Try as I might, I can't remove Vidar's foot from my jaw. Shaking it only manages to loosen the boot leather, which sticks in my throat and threatens to cut off my air supply. I glare up at him and try to burn his boot to a crisp with my fiery breath. Mighty Vidar, bravest of gods, glares back with the deep hatred of a son for his father's killer and reaches for his sword. Ah. My destiny. While I may have finally broken free of Gleipnir in time for Ragnarök, there's no escaping Urd's sticky web of fate. As the end draws near, my life flashes before my eyes.

I see myself romping with the gods in Asgard when I was but a wee pup. Those were the best days of my life. Why did they have to go and get scared of me just because I was larger than the average wolf? I glance at Vidar's stump and can't help but think that I would never have bitten the hand that feeds had they not convinced me to play Bind the Wolf ~ a rather frightening game for a young whelp.

I cease my meanderings for a moment to admire Vidar's valour. Before me stands the bravest of the gods single-handedly avenging his father. Where in Niflheim are my kin when I need them? My sons are probably chasing Arvak and Alsvid. I recall the time I chased Sol's chariot. I grew pretty bored after a while, not to mention the light from the horses' manes that kept shining in my eyes. Romping with the gods was way more fun, until they bound me with dwarf magic. What was that silken ribbon made of again?

"...the sound of a cat's footfall, a woman's beard, the roots of a mountain, bear's sinews, fish's breath, and bird's spittle..."

Heheh. I wasn't easy to bind, now, was I? Don't those foolish gods know wolves aren't meant to be kept in captivity? We're born to run free. If they had minded their own business, Vidar would still have his hand. It's their fault, not mine. The gods made me do it. They deceived me, betrayed my trust and downright terrified me. Now I'm free and Im about to die. Dying is worth this final taste of freedom, however, for looking back on it all I can safely say that captivity is by far the most boring experience of my life.

Why aren't my brother and sister helping me? Surely they've managed to finish off the rest of the cowardly godlings who bound me. Besides which, they owe me! Urd has dealt them a way better hand than mine. Not only does Jormungand rule the sea, but he can circle the earth whenever he wants...though I'm sure that must grow boring after a while. Still 'n all. Hel got the best deal, the wretched skirt. She was made a goddess! Now she rules the underworlds Helheim and Niflheim and gets to lord it over the dead. Okay, so Helheim is filled with the shivering, shadowy spectres of snivelling wretches who died ingloriously, and Niflheim is the cold underbelly of the world under Yggdrasil's third root, near Hvergelmir and Nastrond. Minor details by comparison.

And where's my mother, Angrboda, the Iárnvidjur who gives birth to monsterously large sons like me? Apparently no one's seen her since she appeared in Baldr's dream. How dare Odin accuse her of not being wise simply because she bears big kids. What kind of proof is that? What mother wouldn't take pride in giving life to three strapping bairns? (No wonder I ate him, the scrawny old fool!) I'd like to think she's also proud of our heroic feats at Ragnarök. Then I remember that I ate her. Oops.

Last ~ and least of all, considering how little he's done to improve anyone's lot but his own ~ where's Loki when his son needs him? Where's that sly, skulking father of mine? Not fighting by my side, that's for certain. The wily old trickster's most likely laughing at us from some hidden alcove. Odin may be a lot of things, but at least he defends his own. Well, the last laugh's on Loki. No one's going to survive the End. *Snigger*

The world is growing dark now, and I grow weary. Skoll is devouring the sun and Hati the moon, the stars are disappearing from the sky, the earth is quaking under foot, and the sea is rising high above our heads. I see Thor drop at Jormungand's feet, Freyr at Surt's, and Tyr and Garm kill each other. I haven't the strength to shed a single tear for my old friends, but I mourn them and call to mind one last time the good old days. Finally, before I get to maudlin, I remind myself we're all supposed to rise out of the ashes and start the cycle all over again. Stuff and bother.

As Vidar plunges his steely sword into my heart, I search the skies for a wolf-shaped Vakyrie. Now that would be a sight worth dying for.