"I am not Aesir, and I do not serve Odin," Tryg managed to say, his voice failing. "I hate Odin."
The wrinkles in Sinmara's brow deepened and her grip became firmer, making Tryg choke.
"Stop lying," she snarled.
"I don't know why my eyes are like this! I don't know what I am. But I know who raised me... My mother. A woman from Midgard."
Her eyes wavered and her wrist relaxed slightly. Thus, Tryg was able to breathe a little, to draw enough air to continue:
"I didn't know Surtr. I won't pretend I did, nor that I understand what you lost. But I understand your anger. I was there when Asgard fell, and I saw who Odin truly was. I saw mothers and children being thrown into a war that was not theirs. I saw people die only to delay the end of a cowardly god."
His expression firmed.
"He took Surtr from you. And he almost took my mother from me too. But she is still alive. I can still find her again."
He stared into the giantess's glowing irises.
"So, please... do not turn me into one more thing Odin took from her."
Sinmara did not move her furious attention from him, as if she were analyzing him, discovering what truly lay behind the words she had heard. Her gaze was so deep and, at the same time, so sharp that Tryg felt his own soul being studied.
Then came a glimmer of light, making her tearful white eyes ripple. Something ancient. Meaningful. Sinmara ground her teeth and, lowering her head, allowed a drop of topaz to run down her face. Then, instead of throwing him down the cliff, she hurled him back onto the pale grass.
Tryg rolled and stopped. Gods, thank you, he thought, his face still buried in the snow. Planting his hands on the ground, he got to his feet, brushed off the snow, and massaged his aching neck. A storm of questions cluttered his mind. Some for which he thought he already had some idea of the answer, but which did not matter at the moment. Others, more important, which needed to be answered first...
"Unless your mother is in my domain," Sinmara said without looking at him, sitting back down on the white root, "I cannot help you."
"What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "I do not know how to reach Midgard. I was never able to travel to the realm I wanted, nor bring the one I wanted to mine. So I never bothered looking for the others."
Tryg stared at the ground for a moment, wilting at the news. If the giantess of ice could not help him, then who else could? As far as he knew, and from what the queen herself had said, there was not another living soul in Niflheim besides her.
He walked to Sinmara's side, but kept his distance. She was staring at nothing with the same melancholy gaze as before, her legs crossed, her hands resting on the root.
"Is there anyone in your realm who could help me?"
She denied it once more. "No. Not anymore."
Tryg became even more downcast. Now, he had only one option, it seemed — get information from the Einherjar or the prisoners, invading a prison full of enemies who would cut off his head simply upon seeing him. But if that was what he needed to do... If he really needed to kill dozens, perhaps hundreds of deadly undead to return... then he would do it.
Tryg turned his back to Sinmara and began walking back toward the path from which he had come. He had more doubts, he just did not care about them, not enough to waste time.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
Without stopping, he answered, "There is an Aesir prison half a day from here. Maybe I can discover something useful from its guards or prisoners."
"Maybe. But that thing is full of Einherjar."
"I know. But I've got no other options."
She paused.
"You will die."
He gave a small laugh. "Yeah, I've heard that one before."
Sinmara fell silent again. A moment later, Tryg heard her sigh, and the wind around him seemed to grow colder after that. He tensed again and turned around, expecting any movement from the giantess, any magic. But Sinmara was only standing still, with her back to him, her misty dress trembling peacefully in the wind.
"Come with me," Sinmara said, without looking back, her voice calm. "And take some of those fruits. If you intend to keep breathing in my realm, you will need them."
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Sinmara began walking in the opposite direction. Tryg raised his eyebrows, surprised, but it did not take him long to do what he had been told, and he climbed the pale branches and grabbed four of the green fruits. They were... warm to the touch and seemed to be made of glass. He put three of them in his bag and, after hesitating, afraid the bite might break his teeth, tried the last one.
His eyes jumped. That had to be the juiciest and most delicious fruit he had ever eaten in his life. Its bittersweet taste was so divine that Tryg felt more willing after the first bite, as if the cold had retreated from his bones and part of the pain had abandoned his muscles.
When he looked at his hands, he realized that the smaller and more superficial wounds had closed. The larger and deeper ones were also closing, but at a much slower pace.
Bloody Hel!
Hurriedly, he climbed the tree again and stuffed as many fruits as he could into his bag — five in total. Then he ran, aligned himself side by side with the giantess, and asked, enthusiastic but cautious:
"Hmm... Lady Sinmara? May I ask a question?"
For a moment, the queen glanced at him, apathetic, cold as her realm. Then she returned to staring at her path. "What?"
"What kind of tree is that? It's the first time I've seen one since I arrived."
"An Idun Tree."
"...I've never heard of it."
"I would be surprised if you had. For a long time, Odin fought hard to keep its existence secret. He believed its fruits made the gods immune to death and wanted to keep that knowledge under his control." She let out a disdainful chuckle, not at all amused. "Like most things, I think."
"And they do not prevent death?"
She stopped, shaking her head. "No. Odin, fanatical as he was about avoiding his own fate, took time to see what any sane person knows: nothing and nobody can stop death when it knocks at your door."
Tryg thought about that for a moment, then studied the bitten fruit. "So what exactly do they do?"
She crossed her arms and shrugged. "Nothing relevant. They preserve the youth of the body and restore a little vitality. But, as I said, they do not make anyone immune to death."
Nothing relevant, huh... he thought, smiling and taking another bite.
Sinmara studied him with suspicion. "Are you certain your mother is Midgardian?"
Tryg stopped. Honestly, he had been ignoring the other important doubt the giantess had created inside his mind. Not because he did not care about the answer. But because he had also agreed with his mother to receive it from her when they met again.
Still smiling, he nodded. "Absolutely."
Sinmara stayed silent for a moment, then nodded and said, "Stay closer."
"Hmm, of course... But... What are you going to do?" His smile faltered. "Please, tell me you're not going to try to kill me again."
Sinmara paused. The corners of her lips rose. Just a little, not even close to enough for Tryg to notice. But they rose.
"I am still deciding."
He blinked. "You're not serious, right?"
She did not answer.
In the next instant, the mist around them began to envelop them, swirling, creating a shell of freezing smoke. Then the mist spun and spun, rising, like a tornado. Tryg had no way of having the slightest idea what was happening. Even so, he did not close his eyes, nor did he try to run. On the contrary, he kept watching the queen's magic, simultaneously amazed and anxious.
When the mist stopped spinning and dispersed, Tryg soon realized, stunned, that he was no longer on the cliff of the Idun Tree. He was on a wide and extensive structure that was not made of ice or gray rocks, but of smooth, dark stones and metal alloys like onyx, adorned with beautiful golden and red carvings.
Along its length, statues of warriors with spears and shields guided the way forward or backward. Some of them were clean, almost intact; others, cracked, broken, or taken by white vines with the same golden foliage as the trees.
Snow still covered the black ground, true, and the mist still clouded the landscape, limiting his vision. But that did nothing to lessen Tryg's satisfaction at finally seeing something different from what he had been seeing the entire time in Niflheim.
"Where are we?" he asked the giantess beside him, his mouth open.
"On one of the travel bridges connected to Týr's Temple — a place people once used to move between realms."
His eyes jumped and he opened his mouth to speak, excited, but Sinmara quickly cut him off:
"Unfortunately for you, the temple is no longer working."
"Ah. I see..."
"Do not worry about that. Even if the temple still worked, we would need the Light of Alfheim to use its travel mechanism, something we cannot obtain."
"Right. Hmm, what is the Light of Alfheim?"
Tryg followed Sinmara after she crossed her hands behind her back and began walking through the dense, swirling mist, apparently without direction. For a moment, he thought he would not be answered, but then she spoke:
"You are small, but you talk too much. In a bizarre way, you remind me of Odin in that. Always asking, always questioning, always insanely curious."
He frowned. "That was mean."
Another imperceptible smile from her.
Tryg took another bite of the Idun Fruit, letting its warmth continue spreading through him, and continued, "Look, I just want to know and understand as much as I can right now. I have no idea what I need, so how will I know when a piece of information will or will not be necessary?"
"Hmm... I suppose that makes sense. But believe me, the light of the elves will hardly be of any use to you for now. Here, we have arrived."
The further they advanced into the mist, the more Tryg could see what lay in front of him, and the wider his eyes grew. When Sinmara stopped, he almost bumped into her back.
Right in the middle of a mound of ice, embedded in it, there was an enormous, long gate, made of the same opulent materials as the bridge, so imposingly tall that it seemed to want to pierce the skies. Of course Tryg had no way of knowing its height exactly, since the fog hid its peak, but he could get an idea.
But what drew his attention most was not the gate itself. It was where it led.
Its tunnel pierced the mound from end to end, revealing the landscape behind it — a labyrinth of indescribable proportions and complexity, carved below, into the very stone and ice of the world's surface, and assailed by a mist even denser than the one that dominated Niflheim. Three dark statues, covered in snow, rose in the center of the labyrinth, piercing the mist — sculptures of hunched and hooded figures, so ancient and sinister that they sent a shiver down Tryg's spine.
He stood with his mouth open, curious, but also apprehensive about why Sinmara had brought him there.
"What is this?"
Looking at the labyrinth without any apparent emotion, the Queen of Niflheim answered:
"Ivaldi's Workshop. Or, at least, what remains of it."