They’d watched every single Die Hard and half of RoboCop by the time Hel’s arm-scort made it to the gates of Ásgarðr.

Actually, if he thought about it, Sigmund really couldn’t be sure how long they’d been traveling. Time seemed to work differently here, outside of Miðgarðr, fading in and out until even the trudging of the náir and the bellows from the Helbeasts became routine.

Maybe Sigmund was just too desensitized to the extraordinary, raised by a lifetime of comic books and video games. And Hel’s army—Sigmund decided to give up trying to pretend it was anything else—Hel’s army really was something straight out of a game, monsters and undead and tattered banners, flapping in the breeze. The golden road glimmered beneath their feet, and when they passed, the land around them fell to blight and rot.

Sigmund saw that, too. It hadn’t been obvious when they’d been below, in Hel’s own realms, but as they’d ascended up the Tree the land had gotten verdant. They’d catch sight of grassy hills or forests, streaked green against the horizon, and then watch that green fade to gray and glossy black as they passed.

“The visuals aren’t exactly subtle, are they?” Em had asked at one point. They’d been rolling through a blighted forest, and Em had grabbed a handful of leaves off a passing tree.

Well, they’d probably been leaves, at one point. Now they were purple-black obsidian razors, and they left little white cuts across Em’s palms.

“This is wa-aa-ay cooler than the Melbourne Zombie Shuffle,” Wayne had said, eyes bright and pink and sparkling.

Being in the undead horde was kind of awesome, Sigmund wouldn’t deny it. Funny how no one ever seemed to show that.

Eventually, the road beneath them began to run out of gold. First just gaps in the layer of crushed treasures, then whole patches, spreading out like dark, stony cancer until the gold flecks became the accents, not the paving. And then, in the distance, Sigmund saw the Wall.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. More gold, maybe? Or lots of delicate spires. Something magic, anyway.

Instead, the Wall was . . . a wall. A long gray stone slash across the green, dotted by bigger square stone boxes at regular intervals. It was hard to get scale, given the distance, but it wasn’t like the thing was miles high. Sigmund could see roads and buildings on the other side, all wood and thatched roofs.

“Amazing to think that was built by a horse, isn’t it?” Em said.

“Huh?”

She pointed. “The wall. You know Loki’s horse kid, Sleipnir?” Sigmund nodded and didn’t correct the pronunciation. “His horse daddy built it.” Sigmund had known that. Kinda. Like, he’d read about it on Wikipedia, but it wasn’t like he’d ever actually asked Lain for the full story. It’d felt . . . weird.

“How does a horse build a wall?” Wayne asked, squinting at the structure in question.

Em shrugged. “The sagas are a little vague on that, I have to admit.”

“Because Svaðilfari was not a ‘horse,’ “ Sigmund heard himself say. “But the æsir are fools who cannot see plain the shapes of jötnar. So they give the names of beasts—horse, serpent, wolf—to those who do not deserve them.”

If Em and Wayne were surprised to hear Sigyn speak—with Sigmund’s voice, no less—they didn’t show it. Instead, they both just made “aaah!” noises and nodded.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Em said. She blinked, looking around them. “Actually, that makes a lot of things make a lot of sense.”

“It also makes the story a bit less, um, licentious,” Wayne said. Sigmund could see her trying not to grin.

“Sadder, though,” Sigmund said. It was him saying it, too, even if the emotion was Sigyn’s. A deep and aching pit, loss and compassion, but rage and loathing, too. “Because Sleipnir wasn’t a horse, either. So . . .” He let the implication hang, eyes looking down to where his fingers rubbed across his knuckles, over and over, pressure leaving brief pale smudges on the dark. Sleipnir might not have been a horse, but he’d been treated like one. Bound in tack and bridle and ridden, kept in the stables like a beast.

“Jesus,” Em said, picking up the thought from where it lay. “That’s . . . that’s brutal, man. I’m sorry.”

Sigmund nodded, feeling the warmth and comfort of his friends against his side. He told himself it was a long time ago, sins washed clean with blood and fire.

Sigyn got her revenge, in the end. Made Ásgarðr pay for every cruelty and humiliation given to her husband’s blood. Maybe she still was, and that’s why Sigmund was sitting in a wagon, slowly dragging the blight of death unto the gates of heaven.

From somewhere up ahead, a horn sounded. It echoed through the army, repeated by others and by the bellowing of the Helbeasts and the drekar. Sigmund covered his ears against the pounding noise and, when it stopped, so had the wagon.

“I think we’re here,” Em said.

“Now what?” Wayne was standing up, peering out across the crowd. They hadn’t stopped right up against the wall, but close enough that anyone standing on the battlements would notice their arrival.

“Now,” said a voice from outside the wagon. When they turned, it was to see Hel, hidden arms folded and watching them with veiled eyes. “Now I must call on your escort.”

Wayne’s teeth were very white against the darkness of her skin.

“Cool,” she said.

----------------------------------------

There was a delegation waiting to meet them.

Sigmund couldn’t think of any other name for it: three guys in shining chain mail and freshly sharpened swords who emerged from the gates and stood there, watching Hel’s army roll to a stop. From the front of the pack, Sigmund saw Hel’s rot bleed forward, shriveling grass into jagged shale and twisting shrubs into black-briar curls, before stopping in a sharp line about a hundred meters from the Wall. The border between Ásgarðr and Helheimr, Sigmund supposed. Bright and lush and green on one side, dead and twisted on the other.

Standing beside Hel, flanked by half a dozen of the náir, they stepped forward.

So did their welcoming committee, each side coming to a standstill on their respective sides of the Bleed-line.

“Halt, sister of the Wolf. This place is not for you. Turn your armies around and return to whence you were once banished.” The guy in the middle was speaking. In Godstongue, which made Sigmund’s head ache and his throat itch, but which he could understand. Sort of. He was getting better at it, anyway.

“Stand aside, Rígr, third son of Heimdallr,” Hel said in reply. “Helheimr comes to Ásgarðr’s gates to mourn its favored daughter. Felled in combat with none other than Ásgarðr’s king, she comes unto you now, with valkyrja at her side, to take her rightful place in Valhöll’s gilded halls.” Hel spread her hands as she spoke, wings opening in unison and rictus grin . . . slightly more rictus than usual.

The guys flanking Rígr flinched, eyes going wide and sharing nervous glances. The one on the left was a redhead; the one on the right was dark. Their armor was noticeably less shiny than the talking guy. Sigmund wondered what kind of metaphor it was he was looking at. It had to be something.

The son

(“sons”)

of Heimdallr and the daughter of Loki, facing each other down outside the gates of Ásgarðr. Oh, this would go well. For sure. Uh-huh.

“Those are grave claims you make, daughter of lies.” Rígr’s eyes narrowed, glancing at Em and Wayne. Also, calling Hel a liar was kinda mad rude. Sigmund scowled to show his disapproval, for whatever the gesture was worth.

“And yet I have right to make them,” Hel said. “With Hrist and Hlökk as witness. Would you question the word of those chosen by Odin himself to pick warriors from the slaughter?”

“The oaths of the valkyrja died with Odin,” Rígr said. “Their loyalty is to death and death alone, not Ásgarðr.”

Rude! Very rude.

Except Em said, “The oaths with Odin stand, carried by his heir.” Hlökk, the Screamer, who fought battles with words. When Rígr didn’t answer, just sort of gave Em the side-eye, she added, “You know me, third son of Heimdallr, as you know those I stand beside. Hel’s claim of place is just. To deny it is to deny Asgard’s honor, and the oaths of your king.”

Em was speaking English, of course, and her accent was a little off and her words a little broken by her fear. She hated public speaking, which was maybe ironic, because she hated being silent even more.

Rígr scowled, and the other two shifted with what Sigmund thought might just be nerves rather than anger. Something Em had said, maybe?

“If you will not honor your king’s obligations,” Hel added, “then I would see you bring him forth, that I may make my case before him.”

More awkward shifting, and suddenly Sigmund knew the cause. Even before Rígr said, “Our Lord is not taking visitors. This is a time of grieving, not one for your vile machinations.”

They were stalling because they didn’t have a king to bring, as it were. Gaps had said as much, with Baldr “missing” and his son and—Sigmund made himself think the word—wife fighting over the throne. Hel must’ve realized this. Had been counting on it, maybe.

“Then bid me entry into Ásgarðr,” she said, “and I will stand before the þing.”

“Absolutely not.” Rígr was blustering, even as he tried not to show it. Because a whole goddamn army was standing on his doorstep, its queen demanding something he could never give, not with Ásgarðr weakened and—

Lain. Lain was here, somewhere, wasn’t he? And if he wasn’t coming out to greet them—all smug grin and gleaming crown—then something had happened.

And nothing that ever happened to Lain was simple.

In his mind, Sigmund saw the threads, saw the weave. This was it, he realized. This was the Wyrd, the story, the thing Lain talked about. Sigmund had felt it before, back in the Helbleed, and he was feeling it now, too. A building crescendo of plot all working its way up to—

“Let me into Asgard. Now.”

Rígr and Hel had been arguing, but they fell silent when Sigmund spoke, turning their eyes his way. Sigmund tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, and definitely tried not to look over to where Em was making what are you doing? expressions over her glasses.

Sigmund pushed his own up his nose, swallowed, and repeated. “Let me through the gates. You can deny Hel entry but you can’t deny me.” He managed to avoid glancing Hel’s way with an added “ . . . right?” but, given the nod he saw from the corner of his eye, maybe she heard it anyway.

Rígr didn’t look impressed. “Who are you, mortal,” he said, “to ask such things of me?”

They will know you, Hel had said, and Sigmund could feel the lie dance around the edge of Rígr’s question. Because Hel had been right. These shiny, gate-guarding assholes knew exactly who Sigmund was.

“I’m Sigmund Gregor Sussman de Deus,” he said, proud of the way his voice broke only a single time. “And I’m also Sigyn, wife of Loki. An ásynja. And I’ve got a right to enter Asgard.”

Rígr spat, and Sigmund didn’t miss the way his fingers curled on the hilt of his sword. “Using that jötunn traitor’s name will get you nowhere.”

“I’m not using his name,” Sigmund said. “I’m using mine. You can keep my friends out but you can’t keep me.”

“I can keep out whomever I want, boy.”

But he was lying. Sigmund could feel it.

“Try me,” he said, stepping forward.

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The sound of Rígr drawing his sword was very, very loud. So was the pounding of Sigmund’s heart, at least to Sigmund’s ears. He made himself keep walking, step after step, until the crunch of Hel’s blight beneath his sneakers was replaced by soft and spongy grass, the crackle of passing through the edge of the Bleed setting every hair on his body straight on end.

“Put down the sword, man,” Sigmund said. “Think about it. There’s an entire army standing behind me. Don’t give them a reason to dislike you.”

Rígr looked at Sigmund, then over Sigmund’s shoulder. At Hel and her “escort.”

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then Rígr stepped back, blade lowering as he huffed. “And what will you do within our walls, boy?” he asked.

“Speak to Nanna.” Sigmund surprised himself with the name. He hadn’t really thought this far ahead, but: “Just . . . ask her to listen to what Hel has to say.” That seemed reasonable, right?

Rígr at least seemed prepared to entertain it. “Which is?” he asked. Not to Sigmund, and when Hel replied, she said:

“For good or ill, Ragnarøkkr is over. Ásgarðr has no more need for einherjar, and few mortals from whom to choose. Meanwhile, Helheimr’s cities swell to bursting. A new accord must be struck over the fates of the dead who come unto the Tree. I would seek to make it. That is all.”

Rígr huffed and, in that moment, Sigmund didn’t envy the guy his job. TSA agent to the gods, just him and his two mates standing between Ásgarðr and the legions of Hel herself.

“Very well,” he said. “The boy, only. If he can persuade the þing to hear you, then you will be heard. But know this, serpent’s sister. If you or yours should make move to cross into Ásgarðr’s lands, you will meet an end such that even mortals shall forget your tales.”

When Sigmund glanced back, he was pretty sure that Hel was smiling. Em and Wayne definitely were.

“Of course,” Hel said. “We will wait. Death is nothing if not patient.”

----------------------------------------

That was, more or less, how Sigmund got himself a ticket into Ásgarðr.

He was escorted through the gates by Rígr and what turned out to be the guy’s two half brothers, Þræll and Karl. They introduced themselves as they were passing through the gates, Rígr watching them all with a haughty squint Sigmund immediately distrusted.

Maybe he just had a thing against assholeish blond Vikings. Rígr certainly looked like he could’ve been churned out of the same factory that’d spawned Baldr, even if he wasn’t quite as broad or as tall, and his hair was a bit less shiny and bright.

Karl, meanwhile, was redheaded and freckled, and reminded Sigmund in no small part of Lain (he decided to keep this observation to himself). Then Þræll, who was dark and rough and slightly nervous, as if he expected to be kicked or thrown out at any moment.

“You must be careful of the dead,” he’d said, thick-fingered hands pulling open Ásgarðr’s the heavy doors. “Their Lady most of all.”

“She’s, uh. She’s kinda my stepdaughter,” Sigmund said. “I mean . . . I guess? I don’t think she—” He stopped, realizing he wasn’t quite sure how to end that sentence. After a moment, he decided on “She cares a lot about her people.”

This earned a scoff from Rígr, but Þræll merely nodded, gesturing for Sigmund to pass through the gate.

He did as instructed, throwing one last wave back to where Em and Wayne were watching from the far side of the blight. It occurred to him to wonder if he should be leaving them alone with Hel. He didn’t think she meant them any harm, but . . .

Shit. Who was he kidding? It was Em and Wayne. Sigmund was more likely the one to get himself in trouble, walking into a nest of potentially hostile gods.

No one attacked him when the door closed, which Sigmund took to be a good sign. Instead, Karl said, “It’s different from what you remember, eh?”

Sigmund looked around, blinking, and wondered how he was supposed to answer that, exactly. “Um . . .”

“We lost much during Ragnarøkkr,” Karl added, thumping a fist against the carved wood of the gate. “But rebuilding? Ah, that’s half the fun of it!” He grinned, and so did Sigmund.

“I don’t, ah. I don’t really remember much about, um. About before,” he said.

“You have too much mortal in you, boy. Or should I say girl?”

“Boy.” Sigmund tried not to wince.

“Right, right. Boy. Hah.” Karl seemed to think about this as they walked. “Is it a curse, then?” he asked.

“Er . . . not really?” Sigmund tried. “I mean, I just . . . Sigyn died. And then . . . there was me.”

“And Loki?”

Sigmund’s heart skipped a beat, conscious of the look Rígr was giving. Cold and hard. Bitter.

Suddenly, it occurred to Sigmund that Sigyn had, kinda sorta maybe, killed his new friend’s dad. Meanwhile, they all thought Loki had done it.

Shit. Fuck. Shitty shit fuck.

“Loki’s, uh. Dead, right?” Sigmund tried. There was enough truth in the not quite question that his head only ached a little. Shit. Stupid fucking inability to lie bullshit.

“Mmm,” said Rígr, looking away. “We can only hope.”

(shit)

----------------------------------------

Sigmund spent the next few minutes too busy trying to keep his panic under control to pay attention to where Rígr and Co. were taking him. Along a path of some description, and by the time he’d calmed down enough to look up again, they were passing through a bunch of buildings assembled around a well. The architecture was mostly wood, fresh-carved with scrolling knots and dragons, and something about the proportions seemed too large in some strange, off-kilter way. Like someone had gotten regular buildings and just scaled them up for people three or four times normal size. Which was weird, because it wasn’t like the æsir were unnaturally tall.

There were other people around, mostly men, dressed in Viking sort of clothes. When Sigmund started seeing scars—an ax wound here, an arrow hole there—he realized he must’ve been looking at the einherjar. They weren’t much like Hel’s people. Too dour and too serious. Sigmund would’ve expected things to be reversed, would’ve expected the dishonored dead to be the grim and lurching zombies.

Maybe he had a lot to learn about the dead. Maybe this is what Hel had meant when she’d said things needed to change.

Rígr and his brothers took Sigmund toward an even bigger big building, sitting on a hill and looking out over the others. It was multiple stories and had balconies, as well as a lot more stone in its construction, and while it didn’t say “castle,” exactly—it didn’t have quite enough battlements for that—it did certainly look like the place to find the Very Important People.

Two einherjar opened the doors when Rígr approached, bowing to the æsir and giving Sigmund the side-eye. He did his best to look gormless and unarmed as he stepped over the threshold of the hall.

Inside was a room: an enormous cavernous space, all stone and carved wood and huge fire pit running down the center.

“This is nice,” Sigmund tried, earning a grin from Karl and a grunt from Rígr.

At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform, was a large carved chair that could have only been a throne. And sitting on the throne was—

Sigmund’s first reaction was to think Baldr, and for a moment his heart leaped. Because there was a man in the chair and his hair was shining blond and he was gripping what was undeniably Gungnir in his hand. And in that second, Sigmund had just enough time to think, Maybe this will work out after all, and imagined himself punching Lain playfully for the deception, and—

And the guy wasn’t Baldr.

Sigmund blinked, squinting to get a better look through glasses he should’ve replaced a good six months ago.

The guy wasn’t Baldr. He looked a lot like Baldr—and not just in the “vaguely familiar” way that Rígr did, but an actual played-by-the-same-actor way—but he wasn’t.

And he had Gungnir.

And Sigmund’s heart felt like ice within his chest.

“The legions of Hel are at our gates and yet you bring me mortals,” not-Baldr-guy said, not to Sigmund. What had Gaps said about Baldr’s son? Sigmund struggled to come up with a name.

(“Forseti, lord of law and judgment”)

Okay. That worked. Also: law and judgment, ouch.

Rígr bowed, Karl bowed deeper, and Þræll was practically on the ground. Sigmund waved and said, “Um. Hi?” and tried not to feel like a fucking idiot.

No way he was bowing, though. Not until he’d seen Lain and figured out what was going on.

“This is Sigmund Gregor.” Rígr paused, shot one glance at Sigmund and added, “Sweet man of God.”

Sigmund blinked. It was difficult, listening to the Godstongue, and some of the phrasing and idioms—

(Sigmund Gregor Sussman de Deus)

Shit. Because it was just a name, wasn’t it? Except they were words, too, and meant things, and Sigmund had to bite his lip to stop from laughing. He’d never thought of that before.

Forseti scowled, and for a moment Sigmund was back on the edge of a mist-wreathed lake, wet jeans clinging to his legs and mud caked beneath his nails.

“And why have you come to us, Sigmund of God? Why have you brought Hel’s armies to our door?”

(Sigmund of God, bloody hell . . . )

“Um,” Sigmund said. “It was really more the other way around? Hel brought me here, I mean. To, um. To argue her case, I guess?”

Forseti’s fingers drummed on Gungnir’s haft. “And why would the gods hear your pleas, mortal?”

“Well, yeah. Um. About that.” Sigmund tired not to fidget, failed, and added, “ ‘Cause, like. I’m pretty sure you know why you’re gonna hear me out. I think you knew it the second I walked in here.”

When Forseti’s eyes flicked down, just briefly, Sigmund knew he’d guessed right. “And why would the words of Loki’s woman carry any weight within these halls?”

“Hey!” Sigmund stepped forward, hand raised and pointing. “Fuck you, and fuck Loki.” Sorry Lain, but: “I’m a goddess in my own right.”

“You were mortal,” Forseti said. “Brought unto us by marriage to one who does not share our blood.”

Sigmund felt something inside him give. It sounded like a tooth, piercing through flesh, like the crack of stone against a skull, like a thousand years in hell and the end of the world itself, all rolled into one.

“Yeah, well,” he said. “I’m still mortal now. And I’m still a bloody ásynja whether you like it or not. I have a right to be here. And so does Hel, because your dad? Baldr? She died to him, in combat. And she’s got two valkyrjur”—not too bad on the accent, he didn’t think—“out there who’ll vouch for her as einheri.” Ditto. “That means you need to let her in as well.”

“Even if what you say is true, the einherjar are taken from the ranks of men, not banished íviðjur witches.” Forseti sprawled backward in his throne, free hand coming up to stroke his short-cut beard as he studied Sigmund. “If you have walked with Death you know what rot she carries in her wake. Would you have me bring this into Ásgarðr?”

Sigmund thought of Hel, delicately drinking tea in Wayne’s comic shop, paint peeling from the walls as, all around her, brightly colored superheroes degenerated into scenes of madness.

He sighed. “Look, I dunno. Just . . . maybe you should talk to her? Work something out?”

He tried to keep his voice light, but even that earned him a scowl and a “You would presume to tell me what I ‘should’ do? Boy, you are as insolent as your vile husband. And I am just as likely to take your council.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. It occurred to Sigmund he really wasn’t good at this, whatever this was. Negotiations? Walking up to the NPC and choosing the right dialogue options except, oops. The Really Real World, even this part of it, still wasn’t produced by BioWare. Being eloquent wasn’t as easy as picking the right thing from the menu and hoping he’d stacked enough points in Persuasion.

Sigmund was about to come up with a retort—something awesome and witty like “yeah, well . . . whatever”—when someone else beat him to it.

“You may not, but I will.”

A woman’s voice, and Sigmund turned. When he did, his first thought was:

(nope, nothing like Bubbe)

Nanna was both instantly recognizable and, well. A goddess. Tall and strong and proud, with clear pale skin and bright blond hair (Sigmund was starting to sense a theme on that one). Definitely older than her son, but in a Cate Blanchett Hollywood sort of way.

Fucking perfect golden Baldr and his perfect golden fucking family. And Sigmund, who was such a schlub he was still in the same pair of jeans he’d been wearing this time last week. And it wasn’t like Lain didn’t have a cleaner at the apartment.

Fuck.

Forseti scowled. “Mother. This does not concern you.”

“All affairs of my husband’s concern me,” Nanna said, gliding across the floor in a cascade of wool and gold and velvet. “While he is absent, I am regent.”

And what Sigmund thought was:

(oh. shit)

And what Forseti said was “Mother . . .” And he looked away.

(he knows! motherfucker fucking knows! and he’s got Lain’s fucking spear and)

And Nanna was coming to a halt in front of Sigmund, staring through him with blue eyes so pale as to be almost silver. Then she bowed, just slightly, reaching out to take Sigmund’s hands in her own. “I recognize you, Sigyn, ásynja of victory and compassion. And I welcome you back into your home. No matter the mortal shape you wear, our doors for you are open.”

Oh Jesus fuck she was really nice! Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

“Um. Thanks?” Sigmund swallowed and tried not to be a total loser. “I mean, it’s been a while, and I don’t— I don’t really remember much. I mean, listen to me. I don’t even speak the bloody language anymore.” He winced at the swearing. “Um. Sorry.”

But Nanna just smiled, letting Sigmund’s hands drop from hers. Because, fuck. She was beautiful, and kind, and gracious, and a fucking queen, and Sigmund was—

(la la la la they can read minds la la think other things la la nothing to see here just nervous about being in Asgard nothing to do with La— pink elephants pink elephants pink elephants!)

Was it just Sigmund, or was Nanna’s smile looking a little . . . strained?

Shit.

From the throne, Forseti said, “Mother. Perhaps you would like to show . . . ‘Sigyn’ around Ásgarðr. Much has happened in the time since ‘she’ was away.”

(oi I heard those air quotes, you jackass! fuck you)

Nanna, to her credit, sniffed slightly and turned a truly parental stare on her son. “Don’t be vulgar, boy,” she said. “Sigyn—”

“Um. Sigmund, actually.”

Nanna didn’t even blink. “Sigmund has come to us as emissary from the Queen of Hel. The very same Hel who showed your father and I great hospitality when we stayed within her realm. The least we can do is hear her words.”

Forseti sneered. Like, with an actual curled lip and everything. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Ásgarðr makes no deals with jötnar.”

Nanna wasn’t moved. “And when you are Allfather, boy, then you may make such decisions for yourself. For now, I must hold true to your father’s wishes. And his wish was for change, for Ásgarðr to cast aside old hatreds and—”

“Faðir minn var vitstola!” The crack of Gungnir coming down against the flagstones was very, very loud. Nanna flinched, Forseti fumed, and Sigmund wondered what the hell was so damning Forseti wasn’t going to say it in Godstongue in front of Sigmund.

Yeah, he was a loser. Not a fucking idiot.

Forseti was still ranting and Nanna’s expression had gone hard, and—

(“he says Baldr was mad, that his time in Hel broke him and that Nanna is too soft to see it”)

Forseti knew. Sigmund kept coming back to that. He knew . . . maybe not exactly what had happened to Baldr and to Loki, to the Ragnarøkkr, but he sure as hell suspected. And he had Gungnir, the very same spear that had, only the other day, been stashed inside the coat cupboard next to Lain’s front door.

One Gungnir, zero Lains. And Forseti lying to his mother because of . . . why, exactly? Sigmund didn’t pretend to understand the ins and outs of Asgardian succession, but Nanna had implied Forseti would take the throne only if Baldr was proven dead. Except if Forseti knew Baldr wasn’t dead, not exactly . . .

Fuck. Fuck this Game of Thrones bullshit. Sigmund was just about ready to find Lain and get the fuck outta here as fast as the latter’s wings would take them.

And then Lain would be totally sleeping on the couch forever for not mentioning he had a fucking wife and child.

Jesus Christ.

“—sit in his chair, but you cannot take his title,” Nanna was saying. “Nor will I allow you to pronounce him dead after so short an absence.”

“Mother . . .” Petulant childish pleading was the same in Ásgarðr as it was on Earth, Sigmund supposed.

“No,” Nanna said. “I am done discussing this.” She turned to Rígr. “Send a messenger to Hel. Tell her I will meet her on the morrow, outside the gates.”

Rígr’s armor clanked as he shifted, obviously displeased. “My lady,” he said. “Hel has an army, I do not think—”

“If the þing frets over my safety, they are welcome to send warriors in my wake. But I will have no violence with Hel’s people.”

Sigmund did not miss the way Rígr’s eyes flicked, just briefly, toward Forseti. From her expression, Nanna didn’t miss it, either.

Rígr bowed. “Yes, my lady.” Then he was gesturing to his brothers and moving from the hall.

“Come.” Sigmund felt a slim hand against his elbow, and when he looked over, Nanna was smiling conspiratorially in his direction. “The road from Hel is long, and you must be tired. Let us find you rooms and bring you food, and leave my son to clutch his toys and sulk in his father’s wake.”

She winked, and Sigmund bit his lip to stop the smile. “Cool,” he said, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as Nanna led him from the hall.