Boots Chapter 12
All the ride home, Boots swayed with the movement of the wagon and watched the shadows with heavy eyes. He did not close them, whenever he did, he pictured a nikka crawling up the back of the wagon to reach out and grasp his foot …
Author: Fiction Forest
How nerdy do you want to get?
In a fantastic moment of the youtube algorithm getting it right, these videos started popping up in my feed. Studson Studio provides the perfect blend of talent, humour and awesomeness. What happens on this youtube channel? A guy with a mellow voice and hilariously specific …
Boots Chapter 13
Boots dreamed.
He was being chased through the woods, he could hear horses and heavy feet crashing through the trees. Slashes at the undergrowth told him there was cold steel glinting behind him in the night.
“He’s up ahead, don’t let him escape.” Burig’s voice said from somewhere behind. Boots heard an indistinct response but knew the voice as Bridda’s.
His heart jumped and he redoubled his efforts to press through the leaves and bushes in the dark night. His breath was ragged, and his skin was covered in sweat.
No matter how fast he went, he wasn’t able to gain any distance between himself and his pursuers. His thoughts were muddled, but he knew that his luck had run out. Burig and Bridda were here to finish what lord Narosh had started and complete Boots’ punishment. They had been kind enough while they waited, but now it was time.
What was it time for? How did he know? These were answers that only existed in the indistinct knowledge that was sleep.
His hand pained him, and he reached down and gripped his wrist. The injury was bleeding again, the bandages wetter with each throb.
He stumbled and tripped, hands coming down hard in the wet earth at the top of the riverbank, the water below him swirled.
“No!” He cried out, knowing that what was below would be worse than what was behind.
He tried to push himself back up, but his hands slipped in the mud and soon he was sliding down the steep bank into the rushing water of the river.
It was no longer night, instead it was that strange greyish light that marked the ends of days. He could see the frothy water below him was streaked with blood as he tumbled into the shocking cold. But the blood did not belong to fish. It belonged instead to the nikka.
Carried along the current as pale and twisted as driftwood, their severed limbs were bleeding from torn and punctured flesh. But they were not dead. The hands twitched towards him as they floated by, and the heads rolled their black eyes at Boots and opened their tongueless mouths. Instead of their tuneless song they crooned his name above the rushing sound of the water.
“Boooootssssss….”
Boots felt a cold dread fill his heart. He scrambled out of the cold water back into the mud and looked for shelter. The bank seemed to go on forever, lengthening his terror. He saw that the mouths of the nikka were rimmed with blood, and he somehow knew that they had eaten the shark, and if they pulled him into the river, they would eat him too.
He managed to get his feet under himself and keep running. Burig and Bridda were lost to the dream, his pursuers were now the nikka slithering up the bank behind him and lurching along on mangled limbs. His heart beat like a drum. He wondered where Colin was, if the village was at risk. Flashes of the empty houses, trails of river water and bodies in the streets of Holding played through his head and he could not tell if they were memories or fears. His heart bounded against the taught panic in his chest.
The overbearing greyness persisted, washing everything in a bleak light. He felt the sky was leering closer, weighing him down, trapping him in.
Somehow, the ground beneath his feet had become the path to his home. He struggled up it with leaden feet, desperate to get inside. He crashed against the door, threw it open, and latched himself inside. He pressed his back and hands against the rough wood and looked around.
There was no fire lit.
Without any sunlight to filter through the windows, the inside of the house was as dark as dusk. The air was still and cool, it seemed to hang from the rafters, making it feel as close and overbearing as the world outside.
He knew he should check on his mother.
The curtains were drawn around her bed.
His throat was dry, and the air was earthy, almost like the underground storage dug into the earth that housed the mysterious aelph stone. Boots’ breaths were shaky, and impossibly loud in his ears as he took the few steps from the door to the curtain that hid his mother’s bed from view. He reached out a hand, slowly, so slowly.
A part of his mind screamed to stop, to turn and run, to drop his hand. But he was trapped in the moment. He felt as though there was a stone weighing down his chest. He could no more change the course of the dream than he could wake himself up.
But something else started to change the dream. His hand was still making the impossibly slow reach forward, the fabric of the curtain a breath from his fingertips, when he felt the ground beneath him begin to tremble.
It was a strange tremor that met the soles of his feet, then jiggled through the bones of his ankles and up his shins. The feeling shuddered up his body like a slow wave. Now it was at his knees, his thighs. The sound of his breathing had turned into a whooshing that was taking on the characteristics of a chorus of people yelling, but from far away. Boots broke out into a sweat as his arm, still straining forward, began to quiver from the bones outwards.
He could almost understand the yelling that was growing in his ears. It was full of pain, and warning and triumph. His teeth rattled together.
A hand fell on his shoulder and his heart climbed up his throat. His body went limp with terror and the fingers dug painfully into his shoulder as his legs tried to drop out from under him.
“Found you, boy.” A deep voice intoned.
The air became heavy, movement became strained and slow, as if moving through thick water. Boots turned his head and his eyes locked onto the hand that gripped his shoulder. He saw long, sharp fingernails on rough, thick-knuckled fingers, all of it grimed in dirt. The hem of a heavy dark cloak shrouded the wrist. Boots turned to try and see more of the figure, but a sword whistled downwards with a woosh of air across his face. Boots heart jumped as the blade severed the mysterious hand at the wrist.
Boots’ eyes traveled along the space where the arm was to try and glimpse who the hand had belonged to, but the body was already falling away in a billow of black cloth and shadows.
Heart thudding with fear and shock Boots looked instead for the face of the sword-wielder. The arms that held the sword and the body were clearly that of Burig, dressed in his neat, black and grey uniform. But as the disembodied hand dropped from Boots shoulder, he saw that the face of the swordsman was somehow that of his mother, set in a grim line that was as pale as death.
The effect was so disturbing that Boots woke up in his hammock with a jolt that sent him flailing to the ground. He landed in the rushes then scrambled to his feet. Aware that his shirt was wet and sticking to him. He looked over it, and at his hand, to make sure none of it was blood. With his mind still half in the dream, he had a strange feeling that it might be.
But it was just sweat.
He pushed his hands through his hair, which was also damp, and patted at the shoulder where he had felt that hand. He looked at the floor, half expecting to see it laying in the rushes.
He threw a log on the fire, grabbed the bag of shark’s teeth off the mantle then stumbled as an aural memory of the dream rang in his ears.
“Found you, boy.”
That voice, the timbre of it. The way it seemed to travel straight towards him from a great distance and clutch right for his heart, the way it seemed connected or tethered at the other end, as if he could turn and look in the direction it came from and follow it back to its owner far, far away.
He hurried to the back door, opened it a crack, flung the bag of teeth away, then closed and latched it. The dream left him jumpy, but he felt a little better getting that reminder of both the shark and the nikka out of his house.
Across the room his mother started coughing. The log he had thrown on the fire had caught and it painted a warm orange over the darkness. Emboldened by the comforting feeling the light brought, he went over to his mother’s bed, seized the curtain, and pulled it aside in defiance of his nightmare.
No voices or clutching hands came out of the darkness. Just his mother, pale, and coughing. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. When he pressed his palm to her face, he was relieved to feel that it was cooler to the touch. Her fever had broken.
With the firelight slowly filling the cottage and something to focus his mind, Boots was almost able to shake off the nightmare. But that voice, and the ghostly pressure of fingers digging into his shoulder, tripped him up from moment to moment. He thought, too, of the trembling through his body, from deep in the ground to deep in his bones. He felt strangely chased and caught.
He prepared something for his mother to drink as her cough worsened. He poured some into a cup for her, then added more dried sleepybells to the remaining mixture for himself. After he had coaxed his mother to drink and made her as comfortable as he could, he filled a cup for himself with his new, stronger brew. The sleepybells made the drink bitter, and he grimaced at the taste, but he finished it nonetheless.
His eyes had that permanent wideness that follows a nightmare, the kind of eyes that were ready to snap open and stare into the gloom at every sound.
Parts of the nightmare were fading, but not that voice. The tone of it was so clear, as though it had been spoken into his mind and left an imprint there, like a foot in soft earth, he thought the shape of that voice would be with him forever.
He shuddered as he finished the dregs of the drink he had made, mostly because of the taste, but not entirely.
He moved the fire around, helping it to die back down. He checked on his mother again, taking a moment to stare at her face and fix it in his mind to replace that strange hybrid of her and Burig he had seen in his dream. Then he went back to his hammock, making himself comfortable. He waited for the prickling numbness in his fingertips and toes that told him the sleepybells was having its desired effect.
In a counter to the trembling of the ground and his body in the nightmare, the tingling from the potion traveled gently up his arms and legs leaving nothing but stillness in its wake. It traveled straight into his brain where it opened itself wide and sucked up the images of nikka, blood, severed hands and disembodied voices. He slipped into the darkness that was left and slept.
Boots woke before it was fully morning with his cheek covered in drool and his head feeling as if it were full of sand. He eased out of his hammock, sifting off the remnants of the sleepybells potion as he got his feet under him. He foraged around the cottage for water and found some in a bowl. It tasted stale and a bit sandy; it must have been used to rinse some berries, but he drank it anyway to wash away the bitter aftertaste and dryness in his throat. It was possible he had overdone the sleepybells in the mixture, but he had slept soundly, so he could not regret it.
He stumbled over to check on his mother. She was asleep, and pale, and feverish again; but none of these were to an alarming degree. He dabbed at her forehead, face and neck with the cloth from the bowl of herbed water next to her bed and swiped on some more ointment to ease her breathing. Now that the fever had broken, he expected it would come and go for a few days but hoped the worst had passed.
That taken care of for the moment, he grabbed a bucket and went out the back door in search of water from the well. He promptly dropped the bucket, letting out a yelp, as he spotted a figure slumped against the side of the cottage.
“Luthi!” Boots exclaimed as his sleepy brain recognized the man resting against the cottage who opened his eyes as if from a restful slumber or peaceful daydream. “Rig’s balls! I mean good morning. What are you doing here?” Boots stumbled over his words as he fetched his bucket from the ground. “I mean, it’s nice to see you, you just startled me.”
In contrast to Boots rattled energy, Luthi was his usual calm self, as unflappable as an oak, or a stone on the hillside. The man wore his tattered vest and faded cap that had once been red. His face creased into a reassuring smile.
“Just checking on things,” Luthi said, as though it was not at all unusual for him to be resting there against the cottage so early in the morning. He held out an arm, fingers outstretched, as if reaching for something that only he could see. The way Luthi passed his hand through the air made Boots almost believe there were currents of gold running between the man’s fingers.
Luthi’s smile slipped a little. “Haven’t the same knack for it,” he muttered to himself. “But it seems in order. How is you mother?”
He asked the question at Boots, but his hand was still testing the air in that strange way. As Boots answered he watched Luthi press his hand against the dirt and close his eyes, eyebrows drawn together and forehead creased, as if he was somehow listening to the earth through his palm.
Boots rambled off an answer, watching Luthi with curiosity. “Um, she’s better this morning. Better than she was, I don’t know if you’ve heard or not that she isn’t well. Did you talk to Jayna?”
Luthi opened his eyes, slid them in Boots’ direction and nodded at the bucket. “Were you getting some water?”
“Oh, yeah,” Boots said, half forgetting what he was holding.
Luthi stood up and took the bucket from Boots. “Let me. You seem a little worn this morning. Get some food then come and sit.” Luthi squinted around them, taking in the yard and the first rays of the sun peering through the trees. The corners of his eyes creasing in amusement. “The air is fresh with wonders today; it clears the mind.”
Seeing no reason to disagree, Boots took a moment to relieve himself and splash water on his face from the rain barrel. Then went back in the cottage and took some food from the bag Jayna had left and a pair of cups. When he came outside Luthi had returned with the water and was sprinkling something in and chanting softly under his breath. Then he faced the sun and closed his hands together in a prayer to the morning.
Boots approached and offered Luthi some food and the cup. Luthi thanked Boots and – to Boots secret relief – took only the cup. He really wanted that food to last as long as possible.
“This water has been blessed by the dawn,” Luthi explained, dipping each cup into the bowl to scoop up some water. “It will bring the freshness of the sun’s rays to your day.”
There was nothing pressing in Luthi’s tone, but Boots felt compelled to mutter a short blessing to the morning as he accepted the cup from Luthi. Although Boots almost never bothered with daily rituals, in his half-hearted reciting of the blessing, he felt more settled and connected to the ritual than he had expected to. Boots took a sip of the prepared water and felt the freshness wash over his tongue and the meaning of the words fall into place. He swallowed and he felt a sort of peace deep inside of himself.
He looked over at Luthi, who smiled as if he understood even though nothing had been said. Boots smiled too. There was something about Luthi that made you feel at ease, that made you feel you did not have to hide from him or from yourself.
The old vidari nodded, and they sat in comfortable silence while Boots ate some breakfast and drank his water. His mind easy and free for the moment as he enjoyed the morning sounds and filled his belly. Beside him Luthi stretched out a hand and, again, brought it to the ground. Boots threw some crumbs out to the delight of some small, hopping birds and looked over at Luthi.
Boots was working out a question about what he was doing when Luthi raised one of his own.
“I saw a target that took a recent battering on my way to the well,” he said. One eyebrow raised high, creasing his forehead.
The eyebrow stayed raised, a clear question mark on the statement. Boots ducked his head, abashed at being caught out, but encouraged by Luthi’s patient waiting.
“I’ve…I’ve been practicing. Only a little it -” He stopped and absently ran his left hand over the scars on his right hand as he stared across at the birds swooping down to peck out the remnants of crumbs. “I miss it. And it isn’t even really going well but,” he held out his hands in a sort of shrug, “but I just can’t stop. It still wants to be part of who I am, even if I’m not very good at it anymore.”
Luthi nodded, seeming to understand all the unspoken parts of Boots’ answer. How even though there was little progress with his bow, he somehow was not discouraged. Possibly because he no longer looked at it as a difficulty to overcome, but as a retreat from the new difficulties in his life.
It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t going well. But compared to all the other problems that seemed to be crowding around him this was something simple, something he understood. The routine of setting up, the familiarity of the pieces involved, the living stillness of the woods around him, it ordered his mind. And as he shifted a shoulder or elbow to adjust his aim, all his other concerns faded away to nothing. There was only the target in the distance, and the tension of the drawn string humming against his fingertips.
Luthi poured himself another cup of water and began to speak in that gentle lull of a practiced storyteller. In a way that blended into Boots’ thoughts without pushing them away.
“There was once a man,” Luthi said, eyes fixed on the distance, “who was a baker. This was long ago, after the time when the gods walked the earth, but before the time that much of the magic had gone. There were many wizards and witches then, in constant battles for power. But this story is about a baker who lived in the King’s City of Alfwoldom, when it was known by its old name, and this baker was the most excellent of bakers. He made loaves of bread in every size, shape and colour, he made towering sweet cakes, miniature pastries, biscuits and all sorts of wonderful savouries and sweets baked into the perfect roll. It was said there was not an ingredient you could bring him that he could not make delicious with dough.”
As Boots listened, he stared into the trees beyond, watching the slow rise of the sun spill colour through the mist that drifted between the trunks. He could almost picture the baker, a small, neat man, working calmly between heaps of strange ingredients and clouds of delicious smells by the warm glow of his ovens.
“Now it happened that the city was under the protection, or perhaps control, of a powerful sorceress. It had many riches, many skilled people, and many arcane and magical artifacts. This brought the city much prosperity and filled it with wonders, but it also made it the envy of many other powerful magicians who wanted its riches for themselves. The magical protections and brave soldiers of the city did well to repel any attacks for many years, but nothing endures forever.
“Eventually the city caught the eye of a powerful wizard. Rather than fight outright, he harried the walls with small attacks, and placed the city under-siege, allowing people to leave, but no resources to go in. Peppered by attacks and slowly drained of resources, the city weakened, and many of the nobles fled the city with their wealth. They called to the baker to leave with them.
“‘Come,’ they said. ‘You can no longer make your rarest cakes and pies, we are without any of the exotic ingredients that made you famous. Come with us, we will pay you handsomely and give you all the ingredients you desire.’ But the baker shrugged them off. And when he ran out of strange and wondrous ingredients he baked with dried fruits and nuts from his stores. The smells from his ovens brought a measure of comfort to those who remained, and they were grateful for his services.
“The siege wore on, and the city suffered, and the tradesmen fled to find safer and more prosperous places for their skills.
“‘Come with us,’ they said. ‘Your fame proceeds you, and you will surely find a place in some great court with the rest of us.’ But the baker shook his head. For although many were leaving, there were still many hungry mouths in the city, and he worked hard to feed them all. As the buildings crumbled around him, he worked tirelessly. Making bread from the simplest ingredients, and when he ran out, he ground what grains he could gather and made plain flatbreads that he handed out in piles to the children who ran to the shop as soon as the smell of baking drifted down the abandoned streets.”
Now Boots pictured the baker’s shop as grey and worn, most of the ovens gone cold, the streets outside crumbling and littered with debris. He imagined bland piles of various grains in baskets and the baker grinding them to flour in a stained apron, a cloth tied around his forehead to keep the sweat from falling into the mixture.
“Eventually, it became apparent that the city was falling into the hands of the wizard, who was now attacking the city outright. The baker tied a few belongings into an apron and fled with the remaining citizens as the city was ravaged by magic. Fires burned for days, and the sounds of buildings crashing to the ground shook the trees while the sorceress and the wizard clashed.”
Here Luthi had another sip, and his tone changed, more teacher than storyteller for a moment, before slipping back into his tellers’ cadence.
“Now, there is a strange thing about wizards and witches and kings and those of their like. They want just to have, because they never seem satisfied. And what they want is to own, to get power. But like spoiled children fighting over a toy, they often break what they cannot share. So, when the city was destroyed in the battle, no one wanted it. Not the sorceress who had lived there, and not the wizard that had attacked it. All that was left were piles of rubble, and smoke.
“The people did not know what to do, they wandered back over and past the ruined walls once the dust had settled and the smoke had cleared and stared blankly and hopelessly around themselves. The city was broken and smashed and splintered. There was little to recognize and, it seemed, less to salvage. But one man did know what to do.
“The bakery was completely destroyed, but he did not need the bakery to be a baker. It took some time for people to distinguish the weak smells of bread from the woodsmoke. But it called to them, and they followed. At the source of the smell they found the baker, crouched over a fire, cooking flat breads on a shield he had scoured clean with ashes and sand. As calm and composed as he’d ever been in his old kitchen.
“A few masons who remained began collecting bricks to build an oven. Woodcutters went out to find and stack wood, kitchen maids began to gather ingredients and supplies, children ran through the streets with purpose, each one with a mission to complete and a piece of warm bread in their bellies.
“Slowly, but steadily, the city rebuilt itself, they say, around that very oven that was built by survivors from the rubble of the ruined city.”
Boots let the story settle in his mind like the last of the morning mist sinking into the forest floor. “Is that true?” Boots asked, “about the city rebuilding around a baker’s oven?”
Luthi shrugged. “Perhaps. The name of the King’s City, Alfwoldom, comes from the old tongue meaning ‘hearth’ which could mean home, but could also mean a fireplace or an oven.”
The rest of the little birds had finished eating up the crumbs and singing their morning salute and had fluttered off to their day’s adventure. Boots watched the softly swaying branches of the trees with an amused grin on his face.
“I know that there are likely many lessons for me in the layers of your story,” Boots said. “But right now, all I can think of is that you can be a terrible wizard, or a mighty king, or a great sorceress; but at the end of the day the centre of the kingdom might be named for a baker who scraped flour out of the ashes.”
Luthi smiled too and shrugged. “That is still a lesson, maybe one of many. Or it’s just a nice story. Hard to tell.”
Boots slid his eyes in Luthi’s direction, but the man was drinking his water with the same calm thoughtfulness he always possessed. Boots wondered, not for the first time, how old the man really was. Luthi’s hair was an ivory yellow where it peeked out from his floppy hat, his skin was brown and seamed at the corners of his eyes and mouth, but his cheeks were strangely smooth. His forehead only wrinkled in thought, or query, or amusement. And all of these things could be simply age or could be from endless days and nights spent in the wind and sun, squinting through the elements to find whatever hidden truths he sought.
Luthi’s life, Boots thought, is fulfilled by whatever it is he does with his days, like the baker’s life was fulfilled by simply baking. There was a tickling at the edges of his mind that signalled maybe some lessons were fluttering in the layers of the story, but Luthi interrupted those thoughts.
“You still have that piece of yew aging up?” Luthi asked.
“I do,” Boots said, a little surprised that Luthi remembered. But maybe not so surprising; to Luthi a significant tree or a piece of wood was as good as a family member or a pet.
“Might be something we can do with that to suit your hand better. When it’s ready to shape you let me know.”
Boots’ mouth opened, then closed, unsure of how to best respond. When Luthi worked on a piece of wood it did not look so much carved as it seemed to have been coaxed from the tree and dropped from the branches like fruit. Every new dwelling in Holding had a piece selected and shaped by Luthi, it was considered lucky to do so. And when you roamed the woods closer to his moss-covered home you passed trees and shrubs growing in intricate lattices and archways that had been gently shaped over the course of decades. If anyone could help Boots shape a bow that would fit his maimed hand it was Luthi.
“I, that would, I certainly will,” Boots stammered. “Thank you.”
Luthi nodded, and Boots tried to keep the silly grin off of his face at the prospect of what an incredible bow he may be able to create with Luthi to guide him; not to mention what wood-working secrets he might glean from the man. This reminded Boots that there was something more pressing that needed the vidari’s expertise.
“How is the mill?” Boots asked. “I haven’t been able to see it since, well since the flood. Is it going to be hard to fix?”
Luthi sighed deeply, but it was a thoughtful sigh. “It’s bad, but it could be much worse. I’ve been going to look over the pieces that are still whole to see if they are, in fact, still whole, making sure that there are not any hidden cracks or weaknesses in the grain from the strain and twisting of the floods. Some large pieces will need to be remade, and it will take time, but I believe it can be fixed in time to finish the harvest.”
“Good, good.” Boots said.
He thought once more of the heaved-up mess of splintered wood and tangled branches that he had seen the day of the storm. It seemed a miracle that anything could be salvaged. He thought, again, of the wishing fish and mercy, and of the blessing of thanks he had murmured over the water Luthi had given him to drink and admitted to himself that there were, in fact, things to be thankful for.
“Speaking of the mill, I am expected there later today and should be on my way,” Luthi said, standing and dusting himself off.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take this roll with you?” Boots asked. The water, the story, the bow, all these things Luthi had to offer, Boots could certainly spare a piece of bread.
“No, but thank you,” Luthi said. “I admit I sampled from your mother’s garden this morning when I arrived. I feel it would be unfair to take anymore.”
Luthi had his arm outstretched again, fingers testing the air.
“How long were you out here before I woke up?” Boots asked.
Luthi shrugged, as inscrutable as Meranin but more mischievous, and dropped his arm. “I’ll be around, Boots. Take care and send word if you need help.”
And off he went.
While Boots tidied up the breakfast things his eyes kept straying to where Luthi had been sitting. The woodsman tended to wander as he pleased, it was true. But sitting outside someone’s cottage in the early morning was a bit stranger than the usual. It certainly had not happened before.
Putting down his things, Boots walked over and sat where Luthi had been resting and looked out towards the forest. Nothing unusual, just the garden and the trees beyond. Boots stood and looked in the same direction. Again, there did not seem to be anything in particular for Luthi to be looking at.
Then Boots reached out an arm to the place where he had imagined Luthi’s fingers running through a golden stream in the air. Teasing his fingers through the air, Boots copied the gesture. He crouched and tried pressing a palm to the ground, then stood up and lifted his arm again.
Nothing happened. Just the warm air against his skin.
What had Luthi said, that he was checking on things, something about not having the same knack for it. Same knack for it as who?
But as Boots dropped his arm, he thought he already knew the answer. As much as he told himself that his mother was just very good with herbs and reading signs in nature, he often suspected there was something more. And that this “something more” was probably the reason she kept herself and her past tucked away in this cottage. Sometimes, he wondered if it was also part of the reason he had never known his father.
He looked around one last time, then drained the rest of the water, once more enjoying the briskness over his tongue that cleared his head. He took a long look at the yard, the quiet trees and the golden sunlight pouring into the garden. He saw memories from his entire life filling the space. Helping his mother plant seeds, he and Colin playing hide and seek between the stalks, exploring the woods beyond, catching his first fish in the creek, shoveling snow off the roof in winter and jumping into the sifting piles of cold, the taste of honey fresh from the comb, the riot of colours in autumn, Tale and Colin coming over to help him build his first target and the warmth of the cottage he called home.
All these memories filled up the space and spilled out from the small clearing to rush towards Holding where more memories waited. The taste of Bessie’s special brew, Albo’s anvil ringing through the streets, Tafner’s laugh and Siggu’s worried smile, the bustle of festivals and markets and Fauna’s blushing cheek. He did not have a father. He did not have much. But he belonged here, in Holding, he had that, and his mother had given it to him by making this their home.
No, he did not know what might be on the other side of his mother’s secrets, what was in her past. But if pushing for the truth meant he toppled all this to the ground – he turned back to the cottage – he wasn’t sure it was worth it.
Boots Chapter 14
As Boots had listened to Luthi’s story, the light from the rising sun had pierced through the trees and was now cresting the tops. He could tell by the how the rays arrowed sharply across the garden and fields that it was going to be another …
Boots Chapter 15
In the days following the storm, the weather had gone from hot and humid to hot and dry, and though the air was not as unbearably close, the sun remained unbearably bright. As the soggy ground dried up and plants began to mend there was …
Eldrunn and Loki: making a mark
Cycles of Life – Suspicion – Golden Apples – A Golden Ring – Ravens – The Place of Black Stone – Cycles of Death
Gods help her, she was enjoying herself. It was going to end badly, but out on the balcony she could ignore that. The crisp night air, the black sky spangled with an infinity of diamond stars, the open hall behind her lit with dancing orange flames and laughter and music and twinkling jewels; it was like a beautiful dream. She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to still the tremble of fear that threatened shake her joy to pieces.
Maybe this time it will be different. Or maybe this time it is a dream and I can just enjoy it. Maybe this time.
She heard before she saw.
The same instincts honed by countless nights like this one, the same ones that told her this was certainly not a dream – at least one she did not know how to wake from – those instincts taught her to sense the shift in the room. To feel the thread pull taught before the snare tightened, to sense the tensing of the air before the trap snapped shut.
Cries of alarm, shouts of outrage, weapons being drawn, shots being fired, instruments grinding to a halt. Turning around she watched the room swiftly flying into chaos, large hats and sparkling hair amidst tumbling candelabras and the unmistakable profile of large, flat spear heads.
She took a few steps forward, strangely unshaken in the sea of confusion, and picked him out of the crowd. Of course, he was heading away from the danger, not the least bit interested in who or why, just in the how to get away. Or, she amended as she saw him scanning the crowds, he was looking for her. Which meant he was not watching his own back.
She opened her mouth to warn him, regardless of the futility, the urge was strong. But it was too late, the large curved spears were on either side of him, hands grabbing hold of his arms just as his eyes found hers.
His brow creased in confusion, and she wondered what expression her own face wore as she looked back at him. What does devastated inevitability and heartbreak look like in a ballgown? She wondered.
Then he was gone, being pulled away. Somewhere in the distance there was the shout of a loud, deep voice like thunder. The skies above her answered with a sharp crackle of ozone.
That would be his nephew, she thought, taking a few steps further back until she was leaning against the railing. She clutched the smooth stone of the carved railing behind her back. He was at the doorway now, struggling to get away. Thor was bowling through the crowd, yelling after him.
“Get to her!” he called at Thor, “Forget me, find her!”
His nephew whirled around now looking for her and she felt her heart climb in her throat. This is where things could sometimes get complicated. Get drawn out and more painful. This is how hope happened.
She could not afford hope.
“I’m sorry, Loki,” she murmured.
He managed to wrench free enough to turn at that point, almost as if he heard her, and he saw her one last time before he was forced out the door. Thor, his nephew, was barreling through the crowd towards her. There was only one way to end this quickly, at least for her. She never knew what happened to everyone else once she had gone.
Leaning back she toppled off the balcony, falling downwards in a rush of wind. She tumbled through the air, catching a final glimpse of that endless black and silver sky before everything went dark.
Eldrunn opened her eyes. She was in a garden, an orchard actually. A soft wind blew and a scattering of petals rained around her and tumbled through the green grass beneath her feet. One touched her cheek and she jumped, the rocks she had crashed into being the last thing she remembered feeling.
That was quick. She thought.
Sometimes there was what she had come to think of as an “in-between” a sort of grey, floating time that was a formless but blessed respite from the endlessly turning wheel she seemed to be strapped to. Sometimes she would think of it that way, and the image would call to mind myths, legends, and stories from her past. Thoughts about eternal punishments with impossible tasks would crowd into her mind and she would wonder what great crime she had committed to deserve this fate.
But not this time. This time she could still imagine the wind stinging her eyes with tears as she fell to her death, feel the excruciating pain of her limbs mangled on impact, could still taste the blood welling on her tongue even as her heart slowed to a stop.
Could still see his face before he was pulled through the doors.
She wondered how he died this time.
She closed her eyes.
Please let it be a long time before I see him. I need some time.
There was no knowing. Sometimes she encountered him before she was even ten steps into a new life cycle, other times she would wait a handful of days before catching sight of him – or he would catch sight of her. That always happened when she tried to avoid him, when she could not bring herself to set the wheel in motion again. He would find her by some odd turn of events, or something about her would draw his attention and bring that curious, sarcastic face before her.
She pressed a hand against the trunk of a tree to feel the reassuring solidity of the bark against her palm. She closed her eyes and breathed the scent of the blossoms and listened to the rustle of the leaves as another breeze blew through. She opened her eyes and caught a petal on its descent, rubbing the velvety smoothness between her fingers before releasing it back to the breeze.
She looked at the tree and wondered, again, about her own strange life. Perhaps it was like this tree. At one point she had a trunk, something stable and singular, something that she grew up as. But then, somehow, she had branched out in so many different directions. Twisting, winding, finding smaller paths to twigs and leaves, but never being able to break free, to begin anew. Living out these terminal lives with any chance at peace or happiness scattered like the petals in the grass. Everything beautiful crushed underfoot.
The philosophies of all the religions she had studied turned in her mind like a kaleidoscope. She had not been idle throughout her lives. Every chance she had to learn, to add some new knowledge, she would take. If this was a punishment, she would find a path to forgiveness, if it was a curse she would find a spell to break it, and if it was something else altogether, she would discover what it was, call it by its name, and find out how to denounce it.
She made her way between the trunks, formulating a new plan. She went through what she had already tried and tested it against what she had learned. There were some new things she wanted to try, she prepared the spells in her mind and fit them to her own small magics. The concept was simple, actually, but finding a way to do it without having the materials always on hand was a challenge. She was not so good at conjuring on will alone, but she had been practicing. She was always practicing something.
She supposed her attitude of always trying was admirable, but she also knew there was no alternative. She could not give up; it was not allowed. Death was inevitable, and followed by a whole new life that would also lead to her death, or his. It was really just a question of how much pain there would be along the way. She supposed some people may have been driven mad at this point. Unless it has already happened, unless this is a result of my mind already broken.
It was a possibility, to be certain, but one she simply did not accept. Whatever else was happening, she felt that her mind was, ultimately, well.
Ah, there he is. So soon.
She came to a stop at the sight of a man crouched behind some trees. His back was to her, but the shape of him was unmistakable. He was long, and lean and moved with such a strange, angular grace. Whenever they fought each other she – well she rather enjoyed it actually. He was deadly and made for a great opponent. Except when he was the one that killed her, as sometimes happened, that was much less enjoyable.
He still had not heard her. Maybe I just melt back into the trees. She thought. Maybe I just stay away for a few more days, a few more moments.
She hesitated too long, eventually he sensed her eyes on his back and turned. She could not keep the amused smile from curving her lips at the sardonic look he gave her. She was sure it was meant to send her scurrying away. His dark red hair was shorn rather short, and his beard shaven. It made the light green of his eyes stand out in his pale face.
“What are you doing?” she asked in an overly conspiratorial whisper.
“I am watching something. What are you doing?” he asked in his annoyed voice.
“I am also watching something,” she said, then offered an unnecessary, “it’s you.”
“Clearly.”
But instead of sounding more annoyed, there was a trace of interest in his voice and in his eyes. She swallowed. This was going to be a difficult one. She looked quickly away.
Almost as bad as when his nephew tried to help was when he became suspicious right away, determined to uncover “the truth” about her. Almost like that life was trying to teach her a lesson, warning her away from letting him in on the secret of trying to get off the turning wheel.
She peered through the trees, trying to spot what he was looking at.
“Ah, I see. The Golden Apples,” she said, catching sight of three proud trees in the centre of the orchard. The trees’ leaves were glossy green, so thick they barely turned in the breeze that set all the other trees a-flutter. Gleaming from between the leaves were fat, golden apples. As impossibly perfect as they were golden. Sitting beneath the trees was a woman with a long, fair plait over one shoulder. Idunn. Keeper of the apples. She was weaving a tapestry of some kind. When the breeze died down Eldrunn caught snippets of a melody that she was humming to herself.
Eldrunn crouched down near Loki. Trying not to breathe in his scent too deeply. Wild thyme and smoke. It was strange that he continued to have this effect on her. She wondered if it was part of the enchantment or curse that she was under. But she thought there was something more. There was a connection between them, a connection that existed before this looping madness of heartbreak and death, a connection that somehow persisted in spite of it. She had memories of a life with him, moments that she was certain were from a time before, a time before her life was an endless journey of dead ends.
And those memories gave her hope. That if there had been something before all this, there could be something after it, if she could only break free. I want to know what this is between us, I feel like it belongs to me and I want it for myself.
He looked her way.
“I’m sorry, but why are you here?” he asked.
“I thought I’d just take a walk through the trees,” she said, a smile curving her lips.
“Yes, but you aren’t from around here. I mean, I barely get this far into these woods without being seen and I’m -” he stopped abruptly and dropped lower to the ground. Eldrunn saw that another figure was moving through the trees before she was yanked lower to the ground by her sleeve.
“Well, I think it may be time for us to go. I am not a prude, but there are things I simply do not need to hear or see,” he said.
“Is that her lover?” Eldrunn asked.
She watched his smile match her own amused grin as a few giggles floated up from the golden apple trees.
“Most certainly,” he replied. “Now I just need to decide if I should bring you out of here with me or leave you here to find your own way out. Although I wonder if your way out is better than mine. You still haven’t said how you got in here.”
“Who’s there?” A voice called up towards them.
“Decision made,” he said, grabbing ahold of her hand.
A familiar tingle rushed through her body, and her vision wavered a pale green. The colour of his magic. Then she was on her feet, at the edge of the orchard. She stumbled a few steps, but he still held her hand and she was able to steady herself on his arm. Then they were running down the winding valley to put a gentle hill between themselves and the orchard. Eldrunn searched her memory for the shape of the land she knew had once been her home.
“This way,” she said, tugging him upwards to where the green hills would give way to rocky cliffs.
But he was immovable. He dropped her hand and crossed his arms across his chest, an amused look on his face.
“I don’t think so.”
“What, don’t you trust me?” she said, putting on her most disarming smile. He returned the smile, in spite of himself, and it went right to his eyes. He was a fantastic flirt. At least that was fun.
“No, I don’t. I don’t even know your name.”
“Eldrunn,” she said.
For a while she had made up different names, but had given that up rather quickly. She would sometimes forget what she was calling herself. And she had decided that she would have him say her name as many times as she could. That was a small pleasure that she could take freely.
“Well, Eldrunn,” he said, drawing out the “l” in a way only he did, when he was thinking about the parts of her name and its meaning, “it is interesting to meet you.”
“Not a pleasure?”
“Remains to be seen.”
She shrugged.
“You can at least tell me your name,” she said.
He shook his head. “I think you already know it. And now I’m wondering why you are pretending that you don’t.”
She felt her face freeze and pressed a smile back onto it. It was to be that kind of Loki. the one that knew something, but not quite what. There was a line between curious and suspicious, and if this Loki crossed it, she was going to have to act quickly.
“Very well, Loki. I suppose I can’t be too disappointed if the god of mischief can see through my own little deceptions.” She said it with a mock bow and a little flourish of her hand.
He dropped his crossed arms, the smile returned. He rocked back on his heels and tipped his chin down, ever so slightly, in the way that meant he was weighing his options. Usually, it meant he was going for the unwise choice. She took a few steps away from him, and when he didn’t stop her she turned and continued up the hill.
She glanced over her shoulder when she was halfway up and saw that he was gone. Then she turned and ran straight into his chest.
“Loki!” She said irritably and gave him a gentle shove away and he caught her wrists. She tilted her chin up and he was peering down at her. Still curious, but deepening towards something else. Concern, maybe.
In her surprise she had reacted with too much familiarity, she knew he could move that swiftly, that he could move from one place to the next in a blink, and it was annoying. She had dropped her coy and flirtatious act, someone who had just met him would not have reacted the way she just did. She was irritated instead of awed.
“Eldrunn.” He said her name again and she tried to keep her heart from racing out of her chest. “Do I know you?”
“No. Not that I can think of.” Unlike her deception in the apple orchard, lying about this was something she knew how to do. She snapped her mind back to the task. “Why, do you think you know me?”
She had been here before, it was easy to keep the hurt from her eyes, and the hurt when he responded, “Not in any way that I can recall.”
“Disappointed?” she asked.
“That I don’t know you?” he asked, bemused.
“That you don’t know if you do. And that I might be lying about it,” she said, twisting away from him and heading up the hill again in a flounce.
This time, he followed.
And before long he was filling the silence with his wild guesses at who she might be and when they may have crossed paths. It was as much about filling the silence as it was about guessing, she knew. And she was happy to hear the easy roll of his voice, enjoy the clever crafting of his telling and to laugh. It wasn’t often she had this much time alone with him, with no immediate threat or distractions. It was a pity she was not going to be able to enjoy it much longer.
“…and after that,” he was saying as she slowed her steps, “the poor man slept with a chicken on a leash tied to his wrist because he truly thought it would become a monster on the full moon and wreak havoc on the surrounding villages.”
“But won’t the chicken eventually die?” she asked between the laughter.
“Oh, most certainly. That’s why I make a journey to replace it every now and then.”
Another laugh bubbled out of her. “So, this poor farmer thinks he has an immortal were-chicken capable of going on a murderous rampage?”
“Yes, I suppose he does.”
They had paused, as she had intended, at a point where the path veered close to the cliffs. Some sharp rocks jutted up from the ground and she wandered towards them so she could lean against the sun-warmed stone and enjoy the cold smell of the ocean that crashed against the bottom of the cliff.
“Loki, god of mischief. I wonder that you are able to get into any trouble around here, what with your important duties of replacing chickens,” she teased.
“Ah, well, I actually have a system.”
“Do you now?”
He was enjoying her amusement, she could tell.
“Yes, it’s very efficient. I start with the chicken, then I take the old chicken and – I’m sorry to say – give it to the wolf in the woods nearby so that he’ll tell me tales of what the trees whisper in those parts. Because that wood, like all woods, is a sister of the world tree and less discreet with family secrets. Then I terrorize the sleep and dreams of everyone in a nearby village, I rotate through them to make it fair, and that gives me quite a bit to work with in terms of fear and fealty-”
“What does that mean?” she cut in, already knowing the answer, but realizing it was the kind of question to be expected if she did not know him. And it never hurt to check, maybe there would be something she could use.
“I will always be a god, more hated and feared than loved,” he said leaning against one of the other large rocks, “but it’s the thought that counts. Stirring up an entire village, whispering my name in their ears, it gives me a boost, a little extra power, some magic to burn.”
“And what do you burn it on,” she asked.
His smile went from open to shuttered and his eyes filled with warning.
“Nothing. Yet.”
Her stomach churned like the waves, and sensing he had unsettled her as intended, he turned to look out over the water. She had to turn the conversation in a direction that would get her closer to him. She paid little attention to the outfits she showed up in, they were always some generic garb from wherever and whenever she landed. Occasionally, there was something useful in a pocket or pack. This time was not one of those times. She needed something that he would likely be carrying. She eyed the line of his shirt as it rippled against his chest and stomach in the wind and thought she saw the outline of a hilt hidden there.
Between the sound of the wind and the waves, he had to speak loudly or move closer if he wanted to continue their conversation. He chose the latter.
“Why weren’t you surprised when I appeared in front of you?” he said, stepping away from his rock to look at her. She cursed inwardly and kept her face neutral.
“Just now, on the hill. You were startled, but you recovered so quickly. You weren’t surprised, not really. And the way you said my name…” He shook his head, as if warning off a lie in response “…almost as though you had said it like that before. Like someone who knows me.”
The wind picked up strands of her hair and swirled them around her face. He was too far back; she would never move fast enough to do what she needed. And he was catching on quickly that something was amiss.
Sometimes she wondered if she was moving through time and was sometimes encountering an older and more experienced Loki, or one who had just been badly burned in one of his own ploys and so was more suspicious than usual. Or, perhaps, a Loki that had succeeded at something very cunning and was living free and loose. Sometimes he was so careless and other times so canny. Or, perhaps, it was his mercurial nature and he simply flipped between moods from one day to the next. One thing she rarely had the benefit of was an extended time with him. Once he appeared, the invisible clock began to tick.
“Even now,” he said, taking a step towards her, “I can see how you are watching me. Not even my brother, with his one eye and his blood flowing in my veins, tries to read me this carefully.”
She had to get him to come closer before things got rolling. Before they started showing up. Before it all became red pain and darkness. She held a hand up.
“Please, don’t come any closer. It’s…it’s hard to explain. But they’re coming.”
He raised his eyebrows and was, momentarily, at a loss for words. Then he answered almost to himself as he reasoned, “Well, that is something, isn’t it? Telling me to stay away is almost daring me to come closer which, I think you may know, is an almost certain way to get me to do something. And since I probably should not trust you, then you are probably saying that just to get me to move closer.” He stopped and a delighted smile lit his face, “this is fantastic!”
“Fantastic.” she repeated the word breathlessly. Of course, he would think that.
She felt lightheaded then, a stream of panicked thoughts causing her to step back and lean against the rock. Her hands met the jagged rock the same way they had met the smooth stone of the railing not even a day before. The two days started to blur together – what had happened merging with what was going to happen. In her mind she was tumbling over the edge again and crashing into the ground below, even as she imagined his body plummeting over the cliff to be dashed against the rocks. It would kill him if she did it properly. She had learned a lot in her time on this turning wheel.
She closed her eyes to hide her thoughts and calmed the buzzing in her ears; she felt the numbness fade from her fingers. She needed all her wits about her.
When she opened her eyes, he was right there. Watching her so closely with narrowed eyes. Concerned, but not necessarily for her, he was concerned about her. About what danger she might bring, or what trouble she was in.
“Eldrunn,” he was close enough that he did not have to yell, “who’s they, who do you think is coming?”
She dropped the coy façade, weighing him openly with her eyes. His brow furrowed in response, and he took in a sharp breath, but he did not look away.
“Why can’t I place your face,” he said, he looked genuinely troubled. And when Loki went serious, she was out of time.
“You can’t, you never do,” she said. “But I’m going to keep trying. I promise, I will keep trying. Give me your hand.”
Her urgency, her sudden pain laid bare, commanded him, and he was willing to see where this would lead, so he held out a hand, palm up.
“Why don’t you tell me whatever you can, before what you think is going to happen happens.”
“I need your dagger,” she responded.
He reset his shoulders and leaned a little closer to her in a way that would have been menacing if she didn’t know him so well. He was taking a leap of faith; he was steeling himself for the unknown. It was difficult for him to do, and he was going to regret it.
She slipped her fingers behind his outstretched hand and brushed her thumb across his palm. Her eyes traced the grooves and whorls of his skin, of this hand that had brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, pressed desperately against her bleeding wounds, traced the length of her spine along her back.
“It’s going to end badly,” she said in a hoarse voice, the words just slipped out. They had been clamouring in her head since he refused to follow her up the mountain.
His hand dropped a little and she tightened her grip. She looked up at him, she met those pale green eyes; they were the softest thing about him, such a perfect, gentle glow. The time was running short, she could feel the string ready to tense, the trap ready to snap shut. Understanding flashed in his eyes, he could always sense danger, and here it was holding his hand. But she was already in motion, and she had a little skill in magic of her own. She plunged her free hand across to grip the dagger hidden in his shirt.
“Stillness waits.” She encanted, feeling a trickle of power leave her and he was suddenly rooted on the spot. She slashed an L into the palm of his hand, seeing the muscles of his forearm ripple in response even though he could not pull away. Then she spat on top of the blood and rubbed it into the wound, unleashing the spell she had gathered in her mind into the motion. Intention mattered, she had to be focused.
She looked back up at him, the first spell was wearing off, she could feel it growing weak. She hoped he could see the regret she felt, how deeply she felt it. But he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking past her at something that was bewildering to him.
They were here, it was time.
She smeared her bloody thumb across his lips for good measure. Trying to ignore the frustration and anger burning in his eyes.
She pulled close to him, it shielded her from the wind for a moment and she felt so warm. She shuttered her feelings.
“You won’t die, not really.” She said into his ear. “Look at your hand Loki. Look at your hand.”
Then she pushed him off the cliff.
Loki startled awake with a cry. Then he looked around the room and shook the sleep off. It was a dream, a dream about…Even as he tried to remember, it all tumbled away.
His hand hurt.
He looked at his left hand and saw a slash of blood. Grabbing one of the sheets he wiped it away to see the damage. There was nothing there. The skin was unbroken.
He sniffed at his hand, something was unfamiliar about the blood. It was his own blood, that he knew for certain, but it had been altered in some way.
An orangish glow appeared above the bloody palm, and he used his other hand to spread the light on top.
“What are you?” He murmured.
Tilting his head from side to side he could see a faint shimmering line through the burnished light that went down the length of his palm then angled to the right, like a letter L.
He leaned back to look at it from different angles. Was this one of his own spells he had forgotten about? Perhaps some sort of reminder to do something? When was the last time he had replaced that farmer’s chicken?
A little more prodding showed him that there was nothing of immediate concern to do with his hand. It was strange but, as far as he could tell, benign. He stretched his arms up and looked out the window that led to his balcony. He had slept long past midday and he wondered if he should just eat and go right back to sleep again. He had recently expended quite a lot of magic, and it had left him tired out. But, if he was sleeping, how would he enjoy his endeavours?
That was all it took to get him out of bed. He was still fully clothed, having fallen immediately into bed upon his return. A quick smoothing over with his hands and some loose magic and he was good as new. His flaming hair in a neat queue and his clothing fresh and unwrinkled. He patted a pocket and took out a large, gold ring. Examining it with a satisfied smile he flicked it into the air, caught it with a snap and dropped it back into his pocket before going out the door.
He was barely ten steps from his chambers when a large, one-eyed raven came flying to the hall window with a harsh cawing. Loki sighed, ignored the raven and turned the corner, heading towards a hall that would not have windows. There was more cawing, and a different raven watched from a further sill. Loki slowed his steps and thought in grumbles about what to do next. He turned to the raven.
“Is it wrong to assume I am unwanted at the Hall? Meet me in the courtyard below so I can get on with my day.”
Loki took the spiraling staircase down to a small courtyard nearby. The plants were mostly maintained by magic, and the sun only passed over for a few short hours of the day, meaning the gravel paths beneath the broad-leaved plants were always cool and awash in green and gray shadows. Loki enjoyed the shady privacy of the place, it suited him, and he rarely crossed paths here with any of the other gods who typically sought out the more golden, sunny spaces. To match their golden sunny selves. He thought, with some bitterness and irritation.
But not my brother, not him. He knows the shadows. Loki thought, as he came upon the figure waiting for him. Otherwise, why would I mix his blood with mine?
Odin was standing in the centre of the garden, where all the paths met. He was large and imposing, his great beard braided with gold and his eyepatch adorned with silver. His cloak did not cover his form, but emphasized it, decorating his already-large shoulders with crow feathers so that his frame filled the path and blocked out other routes.
He should have been out of place, a large brute in this quiet sanctuary. But the trees and leaves seemed to brush the crow feathers adorning his cloak with affection, the flowers and shrubs rubbed against his shins like purring cats as he turned around. Somehow, Odin always knew how to fit in. It was a trick that Loki knew he could never manage – to be terrifying, but also, somehow, loved.
“And how are Hreidmar and his sons this morning?” Loki asked, conversationally.
“Unamused, as am I. We have heard from Andvari. He stormed into the hall last night in the midst of what was supposed to be a celebration of forgiveness and demanded his ring back.”
“What ring?” Loki asked, his lie absolute perfection.
But Odin’s face did not move a muscle from its suspicious set. Loki heard the sound of wings flapping and the sway of branches as two large ravens perched somewhere up above. He cursed inwardly. Had those two pestering birds seen anything to report? Was this just an empty threat from Odin, trying to get Loki to show his hand? And if Odin was already suspicious, when would he stop watching with his all-seeing gaze and all-seeing birds? What good was a ring that found gold if you were never able to seek?
“Loki, you killed Hreimdar’s son, and we need to repay the debt.”
“How was I supposed to know he was the damn otter?” Loki burst out. “And not a very good one, might I add. An otter, with the mind of a man, and he still got caught. Do you know the hours I have spent as a salmon, or a snake, or even a damn fly? And I manage not to get caught or eaten by anything else. Amateur,” he muttered.
Odin’s face still had not changed.
“It’s not like I did it on purpose, did I?” Loki finished.
And now he saw the slightest change in Odin’s face. The darkness, the shadows, the reason Odin was as good an ally as he was a foe – he always suspected the darkness in others. Loki read the look and did not have to pretend a minor bit of outrage.
“I really did not know it was him, Otr, son of Hreimdar – although had I known that was his name, maybe I would have thought twice before killing any otters. But would I have done it purposefully? And so sloppily too,” Loki said, making a distasteful face. “Had I wanted that shapeshifter dead I could have achieved it with infinitely more cunning. I think you know that.”
Odin’s chin dipped in thought. “Thor also believes that you did not know who Otr was,” he said, signaling his agreement.
“Well, thank you Thor,” Loki said, without enthusiasm.
“But my son is easily fooled, and especially won over by your unique brand of…enthusiastic problem solving.”
“Effective problem solving, I would say,” Loki interjected with a raised finger.
“Hmmm,” Odin said, which could be agreement or disapproval. “I suppose with all his strength he does need some weaknesses.”
And here, Loki detected the edge of humour in Odin’s tone and the slight twinkle in his eye.
Loki gave a wry smile of understanding. Thor, for all his bluster and strength, was not always the swiftest of thinkers – and altogether a little too gullible. And if Loki had taken advantage of this once or twice, it was not as though his nephew did not enjoy the resulting adventure more than the embarrassment of being fooled. And Loki had to admit, when his cunning was combined with Thor’s brute strength – well, it was almost as fun as it had been journeying with Odin, back when they had first become blood brothers, before the pull of the throne and the weight of the ravens on his shoulders held him here in the land of Asgard to rule and watch.
“Do you ever miss it?” Loki asked, watching Odin carefully. “Do you miss the days when we tore from place to place, howling like the west wind and stirring up adventure wherever we touched down? Do you miss the bite of frost and starlight on your cheeks, and the feel of your spear in your hands, or the hot sun on burning sands beneath your feet. Don’t you miss being away from here?” Loki asked, taunting. He had used a bit of magic in his question, and for a moment the small garden rustled with the edge of a cold wind, the distance sound of battle cries and sifting golden sands underfoot. Loki prowled a little closer to his brother. “Don’t you miss the adventure?”
Odin’s eye followed Loki, slightly annoyed. “I have plenty to occupy me here.”
Loki snorted. “Is that why you sneak out? Bent and shrunken in your tattered cloak, wandering the lands of men. Oh, I know about your little adventures. But you must know, they are nothing compared to what we could be doing, compared to what we have already done.”
Loki’s eyes glowed faintly green with the thought, with the promise.
“I would rather be here,” Odin stated.
“Yes, making fat babies with Frigg, which I admit, must be enjoyable, and settling disputes –”
“Of which you provide many,” Odin interjected. “Which is why I am here.”
“Not to reminisce then?” Loki asked.
“No, not today. Do you have the ring or not? Andvari is here, saying you took his gold to pay our blood price for the death of Otr. He says he refused to include the magic ring when you asked, and now his magic ring is missing.”
“Well, if he refused it, I can hardly say that I have it, can I? Seems he wouldn’t mind giving it though, Otr being a friend of his and all that. Besides, brother, what use have I for gold? And slaying a shapeshifter, to pay a blood price, to steal Andvari’s ring; do you really think that was all part of a scheme? Hardly. I didn’t even know about the ring until the moment he refused to hand it over.”
There was a flapping of wings and branch dipped under the weight of the raven moving closer. Odin looked at the raven, then at Loki’s pocket.
“The ring, Loki.” And now there was no hint of humour.
Damn birds. Loki’s jaw clenched and he considered his options. He could lie, he did not think Odin would fight him for the ring here and now. But then Odin would be watching, and waiting, and would take it from him eventually. And what Loki had said was true, what use did he have for gold? That was not why he had taken the ring. He had taken it because he wanted it, and Andvari had said he could not have it, and that was enough.
And because you never knew when these things would become useful.
Loki cursed again and fished the ring from his pocket, his mouth an angry slash. “We could have shared it. You and I. Endless wealth. A trick up our sleeves. A piece in a game that may later be played.”
“I’ve no time for games, now,” Odin said, holding out his hand. Loki scornfully tossed the ring at him. A raven darted forward and caught it neatly in his beak and deposited it in Odin’s outstretched hand. Odin’s fingers closed around the ring; Loki’s mouth thinned in annoyance.
“You used to be more fun, Odin. You used to have a sense of adventure, you used to know what it was to have power. What will Hreimdar and his remaining son do with it anyway, cover the pile of gold they have with more gold? Become rich and selfish until someone kills them out of jealousy and greed? These lesser beings do not know what it is to have power, not like you and I do.”
Odin turned away. Power. It was an old argument, usually one that would goad Odin to stay and argue. Not so today.
“And all of this gold will not bring back his son,” Loki threw at Odin’s departing back.
Then Odin stopped, his head bent down as if in thought. He did not turn around when he spoke.
“One day, Loki, perhaps you will have sons. And you will know what it is to say there is no price in this world too great to make up for their loss, or to bring them back.”
Something about the way he said it, the added gravity in his tone, sent a chill up Loki’s spine. He did not like to give Odin the final say, it meant that his brother might be right.
“I do have children,” Loki replied. “Fenrir, and Hel and even your own Sleipnir are my offspring.”
Odin shook his head. “Offspring, and only that. Creatures begat from trickery and magic that can fend for themselves and need no raising. You do not know, yet, what it is to be a father.”
Such a statement, made by the all-father himself, carried much weight, even though Loki did not want to admit it, and it furrowed his brow for the better part of the morning.
Not wanting to see the gods, or Hreimdar claim the golden ring with his greedy fingers, Loki made himself scarce. He donned a light disguise, the thinnest film of magic, and wandered into the villages of the humans below.
He did not like to admit that he had spent some time mulling over what Odin had said. Hel was his daughter, there was no doubt of that. But what did that even mean? Did he ever visit her in Nilfheim where the spirits of the dead drifted like grey leaves on a mournful wind? Of course not. Because he was alive, he did not have a path to that lower realm, and if he did, he would not take it because he had no wish to die. Hel had walked that path, because she was not a being like him, she had never been a baby or a child, in a way she had never been alive, and he suspected she could never die. She was born as Hel, always and eternal, in a place that was the same as she was. He had no claim on her.
He thought of Fenrir, that terrifying creature, that massive wolf with a hide of iron and teeth the height of a man. He had to admit feeling some pride, at first, when Fenrir was still in Asgard with them, when he was still a pup but had teeth the size of a man’s arm.
But then Loki had seen the wildness in Fenrir’s yellow eyes, had seen it before anyone else recognized the danger. Fenrir was feral, and vicious. Loki remembered the moment that Fenrir had snapped his teeth shut around Tyr’s wrist, severing the bones and swallowing the hand whole. He knew Fenrir was predator, and they were all possible prey. It rankled, somewhat, to know that his offspring could have such power and that Loki had no control over it. He had tried, a few times, to reach that thing he supposed was a son. To see if it could be of any use, if there was any bond to be forged. There had not been.
And then there was Jormungandr. Loki thought of the scales the size of his hand slithering along the depths of the cold, dark ocean. The sound of prophecies whispered along with each sinuous movement. He did not dwell on that thought for long.
He set himself, resolutely, to wandering. To strolling through the fields, the piles of hay and the villages. He was soon soothed by the mundaneness of the people around him, it was mind-boggling how content they were with their little lives. It amused him to no end.
He entered the market, enjoying the chaos and bustle, the cons and deals being struck. Bits of worship and magic lifted in whisps above the crowds and fanned his power every time his name was invoked as a curse or a plea.
He saw a woman there, she had a lean build, but not too lean. It wasn’t even her build that drew his eye, but the way she moved. Even, and measured, like she was always very aware of how her presence affected the space she was in. As he watched, she smoothly put out a hand to catch an apple as it rolled off the cart in front of her. She neatly let it roll down her arm and popped it back up onto the cart with a flick of her elbow. Then she kept moving, as if nothing had happened. He wondered what sort of life had given her that degree of awareness?
The palm of his left hand itched and he curled it into a lose fist. He thought of that thin glowing line. There was almost nothing to link the event to that woman, nothing at all. But Loki, as the god of mischief, was a great manufacturer of coincidence, which is why he knew coincidences should neither be dismissed nor trusted.
He snagged the very apple she had rescued off the cart as it went past and took a bite as he walked towards her. She held up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and looked up at him as he approached.
Her mouth quirked up at the side in greeting and he found that he rather liked when it did that, even though he was seeing it for the first time.
“What’s that in your hand?” she asked.
“A gift from a pretty lady,” he said, taking another bite.
“No, your other hand?” she asked.
He slowed his chewing and swallowed. He lifted his left hand and she reached out to brush her fingers over it. Something about the gesture was familiar, as if she had done it before, as if it meant something to her to do it again. But he did not know this woman.
Yet he did not pull his hand away.
His focus narrowed to a point as he tried to place her. Non-descript clothing, long hair, no magic that he could sense but she also seemed hidden from him in some way.
Her fingers traced the invisible shape of the glowing line he had seen on the palm of his hand, and she looked up at him with a question in her eyes.
In one swift move he pulled his hand away and dropped the apple, the fruit did not hit the ground before his dagger was drawn and pressed to her ribs.
“What have you tried to do to me?” he asked, ignoring the shocked cries of the people around him.
“It worked,” she said, disbelief on her face.
There were suddenly tears in her eyes and emotions were flitting across her face faster than he could read them. Happiness, disbelief, fear, cunning, her surprise was layered. But what damage had she wrought? Her face settled on realization, then determination.
“We’re going to get out of this,” she said to him.
And for some reason, he felt the hope in her eyes blossom somewhere inside of him. They were going to get out of this, whatever it was, and it was something that he wanted. Something that was going to make his life better. He blinked, trying to order his thoughts. Was that something he was truly feeling, or was this something that she was making him feel.
“Loki. Oh, gods I’m so sorry.”
She knew who he was, that was not surprising, but how his name sounded on her lips, that caught him off guard. It was familiar, and it pulled at something deep inside of him.
Then she leaned forward and kissed him hard on the lips. He was startled, but not disappointed. Until he felt a warm gush of blood flow over his fist where it clenched the dagger. What had she done?
He pulled back quickly, the dagger pulling out of the wound followed by a flush of blood. He caught her body as it fell backwards and laid it on the ground.
“What did you do?” he cried, “I need help, I need a healer!” he called.
He was balling up his vest and pressing it to the wound, knowing by the copious blood on the ground and over his arms that it was too late.
“What did you do?” he asked again, his hand leaving a smear of blood on her cheek as he pulled away and blood on his forehead as he racked a hand through his hair.
The crowd around him was growing noisy. I should leave, he thought, flee far from here lest I get blamed for her death. Even Thor will be angry, he values these silly humans.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned around with trepidation, but he did not see the hulking form of his nephew, but instead the greyish skin and heavy armour of some other race of beings. They held spears with long, wide points that curved ever so slightly.
“What is this?” Loki demanded, standing up and bringing his god-given superiority around him like a cloak.
“I think she’s already dead,” one of the soldiers said.
“Did he do it?”
“Looks like.”
“That’s twice in a row she gets out quick. Take him. Try and salvage her.”
“They won’t be happy. She’s going to have to learn her lesson.”
“What do you mean twice in a row?” Loki asked. He shook off the soldier’s hand but another clamped down even heavier. Then something cold pierced through the skin between his shoulders and he cried out in pain. He felt his power and strength draining out of him through the wound. Then, in a flicker, they were gone from the street.
He fell hard on his knees onto a stone floor.
Bent from the cold pain below his neck, there was no magic that he could touch.
He gasped with the rawness the loss of power left him with.
He tried to get to his feet but realized that his hands were bound by a chain embedded into the stone floor.
He grasped the chain and pulled with all his might. Even without his full power he was still formidable, but the chain did not budge before the cold pain in his back exploded and stars and danced before his eyes as he collapsed on the floor.
He groaned and opened his eyes.
Was that a tooth in the dirt and stone? Maybe he could use that. Wait, did he recognize that tooth? He was distracted by a groan.
A face swam into focus beyond the tooth, someone else was lying in here with him.
She was lying in here with him.
Her eyes were drifting open and shut. Her eyes were dark blue, like the midnight sky scattered with stars.
He said, “Eldrunn,” and her eyes opened to focus on him. Then they went unfocused and bleary again.
“I was dead,” she croaked out.
“Well, don’t let it get you down,” he said with his usual irritation, “I have a feeling that’s probably going to come around again.”
She was trying to get up but only managed to roll over.
A voice filled the chamber, it had a strange, coruscated property to it, as if amplified and disguised by science or magic: “You have tried to escape the process, let the process begin.”
Her eyes snapped open; her face was desperate as she tried to focus on him trying to convey something. Blood continued to pool beneath her, but he was finding it difficult to muster any pity for her.
“I suggest you start with her,” he said to the voice. “She seems more ready to be processed. I’ll wager she couldn’t wait to get here for some processing,” he said with mock joviality as he shuffled closer to her on his knees to bend over and peer at her face.
He was angry at this woman he had only just met, but he also felt a thread of concern for her well-being. He chided himself for turning as soft as his adopted siblings and family when it came to lesser beings. But as he studied her face that thread of concern turned into a snarl that snagged in his memories.
“How did you know my name?” she asked in a whisper, “I never told you.”
“You must have,” he said, checking her bonds to see if they were any looser than his own. They were not.
She was on the verge of death. He didn’t want to be here alone, but he also thought it might be easier to save himself if she died now. Less complicated.
“I keep trying,” she gasped out. “You never remember me. We can’t ever escape.”
His mind started racing, he thought of the glowing L shape on his hand. His first thought had been L for Loki, but it could have been the start of an E for Eldrunn. The way her half smile had pulled at his heart, that kiss right before she had foolishly –or intentionally- impaled herself on his drawn dagger. The fleeting familiarity in this sudden confusion. It was a maddening puzzle; one he would have enjoyed turning about over a glass of fine mead.
But here, with pain gnawing through him, a woman dying at his knees and an unknown enemy in the stony darkness, all the pieces were spinning at top speed, alighting in and out of place. But, if he was being honest, this was better than all the fine glasses of mead; what were spices and honey compared to panic and imminent death?
“Are we locked in some sort of time loop?” he asked, his eyes searching hers; they lit with confirmation right before she grimaced in pain.
“Across time loop,” she murmured between shallow breaths. “You and me, always but not the same.”
He pulled madly at the threads of every wild plot and story that he could, he tried to fit it to a pattern based on what he had seen, based on the fear in her eyes when she realized where they were.
“Do we always end up here?”
She nodded; her eyes were drifting away from consciousness. Here was probably a place you wanted to avoid; how could they avoid it? Aha.
“Unless we die first, that’s why you tried to die?” he asked.
“Can’t keep watching,” she said, sounding very faint.
A final piece of the puzzle slid into place for him.
“Because you remember and I don’t,” he said, his eyes searching hers, trying to pry any sort of secret he could, anything that might serve to help him.
He thought he caught the barest hint of confirmation before a scream ripped through her.
“No!” He cried out, lunging towards her.
This was madness, it was all happening too quickly for him. If he had more time, more information, he could – her body went limp. He watched the life drain from her eyes; they were devoid of hope as they stared at the ceiling. All the stars in the midnight sky, gone out.
Loki felt something harden inside of him.
His mind snapped through thoughts.
He was in some kind of prison. One whose walls he could not see until he was ready to die. And how did she fit in? And if he died every time, was he even real? Was any of it?
Reality, he knew, was a tricky thing. If you believed something, then it was more real to you than to someone else.
He looked at the prone form of Eldrunn bleeding and crooked on the floor.
Whose prison was this?
It was the last thought he had before pain exploded behind his eyes.
It went on for a long time.
Then all was darkness.
Terry Pratchett
Terry Pratchett. Many of you may know him as the co-writer of Good Omens, the one who wrote all the best parts (no offence to Gaiman, anyway, I bet he would agree with me). The first Terry Pratchett book I read was Maskerade, a send …
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