Thorin settled me onto a soft, flat surface—a bed, the most wonderful bed ever made.
I yawned and stretched. “I plan to, starting right now.”
Thorin stroked the gold chain around my neck, running his fingers down its length but stopping where it disappeared beneath my towel. My emotions felt like exposed nerve endings, and Thorin’s compassion was a soothing balm. I could have asked him to stay. Given another minute, I probably would have.
“Can you get me something dry to put on?” I asked instead—anything to get him away, to put some space between us. Don’t let vulnerability confuse you, I told myself. The regret isn’t worth it.
Thorin pulled away and rose to his feet. “What do you want?”
“T-shirt.” I rolled onto my side, drawing my knees up to my chest.
Thorin dug through my tote bags and pulled out an old black T-shirt bearing a faded yellow Appalachian State logo. It had belonged to Mani once, but I had stolen it from his closet at home and managed to hang onto it despite everything. “Will this do?” he asked.
I motioned for him to toss it over. Thorin left me alone to change, turning out the light before he pulled the door closed. I yanked the towel off, threw it into a corner, and shrugged the soft cotton T-shirt over my head. I passed out before my head hit the pillows.
A vision of flames danced through my head, burning through rows and rows of apple trees. The heat intensified, and flames devoured the oxygen, making breathing difficult. Fire converged on the edge of the orchard and rose up in a wall before me, towering over my head. The leaves and branches closest to the flames curled into black, smoky embers. Wood smoke and the sickly scent of burning apples filled the air.
I stepped closer to the blaze—maybe I wanted to tame it—but it was too hot, even for me. The sour odor of burnt hair, my burnt hair, drifted in the air. Compelled by a nameless force, I tracked the inferno’s path, intent on locating the source.
“Fight fire with fire, they say.” A woman’s distant voice carried above the roar of the blaze. “If only they knew how true that was.”
“Who’s there?” I asked. “How are you doing this?”
The woman laughed but did not answer.
I walked and walked, traveling hundreds of dream miles until, finally, the row of flames thinned and shortened. At last, they narrowed to a fine point, a torch, vomiting a conflagration across the whole of my dream world. The torch bearer noted my approach and recoiled as if preparing to run away.
“Wait.” I reached toward her. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
She swung the weapon and revealed it was no mere stick coated in pitch. She grasped a sword constructed entirely from flames. The shadowed figure motioned for me to approach. Light flickered off the high places of her face, but darkness kept her features vague, indistinguishable. Despite the fire’s threat, I stepped closer—an unknown impulse controlled me. The swordswoman reared back, holding her weapon high, ready to strike. Fear lurched up my throat and tasted of bile, but I continued my approach, helpless and intent.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
The swordswoman laughed again. She lunged, and her blade sliced through me.
I woke screaming loudly enough to shred my throat. Before I took in a breath to scream again, my door burst open, filling the doorway with light and the concerned faces of Val, Thorin, and Baldur. Val rushed to my side and turned on my bedside lamp. He studied my face, probably looking for a clue about what had happened.
“What was it?” Val asked, taking my hand in his. “Another dream? What did you see?”
“Fire,” I said stupidly. Part of me had remained in the dream, and the reality of my hotel room was slow to return.
“What fire? Your fire?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Is the hotel on fire?”
“No. Back off and let me think.”
Val scowled but did as I asked, dropping his death grip on my hand. I drew in a deep breath and surveyed my visitors. Baldur stood in the doorway, frowning, deep lines etching his brow. Thorin had stopped at the foot of my bed and wore his usual stoic expression.
“It was a sword of fire, and she said she was fighting fire with fire.”
Everyone spoke at once, their excited questions jumbling into confusion.
I stuck my fingers between my lips and blew a sharp whistle. “Jeez, y’all, it’s like an Abbot and Costello routine in here. Next thing, somebody’s going to ask, ‘Who’s on first?’ I’ll start from the beginning. It won’t make a lick of sense, but I’ll tell you what I saw, and don’t interrupt, or I’ll kick you all out and go back to sleep.”
The three men all managed to look properly chastised, even Thorin. I told them of the dream, beginning to end.
Then I inhaled another deep breath, exhaled, and let my shoulders sag. “Anyone have any ideas?”
Baldur, Val, and Thorin looked at each other, silently deciding who should tell me the bad news. Thorin scraped his fingers through his hair and stepped closer to my bed. “Surtalogi,” he said.
“Gesundheit,” I said, deadpan.
Thorin turned his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience. “Surtalogi is the name for the sword that belonged to Surtr, the fire giant who brought the final destruction on the world at the end of Ragnarok. It was his sword of fire that burned out the world.”
“How did that work, exactly? You all keep saying the world burned, but how did you survive it?”
“Asgard was not the only plane of existence,” Baldur said. “There was Niflheim, where Hela rules the spirits of the dead. It was untouched. And there was Gimle, a heaven of sorts. That’s where most of the surviving Aesir went.”
“You had a heaven to live in, but you gave it up for earth because…?”
Val snorted. “There’s only so many millennia I could bear to be in the presence of the same handful of Aesir. And humans were starting to get interesting.”
