Authors note

Thank you for your patience whilst I took a bit of a break, this chapter is a bit shorter than they'd usually be but it felt like a good stopping point. I've started a new job and i've been so brain tired by the end of the day that I've just wanted to play World of Warcraft; in which i've finally hit level 70 and am raiding with my guild which is really fun :D I've had a few busy weeks too, where I've just not had time to write. It took me ages to figure out what would happen in this chapter, and i'm happy with how it turned out, now that it's here :D

Moving forward though, I might not update every week - I was putting pressure on myself to write and I think the chapters weren't as good as they could have been as a result.

Thank you all :D

OH! Follow me on insta Hans_cosy_corner to see what i've been up to if you're into that stuff!

Aela had expected the transition into the undead realm to be slow, obvious. When they'd travelled between Niflheim and Asgard that's how it had always been - movement through a barrier, the pressure, the cold against her skin. This though, was just a blurry, non existent barrier. Some mist in the tunnels that they snuck through. A thicker taste to the darkness that surrounded them. They'd seen signs of the undead as soon as they'd left the camp; the remains of skirmishes - the ancient nature of their enemy making the ages of the battles hard to gauge. A quiet voice, one she hadn't recognised, had asked why none of our own dead were visible. Why the only sign was dropped armor, dented helmets or discarded weapons, and they'd gone somber for quite some time when the answer came.

That every one of their people who dropped became an addition to the army they fought to contain. It was hard to handle, to know that the enemy was endless and they merely lambs to the slaughter. She'd known, they all had, what their punishment truly meant. What it truly was. But it was easy to ignore, to push it all to the backs of their minds and focus on a steady goal, on the comradery...instead of the truth of the matter.

It was a death sentence.

Aela had said as much to Frigga, when she'd asked. Had known it, even in the depths of her grief.

Their eyes glowed in the dark, an eerie shade of blue that reminded her of wraiths in the snow capped mountains of her home. They didn't have their mournful cries though, and she thanked the ancestors for that every moment they scurried like frightened rats through the tunnels of Hel. Adding the painful howl of an ice wraith was exactly what their morale did not need as they came face to face with their own inevitable end. Because it was inevitable, and Aela hated it. Knew that it was wrong, in the same way she knew their pace was wrong. They were going to the aid of another squadron, another camp. They should have had haste, a punishing drive to get to their destination before the worst happened. And yet they'd spent a night under the stars before going into the first tunnel. They'd not jogged, not pushed the soldiers - it had been, for all intents and purposes, a leisurely journey to the border.

There were whispers down the convoy, trying to ascertain why they were so unrushed. Why half of the leaders looked worried, and the other half as if they were on a calm morning stroll. Did they not care for the sister camp? She couldn't help but think of Themsal's words before leaving, his belief that she'd joined to help bring the army back to order.

As soon as she got to him she'd discuss it more, find out exactly what was going on. For one section of a war effort to seem entirely unbothered by the possible ruin of another was unacceptable; and she knew something was wrong by the sheer discomfort on their weapons masters face. He said nothing though, and she took her cues from the more seasoned warriors, who exchanged nods with him and nothing more.

The slow pace had done very little to ensure they avoided conflict though. They'd been backed into a corner in the truest sense. There was no map, the seasoned lieutenant leading them through simply with his knowledge of the tunnels, and had pushed them right into a slender gap. Aela had been one of the first through, pushed by their leader, the smirk on his face showing her that although they hadn't met before, he certainly knew who she was. She'd moved forwards before anyone could speak, not wanting to put anyone in the group into a position where they would too obviously show their allegiance as she could see them moving to question the order. As much as she disliked the pompous arsehole, he was their lieutenant and they'd make no friends voicing her dissent.

No. She'd nod, and follow orders...and then she'd eliminate them before they saw it coming. Tactically, when the time was right.

She'd removed everything she could without stripping, her bags, the weapon she'd slid onto her back; holding everything at her sides as she approached the gap side on. The only way she'd made it through was by sucking as much of the air as she could as she slid through, ignoring the sudden and unfamiliar feeling of claustrophobia as she did so - and the burning of her lungs as she pressed ever forwards. She'd closed her eyes, focusing on the mental smell of pine sap from her home forests, the feeling of minds against her own and thick fur beneath her fingers rather than the slide of rough stone biting into her skin. Her new comrades had followed as soon as she'd given the all clear; and she was proud of the clarity of her own tone, the way it hadn't betrayed the panic that had settled into her heart as she'd forced her way through. As she reached in to accept the offered torch, and turned into an oncoming attack, the glow of the flames adding to the eeriness of her half rotten enemy. Reflecting off the stained brown of his exposed bone.

She cursed herself. A few months in a palace, a few weeks of mourning, and her skills were declining. She'd been surprised by her assassins, but shouldn't have been surprised here, where death lurked in pockets unseen. She blamed her newfound panic. She hadn't paid attention to the various openings in the cavern she'd come into; had put the sense of wrongness down to the tight path she'd just taken. She abandoned her pack to the ground, quickly slashing at the first undead that had come her way. It was messy, taken entirely off guard and with a duck that saved her life as the beings axe hit her horn, rather than her head. She felt it stick for a second before what looked to have been a dwarf in a previous life attempted to wrench it free, taking her entirely off balance as she recklessly slashed out to defend herself. She turned and slammed the torch into a crack in the wall, hoping it didn't drop so they'd have some light. She could see in the dark, but not as well as the Bjornlings, and felt blind without their minds weaving within her own, lending their senses as they always had.

She swayed as she turned back to the enemy, jumping slightly to the side to avoid another attack. She'd taken blows to her horns before, but not like this - not with her metal wrappings removed, as armoured as they were decorative. She felt the pull of it, the shudder that travelled down her body. She kicked out, slamming the undead warrior back against the ground and stomping on it's head as she stumbled forwards a few steps; hating the heavy weight of the axe as it rested in her horn. It was short, at least - a small mercy if one could be given; and the relief that she felt as an arrow whizzed past her head was short lived as a voice cried from the crevice they'd travelled through "Enemy engaged, fall back!"

Someone had reached her, and had immediately slid back the way they'd came.

She was alone. Alone and facing a rapidly increasing room of enemies. The one at her feet seemed to stay down, thank goodness, but as she hit the ones coming towards her, as their bodies hit the floor, it felt as if others appeared to replace them instantly from the passages surrounding them.

"Fuck that!"

Now that voice, she knew. And revelled in the support of it, the knowledge that she wasn't alone. There was a scuffle, and then a hand against her back, a simple friendly punch before the blonde rushed past her, sword in hand.

Aela darted forward with one axe outstretched, hooking its curved edge around the edge of the shield of an enemy and dragging them forwards before sliding the other through the air, watching his head hit the floor before continuing onwards. Footsteps and battle cries behind her showed that others had come to her rescue, ignoring politics to show their support for their comrade. Too many to just be those she'd revealed her secret to. No, as a strong blow felled an undead to her left, she realised it was the warriors she'd been training with for weeks, the weapons master that had greeted her with respect the first day she'd finally come to his sessions - and every day since.

She kicked another out of her way, and desperately reached up towards her horn. The axe was old, the handle crumbling. A hand axe, by the feel of it. She dared not wiggle it, too scared of losing the final thing that was so precious to her heritage. She shifted her stance, and tried to keep her centre of gravity low to accommodate for being so off balance. She'd trained in such a way when younger, to accommodate for weapons of different weights - to prepare her for fighting with whatever she could scavenge on the battlefield. She quickly fell into a rhythm, slamming her axes blade into enemy after enemy, pulling arrows from fallen corpses to puncture them into the soft, half decayed faces of others. She'd been around corpses before; had experienced the smell of a freshly rotten body- not found quickly enough to be recognisable but not left long enough to lose its stench. Too often people wandered the Niflheim wilds, too often her party had returned to towns with mere diaries or trinkets; washed in a stream wherever possible. Too often she'd had to burn a corpse in the forest with her Bjornlings, praying to the Ancestors that the poor soul would be able to rest at last.

The room contained the stench of all those previous memories; intensified by the sheer numbers it contained. She lost track quickly of how many she downed; though knew they had to be rising back up to hit them with the numbers they were managing. She swung until her arms ached, and then screamed; tearing her way through their numbers to drag her companions back to their feet as they began to flag, keeping them behind her as much as she could - hating the defensive stance she had to take up in order to just focus on protecting the others as she tried to force them back the way they'd come.

Sweat streamed down her face as the others refused, as they tried to push past her with shaking arms and wavering shots. She couldn't make them out, didn't give her mind the energy to even try as they blended into one voice; shouting behind her that they wouldn't go down from their first fight, that they wouldn't allow her to die whilst they fled back into the corridor. She was tired, and angry. Angry that their superiors had left them, angry that she'd been separated from those she loved, angry that she was going to go down like this, swarmed by the undead.

Angry that despite the difference, she knew Eirik would feel the loss keenly through their soul bond. That he'd have to deal with that alone, knowing there was nothing he could do to help. She hated that he would have to feel what she'd been feeling for so many weeks. That helplessness, hopelessness. The emptiness where another's presence used to be, permanently erased.

She had to keep fighting, to let that rage fuel her.

She could feel it, the anger, the pure savage rage and grief. Fuel to the flames of her dragons gift, her ancestors link. Could feel herself growling, fangs bared against the enemies that surrounded her. She tore with claws and blades alike, slashing and gouging, tongue feeling hot and sulfurous as if smoke rose from her soul.

Light flared at the edges of her vision as they continued forwards, some quick and some slow, shambling and rushing towards the group. It was bright, and white and blue, and she wondered what form of magic caused the effect. Was it something the Asgardians had given her in their ritual, or just her own ancestors, looking down at her.

Or newcomers, flaring with light.

She frowned, fight or flight bringing a low growl from her chest, swinging without thought. Whoever they were, she needed to defend herself, needed to get out of this alive. She tried to shake off the exhaustion, shake off the detritus of those she'd been fighting so far and squared up against the newcomers.

"Quick!" the leader shouted, obscured by lanterns, swinging and rattling against their blows to the undead around them. "Come with us, if you want to live!"

A small body ducked under her arm, and she failed to grab them to push them back to safety behind her. Aela watched as the small warrior reached them and was safely pushed into the centre.

"Decide now, Nifl"

He stepped forwards, and Aela blinked before taking a small, tentative step towards him. He wasn't an undead, half rotten and sagging, but a Frost Giant. Small, for one of his kind, but a Frost Giant nonetheless. And for a moment she felt young again, small, standing before the Frost Giants that frequented her home, visited her realm often. The leaders that traded with her father and the other lords, who patted her head with frozen fingers and snuck treats back to their camps at night - preferring to erect camps in the wilderness than stay in the uncomfortable warmth of the keeps.

He stepped forward again, gesturing to her urgently; the glow in his eyes reflecting off the jagged edges of her rage. "Your fight is done. Your people are safe. Come"