Bifrost: Chapter I
I - Night’s Heat
Midgard
Scattered rain showers descended from grey thundering clouds onto the rolling green plains of Hvar Slab. The battleground took a different form in the dimmed light. What was once assuredly lively and quite nearly serene was now only a whisper of its original beauty, buried beneath abandoned human vessels.
Aztrit's heavy, rain-soaked black cape trailed behind her as she stepped through the battle-worn field. The tips of her golden helm caught rays of sunlight that were scarcely there. Through the tall blood soaked grass underneath the gold of her sandals were warriors with milky glazed-over eyes staring blankly up into the clouds with mouths agape, catching the tears of the sky.
She said a prayer to the Gods as the rain came down harder on their blue flesh and mud began to cake their now useless armour, “I implore you, Freyja, mistress of battle and adorner of love, let the faithful join you in your afterlife to rest. Let my chosen, Odin, All-Father, serve faithfully in Valhalla to await Ragnarök.” She repeated her whispers of prayer as she walked amongst the lost souls, pulling longswords and arrows from their bodies as she blessed them, preparing them for their journey onward.
When she completed her walk through the no-longer desecrated fallen, she lifted her hands towards the sky, allowing the rain water to form rivets down her brown fingertips. Her golden eyes followed their focus to the thunder heads above the field and with the deepest of breaths—she set the bodies aflame.
The ruby eternal flames did not waver from the watershed of the sky. Aztrit watched them dance in the circle she had made surrounding herself. And with a small twitch of her finger she sent the destructive energy forward, allowing it to consume the shells of life that had ceased their purpose. This was the last gift she felt she could bestow to the mortals that would be unable to reap the benefits of war they had begun.
The history of Men was painted vividly with slaughter. Death was only a tool for negotiation, and worshipping their Gods only a last resort to protect them from their comeuppance. She pitied those left behind, families awaiting their warriors to return home. Knowing that while they cheered and sang of their bravery, their loved ones were being burned and devoted to serve the Gods in their armies when it was time for this world to come to an end.
The cycle of battle never ended.
And yet Men dedicated their dreams to this malformed view of heaven—serving Gods who cared nothing for their sacrifices.
Aztrit was torn.
As a Valkyrie, she knew death was not personal. It would come for them all as the fates willed it. Battle could be honourable and necessary when stability of the greater good was questioned, and Valhalla was a warrior's dream. The highest honour a mortal could hope for. But deep in her heart—a small part of her that she rarely cared to listen to—felt personal turmoil for each person as they turned to ash.
Their faces fell away, crumbling into the grass beneath. The rivers of blood dried and lifted into the sky to return to the universe that birthed them.
Their lives seemed so meaningless and short with happiness that was even more temporary. Why force their euphoric forever in the heavens to instead be spent awaiting another great war?
Whispered wind called to her, swirling around her bronze collarbone and grazing her earlobe before it carried on towards the sky. She heard her father’s voice carried in its shimmering gust.
She turned in a circle slowly amongst the fading savagery, taking in the sadness and hope that lived there. The fires she had called were no more than embers now, with only ash left behind to tell of the battle that had taken place.
Her work there was done.
Aztrit reached out to feel the gust still swirling through her hair and around her arms, allowing it to speak to her once more, “Come to me.” It whispered in her father’s voice again. And so she would.
Unafraid as light engulfed her, she began to feel the wind of the Great Tree whipping harshly around her with scents of fire, rain, decay, and growth. She closed her eyes and waited for the feeling to pass. The Bifrost took its toll with each trip, your senses remained your own only if you gave it the control it briefly desired.
Aztrit felt her feet touch solid ground and opened her eyes. Trees, gnarled and tall, waterfalls, boasting and strong, and halls of gold and marble welcomed her return. The dream filled sky had just been brushed with magenta with the passing of the sun. The air Asgardians were blessed with high on Yggdrasil, the Great World Tree, above the other eight realms—was sweet.
It was said amongst the Aesir that no place was as heavenly and perfectly made. Asgard was the highest blessing, and each world beneath it on Yggdrasil's branches and rich stem, were undesirable.
In her own travels, Aztrit had not seen a world to rival it yet.
The warmth of the silver torches lining the walls of the porcelain throne room reached the apple of her cheeks and shone on her skin as the blue flames danced in their holsters.
Bronze portraits of Asgardians both alive and long passed decorated the ceilings and walls made entirely out of shining graphite.
She looked into their frames as she made her way further down the entrance hallway towards the empty throne. Aztrit did not have a portrait of her own, no demigod had yet been blessed with a place in the hall, but she was sure she would be the first.
She had only to prove she was exceptional.
Her time would come.
Aztrit stopped in front of the throne where her father’s picture rested high in the bannisters. She habitually compared their complexions. He was alabaster, looming, with piercing blue eyes that spoke of power and legacy. Her complexion was far from pale, with warm red sand in its undertones and blessed golden brown eyes from her human mother. She had been told countlessly that she was a reflection of her, with a slim up turned nose and full lips like those in her mother’s homeland far across the seas in the Sun Lands of Midgard where trees were sparse and desert roamed.
She never knew if those who reminded her of her differences meant to spit hatred or praise, but she knew for certain that many thought better of acknowledging it at all. Lest her father question them on what made her so different, as if it wasn't evident with one glance; Aztrit was not of them.
She had never known her mother, but through her story—and the searches she had gone through in her early years to find out more about her—Aztrit knew she was almost her exact image. She too had deep ebony hair that curled into itself far down her back with eyes of golden pools that reflected every band of light that they sought.
As Odin’s body began appearing, Aztrit removed her gold leaf helm and let her hair fall down her back. She held the metal to her hip as light and wind swirled around the empty silver lined throne. His scraggly braided blond beard hung to his belly and his dark green armour rattled against the seat of power.
A parted smile was painted into his aged cheeks. He looked happy, just as he usually did when she returned from collecting his offerings. His laugh boomed as he stood up just as quickly as he had sat and moved forward to embrace her with his outstretched arms.
Odin’s white teeth and blue eyes shone as he called to her, “Aztrit!” His arms wrapped around her and lifted her high off the ground. Even in his humanoid form he towered over her. But most pure gods did.
“What a wondrous battle. The warriors are very talented from this day. I’m very pleased.”
She smiled with him as he squeezed. His affection was not easily given, even to her. Although her brothers swore he loved her best.
She hugged him in return. “I’m pleased you’re pleased father, I am always happy to serve you." She eyed the bannisters behind them as he only continued to squeeze in silence. Had he only called to thank her? He had never done so before.
"Father?" She called as he shook her again.
Odin returned her to her feet and touched her padded shoulder. Aztrit was sure for one moment he looked to be happy enough to shed tears. The moment ended with another squeeze from his grip.
“You did well today, daughter. Allow your poor father a moment to see that you’re unharmed. Let our troubles rest.”
Aztrit nodded happily. “I am well. Observing the battle was simple as you said. Although strange.”
Odin motioned for her to follow as he walked past the throne towards the reception hall. “Strange?”
Aztrit nodded to the servants that opened the double doors and whispered their greeting to the Allfather. “The Men are coming undone, feuding about breaking their treaty with the elves and dwarves. All as you said, but their King who does not like to be called ‘King’, he seems full of resolve and strength. Are you certain he is meant to be ours before Ragnarök?”
Odin’s smile faltered.
His stare stilled her at his side.
“He will serve me.” He stopped amongst the pillars surrounding the tables and chairs with spirits and Gods alike drinking and singing. “Was I not clear when I told you this?”
She nodded and shook away the chill from his glare.
It was not her place to question him.
“I am sorry father—” Odin's grip on her arm stopped her from kneeling at his feet with humility. “It will be done as you ask.”
Odin released her with a humourless chuckle. “This I do not doubt.”
Their walk continued.
“As the Commander of the Valkyries, I could entrust this to no one but you, my daughter. I should think it time for you to prove just how strong you have become.”
Aztrit smiled faintly. “You honour me father. I live to serve you.”
“And as you serve me, so must others.” Odin added. Gesturing to the Aesir in the sunlit hall. “It is the way we all preserve what you see here in Asgard, and in the other realms where battles call. This duty is not above the mortals of Midgard, you, or even myself.” He looked at her and waved the illusion over his missing eye away.
Aztrit looked directly into the once festered hole, cleaned and emptied of the eye that he had lost in trade for knowledge of their future. She did not look away as the wound compelled her.
Odin had told of the story once after his return from the Well.
She remembered the hush around the great hall the night he returned. Her brothers had woken her–Thor carried her in her nightdress with Loki by his side. She had been young, too young to understand the importance of the temporary truce her brothers had made to collect her together and take her to Odin’s chambers.
There they sat around their father’s bedside as he recounted his journey, sparing no details, taking until dawn. He had given an eye and received the future in return. And when his tale was over, he explained why he and he alone could bear the weight of his sacrifice, and the importance of maintaining their legacy with every event that would come to follow.
His future sight had not been wrong yet.
So if Odin was certain the King of Men would be his, Aztrit was as well.
The look in Odin’s eyes bore holes into her skin. “The Lord King Verdulke of Grothen has land that is central in Karth. His birth line is very old, and he is essential to the human colonies of Midgard. War has reached his borders, and today the men who turned on him for not breaking faith with their immortal allies have now been defeated. This is only the very beginning of his victories. Each one will strengthen him, and songs of his valour will be sung for centuries to come when the war for Midgard is won. Then, he will lead his fallen brethren for Asgard when Ragnarök attempts to claim her. The moment in which you will bring him to me will be made clear, but you are not to leave his side until then.”
Aztrit attempted to hide her shock.
Valkyrie companions were not unheard of for great battles in which the Gods saw fit to interfere, but to aid a King through the entirety of his war? “Father—”
“You will be his healer, his mage, his potions master–whatever you must be to earn his trust and claim a place by his side. He cannot know of his fate, even if you are discovered. He is highly suspicious, and untrusting. He will not come willingly if you have deceived him. This is crucial to our survival, Aztrit. I cannot tolerate failure. Do you understand?”
Aztrit closed her mouth and nodded again. “Yes, Allfather. It will be done.”
Odin watched as she lowered her gaze and returned his false eye illusion to his face. “It will be some time before you will be able to return without his notice. Leave when you have prepared and said your goodbyes.” He saw her look up again in a panic and felt no remorse.
She was young for an Aesir God but it was long past time to prove her utmost fealty. “It seems an opportunity to prove your dedication has come, Aztrit. You will not refuse its challenge, will you?”
She shook her head. “No, Father. It shall be done as you ask.” Aztrit felt only dread as she made her promise. This was far unlike anything her father had asked of her before. Did that speak to its importance, or its deviation from tradition?
Odin hugged her again. “I’m so glad that we understand each other, daughter.” He paused and glanced at her false smile. “Do not return without my treasure.” He smiled broadly as he began to dematerialize.
With the gust of wind and light from the Bifrost, he was gone.
✴
Kirk sang low along to the folk song his men were clapping and whistling to as they danced around the roasting pit. He lifted his spilling flagon to the ceiling and cheered as someone took the buxom maid bringing quail and bread and kissed her roughly. He chuckled, the food hitting the mixed stone floor and hounds quickly descended on it.
Her long blonde braid swung as she laughed and sang in the man’s arms, with eyes of cheerful blue that smiled with her every word.
Seeing a pretty woman after battle brought liveliness to his chest each and every time they returned home. That unique, oblivious happiness was far unlike the sadness that was sure to settle in the next morning.
The drunk lumbering man next to him leaned over and wrapped his cloaked shoulder with his arm. Ale and meat stank on his breath. “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she?” Kirk nodded with his cousin beside him, but stayed silent. Eric’s taste in women was not quite his own, but he agreed. “Sing another one, Ilka!”
Kirk grinned as his men cheered and stood as Ilka clapped to their stomping rhythm and lifted her skirts to show the fine hairs on her peeking thighs.
In the dim light of the Great Hall, with his family’s banners watching over their camaraderie, he was thankful to be home.
Eric gripped Kirk’s shoulder as he looked deep in thought. He never knew what his cousin–his king–was thinking, and the burdens he often kept to himself. But he knew what troubles could lie there, and would be presented in the future. “You cannot allow Lord Hivarth’s turning to stray you, cousin. We swore an oath. He broke it.”
Kirk gave him a glance of acknowledgment. Septon Hivarth had broken his oath, to Karth, and to the Verdulke’s. But his fear had not been unwarranted. Kirk knew many of his people were afraid, just as Lord Hivarth had been. But Kirk knew breaking faith with the Elves and Dwarves was not the way to save the race of Men. “Septon used to come here as a child, do you remember?”
Eric’s blonde beard contorted with his boisterous laughter. Lord Hivarth had indeed spent many summers with Kirk and Eric when they were children. He was spoiled and proud. A terrible card player and awful at sharing. But he was an honourable man, raised by a twice as honourable father. “Lord Learth Hivarth made us apologise to Milly Jise, the cook's daughter after we put a toad in her soup.” Eric took a bite of his fish, “I remember it as if it were yesterday.”
Kirk smiled and took another earthy sip. “You were the one who put it there.”
Eric waved a hand. “Yes, yes. She was a fine looking girl. She was my first you know.”
Kirk rolled his eyes, he had heard this story many, many times before. The very first time they were hardly men. Eric came running with hay still in his hair from their midday romp in the secluded stables. “My father had me watched for two months when he overheard you. I was always paying for your mistakes.”
Eric patted him on the back. Pride and love surged through him as he looked at Kirk’s face. “And still do, brother.”
Aztrit felt the cobblestones of the courtyard appear beneath her feet and looked around to be sure her arrival had gone unnoticed. Her hair blew past her shoulder as she righted her human clothes.
The moonlit night in Grothen carried a summered breeze. Warmth welcomed her as an uproar of laughter and singing poured from the weathered castle doors in front of her. The dimmed lanterns posted to either side of the great archway flickered and danced in the night along with the quiet whispering of the trees lining the bricked walls of the entrance.
As the door swung open, she quickly moved to the side and pulled her hooded cloak closer to her face, shielding herself from the drunken occupants straggling home from the King’s lair.
She clung to the stone wall as they giggled and passed, looking to the sky. The Great Mountains rested in the distance, their peaks kissing the star-covered sky that carried the lonely pale orb as it watched others bask in its reflected light.
Aztrit righted herself with slow breaths. She had only to do as her father asked. Then she could save her home, her family, and the other worlds including Midgard. But even with her own reassuring words, an unsettling feeling lurked in her belly.
She gathered herself, and pulled the cold steel handle to open the hall door.
Kirk looked up.
Although the creaking of the hall doors could not be heard over the laughter and music, her energy alone shifted the air in the room. Her mind reached him first. Over the wants and needs of the other patrons, he could tell that she was searching. Searching for trouble or safety, he could not be sure.
He watched on as she stepped and turned around his rowdy guests, examining each of their faces as she went by. She moved quietly, so gracefully that he could believe she wasn’t touching the floor at all. Although she was head and shoulders beneath many of the people she passed, her height easily daunted other women he had met.
Eric followed Kirk’s eyes to the hooded woman making her way through the crowd. “Were you expecting visitors, my King?”
An impressed smirk crossed Kirk's lips, “I was not.”
Worried, Eric pushed his chair away from the head table and stood.
Aztrit swept the King’s returned gaze. He was handsome, and seemed to be of a human age equivalent to herself. His deep black hair reminded her of the night sky she had just parted with, and his silver eyes shone like the stars adorning it. With lips of pale pink and thick black brows that took a slash of blackened red scar through them and his right eye, all the way to his collarbone. As his blonde friend approached her, she unhappily took her eyes from Kirk.
“Lord Verdulke isn’t taking audience right now. Whore somewhere else for the night.” Eric coldly uttered from his rose lips. Freckled with blue eyes, he would have been handsome if not for his bitter soul.
Kirk tilted his head as she only smiled up at Eric. “Your men have no respect for women, Lord Verdulke. Should I teach them to?”
Kirk smiled along with her malice. He loved a mean woman. He very nearly said ‘Yes.’
“Let her through, Eric.” He waved his men to settle and return to their drinking and good spirits.
Aztrit let her smile fall as she stared back at Eric and undid the string of her cloak, revealing a deep blue travelling dress that curved with her body and held her chest. Bold, blue sapphires dangled from her ears, communicating her wealth and status to the onlookers that had stopped to gawk at the visitors' exchange. “I apologise, My Lady.” Eric bowed shallowly and allowed her to approach Kirk’s table.
Kirk sipped his flagon as she stopped in front of him. “It is bold of you to assume you can teach my men a lesson.”
Aztrit suppressed a laugh, “It is bold of you to assume that I cannot.”
Kirk grinned and placed his drink on the stone table in front of her. He liked bold. “What can I do for you…?”
“Aztrit.” She said with a deep breath as she folded her cloak over her forearms.
“Aztrit.” Kirk echoed. “Lord King Verdulke of Karth, Warden of Grothen–the country you happen to be standing in.” He motioned to himself and the watching hall. “Please, take a seat.”
Aztrit reached across the table and touched the back of his hand, stopping him from sitting. “I think you may want to hear what I say privately.” She watched him stand straight once more with a nod. She could see his features closer now, deep and honest, she could see his soul lasting for centuries to come.
Kirk wrapped his brown fur cloak over his shoulders and took his sword from the table, returning it to his side. “Eric?” he called as he prepared to leave. The blonde man returned and handed him his gloves. “I think our visitor would like to see the gardens.”
Eric eyed the brown woman watching them, unsure of leaving her alone with their Lord. “Are you sure, My Lord?”
Sensing that the worry on Eric's face meant that they wanted privacy, Aztrit stepped away to give them a moment together. She was sure he’d have more to say without her listening.
Eric was grateful for the opportunity as she turned her back and waited by a pillar. He stepped closer and whispered fiercely to Kirk, “I don’t think you should be alone with her. She could be a witch.”
Kirk eyed her as she stood with her back turned. And what a lovely back it was. “I should only hope so. It always seems that only witches and their like take a liking to me.”
Eric shook his head. “Don’t joke. You know my–”
“Your mother, your father, yes. I’ll be careful. Tomorrow.” He said definitively as Eric agreed to meet then.
Kirk looked to Aztrit as she peered over her shoulder at him. If the barmaid had been pretty, Aztrit’s beauty was incomparable. Her curled hair shifted over her shoulder and fell to her rear, loosely controlled by a blue leather band that bound it halfway through. Shorter curls framed her smooth brown face with soft golden eyes that spoke of comfort. Her lips made a fine pair, the top a decadent candied brown and the bottom a blushed dream.
Aztrit felt the tip of her lips curling with a smile. He was enraptured already. Before she saw him on the field of battle, she had thought he would be another self-important king with more children and money than he had sense, but here he stood–calm and controlled, with a better nature to him than she had seen in some time. She listened as his rich voice said his goodbyes and led her further into the warm hall, past the chaotic kitchen, and out of the open air rear patio.
The large brown stone pillars lining the entrance to the back garden held the day's warmth as the moon shone on the endless rows of water plants. Flourishing violets and cyans glistened as ever trickling water gently swayed back and forth in the pond planters. Vines and tree branches curled and grazed the outer pillars surrounding the enclosure, whispering the wind's thoughts as the evening sang.
Aztrit looked awestruck. With the cool of the moon, his garden was no less than a fantasy. "Your home…it's beautiful."
Kirk looked out into the distance with her where the green hills protected the valley behind the castle and held the moon when it was time to sleep. "You sound surprised."
She laughed softly and shook her head. "Surprised? No. But delighted. It reminds me of home."
Aztrit took Kirk’s arm as he strolled with her through the garden, admiring the moon lilies and feeling the velvet of the soft green leaves as they brushed her arms. A frog crossed their path and bounded into the nearest hydrangea pot. Kirk smiled as the leap splashed her, giving her a cheerful laugh.
He wondered about fate. Could he ever have foreseen a peaceful moment like this in the midst of the stench of death?
Aztrit broke their comfortable silence first. "Are you typically so kind to mysterious visitors? That could prove to be a dangerous habit."
Kirk gestured to a balcony just in front of them overlooking the village valley. She released his arm as she leaned on the stone bannister. “I saw you that day. In the fields of Hvar Slab.”
Aztrit raised her brows in shock. Such a bold accusation. How could she deny it? "I…I'm not sure–"
Kirk cut off her stammer and kept his eyes on the valley. The wooden longhouses with cobblestone streets were quiet, lit with fires inside the homes. If he had never seen her before, he wouldn't have let her leave the front hall. He would do anything to protect his people. "Your wings looked to be miles of the blackest silk. Your helm was gold and featured with horns aplenty. And orange fire poured from your fingers like streams."
Kirk recalled seeing her in the distance, her brown hands held together in prayer and reaching to the sky in the rain. He had looked back once last time for survivors but had found only her. It was not her first time seeing the casualties of war. “I know what you are.”
Aztrit searched his face for a hint of doubt. “Say it.” She challenged.
While many men upheld the faith that the Valkyries would be there to carry them to Valhalla, many did not have the ability to believe enough to see them.
Kirk stared at her silently beneath his chin as she stepped closer. He was sure. The fire in her spirit, her cockiness in her power. She was the same being that had been at the battle that day. “Valkyrie.”
She closed her eyes briefly as he said it to her. She was close enough to smell him now, his warm spiced skin reminded her of clove. She could trust him with this knowledge. “I know of you too.”
Kirk held her eyes, "Do you?" How could she possibly?
Aztrit smiled and tapped the ledge anxiously with her palm. "I do. And I was sent to assist you with your war efforts." Aztrit waited as he thought carefully on her words. Mistrust was clear in his moon streaked eyes. "Would you like to see what I can do for you, Lord Verdulke?" She gathered her dress and began walking down the plant covered staircase to the village.
Kirk watched her as she descended. "Why would you help me?"
Aztrit looked back up at him as he stood firm on the balcony, his cloak billowing behind him. He was as close to a hero as she thought a hero could be. Valour, looks, and highly suspicious. He was interesting indeed.
Gold eyes met sterling silver, truth traded in their stalemate. "Because our kind has to stick together."
✴
Their walk into the village was largely silent.
Kirk greeted his people here and there, wishing them goodnight. Soon the cobble streets turned to dirt roads, with acres of farms behind wooden fences.
Aztrit spoke softly once or twice, questioning him on how long some of the families had cultivated the land and their hopes of harvest and trade. He answered each inquiry with measure. There was little he did not know of their livelihood and past. It was evident that he cared very much for each person and their safety.
As he recalled a rogue goat from the farm up ahead a fortnight prior, he released a hearty laugh. Aztrit felt her cheeks warm, adding to the heat of the summer night. His joy was alluring.
Farm turned to paved village streets once more as they made their way uphill. When looking behind, the castle wall lorded over the large family homes beneath it. Lanterns hung high on posts of bronze along the path, calling her to look up at the stone spires reaching high into the sky. His ancestral home was breathtaking, with arches and pillars that looked to be carved from the finest stone masons.
Kirk waved to the guards on the walk across the bridge over the calm river cutting through the grassland.
As they reached the encampment beyond the village injured soldiers lied wherever there was space. Coughing, blood, and buckets of sick shuffled back and forth as healers dashed around.
Aztrit held her heart. This was the vision of war she despised. Honour was her calling, but war was her bane. She had to do something. "Kirk?"
The King stopped walking beside her as she looked drained. This tame repercussion of battle wasn't enough to unsteady her, was it?
"Surely your people need rest?" she questioned, hinting at her desire.
Kirk furrowed and nodded. He gave more orders to the guards and healers to close the camp and rest for the night. It was very clear in his communication that he wished for respect and gave it just as easily.
Although the healers looked unhappy parting with the dying, they collected their baskets and left silently, eyeing the sultry mystery woman who was making requests of their King.
As the camp quieted and only they were left, Kirk watched her move her dress swiftly and kneel at the feet of the nearest soldier struggling for air. War was cold and undiscriminating. Young or old, good or bad, death would take you all the same.
“That’s Eric's oldest son. The blond man you spoke with in the hall.” He saw her cheek turn slightly to him, listening. “I told him he could return home to prepare for his passing, but he refused to leave my side. His family has been a part of our King’s guard since the early years of our house.” He paused and removed his gloves, handing them to her. “Some of my men may seem callous. It’s more that they’re wary of anyone who may take what they’ve given generations of dedication to.”
Aztrit sighed and touched the young man’s bloody blond beard. She could see the resemblance now. He would be dead by morning. She gestured to the boy and the other wounded warriors. “Can I?”
Kirk stepped forward and stopped her hand as it started to glow. “You would take him for Valhalla before his time?”
Aztrit looked up into his face and shook her head. His men weren’t the only people slow to trust. “Have faith, Lord Verdulke.” she said simply, holding his silver gaze until he released her.
Kirk watched as she began to sing quietly in prayer. Her words vibrated through him, filling the air with energy and light. He shielded his eyes as it began to blind him.
Aztrit continued to pray as she walked through the camp rousing the men who had been near death. Blue flesh began to turn pink and red once more as they left death’s door and laid into peaceful sleep. Flashes of light played around those injured the most–although not returning limbs and flesh–it closed and healed their injuries to keep them alive.
She took a deep breath as she finished her rounds through the tents, rewarded with only quiet crickets chirping and peaceful warrior's snores.
Kirk watched as Eric's son began to rouse. It was his turn to look as if all of the colour had drained from his face. He bent down and touched his shoulder. “Sleep, son. Your father will be here in the morning.” The boy agreed and lied down once more.
There was not a speck of blood to be seen. Aztrit could feel Kirk’s stare behind her as he attempted to make sense of what he had seen. The rich blue banners cracked in the wind picking up in the night, cutting through the silence.
Shivers erupted on her arms, his gaze soft like felt sliding over her bared skin. She picked up her dress and turned back to the bridge they crossed. The night was getting no warmer. "We should return to the castle."
Over her shoulder her eyes illuminated the night. Kirk felt their warmth as clearly as he could a stone hearth. What trickery from the Gods came in the form of this woman?
"Coming?" Aztrit beckoned, uprooting his feet from the ground. Silence hung between them yet again, but Aztrit broke it. “You took quite a few losses.”
He moved behind her, guiding her in the direction they would go, as the street winded. “Lord Hivarth ignored the call. It was my duty to answer.” he looked behind themselves at the sleeping camp, “You healed them?”
“Yes.” she said shortly.
“Why?” he returned.
She reached the top of the castle stairs and picked up a lit candle holder to carry with them through the midnight garden. She stopped and watched the candlelight flicker on his face. “A question, for a question.”
Kirk admired her audacity to make orders and games of him in his own home. Holding to the railing he approached her, climbing the steps between them and stood at the top beside her, his height pouring over her as the candle did little in the dark hall.
She could feel his body’s warmth in front of her as his silver gaze caught moonlight from the stained glass windows. “I healed them because you wished for it.”
“I said nothing of the kind.” he replied before leading her further into the castle hall.
She laughed quietly. “You did not have to say anything. I could feel your longing.”
He quieted for a moment. Truthfully he had felt their loss was regrettable, and he may have thought that he wished for them to stay, but how could she have known?
“How–”
Aztrit cut him off. “A question, for a question.” she heard him mutter in agreement once more. “How old are you, Lord Verdulke?”
Kirk stopped his walking again, his silence speaking for itself as he gave her a look of warning. “I imagine no older than you.”
With a smile she stopped alongside him as he motioned to the room to their left. Unhappy with the possibility of parting just yet, Aztrit looked further down the hallway where carved wooden double doors with torches on either side rested on the wall. “Are those your quarters?”
He nodded, lifting a hand in that direction to allow her entry. She followed him inside and removed her cloak. The room was grand–banners of different hues of blue hung for the cities in Karth, with the Grothen royal blue hanging the largest over the bed with a silver boar etched into the tapestry. The bed stretched nearly the entirety of the wall with book shelves lined every other wall and a desk sat close to the fireplace that reached to the ceiling.
Aztrit took a seat next to the fireplace and rested her cloak beside her. “How nice it must be to be King.” She said provoking him purposefully, enjoying the way his eyebrow twitched as he sat on the low table in front of her.
Kirk felt her assessing him just as he did her, their proximity both out of intrigue and distrust.
In her deep blue dress, with her brown skin illuminated with the sapphire's reflection; she was more beautiful than anyone he had ever brought to his bed. Under different circumstances, he supposed he would want to take her too. But unlike the lovers of his past, she was something dangerous. More secrets laid behind her lips than she cared to whisper.
Aztrit appreciated his gaze. The way he considered her a woman and admired her even after seeing her divinity at work was heartwarming. It was easy for Men to tremble at the hands of power that they did not possess, and yet Kirk appreciated–perhaps even respected her more for it.
Firm broad shoulders and hair of black pitch falling gently into light silver eyes struck something within her. Surprise would not befall her if she discovered he was an experienced and giving lover. She wanted to bite her lip as she thought about how strong his arms would feel holding her where she could not run away. But matters above the belt mattered today.
"May I see your palm?" Kirk eyed her as her slender brown fingers reached out for the white of his hand. She smiled to reassure him, "I won’t hurt you."
He lifted his hand, hovering it above hers as the energy between them charged with tension. Finally he placed his large hand in hers, covering it completely. She took her other hand to his palm, travelling the tan lines gently with her fingertips. She watched as his face contorted with confused tickled pleasure.
He was fun to tease.
Suddenly, she motioned a grab from her waist and pulled a gold knife adorned with fine black leather from what seemed like thin air.
Kirk had no time to register the materialised weapon before she gripped his hand and held it in place, slashing his tender flesh with her blade. A deep line of firm red sprung through the cream of his skin with a roar of searing hot pain. He stood, blood dripping from his squeezed pink palm.
Aztrit laughed as he jumped up, fury twisting his handsome face. "Okay, maybe I will. Just a little."
Kirk was certain she was crazy. What demon had spawned her? Aztrit quieted her laughs as he stared confused at his gashed palm.
They both waited.
As seconds turned to minutes, his confusion rose. She saw him eyeing his palm, flexing it in the hopes of starting its regeneration. This King of Men was not truly human after all. "Are you wondering why it's not healing?"
Kirk matched her gaze, her tone assuming as she challenged him to tell her it wasn’t true.
He was divine, and she knew it.
Aztrit sighed and smoothed her dress where his blood had splattered it. Healing for the divine was simple and typically instantaneous. She supposed he was wondering why the process had not yet started for him. "Don't feel bad, you aren't losing your touch." She took the Aesir knife from beside her and turned the hilt for him to take.
Kirk hesitated and took the knife from her small hand gently. It was truly ornate. Its metal seemed to radiate its own heat with runic carvings on the blade. "This is not of Midgard, is it?" If it had been Midgardian metal he would have healed without thought.
She shook her head. Her earrings grazed her collarbone as she moved. "Your enemies are my enemies. And together they are stronger." She reached out for his palm again. "I'll be nice this time. I promise."
Feeling foolish–Kirk gave it to her again. This time, she smoothed her hand through the rivet of blood seeping from his irritated skin, allowing its warmth to cover her fingers. His blood seemed to carry so much life, and longing.
Aztrit heard him wince and pulled him closer to her where she sat. She closed his large fist and brought it closer to her lips, his eyes softened as she kissed the back of his hand softly. The hairs on his skin tickled her nose and she heard him sigh.
His fingers held her own as she looked up into his eyes and healed him with her lips. Kirk felt her heart beating through her skin with her kiss when suddenly overwhelming pleasure and joy washed over him. He looked into her eyes as they seemed to shift in waves of honey.
His pointer finger extended to touch her cheek. He felt fire in his soul. Ecstasy reigned, his arousal peaking. His palm itched to wrap around his length to alleviate the scorching desire crawling in his skin.
Aztrit watched him struggle happily, and released him as his palm returned to its healed state.
Kirk eyed his palm and again found no evidence of injury. Even the splatter on her dress had disappeared. Was that what her healing touch felt like? He sat down as he regained control of his emotions. What other powers did she have? "When you say ‘our enemies’…"
"Your Orofarne, the Ash Mountain Dwellers that are revolting, burning down your villages, killing this land's people, etcetera, have been…seemingly blessed recently." She stood and approached the fire to watch it dance. The seriousness of the matter was dire. It was in Nidavellir she had experienced the matter herself. "Do you know of Surtr?"
Kirk nodded. "Are you to tell me the King of the Fire Jotun has blessed the Orofarne?" What could they do for him? The Dwellers were a people strengthened by flame and ash, this was true. But how had they made their ancestral connection to Muspelheim?
Aztrit wrung her hands, and attempted to seem unbothered. Ragnarök made for unlikely pairings. Surtr had promised the Asgardians fire and blood, he would not stop until they were all vanquished. For this he needed allies, and so did they.
"Yes. It seems your Ash Dwellers have prayed to their god long enough. He has blessed them and their forges with the fires of Muspelheim, which you so graciously experienced tonight. The right metal steeped in these flames will kill all who encounter it, divine and human alike."
Kirk clenched his fist. What chance did Man, or any other Midgardian race have against weapons that could kill gods? "Our councils must know about this. We stand little chance against them if it is true." Dwellers couldn’t have enough ore themselves to make these weapons. How were they getting it?
"Oh, it's true." She chortled. "A legion of Lord Carty's men found that out yesterday. I won't spoil you with the details but it was over fairly quickly."
He gave her only a look for her bitter remark.
Aztrit fell silent and raised a hand in apology. "Nevertheless, that is why I am here. It seems that Surtr is a problem for us both, and Odin himself finds your odds unfair." She sat across from him as he paced, "As I said, your enemies are now our enemies. And Surtr is coming straight for Asgard with the help of your Ash Dwellers."
Kirk held the mantle as he pondered her words. Could what she said be trusted? The Gods often helped themselves under the guise of helping others, how could he be sure she wasn’t here to serve herself?
Aztrit leaned on the side of the cushioned chair and crossed her legs, draping the dress over her knees as he continued to think in silence. She placed one hand over the other and waited quietly. “Yes, please do take your time. There’s only a war on.”
Kirk looked at her as she considered her surroundings. Was he supposed to take her at her word? "How do you know the Orofarne have been blessed the way you say they are?"
Aztrit nearly laughed. She stifled it as he continued to stare blankly at her. He was serious. "You think I've only ever watched you fight? Humans are fun, but not that fun."
Kirk rolled his eyes, "So you've seen them. With these same Aesir weapons?"
Aztrit squinted briefly and swayed her head side to side, "Not exactly. Aesir weapons are made from Svartalfheim ore on Nidavellir, the dwarven home world on Yggdrasil. Your problem is a little bit more local."
Kirk wiped his face. Things were beginning to be clear. Months ago, he had heard rumours he thought were baseless; that the Orofarne had been kidnapping dwarves or at the very least raiding mines in Hyatse, the dwarven country on Imrad. But when he sent an inquiry to their King, Kloi, he had heard nothing in return. "So you suspect that the dwarves in Hyatse are being made to forge weapons for the Orofarne?"
"I don't suspect. I know." Aztrit said matter-of-factly. "This blade was forged in Nidavellir by the ancient dwarves there, and your Orofarne are utilising ore from the descendant dwarves here on Midgard. Your dwarves are officially forging weapons capable of killing immortals. Hence our mutual problem."
"So, The Gods just didn't care about us dying before it affected them?" Kirk questioned coldly as she took a removed view of the war ravishing his home.
Aztrit scoffed. It was not all so simple. "We aren't meant to pick sides." They could kill each other as much as they wished, but crossing realms would be disastrous for them all.
"Because you win either way, don't you?" Kirk pressed. No matter the reason for battle, Odin got his cut of the warrior’s souls. That much was certain.
Aztrit calmed herself before she spoke again. To be Valkyrie was not a task she expected him to understand. Lord Verdulke was certainly testy. But…she looked at how menacing he looked in anger. It scratched an itch of attraction in her that she didn't care for presently. "Dying is not a win for anyone, Lord Verdulke. Trust, I know that. And you say 'us' as if you're mortal as well."
Kirk went silent again and rubbed his palm where she had slashed him. "Who's to say that I am not?"
Aztrit blew air in disbelief. "We both know that's not true. Go on, remind me of how old you are?" Whatever identity crisis he was having, it made him no less immortal. She could feel it. It was why he was not fated to die anytime soon, and why the Allfather wanted him desperately.
"You're beginning to look younger than Eric. You know that, don't you?" Aztrit stood and softly grazed his shoulder in admiration. "But old age does look good on you, Lord Verdulke."
Kirk’s jaw ticked at her taunting. He had not been the only one to know who he was dealing with. But did she know who he was connected to immortally? He thought not. He hoped he could keep it that way.
Aztrit couldn't help feeling smug. He was a natural challenge. "I'll leave you for the night, My Lord. I am weary from my travels." A thought came to her that she could not ignore. She summoned an item and sat it on his desk. "A gift for you before I go, to demonstrate goodwill for our new partnership."
Kirk didn't look back as she left.
With a clang of the heavy door closing, he took a breath. He looked at what she placed on the desk. It was a wooden walking stick. In the silence Kirk felt himself smile. She was…equal parts frustrating and charming. Her vicious flirting was exhausting and yet enjoyable. He looked forward to their next meeting.
To be continued...