June, week 4; 6 months after The Start of The End

It took a week for The Stag to prepare for his journey. His wounds were healing, closed with medical staples before being wrapped tightly. He checked them frequently for infection, and expected they would scar.

Since his encounter The Woods were quiet. No ghosts had appeared, no gods had spoken. Lumbering shapes moved in the shadows, just out of sight. The forest had grown mysterious, unfamiliar to The Stag. The day after the poltergeist he found a small shrine by a ruined building. It was at the scale of a dollhouse; Tiny figurines upon an altar in miniature. An offering was placed before it: a sliver of berry on a bed of moss. No sign of its maker was present, but he knew they were watching. The forest was full of eyes.

The following day he visited the grave of The Herd. The funeral mound was covered in a layer of grass and mushrooms, with a sapling growing at its peak. The tree was strange, with white bark and glimmering leaves. The Stag stopped for a moment to behold it, before glancing downwards. A plaque of stone lay before the hill, over grown with moss. Thousands of names were chiseled on it, carved in neat letters. The last was incomplete, left unfinished when The Plague struck its maker. He knelt down and cleared off the moss, paying homage to his people.

The rest of his time was spent preparing. Despite packing lightly, it took several days to gather what he needed. He had to search the entire settlement, digging through ruins for supplies. He was slowed by the care he took; he didn’t want to disturb the dead. Once or twice he thought he saw a figure, but it disappeared when noticed. The Dead Woods were eerily quiet, watching him with bated breath.

After a week, he was ready. He left the court under the glow of moonlight, falling into shadow as he stepped on the trail. Halfway along he found the remnants of his battle: clotted blood over trampled grass. The crushed stalks were a circle of death, with a seedling at the center. It was no higher than his ankle, but The Stag could tell it was the same species as that on the grave. He knelt, taking care not to damage it. The stalk was purest white, while its leaves were veined with silver. A light breeze blew behind him and the Stag stood. Magic swirled in eddies around the path, urging him forwards. He walked carefully around the plant, and continued his journey.

Finally, he stood at the trailhead. The air was still, and he saw the ruins of the old city before him. Broken asphalt and rubble lay inches from his feet, marking the boundary of his realm. He rummaged in his pocket, before pulling out a large coin. It gleamed in the night air, light catching on its design. Three triangles were interlocked on its face, surrounded by runes. The Stag flipped it over to view the obverse, which had two wolves pacing around a spear. Swirling lines surrounded them, and the coin thrummed with power. It was cold, with an unnatural weight to it.

The Stag knelt, placing a hand on the ground. Drawing the Goddess’ dagger with his offhand he dug a small hole He placed the coin inside and buried it, then waited in silence.

“They won’t come.” A woman’s voice rang out from the street. Static built, and his senses heightened. The smell of flowers filled the air, interwoven with the scent of death. The Stag looked up, spotting a goddess he knew instantly.

She was beautiful, wearing a long white dress that glowed in the night. Her hair was perfect, and in her eyes were kind. The right side of her face was the picture of beauty.

The left side of her face was a corpse.

This curious bisection repeated across her; her right carved of beauty, her left frozen rot. Her dress echoed this; tattered on one side while pristine on the other. Her expression was concerned, made ghastly by her rotting half. She stood just outside his realm, on a path of unbroken asphalt.

The Stag rose carefully. Death deities were rare; staying out of the conflicts of the mortal world, even when the their pantheons went to war. It was an omen to meet one so close to his journey.

“Hel.” The Stag said “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Death is often a surprise,” Hel’s voice was soft, almost teasing “though most wouldn’t call it pleasant.”

“If you’re here to kill me you’ll have to make an appointment.” The Stag replied “I’m rather busy.”

Hel laughed quietly “I haven’t come to kill you.”

The Stag frowned, glancing at the buried coin.

“They won’t come.” Hel repeated, noting his gaze.

“Why not?”

“This land is already claimed.”

The Stag paused for a moment in confusion “The Woodland Realm is dead, none are left to claim it.”

“I wasn’t referring to you.”

The Stag sighed. More half truths and riddles.

“Midgard is on the brink of disaster.” Hel’s voice grew colder as she broke the silence

“Just the brink?”

“This is nothing compared to what’s coming.” Her voice sharpened, and the temperature dropped “You’ve entered the Wolf Age, but things are not as foreseen. Something is at work, something old and young.”

“You gods love to speak in riddles.”

“Life is a riddle, with no known solution”

The Stag regarding her curiously. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need to know”

“Why are you telling me this.”

Hel sighed. “My realm is for those who died in illness. Your people sleep in my halls.” She hesitated “You are at the center of what will occur. You, and the mystery of your realm”

“Cryptic.” The Stag glanced at the rubble ahead “Any sage advice as to how I might not visit you?”

“Be careful of the breaths you take, and the places you walk.” Hel closed her eyes, her tone growing trancelike “Be careful of those you know, for some are not as they appear. Where mist and sea bring life to words, trust she who’s cursed to fall; the Sunlight must be born in deepest darkness.”

“Equally cryptic.”

“As it must be. You journey to a land of fog, keep watch for what’s around you. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself at my door.”

There was the sound of a twig snapping, and the Stag whirled around. Deep in the trail at the edge of eyesight, a figure stood. Their eyes glowed blue, and The Stag nodded at the spirit. He turned back to face Hel, a question on his lips.

The trailhead was empty.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Many deities have been confirmed, but their underworlds have not. By its very nature, death is a journey which cannot be returned from. It defies science and explanation, and has sparked heated debate. Some scholars argue that there is no afterlife. That this world is the only one we can prove, even with the presence of the gods. Others argue that the gods prove an afterlife, for all their other stories have been verified. Amongst this debate a fringe theory has emerged, which postulates a necessity of belief. These scholars posit that belief has power, and an individual’s worship determines their afterlife. This theory is ridiculed for a lack of scientific basis, but thus far no consensus has been reached. Rumors from the realms have emerged of underworld deities appearing, but no scholars have witnessed this first hand.

Episode 13 takes place 6 months after The Start of The End.