Tryg was not sure when his consciousness had returned. Nor whether he could trust what his senses were telling him. The cold wind blowing against his back indicated that he was still falling. But how could he be sure of that when he was so... broken? So outside of himself?
Tryg felt wrong, as if he were not who he was supposed to be.
He fought to open his eyes, just a little, though they still begged to be left alone after the ceaseless, sharp tearing they had gone through. He saw a small but clear glimpse of a purple-blue, clouded sky above, adorned with countless radiant white stars. It was a sight similar to the skies he used to appreciate daily, in the last moments of dawn. But, at the same time, it was different. It was something more whimsical and imperfect, like a painting of a dream forgotten after waking.
It did not seem real. It should not be. So Tryg closed his eyes again and allowed himself to fade once more. If this was the journey that would take him to his end; if these were his last moments; he had no desire whatsoever to appreciate the fantastical scenery.
And he fell. Not with a violent crash, but with a light landing, like a feather falling onto a cloud. Tryg was still unconscious, so it took him a while to realize that he had stopped. When he finally came back to himself, the first thing he was forced to notice was that he was trembling. A lot. Not from fear, mind you. But because of the cold he felt.
The temperature around him was freezing, debilitating, enough to make his teeth chatter almost to the point of cracking. Tryg opened his eyes and quickly raised his torso, sitting up on the soft, icy surface beneath him. He wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing them, and watched the mist his lips expelled with each breath.
Then came the pains. The burning of his desperately overworked muscles. The suffering of his eyes. The relentless throbbing in his temples, as if an irritating musician were using the inside of his skull as a drum.
Gritting his teeth, hugging his legs, he cursed his own suffering. If only it weren't so cold...
A warm memory emerged from the depths of his mind, making his hardened brows contract. A memory he did not even remember having. After all, it was a passing portrait of some ordinary day in Midgard, apparently of little importance.
During twilight, Tryg was using a rake to scoop up and dump mounds of hay into the feeding troughs of the village's cranky old man's goats. However, shortly after, the endless winter that had been plaguing Midgard suddenly blew a freezing gust, cutting against his face, raising the hairs on his skin and forcing him to drop the tool so he could rub his arms.
In the next moment, Jorg appeared out of nowhere beside him, like a Draugr emerging from the earth. It was impressive how skilled he was at catching him standing still, especially when he should have been working. The old man stared at him, crossing his arms and wearing his usual wrinkled, impatient scowl. Tryg sighed, already expecting the scolding he would receive and mentally preparing an apology. Even when he was right, arguing with Jorg was a waste of time.
"Rub your chest, boy," the old man advised, picking up another rake and helping him. "You'll warm up faster that way."
"Hmm..." Tryg blinked. "Sure..."
It was true — rubbing his chest warmed his torso, and because of the constant movement, his arms also became warmer as a result.
Oh, and do not be mistaken. Jorg gave him a smack on the head soon after and scolded him for slacking during work hours. However, even though he grew exasperated with the old man, Tryg treasured that lesson like a piece of gold. Just like many others...
His heart was beating. He truly was alive; somehow, he had survived Asgard's devastating end.
On one hand, he felt relieved. On the other, he also felt awful.
Because now he had to deal with reality. With the fact that he had failed to fulfill the promises he had made to the woman he loved most. He had not saved the man he wanted to save. And he had abandoned his mother.
Stopping the rubbing of his chest, Tryg hugged his knees and allowed himself to be filled with suffering, tears running down his filthy face as cruel thoughts tortured him — his sick, frail mother, alone in Midgard, believing that her only son had died.
Damn it... he thought, crying.
It would have been so much easier if everything had simply ended...
Well, if he remained still, the cold would certainly claim his life.
Tryg sniffed, returning to rubbing his chest, and let his tearful eyes wander across his surroundings.
Mist. Snow. Ice. That was all he saw wherever he looked. Snowy mounds, snowy fields, frozen puddles and frozen lakes, each of them constantly surrounded by thick layers of pale, swirling mist, illuminated by the faint light of the bland sun above.
For an instant, Tryg thought he had returned to the wintry Midgard, and his eyes widened with anticipation. However, it did not take him long to realize he was wrong. After all, he had never seen trees like the ones that adorned the landscape here and there, with white trunks and foliage that emanated a sort of ethereal golden glow; nor anything like the ice sculptures that rippled and climbed through the freezing air; or the plants growing from the ground, which, though made of the same thing as everything else there, seemed alive.
He was definitely not in Midgard, nor Asgard.
Shivering, he dried his face and thought: Cold... Ice... Maybe Hel? Wait, am I...?
He shook his head. No, he was not dead. If he were in the realm of the dead, he probably would have already seen one or more souls wandering around. Which meant...
I... I am in Niflheim?
Helheim would be worse, indeed. But being in Niflheim was not good news either. A realm, according to the songs and legends, inhospitable and dominated by endless snow, ice, and mist. How in Hel was he going to survive? How would he get water, food, and warmth out there?
Tryg had no idea. However, his survival instincts finally made him realize something far more important.
He had not failed yet. Not completely.
He was still alive and, therefore, could still fulfill one of his promises. He could still reunite with his mother. He only needed, first, to survive that deadly environment and find a way to return to Midgard.
That's all... Tryg let out a trembling but determined little laugh. He would see his mother again, no matter the cost.
Supporting his hands on his knees, he stood, hugged himself, and studied his surroundings, searching for anything that was not white or cerulean or gray like the few stones he could see, anything useful. Unfortunately, his gaze found nothing worth his time.
"G-grea-eat..." he stammered, white clouds leaving his mouth.
He stopped talking. Breathing was torment, since every gust of air he inhaled seemed to burn his lungs. But more important than that: he needed to preserve the little energy he still had. After all, exploring and searching for salvation alone would be demanding, who knew where and who knew for how long.
Determined, Tryg nodded and took his first step. Just one. He froze, staring with suspicion... at the shadow in front of him, which soon disappeared. It was there the whole time; he just hadn't noticed.
The transparent projection that had guided him during his desperate escape from Asgard. But which had also condemned him to that icy torment.
...No, honestly, it was his own fault for having trusted something so strange. As Jorg would say: "When something seems too good to be true, then it is too good to be true."
Tryg walked, and the shadow soon reappeared, walking at the same pace as him in front of him.
What the Hel are you?
Maybe he had gone mad after everything he had gone through. Or maybe the dagger from that Einherjar who pierced his shoulder had been coated with some poison or something like that. In the end, however, though his curiosity insisted, understanding the figure was not a priority at the moment. The cold did not even let him think of anything beyond his wounds, exhaustion, thirst, and hunger.
Fire... First, fire...
***
One hour, or maybe even two — Tryg was not certain, but he had already been walking through the snowy fields of Niflheim for a long while. So long that the tips of his fingers had already turned slightly blue, and his lips had already split and bled several times.
To make everything worse, he was also lost. Which was not strange, given that the world, though beautiful, seemed to be the same wherever he looked. Of course, Tryg had no destination or place to return to. But having no sense of his location was unnerving.
The good news was that, after so much effort, he had in fact found something useful. A white rabbit, as big as his head, that would certainly taste delicious after being skinned and roasted. The bad news was that he did not even come close to catching it, much less finding something with which he could start a fire to cook it.
Upon seeing the small animal hopping away, escaping, Tryg growled, exasperated. His stomach rumbled, furious. But he did not let despair overcome him and moved on, walking aimlessly through the endless whitish, misty grass.
Until he finally found something different. Something far more intriguing.
What...? he thought and focused on the landscape above and ahead, narrowing his eyes. The sky seemed... distorted. Trembling, like the air above a lit stove, but in a much more colorful, intense... and far less inviting way.
Still, it was the first different thing he had seen since landing in that damned place; it was not as if he had any option other than exploring it. Luckily, it was not far, and after climbing up and down two snowy mounds, accompanied by the shadow that still walked one step ahead of him, Tryg then saw what was apparently causing the constant and bizarre wavering of the air.
It was a huge wooden structure, far too large to be anyone's house. It resembled a colossal warehouse, countless times bigger than his home in New Midgard. However, no matter how grand it was, its structure was ruined, full of holes and places where the ice and snow of Niflheim already covered its beams and planks. The holes were of every size and could be seen both on the roof and on the walls. There was no door in sight, but there were windows, all sealed by bars made of a black, polished metal.
Tryg narrowed his eyes, recognizing the alloy. At least, he thought it looked similar to the material from which the Einherjar's weapons were made... Maybe it was an Aesir structure that, just like him, had been transported to Niflheim after the end of Asgard. And if that was true, then the probability of finding serious trouble inside was more than real.
Tryg breathed against his hands and rubbed them frantically, warming his numb fingers, then continued his descent down the slope, sliding through the snow behind his shadow. He did not go all the way down to the base of the mound, however; he stopped a little before it and circled around, carefully approaching a place where the slope ended in a drop.
Though steep, the fall would not kill him; the roof of the enormous structure was just below. Tryg sat on the edge and let himself fall, landing on the roof shortly after. The wood creaked loudly. For an instant, he believed the degraded material would give way, and he gritted his teeth and closed one eye, apprehensive. But, luckily, the roof held.
That was the good part. The bad part was that, a moment later, his ears caught threatening voices coming from inside. His shoulders tensed. Though he knew he might find people in there, Tryg still wished the strangers would not speak that strange and, at the same time, familiar language.
Einherjar...
His jaw tightened as images of gray-skinned dead men, who had ordered mothers and children to die for the wall, sprouted in his mind. He saw the mud of New Midgard. Heard screams. Felt the weight of the mace in his hands. The anger came, hot, almost welcome. But it would not help him now.
Swallowing his anger, Tryg cautiously walked across the roof to the edge and searched for an entrance in the outer walls. There were many holes above that he could use, but the inhabitants below might have heard his landing and be watching the roof. Upon finding an entrance in the outer wall of the second floor, Tryg used the frames of the barred windows as support and climbed down, stopping at the window beside the hole he had chosen.
He took a look inside and discreetly analyzed the interior. He frowned. Indeed, the structure was full of Einherjar, armed and armored. And not without good reason. After all, the structure was, in truth... a prison.