Clouds passed in the sky, wind whipped waves of snow over the mountains and pulled off the icy crystals until they were as sharp as knives.

Time in the world of the dead was slow, almost as if Hel did not want it to go quickly, so that those who had not made it to Valhalla would suffer a little more.

Covered in a thick layer of snow, you pulled your limbs closer to escape the horror of winter. Crystals cut into your skin, cracks formed and thin threads of blood ran down your (S/C) cheeks. It was the only warmth there seemed to be in this land.

In your fingers you clutched your book tightly. The tips of the pages fluttered in the wind, snaking out from between the binding, trying to escape. Reflexively, you managed to snatch two pages before they could disappear into the vastness of the mountains. But you were not so lucky with others.

Like paper birds, decorated with lines of charcoal, they rose into the dark sky and fluttered away as if they could buy their freedom if only they made it far enough.

Your vision obscured by ice and snow, you watched them go. There was no point in trying to find them again. Even if they were the most important drawings you had ever made.

Gritting your teeth, you forced your stiff legs to move a little to regain some range of movement. The cold had already managed to sink so far into your bones that it hurt to even lift a toe.

It felt as if you yourself were made of ice, as if every little push would tear you to pieces and make you shatter. Your breath was already so shallow that every pull of your lungs was like knives in your flesh.

"By Odin's cursed name...", you whispered as a few ice crystals fell from your lashes. "Is this... how it's going to end? Here? In the world of... the dead, after all these years?"

Swallowing hard, you managed to lift your chin and take one last look at the sky. It was not a pretty sight, neither noble nor comforting. Instead, it felt like this world was trying to crush you, like you weren't worth the last breath.

On your journey you had seen many dead, but you did not know what it was like with the living who died in Helheim.

Would your body be consumed by ice and snow?

Would there be any remains to be found of you, something that could make people stop and wonder who you had been?

A weary smirk appeared on your face as tears of fatigue froze on your cheeks.

Was it even possible to die in this place instead of suffer for eternity?

How many questions existed in these realms. And how few answers to them.

Sometimes, when the nights in Jötunheim had been bright with stars and the sky had been clear, some of your brothers and sisters had had dreams. You had watched them in their sleep, moving as if their bodies were being pierced by spears. How their breath had caught as if they had beheld the most beautiful being beyond this universe.

Whenever they had told of their dreams, as clear and certain as their own reflection on the surface of a still lake, you had envied their ability. Many giants were able to see the future in one way or another. Some told them in stories. Others drew them on shrines.

Often it was not even events that affected the people but outsiders, strangers from worlds that did not connect to the branches of Yggdrasil.

Your own parents had both had this gift. You, on the other hand, had not been blessed with such a ability. Or one at all.

Sometimes you had wondered if some of your people had been blessed with greatness, others with foresight and still others with wisdom, why had you received nothing?

It had felt like you were not a full giant. And now you were the last one who could keep the memory of Jötunheim and its inhabitants alive.

It felt like a lie. An attempt that was not meant honestly.

As another layer of snow settled on your shoulders, you could hardly breathe in. It felt like a whole mountain was weighing down on you, a test you were unable to conquer.

Maybe it would have been better to travel to Muspelheim instead of hoping in the cold of the underworld that Odin would lose track of you.

How many days had it been since you last felt Thor's lightning tickle the back of your neck?

The God of Thunder was fast for his stature and unfairly quiet as well. If he had wanted to, he could have sneaked up on you in the dark.

But luck had been on your side. At least until now.

Tears froze on your face as you forced your hands to open so you could look at your palms. A thin layer of ice had already mingled with blood. With every movement, cracks appeared and something crumbled into your lap.

The book fell dully into the snow. You couldn't reach for it anymore.

A strong wind blew open the cover and made the pages flutter like the wings of a startled bird. Loose papers were torn out and danced in the air.

With heavy eyes you watched as your drawings scattered all over the land. Perhaps this was the last thing that would be left of you. Scattered pictures and their untold stories.

With difficulty, you managed to raise one hand to the sky. Snowflakes gathered in it.

You had to smile.

Although the touch burned worse than fire, you couldn't help but be glad that you were allowed to die while you felt something.

How your parents must have felt when Thor's hammer had pierced their bodies?

You remembered the lifeless look in their eyes, the certainty that their souls had left their bodies to one day endure.

"If I die... my soul will never return...", you whispered with tears streaming down your face. "I will not... get a new... body. No second... chance..."

A thick drop of blood rolled from the tip of your finger and fell into the snow to make you paint one last time.