The chant of the priests returned to the regular monotonous hum as if nothing transpired – as far as they were concerned, nothing did. The obscure shimmer of the torches danced once again with same unrestrained vigor. Only Jared was out of place, sitting on the cold tiles with disbelief in his eyes and cold sweat bathing his back and forehead like a rain. Loki’s words were long gone from the hallowed ritual chamber, but they echoed in the exile’s mind as if they were spoken seconds ago. The sacrifice. Life for life. Nobody gets out. And round and round they went like a carousel, prompting him to do something to save the sleeping beauty that lay on the altar before him.

“But what? What can I do? She crossed over and only she can bring herself back. And if Loki is right, she won’t do that. Damn her stubborn honor. Will she really give her own life for him?” Jared wasn’t certain, but that was disconcerting enough. Because that uncertainty left a possibility that she just might choose that course of action and entrap herself in Underworld for eternity. And that was a risk that the exile wasn’t ready to take. When it came to Bryn’s life and the life of his progeny that she carried in her belly, maybe just wasn’t good enough.

He got up to his feet hastily, like an athlete that fell a couple of feet from the finish line, and ran out of the hall and into the adjacent passage. He had to find the V’dron. The priestess was a frigid hag that made every conversation a trial of patience, but her knowledge in the Underworld was vast. Jared found her in what looked like meditation chamber, smoking wooden sticks spreading conflicting scents through the simple room with no ornaments and a single chair. She seemed undisturbed by his bullheaded entrance.

“I... I need to talk to you, your grace. Something terrible is about to happen and I have to stop it.” he spoke in a frantic tone, and only seconds after he finished he could see a trace of life on her hooded figure. The priestess picked her head up only slightly, her hands gathering in her lap.

“You are talking about the sacrifice, Jared?” she said flatly, as if it was common knowledge, making Jared think how come everybody knew more then he did. “There is nothing that can be done. I asked Brynhilde was she aware of the consequences and she said yes.”

“But we didn’t know. I... I didn’t know!” the exile insisted, his words once again failing to find a sympathetic ear with the V’dron.

“That is no longer relevant. We can’t bring her back unless she decides to return.” the priestess spoke from the shadow of her hood, her dark scarlet robe falling over her frail frame as if there was a skeleton underneath.

“I can bring her back. I will bring her back. You just have to send me on my way just like you did with her.”

“The armor chose her. Only she can use...”

“To hell with the armor! I don’t need it. Just send me on my way.”

Silence crept into the room after his words, his eyes luminous and her breath paused in contemplation.

“Are you aware of the consequences?” she finally asked after what seemed like minutes, her tone still unwavering. “Without protection you will be exposed to...” but he cut her short again. Usually she would get aggravated by such insolence, but his determination was adamant, unyielding.

“Listen to me. Bryn is down there and she’s walking into a goddamned trap. I won’t let her give her life for Eryk! Just make the transfer so I can get her out.”

“You don’t understand, Jared. Without protection there will be no way out for you.” the V’dron spoke, this time a touch of what seemed like patronization in her voice.

“I will find a way.”

“There is no...”

“I WILL FIND A WAY!” he shouted, taking a step closer and peering into the inky darkness that was her face. They stood in the stalemate for a couple of seconds, neither of them blinking, neither drawing breath, his resolve clashing with her reason. But he knew that forfeit was not an option. His life didn’t matter. If there was sacrifice to be made, he would gladly do it to make things right, to right the wrongs, to save her and his child. The V’dron could read that in his eyes as if they emitted it through his stare that bore into her skull.

“Very well. Follow me.” she simply said, seemingly undisturbed and casual as she stood up and let the way down the hallway. The last time he went down this corridor he walked with an enthusiasm of a convict. Now he was a convict and yet he didn’t want to waste a single moment on tarrying.

As the V’dron did the preparations and summoned the priests that would aid her in this ludicrous task, Jared sat at the stairs and wrote what he was certain to be the last entry in his journal:

The year of the Lion, Date unknown +107

The wrong and the right, the good and the bad... Lines between them blur the more I ponder on the predicament that got us this far. If the reasons behind Bryn’s actions are right, then why this... this bitterness inside my gut that keeps burrowing through me like a throng of maggots, urging me to act? If our affection is genuine enough for me to trust that flaring determination in her eyes, then why do I feel necessary to proceed with this ludicrous task? If Eryk’s damnation is so wrong, why does a thought of him burning in the Underworld for eternity feel so satisfying? I keep looking at her motionless body, at the shell that used to hold the dearest thing I ever had, and I can’t deny this anger that makes my hand shiver even as I write these lines. Because she ventured beyond the door I cannot pass. Unless...

Unless I proceed with this. Unless I save her. If it means my own damnation, then so be it. I owe it to Bryn. I owe it to the child that she carries. They can keep on living without me. But I could never keep living without them. If you’re reading this, Bryn, I want you to know that I love you. And if you don’t, then at least we’re suffering eternal damnation together.
“It is time.” the V’dron said, her words the last ones he would hear in this plane of existence. Jared closed his diary swiftly, tossed the pen aside and climbed onto the altar next to Bryn. He didn’t feel last minute jitters because there were so many and they made him sweat profusely. His thoughts came in such a rapid succession, they numbed his mind, turned into an incomprehensible mush. He was never afraid of death, but nobody was until the grim reaper got so close, you could feel his cold breath on the back of your neck. But he took her lifeless hand and detached himself from the doubts, the panic, the mind that told him to reconsider, to ponder some more on the matter.

But the time of pondering was over. And time to prove he was worth a damn was now. And as the poison entered his veins, he clung to the mental image of her smile, hoping it would guide him through the netherworld and into her arms. And to whatever damnation they had in store for him.