Chapter Twenty-Three: Decisions, Decisions

Elsa smiled gratefully at the maid who laid out the dessert for the night: hazelnut cake with chocolate icing and honey glaze. She glanced at Anna and hid a grin; the princess was literally trembling with anticipation. Elsa picked up her fork and cut off the point of her slice (the best part, as far as she was concerned) and brought it to her lips. Before she could close her lips around it, Anna's fork fell from her grasp as she visibly stiffened.

"Incoming," Anna warned, just before the door to the dining room crashed open, making all but Anna herself jump. Through the doors, past a disheveled and frightened-looking serving man, strode Alphonse. The mage dropped the satchel at his side and discarded his cloak, heading straight for Elsa. The Snow Queen stood, concerned for her … wait, what exactly were they?

"Alphonse?" she asked warily. He didn't answer; he simply cupped the side of her face and stared intently into her eyes. Elsa felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of her face, utterly transfixed by the sheer intensity of Alphonse's gaze. After several tense moments, he seemed to relax and glanced in turn at Anna, Kristoff, Rapunzel, and Eugene. He sighed in relief and nodded to himself before taking a vacant chair.

"Would anyone, and I mean anyone at all, care to explain the dragon carcass in the street?" His tone was almost conversational, but the sheer firmness of his words made it seem as if he had shouted at the top of his lungs. Anna briefly thought about their Papa, who could have the exact same effect … when he was far too angry or stressed for shouting.

For the next hour, the royals at the table explained the events that had occurred over the last sixteen hours. Everything from the sword in the tree and the she-wolf's threat to the dragon attack. Alphonse noticed at both Elsa and Kristoff placed their hands on Anna as they recounted her slaying of the dragon. The mage pushed down warring reactions; pride in her accomplishment and progress in magic, along with disappointment in her recklessness.

He would have to speak with her about that; but that discussion was for a later time.

"All in all," Rapunzel summed up, "I think it's been a pretty good day." Alphonse was silent, and rapunzel smiled self-consciously. Did he not agree? Though she had only met this man two days ago, she still felt the need to prove herself, just as she had when she returned to her parents.

"Well, we haven't gotten the whole story," Anna pointed out, shooting a meaningful glance at Alphonse. "So where have you been? And what's in the bag?" She pointed at the satchel he had left in the middle of the floor. Alphonse simply rose and retrieved the bag before placing it on the table with an audible thump and the creak of straining wood.

Alphonse removed something small from the bag and tossed it to Kristoff. The ice harvester caught it and flicked his wrist, revealing the utterly-rebuilt Mjolnir. Thunder echoed through the walls of the castle in response to the hammer's return. But it was different than before; the head of the weapon was engraved with an intricate oak tree, vines decorating the shaft and handle. The carvings shone with bronze, offsetting the stony appearance of the weapon and the soft new leather of its handle. And the handle was longer, the length of his forearm.

"The Seven Dwarves decided to do better. They studied the original Mjolnir and created their own version, one that is closer to its new wielder. I told them about you, Kristoff, and they created something that more closely balances destruction, Thor's specialty, and creation, yours. This new weapon has all of the previous one's traits and will better channel your connection to the Earth and power to heal." Both Kristoff and Anna looked up at him in confusion, and Alphonse grinned. "Yes, Mjolnir could be used to heal. It was a tool, not just a weapon. This one will do even better. But before you test it out, you need to name it."

"Name it?" Kristoff asked. Alphonse nodded.

"It's your weapon, Kristoff. It was made for you, and you alone. A name for an object, especially a magical weapon, provides something of a guiding force for its very essence. All important things have names, and so you need to name it."

Kristoff looked to Anna, who shrugged with a smile, and to the hammer in his hands. He thought over names that sounded impressive first, but discarded every one. A guiding force? What exactly did he want to use this for anyway? Kristoff looked up to find everyone watching him with expectation and … support. Everyone here cared about him, and he in turn for them. A name popped into his head and he smiled to himself. It was perfect.

"Beskytter," he said. Protector. With a crash of thunder and a burst of ethereal flames, the name was carved in runes on the handle of the hammer. Alphonse laughed at Kristoff's wide-eyed look. He was glad the dwarves had decided to imbue the weapon with a post-creative set of runes. Kristoff's reaction, alone, was worth it.

"Speaking of names," Alphonse said to Anna, "have you given Gram its new one?" Anna stared at him before realizing he meant the sword she had gotten. Wait, Gram? Why did that sound familiar? Oh right!

"So it's really that sword?" Anna asked. Alphonse nodded. Anna reached down and drew the bronze sword from its sheath. Gram, the sword that had killed Fafnir just as she had killed the dragon that attacked her home. "Why do I need to name it?" Anna asked, "doesn't it already have a name?" Alphonse looked to Elsa, who smiled and took the reins.

"Gram has many names," Elsa explained. "When it was first forged, it was called Gram, wrath. Others called it 'Gramr', some used 'Balmung' meaning 'Siegfried's sword', and a few Nothung."

"Each new wielder gave it a new name," Alphonse took over. "One that reflected how it would be used. And now, Anna, it's your turn."

Anna looked to Kristoff, only returned her previous gesture. Anna grinned; she already had the perfect name! She stood and held the sword aloft, the light from the torches lighting it like a torch. "Heidur!" she proclaimed. Honor. The blade seemed to shimmer at the sound of its new name. With a flourish, she replaced the weapon in its sheath.

"So, what else did you get?" Rapunzel asked. Alphonse reached into the bag and removed … something that shouldn't have been able to fit. On Alphonse's arm was a buckler shield of dark metal, runes carved around the outside. A faint mist seemed to hang over the shield, like cold metal brought into a hot room.

"This is a copy of Svalinn, the shield of the Sun." He passed it to Rapunzel. "The original shield was lost during Ragnarok, if not destroyed. The current sun rides far enough away that the shield is moot." Alphonse's gaze hardened. "Whatever Hati promised to do, the Maras take their word very seriously. And even I don't know what she will do to grow strong enough to kill you. You'll need this."

Rapunzel took the shield and fitted it onto her forearm. The weight of the metal was no problem; Rapunzel was far stronger than she looked. But the metal itself was foggy for a reason; it was cold as ice! Colder than ice! And yet, it really didn't bother her. Rapunzel looked up at a whooshing sound to find Alphonse's hand filled with blue fire. He gestured for her to get ready and hurled the flames at her; she hid behind the shield, the flames dousing with a faint hiss as they made contact.

"I'd say they did a pretty decent job," Alphonse commented. Elsa briefly wondered when her family's definition of "normal" eroded enough to mean having magical fire tossed at you was no big deal.

"And now the best for last!" Anna said. Alphonse shifted uneasily before shrugging and once again reaching into his satchel. This time he removed a long, pale staff, runes carved in swirling patterns along its length. Wait, not a staff; a spear! Capping the shaft was a leaf-shaped iron spearhead, runes etched in both sides of the blade. Alphonse hefted the spear onto his shoulder, the runes faintly glowing with blue light.

"This is Skordare," he intoned. Harvester.

"So this is the new Gungnir?" Rapunzel asked. Everyone looked to her, bringing a faint pink tint her her cheeks. "What? I read too, you know." Elsa chuckled and Alphonse nodded in respect.

"Al destroyed his staff getting us to Elsa's Ice Palace when it was attacked," Kristoff explained. "Guess he needed a replacement." As Kristoff was talking, Elsa was staring at the head of the spear. The shaft was pale, almost white, until the last foot or so, which was stained a vibrant crimson. His spear was the branch he had impaled himself with.

As Kristoff and Anna told the story of the Palace Siege, as many of Arendelle's poets and songwriters were calling it, Elsa placec her hand on Alphonse's, drawing his attention. She gave him a faint smile, trying to reassure him. Of what, she didn't know. She just felt that he needed it. Alphonse smiled in turn and laced their fingers, both relaxing at the contact.

Hati stomped across the island of her Forloper, her stride graceful even in fury. The image of Sunna giving her that "promise" kept replaying in her mind, the sheer dedication of her words mocking her. The woman was not afraid of her. And given the reports on their battle with the dragon, supplied by some of Loki's spies, that courage was not unfounded.

As she approached her pack, all of the women looked to her awaiting orders. Hati twitched her hand, a signal to relax; the she-wolves did just that. She passed by a number of haugens, creatures born from masses of stone or plant matter fused with restless spirits; they weren't jotun, but they were close enough for Loki's purposes. A small group of ogres slept underneath some trees; Loki had promised them easy meat after Arendelle had been conquered.

In the distance, a circle of dark-vala, witches who served chaos and decay, circled a large fire, their chanting muffled even to her superior hearing. That had been a particular stroke of luck (or fate) finding that coven. Most vala served healing and order, and part of their work was destroying dark-vala. The oath-breaker Alphonse had killed no small number himself. As such, almost all that dotted Arendelle and surrounding lands were little more than dabblers, learning dregs of magic for petty revenge. But these nine - they were mistresses, true vala.

Finally, Hati approached her Forloper. Loki, or rather Hans at the moment, was honing his sword technique, numerous illusions of the Arendelle royals scattered across his chosen field. With grace that rivalled her own, quite impressive for a man, he decimated the targets in a chaotic series of movements, his dark sword a blur of motion. With a final thrust, he impaled the image of the Snow Queen, the illusion fading to dust, and he laughed cruelly.

"If you have something you wish to say, Hati, you should come out and do so," Hans called out with his back to her. Hati, after a moment of surprise, huffed and approached as Hans turned to her. Hati growled as the image of Sunna yet again flashed across her mind's eye.

"Make me strong," Hati demanded. "Sunna has accepted my challenge, but your spies have reported that they killed Tore with ease. Clearly, if I am to avenge my brothers, I must be more powerful." Hans lifted an eyebrow, a sardonic grin spread across his lips.

"And how, perchance, would you expect me to do that?" he asked. The look in his eyes told her that he knew exactly what she would say. Another flash of Sunna and her resistance was burned away by anger.

"The dark-vala. They will listen to you; everyone does. Have them find a way to ensure my victory. If I can blacken the sun-child, it will severely weaken your enemies." That was true; the spies and the dark-vala's scrying had shown that Sunna was a powerful opponent.

"Ah, I see," Hans replied. "So allow me another question. Why exactly should I ask them to do such a thing?" Hati actually took a step back in surprise. Clearly he was joking! She had just given him all the reason he needed! Then she noticed how his eyes had darkened, how they wandered over her. Hati paled as she realized what he really meant: What exactly was she willing to give for his help?

Hati growled and leapt at Hans, knocking him onto his back. Taking just a moment to revel in his surprise, Hati dove in and met his lips in a searing kiss. The Maras knew exactly how men thought, and Loki had been anything but an exception. There was one form of payment that they would never turn down. And if she was going to pay that price, she would do it in her terms.

Hans flicked his wrist and conjured a curtain of dense fog to hide them and muffle their activities; he was a prince and his dignity would be preserved. As soon as the curtain was in place, he grabbed Hati's wrists and turned her over with a squeal. He leered at her as pride burned inside her eyes, as well as her more animalistic urges.

This would be a night to remember.

As the curtain of fog rose around the trickster and his mistress, a small entity was watching from the forest and gave a faint, echoing sigh before disappearing. The creature reappeared deep in the forests, bobbing up and down as it waited. The creature was a Will o' the wisp, a spirit tied to the land. These sprites, though enigmatic, could glimpse the threads of fate and guide those to their destiny.

Out of the trees, or rather out of a tree, strode a young woman dressed only in a blanket wrapped around her chest as a dress. The woman knelt and scooped up the Wisp to bring it to eye level. The Wisp whispered to her what it had seen, sharing with its friend. As soon as it finished, the Wisp disappeared with a sigh.

The girl looked up into the trees, the wind in the branches giving whisperings that only she could hear. All were aware of Loki's rebirth, of the threat that faced the Ashland community. The royals of Arendelle had so-far served to distract Loki, to channel his madness and thirst for chaos into a small area. But if they fell, then the world would burn with his madness.

The girl nodded to the trees and began walking. A Wisp reappeared before her, beckoning her. As she drew near, it disappeared and reappeared further on. The girl nodded with a quirk of a smile that faded to solemness. She had a lot of ground to cover in one night.

Far from Arendelle, in the bogs at the edge of its lands, a young man dressed in rough wool sat cross-legged and focused on his task. An older man, dressed like the younger with a leather jerkin, sat opposite him, stroking his trimmed beard as he watched. Though they could not be related, they shared one key aspect: four slash marks across their faces; the boys were down one side of his face, forehead to jawline, while the man's were diagonal from temple to jaw. All men who lived here had these marks.

The young man panted as he tried to maintain his task. He held his hands before him, an orange werelight glowing above his palms. The young man as trembling, sweat dripping from his brow. The older man narrowed his eyes and drew breath to stop him, but the boy huffed and released the werelight, relaxing as he drew air into his starving lungs.

"Well done," the man said, and the youth gave a tired smile. Both men stood up and returned to the Hamlet. The Hamlet was a small circle of stone cabins around a large firepit, massive trees and swampland surrounding it and protecting it. Will o' the wisps floated through the air, their kind attracted to this place of refuge. This place of refugees.

As the older man and his charge sat on their knees before the firepit, a few dozen other boys and men wandering in to join. All who lived here were allowed to do what they wished, within reason and their code, but all who lived here had their dinner together. The packs may have spurned them, but it didn't mean that they had to give up on the idea of family. They were a clan.

As everyone got settled, one man dressed in a dust cloak loped into the Commons, a bundle clutched to his chest. From the head cabin strode the Elder, the unofficial leader of the Hamlet. He was marked by three scars that ran from his lower lip to his chin, his sleeveless jerkin revealing the scars on his arm that outnumbered any of them. The Elder approached the Runner and gently moved the cloth aside, revealing a thin, exhausted baby boy. A baby boy with thick scars across his face. The elder and the runner met gazes and nodded.

Without needing a summons, a wiry man, also marked, led a large, fat cow into the Commons, its fur long enough to drag on the ground. The Keeper stopped the cow before the fire, where it was warmest, and clicked his tongue; the cow sat at the command. The Runner approached as the cow rolled to its side and brushed away its hair to reveal the cow's udders. Straight from the cow, he fed the baby boy.

As the men and boys watched the acceptance of one of their own, another figure approached the Elder. He was marked out by the spirals cut into the tops of his hands, but otherwise was just like the others.

"What is it, Seer?" the Elder asked. The Seer, the Elder's traditional second-in-command, hesitated before answering.

"The Dream has repeated, three by three by three," he whispered. The elder's eyes widened and he looked to the stars, to the dancing Lights that could be seen above the fire. The foretold Dream, three nights in a row. The sign that the Trickster had been reborn. That all of them were being reborn. "He sets his sights on the Crocus," the Seer added heavily.

After dinner had been served and finished, the Elder took his place on the stone before the fire, the first stone laid in the Hamlet by the first members of the clan. He swept his gaze over the clan, all men and boys watching him silently. "The signs have shone, the time is here," he intoned. "The Trickster has emerged, his madness ready to burn the world again." He sighed and his eyes hardened.

"We know what must be done. The smooth and the sheared," the boys and the retired elders, "will stay. The Runners will continue to search. Hunters," everyone else, "we run for the Crocus at dawn." All of the clan barked in acknowledgement.

And just as the Elder had ordered, at first light, all men of the Hamlet, of the clan, stood before the edge of their home. Dressed in rough wool and leather jerkins, their chests criss-crossed with leather straps holding knives and with spears on their backs, the Hunters of their clan charged for the kingdom of the Crocus. For Arendelle.

They may have been abandoned, but they would not abandon the world to fate.

As dawn broke over the mountains of Arendelle, Anna sat up with a gasp. She had had another dream; she just knew it. Rough men with slashed faces and focused fury in their eyes. And they were headed for Arendelle.

As Anna prepared to get up and warn Elsa, she paused. Thinking back, she hadn't felt threatened by these men. Yes, they had seemed dangerous, like they knew how to fight, but she hadn't felt that they meant harm; at least, not to her and her people. Anna sat back down, unconsciously taking Kristoff's hand as he gently snored.

Today was the second day of Kvasir's Peace. After that, war would break loose. What would they do today?

A gold star to anyone who can identify the inspiration for the clan. What do ya'll think? Are there enemies or allies on the march?

For those of you who wonder why Elsa didn't get a weapon: she doesn't need one. She can make any weapon for any situation.

Special Thumbs-Up to reader "Shawn Raven". Thanks for the reviews, dude. They really helped me push to finish this chapter!

Seriously guys, reviews make me happy; don't hesitate! Also special mention to author Joseph Delany; his character Grimalkin of the "Wardstone Chronicles" inspired the clan's sheaths.