"Even gods can fall—not from the sky, but from the lies they whisper in the dark."
The mountain did not sleep.
Its heartbeat echoed in the veins of stone, and its breath curled in the firelit corridors. Deep within, Odin lived out the first of his three nights, and the air between him and Gunnlöð had begun to shift.
Gone was the silent, mistrustful stare of the guardian.Now came fleeting glances. Soft pauses. A question held too long on the tongue.
And with every shared hour, the flame between them grew—dangerous, bright, and ancient.
Night One: The Beginning of the Mask
Odin spent the morning carving runes into wood scraps, his fingers deft and careful. Each stroke held a memory—of ravens and roads, of fallen warriors and whispered truths.
Gunnlöð watched from the shadows, silent as always.
"You make the runes like they're lovers," she said eventually.
He looked up. "That's what they are. Each one is a kiss of meaning."
She smiled faintly, then sat beside him, closer than before. Her scent was wild—earth and smoke, with a trace of honey.
"You speak pretty words for someone who came to steal," she said.
He set down the knife. "I came to become."
"And what will you become, god of riddles?"
"Whatever you let me."
The silence that followed was not awkward. It was the silence of a spark just waiting for wind.
Later, as they shared roasted roots and honey wine by the fire, Odin noticed her fingers trembling slightly.
"You were a child when you were given this burden?" he asked gently.
"I was a girl," she said. "But I stopped being one the moment my father closed the gates behind me. He told me: Guard the mead, or the gods will burn us all."
"And yet," Odin said, "you stayed."
"I had no choice."
He reached out and touched her hand. "You always had a choice. Even if you were told otherwise."
Gunnlöð didn't pull away. But her eyes darkened. "Then why does it feel like I still don't?"
Night Two: The Thread Unravels
The second night came with rain. Thunder rolled beyond the mountain, but deep within, the only storm was brewing in their hearts.
Gunnlöð took Odin through the old vaults—chambers filled with scrolls, relics, and things too dangerous to name. As they walked, their shoulders brushed. Their hands lingered. She laughed more. He listened more.
And slowly, the lines between lie and longing began to blur.
They arrived before the mead once more. She ran her fingers along Són's lid.
"I've never tasted it," she admitted.
Odin blinked. "You guard it and have never touched it?"
She shook her head. "It wasn't mine to drink. Only to protect."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "Then tonight, let it be yours."
She turned to him, eyes wide. "You would break your own quest for me?"
He smiled. "If I must lie to fate for one truth, let it be this moment."
She didn't kiss him.
Not yet.
But she looked at him like she wanted to. Like she already had in some other life.
Night Three: The Fire and the Betrayal
The third night arrived clothed in silence. Odin stood before her chamber door, heart pounding louder than any war drum.
Gunnlöð opened it slowly. She wore no armor, no cloak. Only a linen gown that shimmered like ash in candlelight. Her hair was loose, and for the first time, she didn't carry her staff.
"I knew you would come," she said.
"And I knew I wouldn't want to leave."
He stepped inside.
Their lips met like flame and wind.
Their passion was not soft. It was ancient. It was a storm wrapped in skin. They touched as though centuries had been waiting for this moment—flesh and fire, breath and broken oaths.
Between kisses, she whispered things no one else had heard.
"I dreamt of you before you came. A man with one eye and many names."
"And I dreamt of the woman who would burn me with her truth," Odin replied.
Their bodies danced across stone and fur. Runic tattoos flared to life on his skin. Her eyes glowed gold beneath him.
They were god and goddess, liar and guardian—now tangled in something crueler than fate:
Love.
Or something close enough to hurt.
Afterward, Gunnlöð lay in his arms, trembling.
"Will you leave me?" she asked.
He closed his eye. "No."
She believed him.Because he said it softly.Because she wanted it to be true.
And because even gods can tell lies in the dark and call them love.
At dawn, Odin rose.
She was asleep. Her arm draped across his chest, her face peaceful.
He kissed her forehead and whispered, "Forgive me."
Then he stood before the mead.
And drank.