A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.

There is no instance of a country having benefited from prolonged warfare.

The Art of War,

By Sun Tzu

She has no real reason to be here, but her heart constricts at the feeling of not knowing. Habit is the silent force that draws deep breaths into her lungs to steady her frayed nerves. Determination orders her to swing one leg over the horse's back and dismount from her mare.

The light of the Asbrú springs to life under her feet, and she can feel the unearthly tingle through the layers of leather. She has insubstantial reason to be here - an Asgardian Healer does not leave the Realm Eternal and the Gatekeeper does nothing else except watch over Asgard.

But he had stood here countless times, and even so far away, the dark green and black was recognizable against the luminescence of the Asbrú. He had stood there like a beacon of surety, even when Asgard was thrown into war preparations with a barely-veiled panic. He had stared down into the star-studded blackness of space, thoughts swimming in his expression.

His face had been undecipherable, but now, now she knew. With Loki cradled in his arms. Something that she could never give him, even though her heart and soul she would have gladly given to him. She finishes walking along the short stretch of the bridge, and stands at the edge.

"Is she beautiful?"

Heimdall does not answer for a while, and she nearly loses her resolve at the silence before the instance that he speaks, "I may be capable of seeing across the galaxies, and I may hear across the stars, Healer Eir, but I find myself utterly incapable of reading minds."

"The mother of his son. Is she beautiful?"

He pauses – the question can be answered so many ways, but he doesn't correct her in any form, "She was beautiful," so much so that a King would attempt to conquer a different Realm for their runt of a son, in memory of her death. So that their son would rule, unchallenged by mere mortals. Heimdall watches, from a hundred worlds away as her face falls further. She thinks that he has gone to another, because she is damaged.

"She was beautiful, isn't it? She was whole the way I could never be," her heart seems to be shattered, and maybe the twinkle of the stars that he hears is that of her heart as well, "She is dead, so he goes down to Midgard to retrieve his half-blood son, the fruit of their short-lived love."

Heimdall observes as she stumbles back to her horse, half-blinded by anger and tears. The issue of Hjortrson's visits to Midgard are outside of diplomatic visits to other Realms – Midgard is woefully powerless – and it is an open secret amongst the court gossips, and the man has never refuted the slanderous conclusions that they have come to.

The man merely travels Yggdrasil, and sometimes, Heimdall cannot even see him - the darkness is too great for even his piercing eyes. But where Hjortrson treads, allies and enemies of Asgard follow alike, and Heimdall has to applaud the man for keeping the target solely painted on his back instead of the entirety of the Realm Eternal.

He cannot leave his post to chase after her and correct her misinterpretations of the situation. And even then, they are secrets that are not his to reveal. Heimdall stands guard, watching a million other worlds. And it is there that he stays, at the end of the bridge, watching as stars fall and burn up in the sky of another world that floats in the galaxies, billions of stars away.

They shimmer like tears in the starlight.

His hands are cold.

The ancient seiðr from the Casket of Ancient Winters lingers in his veins, churning a constant coldness in his gut.

Death lingers in Jötunheim, clasping soul after soul in both hands, meticulously performing her duties as he does his own part in Asgard. Here, there is the sense of hope. And in the land where the Jötun roam, there is destitution, starvation, suffering. The Heart of the Frost beats furiously in the bowels of the Weapons Vault while the Realm dies slowly.

Distraction is a welcome thing - beginning with a jest, sustained with a round of playful insults. Harry takes to his feet with amusement barely veiled under faked indignation. The ringing of metal follows soon after, and Hallvarðr's huff of breath answers the kick that Harry lets loose.

"I've never thought that a man could go into war armed with nothing but four tiny blades," mutters Hallvarðr, as Harry deflects the large broadsword with Ivaldi's craftsmanship.

"I've never thought it impossible, my friend. And you forget that I have more than the knives of Ivaldi." Harry retorts, watching for the curved arc of his opponent's blade before striking.

He manages a cutting swipe at the wrist of the Weapons Master, and the weapon is disengaged from the man's hand with a hiss of pain. Hallvarðr checks instinctively for sliced flesh and blood – even though the both of them know that there will be none of the former as well as the latter – before bending to get his weapon again, "And I always thought that sharpened blades were meant to tear into flesh and spill blood."

Harry smiles, baring the full white of his teeth, and watches as the man sharply avoids his gaze, "Do you wish to die, then? They can kill, with the right intent. The craftsmanship is yet to be matched by his successors, as was his ability in drinking the best of my finest brew like a fish in water."

Hallvarðr switches the subject as fast as switching weapons, and dives for Harry's heart with an ornate glaive, "What of Dáinn, then? Surely he has not been birthed as a creation of the Dvergar forges."

The man refers to the white stag as Death, and Harry quietly dodges the blade that swipes at his calf. "You know what the others are saying now - that you have won the companionship of Death, one of the Great Four Stags that eats from the branches of Yggdrasil."

Harry laughs at the graveness of the man's voice, despite the fact that the former half of the sentence has hit it close to the mark, "Have you not heard yet? Your gossip is positively ancient, old man. They now say that I have summoned my father's soul from beyond his final journey, and harnessed him as a mount to suit my travels across the Realms. I wonder what form my soul will take when my son summons me then,"

Hallvarðr grins at his theatrical jest, but nevertheless continues with a flurry of jabs designed to seek out the soft flesh in-between ribs, "I cannot deny you your secrets, Haraldr Hjortson."

"Just as I cannot deny the Court of its only pleasure, Hallvarðr," the outcome of the battle is left undecided at that moment, just as the soldiers file into the room. They pull away from each other, and Harry takes a moment to straighten out a strap that has been biting into his skin ever since Hallvarðr grazed his cheek with the side of the glaive.

The doors open, and Rúni cannot help but let his eyes wander the walls of the room – gleaming blades line the walls. This is where legends are made. He has never set foot in these halls before, and all the training that his battalion has ever accomplished is the rudimentary formation.

The Weapons Master of the Guards has been there long since Rúni has ever known of his destiny as a second born male of his clan – intimidating and broad shouldered even without the layers of armour. It is no legend that Hallvarðr knows the extensive uses for each and every blade that the Guards have in their arsenal; it is a fact. But even the presence of the ever-impressive Hallvarðr… pales in comparison when he sees the man standing behind the Weapons Master.

Haraldr Hjortrson - otherwise secretly known within the ranks as the Shadow General of Asgard. The chills run up his spine at the emerald eyes that seem to pierce everything.

"Hello, gentlemen," the cultured tone of the sable-haired Advisor-General greets the silent room, "please, be at ease."

Harry does mean it, but all his request does is to make their posture even stiffer, if even possible – all they need is one unexpected noise-making charm to shatter spines into fragments. Perhaps it really is his fault, for scaring them senseless in the frigid grip of Jötunheim.

The newest battalion addition to Asgard's armies are nothing more than whelps; trained in the art of holding swords and nothing more, unschooled in anything more than basic tactical commands. Most of them have survived, by virtue of being the reserve units in the entirety of the war, a mere visual bolster to the flagging numbers of the Asgardian army.

He takes a deep breath, and banishes the unwanted thoughts from his mind.

Dáinn very nearly glows in the dark of his chambers, branching crown of antlers raised to acknowledge him - quite the impressive guardian to his sleeping son. There are tiny fingers curled into the soft hair, and Harry relaxes at the assurance spilling through the link before making his way to the bath to scrub the remnants of the training session from his skin.

Loki is half-awake when he returns, and turns his head to gurgle at Harry. He caves in almost immediately to his son's beckoning, and sits by Dáinn, picking his child up while humming a broken tune.

It is infinitely odd, to slip into the role of a father figure with such ease - he has not had much practice with it. There was always something that demanded his time, and when he had lost her, everything had ended too fast. Throwing himself into the thick of it then, to avoid the all-consuming grief, and before he knew it, they had grown up more or less without him.

Loki is tiny for his age - Laufey's own memories are murky beneath the crushing guilt and near insanity, but the once-heir to the Jötunheim throne is older than the young prince by a decade or so, kept in a state of sub-hibernation with a combination of starlight and pure frost as sustenance.

And when war arrived on Jötunheim, Loki had been left in a tomb. It is, however, a blessing in the form of forced adaptation. His son now takes easily to Asgard as he would have Midgard, but Harry is careful to monitor his son for any unexpected maladies.

He mirrors the smile in front of him, and touches his forehead to his son's, "Hello, little one. I think you're ready for a playdate later today, aren't you?"

Tiny fingers grasp his thumb, and somewhere, deep within him, he accepts the hardened resolve in protecting the innocent soul in his arms, as well as the others of similar circumstances out there.

Haraldr looks changed for the better, somehow. More… alive than the last time she had seen him, armoured and reluctant for war. He smiles at her, and takes his eyes off her son to ask about how Freyja is. She begins to answer, but her words are cut off when she spots Thor's hands reaching upward.

"Careful, Haral–"the pain sears through his scalp before the warning even registers; the young Prince has a firm grip on his hair. Harry winces at the tear-jerking force that Thor pulls his hair with.

Harry sends a sparkle of seiðr to distract the uncommonly strong infant, and he sighs in relief when his godson releases the iron grip to grasp at the fairy lights, "It astounds me that your fair tresses are in perfect order, my Queen. I fear that my hair will never be as it once was – my Prince has my locks in his hands."

The Queen only laughs, as she allows Loki to wind tiny fingers around her index finger, "Necessity is a good teacher – pain is a lesson that can be learnt in an instant."

"That must be the reason why I've been tasked to carry my godson with you to your halls whilst you hold my son in your arms, my Queen," he manoeuvres Thor into a position facing forward, keeping the tiny yet powerful digits out of reach from his hair.

"A lesson well learnt then – I cannot bring myself to refute your statement, Haraldr. But my handmaidens have expressed a wish to see both of the young ones, and you have gladly acquiesced, have you not?"

Frigga resists the urge to laugh at the disgruntled muttering to her young Prince, and presses a smile into Loki's hair. The walk is peppered with conversation and laughter, which feels surreal after the long period of unrest and battle.

He leaves her with the two children in her hall, Fensalir, with a hand pressed to his heart.

Harry sighs into his goblet. It seems that in his absence, the weeds have begun to grow rampant yet again. The people at this table are the ones who have goaded Odin to declare war solely on in the glorious name of honor, an endeavour to show all the Realms that Asgard reigns supreme in Yggdrasil.

The wartime taxes were only meant to be a temporary move to gather more resources to send the army to war, but now these men at the table want to make it permanent. The disgust that builds still lies hidden, as he watches the greedy lot of men pushing to save their coffers from being used on the very people who have contributed their wealth.

He keeps his silence even as the meeting adjourns, smiling placidly as the men empty the room. Mostly unfamiliar faces, and they think him a figurehead in all political matters. There is an inward sigh when he thinks about the amount of sifting through meaningless trails to leave breadcrumbs for Odin's personal guard to find.

Haraldr returns just as the last of the women are leaving, and Frigga watches Haraldr exchange words with her sister Freyja. Freyja has been worried of late, and Frigga watches as the man manages to coax Freyja to smile. Her sister leaves shortly afterward, leaving Haraldr sending a lingering glance. He cradles his son to his chest, humming an almost-lullaby with his brows furrowed. The strings of seiðr are probing his son, as if searching for… something.

"Is something wrong, Haraldr?"

"No cause for worry, my Queen," a wan smile is shown to her, "He has been especially quiet, I think."

Frigga watches as Loki squirms about in the arms of her confidant, hands reaching upward. Haraldr captures one of his son's hands, and presses a kiss into the tiny palm, apparently satisfied with his son's state of health. Brilliant emerald eyes turn to her, "There was a lady amongst your company that I have not yet seen since today. A handmaiden to my fair sister Freyja, my Queen."

"I think you mean Angrboða. A rare sight, even in my halls. She keeps to herself more often than not, but Freyja is delighted with her talent for weaving clothes with marvellous details."

"I… see, my Queen. I must excuse myself now – my little one grows sleepier, and I must put him to bed if I am to return to the work that awaits the Independent Advisor," Haraldr murmurs, and makes his way out of the chamber.

'Talented fingers for weaving, indeed', Harry thinks to himself, for the handmaiden Angrboða has woven an admirable disguise over herself and her clothes. Underneath the fair skin and dainty movement, lies the flesh and blood of a living hrímþursar. A skilled weaver of a particular brand of subtle seiðr – underhanded treachery that induces trust and blind loyalty – that is invisible to those incautious.

She holds no more sway over his son than a feeble breeze has sway over a mountain – now that he has severed the beginning threads of a powerful spell on Loki. That does not mean that he will leave her as she is - with hidden motives, Angrboða is too close to Freyja for comfort.

It is one whole week before the prideful Allfather gives in, and summons him to the Shelf of the Slain. Nothing but a petty victory between the two of them though, they are hardly alone in Valaskjálf, so he bows with hand to heart, under watchful and curious gazes as two dire wolves make their way down to him.

Geri and Freki lick his free hand in greeting before returning to their places at the throne, much to his amusement.

"Haraldr. I trust that you have had enough time to present your verdict."

A week to investigate a riotous herd of twenty-five is plenty of time indeed, is what he wishes to say, but Harry swallows those words bubbling in his mind as he straightens from the bow and retrieves a fold of paper from thin air, "Here is the list."

One of the Allfather's personal guards comes up to him and takes the letter to Odin, and Harry watches the King's expression twisting as his eyes rove down the list. He finds the conclusion without much confusion:

The house of Odin is full of traitors.

"Leave us," Odin's command resonates in the hall, and after a stunned silence, all of the guards, courtiers and servants leave. The great doors swing shut with a finality of sorts, and the resonance fades away before the Allfather speaks with barely concealed rage.

"What is the meaning of this, Hjortrson?"

"There are no hidden meanings. My verdict is as it is. Call upon your personal guard to investigate, and the truth will be apparent. Call upon the sons of the House of Odin, and look upon their faces as deceit shadows their eyes and colours their heart."

It does not surprise Harry in the slightest, when the list turns to living flame with a crackle, leaving not even ash in the Allfather's hand. He leaves the Shelf of the Slain with quick steps – it is clear that he does not have to attend any more assemblies hereafter, acting as a watchdog of the King.

Who could give water to the King who will not drink of his own accord?

In theory, he can, but not without breaking both his moral boundaries and the final sanctuary of every person. He knows how it feels like, intimately.

"And here I was, thinking that you had succumbed to some illness on the battlefield."

Harry laughs, "I apologize, brother. I had to accomplish the tasks set for me - I could find no time until now to visit you, Freyr."

"Hah! You should just admit that you prefer the company of women more now. There was a time when you would have gladly spent months with me in the wilderness," Freyr's eyebrows are moving in suggestive ways, and Harry shrugs off the jest.

"That is enough, now."

Freyr looks upon Haraldr's face, which holds just the barest traces of humour. The man looks ragged, and Freyr knows the weight of the war. Freyja has told him about little Loki Haraldson, and how much the babe looks like his father, that there is no news of Loki's mother.

What his brother needs to do is to not constantly think, and the best way is to not talk of matters of the heart. So he prods at Haraldr a little more, building up the inclination to fight. All is forgiven, when the two of them are drenched in sweat and grinning at each other.

Little are the words that need to be said aloud - Freyr will rather know the truths later from his brother than the twisted facts sooner from gossips.

Muninn calls from the perch above his right shoulder, and Odin hears the echoes of a memory within the cawings of his raven named 'memory'.

words of advice upon deaf ears...

innocent innocent innocent…

stained with so much blood…

He has won the war, but at a great cost to the Realm Eternal, and at a great personal cost as well. His once-brother and Advisor has left under the guise of a short training session with one battalion underwing. The raven hops down, and Odin reaches to unfurl the paper grasped in the obsidian talons. The charred paper is a reminder of his naivety and pride. The House of Odin sits on a crumbling cliff, undermined by its own festering progeny.

There is a war inside of him, humility versus pride, and one of them finally triumphs.

He clutches the armrests of the throne and hauls himself to his feet, clenching his teeth against the aches and pains that shudder through his body. The discomfort is a physical consequence from forcibly bending swathes of seiðr to do his bidding. He grips the paper hard, hearing the crinkle under his fingers. The world seems to tilt sideways, a dizzy array of colours.

Odin Allfather stands… and then he falls.

Rúni comes to a crash landing on the ground, barely managing to roll onto his back – the only things that he can control are his eye movements; limbs heavy as lead, his lungs burning as they shudder to herd in breath after breath, heart still pounding faster than the hoofbeats of a galloping horse. His brothers-in-arms are in a similar state, covered in the mud and dirt of Asgard's treacherous mountains, unrecognizable by sight except for the pinpricks of distinctive Asgardian metal detailing shining through the muck.

He has been pushed to his limits for far too many times, and fallen over the edge so many times, only to realise that he is capable of so much more – that they are capable of so much more...

"Give up if you wish – with the knowledge that you have already come so far to not reach the end."

There is a swelling sense of pride in him when Hjortrson looks down at them from his lofty perch on an enormous boulder, also covered in mud but smirking and hardly breathless even though the General himself has led the one-day rush up the mountain.

"Well done. You have bested my challenge, and by my promise, there shall be rewards equal to your pain."

His brothers-in-arms have never looked more similar then; teeth bared in feral smiles and mud splattered armour. That night, they feast on roast boars and the fabled Firewhisky that even the earth-loving Dvergar covet. The high from the revelry remains even during their descent from the mountains, and only falters when the battalion reaches the thick forest.

A ghost bounds over the undergrowth, and there is a brief jolt of panic before Hjortrson calls for calm.

Rúni catches sight of Hjortrson making his way to the front of the now-silent group, untangling vines from Dáinn's impressive antlers before looking at the cervine creature in the eye. His shield-brothers hold their breaths, waiting for their next orders. Hjortrson calls forth one of the section leaders, and murmurs a few words before sweeping himself onto the great white stag and then disappearing into the forest in the direction of Asgard.

"We are to return to Asgard at our best pace, and wait for further orders from Hallvarðr."

He knows what every man in this forest fears - a second war coming fast on the heels of the first. The possibility of war is all too real now, and the mere fear at the revelation shows in the white-knuckled grip around his weapon. They return to the golden city under the day-long smother of apprehension and the hot sun, expecting the worst, but the city markets are bustling as ever. Smiles and shouts are prevalent in the streets.

Nothing seems to be wrong.

The palace is a different story – so much so that he can hear the breathing of his fellow soldiers in the hallways. The silence is unsettling, and it reminds him of the all-engulfing snow and frost of the Frost Giants that he has barely escaped from barely two fortnights ago.

Everything seems to be wrong.

Harry knows not what to expect at the Palace - Dáinn's link only shows Frigga's worried face and the instructions to fetch Harry. The journey takes a little over one full day on foot, but the travel is cut down to a fraction of the time; with Dáinn dancing weightlessly over the undergrowth in the forest, leaping over the heads of those too slow to get off the paved roads leading to the palace.

The sprint continues all the way to the Royal Chambers, and he dismounts even before the white stag has even begun to slow down. The guards move to open the door for him, and Harry pauses for the tiniest moment before he steps in –

for the signs of barely tethered souls

– only to see the King in Odinsleep. It is not the first time, but no less eerie than seeing the formidable being in a vulnerable state. And this time, it is completely unplanned. The Queen is speaking with Eir, all hushed tones and white-knuckled. The murmurs stop when they spot him, and Harry does not miss the quick squeeze of hands that pass from the Queen to Eir.

There is yet another new divide within them, but he pushes past it, meeting Eir in the eye as she confirms with him regarding the reason for the Allfather's sudden state – the forceful manipulation of power beyond the King's grasp. The conclusion is unspoken, that there is no better solution than to allow the King to recover on his own.

"I am already bound. I do not wish to be confined once again."

He has once again declined the right to be Regent of Asgard, and Frigga watches as Haraldr straightens from his bow, "I have a favor to ask of you, my Queen."

He is the first to perch himself at the window, and when the rest come rushing in, Rúni nearly falls out the window.

"Is he really leaving?"

Their voices are hushed, but from the flicker of green eyes down below, they have already been discovered. The only thing missing from the full war regalia that adorns the General is the helm, and instead of weapons the man holds his son close to his chest.

Frigga watches as Haraldr murmurs words of apologies in his son's hair. The man kisses Loki's forehead before handing his son over to her, "I am truly sorry to burden you with the care of my son, My Queen."

She smiles, "Nonsense. Loki has never given me trouble; he is a sweet child. There is no need for worry, Dáinn will be with him in your stead. Safe travels, Haraldr. "

"I shall take my leave then, and look forward to returning with favourable news."

He is capable, she knows, but it is still unnerving to know that Haraldr is travelling to the remnants of the battleground with nothing more than his own person. She fears that he may never return.

The Gatekeeper stands at the entrance, motionless save for the golden eyes that track Harry's movements.

"You seek passage to the Realm of Ice, Jötunheim."

"You hinder my path, Heimdall."

"You hold… noble intentions, no doubt. But know that there will be no help in time should you require it," it is as good as an open concession that the Gatekeeper does not see all as previously advertised. Snow albedo applies to light and scrying magic, which makes Frost Giants nothing more than blurred figures, even to all-seeing eyes. Heimdall had seen nothing of the rallying of Frost Giants until they had made it to Midgard.

"An escort of soldiers would be no more welcome than me alone," is all he says as Heimdall walks ahead of him to the console.

And then Asgard is but warmth lingering in his memory. The cold is shocking yet again, but the sensation is nothing compared to what squeezes the breath from his lungs.

The land under his feet is dying.

It is agonising and beyond torturous, to feel its death. A slow death that will take place over a few thousand millennia and Harry feels sick to his stomach at its creaking and groaning. The Realm struggles to live, for Life, not for itself, but for the million billion souls that live upon it. Each crack on the surface stabs deep into the heart of Jötunheim.

He traverses the white plains, and feels as Jötnar warriors start to trail unseen along with him. They have impressive beasts at their beck and call, but Harry knows not to fear the bite of razor-sharp teeth. Even a starving beast would know better than to bite him; his blood is toxic to nearly every living thing.

Harry walks till frost shards are forged into swords, and warriors are prepared to die in order to defend the lives of their people. He waits there, settled on a snowdrift, back to a solid ice wall. Slowly his Jötun escorts make themselves known, dusting snow off the ice-blue of their skin.

It is not a long wait – the location that he has picked is on the outskirts of the settlement where Laufey is located. The voice of glaciers crumbling and crushing ice floes is unmistakable, "You have stolen something of mine, Bringer of Death."

Notes:

Well now. Surely you've noticed the auxiliary characters (Hallvarðr, Eir, soldiers) now. They belong in my head, and do not exist in mythology or commercial enterprises. Well, Eir does come from Nordic mythology, but there is practically no information that I can get on her from my internet sources.

And to reply all those who are clamouring for Avengers and Marvel movie action… this is not the place. The fic is slow-going for the moment, at least to previous written chapters (twelve). I'm not going to keep hopes up by promising anything, and I will not apologise over the fact that I'm keeping the entire plot to myself. But I have stuff queued on my tumblr - bits of writing that as sneaks and stuff that will never see the light of day here.

The main plot is more or less decided on, which leaves the writing and the filling of plot holes. I am pretty sure that I will be picking up ideas as I go along, either from reviews or what not (movies, TV, songs). I am fiddling around with a totally unrelated drabble (of sorts) featuring many characters, but that, as they say, is still in the conceptual stages.

Additional notes on Thirteen Steps into the Heart of Darkness:

I forgot this thing. Better late than never if I post it here. People rarely see themselves as a villain. Heith, Odin, Eir. All of them had their own justifications for doing the things they did. Eir was tasked with supplying her King with information on Heith and Haraldr (as everyone in the story know him as).

The thing between Eir and Haraldr is particularly complicated because Heith made use Eir's nature and feelings. Eir unwittingly fed him poison which she thought was a supplement (also a love potion) of sorts, and since Harry didn't show signs of the intended effect, the dose was escalated to the point that Eir nearly died from ingesting the food she'd dosed.

Which triggered a post-traumatic attack in Harry. And the whole 'taking advantage' fiasco by Odin. Also, the back-and-forth awkwardness all around.

I know; sometimes ikki's brain is too happening and is handing out free psychosis all around.

As always, your words are the ones that keep mine going.

This is ikki, over and out.