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He lands from his falling mad. Of course he does, he must, he cannot not. He lands insane, a shaking thing, furious and desperate. He lands in search of a home, and in his seeking he will never more be merciful. Not now. Not knowing.

There are things, beneath the Bifrost's span. There were reasons for its making, that bright and rainbow bridge. There were worlds of monsters, in its reaching, but none ... Nothing to the monsters beyond. Nothing to the things he saw, in his falling without end.

Beneath the Bifrost. Between the gleaming rivers, the branches, the threaded lanes of Yggdrasil. Beyond, between, beneath. There are gnawing things. There are ancient things. In the roots and the branches and the void. Mindless, hungry, aching things, waiting, waiting, always waiting. He fell between, he walked between, and not, now, nevermore.

He is mad, now. Desperate, now. He must have a home. He must not fall again. He must dig his hands into this Midgard, into this Earth. Or Asgard, or Jotunheim, or anywhere. It does not matter where. He is monstrous, they are monstrous, these worlds carry endless monsters. He will make them.

But not like those. Not like the things beneath. Not like the dragon, gnawing at the roots of the universe. Not like Nidhoggr. Never again that.

He is mad. But there are greater madnesses yet. And he will not, never more, let them touch him.