Chapter 36
Westley fought hard to pull himself from her, the energy of her magic lingering in his bones. He’d been weak from expending his power to launch their ship through the sea, eager to put Asgard behind them.
But with her magic, he felt fresh and ready again should he need to use more power.
“Do you think Mother and Father will ever come around?” Easta whispered. The siblings had insisted on sharing a room on the ship. Westley didn’t fully trust the Asgardians yet—it would take a lot more time to let go of a centuries-old grudge.
“Anything is possible, I suppose,” Westley answered thoughtfully, his own change of heart still fresh.
“I don’t think they will.” North’s voice came from the dark.
Westley countered with, “I came around.”
“I never doubted you would,” North said simply.
“We always knew you would find your own mind,” Easta added.
He couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or not. “Thank you?”
“Well, I guess we were proven wrong. You didn’t change your mind, Solveig did,” Easta said. Even in the dark, Westley could hear the smile in her voice.
“True. We should thank her,” North agreed.
Westley rubbed a hand over his face. “You two are impossible.”
“But you love us.”
Westley barely dodged the pillow that came flying towards him. Even at six hundred years old, Easta was still a faeling at heart. She was right though, he did love them. He also loved his parents, despite their shortcomings.
He wasn’t sure where that left him.
By ship, the journey to Midgard usually took five days, but with Westley’s magic speeding them along, it had only taken three. Midgard’s continent was relatively close to the Trifold continent.
They reached the Midgard shore and were greeted by a human army, their weapons raised. At first, Westley assumed they were bows and arrows, but when they got closer he noted they were made of metal.
Perhaps this was a new form of gun? He mentally catalogued the features of the weapons, curious to see how they worked. He was not foolish enough to want to be the test subject.
The entire purpose of this diplomatic mission was to forge a better relationship with Midgard—to foster the bonds Idavoll already had and try to convince them of Ragnvald’s deception.
If the mortal villagers in Vanaheim had magic, who knew what kind of power the realm itself possessed thanks to the king of Hel.
Mortals surrounded them as they disembarked from their ship. At first glance, it could’ve been seen as a protective escort, but hatred and disgust marred their faces. Though the Fae went willingly, they were marched like prisoners into waiting carriages.
Westley settled in to wait for them to strap the horses to the coach, but as soon as the door closed, the carriage began to move. He tried to stretch his magic out to assess the oddity but could detect no power fuelling the vessel.
He met North’s wide-eyed expression and imagined his face held the same surprise. The horseless carriage moved quickly through the winding streets, steering them towards an unknown fate.
Mortals had always been exceptional at inventing new ways to create a sort of magic for themselves. Their technology had advanced, but before the War of Realms, it was no match for the races who were born with true, gods-given magic.
Despite their inventions, their manmade power, Westley could take out this entire town with a tidal wave if he wanted to.
Hence why his family believed they held dominion over the earth and sky, the seas, and the wind.
It had made sense to him as a faeling. The mortals were weak, created to serve the magical races, and especially the Fae since the gods had created them to rule.
His skin crawled with discomfort as children played in the streets, jumping in puddles as their parents tried to usher them home. Midgard was a realm that had been cursed with all four seasons in the extreme, and their current spring was rainy and damp.
The greys and browns of the buildings melded together as Westley peered through the fogging window.
In Idavoll, rain created life, cleansing any lingering debris and dust. But here, it seemed to flood the streets, allowing the dirt and grime to travel, spreading the filth instead of washing it away.
Even in these harsh conditions, mortals were living their lives, unburdened by slavery and servitude. Mortals stayed in Asgard because they chose to and wanted to work and live there with their families.
Cold seeped into his bones, penetrating his layers.
He could not say the same of Idavoll.
How blind had he been to not see what was under his nose the whole time? To ignore his discomfort when mortals were treated brutally and less than. To not recognize that their treatment of others was against the gods’ teachings.
Freyja would never stomp the mortals into submission.
Thor would never tear families apart.
They would love and care for and protect them.
Who was Idavoll to declare itself the chosen race? To think that the gods favoured them because of their blind obedience to Ragnvald’s, the ones he had pushed onto them in the name of Odin.
To think that Ragnvald had not only deceived the mortals in bringing them magic while still causing them harm, but he had deceived his own people—his family.
But to what end? To gather them in his twisted version of Hel, where only the devout and faithful entered the halls of Valhalla and everyone else was left to suffer? Why trick the mortals into believing he’d spare them?
Ragnvald craved dominion over the world, and to achieve this, he created chaos in the realms that sent people to Hel.
His Hel.
Not the Hel of old where spirits rested in peace, where Valhalla was a city and not its own realm. But that was before the destruction of the universe, before the death of the gods. And Ragnvald had capitalized on that fracture, taking Hel for his own.
Westley’s magic surged as he thought through the deception that was his entire life. Easta laid a hand on his bouncing leg, calming him. The same hurt was in her eyes, the same shattered trust in everything she knew.
North looked between them and sighed. She had spoken to them before about her plans once she became queen. A kinder rule, less strict and harsh.
At first, Westley had argued. Who was she to overrule the desires of the gods?
North had backed off but slowly began planting the seeds of her new rule in the hearts and minds of her people.
Westley saw the change in those who believed in North’s vision for Idavoll—it had chipped away at his resolve. He’d fought against it, doubling down on his belief in his grandfather and the gods.
But the more his eyes were opened—the more the general forced his eyes open—he could not turn away from what he saw and felt.
Ragnvald was a liar. He could not be trusted, which meant nothing Westley had been taught to believe could be trusted.
He’d visited Midgard before, but seeing it through this new lens made him ashamed of how he’d treated this race.
They were not lesser, nor undeserving. It was utterly foolish to think the mortals had been spared by Loki, his dying wish for them to survive Ragnarok only to be a nuisance to the magical realms. Pawns to be used by the gods and their chosen.
It was Ragnvald who followed in Loki’s footsteps, cloaking the realms in shadow and schemes. Even with the god of mischief long since dead, he was still infecting the realms.
Westley would no longer let that happen.