Chapter One – The Olympian Kingdom – Part Four
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Despite everything else, Alfrick had not told a lie, in truth.

The only reason for Rognir to come to these lands in his physical person was because he wanted to meet his wife, this fact held strong as the pitch black god reached the bottom of the catacomb.

Rognir walked towards the ledge, he peered into the abyss below.

Raging waves spiralled in an emerald sea, a vortex at the heart of the glistening and shadow-clad scene.

He stood high above a hollow that expanded farther than the human eye could see, even superhumans of the highest order might yet struggle to fathom its border.

His feet parted from the platform but he did not fall like a stone into the abyss below.

Casual steps did echo, he walked the air as if it were a flight of stairs. Slowly, surely, he advanced downwards step by shallow step.

She lurked below, the eye of the vortex was his goal.

He advanced upon that waiting vacant space, his feet trod the twirling watery walls of the vortex like solid glass or stone.

The forces at play could make mince of men, yet they did not so much as repel him, nevermind bring the black Vanir any semblance of harm.

He spied her below, deep within the centre of these raging torrents.

Other figures looked back at him, faces of women and men, the eyes of Feng’s countless Einherjar whose bodies formed the ocean's water.

These beings were former mortals remade into subordinates of the Vanir, as well as possible future Vanir themselves.

They were beyond counting, or rather, he could not be asked to count them, he knew off by heart though that they had to fall somewhere in the tens of thousands range.

Solemnly of that number only a humble few hundred would ascend to the stage of Vanir while the rest, and this he knew by merit of having surpassed the trials himself, they would all have no choice but to live and die as they were.

The Pitch Black God advanced without paying them much mind. They were nothing in his eyes but newly born babies far beneath his concern.

The emerald vortex beckoned, he trod the sea as if it were solid stone and headed towards that place where sat a woman on her throne.

“Feng,” He said, “Your husband has come for a visit.”

The vortex rose with her dress as its centre, the hem of her garment seemed to melt seamlessly with the water.

Indeed it was so, for this emerald sea had originated from her very being.

Her body was clad in emerald green. She looked exactly like he remembered, save a few improvements by virtue of her vanity.

He smirked, but he could not criticize. His own present form was more an ideal than a true recreation of his original as well, after all.

She had pitch black hair that was only long enough to brush her chin and her eyes shone with a wolf-like silver lustre.

He peered into those twin pearls as she too turned up to peer upon him. Her lips, like crystalized cherry in colour, parted in greeting.

“It has been too long, My Duke,” She said.

This was the duchess fit to be his, the Duke’s, beloved bride, this was Feng, the War Goddess.

The man advanced toward her in silence amid the countless stars, which were really the eyes of her Einherjar.

He offered her his hand as his godly robes shifted to formal set of ducal clothes.

“When was it, Feng? When was the last time you and I danced beneath the starry sky, I wonder?” The Goddess sighed, then took his hand.

They started to dance, countless Einherjar watched on as their witnesses.

She closed her eyes and looked back on those long lost times when their daughter ran circles around the dining room table.

Then they were known as Duke and Duchess Herskryhn of Midas, a Kingdom and title that had fallen both to ruin long ago, and now so many eons had passed.

Their girl was a true bother to their gardener.

That man had been but a serf at the time, a lowly servant, nobody expected him to rise so far.

Now he was their fellow Vanir, he was the Crimson Destroyer, the Vanir, Grimnir.

Those were happy times for the four of them, indeed, happy even for that old serf, despite the social status that divided him from them.

Yet all happy times must come to an end, same as everything else, and what ended their happy lives was a particularly cruel tragedy.

Their daughter fell ill…

They took her to the Temple of Hertyr, their goddess, their Vanir…

The Pontiff took them in…

Their King, Midas, had sent his men to kick down the temple doors…

They failed to notice how much of a thorn they were in his side. They had opposed his wars and claimed that their resources would be better kept without taking them from others or expending them in that effort.

Rognir had just wanted his wife, who was of a military bloodline, to come home, he had just wanted to protect his daughter, in whose future surely such service did await her.

They tried to veto their monarch, the consequences were dire...

The serf died at the door…

The duchess was shot as she tried to run, she only managed to get half way through shouting her husband’s name in alarm…

The duke died cursing, his cane fell upon the earth…

The pontiff died lamenting the ignorance of their king…

Yet the king was not their killer, just the figure that gave the order...

Their killer, of course, was the King’s enforcer, a man in white and black...

He stepped forward, approached the alter and beheld the weakened body of their daughter…

He could not kill her...but he didn’t have to…

The Prime Minister did it for him, then chided him for his softness…

That was their collective demise, or rather it should have been. Yet Hertyr had watched it all, and she took pity on the five who died.

Only on her temple grounds could this miracle transpire, had this unimportant lot died elsewhere they’d have vanished to oblivion forevermore and one day no one today living would remember their names.

The Goddess opened her eyes, she had finished dancing, finished recalling her mortal life from so many eons ago.

“So then,” She said, finally pushing her husband away, “My Duke, why don’t you tell me why it is that you have come here?”

Rognir faced her, his expression turned firm.

“I want to free our daughter,” He said, and then Feng raised her brows silently.

The Goddess leaned her head against his chest, they continued their nostalgic dance.

Five hundred years ago they sensed her, their daughter, she too had become manifest in this world, she too had arisen, she was a fellow Vanir.

The cause lay with Cyril’s curse. When the Goddess was called on to test it and pass her verdict, she recognised the Ash that created it was clearly that of her child.

That child was not well, back when they were only Einherjar she was unstable even then.

She had hoped the girl would find comfort in Hertyr's bosom, it startled her pale to realise she'd taken that trial to become a Vanir, and it much more so shocked her that by merit of survival she must have succeeded.

Nobody knew how she’d managed to do it, how could that girl outdo countless heroes to become a Vanir in her state of mind?

The couple tried to talk to her so many times after that, and they kept it up until finally they found her three centuries later. Sadly, it was not a happy reunion so much as a sobering revelation.

The girl was sealed, bound beneath the city of Vesta in the Muspelheim Continent, by Abel, an organisation that had long fought against the gods by her own design.

The couple was shocked, horrified in truth, and a great many things changed that day.

They learned that the group Feng founded had been corrupted.

Once they were bidden to keep watch over their once hateful King, who had since become the Golden Vanir Asagrim, but he had perverted their purpose and made them his servents.

The seal was sturdy for it had been placed upon him by the strongest of them.

The old Pontiff had become Alfod, the Violet God, Priscilla's patron and founder of both the Twenty Six Schools and the Kingdom of Wisemen from which they hailed.

He sealed the hateful King, in spite of Hertyr's will and favour.

The bindings built upon that place were sturdy as steel, but it had withered, cracked and breached with age.

The watchers had been useless, they were corrupted by the very thing they were supposed to be watching out for.

They two were helpless as well, for Alfod had ascended, he left this world a long time ago.

These revelations were troubling, but none so much as the seal Asagrim's kin had placed upon their daughter.

They sought to free her, and they were aided by Grimnir in that tumultuous endeavour, however they had thus far found themselves incapable of the task.

Asagrim's Beacons now served to bind Authun’s being, only his will or their destruction could set the young Goddess free.

Thus began the Invasions of Muspelheim, the many wars waged to secure the place where Feng's daughter lay.

After all, since it was Authun’s Beacon that had been the one used to curse Cyril and her ilk, it was Authun alone who could lift that curse.

Alfrick had naturally tried to free her many times for Cyril’s sake, but he could never seem to reach that city.

The reason was not solely due to opposition from Vesta’s allies, but rather, that Abel would always launch an attack if they were away for too long.

“Alfrick has invaded those lands many times," The Duchess confessed, "yet he has been unable to hold Vesta, you know this, Dear Husband.”

“Yes, I know it,” The Duke replied, yet he smiled, for he was still confident even in the face of that truth “Fortunately, we have help this time.”

“Is that so?” Pondered Feng, who glared Rognir’s way and then bid to ask him worriedly, “Does this helper have a name?”

“Rude,” Said Rognir. The Duke had meant to answer her, truly, the man’s name was Rudolph, after all.

He couldn't help himself though, and his amusement could only grow as his bride raised her brows in profound displeasure.

“I was only asking,” She said, and he chuckled back in turn. Soon enough, however, she rolled her eyes and asked him the follow up. “Whoever he might be, do you think this person is fit for the job?”

The Duchess was right to doubt, it was only natural. They were, after all, putting all their faith in a lowly mortal, and the one who controlled Vesta was decidedly beyond their caste.

“No,” The Duke answered her with blunt and brutal honesty. Rudolph, in the end, could not defeat that person, he was much too weak even as a mortal standing at the pinnacle.

"Then what's the point in asking him?" Pondered Feng. Rognir sensed from her tone than that his bride was close to the limit of her patience, which was famously short to begin with, nevermind in matters like this.

There was no way to coat the matter, so he bid to bite the bullet. She wouldn't like what he had to say next, but she needed to hear it even still.

“Rudolph has no hope of defeating that thing, it's true," He told her, "but if he stays his course he’ll run into a powerful ally before too long.”

The Goddess frowned, just as he expected. The glare in her eyes was full of reproach.

“Do you plan to involve him?” She asked.

Her tone and manner had turned cold like ice, but Rognir had expected that it would.

That she was even willing to keep listening was a shock, indeed she seemed to be taking this news quite a bit better than he had predicted she might.

She had every right to ask him if he was out of his damn mind, it would in fact be very sensible for her to do just so.

Yet he proposed this plan even knowing her mind, for he had become desperate and all he could do was hope that she was just as much the same.

“I do,” He answered her, “But even that guy alone will be insufficient.”

“What else do you plan to add on top of that?” She asked him. Her tone was still sharp, but he thanked his fortunes that she was still listening.

“Three Branches of the Immortal Clan remain loyal to me, the others are split between loyalty to the Patriarch, which presently there is none, and to their own desire for independence,” Rognir said with a sombre smile, “I would like to have these Loyalists invade Abel to keep them busy so you can send your army to Muspelheim without fear of them attacking your flank.”

“Isn't that just the usual?” Said Feng, “I expected something to that effect anyway, Dear Husband, in fact Alfrick has already declared it to the court.”

Their dance continued on.

The slow pace of their steps, the closeness of their bodies, in time her head came to rest on his chest.

"No, Feng," He told her, "This will not be the usual, I plan to give them a very simple order. They shall fight to the death for our cause."

The Goddess opened her eyes anew.

Those words cut deep to her core.

Before she knew it then their dance had ceased, she raised her face to the eyes of the Duke, the Patron God of Svartalfheim who would now command its people to perish for his cause.

'He's desperate,' She realised. He always was an impatient man, the past few failures must have truly worn that patience down.

The Loyalists and their kin would heed his command without complaint, they would march across the northern sea as he bid them, even if it was to their deaths.

She felt warmth as he caressed her cheek with his now fading fingers.

The Emerald Sea was her sanctuary, it rejected all foreign Gods, even one she let in, one such as he.

“Time's up," He said in a solemn mutter. The Black Vanir looked back upon her. His smile, solemn as it was when given with the spirit of separation, still seemed to shine in her eyes, despite the moniker he'd long since earned. "I’ll come and see you again in a few years.”

She rested her hand over his, closed her eyes and felt his warmth until every speck of darkness faded.

His form was gone, banished from this holy ground by her countless barriers.

She could, of course, disarm them if she chose, but it wasn't worth the risk to do so.

She had no wish to take that risk, and he would not ask for it either.

Her eyes opened, now she was alone, even the eyes of her countless Einherjar had drifted off somewhere.

The sea was vast, after all, it could accommodate their wanderings.

Perhaps they'd followed her husband out, just the same as they followed him inside?

She didn't really care either way on the matter.

“Be sure you do,” She said, smiling with a whisper.

They were eternal after all, so time was a near constant irrelevant.

The days had come to feel like seconds, their months seemed like hours.

For her in particular a mere 'few years' was equivalent to just a couple of days.

She closed her eyes and lowered her palms.

The warmth faded from her cheeks, and then once again the chamber welcomed the glow of two orbs shining silver.

Firmness and resolve shone fierce behind the pair.

The rest of her form shifted slowly, her dress sank wholly into the sea and in its place she adorned a pair of men's boots and trousers.

Together with the rest of her, the likeness of her form had changed into that of a female general of sorts.

Such was the banner bearer of her moniker.

The War Goddess faced the ceiling of the hollow she called home, eyes ever on the future.

Her family, by any means, she wanted to make it whole again.

“We attack then, on the day the Nidhogg Empire invades, when the Centurion Kingdom is too busy guarding the east to even look towards the west...on that day...I’ll hold you in my arms again.”

She shed a tear for her daughter who lay chained in her prison, which dwelled far away, beneath the Centurion City of Vesta.

She would go to hell and back for that child, and the same, she knew, was true for her husband too.

They would save her, no matter the price, no matter the taboo.

Even if it meant sacrificing their loyal followers.

Even if it meant involving that accused man.

Anything was permissible, as long as it served to help set her free.

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