by Lentz, P. K.
Something, yes, but not a token of gratitude, exactly.
Worse, I stole something that was given to her.
"This is yours," I say, removing the pendant from my cloak. They are the only words I have spoken to Gaeira today. In fact, they are the only ones since our kiss a day prior. They feel strange and unwieldy. We need no words, she and I. I hold the tooth out to her and let it hang there between us for a few seconds before realizing how poorly thought out is my gesture. She is naked. What precisely is she to do with it?
I lower it, smiling. Suddenly Gaeira sits up, snatches the tooth from me, and leaps to her feet. As she begins to dress, I wonder if I have offended her. She does not appear angry, and her movements are not angry ones, but she is Gaeira and can be difficult to read if she so chooses. Yet I have a sense of her, I think, and I do not sense that I could have upset her.
Disappointed as I am to see an end to our repose, I do as she does. Soon we are both dressed and mounted and riding again, this time at a more purposeful pace. Twenty minutes later, Gaeira dismounts and goes on foot up a short, rocky slope. Following her, I see that we have reached the edge of a chasm. The other side is visible in the far distance, but looking down, the sheer rock walls disappear into mist.
Mist-filled chasms are not uncommon in these eight realms, it would seem.
While we both look down into void, Gaeira hands me the pin. I take it. Once more she has made her meaning as clear as she ever could with words. I stare at the pendant, fingering it, silently saying farewell. It is farewell not to an object, not even just to a woman I pursued through the abyss of death and then to a new and dangerous land, only to learn that she despised me. It is farewell to the man I was. I would call him a blind fool, but I should not be too harsh. His heart and mind and two functioning eyes were good enough to bring him here, to where he could be half-blinded and reborn. I have learned from his mistakes and shall not make them again. I will not name the one whose golden hair at present flies up and brushes my cheek my 'Wellspring' or my destiny, or any other such thing. I will not pledge to follow her into any abyss, although I would gladly go with her into one if she asked.
I clutch the pendant's leather thong for but a second before opening my hand and letting it drop into the abyss at our feet. It shrinks and becomes invisible long before the mist swallows it, and I send my freshly emptied hand over to clasp Gaeira's. I cannot know whether the rapport I have with her works as well both ways, but what I mean to tell her with the touch is that if she wants me, I am hers.
Her fingers close around mine, perhaps giving answer.
Our touch, our communication, is brief. Taking back her hand, Gaeira starts toward her horse. I remain looking out over the chasm for a few seconds, wondering what realm lies across it, before I follow.
During the short walk, I have a strange feeling, an ominous one which drags at my high spirits. I am in the middle of climbing onto my horse's back when it strikes me what is its cause. I fall clumsily back to the ground and begin to run, my eye fixed on the nearby hills.
I must see them from a different vantage. I must be certain...
I need not go far.
"This place..." I say breathlessly to Gaeira, who has trailed me on horseback. "Mimir's Well gave me a vision. I saw a Myriad invasion. These hills. This... this is—"
Gaeira interrupts me by drawing the sword which hangs in its scabbard on the flank of her mount. Her gaze is on a point above my head. I spin and see what she sees.
It hovers there, yellow, bulbous, bristling with writhing, worm-like spines from the center of which stares a single, huge, bloodshot eye.
Gaeira lifts her blade, leans over the reins and kicks her horse to a gallop—toward the thing.
"No!" I cry out. At best, she will slay one creature, which is of no consequence to the swarm. At worst, more likely, the thing will not be alone, and I will lose her, a thought I cannot bear.
Unmounted, I have no means of intercepting her. Neither have I brought a weapon of my own, having foreseen no need for one. All can do is chase Gaeira on foot, shouting, "Stop! We must warn Odinn!"
She pays no heed. Blade poised high for a stroke, she charges on, and I abandon following her to run for my horse instead. I leap into the saddle in time to see the hovering creature rise effortlessly out of Gaeira's sword's reach, its vile red iris directly upon her.
"Gaeira, leave it!" I scream. "We must run!"
She swings her blade at it anyway, rearing her horse for extra height. But the spiny yellow beast stays high above, looking down, as if taunting her. I want to call Gaeira by some obscenity that captures how stupid she is being, risking for nothing the life that she has given me a strong interest in preserving. But I resist, instead just calling her name, repeatedly and insistently.
Finally, to my relief, she wheels her horse and gallops toward me. I watch in the direction of the great cleft from where I sense the creature has come, every moment expecting the great swarm that I saw in my vision to rise up from it like the great wall of water which ended my last life. But that does not happen. Gaeira reaches me, gallops on past, and I join her. Together we ride away at a pace far greater than the ambling one by which we left the farm this day.
One of my four visions from Mimir's Well has come to pass: I have lain with Gaeira in the grass. A second has just become all but inevitable. Can it be much longer before Jormungand flies free and Odinn falls?
The time for idleness is over. From this moment, we battle annihilation. The Aesir may not believe it is so, but I know that the end time has come, the last battle.
Ragnarok is upon us.
44. Farewell to Peace
At Gaeira's farm, we leap from our mounts before they even have stopped moving. Coming out of his cottage, Afi sees instantly that something is amiss, and he races to meet us.
“The Myriad are here!” I tell him urgently, while Gaeira dashes into her home, presumably to gather what is needed for our imminent departure to Asgard. “Probably inside the chasm. They could invade at any time, and when they do, they will destroy everything. Gaeira and I shall ride to warn the All-Father. You and Dalla must leave now, for your own safety.”
Afi's look as he takes my horse's bridle is one of concern, but not urgency. “The Myriad, you say?”
His calmness frustrates me. I have told him of the Myriad. He knows the danger they pose.
“We saw only one, but a swarm cannot be far behind,” I say. “This part of Vanaheim must be evacuated.” A question springs to mind. “What land is that across the cleft?”
“Alfheim.”
The Alvar are allies of Odinn, I recall. “They must be warned.” I offer no thought on how that might be accomplished. I must leave it to others; I have my own task, my own destination.
Dalla saunters outside. “What is it?” she asks rather casually.
“He says the Myriad are coming,” Afi answers her, in a similarly relaxed tone. I note his phrasing: He says. Does he not believe me?
“Hummph!” Dalla scoffs. “Don't expect me to run. They can't be worse than jotnar, and we survived them—twice.”
“No, dear, we'll not run,” Afi assures her.
“What?” I exclaim. “You must! You'll be—”
“Do not presume to tell us what we must do, young man. You might have been a prince in Atlantheim, but you're not one here.”
I grunt. I lack the time for this. “As you like,” I yield. “But all the Vanir must be alerted. Will you at least spread the word?”
“Aye, of course,” Afi agrees.
Satisfied, somewhat, I start toward the house to gather my own few belongings for the journey. I am stopped short by Gaeira bursting out, dressed in armor and laden with pack and ax. She also has my pack and sword, which she deposits at my feet while breezing past me. For her, this amounts to an invitation. Were circumstances not so dire, I might smile. Clearly we have not discussed our plans aloud. I had halfway thought she might be indifferent as to whether I accompanied h
er or not. Then I remember: she needs me—or my tongue, at least, for what good is a messenger who lacks voice?
While I secure my belongings to my mount, Gaeira bids her foster family farewell. For moments she just stands there in front of Dalla and Afi, staring at the ground while they stare at her. Finally Dalla steps closer, sets a hand behind Gaeira's neck and draws her sharply down—for Dalla is a full two heads shorter—into an embrace. Armored Gaeira remains stiff, but does not resist. I hear a sniffle, and a tear slips from Dalla's shut eye.
It is that sight and sound, perhaps, which cause Gaeira to turn her cheek and lay it on the crown of Dalla's gray-haired head. It is a sign of affection that I would have, until yesterday, thought beyond the self-imposed limits of her vow.
Dalla sniffs again and frees Gaeira, who straightens. The old woman gently takes in her open palm a portion of the golden hair falling unbound over Gaeira's shoulder.
“You can't ride like this,” Dalla says. “Let me braid it for you. Get down. It won't take but a minute.”
In spite of the relative warmth she has just shown, I expect Gaeira to dismiss the offer; our mission is too urgent. But she kneels, and Dalla moves round her and sets to work, bony hands moving like lightning, expertly separating the long hair into pleats and twisting them together. While she braids, Afi comes to stand in front of the kneeling Gaeira. She gazes up at him, and he down at her, and he nods. He is not of a kind to embrace, but I see in his eyes his fondness for Gaeira and his sorrow at seeing her leave so soon upon her return.
Gaeira's face does not exactly display the respect and gratitude and affection she has for the old man, but I can sense them. I know that she feels them. Gaeira does not speak to me, yet... she speaks to me.
Dalla's old hands are as swift as promised. Hardly a minute passes before Gaeira's windblown blond hair has been tightly knit into a yellow rope bisecting her back, the sight I know so well.
Without any further cracks in her vow, Gaeira mounts, and so do I.
“Goodbye, Afi,” I say. “Dalla, thank you. For everything.”
Before I am finished, Gaeira has kicked her horse to a gallop and ridden off. I will have some catching up to do, but I am used to that.
“Give your neighbor our apologies for taking his horses,” I go on. “And warn every Vanir you can—”
“Yes, yes!” Dalla interrupts. “Get moving, Highness. She won't wait, even for you.”
Sparing her a smile, I dig my heels into my mount's flanks, tightly grip the reins, and race off after Gaeira—though not before overhearing Afi ask of his wife, “What do you mean, even for him?”
***
At dizzying speeds, slowing for nothing, we fly through Vanaheim. Our speed ensures that I can think of little else but riding, and I am glad for that. I do not want to think of the Myriad, or Ayessa, or Loki masquerading as her in Neolympus. Even when I think of that most pleasant aspect of my present existence, the companion with whom I ride, it is to think of losing her to the unstoppable swarm.
I think of nothing but speed, and we achieve it, reaching Heimdall's fortress of Himinbjorg in far fewer hours than lasted our outbound journey, four days prior. Though it is twilight when we arrive, we give no thought to accepting the rooms for the night which Heimdall offers. He would have his own riders finish the trek to Asgard, bearing a written message, but no—this is our task, Gaeira's and mine, and so instead we take the quickest of meals on our feet, exchange our tired horses for fresh ones from Himinbjorg's stables, and ride on across the bridge of rainbows onto the plains of Asgard, never stopping, never speaking.
We are not far from the city when a great, deep rumble rises up from the depths, causing the ground under our horses' feet first to tremble and then to shudder violently. Both mounts break stride, twisting and loosing cries of confusion, and it is all Gaeira and I can do to keep from being thrown. Whilst we struggle thus, the sky above us changes in an instant from white to gray, as churning storm clouds spring into existence where before there were none. From them issues a sky-splitting peal of thunder that frightens our horses afresh and sets my every hair on end.
The thunderclap's echo is deep and resonant and seemingly without end.
Eventually it does fade, and as we sit on our horses' backs in the middle of the Asgardian plain doing what we can to calm the beasts and coax them back into movement, a new sound fills the freshly silent air. It is a man's scream, one of torment and utter anguish, and it persists for what seems longer than any man could scream without pausing for breath. Our three eyes find the apparent source of the sound: our destination, the city of Asgard.
As quickly as they filled the sky, the great stormclouds dissolve, and the grassy plain floods once more with sunlight. We share a look, Gaeira and I. Hers tells me that she knows no more than I what is the meaning of this portent. We both know it cannot be good.
The horses resume heeding our commands. We now have even less time to waste. Asgard awaits.
45. By Odinn's Command
A fevered ride brings us to the city gate, where we abandon our borrowed mounts and take to foot for a no less fevered run to Odinn's palace. As we race up its stairs, a pair of Aesir set their spears, barring us.
“We must see the All-Father!” I tell them—loudly, intending the plea for ears other than theirs. “We bear news of grave—”
“The All-Father has heard it already!” one of the guards interrupts. “He will see no one now!”
“But...” I start in confusion, “he cannot have heard! What do—”
“Let them pass,” a voice calls from behind the grillwork of oak and iron which bars the palace entrance. Through the lattice I can see the speaker, Baldr.
Scowling inside their helms, the guards stand down. Gaeira and I run past them to the door, which Baldr has opened for us.
“The Myriad are in Vanaheim,” I waste no time in telling him. “Odinn already knows this?”
Baldr frowns. “No.”
It is then I recall that Baldr has never in my memory failed to greet me with a smile, yet today I have seen not the faintest trace of one. “If not that, then what grave news is it that Odinn has received?” I ask, fearing the reply.
Baldr gives a haunted look. I see now that his eyes are not merely devoid of humor; they are almost blank.
“Did you not hear yourselves?” he asks. “The sky itself proclaimed it.”
Baldr clamps his mouth tight, as if unwilling to speak what must come next. I almost wish he would not, knowing it must be dire to have caused the cry which we heard.
Odinn's cry, I suddenly feel certain.
“My brother is dead,” Baldr declares. “Thor lies dead in Niflheim.”
For moments afterward, we all stand as silent as Gaeira. Then Baldr hangs his head, turns from us and makes his way into his father's hall, a hall of mourning.
We follow. The hall's edges are lined with Aesir. Baldr cleaves a path down the center, heading for the dais where I was first received by the All-Father. Odinn is there upon it now, on his knees with head low, eyes downcast, white beard dragging the floor. At his shoulder stands Baldr's brother and opposite, the dour, dark-eyed, one-handed Tyr.
“What business have they here, Baldr?” Tyr demands well before we reach the dais. “It is they who brought this bane upon us!”
“They bear yet more bad news,” Baldr returns dully. He completes his walk and mounts the dais alongside father and brother. Gaeira and I draw up in the space before it. “Deliver it,” he bids us. Or bids me, rather, for it is my voice that will have to serve.
“Gaeira and I are fresh from Vanaheim, where we encountered a creature of the Myriad. It rose up from—”
“One creature?” Tyr interjects. “Did you kill it, at least?”
“The death of one is meaningless,” I counter. “Time wasted which could be better spent bringing word of warning. We spied it near the cleft over which lies Alfheim. I recognized the place. It is the very one which Mimir's Well showed me. Even n
ow, a swarm might—”
“Even now, my brother lies slain!” Tyr speaks over me. “And I must wonder whether this enemy would not leave our realms entirely if we but gave it what it came for—you and your kind!”
“The Myriad exist to devour and annihilate! They care not who or what!” I say with conviction, and then imbue my voice with even greater force for my next words, which ring out over the hall full of Aesir: “This is no mere attack! This is Ragnarok!”
Tyr's white face goes red. He explodes with fury, “Interloper! You would dare to—”
“Oh, quiet, brother!” This from Baldr. “He is right. With Thor dead, Father's visions stand shattered. Ragnarok is here, brought by these creatures. If we hope to survive, we must—”
Before Baldr can finish, before Tyr even can cut him off, a low rumble fills the great hall. All eyes go to its source, the kneeling All-Father. Suddenly he rises, loosing an ear-splitting roar. Where his last cry was one of pain and anguish, this is a sound of purest rage, a battle-cry, a promise of vengeance. In its wake, all present fall to silence.
Odinn looks out over the assemblage with his single eye, fills his ancient lungs with air and bellows at all: “Leave!”
He need say no more. His word is law in all of Asgard, and in no place more than this hall. Within seconds, every Aesir present apart from Odinn's own sons are filing out. I am preparing to join them when Odinn speaks again.
“The Interloper will remain,” he says.
I halt in my tracks and turn to face him. His eye is not upon me, but staring out over the heads of the banished crowd. Gaeira has not been granted leave to remain, and so I share with her a brief look that no observer would presume to have conveyed a thing before we go our separate ways, I toward the dais and she with the throng of evacuating Aesir.
Minutes later, I stand alone before the All-Father and his two sons. Odinn looks at none of us, but at the empty space in front of him.
