Author's Notes: I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for the amazingly thoughtful feedback that I have been recieving for this story so far. You all truly make writing a pleasure, that is for certain.

Now, to thicken the plot . . .

Part VI: seek out healing waters

In the Hall of Fensalir, the Queen of the Aesir sat at her loom.

The craft she wielded was ancient, made of the sacred groves that grew from the blessed soils of Vanaheimr. Those same trees had shadowed Frigg herself as she was born – anointing her with her sight, and burdening her with the bittersweet task of her visions. At one time, many were the daughters of the Vanir who held foresight in their veins. But those talents had faded with time, for such visions were not needed after the creation of the universe, not with the Nornir sisters there to see any and all for every soul upon Yggdrasil's boughs. The woman who once held such a sight either forsook their crafts for that of bride and mother, or they simply had forgotten how to truly look at what they saw in their dreams, in their weaving, in their rippled waters.

Frigg's own mother, one of the Firstborns of creation, had taught her the secrets of the loom. She had yet to forget its movements, or to forsake its power. Her father Fjörgynn, a simple farmer who personified the very spirit of the earth, had told her the story of her mother in those early days – the woman who was created by the wind between the trees and the deep set of the roots into the land. Jörða had not been long about the world of flesh and bone, and she had returned to the forces that had created her long before Frigg had accepted Odin's suit.

The uncanny blessing of her blood had been the very thing to make sure her visions sat with her throughout the centuries when the gift was lost to her sisters. Unlike her son, who could naturally wield the powers of seiðr, Frigg could feel around the edges. Her blood was made from fire – as were all born of Goðheimr and Vanaheimr; but she was touched with the edges of the elemental grace, blessed to channel that energy through an avatar like her loom. It was not to the children of flame to manipulate the elemental powers – it was for them to defend. To protect what Yggdrasil held as sacred

And in her visions, she could defend much. In her dreams – in her weave, she saw every possible future. Every road – taken or not taken, was hers to observe and take part of.

She had learned, early on, the wisdom of silence in relation to such paths. Often times, trying to pick the right course only brought one worse on – the warp and the weft of the weave were always in motion. Always moving, and Frigg could not control them as much as she simply could observe.

The cloth she wove was golden, seemingly made of light as she fed it through the heddles. The thread was soft – it felt naught of wool, but of something greater than any natural fiber. It felt like starlight – warm and illuminating as she tucked in the edges. Each strand was prepared ahead of time on her own spindle – the mortals spoke of spinning gold, and Frigg still had to smile at how much humanity guessed for and found wanting in their legends.

It was not true gold; the paltry metal so loved by mortal kind, but the ether of the universe, the stuff and matter of dreams . . . And fate.

The thread sang against her fingers. Each one she twined – Love, Pain, Anger, Suffering, Hope, Joy, and Fear. Beginning and Ending were their crossweaves, as were Life and Death. Blessing and Malediction. Her Hall was shadowed, even as dawn threatened to light Asgard's horizons beyond. Her eyes were molten, she knew, casting light as if from embers as she sat to weave.

A hand upon the reed, another upon the shuttle, and slowly, she started to coax all together.

Over time, she learned that dreams only showed bits and pieces; they were the futures most unreliable, most erratic and chaotic as she saw her world rise and fall through sleep. With her loom, she controlled her power. She decided the thread to see.

And so now she chose to see. And saw.

Please, she prayed, show me the way to Niflheimr – show me a path so that my son may live.

Her mind uttered the plea, but it was her fingers which translated the words. Her hands glowed as if there was a fire behind her bones, making them dark silhouettes under her skin in the half light. Her skin burned, her visions trembled. Golden light swirled as the threads ignited. The weaving came quickly now as past and present fell in on each other, the thread tangled and collected, and a pattern formed. A picture painted itself – in the palms of her hands, in the empty spaces behind her eyes. Yggdrasil whispered to its favored queen, and Frigg listened. She understood the beating of the ancient tree's heart; understood the song the cosmos sang . . .

But it was a song whose melody changed with every new measure. It was not a song to trust – for decision and conscious thought placed every rhythm on a different path than the last. If was for this reason that Frigg never spoke of what she saw – not even in the days of her youth, when Odin had sought her not for her hand, but for her powers of foresight; not even when the Great War spiked and Odin turned to Mimir and his well for wisdom when she would not break her silence. Even now, she could not reveal the whole of her cloth – would not unintentionally damn all she held dear by trying to save it.

But she could deign a starting point. She needed only to push gently at fate, and then the proper path would be taken. This was why she was equal to Odin Allfather in the eyes of her people. Always known to her was the way ahead, even during the most darkest of hours. To Odin they looked for steel and glory, to Frigg they looked for compassion and guidance.

The cloth pooled at her feet, liquid as water and light rather than substantial as fabric. Figures danced upon the face of the cloth – lips formed words and hands clasped to worship with their stories. She reached out – and sought, seeing behind her eyes so many things . . .

She saw.

. . . she saw Asgard upon the sea of the cosmos. Beneath the great bridge of the bifröst, the sea rolled angrily in its cradle. The waves raged tempestuously - as broken as the great monument above it. The bridge had perished, broken, and upon it stood the Guardian, ever vigil, and one of her sons, but only one . . . only one. She shied away from that path, feeling pain spike in the marrow of her at such a picture . . .

. . . she saw the bridge standing tall, paying toll to foreign travelers – heroes, not of Valhalla's cloth, but of a mortal determination and pride. She watched the warriors curiously, the stain of Midgard's future for mortality blackening them all, and yet how brightly they shone to her senses. The time of heroes was not one lost to times long past . . .

. . . she saw a lone figure, hunting in the wastes. The wind was a violent cadence at the figure's back, the white light of the blizzard glinting off of polished points of steel – off of the shield upon their back, the armor at their chest and thighs, the sword held high as if to threaten the very squalls. Niflheimr roared, and the lone one bared their teeth in reply, answering their challenge. Her loom was cool in her hands, channeling the ice. She let it be.

. . . she then saw down into Múspellsheimr. On the second planet of creation, fire kissed dark obsidian shores, and the air was alight with fertile ash and toxic steam. Forges worked in the great belly of the planet, blackening the sky above until one could not tell whether day was upon them or night. The Eldjötnar were an ancient, primordial race, and in their depths even they did not dare disturb the ancient place where the fiery one had been bound, his screams shaking the weave of her cloth as he bellowed his threats to Yggdrasil herself should he not be freed . . .

. . . she saw the Twilight. Saw as Goðheimr burned, and great Yggdrasil's roots burned with it. She saw the shadow the dragon cast as he bore Death and Betrayal on his wings across the burning landscape. She saw the sunlight that glinted on the glaive of the shield-maiden, and the ash that turned the Thunderer's hair grey. And so rose Odin great and terrible against the one he had once called son, and – she cut the thread. It snapped with a satisfying sound.

. . . she saw the land of Midgard. She saw tall buildings, reaching to the sky like great stone fingers. She saw the yellow smear of gridlocked vehicles and heard the unnatural call of sirens as humanity shuffled past like locust upon the oasis their home had once been. There was a woman, with dark and warm eyes who walked hand in hand with the Thunderer, and there was such a smile to brighten his face that Frigg paused upon seeing it. Her loom stilled, entranced as she was by the peace in her son's eyes – the mercy he had learned with his warring ways, tempering the steel in his hand.

. . . but the moment did not last long, and next she saw her second son taking arms against an odd group of mortal soldiers. Something was said by the foremost man – clothed in gold and scarlet armor, and upon it, Loki raised his hands, his smirk mocking. In his palms, an awful energy crackled - like lightning before it escaped the heavens. His eyes were mad and alight with the seiðr's powers, and when he exhaled the magic leapt like flames in a wildfire, their tongues licking at anything and everything in their path . . .

. . . she then saw her son kneel before her, the second, his garb black and sharp about his body as if to make him an arrow, slung from an archer's bow. How the curve of his bow did not mock before her as it did before others. His hair had been shorn, cut sloppily so that it just reached the square angle of his jaw. A part of her smiled as she recognized Sif's work, and still she kept her face serene as she took his hand in her own, and bid him rise. For he was her son, and she had forgiven him long ago . . .

. . . she saw the realm of Hel. Death herself stood in a pool of stars, her living hand outstretched with her decaying one. Her garments fell from her as if adorned by night itself, and the souls surrounding her shone as stars. Within her palm she held two such souls, one blinking, drained of its brilliance; the other a small sun, ever shining. "This way," Death bid, and there was such a command in her voice that Frigg tightened her thread, anchored her weave. Her fingers spun in time to the kindred voice – saw the path through the northern land. On the path spun, over the river that flowed from Niflheimr's heart, the bridge eternally guarded by the stillest of a soul, over the Ironwood, and low down where the base of the Yggdrasil sat upon the void.

. . . she saw the way. And she seized it.

And the last thing she saw as the vision released her was carrion eyes, crimson against the nothingness of the void and the iciness of his nest. The eyes widened, serpentine and alight with the insanity of a lifelong age of captivity. "Scry no further, milady queen," the voice that reached her ears rasped like the wind over a field of glass, cutting into her skin. "Thou will find naught of thine treasure in Níðhöggr's horde."

Frigg pulled at the shuttles, narrowed her eyes – golden with the gleam of her power. When she spoke, her voice rang with an ancient timbre, not her own, "Know you what I seek then?"

The dragon laughed, a scarlet sound within her ears. "Know'est I that milady queen moves to spare the soul of her hatchling. Fear thee not, for the power of such a deceased soul shall free'est Níðhöggr from Níðhöggr own bounds."

"He is not your soul to keep," Frigg declared.

She heard the wet sound of water sloshing as a massive weight trudged through their depths. Níðhöggr stirred, and in her ears, Yggdrasil moaned her pain. "He shall burn these wretched roots from about Níðhöggr, and then he shall descend on Goðheimr itself to purge from it its soul. Let rise Loki Worldslayer; let him slaughter the realm of giants, and let him turn the land of gods to ash and bone! Already Níðhöggr's own heart is set to serve such a one. Surtr too rises from the deep of Múspellsheimr to honor such a call."

"My son will utter naught such an order," Frigg hissed. Her hair was a halo of lightning about her, as if drawn forth from the static of a storm.

A fine tap tap tap across the ancient wood of her loom – like claws clicking over scales. "Loki Odinson may not, but what of Loki Laufeyson? Thou dost see all futures – can thou truly call Níðhöggr's words false?"

"The road you see is but one," Frigg let the words fall like arrows against armor. "I shall not let him set his feet upon it."

Níðhöggr snorted. "Save thine hatchling, and let thy Twilight come late. Let thine hatchling perish now, and see the Worldslayer rise from Hel's depths much sooner than even thy Nornir eyes could have forseen."

"You know not of my son's heart," Frigg protested, her words strong. "He will prove wrong all – and from your chains beneath Yggdrasil, you will not be able to see how far he will outshine us all."

Níðhöggr bowed his head mockingly. "Perhaps, milady queen. And yet, the Allfather has made many a great and terrible foe – all so trampled and struck against will rise at Laufeyson's call."

"Níðhöggr was bound for Níðhöggr's own deeds," Frigg said sharply. "As was Surtr the fiery one."

"Be it so, milady queen," the dragon bobbed its head, the golden light of her visions molten across the jewel tones of his scales, "chose now thine own path – for Níðhöggr will do his all to prevent the drawing from Níðhöggr's well."

"Then so be it," Frigg raised her head up proudly. The wyrm chuckled – a musical and elemental sound that Frigg felt in her bones rather than heard in her ears. The dragon huffed, the smoke of his breath clouding the mental plane until Frigg struck at the cloth of her vision – cutting it from the warp and weft.

The thread snapped.

The dragon vanished.

And within her hands, Frigg held her path.

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Sif awakened to cool hands, strong upon her shoulder.

At her side, her queen stood, a tall shadow thrown by the light of the spells which held Loki in stasis. Immediately, Sif felt consciousness come upon her, scrambling to straighten herself before Frigg. The queen stood too close for her to take to one knee and bow, and so she dipped her head and said, "Milady." Her eyes were downcast in respect, held by the wisps of gold that encased Loki just beyond.

"Be at peace, Lady Týrdottir," Frigg waved a hand. "I have a task for you – and my son, if you would so agree to it."

Sif looked up, curious. Past Frigg, Thor had already stirred, his massive limbs held taut and his brow furrowed in grim determination. The look was an old one to Sif, and instinctively her veins lit with a battle's adrenaline. She was ready to strike.

"Anything," Sif so swore.

Frigg smiled, the shadow of it so sharp that Sif was reminded of Loki. The blow struck.

"Then come with me, for the words I wish to say will not find their voice here."

Sif nodded, and got to her feet, wincing from a night spent crumbled at Loki's bedside. Thor too rubbed discretely at his neck, and she felt a moments regret for not waking him sooner the night before.

They followed Frigg to her Hall. Fensalir was a sacred part of the palace, permitted only to the Queen and her ladies. Even Odin had yet to set foot in his wife's Hall in all of their centuries together – which had been decided back when Frigg first took the throne of Asgard. Her prophesies were delicate things, and early on in her life, she had learned discretion with their contents.

The loom was still as they gathered around it. Golden threat pooled at their feet, soft in the dark violet light that was Asgard before the dawn. As soon as they had all taken their seats, Frigg leaned towards them both, her fingers steepeled before her face as she collected her words upon her tongue.

"The waters of Múspellsheimr failed to heal my son," Frigg started to say. She spoke slowly, letting the words slip gently from her mouth. "But that was because the wrong water of creation was used to heal him."

Thor's eyes were guarded, careful as he said, "Eir told us of the waters failure."

Frigg took in a deep breath, carefully choosing her words. It was a look that Sif had seen on Loki's face many a time. "What if I told you, that it was not the waters of Múspellsheimr that were needed to heal your brother, but the waters of Niflheimr?"

Thor snorted. "I would call that madness. What good would the frozen waters of the Underway do to one born of the flames?"

Sif bit her lip, not so certain. For didn't Niflheimr beget to creation seiðr and magic while Múspellsheimr gave blood and steel . . .

And Frigg said as Sif thought. "Your brother, more so than most, bears the mark of Niflheimr in his soul. You know, as do we all, that Loki is first amongst his kind at the arts of seiðr."

"So I know," Thor mumbled. It was often a point of curiosity to the first prince – if not a point of downright perplexity. Many amongst the court held their opinions more cruelly than Thor, she knew For a man of the Aesir was not considered to be one except for by strength of steel and blow. Sif set her mouth at the argument, knowing how deeply the back and forth of it had rooted itself in Loki's mind throughout the centuries. It had been a demon she had helped him face since long before her hair had turned raven black at his hand, and she'd wager it would be a demon they'd continued to slay until long after her tresses were worn and grey.

Sif leveled an old look of annoyance at Thor, before turning to hear the rest of Frigg's words.

Frigg mirrored Sif's look before she said. "Your brother has too much of the elemental in his veins to be cured by Múspellsheimr's waters alone. He needs the waters of the Underway to be cured." Her words were carefully said, carefully chosen, and Sif fought a frown upon them. The queen had the same ques as Loki did when spinning a tale that was not completely true – the crinkling around her eyes, and the barest inflection upon her words. She did not completely lie to them, but there was more to the story that she was holding close to her.

Sif let her glance fall down to the golden cloth in her queen's hands, and decided that it did not matter. Her sovereign had a task for her that would result in the survival of the one she held more dearly than all. Many were Frigg's secrets, and many more were their reasons. Sif did not want the full burden of the future – just the corners of it which she could lend her steel to.

She said before Thor, "How does one gather the Underwater?" she asked, for Frigg would not have came to them with such solemnity had it been so simple a task.

"And that is where the danger of my request lies." Frigg hesitated.

Thor leaned towards his mother, reaching out to take both of her hands in his own. His grip swallowed her, and Sif fought the smallest smile at how gentle her friend was with his mother. Frigg's eyes were soft upon her son – for Thor did not even think for falsehood as Sif did. His mind did not work to allow such deceits – not in those closest to him. "Mother, we will do anything for Loki – for you." And his words were true.

For all of Thor's faults, Sif knew, it was the heart of him – in moments like this, especially – which made her confident for the future he would someday lead Asgard too.

"As you both know, the worlds of creation cannot be reach by the bifröst alone. The paths to those realms were severed when the Nornir spoke of the Twilight – when both Surtr and Níðhöggr were buried deep beneath Yggdrasil's deepest roots lest they let the end come for all."

Sif and Thor nodded, having both grown on such tales.

"There does so exist a last path to Niflheimr, in the most northern part of our land. Nine days, and nine nights from here, there is a way to make it from the height of Yggdrasil to her shadowed depths. Once your travel this far, you shall come to the river they call Gjöll – one of the eleven rivers, which so existed from the beginning of creation. Indeed, the river flows straight from Hvergelmir – the spring deep in Niflheimr, in Hel's realm, which so holds the Underwater you seek."

"So we shall travel to Hel's lands?" Thor asked, his great voice a rumbling sound in his throat.

Frigg took in a half a breath. "Yes, you shall."

Thor leaned forward at that – eagerly, Sif would think. Already he thirsted for new challenges the nine realms wide, and the land of Hel herself would certainly be one such challenge. Hel and her Halls were a part of her people's lore of which little was spoken, and little so did Sif know of the shadowed lands save for the few stories Loki had told her in times past.

Frigg's gaze was heavy upon them both – weighing and waiting as she let the enormity of her request sink in. She found steel returning her gaze, and so she continued. "At the end of the northern road, there is a bridge named Gjallarbrú, guarded by the giantess Móðguðr – she bears the greed of the living who wish not for death, and you will have to appeal to that greed to pass. Pay her toll with this," and Frigg reached to a pouch she had besides her loom. The simple and aging leather was drawn aside to reveal the brilliant glimmer of gold and diamonds – a treasure forged by Ivaldi himself, and given to Frigg when great Odin was trying to win her hand.

"Brísingamen?" Thor asked, his voice pained. "Mother, you cannot give this -"

"Móðguðr will accept nothing less than the dearest of treasures," Frigg said sharply. "This, of every treasure in Asgard, means the most to me, and so it is what I will pay to return my son to me." Her words were forged iron, and with a reverent hand she passed it to her firstborn. "Please, treat it well, and use it without thought. I would give this and more for any of your souls."

She closed Thor's massive hand over the necklace – Brísingamen was a ransom of kings, worth more than any paltry gem on Midgard could ever weigh. The treasure was oddly light in his hands, the stones cool and the gold so delicate that Sif wagered he could bend it without fully clenching his fist.

"Now on the other side of the bridge, you shall find yourself upon Niflheimr, in the Ironwood – beware, for the snow falls with a fury there, and the storms you will find are fiercer than anything even Jötunnheimr can offer. There woods cover the low hills of the mountains which form Helgafjell's barrier - but be careful with using the caverns for shelter. You faced a glimpse of Mara's power from afar – she resides in those caves, and she is not a hospitable host."

Thor was silent upon hearing that, and Sif too felt her limbs brace instinctively at the memory of her vision. She breathed in deep, feeling her voice hum in the back of her throat, before exhaling.

Frigg's silence stretched, letting her words weigh, before she continued. "At the end of the Ironwood, there is the Hel-gate where blood stained Garmr stands watch. Past him, there is the entrance to the Hall of Éljúðnir, and Hel herself. Gain an audience with her – tell her your plight, and it shall be she who tells you how to reach the spring of the Underwater. I cannot . . . I cannot speak of that path without influencing the future in a way that may prove disastrous to all. Know that I stretch the limits of my vow by voicing what I say to you now."

Thor nodded. "I so understand," he assured her. "Hel herself will bow before us."

Sif rolled her eyes. "He shall be the soul of diplomacy," she assured the queen, who breathed a little easier at the oath. Thor looked at her, betrayed, and she fought the urge to elbow him.

"Do try not to make an enemy of Death," Frigg said dryly. "You shall make governing these realms a hardship for yourself one day, if you do."

Thor offered no apology, but he fell silent. Sif counted that as a win.

"Now, there is one last thing I must say," and again Frigg pondered before speaking. Not quite a falsehood she would give to them, but not quite the whole truth, Sif would wager. "Your father does not know I speak of these things to you – he does not agree that the risk of such a travel to Niflheimr is worth the reward."

At that, Thor's brow furrowed. "He does not want us traveling for Loki's life?" His voice wore his bafflement openly.

"He does not believe that the dangers of Niflheimr are worth the risk," Frigg said carefully.

Thor snorted. "We have faced much worse than this before."

"No," Frigg said solemnly. "No, you have not."

Thor started at that, his impossibly clear eyes clouded as he felt his mother's words as the weight they were. "Then, we will travel and fight and do the name of Odin honor with our victory."

Frigg sucked in a breath, leaning forward to place a hand on Thor's arm. "A journey to the roots of Yggdrasil is not like a trip to Midgard. You will find no quarter on this world – please, treat it as such."

"I shall, mother," Thor said, baffled by the honest worry that dwelt in Frigg's eyes.

Her hand tightened, the desperation of a mother who stood to lose two rather than one, and then she let go. Frigg breathed in deep. "You must be gone by the first light – before Odin knows you make your journey. Make it past the central city before noon, and I will try to protect your passage to the Northern gate. I know not if Odin will send his forces to retrieve you, but travel as if he will. I can only shield you so much before it shall depend on you to carry the burden."

"I understand," Thor said, rising. "And we shall not fail you."

Frigg rose as well, Sif in her shadow. "I know," she said simply. Thor gave in to the worry on her face, and hugged his mother – holding her as he had not in centuries. Frigg's eyes fell closed at the gesture, while Sif stepped politely to the side, allowing mother and son their moment.

When he at last drew away, Frigg handed Thor an oilskin, old and brittle. "Here is the path I have described to you – penned back when we took the path to bind the dragon and the fiery one. Don't lose this, for once lost in the wastes of Niflheimr, forever shall you wander. It is the curse of the mists."

"I shall return to you – and return with the water to so heal Loki's soul. You have my word," Thor declared. But his voice was empty of grand gestures. His tone was low, the timbre of it a promise made to keep.

Frigg stood up straighter upon hearing it. "Then go, so you can return," she said, her voice weary with an ancient weight.

They turned from the hall, as beyond them, Asgard threatened to wake.

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Sif was ready sooner than Thor, and so she stood one last time before Loki.

Her armor was covered by her traveling robes, lined with fur and thickly warm, with long slashes cut into the legs of the cloak so as to let her fight easily if need be. She wore thick gloves upon her fingers – ironically, enchanted by Loki years ago to never grow cold. Nothing was worse than numb fingers over the hilt of a sword, she had complained their first trek into the waste years ago, and Loki had made it so that she would never grow cold again.

Now, she would do the same for him.

"We're traveling to Hel and back for you, Tangletongue," she said in a low whisper, leaning very close to the golden spells which held him in stasis. "You will wake again, I so swear by Yggdrasil eternal."

She had one gloved hand clasped over his own, and upon seeing that they were truly alone, she leaned down to kiss his still lips. The golden spells teased warmly at her skin, curious as to her presence. The kiss was admittedly odd without his smirk curling against her mouth, and every clenched muscle in her expected him to hold a cool hand to her neck in return. But the barest of breaths teased past her lips, and it was enough.

For now, she could breathe and fight for the both of them.

She straightened her cloak, let her mouth sit grim upon her face.

And from the entrance of Eir's hall, she heard, "Are you ready, my lady?"

At Thor's voice, she took a step back, her heavy eyes upon Loki taking a sharper edge long meant to tease. Thor's smile quirked just barely - the gaze, to him, as old as his childhood. "Indeed I am," answered she, moving her traveling pack more comfortably over her shoulder.

Thor inclined his head to her, before moving to say his own farewells to his second. He leaned down, and placed a massive hand about Loki's shoulder, smiling as he imagined the cross look that would normally be favored to him in return. When he spoke, his words were a vow, "We are coming for you, my brother. We are coming."

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Death stood on the banks of the Náströnd, the black part of the netherworld, saved for the darkest of souls. Here the pure river Gjöll started its path from the heart of Hvergelmir. For the purity of the water, the air stank of decay and ruin – rotting flesh and the copper toned stink of blood. The souls who had been evil in life; it was here they were thrown, left to the horrors of Mara's shades and black hearted Níðhöggr himself. The malicious souls did little to assuage the dragon's hunger, and the great beast tore at his bonds, breathing with the very fire of Múspellsheimr. Here, in the depths of ice, the wyrm was trapped and weakened, but he would not be so forever.

Should he someday escape . . . Nothing would prevent him from setting great Yggdrasil's branches aflame. Between the fires of Níðhöggr, and the fires of Surtr, the tree would burn as the warring parties about the boughs tore each other asunder – uncaring of the fate of Yggdrasil until it became too late.

Surtr, Death could do nothing to strike against. She was Mistress of Niflheimr, the world of ice and mist, and the creatures of fire would not be hers to slay.

But, one part of prophesy could fall . . .

At her feet, the icy waters rippled. They told a story to their mistress, and she read their words in their unnatural depths.

The living approached her realm.

"Garmr," spoke she to her Hound, trailing in her shadow as always. "We are to have company. Make your way to the Ironwood, and see that their path remains true."

The Hound bowed deeply, the dark rope of his hair falling about his shoulders to touch the surface of the river. "As my lady commands."

Death nodded, acknowledging his loyalty. She let her head stay bowed as she feeling the warmth he exuded to her senses fade from her until she was left only with the souls, the silence around her an echoing and weighty thing.

Mira's Mythological Madness

Note: I am far from an expert in Norse paganism, and all mistakes are mine own. ;)

Helgafjell: A peaceful Hall in Hel's realm where those who didn't die a warrior's death found their afterlife in peace.

Náströnd: Comparable to the Greek Tartarus – the black part of Hel's realm where evil souls were cast to in the afterlife. Here they were devoured by the dragon, Níðhöggr.

Níðhöggr: The dragon imprisoned in Niflheimr, who gnawed at the roots of Yggdrasil. He, along with Surtr, will be the two to set fire to the Yggdrasil during Ragnarök.

Móðguðr: A Charon-esque figure in Norse mythology that guarded the bridge that separated the living from the dead.

Hvergelmir: The spring in Niflheimr where all cold rivers come from – one half of the force needed for creation. Now, the dragon has his nest above the spring, where he gnaws on Yggdrasil's roots and devours the evil dead.

Seiðr: Norse term for magic.

Nornir: Plural for 'norn', the three Jötunn woman who are the Fates, and are very compatible with their Greek/Roman counterparts.

The Path to Hel: Is the same one Hermódr took in behalf of Baldr's soul, as described in the Gylfaginning.

Brísingamen: Technically belongs to Freyja in the myths, I applied artistic liberty.

Ragnarök: The Twilight of the Gods, the final battle of good versus evil where all will die, and a select few will be reborn to restart the cycle of life anew. The exact events of the end of the world are: First, the Fimbulwinter will come – a winter so cold and deadly that it will last three years. At the end of this, the wolves will succeed in their quests to devour sun and moon – upon which, Heimdall will blow his horn, awakening the fallen warriors in the hall of Valhalla. The violence of the falling stars free Loki from his bonds, and he goes to Hel to gather up an army of the dead. They sail from the underworld on a ship made of human nails, cresting on the waves made by the world serpent – who too exits the sea to join the fray. Loki's undead army team up with the Jötunn forces, and together they wage war against the Aesir/Vanir and the fallen from Valhalla. While they are destroying each other (Fenrir kills Odin, Thor slays Jörmungandr but is mortally wounded, Loki and Heimdall slay each other), the dragon and the fire giant Surtr (who has the forces of Múspellsheimr) set fire to Yggdrasil eternal. All die, but for a man and a woman – and Baldr, who is symbolic of spring and new life, and from this mankind is created . . . There is a whole debate on the Christian influences on such a myth (the dragon, an apocalyptic battle, a new heavens and a new earth), but that is a discussion for another time. ;)