Brandr found himself standing in the middle of the ruins of the great hall in full Crimson Hawk uniform. The destruction might've struck him as odd, the bodies strewn about, the general chaos and confusion might've been what should've concerned him, but despite the fact that this seemed to be every enemy of Asgard bearing down on them at once, it could even be Ragnarok as far as he knew, those weren't the facts that had him need to swallow and fear grip his heart.
He couldn't move, not even his breathing caused any movement it seemed, and whatever sorcery this was did not disturb him as much as the other fact that was inescapable. There were no swords in his hands. They were sheathed. There was no blood on him, on them, on the handles, he was more pristine than he'd ever been.
The figures of comrades he knew littered the ground, his father's swords being snapped like twigs, his mother not far off and splattered in blood as she fell to her knees one final time, a figure in the distance he could tell was Svalin fighting with everything she had was being beaten down, another tiny, almost buzzing, one flitted amidst the battle only to be batted down with a force that would even have many of the hardened cringe, and no sign of the young lord.
Everything that was his duty to fight against, to prevent, or to die trying for. And it was all happening now with him standing there, no sword in hand, watching, failing at his duty, and failing Asgard.
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