Unsacred Responsibility Chapter 10 - The Price of Freedom

What is this… force?

The air was trembling. Vibrating and pulsating as though someone, something, had stirred every molecule and every atom of existence. The explosion of her study had done little to harm her, as her Asgardian physiology guaranteed it would take considerable damage to do so. Yet, that very same Asgardian body, which had faced off against Mad Titans and Celestial Seeds without fear, now possessed no small number of goosebumps racing down her skin. Her hair rose, her back straightened, chills and shudders running through her as she sliced her way out of the sand, rubble, and snow.

A hole had been blown clean straight through the roof, and the protection spells that kept the study warm were gone, forcing the temperature to drop terrifyingly rapidly. Harsh winds and snow, the elements of the frigid wastes came, but the cold was neither the cause nor the origin for the trembling air.

She was a Goddess. A force of nature to be reckoned with, and even she could seldom understand what malarky had come that made it so the air was trembling.

There was a force she knew not. A force that resonated with greater wavelengths than the Odinforce, a force that whispered the dangerous levels of potency capable of matching that of an Infinity Stone. The source came from within the buried rubble, the snow, the dust, from the figure rising out of it all, chest forward, as though plucked by an invisible skyward hand.

The air.

Was.

Trembling.

Levitating into the air amidst the rubble and wreckage, chest first, hands stretched at his side, spread, as though crucified on an invisible cross, his body floated upwards. His clothes were annihilated, blown to smithereens. His physical body stood bare, on display, his masculinity raw and potent, making Hela’s brows raise at the girth and depth of the thing that dangled between his legs. His arms were outstretched, his musculature, his body, on full display for all to be seen. The air around him whimpered. It quivered. 

It shook.

“Ah.”

His eyes snapped open.

A shockwave burst forth, blasting away the snow, the debris, the sand, the books, the remnants of her destroyed study. Dimensional magical energy, raw, potent, was being channeled straight through him, revitalizing every cell in his body, cycling upwards and downwards, flowing as though it had formed pathways and a circulatory system. Her own expertise in the Mystic Arts told her that it was the power of the Dark Dimension, which effused every iota of his being and every cell of his body. 

Power that, for one reason or another, he had either held back, refused to accept in its complete entirety, or had not known how to accept in its entirety.

Something had changed about the Midgardian Sorcerer. Hela was no fool, not to see a clear difference. The results of whatever spell he had cast, that had previously left him in a catatonic state, had no doubt contributed greatly to this change. It was a spell that had meant to send him in search of one thing, but perhaps it had brought him another thing much needed.

“The multiverse’s salvation begins today.”

He floated down, his bare feet landing on the rubble. They made soft, slapping noises as he stepped forward, his eyes pulsating with hues of purple and black. Every step he took forward was one that made Hela cautious, for the trembling in the air had not stopped, nor ceased. Rather, it continued to move with him, and it continued to approach.

With a wave of his hand, the rubble and snow around him began to vibrate rapidly, before rising, twisting, and clearing. He moved quickly, lifting the unconscious insect-woman out of the rubble, holding her carefully in his arms. Softly, he caressed her cheek before his gaze pierced another spot in the wreckage, and he gestured with his hands again. The Daughter of Thanos, that one, too, lifted out of the rubble, quiet and motionless. He cleared a spot with another wave and gently placed both women down on it.

Afterwards, his gaze landed on her.

A flicker of recognition ran through him before his eyes scanned her, up and down, a sweeping, rapid scan, taking note of her missing arm. Then, his eyes brazenly lingered on her hips and her waist. So brazenly, in fact, that Hela was astounded. Not even an iota of shame, nor a flicker of self-consciousness as to his reprobate behavior.

“My eyes, if you failed to notice, Sorcerer,” Hela said, “Are upon my skull.”

“I was looking at those Asgardian hips,” He mused. “Odin has made many mistakes, but fathering you is clearly not one of them.”

“Is that your idea of a compliment? Ogling my hips and praising my father’s seed?”

“Would you rather I praise mine?” He replied with a chuckle. “Fret not, you’ll be doing so soon enough, once it is overflowing between your lips.”

Hela blinked. She blinked, uncertain if she heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Daughter of Odin.”

He rose, taking blatant steps forward.

“For the sake of the salvation of the multiverse…” 

He announced, with utter piety.

“I will fill your every orifice with my seed.”

His eyes, rippling with colors of purple and black, held a conviction that brokered no room for argument. It was the kind of conviction Hela could discern at a glance, for it was the sort of conviction that fool, the Mad Titan, possessed, as he attempted to persuade her of his dream of ridding half of all life in the universe. 

Hela could discern it, for it was the sort of conviction she possessed once upon a time, when she flew her father’s colors and razed villages in his name. The sort she possessed, when her blade cut through bone and flesh and sinew day upon day, severing spines from skulls and arms from elbows, her voice hoarsely screaming ‘FOR ASGARD!’

It was the conviction that had caused her father to recoil, that had caused her deeds to be denounced, that kind that burned and smoldered all in its path, because the one who held it had no doubt in the righteousness of it, the beauty of it, such that to attempt to dissuade them from it was a task harder than to deprive them of life.

That sort of conviction was in the man before her. Of this, Hela had no doubt.

Thus, she did not take his words to be an empty, meaningless claim, nor did she consider it to be a merely tasteless proposition. She had been propositioned many times, by many men, but none of those men held the look in their eyes as the Midgardian Sorcerer held in his. His eyes were not drunken on salacious thirst, nor did his breath reek with libidinous appetites that spoke of nothing more than an eagerness to commune with her naked flesh.

That, he sought to do, that he intended to do, but not for its own sake. No. 

That, he would do, as a mere means to his righteous end.

Hela’s thoughts came swiftly, rushing in one after the other. Against such people, words, reasons, logic, arguments, and all the statesmanly crafts of diplomacy and dialectics would do no good. She had never cared for her father’s varying soft arguments as to why an Asgardian Empire was a demerit, nor could she ever have been dissuaded by them even if she had. The Mad Titan, too, could not be deterred from the foolishness and illogicality of what he sought to attain, and only her blade piercing his throat could dissuade him.

For such people, words would be wasted more upon them than upon any other. Their paths were set, and right or wrong, they would see it to whatever dour end awaited them. The only way to stop them was to either imprison them, banish them, or kill them.

All-Fathers wretched luck…

Whether she could do such a thing, Hela doubted. Had she not only one arm, had she her connection to the relentless power that flowed from Asgard, had she not been missing a critical and crucial part of her being, having lost it to that monster… then her certainty as to whether she could imprison, banish, or kill the Mad Sorcerer would have been roughly a fifty-fifty chance.

Lacking all those things, the odds were not in her favor. They were laughably against her.

The cold of the frozen wastes was seeping into her body as she stood, and it would numb her swings and numb her reactions. The Midgardian was naked and bare, yet appeared unbothered by the forces of the elements. 

Wordlessly, she formed a nightsword in her only existing hand.

Words, she did not spare, and words, she did not waste.

Hela lunged.

She was not like her father; she would never be like her father, who had abandoned his roots, who would, in such a situation, attempt to bargain, parlay, and, once failing his attempt, conjure schemes and plots. Such methods were beneath Hela, and such means went against the core spirit of an Asgardian. They were those to whom Valhalla was only promised of their strongest and finest, those who encountered paradise only upon distinguishing themselves before their deaths upon a battlefield where their comrades, brothers, and sisters bled and fell. The Valkyries she’d slain, not a single one, none but that final coward, had regretted, or lamented, or cursed their lots as they went up against her, and as her blades pierced the softness of their flesh.  

To meet their ends in battle against a truly powerful foe was their greatest honor, and none, not one of them, would have wished for a different end. Even if defeat was guaranteed, as an Asgardian, as a proud Asgardian, it was given that one would still charge forward, unrelenting, and unwavering, screaming at the top of their lungs a cry that would shake the souls of enemies and bestow the blessing of their ancestors:

“For. Asgard.”

“Halt.”

The air ceased. The snow, falling all around them, froze in place, given some inexplicable, undeniable Command. Hela could not move. Her hand, outstretched, her blade lay at the tip of the Sorcerer’s neck, almost connected, but she could not move. Just as the snow had ceased, she, too, was frozen in place.

He took the blade, her nightsword, out of her hand with casual, almost uninterested indifference. He snapped it between his fingers as though it were not solid steel but brittle chalk. Slowly, his right hand, warm to the touch, cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes, still rippling with purple and black. 

“You doubt the righteousness of my cause,” he chuckled. “So, I will show you.”

He tapped the side of his head, pulling out a thin, wispy strand of smoke from the side.

“Encode Thoughts.”

He blew on the wispy strand of smoke until it wafted into her ears.

“See, and believe.”

Images flashed into her head. Memories, she understood. Her first meeting with her half-brother, Thor, and the Frost Giant, Loki. Yet, it was different from what should have happened. She wasted words on them. Spent time belittling them, chatting with them, commanding them to kneel. She’d shattered Mjölnir as it was sent towards her, and chasing after them upon the Bifröst—

The scenes continued. Butchering Asgard’s armies, as they refused to accept her reign, accompanied by a new executioner, preparing her plans, before her brother returned—

The scenes continued. Fighting her brother, taking his eye, being valiant, unbendable, unbreakable—

Until Surtur was released. The accursed Jötunn bringing forth the promised Ragnarök, as she stood, valiant, doing what best she could to fight it—

Only to fail.

Only to fall.

She, together with Asgard.

The scenes ended.

Her breath came in short, heavy, uneasy gasps. 

“What…”

She hissed at the Sorcerer, unable to trust her voice. 

“What was… that?”

“Destiny.”

“Nonsense,” she spat. “That was not how it happened. I killed my half-brother with my own hands. Asgard’s destruction came as a result of the Emergence. I—”

“That is the only destiny allowed to happen,” he said. “The only one you are permitted. To be born, to fight loyally, to spend thousands of years imprisoned, to attain freedom, only to die mere days later, and watch your kingdom perish with you.  Your people, afterwards, butchered. Your throne, afterwards, given to her…”

He lifted a hand. A minor illusion, a small mirage, appeared between his palm.

The appearance of that coward.

“King ‘Valkyrie’ they’ll call her,” he chuckled. “The position that should be yours by birthright, handed to a woman whose greatest military accomplishment was fleeing from you in battle.”

Hela’s breathing quickened. Her stomach churned. Bile almost wanted to burst forth from her throat.

“A woman who abandoned her nation, her people, her world, and spent centuries selling innocents into slavery. That, Hela, that is who will one day sit on the Throne of Asgard. That is who Destiny has chosen. That is who it has decided is worthy of leading your people.”

The Sorcerer clenched his fist.

“For it has forsaken you.”

Hela screamed. The force holding her at bay weakened, and she conjured her nightswords by the dozens, the hundreds, biting hard against her cheeks and tasting her own blood. She slashed at him. Commanded the swords to attack him in a mad, incensed fury, but the Sorcerer was swift. 

Midgardian Sorcerer was already moving. He leaned out of the way of her swords, tilting his head, as though it were a minor hindrance. He evaded the barrage of swords launching at him yet, as though he could foresee their every trajectory, as though he could see the future from which she was attacking, or as though there was some preternatural sense guiding him, to make it so he could not be touched.

“You have never once lived a single moment of freedom. Not one breath. Not one choice. Every step you’ve taken, every sacrifice you’ve made, every tear shed, every moment of joy, and every iota of sorrow, all of it was conducted in obedience to a script. Written, Pre-approved. Curated by a bureaucracy of cosmic clerks!”

Hela forced the entire barrage to concentrate on a single point, and the Sorcerer stood still and extended his hand. A piece of a broken mirror, one that had been in the study, lifted into the air. The air shattered like a hammer on ceramic, ripples like stained-glass, like a kaleidoscope, spun outwards like a web, pulsating and encroaching on the fabric of spacetime.

Her swords collided with the shattered-mirror visage of reality and vanished.

The hair on her skin stood on its end. She could not feel her connection to those nightswords he created. They were all gone. Banished to whence and where Hela knew not. Banished to a distant, unknowable dimension.

“Can there be justice when no one is permitted alternatives? Can there be innocence when good and evil are predetermined? Can there be heroes or villains if there is no choice? The TVA. The Infinity Stones, the Celestials… this multiverse is littered with endless chains, and endless constraints, endless meddling hands scribbling down grand plans and cosmic designs. But no more. No more. Because I—”

The Sorcerer extended his hands out.

“I! AM! HERE!”

He laughed.

“I will desecrate the wretched sanctity of every timeline! With my seed, with my progeny, this ethically bankrupt cosmos will be baptized! This cosmos, deprived of moral agency, with the fruits of my groin, I will overturn it, and build atop it a world where every choice is truly, and purely…!”

His hands came down.

“Free.”

Hela cursed. “You are mad.”

He let out a sigh, shaking his head. “You are still acting upon the script written for you. A script that made it clear you will never bend the knee to anyone. It saddens me, Hela. It saddens me. You escaped Niflheim, but you are still a prisoner. You merely traded one cell for another.”

A thick flow of white webs blinded her vision, covered her nose, and obscured her face. 

For others, it would be of no concern. They would tear off the webs with ease—

But Hela had only one arm.

Her hand moved to tear them off, but webs blasted her arm in place, attaching it to her body, and preventing her from ripping them free. She could not free her sole arm of the webs without another arm to aid her, and she could not remove the webs upon her face until she did. The webs obstructing her face were thick, heavy, and they were not, in the least, porous enough to allow her to breathe.

“MMPHH! MMMMPPHHH!”

“Don’t worry,” she heard a voice, muffled, through the webbing. “I have no plans of letting you die. I am a savior, after all. I intend to save you. Save everyone from the truest bondage, the chains and shackles of endless layers of deterministic design.”

More and more webs continued to fire upon her body, trapping it in a massive, growing cocoon. 

“You will see that you can be so, so much more than what this multiverse has determined you are. When you feel that warmth settle in your womb, when you feel the stirrings of life that we will make together, a life not born of Arishem’s influence…”

His voice began to fade, as did her consciousness.

“You will be free.”