Deus ex machina
Five tries to take a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth, only to be met by fitful coughing and the taste of salted iron. He’s pretty sure someone broke his nose, along with a few other things. He’s also going to be ill with the uproar between his ears and his…
Aargh!
The man dry heaves a handful of times, lets out an exasperated sigh, then grabs the plain tunic Angrboda left when she tended to his latest, last injuries. They weren’t allowed parting words but, with unshed tears, she held the back of his neck as they touched foreheads and he clasped her arm. Just for a little while, before they made her leave. The woad on Five’s face has long since faded and, as he pulls the linen over his head, he recoils with the burning tinge of an unreachable ache. The caustic agony is one in a constellation he’s never quite grown accustomed to over these last…
Five draws a blank.
He doesn't know how long the monster has smothered him with his poisons. He’s only somewhat certain he last saw the open sky three years ago. It was an autumn afternoon, way back when he still received the periodic gift of fresh air. The blustery wind stung, but the colours on the hillside were mesmerising. Or perhaps that’s when the clouds first cleared amidst the wreckage of civilisation. Both may be true. Five is so goddamn tired, but he presses on. If he lets himself rest, even for a second, he might not get up again.
There’ll be plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.
Fortunately, the numpty bawbag will put him out of his misery soon. Except who will stop the Apocalypse, if not Five? His siblings had obviously failed to. He’d found their bodies. He almost joined them, in fact. The decades had ground by, but he can still picture Klaus’ remains if he closes his eyes: Four's scruffy hair and hobo chic; their messy eyeliner and chipped nail polish; the creases at their temples and the corners of their mouth. The séance’s ink is no surprise. Then there’s later, when Five comes across V’s book. He mourns twice over. He’d failed them all.
I will do anything to save my family, and the world, until my last breath.
Five’s jumbled thoughts come to an abrupt halt as the door of the dingy, but blessedly empty, cell opens and a surly guard appears with the familiar shackles. Harald has finally decided to sacrifice him to his war god.
Although escape is laughably impossible, Five is determined to die on his own terms. Life won’t likely get worse for trying, for once. He doesn’t believe in the gods, but he hasn’t rejected the idea wholesale. The infernal snake collar somehow strangles him as tightly as ever. Plus, he has grown to despise Odin during his bondage, believing that the shifty-eyed deceiver is simply another authority figure drunk on power and begging for a takedown. Like Dad. Or the Jarl. At the very least, he’ll cause a few new nightmares.
I'll take any win I can get.
While shuffling — being mostly dragged — into the main square, the weary warrior takes stock of his surroundings.
Boda is nowhere in sight. Very good.
He wouldn’t have put it past the hackit dobber to make Angrboda witness his death, and her absence only steels his resolve. The ogre and his cronies are in front of the Great Hall. A crowd has gathered and the atmosphere is heavy with incense. Five can’t help but notice the prosthetic eye he plucked from Luther’s mighty grip all those years in the future is glaring at him in the skull of his enemy. The colour eerily matches his original and Five hates the dirty animal all the more for it.
As the cacophony of drums ceases, Five returns the contemptuous smile a toothless priest gives him as he waits for the tribute’s arrival. The guard then pushes the man onto his knees at the high stone altar, his cumbersome chains clattering in the forefront. With the withering thing droning, Five focuses his threadbare energies on catching sight of the bag of bones in his peripheral vision.
Timing is everything.
As the priest moves to expose the brunette’s neck, Five crouches and swivels to knock the old-timer off balance. The priest hits the ground and, before anyone intervenes, he grabs the fallen knife with his bound hands, then uses his restraints to hold the priest hostage against him.
The mob hesitates and, in the space between life and death, Five somehow shouts, “I am not a prize to be won or given as a gift. Instead, I offer myself to Loki in the hope he wreaks havoc upon the tyrants of the apocalypses who have slaughtered my kin. In this way, I pray they may be avenged.”
With his piece said, he shoves the priest forward and lifts the blade to slit his own throat.
As the dagger grazes his skin, he no longer senses the weight of it. Crimson mouth agape, Five looks up to see a pale, dishevelled willow of a being whose mane is as dark as the winter solstice. The lithe figure is holding his weapon with a hint of mirth. Wait, are they wearing business casual and a sword holster? Five scrunches up his face, bewildered.
“Loki?”
“Fear not, noble warrior,” the trickster purrs. “It would be my pleasure.”