Limbo

by Thiago d'Evecque

  You are the most obnoxious creature I’ve ever had the displeasure of being unable to avoid, Chuck growled. It’s one filthiness after another.

  “It was necessary.”

  We have very different concepts of ‘necessity’.

  “You’re one to talk! The god who accepts blood, virgins, and slaves as sacrifices.”

  I never ate them! Especially not after stepping on them with such dirty paws. Sacrifices are a way of establishing fear and worship with—

  “Your rites don’t interest me.”

  They are methods of control that work for—

  “Enough!” This time I shouted.

  Baldur noticed my presence. His body shuddered as if awakening, then he squinted and raised his head. He settled into the throne, uncertain. I approached him until I faced the murdered god. The throne was high, and I had to lift my head to look into his chocolate eyes. His bare chest was half-hidden by a cloak that fell to his feet, fastened by a jewel next to his shoulder. A layered leather skirt almost touched the shaggy fur on the top of his boots.

  “Greetings, Baldur, son of Odin, son of Borr, son of Ymir,” I said, as solemnly as I could.

  You embarrass me.

  Baldur scratched his long beard and rested his head on his hand again. His blond hair fell over his shoulder.

  “You know,” he said, letting out a deep breath, “that is very melodramatic.”

  Chuck chortled. If my face were more visible, I would have blushed. Damn gods.

  “So…” the Norse god began. “Do you have a name?”

  “I believe so,” I said.

  Baldur gave the tired smile of those who had seen too much of life and death and everything else, and little impressed them. “That’s a good answer.”

  Both thrones were made of skull and bones, matching the outside theme. The empty one was at least twice as big.

  “A throne for a damned soul,” I said. “Distinguished position you have here,” I indicated the place with my hand, making small talk with a dead god.

  “Nothing of the sort. I am among many others. Some are less important, some are more.”

  “But there are only two thrones.”

  “Because that’s what you want to see.” Baldur shifted his weight. “You don’t interact with other souls because you don’t want to. As you’re only focused on me, Niflheim adapts to your intent.”

  “Of course, the Limbo is made of several parallel layers—”

  “Limbo? Yes, as you wish. Multiple layers. And the souls from other layers can’t see you because they aren’t aware of your presence. Why waste energy on who comes and goes? Most here have no spirit for that, and those who do don’t care.”

  How have I never thought of that? That’s why the Fianna could see me in their forest. They spent their lives and now eternity guarding their Irish lands, hunting and driving out invaders.

  Such a simple logic. It’s so easy to complicate things. What’s difficult is the wisdom to simplify the complicated.

  Wake up, mutt.

  “So?” Baldur asked.

  “What?”

  “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “Oh. I came to get you out of here.”

  Baldur folded his arms and sank on the throne. He showed an affected smile. “Have you come to bargain with Death?”

  “No. I came to get you out of here,” I repeated stubbornly.

  He assessed me for a moment. “Because?”

  “Because I will send you to Earth.”

  The god raised his eyebrows and put a hand to his face. “Take me to… Midgard? Jord’s domain?”

  “Yes and no. Jord no longer exists, like many others.”

  He widened his eyes. “Thor’s mother perished? What about mine?”

  “Frigga still resides in Asgard, next to your father. So does Thor. He had a strong rise a while ago, but it didn’t last.” I shrugged. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been in Midgard since you arrived here?”

  “Sure, yes… many others…”

  “Do you know what happened in Asgard after your death?”

  “I know some things,” Baldur said.

  “Your wife died right after you.”

  Aren’t you the charming one? Such a way with words. Now ask for a favor. Idiot. I’ve had slow-brained servants who seduced sacrifices better than you.

  Baldur waved his hand like it was something trivial and squeezed his nose bridge. “Hel makes a point of reminding me all the time.”

  For Baldur’s funeral, the gods made of his ship—Hringhorni, the largest ever built—a gigantic funeral pyre, fit for a worshiped god. His wife, Nanna, could not bear the sadness and died during the cremation. Practical as only the Norse can be, Odin and the others threw her body into the pyre, making one wake for two.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  I waited for the god to meet my eyes. His shoulders dropped, and he understood. Nanna, his wife, no longer existed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “She didn’t manage to remain here.”

  Baldur lowered his head. “She was never so strong to begin with. Never had many followers.”

  “Do you know what happened to Loki?” I thought it best to change the subject.

  He shot me an annoyed look. “Do you intend to torture me as well? I’m aware my tormentor still lives in Asgard. What kind of human would create and allow such a god to exist? Why?”

  That subject may not have been the best.

  “Well, his existence isn’t one to envy. Loki wishes for oblivion. He was caught and has paid for his misdeeds. After your funeral, Thor captured him. The gods chained him and suspended a serpent over his head so that it would drop its acid poison on his face, day and night, until the Ragnarök.”

  Always the dramatic.

  Baldur relaxed a little but didn’t seem too excited about the posthumous revenge.

  “Deserved but late punishment. Ragnarök… All an illusion, isn’t it? Man-made legends, just like us. We live because of those illusions, die for them, wait for them as divine prophecy. But they are human tales.”

  I had no words. He was probably right.

  Weak illusions for weak gods. Nothing more fitting. Chuck, on the other hand, always knew what to say. If I needed something petty, mocking, or an amalgam of the two, I could count on him. You tire me. Both of you. Stab his gut and be done with it.

  “Maybe Ragnarök will happen,” I ventured.

  “A threefold winter without a single summer will foreshadow war and discord in all Nine Worlds? The skies will be cleft open, and the seas will surge out to swallow the land? All gods will kill each other in a perfectly balanced battle? Spare me, will you? Many gods are gone, you said so yourself.”

  “Maybe it’s all a metaphor for the last day of all existence.”

  “Why, this is obvious.” He pressed his back to the throne as he gestured. “An end is the sole guarantee of a beginning. Creation implies destruction. Not even Nothingness is eternal, dear friend. When time engulfs all things, and space no longer has meaning, something new will emerge.”

  You’ve met your match. An equally tedious being.

  “Who knows?” I got closer to the throne. “However, we are still here. Humans are still there, and I don’t know how much time they or we still have. I’m giving you a chance. You can stay here and lament you fate until whatever comes after forever, with Hel’s scorn as your sendoff, or accept my offer and leave this wretched place.”

  Baldur had no choice—I wouldn’t give him one—, but I wanted to hear him. I wanted to read his heart.

  The Norse god took a deep breath through invisible lungs. “And what shall I do in Midgard?”

  “You’re a good god. I see it in your eyes. Remember what it’s like to be Valhalla’s most beloved? Remember who you really are?” He didn’t move. “Death, eternity, oblivion have taken some of your essence. I want you to spread your benevolent wisdom to humans as one of them.”

  “As a hu
man? I’ll be going as a human?”

  I nodded.

  His eyes flashed and Baldur bared his teeth in a wide smile. “How interesting. No interferences?”

  “Only earthly ones.”

  He propped his arms on the throne and stood up.

  “Do it.”

  I wielded Chuck with both hands, concentrating on leading Baldur’s spirit to Earth.

  “No!” A thin, hoarse voice scratched my mind, as if someone tried to scream in a whisper. My muscles tensed, the air grew heavier and chillier. I leaped backward.

  Baldur threw himself on the throne, exhaling through his mouth, as if all the weariness in the world had collapsed on him.

  A strong gale brought the howling from thousands of dead, swaying the torches’ flames, and between Baldur and me, Hel, the goddess of death, materialized.

  I like this one better than the bald widow.

  Hel was tall. Surprisingly tall. Sleek blond hair fell over her right breast. Only the right one. Hel was divided vertically.

  The right half of her body was normal, and the other half was dead. A black strapless cloak covered much of the goddess but left out the human breast. The good part of her face was flawless, and a small, angry gray iris glowered at me. On the other side, a macabre cavity punctuated the exposed skull. Bits of old, corroded flesh hung on the skeletal half, and her mouth ended in a permanent bony smile, with all her teeth lined up. Her half-lips were serious, curved down.

  “Baldur is my permanent guest by the gods’ law,” Hel said. “He’s had his chance.”

  Her hot breath, projected like a fireball, contrasted with the wintry atmosphere brought on by her presence. It stank of cockroaches and dead flowers.

  She pointed a protruding phalanx at me, with remnants of what was once a finger. The outstretched arm was an orgy of hair, skin, and blood clinging to bones. She moved like puppet, keeping the rest of her body still in a way that made gargoyles jealous. Absolutely still, petrified, even her eye. Her mouth moved as necessary for the whisper to come out.

  “No angels, no gods, no humans, no one has a right to take him out of here.” The low, harsh voice clawed at my spirit. “Nor can he leave. The want relinquishes to the Order.”

  In Hel’s defense, she was right. Baldur had died out of combat and fallen to the underworld, according to the Norse god’s laws. She had given him a chance to return, but the request wasn’t fulfilled. Thanks to Loki, true, but it made no difference; he was one of them. I was in the wrong, an outsider getting into an already solved problem.

  Like Matraton, she wasn’t necessarily evil. Hel was a neutral personality who controlled her domain and cared for the dead. As long as no one interfered in her affairs, she didn’t stick her rotten nose where it didn’t belong either.

  Unfortunately, Hel was in my way.

  “I am no angel, no god, no human, nor no one,” I said, pointing Chuck at the goddess’ face. “I will take Baldur.”

  “Baldur stays.”

  “Baldur goes to Midgard.”

  Her good eye narrowed a little while everything else froze. “Midgard?”

  “Yes. What happens next is beyond me. Maybe he comes back here. Maybe he dies in combat and goes to Valhalla.”

  Hel assessed me with her gray iris.

  “No.”

  “I’m not asking.”

  And I attacked.

  A malignant bident materialized in Hel’s hand and she parried my attack. A bident was nothing more than a toothless trident. But that was no ordinary weapon. Its wood was thick and indestructible, for it was the wood of Yggdrasil itself, the Tree of Life. The same tree whose roots trailed across the hall’s ceiling.

  The two hooked prongs had small spikes on its inner sides. The outside had a sharp edge, making it useful not only for stabbing but also slashing. Below the prongs, two black shining blades stretched horizontally. On the other end of the haft protruded a spear tip.

  The bident had been forged in Death’s realm, and its name was Laevateinn.

  I gritted my teeth and dodged to the side as Hel thrust. Baldur watched, slightly interested. I don’t think he had much hope in me. After all, who could win against a god? In fact, a lot of people, but few believed so.

  Hel pulled the bident with both hands and stabbed again. I evaded, she stabbed. Over and over until we almost leaned against the wall, until I used Chuck to deflect. I ran to gain space.

  Hel moved fast. Perhaps in contrast to her complete stillness when immobile, she seemed even faster when attacking. Her zombie leg didn’t hinder her at all. Each heartbeat brought a precise strike from her.

  Laevateinn never stopped, always spinning, always deadly, stabbing and slashing as fluid and quick as lightning. I avoided the blitz by ducking, jumping, and using Chuck to deflect when dodging wasn’t possible.

  Baldur had given up on me. His nails became very interesting, and the god devoted his full attention to them.

  I saw no opening to attack Hel. If I got too close, she would spin Laevateinn and push me away, keeping her distance. And attacking from afar would be a waste of energy due to the different range of our weapons.

  Your ‘jumping like crazy and trying to survive while never attacking’ tactic is not working.

  “Got a better idea?” I mumbled as I exchanged blows with the goddess.

  Actually, I do.

  And Chuck told me his plan.

  I was expecting something insane and improbable from a dreadful megalomaniac god, but Chuck surprised me. Sure, it had its high dose of risk, but it was a good plan, nonetheless.

  “It might work,” I said, unwilling to concede him one.

  It will work if you are not stupid and ruin everything.

  Hel kept her pace. I was defending myself and waiting for the strike I wanted her to make.

  She made it.

  A straight attack with both hands, thrusting Laevateinn at my stomach. The prongs came horizontally, and that would have to do. I bet all my chips on the counterattack.

  I stepped forward, dual-wielding Chuck above my right shoulder. I twisted to gain momentum and also to make the bident graze on my waist. That damn black metal tore at the side of my body, and I screamed as loud as I could, making all of Niflheim’s souls shut up and Baldur look up, startled.

  The dice had been thrown. The result was favorable, and time seemed to stop. Figuratively speaking. When I say that time in Limbo doesn’t exist, I mean as humans conceive it. There was still a succession of events in their proper order—time was not a human invention, like most measures of its passing. Just as you couldn’t play cards without a deck, you couldn’t play ‘universes’ without time.

  To avoid confusion, I will avoid the metaphor: time did not seem to stop. I was simply so absorbed at the moment that I saw everything clearly and acted with surgical precision, and what happened next happened at normal speed.

  Laevateinn ate a piece of my body and ribs, sliding straight through. I slammed my sword down, slicing clean from skeleton neck to just below her normal armpit. Hel’s arm and head fell out of her body in a grimace of anger and disgust.

  She disappeared as if she had never been there. I still felt her presence in the land of the dead, cornered and humiliated.

  The bargain was done, and I’ve fulfilled the challenge.

  I dropped Chuk and sat down, pressing the gaping black gash on my translucent skin. In the Limbo there was no nervous system, nor anything that makes up the human body on Earth. The operating rules here are strange and I do not care to understand them. But I know I felt pain, a very real pain. And I believe it was much worse here. The wound wasn’t on the flesh, but on the spirit.

  The wound burned like hell was spawning through me. I closed my eyes and lay down, screaming with my mouth shut, howling to soften the icy fire inside me.

  See, it worked. Now quit your whining and let’s go.

  I couldn’t even answer. I opened my eyes and my vision was smudged. The torches played before my eyes, drifting
away, dripping on the floor. Yggdrasil’s roots shifted, crawling on the ceiling as I writhed, drooling and wishing for death.

  Three Baldurs walked towards me. They kneeled beside and fused into one. Stars danced near him. The god shoved a hand into the gash, making it disappear inside me.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  The bellow echoed through the hall. I spit and cursed and squirmed. Existence made no sense, everything was a disgrace, and my world was pain.

  Baldur shifted his arm, making the wound open even wider, and goddamned unconsciousness didn’t pay me a visit when it was most welcomed. I screamed and pushed him away in vain, miserable for him using his existence to torture me so.

  The god removed his hand. It dripped out a steaming bluish-green liquid.

  “Hel’s poison,” Baldur said, shaking his hand, splashing that filth all over. “Gods know how to break a spirit. I’ve neutralized it, but you were lucky. The damage could have been far greater. It was a bold bet.”

  Moaning and terribly sick, I fetched Chuck and glared at him. The pain was still intense, but bearable, like my other injuries.

  Wimp.

  “Are we going or what?” Baldur asked.

  I focused and stabbed him, impatient, furious with the evil pain and for having suffered like an animal that needs to be slaughtered.

  He shone and became transparent until he disappeared.

  Hel’s quick and perfect movements with the bident reminded me of a female seraph whose skills surpassed the goddess’: the beautiful Leviathan. Carrying her powerful blue spear, she made her way through the battle of angels by slaying her brethren. She was on the rebel side, on our side. Leviathan was one of the first to fall at the hands of none other than Michael, prince of the archangels.

  I also remembered that Michael had subdued Azazel, the atheist angel. His sword, Gloria Perpetua, leaned against Azazel’s neck, ready for the slaughter, but I arrived in time. As I did with Hel, I cleaved the archangel, and the heavens wept for his soul.

  Azazel smirked. His cinnamon hair was messy as usual. “Guess I’m in your debt,” he said. Now I get it, Azazel. We’re even.