I lower my arm from the dying star, the nature of my request evident, our presence within the home of the dwarves clear to Eitri. Turning away from it, feeling its soul shine on the edge of my mind, the last embers of its existence burning steadily for a million years on, I look to the silent king and wait. I take in his quiet with no ounce of nervousness or trepidation, Thor beside me waiting equally for the dwarf's contemplation to reach an end, his choice able to tip the balance in our favour.
We watch, his face a story of grief, his brows heavy as they sit above sad eyes, as the focus of his sight stares out beyond us to a place only he can see. A light grows, the striking of an anvil, sparking with new determination and acceptance, igniting in the dark of his irises, life returning with a flicker and revitalising his tired body.
He turns his gaze down, taking in our patience and replying with a solemn stare, his lips taut as he comes to a decision and speaking, his voice a rumble, "If I had remained crippled as I was, I've no doubt have hesitated to fulfil my duty." A deep sigh sounds, regret carrying along his breath as he looks around at the state of his home, "In my drowning grief, I've allowed the station to suffer as consequence of my hollow spirit, shaming both my ancestors and my departed brothers and sisters."
A moment of silence fills the air, the scattered dead turned away from their king as he stands over them, the final remnant of their fire, a monument to a long, shared history. They lay still, damaged in body and absent of soul, but speak forevermore, their spirits waiting for their brother to join them beneath the mountain. Finally, a decision made with certainty, Eitri swears, strength filling his short words, an unspoken pledge declared,
"No more."
He looks once more over his scattered kin, his fist clenching at his side, a millennia of crafting and forging in his bones, and takes a deep breath. Anticipation fills the air, drawing us closer and beating our hearts, reality bending around him in recognition, when he slams his curled hand into his chest and bellows. His peal resounds, a boom of promise thundering, rolling off him and out, washing over the surface of Nidavellir and pushing into long-forgotten crevices.
His volume rises, his arms stretching wide from his sides, his very presence gaining form and something more. A distant chorus echoes his call, collective roars from under the earth, the stone halls of creation joining him in cry. The shouts intertwine, singing a language of gentle strength, the music of shape and formation telling of the shifting of the world and of celestial matter, the song of the dwarven people. The notes fly gruff yet harmonious, stretching from the dawn of time, witness to the great act wishing to share, the maggots of Ymir scribes to the bones of reality.
My skin tingles with electricity, a giddiness in my stomach and a wide smile on my face as I stand in awe for a second time this day. My hand lifts away in search, fingers trailing through the emanations of what I barely comprehend, finding purchase on another. I grasp Thor, his hand around mine as we share in the moment, a final beginning for us to experience.
The station responds to its fathers and mothers, vibrating with strain as it breaks from it cage, the cracking of trapped ice acknowledging its freedom. The plates of the floating orb open, a field of magnetic energy bursting from the gaps of the prison, exploding out in a corona of stellar fire, a prismatic flare of blue and orange.
My eyes follow the grand scale as the world begins to move, Nidavellir coming alive, its heart burning anew and saturating its structure. The king stomps down as the rings turn, rotating into place and settling, the path to creation revealed once more, a throaty shout issuing in time. His steps thump as he starts to dance in ritual, the rings ringing in response while he moves inwards to his destination, the forge visible in the distance.
Space clings to his form as he marches, his weight deceptively light as he bypasses round and over, a hum of history and triumph in his wake, his story turning its final pages. My emotions quiet as we follow after him in earnest, our shoulders heavy and our steps sombre, an idea to his intentions gradually reaching us, the chosen beholders.
The song carries us forward, hands upon our back and lifting us, refusing to allow their king to dance alone, his eyes bright. His hair whips and shifts in motion, his stomps drumming in our minds and steadily increasing in beat, his shouts of brave energy. Nidavellir joins him, the tapping of tools on benches in rhythm, a steady progression as he nears his target, a procession walking in step.
Sparks float towards us as they drift from the dancing king, an unseen light on his face hidden from our sight as he moves. They circle us, judging our worthiness and weighing our souls, before breezily whirling in and away as they sail off, growing in number and density. Their heat warms my skin as they illuminate my features, my Chi starting to join in motion, cycling in time as they glide to the ground. They softly blanket all in sight, a kindled coat over everything, fading slowly as they infuse into all they touch, life once again.
A far-off movement, the shifting of a large mass, draws my eyes to a rising form, a towering stature beginning to stand. My breath leaves me, my hand tightening around Thor's, as a pair of blazing orbs bathe the darkened distance. They turn towards their king, set in pale face, its complexion lifeless yet more alive then ever, a fire flowing under skin.
A second rises beside it, joining its kin in awakening, then a third, its height smaller, before many more follow, a forest of giants now surrounding us. They ignore us, their gazes fixed on their king as he starts to burn, his hair smoking at their tips, his skin red and hot, his back to us as steam rises. A stomp, a shout, a clap and a cry, resonates my form as the fallen dwarves stand witness; Eitri before the forge.
I turn to Thor, my eyes wet with unshed tears, and open my mouth, but choke, no words capable of expression how I feel, a sacred moment beyond words. He looks to me, his own eye bright with power and understanding, before starting to walk, gently pulling me along. He takes me round the risen dwarves, winding between them with room to spare, not making contact or interfering, showing his respect. Their song lingers above me as they tower, singing their farewells, projecting for all to hear and touching upon soul, to not be forgotten.
Thor slows his pace, stopping a length away from Eitri as he whirls through the smoke, his new hands pulling jutting levers and stroking over etched symbols. Their meanings a mystery, scratched with masterful precision across every surface, they alight with fiery power as his fingers run across them. The forge rumbles to life, its holds turning and wheels revolving, rotating atop circular surface as it aims towards the waiting star, prepared.
Eitri, burning throughout, looks to us, his eyes clear and without regret, a point of bright stellar power and masterful craft pinning us, and points out, telling, "It is up to you now, Odinson." Thor follows his direction and stares out, regarding the star with realisation, as Eitri continues, "The iris is broken, shutting away the needed fire. Only a god could withstand its might with any hope of survival."
Thor gazes at the enclosed orb, the heated plates of metal enveloping the body within, and answers with resolve, "Then it shall be done, even if it kills me."
He releases my hand and starts to walk, approaching the edge of the ring to space beyond, when I move after him with haste, calling out and halting him, "Thor."
He stops, turning to me with a serious expression, his eye firm, and warns, "Do not try and stop me, Lady Sarah. I can not allow this sacrifice to go on without aid."
I summon Sun-Kissed along an arm, feeling it seep from within across my skin and gather in my hand, and shake my head, revealing, "I have no intention of intervening. What is happening here is of great importance, there is nothing I would do to dismiss its outcome." I come before him and raise the hand, reaching out and laying it on his armoured chest, "But, by order of me, your friend, you are not permitted to die this day."
I stare into his eye, feeling the gold of my own revolve as I prepare, "No sorcery I know will protect you from a star, but I..." I pause, calling upon my comprehension, "I am more than magic."
I close my eyes, hiding the light of Tao inside, and focus, operating my Chi and touching up on the Vermilion Bird, feeling its attention stir. My inner spirit, inherent to all beings and brought forth by sorcery, reaches out along mine and Thor's connection, passing through my fingers and infusing, breaching his flesh.
A crack of thunder, an oppression from a holder of conceptual domain, a storm of boundless reach and coverage, flashes near, warning but not denying. My spirit projects no alarm, flowing smoothly inside and accepting all punishment as it rises higher, a dim, orange radiance hidden deep within the dark, rolling clouds. I hurry close, strikes of booming lightning tearing pass, testing, but leaving an unblocked way forth for entry, its bodily host ready for truth.
The storm allows passage, clearing a way and parting as I near, the radiance growing, deepening, its colour whitening the closer I get. It blinds, confusing my senses while calling me forth and reaching out to encompass, perfect life touching me. I don't resist, ceasing all motion as it grasps and pulls me beyond the bordering light of branching, immaculate fire, the realm welcoming me.
I limit my perception as an infinity of blank, white space greets me, but nevertheless sense the vast, inextinguishable presence observing me. A touch on my spirit by the unseen entity sees it transform, the wisp growing and forming me, my humanity floating in the endless, draped by green robe. My hair loose, I look over my created body with surprise, noting the cracks still present, when a foreign sensation, an odd twitch, moves against my back.
I hesitate, my meeting with Apalla haunting me, leaving me with lingering fear, before coming to a conclusion; there's no need for the presence to deceive. Pulling Revelation in tight, not allowing it to peek out from its walled over home, I slowly turn and look over my shoulder, flickering flames reflecting in my eyes.
I smile, relief and intrigue filling me as I lay sight on a pair of feathered wings stretching from my upper back, coloured a vivid red-orange and ablaze with fire. A thought sees them flutter, moving at my command, my spirit drifting smoothly forward incrementally, a laugh threatening to leave me. I turn away from them and down to my tattooed arm, the black outline of the bird present upon this manifest, and ask, "Is this your doing?"
It doesn't reply, quiet as it's always been, but I believe it to be so, their appearance similar to what I remember. I thank it, brushing my fingers over its mark, then set out in search, my destination unknown but goal in mind. The wings flap, their unexpected power sending me flying, shooting away at remarkable speed, tumbling head over heels. I wind my arms out, searching for my shifting centre of balance, and manage to come to a stop, my limbs flared wide.
The laugh escapes, bursting from my chest as I float, the untainted purity of the Heart of All Creation occupying my entire vision, stretching forth with no end in sight. Calming, I brace myself and try again, gentler this time and without as much oomph, flicking them slightly. I'm pushed forward, still at speed but with greater control, and slowly get the hang of it, this matterless realm without obstacle to hinder my learning.
I drift, without aim or target, time passing with no meaning, feeling the presence following along, its existence perceivable by its own grace, until a distant colour catches my attention. Standing out against the canvas, a dot marring otherwise perfection, I fly in its direction, flapping the wings to gain momentum. My mind alights with recognition as I close in, finding an old, wooden door standing, set in an equally old frame, the white of the realm leaking under its gap to the room beyond.
I glide to a stop before it, emotion choking my throat, my heart aching with longing, and reach out for its handle, curling my fingers around its length. Releasing a breath to settle my nerves and get my bearings, I voice in a low tone, speaking to both myself and the presence, "...Here we go." I slowly slide the door open, feeling it smoothly run along its frame, until it passes my sight, the interior revealed.
A small room, single bed lying by the wall opposite, a dresser facing its foot-end, a desk sitting to my right, opens up to me,
My bedroom.
I step inside, closing the door behind me, darkness attempting to swallow me, the light of my wings pushing back, and move to the bed. Pulling my temporary limbs in, folding them closed and resting them to my back, I go to sit, turning and starting to lower, when something atop the desk appears to me, conspicuous. I stand and step to it, eyeing it all the while, its modern, synthetic material folded neatly, and identify it instantly; the Seedbed created, camouflaged outfit of my arrival.
I touch it, running my digits over with nostalgia, only now wondering as to its status, having not seen it in years. I go to pick it up, to take it into my hold, when the wall before me is lit by warm, flickering orange, my shadow set dead centre and cast against it. The presence coalesces behind me, concentrating into a smallish form, its depths boundless and without end, when I steadily turn to it, its energy washing over me.
A bird of flowing fire, its feathers and beak prominently, its wings flared out, floats ahead of me, its vague eyes regarding me with patience. I release my own wings in greeting, unfolding and stretching them out, their reach touching either side of the room, then bow, cupping my hands and lowering my head.
I offer my sincerest conveyance of respect to the primordial embodiment of life, death, and rebirth, not looking upon its magnificence, and beg, imploring for it to intervene, "Please," I whisper, "protect your child."
The room collapses around me in response, falling away in planks and breaking apart, creation returning to it pure state, as a tender power pulls at my spirit. I'm dragged away and down, my back racing towards an unknown location, my wings pushed forward by non-existent wind. My hair whips up, obscuring my face as I stare upwards, paying no mind to my travel, my eyes fixed on the fiery form of the Phoenix, hoping for it to do as asked.
It shrinks in my sight as our distance grows, its body swallowed by the white and becoming indistinguishable, when a black appears in my peripheral. I look to it through the wild strands of hair, my vision unhindered thanks to Revelation, finding the storm oncoming, reaching up in a swirl to swallow me. I allow it to, my spirit falling inside, breaking through the rapid undulations of its dark clouds, trailing a path.
Lightning flashes as thunder booms, periodically illuminating my way and bouncing from cloud to cloud, circling me as I approach its edge, a hint of gold on the others side. I exit out, my wings slicing through and parting, the storm lingering and sliding off me, and fall into the gold, my humanity dissipating. My wisp follows its path in, resonating with its greater self and nearing, passing the barrier of Thor's skin and rejoining the whole.
The eyes of my body snap open, their depths flaring with golden fire as I quickly step back, thin smoke issuing from my cracks, the song still recited. I cycle my Chi, cooling my heated flesh, and flick my arms repeatedly, working out the aches and sores. I take a walk, a small ring of steps in the space before the forge, managing the pain, when Thor speaks up, concern evident in his tone, "Are you well?"
I look to him, continuing to walk, and give him a soft smile, replying, "All good. Just some aftereffects from meeting greater power, you know how it is."
Thor, his expression normalising, asks, "Is that so? Only a moment passed since you layed your hand upon my chest."
I come to stop, the damage dealt with and smoke faded, before walking to him as he turns back to the star, readying my magic in the meantime. Summoning a Mandala to my side with a sign, I pull it along as I stand next to him, then manoeuvre it to the front, angling it appropriately and holding it steady, telling, "When you're ready, I'll assist."
Thor nods, expressing his thanks, and steps atop it, hopping on its surface to test its durability. He bends his knees, building strength, as I lift the Mandala and move it back overhead, reaching out with my telekinesis and settling it over them. Gathering it under Thor, pressing it against his feet, I give him a thumbs up and ask, "You good?" He returns the gesture, his thumb facing me as he stares ahead, firm.
I run my eyes over him, his arms bare, his upper and lower covered by armour, and hint, "...Don't ignore the call, Thor." As he goes to look down at me, I push the Mandala forward with force, Thor darting above. He passes over and out, into the vacuum of space, where he leaps, rocketing away with telekinetic assistance. He soars through the empty, the music of Nidavellir accompanying him and guiding his path, until he reaches the radiant star, entering its channel and rolling to a stop.
As he recovers, I quickly vacate the area, coming to a stop behind a workstation and taking cover, an animated dwarf looming over me. Its gaunt face lowers to view me, its enkindled eyes gazing into me, my own golden irises staring back. We regard each other, the dwarf playing its part of the choir, before it reaches out a pale hand, finger extended and pointing to me. I tilt my head, not knowing its aim, before a communication, a transmission of intent, is conveyed.
My eyes widen, uncertain as to my capability to fulfil its suggestion, when I quietly question, "...Is that something I can accomplish?"
The dwarf doesn't answer, the dead still and silent, the light of its spirit peering, when its large finger lowers, unworried as to my doubt. It taps onto my left breast, over the rib cover of my heart, the home of my Middle Dantian, its knowledge flowing inside, method and temporary sense imbued into me. An involuntary gasp expels from my mouth once it finishes, a host of spectral bodies appearing to me, overlapping with deceased, physical selves.
A source of fire at the root of their being, earth and metal their flesh and bone, they watch their king with pride, the lifeful emanations of their complexions displaying their respect. I turn away from them, a new mission given to me, the closing wish of the departed race on my shoulders, and peek over cover to look upon Eitri.
His body continuing to burn, embered, thin splits slowly creeping across him, showing through his uniform as he immolates, he observes the far-off Thor. The god reaches out to either side of the iris, gripping the two jutting handles, as Eitri, his soul laid bare and blazing, shouts out in his language, a low note blaring, before hurriedly instructing, "Now, boy!"
A beam of empyreal brilliance streaks through the cosmos, tearing towards the waiting forge, its master to the side. It strikes home, a constant torch of solar dominion, the forge channelling its power across its system, a forceful flame igniting under crucible. Eitri races to it, standing over and looking inside, his lessening visage lit by the melting Uru, the forming liquid bubbling.
I stand and step out from behind cover, holding my hands over closed eyes and overlapping my fingers, palms facing the world. I walk forward, stopping under the beam and turning to the anchored Thor, then kneel, knees dropping to impact the hard floor as I fall deep into meditation. Grasping at Revelation, my spirit knocks on its wall and draws on it more then ever before, looping golden strings around its arms and pulling, my eyes shining.
I lower my hands as my Chi furiously cycles, circulating around my heart, then open up my sight, the world before me more, the curtain slightly parted. A high cry sounds from the issue of the beam, a flare of wings visible on either side, their gentle fire rolling across the expanse, the Phoenix shielding. Stomps rattle behind me as Eitri commences his forging, turning the wheel and pouring out the metal, draining into moulds.
The beam suddenly thins, the iris closing, as my hands rise, sight locked to the incoming figure of Thor, tumbling close without resistance. I extend out my magic, a barrier of telekinetic padding placed in his path, catching him with ease as he flies into it. Wrapping him up, I lower him down and place him on the floor, the smoke of burnt armour rising off him, his flesh unmarred and eye looking to me.
I rise and move to beside him, checking his condition and finding him undamaged, my plea seemingly working, then place a palm above him, fingers spread. My hand clenches, a bundle of interwoven strings taken in grasp, and softly utter, "The universe cannot ignore the sacrifice of one its greatest shapers, Odinson." I twist my wrist, the shown strings twirling weightless through the air, then pull my arm back and whip out.
They spread across all, flying around and floating out, gradually forming a barrier at the limits of their scope, centring on our position. A dome of strings slowly swimming round us, a domain separating us from the physical with aid from dwarven gift, I smile at wide-eye Thor and advise, "...Look behind you, O King."
Thor stares at me, searching my face for an answer, before sitting up. He stands with some struggle, coming eye-level with me, then starts to turn, a pair of see-through figures waiting, golden gleams of Asgardian power outlining them. Thor stumbles back in shock, his breath shaky as he utters, looking to one, "Mother?", then the other, "Father?"
Dressed in regal attire, the royal dress of the ruling family of Asgard, the spirit of Queen Frigga approaches, her husband by her side. I step back as she nears, giving them the space they need, when they stop before their second child, tears trailing down from his lone socket. Frigga lays her hands on his cheeks, cupping his face and brushing her thumb under his eyes, taking him in with her entire being, her face full of love and care, and whispers, "Time has not been kind to you, my son."
Odin, his hand on the shoulder of Thor, his expression soft under his large beard, looks to me with his single eye and quietly asks, "How long do we have, Sorceress?"
I bow to the spirit of the summoned king, before raising a hand to the working Eitri, his hammer falling in time with the stomping feet of his deceased kin, revealing, "Until the sacrifice is complete."
He replies with sincerity as he stares through me, the depths of his might peering, "...Thank you." I bow again, but don't share my own thoughts with him, the magic cast thanks to the power of the dwarves, myself simply acting as the trigger, the conduit.
I leave them to their limited reunion and approach the half-remaining body of Eitri, his essence leaving him with every blow, infusing into the forming weapon. I observe the process, the swirling of Revelation aiding my insight, and see. My perception is absorbed inside with each strike, the turning of great celestial worlds revealed to me, forging unecplised wonders of unfathomable beauty, laying the foundation of life and love, a homestead of new creation birthed.
Fundamental existence threatening to burn me from within, secrets not yet meant to be glimpsed, I instantly step away to break from the vision, at risk of being overwhelmed. I stare up at Eitri with new admiration, his concentration narrowed and unbreakable, and promise, "I shall remember you always, noble King."
Movement from the family behind nears me, the trio stopping beside and looking to Eitri, his eyes losing focus as his spirit persists, his final acts imbued with his everything. Odin speaks, his voice filled with millennia of authority, and commands, "Dwarven King." The head of Eitri turns in broken, jagged increments, faded eyes shifting to look down, his moulding persisting, where Odin asks, sadness present in his tone, "What do you require of us?"
Eitri, his voice quiet and waning, greets, "...Borson." Ash falls from his frame, another fragment of his self sacrificed, "...Odinforce."
Odin's bordering glory brightens in intensity, its shimmer growing to outsize his form, its light unharsh, as faint, rainbow iridescence bleeds across. He holds a hand up, the motion unhurried, and begins to close it, a shaft steadily developing from his grip, rising up and extending down. A golden spear, lined by carved depths, its pointed blade flanked by two sharp spines along its edges, manifests in his grasp.
The soul of destroyed Gungnir called to his side, its aid needed once more from its rest beyond, an equally golden gauntlet emerges over his hand. Its metal runs up his wrist and arm, then down and over his chest to his legs and feet, his body adorned in majestic, black and golden war regalia, a horned helmet atop his head.
He slams the butt of his spear to the surface of Nidavellir, beating in time with ritual of the dwarves, the pace increasing as Odin joins in song. Asgardian tongue flows from his mouth, overlaying with the chorus, blending perfectly without obstructing or stealing, as he raises Gungnir, levelling it to the fashioning taking place. Godly magic courses up to the tip of its blade, flowing under his dual grip and gathering into a point of resplendent shine.
He holds it steady as the song rises, the fire of Eitri's sacrifice covering his entirety and obscuring him, the shadow of his forging striking with persistence. His arm held high, hammer visible in his take, his remaining life concentrated for one last blow, his last words reach us by spiritual means, sounding in our souls from absent throat,
"Bury us beneath the earth, All-Fathers."
He strikes, all sound silenced as hammer hits anvil, a clear, sonorous knell ringing out as his body disintegrates into ash and ember. It spirals inwards, funnelling down into the fissured mould and laying heated runes on its surface, when Odin thrusts out, a ray of Odinforce shooting forth. Its force causes us all to take a step back in brace as it impacts, a rumble of thunder shaking us.
A ring of arcing lightning spreads from the crumbling mould, the beam continuing to power, when a column of pressing, prismatic energy descends, falling over the mould. It rises up into the fall of the Bifrost, its silhouette distinct through the shifting light, and breaks open, the added weight the final component.
The Bifrost narrows into its centre, its light and sound absorbed by the shadow, revealing a wide, metal weapon. One side of its head the blade of an axe, the other the head of hammer, faint, dwarven runes momentarily burn across it, before its heat settles and retreats. A length of crystal acting as the shaft, a prism of gently rolling liquid moving through it, the weapon floats unaided, flickers of electric sparks discharging at random.
It abruptly speeds towards us, passing by my face in a rush, wind battering me and whipping my hair as I follow its trajectory. It lands in the raised hand of Thor with a resounding clap, his eye alighting with divine authority. Odin, a smile on his face, tells his child, from one king to another, All-Father to All-Father, "Call its True Name." Thor lifts the axe high, its splendour raining over us, and identifies it with solemnity, hailing,
"Stormbreaker."
Nidavellir quakes as a thousand dwarves kneel in honour, heads bowed low as they surround the ultimate creation of their sovereign. Their song fades in time, the burning light of their eyes leaving as they return to their eternal rest, having born witness to their revenge given form. Their spirits, child of body and soul, finally move on, departing their remains, their gifted magic beginning to leave with them.
I feel my connection to it start to fray, the dome of whirling gold starting to stagger and lose form, king and queen dimming, as I stare at Thor. I lightly frown, my heart beating in odd rhythm from vague premonition, a sense of action urgently needed, then look down at my revealed arms, taking in the cracks born of mistake.
Looking back up to the quietly speaking family, emotion swirling around them, farewells spoken, I close my eyes and draw on Revelation, whispering, "...Not yet." Retreating into my spirit, floating before the clear barrier separating me from total understanding, stretching before me into infinity, I ask of the source, my first request to Heaven, "Don't let me die now."
Laying a hand upon it, I push, the wall warping inwards slightly, my Chi passing through with difficulty and dispersing inside, then pull. A small dome follows my hand, attracting a distant string in my direction, differing in hue than the rest; pale gold. It touches the dome, curling up inside, before a section slides out, a loop protruding in a handhold.
I grasp it, its length lighting out from touch, then open my eyes to reality and look down, seeing it laying over palm, its span drawn and still present in the golden dome. Gripping one part, I tightly wind it round my wrist, criss-crossing it over and digging it into flesh, then take a deep breath. As the family look to me, Thor's puzzlement obvious, Odin watching with certain comprehension, I catch the eye of Frigga, a motherly smile of approval given to me.
I shift my sight and peer into the eye of Thor, Stormbreaker in hand, then tell, withstanding the scraping of the string over skin, "...The sacrifice is still in play until the magic concludes; what's one more for it to bear?" I raise my wound arm, gripping the draping length and curling it round my fingers, then yank down with my full strength, slapping my palm to the floor, the string pulled taut and resisting.
Sun-Kissed starts to flow over me, lacing into my flesh and covering my body as it begins to tear, the string cutting into forearm. Blood leaks forth and coats, dripping atop the back of my hand and pooling under, before its current diminishes, the Daofire at work. I straighten, my feet digging in and pushing against the ground, as I play tug of war with an elder power, each player backed by greater parties.
Pulling my bleeding limb back, fighting against the strain, I wind my free arm around the tight string and repeat the pull and slap. Again, I redo the movement, the action easier than last as I gain momentum, then once more, windmilling until I achieve flow, reeling in. The string weaves across my shoulders and chest, a gathered loop aided by sacrifice, as the cracks of my being grow, soul-deep pain slicing through me.
I feel them split from my shoulders and slowly branch over my chest, crawling up my neck incrementally and nearing the bottom of my face, my increasing experience with Revelation limiting their speed. They bleed through the grey jacket of my tracksuit, showing their existence to the gods before me and declaring the price of my actions, when the voice of a young woman sounds in my ears.
Exasperated yet accepting, it sighs out, declaring, "Fine."
The opposing force suddenly vanishes, causing me to stagger back and steady myself, my breathing heavy and body marked, when the top of the dome parts, a person descending inside. Sandalled feet lower into view, followed by a blue dress, red ribbon around the waist, then golden bangled wrists. A broad collar of gold covers shoulders and circles around neck as it sits under black, bobbed hair, the tips gather into a fray of holds.
The bob tucks behind the ears of a female, teenaged face, her blue eyes staring into me as she lands, standing shoulder height with me and asking with annoyance and transcendent supremacy, "Sarah Worthington, what do you think you're doing?"
I feel my stripped flesh knit together under the power of Sun-Kissed as Neith looks back to the gods, greeting in turn, "Brother, Mother's two-time lover, niece."
Thor watches her, meeting this new elder sibling for the first time, while Odin frowns and Frigga laughs, when I finally speak up, lifting the string to Neith and pointing to Thor, "He needs to come into to his all, Goddess. Your shared mother needs to cast her sight to him this day, in this domain of sacrifice and new beginnings."
Neith glares at my words, warning, "Our Mother needs do nothing, okay? Especially not by demand of the soon to be dead."
I file away her allusions to my fate for future contemplation, not so easily convinced of her information, the Tao not one to be divined without cost, even by those who manipulate destiny, when she resumes, "Mother is always watching, forever tending the garden of earth and its life, both of her own spawning and that which time birthed, alright? Do you think, Dao Child, that Mother does not know, is not aware, at every and all moments, of her children?"
She lifts a hand to me, showing a simple seed atop her palm, and reveals, "This instance was foreseen aeons before any of you were even penned in the library of the House of Ideas." Neith softly blows, a tinge of gold in her breath as it picks up and drifts off the seed, carrying it over to the centre of the dome and dispersing, the seed dropping to the ground.
It passes through the metal, burying itself in and hiding, before a tiny stem pushes out, a few small leaves of grouped green attached. It sways by no obvious cause, its leaves slowly turning to face me, as Neith tells, "A Seed in its Bed, waiting to be fed by the Chi of near Taoist, no?" I look to her, feeling little shock or surprise at the divulged depths of her knowledge, enough time lived in this reality to gain an awareness of the breadth of power present at all times.
Instead, I unwind the string from my body, lifting it from my shoulders and pulling it from the flesh of my wrist, then release it, watching as it rejoins the revolving mass. Keeping my sight on Neith, seeing the gods behind observing the proceedings, I kneel by the seed and turn to examine it with my mortal senses, stopping Revelation from divining it.
Finding nothing obviously other about it, the sprout simple and standard, as common as the everywhere grass, I look back to Neith, seeking instructing. She turns to the family, pointing each at Thor and Frigga, and says, "If the All-Father can stand to be useless for now, will you two please approach?"
Frigga does so without consult, while Thor, ever the prince seeking wisdom, looks to his father, who gives no indication of his thoughts. Trusting in his son, the fully realised God of Thunder who endured Ragnarök and the destruction of Asgard, Odin remains silent, leaving the choice in his hands. Thor, his chest filling with earned pride at the action of his father, of his judgement proving him worthy of his station, turns to the seed and starts forth.
The four us take our place around the seed, each representing an aspect of Thor's nature, when Neith, of Earth-Mother and planter of the Tree, speaks, detailing the ritual, "Once Sarah, of Fire-Mother and grower of the Tree, feeds the seed her Chi, it will be up to you, Frigga of All-Mother and nurturer of the Tree, to guide its rise and make sure it ages true."
She then looks to Thor, peering into his depths and laying eyes on the power within, beholding the conduit and enhancer in his hand, and hints, "It will then fall to you, Thor of All-Father, to decide the fate of the Tree; whatever your choice determining its eventual change."
We all express our grasp of our roles, readying ourselves in our own ways, when Neith turns to me, directing, "You can begin." Still kneeling, feeling the moment needing me to be present as more than myself, I run my hands down my front and over my body, my fingers forming a spell. A bar of sorcery under my palms, an orange line passes over me from my shoulders, my out of place, earth-sourced tracksuit transmuting.
My green robe now worn, representative of my discipleship with the Masters of the Mystic, I pick Splinter from my shoulder and stroke a digit over his head. Not wanting his presence to intrude in the ritual, I float my Ring from my finger and expand it open, then drop him inside with an apology. Safe and sound within, his time stopped, I slip it back on and nod up to Neith, my readiness conveyed.
Cycling my Chi along my meridians, I summon it to the fingertips of my right hand and near it to the sprout. Concentrating what little I can feel of the Creative Energy of Seedbed into the inner power, I touch the stem and infuse it inside. The Chi operates inside the sprout without input from me, its growth dependant on how the seed wishes for its own development, Pure Creation granting it a certain level of spirit.
I make no additional moves, not falling into meditation to commune with the Tao nor adding any of my own ideas to the ritual, the process a clear test of Thor by Gaea. The metal beneath rises and splits as the roots of the seedling begin to grow out and find purchase, feeding off the stellar energy permeating the station to aid its formation.
My role finished and my footing becoming unstable as the roots reach me, I stand and step back, the others doing the same, my presence reduced to that of a simple observer. The growth of the Tree happens in real-time, the flexible green stem lengthening as smaller branches extending from it, its life moving along its cycle. The stalk begins to darken as it rises, its height passing three feet and entering its sapling stage, smooth barks beginning to form as it gains a certain rigidity.
Frigga steps to it as more leaves begin to sprout, its branches waist-level and rising quickly, a rustle sounding as foliage takes shape and covers its top. She lifts her arms out in hug, her eyes fixed to the Tree, and begins to whisper the secrets of her domains, of prophecy and motherhood. The language sharing similarities to Asgardian sung by Odin, but differing in severity and tone, syllables drawn or shortened, other aspects mixed and hushed, she supports its bloom.
The words of the ásynjur offered from her mouth, a murmur of magic and guidance washing over us and comforting, the Tree builds up and spreads. It stretches out under her council, its body cracking in places as mistakes fall from its canopy, new flesh forming to fill the gaps and fresh limbs growing in place of broken branches. It learns from its missteps, from decisions negative to its maturation but necessary for the solidity of its wood, for the tenacity of its standing.
I monitor the blossoming of the Tree, feeling the currents of aiding, persisting mandates, the realm filling with divine power; nature, life, fire and multitude more whirling. They brush over me, not looking to find purchase and influence, but to reveal and provide, showing their existence and imprinting for a future time.
The Tree rising high, decades passing in mere minutes, I look upon it with familiarity, having rested against its species many years back when I crossed Wutong Mountain in search of Bao'an Sanctum. The parasol tree standing tall, its crown stirring absent of wind, I catch sight of a vague, winged form pecking at its flowering pods, the bird marked on my arm reacting, a tingle over my scapulae.
Looking away from it, having acknowledged the presence of the second Mother, I eye the scattered branches with interest. The status of the Tree clear to me now, remembering its associations with myth and spirituality, I wonder as to acquiring a shed part of its body. Rested upon by its only worthy visitor, a perch meant for a single entity, its depth has greatly deepened, gaining additional, conceptual weight, perfect for gifting to the Vermilion Bird.
I think on it, sorely tempted, then rein in my desire, the ritual still underway and open to interruption, my interference potentially harming Thor. Catching sight of Neith staring, watching me as I wrestle with my decision, I smile at her, getting one of approval in return. She looks away from me, a lingering gaze held to the Tree and the being inside, before speaking to the waiting Thor, her words meaningful and ambiguous, "And now the traveller must decide."
Thor's sight stays on the Tree as Neith steps away, waving for us to follow, his axe in his hand while his mind journeys. We move with her, passing him by, Frigga brushing a hand over his arm while I offer him look of support and of encouragement, coming to a stand next to Odin. He takes the hand of his wife on his left as we all line up, turning to watch the diverge of Thor's path, two roads before him.
Lowering my voice to not effect or sway him, his choice his own, I ask of Neith on my right, "What is your mother wanting to find here, Spider?"
She doesn't look to me, her eyes on Thor, but responds, her voice as equally quiet as my own, "When you come to stop before a tree, your journey either gruelling or peaceful, your destination with or without purpose, two options will lay before you, yes?" She glances up at me, an examining look in the depths of her eyes, and questions, "Do you know what they are, Taoist?"
I shake my head, not knowing the answer to her probe into my character, when the mature voice of Frigga, between Elder God and All-Father, offers in my stead, "You either choose to rest under it, its leaves protecting from light and night, or..." She trails off, her husband, ancient warrior-king and once-conqueror of realms, revealing his own choice,
"You fell its trunk, toppling it from its vigil and breaking it down, all to fashion its remains into implements of oppression."
Silence lingers as the severity of the situation settles over us, Thor's nature to be revealed for all to see in little time. We all focus on his back, noticing the whitening of his knuckles as his grip on Stormbreaker tightens, his internal war obvious. His head lowers, the star of Nidavellir casting his shadow up the core of the Tree, his profile stretching from him and staring back, drawing his sight up.
I hold my breath, my fists clenching in the gather of my sleeves, as Thor raises his head, his mind seemingly made up. I narrow my eyes at him, disappointment beginning to form in my heart as he lifts his axe, the blade of its head glinting in the light as it aims forward. I push down my urge to stop him, hoping my judgement of him is wrong, when he steps forward.
He walk to the Tree, laying a hand on its trunk and stroking its smooth bark, his axe lowering as he looks up into the foliage. A pair of small eyes look back, peering from the depths of the canopy, its feathered head tilting as it gazes down. Its beak opens barely, parting slightly, the light of eternal fire visible in heart, and sounds a tiny chirp, its meaning told only to the one before it.
Thor's hand leaves the Tree as he breaks his sight from the hidden figure, when he starts to crouch, kneeling down. He lays his axe by his side, the edge facing away from the Tree, and turns to sit. Shifting until one leg stretches out, the other risen to support an arm, he leans to rest on the wood, his head tilting back. The Tree stills, its leaves coming to a stop mid-motion, as Thor closes his eye, the light of the star washing him; the very picture of peace.
The near-silent whisper of Odin reaches me, pride in his words as he looks on his successor, "...Well done, son."
Neith, a smile on her face at the scene, lifts a hand to the resting god, then gently lowers it, her fingers extended. The Tree leans over in response, shading Thor as its branches extend down, touching and running over his shoulders. They wind his arms as the trunk begins to warp around him, flowing across his chest and working its way down, its mass lessening as it begins to shrink.
It moves down, covering his form and reaching his legs, a shape taking place as it acts to replace, gradually forming individual segments. The leaves flutter down around him, swirling in gentle rhythm and settling atop small pauldrons of Asgardian armour, fusing to join together and drape down in lengths beside him.
Stormbreaker floats up from its position, a rumble of distant thunder roaring through the spiritual planes, and slides into Thor's lap, his hand unconsciously gripping it. Its lightning sparks and jumps atop him, touching every formed part and leaving behind faint runes, before arcing to his throat and up his face.
His eye slowly opens, glowing with his divinity and staring ahead, when he smoothly stands, axe held and hanging low. A cape of leafy nature, a canopy of his own, stretches behind him, its length spread out and blanketing the ground. His armour of dark wood, identical in design to his previous coverings, he turns to look at us, a helmet forming on his head, short, angled-back horns from its sides and top, and smiles.
I smile back, taking a step forward before anyone else, and ask of him, requesting with anticipation, our shared work standing tall before us, "Reveal to us, Odinson, the soul of your adornment, please." He faces us, his cape flitting in follow of his movement, and announces, its name slipping inside and bringing comfort,
"Hearthlight."