always remember what you did.”

*         *         *

“The storm broke the next day. We had survived. Every winter beyond there was a feast. They said the feast was to celebrate the lives of the sacrificed children. But each year before the feast most the kingdom’s children go missing. And the elders never age. They kill our generation so they may rule forever.” An adult Dagny explained to the teenagers in her hut. “That’s why I never let you touch the food of the winter feast. I have waited patiently for you few to grow old enough. Now, the tables will turn. My father and every elder who has eaten food from that evil winter feast must die, so that our generation may live. Who’s with me?”

The end.

The Winter Feast by Cliff Hansen is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0