Free 🍉 ~ Arin ~ They/Them ~ 30 ~ UK ~ commissions are open - go to ko-fi.com/boxwithouthinges ... comic pages on most weekends! ... please do reblog, but DO NOT repost
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With a mighty swing, Thrúd slammed Mjölnir to the earth, sending bolts of white-hot lightning flying towards the fallen Gateway.
“Vakna!”
She shouted, commanding her lightning to slither into the stones and bring them to life. The Gateway hummed and ignited a bright blue, the stones floating up lazily to reassemble themselves. They stood proud for a second then…collapsed. Thrúd hissed with disgust.
“Damn it!” She groaned, giving Mjölnir an accusing look. It was her third try, and she was yet to be successful. The wilderness of Pilgrim’s Landing shuddered around her as her lightning fattened the air with angry voltage. The perpetual daylight of the Realm spilled across her hair, making it appear like a fiery halo around her head.
“Well, it’s closer than any of us have got…give yourself some credit, lass. It’s a solid idea.” Mimir chimed in from his usual place at Kratos’s hip, but Thrúd’s chest heaved. She turned to face the small crowd of Vanir and Aesir that had gathered. They were silent, but a few passed appreciative nods her way. Kratos was watching her intently, his eyes gleaming. She couldn’t read his expression but suspected no one could.
“Let me try again.”
“First, you must rest.” Kratos insisted. He watched as Sif approached her daughter, placing a soft, reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“The Goddess of Thunder does not need rest.” She retorted sharply. Lightning crackled in her chest, strong, resilient.
“Yes, you do.” Sif turned her daughter, so they faced each other. Thrúd looked away. Kratos could sense her dismay. It colored her cheeks and weighed heavily on her shoulders. She returned Mjölnir to its place at her hip, the new leather hostler a gift from Lunda.
“I thought…” her voice trailed off, utterly defeated. “I thought it would work this time.”
Sif nodded, her lips pulling up into a soft, wise smile. “I don’t think it’s a dead end.” She insisted. “You’ve been working nonstop for days. You need to recharge. Regain your strength.”
Thrúd made a frustrated growl low in her throat. But she knew her mother was right. She pursed her lips before nodding, resolving herself to a temporary defeat.
The small crowd dispersed, ready to be summoned again after her rest. Beyla and Byggvir departed towards the Goddess Falls, while Freya and Hildisvini headed towards the River Delta. Perhaps they would finally ignite the Gateways. They probably didn’t need her help after all.
Thrúd watched them, a pained look twisting her face. She grasped the handle of Mjölnir. It was warm against her strong palm. She swore, at times, she could hear her father’s hearty laughter in the arcs of lightning that exploded from it. She felt his presence in its power, felt his warmth in the short handle. Everything that he was, this hammer carried. His love, his pride, the terror he wrought. What did that make her?
She didn’t notice tears forming in her eyes until Sif squeezed her shoulder. Kratos bowed his head, but only slightly. Mimir knew better and remained silent. For the moment.
“Maybe I’m not strong enough…” she murmured, her knuckles turning white as she grasped Mjölnir’s handle at her hip. Sif shook her head while Kratos’s frown deepened. She remembered being very small and sleeping in her father’s massive arms. Watching the stars in Asgard’s dark sky glimmer like diamonds against an ocean while listening to Thor and Sif tell her bedtime stories by a campfire. Her heart ached, and her spirit yearned for a world that was now nothing but rubble.
“I’m not strong enough to wield this. I can’t even draw enough power from it to open the Gateways…” she sucked in a long breath, wiping away hot tears with her free hand. Crying was weakness, that was the Aesir way…until Ragnarok. She and the other Aesir gods sneered at the idea of mourning death. Death was tied to glory, and glory was to be celebrated. It was weak to mourn your dead.
But now, with Odin gone and her mother the new queen of the Aesir, things were…different. Now they were free to mourn dedicatedly, to weep without repercussion. And yet, the tears stung like fire in her eyes. Grief, anger, fear. It swirled within her like a mad storm.
She lifted Mjölnir from its handle and shot off into the humid air, leaving a trail of lightning and trembling earth in her wake.
“Thrúd!” Sif called after her. She didn’t give chase, knowing it would be a meaningless pursuit. Thrúd possessed her father’s uncanny speed, and Sif did not have the power of lightning coursing through her veins.
“She is missing him…” Her eyes became moist. She paused for a heartbeat, scanning the horizon for her daughter but she was long gone. The air was still, heavy, until; “Of course she is.” Mimir’s voice, soft and supportive, echoed from Kratos’s hip. “I don’t think the lass has even taken the time to mourn. To really mourn…”
Another silence. The twisted vegetation of Vanaheim swayed as a gentle breeze whispered to them. Yes, Sif conceded. Fighting until your knuckles bled was not proper mourning. She eyed the stones of the Gateway, unable to understand how the Huldra Brothers managed to build such a thing, a door that opened all the Realms and even the hidden spaces between. It was a marvel of dwarven ingenuity. She pitied that they weren’t here to help. Surely, they would know what to do.
Sif sighed and knitted her fingers together.
“…Perhaps she needs someone to talk to. Someone a bit, ah, paternal. Brother?”
Kratos already knew what Mimir was proposing and quietly grunted his approval.
Sif clutched her chest, right over her heart. She didn’t wipe away the tears. Instead, she let them fall. A small act of defiance. Her home. Her sons. Her husband. And now, the fear of losing her daughter to the fate of unraveled grief ate away at her resolve.
She glanced up at Kratos, her eyes sparkling with tears.
“There is a place that she likes to visit alone.” She sniffled. “North of the Eastern Barri Woods, in the abandoned village. There is an alcove there, overlooking the ruins. I think…I think it reminds her of home.”
Kratos met Sif’s concerned gaze, receiving it with a soothing nod.
“I will find her.” He promised.
~~
Ra’Geer felt the earth tremble under his boots. He glanced sideways at Malmr, who was grinning. That made him uneasy. The corners of her lips stretched up, teeth bared. It was frigid, like the grin of a corpse. They had been walking together along the cliff edge, inspecting a loose pump gasket until they felt the tremor. Spotlights illuminated their path and the warm, moist ravine below. Dawn would be upon them soon.
“You felt it?” she asked. He nodded. Of course he felt it. Everyone in the Realms felt it.
“How long do you think it will take her to open the Gateways?” He asked, mostly to himself. He was getting eager, impatient. The forge was almost drained, and operations were underway. Wires coiled into the damp earth where the Lady’s diving bell once stood, snaking down and into the crater of the ravine. Great mechanical arms worked to build an archway within its center. A new Gateway, sized for an army. Several dwarven operators passed on foot below, treading knee-deep in the remaining water.
“Who knows? If will work only if Mjölnir has enough magic to do so.”
Ra’Geer gave an uneasy pause. His gloved hand ran through his thick, black beard. “I have wondered how long it would take for the Huldra Brother’s enchanted weapons to lose their magic.” He grimaced, remembering the condition of the Lady. She had been pale and thin when he sent his mechanical probe into the underwater forge. Though, part of her seemed to be clinging desperately to life. Gold and silver pearls of magic floated around her, like crystal orbs suspended in dark blue glass. Were they keeping her alive? Ra’Geer wasn’t sure.
“Why some objects are losing magic faster than others isn’t a factor we had considered.” Malmr replied coldly, kneeling to remove the broken gasket from a bearing. She discarded it then rummaged through a pile of parts. Not finding what she needed, she looked up at Ra’Geer.
“Heavy duty seal, please.”
Ra’Geer complied, finding a sizable o-ring as a replacement. He didn’t reply to her observation but silently wondered how long the hammer’s magic would persevere.
“That should do.” She completed her repairs, twisting everything back into place. They both gazed down into the valley. A team of Metallic Division crew members assembled and installed a new pump at the water’s edge. Mud caked their trousers and boots like earthy warpaint.
Ra’Geer lifted a gloved hand and watched casually as it flipped backwards with a crisp hum. The ground beneath him rumbled, but not from Mjölnir.
“We will retrieve the hammer.”
~~
Sindri felt like an idiot.
An absolute fucking idiot, as his brother would say.
The first rays of dawn trickled through the living room window, eerie glowing pastel pinks and blues. Enough to light Asta’s work. She carefully bandaged Sindri’s hand, which was now a shredded mess of flesh and dried blood. He let her but cringed away as if she were a leper. Her soft touch felt warm and repulsive.
She tried not to investigate his face, but the watery light from the rising sun made him look like a ghostly painting. She found her eyes drawn towards him, his narrow cheek bones, and his severe frown. The yarrow paste he had applied during the first accident would matter little to these new injuries. Sindri whimpered as she finished the wrap. It was soaked with his blood.
“Did you, uh…” Sindri stumbled. His hand was throbbing. “Did you need help cleaning up the mess in the bathroom?”
Asta looked at him, confused.
“The… augh – barf?” He remembered the hot stream of liquid gold that had spewed from his lips. The way it felt like it was ripping his throat open. Surely it was still there, perhaps hardened? Asta shook her head.
“Oh…” he murmured, though surprised. His brow knitted together. Strange.
“I just found you screaming. I didn’t find a mess, thankfully.”
Her reply was soft, but it felt sharp. Like a thousand knife ends against his skin. Sindri shuddered. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to fill the void of awkward silence that lingered between them.
“Asta,” his voice trembled. “Something is happening to me…I don’t know what.”
Fear gripped him. You sound like a fool, he thought frantically. This woman will surely abandon you. Kick you right out of her house, just like you deserve.
But instead, Asta nodded.
“You fought in Ragnarök …” her gaze hardened. “You must be…experiencing some horrible nightmares. I’m sorry, I can-”
“No, no…” Sindri shook his head. “It’s not…well. Yes, I am having nightmares. But this is…different. It’s much worse. I can’t explain it…”
He let his statement linger in the air. There was nothing but confusion in her dark eyes. If he were an honest dwarf, he would explain the facts. But they sounded ridiculous. The ravings of a mad dwarf who lost too much and fell to the mercy of his own madness.
“Try?”
Sindri could have laughed at the suggestion. It felt almost cruel. How do you explain something so unexplainable?
He glanced down at his swaddled hand, flexing his fingers, feeling how the injured skin expanded beneath soft gauze.
“Something is after me.” He confessed finally. Asta sat next to him but kept a respectable distance. She had already bandaged his hand, had already touched him. She didn’t want to hurt him anymore than she already had.
“Some-thing…” Sindri stressed, his words straining like the string of a drawn bow. “And it’s big, and mean and hungry…” He shivered again, remembering the boar, its boiling white stare, its molten lava spittle.
“Hm. A Bergsra?” Asta tried again, but Sindri’s frown hardened into a scowl.
“No…Asta. It’s something…intangible.” He paused, feeling the weight of his words. They felt as heavy as steel, and just as ridiculous. She wasn’t going to believe him. She was going to kick him back into the underbrush, to crawl around in the dirt for food again.
Asta put a thoughtful finger on her lips, nodding. A wave of relief trickled over him, but he wasn’t finished just yet.
“I keep seeing it.” Sindri glanced over his shoulder as if the boar itself would manifest out of her walls and swallow him into its terrible maw. Chewing him up into paste.
“A boar…a gold boar. Big, like…” he paused, then continued. “…Big like a dragon. And just as aggressive.”
Asta nodded again. He wasn’t sure if it was conformation in her gaze. Did she believe him?
“Last night, before you found me. I had a dream. Maybe I sleepwalked? I was in a valley, in Vanaheim I think, and it was there. Then, I was in the bathroom. And it spoke to me…”
He shook his head. The right words refused to come. It was all too much, and none of it made sense. What was he supposed to say? That this boar creature appeared and revealed cryptic information through the mirror? That, somehow through untethered blasphemy, it was a part of him? Sindri rested his forehead on an open palm. Oh, gods. He sounded like a lunatic. Asta nodded softly, unsure if she should encourage him.
The silence that passed felt like hours, but it was only about a minute.
“…Would you feel better if I made us some tea?” Asta offered. Sindri’s eyes flickered up, finding her gaze. He nodded.
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Asta smiled and headed downstairs to prepare the tea. Alone, he took stock of his surroundings, noting how Asta’s bedroom was smaller than he assumed. There were no lingering artifacts from her late husband, Erik, and the bed seemed big enough for only one dwarf. He frowned, shifting uncomfortably on her bed, wondering how many beasties lurked within the sheets, invisible to his eyes.
He heard her soft footsteps climb the staircase, and she returned with two cups. She handed Sindri one, and he accepted it gratefully.
“Chamomile tea. Not my favorite, but it’s all I have.”
Sindri took a sip, savoring its warm flavor.
“You know what they call chamomile, right?” Asta was doing her best to lighten the mood, and Sindri found himself finally able to appreciate the gesture. He opened his mouth to respond, but Asta was already laughing.
“Baldursbrá – Baldur´s eyelashes.”
The corners of Sindri’s lips turned up in an ever-so gentle smile.
“It’s such a silly name.” She took a sip for herself. Another silence, but this time it was calm. Warm. Sindri didn’t want to think of the gods, much less of Baldur´, but the thought of the despondent god of light with absurdly long eyelashes made a mote of laughter glimmer in his chest.
“Heh. Yeah.” He placed his cup on her nightstand. He turned to her, unsure if it was the tea or the fact that his nightmares had somehow become flesh that emboldened his words.
“So,” He began, a bit hesitantly. “Tell me about the Metallic Division.” He wanted to think of anything except the boar. And if this group had their eyes on Mjölnir, it was now his responsibility to know of them and what their intentions were.
Asta blinked, then looked away. She took a slow sip of her tea.
“I was afraid you were going to ask that.” She murmured, but there was a sliver of sorrowful laughter in her voice.
“After Ragnarök, the dwarves formed the Eight Divisions. The Metallic Division stood out to me…they felt different, unwilling to depend on magic. Instead, they wanted dwarven ingenuity to prevail and push us into the future.” She took another long sip, then continued.
“…I was never good at using magic. I never really understood it. But I understood engineering. Building things. Making them move without magic. Designing systems that could take energy and use that energy for movement. So, I joined the Metallic Division as an electrical engineer.”
Sindri was studying her with a strange intensity. Asta continued,
“We built water purification systems, crop harvesters…even some mechanical limbs for dwarves who lost arms or legs to Grim attacks. It was good work, meaningful work…” Her eyes squinted, and for a moment Sindri thought she may begin to weep.
“…I moved up through the ranks in that short two years. I became the head electrical engineer and overseer of all our designs. I got close with the founders, Malmr and Ra’Geer. You met them, unfortunately…”
Sindri nodded. He recalled that evening in the bar by Dragon Beach. Ra’Geer’s steely gaze, and Malmr’s offer for peace. Her strange blue eyes.
“I considered them my friends, until…”
She paused and sucked in a long breath of air.
“…Until Ra’Geer started making comments about Midgardians and the Vanir. Awful comments, refusing to call them by name…referring to them as animals. I was still part of the Metallic Division, but I no longer considered Ra’Geer my friend. When both he and Malmr approached me with a new project, they suspected that I was looking to leave and they were right.”
She laughed coldly. “They wanted me to design an electrical system that could contain and transmit the power from Mjölnir into a new machine. I asked what the purpose of this machine was, and both refused to elaborate. But I couldn’t imagine what sort of machine would need that much power…”
Her breath hitched, and Sindri nodded. He was one of Mjölnir’s creators. He knew its power, and it was not to be harnessed by mere mortals.
“I felt like they were hiding things from me. So, I left. Then, I overheard what they had planned to do with the Lady at the Forge. At first, I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe the dwarfs I once considered my friends would do such a terrible thing…” She sniffled and wiped away a few stray tears with the back of her hand.
“They poisoned her water, Sindri. Her death was slow. And painful…” Her eyes glimmered wetly in the milky blue light of dawn. Sindri’s heart felt as if it were being squeezed, his chest aching from the sudden pressure. He had no words, merely a look of sorrowful disgust as Asta turned away from him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know until after I left, and if I knew sooner…maybe I could have done something to stop them.”
Oh, Sindri knew that feeling. The guilt. The if-onlys. The re-playing of events in your mind until you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think. Until it ripped you apart from the inside, leaving nothing but bloody ribbons.
“How did you figure all of this out? If you already left?” Sindri was pressing now. Somehow, this involved him. He was Mjölnir’s creator, its former, its father. The boar be damned. He wasn’t going to let his brother’s work be stolen and used once again as an instrument of evil. He demanded to know the truth and the intention of this strange, new group.
“…”
Sindri squinted at her as she stood, turning to look directly at him.
“You asked me about what’s in my basement.” Asta’s gaze was fierce and made him uneasy. But he nodded.
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