Out the window, I see, in the distance, the winding trunk of Yggdrasil. It is an ash tree; I didn’t know that before. I first saw European ash in Ireland, when we needed wood to replace tool handles. It feels familiar, in this little way. Not much else does. The Behemoth, the Thumbsucker, even Renard, they were beyond the reach of mortal reckoning but they still lived in the world of man, of material, of things. They walked on the same ground that men walk. Now I am the stranger in one of their realms, a place of myth.

We arrived in Jotunheim a week ago, ahead of schedule. A blizzard threatened to block a pass with snow and, rather than leave us stranded in the middle of Norway, Renard had us make a rush for it, the entire expedition. Over a dozen sleds driven by six times as many sleigh dogs; the Norwegian sled drivers cursing us in their tongue for trying such a foolish thing; Renard out in front, laughing into the wind as he urges the hounds ever faster as I hang onto the sled for dear life; the reindeer sleigh with the specimens trying not to fall behind. As we hit the pass, the blizzard grew so thick that it practically blinded us, but Renard kept forward, wild-eyed and cackling, and I did not believe we were about to die - I trust him that much at least - but I could not see how we were supposed to live.

And then we had broken through, as if we had succeeded in a divine trial, and the ravaged home of the jotnar lay before us, scoured by Ragnarök. I do not know if it was his lingering birthright that let us cross over, or his headlong rush into the unknown. Or perhaps a blizzard, overwhelming the senses with snow and wind, is a liminal space where slipping outside of the world as we know it is possible. It brings me some hope. It resembles the theories that the Thumbsucker put forth. It brings me hope that we can find the path to Eden yet.

We were received as guests. Loki, that was one of Renard’s names long ago, half-jotun on his father’s side, and Loki’s father survived the end of the world. He is a man of great stature in a land mostly dead, but he is still a man of stature, a wielder of lightning, a being whose voice could rival Macy’s, and so we’ve made camp on his estate. Even after Ragnarök, this land is - it is made for the jotnar. Everything seems over the horizon, hazy and unclear like a far-off mountain, yet our host has steeds that can cross the land with ease. It’s how you remember your first home as a child, where everything is the right size yet impossibly beyond your hands. It was our theory - Lee’s theory - that Nephilim and Jotunn and Titans had a common link in the hearts and minds of men. There used to be giants, though the Thumbsucker was only twice the height of a man and our host is nine feet at most. There used to be men of stature. And so giants may lead us to the world the Nephilim inhabited, where the Garden of Eden had a location, where the only obstacles were angels and a flaming sword. Is this what the Earth was like in the time of the Nephilim, before the flood? I can only wonder, but soon I won’t have to.

Renard has gone with his past-father to Gimlé, the remnant of the land of Asgard, along with the remaining specimens. There is a jotun called goddess there, who wields winter like a bow and skims over snow faster than any skier. An old accident with venom has given her a wound that will not heal, something the specimens are likely to fix. Her husband is, or was, a god of sea. She’s our best lead, though Renard carries some grudge against her from his days as Loki. And I stay here, organize the drudges, send a few back to the world of things with messages to send to the Protean and Hicks. This will be some time, I suspect. Loki set off the events that caused the fall of Asgard; they will not help him readily.

There’s a troll on this estate that works metal with skill and ease. With some cajoling and a bit of explanation from me, I convinced him to make a menorah in exchange for letting him see the Behemoth’s knowledge on flame. I’m lighting the candles daily. How odd it is that I try to find my faith in the ruins of another faith’s history, that I celebrate Hanukkah in the shade of the World-Tree. If everything and nothing is real, if history is in the memory of it rather than the material, then somewhere, there is someone listening when I pray. That is enough.