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This is from "The Apotheosis of Sam Winchester" (working title) -- aka 'the six months Sam Winchester spent in Jotunheim in the hall of the werewolf king playing security blanket to a traumatized archangel'. It's going to have a lot of Norse culture and some Indo-European magic in it -- I've been reading The Horse, The Wheel, and Language which really makes you notice the commonalities across European and Indo-Iranian religion, like the importance of *chariots* as a metaphor for godly power.
Sam awoke the next day covered to the neck in feathers again. Gabriel tended to cling asleep, and had entirely too many limbs to lay over Sam when he was.
"Are you awake?" a voice rasped above his head.
Sam blinked, and turned to peer up at the speaker. He froze, and glanced down at the archangel sleeping curled against him, then back up at...
"Hrothi?" Sam asked, trying to remember how Gabriel had said the name. The 'r' was kind of breathed, and the 'th' was soft, he thought.
The man nodded, and sat down clumsily on the edge of the booth, and put down a covered bowl with bandaged hands. Sam scrambled to sit up -- if this man was the wolf that Gabriel doted on, he was hurt and heavily bandaged under his shaggy sweater and loose pants. Sam could see that his feet were bandaged, wrapped tight were they dangled shoeless over the booth's edge.
"I'm sorry, I'm not very good with Norse yet," Sam explained. "Gabriel did his finger-whammy, but it's still... I'm probably mispronouncing everything."
The man quirked an eyebrow, and uncovered the bowl, pulling out -- oatmeal. Sam blinked at such a prosaic breakfast. Somehow, he hadn't thought it a particular dish liked by giants -- or were Jotuns trolls? -- Sam wasn't entirely sure. After Gabriel had died in Indiana, researching the Norse pantheon hadn't been a priority at all, and Sam's spotty education meant that he hadn't actually gotten a good overview on the mythology.
"Your accent is ... amusing," the man conceded as he handed Sam a bowl and a spoon.
"I bet. I'm making a hash out of your name, aren't I?"
"You may call me by my byname. Everyone does, but Father," the man -- the Jotun -- glanced back behind them where Gabriel was still sprawled out asleep. His amber-orange eyes were fond as he took in the soft wings crowding the narrow bedspace.
"Byname? Like a nickname?"
The man nodded. "It's 'Fenrir'. I was a good hunter of ducks and puffins in the fen-lands, when I was young."
Sam paused with his spoon in his oatmeal. "Fenrir Wolf..?"
The man snorted and smirked, his face looking uncannily like Gabriel's for a moment, then transforming back to the even more eerie calm and quiet expression he normally wore. He carried himself so differently and yet his features were so like Gabriel's that they looked like blurry photos of each other.
"You're the Fenris Wolf?" Sam asked.
"I was named Hrothulf Lokasson by my mother and father. But the Aes called me Fenrir when I was fostered among them, and it stuck."
Sam swallowed his spoonful of oatmeal. "I thought you'd be... taller."
That got a bark of laughter out of Fenrir. "I like you, Sam Vin-kjistri."
I'm a little surprised that Fenrir has apparently turned out to be a *Huffelpuff* of all things. And while I had planned to have Kali be the one who freed him from his imprisonment, I think now it might have been Sigyn freeing her step-son. As an Ásynjur, she could get to the island that he was trapped on, where a mortal or a Jotun couldn't. And she certainly has a reason -- in the form of two dead sons -- to want to make things difficult for her extended kin.
Sam awoke the next day covered to the neck in feathers again. Gabriel tended to cling asleep, and had entirely too many limbs to lay over Sam when he was.
"Are you awake?" a voice rasped above his head.
Sam blinked, and turned to peer up at the speaker. He froze, and glanced down at the archangel sleeping curled against him, then back up at...
"Hrothi?" Sam asked, trying to remember how Gabriel had said the name. The 'r' was kind of breathed, and the 'th' was soft, he thought.
The man nodded, and sat down clumsily on the edge of the booth, and put down a covered bowl with bandaged hands. Sam scrambled to sit up -- if this man was the wolf that Gabriel doted on, he was hurt and heavily bandaged under his shaggy sweater and loose pants. Sam could see that his feet were bandaged, wrapped tight were they dangled shoeless over the booth's edge.
"I'm sorry, I'm not very good with Norse yet," Sam explained. "Gabriel did his finger-whammy, but it's still... I'm probably mispronouncing everything."
The man quirked an eyebrow, and uncovered the bowl, pulling out -- oatmeal. Sam blinked at such a prosaic breakfast. Somehow, he hadn't thought it a particular dish liked by giants -- or were Jotuns trolls? -- Sam wasn't entirely sure. After Gabriel had died in Indiana, researching the Norse pantheon hadn't been a priority at all, and Sam's spotty education meant that he hadn't actually gotten a good overview on the mythology.
"Your accent is ... amusing," the man conceded as he handed Sam a bowl and a spoon.
"I bet. I'm making a hash out of your name, aren't I?"
"You may call me by my byname. Everyone does, but Father," the man -- the Jotun -- glanced back behind them where Gabriel was still sprawled out asleep. His amber-orange eyes were fond as he took in the soft wings crowding the narrow bedspace.
"Byname? Like a nickname?"
The man nodded. "It's 'Fenrir'. I was a good hunter of ducks and puffins in the fen-lands, when I was young."
Sam paused with his spoon in his oatmeal. "Fenrir Wolf..?"
The man snorted and smirked, his face looking uncannily like Gabriel's for a moment, then transforming back to the even more eerie calm and quiet expression he normally wore. He carried himself so differently and yet his features were so like Gabriel's that they looked like blurry photos of each other.
"You're the Fenris Wolf?" Sam asked.
"I was named Hrothulf Lokasson by my mother and father. But the Aes called me Fenrir when I was fostered among them, and it stuck."
Sam swallowed his spoonful of oatmeal. "I thought you'd be... taller."
That got a bark of laughter out of Fenrir. "I like you, Sam Vin-kjistri."
I'm a little surprised that Fenrir has apparently turned out to be a *Huffelpuff* of all things. And while I had planned to have Kali be the one who freed him from his imprisonment, I think now it might have been Sigyn freeing her step-son. As an Ásynjur, she could get to the island that he was trapped on, where a mortal or a Jotun couldn't. And she certainly has a reason -- in the form of two dead sons -- to want to make things difficult for her extended kin.
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Fenrir, of course, loves his father, even if his father is an unreliable asshole of an archangel. Fenrir is, oddly enough, much less of a jerk than Gabriel, even though he's a god-killing abomination...