35. Not in a Thousand Eras
He really... He...
No... This cannot be happening again...
She took a hesitant step forward, then froze. A terrifying chill ran down her spine, raising her white fur. Her legs trembled. It felt as if the world were collapsing beneath her paws. As if life no longer made sense.
She had already gone through this. She had already lost the most important man in her world — the one she had loved most. Deep down, she had never believed she could recover from one of the worst losses anyone could suffer. And, to her, at the time, there had been no problem at all in spending the rest of her days remembering old times, mourning the one she would never see again, until her final day arrived.
But then, the young man who would become her student appeared and pulled her out of her melancholic inertia. He did nothing special — he did not try to approach her, nor console her, though he had noticed her sadness. He was simply there, doing his own things, fighting for his goals, never losing his humor, much less his hope.
And so, naturally, Sinmara was drawn to him, and a warm desire to help him arose in her heart. Perhaps it was the little jokes they began trading; perhaps it was his incessant questions; perhaps it was the memories they shared.
Well, Sinmara was not absolutely certain when exactly she had begun wanting so badly to accompany his journey. She did not quite understand the reason behind such a desire. After all, she had spent a long time clinging to the only love she had known in centuries.
But, upon seeing Trygve being swallowed by that damned dragon, she finally understood her feelings. Understood how important that young man was to her now.
Trygve had asked countless times for her not to get involved, even begged her not to use her magic. He had told her to trust him, to believe he could overcome his challenges. But Sinmara had trusted Surtr too... and, even so, he was gone, leaving her helpless and alone.
Trygve had purged the loneliness she had felt so deeply. And she would not allow, not in a thousand eras, for him to depart before her.
Sinmara clenched her teeth, staring at the dragon. Her growl was so loud it reverberated through the chamber, her presence so intense it seemed capable of making even Odin kneel.
The Valkyrie stared at her, tense. The dragon also turned toward her, its scaly brow furrowed. Sinmara opened her vulpine mouth. Then came the pain, strong and debilitating, squeezing her chest with sharp claws, stabbing her muscles with countless blunt daggers. But the suffering was not important. Physical pain, she could ignore.
In front of her, a stalactite of ice quickly formed, as large as her enemy’s own head. She would slaughter it. Dead or not, that vile reptile would regret even trying to eat her student...
The enormous reptile gagged, as if it wanted to vomit. It let out a high-pitched whimper, full of anguish, as it twisted and thrashed. Sinmara’s pointed ears suddenly rose. She dismissed her magic, disintegrating the unfinished frozen stake, and the tearing pain dissipated.
The dragon screamed to the heavens. It seemed to be going through a world of pain. Then, it stopped... and fell to the ground with a trembling thud, the undead’s gray tongue hanging out of its maw. The beast huffed one last time, until finally stopping... defeated.
The dragon’s jaw opened, just a little, and a tall, strong young man squeezed his way out of the beast, entirely covered in dark, viscous blood. He panted without pause, white smoke escaping his stained lips with each heavy breath. But he walked with calm certainty. In one of his hands was one of the white swords she had created for him, entirely stained with his enemy’s blood. In the other, he gripped a thick, long, disgusting piece of flesh.
At the sound of the labyrinth doors opening, Sinmara gave a faint smile and let out a short chuckle, staring at her pupil. Trygve walked over to her, throwing the piece of flesh away, and smiled too. But his smile, unlike hers, was full of mischief.
“Were you worried about me, Lady Sinmara?” he asked, stopping near her.
Sinmara shrugged. “A little. It would be irritating to see my months of effort going down a lizard’s throat.”
He remained silent, only smiling.
“...What?”
“You cried for me, didn’t you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Do not think so highly of yourself. I may have told you to be more confident in yourself, but not in my presence. You almost died because you were fooled by that thing. You need to be more careful.”
“Right, but... no tears?”
Sinmara narrowed her eyes. Her cold stare was enough for Trygve to stop trying to irritate her, but not enough to stop him from smiling. He seemed pleased with himself, and that was good. He should feel proud. He had grown so much in the last few months...
“I think I dropped my bag in there,” he commented suddenly, turning back to look at the fallen dragon. Then, he grimaced in disgust and concluded, “I’ll have to go back inside to look for it.”
“Good luck,” she said. “Oh, and bathe after this. Your smell is unbearable, again.”
Trygve looked at her again, the excitement fading from his face. With a sorrowful look, he asked:
“Do you think we can burn their bodies? Give them a proper farewell?”
She blinked for a moment. “I know no magic that can burn such a large body. That will be a lot of work.”
“I know. But I want to do it anyway.”
Her student seemed to feel guilty for having killed the Raven Keeper and her protector. To be honest, Sinmara had spent the entire fight waiting for Trygve’s compassion to blossom and praying it would not happen in a critical moment like in the past — in a moment when he could not hesitate.
But her concerns had proven unfounded. Trygve had not only become stronger, faster, more skilled, and more powerful. He had also grown as a warrior and as a man.
She smiled. “Do as you wish. Just remember that time is still running.”
Trygve nodded. “I’ll be as quick as possible.”
Sinmara still did not know whether that growth would be enough for his survival out there. After all, one thing was to kill beings who, even if they had a past, were dead. Another was to pierce the heart of someone truly alive. And she could only hope that her lessons, past and future, would make him capable of making difficult choices.
Which, in fact, could happen very soon...
Sinmara looked at the Valkyrie behind her. The healing effects of the Idunn Fruit had already cured her more superficial wounds and pulled her back from death. She was still debilitated, weak, and the healing effects had already passed, but the Shield Maiden could certainly still be a problem for Trygve. Not that Sinmara would allow her to kill him, of course.
“Are you going to try to convince her again?”
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Trygve followed her gaze to the Valkyrie, thoughtful. “I’m going to talk to her.”
Sinmara remained silent for a moment, then sighed. “Do you remember the last memory I showed you?”
He nodded. “I remember...”
“Good. Do not lower your guard. She may have accepted your help, but that does not mean much, for now.”
“I know. I’ll be careful... I just hope that proves unnecessary.”
As he walked toward the Shield Maiden, he invoked a handful of snow in his free hand and began cleaning some of the blood soaking him. Sinmara followed him closely, watchful. Trygve did not sheathe his sword.
***
Rist seemed better, but not by much. Her skin had more color, her superficial wounds healed. But some deep cuts had still not closed. Even if he recovered his bag and gave her the last flask, Tryg was certain the Valkyrie would not recover completely.
Although the possibility of helping her again had dwindled a little when he saw the apathetic expression on her dirty, exhausted face. There was no happiness, no pain, no sadness, no anger. There was nothing. And that could mean anything.
Tryg stopped two steps away from her, still with his sword in hand, his expression forcibly neutral. Joy and tension mixed and contained in equal measure. He analyzed the two empty flasks beside her, then turned back to her.
“Miss Rist,” he called, drawing her impassive gaze. The Valkyrie did not answer.
What should he say? Should he pretend that tension did not exist and talk about anything else? Or should he go straight to the point? No, he could not act as he always did, not in such an unsettling situation. He needed to pull the problem out by the roots and find out how the months Rist had spent alone in the labyrinth had changed her.
She might have accepted the truth and moved on... Or she might have gone even madder than him... Or she might have spent the last few days feeding her hatred for the people who had defamed and destroyed the rule of the Aesir...
Tryg tightened his grip on the hilt, making his knuckles pale. Then, he asked, firmly:
“Do you still think I’m a despicable liar?”
She remained staring at him for a moment, then lowered her head and bit her lips. She did not touch the daggers at her waist. She did not threaten him, nor scream. And that alone was enough for Tryg to realize she still had not decided the answer to that question. She still had not decided to trust him. But neither did she want to kill him.
Rist did not seem to know what to do. Tryg understood very well. He had felt something similar when he had received Sif and Hildisvíni’s help for the first time, during Ragnarök. The feeling of wanting to trust someone and, at the same time, having his conscience constantly warning him about the danger of doing so.
“I...” she began, but stopped herself, clenching her fists.
No, it’s nothing like what I felt. Hildisvíni and Sif might have been who they were, but I always wanted to believe in the gods; I always wanted them to be as good as they claimed to be. Setting aside the trauma and believing in those two... was completely different from Rist trusting a man who had destroyed, with a few sentences, everything she believed...
A few months ago, when Sinmara had begun teaching him about magic, she had said something Tryg had kept with him, though he had not seen the power behind what she had said at the time. Now, however...
“Be careful with words,” she said one day, when Tryg had mispronounced one of the spells and almost froze his hand because of it. “They are and always will be the most powerful and most dangerous weapons in any warrior’s arsenal. Say one in the wrong way or at the wrong moment, and unprecedented chaos may take root.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Spells can be—”
“That is not what I mean... Well, not only.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Then, she sighed and answered as she almost always answered those questions of his: “Do you think I will always be around to clarify your doubts?”
Indeed, his teacher had been right, as she almost always was. Now, Tryg understood very well how devastating a simple sentence could be. Magical or mundane, words carried as much power as the strongest and oldest of the gods. The power to cause wars and devastate realms... as well as to break or mend a heart.
Tryg took a deep breath, relaxing his grip, feeling a tightness in his chest. He opened his mouth... but closed it immediately after. Something enormous moved behind him. Something as large as a small hill, growling in pain and fury.
Impossible...
Turning around, Tryg watched, brow furrowed, as The Pale One rose with difficulty, barely able to stay on its feet. It was alive, somehow, despite the external and internal wounds it had suffered. But how was that possible? Tryg had torn that beast’s insides apart from within, ripped pieces from them. Besides, the doors were open. That alone should have confirmed the demise of his enemies. It should not...
Tryg’s eyes widened slightly, part surprised, part worried. The juice... he thought, remembering that he had dropped his bag inside the beast. The Idunn Fruit juice must have healed it enough for it to make one last effort.
“Shit,” he muttered, already running across the pale grass, drawing his sword, invoking an enormous boulder...
There was no more time. The dragon’s bloody maw was already half-open, roaring weakly, cerulean flames rising through its throat. One final freezing and devastating conflagration would come in his direction... and toward Rist and Sinmara behind him.
Tryg stopped. There was no time for magic. There was no time for anything else, not even an absurdly risky move like the one he had improvised earlier when he was eaten. Gritting his teeth, he dropped his sword and returned as fast as possible toward the Valkyrie, grabbing Sinmara on the way.
“What in Hel's name are you doing?!” she asked, her tone distressed.
He threw himself over Rist, pulling Sinmara with him, and covered both with his desperate embrace. His shadow vision showed him what would happen... How his body would be completely frozen, transformed into a beautiful and, at the same time, terrifying sculpture of ice.
The cold came. Tryg kept his eyes closed, waiting for the freezing pain that would follow. But it never came. What the...? he thought, freeing Rist from his embrace and...
Sinmara was gone. A dark premonition immediately threatened to burst his heart with the grip of its nails. Swallowing hard, desperately wishing what he imagined would not prove real, he turned around.
His teacher had placed herself between him, Rist, and the blaze. But she had not been hit. For now, around them, an intense whirl of gray, shimmering mist spun, keeping The Pale One’s blue flames away.
She could not... Ever since they began their training, Tryg had been asking, and succeeding, in having Sinmara avoid using her magic more and more. She was worsening with the passage of time, feeling pains so debilitating they sometimes prevented her from walking, spending days unconscious. If that continued... Tryg shuddered to imagine what would happen to her.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted his rhetorical question, alarmed. “You promised.”
Sinmara looked over her shoulder at him, her vulpine brow furrowed with pain. She smiled.
“It is all right. I will be fine...” She groaned.
It was a lie. His teacher always lied when she claimed she would be fine. It was one of the only and rare moments when she was wrong.
The conflagration ceased. Soon after, the whirlwind came undone, revealing the dragon’s debilitated figure so close to death, yet still so willing to avenge its ward. Even so, The Pale One collapsed once more, letting out one last desolate guttural sound.
For a tiny instant, Tryg considered running to the beast and ensuring it would never rise again. But the desperation that ignited inside him was stronger when he saw his teacher falling. He ran, feeling his heartbeat against his ribs, knelt beside her, and carefully took her into his arms.
Her breathing was weak and rough. The heart exposed in her chest, slower than it had ever been. And, unfortunately, that was not all. Her flaming, pulsing organ... was losing its burning appearance... losing its glow.
“No...”
How had he never noticed that? Even if it was rare to see the chest of her fox form, Tryg should have noticed her heart weakening. Or rather, Surtr’s. The two had exchanged their hearts in the past, as a symbol that they would always be connected and love each other, no matter the distance between them.
But Surtr was dead and had taken Sinmara’s heart with him. And if her love was dead... what would happen to the heart he had left behind? Was that why the queen was so debilitated, so far below the deadly warrior she had once been?
Tryg held Sinmara against his chest, sorrowful, closing his eyes tightly. He blamed himself for not having managed to fulfill his promises — blamed himself for not saving Jorg and for being separated from his mother. But he had never felt as guilty as he did in that moment.
For not having realized why the teacher he had come to love was withering. For not having insisted more that she tell him everything happening to her. For being the reason, once again, for her worsening...
He needed to heal her. Never before had Sinmara allowed him to help her with the Idunn Fruit juice. More than that, she had forbidden it, even after her worrying weakening. Maybe she... Maybe her heart would keep beating. But Tryg did not want to risk it. Except...
Though he was willing, it was too late to disobey her. After all, the last drops of juice that remained in his bag had been devoured by the dragon.
He had nothing to do but dwell on his own suffering and guilt while hoping Sinmara would wake one more time. Just one more... A tear ran down his face and fell into the fur of the fox in his arms.
You promised... Please...
Light steps approached him. Without delay, even though he did not want to, Tryg recomposed himself. He leapt forward, rolling with his teacher protected against his chest, and stood by instinct. Then, brow furrowed, he drew his sword and stared at the Valkyrie approaching with her head lowered.
His helplessness might have made him lower his guard for a moment, but he had not forgotten the lessons and reflexes Sinmara had engraved into his body. He never would, no matter how overwhelmed he was. Protecting his teacher was more urgent than his own feelings.
As much as he wanted to be able to trust Rist, that was still not possible until she gave him a reason to do so... Like the one she held in her hand.
That small yellowish flask between her fingers.