Huntsman

Leon Hedstrom

I am the turncoat.
I am the traitor.
I am the red scaly.
I am the father.
I am the fire.

-- Loki

Fifteen minutes before the end of the world... and Jotuns has been at Midgard again...

Blood, the Wolf gagged upon the stuff. She didn’t like this, not a single bit. The only reason she had agreed to this was to sustain a relationship with her father. She didn’t like battle, too much noise and destruction. You see, the Wolf didn’t enjoy Chaos, it smelled of rotten things. And who, in their right mind gave Loki an army of the undead and a ship made of nails.

Disgusting! It was repulsive, that boat was made of good farmer’s life essence! Why was Loki so sick and twisted? The little turncoat! The Fenris Wolf may have been hungry for the All-Father’s flesh, but at least she didn’t go about in revolting ships without taking a bath after being imprisoned for over three years. Loki hadn’t even thought about the topic through the whole Long Winter before Ragnorok came!

The Wolf could hardly believe he was her father. The sick, twisted pagan certainly didn’t look like a giant, starving wolf. Plus, Fenris had no need for baths, gods, especially the Æsir did.

The fire was spreading, and the armies of Asgard were rounding the bend. The Wolf swore she saw Foresti and good Mangi among the bunch, too young to be fighters. She wanted to fight on that side, not on the side that Loki had fueled with power, the side that called itself the Nameless. Fenris wanted out. She wanted a small island, a corner of paradise, not a world about to be ravaged by Chaos. And Fenris knew they could mess things up. The field before her was already dead and barren. The rainbow bridge was breaking.

Soon Middle Earth would simply fall from the mighty Ash, and Jotunheim would melt away from its branch. The world of Chaos would then pulse stronger, and Surt would be woken, as he was in the times before there was time. Surt the Destroyer would soon rise and ravage that which was once the mighty Yggdrasil Ash. The Nine Worlds would shatter into a blinding spectrum or colors and flavors. They might as well already be gone. The Seer had spoken, and no one disregarded the Seer.

But Fenris knew the truth, the whole truth. Prophecy was a fake. Prophecy came to pass because all the idiotic gods trusted it too much. The Wolf could predict this Twilight, and many before it, and many soon to come. The Wolf guessed that the worlds restarted almost every five hundred years, but the old and the new gods swept these endings by as small disasters. The folk of the worlds would notice nothing more than a quiver of Faith, while another world fell from another tree. Yggdrasil was only one tree in a forest. These Nine Worlds weren’t the only Nine Worlds.

Fire, blood, and sweat. They were all upcoming. The scents of death were evidently seeping from the black ground. The colors ached and seethed as the sky was red, with the sun a dying figure in the sky. The plateau was endless, except for the marching forces of the gods, gold and shining. That was their weakness. The Æsir had to always be amazing, drawing attention. The other, secret gods that his in the leaves of Yggdrasil and hung on its branches were completely outdone by the Æsir. Fenris had seen them.

The gods of Icky and Ackk, the gods of Nix and Nox, that’s what they were. They often fed Fenris when she had been bound. But she didn’t blame that on the gods. She was a monster, and apparently that’s why she had to fight for her father, and Surt, the Destroyer. Surt, the god of Chaos and Ragnorok.

Now the gods were coming in all their glory. They were lead by the General, followed by Thor and Tyr. Why were they the rulers? The lady gods had just as much power as the male ones. They could think too.

A harsh, grading language broke out in an odd accent from far across the sea. It was none other than the Captain, Loki, Dogstar. However, it took only a few seconds for the Wolf to recognize the language and the tone.

“Attack Jotuns! Ride! Crush the gods and the worlds! They have betrayed you and murdered your family and your kin!” “Stop the light, rise Surt! I want revenge the same as you!”

Fenris didn’t believe a word of it. Loki didn’t really want the worlds to fall. He wanted to stay in power. Loki wanted a home.

“GO! GO JOTUNS!! GO CHAOS!!!”

The bestial army Loki held in his mind roared. They were antsy as the gods approached. Heimdall and Freyja, they all had to die.

Now the Æsir were running. They were dashing now, a small trot. Soon they would swarm upon them, and all of them would die. Fenris knew it was inevitable. War was a terrible thing. And now, finally, the armies that her father had rallied were ready to kill. They were ready to slash, to roar, to rip. The aroused army around the Wolf were shuttering in ecstasy. They wanted to rampage, and Fenris would have to join them.

Fire, blood sweat. Death, evil, Chaos. Power, magic, runemarks. The armies had a last intake of breath and a contraction of shape, then...

They ran. Both sides. The Nameless’ Army clattered forward in a terrific roar of agonizing pleasure. The gods hooted one last battle cry, before they would fall victim to the Seer. They had faced the war between them and the Vanir, and the Long Winter, now Twilight had come. All great things have to end.

Fenris was shoved forward in a mad dash for blood. The army of the dead swept forward first, followed by the Jotuns and Frost Giants, then the beasts of Chaos reared up. Surt shook the Nine Worlds for a single moment and then... CRASH!

The warriors collided. A huge rage of fire and death flew high into the dying sky. Everything seemed to shatter in front of the wolf. The Serpent spat his fire and Thor fell. The Jotuns trampled Tyr in a dash for Frey’s blood. Foresti fell as a redirected blast of runelight nailed him in the stomach. Idun was cut deep by a dead man’s sword. Loki fell to Chaos as it began to penetrate the matter of time and space. A harsh, screeching broke out as the Word was wielded against them all.

Fire swept down the trunk of Yggdrasil itself and everything went silent for a single moment. Odin had been felled. Fenris, stabbed by the General’s blade bit into her attacker with a will to slay. Surt rose, a single shadow that fell upon the Ash tree. The leaves of Yggdrasil withered and died. The wood rotted. Ratatosk was hurled into Chaos, along with all the other fallen creature. The Frost Giants melted away, and the power of a new Order rose in the Tree. Branches fell. Demons cackled and hooted.

In World Bellow, everything exploded into oblivion and magic and signatures flickered. For a minute, there was everything, then, there was nothing. Blackness swept everything there was, is, and would have been. Then...

Light a single light. The light of the Order. One thing had survive the onslaught of Chaos. From that light dropped a seed. That seed would become a sapling, from that a young Ash tree. From that there would be life, and death. And Chaos, and Order, and Ragnorok, and Rebirth.

From that seed, came hope...

© Leon Hedstrom, 2009