???

...And a good day to you, too, comrade General Secretary. But I can tell, by your eagerness, that you are far more interested in my file than my manners. Dare I do something outrage-

*recording faulty? Several crashes and indistinct sounds*

A-Apologies...f-for the joke in poor taste. P-Please call them o-off...

A-Ahem...

You might be unsurprised to learn that comrade Aaron comes from humble origins-as humble as possible for a creature like him. This might explain his lack of respect towards protocol, almost apolitical tendencies, and other traits that are barely compensated for by his competence and power. This...is what we managed to gather...

[Redacted] forest, Brașov, Romania, 194x[redacted by order of the General Secretary after perusal of the file]

The zmeu is hunting.

That is not a surprise. In all his years-the whole handful of them-he has never met one of his kind who was not a predator. Manipulation, extortion, maneating...then there are the ones who prefer to favour flesh in rather different ways.

He shares these urges, of course. However, he has not heeded them, so far. He does not know the others like him, here in the mountains, are pariahs, even among their newly-formed society, which is itself prone to extremes.

The zmeu is not a member of society, either of his kind or the greater Romanian one.

Nor does he know his parents. This is not unusual, either. His kind are not attached to their children. What is unusual, however, is the strength of his father, and the nature of his mother, who was a zmeu only long enough to bear him.

And the brothers he has not met yet.

The zmeu is not hunting out of hunger. He cannot starve to death, though hunger is annoying. He is hunting-animals-to prevent himself from doing something worse.

The bear has torn apart a young, overconfident hunter. A human unsettled by the changes brought by the Shattering, trying to calm himself down by killing something he knows, something that makes sense.

The hunter used to read while resting. As the zmeu tears the bear apart, he notices the book fallen on the grass, next to the hunter's corpse.

'A-Aron Pum-nul...' he speaks haltingly, parroting the big, bold letters on the cover. The stern, wise-looking human on the cover, he thinks, looks admirable.

So far, the zmeu has only heard human curses. He is still learning Romanian. He does not know this, but the man on the cover has helped bring the modern language into being, along with his students. His works will now help the zmeu master it.

***

[Redacted], Brașov, Romania, 196x

Aaron has met his parents once-entirely too many times, in his opinion.

His father spends his time in zmeu country, for his voice alone would shatter the Earth. The behemoth, with his myriad mountain-swallowing maws and rainbow scales, is everything they say about their kind.

If he came to sleep around the world, he'd sleep around the world, provided he did not pulverise it by twitching.

His mother is far, far worse. Aaron used to think his father a coward for having and abandoning him, but...

His eyes cross and bleed as he remembers a fraction of her form-all angles and no curves. Where did the old lizard find the insanity to...to...

Aaron shakes his head. One of his brothers is near, and the other not too far. He knows, as surely as he knows the fire in his blood and the fangs in his jaws.

His brothers hatching in his stomping grounds is pure, stupid coincidence. Perhaps the two old monsters have a favourite mating spot here, though it's hard to imagine his father-Maws, he decides; his whole name, really a description of his body, is a mouthful-shapeshifting to become small enough to fit anywhere on Earth, let alone mating without wiping out the sun and everything around it.

As he hunts, his instincts briefly hesitate. No, both brothers are near. And...

Aaron bursts through trees, breaking them into kindling, to see a little green zmeu-barely more than a hatchling, really, smaller than some human children-held in the three maws of a bigger, blue one.

Aaron tears his youngest brother away with one hand, backhanding the blue zmeu to the ground with the other.

'Why?' he demands in a growl, holding the mewling hatchling close to his chest. The bite wounds are already healing, but...

The zmeu who will become Lucas sneers. He does not know how to speak yet, but his growl says 'rival' as he glares at their younger brother with blue eyes.

What a family he has...well, he supposes his teens are not too early to raise children. It's not like he's their father...

The hatchling wraps around his hand, purring, while the blue one bares his fangs, crossing his arms in a huff as he stares up at him.

No. He is definitely their father, in all but fact.

***

New Centre, Bucharest, 1992

Lucian strokes his goatee as they walk into the club. It's his second time staying in Bucharest, and far happier than the first, at the moment. Miri would not have been found anywhere near a place like this before the Revolution-she is a vampire, and a woman of class besides-but, with the regime change, people are unsure, experimenting.

Lucian has been getting into vampires recently. He likes them, too, or so he tells himself.

Lucian was raised by a brother who repeatedly told and showed him zmei who give in to their impulses are executed. The images of preventive castration, in the cases of zmei with insatiable appetites, improper orientations, or just dubious personalities(they will have to come up with new terms, now that the reds are gone) were not really necessary to get the message across, but they helped. Aaron beat self-control into him, and he's thankful.

There's a iela singing tonight, and every night, the posters promise. Lucian takes one look at her, alone on the stage, and wearing a shift so sheer he's not sure it's there, and admonishes himself for his thoughts, then realises that's stupid. Thoughtcrime is not a thing anymore.

He'll still have to tell Miri, of course. For penance. The vampire tears open his neck(his kind cannot be turned, so there is no danger besides pain, and he regenerates in moments) for every improper thought and action. He tells himself she keeps him honest.

Soon, Lucian will look back on this relationship, and realise how unhealthy it was.

'I'm surprised you agreed to come.' His wings rub against the holes in his leather jacket with a sound like knives on skin.

'Of course!' She favours him with a radiant smile. No fangs, of course. He knows it's fake. She's only happy when baring them, and vice versa. 'The owner is an old friend, you see...'

'Yeah?' He takes in the smoky room, and realises how bland it is, besides the posters about the iela. Are the walls even painted? They don't smell like it...and why are there only humans inside?

'Indeed. In fact, I believe he will soon become a friend of yours, too.'

If the owner is a vamp, Lucian thinks it's extremely likely the only friendship struck tonight will be between his fist and the leech's face.

Then the iela begins to sing, and he realises what is wrong: everything.

Lucas, in-between his "walks" and painting sessions, has taught him to hone his arcane sense. For survival, of course, though Lucian has mostly used it to play hide, seek and find with ghosts. But, for the first and last time in decades, he thanks his brother.

The iela's song is chaining the patrons to the club. Not physically, nothing so blunt. Rather, to the idea of it, and the suggestion that they like it. With the Security dismantled, ARC still setting up shop and no national agency at the moment, there is no one to notice such crimes, besides people like him.

But this is so obvious he's almost baffled. If he, with the arcane sight of a myopic rhino, can spot this, why the hell hasn't some supernatural with enough power and something vaguely resembling a moral compass closed this down?

Lucian narrows his eyes, and notices the iela is chained too, also to the idea of the club. Controlled, too? A puppeteer having her strings pulled?

The zmeu is eating concrete one moment later, Mirela straddling his back in a way more unpleasurable than even their usual, lamentable romps. Is she in on this shit, or being driven crazy (er), or what?

'We knew you'd be distracted, you bleeding heart,' she croons, one clawed hand around his throat, the other over his heart. She's trying to tear through his scales, get at the blood.

The first option, then. He always picked "a" on tests, anyway.

"But do not worry! We know you cannot be brought into the fold, by force or not. I have given you so many little deaths," only about three real ones, but he's good at faking. 'Let me give you the true one, too. You walk around here too often to be allowed to live.'

As she taps into her inner gloater, the other vampire comes into the room out of a door behind the stage, running like a bat out of...heh.

Both of them are skilled enough to use their full strength without collateral damage. Good. He is, too, though he'd likely lose in close quarters to two peers unable to feel wounds or exhaustion.

Good thing he always has his mace. He's never unarmed, either.

Lucian summons his mace in hand as they drag him down, and realises its enchantment, wrought by the Mother of the Forest in exchange for his and his brothers' services (flames, his crotch still ached just thinking of that hag) will not be able to permanently destroy the vamps. He could reduce them to quantum foam, or nothing at all, and they'd heal instantly, because his weapon is not holy.

Then Lucian peers through the windows, and sees a church in the distance, far beyond where the patrons could see, even if their perceptions weren't addled. He glances at the iela, at the anger beneath her smiling mask, and sees the aetheric chains extending between the tall, stocky male vamp's eyes and her neck.

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The zmeu resolves himself. Recently, he's been reading about some American batting sport, and looking for a chance to try it.

Well, Lucian thinks as he swings his mace through the vamps with the intent to destroy them, he might as well take them to church.

He and the iela do not become a couple. Neither of their species is built for constant relationships, and they do not have the temper for sharing themselves with anyone besides each other. She is only into men half of the time, anyway. But Bianca, a human name he suggests to her as the vamps are burned with holy fire and the thralls taken away for rehabilitation, is not deterred. As she explains that night while they explore each other, out of nothing but curiosity and lust, they tell themselves, they can still be friends.

Many years later, they will meet three young men: one gloomy and descending into despair, one still recovering from the demands of distant parents and looking to form his own family, and one who has been walking with death since birth, and will continue long after his death, which, as far as everyone will know for a long time, will be due to the asthma he had been born with.

They will also meet an old bear, who will be as much of a father to them as they will be older siblings or surrogate parents to their younger friends.

He will take a long time to be a father, rather than a parent, to his own blood, though.

***

Muspellheim, 2030

Odin does not arrive by means of the Bifrost. The runes are his to speak and carve, and the tree he has raised is his to walk.

As such, he simply moves, without moving, from his throne room to this blighted, stifling realm the moment his ravens, who have remembered they are supposed to be useful, inform him everything is going wrong.

His ragged travelling cloak has been discarded for armour as grey and weathered as he is. In one hand, he clutches Gungnir. In the other, he holds destruction, shaped into a glowing rune and ready to unleash at any moment. His ravens perch on his pauldrons, their eyes seeing even more than his can.

Not that he needs sharp sight to spot the fire giant, or the victims at his enormous feet.

The Romanians have been torn apart, and burned-he is not sure which is which, even their souls are charred. The Olympian brat has been cut to pieces, still snarling defiance at his opponent as Surtr sneers down at him.

'We should have ripped you apart, too!' Odin calls to get his attention, raising Gungnir. 'Though I'm not sure even my brothers and I could make anything worthwhile from your carcass. At least that frozen moron was good building materials.'

'Borson,' Surtr rumbles in response, a grin shining through his jungle of a beard. 'I did not know you were masochistic, or suicidal. Coming here?'

'Took the words right out of my mouth-as I'm sure nobody has ever told you,' Odin smiles back. 'Do you think yourself my better?'

'I think you are no longer fated to die in the wolf's jaws. There is no destiny anymore, One-Eye!'

The giants lunges, and Odin lets him swing, raising Gungnir like a quarterstaff to block.

It does not pierce the spear, as Surtr realises, despite the shockwaves and flames unleashed by the blow turning Yggdrasil, all the words on its roots, trunk and branches and the stars in its leaves to nothing.

Smile widening, Odin speaks the name of time backwards, and all is restored. Enforced by the Allfather's will, this will be unremembered by any walking or climbing the world ash. No one, but Surtr, for Odin intends to anger the giant, just as his nonsensical slaughter has angered him.

'No!' Surtr growls, pouring his will into his blade, stoking the flames until they are hotter than all the stars in the mundane universe put together. 'You cannot bring it back! I have burned it!'

'I think you'll notice...I just have.' Odin pushes the blade aside with one gauntleted hand, sending Surtr sprawling across his blazing domain. 'Why so surprised, giant? You burn the tree to nothing, yes-in Ragnarok. But I have been told recently that...there is no destiny.'

Surtr roars in rage, but only briefly, before Odin closes the distance, throttling him with one hand. 'Be silent! I have lost face before the other pantheons twice-once when Thor lost his temper, once when I humbled myself by allowing the taskforces free reign to walk my Realms. And you strike them down because...what? It's the first time you feel unburdened? You have been polishing your sword so long it has become tedious, and you want to draw attention to yourself?'

Surtr cannot answer with the Allfather's hand crushing his throat. Odin does not want him to. Glancing at the burned corpses and Heracles' remains, everything is clear. He will send the former to their Lord, preachy hypocritical bastard that he is, and the latter to his perverse lout of a father. It would not do to deprive Olympus of another incestuous fool.

Surtr is far denser than any natural material on Earth, and heavier than any star. This does not stop Odin from throwing him out of Muspellheim, up Yggdrasil's trunk, past its branches and leaves, and past the eagle who now has no rival. Veorfolnir startles between his living perch's eyes as the Allfather and his foe pass by, far faster than light. Odin has outpaced Surtr's flight, floating on nothing above Yggdrasil's tip to catch Surtr as he reaches the apex of the throw. One of Odin's arms is wrapped tight around the giant's neck, the difference in size rendered meaningless by his powers, and the other around Surtr's wrist, holding his arm extended and his power shackled so that he cannot use his sword.

'Do you think Frey will be jealous?' Odin growls, teeth bared in a wolfish grin. "You even burned down the tree...he'll feel like I'm stealing his role!"

With a hateful roar and a burst of strength that shatters his body, Surtr frees himself, spinning to face Odin and bringing his sword down on the Allfather's head. Odin raises Gungnir, its tip clashing with the sword's flaming edge, and shattering it, the void shrieking as it closes for Surtr's grimacing face. It pierces his flesh and skull and brain, bursting out of the back of his head, but Odin is not unmarked. A shard, still flaming, leaps at his eye, burying itself deep within it.

Even as it burns, hotter than anything in the universe, Odin smiles, gripped by a rage fiercer than any since...ha. He cannot remember. He will have to ask Munin.

'You will die, Borson!' Surtr screams with the last of his strength as he falls down into Ginnungagap, steaming blood forming a curtain around and above him. 'And when you choke on your ashen tears, you will wish you have died like your bitch of a son!'

Odin smirks, until the end of the taunt. With a thought command, his ravens blur over Yggdrasil. He not know how Surtr knew about Thor's fate-perhaps the Black God shared a plan with him, and he was merely expecting it-, but by the time Hugin croaks sadly in his ear, Thor is dead. Tyr, too, a braver warrior than he had ever had a right to ask for. And...his blood brother's little monsters, as well.

'No fate, indeed,' Odin snarls, his godly sight searching Ginnungagap without the need for eyes. He is not sure if he could take the Black God-it has killed Fenrir, whether by surprise or fairly. Could Odin have done the same? Perhaps. He could have pushed himself far past his limits with his runes, but, during Ragnarok, fate would have done the same to the wolf, so he would still die.

But fate...is no more.

'I will not be the one choking on ashen tears,' the Allfather muses to himself, a wisp of a smile twisting the corner of his scarred lips. He has found what he was looking for, far past his Realms. It is unsure and formless, without its anchor. Odin does not give that back to it-he does not want to be an accomplice to whatever it may do once returned-but he helps. Just a small flicker of runic light, a beacon, a lure, pointing towards the Black God who crippled it.

An old monster looks across endless darkness, and smiles. And, though it has no face, Nacht smiles back, and promises pain and horror, as it always has.

***

'Grandfather! Where are...' It is Magni who meets him as he strides back into Asgard, after this phase of the war (against what, Odin wonders? Perhaps chaos itself) ends, and a false peace descends. His grandson trails off at his eyeless face, but his expression, he knows, hurts far more.

As Modi and Vidar gather around him, and so many citizens watch from their windows and doorframes, Odin can only think how Frigg will take the news. Sif, he knows, will be...

No matter. He has always been able to harden his heart.

'Split them however you wish,' Odin says hollowly, putting Thor's panoply in Magni's hands and striding past him as Vidar calls for him to return, and Magni and Modi throw their heads back and wail-roar? He is tired, so tired...he cannot tell anymore-in grief and disbelief. Grasping his ravens in both hands, Odin tightens his grip, barks the harsh spell he has put together over the return trip, and snaps their necks.

Knowledge flows into his mind, no longer filtered and limited by the bond between master and familiars. Already, he knows the whereabouts of his sons' lingering souls, and how to make them coherent, so that their shades may return, at least in Asgard.

Fate is gone. The old ends are no more. And, Odin swears as his raven's eyes fill his sockets, and their insight and memories fill his mind, they will never be caught blind again.