He remained silent, still, hugging his knees and burying his face in them, doing nothing but repeating to himself the same sentence he had just heard, again and again.
All the lies that tried to make you ignore your true nature — whether yours or hers — made her sick...
Frida had never told Tryg anything about his father, other than the fact that the man had abandoned them to their fate shortly after he was born. When he was only a mischievous and curious child, he used to ask about the subject more often. But, years later, when he finally understood that his mother was trying to protect him from reality, Tryg dropped the matter.
However, his father returned to plague his mind later, when he began working for old Jorg to help his sick mother with expenses. It was a particularly hot summer day, and the old man had asked Tryg for the first time to bring hay and feed his goats.
"This is going to take all day!" complained a small and scrawny twelve-year-old Tryg. He was not exaggerating. Jorg wanted him, by the end of the day, to bring two enormous loads of hay from the center of the village to the outskirts, where his pen stood. It was a task for at least two adults, a horse, and a cart.
The old man shrugged, without even looking at him. "Then I suggest you start soon. If you want to keep your job, of course."
Years later, Jorg told Tryg that he had not been serious; he had never expected him to actually carry out the task. He had been trying to teach his former boy self a lesson, in a very bizarre way. But little Tryg took it seriously. Very seriously.
Driven by the fear of losing their only means of support, he did what Jorg had ordered him to do not in a day, but in a few hours, loading the hay cart and pulling it through the village by himself. Innocent as he was, Tryg did not notice his own strength. To him, even though he had never shown such strength in the past, it was something... natural, somehow. Something that felt as though it had always been part of him.
The strength and endurance to carry, unload, and pull a full cart for hours; the speed to cross the village in minutes; the intelligence to discover and memorize the shortest path through the alleys on only his second run...
Deep down, Tryg had always known he was not merely an ordinary human. He had always known his father had not been one either. But he had indeed, as Sinmara had said, tried to suppress his nature. Tried every time he lifted a cart to help fix its wheel; every time he protected Jorg's goats from a Draugr with a simple, but powerful punch; every time he was asked about it, but denied half of his blood.
Why? Well, because he did not want to be different. Early on, Tryg realized that those differences, sooner or later, would bring great responsibilities he could not ignore; obligations he would need to take on.
But he did not want new responsibilities. Taking care of his mother and working to have a good and happy life beside her were already all the obligations Tryg needed. Perhaps even having a family one day and giving her a little grandson she could spoil...
So he cooperated with her secrets. He did not ask about his father, nor insist on the matter when it randomly appeared in their conversations.
Tryg let out a little laugh full of irony and guilt, feeling a mountain weigh on his shoulders. Who could have imagined that the lies they told each other, to preserve what was most special to them... were what was destroying the very thing they tried so hard to protect?
However, guilt was not the worst part of what Sinmara had told him, not by far. The worst of all was the last thing the queen had told him...
The truth, and only the whole truth, can cure her...
"So, to cure my mother," he said, unburying his face from his knees and looking at the fox beside him, "I need to know the whole truth... including who my father is or was."
Sinmara nodded. "Yes."
"You wouldn't know, right? Like... based on what I am and what I can do."
She shook her head. "The offspring of gods are usually born with characteristics quite distinct from those of their divine parents, and I am not speaking only in relation to their appearance. Take Thor, for example: Odin was not known for his electrical powers, but for his intelligence and vast magic. And yet his son was born with the powers of lightning and thunder, and as dumb as a rock."
"But you said my eyes were those of an Aesir. What did you mean by that?"
The queen looked at the ground before him and made a gesture with her paw, as if she were dusting something off. Gusts of cold wind blew, carrying the snow away and revealing the smoothest, cleanest ice he had ever seen in his life. Enough for Tryg to see his own reflection.
He arched his eyebrows. He was used to seeing himself now that he had a shadow accompanying him all the time. But it was colorless and transparent. Through it, he could never have perceived the bizarre and resplendent purple tones his eyes had, very similar to the irises of the Einherjar...
"Your eyes have the colors of the Bifröst's magical energy — a kind of magic to which only the Aesir and those chosen by them have access. It is not particularly uncommon among them, though I have never heard of someone awakening irises like yours."
In short, Sinmara would not be able to help him discover who his father was, not from his characteristics. Tryg let out a sigh.
From one moment to the next, the man he had tried so hard to ignore throughout his life had now become the one he wanted most to know. His greatest objective. After all, there would be no point returning to Midgard if his mother's fate did not change. And, according to the ravens, she had worsened considerably. There was not much time left; Tryg needed to uncover the man's identity soon.
However, it was logical to think there was only one way to discover it, only one person in all the worlds who truly knew him. After all, his mother must have kept Tryg's existence and, consequently, who his father was, in complete secrecy, afraid that greater forces might try to take her son, or worse... try to eliminate him. Frida might have told Jorg, after Tryg had shown his strength in front of him so many times. The old man had always seemed to know something... but had never mentioned it.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Tryg sketched a faint smile. You two, always looking out for me... I think it's time I did the same.
His eyes widened with the idea that suddenly sparked in his mind.
"Lady Sinmara," he said, looking at her, "you said the constant lies were what caused and worsened the illness over time, correct?" The fox agreed, and he continued, "Then, what if I discovered part of the truth? What if I accepted what I am? Would she get a little better?"
The queen thought for a moment, then answered, "I do not know. As I said, this is a rare illness, and your case is even more exceptional, considering that it normally affects the children, not the parents. In any case, I have never heard of half-truths partially curing the illness, only complete ones."
Tryg was a little discouraged by that, but it cost nothing to try. If there was even the slightest possibility Frida would improve at least a little, it was worth trying. Now, he knew about the divine nature of his Aesir father, and that, with luck, would already improve his mother's condition. All that remained was for Tryg to accept what he truly was...
A god.
The word became trapped in his throat and had a truly bitter taste. After what he had gone through in Asgard, he still felt somewhat reluctant to admit that he was even slightly similar, or worse, bound by blood to the Aesir, the same people as the bastard who had led Jorg to his cruel end. But it was necessary. He had to stop hiding. But...
"How do I actually admit that I'm a god?"
Sinmara rolled her eyes. "You just did, young man."
"Oh— Argh!"
Pain. Pure, sharp, and burning. Piercing and scorching his eyes, his mind, and his body with thousands of thorns from flaming roses. Tryg hugged himself and collapsed into the snow, roaring. His vision became blurred and wavering — the grass, the tree, the entire landscape trembling, as if the world were undecided, choosing between what it was and what it should be.
He could not interpret what he saw, nor know whether Sinmara had called his name or not. If the world were crumbling around him, he would not know. He could do nothing but endure his own suffering.
Then the pain was gone, as suddenly as it had come. Panting and sweating, Tryg trembled, the memory of the suffering still embedded in his body. He had never gone through anything so intense. But he had felt something similar in New Midgard, after finding Jorg buried beneath the rubble...
He shook his head, driving the memory away, then stood and looked down at his own body.
"You have changed, that much is clear," Sinmara pointed out.
Tryg frowned in response, covering his ears. Since when did she speak so loudly?
"How do you feel?"
Once it was quiet, he focused on himself again, looking at his own hands and clenching his fists.
"Stronger..."
Indeed, Tryg felt far stronger than he already had, and that was not all. He also felt more attentive and sharper. Now, his mind seemed to have access to more information — as if his senses were picking up more things, as if his memories were clearer and more accessible — as well as a greater capacity and speed to process them. But more important than that...
It was his eyes. They felt different, too — sharper, heavier with power. And he was not saying that only because he could now see more clearly and farther away. He did not know exactly how, but he was certain his vision had been altered again, though in a much more intrinsic way compared to the first change.
Suspicious, he took a step forward and studied his shadow. However, despite his suspicions, there was no difference in it — his future image was still an identical version of himself, but transparent and gray.
Then he turned to Sinmara and asked, "Lady Sinmara, could you do me a favor and take a step to the side?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Why would I do that?"
"Ah. Right, I guess I never told you..." Realizing that, Tryg revealed to the queen everything he knew about his shadows and how he had been using them, thus revealing the reason behind his ability to dodge her attacks when they met, as well as the reason he had asked her to take a step to the side.
"Interesting..." she said. "There was an Aesir god with abilities similar to yours. Except he did not exactly foresee the future, but interpreted the thoughts of others and, in doing so, discovered their true and future intentions."
"Who?" he asked, intrigued.
"Heimdall."
"Heimdall..." Tryg knew him, of course. The man was almost as renowned as the god of thunder. The Watchman of the Aesir, the Bearer of Gjallarhorn, and the Herald of Ragnarök.
He raised an eyebrow. "You don't think he could be my—"
"Unlikely. As I said, the divine powers of parents do not define those of their offspring in any way. Besides, the chance of Heimdall having had a child is the same as lightning striking the same place twice. He had no pleasure in life besides protecting Asgard, his people, and that horn he loved to show off everywhere."
"I see..." He lowered his gaze.
"Lift your head, young man, and thank the heavens that Heimdall is not your father. Aside from Odin, he was definitely the most despicable Aesir of all, even more than Thor."
Tryg let out a little laugh and lifted his eyes. "I don't care who my father is. I was only disappointed because of my mother's illness."
Sinmara placed a paw in front of her mouth and cleared her throat. "Right, that makes sense."
"Anyway, could you..?"
She nodded and took a step to the side. In truth, he could see her shadow through the movements she naturally made during the conversation, but since they were discreet, he wanted to be certain. And, indeed, the queen's shadow had not changed either.
Even so, Tryg had awakened more of his divine gifts, gifts previously suppressed by his insistent ignorance; that was a fact. And if he had once again felt pain in his eyes, as he had in New Midgard, then...
Something had changed... But what?
In the end, he let the matter drop, shrugging. Then he felt grateful that the suffering had not lasted as long as it had the first time. Perhaps that had to do with the fact that he was finally admitting the truth... In any case, his new energy and new capabilities would certainly be useful in the coming days. Or rather, in the coming weeks, perhaps months.
"I think it's time I went back to the labyrinth," he said, looking at Sinmara. "Could you take me there? If you can't, just point me in the right direction."
"Have you forgotten that I am going to accompany you? But first..."
The queen made another broad gesture with her paw, this time toward the base of the Idun Tree. The mists swirled and gathered around the roots, and dozens of crystalline flasks appeared. As soon as the magic ended and the fox lowered her paw, Tryg already had an idea of what Sinmara would ask next.
"Take some of those fruits and squeeze them into the flasks. It will be easier to carry only their juices, not to mention the quantity you will be able to put in that bag of yours."
She helps quite a lot for a woman who doesn't care... he thought, letting out a little laugh.
The queen narrowed her eyes. "What is so funny?"
"Nothing," he answered, shaking his head and approaching the tree. "Nothing at all. But... could you summon a weapon for me, too? I lost my dagger, and it would be pretty dangerous to enter the labyrinth without a weapon, you know?"
She frowned, impatient. "And what do I have to do with that? It is your fault for not listening to me. Deal with the consequences of your choices."
Another chuckle. "Yes, ma'am. Anyway... For the thousandth time, thank you," he said, squeezing the first of the Fruits of Idun over one of the flasks, thick golden juice running down his hand.
"I already told you to stop thanking me. Now hurry up with it."
Tryg was dying of worry over his mother and overcome by the anxiety to discover the truth that, at last, might cure her. Even so, he could not help thinking that exploring the mysterious labyrinth beside the fox-queen would not be so bad.