Prologue
The god thrashed his legs to try to keep afloat in the waters he had been thrown into as the waves threatened to pull him down into the depthless dark.
The damned collar at his neck bound his seiðr like a dog on a leash.
His many wounds stung like a million icy daggers all over.
He needed to get out of here, fast.
He tried to conjure a portal up, as small as possible- and cried out in pain as his magic struggled against its bonds like tendons being pulled apart.
He coughed at the saltwater and breathed in a few long gasps.
He couldn’t swim for long.
He was so exhausted.
His body ached and cramped.
So much for being a god.
He wasn’t even sure he was a god anymore.
He had to do something.
He tried to teleport himself to any dry spit of land on Midgard; he was sure he was on Midgard. Where else?
It was as if his insides were being wrung and stretched as he tried to summon dregs of his magic. Uttering a strangled cry, he stopped kicking, surrendering himself to the waves for a split second before his magic took hold-
And landed him face first in the dirt somewhere.
He heaved heavily, and coughed and retched out blood and brine.
Using magic would take a toll on him, it seemed.
Finally gasping in long, fresh breaths of air, he lay his spinning head on the grassy plane.
He meant to get up and take his bearings. To bind his wounds and make his way back to Asgard, somehow.
And so he did.
Or at least, he tried.
It took a great effort to get up on his knees, and to put one foot in front of another and go forward.
But his fatigued and wounds caught up with him, and his knees gave away.
And then, the restful vice of darkness.