RAGNAROK IS COMING


— A God's Miracle —

The night was always the worst time to be awake. To have one's body denied permission to recharge so that the day ahead was not so draining.

Sleep offered a chance to reset, to open the eyes and see the morning with a clear head and new thoughts, new ideas and plans for utilising this next stage in time.

Hiccup Haddock had not slept in a very long time. Long enough that right now, as he walked the icy planes of Jotunheim, his father stalked beside him.

Hallucinations were a product of the body attempting to piece together reality when it did not fit with what was supposed to be true. The idea that other realms existed beyond Midgard, beyond the realm Hiccup thought was too big in itself; that was not supposed to be true, that was not reality.

So he ignored the frozen joints in his body, from the tips of his blackening fingers to the heartbeat he could hear in his ears. Ignored that beyond his hands- clasped by thick ropes of something that held tighter any time he struggled- were creatures born from nightmares.

As Stoick the Vast's only son and heir, Hiccup Haddock had been brought on the religion of his forefathers. He'd heard mighty stories of the Æsir and the Valkyries that carried legends on their brows and weapons of death and glory in their hands. At night he gathered with the rest of Berk's young around a roaring fire and heard how the mighty Thor slaughtered the giant Hrungnir, or the bargain that cost the God, Odin, his eye. Odes of the elvish and poems of the Vanir. He'd been taught the blessings put on a newly forged axe so it may be infused with the might and strength of the Dwarves. He knew that the Bifrost were murderous, magnificent beings waged in a never-ending war between the good of the Æsir and the cold death of the Frost Giants.

Hiccup did not ever think though- couldn't have possibly imagined in his entire mortal life- that he might become a prisoner of the Bifrost. To be forced to walk for days attached to their monstrous horse-like creatures. The things terrified Hiccup, no being should have more than one head nor should black ick drip from their noses as if they'd been caught in an eternal ailment.

"Keep walking Hiccup, I will not have you fail this, fail me."

Yes, father, Hiccup wanted to mumble, but his mouth was too dry and his teeth clashed too much to even try and form words. But he took a breath, let the cold air run up to his head and settle in his lungs, welcomed it, forced his body to understand its icy talons, learn them and dance with them.

His father never stopped though. He never stopped demanding Hiccup take another step, and another one, and another, until the words lost their meaning.

Hiccup walked for days and days without rest, ploughed on through the stones and ice that left his feet burning. He endured it until he could not go on anymore- but then being dragged was worse so he managed to stand up again.

It was Toothless beside him now, offering him kinder words and reassuring him that failure was nothing but inevitable and he could never judge him for it, yet, the dragon knew there was another step in him. Hiccup was well aware Toothless was long gone, but whatever was left of his mind chose to see his best friend beside him; it was better than what reality offered.

There were others strapped beside him. Prisoners and creatures that should not exist clasped and yanked along just as he was. They fared better, could withstand the cold by fur or thick scales and skin.

Jotunheim was a rather plain place, Hiccup thought between the minutes the Bifrost stopped to eat and sleep. So far, and as far as he could see, the air was made of a heavy mist. Only random colosseums retched from the ground like great angry hands reaching for the sky, but beyond that everything was dark, cold. As lifeless as he expected Helheim to be.

Once, while the Bifrost slept and the prisoners were forced to attend to the beast-horse creatures, Hiccup tried to talk to the other prisoners. He got grunts in reply. Some spoke an elegant, flowing language. Others spoke in tongues riddled with the strangest of sounds Hiccup knew his mortal mouth could never repeat. But then the Bifrost caught him and the punishment ensured Hiccup did not break breath again- not that he could with so many broken bones and a hanging jaw.

The Bifrost spoke Norse though, they spoke it very well.

"You are a slave, human. A disgusting vermin that I will put to use. You will worship how I let you obtain your life in my presence."

It was the only thing that set in stone Hiccup was not dead. If this was the afterlife and no matter whatever dishonourable deed he might have done, he had died with an axe in his hands. He would have died in battle and this frosty plain was without doubt not Valhalla. Hiccup determined he was to be a slave, a worker amongst these beasts and he would be damned if he fell behind because he was too weak.

Stoic stayed beside him, or Gobber and sometimes his cousin. They were not really there but the words they spoke became more real with the howls of the wind. They told him to keep going, to not fail or disappoint, to stand up again and again.

He did, Hiccup stood up every time he fell and forced himself to remain conscious.

It took a few turns of the stark white moon to rise and fall without its counterfeit of a sun before they arrived. He had been counting the shallow breaths in his lungs against the slowing beat of his own heart when his row of prisoners stopped in their tracks.

He had been put at the end of the line and so halfway down a mountain whilst the others were at the top, it was impossible to see what they'd stopped for. Not that he could force enough energy to care very much for the cause of a reprieve. Exhaustion, frozen bones and hunger had stolen most of his sanity.

A fat red creature with stumps for hands and scaly blistered skin began to shake and snort. It was scared- no, terrified. It began convulsing and the most horrific sounds retched from its upturned snout. Though there were ropes around its neck that tightened as he withered but the thing didn't seem to care. In its panic to be free, to escape whatever was beyond that crest of the hill, the creature whipped around and so desperate to be free, it snapped its own neck.

The defining break echoed in Hiccup's very bones and it caused a frenzy. They could smell what was coming and it terrified them.

Utter chaos ensued and being attached to blind frenzy and terror wasn't the best of ways to stay alive. They began trampling over each other, scratching, grunting, screaming and wailing to be free. Hiccup had to fall to the side, crawling on his knees to get as far away as the rope would allow, but still, he barely missed being kicked in the face by hooves and impaled by horns. The Frost Giants had abandoned the prisoners this far down the line, every one of the tall blackened creatures had flown to the front to dispel what had their prisoners killing themselves to be free of.

It had to be the sun. A bright, golden light had begun to rise over the hill. These creatures were so dark and Helish that they were petrified of the sun and warmth. Comfort must be in the icicles that formed on their tusks and claws because as that light and warmth grew up and touched the stark ground, every beast on Hiccup's row had maimed each other to the point of death.

Beyond him, Hiccup could only see a domino line of bodies thrashing and falling. Perhaps he should have been scared, but he could only manage a numb curiosity.

When the Gods stood in the shadow of that blinding light, Hiccup decided that the hallucinations had taken themselves too far because on the hill stood none other than a picture-perfect image of the Æsir god, Baldr the Beloved.

The God was nothing but a man. Tall and clad in armour golden and shining. Hair and beard Astrid blonde and plaited up in a warrior's braid. In his hand clasped that legend of a sword and Hiccup could feel its presence from here. He could feel its power as if it ran in his own blood and hear the strength that rolled along the God's tongue when he spoke to whatever warriors he commanded.

"Take them all."

It was hard to stop the hysterical laughter from bubbling out of his chest. Hiccup threw his head back and laughed and laughed, manically, delirious and finally mad. As if the idea of Jotunheim wasn't enough, here comes Baldr to save him.

His wails carried across a realm that now seemed utterly empty with only himself and Baldr in it and because this was no longer reality, Hiccup didn't feel reverent at all when the God stood over him.

There was a light attached to Baldr. A strength and sense of life that had to have been taken straight from mighty oaks and wind that howls through trees to be infused in this being's very skin.

"A human. In Jotunheim- I don't believe it." It was a simple whisper but even Baldr's voice spoke tales more unbelievable and mighty than he could imagine.

Hiccup grinned up at the God, nothing but plain acceptance had settled in his soul. "Have you come to take me to Valhalla, Baldr Odinson, most beloved of all the Gods?"

With a lift of the gleaming God's lips, Hiccup fell into a sleep he was sure he'd never wake from.

...oOo…

"If you eat that again Avrid, I am leaving you to die."

Avrid threw the nut at Baldr, hitting him squarely in the forehead. "I wasn't planning on it."

The Æsir threw a look that could kill before he elbowed Avrid and pointed to another similar-looking blue fruit, the size of a palm. "What about that?"

Avrid pulled it off the branch it drooped from and dug his thumbs into the side of it, splitting it perfectly in two. Juice dark as the night above them ran down Avrid's arms but he wasn't interested in that or its glowing flesh and dug through the middle of the plant until he found a walnut-sized seed. Pulling it out, Avrid placed the seed beside the three others and watched Baldr scribbling in a small leather-bound notebook.

"I think this would counteract the symptoms but the three of them might be able to make a cure."

Baldr nodded thoughtfully, running a hand across his perfectly trimmed, white beard and lifted the last seed Avrid had found. "And the process to follow?"

Avrid ran his hand over the small table he'd conjured in the middle of Asgard's black forest and called forth a pestle and mortar. He carefully peeled back the skin off of each fruit's seed and- using a dagger Baldr handed him- cut them until they would be small enough to use the mortar and crush it to a powder. When it was fine as sand, Avrid stepped over blackened roots and the decay of the forest until he came to a river of black ick.

Baldr watched from the distance as Avrid held a ringed pointer finger over the back ick, traced an invisible circle over its sludging surface until a small bubble of the stuff floated in the air under his finger.

He added it to the powder and mixed to form a paste before sliding the stuff over to the other male.

"I would boil it, removing any pests from the tar and burning the seeds so they release their toxins. Leave it to ferment for a week and it would work a charm."

Baldr raised his arched brows. "Would? Are you sure?"

Avrid narrowed his eyes but nodded.

But Baldr pointed to the paste Avrid had made. "Because you use products of this forest- you use the wrong ones, and it might just cause a plague to wipe out the entirety of Asgard."

Avrid took back the paste. Dipping a finger in it, he wiped the black stuff on an empty part of the table. Knocking on the paste with his fingernail, an image flew into the air. A transparent illustration of little black circles attached to cylinder rods of a sort.

He ran a blackened finger through the cylinder. "The molecules are raw and poisonous, yes. If I was to hand this to someone, three days after they use it every tooth and bone would turn to liquid."

He cupped his hands and the image followed his movements as he clasped the molecules in his hand and shook. When he released it again, throwing it into the space above them, the circles had split from the rods and seemed to vibrate on their own.

"Burning it brings it to a more concentrated form of its nature, removes anything dangerous to compromise the chemicals. Then let it sit for long enough," a single flick of his wrist and the image transformed into a small jar of liquid clear enough it could be water, "and the liquid will settle. Distil it, and you cure any affliction of the bone."

Baldr had been staring at Avrid, a fondness pulling at his rosy cheeks. "Very well done."

Avrid nodded before uttering a few words to send away the table, pestle, mortar and paste to his own chambers to complete the process and form the cure.

"You're not proud?" Baldr questioned, a hand on the man's shoulder. "You solved an affliction that takes most students years to master in the space of a few minutes."

"But not fast enough."

Baldr's face twisted. "Avrid."

"If I go to use this in the exam, I'll fail at the length the process takes."

"But you have a month to figure out a way to cut it down."

When Avrid grimaced Baldr turned his most esteemed and utterly frustrating student to face him. "I have taught more creatures than I can count but never have I seen a human succeed as far as you have. You have managed to outrun your peers in leaps and bounds, we are on a fifth year's materials and I have only been teaching you for a year."

"But still I'll eventually fall short."

Baldr had nothing to say for that. The human would fall short. He couldn't possibly keep his own in a battle when he could barely hold a sword, never mind best some of the most upcoming warriors in Asgard.

On their walk back Baldr let Avrid wallow, let him get angry.

"Will we train now?"

Baldr grinned and nodded.

…oOo…

Three hours and Avrid still stood, fists up and ready to be hit for what had to be the hundredth time and still making no progress. Baldr sat beside a few other of his fellow professors as each one watched the human with a will of steel and fists of a baby.

The arena was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming through the spiral roof made of glass and dark oak. It was Odin's Arena, a place of centuries worth of legends and battles. Where the youngest and most pure Asgardians trained for the right to someday fight alongside their fathers and brothers, sisters and mothers. Safe to say, it was a marvellous design of blunt blades and brandished with the record of every battle it hosted.

In the middle of the arena was a large, octagonal floor of white marble marked only by the runes that suppressed one's ability to use whatever gifts the Old Gods gave. The runes degraded man to his most basic of weapons: muscle and brawn. There were no upper hands in the arena, you fought with odds given by sheer strength and determination, where every hour of training became medals and weapons.

On each face of the octagon reached up rows and rows of shelves, parchment and scrolls stuffed into every crevice of them; the records of past battles. They were for students and professors to understand and criticise past strategies and their opponents' strengths. On a floor above stood an ornate viewing area. It sat as a single barrier of twisted metal to watch the contestants from above.

Baldr sat crossed-legged at the edge of the fighting floor though, watching every move Avrid made. Every hit he failed to block, swipe of legs he didn't even anticipate and disarmament he had no chance to parry. One year of rigorous training and the boy had picked up nothing. He was a better fighter than any human on Midgard, but it was practically nothing against the Æsir.

His opponent, a younger but promising brother of Baldr's, knocked Avrid down yet again, swiping the boy's legs straight out from under him. Avrid lay there, panting and gritting his teeth at a wave of anger so strong you could practically taste it in the air. Blood had already crusted down his chin and tunic, had turned his teeth a near permanent crimson but Thor wasted no time in pressing a metal spiked staff at Avrid's throat, a death move.

Slapping away the wooden staff, Avrid staggered to his feet. "Again."

Baldr's youngest and sprite of brothers shook his head and sighed in exasperation, "No Avrid. Good father, if I have to win again I will have to take it as an insult to my own fighting."

Avrid heard none of it and charged for Thor, throwing his sword in precise arcs and careful moves. It was a worthless attack- a skilful one, but skill wouldn't beat this type of opponent.

From beside Baldr, an old Vanirian scroller pointed at the steady sidestep of Thor, tapping his feather against the spine of a thick book in his wrinkled hands. "The human's problem is that he is too weak."

Baldr nodded. "A feature we have been working on but it seems useless. I make him run and lift, climb mountains and swim up waterfalls. He has trained every muscle in that body to no avail."

"He doesn't improve?" The Vanirian's old, tarnished skin crinkled as he frowned.

"Not a single piece of him." Baldr stretched his neck and ran the golden amulet across its chain. "He has grown leaner, perhaps more steady and confident, but there is no muscle growth. He still looks like the human equivalent of a squashed apricot."

"Apricot?" But Vanir nodded in agreement. "I don't know what you expect from a human. He'll probably die of old age before he learns to beat that amateur of a brother of yours."

Thor was their worst of fighters and as he wiped the floor of Avrid yet again, Baldr couldn't help the kernel of pride that grew in his heart.

"Yes the boy is hopeless, but I am going to spend a lifetime shaping him if that is what it takes."

The Vanir lowered his dinged monocle and glanced side-long at what was said to be the wisest of all the Gods. "Might I ask why?"

"Because of that," he pointed at the laugh coming out of an exhausted, shameless Avrid, "that inner strength? It is the rarest of finds."

The Vanir itched his bald head but shrugged and left Baldr to watch Avrid. Thor abandoned the boy, claiming to be sick of winning but Avrid stayed. He fought against air, swung and darted until there was not a single move he hadn't perfected. Until Baldr had to tell him to go to his bed lest he pass out and never wake again. It had taken a direct order, but eventually, Avrid left with the Æsir hot on his heels just to physically lock Avrid in his room and force him to rest for at least a night.

The light immediately flickering from under the door the moment Baldr locked it, told him Avrid would have his head stuck in books all night but he only shook his head. An inner strength indeed, one to triumph against any that even tried to keep up.

…oOo…

"I think you should initiate yourself into Radox."

Avrid frowned, his head still lowered to the mess of papers and multi-coloured glasses scattered across a massive desk. The lead in his fingers paused before he continued sketching some sort of flower on what would become a label for one of the glasses.

Baldr stayed leaning against the doorframe, forcing Avrid to drop his work and turn to face him. Instead of the God's usual bright grin, there was only a quiet contemplation working on his face.

Avrid threw his arm over the back of his chair. "That cult that kills people because of a poisoned sense of righteousness?"

Baldr took a seat beside Avrid, resting his elbows on his knees. "There is much that your books do not tell about Radox."

"Do tell." Avrid smirked.

Baldr took the lead from Avrid and began to finish the label. "Not every secret can be spoken aloud, Avrid."

A loud breath came from the boy before he started on the other pieces of stripped parchment. "I wouldn't get in anyway. They only take new initiates every three years and you have to be noticed by an Elder to garner a spot." His eyes flickered to Baldr. "They would never let a mortal in their ranks."

Baldr shrugged. "They would if you proved you can handle your own against them and as far as I have seen, there is not a single Asgardian- within reason- you can no longer defeat."

It was true he had escalated far in his training, but Avrid doubted beating Thor to a pulp could be considered a grand skill. The idea had crossed his mind- enough he had looked into Yggdrasil's guardians. The brutality of their methods had been fascinating and the stories of their training methods even more so. A brand of fearless warriors, Kohuru, and each one an utter legend. So much so, the rest of the nine realms- nine realms worth of creatures, were petrified of their names. Too scared to harm a hair on their heads lest they come for their secrets. That was the weapon Radox wielded best of all: knowledge. They knew scandals to descend the realms into chaos. Whispers and secrets of the most powerful creatures- knowledge beyond even Odin and they could and would use it. Did so to establish power over the God of Wisdom.

The creatures of Radox were Elves and Dwarves and Vanir and Æsir. Not a single human could or would ever make it as far as a step in front of a Kohuru.

Avrid shook his head and ran a hand through the locks that fell into his face. "It wouldn't matter. I wouldn't even live long enough to train. I don't think I have thirty more years Baldr."

As if the thought hadn't come to him, devastation contorted Baldr's face. His brows fell as hearty tears formed under the God's lids.

That was what was so beloved of Baldr- his unashamed love. It is hard not to love a being that loves you. One that feels so strong, whose hands can slaughter and yet he cries at every play and laughs at every joke. Cries at the millionth reminder that this human would never live as long as he.

"Do not say that, Avrid. You are not even twenty years old!" he barked.

"I am mortal in a land of immortals. Someday someone is going to shake my hand and rip my arm off."

Baldr waved a hand. "I'll sow it back on."

"Or hug me and shatter my bones."

"That was one time and it was only a few ribs." Baldr tapped Avrid's chest. "Plus, you've got some shiny gold bone in there now."

He pointed his lead at Baldr. "Point is, I hold out no hope to survive Radox's training."

Baldr stood, his fists clenched. "Stop this. You will continue to train, Avrid."

He rolled his eyes.

Baldr fixed his sleeves. "And if Radox does not accept you, then I will sneak you in."

Avrid rolled his eyes again but couldn't help but smile because the image of Baldr shoving Avrid through Radox's doors was one so pathetically hilarious he just couldn't fathom it- and yet believed with all his heart that is exactly what Baldr would do.

"I believe in you, Avrid!" He heard Baldr call from down the hall and the words echoed against the walls of his heart.

But he chuckled and turned back to his work. There were only three days before he was to stand in front of Odin and declare to have mastered the cure to the Allfather's wife's disease. Three days to draw up a speech the God will listen and trust and three days to make a million times sure the cure could do what it was said to. He was confident. Baldr had been working on the cure for years and came nowhere near as far as Avrid had, if that stroke no trust in Odin then nothing could.

Radox was a distant dream- a fascination. Nothing but curiosity at its finest because a life of killing and sneaking, of wars and peace treaties sounded like Hel, better to stay in medicine. To cure and discover and make a difference, a good difference. Radox would be a selfish venture and not to mention fruitless.

He pushed a finger on the top of the corkscrew, closing and labelling the last of the bottles. Avrid threw a prayer to the Old Gods and set a clear, glass decanter with the word 'Frigg' scribbled on its neck to the side.

If all went well, then Odin would have no choice but to offer Avrid exactly what he needed in exchange for the liquid in that decanter.

If all went well, Toothless might once again stand beside Avrid.

…oOo…