Planar Chaos

The Redemption of Sverre

Part One

"Oona, my love, what do you think?" Sverre said, turning his head to the side in order to line up with the profile of a warrior carved into the deep blue stone of the palace walls. Like the warrior in the relief, Sverre sported a winged helmet and a freshly trimmed beard. He held the same pose as the carved image, flexing his sword arm in front of him.

Oona chuckled at his theatrics. "I have to say it suits you."

"I'm glad you like it, my queen. I live to serve you." Sverre bowed low before her before falling face first onto the floor in a fit of convulsions.

Oona's eyes widened in fear. Her dainty blue hands grew clammy. "Sverre, my darling, what can I do?" She knelt beside him, pressing a cool hand to his forehead. She followed the line of his vision to an empty vial rolling away from them across one of the palace's rich rugs acquired on another plane. Understanding crashed over her. He was late for his dose of elixir.

Oona rushed down the hallway, her flowing dress catching around her ankles, leaving Sverre for as little time as she could manage to seek out his alchemical laboratory. The warm candle light of the palace grew colder in this wing. The ever present chill of Helheim seemed to grow stronger. Oona paused for a moment at the heavy doors, looking for all the world like stalwart guardians ready to bar her passage. She'd never been allowed in here before. Sverre hadn't wanted to trouble her with his experiments or some such thing. She steeled herself and wrenched them open with surprising strength before stopping in her tracks once again, this time in awe.

Brass coffin shaped containers lined the walls. A cabinet on the far side contained vial after vial of the golden liquid her beloved husband drank so he wouldn't waste away before her eyes. Between Oona and the cabinet sat a complex network of delicate tubes and glass receptacles twisting through and around each other on a heavy looking table.

Oona skirted the table, keeping an eye on the coffin shaped boxes as she made her way across the cold stone floor to the cabinet. One coffin in particular caught her eye. She snatched a vial and tiptoed up to it. Unlike some of the other coffins, this one had a coating of dust and a small window. Oona's soft breath blew away most of it, but the contents were still obscured. She reached up with her empty hand and rubbed at the glass before jumping back with a shriek.

Encased in this coffin, and it was a coffin of that she was certain, rested a maiden similar to herself. She had desiccated blue skin stretched taught over her bones and pale wispy hair that had fallen out in patches after what could only be centuries of preservation in the strange brass coffin. Oona felt herself becoming ill and made a point of swallowing. Her eyes involuntarily strayed to the other coffins in the room. How many were occupied by the dead? Who were they? Why were they in her husband's lab?

Realization once again crashed over her. These were the bodies of Guardians, born in the lofty realm of Azheim in the highest branches of Yggdrasil, the same world tree whose roots cradled their palace. It was their essence Sverre had been using to prolong his life. Each Ragnarok they would be reborn to do battle out of the tree, a renewable source of eternal life and youth.

Oona sank to her knees. There was no way such an imbalance of magic entering and leaving the world tree could be sustained. Sooner or later, the cycle would shift in favor of the destructive forces contained underground in Helheim rather than the order keeping all three layers of the plane in balance. With Azheim weakened, Medheim would be destroyed. The tree would wither and die without its roots fed and as the tree went, so too would the entire plane.

There had to be another way for Sverre to maintain his immortality. Oona looked back up at the cabinet. There had to be sixty or more doses of this potion left. She didn't know how much time she had to find another solution. For that she needed to speak to Sverre.

Sverre. He was still in their foyer, writhing on the ground in agony or worse. Oona's wings unfolded and she propelled herself down the hallways with leaps and flaps. At this size, she'd discovered, flying was difficult.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. A bit of foam rested on the corner of his mouth. Oona pulled his head into her lap, helmet and all, and gently poured the elixir into his mouth. She waited and prayed to whatever beings might be listening, perhaps the world tree itself was some sort of god.

Sverre coughed and sputtered, sitting up quickly and removing his helmet. His soft, brown hair fell to his shoulders now. Oona resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. Now wasn't the time.

"Thank you, my dear," Sverre said. "Where did you find this extra vial? I thought I was completely out of them."

Oona looked away when he turned to face her. She tucked her feet further underneath her and held her wings close. "Your lab."

What color had returned to Sverre's face left immediately. "What did you see."

"Everything. Sverre, you can't keep doing this to yourself or this plane." Oona forced herself to look at him. "You know just as well as I do that balance is important."

"I'm not affecting the balance. Once the Guardians are finished and dead, they're simply reborn again. The bodies are shells." Sverre let out a sigh. "I knew you wouldn't understand it."

"I understand more than you think. Their bodies are born from the tree. Where do you think a plant gets the energy it needs to bear fruit?" She gestured widely, indicating the roots of the tree surrounding their palace. "By disrupting this world's balance you've put it in jeopardy. I won't have another plane going the way of Lorwyn while I live on it."

"Oona," Sverre reached out to her and she cringed away. "Don't you think you're overreacting? I wouldn't have undertaken this if I hadn't done my research."

"Don't condescend me, Sverre," Oona cried. "I once ruled an entire plane and held the greatest magic that world had ever seen in place by the sheer force of my will. I am a Queen. The Queen of all fae beings. You will respect me and cease treating me like a delicate flower. I am no longer six inches tall." Oona rose, standing over Sverre and glowering. The elements of every plane conspired to give her the same ethereal appearance she'd had on Lorwyn. Her skirts and hair swirled in a breeze that refused to grace Sverre's sweating brow. Her wings seemed to glow in the candle light along with her piercing eyes.

Kneeling before her, Sverre suddenly felt awe for her power. He bowed his head and acquiesced, "Yes, my Queen."

Oona resumed kneeling on eye level with her husband. "I can't lose you like this," she indicated the empty vials cast by the wayside. "What happens when you run out? When your body starts to need more? There has to be another way for you to achieve your dream that doesn't involve destroying our home."

Sverre gazed into Oona's eyes. He had no idea where to begin searching for another path to immortality, but living in the land of the dead had to provide him with some clue. Elixir made from Ehla's corpse, the former Guardian of the Dead, had no different effects than elixirs made from her comrades. Oona seemed to have replaced her symbolically, but she lacked Sverre's necromancy. Could she truly rule the dead or would he be required to take on that mantle?

If only he'd been less rash in his youth and fully understood his new home before flexing his planeswalker muscles. If he'd been able to study Helheim and the other layers as they were, he might have gained a better understanding of the Guardians sooner.

Wait, he thought, that was it. All he had to do was find a way to restore the plane to how it once was and then he could find a better alternative.

"My dear, I have an idea. Our quest will be long and challenging. We must restore this plane to its original state, starting with the reinterring of my beloved pet." Sverre heard his voice crack. He and Jormungandr had so many fond memories together. Well, he had memories. The wurm zombie, on the other hand, lacked any such capacity.

Sverre rose and solemnly exited the palace. The cool humidity of Helheim washed over him. Sverre extended his arm wrapped in black ink, the tattoo he used to summon his monster pulsing with magic. The beast came, sliding across the land over subterranean hills, crashing through patches of forestland, and coating its belly with the dark sludge of the bogs.

"It's time for you to rest, old friend," Sverre said, releasing the necromantic enchantments holding Jormungandr together. The giant wurm fell away into the earth, a dark line of soil marking where its body had once been.

The fresh loam shuddered and began to reform. Sverre backed away in horror. This wasn't his doing. Jormungandr was waking up. Ragnarok was coming early.