by C. Gockel
Loki swallows. He doesn’t like seeing Hoenir so vulnerable and exposed.
Hoenir’s eyes flick to a nearby door.
Mimir’s nostrils flare. “What? Do you intend to set the velociraptors loose?”
Loki’s eyebrows rise. Hoenir still has those beasts?
“You’ll be responsible for more innocent blood than Odin if you do!” Mimir snaps.
Hoenir’s eyes slide to Loki. He leans Mimir’s staff against the wall again, points at the teacup, and then at Loki.
“Oh, no, no, no…” says Mimir. “No, don’t do that.”
Loki looks at Mimir and then at Hoenir. Hoenir’s nostrils are flared. Scowling, Hoenir points at the teacup again, and then again at Loki.
Hoenir has occasionally used sign language in the past. Cocking his head, Loki says, “You want me to go to Jotunheim?”
Hoenir nods.
“No, Loki, don’t! It’s none of your business,” Mimir says. “Trust me, it’s best to stay out of it.”
Loki scowls at Mimir. He doesn’t like being told what to do, he doesn’t like how Mimir’s talking to Hoenir, and frankly, at this point, Loki’s just plain curious. Raising an eyebrow he says, “To do what, exactly?”
Hoenir makes a slashing motion across his chest.
“And kill Odin?” says Loki, eyes widening. His anger at the Allfather minutes ago abruptly changes to horror.
“Erm…” says Mimir.
Hoenir stares at him, looking vaguely thoughtful.
Loki steps back. He doesn’t think he could kill Odin. Odin is as close as Loki has to a father—not to mention ruler of the Nine Realms, and Thor’s father.
But then Hoenir shakes his head. He makes the slashing motion again.
A misunderstanding. Sighing in relief, Loki suggests, “Stop him?”
Hoenir nods vigorously.
“Don’t do it,” says Mimir.
If Odin is as close as Loki has to a father, Hoenir is as close as he has to a mother. Loki shrugs. “Alright. I’ll have to go to the World Gate, and I don’t know if Heimdall will…” His voice drops off, a little ashamed. Mimir says Loki is capable of opening World Gates on his own if he’d just practice. And Loki has tried…a few times…but his efforts only end in frustration. Besides, it’s so hard to find the time—what with his duties to Odin, chasing his sons, drinking with Thor, and as Mimir snarkily remarked, “watching grass grow.” Odin says the only way Loki will ever learn is if someone chains him to a rock for a few centuries.
Hoenir walks quickly over to another door leading off the kitchen. Leaning his forehead against it, he grabs the handle and begins to silently move his lips. As soon as he finishes, he steps away, cheeks flushed as though from exertion, forehead slightly damp. He turns the doorknob and opens the door.
Loki finds himself looking through the doorway and into the courtyard of King Billings’ fort. The king is not about, but the yard is milling with peasants, soldiers, and the odd courtier. No one seems to notice Hoenir or Loki standing in the doorway.
Hoenir nods at Loki. Mimir grumbles.
Hesitating, Loki wills an illusion around himself of an ancient Frost Giantess in the same medicine woman robes Odin had worn. Hoenir nods and smiles encouragingly, at the same time making a fast rolling motion with his hand.
Reading the signal, Loki concentrates on the task at hand. “Alright, I’ll be quick…”
“He’ll still be too late, Hoenir!” Mimir says. “Pick your battles!”
Before he really knows what’s happening, Hoenir gives Loki a shove. Loki hears the door close behind him. Looking back, he sees only a crude stone wall. He restrains a shiver. Jotunheim is much colder than Asgard, and the fort’s walls radiate chill. He’s not dressed for this. Letting his shoulders stoop as though with age, Loki makes his way into the courtyard proper.
It takes nearly half an hour to find someone who can help him. No one seems to remember another medicine woman in the vicinity. Finally, Loki gets the attention of an elderly courtier. Loki tells the man that he has come to help his “sister” on “her errand.”
The courtier, a tall, painfully pale man with a balding, uncovered head protruding from voluminous robes, accepts the lie easily enough. Fingers fluttering, he says, “Oh, yes, she is already with the Princess Rind. I will take you there immediately.”
Loki resists the urge to sigh. Apparently, Odin has gone through ridiculous lengths to gain a paramour. Still, he says, “Lead the way, young man,” making a show of gathering skirts.
With a smile and a bow, the courtier leads Loki from the courtyard, and into the fort, at a painfully slow pace.
As the minutes slip by, Loki begins to second-guess his reasons for being here. Why would Hoenir intervene in an affair? Hoenir has turned a blind—albeit, perhaps a slightly disgusted—eye many times as Odin seduced women with baubles, magic, and gold. This is Frigga’s business, not Loki’s…He fidgets with his illusionary skirts. Also, Mimir’s words are beginning to sink in. Odin sacrificed his son for Asgard; Loki doesn’t think he could sacrifice his sons for anything. No matter what. But Odin…Odin isn’t just Loki’s protector, he is the protector of the Nine Realms. Odin won’t just give his life like he’d nearly done in Nornheim…he’ll give the life of his son.
Loki’s stomach feels hollow—with regret, remorse—and maybe awe for his mentor. Suddenly feeling small, he wishes he were on Earth, where he could just disappear. But he is among Frost Giants. If he draws too much attention to himself, they might call on one of their sorcerers, and he might wind up in another Frost Giant dungeon. He shivers, and it is not from cold. They turn down a dark stone hallway, and climb a narrow staircase. His guide is gasping for breath by the time they reach the top. As they enter a dark drawing room, Loki estimates at least another quarter of an hour has gone by. In the room, King Billings sits upon a rough bench, head bowed, clutching a pewter tumbler of something in his hand.
Necessary courtesies drain away more precious minutes, and then Loki gives the king the same lie he gave the courtier. When Loki is finished, Billings says, “Old woman, your sister is already with my daughter. She warned me not to disturb them.”
Loki smiles as kindly as he can manage, and says, “Your Highness, she meant you, not me, her kin.”
Billings accepts that easily enough. The king leads Loki to a wide corridor and then stops. “Her chambers are at the end.” Eyes still on his daughter’s door, the king says, “It’s quiet at last…” He swallows. “She is delusional. Paranoid. She imagines the Allfather himself has come to claim her. She sees his face in the faces of her suitors…and even screamed at first at the presence of your sister…I was almost too fearful to leave my daughter alone with her.”
Loki feels his jaw go slack. And then shakes himself. Odin does not have to stoop to force to get what he wants. Perhaps the girl carries Odin’s child and has concocted some elaborate tale to hide her part in her loss of virtue?
Walking as quickly as he dares in his guise as an old woman, Loki reaches the end of the corridor and tries the princess’s door. It’s locked. His skin prickles as he draws some dwarven tools from his cuffs. He feels like time is rushing by, even though it only takes him a few seconds to open the lock and slip into the room.
Princess Rind’s chambers are deathly silent, and darker than the hallway. Odin’s voice cuts through the gloom. “Hag! What are you doing here?”
Shutting the door, Loki allows his illusion to drop and lets a flame dance from his hands to the sconce on the wall.
Beyond a bed where Rind lies bound, her head listing to the side, he sees Odin, sitting naked on a chair, legs crossed.
“Loki, what are you doing?” Odin says. He sounds annoyed but not particularly angry.
Loki’s eyes fall to the bed. Rind’s clothes are torn open. Blood stains the bed between her thighs. Loki’s jaw drops and then he catches himself. It’s a lover’s game. It must be. Loki has been asked to play such games—and Loki has asked Sigyn to truss h
im up much the way Rind is now.
He takes a step closer, and then another. Rind does not move or make any sign that she is aware of his presence.
“Why are you here, Loki?”
“Hoenir…was concerned,” Loki says, unable to meet Odin’s gaze. He draws closer to Rind. Her eyelids don’t even flutter.
Odin snorts. “Hoenir and his silly notions. It’s not like…”
Loki lifts his gaze sharply.
Standing, Odin says, “They’re women. They’re made for this.” Odin turns and his voice grows louder and angry. “And yet she refused me!”
Loki lowers his head so his face is just inches from Rind’s. “She’s unconscious.”
Odin shrugs. “I did not want to hurt her. I want her to bear me a son. She is the second strongest enchantress in Jotunheim.”
A flame leaps to life on a carelessly tossed-aside bed covering, a twisting, bright after effect of the churning in Loki’s gut. Mimir was right. Loki is too late.
Odin makes a sound of exasperation, waves a hand, and the flame extinguishes.
Loki stands rooted to the spot. He has seen scenes like this before after battles. He understands it’s a show of dominance. But to Loki, when you’ve razed a village to the ground, and have the inhabitants on their knees with blades to their necks, rape just seems petty, the perpetrators, bullies.
He looks at Odin standing naked and unashamed at the foot of the bed. The guilt he’d felt minutes before, the flutterings of respect for his mentor, they both vanish. Looking at Odin, for the first time, instead of seeing a powerful warrior, sorcerer, and ruler of the Nine Realms, Loki sees a weak old man.
“How could you?” Loki says, and he doesn’t know if he means what Odin’s done to Rind, or what he’s done to Loki. He feels centuries of respect and admiration are slipping away like grains of sand through an hourglass.
“I need another son!” Odin spits. “And Frigga’s womb is as conducive to life as your—”
Loki takes a step back, his arms trembling at his sides—the way Hoenir had trembled.
Rolling his eyes, Odin says, “I sometimes forget how sickeningly sentimental you always are. When you fuck, you just want them to like you, don’t you?” His lip curls. “Because in most other respects, no one wants anything to do with you.”
Still trembling, Loki takes another step back.
Waving a hand, Odin says, “Be off with you. I think I’d like to go for another round.”
The old man walks toward the bed and the woman who may as well be dead. Loki can’t watch, and can’t leave. “No!” Loki shouts.
Flames leap in the curtains, and in the bedclothes, on the chair, and on a rug upon the floor. Rind does not stir. Backing off the bed, Odin’s lip curls. “Are you trying to burn her alive?”
“Andvaranaut!” The name tumbles from Loki’s lips. He suddenly remembers the story—of Lothur, or was it Lopt? One of them found the cursed ring Andvaranaut, and Odin had touched it briefly. In the stories, to rid himself of the ring’s taint, Odin had slept with a virgin, willing or unwilling, every night for a year. Loki had always thought those were just stories. The flames in the room spark higher.
Odin spares him an angry glare. He raises his arms, and the flames still. But then they rise up again.
Cursing, Odin illusions his guise of a medicine woman around him and begins freeing Rind from her bonds. The hag that is Odin snaps at Loki. “Are you going to help me or let her die?”
Loki can only stare. Odin has Rind untied and in his arms before Loki regains himself. Creating the illusion of a medicine woman, Loki goes forward to help, but Odin grunts and pulls Rind away.
With a sharp nod from Odin, the door flies open. “Fire!” Odin calls, his voice shrill and crackling like an older woman.
Guards come running, King Billings at the lead. As Odin drags Rind from the room, he says, “The room was cursed, we cleansed it with flame. Visions of the Allfather will haunt the girl no more.”
King Billings takes the still unconscious form of his daughter from Odin’s deceptively frail-looking arms without question or comment.
Loki can only gape.
As the guards slip into the room to extinguish the fire, Odin turns to Loki. In his hag guise, one of Odin’s eyes is brown, the other is blue. The brown eye slips sideways as the blue eye fixes on Loki. “Remember, you were the one who nearly killed her. I was the one who saved her and gave her a son.”
Loki backs up until his back connects with one of the stone walls, still cold despite the flames in the princess’s quarters.
Odin waves a hand and disappears.
x x x x
Across from Bohdi, Amy slides to the floor of Thor’s chariot. Bohdi wants to follow her lead, to sit on the floor, tuck his knees up to his chin, stuff his cold fingers into the pocket of his coat, and sleep. He stifles a yawn. He barely got any sleep the night he spent with Frieda, and only grabbed an hour or so at most on the ground before nightfall. Being in Nornheim is kind of like the last weeks of infantry training, but without the occasional grenade blast and gunfire to keep you awake.
If he just sits down for a moment…
Amy pulls herself up sharply and yells at Thor. “You know he’ll take advantage of her, Thor! You have to know about Rind! And after Andvaranaut. How many girls did he attack then? How many? A few dozen? A few hundred?”
The fog of exhaustion in Bohdi’s brain clears. His skin heats and his fingers fumble with his lighter. It takes him a moment to realize he’s shaking.
Turning to Amy, Thor roars, “Stories! Stories only!” Every inch of Bohdi’s skin feels like it is being poked by pins and needles. The chariot bounces, as though a barometer of Thor’s anger. Bohdi barely manages to hold on.
The chariot swerves as Thor shouts, “The Allfather respects women enough to let them fight alongside men as equals!”
“Women shouldn’t have to be warriors to be respected!” Amy yells.
Bohdi thumbs the wheel on his lighter. He’s only half baiting her when he says, “Why only women?” No one, man or woman, who’s not gung-ho should have to go through fucking bloody boot camp.
Over Thor’s shoulder, Bohdi sees Amy’s eye go wide. She puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh. You’re right, I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
Bohdi blinks. She didn’t ignore or contradict him.
Thor gives a loud snort.
Amy’s eyes narrow. Her ponytail is whipping furiously in the wind, the sun is rising beyond her, haloing her head with light and…are those butterflies? Bohdi leans forward, mesmerized by the tiny delicate shapes fluttering beyond Amy.
Thor grunts, the chariot shakes, and Amy gives an exasperated sigh. “Be honest, Thor. If Loki were a woman, would you trust your father with her?”
Thor glowers at her, and then turning abruptly, stares silently ahead. Bohdi’s jaw twitches at the unspoken answer. He remembers the way Skírnir spoke about Gerðr, and other rumors he’s heard about what the Asgardians do to their conquests. The edges of his vision darken. His mouth opens with something sharp at the tip of his tongue, something that will really get Thor worked up, but then the chariot shakes with such force that Amy slips and falls, and Bohdi barely keeps his feet.
Bohdi glares up at Thor. His eyes slide to Amy. She’s pulled herself back up, but she seems to have given the debate a rest.
Standing at the helm, Thor is taking deep breaths, like he’s trying to calm himself. Bohdi can’t help noticing that the chariot’s course becomes smoother.
Bohdi fumes; if he wants to survive, he may have to hold his peace. His fingers thump against his lighter.
He looks back to Amy, the butterflies behind her catching his eyes again. They seem larger now. Their wings are every shade of pink, baby blue, lavender, and soft yellow. But how can butterflies fly so high? Maybe he is hallucinating? He squints. No, they’re real, but they aren’t butterflies, their wings are shaped more like birds. What kind of birds fly at this altitude? Raptors maybe
? They there are no landmarks at this height to help ascertain distance, but whatever these flying creatures are, they’re appearing larger with each passing minute.
He blinks at the birds. As they draw closer, the wings become brighter colored. Are those claws on the wings? “Um…” says Bohdi.
Eyes on Thor, Amy says, “I’m just asking you to consider that maybe Asgard might not be the best place for Loki…man or woman.”
Bohdi leans sideways to see better around Thor’s huge hulking form. The raptors, or whatever they are, have reptilian bodies, covered in brilliant red, yellow, and blue scales…or are those feathers? The creatures look the size of hawks maybe. Probably not dangerous but… “Um…Thor…” says Bohdi.
The big man grunts, eyes straight ahead.
Bohdi clears his throat. The raptor things seem to be picking up speed, and they’re bigger than any hawk he’s ever seen. Bohdi’s heart stops. No, they’re not raptors. “Thor!” Bohdi shouts.
Hand going to Mjolnir, Thor turns toward Bohdi. The chariot lurches at the same time. Lifting a hand, Bohdi points beyond Thor’s shoulder. Thor’s head whips around again. It is at that moment that Mr. Squeakers, oddly quiet through most of the trip, decides to peek his head out the collar of Amy’s coat.
Thor screams. “A spidermouse!” The chariot lurches, and Thor backs into Bohdi so fast, Bohdi almost falls over the side. He only manages to stay in by hanging onto Thor’s cloak.
Amy’s face flushes, and as soon as the chariot rights itself, she captures Mr. Squeakers in her hand. “He won’t hurt you!” she says, putting Mr. Squeakers in her pocket.
“How can you be sure?” says Thor.
Still clutching Thor’s cape, Bohdi’s eyes go beyond the space Viking and Amy. He gulps. Pushing Thor off of him, Bohdi shouts. “Forget the mouse! Pay attention to the dragons!”
Thor’s gaze shifts upward, and he lifts Mjolnir with a mighty yell. Clouds begin to form, as five dragon-like creatures come barreling toward the chariot. Each is about the size of a minivan. They have powerful hind limbs with long, sharp claws and lizard-like tails with a sharp points at the end. Every time their brilliantly colored wings flap, Bohdi feels it on his cheeks.
