Helheim is renowned as a land that’s as bleak as it is
harsh; a place of gloom and freezing cold, permanently expressing the
extremes of the northern climate that the ancient Norse resided in. Having been there myself I know those tales
are not far off. Mere exposure to the
frigid temperatures themselves would be enough to kill any hapless mortal who
made it that far down Yggsdragsil alive.
There’s not a scrap of comfort to be found anywhere in the realm unless
Hel herself decides to provide it. And
my Mother is hardly known for such kindnesses.
Not to mention that despite being its unquestioned ruler she wants
little more than to escape the chains of the land that has been her prison for
all her life.
All this is true, and I’m not even sure mere words can truly
express what the place is like.
Yet I’d sooner spend another month in my Mother’s realm than
another second in Duat. I may no longer
be immersed in the river Urnes. But the
sense of dread inevitability it imparts cannot be sluiced away so easily as its
waters. As we passed through the second
and third gates I could feel it, waiting beneath us. Even if most of us survived the disastrous
encounter of a few hours before we have not escaped, not in the eyes of the
river. We have merely managed to gain a
reprieve.
It is still waiting, it will always be waiting. Until we slip up, and it can claim us for its
endless, ebon, depths. That time isn’t
necessarily far off as we approach the labyrinth. Rocks loom just beneath the surface, and
extend upwards to form the walls of the maze.
A single mistake is all it will take to shred our hull like paper. Then we will be spilled into the river once
more.
Except this time there will be no sanctuary to return to.
This time the river will relinquish no prizes.
This time...will be the last time.
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