Chapter XIII: Thunder's Lament, or the Weight of Worlds Lost
After the cult of Khajiit had been crushed—scattered like chaff before the storm—Thor found himself returning to Nazarick. The rewards had been distributed, the accolades given for the threat eliminated, the danger dissolved.
In the modest quarters of the inn where Momon and Nabe maintained their mortal masquerade, three figures convened in the amber lamplight. Thor stood by the window, his silhouette massive against the dying day, while his companions awaited his word.
"The memory manipulation," Thor rumbled, his voice the distant promise of thunder, "must be done now. Not later. Now."
Momon inclined his head—a skull's solemn acknowledgment. "Wisdom speaks through you. We've already altered Nfirea's recollections. When consciousness returns to him, questions will come—questions about the Swords of Darkness, about survivors, about the dead."
"Questions," Thor repeated, tasting the word like wine gone sour. His gaze shifted to Nabe, and in that look was the weight of mountains. "And you, Nabe—you will guard your tongue as a dragon guards its hoard. One slip, one careless word, and our identities unravel like thread pulled from cloth."
The Pleiades maid flushed crimson, her composure cracking like ice in spring. "I-I understand, Lord Thor. The mistake—it will not, it shall not repeat itself."
"See that it doesn't." The words fell heavy, final.
With a gesture both casual and cosmic, Thor opened a gate—reality peeling back like parchment—and stepped through, returning to the great tomb of Nazarick, that monument to departed gods.
The 3rd Floor materialized around him: stone and shadow, grandeur and gloom. Here resided the Mansion, Rossweisse's domain, where order reigned with Valkyrie precision.
Thor's footsteps echoed down a particular corridor—tap, tap, tap—where two chambers had been designated for the newly acquired: Clementine and Ninya. Before each door stood sentinels, Thor Warriors, high-level summons whose very presence spoke of battle and blood, of lightning-strike and thunderclap.
He entered the first room. Silence. Minutes passed—how many, who could say? Time moved strangely in Nazarick, thick as honey, thin as mist.
Then the second room. More silence. More minutes. More mysteries unspoken.
When Thor emerged, his expression was thunder-cloud dark, storm-brewing, contemplative. The Warriors resumed their vigil, statues of war and watchfulness.
He walked the mansion halls, lost in labyrinths of thought, while the 9th Floor maids—those meticulous specters of service—performed their endless duties around him.
"Milord." The voice was silk over steel, honey laced with hemlock. "Might I have a moment of your time?"
Thor halted, turned. His eyes—lightning-bright, battle-worn—settled upon the speaker without surprise. He had felt her approach, after all, and had known she would come.
"You may, Albedo."
The Guardian Overseer approached with calculated grace, wings folded, horns gleaming in the dim light. "Forgive my boldness, milord, but comprehension eludes me. Why—why have you welcomed two more inferior creatures, these insects, into your household as children? It defies logic, defies order, defies—"
"Enough." The word cracked like a whip, like lightning splitting oak. "What you say of them—I will overlook it. This time. This once. But know that your displeasure is not yours alone. Many share it. Many questions. Many doubt."
"Then I have not erred in voicing concern?" Albedo's golden eyes searched his face, seeking answers in the granite of his features.
"You spoke your truth. For that, no punishment awaits." Thor's expression shifted, softened—storm clouds parting to reveal something beneath, something older. "But my decision springs from failure. From the past. From wounds that time has not healed."
"Failure, milord?" The word seemed foreign on her tongue, impossible. "You? Failure?"
"Even gods can fail, Albedo. Even the strongest can break." His voice dropped, became distant, became dangerous. "Only Momonga knows the tale in full. Only he has heard the thunder of that particular storm."
"I would not presume to pry, to probe, to—"
"There is much you do not know," Thor interrupted, not unkindly. "Much about the life I lived before ascension, before apotheosis, before I became this." He gestured to himself—to the god-body, the divine form. "In time, understanding will come. Patience, my dear Albedo. Patience."
"Before ascension?" Wonder crept into her voice like dawn creeping over darkness. "I believed—we all believed—that the Supreme Ones were born supreme, sprung fully formed from the forge of creation itself. That there was no before, no origin, no—"
"There was a before," Thor said simply, terribly. "There is always a before. And my failure in that before led to what I am now. Come." He began walking, his stride purposeful, his destination determined. "Come along, my dear Albedo."
She followed, drawn like a moth to flame, like iron to lodestone.
Time passed—minutes or hours, who could say in this place where time itself bent strangely?
They arrived at a corridor guarded by a dozen Thor Guards—massive summons, siege-breakers, commanders of lesser thunder-beings. These were the elite, the exemplars, the ones who stood when all others fell.
At the corridor's far end hung a crimson curtain, blood-red, wine-dark, the color of sunset and slaughter. Before it stood four column holders, and upon each rested a pot, and in each pot withered white roses, their petals brown-edged, their beauty fading, dying, dying.
"Milord," Albedo ventured, her voice small, uncertain—so unlike her usual self, "where have you brought me? What place is this?"
"A place," Thor said, and his voice was thunder contained, lightning leashed, "that means the world. The whole world. Everything."
"Everything," she echoed, whispered, wondered.
A door opened. A figure emerged—blonde hair like wheat in summer, uniform red as the curtain, arms cradling fresh bouquets of white roses, their petals pristine, pure, perfect.
"Rossweisse?!" Albedo's shock rang clear, crystalline.
"Ah, Guardian Overseer!" The Valkyrie's greeting was cheerful, professional, and precise. "What a pleasant day we're having, wouldn't you agree?"
"I... yes. Quite pleasant." Albedo struggled to regain her composure, her characteristic control.
"I must confess surprise," Rossweisse continued, her azure eyes sharp with intelligence, "that Lord Thor has brought you here. To this place. This sacred place."
"Sacred?" Albedo's confusion mounted, multiplied. "I don't understand, Rossweisse. What—"
"This corridor," the Valkyrie explained, her tone brooking no argument, "is so precious to him that I alone am permitted to tend it. Only my hands may clean here, may touch here, may care for what remains. Even Lord Ainz does not enter without explicit permission—an accord reached by all the Supreme Ones, a covenant unbroken."
"But what is this place?" Albedo's frustration leaked through, desperation disguised as curiosity. "Why am I here? Why now? Why—"
"Worry not," Thor rumbled, his voice the roll of distant thunder. "Answers await. But first first you must see. Understanding comes through sight, through witness, through revelation."
Rossweisse glanced at him, violet eyes questioning. "Milord, do you truly wish to show the Guardian Overseer your most prized possession? Your treasure? Your—"
"Halfway," Thor said. "Only halfway, Rossweisse. Not the whole truth. Not yet."
"As you command, Lord Thor."
The Valkyrie's hands moved with ceremonial precision, drawing back the crimson curtain—halfway, only halfway—to reveal what lay beyond.
A painting. Large, luminous, lovingly rendered.
A woman gazed out from the canvas—blonde like Rossweisse, beautiful like Rossweisse, bearing such resemblance that they might have been twins, sisters, echoes of one another across time and space.
"Who..." Albedo breathed, mesmerized, transfixed. "Who is she?"
"Can't you tell?" Rossweisse's voice carried pride, pleasure, perfect contentment. "She is my predecessor. The one who came before. The original."
"Predecessor?" The word felt strange, insufficient. "But—"
"That is all I know," the Valkyrie admitted. "The rest—the truth, the tale, the tragedy—belongs to Lord Thor alone to tell."
Albedo turned, seeking answers in Thor's face, but what she saw there stole her breath, stopped her heart, silenced her soul.
He approached the painting—slowly, solemnly, as one approaches an altar or a grave—and stopped mere inches from it. His hand rose, trembling slightly—trembling—and touched the painted surface with a tenderness that belied his battle-scarred exterior.
"She was my world once," Thor said, and his voice was broken thunder, shattered lightning, storm-clouds weeping rain. "My joy. My light. Everything bright and beautiful and good before ascension, before this form, before I became what I am now—god instead of man, thunder instead of flesh."
Jealousy flared in Albedo's chest—hot, sudden, sharp as a knife between ribs. "Your world? Your joy? Your—"
"But greed took her from me." The words fell like hammer-blows, like anvil-strikes. "The greed of those in power, those who ruled, those who thought themselves untouchable. They burned my world—burned it—and in that burning, she was lost. Consumed. Destroyed."
His expression shifted—sorrow becoming fury, grief becoming rage.
"And in my rage—oh, in my rage—I killed them. Every single one. The burners. The destroyers. Those who thought themselves safe, who believed themselves beyond reach, beyond retribution, beyond justice." His voice rose, crescendoed, became the roar of the storm itself. "I killed them all, and their blood painted the earth red, and their screams echoed through the heavens, and the Norse Pantheon itself trembled at what I had become!"
The air itself seemed to crack. Thor's aura—that destructive, divine pressure—leaked out, uncontrolled, wild. The walls split, fracturing like glass under pressure. The Thor Guards, those mighty sentinels, cowered, crumpled, fell to their knees in terror.
Albedo couldn't bear it—couldn't watch him drown in memories, suffocate in sorrow, burn in rage.
She moved forward, wrapped her arms around him from behind, and pressed her cheek against his broad back.
"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice soft but steady, tender but strong. "I don't understand your past, your pain, your life before divinity. But I understand this: a woman—any woman who loves—cannot bear to see her beloved suffering. So let me soothe you. Let me share the burden. Let me help you carry the weight of worlds lost."
The contact broke the spell. Thor's aura retracted, withdrew, and returned to its containment. The cracking ceased. Silence settled like snow.
"Forgive me," he said quietly, controlled once more. "Emotions are dangerous things for gods to lose control of. The consequences... catastrophic."
"Venting is permitted, Lord Thor," Rossweisse said gently, still holding her roses like offerings. "We are here—always here—whenever you need to release what you carry."
"Thank you." Thor exhaled slowly, deliberately. "But there was a purpose in bringing you here, Albedo. Purpose beyond mere revelation."
"Purpose?" She still held him, unwilling to let go quite yet.
"You wish to be closer to me, yes? Closer than we are now?"
"Yes," she admitted, no hesitation, no shame. "Yes, milord."
"Then I must open myself more fully," Thor said. "Must reveal my reasoning, my motivations, my why. This is the beginning. This is the door opening."
Understanding dawned in Albedo's eyes like sunrise over mountains. "These children—Clementine, Ninya—they grant you peace, don't they? Semblance of peace for your failure, your loss, your—"
"Yes." Simple. Final. True.
"Do you understand now?" Thor asked. "Even a little? Even the smallest fraction?"
"I understand, milord." Albedo's voice carried conviction, certainty. "And I appreciate—truly appreciate—the trust you place in me by sharing this."
"Then your mind is at ease? Your concerns addressed?"
"My mind is at ease," she confirmed, though her tone shifted, became slightly petulant. "But I still disagree with the method, Lord Thor. Why adopt human children when I could bear you a biological child? A true child of thunder and succubus, of god and demon? Wouldn't that bring you more peace? More solace? More—"
Thor sighed—the sound like wind through canyons, like the earth exhaling. "Consider it differently, Albedo. Consider this: with these children, you can practice motherhood. Learn its rhythms, its challenges, its rewards. So when you are with child—my child—you'll be prepared. Experienced. Ready."
Albedo froze. Her mind raced. Her wings fluttered—once, twice, three times, faster and faster.
"With child," she breathed, wonder and want intermingling. "Lord Thor's child. Our child. Practice being a mother. Practice. Mother. Child. Child—"
Her wings beat rapidly now, uncontrollably, as she swayed side to side, hands flying to her flushed cheeks, golden eyes wide as moons.
Thor chuckled—deep, rich, genuine. The sound of thunder amused, lightning laughing.
He decided she deserved a reward for her understanding, her acceptance, her compromise.
"Albedo."
"Y-yes, milord?" She looked up at him, dazed, delighted, dreaming.
"My dear succubus," he said, his voice warm now, lacking its usual battlefield edge. "Thank you. For compromising. For understanding. For being you."
He wrapped one powerful arm around her waist, pulled her close—close enough to feel his heartbeat, his warmth, his presence—and kissed her.
Her lips were soft against his, yielding, eager. Her wings beat like hummingbird wings, frantic, ecstatic. When he finally released her, she clasped her hands together, gazed up at him with absolute, perfect satisfaction.
"Thank you," she whispered, reverent as prayer. "Thank you, Lord Thor."
"You're welcome, Albedo." His smile was rare, precious. "I know I can be selfish—terribly, monumentally selfish. But know this: you are dear to my heart. All of you are. And perhaps—perhaps—one of you will become my world again someday. A new world. A different world. A world that can exist beside the memory of the old."
"I will strive," Albedo vowed, fierce as flame, "to prove myself worthy. To become that world. To be everything you need and more."
"Perhaps you will," Thor agreed. "But first—help me raise these children well. Help me be the parent they need, the guardian they deserve."
"With pleasure," she breathed. "With absolute pleasure, milord."
"Lord Thor?" Rossweisse's voice carried an edge—jealousy sharp as Valkyrie steel.
He turned, saw the look on her face, and smiled. Without hesitation, he captured her as well, pulled her close, kissed her with equal fervor.
When he released the Valkyrie, she stood there adorably dazed, roses forgotten in her arms, expression pure bliss.
"Still... still quite enjoyable, milord," she managed, breathless.
"That's for your service," Thor said warmly. "For your dedication, your care, your keeping of sacred spaces."
"I exist to serve your every whim, Lord Thor."
"We both do," Albedo added quickly, competitively.
"I know," Thor said, humor threading through his voice. "And I am grateful—more grateful than words can express. But I've lingered here too long. Duties await. Responsibilities call. Rossweisse."
"Yes, Lord Thor?"
"When Ninya and Clementine have recovered—mentally, emotionally, fully—report to me immediately. I will handle them personally from that point forward."
"Understood, Lord Thor."
"Good. Come along, Albedo."
"Yes, dear." The endearment slipped out naturally, possessively.
"Have a pleasant day, Albedo," Rossweisse called, her tone deceptively sweet. "Though do remember—you're still not in the lead for head wife. Not yet. Not quite."
Albedo's smile was sharp enough to cut diamonds. "Perhaps not. But I might claim victory before you, Valkyrie. Stranger things have happened."
Thor's laughter rolled through the corridor—deep, genuine, the sound of storm-clouds parting to reveal sun.
Albedo grasped his hand—his right hand, large and scarred and strong—and together they teleported, reality bending around them like cloth folding.
They materialized in the Throne Room—that grand chamber of shadows and sovereignty, where power pooled like water in deep wells.
Albedo moved toward her station, her duties, her responsibilities. As she reached the throne and began reviewing the NPC status reports, something caught her attention. Her fingers stilled. Her breath stopped.
"This... this cannot be." Confusion cracked through her voice, shattered her composure. "This is impossible. This is—"
"What troubles you, Albedo?" Thor's concern was immediate, sharp. "What's wrong?"
She turned to face him, and in her eyes was horror—pure, undiluted, absolute.
"Milord," she said, and her voice shook like leaves before storm-wind, "it seems... it seems Shalltear has betrayed us."
"What?!" The word exploded from Thor like thunder, like lightning, like the world itself splitting in two.
The walls trembled.
The shadows deepened.
And somewhere in Nazarick's vast depths, something stirred—ancient, terrible, inevitable.
To Be Continued...