Author's Notes: This is where the fun begins. ;)
And no, the second leg of the quest was not inspired by the Burger King Thor comic.
. . . except that it totally was.
As always, thank-you for reading, and enjoy!
Part III: in knots, your shadow grows
It was dawn on the Questing Moon when the bifröst released them from its magic.
On the horizon, pink and blue streaked across the sky in hushed tones, trailing birdsong and morning dew in their wake. Heimdall had let them land above the same canyon as the day before, putting russet stone before them, and shadowed forest at their back. Thick, cool mist covered all, a gift of the high morning hours.
Between his brother and her, Thor discreetly rubbed at the rash upon his face while his eyes narrowly searched the land around them. He eyed the skeletal rock structures looping about the canyons with distaste, the softly glowing runes etched into them seemingly mocking now he knew what they spoke of. "And where are the witches, brother?" he grumbled, like a bear roused early from its winter sleep.
Loki slanted his gaze over to Thor, and said, "I doubt that we shall have to search for them. They will come to us."
On the edges of Sif's senses, she felt a tremor, akin to the shake of the ground as troops marched past. She breathed in deep, and felt the mail covering her chest rise with the motion.
"They are here," she announced. She had yet to draw her glaive, but her shield was a promising weight against her back, anchoring her.
All turned to the misted forests in time to see the three figures who seemingly grew from the fog rather than walk forth from it. Anann stood point, much as Thor, her sisters trailing half a step behind - Macha to her right, scowling fiercely, and Badb to her left, in the shadow of the group.
"Son of Odin, you have decided to prove your worth?"
"I am here," Thor declared grandly, his chest puffed out and his hair flowing in tattered remnants about his face, "to end the enchantments that you have ensnared me with."
Macha snorted. "He looks well, does he not, sister? Such flowing tresses that Friggajarson has. Perhaps we should let him be – it would be a pity to take such an appearance from him."
Thor fairly growled as he took a step forward. "You, witch, speak without knowing your place."
"As I speak without knowing my place, so you struck at my own without knowing yours," Macha took a step forward, not easily intimidated. The freckles across the bridge of her nose were pointed upon her pale skin the more she flushed with her anger. "I may say what I wish."
Thor looked to speak more, and rather than let his brother dig himself into a deeper rut, Loki subtly pushed Thor away from the tiny woman. "Brother, it is not worth your time," he soothed, even as he held a placating hand before Macha. "Save your ire for the Quest."
Thor grunted, but took a step back. Loki remained between his brother and the sisters. "Now, Good Annie, would you be so gracious as to outline the parameters of the Quest to us?"
Anann, silent the whole time, let the corner of her lips quirk up in a smile. Her eyes were very bright, like spring, at odds with the stigma of war she held upon her shoulders. "You have done your readings well, second son," she gave. "What else did my Lady Frigg say of us?"
"That your quest is formidable, and your right to demand it so of us genuine. Our family benefited greatly from your aid in the Great War, and so, we will play your game rather than demand that you end your ensorcellment."
"Such graciousness," Macha muttered.
Badb raised an ashen brow, shadowed over her eyes. "Sister, save your taunts for the Thunderer, for you know well that the Trickster's strength of charms lies not within you to match."
Anann stepped forth, waving a hand to each of her sisters. In turn, they straightened, falling silent as they fell in behind the eldest. And what a perfectly conditioned little unit they were, Sif watched, observing in silence – as the brothers often allowed her to do so with their words claiming attention from her. It was an old routine, one that the Mórrigan seemed to make well of, as well.
"My challenge demands thrice of you, Odinson," Anann set about instructing them. "First: of your mind I will see cunning. Secondly, I will see your courage – for both yourself and others. And, finally, I will see your worth, not only to lead, but to demand that others follow. Fulfill these conditions, and I will lift the curse from upon you."
"Done," Thor declared.
Anann gave him a withering smile. "Indeed," she said dryly. "Now," she turned, and thrust the hook of her sheppard's staff towards the forest, encompassing its shadows and beyond. "This forest is the Knott of the Mórrigan. Within the Knott are the Silver Trees, and the shadowed pools of Mara. Pass these, following upon the right path of the Three, and then you will find yourself within the glade of Cúchulainn. There you will prove your right to lead – and that will be my third challenge. Do you agree to prove your worth henceforth?"
Thor leveled a harsh look at her, set from stone. "I so swear," he gave though, and once sworn his word he would keep.
"Excellent," Anann tapped her staff before her. "Then we begin. Reach the glade of Cúchulainn before twilight, or else your worth is forfeit. I wish you well, sons of Odin, daughter of War."
The Mórrigan were gone as ethereally as they had came, reclaimed by the shadows and mist of their world. Sif lifted a crooked grin upon seeing so, the novelty of such a retreat lost upon them after so many years spent with Loki.
Thor lifted his nose, and shook what was left of his hair. "We move forward then."
"Indeed," Loki's eyes were a bright flare of green in the half light, trapped as they were between the rising sun and the sheltered forest. Thor set to march, and Sif fell into her place at Loki's side.
The forest swallowed them like the sky would a cloud. The trees around them were ancient things – with bases that all three of them together would not be able to wrap their arms around to encompass. Their great height was seemingly endless, reaching up into the sky far above them. Their branches were thick and tangled, looping and hanging about each other until it was impossible to see where one ended and another began. Their interlocking branches kept the light away minus for a warm and golden glow above them. The plants on the very bottom of the forest floor seemed to glow with their own light, creating a metallic gleam to cut through the darkness all around them. The branches of the giant oaks would sweep down low, their long and leafed extensions almost like gigantic fingers, looking desperately to touch. Sif felt the wood brush against her shield as she pushed her way through, and the metal pulsed softly at her back.
There were paths marked by ancient stones, but the longer that they traveled the marked ways, the more it became apparent that each path twisted and doubled back on the other. The trees formed barriers, she soon realized. They were not naturally grown, but instead they were plotted and planted, grown to act as walls and shields. A true knot – a maze. The wood formed patterns and spirals, almost unnatural in the twist and play of the bark and bough. There were letters to be read in the knotting wood, a puzzle to those sharp of eye enough to see.
In a way, Sif was reminded of the Queen's garden back at home, and the centuries of their childhood in which they had played hide and seek in the thick hedge mazes there in. How towering those walls had seemed back then. How hopeless their path. Now, Sif was almost tall enough to see over Frigg's sanctuary, and their secrets were paths long since learned to them.
Thor's pace had slowed once he came to the same realization as Sif. He cocked his head towards his brother. "These paths lead not straight," he said.
Loki nodded. "So it would seem."
Thor glanced over at the others. "The runes on the markers, what say they?"
"They conflict with their directions," Loki muttered, and Sif recognized the flare of curiosity there within. "I have noticed three variations of the same language since leaving the canyon already."
Thor snorted. Sif slowed next to him, letting Loki examine the nearest marker. When he reached out a hand to it, flaring green, more symbols showed where none were before. She tilted her head curiously, wondering what the words said to him that were blank to others.
The correct path of the Three, Anann had said . . .
"Only one of the tongues will show a true path," Loki finally decided. "The other two are decoys."
Thor narrowed his eyes, the gesture loosing some of its vehemence by the absence of his eyebrows. "Cheats," he growled. "How typical."
Loki raised a brow on his own, purposefully mocking his brother. "I would simply call it clever."
"You would," Thor said. "You, who prefer trickery over honest steel -"
"- and how long would you have wandered in these woods if I could not decipher the runes so? The Mórrigan simply know the strength of their own weapons, and they develop them so. Honesty is nothing when it comes to victory."
"For a coward, which is exactly what those witches are."
Loki sighed, and Sif took a step closer to him, knowing how much the old argument tired him – bit more deeply than he would ever let his brother know. While his seiðr's gifts made him as useful as any in battle, he was not first and foremost with steel, and the Aesir – born of the battle and the fight, could not understand their royal son's preference for other arts. Even Thor, with all the love Sif knew he bore for his brother, was perplexed at times.
"I, for one, approve of such trickery when in aid, and not against," Sif knocked her shoulder against Loki's as she stepped past him, a balm in her words. "Now, which way should we pass, Tangletongue?"
Loki concentrated, and the markers around them pulsed softly. The more his brow furrowed, and brighter and brighter one set of syllables gleamed over the other two until even Sif and Thor could see a difference in the shapes of the three different directions. "This," Loki finally said, pointing to a rune that was awash in the verdant touch of his powers. "This marker will lead true."
"Excellent," Thor declared, and he set forth. "Come along then."
Loki stayed, a willow rooted from the ground, his smile sharp as he snagged his gaze upon hers. She too held.
And then Thor stopped, pink staining the tips of his ears. "After you, brother," he bid sheepishly. "If you please."
There was half a chuckle lost in the back of Loki's throat as he shook his head. For all of their past annoyances, his glance was fond as he passed Thor on the path. Sif held a moment longer, and then took a point behind both, her boots slipping softly upon the ground.
They walked in this way for some time, with Loki translating the runes, and Thor holding Mjölnir at loose attention from behind his brother. The woods had been humid when they had started, the damp air making her armor stick to her skin, but the air had cooled the further into the Knott they traveled. The mists had not given to the rise of the day, as she thought they would. Instead they swirled and darkened. If she were to look down, she would not be able to see her feet. Before her, Thor and Loki were hazy blocks of green and red, smeared by the fog – like an artist blending his tones upon a canvas.
The forests eventually thinned, and instead of the coarse and tangled wood that they had started in, the landscape took on an elegant, primeval appearance. The path started to elevate – and Sif remembered seeing the foothills of the great mountains beyond when they had been in the canyons of the valley between the two ranges. The glade they sought was further up upon the slope, she would wager.
The air was thinner, cooler and sweeter around them. The mists gave way to tall evergreens, so tall that Sif could not see the tops of their mass, even with her sharp sight. The bottom half of their trunks were bare, giving the world around them an eerie appearance – ghosts in the mists, stabbing their sharp peaks towards the sky.
"The Silver Trees?" she hazarded a guess. The mist had condensed upon the bark, giving them a silver and grey appearance in the fog. All around them were wintered tones – silver and charcoal and grey. She felt washed out and colorless, anchored only by the bright flare that was her companions.
"So it would seem," Loki said. His brow was furrowed, and she recognized the mark of his concentration. Although herself blind to the elemental arts, she could feel her shield pulse at her back in response to the magic in the air, swirling all about them.
Carefully, she walked on, and then Loki held out a hand. "Watch your step," he muttered.
She frowned, and looked down, and noticed then that myriads of pools dotted the landscape at the base of the pines, obscured by the mists. The fog shifted, and she saw that she almost had a very wet and awkward fall before her.
"Odd," she said upon seeing how many dotted the landscape. They were completely still waters, nary a ripple in their depths, even though the wind that swirled through the pines was stiff and echoing. She stopped to kneel down besides one, and immediately her eyes were drawn to the black cast of the water.
She could see none of her reflection within. The water was soulless. And yet, she could not look away . . .
Loki's hand was cold upon her shoulder, a weight that startled her out of her haze. "Do not look within the pools," he said, his tone besmeared by a dark knowledge. "They are shadow seekers – mirrors that reach all the way into the depths of Niflheimr, and the realm of Hel within. They feed off of the primal parts of your mind, and whatever they find within they will magnify and return tenfold in order to continue feasting."
"You speak of Mara?" Thor snorted. "She is simply an old wives tales told to scare children, brother."
Loki leveled his gaze at the other. "Then look within, and say my words are false."
Thor let out a deep breath of air, disturbing the mists. "I need not," he finally said, carefully picking around the pool that was before him.
"These are alive," Loki said. "But they have no souls. Don't let them seize at yours." There was no jest within his voice – no mischief or trick, just a warning, seriously set.
Sif got to her feet, and picked gingerly around the pool. Her shield pulsed, as if the magic of the place were trying to pull at the heat of her.
The further they walked, the more if became apparent that something sinister lurked within the pools. Whispers haunted the mists, reaching out to their ears alone.
Sif, Sif, Sif . . . she heard echo, and the voice was poured with such a longing that her ears overfilled with the pain of it. She ached in accord with it.
"Ignore them," Loki said, his tone a sharp counterpoint to the wailing whispers. "They reflect your fears, your desires."
"They are as nagging as Freyja," Thor declared grandly, but she read the pause in his step at the pool he was then passing. His hands clenched into mighty fists, as if fighting the urge to look. And stare.
Sif . . .
She sucked in a breath through her nose, let it out through her teeth.
The pools were more to number now. It was hard to find dry land to step around them. She tried to let her gaze find the pools in nothing more than a glance to guide her step.
Her eyes slipped right, staring out at a patch of silvered grass.
She stepped carefully.
A break in the silence came then when a flock of birds took to the air, disturbed from their hiding places by the travelers. Sif stepped back out of reflex upon hearing the screech of them on the air, her hand automatically falling upon the knife at her belt. When she stepped back, her right foot sunk into the pool, snared. She rolled back her eyes with a curse, and upon finding that the pool was shallower than she would have thought it to be, turned.
And she found that she could not look away.
The waters were very black, colorless, reflecting nothing from around its depths. These were stronger than the first they had passed, Sif realized. Something deep within her mind told her that she should look up – look away, far away and never look again . . .
But when she looked up, she saw only black. The forest had gone. Thor had gone. Loki had gone.
Her breath echoed loudly in her ears.
"Thor?" Sif called into the darkness that had engulfed her. "Loki?"
She took one step to her right. To her left even the silver shine of the pool had disappeared.
.
.
Almost immediately, Thor felt that something was different.
He was alone on the forest path. The silver born mist about the forest around them had faded. The trees had faded, and the fog had given way to light. Such a bright, brilliant light. Golden and thick, yet seemingly buttery and soft – able to touch. Sunlight seemingly cut through the clouds of gold, letting pale specks glint and glimmer here and there.
He walked through the cloud until he could reach something solid. A window, thick and wide. And through it he could see the grand expanse of Asgard beyond, golden and eternal.
And yet . . . it was not Asgard as he had known. It was a different Asgard, an Asgard seemingly after a massive fire had swept through the great city. Goðheimr was no more – its buildings laid in tatters, falling upon each other like stones on the bottom of a river. It's great causeways and bridges were cut away, and ash fluttered on the breeze, made golden by the serene glow of the cosmos above. The stars, ever eternal, mocked the ruins below with their splendor. Forever unchanged and unchangeable.
Before the window, there was a great loom. And before it his mother sat. He was in Fensalir, Frigg's Hall, he realized, though he knew not how. She wove a thick and yellow cloth, delicate and gauzy, seemingly made of sunlight rather than any tangible material. Her eyes were clouded with a white light - celestial with its brilliance, while she was lost to her visions, and Thor wondered what she saw there.
The question was on his tongue when she turned to him. And yet, rather than the smile that Frigg normally reserved for him, there was only a frown. It was a wound upon the gentle planes of her face, sewed tight and yet still seeping.
Thor had never known that her eyes could be so cold, even with the warmth of the light around them. "How dare you come here," her words were hissed, like Loki throwing one of his blades. And as such, they cut true.
"Mother?" he questioned, his confusion heavy in his voice – for he had never taken lengths to hide what he had felt as so.
"After what you have done," her voice trembled with an old and ancient rage that Thor had never witnessed upon Frigg's lips directed at an enemy, let alone at her son. "After how you have dishonored yourself."
"Mother, I don't understand," there was a note of desperation in his voice, in the flicker of his eyes as he glanced between his ruined home and his distraught mother.
"No, you do not. You never have," Frigg agreed, standing. The long cast of her hair, golden and brilliant as the harvest was snarled and tangled. It had lost its shine. Her face bore the mark of time, wrinkled with the weight of a grief he could not comprehend. Her eyes were shadowed with something he could not identify, could not name. She still stood tall, but she was as felled as the great city beyond her.
"Mother?"
"Do you realize what you have done?" she practically shrieked, thrusting a hand to encompass her loom. The city beyond. The ash on the air. "You have destroyed everything. Everything is gone . . . everything," and here Frigg's voice broke. She walked back to her loom, and picked up the delicate cloth she had weaved. It dissolved in her hands, lost to the golden light around her – the warmth of it so at odds with the horror of the dream.
It had to be a dream. It could not have been real.
And yet, Thor tried to awaken himself. Still the vision held.
. . . did he dream?
She threw the ruined strands down upon the ground, where they turned to wisps of smoke on the wind. She leveled a thick glare at her son. The smoke before her curled, as if inhabited by ghosts.
"You have shamed me," was all she said, but Thor felt the weight of it as if he had taken a blow from Volstagg.
"You have shamed all of us," a new voice said. From the smoke of Frigg's visions, his own lord and father rose. Odin was a spirit, filling the room. His eye was a star – a formless cast of light. His body was as intangible as the mist which compassed it, but Thor could feel the mass of him still.
"Father?" Thor questioned.
"You have brought this upon your home, your family," Odin thundered in a way that had always made Thor feel tiny – as if he were a child in his father's shadow, never mind that it had been centuries since he had stood smaller than his father.
"What did I bring?"
"War," Odin's voice was a whip cracking. "Death and desolation and decay."
"Our end," Frigg's voice echoed coldly. "You were supposed to be strong."
"You were supposed to save us all," and from the mist beside Odin, Freyja rose, her loveliness cast aside in favor for a crone's appearance in death. "You let us die. You let us burn."
"And how blindly we followed you." From the mist, the Three rose, harsh lines etched into their faces where Thor had only ever known comrades in arms. Brothers. Friends. It was Hogun who spoke, and the words on the man who did not waste his time on worthless syllables cut him more than even his father's wrath.
"We followed you into the Twilight, and you could not stop it. Could not stop as fire devoured everything. We burn, and you did nothing to save us."
"You have dishonored your family," Odin thundered.
"You have betrayed us," Frigg whispered.
"You are not worthy," Freyja threw her nose into the air.
"No," Thor protested. "Your visions lie. The loom knows not what it speaks of."
"Does it not?" and now Sif rose from the mist, her cherished voice turned mocking. "Why, you have never had the wisdom of Odin, let alone the strength of him. You think now to tell us that we lie?"
"Your thoughtlessness, and the pain it sowed in its wake. You kill him. Kill him with your recklessness and your rebellious tongue. This is the future, Thor Odinson – a future of your own making." Frigg's voice was an axe, falling upon the executioner's block.
"And to think that you had at one time thought yourself worthy enough to take your father's throne," Sif laughed – she actually laughed. Thor had thought he had known every laugh from her – in humor, in indignation, in war. This was different. This burned against him, and a voice inside him muttered she would never say so.
"So weak," Frigg whispered in disgust. At her side, Odin had crossed his arms. "Just like your brother."
At that, Thor looked up, his eyes hardening over the grief that had settled there at the words of his brethren. A crack appeared in the endless golden haze around him. A silver slice that grew the longer he challenged his father with his gaze. "No," he said.
The crack grew.
"Both so worthless," Sif muttered, ignoring him.
"What an embarrassment," Fandral laughed.
"A failure," Volstagg mourned.
"Weakness," Hogun spat upon the ground.
"No," Thor said stubbornly, fisting his hands and closing his eyes. He concentrated, found his center – found the slice of silver that cut through the gold around him. Willed it to grow.
Behind the blackness of his closed gaze, there were warm eyes on his own, a pair he did not yet recognize, but brown and warm enough to cut through the nightmare of his vision. He felt a tremor in the deep of his bones at the look in their depths. "You let them call weak what you have found strength in?" she said softly, and the glimmer of pride there – of understanding, shook Thor more deeply than he could have imagined such simple words could.
Thor opened his eyes, and stood straight. "You dare to mock the son of Odin? The second son of Bor's line? I am Thor, and my father's strength is my own. My father's strength is my brother's strength, and you shall not slight that blood with your lies any longer."
He tried to remember where he was before this. Remember the silver forest, and the empty pools which his brother had spoken of as thieves.
They would not take this from him.
Thor lifted Mjölnir, and closed his eyes to the taunts and the jeers around him. Instead, he concentrated on the memory of his mother's smile. His father's hand heavy upon his shoulder in pride. Sif's blade against his own in the practice rings. Volstagg's lusty grin at a feast, and Fandral's delighted laugh before the looking glass. Hogun's support in his silences, and Freyja's epic loveliness. He thought of his brother, the anchor at his side – the moon to his sun – and he felt something cold and enraged pulse through him. The caster of this vision had made their mistake mocking his second as such. For while Thor himself could be torn down by blows aimed for him alone, it was quite another matter entirely when one of his own was struck . . .
It was not pardonable. These visions would not pass.
"Weak."
"Worthless."
"Pathetic."
And he said: "Enough! I have born the weight of your lies – but no longer." Calling upon every ounce of power within him, he brought Mjölnir down upon the floor of his mother's hall. He watched as lightning tore through the golden vision – setting fire to the city beyond. The spirits shrieked and screamed and as they were felled, Thor felt his body shudder – fighting to be released from the enchantments which had held him in thrall. Finally, the strength of the storm broke. The darkness gave.
When he opened his eyes, he was breathing heavy. Sweat beaded his brow and his hair stuck to the shadow of a space between the base of his head and the lip of his armor. His great limbs quivered, and so he breathed in deep, calming himself. Before him was the pool that had ensnared him. It was quiet now, the darkness in its depths not quite as poignant once he knew what that shadow was made of. The shades of Niflheimr would not be one to ensnare him again.
Baring his teeth for a moment at the pool, he got to his feet. Instantly, he spied for his companions in the mist. "Loki?" he called. "My lady?"
Silence.
His heart high in his throat, he pushed through the mist. If the visions had been so cruel to him, how would Loki stand? Loki, who had always felt the weight of others most acutely. Sif, who wore her armor so well, but was soft underneath . . .
No.
Each were strong. They would break free. As Thor had broken free.
He stumbled upon Loki first – a few paces from him, his hand within the pool, enchantments still glimmering on his fingertips. Thor felt guilt spike within him when he realized that the other must have fallen to the visions when he was trying to break Thor out of his own.
Impatient, Thor struck his hand against the water.
"Loki, wake up!" he called, splashing the water again. "Loki, you will wake up now."
The other was silent, his brow creased as if in pain, and Thor felt himself sicken as he imagined what fear the pool had found to exploit and feed on. For Thor, failing his family – the realms, letting the Twilight of the Gods fall upon them all was an old fear, not nearly unfamiliar. Loki, who pondered so deeply and felt so acutely – his silences were so far from Thor at times, and he feared . . .
"Loki, as a son of the Allfather and my brother, you have the strength to end this enchantment," Thor dipped his hand into the water this time, willing every feeling of confidence and pride he felt in accordance with his brother to pierce the waters and somehow find Loki within. "And so you will wake up. You will wake up now. Do you hear me?"
"Please Loki," Thor then whispered, the desperation within him lending his voice a softness he would not have known himself capable of before.
Silence.
The water was cold at his hand.
And then Loki stirred. He coughed, as if trying to suck in air after breathing in water. His eyes were wide as he drew his hand back from the water as if burned. He very much looked like a stag, stumbling back from the aim of a hunter's bow, and Thor stilled himself, letting Loki find his bearings once more.
"Loki?" Thor questioned as the other stood, staring at the pool as if it held Hel herself within its depths.
"I am fine," the other said, too quickly.
Thor stood as well, more slowly. His eyes troubled. "What did you see?" he asked, as softly as he could.
Loki's gaze snapped to him then, something dark and shadowed there that Thor could not interpret. Could not think to call its understanding on his own.
His grin, when he gave it was sharp – as if someone had taken a knife to his face. "It matters not . . . I, I heard you within. It called me back to myself." In the words, there was gratitude, if Thor so chose to take it.
And so he did. "As if I would let you fall to so petty a magick," Thor scoffed, "You must know that I will always come for you." His words were grand, but his eyes were worried. He knew Loki saw his concern as such, for a moment later Loki's face relaxed into something more sincere – more credible for his sake.
He breathed in deep, and thought just as Loki asked, "Where is Sif?"
The feeling returned to Loki's eyes, but it was not on behalf of himself. "Sif," her name was a soundless whisper on Loki's lips as he waved his hand angrily, clearing the air of both mist and fog in a fierce sweep of magic over the forest floor. Loki's eyes were very green, and Thor let himself look on, entranced as the other fairly glowed with a power that he couldn't even begin to understand.
"There," Loki spied her first, knelt down before her own pool. Where Loki's body had been a bowstring, pulled taut when Thor had found him, Sif was the opposite – she had turned in on herself, drawing her knees up close to her chest, and wrapping her arms about them. She was a ball before them, presenting the smallest possible target.
Thor felt bile in his throat upon seeing her so – fierce Sif, who had always been a flame, ever burning. Wickedly taunting, and ever marching.
Loki knelt down besides her, his hands tenderly finding her face – discerning how deep her slumber truly was. His thumbs were long and white upon the height of her cheekbones, and Thor felt something within him catch at the gesture.
"Can you awaken her?" Thor asked, his voice bleeding with his concern.
A muscle in Loki's jaw twitched, his eyes were narrow slashes upon his face, lost to the shadows of him. "She will not be lost to us," he said, as close to a promise as his silver tongue could spin.
He turned before Sif, and like Thor had done for his brother – he dipped his hand into the pool to interrupt the spell. But unlike Thor's desperation, his movements were cool and mechanical. Pointed, as he slipped into her vision next to her.
Thor saw the exact moment where the magic snared Loki alongside Sif, and then, there was nothing left but do but to wait.
Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness
The Mórrigan: Were indeed a Celtic trio of goddesses and their duties were much as they were described here.
Anann was a warrior goddess of fertility, cattle (in the sense of culling the weak warriors from the 'herd'), and prosperity, and was known for comforting and teaching the dying soldiers upon the battlefield. Sometimes she is actually called Mórrigan herself, for she is the center of their three fold cord.
Macha was a war goddess who saw to war horses. Her name means 'of the plain', and she was based off of the real figure in Irish history – Macha, the bride of Cruinniuc. She is compatable with the Welsh goddess Rhiannon.
Badb was a war goddess who took the form of a crow, and was thus sometimes known as Badb Catha ("battle crow"). She often caused fear and confusion among soldiers in order to move the tide of battle to her favoured side. Badb would also appear prior to a battle to foreshadow the extent of the carnage to come or to predict the death of a notable person. She would sometimes do this through wailing cries, leading to comparisons with the bean-sidhe.
The Glade of Cúchulain: Cú Chulain was an Irish folk hero, comparable to Achilles, who was known best for his rally against Ulster, in which he slighted the Morrigan. He was the only one in mythology to slight the three, and live to tell the tale – even going so far as to heal Anann by blessing the milk she drew from a cow in the form of an old woman. Later, he was blessed in battle for this.
Mara: A dream stealing wraith mentioned in Celtic, Norse, and Germanic folklore. (Called a Mare, Mara, and Marh, respectively) that stole your terror from dreams. This is where the term 'nightmare' comes from. She is often compared to Incubi and Sucubi.
Seiðr: Norse term for magic.