One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
Muspeldóttir snickered contentedly. She stared out of the eyes of her host. Little Tyra sat in front of her. Small Tyra who had tried to kill her. Muspeldóttir knew to be wary. This time she wouldn’t be defeated. This time Muspeldóttir would triumph. Finally, her brothers would be freed.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
She had picked her third host with great care. Many, she had allowed to walk past, before King Olaf had come along. Weakened, waiting for the perfect host, she had hovered above Styrbjorn’s corpse. When at last Olaf had come, she’d pounced, and dug herself deep into his eyes. So now, her flames burned strong and steady.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
Although Styrbjorn had been a good host, none was more perfect than King Olaf. She steered him easily with flamed pain. He worshipped her in the name of God, and feared Muspeldóttir’s hellish fire. More loyal a servant, never seen. He rejoiced, executing her will. Burn them all, she said, and burn he did. Worshippers of Odin, set aflame.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
More would burn to satisfy Muspel. With the flamed shrieks of dying fylgjur, Muspeldóttir would free her brothers. Out of Muspelheim, they would arrive, their flames raging through all of Midgard. At last, escaped, Midgard would be theirs. Together, they would burn and destroy. Together, they would scorch, melt, and laugh.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.