Editing AfterRagnarok:The Mythic (section)

==Ylva #731 ==

As they walk she stares up into the darkening sky, following Skuld more by sound than sight, the snowflakes swirling and dancing in patterns that almost seem meaningful if you only look long enough. The blizzard is coming, but here it's still mostly quiet, the crunching of the snow under their feet louder than the soft keening of the wind among the ruins.
Ylva, you're looking up into the darkening sky, the snow weaving patterns across your sight. So you're not your usual gainly self when your foot catches on something under the snow. The white rises to swallow you, crashes hard and cold against your bare skin, worms under or through the layers of cloth.

You bounce back up quick as you can, pull yourself up on the pale cold hand Skuld offers. 

But it ain't Skuld.

A man, beautiful blue-eyed and pale, swathed in ragged finery, grips your hand; there's a flicker, a disconnect like the world just stuttered, and you stand facing a withered corpse, naked and blue with cold; then a wolf, teeth locked on your wrist, ready to bite down.

"I tried to warn you," the dead god says, his eyes alight with cold fire. "You shouldn't have returned, father. Only the dead rule here now."

Those burning eyes flick to the towering edifice you've just fled, and something like pity dims their fire for a moment. "And see what has become of poor stupid Thor?"
Ylva feels a fearless fire inside her, the impatience filling her growing intolerable.

"Speak plainly or shut your mouth, corpse. I have no time for your riddles."

Face down in the snowdrift, she mumbles "And I'm not your father".

"Are you not?" the dead thing says, and then cocks its head as if hearing some distant call. Something changes, something in its posture, its bearing - like the difference between a wolf and a kicked dog... 

In the east, the blizzard is rising.

"Well. My mistake, then. You have his stink all over you. A lover, perhaps? Or another of his by-blows?" You feel its teeth tighten on your wrist. "I need to find him, mortal. Tell me where greybeard is hiding."
Ylva is torn between fear and awe and anger, trying very hard not to let the latter win out as she's keenly aware of the wolf's teeth against her skin.

"If he can hide from you then surely I could not find him."

Before she can catch herself she continues, "And if there's any stink on me other than human filth, I would welcome it."
Skuld, you bend to lift Ylva... and you stagger as the world seems to shift beneath your feet. The white of the snow, the dark shadows of the dead city, it all blurs sideways...

And when the colours stop running, you're standing beside the hallmistress, one hand on her shoulder. A dead man grips her other wrist.

Burning blue eyes in a corpse's face. "You." There's a figure blazing with brilliant light. Ylva, you feel its heat blister your skin. Then, the cold fingers of a dead man. 

The corpse god is looking from one of you to the other. "Is this another of your tricks?" He sounds weak, uncertain. A second time he stiffens, turns to look east, distracted. Ylva, you feel that burning, grave-chill, needletooth grip loosen on your wrist for a second.

Through the dead city, a figure approaches from the east. Out of the blizzard.
The moment the corpse god's grip loosens, Ylva tries to pull free. Her anger is fierce now - anger at being hunted, anger at being accosted by these cryptic dead gods who refuse to stay dead or admit they're alive, anger at fate for being unclear about what she should do.

"If it was, why would I tell you? Figure it out for yourself, corpse."

Grabbing hold of Skuld, Ylva tries to will herself back to Midgard, to leave the dead god to his dead god business.
"Because..." He is looking towards the approaching figure, realises too late that you've slipped away. "It's me or her, father."

There's no sign of the wolf now, no sign of that brilliant beautiful figure that burned itself into your eye. There's only the corpse. And he doesn't seem to even try to catch you as you flee. 

You glance back, and see him bow his head before the approaching figure - a slip of a girl, hooded in shadow. Who reaches up to wrap slim pale arms around his neck, raises her hooded face to his, and kisses him deep. 

There's something... terrible in the dead god's expression as their lips meet. Lust and loathing tangled all together.

Then a gust of rising wind blows snow across your vision, and the two of them are gone.

And you're staggering arm in arm through deep snow. The dead city's broken towers rising high above you. 

And the blizzard is all around you.

''Later...''

So you lie in the snow, in each other's arms, and you doze. You dream a little, maybe; of the gods you learned in stories, and the gods who seem more and more to be intruding into your own. 

You dream of the Allfather, one eye flashing. Dead at Ragnarok, or supposed to be, but here he is, runes dropping leaden from his tongue to spit and sizzle as they hit the snow. Driving back the blizzard. 

You dream of Loki - not the smiling psychopath who prowls the ice wastes, but Loki Laufeyjarson, bane and boon to the Aesir, bound screaming beneath the earth after one joke too far. Bright Baldur dead at his brother Hod's hand, a dart of mistletoe through his heart. Consigned to Hel Half-Dead's realm, to sit at her side as consort.

You know the stories, you've sung the songs. You know how this is supposed to go. Fire and ice, at the end, as the dead march on Asgard and the winter wind blows through the golden halls. It all sinks back into the waters.

But here again is Odin. And with his one eye he winks at you...

...and you wake, to silence.