Alis Franklin is an Australian author of monstrous queer speculative fiction.
Twenty-Seven We’re barely out of the forest when we hear it. “What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn. “What’s what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund’s head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren’t holding on to him, [. . .]
Twenty-Five “How long till their arrival?” Munin clicked its beak, hopping from foot to foot, exhaustion eating at its bones. Two days it’d been flying, ahead of the kids coming back from Sindri. It was a long trip, and Munin was about ready for a soft nest and a good nap, followed [. . .]
Twenty-Five Sigmund’s getting better at kissing, but he isn’t great at sex. That’s not a criticism. It’s an invitation to practice. Which I’m sure we’ll be doing a lot of at some point in the future. Hopefully soon in the future, when we get out of this miserable mountain. I wait until [. . .]
Twenty-Four Getting back was easier than getting out, thanks to some fancy dvergar magitek Uni had brought along. They looked sort of like glowing poles, and the dvergar set them up in a ring around the group, themselves and the jötnar and the æsir and Sigmund standing inside. To say things were tense would be an understatement. Uni’s brother had surrendered [. . .]
Twenty-Three There were whispers in the corridors now. Æsir and ásynjur who would not meet his eyes. Mother’s doing, Forseti knew. Weaving rebellion and discontent amid Ásgarðr’s bright and shining halls. “You must call the þing.” Víðarr had said, seated beside Forseti at morning meal. “This cannot go on.” But it could. How else could anything go? How [. . .]