Thrud's Quest

I was flying…soaring through the clouds, agonizing that no rain or thunder or lightning came. Asgard had burned, and with it, the Nine Realms were on fire. Bifrost was broken. The Aesir and Vanir? The Valkyries? Mostly dead, save for a select few.

The Gods. Dead. This could not be. How was I supposed to go on? I, a lone Goddess, a Valkyrie, daughter of Thor and Sif, granddaughter of Odin and Frigg…My mentors, Freyja and Heimdall, gone…My uncle Loki (the architect of this destruction!)…gone.

How could I go on?

“Journey with Raido, find Mjolnir and restore it all…through Wunjo. What You choose to Create, You Become.”

The words of the old seeress were fresh in My heart. What did it mean? But of course, there could only be one way to find out: I must journey to the Yggdrasil and sacrifice Myself to…Odin? Myself?... even as the All-Father had once done so long ago, sacrificing Himself to Himself.

“I shall find Runa,” I whispered. “I shall find it, and Mjolnir…”

I stood through the horrors of Ragnarok and watched the worlds burn. Oh All-Father – Grandfather – why did You let it happen? You hung on the Tree for nine days and nights. You went to the Gates of Helheim to ask the ghost of the Volva for the future. You are the Valfader. You surely could have stopped it!

“It’s over now,” My uncle, Baldur, tells Me. “There is a new world.”

“And for what?” I cry, angry, wrinkling My nose at the scent of rot and trying not to cringe as ravens and crows pick clean the bones of the dead. “My father is dead! My entire family! And My sisters, the Valkyries!” I pause, looking around frantically at the iridescent black array of birds. “Huginn? Munin! Where are you?”

The caws and croaks of the birds fill My ears, but My grandfather’s beloved, faithful ravens do not answer. Tears spill down My face and I scrape them away in haste.

Baldur’s blue eyes are kind as He brushes a hand through unruly blonde hair, and sighs. “Thrud, there was nothing to be done. I saw it in a dream.”

“What did you see?” I ask, ignoring the winds as they tear through My Own golden red hair, and brushing the blood away as best I can from My silver and gold armour. “Are they all in Valhalla?”

Baldur’s eyes become distant as he recounts his tale…

“The All-Father stood on the Bifrost looking out over the Multiverse with Heimdall and Loki. They saw a troubling vision of Ragnarok. Loki could see Himself fighting Heimdall; He saw the betrayal of Odin, and of Himself. He understood well that the cause was the locking away of His children, Who are also Odin’s children. Loki turned to the All-Father and asked in despair:

‘Why do You do this, when You know what is to come? This…THIS is beyond even Me! I have been Your brother, Your son, Your friend, Your adversary and challenger…but to become this? For what?’

Heimdall interjected, gesturing at Midgard, His golden hawk’s eyes aglow: ‘For them.’

Odin nodded. ‘Yes. For them. We must make the Transformation and Rise…we must risk it all. For them. To bring Runa to Midgard.’”

Baldur blinks, shaking His head. “That is all I saw. But…”

“But?” I prompt.

He shrugs ruefully. “It is enough.”

“It is NOT enough!” I rage, unable to contain Myself any longer. “We are the Gods! We are the Aesir! We do not die!”

“Do We not?” a voice half like warm summer rain and half ice asks softly from behind Us.

I turn to face Her – in all Her terrible beauty. Hela. Delicate yet tall, the right half of Her face and body is Death; even the black gown is half decayed, the white fraying hair spilling out from the side of Her ivory skull, the eye socket black and empty. But the left of Her? Radiant beauty, the blush of spring upon Her pale cheek, the raven hair shining down, Her quicksilver eye bright. She gives me that half smile that warms and chills the heart simultaneously, a knowingness about Her that makes Me uneasy. Of course the Queen of Death and Helheim would survive Ragnarok, but not My extraordinary father Thor or grandfather Odin, not in all Their might, nor My mother Sif in all Her glory. Even My Uncle Loki, for all His cunning, is gone.

“We should not die,” I whisper, the fires of My heart banked in Hela’s cold Presence. “We should not.”

“It was foretold,” She says, Her voice equally quiet. “You know this.”

“But it is not right!” I protest.

“It is not the end, child,” a voice like decaying snakeskin says to My left.

I look at the Volva, her decrepit appearance like walking death (equal and yet worse than the right side of Hela!) belying her brilliance and ability to see All. How is she alive now? Had she not been dead when the Valfader sought her out for answers? A glance to Hela tells me much: She restored this seeress, and there is no getting straight answers from Her as to why.

Ignoring the seeress for but a moment, a thought comes to Me: “Can You bring Them back?”

Hela stares at Me with Her one good eye as if I’ve truly gone mad. “Do You think I command the dead in Valhalla, cousin? Do You believe I could even reach Valhalla, now that the Bifrost is gone? I, Queen of Helheim and Death? Do You truly believe I would not have done it already, if I could?”

The breath is knocked out of Me, and I shake My head. “Of course not. I…” Then it strikes Me, what the not-dead Volva has just said. I look at her full on. “What do You mean, ‘It is not the end’?”

Her grin is disconcerting, the rotting teeth at odds with the life in those strange violet eyes. “Now You are asking the right question.” She beckons with a shrivelled finger, and I am compelled to draw close to her. The Volva whispers, her breath hot against My ear, “Journey with Raido, find Mjolnir and restore it all…through Wunjo. What You choose to Create, You Become.”

I draw back from the old woman, glancing back and forth between Baldur (Who clearly didn’t hear) and Hela, Whose knowing smile leaves Me breathless.

Is it true? I ask Her with My eyes.

Only the Runes will tell, Hela’s silver eye seems to answer.

It is all I need. I close My eyes to summon My wings, white as snow, and whistle for My horse, a shimmer of moonlight upon his dappled body as he dances over to Me. I am the last of the All-Father’s Valkyries, and I will not fail Him nor My father.

“Where are You going?” Baldur calls as I leap onto Little Sleipnir, My horse, named for the son of Loki and beloved steed of My grandfather.

“To victory!” I cry, raising My sword. But the lightning doesn’t come; the skies are eerily clear. My heart beats faster and I knee Little Sleipnir into action. He leaps into the air, flying, though it’s My wings which flutter in the windless sky, as he does not possess any.

I do not know where I am going or what I will do when I get there. I only know I must do as the seeress has decried, or Ragnarok will truly have won. I will not concede defeat. I will not.

Is Yggdrasil still alive? I wonder, flying beyond the clouds and further up into the darkness of the cosmos. Without Bifrost, how am I to reach it?

You are a Goddess, a voice seems to boom in the stars. Do you need permission?

“What you create, you Become…”

My heart leaps at this, and I shut My eyes once more. I do not need Bifrost. I will create the path to Yggdrasil Myself.

“Whirls of stardust, bright and clear

By All-Father’s eye in the Well

I call to the Norns for Destiny

Bring Me to Yggdrasil…”

Little Sleipnir whinnies as Power such as I did not know I possessed wells up around Us, and We are…carried? I do not know the way to describe it…across the stars. I see the Runes taking shape in front of Us, fantastic and searing in their brightness… ᚠ (Fehu)… ᚦ (Thurisaz)… ᚷ (Gebo)… ᛉ (Algiz)…ᚱ (Raido)…

They all pass before Me. Except Wunjo. Where is Wunjo, the Rune of Restoration?

Suddenly, Yggdrasil looms before Me. It is one tree and all trees, one colour and all colours. The music of the spheres plays a sweet crescendo and the waterfalls that cannot possibly be in the Void rumble. I see the Well of Wyrd in the distance, and breathe a sigh of relief. Surely then the Norns live still, those unique sisters and Weavers of Destiny. If this much has survived, then so has Valhalla… yet I hesitate. The All-Father controlled Valhalla, and if He is truly gone…

No. I do not believe it. The old woman said to find Wunjo and Mjolnir. And that’s why I’m here.

Little Sleipnir and I land at the base of the Yggdrasil, where he dines on an impossible emerald carpet of grass. I dismount, remove my winged helmet, and kneel, touching the soft blades in gratitude for their existence. Then I rise and move to the old tree, leaning against its base.

I dare not go to the Well to see if Grandfather’s eye is still inside. I dare not go to the Norns to ask for Their interference. I dare not breathe, as I stare up at the tree, and hold out My hand, expecting Mjolnir to fly to it, as it always would for My father.

But it does not come.

Choking on a sob, I climb the branches, higher and higher. I do not see the serpent, or the eagle, nor the squirrel who guard this tree, though I sense their presence. At the top, where I see the burning fires of the Nine Realms in the distance, I draw My sword. My hand shakes. Do I have the strength of the All-Father? Am I like My father? Am I like My mother? Can I do it?

With a deep breath, I unclasp the metal bodice of armour, and drop it far below. It thumps on the ground, and Little Sleipnir whinnies in distress. I pull out My sword, lift it…and plunge it into My side with a cry of sheer agony and anguish loud enough to surely be heard all through the Realms. I push it through Me until the end of the blade cuts into the Yggdrasil, and pin Myself there.

Blood. So much blood. Oh yes, even a Goddess can bleed, though We are supposed to be Immortal, a notion now challenged by the outcome of Ragnarok.

Have I gone insane? Is killing Myself supposed to save Them?

My vision blurs and I hear voices on the wind, the luminescence of the stars winking in and out around Me. The flitter of wings. Sunna…Mani. Jord.

I part my lips as Time falls away and the ecstasy overwhelms Me.

“Grandfather…” I say. Or think. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not…what I say aloud or think in My mind…I don’t know anything.

Suddenly I see it—ᚹ

“Wunjo,” I say wonderingly.

It fades. I reach a weak hand towards it, desperate.

“No…no! Don’t go!” I cry.

Then I remember what the Volva told me: “What You create, You Become.”

Inhaling a ragged, tortured breath, on the verge, perhaps, of dying (for now I do understand that even the Gods can die), I close My eyes and open My hand.

It comes to Me then, Mjolnir, and as My fingers close about it I yell in joy, feeling My strength returning, and I am released from the tree.

How long? I do not know, but Little Sleipnir awaits, and I waste no more Time as I mount him, hurtling us back through the stars, Wunjo in My mind’s eye.

As We fly, I catch sight of the Nine Realms, the rainbow spears shining. No more fire.

I land at last in Midgard, on a beach covered in black sand. I know of it…Reynisfjara. Have I been here before? I scan the horizon and see a soft glow of sun…basalt columns and waves…and green along the coast, where I know none had been before…

It is…cold. Yes, that’s it. All at once, I realize it has been a very long time since Ragnarok.

“Uncle!” I cry. “Uncle Baldur!”

My voice echoes, but there is no answer.

“You were gone too long,” a familiar half sweet, half arctic voice says, and I whirl to see Hela at the edge of the waves. “It has been an eternity.”

I sink to My knees in the volcanic sand. “No…”

She smiles that secretive half smile. “Do you give up so easily, cousin? We are Gods, after all. What We need to…live…” Hela pronounces the last word oddly, as though it is foreign to Her tongue... “is belief. Prayers, incantations…the Heathens and Witches of Midgard honour Us still. Just listen.”

At first I hear nothing and fear She has at last gone mad (who would not, in Her place?). And yet…

Whispers. Songs. Prayers. Incantations. I hear them all, some faint, some strong, some fearful, some full of courage…but all full of Love.

“I can hear them,” I say in awe, staring into Hela’s quicksilver eye.

“Yes. So do all of Us. They’re building a Temple for Us now, in Öskjuhlíð, in this place they call Iceland. And in Uppsala, in a land now called Sweden, there’s another Temple… there are many shrines around Midgard.”

I hearken at Her words, holding Mjolnir aloft. Powerful winds begin whipping Our hair, and then…

Lightning, followed by thunder.

As the rain pelts down, I laugh. “Was it real? Ragnarok?”

“Oh yes,” Hela nods. “But it was not the end, not forever. It was a Transformation. Now You will find Valhalla.”

“So They live,” I whisper.

“We all do,” She confirms. “It is written in the Destiny of the Runes. You did it, Thrud—You saved the Gods, by Manifesting the Restoration through Wunjo and the raw power of Mjolnir. Your sacrifice made it possible. Though few today among the Midgardians will ever know it, You saved Us all, and made certain with the sheer force of Your Divine Will that We are remembered. The new Gods shall never be rid of Us. We are Eternal.”

I look down at My father’s hammer, then up at the charcoal storm.

“Go,” Hela says. “Go home. They’re waiting for You.”

“What about You?” I ask.

She smiles that mysterious smile again. “I am a Dark Goddess, and I hear the call of Others…Hekate. Morrigan. Lilith. Kali. Morgan. Persephone. My work is here, not in the clouds. I am needed here.”

I nod, and step forward hesitantly. I have never embraced My half-corpse cousin, but now? Now I must. Her touch is, of course, both hot and cold.

“Thank You,” I say softly, and then She vanishes into the black sand.

I shiver, the rain soaking My skin. Then lightning and thunder split the sky, and I see Them all—Odin, Thor, Sif, Frigg, Freyja, Freyr, Heimdall, Loki, Eir, Idunna, Tyr, Jord, Baldur, Sunna, Mani, and my brothers Módi and Magni…all of Them.

Somewhere, I hear a laugh and know it is Hela.

I lift Mjolnir. To Valhalla I go.

To home.