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44: Marvel's Green Lantern, Brunhilde of Asgard
🕑 Added 2025-10-14 19:10:42 +0000 UTCThis chapter was going to be called The Asgardian Job, but I’m moving that chapter to 45. I decided to focus on Brunhilde a bit more since she’ll be important later in Arc 3.
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“For Asgard!”
Brunhilde let out a war cry as she charged, sword and shield in hand, toward the Jotuns. Her voice joined the chorus of thousands of her fellow Aesir screaming in fury at their ancient enemies.
A female Jotun turned to meet her charge, towering three times Brunhilde’s height, her blue skin covered in intricate patterns of frost. She wielded a sword of ice sharp enough to cleave through even the finest Asgardian armor. Their blades met with a sound like thunder Asgardian steel against Jotun ice.
Brunhilde was a great warrior. Years of training under her sister, countless hours in the practice yards, had made her a formidable warrior despite her youth. She parried a downward strike, deflected another with her shield, then ducked under a horizontal slash that would have taken her head clean off. She pressed forward, finding openings, her sword biting into the giant’s thigh and drawing blue blood that only made the giant angrier.
She was gaining the upper hand.
Then another Jotun, a massive male with a war hammer of ice joined the fray, forcing her to fight them together.
She blocked a stroke from one with her shield, feeling her arm go numb from the impact. The other came from her right, and she barely got her sword up in time. The two were overpowering her now, their size and strength pushing her back step by step. Her arms burned; her legs felt like they were about to snap.
“Die, little Aesir!” the female giant spat, raising her sword for a killing blow.
“Not today, Jotun scum!” Brunhilde roared back.
As both giants struck downward simultaneously, she dove beneath their blows, surprising them with her speed and agility. Their weapons crashed into the ice where she’d been standing. From behind them now, she leapt onto the back of the female giant, driving her sword down through the base of the skull. The giant pitched forward, and Brunhilde used the momentum to spring onto the male, her blade already swinging. It cut clean through his neck, severing his head.
Both Jotuns crashed to the ground, dead before they hit the ice.
Brunhilde fell hard onto the icy ground, groaning in pain.
This was her first battle.
And what a battle it was. All around her, her fellow Aesir fought the Jotuns. The clash of swords, the war cries and screams of death, the smell of blood all of it was overwhelming, intoxicating, terrifying.
Led by King Bor, they had invaded Jotunheim after the Jotuns stole a dangerous artifact from the kings’ vaults. An artifact so perilous, she was told, that the entirety of Asgard’s military had to be raised to invade the Jotuns’ home and retrieve it. There was no attempt at diplomacy, only immediate war.
Brunhilde pushed herself up, her breath steaming in the frigid air. Her muscles ached, but her blood sang with the thrill of battle. She gripped her sword and shield, her eyes scanning the battlefield. The Aesir forces were pushing into the fortress of Utgard itself, the seat of Jotun power, the frozen palace of their king, Hrungnir. Warriors poured through breached gates, up icy stairs, through corridors of ice.
An invasion like this had never happened with such speed before. King Bor had transported the entire army straight into the heart of Utgard into the heart of Jotunheim itself.
She remembered how it had happened. One moment she was on Asgard with the army tens of thousands of warriors assembled. King Bor stood before them and produced a glowing blue artifact in the shape of a cube. It floated above his hands, pulsing with power, glowing brighter and brighter, and suddenly they were all engulfed in light. She felt a pulling sensation, like being stretched across an impossible distance. Within seconds, they were in the middle of Utgard, materialized in the central courtyard of the fortress itself.
The Jotuns had stared in utter shock as thousands of Asgardian warriors appeared from nowhere.
What magic it was, she did not know. Even she the daughter of Valthurn the Seer, the great adviser to the king himself was not privy to it; the secret was known only to her father and the others in the king’s inner circle.
She continued the push to the fortress, cutting down every Jotun in her path.
A Jotun swung a massive club at her. She rolled beneath it, came up slashing at his knee, and brought the giant down to her level only for her kill to be stolen by Haldor Geirsson, who struck the Jotun’s head with an axe.
“Well struck, little Valkyrie!” Haldor bellowed, grinning through the blood spatter on his face.
“That was my kill!” she shouted back.
They both turned to help two others Yrsa Hroksdottir and Vigmund Alvisarson against five more Jotuns that had them surrounded. Brunhilde came in from the side, her sword finding a gap in one giant’s armor, piercing through ribs. Haldor’s axe split another’s spine. Together, the four of them moved like a unit, watching each other’s backs, covering weaknesses, striking where openings appeared.
Two more giants fell. Then the last one, Vigmund's spear, found its throat.
Brunhilde looked ahead and spotted her sister, Sigryn, leading the charge into the fortress itself, fighting alongside King Bor. The king was a sight to behold, powerful, terrible in his wrath. He wielded Gungnir, the Spear of Kings, and with each thrust, golden light erupted. He blasted apart the final barriers, massive gates of enchanted ice set up by Jotun seiðrs. The army roared and poured through the breach, flooding into the fortress completely.
They all cheered, weapons raised high, victory seeming within reach.
“Come,Haldor, Yrsa! Little Hilde!” Vigmund called.
“Don’t call me that!” she shot back as they fought together into the fortress.
Yrsa, Haldor, Vigmund each was a friend of her sister Sigryn and had trained her together. They’d watched Brunhilde grow from a girl fumbling with a practice sword into the warrior she was now. They teased her, protected her, pushed her to be better.
Yet among them, one was missing.
Prince Odin, the king’s son and heir to the throne of Asgard.
The prince had been exiled by the king when Brunhilde was twelve winters old. Not everyone in Asgard knew it was an exile; they were told the prince was off adventuring among the stars. But her sister had told her the truth, and there were many who knew it as well and held a grudge against the king.
For the prince had brought only great boons to Asgard. He had killed Surtur, the fire giant, preventing the prophecies of Ragnarök from coming to pass and ensuring that Asgard would be safe forever. He had returned the Spear of Kings Gungnir itself to his father after it had been stolen by the king’s brother, Mimir. He had proven himself worthy a hundred times over.
Even after all that, the king had exiled his son.
“There!” she heard Yrsa say, pointing to a dozen or so Jotuns heading their way. They were inside the fortress now, pushing toward the throne room. The corridor was narrow, lined with pillars of ice, and the frost giants filled it completely.
“There are too many of them,” Brunhilde said, her grip tightening on her sword.
“It is no matter!” Yrsa laughed wildly. “Fight well, little Hilde! If we die, then we shall share a drink in Valhalla!”
She charged with her battle-axe raised, screaming a wordless battle cry.
Vigmund and Haldor did the same, their voices joining hers.
Brunhilde followed suit, her fear burned away by the fire in her blood.
The four of them crashed into the Jotuns like a wave against stone.
Brunhilde ducked under the first giant’s swing, her sword finding his inner thigh where the ice armor didn’t cover. Blue blood sprayed. She spun, blocked an axe of ice with her shield, and thrust upward into another giant’s belly. The giant roared and swung at her, but Vigmund’s spear took him in the back, punching through his chest.
“Face the wrath of Brunhilde the Mighty, Jotuns!” she shouted.
She felled another when she feinted left, then rolled right, coming up behind a giant distracted by Haldor. Her blade found the back of his knee then his neck as he fell.
Vigmund killed his second with a spear through the eye socket, the giant dropping instantly.
Haldor fought with savage efficiency, his axe taking one giant’s arm, then returning on the backswing to crush another’s skull. Three kills in as many seconds.
And Yrsa—Yrsa the madwoman—killed the rest in a burst of berserker rage. Her eyes went wild, blood flecking her lips, and she became something else something primal and unstoppable. Her battle-axe swung in great arcs, too fast to follow, too powerful to block. She severed limbs, caved in chests, split heads. Four giants fell before her fury, then two more, and when the last one tried to run, she buried her axe in his back, riding him down as he fell.
When it was done, she stood among the corpses, chest heaving, blood dripping from her weapons and armor.
“Valhalla can wait!” she roared, and laughed.
Brunhilde stared at her, awed and terrified in equal measure.
“LET US BATHE UTGARD IN JOTUN BLOOD!” Yrsa roared as she charged ahead.
They surged into the throne room, joining others to find King Bor battling Prince Laufey and his father, King Hrungnir, at the same time.
The throne room was massive, with pillars that rose into a ceiling so high it disappeared into shadow. King Bor stood at its center, Gungnir blazing with power, facing two of the mightiest Jotuns in all of Jotunheim.
King Hrungnir was ancient and enormous, even for a frost giant nearly twice the height of his fellows, his ice armor etched with runes of power. Prince Laufey fought beside him, younger but no less deadly, wielding twin blades of enchanted ice.
They came at Bor together, coordinated, trying to overwhelm him.
But Bor was their king for a reason.
He swept Gungnir in a wide arc, and Laufey barely got his guard up in time. The impact sent him flying across the room, crashing into a pillar with enough force to crack it. Before he could recover, Thrain the commander of the Einherjar was on him, pressing him down with a spear at his throat.
“Stay down, princeling,” Thrain growled.
Bor turned his full attention to Hrungnir.
The Jotun king roared and brought down a massive war hammer of ice, but Bor sidestepped with grace; then he struck with Gungnir once, twice, three times. Each blow sent shockwaves through the air. Hrungnir’s armor cracked, then shattered. Blue blood sprayed across the frozen floor.
With a final thrust, Bor drove Gungnir through Hrungnir’s chest, then twisted and pulled it free. The Jotun king fell to his knees, gasping defeated.
The throne room was now filled with Aesir hundreds of warriors who had fought their way here. Dead Jotuns littered the floor. And a king and a prince lay at the mercy of King Bor.
Brunhilde joined the victorious cheers, her voice hoarse, her body aching but alive with triumph.
Bor stood over Hrungnir. “You went too far, Hrungnir. Too far.”
Hrungnir looked up, blood dripping from his mouth, but his eyes were defiant. “It was you who went too far. Asgard cannot be allowed to hold an Infinity Stone!”
Infinity Stone? What is that? Brunhilde thought.
Hrungnir continued, his voice growing louder despite his wounds. “Don’t even try to deny it! You used it to bring an army into my fortress! You have proven exactly why you cannot possess such power!”
Bor did not respond, his expression unreadable.
“Even with the Stone, you cannot take on the might of Jotunheim, Bor,” Hrungnir said, breathing hard. “So leave. You have spilled enough blood to sate your honor.”
“That is not enough,” Bor said coldly.
Brunhilde watched as the king turned to the Einherjar near him and gestured. They brought forward the glowing blue cube, carefully and reverently.
Bor took it in his hands, and it began to glow brighter.
“What is he—” Vigmund started to say.
Bor pointed the cube at Hrungnir.
A beam of pure blue energy erupted from it. It struck Hrungnir, his form dissolving into particles of light, his scream cut short as his throat seared and then the Jotun king was gone.
Everyone was shocked. Aesir and Jotun alike stared in horror and awe.
“Father! FATHER!” Laufey screamed, thrashing against Thrain’s spear. “Bor! You murderous cur!” His voice broke with anguish and rage. “May the Nine Realms curse your name, Bor Burison! May your line know only blood and betrayal! May Asgard burn for this treachery! I will see your sons dead! Your grandsons dead! Your city reduced to ash! This I swear on my father!”
Bor turned to face Laufey, unmoved by the curse. “Let this be a lesson to the realms: do not steal from Asgard.”
“You broke the Great Treaty by killing my father!” Laufey spat. “This means war! War eternal! Jotunheim will never forget! Never forgive!”
Bor smiled a cold and terrible smile. “I did no such thing. Your father is very much alive.” He began to walk away, his Einherjar parting before him. He called back over his shoulder, “You only need to find him.”
Laufey stared in confusion and horror, not understanding.
“Release him,” Bor commanded. “We leave. Asgard’s honor is restored.”
Everyone cheered a roar of victory that shook the frozen walls.
Brunhilde cheered as well, but she was confused. Did the Jotuns not steal something from Asgard? Did we already retrieve it? And what did the king mean about Hrungnir being alive?
She watched as her sister walked over, greeting her friends first clasping arms with Yrsa, Haldor, and Vigmund and then turning to her.
Sigryn pulled Brunhilde into a fierce hug. “You have done well, sister. Mother would have been proud.”
Brunhilde smiled, happiness flooding through her exhaustion. She had made her sister proud. She hoped she had made her mother proud as well, and that she was looking down from Valhalla.
“Now come,” Sigryn said, releasing her and grinning. “A grand feast awaits us in Asgard. We will celebrate for moons to come!”
The warriors around them cheered again, already thinking of mead and songs.
But Brunhilde couldn’t shake the image from her mind King Hrungnir dissolving into nothing, and the terrible power of that relic in her king’s hands.
=======
They had returned to Asgard in triumph.
King Bor, using his strange blue relic, brought them back in an instant that same disorienting pull, that flash of light and suddenly they stood not in frozen Jotunheim but at home.
The celebrations began at once.
The Great Hall of Kings filled with warriors from the battle thousands of them, their voices rising in song and laughter, the sound of victory. The massive hall could barely contain them all. Long tables stretched the length of the room, groaning under the weight of the feast: roasted boar and venison, whole sides of beef still steaming, platters of bread and cheese, bowls of fruit from across the Nine Realms. And mead rivers of it, golden and potent, flowing from great barrels.
Everyone was drinking, eating, testing their strength against each other, wrestling and laughing. Some sang battle songs. Others recounted their kills, embellishing with each retelling. The air was thick with smoke from the fire pits and the smell of roasted meat.
Brunhilde celebrated with her sister and friends.
Haldor stood and raised his horn high. “To little Hilde!” he said, then paused theatrically. “No…to Brunhilde the Mighty!”
Cheers went up around them, and she raised her cup with a wide smile, her heart swelling with pride.
Soon her father joined them, his presence immediately shifting the mood. Valthurn the Seer was a tall, severe man, his eyes always seeming to look through rather than at people. He gestured for Brunhilde and Sigryn to step outside, away from the roar of the celebrations.
They walked out onto the balcony overlooking the city, the sounds of the feast muffled behind them.
“You did well, daughter,” Valthurn said, his voice formal. “Many sing of your bravery. They say you cut down over fifty Jotuns by yourself.”
“Nothing like that, Father,” Brunhilde said, looking down at her hands.
She had never had a close relationship with her father. He was always distant, occupied with matters of state and prophecy, his attention focused on anything rather than his own children. But to hear those words from him to hear pride in his voice, even restrained as it was meant more than she wanted to admit.
Yet it also hurt. Because what she truly wished for was impossible. She wished her mother were still alive to see this day to embrace her, to tell her she was proud with warmth rather than duty. Her mother would have laughed and cried and held her close. Her mother would have made her feel it.
But her mother had fallen in battle ten winters ago, and all Brunhilde had now was this: a father who praised her as he might praise a promising recruit.
“Bah, no need to be humble, dear sister,” Sigryn said, squeezing Brunhilde’s shoulder.
Then Sigryn’s expression turned serious, her attention shifting to their father. “Father, now that we are alone—”
Brunhilde saw Haldor, Yrsa, and Vigmund approach from the hall, their faces equally grave.
Her father noticed and his expression shifted to annoyance. “I have told you, Sigryn. The matter of the prince is out of my hands. The king’s word is law.”
“And day by day, many more learn what truly happened, Valthurn,” Haldor said, his usual jovial tone replaced with steel. “Soon the king will have to face all of Asgard itself when they learn of their prince’s exile.”
“The king must bring him back,” Yrsa added firmly. “Asgard needs its prince.”
“Aye, Valthurn,” Vigmund said. “You need to talk to the king before—”
“Before what?” Valthurn interrupted sharply, his eyes flashing a warning. “You will do nothing. The prince has much to learn, and the king believes he will do so in his exile. It is not our place to question.”
Brunhilde watched the argument. She knew there was a hidden order of which her sister and friends were a part a group that wished to press King Bor to return Prince Odin. They were growing in power every day, gaining supporters among warriors and nobility alike. She hoped it would not end in bloodshed. She doubted the prince would want that either.
“The prince is in safe company as well,” Valthurn added, as if that settled the matter.
“Who? Grænlaðr?” Sigryn said, her voice sharp with skepticism.
Grænlaðr. Brunhilde knew of him the man with strange seiðr who had helped Odin defeat Surtur. He had even defeated Sigryn in a spar, though her sister claimed he cheated. The man was a mystery, appearing in Asgard with Odin and then disappearing with him. His name surfaced often whenever the prince was discussed, always spoken with uncertainty and suspicion.
“Yes,” Valthurn confirmed. “The king believes his son is in good hands. He will return when the time is right when he has learned what he needs to learn.”
“And when will that be?” Sigryn pressed. “A year? A decade? A century? How long must Asgard be without its heir?”
Valthurn did not answer… which was answer enough.
Sigryn stepped closer to her father. “Father, I know I have asked many times before, but at least tell us who is the man Odin calls brother? Who is Grænlaðr? Who or what is he, Father?”
Yrsa chimed in, her usual boisterous energy tempered with genuine concern. “He was quite a fun man to drink with, I’ll give him that. But I too have been curious about what he is. How can we be sure Odin is safe with him?”
Haldor and Vigmund nodded, voicing their desire to know.
Brunhilde remained silent, her eyes fixed on her father’s face. She watched him weigh the choice to share his knowledge, his expression cycling through irritation, calculation, and finally something like resignation.
She spoke carefully. “Father, perhaps if you tell us this, then we can all be assured that the prince is safe. And perhaps we can end this issue once and for all.”
Valthurn looked at each of them in turn, his seer’s eyes seeming to pierce their intentions. “Is that what you want? If I assure you that Odin is safe, will you drop this matter? No more agitation among the warriors? No more whispers of bringing him back by forcing the king’s hand?”
Sigryn, Haldor, Vigmund, and Yrsa nodded and agreed solemnly. “We just need to know Odin is safe,” Sigryn said. “We will keep quiet about his exile if we can be certain of that.”
Valthurn was silent for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine.” He looked at each of them again, his expression grave. “But you cannot tell anyone what I am about to say. Swear it.”
“I swear it,” they said in unison, one after another.
Valthurn began: “Do you know what the Elders of the Universe are?”
Brunhilde did not know. Neither did Haldor, Yrsa, or Vigmund, judging by their confused expressions.
Sigryn spoke up. “Yes. Mother once told me of them. They are gods of some sort. Very powerful.”
“No,” Valthurn corrected. “Not gods. But to many, they might as well be.”
He paused, gathering his thoughts, then continued. “The Elders are the oldest beings in the universe, survivors of the first worlds. They were gifted with immortality and great power, though how or by what, no one truly knows. Perhaps by the universe itself, as a cosmic accident. Perhaps by something else.”
Brunhilde listened, fascinated.
“They all came together, realizing their shared condition: they were the last of their kind and the oldest beings still living,” Valthurn continued. “Each Elder is unique, bound to a singular purpose that defines their existence. For example, the two most famous: the Grandmaster and the Collector.”
He gestured as he spoke. “The Grandmaster crafts games of fate, pitting worlds and champions against each other for his amusement. The Collector hoards all he considers treasures, artifacts, beings, knowledge preserving them in his vast archive.”
Valthurn’s voice dropped lower. “Then there are others who appear only once in hundreds of millions of years, otherwise keeping to themselves: the Champion, a warrior who seeks only the thrill of combat and has never been defeated; the Gardener, who sows life across barren worlds, cultivating beauty where there was only death; the Runner, the fastest being in all existence, capable of crossing galaxies in moments.”
He paused. “And there are more of whom we know only the names: the Astronomer. The Profiteer. The Trader. The Obliterator. The Possessor.”
The group was silent, absorbing this forbidden knowledge.
“These beings are not to be trifled with,” Valthurn said firmly. “Even Asgard cannot stand against them. They existed before the Nine Realms were formed, before Yggdrasil took root. They are… beyond us.”
Sigryn frowned. “What does this have to do with Grænlaðr?”
“Because what Father is saying, sister, is that Grænlaðr is one of the Elders of the Universe,” Brunhilde said, putting the pieces together.
“What?” Haldor, Yrsa, Vigmund, and Sigryn said in unison, looking at her and then at Valthurn with wide eyes.
Valthurn nodded slowly. “Yes. It is true. The one the prince calls Grænlaðr the one he names his battle-brother is an Elder of the Universe.”
“But…but he—” Sigryn faltered, her mouth opening and closing.
“You yourself just said how dangerous these beings are, and yet you send our prince with one of them?” Haldor said, his voice rising in alarm.
Valthurn raised a hand. “Listen. Of all the Elders, there is one who has not been seen for over three billion years, one said to be the oldest among them, even older than the universe, if the legends about him are true.”
How can a thing be older than the universe? Brunhilde thought, her mind reeling.
Valthurn continued. “I myself, in my youth, was obsessed with the Elders. That was how I came to know of him—the Elder whom only I and a few others know—the one who called himself the Guardian. The oldest. The most powerful. And also the least malevolent.”
He paused, his eyes distant with memory. “My journey to learn of the Elders granted me an audience with the Collector himself. It was… a harrowing experience. But he told me of the Guardian of how his obsession was unlike the others’. Not games, not treasures, not speed or combat, nor any pursuit for its own sake.”
Valthurn’s voice grew more intense. “His obsession is the preservation of cosmic order. While other Elders’ pursuits are self-serving, his fixation is to safeguard the universe to keep balance shielding civilizations, planets, and even cosmic forces from chaos, destruction, or existential threats. He views himself as the ultimate sentinel, driven to intervene wherever entropy or malevolence threatens to unravel the fabric of existence.”
The group was silent, hanging on every word.
“I almost died of shock that day,” Valthurn said quietly, “when I realized who the prince’s companion was. After three billion years, the Guardian revealed himself by helping Odin defeat Surtur. Three billion years of silence and he emerged for our prince.”
He looked at each of them. “Now you know that Odin is safe. Perhaps the safest being in the universe.”
Brunhilde, along with the others, was too shocked to speak. Grænlaðr was an Elder of the Universe, the oldest being in existence.
Sigryn finally found her voice. “I… I can see why you are not worried for the prince, Father.”
“I hope you will put this behind you now,” Valthurn said. “The king believes his son can learn something from the Elder, something he cannot teach him something the next king of Asgard will need.”
He fixed them all with a stern look. “Remember: do not speak of this to anyone. The Guardian’s existence, his presence with our prince, must remain secret.”
They all nodded and agreed.
Brunhilde’s mind raced: Prince Odin, exiled and wandering the stars with the oldest being in the universe.
As they began to return to the feast, Brunhilde spotted something on the horizon the night sky turning bright once more.
“What is that?” she asked, pointing.
The others looked as well, squinting at the distant glow.
“Is that a bird… on fire?” Sigryn said, confusion in her voice.
Brunhilde nodded. Yes, it did look like a bird on fire wings spread wide, trailing flames as it flew toward them.
Her father took a step back, his face transforming into pure terror.
“Father, what’s wrong?” Brunhilde asked, alarm rising in her chest. She had never seen her father afraid. Not once in her entire life.
Valthurn only whispered, “No. No, no, no. It can’t be.”
Brunhilde watched the fiery bird come closer and closer, growing larger with each passing second. It was descending on Asgard itself.
Then—
BOOOOOOOOOM
The entire world shook, and there was a blinding light. When she could see again, the sky the entire sky was filled with the silhouette of the fiery bird. It stretched from horizon to horizon, wings of flame spreading across the heavens.
Perhaps it was her eyes playing tricks on her, but Brunhilde swore there was a glowing woman in its heart.
“What is that?!” Haldor bellowed, his hand instinctively going to his axe.
Yrsa and Vigmund echoed his alarm, their faces pale with fear.
“Father!” Sigryn yelled as Valthurn the Seer fell unconscious, collapsing to the stone floor.
Brunhilde knelt beside him, shaking his shoulders. “Father! Father, wake up!”
She looked up at the sky now burning above them, casting everything in crimson and gold. Screams of fear echoed from the city below sounds of chaos.
Warriors from the hall began to run out, their celebration forgotten, weapons drawn, faces turned to the sky in shock and horror.
What is happening? What seiðr is this? Are we being attacked? A thousand questions flooded her mind.
Then hers and many others’ were answered by a booming voice from the fiery being. It was the voice of a woman.
“I AM THE PHOENIX, AND I AM ASGARD’S DOOM!”
The words shook Asgard itself.
“Fuck,” was all Brunhilde could say, staring up at the being that had come to destroy her home.
Comments
BaldRhaegar
Why? I had never read a lot about The Phoenix.. I'm more of a DC guy
June Soriano
Thank you for the chapter. Great distraction, hope the heist is successful.
Asura
I can probably guess why the Phoenix force had to intervene.😮💨
