1.
It was all we had, before. The stars and the sun. All the light in the whole of creation, out of reach. Every evening we mourned, for while the stars beauty stirred our hearts it did not warm our skin. Winters were hard and we were few. We lived this way for a very long time.
Many left. In the worst cold we were called away, by the long sleep or the promise of warmth to the South. The waters sheltering our lands would freeze over, making the trip simpler. The other route—the summer route—was long, and in summer of course it was less tempting. Few returned. We shunned those that did until none returned. We lived this way for a very long time.
We were hearty people. We had to be. We hunted and fished, and our lands provided. Herds of deer, many kinds of fowl, all fell at our hands. We sometimes fell too. The wolves were cunning then, the bears strong. In the long winter nights they too would find themselves hungry. Those far away lights without warmth were not enough for our eyes, but they were enough for the wolves. We lived this way for a very long time.
Sometimes a third sort of light visited us. It would dance and whirl and smear across the night. It mocked us in its brilliance, for it too was cold. Each season some would go further North, seeking some source of this light. It seemed closer than the others, lower. None returned from these trips so we cursed the light more. We lived this way for a very long time.
2.
Even with these challenges, we endured. In Summers we would range and build and prepare. We learned to make structures of pelts and hides in which we could hide our warmth. We learned to make fences of wood and to trap animals so we did not need to range so far. Still, we were so few.
Storms were frequent in winters. Winds howling out of the North, carrying with them ice and cold the likes none could endure. We would hide, huddling in our hide-walled yurts, bracing and repairing and dying when we could not fix our shelter fast enough. Many would leave after these storms.
It was in the midst of one of these storms that he came to us. As we hid from those hungry gusts, in the dark of our pelts, there was suddenly a fourth light. All around a brightness, brilliant and intense like day. And it was over. Ended before it even began. Darkness pouring back in. Then the light came again…. and again, and again. Each time faster than the last. As it built, the ground around us trembled and a sound as if the sky itself was screaming tore through the camp.
And then it was over. The blinding glow faded, but the darkness did not entirely return. Something of that fourth light remained, yet calmer. It did not flash, but flickered, casting shifting shadows upon the walls. Our people climbed out of their mangled huts and this is when they found him.
He was sitting some distance away, at the forests edge. Around him there was desolation: trees, hearty and strong moments before, lay scattered and broken and bright. This new light danced upon their bodies. He was tall, broad shouldered and beautiful, even with his scars. He wore the skin of a bear, draped about his frame in a style none knew. At his feet lay a tool handle, bound in leather and snapped at the haft.
Many approached him, gathering slowly as they made their way through the maze of destruction. As they walked they noticed something else new: they were warm. The light that remained, the light that was right here, no longer trapped in the sky, brought with it some of the sun’s heat.
The man watched this light as a crowd gathered. He stared as if blind to anything else. Much time passed. Finally, he picked up the broken haft and tossed it into the conflagration. Gesturing after it, he spoke: brasa.
3.
And so we came to name this outcast light from the skies brasa, fire. And the man we called Firebringer for he would offer no other name. Indeed, for a time, he would offer no other words. For years after bringing our people this gift he would come and go. Some tried to follow, but the man’s endurance bested even our greatest hunters and he would always be lost.
In this time we learned much about fire. What it liked most to eat, how to keep it safe from the winds that sought its destruction, how it would bite us if we did not respect it. Winters became easier, and we gradually became many.
The Firebringer must have been young when he came to us. Half a generation he came and went, watching us and eating in our growing halls and listening to our stories. Eventually he even began to speak with us, though never in story. He was not a skald, he would say. He took a wife and they had one child: a girl. They called her Lyn. She grew up strong and tall and keen.
Years passed. Lyn’s mother took ill and died. The Firebringer left to grieve, ranging north and west, before his followers could no longer keep up. He was gone many years. We began to wonder, though we did not fear. His gift continued to warm us, to protect us.
More years passed. He did not return. Lyn gathered a hunting party of the finest trackers and fiercest warriors among our people. They left in the spring, the rising warmth of summer at their backs. Two years passed, two people returned. In the last days of summer, Lyn and a sole Valkyrie walked back into our people’s largest settlement. Their boots muddy from fording rivers, their armor torn and missing, they carried a box of stone between them.
She did not tell us he was dead. She did not need to. At the height of winter that year, Lyn and the Valkyrie set out to the nearby hills. Again they carried the stone box. They returned without it.
4.
We speak of the Firebringer as the savior of our people. It is true enough. We learned quickly that he had not only given us that fourth light, but that in doing so he had gifted us the night, he had gifted us winter. We remember him today for these things.
We must also remember that he was not a leader. He lived with us but he was not one of us. We must not forget his final gift to us. His true gift to our people. His daughter.
With fire, our people had grown and spread and squabbled. Winter’s threat no longer held us together. In being saved we were almost lost. But she saw. She was of our blood. Lyn, with the Valkyrie by her side, rode from water’s edge to water’s edge. She visited us. On our farms, in our homes, by our hearths. And she sang, oh how she sang. In our reverie we named her queen.
The North had been united before, but only by fear. We had been united in darkness and in cold. We did not know what to make of this new brotherhood. Despite our inexperience, the first years were good. We rallied to Lyn, to our daughter of fire. We built roads, raised bridges, and forged friendships.
The new queen rose to the occasion, but it wore on her. She sang in public less. Her once rare retreats to nature became more frequent and longer. And still, our people thrived. People from the south began to cross the narrow waters and visit. Some stayed. The land was fertile, we could handle the guests.
The seasons came and went. Lyn took the Valkyrie as her wife, and together they adopted three sons and three daughters. We celebrated. There were bright summers and hard winters. The children grew and played and learned.
We had become many. The fertile lands of the peninsula became crowded. The herds we hunted moved north. Some followed. Our borders had always been simple. We were surrounded by water on three sides, and by harsh winters on the fourth. But the north was a large expanse. Back in the days of darkness we had ranged far. We followed the herds all across the lands. Most had forgotten.
We asked our queen what to do. We asked her how far our people should go. Lyn was quiet a long time. The Valkyrie held her hand and was patient. Finally she spoke: “I will never return North. This land is my home. It does not have to be yours. I will be your Summer Queen. My children shall range with you. If you’ll have them, they shall rule those far places in my stead.”
5.
Our people spread across the peninsula. We were bolstered by our growing mastering of fire. We took risks, knowing that our brothers and sisters of the south were there; knowing we could retreat to the summer lands. The Firebringer’s grandchildren lived up to their legacy. They made fine leaders.
Each group eventually settled in different lands. Following Lyn, they took up titles from their surroundings: Wind, Mountains, Ice, and Ocean. In our travels we found the north was enormous. We had forgotten how far it was possible to go. News could take months to pass between the tribes.
Lyn grew old. She had a longhouse built high in the hills. The same hills where she carried that stone box years ago. Her last child, a son that was too young to leave with the others, took up the mantle of Summer King. Few saw the aging Queen any longer.
One day in spring, the Valkyrie made her slow way into town. She carried a new box of stone, and placed it in the town square. By the time she returned, a week later, the box was covered in wildflowers. We had picked bare the nearby hills, every firelily we could find. The King and the Valkyrie carried her away, that last time. Only the King returned.
6.
Generations passed. The Kings and Queens of the north, Lyn’s children, continued their rule. There were hard times. There were good times. The tribes were not always friendly. The bonds of kinship sometimes broke. They were often forged anew. No matter the climate, no matter the tensions, if one were to fall they would be brought to those hills.
Over time we forgot the dark. We forgot the cold. Winter’s touch lost its edge of fear. Over time, we even began to forget her. The Firebringer, he lived in myth. His story would spread even if we tried not to tell it. Lyn was too real. She was ours. She was our Summer Queen.
O You. O Valkyrie. O Skald. Spare not her name from your lips. He gave us fire, but she lead us from the dark. Lyn. Our Summer Queen.
