Chapter Text
~The Almighty Þor, 825 CE~
Divine wrath not only existed , but continues to exist.
Today was the day Jaekalson learned that truth. Not only him, but his entire band of raiders, rapists, and murderers; the oath breakers, exploiters, and cowards who had taken the mortal he held dearest to his heart. They chose their fate, Hlorriði thought.
He was not wrong.
The arrival of Bodolf the Black had given him unneeded reinforcement, but he would be glad to have less blood to clean with their aid. He would play succor to them in exchange, and wipe them off the face of Miðgarð as soon as Jaekalson's men met their end. Garðar's executioners, Hreinn and Bjo̜rn Haraldsson, would be the first to die. Then, Hlorriði would parade their heads across the battlefield from his hip. He would take five times what Jaekalson took from him.
Hreinn’s body could be heard falling from the heavens after Hlorriði’s mighty strike. Mjo̜llnir sparked with electricity and its wielder leapt into the sky, chasing after Hreinn’s barely breathing corpse. The wind crashed against his face, split as his godly form tore through the heavens. Hreinn’s body hit against the cold ground. The land breathed , ready to devour him until Hlorriði dove down and took him by the neck. The rich soil was rendered a barren as he dragged Hreinn through it, straight into a body of men at war with one another. “You’d better not be fucking dead! You die when I say, Haraldsson!”
Hlorriði came to a stop, his knee digging into the ground. Swords clattered behind him and Jarnbjǫrn began sparking with electricity as he took it in hand.
“Oh by the gods, please no—” Hreinn said.
“Die, coward!” Hlorriði said, bringing the axe down on the raider’s neck. He stared at the severed head, those eyes glazed over with death. Hlorriði took the severed skull by its hair and charged into battle while tying The trophy to his hip.
Between him and Bjǫrn Haraldsson was a sea of warring raiders. A sea of blood. No matter. He was the god of storms, the god whose arrival meant prosperity or obliteration. The god who could split a sea and turtle a mountain.
The melting snow began to rise and harden, the clouds swelled with frozen rain. The men in front of him were struck down by a single, disintegrating thunderbolt, a thick red mist left behind in their deaths. With that strike the storm came rolling in, a mighty blizzard complimented by stinging hail. Hlorriði’s lungs burned as a war cry left him—a cry not only of impending doom but of anguish and sorrow, a pain felt so deeply that the oceans themselves raged with him. He tore through the body of every man that he came across in the blizzard, no matter their allegiance.
Heads rolled and limbs flew at people still alive. Jarnbjǫrn gorged itself on rotten raider blood, Hlorriði’s hands were made red, his fingernails crimson whenever he dropped his axe to tear meat from bone. He could smell the fear of Bjǫrn Haraldsson’s soiled pants, and his darkened eyes looked at his target as he emerged from the blizzard.
Bjǫrn turned tail and bolted off, his sword falling in the snow.
“Get back here, Bjǫrn! Þou must face the Justice of the Gods!” Hlorriði did not fly. He did not toss his axe, instead, he chased the man down. He was the god. Bjǫrn was the Miðgarðsmaðr.
His legs didn't grow tired but Bjǫrn’s did. He was faltering and Hlorriði was gaining. The closer he got, the more he could smell the stench of Jaekalson’s rotten seed in fear.
He was upon him, faster than Bjǫrn could try and turn to punch, he found himself without legs. Jarnbjǫrn drank in the blood, the spoiled crimson dripping onto the victim’s chest. “Shut þy mouth!” Hlorriði said, striking Bjǫrn in the jaw with the pommel of his axe. The mortal wept, his jaw broken and his mouth filled with blood. “I told þe to shut”— Hlorriði’s axe came down, severing the man’s head from his body, silencing him at last—“die with some respect, whoreson.” Hlorriði held the severed head up and looked at the corpse’s blood-filled eyes, his jaw hanging open and dripping gore. Hlorriði tied the head to its companion at his hip and turned towards the center of the settlement where the bulk of the battle occurred.
The song of screaming swords bounced around the thawing glades. Hlorriði stepped towards the main fight, towards the man who had stolen Garðar from him—there was an explosion of frost, a wave of men came flying at him. Hlorriði covered his face and spotted Jaekalson. He was as fierce as ever as he fought Bodolf’s men, his sword glowing a spine-chilling shade of blue, freezing the men he killed with every strike.
“It’s Atli!” One of Bodolf’s raiders said. “Quick, before he helps Jaekalson!”
Hlorriði looked at the raider and a horrifying grin tugged at his lips. He hurled Jarnbjǫrn, longing the weapon right in the man’s chest.
Hlorriði took his hammer from his waist and struck the first man who came in front of him with a raised sword. The strap of his hammer allowed him to swing it as though it was attached to a rope. He knocked the man into the sky with electricity charged in his body.
The ones who had remained stared up at their comrade, whose body bursted in a torrent of blood-rain.
“Too late to turn back now,” Hlorriði said, smirking.
The raiders screamed and turned tail, but none of them managed to flee, all of them met the business-end of Hlorriði’s hammer. The smack of uru against skin rang out like a drum with every corpse that went skyward. The clouds were pregnant with blood, the renewed snow turned crimson with the essence of mortals. Hlorriði threw his hammer at one man, a blaze of lightning carrying the two off. While his hammer flew, he was grounded. Hlorriði grabbed a mortal by the arm and tore the limb clean from its socket and swung the appendage at its owner, knocking the man down.
Another torrent of blood exploded, and the clouds collapsed under their own weight at last, pouring down a storm of blood. Hlorriði came over to the gargling man with his axe in his chest. He stared at Bodolf’s raider with an indifferent expression. He yanked the axe from the dying man, blood spurting out of him. The mortal choked on his own copper rich essence. Hlorriði extended his hand and felt the weight fill his palm almost immediately. He placed the hammer at his hip and marched towards Jaekalson.
Bodolf was decorated in foreign plate armor, no doubt stolen from the newest lands that the raiders had taken to plundering. He held an English sword in his hand, parrying and making jabs at Jaekalson.
“He’s mine, Bodolf!” Hlorriði said.
“No!” Bodolf said, hitting Jaekalson with the pommel of his sword, making the man stumble back, holding his nose. Bodolf raised his sword to deliver the killing blow, and before he could strike, his sword was in a bind the the electrically charged Asgarðr steel.
“I said ‘he’s mine!’” Hlorriði swung his fist, knocking Bodolf into a tree. The red-bearded warrior’s massive body made the oak tumble over, crashing into the glade.
Hlorriði lunged at him, his axe over his head. He had not expected Bodolf to be such a talented duelist. A strike from his axe should’ve broken the English sword, nevertheless, Bodolof’s iron held up.
“You interfere where you’re not needed!” Bodolf said. Bodolf shoved the god off of him and lunged, trying to stab Hlorriði.
Hlorriði side-stepped the attack and knocked Bodolf in the side with his axe’s butt. When Bodolf groaned, Hlorriði grabbed him by the neck and lifted him. ‘Last fucking chance, raider. Run off now or stay and die!”
“I don’t run from death!”
“So be it,” Hlorriði tossed Bodolf towards Jaekalson.
“Bodolf, what do you say we slay a god together? There’s no reason both of us can’t live! We’ll be legendary.”
“That we would be.”
Hlorriði heard the battle from beyond their proximity. Raiders were still clashing with one another. “Come forth to your deaths then, raiders!” he said.
Bodolf’s sword glowed with runes like Muspelheim’s loins. At the same time, Jaekalson’s sword glittered with the frost of Niflheim.
Hlorriði smiled.
He charged into battle with his axe at the ready, the pair of men swung at him and the handle of his axe blocked the attack. He shoved the men back and watched them crash into a nearby longhouse from the force of his shove alone. Every fiber of his being was charged with electricity. It was shown when Bodolf came forward again and swung, only to have his attack caught in a bind with Hlorriði’s axe. There was a small explosion that sent both of them back.
It was Jaekalson’s turn to make an attack. Hlorriði caught his sword and turned, throwing Jaekalson into the snow beneath him. He raised his axe for the last strike and found his blade caught on another’s. “Dammit, Bodolf!” he said. “Get the fuck back! ” He gave the raider a kick in the gut and, at last, on Bodolf’s last swing, he lost his precision. The sword went flying out of his hand along with one of his hands. Hlorriði gave the axe a final, violent swing and lodged it deep into Bodolf’s stomach. He spun and tossed the man into the ground with the axe still gripping him.
Bodolf sputtered, his eyes glazed over with shock as he coughed out blood. “I gave þe a chance! And now look at þe,” Hlorriði said. “Dead as a flea-bitten hound.”
Hlorriði’s ears perked up when he heard the sound of rushing footfalls. He grabbed his hammer and swung as he turned. The hunk of uru caught the icy blade at the last moment and Hlorriði stared into Jaekalson’s hateful eyes.
“You’ve ruined me, Son of Oðinn. My men lay dead.”
“And your sons too,” Hlorriði said.
“They didn’t deserve the breath they drew.”
“Father of the Season!” Hlorriði said, kicking Jaekalson in the stomach, sending him backwards. He threw his hammer at the first chance he had. To his surprise, Jaekalson’s head did not fly clean off his shoulders. Instead the man’s body headed towards the heavens, fully intact, still struggling to free itself, the sword lost in the snow with his ascent.
Hlorriði leapt into the sky, electricity crackling from his legs, thunder crying out in loss with him. He came upon Jaekalson as they neared the fine border of Miðgarð’s breathable air. “You took the only person that mattered to me in this damned realm. You owe me for that! You owe me your death, you owe me your sons’ deaths, and you owe me the deaths of your men! And I am going to enjoy taking the breath from your lungs!” Hlorriði grabbed Jaekalson by the shoulders and tossed him back towards Jorð’s waiting embrace. He held his hand out towards the hammer and it returned to him. He expected to see Jaekalson’s body splatter across the snow from this height but it didn’t. Instead, the man got up.
Hlorriði dove down and crashed into the ground, sending waves of snow away from him. Jaekalson was still standing, as though he was a draugr. Hlorriði stood up and stared at the icy sword in his enemy’s hands. “Þy sons screamed like captive girls when I killed them,” Hlorriði said, spitting onto the ground.
“Your boy—” Jaekalson began, but stopped.
Hlorriði smirked. “Was brave to the end as you spineless worms broke your oath and murdered him!” Hlorriði surged forward and swung his hammer, grunting when it was blocked by the iced weapon.
“Like my new blade, son of Oðinn?” Jaekalson said, chuckling. “It was birthed right from the depths of Niflheim.”
“It’ll look great with you on it!” Hlorriði said. Another swing and a parry. Hlorriði followed the block with a punch that caught Jaekalson off-guard. He smacked the man with his hammer afterwards, sending him into a longhouse. He flew at Jaekalson and his lightning left a trail of fire wherever he went inside the longhouse. They came out on the other side and rolled in the frozen ground. Hlorriði grabbed his hammer and impaled it into the ground, making his roll stop.
Before he could get on his feet, he felt a chilling blaze run through his skin.l he grunted as he looked at Jaekalson. “Die on my sword, godling,” Jaekalson said.
“Þou aren’t the only one who can take a hit,” Hlorriði said. He shoved Jaekalson away and stood, pulling the sword out of his body. Whenever his blood hit the ground, flowers sprouted. “I haven’t bled in a long time, Jaekalson.”
“There will be a lot of bleeding today, godling.”
“From þe, aye.”
Jaekalson extended his hand and the sword came back to him.
Hlorriði would have considered the origin of this Niflheim sword had he not been so full of rage. His hammer charged itself with electricity. “One of us dies here and now, Jaekalson.” Hlorriði said.
“And it’ll be you.”
They charged at each other and their weapons came to blows, the impact sending a sonic blast in every direction that blew a longhouse off its foundation. Neither of them yielded ground, trapped in a bind as their weapons filled with their respective energies.
Hlorriði pulled back and swung, only for his hammer to bounce back on impact with Jaekalson’s sword. The sonic waves came one after another in quick succession, Mjo̜llnir resonated with untold lightning on the last impact and a blast of ice and thunder turned Lakstad into a crater.
Hlorriði panted. Within the crater left by their weapons, Jaekalson’s sword lied, fractured in half, near an arching tree of frozen lightning reminiscent of an ash tree. Hlorriði approached the shattered sword and looked at Jaekalson who was splayed out on his back, his body charred and frozen all at once. “Oh no. Not in my father’s name art þou escaping that easily.” He charged up his hammer and placed it on Jaekalson’s chest. “I say when þe goes to the misty realm.”
Jaekalson gasped as he was brought back to life, his mouth burnt on one side, his eyes milky, full of a mix of tears and horror. “Get þe to Niðhogg’s starving maw, oath breaker,” Hlorriði said.
“W-wait,” Jaekalson tried to say. But before he could continue, his head went flying at long last.
Blood rain still poured down onto them, and Jaekalson’s headless corpse collapsed once more. Hlorriði panted, looking upon his work.
Hlorriði took his helm off and looked upon the winged guard. His eyes brimmed with tears as he remembered the atlantic eyes that were once behind the nose guard. The first tear fell. Then the second. And before he knew it, it was a free flowing waterfall. Hlorriði fell to his knees, blood running down his side from his wound. The copper-water and his salty tears sprouted flowers in the barren earth as he wept.
His anguish was heard across all of the Northern region of Miðgarð. He had his revenge, but it brought no comfort. He had lost his shieldbearer; and his tears would bleed through all nine realms.
Epilogue
~Asbjarnarson, Several Months Later~
Garðar awoke, his body on something … much softer than his bed in the hall of Helheim. Instead of Helheim’s misty skies at the roots of the Yggdrasill, he saw the broad, expansive sky with hues of pinks, purples, and blues. There were celestial bodies nearby. Not too far from him was a grand palace just on the other end of an unknown sea. Sprouting from it was a bridge of multi-hued light, flames running along its sides. Garðar got out of the soft bed and looked at the expansive sky. His skin was kissed by a welcome warmth and he looked around. He was in a longhouse that was not his own. How had he arrived here? Where were his possessions?
He normally left his clothes in a chest beside his bed. A large, wooden chest resided next to his bed as in Helheim, but when he opened it, instead of his regular garments, he found the familiar material of an Asgarðr tunic. He tilted his head to the side and threw on the tunic and pants to cover his nakedness. He used a simple knot for his belt and stepped outside. Before him, stood a vast collection of longhouses, wheatfields as expansive as the sky, and meadows full of gorgeous flowers he had never been blessed to see. “Where am I?”
“Folkvang,” a familiar, baritone said.
Garðar looked over and his eyes went wide. Before him stood Þor. Dressed not as a warrior but instead as a man. He wore a comfortable, blue tunic along with his tight black pants.
Garðar approached his patron and rested against his chest. “What am I doing here, Þor?”
“Had to pull a few strings but … My stepmother is nothing if not romantic. I told her our story and she could not help but bring you to her isle. It’s not Valhǫll, but it’s as good as I could get. Þou deserves more as my shieldbearer but this will do.”
Þor's arms wrapped around his waist, holding him close as he could. “Þou does not know how long I have missed holding þe …”
“It’s the same for me, Þor,” Garðar said, pressing his face into the warmth of Þor chest, breathing in his scent—like a glade teeming with life, cedar and amber. “I’m so glad that I’m here with you.”
“Þou will be able to visit me in Asgarð, and I can visit þe in Folkvang. But come, Skald; we have work to do, people to save, and the Almighty Þor does not plan on walking across Heimdall’s bridge without his shieldbearer.”
Garðar grinned, his smile crooked. “I’ll need armor.”
“You’ll have the finest in all the realms.”