Tryg was milking Jorg’s goats — the old farmer being the grumpiest man in the region — when two Valkyries appeared in the sky and landed in the middle of his village. As he stared at their wide, dazzling wings, their severe metal masks, and their flawless bearing, he was left speechless. His hands failed him, and the bucket full of milk he was carrying fell to the dirt.
He had never seen the shield-maidens in person. Actually, he had never seen anything connected to the gods. Because of that, his astonishment only grew when he heard the two Valkyries declare that Odin, the All-Father, had requested that the humans of Midgard abandon their homes and move to Asgard — the realm of the Aesir gods.
The villagers smiled, jumped, and punched the air at the news, thrilled by the chance to witness the grand lands of the Aesir sung of in songs and tales. Tryg, however, soon pushed his astonishment aside and brought his fingers to his chin, suspicious. Though he was a curious boy, he was also skeptical.
It was not difficult to realize that Odin would not bring the Midgardians to his lands without a good reason, even if the Valkyries claimed his only reason was benevolence. Perhaps it had something to do with the endless freezing weather that had plagued Midgard these past years. Or perhaps it was something even more serious...
Either way, there was no problem the All-Father could not solve. As long as the Midgardians were under his protection, there was no reason to worry... probably. Besides, Tryg knew that seeing the realm of the Aesir would be, at the very least, an interesting experience.
And it was, although he still found it strange to live in Asgard, even a month later. It was not bad, it was just that... it did not feel real. Living in the same realm where the gods from the stories resided felt like something taken from a dream. Of course, Tryg had never actually seen the city of the Aesir itself; he and the other Midgardians had been placed outside the colossal wall that protected the people of the All-Father. I think Skjöldr called it Hrimthur's Wall, right? he thought. Even so, the beauty of the lands around the village of New Midgard was still fascinating — the green fields, the crystal-clear lakes, the pleasant warmth.
Tryg lifted his gaze and, appreciating the chilling oppression the wall made him feel, considered the idea of climbing it just to get at least one look at the Great Lodge. Or, perhaps, even speak to one of the gods...
He shook his head. Better not, he thought, and went back to guiding the cart full of hay through the muddy streets of New Midgard. Night was drawing near, but there were still a few remnants of crimson light in the sky. They wouldn't have built such a high wall if they wanted people snooping around.
Minutes later, Tryg arrived at Master Jorg’s new pen on the vast, emerald-green Plains of Ida, and saw the old man in the pasture some distance away with a torch in his hand, making sure his goats were not attacked by Gulons or any other monsters. Skjöldr was there as well, helping with the protection in exchange for milk.
Tryg had met the blond boy when he arrived in New Midgard. And, truth be told, it would have been better if Skjöldr were taking care of Tryg’s tasks instead. He was not exactly brave. Unfortunately, however, pulling a cart loaded with hay by himself was beyond his capabilities.
Tryg left the cart beside the pen, near the feeding troughs, and went over to the old man and the boy.
“Ah,” Skjöldr exclaimed when he saw him, smiling. “Hey, Tryg. How are you?”
Tryg shrugged. “Same as always. You?”
“Very well.” Skjöldr’s smile widened. “Man, I need to tell you about this crazy boy I met. He appeared out of nowhere and said he was going to climb—”
“Why did you take so long, boy?” Jorg interrupted, wearing his usual exasperated scowl.
Tryg scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Master Jorg. My mother needed my help. She... Well, she’s gotten much worse these past few days.”
“And what do I have to do with that?” Jorg pointed a stubby finger at Tryg’s face. “When you say you’ll arrive before sunset, then arrive before sunset. Keep your word, or it’ll stop being worth more than a bucket of shit. Understood?”
Suppressing a sigh, Tryg nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Although he was unbearably annoying, Jorg had a sliver of a point. Of course, Tryg had no way of knowing when his mother would feel unwell, but, still, he had given his word. He should at least have sent someone to warn the old man about his delay.
“You can go, Skjöldr,” he said, taking the torch from his friend’s hand. “Take care of the hay. I’ll handle the goats.”
Skjöldr nodded, pleased. “Right. See you later?”
“I don’t think so. I need to go back home after this.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Skjöldr returned to the pen, waving.
“Your mother got worse?” Jorg suddenly asked, watching the goats with a distant yet attentive look.
“Didn’t you say it had nothing to do with you?” Tryg asked.
“It doesn’t. But that doesn’t stop me from asking. Your mother... she’s a dear person, you know.”
Tryg nodded, his eyelids heavy. “I know.” After a sigh, he continued, “Ever since she arrived in Asgard, she hasn’t gotten better. On the contrary, she’s only gotten worse. I... I honestly don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried everything, so many herbs and roots that I’m afraid she might turn into a plant herself. But nothing works. The only option I can see now is asking our neighbors behind the wall for help.”
“And have you asked?”
“Of course I have. But they never answer my prayers.”
“I mean, have you gone there to ask?”
Tryg raised an eyebrow. “How in Hel would I do that? You know as well as I do there’s no entrance we can use.”
Jorg shrugged. “Climb the wall.”
Tryg chuckled. “Look, Master Jorg, I know you’ve never liked me much, but sending me to certain death seems a bit extreme even for you.”
“I saw a boy climbing it the other day. He made it.”
“Mhm, of course he did,” Tryg replied, sarcastic. “And Odin gave me Gungnir as a birthday present.”
“Don’t call me a liar, boy. You know very well I don’t lie.”
“I didn’t say anything.” A mischievous smile.
“You brat...” Jorg ground his teeth, then huffed. “In any case, I think it’s worth trying. If there’s anyone in this shitty village who could manage it, it’s you. And, as you said yourself, speaking to the gods may be the only way to help your mother.”
Tryg’s gaze fell, but he nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think about it at home. Now you’re going to put my beauties inside the pen. Then you can go.”
Tryg nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to rest. Damn it, my back is killing me...”
Jorg left, grumbling and walking at a slow pace, while Tryg began his work, gathering the goats and then guiding them into the pen.
***
Night had already fallen by the time he returned home. The moon in Asgard was bizarrely bright; it lit the modest homes of New Midgard well. They were similar to one another, standardized, in a way, but that did not lessen their quality in the slightest. Though smaller, they were a thousand times better than the worn-out cabin Tryg had shared with his mother until a month ago.
As soon as he entered the house, he went to the stove, boiled some milk, and filled two mugs. He drank one of them and, with the other in hand, went to his mother’s room. On the way, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen, wondering if he should prepare another herbal tea for his mother. In the end, he dismissed the idea. It would not help anyway. Nothing helped.
I guess I really only have one option...
The bedroom door creaked open, drawing the gaze of the woman lying in bed, covered by two woolen cloaks — hers and his. Frida was sweating and breathing heavily, white mist escaping her thin lips. Her black hair was soaked, her face, once alabaster, flushed with fever, and her body thin enough to leave her cheekbones protruding. Still, her beauty remained, though worn down by illness, as alive as the loveliest of flowers, as radiant as a summer day.
When she saw Tryg, she gave him her usual gentle white smile and silently gestured for him to come closer. Despite the tightness that appeared in his chest, Tryg smiled as well when he saw her. It was always good to be with her.
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“How are you feeling, Mother?” he asked, bending down beside the straw bed.
“Strong as a boar.” She laughed for a moment, but the cough soon cut her amusement short.
Tryg bit his lips and offered her the mug of milk. “Here, drink.”
With his help, Frida leaned back against the headboard. She then took the mug, drank one, two sips of milk, and exhaled, satisfied. Meanwhile, Tryg went to the corner of the room, picked up the bucket of water there and the cloth on the table, and returned. He wet the cloth in the water and began wiping the sweat from Frida’s forehead.
“How was work today?” she asked. “Did old Jorg torment you much?”
Tryg shook his head. “Nothing I’m not already used to.”
“I see. Well, he may have the manners of a pig, but he’s a fair and good man.”
“I suppose so. But please, don’t tell him that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“I’m almost certain he’s interested in you.”
His mother laughed, and the melodic sound of her laughter made Tryg’s lips curve into a smile as well.
“If you praise the old man, he’s very likely to faint.”
Frida laughed for a while longer, and Tryg enjoyed every second of it. Soon, however, the cough ended the joy, making his smile fade and his shoulders grow heavy.
Tryg wrung out the cloth and left the bucket on the floor, stalling, gathering courage. Eventually, he took a deep breath and spoke:
“Mother...?”
“Cough... Yes?”
“I... I think I thought of a way to cure you.”
Frida rolled her eyes. “There’s no need, Tryg. Just keep giving me more of that tea. I feel like I’m getting better.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am—”
“Stop lying!” He did not shout. He never shouted at his mother. But his tone still came out louder than he had intended.
“Watch how you speak, Trygve,” Frida warned, without a drop of anger in her voice. “I am your mother.”
“But you’re lying,” Tryg replied, a little calmer. “I may be young and foolish, but I’m not blind.”
“Nor are you a healer. Or have you been studying magic or herbology somewhere?”
“No, but—”
“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about. And since you don’t know, the best person here to say whether I’m getting better or not is myself.” She smiled. “Many patients get worse before they heal, you know?”
Frida had another coughing fit, the worst of the day, and it only stopped after long, torturous moments. Each cough was like a needle driven into Tryg’s chest. He wanted to be able to do more, he wanted it so badly. But Tryg was nothing more than a young shepherd and goat milker, powerless before the great problems of life. And that powerlessness became an infernal heat in his chest. A hatred for himself.
But there was something even a simple farmer of New Midgard could try to do. Madness, true, practically impossible. But there was the smallest chance of success, and that was enough for him.
Tryg clenched his fists. “I’m going to climb the wall, Mother.”
Frida’s eyes widened. “What?!”
“I’m going to climb the wall,” he repeated, firm. “The gods don’t answer my prayers, but if I speak to one of them in person, maybe I can—”
“Absolutely not, Trygve!” his mother exclaimed suddenly, grabbing his hand with her thin fingers. The desperation in her eyes... Tryg had never seen anything like it. “You are not going in there. Never! Do you understand?”
She was not worried about his climb, but about a possible visit to Gladsheim, the city of the Aesir? What was happening?
“Why not?”
“Promise me,” his mother insisted, her gaze filled with anguish. “Promise me you’ll never climb the wall.”
“No,” he answered, without hesitation. “If this is my only option to save you, I’m going to climb it, even if you tell me not to.”
“You can’t!”
“How can you say that?! Do you really want me to stay here doing nothing, watching you...?” Tryg fell silent and ground his teeth. “No, absolutely not. I’m not going to lose you! I’m not going to lose the only family I have!”
Frida bit her lips and lowered her head. She remained silent for a long time, then said:
“They won’t help.”
Tryg’s eyes widened.
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“Have you ever seen one of them come down to help us?” she spat, staring at him with fervor. “Have you ever heard of the god of thunder fighting to protect a village, or of the All-Father healing a stranger? No! All we hear is how Thor exterminated the giants ‘for our own good,’ or how Heimdall so bravely protects that horn from ‘the evils that want to destroy us.’”
Frida coughed a little more, then growled:
“They don’t care about us, Trygve. They never cared. The gods only care about themselves and their own people, nothing else.”
Tryg was stunned. His mother had never questioned the gods before. It was rare to see her pray, in truth, or even speak about Odin, Thor, or any other deity. In fact, much of Tryg’s knowledge about the gods came from other people he had met throughout his life, from the tales they told about the gods’ glorious battles and deeds. Yet although she avoided the subject, Frida had never shown any resentment toward them either... until now.
“Why are you telling me this, Mother?”
“To stop you from doing something stupid. Even if you manage to climb the wall, the first thing they’ll do is shove you back down.”
“That’s not what I mean...”
He hesitated, then asked:
“I want to know why you’re blaspheming the gods.”
Frida looked away. From the lines on her forehead, it was clear she was fighting an intense battle within her own mind. A moment or two later, the anguish in her expression gradually faded, and a restrained, melancholy smile appeared on her beautiful yet exhausted face. She raised her gaze, gently cupped Tryg’s face, and studied him, as if searching him for a mark, a resemblance.
“I think insisting on hiding this from you will only make things worse... for both of us...” she said, whispering to herself.
“What?”
“I need to tell you something, son. Something I’ve been hiding for years...”
She sighed.
“It’s about your father.”
His eyebrows rose. “My father...?”
Another subject his mother avoided. But this one Tryg cared nothing about. After all, according to what she had told him, his father had abandoned them before he was even born. And a man who left his pregnant wife or lover to the winds did not deserve even a drop of his interest, nor his mother’s.
He shook his head. “I don’t care about him.”
Frida nodded. “I know. Neither do I. But—” She coughed again, several times. “You need to know.”
Tryg did not know what that could possibly have to do with the conversation they had been having, but he nodded. If his mother wanted to reveal a secret, he would not refuse, even if it was about his father.
“All right, I’ll listen.” He pulled away from Frida’s touch, then dragged the chair in the room closer to the bed, sat down, and, resting his forearms on his knees, laced his fingers together. “Though I doubt there’s anything you could say that would make me hate him more. And in any case, I'm still going to climb that wall.”
She chuckled. “I wouldn’t be so sure—”
The sound of a horn. Loud. Deep. It came from several places at once, and went on continuously for several moments. It was not the melody of a musical instrument. It was more like... a warning.
When it stopped, and the stillness of peaceful, nocturnal New Midgard returned, a dark omen fell over Tryg, and the crackling of the burning logs in the bedroom hearth suddenly seemed as oppressive, as frightening as the imposing dimensions of the wall outside.
“What was that?” Frida asked, her brow furrowed.
BOOM!
A thunderous noise. An explosion that seemed to shake the entire world. Tryg’s house trembled, swayed. The candle flames flickered, and cascades of sawdust poured from the wooden beams supporting the ceiling of his home. Frida staggered and struck her head against the headboard. Tryg’s chair shook as well, but he remained steady.
His heart, on the other hand, was racing. Alarmed, he leapt up from the chair and went to his mother, who was groaning and massaging the temple she had struck.
“Are you all right, Mother?”
Frida coughed and nodded.
“What is happening?” she asked, using Tryg’s arm as support to straighten herself.
“I don’t know. Stay here, I’ll take a look,” he said, leaving his mother leaning against the headboard, and walked to the door.
“No, Tryg. It may be dangerous.”
“I’m only going to see what’s happening. I’ll be fine.”
Frida swallowed hard and clutched her own chest, worried, but nodded.
Tryg then ran out of the house. Even inside, the smell of soot invaded his nostrils. Shrill screams echoed outside. The hairs on his body stood on end, but he did not slow down, and soon he threw open the door.
His blood froze.
By Odin...
Half of New Midgard had been completely destroyed. Enormous, flaming stones smoked where hundreds of dwellings had once stood. The houses were now nothing more than a crushed and scattered collection of burning wreckage and torn bodies. Tryg’s wide-eyed stare, however, did not linger on the destruction of his home, nor could his ears cling to the agonized screams of the villagers around him. No. Something far more dreadful was happening in the distance. Something that would not allow him to stop trembling.
The realm towers were almost all active, their portals opened. From them, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of armed and armored beings poured into Asgard, shouting, brandishing their weapons with fury. Dead with pale skin and empty stares. Elves flying in gleaming or shadowed armor. Ferocious beasts, human warriors, and winged women. All of them attacking and advancing together against Hrimthur's Wall.
Asgard was fighting back. Tryg could see soldiers with purple eyes and gray skin, dark weapons and armor, battling the invaders. Chained dragons flew through the skies, amid the enemies’ red blasts, biting, tearing apart, or burning anyone who tried to climb the wall. Odin’s Valkyries were there as well, a force apart in the midst of the chaos. They shot through the air, piercing and cutting everything before them with a mastery worthy of their titles, or fighting against similar winged warriors.
Tryg swallowed hard, his eyes wide with terror. He could not believe what he was witnessing. And he could believe it even less when the most terrifying being he had ever seen in his life slid through one of the portals and plunged into the waters beyond the shore. A pale, colossal serpent, as large as the walls of Asgard, with an enormous maw and countless yellow teeth, wide enough to swallow an entire mountain.
That was... No, it could not be...
“Jörmungandr?” Tryg asked himself, incredulous, his legs turned to twigs.
Everyone had heard of the last of the giants, Thor’s final and mortal enemy. But what was she doing in Asgard? Or rather, what was that entire army doing there?
Realization struck Tryg like a kick. The bizarre, freezing weather of Midgard. The rescue, the transfer of his village’s people to Asgard. The devastating weapons built by the dwarves at the foot of the wall, now firing at the portals. The gray-skinned soldiers who looked more dead than alive. The Valkyries, the armies of the realms gathered together, Jörmungandr...
There was only one explanation for all of it. But...
No... The Valkyries said everything would be fine... That nothing bad would happen...
Tryg did not want to accept the facts. But he himself realized that his reluctance was idiocy.
The Valkyries had lied. No, the shield-maidens did nothing the All-Father did not want. The truth was that Odin had lied. Odin had known, from the beginning, what would happen when he ordered the Midgardians to be brought to Asgard. Even so, the god who called himself protector and defender of the nine realms had brought Tryg’s people and many other innocents into the middle of a war foretold by a centuries-old prophecy.
So they would suffer the end of the world alongside him.
Ragnarök.