The Goddess Embraced

by Deborah Davitt

  The confusion in everyone’s faces took him aback, and it hurt to see so many old friends backing away from him. He reached to grab Trennus Worldwalker’s arm, and told his old friend, Thanks for not giving up on me. Even if I am a damned fool. His breath caught. Which I am. God. I’m a fool. Twice over, and twice-damned.

  There was a clatter of hooves, and Visionweaver spun, his voice catching on a glad cry. Sleipnir had just appeared in the air. Loki slouched on the back of the eight-legged horse, and Hiddenstar, his mother, perched behind him, an arm around his waist. Her star-shine eyes were wide as the great horse landed . . . and Loki let her down, lightly, before dropping to the soft, springy earth, and Visionweaver ran to embrace his mother in the joy of knowing she was safe and alive. Loki was covered in blood, from head to toe; he looked like a berserker, his long black hair caught in tangles and snarls. You are injured, Quetzalcoatl said, stepping forward to help catch the trickster god’s arm. Lean on me. You have had a great battle.

  Perhaps he fled it, Sekhmet offered, baring her leonine teeth.

  Hardly. Loki sounded weary unto death, and Visionweaver moved forwards as his mother caught Loki’s other arm. He fumbled at his side, and found his canteen, offering it to his father, feeling the futility of the gesture keenly.

  Sit, Trennus offered, hastily, and a low stone appeared, giving Loki a place to rest. You survived the Battle of Burgundoi?

  Visionweaver glanced around. He did not see Sigrun Stormborn, or Niðhoggr, and his heart clenched a little. The world would be a dismal place, as far as he was concerned, without either of them.

  Loki nodded, slowly, and painfully. And all my pre-memories have returned. They do not all match the actual memories. But I understand now. I understand it all. He drank from Visionweaver’s canteen, and offered it back to his son, his eyes canvassing the crowd. Prometheus? You have called Cronus the master of unbridled occurrence. Zeus did not just kill him for swallowing the power of all his children-gods, did he?

  Prometheus shook his head. No. Cronus did what no other spirit of the Veil ever dared to do. There are two constants in the mortal universe with which we are . . . ill-equipped to meddle. The first is the force that binds the universe together. Cosmic strings, or ley-lines. We do not have this type of energy, this kind of constraint, in the Veil. It is significantly unwise to meddle with that which we do not understand. We are, in that marvelous modern word, tourists. If we meddle with cosmic strings, we could unmake mortal reality. He looked around, his expression tight. Cronus did not meddle with the physical.

  Kanmi’s head lifted. You interact with gravity and force and light and you freely import and export mass and energy from the Veil. So that leaves . . . He shook his head. You said time stopped.

  Correct. Time—causality—is something that we do not touch, Kanmi Emberstone. Cronus did. He meddled with cause and effect, and did so much to the detriment of the early Hellenes. He damaged time itself near Mount Parnassus. A good reason why Delphi sprang up nearby, and the Pythias and Apollo, spent so much . . . hah . . . time there. Zeus executed Cronus. And I have never known any other spirit who felt equal to the task of manipulating time. I am one of the few who has a good grasp on probability, Kanmi Emberstone. In fact, I might be regarded as supreme in that regard. But even I would not touch causality. It is not my universe to chance unmaking. Pluto himself only touches time, in that he embraces entropy and uses it as a weapon. Nothing more.

  Then who, Kanmi asked, thinks they’re up to the task? Who has the arrogance to do it?

  Not arrogance, the Guardian said, suddenly, and weariness filled Adam ben Maor’s voice. The desperation. And the overwhelming sense of duty.

  Prometheus considered that, and the words seemed to mean more to him, than they did to Visionweaver. Trennus Worldwalker just nodded. He clearly already knew the answers to which the others were now groping. And understanding suddenly filled Prometheus’ eyes as he looked around. We have the beginnings of a new pantheon here, and in Olympus. And in times past, almost every new pantheon, has had elements of the old in it. Pluto and Juno, life and death, in endless cycle. Quetzalcoatl, retribution, but also forgiveness. Sekhmet and the Morrigan, war. Amaterasu, the sun. Mamaquilla, the moon. The Evening Star, resurrection. Taranis gives us storms.

  And do not forget that we have tricksters here in plenty, a new voice said, and Visionweaver blinked, looking up to see Hecate join them. Prometheus for once, appeared caught off-guard, and raced forwards, heedless of decorum, to pick her up in his arms, and for a bright instant, their essences blazed together, before he set her down again. Yes. I live. And I am restored. She looked around the clearing, and added, Your analysis is incomplete, for there are other gods here present, Prometheus. Great and small. Before me, I see determination and atonement in Cloudwalker and Shadowweaver. I see the lord of places in between in Worldwalker, the god of magic and trickery in Emberstone, the goddess of wild places in Saraid, passion in Lassair, dominion and rulership in Visionweaver, and rebirth in Hiddenstar. And the rest of you, as well. Moltensoul. Mirrorshaper. All of you have power. All of you . . . have a place in the minds and hearts of those who remember you.

  We’re short one, Trennus said, his voice tight.

  Two, Hecate corrected, coolly. Two who are one.

  Do you know where she is? Worldwalker directed that, with a hint of anger, towards the Guardian. She came to me, and told me to evacuate everyone I loved. And then she was gone.

  I don’t know, no. If what I think is true . . . she’ll join us. In time. Steelsoul hung his head.

  Hecate regarded the Guardian, her eyes remote under her hood. You remain a lost possibility, detached from time and space. Will you return to your Nameless brethren?

  I am now who I always have been: Adam ben Maor. He and I were always on the opposite end of time from each other. But the creatures of the Aether cannot come here. Trennus separated me from him. He pointed down. I have no shadow anymore. And I am . . . glad of that. Steelsoul’s shoulders shifted. He left me his memories, but the only power I possess here is my own will. I can remember fighting Akhenaten. I remember dwelling in the static, timeless, changeless moment that is the realm from which his kind come. And I remember living the life of Adam ben Maor. Some of the memories seem to be false . . . or doubled. He paused. Where the Veil changes constantly, the Aether does not. Change is inimical to most of its denizens. They see the end point of a universe, and perceive it as perfection. The one who I was, was the only one capable of change, of mutability. And that is because he and I have always been Adam ben Maor. Effect before cause, and without paradox. As every interaction between the Veil and the mortal realm is without paradox, because here, we stand outside of that time-space. He paused. Which is a long way of saying, no. I can’t return to them, because while I am him, and he is me, we are not the same now.

  Kanmi Emberstone’s mouth had fallen open, and he said, quietly, I’m going to enjoy the coming conversations with you, I have a feeling . . . .

  I might follow the math better now than I did previously.

  Visionweaver raised his head. So what happens next?

  That may not be the correct question to ask. Regardless, I do not know. Prometheus sounded tired. Probability is now at an end, until time moves forwards once more. And I cannot speak to any probabilities at all, when effect can come before cause. The mortal realm has, in essence, been reduced to an egg. We are potential, possibility, waiting to be birthed. But in order to make the world new . . . we must remember the old. That, with a wary glance at the Guardian.

  The Guardian nodded, tiredly. That is what I suspect, yes.

  Or, said another way, Loki spoke, quietly, We are all in the hold of Naglfar. Waiting to see if we can cross the stormy seas to a new shore.

  Burgundoi burned under a sky devoid of stars, and she drifted in the night. She was the night.

  Awareness returned. She could feel the entire gentle curve of the hemisphere shadowed from the sun by the earth’s own bul
k below her. She could feel the Mitsi'adazi region, belching out fire, spewing ash and smoke high into the night sky. There were forest fires all over the west, barely contained by the snow and ice that wrapped a shroud over most of the northern latitudes.

  She could feel the spasms of the earthquakes rocking the southwestern coastal region of Caesaria Aquilonis. She could feel ice forming on Lake Caestus, feel chunks of it bumping uncertainly down the Aeturnus, heading for the Gulf of Nahautl. She could feel the people left in Novo Trier and Cimbri huddling together for warmth. Going out to cut ice on the Muhheakantuck river, to try to fish in the bay, near the island where the ancient statue of Odin had lost both its ravens and its head.

  She could feel it all, hazily, as she floated above it all. She rose with the ashes and smoke of this funeral pyre of a world, and the deaths of millions, unavenged, carried her higher. The energies of the mad ones destroyed in Burgundoi infused her. The power of her gods, unleashed—Heimdall and Sif and Baldur and Freyr, Thor and Freya and Tyr and Odin—suffused her.

  Her consciousness coalesced, and she stood, a shadow in the drifting smoke of the burning buildings of Burgundoi. She stared up at the collapsing fragments of the Odinhall, and looked down at her hands and body. There was no reason she should be alive . . . except that in the last moments of the battle, night had fallen, and her power to demanifest had returned with it.

  She drifted into the building, ignoring falling rubble as it passed through her. She found the bodies of the gods . . . Odin and Freya had fallen, their arms around each other. She paid her final homage without words. And gently, and with great respect, she materialized long enough to take Brísingamen from Freya’s throat, wrapping the golden links around her own left arm, over and over, until the long necklace formed a bracer of sorts. Then she covered their faces with their cloaks, and stepped away as another chunk of ceiling fell where she’d just stood.

  She covered Tyr’s body, and took his spear from where it lay, useless, beside him. I’m sorry, Father, she said, silently. Justice is dead. All there’s left . . . is me.

  She left the great hall then. Outside, Odin’s raven launched itself from a jagged spire of metal, and landed on her left wrist, and pecked at Brísingamen, experimentally. One of its eyes had been damaged in the fight, she saw, and had turned white as milk. Huginn. She ran the backs of her fingers along the bird’s cheek, and the raven tolerated the caress. Well, sister. Your prophecy came true. In spite of all my efforts. Here I am. She looked down at her body, but her armor was intact. No blood in her hair, in defiance of Sophia’s visions. Darkness all around me. Soaked in the metaphorical blood of my gods, and everyone else who’s died today. A spear in one hand, and a raven on my shoulder, as it were. If I see a black road . . . I’m going to refuse to take it, you know that, right? She laughed, a harsh croak that was lost in the roar of flames, and the thunder of falling buildings. I’m arguing with a dead woman. I must be as mad as Sophia ever was.

  She became one with the night, and the ghul who still ran through the burning streets paid her no heed as she drifted away. She could still feel her soul-bond with Nith, burning in her heart. His pain was less, but she could feel his worry for her, his concern. I’m coming, she told him, silently. I will not leave you alone.

  She reached out to the world around her, and felt the uncertainty of it. The instability. The ley-lines in the earth and sky had been snapped and left to recoil on themselves, and were now as tangled as a fishing line that had been thrown in a corner. In places, they were melted or even frayed. She could feel the earth tearing itself apart in places. Fracture lines through to other universes, as Trennus had described them to her, many times. And she knew how to tear reality herself, now, how to open a gate to the Veil, as she had for Niðhoggr. But with reality around her destabilizing, it was . . . risky.

  No choice. She pulled at the sundering strings of reality, and it flickered around her . . .

  . . . and then she was elsewhere.

  The sky overhead roiled, uncertainly. Clouds flickered in and out of existence, sometimes dark and laden with rain, and sometimes thin and cirrus. The heavens themselves were prismatic, violet on the eastern horizon, and red on the west, with bands of the rest of the spectrum uncoiling unsettlingly up to the zenith point and back down again. No sun. No stars. No moon.

  In the distance, mountains reared up ahead of her and behind, shadowed by the strange light in the sky, and taking the colors of the horizon they were nearest. The land to either side of her was brown and sere, with dead plants and thornbushes accumulated in the ditches to either side of the road under her boots. A hard land, a bare land. It looked like the Great Basin region of Caesaria Aquilonis, just east of the Nivalis mountains.

  She crouched to examine the road on which she stood, her eyebrows rising behind her mask. It wasn’t truly black, she realized, though she understood why someone, looking at a distance, might mistake it for such . . . or might mistake it for the River Styx. The surface was made of pure obsidian. From some angles, it shone silver, as the light reflected from the rough glass surface. And from others, it actually was black, or a very dark green. This is a metaphor, she thought. This isn’t reality. This is how my limited senses are interpreting wherever I find myself. This is not the Veil, either, unless it a portion of the Veil under someone else’s direct control. I do not feel myself causing this area to react to me. She stood, and took an experimental step, vaguely pleased that she didn’t immediately fall on the slick surface. So, this is what Sophia saw. She saw me with my back to the west, so there’s the blood-red sky. She looked over her shoulder, and thought she saw, for an instant, a burning city, with embers and ashes falling from the heavens above it. I wonder what happens if I go off the road.

  She took one step towards the dirt at the edge of the road, and Huginn, on her shoulder, squawked, and pecked at her helmet. She held her foot, poised, over what looked to be harmless dirt . . . and it dissipated. She found herself looking into an endless, deep pool, and through it, she could see . . . time. People’s lives unfolded in front of her, at high speed. She could watch them walking through a crowded street filled with unfamiliar-looking motorcars. Strange clothing. Many of the men wore tight-fitting vests of thick material that had had sleeves added to them, and they all seemed to take their sartorial cues from the buildings around them: all grays and blacks. A few scantily-dressed women at the street corners wore brighter colors, and heavy makeup, and she could identify them easily as low-rent prostitutes, who had apparently been dismissed from a legal brothel, probably for cutting corners on hygiene and health practices.

  The people jostled past, talking on strange models of satellite phones as they went about their business, hardly caring that they bumped into each other. The sky overhead was blue, but tainted by a sullen gray-brown haze that she’d never seen before. Since none of the people were wearing gas masks, it seemed to be harmless enough. But looking at the lettering on the neon signs on the buildings . . . Roman letters, all of them . . . she realized that she did not speak whatever language this was. She’d never seen the letters in such outré configurations before. William? Is that like Willahelm? Her mind assembled the next words. If sh is like sc . . . and that word might be a surname. Asceacansparri? Sparri, like Caetia is a Romanized version of Spaar, or spear? So . . . Willahelm who shakes the spear? And . . . Tamr Screawa. Someone apparently wants to domesticate a shrew-mouse? She pulled her foot back, and crouched for a long moment, looking at the well-fed people, shaking her head. Other worlds. The quantum realities that Kanmi and Prometheus talked about. But that hardly concerns me. The only concern I have is for my own universe. My people. My friends. Those whom I love.

  She stood, and took a tentative step down the obsidian road, and felt it flow past, under her feet. She could see a figure ahead of her on the road now, and the wind began to stir around her, as the sky’s uncertain clouds turned stormy. She couldn’t make out details, besides the fact that the figure was humanoid. She lifted
the spear in her hand to a defensive position, and formed a shield of silver seiðr around herself as she took another step . . . .

  . . . which brought her at least two miles further down the road, and face-to-face with the woman who waited there.

  She was tall. Her hair had tugged loose from its braid, and hung around her face in hanks, matted together with blood, and gobbets of flesh. Her face was a mask of other people’s gore, under which runes traced a lacework of light, burning through the drying fluids, and her gray eyes stood out, wide, staring, and a little vacant. Her feathered cloak had once been white, and still was, in patches, but it had been stained by blood and smoke to mottled appearance of reds, browns, and blacks. Her armor was scuffed and torn. In her right hand, she carried Tyr’s spear, and on her left shoulder, a different raven crouched. Muginn. She has Memory with her, where I have Thought. And she’s fought a lost battle. A moment of cold reflection passed. She’s . . . me?

  Sigrun Stormborn eyed herself on the road, and leaned the butt of Tyr’s spear on the ground. Waes hael, stranger, she said, in case this, too, was merely her interpretation of the reality around her, or some form of trick. Who are you, who pass on this lonely road?