Freyja woke with a violent start, drenched in sweat and shaking with fear.
“Menrva, Menrva, I think I heard something,” the Norse goddess murmured, reaching out toward the companion who had been sleeping beside her.
But what she felt was not Menrva’s body.
It was the body of a man.
Startled, Freyja turned and stared at the stranger lying behind her. He was broad and heavy, with a thick black beard and green eyes. He was completely naked, and his body was covered in dense hair.
“Well now, pretty thing, you’re awake,” the man said, propping his head against one hand.
“I do not know who you are, but leave. Now,” Freyja said, still frightened.
“But we only had each other in the night, and I’m already wanting more,” the man replied, moving toward her and wrapping his arms around her, kissing her skin.
That was when Freyja realized she was naked too.
“No... this cannot be real,” she whispered to herself, shoving him away.
“I do not do such things anymore. Please, get away from me,” she said.
“Do not do such things?” the man repeated with a sneer. “Everyone knows you’re nothing but the easiest whore in all of Asgard.”
Then he forced Freyja back onto the bed.
“No, stop! I don’t want this!” Freyja shouted furiously, but the man pinned her wrists down with overwhelming strength, and she could not break free.
“If you don’t calm down, then I’ll take you by force, fucking whore,” he growled.
And he did.
Freyja screamed, struggled, pleaded, but he did not stop. He raped her with brutal indifference, and all she could do was cry and feel herself sinking deeper into misery.
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Then another voice rang out.
“Hey, why’re you the only one having fun with Asgard’s whore?”
Freyja turned and saw a crowd of men, along with dwarves and elves, all naked, all staring at her with hungry eyes.
“No... no, no!” she cried.
But before she could do anything, they swarmed over her.
Their bodies crushed the breath from her lungs. Hands grabbed her from every direction. She could barely move, barely breathe. They used her as they pleased while she could do nothing but sob in horror.
Some of the dwarves and elves struck her as they did so. Others cut into her skin. Freyja screamed and begged them to stop, but nothing changed.
She felt herself slipping toward unconsciousness when, in the distance, she saw her husband, Odr, watching her with a look of cold disappointment.
Freyja could not speak, but she tried to beg him with her eyes.
Odr stood there dressed like a Viking general, with a brown beard and honey-colored eyes. Then, seeing his wife in that state, he drew his sword.
“So these are the things you did whenever I went away,” he said. “You are nothing but a filthy whore.”
Freyja shook her head as best she could.
All the men, elves, and dwarves violating her began chanting in unison:
“Whore. Whore. Whore.”
Meanwhile, Odr raised his sword high, ready to strike clean through his wife’s neck.
Freyja closed her eyes.
And in that moment, she accepted her fate.
But just before the blade could sever her head from her body, something slammed into it with a metallic crash.
Freyja opened one eye and saw that it was a scythe.
Yet it was no ordinary scythe. It radiated a strange greenish-yellow energy, as though it were the weapon of death itself.
The men, elves, and dwarves recoiled from Freyja, and she turned to see where the weapon had come from.
Before her stood a ghostly rider holding the scythe. He rode a greenish horse that gave off the same uncanny light as the blade. He had intercepted Odr’s strike and saved Freyja’s life.
The men, dwarves, and elves hissed at the mysterious being, but with a single swift motion of his scythe, he cut them all in half. They vanished at once, dissolving like dark illusions.
Freyja could only stare up at the figure, breathing hard. She wanted to move, to speak, to fight, but her body had been left too broken, too ravaged. All she could do was look.
Odr shrieked at the apocalyptic rider, but once again the scythe flashed, and Freyja’s husband was decapitated, vanishing in the same manner.
“You are safe now,” said the rider, stepping closer to the Norse goddess, who could barely respond through her weakness and injuries.
“Th... ank you,” Freyja whispered, trying to see the face of the mysterious horseman.
Then, without warning, the rider raised his scythe again.
“Now rest,” he said.
And the last thing Freyja saw was the scythe descending toward her neck.
Then the goddess lost consciousness.