Time

The portal closes behind the warrior, and he looks up to see the dragon staring back at him. A brute of a man, eyes blue as an ocean staring into the grey, watery eyes of an old dragon until finally, the dragon lets out a long breath. The warm air was blowing in the man’s direction along with volcanic winds, the smell of sulfur hanging in the air, and viscous flows of lava all around. The two stared at one another for what seemed like an eternity, silent words upon hushed lips. Finally, the dragon spoke.

“My son, what did you find?”

The man looks at his father and tells him.

“Every timeline father, every outcome…it all ends the same. No matter how hard I try to prevent it I can’t stop it.” The man says in a disappointing tone.

“I fear no matter what we do we can’t prevent what will come to pass, the end comes to its end and no matter where I go to find you, it’s always the same.”

Verndari Jarðar grey eyes began to water up as the old dragon began to cry. Some say the tears of a dragon are the most sacred thing to ever touch the skins of mortals; a single tear fell onto Verndari’s son’s arm as he leaned it against his father’s chest, hearing a heartbeat pump ever so slowly.

“Father, I will keep trying no matter what. This future that is in front of us, there must be a way to prevent it!

“Then there is one last world for you to travel to my son, I will prepare the portal for you. Please, go and stop whatever it will be.”

Verndari’s eyes began glowing with a golden aura, and a ray of blinding gold shot out in front of him from his golden eyes. Verndari’s son looks into the golden glow of the portal, he turns around to see his father now resting, and as he turns his head away, he walks into a new realm to stop what will come to pass.

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I – Miðgarð

Dreka stepped through the portal into a lush land, a lake in the center of it all, and behind him, a tree, so massive the branches split out in all directions. As he looked around, he felt the warm sun upon his skin, the calm breeze, and the smell of freshwater rising from the lake; for a moment, he forgot the worries of his father’s passing but then came back to reality, time was running out, and he needed to be swift. He looked to the skies to see black clouds and thunder high above…he was being watched.

“It’s him…he’s here.”

“Right on time.”

Dreka walked along the edge of the lake, remembering what he had seen in each of the realms he traveled to. He could see his father speaking to a man covered by shadows; the sky is dark, and thunderclaps above the heavens; then suddenly, a lightning strike rushes to the ground where his father resides, and then he awakens. Every realm and world he has visited always had the same outcome, the demise of his father. Dreka heard the sound of ravens behind him and turned around to see an old man, intricate robe designs, and ravens all gathering on the branches and rocks around the man; he spoke calmly.

“So you’ve finally arrived in our realm. Long way from home are you not?” the old man says.

“What do you want?” Dreka replies.

“Me? I want to try and help you, come to an agreement between one another before the prophecy of your father’s death comes to pass.” Said the old man.

Dreka never mentioned the prophecy to the stranger, but now he could see who he was dealing with, the ravens, the silver tongue of poetry from this old man’s chapped lips; he was speaking not to some old man touting prophecies, this old man was the very being of Midgard, a man of deceit, trickery, lies, and much more.

“You? You’re the one? Hunting prophecies and wanting what is not yours?” Dreka said.

“I hunt that which I desire, what your father possess? A title bestowed to him by the Heavens? Him? What right does he deserve a title such as that? I am the ruler of Midgard. This is MY REALM, MY EARTH, I AM ITS PROTECTOR!” The old man yells.

“You are nothing more but a murderer!” Dreka replies.

“A murderer? You base false accusations on murder?”

“I have seen it, in my travels it is YOU! You kill my father!” Dreka yells.

“And now your father will mourn the loss of his son on this day!”

The Asgardian King holds his hands out, and a flock of ravens circles around him in a flurry of black feathers until they all dissipate, gilded armor golden like the sun, a spear blessed by the hands of dwarves, runes pulsating like a heart-beating. Gungnir, they called it.

Dreka unsheathed the mighty Dáinsleif, a gift from a traveler from another realm; all around the two, the sky split apart, and fire from the world above rained below, a prophecy come to pass; the fate of a father rested within the hands of his son. Dreka looked at the old man, and with his eyes fixed on killing a God, he charged at the old man.