Hela was sitting by the fireplace when the knocks came, staring at the empty pages of her sketchbook. Startled, she almost knocked over the bottle she’d been drinking from. The sound felt alien to her—apart from Martin or Ana, nobody had knocked on her door in years, especially in the dead of night. She rose slowly, her legs wobbly, and grabbed the rifle from the wall before peeking through the window. The smog was thick and gray as always, making it hard to see anything. Nevertheless, Hela strained her eyes, and slowly a humanoid shape could be made outside her front door. The knocking started again, echoing through the lodge.

“Martin, is that you?” Hela shouts now, moving slowly to the door. There’s mumbling coming from the other side, but she can’t make out any words. Her discomfort grows as she grips the rifle tighter—there’s been many robberies all over the country lately. She can’t blame anyone, though: times have been rough ever since the government changed a few years ago, back in 2025. “This isn’t a mountain lodge anymore,” she continues, trying not to slur her words. “If you were hoping to book a room, I’m afraid it’s not possible.” 

A violent cough comes in response, making Hela take a step back. 

“Please, help me.” It’s a man’s voice, hitched and raspy. “I am afraid I c-cannot walk anymore,” he breathes out, voice quivering.

Hela blinks a few times, trying to clear her head. Stories her father told her about people lost in the woods, disoriented and scared, flash through her mind. She rubs her hand over her face a few times—it’s red and warm from sitting by the fire for hours. Drinking since afternoon didn’t help either. The man outside continues with his pleas, sounding weaker by the moment. She rules out calling for an ambulance; it would be almost impossible to get to the peak of the Ham Pokojec hills through this fog until morning. 

In the end, she unlocks the door and slowly cracks it open. She’s met with a man swaying on his feet, a misty abyss behind him. Hela glances at him suspiciously, checking if he has any hidden weapons or accomplices hiding in the blurry dark, but he seems to be alone and unarmed, a backpack his only possession. There are feverish, glassy eyes behind strands of long, dark hair stuck all over his face. Despite his burly build, he seems frail—he’s hugging his chest tightly, like he might fall apart if he lets go for only a second.

“Thank you,” he says, teeth clenched from the cold. “I saw your l-light, through the fog.” With that, his eyes close and his legs give out. He drops to the ground, backpack falling down with a heavy thud. Not having much of a choice anymore, Hela straps the rifle across her back and grabs the man carefully by the legs, pulling him slowly inside.

It takes her some time to drag him to the couch. He’s limp and heavy in her arms, murmuring gibberish under his breath. Once he’s laid down by the fireplace, Hela examines the man more closely. His long hair and beard are matted and dirty with leaves and other gunk. Judging by the strands of gray hairs and wrinkles around his eyes, it’s likely he’s about 50 years old. He’s shaking like a leaf, with little cuts and bruises all over his exposed arms and face. Hela frowns at the Sailor Moon t-shirt he’s wearing, paired with some gray sweatpants that look way too small for his size, the bottoms shoved into black rubber boots. Quite an eclectic taste in fashion, she thinks. She carefully places her hand on his forehead—as suspected, he’s burning up. After quickly grabbing the first aid kit and making him take some medicine, she starts cleaning the cuts. She doesn’t see any wounds she couldn’t mend on her own, which is a relief. The man starts squirming and wincing when Hela dabs some alcohol on his skin.

“Did you get lost in the woods?” she prompts, trying to distract him. Incomprehensible words continue to come out of his mouth. “What’s your name?” she continues, bandaging a cut on his forearm. 

“Svarog,” he replies, “the g-god of fire and blacksmithing.”

Hela’s eyebrows shoot up. The corners of her lips quirk up in an amused smile. “I assume you find the fireplace comforting, then,” she replies against her better judgment. The last thing she needs to be doing right now is feed into his feverish delusions. She looks at the man’s face, but finds his eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Soon, quiet snores fill the room. 

It’s almost 3AM when she’s done. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the stranger’s duffle bag, lying forgotten by the door. Hela opens the bag, hoping to find a phone or at least some ID, but her hand lands on something cold and hard. Slowly, she pulls out an ax—it’s heavy and golden, so sharp she almost cuts her finger even while handling it carefully. She takes a moment to admire the intricate detail and patterns on the handle, glistening under the faint light of the fireplace. A huff escapes her lips as the puzzle starts to put itself together. He’s a lost larper, she thinks. Her Slavic mythology is rusty at best, but she knows that Svarog is a god often depicted with an ax or a maul. The props are getting better and better, she thinks. She didn’t know people larped in these woods, let alone on a cold night in January. Hela found it strange that there’s an interest in cosplaying old, Slavic deities in times like these, but then again, everyone has their preferred escapist coping mechanisms. The empty bottles stored in trashbags behind the lodge were proof enough.

To ease her mind, she locks the ax in the safe hidden behind a bookshelf, and moves all the sharp cutlery to her room upstairs. She leaves the spoons, because if she’s taken out by one, that’s on her. Once back in her room, Hela barricades the door with a chair and finally lays on the bed. She considers taking a swig from the bottle on her nightstand, but her eyelids are already heavy, barely keeping themselves open. 

Outside, the rain had finally stopped. Hela gets comfortably under the covers, feeling her exhausted body melting into the bed. She can’t remember the last time she’d been so tired on a Sunday afternoon, and falls into a dreamless sleep almost instantly. 

***

As she descends the stairs the next morning, Hela wonders what may wait for her downstairs. Maybe “Svarog, the god of fire and blacksmiths” is comatose and she’ll need to call an ambulance. Maybe he somehow staged the whole thing and took off with half of her belongings—not that she has much, anyway—once she fell asleep. She didn’t consider the third option, which is apparently the reality: that he’d be miraculously better, sitting shirtless by the fireplace, trying to dry his T-shirt. Once he sees Hela, he swiftly stands up. There’s a grace to his motions Hela can’t connect with someone who had been feverish and delusional only a couple of hours ago.

“Thank you for your kindness,” he says, bowing slightly. There’s no tremor in his voice anymore—he sounds like a completely new person, his voice deep and resounding. “I hope I did not cause you too much distress last night.” 

Hela’s speechless for a moment, staring at his bare arms and torso, wounds barely visible. She could have sworn his cuts and bruises had been much more prominent yesterday. Was she so drunk that her eyes had been playing tricks on her? She can’t believe that her medicinal alcohol, Octanisept and tea tree oil concoction could have worked so efficiently. It’s only when the man starts to pull his T-shirt over his head that she averts her eyes, slightly embarrassed. He doesn’t seem fazed by her staring or her silence. He takes a step forward, extending his hand towards her.

“My name is Svarog,” he says. “I am grateful for your care last night. I am feeling much better already.” 

“How the hell is that possible?” is what Hela wants to ask, but “Your name is really Svarog?” is what shoots out of her mouth instead, making the man pull back his hand with uncertainty. Hela cringes at herself—maybe she really should listen to Martin and Ana and go out more. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I just thought that Svarog was the character which you were cosplaying. Because of your, uh, ax.” 

He stares at her with poorly concealed confusion. Hela shifts on her feet, hoping she didn’t read all of this wrong. 

“I assume it’s meant for larping, right? It’s not like a real battle ax, meant for chopping people up?” she adds. Smooth.

He shakes his head. “No, it is not a real battle ax meant for chopping people up,” he answers slowly. 

“That’s a relief.” Hela scratches her head. “Full transparency—I locked it in a safe. It kind of freaked me out, seeing how sharp it was.”

He doesn’t seem bothered by that. “That is understandable.”

“Well, anyway, my name is Hela,” she says, wanting all this awkward ax talk to be over. They finally shake hands—his grip is strong and warm. 

“Do you need to borrow a phone to call someone?” Hela asks at the same time that Svarog says, “Can I stay here for a month or two?”. 

Hela blinks. “Uh, you want to stay here?”

“I need a change of scenery,” he says, “and I find this place appealing.”

While Hela can’t deny that the lodge once had a rustic charm, years of neglect had the better of it. The wooden tables outside the lodge were starting to slowly rot and the back garden looked more like an untamed jungle these days. What’s the point in keeping it spruced up, if most days the fog’s so thick you can’t see a finger in front of your nose. The inside wasn’t any better—why Svarog thought that the old, dusty common room turned improvised living room was alluring was beyond her. 

“That’s, uh, flattering, but we don’t rent out rooms anymore,” Hela replies. She had been forced to close the business down about two years ago—people don’t really hike anymore, let alone spend nights in mountain lodges. His unexpected offer did sound tempting, though. She had been barely making ends meet for the past year, with her remote digital design job being reduced to supervising a newly-engineered AI, causing her pay to drop criminally low. Living costs continued to skyrocket by the day, and she drinks half of her pay anyway. She doesn’t even want to consider the possibility of Ana and Martin, or herself for that matter, getting sick. It would be cheaper to just conk out at that point. 

Svarog suddenly fishes out a bundle of money out of his sweatpants pocket, interrupting Hela’s internal dilemma. He motions for her to take it. 4000 euros. 

“It’s this going to be enough for one month? I can pay you more.” He looks at Hela with almost guileless innocence. 

The stack of money is sitting comfortably on her palm.

“I think we can work something out,” she says against her better judgment. 

***

It’s a nuisance going downhill to the store. Hela’s driving at a speed of 30 km/h, carefully turning corners through the fog. She parks in front of a small convenience store by the side of the road. There’s still a Happy 2030 sign glued to the door. 

Inside, Martin’s behind the cash register, fumbling with the TV remote. “Hey kid,” he greets her, trying to turn the volume up. There’s news playing on the TV above the register; Hela averts her eyes and reaches for a shopping cart.

“How’s it going, Martin?” she says.

“Same old, same old… Can’t complain,” he answers with a smile. “Ana, Hela’s here!”

Ana, his wife, pops her head from the back of the store. “Hey honey,“ she chirps as she’s restocking the shelves. Her smile turns into a look of contempt when she looks at the TV screen, showcasing the latest endeavor of their president, nicknamed “The Rat” by the citizens, talking passionately about the sacredness of human life, teasing his upcoming proposal to ban abortions nation-wide.

“He’s come out of the sewers again,” Ana says. “It’s not enough he smogged the whole country, he has to soil our society as well.”

Hela makes a noncommittal mhm; she made a vow to keep The Rat and his politics far away from her mind. Selling all of the country’s natural resources to the highest bidder, polluting their land, reducing their salaries, banning gay partnerships, messing up their healthcare—Hela doesn’t want to hear what’s coming next. She tunes out Ana’s rant and focuses on stuffing the groceries in the cart. Seeing her godparents is always a bittersweet experience; if only they weren’t a walking and talking reminder of the world she’s trying to escape.

Ana’s tap on her shoulder snaps her out of her silent dejection. “Have you reconsidered our suggestion?” she asks. 

Hela rubs her nose. “I’m still mulling it over.”

“Well, the offer is still on the table, whenever you decide.” 

“The room’s empty and not going anywhere,” Martin adds. “You’re our favorite godchild, don’t forget that.”

Hela snorts a laugh as she reaches for a pack of instant noodles. “I’m your only godchild.” 

***

She makes a quick detour for the gas station and buys a stock of alcohol for the week. She’s been buying her booze here for some time now, not wanting Martin and Ana to know the amount of drink she’s been consuming. The store clerk never judges her. He rings up her alcohol with a look of silent sympathy, like he’s saying look, I get it. What else is left to do? 

Before she heads back home, she takes a quick stop at a nearby well. She used to come here all the time before the government sucked it dry. The water was fresh and cold and perfect; people who say that water tastes like nothing certainly hadn’t had a drink from this well. Hela loved letting the stream flow through her fingers and listen to its wild yet calming gurgle. 

Now, however, that memory seems like another life. She opens a can of beer, watching the fog where she assumes the well would be. 

***

It’s been three months since Hela rented a room to Svarog. She keeps noticing peculiar things about her new tenant—he eyes almost every household appliance with a look of distrust (“I prefer to use a broom rather than that loud dust-vanishing machine”), is not very pop-culture savvy (“No, I’ve never heard of Buffy Summers. Is she an acquaintance of yours?”) and appears not to have a job (“I am taking a break from my employment”), but somehow always pays the rent on time (“I distributed my money well through the years so I can live leisurely for a while”). She stopped trying to decode who he was, what brought him here and what made him stay. They never again brought up the ax or the state he had been in when he first came here. It became an unspoken rule not to question each other’s past. This pact of silence regarding certain topics worked great for Hela; she wasn’t really eager to discuss her years-long art block, dead parents or lack of company. 

Honestly, it was nice having someone to share the lodge with. He was pleasant to be around, although his odd way of phrasing things and chronic politeness were something she had to get used to. 

“You are a very kind person,” he said when Hela handed him some of her father’s old clothes. “I am very grateful for your offering.”

She shrugged. It’s been a long time since she’s considered herself anything.

***

In the evenings, Svarog would often join Hela on the other side of the couch and they would watch movies or just read in each other’s company. Svarog loved consuming content in whatever form available—he devoured half of Hela’s bookshelf in just a few weeks. Hela found it endearing. He read Alice Munro with the same enthusiasm as Momo The Peach Girl. Hela even found him trying to watch reruns of Keeping up with the Kardashians on TV.

“I think I liked Lord of The Rings better,” he concluded after the episode ended.

***

They got along better than any of her past roommates or partners. He didn’t comment on Hela’s drinking habit or questioned her empty sketchbook and unwrapped, blank canvases that were stored in the living room corner. He didn’t nag her about her stagnant art career like her ex-girlfriend or comment on her appearance like her ex-boyfriend. She felt at ease in his company, not caring about her hermit status or her extra twenty pounds she couldn’t lose no matter how hard she tried. 

Sometimes, though, her deeply hidden anxiety would get the best of her, reminding her of the sheer weirdness of her new living arrangement. That’s why she, as they’re watching The X-Files one night, blurts out: “Will I be in danger? Because you’re staying here?” On screen, Scully and Mulder argue about the existence of a chupacabra. 

A solid minute passes before he speaks. “I would not let anything happen to you,” he replies.

That didn’t answer her question, and frankly only raised other ones, but Hela decides to honor their agreement and drop the subject. She wonders if it’s a sign of madness that she actually believes him.

***

One day in June, Hela comes back from Ana and Martin’s place with a tray of cake.

“What’s the occasion?” Svarog asks while Hela hands him a piece. 

“It’s my birthday,” she replies. 

The following morning, Svarog hands her a flower bouquet. “Happy belated birthday,” he says, “I picked them myself. It was not easy to find them in the fog.” He frowns. “Did you know that flowers do not smell like they used to? I hope you will appreciate the gesture nevertheless.”

He’s right—they don’t smell like they used to, but Hela doesn’t mind though. 

“Hey, do you want to go somewhere for the weekend?” she blurts out instead of a thanks. 

***

They stopped by the gas station on their way to the Kalnik hills, where they decided to spend the weekend. As she’s filling the tank, Hela realizes she hasn’t been here in quite some time. She expects the familiar clerk behind the cash register, but finds a different employee instead. As she gets back to the car, she’s unaware that the very same clerk she was thinking about is having his break on the other side of the gas station, hidden behind a cap, his eyes glancing between Svarog on the passenger seat and her license plate. 

***

It takes them a while to pick out the perfect spot for a campsite. Svarog’s the one who finally put his foot down, declaring that the meadow they stumbled upon is perfect. Hela suspected, though, that maybe he was just being considerate of Hela’s labored breathing.

“My back hurts. I’m getting old,” she says, sitting down with an oof after they’d pitched their tents. Svarog seems unfazed by their physical activity, hunching down without a problem to start the campfire.

“Nonsense,” he says. “33 is very young.”

Hela nonchalantly pokes at the fire with a branch. “How old are you?” She feels bold tonight, broaching topics they silently agreed to avoid.

“I am ancient,” he says with a low chuckle, sitting beside Hela on the blanket they’d laid out. They’re both drinking tea—Hela forgot to bring something stronger, but she discovers that she doesn’t really crave a drink right now. 

“Can you at least tell me something?” she asks. “I feel I don’t know anything about you.”

“I think you know plenty about me,” he answers diplomatically. 

In a sense, Hela knows that’s true. She knows he likes the vegetable aroma of instant noodles more than the chicken one and that he hates the cold. She knows he likes it when she puts on Alice in Chains and hates going to the grocery shops alone. She also knows that he likes to gently usher the spiders out of the house instead of killing them and that he doesn’t hide his tears when a movie or a book touches him. 

“C’mon, just indulge me. Consider it another belated birthday present.” Two can play this game, she thinks.

He smiles into his cup of tea. “I was performing a certain service for people who paid me,” he says after taking a sip.

“So, like a freelancer?” she offers.

He looks like he’s mulling it over. “Yes, that would be an accurate description,” he answers after a few moments.

“And what kind of services did you offer?”

“Various kinds.” 

His intentional vagueness is getting harder and harder to ignore. “Name a few,” she demands.

“Why don’t you tell me something about yourself,” he shoots back. “Quid pro quo.”

Hela agrees—she can’t seem to find any reason not to anymore. She starts off light, though, joking about her failed relationships. She mentions how she regrets drifting apart from her friends when things had become rough and how she couldn’t make herself reach out to them.

After that, the words came spilling out of her mouth, Svarog listening to her intently. She told him how fun it was hanging around the lodge when she was a kid, back when her parents ran the place. She told him how her father was a passionate hiker and her mother an equally passionate biologist and how neither of them were disappointed when she chose an art career instead of natural sciences. She told him how her mother got sick with lung cancer when she was finishing college and how her condition rapidly worsened when The Rat changed the gas emission laws. She told him how they were forced to sell their house to pay for her mother’s medical bills and how they moved to the lodge. She told him how they had to close the lodge down, not long after her mother passed away. She told him how her father followed her mother soon after, drinking himself to death. She told him how it all made her unable to pick up a paint brush and how she’s afraid it will last forever. 

She pauses for a moment as her breathing becomes erratic. A warmth spreads on her hand; she didn’t even notice Svarog had wrapped his palm around hers. She takes her free hand and dabs at the wetness around her eyes with the hem of her sleeve, taking a few deep breaths before she continues.

“Martin and Ana, my godparents, want me to come live with them. They say it’s not healthy to live up there, in the lodge, all alone. And you know, I agree with them. I’m just afraid that it won’t make much difference where I live.” She picks a branch and throws it in the fire. “It’s weird, living in this fog. It’s like a never ending liminal space that you can’t escape. Sometimes it feels like I’m going to be stuck forever.” 

 Svarog’s hand tightens around Hela’s. The campfire is casting shadows on their faces; they move playfully as the flames dance in the light mountain wind. The soft sound of the forest’s around them—the quiet rustle of the treetops makes Hela close her eyes. Her head finds Svarog’s shoulder. It’s warm against her cheek.

“It hasn’t been like that for the past few months, though,” she says after a while.

“I am glad to hear that,” he says, voice heavy. If either of their faces are red, they could just blame it on the fire. 

They sit like that for the rest of the night, drifting in and out of conversation. As they each retreat to their own tent, Hela finds her solitude increasingly difficult to bear. 

***

It’s already dark when they return to the lodge the next day. Hela’s feeling lighter than she has in years—she savors the feeling, not bothering to contain the grin on her face as they drive through the murky dark.

“You go ahead,” says Svarog once they get out of the car, “I’ll unload the trunk.” Hela looks at him for a few moments, staring into his emerald eyes. He’s smiling right back at her, and the dam inside her finally breaks. Before she can chicken out, she gives him a quick kiss and heads for the lodge.

She unlocks the door and steps inside, basking. As she’s about to turn on the lights, she feels a punch to the back of her head, sending her to the ground with a scream. 

“That’s not him, you idiot!” someone shouts.

“Well how am I supposed to know? It was your idea to do it in the dark!”

The pain’s searing through the back of Hela’s head. She manages to climb to her feet when the lights are finally turned on. She’s met with three people looking at her almost apologetically. Squinting, she realizes that one of them is the gas station clerk, standing between a girl and a guy gripping a baseball bat. Before she can say anything, Svarog barges into the lodge, distraught. 

“Leave her alone! She’s not involved in any way,” he roars.

“You’re looking better,” says the guy with the bat. “Last time we saw you, you were not looking so fresh.”

“You better return the shirt you stole from me,” mumbles the girl, giving Svarog a deadly stare. “I know you showed up butt naked, but if you’d just give us a chance to fetch you some clothes, you wouldn’t have felt the need to run away and steal my favorite Sailor Moon shirt, right?”

Svarog coughs. “I had a short acclimatization period,” he says. “The climate is not what it used to be. It took me a few days to get my strength back.” He gives the girl an apologetic look. “I will buy you a new Japanese cartoon shirt. You have my word.” 

Hela blinks, trying to keep up with this bizarre interaction. “W-who are you guys?” she manages to push out.
“These are Ema and Karlo,” the gas station clerk says. “And I’m Miran. We, uh, summoned him to do something for us.” He looks carefully at Hela, as if he’s gauging her upcoming reaction.

Did he say summoned? The sharp pain in her head changes into dull throbbing, making it hard for her to focus. “To do what exactly?” she says, looking at Miran. It’s strange seeing him out of his gas station uniform.

The three of them exchange looks. “To kill someone,” Ema says plainly after a few moments.

“Actually, we want him to smite someone. With lightning, thunder and all. The whole deal,” Karlo adds. 

Oh, Hela thinks. But he can’t even kill a spider. “Who do you want him to kill?” Her voice sounds far away. She looks at Svarog, but he’s looking at the floor with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“We want him to kill The Rat,” Miran says solemnly. 

“He should be more than capable, according to slavicmythology.com,” Karlo adds with a shrug.

They all look at Svarog expectantly. 

“That is accurate,“ he says, “I have smitten many people successfully.” He pauses for a second. “I don’t know if I want to anymore, though.“

“Well tough shit, man,” shouts Ema, stepping towards Svarog. “It’s kind of your job!” Hela flinches; it’s getting too loud and she still has trouble processing information. She wishes whoever turned the lights on would just turn them off again, so she can stop squinting her eyes in pain.

“We didn’t slaughter a hundred sheep and chant for five hours in the cold for you to go limp on us now!” yells Karlo, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Don’t you dare run away from us again!” 

A laugh escapes Hela’s lips, drawing everyone’s attention. “I get it,” she says. Her ears are ringing so loud she can barely hear herself speak. Svarog’s finally looking at her, eyes wide. “You really are a god?”

“Hela, you’re bleeding,” he says, rushing towards her. Hela frowns and groggily reaches for the back of her head. Something wet and warm slicks her fingers.

“Karlo, what the fuck? How hard did you hit her?” Miran shouts. 

“I thought I was hitting that fucking log over there!” Karlo shouts back, pointing his bat at Svarog.

Hela’s tired. These past few days have been a lot and she needs to close her eyes just for a few moments. There’s too many people here; every time she blinks, they double.

“I think I’m going to pass out now,” she announces to the crowd, but the words slur together as she speaks. The last thing she feels are Svarog’s hands grabbing her before she hits the floor.

***

Hela wakes up in her bedroom. There’s rays of sunlight poking through the blinds. She glances at the clock—2 PM. Svarog’s sitting beside the bed on a chair, looking at her with a concerned expression. Hela slowly sits up and gingerly moves her head a few times, but the pain doesn’t seem to return.

“I healed you. You shouldn’t experience any kind of pain, but I brought you some medicine, just in case.” Svarog’s voice is unusually high and his hands fidgety—Hela can feel the guilt radiating from him without sparing him a glance. Anger flashes through her. She doesn’t recognize it at first, not having felt that strongly about something—or someone—in a while. Taking a deep breath, she opens her mouth to thank him, but no words come out. 

“The people,” she says instead, “where are they?”

“They left,” he replies. “How are you—”

“When are they coming back?” Hela interrupts him, looking at her bedside table like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. There was a glass of water on it, along with the entire content of her medicine cabinet. For some reason, it makes her even more mad. 

“In a few days. We have to make some plans.”

“To kill The Rat?”

“Yes,” he says. 

Hela nods, her face carefully blank, trying to conceal the irritation and frustration coursing through her. She takes a quick look at Svarog. He looks tired and worn-out. Can gods even look exhausted?, she thinks, but there’s too much going on inside her head for her to bother with whether deities can feel fatigue or not. 

“Can you leave me alone?” she asks finally. “I want to go back to sleep.”

“As you wish,” Svarog says reluctantly. “Call me if you need anything.” He stalls as he reaches the door. “I am sorry I did not tell you about my…status,” he says. “I thought you would be safer that way.” When nothing comes in response, he leaves the room quietly. 

Hela waits for a few minutes after the door closes, then reaches for her nightstand drawer. She fishes out a long-forgotten flask and takes a big chug, letting the liquid burn her throat. The entire flask is drunk dry in a moment. Hela’s itching for more, but doesn’t want to leave her room. Burying her face into the pillow, she starts to catalog all the alcohol she has laying around the house so she can collect it later, when Svarog falls asleep. 

The anger she felt not long ago gradually turns into a deep, aching feeling of disappointment. She cocoons herself under the covers even though it’s the middle of June. The clues, no matter how unbelievable, had been there all along. The fast healing, the agility, the strength. Magicking money out of thin air, his cluelessness when it came to technology and pop-culture. His fucking name and his goddamn ax, for god’s sake—it had all been staring her right in the face for months. Despite that, she’d decided to ignore the signs, wishing instead he was just a lonely person like her.

The pillow’s damp when Hela finally lifts her head up. Her throat aches for a drink. 

She’ll have to go to the store first thing tomorrow. 

***

Svarog’s sitting at the living room table when Hela comes back with bagfuls of clinking bottles. There’s a graphic novel in front of him, but it seems he didn’t make a lot of progress, still stuck on the same page he’d been reading as she passed by him earlier. Hela sits next to him and pours herself a drink. She chugs it and pours herself another. 

“Maybe tea would be better?” Svarog asks, voice carefully neutral.

“Oh, fuck off,” she bites back. He doesn’t argue back. They sit like that for a while, Hela drinking and Svarog pretending to flip the pages of his book. A soft drizzle starts outside.

“I thought you were lying to me about your name,” Hela says eventually. “Turns out it was the only thing you didn’t lie about.”

Svarog closes the book and looks at Hela. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he begins to talk. “I told you the truth about what I did.” He ignores Hela’s sarcastic mhm. “I used to give people things they needed. Life was different back then. Humans did not have “supermarkets” and “microwaves” and “pills that made them better” like you do now,” he says, using air quotes to accentuate the wonders of the modern world. If Hela wasn’t so mad, she would laugh at his continuous astonishment regarding contemporary “marvels”, as he called them. 

The rain outside becomes louder, mixing with Svarog’s voice as he continues. A wistful gaze appears on his face. “Humans needed many things, back then. It was a simple system: the people prayed and sacrificed, and in turn we gave and existed. In the beginning, it was a rewarding existence. Fire and blacksmithing was my speciality, but I loved helping people with their crops or broken bones, or swaying the weather a little here and there.” He pauses for a few moments, shifting in his chair. “Things changed when people decided to use the gods as executioners. I never wanted to kill anyone, but I could not decline their request. Other gods couldn’t either.”

“That’s a lousy fucking system,” Hela remarks, taking a sip of her drink.

“You know, I was relieved when the gods started dying out. Do not get me wrong—it was hard seeing my peers go. Although often competitive, most of us regarded each other as siblings. We were a family, bound by our sacred duty…but I remember almost feeling grateful. No more killings, no more bloodshed, no more wars or revenge.” He looks at Hela almost pleadingly. “I don’t want to kill anyone, not even someone like The Rat,” he says, “but if I refuse their request, everything will shift. I already stalled long enough. My inactions will have consequences. I just wanted some time to clear my head and then I met you and got…sidetracked.” He looks at Hela with a sad smile. “Gods cannot refuse the requests that were made—it could disrupt the natural order of things.”

“So you’re saying that your refusal to kill The Rat would trigger some kind of a butterfly effect?” she asks, huffing a laugh. It was all so absurd to her, but at the same time, it kind of made sense. Or maybe it was just the vodka kicking in.

Svarog frowns. “No, insects do not have anything to do with it.”

Hela laughs. A wave of fondness flushes through her as she looks at him, suddenly aware she’s not capable of staying angry at him. “Just go and fry that bastard,” she says, “you’ll be doing us all a favor.”

***

It was not long before Hela’s home became the official plotting headquarters. The “Fellowship”—as Hela jokingly named them and Svarog instantly embraced, came by almost every day to scheme the assassination of The Rat. Svarog remained quiet for the most part, jumping in here and there when the scenarios became too outlandish. 

“What do you mean, you can’t make thousands of scarabs eat him alive?,” Karlo demands with a pout. 

“You overestimate my powers. I simply cannot make a swarm of scarabs descend upon him and devour him,” replies Svarog, arms crossed on his chest. 

Ema rolls her eyes. “That’s a myth, Karlo,” she says, huffing out. “You do know that they don’t actually crawl beneath peoples skin and eat them, right?”

“What? But I saw it in The Mummy!” 

Hela joined them sometimes; it was fun listening to their squabbles. Although their first meeting wasn’t ideal, she warmed up to Ema, Miran and Karlo fairly quickly, each of them being wronged by the consequences of The Rat’s politics as well. It turns out that tragedy really brings people closer.

***

After a month of extensive plotting, they finally came up with a plan. They’ll strike on a Sunday afternoon in late August, when The Rat’s making a public speech in front of the cathedral in Zagreb. 

“It’s going to be so eye-catching, right?” says Karlo with excitement. 

“Whatever. I just want him gone as soon as possible,” Ema bites out. “My idea was much more impressive.” she adds, still sour that her “human combustion” suggestion was shut down for being too “campy”.

Miran leans across the table as Ema and Karlo start to quarrel for the fifth time today.

“Look, once we’re done, we’ll make another sacrifice to you,” says Miran to Svarog. “We want you to make this damned fog go away. Heal the land, you know? We just need to prepare for it. It’s not easy finding another herd of farm animals to slaughter.”

Svarog shakes his head. “Making a request like that would cost you more than a herd of animals,” he replies.

“Well, think about it and name the price.”

“I cannot make you any promises,” Svarog says with a sense of finality. 

Miran stares at him for a few moments. “It would help a lot of people, right?” he continues, not-so-subtly glancing at the lodge, where Hela retreated a while ago. “Think about it, will you?”

Once he’s alone, Svarog remains to sit on the moldy benches, staring into the hazy field. He joins Hela an hour later by the kitchen counter.

“The plan is done,” he says. There’s been a cloud of awkwardness following them around since The Fellowship showed up, and neither of them knows how to make it go away.

“Congratulations,” Hela says, toasting his with her glass before throwing it back. 

“I intend this job to be my last,” Svarog states after a while.

“Going out with a bang, huh?” says Hela, pouring herself another drink. 

Svarog lifts his hand and suddenly, Hela’s glass is in his hand. The solemn look on his face shuts Hela up before she can object about him magicking her booze away.

“I need to tell you about my ax,” he says before throwing back the drink.

***

It’s the week before the assassination. Hela and Svarog are sitting in the backyard, taking in what little sunset’s visible through the fog, bathed in murky sunlight. There are stacks of wood Hela chopped up on each side of them. 

Hela’s gaze is switching between Svarog and the sketchbook in her lap. She’s rusty, but after a few days of sketching, it feels like the hands move out of their own volition, capturing the sharp lines and soft wrinkles of Svarog’s face in a trance. They started doing this since that evening in the kitchen, when Svarog had told Hela about his ax. Sometimes, when Hela would be done sketching for the day, one of them would reach their hand across the small wooden table and they would hold hands until it got dark.

Hela’s trying not to drink when they sit like this, focusing on things that surround her—the soft breeze on her neck, the sound of the coal scraping against the paper or the weight of Svarog’s hand on her own. 

Once the sun goes down, they return inside in silence—there’s nothing left to say. 

***

 They’re all sitting on Hela’s couch when the day arrives, eyes glued to the TV screen. Ema chews on a strand of her hair while Miran’s leg taps nervously against the wooden floor. Karlo is just blabbing away, fueled by a mix of impatience and anticipation. Hela’s behind them, leaning against the windowsill, sparing a glance at Svarog through the window every so often. He’s outside, standing on the field, glancing upwards into the hazy abyss. 

As 5 PM approaches, the rain starts pouring. Hela’s lost sight of Svarog as the storm rages outside—the wind starts howling like a feral animal, making her back away from the glass. The clouds are hard to see through the fog, but the sudden darkness that descends upon them shows signs of Svarog’s meddling. 

On screen, The Rat shows up on the podium, waving and smiling like the sleazy con-man he is, completely unaware of what’s to come. It’s weird seeing someone’s last seconds aired live. A lightning bolt strikes once, twice, shaking the ground with force. They don’t feel the third one, but see it on the screen, spasming The Rat’s body, frying it until it becomes a black, charred pile of flesh and bone. Live broadcasting stops abruptly not long after, the stunned host barely uttering a few words over the crowd’s screams. 

For a moment, none of them speak. Their phones start buzzing—the news spreads through social media like wildfire, waking them up from their trance.

The Fellowship starts to scream and jump; someone pops a bottle of champagne and shoves a glass into Hela’s hand. She takes a sip, but it tasted sour on her tongue. Outside, the storm’s calming down. Hela slips through the door and stares into the misty field, watching Svarog slowly walk across the field back to her.

***

It’s around 11 PM when the party finally winds down. The Fellowship fell asleep after consuming copious amounts of alcohol and weed, scattered in various positions all across the living room. Hela and Svarog excused themselves from the celebration a while ago, taking up their usual seat in the backyard. The music’s still coming from the inside, muted and soft. 

A slow, wistful tune begins. Svarog gets up and offers his hand to Hela with a coy smile. It’s hard to believe he smote someone on live television only a few hours ago. They sway together, brought even closer by the chilly summer night air. Hela lays her head on Svarog’s shoulder and starts humming the tune.

“What’s the song called?” Svarog asks, his breath tickling her ear.

Hela smiles into his shirt. “As long as I can see the light,” she replies. Svarog tightens his grip around her waist. They don’t let each other go for the rest of the night. 

***

They wake up while it’s still dark outside, before the heat creeps in. Hela wakes first, head buried in Svarog’s chest. She listens to his heart beat until he stirs. His lips graze her forehead as they both gather strength to get up. 

They dress in silence and sneak out to the car. The bag they’d packed yesterday is waiting for them on the back seat, next to the shovel. Their journey to Kalnik passes by much quicker than the last time; they arrive at their campsite sooner than either of them would like. Svarog looks around for a while, inspecting the meadow.

“There,” he says. He takes the shovel and starts to dig. Hela paces nervously around him.

Once he’s done, they embrace. Hela mumbles something against his neck, shaking her head. “It’s all right,” Svarog reassures her. “You can do it.” He takes his ax out of the bag and hands it to her before laying on the ground, next to the hole. Then he takes black linen bag out of his pocket. 

Hela crouches next to him and steals one last kiss. Both of their faces are damp. “Goodbye,” Svarog says, smiling, before pulling the bag over his head.

Just like they practiced, Hela swings once, twice. The third time, the ground shakes. The birds scatter blindly into the fog and the trees rattle with force—the forest wails as the sacrifice is made. Hela joins the eerie dirge, dropping to her knees. She hides her screams in Svarog’s chest, burying her head in it like only a few hours ago.

Hela stays like that until the body gets cold. When she finally lifts her head, she’s met with an endless mass of blue. It takes her a few moments to recognize she’s looking at the sky, clear and bright, the sun blinding her eyes. 

***

Hela parks her car by the well, not ready to get back to the lodge yet. She’s looking at the well because she doesn’t dare to look at the empty passenger seat besides her. Hela hasn’t seen it properly in years, but now she can finally make out its familiar shape in the dark, rocks and pebbles glistening in front of her eyes, illuminated by the moonlight. It’s beautiful, but at the moment, Hela can’t make herself care. 

After a while, she turns on her phone with shaky hands. They are still covered with dirt and dried up blood. The light of the phone screen hurts her swollen eyes. 

10 PM. 8 missed calls from Ana and three from Martin. After a deep breath, she calls Ana back. Knowing Martin, he would soon be ready to organize a search party for her.

Ana picks up the phone after the first ring. “I’ve been calling you for two days! Martin was ready to jump in his truck and come banging on your door.” 

“Sorry, Ana, I’ve been, uh, busy,” Hela replies lamely, not having any strength to come up with an actual excuse. She could hear Ana’s scowl through the phone. 

“Well, send us a text the next time you plan to be busy, okay?” she huffs. “What a few days it has been, right?”

Hela chuckles, her eyes welling up again. “Yeah,”  she barely manages to say.

“First The Rat? And then today the smog! I couldn’t believe it! All of it gone so suddenly? The sun almost gave me a sunburn, the way it shined!”

Hela stifles a sob that is threatening to come out. Ana stops for a second.

“Is everything okay, honey?” 

“Mhm,” Hela forces out, fearful to speak.

They’re both silent for a while.

“We can talk tomorrow, okay?” Ana says eventually, “When you’re feeling better.” She’s about to hang up when Hela finally decides to speak.

“Hey, Ana?” she croaks out. 

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I might take you guys up on that offer soon,” Hela says, “after I sort some things at the lodge.”

A few months later, Hela’s driving down the hill, her belongings stacked into Martin’s truck. The afternoon sun shines bright, bathing the surrounding trees in a golden hue. Svarog’s portrait is carefully boxed, resting on the passenger seat. 

She passes by the well on her way to Ana and Martin’s house. The water has started flowing again some time ago, forceful and resilient, as if the well had never dried out.

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As Long As I Can See The Light © 2023. Ivana Geček

[EN] Ivana Geček was born in 1996 in Varaždin, Croatia. She is a visual artist focusing on comics and illustration. In her spare time she likes to read, write short stories and watch good and bad horror movies.

The story As Long As I Can See The Light was originally published in the fifth issue of Morina kutija magazine (August, 2023). You can download it for free from our site or Smashwords.

[HR] Ivana Geček rođena je 1996. godine u Varaždinu. Bavi se vizualnom umjetnošću, a fokus njezinog rada je strip i ilustracija. U slobodno vrijeme voli čitati, pisati kratke priče i gledati dobre i loše horor filmove.

Priča As Long As I Can See The Light objavljena je u online časopisu Morina kutija, br. 5 (kolovoz 2023.). Časopis možete skinuti ovdje ili s platforme Smashwords.

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Urednički komentar: Priča odlične, gotički melankolične atmosfere u jednoj zagorskoj hiži umjesto propaloga dvorca, promišlja o konceptu junaka u distopijskoj hrvatskoj budućnost koja nam se može prikrasti iza ugla, s humorom i romansom.