Hildegunn knew nothing of the Rift. She was blissfully unaware that her precious deities held no jurisdiction over the lands she now fed upon, strolled across; three different gods and one goddess had been hard at work in fact here, mending and restoring their glorious creation, so that she could dwell in relative safety and peace (at least from the likes of parallel worlds and the evils therein). The small horse was entirely oblivious as she strayed from the company of her friends, in pursuit of those marvellous, scarce spring-grass sprouts lurking just beyond view of the naked eye. She was a professional forager however, with a powerful drive for self preservation - and that meant filling and fattening, whenever the chance was given. Her firm belief was that idleness could mean the difference between life and death, surviving or starving, even if the lush country she had stumbled upon threatened not in the same cruel way as Skjoervø.

As the sky began to bronze and the sun sank low against the breast of a dimming, distant blur of horizon, the wandering Fjord found herself in a place that was not patterned with rows of bamboo. She had unknowingly from the grip of the green labyrinth and descended into yet another, a watery-wonderland apparently on the brink of the ocean. Wherever her warm eyes dawdled, the copper brilliance of sunset overwhelmed - earth and heavens alike, and soon she grew quite disorientated. For a long while she dabbled through the shallows, until at last the weight of oncoming night began to saturate the last burning plight of the sun.

Shadows crept from beneath rock like wicked fingers through the half-light, eerie and strange, and the waters pooling around her fetlocks grew unsettlingly murky; impossible for her searching gaze to penetrate. Hildegunn was undeterred, not nervous - not yet. Water was both loved and respected by the foreign girl, and her mind rested comfortably, soothed by thought of her beloved, benevolent goddess, Rán. “Du er med meg, kjære gudinne,” she murmured, ever faithful, always trusting; but her prayer was in vain.

Soon a queer feeling began to stir in her stomach - something quite different to hunger, and she squirmed as she stood, fog thinning before her minds eye to reveal a memory which had long been buried, forgotten, but  that had shaped her very being…

It had been a long winter (each year was the same), months and months of snow, howling winds and thinning belts. The girl was young still, barely standing taller than the elbow of her mother, and though her coat had already grown thick and warm, the cold sank quickly beneath. Her joints ached and she was painfully thin - a child born into the midst of Skaði's wrath, but the horses of Skjoervø were fierce survivors, and Hildegunn was no exception. She knew nothing of sun-warm days, lazy afternoons or even the incessant hum drone of bothering blowflies; mild weather, cleansing rain, lush loam upon which to romp - they were all indulgent fantasies, stories told by the tribe’s ancients, seldom seen by those dwelling upon the island. 

Nourished by her mother’s unusually potent milk, the foal grew slowly but steadily, learning even from the earliest of her days that food was a blessing not to be taken for granted. She often strayed from her mother’s weary, old flank to follow her brother Olav, older and brilliantly resourceful, and from him learned of the many different food sources when all seemed lost to the winter. Some browse, which to the untrained and desperate eye, looked deceptively luscious, but could kill in only a matter of seconds. They were lessons well taught, vital knowledge and experience to see her through the toughest days. It was well that their bond grew strong, for only months later, old Danhilda succumbed to the curse of the cold, and her young foal was left in turn, to fend for herself.

Snow sauntered endlessly down from a grim, still sky that night. The goddesses were not content. 

The small Hildegunn woke suddenly, shivering violently, for the heat of her mother was lost. Her softly velvet nose moved to stir the old mare from her slumber, but as lips touched the pale, wooly coat slouched by her side, she knew well that something was horribly wrong. “Mor?” her puny voice bleated, helpless, fogging breath pooling wretchedly against the chillingly lifeless body. There was movement nearby, and the foal’s face lifted swiftly to meet the appearance of the doting adolescent, her brother, who's duty that night had been to patrol the eastern coastline of the island (ravenous wolverines, bears and dogs stalked through midnight hours). “Mor er kaldt, Olav…” she told him quickly, forcing part-frozen limbs to stiffen beneath her infant weight. Olav stepped nearer to brush delicately away the snow which layered thickly across the peaceful face below, though already he knew the fate of their cherished dam - she had been unwell, and Skaði had been particularly merciless through recent suns. 

“Kom søster, må vi reise nordover med våre slektninger. Hunters vil smake våre tap - de vil komme raskt,” he told her, strained but smooth - his loss too was great Hildegunn knew (theirs was the tightest of families, as was the bond of the tribe). Fighting an onslaught of molten tears, the foal staggered nearer to the warmth of her brother; they would bring word together to their father, a humble stallion who (with other male olders) worked tirelessly against the perils of their wild homeland. Before they left however, the siblings hummed together a tuneful ballad for her memory (it was tradition, love), and only when the scent of danger grew  too heavy around them, did they begin north. 

She barely remembered her mother, though fond enough was the flimsy image so held. Hildegunn closed her eyes tightly against the stirring, sad vision, confused that a memory so old should suddenly surface in such detailed fashion, and when she opened them once more, through her washed a terrible wave of lonelines. How awfully her hearted ached to see her family again - but she was sure of their fate now, it had been cold  for too long (she understood not the nature of varying hemispheres, nor that she had in fact crossed between them along the way). Few had been fortunate enough to wash ashore with her, not yielding to those arctic waters of Nordmandsvik, and though the little horse had waited many days for his arrival, Olav had never come through.