The air outside was thick with mist, not even the constellations dotting the roots of Yggdrasil were visible. On Midgard, one year bled into the next but it hardly affected Hela; time governed the living realms, not this place. And yet, she of all the gods in her pantheon could best appreciate the transient nature of mortals. Their lives were made all the more thrilling by the awareness that they would not last. There was no time to waste on pettiness or regrets; one simply had to keep moving forward.
She had no clear goals, merely the thankless task of collecting shades who did not wish to be with her. Her existence was a moderate one but empty. She had spent much of her early life in Niflhel crying, so there were no tears left for her to shed. She had grown numb to grief but nor could she experience any true pleasure. Death was meant to instigate change and her only joy would come from indulging in that aspect of herself. Perhaps her beginning would only come at the end of everything else?
'At least I have you Sweetling.’ Hela whispered, fondling Garmr’s ears.
Hela of Norse mythology
195 words
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