The Smile Before the Fall
Author's Note: Hi, this is my first Tumblr post and my first fanfic, so please be gentle. If you’re reading this and thinking, “what is this,” just know I had to get it out of my system.
This is a Record of Ragnarok harem fic I’ve been slowly working on in my spare time. There’s honestly not enough RoR content on here, and I’ve been starved, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.
Description: Eris, the goddess of discord and rivalry, lingers in the shadows of Ragnarok — whispering into the ears of gods and humans alike. She does not fight, and she does not choose sides… only the ones that entertain her most.
As the trials unfold, she becomes a quiet but unavoidable presence, shaping outcomes, provoking conflict, and drawing the attention of those powerful enough to notice her. Though she never enters the arena herself, she slowly becomes one of its most dangerous constants.
Hermes’ message spread across the realm. It was time for the gods to assemble and decide the fate of humanity.
For seven million years, humanity had lived under divine observation, and in the eyes of the gods, they had squandered every chance given to them. Violence, corruption, and endless contradiction defined them. Even the mercy granted during the last thousand years had been wasted. Now, boredom outweighed patience, and the gods were ready to be rid of humanity altogether.
Unbeknownst to them, humanity still had one last advocate.
Brunhilde.
In the days before the council convened, the eldest Valkyrie searched relentlessly for an answer — for anything that might sway the verdict awaiting her kind. She scoured Valhalla for some overlooked truth, some forgotten rule, some loophole buried beneath divine arrogance.
Now, locked within her study, she hunched over her desk, frustration coiling tight in her chest. Nothing. Every path ended the same.
The room was silent.
Then a cool current slipped through the air — subtle, wrong. A scent followed it: honey, thinned by smoke, warm at its edges.
The candles flickered once… and died.
A soft chuckle echoed in the dark.
Brunhilde straightened sharply as a figure coalesced before her.
A woman stood where empty air had been moments before, draped in layers of pale lavender fabric so thin they seemed woven from mist. The material clung and drifted at once, never quite settling, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone and throat. Fine bands of abstract metal glinted faintly against her skin, more suggestion than ornament.
Her hair flowed freely around her, moving as though stirred by an unseen current — curling, unfurling, gliding in slow, deliberate motion. In the dim light, it shimmered a deep, muted violet, almost silvered at the edges.
Her eyes were half-lidded, amused.
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she leaned forward, bracing her hands against Brunhilde’s desk and closing the space between them far too easily.
“Oh, Brunhilde,” she murmured softly, her voice close and intimate, as though continuing a private thought.
“Why do you look so tense?”
Her gaze flicked knowingly over the scattered pages.
“I’ve heard what you’re trying to do.”
Brunhilde stared into the eyes of the woman who had stalked through the study like a pale leopard. A harsh glare met with a narrow stare. She wasn’t in danger, but the figure before her was trouble.
“Are you here to rate me out… Eris?”
The Goddess of Discord stood before her.
Eris — the one who whispered into the ears of the vulnerable and the wavering. Unlike Heracles or Poseidon, she wielded no overwhelming strength. Her power lay elsewhere: in suggestion, in hesitation, in the echo her words left behind. She did not break the world with force. She nudged it until it broke itself.
Once, as a younger goddess with a reputation for trouble, Eris had been easy to dismiss. The gods learned too late how dangerous that mistake was.
She had been present when discord first learned how to speak softly.
The gods had not invited her to the wedding at Troy.
That was their first mistake.
She did not rage.
She did not demand an apology.
She did not curse the halls of Olympus.
She smiled.
And with that smile, she offered a golden apple — not as a weapon, but as a question.
A quiet interruption, placed carefully among pride and ego.
To the fairest.
She did not stay to watch, just chuckled and waited
What followed was not her violence, but theirs:
— pride blooming into rivalry
— rivalry sharpening into hatred
— hatred lighting the long fuse of war
She observed from the edges as gods argued and mortals bled, as heroes rose and fell, as cities burned under the weight of their own certainty.
Without lifting a finger, Eris created war and chaos on Earth and Olympus
After Troy, the gods began to whisper her name with unease — not because she had destroyed the city, but because she had revealed how easily they would destroy themselves.
They began calling her The Unraveler.
Later, The Disruptor.
The Smile Before the Fall.
She never corrected them.
“Oh no, my dear Valkyrie,” Eris murmured softly. “I’ve actually come to help you. It’s time for the council of the gods to determine the fate of humanity — and we both know how that’s going to turn out this time.” Her smile curved, subtle and knowing. “But I think it’s time to shake things up.”
From the air between her hands, something began to form.
Mist coiled inward, condensing until a book emerged from the haze, solidifying as it settled into her grasp.
“Give this a look through,” Eris said lightly. “The answer to your problem is in there.”
She placed the book upon Brunhilde’s desk, the surface barely making a sound beneath it, and straightened. Her form began to waver, edges softening as though the world itself had grown uncertain of her shape.
“Make me proud, Brunhilde,” she added, her voice lowering, amusement threading through every word. “Don’t let them destroy my entertainment.”
A quiet chuckle drifted through the chamber as smoke unwound itself from her form, dissolving into the air — and then she was gone.
Days later, it was time for the gods to pass judgment upon humanity.
Eris stood high in the stadium, removed from the clustered ranks of divinity below. She had no desire to sit among them — these arrogant, self-important beings who believed themselves above consequence.
Even seated side by side, they arranged themselves into quiet hierarchies, measuring and weighing one another with glances alone. They were not destroying the world with their hands, not yet, but they were no different from the mortals they condemned. Just as proud. Just as cruel. Just as flawed.
Eris knew she possessed gifts humans did not. Power set her apart — that much was undeniable. Yet she also knew that if any mortal were given that same power, they would remain what they had always been. Power did not purify. It was only revealed.
The hypocrisy of it all made something curl unpleasantly in her chest.
Below, the gods spoke among themselves, posturing beneath the illusion of righteousness. Their voices blended into a low, self-satisfied hum.
Then — footsteps approached behind her.
Hermes.
The messenger of the gods, Zeus’s ever-reliable right hand. He was dressed immaculately in a tailored suit and tie, posture flawless, every movement deliberate. Dark hair framed his face neatly, never out of place, and faint red markings rested above one eye and beneath the other — precise, intentional, unmistakably his. He never slouched, never hesitated, never misspoke. Professionalism, refined into a divine art.
“Lady Eris,” he greeted smoothly. “Why do you stand all the way up here? Would you not prefer a seat among the other gods?”
He offered a gloved hand, courteous and composed.
“We’ve made accommodations for everyone, of course.”
Eris turned toward him, her smile slow and knowing.
“Oh, Hermes,” she said warmly. “Always the gentleman.”
She placed her hand in his, her touch light, almost curious, her fingers brushing his glove as if testing its texture. “But no — I think I’ll stay here. You know I don’t always get along with the others.”
Hermes studied her then, gaze slipping past the smile, past the softness of her eyes. There was calculation there, quiet and practiced.
“If I didn’t know better,” he said mildly, “I’d think you were waiting for something.”
Her lips curved just a touch more.
“You know me so well,” she replied. “But I promise, I haven’t been whispering in anyone’s ears.”
She released his hand and turned back toward the stands, her presence settling into the space like a held breath. “Though I wouldn’t object to your company,” she added lightly. “Still… I imagine Zeus will be needing you. Something about his reading glasses?”
Hermes let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re probably right,” he said, already turning away. “The meeting is about to begin.”
He paused just long enough to glance back at her.
“Try not to cause too much trouble.”
Eris smiled — small, unreadable.
“I never do.”
Hermes departed, his footsteps fading into the growing murmur of the arena.
Before her stretched the vast assembly of divinity — gods gathered from countless pantheons across the world. Olympians, Norse, Hindu, Buddhist, Chinese, and more, all seated in uneasy proximity. Eris, daughter of Nyx, fit most easily among the Olympians by lineage alone, yet she had long since made a habit of drifting between pantheons. Bound to none. Welcomed by few.
Her gaze moved lazily over the gathering below.
Shiva lounged in his seat as always, posture careless, already looking bored — as though considering all the better things he might be doing instead. Aphrodite reclined upon her sculpted throne, draped in little more than scraps of fabric, beauty wielded like a crown. Odin sat rigid and unmoving, ever watchful, his ravens murmuring softly at his shoulders. And though she could not see him, Eris could feel Loki’s magic threading faintly through the air, sharp and restless.
Then came Zeus.
Hermes followed closely at his side.
Though Zeus was called the father of the gods, he scarcely resembled the image one might expect. His body appeared old — hunched, withered, almost fragile — as though time itself had claimed him. He stood in stark contrast to his brothers, who retained their divine youth with ease.
Shuffling to the center of the atrium, Zeus raised his gavel and brought it down with a heavy strike.
The sound echoed.
“Well then,” he began, voice rasped but carrying, “it’s been quite some time since we’ve all gathered like this, hasn’t it? Let the council of Valhalla commence.”
The chamber quieted.
“Deities from across the world have assembled to decide the fate of humanity. So I ask you now — shall we allow mankind to exist for another thousand years, forgiving their countless crimes? Or shall we put an end to them once and for all?”
Hermes stepped forward, lifting two signs high: one marked with a blue circle, the other with a red X.
“By the will of the gods,” Zeus continued, “make your choice.”
Shiva was the first to respond, though he didn’t bother straightening from his relaxed sprawl. One arm draped behind his head, he lifted two red Xs lazily, as if the decision required no more effort than a shrug.
“Hey, over here,” he said, tone easy, almost bored. “I’ve watched them for a thousand years now, and I don’t see much improvement. Same mess, different century.” He yawned slightly, rolling his shoulder. “Might as well end it and save ourselves the trouble. It’s time to burn them down.”
Eris leaned against the railing above, watching him with faint amusement. Shiva, as always — all fire and impulse wrapped in indifference. Of course, humans didn’t learn from their mistakes. They never lived long enough to.
“Shiva is right,” Aphrodite chimed in smoothly. “Everything he says is true. As time passes, the world grows uglier. The seas fill with oil and waste, forests vanish, and countless creatures disappear.”
She gestured languidly, as though reciting a well-practiced truth.
“Mankind has become a disease — a cancer threatening to consume the earth itself.”
As always, the room seemed to lean toward her words.
Eris did not sneer. She did not interrupt.
She simply watched.
Once, long ago, she had stood in a moment much like this — offering a question instead of a decree. And somehow, history had decided she was the villain.
After Troy, when Eris had meant only to expose vanity, Aphrodite had twisted the narrative in her favor. The war had been Eris’s doing, yes — but Aphrodite had been crowned for it. Where Eris was blamed, Aphrodite was adored.
Discord had been punished. Desire had been rewarded.
Eris watched her now with the distant patience of one who remembered too well.
History had always been kind to beauty.
Blame settled neatly at Eris’s feet, while glory wove itself effortlessly around Aphrodite’s name. Even now, as the gods nodded in agreement, Aphrodite would be praised for uniting the council in judgment.
Eris said nothing.
One by one, the gods raised their red Xs. The verdict was unanimous.
Zeus had his answer.
By the will of the gods, humanity would become the next species marked for extinction. The sixth great annihilation would come to pass.
Zeus lifted his gavel.
“Very well,” he declared. “It seems this council has reached a consensus. Let the records show that the Council of Valhalla has unanimously decided to bring an end to the human race.”
The gavel rose, heavy and final.
Yet before it could fall, the air shifted.
Eris felt it immediately — a subtle tightening, a quiet hum beneath the noise of the chamber.
Ah.
So it begins.
The great doors to the council chamber burst open.
“Just a moment!”
All heads turned.
Brunhilde stood in the doorway, fierce and unyielding, with Göll half-hidden behind her, trembling openly. Gasps rippled through the arena. A Valkyrie interrupting the gods’ judgment — especially this judgment — was unthinkable.
From her place above, Eris watched with a slow, knowing smile. She had promised Hermes she hadn’t whispered in anyone’s ear. And she hadn’t. Not directly.
Still, knowledge had a way of finding those bold enough to reach for it.
Göll tugged anxiously at Brunhilde’s arm, whispering frantic protests, but Brunhilde didn’t flinch.
“Pardon my intrusion, esteemed gods,” she said clearly, her voice carrying across the chamber. “But there is something I must say before this decision is finalized.”
Before she could continue, a harsh caw cut through the air.
“Silence, Valkyrie!” Odin’s ravens screeched from their master’s shoulders. “You dare interrupt the divine council? Know your place, half-blood! Are you begging to be struck down?”
Their shrill voices echoed, but Brunhilde stood her ground.
“I admit it freely,” she said, unshaken. “Humanity has committed countless sins. Their history is stained with cruelty and excess.”
The ravens cawed loudly in agreement, their mockery rising.
“But to erase them so easily?” Brunhilde continued. “To simply wipe them away… how dull.”
A stir rippled through the gods.
“If you truly wish to judge humanity,” she went on, lifting her chin, “then test them. Prove your superiority not through annihilation, but through trial.”The ravens scoffed.
“What, then? Another flood? An age of ice? Shall we drown them again or freeze them into fossils?”
Eris’s lips curved faintly. How predictable. The flood. The ice. Always the same endings — dramatic, effective… and unimaginative.
“Neither,” Brunhilde replied. “I have something far more fitting in mind.”
The murmuring gods leaned forward.
She glanced, briefly, to where Eris stood watching — just a flicker of acknowledgment — then turned back to the council.
“I propose a final trial. A battle to determine whether humanity deserves to survive.”
A hush fell.
“The ultimate confrontation between gods and mankind,” Brunhilde declared. “A series of one-on-one battles. A trial by combat.”
Her hand lifted, and in it appeared a familiar book — the very one Eris had placed upon her desk days before.
She opened it with purpose.
“According to the ancient laws that govern this council,” Brunhilde read aloud, “a clause exists permitting such a trial. A Ragnarok.”
Silence followed.
Then laughter.
Mocking, incredulous laughter rippled through the assembly.
“You must be joking,” one voice scoffed.
“Humans fighting gods?”
“Absurd!”
“Completely impossible!”
Eris watched it all with quiet delight.
Odin remained silent, his ravens shrieking in his stead, voicing what many were thinking.
“Do you truly believe mortals could stand against divine power?” they mocked. “What foolish fantasy is this?”
Brunhilde inhaled once — then smiled.
“I see,” she said lightly. “So the gods have decided to destroy humanity without even daring to face them directly.”
A ripple of irritation passed through the chamber.
“You’d rather wipe them out from afar,” she continued, eyes sharp, “than risk standing in the same arena. Is that it? You fear being challenged?”
Her smile widened, sweet and cutting.
“Oh, forgive me. How careless of me. Of course, mighty gods such as yourselves wouldn’t be afraid.”
She turned slightly, as if preparing to leave.
“Please — forget I said anything about Ragnarok. Let us simply proceed with the extermination.”
The chamber went deathly still.
Above them all, Eris laughed softly under her breath.
Oh, this — this was what she lived for.
The tension in the chamber had grown sharp enough to taste. Words alone had pushed the gods to the edge, pride bristling, tempers rising. She could feel it humming beneath her skin, that familiar pressure — the moment just before collapse.
Her laughter rose then, light at first… and then richer, carrying.
“Ah, yes, Brunhilde,” Eris called, her voice echoing pleasantly through the hall. “Do tell them.”
She stepped down from her place among the higher tiers, descending between the stone benches with unhurried grace. Her arms lifted slightly as she moved, palms open, her expression bright with unrestrained amusement. Her hair whipped and coiled around her, dark and luxurious, stirred by a current no one else could feel.
“We are gods,” she said, voice ringing clear. “And yet you would discard a challenge so easily?”
She laughed again, softer now, almost indulgent.
“If humanity is erased, what then? Another long stretch of silence? Another age of stagnation?” She tilted her head, feigning thought. “How terribly dull.”
Her gaze drifted toward the lower ranks of the divine, lingering just long enough to draw a few irritated growls.
“Without them, you’ll grow bored. And when boredom sets in…” her smile sharpened, “you’ll begin turning on one another. You always do.”
Then she turned toward Zeus.
One hand settled at her hip, posture casual, irreverent — daring.
“Well?” she asked lightly. “Will you lie back and end the game so easily, old man? Or will you finally play?”
Her eyes gleamed.
“After all,” she added sweetly, “you’ve never been very good at resisting temptation. Especially when it comes in human form.”
A hush fell.
Some gods bristled. Others scoffed. A few laughed nervously.
Eris only smiled wider.
The seed had been planted.
Zeus turned his gaze toward Eris, his brow creasing faintly — not in anger, but in something far more dangerous. Interest. His pupils remained swallowed in darkness, as they so often were, betraying nothing unless something truly stirred him.
Then he laughed.
A low, rumbling sound that echoed through the chamber.
“What a fascinating idea,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “A proper Ragnarok… I must admit, I rather like it. Why, I can already see it so clearly.”
His hollow gaze shifted back to Brunhilde.
“Surely I’m not alone in this,” Zeus continued, spreading his arms slightly. “You’re all intrigued as well, aren’t you?”
A murmur rippled through the assembly.
His eyes flared suddenly, glowing a sharp, molten yellow as his excitement surged.
“The wrath of the gods!” he boomed. “Our overwhelming might! A glorious display of power and authority!”
He rose from his seat, laughter curling through his words.
“A battle between man and maker — a death match unlike any the world has ever seen!”
Zeus lifted his gavel high.
“With this, the decision is made!”
The gavel came down with a thunderous crack.
“Let Ragnarok commence!”
The stadium erupted. Laughter, cheers, and shouts thundered through the divine stands as excitement swept the gods like wildfire.
High above it all, Eris watched.
Smoke curled lazily around her form, her outline blurring at the edges as she turned away. The noise faded beneath the quiet satisfaction curling in her chest.
The game had begun.
And with a soft whisper of drifting haze, she was gone.