Chapter 116

"Get up, Hela," Lydia's words rang out over the desolate landscape, as sharp and cold as the wind that whipped past them. Her voice was a steel-edged blade, filled with authority and a chilling sense of command.

Hela, however, seemed to be in no condition to heed the command. She was on her knees now, one hand clutching her midsection where Lydia's blow had landed. The grimace of pain on her face was more pronounced now, her pale lips drawn into a tight line. Despite the intense pain, her eyes held an indomitable spark of defiance, a stubborn refusal to yield.

Yet, beneath the defiance, a flicker of confusion danced in Hela's eyes. She had been bested, and she knew it. She was unaccustomed to such failure, unaccustomed to the feeling of her own strength failing her. It was a bitter taste, a blow to her pride.

Lydia watched her closely, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. In a way, she felt a pang of sympathy for the fallen Asgardian queen. Not too long ago, she had been in a similar position - struggling, desperate, but clinging onto her pride.

But, Lydia knew all too well the dangers of pride. It blinded one to their own faults, made them overlook their mistakes, and ultimately, led to their downfall. Lydia had learned this lesson the hard way, and it seemed Hela was on a similar path.

With a sigh, Lydia raised her chin, her gaze hardening. "I said, get up, Hela," she repeated, her voice ringing out once more, her words punctuated by the harsh winds. "This is far from over."

And as Lydia stood there, a lone figure against the barren landscape, she couldn't help but wonder how different things might have been if Hela had chosen a different path. But for now, Lydia had a battle to finish, and a kingdom to protect.

Hela's voice was a raw, guttural rasp, "What... do you want?" The words were a struggle to force out, each syllable seeming to demand a Herculean effort. The energy and vitality that once crackled around Hela like an aura of dark power was now greatly dimmed.

Lydia watched the fallen queen, her smirk widening at the apparent surrender. There was a cruel twist to her mouth, a hint of amusement flashing in her eyes, but it did not reach the cold depths of her gaze. This was not victory, not truly; it was an acknowledgment of Lydia's superiority, a capitulation that came not from respect, but from defeat.

"Are you done fighting?" Lydia echoed, her tone dripping with mockery. She held her stance, the embodiment of regal authority, the regal reds and golds of her battle armor shimmering under the dim light of the sun.

She could see the question for what it was, an attempt from Hela to assess the situation, to figure out the extent of Lydia's intent. In a way, it was a shrewd move. Hela was injured, broken, but she was far from defeated. This was her moment of vulnerability, the point where she had to decide whether to strike back or to cower and lick her wounds.

And, deep within Lydia, buried beneath her outward appearance of confidence and control, was a flicker of respect for Hela. She was a warrior, through and through, and she would not go down easily. This was a woman who had ruled Asgard, who had controlled legions, who had been banished by her father for her immense hunger for power. And yet, she was still standing, still fighting.

But that respect did not soften Lydia's resolve. She was the Empress, and her people needed her. She could not afford to waver, to show mercy. This was a fight for survival, a battle against a force that threatened everything she held dear.

"What I want, Hela," Lydia began, her voice steady and resolute, "is for you to realize the enormity of your mistakes. I want you to understand the depth of your foolishness, the consequences of your hubris. You had power, you had authority, and you squandered it all for what? For a pointless battle?"

Lydia's gaze hardened, a glint of challenge flashing in her eyes. "If you're done fighting, then we can have a real conversation. But if not... then get up, because I am far from done."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Hela remained where she was, on her knees, her breaths heaving out of her in ragged gasps. The once indomitable queen of Asgard was reduced to a defeated shell of her former self, her eyes devoid of their usual fiery defiance. Lydia could see the internal struggle etched across Hela's face - the fight between her battered ego and her broken body.

"Well," Lydia drawled, breaking the charged silence, "I'll take that silence as your consent to continue our...conversation." There was a gleam in her eyes - not of joy, but of grim determination. She wasn't reveling in the victory - she was merely acknowledging it, accepting it as a necessary step to ensure the safety of her empire.

With a sudden burst of cosmic energy, Lydia blurred from sight. The sudden displacement of air where she had been standing was the only sign of her departure. And then she was next to Hela, her armored leg raised high. The execution of the movement was flawless - the perfect balance of speed and strength, an exhibit of a true warrior's prowess.

Hela barely had time to lift her head before Lydia's armored foot connected with her midsection. The sound that echoed across the desolate landscape was a sickening crunch, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Then, with a force that shook the ground beneath them, Hela was sent hurtling through the air.

She crashed into the side of a nearby mountain, her impact point instantly crumbling, creating an enormous crack that ran up the length of the solid rock formation. Dust and debris filled the air as an ominous rumble echoed through the valley, the very mountain threatening to come down upon the fallen queen.

Lydia slowly lowered her leg, her chest heaving as she sucked in air. She watched as the dust cleared, her cold gaze fixed on the battered figure of Hela. There was no satisfaction in her gaze, no thrill at the sight of her enemy's defeat. This was a necessary action, a means to an end. She had done what was required of her.

For the Empress of the Genoshian Empire, there was no room for personal feelings in the heat of battle. Only duty, and the grim resolve to do whatever it took to protect her people.

A small cloud of dust rose in the stillness, particles dancing and swirling, illuminated by the harsh light that beat down from above. Each breath Hela took was an effort, a ragged sound that echoed eerily in the hush that had descended. Her body ached, every fiber of her being screaming in protest as she tried to force her shattered form to obey her command.

Her movements were sluggish, the sharp, biting pain that spread through her torso causing her to grunt in discomfort. Every ounce of her strength, it seemed, was consumed by the simple act of breathing. The once mighty Goddess of Death, reduced to a state so pitiful, it would have been laughable if it weren't so tragic.

Her hands, previously splayed out before her in a desperate attempt to push herself up, finally found purchase among the rocks that had pinned her. Each stone was a jagged piece of her defeat, a stark reminder of the immense power that Lydia wielded. With a growl of exertion, she managed to dislodge a few, the sound of their clattering echoing in the eerie silence.

She managed to prop herself up, leaning heavily against the cold, unfeeling stone. Her body trembled with the effort, the energy needed to keep herself upright leeching the last vestiges of her strength. But she didn't let herself slump, didn't let herself give in to the weight of her wounds and exhaustion. Hela was a warrior, through and through, and she'd be damned if she didn't at least die on her feet.

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. She couldn't fight Lydia, not in her current state, but she could at least face her. She turned her face upward, her pale, weary features contrasting sharply with the stubborn defiance in her eyes. She might have been beaten, but Hela was far from broken.

Lydia blurred into existence beside Hela, an inescapable specter etched against the stark landscape. She was motionless, her gaze frosty as it raked over Hela's broken form. Her silence was a deafening roar, carrying with it an unspoken threat, a promise of inevitable defeat.

Hela, unaware of Lydia's proximity, was absorbed in her own world of pain, each ragged breath a Herculean effort. Her mind was a chaotic whirl, thoughts flickering and scattering like frightened birds. Yet amid the disarray, she clung to the singular lifeline of drawing in one breath after another, the physical sensation grounding her against the onslaught of impending despair.

Lydia's movements were fluid, a mesmerizing dance of death and power. She held her shield like a second skin, an extension of her own indomitable will. It was with a swift, effortless motion that she swung it, a near-silent whisper of menace in the quiet.

The shield struck Hela with all the grace and precision of a well-aimed arrow. It connected with a jarring 'thud', an almost sickening noise that split the air and sent Hela hurtling across the terrain. She cut through the landscape like a comet, a trail of broken earth left in her wake.

She skidded to a halt, her body leaving a ragged trench behind. Dust and debris trailed in her wake, a testament to the raw power that had been unleashed. Her body lay still, lifeless almost, but for the spasmodic rise and fall of her chest. Each gasping breath she took was a desperate plea for survival, a piteous testament to her mortal plight.

Lydia's presence, once so menacing, so overwhelming, was now like a phantom, a lurking specter of relentless power. And in that moment, Hela was not the Goddess of Death, the feared ruler of Hel. She was reduced to a broken woman, her only focus on the life-giving rhythm of her own breathing.

In a fluttering heartbeat, Lydia appeared again by Hela's side, her form as solid and as real as the biting winds and the rough rocks beneath their feet. Her ethereal, battle-etched figure cast a long shadow over Hela's prone body, an undeniable, looming reminder of the power differential between them.

Lydia observed Hela, her gaze clinical and unsympathetic. There was a hardness in her eyes, a stony resolve that was every bit as daunting as her impressive display of raw power. She watched Hela's struggle, the heaving rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers curled into the gravel, white-knuckled and desperate. Lydia seemed almost detached, a scientist observing the labored breaths of a wounded animal.

"Are you ready to continue?" Lydia's voice was cool and controlled, each word falling like a hammer onto an anvil. She was a statue against the brutal landscape, her question an echo in the silent expanse of their makeshift battleground.

Hela's reply was a slow, almost imperceptible shake of her head, her body trembling from the effort. The slightest motion, yet a surrender in its own right. The Goddess of Death, the once-fearless ruler of Hel, reduced to a beaten and breathless creature in the dirt. It was a sight that would have stirred fear in the hearts of gods and monsters alike, yet in that moment, under Lydia's calculating gaze, Hela's capitulation was nothing more than the expected outcome.

As Lydia cast her gaze towards the two brothers, she raised her arm languidly. In the space of a heartbeat, the world around Thor and Loki became a flurry of colors and sensations. The sky, ground, and horizon swirled together in a vortex of confusion. Then, as abruptly as it had started, it all snapped back into focus, and they found themselves standing next to Lydia, their surroundings now a stark contrast to the distant spot they'd just occupied.

Lydia, her eyes still fixed on the winded form of Hela, waved her hand once more. In response, the barren ground beneath them shifted and groaned. It was as if the earth itself was bending to her will. In mere moments, three stools of compacted rock and dirt emerged, their surfaces surprisingly smooth against the rugged terrain. There was an elegance to their design, a simplicity that belied the raw power that had conjured them.

Lydia seated herself, her posture both regal and relaxed. Her gaze was distant, her thoughts seemingly a world away. Thor and Loki, too, took their seats, their eyes wide as they adjusted to their new vantage point. There was a surreal quality to the moment, as if they had somehow slipped into a dream, the events of the day hanging over them like a specter.

Their makeshift viewing area was a testament to Lydia's power. Even in the midst of a battle, she had the control and precision to create an oasis of calm. Thor and Loki exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting a newfound understanding of the enigma that was Lydia. They were in the presence of a power that surpassed their comprehension, and in that moment, they understood just how precarious their reality truly was.

Lydia, her gaze still steady on Hela's struggling form, began to speak. Her voice cut through the silence like a shard of ice, each word crisp and calculated. "You obviously can't rule Asgard," she began, her words tinged with a tone that bordered on mockery. "You barely put up a fight. Asgard deserves a leader who can hold their own."

She glanced sidelong at Loki. "The current King of Asgard is Loki, and he has a more pressing duty. We need him to help locate another cosmic threat - Annihilus." The name hung in the air, a reminder of the threat that loomed over them all.

Lydia's gaze returned to Hela, her eyes thoughtful as she considered her next words. "So, what should we do with you, Hela?" She asked, her voice deceptively soft. The question seemed to hang in the air, heavy with anticipation. "I could kill you," Lydia continued casually, the suggestion punctuated by an almost mischievous smile playing at the corners of her lips. "That would solve most of our problems."

Hela, in her weakened state, could do nothing more than struggle for breath. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and filled with pain. The once proud Goddess of Death was now reduced to a gasping shell of her former self, a poignant reminder of the power that Lydia wielded.

The silence that followed Lydia's words was profound. Loki and Thor watched, their expressions unreadable, their minds churning with the weight of what had just been suggested. Lydia, for her part, remained impassive, her gaze fixed on Hela as if the answer to her question was written somewhere on the beaten goddess' form. The tension was palpable, as the fate of Hela hung in the balance, caught in the cruel hands of a chilling decision.

Lydia, her posture relaxed as if she were engaged in a simple conversation over tea, tilted her head in thought. "Killing an Asgardian is an act of war," she began, her gaze flicking to Thor and Loki. "But Hela is banished, isn't she? A forgotten child, stripped of her birthright and sent to the shadows. Technically," Lydia added, a smile playing on her lips, "she isn't part of Asgard anymore. Thus, killing her doesn't count as a transgression against Asgard."

She shifted her gaze to Loki, her emerald eyes almost sparkling in the sun's waning light. "Right?" She questioned. Her tone suggested it was more of a statement than a query, a rhetoric made to highlight her point.

Loki's gaze met Lydia's, the glint of fear hidden well behind his practiced facade. His mind spun, thoughts skittering like pebbles across a still lake. Yet, his agreement came with a nod, slow and almost imperceptible. It was not out of genuine belief but out of a desire to keep Lydia appeased, to prevent her gaze from turning onto him with the same chilling coldness she directed at Hela.

Once again, Lydia's attention returned to Hela, her smile widening into a gleeful grin. "So, you see, Hela," Lydia began, her voice singsong as if she were mocking a child, "your life is quite literally in my hands. There is no one here to avenge you, no one to cry out for justice. And that," she said, the glee in her voice replaced with a cold, ruthless determination, "is what happens when you lose everything."

The tension hung in the air, as icy and foreboding as Lydia's gaze. As Hela continued her struggle for breath, the impending dread of her fate loomed over them all. With each passing moment, the scales tipped further into the abyss, the balance of power overwhelmingly in Lydia's favor. And therein lay the chilling reality of the situation – for Hela, it was a battle she had already lost.

Lydia's posture remained relaxed, her gaze trained on Hela. "You know, Hela, if I let you go, you'll probably end up causing havoc somewhere else, summoning the dead and starting your own little apocalypse," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if swatting away an irritating fly. Her tone remained light and almost conversational, but the underlying steel in her voice was hard to miss.

"Then I would have to leave my duties, waste time and resources to clean up your mess. It would be a whole thing," Lydia continued, her eyes narrowing in mock contemplation. She was enjoying this - the absolute power she held, the fear in Hela's eyes. It was a dark sense of satisfaction, one that she rarely indulged in, but the gravity of the situation warranted it.

"The dead aren't meant to be commanded, they're meant to rest," Lydia said softly, her voice taking a quieter, more thoughtful turn. There was an undercurrent of something else now - respect, reverence, even empathy. Lydia had seen Death, after all, had looked her in the eyes and recognized the enormity of her presence. Toying with the departed was something she considered an abomination.

"And that's where the problem lies, Hela. Killing you is the easiest solution," Lydia finished, leaning back into her makeshift throne, her gaze never leaving Hela. Her voice was matter-of-fact, her words ringing in the silence with a finality that sent a chill down Loki and Thor's spines. They were words spoken without malice, a simple declaration of reality.

Despite their overwhelming power, the duo felt oddly small in the face of Lydia's raw strength and ruthlessness. The dynamic of the situation was clear – they were mere spectators to a power play that was far beyond their reach, in the face of a cosmic threat they could hardly comprehend. And yet, beneath the fear and awe, there was an odd sense of relief. If anyone could handle Hela and keep Asgard safe, it was Lydia. They were in her world now, a world of cosmic chess where she was the queen.