Susan Krinard - Mist

So she had told herself long ago. So she’d had every reason to believe.

“Midgard is as it always was,” Dainn said. “The Sword’s Age never ended. Not for this world.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said, getting to her feet. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that there was no Ragnarok.”

In a way, Mist was far less startled by his answer than she should have been. But she wasn’t ready to concede just yet.

“Before I and my Sisters were sent to Midgard,” she said, “I saw everything happen just as it was supposed to. Baldr murdered. The Wolf loosed. Loki—”

“There was an ending, yes,” Dainn interrupted, looking up at her. “But not the one we expected. Paradise never came because the Aesir and their enemies did not perish.”

It was the revelation she had been bracing herself to hear, and yet fresh shock pumped through her body and settled in her gut, roiling and churning like worms in a bloated corpse.

“They’re still alive?” she asked. “How? Where are they?”

“Odin believed he could forestall Ragnarok. He failed, and all but one of the Homeworlds— this one—were destroyed. But before the Aesir, Alfar, and those they fought could destroy each other, they were thrown into Ginnungagap.”

“The Great Void?” she said, feeling her way through a morass of thoughts as sluggish as stagnant water. “Nothing lives there. Nothing can.”

“It is simply another plane of existence. Not entirely physical as we know it, but it maintains life.” Dainn rotated his right shoulder. Something popped, and he winced. “The Aesir and their enemies have been trapped there in a form of stasis since the Last Battle.”

She scraped her hand through her hair, nearly yanking half of it out of her braid. “Who trapped them?”

“That is a discussion for another time.”

Of course it is, Mist thought, just a minor detail, after all.

“What does ‘stasis’ mean?” she asked.

“The gods exist in a state one might call semicorporeal. They do not age, nor do they experience the physical sensations living creatures do. They, the Alfar, the Jotunar, and the dwarves live in separate regions we call Shadow-Realms.”

Mist settled back into a crouch, too dizzy to trust her balance. “Shadow-Realms,” she repeated mechanically. “And all the Aesir live there? Odin, Freya, Heimdall, Frigg, Thor?”

“All but those already in the Underworld.”

Baldr, he meant—gentlest and, it was said, wisest of the gods, dead because of a filthy trick that had sown the seeds of Ragnarok.

Dainn scraped dried mud from his chin with the heel of his palm. “Since Ginnungagap was the original source of all magic, the gods have learned to shape that raw magic to re create something of what they lost during their exile.”

“Are you saying they’ve rebuilt Asgard?”

“Some elements of it, yes, after a fashion. The great halls of the gods, their palaces and lodging places.”

“And the rest? The forests and mountains and rivers?”

The pointed look he gave her was answer enough. “They are unable to reach Midgard in corporeal form, and only Freya has been able to communicate across the Void. But that problem the Aesir are also working to solve, and it is only a matter of time before they succeed in shaping true physical bodies of their own.”

“The Jotunn looked pretty cursed real to me,” she said.

“The frost giants have already accomplished what the Aesir are striving to achieve.”

Odin’s balls. This was getting worse by the second. “How?” she asked.

“That we do not yet know.”

“But I never saw a Jotunn here before today. How long have they been in Midgard?”

“Perhaps as long as two weeks.”

“Then they’ve been keeping a very low profile,” she said.

“They would not have wished to attract attention until they had achieved their goal.”

“And the Alfar? How did you get here?”

Dainn hesitated barely a moment. “I was already here. I have been in Midgard for centuries.”

She stared into his indigo eyes. “I don’t believe it.”

“I have walked this earth as far back as I can remember, Mist of the Valkyrie.”

Mist’s thoughts went round and round like Jormungandr the World Serpent biting his own tail. Until she’d met Vidarr and Vali, she’d never once been aware that she and her Sisters shared this world with other immortals.

“ Why were you here?” she asked. “How did you survive Ragnarok?”

“That is the difficulty. I don’t remember.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. But she had an idea that if she let herself go on too long, she’d never stop.

“That’s exactly what Vidarr and Vali told me,” she said catching her breath. “It’s a bad sign when gods and elves lose their memories.”

Dainn cast her a stunned look. “Odin’s sons? You know them?”

“For about half a century. They live right here in this City. You didn’t know?”

He shook his head slowly, and Mist allowed herself a brief, uncharitable moment of satisfaction. “Vid and Val were supposed supposed to survive Ragnarok,” she said. “If nothing happened according to Prophecy, didn’t the Aesir notice they weren’t around?”

His shock gave way to that annoying composure that made her want to give him a good, hard shake. “I am not privy to the gods’ thoughts beyond what they convey to me,” he said.

And Vidarr and Vali certainly hadn’t “conveyed” any knowledge about the Aesir’s survival to Mist. She was pretty sure they’d be just as shocked as she was.

“So you’ve come for the same reason Hrimgrimir did,” Mist said. “What exactly did Odin tell you to do?”

“It was not Odin,” Dainn said, in a tone that managed to suggest he found her question amusing. “It was Freya.”

Freya, the Lady, the beautiful, the goddess of love and desire, of fertility and battle, though most forgot that fiercer aspect. Freya had been born to the Vanir, the most ancient gods, who had been displaced by the warlike Aesir, defeated in battle by Odin’s children, and finally accepted among them. Her brother was Freyr, adopted as one of the first lords of the Alfar.

Freya was also the First Valkyrie, the found er of the Choosers of the Slain. It was she who selected women—some the daughters of mortal lords, some from among the lesser goddesses—to ride the battlefields in search of valiant warriors worthy of joining the Aesir until Ragnarok. Half of the Einherjar went to her hall, Folkvangr.

But Mist had ever been Odin’s servant, not the Lady’s. She’d had no dealings with Freya at all.

“Why not Odin?” Mist asked, struck by a fresh sense of foreboding.

“It is Freya’s Seidr that enabled her to breach the barriers of the Aesir’s Shadow-Realm with her thoughts.”

Seidr, called the Witch-magic. Mist knew very little about it, except that only Freya and Odin were said to possess it.

Dainn answered Mist’s unspoken question. “Odin and the other Aesir maintain the Shadow-Realm of Asgard. It is the Lady’s task to deal with Midgard.”

“And she knew you were already here?”

“Even so. She contacted me six days ago. Since I was on the other side of Midgard, it took me some time to reach this city.” He got to his knees, bracing his hands on the ground to either side of his body. “And now there is no more time for discussion.”

“Wait a minute. I want to know—”

“What you want is of no consequence. You are a servant, and you must obey.”

“Obey you ? I don’t remember signing on to serve a cursed arrogant elf with dirt on his nose.”