Author's Notes: Once again, I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for the amazing feed back - as always, I am eternally in your debt.
And then, here we go . . .
Part VIII: upon the northern most bridge
They continued north.
Around them, the landscape changed. The idyllic wooded lands – with their bright clearings and their blue brooks turned rugged. The gay meadows silenced themselves – they grew cold, the grass of them hidden beneath frost and snow. The young wood gave to the thick density of the primeval forest – where the trees were ancient and deeply rooted, their boughs harsh and twisting. The foothills gave way to the low slopes of the Trúfinr mountains until the path became tricky before them.
Often, they found themselves stopping in order to make sure that their course remained true with the one Frigg had set out for them. Nine days and nine nights laid between Asgard and the northern most bridge, but that number could rise rapidly if care was not taken to keep their steps straight. There was but one route to the other side of the mountains that lead true. All others would lead to the northern side of the Trúfinr mountains – but far away from the bridge over the river Gjöll.
For the most part, their travel was spent in silence. Thor immersed himself with reading the trail, and Sif paid attention to her seat upon her mount with the tricky terrain. She tried to keep her thoughts from swirling away from her, but it was a long fought battle, hardly won.
They traveled through that first night, and did not stop to rest until the eve of the second day, when they had reached one of the lowest peaks of Trúfinr's great range. There were clearings from the trees where the stone dominated all; and here hot springs were nestled into the crook of the mountains. The height of their camp let them have a full view of the pass they had just traveled, while at the same time offering them protection from the strong wind that dominated the air that high above the low grounds.
Wordlessly, they went about setting up camp. Sif took the tack from both of their mounts, and unpacked the saddlebags - rolling out the furs they would use for bedding, and readying the provisions they had brought for a cooked dinner. While she was scooping out feed for the horses, she looked over to her companion and said, "We have seen no more of your father's guard."
"Perhaps we lost them?" Thor hazarded the only logical thought that he could think of, but his frown said that he believed the words as much as Sif did.
"Perhaps," she muttered as Hófvarpnir butted her hand, as if knowing that something was amiss. She rubbed absently at the horse's silky muzzel until she found her feed more interesting than her mistress once more.
Thor glanced up at her, his blue eyes offering a confidence she felt far from her dissented bones. When he turned away from her, he set about making the fire, muttering under his breath the whole way through. He had collected the wood easily enough – the woods were still thick here, and the trees fell easily to Mjölnir's might and Thor's restless strength. Still, the flames were slow to be coaxed from Thor's hands.
When his first few attempts at producing a spark proved fruitless, the blade and the stone in Thor's hand stilled. His back hunched, and the strong lines of his shoulders turned tight. She could read the grief in him when he would not meet her eyes.
And she understood. Normally, Sif reflected with a pang, such a job belonged to Loki – who could summon a flame by snapping his fingers. The rest of them never had to learn this skill well – for Loki was always a shadow to their group when they took to their quests and their battles, no matter how much he may have spoken against such things.
Wordlessly, Sif took the stone from Thor. She struck it once, twice, and the kindle before her sparked. She blew upon the small flame, urging it to devour the petty wood. It warmed. Tongues of fire, high and hot, started to ignite the smaller logs, until, soon, the whole of the wood was poised to burn slow and steady throughout the night.
Thor was silent as she worked, his gaze lost far past her – to the north. His wide mouth, normally made for smiles, was grim. Taut. It was not a look she cared for on him.
Gently, she let her hand rest upon his shoulder. He leaned into her touch for just a moment – comfort passed and acknowledged, before he stood once more.
"Normally, such a task belongs to Loki," Thor defended, the hot blush on his face not only from the flames before them.
She let her smile answer his words, knowing that he needed such from her. "Well then," she said, "we must restore your snake of a brother to full health so that he can continue to coax the fires to start themselves. We shall all go cold and hungry if we trust our camp to you." Her words started teasing, but there was a weight behind them that she did not care for. Her skin crawled about her bones as if she were a snake herself, preparing for new scales in some hidden part of the underbrush.
Thor's laugh in response was short, and soft. Silence soon came again between them. She clenched her hands in response to it; setting her mouth into a thin line.
As the fire grew, she set out the splits and spices from her saddlebag. Across from her, Thor set about cleaning the rabbits they had felled just before breaking to make camp. Sif let him prepare the meal without offering her aid – for all of her talents, every one of her companions knew better than to expect a tasty meal from the shield-maiden. Long had Sif been the roll of her mother's eyes in the kitchen. Lady Gná had given up teaching her daughter much around the same time that they discovered that Thor was actually more than halfway descent when it came to preparing meals – and Volstagg better than all. Often, Loki had teased them for the domestic duo the two had made, and -
Sif felt her throat turn full at the memories, even fond though they were. She swallowed against the feeling, restless, even after two days straight of travel. She had yet to tire.
Tucking the frown away from her mouth, she grabbed her bag of toiletries and said over her shoulder to Thor, "I'm going to make use of the hot springs first, if you don't mind."
He waved a hand. "Enjoy yourself. I shall have the meal prepared by the time you return."
Even after so long together, she couldn't quite keep away the tug at her lips over the reversed roles between them – made so endearing simply because Thor would never imagine that things should ever be anything different.
Easily, Sif picked a path back through the rocky way. The low parts of the Trúfinr mountains were well known to her, for she had spent most of her childhood exploring and learning in Asgard's broad expanses before she and her companions had been old enough to turn to other realms to explore. The springs that dotted the mountains had many such memories for her, but she pushed them away, not yet needing their weight before she had restored her own to her. Then, remember she would, and remember she would well.
The hot springs were fed from a rolling tributary deep beneath the mountains, warmed by the heart of their world. Her peoples legends said that Asgard had been formed by a fallen star. Yggdrasil had seen the brilliant orb dying in the night sky while she was creating the cosmos, and rather than let the star fall, she had caught it, and infused it with her own love and devotion. The star was so moved by mother Yggdrasil that it allowed its light to be saved – and Yggdrasil did so fashion Goðheimr from its heat, placing the celestial realm on her highest boughs to serve as a beacon for every soul who resided on her branches. Asgard was as much Yggdrasil's eyes, as Midgard was her beating heart. Even Múspellsheimr, the second world of creation, made of molten rock and fiery flame, envied the heat and glory of Asgard eternal.
Steam made the mossy rocks around the spring cloudy and dim. She could smell the hot clean smell of the water, and the scent soothed her. Where she had originally intended to bathe quickly and return to Thor, she instead lingered, feeling the hot water work at her muscles until she could almost believe them to be relaxed, free of their tension. The cut on her side from Hrodgæir's blade was already healing over, the skin pink and pearly against her seeking fingers. She stayed in the water until her skin started to prune, and then past that even, taking the extra time to clean the plates of her armor and the leathers that connected them all. She dried and dressed in plain cloths for the night, scooping her hair sloppily into a bun at the base of her head, knowing that it would dry in curls, and caring little.
When she made it back to their camp, Thor was already cutting his portion away from the meal he had cooked. Sif sat gratefully across from him, and then took the plate he offered her. She picked at the meat with her fingers, and washed the meal down with ale enough to warm her stomach and cloud her thoughts pleasantly in her mind.
Thor poked at the fire more than he ate himself, stirring the embers and making the flames flash white and hot against the shadows around them. Sif let him continue on in silence, only breaking the peace in order to compliment his cooking.
He finally rose, leaving his plate, and Sif thought him to be taking his turn with the springs beyond, when he instead walked three paces away from the fire, and then three steps back towards his place again. His stride was restless as he paced, his hand holding his chin, stroking the low stubble of his beard.
Sif raised a brow, and asked, "Is all well?" even though she knew it not to be.
He never did need much coaxing to speak full of his mind. "Why did my father not trust me to go after the cure for Loki?" Thor finally blurted the question that had held his silence and his furrowed brow since facing Hrodgæir and his guard.
Sif blinked at the question, feeling the ale she had drank swirl in her stomach as she thought of how to answer. "Perhaps," she started slowly, knowing well of the weight her words would bear, "it was not a question of trust that forced his hand, but affection." For it was the only answer she could think truly upon. "Niflheimr's dangers are past anything we have yet to fight – and you are Odin's heir and great delight. Of course he would rather stay your journey."
Thor rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, before carding it restlessly up through his hair. "Then why not such affection for Loki?" asked he. The question was a sword, fatally aimed. "Why pick one son over the other, rather than letting the fates take their course?"
Sif bit her lip, feeling her words rise within her. Better had she always been with blows, and now . . .
Across from her, Thor sat back down – the movement more of a controlled fall as he bowed his great form before the fire. "Perhaps Father was right to not allow me to travel so to Niflheimr. I have abused what trust he did have in me . . . It is my fault that Loki fell to Anann's poison. It was my foolishness that harmed him . . . he has always been there to get me out of trouble, and this time my folly was too great for him to fix."
Sif did not agree with that. "Loki has ever been the cause of more than a fair share of your mischief," she argued.
Thor snorted.
Sif placed down her plate, her ale too. Carefully, she picked her way around the fire, and took a seat next to Thor. Gently, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. He was massive under her touch, strong and unbending. An oak tree lost to the storm. She said then, and hoped her words would heal what blows had been thoughtlessly laid, "Loki has always loyally followed you – but he has never done so blindly. He knows the dangers of every battle – as we all do. If Loki were to fall here, or any of us while upon your path – know that it is through our choice, not through some folly of your own."
Thor was still unyielding before her. "He warned me away from this battle. I did not listen."
"And you truly think you will pay heed next time Loki advises you away from doing something foolish?" Sif challenged. She needed to think of the future of an absolute. She could not yet consider it any other way.
Thor's laugh, when it came, was rueful. "Most likely not."
"Your father," Sif said then, speaking to the heart of the matter that plagued Thor's mind. How many times had she to speak to each of the sons of Odin about their father's regard? Too many times, and in a rare moment, she felt dissatisfaction with her lord and king. How great he governed Asgard and Yggdrasil eternal. How often he faltered with that he held dearest to him. "Your father," she had to start again, "trusts you. He has such a faith in the king you will someday become. Just as Loki does. Just as I do." Brash and impulsive though her friend was, it was his heart that would govern his reign. Time would smooth and fix the rest – even Loki, with all of his words against the idea of Thor leading Asgard, agreed with that.
Thor's smile upon her was brilliant – the sun after the rain. "You truly think so?"
"I know so," she said. "We have always been ready to follow you – to Hel and back, if need be."
"Be careful," said he. "That may be a vow you can soon keep."
"If we are very lucky," Sif agreed.
Thor breathed in deep then, his lungs filling and expanding. Sif squeezed once more about his shoulder, and then let her hand fall away. It was rare that her first was attacked by self doubt so . . . or, at any rate, that he gave voice to those doubts. Sometimes, she knew that even she was amongst those who underestimated the Thunderer. What a weight he had upon him for the future – for all of their futures. Odin left impossible footprints to fill, but Sif truly did believe that Thor could strike an even better path than his father. Strength and steel being combined with such a passion, such a love for Asgard and all she represented.
"Now, eat," she commanded. "Your hard work goes cold."
"As always," Thor said, "you are the epitome of wisdom."
"Please," Sif snorted. "I am just too tired to beat your melancholy from you. Next time, I shall smear your face in the mud rather than have my tongue trip out pearls of wisdom." That, at least, was true.
Thor laughed outright at that. "So my lady threatens."
"So the lady promises," Sif countered.
"Such a delicate clarification," Thor teased.
"And don't you forget their difference," Sif struck her nose up arrogantly, once again picking around the fire to where her pile of furs were waiting. The meal and the ale had settled in her stomach, and her words with Thor had helped with the restlessness of her own doubts; her troubling thoughts and uncertainties. Tomorrow would be the third day. Only six more until they reached the bridge Gjallarbrú. The thought was kindle in her mind, igniting the warring spark she could feel deep inside of her.
She settled in for the night, not realizing how truly tired she was until she did so. She glanced at Thor before closing her eyes, and said. "Don't stay awake for too long. You need to rest too. Niflheimr awaits us, after all."
"Indeed it does," Thor's voice was soft, almost lost to Sif between exhale and crackle from the dwindling fire between them.
She settled back, her eyes finding the stars above them. She counted them out, one at a time – remembering times past spent that very same way. Her body remembered being held on nights quite like this, leaving her cold then, bereft of remembered warmth. Her mind remembered the tales Loki would tell – naming the constellations and telling their stories until even the stars themselves were devoid of secrets. And so, it was with his voice in her ear that she finally found it within herself to sleep.
.
.
Sif dreamed.
In her mind's realm, she was young again – so very young. Young enough so that her hair still gleamed golden, catching the twilight from where it was twisted into a dozen braids upon her head. Lady Gná had made her sit through the process of plaiting it so, insisting that her daughter would thank her after spending a week in the wild without having to worry over her hair.
She had just been past her third century – as had the Princes two, and Volstagg had had the honor of taking them out for their first sojourn away from Asgard's capitol city. Fandral and Hogun, new friends each, had joined them as well – camaraderie having been sparked and then forged within the practice rings. Volstagg, eldest, and old enough to even remember marching in the Great War, had obtained permission from Odin Allfather to teach them the secrets of forest trekking – tracking and capturing game, all while learning to be self sufficient far from the luxuries of the palace.
Sif remembered that she had had some great difficulties when it came to starting a fire unaided. It was a lesson in humility for her – for she had been able to get her tent up quicker than Fandral and Hogun had been able to raise theirs, and she had boasted that a maiden could so raise her dwelling before her comrades of the stronger sex. Fandral had quipped that it was her inner homemaker that had let her raise the tent so fast, and she may or may not have kicked the main beam that supported their lopsided tent – grim Hogun glaring at Fandral all the while for his loose tongue.
In the end, Thor and Volstagg had moved to help the other two, while Loki made snide comments from the side. The cheat had used magic to raise his and Thor's tent the quickest, Fandral had accused, but Sif could not join in on the tuant - for Loki had offered to do the same for hers, and she would not slight his good will. She had declined, at any rate, wishing to truly learn the skill on her own before she accepted such shortcuts, but it was the thought behind the offer that pleased her.
While Volstagg tried to puzzle out just how Fandral had managed to cross that line of the tent with that line to produce that sagging side, Sif sat apart from them all and tried for the dozenth time she attempted to get the kindle to burn. When the flame stubbornly refused to answer her call, she mumbled a curse under her breath, glaring at the wood before her as if the heat of her ire alone would make the blasted thing spark. She was still glaring mightily when Loki knelt down next to her, the grin on his face the type which she normally would hit him for. "Milady, what has the wood done to you to deserve you insulting its lineage so?"
Her scowl was mighty upon her face. "It refuses to light."
"A grievous offense, indeed," Loki snickered.
She glared over crossly at him, and contemplated sending her next spark at him. It would serve him right. Him and his laughing eyes and teasing mouth, and -
She struck her blade against the sparking stone, hitting it harder with her annoyance. Finally, a small tongue of flame appeared from her efforts, set to ignite. She stared in amazement at the flame she had produced, her eyes reflecting the heat of it.
"I did it," she stammered, amazed. "I did it!"
"Well done, indeed," Loki congratulated her dryly, but not before she could see the plume of smoke he brushed away from his own hand. He was not quick enough to hide it from her.
The rise of victory in her faded, even as the flame before her leapt higher, consuming the kindle to eat at the wood. "Loki," she said, most seriously. "Did you start the fire for me?"
"And why would I do that?" he returned, his tone derisive enough for her to almost believe him. She set her jaw, made her gaze a blow.
"I do not know – perhaps you can tell me," said she, rising enough on her knees so that she could prop her hands on her hips, still narrow and straight with a child's lines.
Loki snorted. "The fire started at your own hand," he waved his own. "And that is that."
"Surely," Sif said dryly, looking down at the stone in her hand, the polished line of her blade. She felt a frown hook upon her mouth, even as the heat from the fire warmed her.
Beside her, Loki sighed. "Here," said he, taking the stone and blade from her hand. "This is what you are doing wrong." Slowly, he struck the blade against the stone, exaggerating the angle and the force of the blow until she saw where she had gone wrong. Next time, when she struck the blow, the sparks she produced were strong and bright – more than enough to make kindle burn. She felt her smile strike true, triumphant at the skill learned.
"Thank-you," she said, the soft sincerity in her tone drawing a baffled look from Loki. He did not understand why she preferred learning the task herself, rather than having it preformed within moments from a whisper upon his mouth.
Still, there was a faint blush upon his cheeks as he waved her thanks away. "It was nothing," he mumbled, and she elbowed him at the feeling in his voice.
She looked down at the blade in her grasp; at his long hands just inches from her own. She was happy in that moment – far from home, with the forest air filling her lungs, and smoke from their fire thick before her eyes.
She had blinked then. Looked up.
And then found that the memory was no longer her own.
Instead of the slip of a boy Loki had been, the shadow to her childhood, there was the man she had come to adore so very fiercely.
Next to her, his eyes were shadowed, even with the flickering light of the fire before them - they were as dark bruises in the pale expanse of his face, alarming with the violet cast of them. His skin was pallid with his sickness, much as it had been when she had left him in Eir's keep. An odd golden light played about his skin, like the charms that were keeping his body in stasis. Understanding rolled against her sleeping mind, like the waves against the shore, cleansing it.
Sif leaned forward, as if to touch him, and her hair was once again long and rich and as black as the night when it slipped over her shoulder. Her hand was long and fine boned, the twist of it naming a woman rather than the child the memory had belonged to. She understood, then, that her dream was shared.
Eir had said that Loki would dream, keeping his mind alive where his body could not actively be, but Sif had not thought him capable of him reaching out to her when she herself laid down to sleep. Over the centuries, Loki had developed the power of sharing dreams. As children, he had done it quite often with both herself and Thor, and those nighttime adventures had been fanciful, amazing things that remained some of her fondest memories. As the years rolled on, such youthful escapades were no longer needed in face of the paths their waking hours often took, and the shared dreams remained something that was Sif and Loki's alone.
She felt feeling bubble in her throat. For all of her bluster - so deciding that they would save Loki, no matter what – in the furthest point of her mind, she did know doubt. Now, he was there, tangible before her, and she felt the whole of her blacker emotions collapse upon her. It was a weight upon her shoulders, smothering her, and she felt her lungs struggle with each breath. Her eyes burned as embers upon her face, and she hoped that the heat of them would do to keep the tears she could feel gathering at bay.
"I remember this," Loki said, gazing at the scenery of her dream. His voice was a dull echo in his throat, rasping; the sound a defilement of his voice when hale and whole, It tore at her. Still, a wicked humor gleamed in his sick eyes, as familiar as ever. "Thor and Fandral nearly burned the Trúfinr forests to nothing more than ash and a few twisting twigs; which was almost as interesting as watching Volstagg try to explain to Father why he camped us in a clearing that belonged to the Draugr. I do believe that that was our first time battling such spirits," Loki mused thoughtfully. "Thankfully, someone's new skills with sparks and flame was useful in defeating the wraiths, and Thor did not loose too much of his soul – only the part so governing common sense."
The memory tugged at Sif, pulling upon the tender parts of her stomach. His voice snapped the shock that had colored her mind, coaxing the stillness from her bones. Without really registering her movements, she was rising, shifting up from her crosslegged position in order to close the few paces between them. She fell down besides him, wrapping her arms about his shoulders, and burying her nose into the hollow his neck and shoulder created in a sloppy embrace. She could feel his smile against her hair – a teasing hook to its curve that she would normally do her utmost to take from him. She truly did not care in that moment, especially when he raised his arms and held on to her nearly as tightly as held on to him. How she could feel his heart beat, entwined like this. She could feel his breath stir her hair. Alive. He was alive. While she knew this to be so, the tangible feel of him was a balm she could not describe, and her breath came tight and tremulous in her chest with the rise of her emotions.
"I thought," she started to babble, her voice a foreign sound on her lips. For when had Sif ever spoken so? With such a desperation? Such a relief? "I thought that we were going to lose you . . . when Anann's antidote did not work . . ." Such a fear, such a sick spin her world had taken. "I . . ." she could not put her emotions into words, but still he understood, his hold on her tightening in reply to her words. One hand rubbed soothing circles on her back, while the other lifted to card through her hair. The dark locks were his work, thick and glorious about his fingers, and as always the gesture calmed her like nothing else.
Her hair was still damp about his fingers, holding the heat of the springs. She felt a smile touch her face along with the memory – remembering how many times he had cut away from their group in order to join her in the springs in times past. The Three and Thor knew better than to disturb her, and never did they think twice when Loki took to the shadows while the rest set up camp; and often Sif would find the shadows of the water parting to mischievous green eyes and clever hands. She opened her mouth, to share the memory, when Loki spoke first.
"I heard you, that first night," Loki said, as if revealing a great secret. "I can feel your presence even more so, the further north you travel."
She parted from him, curious. "Eir had hazarded guesses about how well your awareness was."
"I can feel Eir moving about right beyond me, even as I can sense you," Loki said; his voice ever thoughtful, ever curious. "I can hear her, she speaks to Frigg this night, comparing words from the Lyfja Codex with other such texts. I can hear beyond you as well, Thor's snores are enough to wake those in Hel's realm – I do not know how you stand it."
Sif rolled her eyes, feeling a warm glow swallowing the cold stone that had been her heart. "Your brother was quite remorseful this eve, I'd have you know. You should not tease him so."
"As he should be," Loki sniffed haughtily.
She rolled her eyes, and shifted enough in his embrace to elbow him, annoyed.
"You cannot strike a dying man," Loki protested.
"How fitting that I journey to heal you, then."
She hit him again, just for emphasis, and he looked at her, wounded. "And what was that one for?" he protested, again.
"Your stupidity!" exclaimed she, her brow set crossly. "Drinking Anann's venom, without knowing that there was an antidote, or whether or not we could save you so."
"Thor would have done the same," said Loki. "You would have done the same."
Sif set her jaw, unable to argue his truths. "That is besides the point - your life is not only your own, and should you ever barter it away so easily again, I shall not travel so far so to restore it to you."
"My lady so promises me." Always, promise rather than threat with him. She felt her sad smile stretch, not quite meeting the corners of her eyes. She reached out, and held his face with one hand. She rested her thumb high on his cheekbone, warm against his cold skin – not cool as it normally was, but cold and clammy. Sick as with fever. The reminder tugged at her, pulling until she could feel her eyes hot and heavy within her skull. Something burned there, its heaviness a weight that held her down.
"I do not know what I would do without you," she whispered. The words were a leap to her. As much as their relationship meant to her, all to often, it was based on things unspoken. So closed was Loki at times, and so fierce was she – he rarely spoke of the emotions in his eyes, lest he unsettled her, and she was quite the same. Now she felt the possibility of an end approaching, and feeling was thick and smothering inside of her.
He covered her hand with his own, tilting his head in order to brush a kiss across her palm. His lips were cool, dry, and still she shivered. "Then I shall endeavor to stay here until you return," his silver tongue, made honest and true by the worry in the shield-maidens eyes.
She nodded, her throat working. "See that you do." She tried to make the words a threat, it came out a plea.
A moment passed. She counted out his heartbeats. "How long can you stay?" she asked then.
"As long as need be," said he. His eyes were a mystical glow to the gathering shadows around them. Always, they had enraptured her so.
Sif breathed in deep, and said, "The sun does not rise for at least five more candlemarks." She shifted in Loki's hold so that she could lay down before the fire. He moved with her, shadowing her as she pressed her back to his chest. She covered his hands with her own when he wrapped his arms around her, clenching him tight. For how she wished for him to surround her in that moment. "So, get comfortable, my lord – I intend for you to stay until the dawn breaks."
"As my lady commands," his voice was a whisper against her ear, the cadence of him soothing enough so that she could ignore just how tired the tremor sounded.
She exhaled deep, felt his chest rise and fall so behind her – a promise in the rhythm. This time, when she slept, she did so without dreams.
.
.
Nine days passed like so. And then, the morning after the ninth night, they reached the bridge Gjallarbrú.
Upon cresting the Trúfinr mountains, the scenery drastically changed. Instead of horizon, the great flare of the cosmos swelled beyond – swirling glorious and tremulous, wild with every colour of the spectrum and the bright brilliance of too many stars to count. Instead of land, once the mountain range ended, there was the river Gjöll, and the nothingness of the black ether that made up great Yggdrasil's boughs.
And then, there was the bridge so leading to Niflheimr.
Unlike the bridge of the bifröst which seemed to be made of starlight and every color imaginable in the spectrum, the Gjallarbrú was made of pure white crystal. Gold threaded through the build of it – making it glimmer against the violence of the cosmos beyond. Sif could see no formation of it save for a single thread of gold that was seemingly hung from the stars above. She set her jaw, not nearly trusting the formation of such a thing. Below, the river Gjöll swam with starry orbs of light. Souls, she realized, sickening – souls that had yet to find their way into Hel's realm.
There was no end of the bridge in sight. The other side was shrouded by the violence of the cosmos. Only Móðguðr's blessing would so allow the other end of the bridge to be reached, she knew. Once the bridge maiden allowed it to be so, the other end would lead into Niflheimr itself.
She breathed in deep, and did her best to quiet her mount beneath her. The great roan mare had taken to prancing nervously at the dark ether that so composed the bridge beyond, and Sif could feel the animal's warning in her very veins.
Thor's look was dark. His clear eyes cloudy. "We move forward then."
Móðguðr was already ready for their arrival. The bridge maiden may at one point in time have been a daughter of the Jötnar – for she was older than even the Firstborn of creation, already living when Odin's father's father lived in the time of the Great Beginning. Her skin was shadowed blue, her eyes deep and fiery. She stood tall – heads taller than even Thor, who towered over his fellow Aesir. Her eyes were flames, but unlike the scarlet of her kinsman, her gaze was elemental – like starfire, ever burning. Her form was not wholly substantial – she flickered in and out of sight, in time with the heartbeat like song of the cosmos beyond. Where her skin was like smoke about her body, her bones were solid and whole – long and iron cast, silhouetted by the shades of her form. She looked to share her body with soulless Niflheimr and the world of the living, both.
She spook before them, her voice a deep and ancient thing that rattled in the ground beneath their feet rather than directly in their ears. "Who art thou on thy white and fiery steed?" Sif could not tell if the woman's voice asked truly, or mocked. "Tell me, at once, thy race and home."
They were close enough to the bridge to hear the mighty song of the river below; the rise and fall of the nebulae, and the hiss of the whistling of the stars beyond. Sif sat straighter in her saddle, her eyes only seeing the unseen end of the bridge, imagining what awaited them there.
"It is Thor Odinson, and Sif Týrdottir, who seek passage over your bridge," Thor declared, his voice force enough to match Móðguðr's.
Móðguðr's smile was very white, her teeth sharp as she grinned. "It twas only yestermorn when five troops of souls march'd past thine post – bound so for the Hel Queen's realm. And thou hast flesh and colour on thy cheeks – like men who live, and draw the vital air. Not look'st thou pale and wan, like a man deceased."
"Nay, bridge maiden, we are still very much amongst the living," Thor answered her.
"Ah," her grin hooked. "Then why dost thou seek'st dread Hel's realm?"
"We march so for the waters of Hvergelmir," Thor revealed their destination. "We seek to draw upon the spring of the Underway, in order to heal the second son of Odin – he called Loki, prince of Asgard."
"Loki Odinson, say thee?" Móðguðr repeated thoughtfully, her skeletal hands folding before her, the blue shadows of her form flickering. "Dost thou not know of the wyrm that guards the spring of Hvergelmir?"
"Nay, I do not," Thor answered true.
"The wyrm call'st Níðhöggr?" Móðguðr gave the name. "Nests the great wyrm of at the mouth of Hvergelmir spring." She gestured to the river before them, and the souls, ever searching. "Those departed of life's breath seek'st not Hel's halls, and yet thou shall do so for one of kindred blood and little of life's time left?"
"Dragons scare me not," Thor so declared, his grin sharp. "Neither do the threats of Niflheimr and the realm of Hel. I would travel there and further for my brother's soul."
Móðguðr continued her appraisal, her gaze long and searching. Thor tilted his chin up, and let her look undisputed. "I believe thee to speak true. Thou knows the risks of hale souls passing through the Hel-realm? If so, come forth. Ofter thy token – for the realm beyond cannot be reached without sacrifice. Blood and greed is the living as opposed to the dead. As such, thy fare must be paid in full."
Thor inclined his head. "We are prepared to pay your toll." Carefully, he reached into his saddlebag, and withdrew the leather pouch that the queen had given him. From the lip of the pouch, gold gleamed, the brilliance of the necklace blinding so near the bridge of the dead.
He tossed the pouch to the bridge maiden, who caught the treasure without looking. When she so held the trinket in her hand, her form became substantial. Her hand was whole – skin soft and living, even as the illusion faded further up her arm. Her second hand, when she picked the pouch open, was still the bare form of a skeleton, far removed from life. "Brísingamen," Móðguðr rumbled. "forg'ed by Ivaldi master-smith to secure Frigg Queen's hand as bride. Symbolic of the glory of the fields that did so birth his queen to be . . ."
"The only," Thor did so confirm. Sif sat straight at his side, ready to cross the bridge maiden should she not declare the token worthy enough.
But she had not needed to fear. "'tis worthy," said Móðguðr. "Thou may pass."
Both of them took a step forward, but still Móðguðr held up a skeletal hand. "Yet, Hel-traveler, I shall still caution thee. The realm just beyond swirls with shades and the realm of Mara Night-thief. Tarry not in the mists; make it quickly to Hel-Hall, for the land beyond is cruel and empty - and such a cold shall covet thy own soul. Surrender'est such, and never shall thou'st feet tread across thine bridge a second time."
"We are so warned," Thor gave their understanding.
"Thee are so promis'ed," Móðguðr countered. With that, she moved from the entrance of the bridge, waving a hand so that the mists concealing the path did part. Now, all that waited was for them to prove their mettle. Their steel bones and veins. No longer would the bridge maiden stop them.
Besides her, Thor breathed in deep. Sif mirrored him.
Slowly, he coaxed his mount forward. The horse snorted, as if he would balk before finally giving in. He hesitated where the dead grass and black rock stopped, and the bridge began. Another coaxing click from Thor, and then the stallion started to pick across the crystal bridge with careful feet. A second's time, and Sif followed as well.
As they crossed, their steps echoed mournfully on the bridge. Above them, the golden strand creaked ominously, seemingly not nearly enough to support the bridge, yet alone their added weight. And still, it glowed brighter the closer they came, and Sif understood then that it was Móðguðr's power that kept the bridge standing – without her approval, the thread would snap, and her travelers would find themselves lost with the dark souls swimming the river Gjöll restlessly beneath them. Sif looked down, and felt her stomach twist upon seeing the spirits in the water – formless things that cried out to the travelers above. They had no faces, no eyes, and yet she could hear the screams of them, ever searching.
She locked her jaw. Made her gaze steel. Onward they walked.
And then they came to the end of the bridge. Sif frowned, for it seemed as if the bridged merely cut off before reaching the other side. The path ended, but all that awaited them was a fall into the cosmos. The nothingness of the stars. How they would burn were they to consume the ether that did make up the travelers of flesh and bone.
"The bridge goes no farther," said Sif, puzzled.
Thor eyed the black drop beneath them – nothing but the dark ether of space, and the gases of nebulae far beyond. Such a fall would not end well, Sif so thought.
But Thor trusted more than she. "Onward still," he decided.
She balked. "Thor, are you mad?" she so protested.
"Are we not setting our feet on the path to Niflheimr?" Thor countered. "Móðguðr would let no living soul with so faint a heart into the world that did so create us all. So, I saw we trust, and go where the bridge would have us follow."
"It is fools who trust the bridge so," said Sif, eying the lip of the bridge with unparalleled distaste.
"Then trust me," Thor said, the gentleness of his voice lending it a coaxing power that Sif had yet to hear from her friend; her leader. There was no ire with her insubordination on his face, just a patience. She felt like a child before him then, certain of terrors in the night as a parent stood easy and sure before them.
And so she trusted.
"Always," she finally said. For such was true – would always be true.
Hesitantly, she coaxed her mount forward, the roan animal protesting mightily the closer to the edge they came. She kept her seat steady, her hands upon the reigns firm – trying to impart that yes, we are going over the edge, and no, I shall not let you fall all at once.
Hófvarpnir threw her head in distaste, her nickers matching the furious tattoo of Sif's heart against her chest. Still, she moved forward.
The edge.
One last step, and -
Sif waited for the sensation of falling. Tight she held to her seat to as if to make up for gravity's inevitable hold upon them. But their fall never came. The taut cast of her body loosened ever so slightly when the next fall of her mare's hooves fell not into empty space, but upon solid ground.
She blinked, and instead of the fearsome glory of the universe ever expanding, there was the white and silver tones of great Niflheimr; mist-realm and Hel-home.
They had made it.
Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness
Draugr: Whose name means 'again-walker', these were the spirits who huanted the graves of dead Vikings. These wraiths were jealous, greedy beings who coveted wealth and the splendor of the living. Only Volstagg would have them camp on a burial site, and not know it. ;)
Lyfja Codex: 'Lyfja' simply means healing. In the Fjölsvinnsmál, Eir was one of the maidens who attended the Hill of Healing - Lyfjaberg, and performed her arts there.
Gjallarbrú: The northern most bridge, seperating the land of the living from the land of Niflheimr, and Hel's realm.
Móðguðr: A Charon-esque figure in Norse mythology that guarded the bridge that separated the living from the dead. The first part of her speech here is actually directly quoted from the Gylfaginning, where she adressed Hermóðr the Brave when he passed into Hel's realm for Baldr's soul.
Hvergelmir: The spring in Niflheimr where all cold rivers come from – one half of the force needed for creation. The dragon has his nest at the mouth of this spring.
Níðhöggr: The dragon imprisoned in Niflheimr, who gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil. He is fortold to be one of the major destructive figures in the Twilight of the Gods.
Gná and Hófvarpnir: In the myths, Lady Gná is Frigg's messenger, who had a horse who could travel over both air and sea. I liked giving Sif a mother with just as unconventional a role in the court as Sif, and the name of Sif's mare just fell into place.
Trúfinr Mountains: My own creation, by putting together the terms for 'truth' and 'finger' to name the mountains. I apologize in advance for my linguistic butchering. ;)