*sobbing*
~~~
The Closing Curtain
~~~
There's a moment when Frederick wakes up, before the sun rises and calls in the day. In this moment he is amnesic, the facts of his existence laid bare without the shroud of sentiment for him to pick up and peruse for his liking, before laying them back in their place.
I am Frederick Rotbart, he remembers, his hand wandering to the other side of the bed, and she—
He lies there, reaching through an empty space, the memories falling like an avalanche. There are missing pieces: the soft heat settled in the mattress here, the counterweight of another body there, and the easing sigh of pleasant dreams.
He gets up. There's no point staying in bed now.
~~~
The Vanir build tall and open, the better to invite the stars into their home. Deep in the heart of the Vanaheim Palace, where the starlight glitters and casts the unlit rooms with galaxies, the kings meet and break bread, and speak of worldly matters. It is here where Frederick sits, to await the Governor's judgement.
"There are customs in place," says Olaf finally, "when the bodies cannot be returned for a funeral. I think they will serve well, here and now."
"She requested the pyre," says Frederick.
"I do not cast blame, Rotbart. But as much as she was a lady of Helheim, she was Vanir twice over. Vanaheim must remember its daughters and sons."
Frederick nods. The cup of his soul is empty, cracks and fractures draining all cares away. "What do you need?"
Olaf sighs. "In nuclear fire the body burns, and the spirit is set free to travel the warp and rest at the roots of Yggdrasill, where the grass is soft and the fruits plentiful, the water clean and the sun as gentle as feathers of down. So it has been, and so it will be. The only things a spirit may desire are what brought them joy in life, to tide them over until they are joined by their loved and lost."
~~~
Frederick sees Freyr speaking awkwardly with his niece. There is much of his sister in Syr, in her face and bearing, but to a lonesome twin, the similarities only cast light on the gaps. Though she expresses the Vanir phenotype, she was born and bred a child of Avernus, and such dyes cannot be washed away.
Syr breaks off from her uncle's conversation, to hug her father. "Dad," she says quietly, hiding her face in his shoulder. She's doing well.
Frederick returns the embrace. "Do you have anything you want to send to mother?"
She squeezes him. "I don't know."
"We'll figure something out."
Syr shakes her head. "No. I want to do it myself."
"Alright."
~~~
The Hand of Tyr enters solar orbit three days later. Frederick stands at the macrocannon, where the remembrance casket lies open. Olaf had placed within a simple tiara, fit for a child, joined by the stuffed toy Freyr washed and cleaned by hand. It is of a dolphin, whatever those are.
Syr tries the tiara on her head for a brief moment, before returning it. Beside it she places a bolt of silversilk dress cloth, and a small box of makeup. "She liked to be pretty, Dad," she says at his look. "You wouldn't understand."
"I appreciated her efforts anyway." Frederick places his offering, a full set of watercolours and a roll of canvas. He hesitates, then pulls out a small barrette, studded with azure butterflies and precious gems. "I saw it, and I thought she might like it."
Syr nods. "She can make it work."
Frederick smiles, and puts it in.
~~~
In his sleep he dreams of her sitting by the roots of the World Tree, picking flowers and golden apples. "Fred," she says, and in her hair butterflies flap their wings, taking off. "Come here. Tell me everything."
Frederick climbs the grassy knoll, tripping into her lap. She laughs, the sound like snowbells, and pulls his head to the pillow of her thighs. By his face he feels the thin coolness of silk, and beneath it the soft warmth of life.
They stay there, watching the sun, Freya gently combing through his hair like she has never seen it before.
"I miss you," says Fred. "Every day. Syr misses you even more."
"I'll talk with her."
"Thank you. I know I'm not good with that sort of thing. Jane's been taking care of her a lot."
"Hmph. Men." She giggles. "Syr used to dress up like her, you know?"
"I know. Nothing like hitting people with swords."
"And how's Amos? I hope he hasn't run the navy into the ground without me."
"He keeps missing. I understand that's the basis of flight."
"And Henry? I hope he's taken a break…"
It seems a year and a day passes in her embrace. Eventually Frederick asks, "Is this real? Or is it just a dream?"
Freya stops where she's knotting a ribbon into his crown. "What do you want it to be?"
"I don't know."
Freya smiles. "Just because it's a dream doesn't mean it's not real. And sometimes, dreams do come true. Case in point, I was the hottest thing to ever come into your life, but that still happened."
Frederick snickers. "That is true." He sighs, and reaches to touch her face. "I wish I could meet you again."
Freya leans into his hand, closing her eyes. "Why? Won't you remember me?"
"Of course I will!"
"Then I don't see why not."
"It's not that. It's just… When I die, I'm supposed to go to the Emperor's Palace. But if you're here, how will I meet you?"
"Hm. That is a tough one." She pats his head, and turns it to the clouded west, where the grassy plains met the leaf painted sky, and a great cliff resided behind rainbow fog, stretching from pole to pole. "See that behind the clouds? That's the trunk of Yggdrasill, and every branch that grows is a sun, and every leaf a planet, and so Yggdrasill reaches out to every world and sun and star in the galaxy. Every day, the messenger squirrel Ratatosk climbs its trunk to deliver messages from Nidhogg the wyrm to the nameless eagle that perches at the peak of Yggdrasill, and on that eagles eyes are perched Vedrfolnir the hawk."
And as she spoke, Frederick lay in a daze, the vast trunk of Yggdrasill approaching until he could perceive its bark and grain, count the rings and sprouts cut through its wood. And he saw the squirrel, climbing a distance of lightyears to reach the canopy, where upon the leading branch was perched an eagle of golden feathers, and upon that eagle was perched a hawk, and the eagle heard the message from the gnawing worm and sent back his reply to be carried by the squirrel all the way down, down, down into the swirling darkness beneath Yggdrasill's roots where the gnawing wyrm spat venom and bile with gnashing, eight starred teeth, and cursed the eagle, and the squirrel bore the message and ran all the way up, up, up the tree of Yggdrasill…
Frederick blinks. "Okay."
Freya sighs. "Silly. Where an eagle ranges is the kingdom it rules. Who else has an eagle, and rules a galaxy?"
Frederick blinks again. "Oh. I shouldn't have doubted you."
"Of course not!"
~~~
Frederick wakes, and in the dawn before the day, the world is quiet and dark. The dream slips away, the details fading like running watercolours. But two things remain: the golden eagle perched upon the peak of the galactic tree, and Freya complimenting his taste in accessories.
He touches his face and finds a smile, before sitting up. There's work to be done, and he can't stay in bed all day.
~~~
AN: Ever do the favoured of the Emperor find solace in their duty.