As though Sinir’s saddle had burned him, Loki hissed and shot upright, standing in the stirrups and turning in all directions. He gaped at the wretched, terrifying scene that he now found himself in.

Thirty seconds had past since the first shots had fired—since those godsdamn sirens had sent his head into a traumatic tailspin—and already, he’d lost count of the soldiers who had fallen from their steeds, taking fire from the Chitauri and bestia who had managed to get onto the arena grounds before the shields had gone up. Deep red blood spewed from hundreds of gaping wounds, pooling around dead bodies and limbs lost to razor sharp weapons, the once bright white snow utterly destroyed. The soldiers who’d avoided lethal injury shouted at their battle-worn horses to calm down in millennia-old words of the ancients.

“Rólegur!” they screamed repeatedly amidst the stomping of hooves that needed to run.

“Steady now, boy!” Loki ordered his own horse, tightening his grip on the reins, but Sinir continued nervously kicked at the snow, as well as knocking into Sigyn’s significantly calmer mare next to him. Moða nearly headbutted him in response, which was well-deserved. Truly, nothing else was quite so impressive as female grit and perseverance. Gritting his teeth, Loki pulled Sinir away from her.

“Quiet, Sin! Steady now, boy,” he repeated himself, increasingly pissed off that he couldn’t regain control of his horse. Apparently, this mad stallion couldn’t follow a common tongue command. Switching to the ancient language, he leaned closer to Sinir’s ear, growling the words verbatim.

“Rólegur, Sin! Stöðugur núna, strákur!” That seemed to do the trick, thank the Norns.

Admittedly, Loki couldn’t blame him. The panic-stricken horses knew, more so than their Hawk-riders, that the glowing Asgardian city shield system—an intricate web of golden light spanning across the bottom layer of darkened storm clouds overhead—would only hold back the enemy’s firepower for a half an hour…sixty minutes, at most. The shield wasn’t designed to run on its current magical power source (much like the “batteries” of Midgard) for any significant time. Sunlight was its main, and most effective fuel, which could sustain itself for days, but since Asgard was still trying to play catch-up on its sun “deficit” from the three months straight when Thor had been overwhelmed with guilt and grief, they would be lucky to get the standard 30-minute defense. Though, considering yesterday’s constant storm during the thousand-hours long battle prep, they might not even get 20 minutes.

Gods, please do not let this be our death scene. I wasn’t ready for the FINAL death scene.

Loki barely managed to duck down as…something…zipped through the icy cold air, its distinct whistling louder than the blaring sirens as it grazed his ear. Vaguely, he heard a smoke-filled, rasping voice scream his name. The more aware, lucid part of his consciousness assessed the auditory situation as being evidence of a shattered ear drum. Or, perhaps not shattered, but certainly rendered useless by the blood surrounding it.

“LOKI!!”

Likely, that was the bond talking to him. His mind was caught in a quickly-escalating battle with itself; knives out, the lithe, quick-on-his-feet warrior version of himself attempted to trudge through the conscious problem-solving “sensory-data-processing” trenches while the sorcerer version flooded those same trenches with the near-blinding neon green light of automatic seiðr powered by the extremely emotional gut-instinct telling him to protect the owner of the voice screaming his name at any cost.

I would let Asgard burn before I’d let anyone or anything hurt you…

He felt the familiar electric buzz of magic sparking around his fingertips, but something was off about it. Why couldn’t he hear it? Where was the ‘POP POP POP’ crackling sound of those sparks?

“LOKI, WAKE UP!!”

I AM AWAKE! I just can’t bloody see!

Another thing flew past his face— another ammunition round, from the feel of it. Razor sharp ammunition, specifically. He hadn’t immediately felt it slice through the skin just beneath his right cheekbone, but after what might have been five seconds that felt like five days, the wet sensation of blood dripping down his jaw brought with it pain-specific memories. He wasn’t unfamiliar with gashes and cuts on his face, many of which had been delivered by this exact breed of monsters charging across this field. Not exactly his first rodeo, as they say…in Midgard somewhere. He couldn’t recall exactly where.

Sigyn shook his shoulders, burning through his armor and into his skin. “LOKI, PLEASE!!”

Why couldn’t he see her? Truly, he didn’t know if his eyes were open. His eyelids might as well have been steel garage doors with broken spring pullies. Everything around him was so distant. A cacophony of indeterminable sounds echoed inside his skull, and he was helpless to separate them into their rightfully labeled boxes. Sensory-processing should be figuring this shit out right about now. No, better yet, It should be fucking roaring its data findings at him!

“THAT is a series of high-pitched screams about 200 yards above and fifty yards left of me, growing louder as Asgard’s gravity and the molten iron core at its center yanks them from the sky toward its hard surface below,” the data would tell him, if it would only work properly, and in a timely manner.

“That is the SPLAT of bodies smashing into the wet snow, and that is the sound of their screams garbling inside the two-inch thick mud beneath.”

“OH MY GODS, LOKI, I NEED YOU!!”

THAT is the love of my life shouting in my blood-flooded ear.

Ah, there it was. His “logical” center was now up and running. FINALLY. Now he at least understood which individual instruments had assembled on this battlefield to play in this dreadfully dissonant orchestra. Dear gods, who was conducting this chaos? Amateurs!

The data was a touch overwhelming, to say the least.

That is a ground-shaking, deafening BOOM of thunder directly over my head and drowning out my love’s terrified voice. Those are billions of heavy raindrops pounding into the shield dome. They sound like stones hitting a glass house. It’s only a matter of time before my home shatters. Before the leftover jagged, sharp, shards are released from the bowstring and hit their so-called ‘immortal’ targets. I am already bleeding from two measly shots. Those shield shards will slice my body apart; what’s left of Loki, the dark son of Asgard, will be too thoroughly broken to piece back together and bring back from the dead this time.

“YOU ARE NOT DYING, LOKI.”

Must you SCREAM, Sig? My poor ears…

“You won’t hear me if I don’t scream! We are alive and breathing, and you are not leaving me again! That will not happen! I won’t let it happen! NOT TODAY! NOT EVER!”

Your confidence is the only silver lining in your sad storm cloud eyes, love.

“Godsdammit, Loki, of course my storm cloud eyes are sad! Because your emerald eyes are wide open, but you don’t see me!”

Damn right, I can’t see you. I can hear you again, though, so PLEASE stop shouting. Oh, and I can talk too. Wait… am I moving my mouth, or is this the bond?

Moving her hands from his shoulders up to his head, shielding it from the rapid fire all around them, Sigyn spoke directly into his ear. “You aren’t talking out loud.”

Are YOU talking out loud?

“Yes…” her smoky voice shook with emotion, or perhaps it only sounded shaky to him because her fire had burned her throat. “Yes, I’m talking out loud to you, and I know you can talk too…AHH!” she shrieked, nearly wrapping her entire body around him to get the leverage needed to yank him out of the line of fire. “GODS! Get out of your head, Loki!”

Another scream. Another shrieking razor-like thing missing his back by mere inches. Whatever it was, it had clearly sliced right through the Hawk behind him. He cringed, barely suppressing his gag reflex. The squelching sound of skin splitting open was horrendous. Indescribably disgusting. Sigyn moved her mouth to his ear again, so close that her lips burned the cartilage. He winced from the contact, forcing his ice into the wound, which made her wince in response. She put maybe half-an-inch between them, then spoke again.

“I can’t imagine how terrifying and traumatic this is for you but…”

Her voice faded to nothing, probably because he’d instinctively blocked the sound. True or not, why would he want to hear someone tell him that he was scared (like a child) because he’d been traumatized? So much for her confidence being a silver lining on anything— if Sig wanted to give pep talks, she needed to learn some silver tongue skills. Not that she didn’t have tongue skills. Good gods, speaking of silver linings…

His mind wandered from this freezing, deathtrap arena and galloped, full speed ahead, toward a forest filled with life. In this forest, he would live out the last of his not-so-immortal days with the woman he desperately wished he’d already made his wife. The shadows born from those life-giving branches would shield their bare skin from the burning summer sun. Green leaves born from silver trees would be their safe haven when her stifling heat inevitably clashed with his freezing cold—when the crashing opposites breathed life into a severe storm that threatened to destroy the house they’d built with strong-as-steel love as though it were made from a flimsy deck of cards.

Godsdammit, why couldn’t he rewrite their story into something less gut-wrenching? Why wouldn’t the universe let them turn back the clock and do things differently? Maybe he wouldn’t tell her that she was no match for him. Maybe he wouldn’t break a library window. Maybe he wouldn’t fight Sif. Maybe he would just walk away. Maybe he would just go to Sigyn’s chambers and ask her to forgive him for being such a petulant dick to her when she’d done nothing but adore him from that first glance in the throne room. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone to Jotunheim.

Maybe he wouldn’t have fallen from a bridge and landed himself in a world of pain and regret that left him no alternate timelines wherein he could choose a different ending from this one. Maybe he could have chosen something better…something that would have spared his home from this mad titan’s alien army. Maybe he could have spent his final years looking up at storm clouds with Sig and seen nothing but silver lines.

Once upon a time, there was a silver line on a cloud nine when my silver tongue tasted your mouth and you tasted mine. When we swam in Silver Lake and loved in Silver Forest.

If his eyes were working properly, his vision would blur and glaze over right now, completely lost under those silver ash trees of could-have-been better days. Gods, in this forest, he and Sig just might have survived this seemingly never ending, painfully wretched, anxiety-laden, deeply sad blue haze.

What was blue for? Dear gods, blue was for death, wasn’t it…? Inside a faraway tower, on a faraway realm, during his not-so-faraway past, a woman had pointed to his drug-induced faraway gaze. “A storm,” she’d responded to his silent question, “and storms… Loki… storms pass.” Oh Hel, how he adored that voice. He’d kill to hear it again right now.

“Loki… this is my voice. I’m right here. Right now. On an Asgardian battlefield, and I need you to please be here with me. I need you here. EVERYONE needs you here. Please please please…”

Please? Please, indeed. Please burn my bones when this is over, Sig. Paint Silver Forest with my ashes. Maybe the starving soil will devour me and grow something new from it in the spring. Something green, I hope. Green is for life, after all.

“Fucking Hel, Loki! Do not leave me here alone! Do not run from this fight!”

I’ll never leave you alone again, Sig. I swear I’m running back to you right now. Terrifying or not, I’ll run through any godsdamn storm to get back to you, love.

Commander Brynjar’s voice blared across the extremely real and present battlefield—“SKRTRR!” —the sound grabbing Loki and yanking him back to his feet just as his exhausted legs gave out on him on the run back from the Silver Forest rewrite. Adrenaline flooded his veins, propelling him forward at light speed back to the training arena, which would not be used for training today, would it…

As though being abruptly woken from a dream, he blinked several times, his vision coming back in a flash, barely in time to see countless brave horses step forward, the red-caped soldiers sitting tall in their saddles, their back-quivers full and bows at the ready. Ah, yes—SKRTRR! —the ancient forward call for the archers, one of whom was the woman on his left. In spite of the looming war, he felt her relief at his return rolling off of her in waves.

“Sig,” he said, finally finding his voice as Brynjar gave the next command.

“DRAGA!”

Draw—Loki kept his eyes on Sigyn as she smoothly pulled an arrow from her quiver.

“LAGA!”

Nock—as she set it to the string, Loki saw a misty obsidian cloud escape her mouth as she spoke one word.

“Breathe.”

It was only a whisper, but it was so much louder to his ears. Praying to the universe that this wouldn’t be the last time he heard her voice, he white knuckled one sharply curved horn of his helmet as the next command— “MERKJA!” —boomed across the field, his breath catching in his chest from the frigid blast of wind that the dark, bellowing roar brought with it. Harsh and guttural, the sound echoed all around him like a Midgardian record catching on that one word.

“Merkja…merkja…merkja…merkja…”

Sigyn tightened her left grip on her Vanir longbow, her subconscious automatically translating the ancient command into common tongue —MARK!

Loki swallowed, his heart ready to burst through his ribs. Valhalla help him, watching the woman he couldn’t live without in battle was not new to him, but his previous experiences mattered not in this second. He wanted to steal her away…just…grab her and RUN. Technically, that didn’t count as going back on his promise to “not run from this fight”…yes? And it was physically possible since Sinir’s full gallop was literally as fast as those gunships flying above the shield, and Sig’s extra weight on his back wouldn’t slow him down one bit.

As though knowing he’d crossed Loki’s mind, Sinir shifted beneath him, the stallion bobbing his head and snorting loudly. Randomly, a strangely-accented voice— one that seemed unfamiliar with the concept of language itself, one that clipped consonants in the wrong places and struggled to force sound through a vowel-shaped mouth —slipped into Loki’s thoughts.

Ssss-…ssseg-…seg-…ja…segja…o-…orrrr-…orð…

Eyebrows pulling together, Loki sucked in his cheeks, his eyes sweeping across the field, searching for the owner of the unknown voice. Then, it spoke again, and this time, it didn’t stumble over or struggle through the simple words.

Segja orð.

Gaze wandering to the ground directly beneath him, Loki whispered the phrase aloud. “Segja orð?…ah…Say words. Wait…wh-…say the words? Say what words?”

As if on cue, Loki heard the same strange voice, small at first, whispering “Flyt, Sin! Flyt!“, but it quickly ramped up to a broken scream—into a guttural cry of his own making, which then transformed into an agonizing memory that should not be allowed to charge ahead to the forefront of his mind:

“LOKI!” his brother cried out to him, each swing of the hammer destroying Jotuns easily.

Loki swiveled his dark head, his usually fair face now red and sweating as he realized that Thor was FINALLY with him.  He nodded to his older brother, intent on fighting his way through Laufey’s ranks that stood between them. However, a giant suddenly sliced Sinir’s hind leg, and the horse reared back in agony, nearly dropping Loki in the process. Reflexively looping the reins around his left hand, the friction of the leather straps ripping open his hard-won callouses and replacing them with weak-skinned blisters, Loki seethed, butting the offending Jotun in the nose with the blunt end of Gungnir. Thighs gripping the saddle with strength he didn’t know he had, he yanked Sinir’s reins in Thor’s direction, continually slicing into giants with the spear in his right hand.

“Flyt, Sin! Flyt!” he yelled at his injured horse, urging the stallion to MOVE FASTER even though he knew each stride was sheer torture for the animal. Catching up to Thor, Loki spat his greetings between kills (or attempted kills), huffing between the words with each attack.  “Hello… brother… so… nice… to… see… you. What… took… you… so… long?!”

Green light bursting from his right hand, he slammed four oncoming giants in their chests, their bodies flying back from the impact.  A second later, another Jotun came at him from behind and stabbed him with an ice dagger through the weak spot in his armor, just below the underarm. Crying out as blood poured from the wound, he forced all his strength into his arm, elbowed the giant in the jaw, turned his horse to face that absolute MONSTER, and slung a dagger into its despicably blue, wet-looking throat.

Barely hearing Thor’s panicky, muffled cry— “Loki, NO!”  —over the deafening waterfall of blood rushing through his ears, Loki’s head fell forward, his body slumping over. He cringed at the searing pain coursing through his side, gripping the wound just below his left ribs.  Seemingly from nowhere, his brother appeared next to him, trying to drag him off of Sinir’s saddle (GODS, NO… YOU CANNOT LEAVE!!), clearly intent on flying them away from the battle, but Loki shoved his hand away.

Struggling to breathe, Loki spoke through clenched teeth. “I will not… abandon… this fight.”

Right before a charging Jotun could crash into them, Thor pummeled it in the chest, shouting something about a punctured lung, or healing room, or Eir, or… whatever.

And speaking of things coming out of nowhere, suddenly, an AGONIZING sensation ripped right through his gut. Instantly, his mind wandered into the defeated realm—”OH GODS, MY INSIDES ARE SPILLING OUT, AREN’T THEY…I’M DONE FOR.” He was surprisingly (and unfortunately) lucid, considering he was bleeding out. For two seconds, he searched for the source of the blinding pain coursing through his middle, looking down at his stomach and frowning at the absence of injury.

The answer to his silent question hit him right between the eyes— “This isn’t MY pain.”

Jaw clenching and eyes wild with fear, Loki shot upright in Sinir’s saddle. His voice was shaky as Hel, barely functional, as he uttered, “Sig.” It was one syllable. One word. One name. One reason to live.

And it was disappearing faster than his nearly-gone voice.

Forcing a hoarse “HYAH!” through his gritted teeth, he yanked angrily on the reins, abruptly turning back toward the palace. The motion was shockingly painful for Sinir, enough to make him rear back onto his hind legs a second time, but he quickly corrected himself lest he nearly drop Loki again.

“Flyt, Sin! Flyt!” Loki shouted, relieved to at least have his voice back, though it sounded all kinds of WRONG. The words were too loud and not properly muffled as they should be when hearing oneself speak.

Not only that, but the sound had yet to fade, each word reviving itself after its predecessor died—FLYT, SIN! FLYT! FLYT, SIN! FLYT! FLYT, SIN! FLYT! FLYT, SIN! FLYT!

A deep frown creased his blood and dirt-stained forehead. This wasn’t right. He was hearing his voice through someone else’s ears. This wasn’t HIS memory. Whose head was he in?

Thor yelled again from somewhere behind his back, and it echoed just as disconcertingly as Loki’s own voice had. “What? LOKI?!”

Loki twisted in the saddle to look back at him.  “FINISH THEM!!” 

Dear gods, what the Hel was WRONG with his voice? Had his eardrums had been shattered?

Once again, he shouted the command to run faster— “Flyt, Sin! Flyt!”— his usually deep baritone faltering on his horse’s name. Perhaps his vocal cords were worse off than his ears. Either way, his brain did not interpret the sound coming from his mouth as a COMMAND, but as a heartbroken, begging plea for help. He shouted again— “Flyt, Sin! Flyt!” —desperately trying to force some SEMBLANCE of power into his words, but the result was even LESS authoritative. Perhaps worse than that, he’d managed to add another layer of sadness to the inflection.

“Well, this memory shot straight to Hel, didn’t it. I didn’t remember sounding so… lost… or pitchy… or repetitive… is this what I sound like to Sin?”

Suddenly, the “whose head am I in?” question he’d asked earlier in this memory, which clearly did not belong to him, came roaring back; finally, all the pieces of the puzzle came together. It all made sense now, which made no sense whatsoever, given the completely nonsensical nature of the final picture.

Despite his beloved rider’s fragmented directives and clearly shattered confidence, Sinir pushed faster, undeterred by Loki’s heartbroken timbre. Embodying the “horse out the gate” saying, the stallion thundered toward the palace at a breakneck speed, his legs stinging from the snow and ice being kicked up onto them. Each pounding step resounded Sinir’s mind, speaking to him like words themselves— step… “FLYT”… step… “SIN” … step … “FLYT” —and nearing the destination, two new words joined alongside the others.

“Hjartsláttur knapa… hjartsláttur knapa… hjartsláttur knapa…”

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Abruptly, the NOT-memory came to a screeching halt, those two words forcing Loki back to the present at a Sinir-worthy pace. He’d literally heard “Hjartsláttur knapa” just now. In this present reality, he’d heard it in that same strange voice that had started his mental escape from this real battlefield timeline and thrust him into a past battlefield alternate timeline.

Hjartsláttur knapa…

“Rider heartbreak,” Loki translated out loud, feeling a pang in his chest as that classic figurative lightbulb flicked on in the dark. You know, if the aforementioned lightbulb was a real life creature who could not only light up one’s neurons, but one’s entire godsdamn soul.

Eyes blowing wide, his jaw dropped, and he looked down at Sinir. After a moment of silent awe, Loki bent forward toward the stallion’s neck, leaning left, his right thigh pushing into the horse’s shoulder to keep his balance. Sinir turned his head slightly, lifting his nearly black, clearly tear-filled eyes to see Loki better.

“That was you, wasn’t it, Sin?”

The horse lowered his eyes a bit, and even in the dim light beneath a rapidly fading shield and the darkened storm clouds above it, Loki saw one small tear slide down Sinir’s face. Once more, the horse pushed his version of broken speech into his rider’s mind.

Segja … orð.

Say…words.

But this time, he added one more.

Faðir.

Father.

Sniffing back his own tears, Loki reached up to rub his eyes. Obviously, he hadn’t literally sired this incredible creature, and maybe it was odd to love Sinir like he might one day love his child, but nonetheless, he couldn’t have fathomed how moving it would be to hear his horse call him “Father.” Loki now understood that this was Sin’s way of telling “Faðir” that he only need “say the words FLYT, SIN, FLYT”…and the stallion would carry his rider and the future queen from this “early to the party” final death match. Sinir was willing to break his own back, burn himself out in the hopeful escape, if it meant he could save his rider from a broken heart. He wanted to save Loki from “rider heartbreak”… hjartsláttur knapa.

“Gods love you, Sin,” he muttered, shaking his head, wishing with every part of his being that Sinir was not doomed to the same fate as Fen.

Please not today. Please don’t let it be today.

Hugging his horse’s neck, careful not to accidentally jab him with his helmet, Loki kissed the top of his head. “I just need you to stay with me, my boy. Here on this field…just stay with me.” Loki could have sworn he heard “yes ,Faðir” as Sinir bobbed his head.

Or perhaps that had been Sigyn telling herself to breathe once more. How long had that moment with Sinir lasted? Had Brynjar even shouted the final command yet? From the looks of it, time must have stopped ten minutes ago, because Sig had yet to shoot her first arrow. Suddenly, the universe’s clock resumed its deadly ticking, and his fearless Vanir fire sorceress finally moved again.

“Breathe,” she whispered again, her fire boiling under her flesh cage as she sat upright, her spine straighter than the arrow now lodged between her right first and middle fingers.

“Sterkastur í níu, Sig.” Strongest in the nine, Sig.

It was Loki’s low voice near her ear, somehow louder that Brynjar’s “MARK!” command as she flipped her bow perpendicular to the ground and drew the arrow back, its feathers brushing her cheek, and godsDAMN had she needed to hear it.  Hearing her own voice reminding her to breathe had not been good enough.  She’d needed to hear Loki, and his chosen words were everything.  His voice telling her that she was the “strongest in the nine” would be her lifeline today.

Oh gods, fear wanted to cripple her today… how desperately it wanted to destroy her.  It wanted her to feel weak and powerless, and it wanted Loki to feel just as small.  She didn’t need to feel that through the bond to know the fear lusted after his mind just as it did hers, desperate to wiggle its way inside, then fuck with their well-ordered chaos, which they’d both fought to perfect over the last nine centuries.  Oh Hel no.

We are not weak.  We are not powerless.  We are the strongest in the nine.

“Not today, Fear. Not today,” they said in unintentional unison.

A hint of a smirk pulled one corner of Loki’s mouth barely higher than the other as he watched the shadows in the hollows of Sigyn’s blood-smeared cheeks. He focused so hard on the fearless heat building in her narrowed gaze, that he nearly missed the light show that burst from the tip of her tongue as it dragged over the arrow’s feathers, literally licking flames along the thin, shimmering black metal. As she aimed the freshly-sharpened arrowhead at a hoard of bestia charging at them, Loki bit into a smile and pulled one of many daggers from his waistband. Flipping the knife high in the air, he caught it in his now blue hand, which was for death…

…just not my death.

Those things running at him were about to get hit with frostbite and the literal fire power flowing through the veins of the woman of his darkest (and most explicit) dreams standing next to him.  Oh, those poor hideous titan-bastards.  Sig’s magnetic beauty really was so deceptive.  And lethal.

Licking his lips, he locked eyes with her sideways— Let it burn, love.

Nodding once, Sigyn returned her gaze to the field, smoky black magic appearing at the ends of her hair and fingertips.  The smoke then sprung forward, hissing as it flew up and down the field at lightning speed.  Suddenly, one after another, thousands of Asgardian and allied Vanir arrowheads burst into flames. The iconic Hawk war-cry drowned out the shrieking sounds coming from the Chitauri as Brynjar roared the final command to the archers—“SKJOTA!!!!”

LOOSE!!!!

Thousands of arrows shot through the air faster than any bullet, than any round from any known weapon, and as the horses charged forward, Loki heard hundreds of warriors shouting that the flaming arrows were tinged with green light, which meant they would not die this night.

Green was for life, after all.

FEARLESS ENDS IN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. COMING OCTOBER 2021.

Visit the Trilogy main page HERE.

Chapter links: ¹ You’ll Have Answers Later ² Talk Some Sense to Me, Sig. ³ Interlude in Asgard (Endless Grief) ⁴ Wild Magic (It’s All We Have) ⁵ Heat is My Specialty (What is Blue For) ⁶ Storms Pass, Loki. ⁷ Trust Me, I’ve Got This. ⁸ A Heavy Gift ⁹ Sick and Tired ¹⁰ Hold On, We’re Going Home (Green Is for Life Part 2) ¹¹ Home is Chaos ¹² Looks That Kill ¹³ Living Ghosts ¹⁴ No Rules (Tick Tock) ¹⁵ The Calm ¹⁶ The Storm

Chapter 17 Coming October 2021

CHAPTER SIXTEEN THEME SONGS:

“Hurricane” by Fleurie (for Sigyn)

“Ashes of Eden” by Breaking Benjamin (For Loki)

What Readers Have Said

About CH 16 “The Storm”

“This was so painful to read I cannot imagine how painful it was to write.” ch16

-Ferbette, on CH 10 “The Storm” , 21 Apr 2021 (AO3)

Maïté

“This was such an intense chapter. ‘Green is for life’ – that line never gets old. I love this story so much and I missed reading it. The last chapter will be epic. Your writing is stunning and captivating.”Maite ch16 17 Apr 2021

-Maïté, on CH 10 “The Storm” , 21 Apr 2021 (AO3)

“OMG Sir, I need chapter 17, and I need it NOW. Fucking amazing series.”

-Jaxellington, on CH 10 “The Storm” , 10 Jul 2021 (AO3)

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Please feel free to leave a comment below. Reviews are (almost always *wink*) a source of excitement and humble joy for Jen!