He woke, but he did not feel much like getting up. Never before had his muscles been so sore, not even when he had spent two days straight pulling carts of hay. Grumbling, Tryg sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around.
The sun was rising on the distant horizon, painting the skies in purplish tones. Layers of pale, swirling mist circled the snowy hills, clouding his field of vision. Even if an enemy were nearby, he would have no idea.
I need to move, he thought, and stood up.
For a moment, he stared at his shadow, which vanished as soon as he stopped. It was still a little disconcerting to have a ghostly companion that anticipated his movements; it would take him some time to get used to it.
After tearing a few more white branches from the tree, Tryg rekindled the fire and sat near the growing flame. He ate a strip of dried meat and tried to drink some water. Unfortunately, his exhaustion had made him forget the canteen in the cold, so all that touched his tongue were flakes of snow. He sighed, filled the canteen again, left it near the fire, and, as soon as he could, quenched his thirst.
In the middle of his third gulp, however, he froze. He sprang to his feet and swung his head from side to side, his attentive gaze searching every inch of the mist. From within it... came crying. A desperate sadness, echoing through the endless fog. A melancholy so deep it was contagious, enough to make Tryg's chest heavy.
He narrowed his eyes in the direction of the sound, then turned in the opposite direction and clenched his fists. It could be dangerous to investigate; he had already heard a tale about men who tried to investigate bizarre noises in the fog, and the story had not ended well. But he had no other idea, no other path — besides the prison full of enemies from which he had fled, of course. And, for some reason, he also felt... compelled to find that sadness.
Tryg put out and buried the fire as best he could and also smoothed the place where he had sat and lain down. Then he readied himself, tucked the canteen inside his cloak, drew his daggers, and went toward the crying, guided by his shadow through the snowy hills and the dense mist. The closer he got and the louder the sound became, the heavier his shoulders grew. Apprehension. But also sorrow.
Later, he came face-to-face with a cerulean, glittering wall of ice. Or rather, with a steep slope of ice. He lifted his gaze, trying to estimate its height, except its top, of course, was hidden by the mist. But, judging by the volume with which the crying echoed from up there, he could estimate that the peak should not be too high.
Tryg sheathed the dagger and studied the gloves covering his hands, then the slope. He took a deep breath, gripped and braced his fingers and toes in cracks in the wall, and climbed, his muscles burning. Even so, he continued to climb, listening to the melancholy and using his shadow to make sure his holds were solid enough.
More than once, he saw it slip and fall to its death. More than once, he wondered if some of his visions could ever be wrong — show him a path that apparently was safe, but that, in reality, would lead him to his death.
What a perfect moment to wonder about that...
Tryg kept forcing his arms. He did not look down even once. He was not afraid of heights... At least, he thought he was not. Either way, he was not in the mood to test his theory at that moment.
Fortunately, after painfully long minutes, the edge of the icy cliff appeared, and his body did not relax until he grabbed it. He pulled himself up and sprawled onto the snow covering the top, panting. He stayed there for a while, resting while the crying, now much louder and sharper, needled the depths of his ears.
Tryg stood up and went back to following the sound, this time with cautious steps, not wanting to draw attention. Then, as he looked over a huge block of ice, he saw, in the distance, a pale tree similar to the others. But it was at least three times larger and the only one so far with fruit — shaped like apples, green, half translucent, and shining with an ethereal glow. And at the foot of the tree, sitting on one of its roots that sprouted from the ground...
There was a woman... No, not exactly a woman. Her silhouette resembled one, true. But no human could be as large as she was, nor have skin made of the smoothest and most perfect cerulean crystal. Nor hair formed by countless white strands, as if they had been woven from the purest snow. Nor a dress as ethereal as hers, which seemed woven from threads of mist.
Tryg stared at her with heavy eyes. The woman was crying, seated, hugging her own knees and sinking her face into them, her shoulders rising and falling with each wet sob. She looked... so helpless... Hearing her brought him the sensation that every grain of hope had been swept away. That all the love in the world had broken.
Tryg wanted to console her. But who was he to think he could be a shoulder to lean on for a stranger so pure? Who was he to think he could understand what a being so different was going through?
"W-who are you?"
He widened his eyes, hearing her broken, crystalline voice. There was great sadness in her tone, as well as a slight touch of irritation.
"What do you want?"
With tense shoulders, Tryg dared to peek at her again. She was still sitting, still hugging her knees, but now she no longer hid her beautiful face, with fine and pristine features. One of her hands wiped away the tears running down her cheeks, drops that quickly turned into tiny light-blue topazes.
"I am talking to you," she continued, finally turning in his direction, lightly furrowing her brow.
He tensed under the glow burning in her white eyes. She had a hard gaze, similar to Hildisvíni's, but much more mature, much older, and much more intense. What should he answer? Or rather, should he answer at all, or simply run from there as fast as possible?
Well, Tryg wanted to answer. Not only because of the inexplicable importance he gave to the woman's crying. But also because she was the first living soul he had found since he had fallen into that inhospitable realm. The first sentient being with whom he could speak.
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"My name is Trygve, miss. As for what I want... Well, I would like to ask some questions."
Her wrinkles deepened and she stared at him for a few more moments. Then she wilted, losing the little interest she had, and turned toward the endless mist with a distant gaze. "Go away."
Tryg took a step forward, closing his fists. "Please, I need help. You're the only person I've found since I arrived here."
"I imagine. There is no one else living here besides me. But that does not mean I want company."
His eyebrows jumped, his chest slowly filling with distress. If there was no one else in Niflheim besides her, then...
He took another step forward. "Please, I need to go back—"
"Enough, boy," the woman said, exasperation growing in her voice. Then she pointed the perfect nail of her index finger at him and, without even granting him the grace of her gaze, concluded, "I told you to go away."
Even from afar, Tryg saw the blur of her index finger moving upward, pulling the ice beneath his feet and hurling it into the air. He wasted no time in following his own shadow and jumping to the side, rolling across the ground. As he had foreseen, a thick column of ice soon sprouted from the earth with a thunderous crash, making snow rain over the surroundings.
Tryg clenched his jaw and stared at the crystalline woman. She was staring at him over her shoulder, narrowing her gaze with suspicion.
"You are quite fast for such a scrawny boy, are you not?" She narrowed her eyes even more, focusing them on his for a long while. Then she concluded, "No, you are not..."
The woman stood and turned to him. Now, Tryg could see how enormous she truly was. She was twice his height, perhaps more. Besides that, there was a hole in her chest... where a black heart pulsed, vivid and furrowed with glowing orange cracks, as if it were made of magma.
Tryg stepped back and swallowed hard. Her height was not merely giant; it was oppressive, the sort that pressed one's shoulders downward, toward the earth.
Run... I need to run...
He dashed to the side, running as fast as his battered legs allowed. However, the translucent image of a huge wall appeared before him, blocking his path. He stopped and, one or two seconds later, the barrier solidified. Desperate, he turned to run in the opposite direction, but then saw that there was already another wall there as well.
Now, he had only two options. Either jump down the cliff to try to escape, climbing it... Or face the giant woman of ice.
"Yes... No one so young and weak should be fast enough to avoid those magics." She pointed her finger at him again, the white flames in her eyes intensifying, burning with a relentless glacial fury. "You knew they were coming." It was not a question.
Under her cold and deep anger, Tryg's fear reached levels he had never before experienced. Thus, he realized that his second option had never truly been real. Facing that woman could only result in his own death.
However, there were still two options. A new one appeared in his mind, perhaps the riskiest of all. But it was the only one that might help him return home.
He forced himself to sketch a trembling smile, not at all calm, and raised his hands in surrender. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot," he said, keeping his tone as confident as possible. "Please, I didn't come to cause trouble."
"You lie," she said, dryly. "All of you lie. That is what you do."
He raised his eyebrows. "What are you talking about—"
The woman attacked again, summoning another column of ice from the ground. Tryg grunted and rolled to the side again, getting covered in snow. As soon as he straightened himself on the ground, another transparent column was already appearing right beneath him. He jumped away, feeling the earth tremble. Then he stood and ran forward, toward the giantess of ice.
"Yes, you are one of those wretches... One only needs to look at those filthy eyes of yours," she snarled.
"What are you talking about?!" he asked, shouting, flying across the pale grass.
The woman, this time, pointed downward. In the next moment, Tryg saw countless translucent flowers appearing before him, several roses made of ice. Watching where each of them would bloom, he avoided them, trying to keep a fast enough pace to reach the giantess before being defeated. He did not want to fight her, of course; he would never defeat her. He only wanted to get close enough not to be ignored, to get her attention.
It was his only chance. And yet, part of Tryg soon regretted having thought of that plan.
"Listen to me, please!"
More transparent flowers appeared in his vision. So many that he could not avoid them all and ended up stepping on one. As soon as he did, he froze. Or rather, his feet froze. Then his shins. His calves.
Snarling, he drew one of his dark daggers and tried to break the contagious crystals, to escape. But the blue ice was so hard that the blade barely managed to scratch it. And the ice climbed and climbed, until his legs were almost entirely frozen and he felt as if countless needles were piercing them.
Tryg trembled with cold and fear. He lowered his face and confirmed that his legs were still whole, but that did nothing to help him relax.
Lowering her crystalline arm, the giantess of ice began walking toward him, calm, yet certain, her brows furrowed, her bare feet so light they did not even mark the snow. As she walked, she reduced her size almost to his height, only a finger or two taller. That, however, did not soften her oppressively powerful presence, so much so that Tryg quickly dropped the dagger and raised his hands again in surrender.
"P-please l-listen to me..." he pleaded, stammering. "I-I'm not a t-threat. I j-just need h-help."
She stopped in front of him, leaving her furious face so close to his that their noses almost touched, the misty fabric of her dress trembling with the wind. Tryg felt her breath, heard the thunderous beats of her exposed incandescent heart. Her gusts of air were glacial. Her chest, however, emanated heat, enough for him to feel it clearly against his own chest.
"Even if you were telling the truth, your words would have no value," she said through her teeth. "Just as you Aesir are known for lying, you also have a tendency to spread misery and death wherever you go."
"I-I'm not Ae-esir!"
"As I said... Liar."
The woman brought her hand close to the cerulean structure trapping Tryg and struck it with a flick of her fingers. Crack! The ice split. Fissures appeared, spreading.
"S-stop, p-please," he pleaded.
But she did not even seem to hear him. She only bent her legs and shaped her hands into claws, preparing herself.
"No—"
The giantess of ice shot forward, grabbing his neck and shattering the structure into millions of glittering pieces. In the blink of an eye, she carried him to the edge of the cliff, holding, choking Tryg over the deadly fall, his limp legs dangling in the air. He grabbed her arms, desperate. He tried to breathe, but the vigorous grip had completely closed his throat.
She is going to kill me! I am really going to die!
A claw squeezed his heart so hard that Tryg swore it would explode at any moment. He clenched his teeth.
No. I will not fail again. Never again... Come on, think...
A realization came to him, brought by old tales he had heard when he was younger. Tales that told of the fall of Odin and the reign of his people, of the end of the world, which would happen during a war of proportions never before seen in the realms, between the Aesir and the armies of the realms.
However, in those stories, it was never that armada that brought about the fall of Asgard. It was a colossus called Ragnarök, the Living Apocalypse, and his flaming sword. A being born from the union of the two oldest Jötnar still alive, the only residents of the two primordial realms. Surtr — the King of Muspelheim, the First and Last Fire Giant...
And Sinmara. The Queen of Niflheim. The Last Ice Giant. Surtr's wife... Her one true love... Who, somehow, had transformed himself alone into Ragnarök and died during the end of Asgard, just as had been prophesied.
Another death — another heart broken by the All-Father. Just like his own.