A/N: The more 'technical' term for this chapter would be Schadenfreude at the Big Crunch, but that entirely lacked flair. And poetry.
To Ride Upon Svadilfari
-Chapter Fifty-four-
Schadenfreude at the Collapse of the Cosmos
The kind of horse racing that Hermione knew best involved Granians, but she'd learned a thing or three about the Muggle way of it when they'd crossed universes. It wasn't quite what Quidditch had been to Ron and Harry, but being interested in a sport of any kind had been a point of commonality in their friendship and her marriage.
If she'd been judging on build without seeing the movement of either horse, she would have given the odds to Loki. He'd given himself the build of the best of the pureblood Thoroughbreds, almost too tall for pleasure riding, slim and narrow and long-legged. By contrast Ivaldi was all powerful curves and dramatic grace, the perfect Andalusian in all but his colouring.
She'd have been as wrong as had with Smelt and the Anvil of Worlds.
Loki's lean form stretched out beneath her in a ground-eating gallop, but Ivaldi was breathtaking in the same manner that a fish in its final moments might find an eagle breathtaking. Loki is warm and solid and physical beneath her, but Ivaldi is like wind that they cannot hope to beat fairly, his strides shorter but his gait something spectacular that a real animal of flesh and blood would never be able to maintain for the duration of the race.
But he wasn't flesh and blood, didn't have the same limitations.
It took her only nanoseconds to understand that they would lose this race if she didn't use every advantage available to her to win.
She was riding with her reins loose, giving Loki his head and offering no guidance, so he probably didn't note when she closed her eyes and let the Mirror show her Svartalfheim. Her stomach migrates northward to her throat as the sensation of moment beneath her crashes against the false sensation of omnipotence granted by seeing the world from outside her body.
But she masters herself after a few queasy moments. Though when she closed her eyes Ivaldi had only been a few lengths in front of Loki, but he doesn't appear at all in the Mirror, which was what had made his hunt so bloody frustrating.
Hermione tucked away that frustration, much as she'd carefully set aside most of her reaction to Loki's treatment of Bleiki. A place for everything and everything in its place, even emotions, as Ron had shouted at her during one of their domestics.
The inlaid mosaic of topaz and ivory was easier to take in from this vantage point and Ivaldi's memory-gift rendered it in its full glory, a sun blazing on a floor set off more sharply by cobalt walls. Once where they now raced had been called the Convergence Path, walked once every four time cycles-the term that Ivaldi recalls doesn't translate in her mind, but it's something like a year-by some mystical sect of the Svartalfur that believe if they don't the darkness of the Convergence won't ever descend again and Svartalfheim will be destroyed in an apocalypse of light and flame. His memories were brighter and more vivid than any she'd ever stolen or been shown, strong enough that they tried to overshadow hers, but the point of this exercise was to grasp the advantage of terrain, so she shoved it down.
The path became clear to her and she was pleased to see just how much damage time and war had wrought, blocking halls entirely. In seconds she'd plotted the most efficient route through the disaster. Eyes still closed, even though she could feel the warmth building on her cheeks that would proceed pain only briefly before the glass embedding in her flesh would see her cheeks streaked with blood. It would never heal properly, but at least it seemed that the glass had stopped that worrisome journey deeper into her skin. She wasn't prepared to enact any scenes from The Snow Queen just yet.
Her first shift of the reins was tentative, both because it was difficult to reconcile watching her body move according to her instruction without the familiar point of view of being inside it and because Loki was temperamental at the worst of times. Soft mouths are not something one has to worry about with hippogriffs, but Loki ignored the subtle pressure shift, displaying none of the cues that would normally communicate to her that he was prepared to listen to her.
He probably intended some nonsense about keeping on his flank since he didn't know the route and surging ahead at the last moment, but as manly and dramatic as that would be, it was also stupid and improbable.
Hermione reined him in harder than she would a real horse this time, reinforcing the message with pressure from her knees as they nearly passed the narrow hall she'd noted on her mental map. She wasn't about to shout at him and spoil whatever advantage she could eke from being unpredictable. Loki made a half-strangled sound that might have been anger or impatience, but he darted into the opening with barely an inch to spare between her knee and the unforgiving stone.
She leaned as far forward as she dared without overbalancing herself as she hissed the plan to him. Hermione didn't dare to try to split her attention further with privacy spells. Loki's ears managed to communicate both displeasure and compliance, which was an awfully complex thing to read in the angle of his ears, but she attributed to the practice of many centuries nonverbal communication.
Her stomach might have settled, but her heart continued to reside in her throat as she guided Loki through narrow corridors at breakneck speeds, bypassing the eight grand rooms that represented the other eight Realms almost entirely, though they intersected briefly with an enormous room that the memories paint a stunning glacial blue with deepest black veins that she sees alight with the colors of the aurora. Jotunheim.
When they burst into the last hall, they nearly slammed into Ivaldi, who sidled out of the way with despicable ease. Loki's breathing was almost a roar as he struggled to draw in ever more air to lend strength to limbs that must surely burn by now, but he drew from some impossible well of strength to recover from the turn and will himself forward. He is intent on drawing ahead of Ivaldi now that their goal is just on the edge of sight, which might explain why he failed to notice the uneven lay of the floor, like overlapping tectonic plates. His hoof caught on it and gravity and momentum did the rest.
When his cannon bone broke it was loud as a gunshot, following in moments by a shrill cry of pain. But some part of Hermione was already disconnecting herself from the moment and his pain, opening her eyes to find herself in her own body. She was in midair, having been pitched from Loki's back as he'd gone down. Her perception of time was altered, given her the impression that she had all the time she needed to make the decision that would salvage this race.
And she made it. The magic was all force and no finesse, but she landed on Ivaldi's back all the same and she wound her gauntlets into his mane. Ivaldi tried to smear her along the wall, but her hastily conjured shield held. Her ankles were on fire and for once she let the enchantment on the Spurs awake properly. Gold came alive, seeping through the seam of her boots and solidifying into curved golden hooks that she dug into his flanks.
Epona's Spurs were a barbaric tool of the era when hippogriff's reins had been hung from holes bored in their beaks, something to break the spirit of a mount, not to make it a partner. But any horse could be ridden with their insidious aid, unicorns and pegasi and even things not strictly horses in any sense, griffons and dragons and stranger things.
It was like a parasite in its way, avoiding the consciousness but invading the nervous system, stealing the body while the mind was free to marvel at the horror of it. Magic would keep the mount alive while the Spurs drove them onward, but it killed the greater part of the creatures it subdued. The Spurs were awful, but so was she in moments like these, all her vaunted morals falling into shambles as she refused to let what she'd worked to achieve be brought low because she was too hesitant to do what needed done.
So she drove the Spurs deep, a silvery liquid like unicorn blood spilling over her boots as the gold split something that wasn't quite flesh. She hadn't known whether this would work, but she felt the magic thrum through her as Ivaldi danced beneath her. Droplets of gold were flung from his nostrils as he shook his head wildly, all to no avail as gold began to seep from his eyes, ears, and mouth. It flowed into a bridle with a cruel bit, but crueler yet was the knowledge that this was just an exterior growth, the gold inside him coating synapses and nerves and otherwise making Ivaldi a mobile shell for its will.
Biting the inside of her cheek until she drew blood as Ivaldi thrashed, she spurred him onward toward the goal. He shouldn't be able to break free, but she wasn't taking chances with such an unknown element.
A very human cry sounded from behind her. "Hermione!" Loki was still sobbing for breath, mingled with true pain. It was the most earnestly vulnerable she'd ever heard him, but she didn't so much as glance back, even when he shouted, "Don't leave me behind!"
You left Bleiki, a dark but impartial part of her mind said. If this is bitter, you have only yourself to blame.
Even with the aid of the Spurs, Hermione's muscles were trembling with the exertion of staying atop Ivaldi as his hooves struck against a floor that glistened with the black diamonds that were set in an intricate platinum filigree. Svartalfheim, the end of the path, the apex of the Convergence. The end of the race. Hermione tightened her grip on the reins, holding them taut until his body settled.
He was silent so long that she thought Epona's Spurs might have curbed the tongue of his mental voice, but acrid self-recrimination spilled quite clearly into his words. I suppose this is you having won?
"Yes," Hermione said quietly. "It is." She cued him to turn and his body responded easily. His brisk walk took them quickly back to Loki, who was hunched over his broken arm on the floor. The bone had pierced the skin, but with a few sharp words and an abbreviated hand motion, she set it. Not gently, as evidenced by Loki's scream. His nature would take care of the rest of the healing shortly.
"Take me to where you left Bleiki," she commanded.
Somehow he managed to gather himself, standing as if moments before he hadn't been all but mewling with pain on the floor. "And if I cannot remember where I've misplaced him?"
Her voice is as hard and steady as when she'd spoken to Ivaldi. "Let us hope that isn't the case."
Loki affected a put-upon sigh, but then tilted his head in that way of his that told her that his cooperation would be forthcoming so long as it was to his benefit. "Shall I march in front of you like a condemned prisoner?"
Hermione silently offered him a hand and despite his broken arm, he mounted smoothly behind her. It was well enough until he slid forward, his chest brushing against her back. She was immediately hyper-aware of the difference in height and weight and strength. Her breath caught and she had to breathe through her mouth to produce some semblance of composure. If they were riding double it would be common sense for him to hold on to her, even though they were riding bareback, but he refrained. Hermione thanked Merlin for the smoothness of Ivaldi's walk, because the sense of entrapment would have been entirely too much for her peace of mind and she'd walk through fire to avoid revealing such a weakness to Loki.
Bleiki was waiting behind the magically-reinforced rubble she'd used to block the hall. His white fur was smeared liberally with blood, but there was no pain in his eyes, just patience. Sorceress, he acknowledged.
Her smile was full of relief. "Bleiki," she breathed.
His pale yellow eyes dismissed the creature she rode and focused on Loki. I see that no fortuitous accidents occurred while I was away. We could save worlds a great deal of trouble if we silenced Odin's Shame forever.
There was a part of Hermione that was tempted by that. The part of her mind that was all numbers and runes and possibility trees without a shred of human sentiment. But when circumstances weren't dire, that was a smaller part. Bleiki was alive and well enough and that made all the difference. But, regardless...
"Loki," Hermione said without turning to look at him, "I think it for the best that we part ways here."
She worked very hard not to flinch as he leaned forward to give her his answer. "As you like," he said, dismounting nimbly. His arm no longer appeared to trouble him. If she hadn't heard him so clearly, she would have never believed that this was a creature that could have cried out in the fear of being abandoned.
They parted in cool silence. She didn't dismount from Ivaldi for fear of the end of the spell, but no paths opened to her next destination. Of course, she hadn't expected it to be so easy. But, even so, she felt far more at ease now that Loki was gone and Bleiki had confirmed that he wasn't lurking about and concealing his presence.
Where should our trail lead next? Bleiki asked her.
"Jotunheim," Hermione answered. "I think I recall a fissure two or three days back that matches the description. But now that we're no longer searching for Ivaldi, it should be much quicker."
Bleiki nodded.
I didn't realize quite what kind of company you kept, Death, but this is really terribly fitting. Have no fear, I'll keep my word. My soul is yours. But I shall give you this body as well if you shall do me one favor.
Hermione's brows furrowed as she regarded the first king of the Dark-Elves. "What kind of favor?"
I shall show you if you will realize this damnable curse.
She relaxed the hold of the Spurs but didn't release him entirely. Ivaldi snorted, but then he was silent as he paced through strange halls until they came to a room whose walls and roof were hung with fading red velvet, reflecting the color of the ambient light. It was slightly warmer in this room than it had been in the halls.
Marching around the circular walls were objects that strongly resembled eggs, most of them crushed or broken. The mummified remains of what looked like more children made her gorge rise as her eyes took them in, splayed across the shells of the capsules.
They were meant to sleep, Ivaldi began, softer than she'd heard him, dreaming pleasant dreams until it was safe for them to wake. The children of my children's children, the hope of my line. But no more.
He paced closer to one of the capsules, one that appeared to be entirely undamaged. It still had a faint glow of its own, the body within still whole and hale, a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen curled up with his arms laced tightly across his tucked-up legs. "He's alive!" Hermione gasped.
Yes. And if you have any mercy in you, you'll do what I cannot and kill him.
Hermione blinked, pausing, as if his words might transmute themselves in her brain if she waited long enough. But it remained the same. "Kill him?" she demanded shrilly.
Would you prefer to wake as the only survivor of your Realm? Among people you do not know, thousands of years out of time? It will be a kindness.
"No! No," Hermione repeated, "Absolutely not."
And why not? I'm not wrong. And are you not Death?
Hermione gritted her teeth. "I have done terrible things in the name of good," she rasped, "but I've never killed a child. And I'm not about to begin now. And, no, I'm not Death."
Then you will just leave him? In my absence, the magic will lapse. And he will wake to ruin. Of course, that will be your decision.
"Can that pod be transported?" Hermione asked, chewing at her lip as she contemplated possible solutions to this unexpected difficulty.
No.
"Then can he be woken?"
To shake him so quickly from the dreaming would also kill him.
"Then there isn't any way to transport him?"
Why should there be a need to?
"Because I'd rather save him than kill him!" Hermione said in exasperation.
Dismount, Ivaldi told her after only a moment's hesitation.
"What?"
Dismount, if you want to save him.
Hermione bit her lip as she did so, wondering if this was some ploy. But then something shifted about the horse in front of her, the sleek pelt disappearing to reveal the bands of mechanized muscles. In a truly bizarre act, it then began to...well, the best verb she could use was fold up, until what was before her was a skeleton wearing a dark band about its neck that gleamed like oil. As its feet made contact with the floor, the skeleton crumbled to dust, leaving the band and a ghost.
A handsome ghost, who wore an ankle-length fitted tunic of sorts, with braided white hair that fell to his knees. Break the shell, he told her, and place the band about his neck. He can wake slowly inside the frame.
Hermione was gaping, but she couldn't help it. "Your body was inside that construct the entire time?"
It uses biochemical energy to activate, though its driven by a perpetual motion engine, Ivaldi said tonelessly.
Tentatively, Hermione picked up the collar, wincing at the almost fleshy sensation of it against her fingers. "What's his name?" she asked softly as she turned to face the pod.
What he was called before is irrelevant. While he's under your guardianship, you might as well call him Einga.
It would only be later that Bleiki would tell her the meaning of the name Ivaldi had given to the last prince of Svartalfheim. 'Only.'
-{-}-{-}-{-}-{-}-{-}-{-}-
Nothing had leapt from the fissure in an attempt to do him grievous harm. That was what drew his attention to it when he would otherwise have slaughtered and proceeded with nary a moment's contemplation, but a single glance was enough to snare him.
For he looked in on not on some forsaken stretch of planet populated by something witless and drooling, but into a crowded atrium. It was filled with people of all colors and sizes, wearing full and flowing robes in all sorts of outlandish colors. There was a tall stage on which several people were seated, while one stood in the center in a stance that clearly read 'oration'. But it was none of this that captured his gaze.
Instead it was the statue. That had many of the like in Asgard, as if their long, long lives alone weren't enough to immortalize themselves. Odin and the rest of the royal family, others among the Æsir, even the most notable among the Einherjar were subjects of Asgard's enduring art.
But beyond aesthetic appeal, being rendered in gold, bronze, or marble made an inescapable statement: here was a being who stood high above the seething masses. It was almost a remnant of the age past, when the mortals had built images of their gods in order to venerate them, because there was a taste of that same mindset: there was the one, small and in awe, who looked up and saw what he could only aspire to and never be and the cold, judgmental gaze of one who could share no fellow-feeling with the one who stood below him.
And it was two very familiar figures depicted in this statue. Whoever had done the work had been skilled indeed, for he could recognize that implacable set of her face, the resolution writ plainly on his. Their robes, the ones they'd surrendered for Asgardian-made armor, were caught billowing in a breeze that pulled her unruly hair into something purposeful and flattering. He'd almost forgotten about the wands they rarely made use of, but they brandished them in the same way the Allfather would hold Gungnir or Thor Mjolnir. They looked as they had when he'd first met them all that time ago on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicarrier, he with no scales and she with hands of soft human flesh, but neither wore the careful normality they'd used so successfully as a shield.
They stood back to back with their off hands entangled and interlaced behind them, sharing a single base, on which was the inscription "No night so dark".
He read the lips of the speaker who addressed the crowd, a man who held himself with the same authoritative stance that Nick Fury had, the one that said the bureaucrat before them was only an easily cast aside guise. It was a dedication ceremony, to celebrate the contributions of two people who had been heroes both at war and at peace. Who'd lived and died in the service of their country.
A woman seated behind him started tearing up in earnest then and the man beside her, who so closely resembled her that they must have been related, drew her hand into his and she turned her face into his shoulder.
Unperturbed, the speaker extolled the virtues and accomplishments of two people who, by his telling, seemed to have near single-handedly torn down a regime while they were only schoolchildren. It was apparently a tale so well-known to the crowd that there was little detail Loki could glean from it, but he paid attention when the widowed spouses of these heroes were invited to speak.
He couldn't quite held the faint sneer that twisted his lip as the pair he'd noticed before rose from their seats. Perhaps once they'd been tolerably matched, but neither of them had the sheer presence needed to stand even with the figures that loomed large in the background.
They spoke of forging onward, but never forgetting. Of acceptance and gratitude. Of shared happiness and sorrow. Of wishes that would never see the light of day.
And Loki relented a little, despite himself. He'd never believed the trite phrase that love could make equal what was otherwise unequal, but he caught glimpses, when they spoke of them, of people capable, not necessarily of being the heroes who cast long shadows over the crowd, but of loving the person who did so.
So, as his magic reached out and felt for weaknesses in the already compromised hall, he murmured something that they would never hear. "I have seen your heroes. They stand now in the halls of Valhalla, greater and more glorious than anything you would have dreamt for them in the life they left behind. And there they shall live until the end of all days."
There was one thought that was very clear in his mind as the walls collapsed, obscuring and sealing the time-space window forever out of their reach.
He needed them far more than they did.
Loki turned from the crumbling masonry, only to find Hel watching from the shadows. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes glittered like the backs of beetles in the dim green light he'd conjured.
A/N: I'm certain everyone is all well and tired of the horse racing by now, so you'll be glad to know we return to Muspelheim next chapter. You'll get to see that chapter when I'm not entirely distracted watching Sherlock. Over and over and over. But I've been lucky enough to avoid any fanfiction inspiration, so let's hope it holds. This story consumes enough of my life as it is.
