Page 51 of Last Thrall of Asgard

“But it may not be the one you expect nor want,” finished Skuld.

Riddles. What had I expected from the Norns, but what I said was, “What good are you to me?”

I usually enjoyed their company. They were my people. Jotuns. We were often gifted with special, unique magic. I’d always thought of theirs as a curse, but they continued their weaving happily and never got tired of my presence like so many other gods. Or mortals.

Or everyone.

“Be patient?” I muttered as I turned to leave. “What does that mean for a god? Wait a century? Two?”

“Be well, brother!” Verdandi called after me.

And Skuld said, “As well as you deserve.”

My insides twisted like I was dying all over again on the end of Heimdall’s sword. It wasn’t said with malice, but it made the next breath I took taste like ash.

Where to next? Asgard was the sole realm barred to me. I could walk the others, have fun in Midgard, break bread with elves, drink with the dwarves, dance and tell stories with other Jotun. But instead, like some vagabond with nowhere to turn, I transported myself back to Bifrost and continued along the bridge as if I’d never vanished, all the way to the edge of the branches that the realm rested upon.

Eventually, I leapt from the bridge to Heimdall’s watchtower. I hopped right over its roof and climbed down to sit in the window that overlooked the remaining realms. My eyes were no match for Heimdall’s, but I was still a god. I could zero in my focus on whatever I wished to. For now, I looked upon Midgard, the wildest and most fragile of the realms with its mortal denizens.

The people who had worshipped us for ages were ceasing to believe. Ragnarök had made us relics. In time, we would be forgotten entirely, at least as we truly were. We would be empty altars and lost names with our stories muddled; mine most of all, I imagined. The new stories would be for the king trying to expand into the next country. For the maiden bearing the next great poet and nurturing that babe to success. For the farm boy discovering a more efficient way to plow.

Orbeplowed, as one of them was now. Goodness! And right on one of our old altars too.

I appreciated the man’s gall. And the arch of his neck. The heave of his chest. The look in his eyes warring pleasure against fury, as if he would be damned if he didn’t enjoy all he could outof life, but he still loathed the path he was doomed to follow. A slave to fate, at the mercy of his master.

Like me.

“There is something about him, isn’t there?”

I seldom startled, so Heimdall’s appearance didn’t rattle me. At least he wasn’t pushing me from the window ledge, especially considering the last time I was here, I was fending off sweeps from his blade. “Have you looked on him too, you dirty watchman?” I side-eyed Heimdall as he leaned out the window beside me.

“I have, but I have seen more than just his… talents. Watch him for a while. He has an interesting future ahead of him.”

The flesh on the back of my neck prickled. “I thought you were done looking into the future.”

“For us. He caught my attention like he caught yours, and it seems the reason he did is because his future is wrapped up in ours.”

“Ours? And here I thought our future was set to be stagnant. What is it then?” I tried to sound casual, much as I ached to know anything about what sort of future lie ahead. So much had been preordained for so long, to know nothing now was worse torture than what the other gods had done to me after Balder died.

“You don’t want to hear it,” Heimdall said.

“Excuse me?”

“You won’t like it,” he insisted.

“That’s never stopped you from spouting your visions before. Come now! You’ve piqued my interest. Please,” I finished with a last tinge of desperation.

“Well… let me tell you then.”

OLI

“No,” I gasped, staring into the empty ale horn. The surroundings of the hollow within Yggdrasil had returned with a rush.

But I needed more. Another drink. Just one more drink!

“Mimir—” I turned to find wherever he stood, but he was already rushing toward me, rushing to the well, with an axe in hand that he swung through the well’s side.

The sliver left behind leaked water with a spurt and then a gush until nothing remained, absorbed by Yggdrasil’s roots.

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