“Where am I?”
A voice echoed in a white world where nothing existed.
“Ah… that’s right. Anat split me in half,” the voice thought, as its body continued drifting through the void.
Epona’s naked body floated slowly within nonexistence.
“I suppose this is the last fragment of consciousness left in my mind… before I dissolve into nothing, and my body turns to dust,” the goddess thought, gazing around with melancholy.
“I wish I could have said goodbye to Rodrigo… and the others. I suppose… in the end, I was of some use… unlike all those poor horses my father’s herd lost to sacrifice,” she thought, closing her eyes.
Yet just before losing consciousness entirely, she felt that there was… something nearby.
She opened her eyes and what she saw filled her with horror.
It was something colossal—so vast its dimensions could not be comprehended. Creatures like Jörmungandr would be nothing but insects before it.
Its form could not be described. It was the embodiment of countless nightmares. Epona could not even grasp its shape. Nothing in her long life could compare to the terror emanating from that being.
“Oh God… oh God, please save me,” Epona prayed as her body drifted closer to it.
Ironically, she prayed to something she had never once considered: God.
She was so terrified, so utterly overwhelmed, that she clung to the idea of a higher being that could save her from that horror.
“Is this Sheol? Is this what exists beyond our plane? Oh God, help me, please!” she screamed in terror, clawing at her own face as her sanity eroded with every glance at that thing.
She tried to scream—but there was no sound.
Only it… and her.
Then, like a distant flash, she heard a child’s voice far away.
She could not understand the words—but she could feel the meaning:
“This flower crown… an angel made it for me when the inn exploded and my parents died. I pray every day to God… that she is safe.”
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Then another voice—this time a girl’s.
“Mom… Dad… every day I pray to that blonde angel who protected us when you were gone. She brought you to your glory.”
More voices followed.
Many children.
Epona realized they were the children she had helped in Horsens.
Then came other voices—young women, speaking in Occitan:
“They said they were from Ireland… but I know they were angels of Christ who rescued us.”
“Thank you, my God, for the angels who protected us from the thieves.”
“Lord, thank you for watching over us with your angels that day.”
Epona began to cry.
And for a moment she forgot the creature approaching her.
Suddenly, her chest began to glow.
A voice echoed in her mind:
“Only this once.”
Epona opened her eyes.
She saw Loki—kneeling, weeping, looking away in horror.
“Father Odin! Thor! What is happening?!” he screamed.
Pain surged through her body.
Unbearable.
She looked down, her body was still split in half.
The agony was so intense that her consciousness began slipping again. She groaned deeply, forcing herself to endure.
Loki turned and saw her move.
“Girl, are you alive?!” he shouted, rushing to her side.
He summoned mead and poured it onto her lips while she continued groaning in pain.
Then, her body fused back together.
Her wounds vanished.
Epona closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Loki placed his hand on her forehead—warmth had returned.
“Did I just witness a miracle…? She was dead for several minutes,” he thought.
He snapped out of it.
“No… I must tend to the fallen.”
He lifted Epona onto his back and teleported to the battlefield.
Loki gave all the ambrosia he had left to the Asgardian gods, to Ana, Menrva, and Odin.
All of them were restored.
Fortunately, the battle had already ended—but they remained unconscious. Their wounds had been so severe that it would take time for their consciousness and ichor to recover.
Especially Odin, his recovery was painfully slow, despite Loki pouring all the ambrosia he had onto him, blaming himself for his own weakness.
Loki searched everywhere for Thor.
He could not find him.
Using his energy sensing, he tried to detect any trace—if he had been torn apart, at least something should remain.
Nothing.
Only Thor’s severed hand lay on the ground beside Mjolnir.
Loki picked up the hammer and in that moment, Thor’s hand turned to dust and vanished.
Loki understood.
Thor had given his life… elsewhere.
He then lifted Gungnir.
Both weapons—the spear of Odin and the hammer of Thor—were stored within Ana’s pocket dimension. Loki forced the goddess to open it by pressing his forehead against hers.
Dzelarhons arrived shortly after, accompanied by a group of Haida gods.
“Is everyone alive?” she asked. They bore only minor wounds.
“I regret to say… we have no ambrosia left to heal you,” Loki said.
The Haida gods laughed.
“These wounds are nothing. Those enemies were merely at the level of Sgana—they were strong, but ultimately limited,” Dzelarhons replied.
“Unfortunately… our people are lost. Thousands are now without homes. And we will need a place to tend to the wounded after such a disastrous battle,” she added.