by Unknown
Sigyn feels no sympathy. “Maybe they’d listen to you if you weren’t drunk—”
Loki falls over before she finishes her sentence. The tirade she’d planned about how they are adults and should be allowed to choose their own destinies is interrupted by a snore.
TRAPPED BY THE PRAYERS, Sigyn sits in the burning city, listening to Loki “sawing wood,” as the humans would say. When he stops snoring, she has a moment of panic despite herself. She reaches over and puts her hand on his chest where his garment has spilled open. She feels his heartbeat beneath her palm, and his magic whips up like flames to caress her skin, stronger than she remembers, but as always, flickering and unstable. She releases a breath … and then mutters a curse. She’s looking after him again. “Meek and deluded Sigyn,” the court had called her for standing by Loki when he was sent to prison … but he’d gone to prison for her and their sons. If he’d tried to escape, they all would have been banished. How could she not stand by him?
She stares at her hand. Loki is a foundling from the icy world of Jotunheim. Like all his people, he’s always been pale-skinned. Her skin, like most Asgardians, is the shade of ripe wheat.
Out of habit, she draws the edges of his robe-like garment together. They’d had many good years, beautiful children, and in a world where wives were protected and indulged but seldom respected, Loki had treated her as an intellectual equal. He’d taught her how to use her magic—weak as it might be. They’d always fought and had shouting matches about esoteric things like law and politics. But they’d never disparage each other in the heat of an argument. She feels herself flush. And afterward, they’d make up.
“Sigyn.”
The whisper startles her from her reverie. Her eyes meet Loki’s. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes appear black. One of his hands moves to cover hers. Her heart stops … and then his eyes slip closed and the moment is over.
She reminds herself she’s glad it’s over. Their lives have gone in different directions. Loki works for Odin, King of Asgard and self-appointed leader of the Nine Realms. More often than not, Sigyn works against him.
THE SKY IS DARKENING when she feels another surge of magic. This magic is so smooth and dark, it almost oozes. She recognizes it too late. One moment she is staring at nothing but devastation, and then she blinks and finds herself facing a grizzled white-bearded warrior in golden armor. One of his eyes is covered by a metal plate. She clambers to her feet, but Odin pays no attention to her. He is scanning the field of fire, grasping his spear Gungnir. The force of Odin’s magic is so great that irradiated particles slow, and the fiery circle draws back. Old instincts die hard and Sigyn leaps in front of Loki, blocking Odin’s one-eyed view of his prone body. Behind the King of Asgard, a squad of Einherjar stream through the World Gate and flank their master.
Gazing out at the plain, Odin shakes his head and whispers, “They know not what they’ve done.”
And then his eye falls on Sigyn. “You!” Odin hisses. “What are you doing here?”
Before Sigyn can respond, Odin roars, “Your precious allies, with their democracies, see what they have done! See what they have unleashed on an entire race?” Odin’s lip curls. “The hypocrites. They’ll have the Japanese enslaved within weeks—those they don’t melt like candles. You were called to this treacherous, cowardly slaughter, Victory Woman?”
Sigyn stumbles back. No one has called her that in a very long time. Odin thumps his spear and points it at her. “I can’t stand to look at you. Leave.”
Sigyn trembles. She is just competent with her sword, and only a little more competent with magic. And now she stands before the most powerful magic user in the Nine Realms flanked by his soldiers. There is a magical compulsion behind that command, and her body wants to obey. But the voices in her head are still praying, and they give her strength. Sigyn’s fists ball at her sides. “I was called here. By your laws, All Father, I am allowed to—”
Holding out a hand, Odin commands, “Stop.”
Words die on her tongue. She feels his magic tighten around her as if she’s caught in a dream where she can’t move. Odin jerks a hand and Einherjar rush forward. They confiscate her weapon and haul her by the arms toward the World Gate. Her skin burns as though she is on fire. The chorus of prayers is so loud; she thinks she will shatter like the glassy ground. A woman screams and it splits Sigyn’s eardrums. It takes a moment for it to register that the scream was her own.
The men hauling Sigyn drop her. “She’s burning up!”
Falling to her knees, Sigyn breathes shakily. The sound of the prayers is back to a song; the burn beneath her skin is gone.
Odin grunts. “If you will not haul this creature away, I will do it myself.”
As she tries to shake the paralysis from her limbs, another voice rises. “Oh, Odin, wouldn’t you prefer to dance with me?”
One of the Einherjar snickers and tries to cover it up with a cough. Looking over her shoulder, Sigyn doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Loki is a master of illusion and he’s given his ginger hair an elaborate updo in the local style. His face is painted white and his lips are red. His dress is bright and clean and stretches to his feet, his knapsack gone. He is no longer wearing a sword; instead he’s fluttering a fan. “I’m so much prettier.”
Another Einherjar snorts. Loki minces forward, the very picture of a demure lady except for his leer.
Odin stretches out a hand as he’d done to Sigyn. “Stop, Loki.”
Loki does stop, mid-stride, as though frozen in place. Sigyn’s heart sinks. But then Loki flicks his fan and giggles.
Odin rolls back on his feet. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Is it Sigyn’s imagination, or did his voice waver?
Closing the fan with a flourish, Loki says, “Oh, but it does. You’re hurting my family.”
Sigyn’s breath catches and Odin thumps his spear. “I would not—”
“You are hurting Sigyn!” screams Loki, with such force his skin appears to turn blue.
Loki is confronting Odin? She scrambles to her feet; no one stops her. She should steal back her sword, but she cannot turn away from Loki. The white paint is gone; he is turning blue. Color like a stormy sea is spreading across his face. When it reaches his crown, it turns his ginger hair black from root to tip, making it look like it is being burned away. Stretching his arms to the heavens, Loki draws a circle with his fingers, leaving a halo of blue fire in the air. Somewhere, a structure falls with a resounding crash, and the ground trembles. When he grins, Loki’s teeth are very white against his dark blue skin. “And now I want to dance!”
“Sigyn,” Odin whispers, “go about your business here.”
Sigyn’s gaze slides to the All Father. Odin’s single eye is wide and focused on Loki. There is a sheen of sweat on the king’s brow, and his lower lip is trembling. “Please …”
Sigyn can’t move. She has never seen, nor heard of Odin, the All Father, afraid of anything; but now he is afraid of his fool.
“Yes, go on, Sigyn,” Loki hisses. His body is undulating like he’s a snake about to strike.
The voices in Sigyn’s head go silent. The burn beneath her skin vanishes. She knows her purpose here is finished. Instead of going home, she wraps her magic protectively around her, sprints past Loki, Odin, and his servants, and becomes another random particle adrift in Hiroshima.
2
Sigyn sits in the kitchen of Asgard’s gardener, Hoenir, a cup of coffee in her hand. A party for her homecoming is in full swing. It’s been nearly a year since Loki confronted Odin, and only a few hours since she returned to Asgard. She still isn’t precisely sure why she was called to Hiroshima. She had done nothing; she’d been nothing but a witness to the showdown between Loki and Odin.
After the confrontation, her call had been concluded, but she’d gone to the city outskirts and pretended to be a German missionary. She’d volunteered at a hospital helping treat the fission bomb victims. She’s not sure why she did it. Was it
just because it felt like what she should have been called to do? Or was she just curious about what the splitting of atoms, and a new age on Earth would mean for humans … and what it might mean for so-called Gods? She hadn’t come home until Odin sent her sons Nari and Valli to fetch her.
Hisbernia, daughter of the elf who supplies Asgard with the apples of immortality, sits down beside her. “Has the United States enslaved the Japanese like they did the Africans?”
Hisbernia is of Nari’s and Valli’s generation. She is one of the few of that age who does more than live on the dole. She helps her mother grow Asgard’s magic apples, and she is completely unheralded for her efforts. Hisbernia and Nari were together for a while, but nothing came of it. Sigyn isn’t sure if it was because Nari is a coward, or just the general inertia that has fallen over all of Asgard.
“No,” she responds, “but the Americans are forcing the Japanese to rewrite their constitution.” Sigyn hadn’t traveled more than a few blocks from the hospital, but she’d learned much through the magic of radio.
Her eyes skim the crowd as they murmur in disbelief. After Earth, their youthful good looks are a shock—there are no blemishes to their skin, no acne, no pox scars. But some of the gathered group are older than Sigyn. Her eyes slide to Vee. He’d fought beside Odin when Odin had been the greatest campaigner for what English speakers would call “human rights.” The concept doesn’t exist in the Asgardian language. She shakes her head. Once Odin had protected even the vanquished. Not any longer.
Nari settles into the chair next to Sigyn. Sigyn’s magic isn’t specific, but Nari does have a particular talent. He has a type of glamour that appeals to the aspirations of the group. Loki always said that if Nari had been a god, he would have been the God of Democracy. When Nari speaks, his magic swells in the room and he appears even more golden, even more perfect. “If the Americans have their way, Japan will be more liberal than it was before the war!”
“No …” someone whispers.
“It is true,” Nari says, and the group becomes hushed, reverent, and wishful.
Sipping her drink, Sigyn frowns. Even the previous Japanese Constitution had given the Japanese more rights than the Asgardians have. A bitter taste comes to her mouth, and it isn’t from her coffee.
“Stop talking about that nonsense, Brother!” Valli declares. Valli is a little leaner than his brother, and has a bit more ginger in his hair. He’s half the reason Sigyn is good with treating burns—he and Loki are always setting things on fire accidentally. Clapping his brother on the back, Valli smiles wolfishly, opens a bag, and pulls an AK-47 machine gun to his chest. “Let’s talk about guns!”
Sigyn’s eyes go wide. “What GI did you talk that off of?”
Instead of answering, Valli pulls the trigger. The gun fires repeatedly and thatch falls from the ceiling. Instead of looking ashamed, Valli smirks. Thunderous applause erupts around the room, and for a moment Sigyn is caught up in Valli’s particular glamour. If Valli were declared a god, he would be the God of Armed Rebellion. Valli fires a few more volleys and Mimir’s shout erupts over the roar of the guests. “Enough!”
Sigyn blinks away the haze of Valli’s magic, and says, “Stop it, Valli!”
Giving her a sheepish look, Valli lowers his weapon.
She can’t see Mimir’s head for the crowd, but she hears him say, “Come this way if you want to fire that thing. Hoenir has a door to the Dark Lands of Alfheim in the living room!”
The crowd surges away. Sigyn almost follows, but one of Hoenir’s creations, a mouse with eight glossy black legs, crawls out from the fallen straw. Most of Asgard is terrified of Hoenir’s venomous little spidermice, but Sigyn knows she is in no danger if she is courteous. “Sorry, Mr. Mouse,” Sigyn says, holding out a finger. “Are you hurt?” In answer, the spidermouse springs back into the thatch.
“I apologize for your roof,” says Sigyn when Hoenir returns a moment later. He is carrying the head of Mimir, his constant companion, in a lantern casing.
Hoenir waves a hand, and Mimir says, “Pshaw, it’s nothing.” Hoenir sets Mimir’s head on the table and goes off to the pot of coffee on the stove. “But if you don’t mind,” says Mimir, “Hoenir would like to join you for a cup of coffee.”
Sigyn’s long since gotten over any ambivalence she had about talking to a severed head. Smiling down at Mimir, she says, “Of course I don’t mind.” She raises her gaze to Hoenir. He has his back to her and is pouring some coffee in a mug. Hoenir looks deceptively humble. As usual, he’s wearing the rough garb of a gardener. His head is balding—something that doesn’t happen to Asgardians—and he’s a bit pudgy. He is also mute, which is why Mimir does all the talking. Her lips purse. Hoenir is a master of biology; he could doubtlessly cure his muteness, shrink his belly, and regrow his hair. She thinks it may all be a clever ruse to disguise his true nature. She’s just not sure what that true nature is … but magic buzzes around him and his hut like the neutrons, protons, and electrons had buzzed in Hiroshima. Sometimes she feels he is as powerful in his own way as Odin. Her brows draw together ... or as powerful as Loki.
Hoenir settles at the table, mug in hand, and Mimir lifts his eyes to the roof and says, “Sometimes I think those boys of yours are Loki cleaved in two. Nari has his cleverness and Valli has all his impulsiveness.”
Sigyn raises an eyebrow.
Hoenir nudges Mimir with an elbow. “What?” Mimir asks.
Hoenir scowls at the head. Clearing his throat, Mimir adds, “Oh, yes, of course. And they are like you—Nari has your tenacity and Valli has your bravery.”
Sigyn lifts her cup to Hoenir. “Thank you.” He nods, and Sigyn adds, “For everything.” If it weren’t for Hoenir’s magic hut, there would be no place for Asgard’s tiny democracy movement to meet. It’s one of the few places in the Nine Realms Odin’s spies cannot see.
They settle into companionable silence and Sigyn finds herself thinking of Hiroshima. The devastation still haunts her and is beginning to haunt humanity. Discussions of the morality of the bombs are beginning to simmer, despite the American’s attempts to stifle them. Some argue the bombs saved lives by ending the war quickly. Sigyn is not sure if that is true—but it definitely saved American lives. Odin had called it treacherous and cowardly, but she’s seen what he’s allowed to have done to his enemies.
Her mind replays Odin’s words. “Victory Woman.” The last person to say those words together about her was Queen Frigga. What had Frigga said? “You could distract Baldur from that dreadful Anganboða if you just applied yourself, Sigyn. Where is your thirst for victory, woman?”
She swirls the coffee in her mug. The words were the same, the meanings different. It probably means nothing … Odin’s fear of Loki … that is definite. She’d thought she’d return to find that Loki had left Asgard, no longer content to play the fool. But he is still here, still the laughingstock. Her brow furrows. He hadn’t gone to prison for his action, though, and that is odd. Nor has there been gossip about the confrontation. Odin must have sworn the Einherjar to secrecy. She feels a flutter in her chest. Maybe Loki is just playing the loyal retainer? Maybe he has changed? She blinks. He had changed, literally, he’d turned blue. Helen, Aggie and Loki’s child, and Sigyn’s adoptive daughter, had been half-blue. Sometimes, around Helen, Loki’s skin would turn blue and so would Hoenir’s. Sigyn thought it was just Helen’s magic “catching.” She gazes into her coffee. Helen’s magic was the magic of Truth ...
A knock sounds at the door. Before anyone can move, it creaks open. Hoenir’s eyes meet Mimir’s and Sigyn doesn’t need to look to know who has arrived. Mimir clears his throat. “I think we’ll just be going to check on your boys now.”
Sigyn doesn’t turn around as Hoenir picks up Mimir and scurries from the room. She listens to the creak of floorboards behind her and feels her heart rate increase and her skin warm.
“Sigyn,” Loki says, slipping into the seat Nari had previously occupied.
She tells hersel
f this is just like any other meeting between them, that she should not be nervous, excited, or hopeful, but she feels like she is teetering on a tightrope.
Keeping her voice level, she says, “Loki.” But as she turns to face him, she can’t contain a gasp of surprise. He’s back to being ginger-haired, grey-eyed, and pale-skinned. More surprising, he’s clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed and only slightly ruffled. More impressive … “You haven’t been drinking.” At least for the past day, his skin isn’t leaching alcohol.
Loki’s eyes slide to the window, where the sun is still well above the horizon. “It’s barely afternoon … I thought you didn’t approve of it before the third hour from sundown.”
Sigyn can’t remember the last time she saw Loki sober. Was it the last time they’d slept together?
“Sigyn?” Loki says, a bemused smile stretching his lips.
Shaking away her surprise, she says, “What brings you here?”
“I think you know,” he says, and her breath catches. Taking her hand, he kisses her knuckles. His slightly chapped lips and stubble scrape against her skin. Her eyes drift closed.
“I’m here for you, Sigyn,” Loki whispers.
She remembers him, standing up to Odin, his skin turning blue in a halo of fire. He’d called her family and defied the most powerful man in the Nine Realms in her name.
“I know,” she answers, opening her eyes.
Cradling her hand, he searches her face. “I want you back, Sigyn. I’m better with you. Without you I couldn’t have killed Baldur. You kept me alive in the cave, helped me raise Helen, have given me two beautiful sons, humored my studies of magic, saved me in the Dark Lands, and have kept me sober for the past year …”
She blinks.
He shrugs. “If you got in trouble on Earth, I needed to be ready to slip down and come to your rescue.”
