As Oleandra slipped backwards into the dark depths of her own mind, a wave of infinite calm washed over her, brought on by the warm light of the stars shining down upon her like a spotlight. This beacon of light was rather comforting amidst the endless void.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
The wind roared in her ears. Deep down, Oleandra had always known it would end this way— that was why she had never taught star magic to Astoria. Borrowed power, no matter how much she made it her own, was never truly hers.
I Hung on the Tree, Windblown
Nine Days and Nine Nights
Pierced by My Own Spear
A Pledge, an Oath From a Seer
On the Tree Without End That Had Grown
Its Summit Out of Sight
Rising From Roots No Man Has Ever Known.
Oleandra could see it now— Yggdrasil, taking shape, weaving itself into being from the star-strewn tapestry of the night sky. Each of its vast branches bore uncountable leaves, each one a world unto itself. At its roots, the Níðhǫggr and its offspring gnawed ceaselessly, keeping the tree from growing limitlessly. How could she have ever thought such magnificence belonged to her alone? She was not worthy.
I Peered Down to the Earth
I Clutched at the Runes Incorporeal
Symbols I Found, Powerful Staves
Stained by the Olden Sages
Wrought by the Gods Primordial
Graven on the Stones of the Ages
Oleandra's life had always been filled with such suffering. She had been forced to endure countless tragedies, and it was only thanks to the graceful gift of stars that she had even managed to survive this long, for which she was very grateful. She was tired, so very tired. It was time she returned this gift to its rightful owner. Let Him take over this heavy burden.
Do You Know How to Carve? Do You Know How to Read?
Do You Know How to Colour? Do You Know How to Suffer?
Do You Know How to Ask? Do You Know How to Offer?
Do you know how to sacrifice? Do you know how to slaughter?
Indeed, Oleandra had learned all these things and more. All these years, from her eleventh birthday to her seventeenth, marking her transition into adulthood, she had sharpened herself into the perfect vessel for Him. She had shared this gift freely with her friends, granting them the magic of the stars, transforming them into God Vessels as well. It was an honour to be granted such an opportunity.
Better Not to Ask Than to Sacrifice Too Much
For a Gift Is Always Rewarded
And a Boon Always Demands a Return
Better Not to Offer Than Have to Slay Too Many.
There is nothing more expensive than something free, Oleandra thought to herself ruefully. The stars had given her magic, so it was natural that she'd have to offer something in return. But what else did she have left to give, other than her mind, body and soul?
From the very beginning, she'd never even stood a chance.
Oleandra closed her eyes. A noose tightened around her neck. The rope snapped taut, and her body jerked to an abrupt halt. Her lifeless body swung from the branches of Yggdrasil with finality. For someone who should have been a Squib, she had done rather well for herself, hadn't she? She could die proud, having left an indelible mark on the magical world's history…
Oleandra's tale ended here.
But a single tear traced a path down her cheek.
Don't give up now! Too many are counting on you!
Low at first, a few distant, whispered cries drifted to her ears. Then, one by one, others joined the chorus. Soft murmurs gave way to voices, which rose into shouts. Like a stream feeding into a roaring river, like a wave gathering strength before turning into a tsunami, the voices swelled ever louder!
Are you really giving up this easily!?
Fight, Oleandra Greengrass! Fight for your future!
Open your eyes and FIGHT!
The crystalline teardrop slid from Oleandra's cheek and fell to the ground.
Miraculously, pure water surged forth in a torrent from the source. The spring swelled into a lake, the water rising higher and higher until it reached her toes. As the noose's grip on her neck began to loosen, Oleandra opened her eyes— the water had risen so high she was standing upon it!
Suddenly, she was no longer the one hanging from the World Tree's branch, but a one-eyed boy instead.
"How are you doing this!?" the boy groaned, clutching at his neck, feet kicking at the water. "Laukaz!"
It was him.
"Wanderer," said Oleandra simply. "Wōden… or perhaps I should call you Odin, leader of the Aesir?"
"Who are you to speak my True Name? You're just a sacrificial lamb," Wanderer raged. "A sorry soul I raised on a whim to serve as My vessel in Midgard. How dare you deny a God His due?"
…
The inheritance hidden in the stars had always been a trap, crafted to lure in compatible souls with the promise of unlimited power. The moment a candidate came of age, fully coming into their own, they would begin to resonate with the stars, drawing the dead gods into themselves. Their souls would be overwritten by the Aesir's— a monstrous act, no less evil than the creation of Horcruxes.
This was the secret behind the Aesir Wizarding clan's immortality— the very reason they used to be worshipped as gods by the Muggles of old!
However, this magic— evil as it was— had been created with humans, and only humans in mind. After all, what proud, godlike being would willingly choose to reincarnate as anything lesser than the apex species of this world? And what else would a human harbour, but a human soul?
But Oleandra's soul was that of a Greater Fairy— vast, ancient, and utterly incompatible with Odin's, who remained human despite his claim to godhood. The runes etched into her soul— the beacons meant to draw his essence inside hers— they still functioned, but they lacked the power or knowledge to overwrite something so alien. The reference points were all wrong!
But the situation was grave indeed: the vessel wasn't merely unfit to hold Him— he was trapped inside.
To avoid having his immortal soul stripped of its memories— which to him, would constitute true death— Odin's spells of binding kept it from being dragged into Niflheim, where Dementors would lick it clean before casting it back into the eternal cycle of reincarnation. His intact soul would wait patiently until a suitable candidate arose, at which point he would take over their body when they reached maturity, reincarnating himself with all his memories.
But the problem was this: Oleandra had reversed their roles, yet those magical contingencies binding Odin's soul to the world of the living couldn't prevent it from being overwritten by his own spells of forced reincarnation. In other words, there was only one way he could truly die— and it was happening right before his very eyes.
…
"This can't be happening…!" shouted Wanderer, his face turning blue as his fingers scrabbled at the rope coiled around his neck. "Ragnarök is only supposed to begin with Baldr's… oh no."
For a fraction of a second, Odin's mind linked with those of the other gods and sacrifices. For reasons he couldn't understand, every vessel— save Malfoy— had abruptly rejected their parasites, one after another. With nowhere left to go, the encroaching dead souls began to fade into nothingness.
"You brought this on yourself, old friend," said Oleandra, gazing at Odin's rapidly shrivelling form with pity. "This is the end for you. Your soul will scatter to the four corners of the world, never to reincarnate again..."
…
Just as Merlin had told her, the story of Odin and Ragnarök was a case of self-fulfilling prophecy.
Only a few hundred years ago, Odin committed an ultimate act of greed. Once he had at last fully accommodated the magic of the stars, he restricted its access to those of his choosing— denying its power to the rest of humanity. That single act marked the fall of runic magic… and the rise of wand magic.
In 1991, Oleandra gazed upon the constellation of the final rune. Odin could have chosen then to withhold his inheritance and follow the thread of prophecy to his next rightful vessel— who wouldn't be born for another twenty years. But he was too greedy, too desperate for more time on Earth as a living, breathing man. Hoping she would survive to adulthood, he granted Oleandra access to the magic of the stars, thereby unlocking part of Merlin's seal and restoring her own magic.
In all his haste, in all his madness, Odin ignored the niggling feeling at the back of his mind that his newest vessel seemed oddly familiar— that he had seen her somewhere before, albeit in a different form. But he had grown complacent. In his mind, he had beaten fate long ago, so he had nothing to worry about.
After all, thousands of years ago, following a prophecy that a Greater Fairy of Avalon would one day trigger Ragnarök, Odin harnessed the magic of Yggdrasil to cast the Island of Avalon far, far away— hoping to prevent any of its inhabitants from ever fulfilling the prophecy.
And so, in 1996, once the girl and her companions had grown strong enough, Odin twisted their fates— at great personal cost— using the great powers at his disposal to prophesy their deaths in the summer of 1997. In doing so, he ensured they would survive until the day of harvest… and die the moment he and his fellow gods claimed their bodies.
Thus, Odin sealed his own fate.
When he tried to possess Oleandra, he found himself trapped within her soul, unable to find purchase on which to grow like a cancer— and was gradually eroded by the maelstrom of shadows within her, submerged beneath the memories of her past incarnations. His meagre thousands of years could not compare to a Greater Fairy's hundreds of thousands.
And so, the prophecy of Ragnarök came true, brought about by the Greater Fairy he had once called a friend, whose home he had destroyed to save himself.
Prophecies have a curious way of fulfilling themselves, even if it takes ten thousand years. No matter how hard one tries to outrun fate, the prophesied future always comes to pass— one way or another.