In a storm of pink-and-gold smoke and sparks, Hildisvíni assumed his fierce boar form. Snorting, he charged through the streets of New Midgard at tremendous speed, clearing a path through the debris as the Midgardian procession followed at a slower pace.
Here and there, one or two Einherjar attempted to attack the adviser, their dark maces and daggers covered in unsettling purple magic. They were soon ruthlessly defeated, either by flying elves or by Hildisvíni's powerful charge, which sent them soaring through the air.
Tryg struggled to keep pace with the boar-man, hoping at least to help him fight. But Hildisvíni was too fast, too strong, too efficient. Even if Tryg had been quick enough and knew how to wield a weapon, he would barely have found an opportunity to use it.
Fortunately, he soon discovered another purpose for the Einherjar's mace—breaking apart the ruined houses from which he occasionally heard the desperate pleas of buried villagers.
"Help!"
"I'm coming!" he shouted.
A woman's crying led him to one of the many shattered, smoking homes nearby. Without delay, Tryg cleared a path through the debris, lifting and throwing aside wooden beams one after another.
"Over here!"
The woman was trapped beneath a massive section of the wooden roof, too large for any ordinary man to lift alone. Tryg used the mace to break the charred structure into smaller pieces. He removed most of them, then called two men from the procession to help lift a larger portion of the roof. When they hurled it aside, the piece flew far away. Very far.
While the men stared in shock at the distance the wood had traveled, Tryg pulled the woman free and helped her to her feet.
"Thank you..."
When she assured him that she could walk, he led her to the center of the group, close to Frida. His mother looked even weaker than before, but she also insisted that she was still able to continue.
The procession soon resumed its journey through the streets, slowly but surely. From time to time, Tryg looked over his shoulder to check on his mother or stopped to rescue another buried survivor. With the people's help and Hildisvíni's protection, more than a dozen others were rescued along the way.
Later, after advancing for what felt like ages, a procession of nearly one hundred exhausted, filthy, battered Midgardians reached the shore.
Two elves were there, one dark and one light, helping the refugees board the dozens of anchored rowboats. Hildisvíni returned to his human form and called to them, gesturing toward the group he had just escorted.
Despite their exhaustion, the newly arrived Midgardians exchanged relieved, joyful smiles.
Tryg, however, had eyes only for his mother. After dropping the mace, he wove through the crowd of Midgardians and quickly reached Frida. The moment she saw him, she left the women helping her and collapsed into his arms, coughing.
"Mother!" Tryg exclaimed, so frightened that the rest of reality seemed to disappear. His mother... felt as though she were burning alive. "Are you all right? How do you feel?"
He tried to touch and wipe the sweat from her forehead, but she pushed his hand aside and gave him a weak smile. "You need to stop asking me that."
Tryg forced a small smile. "Come on. Let's find a boat."
He draped his mother's arm over his shoulders and led her toward the piers. Rowboats traveled back and forth from the Midgard tower, each escorted by two flying elves and carrying a dozen refugees at a time. The two elves on the piers, now aided by Hildisvíni, organized the departing vessels, prioritizing the wounded and the children.
Thor and Jörmungandr were still locked in their savage battle across the ocean, creating enormous waves and thunderous crashes, but fortunately, they were too far away to interfere with the boats' passage.
As he walked along the pier, Tryg looked over the refugees. There were hundreds of them, but not one familiar face.
Skjöldr... Jorg... he thought with a heavy heart. The possibility that the two of them might still be somewhere in New Midgard — lost or, worse, buried beneath the ruins — filled him with dread.
"Sif should return with more people shortly," said the boar-man, "but there cannot be many left."
The Light Elf frowned as he directed passing Midgardians where to go and what to do. "Can we truly trust her?"
"Any help is welcome, Byggvir."
"I'm going to fight," declared the Dark Elf as she helped a man missing an arm into one of the boats.
The Light Elf regarded her with concern. "Are you certain?"
The Dark Elf approached him and nodded. "Hild said there are only a few left. You can handle things here. You were always more organized than I was, anyway."
Byggvir gave a quiet laugh. "Yes, I suppose I was. But be careful."
The Dark Elf squeezed his hand. "Always."
"Good luck, Beyla," Hildisvíni said.
Beyla nodded once more and flew toward the chaos, wielding a spear whose sharp tip shone with a crimson glow.
"I need a boat, and quickly," Tryg declared upon reaching the Light Elf.
Byggvir studied Frida for a moment, then Tryg himself. A moment later, he pointed toward one of the vessels.
"The woman may board that one, but you will have to wait for the next boats."
Tryg nodded. He did not like the idea of being separated from his mother, but he understood that it was necessary.
"No," Frida said through a cough. "He's coming with me."
The Light Elf shook his head. "The wounded and children have priority."
"Then I'll stay too."
"No, you won't," Tryg replied firmly.
"I need to keep an eye on you." She coughed again before continuing, "You'll do something foolish if I'm not around."
He smiled. "I'll be fine, Mother."
"Son—"
"We're not going to argue about this, all right? You know you're too weak to remain here."
Frida bit her lips again. She knew Tryg was telling the truth. She knew she was dead weight, that she would only hinder him if he needed to rescue another refugee or fight an enemy. Even so, abandoning her own son while the end of the world unfolded around them had to be difficult.
At least, for Tryg, the thought of doing the same to his mother was terrifying.
"Woman, are you coming or not?" Byggvir asked as he helped a pregnant woman into a boat.
Frida hesitated, but eventually nodded.
Then she pulled Tryg into a tight embrace and remained there for a moment, sharing her feverish warmth with him. Tryg smiled and embraced her in return, burying his head against her shoulder and taking in her familiar scent of chamomile.
"Son, what I was going to tell you..." she began, but hesitated, her voice trembling with tears.
Tryg shook his head. "You'll tell me in Midgard."
His mother sniffled. "In Midgard, then," she said. "Come back to me, Trygve."
He nodded, pretending to be confident even as his chest tightened and his fear continued to grow.
"Yes, ma'am."
They separated. With Hildisvíni's help, Frida was the final passenger to board the boat, and soon the vessel departed toward the Midgard tower, escorted by two Light Elves.
Tryg remained there watching his mother disappear into the distance, and she continued looking back at him until neither could distinguish the other's face.
"Don't worry," Hildisvíni said, stepping beside Tryg. "Our allies on the other side will look after her. She'll be fine."
Tryg still was not certain he could trust the adviser but he thanked him anyway, "Thank you."
Once again, the ground trembled. This time, however, the quake was so overwhelming that several Midgardians staggered and fell, collapsing onto the stony sands or into the turbulent waters along the shore. Tryg and Hildisvíni nearly fell as well, but managed to remain standing.
Both turned toward the ocean in time to see enormous torrents of water rising into the sky. And from their distant center...
A massive humanoid creature emerged from the depths. Its roar was so powerful that it drove the wind forward with tremendous force, striking Tryg's face like a heavy fist. It was a colossal man, tall enough to rival the towers and the wall. His dark skin was carved with blazing blue fissures, like stone split apart by cerulean magma.
Though he stood near Thor and Jörmungandr, he ignored them completely and advanced slowly, roaring as he moved toward Hrimthur's Wall and sent tidal waves rolling across the ocean.
After confirming that his mother's boat had not capsized, Tryg stopped and joined Hildisvíni and the other Midgardians in watching the smoking colossus's devastating march with apprehension.
"To the boats, now!" Byggvir shouted, tearing everyone from their stupor.
"The end is near," the adviser whispered.
"That's..." Tryg began, but his voice failed him as his hands trembled into fists.
"Ragnarök," Hildisvíni finished.
Then he turned toward Tryg. "I need to search for more refugees while there is still time. Are you coming?"
Tryg looked toward the ruins of New Midgard for a brief moment.
He nodded. "Yes, sir."
Then he retrieved the mace he had left upon the shore and followed the hurried advisor back toward the chaos.