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After some unfortunate delays, I’m pleased to say that the next series is finally ready to begin. It’s called The Broken Land, and you can find it at That site isn’t quite as polished as I’d like it to be and you can expect some more updates to it in the near future, but for the moment it’s functional and you can read the first chapter right now if you’d like. The story itself is…well, I have an about page on that site, so I won’t go into too much detail here. I will say that it’s an epic fantasy, meaning that it doesn’t have the conceit of being set in the real world that Winter’s Tale did. It still has a lot of the same themes, though, and I think that if you liked this story you can probably find something to like in that one as well. Like I said a while ago, it won’t have any interludes at first, but otherwise I’ll be aiming for the same Monday-Wednesday-Friday update schedule as before, starting with chapter two on Monday.


So that’s, obviously, the biggest news. There are some other things which I want to address as well, though. First off, the retrospective commentary on Winter’s Tale is obviously not finished, or even particularly close to finished. I’ll be working on that still, but it isn’t as much of a priority as The Broken Land, particularly as it doesn’t seem anyone is terribly interested in it. As a result, it may take some time for that to be completed.


Second, the side project I’ve hinted at for a while now. Well, unfortunately, this one isn’t good news. I put off mentioning it until I was sure it would make it to publication, but unfortunately it seems I was too hasty with that assumption. I was working on it with a publishing company of sorts, and at the last minute they decided that it was copyright infringement and not publishable. I don’t agree that anything in it was so derivative as to be an infringement of copyright, but obviously my opinion isn’t the one that matters here. Due to some peculiarities of the project in question I can’t really take it to another company or publish it myself on this site, either. So, and I do regret this, it doesn’t seem that it will ever see the light of day. I might repurpose the material which is wholly mine, maybe as a sort of extended interlude in Winter’s Tale. But I don’t think that you’ll ever see it as it was really intended to be seen.


And, finally, there are some general maintenance things which I have to do in terms of keeping this site and the Patreon page up to date. It shouldn’t be anything major, but if you notice any changes that’s what’s going on.


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With the post of epilogue 14 today, Winter’s Tale has reached its conclusion.


There are a lot of ways I could describe how huge this story has become. Fourteen books, which between them (and including interlude chapters) are just over 1.3 million words in length. The better part of four years since I started writing it. More hours spent writing than I could even make a decent estimate of.


Looking back on it this story has a lot of flaws. There are things I wish that I’d done differently, things that would have made the story better. There are things that never quite made it into the story, things that didn’t fit together the way I wanted them to, things that I simply didn’t have the skill to write properly. But on the whole I’m satisfied with this story. I think that it came out okay. I hope you do too.


It’s possible that I will return to this world at some point. I still have ideas for stories to tell here, and there are still characters that I think could make for good stories. But that won’t happen soon, I think. I need to get some space and give this setting some time off. And no, I won’t be writing more stories about Winter. He’s done.


I won’t be posting regular chapters over the next two weeks. This does not, however, mean that I won’t be writing. I have some maintenance work to do now that the story is done; I have to update the information on this site, as well as post the last few interludes and the last book for download. I also have some behind-the-scenes work to do  on the side project I’ve been working on, which should be ready to unveil pretty soon now. This isn’t the most glamorous work, but it still needs doing.


The second thing I’m going to be doing is going over the old books and doing a bit of a retrospective look at them. I’ll be posting my thoughts in the comments on each chapter, going through a book each day for the next two weeks. These comments might include everything from criticism of my writing to things that were changed in edits or talking about how the chapter ties into the larger story. I don’t know whether anyone is really interested in reading this, but I think it will do me a lot of good to write it, and there’s a chance that someone will find it interesting.


The last, and I’m guessing the most exciting, thing that I’ll be doing is getting ready for the next series. I do have plans for the next story, and I’m expecting to start posting it in two weeks. There will be no interludes until after the first book is finished, because that just makes more sense to me; as such I’ll be cutting back to a Monday, Wednesday, Friday update schedule rather than trying for four chapters per week, since I’ve been having some trouble keeping that schedule lately anyway. I’ll say a bit more about the new story as it gets closer to time for it to start, but for now I’ll just say that it’s one I’ve been thinking about for a long time and I’m really excited to finally start actually writing it.


So look for that, and in the meantime, the retrospective will start tomorrow with Almost Winter.



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Empty Places Epilogue 14

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I live in Transylvania, now.


The castle is large and hollow, with just me in it. There are whole wings and towers which have been closed off for years now, collecting dust. Sometimes I go for weeks without leaving my study. Sometimes a restless mood strikes me and I rise to wander the empty halls, looking for I know not what.


At times I feel the need to leave, and I go to the forest instead. I take on the form of something that pretends to be a wolf, rather than masking myself as a man, and I hunt under the trees. Sometimes I stay there only hours. Sometimes I go on four feet for months at a time.


Aiko is still the Maiden of the Midnight Court, the youngest Queen of the Unseelie Sidhe. I am still her champion. Those choices were made for good, and there can be no turning back on them. She spends much of her time on the Otherside, going about the work that her role demands. I don’t try to understand it anymore. The Courts are beyond my understanding. I’ve made my peace with that.


Every now and then she visits me in my castle. We make love, and eat, and talk about the way things are and the way things should be. I know she seeks her entertainment in other places much of the time these days. I don’t blame her. I can’t be what she needs anymore, and it would kill her to live the life I’ve chosen. We still love each other, as best we’re able, and that’s enough.


And then she goes back to her work, and leaves me to my empty castle, awaiting a visit that will come I know not when.


At times I do the work my role demands, as well. Not as often now as in those first years. My reputation precedes me. Sane people tend to fear the mad god who refused his title and cut himself off from the world. Those who thought they could manipulate me to use as a weapon learned otherwise in those first few years. Now Aiko seldom needs me to act against her opponents. The threat, the fear of me is enough.


I seldom have other visitors. Most of those I knew in my life before are gone now. Dead, or alive but disconnected. They moved on, and I cannot. The world has changed, in the years since I left it. I don’t have a place there anymore.


The locals, too, avoid me. My castle, and the forests around it, have gained a reputation as a place of darkness and death. Though it’s only relatively recently that I took up full-time residence here, a sort of folklore has already sprung up around the lonely castle on the hill, and the monster that calls it home. Aiko tells me the stories sometimes. Mostly they get it wrong.


That isn’t the only bit of legend that’s sprung up around me. In the ritual books of the new mages, those that entered into it after the world changed, there is an entry for me, the actions that will draw my attention and the sacrifices that might placate me when I arrive. I’m listed as an entity to summon only when absolutely necessary, and even then only with a great deal of care. I’m dangerous and volatile, according to the text, liable to lash out violently at any provocation and difficult to stop if I do.


I don’t know who created that ritual, but it does work, and every now and then someone does invoke it. I’ve thought about having Aiko look into the matter, but it doesn’t seem necessary. They aren’t wrong. And it does me good to get out on occasion. Sometimes, when I notice the ritual tugging at my attention, I follow. Sometimes I don’t.


Perhaps once a year Loki visits me. At first there was an edge of confrontation to it, an edge of tension. Now we’ve long since settled into a sort of comfortable disagreement, and his visits are more social than anything. He tells me of the world, the things that have happened since his last visit. I tell him about the small goings-on within my little piece of it. I think he appreciates the difference in scale.


He never asks me to take up the task I once declined, to accept the mantle of the wolf and become an unholy terror to his enemies. The offer is never spoken, but always there. Hunter is still out there; the things that live in the void are still out there. The work still needs done.


I never tell him I won’t do it. But every time he leaves alone.


I don’t sleep, haven’t slept in years and years. I don’t dream. But at times I remember, memories preserved as perfectly as a flower trapped in the ice, that cut deeper than a knife. I remember the man I was. I remember blood and fire. I remember death, so much death. I remember Snowflake. I remember Tyrfing. I remember holding the fate of worlds in my hands.


I remember me.


At times like that I sometimes think of going back. I think of taking up the sword again, and being that man again.


And then the moment passes, and the memory fades, and I go out to the forest to wash the memory away in blood and snow and moonlight. I know that I can’t go back. I can’t be the person I was. There are wounds too deep for healing, and there are things that can’t be undone.


I made my choice. I’m at peace with that.


In name I’m still the jarl of Colorado Springs. It’s been years since I set foot in the city. The work is done by Aiko, now. By Nóttolfr, who took over after Kyi left to seek her fortune elsewhere, on her own rather than as a follower. Selene, they tell me, is still there, and in truth she might as well be the jarl herself, these days.


I fill my time in other ways, now. I hunt when the mood takes me. I read a lot. I think a lot. I spend a great deal of time making things. These days I make things to please myself, rather than out of necessity; they’re works of art rather than weapons. Sometimes I spend days getting the color or the pattern of something just right. I’ve spent a lot of time over the past few years trying to come to terms with what I’ve done, the blood on my hands. I’ve had some success.


It’s not a bad life, as such things go. It’s not how I would have seen myself ending up, but in some ways that’s not a bad thing.


In the evening I make myself a cup of tea, and I begin the long, slow climb up the tower. There’s no rush. There’s never any rush anymore, for me. No need to hurry when your days are empty anyway.


At the top, I sit on the parapet. I sip my tea, and I watch the sunset, and I pet the squirrels who come to eat the food I leave here. As the sun slips behind the mountains and the world fades to grey, I look down at the ground far below and I watch it be swallowed up by the shadows.


I think of jumping off, of the wind whistling past me as I plummet into darkness. I think of broken things. I remember that plain at the end of the world, and the infinite void that lay beyond it.


I remember Fenris’s blood on my hands.


And then I finish my tea, and night settles in to stay for a time, and I go back inside. I take the empty cup back to the kitchen and I wash it, and dry it, and put it back into the cupboard. I go to my study. There’s a book in German lying open on the desk, with a page of neatly written vocabulary notes next to it. There’s a half-finished poem not far away.


I ignore all that and walk to the bookshelf instead, tracing my fingers over the spines of the books. I linger over a photo album, but I don’t look inside. I don’t need to look to see the images in my mind’s eye, clear as day. The memories are all there, sharp and fresh. An echo of times gone by.


I remember what I did. The lives I took. The evil I did, in the name of a greater good. The sacrifices I made.


With the perspective offered by time and distance, I see that I was a monster back then. I’m a monster now, albeit a mostly retired one. I’ve made my peace with that, as well.


In the end, we can all be only what we are.

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Interlude 14.a: Samuel Black

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The shuffle, quick and efficient. The deal, the same. The motions require little to no thought. It’s almost a surprise to see the style of the deal, the details of the game my automatic actions have selected. A simple enough Klondike variant, this time, a game that a great many people would be familiar with.


For me it’s easy to see, as the cards are dealt, what the implications are. There is always a degree of uncertainty, of course, else the game has no reason to exist. But the known information can, to an experienced eye, give a great deal of information. Not enough to know the game with certainty, but enough to make some educated guesses.


In this case, the tableau is favorable. I build the first few cards and it continues to develop in a way that suggests the game will go well.


The game began as a curiosity. Patience was such an interesting game among mortals; it was perplexing. A contest against oneself, with no stakes, with no challenge, the outcome largely decided by chance before the game ever begins? It was baffling, to me. I couldn’t comprehend why they would do such a thing, why they would spend what little time they had on it.


Later, when I was beginning to establish myself, it became an affectation. It was a visual quirk; it was memorable, distinctive. When I was trying to establish a reputation, to stand out from the crowd, it helped to be memorable. A distinctive affectation was a very real help.


Then, once that was no longer a concern, it was expected of me. And it was a way to fill time in which, for one reason or another, I wasn’t able to do anything productive.


Of course all of that was a long time ago. A great deal of water has passed under the bridge since those days. Now it’s…simply a thing that I do.


Halfway through the stock, I realize that the initially promising appearance of the game was a false one. The tableau is such that a few key cards could unlock a rapid cascade which would most likely lead to victory, but too many of those cards are buried. At first glance it might have looked good, but in reality this was a lost game from the start.


I don’t stop playing when I realize that. The nature of the game is such that losses are frequent, no matter how skillfully one plays. I know that, possibly more intimately so than any other person. It’s not something to get worked up over. When playing a doomed game, I find the better response is to play it through to the end.


As I continue to move the cards around on the table, I see Winter approaching. He doesn’t detect me. His senses are more comprehensive than they were, but in some ways he’s grown even easier to hide from. His nature, now, is such that he can’t help but focus on things with a single-mindedness that in some ways limits his perspective. For the old fae trick of invisibility through insignificance, of letting the eye pass over you without registering anything important enough to see, that sort of mind was an easy target.


I watch as he and his people go into the building which I recently left. The residents of that building didn’t detect me, either. For a well-equipped militant group dedicated to fighting against my kind, they weren’t very good at it. Very little iron in there, very little salt, none of the warding talismans that we’re bound to respect. It was easy for me to slip in and do my work undetected.


My employer didn’t explain what I was doing, nor would I likely understand if he had. This job was bound up in politics that I lacked the grounding to understand, a tangled web of contracts and alliances and feuds and grudges that had been built up over the course of millennia. The machinations of gods are convoluted even by the standards of the Courts, and Court politics are already more than I care to involve myself with.


But I could understand what I’d done, even if I couldn’t fully grasp the reason or implication.


In an immediate sense what I’d done was to use a tool which my employer had provided me with. Mortal technology being unfamiliar territory for me, I wasn’t certain how it worked. I knew that the result was modification to the files of the group which used this building as a communication hub. The changes were slight, not something that would be detected by a casual inspection. I don’t know what the changes were in detail, either, but I could infer that they were making the organization here out to be darker than it was. Emphasizing the wrongs they did, and quietly hiding away any evidence of their more benign aspects.


That is the immediate sense. The proximate result is obviously to adjust Winter’s information, his perspective on them. In time he would realize that his perspective was incomplete, but I know that time is something that he does not have a surplus of just now.


My employer’s ultimate aim is another thing that I don’t know and wouldn’t likely understand if I were told. But it’s easy enough to guess that it’s not a pleasant one. He is not a god of pleasant things.


I feel a quiet satisfaction as I watch Winter and his followers enter the building. There is always a satisfaction in a difficult job done well.


There is an element of regret in that satisfaction, of course. I don’t know what the ultimate goal of this job is, but I can guess that it isn’t a wholly benign one, and I harbor no particular malice towards Winter. If anything I feel a certain respect for the man. He’s skilled, reasonably intelligent, and professional.


But that didn’t stop me from doing this to him, any more than it stopped me from doing any of the things which led to this point. I carry out the terms of my contract. That is what I do, what I am. This contract has been longer than many, involving numerous steps over years, and requiring me to work for other employers in order to carry out my instructions. But ultimately it has been a contract like any other, and pretending otherwise is foolish and pointless.


Still. I will be glad to have it done. It should, I think, not be much longer before that happens.


With Winter having arrived, my work here is done, and lingering longer than necessary would be foolish. I continue the game, until finally I make the last legal play, and the tableau sits completed on the table. It’s a loss, as I knew it would be.


I don’t feel any particular frustration as I sweep the cards together, and return the table to a pocket of folded space I was once given in reward for a job well done. The game was doomed. There’s no sense in getting worked up about it.


In cards as in life, all one can do is play the hand one is dealt.

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Empty Places 14.17

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I stood there on that silent plain at the end of the world for a long time. I wasn’t sure how long. Time didn’t seem terribly meaningful, in that place. In a way I supposed that made sense. This was the place where the conventions of my world started to break down. Time was probably no exception.


I felt comfortably numb, now. Before I’d been in turmoil, in mental agony, even. Now that it was over and done, there was no real emotion. Just…numbness.


I didn’t think of anything in particular as the blood soaked into me and poured out across the plain. Fenris had been large, very large; as the blood kept slowly draining out of the wound in his throat it made a sizable pool on the ground.


I felt like I should probably have been seeing my life flash before my eyes, or otherwise having some sort of vision quest experience. I wasn’t. I’d already done that; I’d made my peace with this before I ever came here. The cards were already on the table. There was nothing left to do now but play it out.


After some length of time, I felt…something. I wasn’t sure what it was, or even how I was perceiving it. It was another question that didn’t seem worth asking.


Following that impulse, I turned, raising Tyrfing to point at empty air as I moved.


Less than a second later, Loki appeared a few inches in front of the sword. The god of madness considered the scene for a few moments, then raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. “Impressive work,” he said. His lips had a twisted smile on them, but there was no humor in his voice at all.


“I’m not in the mood for games,” I said, gesturing very slightly with the sword.


“Do you really think you’re in a position to be making demands?” he asked, sounding vaguely amused now.


“I think,” I said, in a very slow, measured tone, “that this sword was made for killing gods. I think that it just killed Fenris and that action is too significant for it not to have left a mark on the weapon that did the deed. I think that I have very little left to lose. And I think that we both know it’s time to drop the masks and the games and just have an honest conversation.”


He smiled again, a fainter but more honest expression. “Touché,” he said. “Where do you want to start, then? Do you expect me to monologue about how my evil plans have finally come to fruition like a bad comic book villain?”


I stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Was it hard?”


“Was what hard?”


I gestured vaguely with the sword, since I didn’t have a free hand to use right now. “This,” I said. “All of it. The scheming, the manipulation, setting your son up to die. Was it hard?”


Loki was silent for a few moments. “Not practically,” he said at last. “No. It was a very easy plan, as such things go. Very straightforward, plenty of time to plan things out.”


I didn’t say that he hadn’t answered my question, because really, he had.


“Don’t try to act the white knight,” he said a few seconds later, likely guessing where my thoughts were going. “You and I are much alike, Winter. You have your share of blood on your hands.”


“Don’t think I’ve ever denied that,” I said. “But I’ve never done…this.”


“Done what?” he asked archly. “Killed someone who didn’t deserve it? Betrayed a friend? Set someone up to fail and die for something that wasn’t their fault?” He shook his head, not seeming concerned about how close the motion took his throat to the sword. “You said it yourself, Winter,” he said, almost gently. “It’s time to drop the masks. It’s time for the truth to come out. And the truth is that while you may have told yourself to do the right thing, this is hardly the first time that circumstances have required you to do what is actually the needful thing.”


I didn’t respond.


“I’m sorry that it happened this way,” Loki said. “You might not believe me, but I do genuinely regret the necessity of this. I made some mistakes, a long time ago, and Fenris is the one that paid for them. But in the end, it was necessary. And yes, it was…hard, to do this. To make this choice. But if I had the choice I’d do it all again.”


I thought about arguing with him. There didn’t seem to be much point. Nothing I could say would ever, ever change Loki’s mind.


“You know,” I commented, “I somehow thought that this would change things. That finally talking about it, confronting you, would…I don’t know. Put it in perspective, I guess. But now it just feels…pointless.”


“I regret that, as well,” he said. “What I’ve done to you, I mean. I am genuinely fond of you, Winter. I would like for things to be different.”


“Isn’t that just how it goes,” I sighed. “If only things could be different, huh?”


“If there are crueler words, I don’t know them,” Loki said. “But things aren’t different. This is the world we have.”


“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I paused again. “You know, it’s funny,” I said. “You’d think I’d be nervous right now. Having cold feet, trying to delay as much as I can. Instead I find I just want to get things over with.”


“What do you mean?”


I sighed. “Come on, Loki,” I said. “I’m not a moron. This whole thing wasn’t just about killing Fenris. If that was all you wanted you could have done it yourself ages ago. I think we both know what’s coming next.”


“You’ve gotten more astute,” Loki said.


“Or maybe just less naive,” I said.


He nodded. “Possible. Well, since you’re in such a hurry, I’ll get right to the point, then. Fenris was working to undermine our world in recent years, but his existence was still necessary. His role was a necessary one for our survival. Now that he is no more, someone else will have to fill it.”


“And you want that someone to be me.” It wasn’t a question.


“You demonstrably have the necessary skills,” he said, with a trace of dry humor in his voice.


I shook my head. “Unbelievable,” I said. “You set all this up, from before I was even born, so that I could kill your son and take his place. Un-freaking-believable.” I shook my head again. “How do you live with yourself?” I asked. “That’s a serious question, by the way. How do you live with yourself with what you’ve done?”


“Every day,” he said, “every single day I look at the world I helped to build. I look at people who spend their days on self-serving nonsense, who lie and cheat and steal and kill. I look at people who hate us and would destroy us if they could, and they don’t even know what we do for them. I look at people who live their whole short lives, from birth to death, with never any understanding of how large the world is.” His voice was very quiet, and deadly serious.


I stared, fascinated. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard Loki sound this passionate before, or this sincere.


“And I look at them, too,” he said, gesturing out at the wall I could just barely see. “They’re out there, Winter. All the time, they’re out there, looking in at us. They would destroy us if they could, not out of any malice, but simply because that is what they are. And I know that what I do is what stands between all of those people and an utterly remorseless threat which they have no capacity to fight.”


“So you’re using the greater good defense,” I said. “That’s…not what I was expecting, honestly.”


He shrugged. “I don’t always like what I do,” he said. “But what I do is necessary to protect the world.”


“If this is what it takes to preserve the world,” I said quietly, “then maybe this world deserves to end.”


“Maybe it does,” he agreed. “But do you have the right to make that choice for all the billions of people that would end with it?”


“No,” I said. “But I have the right to make that choice for me. And I’m done. I’m done with your games and your plans, with you and Hunter and your pointless little war. As far as I’m concerned you’re both equally bad, and you can both go screw yourselves.” I lowered the sword to hang by my side, staring defiantly into Loki’s eyes.


“I could make you do it,” he said.


“Controlling me to that extent would make me pretty much just an automaton,” I said. “Just following your orders, not acting on my own initiative. And if all you wanted was an automaton, you could just make a construct for that.”


“Did I mention that you’ve gotten more astute?” he asked, sounding a bit annoyed now. “Because you have. So why shouldn’t I just kill you, then, if you won’t do what I need?”


“Because that would mean that Fenris died for nothing,” I said, with a slightly manic grin. “That would mean admitting you failed. And you can’t do that, can you? So you’ll tell yourself that you can talk me around in time, that your plan can still work.” I shook my head. “You won’t kill me, Loki,” I said. “You were never going to kill me. The only difference is that this time I’m calling your bluff.”


I threw Tyrfing down at his feet, and gave him the finger. Then, without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away.


I’d walked away from Tyrfing more times than I could remember. Somehow, though, this time I knew it wouldn’t follow me, that it was well and truly done.


I would have expected to be glad about it.

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Empty Places 14.16

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I’d only seen the full extent of Fenris’s power once before, back when I was first beginning to find about the void and the things in it and all the ways I’d fundamentally failed to grasp how big the world was. That momentary glimpse had been enough to overwhelm my faculties and leave me unconscious, and for weeks afterward even thinking of it had been enough to render me incapable of thinking clearly for several minutes.


And if what he was saying was true, that hadn’t even been the full extent of his power. Not even close. He’d been bound, then, restricted in his actions. Even then, I hadn’t fully grasped what he was capable of.


The notion of opposing that force had still been…laughable, really. The notion of actually fighting it was something so far outside the realm of possibility that it wasn’t even worth considering.


But then, I wasn’t the man I used to be.


He stood and walked away from me, leaving around forty feet between us. I had to appreciate, on an abstract level, how perfect his choice of battlefield had been. There were no obstacles, no unexpected surprises or exploitable features. It was an entirely level ground, metaphorically as well as literally.


He bowed to me. I bowed back, which felt a bit silly, really, but what the hell.


And then, with no sense of transition, Fenris was different. The gaunt human form he’d usually used when interacting with me was gone, replaced by something much more indicative of his true nature.


The wolf was as big as a bus, more or less. Long and lean, he looked like he was on the brink of starvation. A silver ribbon was barely visible around his neck, and a sword was thrust up through his jaw, looking like one more tooth among a mouthful that were about as large. Yellow eyes as large as both my fists together looked at me, and I could see the desperation and hunger there.


Considering the context of the fight, and everything that had just happened, I might reasonably have expected Fenris to go easy on me. I might have expected him to agonize and hesitate, unwilling to really go all out when his heart clearly wasn’t in it.


That expectation would have been wrong. Fenris was fundamentally a creature of violence, and more importantly, of action. He was a weapon, and a weapon doesn’t hesitate. Even when he couldn’t win, and he didn’t want to win, and the concept of winning wasn’t one that could even be said to apply, he wasn’t capable of just giving up on a fight.


Luckily, I understood all of that just fine. It wasn’t hard. All of those facts could describe me as easily as him.


And as such, when he instantly charged me at a speed nothing so large should have been able to equal, I wasn’t surprised or caught off guard. I waited until the last moment and then ducked to the side, slipping around his side. Tyrfing licked out at his face as I did, but I only cut off a bit of fur; getting out of the way was a higher priority, and with the sheer size of Fenris’s current body it took quite a bit of dodging to manage.


Not much in the way of shadow for me to step through here, I noted. The light was very even, and didn’t have a definite source; we weren’t even casting shadows ourselves. Not really much in the way of ice, either. If my current body was destroyed, I wasn’t sure that I would be able to make another one.


I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way, then.


As I dodged aside from the teeth and circled around him, I was already analyzing, planning. I felt like I should have been going through some tumultuous feelings, anger and guilt and fear and sorrow. The feelings themselves, though, weren’t there. I felt very cold and very calm, perfectly able to think things through in a reasoned and dispassionate manner, and make plans.


Fenris was stronger than I was, physically. That went without saying. His first charge told me that he was faster, too. But he was, at least in this form, less agile. He was graceful, but he was just too big not to be a bit clumsy, despite his skill. He had less maneuverability, and he was slower to accelerate.


So as I dodged around him, I kept going, running right next to his side. He tried to swat at me with one paw, but wolves just weren’t built for that kind of lateral motion in their limbs. A cat, or a bear, could swat that way, but canines generally used their claws for traction more than violence. I ducked under the paw easily, and he wasn’t able to do a whole lot about it.


I didn’t cut at him as I moved, not yet. This was just to get a feel for things, an idea of how this was going to go.


Fenris turned to follow me, teeth snapping at my back. I imagined it looked something like the world’s largest dog chasing his tail. He had the raw speed to keep up with me, but I had the position and angle to stay just a bit out of reach.


The logical next step would have been to duck under him to his other side, forcing him to reverse the direction of his spin to keep chasing me. I wasn’t quite ready to do that, though. He couldn’t really bite or claw at me when I was underneath of him, but he could just let himself fall on top of me, and somehow I didn’t think that having what had to be a couple tons of wolf land on me was a good idea.


I spun and started running the other way where I was, instead. That put me running straight for his mouth, which might have been a problem if he’d been ready to capitalize on the opportunity.


He wasn’t, though. I couldn’t really blame him. What wolf ever suspects the rabbit to run at him?


Fenris still snapped at me, but it was a few fractions of a second too late, too slow; I evaded to the side again easily. I lashed out with Tyrfing again, this time slashing at his eye. The intention was mostly just to distract him, force him to recoil and prevent him from biting at me again. It worked, too. Even if you’re an ancient wolf-god with an almost inconceivable amount of experience, when someone threatens your eyes, you tend to flinch.


This time, though, the sword connected with his cheek, just under that huge eye. It drew blood, or something that was close enough to make the distinction irrelevant. It looked like blood, smelled like blood, soaked into Tyrfing’s blade without leaving a stain like blood did.


At that point, there was only one way this could end. And I suspected we both knew it, too.


Fenris was bigger, and stronger, and more skilled, and vastly more experienced. He could, and did, go up against monsters from the void and similarly horrific foes and take them down easily.


And none of that mattered a bit.


I was more agile, readily able to avoid his attacks. I was very experienced at fighting things bigger and stronger than I was. I didn’t get tired, or slow, or clumsy. And with Tyrfing, I had a weapon that was capable of actually hurting him.


My existence, my armaments, my training and experiences, it all came down to this. It had always been about this. This was, quite literally, the fight I was born for.


Fenris never had a chance. And he knew it.


I kept running, kept dodging, always just barely out of reach. I was too fast and too unpredictable to catch, too precise to ignore. Occasionally I wrapped darkness over his eyes, or tripped him up with air and ice, but mostly that wasn’t worth the concentration it required. It was easier to keep running, keep moving. Occasionally I cut at him again, and occasionally those cuts connected. They were never serious, never dangerous, but they were irritating and they bled.


Fenris was getting tired. He was losing blood, was getting weak. And he still hadn’t hit me at all.


Now, at least, I could tell that Fenris wasn’t really fighting, that his heart wasn’t in it. Even as it became clear that he was losing, he didn’t do anything different. He had to be capable of it, there was really no doubt of that. He had thousands of years of experience; there was no way that he hadn’t had to deal with something like this before. He had magic, had powers I couldn’t even guess at, not to mention an obviously impressive control over his own body’s shape and size. He had to have some tricks up his metaphorical sleeves.


He didn’t use any of that. He didn’t try anything clever at all, in fact. He just kept going for me in the same ways, as I evaded the teeth and claws by less and less, and I cut at him more and more often.


And then he stumbled.


It was a small thing, a paw placed ever so slightly wrong, a momentary loss of footing. It wasn’t a big thing, wasn’t by any means a disaster. But it was a sign. The fight had been decided before that, but that was the moment where we both knew there was no going back.


As he recovered himself, I darted away, putting a bit of space between us for the first time since the fight started. I stood there, for a moment, and met his eye.


I’d often thought that looking at Fenris was something like looking into a mirror filled with power. In hindsight, that should probably have been a bit of a hint as to what was really going on, there.


It hadn’t gotten to be any less true, though. I looked into his eyes, and I saw a hunger and an overwhelming weariness that were all too familiar.


He’d been right about one thing, at least. Things were ending, now. And not just him, either, though I wasn’t sure whether he’d quite thought things through that far. There wasn’t a lot of reason for him to have done so.


I ran straight at him, and he hesitated, likely thinking that I had some trick I was about to spring.


He was right, if so. I was still a ways away when I jumped for him, pushing off with the unnatural strength that was mine to call on now. The intention was to land on his back and stab him more deeply before he could drop and roll to brush me off.


I realized the flaw in that plan about the same time he stood up on his hind legs and bit at me. It looked a bit like a dog biting at a Frisbee on a hilariously large scale.


I didn’t feel like laughing, though. I twisted in midair, reaching out to the air and pulling on it. A sharp breeze and an increase in air resistance was enough to push me off course at the last moment. It was a bit panicky, but it worked.


The end result was that instead of literally biting me in half, his jaws trapped my right arm just under the shoulder. The angle was just awkward enough that he couldn’t actually bite the arm off, but he came pretty close.


I didn’t–couldn’t–feel any pain. I just snarled, using that trapped arm as a support as I swung myself forward, throwing wind and darkness behind the motion to put more oomph into it. My left hand reached out to catch his ear, holding onto it tightly.


Using that grip for leverage, I shoved my arm deeper into his mouth, calling Tyrfing again as I did. The blade cut deep inside his throat. I could feel the blood spurting up over my hand, over my arm.


I felt the muscles tense under me, and his jaws snapped shut. My arm came off cleanly at the shoulder, and then when he shook his head I lost my grip and fell hard to the ground twenty feet away.


But it was too late, the damage already done. Fenris started to pounce at me where I was lying on the ground, and then he stumbled, and then he fell. Blood trickled out between his lips.


I stood, a bit off balance from the missing arm, and from something else, as well. A sort of weakness, a sapping fatigue.


I stumbled over to him, where he was collapsed and unable to stand. I stopped by his head, and rested my remaining hand on his forehead.


He snapped at me, spraying blood and slaver and broken ice on my face. But it was a feeble gesture. He was already growing weak.


“Shh,” I said gently, stroking his face softly. His fur was coarse under my fingers. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, Fenris. I’m sorry this had to happen to you, sorry about everything that happened. But it’s okay. You can rest now.”


He let out another breath, one that might almost have had a word in it, but one that I couldn’t understand through the blood and the teeth.


Another, gentle, soft breath, just a whisper of air against my skin.


Then nothing.


So died the Fenris Wolf.


I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Tears were for the living.

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Empty Places 14.15

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The domain on the other side of the portal was possibly the most monotonous I’d ever seen.


In three directions, there was just about literally nothing. A flat grey plain stretched out under a flat grey sky for as far as the eye could see. And that was very literal, too. The plain was absolutely flat, not so much as a bump in the ground to distinguish any spot from any other. It was a uniform grey, too, some material like linoleum.


That was three directions.


In the fourth, it was about the same. But just at the edge of my visual range, what had to be miles and miles away, I could make out something else. It looked like a wall. For me to see it at this distance, it had to be incredibly tall, a hundred feet at least. It stretched off across the plain, out of sight in both directions.


I couldn’t see movement on it, from so far away. I couldn’t tell whether there were people gathered on and around the wall.


But if I had to guess, I’d say it was pretty likely.


“What is this place?” I asked, sounding about as dumbfounded as I felt.


“This is the end,” Fenris said simply. He gestured to my left, away from the wall. “That’s your world,” he said. “Everything you know. Earth, the Otherside, all of it.” He gestured the other way. “That’s the void.”


“Wait,” I said. “You mean…the actual void? You can just walk out there and find it? I thought it was less…physical than that.”


“It’s hard to put this in terms that you would understand,” Fenris said. “Or even terms that I would understand. This place is an enormously complex working.” He paused. “An analogy, then,” he said. “Picture reality as an ice cube solidified from the less ordered state of the water. The ice cube has to be in contact with the water, there has to be a place where the two meet.” He gestured at the wall again. “This is that boundary,” he said. “This is where the chaos of the void meets the ordered rules of the universe.”


“The wall,” I said, understanding. “It’s there to keep out the void.”


“And the things that dwell out there. Yes.”


“Why’d you bring me here?”


Fenris was slow to answer that one. “This is a good place for endings,” he said at last. “And I think that however this goes, things are ending today. It’s a safe place, as well, with nothing to be damaged or destroyed. And it’s a familiar place for me.”


“You come here a lot, then?” I asked.


He smiled sadly. “This is where I spend most of my time,” he said. “My behavior here is…less constrained than it is elsewhere. This place is why I exist.”


“Is Loki really your father?” I asked. “That story’s always seemed a bit…off to me.”


“That’s a hard question,” Fenris said.


“If it’s a sensitive subject, fell free to tell me to screw off.”


“It is,” he said. “But that’s not why it’s difficult. It’s just a question that doesn’t have a simple answer. ‘Father’ is a biological concept, you see. I’m an imitation of a biological creature, enough of one that fatherhood is something that can apply to me. Loki is not such an imitation.” He paused. “He made me,” he said. “Personally. He created me and instructed me. So yes, I suppose he is my father, to the extent that the term can apply to him.”


“It feels so strange to finally be getting answers,” I said, more or less just thinking out loud.


Fenris smiled slightly. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t answer all your questions before,” he said. “My behavior was constrained.”


“And now it isn’t?”


“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. He twisted space, and suddenly he was holding a small silver flask. “Here,” he said, holding it out to me.


I took it. “It’s empty,” I said.


He shook his head. “There’s a taste left,” he said. “No more, but it’s not empty quite yet.”


“Why don’t you just refill it?”


His lips twitched. “There is no more,” he said. “The mead of poetry is not something that can be replaced.”


I almost dropped the flask. “The mead of poetry,” I said. “You mean the actual mead of poetry? The stuff that Odin drank?”


“One and the same,” Fenris confirmed.


“I thought that was a metaphor.”


He shrugged. “You’ll find that the line between reality and metaphor isn’t so clear as it seems,” he said. “Even if the mead is just a symbol of the abstract concept of wisdom, it’s a symbol with power.”


“This is priceless, then,” I said, rolling the flask around in my fingers. “Literally priceless, I mean, And irreplaceable.”


“I’ve carried that bit around for longer than you’d believe,” he sighed. “I’m done with it. And there’s nobody I’d rather give it to than you.”


I nodded. I opened the flask, very carefully, and drank. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said that there was just a taste left; it was barely enough to wet my tongue.


To say that the taste was beyond words would be obvious. It was almost by definition true.


It took me a few seconds to get my bearings again, and then I handed the flask back to Fenris. He took it, silently, and made it disappear.


“Makes me think of another time,” I said. “When Carraig tacked me to that cross, and you came to keep me company.”


He nodded. “It’s been a while,” he said.


I laughed, though it sounded like a sharp, bitter laugh even to me. “It has,” I said. “So much has changed.”


“Things are always changing,” Fenris agreed. “But I’ve seldom seen things change as fast as the past few years.”


“Why did you do it?” I asked. “Why do you want things to end?”


Fenris was silent for so long that I almost didn’t think he’d answer at all.


“I was made to be a weapon,” he said at last. “That was my purpose, my reason for being. I was created for this place, to fight the things that dwell in the void. There’s always a war, on the wall. Always….” He shook his head. “I was given the power to destroy,” he said. “Made to be a force of death and destruction, so that I could do what had to be done. And I was bound.”


“Because they were afraid of you?” I guessed.


“Because some of the ancient gods were concerned about the possibility that I might upset their plans,” he said. “And Loki didn’t care enough to fight for my freedom.” He was silent again for a few moments. “The funny thing is that mostly I don’t mind the rules,” he said. “Most of the t