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pieces-by-me · 3 years

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Golden Eyes

Words: 2627

Summary: There aren’t only rats in the tunnels under York. A big surprise for Ivar that takes his breath away.

Warnings: mentions of blood, death, imprisonment. English is not my first language and first time writing for Vikings.

@maggiescarborough - thank you again for the help with this!! I hope you like it and still want to read it (Even though it took me four months to write this)

Ever since Eadrick and Hilda found out she was with child they knew that it would be special. They knew because the pregnancy felt different. Hilda didn't have sickness in the morning and her emotions stayed the same all throughout the months. When they went to the healer of their small village he told them that it was a curse from the Devil. For no women had ever a pregnancy like it, it was unnatural. Eadrick couldn't understand why the healer had the idea that his child could be a curse. How could it be? They tried for so long and never were blessed with one and now that it finally happened they had to hear that it was the Devils work? Hilda had tears running down her face as she stood tall and declared that the healer should feel ashamed. “My child is not made by the Devil but blessed by God!” The healer sneered after them as they exited the small cottage.

Months passed by and the happy pair couldn't wait to see their little boy or girl.They didn't care what the child would be as long as it was healthy. But with the time fleeting and the stomach growing the looks from the people of the village would grow as well and become more and more evil. Word had got out that Hilda supposedly carried the Devils child and with every day that passed Eadrick became more worried for his wife. He knew that he had to protect her and his child, so he did everything to build them a little home in the middle of the forrest surrounding the village.

When Hilda went into labor Eadrick feared for his beloved. The healer refused to help birth 'a cursed child' and they were alone in their small home. Only a fire to help and warm them in the cold winter month. The birth went so fast it was as if it never really happened. And the strangest thing was that Hilda felt not one bit of pain. She was smiling when she pushed and then her child came into the world. Hilda birthed a little girl and Eadrick couldn't help but look at his family with love and adoration. He swore to God that he would do anything, even sin, to protect his family.

She didn't scream when she came into this world. Her big eyes were just looking, searching, for her mother and father. And as soon as her little eyes met the tear filled ones of her father she let out a little laugh that made both her parents cry for joy. Her eyes had the color of light. An almost golden hue that could not be discribed. She was not a curse. She was a blessing. They decided to name her (Y/N). The little girl with sunshine in her eyes.

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Ivar wobbled through the streets of York with eyes in search for any small thing he could have missed. He had to make sure that everything was in order and that nothing would go wrong. The smoke from the burned up rats and rotten meat made it hard to examine the traps but he managed. More annoying was the smell. He had to swallow back his already eaten food to not vomit all over the street at some points. That would not be a good look for the ruler of the Heathen Army. But that also was something he managed. Ivar sent Hvitserk away to survey the catacombs under York after his big brother questioned his plan. Idiot. As if he didn't build everything in his head to a point and thought about how everything could turn out. Of course he had a plan. A plan that would soon be taken into action, for as the Saxons were on their way to take back York. With an almost malicious smile Ivar made his last round around the outer ring of the city. Oh yes, the Saxons would come soon and think that death took all the heathens away. But they would be met with nothing but death for themselves.

Hvitserk cursed his younger brother. He knew very well that Ivar was not an idiot and had a plan. He just wanted to be included. Not be left out and always chasing answers and responsibility. Not unlike with Ubbe. But now he kind of wished that his brother would have given him another order. And not running around the dirt and rat infested tunnels that stretched out under this Christian city. He didn't really know for what he, and the other worriers that went down with him, should be looking for, but he guessed that if he found something suspicious or wrong he would see and know.

After walking through the foul-smelling tunnels for hours, Hvitserk was about to call it quits and wanted to go back up the ladder when he caught something in the corner of his eye. It was a door. A rotten door with huge metal bolts that looked like it would bust with one small push and fall out of its hinges. He walked closer to it, intrigued to find something after hours of nothing. The wood on the door felt rough to his touch making him think that it was not used often. When he tried to open it though it wouldn't give. It stayed shut and only then did he see the whole for a key.

'You're not the first thing that wanted to stay untouched but I always got my way.' He thought with a mischievous smirk as he thought about some of his past conquests. When he slammed his body for the third time against the door, with running start, and it's still not budging he grew irritated. The wood definitely being more robust then it appeared. What the hel was behind this door that needed to be so protected? After one last push something in that room moved. Hvitserk could hear it. Almost like a hound. Whimpering and shuffling as if to get away. Why would the Saxon leave an animal locked in these dark tunnels?

His thoughts were broken up by the sound of running feet and people flooding the tunnels. The time has come. The Saxons were here. With one last glance to the door Hvitserk made his way back to the entrance where he was supposed to meet up with Ivar. As he rounded the corner he saw how his little brother was being hoisted down and someone was already waiting with his crutch on the ground.

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The Saxons entered the city. Empty of all beings except the rats that crawled over the muddy grounds. Why were the rats on the ground? The Bishop looked at the small rodents with uncertainty. It was not common for rats to run this free around people. Soon the cheers of the soldiers were washing his worry to the back of his head. Bells were ringing and people celebrating; they have defeated the Vikings.

But while the rats ran free on the ground the tunnels swarmed with Viking warriors lusting for blood. Ivar did it again. He came up with a plan that fooled his opponent and would guarantee his success. He looked up through the manhole to the feet of soldiers walking over him unbeknown to the threat underneath their them.

Hvitserk arrived and made his way over to his little brother. The two Ragnarsons met eyes and in both radiated the intend and want to kill and mark the streets of York with the blood of the Christians. In the back of Hvitserks head the thought of the mysterious door and animal surfaced for a split second, he would go back there and try to open it when the battle is won. With a little shake of his head to get back to now he heard the Saxons cheer for their victory.

Ivar and Hvitserk met eyes again, both smiling like two mad men. Anticipation running through their veins at the thought of finally running their sword and axes through bodies and bones. And with a small turn from his body Ivar watched his warriors, everyone at the soles of their feet to start, threw is right hand in the air and ladders were pulled up. Everyone had to be silent.

As the first men stepped through the opening, Ivar and Hvitserk letting out roars of battle, the Saxons had to realize that they made a huge mistake.

Cheers turned to screams of shock and the streets turned red with blood and gore.

The Heathens were not dead but they brought it with them.

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The battle was done. The bishop in chains and Ivar was basking in his win. Heahmund thought he was looking in the eyes of the devil when he saw the crawling figure coming closer and closer to him. Chuckling like a demon. While he relished in the humiliation of the Christian, his brother was distracted by something else. In the back of the church were two dogs that fought over a bone, it seams that ever creature was fighting on this day. But the display and sounds brought back a memory to Hvitserks mind. The animal in the tunnels.

He went out of the building without a word in search of a bigger ax. His brother not even realizing he left. When Hvitserk made his way back into the tunnels he had a harder time finding the mysterious door again. The shine of the torch not being light enough for him to see everything. With his luck we would get lost. But the gods were on his side and after he ran into a dead end for the fifth time he found it. 'You're done'

His shoulder hurt after the battle. One Saxon having brought their sword down further then Hvitserk could reflect with his. The dried up blood was still on his clothes. It seamed to open up again as warm liquid trailed down his arm in small droplets. But he didn't care. He needed to know what exactly was behind this stupidly, hard to open door. With a final blow of the ax the wood splintered away and gave sight into the room.

It was dark and the smell of sick and rotten flesh made its way into his nose. It was worse then when they burned flesh for the plan. Even with his torch he couldn't see inside so he made his way back a little and began to bring the ax back to the hole he created. More and more wood split away and after only four more hits he could fit through. Of course it was probably not the best idea to go blindly into a locked room but his curiosity won over common sense.

At first he didn't see anything. No animal running towards him. No treasure or anything being stored in this room. All his eyes were met was stone walls that were covered with vines and mold, water running down in small streams down the sides and puddles of old and dried up blood littering the floor. This was not a room for save keeping. No this looked like a cell if he ever seen one. He turned around and was about to climb back through the door when a sound made his body freeze.

It was the same thing. The small whining of a broken animal. Barley there but in the silent room it appeared to echo from everywhere. He turned around and really searched every corner and halted when his eyes came on a small bundle of brown fabric. Fabric that moved in a feeble attempted to get away from the viking. He took a step closer, cautious as to not scare it even more. He didn't even know what lied before him until two golden eyes looked back at him with so much despair he faltered in his step.

It was a girl. A small, sickly Saxon girl that, by the looks of it, was trapped in this cell for only the gods knew how long. She trembled and flinched and even though he didn't move closer she tried to get away even more. But her body seemed to gave up on her. All throughout her weak attempted to escape the threat they held eye contact until the gold vanished and she collapsed on the ground.

'What in the name of Odin?'

Hvitserk ran up to the girl and up on a closer look saw that her hands and feet were shackled to the walls. Her wrist scraped raw and red. Ankles crusted over with old blood.

Unbeknown to Hvitserk the closer he got to the girl the less his shoulder bled and hurt. But with the situation a little bit more severe he just simply couldn't focus on it. He blamed it on his new discovery and excitement and moved on. With his ax he had little effort with the chains that weighted more then the girl herself, picked her up over his shoulder and made his way back to the church. He couldn't wait for his brothers reaction of his find.

Ivar was getting impatient. Sitting on the table at end of the hall he wondered where his brother was. A small feast was being held to celebrate the defeat of the Christians. He wanted to talk to him about the bishop and then rub it in his face a little that his plan worked. The rumble of conversations died down a little with the sound of opening doors and people made room for whoever entered the hall. By now Ivar could see that ,finally, his brother came. But what he nor anyone expected was the sleeping girl in his arms. What was going on?

With each step from his brother Ivar felt something change inside his body. He couldn't put it into words but there was a force spreading from his chest to his legs. Hvitserk went to the middle of the room and laid the girl on the floor right to his feet. Ivar's eyes widened, breath stuck inside his lungs. Could it be? He didn't feel like this since he was just a little boy. He only remembered that once he had felt it because his beloved mother told him. With a start so abrupt he made everyone in the room look at him he lowered his body to the ground.

Hvitserk looked at his little brother who crawled over the unconscious Saxon girl. Faster then he ever crawled. As if she was the only thing that would keep him alive, that she was the last drop of water for a dying man. His whole body covered hers and he was only breaths away from her. The look on his face was a fuse of shock, astounding, revelation and skepticism. But also, if you were close enough, fear. He looked as if the biggest treasure lay under him. The other vikings in the room stopped at what they were doing and observed what their leader would do. No one said a word. There wasn't even the sound of a single breath. Ivar's eyes didn't even blink as he slowly graced her face with his bloodied hand. Leaving a small trail of blood on her cold face. Who was this girl?

“Ivar, what it is? What are you doing?”

Ivar could only vaguely hear his big brothers words. But they came through the haze he was trapped in and with a small voice, so quiet Hvitserk had to lean closer to the two bodies lying on the ground to even hear him, he said:

“I don't feel any pain in my legs.”

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Thanks for reading and let me know what you think about this. I have an idea for a little series with this.

Hope everyone has an awesome day!

#history vikings #vikings #vikings ivar #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar imagine #ivar x y/n #my work #ivar fanfic

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cozy-the-overlord · 4 years

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Running with the Wolves

Summary: After the events of Infinity War ripped her life to pieces, Queen In-Unga forges forward as sole ruler of Jotunheim, finding solace in the two orphaned wolf puppies she finds outside her sleigh.

AU in which Loki didn’t die at the beginning of Infinity War-- he accompanied Thor to Nidavellir, then to Wakanda, and died in the Snap alongside the Avengers.

Based on Frostbite by @maiden-of-asgard

Word Count: 12,192

Pairing: Loki x Reader/Loki x In-Unga

Read it on Ao3

A/N: So let’s flashback to last summer. I had three obsessions: Avengers Endgame, A Song of Ice and Fire (which I was reading for the first time), and Frostbite by Maiden of Asgard. Those obsessions merged into a story that’s been swirling in my head ever since. I never thought I'd actually write it-- back then, I still wasn't fully comfortable with writing my own fanfiction, let alone writing fanfiction of someone else's fanfiction. But when Moa announced that she was going to be turning Frostbite into a physical book and would be accepting fan submissions, my dumbass brain went "i CaN dO tHaT."

This is the most I've struggled with writing a story ever. I've never written from the perspective of a character that wasn't my own, and I found that to much more difficult than I anticipated. Combine that with how the story I was trying to tell spanned over an overwhelming five years, my constant stress that I was ruining Moa’s characters, and the fact that I kept finding myself in "this-made-more-sense-in-my-head" territory and I started getting pretty frustrated. I had expected to be done by the end of June; when at the beginning of July I was only barely halfway finished, I kind of threw in the towel and said "forget it." I took a week off from writing to clear my head, and after a pep talk from my sister (thanks, JJ!) I decided I had to complete it. So here it is! Am I completely happy with the final product? No, but seeing as I never thought there'd be a final product, I'm proud of myself nonetheless.

One last note (this a/n is obnoxious, I’m sorry): Moa, I did intend for this story to be a part of your Frostbite book, but I totally understand if you don't want to deal with it. It is disgustingly long, and I know that you said that the book is already huge. I won't be offended if you don't put it in-- I don't want to create more trouble for you.

Thanks for reading!

It was freezing.

That was saying something. Freezing was an adjective In-Unga had learned not to use lightly. Living on Jotunheim came with the acceptance that you would be existing in extreme sub-zero temperatures year round, warmth being an elusive gem found only in the recesses of furry coats or underneath thick blankets. In the years she had spent in the realm of the Frost Giants, In-Unga felt that she had come quite accustomed to the cold. It was something she was rather proud of—when Captain Rodgers had visited with Thor a few years back, he had joked that she must have taken some kind of super soldier serum herself in order to handle it so well. She had responded, beaming, that as long as she had Loki, she didn’t need anything else to keep her warm.

She had never really considered the truth to that statement.

Njal, her burly head guard, pulled his mount alongside hers. “The temperature is dropping, my queen,” he said. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in your sleigh—”

“No.” She hoped her voice sounded stronger than she felt. “I appreciate your concern, but I am perfectly fine as I am.” Just for good measure, she added a queenly nod.

Njal seemed unconvinced, but he bowed his head just the same. “As you say, my queen.”

In-Unga exhaled, trying to ignore the white cloud that enveloped her when she did so. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay out here. She couldn’t see the skin of her hands under her mittens, but she was certain they were blue. Her face, as well. In fact, at the moment she probably looked more Jotun than Midgardian.

But she was determined to continue riding. Loki had always made a point of it, in the early days when his main concern was showcasing his strength. Now that he was gone, she needed to be strong for him, and for her people.

Those that were left.

Her eyes burned in warning, and so In-Unga shook her head and went back to thinking about how horribly freezing it was. The cold hurt less.

Býleistr had questioned her decision to tour the kingdom so late in the year. The weather would be awful, he said. Her people would understand if she waited until spring. In-Unga had argued that waiting brought its own danger: ignoring the far-away regions during such a tumultuous time would foster restlessness, and the last thing they needed on top of everything that had happened was a civil war.

What she couldn’t put into words was how she needed to get out. There were too many missing faces in Utgard, gaping holes in the tapestry of family she had woven around herself. The throne room was empty even when it was full. She couldn’t focus on mealtime conversations because her gaze kept drifting to the vacant seats where her Forest Twins should be sitting. Her bedroom had become a tomb.

She had to leave, before she drowned in the silence.

Shouts at the back of the party startled In-Unga out of her pity spiral. Members of her guard rushed down the line of sleighs, weapons drawn. Those that remained by her side closed in a tight wall around her.

“What’s happening?” she called to Njal. “Are we under attack?” That’s just what we need now. The forested wilderness that surrounded them provided cover to any would-be assailants. Here, they were sitting ducks.

The wind picked up again, ice cutting straight through her many layers, and this time In-Unga found she couldn’t control her shivering. Frozen sitting ducks.

Soon enough, the cries died down, and her guards came riding back.

“All is well, your majesty. It was only a vargr.”

In-Unga thought of Mánagarmr and shivered again. “A wolf?” she asked. “Is anyone injured?”

“No, my queen.” In-Unga didn’t know the name of the guard that spoke. He was a new member of her defense, one of the many who got an unexpected promotion when their superiors turned to dust. “It jumped out at the last sleigh and startled many, but it was small, and taken down rather easily.”

The mortal queen of Jotunheim frowned. “Why would a wolf attack a party this large?” she asked.

“I cannot say, my queen.”

“Your majesty,” Njal spoke. “Shall I give the order to continue?”

In-Unga shook her head. This didn’t make any sense. “No,” she said. “I want to see this wolf.”

It shouldn’t have surprised her that a giant’s version of a small wolf was bigger than a Clydesdale. The majestic animal now lay lifeless in the snow, the pure white of its fur sullied only by the crimson stain spreading from the spear in its neck. The soldier who brought it down was only too pleased to relay the story to his queen.

“It came tearing out of the woods like a beast from Hel,” he cried, waving his hands for dramatic effect, “Snarling and hissing and baring its teeth. Most of us were caught off guard, but I’ve always been quick with a spear, and so when it turned to me, I was ready for it—”

In-Unga nodded, only half listening. She scanned the treeline from which the wolf had appeared. It made no sense to her—what would cause the creature to attack unprovoked? Right now, with the trees casting crooked silhouettes and the wind whistling in her ears, it seemed like an omen.

But of what? She wondered uselessly. What else could go wrong?

A clump of snow caught her eye. For a moment, she couldn’t understand why—it looked no different than any other clump she had come across in her life. Completely ordinary, but… there was something…

Warmth.

It was warmer than the rest.

The realization shocked her a little. Sensing changes in temperature from afar had been one of the skills Loki had taught her (unsurprisingly, given his affinity for snakes), but she had thought she lost it, along with all her other magical abilities, when she lost her husband.

Better make a note of that.

“There’s something over there,” she said, pointing. “In the snow. Something alive.” She made her way off the road, her guards scrambling to maintain their positions around her.

Damn, it was cold. In-Unga knelt in the ice, biting back curses as the snow soaked through to her knees. Getting back on her mount was looking more and more impossible.

The clump whimpered.

She let out a small gasp when the fluffy puppy head popped out of the snow, blinking ice out of its eyes. It shook the glistening snow from its fur with a tiny whine. A petulant growl followed, and a second pup appeared, pushing its way in front of the first and baring its teeth.

“Oh!” In-Unga reached out cautiously, the cold already forgotten. The growling puppy yipped and she pulled her hand back. The other merely yawned.

Behind her, Njal cleared his throat. “My queen, perhaps you should back away. They are feral—”

“That was their mother,” In-Unga interrupted, looking back at the bleeding body on the side of the path. “She must have felt they were threatened by the caravan and attacked. And we killed her.” Although, even that seemed unlikely. In-Unga eyed the wolf-killer where he stood over the body of his prey, animatedly retelling the story of his deed to a growing crowd. It was easy to picture him wandering off the trail and provoking the frightened mother. Her gaze darkened.

Njal shifted uncomfortably. “It is unfortunate, my queen, but at this point there’s nothing to be done. We should continue before the weather takes a turn for the worse.”

“We can’t just leave them to starve!” she cried. She reached out again. The growling puppy flinched but didn’t back away. Its sibling craned its neck to sniff her mitten, sneezing when it breathed in a noseful of fuzz. Puppies in the dead of winter. That’s got to mean something. “Look at them! They won’t survive without their mother.”

“I can give them a quick end, your Majesty, if it would ease your worries,” one of her guards spoke up. “It would be merciful—”

“No.” Her guards stiffened at the ice in her voice. The first puppy nuzzled into her hand, rubbing against her like a cat and letting out a contented sigh when she scratched the fur on its neck. The other slunk forward guardedly, curiosity seemingly cracking its tough guy exterior. To her surprise neither resisted when she scooped them into her arms.

“I’ll have no more killing today,” In-Unga said as she stood. “I’ll care for them myself.”

Huld seemed absolutely horrified when the mortal queen plopped the little balls of fur on the floor of the sleigh.

“My queen, they’re wild animals!” she cried.

In-Unga laughed as the first puppy attempted to burrow back into her coat pocket. “Yeah. Real wild.” Its head popped up at the sound of her voice, and for the first time, In-Unga noticed its eyes: one brown and one blue. “Why, you’re a little David Bowie wolf, aren’t you?” she cooed, scratching its pointed ear. The puppy licked her wrist happily.

Her maid wasn’t quite as pleased. “My queen!” she exclaimed, backing away as the other pup growled. “What do you plan to do with them?”

“Keep them, I suppose. Raise them as pets.” She left the Bowie wolf to rein in his brother. They were both so small—when she held them in her arms they could easily be mistaken for Earth dogs. In-Unga found herself recalling her first sleigh ride in Jotunheim, with Greip and Gjálp and Snowball the Not-Melrakki, how shocked the twins had been at the concept of Midgardians owning pets.

How many years ago was that? Five? Feels like a lifetime.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, hoping Huld was too preoccupied with their new companions to smell her grief.

“Do we have anything for them to eat?” she asked with forced brightness. “Seal milk, or something?” Huld frowned, but obediently prepared a bowl of milk.

“They’re going to grow to be monsters,” she warned. “My queen, you saw Mánagarmr—”

“That’s right, I did,” In-Unga interrupted as her puppies began lapping up the dish. “And let me tell you, these guys are nothing like him.” The tough pup looked up with an offended growl. Laughing, she reached out to pet him. “Although this one thinks he is.”

The maid’s look of concern only deepened.

In-Unga sighed. “Don’t worry, Huld. Their mother wasn’t even that big. They won’t grow up to be Mánagarmr.” She cringed as she thought of the blood-splattered wolf lying in the snow. These puppies were so small, they had to have been born within the last month, after the Snap. Their poor mother survived the event that massacred half of every living being in the universe so she could give birth to her children, only to be stabbed to death by some hotshot with a stick. It was too cruel for words.

His hunger satisfied, the Bowie wolf paddled over to where In-Unga sat cross-legged on the floor and plopped down in her lap, grinning up at her with his multi-colored eyes.

“Awww!” In-Unga stroked his fur as he snuggled against her coat. “Huld, look at this! Isn’t he precious?”

Huld gave some non-descript reply, but In-Unga didn’t hear her. The second puppy was sniffing her boot, chewing on the sole with pearly teeth. “Come here, little guy.” He whined as she pulled him into her lap with his brother but didn’t try to escape. Quickly, they were both snoring.

In-Unga cradled them as the caravan trudged on, completely oblivious to the cold.

Her wolf pups quickly became the highlight of her entourage. At first In-Unga kept to leaving them with Huld while she met with the nobles on their various stops, hoping to spare them from the information overload of court, but they howled something terrible whenever she was out of sight, crying and chasing after her and giving poor Huld nightmares. Ultimately, the queen had two leashes fashioned out of leather, which they wore reluctantly in exchange for accompanying her everywhere she went. It certainly was a sight to behold—she had already looked rather ridiculous before, this tiny mortal woman encompassed by giants, and now here there were these two little fluffballs constantly nipping at her heels— but perhaps it just added to her effect.

They grew quickly. Within a week it seemed they had doubled in size, which In-Unga only realized when she nearly pulled a muscle trying to scoop them both up as she had done when she first found them. Their appetite grew with them. She was seriously concerned for a while that the caravan would run out of things with which to feed them until Njal pointed out one night that they were born hunters.

“Let them loose while we travel, my queen,” he said. “They’ll find food.”

In-Unga frowned. “You think they would come back?” she asked.

Her guard’s gaze traveled to Bowie, sprawled out on her lap fast asleep, his brother hunched protectively over her feet. “I don’t think you have to worry, your Majesty.”

She started taking them off the leash in the morning. At first, they’d only trot alongside her mount, too anxious to leave her side, but soon they were venturing off the trail for pockets of time, reappearing later with some bloodied creature dangling from their mouths. Birds, rodents, small animals—nothing was safe. Her little fur-babies were stone cold killers. She would’ve been lying if she said it wasn’t unnerving to see the little puppies she cuddled up with at night licking blood off their faces, but honestly their prowess was impressive. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head when Brynjarr returned one day dragging some furry mammal twice as big as him.

Unlike his brother, Brynjarr had remained nameless for a large part of the journey. He had been bestowed with nicknames of all sorts—Hunter, Tough Guy, Mommy’s Little Fighter—but it wasn’t until they reached Márfjall that he got a proper name.

“That’s a warrior,” Hrossþjófr said to her while watching the two wrestle on the beach. “He needs a warrior’s name.”

In-Unga had been dreading this final stop, dreading having to walk down these hallways alone when the very walls of the castle screamed for Loki. She had resolved be strong, but just seeing Hross as they alighted, withered and wilted without Griep by his side, had been nearly enough to cause her to fall apart.

The wolves kept her together. Their childlike fascination with the crimson sands was almost enough to distract her from the other memories swirling around in the dark bay. In her few moments of free time, she’d take them down to the shore and laugh as they’d go tearing up the surf, Brynjarr barking menacingly at the ocean when the waves crashed too close to his feet, Bowie rolling around in the sand until his white coat was stained pink. Hross joined her often with his children, likely as desperate for a diversion as she was. They didn’t talk about the event. It was easier just to focus on the wolves.

Hross was endlessly impressed with their obedience. “How do you get them to do that?” he asked when they stopped what they were doing and came running at In-Unga’s whistle.

She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said as she attempted to dust off Bowie’s coat before he plopped down on top of her. Even though the two wolves were nearly at the height of her hips, Bowie still seemed to think he was a lap cat. “They just always do.”

Dagný shrieked and buried her face into her father’s chest when the wolves came too close, but her brother leaned forward, his eyes like saucers as he reached for Brynjarr with chubby hands.

“Woof,” he cried. “Woof.”

Hross pulled him away. “Dali, we don’t want to bother the vargr, now—"

“It’s okay,” In-Unga said. “Bryn, sit down so Dali can pet you.”

Brynjarr sank into the sand obediently. Dali gasped in delight as he ran his fingers through the wolf’s thick mane.

“Woof!” he cried again, happily. Hross and In-Unga laughed.

From her lap, Bowie whined for attention. She reached to scratch behind his ears.

“So devoted,” Hross mused. “I’ll have to add it to your song. ‘In-Unga, charmer of wolves.’”

The party arrived back at Utgard just as the winter freeze was beginning to thaw. There was an audible gasp from the crowd gathered when she exited her sleigh flanked by the two animals, but Býleistr only raised an eyebrow.

“There were rumors, but I supposed no one really believed them,” he told her as they walked in.

She smiled. “But you did?”

“Of course,” he said. “If there’s anyone on this planet stupid enough to mistake a vargr for a pet, it’s you.”

“I missed you too, Bý.”

Býleistr and the rest of her advisors tried to catch her up on all the business she had missed over dinner, but the very presence of her wolves was quick to derail any serious conversation.

“They’re so well behaved,” marveled a forest giant In-Unga probably should’ve known the name of. “How does one inspire such loyalty, your Majesty?”

In-Unga forced an artificial laugh. “They only stick around because they know I feed them.”

The wolves laid down at her feet, eyeing the meat on the table. She reached down to scratch Bowie’s back. She doubted the giant had meant anything by her question, but the way everyone was looking at Bowie and Brynjarr was reminding her of the way everyone had looked at her when she first arrived in Jotunheim with Loki, and it was stirring up emotions in her chest that she wasn’t prepared to deal with.

She thought of the golden collar she had worn for so many years, a sign of ownership that had turned into a display of loyalty. She had despised it at first, but by the end she had been proud to wear that collar.

Lokakona. Loki’s woman.

It was in a box under her bed, along with the knife he had given her after the Rann Steinar debacle and the wooden Yggdrasil pendent Griep had given her before her first trip to Asgard. In the days following the destruction of the stones, as the heavy truth that this was a nightmare she wasn’t going to wake up from sank in, In-Unga had collected everything that broke her to look at and stuffed them where she wouldn’t see them anymore.

It hadn’t helped much.

The nights were the worst. It was stupid, because she had lived alone for years before Jotunheim, but now the concept of sleeping by herself made her sick to her stomach. When everything had first happened, In-Unga had refused to even touch the bed. It was too big, too cold, too empty to even attempt sleep in it. She piled furs and blankets on top of the couch and laid there all night, haunted by missing faces and broken memories and outstretched hands that were just beyond her reach. By morning, she’d be curled up so tightly into herself that it hurt to sit straight during the day.

At first, it was just temporary. Wasn’t that what Agent Romanov said, when she finally got into contact with her? They’d find a way to reverse it. Once they were able to locate Tony Stark, they’d find a way. It would be okay. She’d just have to rule in Loki’s stead for a little bit, just like she had before. Keep his realm together for him until he came back. But a month later, she got another call. This time, Romanov’s voice held none of the steadfast determination that In-Unga had been clinging to so desperately. They were gone. The infinity stones, and the people too. It was over. They failed. She was so sorry.

Vaguely, In-Unga remembered asking if she could talk to her brother-in-law, the silence that followed as Romanov went looking for him, her apologetic tone when Thor refused to come to the phone. The next thing she knew she was in the courtyard, heavy snow pummeling her body as Býleistr dragged her back inside with an arm around her waist.

“Are you completely out of your mind?” he snapped. “You’ll freeze to death out there!”

She held up her hand, hazily noting that her skin looked an even darker blue than his.

It was soon after that In-Unga decided to tour the kingdom. The voice inside her head scolded her for the decision even as she attempted to provide political rationale. She was running away. Pushing her problems further down the road in a childish attempt to avoid the unavoidable. Loki would be disappointed in you.

But how could she rule a planet when she couldn’t even bring herself to sleep in her own bed?

So she had left for a few months, for better or worse, and now she was back. After dinner her wolves, obviously exhausted from the long journey, trotted into her old room without issue. Bowie plopped down on the floor and was asleep in seconds. Brynjarr, ever distrustful, made his cautious way around the room, sniffing at odds and ends and barking at items that seemed too suspicious. In-Unga stood in the doorway, watching. It was almost enough of a distraction. Almost. The room was untouched since the last time she had entered, so much so that it still reeked of Loki. The feeling was so strong that for a moment she didn’t trust herself to move.

She entered slowly, drinking in the memories. Loki’s desk, where she’d lean on top of him and read his paperwork over his shoulder, currently piled up with documents he was never going to review. The table across from empty fireplace, where on rare occasions they could have their meals when the only company they felt like entertaining was each other’s. The rug next to the fireplace, where they always seemed to end up after such occasions.

And there was the bed. Brynjarr rushed ahead of her as she made her way to the bedroom, seemingly intent on confirming its safety before allowing her access. In-Unga found herself laughing despite the ache in her chest.

“Does it meet your standards, Bryn?” she asked as he slipped under the bed and out again, sniffing every corner and examining every fur. Eventually, he laid down at the foot of the bed, satisfied.

In-Unga sat down next to him, stroking his ears as he rested his big head on her thighs. This was the last place she had seen Loki. Here, in this room, on this bed. They had been woken up in the middle of the night by a messenger at the door. Groaning, he had dragged himself out of bed to answer it, only to return shortly after considerably more alert.

“What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily as he dressed. “Where you going?”

“Thor’s made a mess of things on Asgard,” he replied, pulling his tunic over his head. “He needs my help.”

“What?” The gravity of his tone woke her up quickly. “Wait, you’re leaving now? What happened?”

He leaned forward to kiss her. “It’s probably nothing. My brother is known to blow things out of proportion. I should be back within a few days.”

“Loki—”

He muffled her with another kiss. “Don’t worry, dröttning,” he whispered against her lips. “It will be fine. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered back. “Stay safe.”

And then he was gone.

For months, In-Unga wondered if there was something she should’ve done. Pulled him back into bed, forbidden him from walking through that door? “Stay here with me. Thor can handle it himself.” Would it have even changed anything? Loki had told her about Thanos—not a lot, but enough to understand that his influence stretched across galaxies. Would he still have collected the stones, regardless of whether she managed to keep Loki with her? She didn’t know which alternative was worse: the idea that there was something she could’ve done but didn’t, or the thought that she was so useless that Loki and the others were fated to die regardless of her actions.

Brynjarr whined, sitting up taller so he could lick the tears off her cheeks. She buried her face in his fluffy neck.

“I miss him, Bryn,” she sobbed. “I miss him so much.”

He followed her into bed that night. It was a bit surprising—Brynjarr normally wasn’t one for bedtime cuddles, that was Bowie’s thing—but not all together unwelcome. In-Unga was a little more concerned about the bed—on all fours her wolves were now taller than her, and significantly heavier. But it seemed to hold together alright, minus a few creaks, and honestly, the comforting weight of Bryn’s head on her stomach was worth a damaged bedframe if it came down to it. Slowly, she drifted off to the sound of his breathing.

Court was sparse these days.

In-Unga had become so accustomed to the looming hallway being packed with faces that seeing it half-empty kindled even more anxiety in her chest. The faces that were there seemed anxious as well—although In-Unga was rather certain their apprehension came more from the massive wolves at her feet than the vacancies in the room. Bowie and Brynjarr were still for the most part, but they were always ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

Everything was threatening to them. If someone addressed her with a less than respectful tone, if someone tried too come to near to the throne, they were on their feet, teeth bared and growling. In-Unga found it hard to take them seriously. Bowie was a big sweetie who liked belly rubs and snuggling next to the fire, and whenever Bryn growled, she could only picture the tiny little fluff ball she found in the snow trying to be intimidating. But they certainly succeeded in unnerving the court, a little too much perhaps.

“Maybe I should have them wait outside next time,” she wondered aloud to Býleistr after a civilian who had come to petition the queen had been so frightened he was unable to string together a coherent sentence.

“No, most certainly not,” he countered. “They give you an extra sense of authority. The Queen already controls the Casket, now the vargrs bow to her command—it’s a powerful statement, and Jotuns respect power.”

“I suppose,” she said, thoughtfully. “But I don’t want to feel like I’m ruling through fear.”

Býleistr scoffed. “If your subjects don’t fear you to some extent, then you’re doing something wrong. Besides,” he added, “they should be fearful of your wolves.”

He was probably right. In-Unga trusted Njal and his men with her life, but she knew that if there was any sign of danger it would be the wolves who acted first. Bryn and Bowie accompanied her everywhere, flanking her like a set of furry bodyguards. It was especially odd given how large they had grown—they had long been towering over her, and now were approaching Býleistr’s height. Thankfully, Utgard had high ceilings.

With time, the palace became more accustomed to their presence. In-Unga liked to think that seeing her so at ease with them had begun to rub off on her subjects. If she ever had free time during the day, she’d take the two outside to run around and play in the snow. It wasn’t nearly as spacious as the beaches at Márfjall, but they had enough room to wrestle and cavort around. A crowd usually gathered when she played fetch with an old stick of wood she had picked up while still on the road, watching cautiously with wide eyes. She felt rather like a zookeeper putting on a show in an exhibit.

And if you look here, boys and girls, we have an overgrown doggo in his natural habitat.

It had also become a well-known fact that Bowie and Brynjarr slept in In-Unga’s bed with her. She wasn’t quite sure how this had become a well-known fact—perhaps those in charge of washing her bedding had taken note of the clumps of white fur tangled in the blankets—but Huld told her that this fact was seen as quite impressive to the other servants.

“It’s brave,” she said. “To leave yourself vulnerable to such beasts every night.”

In-Unga laughed humorlessly from where she sat hunched over at the desk. It had been a rough day. “At least they’re impressed. I’m pretty sure Loki’s glaring daggers down at me for letting animals sleep in his bed.” She had meant to make a joke, but there was a familiar lump building in her throat that she couldn’t quite swallow.

Hesitantly, Huld reached out to touch her forearm. “He’d love them,” she said. “He loved anything that made you happy.”

Maybe that was so. But In-Unga was still pretty certain that he’d be pissed—if not for the constantly shedding vargrs taking over his bedroom, then definitely for the stupid ideas that they spawned.

“Alright,” In-Unga said, drawing a line in the air from her chest to the ground. “Lie down.”

The two wolves sunk into the snow obediently, though not without confusion. They clearly expected playtime when she brought them outside, as did the growing crowd of faces at the palace gate. She sighed. This was one time where she’d rather not have an audience, but she didn’t feel right having them dispersed.

“Have I mentioned that this is a terrible idea?” Býleistr drawled from behind her.

“You have, as a matter of fact,” she replied, rubbing Bowie’s neck. He sighed contently, multicolored eyes slipping closed. “I’m still not listening to you.”

“It was worth a try.”

It was Hross who had put the idea in her head, when he had come to visit a month or two ago. Even after he returned to Márfjall, she couldn’t stop imagining what it might be like to ride one of her wolves like a horse.

“Just picture it!” he had said excitedly. “Queen In-Unga, riding into battle alone atop a vargr, casket in hand—”

Býleistr had interrupted to inquire under what circumstances would the kingdom become so inept as to send their mortal queen into battle alone, but In-Unga was sold.

Although, looking at it now, mounting didn’t seem as simple as Hross had made it out to be.

“Okay,” she murmured to Bowie as she made her way around his body. “I’m going to get on your back, buddy. Don’t freak out.” She grabbed a clump of fur on his back—even with him laying down, she had to reach a bit—and tried to pull herself up.

Key word being tried.

“No—what are you doing?” she cried as Bowie stood up with her still hanging off his side. “Bowie, sit down!”

The wolf yawned.

“Oh my,” Býleistr was doing his best to sound disinterested, but she could hear the suppressed laugher hiding under his voice. “Do you need a push?”

“Shut up.” She leveraged herself against the wolf, trying to wriggle her way to a sitting position. Bowie suddenly decided to obey her earlier command and plopped his bottom on the ground, the movement throwing her off enough to tumble into the snow.

“Oof!”

Bowie grinned at her.

Býleistr’s laugh rang out across the ice.

“I take it back,” he said. “That was well worth it. Now, have you had enough of this nonsense, my Queen, or might we go back inside?”

In-Unga was already back on her feet. “Do whatever you want, Býleistr. I’m not finished yet.”

This time, she went to Brynjarr. He was still lying down, despite all the ruckus.

“Okay,” she murmured, scratching his ear. “Take 2.”

Bowie whined. In-Unga turned around to see him lying down with his head between his paws, eyes wide and repentant. “Oh, hush!” she said, rolling her eyes. “You had your chance.”

Pulling herself on to Brynjarr’s back was surprisingly easy, likely because he actually listened to her when she told him to stay still. It took her a minute to get situated and comfortable, seated in a position where she didn’t feel like she was immediately going to slip off. She wondered if she should have a saddle made. But she felt like that would be too complicated—they’d have to get measurements from the wolves since no such saddle had ever been made before (to her knowledge, at least), all the while working on the assumption that Bryn and Bowie would even wear such a contraption.

Besides, she told herself, Daenerys Targaryen rides her dragons bareback without problem, right?

Yes. That was definitely the type of logic she needed to live her life by.

In-Unga clutched his fur as tightly as she could. “Okay, Bryn,” she said, tapping his neck. “Up!”

The wolf rose to his feet in one fluid, graceful motion that nearly sent her sprawling again. Oh boy. She tightened the grip of her legs around his sides. If I die today, blame George R.R. Martin.

She was high. Extremely high. Geez, she had to be at least ten feet in the air! Since when had her babies gotten this big?

Býleistr cleared his throat. “So,” he said, looking up at her (Býleistr had to look up at her!), “Are you just going to sit up there all day or do you plan on doing something? Because if not I would like to remind you that—”

“Hold your horses, Bý.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

In-Unga ignored him. She leaned forward to flatten herself against Brynjarr’s back. “Okay buddy,” she whispered, tapping his shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He started off slowly, a fact for which she was exceedingly thankful. He crept ahead almost as if he was tiptoeing, so soft that she barely felt his feet on the ground, a far cry from the clodding she was used to with the wooly rhinos. He wandered around in a circle, continually looking back to check if she was still there.

“Good boy.”

They continued riding in a circle for a while. It wasn’t anything grand, and it was certainly a far cry from Hrossþjófr’s vision of her galloping into battle, but there was still something thrilling about being atop such a powerful creature. In-Unga didn’t have any delusions about being in control—she knew damn well the moment Brynjarr decided he had had enough he’d plop down in the snow and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it—but the illusion of control was enough to make her feel unbelievably powerful.

“Look at me, Býleistr!” she called. “Aren’t you impressed?”

“Exceedingly,” he said dryly. “Are you finished? Remember, we do have things to accomplish today.”

In-Unga frowned. Býleistr was right, of course—she was the Queen of Jotunheim, she couldn’t just spend the entire day playing with her wolves. But on the flip side, she was the Queen of Jotunheim—if she wanted to spend the entire day playing with her wolves, who could stop her?

Just as she was beginning to favor postponing her next few meetings on account of essential wolf training, Bowie rose to his feet.

She sighed. “Bowie, what did I tell you—” The wolf wasn’t listening. He knelt close to the ground, muscles tense as he eyed something in the distance. Brynjarr turned around abruptly, In-Unga grabbing at his mane to maintain her balance. He too tensed, staring unblinkingly into the snow.

She squinted into the distance. At first, she couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary, but the tiniest movement of white fur soon gave it away. A kanína. They were smaller, rodent-like creatures that lived all over the place, not unlike the rabbits she knew from Earth. Their meat was extremely tough, practically inedible to giants and mortals alike, but her wolves loved to hunt them.

Uh oh.

“I think I’m going to get down now,” she said, patting Brynjarr’s neck. “You can chance down that furball once I’m on the ground. Lie down.” Bryn didn’t move. Oh dear.

She tried again, more authoritatively. “Brynjarr, lie down! Brynjarr—” She cut herself off with a very unqueenly shriek as the kanína bolted, the wolves bolting after it.

All In-Unga could do was hold on for dear life. The wind smacked her face as they picked up speed, whistling so loudly in her ears that she could only barely hear Býleistr shouting her name. The landscape flashed by in a blur of color.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit!

“Bryn!” she screamed. “Bryn, stop!”

It was like riding a giant rocking horse running at the speed of light. Straightening up was out of the question, so she flattened herself against Brynjarr’s body and tried to sway with his movements. To the left, she could barely make out Bowie running alongside them, leaping so far that it looked like he was flying above the snow.

Just breath. Focus on breathing. Don’t think about how much it’ll hurt if you fall. Just focus on breathing.

Although… it wasn’t that bad. The longer she held on, feeling the vibration of their paws travel up her spine, the more her panic began to fade. She pushed up a little, risking a glance over her shoulder at the distant dot that was Býleistr. Shit. They were going fast.

Exhilaration flooded her body. This is what Hross had been talking about!

In-Unga, Charmer of Wolves

For a moment, she felt like a superhero.

When she hooted, the wolves howled with her. The kanína was still running in front of them, scrambling to stay ahead, but its time was up: Bowie pounced and had the poor rodent dangling in his mouth in a second, snapping its neck like it was nothing. They slowed down, Bowie stopping completely to grin at her with his prize. Look at me, Mom! Aren’t you proud of me?

In-Unga laughed. “Good boy.”

Trotting back to Býleistr was slightly less thrill-inducing now that she could actually see where they were going without getting pelted in the face with wind. In-Unga made a mental note to have a pair of goggles made for any future wolf-runs.

“So what do you think?” she asked, grinning down at her brother-in-law.

Býleistr gaped at her. He shook his head. “I don’t know why I still haven’t learned to just expect this madness from you.”

She snickered.

After that, wolf rides became a part of In-Unga’s daily routine. Every afternoon she’d climb onto Bryn’s back and take off into the snow for about an hour, flying across the countryside with only her wolves for company. That last detail drove Býleistr mad.

“You are the single most important individual on this planet,” he snapped at her one day. “And, if you’ll excuse my saying so, likely the most vulnerable as well. You need to take a guard with you.”

“I can take care of myself, Bý,” she replied nonchalantly from where she sat with Bowie in front of the fireplace. “You should understand that as much as anyone. Besides, the wolves will take care of me.” Bowie looked up with a grin, thumping his tail against the stone floor in enthusiastic agreement. Býleistr rolled his eyes.

“And when you go flying off their back while they’re running at full speed? How will they protect you then?” He shook his head. “I’d doubt they’d even notice you were missing.”

“That will never happen,” she said stubbornly. “I’d never fall off, and they’d never leave me behind.”

It was easy to sound fearless while bathed in the warmth of the fire, but there were moments where In-Unga was a little less sure of herself (although she’d stab herself before admitting such to the prince). The landscape around Utgard was high and rocky, and although her furry companions were sure footed, she often found herself swallowing her heart as they scampered up craggy ledges.

Still, every hair-raising experience she survived increased her confidence in her abilities as a wolf-back rider and encouraged her to go farther. She taught Brynjarr to understand her commands just by the way she shifted her weight on his back. Luckily, he picked it up easily— trying to yell instructions with the wind blasting in her face got old very quickly.

Bowie took a little while longer, but they got there eventually. He wasn’t as much of a fan of having In-Unga on his back, but he also wasn’t a fan of being left out, and weeks of watching his brother get all the attention for carrying the queen wore him down. Soon enough, she could ride him as well as Bryn.

They tended to keep to the rocks on their journeys. Running through the caves would have been a lot easier, as well as less windy, but the caverns that Loki had carried her through when she first arrived on Jotunheim were haunted by ghosts of memories In-Unga couldn’t bring herself to face. Instead, she stuck to sights less sacred: mountainous cliffs and jutting rocks that Bryn and Bowie loved to race each other around, places so far off the beaten path that there was no chance of stray flashbacks popping up to punch her in the gut.

Sometimes, on the way back from the palace, she’d ride through town. It was a risk, of course, but then again when was anything not? She always wanted to laugh at the crowd that gathered whenever she came through, at the way her people’s eyes would bulge at seeing the giant wolves plodding down the road completely unphased. They would whisper amongst themselves, just as they did that first time she came to the marketplace with Griep, but the words were slightly different.

In-Unga. Vargdröttning.

Usually, she made a point of stopping at some small vendor and purchasing something— a dagger, a blanket, a piece of jewelry— the item didn’t really matter to her. She just liked interacting with her people, asking them about their families, checking up on their wellbeing. With everything that had gone wrong in the past few years, she felt that was the least she could do. That too was reminiscent her trip with Griep. So much had changed since then, and yet still so much was the same. Back then, the Jotuns hadn’t known what to make of a mortal wandering through life on Utgard as if she belonged there. In-Unga got the feeling that they still weren’t sure what to make of her now, but they treated her with respect and grace and that was all she could ever hope for.

Some of the changes hurt. The absence of her Forest Twins was an ache she carried with her everywhere she went. In-Unga had never really realized how deeply she depended on them both until they were gone. Now, without them, she missed them everywhere. At the table during meals. In the throne room when she held court. Just walking through the halls—it was such a silly, stupid thing, but she felt naked making her way through the palace alone even now, a couple years after she lost them.

Most times during her afternoon ride, she’d dismount at the top of some mountain and let Bowie and Brynjarr hunt for a bit. She’d find a rock to sit on, sheltered from the wind, and make a list of all the things she wanted to tell them. How she had been trying to teach Huld to play gin rummy, but Bowie ate half the deck. How Hross had written that Dagný had finally said her first word: daddy. How Býleistr was all pissed off because Bryn had somehow gotten into his greenhouse while In-Unga had let them out to hunt and knocked over some important plants from Alfheim.

Griep would have gotten a kick out of that last one: in the months before everything went wrong, Gjálp had been spending a suspicious amount of time in Býleistr’s greenhouse, something her sister and In-Unga had been relentlessly teasing her about. You know, payback for all the teasing she had doled out over the years. She had been getting pretty annoyed about it.

“I don’t know what the two of you have gotten in your heads,” she had scowled. “Prince Býleistr was simply showing off his imported aster flowers. They only bloom for a short period of time—”

“Riiight,” In-Unga said, smirking. “That’s definitely what he’s been showing you.”

Gjálp sputtered, scandalized, while Griep exploded into a fit of very uncharacteristic giggles.

On her rock in the middle of the snow, In-Unga giggled too. It was nice, having these quick little moments where she could almost trick herself into thinking that everything was fine. They were fleeting though. By the time her wolves returned to her, a few minutes later, she was sobbing uncontrollably.

She missed them so much.

But with everything that had changed in the past few years, everything that had been uprooted and ripped to shreds, at least there remained one constant in her life.

Periods still sucked Hel.

Regardless, In-Unga always tried to carry on with her day as usual. She was the queen, after all—she couldn’t be seen as weak. So, she’d hold court like everything was normal, sit up straight on the throne and pretend she didn’t feel like someone was wringing out her insides like wet laundry. If the giants around her noticed the stench of blood (which of course they did), they knew better than to bring it up.

But today had just been too much. Meetings heaped on top of meetings, every new face bearing a different demand or a different complaint, every new conversation only exacerbating the ache in her head and the knots in her stomach. By noon, she called it a day.

In bed, burrowed into her nest of blankets, In-Unga existed in the frustrating in-between: too tired to be fully awake, but too uncomfortable to drift off to sleep. She buried her face in her pillow and cursed the blizzard outside. It seems periods always worsened with the cold.

From the doorframe, Bowie whined. Brynjarr had easily accepted the reality that there would be no afternoon run today, instead electing to pass out at the foot of the bed, but his brother did not give up so easily. If In-Unga hadn’t felt so awful, she would’ve laughed at him—the doorway to her bedroom was far too narrow for the giant wolf. He was just barely managing to squeeze through.

He whined again.

She groaned. “Can’t play with you right now, buddy.”

Rolling over, she nestled deeper under the covers, seeking protection against the biting cold. It was a useless attempt. She never seemed to be able to get warm anymore.

Bowie padded over to her bedside, his claws drumming on the floor making him sound like some sort of depressed tap dancer. He snuffled at her hair.

“Go away, Bowie,” she muttered when he pressed his clammy nose to her forehead. She pushed his giant head away halfheartedly. “Lie down with Bryn.”

Suddenly, the whole bed dipped, and the giant wolf was attempting to snuggle his way into to her blankets.

“Bow—” she tried to push him away again, with even less effort than before. “You’re too big!” But with a final push, he nuzzled under her blankets next to her, grinning widely and smacking her face with a mouthful of doggy breath. In-Unga winced.

“Such an attention hog,” she groaned, even as she reached to scratch the fur under his chin. “You don’t even care that I’m trying to rest, do you?” He snuggled closer, sighing in contentment when In-Unga shifted so that she was resting her head on his fluffy neck rather than her pillow.

“Yes, you’re a good boy. I’m sorry. I’m just having a bad day.” She heaved a sigh of her own. “Do you know what my small council said to me, first thing when I sat down?”

He cocked his head. In-Unga took that as a sign to continue.

“They think I should get married. Remarried.” She swallowed bitterly. “They said it would help ‘maintain my legitimacy as queen.’ As if I’m not already fucking legitimate!” She smacked the mattress with her palm, glaring at her wolf. “Do you know the shit I went through to get to this point?”

Bowie whined.

“Right, of course you don’t,” she apologized. “You weren’t born yet. But take my word for it, it was a lot.”

On the floor, Brynjarr shifted in his sleep. In-Unga continued.

“And then there’s the whole subject of heirs. ‘Your Majesty, since you failed to have a child to King Loki before he died, you have no one to advance your lineage’—yes I’m well aware of that!” she shouted at the ceiling, blinking the steaming tears from her eyes. “I’m reminded of that fact every damn day of my life! I don’t need you to tell me!”

Her nose was running. She wiped it angrily with the heel of her hand. They had been trying to have a baby, her and Loki. After years of pushing it off, waiting for things to stabilize, they had finally felt ready. Loki had told her not to be frustrated if she didn’t get pregnant right away.

“Our biologies are fundamentally different. It may take some time.” They had been in bed, tangled up in each other under the cover of darkness. In-Unga could still feel his breath in her hair when he leaned down to kiss her head. “Don’t worry, dröttning. We’re in no rush.”

He had gotten called away a few months later, her womb still empty.

“They had a whole list of men they thought would be suitable,” she muttered to Bowie, blocking out memories that hurt too much to touch. “They had organized it all and everything. I felt like the Bachelorette. Totally ridiculous! And they had the audacity to look at me like I was the crazy one!”

The way they had stared at her, when she categorically refused to even consider their proposition. “But my queen, don’t you want to have children?”

Yes. Yes she did. She wanted to have children whose ebony hair matched their father’s, who carried both his intelligence and his mischievous streak within them. She wanted to see her husband’s eyes light up when they learned a new magic trick, wanted to laugh at the regal King of Jotunheim crawling around the room on his hands and knees with his toddler giggling on his back. She wanted to cradle her baby and smile at its sleeping face in awe, wondering at the perfect mix of her and the man she loved so much, a mix that could exist with no one else.

Yes, she wanted to have children. Loki’s children.

In-Unga ran her fingers through Bowie’s fur. “He’s not coming back,” she whispered. “I know that. I’ve made my peace with it. But I can’t pretend that it’s okay. I can’t just… replace him.”

Bowie licked her cheek with a tongue the size of her entire face. In-Unga sputtered, snorting. “Ugh… thanks buddy.” He nodded, moving to rest his head on her stomach so she could scratch his ears. She stroked his long fur absentmindedly. The wolves were the closest thing to children she was ever going to have. She was at peace with that too. Her advisors may not understand, but they didn’t have to. She had done so much for her kingdom. They could give her this.

And so time marched on. Winter turned to spring, spring to summer, then back to winter again, over and over as if nothing had ever happened.

It was a quiet night in her quarters when things changed.

In-Unga was skimming over a document by the fire, having abandoned the desk in favor of the furry rug, a warm blanket, and her wolf-pillows. Bryn’s eyes were fluttering. Bowie was already fast asleep, sighing contently. Behind them, Huld softly cleaned up the remnants of the late dinner she had eaten alone in her room. Save for the crackling of the flames, the room was silent.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on the lines of script. The flickering light was almost hypnotic—In-Unga leaned against Bowie’s back to rest her eyes for a moment and found herself unable to sit back up.

She yawned. Probably time to call it a night. Still, she felt so nice here—her bed would be large and cold, and she’d have to get up and walk all the way to the next room to even get there…

In-Unga was just beginning to doze off completely when the high-pitched beep nearly scared her out of her skin.

The wolves were on their feet immediately, knocking her out of her reverie and barking so loudly the room shook. The beeping continued, shrill and ear-piercing, and In-Unga cursed under her breath as she pulled herself up.

I live in a damn circus.

Huld was standing at the table, hands over her ears and red eyes trained on the corner of the room. “Your majesty!” she cried. “It’s the thing!”

In-Unga followed her gaze to the telephone-like communicator Tony Stark had created for them, back when everything was nice and happy and Thor had convinced everyone it was a good idea for Jotunheim to have some method of contact with the Avengers. For the first time in five years, it was flashing red.

She made her way across the room in a fog. The last time it rang… that call had broken her. Broken everything. Told her that the hopeless mess her life had turned into would be here to stay, and that she would have to clean it up alone. In-Unga hadn’t touched the device since. What could Earth’s Mightiest Heroes possibly have to say to her now?

Still, it couldn’t be worse than last time, could it?

In-Unga hushed the wolves, who fell silent at her command, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Agent Romanov’s sharp voice said her Midgardian name. “How have you been?”

“Alright, I guess, considering everything,” she answered cautiously. Somehow, she doubted that after half a decade the assassin had just decided to phone for a social call. “Is everything okay?”

She was right. “We’re working on something,” Agent Romanov said. “We’re not positive how everything’s going to turn out, but at the moment, things are looking good. I thought you should know, just in case things get crazy.”

In-Unga frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The Snap,” she said. She inhaled softly. “We think we can bring everyone back.”

In-Unga’s heart stopped.

For a moment, she just stood there, barely comprehending her words.

We can bring everyone back.

Romanov said her name again. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” she said shakily. “Are—are you serious? You going—how is that even possible? You said before—without the stones—”

“I know,” the assassin said. “We still need them. But Stark’s come up with something that would allow us to retrieve them before they were destroyed. We’ve planned out where they are across the timeline, the easiest times and places for us to access them—”

“Wait.” In-Unga’s head was spinning. “Retrieve them before they were destroyed?” She had to be misunderstanding. Surely Romanov wasn’t suggesting what it sounded like she was suggesting. “How is that possible? Unless you have a—”

“Time machine?” There was a wry smile to Romanov’s voice. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

“What?”

“It’s a long story, but like I said, Stark’s come up with something,” she continued. “I know it sounds insane, but we’ve proven it works—we ran a test with Barton, and Lang basically did it unintentionally for five years—”

“Lang?” In-Unga asked weakly.

“You don’t know him. But my point is it’s possible.”

It’s possible.

“Time travel,” she said. “That’s what’s happening? I haven’t gone crazy, you’re actually telling me you can time travel?”

“Well, you did marry the guy who attacked New York, so I can’t say you’re not crazy,” Romanov said. In-Unga was so overwhelmed that the poor attempt at humor didn’t even bother her. “But yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

They’re going to bring them back. In-Unga was shaking. Loki, Griep, Gjálp… they’re going to bring them back!

“When is this happening? How is this going to happen? Is there something I can do?” The questions tumbled out faster than she had time to think.

“We’re going out tomorrow. Technically speaking, everything will only take a few minutes, so we should have the stones by then.”

In-Unga gasped. “That soon?”

“Yeah. We’re not sure exactly how they’ll work once we have them, but Thanos was able to wipe out half the universe just by snapping his fingers, so we’re guessing it’s not that difficult.”

“So, everyone could be back tomorrow!” The shock was beginning to wear off, replaced by a surge of pure elation. The wolves, sensing her excitement, began barking again. “Hey, shut up! Both of you!”

Romanov laughed. “I didn’t know you had dogs.”

“It’s a fairly new development.” So new that Loki and the Twins never got to meet them. Her eyes were stinging. “Tomorrow?”

“Hopefully, yes,” In-Unga had never known Romonov to sound so excited. “That’s why I wanted to get into contact with you. We’re not sure how this will work, what kind of widespread effects it can might cause. I thought you deserved a heads up.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Will you let me know when you get back with the stones?”

“Sure thing.”

“Well…” In-Unga wondered if she was dreaming, if she was going to wake up and curse her stupid brain for letting her hope for a moment. But this was real. This was happening. “Good luck!” she said into the receiver, pulse thrumming.

She could hear the smile in Romanov’s voice. “Thanks. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

In-Unga set the receiver down in a daze. When she turned, both her wolves and her maid were staring at her with eyes so wide it was practically comical.

“Huld,” she said quietly. “Get Býleistr in here, would you?”

She spent the next day huddled next to the communicator, anxiously tapping her feet on the stone floor.

Býleistr had been willing to hold court in her place today, but he had been less inclined to share her eager optimism.

“The past has already been written, In-Unga,” he said softly. “That’s not something anyone can change.”

“But there’s a chance they might,” she cried. She pushed the hair out of her face. “A chance. That’s more than we’ve had for the last five years!”

“Getting your hopes up will only cause yourself more pain when they fail. You’ll be grieving all over again—"

“I never stopped grieving,” she whispered. Her eyes were damp again as she looked back up at Býleistr. He sighed.

“I hope it works,” he said. “I do. It’s just—” he cut himself off, shaking his head and abruptly standing up to leave. “Goodnight, your Majesty.”

Behind her, the wolves paced back and forth, whining softly as they picked up on her nervous energy. In-Unga couldn’t tear her eyes away from the phone. Had they left yet? Was everything going to plan? She let out a worried breath. If only there was something she could do. Something besides just sitting here and feeling useless.

By the afternoon Romanov still had not called and In-Unga had completely chewed through her bottom lip. She should have heard something by now. She was certain of it. Hadn’t Romanov said that it was only supposed to take a few minutes?

Huld brought her lunch at around noon. In-Unga left it on the table untouched. She wasn’t hungry. In fact, she felt like she was going to be sick.

Bowie was scratching at the floor. The sound of his nails dragging across the stone put her even more on edge than she was already, but he ignored her when she told him to stop. In the corner, Byrnjarr growled softly.

Her room was warmer than usual. She found herself shrugging off the blanket she usually kept draped across her shoulders in her quarters and letting it fall to the floor. Out of nowhere, she felt confused. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. Everything was happening at once. It was overwhelming—so overwhelming. She couldn’t think— wait.

These aren’t my feelings.

In-Unga shot up so quickly she knocked her chair over. Bowie and Bryn were on their feet in less than a second, bouncing around and barking at the top of their lungs. With shaking hands, she reached for her neck, for what had become nothing more than an old scar these past five years. At the brush of her fingertips, sparks shot through her skin.

Her gasp melted into messy sobs. “Loki.”

Outside, people were shouting, voices blending together into an amorphous blob of noise. Someone pounded at her door.

“Your Majesty!” Njal shouted. “Your Majesty, something is happening—”

They’re back. They’re all back…

In-Unga barged through her door without a word to her guards, dashing down the hallways at lightning speed with Brynjarr and Bowie trotting at her heels. There were people everywhere—servants, nobles, people gasping, people embracing, people running through the halls like maniacs like her—In-Unga ignored all of them. She flung herself down the stairs with her wolves still behind her.

The room she was rushing to hadn’t been touched in five years. She had felt stupid, giving that order, but having someone else move in was admitting that they were gone forever, and she couldn’t do that.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

In-Unga was completely out of breath by the time she flung open the door. The woman standing in the middle of room looked up as she pressed her fingers to her temple, red eyes furrowed in a frown.

“In-Unga,” she asked. “What is—”

Gjálp didn’t have time to finish before In-Unga crashed into her in a bear hug, bawling.

She sputtered. “In-Unga—”

“You’re back!” In-Unga sobbed. “You’re back! You’re back!”

Gjálp returned the embrace tentatively. “What is happening? What—Norns!” She stiffened, yanking In-Unga backwards. The mortal queen turned to find that Bryn and Bowie had followed her into the room and were now looming over the couch with all the intimidation of a pair of overexcited Labradors.

“Oh no, it’s fine—” In-Unga hiccupped, finding words astonishingly difficult to control in the moment. “Mine. They’re mine. Don’t worry! Uh—lie down!” Thankfully, they obeyed without an issue, their tales flying around like propellers. “See?” She gulped, turning back to Gjálp. She gripped her wrist, just to remind herself that this was real, and she wasn’t dreaming.

“You’re back,” she whispered again, hoarsely.

“You keep saying that,” Gjálp said, still frowning suspiciously at the wolves. “What happened? Where am I back from?”

In-Unga let out a wet laugh. “You were gone. He got the stones and took out everyone—half of everyone, half of everyone everywhere,” she laughed again, because it suddenly sounded funny saying out loud with Gjálp staring down at her like she had lost her mind. Maybe she had. It didn’t matter anymore.

“Your Majesty.”

They both jumped at the unfamiliar voice behind them. In-Unga turned to find herself face to face with a man—a human man, with a goatee and red cloak, standing in the middle of a ring of fire. In a second, the wolves had flanked her, teeth bared and growling.

Shit, I guess I have lost my mind.

Gjálp was the first to find her voice. “Who—what—how did you get in here?”

The man ignored her. “Your Majesty,” he said, facing In-Unga. “I am Dr. Stephen Strange of New York.”

The name vaguely stirred something in her memory. “You died in the Snap,” she said. “You were with Mr. Stark.”

Dr. Strange nodded. “The effects of the Snap may have been reversed, but this isn’t over yet.” He fixed her with a solemn stare. “Your husband needs your help.”

Somehow, she had known he was going to say that. A wave of resolution washed over her. Standing straight, she wiped her cheeks. “What do you need me to do?”

The smoke was stifling. Strange had said it was a war zone, but In-Unga hadn’t expected for even the upstate sky to be blackened with debris. She had been to this compound before, years ago with Thor and Loki. It had felt a bit like stepping into the future, with the manicured lawns and the crisp white doors that whooshed as the slid open automatically. It had been nothing like the scorched wasteland flaring before her. The smoke was so thick she could barely make out the looming warships hovering over the skyline.

The dark warriors lined the horizon, a mass of limbs extending far beyond her range of sight. In-Unga squared her shoulders as she road through the portal. She could see him, standing in the middle of all this destruction, the golden light of the portals casting shadows on his purple skin. For so long, he had been faceless to her, the untouchable enemy who she had never seen but whose name she fell asleep cursing every night. And yet here he was in the flesh, living, breathing, vulnerable.

Thanos.

Brynjarr howled. From her perch atop his back, In-Unga felt the vibration in every part of her body. Bowie joined in, his usually mournful cries dark and full of promise. The sound mixed with the battle cries from portals down the line, words chanted in languages she didn’t speak, but in sentiment she understood perfectly.

You took everything. Now we’re taking it back.

The Jotuns behind her understood too. With deep voices, they answered the cries with chants of their own, shouts crescendoing with every individual rushing through the portal. Utgard had been in such chaos that she hadn’t expected anyone to rally to her call, but vengeance was a powerful motivator. She had stood on the balcony and told her people that the one responsible for their suffering was out there, still struggling to once again rip their loved ones from their arms, and just like that, her armies mobilized.

Now here she was, Queen In-Unga of Jotunheim, facing down the enemy atop a howling vargr, her soldiers armed and ready behind her. She felt strangely calm.

I’m bringing Loki home.

He was here somewhere. Even if Strange hadn’t told her how he had been resurrected on the plains of Wakanda with the other fallen warriors, she would have known. She felt his steely resolve as he prepared for battle, let it swirl and mix with hers across the battlefield.

This is it.

When Thor shouted, she screamed with him. And then they were all running. The appeal of two nine-foot-tall wolves in combat was quickly apparent: her babies tore through alien fighters like rare steaks. Brynjarr didn’t even need to be directed; he seemed to know exactly where to go, when to duck, when to tackle. Bowie cleared a way through the chaos, trampling everyone in his path.

They zig-zagged across the battleground, In-Unga pressed tightly into Bryn’s fur to avoid shooting darts of light and projectiles flying through the air every which way, no clue who was shooting them. A roar consumed the land, built from rallying cries and death shrieks, guns shooting and bones cracking, and in the midst of all this pandemonium, she found him.

Loki threw his blades with a catlike grace, completely surrounded and yet completely in control, as if he had never left.

“Bryn!” she steered him left, and he understood instantly. Snarling, the wolves rushed the scene. Loki whipped around in shock, In-Unga barely registering his fleeting moment of confusion as she felt the thud of alien bodies crushed on the ground. When Loki called out her name she found she could barely breathe.

“Down!” she choked at Brynjarr. She slid off his back to unsteady legs and managed to hold back her tears until she threw her arms around her husband.

The battle faded away. She sobbed on his shoulder, drinking in the scent she thought she’d never experience again, relishing the way he gripped her so tightly she felt as though she might break. She clutched at him too, afraid that if she let go he’d disintegrate through her fingers. He whispered her name against her hair, that soft baritone she thought she’d never hear ever again, and she held him even closer.

He was the one to pull away first, cupping her cheek in his palm as he wiped her teardrops with his palm. His green eyes held her in their stare.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

In-Unga exhaled, the tiniest laugh. Less than an hour ago he had been dead, and he was worried about her?

“Yeah,” she murmured. It was a tiny breath under the rage of battle, but somehow, she knew he heard. “I am now.”

…

“Come on, you scaredy-cat, it’s fine,” In-Unga laughed from atop Bowie on the beach at Márfjall.

“I’m not scared, just concerned.” Loki stood on the ground besides Brynjarr, the two sizing each other up suspiciously. For the most part, her husband and her wolves had been getting along well—at least, well enough. Bowie was still bitter that his place in In-Unga’s bed had been taken from him, and Bryn was untrusting by nature, but it was getting better. Loki still didn’t understand how creatures that showed such savagery on the battlefield could be so cuddly at home.

“Look, if I can do it without a problem, you certainly can manage.” Bowie whined as he shifted his weight between his feet, anxious to sprint down the red sand. She rubbed his neck and fixed Loki with a pointed stare.

He shook his head, smiling uneasily. “You’ve had five years of practice, love.”

“Yeah, which I never would’ve got if I hadn’t gotten on first.” She turned back to the small group watching behind them. “Give me some help here!”

Griep frowned, holding Dagný in her arms. “I don’t know, In-Unga. I don’t think vargrs are meant to carry people.”

“I thought you liked animals—”

“It’s a giant vargr—”

“Now, my precious ice-heart” Hross said, intertwining his fingers with hers. “In-Unga has proved time and time again that there are those more than capable of riding a wolf. Both myself and Prince Býleistr can attest to that.”

Býleistr chuckled. “She fell off the first time she tried.”

“No, no!” In-Unga whipped back to Loki. “That was on Bowie, because Bowie likes to be difficult. Brynjarr has never given me a problem, which is why you’re going to try riding him.” Bowie gave an offended snort.

“I still can’t believe you can tell them apart,” Gjálp said. “They look exactly the same, smell exactly the same—”

“I told you, Bowie is the one with two different colored eyes!”

“But when you can’t see their eyes—”

Dali pulled at Hrossþjófr’s free arm. “Wanna ride wolf!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” In-Unga groaned. “Loki, get on the damn wolf before I give your spot to a toddler.”

Loki huffed indignantly, but he pulled himself over Bryn’s back and into a sitting position. “Happy, wife?”

“Ecstatic,” she tried to maintain her stern, but the sight of him balancing haphazardly on the back of her wolf made it hard not to grin like an idiot. “Now, tell him to get up.”

“Get up, wolf,” he said emotionlessly.

Brynjarr looked at her in exasperation. Are you kidding me with this guy?

In-Unga sighed. “Tell him nicely.”

He through his hands in the air. “It’s a wolf!”

“Loki…”

“Fine.” He looked back down at Bryn. “Get up wolf, please.”

Behind them, Hross was cackling uncontrollably. In-Unga rolled her eyes. “I think that’s the best he’s gonna do Bryn,” she said. “Come on, up, up!”

Brynjarr grunted, but still hopped to his feet far more quickly than usual. Loki gasped as he struggled to right his balance. She pressed her hand to her mouth to muffle her giggles.

Loki scowled. “I hear you snickering over there. This is why I didn’t want to do this.”

“What do you mean?” she asked innocently. “You’re doing great, sweetie!”

He glared.

Oh, if looks could kill.

“Now what?” he asked sourly.

She leaned forward, clicking her tongue. “Now, you hold on, and try to keep up.”

“What—” Loki was cut off with a cry as the two wolves took off down the rusty beach. In-Unga laughed as they rode alongside each other, Loki clinging desperately to Bryn’s fur. His startled expression morphed into something more sinister when he noticed her amusement.

“I’m going to get you for this!” he yelled over the wind.

She grinned. “You better!”

In-Unga wouldn’t have it any other way.

#running with the wolves #loki x reader #loki x in-unga #frostbite fic #maiden of asgard #loki fanfic

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doloresrojo · 3 years

Text

Hel’s Daughter

Notes: Although I've never read one of his books, I was inspired by Rick Riordan. I also took some elements of different works of fiction, like Francesca Simon's "The Monstrous Child", the History Channel show "Vikings", Neil Gaiman's "Norse Mythology" and other sources. English is not my native language, so there might be mistakes when it comes to grammar and spelling.

Hope you like it.

The word miracle didn’t exist for the old Norsemen; the concept was foreign to them. If you wanted the favor of the gods you had to take it through sacrifice and blood, prayers were not enough. The gods demanded action. Hel, the goddess of the dead, ruler of Helheim, receiver of those who died an unworthy dead, believed this just as much as the Aesir and the Vanir; and yet, she couldn’t think of a better word to describe the baby that was about to come out of her womb. For thousands of years the gods and goddesses had roamed Midgard coupling with mortals leaving offsprings everywhere. So far, Hel had been the only exception when it came to offsprings. Nobody told Hel that she couldn’t conceive, she just assumed it, after all, half of her body was a corpse. She thought that she wasn’t supposed to produce life, it was not her domain. But having a child had always been one of her deepest longings.

Hel was a witch too, her mother the giantess Angrboda was a völva, and a powerful one; Loki had not chosen her only for her beauty and wickedness; power attracted Loki more than anything, and before being separated from her children she had thought her daughter well. Hel could cast a spell for almost anything, but her favorite was the art of illusion. Hel could make the left side of her body, the one that was a corpse, complement the right one. She knew that the other gods disdained her appearance, and she had used that to her advantage, she loved to play with them, but when it came to mortal men she knew that she had to conceal that part of her if she wanted their attention. So she presented herself as a beautiful Nordic woman: fair skin and smooth as the ice, green eyes like a meadow in the spring, scarlet red lips and long blond hair that reached down to her waist. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale, ancient and mysterious.

The father of her baby was a young Irish musician that was living in London, one of her favorite places. He wasn’t particularly ambitious, he hadn’t left Ireland trying to make it big, he was a wanderer and an artist, a good one for that matter. At first Hel had been attracted to his voice, raspy but comforting, like whiskey running through your veins; then as she watched him she realized that he was shy and he was honestly baffled when someone showed interest in him, and it wasn’t an act; she could see it through her left eye, that eye could only see the truth; he knew her as Sigrid and for one night they worshiped each other. Trough sex, Hel was able to feel the rush that only living bodies feel, the feeling that she couldn’t completely have on her own. And this boy was good at what he was doing, despite of his clumsiness and hesitation, once he got confident he became aware of what his partner wanted and delivered. He wanted to see her again and she didn’t oppose the idea, she told him that she would come back; but she didn’t, not because she didn’t want to, she was expecting his baby and she didn’t know what to do. Hel never thought that she would have to deal with such a human and mundane situation.

The pain was excruciating, she had known pain but never like this. The pregnancy had not been an easy one, for the majority of the time she had to stay in bed, more than once the baby tore her left side almost coming out before time. She believed that if the baby was born dead she would be more angry than sad, all that pain for nothing; she longed for a child, yes, but now she felt bitter. The fates had given her so much sorrow: a deformed body, an untrustworthy, narcissistic and negligent father, a family broken by the fear of others, a kingdom that resented her no matter how much she cared of her subjects’ wellbeing. So no, she didn’t believe that the fates will let her have a piece of joy; her own piece of joy. She could have a corpse baby, ready to be put to the ground. A living corpse, cursed to be a living dead. A monster, just like her and her brothers, destined to endure the wrath of the gods.

“Just one more push, daughter, it’s almost here”. Angrboda was assisting her. When Hel arrived to Nifelheim her mother was already waiting for her; she had been killed not long after the gods had come for them.

“Pray to the Bloodmother”. Said Modgud, the giantess that guarded Gjallarbù, and her friend, who was supporting her back and holding her from the armpits.

With a cry that declared war she pushed as if her life depended on it, she felt her left side finally being ripped apart, and she collapsed on Modgud; she felt herself being dragged to unconsciousness, then a memory came out of nowhere: She was back at Jötunheim, with her brothers in her room, she was lying on Fenrir looking at the view from her window- ice mountains and snow being carried away by the wind- Jörmundgandr coiled beside them with Fenrir's tail rubbing him. Her sanctuary. She was brought back to reality by a high pitched baby’s cry. She opened her eyes and saw Angrboda, astonished, looking at the new born. With tears falling down her face she said:

“It is a girl, Hel. A beautiful baby girl”.

Using her remaining strength she sat up and held her arms out for her baby. What she looked was a healthy baby demigoddess, with ten fingers and ten toes, an upturned nose and a lot of hair on her head. Chestnut hair and brown eyes, just like her father.

“Thank you, Bloodmother. She has her father’s looks”.

Hel kissed her daughters forehead and wept; they were tears of happiness, her baby lived. And that was also the problem: No living being could live in Helheim, which meant that she could not stay with her, she had to live in Midgard. Soon she would have to let her go. The fates truly despised her.

***

No matter how much she hated the three dreadful sisters giantesses, they had the answer to her questions. She swaddled her baby and went to pay them a visit at the foot of the tree of life, the Yggdrasil. The sisters were beautiful, three maidens in the prime of their youth, who could believe that they were ancient and feared by gods and mortals alike?

“You took your time, queen”. Said Urd, the Norn that commanded over the past. She was picking up branches and leaves that had felt from above.

“But alas, no one can escape their fate. Not even a god”. Skuld, the one that presided over the future said, she was looking at the well of fate, the Urðarbrunnr.

Hel looked to Verdandi, the one that ruled the present, waiting to see if she had also something to say. She didn’t even acknowledged Hel, she just took a branch out of a basket and snapped it. Hel flinched and held the baby tighter, Verdandi had just terminated someone’s life. Tossing the branch she said:

“Don’t make that face, Hel. You are the queen of Helheim, death shouldn’t make you flinch. It is natural”.

“She is a mother now. Nothing will ever be the same for her”. A smiling Urd said.

Condescending bitch, thought Hel. Maybe it was the nerves but she was feeling mocked by the sisters. Either way, they were talking as if she wasn’t present.

“I am here…”

“Oh, we know”. Verdandi sounded exasperated, bored even. “You want to know what awaits to your child. Put her in the crib”.

A crib appeared at Hel’s feet, carefully she set the sleeping baby in the crib and the sisters stood beside it. They looked at the baby for what to Hel felt like centuries and then stared at each other. Urd was the first to speak:

“Your daughter is not like any other child a god has ever had; she is special, one of a kind. She is the only child you will ever have; she comes from the barest place in the nine worlds and holds so much power. She will be pure magic, she will be the one who will tip the balance when the end of everything comes”.

“You mean?”

“Yes. Ragnarök”. The sisters said in unison.

Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods. The prophecy had done so much damage already to her family. Fenrir was in Asgard, chained with a sword stuck in his mouth and Jörmundgandr was forced to hold the waters of the mortal world with his tale already in his mouth.

“How?”

“That is yet to be seen. Just like you queen, her part in it is yet not defined”. Answered Skuld.

“You wretched… tell me what you know!”

“Hush now. We don’t have all the answers, you already knew that before coming here. And you’d be wise to mind your words, unless you want her to have a similar fate like the rest of your kin”. Verdandi reminded Hel that they could tamper with fate how they saw fit, so it was wise no to offend them so they would be on her side.

Hel took a breath and swallowed her anger.

“Forgive me… I am scared. I don’t know what to do to protect her”.

The sisters softened at Hel’s turmoil. Skuld and Verdandi went back to their places, resuming their work, Urd picked the baby up from the crib and gave her back to her mother.

“You already know what you have to do to protect her, your child is not safe. She is in a very precarious situation. There is only one place were Odin, and Loki, might not find her that easily; your powers will be useful for that. Not to mention your love for her, that’s your greatest weapon against everyone that comes to harm her”.

***

After leaving the sisters Hel realized that she needed to act fast. It was only a matter of time for everyone in the Nine Worlds to find out about her daughter's existence; she had cast an invisibility spell on the baby to prevent Odin from seeing her in his dreams but that wouldn’t last forever. Loki was still bound inside of a cave for what he did to Baldr, but the fates had mentioned him and that didn’t surprise her; the gods didn’t understand the full extent of Loki’s powers; bound to a cave with a venom serpent over his head was not enough to contain him. She knew the place that the sisters meant, the one were her daughter would be safer: Midgard. The world of the mortals had changed and with it also Odin’s ability to see everything there; mortals moved faster in comparison to the old days. A lot of things were happening at the same time in Midgard, it was hard for the All Father to keep his eye on them.

Hel was dreading this, to let the father know of the existence of their child, but she didn’t trust anyone else with her daughter’s safety. She had seen his heart, he was a good person; still, she knew that she was asking for too much. They had been together only once and he was young, clearly not ready to be a father. She had to try though; and if he refused, well, she could force him to do it, but she didn't want to do that, because she wanted her child to be loved. Hel's mother loved her, she loved all her children, but not Loki, he didn't know how to love anyone. She wouldn't let her child to be with an unloving father, that wound never heales. So if he refused, she would find someone else to take care of her child. There was no other way.

***

The father’s name was Ciaran, little dark one. He didn’t usually have nice dreams, he always dreamed of unpleasant or strange situations that left him feeling confused or disturbed. However, this dream was extremely different. He was in a place surrounded by rocky cliffs enveloped in green foliage; there were rows and rows of mountains surrounding the land like a belt or a fortress. The wind was cold but it wasn’t unbearable and even though they were near the sea the wind was dry, it could burn your skin. The land had also sterile patches; this place was a harsh one. He heard a surge of water, even though he was now far from the sea, he thought it was a waterfall but the sound was inconsistent; it was a geyser, there were hot springs too. Amazed, he touched the water, warm, it felt so real. He wished he could stayed there forever. Just when he thought that this place couldn’t mesmerized him more, he saw a volcano, and it was not dormant, smoke came out of it.

He loved this place, wherever it was, and he knew it was real, it had to; he didn’t think his imagination as vivid as it was could produce such a place. His favorite part was the beach, with its soft black sand; he sat there for a long time, seeing the waves come and go, breathing the sea breeze. He felt in so much peace.

Hel had been watching this whole time. She was the one who orchestrated this dream; Iceland had always had a calming effect on her, she hoped that he would feel the same way. She felt guilty, she was about to ruin his good spirits. Ciaran heard footsteps, when he turned he found the most beautiful woman in the world. Sigrid, the lovely Sigrid. He laughed when he saw how she was dressed: A long emerald gown with gold and silver embroidery, a black fur cloak as long as her gown fastened with a small gold chain, a copper choker of a snake that ate its own tail around her neck, her impossibly long hair was braided and on top of her head was a crown made of bones and stones. Now, his dream was getting more usual: Nonsensical.

“What’s so funny?” Hel asked, teasingly.

“Nothing… I’m just being silly”.

They didn’t say anything, they just looked at one another.

“You look beautiful, Sigrid”.

“Thank you. Do you like this place?”

“I do, I have no idea where I am but I love it”.

Hel stood beside him and scooped some of the sand in her hands.

“It’s called Reynisfjara beach”.

Ciaran’s eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead.

“The what?”

Hel chuckled.

“If it’s better, you may say that you’re in Iceland”.

“Really?” Ciaran asked.

“Yes”.

This was a dream, he knew it; but if that was true then why did everything felt so real. The sand that he took form Sigrid’s hands, the smell of salt, the cold wind on his skin, and her. Specially her. It was just as the last time, so natural and effortless. As if to prove himself that she was in fact real, he cupped her left cheek; being in the land of dreams made him bold. She just stood still.

“Where did you go, Sigrid?”

How she wished that she was Sigrid, that she was a normal human woman that could venture to have a relationship with him. Hear him sing his beautiful songs with his lovely voice and caress his skin to sooth away all of his sorrows. But she wasn’t Sigrid and she’ll never be, and there were more important things to talk about right now.

“My name is not Sigrid, I’m not who you think I am”. She removed his hand off her cheek and took a few steps back. Closing her eyes, she let her glamour drop.

She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes right away, so she listened. For a long moment he held his breath, he didn’t move, but his heartbeat sped up. When she finally opened them she saw him with his mouth agape and his eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. He backed away from her in horror. If you asked anyone, they would tell you that Hel had no heart, because it was in her corpse side, she couldn’t feel anything there. That was not true, in that moment she could feel her heart breaking. Not wanting to hear hateful words from his mouth she broke the silence.

“I am sorry for deceiving you, I promise you I meant no harm. My name is Hel, Norse goddess of the Underworld, of Helheim, daughter of Loki and Angrboda. And I need your help”.

Ciaran looked at her with suspicion but also with interest, when they met he had known that something was different about her, now he knew what was it. She turned so her right side faced him maybe that would make things easier for him. He came closer and turned her so he could see her completely. Hel hated to feel evaluated, normally she would punish on the spot anyone that dared to looked at her like this; still, she let him, she owed him this much. He put both of his trembling hands on both sides of her face, the corpse side didn’t feel as he thought it would; the flesh didn’t come off at his touch, there was no stench, in fact, she smelled sweet, too sweet, it was hard to describe. The air around her was colder and her right side felt unnaturally soft.

“Is this not a dream?” He asked still holding her.

“It is, I used magic to enter your dreams. I brought you here because I love this place, it soothes me. I hoped that it would do the same to you, that made easier what I’m about to tell you”.

“There’s more?”

Hel removed her cloak, revealing that she had been carrying a baby in her arms this whole time. Ciaran looked at the baby and then at Hel, comprehension slowly making way to his mind. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, he just looked at the baby.

“I thought that I couldn’t have children, I had been sleeping with mortal men for centuries and nothing ever happened. I don’t know why it was different with you”.

Ciaran didn’t know what to do. Maybe Hel was being manipulative, she took the opportunity to put the baby over his chest, and luckily he took her, maybe more as a reflex than a conscious move.

“She is in danger. She needs to hide from the other gods and from my father, I talked to the fates before coming to you. Our daughter is meant to bring balance when the end of the world comes; she is not like any demigod that’s ever existed. She will be hunt down if we don’t hid her from them”.

“Did you just say the end of the world?!”

“I know it’s a lot to take. But if you accept to be her guardian I will help you; I will be watching over you both, I will instruct you, my treasure is more abundant than the one that Odin keeps in his halls, I will provide for you. Anything you need”.

Ciaran shook his head, this didn’t make any sense. He was just a regular guy, how in the world was he going to be able to protect a demigoddess?

“I don’t… how will I…” Then the baby opened her eyes. She had his mother’s eyes, his eyes. Fatherhood and motherhood were supposed to be different, or so he was told. Fathers were supposed to take more time to feel a bond with their children, it was normal. But now holding this baby, he felt it, he felt that bond. This was his baby and he was her father, he was certain.

“What’s her name?”

“I haven’t named her. I was hoping you would choose a name for her”.

“I always liked the name Felicity for a girl”.

Felicity meant happiness and joy, everything that Hel was not. It was perfect.

“I love it”.

Ciaran smiled and touched Felicity’s little face.

“Ciaran, do you think you can love her? I want her to be loved not just protected. Do you think you can love her as her father?”

“I already do”. And by the gods he did. It was insane but it was true.

“I’m going to need your help, Hel. You will have to teach me, I don’t understand anything that’s happening and I don’t know how I’ll protect her from gods and such”.

“I will, no matter what. I swear”. Said Hel fiercely. She put on her cloak and took Felicity, hiding her once more.

“It’s not dawn yet in London, go back to sleep, Felicity will be there in the morning. I need to say goodbye first”.

Ciaran nodded, he doubted that he could go back to sleep, but Hel made sure of that with a sleeping spell. He would need all the rest he could get.

***

Back at Helheim, Hel asked her mother and her servants Ganglati and Ganglöt to go to her treasure hall and gather enough jewels and valuable trinkets to secure a substantial income for a year. Angrboda took a look at her daughter and understood what she was about to do; it pained her, but it was the right thing. She kissed Hel and left, Ganglati and Ganglöt behind her, moving at the speed of a snail. Hel adverted her eyes elsewhere and when she looked back at where the siblings were they were gone; most likely, they were already at the hall waiting for Angrboda. They were one of Helheim’s greatest mysteries, to this day Hel doesn’t know where they come from or why they move so slowly as long as they are being watched.

She sat on her bed, Sick-bed, the very same bed where Felicity was born. She retrieved a silver pendant of a rune from a jewelry box. She dangled it over Felicity’s head, the pendant catching the light of the fires illuminating the room, her little brown eyes following it.

“This is the Hagalaz rune; it’s a rune that is associated with me. It represents the wrath of nature, destruction, trials and testing and crisis that leads to completion. If anything the fates said is true then it represents you well, my love… a god cannot always be everywhere at once, I certainly can’t; this pendant will be my eyes and ears, as long as you wear it I’ll be able to know where you are and if you need my assistance. Never take it off”.

Hel chanted the incantation necessary to bind herself to the pendant, green light poured out of her hand and danced around the pendant settling in the rune. Felicity watched everything with a serene expression, as if magic was already normal to her, as if she hadn’t been born a few days ago.

“Felicity, if only I could let you know how much this hurts me. I dreamed of you for so long, forgive me. This is not what I wanted for you, for the both of us… I don’t know what your father will tell you about me, but rest assured your mother loves you, and I am willing to tear everything apart for you”.

***

Ciaran woke up in the morning feeling rested; it had been a while since he had slept so well. He stretched and savored the feeling before remembering everything. He stood up and looked around his room, and there she was. Felicity, his daughter. A bag was next to her basket on the floor, he knelt and peeked at the basket, she was awake, and in her tiny fist she was holding something, he took a closer look and saw that it was a necklace, a pendant of a rune. Even he had heard of runes, and he knew that this was meant for Felicity to have. He opened the bag and found jewels, golden coins and precious stones, Hel wasn’t kidding when she said that she had treasure. Now it felt truly real. The dream that Hel had called upon felt real enough, but now it had materialized. Last night he was a musician that worked odd jobs to get by and was content with being aimless, and now, he was a father, a father of a demigoddess. Hel had not been very specific about the dangers that followed Felicity, and now him he supposed; how was he going to explain this to his parents? To his friends, he needed help, he had to go back to Ireland. This was not going to be easy, even with Hel’s help and support, but he was up for it. Whatever was coming he would face it, he would be there for his daughter just like his parents were there for him no matter what.

***

Verdandi saw everything as it was happening. Hel resumed her role as the queen of the Underworld, pretending that her heart and mind were there, Loki was struggling and raging in his bonds and Odin was vigilant as always, but still unaware of the existence of Felicity. The father was preparing to go back to his homeland with his kin. He didn’t know what awaited them. Not even her and her sisters knew for sure. The pieces on the board that was Ragnarök were scrambled. Some of the pieces were still set in their rightful place: Fenrir was still going to kill Odin and Odin would kill him in return, Thor and Frey would perish as well, and so would Loki. Hel’s role was still unchanged; she would provide her father with an army of the dead but it seemed that the rest was up to her. After Ragnarök the world will be reborn, a new order will come; that’s were Felicty’s part comes in to action. She will either lead the gods in this new world or she will return to the giants what was taken away from them so long ago, as their ruler. Why was she the one bestowed with so much power? Simple, this girl had inherited the power of Ymir. Everything came from Ymir; the giants, the world as we know it, and even the gods. Odin and his brothers had killed Ymir, little did they know that had Ymir wanted to they could have killed them in the blink of an eye. They were nothing compared to Ymir, but Ymir had chosen to sacrifice themselves so marvelous things were born. Ymir was great, and the greatest thing about they was the purity of their heart. But Felicity was not Ymir, and it was yet to be seen if she possessed the same purity of heart. None of this worried Verdandi, whatever this girl happened to decide to do with her power was… unimportant. As long as the outcome was unchanged, the rest didn’t matter.

#hel norse goddess #norse mythology #helheim #ragnarok #paganism #pagan god #nordic paganism

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hurricanerin · 4 years

Text

I’ll Never Tell Ch. 5: Insecure

Pairing: Loki/OFC

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Smut, non-con, power imbalance, violence, breeding, forced orgasms.

Chapter specific TW: Two geese meet their gruesome end.

Chapter summary: That time by the sea.

Notes: The geothermal pool concept is all @nildesperanddum and used with her blessing. Check out her brilliant Jotun!Loki fic called Reigning in Hel. It’s one of my all time favorites.

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Staring out over the arctic sea, Petra sighed as she waited to be set free. Ever since their arrival to Utgard she had been cooped up in Loki’s quarters and was going stir crazy. Today she’d been promised not only freedom from Loki’s rooms, but an outing.

From the window she watched a giant albatross dive repeatedly, resurfacing each time with a beak full of fish. The raging waves that crashed against the mountainous cliffs made her shift uncomfortably, despite the distance. Prior to being dumped on Jötunheim, she’d never seen a the sea. Svartalfheim had oceans, of course, but she’d never been to the coast.

Petra jerked out of her thoughts when a raspy voice called from the doorway.

“Lady, are you ready?”

The Jötnar struggled to pronounce ‘P’s’. ‘Lady’ was easier to say than ‘Petra,’ and most of those in service to Loki defaulted to the easier moniker. With a wary glance at the tumultuous water, she hauled her cloak around her shoulders. “Coming!”

Stuffing her bare feet into clunky fur-lined boots, the elf trudged from her personal room in Loki’s chambers towards the hollering voice.

A flock of Jötnar women from the hunting camp, accompanied by Loki’s lead advisor, Marit, herded Petra from the castle down near the harbor, steering her on foot as they wandered into the city market. The staggering space was packed with bodies and goods. Stalls crammed with tools, clothing and animals spattered the rocky seashore, creating thin alleys for customers to walk through. The group waded into the chaos, the sounds of bartering and interaction prompting Petra to uncomfortably cross her arms. The livelihood of the market outweighed that of the hunting camp. The shouts and calls of these giants were spirited compared to the quiet environment of the base where she first encountered the Jötnar.

As they neared the shore and the outskirts of the market, cluttered with fishermen and women tethering their boats and gutting their catch on the docks, Petra wrinkled her nose.

“What’s that stench?”.

Marit squinted at the elf, sniffing the air. “Oh, that? It’s fish and saltwater, Lady. You’ve never smelled it before?”

Petra made a face, “Never. It’s awful.”

Marit shrugged a shoulder, “You get used to it.”

The Dökkálfr grimaced with a nod, making a mental note to avoid touching anything that came from the sea.

The noise faded as they drew near the coastline, the shouts and chatter dissipating into the air and Petra’s muscles unclenched, her arms dropping loosely to her sides as she relaxed.

The women surrounding her stayed occupied. One traded sea glass for a loaf of bread while Marit haggled with a shop owner over two enormous snow geese. Purchase made, the advisor shoved the birds at a spluttering Petra as she stalked off to another stall stocked with nets and hooks. She returned a moment later with a box the size of her hand.

“My mate, he fishes,” she explained, holding up the container.

Wrestling with the poultry, Petra managed a nod, trotting to keep up with Marit as she bustled off to the next shop along the shore.

By the time they made their way back to the inland market, word that the Dark Elf had come out of concealment had spread. Conversations halted mid-sentence as Petra’s group passed, both speakers rendered speechless by the exotic foreigner. Her white hair and dark blue-gray skin stuck out against the purer indigo flesh of the giants.

The shift of attention was palpable, leaving Petra feeling horribly vulnerable. She clutched the geese to her chest as each pair of red eyes locked onto her.

Recovering from their initial shock, most villagers leaned in to whisper in a frenzy. Some looked on in curiosity, others glared, but Petra heard a few utterances of the word ‘hore’ which she assumed had the same meaning as it did in the common language. It appeared as though she had a reputation already.

As hostility escalated, Petra stepped closer to Marit, who was busy staring down some especially aggressive townspeople. Petra’s gaze kept flitting to either side of the alleys, afraid of launched rotten food or worse coming her way. Her companions stayed close, their hands wrapped around the axes and daggers on their belts in warning to those they passed.

The warmth of the birds under her arms was grounding as they walked into the village, her steps as quick as her clumsy boots allowed. Petra jerked when a cool hand grasped her upper arm, sighing in relief to find Marit close to her side.

“We’re almost to town. Just a little while longer,” she reassured the elf.

Pursing her lips, Petra mumbled something affirming and hustled to keep up with the group.

The other women returned to their respective homes with their purchases as Marit led Petra to her personal dwelling. Without a word Marit plucked one white goose from the other woman’s arms and snapped it’s neck.

Petra cried out at the woman’s brutality. She staggered backwards. “You killed it!” She held the other honking bird to her chest.

Marit blinked. “Of course I killed it. It’s dinner. Give me the other.”

Stunned, the elf took another step back, shaking her head.

Fingers still wrapped around the dead goose’s neck, Marit planted her fists on her hips and exhaled, eyes narrowed. “Fine. Jens is not going to like you if his lunch is mostly broth tomorrow.”

With a sigh of defeat, Petra cradled the living bird, idly stroking the feathers of its wing. She thrust it toward Marit, scowling and clapping her hands over her ears to escape the crunching sound as Marit wrung it’s neck. Stomach rolling, she let her hands drop to her sides after the bird went limp.

Marit slung each lifeless bird over her shoulder.

“I will pluck them. I’ll go outside for your sake. I’m being very hospitable, I’ll have you know.”

Marit nodded at the dwindling flames illuminating a small fireplace near the center of the house. “Tend to the fire, then fetch a pot of snow to melt for tonight’s drinking water. I’ll be back soon.”

The Jötunn brusquely vacated the home, leaving Petra alone and slightly flustered.

“Norns,” she grumbled, ambling to the fireplace and plopping a few logs on top of the smoldering embers. Despite not knowing what she was doing, she prodded at the fire with a stoker as she’d seen others do, emitting a contented hum at the heat radiating from the pit.

Fire roaring, Petra stood on her tiptoes to unhook a large pot dangling from a hanging rack. There were only two to choose from, and she grabbed the larger. The Jötnar lived simpler than the Dökkálfar. It was nice, in a way. Fewer trivial possessions, less desire for elaborate organizational schemes and displays. There were no servants scurrying about, at least not in town, making beds with obnoxiously ornate frames and clanging pots and pans together as they worked. Petra wasn’t used to labor like this, if one could consider it that, but found she didn’t mind.

Spotting a nearby snowbank, she lugged the pot over and scooped handfuls of snow into it until her hands were numb. Hauling it back inside was a much more physical endeavor, but she managed.

When Marit returned, Petra averted her gaze, mindful of the featherless creatures swinging from her arms. Slinging the two birds onto the kitchen table, Marit set about gathering ingredients. From small potted plants she cut herbs and gathered onions from a basket near the wash basin. Dropping the vegetables in front of Petra along with a knife, Marit continued shuffling about.

“Chop those,” she called from the fireplace.

Petra stared with wide eyes at the food in front of her. “How do you have fresh vegetables?”

“We grow them.”

Petra frowned, shaking her head. “I mean how… where did you grow them? Isn’t the ground frozen?”

Marit scoffed and motioned with her fire poker through the window. “Of course the ground is frozen. Dum jente,” she grunted, turning back to the flames.

Still confounded, Petra started cutting the herbs. “The elements should kill anything that attempted to take root. You have potted herbs, but no garden in here. And where did you get soil?”

“There are geothermal pools that heat the earth to appropriate farming temperatures. They’re near the cirque opposite of the way you arrived. I’ll show you soon. We’ll need more supplies.”

Petra blinked. Marit said things so plainly she felt dumb for even asking. Of course there was arable land. Of course they farmed. What else would their animals eat? How else would they survive?

Marit interrupted Petra’s thoughts by waggling a spoon in her direction.

“Boil the snow, Lady.”

The lines on Petra’s face relaxed as she grew distracted. The elf poked at the melting snow, stirring idly as her mind returned to her experience near the shore.

“Why was everyone so angry at me today? Everyone in the market?”

Marit didn’t look up from her work at the table, but she did stop fussing with the geese to wipe her hands. “Because you’re not Jötnar, yet you have value to the king,” The giant shrugged a shoulder and rubbed her brow with a forearm. “Loki is a good, but aloof and distant ruler. They’re envious that a foreigner has his attention.”

“I-I’m not sure I’d say I’m of value to him. I might hold some mild importance in regards to a strategic plan, but not value.”

Marit glanced up, raising a brow critically. “Here, that’s the definition of having value.”

Petra muttered under her breath about value being something typically demonstrated through appreciation before moving on. “The hunting camp wasn’t like this. People—Well, I’m not sure they liked me, but they tolerated me.”

“I don’t think all Jötnar hate you. Just the villagers.”

Sagging, Petra grimaced as Marit began cutting the meat into pieces. “Why am I so offensive to those in town but acceptable to the hunters?”

“The people…,” Marit motioned with her knife at the village through the window, “They have known the struggle of hunger and infertility. But they don’t search for a solution. They want things the way they’ve always been, Frost Giant mated with Frost Giant. A pure race.”

The advisor sighed, tilting her head as she collected the bits of goose. “The hunters, they understand functionality, ingenuity. Not hunting isn’t an option. If one method fails, you try another. It’s that simple.”

“So I’m just another way to behead a bilgesnipe,” Petra muttered.

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

Petra’s gut twisted as Marit reminded her of just how disposable she was. She was a vessel to these people, and nothing more.

“Fetch the other pot,” Marit ordered, nodding at the other hanging from the ceiling.

It took Petra several tries to unhook it from where it hung, but she lugged it over to Marit who deposited the goose meant to let it sear.

“Vegetables and herbs,” pointed Marit.

Automatically Petra fetched and dumped the chopped pieces in with the meat.

“Now water.”

With an exasperated sigh, Petra spooned several ladles of the clean water into the smaller pot.

“We’ll eat well tonight. It’s not always that way, but things are good. The animals are fat and stores full.”

Well, at least something was going right.

“Help me clean up,” Marit said, tossing a rag at Petra. She caught it clumsily, barely managing to wrangle it before wiping off the table. Jötnar manners certainly differed from Dökkálfar. Dinner with Marit and her mate would be interesting.

Later that evening, Petra found Loki lounging in his quarters with a book. He looked up when she entered, blinked, then his eyes returned to the page.

“Marit said she fed you,” he said.

Still growing accustomed to abrupt Jötnar manner of conversation, Petra was caught mildly off-guard. “Um, yes. She did. We made stew.”

When he remained silent, she started towards her portion of Loki’s rooms. They consisted of a small chamber with a simple bed and dresser. Before she took three steps, Loki called out.

"I’m not finished. Come here.”

Dropping the sack filled with a little pouch full of Jötnar coins and a few shells she’d found along the beach, she warily retraced her steps.

“Take off your cloak.”

She lacked the energy and motivation to argue. Petra tugged her cloak off her shoulders, pausing to hang it on a hook near the doorway. She could feel Loki’s eyes on her, and waited several beats before turning around. As she’d predicted, he was staring at her.

“You need to eat more. You’re scrawny,” he mused. He rested his chin on his fist. “I wonder if you really are fit to carry my child?”

Taken aback, Petra raised her chin and widened her stance. She needed to remain important. Her life depended on it. “I can do it.”

Loki smirked, which only served to irritate her. “Let me see you.”

“I-What? I’m standing in front of you.”

“Take off your clothes.”

After a split second of hesitation, she complied. His being bossy when it came to sex wasn’t new. Muttering to herself, Petra quickly shucked off her dress and boots, standing with her back to Loki. She plodded to the bed with her arms wrapped across her chest, waiting for him to follow. Glancing over her shoulder, her cheeks glowed as she saw him lazily untether his trousers and wrap his fist around his waking cock. He cleared his throat and she realized she’d been staring. Embarrassed, she lifted a leg to climb onto the high mattress, eager to put distance between them, when he interrupted her.

“Stop.”

“What?”

“Face me.”

Her stomach fluttered as she rotated so her side faced Loki. Crossing one leg over the other, she hugged her chest. His eyes, usually narrowed in a frown or glare, were relaxed as he studied her. Petra squirmed as they roamed over her body. The king had never looked so appraisingly at her. He’d only spent a moment evaluating her body their first time and she shifted uneasily, looking at the floor.

“No. Face me.”

The sharpness of his voice left no room for argument. Clutching her chest, Petra swiveled until she was thoroughly in view. Loki traced his lower lip with his index finger, humming as his eyes studied her dainty feet, moving up her calves and thighs until her crossed legs halted his examination.

“Stand up straight.”

She grimaced.

“This isn’t… Are we not having sex?”

Loki tapped his lip as his brow arched. “Stand up straight, Petra.”

Pursing her lips, she slowly parted her crossed thighs a fraction.

“Do as I say or I’ll position you myself.”

Her chest tightened as her blush worsened, spreading from her cheeks down her chest. Arms flopping to her sides in defeat, she clenched her fists as she stood normally. “Is this what you want? To assess my body like I’m an animal?”

The corner of his mouth quirked as he rose and casually stalked forward. She froze as he neared, gaze flitting to the ground.

“Look at me.” His voice was ice.

Gaze blurred with teary uncertainty, she obeyed. He smiled, a cruel expression that only served to unsettle her further.

“I want to see your shame, skapning.”

Staring at him while he appraised her was worse than being called out for being half human in front of the Dökkálfar court. She felt lower than a whore. At least most whores were purebred. The sexual aspect of his examination was utterly humiliating. Was she worthy of carrying his child? Did he find anything about her remotely arousing? His eyes bored into her, coaxing goosebumps to break out across her skin.

“What do you want?” she sighed.

“I told you,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth still turned up. “To see your shame.”

Fingers trailing down her neck, Loki stopped over her fluttering pulse.

“Do you think yourself… pretty? Your face? Your body?”

Her stomach dropped. She knew she wasn’t attractive by Jötnar standards. She was too little, too frail. Her hair and skin were the wrong shades and her height was pathetic. Throat growing tight, she shook her head, eyes on her feet.

The king tutted her. “Look. At. Me. I’ll not ask again.”

Eyes stinging with tears, she glared up at him.

“Ah, there’s that fire.” Loki traced her clavicle. “Never lose that, Petra,” he murmured.

Fighting the urge to swat his hands away, she remained silent. Her cheeks continued to burn with shame as his eyes roamed. She desperately wanted to retreat to her room. It was enough to know he didn’t find her attractive, but she felt utterly repulsive under his current scrutiny. She wanted to disappear.

Inspection complete, Loki pointed to the bed. Without a word, she followed the silent command and crawled onto the mattress, propping herself up on all fours.

Loki ran his hand along the length of her spine. “As appealing as you look this way, I’m going to have you in another manner.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he flipped her onto her back. She yelped, slamming her legs shut and crossing an arm over her heaving chest as they came face to face.

“This-this isn’t how we do this,” she stuttered.

“We do this however I want and tonight I want to see your face. Unless, of course, you’d rather sit in my lap? We both know how that turned out last time.”

A shiver crawled up her spine as she relaxed, her thighs spreading a few inches and her arm falling to the bed. Gravity tilted her face to the side and she stared at the wall. Loki briefly ignored her passivity in favor of running his fingers over the delicate skin of her inner thighs.

“I’ve only ever done this with my mate.”

She started sitting up in alarm. He was mated? With another woman? When a horrified expression crossed her face, he laughed. “Calm, skapning. She’s been gone for many years.”

Her tensed body relaxed with an uncertain sigh. She couldn’t compete with another Jötunn woman for his attentions. Replaying his words in her head, she frowned.

“You’ve only done what with your mate?”

Loki ignored her in lieu of wetting two fingers with his tongue and slipping them inside her. Petra’s hips arched off the bed and she cried out in surprise. He grinned down at her, using the broad palm of his free hand to pin her hips to the bed. Heart pounding, she struggled. The way he looked at her was terrifying. He was feeding off her expressions and reactions, which she couldn’t hide as his began thrusting his fingers. The position was far too vulnerable. That he could see her face made her wildly uncomfortable.

“This isn’t what I agreed to!”

“Relax. You’ll only be able to think for another minute or so.”

Sputtering, she angrily smacked the mattress and laid back, staring at the vaulted ceiling.

Loki withdrew his fingers and issued a smart slap to her pussy.

“What part of ‘look at me’ is difficult for you to understand?”

Face threatening to crumple, she bit down on her cheek and lowered her eyes to meet his. He stared at her intently, watching every twinge of her brow and twitch of her lips. It was enough to be exposed like this, but to know he didn’t find her attractive was simply humiliating. She felt like a disappointing specimen.

“That’s better.”

He withdrew his finger and took his cock in his hand, giving it a few pumps. When she realized he intended to fuck her while on her back, Petra whimpered. What had she done to warrant this kind of punishment? She’d had sex like this before, but with meaningless partners that were likely picturing someone else as they fucked her. Loki was not picturing someone else. He was looking at her too hard, his gaze patronizing.

“Little skapning,” he sighed.

Glancing down, he ran the head of his length between her folds, stopping at her clit to rub against it. The slippery precome and the pressure of his cock felt more heavenly than she’d like to admit, so she bit her cheek until it bled to keep from making noise. She refused to validate him while he demeaned her.

His voice startled her out of her thoughts.

“You’re just a little lost Dökkálfr without me, aren’t you? I give you purpose. Carrying my child is an honor. Do you know how many Jötnar women would quite literally kill to be in your position?”

Forcing herself to go numb in an attempt to survive whatever verbal assault he was conducting, she shook her head.

“Many,” he answered his own question

“Good for you.”

A laugh rumbled in his chest and he shook his head.

“Good for you, rather.” He eased himself inside, groaning as her tight walls clutched his length.

Petra inhaled sharply, cursing under her breath. He wasn’t finished belittling her yet. He had to knock her down even further, forcing pleasure on her. Her pussy throbbed around him making him hiss as he slid against her walls. Lazily he began pumping.

“The night you arrived, I would’ve turned you away without a second thought,” he grunted. “I wouldn’t have felt guilt. But you were stubborn and feisty and I wanted to have you. So I made you mine.”

Petra pushed off the bed as best she could, brows raised in surprise.

“What?”

“Centuries ago I inhabited Asgard. Traditional beauty isn’t lost on me. You may not be a warrior, but you’re certainly a woman.”

Spluttering, Petra shook her head. “I thought you found me repulsive—!”

With a sharp thrust, Loki knocked the air from her lungs.

“Quiet, skapning. We’re not having a conversation. I’m merely enlightening you.”

Gasping for breath, she grunted as he hit that spot that made her see stars, damning her body for falling victim to him with such ease. She kept her mouth shut, grinding her teeth in an effort to limit the noises insisting on flowing from her mouth.

No longer interested in words, Loki began jerking his hips in earnest. Each time his cock passed through her entrance forced her a step closer to an orgasm. Since his proclamation that she only come with his permission, she’d managed to succeed so far. But, something about the debasing tone he’d taken with her was causing an unseemly reaction. He’d been speaking of her as if she were an object. His object. As if she belonged to him, which should have upset her, but the idea that she had enough value that he desired her made her cunt pulse. Though in that moment she very much tried to hate him, the idea sparked heat low in her belly.

The prospect of carrying his child did make her feel important. It was an honor. He was a powerful man that people feared and revered. It was impossible not to be attracted to that. And the fact that he didn’t find her displeasing was slightly overwhelming.

A brisk snap of the hips knocked her out of her thoughts, prompting a moan.

“Do you like knowing you please me? More than another woman has pleased me in centuries?”

It was hard to ignore him with their eyes locked, but she managed. With a growl, Loki gripped her waist and slammed their hips together. “Do you?”

Crying out in pleasured pain, she managed a nod.

“Good.”

With that, he pulled back, almost leaving her cunt, before plummeting into her pussy once again. She screamed as his pubic bone ground harshly against her clit, making her walls flutter.

Her eyes had rolled back and it took a moment for her vision to return and when it did, he was smiling at her again.

“You’re easy to please. I do appreciate that, you know.”

His thrusts resumed, the sound of skin on skin echoing in his chambers. The slick of her pussy aided his rapid pumping, which sent them both closer and closer to completion. Petra began to whimper, biting her tongue in an attempt to distract from the fire blooming in her belly. Just as she was about to struggle away from him, he spoke.

“Come, skapning.”

With a wail she lost all sense of being for several moments, floating blissfully in pleasured nothingness as her walls contracted around his cock. With a low growl his hips jackhammered against hers, likely leaving bruises for her to find tomorrow. He erupted inside her, his come flooding her insides and leaking out as he continued to fuck her.

Both panting, Loki took a moment to gather himself before pulling out. Without a second look at his bedmate he stretched, his back cracking as he sighed contentedly. He disappeared to the bathroom for a moment to clean up and don trousers, then strode back to his chair, picked up his book and resumed reading while Petra caught her breath on the bed. She wasn’t sure what she’d done wrong to make him leave like that. Shaking her head in disbelief, she ignored the mess between her legs and rolled over and tried to sleep.

@the-kinky-friend @monarchofallisurvey @averyrogers83 @smollest-soybean @alexakeyloveloki @cassiopeya81 @vintage-lovers-world @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @imnotrevealingmyname @false-octopus @tinyfirestudentpurse

thanks to @writeyourmindaway for the divider 💖

#loki x original female character #loki x ofc #jotun!loki x ofc #dark!loki x ofc #loki smut #Jotun Loki #shit i forgot the read more sorry guyzzzz

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mythologyfolklore · 3 years

Text

Baldr in Hel - Ch. 01

(A/N: This is another fanfic I’m rewriting. So prepare to be confronted with some crack ships (yes, I mean BaldrxHel). Also, they’re both ace and Baldr has a crap ton of issues. If you don’t like that, you’re perfectly welcome to leave.)

Hel's POV

Hel was sitting on her throne, just being her usual self and ruling the underworld.

Before her throne was a queue of dead souls, waiting to be assigned to their respective afterlife.

First in line was a middle-aged woman.

Hel's black eyes bored themselves into the soul in front of her.

Hmm … extreme vanity, violent outbursts of anger, abuse of servants and slaves, adultery. Died of dysentery. Gross.

“Náströnd¹. Give her to Níðhöggr² as a chew toy.”

Two servants dragged the screaming, flailing soul away.

Hel grimaced in scorn at the cries for mercy – mercy! For that scum! Who would praise her incorruptible and fair judgement, if she let evildoers get away with their crimes, just because they begged for mercy?

“Next”, she ordered.

A man stepped forward.

Pathological liar, murderer, perjurer. Fell from his horse and broke his neck. That's hilarious.

“Same as the last.”

Same reaction as the woman before him.

“Next.”

An old man.

Womaniser, but not married. Guilty of avarice. Died of old age.

“Niflheimr. He shall shovel the pathways.”

The old man let the servants take him away, muttering something that sounded like “was nice, while it lasted”.

“Next.”

A little girl.

Guiltless. Died of hypothermia. Poor little thing.

Hel's expression softened and the dead side of her face turned lively and fair, both to accommodate the innocent soul in front of her and because her face changed condition according to mood. Cute things made her happy and children were darn cute. Most of them anyway.

“Oh my Norns, you're so adorable!”, Hel cooed and the child smiled shyly. “To Helheimr with you. There are lots of children for you to play with.”

“Will I be punished?”, the girl asked frightfully.

Hel smiled gently: “Of course not. For what would I punish you? You have done nothing wrong.”

“Can Mama come too?”, the child asked and stepped to the side to reveal the woman behind her.

Hel read the woman's soul and found her to be blameless as well.

The queen smiled: “She can.”

Mother and child cried with joy and she picked her daughter up, as another servant led them away to a more pleasant life than their old one had been.

The underworld wasn't as unpleasant as everyone thought it was. The living spoke of horrible torments, but why would Hel let the innocents be tortured?

She took a moment to smile after the two, before turned back to- oh. Apparently those were all the souls for the day.

Hel just shrugged and resumed her usual blank expression. She would enjoy a few minutes of quiet, before leaving to do her paperwork.

Or not.

Because right that moment her manservant Ganglati³ entered the throne room, unusually light-footed.

After the old man had caught his breath, he addressed Hel: “Your Majesty, Queen of the Underworld, Ruler of Helheimr and Niflheimr, Lokidóttir-”

“What do you want, Ganglati?”, Hel groaned in annoyance. She really wished they would just call her by her name instead of rattling down all those titles.

“A very special guest has arrived!”, the old servant announced excitedly.

The queen was not impressed. “A 'very special guest', huh? Well, who is the unlucky soul?”

“It's Baldr Óðinnson!”

Hel's black eyes widened. Then she smirked wickedly.

Baldr. Óðinn's most beloved son. The fairest of the Æsir.

She had already been waiting for him; her tables were laid, the mead brewed.

“Hm, he took his time, didn't he?”

Baldr's POV

Where was he?

What had happened?

The last thing he had felt was this pain in his chest, where the mistletoe dart had pierced him.

Strangely enough it hadn't hurt as much as he had suspected.

No, what had hurt him more was what he had seen last – how Loki had tricked Höðr – his blind, darker, yet beloved twin – into shooting him. Oh poor Höðr, he had to be so heartbroken! Knowing that he had killed his brother …

Ah. Yes.

That was it.

He was dead.

And this had to be the entrance to the underworld.

Finally! No more pressure, no more getting stuff thrown my way … oh Norns, why am I like this?!

Now he just had to find the gate. A bit of a challenge in this fog.

Before he knew it, there was an obsidian bridge with a golden roof. Where had that come from?

More so, there was something inviting and mesmerising about this bridge. It called to him.

Come, it seemed to whisper to him. Cross me. Go to the afterlife. Enter the place, where you will be beyond all pain.

He chose to follow the call.

As he was in the middle of the bridge, he encountered a Jötunn, who was sitting on a watch tower. When she saw him, she jumped off her seat and greeted him briskly: “Welcome, Baldr Óðinnson. I am Móðguðr⁴, the gatekeeper of the underworld. Her Majesty, our venerated queen, is already awaiting you.”

She was? Huh.

This was exactly what Loki had told him, a night before he had murdered him.

Baldr smiled: “Well, I better hurry, then. It would be rude to keep the queen waiting, wouldn't it?”

“That it would”, the Jötunn agreed, unsmiling.

Suddenly a new voice made them both jump.

“Baldr? Where are you? Wait for me! Don't leave me here! I can't see anything in this fog!”

His blue eyes widened.

Nanna?! Oh no! When had she – okay, scratch that, he had to get away!

He stood on his tiptoes to whisper to the giantess: “I beg you, Madam, give me directions, quick!”

Her colourless eyes twinkled in amusement, though she still didn't smile.

“When you arrive at the other end of the bridge, go to the left, until you arrive at an iron gate. From there, just follow the black path, but be careful not to slip. Inside the castle are signs and layout plans, so you should find your way to the audience hall easily”, she whispered back.

He thanked her and made haste to follow her directions.

Hel's POV

Hel picked up her scythe and made her way to the audience hall to receive her new special subject.

The bells tied to her scythe jingled as she walked.

A long time ago, her father had given them to her, to remember her daddy by. Lucky charms he had called them. She still cherished them dearly, that was why she had tied them to her scythe in the first place: so she could take them with her, wherever she went. They were a reminder of happier times, times before the Æsir had come, had torn her and her brothers away from their mother, had bound Fenrir and thrown Jörmungandr into the sea that surrounded Midgardr and banished her to Niflheimr.

That and they were a nice change from the constant howling of the wind and wolves and the faint whispers of the dead. Their jingling was comforting (and alerted dead souls, that she was near).

She entered the audience hall to receive this indeed “very special guest”, sat on her high throne, placed the scythe on her lap and waited for the dead Ása to arrive.

Baldr's POV

Baldr had almost got lost in the many crooked corridors, but he had somehow managed to find the way in the end.

Eventually he found himself in a huge hall, presumably the throne room.

It was rather dark in here. The only light sources were tiny, pale blue lights, that floated through the hall like fireflies. Every time they neared the walls, their dim light would make fluorescing minerals glow.

A thick ground mist was covering the ground up to Baldr's knees, but everything above that level was perfectly visible.

As he looked around, he saw that he was standing in front of a golden throne. It was currently vacant, but he could tell, that normally the Mistress of the Dead herself sat on it.

What didn't escape Baldr, was how the tiny lights gradually orbited closer to him. Maybe they were attracted to his own glow, like moths to a flame.

This place had a foreign kind of beauty to it. It was nothing like the descriptions of Helheimr he had heard in life (well, except for the darkness and mist).

As he was standing there, taking in the ambience and letting the tiny light balls circle around him, he heard slow steps approaching the room, until from a side entrance an old lady emerged and came up to him.

“Baldr Óðinnson?”, she inquired.

“That's me”, he confirmed.

“Good”, the woman said. “Welcome to Éljúðnir⁵, the high castle and seat of Her Majesty, the queen. I am Ganglöt⁶. My mistress is expecting you in the audience hall. Follow me.”

He obeyed and followed the old maid.

All the while, he tried to figure out what she was. She wasn't an Asýnja, nor was she a Jötunn. She was clearly not a Light Alf or a Vana and, if the appearance of Iðunn was anything to go by, not a Dark Alf either. She didn't even look like any of the Midgardians he had ever encountered. Maybe an Elemental? But then the question would be what she embodied.

His train of thought was put to an end, when he and the old maidservant arrived in front of a giant fluorescing green door.

And suddenly it came back to his mind, that he was about to meet Hel Lokisdóttir – the daughter of his murderer.

Baldr took a deep breath to compose himself.

Ganglöt seemed to notice. “Are you nervous, young man?”

He nodded awkwardly.

She lifted her head to give him a small smile. “If you're remotely as virtuous as people say, you have nothing to fear”, she assured him.

Then she tapped the threshold with her walking cane and Baldr screamed in terror, when the ground between the two and the door opened up to reveal a pitfall.

“What is this?!?”, he gasped out, as he recoiled from the pit.

“Eh, just one of the little tricks her Majesty has installed”, the old lady explained.

“Little tricks???”

“Aye. And now we need to walk over the chasm.”

The bright god gawked at her. “Excuse you?! That chasm is too wide for-”

But the maid only giggled softly: “Don't wreck your pretty head, young one. Watch.”

Then she stepped forward – into the empty.

And Ganglöt walked. Over the void of the pit. As if it was solid ground.

His eyes grew even bigger. “What … how …?”

“Come”, the old woman smiled and stretched out her hand to him. “There is nothing to be afraid of. I will hold your hand.”

Baldr gulped and took the offered hand.

Ganglöt's hand was as could be expected of an old woman's hand, but at the same time it felt really strange; as if someone had warmed up a piece of wood, softened it and given it a pulse.

“Come”, she repeated. “The queen doesn't like waiting that much.”

“Right”, he mumbled and took a few deep breaths.

Pull yourself together, Baldr scolded himself. Stop being such a wuss!

He closed his eyes and stepped into the void.

But when it didn't feel like he was falling, he opened them again – only to find, that he (just like Ganglöt) was standing in the air, right above the chasm.

“Huh”, he said. “Okaayyy …”

He let the old woman bring him to the other side (to top it off, she proceeded to hum “Walking In The Air” as she did so) and sighed in relief, when he stood on actual solid ground again and the chasm closed behind them.

“What was that?!”, he desired to know.

The maid shrugged: “Ask Her Majesty. Now compose yourself and straighten your posture, young man. You don't want to face queen Hel with that expression, do you?”

Hel's POV

When the door finally opened and her handmaid Ganglöt brought the dead Ása in, Hel was startled.

What everyone had told her, it really was true.

There were no words to describe just how beautiful the person in front of her was.

His face was boyish, almost feminine, and very pale. His hair was almost white and hung from his shoulders in two thick braids, in addition to the open hair in the back. He had the cutest little nose and big, sky blue eyes with long lashes. Despite him being dead, there was a faint blush on his cheeks (she wanted to pinch them), his lips were rosy and he was shining!

His eyes held a whole range of emotions: nervousness, anxiety and an undefinable sadness, but also warmth, softness and curiosity.

But this wasn't the time to get distracted.

Hel mustered a small smile and stood up to greet him.

“You must be Baldr Óðinnson”, she addressed him. “Welcome to my humble abode. I have already been waiting for you.”

Baldr's POV

So this was Hel?

For a few seconds he was speechless.

The queen of the eponymous world and of Niflheimr was certainly a sight to behold.

A bizarre sight; she was the strangest thing Baldr had ever seen.

It started with her hair. It was platinum blond on her right side, pitch black on the left.

She was wan, probably from the lack of sunlight. And parts of her face were black and withered, like a rotting corpse.

He was struck by pity. Was it painful for her to be half dead? And if not, how much did it bother her? And did this really make her ugly, like everyone said?

Strange, yes.

Ugly? Hmm … no, not really. Not in Baldr's opinion.

The way she united life and death in her person gave her a strange kind of beauty.

And when he approached her, his glow illuminated her enough for him to see more.

She was thin and a head taller than himself.

Her right cheek was as rosy as any maiden's.

Her night blue dress spoke of her wealth and power⁷ and she was wearing a moonstone necklace.

Her profound black eyes, which at first had looked startled (probably by his appearance, Baldr was used to it), were now looking at him with mild interest and curiosity, which for some reason was really cute and endearing to him.

I must have a weird taste in what I find cute, he thought.

Hold on – where were his manners?! He had just walked up to her without bowing or even saying hello and now was staring at the queen of the underworld, like a total idiot!

Time to fix that!

Hel's POV

Hel could tell, that the other was just as startled by her looks as she was by his. Of course everyone was, she was used to it, but he didn't seem to be as disgusted as most other people were.

In fact, he seemed fascinated.

How curious.

Then he blinked and seemed to remember, that he was standing in front of his new sovereign.

He blushed bright scarlet and hastily knelt before her.

“Y-yes, I am indeed Baldr”, he responded to her own greeting. “And you are, without a doubt, Queen Hel. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you!”

Now it was her turn to blink. “A pleasure to finally meet me”, she echoed blankly.

He smiled up at her and nodded – primordial cow, he actually meant that!

“Your father has told me so much about you”, Baldr continued. “Oh, speaking of him!”

He rummaged through the leather bags he was wearing around his belt, until he found something – a small stone plate.

“Your father snuck this note into my bag. I do believe it's for you?”

Hel took the stone plate and read the content:

“To my beautiful little girl,

the best birthday present ever to the best daughter ever. A ray of light for your realm of darkness. Happy birthday, Hel!

Love you lots, sweetie. Your dad.

PS: Sigyn says hi.”

She sighed in exasperation and shook her head. That was so typical for her father …

Then again, who was she to complain?

Not only was this beautiful creature in her hands now, his death surely caused his father and all the Æsir great grief. The soul of Óðinn's beloved son was the best birthday present indeed.

Now, what to do?

Should she take her grudge on the Allfather out on his son?

No.

Her resentment towards Óðinn would not cloud her judgement.

“Look me in the eyes”, she ordered and he did so.

He squirmed a little under her gaze, as her eyes bored into his soul and read him.

Hmm … no bad deeds, no condemning character traits. What a pure and adorable cinnamon roll! But what is that … oh! Oh no! What a mess!

Baldr's POV

Baldr was getting increasingly unsettled by the blank expression on Hel's face.

He was pretty sure, that he had never seen such a blank face in his life. Her big black eyes were like two voids. It reminded him a little of the owls he had sometimes seen, when he had walked in the forests in Asgard. Oh yes, that was the word: owlish. Her stare was owlish.

“Are you alright?”, he asked worriedly.

Hel tilted her head. Her face was still blank, but at least she now seemed to snap out of her trance.

Then, finally she opened her mouth to speak again.

“Nope.”

“S-sorry?”

“The son of the jerk, who banished me down here, can't be this cute. It just doesn't make any sense”, she … uh, clarified?

“I-I'm sorry!”, Baldr stammered and blushed a deep red.

He didn't know how to deal with this.

Baldr was an Ása, he was used to being around people, who were brutally frank and outspoken.

But Hel seemed to be a different kind of blunt.

Though he had been called cute before, it had never been like this. Hel had said that sentence with a completely straight face, without the faintest blush and in the most no-nonsense tone ever – as if it was a matter of fact. And that startled him somehow.

What startled him even more, was when a third person stumbled into the room.

Baldr almost cringed at how dishevelled Nanna was looking (and at the fact, that she was now here and there was a high chance that she would make him and/or Hel insanely uncomfortable).

“Oh, finally, I found the right room!”, she gasped. “The gatekeeper gave me wrong directions – hi, Baldr – so orientating myself was a nightmare, then I almost fell into a pit and this old lady showed up and brought me here!”

She pointed at Ganglöt, who was lingering in the background.

The light god paid close attention to Hel's reaction. Her expression didn't change at all, but Baldr could have sworn, that the left side of her face just had become slightly more decayed.

Still her overall demeanour stayed the same.

“Seems like Móðguðr played a trick on you. You have to forgive her. My gatekeeper has the tendency to give wrong directions to people she doesn't like”, she told Nanna.

“Eh, whatever”, the other goddess muttered, “I'm here now. Sooo … uhhh …”

Whatever she had been about to say died, when she got a good look at Hel. Baldr could feel the horror and disgust radiating from his former wife.

Obviously Hel noticed it too, because she brushed her black hair forward to conceal the left side of her face. Somehow that really bothered Baldr; the queen shouldn't have to cover half of her face, just because others couldn't stand it.

Nanna on the other hand seemed to have it easier now. “You're queen Hel, right?”

“No, I'm just your average Jötunn woman with a half decayed body, who has power over the dead and the entirety of Niflheimr and can read dead souls like open books”, Hel deadpanned.

For some reason Baldr couldn't help but burst into giggles. He quickly pulled himself together, but the fact that he had laughed at the queen's comment at all seemed to be enough to tick Nanna off.

“Good to see that you're having fun!”, she hissed.

Her husband coughed and mumbled an awkward apology.

“Now, now”, Hel spoke up. “Let's not get into an argument. Welcome to my realm, Nanna Nepsdóttir. Aren't you going to at least say hello to your new sovereign? Because now that you're dead, you're my subject – whether you like it or not.”

“Oh … right. Sorry”, the dead goddess mumbled, bowed and gave a polite, but cool greeting.

“Better”, the queen nodded. “Now, let me see …”

Hel's POV

Hel couldn't claim to be surprised by what she saw, when she read Nanna's soul.

This time she said it out loud, if only to expose her.

“Ah. Cynical, self-esteem issues, guilty of adultery with … Hermodr? Isn't that Baldr's bro-”

“Oh no, what a shock, I couldn't possibly have seen this coming!”, Baldr deadpanned.

Nanna stared at her former husband in horror. “You knew? All this time you-?!”

“Nanna, I'm neither naïve nor stupid. Yes, I knew.”

“Then why did you never say anything?!”

“Because I-”

Hel cleared her throat: “You two, this isn't couple therapy and I'm not a marriage counsellor.”

The two blinked and apologised sheepishly.

“It's forgiven”, she accepted it. “But please settle your marital issues between yourselves. I may be Loki's daughter, but that doesn't mean, that I have his sense of humour. I do not revel in the misery of others. It would be unbecoming of a queen like myself.”

The dead couple nodded.

“Anyway, Nanna, I think you know, that adultery is a crime, no matter what.”

“Yes, I do”, the dead Asýnja sighed. “So, what will it be? A snake pit? Being chewed on by a dragon, or whatever punishment people like me get around here?”

“That is indeed the standard punishment for adulterers”, Hel confirmed.

“NO!”, Baldr screamed and fell on his knees. “Please, don't do this to her!”, he pleaded. “I beg you! My wife doesn't deserve such a harsh punishment! She only-”

“Let me finish”, Hel cut him off and turned back to Nanna. “What I was going to say, before Baldr interrupted me, was that this is the standard punishment for adulterers, who actually deserve it. My judgement is fair and just. As I said before, dead souls are open books to me. I know what kind of life you two led, what tragedy your marriage really was and why you did what you did. And that, Nepsdóttir, is your saving grace.”

“So, what will it be instead?”, Nanna asked nervously.

Hel considered for a moment, before answering. “I think shovelling the snow off the paths outside would be appropriate. A bit of manual labour and cool, fresh air never hurt anyone.”

“I accept my punishment.”

“Good. Servants, take her into my garden and give her a snow shovel. The pathways out there really need to be cleared.”

Her ghostly servants were about to lead the goddess away, when Hel remembered something:

“Oh, one more thing, Nanna.”

“Yes?”

“Now that you two are dead, Baldr is your husband no more. Wedding vows do not transcend death, contrary to the assumption of the living, that they do.”

The daughter of Loki wasn't surprised to see relief run over the other woman's face, before she nodded in acknowledgement. Then she was led away.

Baldr's POV

“They won't hurt her, right?”, the Bright One asked the Mistress of the Dead in concern.

“Unless she does something to warrant it, no”, she replied, to his relief.

Then she told him to follow her and he did so.

She guided him through dark halls, illuminated only by his glow. No word was spoken, until Hel stopped in front of a door, opened it and motioned for Baldr to go inside.

As the dead god glanced around the room, he was stunned by the the splendour, visible even in the dim light. It was elaborately furnished, with jewels embedded in walls and furniture.

Seemed like Hel acted on the maxim “If you've got it, flaunt it”.

“Wow”, he breathed. His house in Asgard, Breiðablik⁸, hadn't quite been as luxurious (even though compared to the other houses in Asgard it was the most splendid), mostly because showing off wasn't Baldr's thing.

“I'm glad you like it”, Hel stated. “This is actually one of my own spare bedrooms, but there have been complications, while preparing your rooms, so for now you will be staying here. Your things will be brought to you shortly. In the meantime, you can make yourself comfortable.”

Baldr blushed in embarrassment. “I … I don't think I'm deserving of such honours.”

Hel lifted an eyebrow. “What, are you questioning my sound judgement?”

The blush was immediately replaced by pallor. “No! Of course not!”

“That's what I thought”, she said and he could have sworn, that there was a hint of amusement in her otherwise still completely toneless voice. It didn't show on her face either, but Baldr was pretty sure, that she was enjoying herself at his cost.

With a sigh, he sat on the bed. It was a king-sized bed and it seemed really comfortable.

Suddenly exhaustion set in with a vengeance and he felt really tired. Why was he tired? He always had assumed, that dead people didn't need to sleep – after all, wasn't death already an everlasting sleep? Oh well, another afterlife lesson learned.

Hel seemed to sense his fatigue, for she said: “You must be exhausted. After all, you travelled all the way down Yggdrasil. That's not exactly a stroll in the park. So lie down and sleep a little. A servant will come and wake you up, when dinner is ready.”

He stood up once more and bowed. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

“No need for formalities. Just Hel will do”, she replied. “I'm more than just the queen of Niflheimr. I founded a whole kingdom and named it after myself. I think that expresses my power more than my queenly title does.”

Baldr couldn't have argued with that, even if he had wanted to.

Hel left the room and closed the door, leaving the dead god alone.

The Bright One sat back down and contemplated his new situation.

Hmm … Hel doesn't seem so bad. Neither the place, nor the person. The Mistress of the Dead seems to be a fair ruler. And of course, no one throwing stuff at me is always nice … I think I'm going to like it here.

He lay down and found the bed just as warm and comfy as his old one in Asgardr.

Baldr fell asleep within seconds.

---

1) Náströnd: "Corpse Shore", the place of Helheimr, where oath-breakers, adulterers and murderers are punished. 2) Níðhöggr: "Malice Striker/Hateful Striker", a serpentine dragon living and gnawing at the roots of Yggdrasil (the cosmic World Tree), who also chews on the corpses of the inhabitants of Náströnd. 3) Ganglati: "Lazy-Step", Hel's personal manservant. 4) Móðguðr: "Ferocious Battler", the guardian of Gjallarbrú, the bridge across the underworld river Gjöll. 5) Éljúðnir: depending on the translation either "Misery", or "Sprayed With Blizzards/Damp With Sleet" (personally I tend more towards "misery"), Hel's castle. It's described as being enormous, having really high walls and large gates. 6) Ganglöt: "Slow-Step", Hel's handmaid. 7) Dark dyes for clothing were quite expensive, especially black-blue dyes (raven black). Most Norse societies only had access to them via trade (with the Byzantine Empire, for example). So really dark or colourful clothing was a status symbol, since it was only available to the wealthy. 8) Breiðablik: "Broad Gleam". According to Snorri Sturluson's Prose Edda, it was the fairest hall in Asgard.

#norse mythology #hel #baldr #nanna #ganglot #ganglati #modgudr

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crystalelemental · 4 years

Text

With Book 4 in FEH out of the way, I guess it’s time to talk about the stories so far. Book 2 is still the best, in my opinion.

I don’t think I’ve really talked about this, so let me explain. Book 1 sucks. It’s nothing, it doesn’t even try. The only hint of events occurring is that Veronica’s possessed by some evil dragon god of Embla, but that never got resolved in any way, and has really never been brought up again. We’re so far outside of that plotline that Veronica’s basically a dedicated ally now. Nothing about that book had a plan.

Book 2 had a plan, and a structure, and it worked. It wasn’t flashy or interesting, and I can respect anyone whose stance is that Book 3 or 4 had a more interesting concept. I personally liked the cast overall for Book 2, even though some got limited screen time and Surtr’s about as boring a villain as you can have. But Book 2 wins because Books 3 and 4 flopped.

Book 3 flopped because they backed out. The idea of the realm of the dead is cool, and facing off against the god of death is cool. But the god of death is about as stock standard evil as you can get, with no actual plan beyond “swell the ranks of the dead.” Why massacre these worlds? Why does she need to kill Eir a million times to create more of the dead, shouldn’t you have plenty? Like it doesn’t add up. And Eir starting out as the concept of Merciful Death was amazing, that was the best setup possible. And then it turns out no, she’s not even associated with death, she’s with the life dragon in opposition, none of that was real. Oh okay. Way to undermine your entire theme for nothing I guess. Also I hate to be like this, but I actually dislike the Veronica and Alfonse as Thrasir and Lif thing. I thought it was substantially more interesting when they were presented as the ancient rulers of their kingdoms. But then no, it’s just Veronica and Alfonse, and while Thrasir continues to get nothing except being omnicidal for funsies, Lif gets all the heavy drama and dialogue and focus, because god forbid this story stop riding Alfonse’s dick for five seconds. Book 3 had interesting concepts that just didn’t pan out, and the characters all wound up being less interesting than they initially started out. Also, let’s be real. For a fucking DEATH GOD, they sure had no problem working around her ability to inflict absolute death in the most standard way possible. Which kind of immediately nerfed Hel’s threat level for me, not gonna lie.

Book 4 started out interesting, immediately tanked harder than I’ve seen anything in this game tank, had a redemption arc, and then decided it had enough of success and ended in a pathetic squelching fart noise. Fairies and dreams? Awesome. Aesthetic approved. But it takes them like two chapters to introduce Plumeria as the fucking wet dreams fairy, and immediately all sense of this being serious is dead. They even had the audacity to outright explain that no no, she may be the lewd fairy, but she doesn’t actually like that job!

Listen guys. I get it. You know the sexy outfits and character designs sell, but you also know that people are insane, and they somehow expect the slutty fairy to present this concept of being exclusively available to them so you can sell that fap bait. I really get it. But oh my god you could not have handled this any worse, because now that just feels like rape fetish. “No no, her job is to be a prostitute, but she’s not a slut because she hates it!” is not the save you think it is, friend. You’d have been better off either giving her a sadistic streak with this and enjoying toying with people who can never truly have her, or just making her slutty. That would’ve been so much less uncomfortable.

So until the halfway point, we’re kinda just dealing with the fact this incredibly uncomfortable character just exists around here. And then Freyja drops. And initially it’s like oh, I just appreciate there’s an evil fairy whose costume design isn’t a fucking disaster, she actually looks good. And then they have her motivation being assuming complete control over dreams by taking her brother’s power, and ensuring that the dream world can’t die like it almost had. And they introduce this really cool concept of her taking in abandoned children and giving them a new life as the fairies, and...well...

Plumeria. Again. Okay, so it wasn’t quite enough that we had a fairy who’s apparently forced into being the wet dreams fairy despite hating it, now she’s also a child who was abandoned by her mother and is desperately seeking to be loved. This is...this is next level of discomfort. Plumeria’s character bothers me. Like sure, fine, I get that this isn’t a badly developed character or anything, but it’s never really addressed how absolutely fucked up this is, and it’s especially disquieting considering this is IS’ sexy character for the book. This is their sex appeal pandering character, and this is the direction they wanted to go. Just...ew. Come on, guys. Have at least a bit of class, will you?

But the rest of the book at least continues to amp things up. Are Peony and Sharena actually swapped around? Freyr is dead, and Freyja is now literally unstoppable within the dream. Oh shit, Alfonse is fucking dead. There’s all this cool stuff happening, and then the final chapter happens.

Are Peony and Sharena actually swapped around? Who cares! Game’s not gonna tell you, because “it doesn’t matter.” Well good, glad that was a huge mystery that didn’t need solving so nobody bothered. Why even bring it up? The message of “It doesn’t matter” only works if there’s a crisis of identity and you’re getting the support of your long-time friends. Instead it’s just a mystery thrown in for nothing with no value, and the “it doesn’t matter, you’re my friend” comes from someone Sharena has no actual memories of and has only been around for like...a couple of hours or however long these events take place. It’s a completely meanningless subplot that goes nowhere and does nothing.

Freyja went from the villain tormenting the protagonists to suddenly having empathy toward everyone at the drop of a hat. They set up the frustration of not understanding why we’d fight so hard to return to reality when dreams are more comforting, but that doesn’t really establish much about Freyja herself. We get exactly one moment, where she calls for Triandra and Plumeria only to realize they’ve died, and feels sad about it. So when she gives up and everyone returns to reality, everyone’s back. Triandra and Plumeria are fine. Peony and presumably Mirabilis are fine. Alfonse isn’t actually dead so what was the point of bringing it up? Oh, but Freyja’s dead. How? Don’t...don’t worry about it. She just is, okay? Also if both masters of dream are dead, and the dream world was already dying before...how are the fairies still there? Wasn’t the point that all the old ones were dying because people from the real world (don’t even get me started on that bullshit) gave up on dreaming, and thus they needed to make humans into fairies to keep the dream world going? How are you all here as fairies? Explain?? Game?!?

And then they just...loop back to the start. Like nothing happened. Because nothing did happen. For all the interesting setup, all the interesting concept behind the new characters, and especially behind Freyja as an antagonist...it goes nowhere. The ultimate defining feature of this book was “Pointlessness.” Nothing mattered. No one did or accomplished anything. Except I guess killing the god of another realm, good job guys. I just...I don’t get it. What was the point of any of this? Maybe Book 5 is going to focus on Triandra and Plumeria wanting to join up and have you help get Freyja back, so there’s continuity, I don’t fucking know.

I honestly don’t know where I’d rank Book 4. I want to put it above Book 3 based on concepts and the fact that Freyja was actually interesting, just rushed to her development in the last book so it felt forced. But on the flip side, Book 4 was incredibly pointless. At least stuff happened in Book 3. Sure it undermined its entire theme and purpose, but stuff happened! You can’t say stuff didn’t happen! But I can definitely say that Book 2 is the only one I think turned out well. Because it was self-contained and made sense. Yes it was simple, but using simple tools to tell an effective story will always be better than trying to reach for complexity and falling flat on your ass. And yes, IS, I’m telling you maybe you should stop trying. Between two consecutive failed books and some of the Forging Bonds events of the last year just...completely doing nothing or even hurting the characters presented...maybe just...don’t try to be complicated. Because you’re not doing a good job.

#fire emblem heroes

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breidablik-and-folkvangr · 4 years

Note

yOur FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD BENCH IS HERE WITH AN IDEA Kiran x Alfonse, but role reversed with who ends up working for Hel >:D (Kiran in Líf's place if that helps clarify better) Take it in any direction you want, break my heart if you have to 😤

THANKS NOW I’M SAD

Accepting the deal was simple for Kiran.

She had failed. The Great Hero, the Summoner and head tactitian of the Order of Heroes of the Kingdom of Askr, had failed. No matter how many strategies she came up with, no matter how many Heroes lent her their strength, she could not save them. It didn’t matter that she had overseen an alliance with Embla, it didn’t matter they had initiated the Rite of the Heart of Angrboða, all had perished as Hel became the true ruler of Zenith.

First it was Sharena. Hel took her life while Kiran and Alfonse could do nothing but scream and plead for their cherished friend and sister. Then, as the Heart continued to beat, Anna drew her last breath. Finally, Alfonse. Oh, Alfonse. He had given his life to protect her, begging her to live on and save herself, passing away in her arms as Kiran wailed and raged against the heavens for her lover.

Then, Hel had offered a deal. A simple bargain. Balance the cohort of the dead, and Askr shall be saved.

Under the weight of all of her failures and the death of her beloved friends and the love of her life, accepting the deal was simple for Kiran. She never had a choice to begin with.

----------

Mímir was the name she chose. A loyal friend to Líf, first king of Askr, and the master tactitian that help unify the kingdom. Hel offered her Thrymheim, a powerful tome of dark magic. A tattered gray hooded robe covered her, while a black owl mask hid her identity. Fitting, Kiran-

(no, she could no longer bear that name. She was unworthy.)

- Mímir thought, for a person who had forsaken the right to walk in the light.

----------

She wanted to scream when she first saw them. Alfonse, Sharena and Anna. Young, joyful and alive. Valiantly battling the soldiers of the realm of the dead knowing nothing of the fate that awaited them.

Then she saw herself. Rage consumed her entire being, its flames so ferocious she almost felt her heart beat again. It was all her fault. If she had strategized better, fought harder, all would be alive and well. Askr wouldn’t be ruined.

So she raised her hand and cast a spell. Kiran would die today. Mímir would kill Kiran.

And the cohort of the dead would be balanced.

….

Once again, she failed.

----------

“I know your name. Your true name.”

Mímir paused. “Do you now, Prince Alfonse?”

Alfonse, strong and brave and beautiful in his golden armor, pinned her down with his stare. Those eyes, those beautiful eyes, shining brightly. Not clouded. Not lifeless.

“You target Kiran obsessively, but go out of your way to avoid harming me. You laid bouquets of Sharena’s and my favorite flowers in that desolate Askr. There’s only one person who you could be.”

“Kiran. That is your true name.”

The mask clattered to the ground.

Kiran smiled. A bittersweet, strained smile. Tears fell freely from her eyes.

“I really can hide nothing from you, Alfonse.”

#fire emblem #fire emblem heroes #fe alfonse #fe kiran #fe summoner #kiralfonse #breidablikandfolkvangr scenarios

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friftar · 4 years

Text

The Performance

A lost child of the Netherworld returns to what was once home by chance and witnesses the local culture.

Word count: 5964

Set before the events of Rumo by at least 20 years and definitely before the Copper Killers arrive in Hel.

Warning for violence

Author’s Notes:

Not the Magnum Opus of my personal Netherworld Not-So-Cinematic Universe but a part of a larger WIP that will always stay a WIP.

I could write out a whole paragraph about the OC that appears in the story who plays a big part in the story I’ll most certainly never complete but I wanna keep it short. All you need to know is that she is a Helling but grew up in Zamonia after being adopted by a demon family and became a soldier in service to the ruler of Florinth. For context, briefly before the events of The Performance, a group of “terrorists” - who are the actual protagonists of the story! - attempted to kill a prominent Florinithian noble and Angava swore to hunt them down. One group member used to work with the Murkholmers and thus they took refuge in the Netherworld. I might write down how exactly that revelation happened, if anyone’s interested in an OC’s story, but that’s for another day.

Fun fact: not only was this fic originally in German (preferred language for the obivous reason that 1. native language 2. language of the source 3. Gornab’s spech impediment is much easier to write in German) but it is very old - it was originally written BC (Before Corona) 4 in August 2016.

Without further ado, enjoy!

Angava stood in the hall that led to King Gornab’s throne room and swallowed. It had been quite a while since she had an interview, at least some decades. For how many years had she been a guard under the service of the Florinthian Zaan now? Time had gone by so quickly. She looked down at herself, got rid of some invisible wrinkles on her trousers, wiped at an unclean spot on her silver chestplate and readjusted her trousers. Everything had to look good for when she talked to the ruler of Hel.

No, she wasn’t really nervous about not being good enough - she wasn’t arrogant but she was well aware that her years of experience of guard and then captain of the guard wasn’t just chicken feed - what frightened her was for her to not be rejected by her fellow species. She had to admit as much as she hated it that this was what it was really about, to not be a true outsider among the Hellings.

Ever since she had set foot in the Netherworld, she couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that crept up on her whenever she thought about her situation. The others thought of her as an oddball, a Helling who had spent their life in the Overworld far from the customs of their home and among outsiders, what a complete nightmare. It seemed that one half of the Hellings thought of her as a pitiable victim who through events beyond her control was separated from those like her and hadn’t enjoyed the privileges of growing up in their glorious city, while the other half met her with disdain and contempt; the Netherworldian who fled, a traitor to their species raised on other traditions and principles.

And yet, Friftar had said that for the people of Hel it was as if a lost child had finally returned to its home. Angava thought better to take the adviser by his word, after all he was a politician and she knew enough about those: pathological liars who as soon as they earned the people’s trust didn’t even bother to keep their promises. It’s the same everywhere, be it over or underneath the ground, Angava thought and took a deep breath.

She would prove to the Hellings that she was neither a damsel in distress nor a treacherous serpent. She was Angava: Captain of the Zaan’s Guard; she had trained the soldiers of the Florinthian Army; had prevented several attempts on the Zaan’s lives; for the love of everything, she had walked through the Netherworld, the most dangerous place on Zamonia! The king’s guard was the only job that fit her high demands.

The door to the throne room opened and a Helling in a black servant’s uniform stepped out.

“Milady, King Gornab Aglan Azidahaka Beng Elel Atua the Ninetyninth is now ready to see you.”

The servant bowed as she walked past him and into the room and Angava could have sworn she saw gleaming beads of sweat on his forehead. Was she projecting her nervosity onto him? Before the door closed, the servant slipped through the door and left her alone in the throne room.

Like all rooms in the palace this one was made of black stone, similar to marble, but with no wallpaper. The high ceiling was sustained by various pillars and the room was long, at the opposite wall there were a few steps of wide stairs to what had to be Gornab’s throne. Along the walls pots were positioned and out of each a flame spurt that bathed the room in warm light but didn’t manage to get rid of the room’s cold atmosphere. The throne room of the Zaan didn’t have fire, it was full of golden decorations instead. And other than the Zaan’s throne, which was a complicated designed golden armchair, King Gornab’s was more akin to a four-poster bed with a dark metal frame and many, many cushions and pillows on it. On one such pillow sat a creature who surely had to be the King himself.

King Gornab was with no doubt the most disturbing creature Angava had ever laid her eyes upon. If she had been forced to describe his appearance in detail and only use positive words, she would’ve been silent as a grave. Ever since she had come to Hel she had always found a certain similarity between herself and the other Hellings, one that she had missed back in Florinth where even the demons looked at her as if she was an outsider to her and she wondered how she had ever managed to pass for one. None of the Hellings looked the same obviously, but they all shared some key features: the pale skin with a cold undertone that had made life tough on sunny days in the Overworld; the thin silvery hair she grew to her ears and the hornlike excrescences on their heads. King Gornab also possessed these traits but it was as if someone had added them to him in the aftermath in order to not make him look too odd among them. His horns though were covered by a headwrap, which supposedly was a symbol of the King’s power.

Everything about him caused discomfort in her but she didn’t move a muscle in her face and approached the throne with sure steps. Friftar was standing next to the throne; almost as if he didn’t really wish to be seen by her. His eyes were on here but there was no warmth in his look; it was only cold indifference. Her eyes went back to the king and she almost flinched when she saw him looking directly at her with a piercing look. She forced herself to remain as unbothered as she could and stopped at the foot of the first step.

She bowed her head and went down on one knee, hoping that this would be considered appropriate behavior of warriors towards their lieges everywhere including here.

“Greetings, my King. I thank you from the depths of my heart that you have given me the great pleasure of allowing me to stand before you.”

She looked up and noticed how Gornab was looking at her with unbidden fascination and his mouth was pulled into a broad grin.

“And? Twah do you nawt? Who do you kinth you are that you nac plysim walk in rehe and mande an encediau?”

Angava blinked. No one had bothered to tell her that the king’s speech impediment was that severe. She bit her tongue and didn’t show any outward reaction, who knew what impression it would make if she were to do so?

“Your king is asking you for the reason as to why you are here, what you want from him and why you are demanding his precious time.”

Angava gathered herself. “I am here for a request, my liege. During my time in the Overworld I have enjoyed a most extensive training as a fighter and military strategist; I have trained the guards of several cities, was the guard of the Florinthian Zaan for almost 50 years, I prevented the Ornian Duchess from besieging Florinth by shooting a crossbow bolt through her heart from a tower of the outermost city wall as she was giving a pep talk to her troops.” She briefly paused for a moment for Gornab to absorb what she said. “I want to resettle in Hel, and I need an occupation that fits my standards and I already realized that guarding you was not only the job most fit for me but would give me the greatest joy - to protect the ruler of my people, whom I have been separated from for so long with my own life. You can rest assured that in my hands, your life is bound to be safe.”

She bowed once again and then was silent.

“Hmmm. You omec to me and just nawt me to kema you my guarddibo? I lion do taht with orsriwar who are jallo to me and you, Dianworlvero, enthav woshn me any tijallo.”

“You come into front of Our Majesty and just want him to employ you based on your word? This only happens with warriors who have earned King Gornab’s complete trust and whom he feels at ease with being his protectors and until now you have given him no proof of your loyalty to the Gornab family.” Friftar translated swiftly.

Look at that, he didn’t expect the Overworldian to have such ambitions, it almost charmed him! What an eager person was standing in front of them!

He thought about how to proceed with her. According to his spies, a noblewoman from a duchy of Ornia had indeed been killed by a high-ranking member of a ruler’s guard, a warrior woman of demonic origin… but that had been many years ago and the spy might be dead or senile. So, if it was true… she sure had potential and could even turn out to be a valuable pawn. For that he could simply make her a palace guard; to earn a spot in the Hellian royal guard one had to be in the Gornabs’ service for years and not muck up a single time, but to just waste such immense potential? He just had to keep her chain short enough, and work towards her not falling into the king’s favor too much, otherwise she could gain power. If she was around the whole time it would be an easy thing to keep her in check, much easier than having her run up and fro in the Netherworld.

“What do you want me to do, your Majesty, so I can prove my loyalty towards you and my people and show my desire to be your servant?”

Instead of answering her, Gornab merely waved her away as if she was a bothersome fly. She merely nodded and took several steps back. Gornab gave Friftar a sharp look and instantly the adviser was at his monarch’s side.

“Twah do you say, Tarfrif? I’m not lirea cedvincon. Could be a pis of hist ‘Zaan’, or bemay just a off-show.”

“Ah, you could be very right, your Majesty. If you allowed me to state my thoughts: I do believe her about her credentials. But being a spy, that’s a wholy different matter indeed; sadly I cannot read her mind.” Friftar made a thoughtful face and put his hand on his chin.

“I isa we lushod not keta any kris: let her fight in the Terathe of Fultibeau Death, there she will vepro selfher.” Gornab stared at the Overworldian.

“She would surely not strike a bad figure in the arena, if what she says is true she could have the chance to become a fan favorite, especially since she is a Helling.”

Gornab groaned, obviously annoyed and fed up. “Can’t we just reclade her a tortrai and tececuex her callilipub?”

Both Friftar and Gornab threw a look at the Overworldian Helling. She was still standing with her back straight like a rod and while she looked distant enough as if she was trying to remain ignorant of what was being said about her.

“There is a saying among the Overworldians that is very common, your Majesty: keep your friends close but your enemies closer.”

“Endsfri seclo, mieseen serclo?”

“Exactly! Do you believe it to be for the best? To make Angava the Overworldian your personal guard?” Friftar gave him a questioning look. “Here we would be able to observe her… and your security would be guaranteed.”

Gornab blinked. “Deterangua tiricuse?”

Friftar laughed gently. “If you say so, your Majesty, it surely has to be true! I will keep myself from doubting your word.”

“As you lushod!” Gornab snarled and laid down on his pillows. “Rihur up now. I don’t veha meti to tenlis to this berbla.”

Friftar cleared his throat, which brought back Angava’s attention to them.

“In the name of my king I can congratulate you, Angava of the Overworld! I am sure you will live up to the task of protecting King Gornab’s life with your own, and that you will leave your mark on Hellian history.” He said with a grand gesture.

Angava’s eyes widened and she smiled. She bowed deeply in front of Gornab who was back in his pillows.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart, my liege. There is nothing that could sweeten the day even more for me than knowing that you see me as worthy of guarding you. I will not disappoint you, that I swear by-” she paused, as if she was thinking on what to swear what was accepted in Hel “-the gods we both worship.”

Friftar gave her an amused look but Gornab merely groaned. “Verewhat. Now go and don’t turbdis me.

The adviser approached Angava. “If I might have the honor of accompanying you to the door, dearest Angava.” He put a hand on her shoulder and led her back to the door. On the inside he also took a deep breath of relief. How lucky that the king had been way too apathetic and didn’t even need a lot of convincing for him to get what he wanted.

He opened for her and to her surprise joined her in the corridor.

“Truly, from myself my most earned congratulations. This warrants a celebration, eh?”

Angava blinked at his words. A celebration? She was not in the mood for this, not at all, she wanted to relax and then find the terrorists - they wouldn’t be able to hide from her and with now being formally employed by the king she could function as an extended arm of his power. Or… there had to be birth records among the people of Hel. Maybe she still had a living family here who didn’t even know of her existence.

“Actually, I already had different plans, milord.” She admitted as Friftar’s eyebrows shot upwards.

“Oh, is that so, just fresh off the vrahok and already in such high demand? You truly are full of surprises, my dearest. Might I ask, both as the king’s adviser and a curious acquaintance, of what said ‘plans’ consist?”

Angava wanted to sigh. That Friftar certainly was a pushy fellow, she was used to politicians being prone to snooping but it would never not bother her. Before she could open her mouth, he spoke next.

“But I suppose you can tell me of it later, when we are relaxing at the Theater of Beautiful Death. Today there will be a show, planned by none other than me, its artistic director, and just a word from me and today’s fight is fought in your name. Think about… when was the last time she saw the theater? It’s a most impressive building.”

Angava tried to remember. The Theater of Beautiful Death, the name certainly rang a ball and she had seen the massive arena from afar but as a child… there was nothing. A vague memory as if she was looking at it through milky glass, seeing high black walls… but that was it. She probably had never entered it.

“It is indeed. I do think I remember, but it has been many, many years.” Like everything that has to do with my life in Hel, she added in thought.

“Then let us refresh those memories, shouldn’t we? I will send for a soldier who escorts you to the theater from your inn. You will be assigned quarters in the palace so best if you gather any belongings of yours and hand them over for the servants to stow them away. I’m sure King Gornab will be delighted and very much at peace knowing you will be by his side with your sword at the ready.”

Angava hesitated. If it helped her in getting the king’s favor it could be quite useful. Besides, she could personally ask Friftar whether a list of all Hellings born in Hel existed, as a high-ranking member of the royal court and chief adviser to the king he was bound to know. For the other matter… that warranted a little more delicacy.

“I feel honored but you do not have to let the bloodshed occur in my name. I will surely attend. It would be an honor to join our majesty in such a spectacle.”

It was evening - or at least she assumed it was evening despite the fact that there was no sun in Hel and thus way to tell the hour unless she had a watch with her - when there was a harsh knock on the door of her room in the inn. A bluddum soldier in dark steel armor stood in front of her door which he could’ve most likely filled out.

“Lady Angava?” He asked in a gruff voice. She nodded slowly, feeling slight unease at being referred to as a ‘lady’ - such nobility titles were usually reserved for Florinthian nobles back on the surface world. “I’m here on Lord Friftar’s demand. We are supposed to escort you to the theater.”

“We?” She raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked behind him. Five more mercenaries, one more of a barbarian than the other, stood behind him in the corridor. “I think Friftar is more than mistaken. One soldier would’ve been enough, I didn’t bring many belongings with me and I don’t need an escort to protect me.” She put emphasis on the last sentence and raised her head proudly. The bluddum merely grunted. “The chief adviser’s word is our command.” He made a step towards her to grab her by the arm but Angava pulled back and gave him a scorching gaze. “I’m coming with you willingly, don’t even think about using force on me.” Her tone was icy and she tried to bring as much authority in it as she could. Did they not know yet about her being the king’s bodyguard? And maybe even if they knew, they didn’t care - or rather, Friftar didn’t seem to care. If this was supposed to be a little show of his to demonstrate his power, well, he’d be smart and think of something better.

The bluddum murmured something to himself, then turned towards his colleague and said: “Well then, boys. The lady has a performance to attend.”

Angava frowned; for years she had been ‘Captain’ or various other military titles - , here everything was set back to zero.

They reached the theater, on the way to which the soldiers had shielded Angava from the looks of the civilians on the streets or also on the way to the theater but before the majestic building they dispersed slightly to get through the throbbing masses of people. The captain was taken by awe at the sight of it but also the strange feeling of unease crept up on her. She had guessed that this theater didn’t exactly work like the one in Florinth; manuscripts for plays weren’t written with ink.

They didn’t enter the theater through the main entrance used by the vast majority of visitors, most of which being Hellings and the bizarre hybrid creatures she assumed to belong to a sort of servant caste and a smaller percentage of Overworldians, but through a side entrance frequented by much fewer people, all of which Hellings, most likely members of the royal court and high-ranking nobility. As they passed through that gate, Angava felt every single gaze on her person. Most of the observers looked at her and then at each other, began whispering behind a held up hand and some of those didn’t even bother to pretend. Others stopped dead in their tracks to stare at her as if she was a curious animal in a cage. Angava kept her head held up high and kept on walking without throwing them a single glance.

She didn’t know that the news of the Overworldian Helling seemingly having caught a job in direct proximity of the king mere days after arriving in the Netherworld had already spread around like a wildfire in the few hours since her appointment. There were many rumors, one of them being that she happened to be a powerful sorceress who had bewitched King Gornab and turned him into her puppet, lacking any free will, another one that she had seduced the king and he fulfilled every single wish of his new mistress. All sorts of theories ranked around her - the Hellings’ paranoia knew no bounds, especially since it concerned a stranger who at the same time couldn’t really be considered a stranger.

“Angava!” The chief adviser exclaimed joyfully and approached her. He had changed out of his humble black robe and into something a tad more extravagant, a shimmering costume of burgundy red so dark it was almost black and adorned by delicate silver necklaces, on one of which hung a shimmering opal the size of an eyeball. Silver bands gleamed on the fingers of both hands with which he clasped Angava’s own ones. She wore no such accessoires but the same clothes from earlier that day. In fact, she felt as if she would need a bit of variety from now on.

“Welcome to the Theater of Beautiful Death! It is so good to have you.” Friftar briefly turned his attention from her and told the soldiers with a gesture to leave, and so they did; they didn’t hesitate a second in fact. Friftar led her up a flight of stairs.

“It would have been ridiculous if we hadn’t found our way here, with five soldiers in tow.” Angava said dryly. Friftar merely let out a light laugh in response.

“Pardon me being careful. I simply wished for you to not run into any unpleasantries on your way here.”

“Thank you very much for your consideration, but I don’t think I know what unpleasantries I could run into and not handle.” That was the truth; she could easily take on a bluddum and the likes of other Overworldians.

“I’m not worried about you, but rather those who would stand in your way. I am after all responsible for maintaining order in Hel. Ah,”, he stopped in front of an arch, his voice lowering to a whisper, “the king’s box. He is very relaxed, but once we get started, that will change.” He giggled. “After you.”

Gornab was lying on his stomachs and picking out cut pieces of fruit out of a bowl to put into his mouth and loudly chew on. Angava stood next to his throne and took a deep bow.

“My liege; I would like to thank you for allowing me to join you in this spectacle.”

“Huh?” Gornab threw her an irritated look and when he saw who had spoken to him, he merely waved her away and turned his attention back towards the food. Angava, who had spent decades in the presence of entitled princelings, dukes and other nobles and was thus used to utterly ungrateful behaviour (it had never changed despite her status as a high-ranking military as she had never been officially granted a title or lands by the Zaan), didn’t show any outward dissatisfaction and stepped aside to let Friftar pass by so the adviser could take care of the king. Once he was finished, he stepped to the edge of the box and the full house that had filled the seats and rows and until now had been having loud conservations, a constant background noise, grew quiet.

“My dear fellow citizens of our beautiful city, Hel, most precious gemstone among all in the Netherworld,” Friftar spoke into an apparatus and his voice boomed over the crowd, instantly drawing all attention, “thank you for gathering here in our beloved Theater of Beautiful Death where over the duration of tonight, we will see upon a performance unlike what you have seen before! None of this entertainment could be provided without your monarch, your king, Gornab the Ninety-Ninth. Rise from your seats, people of Hel, to applaud your sovereign!” The claps coming from the crowd were deafening, Gornab jumped up and down on his throne and laughed as his people cheered on him.

“Sei, sei, erche for me, santspea!”

As the adviser continued his speech, Angava looked over the seats and at the crowd. The Hellings were seated closest to the arena, definitely separated from the two other groups which mingled on the seats further in the back. She tried to see if there was any face in the crowd she could recognize but despite the general diversity of the Overworldians, there was not a single human to be found. She curled her lip in displeasure. Not a single one of the terrorists was here, she was wasting her time! She tried to tame her rising fury, after all they were the reason why she was even here in the first place, this is where they had fled to, she knew it to be sure! But… she had a part to play now. After all, this was also where she belonged to, technically more than she belonged to the Overworld, and to do anything to earn either Gornab’s or Friftar’s ire could potentially prove fatal.

“The first fight is going to be between one of our newcomers, you will find her,” the adviser laughed sardonically, “quite charming, and one of the most terrifying creatures to look upon that we have to offer. You may decide which description refers to which combatant.” The crowd responded with joyous laughter.

“But, before everything, I would like to dedicate today’s battle to one person - besides the obvious that is, as all our performances are fought in the name of our most beloved king, as we all know.” He turned to bow at Gornab who wore a smug vapid grin on his face.

“The new first bodyguard of Our Grace; Angava of Florinthia, after many decades finally having returned to her true home.” Friftar made a grand gesture into her direction. Phenomenal, Angava thought. At Friftar’s gesturing that beckoned her to join him at the balustrade, she stepped closer and next to him.

“You don’t need to say anything, captain… just show your loyalty to them,”, he whispered through gritted teeth. Angava nodded. She put her right hand over her hand and took a deep reverent bow beyond the crowd. Clapping didn’t exactly erupt but could be well heard, as hesitant as it may be, from various ranks, more among the Overworldians than the actual Hellings. Angava felt her face heat up and her cheeks turn light pink.

“Very well! Now, enjoy yourselves!” The adviser clapped his hands and the chatter picked up again, with many looks being thrown at the box. Everyone had a slight air of agitation around them and seemed to tense up.

“Was that really necessary?” Angava asked the adviser who had stepped back and leant against the throne in a relaxed manner. He regarded his manicured bony hands and adjusted one of the rings.

“Well, you want them to respect you, don’t you? Consider this a favor I’m doing you.”

“Tarfrif, who gets ledkil dayto?” Gornab tugged on Friftar’s arm and the adviser’s body shook like a brittle leaf in an autumn storm. He smiled and made a calming gesture.

“Patience, your majesty, you will not be disappointed.” He turned to Angava and smiled. “Neither will you, hopefully. Enjoy yourself.”

Angava gave him a small nod and turned her attention back to the arena. Something had happened because the visitors were so silent, one could’ve heard a pin drop.

One of the various gates was opened and she squinted to be able to see a creature that still lingered in the darkness. She could see very well in the dark, she assumed it to be a trait of her species, but nothing but a vague silhouette was visible to her until the fighter stepped out into the area. It was a trembling uggly who was holding a medium-sized crossbow in her hands. Angava threw a look at the chief adviser but his attention was on the newcomer.

The uggly walked into the center of the area and a closer look allowed Angava to see the streams of sweat that were running down from her face and neck into the plain garb she wore. As soon as she came to a stop, the gate opposite from the one she had entered was opened and a creature jolted forwards, a creature of which Angava could’ve never even dreamt of if she wanted.

It was a giant lizard with scales that reminded her of polished onyx, it possessed three heads, each with a broad jaw full of long needle-like teeth, big red eyes shimmering like rubies and a vibrant blue head crest. It had eight legs as a whole with sharp claws the same hue as the crest and at the end of its long tail thorn-like appendages grew. One of the heads snapped in the air, the other looked around, probably for its prey and the third one sniffed in the air. Then all three were thrown back into its neck and the creature let out a piercing roar which caused all present to twitch and covered their ears - with the glaring exception of King Gornab who had leaned forwards with an expression of unabashed glee on his hideous face.

This was none of the creatures the little entourage from Murkholm had encountered on their way to the city, or one of the beasts that had ripped the bluddum’s throat out; those had been fright-inducing already but they didn’t compare to the terror this one inspired.

The uggly was equally paralyzed at the sight of it, she had stopped shaking and stood like a salt pillar tightly holding the crossbow. The lizard hissed, it was a noise that raised the hair on the back of every attendant in the theater. The creature stalked around the uggly, its crests raised and seemingly indecisive whether to attack or not.

“What kind of beast is this?” Angava murmured to Friftar, who was fluffing up one of the pillows on which the king rested his feet.

“A siren monitor. The soldiers caught it in the echo caves, its kind occupies the top of the food chain in its habitat-”

“Tush up!” Gornab hissed and waved Friftar away to once again focus on the events down in the arena. The adviser took a few steps back as he bowed in reverence and continued in a hushed tone: “They are known for their ability to paralyze its prey in their immediate proximity with a scream for a short amount of time.”

Angava didn’t nod in acknowledgement.

The uggly, or rather the monitor’s prey, seemed to awake from her initial shock and blank horror was written all over her unpleasant face. She stumbled backwards and almost fell due to her legs being wobbly. The crowd erupted in laughter. Angava’s mouth was dried out, she wished to turn her gaze away or shove Friftar aside to leave the box but it was as if she was also frozen to the spot.

The monitor hissed again and ran at the uggly, who let out a fearful scream, raised the crossbow and fired a shot. To the surprise of everyone, be they spectator, king, adviser, bodyguard, monitor and especially uggly, it hit the creature in its side. The crowd screamed, equally in excitement as in disappointment and the uggly, finally having regained some sense, ran past her opponent to a safe distance at the other side of the octagon. The monitor turned around itself a few times like a dog chasing its own tail, one of the heads tried to reach the steel arrow while the other looked out for the uggly. When the uggly reached the wall of the arena, the monitor managed to grab the arrow and ripped it out of its skin, dark blood squirting from the wound. With not little force it threw the arrow as if to answer the audience’s reaction into the row of seats which parted under screams. A blurr, and the bolt parted a seat. Gornab let out a delighted cackle.

The monitor was approaching the uggly once again and let out another one of its paralyzing screams but the uggly seemed to have figured out the creature’s method because she put her fingers into her ears and thus rendered the scream meaningless. The monitor seemed to realize that too and ran at her with ferocious speed, spit dripping from its gaping maws.

Angava’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger on her waist belt, she wanted to take it out and throw it at the creature, maiming it and giving the uggly at least a chance of winning this fight, but she was cursed to remain a mere watcher in this stadium full of… she refused to continue her train of thought.

Just before the monster reached her, the uggly jumped aside and with a crash the monitor ran into the wall, the Hellings that were sitting behind it screamed both in delight and fear. It laid still for a few seconds and when it got up again, all three heads seemed to have momentarily lost their bearings. One of it was snorting with rage and turning violently from one side to the other, as if it had to pick up the uggly’s scent again.

As the crowd laughed it stumbled away from the wall and into the center of the area with the loud noises irritating it even further as the heads shook in rage and confusion. A loud roar, and with a raised crest it crept upon its opponent. The uggly merely stood there, waiting for the right moment - and it came when the siren monitor raised itself on four hind legs, spread the other four and prepared to fall upon her, with sharp claws and snapping jaws. The light underbelly was at display and the uggly shot once, into the chest, shot twice, into a leg, and three times, into the stomach. The beast screamed, lowered itself again and let out a heartbreaking howl.

The uggly hurried to reload the crossbow with the only bolt left and moved to point it at the middle head, ready to give the final strike under the screaming and cheering crowd - but before that had a chance of happening, the siren monitor’s tail twitched like a whip over its head and found its mark. The uggly gasped as the thorns pierced through her body, as did the spectators but for completely different reasons. Like a puppet the uggly was thrown to and fro until the monitor, having regained a bit of its strength, let it dangle over its heads and each head pulled on its prey until it ripped with a stomach-revolting sound like a toy that had fallen into the hands of a particularly aggressive child.

The audience was beyond itself, it stampeded with their collective feet on the floor and screamed. Gornab let out high and joyful laughter which transferred into gasping and coughing when an unchewed grape got stuck in his throat. While Friftar helped his sovereign, Angava still stared into the arena. She had shown no reaction, hadn’t screamed in delight or horror, not covered her mouth or her eyes. The only thing she had done was holding the dagger in a vice-like grip with such force that her knuckles were burning. It was the only thing that might have prevented her from doing something stupid she would surely come to regret.

But especially because she had been thinking of another place, a place far, far away from where she was right now, where there were no such things as what she just witnessed and that she would do everything just to be at this place right now.

#zamonia #zamonien #gornab the 99th #friftar #netherworld #friftarwrites #zamonia fanfiction #i'd like to think that this is pretty decent despite being old as hell #reblogs are very welcome!

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realityhelixcreates · 5 years

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Lasabrjotr Chapter 38: Desiderium

Chapters: 38/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Reader, Thor Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Life Comes At You Fast, Loki Has Never Been Known To Keep His Head In A Crisis, Old Ways Die Hard, But You, You Die Easy Summary: Loki is forced to face the fear of loss.

Medics rushed toward the infirmary, your unconscious body prone on a stretcher between them. Loki cleared a path ahead, barking orders and sometimes physically shoving people out of his way. He didn't know how much time you had. He didn't know if it wasn't already too late.

Panic stole all but a few starkly solid thoughts. The horrible sounds of a fist impacting your delicate flesh, and the startled little squeak you'd made. The thud of your head against the stone floor. Your silence thereafter.

Alarr was a dead man. Loki was going to kill him. Kill him, and dump his body in the river with no memorial. Let him wash ashore downstream, so that the animals might have him.

He hadn't felt this kind of hate, this swirling fury, for years now. He had almost let himself believe that he was past it.

But the part of him that could be driven to murder was still very much alive.

*****

It was promising to be a lovely day. His sleep had been blissfully nightmare free, and breakfast had been delicious. You had allowed him to eat with you in your room, while you arranged the new houseplants, planted your new seeds in their little starter pots, and put your new books on your new bookshelf. The space mural had been finished while you were gone: a sparkling star field, sprinkled with nebulae, star clusters, and distant galaxies. It had surprised and pleased you, and Loki had utterly basked in your delight.

He had planned on giving you a lesson in the Asgardian language later that afternoon, but first, there were a handful of petitions to see to; meeting with the Buridag planners, yet more Icelandic environmental specialists, authorities concerned with the growth of the human encampments outside the city, and Alarr wanted something as well. His missive had been addressed to Thor, but it involved Loki, and was apparently of 'utmost importance to keeping peace and order in Asgard', whatever he meant by that. It was probably just another complaint about all the humans outside.

Thor wouldn't be in the throne room today, so Loki had taken you there, to observe more examples of courtly business. And also perhaps just to show off a little what he looked like, sitting upon a throne. But before he could get you seated, Alarr had barged in ahead of everyone, though he was scheduled last. He had barreled into you heedlessly, and you had grabbed him by the arm to keep your balance.

“Pardon me.” You had said, in stilted Asgardian. But Loki had seen Alarr's face twist in disgust, and hadn't moved fast enough. Alarr had struck you across the face so hard that you had spun from the force of it. He hadn't been fast enough to catch you either, as you collapsed, unconscious, to the ground, cracking your head against the hard stone floor.

“Sully not my person with your filth, lowly creature!” Alarr had snarled, though it was obvious you couldn't hear. Then he choked as Loki grabbed him by the throat and flung him to the ground.

“You dare lay hands on my seidkona?” Loki shouted, alerting the guards, one of whom scrambled to the nearest medical station. “I'll see you stretched between horses for this Alarr!”

“You are acting the fool, Laufeyson, can you truly not see?” Alarr roared back, compelled not to rise by the point of a spear leveled at his torso. “You parade this opportunistic hussie around while humans take photos and make mockery of your nobility! You thumb your nose at the traditions that keep order, and do insult to all the noble ladies of Asgard by removing my son from his proper place, and installing your mortal whore in his stead! What does this say to your people? That both of our rulers are so easily seduced, so ready to abandon our own women for these pathetic mortals? She is not worthy, even of you, and yet, you debase yourself with a mortal no more important than a farm animal. How do you dare demand respect?”

The medics had arrived by then, carefully transferring your motionless body to a stretcher.

“Alarr.” Loki growled, rage blossoming like frost inside his ribs. “Were it not for my affections for Andsvarr, I would lay a curse upon your household that would see the Garprlings each wither away in failure and death, sparing you only until the last of your fold was gone, and then, finally, coming for you. Instead, I will settle with you on the field of challenge, two days hence. If you prove craven, I will remove Andsvarr from your family permanently, and set one of your cousins as the head of your household. Go back to your home and prepare yourself. I must away.”

And so he had left, a mere hair away from snapping and murdering Alarr right then and there. If you died, nothing would save the man.

He burst into the infirmary, bellowing for Bjarkhild, who had taken over the situation immediately, and so efficiently that Loki found himself expertly steered into the waiting room and coerced to stay there, upon pain of the lead healer's displeasure.

How did she do that?

Loki paced the room, fury and fear tearing at him. Somehow, he had never expected Alarr to take his displeasure this far. Whether he accepted you or not, perpetuating violence against a member of the royal entourage was an act of treason. Alarr knew that-the man was absolutely steeped in rules and traditions: he had to know the severity of his actions. How had he been allowed to lose respect to the point that he was willing to flout the laws he so valued?

She is not worthy, even of you. Of course. It was because Alarr did not respect him as a true prince of Asgard. His Jotun ancestry was known to the nobles now, to everyone, and some had severe issues with seeing him living up to his title. Even after all he had done for them, their traditions were more important than their experiences.

They would be reminded soon though, that he was no lesser. In two days, he would do his utmost to make sure that this never happened again.

But it wouldn't matter if you weren't there to brag to. What meaning did any accomplishment have if he could only whisper his stories to your memorial? What would he tell your father? If you died in his care, would it start a war?

Alarr, that thoughtless, brainless cur...

The rage bloomed again, drowning out the fear and pain of possible bereavement. Why didn't the man just think? Was this what Odin had gone through, when he had put an end to Asgardian expansion? What Bor had dealt with, when he abolished slavery? Thick-headed, short-sighted idiots unwilling to bend a single synapse towards growing and developing as a people?

This was so much more personal though. Alarr would never have touched Dr. Foster. The 'True Son of Odin' could be allowed his little dalliances with mortals, but when he did it he was a no-good, trouble making, Jotun foundling who was disrespecting his upbringing by spending time with lesser beings.

Thor burst in on his pacing. “Loki what in the frozen Hel is going on?” He demanded. “You got into a fight? You're going to perform a formal duel with Alarr?”

“Of course not.” Loki snapped, and Thor relaxed slightly. “I am going to execute Alarr.”

“Loki, you cannot-”

“He struck _____, and called her a whore!”

“...Oh.” Thor said. “Carry on then.”

Loki crossed his arms over his chest and continued pacing, a deep scowl on his face.

“Is she-”

“I don't know!”

Loki's pacing sped up considerably.

Finally, Ulfrun entered the waiting room, interrupting the royal brooding. Loki was on her in the blink of an eye.

“How is she?” He hounded. “Tell me! Now!”

Ulfrun cowered back from him. “I-I'm sorry, your highness. I have bad news.”

All color, all warmth drained from his face, drained from his body. He stumbled backwards, collapsing into a chair, with Thor's help.

What was he going to do without you?

“Loki...” Thor said quietly, but Loki's throat was so tight, he couldn't speak. He just shook his head. You'd lived through so much, and then this...it was all his fault. He should have sent you somewhere else as soon as he had seen Alarrs name. Would your spirit ever forgive his failure?

“Ulfrun, you little fool.” Bjarkhild griped. “You are as bad at speaking to people as you are good at healing them. Go back inside.”

The junior healer hurried back out of the waiting room, followed by Bjarkhild's impatient sigh.

“My Prince...” She knelt before him. “Please listen...”

“Don't fear.” Loki said weakly. “I don't blame you. I know you tried.”

“Listen...She is going to have to stay here for quite some time. The healing process will be long, and she will not be able to attend to her duties at all while she is here.”

Thor's hand tightened on his shoulder, and Loki, who had buried his face in his hands, parted his fingers so that one eye was visible.

“What?”

“Her skull has been cracked in several places, and one of her zygomatics crushed. Fixing this will take time; you must be patient.”

“She lives.” He whispered. Bjarkhild nodded, and Loki stood so abruptly that he nearly bowled her over. But Bjarkhild was the faster, and beat his rush to bar the door with her body.

“You cannot!” She said firmly. “You must be patient, my Prince.”

“I...I just want to confirm...” He said. The lead healer noticed the tears rimming his eyes, and relented with a long-suffering sigh.

“You must not be loud.” She instructed. “You must not disturb the equipment, nor try to rouse her. You must not touch her, especially not her head.”

“Agreed.” He said quickly. “Just let me see her!” He needed to know, he needed to see you breathe with his own eyes.

Bjarkhild stepped aside, and the brothers entered quickly, but quietly. Loki stifled a worried moan at the sight of you, your head swathed in bandages, your body hooked up to what seemed like a dozen different apparatuses. The golden glow of their mini Soul Forge blanketed your bed.

He wasn't allowed to touch you? He couldn't see how he could even get close! But from here, he could see your chest rising and falling, hear the soft chime of your heartbeat being monitored. You lived.

“Is it all right if he stays here?” Thor asked Bjarkhild. “It might be better if he were to remain. Perhaps it's possible that he could be allowed to hold her hand? We already know that his magic can help keep her strong; his presence should help her heal.”

“I suppose I could get him a chair...” Bjarkhild said. “But just the hand. No more than that. She must not be jostled. I cannot stress this enough: Her skull is broken. If you value her life, you must heed me.”

Thor stole up behind Loki and patted him on the shoulder. “You should take today to stay here, brother.” He said. “Stay with your love; I will take care of everything else.”

“She's not-”

Norns below, you were.

Loki took the seat the healer brought him, and twined his fingers carefully with yours. There he remained for the rest of the day.

#lasabrjotr #loki x reader #loki (marvel)#thor (marvel)#marvel fanfiction

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lovelyfeh · 5 years

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this is something I may just make a fic out of I’ve seen so many grim reaper summoners and it sounds like so much fun to write omg-

hope you enjoyed this one!! super sorry about the wait lovely!!! ( @floralianspiderboynova )

—

•It has always seemed odd to you that you’d been summoned by the Order to become their tactician. As the grim reaper from your realm, it seemed almost silly to get a request like that.

•Nevertheless, you agreed. You could sense the presence of another reaper, but their aura seemed... menacing. It would be better to stay and protect the mortals who clung to life.

•You stayed out of the armies way for the most part. You had a job to do, so you’d be gone for hours at a time leading souls to their peaceful resting spot before rejoining with the Order. It worried your comrades, but they never spoke a word about it.

•One day though, for some odd reason, the prince of Askr caught your attention. Something was.. off. You needed to stay by his side.

•You grew closer to him as the days continued to pass by. Soon you became good friends, with Alfonse confiding in you when he was stressed, and you in turn sitting down for tea to discuss the fascinating world of the living with him.

•But yet, even when you had grown close to him, the feeling never left.

•The day’s turned to weeks, the weeks turned to months... and then it suddenly all made sense.

•You first heard of Hel from the king. While a cruel man in your eyes, he did not have the heart of a liar. He was telling the truth about the supposed ‘ruler of the dead’.

•This woman was immediately your enemy. She sounded terribly vicious and unforgiving, and if that was the case she should be disposed of immediately. If the rumors of turning the fallen into her soldiers were true, she would not get away with her life if you encountered her.

•As it turns out, you wouldn’t have to wait long.

•Eir, the daughter of Hel, had warned you all about a curse. She said that Alfonse would fall victim to it, but you stepped forward and made it clear that wouldn’t happen.

•After she came with her ghastly army in tow, you drew your scythe. If she even thought of laying a hand on your allies than she would no longer have a head.

•You all beat her forces back, but she seemed persistent. Suddenly, she was chanting an ancient curse and moving toward the frozen prince next to you.

•You wasted no time in stepping forward and swinging your weapon in warning. You locked eyes with her and silently dared her to take another step towards Alfonse.

•The woman took your threats as an invitation to battle, and lept towards you without a word.

•You simply smiled coldly, rushing forward and cutting into her with your scythe in a flurry. Her fighting style was elegant, but easy to see through. Besides, your powers overthrew hers, as treating the deceased with kindness granted you more of a ‘rule’ over others.

•You knocked Hel to the forest floor and brought the blade to her neck, icy fire burning in your eyes. You both stared at each other for a moment before you spoke your part.

•“Hel, Monarch of the Dead, I hereby relinquish you from your duties for as long as your pathetic life may last. Show your face here again, and I will personally take care of you myself. Do you yield?”

•But unfortunately, Hel was persistent.

•She said nothing, simply fading into the ground before reappearing in front of her undead army. Her mouth stayed shut, but you could tell by the way she looked at your comrades that she wasn’t done yet.

•As soon as Hel disappeared you checked up on Alfonse. He seemed fine, just shaken. He praised you for your skills and wrapped an arm around you in gratitude, shivering from the after effects of Hel’s magic.

•You smiled kindly, pressing a finger to the princes chest and warming him before anymore could be said. You returned your gaze to the far off realm of the dead, and frowned.

•Even if you had to kill her, you would protect your friends and Alfonse from Hell’s wrath. No matter the cost.

—

#feh #platonic! relationships #mini fic #alfonse #mod cordelias book of imagines #hope you enjoyed!!

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wandering-bard-from-the-id · 5 years

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Daughters of Arendelle - Chapter 41

Part II - War

Chapters 1 - 40 can be found at FF. Net

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12222767/1/Daughters-of-Arendelle

Chapter 41

Captain Olsen watched helplessly as his Queen stalked the Southern Isles bastard. His throat had grown raw from shouting, shoulders ached from trying to break the ice. Damnit, she’s going to get herself killed. Driven by the thought he slammed the rifle butt, once more into unyielding ice.

“Sir, look!” The guardsman beside him pointed toward Elsa.

Hans had appeared from the shadows.

Olsen’s chest tightened as blinding light flashed toward Elsa.

“No!” His protest was drowned out by the crash of the roof collapsing atop his Queen. “Follow me!” He started for the stairs.

Bullets pinged off the wall. One of the men cried out, pitching headfirst off the stairs. His body struck the lower floor with a sickening crunch.

Returning fire, Olsen and the remaining men retreated to the top of the stairs.

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Crouched on one knee, Elsa reinforced the ice bubble surrounding her. Sieving anger fueled her magic. She cursed herself for thinking she could reason with the fool. There was only one thing Hans understood, power. Raw unrestrained power.

Fine. He wants power, I’ll show him true power. Teeth clenched, hands thrusted upward. She came to her feet.

The roof blasted apart under the attack. A large section of it sailed over the railing, crashing to the courtyard below. Smaller parts scattered over the rampart, forming new debris piles.

Magic danced over Elsa’s raised hands, ready to strike. Her eyes swept over the rampart searching for Hans.

He was gone.

Dammit. “Show yourself Hans!”

There was no reply.

Ice shimmered around her as she eased toward the debris pile he’d used before. Hands raised, she strained, listening for any telltale signs of his location.

Nothing could be heard beyond the gunfire and cries of battle. Concern for her sister whispered to her. She ignored it. The best way to protect Anna was to stop Hans.

Steeled by the thought she leapt around the pile, firing a blast where he should have been.

Ice coated the empty space.

Silent curses were cut short as a blast of heat struck her from the side. Caught off balance, the blow sent her sailing. Pain shot through her shoulder and side as she slammed into the tower wall. Dazed she dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Heat slipped through her defenses, licking at her feet and legs. She cried out as it brushed over bare skin, before being driven back by magic.

Through the flames and ice, she spied Hans. He glowed in the bright sunlight.

Anger drove her upward. She rose to one knee, unable to go further under the pressure of the attack. Huddled in the ice cocoon, fire whipped around her, melting sections of the ice along the tower wall.

Even within the confines of her ice, the heat was making it difficult to breathe. Sweat trickled down her back. Startled by the unfamiliar sensation she flinched.

Why doesn’t he press the attack? What is he waiting for? Sunlight. The realization struck her. He needs sunlight. Her mind began racing through possible ways to seal off the opening.

Muscles screamed in protest as she climbed to her feet. Each step forward was an effort.

“What’s wrong, Elsa? Things getting too hot for you?”

Hans’ laughter turned her stomach. Pompous ass. I’m going to freeze his mouth shut. Teeth clenched, she growled, pushing hard against the flames, forcing them back.

The laughter stopped, Hans staggered back a step. He grabbed his wrist to steady the disk.

“I’m going to kill you, Elsa.” The threat lacked his usual arrogance.

“How? With your…lame attempts…at humor?” Elsa’s feet slid back till her heel touched the tower wall. She leaned harder into the attack.

Magic pulsed through her body with a force she’d never felt before. Wave after wave of it crashed into the heat threatening to engulf her. Even if her magic could withstand the attack, her body was starting to weaken. I must end this. But how? Possible solutions were assessed and dismissed in the blink of an eye. Her lips curled upward as an idea took hold.

Unable to stomp her foot, she commanded magic down her leg and into the ground. A thin streak of ice sped over the wooden planks. It reached the toe of Hans’ boot and exploded into a wide sheet of ice beneath his feet.

“What the hel…?” Unable to get a foothold, the force of Elsa’s magic sent him sailing. He flew several feet, before landing hard on his back among the collapsed roof debris. The impact knocked the disk from his hand.

It bounced around the debris several times before rolling to the edge of a stairwell.

Hans watched in horror as it teetered in a gravity defying act before tumbling out of sight. The gold chain slithered along the planks after it.

“No!” Hans lunged toward the opening. The chain dance through his fingers.

Free of the attack Elsa dropped to her knees gasping for air. One hand held her up as the other clutched at her side, each breath hitching with pain. As the pain became a tolerable ache she raised her head. Her gaze swept over the empty rampart.

Where have you scurried off to now, you little rat? With a grunt, one foot came flat with the ground. She paused to push down a wave of nausea before climbing to her feet.

As the chain went taunt in his hand, Hans chuckled. He pulled the disk up, inspecting it for damage. There didn’t appear to be any.

Elsa spied him half hidden behind a pile of debris. Her eyes narrowed, it’s time to end this madness. She raised her hand. Ice sparked over it, before fading. What the…no!

She closed her eyes, calling to the magic. It didn’t answer. I command you to come forth! Something stirred in her chest, only to fade. You’re always eager to be free, show yourself! Ice began to move through her in a slow, jerking motion, causing the nerves in her arms to twitch. Sweat flushed her cheeks. Damn you, obey me!

Thin, brittle ice flew several feet before shattering against the floor.

“…no…” Panic tickled the edges of her mind as she lowered her hand, staring at the small bits of slush dripping from it.

No, no, no…now what? Desperate to keep the panic at bay, she spun, searching the area.

Her gaze settled on the sheathed sword hanging from a dead Lienz soldier’s belt. She knelt reaching for the weapon.

There was a sense of strength, and relief as her fingers wrapped around the leather covered hilt. She pulled the weapon free in one swift motion. It was heavier than she was used to, but it would have to do. She turned to find Hans moving toward the opening.

The sunlight between them grew dim as a large cloud drifted passed.

Hans froze mid-step as he spied her.

Elsa’s lips twitched upward at the fear in his eyes.

Fear gave way to arrogance as his gaze drifted to the sword in her hand. He slipped the disk chain over his neck and reached for his sword. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“I doubt that.” Elsa stepped back, finding her balance. The sword raised before her in a one-handed grip. Tired muscles protested the burden.

“It’s better this way, Elsa.”

Her skin crawled at his sickening sweet coo.

As he drew closer, she had her first real look at the disk. Strange symbols were etched around the edges of the polished gold. Mounted in the center was a small red stone. Faint light pulsed from the stone as sunlight passed over it. The stronger the light, the brighter the pulse.

“Two monarchs, battling face to face,” He drew closer. There was a sadistic glee in his eyes. “settling their differences with cold, sharp steel.” He slashed the blade through the air, causing a dramatic swoosh.

Elsa’s face revealed nothing. She shifted on the balls of her feet, testing her balance. “You’re not a monarch, Hans.”

His smile vanished.

Darkness filled his eyes, sending a chill down Elsa’s spine. He’s completely mad. She called to her magic. There was a faint stir. It grew quiet without reaching her hands.

“Not yet.” His lips drew back into the predatory smile Elsa had come to hate. “Soon you’ll be dead, and the Crocus throne will have a new ruler. It’s smaller than I had hoped for, but it’ll do for a start.” He attacked.

She batted away the half-hearted thrust aimed for her gut. It was followed by a feigned strike to the head. She countered, gliding away from the attacks with a dancer’s grace. He’s testing me.

Forced back by a series of quick strikes, Elsa blocked each, countering with a lunge aimed for his heart.

Hans blocked, pressing another attack.

Steel clashed against steel, coupled with huffs and grunts as each tried to find an opening in the other’s defenses. They circled each other with slow careful steps.

Between clashes Hans droned on, alternating between bragging and thinly veiled threats.

“Tell me, Hans,” Elsa dodged and countered a strike, before stepping back. “has your family ever threatened to muzzle your endless ramblings?” She was pleased to see a rush of bright red blossom over his cheeks.

“I would think you would be used to rambling, given Anna’s inability to shut up.”

Hearing Anna’s name leave his lips caused the smirk to slip from Elsa’s face. “Unlike you, my sister doesn’t spend every breath bragging about fabricated accomplishments or begging for unwarranted praise.” Her sword twisted around his defense with a thrust.

Hans hurled a colorful slur at her as he dodged the attempt to impale his throat. The tip of Elsa’s blade nicked him just below the jawline. Hissing in pain, his hand flew to the wound. He stepped back, putting a little distance between them. Fingertips came away covered in blood.

“First blood is mine, Hans.” Elsa smirked, easing back into a defensive stance.

“First, and last.” Hans snarled, taking his own stance.

“We’ll see.” Elsa shrugged.

They continued to circle each other. Neither able to land a serious blow.

Elsa struggled to control her breathing. Pain throbbed in her side. Muscles ached from being pushed to their limits. I should have taken Anna up on her offer to practice more.

She was pleased to see Hans wasn’t fairing much better.

His breath came in short, quick gasps. Sweat beaded over his forehead, running in rivets over flushed cheeks. He wiped a sleeve over his face, smearing streaks of dirt into the sweat.

“I’m thinking of decorating the Royal bedchambers, in the Isle’s colors of gold and white. Just to make it feel more like home.” He leapt forward, pressing an attack.

Unfazed by the remark, Elsa twisted, parrying his blade as it passed. She wasn’t quite fast enough.

Steel nicked her bicep, drawing a thin line of blood.

Her teeth clenched against the sting. Angered by the wound, she slammed the pommel of her sword into his face, wiping away his smug smile.

Hans stumbled back cupping his cheek, as he shouted a string of curses.

“This isn’t your home, Hans.” Elsa’s grip tightened on the sword hilt. “And it never will be.”

Blood covered his hand as he traced fingertips over the deep, jagged gash left by a small, decorative piece attached to the center of Elsa’s pommel.

That’s going to leave a scar, Elsa thought with satisfaction.

“You bitch!” He slashed wide.

Elsa stepped back, well out of reach. Her lip twitched upward as a familiar tickle crossed her palm.

Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, Hans charged. Straight into a blast of ice.

Shards cut through clothing, and along bare skin.

Screaming in a mixture of surprise and pain, he twisted away.

Elsa swayed, stumbling back several steps. Satisfying as the attack had been, it had taken a toll.

Blinded by rage, and the blood trickling down his face, Hans spun toward her slashing in wild, broad swings.

Forced to retreat, Elsa’s heel caught the edge of a broken board. Arms flailing, she fought to stay on her feet.

Hans’ sword struck her full force across the mid-section. Were it not for her armor the blow would have cleaved her in half.

Both were stunned as steel shattered against ice.

Curses filled the air, Hans tossed aside the ruined sword.

Elsa gasped as hands caught her upper arms, squeezing hard. Her feet left the ground. She hadn’t time to strike before her back slammed into the tower wall.

Ice made brittle by the heat shattered, raining down upon them. Shards nicked and bruised soft skin before bouncing to the floor.

Hans cried out as a large piece shattered against his head. He staggered back.

Shaking off the pain, Elsa charged, intent on running him through.

More out of luck than skill, Hans twisted away. Steel cut through his jacket and waistcoat, leaving the shirt and skin beneath untouched.

Momentum carried Elsa past him, leaving her off balance. A boot heel drove into her lower back, sending her sprawling face first to the floor. She landed with a strangled grunt.

Through the pounding of blood in her ears, she heard boot heels thumping against the floor boards.

Get up! Fight! Driven by the thought, she rose to her hands and knees.

White hot pain shot through her body, as a booted leg slammed into her ribs. The kick lifted her from the ground, stealing her breath away. Her sword sailed across the rampart, well out of reach.

Crashing to the ground, she rolled several times before landing in a heap. Armor saved her from broken ribs. It did nothing to cushion the blow to her wound. Blood trickled from beneath armor, leaving a rust colored stain across blue ice.

Tears burned her eyes, turning the world to hazy shadows. One of the shadows circled her.

Nausea stirred as a pair of boots came into her line of sight. How appalled would old nannie be if I heaved my breakfast over them? Weak laughter choked out at the silly thought. Anna, would appreciate it.

“What’s wrong, Snow Queen? No clever insults, no icy threats?”

She raised her head to glare at him. “Go, to hell.”

“Such language,” He tsked. “and from a Queen no less.”

Hard boot leather slammed into her shoulder, knocking her onto her back. Air was forced from battered lungs with a strangled grunt as a heavy weight dropped onto her stomach. Muscles trembled from a fresh wave of pain.

Strong legs straddled her, pinning her arms. Hands circled her throat.

“This is going to be much more enjoyable than watching you burn.” He leaned in hovering inches from her face.

What little air she could gasp stank of stale wine.

The hands tightened, digging deep into soft flesh.

Primal fear overrode pain and fatigue. She struggled. One leg kicked up, slamming a knee into his back. He rocked forward with a grunt.

“Enough!”

Colorful lights exploded in her vision as an open palm cracked against a cheek. Unable to turn away she bore the full force of the blow.

She sucked in air. It tasted of blood. The pressure returned to her throat.

“Arendelle is mine, Elsa! Your throne, your kingdom…your sister. All mine.”

She called to her ice. It didn’t answer.

“You should know, I’m not going to kill her right away. No, her death is going to be slow and painful. Very painful. I’m going to tear her apart, bit by bit.” Hans’ eyes glazed over with excitement.

Curses escaped as gurgled gasps. Elsa couldn’t shake away the images stirred up by his words.

Hans’s weight shifted, pressing her harder into the floor.

She tried to ignore the growing hardness pressing against her lower abdomen. Lungs burned for want of oxygen. Spots danced before her eyes as they rolled upward. I’m sorry, Anna.

The pressure eased on her throat. She sucked in a breath.

“No, no no, my little Snow Queen, you’re not allowed to die yet.” He cupped her chin, fingers dug painfully into her cheeks.

Dazed she watched a drop of blood trickle from the gash in Hans’ cheek to his chin. Her eyes followed as it dripped onto his sleeve. Stark red against the white shirt cuff.

“You don’t get to die till I say so.” His other hand tightened on her throat. “Let me tell you what Anna’s future holds.”

Despite the pressure, Elsa managed short, shallow breaths.

“She’s going to bear me an heir, maybe even a spare, sealing my right to the Crocus throne. You know what that means?” His lips curled upward. The gash gave his features a ghoulish appearance. “Every day I’m going to take her. I’ll use her like a cheap street whore. Of course, she’ll fight, at first. I hope she fights.” His hips rocked forward pressing harder against her. “No doubt she’ll cry. Maybe she’ll beg.” He chuckled, lost in the fantasy. “Yes, I’ll make her beg.”

Tears slipped from the corners of Elsa’s eyes trailing into her hair. Her mouth opened to scream. Only a strangled gasp escaped. One blast of ice. That was all it would take to wipe away that smug smile. Had she been able she would have spit in his face.

She flinched as warm breath passed over her cheek.

“I’m going to enjoy breaking her. Maybe after she bares me a child or two, I’ll let her die. Maybe.” He traced a finger over her cheek. “I only wish you could be here to see it.”

There was a familiar tingle in Elsa’s chest. She closed her eyes focusing on it, calling to it. Anything to drown out his words.

“Think about that Elsa, your sweet, innocent, little sister, broken and begging for death. That’s her future. I want you to carry that image to your grave.” He leaned in closer, their noses almost touching. “You’ve failed her, again.”

Noooo! The ice stirred, moving as a sluggish giant roused from a deep slumber.

Fingers dug deeper into her throat with a hard jerk. The back of her head thumped against the floor boards.

“Open your eyes! I want to watch the life slip from them.”

Elsa’s eyes fluttered open, narrowing as they focused on him. Pain, anger, fear welled up within her. Unable to speak she screamed a silent curse. Her rage exploded with a burst of magic.

The blast sent Hans flying. He landed several feet away, laying on his side moaning, clutching his bruised manhood.

Elsa rolled to her side, curling into a ball. She gulped air, rubbing at her bruised throat. Pain pulsed through her body with each heartbeat. There was a heaviness in her limbs. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

Magic pulsed through her with a jolt. She startled, drawing a sharp breath. A heartbeat passed, it pulsed again. The pulses grew stronger.

Get up, screamed a voice inside her head. “…get up…” She whispered.

Raising to all fours, she paused to catch her breath.

Flexing her hand, she felt frost etch over the palm. “Come on.” She whispered.

The frost grew thicker.

Movement in the shadows beyond the opening caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed. Fists clenched, cracking the frost. Hans.

He crawled along on all fours, inching toward the sun lit opening. The disk dangling from the chain around his neck.

No, not this time, you son of a bitch. Sluggish pulses began to flow in a familiar rhythm, each stronger than the last.

Muscles protested as she rose to her feet. Swaying she stumbled several steps before finding her balance. Ice moved to an outstretched hand. Just one ice spike, that’s all I need.

She raised her hand. Something slammed into her lower back. A second impact struck higher, between her shoulder blades. Staggered by the blows, her ears rang from the sharp cracks of rifle fire.

The bullets had shattered against armor, leaving small scuffs as evidence of their strikes.

Blinding light filled Elsa’s vision, searing heat engulfed her.

Behind her Lienz soldiers hadn’t time to scream as their bodies burst into flames. Flesh and bone were incinerated in the blink of an eye. Ash drifted away, taking all evidence of their existence with it.

Ice struggled to hold against heat. Elsa’s skin ached. Her muscles strained, pushed to their limits by the vast waves of magic pulsing through them. Pain numbed her mind. All she could do was scream.

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Stillness settled over the courtyard. All eyes turned toward the wall, and the source of the soul wrenching scream.

“Elsa?” Fear ran icy fingers down Anna’s spine. She shuttered as the scream grew louder.

Atop the rampart, she spied Hans, bright light emitting from an outstretched hand. Engulfed within the light stood Elsa.

Her head arched back as the scream carried on.

“…no…” Anna scaled the makeshift wall with ease. Atop it she drew and notched an arrow. Her muscles tensed as she pulled the string taunt, centering the arrow tip on Hans. Oblivious to the chaos around her, she released the arrow.

As it cleared the bow, Hans shifted his stance, struggling to control the power surging through the disk. Sharp, cold steel meant to pierce his heart, passed with ease through the soft flesh of his arm, just above the elbow.

Anna felt a twinge of satisfaction as a second scream joined Elsa’s.

Hans dropped out of sight.

Her heart cracked as Elsa crumbled away like a rag doll.

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Hans cried out, doubled over, grasping the impaled arm. Blinded by pain, it took him a moment to remember the disk. He snatched it up and crawled toward a large pile of debris.

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Elsa dropped to her hands and knees, slumping forward her forehead pressed against scorched wooden planks. Fragile remains of her breast plate, cracked. Brittle pieces broke free, shattering against the floor.

Steam rose from her, curling in the ocean breeze. Small patches of sleeves and skirt had melted, exposing flush skin beneath. Every inch of her body ached and burned. Unable to think beyond the pain, her mouth opened and closed with silent sobs.

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Anna leapt from the wall, landing in a tumble to ease the impact. She sprang to her feet. Ignoring pleas to return to the shelter, she broke into a sprint. Driven by the need to reach her sister, she dodged people and obstacles in a manic charge across the courtyard.

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Hans flopped down behind the pile, dropping the disk into his lap. Stealing glances in the direction he’d last seen Elsa, he pulled up his jacket lapel and bit down on it. Sweat and blood made it difficult to get a firm grip on the arrow shaft. He began panting, working up the courage for what was to come. With a quick jerk, the tip snapped off.

The jacket muffled his scream.

Tossing aside the tip, he reached for the arrow shaft. Trembling fingers wrapped around the shaft in a death grip. Knuckles whitened from the strain. He closed his eyes, silently counted to three, and gave the arrow a hard jerk. Several inches of bloody wood cleared the wound, an equal amount remained embedded in flesh.

Tears and sweat rolled down flush cheeks as he doubled over with a whimpering cry.

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The sounds of battle sept through Elsa’s anguish, into her consciousness. So many dead, dying. I failed them. Tears flowed harder. Grief croaked through parched lips, her throat too raw to scream.

…no… Her eyes fluttered open. …no…not this time…

Limbs trembled as she inched forward over the floor boards. Her hand landed on a large stone at the base of a debris pile. Hand over hand she pulled herself up to a sitting position. She collapsed against the pile, struggling to breathe through the pain.

Must…get…up… She reached for the top of the pile. Unable to get a grip, she fell back ignoring the stones and sharp broken wood cutting into soft skin. Her eyes drifted closed.

0000

Focused on reaching the rampart stairs, Anna almost crashed into the man who’d stepped into her path.

Crates stacked high to one side, and debris from the rampart roof to the other prevented her from circling him.

Teeth bared, a curse hung on the tip of her tongue as she glared up at the fool.

He towered over her, a massive wall of a man. The sword raised over his head made him even more intimidating.

Her eyes widened, as she recognized the guard who had tried to kill Elsa at the archery range. Rage exploded inside her. “You!”

His lips curled back. “Hello brat.” The sword swung downward, meant to cleave her in half.

Unable to retreat, Anna thrust the bow upward in a two-handed grip. Wood met steel. The force of the blow jarred her arms, sending painful vibrations into her sore shoulder. Steel bit deep into the wood. She felt the bow crack and splinter. It held.

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The wound on Hans’s cheek began to burn and sting. He swiped a sleeve over it, adding dirt to the bloody mess. His lip trembled as he grabbed the arrow shaft, giving it a final jerk. It pulled free. Another muffled cry escaped him.

He collapsed against the pile, clutching the wound.

0000

Curses filled the air as the man jerked the sword back for another strike.

Anger boiled out of Anna with an ear shattering battle cry. She drove her shin into his groin. Shin bone connected with pelvic bone crushing any soft tissue trapped between.

The man screamed dropping to his knees, clutching at the ruptured remains of his testicles.

Void of sympathy for his loss, Anna drew the bow over her shoulder, swinging it like a club. It shattered against the side of his skull. Jagged wood tore across his face, cutting flesh and slicing open an eye.

He screamed, doubling over to bury his face in a hand. Blood gushed between his fingers.

Anna dropped the ruined weapon, leapt onto his back, and spring boarded off him to reach the rampart stairs.

Curled on the ground sobbing, he made no attempt to pursue her.

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Ice stirred in Elsa’s veins. She jolted awake. Frost etched over her palm. An emotional laugh slipped her lips at the sight.

She reached for a wooden beam protruding from the pile. Her hand missed, catching only empty air. Inching over the pile, she tried again.

Fingers clawed at the wood, finding hold on the far edge. She rocked forward, swinging her other arm over it.

Swallowing a wave of nausea, she clung to the beam. Eyes squeezed shut, she willed her limbs to work. Come on, get up!

Trembling legs took her weight. Using the beam for support she straightened. There was no sign of Hans.

He’ll try for the sunlight, and when he does, I’ll be there.

Stumbling to the next pile of debris, she moved toward the opening.

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Hans sat up, wiping at his face. He shook off the jacket, tossing it aside. Fingers twisted into his sleeve near the shoulder. Fabric shredded with a hard tug. He twisted the cloth, wrapping it around the wound, using his teeth to tie it off.

Satisfied with the makeshift bandaged, he leaned back against the debris pile, closing his eyes against a wave of nausea. Clutching the wounded arm to his chest, he waited for it to pass.

Stones bounced against the floor behind him. His eyes snapped open. He held a breath, straining to hear over the battle sounds below. Heavy footsteps stumbled about. Elsa.

She’s getting closer. His gaze cut to the opening. Bright sunlight filtered through it. He smiled.

Picking up the disk, he rolled to his hands and knees. Huddled behind the pile he steadied himself for the attack. It would have to be swift.

Just beyond his hiding spot debris shifted, a faint curse was uttered.

Hans sprung to his feet, stumbling around the pile into the sunlight.

Elsa’s eyes widened at the sight of him. Yellow and purple magic swirled about her hands as Hans raised the disk.

She’s mine. Hans’ lips rose at the thought.

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Anna took the wooden steps two at a time. Near the top she stumbled, scrambling up the last few steps on all fours. Her head popped up through the stairwell.

She paused a moment to get her bearings. Relief washed over her at the sight of her sister standing several feet away.

Anna opened her mouth to call out.

Fire and Ice collided with a deafening explosion.

Hot and cold struck Anna knocking her into the stairwell. She tumbled down several steps before catching hold of a stair tread. Dazed by the fall she clung to the step.

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The blast sent Hans sailing. He landed hard on his back. Hair and clothing had been singed by the blast. Little curls of steam rose off him where heat met patches of frost peppered across his clothing and skin.

His mouth opened and closed, mimicking a floundering fish, he tried to suck air into bruised lungs. Nerves numbed by the impact began to come back to life throughout his body. Every heartbeat made the pain greater. Hans rolled to his side with a broken sob. Overwhelmed by the pain, his world faded to blackness.

0000

The shockwave hit Elsa like a charging bull. Her feet left the ground. Knocked backwards through the hole in the stone wall, she had the sensation of flying. No, falling, corrected her addled mind.

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Dark spots danced before Anna’s eyes. She felt her way up the stairs. Her vision began to clear as she eased through the opening.

“Elsa?” She scrambled onto the rampart. The spot where Elsa had been standing was empty. Strange blackish marks formed a perfect circle. Anna knelt running her hand over the marks. Grainy soot covered her fingers. “…no…”

0000

Water yielded as Elsa landed upon it. Numb to the pain of the impact, she sank beneath the surface. Swim! Her limbs refused to obey the command. Cool water eased the ache of burning skin. The sea pulled her deeper into its cold embrace.

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Anna’s eyes swept over the rampart, searching for any signs of her sister. She’s gone! screamed a childlike voice from the shadows of her mind.

No! She’s here. She has to be. “Elsa!” Anna hurried to a nearby pile, searching for any signs of her sister. Her foot caught on something causing her to stumble. “What the…?”

Leather boots. Her lips curled back at the realization of who they belonged to. “Hans!” There was no response.

Reaching for her sword, she kicked him in the back. “Get up!” He didn’t move. She kicked harder. His body rocked from the blow. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

With a growl, Anna slammed the sword back into its scabbard. There would be time to deal with him later. “Elsa!”

Frantic she darted to the damaged outer wall. The toes of her boots cleared the edge of the opening as she slid to a stop on a floor of broken pebbles. Arms flailed countering her balance. She took a step back, heart racing. Far below waves lapped at the stones along the base of the castle. Elsa wasn’t there.

“…no…” Anna sank to her knees.

Her thumb traced over soot covered fingertips. Dried blood flaked, mixing with the soot and dirt. So much blood. So many dead. Faces of her fallen men flashed brighter as her eyes squeezed shut. So many losses. Arian, Morten…Elsa.

She drew a shuddered breath.

Thirteen years of suffering, fighting to save each other, and for what? To watch it destroyed in a flash of fire, at the hands of a madman. Tears began to cloud her vision. She can’t be gone.

“Noooo!!!” Her scream carried over the open water. Several seagulls took flight, frightened by the outcry.

Hot tears streaked unchecked down dirty cheeks. Arms wrapped tight around her, she began to rock. Without Elsa, she would be alone, surrounded once more by more ghosts than living. I can’t, I can’t be alone again, Elsa.

Silent sobs rocked Anna as she rolled onto her side, curling into a tight ball. I can’t.

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Darkness filled Elsa’s mind, there was comfort, and a promise of rest in it. Yes, rest. Something cold and hard twisted around her waist, with it came a surge of something familiar.

Magic, my magic. It wrapped around her, easing the burn, coaxing her magic to the surface.

Light above grew brighter as her eyes drifted closed.

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Hans jerked awake, sucking in a sharp breath. Panic sent him scrambling. Pain caught up with him as he reached his hands and knees. Dry heaving only made it worse.

The disk bounced against his chest as he crawled to the pile. He eased around it, searching for any signs of the Snow Queen.

The spot where she had been was empty.

Satisfied it was safe, he released a held breath, and struggled to stand. The effort left him winded.

Clutching his wounded arm, he hobbled toward the spot where Elsa had last been. Char marks formed a perfect circle. The only evidence she had been there.

Focused on the circle he missed the booted feet laying at the edge of a debris pile near the outer wall.

He retrieved a sword and stepped to the edge of the rampart, overlooking the courtyard. With his good arm, he held out the disk, blasting the ice away from the ramparts.

People beneath scrambled to avoid the falling ice.

As his remaining men hurried to take up firing positions along the wall, Hans shifted the sword to his good hand. “People of Arendelle! The Queen is dead!” He raised the sword high overhead. “Welcome your new King!”

#Daughters of Arendelle #elsa #anna #snow sisters

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