Blood. One drop at a time it fell to the rough flagstones of the garden path. Someone shouted from the gate. Rushing footsteps echoed emptily between the walls. Strong arms wrapped around the woman as she fell. The already cloudy sky darkened with the oncoming storm. Blood. It gushed forth, staining the man's green and brown clothing. Distant voices shouted. Only one word came clearly to the young woman's ears. Dying!
Dying. She was dying. No help would come in time. The world faded to white, and then turned black.
All stood by the water that night in Asgard. Loki, King, watched as the ship was sent drifting towards the great falls−the boundary of his Realm. He wore now his golden armor, the horns of his helmet catching the light of thousands of magic spheres. A burning arrow arced over the water, hitting the boat dead center. As it reached the falls Loki struck the end of Gungnir, the King's staff, on the ground. The boat floated over the edge, what it contained turning to stardust and rising into the sparkling sky. The spheres held by the gathered people rose with it. The boat fell, to be lost forever in the void.
A pained sob broke the relative silence. Loki allowed the staff to fall as he embraced his wife. Tears rolled down his cheeks as she clung to him. He looked beyond her. Their two sons and remaining daughter stared up into the light-filled sky.
"Goodbye, Idonea."