The dream comes back that night. The trees, the fire, the rage. But it's not like last time. There's someone else here, trapped in the forest.
Usually, nothing changes. It's the same, day in, day out. Except sometimes I'm there as the world sinks into the ocean, or I'm watching as the billionaires cower in their bunkers, or I'm here, in the forest. Last time I was tied to a tree, strung up with frayed rope that bit into my skin.
The forest lies in America, I think. I've never been there in the flesh except I did visit Midgard once, a very long time ago. Far before the time I am dreaming of now.
Strangely, the dream has always taken me here, to Midgard, as if the other eight realms are left untouched. Yet I know they cannot be. So I've decided it must start here, the end.
In the daytime, I go looking for answers, skimming through all the ancient texts. But they never tell of what causes this, the smoking gun. Instead, they recount what will happen: the final battle, the one that ends with all of us sinking into the dark. If I can find it, the first domino that falls, maybe I can stop it.
Of course, I have never been one to avoid my fate. Because often, if you go about trying to change it, you will find yourself in the same place anyway. As the Norns describe it, fate comprises many, many threads. And no matter how you try to weave them, they will remain, adamantly, leading to the same place.
I close my eyes and breathe in the smoky air. It doesn't hurt but tickles instead. I'd quite like the smell, in fact, if it wasn't for the destruction that came with it. And when I open my eyes, something is different. It's difficult to see much through the smog, but I know she's here.
I move forward, burning twigs crunching under my boots. The flames here don't hurt either. They just heat your skin, like plunging your hand into warm water.
Before long I find a clearing, the clearing. The one where all of this seems to converge. She's here, stood on the stump and frozen with fear. Her spear lies on the burning grass, but she cannot reach it. Humans do not dream as we do. They are rarely aware they are asleep and do not know how to control it.
Guilt rests on my shoulders as I realise what must be said. What she must do will not be easy.
As I walk closer, her breathing quickens, yet she still does not move. Maybe the dream has trapped her. I wonder if I should smile but perhaps that would give off the wrong signal.
This is not a matter to smile about.
Instead, I walk to her ear and say what I must.