Midgard Hunt

On the desolate seashore, amidst the expanse of black sand and stones stretching as far as the eye could see, Haemon sought solace atop a colossal rock that rose defiantly above the crashing waves. Crimson tears streamed down his face, tracing paths through the dust and grime that clung to his unkempt, disheveled hair during his weeks of unconsciousness. With empty eyes, he stared into the distant horizon, lost in the tempestuous depths of his thoughts, consumed by the turmoil of recent events that had unfolded during his absence. Haemon had engaged in a relentless battle against his own self, leaving his body battered and broken, and during his arduous period of recovery, the world around him had undergone profound transformations. As the physical wounds slowly healed, he grappled with the unforeseen consequences that his actions had set in motion.

One revelation struck Haemon like a thunderous blow from Mjolnir itself—the unrelenting pursuit unleashed by Asgard, manifested in the form of a substantial bounty placed upon his head by Odin, the Allfather. News had spread across the nine realms of Haemon's fateful clash with Odin's grandsons, and even the mighty Baldr had vowed to personally claim Haemon's life and present his head as a trophy to his father. Nowhere would be safe for Haemon to hide, as the armies of Asgard and their allies scoured the mortal world and eternal realms in their quest for his blood.

In the midst of facing the wrath of Asgard, another momentous revelation had dawned upon Haemon during his arduous recovery—a revelation that should have ignited unbridled joy and relief within him. Yet, true to the volatile nature that coursed through his veins, the madness continued to ensnare his troubled mind, its grip tightening with each passing moment spent alone with his turbulent thoughts. Despite the joyous news that he had unknowingly become a father during his time of unconsciousness, Haemon found himself pulled deeper into the dark clutches of his own inner demons, haunted by the consequences of his violent past. Doubts gnawed at him, questioning his worthiness to bear the mantle of a father amidst the tempestuous storm raging within his own soul.

******* 

Inferno Two Hours Before 

Haemon's heart pounded relentlessly within his massive chest, feeling as though it might burst forth at any moment under the overwhelming sense of uncertainty and doubt that crushed his very being. As his intense gaze fell upon the small child nestled contentedly in his wife Hel's lap, a tumultuous battlefield of conflicting emotions raged within the depths of Haemon's formidable mind. The fair-haired boy, no more than a babe, gazed back at Haemon with wide eyes speaking volumes of innocent fear and curiosity. Yet the child's expression seemed to instinctively recoil and shrink away from Haemon's own dark and formidable presence, which towered over the table like a looming shadow.

However, Haemon scarcely seemed to notice the babe's reaction, for his thoughts were consumed by the haunting realization suddenly taking form in his mind. As he studied the young boy's features intently, hoping to find even the faintest hint of their kinship, he saw no trace of resemblance between himself and the child. In his desperate quest for validation and certainty, Haemon meticulously examined the boy's appearance, taking in every minute detail. While Haemon and his beloved wife Hel both boasted long raven locks as black as the midnight sky, the child's downy head shimmered with a cascade of golden locks, shining as if touched by the light of the sun itself.

His eyes, still wide with the innocence of youth but vibrant and deep like the uncharted depths of the ocean, held secrets within their blue depths that not even Haemon's sharpest blade could hope to pierce. Every aspect of the babe, from his peaches-and-cream complexion to his delicate little fingers and toes, seemed crafted with such flawless and divine attention to detail that he appeared almost otherworldly when compared to Haemon's own battle-worn and scarred physique. The stark contrasts between father and son only served to fuel Haemon's profound inner conflict and turmoil even further.

Haunted by the gnawing seeds of doubt now taking root in his mind, Haemon became entangled helplessly in a merciless web of conflicting thoughts and suspicions. The truth of their blood relation, and of Hel's fidelity, remained an unanswerable question, tearing relentlessly at the very fabric of his being. He fought valiantly to silence the misgivings that clawed at his consciousness, his intense gaze remaining fixated on the child who simultaneously fascinated and unsettled him so. But the same dark thought echoed without ceasing within Haemon's tormented mind: "What if the witch is deceiving you? Can anyone truly be trusted, least of all a creature of Helheim? This babe will bring naught but ruin upon our household! He is not of our lineage!"

The unrelenting weight of these uncertainties and doubts threatened to suffocate Haemon's spirit entirely, leaving him yearning desperately for even the faintest glimmer of hope amidst the tempestuous inner storm that raged within his soul. Yet the deafening internal cacophony of madness, darkness, and paranoia drowned out any flicker of light or optimism that dared to appear. The multitude of sinister voices, akin to a demonic chorus, resounded together with a chilling demand that echoed in Haemon's mind: "End the life of this deceitful creature before he destroys you!"

As Haemon wrestled in vain with the mounting chaos and conflict within, his normally stoic warrior's face suddenly contorted in anguish, betraying the torment that ravaged his very soul. His massive hands, wrought taut with tension, clenched fiercely where they rested upon the sturdy wooden table around which the small family had gathered for their morning meal. The sound of splintering wood that suddenly filled the air mirrored the sight of Haemon's own fractured thoughts and suspicions shattering into pieces, like the table beneath his crushing grip.

Noticing her husband Haemon's inner turmoil, as his torment was laid bare upon his contorted features, and hearing the child suddenly erupt into hysterical crying at the tension in the air, Hel turned to Haemon with a gentle smile still adorning her beautiful yet pale face. "Darling, what troubles you so?" she asked in a soft, soothing tone meant to calm both her husband and the babe.

Without even lifting his gaze from where it remained fixed upon the table, Haemon thoughtlessly uttered the question that had been plaguing his mind, "Is this child truly my son?" Instead of responding with mere words, Hel chose a physical action to cut through Haemon's doubts. Maintaining her smile, yet with a flash of protectiveness in her eyes, she delivered an incredibly powerful open-handed slap across Haemon's cheek, a strike so forceful that even the souls of the most devout martyrs fell silent in awe.

Not a single other creature in the room dared to make even the smallest sound then, as they all feared incurring the wrath of the mother who had bared her fangs. Even the mighty warrior Haemon himself felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of shame well up from somewhere deep within, stirring his once-deadened heart. For a moment, he genuinely repulsed the dark thoughts that had taken hold in his mind regarding his newborn son's parentage. As a father, he realized he shouldn't entertain such poisonous ideas.

Could it be, he wondered, that through his care for Hel and this child, he was slowly becoming something other than the monster he had always seen himself as? Gently touching his reddened cheek where her hand had struck, Haemon raised his gaze once more to meet Hel's, allowing her to see the regret and sadness swirling in his eyes. Hel, seemingly too consumed at that moment by a righteous maternal rage to notice his unspoken apology, moved as if to strike Haemon again in punishment for his words.

However, Haemon prevented her from doing so, grasping her wrist firmly yet tenderly in his massive, battle-scarred hands. "Do you hate me now, my love?" Hel asked, a hint of realization dawning in her eyes that her actions may have gone too far. As she spoke, numerous deep wounds appeared upon her own beautiful, pale skin, from which putrid dark sap began to seep and ooze. The room was immediately filled with an overpowering stench of decay, to the point where even the most hardened of demons present struggled to endure such a dreadful odor invading their senses.

One would think that as denizens of the Inferno itself, such beings would be accustomed to far worse smells and sights. Yet this particular stench emanating from their new queen was something else entirely, something unfamiliar and unrelated to their dark world. Thus, even the most insensitive noses amongst the demons could barely withstand the sorrowful scent that now permeated the air, mirroring the turmoil still raging within Hel and Haemon's souls.

"I don't hate you," the Olympian weakly replied, his voice trembling as he tried to calm his wife. However, Hel venomously retorted, her voice dripping with disdain, "Ha-ha, you're quite a terrible liar, son of Hades!" She forcefully withdrew her hand from his grip, her breath coming in rapid bursts. The tension in the room grew palpably as Hel's once-beautiful face twisted into a grotesque mask, resembling a decaying corpse. Her features contorted in anger and despair, a stark contrast from her usual calm demeanor.

In a crumbling voice, Hel continued, her words laced with the desperation of shattered hopes and broken trust. "I thought with time, we could bridge the divide and conquer our internal struggles. I believed that through open communication and understanding each other's perspectives, we could strengthen our bond." A solitary tear rolled down her cheek as she recalled fond memories now turned bitter. "But now I see who you truly are," she spat, gazing upon the Olympian with disgust.

As Hel spoke, the Olympian's form seemed to morph disturbingly before her eyes, transforming into an embodiment of darkness, chaos and unrestrained malice. A thick black mist swirled around him as his eyes glowed a fiery red. The creature exuded a ravenous thirst for destruction, its very presence corrupting and consuming all in its path, even its own son. Hel realized with sinking dread the futility of trying to change or reason with this monstrous entity. With a firm yet gentle grip on her child, she swiftly retreated to the safety and solace of her chambers, determined to shield herself and their son from the ominous presence of the being known as Haimon.

Left once again in solitude, the Olympian felt as if he had been transported back through the mists of time to the days when he bore the title "Son of the Musician." Those bitter memories were tainted with disdain, as he yearned in vain for acceptance from those who only felt revulsion towards his cursed existence. "This time, I didn't even need Zeus to turn them against me," the warrior whispered to himself, his usually booming voice now barely audible over the howling winds. Overwhelmed by a maelstrom of destructive emotions and driven to the brink of insanity, he clawed savagely at his own face, tearing his battle-scarred flesh apart in anguish.

In that dark moment, without uttering a word, the Olympian summoned the depths of his formidable yet unstable power. With a wave of his hand, a swirling vortex of shadows opened before him, a portal to parts unknown. Seeking solace and transformation from his anguished state, hoping to find the strength to heal his wounded soul and mend the fractured bonds that had been torn asunder, he stepped purposefully into the void and disappeared.

******* 

Midgard 

"I've made a mistake..." The Olympian covered his face with his hand, his broad shoulders slumping in a rare moment of vulnerability. Then, an unhinged laughter burst forth from deep within, a hollow sound filled with anguish, regret, and self-loathing. "For the first time in my wretched, damnable life, I've made a mistake myself!" he cried, throwing his head back and howling maniacally at the uncaring sky. "Ha-ha, I despise myself!"

Turning to face the source of the deafening crash from behind, the warrior continued with a twisted smile stretching across his scarred face. A small army comprised of ambitious lords from distant lands had successfully tracked the movements of the deranged barbarian. They had followed the trail of destruction left in his wake, driven by dreams of great fortune and renown. After all, what could be easier than slaying the fearsome yet solitary Olympian? Wasn't that the promise dangled before their greedy eyes by Odin himself?