Page 70 of Last Thrall of Asgard

“He’s smart enough to know how a door opens,” I explained, “just not quite there yet in knowing it can only be pushed one way.”

Oli chuckled again and gave my lips a quick peck. I allowed him to get out of bed this time, doting on Jorm moving higher up my arm as Oli went to let in Fenrir.

The puppy bounded around Oli’s feet, leaping up in want of attention—and eventually breakfast. He looked like a tiny blackbuhund, a herding dog good for farming. Not quite how he’d appeared when a giant wolf, but I adored his reborn self. And Jorm’s.

And mine, scars and all. Though they did seem a little more faded each day. Maybe one day they'd be gone completely, merely a remnant like the rest of my past, with only the good parts worth hanging onto. But if a small part of them remained, I knew I didn't need to hide them anymore, for even my mistakes, once I had learned from them, led me here.

“Coax your papa out of bed, little one!” Oli hefted Fenrir and gently tossed him onto the bed to tackle me, which he exuberantly did, the excitable pup, even pawing at some of my longer braids.

“Less claws, child!” I swung my braids to one side and bowled Fenrir over with firm pets of his tummy. Even Jorm joined in, offering hisses at his sibling while coiled up around my shoulder.

“You are too precious to believe,” Oli said fondly, “even if I sometimes have to remind myself that they are your children.” He dressed and combed out his hair before braiding it back.

No long way for me, thanks! Once Oli was ready, I cheated again by waving a hand and was dressed and groomed inmoments. “Up we get, I guess!” As soon as I stood, Fenrir leapt down too, though Jorm remained attached to my arm like an arm cuff.

We had a small home, a small homestead, with no stairs or lofted area, and only enough farmland outside and animals to care for to feed us and offer minimal trading with our neighbors.

Oli never asked whether the land had originally belonged to a different owner—and I never said. The house was very much like the rooms I’d brought him to in Jotunheim when it was just us, and the land included a copy of that separate hot spring hut with an open roof to watch the stars.

While I tossed Fenrir bits of dried meat for breakfast, Oli grabbed some hide string to finish his hair. Most of the rest of our mornings were routine. Feed and care for the children, feed and care for the other animals, tend to the crops as necessary, and enjoy a breakfast of fresh bread and fruit, the bread always suspiciously ready for consumption regardless of if he saw me bake it.

And we did it all together, without Oli fearing the loss of his freedom, and without me fearing the loss of Oli's company.

We had to pretend a few things to not arouse suspicions from our neighbors. To visitors, OliFreedmanandLady Dagny, a name that meant “new day” and seemed more than fitting for my feminine persona, we were indeed husband and wife, but when it came to arousing each other, we never pretended a thing.

We had married, technically, but privately, with magic doing the binding of our hands, and no witnesses of friends or family. Most of whom were outside this realm. I could have invited them, but the presence of so many gods on Midgard might have trembled the earth and upset the new balance. We’d wed again when we could be in their company.

Outside, enjoying the morn while threshing our harvest of grain, lively growls and muffled yips drew our attention toFenrir. He was playing nearby with something very oddly shaped.

“What is that, boy?” Oli moved toward him to get a better look at the—

Hand. Ha! He was playing with Tyr’s hand!

“Loki!” Oli spun to accuse me, apparently having guessed whose hand that must be.

“Oh my! Where on Midgard did that come from?”

“Loki,” he chided. “You should return it to Tyr. It’s not even rotted. Somehow.” He dropped his tools so he could wrestle the hand from Fenrir’s maw, much as the pup whined in protest.

“Of course it’s not rotted. It’s agod’shand. He might not even want the thing.” I took the hand from Oli once he’d claimed it. “He certainly didn’t need it, as I recall from yourtrio.”

I teased Oli occasionally about his romps with my brethren, but it was mostly in jest, for I knew his allegiances, his desires, his affections, were solely for me from here on out.

“We could send it as a thank you gift!” I proclaimed. “And quickly, before the bridge fades too much. Wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out though! What could we send the others…?” I wondered aloud as I traipsed back to the house.

“Ever the trickster, eh?” Oli asked, following close behind me.

“They’ll be nice gestures! Mostly.”

We had an altar, really just a tree stump that doubled for chopping wood, which we had carved the gods’ names into as a sort of remembrance of how we met. But if we ever fucked outside or on top of it, only my name was ever smeared.

“Tyr can decide if he wants his hand reattached,” I continued. “If not, maybe it will make a handsome trophy for his wall!”

I placed the hand atop the stump, and then signed some runic magic that formed like physical totems in the air. They flashed, and when the light faded, the hand was gone.

Each time I sent something to the realms or summoned something from them, the magic was a little less stable. Bifrost was being severed from Midgard. For us to return someday, the way back would be a one-way trip. For me, a mere willing of my essence to return home. But for Oli… when he died and left his mortal life behind.

“Is that parchment?” Oli asked.

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