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[center][img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/7130b2cb26578a1e79a82b5288758d0a/tumblr_pgpa2iZyQo1udb3neo3_540.gifv[/img][/center]
[b][center][color=C3B091]FENRIR[/color][/center][/b]
[/h1][/sup][/color][indent][sub][COLOR=C3B091][b]FENRIR'S APARTMENT[/b][/COLOR][/sub][/indent][indent][sup][right][COLOR=C3B091][b]MONSTER OF THE VÁN[/b][/color][/right][/sup][/indent][hr]
[indent][indent]Fenrir doesn’t sleep well.

Too many memories for that.

He goes to bed exhausted every night, but still, they come. Dreams. [i]Nightmares[/i]. They dance behind his eyelids like shadow puppets, distorted afterimages of things that have happened, things that are happening, and things that [i]will[/i] happen. They cling to him endlessly, promising to stay and haunt him until the day he breathes his last.

It never gets any easier.

Fenrir can usually tell when he’s dreaming. There’s a certain… [i]fuzziness[/i] to it all, like seeing everything through a pane of frosted glass. But there’s also the fear. The dark. More familiar and real than anything he’s ever felt. Familiarity helps when you’re trying to pull yourself out of a nightmare, though. It serves as an anchor, something you can use to remind yourself that all you needed to do to escape was [i]wake up[/i].

[i][b]WAKE UP.[/b][/i]

The first thing he feels is the [i]cold[/i] —– frigid gusts of winter wind battering and slicing into him from every direction. And then, the pain starts to seep in, slowly at first, before growing unbearable all at once. He can’t move more than a foot from where he’s chained, and his mouth…

Blood and drool drip from his yellowed teeth, mixing together to form the beginnings of a river. A sword holds Fenrir’s maw open in a perpetual scream, its sharpened blade piercing through his lower jaw before emerging from the top. [i]It hurts[/i], is all he can remember himself thinking. [i]It hurts and no one is coming to help[/i].

It always feels like he’s there for ages, half-crouched in a pile of dirt and rotting leaves. Breathing. [i]Waiting[/i]. There’s nothing else to do [i]but[/i] wait, and in the crushing solitude, Fenrir’s mind starts to wander. He thinks of his family —– his father, brother and sister. Were they suffering as he was? What became of them after the judgement? Then, he thinks of the Æsir, the ones that had condemned him to this fate, and he feels nothing but [i]hate[/i]. It burns through his veins like fire, a constant reminder of what he had to do when he was finally free of his chains.

[i]Iron. The coppery taste of blood. Odin’s blood. It burns his tongue.[/i]

But hidden beneath the overwhelming stench of decay, Fenrir catches the scent of something else.

Something [i]sweet[/i].

The island of Lyngvi remained overgrown with heather even in winter, white and purple flowers sprouting from frozen soil. They held a faint earthy smell —– more herbal than anything else, but also, Fenrir always thought they were the only good things there. The only things that stood out as a rose-tinted example of what life [i]could[/i] be. These thoughts were what kept him from truly losing hope in those dark, dark days, and in his dreams: they are what finally allows him to claw his way up from the murky depths of unconsciousness.

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Fenrir awakens with a start, the morning light spilling across his bedroom floor through the gaps in the curtains.

[i]Still here[/i].

For a long time, he doesn’t move a muscle, just lays there on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Seconds pass, then minutes. He forces himself to take deep, even breaths until he feels the jackrabbiting rhythm of his heart begin to slow.

In one corner of the room, the radiator lets out a noise that sounds like [i]sputtering[/i].

When it finally feels like he can breathe again, Fenrir moves to sit upright, lifting a large, calloused hand to rake through his hair. The scrape of fingernails against his scalp grounds him, reminds him of where he is. Not Lyngvi. Not Amsvartnir. Not Asgard. [i]Seattle[/i]. Things are different now. Not much better, but [i]different[/i].

He starts to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard enough for it to hurt. Stars and colors pulse behind his eyelids, and he only lets up when he hears the telltale [i]click-clack-click[/i] of claws against wood.

[url=https://dl5zpyw5k3jeb.cloudfront.net/photos/pets/45297615/1/?bust=1563514577&width=720]Frida[/url] leaps up onto the bed next to him, a whine low in her throat, and noses inquisitively at him.

[abbr=“How are you?”][i][b][color=C3B091]“Hversu ferr?”[/color][/b][/i][/abbr] He catches her face in his hands, scratching behind her ears the way he knows she likes. Fenrir can feel the warmth rolling off her in waves, and it lets him muster enough the energy for a smile. [b][color=C3B091]“You hungry?”[/color][/b]

At the mere mention of the word, Frida’s tail begins to thump excitedly against the mattress, and Fenrir knows he has no choice but to drag himself out of bed. His muscles ache, and the floor feels [i]freezing[/i] against the soles of his feet, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just laze around in bed all day. He had things to do, and right now, getting Frida some breakfast was at the top of that list.

He pads barefoot to the kitchen, Frida dashing ahead of him, then shoots a glance at the clock that hung above his fridge —– [i]7:02.[/i] Still some time before he had to get to his job at St. Fiacre’s.

The kibble plinks noisily against the bowl as he pours some out for Frida, and she’s on it in an instant, sending a few unfortunate pellets tumbling out in her enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Fenrir gets to preparing his own breakfast. There’s hardly anything in his fridge that’s not beer or empty space, but he finds some leftover beef chow fun he’d gotten from the Chinese place down the block. It’s at least a day old, maybe two, so he gives it a little sniff to make sure it hasn’t turned.

…[i]Eh[/i], good enough.

Making his way to the living room (really, it’s only separated from the kitchen by a counter), he chews on a mouthful of cold, almost [i]rubbery[/i] rice noodles, and flops onto the couch. It’s a ratty, old thing, upholstered in the ugliest mustard-yellow fabric you’ve ever seen. But to him, it’s just a couch. It’s where he sits while having breakfast or watching TV. Besides, it came with the apartment. No point in wasting money on something he didn’t need, right?

Atop the coffee table, there’s a small pile of letters: not bills or junkmail — he kept the former someplace else and threw out the rest — but [i]letters[/i]. Real, genuine, [i]handwritten[/i] letters. Some have been open and unfolded, while others were still tucked away in their envelopes. He’s read them all, though, sometimes even two, three times over; and Fenrir knows that there’s only one person in the world who cares to send him letters —–

[i]Hel[/i]. His sister.

He sets his food aside for the moment to pick up one of the letters, tired eyes flickering over what’s written. Most of Hel’s letters to him follow a similar pattern. Usually, she’ll tell him about whatever’s going on, ask him how he’s doing, that sort of thing. It’s actually kind of funny, how even in this day and age, she still insisted on sending him these handwritten letters.

Every now and then, he’ll entertain the thought of writing a reply, but in the end, he always decides against it. What did he have to say to Hel, anyway? And if she really wanted to talk, she would’ve sought him out already. She had his address, knew where he lived, where he worked. They lived in the same city and neither of them had ever said a single word to the other.

…But maybe he should stop being so stubborn. Fenrir keeps telling himself he’s better off alone, that he’s [i]getting by[/i] just fine without anyone by his side, but part of him can’t help but wonder what it would be like to see his family again.

And would it be so bad to finally let somebody in?

He’s biting his nails again, worrying away at them with his teeth until he realizes what he’s doing, and lets his hand drop back into his lap.

[i]Fuck[/i], he needed a smoke.

Fenrir sighs and climbs to his feet, dumping the remainder of his chow fun down the garbage disposal before shrugging on his jacket. Frida watches him expectantly, head tilted to one side.

[b][color=C3B091]“Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”[/color][/b][/indent][/indent]