ToA - The Hand of Surtur Ch 7

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Ah, love.

Such a trivial emotion. It means nothing, really. After all, can anyone truly love anything? All anyone ever feels for anyone else is selfishness. Falling in love is just a kinder way of possessing them, of claiming them for yourself and never sharing them with another. Love, whatever they say, is a negative emotion. It leads to too much betrayal, too much hurt.

Mortals thrive on it. Asgardians, too. Jotuns are smart. We cut all ties. Love does not exist. We do not attach ourselves emotionally to another. We breed and we part ways. That is how it works.

Some have questioned what I once felt for Odin Borson, now known as Odin Allfather. No, I did not love him. I felt...respect for him. Admiration. Never love. That emotion means nothing.

And my sorcerer would do well to learn that. There is no such thing as love in Muspellheim, and I will not allow it in New Muspellheim. Love will be buried in the dirt and forgotten, scorned and mocked in the years to come. My people will look back at the Asgardians and scoff at their silly attempts at courting, their soft words and simple, mindless, selfish gestures.

After all, if there is no love...there can be no hatred.

—The Fire Demon Surtur, the Lord of Muspellheim


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Thor drifted in and out of consciousness. At first, the Asgardians with Surtur's mark upon their foreheads had been gathered around him. He thought for a moment that he saw Amora. Then next he knew, he was being lifted by two burly Asgardians, a pair of young healers doing their best to make him comfortable and trying to soothe his grievous wounds.

It wasn't working out too well. The son of Odin was in pain regardless of the position, and every inch of his body hurt. He swore he could even feel the grating of broken bones grinding against one another whenever he was moved. Fortunately, it wasn't long before the bliss of unconsciousness took him once again.

Later, he woke up in what he presumed to be the makeshift healing chambers in the underground city.

Everything was painfully bright and he could barely see at all. There were multi-colored blurs moving about him with an alarming quickness, and he could hear the frightened mumbles of several different boy and girl healers, all as young as he was.

Just then, an oddly familiar voice rang out nearby, "He's awake! Get him sedated! He's not ready yet; we need more time!"

There was a great clamor about him, healers rushing around him in a panic as the pain began to bleed slowly back into his broken body. Thor was about to scream, but a sharp prick made itself known in his arm and suddenly everything went away as he faded back into a peaceful, medicated bliss.


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In the throne room that once housed Odin Allfather, the infuriated shadow of the greatest fire jotunn in all of the Nine Realms paced through the shadows of pillars and of Loki's own mind, shouting curse after curse. "I TRUSTED YOU!" he roared. "I allowed you to keep control of your own actions because I trusted you! And you even gave me your word you were loyal to me! You're no better than your father! We had the Mighty Thor Odinson at our mercy and you prevented us from killing him! If you were any other Asgardian and not the King of Asgard and my most powerful servant, I would have slain you where you stood!"

The hate and anger rolled off Surtur's spirit in waves, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a sword.

Loki could only kneel before him in the center of the throne room, not daring to even give a frightened peep. He had never seen Surtur this furious, and he knew he had screwed up in a big way. But he also knew now that Thor still loved him, that there was hope for things to be fixed between the two of them.

"You have betrayed me, Loki," Surtur snarled.

The Fire Giant stopped pacing, and Loki lowered his head in submission. Surtur said, "I know it is not your fault. You were caught up in some spell of your brother's. I shall allow this to go unpunished, but if it happens again, I know just what I will do to you." Surtur reached a smokey hand to his forehead. "Do you understand me well, Loki?"

The youngest son of Odin bowed his head until he could kiss the ground. "Yes."

Surtur reached down and touched his forehead, and Loki cried out as power and unimaginable pain arced across his mind. His eyes flashed from bright green to dull crimson, and his vacant expression fell into place once more. Then he raised his head and grinned darkly at Surtur, every bit the wicked monster he had been before Thor's toy warrior made its debut on the battle field.

This time, Surtur smiled back. He took glee in the hateful look in his servant's eyes, and knew that he was thinking of his brother with a disgusted hatred once more. But for now, Surtur had things to plan for. There were cities and Asgardians to attack, people to recruit, and Thor to find, though Surtur could guess that he was recuperating, if he even survived such horrid wounds with no access to a proper healing chamber or healing stones.

That suits me just fine, he thought. He would destroy Asgard whether Thor was alive or not.


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Days passed, and the flames continued to burn. The Sorceresses marched through the nearly empty streets, watching each and every individual they happened to come upon. The Burned were always there too, standing in the streets like gray and black statues. The entire city smelled of smoke and ash, and the charred lines on the ground told the story of where King Loki and his brother the Mighty Thor had dueled only seventy-two hours earlier.

Children left orphaned sobbed in the streets, and the Burned paid them no attention.

Heimdall's control of the Bifrost had been removed, taken away by Surtur. He held it now, in his chest, waiting to use it.

King Loki rarely left his throne room. Surtur was always beside him. And the entire kingdom of New Muspellheim could hear him laughing as the flame grew taller and taller, arcing across the sky like a bloody scythe.


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Dreams were false. Voices were faint. Thor didn't know what was going on anymore. He was dreaming he was an infant, staring up at a white ceiling. He did not yet understand voices; only sounds. They drifted in and out of his ears, filling him with unease and danger. He knew he was forgetting something...something vital. But he didn't know what that something was, nor how he was to go about recalling it. All he did know was that he was tired...so very tired.


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Loki wasn't amused. His sorceresses stood before him, gripping the arms of an old man. The old man looked at him without fear. There was no mark of Surtur on his forehead.

"Who is he?" Loki growled.

"His name is Marh," Amora announced with a sly smirk. "He is a blacksmith. He slept during the christening of Surtur's glory. He avoided the mark of Lord Surtur. He claims not to acknowledge him as ruler."

"Does he now?" King Loki stood up and advanced on the elderly Asgardian, drawing a dagger from the belt around his armored torso. Insubordination wasn't something he was a stranger to, but Loki wouldn't put up with it any longer. He drew his lips back over his brilliant white teeth. "Tell me, Marh—do you believe this little farce will win you anything?"

The old man looked at him silently. He was ancient. His hair was thin and wispy, like smoke; his eyes shone with the light of someone who'd lost their youth but not their spirit. "My farce," he said in a crackled voice, "as you call it, will win me something. Freedom. You are not my king, Surtur." He raised his chin. "And I will never acknowledge you as such. Go back to Muspellheim where you were spawned, beast."

Loki dragged the man forward with a magical flick of the wrist so they were nose-to-nose. "You dare insult my master, old man?"

Smoke slithered out of his lips. Amora and Lorelei sensed his growing anger, because both of them stepped back and gave their new king the space he required.

"My lord," Lorelei said urgently. "He is a senile old man. He doesn't—"

"SHUT UP!" Loki whirled on her and gave her such a fierce look that her knees crumpled and she collapsed to the ground. "Know your place, sorceress. I will let it slide this once, but never again. As for you," he said, whirling back to Marh, "if you will not bow to Surtur, then you will spend what few days you have left rotting in the dungeons." He tossed the body of the old man away from himself and stormed back up to the throne in silence.

Marh whispered, "I still serve the House of Odin. I still serve you, Prince Loki."

He paused. The throne room fell deathly silent. No one spoke, fearing that their new king would kill them too if they did.

King Loki lowered his head so his eyes were hidden beneath the shade of the helmet he wore. "I am the Hand of Surtur," he said quietly, "and the House of Odin no longer exists." Then he raised his head and commanded, "Forget the dungeons. Send the old man to the gallows. I want to see him hanged, now."

One of the guards started up, "But Sire, you can't—"

"SILENCE, FOOL!" Loki boomed. "I do what I want! I will send that man to the gallows, and hang him along with any who dare speak the name of Odin to me! Now get that old man out of my sight NOW!"

The guards fell on Marh, who didn't struggle. He looked at Loki with wide eyes, but there was no fear in them.

Only hope…and loyalty.

I still serve you, Prince Loki.

"Shut up," Loki muttered under his breath, sinking down on the throne and covering his face with his trembling hands. "Shut up." The throne room emptied—Lorelei and Amora hurried after those who dragged Marh's silent form out to the gallows—and Surtur was whispering something. Loki did not answer. He simply clenched his eyes shut tight, pressed on his eyes with the heels of his palms so hard he saw orange spots behind his eyelids, and whispered to everyone and anything who was listening: "Shut up."


To Be Continued...