A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.
"A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazonian jungle, and subsequently a storm ravages half of Europe."
Neil Gaiman
"We call them Urðr, Verðandi and Skuld. In Dvergar transliteration: the Word, the Debt and the Payment. The Word is an engagement to all parties on the desired outcome. The Debt defines what is due, the cost that must be paid. The Payment fulfills the contract in its entirety; it is the entity that sets the contract into motion.
The debt and the payment are indistinguishable to most - but if one falls short, one may substitute, or even make up the deficits himself to make the Payment. But such things are dangerous, and may even cost more than what one is willing to give up.
In some cases, even that of the debtor's all is not enough. That is far from where the tragedies end."
The Hall of the Slain is empty except for the small crowd of people in front of the dais. Dáinn stands beside him, moonlight hide still damp with crimson.
Behind him are a few of Asgard's model citizens. Thirteen lie dead. Nine have been rendered as cripples, injuries already treated and wrapped. Sixteen are bound and gagged - courtesy of Haraldr's best men. A total of thirty eight traitors to the throne of Asgard does Freyr present to the Royal Majesty of Asgard.
Freyr has his wrists in chains, kneeling before the King and Queen of Asgard. He will be the only traitor to the Realm instead of thirty eight if he fails to convey Haraldr's will.
"Freyr Njörðrson. Explain… your reasons for having laid chaos within the inner walls of Asgard," is the Allfather's calm voice. His eye, however, reflects that of a man who has had his authority challenged.
Haraldr is an eternal abyss of secrets, but Freyr is not incapable of inference and deduction. The men and women are of vastly varying ages, but they have one thing in common - none of them have been in the services of Asgard's inner walls for longer than five years. A few of the many recruited to fill the gaps in the domestic that had appeared after the war - domestic help who had left to return to their families who had suffered multiple losses.
Spies and moles.
"I, Freyr Njörðrson... am neither stranger to Haraldr's duties to the Court, nor the strange happenings within these inner walls, Allfather. The men and women behind me have fallen into the darker aspects of Asgard through no fault of their own - it is their collective actions that have damned them to the Shadow General's ire."
Freyr unfolds his palm to reveal the paper that Dáinn's master has entrusted him with, and Odin sends Huginn swooping down to pluck it from the flat planes of his hand.
usurpers through puppets
blood tainted with intentions
There is another line of words, and Odin rubs the paper with seiðr. His power permeates into the paper, and he watches as ink bleeds out from the faint grooves.
your dynasty trembles under the weight of twelve ambitions
The words are reminiscent of five years ago. When he had awoken from Odinsleep, the paper had been gone, along with all of the clues to those that were wholly responsible. Hjortrson's words have never been clearer - now all twelve Houses are embroiled.
The rot has spread.
It takes them a while to remind their eyes to unsee, to get settled in the darkness. He feels the crawl of sensation on his skin that reflects Wormwood's movement in shifting positions.
They have the tactical advantage in their home Realm, forsaken and abandoned as it is. The lush darkness and all its creatures are mere memories, long disintegrated into ash and dust as the light ravaged the land. What little life has escaped underground, and this is where they have gathered to kill their quarry.
Bitterhand rolls his eyes as Wormword makes… quite the astute observation, "The trap has been triggered for quite a while. I wonder if the stag has decided to cut his own foot off with his razor-sharp antlers and escape, or die in place of his little fawn." Either way, neither father or son will survive.
Grendell is silent, as always, but Bitterhand can see the strain starting to show on their spellcaster's body. There is simply too much power that his fellow Svartálfar is channeling between Yggdrasil's vein and the spellwork prison - the odds of him surviving are next to nil even if this goes well.
The intensity of the hum powers down, and the three of them reach for their weapons. Between them are enough knives and collapsers to bring down an entire adult herd of ch'rdilshi ts'khovelebi to get at the younglings. Even the Dark General who has placed Aflyse upon the royal throne to be the puppet Queen of the Dökkálfar will fall against their arsenal.
The prison gives way, and they ready their weapons to take down Haraldr Hjortrson.
The cluster of collapsers are triggered, drawing matter into the void with inescapable force.
Grendell watches with wide eyes as a nightmare steps from the artificial void. The knives that should have cut deep into flesh, are embedded in the far wall.
This is far beyond ability, brilliance, or competency. This is unbelievable, infinite power, Grendell thinks, it towers over lesser beings like him. It draws an overwhelming terror, transcending any feelings of admiration and discontent.
His sense of self is thinning - he feels himself stretching to infinity.
The urge to breathe is a remnant instinct from being alive. The reflex to duck and dodge is something that he can't quite discard yet, but Harry comes to realize that he does not need it. His voice now is not something that the three of them can hear, but he says it anyway, just to keep what little autonomy he has left, "I did not wish to become Death."
He reaches for his knives, and thrusts them deep.
...for those unfortunate enough to be presented...
for the metal holds and binds energies like no other.
Bitterhand hears screaming when Grendell falls to the ground, dead. There is something inherently wrong. There is a murmur that he feels with every fiber of his being. The screaming stops, and it feels like a blessing.
His throat is raw. He watches as tendrils of silver swirl gently to Haraldr Hjortrson. The Ӕsir should be dead-dead-dead; two tiny silvered knives embedded deep into where his heart should be. There isn't any blood that seeps from the fatal wound.
Wormwood slumps to the floor.
Bitterhand follows soon after, feeling as though he watches through eyes not his own, as his vision moves towards an indistinguishable bundle on the floor.
All of a sudden, the approval of Master Malekith does not seem so important anymore.
Death lifts away from him like a dark shroud caught by the wind, and Harry pitches onto the ground beside his son.
Harry wonders what curse is upon him now, for one of the three now-dead Dökkálfar had struck him with a blow that leaves his vision obviously faulty - there are threads that run everywhere, spanning from beyond solid objects right into the stark black of the tunnels. Some burn brightly into existence, and some fade out, but most stay strong.
He coughs nothing but dry air - the absence of the metallic tang of blood that should coat his mouth is glaring. He doesn't quite know how his son will fare; Harry only knows that his son is in a deep sleep, and still alive by the grace of Iðunn's apples that now flows in his son's veins.
Perhaps he has always known, all along even in the endless void, and that gut-deep sickness in his first life had probably been one of the early signs.
The truth has always lain somewhere in his heart of hearts, far removed from everything else. That he would eventually have to sacrifice all that he has kept sacred. And the only thing that he has left will be the tattered memories kept in some semblance of preservation by Ivaldi's craftsmanship. Because the Master of Death will never die, destined to watch as others perish.
Replaying their deaths one hundred thousand times, because they will never exist again in this universe. As he had fallen through the void linking the future with the past, time had been erased, fuelled by Life. There are things that once were, but will never be ever again, and he thinks of his past and once-future. He turns onto his side, and begins to weep until he falls asleep.
Because that time is now nearly upon him again.
It is the light from the samot'kheshi mchamelis that rouses him from the healing sleep - the Svartálfar call them 'paradise eaters', the first of heralds signalling the reign of infinite darkness coming to an end. They shine on him, and Harry cannot quite decide whether these are foretokens for the better or the worse.
He checks on Loki, and lets out a shudder of relief when his son is still breathing. The lips of his son are still held fast together by the monstrosity of Dökkálfar threads, and Harry wipes the vestiges of his own blood from his son's lips.
They have another stop to make before they can return to Asgard, then.
The red hot sings with delight with having finally finished its final form. Brokkr lifts it from the furnace to drown its shrill cries into the ice-melt, feeling the rush of elation as the water surface settles. This is one of the moments that he feels closest to his long-dead father. There had been few memories as it was - very little to grieve over - their father was always shuttered away in the forge. The only sign that they had a father was the constant flow of wealth and food that was delivered to their door.
His senses are not yet honed, but Brokkr still feels it. Not quite a tangible sensation as his late father had once described, but it is enough to make the hairs on his skin stand on end at the slightest twinge. Someone not of Dvergar origin is making their way down the corridor a mere league away - too close to raise an alarm for Harkalegasta's guards - but it is a welcome guest, even if he does not use the Bifröst.
Impeccable timing.
His brothers too have felt it, and almost all of them place their tools down to greet their esteemed mentor, only þjazi staying behind to tend to the star-forge, and doing so with a show of reluctance. Egil wonders out aloud, if Silvertongue has brought more of other-Realm samples that he may turn into new raw materials.
But as the doors swing open, it seems that a greeting full of smiles is grossly out of center with the situation.
Gentle fingers trace over a parody of a wound sewn shut, and Harry watches with a growing despair as the Dvergar mastersmiths shake their heads.
"It is as you feared, Silvertongue. The threads are no simple things. They are… sentient, in a manner of speaking, and seem to know their purpose. Cutting them would release powerful toxins within, causing an infection within the body of the host itself. Time would not necessarily heal wounds of this dark a magic."
"And yet, leaving them be would be a slow death."
Brokkr watches Silvertongue conjures a long table alongside his child, and then feels his blood drain away as he realises the intentions of the Asgardian when he lies upon it, sharp blades appearing on the side of the table. "You cannot possibly mean…" to take your son's place, are the words that hang between all of them.
"You must do so. Perhaps there is another way, but Dökkálfar curses are predictable this way. When you have children of your own, you shall understand. A fitting last lesson that I may impart to the sons of Ivaldi."
Disquiet falls over every single soul at Silvertongue's choice of words. This is the man who had kept Ivaldi's secrets of smithing until his sons had come of age to understand the intricacies in working the forge. Any other being, Dvergar or not, would have tainted by cupidity.
To be willing to die in someone's place - it is a hard lesson to stomach.
"I will not die, sons of Ivaldi."
Silvertongue, they call him. Some think that his words are like silver, spun in the likeness of a spider's threads.
Liesmith, they call him. They think that it means that he is well suited to crafting lies, but it merely means that he can unravel them with ease.
If it is the truth, all the better. Even as a lie, it is one that he desperately wants to believe in.
It is a dream. He watches two worlds at once. They appear to be twins, for what one has the other also holds. He feels a shudder as he searches deeper still - one world has more than the other - and then there is the soul-wrenching hurt when he realises the difference.
In one world, there is a shade of a whole dimension that once flourished. There are similar pocket dimensions where he knows to look, but this one is dwindling and grey. This is a dying folk, without the ability to hide from the witch hunting. The Deathly Hallows are not there to cloak them from Death herself. And where they run, Death follows.
The right of choice - between his desperate wish and Her will - has never been his.
He turns his sight upon his eternal companion, and finds that the resentment that builds is not directed upon her. There is unspeakable grief that howls for vengeance, but it is of no use, for there is no outlet. The signs have always been there, and so it is with the slide of a tear that he mourns the losses that have come from his gains.
The agitation is tight in her chest, and Freyja continues the braids in her brother's hair. He catches her hands when she tries to sneak flowers into his weave, the giggle that they share easing the burden a little.
They are closer to each other - always nearer in her heart than sister Frigga - because they have flourished together long before their memories, in their mother's womb. It makes the moratorium placed upon Freyr more bearable, waiting together like this.
They wait for news in their little prison in the heart of the forest of Asgard.
It is in the dead of the night that Heimdall hears his name. He has held vigil for nearly two weeks for the return of the man and his son - his Sight has grown weary indeed.
He twists Hǫfuð to unleash energy into the Bifröst, watching as the Rainbow Bridge surges with energy, and carries Hjortrson and son across from Niðavellir along with Ivaldi's offspring.
The little one is sleeping and seems well, if not a little paler than usual. It is no small measure of relief. The Shadow General of Asgard has a visage set in fatigue, but Heimdall cannot afford the man the scrutiny to find out the strangeness of that expression.
There are formalities to be followed, and the greeting is standard, "What manner of occasion graces the Realm Eternal with the Sons of Ivaldi?"
One of the six steps forward, "I am Brokkr, the one who works the stones till they shine. I speak on behalf of my brothers, for we have received Hjortrson's challenge, and have risen to meet it. I seek the presiding Ruler of the Banner of Ravens, and trust that he will judge our craftsmanship."
Interesting.
"So I have Seen, and so I have Heard. I grant you entry to Asgard. And I welcome you, Hjortrson, back to the Realm Eternal."
The Dvergar clasp their hands in thanks, and Haraldr merely dips his head. The group steps onto the bridge, where Dáinn is already spearheading the rush of soldiers. The entourage sets off, and Heimdall follows with his sight.
If he were Silvertongue, he would have collapsed onto Asgardian ground as soon as he had touched it. The man has been awake for the ten days that the brothers have been with him - first singing his son into enchanted sleep, enduring each and every stitch of the black magic into the flesh of his lips, and then working at the forge alongside them - and yet he is seeing to their comfort before his own.
The chambers that he provides are the epitome of Dvergar comforts - a deep roaring fire situated in the corner, and remarkably fresh air without the windows.
There is seiðr that dances in the air: Rest well, sons of Ivaldi. There will be a long day ahead.
The thread of words disappear quickly along with the man.
Freyr wakes to the clatter at the window, and opens his eyes to see the pale glow of light through the window. He gets up slowly, careful to not wake Freyja. It is a hawk that tilts its head at him, and he opens the window to let it rest on one forearm. It nibbles at his finger affectionately, but as soon as he frees it of the heavy burden in the leather carrier around its neck, it surges off in a strong wingbeat. Freyja rouses as well, and reads the letter with bleary eyes in the dawning light.
They begin their morning ablutions, and make their way to the palace, even though the summonses to Valaskjálf are meant for the evening.
The closure of his eyes beyond a fraction of a second... draws nightmares toward him. The glimmer of absolute truth that he has seen is a blight upon his mind. And yet, he cannot shy away from the crippling fears - to hold in his heart what Death can touch.
and there are many things that She can touch.
He watches as the stars fade in the light of the rising sun, and turns to regard the twins. The gasps of breath is not unexpected, and Harry watches with tired eyes when they rush toward him.
Freyja's fingers start in a trembling arc towards Haraldr's face to rest on one cheek. There is tiredness scrawled in every line of his body. It is a horror to behold, to see her brother's face in such a state of mutilation. Her thumb moves to touch the black cord, but he moves a step backward, shaking his head. His eyes are shuttered, but his lips twitch with pain. She has vivid memories of the ends of those lips curling into a smile.
He sketches words into thin air with seiðr, and Freyja's heart drops when she reads it: Curse.
Freyr is likewise frozen, but then her brother surges forward like windstorm, "Who did this?"
Long slender fingers sweep the empty space between them: It does not matter, Freyr. The debts have been paid.
His brother can be ever vague, and Freyr turns his brother's head with hands as steady as he can make them. It could have been the work of Dökkálfar hands in return for Loki, but... the stitches are so perfect that even a seamstress would be proud.
His voice is close to a tremble as he speaks, "The Dökkálfar, or the Dvergar?"
The words dance again, as green eyes peek under half-mast lids : This is no longer a matter of concern.
The punctures are still raw and bloody on Haraldr's lips.
Her twin siblings are already in Haraldr's set of rooms when Frigga arrives, and they greet her with a hug - she has not seen them since the moratorium her husband had placed upon them. There is a solemn air about them, and the twins bring her to see the sweet child that Haraldr has nurtured so well. The bruises are faded and healing - Frigga cringes at the thought of confronting the bruises in their freshness. He doesn't stir or even turn his face into her hand as she caresses one cheek, and Frigga feels the seiðr clinging as she draws away.
"He will remain under sleep - until the wounds have healed," informs Freyja. And it is for the best, for the healing draughts made by the Healers are not meant for such a young child. Frigga cannot imagine her own child lying bound under a interweaving of sleep spells like these, and feels wretched for the relief that this is not the fate of her son.
"And Haraldr?"
"He stepped out for a moment, to attend to his guests."
There are footsteps at the entrance, and Frigga turns to see Haraldr.
She steps forward toward him, and Harry falters in gathering the energy to deal with another of the Vanir siblings. Frigga frowns at his face, and Harry sighs. The glamour comes away at his bidding, and he sees the horror creep over her face.
Such a monster I have become.
There is a crowd that gathers in Valaskjálf, the babel of voices strong even beyond the great doors where Eitri and his brothers wait. His eyes are enchanted by the exquisite make of the door; shaped by Dvergar forefathers countless generations ahead of their own father Ivaldi.
Silvertongue has managed around the… speech impediment with the help of the Queen and her siblings, it seems. Haraldr stands closest to the door with his familiar, and the glamour is faultless to the eye. But Eitri can see the ripples of the glamour - the black of the stitches and the blood mottled together - in the delicate filigree of the embellishments.
There is the blare of horns, and the door glides open quietly. Silence falls upon the hall, and his brothers follow as Haraldr begins to move. The walk is long, past an endless count of faces who peer curiously, first at Silvertongue and then at the rest of them.
A tedious walk, that Eitri finds has ended all too soon, when both master and stag offer a bow to the grim Allfather.
"Allfather."
The voice he hears is only one, but it is perceived by many in differing ways. This is fragile seiðr at work here, carrying Haraldr's wordless utterance into words in all of their heads. The timbre of his voice is deeply elegant, and by the twitch of Þjazi's fingers, Eitri knows that there is a new formulation of metals that shall be tested out by the end of this visit.
"Haraldr Hjortrson," the Allfather's voice is deeply forbidding, and Freyr tenses. There is a great chance that all could go wrong - the Allfather's frustration at being called out to the great hall when the Twelve Houses are so close to mutiny is very great.
Thor stands by his mother on the right of the throne, and when he sees who it is exactly who approaches, his mother wraps one hand before his lips to quiet him.
Guðfaðirinn, and Dáinn. His godfather, who often vanishes unexpectedly, but never for so long, and never along with Loki. And now here he is, walking down the path with Loki nowhere to be seen.
There are dwarves that follow behind his godfather - each shorter than the other - and Thor widens his eyes even further at the enchanted table that follows obediently at the heels of the group. It is covered in a large swathe of red, but Thor can feel the seiðr that pushes and pulls in waves.
The crowd murmurs at the deep tones of his godfather, and Thor's attention centers itself once again, "But justice has been dealt, and it is fortunate that the items crafted by the Sons of Ivaldi have all been left untarnished by the thieves. I will begin with your consent, Allfather."
They had thought that Hjortrson's absence was absolute, meaning that there would be time sufficient for another attempt on the heir's life.
Clever. He would declare Haraldr Hjortrson sagacious, even. It is a feat of manipulation that no one could have imagined, even it it is merely fortuitous timing that the Dvergar had such items on their hands. To take the failed attempt at insurrection, and turn it into the celebration of the Allfather's reign with gifts for every member of the royal family.
The Queen and the Lady Freyja have received adornments - delicate and pretty enough even from so far away - but given the propensity of the Shadow General, have some alternative use, for Dvergar-made metals are far more versatile than any other Realm. There could be a formidable blade in every one of those glimmering trinkets.
The Lord Freyr has received the formidable Gullinbursti - an invention of lifelike likeness to a humongous albeit gold boar - in recognition and to hone his hunting skills. There is also Skidbladnir that the brother of the Queen gratefully accepts - a ship that does not rely on the winds, folding up to fit inside a pocket - but there is no doubt that this is a sailing craft for the Vanaheim-born siblings to escape.
The King receives Draupnir, an enchanted ring that eight golden rings fall from every ninth night. And then there is Gungnir that settles well into the King's hand - the Dvergar have named it the deadliest of all spears - and all in the Hall can see that it is a formidable weapon.
It is the heir that receives the most protection from the dark General, for the boy receives enchanted items that emanate distilled power. The iron gauntlets Járngreipr, and the belt Megingjörð, to hold the singular most powerful weapon ever to be placed in the hands of a child. The heir to the throne is adorned with the gauntlets and the belt, and then a hand is raised to name the short-handled hammer.
His godfather kneels in front of him, and Thor watches as long fingered hands help him to pull on the gloves, and to secure the belt to his waist.
The gloves are smooth on his hands, and Thor feels as they flex his hands. There is energy that surges through him from the belt as well. Guðfaðirinn has a smile in his voice, "They are eager to guide you, Thor. You will allow her the power to create - she will allow you the power to protect. Never forget that."
"Now, can you hear her calling for you?"
Thor nods, following the lead of his godfather's hand on his wrist. His voice has taken on that mysterious quality as it does when they sit in the darkness, listening to stories of Hǫðskuldr.
"Call her name, Thor. Her name is молния."
There is a whisper of Hjortrson's voice into the Prince's ear. The heir calls it, and it rings true to its namesake, flying into the tiny hand as if it has always belonged, setting the walls crackling with lightning.
a.n.:
This is ikki, with a long author's note. Currently I'm busy with work, academics (compulsory bridging course over the course of one year). Simply buoys me to read the reviews so far, and with some readers posing questions about this and that, here is my best attempt:
My style is absurdly haphazard, something learnt from authors who have long left their chosen fandoms and have sadly deleted their works. Fandoms that are not even related to the MCU, HP and Norse Mythology circles that Transliterations is heavily based on right now.
Foreign words, I try to use interchangeably with their English counterparts too, though there is a small glossary of sorts below for the current chapter.
Dökkálfarian/Svartálfarian:
Shamelessly borrowed from the Georgian pronunciation, using internet translators.
ch'rdilshi ts'khovelebi - shadow beasts
samot'kheshi mchamelis - paradise eaters
THE REAL NORSE MYTHOLOGY (as explained by the Internet)
Skidbladnir - 'Assembled from Thin Pieces of Wood'
The best of all ships, always having favorable winds and the ability to be folded up into pocket-size
Gungnir - 'swaying'
The deadliest of all spears
Gullinbursti - Golden-bristled
A boar that gave off light in the dark and could run better than any horse, even through water or air.
Draupnir - 'Dripper'
From the ring falls eight new golden rings of equal weight every ninth night.
Mjölnir - derived from the verb mölva "To smash"
Alternative name used: молния - pronunced 'molniya', meaning 'lightning'
Hammer of Thor which never missed its mark and would boomerang back to its owner after being thrown, but it had one flaw: the handle was short. According to mythology, Loki's interference led to a brief stoppage of the bellows into the fire, causing Mjölnir's handle to become shorter than it should have been. Because of this, Thor had to wear the iron gauntlets Járngreipr to handle it.
Járngreipr/Járnglófar - 'iron grippers/iron gauntlets'
Megingjörð - 'power-belt'
Doubles the strength of the wearer
Also, here are the valid timeline hypotheses for your Wikipedia/Google pleasure:
Multiple universes hypothesis
Branching universe hypothesis
Timeline corruption hypothesis
Erased timeline hypothesis