It’s the sound that wakes me. Something like an angle grinder crossed with a dying pig. A hideous cacophony, intruding on the warm and silent darkness in my head.
I want it gone. Now. I’m going to open my eyes, and get out of bed, and I’m going to hunt down whoever approved roadworks outside my fucking bedroom window and I am going to sue them down to the bone and salt the ground with their children’s bankrupt tears.
Opening my eyes isn’t as easy as it should be. The noise is roaring and my eyelids stick, and when I manage to prize them apart—
“Hurngh!”
Light.
Real light. From eyes. Not the strange narrative inference of the Wyrdsight, but actual photons, searing across functioning retinas with all the agony of cut onions, followed by a chili chaser.
I sit up. The world tilts. I have a brief impression of wood and candles, then everything goes one-eighty and the next thing I hear is the crack of a skull (mine) against stone.
It does nothing for the headache. Even less for the nausea.
I manage not to hurl, but only just. Biting back pain and bile and the searing in my (working!) eyes and the stink of sweat and rotting rushes and spilt mead and, oh gods. I am gonna hurl.
I do, beneath a table. Tasting the wrong side of meat and honey. It isn’t fun.
I feel better when it’s over. Maybe just because it is.
The noise continues, unabated. I stumble backward, getting to my feet by sliding up a wall. Carved wood, by the feel.
Wood. Rushes. Mead. Suddenly, it’s not just nausea churning in my gut.
I open my eyes.
Light, again. Dim and weak, but after a thousand years of blindness it may as well be the heart of the fucking sun. I put my hand up to my face, groaning, blinking back agony and tears and another rising tide of bile.
I want to die. I haven’t had a hangover since . . . for a very, very long time. The piss on Miðgarðr doesn’t do it for me. Not like this.
Through my fingers, I see the shape of a table. Long, made of wood. There’s an empty, me-shaped space on top of it, in between the plates of bones and empty goblets. I guess that’s where I passed out. Where I just fell off.
Next to the space is the source of the sound. It’s a guy. He’s asleep, snoring. There are quite a few like him scattered around the room, plus some women. It looks like the morning after a party, except every night is a party, here. Every night’s a party, and every day’s a battle. Because, yeah. I know where I am. I haven’t been here for a thousand fucking years, but I remember it. Remember it by the carvings in the walls and the decorative ax-and-shield motif and the fact that everyone’s clothing is giving off one hell of an SCA vibe. Except this isn’t Lochac, and the only anachronism here is me.
This is Ásgarðr. Valhöll, to be precise: the great Hall of the Slain. The passed-out guys are einherjar, the virtuous dead, taken from battlefields by the valkyrjur and brought here, trapped in Odin’s gilded cage.
Actually, scratch that. Most of the passed-out guys are einherjar. Most, but not all. Because that guy, over there? With his face half inside a boar carcass? Yeah, that’s Víðarr, one of Odin’s multitude of useless brats. He’s one of the gods, the æsir.
And I am so, so fucked.
----------------------------------------
First things first, I do what I’m good at: I turn tail and fucking run.
It’s been a while, and I get lost twice in Valhöll’s corridors, eventually making it out via a kitchen. Servants shriek in my wake, but out of surprise rather than in a holy-shit-kill-him sort of way. I think.
When I burst through the door, the sunlight does nothing for my hangover. Does nothing, and my head is pounding and my eyes are burning and—
Warm sun upon my skin, warm breeze carding though my hair. The smell of grass and pine. Of woodsmoke. The sound of ravens, of laughter. The taste of eternal spring upon my tongue. Endless blue and rolling green. A deer watches me across the grass, then leaps off into a copse. In the distance, men ready themselves for war.
Fuck. It’s beautiful. I’d forgotten. Made myself forget, maybe. Because exiled, trapped in the endless gray of Miðgarðr . . . how else could I endure it? What can the dull, small world of mortals offer someone used to breathing the pure air of the home of gods themselves? Of drinking from its streams, eating of its fruits? Of resting upon its fragrant grasses, beneath its perfect sun?
Fuck. Fuck I am so, so fucked and—
“Uncle?”
Oh. Fuck. No.
I know that voice. The last time I heard it, it was deeper. Older. Angrier. This voice, today, this is the voice of someone innocent. Pure.
Alive. Very, very definitely alive.
I look . . . well, I look up. Because holy fuck am I short now or what? Baldr is barely out of childhood and the bastard still looms over me. Except less with the looming, maybe. Looming is aggressive, threatening, and there’s nothing of either of those things in Baldr. Not yet.
His hair is neat and his beard is trimmed and his eyes are so, so achingly kind it’s like a knife. Right through the heart, the big one, and I slam my eyes shut against the anguish.
“Uncle!”
Hands against my shoulders, and I have to force myself not to react. Not to lash out, to strike in fear and pain and rage.
“Uncle, are you . . . are you well?”
“Yeah, I—” I start in English, because I’m a fucking idiot, before remembering to switch to the old language. “I will be.”
I straighten and make myself stare right into the heart of Baldr’s gentle, golden eyes. When I smile, it feels like a bitter, gaping wound.
Baldr returns the expression with a wry smirk like the first light of dawn. “Overindulging with the einherjar? Really, Uncle. At this time? I would think you would be at home, tending to your wife.”
Oh holy shitfuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck.
“Yes!” I can do this. Shit. I can. I have no fucking clue what’s going on, or what Prince Goody Soon-Dead is fucking talking about re my wife . . . but I can bluff it. It’s what I’m good at.
I clap my hands, take a few stumbling steps away from Baldr. “She expects me home,” I say. “So, um. I should . . . do that. Go make sure everything is, y’know. All good. With the time, and whatever.” Smooooooth. I can see why the mortals made me the god of this!
Baldr smiles, bright and beautiful, and gives a little bow. “Send her my regards,” he says. “And wishes for a safe delivery. Our thoughts are with you both.”
“Cool.” No, you idiot! That’s modern idiom! “Good. Thank you!” I turn to go. As I do, I catch the faint edge of a frown form on Baldr’s face.
“Uncle?”
I freeze. Half turn, and try to smile.
Baldr is frowning, but there’s a smirk somewhere behind it. “Before you go, you, ah. You may wish to locate your trousers.”
“Wha—” I look down.
Oh.
FML.
----------------------------------------
I find my pants. Some guy was using them as a pillow, and they’re covered in drool and other things I don’t want to think about, but I’m pretty sure they’re mine.
So, the good news: Baldr is alive, and people don’t want to kill me. As much. The bad news, however, is that I’ve got no idea why I’m here.
Also, I’m really, really fucking short.
Also also, I’m pretty sure there was something else I was supposed to be doing.
Gods have terrible memories. It’s sort of our Thing. Because mortals are bad at sticking to their canon, and when your entire life consists of a few hundred years of self-contradicting fanfic? Yeah. You get over being hung up on the details. It’s more about sticking to your archetype, living in the moment. Leaves adrift upon the Wyrd.
In this moment, I’m trying to remember where my fucking house is. I do have one. Not a big fancy hall like the big fancy gods, just a house. For the wife, mostly. Yours truly when I’m home (which is never). And the boys, when they were younger.
I’m pretty sure it’s next to a waterfall? Or a pool? Some body of liquid, anyway. Surrounded by trees, past the humorously phallic set of rune stones. So I find a stream that looks familiar, and start walking.
Ásgarðr isn’t a huge place, not by New World standards; the population being a couple of thousand on a good day. Mostly einherjar and servants of various descriptions, plus a scattering of minor mythological entities that don’t quite make the Æ-list (like yours truly, depending on who’s writing). A few heckle me with greetings as I pass. A few more scurry away, refusing to meet my eyes.
Just another sunny morning in the Godshome.
Ah. The rune stones. See? Some things you never forget.
The path takes a turn at right angles by the stones, and so do I. Then nearly run smack-bang into—
(wayne and em)
—Hrist and Hlökk.
“You!”
Did I mention they don’t like me much?
“Ladies.” I bow, grin, and try to inch around them. Because they’re sort of blocking the path and, being valkyrjur, are both armed to the teeth and utterly scornful of anyone answering to the pronoun he.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Also, they’re Sigyn’s besties and did I mention they fucking loathe me? Because, hey. They do.
Hlökk spits. “Why are you here, Lie-smith?”
“Uh. Because I live here?”
Smart-ass answers earn me growling and looming—Hlökk is about my height, but Hrist towers—and I shrink backward, hands held up in supplication.
“Run back to your whores and drink,” Hlökk says. “And spare your wife the suffering of your woe-begotten presence.”
Wow. Harsh.
I wince, take a step back, and think for a second. Reach deep inside, and twist.
“Fuck off, you self-righteous carrion pickers” is what comes out. “We’ve all got fucking jobs to do in this fucking place. And, hey. My shift just fucking ended, and I’m tired, and hung over, and all I want to fucking do is go the fuck home and spend some quiet fucking time with my fucking wife. So if you don’t fucking mind, get the fuck outta my fucking way.” And I stare.
The birds stare back. All glossy eyes and blood-smeared lips.
It’s Hrist who stands down first. “Cause her suffering and we will gut you, Roarer.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” I say. “Join the fucking queue.” And I shoulder past.
I feel their ax-sharp regard against my back as I go.
----------------------------------------
Past the standing stones, down along the river. Through the trees and into a clearing. By a pond, beneath a waterfall.
There’s a house here. Not large, nothing different from any of the hundreds of others once scattered across the realms. Simple wooden walls, simple carved door. Sloped roof more covered with grass and herbs than thatch. A column of smoke, wafting from a high window.
This is my home.
There’s a woman, kneeling by the pool, gathering water.
She’s dressed in simple clothes. A rough-spun cotton underdress, plain wool hangaroc. Beads and brooches and a scarf to hold back hair the color of matted straw, and before I can think, I’m running across the grass, laughing.
This is my wife.
Sigyn turns at my approach. There’s a sadness in her, exhausted shadows around her eyes, but when she sees me her smile is good and true and perfect. The only treasure I ever stole and kept. The only one that mattered.
I want to grab her. To lift her and spin her and laugh and rub noses, but I don’t. I can’t. Because, beneath her breasts, bulging from the front of her tunic, is an enormous, pregnant belly.
Ah. This was what Baldr meant. This thing that I’d forgotten, poor husband that I am.
Despite that, Sigyn reaches for me as I approach, and I fall into her arms. Pepper her face with kisses that must smell of bile and old mead, because she laughs and pushes me away. Not far. Holding my cheeks between her hands and running her thumbs across my scar-cut lips.
“Loki,” she says, eyes soft and mouth parted. “You stink of mead and worse things. Is this the way you greet your pining wife after so long an absence?”
“Ah, light of my heart. Forgive me, I am an unworthy wretch.” I grin. “And would be made worse to think so beautiful a woman were ever left pining in my wake.”
Sigyn’s smile says she does not believe it, even as she would hear more such honeyed words. “Go to our house,” she says, “and clean yourself. Then you may greet your wife as she deserves.”
I steal a single kiss, heart light and head spinning in a way that has nothing to do with mead, neither on its way up nor down. “As my heart desires,” I say, for always was its mad rhythm the only dance that Loki follows.
Even if there is more than one that beats within his chest.
----------------------------------------
I wash, as instructed, replacing stained and gaudy clothes with something clean and simple. There is work to do around the house. Things that need repair, wood to chop, water to fetch. Sigyn is strong and true, yet she is also mere days from birthing our third child. This is, perhaps, the time her errant husband earn his keep.
He does, or tries to. Contentment settling in my gut as fingers fumble unfamiliar tasks. Fire brewing lower still when I steal time away from work to lay kisses upon pale skin and hands upon a swollen belly, feeling the tiny feet that kick within.
Seduction is a simple art, to one whose tongue is made of silver. Yet there is no finer target for the practice than one’s own well-married spouse.
The day passes. In the evening, over a simple meal of meat and bread, Sigyn takes my hand in hers and asks, “Husband? Today . . .” She stops, looks away, then starts anew, “Are things well, my love?”
I smile. “With you,” I say, “always is this so.”
And we kiss. And it is perfection.
----------------------------------------
The next day sees me hunting in the woods behind the house. Ásgarðr is flush with game, and food is not hard to find. Nor hard to kill, and I take the shapes of great predators—the wolf, the hawk, the serpent—to do so. I am in the first of these shapes, stalking a deer, when I come across another doing the same. He startles when he sees me, and I him, before he lowers his bow with something like a smile.
“Uncle,” Baldr says. “Forgive me. I did not wish to intrude.”
I resume my man shape, even as the deer bounds off into the woods, alive for one more day.
“Baldr,” I say, moving closer to where he stands. “This is far from your hall, boy. Surely you have your own deer to hunt. And servants to do it for you.”
Baldr laughs, but it is a stained thing and he looks away. There is a shadow writ across his features, hollows beneath his eyes, and a sagging in his once-proud shoulders.
“Ah,” he says, “this is true enough. But . . . sometimes, lately, I find it tiring to be with the others. Their games . . .” He trails off, tries a smile. It does not lift his eyes. “They mean well.”
Some months past, Baldr had grown vexed by dire dreams. Ill portents of his demise. His mother, Frigg, in her love for her bright son, sought promises from all the things in all the Realms. That they would not cause him harm. Wood and metal, stone and illness, all agreed to swear this oath, so enamored is the world with Baldr the White, Baldr the Good.
The other æsir, being æsir, have turned this dire thing into a game. And so they throw sticks and stones at Baldr whenever he walks by. Strike him with axes and with swords, marvel as none of these actions cause him harm. And Baldr laughs, and takes their foolishness in his own good-humored way.
Yet inside he withers, just a little.
And so I say, “Well, then. You have chosen the right corner of this place to be alone. Deep within this cursed home of monsters and of jötnar. Here, we have no such wicked games.”
Baldr smiles, bows his head just slightly. “Thank you, Uncle,” he says. “I . . . thank you.”
I regard him, just for a moment. He is young among the æsir. Has a wife and son to call his own, yet the burden of his father’s name hangs heavy.
“Hunt with me, boy,” I say. “We both seem to have disturbed each other’s prey, and will do better with two than each would alone.”
This time, when Baldr smiles, there is brightness and truth about its edges.
“That we shall,” he says. “And I would be honored.”
----------------------------------------
As it turns out, the boy is terrible with a bow. Laughably so and, in the end, we give up hunting and turn to the practice of archery.
We make little progress but, in the evening, when Baldr leaves, his joy is truer than any seen in months.
----------------------------------------
More days pass. Sigyn’s body stubbornly refuses labor, and she laughs at me when I fret for it.
“I have done this before,” she reminds me, and I scoff.
“As have I, and more times besides.” A whole brood of beasts and monsters, birthed from my loins and no less loved for their wicked shapes.
I feel work-rough fingers thread through my unkempt hair. Somewhere beneath my hands and ears, a second heartbeat stirs within my wife.
“Our child will come when he is ready. As we will be ready for him in turn.”
“Her,” I say.
“Oh? A daughter, you think?”
I look up, grinning. “Why not? I have had too many sons. I am done with them, and would have more of daughters in their wake. Wild and wicked things, to sow strife and discord between the tepid men of our spoiled Realm.”
Sigyn laughs. “And where will you find husbands for these girls?” she asks. “What boys here be brave enough to bed one of Loki’s vicious daughters?”
I close my eyes, imagine a host of red-haired witches. As fine and cunning as their father. As bold and loyal as their mother. “Our daughters need no husbands,” I say. “Let them scourge the Tree without such petty burdens.”
Sigyn laughs, and I feel her bend to press her lips against my hair.
“Oh, husband,” she says. “You will see us ruined yet.”
----------------------------------------
Another day, and we are woken by an awful pounding on the door. Sigyn groans, rolls closer against my side, and I am about to do the same when I hear the voice call:
“Brother! I know that you are here. Rouse yourself from out your bed, I would have words with you.”
Odin. And even here, curled against my warm and loving wife, I cannot help the ice that plunges through my hearts.
“Urgh,” Sigyn huffs, eyes still closed and half asleep. “Send him away. Tell him we have been eaten and are not here for his amusement.”
Thump, thump, thump!
“Brother!”
I groan, pulling myself from Sigyn’s grasp and rising from the bed. She looks up at me, expression cold and warning, “Loki, no. He is a beast, and will not have you. You are mine. Leave him.”
This argument is old, and I turn from it. Find my pants and pull them on. “He is Allfather, and my brother by blood,” I say. “I must answer when he calls. Else we will both find ourselves unwelcome in this land.”
Sigyn’s lips thin, and I know her thoughts. She has voiced them many times before, saying that we should flee this bitter Realm. Make home on Miðgarðr, or with the þursar of Þrymheimr. She thinks the price to be far less than we pay for our place in Ásgarðr. I would lie to say I had not considered it, at times.
But not this time.
“Husband, you are a fool,” she says as I walk through our small house and to the entry. I cannot deny that it is so.
Odin’s hand is raised to knock again when I open the door and slip outside.
“Brother,” I say. “Why do you disturb us so early when you kn—”
I do not get to finish. Instead, Odin’s hands have wrapped about my shoulders and I am thrown back against the wood.
“Enough games.” Odin’s voice is the cry of battle, his single eye burns with the forbidden secrets of the dead. Trapped beneath both, and I cannot move. Can barely breathe. “The time is not for you to dally here, playing nursemaid to your woman. We have a bargain, blood of my blood. Or do you forget it?” His fingers tighten on my shoulders, hard enough to grind the bone.
I hiss, slipping free from Odin’s grasp, stalking away from my small and tender home.
These are not things to sully its herb-laded eaves.
“I have not forgotten.” The words are ashes in my mouth. Ashes and blood. “It is simply . . . not yet time.”
Odin scowls, cloak billowing as he follows me across the grass. “It is well past time,” he says. “My heir is in danger. Our entire Realm. You know what you must do, yet you delay. Know that my patience for this foolishness is ended. You will do as you have promised.”
“One more day,” I say. “A week. Baldr comes here, spends time around my home. I—”
But Odin is not fooled by honeyed words. “I asked you, brother, when we made this plot, whether you would attempt to worm from underneath its weight. You swore to me that you would not. Do not make liar of yourself now. Not for some squalling unborn brat, yet another of your endless, awful brood.”
In that moment, I must look away. Must squeeze shut my hands and eyes against the tide of blood and violence. So many children. So many taken by Odin’s hand. Made slaves and exiles, all because—
“I told you I will do your bitter deed.”
—because their father, their mother, is a fool.
Odin is silent for a while, and I cannot meet his eye. Finally, I hear him move. “See that you do. By sundown. Do not make me return unto this place.”
He leaves. It is longer still until I can bring myself to do the same.
When I return into my home, Sigyn sits upon a bench before the fire. Tears cut tracks across her cheeks and there is anger in her eyes. She has listened at the door, I think.
“What did you do?” she demands.
“What I had to.” I have no patience for this fight, not today. Instead, I head to the back of the home to find my clothes.
“Loki!” I hear her dress rustle as she stands. “Do not walk away. What did you do?” Her fingers close about my wrist.
When I turn, there is fire in my eyes and shame within my hearts. “I bought you freedom,” I say. “A future. For our children.”
I pull myself from Sigyn’s grasp, cast my eyes about for shirts and belt. She follows, and when she speaks her voice is ice and steel. “At what price?” she asks. “What new humiliation would that beast subject you to? What new suffering must I endure?”
The last makes me pause, but only for a moment. “For you? None. I told you, you will have freedom and a future.” The words taste heavy on my tongue. The wool of my tunic itches as I pull it over my head.
“And my husband? What of him?”
The next words have no trace of lie about them, and it makes them knives and lances both. “You will have your husband,” I say. “And he you. He will look at you with love and call you wife. Will hold our children in his arms and think them his.”
I cannot look at Sigyn. Not with the horror in her voice as understanding dawns upon her, “But he will not be you.”
“Sigga−”
“No!” Her hand grabs my shoulder and she turns me. Still, I cannot meet her eyes. “No, you cannot do this. This wicked, evil thing! I will spurn this beast you send upon me−”
“He will have my shape,” I say. “And my mind. And the kind and gentle heart that you deserve.”
“But not that which I desire!” She releases me, takes one step backward, then another. “Oh, husband mine. Your foolish ways will yet undo us both.” And her voice is agony and loathing.
“It is already done,” I say. Reaching to the corner of the room, where a bow is propped against the wall. A bow, and a single arrow, made of mistletoe.
All things swore an oath to do no harm against Frigg’s bright and well-loved son. All things but one, too soft and young to be true danger.
Still strong enough to be cut into a point. Still old enough to hold the runes and galdr wrought upon it. Such a cruel and bitter spell, a father’s gilded cage.
Behind me, as I leave our home for the final time, I hear Sigyn swear revenge over a broken heart.
I keep my bargain with my brother.
Baldr suspects nothing. Not even when the arrow pierces through his eye.
And the spell is cast.
And, a thousand years later, broken.
“Hnngh!”
Bones crack beneath my knees as I fall to the ground under the Yggdrasill, the Tree’s vision receding from my mind. I’m not alone and, nearby, I hear the clatter as someone throws rusted spikes away into the darkness. My wrists and shoulders bleed from the newly unpinned wounds, the Dead God nowhere to be found.
Someone’s pulled me off the Tree.
“Do you see now? There’s always a price.”
“Fuck!”
I scramble to my feet, but too late. Because Baldr is there, face a twisted sneer.
He’s bleeding. I don’t get time to wonder why, my head still hazy from the vision. Impaled against the bark by the ghost of Odin. It’d seemed like a good plan at the time. Before this happened.
“Baldr—”
“No,” he says. Right before his fist makes friends with my jaw.
Fuck.