Vidarr's head ached. He tossed about the hammers given to him by Tyr. Or rather, by a runner who had arrived some days ago with the filigreed box containing them. Tyr had yet to show his face, which was irritating considering that Vidarr had been forced to sit through all manner of meetings with his father and the assembled primus'. Those who would accept no report but his own.

He wanted to fight something, but word was that there were no real enemies on the other side. Tired of all the politics, antics, and posturing, he sighed. Walking down the tunnel and toward the astral gate as the guards lowered themselves in supplication. Great Vidarr, the primus of storms. If Ragnar was of the first known generation, and Jartor and Octavian of the second, Alexandros of the third, then Vidarr was of the fourth. That generation that existed between the Tyr and Alexandros, and it's only member. Ninety eight years old and despite his age, completely unprepared for his fathers abdication of the throne. One day, Ragnar's duties would be his own, and he was not ready for that. Wishing he could spend another century wandering the world and meeting all sorts of new people. Making new friends, adventuring as the god Tormund was once said to have done.

Kids talented. Vidarr chuckled, ignoring the reverence of these weakling 'southerners' and toying with the hammers. They were growth artifacts. Few among the living could make something like that at will, usually it was seen as a divine accident of sorts. They were inferior to his axe, but a chunk of steel was what it was. With his strength, few could stand before it regardless of implement in his hands. And, to top it all off, they were magical foci equal to any other. Vidarr had never used magic in public. Better to keep the world ignorant, Ragnar said, but he could use magic. Not quite so ably as Octavian, say, but soon he'd be better than his father. That was the way things were trending, he'd said. Once upon a time, primus' could not use any magic at all, but now... Only Jartor, as far as he knew, had none of it. That didn't make him weak, mind. Vidarr feared him most of all. A cold and calculating old lion that had sundered nations and effortlessly assimilated the scraps. Leaving those who did not bend the knee to wander aimless and desolate. Or dead...

Vidarr loved the world and near all people he'd met on it. Whether they were enemies or not, he did not possess the frigid brutality of Jartor. As far as he knew, none of their kind did. Even Octavian was more gentle in comparison.

Tyr was different. Technically speaking, Tyr and Vidarr were brothers. In Haran, things were... Separated. 'By marriage'. Step brother, brother-in-law, but not so in Oresund. Stalvarg and Faeron were one in their culture. He didn't care much what the word was. Tyr was a primus, he could smell it, and Vidarr did not believe the rumors that Jartor had sired a second son. To believe that two primus could spring from one set of loins was preposterous, and when he'd asked Jartor had stared at him silently before hanging up the call.

Vidarr had loved Signe. She had been a fierce warrior and a sharp woman of incredible intellect, the perfect package. Beautiful, too, but that was obvious. Skald's still sung of her. The warmaiden. He'd proposed and been rebuffed several times before she'd been snatched up by the Harani, but he didn't hate the man for it. Vidarr was the primus of storms. Wind was free, and so was he. Free to have forty one wives, unlike Jartor who was chaste and less flippant with his affections. It was something he could understand. And she'd left them all behind in Oresund to have a child with the man. A beautiful child, too, and a bright one just like his mother. Vidarr could remember when he'd been born, feeling no jealousy at all. He'd challenged, and lost. That's all there was to it, but he'd still loved her up until the day they were under the same bonding of houses. She had been so young, back then. Then again, she'd always been young to Vidarr. He smiled in pleasant nostalgia, watching her grow old and yet more talented and fearsome. She was the greatest of the Ebonfist, running circles around her brothers.

And Tyr had been so... Pure. Untainted. Powerful, too. It was a damned shame what had happened to the boy, but Vidarr understood vengeance and a need to protect loved ones better than most. It was a testament to his character that the boy had taken it upon himself to set his mothers ghost free. Killing them all. This was good and right. Justice was something deserved by every man, woman, and child throughout all the lands. Regardless of race, creed, gender, age, or any other metric. Having the backbone to see it done, albeit cruelly, was good.

“...” Vidarr frowned at the gate, turning his gaze to the attendant personnel that were responsible for monitoring it. It was always open nowadays, obviously, but they 'checked people in'. Vidarr hated plays of authority and all of the reverence in equal measure. He wasn't a god. He was but an ant before their majesty, and while they may love him – and he them, he would never call himself their equal. Perhaps a favored son, the greatest of all the blessed and chosen, but an equal? The further south one went, the harder it became not to spit on the ground and scream at them until they submitted to reason. Jartor was the only one that seemed to have any sense around here. This was Alexandros' territory, though, so he had to behave. He wasn't a true primus just yet in terms of authority, even if he had the powers of one. There were rules, though he disliked the necessity of observing them, Alexandros was a scary guy. “May I?”

He smiled. Tried to. Nice and kind and gentle. Vidarr was massive from a humans perspective. He knew how they felt. Not just from the height, but the pressure. Living statues of divine wrath. Jartor was about seven and a half feet tall in his base form. A giant. Vidarr was a solid eight and a bit beyond that, both of them dwarfing Ragnar, in stature if not in power. Alexandros was the tallest, though. Not by much, Vidarr would assert. Not that it mattered. But men were men, and primus' more often quarreled like young boys than grown adults. There was not a single soul on earth that was larger than any of them if they'd taken their true forms. Not just in height, again, but in build. Vidarr wasn't just tall, but also wide, not lanky whatsoever despite his long body. A huge frame and muscular arms, so large that he needed to crouch to cross the threshold of most doors if he could fit at all.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Your grace. Please.” One of the men began sobbing and shaking, throwing himself in a kowtow and making a heaving sound as if he was going to vomit. “Please, your grace! Forgive me!”

“What the hell is wrong with this guy?” Vidarr turned, only to realize they were all doing it. “Oi, he pissed himself. You pissed yourself! He's still pissing! Stop pissing!”

He wouldn't get an answer, even after repeated questioning, until a less unstable human approached him. These others seemed terrified of Vidarr like he was about to execute them on the spot... It was a red haired man of the house of fire. Handsome, too. Quite a dashing young warrior.

“You are?”

“It is a great honor to face you, divine one. I am Raddick of Astarte's faith.” Raddick stared Vidarr directly in the eye. He liked that. That was incredibly rare, a man with some backbone, and the favor of the patriarch of the flame burnt bright within him. “Please, allow me to be of service.”

“Please do.” Vidarr nodded respectfully. “And just call me Vidarr. Prince Vidarr if you really feel like observing custom, but I'd prefer that you do not. We do not do this where I am from, and we most certainly do not urinate on the floor. Perhaps consider halving their water rations...”

“Understood, primus Vidarr.” Raddick smiled. Good enough. “It seems...” His smile turned to a frown, and then a confused scowl. Brows low and face pressed against the readout mounted to the wall of the tunnel. “Apologies, I must be reading this wrong. You, man, what does this say?”

“It says...” The first attendant to throw himself about the floor to grovel, eyes still full of tears, stammering a response. “It say's it's closed.”

“Closed!?” Vidarr boomed. “What does that mean?”

“That it's gone.” Raddick replied where the man could not. “Astral gates only 'close' when the space moves on. It would seem that our companions inside are...”

“Dead.” Vidarr frowned.

Raddick nodded. “While not technically true, as they may still be alive on the other side but just connected to another world... I am sorry, I do not mean to be combative. Only--”

“Just spit it out.” Vidarr scowled. “This prattling confuses and irritates me.”

“Dead to us.” Raddick frowned. “We will never see them again, I'm afraid.”

–

“It's fine.” Tyr shrugged. He'd heard of the closing of the astral gate. The distortion was still there, but it was so thin that he could barely make out the aperture. He remained laying in bed with Jura as Benny burst into his room and began raving about them all being 'stuck here'. Obviously, they were stuck here. It didn't take a dimensional mage to tell him that. Jura rested her head against his chest, purring sleepily as Tyr put a finger to his lips to hush the man. She'd relaxed a great deal over time, no longer jumping about in her sleep, and he treasured that. Watching as her trauma melted away. Because of him, and that was why he felt so good about it. Not a purely positive appreciation of her improving state, but it was what it was. She felt safe with him, and he liked the power and validation that gave him whether it was toxic or not. She yawned, but barely registered the intrusion otherwise. Still feeling Tyr's warmth beneath her.

Before Benny could burst into another round of hysterics, Tyr gently shifted her body, lifting himself from the bed and throwing a shirt and pair of pants on. Dragging Benny from the room and admonishing him for nearly waking her. He was given very little 'free time', though admittedly it was by choice – it wasn't as if he was employed. A snap of his fingers and relief from arthritis was enough to get anything he wanted from any number of mages.

“What do you mean it's fine?” Benny hissed, nearly shouting. Tyr had installed soundproofing so as not to disturb Jura, who slept every night unlike himself, so it was a manageable volume.

“We're all going to die in here?” Tyr asked. “No. Eventually that gate will open again to a new world. And again, and again. As long as those wards are in place, the mist can't approach any further.” He shrugged. “Who cares? We can make a life on this new world, or just remain here as we try to figure out the phenomena surrounding us. We've got food, materials... Everything we could ask for.”

“This doesn't concern you?” Benny asked nervously, in a more even tone. “How can you say that?”

“Because it's obvious.” Tyr shrugged. He turned his back to Benny and plucked a bottle of aged spirit from the cupboard opposite his shelf of tools. Being the only man who could 'cure cancer' had made him even wealthier than before. In terms of utility alone, he was the most powerful person in this place. The most necessary, at least, and it was no harder than snapping his fingers most times if he caught it early – coughing up bits of flesh was an acceptable trade-off. “All of the people I care about, for the most part, are here. I would not have left even if a real enemy came. I need to be here, and that is all. I'm sorry, Benny, but I don't feel the same, but I'd like you not to tell the others, allowing them the chance to learn of it themselves. I am selfish, and I know it, I'm sorry.” Tyr shrugged again. He poured a glass for each of them and slid one to a grateful Benny. Perching himself on a stool while the kijin did the same opposite him. Visibly relaxing, sometimes it was hard for him to remember that the man was still a child. Fifteen or so years of age.

Benny sighed anxiously. “I don't want to die here, man. What if we all get swallowed up? To die is to be warborn, but to die like that?”

“You won't.” Tyr replied confidently. He'd investigated the tower and it's wards, sure that they were unbreakable. They had the military power of an entire nation beside them and one of the greatest castles constructed by man to see to live in. That storm could, and would, come no closer. It hadn't, in over three years. “As long as we're together. We'll be fine. You just have to trust me, this isn't so bad. There are so many worlds all over the universe. The next one that we arrive to, eventually, might be even better than our own. Maybe we'll find some elven girls on the other side, the ones you keep talking about.”

“I trust you.” Benny nodded. “See that I earn a good death. Can you promise me that?”

Tyr chuckled softly. “You'll die, eventually. Of old age. I'd never let you go out screaming, that'd be too convenient.”

Benny laughed too, taking Tyr's offered hand in his own and nodding in contentment. “You've changed, brother.”

“Yes.” Tyr smiled. He had changed a lot, given freedom and purpose, learning so many things. Friends, finally, and he knew exactly where he stood with them at all times. A peace of mind he'd never felt before. And he hadn't ruined it as he had with everything else in his life. “Yes I have.”

“I like it.” Benny grinned, squeezing the hand. “I like who you are, and I am happy that you are here with me.”

“Me too.”

More worlds, better world? That was irrelevant. Tyr just wanted to leave his demons in the last one, hoping the next wouldn't bring him more.