Chapter 2 - ‘Monsters’ - Freya

They arrive in a flash of concentrated rainbow. Several carriages, each carrying more of that singular rainbow dust, travel along a multicolored bridge. Freya sits in her coach, patiently drumming evenly cut nails against the window. Her brother sits across from her, though she pays him little mind.

“That’s annoying, you know.” Freyr, curt as always.

“What is?” Freya responds, purposefully unaware.

The siblings look to one another. Not a night between them in age,oth share the same frosty sky colored hair. Freya’s hair is pulled into a single braid that dances down her back while his is pulled into a neat ponytail, kept short atop his head. His garb is that of a warrior, hers that of a high priestess, but both share the Vanir trait of long pointed ears and fair skin.

“You are,” he says, expertly brief.

Freya’s lips curl upward, and her eyes deviously search her brother’s face. Her drumming becomes louder, more frequent. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“This is to be a long trip brother. The queen will likely have us share a room, and you will act as my bodyguard, as always. We’ll be inseparable for the entirety of the weekend.”

“Point?” Freyr’s lips press together in a gradually souring look.

Freya drums on the carriage with both hands now. “If you are annoyed by my presence already it will make three nights feel like a fortnight.”

“Is this a threat?”

“No threat, dear brother, just postulation.”

He rolls his ruby colored eyes. “What do you want?”

“You and I both know.” Freya’s voice is tinged with a challenge.

“You want to feed the cats,” Freyr says bluntly.

“I want to feed my cats,” Freya responds, just as bluntly.

Freyr, with a sigh, reaches into a sack at his side. Out of the sack he pulls a pouch, and out of that pouch comes a tiny white mouse.

“For each,” Freya instructs, palm upturned to her brother.

He groans and fishes out another mouse. He passes the mice to his sister, who instinctively pets and chirps at the helpless things.

“Try not to get too attached between here and the cats. You have a soft spot for poor defenseless animals.”

“Is my fondness for you really so apparent, brother?”

Freyr belts out a sarcastic sounding laugh. “Just feed the damn cats.” He slides over in his seat, making room for his sister. Freya steps over, climbs onto the seat, and opens a small window at the front of the coach.

The coach is drawn by her two cats, larger than any Midgardian lion or tiger. She glances to the Aesir holding the reins. A glance back and a well placed nod from him grants Freya the permission she needs to toss the mice forward.

“I apologize. May you find peace in your next life,” she says with a hint of sarcasm. She watches as the cats speed up and leap in perfect time with their prey. The bounce will no doubt send Freya’s tall brother’s head crashing up against the coach’s roof.

“Freya!” he shouts from the back of the vehicle, causing her to wince and choke back a laugh.

“Just a bump. You know what they say about Alfheim. It is as beautiful as it is treacherous!”

Freyr sighs.

“Who says that? Nobody says that.”

She takes her seat again and flashes her brother an apologetic little smile.

“My apologies, brother. Just a bit of fun. The change of scenery is quite refreshing. I was growing tired of the sights and sounds of incessant repair. Construction is now on my list of least favorite things.”

“Where do wolves fall on that list?” Freyr’s question earns him a narrowed glance from Freya. The siblings jest with one another at a near constant rate, but she thought better of her brother than to believe him capable of joking about that.

No doubt noticing her look, he quickly responds, “Sorry, sorry. That wasn’t funny. I shouldn’t have- ...I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Freya sighs.

“It’s okay, brother. There’s a reason I’m the funny twin.”

There’s a pregnant pause between the siblings. She catches Freyr’s quick glances. They seem uneasy, with good reason. It looks as though he’s searching for some escape from her gaze inside the coach, but there is very little else for him to look at. A soft grunt or two later, he finally speaks.

“I’m sorry, again, you just seemed in high spirits. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you smile so much in one sitting. I didn’t mean to take that away.” Their eyes meet. “Will you be okay?”

“Probably not,” she says quickly. “I’ll never really be okay, but this can, and should, be talked about. About what went wrong and what can be done to prevent it from ever happening again.”

He fidgets in his seat, the corners of his mouth creasing downwards.

“That’s not-” he begins to say, but seems to think better of it. He glances out the window. “That’s fair.” Freyr speaks quietly, not looking at his sister. One of his callused palms brushes along the varnished wood of the windowsill before it clenches into a fist. “Wasn’t it preemptive measures that got us here in the first place?” he finishes quietly.

“No,” Freya responds coolly. “A fool tried to bottle fire. His problem was that he thought himself too good to be burned.” Freya traces her digits along her torc. For just a moment, a jewel at the center flashes a cool blue.

“Well hopefully this congregation will change things. We’ll know the extent of the damages and what all nine realms will be doing to move forward.” Freyr leans across and puts a hand atop his sister’s knee. He locks eyes with her, his touch immediately serving to ground her, to let her know she’s not alone in this. As Freya breathes out, the light of the jewel at her throat recedes again, assuaged along with her grief. At least for now. “And justice will be served.”

“Eden inbound, approximately fifteen minutes to arrival.” The coachman’s hoarse voice reaches Freya from his driving seat. She finds herself back at the window, drumming on the sill yet again.

She watches as sparkling gold plated streets, thick golden forests, and perfect blue seas rush by, all beneath a sky that shows every other realm as though they were close enough to touch. Soon they will be at the capital of Alfheim, called Eden by the Christians, the meeting place of the gods. Sprawling ivory castles with gold accents kiss the mirror smooth sky. Most are perfect, their towers and walls uniformly straight, with little variation between them. Only the main castle, offhandedly referred to as ‘The Garden’ by most, offers any more grandeur than the rest, extending out in every direction with a sweeping roof that soars across the sky like the canopy of a tree with all its leaves in full bloom.

There was a time when these sights still moved her. Now the novelty of Paradise has worn off. Even though the streets still glow when she walks across them, this realm will never shine like the day Óðr proposed to her. They pass the gossamer gates of silver that seem to give off their own shimmering, pale light leading right past Paradise and towards Eden. She thinks about how she cooed soft promises to two little girls, and how that beast made her a liar.

“We’ll all go to Paradise together when your father returns,” she remembers whispering as she kissed the soft foreheads of those impressionable young darlings and shut off the lights with the snap of her fingers. Different thoughts come to mind suddenly, and she’s briefly lost within herself.

Cut him.

Stab him.

Break him.

Drown him.

Choke him.

Tar him.

Skin him.

Fry him.

Flay him.

Kill-

“Milady.” The coachman offers a knotted old hand to Freya after setting a small step ladder down before her. She forces a smile and reluctantly reaches for his hand only for Freyr to grasp it in her place. Her thoughts were better left for the execution itself.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Freyr steps out and descends the ladder before turning to offer his hand to his sister. Freya smiles, rolls her eyes, and takes her brother’s hand. He pulls her from the carriage with ease, and together the Vanir twins step around the side of the coach. Freya stops by her cats, taking a moment to nuzzle her face into the calico, while scratching behind the ears of her tabby.

“Freya?” Freyr catches her attention, and with a slight nod convinces her to bid her pets adieu. She holds the hem of her dress off the ground and scurries after Freyr. It becomes clear that the two are lagging behind the rest of their house as they walk, and Freya suspects that Freyr blames her for their late arrival.

“It’s your fault, you know.” He clearly has no problem confirming her suspicions as they await the painfully slow descent of a drawbridge.

Freya glances back to the carriage from the bridge settling in place. “Wouldn’t we normally take our cart through the main entrance?”

“Eden’s weird. They operate this entire place on the whole ‘life works in mysterious ways’ mindset. I think it’s just an excuse to be difficult.”

This isn’t Freya’s first time in Eden. She has been here twice before, back when she was younger. That was before Odin tried to bottle her fire. Back when she was her own woman. Back when she was Vanir.

Several guards in gold armor with feathered white wings greet the twins. There are enough of them to carry all the barrels of rainbow colored dust without anyone else lifting a finger before they escort the two deities and their goods into the castle.

Silence lingers as the twins follow the armored angels down halls adorned with more gold. A place clearly untouched by battle is welcoming, yet upsetting when she thinks of the many things, the many people, lost by the rest of them. As they get closer to the main hall Freya can feel her power diminish, even more so than normal. She’d been told in advance that everyone felt the same when entering Eden. Due to its function as a common ground for all pantheons, the atmosphere of the realm worked to level everyone’s power, acting as a great equalizer.

They enter a ballroom brimming with deities. There isn’t a place Freya can look that doesn’t have a god or goddess of some level gracing her sight. There are flashes of smiles, perfect straight white teeth, and barely there nods each time she makes eye contact. They are all familiar gestures from unfamiliar faces. Many of the people here know her for what she did that day, but not one of them had ever been around to help her, not even after.

“Look Freyr, we’re fashionably late,” Freya says curtly as she motions to the extravagant party before them. “Never be the first to arrive, nor the last to leave.”

Cherubs and lesser angels wait hand and foot on guests from each of the nine realms. Creatures of various shapes, sizes, colors, and ranks have all gathered here. Freya can count the pantheons she actually recognizes on one hand. She first sees the Egyptian gods and several Olympians. From what she can tell, they lost the least number of gods in Ragnarok, quite understandably. Unlike the Aesir, neither family has many warriors to speak of, and those that were among the fighters had been tasked with the lesser threats and disasters, so most had returned home unscathed.

“Do you recognize that banner?” Freyr asks Freya, stealing her attention. She glances to her brother as he snatches several hors d’oeuvres from a passing cherub, then looks over at the banner in question. A proud emerald flag is being carried by gods dressed in clothing that seems to come from the far reaches of East Asia. Their sigil is reminiscent of the Midgardian ‘yin yang’, but the interlocking halves of the sphere are instead shaped like the heads of dragons, one black and one white.

“I don’t know.” Freya steals an hors d’oeuvre from her brother.

“Well, whoever they are, they’re also fashionably late.” She pops the appetizer into her mouth and sticks her tongue out at her brother, though she has the decency to at least swallow her food beforehand.

"Brother!" A familiar voice shouts out amidst the crowded banquet hall. It's old, loud, and ugly, the voice of an Aesir.

She soon recognizes Tyr pushing past the many cherubs and angels. Freya had thought Tyr was long dead. She hadn't seen the brute since the better part of Ragnarok, before the beast got loose, but it had to be Tyr, no mistaking it. The matted blue beard, the chest as wide as a barrel, and that perpetual squatting walk inform her that it is indeed Tyr. Though he’s different now, short an arm and an eye. He looks quite worse for wear, but then again the Aesirs see things like these as improvements. Battle scars are like trophies to them...to the Aesir.

"Tyr!" her brother replies stepping forward to meet Tyr in the middle of the hall. She notices Freyr hadn't called him 'brother', which is common amongst Aesir warriors. Even though Freyr fought by their side, Aesir were no family to him.

"I thought you were dead," Freyr says as his grip meets Tyr's.

"Everyone did," Tyr shouts, laughing about it in the same breath.

"You're looking lighter Tyr. Have you lost weight?" Freyr arches an eyebrow. Tyr bellows another laugh in response.

"You could say so! Fenrir took my hand, and then another bloody beast, Garm, took the rest. But you'd best believe he choked on it. Last meal he ever had," Tyr says, parking his remaining arm on her brother's shoulder. "How's about you? You've got quite the trophy yerself."

Freyr reaches up and runs two fingers along his left eye instinctively. Most of his face had been taken by burns; a result of his fight with Surt, one of the many flames Odin had tried, and failed, to bottle.

"Yeah, the bastard gave me the slip when he burned my face. He’s lucky I didn’t have Lævateinn with me, or I’d have pierced his heart the moment he locked eyes with me. I'll taste his blood yet. So if he knows what's good for him, he'll stay as good as 'dead'."

Tyr can laugh about their injuries because these scars act as trophies of victory so long as their hearts still beat. Freya can see it in her brother's eyes, though. It still burns. He hates it. He can't stand it. But he smiles anyway. Pretends his hunger for battle is no different than theirs. It's how he survives. It's how they both do.

"Ah, Lady Freya," Tyr says, turning his attention to her. "I wanted to congratulate on you on a job well done. You and the Valkyries did an excellent job holding down the home front for us. I can barely recognize you as that little girl who used to do magic tricks. Now you're a full fledged general in your own right. You're probably better at my job than I am." Tyr laughs and Freya laughs, too, just because it seems like the right thing to do. She glances at her brother, and notices Freyr isn’t laughing with them.

"Ah, I also wanted to, you know, give my condolences. To both of you. For your losses." Suddenly, Tyr’s boisterous voice becomes little more than a murmur, and he holds his fat, heavy head low.

Neither Vanir sibling says anything in response, Freya vaguely acknowledges Tyr with the slightest of nods in his direction. Tyr’s head rises and with it comes that loud, grating voice again.

"I bet you're excited for what comes next, aren’t ye? If it were up to me, I’d say you should do the honors. Make it slow. Keep it personal. Don't let him die until you're satisfied. Hear me? Get your justice. Get.” He points two fingers at her. “Your. Justice."

Freya feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks to Freyr, the sides of her smile quivering. Freyr turns and looks back to Tyr.

"Hey, let's grab a drink. Catch up, you know, Recount our war stories? I want every detail on the Garm battle." Freyr escorts Tyr away, and Freya’s uneasiness subsides. She owes her brother for that one.

Tyr’s words linger, as does his obnoxious laugh, still audible even from down the hall. She could, she should, get her justice against the beast. If it is anyone’s kill, it is hers, right? But no, so many had been taken by him. As far as most of those involved are concerned, the ones she lost were just more numbers in his body count. To every other realm they’d just be a statistic exploited to hasten the execution. Would she be permitted the long, intimate kill she owed her family?

Cut him.

Stab him.

Break him.

Drown him.

Choke him.

Tar him.

Skin him.

Fry him.

Flay him.

Ki-

Freya exhales softly. Her fingers reach for her torc. Just as they are about to brush against that central blue gem, a hand touches Freya's back, startling her.

Freya turns quickly to see Sif, her queen. An Aesir who now looks like a truly aged beauty, she wasn’t always this way, but her weariness does not manage to dim her radiance. Dressed in the Nordic garb of their former worshipers, two blue tresses rest along Sif’s shoulders. It’s assumed that her wisdom lines show from all her smiles, but Freya knows those creases were brought about by much frowning. But even with crow’s feet tugging at the corners of her tired eyes, Sif still surmounts all other Aesir with her beauty. Ragnarok left her bruised, but not beaten.

“Freya,” Sif greets quietly. “I was beginning to wonder if you and Freyr were going to show. It wouldn’t feel right discussing Ragnarok without those most affected by it present. We are all Aesir. We are all family.”

They aren’t family, not truthfully, but Sif’s smile says they are.

“It was hard to leave, honestly, after getting to stay in Vanaheimr again after so long. I was just... I was just happy to be home again, is all.” Freya looks to Sif reluctantly, though she manages to offer her a small smile. Hesitance gathers more and more as the pause in their conversation lengthens. Is it okay to call Vanaheimr her home? For so long she had been forced to think of herself as an Aesir rather than a Vanir.

“It’s okay,” Sif replies encouragingly. “That's why it was my first act as Queen. I believed you and Freyr returning to Vanaheimr would be for the best. Now that I see you here, smiling even after all that took place, I can confidently say I’ve made the right decision.”

Freya’s expression softens and she gently embraces the older woman. It might be foolish to let her guard down with an Aesir, especially one as close to the previous conflicts as Sif, but then again, everyone had been made a fool by Ragnarok.

“Tell me, child, are you okay?” Sif inquires, pulling away from Freya.

“Are you?” Freya asks, her eyes locked with Sif’s. Tears gather in both their eyes, though they don’t fall, not here, not now.

“No.” Sif gives Freya a sad smile and shakes her head.

Freya shakes her head as well. “Neither am I.” They embrace once more.

Their brief conversation ends when they are approached by a man Freya vaguely recognizes. His skin is nearly pure white it is so pale, and his hair is the color of a starless night. He wears an ebony toga, a dark violet sash, and golden sandals peek from beneath the hem of his clothing. Adorning his back is a cape made of flaming darkness. He bows his head and offers a bottle, Olympian in style.

“Greetings Lady Sif, Lady Freya. I am Erebus, God of Darkness,” he introduces himself. His eyes focus on Sif, flashing briefly like dying stars. “I present to you a gift from the Olympians, courtesy of our queen, the goddess Hera.” His lips curl into a smile as he continues to hold out the bottle. “Some of the finest ambrosia in all the nine realms.” Erebus’ expression suddenly softens, and he gives a respectful nod. “Our… condolences for those lost in Ragnarok.”

So the Olympians still have gifts to give. They lost little in the war, then. Sif’s hand grasps at the bottle’s neck, her fingers viselike on it as though she is trying to strangle the object, and she rips the wine from Erebus harshly.

“What good is a gesture-” Sif looks beyond Erebus as she speaks. “If not given directly?”

Freya follows Sif’s gaze and her line of sight leads to a woman at the far side of the hall. Her skin is quite fair, and there is a mature beauty about her, but it is far different than Sif’s. Age is shown in her posture rather than her eyes, for her skin, no, her whole being, radiates perfection. Perfectly thin eyebrows arch from behind a gem adorned chalice, which she soon pulls away to reveal a slim, angular visage. Bright violet hair flows freely over her shoulders and down her back, framing her hourglass figure. A tight white toga accentuates her curves, exaggerating them even more. The smile she gives Sif disarms Freya, for even by godly standards, this woman is gorgeous.

The goddess reaches for the hand of a child with pink hair, a girl who looks even younger than Throoth, the youngest Aesir left after Ragnarok’s devastation. Freya’s fingers trace her torc. The scene is as reassuring as it is depressing, for it reminds her that there are mothers out there who hadn’t lost it all that day.

The Olympian queen walks up hand in hand with her rosy cheeked child. Erebus quickly steps out of her way and takes a knee, his eyes meeting the ground and his head bowing obediently. Freya’s gaze lingers on Erebus for some time. She doesn’t recall him being this loyal to the main Olympian family before. In fact, she clearly remembers him being opposed to Zeus’ rule. With a careful look around the room, however, she sees that Zeus is nowhere to be found. There’s much Freya needs to learn about the world after Ragnarok.

“You know, you aren’t the first noble to disdain one of my gifts.” Hera narrows her bright emerald eyes as she stops before Sif.

“Oh? Who else would have the gall to deny the infallible Hera?” Sif asks. Freya catches a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“The Jade Emperor, apparently,” Hera responds with a coy expression. “The fool had the nerve to tell me his empire’s peach ambrosia is better.” Hera leans in conspiratorially. “Though, between you and me, I gave everyone but you the cheap stuff. Only the finest in the nine realms for the Aesir Queen.”

“How many others have you used that line on? For all I know this wine could very well be poisoned.” Freya hopes Sif is being sarcastic and her eyes search Hera. It’s probably a joke, for there’s no way such a tactic could ever be employed in Eden. It is a sanctuary to gods of all pantheons and there is a peace treaty among all those who come here. It is, in fact, a law from the King of Kings that is enforced by his Archangels. Try as they might, not a soul alive can deny the King of Kings.

The closer Hera gets, the more apparent the smell of aged ambrosia on her lips is. Thankfully the smell itself is pleasant enough, merely that of fermented grapes, so it doesn’t bother Freya in the slightest.

“How many?” Sif asks, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes just a touch at Hera. Apparently, the smell did get to Sif.

After a tiny laugh, Hera quietly responds, “Just a teensy bit. I like sampling the offerings from the other pantheons.” Hera declares her judgement of those offerings by sticking her tongue out and shaking her head. “It’s all rubbish by the way.”

Sif and Hera share a long gaze. Silence is broken by a chuckle. Then the space between them is closed with a touch, Hera’s elegant fingers moving to caress Sif’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you made it,” she murmurs. “It’s important that you’re here. It will mean a lot to your people.” Hera’s hand lightly dances up the edge of one of Sif’s braids, inching ever so slightly towards her face. A brief smile crosses Hera’s own. “It means a lot to me too. I’ve missed you, Sif.”

Freya finds herself smiling along with Hera. The two older goddesses seem so close.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Sif asks with a weak laugh. “I’m queen until my daughter comes of age. Without Thor around someone will need to set a good example for her. She needs to see what a good leader is like before taking the role on herself. Odin was anything but that.”

“She’s been spending time with Athena on Midgard, right? I’m sure that will do her some good,” Hera says offhandedly.

Personally, Freya worries about Throoth. The girl is still just a godling, yet she is on Midgard, where the brunt of the destruction was, without anyone watching over her. She fails to find a good explanation as to why so many godlings are down there. She’d heard excuses ranging from it simply being a good experience for them to live on their own, to a theory that because the mortals were extinct, the best chance any of the godlings now had for growing stronger would be through osmosis of whatever potential worship remained in Midgard’s atmosphere. Freya didn’t believe that. These are the centuries in which the godlings were supposed to grow into full fledged deities. There is training to be attended and lessons they need to learn before taking on their own godly responsibilities. But with Ragnarok having occurred already, leaving so many of the nine realms devastated, it just seems easier to ignore the godlings for a bit. Right now, the gods themselves didn’t even know what they were going to do without the mortals, their biggest source of power, let alone how the political climate was going to be affected by so many rulers losing their lives in the catastrophe.

Freya sighs. It is just easier to let the godlings have their freedom for now, however dangerous it may be, rather than answer their many questions or tell them hard facts they might not be ready to hear. Freya has to wonder, though, if not now then when? Given her position within her pantheon, however, it is probably best she not speak up about this. Maybe Sif will be a better leader than Odin. In time, perhaps Freya can tell Sif how she feels, for in time, Sif might be able to make a difference.

“How is Athena?” Sif asks. “I know she’s a little older than Throoth, but these are her formative centuries as well. How has Ragnarok affected her? Throoth has been...different. Quiet. More so than before.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hera responds quickly. “Athena has always been her father’s daughter more than anything. We’ve never been close.”

“I see.” Sif nods. “I have a feeling you don’t want to talk about Zeus right now.”

“Exactly right,” Hera says before picking up the girl at her side, apparently her youngest daughter. The poor little thing had been fidgeting about, trying to be patient. Without Throoth or Athena present there weren’t many godlings around, after all. She must be lonely.

“Shhh, Hebe, it’s okay. We’ll get something to eat soon. Mommy just wants to finish talking,” Hera coos, trying to soothe the little one. When the girl’s soft murmurs become a quiet whine instead, Freya steps forward. She stops herself when she realizes she’s moved towards the little girl without thinking, and inches back slowly.

“Maybe you can let Freya hold her,” Sif suggests, casting a quick glance to Freya. “She’s amazing. She basically helped raise Throoth. In fact, she was her teacher up until Ragnarok.”

“Oh, Freya, the Vanir girl?” Hera asks, wide eyes now on Freya. “Look at how beautiful you’ve become. Last time I saw you, you yourself were a godling and now you’re-” Hera pauses. “You’re so brave, and so strong.”

“Thank you,” Freya says politely, much as she disagrees. It didn’t take bravery or strength to do what she did. Freya felt her actions during the war should be second nature to all. But even she knew that once a direct order from The King of Kings was given, no one could deny it.

“You’re both so strong,” Hera continues, earning a sigh from Sif.

“No.” Sif shakes her head. “If I were strong then everyone would be- My husband would be-” Sif covers her mouth. “I”m sorry.”

Freya instinctively reaches for Sif, and sees Hera do the same, but both of them halt as a horn sounds from the center of the dining hall. It’s angelic, almost harp like. Freya’s carmine colored eyes turn towards the sound and she hears shuffling throughout the hall as many others do the same.

Standing dead center is an angel. He wears white clerical robes laced with gold and accented with pointed shoulders. A blue sash is tied across his chest, and a flowing cape sits between his tucked wings. The strands of his honey colored hair are tied into an unruly ponytail, and he wears a serene smile as his cool blue eyes look over everyone in the room. She recognizes him from her youth as Gabriel, the messenger of The King of Kings.

“Good,” Gabriel chuckles. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, could I please direct you all to move to the stadium?” He nearly sings his words, his long arms moving with the grace of a dancer as he motions to the stadium entrance. “Mikey believes it’ll be best for morale if we start by The Apocalypse’s criminals to justice.”

“It’s called Ragnarok,” Sif whispers, low enough that Freya is sure only she heard her. “But I guess this is just another thing the Christians want to take away from us.” Her voice is full of undeniable malice as she watches Gabriel.

“Come now everyone, chop chop. We mustn’t keep Mikey waiting. He’s been itching to swing that sword of his all day. I know he’s going to have an attitude if he doesn’t get to relieve himself pretty soon,” the angel sing-songs as he enthusiastically leads all the gods and goddesses towards the arena. Freya doesn’t follow, not immediately, waiting behind with Sif instead.

“Shall we depart, Queen Hera?” Erebus inquires as he rises. His eyes flash like fading stars once again as he fixates his attention on Hera.

“Just a moment, Erebus.” She gives a quick look to the god along with a nod that sends him walking off toward the arena. Freya watches Sif and Hera exchange another glance before Hera carries Hebe away. She probably has to catch up with the rest of her pantheon for seating and what not. As Hera departs, Freya sees Tyr and Freyr approaching.

“You guys ready? Cause I know I am!” Tyr shouts. The large man laughs as he stops before Sif, but Freyr stops short in front of Freya. He locks eyes with his sister momentarily before taking her hand.

“You’ll be okay in there, yeah?” He looks to Sif. “Both of you?”

Freya also looks over at Sif, who nods.

“I just want to see justice served. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to even step foot on Christian land.”

“I hope those Archangels don’t think they’re entitled to Aesir kills,” Tyr grunts, then looks to Freya and inclines his head.

“Freya,” Freyr whispers. “I’ll ask again. Are you going to be okay in there? We’ve talked about it, but seeing him in there, it’s... Well, it’s going to be completely different. If you can’t handle it, you don’t have to go through with it. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

Freya stares at Freyr, parting her lips as though to speak, but nothing comes out in the end. She simply nods as her fingers find their way to the torc once more. She fiddles with the neck ornament mindlessly for a moment. Words that don’t dare cross her lips flood her mind, fill her veins, sing for violence through her hands and fingers.

Cut him.

Stab him.

Break him.

Drown him.

Choke him.

Tar him.

Skin him.

Fry him.

Flay him.

...

...

…

Kill him.

“After he’s gone there won’t be anymore monsters.”