The Morning After Ragnarok

Emma Cliffe

I have no concept of time, yet I know that it has been hundreds of years since Ragnarok. I don’t know how I know this — I reach for memories of the past and they slip away, like grains of sand falling from my outstretched hand.

I don’t even know how long I have been conscious for. How long have I been aware that I am, and that I was? I was awake back then, when the wolves Skoll and Hati swallowed the sun and moon, and the red light burning over the endless battlefields guttered like candlelight, and I am awake now, when the ground is a sea of ashes and the air is thick with the memory of old bloodshed and darkness. And silent. The world around me is deathly still as I pick my way across Vigrid, the plain where the final battle boiled and raged.

I am little more than a shadow: my flesh is dark and translucent; my strides slow and faltering; and there is no strength in my legs nor my arms nor my hands. Hand, that is, in the singular.

A memory stirs. A memory of bristling hackles, of foaming saliva, of gleaming chains, and of teeth biting clean through flesh and bone. I sense that those bones belonged to me.

‘Tyr, Tyr’, the wind whispers, its gusts tugging at whatever form my heart takes in these confusing times, imploring me to listen to it. Tyr. The word tastes familiar on my tongue. It is a name. My name, I believe.

My steps quicken. Not because I’m emboldened by my new found identity, and the memories that are surging in now — I  remember that I am…was the god of war, and of justice, and that my hand was lost for a broken promise to Fenrir, the wolf who we all witnessed devouring the all-father himself during Ragnarok, on these very plains. No. My steps quicken because the prickling of my skin, the twist in my gut and the unease crawling inside my mind give me reason to believe I’m being followed.

I look back, but only the empty landscape of the battlefield glowers back at me: white, time-bleached bones shining in a sea of dust, fallen swords, and piles of stone where fire-giants must have fallen, all beneath a sky whipped grey by the ash-ridden winds.

Wait! A flash of movement catches my eye, crossing behind two of the stony knolls. A passing shadow, a low, ghostly blur. Too small to be a giant or an aesir. I stand still, my suspicions confirmed.

“I know you’re there. Show yourself!” I demand, my voice little more than a breath. I can hear it ripple satisfyingly across the wasteland, though, loaded with the authority and confidence befitting a god of justice. I wait for an answer.

It comes moments later, as the shadow emerges from behind the hill, ears flattened – from annoyance or from shame, I can’t tell. The shadow is canine, its head the same height as my chest, and it’s slightly limping as it pads towards me. Its eyes are two burning yellow pinpicks distinguishing its see-through form from its surroundings. I recognise it immediately, though it’s smaller than I remember. Much smaller.

“Fenrir.” I acknowledge, shuddering slightly as the name leaves my lips. Another memory flashes before me: the memory of my own blood dripping red from the wolf’s jaws. I lack any physical body that could be hurt, but dread pools inside me nonetheless. I remember watching on these same plains, helpless, as Fenrir, so large that their upper jaw touched the sky, devoured Odin. I remember watching as Vidar, Odin’s son, took his revenge.

All of these memories feel strange, blurry and uncertain, as though they belong to someone else… and maybe they do. I am but a memory myself, a small part of someone who died long ago — no doubt my own bones litter these fields somewhere. I shudder again, and return my attention to my fellow shade.

The wolf tilts their head. “Tyr,” they state, the low, articulate human voice that emerges from their wolfish jaws as disconcerting as ever. “I see your perception remains as strong as I recall.”

“I can’t say the same for your size,” I reply.

The wolf flicks their tail in amusement. “Size is a matter of perception,” they say. “Everyone came into Ragnarok expecting me to play the role of a great savage beast, so I did. Now the battle is over and my physical form is slain, you see me like this.”

“What else could we have expected?” I challenge.

They tilt their head: a mockery of consideration. “An excellent question. All of Asgard saw my parentage and my form and decided what to expect as soon as I was born, so my fate was really set in stone from that point onwards.”

“That’s unfair,” I reply, even though I know exactly what Fenrir is talking about – how all of us gods in Asgard saw the wolf-child of the trickster Loki and the giantess Angrboda, growing bigger and bigger with each passing hour, and felt fear twisting in our guts. How we decided to raise them ourselves solely so that we could convince ourselves that we could control them, even if we pretended otherwise. How eventually, we decided that more extreme measures were necessary, judging them guilty for crimes that hadn’t yet been committed.

Guilt squirms inside me, even as Fenrir smiles. “Perhaps. You would know, I suppose, being the god of justice. But I think that the world is too young for such moral questions. Let us rest together.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because I am a shade of what I was, and so are you. Because right now we can do nothing to each other, so we may as well be at peace. Because the war was fought and everyone lost, so there is little point in fighting now.”

I concede, sitting down. “You have inherited your father’s gift with words,” I say.”

Fenrir sits back on their hind legs and runs their tongue over their razor sharp teeth. Their saliva is like fog, grey threads of mist that run down their jawline and disappear into the air. They bite their tongue, then, as if tasting my words, judging their quality like one would judge the quality of a piece of gold or silver. The fires of their eyes flicker a little. “When Vidar slew me, my father was still doing battle with Heimdall. Did you see how it ended?”

“They killed each other.”

“So did we all.” Fenrir growls, then looks around at the endless, dead battlefields of old. “And yet you and I are conscious once more. I suppose this means that a new dawn is approaching, and that all beings will return to their former glory soon enough.

“Is that what you want?”

Fenrir barks with laughter, as sharp and dry as old leaves. “When you were all at your glory, I was chained up with the taste of your flesh still fresh in my mouth. I imagine we both want to avoid that situation.”

A phantom pain dances through my long-lost hand at their words. It feels like yesterday that I lost it. It was when we tried to convince Fenrir that us chaining them up was nothing more than a game; a test of their strength. They demanded that one of us put our hands in their mouth to prove that we meant it, and I stepped forward. I lost a hand because us gods broke a promise.

For the god of justice, it seemed fitting.

“Yes,” I agree, grimly. “We treated you unfairly back then, Fenrir; we didn’t give you a chance to defend yourself. I apologise, and I would not repeat that chain of events.”

“What’s past is past.” Fenrir flicks an ear. “Nonetheless, I’m glad we agree.”

“Do you think any of the others have stirred yet?” I ask, staring at a pile of bones nearly. I can see a skull, rented no doubt from a sword blow, atop a pile of white ribs. Any birds and scavengers that survived Ragnarok must have had a field day, I think, picking clean the carcasses.

Mine included.

“You are the first shade I’ve seen,” Fenrir observes. “I’m sure others will follow us, though.

With that, we lapse into silence. Both of us aware, perhaps, that even speaking drains our limited strength, and that with every word the pull towards sweet oblivion once more becomes more persistent. Yes, it seems a good idea for now to be still, be silent, and let our power grow. What will come to pass after that is my future’s problem.

The hours and days drift past like clouds on a summer’s day. Summer. I haven’t seen summer for a long time — not since Fimbulwinter set in three seasons before Ragnarok. A longing ache touches my soul, but it doesn’t linger. Nothing lingers here, on this sepulchral battlefield with its unending grey skies, with no moon nor sun to mark the passing of time. My thoughts drift, and, drop by painstaking drop, I feel my strength gathering. I feel my power growing. I feel my very being becoming more physical, more present.

Still, The hours and days drift past.

—Until a great roar of fury cuts through the stillness like a blade.

My eyes flash open, and I sense my unlikely companion, Fenrir, rise to their feet beside me, hackles raises, head tossing this way and that. It would be hard to miss the sound’s source, though – a fire giant lumbers through the wasteland, its beard a crackling blaze of fire and smoke, its arms and legs swaying from side to side like a child still learning to walk. Its rocky body glows like the embers of a freshly-lit furnace. It towers above both of us; the height of two to three grown men.

It has seen us. It is still a minute away, perhaps a little less, but it’s coming for us.

“There are sentient, rational beings,” Fenrir says, slowly, in a voice that’s notably stronger than it was in our last conversation, “and then there are giants. I’m not surprised they are quick to be reborn, since there was never much in their heads in the first place.”

I look at the wolf in surprise. They are still shadowy, but their body is fully opaque now; I can make out individual hairs on their pelt now, and the irises of their baleful yellow eyes burn more clearly than before. “Weren’t you on the same side?” I shout.

“Giants seek only destruction and death,” the wolf growls. “Our goals briefly aligned during Ragnarok. I do not believe that they align now.”

“What do you suggest we do, then?” I ask, well aware that we’re both present enough now to get hurt, and hoping that Fenrir meant it when they talked about us trusting each other since I know full well that with their size and speed right now, they would be more than capable of running away from this threat. I’m not.

The wolf bares their teeth in a wicked smile. “You’re a god and I’m a beast. Fighting is in our blood, Tyr. Let’s see if our strength really is returning, shall we?”

“If you fight beside me, I’ll be in your debt,” I vow.

“I’m counting on it,” Fenrir growls as they run towards our foe; a black streak of teeth and claws as they dart between the giant’s legs. The fire giant roars again and swipes a stone hand at the wolf, lava dripping from under its fingernails. I follow close behind the wolf, grabbing a fallen sword as I do so. I dig its edge into the giant’s kneecap and push, sending a cluster of rocks tumbling to the ground.

The giants howls as it loses its footing and falls to its knees. Fenrir seizes the chance; leaping onto its upper leg, then up to its shoulder, and ripping its rocky throat out with their terrible jaws.

It all happens so quickly. I realise that I’ve been holding my breath and as Fenrir drops back down to the floor, I inhale; my hungry lungs snatching as much air as they can from our barren surroundings. I hang the sword on my sword belt, loving the feel of the metal against my newly solid thigh because it feels natural, and because  I realise that I’ve been missing the comfort of a weapon by my side.

“So, about that debt…” Fenrir starts.

“Yes?”

“When the rest of the Gods come back, and Asgard is rebuilt, I want to be your equal. I am Loki’s child, and I deserve my freedom to hunt and revel in the feasting halls as much as anyone else. Promise me that.” They fix me with a dangerous yellow stare, and I swallow, hard.

“You have my word, Fenrir, child of Loki,” I pledge.

“Good.” They lick their lips. “Now then, shall we search for other shadows who might be more willing to talk?”

“It's your call,” I say.

Fenrir grins. Pleased.

“Follow me, then,” they say, and I do. I follow the wolf as we head towards the horizon, across the endless fields of Vigrid, in search of our kin. In search of allies, to rebuild Asgard anew.

And as I walk, I see a glimpse of light rising over the dust.

A new sun rises over a new day.

AUTHOR BIO