"What did you do to him!" Astrid yelled, reaching for her magic. It was the only weapon she had, bereft of her axe.
The spirit of the Second chuckled at her wrath. "Nothing, child. He simply remembers. The mind does not agree with the sudden influx of memories. It is quite painful," she said.
"If you hurt him, I'll tear this place apart, brick by brick!" Astrid snarled. She had just been reunited with her beloved. It would be an act of god to separate her from him again.
Annarr smiled wryly, as if she found the mortal's ire comical. "Yes, yes, dear. I'm sure you would. You came here to use the Forge, did you not?"
Astrid bit the inside of her cheek in an attempt to rein in her anger. It didn't help. "Yes," she hissed through grit teeth.
The dwarven woman bobbed her head. "Then it would benefit you greatly to hear what I have to say," she informed Astrid. "What is the most basic principle of magic?"
Astrid's brows narrowed as she considered the question. She came to work metal, not debate the arcane. "Intent. You think of what you desire, and then bend that energy to your will to make desire, reality. Often in the form of spoken words, or written runes," she answered, using an answer she thought Hiccup would be proud of.
"A perfect answer," Annarr commented. "One your mate would be proud of, no doubt," her words echoing Astrid's own thoughts eerily. "Intent is the single greatest strength, and weakness, of magic. We are at odds with ourselves, when we use magic. The mind dreams of things too fantastical for reality, and the cold logic of spoken words and written runes prevents us mere mortals from creating anything truly... divine."
Astrid listened with rapt attention. "How would you, for example, describe the color blue to a man who has been blind his whole life? A man who has known nothing but the void; but darkness?" Annarr asked.
Astrid shrugged. "Impossible, isn't it? There are no words in the mortal tongue to describe it. Such is the power of the Forge of Souls: together, we can make dream, reality. We can describe the world in all its splendor to the blind, deaf, and dumb. It is the first of the Forge's strengths: imagination. You are bound only by the limits of your own mind," the old woman instructed.
"And yet... we are not above the laws of magic. The energy to create such a tool is beyond fathoming. No singular man or woman could ever give the Forge the energy it would need to work such magic. In sacrifice, there is power. You know this. When your beloved fell battling the Nidhogg, your very soul cracked from the pain it felt. That agony, that devastation, when the things we hold dear are taken from us forever. The Forge takes that emotion, and turns it to power, and we spirits who guide it, shape it, into the smith's tool," Annarr said.
Astrid thought back to that moment. The worst in her life, by far. The feeling of cradling Hiccup's empty shell. His green eyes, glossy and sightless as they stared into the void. The stillness in his body. The lack of breath. The lack of a beating heart. His fingers didn't twitch. His eyelashes didn't flutter. There were not words, she thought, that could describe the pain she felt. If the Forge could truly turn that pain into power, then Astrid could only assume it was by the hands of a god—this "Great Smith," as the spirits called him. She nodded, signaling Annarr to continue on.
The spirit did so. "And, finally, to bind the enchantments to their physical form, and to guard its power for as long as its form exists, we, One of the Twelve, house ourselves within. In exchange for helping the smith forge their tool, and for our—in many cases, eternal—duties, spirit and smith make solemn vows to each other. One wish, one desire. A promise to grant the other theirs."
That caught Astrid's attention. Hiccup—and Thor, Astrid noted—had, or would, swear oaths to these spirits. And in return, they them. What could a spirit want? The dead wanted for nothing. Astrid was about to ask Annarr what the spirits could possibly desire, when another incorporeal being manifested itself in the chamber.
She was a dwarf shieldmaiden, that much Astrid could tell. Short, yet powerfully built and radiantly beautiful. She held her brown hair in an ornate and intricate braid that fell to the small of her back. She wore a suit of armor that was the color of the purest silver, and strung across her back was a large, two-handed greataxe. The ghosts of two spectral, disembodied feathered wings beat behind her. Two eyes, as blue as the ocean, bore into, tearing Astrid apart and building her back up again.
Astrid felt as if she was being judged. The dwarf maiden seemed to weigh her, and found her wanting. Astrid's back straightened as she pushed back her shoulders and raised her chin at the dwarf. She knew Sigrid hated it, and she hoped this dwarf did too. The girl smirked wolfishly at her display.
"And so, you must choose," Annarr bid Astrid. "One of us, to fulfill your wish, and to fulfill ours. Choose wisely."
The world blurred and wavered. A flash of darkness shrouded Astrid's sight, before it was replaced by the harsh glare of sunlight. Astrid blinked, taking in her surroundings. She was in another chamber of the Forge, that much she could tell. She stood in the center of a dusty plain that stretched forth in every direction for eternity. All around her were spectral weapons; swords, axes, spears, daggers, hammers. They sprouted from the ground like trees, dotting the landscape.
Astrid twitched as she felt instincts honed from years of training and war scream at her. She leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding an axe that came crashing down upon her. Had she not moved, the blow would have cleaved her in two.
She rolled away, righting herself and taking a defensive stance. She reached for her magic, and felt it fill her body with strength and speed. From the dust that the axe kicked up, the dwarven shieldmaiden emerged. She toted her greataxe over her shoulder arrogantly, smirking at Astrid. "You don't mind if I'm the first to speak with you, do you? Not that it matters. The others are all simpering cowards and milk-drinkers. Not real warriors. Not like us," the spirit said.
Astrid stared the spirit down. It only served to make the spirit grin more. "I was curious, you know. What kind of woman He would choose. The greatest warrior of the age, and He goes and chooses poor, sad, little Tólfti. I thought to myself, maybe he had a thing for weak and broken girls. Then, he comes back with you. Strong, and most definitely not broken," the spirit said.
Astrid growled at the spirit. "Hiccup knows pain. He would never inflict it upon someone else, or let them suffer unjustly," she spat. Even as she said the words, they rang false. Hiccup did inflict pain upon others. Even, perhaps, unjustly at times. Auriel didn't deserve what happened to her family. And yet, it was war. War was never fair. Never painless. He had changed so much, and yet Astrid knew the real him was still in that broken heart, somewhere. He was still capable of good. Of redeeming himself.
The spirit grinned wolfishly. Astrid was reminded of a feral dog. "At one time, maybe. But he's different now, isn't he?"
Astrid grabbed the nearest spectral weapon, a longsword. She was a blur of golden hair as she sprinted forward and swung at the dwarf. Their weapons clashed in a shower of sparks; spectral metal grinding against spectral metal. The spirit cackled in glee. "Yes! I thought I'd have to tell you to pick up a blade! This is perfect!"
The spirit and Astrid traded blows, each swing causing the rock beneath their feet to shudder. Neither willing to admit defeat, neither willing to back down. Astrid's anger fed her magic, making it boil and rage. Her strength was titanic, and her speed was blistering. With a mighty cleave, Astrid sought to cut the woman's head from her shoulders. Her longsword struck the flat of the spirit's greataxe and shattered; fading to nothing.
Astrid leapt back, casting her eyes for another weapon. She found it in an axe, smaller than she was used to. One-handed, designed more for cutting trees than flesh. But it felt good in her hands. It would do.
The spirit howled in pleased laughter. "Yes! Yes! This is what I've waited an Age for!"
"Who are you?" Astrid hissed. The shieldmaiden was clearly deranged. She could feel only a lust for blood and battle coming from the dwarf.
"I am the great Thridi, Third of the Twelve!" Thridi declared, puffing out her chest proudly as she brandished her axe. "In life, I was the greatest warrior of mine people. Chooser of the Slain, the giants called me. Every battle I fought in ended in victory. Every opponent I faced, ended in their death."
"What do you want, Thridi?" Astrid hissed in question. She had no time for games.
Thridi chuckled darkly. "I want to be the Chooser of the Slain once more!" the dwarf roared, hoisting her greataxe high and charging.
She was faster this time, Astrid noticed. Much faster. Her blows rained down, hard and quick and relentless. Astrid could feel her bones rattle with every strike as she fended the attacks off. Astrid retaliated, striking counterattacks where she could. Thridi was a berserker; a rabid dog frothing at the bit. She lived for the battlefield. The spirit cared little for defense, instead, going entirely on the offensive. More than once, Astrid broke through her guard and cut the dwarf down, only for her axe to pass through the spirit's body harmlessly.
Astrid realized the futility of her battle. How could one kill that which was already dead? Though, the spirits of the Twelve were not truly dead, they were still spirits; disembodied souls. "I want to feel the hammer of my heart in my chest!" Thridi howled as their duel grew more fierce. "I want to feel my blood boil! My skin crawl in the face of overwhelming adversity!"
Astrid yelped as the blade of Thridi's greataxe clipped her, drawing blood. She was reminded that while the spirit could not be harmed, she could. "I want to feel my axe cleave flesh and bone!" Thridi continued raving madly, her strikes coming faster and stronger. Astrid reached outward, grasping for the energy of life that was within all things—even the Forge of Souls. Yggdrasil's magic flowed into her, granting her the strength of the tree that held the cosmos. Her eyes glowed blue as the power filled her. Thridi hesitated.
It cost her dearly.
Astrid brought the full weight of her power against the spirit. Like a raging river, the tide of natural energy slammed into Thridi, shattering her form and casting it across the battlefield. Astrid inhaled deeply, waiting to see what the spirit would do. She didn't think for a moment that the Third had perished.
Mad cackling floated across the wind. "Yes! This is what I've longed for!" Thridi howled, her spirit body coalescing and reforming in front of Astrid. "Your power rivals even His!"
Astrid brandished her hatchet, unsure if the spirit would attack her once more.
She didn't. Thridi's heaving chest calmed, and the madness in her eyes faded. "What is it that you desire, mortal?" Thridi asked.
There were lots of things Astrid desired. Peace, not just for her and Hiccup, but for all the realms. Being able to go home. To see her family and friends; the land of her birth. But the Forge could not give her any of that.
Only the means.
"I desire the power to take what I want. To never taste defeat; to always revel in victory. The power to stand next to my beloved, as equals. The power to face any foe and emerge victorious—" Astrid answered. "—even the gods themselves," she added, thinking of Hiccup's ambitions.
Thridi howled. "Yes! This is a desire I can grant! Choose me, mortal, and together we'll rule the battlefield! Unchallenged, unmatched! Queens of the slaughter!"
Astrid hesitated. There were Twelve spirits, she knew. She knew of a handful of them; Gungnir, Mjölnir, Allr'bani, Annarr, and now, Thridi. surely there were more, others she could choose from. And yet, something deep within called out to her. The spirit of the Third embodied all that her people were, all that they valued. Glory. Honor. Battle. Something whispered to the deepest parts of her that if she chose this spirit, she wouldn't fall in battle.
Thridi seemed to sense her choice. "What will you give to have this power?" Thridi asked.
The chilling claws of fear scratched at Astrid's heart. That was the question, wasn't it? Annarr had told her as much. The stronger the sacrifice, the stronger the power gained. She wasn't willing to part with Hiccup, nor was she willing to sever her bond with Stormfly. That left precious few things she had. Her gift as a Seer was not her own. It was a byproduct of the bonding of her's and Hiccup's souls. It was not her's to bargain away. There was her abilities gained from Yggdrasil; the opening of her senses to the energy of nature and life, and the power it held. But she needed that. It was the one thing that let her challenge beings as strong as Hiccup and Loki.
What, then, did she have? Something physical? Parting with one of her arms would nearly cripple her. The power that would come from sacrificing her ability to wield her axe would be strong. But that was counter-intuitive. She needed to be stronger, not weaker. Something emotional, then. Her friendship she felt for Sigrid and her other friends? Possible, although she would not wish to part with them willingly. Her love of her home? Also a possibility.
And yet, they felt wrong to Astrid. She wanted to be victorious, in all things. Losing any of them would be a crippling defeat. One she did not wish to experience. It came to her then, a whisper in the back of her mind. An idea. A possibility. She knew magic worked in the Forge, and it would allow her to test her theory.
Thridi sensed her intentions, her lips parting in a feral, toothy grin as she watched Astrid raise her hands. Steeling her will, Astrid called upon her magic. She beckoned it forth, molding it to her will. Astrid conjured a great cube of solid, gleaming gold—nearly as large as her dragon. In an instant, she collapsed to her knees. Her chest heaved for air and her heart hammered against her ribs. She was empty with exhaustion, completely devoid of any magic in her being.
It was what she desired. As Astrid lay on the stony battlefield, she reached outwards for Yggdrasil's energy. She felt its cool, reassuring caress. Ever present. Ever watchful.
Even without her magic, she could still feel the natural energy pulsing around her. Astrid made up her mind.
"Magic," she answered Thridi's question. "My magic. I'll give it up. All of it. Forever."
Thridi barked in laughter, a pleased smirk stretching her lips upwards. "Yes! Yes! This will do, the Forge will grant our wishes!"
The spirit stalked forward, like a wolf hunting a deer. Astrid felt a chill crawl up her spine in anticipation of what was to come. Thridi stood before her, her greataxe outstretched. The spectral metal glinted in the light, as if corporeal for a moment. Astrid reached out, her hand shaking, and gingerly touched the blade.
For Astrid, the world was washed white. Everything lost its color; a dreary monochrome landscape. Thridi's smirking form dissipated to nothingness. She blinked, and her world was consumed by fire. An inferno so hot her skin blistered and she felt her flesh cook and her blood boil. The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It paled to everything, except the torment she knew for the brief moment that Hiccup lay dead.
"Don't fight it," a voice whispered to her. "Let the flame wash everything away."
Astrid screamed as the heat intensified; the flames licking at her. She felt her bones grow molten. Then, there was nothing. No pain. No heat. The fires raged, but she was not consumed by them. She was them. A cerulean fire that burned and raged in the deepest pits of the Forge of Souls. Thoughts and emotions fleeted through the fire. Astrid saw her first axe, the one she used as a child. She had outgrown it, but kept it as a memento of her life before becoming a rider. It rested on a rack in her room on Alfheim. She saw her axe that Hiccup had given her, and destroyed in their battle. It rested within the pouches of Stormfly's saddle.
Astrid knew, whenever she was released from this fiery hell, that she would never again lay eyes on those weapons. They too became as she was; part of the fire. Part of the Forge. So too did Astrid see visions of other weapons—countless axes, swords, and spears. Rocky battlefield after rocky battlefield, slick with gore. The corpses of frost and fire giants were piled high, literal mountains of flesh and bone. Sitting atop the largest was the spirit of the Third dwarf.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, Astrid thought. In life, she was a tall woman. Taller than most dwarves ever reached. Her hair was long and beautiful, blowing in some unseen wind. Her silver armor, normally so shiny and beautiful, was stained red with the blood of her enemies. Her axe, a mighty weapon, easily twice as tall and large as she was, rested over her shoulder. Upon her head sat a helmet—more of a crown, Astrid thought. It was a simple helm, with a bridge that ran down the dwarf's nose. Two wings adorned either side of the helm, cresting it like horns. Set into the metal, in a circular pattern where her forehead would be, were five jewels; a yellow topaz, a red ruby, a blue sapphire, a green emerald, and a purple amethyst.
Thridi gazed down upon the fields of carnage with unseeing eyes. There was little living. A few birds of carrion circled high in the sky, not daring to land while the dwarf maiden watched over the dead. A few giants moaned pitifully, their last deathrattles of pain and suffering. A few badly battered dwarven warriors watched Thridi, too. They were just as enraptured as Astrid was.
"My princess," they called out. "We must leave."
Astrid's vision blurred as she was pulled from the fire. She was brought before a great sunset, the dying rays of dusk heralding the night. Stars shone overhead through the clouds. There, standing before the setting sun, was Hiccup. He was as Astrid saw him in her mind. Tall, lanky, with messy hair. But he wasn't so pale, so sickly. His skin glowed with a health that the hardy people of northern Midgard were known for. He held a sword of midnight before him, a single rune etched upon the flat of the blade.
The world slowly came back to Astrid. She felt her bones become solid once more, and her flesh was no longer in agony. Blinking away unshed tears, she opened her eyes. She felt profoundly feeble. As if she was a brittle sword that would shatter upon the first strike.
She felt... wholly human. Weak, as their race was.
Astrid's head fell to the side. She gazed across the battlefield, the spectral weapons gone. In their place, a single battleaxe lay next to her.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was made of solid gold that gleamed and shimmered with an inner light. There were no markings upon the metal, almost as if it had been grown rather than forged. It was twin-headed, two blades falling on either side of the haft. Intricate designs of waves and clouds were etched into the heads. Atop the haft was a triangular spike that was used for stabbing opponent's in close combat. Set in the center was a sapphire of such purity that it was nearly translucent. In the center of the jewel was a small, almost invisible, light, that pulsed with power. Like a candle on the horizon in the night.
Astrid reached out with a trembling hand. She didn't have the strength to lift her arm, so she dragged it across the rock. Her fingers fumbled with the haft of the axe; her body was painfully weak. As her hand found its grip, she was filled with strength. A strength that she had come to know with her magic. The sapphire set in the axe glowed brighter, just barely.
Finding her legs, Astrid pulled herself to her feet. She used her axe as a crutch, barely able to stand. The sapphire's glow intensified again, soothing her battered body. "Don't use me as a crutch," Astrid heard a voice hiss. She stilled as Thridi's voice echoed in her mind. It was the same, and yet, different, at the same time.
With herculean effort, she hefted the axe onto her shoulder and off the ground. Thridi seemed quite pleased with that. Astrid hobbled forward, seeking the exit. All she wanted to do was find a nice roll of furs, a warm fire, and curl up with Hiccup. She could feel her weariness in her bones.
"Remember our promise," the spirit reminded her. "I'll give you the strength to never lose, and you'll give me the battle I've longed for."
Astrid nodded. "I will," she swore. That was a certainty. Ragnarök was coming. She could feel it. Yggdrasil quaked with the coming of the End of Days. There would be no shortage of war.
"Good," the spirit said happily. "Go forth, and remember my name."
"Valkyrie," Astrid whispered.
Loki sat in his study, deep in thought. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on his desk in a rhythmic motion. The object of his idle gaze was a common board, lattices carved into the wood to make squares. A few pieces adorned the board, each meaning more than its significance in the game. Any observer would think Loki was playing a game of hnefatafl with himself.
The more cunning would see him planning for Ragnarök.
His pieces were limited. A mounted knight. A sorceress. A hound of war.
Across from him, his opponent had an army of pieces. Countless pawns; common warriors. A number of knights, each as powerful as his own. And, above them all, a king and queen: one, more powerful than even he, the other, deadly in her own right with magic that even he could not unravel.
Loki's opponent controlled the board, hemming him in on all sides. He was going to lose, if he didn't break through the encirclement. And yet, he did not have the pieces to emerge victorious in honest battle.
But he was Loki the Betrayer. He never fought with honor. When faced with overwhelming odds, the best play was to not play at all. Retreat and live to fight another day.
But that was not an option. It was his head, or his enemies'. He needed to make a gambit. He would lose one piece, and in return, gain so much more.
Loki's eyes flickered from piece to piece. The knight. The sorceress. The hound of war. The knight. The sorceress. The hound of war. The knight. The sorceress. The hound of war.
The knight. The—
A soft knock interrupted Loki's thoughts. The door opened on silent hinges as Hel stepped into her father's study.
A/N:
As for what enchantments and powers Hiccup's sword and Astrid's axe have, you'll have to wait and see.
Eagle-eyed readers have spied the first reference to content that appears in the sequel — The First Laws. These are not the laws of magic, as was theorized, but something else entirely.
Thridi's name in life, for those who didn't catch it, was Chooser of the Slain—in Norse mythology, a Valkyrie. Her wings allude to this, as Valkyrie were a sort of "angel" that fetched the ferried the spirits of the honorable dead to Valhalla.
Hnefatafl, the game Loki was playing, is an ancient predecessor of the modern chess that was played by the Vikings.
I misspoke! Sorry. It was late when I wrote the last chapter's author's note. We're close to 900 reviews, not followers. Same message!
Guest — Loki's ring, like both Mjölnir and Gungnir, are not bound to their owner like Tólfti. They were forged by another, for them. Many such weapons and items are passed down through families and clans for ages. Often times, the original crafter is long, long dead by the time they are used again.
As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. I'd appreciate it if you could leave a review. To all my kind new readers who just caught up with the story, welcome! I appreciate your kind words.
- Musica
