The Goddess Embraced

by Deborah Davitt

  The spirits of the dead do not come here?

  Some of their power, their essence, comes to those they worship, I think. The love they bear their gods, the bindings between them in life . . . I think they find union. I would like to think that. A pause. I often dreaded dying, bound to her.

  Steelsoul sometimes thinks that the Aether is his heaven.

  He is bound to think that. I doubt the truth of it, however. If there is a place that the souls of humans fly to when they die, unbound? With no gods who love them to catch and preserve even a hint of their spark? I do not know it.

  She looked around, disquieted. Why am I here?

  This is your domain now.

  No. I did not kill her. You did. This is your place, Niðhoggr. You must remake it how you wish. You are free of her. She put a hand on the dragon’s shoulder, and looked into the eyes that were smaller, but no less lambent. Make this place your own.

  I share this place with you. You are my freedom, Sigrun Stormborn. We two . . . we are one, in a way. The dragon looked around again, and curled up on the floor in a small, tight ball. The dead kings were the closest thing I had to playmates. And then, she began to change me. The form I was born to did not please her. She required her first-born, her only-born . . . to be a weapon. So she . . . remade me here. Allowed duration to happen here. It took a long, long time, unmaking me and remaking me. She forced the raw Veil into me. Distorted me. Made me what I am now. I do not remember my old face, any more than one of your fenris might.

  Tears slipped from her eyes, freezing here as surely as they did in the mortal realm, and shattered when they hit the ground. Make this place new, Sigrun Stormborn, he said.

  If I do, will you promise never to call me that again? The thought slipped out, unbidden.

  It is your Name!

  And I hate the sound of it. If I could tear my Name out of myself and become nothing at all, I would.

  The dragon lurched to his feet, and slammed into her, hard enough to knock her into the wall, and pin her there. Never say that! Never say that again! You are my friend, and I will not see you treat yourself so!

  She stood there for a moment, stunned and in no little pain, and finally put her hands down on the dragon’s head, feeling the waves of desperation and loneliness coming from him. I am sorry, she said, patting him helplessly. I am sorry. I did not know. I will not leave you alone. I will not leave you.

  The valkyrie slumped to the ground as the dragon finally released her, and stared around at the hall that stretched forever in every direction. I . . . reset the simulation room. That was a long time ago.

  You can do it again.

  She closed her eyes, and tried to remember how she’d done it in the Odinhall, twenty-two years before. Tried to find a feeling of . . . warmth. Safety. It was difficult. The Veil did not feel safe. The Veil was not her place. Her gods would surely no longer protect her. Not when it was evident that they wanted her to stand alone.

  Steadying her mind, now. Thinking of lying in Steelsoul’s warm arms, his hand sliding up and down her side. Thinking of Niðhoggr’s friendship and love. Worldwalker’s warm hands on her shoulders, Saraid’s arms tightening around her. Lassair handing her a baby, a look of hope and sadness in the spirit’s fire-bright eyes, knowing that every time she did so, she was binding Stormborn more tightly to them all . . . but worsening the emptiness in the valkyrie’s heart. Truthsayer’s friendship, scrambling around on the sparring mats, three-way armed combat, Worldwalker with a claymore, Truthsayer with a katana, and Stormborn with a spear, all three of them smiling . . . and Steelsoul watching from the sidelines. The world contracting, but also expanding, all the children of her old friends radiating out from them in space and in time. Older bonds and newer ones. Brandr pushing her, to be stronger, faster, better, on the sparring mats at the Odinhall. Never accepting the words I can’t. Erikir, flopping down gracelessly at the end of a long day, pushed to the limits of even a bear-warrior’s endurance. The fenris and jotun coming to visit . . . .

  She opened her eyes.

  The hall out of antiquity was gone, along with its attendant reek of wood-smoke and cattle. It was mostly dark where she was, but the sky overhead was clear, and filled with stars so bright and close that she could see the colors of each, the dark ripple of nebular gasses between them, connecting each to each like filaments or ribbons, and a moon rode high in the sky, adding its silvery light to the scene. The light shone down onto a pillow of clouds at her feet, much like her old vision in the Odinhall simulation chamber . . . but different. There was a castle here, which seemed . . . familiar, in a way, though its walls were solidified cloud, and looked like marble in the moonlight. Hundreds of windows, filled with modern glass, or maybe solid ice . . . hardly defensible, but pretty enough. The front gates were silver, and large enough for a jotun, a fenris, or even Niðhoggr, in his full form. She flew forwards, opened the door, and beckoned to the dragon, who was now his normal size once more. Come inside, she invited him.

  In the courtyard, the sense of familiarity was stronger, as she found an apple tree and a cherry tree, growing side by side. It’s still empty, she acknowledged. It is not Worldwalker’s Forest, a place of life, where all who come in peace are welcome. But at least it’s not a place of horrors, either. Maybe there’s even . . . a little peace. She looked at him. Is it better?

  Much, S . . . my friend. Concern in the huge eyes. Perhaps others will come to fill this place, in time. I can feel resonances here. The sound of distant voices yet to be.

  She doubted it. But at least it wasn’t the Judea house, which would be unsuited to Niðhoggr’s size. And which would be punishingly, cripplingly empty without Steelsoul there, and without Worldwalker’s children to fill it. And it was not, as Hel’s abode had been, an artifact of any particular time and place. This was . . . past and present commingled. And it had sky to fly in and stars to contemplate. Perhaps she might even be able to will a few books here, though she had no idea how that would even work.

  And then they burst out of the Veil, and Sigrun took her first full breath in what felt like a week, the cold, thin air over Áhkká cutting into her lungs. “I see you did not listen,” she said, evenly, staring down at the mountain under which the gate to Valhalla had long ago been cut.

  You are who you are. The sooner you accept that . . . my friend . . . the better we both will be. He paused. I could have taken you to Valhalla directly through the Veil, but for this, your first visit? Formalities are due.

  There was no servant’s door, of course, though she looked around for one, anxiously. The main gate, in fact, initially looked like part of the mountainside to her. Nith snorted at her until she reluctantly used othersight, and looked through the illusion of rock and stone and glacial ice to see the giant gates of bronze, turned verdigris with age, that hung across one face of the mountain. He landed there, pulled back his head, and roared, so that the very earth shook. “She used to take you in?” Sigrun asked. She had yet to use Hel’s name with him.

  She did. I was more than god-born, but less than a god. Her favorite pet.

  Sigrun winced to think that she had ever thought of him as such, and leaned forwards to press her check to the cold scales of his neck. “You had best come with me, too, then,” she said, glumly. “I do not know the way.”

  The gates opened, and Sigrun hunched in on herself on Nith’s neck, feeling sick to her stomach with dread. She pulled the hood of her cloak up around her face, and noted, curiously, that the white feathers had turned night-black. The Veil, she thought. It warps everything it touches.

  The entry hall was ancient, and carved out of the bones of the earth; tall enough to allow Nith to stand comfortably, if he did not rear up, and lined with massive pillars for support. It was lit not with the light of the sun, for there were no windows, but with silver torches that lined every wall, and which gleamed with pale gold flames that gave off no heat, and appeared to consume no fuel. The walls and pillars, being natural stone, were gr
ay and faintly striated with a dozen other subtle colors, and densely carved with runes, telling the stories of her people. History was kept here, the history that her own people had not been able to keep in the earliest years, save only in the words and trained memories of bards. The whole cavern was far warmer than she’d have thought, heated, perhaps, by underground thermal springs . . . and seemed, at first glance, to be empty. A second glance, however, showed her a hundred spirits, all peering around the carved pillars at her and Nith. Earth-spirits, in the main. Caretakers of this great space, perhaps.

  Sigrun swallowed hard and dropped down from Nith’s shoulders, landing lightly on the ground. “Lead on,” she whispered, and let the dragon precede her through the halls. She was quite positive that Hel would have stridden off ahead of the creature, relegating him to a servant’s position in her wake. Instead, she scurried to keep up with his long steps, through twisting passages that were maze-like. Carvings in the walls, sculptures of the World-Tree . . . what the Gauls saw as the Tree of Life. Wyrms. Images of the gods, and little glimmers of who they once had been. Odin, not as the one-eyed god, who commanded ravens, but a mere raven-spirit, himself. Loki, not as the trickster, the magician, but a fox-spirit. Thor, just a lightning bolt, a spear of light. Just as Tyr had been.

  Different names. Tyr had been Tiwaz, in the oldest times, and he had ruled in some tribes, as Thor had ruled in others. Sky-gods. Odin, sometimes pronounced Woden or Othin, had come to prominence, and the people had constructed new mythologies to explain the gods as tribes came together. Conquered each other. Names slipped and slid and elided as languages changed. And the spirits accepted the new outer names, the new roles, but always understood who they had been. Odin knew that Thor and Tyr had ruled in many places before he did, and accepted their counsels. Thor remained the brash hand of war, and Tyr remained justice incarnate. Freya and Freyr and the other Vanir . . . fertility deities, absorbed from still other tribes. All greater together, working together. Loki standing apart, but in part, because humanity imagined him apart . . . and in part, because he did derive from another part of the Veil. He had been different-in-nature, from the start. A trickster. Like Prometheus. Like Coyote. Sigrun stared around her in awe, not knowing what to make of all these scenes.

  Whispers in the air, hundreds of voices, thousands. All whispering the Names of the gods. They seethed through the air, and Sigrun winced, and huddled further under her cloak. She shouldn’t be able to hear any of this, and frankly expected to be blasted for her presumption.

  Finally, Nith led her to a large audience chamber, shoving in the door with his head, even as a dozen dwarves tumbled out, raising swords and shields, their eyes blazing with red-gold or brilliant blue light. They were, of course, earth-spirits, just as Dvalin was. Just a little more fleshly in aspect than, say, a cherufe. They hesitated, staring up at the dragon, and backed away respectfully. Nith turned and looked back over his shoulder. This is as far as I may go.

  Then this is also as far as I go, Sigrun thought, and put a hand on the dragon’s haunch to steady herself. Her knees felt numb, and she plodded forwards, grimly, along his whole length. Reached the door, and his head, and peered inside.

  A long trestle table, just as in Hel’s domain, dominated the room, but Hel’s had been a parody of the real thing. This one was made of burnished dark wood, and covered in gold and silver trenchers and platters. She could smell roasted meats, fresh fruit, and honey-mead in the air of the room beyond, and the entire hall was filled with golden light that shone in from shafts seemingly cut through the entire mountain and the overhanging glaciers, and redirected by crystals and cunning mirrors. But she knew that somewhere in their path through the mountain, the mortal realm and the Veil had commingled. Even as it did in the Odinhall, when she entered Freya’s quarters. Valhalla was not merely a stone hall under the mountain. It was a realm in the Veil, vaster and older than Trennus’ small Woods.

  And the gods were there, or at least, some of them were, though none of them looked easy, content, or even merry. Thor was in Germania, fighting, as she well knew. Tyr and Freyr had last been in Novo Trier. But Odin was here, and Freya, and a half-dozen others, taking counsel, as a map of the world, incredibly detailed and made, apparently, of pure light, hung in the air behind the table. Heads swung up to note her entry, and Sigrun caught astonishment on Freya’s face.

  What is she doing here? Njord, the god of the sea, demanded, sounding shocked. Valkyrie cannot enter here! They cannot even see the gates!

  Sigrun wanted to hunch in on herself, or, better yet, flee. She had a strong feeling, however, that Nith would probably trip her if she tried to run, or plant a paw on her to keep her in place. “Prometheus asked me to bring his counsel to you, particularly regarding Jormangand, who is awake and in some distress in the Arctic. He is the source of the volcanic activity there, as I reported to Tyr yesterday.”

  Yes, but why are you here to report this? Tyr! Your servant is here, and has much overstepped herself! Skadi, Njord’s wife, was said to be a giantess . . . which Sigrun suddenly realized might mean that she had been a spirit of a different tribe, and a latecomer to the group around the table. Skadi’s skin and flesh seemed to be made, literally, of snow; she was so white she glistened, and her eyes were clear pieces of ice, without whites.

  Sigrun lowered her head. She could take refuge in the fact that Nith had more or less dragged her here, but she didn’t want to see him punished in her stead. So she said nothing until Tyr appeared in the hall, and she looked up just long enough to see the look of astonishment in her grandsire’s face. She swallowed, and somehow found the courage to speak. “I have asked,” Sigrun said, hearing how thin and frail her voice sounded in the great hall, after the great voices of Njord and Skadi, “for Freya to take this accursed seiðr from me. Prometheus forcefully brought it to my attention that I have had more than just seiðr inflicted on me.” She lifted her head. She had to try one more time. She met her grandsire’s eyes, difficult as that was. “I respectfully request that this injustice be lifted from me. I had no choice in how I was born. No one does. I have accepted that my role is to serve since I was a child. I did not ask to be violated by Tlaloc, or Supay. I was . . . barely aware that Loki had placed some portion of his essence into me, unasked, and I did not ask for any part of Baal-Samem, either. I will serve, and serve proudly, as I always have. As a valkyrie. Take the rest from me. Take, if you will, every power of the god-born, and leave me a mortal, and even with that, I would be content.”

  Niðhoggr’s heavy head swung towards her, and he growled at her. You swore you would not leave me alone.

  “And I will not let you be alone for so long as I live,” Sigrun told him, simply. “But I can be your friend without all these borrowed trappings.”

  Does friendship not require equality? Tyr asked.

  Sigrun swallowed. “He has been a slave all his life. I have been a servant all of mine. His shackles are severed, and he is free. That does, indeed, place his lot above mine. I cannot deny it.”

  A ripple of murmurs, and she could see the hint of temper in Tyr’s face. Sigrun lowered her head once more. What you ask, is not possible, Freya said, quietly.

  Sigrun’s stomach churned as she dared to speak her next defiance, “I do not see why it should be impossible, my lady. If Illa’zhi, an efreet, could manage to swallow and devour a mad god, how can you not be capable of drawing out the thorns that have pierced through me, and of absorbing their power into yourself? How can any of you not be capable, and how would this not be a gift worthy of you, increasing your own power?” She tried to put out of her mind Prometheus’ suggestion that removing the power might kill her. She’d take that risk. Happily.

  Another ripple of murmurs. Sigrun managed to raise her eyes enough to see Odin giving Tyr a direct look. Your child asks pertinent questions, if pert ones.

  I have ever instructed her, that being ready to ask a question, means that the person is ready to hear an answer.

 
I find it fascinating that the things she does not want for herself, she finds a fitting sacrifice to us. Freya tipped her head to the side, and Sigrun winced at the words. How can things of no value also be of worth?

  “I did not say that they were not of worth,” Sigrun managed, and lifted her eyes, with effort, to meet Freya’s. “I recognize that power has intrinsic value. But I do not want it.” Please hear me. Please.

  Tyr crossed the huge room, and put his hands on Sigrun’s shoulders. She winced back from the power in his touch, though a spark of answering fire rose in her. You have cried out for justice, my daughter. I will leave the judgment in this case to you, but you must first hear all sides, yes? He paused. How big a nation was Nippon? Its islands took up about a hundred and fifty thousand square miles, and they were guarded by a thousand greater and lesser kami. Their greater kami, such as Amaterasu, were on par with us, thanks to their antiquity, but we have more followers . . . and our lands stretch here in Europa and over the seas. Iceland. Greenland. Novo Germania. Any one province? As large as, if not larger than Nippon. This is much territory that we must guard today, against the mad ones.

  Sigrun swallowed, and followed Tyr’s pointing finger up to look at the incredibly detailed and animated map hanging behind the trestle table. Clouds moved across the mountains depicted there, as if she were watching satellite telemetry.