StarWaves
patreon
The Fox Hole! 131
🕑 Added 2026-01-03 00:11:32 +0000 UTCChapter 131:
– Jane –
The floating door was, objectively speaking, impossible.
Jane Foster had spent her entire adult life chasing the impossible—wormholes, Einstein-Rosen bridges, the mathematical proof that travel between distant points in space could be achieved instantaneously. She had been laughed out of conferences, denied funding, called a crackpot by colleagues who couldn't see past their own limited understanding of the universe.
And now she had just walked through a random door that materialized in the middle of a half destroyed desert town.
"This place is a lot more cozy than I would have expected from a restaurant owned by a sexy demonic fox prince," Darcy said next to her as they stepped across the threshold.
The small blonde in the military uniform—Tanya, Jane remembered, the one with the terrifyingly empty eyes who had threatened actual alien warriors with a rifle—stood near the entrance with another young girl. This one had golden hair and delicate features, wearing a medieval-style dress that looked like it cost more than Jane's entire wardrobe. Myrcella, she'd been called.
"You're free to sit at any empty table, booth, or at the bar," Tanya said, her voice flat and professional despite her apparent age. She couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen, but she carried herself like a veteran soldier.
Mavis, the tiny blonde in the white dress, made a strangled noise and bolted past them toward a door marked with a restroom sign. "I have to pee!" she announced to no one in particular, disappearing around a corner.
Jane nodded absently at Tanya's instructions, her attention drawn to the bar. Behind the polished wooden counter stood the very handsome fox man she’d just been sort of flirting with—Haru. He was wiping a glass with practiced movements, his golden eyes focused on the task. His ten tails swayed gently behind him, and his pointed fox ears twitched occasionally as if tracking sounds she couldn't hear.
But wait. That didn't make sense.
"Wasn't he going to Asgard?" Jane asked, confusion bleeding into her voice. She distinctly remembered watching Haru, Kunou, and the embarrassingly sweaty Thor disappear through some kind of portal just minutes ago. "How is Haru here?"
Tanya didn't even look up from where she was sliding into a booth with Myrcella. "That's not Haru," she said dismissively. "It's just a shadow clone. A chakra construct that has all his memories and skills but doesn't possess its own soul. It can only follow the orders he gave it before he left." She shrugged one small shoulder. "Which is probably just cooking and manning the bar."
Jane's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
"A shadow... what?"
But Tanya and Myrcella were already deep in their own conversation, something about whether Kunou would get in trouble for keeping the hammer, leaving Jane and Darcy standing by the entrance like particularly confused statues.
"You two must be new here."
The voice came from behind them—warm, feminine, and tinged with an accent Jane couldn't place. She turned around.
And stared.
The woman standing in the doorway was beautiful. That was the first thing Jane's overwhelmed brain managed to process. High cheekbones, full lips curved in an amused smile, an elegant bearing that spoke of someone accustomed to commanding attention.
She was also blue.
Not metaphorically blue, not sad blue, not dressed-in-blue. Her skin was blue. She had no hair—instead, a series of sculpted, tentacle-like crests swept back from her forehead, and her eyes were a striking shade of violet that seemed to glow faintly in the warm light of the restaurant.
She was wearing clothes that looked form-fitting and clearly expensive, but almost Sci-fi in a way.
Jane realized she was blocking the doorway and felt heat rush to her cheeks. "I'm so sorry," she stammered, grabbing Darcy's arm and pulling her aside. "We didn't mean to—please, come in."
The blue woman—the alien, because she was clearly, obviously, impossibly an alien—smiled graciously and stepped past them. "No harm done. First visits to the Fox Hole tend to be... overwhelming." She extended a hand in a gesture that was surprisingly human. "I'm Councilor Tevos. One of Haru's more frequent customers."
Jane shook the offered hand automatically, her scientist brain cataloguing details even through her shock. The woman's skin was smooth and slightly cool to the touch, her grip firm but not aggressive. Up close, Jane could see that her "skin" had a subtle texture to it, almost like very fine scales, and those violet eyes had vertically-slit pupils that dilated slightly as she studied Jane in return.
"I'm Jane. Jane Foster. And this is Darcy." Jane gestured vaguely at her assistant, who was making a noise that sounded like a teakettle about to boil over. "We're, um. New. Obviously."
"Scientist?" Tevos asked, tilting her head with apparent interest.
"Yes, actually. How did you—"
"You have the look. I've met many scientists across the galaxy, and they all share a certain... hungry curiosity in their eyes." Tevos smiled again, and there was something knowing in her expression. "This place is wonderfully peaceful compared to my rather stressful position as a Citadel Councilor. The food is exceptional, the company is eclectic, and Haru has a talent for making everyone feel welcome." She glanced toward an empty booth near the window. "If you'll excuse me, I desperately need to decompress. It was lovely meeting you both."
She glided away, moving with a grace that suggested she was accustomed to being watched and admired.
Jane and Darcy stood in silence for a long moment.
Then Darcy grabbed Jane's arm and dragged her toward an empty table, shoving her into a seat before collapsing into the chair across from her.
"Holy shit, Jane." Darcy's voice was a strangled whisper. "Are we on drugs right now?"
Jane glared at her assistant. "No! I'm not—I don't—I'm not that kind of physicist!" She knew, of course, that a not-insignificant portion of the scientific community had experimented with LSD and other substances in the name of "expanding their minds." But Jane had never touched anything stronger than the questionable coffee in the astrophysics department break room. "Why would you even think that?"
Darcy sputtered, waving her hands frantically. "Because shadow clones aren't supposed to be real, Jane! They're from a freaking anime! Naruto! The show with the ninjas and the headbands and the—" She made a complicated hand gesture that meant nothing to Jane. "And that woman? That blue woman who just walked past us like this is totally normal? She was an Asari!"
"A what?"
"An Asari! From Mass Effect!"
"Mass... what?"
Darcy let out a groan that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, slumping forward until her forehead hit the table with a dull thunk. "Oh my god. You spend too much time in textbooks. You're such an uncultured swine, Jane. Mass Effect is only one of the greatest video game series ever made! It's set in space, there's a whole galactic civilization, and the Asari are this species of blue-skinned space babes who live for like a thousand years and can mind-meld with people!"
Jane opened her mouth to point out that "space babes" was hardly a scientific classification…
"You're just making stuff up now, Darcy." Jane pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind her eyes. "And now is not the time to troll me. We just watched alien gods fight in the middle of a desert town. I need you to be serious for five minutes."
Darcy pouted, crossing her arms. "I'm being completely serious!"
She cut off abruptly as someone slid into the seat beside them without invitation.
Jane heard Darcy let out a small eep noise, somewhere between a squeak and a gasp, and turned to see what had caused it.
The woman who had joined their table was striking. That was the most neutral word Jane's overwhelmed brain could supply. She had fiery auburn hair pulled back in a practical warrior's braid, sharp green eyes lined with dark war paint, and a body that suggested she spent most of her time doing something far more physical than sitting at desks. She was clad in what Jane initially assumed was an elaborate costume, leather armor that left her muscular arms bare, fur-trimmed pauldrons, and bracers etched with Nordic-looking designs.
"Oh my gosh," Darcy breathed, her earlier scientific argument completely forgotten. "Are you Aela the Huntress?"
The woman's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Aye, I am." She tilted her head, studying Darcy with an almost predatory interest. "I don't believe we've met, but it seems you've heard of me."
"A little bit," Darcy said, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal. It sounded like a lie, though Jane couldn't fathom why her assistant would be nervous about admitting she recognized someone.
Jane decided to fill the awkward silence with small talk. "I like your Viking costume," she offered, gesturing at Aela's getup. "And the face paint is a nice touch. Very authentic." She paused, squinting at the woman's chest plate. "You've got some stains on your armor, though. Might want to clean that before it sets."
Aela glanced down at the dark splatters across her leather and let out a low chuckle. "Blood," she said casually, as if discussing a coffee spill. "I'll wash it out later. Just finished slaughtering a band of foolish bandits who thought they could set up their own toll road outside Whiterun." She shook her head, still smirking. "There's always some crazy fools who think they can extort travelers on the main roads. They never learn."
Jane's brain took several seconds to process those words.
Blood. Slaughtering. Bandits.
This woman wasn't wearing a costume. She wasn't joking. She had just casually admitted to killing multiple people and seemed more annoyed about the laundry situation than the violence itself.
What kind of insane place was this restaurant?
Before Jane could formulate a response, or perhaps an exit strategy, the “shadow clone” of Haru materialized beside their table, setting down leather-bound menus in front of each of them with a warm smile that made Jane's cheeks flush traitorously.
She found herself staring.
Even knowing this wasn't the real Haru, even knowing it was supposedly some kind of magical construct without a soul, she couldn't help but notice... everything. He was, objectively speaking, the single most attractive man she had ever seen in her entire life.
She had thought Thor was handsome too, in a rugged, muscular sort of way. But that opinion had soured considerably after he'd allowed his armored friends to threaten children without a word of protest.
The clone returned to the bar, and Aela let out a low, appreciative chuckle beside her. "My man has a nice arse under all those tails, doesn't he?"
Jane choked on nothing. Darcy made a sound like a deflating balloon.
"Wait—are you dating Haru?" Darcy asked, her expression falling into obvious disappointment. "Damn. And here I was hoping the sexy anime fox prince demon guy would ruin me."
"Darcy!" Jane hissed, mortified.
But Aela just laughed, which suggested she found their reactions genuinely entertaining. "I'm his first lover," she said, leaning back in her seat with easy confidence. "And the first member of his harem. But there's plenty of room for more." Her green eyes glinted with something between challenge and invitation. "If you want to catch his interest—and hold it—you have to be an exceptional type of woman."
Jane's brain snagged on a single word. "Harem?" she repeated, incredulous. "He actually has a harem? Multiple women? And you're all just... okay with that?"
Aela raised an eyebrow, looking amused by Jane's scandalized tone. "Why wouldn't we be?"
"Because—I mean—sharing your partner? Doesn't that cause jealousy? Competition? Resentment?"
Aela leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Let me tell you something about Haru that might change your perspective."
What followed was a detailed explanation—delivered in Aela's matter-of-fact tone—about certain anatomical attributes that Haru apparently possessed. Specifics about stamina. Techniques. The sheer impossibility of any single woman being able to fully satisfy or be satisfied by him alone.
By the time Aela finished, both Jane and Darcy were beet red, their mouths hanging open.
"That's... that's not physically possible," Jane managed weakly, though her voice lacked conviction.
Aela just shrugged, that infuriating smirk still playing at her lips. “I’ve experienced it all many times, and plan on experiencing it all many MORE times…”
Before Jane could formulate a coherent response to that, the clone returned with their food. He set a plate down in front of Jane, something that smelled absolutely divine, a perfectly seared cut of meat she couldn't identify alongside roasted vegetables glistening with some kind of glaze.
Jane took a bite.
And moaned.
The sound escaped her before she could stop it, a genuine, involuntary noise of pure pleasure as flavor exploded across her tongue. It was the single greatest thing she had ever tasted! The meat was impossibly tender, seasoned with spices she couldn't name, cooked to absolute perfection. Each bite was better than the last, and she found herself closing her eyes just to focus on the sensation.
When she opened them again, cheeks burning with embarrassment, Aela was laughing openly.
"Don't worry," the huntress said. "That's also a pretty common reaction around here as well..."
Jane just pouted, before looking back towards her meal. She was about to dig in again, just like Darcy was shamelessly doing, but then the door to the Fox Hole was thrown open!
“Lady Jane! I have returned and brought the reparation money to rebuild the town my brother destroyed!”
Thor’s voice boomed in the restaurant as he strode inside with Agent Coulson, Haru’s little sister Kunou, and some other weird guy wearing armor and a weird antler shaped helmet.
“I didn’t destroy the mortal town! The little fox girl did when you foolishly allowed her to have your hammer! She caused way more damage than the Destroyer did!” Reindeer guy said with a scoff.
“Nuh uh! I was doing my job as a superhero magical fox girl! Everyone knows magical girls never have to pay for anything they break! That’s just the rules!” Kunou declared, pouting and crossing her arms adorably.
The reindeer guy, Thor, and the little girl then all started arguing back and forth—and Jane didn’t have enough energy left after her insane day to do more than spare them one last glance before going back to her food.
Darcy hadn't even bothered looking up once, and was almost finished eating—maybe she had the right idea.
– Frigga –
Frigga forced herself to move off of Haru.
It was harder than it should have been. Every instinct she possessed, instincts that had been suppressed and dulled for millennia, screamed at her to stay exactly where she was. Pressed against Prince Haru's chest. Wrapped in the warmth of his arms. Surrounded by the soft, protective cocoon of his golden tails.
She scooted off his lap almost reluctantly, feeling the loss of contact like a physical ache.
What is wrong with me?
She couldn't believe she had thrown herself at him like that. Like a maiden starved of affection. Like a woman who had been trapped in a loveless cage for so long that the first taste of genuine warmth had shattered every wall she possessed.
And damn her treacherous heart, she wanted to do it again.
Frigga pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath her palm. Her mind was still reeling. Not from the fall through the corrupted Bifrost, not from the crash landing, but from the sheer volume of memories now flooding back into her consciousness.
Her TRUE memories.
For millennia, she had believed herself Asgardian. She had believed she was Frigga, beloved wife of Odin All-Father, mother of Thor and adoptive mother of Loki. She had believed she had married Odin for love—that she had chosen him, wanted him, devoted herself to him willingly.
Lies. All of it. Carefully constructed lies woven directly into the fabric of her mind.
She was not Asgardian.
She was Frigga of Vanaheim. A proud daughter of the Vanir. Their princess. Their goddess of the hunt, of magic, of the wild places where civilization dared not tread. She had been powerful, terrifyingly so, a force of nature that even Odin had feared during the ancient war between their peoples.
And he had taken her as a prisoner of war so her people never rose up against him again. And then he made her forget about her own people!
He had reached into her mind with his foul sorcery and simply... rewritten her. Sealed away everything that made her her. Replaced her fierce independence with docile compliance. Transformed a warrior goddess into a smiling, supportive wife who existed only to bolster his ego and bear his heirs.
Frigga's hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.
She remembered now. She remembered the pointed tips of her ears, the mark of her Vanir heritage, and how Odin's magic had reshaped even her physical form to better match his Asgardian aesthetic. She remembered her true face, her true power, her true self.
And she remembered Thor.
Her firstborn son. Her golden child. Half-Vanir by blood, but raised believing himself pure Asgardian. What had Odin done to his mind? What false memories had been implanted? What aspects of his true heritage had been suppressed or erased entirely? Thor's recklessness, his arrogance, his inability to see beyond the simple philosophy of "hit things until they stop moving"—were those truly his nature, or were they symptoms of a mind that had been deliberately stunted?
She would fix it. She would fix all of it. Once they escaped this dead realm, once she had time to breathe and plan, she would undo every thread of Odin's tampering. She would restore Thor to what he should have been—a prince of two worlds, wielding both Asgardian strength and Vanir magic.
And Loki...
Frigga's heart clenched painfully.
Poor Loki. Her second son, though not by birth. A frost giant child, left to die because he was too small, too weak by his people's standards. She had claimed him immediately, weaving powerful adoption magic that bound him to her bloodline as surely as if she had carried him in her own womb.
But Odin had twisted even that.
He had used her magic as a foundation for his own illusions, hiding Loki's blue skin and red eyes behind a permanent glamour. He had raised the boy as Asgardian, never telling him the truth of his origins, letting him grow up feeling wrong and different without ever understanding why.
Loki had no idea he was a frost giant. He had no idea that the people he had been taught to hate and fear were his own kin.
Frigga loved him all the same. She would always love him as her trueborn son, because that was exactly what her magic had made him. But he deserved the truth. He deserved to understand himself, to make peace with his dual nature, to choose his own path with full knowledge of who and what he was.
She would give him that. She would give both her sons the truth that Odin had stolen from them.
But first, she needed to move from here.
Frigga stood on unsteady legs, her elegant Asgardian gown dusty and torn from their violent landing. She found herself instinctively reaching out—and Prince Haru's hand was there, warm and solid, his fingers interlacing with hers as naturally as breathing.
She clutched his hand like a lifeline, drawing strength from the contact.
Together, they surveyed their surroundings.
The landscape stretched out in all directions—a hellscape of black volcanic rock and gray ash that seemed to swallow what little light existed. Jagged obsidian spires jutted up from the cracked earth like the bones of some long-dead titan. The sky above was a featureless void, neither day nor night, just an oppressive grey that pressed down on everything below.
There was no life here. No plants, no animals, no insects. Not even lichen clinging to the rocks or moss growing in the crevices. Just death, as far as the eye could see. A world that had been dead for so long that even the memory of life had faded.
And yet...
Frigga's recovered memories stirred. Something about this place tugged at the edges of her consciousness—a familiarity she couldn't quite place. She had never been here before, she was certain of that, but she had heard of it. She had studied it, long ago, before Odin's enchantments had clouded her mind.
The realization hit her like a thunderbolt.
"This is Helheim," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Haru turned to look at her, one fox ear tilting in question. "Helheim?"
"The realm of the dead." Frigga's grip on his hand tightened unconsciously. "One of the Nine Realms connected to Yggdrasil, the World Tree. It was supposed to be... it is a dead world. A place where souls go when they do not die gloriously enough to earn passage to Valhalla." She shook her head slowly, fragments of forbidden knowledge surfacing from the depths of her restored memory. "All Asgardians were forbidden to travel here. Odin decreed it one of the highest crimes, punishable by eternal imprisonment. I never knew why he was so adamant about keeping everyone away..."
She trailed off, a new suspicion forming in her mind. What was Odin hiding in this realm? What secret was so dangerous that he had banned all travel here on pain of eternal punishment?
Haru rubbed his thumb across her knuckles in a soothing gesture that made her heart flutter despite their grim circumstances. "Well," he said, his tone casual in a way that seemed almost absurd given where they were, "there's definitely someone alive nearby. I can sense them—feels like some kind of goddess, actually. Dark energy signature, but not necessarily hostile." He shrugged, his tails swaying behind him with an easy confidence. "We might as well go introduce ourselves. Ask some questions, maybe get some answers about this place."
Frigga stared at him. "You want to approach an unknown deity in the realm of the dead... to ask for directions?"
"And maybe offer to cook her something," Haru added, as if that were a perfectly reasonable addendum. "The soil here is terrible. I doubt anyone who lives in this wasteland has had a proper meal in... well, ever, probably. Food is a universal language. It opens doors."
Despite everything—despite the millennia of stolen memories, despite the betrayal of the man she had believed was her loving husband, despite being stranded in a forbidden realm of death—Frigga found herself smiling.
There was something infectious about Prince Haru's confidence. He stood in the middle of a literal hellscape, holding her hand, and spoke about approaching dark goddesses and cooking meals as if they were planning a casual afternoon outing. He wasn't dismissive of the danger, she could see the sharp intelligence behind those golden eyes, the way his ears constantly swiveled to track sounds, the subtle tension in his stance that said he was ready to fight at a moment's notice.
But he wasn't afraid.
And somehow, impossibly, his lack of fear made her feel braver too.
"You're quite certain we can escape this place?" she asked, allowing a hint of her old humor—her true humor, sharp and teasing rather than gentle and demure—to color her words.
Haru flashed her a grin that showed the points of his fangs. "Lady Frigga, I've fought Endbringers, eaten a sun god, crashed a cooking competition with dragon meat, and watched my little sister use Mjolnir as a toy before getting bored of it." He squeezed her hand and started walking toward wherever he sensed the mysterious presence, gently pulling her along. "A dead realm full of damned norse souls? That's barely a Tuesday."
Frigga laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, nothing like the polite chuckles she had offered at Odin's court for thousands of years.
She followed the fox prince into the wasteland, her hand still firmly clasped in his, and found herself thinking how she never could have imagined her fate would change so much in a single day.
– Haru –
I led Frigga across the barren wasteland, keeping her hand firmly clasped in mine as we navigated the treacherous terrain. The black volcanic rock crunched beneath our feet, and more than once I had to steady her when loose stones shifted under her out of nowhere. Although, considering she was a goddess, I’m pretty sure she was slipping on purpose occasionally just to press herself against me, not that I minded.
We rounded a bend in the jagged rock formations, and I stopped short.
A hut sat in a small clearing ahead of us. "Hut" was perhaps generous, it was more like a pile of obsidian stones that had been deliberately stacked into something vaguely shelter-shaped. The black rock gleamed dully in the gray non-light of Helheim, and I could see that the entire structure was braced together by dozens of black swords thrust into the ground and through the walls at odd angles.
The swords radiated death magic. I could taste it on my tongue—cold and final, like the last breath leaving a body. It wasn't hostile, exactly, but it was present in a way that made my tails bristle instinctively.
Yeah, a death goddess definitely lived here. "Hello?" I called out, trying to keep my voice friendly despite my nerves. "Anyone home? We come in peace and all that?"
Silence, but only for a moment.
Then—a gasp. Feminine, sharp, shocked. It came from inside the hut, followed by the sound of movement.
The stone door scraped open. The woman who emerged made my brain short-circuit for a solid three seconds.
She was tall—easily six feet, maybe more—with legs that seemed to go on forever beneath the ragged hem of her dress. The dress itself was green, or had been once. Now it was faded and slightly tattered, the fabric worn thin in places and struggling valiantly to contain a body that was clearly not designed for modesty.
Her skin was pale. Not sickly pale, but it did seem like she hadn’t seen sunlight in a thousand years. Through the tears and holes in her dress, I could see hints of lean muscle shifting beneath that porcelain surface, the body of a warrior goddess who hadn't let herself go soft despite what I suspected was a very, very long isolation.
And her breasts...
The fabric pulled tight across her chest, the neckline dipping low enough to reveal the generous swell of cleavage that made it very clear this goddess was blessed in multiple ways. They were large and firm, defying gravity in that way only divine physiology could manage.
Her eyes were what caught me last—vivid, glowing green, like emeralds. They stared at me and Frigga with an expression I couldn't quite parse. Shock? Confusion? Disbelief?
Her long black hair was disheveled, tangled in places, clearly not brushed or maintained in... centuries, maybe? Longer? But even unkempt, it still had a lustrous quality to it. Same with her skin, her features, her entire being. Whatever neglect she had suffered, her divinity kept her looking stunning despite it all.
She didn't speak. She just stared at us like she wasn't sure we were real.
How long has she been alone here?
This woman had the look of someone who had forgotten what other faces looked like.
"Oh, you poor dear!" Frigga's voice broke the silence.
Before I could react, she had released my hand and rushed forward, closing the distance between herself and the death goddess in a few quick strides.
And then she hugged her.
I watched, slightly stunned, as Frigga wrapped her arms around the taller woman and pulled her into a firm embrace. Their bodies pressed together—Frigga's mature curves against the goddess's more athletic frame, breasts squishing together through thin fabric in a way that my traitorous animal brain catalogued in far too much detail.
The death goddess stood frozen, her glowing green eyes wide with shock as she stared at me over Frigga's shoulder. She looked like someone had just spoken to her in a language she'd forgotten existed.
"Look at the state of you," Frigga was saying, pulling back just enough to examine the goddess's face while keeping her hands on those bare, pale shoulders. Her voice had shifted into something warm and maternal—or perhaps sisterly, given that they appeared roughly the same age. "Your hair is an absolute mess, and this dress is practically falling apart. How long have you been out here alone, dear?"
The goddess opened her mouth. Closed it. No sound came out.
Frigga made a soft, sympathetic noise and turned to look at me over her shoulder. "Haru, darling, I'm going to take this poor thing inside and help her get cleaned up. Could you start making a meal for everyone? I imagine she hasn't had a proper hot meal in... well, possibly ever."
"Of course," I said immediately.
My mind was already racing through my inventory. I always kept emergency food supplies stored away just for situations like this one.
Given the cold, the bleakness, and the general aura of "everything here is dead and sad," I figured something warm and hearty was in order. A beef stew, maybe. Rich broth, tender chunks of meat, root vegetables that would fill the belly and warm the soul. Comfort food for a goddess who looked like she hadn't been comforted in eons.
Frigga nodded approvingly at my agreement, then turned back to the still-silent death goddess. "Come along, dear. Let's get you sorted out. I'm quite good at elemental magic so I should be able to conjure you up a proper bath, would you like that? We'll fix your hair, find you something better to wear from some of the emergency clothes I keep on me, and by the time we're done, Haru will have something delicious waiting for us."
She gently but firmly guided the stunned goddess back toward the obsidian hut.
The death goddess went without resistance, still looking over her shoulder at me with those luminous green eyes. She still hadn't said a single word.
I watched them disappear through the stone doorway, then let out a long breath.
"Right," I muttered to myself, rolling up my sleeves. "Beef stew it is."
I found a relatively flat area of rock, pulled out my portable cooking supplies from my inventory, and got to work. The familiar motions of preparing food helped settle my racing thoughts—dicing onions, mincing garlic, browning meat in a heavy pot I'd enchanted to heat evenly without an external flame.
As the first aromas of cooking began to drift through the dead air of Helheim, I couldn't help but wonder what story that goddess had to tell.
And why Odin had been so desperate to keep everyone away from this place.
– Hela –
She had stopped counting the years after the first thousand.
It had seemed important, at first. A way to mark the passage of time, to remind herself that existence continued even if nothing ever changed. She had scratched tally marks into the obsidian walls of her prison, neat rows of five that stretched across every surface until she ran out of space and had to start over.
Then she had stopped caring.
Time lost meaning when nothing ever happened. When the gray sky never shifted, when the black rocks never crumbled, when the silence pressed in so completely that she sometimes screamed just to remember what sound was.
Hela, Goddess of Death, firstborn of Odin, had been erased from existence.
Not killed—that would have been a mercy. No, her father had done something far crueler. He had locked her away in the one realm no Asgardian would ever visit, and then... forgotten her. Deliberately. Systematically. He had used his magic to rewrite the memory of Yggdrasil itself! In order to scrub her from the memories of everyone who had ever known her. Her name was stricken from the histories. Her conquests were attributed to others. Her very existence became a myth, then a rumor, then nothing at all.
She had been unmade while still breathing.
And for what? For being exactly what he had raised her to be.
Odin had forged her into a weapon. From her earliest memories, she had been trained for war, honed for conquest, shaped into the blade that would carve his empire across the Nine Realms. She had been his executioner, his general, his favorite child. Every drop of blood she spilled was at his command. Every world she conquered was for his glory.
Then he decided he wanted to be a benevolent king.
The wars ended. The conquests stopped. And suddenly, the daughter he had created—the perfect instrument of death and domination—was an embarrassment. A reminder of the brutal history he wanted to bury. So he buried her instead.
She remembered the betrayal like it was yesterday. The way he had smiled at her, called her to his side, told her he had a special mission for her. She had gone willingly, eagerly, desperate as always for his approval.
The chains had come out of nowhere.
She had fought. Gods, how she had fought. But Odin had prepared for centuries, gathering artifacts and allies, weaving spells specifically designed to counter her abilities. In the end, even the Goddess of Death could not overcome the combined might of the All-Father and his Einherjar.
He had thrown her into Helheim like garbage. Sealed the pathways. Made it impossible for her to escape on her own.
And then he had made everyone forget she existed.
Everyone.
Hela had screamed herself hoarse in those early years. Raged against the injustice. Sworn vengeance in every language she knew. She had clawed at the barriers between realms until her fingers bled, had thrown her power against the walls of her prison until she collapsed from exhaustion.
Nothing worked.
Eventually, the rage had burned itself out. What replaced it was worse—a cold, hollow emptiness that settled into her bones and never left. She stopped screaming. Stopped fighting. Stopped doing much of anything except existing, because existing was all she could do.
She built her hut from the black stone. She sat in silence. She waited for something—anything—to change.
Nothing ever did.
And then, of course, came the hallucinations.
Hela had experienced dozens of them over the centuries. Hundreds, perhaps. She had held on as long as she could, longer than most minds would have endured, but eventually, inevitably, the isolation had won. Her psyche had cracked like ice over a frozen lake, fracturing into pieces that no longer fit together properly.
Sometimes the hallucinations were pleasant. Memories of conquest, of glory, of the days when she had stood at Odin's right hand and the Nine Realms trembled at the mention of her name. Sometimes they were violent—phantom battles against enemies long dead, her father's disappointed face looming over her as chains materialized from nowhere, the screams of the Valkyries she had slaughtered echoing off obsidian walls that should have been silent.
The violent ones were almost preferable. At least they felt real.
The kind hallucinations were the cruelest. They offered hope, warmth, connection, and then they dissolved like morning mist, leaving her more alone than before. She had learned to recognize them quickly, to steel herself against their false comfort, to remind herself that nothing in Helheim was real except her own endless suffering.
But this one...
This current hallucination might have been the nicest she had experienced in a very, very long time.
A beautiful woman with golden hair and kind eyes had appeared at her door, accompanied by an exotic, impossibly handsome man with fox ears and ten magnificent golden tails. They had spoken to her—actually spoken to her, with voices that sounded like music after millennia of silence. And they had been kind. Genuinely, inexplicably kind to the Goddess of Death, as if she were someone worth being kind to.
Their attractiveness only made the fantasy more appealing. In another life, in the life she had lived before her imprisonment, either of them would have caught her eye at court. If she had still been a princess, still been free, she would have pursued them both for her bed without hesitation. Hells, she would have been ravishing them both at the same time, preferably.
How fitting, she thought distantly, that my broken mind would conjure such temptations.
And then the beautiful woman had hugged her.
Hugged her.
Hela couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched her with anything other than violence. The sensation of arms wrapping around her body, of warmth pressing against her chest, of another heartbeat so close to her own, it had nearly undone her right there in the doorway.
Before she could process what was happening, the woman—Frigga, she had called herself—had guided Hela inside her own hut and was already taking charge with brisk efficiency.
"Let's get you out of these rags, dear. You'll feel so much better once you're clean."
Hela found herself obeying without protest, her fingers moving to the fastenings of her ruined dress. Some distant part of her mind noted that she was stripping naked in front of a stranger, but that part was quickly silenced by the larger truth: none of this was real anyway.
If this hallucination wanted to involve carnal pleasures, Hela certainly wasn't going to object! She didn't think she'd ever had one of those fantasies before, her broken mind usually gravitated toward violence or bitter memories, but there was a first time for everything.
Her dress pooled at her feet, leaving her completely bare. The cold air of Helheim kissed her pale skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs. She stood there, exposed and vulnerable, waiting to see what direction this fantasy would take.
Hela could see the appreciation in the woman’s eyes, but then she didn’t reach for Hela’s body with lustful intent.
Instead, Frigga made a complicated gesture with both hands, golden magic swirling at her fingertips. The obsidian floor in the corner of the hut began to shift and reshape, stone flowing like water until it formed a proper bathing tub. A second gesture, and steaming hot water erupted from nothing, filling the conjured basin until it nearly overflowed.
The steam that rose carried the faint scent of flowers.
Flowers.
Hela's breath caught in her throat. When was the last time she had smelled anything other than ash and stone and her own unwashed body?
"In you go," Frigga said gently, guiding Hela toward the tub with a hand on the small of her back.
The water was perfect.
Hela sank into the heat with a moan that bordered on obscene, her head falling back against the stone rim as warmth enveloped every inch of her neglected body. The sensation was overwhelming, after so long feeling nothing but cold and emptiness, the simple pleasure of hot water against her skin was almost too much to bear.
This isn't real, she reminded herself. None of this is real.
But gods, she didn't care. Real or not, she was going to savor every second of this fantasy!
Frigga knelt beside the tub, conjuring soap and cloth from somewhere, and began to wash Hela's hair with careful, thorough attention. Her fingers worked through the tangles that had accumulated over centuries, patient and gentle, never pulling hard enough to cause pain.
Hela moaned again, shamelessly this time, tilting her head into those wonderful hands. The intimacy of the act—someone caring for her, tending to her—was almost more overwhelming than the physical sensation itself!
"That feels incredible," she breathed, not caring how desperate she sounded. This was her fantasy, after all. She could be as needy as she wanted.
"You poor thing," Frigga murmured, her voice soft with sympathy. "How long has it been since anyone took care of you?"
Millennia, Hela thought. Millennia since anyone touched me without trying to kill me. Millennia since anyone looked at me with anything other than fear or hatred.
She didn't say any of that out loud. She just closed her eyes and let the hallucination wash over her, memorizing every detail so she could cling to the memory when the fantasy inevitably dissolved.
Frigga's hands moved from her hair to her shoulders, working soap into her skin with firm, circular motions. Down her arms, across her back, along the column of her throat. Hela found herself arching into all of it.
When was the last time she had been clean?
Eventually, reluctantly, Frigga helped her rise from the cooling water. A soft towel, conjured from the same mysterious source as everything else, wrapped around Hela's dripping body, and Frigga began to pat her dry with efficient movements. Hela felt a flicker of disappointment when those hands only lingered on her bare skin for a few seconds before moving on. Some treacherous part of her had hoped the fantasy might take a more intimate turn. But the disappointment faded quickly when Frigga produced a folded garment from... somewhere.
"The sizes might not be perfect," Frigga said apologetically, shaking out the fabric to reveal a beautiful emerald green dress. "You're quite a bit taller than me. But it should fit well enough."
Hela stared at the dress.
It was gorgeous. Simple but elegant, the green fabric rich and soft-looking, nothing like the threadbare rags she had been wearing for countless centuries. It was the kind of dress she might have worn to a formal dinner in her princess days—refined, regal, worthy of someone important.
She slipped into it with trembling hands. The hem fell a bit short, ending above her ankles rather than sweeping the floor, and the bodice was slightly tight across her chest. But it fit. It was clean. It made her feel almost like a person again rather than a forgotten ghost.
"It's perfect," she whispered, running her palms down the smooth fabric. Her voice cracked on the words. "I haven't had... I mean, it's been so long since..."
She couldn't finish the sentence. Her throat had closed up entirely.
Gods, this hallucination is thorough, she thought, blinking back the sting of tears. My mind has truly outdone itself this time. I don't want it to end. Please, please don't let it end yet!
And then she smelled it.
Her head snapped up, nostrils flaring. A scent was drifting through the gaps in her hut's crude stone walls—rich, savory, impossibly real. Her stomach, dormant for so long she had forgotten it existed, clenched with sudden, violent hunger.
Food!
Actual food was being cooked somewhere outside. She could smell meat, onions, herbs, the deep earthy aroma of a stew simmering over open flame.
"That smells so good," she gasped, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
The woman beside her nodded, her expression brightening with obvious interest. "Prince Haru did say he was a professional chef. I've been quite interested in trying his cooking as well!"
Prince Haru. An interesting name. Hela didn't bother questioning it—her hallucination could call the handsome fox man whatever it wanted. She was too focused on that incredible smell, her feet already carrying her toward the door.
She emerged from her hut with Frigga close behind, and the sight that greeted her made her breath catch all over again.
The fox prince had set up a small cooking station on the flat expanse of black rock outside her home. A magical fire—blue flames that burned without fuel, contained in a perfect circle—crackled beneath a large iron pot. Steam rose from the bubbling contents, carrying that mouthwatering aroma directly to Hela's starving senses.
Haru stood over the pot, stirring its contents with a long wooden spoon. His golden tails swayed gently behind him, seemingly with minds of their own. His fox ears were perked forward in concentration, and his handsome face wore an expression of focused satisfaction—the look of a craftsman practicing his art.
He glanced up as they approached, and his golden eyes crinkled with a warm smile.
"Perfect timing," he said. "It's almost ready."
Hela didn't respond. She couldn't. Her eyes were fixed on that pot, her entire being focused on the promise of food—real food, hot food, food that someone had prepared with skill and care.
It's not real, she reminded herself one more time, even as saliva pooled in her mouth. He's not real. She's not real. The bath wasn't real, the dress isn't real, and this food won't be real either. When I reach for it, my hand will pass through empty air, and I'll be alone again.
But oh, how desperately she wanted it to be real!
Haru presented the bowl to her. The steam rising from the dish was utterly mouthwatering, and as Hela inhaled the scent, a shiver of pleasure went down her spine. Next, she accepted a spoon from him and brought the food to her lips. It was, without a doubt, the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She found herself unable, and unwilling, to stop, quickly devouring every last bite and drop. She was so tempted to lick the bowl clean right in front of them, but she managed to hold onto a sliver of her dignity.
And that’s when it finally hit her…
She stared at both Haru and Frigga, setting her bowl down with a look of shock on her face. Her hands were practically trembling as she tried and failed to find anything else to clutch onto.
“The both of you are actually—real…?”
XXX
Comments
KingSpy25i .
Thank you for the amazing chapter 🙏
Iori Daemona Angel
Yes.
willowskeith
Haru: "...if its her step-daughter does it still count as oyakodon?"
Xi
Oh Hela, you poor dear. I hope she gets all the head pats. She’s not a child, but I somehow think Kunou would be perfect in helping her get used to living again as someone who accepts her unconditionally without being intimidatingly handsome like Haru.
