There was a time when weeks had eight days.
At that time, people lived differently. They even slept differently, waking past midnight to chat a little and have a cup of something. Some liked tisanes with warm milk. Others preferred mead. But they all came out of bed, sat near the fire and talked until the moon, tired of holding the sun at bay, descended on the west. Then, cups and bowls empty of drinks, people would go back to bed to sleep until the sunrise.
It was then that Idun lived. Young, according to some. Old as the world, others would say. She was strong and tall, and beautiful in a strange kind of way. If you looked straight at her, you would forget there was anything else in the world but her piercing eyes. But then, you would turn your head, look at the sky—at a bir...
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