Tryg was leading a limping woman and carrying a crying little girl in his arms, her face dirty with soot, when Hildisvíni called out to him urgently:
"Here, young man! Come help me with this."
The advisor was trying to lift an enormous block of stone, almost as large as one of the houses of New Midgard, blocking the place where a couple screamed for help amid the charred debris.
Tryg quickly took the woman and the child to the group of refugees he was escorting with Hildisvíni.
"No!" the girl protested as soon as he left her with the others, clutching his hand. "Don't go, mister."
He smiled and gently loosened himself from her grip, then stroked her brown hair. "I'll be right back, all right? I need to help the others."
She let another tear fall before nodding.
The end of the world continued all around them — enemies fighting and killing one another, both on land and in the air. The machines at the base of the wall had been destroyed, and the portals of the realms now spat out waves and waves of soldiers. Thor and Jörmungandr also continued their furious, thunderous battle. Ragnarök tried to advance against the walls, but he was being held back by a single man, who flew... using a sword? Or was that a spear? Tryg could not tell from where he was, and he did not want to. He was far too busy to care about the problems of legends at that moment.
He went to Hildisvíni, who was still struggling to lift the boulder, without much success.
"Come on," he urged, grunting.
For a brief instant, Tryg stared at his hands. They were stained not only with his own blood, but also with that of the other three Einherjar he had defeated during the advance of the procession he had gathered with the advisor. Yes, Tryg had struck them when an opening appeared, when they were too distracted by the impetuous boar attacking their squad. Even so... he had defeated them.
He still did not understand the reason for his strength very well, but both he and Hildisvíni had already noticed that strength — and used it for the refugees' sake.
Tryg crouched beside the advisor and slid his fingers beneath the stone. Grunting, the two lifted it together and threw it aside. Then they pushed away a few more pieces of debris and, with that, unearthed the buried couple. The woman had a wound on her forehead that did not seem too concerning, but the man groaned loudly because of his arm, crushed by the collapsed house.
Hildisvíni took one of the ceramic vials from his belt and used the same rosy substance he had used on Tryg before to staunch both their bleeding. It would not heal the man's arm, but at least it would prevent, for now, both his death and the woman's.
The advisor also improvised a bandage with a clean white cloth around the man's limb and, supporting him on his shoulders, led him, along with the woman, back to the group.
Tryg stared at the faces he had helped rescue, almost a hundred of them. Fortunately, the number of Midgardians they found and saved had diminished with time, until it became rare to find any refugees at all. Good news, of course, and, on one hand, Tryg felt proud and glad for the work he had been doing. But on the other...
No sign of Skjöldr or old Jorg... he thought, sighing heavily.
Soon after, he shook his head. No, they must have boarded earlier. Jorg must be flirting with my mother in Midgard by now.
The thought made him smile. It even drew a quiet little laugh from him. It was difficult to smile amid so much chaos, perhaps even disrespectful. But it was nice.
"Here, join them," Sif said, appearing on the street above, guiding three more Midgardians. Even after so much time amid the war, her flawless appearance had not changed at all, not even her dress had a single drop of blood on it. Tryg and Hildisvíni, on the other hand, were filthy and foul-smelling.
"Tryg!"
Tryg widened his eyes, recognizing the voice, and studied the refugees Sif had brought. One of them was, in fact, Skjöldr. He had not recognized him at first, since his friend was covered in soot... and bruises. His pale skin was an ugly painting of worrying black, purple, and red tones. Still, from the way he limped toward Tryg, smiling and waving one of his hands, he seemed fine.
Tryg exhaled, relieved.
"Man," Skjöldr said, breathless, approaching and touching his shoulder, "I'm glad you're not dead."
Tryg chuckled. "It's good to see you too. Come on, let's treat those wounds."
Hildisvíni treated his friend's injuries, and Skjöldr's jaw dropped when he saw his wounds disappearing in a brief moment.
Earlier, when Sif had brought the first refugees to his group, Tryg had asked the advisor, suspiciously, why the goddess was not healing the wounded as well. Hildisvíni had explained that Aesir magic, though vast and versatile, was not exactly known for healing others, unlike Vanir magic. Even if she wanted to, the goddess could not heal the wounded; she could only help with evacuation and protection — something she did a thousand times more efficiently than Tryg.
He shrugged and approached Skjöldr. "Hey, did you see Master Jorg?"
His friend raised an eyebrow. "No. I thought you'd seen him."
"Me?" Tryg frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well..." Skjöldr began, scratching the back of his neck. "We were together earlier, helping some people. But then he ran off like a madman when he saw that fire giant, saying he was going to look for you and your mother. I tried to stop him, I really did, but you know how he is..."
Tryg stopped listening. Apprehensive, he slid his wide-eyed gaze toward where his house stood. After so much time, that region, like most of New Midgard, had already been devastated, whether by soldiers, debris, or stray projectiles. Only the few buildings near the shore remained standing, and even they would soon fall. Jorg, old as he was, could not... He could not...
Another tremor, another explosion. This time, the shock came from the wall. A huge piece of it was falling, collapsing in a rain of stones that opened an enormous hole in its structure, large enough for even the flaming colossus to pass through. Odin's enemies had finally breached Hrimthur's Wall.
"We need to hurry," Hildisvíni declared, finishing treating the last of the wounded. "Everyone, gather together!"
"No!" Tryg let slip. "Sir, please, there are more people trapped around here."
The advisor shook his head. "I'm sorry, but our time is over." He indicated Ragnarök with his eyes. "Very soon, Asgard will fall and, trust me, we do not want to be here to witness its end."
Tryg clenched his fists, exasperated. Not with Hildisvíni, of course, but with reality itself. There was not a single person in his old village who did not know how the reign of the Aesir would end. But abandoning Jorg, the man who had employed him, who had always been by his side every day for years...
He could not accept that. He wouldn't.
Hildisvíni touched his shoulder and tried to lead him back to the group, murmuring words of comfort. But Tryg pushed the advisor's hand away, grabbed the mace he had dropped earlier, and bolted down the street toward his house. His muscles ached, begging for days of rest, but he ignored the pain and forced his legs onward.
However, Tryg suddenly slipped in the middle of his run, fell, and rolled across a surface as smooth as a mirror. When he stopped, he began to shiver, but not from fear or nervousness. Rather, from the cold he suddenly began to feel. He planted his hands beneath him and soon saw that he was no longer on a muddy road, but on a lake of cerulean, glittering ice. Grunting, he turned to see Sif with her tattooed arm extended in his direction, her tattoos shining with a bluish aura, her open palm emanating a freezing white mist.
The goddess narrowed her eyes and spoke, her voice severe. "You heard Hildisvíni, boy. Our time is over."
Tryg ground his teeth, drove the mace into the ice, and used it as support to get back to his feet. "You can go. I don't care if you don't want to help me. Just don't get in my way."
"You will die," Sif declared, making Tryg's chest grow even tighter than it already was.
"You don't know that..."
"I do. And I think that woman who was with you would agree with me." Tryg raised his eyebrows at the goddess, and she continued mercilessly, "She was your mother, wasn't she? The resemblance between you was clear. Tell me: would she allow her foolish son to risk his own life for others who have no salvation left?"
Of course Tryg had thought of Frida before. Even imagining a reality in which he would abandon his sick mother to her fate made his stomach churn. It made his mind rethink the decision hundreds of times over. But if the goddess thought Frida would ask him to abandon Jorg... she was absolutely wrong.
"Yes," he answered without hesitation, his gaze determined. "Today I saw Odin use people as disposable pieces. I saw dead bastards send mothers and children to die for the wall. But neither I nor my mother would look at someone who came back for us and pretend he was just another acceptable loss."
Sif frowned, exasperated.
"Do you think that makes you so different from Odin?" she said. Her eyes, for a brief instant, seemed to reveal something older, more personal than mere coldness. "Dying abandons people too."
Tryg nodded. "I know. And I promised I would come back to her. But I also promised, a long time ago, never to turn my back on people who need help." He stared intensely at the goddess. "And I intend to keep that promise too."
Sif hesitated, startled. Then the wrinkles of her frown deepened, and the cerulean glow of her tattoos intensified.
Hildisvíni, however, touched and lowered her arm.
"I will go with him," said the advisor. "You can guide these people to the shore."
The goddess stared at him and asked, dryly, "Do you want to die with him?"
"No. But the young man will do what he wants with or without our permission as soon as we turn our backs. Won't you?"
Hildisvíni looked at him, but Tryg did not answer or even move.
Sif stared at Tryg again, then sighed and lowered her arm. As the glow of her tattoos dwindled, the ice over the street gradually turned into water, which flowed away and seeped into the earthy soil, making it even muddier.
"Ten minutes," the goddess stated, turning her back. "If you do not reach the shore in ten minutes, we are leaving you."
The advisor nodded. "Thank you, Lady Sif."
Sif went toward the group, already organized and ready to depart. Hildisvíni, on the other hand, approached Tryg and, touching his shoulder, said:
"Get on me. We need to be quick."
Tryg nodded, and the advisor soon assumed his boar form in a storm of pink smoke and countless golden stars. He jumped onto Hildisvíni's back, and the two shot forward. Around him, the ruins of the city became a blur of brown, gray, and yellow. While the goddess and the procession descended the street toward salvation, Tryg and the advisor rushed upward toward danger and, perhaps, toward death itself.