The lands were black and burned. Huge mountains and volcanoes rose wherever one looked, and streams of lava flowed down from them, forming incandescent rivers that wound around their foothills.
Every now and then, one of the peaks exploded and sent magma, stones, and black ash into the gray and reddish skies, creating a rain of ash and sparks that seemed never to leave those lands, not since primordial times.
There was no sun to be seen, nor moon or stars. There was not a single animal or plant, either. There was no life.
And yet, in a way, it was a beautiful place to behold. Every realm was beautiful in its own way, living or not. However, there was something that made Muspelheim, despite its beauty, a sorrowful place. The dwellings. Or rather, what remained of them.
Centuries after the final war between the fire and ice giants, the simple houses — made of the same dark stone that composed everything there, as if they had been carved into the very slopes of the smoking mountains — had been abandoned to the weathering of time and were now nothing more than remnants of what they had once been.
They were all empty. Their inhabitants, the people of the realm of fire, no longer existed. They had not existed for millennia. But, in that memory, the grief of a people’s end could be felt as if a giant’s fingers were squeezing the heart of its young spectator, enough to make him walk hunched through the fallen city. And Tryg was not the only one suffering from it.
The armed and armored woman he followed closely, unaware of his presence, also walked a little slowly and hunched, as if she carried the weight of a mountain on her shoulders. A weight that, because of the connection between them, Tryg also felt.
Sinmara looked from one side to the other, analyzing the results of her grim actions with narrowed eyes. Her beauty — her crystalline skin, her pale hair, and her blazing white irises — was almost hidden by the corrosive emotions assailing her.
It was true that Tryg had once seen Sinmara as an apathetic woman most of the time. But now, after days by her side, he knew the queen’s heart was as warm as any mortal’s, figuratively and literally.
She continued forward, steady, the last of the ice giants, with a pale and sharp sword in her hands. Eventually, upon finding a steep cliffside, she sheathed her blade and began to climb.
Tryg struggled to keep up with her, even while giving his all. Sinmara was an excellent climber, for some reason, and it did not take long for her to leave him behind and reach the top. Tryg had to pause the memory so he could catch up to her without missing anything that would happen next. Of course, he could have rewound the time of the memory, but he wanted to avoid any surprises.
When Tryg reached the top, the first thing he noticed was the hateful expression twisting his teacher’s face, her sword once again drawn and ready. Tryg frowned and followed her gaze down the path stretching ahead.
A trail of black earth, speckled with ash and lined by countless dark, ancient swords of the most varied kinds. Some were wide, long two-handed blades; others were almost as thin as needles, with no sharp edge at all; others still had one sharpened side and one blunt, with modest hilts.
And at the end of the trail, atop a black mound, stood Surtr, the last fire giant, beside a stone table, forging, hammering a black sword with a stone, an unhappy expression on his face. At least, that was how it looked to Tryg before he unpaused the memory.
He remained staring at Surtr for a moment, then turned to the furious queen at his side. He knew what was about to happen, of course, and had no desire to see the two of them trying to destroy each other. Even so, Tryg ordered, as before, for the scene to flow again.
Sinmara lunged. She was so fast that she reached the king, more than forty paces away, in the blink of an eye. Surtr, however, was also swift. After widening his eyes slightly in surprise, he stopped forging the weapon and used it to defend against her brutal strike.
Ash and rocks flew into the air where Sinmara passed. Surtr’s sword withstood the violent impact, and sparks touched both their faces as the blades clashed. However, a moment later, his weapon shattered into a rain of metal and dust.
Surtr’s brows rose even further. Sinmara did not react to his shock, nor did she stop — she reversed her grip and attacked again. The king flipped backward, narrowly avoiding her cut, and grabbed one of the many swords on the ground nearby.
Then, chaos took hold of Muspelheim. Tryg did not even try to follow them, much less measure the strength of their thunderous blows. Both were so fast, so powerful, that his eyes could barely capture glimpses of the fight, even with the gifts he possessed, even with his enhanced mental capabilities. The two were on completely different levels from him, immeasurable levels.
Tryg, therefore, gave up on following them or their future shadows, and decided only to appreciate the rare moments of mastery and grandeur he could capture — the two striking each other in the sky or on the ground, producing tremors that seemed capable of splitting clouds, shattering mountains, opening valleys, and razing villages.
The fire giant invoked the blazing power of his realm, creating colossal waves of magma that threatened to swallow, burn, and destroy Sinmara. However, unlike the first time his teacher had been threatened by Surtr in one of her memories, Tryg did not shout, nor did he fear for her.
Because she did not fear for herself.
Sinmara spun her sword and drove it, with both hands, into the black, rocky ground of Muspelheim. Then, from the blade, cold exploded, pure and sharp, like a colossal geyser, creating a tidal wave of snow, ice, and shimmering mist that froze everything in its path. The lava became stone instantly. Snow fell from the skies and covered the surface. Mist clouded the surroundings.
Tryg held his breath. For an instant, he forgot that this was only a memory. Surtr, too, looked just as astonished as he was. After all, this was the domain of the king of Muspelheim, the last of the fire giants. He should have had total control over those lands. Nothing there should stop burning, not while he was nearby, at least. So how had Sinmara been able to invoke the power of her realm there?
Well, Tryg had no idea. In any case, it was obvious that the queen had not only trained with the sword and, in doing so, created her own fighting style. She had also studied and developed her magic, enough to invoke it in the domain of eternal fire and influence it.
Sinmara and Surtr grappled again, launching spells, cuts, and thrusts against each other in a furious storm of metallic clangor and thunder. Both seemed willing to kill each other, to extinguish each other’s species.
At least, that was what Tryg thought at first. However, some time later, he noticed that the king was the only one wounded; that he was not attacking, only defending himself and dodging the blows of his obstinate opponent.
And the fight went on, fierce and unstoppable. Then, amid the mist, Tryg saw the ice giantess cornering Surtr, disarming him and driving her sword into his abdomen against a now-snowy mountain, pinning him to the slope.
Tryg paused the scene again, approached the distant place where the two had stopped, and commanded time to move once more, his heart racing, anxious to know what would happen next and, at the same time, afraid for the very same reason.
Sinmara, breathless and sweaty from the effort, showed no satisfaction with her imminent victory, nor any other emotion. She merely stared down at her greatest enemy, apathetic, the smoke created by the unstoppable melting of snow and ice swirling around her.
“You have become stronger...” the king said.
“You forced me to,” the queen replied.
Surtr remained with his head lowered; he did not meet her gaze. He seemed to have no desire to witness what would come next. He seemed to have no energy for it.
The queen clenched her jaw. “Are you mocking me?” she asked through her teeth.
She was obviously referring to the fact that the king had not delivered a single blow. And she was furious about it. Tryg could feel that Sinmara did not want an easy victory. That she wanted to feel as though she had truly won, truly avenged her nearly extinct people.
“No,” Surtr answered, his tone weak. “I simply do not want to fight you, Sinmara. I am tired...”
“You are tired? You are tired?!” she spat, twisting her sword and making the king let out a groan of pain, incandescent blood flowing from the wound in his abdomen. “I am tired! Tired of fighting. Tired of training until my bones almost broke. Tired of striving for a desire that should not have been mine. Tired of being alone...”
Sinmara let go of the sword, climbed onto Surtr, and struck him. Tryg took a few steps back, stunned by the force of the blow and by the flame burning inside his teacher.
“But what choice do I have?!” She struck him again and again, sending shockwaves with each hit, battering the king’s face. “What other choice did you give me? You took everything I had. My desires. My dreams. My home. My family. My peace. It is all your fault, you bastard! All of it!”
Sinmara stopped, breathing deeply and erratically. Her crystalline fists were stained with Surtr’s magma-like blood, which now ran down his wounded face. She stood, took a step back, and fell to her knees.
She raised her stained hands and stared at them. She cried; tears streamed down her face, tears that could not turn into jewels as they did in Niflheim, not in Muspelheim.
Tryg was overwhelmed by her sorrow, now fully understanding what the king and queen felt.
He did not want to fight her. But, at the same time, he did not want to die either. He did not want his people to cease existing. And that indecision was what brought his downfall.
She did not want to fight either, nor die. Neither of them wanted to fail their species, and neither of them wanted to end the species of the other. Both missed what they once had.
But Sinmara had been consumed by vengeance. And Surtr, in a way, had moved on.
The king had not forgiven himself for his sins, but he had forgiven Sinmara and the ice giants for theirs.
The queen, however, had forgiven no one. Everything that filled her heart since she had lost what she had lost was the single, hateful, shadowed desire for revenge.
“It was Odin...” Surtr suddenly said, his voice wet and strained. He looked at his enemy for the first time with an exhausted gaze. “The All-Father is the true one to blame for everything we have suffered...”
Sinmara sniffed and glared at the fire giant with a furious yet tearful look. “Do you truly expect me to believe that hideous lie?”
“I am not lying... Odin made us fight each other—”
“Why in Hel would the All-Father do that? He is the protector of the nine realms. He promotes peace in the worlds, not war.”
“Odin is a coward... and a liar. He deceived me and my people and turned us against yours so that we would destroy each other. To prevent the Jötunn prophecy, which foretold the fall of Asgard, from coming true.”
Sinmara frowned. “There is no such prophecy. If there were, I would know.”
“Would you? How? You spent half your life training to kill me, and the other half fighting, as I did, to prevent the extinction of your people. Neither of us would ever have known if we had continued with our suicidal missions, much less if we had completed them.”
She narrowed her eyes even further, suspicious. “And how do you know this?”
“Because Odin sent Thor to exterminate the Jötnar as well.”
Sinmara widened her eyes. First, the fire and ice giants, and now this? “No... He would never—”
“Massacre an entire people to save his own skin? Yes, I once thought the same. Until Týr came to me in person and told me of the vile deeds of the god of thunder, at his father’s command.”
“No,” Sinmara said, incredulous, shaking her head, wiping away the tears. “Thor must have acted alone. Týr must have been mistaken.”
“His mother is a giantess.” Surtr coughed incandescent blood, his voice growing weaker and weaker. “You know that... You know I am telling the truth...”
Tryg soon realized Surtr was right. Not only about the fact that Odin had deceived them both. But also about the king’s statement. Sinmara certainly knew that the account she had just heard was not false.
She simply did not want to believe it. Did not want to accept that all her suffering and the effort born from it... had been in vain.
Sinmara got up, closed her eyes and covered her face with one hand. Then she turned and moved away from Surtr, shaking her head and muttering denials to herself without stopping. She was beside herself, and this time, Tryg grew worried for his teacher. He wanted so badly to be beside her in that moment. Not that he could do much. He only wanted to be there, present.
Surtr pulled the sword from his abdomen and fell to his knees, panting and groaning in pain. However, the lava and flames around him soon began to enter his body, gradually healing his wounds.
“I am sorry,” he said, finally standing, his voice livelier now, but devoid of any certainty. The king recovered his sword and began to walk away.
The queen suddenly widened her eyes, having reached some conclusion. Tryg felt the cold hopelessness and disappointment that had assailed her moments ago wither, as if they had never existed, while a new flame burned in her chest. Wrath. Determination.
“Wait!” she shouted.
Surtr stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What?”
Sinmara recovered and sheathed her sword, then walked toward him with firm steps, her face twisted into a furious scowl. Surtr frowned, turned, and took a step back, preparing himself for another charge from her.
The queen, however, did not attack. She simply stopped in front of him and crossed her arms.
“I want a truce.”
Surtr blinked. “A truce?”
“Yes. And that is not an easy thing for me to ask. There is nothing in all the realms that I want more than to kill you. But I will still kill you one day, make no mistake.” A sigh. “But not today. Today, we have an enemy in common. And you will help me kill him.”
He sighed, relaxing, then turned his back to her and continued walking away. “No.”
The lines on her forehead deepened. “What do you mean, no?”
Descending the smoking mountain, his shoulders somewhat slumped, Surtr replied, “I have already said I am tired of fighting. I have caused too much suffering for a single lifetime. Besides, our alliance is doomed to fail. The two of us will never get along. You killed my people. And I killed yours.”
Sinmara gritted her teeth. “And you call Odin a coward?”
He stopped and looked at her over his shoulder, unchanged, but said nothing.
“Look at yourself, Surtr,” she spat. “Instead of fighting and seeking justice, you decided to stand here, wallowing in your own useless misery. Something quite different from what you did against me and my people. What happened to you? What happened to the man who fought tooth and nail to save what he had?”
“He died the day he discovered he could no longer achieve what he desired. That all his efforts would be useless...”
“So, you are afraid? You are afraid of Odin?”
The king lowered his eyes. “He is invincible, Sinmara...”
“He is not. If he were, he would not have feared so much that he nearly exterminated two entire realms. Odin can be killed. And believe me, I will make him pay for what he has done and plant his head on a stake for it. Then, I will do the same to you for what you did to me.”
Surtr turned and narrowed his gaze at her. “How can you have so much will? As I recall, you did not even want to be a warrior, much less the general you once became. But now, after losing everything you held most dear, you want to invade Asgard and tear off the head of the most powerful being in the nine realms?”
“I do not just want it, Surtr. I will have his head. And you are mistaken if you truly think I lost everything I treasured most. After all, I still exist.”
The king lowered his gaze again, conflicted. He was weighing his desires, trying to reach some answer to the queen’s proposal.
“You can help me kill Odin,” she said, making a broad gesture toward Muspelheim, “or you can continue here, submerged in your frivolous melancholy. I made my choice centuries ago, and I do not regret everything I endured to seek what I wanted — and still want. And you, Surtr? Do you think you will be able to live with yourself when the day of justice comes, knowing you did nothing to contribute?”
After a long moment, Surtr let out a deep sigh. Then, he sketched a restrained smile — the first Tryg had seen on his face since the first memory. A weak smile, true. But one that held a drop of will and... amusement?
“Very well. I will help you with this new suicidal mission. But I hope you know we will be walking toward our deaths.”
“I do not fear death. It may take me when the time comes. What I fear, as the last of my people, is the lack of worth in my death. That is something I cannot accept.”
Tryg gave a small laugh. She’s pretty convincing...
The memory ended, and the last thing he saw was Sinmara and Surtr leaving, side by side, toward their fate. Upon returning to reality, Tryg once again found himself face-to-face with the fox-queen. Sinmara’s cerulean eyes were tearful, and a small glittering jewel rolled down her snout. However, she was also smiling.
“Did you manage to satisfy your curiosity?” she asked, pleased, brushing the tear away with a paw.
His teacher was sad to relive her distant and troubled past. But she was also happy to finally be able to share it with someone. And Tryg felt more than glad that he was that person.
“You only managed to stir it even more.”
Sinmara let out a little laugh.
“I imagined so.”