I couldn’t sleep last night because a new story was bubbling in my head. Here’s what I wrote down at 3am.
The godchild was born amongst the tangled roots of the World Tree. Her pale, tiny body hung miles above the cavern floor, cradled by tubers and leather scraps. No soil clung to her black hair or mottled her porcelain cheeks; she was clean, pure, born of stone and sky. A single, withering root clung to her navel. A black feather was clutched in one hand. She did not cry; she did not stir. She was still as statuary. When the elders came and brought her down, she curled within their arms, wrapped her tiny fingers around their wrists. She did not release the feather.
The elders christened her in the river Vinderis, a drop of water on her brow, kiss of gods and spirits. Endbringer, Lighteater, Cloudchaser, these were her hidden names. These, and Hrafndóttir, Daughter of Raven.
The other children called her Fay.