WARNING (because some people can't read): THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER.

A/N: in case you missed it, this is basically the compiled version of Freya's backstory in case you wanna read it in one go, or if you haven't read it in the first place and were confused by Freya's thoughts in the last chapter.

MAKE SURE YOU READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER FIRST (CHAPTER 22), BECAUSE I UPLOADED TWO THINGS IN A ROW

Champions of the Past

Her nose crinkles as ash and cinders waft into her nostrils. The village around her is nothing but burning ruins. Thick columns of smoke block out the night sky as tongues of flame devour wooden huts and race across thatched roofs.

She stops in front of a woman's body, taking a few moments to search for its missing head. She finds it impaled on a fence post just a few meters away. Wide, glassy eyes stare at her as she steps over what was once their owner.

The slaughter is fresh. There is the metallic tang of blood in the air, but the rancid stench of rotting flesh is yet to set in. For a second, she thinks she hears a cry for help, but then there is the sound of crashing wood and the house it came from collapses in on itself. Then there is nothing but crackling fire and ghostly silence.

She frowns. She is searching for something, or someone. A brightness that puts the inferno around her to shame. A light so brilliant that it drew her from Heaven to the mortal plane. She quickens her steps, no longer caring if her feet sink into dirt, blood, or flesh.

Where is it?

Where is it?

WHERE IS IT!?

Then, through a wall of flames, the brightness calls to her. The fire keeps a wary distance from the beacon of brilliance. Her limbs quiver as she runs toward the white-hot glare, and she shrugs off the fire as she forces her way through it.

It is a boy. Like the rest of the village, he is human. Unlike the rest of them, he is alive. He is clad in leather, with messy white hair that has blood dripping down from it. He sits, and imbedded next to his seat is a humble woodchopper's axe. But it is not a log he is sitting on, but the corpse of a fully-grown Minotaur. Its eyes are nearly bulging out of their sockets. Its tongue hangs out of its mouth and lies across the floor.

It is very, very dead.

The boy looks up at her. There is some shock in his eyes as they widen. Then disappointment. He can't be more than fourteen, which only reminds her of humans' short lifespans.

"If you were sent to save us," he says, "you're a little too late."

She says nothing at first. Instead she walks up to him and kicks the Minotaur. The boy raises an eyebrow when he sees that she's barefoot. But he says nothing too.

"Did you kill this Minotaur?" she asks. She already knows the answer, as unbelievable as it is. But the question serves as a much better way to start a conversation than the boy's sardonic attempt.

"Yes," he says. Then, "are you a God?"

She blinks. There is no awe, no reverence, not even a tinge of disbelief. It is as if he's asking her for the date. "What makes you say that?"

"You walked through the fire practically naked. That, and the air around you is sort of tingly."

"Yes, I am a God."

"Mama said the Gods would come to save us. But that was before the Minotaur ripped her head off, so I think she was wrong."

"We have our own rules to follow. We cannot interfere too much with the life of mortals."

"But you're Gods. You're all-powerful."

"Precisely why we need those rules."

The boy seems to accept this explanation. She looks at his face closely. There are dried tear stains on his cheeks. Even if he has triumphed against the Minotaur, the chances of survival are slim. That lone monster was nothing but a scout for a larger horde on its way. The defenders of this particular region fell back weeks ago, and this village, until yesterday, was the only one left standing.

His fate is sealed. If the monsters do not tear him to shreds, then he will die to hunger or disease in the forest. The nearest still-standing village is a whole month away by foot. It pains her heart. So much potential, so much promise, so much brilliance, wasted away because he was born at the wrong place at the wrong time.

There is a way out. Freya doesn't know if she should take the gamble. But his burning soul convinces her to in the end. He would have died, anyway.

"What is your name?" she asks.

"Sigurd."

Sigurd. It is a good name, she thinks. "I am Freya."

Sigurd dips his head slightly. "I am honored to be in your presence, Lady Freya."

"You're about to be even more honored, because I want you to become my Champion."

Sigurd stares at her, evidently confused. "I do not know what that means."

"It means you will fight for me, and me alone. You will do as I say, heed my words, serve my needs. You will become the executioner of my will, Sigurd."

Sigurd raises an eyebrow. "…or?"

"Or the horde of monsters on their way here will avenge their fallen comrade."

He looks down at the dead monster he is sitting on. "There are more?"

"Hundreds more."

"I cannot possibly defeat them."

"You can, if you become my Champion. I will grant you a fraction of my power. That's what it means to become the Champion of a God. You become part God yourself."

He frowns. "I thought you aren't allowed to interfere in the lives of mortals."

She raises a finger and presses it against his lips. "It will be our little secret."

Ten minutes later, the process is complete.

Freya hides her giddiness and relief behind a plain smile. She didn't tell Sigurd that he's not the first person she's chosen to be her Champion, nor does she tell him he's the first person to have survived the ritual. Naturally, she has no intention of ever telling him either.

Sigurd yanks the axe out from the dead Minotaur. He looks the same. A well-built, handsome teenager with long white hair. His soul still glows as bright as the Sun. But there is a presence to him that Freya knows wasn't there before. "It's so light now," he says, swinging the axe in the air.

"You've become stronger. There is divine power flowing in you now. It is not something you should show off brazenly."

"I understand," he says. Then, "what now?"

She shrugs. "It is up to you. Use your power. Become even stronger. Show me what you are capable of, Sigurd. Your journey has only begun. A horde of monsters are making their way here, eager to test your strength."

Sigurd looks at her. He lifts the axe and rests its shaft on his shoulder. His head turns toward the direction Freya came from. "I think I want to bury my family and the rest of the village first."

XxXxXxXxX

Freya hasn't met any other God who has broken the rules and sired a Champion. She only knows they exist from rumours and warnings.

That's why she is just as confused as Sigurd, when ten years after their first meeting, he says, "I haven't shaved in three years." He reaches to scratch at a non-existent beard. "I haven't needed to."

Freya looks carefully at her Champion. Compared to the boy he was ten years ago, Sigurd has filled up quite nicely. His white hair is cut short, which matches his strong jawline and stern eyes well. His shoulders have broadened and his muscles are lean but firm. He traded his axe for a two-handed sword years ago and it lies beside him as the two of them sit underneath a tree.

Paranoia has driven Freya to distance herself from him. She has sent messages, through familiars and signs, but she makes an effort to leave Heaven as infrequently as possible, keeping track of his progress from the safety of the divine realm. In contrast, she sends Sigurd into the most remote and monster-infested areas of the world, away from the prying eyes of other Gods, so that he can grow and mature without holding back.

This is only the third time they have met in person, and Freya would be lying to herself if she says she hasn't been looking forward to it. She's finally learned to create a barrier that can block the divine vision of other Gods, and she intends to abuse that knowledge to visit her Champion as often as possible.

"I think I've stopped ageing," Sigurd says. "I don't think my body has changed in a long time."

"Is that… good?" Freya asks. "There are plenty of men who seek immortality. I think it's a little overrated."

"I don't know. I guess it means I'll be alive longer to kill more monsters," Sigurd says. He gestures to the area around them. "I think I've been doing a pretty good job as it is."

The land is littered with the corpses of monsters. Dragons, ripped asunder. Furred brutes and scaled beasts have been bifurcated, their bloody entrails hanging from trees like crimson, twisted vines. The grass has been painted red, and Freya can't help but feel impressed at the sheer carnage around them.

"You've improved even more," she says.

"But not enough." Sigurd removes a piece of his chest plate, revealing a dragon fang sunk into his side. The flesh around it has turned into an ugly shade of purple that pulses and leaks a foul-smelling yellow liquid.

In an embarrassing slip of control, Freya gasps. It is an ugly stain on what is otherwise a perfect body.

"The poison will wear off in due course. I was careless. It will not happen again."

"It had better not. I've only just figured out a way to visit you more."

The grimace on Sigurd's face vanishes as his eyes light up. "At long last, I can stop wondering to myself if I've gone crazy and hallucinated meeting a goddess."

Freya scoffs. "Can a hallucination do this?" She snaps her fingers, and the bloodied dirt beneath them starts sprouting flowers.

Sigurd looks at them. "I've always wondered what you are the God of."

"Love, beauty, fertility, among other things."

"Love?" Sigurd says. "My mother used to tell me about love. She described it as the most beautiful feeling in the world. I'd like to experience it someday."

"Your mother was right," Freya says. "It is a beautiful feeling. One day, I'm sure you will find it. It's one of life's greatest treasures."

Sigurd laughs. "Given my newfound immortality, I'm sure I'll stumble into it sooner or later."

Freya leans back, surveying the bloodied land around her. Looking at the flowers she birthed, and amid Sigurd's soft laugh, she smiles. They are still losing this war, but that is no reason to give up hope yet.

XxXxXxXxX

"Is that you, Lady Freya?"

Freya frowns, releasing the veil that hid her from mortal eyes—except Sigurd, who she isn't sure she can still classify as 'mortal' in the first place.

"What gave it away this time?" she asks. "A tingle in the air? The smell of spring?"

She's unsettled at how good Sigurd has become at detecting her presence. Lately, it's turned into a game of cat and mouse, with her seeing how long she can stand next to him before he realises she's there.

"I just thought the grass looked a little greener than I remembered," Sigurd says. "How long have you been here?"

The clearing they are in is peaceful, but only because Sigurd killed every single monster in a two mile radius the week before.

"Since you started swinging that sword."

Sigurd's daily training regime is a spectacle of its own. A thousand swings a day, each exactly the same as the previous. He no longer gets tired, and the giant blade seems more an extension of his body at this point.

Sigurd lifts his sword back up. "I still have another 700 swings to go. Do you intend to stay and watch?"

Freya smiles weakly. Heaven is currently in a state of panic and alarm. Another kingdom has just fallen to the monster horde. Great walls that previously protected tens of thousands of lives now trap them with a sea of monsters. It is an ugly scene.

"Of course," she says. "Just pretend I'm not here."

Here, there is only her and Sigurd. She cannot here the pleas and prayers of the dying—only the sound of air being cut as her Champion swings her sword.

She isn't running away, Freya tells herself as she closes her eyes. She only wants to remind herself the peace that they are fighting for.

The peace that Sigurd will bring to the world.

XxXxXxXxX

"What about that one?" Freya asks, nudging her head in the direction of a pretty blonde Elf. "She's thinking very lecherous thoughts about you."

"I don't believe this is the way love works, Lady Freya."

They are in a town. Sigurd cannot stay hidden in the monster-infested wastelands all the time. Every once in a while, Freya insists he returns to civilisation. He needs to resupply, repair his equipment, and remind himself what he is fighting to protect.

The tavern they are in is almost empty. So close to the front lines, many of the town's inhabitants have moved deeper inland for safety. Only a small tribe of powerful Elves that remain act as a line of defence. One such Elf has been glancing their way for the past ten minutes.

"I am a goddess of love, and I say this is how love works. Love can be born out of lust, then becomes a thing of its own," Freya said. "Or do you disagree, with your vast knowledge of romance and intimacy?"

Sigurd frowns. "There's no need to make fun of me. It's not like I have the time or opportunity to find love, what with you sending me to clear out monster infestations every week."

"An opportunity is batting her eyelashes at you as we speak. She's about two hundred years old. Only a few decades older than you. I think it's a good match."

Freya hides her annoyance as Sigurd barely gives the Elf a glance. When he shakes his head at her, the Elf lets out a sigh and stands up to leave.

"If you keep passing up opportunities like this, you'll never find love. Stop being so picky."

"Why not?" he asks. "I have all the time in the world, and with a goddess of love at my side, I'm sure to succeed one day."

XxXxXxXxX

His form is perfect. Not a single movement is wasted as he cuts down the Minotaur before him in one strike.

Freya watches Sigurd slaughter the monster horde as if they are made of paper. Amid the heaps of limbs and the sprays of blood, the beacon that is his soul burns as brightly as the day she met him.

He has become faster, stronger, and smarter since then. But the essence of who he is remains unchanged. Stalwart and steady, Sigurd has been nothing but the perfect Champion. Whole swathes of monster-held territory have been liberated by him single-handedly. Mortal heroes stumble onto bloody and corpse-filled fields, delighted but also confused.

He takes each victory in stride, looking nowhere else but forward. Night and day, his only concern is improving his craft. He has turned his swordsmanship into a deadly art form.

As Sigurd expertly weaves through and deflects attacks, the disorganized and clumsy monsters only help cull their own numbers amid the chaos.

The last of the monsters, a balrog, crumples as Sigurd pulls his sword out of its chest. Her Champion is coated in blood—almost all of it is not his. He takes a deep breath and surveys the corpse-ridden battleground to make sure there no survivors before he plants his sword tip-first into the ground.

Then he sits on a dead dragon, leaning on his blade for support.

"Lady Freya, are you there?" he croaks.

She is by his side in an instant. She is slightly concerned. She sees no major wounds, but Sigurd has been fighting for three days straight. He is still more man than God, and his labored breaths give away just how much the fight has drained him.

"I'm here," she says.

"Catch me, please."

Sigurd tips to the side, and Freya barely manages to catch him. For a moment, Sigurd is slumped over her, motionless, and she thinks something must be very wrong. She sits down, puts his head on her lap, and checks if he is breathing.

Sigurd lets out a snore, and Freya's concern morphs into annoyance when she realizes that she is simply being used as pillow.

She sighs. She supposes Sigurd deserves a reward for his diligence every now and then.

XxXxXxXxX

Freya feels her chest flutter with pride as the denizens of the village cling onto Sigurd. Children sit atop his shoulders while their parents sink to their knees in tearful gratitude.

Just beyond the shoddily constructed fence, there is a mountain of flesh and hide. A black dragon, slain by Sigurd, leaking acidic ichor like a wet sponge. The fight lasted hours, but Sigurd emerged victorious.

Freya knows the people of this village will tell the story of his valor for generations to come. Already, there is talk among the elders about hosting a feast tonight in his honor. Freya sees her Champion perk up at the mention of good and plentiful food—it is one of his few weaknesses.

She initially planned for him to head further north, to destroy the dragon's nest and its eggs, but there is time for that tomorrow. For now, Sigurd has earned his celebration.

Freya waits at the mouth of the forest until it is dusk. The stars are out tonight, and she is partway matching her constellations when heavy footsteps and clanking metal causes her to turn around.

She can still hear song and cheer from the village. "Leaving already?" she asks Sigurd. "The feast doesn't sound over."

He shrugs. "I have eaten my fill. Where to next?"

Freya looks at him. He seems eager to continue his mission. He always is. Once one tasks ends, he asks for another. Breaks are few and far between. Truth be told, she never expected Sigurd to be so obedient and enthusiastic about serving her.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay longer?" she asks. She looks at the crumbling defenses of the village. Most of its citizens are aged or women. "If they attacked again, you will not be around to protect them." Her smile turns coy. "What if your one true love is here?"

Sigurd looks away. "During the feast, one of the women offered me her body as thanks for saving their lives. She told me she loved me, that she would gladly follow me for the rest of my journey. She was very pretty, and also very serious."

"And you said no, didn't you?" Freya asks, not bothering to mask her disappointment.

"She was not the right one."

Freya resists the urge to roll her eyes. "At this rate, none of them will ever be the right one. Perhaps you aren't looking for a 'her', but a 'him'. I won't judge. Love is love, and who you choose to love is your business."

He visibly hesitates. Has she made him uncomfortable? Freya blinks, once then twice. She didn't expect her teasing to hit the nail right on its head.

Sigurd looks back to the village. "I have learned something tonight. Amid all the dancing and feasting, I was in no mood to celebrate with the people I saved. When the woman approached me, I understood why." Then Sigurd looks directly at her, the stars sparkling in his eyes and his lips quivering... he almost looks afraid. "The person I truly wanted to celebrate my victory with was not with me. I could not find her hiding in the halls, so I left. I followed the scent of spring, the glow of life, and the path led me here. I found the right one ages ago, Lady Freya, when I was a young boy surrounded by fire. The person that gave me a reason to live, who saw my value, who saved my life. The person I love is you, Lady Freya."

Freya stares at Sigurd. There is nothing on his face that helps her find the words to say.

"I'm a God," she finally manages. "There are rules, and differences, and expectations…"

"You have ignored them before."

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She doesn't know why she's having so much trouble. She's turned down dozens of Gods in Heaven, sending some of them to tears. She is the goddess of love, and yet she has no idea what to do in this situation.

"I have lovers in Heaven," she says. She knows it will sting, but sometimes the harshest truths are the easiest—

Sigurd doesn't even blink. "We are not in Heaven."

"I…"

Sigurd stands there.

"I…"

Patiently.

"… I have to go, Sigurd."

And he stands there until the very next morning, before making the climb to the dragon's nest alone.

XxXxXxXxX

"We're making good progress," Loki says, kicking her armored legs onto the table. "The seas are finally free of monsters again. Most of them, anyway. They're still trying to track down the Leviathan. That stupid worm can really hold its breath."

Freya nods numbly. The room is filled with the chatter of Gods. Some of them talk in urgent and worried tones as they studied sprawled maps. Others laugh and cheer as they exchange tales of heroism and stupidity.

Freya doesn't know why Loki is here. She's chosen this seat on purpose. It's far away from everyone else, squished up against the corner of the room so anyone wanting to sit with her will have to squeeze themselves against the wall.

In front of Freya is a crystal ball. It shows Sigurd practicing his sword swings. He still does one thousand when he wakes, and another thousand before he sleeps. She hasn't talked to him in over a year, and her Champion has spent that time chasing monsters and diving into danger. As far as she can tell, he has not spoken to another human being since that day.

"That kid again?" Loki said, peering into the crystal ball. "That's the second time I've seen you watching him this week. Is he that special?"

Freya frowns. In her distracted state, she's completely forgotten that Loki has no concept of personal space. She turns off the magic. "He's hardworking," is all she says.

"So?" Loki says. "He's human. They live such short lives. He can work hard for thirty years, but what good will that do? Once they start growing old and weak, it's over. I'm telling you, it's the Spirits that's are saving the world."

Freya forces herself to say nothing more on Sigurd. "Is there something you want, Loki?"

The redheaded goddess across her grins. "Came to share some good gossip. Did you hear? The big guys at the top caught someone breaking one of the ancient laws. I don't know who, but someone had the balls to impart divine magic to a mortal. It almost killed the poor thing, but man, did he get crazy strong afterward. What did they call it… Champion? Something like that."

Freya feigns indifference. "And? What happened afterward?"

"The usual punishment, I guess. Stuck in an administrative position for the next few centuries, got banned from using accessing their Arcana. Poor guy—or girl—even had to watch that mortal get executed."

Freya swallows. "That seems harsh."

"You know the rules, Freya. Divinity belongs to Gods, and Gods alone. We start handing that stuff out to mortals, who knows what will happen? There has to be a line between mortals and us. Once we start blurring it, then things start getting messy."

Messy is certainly one way to describe her situation, Freya thinks.

"Well, anyway, the Elves are about to launch an offensive to retake one of their sacred forests, and I wanna watch. Cheer up, Freya. The war's finally starting to turn in our favor."

Freya watches Loki leave, wondering where everything went downhill.

XxXxXxXxX

Sigurd has not slept in two days, and Freya is worried for him. She stands on a cliff overlooking the battle. Monsters fall left and right, and the corpses keeping piling up. Ever since Heaven began cracking down on illicit Champions, Freya has been sneaking into the mortal realm to cast a protective veil every time hers engages in battle.

She does not want Sigurd to be found, even if it means making her guilt undeniable.

Sigurd fights until the Sun sets. Under the light of the moon, his sword has a crimson sheen as he lowers it. It is a familiar sight for Freya. Sigurd's chest rises and falls as he pants. Even with Divine magic flowing through him, fighting for days at end never ceases to exhaust him.

His legs buckle and his sword clatters uselessly to the ground. His eyes are already closed when his head falls onto her lap. She sighs. It is a habit she has not yet manage to break. In the morning, when Sigurd wakes, it will only be to the smell of freshly bloomed flowers, the only sign Freya is willing to leave to show she has not abandoned him.

Sigurd is around two centuries old at this point. Yet, every time she looks at his face, all she can see is the fourteen-year-old boy sitting on the slain Minotaur. If anything, his soul has become even brighter and purer since then. Even if the two of them are in this mess, Freya does not regret turning him into her Champion. If there is someone that embodies the tenacity and infinite potential of humanity, it is him.

She starts wiping the blood off his face and armor.

Then the sound of someone clearing their throat causes her to point Sigurd's sword behind her.

She drops it right away. Her blood freezes, and Freya cannot recount a time in her long life where she felt this afraid.

"Ouranos."

"For all the effort you put into hiding your Champion from your fellow Gods, you also make it painfully obvious that he is yours."

The bearded old man walks closer until he is standing over Sigurd.

Freya tenses. She remembers Loki's words.

"I saw his battle. Most impressive. Now I understand why the concentration of monsters here is so low." Then he turns to her and grins. "There are many Gods that would kill to be in his position right now."

Freya doesn't know how to react. Sigurd's sleeping form on her lap makes escape impossible. Resistance would make things worse. "Are you here to kill him?" she asks.

That is the only thing on her mind right now.

"No," Ouranos says. "I'm on your side. You aren't the only God I know that has sired a Champion. We need Champions like him. It is because of them that the tide of war has swung in our favor. Until the monster threat is vanquished, I will do what I can to divert the attention of the others from Champions like him."

Freya feels like she can finally breathe again. "Thank you," she says.

Ouranos shakes his head. "I'm not exonerating him. Only delaying his fate. When the war is won and the need for Champions disappears, so must the Champions. I hope you understand that, Freya. Only tragedy awaits him."

He leaves before Freya can say a word.

When the morning comes, Sigurd blearily opens his eyes. "…Lady Freya?"

She smiles at him and helps him sit up. "Good morning, Sigurd."

XxXxXxXxX

They don't talk about Sigurd's declaration of love to her. Freya makes sure that they do not.

Whenever Sigurd makes any attempt to bring the subject up, she diverts the conversation. If that doesn't work, she ignores him outright. But Sigurd can be both dense and stubborn at times, so sometimes she simply vanishes off the face of the Earth while he is trying to broach the topic to her.

She hasn't turned him down. She can't bring herself to—the man has a tragic enough path ahead of him.

Instead, she does what she can to make what time he has left enjoyable, even if she cannot give him the one thing he desires most. He seems satisfied with her companionship, so she does her best to give him that. It's easier now. With the war going well, and the frontlines inching closer to the Dungeon, more and more Gods have the motivation to help in whatever ways possible. They perform small miracles, spur the hearts of battling warriors, provide visions and warnings—everything in their power to give mortals the edge over their enemies.

Freya considers this a good thing. More Gods on the surface means fewer of them in Heaven, where they can see everything, including Sigurd's impossible strength and powers. She is doing everything she can to hide him from prying eyes, but as Ouranos' visit has shown, her veils are not as airtight as she'd assumed.

It has been years since, and things have calmed down somewhat. She has not met Ouranos again, though the elder God does send the occasional message to her, indicating hotspots of monster activity. Sometimes, she wonders what will happen if she ignores his subtle commands. But then again, why else did she turn Sigurd into a Champion if not to slay monsters?

"Lady Freya, we are nearing the meetup point." Sigurd's voice shakes her out of her thoughts.

Breaking through the treetop canopy ahead are a few columns of campfire smoke. There is organization to the war effort now. Before, with cities and empires falling all over the place, and refugees arriving in droves, the global situation was chaos. But those days are over. Mortals are reclaiming their stolen land, and Sigurd has been tasked to lead a convoy of displaced humans back to their home village.

It's the first time Ouranos has given them a job like this.

She turns to look at her Champion. He doesn't look a day over 25—and has kept that appearance for almost two hundred years now. He walks, swinging his broad shoulders, and somehow barely makes a sound despite his heavy armour and the broadsword strapped to his back. His white hair remains short—the only part of his body that still grows—and Freya takes a little pride at how good it looks on him.

She's the one that cuts it for him, after all.

"I'll be going first, then," Freya says.

She shifts into her astral state so mortals can't see her. She finds interacting with them a hassle. The men ogle at her and the women stare at her with admiration or jealousy. She can never seem to fully caste off her divine aura even when being in a mortal body, and it shows with the natural reverence people treat her with.

She makes sure she doesn't suppress all her divine signature, so Sigurd can tell when she's near him. She sees her Champion's nose twitch. She wonders what he smells. Sometimes it's flowers. Other times it's just the smell of grass. She doesn't understand how Champions' senses work, and neither does he.

They make their way to the campsite. The displaced villagers have set up camp in a grassy clearing just outside the forest. There are about five hundred of them. They are young and fit; it figures that the older and sick ones never managed to escape in the first place. Their original village is only a few miles into monster territory, making it one of the last ones to fall. It should still be in decent shape.

They aren't harmless and ordinary civilians. Their campsite looks more like a military outpost than a gathering of refugees. Wooden pikes carved from the forest's trees have been hammered into the ground to stop a monster rush if there is one. An improvised fence made from twigs and branches form a perimeter, and in the centre of it all, a watchtower—made from an entire great oak, chopped and dragged from the forest—erected to watch over the surroundings.

Freya can't help but feel respect for these humans. The men—and many women—are all donned in armour, with iron helmets that cover everything but their eyes. Their swords and shields are lined up neatly on racks surrounding the central watch tower, and their large rectangular shields form a protective wall around their tent city. In the special area reserved for children, they are running around with wooden swords, preparing for the war in their own innocent way.

The war has touched everyone's lives, but in very different ways. For this particular village, Freya is glad to see that it hasn't turned them into cowering fools that hide behind walls and look to others for help.

Sigurd marches confidently to the two men guarding the entrance.

"Who are you?" one of them asks.

"My name is Sigurd," he says. "I'm here to help you retake your village."

The two men look at each other. Freya can sense their confusion.

"Where are the rest?" the other asks.

"There is only me."

Their confusion turns into concern. Then amusement.

"You killed a dragon on your own?"

"Yes."

Their amusement dies with Sigurd's curt response. They look at Sigurd closely. Their necks crane up as they realize how big he is—Sigurd is a whole head taller than any other mortal man Freya has seen. One of them leans to the side to catch a glimpse of his broadsword, which looks too big and impractical for a regular human to use.

By now, everyone knows of the rumours. Superhuman feats accomplished by superhumans. Even Ouranos cannot stop humanity's love for gossip and storytelling.

"Come with me," one them says, nudging his head.

Sigurd follows him, and Freya shadows the both of them. His entrance is accompanied with curious gazes from the villagers. Despite their defences and guarded atmosphere, anything that walks on two legs and speaks a mortal language is welcomed with open arms these days. Besides, these people know a fellow warrior when they see one.

The guard leads Sigurd to the command tent, which looks no different from the other large tents, except for the flag planted outside the entrance.

"The chief's inside," the guard says. "He's been waiting, but I think he expected more of you."

"I will be enough," Sigurd says, and ducks into the tent.

Freya lingers for a moment to appreciate the nervous gulp the guard makes before returning to his post.

When she enters the tent, she is greeted by silence.

There are less than a dozen people inside, and all of them are gawking at Sigurd's imposing form. There is a large table in the middle with a map laid out across it. There rest of the space is occupied by shelves filled with scrolls and books.

The occupants of the room remain stationary and noiseless until Sigurd unslings his sword and drops it to the floor with a loud clunk. "I am Sigurd. I have been asked to assist your efforts to retake your village."

Freya assumes the man standing at the head of the table is the village chief. He is relatively older than the rest—his hair is half-grey, and the red claw-marks on his face tell Freya he is no stranger to monsters. He is the first to get over his shock.

"My name's Talon." A second later, Freya sees why. He lifts an arm to his chest, which has a sharp and curved metal blade connected to his wrist instead of a hand. Then he bows. "Thank you for coming to our aid."

The only woman in the room clears her throat. She is red-haired and has a slender figure. She wears a battle skirt, and is also the only person who is wearing all her armour. Her helmet is squeezed between her arm and her waist.

"This is our help? He's one man."

"He is enough," Talon says. "If my source says that he killed a Dragon, then he must have."

Freya frowns. She wonders where the man got his information from in the first place. Sigurd hasn't killed a Dragon in while.

"Did you really?" a man asks.

Sigurd nods. He does not shy away from his achievements, but Freya also knows that he dislikes being the centre of attention. "The village," he says, pointing to the map, "how far is it from here?"

"Three days by foot," Talon says. "Two, if you're fast. Our horses are still too tired from the long journey here, and we'd rather keep them here with the caravans in case we need a quick escape."

Sigurd shrugs. Freya knows he doesn't care—he can outrun a horse.

Talon points to a spot on the map that has been circled red. "This is our village. There is a river behind it, which means that monsters will have trouble retreating and retaking it once we have control."

"Unless they can fly," Sigurd says.

"That is a possibility," Talon says. "We haven't scouted out the actual place yet. So far, we've gone as far as here," he points to the base of a hill between them and the village, "and there's no monster activity up to the hill at least. If they come over, we'll see them from the watch tower."

"This place will act your base of operations?" Sigurd asks.

Talon nods. "You can help us scout out the actual village itself. We'll need to know what we're up against before we commit our main forces."

"I will go alone," Sigurd says. "I do not want to be rude, but you will only slow me down."

Talon frowns. He looks Sigurd up and down, and then his gaze drops to his broadsword lying on the floor. "I don't doubt that. But you should take my daughter with you, at least. She's the fastest runner we have, and she grew up here. She's familiar with the village's layout and the terrain around it."

Freya sees Sigurd thinking about it. Up to this point, he is used to working alone. But he has always prioritized the success of the mission over his own personal preferences. "Thank you, then," he says, "where is she? I will introduce myself to her."

"Oh, I'm right here," the red-haired woman says. "I'm Brynhilda. Nice to meet you, Sigurd."

Sigurd blinks. It's not often that Freya sees her Champion surprised. But he gets over it quickly. "When would you like to depart?"

She lifts up her helmet and slides it over her head. With her face almost completely hidden, and her armour hiding the curves of her body, it's almost impossible to tell Brynhilda is a woman by looks alone.

"Right now."

XxXxXxXxX

"You don't talk much, do you?" Brynhilda says.

Without a mortal body to weigh her down, Freya can keep pace easily, following Sigurd and Brynhilda in her astral state like a breeze of wind. It's a good day for a walk—clear weather, and a scenic view of the countryside. So far, there haven't been any monsters, but only because they've yet to cross the hill.

They have been running for over three hours. Well, only Brynhilda is running—Sigurd is in more of a light jog.

Sigurd glances at Brynhilda. "Do you need to stop?"

"No," she says, panting. "I can still run."

"Let's take a break."

"Didn't you hear me? I said—"

"I'm hungry," Sigurd says. He drops to a squat and tugs the bags he's carrying—including Brynhilda's—off his shoulders.

Finally, once Brynhilda sees that he's made himself comfortable on the grass, she sighs and sits next to him. Freya hovers around her as she takes off her armour. The tunic underneath is drenched with sweat, and her chest rises and falls as she pants. She'd originally tied her hair into a tight bun, but that has fallen apart since, and sweat-slicked red locks hang down to her shoulders messily.

So, she's a liar, Freya thinks, as Brynhilda massages her calves.

Sigurd tosses a sheepskin bag of water over to her. She catches it and chugs the whole thing down.

"We only have two bags each," Sigurd says, raising an eyebrow.

"It's fine. There's a stream beyond the hill. We can refill our water there."

"I see," Sigurd says, finally drinking some water of his own.

They split some of the cured meat they have, as well as some dried fruits and vegetables.

"How old are you?" Brynhilda asks. "You don't look that much older than me."

"27," Sigurd lies. He's been '27' for the past century and a half.

"And you killed a Dragon?"

"Yes." Several of them, Freya knows. She was there most of the time.

The girl eyes him cautiously. "Was it a big Dragon?"

"The size of a small hill. Black-scaled. Breathed fire," Sigurd pauses. "I can't remember if it had two legs or four."

Brynhilda laughs. "You're bluffing. If I ever killed a Dragon, I'd count how many fangs it had in its mouth. Just to brag, of course."

"You wouldn't," Sigurd says. "You'd be too tired afterward."

"Hm, that's probably true. How did you kill it?"

"If you put enough holes in its wings, it won't be able to fly. It gets easier from there."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll be sure to remember that if I ever meet a Dragon."

Snarky, too, Freya thinks.

Sigurd shrugs. "You probably won't. There aren't many of them left."

He isn't lying. Several of Ouranos' directions have led them to Dragon nests. She assumes the other Champions have similar experiences—the most dangerous monsters are being left to them to slay.

The conversation flows naturally from there. Brynhilda asks Sigurd questions about his life and monster-slaying, which he mainly answers with half-truths and flat lies. Sigurd, just as Freya expected, doesn't ask Brynhilda any questions about her own life.

Freya sighs. Sigurd shows as much interest in women as he does a shrub, or a fern. She wishes she'd chosen a normal mortal to be her Champion. But then again, all the normal mortals she'd chosen before kept dying.

After about thirty minutes, Sigurd finally asks a question of his own. "Have you rested enough to keep running?"

"Yeah," Brynhilda says standing up. Then she sees the small smile on Sigurd's face. "What?"

"So you were tired."

Brynhilda reddens. "You tricked me."

"You were the one being dishonest first."

She turns away. "Shut up. Let's go. I can run all day."

"Brynhilda."

"What?"

"Do you still want me to carry your bag for you then?"

Freya blinks. Is Sigurd… flirting with her? A grin creeps onto her face. There may be hope for him yet.

XxXxXxXxX

Brynhilda whistles as the balrog is cut in half with a single swing.

"I believe you now. You really did kill a Dragon," she says, kicking the bifurcated corpse.

Sigurd sheathes his sword and looks at her with furrowed brows. "You didn't believe me before?"

"Well, no. I mean, you're definitely big and strong, but a Dragon's, you know, a Dragon. I didn't think you killed one by yourself."

"I didn't kill it with one swing, if that's what you are thinking about. It took a few hours."

Brynhilda tilts her head. "The city we took refuge in once had a Dragon siege. I heard it took them three days to kill it, and they had several dozen ballistae and hundreds of crossbowmen."

Sigurd shrugs, and keeps walking forward. Freya wishes Brynhilda wasn't around so she can scold him. He's been slipping up around Brynhilda, forgetting to hide his true strength. But another part of her is happy at this development. Maybe he's starting to trust her.

It's been more than a day since they left the outpost. They can't run anymore—or Brynhilda can't—because the grassy plains have been replaced with a dense forest. It hinders their movements, but also helps them avoid monsters.

Not that there are many. Freya had checked, out of curiosity—the forest is teeming with native fauna, and she'd barely found any monsters. The dead balrog was the most dangerous thing. The monsters really are starting to thin out.

The war's end is near—she can smell it. A pang hit her as Ouranos' words came back. And with their victory comes Sigurd's loss.

"I remember this place," Brynhilda whispers, as they trudge through the forest. "My father would take my brothers and me hunting here every weekend. The first thing I ever killed with a bow was a deer, somewhere right here."

"You have brothers?" Sigurd asks.

"Had."

"My apologies. I didn't know."

"It's fine. We were attacked ten years ago. My brothers died with my mother. Only my father and I escaped. But you must have heard this before. Everyone's lost someone, haven't they?"

"Probably."

"Sigurd." Brynhilda's voice wavers. She's nervous. "What about you, have you lost anyone?"

Sigurd doesn't even falter in his step. "My entire village. I was the only survivor."

Brynhilda comes to a complete stop. She looks horrified. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you would have it that much worse."

Sigurd stops as well. "I wouldn't have become strong if it hadn't happened. I certainly wouldn't be here right now, helping your people reclaim your village. That's what I tell myself."

Freya can feel it. The fluctuations in Brynhilda's heart. It sounds like the twanging of a tight string being pulled and released suddenly. There was always some lust; Sigurd is a fine specimen of a man, Freya is willing to admit. But now, there is a sliver of a new emotion—Brynhilda is starting to fall in love with him.

Freya can't help but smile. Way to go, Sigurd.

"Shall we keep moving, Brynhilda?" Sigurd asks.

"Hilda."

"What?"

"I want you to call me Hilda."

"But your name is Brynhilda."

"It's a mouthful, isn't it? Hilda will do."

"I see. Hilda, then," Sigurd says.

The red-haired girl beams at him and plays with her hair as she walks ahead. "Come on, Sigurd, catch up."

Sigurd blinks, obviously confused by her odd burst of energy. Then he follows along.

Freya is delighted when she sees that Brynhilda is swaying her hips a little more than normal.

She even knows how to take the lead.

XxXxXxXxX

Freya hovers around the command tent, pleased with herself. The scouting mission has been a resounding success.

"The forest is almost devoid of monsters," Brynhilda reports. "Our forces should be able to pass through with minimal problems. The same goes for the path to our home."

Freya can't tell if Brynhilda's doing it on purpose, but she's standing slightly in front and to the side of Sigurd. They've just returned after four days, and her exhaustion comes in the form of tossed-aside armour and a partially unbuttoned tunic. In other words, if Sigurd looks down, a generous view of her chest awaits him.

His eyes haven't left the map in front of him, of course. He leans forward and points to the centre of the village. "The village has the highest concentration of monsters in the area. They've been living off what we believe are ancestors of your livestock. There are enough sheep grazing the plains around to sustain the monster population. The biggest threat we saw is a Wyvern nest, which is on the roof of the cathedral. Other species include Minotaurs and Kobolds."

Brynhilda's heart flutters with admiration. Freya latches onto the emotion and amplifies it. She's been doing this for the past three days, taking tiny sparks of Brynhilda's emotions and fanning them until they turn into full-on infernos.

Freya is quite proud of herself. From a small infatuation, Brynhilda now dreams of Sigurd whenever she sleeps—Freya's handiwork, of course—but last night she'd barely needed to nudge her sleeping mind before it automatically drifted towards Sigurd.

Talon scratches his chin with his one good arm. "Wyverns? That's not good. We don't have many archers."

"We can't forget the Minotaurs, either," another man says. "Last time it took ten men to take one down, and we still lost three of them. Our archers will be spread thin between the Wyverns and Minotaurs."

The table mutters in agreement.

Sigurd clears his throat. "Leave the Wyverns and the Minotaurs to me."

"Alone?" Talon says.

Sigurd nods. Freya scoffs at the disbelief on their faces. Sigurd can liberate the whole village on his own if wants to.

Ah, another spark, Freya realizes, as she sees Brynhilda looking up at Sigurd.

"It won't be a problem," Sigurd says.

"Very well," Talon says. "We'll set forth tomorrow morning. Prepare the army."

By the end of this week, Freya will have Brynhilda thinking about baby names.

XxXxXxXxX

Freya drifts above the grass, unable to suppress her smile. She'd crept into Brynhilda's tent only to find that the redhead was already dreaming about Sigurd.

Now, if only her Champion could start showing any kind of interest as well. She hasn't tried pulling on any of his emotions, but only because Sigurd hasn't displayed any. Freya can only fan the flames—she can't be the one to ignite it.

She wanders to his tent, which is just outside the settlement. The settlement itself is already overcrowded, and Sigurd has no desire to trouble any of the displaced villagers since most of them are busy preparing for the march tomorrow.

She's surprised to see that she's not his only visitor, and she flares her divinity to let Sigurd know she's there.

Talon sits across Sigurd. It seems his prosthetic is detachable, because his right arm ends in a stump instead of the blade she's used to seeing.

They're sharing a drink.

Talon eyes Sigurd. "I can't believe you came. I delayed this entire operation for a week because of you."

"What do you mean?" Sigurd asks.

Talon looks down at his drink, staring at his reflection. "Have you ever met a God, Sigurd? Or had a prophetic vision?"

Sigurd is obviously taken aback by the question. Freya whispers an answer into his ear for him to repeat.

"I have had a few… unusual encounters that might have been the case, but I can't say for sure."

Eagerly, Talon grabs Sigurd's shoulder with his one good hand. "Tell me, Hero. How did you know to come here? Did an old man appear in your dreams, informing you of our plight while claiming to be a God?"

Ouranos. It has to be him. But Freya can't imagine why the elder God is interfering so brazenly. It's most uncharacteristic of him, especially after all the measures he's been taking for the sake of secrecy—Freya isn't even allowed to know who the other Champions and their patron Gods are.

"Yes," Sigurd says, after Freya tells him to.

Talon unhands Sigurd and lets out a deep breath. "I thought I was crazy. I'm glad to see I'm not. Fate really has decreed that you help us. I used to think the Gods abandoned us."

"They have not," Sigurd says, firmly.

"I know that now. Hero, what will you do once you've finished helping us retake our village?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"Will you join us? Help us rebuild? You've only been with us for a few days, but I think there are people here who will be sad to see you go."

Ah. Brynhilda's been talking to her father.

"Thank you for the offer, but I cannot," Sigurd says, shaking his head. "The war is not won yet. Not until all the land has been liberated, until all the monsters have been slain. There are still things that need to be done."

Talon doesn't hide his disappointment. His shoulders slump forward. "I figured you'd say something like that. But that's the way it should be. We can't have you all to ourselves. I'm sure the Gods still have many trials for you to overcome."

Sigurd nods. "They probably do."

Freya sighs. Truthfully, she only wants one thing for Sigurd.

"Well," Talon finishes his drink, "when everything's over, I want you to know you'll always have a home waiting here."

Sigurd looks at the man. Freya can sense that he's deeply touched. "Thank you," he says softly. "I'll remember that."

Unfortunately, Freya knows, when everything's over, there will be no place Sigurd can return to.

XxXxXxXxX

Freya tenses up when the new divine signature pops up behind her. She's worked hard to improve her veil, so why does he know where they are so easily?

Right, because he's the one that sent them here in the first place.

"Ouranos, come to watch the battle?"

The elder God says nothing, floating beside her.

They're far above the ground. The people look like ants and the Wyverns mosquitoes. Even from this distance, she can spot Sigurd. He's a much bigger ant, and his white hair only helps to separate him from the rest.

The human army is entrenched at the exit of the forest, at the opposite end of a plain from the abandoned village. Moss and overgrown flora give the cobblestone structures a green hue, but for the most part, a good portion of the village hasn't crumbled yet.

A line of shield bearers and spearmen keep the Minotaurs and Kobolds at bay. Any monster that steps into the field that separates both sides is met with a hail of arrows that can tear off limbs from a Minotaur. The only problem for now is the Wyverns.

A whole uprooted tree, sharpened to a point, sails through the airs and impales a Wyvern. The shrieking green mass plummets to the clearing and is nailed there. Its limbs squirm for a few seconds before the creature goes limp and silent.

The humans cheer as Sigurd lifts up another projectile. Freya can't maintain her veil and manipulate Byrnhilda's emotions at the same time. Her only hope is that Sigurd's monstrous strength doesn't somehow turn her off. Finding a familiar mop of red hair patting Sigurd on the back, it's unlikely that will happen.

"Why bother with this?" Freya asks. "The humans needed help, but they didn't need Sigurd. A Spirit, or a powerful enough Elf, could have done this on their own."

Ouranos waits for the next Wyvern to die before replying. "Because I was angry."

Freya looks at him. Angry? So he sends Sigurd to what is basically a walk in the park? The elder God has a strange way of taking his anger out on others.

"Not at Sigurd, or the other Champions," Ouranos says. "But at us. Gods. A Champion died last week. Ambushed by an Extreme Behemoth and a Black Dragon. Now she lies in an unmarked grave, mourned only by her patron God. It angers me, Freya, that we treat out greatest heroes with such disdain."

Freya feels her feature softening. So Ouranos cares. "You didn't write the rules, Ouranos. You merely enforce them." Then she smiles, watching a third Wyvern crash into the ground. "And thank goodness you're doing a rather poor job at that."

He grunts. "I've asked all the Champions to do a trivial task like this. Something simple by their standards, but monumental in the eyes of others. Something people can remember them by. They're Heroes, Freya, and we can't let the world forget the ones who saved it."

Freya watches the battle unfold. The Wyverns' numbers are dwindling, and the rest of the human army is preparing to charge. Sigurd will lead them, naturally.

"Is there no way to save him?" Freya asks.

"No," Ouranos says. "I have tried everything. But there is a way forward."

Freya looks at him. "What do you mean?"

Ouranos furrows his brows and looks away. Freya hasn't seen him look uncertain before. "I've been… experimenting with the Champion process. I think there's a way we can use it without the risks, and still give a near-miniscule fraction of our divinity that will enhance their bodies. I haven't perfected it yet, but… I can think of no better way to honour them, Freya."

"Will the others allow it?" Freya asks. "They seem quite adamant about keeping divinity to ourselves."

"I don't know. I think it will be difficult convincing them. When the time comes, Freya, will you lend me your voice and support?"

Freya keeps quiet. Normally, she prefers staying out of Heaven's squabbling politics. But then she looks at Sigurd, and soaks up the admiration and awe the people around him are exuding.

What did Ouranos say earlier? 'I can think of no better way to honour them'.

Ouranos is trying. So has she. Learning new magic to hide Sigurd from Heaven. Having Aphrodite teach her how to cut men's hair. Spending so much time in a mortal body that she's started missing the sensation of having solid ground beneath her feet.

Freya swallows. "I will help you, Ouranos. Do you have a name for it yet?"

"Falna," Ouranos says.

Freya translates the Divine Tongue in her mind. "God's Grace?"

Ouranos shrugs. "It can mean love as well."

XxXxXxXxX

They took back the village without losing a single person. Sigurd did almost all the work, killing all the Minotaurs by himself and leaving the weaker Kobolds to the villagers. Freya must give credit where it is due. Brilliant strategy, disciplined soldiers, and well-drilled tactics enable the humans to kill them without casualties.

That was six days ago. To Freya's relief, Ouranos instructs that she and Sigurd stay behind to help rebuild the village. Normally, the idea would repel her, but more time with the villagers means more time for Sigurd to spend with Brynhilda.

She strolls around the village, absorbing the cheerful atmosphere. Men jog from one building to another, carrying stacks of wood. The banging of hammers and the grinding of saws fills her ears as she strolls along the stone streets, invisible to mortal eyes. By now, the villagers left behind at the outpost have joined up, their horse-drawn caravans carrying precious supplies not found in the nearby forest.

With Sigurd's help, clearing the debris and rubble only took the first two days. Some of the buildings are unsalvageable, having been too badly damaged during the initial monster invasion, or simply from years of neglect and misuse. But then again, the population of the village has dwindled so much from its pre-invasion state that she's certain everyone will be able to find somewhere to stay, even if it isn't their original home.

Freya slows her pace when Sigurd does. He's a few paces in front of her, Brynhilda next to him—red-haired ponytail swishing about in the wind. Her love for him has only grown these past few days. At this point, she isn't even trying to hide it, and the people around her have noticed. Even now, as she's giving Sigurd a tour of her hometown, the others give them a wide berth, respecting their privacy, but still nosy enough to shoot her knowing looks and encouraging smiles.

Only one person is too dense enough to notice, and unfortunately, it is the target of her affections. Freya resists the urge to groan when Brynhilda pulls on Sigurd's hand and drags him to a statue, and all he does is listen attentively to her explanation of its history, even though their fingers are still interlaced.

It doesn't matter how much skin Brynhilda tries revealing, or if she acts coy or flirty with him. She's even made a few jokes about Sigurd settling down into the village. These hints fly over Sigurd's head. She's ramped up her efforts, knowing that Sigurd is leaving soon.

Freya taps her chin. Tonight is her last chance to make Sigurd fall in love with Brynhilda. Tomorrow evening, they must set out to slay a Behemoth that is fending off mortal armies from approaching the Dungeon.

XxXxXxXxX

Freya stands over Brynhilda's sleeping form. She can feel the moon casting its light on her back through the window behind her. It has a disapproving weight to it, as if one of the lunar Gods, like Artemis, knows what she's planning and is voicing her objection.

In the middle of the night, silence reigns in Talon's house. The village chief is lucky enough that his house was practically left entirely intact, but unlucky enough that he has unoccupied rooms. Sigurd, unable to reject Talon's request, is sleeping downstairs in a room that used to belong to one of his dead sons.

Brynhilda sleeps fitfully before her. The girl's dismay at her failure to win over Sigurd's heart bleeds into her dreams. Freya can see her lips moving, and though she can't read what's being said, a glimpse into her dreams is enough to see that she is indeed dreaming of Sigurd. Freya prepares herself for what needs to be done next. This will require a subtle touch, and some of her magic leaks out of her finger to form a small green orb.

She presses that orb against Brynhilda's forehead. The magic plants itself into the deepest recesses of Brynhilda's mind and begins whispering to her. It floods her mind with foreign thoughts and ideas. Brynhilda's eyes snap open, scanning the room. Freya stands right next to her, but the gaze of the shocked woman passes through as if she's not there. There is uncertainty on Brynhilda's face as she sits up, and Freya quashes that doubt with more mental manipulation.

Brynhilda will need all the resolve she can muster for this.

Freya smiles as the red-haired girl swings her legs off the bed. She barely gives her armour a passing glance as she gets up and walks out the door, aged wood creaking beneath her. She is dressed in a night gown, and the billowing material gives her shadow a ghastly appearance as she treads downstairs.

Gently, she tugs Sigurd's door open.

"What are you doing?"

Brynhilda freezes. Sigurd is sitting up on his bed—he probably woke up when she was walking down the stairs. The room is illuminated by the moon—oil and wax are too precious to burn for now.

Freya can feel Brynhilda's self-consciousness grow as Sigurd stares at her: what is she doing? This is highly uncharacteristic, even for her. It all started with that weird dream, and then there were the voices in her head telling her to come down, and…

Freya quells those thoughts for her: 'This is no time for self-doubt. Actions speak louder than words.'

Brynhilda pulls a few strings on her nightgown and the fabric slips to the floor, leaving her exposed to Sigurd.

"Again," Sigurd says, "what are you doing, Hilda?"

Hilda's thoughts mirror Freya's. How can a person be so dense? But it is working. Freya can sense Sigurd's arousal. His gaze drops below Brynhilda's eyes, just for a little moment.

Anxiety, embarrassment, and uncertainty begin creeping into Brynhilda's mind again. Freya fills her up with the confidence needed.

She steps toward Sigurd, letting the beams of moonlight fall on her naked body through the glassless window. "I'm trying to seduce you, Sigurd."

Annoyingly, Sigurd has a surprising amount of self-control and awareness. A mental dam crashes down, sealing off his lust, and Freya thinks better than to mess with his emotions—if he finds out she is interfering, the entire plan will fail.

She will have to trust in Brynhilda.

"I, um…" At least Sigurd is taken aback by the situation. The fact that Brynhilda has him flustered is a good sign. "I do not think is a wise choice of action, Hilda. I am leaving tomorrow."

"Exactly why I have no choice," Brynhilda says. She walks toward him, footsteps heavy and hips swaying. She climbs onto his bed, parting her legs slightly so she can sit on him. Freya wonders if Brynhilda knows that Sigurd sleeps naked—the only thing separating her from her goal is a wool blanket. "I'm in love with you, Sigurd."

"Are you sure?" Sigurd says. "You haven't known me even a month."

"I am more sure about this than I have been about anything else."

Sigurd gulps. "That's not good. I am not the man you think I am. There are many things about me you don't know. Things that you wouldn't want to know, Hilda."

She shrugs. The raising and dropping of her shoulders distracts Sigurd, and Freya relishes in seeing his eyes drop to Brynhilda's chest.

Seize the momentum!

Instantly, Brynhilda leans forward, pressing her hands against Sigurd's bare chest. "Maybe. Maybe not. That's the fun part about love, isn't it? Learning new things about your beloved. I have chosen to love you Sigurd, and I will try my hardest to keep loving you, even the parts about you that are hard to love."

"Things won't end well," Sigurd tries. "I need to leave tomorrow."

"I will leave with you, then. I am serious, Sigurd. I will be yours if you let me. I may not be able to keep up with you in a fight, but I can help in other ways. No one should shoulder everything on their own."

Freya raises an eyebrow. That's an even better outcome than she hoped for.

He shakes his head. "Don't throw your life away for someone you just met."

"You came to aid our village even though you didn't know us. That's enough for me to know you are a good man, Sigurd. Someone worth uprooting my life for."

There is a tremble in Sigurd's heart. Yes! A crack in his defences. Now, go in for the kill!

Brynhilda leans further forward. Their chests are now pressed against one another, and her lips only an inch away from Sigurd's.

Her Champion's eyes widen. She can feel his alarm; the fiery electricity coursing through his veins is a sensation he's never experienced before. The dam has broken—something more than lust, but not quite love, has gripped Sigurd's heart.

Brynhilda dives down for the kiss.

"Wait."

Sigurd stops her, grabbing her shoulder before the deed is sealed. His eyes dart around the room, and Freya mutes her presence as much as possible so Sigurd can't tell she's here.

A second later, Sigurd meets Brynhilda's eyes. The girl's heart is pounding, each beat reverberating through her body with such intensity Freya wonders if Sigurd can feel her trembling in his grip.

"There is already someone else I love."

NO! Sigurd, you fool!

The admission shatters Brynhilda's world. Her heart stops for a few moments. She straightens, distancing herself from Sigurd's face. The bare millimetres between their lips has turned into an untraversable gap.

"What?" she says.

Brynhilda's pain mixes with Freya's. That bumbling fool. Why? Why doesn't he understand this is his last chance at happiness?

"I should have told you earlier," Sigurd says.

No, you shouldn't have told her at all.

"I'm sorry, Hilda. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Then take those words back. Pull her in for a kiss. Tell her you love her.

A breaking heart is a world of hurt. Because their emotions are still linked, every word Hilda hears stabs Freya. For more than a whole week, Freya has done nothing but build up love and affection for Sigurd. Now, her efforts are crumbling before her, each painstaking block crashing onto Hilda's heart, crushing it with unreciprocated weight.

Brynhilda stands up and gets off the bed.

Don't go. You musn't give up yet. You're his last hope.

Freya grabs onto the shred of hesitation in Hilda's heart, and wrings it for all it is worth: 'you will never find another man like him.'

Brynhilda stiffens, and Freya allows herself to hope. But the girl cannot bring herself to love a man whose heart belongs to someone else. She feels guilty for even trying.

Damn it all to hell!

Sigurd does nothing as Brynhilda scoops up her clothes and dashes out the room. Only when the sound of bounding steps on the staircase fades away does the man let out a sigh.

Freya finally reveals herself, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. "I hope you're happy, Sigurd."

Sigurd spins toward her so quickly he nearly falls off his bed. "Lady Freya? How long have you been here?"

"Long enough. She's heartbroken, you know. She may never love again."

"She will. Hilda's a strong woman. She'll get over it."

"Why, Sigurd? She loved you. And you like her. Don't deny it. I can tell."

"Because I love you, Lady Freya," Sigurd says, like it's the obvious answer.

"Sigurd. I'm a God."

He shrugs. "And I'm a Champion. Hilda will only get hurt."

"And so will you, if keep chasing that pipe dream."

"I'm willing to accept it. And it doesn't matter, does it, Lady Freya? The war will end soon. The Gods will kill me once it does, won't they? I'd rather Hilda not be anywhere near me when that happens."

Freya tenses. "How did you know?"

"You always change the subject when I ask what I'm supposed to do after the monster threat is gone."

Freya doesn't want to lie to him. But sometimes she can't bring herself tell him the truth, either. "I'm sorry, Sigurd. I tried my best to protect you."

"I believe you, Lady Freya," Sigurd says. "I know you never meant to hurt me."

"And I'm sorry that love has only brought you pain, Sigurd. That you never got to enjoy it. I wanted you to experience love at least once, even if it was for a few short days."

"Love has never brought me pain, Lady Freya."

Freya looks at him. "But I can't love you, Sigurd."

"I know. That doesn't change that fact that I love you, Lady Freya. Nor does it change the fact that I was supposed to have died several hundred years ago. Every day I have lived as a Champion has been a blessing, Lady Freya. I have you to thank for that. I will never feel hurt that you cannot love me, because you have done more for me than I can ever do for you. So please, Lady Freya, do not feel bad for my sake. You have done more than enough, more than I can ever repay."

Freya stares at Sigurd's smiling face and she instantly knows, with the wisdom and foreknowledge only a God can have, that she will never meet another man like him again.

XxXxXxXxX

"A good morning to you, Fre-ya!"

Freya cracks an eye open. Above her, swirling galaxies and floating nebulae drift across the celestial sky. There are billions of stars shining above her, perhaps trillions of them. Yet, none of them, she thinks, holds a candle to Sigurd's soul.

What had she been dreaming about?

Then Loki's red-haired head pops into view, ruining her thoughts and the view of the celestial sky.

Freya sighs as she sits up on the bench. She chose the Gardens of Heaven to nap in precisely because she thought nobody would disturb her here.

"What do you want, Loki?" she asks.

Without asking, Loki slides onto the bench next to her. "Well, I haven't seen you around in so long, so I thought I'd say hi!"

"I've been busy."

"We all have been, haven't we? I can't count how many miracles I did just this week alone. But maaan, those Elves really are something else, aren't they? Did you see how all their tribes united against that Black Dragon? Blasted off so many magical spells the explosions didn't stop for a whole hour. Of course, I gave their princess the vision that the Dragon was coming in the first place. It feels good to do a good deed, doesn't it?"

"Well done, Loki," Freya says. Sigurd can kill a Black Dragon alone.

Loki grins, even though Freya didn't bother hiding her sarcasm. "Moody, aren't we? I guess that means you haven't heard the good news yet."

"What good news?"

"The mortal armies. They've formed a giant task force between all the races. They begin their march to the Dungeon tomorrow."

Freya's eyes widen. "Tomorrow? That's too soon, isn't it?"

"That's what I thought too, but it seems the Behemoth that was guarding the mountain pass retreated somewhere. The commanders want to make a dash for the Dungeon before it returns. Then they'll hold it down and suppress any monsters that try to leave while they build the wall around the Dungeon."

Freya is speechless.

"I know right?" Loki says. "I can't believe it, either. The end of the war is finally here!"

XxXxXxXxX

Freya steps back and looks at her handiwork, nodding her head. She's much better at this now.

"What do you think, Sigurd?" she asks.

Despite over two centuries of existence, Sigurd somehow still does not own a mirror. Instead, he picks up his sword, unsheathes it, and looks at his reflection using the blade. Combing his fingers through his hair, he turns his head from side to side.

"It's a bit shorter than normal," he says. "No wonder you took a longer time." He pauses, as if he wants to say more, but then he bites his lips, and Freya knows he has swallowed the rest of his words.

She looks out the window. It has been weeks since a monster has crawled out of the Dungeon—parties of heroes have been sent inside every day to suppress monster spawn rates. Houses have been built for these warriors, and eateries and supply stores have popped up as well. The tavern she and Sigurd are in was initially built so families of warriors had somewhere to stay. There is even a church being built. Freya knows that this is a birth of a new city, and perhaps nothing better signifies the end of the war than an infant settlement being built right above the Dungeon.

Looming over thatched cottages and stone buildings is the beginnings of the great wall that will surround the city. It's a brave idea—in the event of another monster outbreak, the people will seal themselves in with their enemies, buying time for the other nations to send help.

She looks back at Sigurd. His soul remains a brilliant white, untarnished and pure. He is still checking his appearance using his sword, his features stern and grim. Freya hesitates. Is this really the best she can do? Maybe she can try a new style for Sigurd, how would a buzz cut look on him? He's had the same hairstyle for the past few decades—shouldn't it be time to try something new?

She knows she's stalling. Freya doesn't want this moment to end. She wishes Sigurd could sit in this chair forever, with her standing behind him. She doesn't mind spending the next few hours just fiddling with her scissors and his hair, telling him to stop fidgeting lest he wants his ear cut off.

Finally, Sigurd puts down his sword. "It's perfect for my final haircut, Lady Freya. Thank you."

She wishes she can do more for him than just making him look his best before his execution, whenever that is. Ouranos hasn't said anything yet, but with the monster threat more or less quelled, it must be soon. Already, she has heard rumors of other Elder Gods investigating the rumors of Champions interfering in the War. If they do find out about her and Sigurd, it doesn't change anything about Sigurd's inevitable death, but Freya would rather his death remain a noble sacrifice than a punishment for a crime.

"We don't know that yet," she says. "Gods are fickle sometimes. They might change their minds, or—"

"It's okay, Lady Freya, you don't have to raise my hopes up. I've lived longer than any human should have. I've done more for the world, and for you, than most men can even dream of. I'm fine, leaving as things are."

That can't be true. He's lying, Freya knows, so she won't feel horrible. She hasn't given him the one thing he wants most, and even if they weren't on a deadline, she probably never will. Gods and mortals are too different. She does love him, just not in the way he loves her.

She doesn't want Sigurd to die.

Was she being selfish? Maybe this was better for Sigurd. Maybe he was telling the truth. Death might be better than spending an eternity lovelorn. This is for the best, she tells herself. She can't ask Sigurd to torment himself any further, being so close to his forbidden fruit, knowing he will never have a bite.

Sigurd will die soon. There is nothing she can do to change this. But that doesn't mean there's nothing she can do for him.

"I'm glad you think it's perfect," Freya says, running her fingers through his hair. "The town council is holding a festival tomorrow in celebration of the war's end, and I refuse to be seen with a man that is anything less than perfect."

"Lady Freya? I don't understand."

She swallows, taking the time to phrase her thoughts. "Sigurd, would you like to attend the festival with me? There will be a dance at the end of it."

"I… Is it okay for you to be seen with me?" Sigurd says. "With the war over, won't the other Gods be more observant? If they see you with me…"

Stupid boy. He's dying soon, and he still only thinks of her. "The other Gods won't care. Some of them will be descending from Heaven to join in the festivities. I doubt I will be the only God dancing with a mortal."

Sigurd frowns. "But…"

Freya's eyebrow twitches with annoyance. What's holding him back? After everything he's been through, what can he possibly still be afraid of? "What's wrong? Spit it out."

Sigurd sighs. "I don't know how to dance, Lady Freya."

"Bfft." Freya can't help it. An unladylike snort escapes. When Sigurd looks away, the most embarrassed she has seen him in years, she smiles. "I'll teach you."

XxXxXxXxX

Sigurd says yes, naturally. Freya knows he can't turn her down. And even in the one-in-a-million chance he did, all she'd need to do was rephrase her request into a command, and he would have obeyed.

The bed and the rest of the furniture have been pushed to the side of the room. The remaining space is barely large enough for them to practice dancing in. There is also no music, which makes it difficult for them to sync their movements together.

Sigurd's palm is sticky with sweat. He dances with jerky movements, shrugging his shoulders every time Freya adjusts her grip on his waist. It's a refreshing change, seeing her normally composed Champion so unnerved and jumpy. It's almost as if he's afraid of touching her. For a man who can cut a Minotaur in half, he holds her hand in an impotent grip. His other hand, which is supposed to be on her waist, barely grazes her clothes.

"Sorry," Sigurd says, after stepping on her toes for the third time.

Freya does her best to suppress the wince and not let the pain show. Sigurd is a large and heavy man, and she is sorely regretting her habit of walking around the mortal realm barefoot.

"I've seen you avoid fireballs and poisoned spikes with inhuman grace. Why do you turn into a clumsy oaf when you dance?" she asks.

"I don't know," Sigurd says. "I will try to be more careful."

"Eyes up here, Sigurd. It's rude to look away from your partner in the middle of a dance."

"Sorry," he says, again.

"Ow. Okay, that's it."

"Where are you going, Lady Freya?"

"I'm going to borrow a pair of slippers. You wait right here. We're not done yet. Far from it."

XxXxXxXxX

It's nothing compared to the parties she's used to in the Divine Realm, but the newly-christened Orario's town council has thrown an impressive festival, considering that this city didn't even exist a month ago. Perhaps it is the sheer novelty of diversity. Nowhere else in the world has Freya seen so many of the races intermingling with each other.

In the empty plot of land that has become the town square, dozens of stores and carts have popped up along its perimeter. A giant bonfire burns in the middle, sending a column of smoke into the night sky that somehow makes the stars shine even brighter. There is music, lanterns, and lots and lots of people. The air is a cacophony of laughter and chatter, in a myriad of tongues that sounds almost like music.

On Freya's plate, there are the Amazonian's famous spicy kebabs next to an Elvish salad. Sigurd walks next to her, drinking Dwarven beer. This is a glimpse of the future, she is sure of it. Orario is a beautiful thing—biological differences no longer define national borders. Long-held rivalries and bad blood have been forgotten after decades of fighting together. Dwarves and Elves laugh and drink together, as if the feud between them has vanished magically. A band of female warriors walk past, comprised of both human and Amazonian women. There is only friendly cheer between them, as if they have forgotten that Amazonian women used to kidnap and seduce human males for sport.

Freya hides her smile when she walks past a male Boaz trying to chat up a female Cat-person. She can sense the disinterest in the girl, and she follows her gaze to find she's staring at a good-looking Pallum. As a goddess of love, the breakdown of traditional barriers only opens new possibilities. She can feel the romance in the air, and the high tensions causes her body to tingle.

Or perhaps that's just from all the looks she's getting herself. When she walks past a group of men that shoot her lecherous looks, Sigurd walks a little closer to her.

"I can take care of myself, Sigurd," she says.

"There's no need for you to bother yourself with the likes of them, Lady Freya," Sigurd says.

Freya's about to reply when something catches her eye. Oh. There's Demeter. She's with a mortal man, apparently flattered by the attention and praise he's giving her. Demeter notices her and looks at Sigurd. Then she winks at Freya, and turns back to her own human.

She's not the first God Freya's seen this evening.

She passed by Hermes earlier. The god had thrown her a cheerful wave while carrying a small mountain of food. Ishtar had a gaggle of drooling men following her. Ganesha was somewhere and had found a platform to stand on, and was regaling to a crowd tales of heroism he'd seen during the war through epic-poetry.

Truly, no one is going to suspect a thing if she spends the evening with Sigurd in open sight.

She slides her arm through the gap between Sigurd's elbow and body, pulling him closer.

"Lady Freya?" Sigurd asks.

"Come on," she says. "It's almost time for the dance to begin."

Sigurd nods, and his Adam's Apple bobs as he swallows nervously. Arms linked, they make their way to the bonfire.

XxXxXxXxX

"Ho, ho! Who's this, Freya?"

Freya resists the urge to groan when she hears that annoying voice. Of all places and times, why now? She turns around, and there comes Loki stumbling over. The redheaded goddess is holding two cups, both strongly reeking of alcohol. Freya crinkles her nose. Of course, Loki has mixed some Soma into her drinks.

"Hello, Loki," Freya says. "How are you doing this evening? Are you enjoying the festival?"

"I'm—hic—having a blast!" Loki says, raising a cup. "This stuff is great!"

"Sigurd, this is Loki, a distant cousin of mine," Freya says.

Sigurd nods, stiffening his body. "I am Sigurd. I'm Lady—"

Freya stomps on his foot.

"—I'm F-Freya's dance partner."

It's the first time Sigurd's called her without an honorific. The situation may have called for it, but Freya's still surprised when she doesn't feel upset in the slightest.

"Oh, yeah! There's a dance. I for—hic—forgot all about that. I need to find me a handsome man to dance with. Or a pretty gal. I just wanna get groovy, you get what I mean? Bye, Freya! Have fun, you two!"

Freya watches Loki flounder away, asking everyone she bumps into if they want to dance. She lets out a breath. She worried for nothing—there's no way Loki would have recognized Sigurd in her current state. She turns back to Sigurd, whose eyebrows are furrowed.

"That's a God?" Sigurd asks, evidently concerned.

"Yes," Freya says. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"No, I'm glad I met her."

"Really? Why?" she asks.

Sigurd shrugs. "Because now I know you're special even among Gods, Lady Freya."

Her lips twitch. "If anything, Loki's the special one. Come now, Sigurd. The music's begun. Let's see if you can remember everything you've learned with a crowd watching."

"Why would they be watching?"

Freya doesn't reply. She drags him to the bonfire, where a great number of couples have already gathered and started dancing.

XxXxXxXxX

The sounds of the festival have melted away. There is only the beat of the music thumping through her, and Sigurd's breaths scratching her ears. The dance floor is packed; they are holding each other much closer than they had during practice.

At first, Sigurd's discomfort is apparent from a single touch. As they dance to the music, Freya can feel his muscles tightening. His movements are rigid, and sometimes it feels as if she is physically pulling him from one step to the next. She can tell he is trying hard not to look at his feet.

She calms him not through her words or magic, but through her actions alone. She smiles at him, and his grip on her hand and waist become firmer. She leads Sigurd with her fluid movements, and his muscles relax and follow. Slowly, they sway to the music in unison, match each other's steps perfectly, and become a hypnotic mesh of limbs everyone else cannot help but give room for. Men and women alike around them tear their eyes away from their own partners to watch them.

Throughout, Sigurd remembers her lessons. His eyes are trained on hers, and hers on his. There is worry in them. Despite everything, Sigurd is still distracted.

Freya pulls him in closer, and whispers into his ear, "focus on the now, Sigurd. There will always be time to worry about what happens next. Let go of everything. You've done nothing but fight and worry the past two hundred years. Now is the time for you to let loose. Enjoy the moment. Enjoy being with me, Sigurd."

Sigurd nods as she leans back.

"That's right, Sigurd. Look at me. Dance with me. Be with me."

His eyes shine. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face until it stretches wider than Freya has ever seen. Yes, Sigurd, you're dancing with the woman you love. Don't let this chance go to waste. His arms and legs move before hers, pulling her along. He starts leading, finally dancing with a purpose, instead of following Freya.

For one dance, Freya can be his. And when Sigurd realizes that, his soul starts burning so brightly Freya realizes it was never white in the first place. It is a radiant transparent, a soul so clear and pure Freya can see every emotion that drifts through it.

It is the most beautiful thing she has seen since Creation itself.

XxXxXxXxX

Freya sits on an empty bench. The dance is over, and Sigurd has gone to fetch refreshments. Even now, it feels like the whole thing was a dream. She'd gotten lost in his soul, and her body had moved on its own, acting on Sigurd's cues.

The table is empty except her. No man wants to approach her, not after seeing Sigurd dance with her like that. So when a woman suddenly slides into the seat across her and interrupts her thoughts, Freya blinks in surprise.

She blinks again when she recognizes the woman. It's been a few years, but the slender red-haired woman is someone Freya will probably never forget. The same can't be said for her—she's never even seen Freya before.

"And you are?" Freya asks.

"My name is Brynhilda," the woman says. She looks deeply uncomfortable, squirming in her seat and rubbing her palms together. Still, she has the strength to stare right at Freya. "I, erm, saw you dancing, and I wanted to speak with you."

"I see."

"I just wanted to say," Brynhilda pauses, and takes a deep breath. "Never give up what you have with Sigurd. He's a very special person and if you lose him, you'll never find anyone like him again."

Freya doesn't need to be a God to know Brynhilda is being sincere. The girl's voice is cracking. Freya can guess what happened. She came here after hearing about the war's end hoping to find Sigurd. Brynhilda's heart is twisted with pain, and Freya feels slightly sorry for the maiden. She made Brynhilda fall so deeply in love with Sigurd, after all.

"I know," Freya says softly. "He's one of a kind, isn't he?"

Brynhilda nods.

"Do you still love him?" Freya asks.

The other woman stiffens and looks away. "Is it that obvious?"

Freya shrugs.

"Yes, I do," Brynhilda says.

"Do you regret meeting him, then? Now that you know he'll only bring you pain for the rest of your life?"

Brynhilda winces. She looks at Freya with a new light in her eyes. She wants to be angry, Freya can tell, but there's something holding her back. "Never," she says. "I'll remember him fondly until the day I die. If I ever have children, I will tell them about him. I will raise them to be like him. Sigurd is a blessing to this world, one that I can never think ill of."

Freya smiles. "Thank you."

Brynhilda freezes, obviously not expecting that response. Then she stands up. "I'll be going now."

"Take care, Brynhilda. It was nice meeting you," Freya says. When Bryhilda's form melts into the crowd, she sighs. "It should have been you."

XxXxXxXxX

Freya leans against the railing of the balcony and stares at the moon. Sigurd snores softly behind her. Normally, she would have returned to Heaven the moment Sigurd fell asleep, but with so little time left, she doesn't want to leave his side just yet.

She turns around to glance at Sigurd. His soul is white again. It is still brilliant compared to an ordinary mortal's, but it's dull when she thinks back to the dance. The moment it ended, Sigurd's soul began turning white again—like a fog creeping in to hide its brilliance. She remembers the day she met Sigurd. Back then, he was only a child amidst the burning ruins of his village, the only survivor among a population of hundreds.

During the dance, Sigurd's soul had been filled with a childlike wonder. Love and excitement had coursed through him. A pure soul bathing in the joys of life. That must have been the real Sigurd—who he would have turned out to be if he hadn't been traumatized as a child. Freya clenches her fists. How can fate be so cruel? It only tells her now that the key to unlocking Sigurd's true potential is love?

If only they had more time. Sigurd is bound to have fallen in love with someone else. Or maybe… maybe one day she can bring herself to love—

She stops herself from that dangerous thought. She is no stickler to rules, but some lines shouldn't be crossed.

"Freya."

She jolts, realizing she is no longer alone on the balcony. An elderly man stands next to her.

"Ouranos," she says, almost spitting out the name. It's not fair to him, considering everything he's done for her and Sigurd, but Freya hates his presence and what it means.

"At sunrise, be at the entrance of the Dungeon with your Champion."

Sunrise? That's only a few hours away!

"That's too soon, isn't it?" she says, trying to hide her panic.

"We have no time," Ouranos says, shaking his head. "The other Gods are on the move, investigating rumors and sifting through memories. Any later, and someone will be caught."

Freya swallows. "I see."

"I have bought as much time as I can, Freya. I'm sorry."

And then Ouranos vanishes, probably to deliver the message of doom to the next God.

Freya bites her lips and looks at the night sky. The moon is already more than halfway across. It looks like she will not be returning to Heaven tonight. She turns back, walks toward the bed, and crawls in to lie next to Sigurd, who doesn't even stir in his sleep.

Freya doesn't sleep a wink, and only when the Sun slaps her face with its glaring beams does she nudge Sigurd awake.

"Lady Freya?" he asks. "What are you doing in my bed?"

"Come on, Sigurd. It's time to go."

XxXxXxXxX

Judging by the scowl on Ouranos' face, Sigurd and Freya are the last to arrive. There are about a dozen God-Champions pairs in total gathered in front of the Dungeon, much fewer than Freya anticipated—she wonders if any of them ignored Ouranos' orders. The Gods, like her, are wearing hooded cloaks that hide their faces. Still, Freya can sense their divinity, though it is muted enough she can't tell their identities from that alone.

The Champions are less cautious. From their grim faces, they all know what's coming and understand there's no point in being careful. She's surprised. She thought all the Champions would be like Sigurd—large, imposing figures that would have drawn a God's suspicion after a single glance. That isn't the case. One of the Champions is a Pallum that's the smallest one Freya has ever seen, a bow almost as tall as he is slung over his back. Sigurd is one of two humans, the other is a woman completely clad in armor neck-down. Aside from an eyepatch, she looks just like any other ordinary warrior.

There's nobody else around. Normally, the entrance of the Dungeon is packed with guards and builders. Today, there is only them. Maybe everyone's still resting from the festival yesterday. Maybe Ouranos pulled some strings. The only thing that matters to Freya is that there's no witnesses.

But Freya doesn't understand one thing. Why here? Is Ouranos going to have them executed in the middle of Orario? Will Ouranos ask her to do the deed herself? She doesn't know if she can, even though she doesn't want anybody else to.

Ouranos clears his throat. "Heroes. We do not have much time, and I doubt any of you want to listen to a speech. I will keep things short. For the past few decades, you have dedicated your lives to protecting this world, and have played an instrumental part in ending the monster threat.

"You should have been rewarded. You should have been given medals, praise, and a life of comfort. Instead, we continue to fear your existence and hunt you down. I am sorry for that. The only thing I can give you is one last mission."

Murmurs break out among the crowd. Freya doesn't understand. There is no execution? But surely Sigurd and the others cannot hide forever, can they?

Ouranos gestures behind him. The entrance to the Dungeon is a giant cave that leads underground. Iron bars and a gate have been installed across the mouth, though Freya doesn't see how they will stop a Black Dragon.

Then she understands. They can't.

"Your chances of survival are impossibly slim, but at least they exist," Ouranos says. "You will enter the Dungeon. You will venture as deep as you can go. You will kill everything in your path, and keep killing until there is nothing left to be killed. You will continue to protect the world until your dying breath. This is the only thing I can grant you. A warrior's death, and a sliver of hope."

Freya bites her lips. Can the Dungeon even run out of monsters? This is still a death sentence, just one stretched over centuries, or however long it takes for a Champion to fall. But Ouranos is right. There is still a chance.

Then Ouranos turns away. "You have five minutes to say your goodbyes."

XxXxXxXxX

Some of the other Gods and Champions huddle with each other, speaking quiet tones. Some are crying outright. The human woman and her God are locked in embrace, kissing each other.

If Sigurd has any thoughts at the sight, he keeps them to himself, which Freya is thankful for.

Freya sits on the floor, head resting on her thighs. She wanted this, she told him. A reminder of their past, whenever Sigurd collapsed after a hard battle and she would be there to catch him. She runs her hand through his hair. She shouldn't have cut it so short. Now it's hard and bristly.

They haven't spoken at all.

"Lady Freya…" Sigurd finally says.

"Five hundred years," she says.

"What?"

"You have five hundred years to complete your mission. That's all I'm giving you. Once you've finished killing everything, come straight back to me. I'll be waiting here. Right at the entrance of the Dungeon."

"Lady Freya, I don't think I'll—"

"If you don't come back in five hundred years, I'll go down and look for you."

Sigurd laughs. How can he still do it? He's been handed a suicide order.

"Lady Freya, you said the Dungeon summons terrible monsters every time a God has entered it. The others won't let you. Plus, you'll be making my job harder."

"Fine. Then I'll send people down to look for you."

"I'll be pretty deep down, I think."

"They will be strong people. I will choose only the best."

"I hope they aren't better than me," Sigurd says, smiling.

"Never," Freya says. "No one will ever be."

Ouranos clears his throat. "It's time."

Silence descends after that.

Freya leans down and kisses Sigurd on the forehead. "Stay strong, Sigurd. I believe in you."

Sigurd gulps. The fog in his soul clears up, and the transparent brilliance starts shining through like the sun after a storm.

"I'll be back, Lady Freya," he says, standing up. "And thank you for everything."

"I'll be waiting, Sigurd. It's rude to make a lady wait long."

She's enraptured by the brilliance of Sigurd's transparent soul as he walks into the Dungeon with the other Champions that it's only much later she realizes she couldn't see the other Champions' souls at all.

Had Sigurd's brilliance and beauty outshined theirs? Or perhaps the souls of other Gods' Champions can't be seen?

She only knows one thing. In all likelihood, she will never see such beauty in her immortal life again.

XxXxXxXxX