Author's Note: And here we are with a brand new chapter. This one was the most difficult one to write so far - and I reached quite the conundrum with it. It ended up being a beast of a chapter at 13,000 words, and yet, chopping it in two in any way severely detracted from the flow and the 'punch' of the ending. On top of that, I really did not want to draw the fight with Mara out yet another chapter. And so, after much debating with my beta, we decided to post it whole. So, you have quite the beast to read at your leisure. This chapter is the most meta of the story, and if I have explained my thoughts with my words to a mere fraction of the extent they are in my mind, then I will be a happy writer. That said, I hope you enjoy this latest instalment.
Now, without further delay . . .
Part X: until the time of twilight
This was the dream that Sif dreamed.
She dreamed that she sat tall and mighty upon her great steed, dressed in full battle attire. The leather clenched about her body was a deep red – the color of blood mixed with wine, left to dry in the sun. The plates of her armor were silver and bronze, holding a light of their own as they glimmered in the absence of sun and stars above. The armor was more intricate than anything Sif had ever worn before; a true symbol of royal favor. Over her hair, which hung down to her saddle in a thick black plait, she wore a gleaming helmet with straight and severe silver plates. The three pronged wings were a general's rank, declaring her second to only Thor himself on the battlefield.
She was breathing in deep and slow, finding her center as she extended the reach of her glaive, readying herself for the fight to come.
"Hold," was the order upon her lips as she held up an arm to keep the men behind her at bay. She had a dozen contingents at her command – each a dozen times a hundred, all warriors of Asgard. Above her men, ranks of Brünnhilde's golden and white Valkyrie flew, ready to mirror their Aesir brethren below.
Her army stood at attention upon a wide and grassy field which stretched at least a hundred leagues in every direction – Óskópnir, the plain which Odin himself had had specifically prepared for the Twilight centuries before. Further, upon the crest of the low lying hills circling the plain, would be Thor himself, standing battle brilliant and tall next to his lord father. There they were ready to lead the ranks of the Enherjar, the mortal warriors who had been harvested from the battlefields throughout the centuries, and housed within Valhalla, in order to fight this final fight.
Awaiting in the treelines were the Álfar warriors who aided them that day, each an archer and horseman both. Legions of dwarves had sworn their steel as well, and the stout armies of Ivaldi's sons stood next to elf and Vanir, both. Each race stood ready to defend the boughs of Yggdrasil eternal.
Upon the ever dark horizon, a faint glow began to approach.
It was time then.
Sif breathed in deep. Beneather her, her steed pranced. At her side, standing as one of her three lieutennants, Fandral looped an easy smile, reminding her so much of times past that it almost hurt to behold. "Just like old times, eh, my lady?"
"Just like old times," she echoed hollowly, forcing a smile onto her lips.
The glow grew, flickering as a flame over the sea that stood to the one forefront of the great field. It touched the land.
The Twilight had reached Asgard's shores then.
The glow grew, hissing and popping as it broke the waves in the shapes of flames – Surtr and the sons of Múspellsheimr, the children of the forges. Their roar was great and terrible as their flames streaked across both sea and sky like an artist's brush upon a black canvas. The fire grew against the sky, blazing in place of sun and stars, and upon seeing so, Sif could feel Yggdrasil herself moan upon the wind. The great mother was being torn apart, torn assunder from her very roots, and all upon her limbs felt her pain.
Sif felt her brow furrow. But that ended here. They would not fail Yggdrasil. Not after all the eternal mother had done for Asgard and all of creation.
She bared her teeth when the whole of the Worldslayer's army started to rise from the waves. A horde of giants, those of frost and those of fire, followed the horned man who lead the fleet of Hel's own undead from the ever turning waves. The sound of wolve's cries broke onto the air as they touched the shore – rendering the sky in two. The wolves would not be sated after devouring sun and moon. They craved blood now.
And blood they would have.
Beneath her, her steed pranced, snorting through wide nostrils. The sound of steel upon steel reached her ears with its cadence – the sound of an army ready for battle.
Sif raised her glaive.
"For Asgard and Yggdrasil eternal!" she shouted her battle cry, the sound drawn from the deepest parts of her until it matched the cries of the wolves opposite her. The flames roared, frost spread across the ever turning sea.
Behind her, her cry was caught up on thousands of toungs – a sacrifice of lips given to the very heavens, letting the world tree know that she had not been forsaken. Not yet.
Her steel held high, she urged her horse into the melee.
The Battle for Yggdrasil so began.
.
.
The shield-maiden dreamed of war and ash and twilight.
.
.
And the Thunderer fought against the ether of nightmares herself.
.
.
How was it one fought one who held no form?
Every time Thor struck at Mara, his blows were empty. The shaded woman would merely reform, her laughter taunting him with its childlike clarity and easy amusement. His great strength was useless against her, and even worse so was when he turned the power of the storms against her. She was water, and so rain could strike her not. She was cold and nothingness, and so the fierce fire of lightning only made her grow – it fed her insatiable hunger. Thunder did nothing against the mistress of nightmares, for it was a sound she had long since employed her her quest to inspire fear and terror in childhood dreams.
She was an opponent he could not beat.
Not far from him, Sif continued to dream, her face stretched into such a look of pain and terror that Thor felt his heart seize sickly at it. For strong Sif, steel born, to feel so . . . He did not want to imagine her dreams. He did not want to know what could cause her terror so. Over her chest, her shield glinted, but its glow was weak, the spells flickering as they tried to awaken their mistress.
Thor gritted his teeth as a new determination kindled in him, and this time his blows had the all of his rage and his righteous indignation behind them. Mara would not take her all from them.
At least . . . she would not from Sif.
His decision made, Thor ceased his attack, and placed Mjölnir down in the rock before him. The hammer stayed standing – a barrier. A stalemate – for the woman of dreams could touch him not while he was armed so. But he could destroy her not as well. She was past his authority to command.
She saw him, and tilted her head, her sightless eyes glowing. "Shall we continue like so, Odinson? Nigh on until the Twilight itself? Thou can do naught to strike against thineself. Cease thy attacks, and give of thy soul."
"If," and Thor considered his words, knowing of the shape and form they would have to take for the deal to have weight, "you release hers."
Mara blinked, as if surprised to have him acquiesce. "Thou would give of thy warmth in return for the shield-maiden's soul?"
"I shall," said Thor, and the oath was strong on his tongue. It was his folly that had brought them to Niflheimr, and he trusted Sif to be strong and travel the rest of the way to Hel's halls. She would gather the Underwater without him, and his brother would awaken again. Thor's own soul was a small price to pay. An equal price to pay.
Mara gazed at him, considering. "I accept, son of Odin."
"Then so be it," Thor said. He held his hands up before him, as if in surrender. Mjölnir struck the ground with a dull thud as she turned over by her master, useless to her wielder. Her light flickered in the cavern, as if sensing what was about to transpire.
Thor stepped closer to Mara, his hands still held open and bare.
He took a deep breath in, centering himself. It was such a small price to pay, he told himself. Such a small price to pay for what he held dearest to him.
Mara took a step closer to him. Beyond them both, Sif sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to awaken.
Thor fought the urge to close his eyes, hoping that his friend would be hale and whole after freed from Mara's touch. He wished peace for her warring soul in the years to come, and hoped that she would convey to Loki just how sorry he was for his actions. He hoped that she would tell his brother of the lengths he would go to atone for them. It had been such a silly and vain decision on his part, to lead them so here . . .
He swallowed his words, as he always did, and turned to prove his speech with actions instead.
When he held out his hand to Mara, she looked at him, long and slow.
And then she took his hand.
At her touch, a cold unlike anything Thor had ever felt before traveled through him, and in that moment, he understood Mara's hunger. To be so empty, to be so cold with the nothingness left by the power of creation . . . He felt the flame at the core of him, the fire that had so birthed Asgard and begotten his own soul fan higher. It burned so strong, trying to keep his own warmth blazing on and steady as Mara fed off of him.
Her eyes were such a light before him . . . But still she did not warm.
He could feel the desperation within her, the thirst and longing as she drew him deeper and deeper in, forming her soul with his own.
And so he closed his eyes, and let her take her all.
.
.
Mara laid the Thunderer down to dream.
.
.
Upon the field of battle, Sif blinked.
She frowned as she fought off the Jötunn warrior who stood opposite of her. There was something tingling at the back of her mind – a whisper saying that all was not well. Something was not right. She felt queasy, as if she were looking at the Twilight of her people as if through the eyes of a dream rather than her own thought and vision.
Her hands loosened on her glaive, and she nearly missed a violent blow from her opponent which would have taken off her head if she had not been pushed to the ground by a comrade. She looked up, adrenaline making her heart skip a beat when she realized just who had saved her.
"Loki?" she exclaimed. The name was thick upon her tongue, as if she had not uttered it in years. The syllables were awkward, holding no welcome – as if she had started to view the name as a curse.
The Sif who longed to war fought with the sense of dreaming she felt. Her mind reeled at the cross of sensation as Loki – skin pale and eyes fever bright - waved a hand. Around her, the battle paused – blows halted mid strike, the waves ceased their song, and the wolves froze with their yawning jaws wide open.
"Sif, you must wake up," said he, and at the phrase she remembered. She remembered Thor and the dream-thief, the Gnipa caves and the quest she had been taking to the mist-realm. She remembered, and her blood stilled. She shook her head, trying to center herself. There was something tugging at her, as if she were breaking free of the vision by a force greater than herself.
"Loki?" she questioned as the sensation grew, dragging her from the vision. The imagined battle around her was breaking, fading to ash and dust as only the verdant glow of Loki's spell held her in place.
"Sif, there is no time to properly explain," he said quickly. "You dream now, but once you awaken, I shall not be able to assist you. You will be on your own."
She nodded, understanding. "I can face this," she insisted. "I can fight this."
"No, you cannot," Loki said, waving a hand. "Not with steel. You must remember this," and he shoved her shield to her, which she had not held during the battle, oddly enough. "Remember that Mara is formed of Niflheimr's magic. She is eternally cold, and she longs for your heat. Do not give it to her. Fire fights fire, just as ice shall destroy ice."
"Loki, I do not understand," she said as she felt consciousness pulling at her.
Loki's hands held onto her shoulders, as if he alone could anchor her; ground her. "You will," said he, raising one hand to brush the hair which had escaped her braid from her face. "You will understand." The metal of her helmet trapped him from a true caress, and so in a desperate moment, she pushed it back further on her head. It pulled at her hair, but she did not notice its tug as she reached over to pull him to her.
When her lips met his, it was messy and violent, her teeth knocking against his as his nose pressed to the side of hers. The brow of her helmet still struck his forehead, but that did not stop her from pushing closer – sinking her hands into his hair as she would an enemy's, forcing their throats to face her blade. Instead of seeking a blow, she let her teeth bite at his lower lip, staking her claim and finding blood before pulling away.
Such a look in his eyes . . . it struck her more dearly than anything had on the battlefield that day.
Her hands were still in his hair, they caressed now – comforted, promised. This time when he kissed her, it was gentle. Tender. She closed her eyes against it, and tried to pour her all into the simple contact.
"It's time to wake up now," Loki said against her lips. She could feel his smile as it hooked.
And Sif opened her eyes.
.
.
Around her, blue light cut into the fire of her visions.
Her sight was groggy, coming slowly to her – bursting upon her as the morning sun did upon the horizon, growing steadily warm and gold. She stood before she was completely aware of her surroundings, seeking steel and shield and finding both ready at her fingertips.
And yet, when she blinked, the cavern was empty.
Frowning, she looked both left and right, but saw no sign of Mara or her watery form. Instead, there was only Thor, standing by the edge of the pool, his broad shoulders taut with an energy Sif could not identify. His back was to her, his fists clenched as he stared down into the water.
Not a word came from him as she approached. She walked slowly, letting her foot drag against the stone floor of the cave. It scraped, alerting him to her presence.
"Thor?" she questioned, holding a hand out as if to touch his shoulder.
Sif did not make contact, when, instead of answering her, her friend let out an ear piercing shriek. Her blood ran cold at the sound – for the sounds that made up the scream were not Thor's. It was such an unholy cry, black as if it were torn from a hundred throats. She heard children scream in the sound. Heard women wail, and strong men plead.
Her skin ran cold, goosebumps instantly appearing as the shape of the scream struck her like a blow. She skidded back from the force of it, her shield held up before her as she shouted, "Thor!"
Finally, he turned to face her. But it was not her friend who stared back at her. Thor's face turned in a blank mask, recognizing her, but his eyes were sightless – glazed over with a complete shade of unnatural blue. Mara, Sif realized, it was Mara who was staring at her from deep within her friend's gaze. Thor was gone, lost somewhere behind Mara's icy hold.
And Thor – Mara approached her.
Sif saw the war in his stride, and lifted her shield higher.
"Thor, can you hear me?" she called, hoping to reach him wherever he was within his own mind.
Laughter dripped from his lips – a mad laughter echoed by a hundred voices, tinkling and clear. And Mara answered her, "Thor hears not, shield-maiden."
Sif held her glaive before her shield. "You shall return him to me," she let her voice ring out arrogantly, the war still hot in her veins as she stared down the dream-thief.
Thor smirked, but the shape of it was not one Sif knew. Sif, who knew every gaze Thor could give, was a stranger to this look. It settled as a blow to her mind.
"He gave freely of himself," Mara declared. "His warmth is mine . . . mine very own. And still it is not enough. Still there is such a void, such an emptiness . . ."
Sif bared her teeth. "You will release him."
"His soul for thy own, that was the bargain struck," Mara declared haughtily. "Leave, shield-maiden, before I decide that my vow is not worth the price to keep."
Sif shook his head. "I would not leave him here. Not with you."
Mara's grin was ugly on Thor's face. Her eyes shone in place of Thor's – a block of glowing blue, ancient with old magic. "I had hoped that thee would speak so." Mara raised Thor's hands, and from them ice and elemental seiðr poured. "Come then, child. Come and give of thy soul."
The battle spilling from her veins, Sif so accepted the challenge.
.
.
And the Thunderer lost himself to dreams.
.
.
Thor dreamed of Twilight.
He was kneeling, as if in a bow, upon a high ridge that overlooked a vast valley. The valley was filled with thousands upon thousands of warring souls; made up from every quarter of Yggdrasil's branches, and those from even farther still. The world around him was black – an unnatural black that was severed only from the torches carried by the warriors below. The sea beyond the valley was caught up with an uncanny golden glow, as if the waters were aflame from beneath. The air split with the howls of wolves; with the melody of clashing steel and war cries torn from the deepest of throats.
He straightened, and recognized Óskópnir all about him – the field upon which Ragnarök would be fought. Years ago, when he was little more than a boy, his father had taken him and Loki to this very valley – showing them where they all were to one day stand their ground should the visions of the Nornir come true. That had been the first day that Thor had ever met a Valkyrie – Brünnhilde had been her name, a tall and staggering woman who carried steel and wore armor made from dragon scales in the style of a man. More beautiful than any woman Thor had ever seen, she had still held a bit of the uncanny about her – as if by touching her, the image she presented would have been shattered, and she would turn to ash and smoke. She held the beauty of a storm or a great rolling wave about her – something that could be appreciated from afar, but never approached, never touched. She was a tall woman, standing eye to eye with his lord father, while from her back stretched a pair of brilliant white wings – like those of an eagle, the bend of them reaching three feet above her head, and the long sweep of the lowest feathers trailing on the ground behind her. She had had sharp teeth when she talked, and wickedly bright golden eyes that glinted with a promise that Thor had not understood at the time. She had been war and death and magic and power combined; and even Loki had joined Thor in gaping like a fish in her presence.
Originally, Brünnhilde and her sisters had not been a part of mother Yggdrasil's creation. They had come after – after humanity had discovered Death, and the Nornir had woven their vision of the end. Ragnarök would someday come, Odin told them the tale that day, and the dead warriors harvested and housed by the Valkyrie in the golden halls of Valhalla would be the thing to turn the tide in the final battle.
Now, Thor could see the white wings of the Valkyrie flash in the air above the fighting hordes. But they too fell. He could see the Einherjar – the forces unleashed from Valhalla's womb, but they fell as well. Ice struck, Giants landed their mighty blows, while the deadened forces of Hel mounted their own assault. The aims of the Álfar archers were steady, and the dwarfs were hearty and hale of head and heart – but it looked as if each side took on equal losses. Both bled. Both wept. All suffered.
And in the wind, Yggdrasil moaned her pain. Thor could feel her roots as they were lifted in the very heart of him. His ribs were tight, his lungs thin, flailing, as if they could not gather enough air. In the deep part of him, the spark that he and every one of the Aesir carried flickered.
But the great ash would not be felled without he seeing that he could do his all to see her boughs remain upright. With determination like molten steel in his veins, Thor took Mjölnir from his side. He felt the storms gather easily, sensing his intentions, for already around them were the rumbles of thunder and the roll of lightning. The heavens shook, and Thor smiled at the promise of it – they were in accord, he and they, and blood would spill until the glow in the ocean was exhausted and put to rest.
He lifted the hammer to strike, when, from right beyond, the low cry of a wolf split the air.
Thor stayed his hand.
Above them, the sky shivered, the shifting lights reminding him of the Wylde Hunt as it traveled across Midgard's horizons. Colours billowed in tones of green and violet – like wolves chasing the celestial bodies through the cosmos. Thor could hear the echo of them, but this cry was different. This cry was not from some space born entity, instead, it was uttered from the throat of a giant white wolf who padded across the rocky outcroppings, approaching where the noble ranks of Odin's forces were watching on high.
The wolf was massive, his thick shoulders came up to Thor's waist, putting him almost eye to eye to the Thunderer if they were to stand on equal ground. His paws were massive, thickly padded and sharply clawed, as elegant as one of his brother's throwing blades. As he darted through the melee, the prints he left were equal to the size of any man's. His eyes were yellow and luminous in the twilight – as if he had caught what had been devoured of the moon and placed it within his gaze. His pelt was white – the color that of fresh snow, save for a thick slash of dark brown that started between his eyes and swept back over his head. The tips of his long ears were colored, as well, easy to spy as they twitched back and forth.
Thor watched the wolf as he ran through the ranks of Hel's own, and towards the guard of Odin . . .
The guards in gold leveled their weapons before the massive creature, but they stood no chance. Instead of using his massive paws or strong jaw, the wolf merely dodged them, the magic in his song making the steel flash uselessly past his sides. Odin, great and towering in his battle armor, watched the appearance of the massive hound with his one eye, a rise in his gaze that Thor did not recognize.
When the wolf came before Odin's personal line of generals, the Allfather waved the spears and swords away. Viðarr, Odin's left hand where Thor was his right during the Twilight, bared his teeth to the wolf, refusing to let his weapon rest.
Odin held his hand before the other man, stilling him without even sparing him his gaze. "I would hear Garmr speak, Viðarr."
The younger warrior glowered, but fell back a step, his eyes sharp upon the wolf.
The wolf bowed his head, mockingly so, kneeling on his great forepaws until his snowy white muzzle brushed the ground below. "Blessed be, Allfather," the wolf's voice echoed deep in his throat, a feral and low sound that sounded like the fall of trees in the deep wood; the babbling of mountain springs.
Odin inclined his head. "Garmr Helhound," he greeted in kind. "You need not wear that skin. I would speak to your face."
Curious, Thor watched. Steel clashing and men laying their lives down behind him, and yet Thor could not turn his eyes away from his father and the wolf.
The wolf threw his head back, and howled. As the sound reached up to pierce the black heavens, the play of Wylde lights from above seemingly fell to cover the animal before them. The lights danced, the play of seiðr bright and elemental as the white from the wolf rose to cloak him like a spirit. Intrigued, Thor watched, remembering the times when Loki had sat very still before him and allowed his seiðr to pour from him – from his pores and from his eyes and from his very heart – in order to change his shape. This was no different – fur was traded for rough and dark skin, claws for human hands, strong and long, four legs touching the earth for the two of men. The eyes remained the same – deep and golden, staring at Odin from the pretense of a man's face.
"You bring words from your leader," Odin stated. He did not ask.
"Nay," responded Garmr, standing straight and tall. "My words have never been for or from the Worldslayer."
"Then why do you risk your life to come hither to my side?" Odin's voice was a blow, falling. It sparked as an axe upon the cutting block.
"I come, not for the Worldslayer's woes, but for those of the Hel-Queen, whom I have served from the beginning of this time, and the last." The last. It was said with such a blow, and Odin, great and strong, stiffened as if he had been struck – though Thor could see not where it landed.
"And what right to anger does Lady Hel have with me?" Odin questioned.
"Every," Garmr hissed in a low tone.
"Ah," Odin said, his icy eye trailing the Hound from head to toe. His voice was flippant, but Thor could hear the steel beneath it. "I see the Liarsmith has bewitched her, as well as you, with his lies -"
" - she follows him, not for his own vendetta against you; but her own. In your foolishness, in your eagerness to prevent prophesy, you have hurt that which was innocent. That which should have been kin to you -"
"Her birth," Odin hissed icily, "her very role beneath the Yggdrasil's roots, was decided by the Nornir. I merely carried out their weaving. For the benefit of all. For the good of Asgard."
Garmr was not convinced. "For the price of blood which should have been viewed as your own," he returned.
Finally, a spark of feeling from his lord father. Thundering and strong. "That . . . monstrosity of life is no kindred of mine."
"In every bond but that of blood, she should have been as your own. If not that of family, then that of an innocent in your realm. A child, needing of your mercy -"
" - and what mercy could have been afforded to her? You saw what the Nornir wove. The end they spoke of. If so, you also know that there was no better place for Hel than the depths of Niflheimr. She has taken to her duty and her post well – she has settled. Found her place. Found a life to live. To love."
Garmr was very still. Thor could see the rise of rage in his eyes – deeply set and ancient. "Too long you have struck against what should not have been touched for the sake of preventing prophesy. In your quest to prevent this end, you have harmed that which should not have been harmed, and through your own hands, prophesy has been fulfilled. Look around you, Allfather!" Garmr exclaimed, waving his hands to encompass the battle beyond them – the turbulent sea, the eternal black of night which so cloaked them all. "Have you prevented the end? Where is your great victory, Allfather? Where is your justification for the lives you have destroyed?"
Odin was silent. The silver of his armor gleamed, even in the thick darkness around them. Ever was his father a fallen star, but for once, the ether of him was close enough to touch. And so Garmr declared: "For the lives of those you have touched with a cruel hand, I do stand before you today, and declare your life as forfeit."
"You may try to land a blow, Helhound, but you know not what you strike against." Odin's voice was cold and deep, as if spoken from a giant's throat. In his hand, Gungnir shone as a beacon in absence of moon and stars.
Garmr drew no steel in order to carry out his threat, he simply leapt towards the Allfather, his hands outstretched as if they were talons. By the time he tackled Odin from his mount, he was a wolf once more, pawing at the hard packed ground and shouting his anger to the skies above. Odin, quick to recover, drew Gungnir against the next blow, and their fight was commenced.
In horror, Thor looked on as his father and the wolf battled. The Wylde light that protected the wolf kept his father's forces from leveling the threat – the same magick that let Garmr approach unaided left the fight between him and Odin alone.
Alarmed, Thor made to rush forward. He ran, finding his footing upon the rocks, slick with blood. Bodies were everywhere upon the Field of Twilight, fallen from every side. The world around him pitched from left to right, as if dry land had become the rolling sea. Yggdrasil, he realized, sick – her roots had been torn, and now the great mass of her wobbled dangerously upon the cosmos.
Who would so catch the mother that did so long hold them all? It was an answer he could not think on – would not think on. And so he pushed forward.
Only to have his path interrupted by a great mass before him.
He skidded to a half, his boots slipping in the mire. A scaled wall was before him – gleaming and wet, shaded from the deepest blues to the richest of greens – as if composed from the most enchanted of deep waters. The scales were slick with saltwater, algae and sea moss clinging to the mass before him.
Confused, Thor stepped back, and found another such wall behind him.
It was nothing so made by hands, but rather birthed . . . Coils, Thor realized, his mind boggling to process the information. He stood within the coils of a great serpent, a serpent seemingly massive enough to surround a very world within his grasp.
Sure enough, when Thor looked up, there was a massive head staring down at him – serpentine eyes glazed and gold upon him, a long forked tongue tasting the air – searching. The coils of the snake still reached to the sea, where they had long since rested from time's beginning.
No wonder the Yggdrasil rocked so, with such a weight shifting upon her boughs . . .
"Thou shall not interfere, Thunderer," the snake hissed, his syllables crawling up and down Thor's skin – itching along his bones. "Long have the eyes of me and mine watched the reign of Bor and his sons. None are worthy to hold the trust of the Ancients, and so – the cosmos shall be engulfed in fire to start again."
"I cannot let that happen," Thor said. He thought of his family, his people, of every realm he had vowed to protect and raise as his own. "I hope you understand that."
The snake's laughter sounded as needles in his ears, sharp and jabbing. "You, little one, waving your sticks and stones, how can you think to strike against the likes of me?"
"I have fought bigger," Thor declared arrogantly, even when he combed his mind to remember such a fight. He came up empty.
He could not aid his own father, he understood in that moment, dread thick behind his stomach. Odin's fight against the wolf would be his own.
Just as Thor's would face the world-serpent.
"We shall see, Thunderer," the massive wyrm humored him.
Thor grinned as he felt Mjölnir strong and ready in hand. On the horizon, thunder rumbled – not his own, but an omen none the less.
Today would be a day of all days for Asgard and Yggdrasil eternal. Of that, he was sure of.
.
.
In dreams, the Thunderer called his storms.
.
.
And Sif took up her arms against the force of nightmares, herself.
She found herself at an impasse – fighting with bludgeoning blows meant to stun and bruise, all the while trying to keep from harming Thor's body any more than she had to. Mara was even quicker than her friend, granting Thor's massive limbs an unnatural speed. His blows were pummeling, not pulled as she was accustomed to facing. She found herself striking and parrying with her shield more often than not, hesitant to use her blade upon her friend. Even if she were to take the head from Thor, she doubted that such a blow would halt Mara.
How did one fight another who held no corporeal form? she wondered furiously. How did one slay a spirit?
She skidded backwards from one of Mara's blows. The force of Thor's hit landed upon her shield, but still it pushed at her – pushed her all the way to the edge of the pool, and Sif stepped back into the water in order to retain her balance. Her feet struck the pool with a splash, sending a froth of water upwards, splashing them both.
Across from her, Mara winced within Thor's body.
Sif paused as understanding hit her.
Her shield . . . Throughout the battle, she learned that Mara could not strike against her shield due to the seiðr enchanting it. Seiðr which was laid by the rights of Niflheimr, the magicks of mists and ice. Her shield slowed Mara; and the waters from which she was sprung struck her as if burned.
Fight ice with ice, Loki had said within her dream.
Understanding in her veins, Sif took to the fight with a renewed energy. She struck with her shield, staying as close as she could to the dream-thief. So close to her shield, Mara could only keep her one shape; her one body with her one voice. Thor's body; and if Sif could force Mara from the Thunderer, and he from her . . .
She fought quick. The ferocity of her blows would tire her quicker than Mara, and the grin upon Thor's face said that Mara knew that as well. Still she pressed forward, pummeling with her shield – forcing Mara to defend more than she attacked.
Mara's assault was clumsy. Thor's body was a weapon in the hands of the dream-thief, but the years of warring that normally decorated Thor's attacks were missing when in Mara's control. Better had the wraith stuck with her visions, for in a fair fight, the other would have been sorely wanting. Many were the blow which Sif landed which would have been fatal on an opponent of flesh and bone. The years Sif had spent sparring with Thor were useless to her now. She knew Thor's moves as second as her own – could read his feints in the flex of his muscles, and his intentions in the cast of his eyes. Mara painted her friend a stranger, and the hundreds of souls who so made Mara's own made her attack a patchwork of inspirations and styles.
Over time, it would have wore her down – no matter how perfect her own fight was.
But Sif did not need to win this fight. She merely needed to overwhelm her.
Sensing her intent, her shield began to glow in her hand, the spells within incensed – for the shield held a rage of its own, and the bright shadow of Loki's power rose against Mara's icy strength.
For a moment, Sif saw Mara falter. Her eyes within Thor turned, as if she considered shedding the body she had borrowed altogether for the strength of her multiple forms.
Sif grinned, the points of her teeth sharp in her smile.
She had turned them over the course of her attack – turned them so that Mara was between Sif and the pool. So harder Sif struck, keeping her shield moving so that Mara could not switch their advantages. She would not give her ground.
And then Sif gave a mighty shove.
Without heed for balance, she ducked low, and bowled into the wraith woman – hitting her low in Thor's stomach. She held her shield before her, using it as a battering ram in order to knock the other over. Over and back . . .
And into the pool with both of them.
Mara's scream turned silent as the water consumed them. Desperately, she tried to shed her form, and blue veins criss-crossed about Thor's skin as if a ghost were trying to rise from his very bones. Sif held her shield between them, and wrapped her arms tight about the dream-thief, trapping her. Mara may be able to leave Thor behind, but her own form would be trapped. She would not be able to take on the shape of the waters around them. Her form would be her prison this way.
Mara clawed mightily at her skin – nails digging, and strong fingers searching, but Sif's will was stronger. Her grip was absolute.
Above them, Thor's body floated to the surface, ready to be reclaimed by the living once again.
Sif forced Mara down further.
To the deep with both of them, then.
.
.
Sif forced upon the dream-thief a nightmare of her own.
.
.
And Thor stood before the world-serpent, ready to battle.
.
.
Around them, Ragnarök raged.
Their armies clashed; and both sides fell. Less and less could Thor hear the ring of steel, the cries of battle. He had lost sight of the white winged Valkyrie. In the sky above them, the Wylde lights danced, doused and dying as on the wind ash flew along with plumes of smoke as the battlefield burned. Surtr raised his flaming head, and Níðhöggr exhaled a fire fit to render the world tree asunder.
Around them, all burned.
And Thor was helpless to stop anything – to aid anyone, not with his own monster before him. The nightmare wyrm from the watery deep who held the ocean currents in his coils and the pulse of the waves in his eyes . . . The serpent flashed his massive coils, and struck with his monstrous fangs, and Thor was hard pressed to keep one step ahead in the battle they waged.
Beyond them, Odin and the Helhound fought to the bitter end. Thor had never seen another take his lord father to such ends in battle before. The Allfather faltered, and the wolf pressed on, his eyes slipping lupine and moon bright in the darkness that was all consuming, all about them. The wolf, it would seem, was touched by some sort of magic – for the same enchantments that made the guards unable to strike against the hound also made Odin's blows glancing. No blood was drawn. No wound was set.
Odin, great and terrible, waged his fight, and Garmr steadily matched him blow for blow.
Around Thor, another coil fell, drawing his eyes back to his task at hand.
It was time to end this then, he decided.
He pummeled against the walls of the serpent's coils with Mjölnir, but the hammer did not to put even a dent in the colossal mass of the snake before him. He hissed in laughter.
Beyond them, Odin slipped; the talons upon Garmr's hands striking dangerously close to a killing blow.
The breath in Thor's lungs spiked at the sight, and his next blow was clumsy – leaving just enough time for a massive coil to wrap around him. Once. Twice.
Thor found himself caught as he was lifted – higher and higher as a mountain of scaled circles brought him eye to eye with the serpent. The coils tightened about him, threatening to crush his chest. Already he could feel the sick sensation of his ribs giving under the pressure surrounding him. The coils clenched, and he could feel his lungs struggle for air.
When he stared at the snake's eyes, thunder dominated his gaze.
"Thunderer," the snake hissed. "See how all about you turns to dust and ash . . ."
For the battle had slowed beyond them, and flames licked at the horizon. They swallowed the sea, and those left standing faced the consuming fire with determined faces. The Twilight had not yet taken all from them.
But still it tried.
Right beyond them, Odin Allfather fell before the Helhound's blows. He stared defiantly through one eye, looking up as Garmr towered over him, demanding that he repent for a list of deeds that Thor did not understand. And, in the end, Odin did nothing more than turn his throat to the Hound. He would not give his words. Great and proud was his father, and even in that moment he would not bend. He would not yield. His silence was as full as if Garmr had stitched his very lips closed.
Thor could not find his breath.
Then, with the cold calmness of an executioner, Garmr struck true.
There was such a silence upon the battlefield, as around them, Yggdrasil screamed. The great mother screamed, and Odin's death was felt through her pain as she lost her representation of flesh and bone upon the land. The world around them pitched drunkenly, as if Asgard was thrown as a ship upon the sea.
Yggdrasil tottered; and finally, she could hold herself up no longer.
At the sight of Garmr flicking Odin's blood away from his clawed hands, something inside of Thor ignited. Rage lit within him at the destruction all around him. His dying comrades. His brothers in arms. The people whose sworn vow it was for him to protect. All fell, all died, and flames rendered the horizon apart in place of sun and stars.
Incensed, Thor felt that spark of light deep inside of him. And, with his rage, he lit that spark, felt it as lightning – watched it grow until it was fit to cut across the sky.
He screamed, and the storms cut loose from him. The sky rumbled, and lightning forked down to consume the beast whose coils so held him. The violence of the storm was all consuming, giving the serpent not a chance to escape. For the rain touched everything. Thunder was heard by every ear, and lightning never failed to spark fire in the world below.
The world within the serpent's eyes spun, the globe of it like the consumed moon as it set. It hid as jagged blue tongues of lightning consumed his scales. The iridescent light blinded him for a moment, but it did not consume him. He was the storm's favored son, and they would aid him this one last time.
The smoking coils loosened. They released him.
And Thor touched the ground as organic matter rained down about him. Blood made his landing slippery, and scales the size of his fists fell in an unnatural parody of rain upon the air. The scent in the air was cooked – rank and toxic as the fumes from the snake's venom caught fire and burned as if possessed.
Yet, even as Thor brushed the gore from his hair, a thick and vicious liquid continued to pour all about him. It was not blood, but something else, he thought when the drops burned as they fell – like acid, tunneling into his skin. It was not blood, but venom, Thor realized somewhat stupidly as the putrid liquid rained all about him.
He held his breath against the fumes, and still they burned his eyes.
He coughed, and the violent motion only served to make him inhale even more deeply. He could not escape the stain of the fumes. His feet were stuck in an ever growing pool of the liquid. It burned through his boots until the acid found yielding skin beneath, stealing his stride from him.
Around him, the flames touched the venom, and like a forest fire, the inferno was prepared to rage.
Away, Thor knew he had to get. He had to get away. Away from the rotting course before him, and the venom that was suddenly an ocean at his feet. He had to get away from the flames, and to his dying father's side. There was still a retreat to be saved for those who lived, if not a victory, for the Twilight would not take its all from them . . .
But, only if he could get away.
Yonder prophesy waiting, he took that first step.
.
.
And Sif held her breath against the ice and the water and the sounds of Mara's screams – she heard the nightmares in the deep of her, rather than through her ears. Water could carry no sound, but Mara was not made of flesh and bone, and Sif was long used to being a receptacle for seiðr and all of its might.
In Sif's mind, unbidden, she thought of seiðr, and the dark eyed wielder whom she held so dear to her. She saw him like a dream in her mind's eye, and before her, Mara faltered.
Suddenly, Sif understood.
Ice would destroy Mara's physical form – or, render it still, at any rate. And to defeat the spirit itself . . . Dreams. She needed dreams. Mara was all the black ether of nightmares and the despair of the unwaking hours. She could not stand the light of dreams, the warmth of them . . .
And so, Sif pressed her shield harder into the throat of the nightmare woman, and called to mind her fondest dreams.
.
.
That second step.
.
.
Arms wrapped tight about Mara, Sif let herself dream.
Her first dream was a young one, warm and golden within her mind – a dream of her very first memories. She dreamed of her lady mother, Lady Gná, with her strong hands callused from riding, and her dark eyes which so matched her quick words. Always did Gná have her tales to tell before the hearth as she braided her daughter's golden hair each and every night. Her tales of her great love – the warrior who had been known to the mortals as War itself, thus giving Sif her inherited title once she had come of age. Lord Týr had been the fiercest of Odin's warriors, and Gná's tales painted him with flashing silver and dragon's scales in place of armor. He had fallen in the Great War, leaving behind a widow and an unborn daughter – but to his child he had bequeathed war cries and battle blooded veins. His story was not yet done while Sif so lived.
Sif had listened to her mother's tales, and she had listened well – listened to tales of giants felled, and trolls whose great bridges were overturned. Listened to tales of heroic deeds, and the awaiting halls of Valhalla where someday she would meet her father, ever fierce and bold. She remembered the story teller's hum to her mother's words – the magic that pulsed with the dance of the flames in the hearth before them. For such tales were not meant for the light of day. Their mysticism and power was meant for the shadows; their every secret was meant to be held by brilliant flame and star above.
Her dream shifted to later years, where clever fingers again plaiting her hair for her during the evening hours; only, this time the tresses were black enough to match the night all around them. His stories had always dripped with his magic in those hours, and always did Sif lean back into him and dream of a day when she could pass the tales onto her own children, in her own tongue – for that was the way that hearth spells and storyteller's magic continued on through the years. The dream was dear to her – more so than that of a warrior's glory and battle's honor. This was the ultimate dream. The ultimate gift.
And so, to Mara she pushed the dream of family.
.
.
A third step.
.
.
In her arms, Mara pulsed. Her mouth was held open in an unholy scream that the water could not carry. Sif closed her eyes against it, and called upon a different dream.
In her mind's eye, her thoughts filled with memories of Asgard eternal. She saw it all behind her closed eyes – saw the realm golden and grand and gleaming. Many there were the nooks and crannies she had explored as a child - the fields where Volstagg had taught her arms, the wide and grassy lanes where her mother had taught her how to ride. She knew the ins and out of the palace – the halls where she had reveled, the thronerooms where she had made obeisance to her sovereign and received his praise in return – as well as the shapes and whorls of her own skin. The depths of the libraries where she had stolen away with the second son were shadows to the story of her life; and the highest points of the palace where she had sat and polished her steel with the first son were the interludes, soft and gentle.
She dreamed then of her little glade – their little glade, sheltered within the woods around the palace like the space between lungs and heart. She called to mind the mossy bank where her hair had fallen to as it was severed from her head. The stones which were criss-crossed in webs of white and silver, scarred from her blade as she practiced her warring arts. The trees which had born scars and deep marks from Loki when he had learned his more powerful magicks. The stream that had pulsed with an ancient song – soothing; the wild magic in the core of the place a balm to Loki with his seiðr was past his control, and a easing to Sif when her warring veins pulsed past her ability to master.
She dreamed next of Lady Gná's hearth, and her childhood bed; the dreams which she had made there. She dreamed of Frigg's hall, where the lady queen would let them sit and play as children as she wove futures for them all. She dreamed of the secret ways between the palace halls – dreamed of darting through them with her shadowed companion; stealing kisses in the armory, in the antechambers, in the common rooms they shared with all. How he would cloak them from sight at a feast and kiss her in full view of everyone, though no one could see, they never did . . . Still, at the memory, Sif warmed in a way that Mara would never understand. For home was more than roof and hearth, it was those that resided within that was the true strength of a house's walls. Family, always it would be as thick a necessary as any mere life's blood.
And so, to Mara, Sif pushed the dream of home.
.
.
The fourth step.
.
.
Her shield had turned to ice in her hands, shining blue and cold against the depths of Mara's waters. Still the spirit in her hold wavered. She fought.
And Sif dreamed.
Again, she dreamed of home. She dreamed of the dusty circles in the queen's gardens where she had learned to take up arms next to the young men of Asgard. She dreamed of small hands struggling to grasp grown men's weapons, and of scraped knees and scratched cheeks as Volstagg refused to pull his blows when instructing she and her companions in those tender years - for an enemy would show no mercy, and better they learned early how to wield a sword with a broken wrist; how to tuck and roll and stave off a blade when her lungs ached and her palms sweated and her armor stuck with blood. How quickly her feet learned the steps of the battlefield in those days – as quickly as her sisters learned to dance and sew did Sif learn to feint and cross feint; learned how to level a giant by aiming for the knees, how to slay a dragon by walking through his flames.
She dreamed of the camaraderie she found with her brothers in arms. She dreamed of Thor and his ferocity, the way he made the battle an extension of his palms – blow and block as natural as breathing as his rains struck them all, causing mud to tug at their boots, her hair to stick thickly at her neck. She dreamed of Volstagg's heavy blows, of Fandral's elegant footwork, of Hogun's unerring aim. She dreamed of the armies of Asgard rolling like a wave over the shore – steel in their hands, and silver in their lungs as they took what the waters owed them. She dreamed of Loki at her side, spells set for skin to render and blood to spill, and eyes so very verdant as he moved with an uncanny grace – more a raindrop making its way to the earth below where Thor was sun and sky thundering above. How sweet was the taste of victory; how kindred the taste of copper in her throat and on her tongue after so many years forging her path to Valhalla's golden halls.
She dreamed of the first time she laced up the leathers about her torso, protecting her core. The plates binding her breasts, and the metal circling her legs was made to keep muscle and vein from harm rather than to emphasize grace and beauty. She brushed the curls from her hair, and tied that back too. She never again cut her hair like Volstagg and her instructors urged her to, and she wore no helmet in the melee – instead she dared an enemy to grab at her most cherished possession. She pitied the fool who grabbed for the tresses of the Lady Sif – for such was her boast, and her haughty claim to arms. It was her pride, and her shield saying I have forged this path, and you may touch me not.
She dreamed of the weight of her shield upon her back, the feel of the hilt of her glaive in her hands – how the rough leather caught upon the thick palms of her gloves. How her fingernails would bleed in the most intense of fights; how her lungs would heave, and her veins would pulse.
She dreamed of her father then, made bright and eternal by Valhalla's golden halls. How Týr must smile with pride over the mantle of war his daughter made her own. She dreamed of someday joining him herself – taking to one knee and offering him her sword and vowing to the memory of his name. She dreamed of the memory in her mother's eyes when she first came home with her armor scuffed and her shield bloodied – her eye blackened and her ribs bruised, but alive where her enemy was not – and remembered the pride in Gná's eyes. The way her rein calloused hands had touched the darkening skin on her face, and said, "Your father would find honour in your path."
That pride. That honor. The knowledge that she fought the fights that others could not . . . It was a warrior's dream she pushed to Mara, and Mara felt the dream as a dagger to the heart.
.
.
Five steps, then.
.
.
She dreamed then of the fae rings of Álfheimr – dreamed of the elven dances and shadow songs the wooded races sung to the moon above. She dreamed of the air shimmering with the strength of the Wylde hunt over the cosmos. Magic. Magic like the spells Eir held within her healing hands. The magic of her Queen Frigg before the loom. The magic of ravens cawing over their battlefields, the magic of mother Yggdrasil whispering into her veins during the midnight hours.
She dreamed of Loki again upon such thoughts – dreamed of them young and just entering into their powers. Dreamed of him as he painted runes onto his skin and chanted his right words under his breath. How his voice turned from liquid silver to something elemental in those moments; something warm, as if it were heated from within – like blood heated by a pumping heart, like stones made flaming by the molten core of their worlds. There was an intangible strength to him when he surrendered himself so – an untouchable strength, like that of storm or tide. How his eyelids flickered, she knew the shape of their crease. Knew how thick and full they were when he blinked over eyes that had turned completely green, the dark parts of his pupils swallowed as he gave his gaze over to the seiðr in his veins. He could take any shape he wanted in those moments, and she had asked him what it was like to fly when he'd come back to her with feathers in his hair, and his voice still coarse from avian screams.
She dreamed of dragon scales still sticking to his skin. Dreamed of his books out and open as they lit from within under their own light, the runes dancing in the air before them. Dreamed of dancing with him in those fae rings, and having him translate the song within her ear. Dreamed of him as a shadow, sneaking over her skin, and hiding in the hollow of her throat when others would think him absent. Dreamed of his insufferable teasing as the shadows tickled like laughter behind her ears, and Thor would question as to what ailed her when she fidgeted.
She dreamed of his dreams inside her own, of the worlds between worlds; the paths between Yggdrasil's boughs, and the mighty mother's great favour as her chosen son walked through her starry expanses. How the starlight had played upon their skin in those hours. How Sif had breathed in the cosmos' song and exhaled magic into the nothingness that held them. How the stars did so writhe and war and devour themselves when seen from up close. How she felt she could challenge even their great heat with his enchantments at her back. By her side.
Always, seiðr was the open door between the gateways of creation, the path ever winding where steel was both guard and a closing to the courses that had run their way. Always was Yggdrasil content upon this balance. Balance, as he to she, and her to him.
Now, her shield pulsed with memories of the magic he held. Begotten by his blood for her own, and she would not forsake the gift that too many considered trite.
And so, to Mara, she pushed her dreams of magic.
.
.
The sixth step.
.
.
Mara's face stretched and contorted, and yet she was bound to her shape by the shield in her hands. Still, she pulled back her lips, her mouth a fighting grimace. Sif bared her teeth in the water, and matched her; for her dreams had long since rang with thunder, and Mara could match her not.
When she and her companions had taken their warrior's oath, they had visited the Norn sisters, as was custom to her people. In the long life of an Aesir, there were only three occasions where one visited the Fates. The first was at birth, when the parents took their children to receive their names and riddles for their future years. (Names told all, and they told true; for Skuld had dubbed the first son Thor, whose name meant thunder to those who still knew how to translate such things. Skuld had named Sif, whose name meant affinity and bride – a title which had long been a jest of her companions a wry source of humor for her lady mother. Skuld had named Loki after a long pause, and had given him a name which meant closings. Ends. Final and absolute. The riddles past their names were secrets only their parents held, and held close and dear.). After a birth reading, the Nornir would only meet an Aesir to advise a new warrior; and again to advise a newly married couple. The couple would then return with their children once that time came, and then the cycle would begin again.
It had been Skuld who had whispered of the thunder to come. Urðr who had spoken of lightning as if it had already passed them. And Verðandi who had whispered how the ground had shook when they arrived. The fates had spoken true, for it was during a dark elf raid on the weapon's vault that Thor had lifted Mjölnir for the first time – the hammer that had been created at great cost, and would only rise to the call of its chosen one. While a powerful weapon, its true strength had not been revealed until Loki had placed his hand onto the hilt alongside Thor's, and channeled his magic into the object, unlocking his brother's control over the storms. They had been such a force then, the lightning in Thor's eyes such a light – more brilliant than any natural phenomenon above them.
As a child, Sif had feared thunder. She had spent stormy nights by her mother's side as Lady Gná counted their heartbeats aloud – showing her their rhyme and reason. Now, the storms heralded victory – and she could not think of lightning without thinking of Thor with the battle bright in his eyes, brilliant enough to match the intensity of the storms around him.
Already the ground had quaked under them, as if Yggdrasil herself was rumbling her great boughs in approval. And, in many ways, their tales had just begun.
And so, to Mara, she pushed her dreams of storms.
.
.
The seventh step.
.
.
And Sif dreamed one last dream.
Her dream peaked, and dipped through time. She dreamed of the centuries to come – long after Odin would take his final sleep, and the land about them would rumble in anticipation for its new king. She dreamed of how Thor would look them – with his armor bright and gleaming. He would have a full beard by then, and his hair would be golden and long. The restlessness in his veins would have stilled, ringed as tightly as a ripple's center; a calmness and wisdom in his eyes that she knew her friend capable of, no matter how many times he had proved to the contrary. And for when he couldn't be . . . by his side she saw his brother, cleanly shaven, but hair long as well, gathered in an elegant tail at the back of his neck. He wore talismans about his neck in an open acknowledgment of his sorcery (where, in their present, it was rare she could get him to light a candle in public, in view of others), and his armor sat easily upon him where he now only wore ceremonial garb along with winces and sighs.
In her minds eye, Loki would be jesting, using quick and clever words to put Thor at ease. Such a camaraderie she saw – a perfect pair for Asgard's helm, with Thor's heart and Thor's goodness, and Loki's cleverness and Loki's plans. Steel and seiðr, for the good of Asgard and all of Yggdrasil eternal.
It was her most cherished dream, how Thor would step to stand before Asgard to take the crown. He would march out before the crowd, and Loki would linger behind with her. He would lift her hand to his lips, and kiss the back with that wicked smirk ever present in his eyes. "My lady," he would whisper in that dark voice of his, and she would walk before the people on his arm in an open claim for all to see. How people would remark upon them – the darkly spun prince, and the shield-maiden with the hair as black as night; both shadows to fair and golden Asgard – the price who would learn magicks over arms, and the girl who would learn to take up steel rather than hearth. A fitting pair they would be to stand behind Thor, mighty and bold.
And Asgard would rejoice while Sif stood back and reflected that it was this. This was what she had fought and bled for. This was what her steel flashed for. This is what her shield defended. Always. Ever and always.
At the dream, she shivered, her mind born away upon the wings of her fantasy.
And so, to Mara, Sif pushed all of her hopes and dreams of the future.
.
.
Thor took that eighth step.
.
.
And Mara screamed.
In her arms, the form that Mara held splintered – like glass once struck before it broke. Thin lines criss-crossed over her body; decorating her icy limbs like diamond dust and lace. The harsh curves cut in deep, rendering unnatural flesh apart just as a blade would. The fault lines told a tale of weakness, they sang a promise of defeat. All one had to do was find the proper shatter point, and push.
Over her heart, the webbing lines met. They pulsed.
With her shield, Sif pushed.
In her arms, Mara shattered.
Around her, the frigid pool shimmered as if all the ice and water was nothing more than a mirror. Shards glinted, reflecting the light and magic of the depths of nightmares until Sif herself peered into the openings of thousands of dreams. Millions of voices echoed in her ears – calling for her as they were dragged deeper and deeper underneath by the sinking Mara.
Still holding her shield, Sif could do nothing more than watch them drown.
Above her, light broke over the surface of the water. It called to her. Turning away from the remnants of the nightmare woman, Sif kicked mightily for the surface.
.
.
Thor took that ninth step -
(For nine steps would be left to the son of Odin, the Nornir had whispered when they whispered their tale of the Twilight to their king and queen. Nine steps and then down in the serpent's venom the Thunderer would fall. How bright the horror had been on Odin and his queen's face as the prophesy fell from Skuld's lips. The silence from the weaving loom was only broken by the sound of a child's gurgling – the golden prince playing quietly next to the stolen one, both ignorant of the future to come.)
- and that step was his last.
.
.
Sif broke the surface.
.
.
And Thor fell, drowning in a pool of the felled serpent's venom.
He laid there, unable to move as the acid corrupted his lungs. He was paralyzed as the venom ate through his armor. He could feel it burn upon his skin, scouring a path to his veins. He felt thick and sticky, as if the ether of him had spilled open to become one with the dying land beneath him.
He hiccuped in a breath. Another. His lungs constricted. He felt them burn.
A shadow fell over him, consuming and black. The touch of it was tangible – cool where around him the field of Ragnarök only burned. No longer could Thor hear the sounds of battle beyond him – only the roar of flames. The boughs popped and hissed as logs on a fire as the world tree fell. Turned to ash. He could no longer hear her scream. No longer did she gasp into the torn cosmos. And, still left in her care, the Thunderer tried to breathe with poison in his veins; as if by doing so he could breathe and fight enough for them both.
The shadow stretched before falling closer. There was a figure who knelt down next to him. Thor tried to see, but the acid was eating at his eyes. His vision was failing him.
But touch was still a painful sensation. Touch was still acute; and touch he felt clearly as a hand reached out to cover his own. The touch was cool, even with the threat of fire all around them. Long and elegant fingers curved about his own with the tenderness of kin – moving over him to smooth the remnants of the armor on his chest, touching his cheek as if a traveler searching a map he had long since had no use of. The pain from the venom faded in the wake of the touch. A healer's magic? Thor wondered. He could see no more than shapes before him – a smearing of green, the long sweep of horns, gleaming golden in the dying light.
"I had not wanted this to end this way," the voice said, a whisper born away by ash and flames. "Forgive me . . . please, forgive me."
Instinctively, Thor tried to grasp the hands which had wrapped about his own. Instinctively, he tried to return the touch.
He coughed, felt black venom pool in his veins.
"Sleep now," the voice whispered, and then Thor understood. The cool hands moved to rest on his chest, and there such a light built. In that moment he was thankful that he would not be left to die a slow death in the snake's venom. Better to end it this way, engulfed in the light that grew and grew and grew from the figure's hands. A warm golden light that carried him away as if to sleep; granting him a death in peace rather than a death in strife. It was a small mercy. "Sleep brother," the last words were whispered. "I shall be right behind you."
The light warmed, and Thor felt himself fall away . . .
.
.
On the bank of Mara's pools, Thor was where he had surface when Sif had forced Mara's soul from his body. She broke the water next to him, scrambling onto the bank, and tugged his limp body up behind her. She settled him on the shore, her shaking hands smoothing down the plates of his armor, and cradling his head in her lap. As if they were children and she was trying to awaken him past where he had slept in, she poked at his shoulders, slapped at his cheeks.
"Come on now, Thor," she insisted. "Wake up!"
His eyes were still closed, but she did not deter. Again, she struck him, empowered when she saw how color returned to his cheek at her blow. He was still there, deep inside. Mara did not steal all of his warmth – not from Thor, who burned hotter and more brightly than any other Sif had ever known.
"Awaken!" she insisted again, shaking his shoulders. "Thor, you must wake up."
She shifted, and leaned down, her hair upon his skin as she pressed her ear to his heartbeat. It flickered, low and strong. Two of her fingers she pressed against his pulse. His skin was still so cold from Mara's pool.
Underneath her, she felt his lungs expand, grasping for a deep breath.
She straightened, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Thor?" this time she whispered, hope breaking upon her voice.
And he opened his eyes. She had never been so happy to see another's gaze before.
"Brother?" Thor whispered, as if still caught in the thrall of a dream. His eyes were glassy, lost to whatever vision he had just departed from. But he was warming under Sif's hands. The color was returning to him. She felt her joy bubble cool and welcome in her throat, like a spring whose waters had melted from the winter.
She choked back a sob, thankful and full. When Thor's eyes focused upon her – finally aware, understanding settling in their depths, she threw her arms around him, her joy stretching into such a grin upon her face. She was laughing, even as she found tears in her eyes, so grateful was she that the fates had deigned to return him to her.
Thor wrapped an arm around Sif, and held her close as she cried. His own eyes he closed long and slow. Tears were wet upon his cheeks, but he knew not why he wept. He knew only that he had dreamed, and within he had known such a sorrow. Such a sorrow . . . such a regret.
He closed his eyes, and did his best to push his dreams away.
.
.
And far from them, another awakened upon the crest of dreams.
"Brother?" the syllables rounded, warm and full in the hall of Eir. The sound of it was an echo, spoken through organic matter as one channeled the nothingness of a dream.
From her vigil, Frigg stirred. Through the golden barrier, she took her son's hand, a part of her sickening at the wild look that was in his eyes in his moment of lucidness. His gaze shimmered like that of a wounded animal, lost to a hunt. Such a sorrow lingered there in that gaze, a sorrow that Frigg could not define as she caressed the back of his hand with her thumb, trying to grant what little comfort she could.
Loki blinked . . .
Frigg forgot to breathe for a moment.
And then, to dreams he fell once more.
Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness
Note: I am far from an expert in Norse paganism, and all mistakes mine own.
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. ;)
Óskópnir: The field "stretching a hundred leagues in every direction" where Ragnarök was to be fought. Another name for this field is Vigriðr (which it is called in the Gylfaginning, and then originally in the Vafþrúðnismál), which is actually the more scholarly accepted title. It means "battle surge" or "field of battle". The name Óskópnir, according to the Poetic Edda poem Fáfnismál, means "not yet created" or "mismade", which as an author I liked better to associate with the whole Ragnarök mess.
Sif as Týr's Daughter: For obvious reasons, I had Týr as Sif's father here simply because he is commonly known as the God of War, and I liked the idea of Sif inheriting his title. In the myths, Sif was the Goddess of the Harvest, more akin to Demeter/Ceres rather than any warrior diety.
In the myths, Sif was also a daughter of Odin, and since that would be a much more convoluted web than this fandom already has going for it, different routes had to be sought for her parentage. To fulfill that role, this was my reasoning: way back when, when the Roman Tacitus wrote Germania, he mentioned Týr (whose name means 'God', plain and simple) to be father of the Gods in the west German regions – and oddly enough, he mentioned Odin to be a deity on par with Mercury/Hermes – a fleet of foot messenger, and guider of souls. Now, Jonathan Clements' book "A Brief History of the Vikings" made an interesting point – that the Vikings were a raider culture, and some time during the Migration period when the clans rose and fell in power, Týr could have been replaced in prominence by Odin, and over time the stories shifted to reflected that. So, it was a double 'bam!' for me – keeping Sif's father as the 'father of the gods', of a sort, and corresponding her title of War with Týr's more popular and lasting title in Norse paganism. I ignored Týr's roles in the comics, because, like many things in the comics, Týr's characterization bothered me. And so, I chose not to deal with it. So there.
Garmr in place of Fenrir/Odin's Death: Is another piece of artistic liberty in this chapter. In both the Prose Edda and the Poetic Edda, Odin is slayed by Fenrir the Wolf – which I think we all know. Now, in the Prose Edda, Garmr is mentioned in relation to Ragnarök only in the manner that his howling at Hel's gate will be one of the signs heralding the Twilight. When Snorri wrote the Gylfaginning, he added in Garmr doing battle with Týr, and the both of them being each others doom. Now, in the myths, Garmr and Fenrir are names that are often interchangeable from translation to translation – which makes sense, if Týr lost his hand when binding Fenrir and then was slayed by a wolf at the Twilight. And so, since I have done away with Týr in my verse, and am quite fond of Garmr's character in correlation with Hela (and even a love interest) . . . well, there you have it.
Thor's Death: During Ragnarök, he succeeds in slaying Jörmungandr, the Wold Serpent, but he only makes it nine steps before drowning in an ocean of the felled snake's venom.
Thor's Hammer: Obviously the story I used here is quite different than the myths. But, Mjölnir was already in the weapon's vault when Thor and Loki were kids according to the film, and so I was unsure of how to have Loki commissioning the the hammer, and Odin's spear from the dwarfs. The problem was further compounded when I already so altered the story of Sif's hair – Loki has no reason to have the weapon's forged. So, I did the next best thing by carrying on the Mjölnir = Excalibur trope, and having Loki's hand in it by it being his magic as the thing that unlocks the storms.
Viðarr: One of Odin's sons, a God of Vengeance, born specifically for avenging his father's death at Ragnarök. He has an 'iron shoe' that he uses to step down on Fenrir/Garmr's lower jaw, and then breaks the upper half, killing the wolf, and letting Odin's spirit depart in peace.
The Wylde Hunt: When you see the Aurora Borealis, know that it isn't a geomagnetic storm far above in Earth's magnetic sphere – it is instead Odin/Woden leading his celestial hunt across the heavens.
Brünnhilde: One of the most famous Valkyrie, and a major character in the Völsunga saga. A precursor to the Sleeping Beauty legend – Brünnhilde defied Odin's orders, and turned the tide of a battle away from the side Odin favored. As a result, Brünnhilde was condemned to live as a mortal woman, and was imprisoned in a castle surrounded by flames and thorns, where she waited in an enchanted slumber for a hero to come and awaken her – and thus prove himself worthy of her hand.
Valkyrie: Odin's fleet of battle maidens who harvest the worthy dead from the battlefield, and served the Einherjar in Valhalla.
Einherjar: The dead warriors who have been feasting in Valhalla, who are called upon to fight against Loki's forces during Ragnarök.
Mara: A dream stealing wraith mentioned in Celtic, Norse, and Germanic folklore (Called a Mare, Mara, and Marh, respectively), who stole your terror from dreams. This is where the term 'nightmare' comes from. She is comparable to both the Incubi and Sucubi.