The Marrviðr

They called it Marrviðr, the Sea’s Wood, a myth the locals only whispered about. I met Erik, a fisherman, in Istanbul, where he promised riches and fame if we could prove its existence. On Iceland’s black sands, his confidence wavered, but there was something else in his eyes… guilt. “There,” he rasped one night, pointing toward a faint, swaying light near the tide. As we approached, Erik froze. He turned to me, “I’m sorry,” is all he said. His skin bloated and sagged like wet fabric, peeling away from his muscles and bone. He collapsed to the sand like a writhing slug as he squirmed toward the waves.
A deep hum, like the splintering of a ship, rumbled from beneath the sea. Marrviðr rose from the shadows of the waves, its towering antlers scraping the northern lights. Its body an unholy mass of gnarled driftwood, rusted chains, and barnacles that clicked like grinding teeth. Ropes of seaweed pulsed through its limbs like veins while its hollow stomach glowed like a cage of rotted timber and bone that trapped shattered lanterns and the agonized faces of drowned men. Its head was a writhing reef of coral, endlessly pouring water from its pours and its void-like eyes churned with the ocean that watched me with cold precision.
Marrviðr bent low, its jagged limbs creaking as it slurped Erik’s bloated body into its mouth. I watched him slide into its waterlogged belly, as he began dissolving slowly. Marrviðr’s hollow gaze shifted to me, and for a moment, I thought I was next. But it paused, tilting its head as it considered me. Pain shot through my back as my skin split, and gills bloomed along my ribs. I gasped, breathing the water-laden air with ease. Marrviðr looked past me, toward the world beyond the cliffs. I knew then, I was to bring home another.