Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

it's strange—how swiftly the the world can shift, like a candle blown out mid-prayer.

one heartbeat, you were smiling so wide it actually hurt. and alongside, existed giggles echoing bliss beneath the patchwork canopy of saplings, harmonizing with your father's words which could easily be mistaken for poetry, rivaled the gentleness of a zephyr, appearing to blend with umber branches as though each phrase were a birdsong.

one moment, you were dancing in circles with the only companion you've ever known as leaves floated in a ballet around you, forming a halo that seemed to bless you with the essence of nature itself—free as wind in a hidden glade tucked within a kingdom gilded in steel.

one breath ago, there was silence—the tender kind; the kind that wrapped you in the sun's embrace, filtered through molten-laced light, a warmth that kissed your skin just right.

always perfect. always safe.

there were rainbows then, too—not just in the sky, but in every glance, every laugh. they bent over your world like ribbons of promise, convincing you that peace was forever—that the rays that bathed you, the comfort of it all—was something eternal.

imagine, once, the only burden you bore was choosing between sweet juicy dewberries soaked in starlight or bread glazed with honey and spiced cream for breakfast.

your biggest question; how many stars you'd count before sleep folded you into dreams that made your cheeks ache with the honest joy of childhood.

a rightful happiness.

a quiet, beautiful life.

or so it seemed.

then came red.

the color of apples.

the color of roses.

the color of—

blood.

red, spilling where laughter used to live.

red, blooming across your world like a curse made visible.

and the cruelest part?

it was because of your hands.

or was it?

guilt is a fog that blurs the mirror, even to yourself.

it convinces you the knife was yours when perhaps it was fate that wielded it.

a trick of the soul—a haunted reflection, tainted by voices in a mind that, perhaps, was never your own.

an innocence that, maybe, never once was, buried beneath the illusion that you could've stopped the storm.

tell me, did a child ever have the chance to hold back that tide?

Chapter Text

once upon a time,

in a garden of gods brought to reality; asgard, golden and proud—there bloomed a love that never should have taken root.

a nobleman, close enough to the throne of history-forged brotherhood to taste its iron, 

and a seer from vanaheim, banished not for sin, but for knowing too much of truths too sharp to bear.

she cradled fate like a baby in her arms.

too bright, too dark, too feared, too alone.

some would say it was a bond born of shared wounds that tethered them.

but no—what flowered between them was deeper than pain. it defied pity.

it was the quiet kind of love, the kind that doesn't rush to be named.

the kind that grows in glances, and lingers like perfume in a room long after she's gone.

though the aesir feared it. tried to warn it was prophecy's trap.

but he knew better.

his love wasn't fate.

it was choice.

and in choosing her, they both accepted the price written in the stars; a curse not of punishment.

but of promise.

from soft smiles across marble halls, to longing that clung like moss to bark. wanting not escape—but a world where neither had to let go.

it was a love like this; one knew the end, while the other didn't even know the beginning.

but still, he said: "i'll try. even if I never understand it all—i'll try, just for you."

it was never obligation.

only devotion.

picture a man who would spill oceans of ink just to describe how she looked when she smiled—so magical, even parchment would blush as he poured word after word like wine, trying to write her beauty into the world and failing.

because you can't describe the ineffable.

and in the end?

that love gave more than words.

it gave everything.

even life.

because death, too, became part of their vow.

once upon a time,

a child was born under a sky already cracked with sorrow.

destined to either fall by another or be the cause to the fall of countless.

if not for the mother's sacrifice—resembling a happy-ever-after fairy godmother who played the part of savior—and paid the price in silence; there would be no story to tell.

and the father?

he carried the weight of love like armor, and guilt like a second skin.

on his knees he begged gods and ghosts alike, begging that love be enough. enough for the loss to mean something.

enough to let the child live.

they say fortune favors the bold.

but love..

love favors the doomed.

because even when stars spelled inevitable, and runes screamed ruin—a curse in the eyes of the realm, but a gift to the child.

even if it meant binding that promise to rituals.

to blood.

to fate.

even if it meant becoming guardian. not just of life, but of legacy.

they loved and chose to protect what little they could as long as there was something—someone left.

not despite it.

but because of it.

and so the child was raised in quiet. in peace that wasn't quite peace.

in a cottage that didn't remember its name.

  not histories.

not warnings.

just... bedtime stories.

ones about kings and queens, to ones about fierce love and terrible sacrifice; all tales that wrapped sorrow in lullabies and folded grief to act as rhymes.

if you weren't a child, maybe you would've known those stories were never just stories.

they were truths softened for a small heart to carry.

they were hidden blessings.

if you weren't so young, perhaps you would've known the tales weren't just for slumber.

it was for you.

all of it.

though maybe..deep down, some part of you came to do just that.

understanding.

because one night, when moonlight seeped lazily through the window and the fire crackled amongst the creak of old walls, you stirred. 

in a home that you never knew was hers, but he never forgot.

"papa?.."

you blinked up at him, the lids of your gaze heavy with dreams but heart strangely full.

acknowledging you, he paused, looking down. the stare in his eyes not of grief—but of a silent, unshakable truth.

and then, he smiled. the kind of smile that only comes when one sees their entire world in your face.

his hand threaded gently through your hair, gaze as warm as the sun you chased through trees.

"i want to be like you..and mama."

he froze.

not out of fear. but awe.

because you knew. somehow, you knew. even if you couldn't yet say why.

and perhaps, someday, someday far from now—you'll remember. 

the curl of his lips rose higher, pride trembling in his very being. tears unshed but glistening in his gaze as you pressed on, unaware of the emotional warfare you subjected to him.

"i'll protect you, papa." you mumbled, lashes fluttering. "and i'll protect mama."

even if mama is now only wind and memory. 

even if mama is an angel you never met.

"i know you will," he said as though it were dusk settling on water, voice barely more than a breath.

"but for now... let me be the one protecting you."

and as your eyes drifted closed, he leaned in, brushing your hair back to press a kiss to your brow like sealing a promise into your dreams.

because one day, sooner than you think, he too, would only live in memory. a name kept in your breath.

in your promise.

and perhaps, someday, you'll come to learn that once—long before they were crowned, and before love had a name between them—there was a would-be king and a would-be queen.

not yet entwined, but fated to brush past the same page in their youth—a forgotten sliver of parchment buried in a book that should have meant nothing.

at first, they turned away. dismissed it, as one does with stories that seem too old to matter.

but the words lingered.

it clung to their skin like a chill beneath armor, leaving behind goosebumps and an ache they could not name.

because what they read...

spoke of a child.

one shaped by woe, chosen by fate itself—destined to live, all because of the burden of having to face the weight of everything that came after.

"someday," he whispered, so faintly only your heart could hear.

"you'll protect those you love too."

but do understand that—

not everyone can be saved, if naught for a price to pay.

Chapter Text

"eydis! where are you? eydis!"

eydis. a name meant for good fortune.

the type to be whispered by midwives with trembling smiles.

the type to be prayed into cradles when the world feels too sharp.

the type to—

"eydis!"

—send a father into an emotional meltdown and on a wild goose chase, it seemed.

this time, the name broke from baldr's throat. a lightning-cracked plea; the sound of a father running through worst-case-scenarios with every passing milisecond.

and then—mercy.

relief rushed in like breath after drowning.

he stumbled into a clearing, breath catching in his throat, as his eyes finally landed on you.

there, between trees spun of silver bark and golden hush, you stood. whole. unbothered. soaked in an innocence only children are still allowed to wear like skin.

baldr stopped in his tracks, heart staggering in his chest like a beast brought to heel. he exhaled harshly, every taut muscle loosening as he bent forward with his hands braced on his knees, trying not to let the overthinking father in him spiral further than it already had.

when he straightened, he fixed you with a half-hearted glare, hands planted on his hips. the sort that fathers try to make stern, but never quite succeeds when love softens the edges. 

you approached sheepishly, feet brushing through grass and fallen leaves, hands tucked behind your back. you wore a grin that wasn't quite guilty—but rather, close to being proud. as if you knew you scared him but hoped the charm of your grin might soften the blow.

"what did i say about disappearing like this?" his voice tried to sound stern, but the edges frayed.

you ducked your head, the edge of your lip caught between your teeth, toes nudging the moss. "sorry, papa..."

"it's just—" your father sighed in resignation as soon as those words left you. "—the butterfly was so pretty! it was bright blue! i couldn't not follow it!"

anddd..there it was. sigh number three, curled out from somewhere aged in his chest—a tortuous mixture of doting, fatigue, and reluctant amusement. 

you had the uncanny talent of making him feel everything at once.

he should've expected as much. forest days were always full of these little adventures...and mini heart attacks. 

still, despite his exasperation, he couldn't help the fondness creeping in. though he tried to keep the mask of caution, the truth was this; your reasons—as wild and impulsive as they were—were always laced with something so beautifully pure it unraveled him every time.

he was just trying to be the kind of strong that fathers were expected to be.

especially the ones who had to do it alone.

and so, it was no surprise when he, alas, noticed your hands still tucked behind you.

still. hiding something.

he stiffened again, gaze narrowing driven by concerned curiosity. "eydis... what are you hiding? you didn't fall again, did you?" his lifs lowered just a touch more. "don't tell me you're hurt again—are you bleeding?! by the nine, if you're hiding another-"

his thoughts tripped over each other, spiraling faster than he could stop them—you were just like your mother! so stubborn. stubborn to the core!

but before he could spiral into another lecture, you shuffled to interrupt him.

"no! no!" your head shook side to side with haste, correcting that it was fortunately not one of those times. instead, "i made something!", was proclaimed by you, eyes aglow.

your arms swung forward, revealing what had been hidden behind you this whole time.

not bruises. not scrapes.

but a crown.

baldr blinked.

a crown made of wildflowers, messily lopsided, more loop than circle. clearly the work of a first-timer moved not by craft, but by instinct. 

however, what struck him wasn't the shape. it was the choice of flowers.

starblossoms decorated the edges in a symphonic shimmer, silver shining gorgeously as it met with the day's dew. flamepetals were nestled at the center like tiny beating hearts. and beside a suncrest; a single mourna rose—dark as dusk, too somber for a child to know.

an accident, perhaps. or something deeper your developing-mind couldn't name.

he stared. not because you knew. but because you didn't. you couldn't have.

and you didn't, indeed. 

you just thought they were pretty.

and still, you'd unknowingly threaded memory and omen into a crown meant for joy.

but before he could speak, you beckoned him with the pride of a small artisan, motioning excitedly for him to stoop to your level with impatient hands. "let me crown you, papa!"

he stared a beat too long. air snagged in his throat as his gaze lingered longer on a certain bloom.

for a moment, he didn't see the forest. instead, he saw an echo. a conversation etched in older stone.

' when she loses control—and she will—i will not save her. '

' then i will. and i will mourn you, should you forget how to love. '

the memory flickered and faded. the ghost passed, the forest returned. and so did you.

full of color, full of light. his light.

so he knelt before you with all the reverence he could muster, not as the god he humbly was, but as a warrior before a goddess. choosing not to dwell on what-ifs, not here, not now.

and you, with the ceremony of a sovereign bestowing honor, placed the crown on his head as though he was the king of the forest—like it had always belonged there.

"for you," you grinned, eyes crinkling. "because you found me."

he didn't talk for a long time. he couldn't. words would only ruin it.

instead, he reached forward, meekly pulled you close, and pressed his forehead to yours—flower crown and all. to which, your little arms wrapped around his shoulders like the safest chain in the world.

"thank you," he whispered at last, voice tender and full of a thousand unsaid things.

' no fate is cursed, if it has love to guide it. '

he remembered saying that to a queen. call it laughably foolish—maybe even trite—a naive surrender drunk on a worn-out love story or blinded by a more damning folly. but he didn't and doesn’t regret any of it.

because he got this.

he just never imagined the truest proof of it would one day hand him a crooked crown, declaring him worthy.

and in that still moment, beneath the hush of canopy and fate, baldr knew.

whatever the cost had been—this made it worth it.

not a throne. not a victory.

but you.

his daughter.

his miracle.

his good fortune.

and that—you—were more than he ever thought he'd be allowed to ask for.

    with nerves steadied and bearings gathered, soon, the father and daughter stood.

"come, let's go explore some more." baldr said at last, voice mellowed as he extended his hand—strong, calloused, and worn from years of holding too much—and you, elated, responded by reaching up and taking hold not of his palm, but his pinky.

the smallest anchor.

and yet, one that never breaks.

thus the day went on, not hurried, but savored—like a fruit that tastes sweeter the longer it's left to ripen.

you walked beside him, wandering through the woodlands, pointing at every marvel the world dared offer. whatever moved, whatever dared to be gorgeous. and he—indulgent, smiling—let himself be swept up in your wonder. he chuckled at your questions. answered each one as if it was a revelation to a universe, letting your whims guide him like constellations.

and you, meanwhile, delighted in the almost childish exhilaration that matched yours dancing along his face when he thought you weren't looking.

because if he loved anything less than you—and her—it was the wild.

and only just.

there was something about the way he spoke of nature—not for their utility, though he would often throw in a lesson about tinctures or runes or root systems—but for the satisfaction of simply knowing them. he would name trees like they were old friends, recite the virtues of strange plants that society might dismiss unless crushed into medicine or woven into spell.

to most, it was rambling.

to you, it was incantation.

to you, your father was the moon if you ever lost your way in a void. a man who strung refulgence in the ozone because it made your eyes shine.

and on days like this, when he forgot the turmoil on his back and let the smile stay a little longer, your heart swelled with quiet triumph.

still—there was always a sliver of shadow behind his gaze. a gloom that didn't scream, but settled deep in the marrow in a way no child is supposed to notice. 

but you did.

a barely-there glint, as if he was always bracing for a storm he refused to tell you about.

so you did what any small protector would; you tried to chase the clouds away.

you tried—in all the ways only a youngling could—to atleast lessen it. to brighten it. to push away the bad weather. you orchestrated little games, elaborate distractions he pretended to fall for until the punchline; when he'd gasp, eyes wide, ' you tricked me! ', and you would laugh like dazzling rays beaming through a cloudy, stormy sky.

you made it your mission to keep his mind too full of joy to remember the ache.

because even if you were just a child, you had already made a vow. a sacred one.

to guard him from every bad dream, every quiet sigh he thought you didn't hear, every sadness he never let bloom.

baby steps, he once called it, which you made a motto you constantly told yourself. one frown at a time.

and today? you did good. you could almost pat yourself on the back.

    eventually, dusk kissed the canopy above, you had to return as it pulled its velvet coat over the vast expanse. trailing mud, laughter, and half of the forest clinging to your clothes. you returned streaked in mud, your hair hugged loosely by pondwater and leaf-fall—evidence of your travels well-worn and proudly worn.

he didn't scold you for it. not even once.

he merely watched like you were the wild thing worth watching, the brightest chaos there is. as though he was memorizing your elation to store it away for colder nights.

evening was tiptoeing in, but you didn't fear. you didn't cower from the ink that glazed over and proimnited shadows. not when your father, with a wave of his hand, summoned what you had long since discovered were fireflies, blinking to life like tiny lanterns, illuminating your way.

despite the familiar sight, you chased the alluring midges with gaping fascination, your eyes catching their glow until they mirrored the celestial bodies above.

by the time you returned home—cheeks wind-kissed, soul full—you disappeared to scrub off your adventures. and when you reemerged, the scent of something enticing met you at the threshold.

mead, brewed with care. hearth-cooked food made with that patient tenderness only he possessed.

you scurried giddily to your chair. that handmade wooden throne carved with care, fraying slightly at the edges from all the times you rocked in it.

you clapped as he set down a single plate before you. tender, made with love tucked into every grain.

but you noticed something, something that made your spark dim just a little.

then...you paused altogether.

there was just one plate.

yours.

none for him.

you tilted your head, questioning with your flickering stare that jumped between the temptation presented to you and he who didn't bother to spare one for himself. 

he caught your hesitation before your voice could form the question.

"i think i’m full enough," he said, voice light. "from all the fruit you made me try today."

you pouted. you frowned.

of course you did. you ate just as much—if not more!

besides, he was ancient by your standards! didn't old people get hungry too?!

he was definitely lying!

before your protest could gain steam, you felt a feather-light touch atop your head. a weightless pat that barely grazed your hair, but grounded you nonetheless.

beside you.

not across. not apart. but next to you. just like you once asked with all the sincerity of a child who didn't understand why closeness ever had to be negotiated.

"no, I'm not lying," he teased, the corners of his mouth twitching. "now eat up. your stomach's growling at me."

you flushed. you glared. you grumbled. giving him your best unimpressed look.

and he snickered. that old-man snort that always made you smile even when you were determined not to.

so you ate...because he was also not wrong.

you are a little bit hungry. and whatever righteous famished grumpiness you had staged faded with every bite of the delicious food he'd made.

love had a taste, and it was all over this meal. filling your belly and your heart in equal measure.

a while later, bellies full and hearts even fuller, you asked what you routinely did like clockwork.

your favorite bedtime question—no matter the hour.

"papa?"

he hummed, half-lost in the rhythm of sipping cocoa, as though the question hadn't already perched itself on the tip of his heart.

"what did mama look like?"

you knew the answer by now. you inquired so many times you could sculpt her from memory alone.

but you didn't ask because you forgot.

you asked because he remembered. and the point was, he lit up whenever he talked about her. his eyes always changed. softening, drifting, touched by a heartache so wistful it became beautiful. every time he spoke of her, he gave you another petal from a flower long since gone.

and every time, you bloomed a little more.

so, he answered.

he always did.

as if speaking her name let him hold her for just a little longer. he talked about her like she was poetry who learnt how to walk.

"she had a laugh that made birds jealous!" he'd sometimes say.

"she smelled like wild mint and firewood, i always thought it suited her." other nights.

but always, always. he'd pause, as if something in him was being peeled open again.

and he'd whisper, like a secret carved from longing;

"you have her eyes."

he said it every time, with a melancholy that of a tree smiling whenever one opens a book, knowing there's life after death.

and even if you couldn't remember her, you loved her—because of how he did.

because of how his voice softened like a lullaby.

because of how his own eyes turned toward a time he never truly left.

because even though he'd lost her, he still had you.

and though you never met her, not really—you carried her in your face. in every question you asked to hear him say her name again.

    how do we go on, knowing there's a last time for everything?

there will come a last night when he tucks you into bed with the warmest of blankets. there will come a night where he presses a final kiss to that fragile temple—that sacred, whisper-soft spot—and never again after. there will be a last meal cooked just for you, your favorite dish seasoned with affection and memory. there will be a last time you run into his arms and he lifts you into the sky, weightless and free—held safe in a world where you never fall. the wind will catch in your hair like laughter, and you'll think it'll last eternally.

but it won't.

how does he wake up each day, knowing someday will be the last time he hears, "night, papa." and he'll answer, with that same tender hush, "sweet dreams, my sol."

he knows. he knows it the way old trees know winter is coming. not with panic, but with that solemn ache that settles into the bones long before the snow arrives.

he doesn't speak of it. he never will. but the knowing is there, in the way he lingers beside you a moment longer than he used to. in the way his eyes trace your silhouette as if trying to memorize the shape of your existence before the light takes it away.

you are still so young.

so whole. so now.

you haven't yet learned how fragile forever is.

but he has.

see, the ache isn't just in what he'll lose.

it's in what you won't get to keep.

he's lived long enough to measure life in echoe —in the small, golden hours between first words and last breaths. he's held dreams in his hands and felt it vanish like smoke through his fingers. the love of his life—gone. torn from him like a door ripped from the only home his soul had ever known. and now, all that's left is the echo of her footsteps in your laughter, her shadow in your eyes. and the ticking of fate that grows louder by the day, watching joy and grief wear the same face.

and yet, here you are.

a second chance cradled in dainty fingers, with mirthful eyes and chortles that stir the hibernating from slumber. a living tether to a love he can no longer touch—your mother, her memory threaded through the unique ways you try to show that you care.

you ask about her, as you always do. and while you say her name like it's a wish. he says it like it's a wound that sings.

you expression radiates, and as it brightens, his soul cries out.

you do not know—not fully—that the more he sees her in you, the more he feels time slipping like sand from the seams of his soul. he is racing destiny, and he knows it.

but norns, what a gift it is, even if borrowed.

so he pours everything he has into the days you still share; before the clock runs out, he'll give you a treasure trove of memories. moments to reach for when the world grows too loud. time's you'll remember when everything else feels like it's slipping away.

he gives you jubilation as if it's armor. 

he gives you ebullience as if it's a beacon.

he lets you tire him out, make messes, steal his peace—because it is worth it.

because you are worth it.

though sometimes, truthfully, it feels like you're the one caring for him.

the smallest things you do—your watchful eyes, the way you mimic his habits like a mirror with a beating heart, offering half your meal, brushing his hair with solemn ceremony, tucking petals asserted to be "lucky charms" into his pockets "for protection".

he lets you.

he lets you because it makes you feel strong.

and because, some days, it really does protect him.

from despair. from silence. from remembering too much.

he wonders; was this what it felt like for his own parents—or atleast those who bothered raising him? to be looked at like you hung the moon and scattered the stars?

from your smile when he cooks something simple and your belly growls in gratitude, to the sneaky ways you try to repay him, as if pride could ever hide behind a curtain.

it means everything to baldr.

everything.

despite everything, though, he knows it's only a matter of time before they come.

because fate doesn't knock. it turns the key.

he sees your longing. that ache to meet the woman he speaks of like a symphony, forever unfinished.

it mirrors his own ache for a past that time no longer permits.

so he carries you through the present.

and when the silence gets too heavy, he cracks a joke.

or you do.

but mostly him.

he wishes he could give you what you deserve. what you need.

a mother's arms. a mother's laugh. a mother's hand to hold.

but he can't. she's gone.

and no magic, no strength, no other sacrifice can change that.

still, he can't help but picture her here. sitting at the foot of your bed, reading stories or weaving tales just for you. he imagines the corners of her lips turning up, that familiar knowing glimmer in her eyes, as the night stretches on, heavy with unspoken pining.

' see you soon. ' the last words she ever said to him—not a farewell, but a vow dressed in finality.

he still waits on that promise.

not out of desperation—but out of hope that refused to die.

like when he looks into your eyes, and finds enough.

and if you never know what they've given up for you, the grief he swallows like glass, the battles she's fought without sword or song—that is fine. this is fine.

it means they've done it right. 

he knows, too, however, that keeping the truth from you might one day bear a cost.

but you're a child. and a child deserves to be one. to live, to wonder, to scrape your knees and believe in forever.

is it flawed to do so? yes..and no.

but, regardless, he'll shield you from the tempest as long as he can.

and in its place, he will give you refulgence. for you, he'll give hysterics that reverberates in your ribs. for you, he'll give serenity for as long as instants would allow. moments worth folding into cherished corners of your soul.

all in the hope that when the time comes—when the inevitable carves its way into your world—you'll have something to hold onto.

for you, were silent apologies stitched into the seams of every memory; a muted goodbye that was always there. wrapped in affection, and disguised as evermore.

he is a man building sanctuaries from the ruins of old wars.

and you—you are the soft place where all his sharp edges fade.

so, yes.

there will be a last time.

and he knows it.

but tonight is not that night.

tonight, your hand is still small in his. your voice still calls for him in the dark. and he still answers—with a cradle, with a oath, with adoration so still it could be mistaken for tranquility.

"sleep well, little lykke. i'll see you in the morning."

and maybe he will.

maybe he won't.

but for you? he accepts it. because what else can he do?

Chapter Text

years passed. and so did you, blooming like a dawnflower in the slow-turning rhythm of the everlasting. you aged beside your father, and with you aged the heavenly bodies, as did the fabric of all things that dared to persist across the nine realms.

“happy birthday, eydis!”

three hundred and sixty years, more or less, since the hour your cry first touched air. and yet today, you stood at six—at least by midgard’s odd reckoning. time tangled itself in strange braids across realms, but you loved trying to comb it apart. the calculations were funny, but you liked it. you liked learning anything, really. questions delighted you; answers, even more. your hunger for knowledge was as boundless as the sea between stars.

each year, your birthday bore a different flavor—and, as tradition had it, your celebrations were not just with simple cakes, but with medley pastries; confections handpicked, so he claimed. but each time, a different realm. that was the rule.

this time? earth’s turn.

you’d wanted to help him bake, of course—eager hands reaching for flour, for whisks, for a task. but he’d denied you, as always, with a mischievous glint in his eye. “you’ll ruin the surprise,” he said, wagging a wooden spoon like how a dog would with its tail.

“but i want to help!” you’d huffed, your nose crinkled like wrinkled parchment.

“and you do, little one,” he replied, leaning down to tap your forehead. “just by being here.”

it annoyed you, sometimes, how easily he could make you smile when you were trying not to.

still, you weren’t above pestering him over one detail.

“but how do you get all this stuff from other worlds, papa?”

the answer was never the same.

one year, he said he tricked a dwarf king in a riddle duel. another time, he claimed a griffin owed him a favor. then the next, he stated to have won a baking contest judged by frost giants. and soon came one where he professed to have befriended a traveling goose who bartered desserts for poetry.

basically, the tales grew more ridiculous by the year and more delightful.

you knew he was fibbing. but the stories were so inane it was hilarious.

you would laugh so much that your cocoa—double the marshmallows, always—went cold before you remembered it existed. and when you glanced over, your father would always be watching, content, as if he’d found the actually true treasure in the sound of your laughter.

    then came the walk, eventually. the two of you trekked the familiar way, tall trees standing as nature’s guards, branches cradling the sky as moonlight pooled in between leaves like ivory spilled beneath your feet.

you were heading to your special spot.

it was a place you and your father always went to on your birthday. where the land opened up just enough for you to see the horizon stretched wide, the stars scattered in a way that made it appear as if it were silver seeds littering the expanse.

and tonight, like every birthday, a vermillion moon would soon rise—cardinal as a forgone ballad and just as haunting.

a rare lunar eclipse, your father stated. but it happened every year and for some reason, only on this night.

you never asked why.

maybe it was a gift from fate. maybe it was a joke played by the norns.

your father never said. and you never pushed.

when others saw omen, he saw omen bent. he decided long ago that if the moon insisted on painting itself crimson for your birth, then crimson would become a blessing—not a curse.

a sign, not of doom, but of you.

so, he perceived the moon’s arrival marked the feast, the laughter, the moment the world paused to celebrate the exact breath in time when you were chosen to exist.

he spread thick pelts like a makeshift throne across the clearing, and you wriggled into your spot beside him, grinning—staying up this late was definitely your favorite part; it felt wickedly wonderful. the wind was practically as icy as the night which was cooling fast, gradually painting the grass in darker shades.

“are you ready, little lykke?” your father asked with a flair for drama, arms outspread like he was performing for the stars.

your watched with wide eyes as he opened the basket, revealing grand troves of strange and superb treats. steam wafted out in scented spirals—sweet, rich, unfamiliar. peculiar treats lay inside, stacked like treasure; one looked like a golden swirl crowned in icing, another like a dense little breadstone dusted with sugar. one even resembled a cloud with a bottle beside it—syrup, the label read. you didn’t know what that meant yet nor what any of it were, but it all smelled marvelous.

though you had set your sights on the specific one with the twirly frosting, since to you, it looked like a pastry cosplaying as a royal due to the glaze atop the cylinder-shaped bread appearing as a diadem.

“ta-da!” he proclaimed, jazz-handing as if he were summoning applause, face absurdly serious.

you snorted, fighting back laughter.

“now,” he continued, lifting one of the pastries in a manner you would with a relic; a ring looking pastry with a light glaze and sprinkles. “this here is a must try. it-“

you reached past his dramatic display and snatched the swirly-frosted roll.

“-is my personal favorite…” he finished flatly, raising a brow at your treason.

you took a bite.

he sighed, theatric and tragic. staring at you with the most pitiful expression imaginable. “is this who i am now? ignored for a cupcake??” he took a mournful bite of his donut. “cast aside like… like uh..” he trailed off, “..crumbs on a plate!”

you stuck out your tongue.

he gasped, clutching his chest. “i can’t believe this- betrayed! by my own child!”

and then, laughter.

yours first. light and quick as raindrops.

mission; accomplished.

then his. balmy, exultant, the sound of home.

“let the mighty eydis heal you, papa.” you declared in a grandly flair, climbing to your feet with your frosting-sticky fingers, brushing your palms together. “for the yummy food you give me!”

he raised an eyebrow but offered his hand—the same one he’d placed dramatically to his chest.

then it happened.

you approached with exaggerated solemnity, took his hand gently in yours—and with fingers still with leftover frosting, reached out and smeared a glorious mustache across his face.

he blinked.

a beat of stunned silence.

you stepped back and observed, humming approvingly. “there.” then biting your lip to keep from bursting, you added, “now you’re better.”

he rubbed at his upper lip. “ah yes. i am much better, with a new look too. you’re a true healer.”

he poked at the frosting. “though it is quite… ticklish.”

he tried to lick it off, but it only made things worse.

you couldn’t help it. the laughter came in a flood, your whole body shaking with it. you rubbed at your eyes, glistening from joy too big to contain.

he tried to scowl at you, but it failed. the corners of his mouth tugged up traitorously.

“you look so silly, papa!” you giggled out in gasps.

he wiped his hands on a towel he’d tucked into the basket, before giving you a slow, knowing grin. “and i thank you for that.”

you barely had time to say, “wha—?” before he lunged, hands reaching for your sides, tickling you with merciless glee.

“papa-! wait!- no!” you shrieked, dissolving into helpless, delighted squirming. “stop! stop!”

“never!” he cackled, triumphant. “this is revenge! revenge!”

    it lingered, your chuckles—long after the last jab was thrown, after fingers no longer danced against your ribs. mercy, perhaps, cloaked in the guise of playful surrender. or maybe your father simply pitied your hiccuped giggles and ruddy face.

either way, your sentence was lifted.

you lay back, belly full of sweets and silliness, a few half-bitten pastries nestled safely for the morrow, tucked away for later—though you made sure the one with the syrup bottle was safe—while the cosmos, as though it had waited for your solitude, unveiled itself.

the realm had slipped between sun and moon.

a hush fell, not in sound, but in soul. and the heavens flushed as the velvet coin waxed red.

a sanguine sheen propagated across the firmament; a blood-born halo cast from shadow and celestial choreography. the satellite crystal, round and reverent, glowed as though remembering some ancient ache. cerise scintillation spilled across the woods, gilding bark, leaf, and fur with hues too deep for mere daylight.

and you, small as a blink in time, lay sprawled on your pinnacle of coverlet, limbs heavy with joy and limbs heavier still with awe.

the sight above you was breathtaking. so still, so enormous, it made your bones feel small inside your skin. a shiver crept through you, and though the night wind played a part, it wasn’t just the cold that raised the hairs on your arms; but from the sensation that the moon was not just a thing to behold… but a thing that beheld you in return.

beautiful.

but strange.

as if it had followed you here from a dream.

it made you feel strange—not scared. but seen.

you remembered a story; of two wolves born from shadow. one chasing the sun, the other the moon.

they never caught them… but if they did, the sky would look like this. a moon that bled in silence, and with it? a swallowed sun.

the tale wasn’t meant for children. you’d found it in a book too thick for your hands with too many words and barely decipherable drawings that had gotten older than you, left behind on a day your father wandered for resources or forge.

whether it was forgotten or planted, you never knew. you barely understood the symbols then, the meanings felt slippery in your mind, too big to hold onto for long.

but something stayed.

the illustrations.

the emotions.

the knowing.

like a melody you’d never heard, but could hum all the same.

and so you watched the blood-colored space with your heart placid thudding, repleted of something you couldn’t name.

still, you never thought too long on it. why? because thinking too much made your temples throb! plus, feelings were simpler. truer. you trusted those.

and besides, you didn’t have to understand it to feel it.

then came a rustle at your side.

“you know, my sol…” your father’s voice broke through the hush. low, drowsy and fond, that of honey stirred slow.

he lay on his side, elbow bent, head cradled in his palm, the other arm stretched for yours. his forearm became your pillow; it couldn’t have been comfortable, but he didn’t move. and if you ever pointed it out, he’d pretend he hadn’t noticed or start prattling about something ridiculous like a tale about enchanted muscles or call it “divine endurance.”

stubbornness ran in the family.

you turned to him, doe-eyes reflecting starlight and waiting.

“we never had that,” he murmured, tilting his chin toward the horizon. “before you came.”

he didn’t explain further. he didn’t need to.

because he wasn’t speaking only of the moon.

he meant the color.

the reticence.

the warmth that follows distinctive, infectious laughter that even centuries later, you’d hear it in a crowded room and instantly know who it belonged to.

the serene stillness after the waves crash down and water finally rests.

the eclipse.

you.

you had not just arrived into the world; you rewritten it. you brought that beauty into the world. you made the sky learn to paint itself—the heavens rearranged their timing around your presence, as though the norns themselves had hesitated, spindle in hand, before smiling as they looped your strings.

the blood moon wasn’t ominous.

and though distant, it looked back at you not as a warning, but as a kindred.

it never blinked. and nor did the ravens that silently observed you, blending with the permeated gloom of twilight.

Chapter Text

the castle breathed in quietude—not the kind restful, but the brittle stillness of a wound scabbed too thin.

a hush not born of rest, but of aftermath.

the silence that follows collapse.

the kind that clings like smoke after something once bright has burned down.

only the throne hall resisted it.

there, silence was not silence—but restraint.

stone walls steeped in centuries strained to contain the sound of civility turned brittle.

a battle of voices masquerading as reason.

a standoff cloaked in royal cadence.

a confrontation wrapped in diplomacy, spoken between two war-wrought brothers whose now frayed by a rift not even war had taught them how to cross.

their conversation was hardly one; more a veiled standoff, just barely dressed in diplomacy. the air was strained, knotted with words left unsaid, as they stood at the edge of something irreparable.

their words were sharp, but quiet.

measured, but no less heavy.

they spoke not with swords, but with scars.

their discourse was a chessboard carved in grief, every move laced with ghosts.

it was meant to be about treason.

duty.

the throne. the realm.

but beneath the formalities lay something rawer; heartbreak, and a deep, aching question of whether the blood they had spilled together still bound them—or was now the very thing dividing them.

the king, no longer merely a man but a vessel of legacy, stood worn yet unyielding.

time etched its toll into the lines of his face, but not his spine.

he clung to what rulers always do when love and logic wage war;

order.

survival.

the preservation of asgard at any cost, as he was meant to, as he always had. even if it gutted him.

and not even if that cost was everything he once held dear.

it should’ve been simple.

but it never is. not when the condemned wears the face of someone he once bled beside.

the one now in chains—once trusted in every war council, every battlefield.

the voice he once leaned on, the mind whose clarity saved thousands. a companion whose loyalty had once seemed unshakeable.

though now sullied by betrayal…or perhaps by something worse; a belief that love could justify it all.

he remembered a moment, from a time long since—where mercy had been proposed—strange and fragile as it was.

imprisonment, rather than execution. a cage instead of a pyre; it was a containment, that unlike what would be expected—was not rooted in ego or fear , but in sorrow of empathy regardless of fear—for a woman who would not die, who could not die.

it had been for the goddess of death herself. her name written in finality.

and even then, the offer of clemency only came after the screams faded.

after the streets of asgard cracked and wept.

after the skies mourned the fall of the valkyries, luminous and lost.

after the molten realm had its memory bled into deception.

but memory, like all things, blurred beneath grief.

and what had once been fury now dulled into quiet devastation.

even now, standing in this cold chamber of quarrels and cracked truths, beneath the banners of kingship—he struggled not with anger, but grief —one that comes not from loss, but from watching someone you trust mercy yet another ruin, an outcast and call it salvation.

but this time, it was something far more terrifying; love.

for this witch had, impossibly, wound herself into the very marrow of his brother’s heart.

and that— that —was the true dilemma.

because she had not come in war, but in wonder.

because she had not sought conquest, but belonging.

and yet none of that mattered. she didn’t matter.

because what mattered was his brother choosing her.

and that was the true fracture.

to watch his brother kneel—heart-first—to a woman carved from the forbidden. to see him bound, heart and soul, to a creature the king had long deemed a peril to the realm as soon as she had stepped foot into the golden gates of the aesir, banished from her own homeland.

it was not acceptance that followed.

simply endurance.

the bond was—barely—allowed to persist, if not without chains of its own.

compromises etched in midnight councils. endless conditions. unspoken threats.

and sleepless nights where even the queen’s voice—gentle, wise, pleading—was not enough to silence the tremble of what might come next.

still, she had spoken.

the queen.

crowned not in gold, but in grace.

she had dared to ask;

‘ he loves her like fate itself..and that, is the most dangerous thing, above all.

if it was ripped away, what would happen? ‘

for she saw the sorceress had looked not for the crown, but at the man that stood with it.

and that man—the throne’s brother—had looked at her not with fear, but with the kind of reverence that made destruction a small price to pay.

but no forgiveness ever followed.

only a kind of survival draped in civility.

a pact forged not in belief, but necessity.

because the king remembered.

he remembered the vision—the prophecy written in blood and sealed in silence.

he had seen the strands twist. had felt the curse humming through the vaults of destiny.

and to preserve what little future remained, he had chosen compromise over conquest.

not because he wished to save that enchantress.

not even for his brother.

but for the child that was born of them.

the forbidden child.

a girl spun from dusk and fate, cradled between death’s shadow and divinity’s flame.

he did not act out of mercy.

he acted to ensure that, should the world end,

she might be the reason it began again.

that from gods and spirits, something gentler—something new —might be born.

    he wasn’t quite sure why he’d let himself be dragged into this.

one minute, he was minding his own business; spending his time leisurely, halfway through an incantation in the quieter corner of the study hall. and the next, his brother had barreled in out of nowhere, shouting like the storm he was, too eager to announce itself—himself. “there you are!” before grabbing his wrist and yanking him away with all the grace of a hysterical goat.

which brought them here.

at a clearing carved by the hands of time and weather—where a waterfall sang its low, tumbling song into a pool of silver, and the trees stood sentinel around it like slumbering giants.

the boy with midnight waves blinked up at the spray, misting up into the air as if the forest was trying to sweat. “seriously?” he muttered. “you brought me out here for… scenery? ”

on the other hand, the elder with sunlit strands didn’t answer. he just spun on his heel, practically bouncing in place, excitement quivering in his limbs. “do the thing!” he urged, cerulean irises wide and alight. “c’mon- you know, the thing! ”

the younger of the two raised a brow, unimpressed. “what thing?” he paused, glancing around with a conflicted look. “besides, what and why are we even here, exactly?”

the latter huffed. “you really can’t see it?? look closer!” the buttercream-head gestured nonsensically toward the thicket just beside the water, waving his arms like that explained anything. “it’s right there! i thought your eyes were good for this sort of weirdness!”

sighing through his nose, the onyx-tressed gave him a look that could curdle milk. “if you want me to push you in just say so.”

gasping, the one with a golden harvest for hair’s expression morphed into that of being utterly scandalized. “ what? no! are you mad?! i’m not getting drenched for nothing! ” he jabbed a finger toward the tree line. “just see better, will you? over there! isn’t weird glowy stuff your thing??”

“well maybe if you’d bother to explain yourself instead of flailing around with no context whatsoever, then i could- wait..”

there.

a glint; low to the ground, almost imperceptible between bark and bramble, was a soft shimmer, pulsing faintly like it was moonlight trapped in a web.

he tilted his head, eyes made of complex teal narrowing.

ah.

not just light.

not just illusion.

magic.

an enchantment that breathed just faintly beneath the veil of nature—old, but intact. cloaked well enough to dodge most eyes… not his, of course.

it was a spell of concealment. maybe even warding.

so that’s what pea-brain was trying to show him—without having the vocabulary to say so.

he then felt said pea-brain sidle up next to him, practically vibrating with anticipation. “seeee?? told you there was something weird!”

“you couldn’t have said runes?” the raven-haired boy grumbled, stepping forward. “or literally any useful detail?”

his dandelion companion shrugged. “i tried. but you were too busy looking like someone had stepped on your books again.”

the ebony-head rolled his eyes, muttering as he shoved past his elder. “move. you’re blocking the script.”

unfazed, the older brother let out a triumphant little sound and followed close behind, hands on his hips. “you can figure it out, right?”

his younger brother ignored him.

rather, crouched near the sigils now visible beneath the moss; it pulsed faintly—as if it were a canopy of locked doors and secrets half-remembered.

ancient vanir, if he wasn’t mistaken…and also his favorite.

the enchantment was solid, but age showed around the edges, as though it were made to last a century, now practically begging to be noticed again.

and he would.

“of course i can.” he mumbled under his breath. magic was his thing. where his sibling’s brute force couldn’t follow. where his mother looked at him with pride rather than concern.

he pressed a hand to the rune, letting his senses dip just beneath its surface.

“hurry up! ” the vanilla-weaved boy urged impatiently, breaking the moment like a rock through still water.

now that got the one with gilded curls to be successfully distracted. flinching and shooting his brother a glare. “will you be quiet? he hissed, waving a hand at him. “i’m thinking. unless that’s also something you’ve never heard before..”

the elder crossed his arms, sulking at the witticism, though he obeyed. “don’t tell me what to do.”

“then stop barking like a dog.”

the rebel made a face, shifting his weight from foot to foot like patience physically pained him. but despite grumbling something incoherent, he stayed quiet.

for once.

and for that small miracle, the other bit his tongue from quipping any further. though..an upturn did tug at the edge of his mouth.

and even if he’d never admit it, he didn’t mind moments like this—where his foolishly lovable brother still looked at him as if he could conjure galaxies despite their frequent quarrels.

and perhaps, today, he just might.

    a twitch carved through his brow—barely a furrow, more the ghost of one—betraying what he refused to say aloud;

it wouldn’t break.

not easily.

possibly not at all.

but of course, he’d never admit that. not out loud. he’d sooner chew glass than confess that. certainly not while his brother stood there beside him, waiting with that ever-hopeful, ever-annoying look—eyes bright, breath bated.

no, especially not now. not when he had the perfect stage, and an audience primed for awe.

so he did what all clever boys with something to prove; he opted for spectacle over surrender.

without a word, he stood.

and before the brother with sun-beamed strands could open his mouth to ask what he was doing, the obsidian-head pressed his palm flat against his brother’s chest. a pulse of seiðr thrummed like it was a second heartbeat—benign, yet peculiar, not unlike stepping into cool rain but rather an off beat drum under the blonde’s ribs.

the elder flinched back, almost stumbling, swatting at the air like he’d walked through a web. “what’d you do?! what’d you do?!?!” he rose a hand to his chest, breathing out. “that felt weird! very weird!!”

the latter had to suppress an eyeroll.

of course he’d overreact.

“it’s a thing.” the younger answered dryly, mirroring the spell on himself with a mere flick of his fingers. “so we don’t get blasted the moment we touch the shiny thing.” he added, brushing phantom dust from his sleeves.

his older brother blinked, frowning. “…oh.”

then..he tilted his head, clearly trying to parse the logic through a filter of suspicion.

meanwhile, the one with twilight tresses exhaled. a blend of half-exasperation, and half-resignation.

why is he doing this?

oh right.

because curiosity always got the better of him.

because some part of him—against better judgment—felt a little warm and fuzzy that his brother had thought of him, first and foremost, the moment he saw magic.

whether it was because he trusted his talents, or simply needed someone to do the thinking for him, he wasn’t sure.

but the thought alone..it counted for something, didn’t it?

even if part of him whispered that he was being used, not included.

because it was easier to believe it was selfishness. it always was.

he shook the thoughts away, and gestured toward the tree line with a jerk of his chin. “well? what are you waiting for, a royal decree?”

the other hesitated. glance darting between the glowing runes to his brother’s face.

once.

twice.

before he squinted.

“why should i go first?” he asked, voice wary. “what if this is one of your tricks again? i’m not falling into another wasp nest, brother.”

said brother’s lips quirked despite himself.

ah, so he was remembering. the ‘its-invisible but-its-totally-there-bridge’ illusion. the talking frog. the ‘its-just-berries’ incident. the ‘there-are-no-bees-in-here’ helmet.

and so much more.

“paranoid much?” he drawled coolly, folding his arms. “you’re having flashbacks, aren’t you.”

he stated more than asked.

“i’m just being cautious! ” the golden boy barked, chin raised as he folded his arms like it were a barricade. “you’ve fooled me before. loads of times!”

“and yet you’re the one that dragged me here.”  the inked-head said sweetly. “who’s the real fool?”

the older one puffed up his chest, mouth opening for what was surely going to be another dramatic declaration—

but the younger cut in first.

“what’s wrong?..” he leaned forward slightly, eyes half-lidded with mischief. “..are you scared, brother?”

predictably, his brother exploded.

“ me? scared? hah!” he scoffed so loudly it startled a bird from a nearby branch. “if anyone’s scared, it’s you! ”

“right..” the latter hummed. “i’m so scared that you’re quivering in your boots.”

“i am not quivering! i’m being smart! knowing not to fall for your..your petty traps!”

“you’re stalling.”

“i am NOT!”

“as much as i’d love to humiliate you,” the trickster uttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “this isn’t one. for once.”

“oh, please- that’s what you always say! ”

this was going nowhere. and the ravenette was so very tired.

he clicked his tongue. “you oversized baby..”

and with that, he turned on his heel, marched up to the tree, and without ceremony, shoved his entire arm clean through the runes and into the tree trunk.

his elder’s jaw hit the forest floor in spirit, if not in body.

yet before he could shriek “ what did you just do?!” higher than a lady would, his brother pulled his arm out again, perfectly intact, and shoved it into his face.

not combusting or launched halfway to vanaheim, but clearly, still very much attached.

“there.” he deadpanned. “see? still have an arm. no missing hand. didn’t even lose a finger. happy?”

a beat.

he watched as his elder blinked.

then grinned.

then beamed.

“that. is. AWESOME!! ”

now he was the one who blinked.

and then watched, in slow-dawning horror, as the boy—without further pause— ran full-speed at the tree.

headfirst.

straight into the trunk.

“wait- BROTHER-!”

too late.

with all the grace of a stag, the older prince disappeared into the bark with a whoop and into the sound of crackling runes.

the younger prince stood there, alone. silence rushing in like a tide.

he slapped his hands to his face and dragged it down.

“absolute buffoon.”

but he followed.

of course he followed.

    you don’t know when it began.

only that something woke you.

screaming.

but not around you.

within you.

not thunder, nor breath, nor fire.

something far older.

something inside you.

it did not whisper.

it roared. howling.

wake up.

move.

destroy.

KILL.

you didn’t know your legs had moved until the world blurred beneath them.

didn’t feel your breath until it stung in your lungs.

didn’t know you were running until the realm started fleeing behind you.

running toward something.

or running as something.

because your body no longer felt like yours.

it moved with a purpose you did not command, through a forest you could not name.

your—the bones were wrong. the skin was a cage. the heartbeat was a war drum not beating for you, but through you.

nothing made sense.

and maybe that’s why you couldn’t tell what was real.

or who .

you repeated it over and over, a litany laced with trembling denial.

this is a dream.

a nightmare.

this is a nightmare.

WE ARE A NIGHTMARE.

but the thoughts weren’t alone.

there were others in your head.

they echoed. multiplied.

something else was there. thinking with you.

thinking louder than you.

older voices, jagged and cold, echoing in a tongue you didn’t understand, yet felt —ravenous, like blood knows hunger.

even the wind didn’t feel like air anymore.

even the ground seemed to flinch beneath you.

even as hands—warm, familiar—tried to catch you, to wake you.

even as eyes—wide with terror—pleaded for you to stop.

even as then came the color.

red.

everywhere.

red, so thick it drowned your eyes.

red, staining your hands.

red, coloring where he lay.

and then stillness.

no more screaming.

just the quiet after slaughter.

and the first thing that ended your world?

a body.

a very familiar one.

an aureate god now breathless, bent and crumpled that flooded your gaze with the death of a star.

baldr.

you hands shook. your knees buckled.

this is a nightmare.

and then you heard them.

thunder in the leaves.

more voices.

are they real?

you saw them find you beside him.

two brothers—eyes wide, young hearts cracked.

one cloaked in sunlight. the other in shadow.

both staring at you.

at the girl with red on her hands.

red on her lips.

red in her eyes.

a child—no older than they.

in the embrace of nature; brothers..and a girl.

and right beside you, the god who would never wake again.

then, black.