mad on midsummer nights, even as it now comforted them from little glass screens pressed close to faces beneath the bedsheets.
Sigmund’s own phone was heavy and solid in the pocket of his jeans. A tangible reminder of Lain, and for a moment Sigmund felt a strange ache that when he turned it wouldn’t be poison-burned eyes and a stitched-up grin that looked his way. His first real proper trip outside of Miðgarðr, and it hadn’t been with Lain. Sigmund had never thought of himself as the traveling type—too many strangers, not enough Internet—but, maybe, when this was all over he’d ask Lain if they could go somewhere. Just the two of them, outside of Miðgarðr maybe, trekking on their very own MMO adventure.
Then again, maybe not. Sigmund liked hot showers and gourmet burgers. He wondered if they could find some kind of compromise between the two.
Hrímgrímnir began to descend, soaring in big, wide, easy spirals. Down through the waterfall and into the shadow of the Tree, to the place where leaves gave way to roots, and the only light came from the dust-mote stars and a bleeding red slash somewhere far off in the distance: the endless sunset of the burning realm of Múspell.
Outside, the air grew thicker, choked with greasy ash Sigmund remembered from his time stuck in the Helbleed. Wayne was still filming, but Sigmund wasn’t sure what she’d be able to pick up on her phone in the gloom. It must’ve been something, because after a few minutes he heard her say, “Are we, like…following the Yellow Brick Road?”
Sigmund looked out the window, craning his neck to see through the ash and fog, and yes, there. Somewhere far beneath them, a yellow-gold highway running like a molten river through jagged shale.
“Gjallarbru,” said Em, before adding, “Um. I’m probably saying it wrong…”
“Well enough,” said Hel. It was a lie, but Sigmund decided not to mention it. “It is the road to my domain, made from the grave goods of an eternity of fallen kings.”
“The Highway to Hel is literally paved with gold?” Wayne asked, leaning far enough out of the gondola that the whole thing swayed. “That is
so
cool!”
Em swallowed hard, fingers clenched against her knees and eyes jammed shut. “Bro, can you not? You’re rocking…”
Wayne stammered an apology, pulling herself back inside with one last shudder of the gondola. “Sorry!” she said. “Sorry, I was just trying to get you a good video!”
“I know,” said Em, trying for a queasy smile. “It’s just I don’t wanna hurl all over the Goddess of Death’s feet, y’know?”
Hel lifted a sleeve to cover her mouth, but Sigmund heard the snicker underneath.
—
“Whoa. There’s like an army down there!”
A little while later, not too long, Sigmund opened his eyes, glancing over to where Wayne had gone back to looking out the window.
“They are my people,” Hel said. “The living once called them
náir.
To me, they are
Heljar-sinnar.
Not an army, an escort.”
Honestly, Sigmund thought they looked like an army: a great mass of people, swarming around the huge, feathered shapes of a handful of
drekar.
“They’re coming with us?” Sigmund asked. “To Asgard?” Hel hadn’t been lying about the escort, but
escort
could have a lot of meanings, some more martial than others.
“Yes,” said Hel.
“Oh. Right.” That was…something, Sigmund supposed. He wondered if Hel meant to start a war if she was denied her place in New Valhalla. He wondered if he cared whether she did.
It occurred to him he probably cared if he was
there
when she did.
They circled three more times before Sigmund could start to make out some of the faces in the crowd below. He was relieved to see features—human features, eyes and mouths and noses—looking upward. So. Not like the things he’d encountered last time in the Helbleed, then. Lain had called those
draugar,
and even thinking of them made Sigmund shudder.
When Hrímgrímnir landed,
Sigmund’s own phone was heavy and solid in the pocket of his jeans. A tangible reminder of Lain, and for a moment Sigmund felt a strange ache that when he turned it wouldn’t be poison-burned eyes and a stitched-up grin that looked his way. His first real proper trip outside of Miðgarðr, and it hadn’t been with Lain. Sigmund had never thought of himself as the traveling type—too many strangers, not enough Internet—but, maybe, when this was all over he’d ask Lain if they could go somewhere. Just the two of them, outside of Miðgarðr maybe, trekking on their very own MMO adventure.
Then again, maybe not. Sigmund liked hot showers and gourmet burgers. He wondered if they could find some kind of compromise between the two.
Hrímgrímnir began to descend, soaring in big, wide, easy spirals. Down through the waterfall and into the shadow of the Tree, to the place where leaves gave way to roots, and the only light came from the dust-mote stars and a bleeding red slash somewhere far off in the distance: the endless sunset of the burning realm of Múspell.
Outside, the air grew thicker, choked with greasy ash Sigmund remembered from his time stuck in the Helbleed. Wayne was still filming, but Sigmund wasn’t sure what she’d be able to pick up on her phone in the gloom. It must’ve been something, because after a few minutes he heard her say, “Are we, like…following the Yellow Brick Road?”
Sigmund looked out the window, craning his neck to see through the ash and fog, and yes, there. Somewhere far beneath them, a yellow-gold highway running like a molten river through jagged shale.
“Gjallarbru,” said Em, before adding, “Um. I’m probably saying it wrong…”
“Well enough,” said Hel. It was a lie, but Sigmund decided not to mention it. “It is the road to my domain, made from the grave goods of an eternity of fallen kings.”
“The Highway to Hel is literally paved with gold?” Wayne asked, leaning far enough out of the gondola that the whole thing swayed. “That is
so
cool!”
Em swallowed hard, fingers clenched against her knees and eyes jammed shut. “Bro, can you not? You’re rocking…”
Wayne stammered an apology, pulling herself back inside with one last shudder of the gondola. “Sorry!” she said. “Sorry, I was just trying to get you a good video!”
“I know,” said Em, trying for a queasy smile. “It’s just I don’t wanna hurl all over the Goddess of Death’s feet, y’know?”
Hel lifted a sleeve to cover her mouth, but Sigmund heard the snicker underneath.
—
“Whoa. There’s like an army down there!”
A little while later, not too long, Sigmund opened his eyes, glancing over to where Wayne had gone back to looking out the window.
“They are my people,” Hel said. “The living once called them
náir.
To me, they are
Heljar-sinnar.
Not an army, an escort.”
Honestly, Sigmund thought they looked like an army: a great mass of people, swarming around the huge, feathered shapes of a handful of
drekar.
“They’re coming with us?” Sigmund asked. “To Asgard?” Hel hadn’t been lying about the escort, but
escort
could have a lot of meanings, some more martial than others.
“Yes,” said Hel.
“Oh. Right.” That was…something, Sigmund supposed. He wondered if Hel meant to start a war if she was denied her place in New Valhalla. He wondered if he cared whether she did.
It occurred to him he probably cared if he was
there
when she did.
They circled three more times before Sigmund could start to make out some of the faces in the crowd below. He was relieved to see features—human features, eyes and mouths and noses—looking upward. So. Not like the things he’d encountered last time in the Helbleed, then. Lain had called those
draugar,
and even thinking of them made Sigmund shudder.
When Hrímgrímnir landed,
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