Sigrun tried to let all of them in the room—even Minori—see that all. To make of herself a book, as she had in Fennmark, when she’d told Lassair and Saraid that they would need to build a switch to let Ima change between jotun and fenris forms. But this time, she was not offering them Freya’s knowledge. Just her own.
Saraid, by contrast, was peaceful and war-like by turns. She was dedicated, and had been, for millennia, to her forest and to the people who dwelled in and beside it. She’d loved Trennus since he was young, had remained quietly, steadily devoted to him. She’d guarded, guided, shaped, and protected him, and when she’d been given the opportunity to share more with him than just her power, she had accepted it, with a quiet sort of delight that moved Sigrun, deeply. She walked the worlds at his side, hunted prey through the Veil, let him rest in the Veil, and gave of herself, with patience and with love. She had, thus far, four children, all of whom Sigrun had helped train, and she’d been shaped by her association with the fenris. She’d taken on wolf-like aspects, including, Sigrun suspected, the wolfish habit of mating for life.
And while Saraid clearly adored her children, and Trennus, much of the last nineteen years, she had been away from them. As much as, if not more, than Sigrun herself. Oh, travel time was diminished for the spirit, and she was never further away than a whisper of her Name, but Saraid had dedicated herself to finding the lost ones of the fenris. Reclaiming their minds, and bringing them out of darkness. Restoring the harpies and the centaurs and the dryads of Hellas to sanity. She’d been fulfilling her oath to Loki, and more; she genuinely saw a need to aid these people, and she was in a position to do it. They were wild things now, they were of her, and thus, they were hers, and she was theirs. Life as service. Life as sacrifice. Saraid had given up the chance to see her own children, the chance to spend time with the human male she loved, because she could help these others. And because it was the right thing to do.
A whisper of a memory that wasn’t hers, one flowing out of Saraid now, knitting and binding together with Sigrun’s own thoughts.
Trennus laughed. I have Lassair. How can any man want more?
Lassair is a wondrous creature. Infinite in forms. Beautiful in spirit. Generous in her power. Saraid acknowledged it all, simply. But very demanding, in her way. You are her conduit, dear one. You know this.
Trennus looked away. The children connect her, too, he said, after a moment. But they bind her to the mortal realm. I bind her . . . here. Better me, than them.
Sigrun sighed. And there it was. The difference between the two loves was simple. Saraid gave as much back to Trennus, as she took. They abided. They endured. Lassair was fire. Whether she wished to or not, she devoured and burned. Oh, she was the fire of creation, and there was no denying that. She gave passion and created life. But passion, in Sigrun’s opinion, couldn’t sustain itself. It was something that complimented a marriage. But it needed fuel on which to feed—love, companionship, intimacy, engagement. Saraid, in offering herself to become a part of their love, had become fuel for the fire, too. In fact, if she hadn’t? Sigrun suspected that Trennus’ love for Lassair would have burned out entirely, years ago, leaving only duty.
Sigrun looked up, and spoke her first words in ten full minutes. “Lassair? You know that I hold you in affection, but you and I are very different people. You . . . throw yourself into everything that you do. You are a hedonist. You play your role at any given moment, to the hilt, and with tremendous enjoyment. Verve, even.” Sigrun smiled faintly. “I sometimes envy you your life, your liveliness. But I am not like you, and that colors my judgment. But there is something else here to consider, beyond everything I have shown you so far.”
Lassair had pulled her knees up to her chest, and she looked pale. Even her red hair looked wan. And that is? she asked, lifelessly, and Sigrun felt a twinge of sorrow. I really am death, Sigrun thought, bitterly, if I can drain the affect from her so utterly, and just with memory’s sting.
She exhaled, and tried to shape it all with words. “You have had an opportunity for years, Lassair, that most mortal women wish they had. You actually can divide yourself. You really can have it all. You could be the perfect devoted mother, at the same time as being the perfect, passionate, intimate companion, and be both at the same time as pursuing your own interests, your own life. You could and did have everything.” Sigrun shielded, carefully, the thought that she and Adam had wound up helping to raise Lassair’s children as a result. It was currently irrelevant to the case at hand. “Trennus once told me that you compared yourself to the lilitu of the deserts, like Sargon of Akkad’s supposed mother. You told him that they were nature spirits when he said that they were rumored to be maleficent. And you reminded him that every fertility spirit that has ever existed from the lilitu, to Tlaloc, to . . . you, yourself . . . is intimately connected with both life and death. No life without death. No death without life."
Silence in the room, but Lassair nodded. Saraid lifted her head. This is true. It is true even of me. Her eyes flicked towards Minori, who still stood behind Sigrun, and she said nothing more.
“What did you choose to do with your time, Lassair? What were your pursuits outside of being mother and wife?” Sigrun phrased it gently.
Lassair’s head raised, puzzled. I helped birthing mothers. Hundreds of them. I ensured that the life-essence of their children was not tangled. No birth deformities. I healed them, so that they would recover quickly from the births, and made the birth-pangs into joy. I made the gardens of the city bloom, because it pleased me to see life. And I created little sparks, myself, because . . . I could. And I never had before.
Sigrun closed her eyes against the first prickles of freezing tears. "Those aren't bad things, Lassair,” she whispered. “And you helped us fight Hel, and helped with the fenris and the first jotun, and you helped Minori go to Kanmi, and helped fight Baal-Hamon. All good things." She exhaled. "But . . . while you've been concentrating on life, you left out death. And as I have been . . . forcibly reminded of late . . . spirits and gods are shaped by those who believe in them.”
I do not ask for belief! I only ask for love! Love is stronger—
“And who loves you, Lassair? Who sees you?” Sigrun pushed back gently. Not with the force of an ælagol, and not with the force Prometheus had used on her. Lassair could have endured that kind of force, but Sigrun would never have forgiven herself for employing it. “Trennus gave you passion, and you were passion before you came to him, but who else sees you with the eyes of a lover? Saraid loves you more as a sister, does she not? Kanmi is—forgive me Min—” Sigrun twisted to look over her shoulder at the sorceress, and got a little, fragile nod, as well as an awed, confused look. “Kanmi isn’t with us anymore, but while he certainly looked, I doubt he would ever have touched. Adam is growing older, and while the . . .” She looked away, and bit her tongue. The spirit is willing. The flesh far less so. She amended her words. “And he, too, may have looked, but wouldn’t give you passion even when you offered it to him, gift-wrapped in my guise with the offer of children.” Sigrun swallowed. “The people who see you, who love you? Are your children. And they see you as children always see their mother. The giver of all, the wisest, smartest, and most beautiful woman on earth when they’re young. And when they are grown? Someone to be loved, certainly, who might know a thing or two, but it’s time to stand on their own, and you are just their mother, after all.” Sigrun smiled, faintly. “The women whose birthings you have attended? Their children, grown to health? They see a mother, and not a lover, Lassair. Not the phoenix in her glory, her talons and beak red with the blood of her foes. You’ve been shaped. Just as Saraid has been shaped by the fenris, the harpies, the centaurs, and the jotun. She is wilder and stronger and fiercer now, and you have become . . . the fire of the hearth, and not the bonfire under the moon.”
Lassair’s lovely mouth dropped open, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Sigrun couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the spirit weep,
and despised herself, all over again. Is it wrong to want to help people? Lassair asked.
“Of course not,” Minori said, suddenly, bracingly, and stepped forwards, putting a hand on the post of the bed. “But you have concentrated, very strongly, on only one aspect of yourself, and for many years. You are in danger of the rest dwindling. Now, you must decide for yourself, for no one else can, who, precisely, you wish to be. It is no bad thing, to be the fire of the hearth. It is no crime to be the mother. But you took your sister aspects into yourself, at least their poor Names, when their essences were torn asunder, long ago. You were the eldest then, the essence of spring, and a maiden. The mother and the youngest and coldest, who was death, joined with you, and you were three-in-one. And now, you are the mother, and they are shadows within you.”
That wasn’t Min’s voice. It was definitely Amaterasu’s, and Sigrun shuddered at hearing it.
But I am more than that!
Sigrun stared at the floor. “Freya told me not long ago, that I must shape myself, or others will shape me,” she said, her heart empty. “Shape yourself, Lassair. Make yourself who you wish to be. There isn’t anyone here who wouldn’t help you—even Trennus would, and you know it. His greatest wish has always been to see you free, and happy.” Sigrun’s stomach roiled a little. “And today, in giving him up? It was the most unselfish thing I have ever seen you do, Lassair. It gives me hope for you.” She stood. Reached down, and put her hand once more on Trennus’ shoulder. Wake up, my dear friend. Come back. I swear, the hurt you fear to see will not be so bad.
A distant thought touched hers. Sigrun?
Saraid is waiting for you. Lassair has freed you. She knows you will always love her, but that she has bound you . . . a little too tightly, and bound herself in so doing. There will be changes. And while there may never be an end to duty for people like you and me, Tren, you may at least also know peace.
You . . . explained everything to her? A wordless rush of consternation.
I would not have intruded, but she asked. I think she sees herself now, as others see her. It’s a hard thing, Trennus. As I know all too well.
Gratitude. Affection. Friendship. The gentle love he’d always borne her, and that Sigrun had always returned. Thank you, my friend. Thank you for . . . your honesty.
How could I do anything less for you? Her eyes prickled with tears, and her throat was tight.
Trennus’ eyes snapped open. For the first time in over thirty years, the blue wasn’t that of the innermost heart of a candle’s flame. They were, instead his old, human blue. Steady, calm, and true, but with a lot more wisdom there, and weariness, than the last time Sigrun had seen them that shade. He tried to sit up, evidently disoriented. “I’m not sure what part of the afterlife I’m in,” he said, after a moment. “Is this the place of reward or the place of punishment?” It was clearly an attempt at a joke. “Either way, I didn’t think I rated three queens to see me to my rest.” He pulled Saraid’s fingers to his lips, and Sigrun could see new tattoos incising themselves, slowly, in blue-green, on his wrists. Wyrms. The mark of a king, or a druid dedicated to Taranis or Cernunnos. His gaze shifted to Lassair. “Fire-heart . . . I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
I think it is possible that Stormborn is correct. I throw myself into every role. Lassair’s tone was melancholy. And then I careen on, without restraint. If I am to regain these other parts of myself, I will need to do other things for a time . . . .
Sigrun leaned down and gave Trennus a quick kiss on the forehead. “Try not to scare us all like this again,” she told him, quietly, and moved away. “I’ll give you all some space,” she added, slipping out the door, but paused there, raising her eyebrows, “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but given that you have all rearranged the geography around here? You may need to make your life-decisions later.” The ten minutes she’d been in their bedroom had felt like an eternity, and now she felt, more than ever, like an intruder. And there were tugs at her consciousness from Valhalla. The Morrigan had arrived on their doorstep, and was demanding to speak to Odin, apparently. “If any of you have need of me, call.”
Minori’s hand caught her arm, however, and the other woman followed her out into the rest of the house. “Sigrun,” she whispered, as the door closed behind them. “What’s happened to you? Amaterasu says you have . . . accepted yourself, in part, and ascended?” Min shook her head rapidly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Hurt in her voice, a small preview of what Sigrun could expect from Adam, if Adam ever realized what she was.
Sigrun swallowed. “I’m sorry, Minori. I have not yet found the time to visit with you. I wished to . . . ask you if I could serve some manner of apprenticeship with you. Or at least, if you do not find it presumptuous, that we could . . . discuss the skills you have used for so many years.”
“Sig-chan—”
Looking down at the staggered expression on Minori’s face, Sigrun hastened to add, “I have always been able to use wind, for example, but I have difficulty understanding how to employ them as a shield, or as a true weapon, as you do, and—”
“Sig-chan! You’re a kami!”
“Shh!” Sigrun waved at her frantically. “Technically, so are you—”
“Oh, no. I’m just an avatar.” Minori’s smile widened. “The fringe benefits are lovely, and I don’t mind being younger at all, but . . . Sigrun . . . .” Her smile faded. “Does Adam know?”
Sigrun shook her head, silently. “No. And I must beg you not to tell him.”
Minori sighed. “I detest secrets, Sigrun. Too many people are asking me to keep them of late.”
Sigrun’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t have time to pursue it. The command to return to Valhalla resonated urgently in her consciousness. “I must go,” she said, quietly. “We’ll talk when I get back. I promise.” She headed for the living room, near the back door, where Nith was currently covered in Matrugena children, to the dragon’s evident disbelief. “Min. One thing.”
“What is it?”
“Lassair will be looking for an anchor.” Sigrun didn’t even know how to put it into words, and struggled.
Minori’s lips curled up. “My plate is full, Sig-chan.” She paused. “Fritti once came to me and told me something Loki had told her . . . .”
“. . . that god-born wrap themselves around some moment of crisis or pain, and forge their whole identity around it, never changing, in all their long lives?” Sigrun shrugged.
“That was it, yes. I thought it was apt.” Minori folded her hands in front of her. “Is that true of you?”
Sigrun sighed. “My moment of crisis hasn’t happened yet,” she told Minori, and looked at the floor. “But I’ve shaped my life, knowing that it’s coming, for decades now.”
“The end of the world?”
Sigrun shook her head, faintly. “Knowing that Adam . . .” Will die. Will choose to die. “I always swore that I would not outlive him.”
Minori’s eyebrows went up. “Sig-chan. . . no. None of you would permit me to kill myself after Kanmi—”
“I seem to remember defending it as your right,” Sigrun said, quietly, and looked at the floor. “That being said. . . I am glad you are still with us, Min. I envy your strength. And I hope I have a little of yours, when the time does come. Because . . .” She swallowed. She’d only had a month as an entity. And while she still didn’t want to accept any of it, the fact remained that more people relied on her than ever before. Niðhoggr. The jotun. The fenris. Adam. Trennus. Saraid. The children. Rig. Maccis, off as a hostage to Fenris himself. The nieten. Sophia. Nikolaos, the centaur who had come to her door on Aprilis 10, the anniversary of Sophia’s attack, and left candles burning on the step, much to Adam’s confusion. And of course, as Nith had pointed out . . . if she died in the mortal realm, there was a significant chance that her death could mean destruction for hundreds of thousands of humans. “Because I’ll have no choice but to endure.”
Minori’s smile was bittersweet. “You put one
foot ahead of the other, Sig-chan,” she said, quietly, and wrapped an arm around the taller woman’s waist. “You keep walking, until you look up one day, and you realize that you can live again. In my case . . . at least I’m never alone. And I have the hope of bringing him home.”
Sigrun nodded, and began extricating Nith from the children. “I hope you do, Minori. I miss the jokes. I miss the lack of reverence. I miss . . . knowing he that wouldn’t take shit from anyone.” She smiled faintly. “Not even me.” She retrieved the satchel from Nith’s shoulder, and offered it back to Min. “Could you return the contents back to Ima, before they hatch? Lindworm eggs. They need to be kept at least at seventy degrees, and turned four times a day.”
And then she was out the door, and off to her next crisis.
Migration of Caledonia, 1992 AC.
Chapter 4: Catchment
One of the things I find fascinating about human technological advancement is the development of mechanisms intended to control the environment by changing variables. In snowy, mountainous areas, for example, people have noticed that certain slopes, because of their pitch, are more avalanche-prone than others. There are a number of active and passive solutions used to reduce the chances of disaster. Active methods include experienced skiers cutting down slopes covered in virgin powder, causing numerous small slides, as opposed to one large, destructive one. Mechanical methods include grooming the snow with machines that reduce all of it to the same uniform consistency. I imagine the latter approach as a layered cake, held on a plate while subjected to the vibrations of driving in a motorcar. If someone has layered pudding between layers of cake, the layers will slide and fall off the plate. If all the layers are the same consistency, weight, and material, it is less likely to topple over and land on one’s feet.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 24
