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

by Deborah Davitt

  But no matter how much the gods laughed, Sigrun couldn’t help but notice what Loki didn’t say. Odin received no flyt that spoke of the future. Neither did Heimdall. And neither did she. Every so often, the laughter faded out, revealing the taut nerves that hid beneath, the raw fear that they all felt. And Sigrun felt oddly . . . connected . . . to all of them. Not the constant rush of words that she could hear, when she was in the world, which she could pay attention to, or not, when she needed counsel, or had information to relay. She felt . . . bound to them. In the best possible way. They were as open to her now, as she was to them. She could see their vulnerabilities, their fears, their joys, their sorrows. And she felt deeply privileged to be permitted this insight.

  And she also wished, deeply, that she could go home to Judea. And share one last meal with the people with whom she’d shared her life for forty years and more. Adam, Kanmi, Trennus, Minori, Lassair, Saraid, and all the children. But she could not. She’d said her farewells. Going back for another round of them would be . . . weakness. If she returned, either victorious or defeated, after the coming battle, it would be soon enough.

  What, no flyt for Niðhoggr? Thor gibed Loki now. Nepotism, I see.

  Have you ever tried to rhyme ‘Niðhoggr’ with anything? Loki returned, his smile razor-edged. Come, thunderer! If you can flyt at the dragon, I cede you the floor!

  Sigrun felt Nith roll up behind her in a rustle of scales, and his head now loomed over her, his eyes locked on Thor in interest.

  There was a long pause, as Thor considered it, his brows knotting in intense concentration. Your mother was an itch we could not scratch, but in you she met her match . . . no . . . .

  You could tell him that his mother was fat, Freyr offered, from across the table, as Thor’s brows knitted further. I believe that is traditional in these days, since plumpness has gone out of style.

  You might think about the possibilities of words that also rhyme with ‘itch,’ Njord counseled, and then gave Loki a quick look. No offense intended, Loki.

  No, no, Thor said, waving a hand distractedly. That would make the dragon the son of an itch, and that doesn’t work at all . . . .

  Sigrun couldn’t help it. She put her head down on the table and started to laugh, hearing Nith’s disgruntled rumble from over her head. I am certain that others should have a turn first, Nith said. Heimdall, for instance.

  Not even I can come up with anything for Heimdall, Loki said, dismissively. He guards a gate, he holds a door, and every so often, we hear a snore. From us, you understand, and yes, from you; his company is that boring, ‘tis true. Heimdall made a rude noise, and the others all laughed. Loki’s grin turned vicious. I yet await your flyt, thunderer.

  It’s hard to mock the one you cannot shock. If you’re free from any want, you’re certainly hard to taunt. Thor’s head came up, his blue eyes moving from side to side, and added, But he who has no desires, cannot aspire.

  The dragon’s head remained steady over Sigrun’s own, like a mountainside. And she saw the mouth open, exposing the diamond fangs. Well-said, thunderer. But desire is a fire which consumes, and what it most loves, it dooms. His looming presence receded, and he settled back on the floor again. Sigrun looked back over her shoulder in concern, but Nith’s eyes remained on the company. He was pulling back to observe, not out of ire.

  The gods proposed several more toasts, and Freya walked around the table, offering each entity present an apple, as Loki resumed his seat beside Sigrun. Daring a little, Sigrun leaned to her left and whispered, I understand why you have chosen not to flyt with Odin. Jesting about the death of your liege would be poor taste. But if all others here have been tested with the edge of your tongue, why have you not tested me? She looked up at him. Am I such poor sport?

  Loki shook his head, then and leaned in close, his words a mere whisper in her mind. No, daughter. It is because your heart is too fragile yet for such. There is no target I could aim at, that would not make you bleed. And such is not the point of flyting. Flyting overturns the social order, but also reaffirms it. How can I make you one with us, by cutting you asunder with my words?

  Sigrun went still as Freya came closer with her basket. I do not like to think of myself as fragile.

  You are not, except for your heart. Which is made of glass. Loki leaned forwards, and kissed her forehead, gently. In spite of her dizziness, Sigrun felt a chill go through her, as it once had, when he’d spilled a drink on her at her wedding. That is not a bad thing. It is what makes you human, and keeps you that way. Be well, Naglfar. He pulled back, and accepted an apple from Freya, and, out of reflex, Sigrun took two, one for herself, and then tossed the other one back to Nith, who caught it out of the air in his mouth.

  As she held it in her hand, Freya leaned in, and gave her a kiss on the forehead, and Sigrun felt warmth flow through her, replacing the chill of Loki’s touch. Eat, and be renewed, Freya told her, kindly. Everyone must change to grow. Everything must change, to endure.

  Sigrun blinked, and bit into the apple. When she ate of the ones from her own tree, she usually remembered things long forgotten. Warm summer evenings beside Lake Caestus. Floating just before exhausted sleep in her room in the Odinhall. Teaching young Sophia how to paint. Adam’s laugh, as he threw Trennus on the mats. Trennus, tossing Latirian lightly into the air, to make his daughter laugh. Kanmi, a book in his hand, with his cynical grin and some acerbic comment on human nature. Minori, putting a hand on his shoulder to tell him that the world wasn’t as bad as he thought it was. Livorus, leaning back in his chair, and steepling his fingers in front of him, smiling faintly at something someone had said.

  And so it was again, but much more powerfully than Sigrun had ever experienced it before. Her father, young and then old. Her mother, dying in the hospital. Medea. Sophia, at first a laughing child, and then the twisted, broken creature that prophecy had made of her, finally escaping the trap of the future by her own hand. Fly free, Sigrun told her sister’s spirit, softly. Fly free of wyrd, and don’t look back. Erikir. Reginleif, an egg in a sling around her body, to keep it warm, while Brandr ran a hand over her long black hair, looking nervous and awestruck at once. Cunomorinus Villu, her Gallic partner before Adam. Zoskales Ezana, the Nubian sorcerer. Ptah-ases. Ehecatl. Adam. Frittigil Chatti. Adam. His parents. His stubborn brother, his giving sisters. Laughing Lassair, caught as a young woman forever, finally growing up. Saraid. All of Trennus’ children. Rig, once the child with the wonderful illusions, the gift of pure imagination, now the warrior with the silver hand. Solinus. Masako. Inghean. Their children. Maccis and Zaya, laughing children, but now Maccis had been beaten into a tired soldier, and Zaya was locked in a library somewhere, trying to worm out the secrets that would save the world.

  All the faces of her human life passed in front of her, and Sigrun felt tears creep into her eyes. It hardly seemed fair. All the ones who had already died. All the ones who had sacrificed their lives, or who were . . . tired. Beaten. Worn down.

  And then things began to flit across her mind that she didn’t really remember. Pre-memories that were false. Fighting house-to-house in Tyre and Athar, with jotun and fenris by her side, and young Maccis, Solinus, and Rig ranging through the buildings around her, their lindworm mounts on the roofs overhead, waiting for them to come back out. It had never happened, but there the memories were. And she remembered, with terrible clarity, standing in the ruins of Burgundoi’s harbor, trying to heal Nith. His wings had been perforated by missiles. His scales crisped with fire, and the buildings behind him . . . vaporized . . . someone used the hydrogen spell here . . . You have to go to the Veil, Nith. You have to go there, and heal. And all he did, was lift his head, and stare at her, his eyes full of mute suffering. No words.

  Sigrun pulled herself out of the memories, if memories they were, with an effort. Freya had moved down the table, and finished handing out the apples. Her sense of intoxication remained, but had abated a bit. Enough for her to realize that the apples weren’t
just gifts of memory today, but of renewal and wisdom. Because for something new to begin, something else had to end. Like the phoenix, a life had to end, to begin the cycle anew.

  She could not go back to Judea as Sigrun Caetia. She had to say farewell. Not to the people in her life, not entirely. They would always have a place in her heart, and she would always be there for them. But she had to say farewell to herself. She had to be ready to die in battle. She had to be ready to live.

  Either way, she had to let go.

  One by one, the gods all said their farewells to one another. Most with a bluff heartiness that concealed real emotion. Exchanged wrist-clasps, or embraces. Tyr put his arms around Sigrun, and kissed her forehead, lightly stroking her hair. Daughter of mine. I am very proud of you. I wish my beloved Solveig had lived long enough to meet you. Another light jolt of warmth, and Sigrun’s head swam once more. Heimdall clasped her hand, and warmth spread up from her fingers into her arm, with a prickle. Sif put a hand on Sigrun’s forehead, her heart, then on her waist. A three-fold blessing, but again, with a jolt of warmth. Thor’s slap on her back almost knocked her over, and Njord caught her and helped her back to her feet again. Baldur whispered in her ear, I never blamed you for Fritti’s disappearance . . . and she has turned out stronger and better for our lack of interference in her life.

  It felt like a dream. Like some strange childhood fancy come to life. The more so, when Odin beckoned her over, and pointed to the ravens perched on his chair. One of these must go with you into battle. Do you choose Thought, or Memory?

  Sigrun hesitated. This felt like a test. It also seemed singularly odd that one of Odin’s own ravens should go with her. She didn’t warrant it. But not to choose was also a choice, and false modesty was . . . unbecoming. No hiding. Not here. Not today. She lifted her head. Huginn, she said. Thought. I have a lifetime of memories, and they will always shape me. But on the battlefield, memory and regret are a chain, when I must be light and unfettered.

  Odin smiled, and Huginn fluttered over, and landed on her shoulder. She gave the bird a cautious glance, to verify that it did, indeed, have two good eyes, and bowed to Odin, before turning to leave for the room that had been given to her for her stay in Valhalla. No one was leaving for their own realms this day. When they all left, they would all ride out together. And meet the end.

  Her chamber in Valhalla had been Hel’s, once. Freya had courteously modernized the décor somewhat, so there were no rushes on a hard-packed dirt floor, but a wooden one that clicked under Sigrun’s heels, clean and polished. There was a door into a hygiene area, if Sigrun happened to feel a need to bathe in warm water. This was as modern as imagination could make it, and wouldn’t have been out of place in a fine Roman villa. The rest was a hodgepodge of random eras and styles. As such, the bed was a nest of thick, dark furs, spread over what smelled like resinous, fresh-cut pine boughs in the corner of the room. That area was paneled off from the rest of the chamber by thick tapestries, suspended on ropes to retain heat. Sigrun eyed the tapestries uneasily. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a record of battles and plagues there. But there were none. The patterns were purely geometric.

  There was a single straight-backed chair by the room’s fireplace. No pictures, no books, no ornaments, no desk, no clocks. Hel hadn’t been much of one for decoration, apparently.

  Sigrun sat down by the fire, feeling dizzy and yet incredibly clear-headed at the same time. She watched as the raven that had ridden her shoulder fluttered over to perch on the mantelpiece. How am I supposed to sleep before this battle? she thought, and glanced at the bed, wondering if the furs were ones that Hel had slept in. If the dead goddess’ scent or aura somehow lingered. But it was a passing thought, and it burned away in the heady clarity that she currently felt.

  There was a tentative scratch at the door, and when she answered it, she wasn’t entirely surprised to see Niðhoggr. The hall outside the chamber was cavernous enough to accommodate his true form, and the massive head, longer than she was tall, dipped down to let her see his moonfire eyes. Sigrun Stormborn, he said, with an odd, tentative formality. You are well after the feast?

  Sigrun considered that for a moment. Then nodded. Yes. I am better at this moment, than I have been in years. She looked up at her friend. I have no future. I have no past. There is nothing but this moment. And it is glorious. I can’t remember the last time I felt . . . this free. She glanced behind her. Would you like to come in? I know that these rooms may disturb you . . . .

  Nith hesitated. He should have found a corner of an abandoned hall, and waited until the horns blew, calling them all to duty. He shouldn’t have come to her door, and he certainly shouldn’t speak the words that his heart demanded that he give voice. Right now, her heart was glass-fragile, and the weight of any words he spoke could shatter her. And in spite of what had passed between her and Steelsoul, which Nith had been unable to ignore . . . it seemed entirely likely that if Steelsoul recanted, if he did not turn himself into the enemy of the gods, that Sigrun would forgive the human, and take him back to her heart. I should not be here.

  And yet, her expression was calm, with none of the sorrow he’d come to expect in her eyes. And her words took shape in his mind, and gave him hope. She is . . . unbound. She unbinds herself.

  Nith took lindworm size, and padded inside, looking around, curiously. He couldn’t remember ever being past the door. My progenitor did not bring me to Valhalla until I was fully formed into the weapon she wished me to be. I was usually housed in the stables, beside Sleipnir, if she intended to stay for long, or enjoined to guard the corridor outside this door. Nith studied the room, feeling uneasy. He’d always taken pains to avoid Sigrun’s chambers in the castle that served as her realm, except when she was wounded. However, these rooms . . . weren’t her space, not really. It was foolish to feel an intruder. I cannot smell her scent. There are no memories here, to haunt me. He lowered his head My lady . . . His voice was troubled.

  Sigrun laid a hand on his muzzle. He could barely feel the gesture. What is it?

  His exhalation carried frost with it, and a hint of frustration. Words were a terrible burden. He’d been denied them for so long, and now they seemed as dangerous a weapon as a sword or a gun. I will very likely die tomorrow, Stormborn. If not on the morrow, then in the coming battle. I have pre-remembered this before. I have told you . . . .

  You told me that you thought you might escape that fate. Her tone was gentle.

  His wings dipped. Some things are different from pre-memory. Many are the same. Just enough that I am prepared, if it is the end. I saw many things when I tasted of Freya’s apple today . . . . It was true. He’d seen his own death, again. Unable to speak to her. Unable to say the words he needed her to hear, before the end. He couldn’t let that happen. If he were somehow struck mute, if he somehow died without being able to say this . . . it would have been a waste of the last thirty years. And while he had existed for two millennia, he could not, in honesty, say that he had lived until she had entered his life, and given him his freedom. He had to honor that. Cleave to that.

  If only he could find the damned words.

  Sigrun’s eyes stung. You are not going to die, my friend. I saw your wings cut apart. I saw your flesh charred. But you were alive, when I saw you, though you did not speak to me. Perhaps you blamed me. But I . . . the Veil opened . . . and you went through. I’m sure of that much. She leaned forwards, pressing her face against his muzzle, and let the frozen tears fall. I have always wondered what Sophia felt, with her prophecies pressing in on her. And only now do I realize that I have lived with the weight of her vision all my life. She turned her head a little to look into one huge eye. And yet, I spoke the truth earlier. I do not feel the weight of the future or the past right now. In this moment, we are free, Nith. There are only two paths before us. Life or death. And either is . . . both possible, and acceptable. Is that not a wonder?

  I do not wish to die, and I do not find death for you ac
ceptable at all! His tone was sharper now, and rasped against her mind like sharkskin. My life was a punishment to me for centuries. And now, it is not. If death is necessary, I accept it, but I will not run to that fate. Still, there was hesitance in his tone, as if he wished to say more, but could not find the words.

  I have felt death-touched for days. Perhaps when I return to the world, the sense that death comes for us all will return to me. Sigrun shook her head. But in this moment, before we two return to the flow of time . . . I have hope that we two may have finally moved beyond my sister’s prophecies. If I die, at least . . . I will die free of her visions. And if I die beside you . . . I will not be alone when I pass. And that is no bad thing. Still leaning against the dragon’s cold scales, her arms wrapped around his head. She wanted to give him that peace, that acceptance.

  Nith hissed. Everyone, on stepping into a battle like the one they would fight, needed a sense of equanimity. An acceptance that death could take them. But he didn’t want to see her run to death as to a lover’s embrace, to avoid seeing what Steelsoul might make of himself. And yet . . . she’d said we two. He tried not to consider that, too much. Witan was used between lovers, it was true, but just as often between brothers-in-battle, sisters-in-battle. Those who had shed blood together. I will fight with you, to the end. But if I must die? I would see you go on. I just . . . I do not wish to die, with my heart burdened as it is. The worlds limped out, and he damned himself as a craven for not just saying what he wished to say. But it was astonishingly difficult.