Author's Note: Hello all! I wanted to thank every one of you for your continued patience and support. The feedback I have gotten for this story thus far has been nothing short of humbling, and words can't express how much I do adore you all. It has been one of *those* months, if you know what I mean, so this last chapter was slow in coming - but the Avengers are assembling next week (for the love of SQUEE!), so I can almost guarantee the next chapter coming quickly. But, for now, here is the end of the dragon, and the second to last chapter in this beast of a fic. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed penning it. :)
Part XIII: our fire to breathe
Sif fell.
Around her, the great waterfall of Hvergelmir roared. She could tell neither up from down, nor side from side; instead, all she knew was the water and its weight with its great and terrible sound. If she had thought the resonance of the dragon to be a sound of terror, as thundering as a blow, then the rush of the water around her made the dragon seem as a thumb sized lizard upon a leaf, hissing up at the wide world above it. The waters were pummeling against her, savagely so. They pushed and pressed and struck until it was as if she had a Jötunn warrior striking against every part of her all at once. Her armor was useless to protect her against the onslaught. She could not get her lungs to expand under the weight. She could not breathe. She gulped in short breathes, at a loss to find air amongst the water and the brine and the mists. The water was like the waves in the harshest of ocean storms, falling down and ever down, rather than rolling up and over from the deep depths of the sea.
Her hands reached, but she had nowhere to reach to. Even the effort of moving her arms in the water was a great feat, and her muscles, which were strong enough to throw Thor without straining, protested her misuse of them. From far below her, the river of Gjöll waited from where Hvergelmir poured into its mouth, gleaming like an icy blue ribbon in the grey mire of Náströnd. It was a river whose depths she would not come to know, she thought, for she doubted she would even survive the fall in order to know the sensation of landing. That, at least, would be a small mercy to her.
Her eyes narrowed then, and a cross voice in her mind protested such an ignoble end coming to the warring daughter of Týr. It was not to be this way! Her end was not be written by an elemental force that she had no control over. Her death was to someday come with steel in her side and blood thick on her fingers, and -
Sif thought for a moment of Loki, and hoped that Thor would be able to finish off Níðhöggr by himself. She hoped that Loki would open his eyes again, and she desperately hoped that would not mourn her too terribly. She would not see him lost to the dark parts of his eyes because of her. Not after everything she had done to keep to them their light . . .
She hoped . . . and the water took her.
And then, when she had finally let her bones go liquid and accept her fall, she heard something. Past the roar of the water, she heard . . . a whinny? Yes, yes she did. She heard the neigh of a horse. Multiple neighs, if she heard correctly past the maelstrom in her ears. The cries were equine, sharp and fierce, as if drawn from deep throats; harsh, as if screamed. The sound soared, more avian than anything uttered by those who walked on four legs.
Then, a strong hand curved over the wrist of her gauntlet. The hand gave a mighty pull.
And no longer did she fall.
Instead, Sif snapped her head up, and let her eyes widen in surprise. Through the mists and the thundering water around her she saw five winged horses, their coats glinting in the grey light of Náströnd.
. . . hippogryphs? She identified the beings before her, her thoughts stuttering stupidly.
Dumbly, her mind tried to translate what her eyes were seeing before her. For she had seen true, there was no doubt – before her were five mares, each the strong and beautifully winged horses that had stood up high on the canyon walls while Thor took his sport against the more ferocious looking stallions.
And upon three of the hippogryphs, were the Mórrigan themselves, each one battle strong with eyes that blazed alight, cutting through the fierce gloom of Náströnd.
It was Badb who had caught her, Sif saw. The woman's hands were thick, near as thick as Thor's, and no doubt just as callused under the thick leather gloves she wore. Her stern face never changing, she lifted up, and Sif curved into the motion to aid her – catching herself on the momentum and swinging her body over so that she sat astride Badb's mount, right behind the other woman. The mare under her gave a mighty neigh at her second passenger, but her massive wings continued to beat sure and steady against the wind, pushing them up and up further still, away from the fall of Hvergelmir.
Sif looked up as they rode the wind, awed by the great wings above her, so much like those of an eagle, but massively so. The mare's dainty hooves flashed in the air, as if she wished to run upon the currents of wind as her brethren did across the fields and plains far below. Sif then remembered their battle in the canyons. She remembered lion's paws and beaked mouths, horns and flashing eyes and -
"You looked like you needed a ride to the top," came a chortling voice. Macha, Sif remembered the second strand of the Mórrigan's cord to be called.
Her tongue was heavy in her mouth as she tried to realign the events that had just transpired into some semblance of logic in her mind. "Indeed," Sif's voice was full of her astonishment. Her eyes were still very wide. Her wet hair had slipped to drip down before her eyes. She did not yet push it away. "How did you come to be in this place to offer your aid? No," she adjusted her question, "why would you wish to offer your assistance as such?"
Anann's smile was wry. "The sons of Odin, with you as well, completed my Quest of Proof, did you not?"
"Yes," Sif said, the syllable tripping out, as if in protest. But that had been for the life Thor had taken, not -
"You proved your worth for a mount of Macha's brood," Anann said simply. "Events transpired that delayed the gifting of your prize."
"It took some time to arrange the spells that would allow us into Helheimr," Badb said then in further explanation, her voice low and grave. As always, it slithered up and down Sif's bones. It scraped as sand did. "Else wise, you would not have walked against Níðhöggr without aid."
And Sif thought then of Badb's dead eyes and corpse like skin. Of course, she understood, for Badb's mother was the fertility of blood spilled upon the battlefield. Her father was the killing blows of war. She who was born of war's price of death would be able to walk the secret paths into Hel's land. Sif thought of the ways between ways then, and her heart jumped when she thought of Loki and his spells, and then Thor above, fighting for his brother's soul . . .
She would not be one to question a gift from the sisters of fate, Sif decided. Her eyes turned fierce as her heart rekindled with the heat of the battle to come. "Thor fights the dragon," she said, her voice taking on the tone of general and commander. War wrung in her veins, flowing from her the same as it did from the women who had saved her. "We must aid him."
"Indeed," Anann's voice was an arrow, slung back from a quiver. "Here, sister," she bid then, reaching over from her own mount to pass a leading line to Sif. The leather lead was warm in Sif's hand when she took it, and it led back to one of the riderless hippogryphs.
She looked back to the mare that was being offered to her, and felt her heart seize when she recognized the dappled grey mare she had first spied in the heard, back what felt like an eternity ago. She remembered this mare – remembered the way the sun had shone on the highs points of the white splotches in her coat, remembered the way the canyon shadows had darkened the charcoal shades in the low points of her. The mare flew forward when called, hovering right next to Badb's mount.
"Gísl," Macha gave the name of the mare. "And a wise choice you made."
"I did not know that I chose," Sif said; her eyes greedy, her fingers tight.
"Your eyes chose," Macha tapped her own brow. "Your heart knew, as did Gísl's. It is a right match." Macha then gestured over to the last mare they had with them – a white and fierce looking creature who threw her head and neighed to where she could hear the dragon strike above. While the body of the hippogryph was all white and gleaming, her mane and tail was a brilliant shade of gold. The startling shade was one Sif had seen on no mount before, seemingly spun from dwarfish thread to give her the gleam of beaten metal. She threw her head arrogantly, as if she knew of her beauty, and her dark eyes flashed with the sound of the storms above. "And Gullfaxi is a brute of a mare. She shall be right matched with the Thunderer." Macha scowled. "I am glad that she will no longer be terrorizing my herd." Her words were cross, but her eyes were fond on the mare.
Sif's smile was sharp as she gathered herself in order to make the switch from Badb's mount to her own. She took a breath, and ignored their high place in the sky in order to leap nimbly over to Gísl's back. The mare flew steady and straight, not so much as flinching at the weight of her new rider. Instead, she nickered softly, and Sif could feel the seiðr in the creature's soul as she found her center and her seat. The mare under her was powerful and poised, an ancient elegance in her bones that went beyond anything Sif had ever experienced before.
She threaded the reins through her fingers. Still she was sodden, soaked to the bone, and the great currents of air that the hippogryph's wings created chilled her. Náströnd hollered, but no longer did the sound of it bear teeth. It had no fangs.
Above them, the dragon continued to roar.
"Shall we?" Anann asked wryly when Sif had settled.
And Sif urged Gísl forward. "We shall."
They ate up the distance between the bottom and the top of the fall of Hvergelmir as easy as breathing, and Sif fought against the urge to lose herself in the thrill of riding her winged horse. Instead, she unsheathed her glaive once more, and narrowed her eyes for the fight ahead. Her left hand felt bare without her shield to grasp, as if she wore no armor at all and every part of her was vulnerable and open.
The lip of Níðhöggr's prison loomed before them.
They crested . . .
To the sight of flames.
The battle had progressed then, Sif thought with a drop to her stomach. Within the flames, lightning traveled in broad spirals, as if the flames were clouds enough to hold the fury of Thor's storms. The storms just kept building, Sif thought, her stomach twisting at the sight of Thor's might. It was rare when her friend was moved to strike so in battle. As it was, she could think of no other time when she had seen the storms rage so tempestuously from the first son's hands. The storms grew and grew and grewuntil Thor was nothing more than an electric blue spear in the center of the storms, conducting the lightning as it bent and built and struck all around him. Her bones trembled with the taste of thunder in the air. She could feel the static as it built, she could hear the pressure of it as a popping noise in her ears.
She heard Thor roar from within the storm's eye – a terrible and great sound, more than enough to match the dragon as he unleashed all of his considerable fury upon the wyrm. And such a fury it was; fury for the loss he had thought she had suffered, fury for the loss that would come to his brother were he to fail in slaying the dragon.
And Níðhöggr merely laughed.
From the storm's striking point, the dragon consumed the lightning. Blue flames forked at his mouth when he breathed the storms in. The glow reflected from his eyes as he exhaled with a storm of his own – flames, yellow and hot and all consuming as he played with the Thunderer his own game. They were matched in that manner, Thor and the wyrm, as they were both born from Múspellsheimr's great might. Her eyes spied out Níðhöggr's massive jaws, and was immediately relieved to see her shield still lodged in the wyrm's sharp fangs. The steel was glowing, the light pouring off of it like the storms that snapped on the face of the sun, but coldly set. The icy blue light seemed to corrupt Níðhöggr's skin, she saw, curious. Starting at her shield, long lines spider-webbed and cracked about the dragon's lip and beak, like frostbite and cold sores, mapping out a weakness on the dragon's scales for one who knew where to push.
But her curiosity was cut short by the sound of fury that then poured from Thor's mouth. It was a desperate cry, angry and pained, and her heart ached with the echo of it. In her hand, her glaive was ready and the war in her veins was hot. She trembled, the whole of her called to arms behind the Thunderer at his call.
"He will not draw a victory this way," Anann said then, hovering in the air besides Sif. "His storms can do naught against the wyrm."
If not by playing to his strengths, then how . . . Sif thought wildly. Hel had mentioned fire and ice, but they bore only fire in their souls, nothing more.
. . . if only Loki, her mind started the thought before she chopped it off at its head. Such thoughts had no place in battle. Especially in a battle that was about to turn their way.
Níðhöggr tilted his massive head, looking with his glazed pupils out of reflex, even though his eyes were blind to all around him. His forked tongue tasted the air. Thor, offended by the dragon's loss of attention, swung with Mjölnir, but Níðhöggr merely flicked him away.
And then, Níðhöggr stilled.
"Daughter's of War," his voice cut through the flames, extinguishing them. His mad eyes swiveled, the glaze over his pupils parting to reveal a carrion red so deep that it burned. "Níðhöggr can smell you – all of you." Again his forked tongue tasted. "Shepherdess . . . Herdswoman . . . Reaper . . . Týrdottir. . . Dost thou know how thy blood sings to Níðhöggr? How thy blood beats and beckons and strikes as a blow to Níðhöggr's senses . . ."
At the words from Níðhöggr, Thor's gaze snapped from the battle before him, and over to the crest of Hvergelmir's fall. There was such a hope upon his face, and then such a relief, his smile wide and splitting his countenance from ear to ear. He was covered in soot, and his armor was scorched, but the look in his eyes was enough to make all right for a moment. Sif nodded her head to him, sharing his relief as her own.
They both lived, but with the dragon standing before them . . .
They were back where they had started.
The realization was a dagger at Sif's heart, sharper than any of the dragon's blows thus far. She ached with it. And Níðhöggr laughed. The sound traveled up and down her bones. She could feel it in the deepest parts of her.
"Flames and steel," Níðhöggr mocked. "Long have Níðhöggr's scales suffered the blows of such. Strike now, and find thy end as those who have come before."
Níðhöggr inhaled deeply, his mad eyes alight.
Sif felt warning spike in her chest. "Take cover!" was Anann's useless order – for already were the arest of them darting for the concealment of the roots. The same trenches where Sif had tried to strike from earlier were now their protection as Níðhöggr bathed his prison in flames. She could feel the heat of it, sticking beneath the hot metal of her armor, and drying her where she had still been left cold and wet from Hvergelmir's might.
In that moment, she missed her shield. The loss was a pang to her.
But the shadow of the roots around them held them away from the inferno. The Mórrigan huddled together, the great wings of their hippogryphs tucking close to their bodies in order to share the small space around them. From where Sif had folded her body, presenting her back and the metal there to the flames, she felt Thor's hand, strong on her shoulder as the flames died away. Níðhöggr backed from the destruction he had wrought, and roared, scenting the air for a trace of them. They had but moments before he would find them.
But moments they would take.
"I am glad that you live, my friend," was the only indulgence allowed to them as Thor's large hand squeezed, his gratitude easy to read from the deepest part of his eyes. He never made any attempt to hide what he was feeling – in any circumstance, and this was no different.
Sif lifted her hand to cover his own, for just a moment, before letting the touch fall away.
Thor then turned to the Mórrigan, sheltered alongside them. "I thank-you for the gift of her soul," Thor inclined his head. His eyes asked questions, but he had not the time to see them answered. "And I am grateful for any assistance that you would provide today."
"Níðhöggr is an old foe," Anann said, her eyes striking in the shadows that concealed them. "And this is a fight that should not have been yours for many years to come."
"Better to fight the dragon now, instead of when the whole Mother is falling apart during the Twilight, no?" Thor's tongue was thick with a black humor.
Anann sighed, her shoulders made heavy by prophesy and its weight. "You are still such a boy to take up arms against an ancient thing. And it was an impetus that was unearned that pushed you down this path." It was not quite an apology on the Mórrigan's tongue, but it was the promise of one later, once the dragon lost his fanged bite and had his flames extinguished deep within his mouth.
And Thor took it as such. He turned to the matter at hand, and asked, "How was he defeated last time?"
"It was a group effort," Anann's mouth was grim when she gave her answer. "Three dozen of Odin's finest warriors took up a arms against the dragon, along with a dozen more of Álfheimr's strongest mages. And then, we were aided by War and Death - Lord Týr and Lady Hel herself."
Sif winced, remembering what Thor had said about his vision from the night before. "Is that all?" still she asked wryly.
"Even with such a war party, your Lord Father walked away without his left hand," Macha's tongue was sharp with her words as she breathed that part of the tale to Sif.
Anann slanted cross eyes over to her second. "That is useless information, sister."
Macha's eyes were wicked. "I merely wished to tell them to keep their fingers tucked. It is advice given for their own good."
Anann sighed. Deeply. "Even then, that was enough only to bind Níðhöggr," she said, ignoring her second. "We had not the keys to slay him. Keys which I see you have before you now." She gestured to the sword of Ivaldi, still held tight in Thor's hands.
And Thor's look turned dark. "It is a useless blade. It does naught against the dragon's scales."
Sif bit her tongue. She did not believe that it was the blade, so much as the wielder who was at fault. Hel had spoken of fire and ice both as the keys needed to unlock the blade's might. The blade was fire . . . they needed only ice.
Ice . . .
"Odinson," Anann's voice was tired, drawn from the deepest parts of her, "your eyes are as blind as Níðhöggr's."
Thor started, his eyes alight at Anann's words, and Sif placed her hand on his forearm to prevent violence from erupting in their hiding place. Now was not the time. Thor's fist clenched, but he calmed. "Tell me then, what is it that I am to see?" he bade Anann though clenched teeth. His eyes burned, but he would listen, she knew. Sif's fingers tightened, making dents in the leather of his armor.
And the Mórrigan's first cord was quick to answer. "Balance," Anann breathed her reply in the same reverent way Hel had. "Balance, in this and in all things. You are such a flame, Thunderer, and the weapon in your hand is born of the storm's might. But it is fire andice that are needed. You must draw upon all of creation to see such an elemental being done away with."
"You yourself say I am naught but a flame," and Thor's brow was furrowed, for he truly was trying to unlock the riddle in his mind. "How then can I achieve the balance that you so ask for?"
And, finally, Anann's look was soft."You need not only look to yourself, mighty though you are. In that too, there is balance to be found."
Thor pondered upon her words for only a moment before his fierce look turned at the corners. It dipped. "Loki . . .," he finally said. "My brother is not here. He does not fight alongside me."
At the words, Sif felt something deep inside of her knot, as if a fist had closed over her insides. And then, inspiration hit her, short and hard like a blow to the head. "He does not need to be!" Sif exclaimed then, turning to peer past their hiding place to where Níðhöggr was angrily tossing his head.
Thor turned to her, his brow puzzled. There was an old light in Anann's eyes. The light of expectancy . . . and anticipation.
"Sif?" Thor questioned, urging her to explain her thought.
"My shield," she said, her excitement leeching into her voice – slipping forward from her very bones. "It is made of Loki's magic. And the enchantments he laid were those born from ice. You yourself said that they were some of the most powerful enchantments you have ever struck against – look now how it wounds Níðhöggr!"
"It is a weakness about his mouth," Thor protested. "It is not enough to land a killing blow."
"Your blade will be able to strike through where my shield has weakened with ice," Sif gave her theory. "If the dragon were to consume my shield . . ." Her voice tapered off as she thought about that, truly thought about that. It was not such a simple thing that she spoke of. It would be no simple venture to carry out. It was daring and risky and the idea of it set her heart thundering, fit to match the spring and its tumbling fall from beyond them.
Thor's eyes were hard, but he did not try to dissuade her. "It will be no easy task," he warned, his words an echo of her thoughts.
"No, it shall not," Sif agreed, her eyes slipping past their hiding spot to where the fires were cooling, blown away by Náströnd's cold winds. Níðhöggr hollered. He challenged. But he did not exhale again. The fires were still trapped inside of his mouth. Waiting.
And her eyes found her shield, pulsing and angry with the seiðr within. It called to her . . .
Her hand fisted over her glaive. Her eyes were stones in her face. "I can do this," was all she said to her lord and friend, and Thor nodded. He trusted her – he trusted her with his brother's soul, and he trusted her to keep her own soul in tact, at that. And as Thor trusted, Sif trusted the war in her veins to grant her a victory this day as it had on many others.
"I see another missing hand coming to us," Macha chortled upon seeing the look on Sif's face.
Anann reached over to swat her sister's arm in annoyance. "Silence your tongue," she struck with the tone of her words. And then she turned towards the Aesir, steel a promising thing in her gaze. There was a pride there, as well. A pride, and an understanding. "We can provide you cover while you retrieve your shield, and see that it does its work."
Sif dipped her head. "I thank you."
"It is decided, then," Thor's voice boomed once their plan had been set. "Let us move."
"A second more," Anann spoke then, staying him. "I have something that I would gift to you."
And it was then, and only then, that Thor seemed to notice the mighty winged beasts that shared the space with them. Macha's smile turned wane as she passed the reins of the white and golden mare to Thor. "Gullfaxi, this is Thor," Macha introduced the mare first to the prince. "Thor, this is Gullfaxi – and she's a right spoiled brute of a mare. Something tells me you will get along just fine."
Thor's raised brow questioned. For he had struck rather than earned during the Mórrigan's Quest of Proof. But those questions too were for later, and he would not turn away from anything that looked to aid them in a victory.
"I thank-you for this honor," he said, accepting the reins.
Macha inclined her head, and backed away from them, readying herself with her own mare. "Now, shall we?" she asked, as if Thor had been the one delaying them.
Thor snorted, but his seat was sure as he swung himself up onto Gullfaxi's back. "After you," he bowed from his place in the saddle, Mjölnir strong in one hand, and Ivaldi's sword gleaming from the other.
Sif too stood, and took her breath in deep. By her side, Gísl butted her arm, as if sensing her trepidation. Her anticipation. She pressed a hand to her muzzle before taking her place upon the mare's back, readying herself for the charge.
And, beyond them, the dragon challenged. "Níðhöggr never thought his foes to be a troupe of cowards before. Come!" the wyrm roared. "Show thyselves, and stand up tall before Níðhöggr's flames. Níðhöggr can smell thy blood; how it pounds, how it knows fear, and wisely so . . ."
From their hiding place, Mjölnir was a precursor to Thor taking to the winds. The hammer glanced off of the dragon's horn lined skull – a blow that would have been fatal to any other creature made glancing as Níðhöggr responded as it had been a pebble that struck him so. He shook his head, and his fanged mouth grinned, showing his teeth. His laughter was a blooming thing in his throat, pluming as if it were smoke from a flame.
And Thor charged. Again, his blows seemed to be repetitive – trying again and again on a route he knew to lead only to failure. And the dragon humored him, meeting him strike for strike.
Alongside Thor, the Mórrigan were a study in teamed war, Sif observed, watching the way they struck and blocked and attacked, one about the other, until it seemed that all three women were one being. For a moment, Sif was reminded of the Warrior's Three and the way their battles together had made one soul of them upon the field of war.
Níðhöggr growled and swatted, his annoyance showing in every flash of his scales and dip of his claws. His great maw parted in a roar, not to exhale his flames, but to give a toothy grin to the tiny warriors who thought that they could defeat him.
And while Níðhöggr was distracted, Sif was able to slip along the edges of the battle.
Getting her shield back would be the easy part, she knew. It was a simple task to fly in close to Níðhöggr's scales while Thor and the Mórrigan gave the dragon something to really chase. Even when he threw his massive beak back and forth, Sif found that her hippogryph mare seemed to understand as much as her rider did what was needed. She comprehended what was transpiring, unlike a normal steed. Gísl dipped and flew though the air, reading the play of the dragon's scaled muscles in order to move before Sif even had to tell her to do so, allowing her rider to focus on her goal, and her goal alone.
From beyond, she could hear the taunts from her comrades – Macha had a tongue she used as a battering ram, and Thor's thick insults kept the dragon's piqued interest. Anann was more careful with her words, and Badb said nothing at all, but all landed their blows, keeping Níðhöggr's attention from Sif and her shield.
. . . her shield.
She felt as if a missing piece of her slipped back into place when she clasped her hand over the chilled metal. This close to Níðhöggr's skin, she could see where the ice from the weapon had destroyed him. The power of Loki's spells – of Niflheimr's might, found in ice – made the scales crack, made the skin underneath thick as if with frostbite. The ruined areas of Níðhöggr's skin glowed an elemental blue, like the heart of Thor's storms, and the color was as familiar to her as her own breath.
She had to give a mighty tug to release the shield from where it had been lodged between Níðhöggr's fangs, and it was that final flare of strength that had Níðhöggr noticing her.
"Týrdottir," the great wyrm hissed, raising a giant claw in order to bat her away from his mouth. "Foolish are thee, little one, playing with thy warring veins as if thy were made of steel and not flesh and bone."
Sif bared her teeth. "I'm simply here to give you something worthy to fight."
Níðhöggr gave a throaty laugh, the sound jewel toned, like the surf over pebbles as it itched over her skin. "Dost thou proclaim thyself to be above the Thunderer in might? Indeed, thou hast much of Týr's insolence in thee."
"I am proud of my father's seal upon my blood," Sif declared, her shield once again her own, and her winged mount beneath her dodging Níðhöggr's teasing blows. "And from where he watches at Valhalla's golden gates, I know he is proud of how I strike today."
"And what blood hast thou taken?" Níðhöggr mocked. "Nearly thou has drowned, nearly thou has lost thyself to a great and terrible fall – and neither such fate would have been from Níðhöggr's claws. Come now, child, let Níðhöggr take a token in blood as he did from thy lord father."
Sif snarled, her one hand urging in Gísl's mane as she guided the mare towards the ground. They landed, and Sif held her shield before her. She did not bother with her glaive, she did not need it.
Above her, Thor was waiting expectantly, ringed by the Mórrigan, forgotten by Níðhöggr for a moment.
And Sif breathed in deep. "You took from my father a hand, but you have not even been able to take equal of that from me. You are hot air and grand words, Níðhöggr, and I tire of your insolence." Her words challenged. They struck.
The dragon tilted his head, his blind eyes swiveling; red and mad and furious as they narrowed in on where he knew her to be. He saw without sight, but did not see all as she raised her shield high and dared him. "So strike, Níðhöggr, and see if you can take from me my father's equal!"
Such a roar Níðhöggr gave then, mighty and terrible until the bones on the ground around her trembled from Níðhöggr's rage.
"Shield-maiden," the dragon hissed.
"Wyrm," Sif gave in return, her teeth bared like a hunting wolf, her eyes narrowed and her brow fierce with her challenge.
The dragon dipped his head, and Sif urged her mount to stay still. It was the hardest thing to learn, when to hold and when to flee, and Sif felt every sense in her body urging her to move, to strike . . . but she did neither. She merely held her shield up, and waited.
He thought to take a hand from her as he did her father. But not today . . .
She could smell the rotting scent of corpses. The black breath of things decaying and molded, yellow and thick upon Níðhöggr's fangs.
He came closer.
She held her ground. Her toes were pressed in the points of her boots, keeping the mare beneath her steady.
Níðhöggr's head dipped.
Sif inhaled.
His great jaw opened.
And Sif struck as she exhaled. She tossed her shield with every inch of strength she had inside of her, flinging the enchanted metal up high into the dragon's mouth until the whooshing sound it made canceled out the sound of the dragon's rank breathing.
And her shield lodged itself in the deep parts of his throat.
Níðhöggr's great jaws closed, and Sif moved. Her mount was already one step ahead of her, her great wings flapping and snapping them away from the dragon's bite and further up still to safety.
And then, Sif had to do no more – the dragon's own self would take care of the rest. Níðhöggr coughed, all the great lion with a thorn in his paw as he tried to remove the metal from his airways. He coughed and coughed and coughed. . . and then he swallowed.
And immediately, Sif saw where Loki's spells on her shield flared quick and angry.
Over the dragon's skin, a bright and terrible web started to appear. Where Níðhöggr was all shades of jewel and dark moss, the seiðr that broke over his skin was sharp and cold and electric – blue and blazing and coldwith all of the powers that ice and her role in creation had to offer. The lines split through his scales like the pattern that branches made – webbing and spidering until they painted a map over Níðhöggr's massive body.
And Níðhöggr's carrion eyes were wide. "What sort of trickery is this?"
Sif's grin was sharp when she backed away from the wyrm – for this was not her blow to take. Instead, Thor stepped up, Mjölnir resting at his side, and Ivaldi's sword pulsing and awake in his hands – aflame and alight next to the kindred spells that tore through the dragon. "There is no trickery, Níðhöggr," Thor declared, his voice solemn as he gave his death sentence. "Only your end."
Finally, Níðhöggr snapped into action, as if understanding just how great his predicament was. He inhaled, and Sif knew that this time it would be no simple fire that he called forth from his throat. But Thor was quicker, and his aim was true – he sent Ivaldi's sword flying through the air, aiming for where the web of seiðr had gathered in a massive shatter point upon Níðhöggr's chest . . . over his heart. The hulking organ beneath skin and scales was slow and pulsing as it gave the blue lines about the dragon their flutter and their light.
The wyrm's eyes widened -
- and Thor struck true.
All about them, it was as if a great breath had been released from the land. Níðhöggr gave a mighty cry, the sound as a tree falling in the deep woods, the same as the roar of the burning mountains as they spewed their flames to the heavens above. It was a pained sound, a deep sound that tore behind Sif's lungs, as if to take her very pulse and breath along with his death screams.
Náströnd rumbled and roared – the waters of the great spring clashed, and the sounds of the tortured souls from behind reached a fevered pitch as the sky pitched black and unfriendly above them. And in the middle of the chaos, Thor stood with his storms, and watched the dragon die with unpitying eyes.
And then, that breath was Níðhöggr's last.
Like that, the fevered pitch that had overtaken the land ceased. The great winds quieted. The waters calmed. The souls from beyond them lost their voice. In the wind, the World Tree shook, as if straightening her boughs after losing the weight that had been pressing against her roots, paining her.
All was silence and light around them. Sif sat with her chest heaving and her eyes wide, regaining her breath. We did it, was the single thought that her mind could produce, over and over again.
"We did it," she whispered, her fists clenched still over Gísl's reins, as if her tight grip alone would be enough to anchor her. Her heart was still thundering, both disbelief and relief poignant and warring within her.
They did it.
"By Odin's beard, but they actually did it," Macha breathed when Thor trotted over to them, as pleased as a hound at the end of a hunt. He wore an endless grin, restless with his stride as the adrenaline from the battle still rattled in his veins.
"Did you ever doubt?" Thor beamed proudly. "It was the son of Odin who took his hunt. No other outcome could have resulted from our quest this day!"
"We knew not one moment of concern," Macha lied smoothly, her brow raised mockingly, and this time it was Badb who elbowed their second, her brow lifting as she called the other out on her falsehood.
Shaking her head, Anann left both of her sisters in order to walk over to the spring of Hvergelmir. There was a calm pool where the bone strewn shore cut away from the raging tide, and there she knelt down in order to dip a glass vial into the still water, claiming what they had quested so vigilantly for.
"The heart," Anann reminded Thor, her voice gentle. "Hel will wish to see it."
"Of course," Thor's mouth twisted into a grin, full of teeth as he turned to the dragon again.
And her shield, Sif would too see returned to her, she thought as she dismounted from her mare. Gísl stood dutifully to the side, awaiting her order with her large eyes unblinking and her hooves pawing the uneven ground.
At the same time Thor started his climb up the wyrm's corpse, Sif put a hand to the dragon's clawed feet, and nimby swung herself up. Finding hand holds and footholds over the massive scales, she climbed up and up further still until she stood upon the dragon's massive stomach. Under her boots, half of the dragon's scales were molten to the touch. The other half were as cold as the glaciers in the north of Jötunnheimr. The wyrm had been torn apart by the elemental forces of creation, and where he had once breathed death and destruction and decay, fire and ice now flourished in his place.
Sif closed her eyes when she reached the summit of her climb, and concentrated on that spark inside of her that lived as a result of Loki's magic. She focused, and imagined that that spark was an ember she was stoking to life. In answer, a warm cord seemed to wrap around her heart, its other end tied to her shield, resting deep in the dragon's gut.
She inhaled. Her eyes opened.
And she struck her glaive down. It was choppy work, and it was messy, making her way to where her shield was, but she was determined, and the sliver of magic she had anchoring her made her path assured, her route absolute. Below, Macha was watching her with a grimace at the mess she was making. Opposite Sif, Thor too carved out Níðhöggr's massive heart, the still organ big enough to challenge all three of the Mórrigan when carrying it back to Hel and her hall. Still, both took their trophies of their victory.
Finally, Sif could see a glow from further beneath her. Her shield was not far.
And from beyond her, Thor called, "It is a pity that my brother missed this battle, is it not, milady? Such a challenge I have not had face me in all of my battles yet! How it has lifted the spirits and boosted the pride."
Sif stabbed though that last length of tissue and muscle. She struck metal. Her grin hooked, triumphant and sharp when she reached down to brush the gore away from the face of her shield. The sticky blood coated her like an embrace – it caught in her hair, upon her armor and her skin, and with a slippery glove she reached up to push her long bangs away, leaving a smear of organic matter across her forehead. She made a face. "Something tells me that Loki would not have rejoiced in being knee deep in dragon blood," she countered Thor's opinion, easily imagining his look of distaste he would have worn at the mess they were making.
Thor chuckled. The sound was warm, filling her heart. "Perhaps you are right."
Her shield was hers once more, and in her hand, the steel pulsed and glowed. Its song was one she felt behind her eyes, in the deep parts of her, behind her bones, and as always, she embraced its melody. She let it fill her.
With a slick step, she slid back down the dragon's corpse, and landed on the bone strewn floor with a dull thud. Beside her, Thor too landed.
Sif walked the few steps to the spring, to where Anann was already corking a vial of the Underwater, and singing a chant under her breath – rendering the healing water complete. She knelt down on the bank next to the other woman, and placed her shield in the still water that had gathered in order to let the water wash the dragon's blood away. Her hands too were washed clean in the spring, and Sif stared at her bronze shield in the clear water, feeling a peace rise up to fill her very soul. They had done it. Their fight was over, and Loki's soul was now safe. She could not keep a smile from her face at the thought, and in her heart, the beat of home and its call was a promising song, one she wished to give in to with their return.
Anann handed Sif the vial, and she accepted it as if it were made from gold and precious stones, so very dear was the water within to her.
"Please know that I did not strike with the aim to destroy," Anann then said to Thor, her voice hollow and grave. "Where an end was almost wrought, know that I simply sought to show you something fundamental about yourself – that the bond that you share with your second will and can be the thing that may someday tear prophesy asunder. Know that I have felt war in its every form upon every realm . . . and it was to someday save a life that his was almost taken."
Thor inclined his head, taking Anann's words and acknowledging them. He said nothing, though, as if his words were too thick to be voiced. For Anann had almost taken a slight to far, but it had been rightly earned and fought for due to Thor's initial deeds. While Sif still felt a rise in her blood at the thought of the poison that had taken from Loki his breath, she no longer let it consume her. She understood, as they all did.
"The mounts are yours to keep," Anann said then, as they walked back to the hippogryphs, still waiting at the base of the dragon's corpse.
And that brought a reaction from the first son. Thor's face flushed, the high parts of his cheeks turning pink in remembered shame. "It would not be right," he said, his voice turning, as if pained. "I took where I should have protected. I struck with thought of a prize when I should have stayed my hand out of respect for those things that are sacred. I was rash, and I payed the price for my insolence. That is not something that should be rewarded."
Anann's look was so very soft at that moment, her eyes like the morning sun as it broke over the horizon. "And it is for that spirit within you that I know I leave those of my sister's herd in safe hands. You earned these, more so than most, and the lessons you learned here will be with you throughout your days. Believe me when I say that I leave these with no more worthier warriors."
And then, the center cord of the Mórrigan bowed. She took to her knee, and inclined her head, the bow deep with her respect. Badb too mirrored her sister's motions. Macha waited a heartbeat before doing the same, and while her words may have been sharp her hand over her chest swore her truths. It was not a vow she would mock, or swear it when she did not feel it to be real.
And Thor stood there, his eyes wide, and his cheeks flushed even darker than before.
"Someday, when your father has entered his final sleep, you will be king," Anann said, her voice thick, as with prophesy. "And while Odin's reign has been great, too dark are the edges of his kingship steeped in shadows. You will be a light after your father's time, Odinson. You will bring back to Mother Yggdrasil her spring, and when that day comes, we will serve you loyally when you call. This I swear . . .. and thank you for. Many are those who wait for such a day. Believe me when I say that all of the Mother's elemental things look to you . . . and know hope."
Thor stood straight for a moment, the dragon a dead thing behind him, and the cold spring of creation a source of life before him. And then, he bowed as well, low and deep from the waist. "You honor me with your words, and with your allegiance," he said, his voice catching in his throat before making its way off of his tongue. Often, he had seen warriors give such oaths to his lord father, but this was the first that such was sworn to him. As such, he treasured the words as they were spoken.
Anann bowed her head once more as she got to her feet, her hand tight on the staff of her shepherd's hook. "And I have one more thing to beget to you." She walked to the side of her own hippogryph. She placed her staff on the ground, and it stayed standing even when her hand was drawn away. And, from the saddlebags, she drew away a wrapped bundle, straight and tall.
Thor's brow was creased in curiosity, and even Sif stepped forward in her wondering, her left hand still tight over the corked vial Anann had given to her.
Her bundle was wrapped in a thick blue velvet. And when she drew away the cord holding it, both Thor and Sif exhaled upon seeing what was within.
Horns.
Two of them, great and curving and proud from where they had once stood on the hippogryph stallion's brow. Rare it was that such fell, and nearly never by an opposing hand. Thor had struck without head for mercy, and after the lesson learned and the path to fix what he had rendered asunder taken, he now had the trophy he had originally thought to seek.
Thor's breath was caught in his mouth. "I cannot . . ." he said, again.
And Anann raised her brow. "Your worth was proved," she said simply. "And while Macha's herd may have mourned the loss, I would not see such a specimen go to waste. Take it, as a token of our allegiance to you."
Thor reached out, and ran a large hand over the curving bend of the one horn. Seemingly delicate from afar, under his hand they were strong and unyielding; proud and defiant. And Thor nodded his head. "I thank you for allowing me this."
Anann inclined her head, but said no more.
Macha watched the Thunderer with a quirked brow. "It will be a lovely addition to Odin's halls," she said. "It can go on display between the Allfather's missing eye, and the ashes from Nal's funeral pyre."
And Thor shook his head. "Nay, Herdswoman, I have a much more nobler place for these to sit."
Sif looked at her friend in curiosity, but his face gave nothing away to her. Instead, his mouth quirked, as if pleased by an innermost thought. Sif merely smiled and shook her head at Thor's play at secrecy. In time, she would know. Until then, they had a gift to grant to Hel, and a journey to make back to Asgard.
And then, Loki would open his eyes, and all would be well and right in Sif's corner of the realm . . .
With that, she walked back to her mare, and once again took her seat upon Gisl's back. The mare nickered in welcome, as if they had already been partnered together for years. Sif smiled at the bond she already had with the warhorse, for her current mount had been in service to Lady Gná before Sif had even been born, and she knew that Hófvarpnir would be glad for the respite.
And Thor too stepped forward to take the reins of his hippogryph. The arrogant mare tossed her golden mane, and stomped indignantly at the bone strewn floor with her dainty hooves. In return, Thor made a face at the mare when she drew her lips back, showing her teeth. He mirrored the look, nonsense neighing noises on his tongue until Gullfaxi stepped back a pace, looking at him, perplexed. When next she neighed, it sounded like laughter. Her wings bent, held up and close, welcoming the Thunderer to her back.
"I said they would be well suited," Macha said wryly. "The brutes."
Anann smiled and shook her head, her words silent where none would do as she too took her seat upon her mare. Badb was a soundless shadow behind them all, mirroring them.
And then, to Hel's hall they turned once more.
.
.
The Hall of Éljúðnir seemed to pulse with a new light as Sif and Thor winded through the gleaming black wings of the palace to once again stand in Hel's throneroom. Behind them, the Mórrigan were a threefold shadow, keeping their pace, and following their turns as if the way was already known to them. Someday, Sif knew, there would be such a story there to hear, if they would honor them with the tale.
When they arrived, Hel was not straight and severe upon her throne, as Sif expected her to be. Instead she was standing, her hands clasped behind her back, and her stride curving towards them as if she had been pacing. There were dozens of glass like globes in the air, scry's bubbles, each a window into Náströnd, and Sif knew then that there had been more than one eye upon them as they took their pound of flesh from the dragon.
"I could feel it the moment that Níðhöggr breathed his last," Hel revealed. "A part of this land, long dormant, began to breathe again; and the Great Mother herself raised her boughs that much higher when the weight upon her roots was released. Do you not hear it?" Death asked them as her mouth, both decaying and living, curved into such a grin. "Yggdrasil sings, and she sings her ode to you."
Sif could not hear the song, but she could feel the crackle of seiðr against her skin – her veins pulsed and her bones seemed to hum with the weight of the World Tree's approval around them. She wondered, then, if Loki could hear the words Yggdrasil chanted, deep within his stasis. She felt a pang at the thought, and an entirely different thrum took up its residence in her veins. The sharp twist of expectancy and impatience, ready as she was for her home and Loki's eyes, open and healthy and whole . . .
Thor's face was creased with pleasure at Hel's words. His smile was grand, golden and bright in the dark shades of Éljúðnir. Still, he bowed and gestured to behind him, where all three of the Mórrigan had been needed to drag Níðhöggr's still heart before the dread Queen.
"I present to you, the heart of the Root-wyrm, and the fulfillment of our promise," Thor said, the words roll and rite where Sif already held a vial of the Underwater in her hand, ready to be poured.
Hel inclined her head in turn to the Thunderer, completing the ritual. "And I thank-you, in behalf of my realm and every other. You have struck such a blow against the future today, Odinson, such a blow; and someday, I hope to see the rest of prophesy turns to ash in your hands." She bowed even lower then, the great stag like horns upon her helm dipping with her motion.
When she straightened, she looked past Thor to where the Mórrigan stood in a half circle around Níðhöggr's heart, and she inclined her head to the women of war. The sisters had taken one knee upon the dread Queen's gaze, their heads bowed deeply, a word not even to be found on Macha's lips out of a respect for the things that did reign higher than them all.
Sif bounced the weight on the balls of her feet. In her hand, the water in the vial sloshed like a promise.
And Hel gestured to the wrapped bundle under Thor's right arm with her dead hand, and asked. "What also did you find to take from Náströnd?" she asked, her voice piqued with curiosity.
Thor shook his head. "Nothing from Náströnd, my lady," he answered her. "Instead, a gift from the sisters you see here before you, in behalf of a folly, once wronged, and now righted."
Hel raised her right brow, the living side of her face showing the expression acutely. She did not have to ask before Thor was taking a knee once more, not out of the rituals of the court, but rather to show to the Hel-queen his prize. He placed his bundle carefully down on the star strewn floor, and with near reverent hands, he undid the cords that held the cloth over the items within.
And he withdrew one of the two horns, holding the curving thing as if it were a great treasure that he had long been seeking for. "Once, they stood upon the brow of the stallion I slew," Thor said, explaining the horn's significance to her. "Now the creature is no more, but this quest and the one that spurned from it are a weight to my mind – one I hope I never forget."
Sif found her smile turn wry, seeing what Thor saw symbolized by the sweeping horns. Her gaze was fond on her friend, proud of the conclusion of their deeds.
Hel, though, had hardly to nod at Thor's words. Instead, the queen was very still, as if she were a tree, rooted to the deep parts of her realm. Her chest scarce rose with her breath, and her eyes had yet to blink. Within her face, they were very green and very bright. Her mouth was open, just slightly, and that was the only reaction that Hel gave upon seeing the horns.
Slowly, she moved forward then, her living hand held outwards as if to touch. Across from Thor, Hel took to her knees in order to kneel before the horns. There was a weight in her eyes then, like memory, as she reached out a single finger. She touched the right horn first, tracing the high curve and the long sweep in a gentle, reverent motion, before closing her entire hand about the base. It fit perfectly into her palm, and her eyes flickered.
"It is a great prize indeed that you take," Hel said, her voice heavy, her words weighed with a shape that Sif could not place. Thor too looked curiously at the queen, seeing as clear as Sif did the way her words creased in longing.
"You have seen these before?" Thor asked, piercing through to Hel's words more quickly than Sif.
And Hel gave a dry sound, not quite a laugh. "A long, long time ago," she answered. "In a time that no longer is."
Thor's brow furrowed. His face was downward turned, but his eyes looked up, finding the woman before him in his gaze. "I am sorry for your loss," he said, his voice soft, his words kind. His hands were fisted by his sides, as if he fought the urge to reach out and touch her. Always had legend told the half-alive queen to be untouchable and distant, but Thor seemed to be held in the same thrall Sif was before her – he wanted the best for the dread queen. He wanted to sooth pains and ease wrongs, and did he too feel the weight in his chest that Sif felt upon looking into her eyes?
Around her, Éljúðnir seemed to close in tight around them, always an embrace where those before her had spoken of it as a blow. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
Carefully, Thor kept his great limbs still at his sides. He did not reach out to the queen, but still Hel breathed in deep, as if releasing a weight. "And I am happy for what you stand to gain," was what she said, dropping her hands away from the horn, and standing in a graceful motion. Garmr was instantly by her side, close enough to touch, ready to give her a hand should she so need it. Sif saw the concern in his eyes. She saw the way his body was a shadow and arch to Hel's, and for a moment she knew a form of closure, knowing that the other had a shoulder to lean against under the weight of Helheimr and its duties.
Sif's breath came easier, but only just.
Hel too breathed in deep, and then her eyes were closed; a shadow falling. "Come now," she said. "I can feel the second son's soul, and it flickers." She turned to Garmr, and said, "Allow good Heimdall to see a path for them. Our guests wish to return home." When she caught their gazes, she gave a wry grin. "You need not go back the way you came."
Sif felt seiðr gather around them; and like a ray of sunlight after a storm, she could feel her brother's gaze rest upon her. Upon feeling it as so, she felt anticipation light in her lungs, making her breath come hot. Home, they were almost home.
Thor bowed his head. "We thank you, my lady."
Hel returned the gaze, her eyes soft. "And I wish you a safe journey."
Thor smiled, and that was all that was needed for him. He was ready to go. Sif, though, found herself slow to lean into the energy she could feel gathering around her. A moment more, she prayed to Heimdall, and turned to the dread-queen once more. She could feel words gather on her tongue, but she was ill at ease to push them past her lips. She wished to speak, to say so many things, but she was unsure just how to shape her words.
Hel seemed to understand, and instead of speaking, she reached out and took both of Sif's hands in her own. If asked before, Sif would have thought it odd to feel bone and deadened skin against her own flesh. But there was no discomfort, only a strange sort of peace as she returned the touch. Her grasp was firm, and her eyes were weights, saying what her mouth could not say.
"Until next time," Hel said softly, the quirk of her mouth both familiar and not as Sif stared at it, trying to deign its origin to her. But she had no more time, and when her hands fell away, Sif felt as if a tether had been broke. Still, there was a promise and an assurance in the dread-queen's eyes, and Sif tucked it close and held it away. It was enough.
Upon her, Heimdall's gaze lingered as a weight between her shoulder-blades. It called, and Sif felt home pulling at her bones, at her very veins. In her hands, the water from the Underway pulsed. It called and sang and gave a promise that soon would be collected upon.
Thor came to her side, and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. The weight, as always, was an assurance.
And then rings of jewel toned light surrounded them, pulling them as a planet did to a moon, and Sif let herself fall away. She let the path to home take her, even as she stared through the rainbowed light, focusing on the Hel-queen's green green eyes until she could no more.
Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness
Ivaldi: Father of the dwarfs Brokkr and Sindri, who forged Mjölnir and Gungnir and a dozen other things in the myths.
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 located beneath the dragon's nest.
Gísl: In the Gylfaginning, Gísl was listed as one of the horses whom the Aesir rode to make their judgments at the Yggdrasil, but she was never assigned to a specific deity, so, I gave her to Sif here.
Gullfaxi: Was the name of one of Thor's horses in the myths. Her name translates to 'golden mane', and she was renowned for – you guessed it – her gleaming mane and tail, and her ability to run just as fast over water and air as she was able to over land. In the myths, Thor gave the horse to his son, Magni, whom he had fathered with the giantess Járnsaxa, as a symbol of his pride and favor. Of course, Thor had to bear through Odin's disapproval for gifting the steed to the son of a Jötunn woman, and not to his own lord father. Which is just another example of the pot calling the kettle black, seeing as how Thor's own mother (Fjörgyn) was Jötunn. And Odin's own mother (Bestla) was Jötunn as well if we want to go further back. So . . . seriously, Odin? You just wanted another pretty horsie. ;)