Across a black field the flaky ashes floated, mingling as they fell, with various patches of untouched snow. It was cold, even as the fires burned, smoldering with an unearthly vengeance. The light was all gray, and though there were no clouds – nor was it quite night – the sun did not shine. There was no sun anymore. Here, upon the Field of Vigrid, the last great battle had been fought. Across its marred face lay the bodies of many a fallen warrior and foe: Jormungand and Thor; Odin and Fenrir; Frey and Tyr; Garm the Hellhound with Hela his mistress; Hymir the last great Giant and Skoll the Wolf. It was Skoll who had swallowed the sun and moon and then fallen by Frey’s hand. In the blood of numberless unnamed warriors who had marched from Vahalla and Hel, the stars were drowned and quenched. Now, upon this scene of ruin and desolation, there stood but four figures: Heimdall the Golden; Magni and Modi, sons of Thor; and Loki, the last of his kind.

“Withdraw, children,” Heimdall said quietly, “This is not your fight,” and he stood between Loki and the sons of his fallen friend. He would protect them, though it meant death.

“There is nowhere to run now,” Loki hissed, “No great Allfather’s skirts to hide behind. Once you are dead, then they too will die, and I will be Allfather-“

“A father without children,” Heimdall cut in, “In a Realm ravaged by war and polluted with death. You will be alone Loki,” he shook his head, “And what existence is that?”

For a moment the walls of Loki’s mind fell away, revealing the terror within. Never had he looked so much like a lost and broken child as the realization of utter loneliness struck him. But then reality receded, and across Loki’s visage there spread again a bloodthirsty mask.

“And who’s doing is it, great Guardian, that I have no children?” he spat, “Not mine! No, but when the Allfather lost his precious Baldur, nothing would suffice but to slay Narfi and Hela, banish Vali, and bind Jormungand, Fenrir and myself until this day. This day,” and a cold smile curved his lips, “Odin has felt my pain. And now he lies dead, with all his own.”

“Baldur will return,” Heimdall replied, “And to him is given the reign of the Second Realm.”

Loki’s eyes flickered: “Not if I seal the gates of Hel with your blood and theirs.”

“Your blood and mine shall be the last to fall upon this field,” Heimdall murmured, as over his eyes there spread a silver-gold haze.

“What see you, FarEyes?” Loki mocked, yet his words choked him.

Heimdall’s voice hummed soft and slow as the beat of a dying heart: “I see you and I – the last of the first – battling Fate as no others have or ever will again. I see us fall by each other’s hands, and as your last breath fades into the starless night, the demon Surtur arises from his deep abode. He shrieks, and pouring out his sulfurous soul, floods the Realm in flames. All is consumed – both man and beast, grass and tree, earth and stone. I see surging from the edge of the world, the unleashed Sea. It roars above the crackling flames, and rising in one great wave, drowns the screaming demon and all his fires. The world is quiet, such as it has not been since the beginning. The sky is dark, as if it never had known light . . . wait, I see light. Bright and golden it blossoms, yet without a sun, it simply is. I see a wave of water receding as if it were a hand. It reveals a stretch of rich, dark earth. I see plants and creatures sprouting from this mound, and as they spread and multiply, the land grows. I see on the outer rim, the figures of Aesir walking across the waters. From Hel there comes Baldur, leading his brother Hodur by the hand. From the East there come Magni and Modi, bearing Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor. From the South there comes Vidar, the son of Odin. From the West there comes a great black wolf. They all meet upon the land, and when the wolf is touched by Baldur, it stands erect and is a man. There the first six of the new Realm sit upon the grass, and as the sun rises, they name their Realm Gimli, of the Gem Lea. All is bright and new, so that from the darkest night of this bloody war, there is born a Realm of everlasting peace.”

A whisper lower than the moaning wind trembled through the silence: “And us?”

Heimdall shook his head, “That I cannot see.” And Loki looked away. Grinding his teeth, he glanced at Heimdall, his eyes blood-shot with murderous hate: “You have always hated me,” he snarled.

Heimdall blinked, his vision at last focusing on the tortured creature before him, “I have never hated you, Loki. Why should I?” and he stepped forward, holding out a hand, “Are we not kin?”

Again, Loki looked away. Across the field his eyes strayed, lingering on the forms of his fallen children: Hela, all twisted by the deadness that had eaten her soul; Jormungand lying in a coiled heap, his head crushed by the hammer Mjolnir; Fenrir, bloody and soaked by his own gore, his eyes wide and rolled back in the agony of his death.

“I . . . have no kin,” Loki whispered. Slowly his eyes widened as they returned to meet Heimdall’s gaze, and in them the Guardian saw the ghosts of a thousand memories shrieking. “I hate . . . myself.” With a wild scream, Loki attacked.

And all came to pass as Heimdall had foreseen. The world was reborn; the six Aesir met upon the new shores of Gimli; and it was there that Baldur turned the wolf back to his original form. For he was Vali, the last son of Loki.