The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  Oh, good. Gods can bend the laws of physics. That, I can accept. He paused. Let us go to the hangar, my love. I wish to meet the new arrivals.

  And so, the first faces that the refugees from Tawantinsuyu saw on L’banah were the current commander, a Hellene woman; her Judean executive officer; the Nipponese chief medical officer, and a fenris and jotun couple, staring at them inquisitively. “I don’t know where we’re going to put them all,” the Hellene commander said, sounding worried. “I don’t want to turn anyone away—” a sidelong glance at Mamaquilla indicated that the Hellene woman wasn’t sure she could turn any of them away, “but the CO2 scrubbers aren’t rated for the load, the gardens only produce so much food and oxygen, and we don’t have housing for a population increase of twenty-five percent. There are people on a waiting list just to have children!”

  I will help ensure that their needs are met, though they will need to employ themselves here, the exotically beautiful goddess said, and Larus’ fur stood on end at the sound of her voice. It was the rush of water over sand. I will begin by opening more of your tunnels. Where do you require them to be cut?

  Her humans turned towards her. “Goddess, will you not save the rest of our people?” they asked.

  Mamaquilla lowered her eyes. An efreet might be able to carry a house and thirty people through the Veil. The gods of Rome? Have exhausted themselves taking a city of two million people, Rome itself, into the Veil. I am more than an efreet, and less, alas, than the gods of Rome. What I can do . . . I have done. Silver tears fell from her eyes as she gestured to the box she’d brought with her, and at the humans around her. As you have brought with you that which you treasured—your loved ones, your children, a few possessions . . . so have I. I have brought you. And I have brought with me the hope that someday, my beloved Inti may return to me.

  Caesarius 28, 1999 AC

  So symbiotic was the relationship between mortal cultures and the gods they worshipped, that it was actually very hard to tell if the tradition among Goths and Gauls of feasting and drinking before a battle—and after, too, assuming that they won—had started among the mortals, and the gods reflected it, or if the gods had begun the habit, and the humans had adopted it. So now, Freya sick at heart as she left Tawantinsuyu behind, went with Sigrun and Sif out among their people, and provided extra food, all through Burgundoi. For most, it wasn’t a feast, but it was a help for people starving during the interminable Fimbulwinter. Bread, meat, apples, and honey-mead. And then the gods returned to Valhalla, to prepare for what they all knew would be the last battle for their people, one way or another.

  The great hall was lit by torches, rather than the usual beams of sunlight. The ruddy flames gave everything a different, more primitive gleam. The golden cups seemed more coppery, the meat and fowl on the boards more bronzed, and even the walls seemed heavier and darker. Freya had told Sigrun that her armored regalia was not appropriate, leaving her with the oddly feminine conundrum of having no idea what to wear. Sif, Thor’s wife, might have been a help, but Sigrun couldn’t say that she had exchanged more than three words with the goddess of hearth and home. And Freya only laughed and told her Dress as for your pyre! In death, men and gods face equal uncertainty. So we will feast together, and spite our fears. We will make merry, make amends, and then fight. If we live, we will rejoice. And if we die . . . Freya shrugged, and her eyes went distant. We will rejoice to meet death together, as well.

  Sigrun had never put thought into what she’d wear to her own funeral. Now, she found that she could only picture herself with flames licking at the black armor. Nith shook his massive head at her when she said so. You are more than just the armor. Just as you are more than the spear.

  She sighed, and looked down at her left hand. Her finger felt naked, and she kept catching sight of it, and wondering how she’d lost her wedding ring . . . only to remember why it wasn’t there. She’d meant the gesture to convey, If you choose this, you are choosing everything that is not me, and your own destruction. And yet, Adam had not called to her.

  Sigrun looked up at Nith now. I know that I am more than a weapon. I have heard this lesson for forty years. But I do not know who or what I am, when I am not being Sigrun Stormborn. When I try to be Sigrun Caetia . . . A flicker, and she wore laced jeans and a leather bodice once more . . . I apparently fail at the task of being myself. A faint smile of self-mockery. And if I arrive at the high table attired thus, Freya may have Loki dress me, instead. He will put pink ribbons in my hair, clothe me in matching lace, and then laugh.

  A fate not to be thought on, Nith agreed, solemnly. The dragon’s moonsilver eyes regarded her for a moment. Attire has never particularly been a concern for me. It is a very human thing. Most spirits do not even register such social niceties.

  Erida has mentioned that it took her years to convince Zhi that clothing does, in a manner, make the man. Sigrun sighed. She hadn’t had to fuss with any such things since . . . well, since before Livorus died. Once Minori and Lassair had been available to deal with aristocratic guests and to serve as the Praetorians’ eyes and ears within at social functions, Sigrun had given up dressing the part of Livorus’ mistress with quiet glee. Now, she sighed and created a mirror, which hovered in mid-air, and then glanced desultorily at herself.

  If I might suggest a memory of yours? Nith said, quietly, and an image formed in her mind. The black velvet bodice didn’t have straps; it was designed solely to go under the breasts, to support them, but not to conceal them, as her usual leather ones did. A filmy black shirt, with translucent sleeves and a high neck . . . but with a dagger-edged cut-out reaching her sternum. A black skirt, velvet to the knee, and translucent silk past that, to the heel. And boots, of course.

  Sigrun blinked, shrugged, and shifted her clothing on her form, until the image in her mind and the image in the mirror matched. I’ve never worn this before. This . . . was my mother’s . . . wait. The mirror in front of her wavered. Cracked. Shattered, but the glass vanished before it touched the floor. Memory came back to her. Medea catching her with her mother’s old clothing. Beating her for it, breaking the mirror. Borrowed feathers . . . I remember now. She was angry. She didn’t want to be a slave or a pedagogue. She didn’t want to be who and what she was. So she took it out on the only available target. Sigrun swallowed, horrified. Why have I never remembered this before?

  The mirror reformed in front of her. The woman in it didn’t look like a weapon. She looked like an acceptably attractive human woman of indeterminate age. Other than the sober black, however, the outfit unfortunately did not say warrior-goddess or death-goddess. And she had a reputation to maintain. Thus, she wrapped hematite, black-silver bracelets around her wrists, and added matching daggers to her boots, which she felt was an improvement. A translucent black shawl formed in her hand, which she pulled up and over her head like a cowl, before glancing up at Nith. For this occasion, he’d forced himself down to lindworm size again. I suppose I will have to insist that you eat and drink?

  I will partake, if I am invited to do so. That was a rumble of mild amusement.

  Sigrun feigned shock, and they paced into the main hall, with its flicker of torchlight on fine fabrics and metal. Sigrun took her seat, between Loki and Tyr . . . and Tyr pulled her cowl away from her face. No hiding on this night, daughter, he chided her, gently. We do not cower in the face of death. We rejoice.

  You may rejoice all that you wish, Loki returned, sardonically. I plan to resist it to the end.

  Thor and Baldur were recovering, and were thus not their usual selves, but laughter rang through the hall, loud and raucous, as the dwarves feasted at the low tables. Trenchers of meat were passed, though Sigrun could not have named one thing that she ate. Periodically, she filled a separate plate, and put it on the floor behind her for Nith, who had curled up behind her chair.

  Toasts were offered, and every time someone offered one, everyone had to drink. Sigrun’s head began to ring with it, though she couldn’t understand why;
this was just the raw power of the Veil, that she was ingesting in a metaphorical fashion. She shouldn’t be drunk. In fact, she’d never been inebriated in her life, though she recognized the state from descriptions she’d heard. Everything was distant, fuzzy, and her self-control seemed to be abysmal.

  Snatches of conversation. Events and people so long dead, that they were dust, their names unremembered by their own descendants Remember when Hardegon ate those mushrooms and thought he was a wolf? I wouldn’t have thought that eating those would prove so attractive to humans—

  You’re the one who told him to eat them, Loki! Freyr protested, laughing.

  Only because I thought it would be funny. And watching him stumble around, fall down on the floor of his longhouse, and bark like a dog was amusing. I just didn’t think they’d all start doing it, too!

  So then we had an entire tribe who thought they could turn into animals by eating fungus— Tyr noted.

  Odin fixed it. He told them it was symbolic, and to use it to initiate their young men as warriors. That, from Thor, down the table, where Sif leaned on his shoulder.

  Loki cackled to himself. You have to admit, it was entertaining.

  Until we had the Harii painting themselves black and wearing animal pelts to attack other tribes by night, Tyr said, pointedly.

  That was a perfectly valid tactic. I believe this is called ‘guerilla warfare’ today. They were too small a tribe to engage in stand-up combat, beating each other’s teeth in. Loki grinned wickedly. And do you know what the difference between an honorable and well-thought-out surprise attack and a dishonorable stratagem used only by cowards really is?

  The voices had all paused, and everyone looked at Loki now as he sipped from his cup nonchalantly, and then answered his own question. Who’s describing it. The one who used it, or the people on whom it was used.

  Sigrun found that depressingly accurate.

  The stories started again. Apparently, the Harii’s tendency to dress as animals, paint themselves black, and attack by night, had started the legend of the Wild Hunt. And then the other tribes started re-enacting it, and it spread all the way to Britannia! They’d collect black horses, and ride by night through the woods to initiate young warriors, or frighten off invaders with the idea of spirits that couldn’t be controlled, summoned, or bound. Invincible, and invisible by day, seeking out those who had wronged the local populace by night. It made a number of Roman garrisons highly uneasy, and let the people oust unpopular leaders. And they thought of it themselves . . . . Freya’s tone held wonder.

  Odin nodded. And later generations didn’t know it was just real men. They elevated it to mythology. I would not have been surprised if sprits entered the world at some point, to take over the roles. There was enough belief that they could have . . . .

  Names flew by. Harthacnut, Thryd, Sigrud, Ragnar, Leofric. Do you remember when Imair finally caught Ælla, who had murdered his father and brothers? Thor asked.

  Tyr nodded. He captured him, and ordered his men to carve the blood-eagle on his back. In its oldest form.

  The oldest form had been a torturous means of execution, reserved for those who had broken kin-bonds and oaths. The back had been flayed open to expose the ribs, the ribs themselves shattered and pulled outwards, and the lungs pulled out through the wound, to create the appearance of wings. If someone didn’t die of the blood-loss or shock, immediately, they would certainly have died of suffocation very shortly thereafter. It had been the justice of its time, and Imair would probably have said, were he alive today, Ælla tortured and killed my entire family. I see nothing wrong in doing the same to him.

  In the main, Sigrun agreed. She had seen men executed on the sands of a Roman arena, and even slain by lions. She’d executed a few murderers, herself, but she prided herself on the deaths being clean and swift. Justice, for her, was about three things: punishing the guilty, ensuring that the crime could never be repeated, and deterring others from doing the same thing. But as the others spoke, she could see what they had seen, and she covered her eyes for a moment, wanting to weep for what her people had been. And wondered if humanity was really any better now, than it had been a thousand years before.

  The practice of the blood-eagle had changed over the centuries, of course. An overthrown king of Cimbri, in Europa, had had this punishment enacted on him. And his son, who had also been captured, was held down by four men, as the usurper, rather than executing him, cut the symbol of an eagle with outstretched wings across the young man’s back. As a reminder of what would happen to him, if he rebelled against the new king.

  The son fled, a few years later, with a handful of warriors. And every one of his men cut the symbol of the eagle into their own backs, as a symbol of loyalty, solidarity, and rebellion. Within ten years, they’d retaken the kingdom. And every ‘king’s man’ in the country, from that time on, wore the symbol. They carried it across the ocean to Cimbri-on-the-Caestus, which had been settled by that point. She’d personally seen dozens of young men on hot summer days in Cimbri, shirts off, with the scars on their backs; her own father had worn it, himself. It meant different things, now; Novo Germania had no more kings. It could mean, as in her father’s case, that he descended from one of the long-dead Kingsmen, and wished to show pride in his heritage. For others, it meant that a young man had entered military service, and wished to show his ability to endure pain; to this day, the marking still involved the use of a sharp, sterile knife.

  More toasts. More food, more drinking. And finally, Odin stood, and said, I have not heard a good flyting in some time. Loki, will you oblige us?

  Laughter, jeers, and cheers, all at once, and the dwarves at the low tables pounded their cups on the wooden surfaces. Loki stood, and threw a haunch of meat from the table to Fenris, who lounged by the fire, with Ciele, Njord’s daughter, who’d fallen asleep on the wolf’s fur.

  I fear there’s little enough to amuse, about the end of all things, Baldur said, needling Loki.

  Oh, but we’ll laugh in death’s face, and be done before the clock rings, Loki shot back, immediately, and then waved it off. Let me see . . . He rubbed at his chin, theatrically. Short of women, is this fair company, for here I may count only three. Freya most fair, Sif steadfast and true, and Sigrun, death-cold maid of darkness. If the world is to end at the cock’s crow, some here, their cocks will need to throw . . . away, that is. He grinned at them all. Njord, perhaps? Already a mother, my brother, and without a husband—what a low-class lass you will be!

  The flyt skated right on the edge of what was acceptable; the wound of Skadi’s death was fresh for Njord, but that wasn’t the focus of Loki’s words. And while they were all spirits, and thus, gender for them was more or less a matter of how they had been shaped by human belief . . . they were also all shaped by their mortals’ cultural norms. The flyt called Njord’s masculinity into question, since he’d birthed Skadi’s essence into their daughter, Ciele . . . but flyting required a balance between participants. The person baiting the other couldn’t be excessive, and the person receiving the flyt couldn’t take it too personally. A flyt judged to be too cruel, or inelegant, was scorned by the audience. And the person who took offense at a well-made flyt, and started a real fight, was judged incapable of taking a joke, and perhaps antisocial.

  As such, laughter rang out as Njord gave Loki a look, and made a rude gesture in the trickster’s general direction. Take the female part yourself, trickster god, and then we might you for your wits much laud. Four children have you birthed of essence bright, but I don’t see Fritti playing with your breasts tonight!

  Sigrun choked on her mead and Thor roared with laughter, pounding on the table with one fist, making the entire surface jump. Loki sighed elaborately, and admitted, examining the nails of one hand, Of all the disappointments I could face, all the things with which I could be abased, that my mortal lover cannot understand, that she cannot see me as anything but a man? I am content—it hardly seems a flaw. He turned, and grinned a
t Tyr now. Now, Tyr, perhaps you should volunteer, and drop something other than a hand into Fenris’ maw.

  No, thank you, called Fenris, over the shouts of laughter. I have already supped.

  On and on it went. Loki played out elaborate fantasies of how any gods who survived the coming battle would need to re-populate the earth. Njord and Baldur would need to become female—Loki’s hand gestures gave dimensions for their new attributes that would have made them topple to the ground, if they were to take so much as a step. Njord would, in Loki’s estimation, have to marry Tyr to give Ciele a proper father-figure, and Baldur would have to get used to being mounted by Fenris, as the poor wolf had no mate, and as the guardian of Valhalla in their absence for the great battle, would surely survive, and be the new king of the gods. Freyr and Freya, brother and sister, though spirits, would need to join their essences and make new gods. Thor’s ghost would have to just grit its teeth and endure as Sif became a fertility goddess, and married Quetzalcoatl. And why should she not find him fair? He has so many feathers with which to deck her golden hair!