Laboring over a hot forge, Tyr had been at it for days. No particular reason, his plans were mostly in place and the rest was just an exercise in killing time. It was fun. Nice, mindless, repetitive work. Mostly more barrier buckles, and with the help of Valkan, additions to the collection of runes on Aska were made and his armor was altered slightly.

“These are...?” Tyr raised an eyebrow at the paper box presented to him. The top was open, and he could see the little dog shaped biscuits inside. Perhaps not biscuits, they called them 'cookies' down in these parts. “Cookies?”

“Scones... Clearly.” Sigi frowned hard, a bit of violence bleeding into the glare she was sending him. “Look at them, they are nowhere thin enough to be a wafer or a cookie.”

“Why are they shaped like dogs...?” Tyr asked, but he plucked one from the box and chewed on it. They were delicious. Sigi didn't like baking, she liked cooking and assured him that there was a big difference between the two. “Do you like dogs?”

“I love dogs. But these were supposed to be wolves. It's thematic, Tyr.” She replied in agitation, noting professor Valkan's glance from his place at the opposing forge. Twirling copper wire together with practiced motions, mouth twitching in observation of the... Couple? Married or not he couldn't quite associate any of them as being anything more than friends, at best – all of those women and Tyr barely spared them a second of consideration. “I thought you would like them.”

“I love them, and you most of all.” Tyr replied, and she blushed wildly at that, though nothing about her expression indicated she was happy to hear it. “But that doesn't explain the sudden offering to my divine personage. I want to know the reason, offerings to my shrine must be met with a wish or want. Praying to me, y'know?”

At that, she slammed the box into his chest and left abruptly. He couldn't tell if she was happy or mad. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were stormy. Women were confusing.

“Your womenfolk perplex me.” Valkan commented from his customary place before the forges with a smile on his thin lips. “It's always something, but she's a good lass. Smarter than you. Should get on with learning to understand them better. Couldn't be me, though.”

“No chance in that.” Tyr replied, chewing a 'scone' absentmindedly, wondering what in the holy hells a 'scone' even was. This was clearly a cookie. “No chance at all. Want one?” Valkan readily accepted the offer, a quick break before they turned back to the beating and twisting of metal.

“I saw your show.” Valkan said, muffled in his chewing of the 'scone'. Tyr hated that word. 'Scone', the gall of people to just invent words like that. Was 'thick biscuit' not enough for them? The absolute ridiculousness of it, he couldn't get it out of his head. Scone? “It was good. You are quite talented with that instrument of yours. Is that your passion?”

“Of course not.” Tyr laughed, feeling mirth bubbling up inside of him. “But it's fun. It's his passion, not mine.”

“His?” Valkan asked, confused. “Who is the 'he' in this context?”

“He is me.” Tyr replied with a mystified look. “Who else would I be?”

“You are a very bizarre child, Tyr Faeron of Haran.”

“You're an eight foot tall giant with gray skin and blue hair, like a lion man but with a flatter face and no proper nose. You Anu... Who are you to talk?”

“Fair enough.” Valkan laughed heartily. “What's next, little wolf?”

“The waiting.” Tyr replied sourly. He didn't like that, but he'd done everything he needed to. It was by no means perfect, and one would imagine there was a detriment, but twelve minds had seen to it that his plans were in place. 'His' plans. Tyr knew well that even given a thousand years he never would've been so creative with it all by his lonesome.

–

Jartor was seated in his study after a particularly exhausting war council, hands steepled in front of his face and snorting in amusement at the banner pinned to the wall his opposite. Ebonfist. He'd married an Ebonfist once. Jar (pronounced Yarr) was 'black' in the old tongue, and Tor could be fist or castle depending on the enunciation, or the god. But in contemporary use, Jartor would mean 'black fist'. Comedy in it, to him.

Ebonfist. It hadn't been planned whatsoever, the cards just fell that way.

Fae was the word in the original tongue of the old Harani tribes for forest, or rather the embodiment of earthen nature or spirits – not just the trees. Nature itself. The word for the plane of nature as a whole, it varied based on context. And 'Ron' was the world for wolf. If translated in appropriately, his name would mean Black Fist, Spirit Wolf. Ebonfist was a bit more alliterative, obviously, but he found it all incredibly amusing and always had. Exacerbated by the fact that his eldest had married two Stalvarg's. Well, one was adopted, but the law was the law.

Stal for steel. Varg for wolf. Steel Wolf, in the northern 'old tongue' – before Common had become the language of choice throughout both continents. Haran with their men of steel, and Tyr was a product of that bloodline. Tyr, named for the lord of wolves, born in the land of steel, married two wolves of the same material. Called the White Wolf per his vocation. White haired, just like little Okami. Not so little anymore, granted, larger than any natural horse Jartor had ever seen, a true guardian beast now. He had never been poetic or prone to the fantasies and sagas, but only a fool laughed at symbolism. It was in everything, and it was everywhere, arguably the most powerful force in the cosmos. Fate and symbolism. Perhaps it was all fated, Jartor certainly hoped so – it'd give some structure to the inevitable end of things. Perhaps serve to do some good.

One for the myths, perhaps.

“Honored father.” A small figure waddled into the study and bowed, Baldur doing his best to behave the way a prince should. A tiny boy with chubby cheeks and curly, sandy blond hair - taking more after his mother than his father in more than just his looks.

Such a contrast to Tyr when he was of that age. That was a boy who'd been precocious beyond belief, a right menace to everything around him – just in a less violent way compared to who he'd later become. Tyr's quirks in personality had been famous among those who dwelled in the palace for decades now, a selectively lazy, passionate, and wild boy – just like his father before him.

In comparison, Baldur was diligent, excellent in all things, a calm and intelligent boy with a consistently sanguine disposition. Jartor had found the child to be more like his father than himself, or how he'd imagined the old man to be. Hard working and upright, less prone to rages and glares, the first apple had fallen far closer to Jartor's tree. “How fares you... On... This morn?”

“There is no need to speak to me with such ridiculous pomp, boy.” Jartor replied flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. Charlotte was not of these lands, not of northern blood, but she had insisted they keep up the tradition of naming their line after the dead gods. Jartor, Tor, not for Tormund, but his grandfather Tor – the lord of all storms. Foe breaker, the one-time god of warriors and adventurers, sailors and bards, same as his grandson only greater.

Tyr and Baldur were named after the lord of wolves and lord of light respectively. Jartor wasn't as creative as his father was. Black Tor, breaker of mountains. In any case, the names betrayed the nature of their line, there was great power and significance in a name. Tyr the silver handed, the judge, the lord of wolves and the god of war. Not so different, really, a blade to be used. A curse in the name, perhaps. And by that same logic, Jartor hoped Baldur would avoid his own curse, there wasn't a single old one that hadn't lived by one of those. “Have you been behaving?”

Baldur giggled, he was still young and bright. Tiny, wispy. Before Tyr had become ill, he'd been strong and passionate, athletic. For a human child, at least, and yet there were times where his strength had been truly tyrannical back then. A scamp and a rogue from his first day. What a pair they'd have made if they'd been twins, complete opposites in character and bearing. Jartor would raise this one right, a chance at redemption if ever he'd known one. “Yes, father.”

Charlotte stood behind him in a humble gown. She didn't like frocks and frills, and Jartor could honestly say he preferred that in a woman. Wearing only this simple yet well tailored dress, her signet ring, and the crown that denoted her office. What she had to. He'd never wished to marry a southerner, let alone someone so young in his old age. It felt wrong. Predatory, almost. Signe had been older than he'd been at the time, though few knew it, and that had made it far easier. She'd captured his attention regardless, through one means or another – and Jartor had pursued her quite stubbornly despite her previous agreement with Octavian... He'd felt young again, something that didn't happen often.

As for Charlotte... Well, he certain could've done worse. She was a good, upright, and honorable woman – albeit extremely aggressive, someone who wouldn't have made for a very good wife in the south where they asked for obedience over equity. Southerner or not, she'd come to fit in quite nicely.

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“Good morning, husband. If it pleases you, might I inquire as to your...” She cleared her throat. Six years they'd been married but it was hard for her to get used to Jartor's obsessive need for things to be exactly as he wanted them. An emperor who did not want to be called emperor.

Some termed it humility. A humble man before the gods, that was Jartor, this great and righteous instrument of their wrath. But this was not the case. A living primus had a name, and the lords and graces, kings, emperors... How could any emperor claim to carry the name Jartor? His meant far more than these temporary stations. An emperor should fear a Jartor. No sovereign without that name would weigh the former over the later. Jartor was power. Emperor was simply an empty title, and thus in the refusal to claim the traditional sovereign title – there was no humility at all. Jartor is as he always had been, an egotistical and self possessed man absolutely sure that he was right in all things save one.

“It was an incredibly exhausting waste of my time, as usual.” Jartor bit to the root of the question she was guaranteed to ask. 'How was your morning?'. If only these people would forgo all these ridiculous and time consuming honors to speak true and plain. “Nothing to concern yourself with. I simply had not thought that deploying two legions to the southern border would be so complicated for them. Perhaps one day you will see how men grow inferior through the eras. It is something to witness, truly. Why have you come?”

“Baldur wished to see his father.” Charlotte didn't love the primus, but she respected him. And she'd done her duty, surprisingly too well. Now she was locked in this palace and not even allowed to see her own family. Why? Because the primus did not want her son to end up like his, despite the fact that history was in the process of repeating itself. But in all honesty, she couldn't blame him.

Many of the nobles in court, despite never having interacted with Tyr directly, seemed to be under the impression that he'd show up one day and kill them all as soon as the reigning emperor had left. They were terrified of the man, believing him capable of killing his own brother – but Charlotte knew better than that. Tyr had been willing to sacrifice his own life in lieu of harming him, the idea that he'd abruptly change face and assassinate Baldur was ludicrous. “And I wished to see my husband.”

“Hmm.” Jartor rumbled, rising to his titanic height and approaching them. A real giant. Without the apparent use of magic, their... Union, might not have been possible. She'd been daunted at the idea. Left wondering if she should've done it at all – it hadn't been Jartor, not exactly. And yet Baldur was still his child... One of the many enigmas of the primus', that there were two of each of them, somewhere in the world – and she'd bargained with his other. Expecting wrath, but he'd never done anything more than snort and shake his head in displeasure – no punishment had come of it.

“I could use a meal.” He said. “Would you like to dine together? I have not eaten in four days what with the preparations.”

“...Four days?” Charlotte balked. “Is that normal?”

Jartor raised an eyebrow as if to communicate how strange of a question that was, but he didn't voice those concerns. He understood that the lesser ones... They'd never understand. He saw his only wife perhaps once every three or four days, sometimes longer between visits. They rarely, if ever, slept in the same chamber. He knew she was miserable, but she'd be young and healthy when he left this land and very eligible for a remarriage. It had to be soon. A year, maybe two, maybe less. Vidarr would become steward until Baldur was of age, all under Ragnar's supervision, and Tyr – if he was among the living, would stand seneschal alongside his brother, this he knew intimately.

Jartor could scarcely believe the old man had managed to hold on this long, his time was nearing and resisting it was growing increasingly difficult as the days ran by. Holding on if only to see what his eldest did with the power he was about to grasp, or... To stop him, if necessary. “Yes. Often, I do not eat or sleep for weeks at a time, but I must drink consistently or my mouth gets terribly dry. Shall we?”

–

“Are you not worried?” Charlotte feigned a smile for the passing members of court, seated beside her titan of a husband. He stood, of course, the benches could not support a man of his mass. Half a ton, easily, that was how much he weighed – according to himself. Jartor said all of the 'parts' of his body were under his complete control. Even his hair. In an instant, he could change his appearance and observable gender. Become lighter, heavier, taller or faster in an exchange of bulk. It was incredible, but he was no friend to exhibition, refusing her requests to see all but the smallest of changes. Eye and hair color, that was the last and only time – though Charlotte believed him to stay in this 'form' of his simply to terrify men of lesser stature around him. All a show.

“For Tyr?” Jartor snorted, arms crossed and massive, watching the nobles filter in and immediately hunch a bit as soon as they'd seen him. That, as inappropriate as it might be, was something that would never get old. “Of course I'm not worried.”

“So you think he'll succeed in whatever task Alexandros--”

“Primus, wife of mine. That is his title and you shall use it, no matter your position.” Jartor chided, but there was no anger or annoyance in his voice. Charlotte had learned long ago that with Jartor, it was his way or no way at all. There was only one option with him. Do, say, act as I tell you to. He was a very possessive, and controlling man, but not violent or abusive. Nor did he argue, he said, and people did – or they were gone, well stocked and taken care of, but no longer permitted to be in his presence.

With that being said, she too had no doubt that should she err in her decisions, Charlotte would be thrown out of the palace and disgraced without a thought. She'd seen what had happened to the members of court that irked him beyond his limits. They were banished, and later eliminated by the wardens once they were out of sight. There was no room for 'people like that' in 'his' nation. Usually.... Usually. They deserved it. Law breakers, most of them, but Jartor didn't care to go through the courts any longer. Would likely kill them himself if he could. And that was odd. All of these people, their fear and revulsion towards Tyr, yet nobody noticed how similar father and son truly were. Perhaps it was in the charisma, the position and authority.

Jartor, the Great Lion, a being of might and majesty. Versus Tyr, the White Wolf, the monster.

And the latter, from her perspective, was by far the more morally inclined of the two. Perception, though, was reality.

“Apologies.” Charlotte blushed, a forced reaction. In truth, she wanted to club him over the head with a stick and march off with her son in hand. He was too much to deal with at times. So lawful and anal about the smallest details.

Jartor turned an eye to her, one single eye moving independently from the other like a chameleon, calmly staring at her. “It does not matter if he succeeds or fails. Tyr cannot truly die, so he is here with us regardless. He exists. And that has to be providence of the gods. But no, he will not succeed. There is no chance of that, he will be torn to pieces and there is nothing you nor I could do to stop it. I don't want it to happen, but it will, and ultimately it is his own fault. He is a boy well acquainted with failure. What's one more?”

He shrugged, this was all he had to say on the matter. Tyr would do as he always had, and that was what he wanted to. He could not be beaten into submission, and Jartor was proud of that if little else. A strong man with a straight back and a code was important, and seeing yourself buckle beneath the steel of your stubbornness was even more so.

To die for something could be called noble by those transient things they called humans, but to live for something was the highest calling. Pressure was privilege, what you did with it was a sign of character and will. Even if it meant killing millions, humans bred fast and could easily be replaced – Tyr was about the Golden Path, or so his father thought.

Tyr would bend, or he would break. It did not matter. Jartor was well aware of who was coming for him, and they'd see to it one way or another. Destroy his will to fight, that's what they did best. Tyr was not the opposition to Hastur, he was just another bump in the road toward that creatures own 'grand plan'. Jartor didn't want Tyr to be broken, but he felt like the boy might need it. He didn't even know if that was the boy he'd called his son anymore, his awakening was too unique. They could all feel it. With both he, and Iscari.

They were both, if not irregularly strong in the spira for their age, then... Unique. Things that had finally gotten the hidden forces in the world riled up. Those who remained disguised, not stirring for centuries, watching and waiting for something to happen. Either out of amusement, annoyance, or genuine terror. Spira was ultimately the power of self. Existence. Tyr's was so... Jartor would say weak, but it wasn't the right word to use. It might be small, but it was dense and immutable, so much so that he'd returned from true death even after being shred by the energy that comprised all their kind.

And now Jartor could not kill him. None of the primus' could. Octavian wanted to, and Jartor had denied him. At this point, he was truly immortal, irrevocably tied to the world after collecting so many individual dao. Lesser ones, not the kind that defined a primus. And through them, Ragnar had guessed, Tyr was slowly recovering the aspect he'd lost – twisted and warped by experience. Perfectly planned, meticulously executed. Or not, Jartor didn't know and didn't care beyond the passing novelty of it. The only thing he did know is that the only thing that could remove Tyr from the world... Was Tyr himself.

Hmm. Jartor chuckled, before erupting into a booming laugh that terrified near everyone in the audience chamber. Hastur had said something about a 'new weapon', something he was close to achieving to settle the matter with finality. The father was looking forward to the further exploits of the son. Things got so boring after two and a half centuries of life, it was about time something proper amusing happened. Even his shard wanted to see it, that one who'd taken more interest in Tyr than near anyone else of late.