AN: Here's another side-story additive of Sweeney and Tove together. Now, this even happened recently enough that it may still be in living memory, so if your family was effected and you don't want to read about it, I understand. I hope everyone else enjoys and lets me know what they think.
Many Years Later
It happened midmorning while she walked down the street looking for something to take away the emptiness and dread.
Tove had awakened that morning with a level of fear and dread that she couldn't explain. It seemed fathomless and without description. She'd never experienced it before, or anything similar. After all she had been through, the horrible fights she'd run into without hesitation and the wars she'd been in, being afraid frightened her.
Wandering the town, wherever she'd managed to call home for the time being, did little to alleviate the dread. It had fallen onto her shoulders and nested there, growing heavier, fatter, with each passing minute. There was no source, which made her terror grow.
Midmorning, while taking a step, the dread finally erupted. Something slammed into her chest, a hollow, empty void that erupted within her. It took Tove to her knees and stole her breath. It felt as though someone had reached inside and tore out everything that meant something.
Sounds of pain and anguish escaped her without her consent. They drew the attention of passersby. Some asked if she needed assistance, others saying they would call the police. Their voices faded in favor of the emptiness.
Tove struggled to control the torrent. She searched her depths, her soul, for the possible meaning. She reached out for those she knew would help only to find… nothing. There was nothing beyond her, nothing to reach for. The void had consumed it, had consumed them.
She gathered her wits enough to launch herself into the air, a silvery projectile not meant for human eyes. Remaining hidden from mortals was far from her mind.
Sweeney had been "summoned" once again by the one-eyed prick. He hadn't seen hair nor hide of the old bastard for neigh on thirty years, until he showed up in Washington with a mind for travel. The Irishman had wished for a way to deny him, but word and honor prevented him from it. All the same, perhaps the tropical paradise shouldn't have been the worst thing, and yet it rang hollow. That was Grimnir's real power. The god had the ability to ruin even the most beautiful thing.
"Fuck we doin' here?" Sweeney asked, flask in hand. He unscrewed the top and lifted it to his lips.
For the better part of the morning, he and Grimnir had climbed a mountain. Fucking brutal, as far as the leprechaun was concerned. What sort of asshole wakes another before dawn only to bring them up onto a mountain?
Sweeney sat, slinging his long legs over the rock. They dangled what felt like miles above the ground, it seemed. He leaned forward and thought back. There was a time he could've flown away. He could have soared.
He drank from the flask and leaned back. It had only then donned on him that the Norse prick hadn't spoken.
He peered up at Grimnir who stood a few feet away, an obscenely large smile curling his thin lips. He flashed his teeth with that smile, flashed them in a way a predator flashes them before biting down on something innocent. Sweeney rolled his shoulders to alleviate the unsettling feeling.
"The fuck we doin' here, Grimnir?" he asked again.
"Can you smell it, Sweeney?" he asked, his voice smooth and filled with joy. It was a perverse sort of joy that curled Sweeney's stomach and forced a grimace to emerge. "It's war, m'boy. War in its purest form."
"Fuck you talkin' 'bout?" Sweeney looked down at the port. The ships were in dock, the grounds cleared. It was as peaceful as peaceful could be. "War ain't happenin' over here. It's over in Europe again."
"Hn-nnn," Odin said, shaking his head. He dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, vibrating in place. His pleasure with the moment had deepened to the point Sweeney wanted to excuse himself. He swore that, at any moment, Grimnir might whip out that shriveled thing between his legs and have a go while staring out at the naval base below. "They're coming and it will spark the most devastating retaliation in history."
"Whatev—"
Sweeney's words died in his throat when Grimnir stiffened and pointed out over the water. "There! Do you see them, Sweeney? They're here."
Sweeney turned his eye outward and struggled. He strained and squinted and tried to see what had the old god so excited.
"There's nothin' out there, ya old—"
But again, his words fell away. He could see them, dark specks in the sky that drew nearer with each passing second. Closer and closer they flew in a tight military formation.
Sweeney's brows tugged together.
"The fuck…" he mumbled to himself.
His question was soon given an answer.
The black dots expelled smaller dots from their metal bellies. The little eggs shat out by the mommy birds slammed into the ships and the sea and everything in between. For the briefest of seconds, nothing.
And then, before a breath could be taken, fire erupted. Sweeney shot to his feet, scrambling to get them under himself as a shockwave climbed the mountain. It rolled over the bushes, the trees and the giant Irishman, knocking him down. But Grimnir stood strong, arms opened wide to embrace the chaos.
The planes flew overhead, soaring far too close for comfort. A flag had been painted on their sides, a sea of white with a blood-red circle in the center.
"Holy shit," Sweeney muttered.
He rose to his feet as a second wave of attacks descended on the harbor down below. Nothing was spared, not the carriers in the water or the planes on the ground. Buildings erupted in flames. Gas tanks exploded sending angry bursts of pitch-black smoke belching into the air.
Sweeney had never been a religious man, but even he felt Jesus's name creep up his throat. Eyes wide, he'd been stunned into silence as enemy plane after enemy plane bombed the base at Pearl Harbor.
He swore he could hear the crackle of the immense blaze and the cries of the civilians. Sirens tore through the air and a flurry of movement followed. And through it all, rising above the sounds, came laughter. Sweeney's head shot to the side. The deep, thunderous, bellowing laughter had sprouted from Grimnir's gullet, echoing all around and filled with such mirth that it caused bile to rise from Sweeney's belly.
A sudden boom landed behind them. His first thought had been a bomb landing, but the truth was much worse. Standing in a beautiful white dress of the era, her dark hair up off her neck, stood Tove. She'd appeared from the sky, an ethereal being called to the sight of a battle, but there was no joy on her face. She didn't share Odin's happiness or readiness as she had the last time. Instead, horror, pain and sadness contorted her features.
"NO!"
The shriek that left her threatened to take Sweeney's knees from under him.
She rushed forward, ready to hurl herself over the edge of the cliff and to the hell below, but a thick arm prevented it. Odin had caught her by the waist and shoved her back. Tove stumbled, her heels sinking into the rich, thick Hawaiian earth.
"But they're down there!" she yelled, panic evident. "My sisters are dying!"
Sweeney's head snapped toward the harbor. The people appeared as little more than ants racing from one place to another, but if she said her kin were among them, he must believe her.
Odin smoothly replied, "Yes, I know."
A bevy of emotions crossed Tove's face until they landed on one. "You… you know?"
"Of course I do," he replied. "Who do you think sent them down there, hmm?"
She gasped as though struck in the gut. Tove fell to her knees, clutching at her chest as she struggled to breathe.
"You knew," she muttered. "You knew, you knew, you knew…"
And then she went still. While the sirens blared and the world reeled just a mile down the mountain, the air that surrounded the three mythical beings had gone still.
Tove peered up through her lashes, icy eyes ignited with a blue fire. They seemed to glow with rage and anger, all of which she had aimed at Odin. Sweeney couldn't be certain she knew he was there.
He didn't know where the spear had come from, only that the long weapon had appeared in her hand, ready for blood.
She launched herself to her feet and swung the weapon at her king. Grimnir swerved out of the way with ease, but Tove recovered. She lunged and twirled and sliced and hit nothing. Grimnir had become a mist, a shadow of himself. He wove through her frantic actions with a gentle ease that unsettled Sweeney.
And when she swung one final time, wielding the spear like a bat about to connect with a game-winning hit, it stopped. Odin caught the shaft of the weapon and held firm. Her jerked it out of her grasp like an agitated parent might.
Too stunned to react, Tove had no time to prepare for the strike that landed her on the ground. Sweeney had barely the time to register Odin's fist smashing into the Valkyrie's cheek, but there was no escaping the thunder that bellowed.
As the sound rolled away and faded in favor of the bombs and gunfire, Odin twirled the spear in his hand and approached the young woman at his feet. Dazed, there was little Tove could do to stop him.
Odin lifted his foot and brought it violently down on her gut. Sweeney flinched and Tove grunted. He wanted to rush forward, to interfere, but for the first time in longer than he could recall, sense prevented it. Not the one to allow something so useless to stop him, Sweeney had developed a habit of reacting first. Not now. Not with Grimnir. The power pulsated around him, the tributes charging him beyond anything the mad king would risk.
Grimnir took the deadly head of the spear and, with surprising care, pressed the flat of it to her cheek. He guided her attention back to him.
"You seem to have forgotten who I am, girl." The tip of her spear then sank beneath the skin of her neck just under her chin, a droplet of crimson forming around it. "I am your master, your creator. You and yours will do as I command without question, without fail. If that command is to die in battle, then your answer will be yes, my king. As you wish."
He plunged the spearhead deeper into her throat, an inch of it disappearing and the droplet now a steady stream. It glided down her neck, dripping onto the ground beneath her. Tears cascaded down flushed cheeks.
Sweeney had never felt so helpless to do anything, so useless. How could he compare to either of them. They were powerful, they were strong and Grimnir had been given a recent charge of souls, including those of his Valkyrie. There would be no fighting the god. Not in his current state.
"Say it," he commanded. Tove didn't reply. "Say it!"
His voice thundered through the sky, a deafening boom laced with rage and energy.
"Yes, my king."
The words brought Sweeney physical pain to hear.
"As you wish."
Seemingly proud of the accomplishment, Odin removed the projectile from Tove's throat. She clasped a hand over the injury, stemming the flow while he thrust the weapon into the ground. It sang as it swayed.
"You'll do well to remember your place."
Grimnr stalked away, a grin curling his thin lips and his dead eye glinting. He was gone a second later.
Tove shook. Her breathing had become haggard, desperate. It was as though she'd forgotten how and struggled to remember.
Sweeney remained where he was, frozen in place by the shock of the moment. Tove eventually stood. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she gained her balance as she took hold of her spear. The tears continued to fall, but she never truly cried or wept. He couldn't be certain she had the ability at the moment.
She wrapped her slender fingers around the body of her spear and held tight, wringing it in her hands until her stoicism erupted. Tove screamed a warrior's scream. She raised the spear high above her head and brought its body down against the ground. The strength of it should have snapped the weapon in half, but the shaft held strong.
The ground crumbled beneath the spear, a small shockwave emanating from it. Tove was far from done, striking the earth time after time after time, shouting and bellowing and crying out with each blow. She swung it against the nearest erect object, which exploded on contact.
Her pain saturated the air and overwhelmed the leprechaun. He could do nothing to stop it, to take it away and instead watched until Tove collapsed. She cried and cried, sobbing openly about the loss that her "master" cared little about.
Sweeney was slow to approach, wary of another attack lingering just beneath the surface. He wouldn't survive being on the receiving end of her ire. Her kind was too dangerous, too skilled with an otherwise clumsy weapon.
She remained where she was, still but for the residual trembling caused by her tears. He knelt at her side and touched her shoulder. In an instant, something overwhelmed him. It curled his stomach and caused his head to spin to a disturbing degree. He'd been through a thousand hangovers and withdrawals. He'd lived through the worst mind-altering drugs and drugs not meant for human consumption. Sweeney had been through it all, but what flowed from Tove in that moment, what consumed him, was worse than it all. It was grief, pure and unchained.
It'd been such a long time since Sweeney had felt the slightest hints of grief. He'd forgotten more of his own life than many would ever experience throughout their years and while logic told him that there'd been immense loss somewhere in his past, it meant nothing to him. He had no connection to it, not like Tove did.
A bit of pressure from his fingertips had been the extent of instigation Tove needed to spin in her place. She threw her arms around his neck, her fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. She hugged him tighter and harder than a person –even one of their kind- should have been capable of. She'd been given strength by her grief.
His arms were slower to move, but soon encased her, holding her to his chest. Her soft, whimpering breaths filled his ear, her skin burned him through his clothes. Sweeney had been overrun by Tove and her pain, drowning in it without a hope of being saved.
Tove pinned him in place under the weight of her tears and he didn't bother fighting them.
His eyes welled and his throat itched. As long as it'd been since Sweeney felt grief, it'd been longer still since he'd cried. In a life of debauchery and nothingness, he hadn't been connected to anything enough that the loss of it would merit a tear of any kind.
"They're gone." Her voice had been a whisper.
Sweeney ran his hand up and down the length of her back, unsure of how to console her, but doing his best.
"My sisters," she said with a hitch. "My sisters are gone."
He flinched as though struck in the chest. Sweeney drew back, peering down into her face. As beautiful as the night he'd met her and the morning after, Tove stared up at him with ice-blue eyes tinted pink, cheeks flushed and wet from crying, and her lips quivering. Out of the corner of his gaze, he saw red smeared across her neck, darker than before and dried.
And then rage flashed within her eyes. "He sent them to their deaths, sent them to fight and kill and burn and die, all for him, all in his name."
Her rage seeped into him as easily as her grief. A strange sort of determination rose within the Irishman, a sense of need to make everything better. It was fiery and strong and familiar. He'd experienced this sort of vengeful rage before, so long ago that it must have been part of a different life. It was both his and not. Whatever its original source, it was there now, there and ready.
Sweeney unfurled the young woman from his shoulders and rose to his full height, back creaking from the unfamiliar position. He stepped around her and took the spear into his hand.
Only an inch or two thick, it should have been miniscule trapped within his meaty palms and yet it formed perfectly to his grip. It was comfortable, right. Sweeney eyed the object glinting in the light, the weapon most would never master, not truly at least. Spears were the sort of weapons that a person only assumed they knew, but Sweeney could.
Thick brows creased as confusion swept across his features. He spun the weapon slowly, listening to the way the bladed end sliced through the air. It sang a sweet tune that only it could sing. It was weightless, yet powerful. Delicate, yet unyielding.
He was able to glide it through his fingers, twirling it like a drumstick with a level of dexterity that shouldn't have been possible with a seven-foot object. This was real. This was right.
His gaze drifted to the Valkyrie. She peered up at him through long black lashes. The ache had left her face, the pain and sadness. What remained was cold, clinical and ready.
She stood, their gazes remaining locked until she righted herself. He planted the end of the staff against the ground, a hollow thud echoing around them. Tove approached, closing the short distance between them. She glanced briefly to the weapon, her weapon, and then to him once more.
"Tell me what ya need," he said, his voice his own but different. "Tell me what y'want and it's yers."
Tove reached up, threading her hand around the back of his head. Her fingers glided through his hair, nails tenderly scraping against his scalp. A shudder rippled down his spine, but he kept his back straight, his focus on her.
She stood with her chest to his, the wind at her back. It brought with it the smell of fire and fuel and flowers. It brought the smell of death from below and the screams of those unable to escape.
"I want death," she said, a quiver lingering in the back of her throat. "I want death and blood and viscera beneath my heel." His insides trembled with delight. She stepped nearer. "I want revenge and retribution. I want their screams and their broken bodies surrounding me."
Sweeney dragged his bottom lip through his teeth and nodded. On a breath, Tove leaned forward. Her forehead came to rest against his. His eyes drifted shut as the heat of her rage seeped into him.
"I want to drink their fear, to swim in it for what they've done."
His free hand fell to the small of her back and drew her ever closer. Their bodies melded in that moment, their souls entwined more than ever before. Her breath became his, her rage, her pain and her bloodlust. All of it swallowed him and he was glad.
"Yes," he whispered, lips brushing hers as he spoke. "Hold tight, a stór."
He hadn't had time to register his words, or the meaning behind them before the air shifted. It rushed past them faster than could be described, the pressure changing so abruptly that his ears threatened to burst and then, just as suddenly, it ended.
Dank air filled his nose. Sounds of all sorts bounced off metallic walls. He and Tove stood in an uncomfortable corridor, dark and dank.
They withdrew from one another, revealing the sight.
"Where are we?" Tove asked, peering up and down the lengths of the hall, eying the pipes that ran overhead.
"Submarine," he replied. Her head snapped to him. Face rife with determination and passion, he added, "Sounds like Japanese in the background, don't it?"
Tove turned her attention to the distance and through the clanks and clacks, beyond the rushing engines and sirens beeping, orders were shouted in a language that belonged to the country of origin, the one that brought the death from above and below.
Her features hardened and without fear, without pause or apprehension, Tove started off toward the voices. His skin rippled with excitement. The taste of a fight, of a battle, lingered on his tongue. He followed.
They wove through halls and emerged within a vast chamber. It must have been one of the few the submarine had to offer. Men in uniforms darted across the space while others sat within their seats pressing buttons and speaking to someone on the other end of a radio. The two giants had been unnoticed, at first.
One man, intent to go from one end of the chamber to the other, spotted the pair. He froze, blinking at them as he registered their appearance. It must have been a sight. A tall "American" woman in her best clothes and an equally tall "American" man dressed a bit shabbier holding a spear had somehow gotten aboard their super-secret submarine.
The little man seemed to find his bearings and shouted, drawing the attention of those in the room. Words were barked back and forth and at them as well, but neither spoke the language.
And then Tove let loose a warrior's cry. It sliced through the chaos and the orders. It brought silence to the men before them and a chill to Sweeney's bones. Before they had the chance to respond, she rushed forward and grasped the little man's head between her delicate hands. With minimal effort, she crushed it, splitting his skull and spilling blood and brains onto the floor.
Panic. Sheer and utter panic.
Sweeney lunged forward with the spear and sliced through another. He wielded the weapon in the small area with grace and speed, twisting and spinning around pieces of furniture fixed to the floor and walls. He felt right again, true.
Blood flew through the air. It sprayed across monitors and faces. It saturated clothing and just kept coming.
The warriors fought and killed. They maimed the enemy without a second's hesitation and it was glorious.
When the chamber fell silent, Sweeney turned to Tove. Her dress had been forever tarnished and stained, her hands dripping crimson. She looked at him, even more blood across her face. She'd been feral and vicious, animal more than anything.
His chest heaved as he panted, a smile curling his lips. They were far from done and they knew it. Together, each charged down the corridor in search of more soldiers.