SIX MONTHS HENCE

PART I

By Ed Ainsworth

“It feels heavy,” Thor said, rolling his hammer in his palm. “It feels…”

“Like responsibility?” Magni asked. He dropped the remainder of his ale on the floor by his feet, and reached for another bottle.

“I have been many things in my life, boy,” Thor said, looking up at his auburn haired son. “But father is not one of them.”

“True, that much favours you in this world as much as the last. My mother showed more care and love than you.”

“Mmhm,” Thor murmured. “Lady Sif and I…we are not your parents, boy.”

“No, you are not. I don’t quite comprehend how my mother and the Sif here are so different.”

“The universe is a confusing place,” Thor said, continuing to roll the hammer between his palms. “But I have apologies I must make to you.”

“Apologies?” Magni asked, stopping mid-pour of his ale. “Truly, we are far and away from my world. My father does not know the meaning of the word.”

“You see, Magni,” Thor said, leaning on the bar top with his elbows. A row of empty beer glasses congregated around him. “I am a God of Thunder. Of Storms. Son of the King of the Gods.”

“And?” Magni asked, sinking the rest of his own pint before signalling to the barkeep to provide two more. “I fail to see the point that you’re attempting to make, father.”

“The point, dear boy,” Thor said, looking up from his contemplation of the bar, “is that I am entitled, and I knew no responsibility until it was foisted onto me. The point is that you are an adult, and I, I am barely a man. I was raised to do as I would, because my father was king and my mother was queen. My brothers princes, and all others would bow to my will. As a result, I was incredibly privileged and incredibly naive.”

“Father. The point, please. This is not unknown to me. I have been here for months.”

Thor thrust a finger into Magni’s shoulder. “The point, boy, is that I love deeply, but fall many times.”

Magni arched an eyebrow and twisted his shoulder away from the fingertip of his father. “By that you mean?”

“Monogamy is not the way of the Gods, boy. Nor should it ever be. Eternity is a long hall to peer down, knowing that you are to spend it wrapped in the arms of a single person. Time has a way of degrading everything. Do you not know that your grandmother hates your grandfather? Time curdles love the way heat does milk”

Magni sighed and clasped his fingers together. “If I may, father, you speak as though you are without your full cognitive abilities.”

Thor turns to stare at Magni, his eyes wide and wild. “Have care, boy.”

“Have care, father? That does not sound like the way of the Odinson or, indeed, the Thorson. You are speaking as an idiot, when you are patently not. You fall hard but many times? Father, that is the excuse of a serial womaniser who doesn’t understand that they are the problem, not the women. Are you bored with women, or bored with yourself? If you loved them..”

The back of Thor’s hand caught Magni under the chin, propelling him through the far wall of the bar and out into the snow behind them. Magni rolled once, before pushing himself to his feet and wiping his jaw.

“Well stuck, Son of Odin! I suppose this is a case of ‘you love me, but you cannot show it’? Or perhaps some other easily potable phrase that you can roll out pretending to be wisdom when it is clearly idiocy dressed in another fashion.”

Thor stepped through the hole, his hammer hurtling into his hand with a clap of thunder. “Boy.”

“Father,” Magni said, stepping forwards, the snow beneath his feet melting. “You are God of Thunder, and Storms.”

Thor nodded slowly.

“I am God of Strength. You may hit me with the hammer, but I will hit you with a mountain.”

“Bah! Mjolnir has burst through planets.”

“Yes, but,” Magni said, snorting and brushing his nose, “I have punched through universes to find you.”

Thor paused for a moment. “Literally?”

“Quite.”

“Oh,” Thor dropped his hammer to his belt, where it hung inert and he walked towards his son.

“I am fool of a God and an idiot of a man. Arrogance and anger have fuelled me for much of my youth, and righteous indignation for much of my adult life, Magni. I am not a Father.”

Magni smiled and grabbed his father by the shoulders. “So become one. Your story is the story of a boy who learned to become a man, who learned to become a hero. That is not the story of mythology; that is the story of living. Continue to learn, father, and I will continue to learn at your side.”

Thor smiled and gripped his son by the shoulders. “Yes,” he said, hanging his head slightly. “You are right. You have my apologies, son. Sometimes the arrogance of age is only tempered by the wisdom of youth.”

Magni nodded. “Another easily transported phrase, father. It is OK to simply say that ‘you are right, Magni’. Not everything has to become a sub-title to an edda.”

Thor laughed and clasped his son’s hand and shoulder tightly. “Do you know, I may actually enjoy being your father, boy.”

“Magni, father. My name is Magni. Now, while you are still pliable with mead and cognitively impaired, let me tell you of the rest of your family…”

Balder sat quietly in the Asgardian Throne Room. The shining city now a ruined fool-scape, the once great towers broken, fractured and debris ridden. The occupants of the city gone, leaving only those Gods foolish enough to fight against Mikaboshi. Odin’s family, and scarce few others, willing to fight Entropy itself.

Balder sighed, scratching one of his many wounds. The healing was slow. Entropy took its own time to work itself out. He knew his body would never mend the way it had before, and was quietly glad of it. Balder the Beautiful. Balder the Brave. Balder the Unapproachable.

Scars laced his body, carving down his face, across his shoulders and his chest. Pain guided him towards rest, towards contemplation. Bravery was simply idiocy dressed in clever language.

He smiled; perhaps, in all these years, Loki had the right idea after all. Pretty words are far more effective than broad arms and thick shoulders.

A raven landed on his throne arm, and he shook his head.

“No, this will not do,” he said. “My Father operated in ravens. In imitations. In intelligence and lies. I am not him. If I am no longer Balder the Brave; I shall be Balder the Bright.”

He cracked his back, eyes flaring with Odin-Force power. The raven on his arm slowly shifted, transformed by the ebbing flow of bright white energy that leaked from Balder’s eyes.

“For the Scions of Odin, I grant thee – A Bird as thy Keeper, and a Bird as thy Power.”

The raven, shedding feathers and growing with the cracking and creaking of bones, turned to face Balder. A barn owl stood in its stead. It screeched once and settled, its wings folded tight against its body.

It turned its head to face the other owl, a huge tawny owl, which opened its wings in a gesture of acceptance. Balder felt a brush of feathers and whisper of flight against his skin and perception, as the powers behest to him by Odin flowed forth.

“Bring me Vidar, Hoder, Hermod, Thor, Loki, and Tyr,” he said to the barn owl. “Bring my family to me. There is much to discuss, not least that my eyes tell me that there is more to father’s ruins than simply the city within which I sit.”

He brushed his hand off, the barn owl taking flight. The tawny owl stood in silence.

“Go,” he said to the bird. “Find my wife. Find Nanna, and from there…” Balder rubbed his forehead, throwing his sword onto the floor before him. “From there we bring peace to this island of warriors, for only the Scions of Odin survive; all others are lost.”

His head dropped into his hands; his white hair draped over his fingers.

“King, finally, but King of Ruins.”

He sighed, heavily.

“Or am I, simply, the Ruined King?” he mused to himself.

“Hrn.”

Waist deep in water, he looked up at the human, imposing, building-width bark of the Yggdrasil. Wading through the water, he leant heavily on a bowed staff. While he gave his hand to ensnare the wolf Fenris many years ago, he still felt the phantom pains shoot through it. He flexed the fingers of one hand, and looked at the blade mounted on his other wrist.

The God of War sighed, and let his shoulder-length hair drape into the water, showing the reflection of a tired man staring back at him.

“War no more,” he said, splashing his blunted arm into the water. “There must be a better way now.”

“Yes, brother.”

Tyr looked up. While Tyr was by no means a small God, one of the tallest by rights, his brother, Son of Odin and Grid the Giantess, bore down on him, kneeling in the water.

“Brother,” he said, offering a hand the same size as Tyr’s Torso. “It is no longer the time for War.”

Tyr smiled, and looked up at Vidar.

“Brother,” Tyr said. “No, now the is the time of change. Of wisdom. Of learning.”

Vidar smiled, a warm, caring smile. “Come with me, Tyr. Let us learn about this new world together.”

Vidar dropped his helmet into the water, and Tyr shed his bladed gauntlet.

“Let us learn what it means to be a God of Wisdom and a God of Strength free from the bonds of violence.”

Loki sat, staring down at the shifting waters before him. A small snake had wrapped itself around his foot, and he felt the presence of a group behind him. He slowly turned to face them.

“Husband.”

Loki looked up from the water, a small magpie hopping onto the snow before him. The huge mountains of Jotunheim set the scene behind him, glacial water clear as day.

“Sigyun,” Loki said, brushing some of his greasy hair from his face. “You’re looking…”

The back of her armoured glove struck him, cutting his lip open and forcing him back into the water behind him. Her once blonde, perfect hair rose above her as a mane of fiery orange, crowned by a half facemask of horns.

“Regal,” Loki finished, touching his cheek and staring at the blood.

“Are you mad, woman?” Loki asked, pulling himself from the water. “With Odin gone, I have inherited a part of his power. Do you understand? I am finally…”

Another blow. This time a closed fist.

“For the longest time, I have tolerated your words, husband. I have been the target of your precious tongue, the bearer of your burdens, while you have whittled and whiled away your life being, frankly, bakrauf.”

“Now, see here, woman…”

A boot pushed Loki back into the water. A dozen women stood by Sigyun’s side.

“My children were lost because of you, Loki. I lost my life. I devoted my existence to you, to keeping poison from your eyes, to easing your pain. Still, you stray. You pay more heed to your Tarts Children than you do of your own. You spend more time in dress than you do as my husband, but today – no more.”

“Sigyun…”

“All changed when Odin vested his power, Liar. All changed. The last piece of you that I cared for left me. The circle is finally broken, and we may do what we wish now; we may live lives which are unique. Different. Not trapped in a never-ending serpent of stories that cannibalises itself and our lives. I am finally free of you.

“It is time for you to embrace what you are, inside, Liar. I know you. I have slept with you, woken to you, bathed you, and salved your wounds. I have watched you laugh, cry, and mourn, though far more of the latter than the former, Loki. I know you, and I know this,” Sigyun gestured to his body, “This is not what you are, and this place in our story was not made for one such as you. Even now, your brother shows he knows.”

The magpie bobbed its head once, and turned away from Loki. As it opened its wings, the black and white feathers fell away, leaving only dull brown. It turned back to him, bobbing its head once more and letting loose the distinctive cry that is heard across Europe and has invested itself in the stories of old.

“Cuckoo,” he said. It chirped once, and hopped into his open hands.

“Finally, Loki, finally, be at peace with what and who you are. Become the God you were meant to be. Stow the Lies and Mischief, and embrace the sensitivity and love that you carry deep within. Finally, please,” she knelt down before him and took his chin in her forefinger and thumb, “Be you. Be loved. Be happy. That is…all I ever really wanted, but it was not to be. Not within the story. Not with me.”

“Sigyun…,” Loki said, his speech stalling in his throat, “I am…”

“But know this, Loki,” she stood up again, adjusting her armour, “Hel does not wait for you, or welcome you. Hel belongs to me, to scorned wives, broken hearts, and dead flesh. We are the Valkyrie, separated from Odin’s desire to help only those who died in battle. Death has more fingers than it has arms, Loki. Women who died in childbirth, to rape, to poison, to famine. Women suffered at the hands of the Gallows God, despite his Bor-damned position as God of the Seed. Remember and say it loud for all to hear – Hel is no longer for the dead.”

She drove a huge spear into the ground, with light and power exploding forth. Feathers filled the air, and her armour grew in size, swelling almost to fill his heart and his head.

“Hel is for the women.”

Crawling from a gap between now and tomorrow, a God of Nails grew. First, a single clipping birthed two more of its ilk, until the undulating mass of chitinous threads began to knead together, creating a zipper of armour around the woodlouse-like body.

A boot landed next to it, before it could enchant its way into the consciousness of those around it. The sharp end of a sword slowly embedded itself into the top of the beast, and through it, leaving a squealing mass that evaporated into the ether.

“Another,” a voice said, pulling the blade up. “Another to God, to the slaughter.”

“Where are they coming from?”

“Between.” Crouching down to touch the floor, a burst of black etched itself across the brow of the blonde woman intently staring between forever.

“Brunnhilde.” A hand touched her shoulder. She spun, thrusting her sword point upwards, while yanking down on the other woman’s arm, throwing her over her shoulder.

“Do not,” Brunnhilde said.

Rūna, the First Valkyrie, got to her feet, and for a moment contemplated splitting the former Valkyrie’s head asunder.

“You are not yourself. I would wish that you not commune with that Faustian power,” Rūna said.

“The mortals call it Forensics, Rūna. The act of looking over the evidence of a thing, and discovering what has happened based on more than just the blood spilled. The area around it. Impacts, spent weapons, understanding that violence happens in a controlled manner, even when it is borne from rage.”

She prised apart a bag of trash, finding multiple parchments of paper, dribbling Kanji writing.

“Summoning scripts. Something wanted this to manifest here, and wanted it to crawl into obscurity to grow. This word here?”

She held up the paper to show her companion.

“It says ‘factory’. ‘Factory of the Gods’.”

Darkness fell over Asgard. Odin, staring through his one good eye from his vantage point in the street, paused. The light of the stars in the sky ceased to shine upon them, leaving only darkness, a huge, continent-size mass that blotted the light from existence.

“By Mimir’s balls,” Odin said, clutching his gnarled wooden staff tightly. He felt the call of the Gallows once more; a sacrifice was breaching through his life. Had he not suffered enough?

A wall, hundreds of miles high, struck the body of Asgard, shaking its foundations and tilting the floating Island of Gods thirty degrees. Odin slammed his staff into the ground, digging it in to save him from sliding backwards – while other Gods slipped and skidded into their homes for protection.

“Odin…What is this?” Sif said, pulling the hood of her white-furred cloak down to reveal golden strands woven into her pitch black hair.

“My child,” Odin said, pulling his hat’s brow down to cover his eyes, leaving only the sharp, bristling white beard underneath. “Do you know that I have brothers?”

Sif arched an eyebrow. “Vili and Ve? Together you made life, and everything on Midgard?”

Odin nodded once. A screech came from Hugin on his shoulder.

“We had…disagreements in the past,” Odin said, staring up as the shapes on the wall began to resolve. Its progress halted suddenly, and a snarling, grinding noise gave rise to itself.

“Just when we thought there was nothing else hidden by your cloak, Odin? A Gallows God indeed, for you continue to kill our love and respect for you with lies upon lies.” Sif pulled her cloak hood up again, to shroud her face in darkness too. She reached for the thick, wide, bladed weapon that hung from her belt.

“I suspect you may feel – given the unholy rewrite you have wrought against us, Odin – that you understand anger, and that you have felt its true fire from the mortal realm’s Hulk. But I can assure you, Gallows God,” Sif held the blade level to the throat of her former king, “My Rage burns fiercely, and uncontrolled. I am The Queen of The Berserk now, One-Eye, and I’d sooner slit your throat than piss on the ground.”

Falling from the height of the wall, a figure came into view. A figure that was a head taller than Odin, and greyer in beard. Hair and beard clipped shorter, his helm was adorned with walrus tusks – and laughter filled the air.

He landed before Odin, brushed himself off once, and continued his deep, infectious, joyful laugh.

“Odin! Brother! At last!”

“Odin…” Sif said, her hand sliding from the hilt of her sword.

“My dear Sif, please. This is my brother, Vili. The Laughing God.”

Vili held up a finger and smiled.

“Laughing King,” he said, “Sif, is it? The pleasure is mine. Asgard has changed since I left, but now, see….”

He gestured back towards the enormous object that collided with it.

“I bring my own.”

Next Issue: A New Asgard? Odin’s Brother? What of Thor? Loki? What of the God Factory that birthed disaster after disaster?