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Musphelheim has warmed.
The heat of the realms realigns with time, casting their fire back to its home.
The sliver of ice that had once kept Musphelheim tolerable has vanished, Niflheim’s heart smothered by the weight of rebirth.
Thousands of swords lay in Surtr’s forge, cast off the edges of the workshop, imbedded in the ground, metal in abundance and no result praised. It was busywork; a way of passing the time as the heart grows fond and the mind grows weak.
The fire burns long after its owner’s leave. The heat assures a strong flame and the signs of an unfinished Damascus are bleeding into the coals.
It hardly feels any different to reach into the fire than it is to breathe the air. Though his fingers scald from the flame and magma, it doesn’t compel him to stop.
He gathers the leaking pieces of the sword and draws it out of the fire, a glowing display of harrowed effort now cooling marginally on a brittle anvil.
He’d never known Surtr. Though his craftmanship was always anticipated, no one could see the results any time before he was ready. What a sword it was, but his efforts are on full display only here. The Realms saw his magnum opus split Asgard, not much caring for the rejects he’d left behind.
It would feel disrespectful to pick up his craft, were it that anyone would ever object. Though Niflheim mourns in song, the burning heart had been snuffed. There is no fire left to dispute him with and no one else cares as she would.
It seems like a perfectly miserable place for him. Alone, surrounded by ancient fire and despair so heavy that the realm feeds from it. Would it be so bad to allow himself that time? That wasted effort, waiting for something that he doesn’t truly want?
The fire will never go out, someone may as well make use of it.
*
Freedom is a welcome return to normalcy. Though the realms have shifted in the wake of both his vanishing and Ragnarok, all feels kind in its change. Reconstruction begins, hope melding with a deep grief that leave few untouched.
Týr roams at his own leisure. Though isolation had grown old, the call of the world rids him of the need of company. When the cold bites, he finds warmth. When the heat scalds him, he finds soothing. Any misfortune is just that: an err of chance, not worth fretting.
It’s good to see the camaraderie he had set out to establish finally come to fruition. Though it’s not all peaceful—as nothing can be—it’s better than waking with Ragnarok still at his heels. No doubt he would have supported the effort, but it is a relief to have it pass.
The demolition of Asgard had rattled him, of course. Word of Odin’s death is yet to settle as his grasp on the realms fractures and dissolves. His most recent visit to Svartalfheim, however, had proved most promising. The dwarves had, as he’s been told, remained mostly out of Ragnarok and have refocused on their lives outside of Asgardian control.
He’d been most curious about the other signs of dwarven activity outside of Svartalfheim—small forges left up and still yet to cool. While not unheard of, dwarves generally did keep business within them and Asgard. A stray explorer or two make up the idea of a promising story to follow.
Though most don’t have any detail to give, one offers up a word of caution. A half-spectacled dwarf—Durlin—had informed him of one of the traveling blacksmith’s death. He’d been rather reserved to speak on the other, noting that it may be best for Týr to stop his search.
He’s not one to give up so easily, but it’s not his most pressing matter, either. There are still other places to see, a whole world beyond the grasp of their pantheon. Oh, how have the others changed in his absence?
Greece, he now remembers, has been wholly dismantled. But what of the lands beyond? He’d love to return to them, all that holds him is a nostalgic fondness for the world he’s been denied for some time now.
A week listening to the howls of Niflheim had compelled him to return to Ginnungagap, the sound of Sinmara’s sorrows leading him back to Surtr’s last moments.
The heat of Muspelheim means little, though he can never tire of any land. What prevents him from his destination is the familiar ringing of tool to sword. A forge nearby. Surtr’s forge, still tended to? It hadn’t been so last time he had passed through.
For how long had it been? Midgard’s snow has melted away—he’d come to Muspelheim rather early into his exploration. Yes, at least a season.
Who could take up the mantle? Stepping into the life of a Primordial, surrounded by his exhaustive accomplishments, what compels someone to live that?
Well, as long as he’s here, he might as well ask.
Týr strays from Ginnungagap’s path, letting his ears guide him back to the forge. The swords are what he first spots. Hundreds upon hundreds driven into the ground, laying without purpose and a deep coloration of repetition. He steps carefully, closer to the forge’s heat.
The swords do not stop in their number, but as he approaches he begins to see variations in their making. Lighter steel, different handguards, runic engravings. A new blacksmith, undoubtably. The sheer multiplicity of these new weapons speaks to their creator’s expertise. Such a vast pace, Týr doesn’t take much surprise when he finally catches sight of him.
A dwarf, of course. Such a sight fills him with an energized confidence. Either this is a dwarf who has set out after Ragnarok—a prospective businessman—or this is the traveler he’d been told of. The answer pushes him to walk up the forge’s steps, curiosity overriding the urge to leave the man to his work.
“Excuse me—“
In an instant the blacksmith whips around, having grabbed his latest work and swung it at Týr’s side.
He grabs the blade without much thinking, bare palm feeling the sting of the heated edges, but they’re unfinished. Blunt.
“My apologies for disturbing you,” Týr continues, hoping the attack was merely an instinct. He means to offer a hand, but stops short. The blacksmith’s eyes are trained on him as if he were a ghost, horror freezing him in place. “...Do you intend to battle me?”
Týr’s own eyes hone in on him. He means peace, but if the blacksmith wishes to fight, he won’t deny him an effort. Based on his first strike, it wouldn’t be a difficult victory. It would only be a shame that he never got an answer to his identity.
“This isn’t real,” the blacksmith mutters, breathless. “I fucking killed you, this is just...” He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking off his rigidity. “Just breathing in too much ash. Whatever.” He drops his grip on the sword entirely, leaving it in Týr’s hand.
The blacksmith turns back around, rubbing a hand down his face and starting up on his next piece.
“You must be thinking of Odin’s impression of me. That was not me, nor am I him.” Týr casts the sword aside without much regard, taking an eased step forward.
“Oh, great, they’re becoming self-aware.” The blacksmith mutters with whined annoyance. “What stage of delusion is that? ”
“I assure you, I am real. And I want to offer my condolences. For your b—“
“ Shut up! ” The blacksmith turns around once again, hurling his hammer at Týr.
He balks entirely, allowing the hammer to connect with his temple. “Argh!” He winces, touching at the thin stream of blood leaking out of the minuscule cut.
“Holy fuck.” The blacksmith whispers. “You’re real.”
“As I said. ” Týr mutters, patience waning. Perhaps it would be better to come back later. He’s got no will to hurt this dwarf, but he won’t stand to talk to a wall, either. “I am—“
“Týr, yes, I know. ” He huffs, shaking off his initial shock. “Big fucking deal. What do you want?”
“I’d heard Surtr’s forge in use, so I’d come to find out who was here. It wasn’t my intention to seek you out in this way.”
“Can you just—?” He averts his eyes, staring off into Muspelheim’s depths. “Leave? You look like...yourself.”
Nothing to take personally, of course , he can’t help but to think. “Would you oblige me one answer before I go?”
“No. Fuck off.”
Though he wants to push further, Týr simply nods curtly and removes himself from the forge.
No sound follows. His tools are still, his focus kept on the resigned god. Though he disturbs him, the dwarf keeps an eye trained on him. It’s not until he’s out of sight that the rhythm of forging resumes.
Ginnungagap awaits. Týr will ruminate on the dwarf once he’s arrived, best not to think of him when he’s still so near.
Týr won’t claim responsibility for actions not his, good or bad . He cannot blame the blacksmith for being wary of him based on his impersonator’s actions, but he won’t apologize for a betrayal he did not commit.
Grief lives in both Niflheim and Muspelheim, it seems. Though not shared, the two realms connect, as always. Ginnungagap brings the far winds of Sinmara’s voice to the ticking of the blacksmith’s work. It’s not a pretty song, but Týr listens anyway.
Though his head aches and he’s given with nothing but a few insults, Týr hopes that the dwarf will persist. His disarray was concerning, his weapons aplenty. He’s still mortal, Týr knows. How does eat in his limited dwellings? Sleep?
He didn’t look to do either, truthfully. His hands were charred from the heat, his arms thin and sooty. His armor bore blood, though long congealed. The question of how long he can stand these conditions—if he wants to at all—disquiets him.
He hopes in his return he will still be there. No, that’s not true. Týr hopes he leaves, returns to the promise of the realms beyond, lives to see beyond Muspelheim once again.
The decay in the air is suffocating. The dwarf would not be the first to bend to its will, nor would he be the last to fall to it.
He’ll return. In time.
*
His hands shake so severely he can no longer wield a hammer. His grip is nonexistent, his palms blackened and split from the heat. The blood on his hands disallows focus. No sword can be forged in these conditions—pockets of rust will form with the contact. He’s best off melting the steel down, refining it and cleansing it altogether.
“Fuck.” Sindri lets the sword drop into the fire, shutting his eyes as another spell of exhaustion overtakes him. He steps back, wiping his forehead of sweat and dropping the tension holding his shoulders up.
“You should eat.” A boyish voice calls from behind.
Sindri hates it. Hates that stupid fucking voice that he can’t stop hearing. It isn’t fair. It’s not fucking fair at all. Why is it that of all the people his mind can conjure, it’s never him? Is he denied his presence, even in the delusion of his own consciousness? There truly is nothing left of him, then. All he can draw from is...
“Or sleep.” The mimic of Atreus adds on. It’s tone is high and youthful, like when they’d first crossed paths.
Sindri’s rage has hardly diminished, but it’s difficult to throw it onto his younger version. It tires him, being reminded of how the boy was before all of this.
How they both were .
“No.” Sindri mutters, eyes kept to the floor. He can see the boy’s boots just to his left, the forge to his right. Swords lay in every direction, tempting him.
“Why not?” He asks, wholly curious. Atreus takes a step forward, crouching so that his face comes into focus.
Sindri scowls, gaining the resolve to look away. “ Because . I don’t— can’t— “
Why is delaying this? Why is he bothering to explain this all to his own head?
If he really wanted to die he wouldn’t be such a fucking coward about it. If he had any guts he’d pick up the nearest sword and get it over with. Better yet, go find the nearest soul eater. Wouldn’t that be enough? Do damn himself to the same ending he damned his own brother to?
He deserves that oblivion for what he’s done. Deserves it more than his brother ever would.
Deserves it more than the fucking child tormenting him.
It makes him sick, then bitter. It’s been bashing him since he’d come to Muspelheim; how it wasn’t really Atreus’s fault. He couldn’t have known anymore than them. Ultimately, it was Sindri who let the bastard in. It was Sindri who had allowed his brother to be killed with no judgement awaiting him.
And yet he stands, dying, but not dead.
“How am I supposed to?” Sindri breathes, tears building in his eyes. “If I eat, or sleep, then...then I’ll keep on living.” He exhales, feeling the ache in his dry throat, “I don’t want to do that. Not without him.”
“But...didn’t you do that before? After you guys split the business?” Atreus tilts his head, searching in his face for an explanation.
“At least I had a chance to see him, then. I knew where he was—of course I did, we both knew. Can’t avoid someone without keeping track of them.” He laughs bitterly. “I couldn’t find him if I tried, now.”
“So you’re just...giving up?”
“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” He snaps, the mirage stumbling back in trepidation. “Move on? He’s my fucking brother . If I move on, I’ll—I’ll forget. I’ll forget him and it’ll be like he never even existed at all. You don’t know what that’s like: to be forgotten. You’ll never know . You’re fucking immortalized— literally! ”
“What about you?” Atreus asks despite his hurt at Sindri’s anger. “If you die, then they’ll really be no trace of him. I mean, doesn’t someone have to stick around to make sure people remember him?”
“Damn well know that you won’t,” he mutters bitterly. Atreus’s upset deepens, seeming on the verge of tears himself. “You gods are all the same. You don’t care, not really. Always above us little people and our little problems. At least your father had the decency to show up for his fucking funeral.”
The boy slumps, guilt driving him into silence. Sindri aches at the sight, despite himself.
Damn these illusions. He’d gouge his eyes out if he thought it would stop them.
“You left.” Sindri murmurs. “And I can’t even blame you for it.”
All the space of the realms and in between, he has. All of it and yet isolation has done him nothing good. Company was another form of torment, yes, but he’s doing his brother no service in this, either. If he’d reserved his anger, would Atreus have stayed? Listened to other stories he has of his brother? Shown him the notes and pages he knows he keeps about their work and ventures?
If he hadn’t ran off the only people left that he’d ever cared about in a fit of misplaced anger, would he be here?
So be it they had had a hand in Brok’s death, was Sindri’s part not bigger? More so, was Odin not the centerpiece of his demise? The latter is dead, but it had not fixed him. He’s worn himself down to charred sinew, but it has not fixed him. Was running off Atreus and his company any better?
Was rejecting Týr yet another product of his delusion? The man had done nothing wrong. His image was tainted, a victim of Odin’s guise all the same.
Sindri can’t bear to look at him, still, but he can’t hate him anymore than he can hate himself.
Is his memory already so warped? How easily does he forget his brother’s final words? His final request ?
He has to stop. He has to let go.
Brok didn’t want this for him. Knew it would unfurl as it has, but never wanted it.
He takes a step back out of Muspelheim and lands in Midgard.
The sun blinds him, igniting a headache as he breathes in sharp air. Trees come into view, dark spots in his vision fading to green. Late summer. He can smell the coming autumn winds.
He blinks away the pain, turning to face the familiar, imposing cabin he’d traversed to.
Its ceiling is patched, its walls renewed and dried with no snow to heave against it. Candles burn inside, he can hear the muffled words of conversation. Plants and cooked meat waft through the walls’ crevices, calling upon his gnawing stomach. He breathes it in, grounds himself to this realm.
He can’t help the rage that simmers just under his skin. Though it was his choice to come, he can’t forget the circumstances of Brok’s death in a moment of hope.
It’s no easy conversation that awaits him, but he has to start somewhere.
He raises a fist to the door, unflinching at the curl of his fingers into his bleeding palm, and knocks.