Skalla PoV ~ Ragnarok Flashback
The flashes came.
I tried to ignore them—to push them aside, to bury them.
But I couldn't.
Then I was back there.
Home.
My wounds burned, fresh and deep, carved into my flesh by Jotun steel and the cursed claws of draugr. I should have felt them.
But I didn't.
Pain was for the living. And I wasn't sure if I counted anymore.
Behind me, the battle raged on—a storm of iron, blood, and fire, the clash of blades like thunder, the screams of the dying like the wailing of lost souls. The sky was dark with smoke and ash, the stench of death thick in the air, choking, suffocating.
And yet—
I ran.
Ran like a doe fleeing Skadi's hounds, driven not by fear but by the last words of a brother now dead.
I had cut down many, had fought with fury, had let my rage shape me into the weapon the gods had always intended me to be.
But clarity found me in the voice of a dying man.
"Death comes for us today."
Tyr's voice had been calm, steady, like a great stone standing against the tide. His one good hand clutched his sword, but his grip was not desperate.
He had already made peace with the end.
"But maybe not for Eydir."
His gaze burned into mine, demanding, unwavering.
"Go to him now. Flee, and I will hold them here."
I hesitated. Only for a breath.
And in that moment, I felt it—the bond between warriors, between kin.
His words severed the bloodlust from my mind like a clean blade.
The red haze that had consumed me—gone.
The need to keep fighting, to keep killing—gone.
Because he was right.
Death had already chosen us.
But maybe—
Maybe not my son.
I nodded once—sharp, resolute, final.
And then—I ran.
The last I saw of my brother—
Tyr, the one-handed, the fearless, charged into the horde with Fenrir at his side.
His loyal wolf. His greatest enemy.
The beast who had taken his hand, now running beside him, fangs bared, a shadow of death reborn in the fires of war.
Filling the space where his flesh had once been.
As though Fenrir had finally given back what he had stolen.
For a single heartbeat, I thought—
Maybe this is how it was always meant to be.
And then—
The battlefield swallowed them whole.
And I kept running.
Amphitrite's POV
She appeared out of nowhere.
And with that boy.
My chest tightened, a coil of rage and humiliation constricting around my ribs.
The deal—the one my husband swore to uphold—was broken.
He was never to see Salla again.
Never to acknowledge the bastard she bore him.
That child was supposed to remain among her filthy Barbari kin, those northern savages, where he belonged—where the fates had seen fit to place him.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
And yet, here she stood.
The brazenness. Bringing her dirty-blooded spawn before me as if she had any right.
The audacity of it sent a white-hot spike through my chest.
I barely looked at the boy.
I didn't need to. I already hated him.
Not for anything he had done, no—he was nothing, a child, a scrap of unremarkable flesh.
But for what he meant.
For who had fathered him.
It was one thing when my husband sought pleasure elsewhere—naiads, dryads, even an Olympian goddess.
That was expected. That was natural.
That was the way of things.
But he hadn't chosen one of them.
He had chosen her.
A Barbari. A wild thing. A woman with no refinement, no standing, no place among us.
No place in my world.
And yet, he had touched her. Claimed her. Laid beside her, whispered his affections in her ear as though she was worthy of them.
That humiliation had burned deep.
Still burned.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, resisting the urge to let my nails dig into my palms. I wanted to glare at Poseidon, to demand why he had allowed this, why he had let her set foot in my home—in my kingdom.
But I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
I wouldn't let her see me crack.
I turned my gaze to her instead.
And I cut through the silence like a blade drawn across flesh.
"Why are you here, girl?"
Cold. Sharp. A challenge wrapped in venom.
I didn't expect an answer.
Not one I would accept.
But still, I wanted to hear her choke on it.
I waited for the fight.
For the familiar spark in her eyes. The one that always turned our words into fire and fury.
The same old battle, waged a hundred times before—resentment sharpened into knives, anger thrown like spears.
But this time, there was nothing.
No bristling defiance.
No sharp words, no tight fists, no venom curling in her tone.
Just silence.
That was when I finally looked at the boy.
That boy…
His small shoulders were stiff, squared like a warrior standing before judgment, though his bones were too light, his frame too fragile.
His face was a mask of stone—carefully sculpted, carefully held. But masks could only do so much.
Because I saw it.
The bruises.
The cuts.
The tear tracks he hadn't wiped away fast enough.
Something inside me wavered.
That look…I knew that look.
I had seen it before—on royal children expected to carry crowns too heavy for their heads, on my own son when the weight of Poseidon's name pressed down on him like the tide.
The burden of nobility.
Of having to be more than yourself.
Of having to be better. Stronger.
I turned back to Salla, ready to tear into her for bringing him here like this, for parading their shame in front of me.
But then—
I saw her.
Not just the woman I hated, but the redness in her eyes. The way her body was too still, too contained, as though held together by sheer force of will.
And then, the wounds.
Subtle. Hidden.
Not the kind warriors boasted of, not the kind earned in the glory of battle. These were tucked away, strategically placed beneath the folds of her clothing, hidden so a child wouldn't have to see.
It was instinct. A mother's instinct.
A mother trying to shield her child from the truth, even as the world burned around them.
I hated her.
Didn't I?
Poseidon's voice rumbled through the chamber, low, steady, dangerous.
"What happened?"
The ocean stirred with his fury. Deep, ancient, and wrathful. Somewhere beyond these halls, coastal towns felt the shift, their tides rising—unaware that their lives swayed on the edge of a god's grief.
Salla finally lifted her gaze.
And I saw it.
Grief.
Not the kind screamed to the heavens, not the kind that shattered like broken glass.
But the kind that settled into the bones, quiet and heavy, a burden never to be set down.
Her lips parted, but the words fought her. Like they hurt to say.
"They're all de… Gone."
Her voice was hoarse, cracked—like a bone broken too many times.
"Ragnarok—the Last War—has ended. We're all that's left. My father, my brother… they're gone… gone to Valhalla."
The words struck something deep in me.
Something I had buried, something I had never thought to unearth.
Odin. Dead.
Thor. Dead.
The great halls of Asgard, burned.
And this boy—her boy—was all that remained of them.
I looked at him again.
Small. Alone.
A child without a family.
A prince without a throne.
And then, I looked at his mother.
The woman I should have hated.
The woman I had spent years hating.
And yet—
A mother.
Her hand clutched the boy's too tightly, her knuckles bone-white, the same way I had clutched Triton's every time he did something profoundly stupid.
Every time he almost got himself killed.
Every time he walked too close to the edge, and I had to remind him that he was not just a child, but a god's son, and with the dangers that come with it.
Every time I had to remind myself that, no matter how much power we held—we could not always protect them.
Salla had lost everything.
And the fates, in their cruelty, had seen fit to let her keep just enough to suffer.
Something inside me cracked.
I didn't speak.
I didn't move.
I only felt.
Poseidon's voice filled the silence.
"You can stay here."
The words cut through me, sharper than I expected.
I should have objected.
The words were there, ready to be said.
I could feel them clawing their way up my throat, ready to be spat like venom, ready to lash out, ready to hurt.
But they never came.
Because deep down, beneath the anger, beneath the pride, beneath the bitterness that still smoldered—
I knew.
If he hadn't offered it, I would have.
Eydir's POV
Momma squeezed my hand, her fingers warm but tight—too tight.
Not the reassuring kind of squeeze—the one she used when I was scared of thunderstorms or when I had to step forward at Asgard's feasts and be seen.
This was something else.
Her grip was firm, tense, like she was holding onto something she wasn't ready to let go of.
The pretty lady watched us.
Her face was like frozen water—still, smooth, cold. But her eyes… they weren't just cold.
Something lurked beneath the ice.
Something buried. Like a shadow behind silk. A warmth that didn't want to be seen.
I knew that look.
Momma had it sometimes.
Like when she thought she was alone and stood at the edge of the sea, staring at the waves as if searching for something lost.
Soft, but hidden. A tenderness locked away by expectation and necessity.
When the lady spoke, her voice was sharp. Clipped.
Like the words had edges she didn't want to hold onto for too long.
"Aquarius, take them to the guest wing. Caspian, go too."
Two men glided forward, their long, glimmering tails cutting through the water like knives through fish scales. Their shoulders were broad, their movements precise. Statues brought to life.
But they weren't like the ones who stood tall and glaring, the ones who tried to make you feel small.
They were strong, but unsure.
Momma turned to the lady, her fingers loosening around mine—just a little.
"Thank you…"
It was soft. Careful.
The lady didn't answer.
Didn't even nod.
She just turned. Swam away.
Her long, flowing black hair snapped behind her like a banner caught in the current, strands glistening like ink spilled across the sea. The movement was sharp, decisive—like a blade cutting through the water. There was no hesitation, no farewell. Just a single, fluid motion, and then—
She was gone.
Something in my chest twisted.
Like I had swallowed a stone too big, too heavy to ever settle.
A man beside the king rose.
Not hurried. Not slow. Measured. Deliberate.
The water rippled around him, as if even the sea itself knew to step aside.
His robes—sea-green and crystal-blue—shifted with his movements, fabric that seemed more like flowing water than cloth, the kind of silk that shimmered in the dim light like the rolling tide.
He wasn't like the king.
The king wore a strange, flowery shirt—a thing that made no sense, like a coral reef had thrown up its colors onto fabric. He slouched, comfortable in his rule, a man who held power so loosely he had forgotten it was there at all.
But this man?
He was sharp. Precise.
His clothes weren't just expensive—they were calculated.
The perfect balance between wealth and authority.
Like he wanted to be seen.
Like he expected to be seen.
His movements were smooth, effortless, as he stepped forward. But his eyes—his eyes were watching me.
Not just a glance.
Not the way grown-ups looked at you but didn't really see you.
He saw me.
His gaze flicked over me, assessing. Not in the way warriors measured opponents, nor the way nobles measured bloodlines.
Like he was looking for something.
Something missing.
Like I was a puzzle without all its pieces.
And I hated that he made me feel like I was the one who was incomplete.
His eyes…
They reminded me of Uncle Lok.
Mischievous. Sharp. Quick and clever.
Like he already knew the punchline to a joke I hadn't heard yet.
Like he had seen something in me that I hadn't seen in myself.
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown.
Something tight. Something unsure.
Then, with a slow shake of his head—so small I almost missed it—he turned and swam after the lady.
The fishmen nudged us forward.
The king rose, the room shifting with the weight of his presence.
"Salla… I'd like to talk later, especially with the boy. But please, take your time. I'm here, and..."
His words frayed, slipping through the water like a fishing net with too many holes.
Momma nodded, fingers curling around mine again.
Even tighter this time.
"I guess we don't have to worry about you not being able to see him anymore."
Soft. Almost gentle.
But not.
The words drifted between them like a current gone still, a silence before the wave crashes—too quiet, too heavy, too full of things unsaid.
And the king—he flinched.
Not a visible recoil, not a gasp or a staggering step back.
But it was there.
A barely-there twitch, the kind that ripples through a body unbidden, like a wound pressed too hard.
His jaw tightened, just a fraction, just enough to see the muscle shift beneath his sun-darkened skin. His lips parted, but no words came.
His eyes—a flicker, a flash of something unnamed, unreadable.
Pain?
Regret?
Something deeper, something older, something he had buried and thought long forgotten.
The weight of it settled between them, an ocean of words neither dared to say.
Momma didn't look away.
Didn't move.
She just let the words hang there, let them sink, let them drag down into the depths where drowned things lived.
His throat moved.
A swallow.
Like he was trying to force something down, something bitter, something he couldn't quite rid himself of.
When he spoke, it wasn't the voice of a king.
Not the booming authority of the seas, not the casual arrogance of a god.
Just a man, with words that felt too thin, too brittle.
"Indeed."
That was all.
Nothing more.
His voice wasn't strong anymore.
Just quiet.
Just small.
And then, as if the moment had never happened, as if the air between them hadn't shifted, hadn't broken—
He turned away.
We left then, following the mermen as they led us through vast, cathedral-like hallways, where towering marble columns stretched toward the unseen ceiling above. The walls were a masterpiece of carved coral and shimmering shellwork, woven together like the tapestry of the deep. Soft bioluminescent light pulsed from within the stone, casting the corridor in shifting hues of sapphire, emerald, and violet, as though we walked beneath the waves of a living ocean.
A spiral of teal stone wove through the walls like veins of some great, slumbering beast, pulsing with an energy I could not name. The water itself carried a quiet hum, a resonance that thrummed in my bones, whispering of something ancient, something deep.
It was beautiful.
And yet, as I walked, a weight settled in my chest.
Everything here felt… right. Like a part of me belonged to these halls, to the sea, to the vastness of this realm.
And yet… another part ached for home.
For the halls of Asgard. For the cold bite of the wind that howled through the cliffs. For the distant clang of swords in the training yards, the scent of mead and firewood in the great hall.
For the voices that were now silent.
The mermen led us to a door—not just a door, but a gate.
It loomed before us, truly massive, towering nearly forty feet high, its surface carved from rich mahogany dark as the deepest trenches of the sea. The wood was polished to a mirror sheen, gleaming in the soft bioluminescent glow that pulsed from the walls, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across its intricate carvings.
The creatures of the deep had been woven into the grain itself, a writhing mass of leviathans and krakens, long-limbed horrors and serpentine beasts that seemed to undulate as the light flickered over them.
At its center, a great sea serpent coiled, its sinuous body formed from that same veined teal stone that ran through the palace walls. Its ruby eyes glowed like submerged embers, cold and watchful, and its marble fangs gleamed—razor-sharp, poised as if ready to strike.
The two fishmen halted before it.
They raised their hands, fingers splayed, and murmured in a language I did not know. The words were soft, reverent, almost prayer-like, slipping through the water like the distant whisper of ocean currents in a forgotten trench.
A low click resonated through the hall.
The door shuddered before it began to move, the mechanisms within groaning like the shifting plates of the earth. Slowly, with a sound like distant thunder, it parted, revealing the dimly lit chamber beyond.
The fishmen gestured us forward, their faces unreadable.
We stepped inside.
The door closed behind us, sealing us within.
We had entered our new home.
I could sense the spirits of the mermen, they hovered just outside.
Watching. Waiting.
Protectors or jailers—I couldn't tell. But I was used to it. The Valkyries had often shadowed me in Asgard.
I turned to Mamma.
Her eyes were tired, the kind of tired that sleep wouldn't fix.
"We rest now, my little Hilmir."
I nodded and wandered left, searching for a room. The guest wing wasn't a room at all—it was a guest house, grand and opulent.
Beautiful. But it wasn't home.
I turned back, my steps slow. Mamma sat before a fire—but it wasn't normal fire. It flickered green.
I hesitated. "How? We're underwater."
Her gaze stayed on the flames, distant. "Greek fire. Your fa... The king showed me once, back when we used to meet."
I shifted, my fingers curling into the fabric of my tunic, gripping it like an anchor. "Oh, that's cool... When can we go home? To Valhalla? With Grandpa and Uncle?"
The words felt right when I spoke them, solid, certain. If they had gone there, then surely we could too.
That was how it worked. That was how it was supposed to work.
Momma didn't answer right away.
The silence stretched, thick as storm clouds before the first crack of thunder.
I pressed on, pushing through the tightness in my chest, through the way my stomach twisted itself into knots.
"Why didn't we leave with them?"
My voice cracked. I hated that it cracked.
I forced the words out anyway, like forcing a blade through thick ice. "Asgard may be gone, but like Uncle Thor always said—home is where your family is."
The words hung there, and for a moment, I thought she might agree.
That she might say yes, we had just been delayed, that we would join them soon, that the gates of Valhalla were still open, waiting for us.
Instead—
Her breath hitched.
The shimmer in her eyes wasn't from the glow of the green fire.
"We can't."
She blinked rapidly, as though willing herself not to cry, but her voice—her voice was steady. A voice carved from something harder than sorrow.
"Valhalla... do you remember what I told you? The stories?"
She reached for something, a thread of explanation, something I should have already known.
"It's where you go when you fall in battle. Only then can you go there, and then... then you stay there. You wouldn't be able to leave."
Her words landed like a heavy stone dropped into deep water.
I opened my mouth, but the breath caught in my throat.
I knew what Valhalla was. Of course, I did.
And yet—
Somehow, I had thought—
Hoped—
That we would see them again.
That we would walk through the gates and be welcomed home.
That it wasn't over.
Momma swallowed hard, finally looking at me, her expression one I had never seen before—something raw, something stripped bare.
"This world, your father, everything—you wouldn't get to know it. You wouldn't get to live. Valhalla is for the dead."
I felt cold.
The weight of her words pressed down on my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.
She exhaled slowly, like she was letting go of something she had been holding for too long.
"I'm sorry, my love. Our family didn't leave us. They passed on. The Valkyries carried them to their new home."
She didn't blink this time. Didn't look away.
Her lips trembled—just for a moment—before she steadied herself, her voice turning firm again, the sternness of a shieldmaiden of Asgard, a daughter of the great All-Father.
"And the Norns willing, you won't go there for a very long time."
I stared at her, the truth settling around me like a slow, creeping tide.
Valhalla wasn't waiting for us.
The gates wouldn't open.
The battle had ended, and we were not among the fallen.
It was just us.
Just me.
Just her.
She reached for me then, cupping my cheek like she used to when I was smaller, like she thought she could shield me from this.
"It's just us now. Just you and me. Always."
Her hands were warm.
Her words weren't.
I swallowed hard. "Oh..."
I thought...
I don't know what I thought.
Maybe that we were only lost, not left behind.
Maybe that we still had a place to go, that there was some path that led to them, that this was just a stop along the way.
But now—
Now, I felt stupid.
I was stupid.
"Sorry, Mamma." My voice was barely above a whisper.
I turned away before the lump in my throat could choke me.
But before I could leave, her arms wrapped around me, holding me tight.
"It's going to be alright, Eydir, my little Hilmir."
Her voice was soft, but I could hear the lie.
"I know." I told her.
But I didn't believe my own words.
And from the way her arms tightened around me, I knew she didn't either.
"Go find your room," she murmured. "Whichever you want. I'll take what's left."
She was trying to make me feel better.
It wasn't working.
"Okay," I said, forcing a smile that even I knew looked fake.
I turned away, wandering through our new royal prison.
I found a few rooms.
The biggest was cold—beautiful but empty in a way that made my stomach turn.
The next was smaller, but not small. It should have been perfect. But it wasn't.
Then I found it.
A tiny room, probably meant for a servant.
But it was cozy. A small fireplace, a bookshelf, a desk carved with sea creatures.
It was perfect.
I slipped off the small bag slung over my shoulder—the only thing I had managed to grab in the chaos.
I unclasped it.
Out came my grandmother's brooch.
Then my Uncle Lok's skáktafl set. I traced the edges of the horse piece, his favorite.
"I like it, little Hilmir," he used to say. "It's slippery. Unpredictable. It causes chaos."
He'd always laugh and ruffle my hair after saying that.
I swallowed hard and started unpacking.
It wasn't much, but as I set each piece into place, the room began to feel warmer.
It began to feel... homey.
I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.
"You can do this," I whispered to myself. "You're a son of Asgard. The last Hilmir. Be strong. Be better...
Be better."