The sun bleeds black,
the ground drinks red.
The hall of death opens,
for the unquiet dead.
The year was 4567, and the air, thick with the smell of fire, copper, and the cold embrace of death, writhed under a scorching wind. It whipped sand from the parched earth, a relentless, blinding force. The red sunset, once a symbol of the day's gentle close, was swallowed by a tide of thick black smoke – the grim herald of war.
Mother Earth herself seemed to groan, her ancient roots straining against the inexorable advance of a vast army. Their destination: a small nomad village, a defiant speck refusing to yield to the encroaching urban sprawl. Futility hung heavy in the air. Soldiers pressed forward, weapons glinting, their mission cold, an unyielding mantra echoing in their minds. Behind them, colossal war machines roaring, their grinding treads pulverizing the dry sand, each shuddering step a promise of destruction.
Deep within the beleaguered, sandy nomad village, a covert force of soldiers, a tight-knit team forged in shared battles and a burgeoning love for the people they protected, moved with grim purpose. They herded villagers into a man-made tunnel, a desperate artery leading to an uncertain safety beyond the war's reach. The tunnel vibrated with the sounds of human whimpers, a cacophony of prayers whispered in a myriad of tongues punctuated by the steady, urgent commands of the soldiers: "Hurry! Move faster!"
WHAM! BAM! CRASH!
The ground outside convulsed. The guttural roar of tanks mingled with the taunts of advancing foes and the desperate pleas for surrender from those trapped. A hovel, flimsy and fragile, served as the tunnel's entrance, now shrouded in a choking cloud of red dirt and sand. It shook violently, each tremor echoing the approaching machines of war. The rogue team knew there would be no peaceful surrender, no negotiation. Their enemy's mission was absolute: to wipe the village clean. A purge. It was a familiar, chilling word, one they had heard before, one they knew would not be the last.
"Hurry! Inside!" a man's voice, strained but firm, cut through the rising terror. Villagers whimpered, clutching their heads, holding loved ones tighter. Prayers, fervent and desperate, rose to unseen deities, a fragile hope against the encroaching dread.
A lone, imposing figure stood guard outside the hovel. Over six feet tall, their bodies, a testament to raw power, sculpted muscle evident even beneath the heavy armor. A gray-green helmet, cracked across the front, completely obscured their face, yet they seemed oblivious to the damage. They stood like a statue carved from granite, hidden eyes callously scanning the shifting surroundings, their attention tuned to the crackle of a radio.
"Let's go!" A distant shout from one of the soldiers rushing the villagers into the tunnel, sharp and commanding, ripped through the tense quiet. The large soldier's head snapped towards the alleyway, its sole entrance. Cautiously, they moved to the nearest wall, tapping it with a precise rhythm—a silent signal: "No more chances. Leave!" A flurry of curses, yelps, and pleas in an unfamiliar tongue echoed briefly, then silence descended once more, thick and heavy, enveloping the soldier in a suffocating atmosphere of anticipation.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The world beneath the soldier's feet convulsed, a violent tremor that sent the adjacent wall crumbling. Dust choked the air, mingling with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the searing heat of flames. Their ears rang, a deafening shriek, but years of brutal training snapped their body into action. There was no flight, only an instinct to engage the inferno. For a fleeting moment, their vision blurred, tunneling into a pinprick of light. The Captain forced themselves to check, a quick, practiced scan, ensuring no friendly forces had been caught in the blast. Then, they settled into a protective stance. The Captain knew . The explosion had sealed the tunnel entrance, leaving them as the final, solitary barrier. No fear stirred within them, only a strange, almost manic exhilaration. A sense of purpose, yes, but deeper still , the tantalizing whisper of peace. A final, definitive peace.
"There!" A familiar voice, sharp with recognition, sliced through the ringing in Saga's ears. It was one from their past, from training days under the same unforgiving officer, before she became a Captain, before she turned on her own military that made her. The approaching soldiers raised their heads, weapons lifting in unison. The air crackled with raw tension, the moment of truth laid bare: fight or die. Such was the immutable law of war. Friend or foe, it mattered not when a weapon was aimed.
BANG! TINK TINK TINK TINK!
Saga, the soldier, the captain, reacted first, raising her weapon, firing into the chaos. But then a sudden, crushing breathlessness stole her. Her feet stumbled, betraying her. She heard the frantic shouts of her two comrades, one gripping the other, their voices a desperate, fading echo. A strange warmth trickled down Saga's chest, spreading, seeping. She wanted to lift a thumb in a gesture of defiant success, to howl in celebration of a good shot, but her body refused to obey. It was a puppet with severed strings.
THUMP!
Her body hit the ground with a dull, sickening thud. All the air rushed from her lungs, refusing to refill, to draw in life-giving oxygen. Boots and legs, a blur of motion, rushed past her, oblivious. As if she didn't exist. As if she were already dead. Yet, she could still see. Still hear. The thunder of their footsteps vibrated through the earth, a dull thrumming against her unmoving form. The acrid scent of fire and dirt clung to her, a suffocating shroud. Dust motes shimmered in the harsh sunlight, like golden flecks dancing in a macabre ballet. Saga lay there, inert, her mind a frantic, desperate storm. Why no pain? Shouldn't there be pain? Had they paralyzed her?
A hot wind incongruously carried the sweet, deceptive fragrance of wildflowers, fresh grass, and pine. But beneath it, clinging like a shroud, was the lingering, inescapable stench of death. The putrid scent of decay, potent enough to freeze even the most hardened warrior in their tracks.
Then, as if slipping from shadows, a woman appeared. Taller than the surrounding buildings, veiled in black, she loomed over Saga. A glimmer of golden eyes pierced the dark fabric, fixing upon her. The calming scents of wildflowers, fresh grass, and pine enveloped Saga, a stark, unsettling contrast to the pervasive stench of death.
The woman took a single, deliberate step, positioning herself beside Saga. Her imposing figure, rather than instilling terror, brought an overwhelming sense of peace. A profound, perfect tranquility, as if all the world's wrongs had simply ceased to exist. Saga found herself utterly paralyzed, unable to speak or move, her gaze locked on the veiled woman's golden eyes. Disbelief warred with a strange acceptance. This wasn't how she'd imagined death. She'd always believed that when a life ended, that was simply… it. Wasn't it?
Had all those she'd killed in countless wars simply lain there, watching the world pass by, waiting for someone to take them away? What if this never stopped? Or was her mind merely conjuring a final, desperate hallucination? Time stretched, warped, felt like an eternity, yet in reality, only a few precious seconds had elapsed.
"Such a warrior does not belong in my hall."
The woman's voice cut through Saga's thoughts. It was cold, sharp, yet held a strange, unsettling comfort. Saga's eyes remained fixed on the golden glimmer beneath the veil. Fear should have gripped her, she knew. She was dead, had to be. She hadn't drawn a breath in minutes, her body refused to move. She tried to speak, to question this spectral being, but no words formed, no breath filled her unresponsive lungs.
The woman shook her head softly, then knelt, her massive form barely fitting within the narrow alley. A hand, golden, burned, and disturbingly rotten, emerged from beneath the black cloth. It reached, deliberately, to touch the wound on Saga's chest. Saga couldn't force her eyes downward, but she knew. It was her chest, her fatal wound.
No pain. No sensation of touch. No scream. Only an unsettling emptiness. The woman tilted her head, fingers spreading wide, and then, with an almost gentle pressure, pushed Saga down. Down into the cold, hard earth. Deeper and deeper she pressed, until Saga's vision tunneled again, consumed entirely by darkness. Pure, absolute darkness. No light, no sensation, no sound. She floated endlessly, timelessly, in this void. Her body remained unresponsive, unmoving. No breath. No life.
Only Saga. And her thoughts. Her memories. They flashed before her mind's eye, a relentless, dispassionate reel. She watched them, void of emotion, events spiraling wildly through her consciousness.
She saw all the missed chances, the fleeting moments of connection she had pushed away throughout her life. Anyone who tried to get close, anyone who offered love in any form, she had rebuffed. The lives she had impacted, directly by her own hand, or indirectly through orders given, each death weighed heavily on a conscience that now felt detached. The war had stripped so much of her away. If she were still alive, trapped in this oppressive darkness, she knew the guilt, the pain, the loss, the creeping insanity would tear her apart.
"I am sorry for making you wait, my child," a woman's voice echoed from the darkness, surrounding Saga, impossible to pinpoint.
"You see, no one believed me when I said I would help them in their fight," the voice continued, a small, disbelieving click of the tongue audible in the void. Saga didn't understand.
She yearned to ask, to fight against the suffocating darkness, but it was futile. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even shift her eyeballs. Utterly trapped. The woman continued, seemingly aware of Saga's inability to respond.
"You are in my realm, Helheim. You do not belong here; you belong in Asgard, in the gold and sunshine. It's such a shame the Bifröst is broken." the voice softened slightly , a strange comfort in its coldness.
"I want to make a deal with you. I've struck many deals with countless souls, but this one has yet to be successful. For anyone," she added, and then, slowly, golden eyes began to pierce the surrounding darkness, shining before Saga.
Her golden eyes illuminated her face, a vision of startling beauty. But as Saga gazed in awe, one side of that beautiful face began to melt, revealing a decaying, oozing horror of golden pus. The other half remained perfectly pristine.
Hel.
The Pagan goddess of death.
Saga recognized her instantly. A flicker of doubt, a tremor of questioning, ran through her deeply devoted Norse faith. Was her religion truly the whole truth? She had prayed to them all—Odin, Freyja, Hel, Freyr, Loki, Skadi, Tyr, all the gods she had learned of, each holding a sacred place in her home.
"Are you always this lost in your head, child?" Hel's voice, laced with amusement, broke the spell. Her golden eyes danced with a knowing light.
"No matter, it's my deal," she continued, her tone matter-of-fact, a glint of delight in her eyes.
"My deal is deadly and painful, and day-to-day living will never be the same... if you somehow survive," Hel said, raising her decayed golden hand and pointing it directly at Saga.
"You will be making a deal with me. Your soul is to rest in Helheim with me if you fail, but you will also be making an oath to Freyja, the Valkyrie. If she is pleased with your work in the world I send to you, you will go to Valhalla." Hel explained, her gaze fixed on Saga, as if searching for a reaction, a flicker of movement in her unmoving body.
"I will send your soul to a world that needs saving, a world that requires a warrior who can walk with death and bear the shield of a Valkyrie," Hel's voice softened, almost a whisper.
"If you survive… your pact with the Valkyrie as I send you to this world, then you will be able to live a life of magic and power."
"But that doesn't mean it would be easy. Seiðr is painful whenever it touches anyone's skin, every day," Hel said, lightly brushing her fingers across the grotesque side of her face.
"Do you accept the chance, Warrior, to enter Valhalla again?" Hel asked, her golden eyes locking with Saga's. For the first time since her supposed death, Saga felt her head move, a slow, unconscious nod of agreement. She didn't truly want it. All she yearned for was rest. If the survival rate was truly that low, she could simply accept the deal, die like all the others, and finally find peace. Her mind, in its desperate state, even entertained thoughts of the worst afterlives.
The black sludge that had swallowed her when Hel pushed her into the earth now coiled around Saga, seeping into her eyes, her nose, her ears, squeezing her in a suffocating embrace. She dared not open her mouth as the sludge began to burn, boiling against her skin. There was no time to think, no time to react, as it enveloped her completely once more.
The pain made Saga squirm, a desperate, futile attempt to tear the burning blackness from her body. She clenched her teeth, determined not to taste the vile sludge if she could help it.
The black sludge, a suffocating shroud, clung to Saga, burrowing into her eyes, nose, and ears, squeezing tighter with each agonizing pulse. She clenched her jaw, refusing to let the vile essence invade her mouth, even as the burning intensified. There was no time to react, no space to breathe, as it consumed her utterly.
Then, the sludge itself began to shift. It wasn't just darkness anymore. Streaks of molten gold ignited within the void, coiling around her, burning, tearing, drilling into her skin. Each golden thread seemed to find a raw nerve, etching itself deeper, a thousand tiny knives carving intricate patterns across her body. The air, if she could call it that, filled with a chorus of phantom whispers. Faint at first, then growing louder, a cacophony of fragmented thoughts, desperate pleas, and the chilling echoes of screams. Her screams. Their screams.
"Such a warrior does not belong in my hall," Hel's voice, cold yet strangely comforting, resonated around her, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. "And your purpose, child, is far from done."
As the golden agony intensified, Saga felt a new, unbearable pressure building on her skull. A searing heat, like molten metal, stretched her skin taut. She clawed at her head, but her gloved fingers met not flesh, but hard, cold protrusions. Ram horns. Golden, gleaming, and impossibly heavy, they burst forth, tearing through her scalp, cementing themselves as part of her very being. The whispers in her mind sharpened, coalescing into distinct, agonizing voices. Faces flashed in the swirling void – faces of those she had killed. A child, weeping. A soldier, gasping his last. A civilian, wide-eyed in terror. Each memory, each stolen breath, now a part of her, fueling the inferno.
"Every life you have taken, Saga, every soul you dispatched, lives within you now," Hel explained, her voice a detached lecturer. "They are the essence of your Seiðr. They will burn. They will haunt. But they will also grant you power beyond mortal comprehension."
The void around her began to fracture. Not into light, but into fleeting, distorted glimpses of impossible landscapes. Jagged peaks of ice, molten rivers of fire, sprawling, desolate plains, Yggdrasil's roots intertwining the realms now black, broken, and dying. The nine realms, or what remained of them, twisted and warped around her.
The Bifrost lies in ruin,
its colors bled to ash.
A god is bound in silence,
the realms drift, torn, and thrashed.
The wound weeps black forever,
yet gold must stitch it through.
You are the suture, warrior,
the bridge — or death anew.
The falling intensified, a dizzying plunge through an ethereal maelstrom. The golden runes on her skin pulsed with a blinding light, the horns on her head throbbed with the collective weight of a thousand consumed souls. The whispers became a roar, the phantom touches a frantic assault. The pain, a constant companion, now reached an unbearable crescendo, threatening to shatter her very sanity.
Then, the fractured visions of realms dissolved. The golden glow of her runes dimmed, swallowed by an encroaching, absolute blackness. It was a darkness colder than Helheim, heavier than the accumulated souls, and it rushed towards her, consuming her entirely, pulling her down, down, down… into the into the darkness.