Prologue: Take what you came for

Spine straight, chin high, eyes just above the horizon. Walk like a king, for you are one. A true king.

That was the mantra Odin Borson kept repeating inwardly as he took carefully measured steps towards the Jotun temple. The warriors cleared a path for him as he approached the huge ice construction, howling words of joy and relief into his ears as he went. They were all covered in the blood of the enemy – slick, scarlet blood that didn't differ as much from their own as Odin would have liked. He sidestepped the body of a fallen Jotun soldier, clasping his hands behind his back to hide the tremor that ran through them at the sight.

Showing weakness was unbecoming of a king, after all.

He felt a strong hang gripping his shoulder for the briefest of seconds, but didn't stop to acknowledge the victorious cry of the warrior. He saw as someone tripped over a cerulean colored corpse, paying no heed to the pool of blood he nearly fell into.

Shoulders squared, chin high, eyes above the horizon…

The temple towered over him menacingly, not possessing the always so welcoming warmth the Palace of Asgard did. Then again, he did not expect to find any warmth at a frozen wasteland such as this doomed realm.

A fallen realm now, thanks to Odin.

The All-Father strode up to the entrance without a glance at the bodies of the slaughtered guards lying limply on the stairs, not willing to show his uncertainty regarding his destination.

Shoulders straight... like a true king…

All his doubt dissolved the moment he stepped inside the vast monument. This was the place, he just knew it. He felt it in the chill of the air – the foul smell of rust unable to overpower the pure essence of his purpose.

The feeling of dread was slowly replaced as he marched up to the altar with renewed confidence. The small spheres of light hovered in the air, marking his path with bright colors that reflected over the thin layers of ice covering the walls. Odin felt the pull towards the distinctly blue cube that lay in the center of the temple – the same pull he felt towards the place since the very minute he set foot in the frozen realm.

The Casket of Ancient Winters. The Heart of Jotunheim.

So, this was the reason he led his forces to Utgard, after all. Ungainly as it may seem to come from a king, the All-Father did not come here to merely win a war today. Success was welcomed of course, necessary even to restore the peace of Asgard… but right from the start – even before the treaty broke – Odin knew that triumph would not be his main purpose at the end. Not this time.

He felt hesitant after they took over the city, just a few minutes ago, wondering why he missed the usual feeling of triumph heating his veins.

Now he knew.

Anticipation grew within him with every step he took among the high columns, hoping that the strange pull to the Casket would subdue once he claimed it to be his own. He took the stairs to the dais and conjured a glass holder, knowing that the item would not tolerate the touch of an Aesir, and placed it over the magical artifact hastily. Greedily, one would dare say.

The surges of blue energy weakened under the push of Odin's power, making the strange spheres of light flicker. The king's brows furrowed in concentration, and then, after a few heartbeats, most of the spheres died out.

The Casket vanished into thin air along with its holder, and Odin let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Finally. Now the war was truly over.

He turned on his heel and descended the stairs, not allowing himself to be taken over by the satisfied smile he felt like having even for a moment. A true king showed no fear before, no mercy during, and no gratification after a battle. Not even when there was nobody to witness it.

He nearly reached the entrance when all of a sudden his shoulders grew heavy with unfulfilled expectation. His breath caught in his throat.

Not again…

What was it that Jotunheim wanted him to take? Was it not the Casket? Was it not the last wish of a dying world that at least her heart would be preserved safely in his vault?

He turned around and made his way back to the Altar. He saw nothing that would benefit him if he took it. Nothing he would wish to possess, nothing he would need. Nothing that shouldn't be left in the realm of the Frost Giants.

His people were waiting. Waiting for him to emerge from the temple, waiting for him to show them the treasure he acquired – the prize they got for defending Asgard so bravely. If he had to leave with this feeling of nerve wrecking ambiguity, then so be it. He couldn't delay his retreat from Jotunheim anymore.

A soft rustle of fabric. A quite, almost inaudible gasp.

Odin was glad he didn't let that smile take over his features moments ago, for now he realized, he wasn't alone.

"Show yourself!"

Another rustle could be heard from behind the altar, but whatever hid there didn't show any intentions to obey Odin's command.

"Reveal yourself now, Jotun! I thought your kind would detest taking cover in the shadows."

No response. Odin sighed. He really didn't feel like dealing with a coward who hid in a sacred place while the rest of his comrades were fighting for their home...

Bile rose in his throat at the thought of the corpses lying just outside the temple. He might not want to deal with the Jotun runaway, but he had even less of a wish to face the remains of the world awaiting him beyond the entrance. Accepting war was necessary alright; Odin wouldn't have initiated a battle unless it was absolutely inevitable, yet he couldn't help but feel sorry for the fallen world. He was still the protector of the Nine Realms – all of the realms – after all, but he knew his sense of loss wouldn't be understood by the Aesir. Today was a day of victory for them, and they wouldn't stop mourning over the fallen warriors – not if they skin bore the color of the Midgardian sky, at least…

The pull he felt towards the center of the temple didn't seem to ease, and truth to be told, he was rather curious as to why a specimen of a seemingly fearless race would refuse to rise to a battle. Just a wall away, a loud voice was already planning the feast they would have upon their return, and it made Odin cave at once. Maybe he had a moment to spare before his return.

"Come out, Jotun. I have no fight left in me for today."

Oh, but he did. The Frost Giants were a formidable enemy and he would have lied if he said he wasn't bone dead tired, but Odin could still easily take a single opponent. Easily even more if necessary, but his current enemy didn't need to know that.

Tired of being ignored the king walked around the dais, readying Gungnir in case the Jotun decided to attack. He did not harbor such plans, apparently.

The All-Father eyed the back of the altar suspiciously; the snow-white drape almost reached the ground, giving a perfect hideout for the being taking its cover. The man's heartbeat quickened as he realized that the unfamiliar pull on his shoulders got stronger and stronger as he reached to remove the cloth. What in the name of the Realms had Jotunheim have in store for him?

"Ee nivv'eh swol."

Odin could have sworn his heart skipped a beat for the first time in his very long life in an as literal sense as it gets. The pleading, soft voice was clearly coming from behind the drape, and the king was suddenly anxious about what he would find once he raised it completely. That shaking, broken voice most certainly did not belong to a Jotun soldier. It didn't belong to an adult, even…

"Nivv'eh… nivv'eh s-swol. Kinna... Ul enay krowa."

Odin's blood froze once he caught sight of the small creature sitting on the cold stone. It was a child, obviously trying to take up as little space as physically possible. Not that it was a hard task – it was awfully small for a Jotun child. Its knees were pulled up tightly to its chest, but Odin could see no horns under the mop of its jet black hair.

A little sorceress then.

The Aesir King wasn't overly familiar with the anatomy of the Frost Giants, but he knew that sorceresses were cursed with a smaller, weaker body than the rest of their women…

But certainly not as much weaker as this little girl appeared to be.

Magic users were not as much of a rarity here as they were in Asgard, but a rarity nonetheless, and as far as he knew, the Jotnar pretty much worshipped the ground they walked upon. No healthy child should have arms and legs so thin, let alone a Seidr… and who would leave a child wander alone in the outer parts of the city during an invasion anyway? There must have been a reason she was here…

Odin crouched down to take a better look at the tiny being, but his sight was unable to pick upon anything that could be of importance. She was hiding her body from view pretty effectively, and the few remaining lights didn't make it any easier for him to see either.

With a flick of his wrist a bright, yellow light came to life just above his head, but he didn't have time to look at young one properly, as the child's next move caught him by surprise.

Her sharp, blood-red eyes shot up at him suddenly, and before he could even begin to process what he was seeing the girl jumped up from her spot and attacked him with an ear-piercing shriek.

"Ul krowa! Ee vizmmu ul enay krowa!"

Odin fell onto his bottom with a resounding bump. Not very king-like, he had to admit.

The young Jotun seemed to be surprised by how easily she managed to push him out of balance just as much as he was. There was a moment of shocked silence between the two before her eyes widened comically in realization, and she crawled back to her previous spot with shaking limbs before Odin could reach for her.

"Ee… Ee nivv'eh… Kinna! Ee nivv'eh swol!"

It took the All-Father a moment to decipher the meaning of those words, but after looking at those large, shining eyes, there was no doubt left in him regarding what the child was saying.

She was begging him. For what, he did not know… mercy, perhaps? Did she think he would kill her?

Odin got back to his feet hastily, looking around to make sure nobody witnessed his moment of clumsiness. Oh, if Frigga could see him right now…

The child let out a sound of distress upon looking up at him though, and taking pity on the poor thing he crunched back down, trying to appear less threatening in her eyes.

Just as he did so, he was hit by a horrific realization he suddenly didn't know how he could miss up until now.

The sorceress was not a sorceress at all. It was a sorcerer.

The sharp lines of his face were heavily accentuated by malnourishment, but those features most definitely did not belong to a girl. The slightly torn loincloth did not cover him below the waist entirely either, and reality finally caught up with the protector of the realms.

The kid was an orphan. He didn't know much about how Laufey ruled his kingdom during the last centuries, but he heard about the horrible fate of the male babes that were unfortunate enough to be born as Seidr in Jotunheim. It was a rare occasion, but highly frowned upon in the frozen realm – at least, lately. Laufey's ideology apparently tolerated no such weaknesses in his empire as sorcerers. They were considered to be runts, killed right after birth if they were lucky.

The one currently shaking like a leaf in front of him was not one of the luckier ones, it seemed.

"Ki… kinna," the gi—boy pleaded through gritted teeth, his broken demeanor prompting the king to try and reassure him – even if the young one had no way to understand him.

"Shh, I'm not going to hurt you, child," he muttered as he scooted closer to him, careful not to get within arm's reach. The boy pressed himself against the altar as tightly as he could, his fearful expression making Odin wish they wouldn't have cast Jotun out of the All-Speak all those millennia ago. It was just another hateful way the other realms tried to differentiate themselves from the Giants. Most of the Jotnar learnt the All-Speak with ease though, why, oh why didn't anybody bother to teach this little one as well?

'Because he is runt, that's why.'

The boy's status became even more obvious when the king intensified the brightness of the light that illuminated them… and it was Odin's turn to widen his eyes to impossible levels.

There were dark patches of burned skin where the runt's birthmarks should have been. Deep, angrily red flesh replaced the white lines in most places, encircled by dead, smoke black tissue. The wrists, the forearms, the shoulders, the legs, the cheeks… there was no sight of white on the pitiful being, not even on his waist or on his chest. His birthmarks had been burned down to the flesh everywhere.

Whoever sired the ill-fated boy went to great lengths to prevent anyone from finding out his parentage. Such drastic measures, such cruelty… Odin couldn't even begin to imagine something like this to happen on Asgard. True, using Seidr was not encouraged among their men either, but nobody has ever been punished solely for being born as a sorcerer. No child should ever been punished so fiercely for something like—

No. No child should be punished so fiercely, ever. There was no plausible excuse for torturing a youngster.

"Kinna… Ul krowa…" came the fearful prayer once again, and while Odin still wasn't sure what the creature was asking for, he noticed that the frightful glances were cast more often towards the light than himself.

'Ah, but of course! He must think it is made of fire!'

It made sense, really. The kid has been burnt severely, it was no wonder he dreaded the element. Torturing someone with fire was considered especially cruel among the Frost Giants - it was seldom used in the land of ice, with magic being able to replace its practical uses easily…

With the Casket. The same one he was taking from them now.

No, this was no time to drown in guilt. The Giants slaughtered more Aesir than he could count – they made Jotunheim spit her own heart out, right into the hands of people who were able to appreciate its power and fragility. There was nothing, nothing he could do to help this realm right now, for she needed time to heal herself...

'Shoulders straight, chin high…'

But maybe… maybe there was something he could do to help the boy at least. He looked like he needed more than just time to heal himself.