My dears, thank you all for your patience. I love you.
The original poem referenced at the beginning is called "Tegner's Drapa" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I have altered it to suit these purposes.
You MUST listen to this music. No exceptions!
1st section: Hunger Games soundtrack "Tenuous Winners/Returning Home," then Thor 2 soundtrack "Deliverance," then Tron Legacy Soundtrack "Adagio for Tron," then Thor 2 soundtrack "Lokasenna."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I heard a voice that cried,
"Loki son of Laufey
Is dead,
Is dead!"
And through the misty air
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes.
I saw the pallid corpse
Of the silver-tongued one,
Borne through the Northern sky
Blasts from Niffelheim
Lifted the sheeted mists
Around him as he passed.
And the voice forever cried,
"Loki son of Frigga
Is dead, is dead!"
And died away
Through the dreary night,
In accents of despair.
They will launch a burning ship!
It will float far away
Over the misty sea,
Till like the sun it seems,
Sinking beneath the waves.
"Loki,
Son of Asgard
Will return no more."
VVVV
In a whirl of flashing wind, and a roar of swirling light, the eldest son of Asgard, oak-tall, his long, blood-red cape sheared and stained with blood and earth, his hair—golden and wild as a lion's mane—torn and matted against his noble face, heavily set his booted feet upon the ancient gleaming stones of the domed Asbru guard chamber. He sighed. His eyes, like chips of bluest sky, drifted down to gaze at nothing. His great shoulders sagged, his mighty arms bending under the terrible burden he cradled. The golden brightness that lived in the chamber flashed against his battered armor. He shifted, grimacing, his hands grasping tighter…
The second son of Asgard, lying gently in the arms of his elder brother, rested the side of his silent, peaceful, death-white head against Thor's right shoulder, his raven hair spread across his breastplate, his eyes softly closed, his brow at ease. No breath moved his ashen lips. His white throat remained still. His long, graceful white hands lay limp across his chest—red blood shocked the flawless canvas of his skin. His emerald cape, shredded and lifeless, draped to Thor's knees like the flag of a fallen kingdom.
Behind the eldest prince, Jane Foster's small, frail form wandered, blood trailing from her ears down the sides of her lovely neck. She wrapped her arms around herself, and searched the chamber with large, bewildered brown eyes as her long hair rustled about her stricken face.
Heimdall, the Far-Seeing, his armor of plated gold, stood with his mighty sword atop the pedestal. His flashing eyes—eyes that penetrated burning worlds and flaming stars and the winding hearts of men—fixed upon the princes of his realm and were captured there. He said nothing, spoke not a word—but his hand upon his mighty sword trembled.
Thor did not attend to him, nor did he acknowledge the ancient guardian's towering presence.
Instead, the prince began to walk. He stepped forward—weighty, reluctant, and full of pain. Jane trailed after, her hand sometimes fluttering up to touch her throat and her ear. Thor ducked his head, as if he could not bear to watch…
Thor bore Loki out of the chamber, out onto the brilliant, eternal highway of the Asbru Bridge…
And finally allowed the sweet stars to see what he carried.
The heavens, spread like a vast, jeweled tapestry overhead, sharpened upon the instant. The darkness deepened, the stars blinked and brightened, the nebula swelled—the eyes of the skies opened wide, fixing upon their favored son.
Thor stepped forward, into the stunned silence. His boots rang against the glittering surface—a hollow sound, like a broken clock. The stars bent closer, the heavens pressed down—Asgard held its breath.
And then Thor lifted his face to the skies—and in that awful moment, the skies saw.
Tears, pure as crystal, trailing down across Thor's beaten face and dripping from his golden beard. Tears that tumbled, catching the fractured light from the stars, and spilling onto Loki's white hands.
The silence broke. The gray ocean waves heaved, and flung themselves against the crags, battering their hands against the supports of the bridge. The Wind gusted and twisted every which direction, ripping at her hair. And the gulls, in a startled, helpless flurry, swept across and up through the air, crying
"No…!
No…!
No…!
No…!"
Thor bore Loki down the endless length of the bridge, the sea weeping all around him. The stars drew back, hiding their faces—their incandescent illumination faded from the skies, replaced by a depth of shadow not seen in these realms in an age.
The cries of the gulls aroused their brethren, and all the birds of Asgard took to the air. They leaped from tree and trellis, from courtyard and balcony, uttering a dissonant chorus of dismay. The broad-winged royal ravens, Thought and Memory, swept down from the turrets of the palace like two wraiths, cut their way across miles in mere moments, and swirled like a storm around Thor and his burden, their bright eyes flashing, their feathers singing. The next moment, they shot cloud-high, and raced back over the rooftops of Asgard, wending apart, raising their voices in sharp alarm. Though they could not speak in words, every Aesir in the land could understand in their very bones:
"A prince of Asgard is dead!
Dead!
Dead!"
Thor carried Loki down the corridor of massive helmed sentinels as tall as mountains—guardians of the bridge since his grandfather's day. Their deep shadows fell across the three, their metal gazes averted—weary of the sight of familiar Death marching past their flanks, even as Thought and Memory cried above their heads. The surface of the Asbru trembled with every step the tall prince took. The sea's hollow voice echoed amidst the sentinels like a wail through a winter canyon.
Thor stepped out onto the land, Jane trailing far behind. He crossed into the pallid daylight—and the daylight shrank back. His boots scuffed white stone, his cape dragged in the dust. Hearing the shrieks of Memory and Thought, the Aesir within the tall, battle-scarred houses bordering the street noisily flung open their wooden shutters and doors and darted their heads out, their colorful robes mussed with hurry, their eyes wide. Men halted, stunned and staring. Women clapped their hands over their mouths. Children gasped, yelped, tugged on their parents' hems—and began to cry.
Soon, a flood of comment rippled through the town. Everyone slapped open his shutters, everyone shouted questions to her neighbors…
Everyone stared at Prince Thor's set, stoic face—a face like stone, and gleaming with tears. His gaze remained distant, never turning to either side. Fixed on the path directly before him.
People stumbled down from their stoops, fighting to catch a closer look at the one in his arms; the one with the ebony hair and the snow-white face. But Thor pressed on, and they did not reach out to touch him, or the one he bore. Neither did the Aesir come near Jane—but they frowned at her, their gazes flickering. And as the sons of Odin, and Jane, passed, the crowds gathered in behind, and the noise of their fevered distress built.
The shadows of Memory and Thought swept on ahead of them, flittering across the cobbles, even as the ravens they belonged to kept shouting their wild proclamation:
"A prince of Asgard is dead!
Dead!
Dead!"
Thor trudged on through the streets, stepping around piles of rubble without looking at them, following his feet up cracked staircases, passing doors of houses already draped with banners of family mourning.
As he painfully shifted Loki in his arms once more, he strode beneath the arch of an ancient bridge hung with the largest banner of mourning, the Queen's knotted symbol adorning the center of it—silver emblazoned against midnight. Jane had to stretch out and put a hand against the cold wall of the tunnel, to support herself as she followed.
The princes and the lady left the darkness beneath the arch, and crossed onto a bridge of their own—a heavy, ageless one that lay its thick and steady arm down over the roar of a frothing river far below. And directly before the three, like a sheer and sunlit mountain, loomed the palace of Asgard, its shining, flute-like towers stretching toward the hidden heavens. The royal house too seemed to avert its gaze, as the sentinels had—lifting its chin and bracing itself like a bound prisoner. As if a spear now raised to pierce its heart.
The mighty doors, bearing likenesses of Yggdrasil, flanked by gleaming guards, waited at the end of the bridge. The crowd of common Aesir fell back, remaining beneath the archway, their gazes following as their mouths fell silent.
The guards caught sight of their prince—and the one who lay in his arms. After a look of identical shock crossed their handsome faces, they stumbled to grasp the weighty handles, and heaved upon the doors.
Thought and Memory shrieked once more, and cycloned above those three below. They swept down, flapping their wide wings, and each lighted upon one of Thor's shoulders, gripping his cape in their talons. Thought upon his left, and Memory upon his right—just above the ebony hair and white face. The ravens fluttered for a moment—and Thought turned his keen eyes toward Thor's blank, tear-streaked face. Memory, on the other hand, cast his own down upon the length of Loki's peaceful body, and regarded it solemnly.
The guards pulled upon the great palace doors.
The heart of Asgard opened.
And the spear shaft entered.
Light from without poured into the corridor before them. It illuminated Thor from behind, flashing in a halo around his head, concealing his features and striking a black shadow down upon the marble floor of the house of his fathers. Thought and Memory flared their wings and the light shone through their feathers, and their voices burst forth again—this time, in a unison cry that carried more meaning than a thousand words. The birds beat the air, fanning the tears of the eldest prince.
Thor did not pause upon the threshold, but kept walking, his jaw clenched. Jane, her eyes dulled, her head lowered, and her arms wrapped about herself, followed after without a glance. The guards did not seal the doors behind them—but instead stood as they were, staring after, their brows twisted and their eyes bright.
The two living and the one dead moved down the long pillar-flanked corridor, footsteps echoing like death rattles through the length of the alabaster entry. Thought and Memory settled into silence, their vivid eyes watching.
At last, Thor turned to the left, crossed through another door, and came to the landing of a single dimly-lit hallway, bordered by pillars and sheer golden curtains, that led to the throne room. Before him waited a single, broad bowl of fire on a pedestal—a feeble fire that attempted to banish the chill and dark of the towering room. A hollow room. Where once the sons of Odin had stood, side by side, before one of them knelt to accept the crown.
How far they had fallen.
Thor stepped down the stairs, one at a time, pain thrashing through his chest. He rounded the raised fire, and started forward…
Footsteps issued from the edges of the room. Fandral rushed in from the left, and Volstaag from the right. Both of their faces were pale, their eyes searching, their mouths gasping. They caught sight of Thor, and stumbled to a halt. Fandral mouthed half a question, but no sound came. Volstaag merely stared, out of breath, and blinking rapidly. Thor avoided meeting their eyes, and kept on.
Then—a woman.
Lady Sif.
She darted through the curtains, dashing them aside with her hands, then skidded to a stop, her dark hair wild around her face and shoulders.
Thor stopped.
Sif's attention flashed all across Thor's form, a million wonderings flitting over her face. She took half a step toward him—
A wail rang through the corridor, slicing through their hearts.
Eir, the fiery-haired healer, flew out from behind the curtains, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth, her white robes flagging behind. She raced up to Thor but could not see him. She paused there, as if tipping on the edge of a cliff.
Then, her shoulders bent with weakness. Her head leaned with sorrow, her face tilted toward the one in Thor's arms.
"No…!" she cried, tears trailing down her fair face. "Oh, no…no…no…" Her gentle hands, shaking, came up and trembled beside Loki's pale head. At last, she touched him, laying her fingers to his cold throat and stroking his brow, all the time shaking her head and sobbing.
Thor leaned his head back. His eyes shut as his own fresh tears burned his cheeks, and dripped from his beard. A sharp gasp, from the depths of the soul, cut through the room, and he slowly lifted his head to see Sif, a hand pressed over her mouth, gazing straight into his eyes—even as her own filled with tears. Thor blinked, and leaden tears fell—tears Sif could see. Tears he could not hide from her. And she wept.
Eir gave way. She fell to her knees at Thor's feet, bracing one hand on the marble as the other covered her face. Thor swooned to the side, swallowing hard, then managed to step around her. Jane stood mute behind, staring sightlessly at one of the pillars.
Thor moved down the corridor, past Fandral and Volstaag, past Sif, and to the foot of the stairs. He halted there, gazing dully down at the first step, as if it were a mountain. He shifted his right foot, then planted it upon that first step. Then he lifted his left foot, and painfully set it down upon the second step. Jane came after, absent in the silence that filled her head.
It felt an age, but Thor climbed each one, his muscles quivering, until he reached the top. The throne room stretched out its arms before him. The great seals awaited his footfalls. The towering heights held their breath.
At the sight of him, Asgard itself stopped.
Fandral, summoning his strength, climbed the stairs also, the broad-shouldered Volstaag in tow. Sif, weakened, could not move for a long moment as she strove to even breathe—but at last, she turned, swiped the tears from her face, and forced her quavering legs to send her after Thor. But Eir paid none of them any heed. She wrapped her arms around herself and bent her forehead to the ground, and let loose her misery in long and rending cries.
Thor forced in another breath as he slowed upon the landing. At the farthest end of the fathomless hall, up upon the dais, seated in the throne of his father, white-bearded Odin All-Father shifted in his chair, and turned his wizened head. A scarlet-clad young scribe, who stood beside and held a book up before him, fell quiet, and turned to see what it was that had suddenly snatched the king's attention.
Thor descended the stairs. His bloody cape spread out behind him. Thought and Memory watched out before him. He crossed the grand floor, his tears still flowing, his expression locked as carven stone.
The All-Father's right hand closed into a fist. His lips parted, and his single eye fixed upon his striding son.
And the one in his arms.
Thor approached the great stairs, and halted there. He said nothing.
His left knee bent. The skin around his eyes tightened. Like a granite sculpture breaking at the foundations, he knelt to the floor, lowering the lean, heavy, broken body of the second son down upon the stone. With great care, he slid him loose of his grasp, so that he stretched out before the king. His head came to easy rest, his graceful hands concealing his open wound.
Thor shifted back, remaining on his knees, his head bowed. He could no longer lift it.
A century seemed to pass before another breath of movement.
The All-Father stood up.
Another century passed.
Then, he took a step down. Then, another. Then, one more.
He stopped. His brow furrowed, as if a wave of confusion had struck him.
"Loki," he said.
Suddenly, the air all about the dead prince shimmered.
A jingle, like distant bells, filled the air and winged up to the ceiling.
And out of nowhere, a complete set of magnificent black armor—with surfaces like black obsidian—materialized right beside his body, and glimmered like a secret. The shimmering built, and the jingling sang.
A delicate silver pen blinked to life by his left hand, and rolled languidly across the floor. Then, a wide golden arm-band encrusted with rubies. Next, a broad, leather-bound book bearing the worn, runic title Fenris the Giant-Slayer slapped onto the marble by his other hand. At his feet, the air rippled, and a long, delicate silver lute bloomed and clinked over onto its side, silent. Then, by his head, a little open wooden box filled to the brim with shards of colorful glass. Then, the ice casket, glowing with harsh blue light.
Then…
Like a placid pool when a stone is dropped into its midst, the air just above the length of the floor rippled out from the fallen prince…
And in its wake, thousands of ancient and precious objects appeared from nothing, and thudded gently to the floor.
Stacks of books dripping with dust and magic.
Rolls of wrinkled parchment, fistfuls of pens bound with twine.
Boxes packed with multi-colored inks and dyes.
Iron-bound chests, broken lanterns, vials and tubes, mirrors and dried flowers, jars of herbs, leather bags filled with spilling coins, star-charts, telescopes, maps and compasses…
The clutter built around his kneeling brother, sweeping out and away, toward the back of the throne room.
Jane Foster stood near a pillar, watching all of it and hearing nothing. She pressed a hand over hear heart, dizzy and overpowered. The rolling wave spread toward her, and began to thin as it neared her feet.
A white teapot…
Three spoons…
A green, iron-wrought mantel clock with a broken face…
Blink.
Jane frowned down at the floor just inches away from her shoes. Lying alone on the white marble was a small violet stone that glittered at her—as if it held a light of its very own.
She hesitated. Then, she bent down, and took it up in her hand. It felt cold against her fingertips, and as she tilted her head to study it…
It twinkled so deeply that she was halfway sure it held the entire universe of stars within. She closed her fingers around it…
And lifted her head just in time to see the king of Asgard collapse onto the stairs to his throne.
To be continued…
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