Freyr laid back on the lichen-covered ground, his hands behind his head. The air was filled with a low-frequency rumble, and he could feel the titanic forces beneath him writhe. He closed his eyes and let a veil of Not-Seeing fall over him, sinking his consciousness into the earth.
It was a sort of a game, what he did. He took a bit of magma and rolled it in his mind’s eye, let it cool a bit, rolled it some more, smoothed and rounded it. Eventually, he had a shining black sphere, inside which he planted a tiny crystal seed. He tucked it away in his interdimensional pocket to check on later.
He took a deep breath and let it out, letting the acrid air sting his lungs. There was primal energy here, raw, creative power, and it drew people like him like moths to a flame. Certainly there were enough Icelandic Midgardians watching the volcano with him, attracted by the novelty of a “hew” volcano forming. He wondered what they’d think if they knew one of their ancient gods walked - or rather, laid - among them?
“The god of virility”, they called him, giggling like children at the old phallic symbols they found everywhere. Virility was creation with strength, not just sexual prowess - though the sexual act certainly embodied the concept in a way that Midgardians could understand. This volcano was more truly the prime example of virility - the epitome of violence and strength, yet tempered with a surprising grace and gentleness in the surface magma flows.
He was aware of the raven as it circled above him. They could see through his spell, which didn’t surprise him - most animals could. This Raven, however, wasn’t the common Midgardian variety. They were far too large, for one, and the quick intelligence that ordinary ravens bore in their eyes was magnified to frightening levels.
“Hello, Huginn,” he said softly, opening his eyes to see the Raven land on a rock nearby, shaking out their feathers.
The bird answered in mind-speech. Hello, Lord Freyr. Checking on Surtr? The comment rippled with bird laughter.
Freyr snorted. “Surtr abandoned this place centuries ago. It’s one of few such left here now.”
As well we know, Huginn replied, turning their head toward the humans on the hillside. Magma-cooked sausage and eggs. That’s the most creative thing they can find to do?
Freyr laughed and sat up, leaning backwards on his hands, also watching the Midgardians. “It’ll be interesting to see what their future archaeologists think when they finally dig all this out.”
That was answered with a short squawk and little titters. They’ll attribute it to worship of you, I’m sure.
“No doubt.” He’d come to a kind of peace about that tendency of scholars to dub anything they didn’t understand as religious worship, forgetting that humans could be extremely silly and do things for no reason at all.
Huginn raised their wings. Be safe, they said as they took off, causing a gust of air to cross the hillside, sending bits of paper and loose bits of sand and lichen flying. The humans turned away, covering their faces.
“Not necessary,” Freyr answered, laughing.
No, but fun, was the fading answer.
(Images credit: Berserkur, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; edited by me)
(More info: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fagradalsfjall)
