Last chapter of this one, my friends.

The passage at the beginning is from Seamus Heaney's translation of "Beowulf"

The song has already been used:)

I listened to "Sorrow" from the Gladiator Soundtrack, then "Letting Go" from the Thor soundtrack.

Enjoy

VVVVV

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Perhaps we are given a mom

that we might take into death

the memory of a lullaby."

~Robert Brault

"The Geat people built a pyre for Beowulf

stacked and decked it until it stood four-square,

hung with helmets, heavy war-shields

and shining armor, just as he had ordered.

Then his warriors laid him in the middle of it,

Mourning a lord far-famed and beloved.

On a height they kindled the hugest of all

Funeral fires; fumes of woodsmoke

billowed darkly up, the blaze roared

and drowned out their weeping, wind died down

and flames wrought havoc in the hot bone-house,

burning it to the core. They were disconsolate

and wailed aloud for their lord's decease.

A Geat woman too sang out in grief;

with hair bound up, she unburdened herself

of her worst fears, a wild litany

of nightmare and lament: her nation invaded,

enemies on the rampage, bodies in piles,

slavery and abasement. Heaven swallowed the smoke."

Loki took a shallow breath, reached up and turned the page of the small book. The crisp flick of that motion clicked through the room. Silence followed. Always silence.

Out of the corner of his left eye, he caught a glimmer of gold.

A shining, man-shaped form approached the transparent wall of Loki's cell. One of the guards. His feet tapped on the stones. Loki did not look up at him. Probably just bringing more food Loki wouldn't eat, or more books…

"Your Highness."

Loki frowned. Minutely.

Your Highness?

Hm.

He waited.

"Your Highness," the guard said again, quietly. Carefully. "I have been sent to tell you that the Dark Elves attacked the palace. They penetrated the inner chambers, and killed the Queen. The King is now conducting her funeral."

Loki heard.

He nodded.

The guard stepped away.

Loki put down his book.

Deliberately, he climbed to his feet. He turned his back on the transparent wall, and stepped toward the center of his cell.

"And am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

His ribs constricted.

"Try the stairs to your left."

"Try the stairs to your left."

"Try the stairs to your left…"

"Am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

"You are not."

"You are not."

He closed his hands to fists. His nails bit into his palms.

"Am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

Power flared through him—like the lash of a whip—unconscious as a gag reflex.

Bam!

Tables and chairs went flying. Slammed back against the magicked walls.

All of a sudden, his breathing started coming in short, rabbit-like gasps—his chest would not expand.

It hurt. It hurt.

"Am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

His eyes widened as his vision flickered from black to too white, to red, to blurry, to far too clear.

"Try the stairs to your left."

"Try the stairs to your left."

He tugged at his collar. It was choking him, choking him.

"Am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

He whirled around. He charged at the invisible wall, lowered his shoulder and slammed into it

A terrible zap shot through his whole body.

"Let me out!" he roared, his darting glance raking through the prison, searching for that guard. He couldn't see him, couldn't see him. "Let me out! Let me out or I will kill you! Let me out of here!" He clawed at the wall—a sound like taut metal cord scraping across stone rang through the cell.

"Get me out of here!" he howled, his voice raging through the dungeon. "You are lying to me! I will tear out your tongue, you filthy, deceitful, treasonous—you…How dare you say something like that to me? Let me out of this blasted cell! Come back here and let me out! " He beat on the wall with his fists—reared back and punched it, then punched it again, ignoring the pain that lanced up through his bones.

No one came. The guard could not hear him.

Or he wouldn't.

"I will kill your family, do you understand me, coward? Come back and open this door!" he spat, tearing at the wall with his fingers. He slammed his shoulder into it again, and again.

The wall flickered and sparked, but it held more resolutely than if it had been made of ancient stone.

"Aaaaah!" he shrieked, summoning everything in him, down to his depths, and slapping both palms against it.

He crushed it with a blast of raw, thunderous magic.

It ricocheted off—battered deafeningly back through the cell, shivering the furniture to pieces, sending books to flight, their pages bursting the feathers of shot quail.

"Am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

Loki spun back around, gulping sickeningly, his eyes wide but blind. He started shaking—it started with his fingers, then raced up his arms, into his chest and head until his whole frame quivered.

"Am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

He screamed.

He screamed for her.

He staggered toward the corner pillar, felt for it with his left hand—fell against it.

"Mother—Mother, I know you can hear me!" he shouted. "Mother…Not…You must…I know you can, stop toying with me. He's…There's a…He's lying to me. Frigga…Frigga…" He bumbled against the other wall.

Waited.

Silence.

"Mumma!" He howled at the ceiling, searching for the blurry back wall—

Tripped over a fallen table.

Crashed to the floor.

His hands clattered and slipped over broken wood—his chin hit an edge. He bit himself.

He writhed into a half sitting position and tore at his hair. Tore it again, and again, ripping it as he roared in body-rending screams.

He caught at his collar, then tore off his outer tunic—flung it away from him. He tugged off his boot and hurled it at the transparent wall with all his strength, then pulled off the other and did the same. They bounced harmlessly off and landed on the floor.

"Am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

"Try the stairs to the left."

He blazed to his feet, his vision scarlet. He kicked the tables, the broken chairs. He picked up the flinders and threw them—they snapped against the walls. He attacked the even the walls made of stone, leaving bloody smears.

He destroyed every bit of furniture, smashing it beneath his feet until sharp, lancing pain sliced through his skin. Cold sweat broke out all over his body.

He started to shake again.

His legs turned to water.

He collapsed, sat down. Fell back against the wall.

And sobbed.

Tears streamed down his face. His chest choked and locked and hurt. The burning salt water dripped from his chin and soaked the front of his linen shirt.

He wept, and no one heard him.

He cried aloud, kicking his feet and covering his face with his hands…

But no one came.

For hours, the tears flowed as freely as the blood from his feet.

His tears ran out.

He could summon no more.

And his entire body ached as if he had been beaten.

He blinked slowly, staring at nothing. His hands lay limp on his lap.

His parched lips parted. His stale tongue moved.

His voice rasped, barely audible.

"The sky is dark and the hills are white
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
'Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;'
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
'Sleep, little one, sleep.

On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing,
And only the vine can hear her sing:
'Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
What shall you fear when I am here?
Sleep, little one, sleep.

The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The pine may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best, -
'Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, anext my heart;
Sleep, little one, sleep…"

FIN

(to be continued in Frozen Heart)

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Don't forget to check out my newest novel "Bauldr's Tears: A Retelling of Loki's Fate" on Amazon!