“Son...?” Tyr choked, any kind of swagger or arrogance sloughing off him, replaced by cold dread and no small amount of anger. “Charlotte... How could you do such a...”

To be adulterous was a death sentence for a highborn of Haran. Polyamorous relationships with no marriage agreement required written consent between bonded houses. Not unheard of, but not looked very highly upon either. Tyr didn't know her well enough to trust her. Trust came hard, and he could force it if he needed to... But this? To put horns on the helm of a primus? This was an egregious crime. One beyond reckoning.

“He is my son.” Jartor replied matter-of-factly. Still growling, still wearing that look on his face that made Tyr's blood run cold. “We have seen to it. Blood magic, forbidden as it is, reveals all.”

Further revealed were Astrid, Sigi, and Alex. Somehow they'd arrived before he had. Making their way into the chamber at a wave of his fathers hand and looking at him with deep sadness in their eyes. Each was unique in their own way, but Tyr could not decipher their emotions. As Alex had once asked, he refrained from looking too deep without consent.

Tyr felt his world crumbling away. Primus' only ever had one male child. That was a chain that had not been broken in thousands of years and hundreds of families. But if that were the case, then Tyr... There could only be one truth, one revelation. That his mother...

No. He might be a poor excuse for a father, but he'd never lie to me.

“I'm your son.” Tyr refuted. “How is this possible?”

“Because you are not my son. There can only be one.” Jartor rumbled. “The council wants me to execute you for the crimes of your mother. Signe is long dead, and they believe you should be held proxy for the dishonor.”

“This doesn't make any sense!” Tyr was insistent, feeling his hands shaking despite his attempts to calm himself. “I'm a primus.”

“Whatever you are.” Jartor rose, his titanic body framed by the light of the sun from the rear window, stretching his shadow down the length of the throne room. His face was an emotionless mask, hard as any mountain. “You are no son of mine. You know me, Tyr. I've tried my best to guide you in the right direction, but now that I have a true son, I need not entertain this farce further. In full view of the women you call wives, I ask you, have any of your consummated? Is there a chance you might bear child?”

“No, your grace. None of us.” Alex answered. They all shook their heads. Astrid had tears in her eyes, Sigi was shaking like a leaf in the wind, but Alex was hard and rigid, standing at crisp attention. Staring at Tyr with an unreadable expression.

“Good.” Jartor nodded. “In that case, Ragnar, what say you in regards to an annulment? You know what must be done.”

What appeared before them was a bright hologram of an older man. Mature and aged like a fine wine. Ragnar did not look his five centuries. No bag of bones, but his hair was graying in several places unlike every other primus who would stop in their aging at a certain point. A salt and pepper beard braided into intricate pleats, fine rings cinching them on the middle and ends of each braid. A mane of thick hair shaved on the top to reveal swirling patterns decorating his head, hair worn long in a tail down his back. He seemed to be occupied with one task of another, lifting unseen objects and waving his fingers in the air. Not much interest in the conversation, it seemed, he wasn't even looking.

“Their choice.” He replied. Ragnar had a bright voice. Airy, smooth, but with a heaviness to it. Sounding more like a scholar than a warrior, with a thick northern accent. “Let the girls decide. If they need time, then so be it. The boy might not be your son, but he's of Ebonfist blood. Do as you must but do not dishonor him. Am I clear?”

“You have my oath, elder.” Jartor nodded, promptly ending the connection. There was a level of respect and consideration in his voice that Tyr had never heard before. With that, the women were bid to leave the chamber, taking one last look until they vanished into the bowels of the palace. Leaving him behind to face whatever fate would befall him.

“Please, husband... Primus! Don't kill him! Just let him leave. Exile him! I beg of you. I'll do anything!” Charlotte cried allowed. There were tears in her eyes as well, frantically pleading as soon as it was clear they were all alone in the room. She was hysterical all of a sudden, and while the prince had no idea what connection they must've had for her to act this way, he understood why. Tyr stepped forward, the vigilant eyes of Jartor observing him the entire time. Ready to strike at a moments notice. After all, his newborn son was only half a dozen meters from the bastard he'd raised. Tyr knew this, no man but a primus could stop him from doing it, killing mother and child with one swing. Maybe even Jartor couldn't, the 'prince' had grown since last they met.

But he could do nothing. Tyr could smell it. The entire throne room was a mass of magic wards, things he'd never been able to sense before. Only Okami remained loyal, the only one he had left, no signs of abandonment. The wolf could feel it, too, he was smart. Smart enough to fear Jartor, to know where he lay on that totem pole.

“Go.” Tyr looked back at the great wolf. If he was to die, and he would... Okami did not need to, and yet he refused. The senses of his partner were keen. Keener than a human. He knew well the death that was to come. One Tyr would not rise from. A permanent death, perhaps. “Go, I said. Find Alex. I will be fine. Protect her from now on. Please?”

Okami knew it to be a lie, but the single tear falling down Tyr's face was enough. Okami whined, lapping at his cheeks to remove the wet streak, testament to a suffering few could understand. Tyr patted him in response, resting his head against the great wolfs own and feeling the warmth of his fur. How good he smelled, the thumping of his mighty heart, their souls entwined and how much the wolf cared for the prince, so unreservedly. Wishing they had more time together. Eventually, the wolf left. He had never disobeyed a request, and today was no exception. A boy in his dog, Tyr knew the concept of love now. He loved Okami, and always would. He'd rather die than have the same fate befall this partner of his heart.

What a time to come to such a realization... Tyr smiled softly, looking straight up into those flinty eyes of the Harani primus. Life was strange and inconsistent, a tragedy by any other name, but comedy seemed the only universal thing about it.

“You too.” He looked toward Charlotte. “There is no reason for you, nor the child, to see this ting.”

His hands were still shaking, and she could see it. He was putting on a brave face, but he was afraid. After all of his claims of fearlessness. Tyr wasn't so dauntless after all.

“I won't leave.” She shook her head with grim resolution. “There has to be some mistake. This can be explained! I've told you before, but look at him, this must be some fault of mine!” Now, she was screaming again. “He looks just like you, you are like twins! How can you say he's not your—”

She was gone. Magic had seen to it. Some wards which were not meant to be removed had been, dimensional magic in the castle. Jartor agreed with the boy, she had no place in this. It wasn't her fault, and not her burden to bear either.

“She is an honorable woman.” Tyr spoke after a moment of silence shrouded the chamber. He stood there, turning away from his father and looking out the window. Everything was in such sharp focus now, but his panic was fading. If anything... He felt expectant. Tyr was a foul man, not an evil one – but far from good. There were things that needed to be done, fates that could not be avoided. And to his 'father', for he knew not what else to call him, the 'prince' was shockingly serene in his expression. He did not weep, beg, or even rail against it. No drawing of a sword, no filth spilling from his mouth. He seemed... Content with this.

“She is.” Jartor nodded. “She's always had such affection for you.”

“Mmm... I guess we should get to the good part, eh?” Tyr turned to face the man once again. They looked so alike into his adulthood. What a bizarre twist of fate that they'd appear as twins in so many ways if not for Jartor's significantly wider jaw and larger frame.

“Indeed. How do you want it?” Jartor asked. Warded again, the throne room was isolated from the greater world by his spira. Not a single spell could be cast in the place without his say so, so thick and heavy as it was. And yet Tyr felt like he was floating in the clouds, such a pleasant feeling in him. “I do not want to do this, but it must be done. There can only be one. It's either you, or a newborn babe. How would you proceed?”

“You're asking me?” Tyr paused, and Jartor nodded.

“Choose. What would you do in my position? You have my oath right now that if you decide to eliminate my son and remain in position that I can make this all go away.” Jartor's voice was impossibly deep, he was telling the truth. “Choose, remain prince or die.”

“I'd kill me.” Tyr was crying now, heavy tears falling free from his eyes, but his voice and expression alike remained steady and true. He knew what he'd do. If given the choice between a child or an adult, a baby no less, he'd always pick the elder. Adults had burdens, baggage, near all of them were filled with incredible bitterness. The impurity of experience, little cracks on them compared to the uniform beauty of a younger soul. “I just don't understand... Before I die – would you tell me why she'd do such a thing? Why would mother betray you... Us? Why would she do that?”

“Humans are complicated.” He replied. “And your mother was only half. I do not know why, but it doesn't matter. To know the truth is to carry extra weight with you as you go. I ask again, since you've made your decision – how do you want it? This will be your last chance to die the way you want to.”

“I want....” Tyr pondered the question, face stained by tears he still managed to smile wistfully. “I want to see what a true primus is capable of... Before I go.”

He'd been told so many things. That he was nephilim, that he was primus. By powerful beings and those far beyond humanity – and yet it could've all been a lie. Or maybe he was something different, but not a son of Jartor. The primus never lied, never betrayed his oaths. Tyr wasn't sure what to feel about it.

“Understood.” Jartor nodded, incinerating his soul in an instant and erasing his presence on this planet without so much as a single movement. Not even dust was left behind.

–

Quiet again. The quiet was nice. The feeling of being deprived of most senses was better. There were many weights burdening Tyr's soul, but he felt none of them in this familiar place. Feeling more home to him than anywhere else. Purgatory. The place between life in death. The mythical land of fog and mist where one would cross the black river or drown beneath its surface, judged to be tormented in the hells below.

He feared true death because he figured he'd be judged this way. There was no boat. The priests said he'd have to swim, and the river would determine whether the crimes were thicker than the water he'd traverse. An odd faith, but perhaps one of the few that was so obviously correct.

“Honestly...” Clapping came from somewhere, Thanatos materialized through the fog on his trademarked chair. Gloved and elegant, a smile spread beneath his trademark goatee. He hadn't changed at all. “I've got to say – what a show that was. You certainly kept to your end of the bargain. The romance arcs were pretty awkward and your penchant for relating to the bad guys was a pretty strange twist. Like... We want action and adventure, right? With no stakes, it was a bit boring. Regardless of the specifics, it wasn't half bad.”

“Alright...” Tyr replied, floating through the mist without any mass of his own. His body was ethereal and light, rising into the air with Thanatos following. In the infinite span of the space, it was hard to tell if he was moving at all, but it felt like he was. “What happens now?”

“I've already told you that I've no hold or ability to influence your soul. But... Well, sorry lad. This time – you're really dead. He actually destroyed your soul. I wasn't even aware that the spira could do that. Then again, yours is a bit different than the others... No healing from this one, I'd wager.”

He didn't know, not even a god could answer that question. Merely entertaining himself at Tyr's passing and observing what happened for himself. Some passing diversion in the infinite monotony of all those boring souls that passed through his domain. Granted, a bit of a disappointment overall but Thanatos had long learned to stop expecting anything explicit from the nim.

“Uh... Am I just going to float here forever, or will I go to hell...? Or...?”

“I've not the faintest idea! Isn't that exciting!? Honestly, this is the best part of the show. What will She do with you? She's in control, after all. I'm just a conductor. She owns the train, so to speak.”

“Who is 'she'?”

“Hel, of course.”

“Hell is a person?”

“Not hell, Hel. Death. Valkyrja, or whatever other name she's been given in all the languages of living things.”

“The watcher? Lady of battle and justice? What does she have to do with the dead?” Tyr asked, unable to feel anything akin to confusion despite the question. Unable to shrug, raise an eyebrow, tilt his head, snort, or chuckle. He was still, his body had no limbs to ambulate.

“Valkyrja is dead.” Thanatos replied. “All there is, is--”

He was gone, leaving the shepherd of death alone again to oversee the transit of so many souls. “Well, it was good while it lasted. See you around, brother.”