Asgard: Illyana in the Desert

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Illyana spends an unhappy day in the desert after arriving in Asgard. When the goddess Hel shows up, things go downhill from there, and she ends up bound in the service of another underworld ruler, much to her dismay.



Illyana Rasputin was hot, tired, scratched, thirsty, sunburnt, and in the middle of a desert.

If she hadn’t been the person she was, this might have counted as her worst day ever. The fact that being stranded in a desert only ranked in the middle was sad in and of itself.

The heat was rising in waves all around her, and although she was accustomed to inhospitable climates, this, after the gentle summer of Westchester, seemed a bit unfair. Actually, in terms of fairness, being transported unwillingly to a foreign desert in what was almost inevitably an alternate dimension was about as far down on the list as you could go without hitting ‘kidnapped to Limbo’.

She hadn’t seen anything even resembling alive since that Volkaar demon a few hours back; and since the Volkaar demon hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with information of any sort, not having a tongue or even a mouth, she’d been wandering against the sun for some time. Well, stomping against the sun and talking to herself, which was almost the same thing.

By this point in her very long day, she could have made a very convincing argument that human beings belonged nowhere near deserts, especially if they were humming with more mystical energy than anywhere on Earth. Especially not wearing jeans, which she swore she'd never wear again, so long as she lived to get out of this.

Of course, everyone knew that when bad things happened to her, they happened on other planes of existence for which she was entirely unprepared. That established, she’d spent a few minutes earlier tapping into the pools of magic that spotted the sand dunes; more than Earth, but she could tell without trying that it wasn’t nearly enough for anything, well, anything drastic. Like dimension-hopping, for example.

Bloody hell, she thought, not for the first time.

There wasn’t a chance of her light circles working; there was a block on this whole dimension, and while she could get from point A to point B with little trouble, she was not inclined to 'port blind -- without access to Limbo, she was liable to get herself into more trouble than she could handle. All of which amounted mostly to her being stuck in the goddamn desert in the middle of the day, in the middle of the summer, having neglected to wear suncreen because she was a stupid, stupid girl who never wore sunscreen when she was just going out to play baseball or whatever.

Things like this could really make a girl hate baseball.

She trudged on, looking back occasionally to see the long line of footprints trailing off into the horizon and to empty her shoes of sand. Her Soulsword hummed quietly at her side, and for once she was grateful to have it with her, no matter what the others (especially Sefton) would have to say about it. Of course, it wasn’t much help when there weren’t demons to fight, which meant that she ought to spend less time contemplating how nice it was and more time finding herself some shelter.

She’d been walking opposite the sun, but the strange thing was that the sun didn’t seem to be moving very fast. It was like the day wasn’t going to end. She put a hand above her eyes to look at the horizon, but it was still as desolate as ever, so she took a moment to catch her breath. Were the others all right? Had the fire taken all of them, or just some? There were kids there who she wasn't sure could last even a day in an inhospitable environment.

Then the demon hit her in the chest and she flew back, landing facedown in the sand. Lovely. Shaking off the shock, she jumped to her feet, sword in hand, to block a second blow – barely staying on her feet as she did so. Its arms were the entire width of her body, it had a spiky club, and it was green -

It swung; she ducked, slipping on the loose sand and losing her balance. Lucky this was the brawn-not-brain kind of demon – she rolled out from another arc of the club, letting her sword flicker out of her hand for a moment to get her feet underneath her – lucky that she was much better than this kind of half-sentient, half-alive waste of a demon – she scrambled up a dune, letting it think she was running away – lucky, most of all, that she had had the good sense to make a sword, not a bloody acorn, when the moment had come all those months ago.

There was a pause where her breath stopped, just for a second, and she could hear the laboured grunts of the demon (or ogre, or whatever – no point in playing academic in the bloody wasteland) overtop the wind; in a way, she felt she was kind of having a moment. Then again, she reflected –

Well, she didn’t really have moments. Her sword struck true the second whatever-it-was came close enough, and it collapsed; without its magic, it was already burning, soon to be dust in the wind. She stepped over the disintegrating carcass carefully, digging her Nikes into the sand so as not to slip and break her neck.

It took a few moments before the applause registered in her brain; she whirled, hair whipping at her shoulders, and was confronted with the sight of a woman wrapped completely in shadows, unhindered by the sun or the angle – she was blackness and darkness in the female shape. Tall. Taller than Illyana herself.

“You fight well,” the woman said, in tones that were eerily – dark had to be the word, but seemed insufficient. “I have not seen a blade such as yours in an age.” There seemed to be something literal about how the woman said it.

“Good for you,” Illyana said, good sense telling her to walk away and fascination keeping her where she was. “I rather like it myself.”

“It is rare, to see a woman so learned in the arts of magic. We have few here – one, perhaps your equal, perhaps your better, but for the unfortunate nature of your talents.” There was innuendo there, and Illyana cursed herself for not figuring it out; she was just so hot, suddenly, so tired and sore and lost. Still a little girl, helpless, hopeless, something whispered in her ear; not the shadow-woman. Just her conscience. “Too, less burdened by human concerns such as yours." And if it wasn't a mild insult, she didn't know one when she heard one.

Illyana froze. “What the hell is this about?” she asked finally, sword flashing dangerously in her hand.

The laugh was long and amused. “I have need of you,” the shadowed woman said. “I think you shall be most suitable as my emissary, girl.”

That was unacceptable. “As it happens, I am completely unsuitable for such a position,” Illyana snapped. “I have no interest in serving you, whoever you are.” She was red with sunburn, dirty, sweaty, and shrill; not exactly the ideal way to turn down a very powerful being for a job, but then again, it wasn’t like she’d had the opportunity to freshen up.

The woman laughed. “I have heard rumours on the wind of spirited children from Midgard appearing in the golden lands, but until now they have not caught my eye. You will do nicely, little queen.”

The shock twanged through her, and she exhaled sharply in surprise. “Do you have a name?” she snapped, nerves fraying fast.

“I am Hel, and you shall serve me until I release you from your bonds. Have you a name, or shall I name you?” The shadows curled around her like pieces of flayed skin, and she stepped forward. Instinctively, Illyana stepped back, but she couldn’t help the chill that shook her for a moment, even in the hot sun.

Elder gods and minor deities. Hel. One of the great gods of Asgard, ruler of the frozen depths of the underworld, Shadow Queen, troublemaker, goddess of the dead – the list went on and on. Illyana knew. She’d learned it. By heart, in flickering candle-light, and she was overcome for a moment with nostalgia, the sense that perhaps this was her inevitable path.

Then again, as inevitability would have it, she'd be dead and the world engulfed in darkness right about now.

“No,” she snapped. “No bloody way.”

If she’d had a face, Hel would have smiled, Illyana was sure; there was something she was missing here, until suddenly she felt the bonds, like a network of hot invisible wire, crisscrossing her throat and her hands and her feet until she was bound as firmly to Hel as she had once been to him. Differently, not by blood but by power, and she could feel the strength of it running the length of her body, pounding in her ears . . .

If Hel knew Illyana was too overwhelmed to speak, she didn't show it. “Have you a name, girlchild, or shall I guess?”

She hesitated, then lifted her chin with all the arrogance she could feign; showing fear now would without doubt cost her later. “You may call me Yana,” she said, and was proud when her voice did not tremble. Safer this way, when no one was saying her name out loud for the world to hear. Much safer, in Asgard, where she knew she was without a doubt.

“That will do,” the shadow-swathed voice murmured, and there was a sense of tugging in Illyana’s chest as the desert blurred around them. Teleporting, or an equivalent, she guessed, swallowing hard. She hated being teleported as a passenger; that time with Clarice in May had made her distinctly uncomfortable, and now she was practically jumping out of her skin. As the world solidified again, creating the entrance of a cold, finely-detailed palace, she bit her lip to keep from reacting. As Jamie would say -- she was having a serious wiggins.

The shock of going from extreme heat to this insidious cold wasn't helping, either. Was it glass or ice that made the walls glitter so menacingly?

Well, she thought, as Hel turned purposefully to a huge set of doors and motioned that she was to follow, at least I'm out of the desert.