Long time no post!! I missed doing casual Guardians so I drew my poor tormented cinnamon roll hunter Sasha with his ghost Tyomik on the way home from the market!
(p.s. I’m going to do a commission sale for this style or casual guardians soon, the best way to find out about it is to be a supporter on Patreon for first dibs at the open slot, and also by following my on TwitterorInstagram!)
Long time no post!! I missed doing casual Guardians so I drew my poor tormented cinnamon roll hunter Sasha with his ghost Tyomik on the way home from the market!
(p.s. I’m going to do a commission sale for this style or casual guardians soon, the best way to find out about it is to be a supporter on Patreon for first dibs at the open slot, and also by following my on TwitterorInstagram!)
Summary:Capital Craft Mining was a well-established mining company, owned by Brynjolf, the revered and respected. In winter, they work; in summer, they sell. It was a profitable business for all involved. However, a mining accident leaves a small band of them fearing for their lives as the dust settles in their lungs and the fears grow like algae. The events that follow lead the group to discover a brand new resource that would change their fates forever…
A/N:I promised you’d get the first chapter of the Tower 2 today, until I realised I still hadn’t finished Brynjolf’s backstory. Whoops! Ah well, that means you lucky buggers are getting three consecutive posts. I’m queuing them, but there’ll be there. :3 Enjoy!
Brynjolf awoke with a start the next morning. The sun was high overhead and a few of the lads were pottering around camp: cleaning ash from the campfire, washing dishes, keeping watch. Truly, in that waking moment, Bryn couldn’t have felt prouder. A near death experience and still they soldiered on.
“Someone’s asking for you,” a Vasir woman said with a smile as she lifted a heavy log of firewood from her back and set it down over the old kindling. “He’s awake?” “So I’m told.”
“Hey boss,” Oris mumbled, the left side of his mouth not quite keeping up with the right. The scar on his face looked a lot better in the morning light. Less enflamed.
“Hey there, kiddo. How’re you feelin’?”
Apparently, not well. The second he was asked, Oris’ eyes seemed to glaze over. He licked his lips nervously and tried to sit up. “Woah, woah,” Brynjolf chuckled, holding him down and adjusting the sheet over his legs. “Where do ye’ think you’re scurryin’ off to?” “The mines, I have to-” “What?” “The mines, Bryn, we have to seal them up.”
Brynjolf insisted that Oris lie down again, slow down, explain what happened. Reluctantly, the boy obliged. That look in his eyes… It was like he’d aged a decade overnight. “I can’t explain it, Brynjolf. That stuff? It was more than just an explosive. I couldn’t sense anything whilst I was under. It was… worsethan being unconscious. It felt like I’d died and come back. Cold as a corpse, I bet.”
Swallowing thickly, Brynjolf scratched the back of his neck. He’d been rolling round and groaning for days, but hadn’t known anything of it? That was… worrisome, to say the least. “We’ll cover it up,” Oris stammered, “right, boss? We won’t let this stuff get out?”
In his mind’s eyes, Brynjolf was thinking about the pestle and mortar from last night. He’d buried the powder, sure, but he’d still toyed with the idea of using the stuff. Even after seeing what it had done to Oris. There was no debating any longer. This stuff had to be hidden away. “You betcha breeches,” he smiled, patting the boy’s hand. “Ain’t nobody gonna know about this stuff except us, I promise; nobody else getting’ hurt.”
This seemed to relax Oris and his youthful side promptly returned to him as he lay his head down and smiled. “You just rest up, ye’ hear? We’ll have you back in the fray in no time.”
Before Brynjolf could up and leave, however, Oris sat up again. “Can I get some food?”
Bryn smiled warmly. The boy was going to be fine.
With a freshly cleaned bowl in his hand, Brynjolf whistled as he wandered towards the campfire. Hopefully there was still some soup from last night ready and waiting. Sure enough, the bowl was still hung over the ashen pit, despite having long gone cold.
That was not the only thing to catch his eye, however. As he walked past the log pit he’d sat on the night before, he noticed the disturbed soil. Dug up. And empty. The powder would’ve been useless once it mixed with the soil but… to three idiots who didn’t know the first thing about alchemy, it would be a starting guide. The Idiot’s Guide to Making Explosives.
Brynjolf dropped the bowl. Immediately, he began yelling demands as he marched towards the mouth of the caves. “You there, I want a count of this morning’s Anaesthesium, and I want it compared to yesterdays.” “Yes boss!”
Of course, he didn’t need the count to know what had happened. The tunnel down to the Bangstone had already been boarded up. Shoddily. Like someone was trying to make a quick getaway. The Vasir woman from earlier, Sareash, jogged to his side, a little out of breath but red in the face for other reasons also. “Boss, there’s… there’s been a development.” “They’ve robbed some of our Anaesthesium?” “Y-Yes, I– How did you know?” “Because I gave ‘em the idea. The fucking bastards.”
Sareash looked a little taken aback. “Sorry, Bryn, but I don’t understand.” “You don’t need to yet. Gather everyone together. I wants a word with ‘em all.”
The notice that Brynjolf wanted to speak to the entire staff spread quickly; nobody liked Brynjolf in a bad mood. This was in part due to their love and respect for him. After all, whoever was despicable enough to upset Brynjolf deserved a thousand deaths. However, it was also partly because nobody had ever truly seen Brynjolf enraged before. ‘Twas such a rare occurrence that it was entirely justified for people to fear the consequences of it.
However, when Brynjolf stoof in front of his people, clad in armour and apparently prepared to leave them, he spoke with a solemnity and calm. To a few, that was even more worrying. They’d have preferred him to shout and scream.
“…yet despite my warnings, despite the deaths of the friends, and despite the turmoil inflicted upon one of our own–“ Brynjolf locked eyes with Oris, who was watching and listening from the bedroll that had been moved to the fireside, “–they stole the bread from our tables anyway. They seek to hurt people, to sell to those who would hurt people, despite what they may say about the Anaesthesium’s effects.”
A few of the crowd shuffle uncomfortably. After all, Qilto, Safrat, and Araloic were friends to many of them – or so they thought. “Any of ye’ who wants into that business is welcome to leave Capital Craft Mining right now, and have a headstart on me catching ‘em.”
Nobody moved a muscle.
This settled the anger in Brynjolf’s heart a notch. “Tha’s alright then. Means the bad eggs are few and far between.”
Bowing his head, Brynjolf let his shoulders slump and his expression soften. “This… This is my fault, lads, so I’m gonna fix it. However I can. You ‘ave me word.” Oris watched him with a soft expression that was a mixture of concern and adoration. Bryn couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye again. To think that someone else might end up in a worse state than that poor boy, because of him? That wasn’t something he intended to let his conscience bare.
“Sareash, they’re all yours.” “I’ll be back when I catch these fuckers, or when I’m out of food. One or the other.”
And just like that, he was gone. Hard on the trail of those who’d betrayed him, Brynjolf couldn’t have guessed how much more the fates had in store for him.
The sun peeked over the horizon, spilling orange and gold into the bedroom. You didn’t realise it was possible for Brynjolf’s hair to look even more like fire. “So… t-there ye’ have it. I wanted to… make peace with it. With you.”
You frowned and wrung the nightshirt between your hands. Conflicted wasn’t half of what you were feeling. Yet he kept talking. “It was my people who found that stuff, it was my people who robbed from me, but worse than that… it was I who made them bombs that– that did ye’ wrong.”
Loki had listened for as long as he was able, but ultimately he’d passed out on the bedspread, leaving you and Bryn to talk alone. The two of you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, close and across from each other, meaning you couldn’t avoid the look of worry in his eyes as it was cast upon you.
“I… I don’t blame you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you said. Brynjolf didn’t believe you – and he was right not to. The look on your face did little to quell him of the concerns that you were holding him accountable. Of course, you were completely within your right to do so, even if it would break his heart.
“This’ll, uh, take some time to sink in, I wager,” he said with a brisk smile. When you didn’t reply, he placed his hands on his knees and stood up. He’d reached the bedroom door when you called out for him to wait.
You approached him tentatively, before bending down and pulling him into one of his own spine-crushing hugs (or, at least, your best impression of one). “I… I don’t understand,” he said once he’d been released. “You saved my life.” “But-” “And I’m not talking about when you found me by the waterfall. Yes, that still counts, but everything after that does too. You stayed with me in case Loki had ulterior motives–” As if on cue, Loki snored loudly, and you winced, before trying to cover a grin with your hand. Bryn rolled his eyes at your partner, “–and you found us food when neither could leave the Tower. You risked everything to rescue me from my village, you followed me all the way to the capital city to make sure I was alright… You gave me a family when I had none left.”
Clearing his throat, Brynjolf rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. He wasn’t crying, of course. He just had… itchy eyes. A very common condition amongst dwarves, actually. Very, very common. Completely undocumented, but very common. You gave him a watery smile and laughed lightly.
“I don’t care about the circumstances that brought us together, Bryn. I care about everything after, and you’ve more than made up for it.” “Really?” “Of course! What, did you think I wouldn’t be able to forgive my dad?”
Brynjolf was still rubbing his eyes and chuckled more than once. “You’re a good’un, lady, you know that?” “Stop worrying so much,” you said warmly, bending over and planting a kiss on his cheek. “That’s my job.”
After a curt sigh, Bryn patted your cheek and apologised for keeping you up to lament. You dismissed his worries immediately, telling him that if he was so worried, he ought to go to bed himself. Reluctantly, he agreed and bid you a good… Well, a good morning. It really had been a long and arduous night for everybody. Somehow, though, you hoped it might have been worth it.
Once you’d shut the bedroom door, you turned around, stretching – to find Loki sat upright on the bed. “You called him your dad,” he said bluntly. You scowled. “Iknewyou weren’t sleeping! What, did you think there’d be more secrets shared if we thought you weren’t listening?”
“Don’t change the topic,” he continued, never taking his eyes off of you as the bed covers were lifted and you slipped inside. “You called him dad.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Loki, now please. I want to sleep.”
Loki rolled his eyes and relented – for now. This wouldn’t be something he’d forget easily, if at all. Least of all because he knew what paternal figures meant to you both. However, for the time being, he’d let you have your sleep, because… Well, because he knew what paternal figures meant to you both.
“I love you so much,” he said, pressing the lightest of kisses against the shoulder closest to him. “Sweet dreams, love of mine.”
And so, the two of you finally found peace in the comfort of the night. Of course, there was trouble in both of your minds that would not dissipate as easily as in your dreams, but for that singular solitary moment, the world was quiet and all was well. That was how you wished it to stay. And that was how it ought to stay.
After all, there were no longer villains afoot, secrets being kept, and dangers to vanquish. Nothing could possibly go wrong from this moment on…
Summary:Capital Craft Mining was a well-established mining company, owned by Brynjolf, the revered and respected. In winter, they work; in summer, they sell. It was a profitable business for all involved. However, a mining accident leaves a small band of them fearing for their lives as the dust settles in their lungs and the fears grow like algae. The events that follow lead the group to discover a brand new resource that would change their fates forever…
A/N:I promised you’d get the first chapter of the Tower 2 today, until I realised I still hadn’t finished Brynjolf’s backstory. Whoops! Ah well, that means you lucky buggers are getting three consecutive posts. I’m queuing them, but there’ll be there. :3 Enjoy!
Oris had been in and out of sleep for quite some time. Grunting. Whimpering. Every so often, when he rolled the wrong way, pain bit at his brain like a dog had clamped its jaws round his head. Teeth sunk into his skull and sent tendrils of frightful nightmares coursing through his mind’s eye. When he felt a pair of bracing hands behind his skull, however, the dog relented.
Brynjolf was careful when adjusting the pack behind the sleeping boy’s head. He’d been sweating for hours, moaning and softly whining in his comatose state. The nasty wound on his temple had all but healed, a terrific scar now stretching from his cheek upwards. It didn’t look good, but at least he was alive.
Qilto – one of the older recruits, an Asgardian – looked up from his meal when he noticed that Brynjolf had once again left to play nurse. He was a baby-faced fellow, large brown eyes and black hair in a small bun. “How is he?” asked he to his boss, a mouthful of bread distorting his words. “He’ll live, I should think,” was his reply. Brynjolf finished mithering, wiped his hands on his trousers, and joined his friends by the hearth.
Strangely, the heat from the fire felt different to that of the sweaty, sticky caves under the earth. It seemed calming and inviting. Comforting. It stole away the shiver from their bones and softened the frantic beating of their hearts. To think they’d been so close to death… Qilto and Brynjolf were joined by two more Asgardian recruits; all others had chosen their bedrolls over nourishment. Safrat (Saf to anybody he wasn’t in trouble with) and Araloic. They too slurped hungrily at the hastily made broth in their bowls. It had been a troubling day; even the hardest of stomachs were now hungry.
For a while, they simply talked. All men were grateful to have company, and just for that moment, all seemed right with the world. The gentle hum of bugs in the bushes; a playful wind kissing their cheeks.
When the conversation died down a bit, Brynjolf rolled his shoulders stretched. He’d been working on a little… side-project since they’d emerged from the mines that day. He wasn’t sure if it would come to anything as he picked up the pestle and mortar by his feet, but curiosity had overwhelmed him.
“Whatcha got there, boss?” Saf suddenly said, cutting his previous conversation in two. Safrat was a wiry man, with a fuzzy grey beard and silver hair to match. A severe underbite gave him the appearance of a man without sense, but this could not have been further from the truth. “I’m not sure yet,” Bryn replied with a shrug. “Nothing at the minute.”
That part was the truth. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at currently. What he’d neglected to share was that he knew what it used to be. Anaesthesium, crushed to a fine powder and mixed with the newly discovered mineral, which he’d started calling Bangstone. He’d collected some samples after he’d passed Oris’ body up through the tunnel to freedom. No harm in looking, right? It was only research.
A few minutes later and Brynjolf was happy that he’d finished, even if he wasn’t sure what he’d made. “Do you know what it is yet?” Qilto chuckled. Brynjolf grimaced. “I know what I was wantin’ it to be, but I don’t know if it’ll work.” “Well, what did you want it to be?”
Brynjolf scratched his bearded chin. “Well, it’s… it’s that stuff we found down there. The… The Bangstone.” “Bangstone?” Saf and Araloic snickered. “You’s two got a better name? It’s the Bangstone and some Anaesthesium. I figured if I could get the stuff into some sort of container, we could use it around the borders of the camp. Keep the wildlings at bay without ‘em getting killed.”
Qilto raised an eyebrow, and slowly turned to his friends. If the look in their eyes was anything to go on, they’d thought the same thing as him. “Boss… Can I make a suggestion?” “Course.”
“That’s a bit of a soft approach, ain’t it?” “Soft?” Brynjolf recoiled. “I ain’t soft!” “No, no, we’s not saying you’resoft. We’re just saying you could do one better.” “Such as?”
After a few shifty looks and a few toes in the soil, Araloic finally spoke up. “Boss, you could see that to mercs for quite the price.”
“What? Mercs?” “Think about it,” Qilto cut in, shuffling closer with his hand outstretched, fully prepared to explain. “We could double our asking price; double our profits!”
Laughter was not the response they’d anticipated but it was one they got nonetheless. “Firstly,” Brynjolf said, wiping away a tear, “I don’t think you fellas understand the maths enough. Doubling what we ask don’t double our profits if we’re doin’ twice the work to make something.”
They couldn’t ask for that. Safrat glared at Qilto a little for not thinking things all the way through. “Secondly, have you got rocks for brains or did you not see how dangerous that stuff was?” As if on cue, Oris began to groan in his sleep again. Qilto bowed his head ashamedly. “Some of us died today, another barely survived, and all yous lot can think of is the profits to be made off the shite that did it.”
“Don’t you run a business?” Safrat growled, displeased by the callous insult. Brynjolf frowned. “I does, yeah. But I don’t run it on the blood of peoples.” “Oh come on,” Qilto continued. He stood up suddenly, hoping to make his point a little more dramatically. “Every time we go down there, we’s riskin’ our necks, Bryn. What’s a little more risk?”
“I wasn’t on about your blood,” Brynjolf said lowly.
Qilto paced a little before flopping onto ground at his friends’ feet. He was sulking, and was doing nothing to hide it. Oris’ groaning in the distance grew louder, and turned Brynjolf’s head.
“We start selling bombs to people and the bodies line up,” he said, standing up and kicking a hole into the soil with his boot. He promptly poured the powder inside and covered it up again. “Anaesthesium or no, we ain’t doin’ it. And that’s final.”
Firstly, I ought to thank everybody who entered. There were entries of all shapes and sizes sent to me on various platforms but unfortunately there can only be five victors. I’ll pop them under the cut for people who aren’t as miffed about all this competition malarky. To those of you who are simply waiting for an update regarding The Tower 2: I’ll be posting Chapter 1 tonight. I’ve just got to tidy off Brynjolf’s backstory and then it’s ready to go.
And so, without further ado…
As per the original post, there will be 5 runners-up to the competition, who will become beta-readers for the new fic. One of these runners up will be crowned the ultimate winner, and on top of becoming a beta, will be allowed to request a fic of their choosing and work with me for the entire process of its creation.
Runners Up (in no particular order)
@monstermayo with their artwork of Loki and the Reader
It is worth noting that this piece took inspiration from another piece of fanart that I received a while ago. The combo of two beautiful pieces of art, mixed with some of the most adorable expressions I’ve ever seen really sold this piece to me.
@midnightleone with their artwork of Loki, Nugget, and Jarlien
I treated these submissions as equal - which wasn’t hard to be honest because they’re both equally as brilliant as each other. It was the variety of the characters presented and the humour in both that really stood out.
Wow wow wow, I could not get over how powerful this was. Such a great depiction of the scene and just how I pictured it in my head. From the minimalist background to the detail that matched the description, this one was a pleasure to receive.
This one is beautiful for so many reasons. The lanterns in the background; the otome-esque technique of hiding the reader’s face; the beautiful colour palette. I struggled to stop gushing about this one for quite some time.
This piece had me smiling for a good few hours. The comparison worked well enough when I wrote the tower - but seeing it depicted like this? Hilarious. And incredibly accurate. It got bonus points for the reader’s sassy hip bump.
When I couldn’t make the decision alone, I had to enlist the help of two other judges. Finally, a call was made and we unanimously agreed that an image so wholesomely and beautifully portraying our favourite gay sons in such a loving embrace could not place anything lower than first. Truly, the utmost congratulations are in order for that fanart; it was everything I pictured in my head and more.
I’ll be in touch with everybody who won with regards to the prizes, but in the meantime I need some dinner before starting a brand new fic! I don’t know about you guys, but I am heckin excited for The Tower 2. Hold onto your butts folks, you’re in for a wild ride.
Summary:Capital Craft Mining was a well-established mining company, owned by Brynjolf, the revered and respected. In winter, they work; in summer, they sell. It was a profitable business for all involved. However, a mining accident leaves a small band of them fearing for their lives as the dust settles in their lungs and the fears grow like algae. The events that follow lead the group to discover a brand new resource that would change their fates forever…
A/N:Things are tensing up a little. You’ll be excited to know that I’ve actually started Chapter 1 of The Tower 2 - progress is officially underway! Hoorah! Wish me luck, I’m going to go carry on with it. Enjoy!
5 days in darkness. 5 days rationing food, and drinking water from the walls. When the rocks had collapsed, their way in (and consequently, their way out) had been blocked off.
With every hour they were under, tensions rose. The men grew bitter, and with their bitterness they grew fierce. “What are we waiting for?” Brynjolf snapped, breaking silence like it was a brittle twig. “Rescue? The lads up top don’t even know stuff’s wrong yet. They isn’t comin’ up for air until the end of this here week. We’ll be dead before they is starting diggin’.” “Well, what else can we do?” asked Oris, who touched his twisted ankle tenderly. It was more or less healed, but it stung as much as his pride. Nobody else had slipped over like he had.
Brynjolf tugged his beard once or twice, then stood up. “What we does best, boys. We’s going to dig.”
The pickaxe on his shoulder wobbled as he waddled over to the nearest wall, and began to swing. Lift, swing, crack. Again. “Brynjo-”
Crack.
“Brynjolf, come on, it’s-” Crack. “Save your energy and you’ll last longer.”
“But what’s I lasting for?” He spun around, his axe still bared for another blow. “I told ye’. Nobody’s coming. If I die trying to get us all outta here, then so be it.”
His speech was not what could be described as ‘empowering’. However, it did lift a few of the stronger men off of their arses to help. It should be noted that not all of the mining company were in fact dwarves. Of course, there were plenty, but Brynjolf’s company had been indiscriminate in its want for helping hands. Asgardians, Dwarves, even the few Vasir mucked together to break through the stone.
Perhaps a higher power watched over them; perhaps one of the Norn’s was inspired by the teamwork and integrity displayed. True comradery. Or maybe they simply knew better, and could see what lay on the other side of that particular sheet of rock… And maybe they wanted to see what the desperate group would make of it.
“Did… Did we do it?” A smaller voice at the back asked when a hole appeared in the wall. Brynjolf shrugged and began to pull away at the edges with his hands. To be honest, he couldn’t see past his own nose. Even as he pulled away at the edges of the hole to make it wider, there was no telling what they’d encountered aside from darkness.
However, some of the group were willing to risk it as someone shoved their way to the front. It was one of the newer lads. His first cave-in. Understandably, he was eager to get out of it. So when Brynjolf stuck his arm and stopped him disappearing into the darkness, the look he received was – to put it mildly – foul.
“Anybody got a match?” Bryn asked. After a brief scuffling and shuffling, a match was passed to the front, lit, and tossed into the cavern. Brynjolf squinted as he watched it, waiting for the glowing to die. But it didn’t. “It’s breathable then,” said the impulsive boy as he stepped further inside.
That was when the cavern exploded.
Brynjolf’s back hit the wall. Hard. Pain careered through him in crashing waves, drowning him and stealing all of his breath away. After sinking to the floor, he crawled forward, coughing and shivering. He could taste blood in his mouth, and there was a wetness behind his ear as well. Weary and blurred eyesight showed him the horrors that had come to his friends. His family.
Ellgar’s crimson-covered boot jutted out from under a significant pile of rubble. Another dwarf ran around in circles, flames on his clothing biting and scratching his skin. His face was but a ghost of itself, boils and burns distorting him like a candle distorted wax.
Oris, the poor boy, looked terrified. Rabbit-like. On his weak ankle, he stumbled further into the newly revealed cavern, the only way away from the commotion. Brynjolf wanted to yell out his name, plead with him to stop, to slow, but just as he reached out his hand, Oris slipped on a rock and fell. His skull hit the floor and began to bleed.
So much heartache in one explosion. What was that stuff?
Clearing the soot and soil from his throat, Brynjolf heaved himself onto heavy feet. He could see Oris’ frail body lying in the cavern, surrounded by a strange new mineral. This stuff… It was unlike anything they’d encountered before. Grey like stone, yet brittle and volatile. Explosive. It shone white in the sunlight like–
Sunlight.
Brynjolf’s pace quickened, albeit with a limp. Despite the protests from his terrified teammates, he stumbled into the cavern besides Oris corpse. Except, it wasn’t a corpse… The boy was still alive! A gentle sunbeam warmed his face, dust swirling under his nose with every sleeping breath that escaped him. They were jagged and turmoiled but they were there at least.
Bryn turned his head to follow the stream of gold sunbeams and saw that the tumultuous explosion had travelled quite a way. No doubt the wildlife up top had been in for a shock. Sunlight breached the darkened room; a sign of hope; of comfort and safety; of life beyond. The surface. And the salvation they’d dreamt of for 5 days.
As a team, rocks were manoeuvred to the bottom of the hole, creating a staircase up. It was a narrow shaft that had been blown open, but the fire in their bellies made light work of it as they wriggled to freedom.
Being careful not aggravate any more of the dangerous mineral, Brynjolf lifted Oris into his arms and began his own steady, treacherous climb back home.
Summary:Capital Craft Mining was a well-established mining company, owned by Brynjolf, the revered and respected. In winter, they work; in summer, they sell. It was a profitable business for all involved. However, a mining accident leaves a small band of them fearing for their lives as the dust settles in their lungs and the fears grow like algae. The events that follow lead the group to discover a brand new resource that would change their fates forever…
A/N:This is it lads! The final interim piece before the sequel begins. Same as last time - just a couple of short chapters to give Bryn some depth, and then we’re good to go, my dudes. Enjoy!
“You did what?” “I… I killed them, love. All three of them.”
The two of you hadn’t been long retired. It was in the middle of changing into your nightwear that Loki had confessed – quite out of nowhere – that he’d “murdered” the bandits who’d kidnapped you.
“Worse than that I… I turned them on each other.” You pulled the nightshirt firmly down by its hem before lowering yourself onto the bedside. Loki sat beside you. “I told them to fight each other and that the victor would survive – before I slaughtered him too. I could’ve turned them in, I could’ve let them rot in jail, and justice would’ve been served. But I didn’t. At the first opportunity, I picked up a blade. Because I wanted to. Because I… I got a thrill out of it. You said that the part of me capable of murder had perished in the Tower, but I fear that… that it’s as much a part of me as the hands that bore the weapon.” “Is this you advocating that I should chop off your hands?” “No, I– Are you laughing? Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”
“I’m sorry, I just…” Biting your lip, you turned away and shrugged. “I appreciate you telling me, but you really haven’t thought about this have you? Aside from how it can earn you some pity.” “What are you talking about?” “Must I explain everything to you? Solve all of your problems?”
Loki scoffed and stood up, his hands on his hips. You watched him pace, debating whether to make a smart comment or simply stay quiet. What was he missing that was apparently so obvious? You kept your hands neatly folded in your lap; finally, with a wave of his hand, you were permitted to speak. “Alright, let me make this easy for you: would you say the same of the guards who stand at the gates of our home, bearing swords on their hips?”
After moment of careful consideration, Loki sighed curtly. “No, but they only use their weapons when a threat is posed, not before. I was the threat to those men in the woods.” You raised an eyebrow. “And did those ‘men’ in the woods draw their weapons before or after you revealed yourself to them?”
Loki thought back; he’d only spoken to them. Yes, his intention had been to frighten them, but they’d have no way of knowing that he meant harm when they reached for their blades. You began to toy with the edge of your shirt. “And as far as I’m concerned, they lost any right to f-fair treatment when they considered… having their way with me.” Immediately, Loki’s shoulders dropped. He placed his hands over yours. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to make you relive painful memories.”
“Would you question yourself about this if they’d actually done it?” You asked, somewhat pointedly. Loki blinked. “I beg your pardon?” “Well, I passed out shortly afterwards. They could’ve changed their mind on the journey and I wouldn’t have known. If they’d actually done it, would you feel guilty about taking their lives?” “Not at all.”
You raised an eyebrow, knowing you needn’t say any more. Loki was a little concerned; before you’d fallen into his life, you’d been innocent. You’d believed in punishment after the crime. Now you’d been hardened by all you’d seen. There was something seething within you that he didn’t like. Anger. Upset.
With nothing more than a reluctant smile, Loki admitted defeat, turned, and fell dramatically backwards onto the mattress. “Yes, thank you, Madam Smug. You’ve made your point.” “Which is?” “There’s a difference between murder and… what I did.”
You smiled and fell back also, lying next to him and letting your fingers wander amongst his. “The ruler of this realm deals with his problems by picking up a giant hammer and smashing them to pieces. Bandits police country roads; aliens are a threat at every waking moment. We cannot afford to walk this world without a means of defending ourselves. To do so would be ignorant to the threats which we constantly face.”
“When did you get so wise?” Loki asked, lifting his head when there came an abrupt knock at the bedroom door. You sat up and stood to answer it, talking over your shoulder as you did so. “I expect it happened when I started solving other people’s problems.”
You swung open the door to see Brynjolf, wringing his hands. “Have ye’ got a minute to talk?”
The shadows of the deep Asgardian caverns seemed to move of their own accord. It was hot, dark, and dusty. Every member of the mining group that explored its depths bore two handkerchiefs in their pockets; one for generic handkerchief uses, and another for wiping the sweat from their brow. They could taste the soot on their tongue, the salt of their sweat. Chapped lips welcomed the flask of water that was passed from hand to hand.
Capital Craft Mining had a team totalling about 60 to 70 miners, led by the company’s creator, Brynjolf, a man of fiery temper and equally fiery hair. His group sold to doctors and small-town healers mainly; they were the premium source of a mineral called ‘Anaesthenium’ that could be ground down into a fine powder for pain relief and numbing salves. During the winter months, the men would disappear into darkness in search of the mineral before surfacing in the summer to sell it all on.
Winter had arrived once again.
Brynjolf had split off with ten of his miners into a narrow tunnel walking south. A vein of Anaesthesium was visible to their left and the plan was to follow it along until they reached a large source of the stuff or it ran dry, at which point they could work their way back up and mine the mineral along the way.
“How’s everybody farin’?” Bryn shouted. 9 cries in the affirmative settled his stomach considerably. Despite them being his employees, Brynjolf cared for every member of his organisation like they were blood. And they were. They slept together, ate together, worked together. Many of his men had been taken on at a young age, when their options of employment were few and far between. 0.They were indebted to Brynjolf for providing hot food and a living wage, and he was equally appreciative, for these men were often the most hard-working and loyal.
“Vein’s run dry,” called a familiar voice, Ellgar. “I say we start digging our way back up to the rendesvouz.” “Sounds like a plan. Boys? Spirits up, picks down.”
And so the tunnel that had formerly been filled with nothing more than shuffling steps was suddenly aburst with song. Tuneful whistles of the dwarfs that populated it; their musicality had been improved and refined over the years. An hour later they stopped to snack, before picking up their tools once more and returning to the job at hand. Business as usual.
Brynjolf felt inspired by his work. The steady rhythm of his axe against rock. Lift, swing, crack. Again. Lift, swing, crack. Again. His body was used to the toil like a baby was used to a bottle.
Others in his group, however, were newer. Less practiced. They knew to lift and swing – but where the metal cracked against the wall was a mystery. After all, one wrong move and they’d bring down a rain of stone. Heavy and hard. Fatal.
Unfortunately, today was one of those days.
Ellgar hadn’t seen the fracture as anything more than a crag. A hole. Nothing to worry about, he’d thought, as he’d sunk his pickaxe into it. Perhaps my efforts will loosen the rock, and make the Anaesthesium easier to harvest!
And loosen the rock it did. It was simply a miscalculation as to whichrock.
Brynjolf heard the danger before he saw it. Ellgar sunk his axe into the crag and had already begun to lift it for another crack. Same spot. Brynjolf leapt forward and grabbed the handle, holding it mid air as he turned his ear up.
The stone rumbled… It hummed…
“Everybody, further in - this place is coming down!” He screamed, voice breaking slightly. Quick as a whip, heads turned and legs moved. You didn’t second guess the threat of a collapse; nobody would every joke. Those who did weren’t around to tell the tale.
Every man under his command followed the dying echo of Brynjolf’s words as they dissipated against the growing thunder. Though the way down was steep, a deathly incline of smooth and lumpy rock, the men manoeuvred it with skill and grace.
Juxtaposing the gentle increase of the grumbling, rumbling rock, a boulder – about the size of a a pig’s bladder – became dislodged above their heads. It hit the floor with a crunch, bassy and thick, frightening the men it had failed to crush. One of the almost-victims, Oris, stumbled and fell. He slid down the bumpy slide until he hit somebody’s feet. Brynjolf picked Oris up and heaved him onto his feet.
Bryn didn’t intend to go anywhere. Not yet. He wasn’t moving until every one of his men had gone first.
Pebbles and rubble shivered all around him, sinking into view and causing barricades with every step. Ellgar trembled as much as the mines. “I- I’m sorry, Bryn. I didn’t realise-” “Quit yammerin’ and haul ass. We don’t outrun this, ye’ won’t have the heart left to apologise from the bottom of.”
As larger and larger debris fell from the ceiling, the speed of the fleeing miners increased. Down, down, down like rabbits in a hole. Brynjolf’s heart was in his ears, the only place he could hear his thundering heartbeat over the chaos of the collapse.
When he spotted a cave in the distance – a small divet in the wall – it sped up exponentially. “There – the cave, lads. Move, move, move!” Their hearts were hammering, their mouths were dry, and even their bones rattled with fear.
They huddled together in the small alcove, holding onto each other for comfort and strength. Every day in the mines was a risk; every man who entered held Death’s hand as he did so. However, for every day that nothing happened, their confidence grew. They grew careless – and this was the result. When the ten finally emerged from their hiding hole, several terror-filled minutes later, the world had changed significantly…
Summary:In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Here we go, the final chapter! It’s a little short but packs a punch. Brynjolf’s backstory is up next - so I’m super pumped. After that, I can get started the sequel itself! Let me know what you think. :3
“And so, I was thrown into Asgard’s prison where I waited for my demise or my release, whichever came first,” Fenrien smiled wearily, running the edge of his finger around the rim of his empty wine mug. For some reason, the effect of the alcohol had worn off. He could feel the grizzly pain of his tale raking across the chambers of his heart. It had been a while since he’d thought about Frida; he now remembered why he’d tried to forget. Jarle tucked a piece of hair behind his lover’s ear fondly, and for a minute he could see the tufts of darkened hair where his cut hair hadn’t quite grown back yet.
Thor had excused himself a few moments ago, upon mention of palace horses arriving at the scene. He gripped the windowsill and bowed his head between his shoulders. Yet another mistake, he scolded himself…
You excused yourself from Loki’s side so that you could follow him, and Loki watched as you wrapped your arms around the sovereign’s waist and held on as tightly as you could, cheek pressed into his spine. He patted your clasped hands before using the same hand to wipe away a tear from his cheek.
“If nobody has anything to say,” Fenrien said. “I think I shall retire to bed. It has been… a long time coming. Thank you for listening to me.”
Fenrien had not been gone long before Jarle excused himself and followed. Thor was still by the window, accepting words of support from you and then Brynjolf. This left Loki on his own. That was always dangerous.
His mind couldn’t help but wander, sinking further into the depths of his despaired mind and tormenting him with images of an all too familiar face. His own.
Who are you to judge? The voices whispered. You mourn for the child – for the elf – because you know them. You know their names. What about those you didn’t know? The ones who died in a city called New York? The children. The caravan owner may have been a con man but he had to pay the bills; you con yourself if you are think you are above him, better than him. You are nothing more than a–
“Loki?”
He heard your voice breaking through the water, like the beacon of a lighthouse, dragging him away from the siren’s call. However, as his focus cleared, he realised why you’d done so. The clenching of his fist was fierce, the expression on his face even more so. His fingers had wrapped themselves around the neck of his glass – and snapped it cleanly in two.
You edged closer to his frozen form. “Are you… alright?” Loki turned away. When he felt your fingers touch his shoulders, he realised how tense they were. How high up. Even Thor watched his brother with concern. Had the story touched him so deeply?
“I fear I am not alright.” “Well, we can see that, pebbles,” Brynjolf chuckled morbidly. He was hyper aware that you were stood next to the man whose face indicated he was about ready to explode. “We’s asking why.” “Because I should be in the cell next to that man. I have killed thrice as many in even more horrific ways. I am the poison in the powder that she ate. I am the fire that burned their homes. I am-” “-a drama queen and an attention whore,” you interrupted, moving your left hand from Loki’s shoulder blade to his hair and ruffling it manically.
Loki blinked and, along with everyone else in the room, glared at you. A stupid smile was on your face. “Did you forget the bit where you didsit in a cell for however long? Before being moved to an even bigger, even worse one?” Thor’s mouth parted marginally. “In penance for what you did, there were many who wanted to see you rot. And when I found you, that’s what you’d done. You were a shell of a person, all but withered away. Hollow. Rotten. The part of you capable of murder perished with it, or you’d never have been able to get out.”
Thor’s eyes narrowed and Loki could feel his brother’s stare. You still didn’t know about the bandits in the woods. But that was different surely! ‘Twas simply vengeance. He was defending your honour! Loki knew the second that he thought it where Thor would stand on the subject; your honour could have just as easily been defended by throwing them in prison. Perhaps he was a drama queen.
When Loki bowed his head, you leaned down to kiss it. “The story was not about you, nor was it for you. Twisting it to earn a little sympathy is not a habit to get into. Let Fenrien make his peace and do so with him.”
It wasn’t helping him feel better, but Loki knew you were right. He resolved to tell you what he’d done to the bandits, hoping that doing so would allow him to ‘make peace’ with it, as you’d said.
“You’re right, love. I will let this go and hold onto something else.” Grinning wickedly, Loki leapt up, grabbed your waist, and threw you over his shoulder. You kicked, and yelled, and beat him with your fists; over the sound of their laughter, Loki bid Thor and Brynjolf goodnight on both of your behalves before swiftly exiting the room.
The sound of your protests could be heard all the way down the corridor.
Summary:In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Penultimate chapter, my fellow humans. :3 Shit is about to hit the fan so hold onto your butts. Next chapter will tie everything together nicely. Enjoy!
For two days the group trekked through the woods. Despite the shade, there was sweat on their brows; despite their pace, they panted like dogs; all of this due to their new leader. “Fenrien,” Elandor moaned. Fenrien wasn’t listening, marching forward like he knew exactly where he was going, like he wasn’t on the brink of exhaustion.
“Fenrien, please. We’ve got blisters on our blisters. Let us rest.” “We’ll find help soon, I’m sure of it.” Fenrien stopped next to a tree with low-hanging branches. He considered climbing it to re-navigate from a height. Elandor ducked under the branch and popped up on the other side, placing his hand over Fenrien’s. “My friend, look at our people.”
Reeus and Inreus, the twins, had taken the momentary pause to collapse onto the cool earth, closing their eyes and sucking in some large, steady breaths. Reeus’ hand slid into his brother’s and squeezed. Mytris too sat down, about two feet from the snoozing twins. She pulled her left boot of and began to rub the sole of her bare foot. Rosy pink blisters were indeed visible. She winced when she waggled her toes, but bit her lip and returned her threadbare shoe to her foot. Sylphine had been a doctor back in Alfheim. She’d been carrying Frida ever since her coughing fit had started up again. Syl placed her down to tend others. Frida looked positively exhausted.
There were plenty who looked much the same, but it only took the sight of those faces for Elan’s point to sink in. Fenrien’s head dropped. So caught up had he been in securing his group’s safety that he’d forgotten to think about the short-term. “I just…” “I know,” Elan said, squeezing Fenrien’s hand slightly.
After finishing her examinations, Sylphine wandered over to the tree as Fenrien began to climb up it. She watched him for a moment before requesting a quiet word with Elan. “She’s not well.” “Who? The girl.” “Aye. Without treatment, I…” Sylphine rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “I… can’t fathom how much worse her condition will become.”
They continued to discuss the situation until Fenrien’s feet hit the ground. “There’s… a city… Oh, a glorious city,” he panted, stretching as he stood up. “It’s not far. Perhaps a day’s walk at best.”
Sylphine shot Elan a pointed look and he placated her with a hand gesture. “Fenrien, please. We are all exhausted. Frida is unwell. Not all have your energy. We must make camp here for a while.”
When Sylphine returned to Frida, who was now sitting up against a tree, coughing gently, Fenrien sighed. He spoke softly, to Elan alone. “Rest then. I will trek ahead on our behalf. I will return as soon as I can with supplies or support, whichever I discover first.”
Fenrien walked like a man reborn. He couldn’t say quite what spurred him on in particular; in part it was Frida’s declining health, but equally it was the proximity of the glistening capital city. The elusive culprit for his lifted spirits had nonetheless put a skip in his step, a lightness in his heart, and a smile on his face. He whistled in tune with strange foreign birds as he stepped into the sunshine at the edge of the forestry.
A road! Fenrien bent down and touched the gravel path with his hand, running the sediment through his fingers. If he could lead the party here, they’d no doubt feel as much hope as he.
And if his mood had been bright before, it consequently doubled at the sight of the caravan not 20 yards from where he currently crouched. It was old and battered, bent metal making a triangular roof that was attached to the bowing base. The strange technology that powered the vehicle allowed it to hover a few inches above the ground, floating gently in the air. A small canvas awning protruded from the side, bathing the owner in shade as he rocked casually in his hook-like chair. A trail of smoke rose from the end of the long, silver pipe sat between his lips.
Checking both ways, Fenrien crossed over and positioned himself in front of the snoozing gentleman. It was only after clearing his throat a third time that he awoke with a cough and a snort. “Who are you? Whaddya want?!” “I wish… I wish to make a purchase,” Fenrien stammered, wondering what sort of manners this place sported.
Immediately the businessman’s demeanour changed. It made him looked much younger than he sounded, fierce sideburns trailing down his face, and greasy brown hair pulled into a braided rat tail. “Well, why didn’t you say so, young man? How can I help? What are you in the market for? Exotic bugs? Rare jewels? Weaponry forged in cold fires?” “Food,” Fenrien said. “And medicine, something to help cure frailty.”
“Right this way, right this way,” the shop owner grinned, gripping Fenrien’s elbow and steering him to the front of the caravan. He yanked a panel out from the side of the caravan and heaved out a drawer containing bread, fruit, and vegetables, beautifully arranged in rows. Another drawer just below it contained several silver foil pouches. “‘Fraid I got no fresh meat for you, but-” “This is perfect, truly,” Fenrien exclaimed, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll take it.”
“Well, now, hold on, you haven’t paid for it yet!” He chuckled, beginning to load things into a brown satchel. “What have you by way of coin?”
Rummaging through his pockets, Fenrien’s heart suddenly fell. No, no, no, no… “One gold… and- and- and a few silvers.” He pulled the money from his pockets and held it on flat, begging palms. The businessman rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “That won’t do, I’m afraid. It’ll cover the food, or the medicine, but not both.” “Please, good sir, we need both. We’ve been travelling for days and my… my daughter, she grows sicker by the hour. My people are starving.”
“Then your people ought to pay for it,” the businessman growled, placing the satchel down behind his feet. Folding his arms, he then looked up at Fenrien, scowling, until he seemed to notice something. His expression swiftly changed. “Unless…” “Unless what? What will it take?”
Frida slowly forced her eyes open. She could feel someone shaking her gently; it was rattling the pebbles in her brain. She wished the rattling would stop, she was very, very tired…
“Hey, little one,” Fenrien whispered, stroking the hair on top of her head. “It’s me. I’m back.” Frida groaned and tried to roll over. “No, no, no, come on, it’s time for you to wake up. I have medicine for you, see?”
Sitting up, Frida rubbed her eyes and blinked sleepily. When her eyes fell upon Fenrien, she gasped. “Your hair is gone,” she whispered, reaching up to touch the shaved remains on one side of Fenrien’s scalp. It was true that the payment for Frida’s medicine had been steep. “It is?” He smiled. “Well, that’s not good, is it? I must’ve dropped it somewhere! Tell you what, once you’re back on your feet, we’ll go hunting and try to find some more for me, yes?” “Maybe we could glue some straw on it,” she yawned, before opening her mouth so Fenrien could tip the contents of one of the sachets onto her tongue. “Hey now, I’ve been told that my hair is…” Fenrien looked away morbidly. “I’ve been told it’s very valuable. Beautiful and rare. Can we do no better than straw?”
Frida grimaced as she swallowed the medicine down. That was far too salty. Much worse than what she normally took. If this was the medicine of their new home, she didn’t think much of it. “Fine. Then I will learn to use a wheel and spin the straw into gold.” “Much better,” he smiled, planting a kiss on Frida’s forehead and settling her back onto the makeshift bedroll of leaves and moss. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when I’ve cooked something to eat.”
The fire crackled and spit, filling the forest with gorgeous golden hues. The smell of roasting food filled the nostrils of the elves who dozed around the flames, the warmth lulling them to blissful sleep. For some it would be a calm night; for others it would be riddled with nightmares of rubble. Blood.
Fenrien finished sharpening a stick and plunged an apple onto the end of it. He rolled the knots out of his shoulders before settling onto the soil and holding the spear over the fire. Sylphine stood up and handed her own stick over. “I’m just going to give Frida her second dose of medicine. Can you keep cooking this?” “Sure. Take some water from the pale over there for her to wash it down with. Apparently, she’s not keen on the taste of this new stuff.”
Sylphine picked up the pale, accepted a pouch of medicine, and wandered over to Frida’s sleeping form. Despite her one bout of treatment already, she was no better. It was likely the severity of their current predicament that had worsened her condition. Both Sykphine and Fenrien were hopeful that the second sachet would have a more noticeable effect.
And it did.
Frida began to wretch and gag, before rolling over and vomiting horrifically onto the earth. Her little body quivered; Sylphine began to panic as she scraped the girl’s hair out of her face. Immediately, Fenrien was on his feet, discarding the semi-cooked food onto the floor and scrambling closer.
There was no way this was a side-effect of the medicine. Fenrien snatched up the empty foil pouch and dipped his finger inside. He sniffed. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was only when he touched the powder to his tongue that he recoiled. “What? What is it?” Sylphine asked when Frida had stopped vomiting. She still shook horribly, further depleted of the vital nutrients and hydration that she already lacked before.
“It’s… It’s salt,” Fenrien growled. The pouch was crumpled in his clenched fist. “The bastard sold me salt.”
A horrific wave of realisation washed over Fenrien suddenly. His stomach plunged. He stormed back to the campfire and seized one of the spears. He took a large bite from the bubbling apple – and immediately spat it back out. “It’s rotten. The food is rotten, and the medicine is fake.” Fenrien ran a hand over the shaved side of his head. “We’ve… I’ve been conned.”
Frida began to cry suddenly, and, honestly, Fenrien felt like joining her. Sylphine gathered the child up into her arms, shushing her in vain. Frida wept more and more, clutching her tummy and sobbing about the pain. “What’s going on?” Elandor mumbled sleepily, sitting up and stretching. The sound of a child’s crying was not the way to be awoken. It raised concern and questions, answers to which he wasn’t getting forthwith. Fenrien was pacing the floor like an agitated bull. “That bastard… That rat bastard… I’ll– I’ll go back. I will. I’ll go back and I will… do something. The fool must have his own means of survival, living on the road, so I’ll take the bread from his table if I have to!”
Elandor was understandably confused. Between the weeping women and Fenrien’s ramblings, there weren’t many clues as to what the hell was going on. However, he was soon beginning to wish that he hadn’t wondered.
Frida hadn’t stopped coughing between her wretched sobs. No longer was it cute little spluttering, but horrific wretched hacking. Globules of blood hit the floor, and Sylphine – completely unphased – continuously wiped the edges of the girl’s mouth with her sleeve.
Suddenly the coughing stopped.
Fenrien’s head whipped round. Frida lay limp in Sylphine’s arms. No matter how much the nurse shook her, the girl wouldn’t wake. A trickle of blood was still coming from the corner of her mouth.
“No…” Fenrien whispered. He strode over and picked up the child. Sylphine was crying and crawled towards Elandor. He’d woken up to another massacre. “Wake up,” Fenrien said, stroking Frida’s hair with growing frenzy. “Come on, little one, wake up. It’s alright, I’m going to fix this, I promise. You can… You can wake up now.”
It took an hour for Elandor to pry the corpse from Fenrien’s person. That night the forest filled with the sound of a foreign lullaby, as six lost souls sang an angel to sleep.
When the song had finally ended, Fenrien stood. The dying embers of the fire cast red hot shadows across his face. Another shadow, infinitely more frightening, was also visible in his eyes. “Bury her please,” he snarled. “She should be with her parents.”
When he turned on his heel and stormed into the forest, Elandor was quick to follow. “What are you going to do?” He asked. “What is necessary.” “That’s ominous… What are we to do in the meantime?” “At first light, head for the city I saw and seek the asylum we came for. Do not wait for me.”
“What?” Elan scoffed. “Why?” “Because if what I intend to do goes well, I’ll be arrested, exiled, or shot.”
Summary:In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Hoo boy, prepare for feels. I’ve started on Brynjolf’s backstory too so that is now in the works, and hell am I excited. Why? Because once that’s out the way, I will be starting on The Tower 2! And releasing the winner to the competition. :3 Enjoy, peeps!
After a few minutes, Fenrien’s lungs were beginning to burn. His legs ached, and his neck stung. “Why do they not venture inside?” Solmund wondered aloud, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the floating black swarm with masks that hunted them. “If I had to guess?” Fenrien replied between deep breaths. “To uphold the ultimatum. Currently we are cornered between fire and the blade. If they pursue us any further, they remove one of those risks. They’d give us a chance at escape.”
Frida was getting heavier in Solmund’s arms. Her head rested on her father’s shoulder, her forehead tucked into his neck. She continued to cough, the thin entrails of smoke burrowing in through her nose and tickling her throat. “Daddy, are we okay?”
Solmund looked worryingly at Fenrien. “Uh, yes, pickle, yes. We’re okay. Are you okay?” “I’m… I’m a little tired.” “Okay, pickle.” “Are you tired? Do you want me to walk?” “No, pickle. I should carry you for now.”
Fenrien ran a hand through his hair, the sound of Solmund’s conversation breaking his heart. He had no solution to this. He’d asked these people to run, he’d given them hope, the kindling that their passions currently burned on. If he couldn’t figure things out soon, however, he’d have their blood on his hands. He’d have simply delayed the inevitable and led his flock of lambs to slaughter.
“Are…” Frida yawned. “Are we going through the secret door?” “What’s that, pickle?” “The secret door. In the woods. In the tree. It’s where I hide for…” Frida yawned again. “For hide and seek.”
Solmund looked around and shrugged in bewilderment. “Perhaps it is a fairytale of some kind,” Elandor offered, having caught up for the latter part of the conversation. “Or a story!” “Not one I’ve told her, if it is.”
Fenrien knew better than the guesses of his counterparts. This was real. A real door. Perhaps their ticket out of here. “Hey, little one,” he said, slowing down to a jog. Placing his hands under her armpits, he lifted the little girl onto his hip. “Do you want to play hide and seek now? You and I, versus your old man?” “Right now?” She yawned. “Right now?” Solmund agreed. Was this really the time to be following up on fairytales. The Dark Elves had slowed to a halt next to them. No doubt they wondered what the rebellion had in store; however, they’d only wait for so long before they lit their final grenade.
“Right this very second,” Fen grinned, placing his hand over the infantile fist which now clung to his shirt. “I bet if we find this secret door of yours, we’ll win in a heartbeat!”
Frida pondered the proposition for a second, blissfully unaware she held the lives of her family in whatever response she gave. “Okay,” she said, before coughing frightfully once again. “Let’s play.”
Leaning upwards, directions were whispered into Fenrien’s ear. When he rushed into the cloud of smoke that built around them, his followers wasted no time in following him.
Though nobody could see it, the leader of the Dark Elves smiled wickedly behind his mask. Finally. They’d decided. Death by fire after all. He pulled a grenade from his belt, lit it, and heaved. The sphere exploded not ten feet from their faces, spitting fire like a newly woken dragon. No matter what happened now, Alfheim was no longer home to the light elves.
“Where to?” Fenrien asked, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the bitter taste of ash settled onto his tongue. He’d let Frida down so that she could lead the way, her energy seemingly returned by the promise of play. She toddled forward insistently, dragging Fenrien forward until she decided that he was a dead weight. Wrenching her hand free, Frida shot off on her own.
She launched herself at a particularly thickly-trunked tree – and disappeared out of sight.
Solmund blinked and shook his head fervently. His surprise was shared by everyone in the current party. “It’s… It’s real,” Elan whispered, slowly growing a smile and beginning to laugh with disbelief. “It’s real! It’s a way out, it’s-” “-suspicious.” Sol folded his arms and approached the tree. “I mean, this thing just swallowed my daughter whole and who knows where it goes! How can we trust it?” “Are you asking because you think I know?” Fenrien chuckled, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders and attempting to rub the tension out of them. “Wherever it leads will be better than this place, I dare say. She discovered this sometime ago and, by the sounds of it, has ventured back many times since. So, who will be the first to follow her, hm?”
One by one, the last surviving members of the Light Elves stepped into the bark of the tree and disappeared out of sight. The would-be rebellion leader, Elandor, firmly shook Fenrien’s hand before following, determined to express his heartfelt gratitude. It was clear to Elan that he was no longer the sole leader of these survivors.
Finally, it was only Solmund and Fenrien left to depart. “After you, my friend,” Sol grinned, gesturing to the wooden portal. The blaze was almost upon them, golden heat warming their faces to an uncomfortable degree. The scorching light illuminated the change in Fenrien’s eyes, which Sol noticed all too late. “Actually, I… I think I will stay,” he said.
Solmund scoffed. “I’m sorry?” “If we go through there, all we shall do is bring a war to whomever resides on the other side. They can just as simply follow us if they find our path but not our bodies. No, someone must stay to ensure that this tree is destroyed by the fire once its purpose is fulfilled. You have a daughter to protect so it must be me.” “But Fen, there-” “-is no other option. It must be me.”
For a moment, Solmund considered fighting. He considered shouting, and screaming, and even pushing his neighbour through the tree’s trunk just so that he’d save his own skin. But ultimately, he knew he was right. He admitted as much aloud. “I usually am about these sorts of things,” Fenrien chuckled morbidly, crossing his arms.
They hadn’t much time to say goodbye, but he’d be damned if that stopped him. The two men embraced suddenly and tightly, holding onto each other as though it were the last chance they’d ever have to do so. Because it was.
A small tear escaped the corner of Fenrien’s eye as the weight of the situation finally settled in. He didn’t want to die. If it meant that his family would live, however… “Iwillprotect Frida,” Sol said firmly. “It is a father’s job to protect their child.” “I know, my friend.” “Which is why it cannot be you who does this.” “What?”
“Look after her for me,” Sol sniffed, grabbing Fenrien’s shirt suddenly and throwing him towards the tree’s think trunk. Fenrien saw a flash of blue as a sudden weightlessness overcame him. It ended just as soon as it had started and suddenly he’d hit hot, dry soil on the other side of nowhere.
Scrambling to his feet, Fenrien yelled in protest and threw himself at the bark from whence he’d just emerged. To no avail… This time, his flesh met only solidity. The fire had swallowed the tree; the portal was gone. Solmund was gone.
“Why, my friend, did you do such a thing…”
Fenrien felt warm tears spill thick and fast, streaming down his cheeks. The crowd of survivors gathered around to watch as he bowed his head and pressed it into the rough wood. It took a moment but eventually he calmed, if in the way that a sea calms after the storm. Angry. Seething. Ever as dangerous as before. The fight was over, but the war was lost. Emotions swum through the air as the waters settled. Rage, upset, and grief all amongst them. Some were simply tired and grateful for an end. Others would have spilled blood at a second chance to change things.
No, Fenrien soon realised. It was over now. All that could be done now was tend to the survivors. Survivors like–
Welp, this is my contribution to the competition, I guess, @littlemisssyreid ! I’ll probably wake up and hate this tomorrow as I’m not in the best mindset after getting almost no sleep, but if I do make something better, I’ll replace it (If that’s even allowed) The lights in the back are lanterns by the way, I don’t know if you can tell.
Thank you for bringing us The Tower <3
OH MY GOODNESS THIS IS GORGEOUS I LOVE IT ALL THE WAY TO THE MOON AND BACK
OF COURSE I CAN TELL THEY’RE LANTERNS IT’S ALL SO EXPERTLY DRAWN! FROM THE WET SHINE ON EACH OF THE ICE BRICKS, POSSIBLY INDICATIVE OF THE MELTING TO COME. THE BLUSH ON LOKI’S CHEEKS. THE SMILE ON HIS LIPS. THE ACCURATE OUTFIT HE’S WEARING.
I COULD GO ON AND ON ABOUT THIS IT’S SO STUNNING AHHHHHHH I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT IT THANK YOU SO MUCH ❤
Summary: In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Sorry this took so long to get up guys. First week of my new job, after a big ol’ moving house, and then no internet for the longest time. Luckily, I’ve got a bit of time to kill now - hence the upload. New Loki x Reader in the works, too.
“We have to get out of here,” Sol mumbled, over and over, his hands in his hair. His long braid was frayed and wild. “We… We have to get out of here.”
Frida was on the ground now, stood by Fenrien’s side. She slid her hand into his and squeezed. “Daddy, you’re… you’re scaring me,” she said. Fenrien picked her up and put her on his hip. She coughed harshly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
There was a knock at the door that put everybody in the room on edge. It bore a strange rhythm to it, made up of 7 successive knocks. Sol, however, seemed to heave a sigh of relief. He swung the door open. “Where in all the realms have you been?” Sol hissed. “There is no time for dialogue, friend,” replied the stranger. “They’re moving faster than I feared without resistance. Gather your loved ones and let’s go.”
Fenrien’s heartbeat thundered against his ribcage; an earthquake in his chest. Every breath out of his lungs was red raw. They stung his throat and dried his mouth. No matter how much he licked his lips, they felt like a desert without an oasis. Not even a mirage of moisture on his tongue.
Everything was on fire. Fenrien’s eyes had become coins, brassy spheres, as his eyes were filled with images of the world he called home going up in flames. Seas of people swum amongst the carnage, screaming in fear as their home crumbled around them.
Frida quivered on Fenrien’s hip, coughing more and more often as time went on. Her health had never been perfect, but the blood-stained smoke that swirled above her head undoubtedly didn’t help.
The Dark Elves were not far behind. The sounds of their destruction rained like a terrible thundercloud from behind. They’d swept the nation of Alfheim with fire, explosions, and dark, dangerous magic. Carnage and fear followed in their wake. Explosions erupted around them every so often, littering the ground with debris – and sometimes limbs.
A bespectacled man was one of those fleeing from Ljosalfgard. With no children in his arms, the man was faster that Fenrien but careless. When an explosion to their left drew screams from the masses, the man misplaced his footing. He hit the ground. Hard. The building to his left groaned suddenly, and the bespectacled man looked up in time to see it topple.
Fenrien turned away at the last minute. He shielded Frida’s eyes and crouched down. Brickwork and rubble showered his back. Frida buried her face into his chest, whimpering quietly. Even Fenrien couldn’t deny the shake that had set into his bones. He was panting hard, staring fiercely at the ground under his feet, trying not to shed a tear.
When he finally stood and looked up again, there was nothing left to see expect a pile of stone, a growing crimson puddle, and a pair of broken glasses.
“D-Don’t look, little one,” Fenrien said, keeping his hand on the back of Frida’s head. “Keep your eyes closed. Head down. Don’t look.”
No sooner had he turned a circle, staring in wide-eyed disbelief at all the carnage, did he feel a hand on his shoulder. “You can mourn later,” said the stranger from his front door. “But now we must run.” And so Fenrien returned to his state of disarray. Earthquake in his chest. Sandpaper in his throat. Desert on his lips.
The stranger, a man by the name of Elandor, guided Fenrien by the shoulder towards the other rebels. Solmund could be seen in the distance, ushering frightened citizens towards the forest’s edge. “Quickly, quickly, deeper inside, go!”
The shadows engulfed Fenrien, bathing him in shade and a welcoming change in temperature from that of the village’s burning corpse. He took a moment’s respite and looked behind him.
The Dark Elves were truly terrifying, formidable foes. Their pallid, expressionless masks struck fear into the very blood that pumped readily through his veins. He watched them cut their way closer, striking down all who opposed them and all who were simply in the way. They moved like a single organism, terrifying swiftness and uniformity bringing them closer and closer to Fenrien’s quivering form. He felt like a hunted animal; petrified at the sight of his predator.
“The forest will not stop them,” Fenrien whispered. Elandor’s head turned and his expression hid nothing. “Perhaps not, but it may conceal us well enough that we are not so easy to slaughter.”
It was as if the Dark Elves had heard them. The hoards of marching men, swathed in black, halted at the border of the Wysteria Woods. Their masks stared forward, blind and unfeeling, as someone pierced the crowd and stepped forward. A leader. Members of the rebellion gathered around Elan and Fenrien. Confusion-riddled faces watched with confusion as the trees seemingly forbade entrance to the mysterious army.
However, as these things often go, it was too good to be true. Fenrien narrowed his eyes when the leader pulled a strangely shaped orb from his hip. Only too late did it sink in that it was an explosive. A grenade. Foreign to the eyes of Alfheim, but unequivocally lethal in the hands of these villains. It seemed so effortless. With as little as a flick of their wrists, death was wrought upon the shadows. The distant canopy slowly grew into a canvas of amber as the woods were set alight with infuriating efficacy.
The cacophony of fleeing footsteps was gradually outmatched by the sound of the screams that penetrated the darkness. Weeping; shrieking; crackling fire. Fenrien winced as the noise filled his ears. He could feel Frida shaking his arms. Solmund’s face was fear-stricken. Even Elandor looked out of his depth.
They had survived… simply by choosing the left half of the forest to flee into over the right. The entire eastern woodland perished, along with all those hiding within. Fenrien knew it wouldn’t be long before the Dark Elves turned their attentions elsewhere. They weren’t so stupid as to only half-finish a job.
Sooner came rather than later when Frida’s coughing fit began again.
The leader of the Dark Elves turned his head fiercely – and something inside Fenrien snapped. He felt his back straightening, his chin rising. Not the child, he thought to himself. Take what you have already got, because you will not have her.Over my dead body.
“Run,” he commanded calmly, as the hoard turned in his direction. The survivors surrounding him took heed of his words. “Stick to the edge if you can. Though frightening, it will protect us. They wouldn’t ignite the kindling so close to their face.”
Solmund appeared at his side shortly after the chase had begun, finally taking Frida back into his care. The elves were already pursuing, though they’d admittedly got a head start. Even the fire from the first grenade had begun to chase them, licking at their heels like a viper. “We cannot outrun this, my friend,” Solmund hissed. “We cannot stay in the forest forever, but we cannot leave it either. We are to die by fire or die by the blade. It is simply a matter of choosing!”
“I have already chosen,” Fenrien replied smoothly. “I choose to live.”
In the Rider-Waite deck the building resembles the Tower of Babel, with lightening striking a structure built too high, as it crumbles back to the ground. It is a card about sudden change, cleansing fires, old-school revelations. Two figures are seen twisting in the air; whether they jumped to save themselves or were thrown as their world crumbled around them is immaterial. They will not survive the fall. After 9/11 I couldn’t use this card for a long while, the images of people falling from the Twin Towers was too much of a trigger. Yet, one does not need a literal structure to represent Chaos; for me, the Hurricane will do just as well.
The Taino, an ancient indigenous people of the Caribbean, named their supreme goddess, associated with all natural destructive forces, Guabancex. She remains the embodiment of the Hurricane, that unescapable, divine power that can level villages and whole islands with ease. Petroglyphs depict her with mouth agape, her arms curved in the same swirling pattern that the storm itself takes.
When the Tower card appears in your Tarot reading, expect the unexpected: violent change, catastrophe and anarchy. Change, as they say, is painful; but it is a necessary pain in order to grow. Guabancex represents the elements in your life that you cannot control: illnesses, accidents, financial failure, the ending of relationships. In her book of poems about Hurricane Maria’s 2017 destruction of the island of Dominicia, Celia A. Sorhaindo writes about the relief that her family felt in surviving the storm and then the horror of realizing that everything that they had, everything the island had, was gone. In the poem, “In The Air,” she writes:
After the hurricane, my grandmother, who in her basement storeroom, had hunkered down and knelt her knees raw with prayer the whole long long lashing tail of night, ascended slippery stairs hoping by holy intervention her home had been saved. She stared from ruined room to room, swaying like a punched drunk spirit, mouth and eyes wide black holes of disbelief …
This is the lesson the Tower reminds us about: we like to imagine we have control over our fate but that is an illusion. The real question is what will be your response when the gods decide to knock you to the ground?
