"…Hmm, now that I'm up close to it, I don't think it's unsalvageable," the girl mused aloud, voice light and far too casual for the place she stood in. Her twelve wings folded back with a ripple of dimensional static as she stepped carefully around the thick, winding roots—some still pulsing with ancient lifeblood, others brittle and gray with creeping decay.
"Yeah," she nodded to herself, "this can work."
Nidhoggr blinked slowly.
Albion, still pressed against his mother's head, pulled back in confusion.
"…What?" he asked.
The girl—Hespera, Daughter of Chaos, Blessed of the Primordial, destroyer and restorer alike—barely glanced back at them. Her fingers trailed along the bark as she circled one of the exposed root veins, her expression both fascinated and faintly annoyed.
"Oh, don't mind me," she said. "I'm just… reevaluating."
She crouched, brushing her palm across a patch of bark where the Rot had grown thickest. The skin of Yggdrasil was blackened here, the edges of the root flaking and choked with necrotic magic that smelled of war, greed, and divine negligence.
Hespera's eyes glowed faintly—her emerald one flickering like lightning over water, her amethyst eye darkening with insight not meant for mortals.
"At first glance I thought this root was done for," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "But it's deeper than I expected. Still connected to the Weave. The Leylines haven't fully withdrawn…"
She looked up toward the unseen canopy of the World Tree.
"…and the upper branches haven't started screaming yet. That's something."
Nidhoggr, old and vast and exhausted, exhaled a long, low breath.
"…You can read the Tree?" she rasped.
Hespera straightened, brushing her hands off on her skirts as though she'd merely been working with clay. "Not just read it," she replied with a shrug. "I used to talk to it."
She turned toward Nidhoggr, her expression amused. "It's good to see you again, Niddie. It's been a while." Hespera covered her mouth and chuckles, "It looks like I got my answer on who will devour you, afterall, huh? It just had to happen a millennium later."
"…Hespera Eveningstar," Nidhoggr murmured, her memory stirring like coals long gone cold. "The little intruder from back then. But why—"
Hespera tilted her head, still smiling that maddening, effortless smile that seemed carved from both kindness and inevitability.
"'Little intruder,' huh?" she said, amused. "I guess that's fair. I did technically wander into your yard without permission back then."
She knelt by a fissured vein of the root, tracing the blackened bark with one gloved fingertip. Where she touched, faint runes glowed—soft, restorative, ancient things that carried no holy wrath, no divine judgment. Only renewal.
Nidhoggr's great body shifted, the sheer mass of her bones groaning beneath her as long-buried memories floated to the surface of her weary mind.
The little cherub.
The silver-haired girl with too much light in her heart and too much curiosity for her own good.
The child who had not feared the Devourer of Rot.
The child who had asked, "Who devours you?"
And now… the woman who stood at the roots of the dying World Tree, weaving salvation with hands born from chaos itself.
Nidhoggr rumbled low, the sound vibrating the very floor beneath them.
"…But why?" she rasped again, voice raw with more than just confusion now—hope, and sorrow, and something like fear. "Why are you here now?"
Hespera straightened, dusting her palms together.
Her expression shifted.
No longer playful.
No longer teasing.
Only serious. Weighty, like a storm pressing down against the very skin of the world.
"I'm here," Hespera said, her voice gentler now, "because endings are coming faster than they should."
She walked slowly back to Albion's side, glancing once at the crimson tether of Ddraig's soul swirling between them.
"I'm here because I owe you for those times long ago. You spent time with me, taught me things, and let me rest here. It may sound trivial sounding but it meant a great deal to me none the less."
A faint pulse of magenta energy ran along her wings, making the very roots quiver beneath her feet.
"I'm here," she whispered, "because you deserve to rest, Niddie. Because you earned it a thousandfold."
Nidhoggr lowered her massive head again, scales weeping light as the words soaked into the cracks of her ancient heart.
"And him?" she asked, gazing at Albion—at her son, her little moon, grown now into a warden of death and balance.
Hespera's lips curled into a softer, almost fond smile.
"He's your replacement," she said simply. "I need him to take your place in containing the Rot and preventing it from spreading any further. I know a way to cleanse Yggdrasil for good, but it will take me about a year or so to prepare."
Albion, swallowing the weight of destiny in his spectral throat, lowered his wings in silent oath.
The cavern of roots pulsed faintly around them — not with sickness, but with something fragile and ancient.
Hope.
For the first time in a millennium.
Nidhoggr closed her vast, ancient eyes, feeling the tremor of it ripple through the marrow of the Tree. It was like hearing a heartbeat after believing herself deaf for centuries.
A single breath shuddered from her massive lungs.
"…A year," she whispered.
Hespera nodded once, solemn. "Maybe a little less, if I'm lucky. Depends on how cooperative the upper branches are. And if the other pantheons don't throw a tantrum when they feel the stabilizers shift."
She glanced upward, as if seeing something far beyond sight—through roots, past stars, into the chaos-wefted fabric of reality itself.
"Balance was meant to be natural," she murmured. "Not something patched and mended by reluctant gods."
Her fingers tightened at her sides.
"I'll fix it properly."
Nidhoggr's gaze sharpened, old and sorrowful and proud all at once.
Her voice, when it came again, was steadier.
"…He will suffer."
Albion stirred slightly, wings flexing.
Nidhoggr continued, voice rich with the wisdom carved into her bones:
"He will be forgotten. Left in darkness. He will devour the sins of the world without thanks. Without mercy. Without song."
She turned her head slightly, her molten-gold eyes meeting Albion's spectral form fully.
"It is a heavy burden," she said.
Albion didn't flinch.
"I know," he said, voice steady despite the trembling in his spirit. "And I'll carry it."
Nidhoggr's face softened, the way only an ancient mother could soften — a mountain yielding, just once, before eternity reclaims it.
She turned to Hespera again.
"And you?" Her voice lowered, rich with unspoken questions. "What burden will you bear?"
For a heartbeat, something cracked behind Hespera's eyes—something vast and aching and alone.
She smiled, but it was not a happy smile.
"I'll be acquiring the things I need to heal the World Tree," she said. "I have business with the Greek pantheon anyway, so I'll head there first to aquire the first preparations."
She spread her hands slowly, her twelve wings rippling behind her with a sound like falling stars.
"...So the damn tree can finally stop weeping."
---
Nidhoggr inhaled deeply, her ancient lungs pulling in the scent of the roots, the faintest traces of blooming life that had not yet surrendered.
Then she exhaled.
Long and slow.
"…Very well," she said.
A faint glow began to radiate from her massive chest—an amber light that grew and grew, illuminating the withered chamber in gold.
Albion stepped back instinctively, feeling the monumental shift in the air.
Hespera, standing still as a silent star, bowed her head respectfully.
"If you wish, you can rest in my personal Dimensional space."
Nidhoggr's eyes, dim yet filled with a thousand dying suns' worth of wisdom, flickered toward Hespera's offered hand — figurative and literal. For a long moment, she said nothing.
The glow in her chest grew brighter, warmer — no longer the strained, desperate light of endurance, but the natural exhale of a soul ready to sleep.
"…You would keep me?" she asked softly. Her voice was like brittle parchment brushed by a summer breeze — fragile but still capable of carrying worlds.
Hespera, her silver hair glinting in muted tones of violet, green, and magenta, simply nodded.
"I can't bring back the past," she said. "But I can give you peace. A place without rot. Without time. Without sorrow. A garden that only you will know."
A faint hum curled through the roots at her words—an old sound, half-memory, half-promise.
Albion watched silently, heart tightening at the offer. He knew, somehow, that this was not a small thing.
For Hespera to offer part of her private Dimensional space—a place stitched from Chaos itself—was an act rarer than miracles.
Nidhoggr closed her eyes briefly, the ancient lines of her face softening.
"…I would like that," she said at last. "I would like to dream again."
Hespera smiled, gently this time — like the first light after a long eclipse.
She stepped forward, lifting her left hand. The silver crystal ring she wore pulsed once, and reality shifted around it — a tear in space, delicate and graceful, opened beside Nidhoggr's great form.
Not chaotic, not violent. A doorway wrapped in silver vines and stardust winds, leading into a hidden bower far beyond the reach of mortal gods and mortal decay.
The garden of an evening star.
A sanctuary.
Her sanctuary.
Nidhoggr lowered her massive body once more, her head dropping heavily to the ground, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. But this time, there was no regret.
No shame. Only relief.
Albion approached, brushing his spirit-form forehead against her great snout one last time.
"Rest now, Mother," he whispered.
She rumbled a sound deep in her chest—a noise of contentment, of trust.
And then, with a final, slow exhale, her great body shimmered—
Dissolving into silver-gold light, wrapped in soft strands of magenta thread, drawn
carefully into the portal. There was no rush. No tearing. Only acceptance.
As the last of her spirit passed through, the portal closed with a soft chime—like a lullaby echoing through the bones of a sleeping world.
Silence fell. But it was no longer heavy. It was peaceful.
Hespera exhaled slowly, lowering her hand. "She's at peace now," she murmured.
Albion stood silently at her side, feeling the roots shudder in understanding.
The world was lighter.
Less broken.
For the first time in millennia, the World Tree could breathe.
And the future… It was still uncertain. Still filled with pain and struggle and choices yet to be made.
But for this moment—
For this one sacred moment—
It was enough.