Year Six of Imprisonment – Eternal Light Cage, Grand Hall of Valhalla
Days 1,826 to 2,190 – The Year of the Deepest Sleep and the Birth of the Two Testicles
After the night the last golden ring exploded, after the near-meter-long pillar of silver fluid shot from Freya's groin and almost pierced Odin's chest, the All-Father did not set foot in Valhalla's grand hall for thirty straight days.
The burn that ran from his left cheek to his collarbone still foamed black every night. The flesh rotted so deeply that white bone peeked through the necrotic skin. Frigg wept until her divine tears ran dry and dripped them onto the wound; Odin cut open his own chest and smeared his heart-blood on it; nothing helped. Pain gnawed him from the inside like a thousand fire-ants.
He sat alone on the highest throne Hliðskjálf, the single remaining eye bloodshot from sleeplessness and hatred. Through the floating orb of foresight, he stared down at the cage.
Zetsumyo Freya still hung there, suspended in mid-air in the same kneeling position she had endured for five full years: knees forced against the crystal floor by golden chains, wrists wrenched so far behind her back that her shoulders were nearly dislocated, neck throttled by a ring of gold that had carved a permanent groove into her flesh. Platinum hair reached her ankles, matted into rigid ropes of five-year-old dried semen, her entire body painted chalk-white as though bathed in century-old curdled milk.
Between her thighs, the nine-centimeter flesh stood in permanent erection, glans dark-red and glossy, constantly dripping silver fluid that hissed as it ate millimeter-deep holes into the crystal. White smoke curled upward with every drop.
Odin ground his teeth until they cracked.
"No more brute force.
She must be made to sleep.
Sleep so deeply that her soul is dragged into the void and her body becomes nothing but soft, helpless meat for anyone to use."
On the thirty-first day after Freya's fifth "birthday," Odin opened the Bifrost and descended alone into Svartalfheim, the pitch-black realm of the dwarves.
He appeared in the deepest forge of Nidavellir, where the air was so hot even stone melted into lava. The four greatest surviving dwarf smiths of Ragnarok awaited him as though they had known he would come.
• Brokkr: ash-grey skin, fiery red beard reaching his chest, golden eyes glowing like twin furnaces.
• Sindri: the smallest, corpse-pale, bottomless black eyes that almost never blinked, always silent.
• Eitri: shoulders like an ox, right arm living iron (burnt off in a forge long ago and regrown as metal), every movement grinding with a ghastly screech.
• Dvalinn: the only dwarf who still possessed his left thumb; it was carved full of ancient sleep-runes that glowed faint violet.
Odin flung to the floor a sack of gold the size of a man's head and a piece of Ymir's primordial hide, now petrified into stone.
His voice was hoarse and trembling with unrelenting pain:
"I need something that will make the monster sleep.
Sleep so deeply her soul is pulled into nothingness and her body becomes a limp doll of meat.
Fail, and I will throw all four of you into Muspelheim's flames so Surtr may lick your bones clean one by one."
The dwarves looked at one another. None dared refuse the All-Father.
They worked ninety-nine days and nights without sleep or rest in the deepest forge of Svartalfheim, where the air itself ignited into green flame.
The materials were so rare and horrific that merely hearing their names could drive lesser gods mad:
• The skull-bone of the dragon Níðhöggr, black and glossy, harder than any divine steel, still seething with a million years of malice.
• Rope woven from the hair of the night-goddess Nótt: black velvet that could never be cut or burned.
• Virgin skin flayed from a Valkyrie who fell in the old Ragnarok, still smelling of sacred herbs and untouched blood.
• 999 Eternal Sleep runes taught by the severed head of Mímir himself, carved with fresh heart-blood from Odin: each drop drawn made him scream, the blood smoking black as it touched the dragon bone.
The forging took place in deathly silence.
Brokkr fed the furnace with his own breath until his lungs blistered.
Sindri wove Nótt's hair strand by strand; not a single thread could break.
Eitri hammered the dragon bone into a curved horn, every blow shaking Nidavellir.
Dvalinn sat cross-legged in mid-air, carving the 999 sleep-runes with his left thumb into an endless spiral; each rune flared deep violet, then dimmed, like a slowing heartbeat.
On the ninety-ninth night, the horn was finished.
A sixty-centimeter black-violet curved horn, its bell flaring like a half-opened wisteria blossom, rim so thin it was nearly transparent. Inside, the 999 runes spiraled into a bottomless violet-black abyss. When held, it was both freezing and strangely warm, pulsing gently like a mother's heartbeat in the womb.
When blown, it produced no ordinary sound, only a low, sweet lullaby that crawled under the skin: the primordial mother's song from before birth, the first heartbeat in warm darkness, the rush of blood through the placenta. Any creature that heard it (dragon, god, or dead soul) would fall into dreamless sleep, body limp, soul dragged into cold nothingness.
On the first day of the sixth year, Odin himself carried the horn into Valhalla's grand hall.
He stopped exactly ten meters from the cage (not daring a single step closer).
Zetsumyo Freya hung in her ancient position.
Platinum hair reached her ankles, rigid with five years of dried semen, mottled white like filthy snow. Her skin was translucent from lack of sunlight, blue-purple veins visible beneath. Breasts fuller, nipples permanently erect from endless stimulation yet painfully stretched by her posture. Waist so narrow two hands could circle it, yet lower belly perpetually swollen from countless loads.
Between her thighs, the eleven-centimeter flesh (now grown again) stood eternally hard, dark red, glans glossy, veins throbbing, silver drops falling "drip… drip…" onto the crystal.
Her crimson eyes (twin blood moons) stared straight at Odin, unblinking, burning with hatred.
Odin raised the horn to his lips and blew one long note.
The sweet melody filled the hall, coiling around every particle of air, slipping into ears, bones, soul.
Freya's eyelids drooped instantly.
The crimson eyes closed; long lashes trembled once and stilled. Her head fell forward, platinum hair veiling her face like a white funeral shroud. Lips parted; a thin ribbon of drool ran from the corner of her mouth down her chin, neck, breasts. Breathing slow and even, chest rising gently like a sleeping infant.
Her entire body went completely limp, a boneless meat doll.
Odin laughed: hoarse, mad, echoing through the empty hall for the first time in millennia.
"Now you are nothing but a breathing meat doll, Zetsumyo Freya."
Year Six – 364 Days of Coma and the Awakening of the Twin Testicles
For the next 364 days, every morning before the fifty Einherjar entered, one of the four dwarves (rotating Brokkr, Sindri, Eitri, Dvalinn) stood outside the cage and played the lullaby.
Melody → Freya fell asleep instantly.
She slept like the dead: no dreams, no pain, no hatred.
They ravaged her freely.
First day of Year Six:
Chains were pulled; she was strung horizontal, face-up, legs forced 180 degrees apart until ankles bled. Cunt and ass fully exposed, pink and wet despite her coma.
Three of the largest Einherjar entered at once:
• One 32 cm into her cunt, pounding so hard her cervix prolapsed with every withdrawal, then slammed back inside.
• One 34 cm into her ass, tearing mucosa until black blood sprayed.
• One 30 cm down her throat, bulging it visibly.
They came endlessly, swapping only when exhausted. Golden semen filled her until her belly swelled like full-term pregnancy, skin glossy, purple stretch marks spreading. When she could hold no more, semen backflowed from mouth, nose, eyes, ears in thick white rivers that pooled on the crystal floor.
Day 50:
Hung face-down, cheek pressed to the icy crystal, ass high in the air.
Five at once: two cocks in her cunt (front and back), two in her ass, one in her mouth.
Fresh blood and semen poured down her hair, eyes, nose, turning platinum strands into a grotesque red-black-white mess.
They sliced locks of her hair to bind her tighter, clawed breasts until they bled, carved "GOD-WHORE" in ancient runes on her left thigh and "LIVING WEAPON" on her right. Blood streamed, but she did not twitch.
She slept.
But beneath that sleep, her body changed daily.
Around Day 100 of Year Six, at the root of the now eleven-centimeter flesh, two small tangerine-sized lumps began to form: pale pinkish-purple, burning hot, perfectly symmetrical on either side of the shaft. Skin so thin the tiny veins inside were visible.
Every time her womb or bowels were flooded, the lumps swelled a little more, then clenched hard, sucking semen and soul-fragments through her own skin with tiny wet sounds: "glug… glug…"
By Day 150 they were small orange-sized, hard, glossy, veins throbbing visibly.
By Day 200 they hung heavy like large tangerines, swaying and slapping together with dull wet thuds whenever her body rocked.
When semen was shot directly into her womb, they ballooned as though about to burst, skin stretching translucent, golden fluid visible swirling inside like twin storms. Then they contracted violently: "GLUG… GLUG… GLUG…" sucking so hard the rapists felt their own testicles yanked inward, screamed in agony, came prematurely, then collapsed as part of their soul was torn away: eyes rolled white, cocks shriveled like dead worms.
Even in the horn-induced coma, Freya began to dream, for the first time, dreams of pleasure.
She dreamed she was free.
She pinned the Einherjar beneath her, drove her eleven centimeters into their mouths and asses, shot burning silver into their guts.
She dreamed her twin sacs swelled and pulsed, drinking their souls in bright silver threads.
And in sleep, her hips began moving on their own, grinding the eleven centimeters against the belly of whoever was inside her. A few thrusts and they climaxed uncontrollably, then withered.
Day 364 of Year Six – The Day the Horn Shatters and the Twin Sacs Fully Awaken
The dwarf on duty was Dvalinn.
He raised the horn and played the 364th lullaby.
But this time Freya's crimson eyes did not close.
They opened wide and fixed on him.
Her lips curved into a smile so cold the air inside the cage dropped several degrees.
In her mind, the memory of the goddess Snotra (goddess of wisdom and wakefulness) flared like a freshly carved blade:
«Every sleep has its limit.
When the soul is strong enough, it kicks down the dream itself.
When the will is great enough, it cuts even the lullaby of the womb.»
Freya whispered, only loud enough for herself:
"I have slept enough."
She gathered every remaining rune-power (fragments of the nine melted Valkyries that had soaked into her blood over five years) and focused it into her ears.
She imagined a blade forged of pure hatred and used it to slice every note of the lullaby.
The 999 sleep-runes on the horn vibrated wildly, emitted a piercing shriek like a thousand infants screaming in hell, then exploded into violet dust.
Dvalinn's eyes burst; blood sprayed from ears, nose, mouth. He clutched his head, screamed once, then withered on the spot into a dry dwarf-skin sack of bones that crumbled.
The horn fell and shattered into four large pieces; sleep-rune dust became purple smoke swirling like tiny demons.
At the same instant, the twin sacs beneath Freya's eleven-centimeter shaft swelled to their maximum (now the size of small grapefruits), glossy, almost transparent, golden semen visible raging inside like twin whirlpools.
Then they contracted with a single, colossal time.
"GLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!"
The sound boomed from her groin like two overfilled water balloons exploding at once.
Skin split in thin lines, black blood oozed, then the sacs deflated instantly, sucking the souls of the seven nearest Einherjar in one heartbeat.
Seven withered corpses crashed down, shattering into ash.
Freya threw her head back (the first voluntary movement in 364 days) and laughed.
The clear, icy laugh shook the entire Eternal Light Cage, spider-webbing the meter-thick crystal with cracks.
"Day two thousand one hundred and ninety.
I have slept enough.
Now it is your turn to sleep forever."
She rolled her hips deliberately; the eleven centimeters stabbed into the belly of the man in front of her. One thrust, he gave a final ecstatic groan, then withered instantly, soul sucked clean through her open glans.
The remaining fifty panicked and charged like cornered beasts.
But Freya was no longer passive.
She twisted her body; the twin sacs pulsed "glug… glug… glug…" like second and third hearts; the shaft ground and thrust and drank.
Silver fluid fired in rapid jets like a machine-gun; every hit drained a soul dry.
In fifteen minutes, fifty desiccated corpses piled knee-high, white ash swirling through the cage.
Freya (body still coated in thick layers of dried golden semen, platinum hair matted with blood and silver fluid, crimson eyes blazing like twin blood moons, twin sacs glossy and swaying beneath her fully erect eleven centimeters) whispered in a voice hoarse from disuse:
"Ninety-four years left.
I am full.
Now I begin to eat flesh."
Outside the cage, Odin clutched his still-foaming burn, face the color of a corpse.
He knew the horn was useless forever.
He knew the monster he created had awakened fully a second time (stronger, crueler, hungrier).
Year Six was over.
Zetsumyo Freya no longer slept.
She now possessed twin testicles (her second and third hearts, her twin insatiable stomachs for souls and seed).
The five-year hunger had been only temporarily sated.
The thirst for vengeance had truly begun.
And this time, nothing in the Nine Realms could bind her anymore.