Author's Note: So, as you can see, I pretty much gave up trying to keep a normal sized chapter with this. As a result, you once again have a nice chunk of words to wade through. Lots and lots of words.
I also wanted to take a moment to thank you for your patience as well. This was probably the most difficult chapter to write for me, and I wanted to be sure I got it right before it went up. And, on that note, we are now reaching the final parts of this story! We have only three chapters left - that is, if my muse doesn't throw another curve ball at me (which she tends to take much joy in doing - the pesky thing). The next chapter should come next Saturday, back on schedule.
Alrighty, that being said, here we are with the moment you have all been waiting for . . .
Part XI: in the halls of the half-alive queen
"When in Mara's hold, I dreamed."
It was the first thing spoken in nearly an hour between them. From behind her on the path, Thor's voice came as a point, punctuated when compared to the hollow silence of the caverns around them.
"So I would have assumed," Sif said without turning, doing her best to keep her voice wry and light as they both walked, further and further back into the caverns. The paths before them twisted and turned, but no longer did they seem to be insurmountable before them. Mara's black spirit had fled from Gnipahellir, and now the shadows of the caves were no longer haunted. After another few hours of traveling, Sif hoped that they would stand before the Hel Queen's gates. "Mara had no interest in your mind still and at rest, after all," she pointed out.
Thor's smile was rueful, "Indeed. But . . . as I experienced the dreams, they felt real. They felt more like a vision than a dream – even more real than the dreams we had while on the Questing Moon."
Sif was silent for a moment, swallowing so as to hide her fears behind her voice. "It was the same for me," she seconded Thor's opinion.
"And yet," Thor continued, "I can remember little of my dreams now. I remember only bits . . . mere fragments and pieces. I dreamed of the Twilight - that much I remember." That much he never could forget. "I dreamed of the wolf who was to be my father's end, and of the nine steps I took before I fell."
Sif stilled upon hearing that, turning in order to look Thor in the eye. "I dreamed of the Twilight as well," she said, her voice filling with her unease. "I saw the Dragon as he was freed from his prison beneath Yggdrasil's roots, and as for myself, I led a massive army over the field of Óskópnir upon that final day."
Thor's gaze turned warm at that. "As you someday shall," he declared proudly, his voice grand at the thought. "My father would be remiss indeed if he did not trust the hearts and souls of Asgard's warriors to your command when the Twilight comes."
Sif smiled at the compliment, honestly drawn from the deep parts of him and freely given. Her hand tightened over her shield as her blood warmed, making a fist. The metal was once again silent in her hand as it lightened the path before them, illuminating their way. And as they walked, Sif considered her dreams. There was one other part of her visions she wished to remember, but she could not put her finger on it for the life of her. Like every other dream, what had at the time seemed real was now fizzled and faded upon the waking hour. She could not . . . she could not remember where she had sworn to never forget. Her fist clenched as something deep inside of her hurt upon the memory she tried to resurrect. There was something important Mara had showed to her. Something that meant everything to her . . . and she could not call it to mind.
She rolled her eyes at her own mental failings, and at the next dip in the landscape, she slid down the rock face with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Her muscles were still coiled, as if expecting a fight, and she could not still the restlessness in them. There was a reason that they normally left such things to Loki, Sif reflected ruefully, if she was not even able to remember a vision's entirety upon awakening . . ..
But, one thing she did remember . . .
"And still," Sif whispered, "in my dream, everything died."
Thor shrugged, rolling his shoulders like a wave. "It was a nightmare for a reason, my friend – if we had proved triumphant in it, then what would Mara have had to feed off of?"
Sif nodded. Her boot slid across the slick stone. "I suppose you are right," she gave.
"The Nornir have spoken many a dark thing of the time to come, but we will come through it – as we always do. As we always have," Thor continued to assure. There was such a strength to his voice. Such a surety. Sif, who had always been more practical of thought, struggled to take that strength and make it her own.
"I hope your words prove themselves to be true," still she said. That, at least, she wished with every bit of her heart.
"And they shall," Thor declared.
Sif shook her head before focusing back on the task at hand. The deeper and deeper they traveled into the caves, the more strange and outlandish their surroundings became. The rock formations – at first simple things, with teeth jutting up from both the floor and the ceiling - became large and drastic formations, where the rocks both curved like massive curtains and then jutted out like the mouth of a great beast. There were huge dips and canyons and then mighty rooms with hollow holds in their massive depths. And then, just as quickly, the trail would turn cramped – cramped to the point where they would have to stoop in order to make their way through the tunnels. They had passed various underground streams and rivers, and each one smelled sweet and icy and fresh – pure, this close to the spring that had begotten both water and rivers in all of the realms, back during the birth of creation.
Sif let her boots sink deep into the water between the stone masses before them, and imagined that they were just that much closer to the Hvergelmir, and a cure for Loki. At the thought of returning to him – of his eyes opening and locking on her own, her step sped. She was anxious for home, and she was determined to see their quest through in order that she could return.
Behind her, Thor matched her stride, as always.
Eventually they came to a large and cavernous room – one which seemingly stretched down for leagues upon leagues. At the bottom of the cavern, there was no rock, but instead, a sick spin and twirl of nebulae and celestial gasses. Sif peered down, and felt her heart rise in her throat when she realized that she was staring down past where the roots of the great Yggdrasil were set. The Ginnungagap, far beneath them.
Indeed, they had traveled far.
"Watch your step," Thor warned needlessly as they inched forward onto the thin bridge that stretched across the nothingness of the cosmos far beneath them. The trail picked up again on the other side of the bridge – but, instead of the cool stone and caverns which they had been making their way through, there was black rock ahead, a black rock as smooth and as dark as night – the borders of Hel's land.
"And you yours," Sif returned Thor's words when the rocks near his foot crumbled in a worrisome way. Behind them, the horses held, neighing softly at the unspoken danger in the air.
"Souls do not bear much weight when walking upon this path," came a voice from further ahead – from the boundary between the Gnipahellir and Helheimr. "The bridge has not had to be strong for so long that it has forgotten how to be."
Sif's next step drew up short, as did Thor's before her. She felt pebbles break from the toe of her boot, fragile and crumbling. Her pulse had sped up at the appearance of the stranger before them, and her hand fell to the hilt of her glaive out of reflex.
Her eyes narrowed. Thor's next breath came in deep.
"Be still," the man from the other side of the bridge said. "Pass one at a time, and it will hold you."
The voice was warm, liquid and golden so – as deep as her brother Heimdall's tones, and just as ancient. Perhaps even more so.
Sif peered to see the man's face, but she could only see a man dressed in white. His form was blurry to her. But, the closer they came to the bridge's end, the easier clarity became. The man was a tall one – standing eye to eye with Thor, who did so stand over them all. He had rich, caramel colored skin – the color of mead in the firelight, and his eyes were a golden color fit to blaze. He had long hair, just a shade or two darker than his skin, which was drawn into a neat braid down the center of his back. He was bare chested, but he wore the pelt of a white wolf over his shoulders; the massive fur swallowed him, draped as it was over the tops of his arms, and then left to drag upon the cavern floor from his back. Upon his chest, red runes were painted in blood – tattooed on, Sif would wager, spelling out a tale of Hel's own hand. The marks were repeated in tiny little etchings on his high cheekbones, telling a story that only magic would ever fully understand.
Besides that, he wore leather trousers and sturdy boots, more in the style of a woodsman, or a hunting man than any warrior or nobleman. No steel hung from his belt, but when he talked his teeth were pointed, and the nails on his hands had been filed to a sharp tip, like claws. His smile was lupine; his eyes as bright as if he had swallowed the moon and used her glow to fire his gaze.
He was old magic before them, and Sif did not remove her hand from her weapon.
"Mara's pools spoke of your arrival," the man said, his words spinning a welcome.
"Did they now?" Thor returned the words, and there was such a distaste in his voice; thundering and strong. Sif looked up at the tone, feeling as it struck. "It makes sense that such villains would hold each other in confidence."
"Thor?" Sif questioned when the other drew Mjölnir, every line in his body proclaiming him ready for battle.
The stranger was calm before them, staring into the storm of the Thunderer's rage without blinking.
"It was he I saw," Thor said, his voice mighty, his rage strong. "It was he who slew my father upon the Twilight. Garmr Helhound, he was called by my father's mouth. While much of the vision Mara bestowed upon me is blurred, that much I cannot forget."
Sif felt an uneasy rolling in her bones as she remembered the cry of wolves and the light fading from the sky above them until all around was night - an eternal night to end the forever-winter. Ragnarök. Their twilight and bitter end.
Garmr's wolf like eyes were still calm. He did not move to hold himself in a defensive stance. If Thor would have struck then, his victory would have been assured. "You have my sympathies for the dreams you suffered at Mara's hands. And yet, I am a face well known to her, and often one whom she portrays in her dreams. And they were just that, son of Odin – dreams, called forth and fed upon your darkest of fears. Your fiercest of emotions."
Thor held the other's gaze, long and steady. Sif stood at ready by his side, uncertainty plaguing her mind. Garmr's words made sense – they explained much, but not all. For how could Sif and Thor's dreams be the same? How could such a vision – so tangible and real – be nothing more than a nightmare? An affliction of children when they had sat too long by the fire and listened to the skalds and their tales.
Thor still held his storms in his gaze, not nearly swayed.
"It is unfortunate that Mara was a foe you had to face at all, she was under orders to stay away from your path. Your warmth was not hers to take." When Garmr smiled, the grin was fanged. "Of course, it is rare that the living venture here, especially those of such blood – we should have known that you would have been a temptation she could not have resisted. Of course, now she sleeps at the bottom of her pool, and it will be centuries before she can recover enough to take a form once more – in that sense, her greed and treason was rewarded."
Thor's brow furrowed. "So the dream-thief did not fall?"
Garmr shook his head. "Nay, and it would have been disaster for all should she have. She may seem like a dark entity to you – and it is true that her ether is blackly spun. But without her to siphon off the terror from dreams – from those mortal and immortal alike, the unwaking hours would be unbearable for all. Mother Yggdrasil and the Ancients were wise with their creation, and none were created to hold evil within their souls for evil's sake. That true evil, along with greed, came later, and then death."
His words wove, and Sif could find no fault in them. Still, Thor was unyielding before her.
Slowly, then, his hand fell to his side. He did not sheath Mjölnir, but no longer did he stand poised to deal a blow.
Garmr tilted his head. "The land has sang with your presence, flame-born. Even the souls have picked up their stride with you here, for they are not used to having such a light in this place. We have watched your journey, and now, it is at the dread Queen's request that I take you hither to the hall of Éljúðnir."
At that, Thor completely sheathed his hammer. For one sovereign to take another now would be an unforgivable act by the treaty that the realms all lived by. "The Hel Queen would see us then?"
Sif rotated her weight on the balls of her feet, eager to move forward. With Hel's permission, and Hel's words, they would be one step closer to Hvergelmir and the healing waters the spring would give.
"Indeed, she would like nothing better," Garmr grinned, the movement lifting the runes etched into his cheeks. They glinted as they caught the light – like a sword flashing in the high sun. "Now, if you would follow me . . ."
Thor turned to look at her, his gaze considering. Sif returned it, and nodded.
Then, together, they turned away from the Gnipahellir, and walked into the land of Hel.
.
.
Helheimr was a dark and celestial place.
Within the towering walls that surrounded the realm, there was a city to be found made entirely of black rock and dark green glass. In an odd, disorienting way, the city looked almost exactly like Asgard itself – with its grand bridges and elegant balconies, its floating towers and its strong fortresses. In between the city's buildings, crystal clear and deep blue rivers flowed – the water so pure that it seemed to be poured from liquid diamonds and silver steel before it was shaped. The rock, black though it was, was not porous, and when one looked closely, one could see a reflection of the cosmos swirling in the material. To the west were the mountains which Thor and Sif had crossed under. And, to the east, the horizon was eaten and consumed by the fires of Náströnd and the great dragon Níðhöggr who resided there. Overhead, in place of sun and stars, a thick mist swirled – like a storm when it passed over the water. In the depths of that mist, thousands and thousands of tiny lights swirled, and it took Sif a moment to realize that those lights were not stars, but souls.
Souls, who waited above, and flowed in the waters below – souls, whose very light made the city pulse with a brilliance all its own. This place was not the fiery and terrible tale told in mankind's myths and legends, but a celestial and brilliant place where those who had died came to find their after – to be judged by their deeds, and to spend out their eternity in accordance with those deeds.
On the walkways, there were fully grown souls, as well – those who had already been judged, and stayed to serve Hel and her kingdom. They were hazy reflections before Sif – almost see through, translucent like mist, their very bones lit up by a shining white light. They wore shadows of their past selves in that light – the implications of armor and gowns and hair styled in the same way as they had been in life. But their stares were hollow; ancient, lost to death and her mysteries.
As they walked through the heart of the city, Sif could feel a fine mist gather upon her skin, but the water never grew to sink through her armor. She simply felt cleansed – refreshed and at peace. There was an ever constant song in the air – the chanting of a thousand times a thousand souls, singing sweetly as they were taken to their rest.
The city around them gleamed and pulsed and soothed, and Sif could not keep her eyes from widening upon the way both mourning and reprise played through the city as a whole.
"Hel's abode is far from what the stories would say," Garmr remarked upon her wide gaze, his tone wane. "But our Queen has spent centuries making it this way – for it was not always so."
Sif could feel so many questions knot upon her tongue, but not one of them was she able to push past her lips - for they had reached the gates of Hel's abode. Éljúðnir was Hel's Hall, a tall and gleaming palace made from polished black marble, like the rest of her kingdom. In the veins of the marble, green and violet and gold played, the colors caressing and tumbling over each other like stars in the night sky. The whole of the kingdom was a reflection of the cosmos held above and below great Yggdrasil eternal, and upon seeing it as such, Sif could not imagine such a sacred and sheltered place being any other way.
They entered through the gates, and immediately a trio of shades came forth to assist them. Sif inspected the face of the spirit closest to her, and was surprised to find a young girl, who seemed to be about her age, assisting her. Even glowing in shades of icy blue and silver, Sif could see the long scar which clung to her neck – the very blow which had drawn her into Hel's hall in the first place. She took Sif's traveling cloak, while the other two took the reins of their horses, not speaking to them the whole time, even as Garmr promised the provision of their stables and grooms.
Sif found her eyes heavy upon the soul, an ache in her chest upon seeing how the girl had fallen. She had not fought, she had not struggled, or else she would have been in golden Valhalla's halls. If there was a story about the girl's demise, Sif could not find it, for the soul's eyes were pure, and her soft smile was at peace.
Sif returned the smile, but the look wavered upon her. She could not keep her unease from her eyes.
The girl bowed, and Garmr drew them forth. Into the palace they went – a grand and spacious structure held up by gleaming golden pillars, which shone next to the black rock and dark glass. Inside the pillars, tiny lights spun and danced – souls again, these ones new, just passing over the bridge, who went to the queen's abode to be weighed and judged. They pulsed, lighting the shadows, singing their song, and unconsciously, Sif felt herself echo the beat in her stride. In her breathing. She held the light of the living in her lungs, and around her, the souls pulsed in answer.
Sif, with her red leathers and dark silver armor; her black hair and dark eyes, blended into Hel's abode almost perfectly. Thor, ahead of her, and on Garmr's right, was such a light in Hel's halls, his hair gleaming like a small sun, the bright red and rich blues of him holding their color boldly, refusing to be washed out. His armor gleamed, silver and polished, like scales under a clear river. He was a light that Helheimr could not swallow, and he had never looked more out of place.
They wove their way through the halls – passing rooms and balconies and a dozen other such places. When, finally, they came to the heart of Éljúðnir.
Before two massive double doors, there were two guards – silvery and silhouetted like the other souls, but their forms were more substantial. Instead of ice for their eyes, they bore flames, and hard silver and dragon scales were clasped over their clear bodies and white bones. Guards, then, their flaming gaze a warning to the souls who would think to walk against what the Hel Queen would decree.
Sif held her head up straight, and looked the guards in the eye. They did not blink. They did not have to.
And Garmr paused before admitting them. His mouth was pursed, his eyes narrowed as he weighed his words before giving them voice. And then he said, "Our Queen is an ancient and old figure on the Great Mother's branches, and yet, she can be . . . off putting to those who have not held her in their sight before. Do not stare, and do not question her appearance – that is the quickest way to earn her displeasure."
Thor's mouth turned, his smile battle bold. "I have faced monsters before."
The corners of Garmr's lip quirked, revealing a flash of pointed teeth. "Of which she is not. There is a difference, Odinson, bear that in mind."
Sif, behind Thor, stepped forward until she could touch the back of his boot with her own. Her eyes narrowed. They were so close to gaining a cure for Loki, and she would not have his words ruin that. Not now.
Thor bowed his head. "I understand," he said humbly, and Sif fought the smile from her lips, shaped as it was in pride.
When Garmr turned to have the guards open the doors, Thor glanced back at her. His gaze challenged.
And she held it.
"Her Majesty will see you now," Garmr announced gravely.
She breathed in deep.
This was it then.
The doors did not open at the hands of the guards so much as they swung apart as if pushed by an invisible hand. They made no sound, not even a whisper from their hinges, and once again Sif had to remind herself that they stood in the heart of the world that had created magic.
Hel's hall was dark, gaping and cavernous. The ceiling was far above them, where, like the rest of the world, mist and starlight gathered. Under their feet, the glass floor was polished, and they walked upon what looked like the cosmos itself. Black ether swam, nebulae and constellations danced and spun and warred until Sif understood that they stood on the lowest part of the Yggdrasil itself. Hel's throneroom was a looking glass into time and space, and she did not hesitate to remind her visitors of that.
From the rafters, far above them, banners hung, seemingly floating in the air, illuminated by the flames that floated far above them – the only source of artificial light in the room. The banners heralded from all nine of the realms, speaking of every family and country Sif could think to name. For all served under Hel in the end, and she would not have that so soon forgotten. On the walls, the same golden pillars stood, here massive and strong, like the eternal trees of Álfheimr. In their casings, souls swam, but this time, they did not react to their living visitors. No, they pulsed in time to one beat, and one beat alone – the pulse of their Queen. Their Queen, whose breath governed the play of souls, the flashing and swirling of the cosmos below. Even behind Sif's heart, the spark which did so ignite her flickered in time with the Queen on her throne, in time with the heartbeat of mother Yggdrasil herself.
Upon seeing the Mistress of Niflheimr, Sif exhaled.
Garmr was not exaggerating when he had said that his Queen was unlike any that they had yet to meet on their travels. The woman sitting perfectly straight and still on her ebony throne was seemingly cut from glass – divided down the middle with a straight and rigid line. Her face . . . one half of her face was gnarled, cut away and reduced to nothing but muscle and bone. The skin there rotted, and where her flesh was born away, tiny veins pulsed and white bone gleamed. Her hair on that half of her face was dark grey and frail, seemingly ready to blow away with the slightest whisper. But . . . the right side of her face. The right side of her face was the most beautiful woman Sif had ever seen, with high cheekbones, and a long straight nose. Her mouth was full and voluptuous, painted a deep enough red to shine black in the sparse light. Her skin was pale, so pale, damask and seemingly spun from starlight itself. Her hair, in a counterpoint to the rest of her, was full and thick and black, gleaming like the darkest parts of space.
The strange play of living and death continued all the way down her body. The right side was living, full and perfectly formed. The left was deadened, her hand that of a skeleton, thin and white boned. She wore a black gown that folded and clenched about her waist, but like the rest of her kingdom, the black was not one shade – it was dozens of shades, swirling and playing together until, if she stood on the window to the cosmos, she would seem to be an extension of it. Over the gown, on the right side of her body, she wore golden armor – curving around her shoulders, her elbow, her stomach. But, on the left side of her, her bones had seemingly grown into a part of her costume – the sharp skeletal points reaching up and fanning out until they armed her in a macabre mirroring of her artificial finery. Her hands were heavy with emeralds – the wealth of the underworld, and golden disks were woven into her hair – both the black and the grey. On her brow, she wore a massive and elaborate headdress, golden and gleaming, flaring in three sets like the spin of a stag's antlers. They reached up and down and sideways, falling like a web of grasping things about her head, pointing to every direction and meeting nowhere.
But, no matter the play of life and death on her body, her eyes were both green. Such a bright, startling green that reminded Sif of Loki so much that the gaze brought a weight to her chest. It was hard to breathe in that moment, with the eyes upon her settling as such a blow. Her eyes glowed as Loki's did when he was full of his magicks, bright and celestial and wickedly in tune with the elemental things about them. And Sif ached.
Without registering her movements, Sif took to one knee before the queen. But she did not bow her head – could not, when her gaze was snared so by the majestic woman before her. Something inside her told her not to look away – to never look away, as something heavy and yearning settled about her shoulders like a cloak. She was shaking, and she could not tell herself why.
Before her, Thor had knelt as well, and he too held the Queen's stare openly. Sif settled her mouth into silence, and waited for her lord and friend to speak.
"My lady Hel," Thor began, his voice deep and respectful. "We have journeyed long, and with much peril through the ancient paths to find our way to your realm, and we wish to find your welcome and your hospitality."
"And you shall find both in my Hall," the dread lady said, her voice deep and rich, dripping with an old magic that Sif was quick to recognize. "Please, rise. You need not bow before me."
Slowly, Sif and Thor got to their feet. Still, they remained a step behind Garmr, who had yet to bow. Instead, his head was inclined respectfully, his hands folded before him. So close to his mistress, the runes on his chest and face gleamed.
"We thank-you, your Majesty," Thor inclined his head.
And Hel too stood. Gracefully, she walked down the steps of the dais her throne sat on. Unlike most ladies in their finery, the front of her skirts had been cut away, revealing long legs encased in leather and more golden and bone armor. And, as she walked, she spoke. "I have watched your journey from its beginning," she revealed, "and I am pleased that you have made it this far. Many have attempted to reach Éljúðnir over the centuries, as you can imagine – from many realms, and few have made it as far as you."
"Our determination was great due to our reasons," Thor said, his head still bowed. But his eyes had darted up, his blue eyes bright in his surroundings.
"Loki Odinson?" the name rolled from the dread queen's tongue. It held. "For your brother you have braved your way to my realm, all to save his soul?"
"Indeed," Thor said, the one word strong from his mouth. "I would travel this far and a dozen times more."
Hel held the gaze of the Thunderer, her own expression carefully blank. Carefully neutral. "And still your journey is not at its end," she said. "You seek the water of the Hvergelmir, do you not? The spring that flows from Yggdrasil's heart, and from which all of the rivers in all of the realms received their currents? Svöl, Gunnthrá, Fjörm, Fimbulthul, Leiptr and Gjöll; these and more?"
"Aye," Thor answered. "My brother was smitten by the poison of she called Anann, one of the Mórrigan daughters of war, and the poison struck at the elemental make-up of him. The waters of Múspellsheimr were not enough to save him, even though he is flame-born. The magic in him demanded water from this world, as well."
"I am familiar with Anann and her spells," Hel's mouth hooked wryly. "Even if the souls which wage war do not make it to my hall, I can feel each and every one as it departs. Anann and her sisters have taken many such seeds from mother Yggdrasil in their time. Many such seeds."
"And we would keep her from taking one more," Thor's voice struck, the feeling in it fierce.
Hel inclined her head, the massive headpiece upon her brow casting shadows. "I can show you the path to Hvergelmir," she finally said, her words sounding long and slow. "Hvergelmir resides in the darkest part of my realm – the part which is called Náströnd, where those evil and corrupt in life are sent for their final death."
"We have heard of the parts of your realm," Thor answered; he declared. "And we are ready to face Náströnd."
Hel's gaze was weighing, her words spinning behind her eyes before they reached her mouth. It was the look of one who wished to coax. Who wished to barter and deal. Sif felt her own eyes narrowing upon the dread queen, for familiar was the look to her – having been worn a hundred such times by Loki before. A hundred times by even Frigg when she had her words to weave, her secrets to whisper. The familiarity struck at her, though she knew not why.
"And so you shall," Hel finally said. Thor straightened, a look approaching relief on his face before she said, "Yet, not without a price."
For nothing was free. Sif bit her lip, and felt her ire spike as another delay was placed in their path.
Thor's eyes too were hard. "Name your price, then."
And Hel said, "In Náströnd, there is a dragon who trolls the black banks, and devours the souls which I cast there." Sif swallowed, remembering the dragon in her dreams, mad and angry, and the man who so deigned to summon him and harness his hate and flames as his own. "He has made his nest over the spring of Hvergelmir."
"Níðhöggr?" Thor spoke the name of their people's nightmare. "We have heard his name before."
"He is the one," Hel confirmed. "He was imprisoned in my realm by your own father when Odin received the vision of Ragnarök from the Norn sisters. Yggdrasil listened to her king's commands, and wrapped her roots around Níðhöggr's nest. What once was merely a black stain in Níðhöggr's heart is now a cancer, warped and evil. His centuries of imprisonment have driven him mad, and his flames not only threaten my kingdom, but the whole of the World Tree herself. If you wish to draw from the spring, it is Níðhöggr's heart which you must bring back to me. No longer will he stand poised to take a soul not yet of the dead and condemned."
Thor's eyes flashed. "We have slain dragons before."
And Hel's gaze was long. Considering. "Indeed you have. But none of Níðhöggr's madness. None of Níðhöggr's fury. This is no normal wyrm you seek to slay."
"For my brother's soul," Thor declared, "I will bring you Níðhöggr's heart. You have my word."
Hel's gaze was seiðr bright. Steel forged and unrelenting. Finally, the deadened lines about her face relaxed. She did not smile, but the corners of her lips did turn. "Indeed, I believe I do."
Raising her skeletal hand, she held out her palm, and out of mist and smoke, a rolled oil skin appeared. She reached out her living hand, and passed the scroll to Thor.
Thor raised a brow, and opened the oilskin, tilting it so that Sif could see as well. Scribbled in dark red ink was the way through Náströnd, on to Niðhöggr's own nest. And then, its name written in graceful and spinning runes, was Hvergelmir. Sif felt her own smile hook, sharp and cut from her face upon seeing so. She reached over and touched the name. The ink popped and sparked against her touch; a promise.
"That is the way to Níðhöggr and Hvergelmir," Hel said. "My souls are ordered to touch you not, but there are other things in my realm which may make your journey hard. Return with Níðhöggr's heart, and the water you so need, and then I shall see that you are returned to Asgard without a stain of my world remaining on your souls."
Thor bowed his head. "We thank-you, milady Queen."
Hel waved her hand, this one the one of living flesh and bone. "Ganglati. Ganglöt." At her call, two shades came forth, splitting from the shadows to come and bow before their queen. "It will be night in my realm soon, and if there is one thing you wish not to do, it is to take on the perils of Náströnd after the day has fled. Please, take rest in my Hall tonight, and start your journey at first light."
Sif felt Thor's hesitation as her own. Already they had spent so much time away . . .
Hel saw their traded look. In answer she said, her words soft, "I can feel your brother's soul." Her eye's fluttered closed, seeing past what they could. "Still it is a spark to my senses. You have time," she assured, her voice surprisingly compassionate for one who had seen so very much of death. So very much of strife. "Not much. But you have time enough to take a night to rest."
"Then," Thor's voice wavered, the emotion within it thick, "we accept the offer of your hospitality."
Hel inclined her head. "I am glad."
Again Thor bowed, and Sif mirrored him. Hel's gaze turned from Thor, and when it fell in turn, it was long upon her. Searching, Sif almost found it to be. But it did not burden her. Reflected in the other's gaze, she almost imagined that she saw the same curiosity that defined her own stare.
"Besides, something tells me that you rested but little while in Mara's care," Hel's voice turned cheekily, a sly and subtle humor in her voice that Sif instinctively found herself turning towards. "It would be best to face Náströnd with a fresh mind and sharp eyes."
Thor snorted ruefully. "Aye, indeed it would be."
Hel smirked, before turning to Garmr and the shades. "Please, show our guests to where they can rest, and see that they are fed. Tomorrow morn, they have a dragon to slay."
.
.
The quarters within Éljúðnir were as grand as the rest of the palace was. The walls were black and gleaming, and the space of the room was dominated by a plush bed topped with furs and pillows stuffed with feathers. On the cold floor, the black marble was covered by a massive white fur rugs; so thick and soft that Sif immediately took off her boots in order to feel the texture of it under her feet. In the corner of the room opposite the hearth, there was an inset pool for bathing, the water within eternally warm and clear. Sif took use of that, and while she did so, a shade - Ganglati? she guessed - slipped forth without her call in order to take her armor away – to clean it, Sif hoped, for the shade said nothing aloud. At the very least, she was pretty sure that she would have it returned by the morning.
After bathing, she donned a simple tunic and leggings to sleep, and twisted her wet hair in a knot at the base of her neck. While she dressed for the night, Ganglati again brought food from Hel's kitchen, but Sif did not partake in the food of the ninth realm. Instead, she took out what remained of their trail rations, and took to supping on that as she looked over the map that Hel had gifted to them. Carefully she began to chart out a path through Náströnd, trying to decide what would be the quickest and safest way to Hvergelmir, and the healing waters which awaited them there.
It was like this that Thor found her some time later. His quarters were separated from her own by only an ebony door, and he knocked briefly before entering. He still wore his armor, and his hair was slick and grainy with the mire of the caverns and the water of Mara's pools. He had not taken time to ready himself for the night.
Sif raised a brow at his appearance. "Have you been pacing this entire time?" she asked, her tone teasing.
"More or less," Thor waved her question away, his voice aloft, even as his cheeks flushed pink. "This place unsettles me," he admitted, "and I cannot seem to find my rest."
Sif turned her head at that, and wondered why Helheimr seemed to embrace her so, for she had felt not a moment's discomfort while taking her rest. Just as quickly, she turned the thought away – telling herself that it was just her own pragmatism that made it so. One took provisions where one could find them. Nothing more, and nothing less.
And speaking of . . .
"Here, sit down and have something to eat," she said, patting the edge of her bed. "It will do neither us - nor Loki, any good if you are to pass out from not taking care of yourself when we go up against the dragon."
Thor snorted, and eyed the food of Hel which Sif had ignored in favor of her own.
"Garmr insisted that the food was brought in fresh," Thor said. "But, there have been too many tales told of the underworld and its food."
Sif snorted ruefully. "I agree," she said, holding her pouch of dried meat up to Thor. "Here, I've already had my fill." She tossed the meat to him.
He caught the pouch. His smile turned, before he gestured to the canister she still held by her side. She rolled her own eyes, before passing the ale over to him too.
He ate thoughtfully while Sif continued to look at the map. His eyes slipped over her chamber – the ornate furs, the polished walls, and the hanging tapestries - the fire that burned warmly in its hearth. He then said, "I would never have imagined Helheimr to be as it is."
Sif glanced about, her gaze turning. "It is a kingdom unto itself," she agreed.
And Thor leaned back, considering. "If I was asked what kind of bed Hel used just mere days ago, I would have called her bed Sickness. Her knife Hunger. Her table Strife."
Sif placed her map aside, finally done for the night. For a moment she was silent as she fell back into the furs that layered the bed. They caught her, and willingly she drowned "That's because you and Fandral were too busy going on with your own stories while Master Eldgrim gave his lectures."
Thor snorted. "Hel's three legged horse, and the broom she used to sweep mortals away during a pestilence or a famine was a great tale," he defended. "Epically so."
"Worthy of a bard," Sif agreed absently, hugging one of the pillows to her chest and sweeping her other arm underneath the one she had her head on. After so many nights of her saddle for her pillow and the hard ground for her bed, she was not one to turn down a bit of luxury.
Thor, though, was still stiff on the edge of her bed. His armor gleamed dully. His face was furrowed.
"We shall be returning home by tomorrow eve," she spoke were she saw him pained. Ever easy was Thor to read, and this before her was no exception. "Stay your heavy thoughts, and find some rest. Níðhöggr shall be no easy foe."
"I know," Thor said, his tone soft.
Still his gaze pulled.
So Sif reached out and settled her palm against his shoulder. His armor was cold under her hand, but still it did not guard his heart. "We shall return to Loki his breath," she vowed. "This is a truth. Treat it as such."
Thor's gaze was weighing. She held it. "This dragon . . . he is to be our people's end. Do you understand what it shall mean for prophesy should we do this? It is much Hel asks of us, and the Nornir have already wrote Níðhöggr's fate as he who burns Yggdrasil alive. We are not fated to succeed."
And Sif felt her determination burn, fierce and bright. They were the same fates who said that she was meant for bride and hearth tender. The same fates who said that Loki had no place amongst Asgard with his magicks. Sif had spent her entire life spitting in the face of that which was already written – and this would be no different.
"I dare the Nornir to try to take this ending away from me," was what she said. "From you. We have faced many a foe when it was said we could not emerge the victor. And here we are, still standing where so many others have fallen. The future holds so much in store for you – for Loki. Your endings will not be told by a paltry vial of poison, and a mad dragon."
"If we do succeed then," still Thor tried to make the thought work in his mind.
"When we succeed," Sif interrupted fiercely.
"When we succeed," Thor conceded. " . . . what will that mean for prophesy?"
And at that, she smiled. "It means, that someday, even the Twilight will be something we can face, and come out of triumphant."
Thor snorted ruefully. "I hope you are right, my friend. I hope you are right."
"As do I," Sif said, her voice turning down at the edges. Her hand fell away from Thor's shoulder.
He stood, placing down the empty pouch, and her equally empty canteen. She made a face when she saw that he had saved none of the drink for her.
And then flopped back down, effectively shooing him away. She flicked her hand dismissively. "Now leave me be. You smell enough to wake the dead around us, and I shall not travel with you upon the morning hour if you do not bathe tonight."
Finally, that drew a laugh from her friend. "I shall bathe then, in fear of offending your lady like sensibilities," Thor declared, his bow low and mocking.
She gave an indignant squawk of a noise. "Ladylike sensibilities? To expect my companion to be clean when he can be so?"
"Indeed," Thor nodded solemnly. "Next thing you know, you will be lamenting dirt under your nails and blood upon your skin."
Sif held up a pillow threateningly. "Shall I show you what I think of a maiden's graces?"
Thor ignored her, and continued. "You will trade in your armor for fine dresses, and moan when a sudden breeze throws even one hair out of its place -"
And well, she had warned him. She threw her one pillow, which he blocked with an arm. "Of the two of us, I am not the one so concerned over my golden tresses," she hissed in return. No, that had always been Thor's secret vanity.
"Oh yes, now I remember," Thor carried on. "You were the one who managed to convince my brother to shave your head completely – I forgot. Now, how fetching you look with your black hair – such a dirty shade you now favor, fitting for a woman doing a man's work." His tone mocked.
At the comment (one which had one time sent her cheeks burning as Sigyn's dainty laughter delivered the insult), she felt her laughter bloom in her throat, long and rusty from disuse. Still she aimed another pillow, but the blow she threw at him hit the door as he retreated. His laughter still echoed for a minute more from behind the closed way, and Sif rolled her eyes at her friend's antics.
Shaking her head, she once again she laid down to sleep.
.
.
And in the Hall of the half-alive Queen, Sif dreamed.
She dreamed that she was older, with her hair tied back in a matron's braid, and wearing not armor nor leather, but instead a woman's kirtle and hangerok. The undermost gown was soft and silver, made from the finest of fibers for one who had married into the house of Odin. The hangerok over the first layer was a deep and metallic shade of silvered red, shimmering like wine. She had oiled her hair to make it shine, and about her head she wore a thin silver diadem to denote her place amongst her people. Over her sleeves, she had winding silver bands set high upon her arms, spun into the shape of a snake. The gown she wore was her best one, and the look upon her face was her strongest one – meant for battles and dire, desperate things.
At her side, her husband did not wear his ceremonial garb – for such things were not made for such journeys. But he still wore his best, with his black leathers thick and strong, and his gold and green armor peaking out and shining – polished to gleam. He wore his hair longer than he did in the time they lived, black and gleaming from where it was gathered into a long tail at the base of his neck. Unlike many of Asgard's men, his face was still cleanly shaven, looking both youthful and bright in the half light of the world around them. He too wore a look more made for the battlefield upon his face. The flash of seiðr was a light in his eyes, a threat made for anyone who knew how to look.
And in Sif's arms, she held a bundle, a soft and small thing, tender and sleeping. A daughter, new to the world around her, with dark hair already dusting the crown of her head, and eyes that would be green – so incredibly green were she to blink. She slept as her mother walked, curled towards the heat that Sif gave off. She was swathed in golden fabric, the same of which Frigg had woven to cover both Thor and Loki in their infancy. The symbols of Odin's house gleamed on the fabric, a warning in of itself. Even in the dream, the child in her arms fit as if made to do so; and Sif had never felt more comfortable carrying anything else – not even sword or shield or dagger. The child in her arms was her great fight then, the husband at her side her shield and sword as they stood ready to take their arms.
The dream took place in a sheltered place. Around them was a forest – thick and green and primordial. Where the wood huddled together to form a concealed area, there was a well. The Well of Urðr, Sif recognized the runes etched into the face of it – a legendary thing to her people, whose very wood was made from the bark of Yggdrasil herself, its depths reaching all the way through the Great Mother to pierce the Ginnungagap below. Before the well sat the three Norn sisters, the fates who so governed the nine realms by their weaving.
The three sisters were Jötunn woman, snatched from the womb of creation when Yggdrasil was young, right before the Ancients had granted power to Bor Firstfather, whose family had governed Asgard and the nine realms from the beginning of time to where they were now.
Each sister saw one part of time – the past, the present, the future; and they were blind to anything but for their visions. Their fiery eyes were glazed over when Sif and Loki looked upon them, unseeing and blank. Together they weaved the destiny of all – their web stretched from east to west before their well, from whose depths they drew their thread. Their web was massive, silvered and shining, with millions upon millions of tiny lights dancing upon the gossamer strands – each light being symbolic for one of Yggdrasil's children. Eternally they crissed and crossed the lines, and by doing so, they did decide the future for all.
It was tradition amongst the foremost realms to bring ones child to the sisters for that child to receive its name and riddles for its future, and Sif had had to argue with her husband long and bitterly in order to see that the tradition upheld. She had no fond regards for the mistresses of Fate, but neither would she see their anger turned upon them. She would not see their slight play out bitterly for her daughter's future.
Her daughter, small and tiny in her hands, whom Sif now held tighter as her husband invoked the Nornir.
"Loki Odinson," Verðandi, the past, greeted.
"Sif Lokisbride," Urðr, the present, greeted as well.
"And your daughter," said Skuld, the most aware of the three, for already Urðr had looked away from them, the present passed. And Verðandi continued to silently weave, lost to what was behind.
Loki stood stiff and rigid before the Nornir and their well. Their eternal weaving never paused. Never ceased. And he said, "We have come to see the child's name told. If you would be so kind as to draw it from your well." His tone was imperious, a shield for the worry Sif could see clearly in his eyes.
She held her daughter tighter. Tiny fingers curled about her own in responce, strong even in her sleep.
"Long have we seen you coming," Verðandi remarked.
"And now you are here," Urðr added.
"For what will be," Skuld concluded. "Please, take a seat. Rest your feet, and drink from our well."
Loki was still for a moment before glancing to his wife. Sif nodded her head, and moved to take her seat on one of the stones that circled the Norn's clearing. Urðr was the one to give them each a chalice of water, while Skuld was the one to kneel before the child, her giantess' hands soft and gentle upon the babe's delicate skin.
Her thin lips stretched into a smile. It caught.
"A strong babe, born to strong parents," Verðandi said from past them as she wove. For that had already passed. "Hale and whole of heart and health."
"And for a name to match, we must weave," Urðr said, for that was to happen now. She passed over a pair of silver sheers to her sister upon saying so. Skuld took the shears, and inclined her head.
Sif unbraided her hair. Besides her, Loki took the tie restraining his own. When they had finished, Skuld's hands were quick as she took three strands each from Sif, and then from Loki. Three strands from their daughter then, as well, the strands tiny and delicate.
Skuld took the offerings, and sat again before the web. She handed one of each strand to each of her sisters, and then kept a set for her own. Diligently, their hands delicate and quick, they began to weave the strands – their web glowed, accepting the new additions as they added what was not there before into the vast web of fate. She criss and crossed the lines with other lines, other lives. Here and there she cut lines completely – took them away. Quicker and quicker their fingers spun. Quicker and quicker did their prophesies flow.
And Skuld, the future, said with her blind eyes bright, "You hold a child mighty in name, known the nine realms wide for endings."
Sif stiffened. Loki moved a hand over to grasp her hand. He held it tight.
"None are the endings she will cause – but those she will protect once gone. Those she will nurture once lost. To your daughter will belong power over the last lines. The final day, as well."
Riddles, always riddles, Sif thought. At her side, Loki listened, his brow furrowing.
"The Twilight shall come," Skuld continued, "and all will fall. But not, if for the sacrifice of one."
"Long has the line of Bor repressed where it should have nurtured," Verðandi said. "The Ancients, those who created all, will not let that line continue on for much longer."
"Cleanse itself, it shall," Urðr said. "Like the fires to a forest."
"But should they see the hope of one. The selflessness of one . . ." Skuld continued. "To the ninth realm shall the child of two worlds go. To the ninth realm she will reign, and with that power, all who will fall in the Twilight's golden hour shall rise up again to life anew."
"Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse," Urðr sung.
"Fire to smoke and forest to ash," Verðandi wove her voice with her sister's.
"Death," Skuld hissed the words. "Never her own fate, but her control over the fates of other. Your daughter shall hold Helheimr as her own, and take up her reign and right to rule. Return to the beginning of time she shall, and live life twice in order to complete our web. All shall live where once all have died."
At the words, Sif held her daughter tighter, her mouth open as the Nornir spun a future she could not even begin to comprehend – of all the things she had feared, she had not even . . . In her mother's hold, the child had opened her eyes, her green eyes bright, so very bright . . .
By her side, Loki had stood, his eyes filled with anger – not nearly as sedate as his wife. His closed fists trembled. "No," he said, the one word a command – as if just his words and power could change what the fates decreed as absolute. Around them, the clearing had darkened, the trees above rattled as if thrown by a great wind. The horizon had turned cold. Magic rattled in his veins, and the land responded.
Skuld merely looked up blindly. "She will save us all. Save what once was turned to flame by your folly. In that other time, the first time. In the time when you did not come back. When you set the Great Mother aflame with the hate in your eyes. Now, will you stand by your golden brother's side? Will you fight against the Ancient's decree? Fight and die and yet live again – cleansed as through fire. Made pure through fire. All for the girl-child in your arms."
"She," and the word in Loki's mouth was a caress, "will not fall for my mistakes. Give me her place – I shall descend to the ninth realm for her . . . Power over the dead, it is nothing one person – an innocent one should be cursed with."
"But her innocence gives her the purity needed to judge," said Skuld.
"You too long have let the darkness win," Urðr added.
"Not anymore," Loki insisted. "And I don't accept this. We never have. The futures are always turning – always, and we will not abide by this one."
"No choice," Urðr said.
"Already written," Verðandi added.
"And for the best," Skuld concluded.
"The best for whom?" and then Loki thundered. "With everyone your prophesies have touched – the lengths that have been taken to alter them and write those anew – more harm has been done than good. More pain than healing."
"Scars burn when closing. When healing," Urðr said.
"They always have," Verðandi added.
"And they always will," Skuld concluded.
"Not while I live," and here, Loki vowed.
"You have never been the one who follows our words," Urðr said.
"But He shall," Verðandi pointed out.
And Skuld decreed, "The Allfather shall do what is best for his realm. And to the ninth realm, its Queen shall go." Her voice was final.
In Sif's arms, her daughter began to cry. She tried to sooth and shush the child while her husband and the Nornir spoke – each delivering their blows. In Loki's shadow, she ran her hand softly over her child's hair. Still she stood at Skuld's last declaration, the war on her face hot and harsh.
"I dare him to touch one hair on the girl's head," and for the first Sif spoke, her teeth bared, ready to tear flesh and render it asunder. Too long had fists been closed tight around what she did call her own. No more. Never again.
Still her daughter cried. Loki glanced at them, and when the child would not quiet, he took his daughter from her. As always, the child fell silent at his touch, her smile full and rounded when she was in her father's hold. He had taken to parenthood as he had to his spells, Sif had long thought with pride, and to now know that their time was already counted. Already numbered . . .
"Always for the best, he thinks he moves," Urðr said.
"Always will he, as well," Verðandi added.
And Skuld said, her blind eyes aflame, "Do you wish to know your daughter's name?"
And Sif, besides Loki, turned her face up to meet their future.
"Your daughter, her name . . ."
Loki held her daughter closer. He had one arm about the child, and his other hand came to find hers – always was he standing as both sword and shield before her. Always would she too stand as vanguard for what she held dearest to her.
"Her name . . ."
.
.
"Sif."
Her name was being spoken.
Distantly, as if trying to surface from a great depth, she awakened.
"Milady Sif," there was a soft hand at her shoulder, rousing her from her dreams.
Sif blinked, and slowly the world around her came into focus. She saw shadows – her room in Éljúðnir, she remembered as awareness came back to her. In the hearth, embers still burned, casting a faint, warm light on the room. There was a weight dipping on the bed where another being had settled; soft and slight.
Fully awake, Sif snapped to attention when she registered the presence of another, coming to sit upright in her bed with her pulse speeding as if anticipating an attack. But there was no assailant with her; no ghoul or dark and fiendish thing. There was just Hel herself, regarding her with a wry smile that pulled up the dead corner of her lips.
"I'm sorry, I did not mean to startle you," said the dread queen, and Sif shook her head, as if trying to understand why the other woman was in her chambers. Her hands clenched, but she had no weapon by her side. No reason to use it yet, anyway, not that she saw . . .
Hel must have seen the question in her eyes, for next she said, "I heard you," in a soft voice. "You dreamed, and you did not dream well."
Sif held a hand to her head, where she did indeed feel a tightening behind her temples. A weight pushing against her eyes. She had dreamed . . .
"Dreams in my realm are odd things," Hel continued. "Time moves differently here – it pools and collects as the ocean through a seashell, and the living can see visions, if that is the correct labeling for such things. They see things which have happened. Things which may still happen. Things which may never happen. Most of the time, it is not a pleasant experience."
Still Sif cradled her head. She had dreamed . . . "I don't remember what I saw," she confessed, her voice frustrated. For such a fear she had felt there in. Such a fear, and such a love . . . such a devotion. "It was not a memory," she knew that much. "It was something else . . ."
"That which is to come, then," Hel said quietly. "Or what never was."
"It must have been," Sif said, lowering her hand to look at the other woman curiously. Here she was, sitting with the Mistress of Niflheimr, and telling her of her foul dreams. The other woman had shedded her courtly finery – her headpiece was gone, and her voluminous robes had been traded for a simple black gown, which still shone with the same fabric as the other. "I thank-you," she said then, her voice slipping into something more formal. "For waking me."
Hel's grin slipped. It was sharp. "I do not sleep much, I'm afraid. Restless souls, and all that. I am sorry if I startled you further, though."
Sif shook her head, "No, you did not startle me." She held the other's gaze curiously.
Hel stood then, and tilted her head, her eyes considering. Sif tilted her chin up, and let the other look unhindered, knowing that she was being weighed with criteria that was past her knowledge.
"If you find that sleep shall be elusive to you for much longer," Hel said carefully, "would you like to come with me? There is something that I would like to show you."
Sif considered the request, searching for a threat and finding none. The same easiness she had felt from the moment she had entered Helheimr returned. It embraced her. And she said, "Yes."
The dread queen nodded. "Well then," and she inclined her head towards the door.
Sif kicked the covers away, and paused only to pull on her boots over her leggings. Hel waited patiently for her by the door all the while. When she was ready, they slipped into Éljúðnir's dark halls. Sif followed closely at Hel's heels, hearing the night-song that the souls sung in the air. It was a haunting melody, one that played at her skin, and pooled next to her heart.
She followed Hel back to the throneroom, but this time, they disappeared through a small door behind Hel's throne . . . and they emerged in a place that Sif had only ever heard about in legends.
The Chamber of Souls.
The chamber was a circular room, held up by nine golden columns, and ringed with black marble stairs that seemed to lead down into a pool of stars. The stars - souls, Sif reminded herself, pooled towards Hel as soon as she entered, as if pulled by the gravity of her. On the steps, there was a scale – the weights and balances what would have been used to judge a soul's final resting place.
"I come here often when I can't sleep," Hel admitted to her, her voice a whisper. "The souls sing, even if they are black at heart, and their song lulls me."
Indeed, the swirl and pulse of the room was something infinite. Something timeless that made Sif's eyes feel heavy. Her heart pulsed, slow and steady in time to the song – a mother's lullaby that had survived from the times of creation.
Gracefully, Hel descended down into the pool of souls. They clung to her black dress and her dark hair until it looked as if she were the night sky, adorned by her stars, as she searched through the souls until she found the one she which she sought – a soul that shone green and verdant in the palm of her hand. A soul whose light flickered. It waned, and yet, in the hand of Hel, its light was that much stronger. It gleamed that much brighter.
Sif, who had not dared to enter the sea of stars, descended to the bottom most step, and waited. Hel waded back over to her, and took a seat upon the steps, gesturing for Sif to do the same.
"This soul is his," said she.
His.
Sif did not need to ask, she knew already that the soul was Loki's. With trembling hands, Sif reached out and took the soul when Hel offered it to her.
Loki's soul, she tried to wrap her mind around the concept. She was holding Loki's soul in her hands. In the most literal of ways.
It looked to be nothing more than a small orb of light, but it blazed like a small sun in her hands, iridescent and brilliant. The tips of its flames were green, pulsing and living and breathing at her touch. It flashed brighter the longer she held it, and a far off, deeply hidden part of her hoped that the soul recognized her. Hoped that it knew that one who did adore him held him as her own.
She breathed in deep with her wonder. Her breath caught.
"I knew of what you dreamed," Hel said. "It is impossible for me not to. Not here. Not in the heart of my realm. And I wanted to show you, that even where light wanes, still it shines."
The tales Sif had heard of death did not fit the one she was having rewrite before her; this did not fit with the truths she had thought to hold as absolute. She only knew stories, and now before her, the reality of Helheimr and its mistress turned at her mind.
"In looking through the eyes of these souls I have seen every black deed," Hel said then, answering the question in her eyes, "but, I have also seen every beautiful act. I have seen kindness, selflessness, love and hate and saints and martyrs and sinners all. I have lived as a father, and as a mother. As son and daughter. As husband and wife. As friend and monarch and monster and villain. Each life has been mine to live. And through them, lived I have."
"How did you come to be in this place?" Sif finally asked, waving her hand in an all encompassing gesture around them.
"Honestly, through decree of Odin," Hel answered in the simplest way there was.
Sif's brow furrowed, confused. "I do not understand," she finally said. "I have studied his reign – have lived for a great deal of it, and I remember no such decree."
"That is because it is still one to come," Hel said. "I am born centuries later than when you now live, and thanks to the Nornir and their words, Odin will cast me to the beginning of time in order to nurture every soul who has died since the Great Beginning. Yggdrasil cast an empty role in the cosmos, and it was his duty to fill it. For prophesy. For all of us."
"That is . . . a story that stretches the mind," Sif finally said, unsure of how to phrase her thoughts. Her mind swam under the weight of magic and time and its mysteries.
"I have become used to it," Hel shrugged, the souls clinging to her shining. "And I have taken to it well enough."
The weight of the souls, and the nothingness of Helheimr . . . "It is a great burden to carry," still Sif said, her heart turning with pain, though she knew not why.
"In the beginning, it was," Hel said ruefully. "When I first came here, this land looked to be like every horror story the men of Earth like to tell. The land burned. It was dark and cruel and unforgiving. And I was very young when I was cast here – not even your age, and I did find my task to be overwhelming at the time."
That same blade in her chest turned. It sickened. "I can only imagine," she whispered. The dark of Niflheimr. Nothing but the storms and beasts like Mara to keep her company, and the silent souls with their dead eyes . . .
"But the longer I stayed here, the more clearly I could hear the same song you hear now," Hel said. "I began to build a kingdom here – with Garmr's help, who was but a wolf growling at the souls when I first came. He took the form of a man in order to teach to me my powers – for, indeed, I was created with Niflheimr in my heart. The land embraced me, and I became one with it." She gestured to the decaying half of her body. "This came with time, as well, as my kindredness with the land grew. The next time I saw they who had begotten me, and he who had banished me, I was already one with my realm. The Nornir had not woven a false prophesy."
Sif snorted ruefully. "I do not know if I would be able to hold on to your views."
"I have had centuries to come to terms with them," Hel's voice peaked with amusement, but she did not laugh. "I protect the souls, I serve the realm, and I fight against the onset of prophesy – as do we all."
Around them, time continued to swirl on. Before them the souls danced, and in her palm, Loki's own soul cast such a light. "Why do you tell me this?" Sif finally asked. "The secrets of Helheimr have always been many, and I am merely a shield-maiden waylaid to your land by a quest."
And Hel considered for a moment, her eyes hooded. Even on the deadened side of her face, her lashes were long and full. "Because," she finally whispered, "I want you to understand what you fight for tomorrow. I want you to see all that the dragon seeks to destroy – in every realm." She gestured to the sea of stars before them, every life in every realm tumbling over each other in an eternal dance.
"I . . ." and Sif's voice faltered. It fell. "I thank-you for this honor," she finally said, although she wanted to say so much more. Sif, who normally was such a blade, wanted to sooth and make sure with her words – she wanted to know if the other woman was happy. Wanted to see her skin alive and whole again. She ached with the pain of the dread queen, and she could not tell herself why.
"The honor is mine," said the Queen, and gently, she took Loki's soul back from Sif. Sif, who did not know how much harm it did to the soul to be held by living hands, passed it back without protest, feeling oddly cold in the absence of the light he had cast.
Slowly, Sif once again got to her feet. Once standing, she cast a last look at the sea of souls. The tide of them called to her, as if they wished to pull her in. Unconsciously, she leaned towards them.
And Hel saw her gaze. "You may leave now," she said softly. "It is not a healthy place for the living to be for too long – not if you value your soul within your body still." Her smile was a half smirk, and at the shape of it, Sif felt her eyes searching.
She knew that shape . . . but she could not put her finger on it.
Hel waved a hand, and a shade split away from the shadows. "Here," she said. "If you do not remember the way back to your room, Ganglati shall lead you. The dawn comes within hours, and the dragon awaits."
Didn't it always?
Sif shook her head at the reminder, and willed her odd thoughts away. When she turned to say her goodbyes to the Queen, the other woman had already forgotten her, lost as she stared at the verdant flame in her hand. And from its depths she did not look away for a long, long time.
.
.
From the shadows, Garmr Helhound did not emerge until the shield-maiden was gone.
Hel was still staring down at the soul in her hand past when Sif had left. It flickered at her touch. It waned. But it did not go out. Not yet.
She did not look up as Garmr sat down beside her. Caressing the soul with the first bone finger on her left hand, she said, "I did not realize how much I had missed her."
Garmr smiled gently, the expression meant to comfort. "Indeed," he agreed, his voice soft. "You two hold five glowers in common. And at least three smirks. A smile, as well, I think."
Hel snorted, the sound sharp. "I learned well at her side, did I not?"
"You are far from the coltish little girl wandering around lost in the wastes," Garmr agreed. "I thank them both for the spirit they begot you with – no one else would have been able to stand up to your post as you did. Create a kingdom as you did." He lifted his hands, encompassing Éljúðnir, and Helheimr all around them.
"With your help," Hel added, finally turning to him, her gaze warm. "I thank the fates that I was not left alone here. And I even thank them for what once was my curse, for I should not have found you if I stayed at my parent's side. If I never left the first realm."
"It is a selfish wish, having you here where you may have known a life amongst the living -"
" - but all are served this way," Hel's mouth turned ruefully. "In the end, it is a small price to pay." She reached over and rested her hand on his shoulder, her deadened fingers were a contrast to his healthy, full skin. Her living hand, he reached over to hold within his own. "Now," she said softly, "was Ivaldi able to fulfill my request?"
"Yes," Garmr nodded. "He was a hard soul to track down, especially when I told him what task he was to fulfill, but in the end, it was anything for Lady Hel . . ."
Hel raised a brow. "How silver you are with your words," she said slyly, her green eyes bright.
"I simply know the power of names," Garmr shrugged, his eyes turning wickedly as he reached over to undo the scabbard from his belt. He handed her the sword that was sheathed within – forged at her command, for Garmr was never one to us steel where his claws would do.
She took the sword from him; the handle made of silver and dark leather, the blade made of the darkest steel. The sword sparked at her touch, holding lightning within its depths. Once was, the metal that had been melted down to form the blade had held the very power of the storms themselves. Now, it would once again be the thing that delivered them from Níðhöggr's fiery breath.
The tip of her finger turned. It was a caress.
"And now it is a dangerous game you do play," Garmr said softly, his voice worried. "Unweaving what the Nornir have already woven as true . . ."
Hel took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. In that first future, she had taken her post at Niflheimr's gates so that the Ancient's fury would allow all to be reborn after Ragnarök's fury. Now, she had stood watch from the beginning of time, and she stood at the crossroads of Ragnarök coming again. She had already seen the Yggdrasil torn apart by flames once, and now, that would not be a future she would live through again.
And if she could tear one part of prophesy asunder today . . .
"No longer shall the fate of my souls be one of fire and ash and pain," Hel said, her voice as heavy with the future as Skuld's could ever hope to be.
Finally, she let the verdant soul go from her hand. It rejoined the dance of the stars before her, and she watched it.
Until, she spied the other soul whose actions had caught her attention. She picked up the black and decaying orb of light – a blackhole in a sea of stars. She pressed two sharp nails into the orb of light. It did not writhe in pain, but in anger. In her hand, the dragon roared.
And Hel looked on without mercy. "And pray, Níðhöggr, that I so have mercy upon your soul."
Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness
Gnipahellir: The caverns in Niflheimr underneath the Helgafjell mountains, where Mara rests, and Garmr stands watch.
Éljúðnir: The hall of Hel, within the center of Helheimr (the ninth realm) which is upon the world Niflheimr, the homeworld of ice, located beneath the third root of the Yggdrasil.
Ginnungagap: Literally means 'yawning void'. This was the chaos that the universe was created from.
Ganglati and Ganglöt: Hel's two servants in the myths, their names both meaning 'lazy walker'.
Náströnd: Comparable to the Greek Tartarus – the black part of Hel's realm where evil souls were cast to in the afterlife. Here they were devoured by the dragon, Níðhöggr.
Níðhöggr: The dragon imprisoned in Niflheimr, who gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil and devours the evil dead. He, along with Surtr, will be the two to set fire to the Yggdrasil during Ragnarök.
Hvergelmir: The spring in Niflheimr where all cold rivers come from. This spring is beneath the dragon's nest.
The Nornir: Plural for 'Norn'. These three Jötunn sisters are the fates. Skuld, who sees the future. Urðr who sees the present, and Verðandi who sees the past.
Kirtle and hangerok: A Viking form of clothing for women, the 'apron dress', or 'hanging dress', which consisted of a first layer of fabric - a smock like dress, and then a hanging tunic like piece called the hangerok - whose straps were normally fixed with broaches or some other ornamentation.
Hel: My Hel (Hel when spoken formally, Hela when within the family) is quite different from Marvel's version of Hela, and the myths, too actually. Her being half dead and half alive I took from the myths, and her role in guiding the dead who did not die in war are too from the myths. Pretty much everything else is just my own imagination and artistic liberty.
Hel's Domain: Is only explained as being dark and gloomy in the myths. Marvel often showed Helheimr to mirror the Christian version of Hell. Neither really suited me or my plans, and so, once again, artistic liberty was taken.
Thor's Stories about Hel: Were actually straight from the myths. Hel's bed was Sickness, her dish Hunger, her knife was Famine. And she did have a three legged horse she would ride through the land and sweep the dead away during a famine or outbreak of pestilence.
Hel as Sif's Daughter: I briefly touched at this in my drabble series "Harken Forth", but this is the much larger expansion/explanation. In the myths, Hel was Angrboða's daughter, and part of the three monsters Loki spawned. But, since I already wrote Jörmungandr as a more cosmic entity than anything else, and then replaced Fenrir with Garmr, I figured that this too could turn to putty in my hands.
Sif's Dream: It was indeed customary to have a Norn tell the future of your child at their birth. I added in the Norns picking the names, as well. Once again, prophesy is an interesting entity to play with.
Ivaldi: Father of the dwarfs Brokkr and Sindri, who forged Mjölnir and Gungnir and a dozen other things in the myths.