Loki (23 page)

There was no midwife at the bed save the faithful boy, who was still yet to be revealed as anything other than a disembodied hand in the fuzzy darkness of the chamber. Freyja found herself concocting notions of this woman’s life. The father, no doubt a well-bred warrior himself, was likely out in battle, perhaps fighting an enemy just on the borders of their land. He could not be at his wife’s side because that would mean death for all those he had sworn to protect.

Freyja smiled at the thought. While she was not a goddess of battle, she honored duty and sacrifice. She was torn by the hope that the pool would show an image of him, and the fear that she would miss the birth of this woman’s children.

The woman’s throes grew more intense and frequent. The children would burst forth soon enough. She felt privileged to be observing this birth, and felt certain that this was the reason the pool had shown her the scene. It had sought a significant birth, one which might have import for the race of men down below on Midgard.

Unexpectedly the scene in the pool dimmed and wavered, and Freyja willed it to show her more. She would not miss the birth of these children. The scene steadied, and she was able to see a slightly wider area than before. The woman’s knees were up as she pushed, her face becoming crimson with the effort, and her hand tightened on her son’s. Cords of muscle stood out on the woman’s forearms, and her knuckles were white with the effort. The boy was still a small child by the size of his hand, yet he held tight and voiced no complaint that she could detect.

Freyja was momentarily distracted by the thought. A woman as strong as this would likely break the hand of a small child, even a hearty one, but she did not attempt to hold back. It was obvious that she squeezed his hand with all her might. And still there was no complaint.

She looked more closely at the boy’s hand and the small part of his arm that was visible. She could not see much, but it seemed that the skin on his hands was not as pristine as it should have been for one so young. It was difficult to tell in the dim light of the chamber, but his arm might have had a thin layer of reddish-blond hair, which would surely be lighter or nonexistent for a child of his age, would it not?

The woman contorted again with a stab of pain in her abdomen, and the boy was yanked forward momentarily, becoming visible for the slightest of seconds before retreating back beyond view. Freyja fell violently backwards with shock, thrusting herself from the pool as if the dragon Nidhogg itself had suddenly burst from the water.

She sat there dazed and uncomprehending, eyes wide with disgust and horror. It cannot be true, she thought. She felt sullied and filthy, all her alluring fantasies disappearing in an instant. She wanted to flee the room, but she had to see if what she had witnessed was true.

He had been in her thoughts for months, so it would be understandable to see him in the pool’s image. The pool had probably conjured him from her thoughts and mingled it with the scene she had been witnessing. The initial shock faded, she began to replace the horror with more reasonable explanation, and it was this that allowed her to crawl forward and view the scene again.

It was the same as it had been before, although the woman was coming closer and closer to the moment of birth. Freyja watched more cautiously, fearful to see him again, but desperate to see if it was true. She kept more of a distance at first, but found herself peering closer again, anticipation and fear wrapped up as one within her.

After long moments she finally convinced herself that she had been wrong. It was then that the boy leaned in closer to his mother to stroke her head and chant words of encouragement. The first thing Freyja noted was that the proportions were all wrong.

The boy had reddish-blond hair and a light beard of the same color. His arms were wiry and muscular, but not excessively so. His eye bore the clear glint of one who had lived and schemed for millennia, one whose maliciousness knew no bounds. As she watched in rapidly unfolding horror, she noticed how small he looked in comparison to the woman, as if he were a small boy. Realization finally struck her as Loki’s tiny hand touched upon the woman's cheek in an undeniable gesture of attachment. Stuck to the scene by mounting horror, she watched the woman give one more massive push with all her might.

She reeled backwards again, falling less elegantly onto her backside. She scrambled to her feet and ran from the room, summoning her servants to attend her instantly. Odin must be told at once. And while she could have voiced her concern about Loki’s coupling with one from Jotunheim, she was less sure of her ability to explain what she had seen emerging from between the giant’s legs.

Balder was not happy to be here asking for advice from these witches. Precious time was being wasted, and his temper was barely being held in check. “Will you tell me what I need to know?”

“
We will . . .”

“
provide . . .”

“
answers . . .”

The voices came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, hollow and icy. None knew what the Norns even were, but they had knowledge that no others possessed, not even Odin. It was even said that they were the tree, although Balder did not wonder overly on such things.

It was enough for him that Odin had sent him here to speak with them. He would perform this task and then leave, hopefully to raise an army to march on Jotunheim. The Allfather had said that it was not yet time for war, but who knew when the time may come? And if the Norns were to advise him to attack the giants, then he thought it likely Odin would acquiesce.

He gazed around the chamber, brow furrowed. “I come to seek your—”

“
We know why . . .”

“
you are . . .”

“
here . . .”

Balder clenched his jaw. “Then show yourself. I am no threat to you.”

A thin and hollow laughter trickled down to him.

“
You . . .”

“
are no . . .”

“
threat . . .”

Balder continued to look around the chamber. As far as he could see, there was no one here but him. He stepped away from the well and felt a light touch on his back, almost a caress, but there was something unnatural about it. He turned his head, but once again there was no one there.

“
What do I . . . what is to be done with Loki’s children?”

He counted the seconds in silence, awaiting an answer. Something slithered between his legs and he started, but it was gone.

“
Come closer . . .”

“
to the . . .”

“
well . . .

“
gaze into . . .”

“
its . . .”

“
depths . . .”

Hesitantly, he took slow steps to the well. He knelt down and looked into the black depths. He began to lose patience until he saw the darkness moving and shifting. Where there had been nothing, he could now make out three figures, vague and insubstantial. As he watched, they slowly began to change into a new image.

“
Your name . . .”

“
will be . . .”

“
legendary . . .”

He saw himself, only a strange version. He looked thin and weak and very beautiful. He stood laughing while the other Aesir threw all manner of weapons at him, each striking, and each falling to the ground with no affect. Thor’s hammer struck him directly, and there was no damage. In fact, the strange version of him laughed out loud. The entire scene had the strange air of falseness to it, as if this were a twisted story of something that had actually happened.

“
What is this? What do you show me?”

His brother, Hod, approached holding something in his hand. It looked like a small plant with white berries, but as he raised his hand, the entire image collapsed in upon itself.

“
Wait! What did he have in his hand? What is the meaning of this image?” Balder felt that he had been shown something important, but it had been withdrawn before he could make sense of it. Without realizing it, he leaned in closer, his head nearer the well.

“
Your . . .

“
fate is . . .”

“
at hand . . .”

The image reformed, and he saw a newborn babe being cradled by the darkness. As the image expanded slowly, he saw a mother where the darkness had been, holding the baby, a sad expression on her face. It was his own mother, Frigg, and he realized that the babe in her arms was himself, freshly breached. As she held him tears tore down her face. Like the first image, it seemed false and manufactured, again the distortion of a real event rather than the event itself.

Before he could delve further into it, the scene shifted yet again. His mother, barely recognizable due to her haggard and frail appearance, approached a dark woman on a throne. She knelt and the woman nodded. Frigg rose, gratitude spreading across her features, but worry as well.

Frigg disappeared down an unseen corridor, and Balder saw a shadowy figure—a man—watching from beside the throne. The man took a step forward, and the woman held a hand out to one side, halting him suddenly and refusing him any further steps forward. Balder gasped when he recognized his own face, insubstantial and rotting, staring after his mother with obvious anguish.

He felt his blood boil. “I am dead? Is that the meaning of this? If this is my fate then show it to me!” His ire continued to rise. They stood on the possible cusp of Ragnarok, and they wasted time on useless augury. It would have been better by far to take action against Loki and his spawn rather than listen to the useless prattle of these witches.

The swirling mists reformed, and he saw Frigg enter a cave. She was older still and tired, but there was a pleasant air about her, as if she were at the end of a long journey. The darkness of the cave was pierced by burning torches, and a gaunt old woman came into view. She was wrapped in a worn cloak, and time had not been kind to her. She mumbled to herself and rocked back and forth, and continued doing so as Frigg approached her. Balder could not hear any of the words, but the old woman ceased her ramblings as Frigg spoke.

The old woman’s mouth opened wide in a vile and toothless smile, and she laughed, but not with glee or happiness. She shook her head from side to side, her answer to Frigg’s request clear, even through the silence of the image. The effect on his mother was plain; she withered and her head hung low, tears streaming down her cheeks as she turned and left the cave, the crone’s cackle following her out.

The old woman’s face poked out of the cave, a dark and knowing smile spreading across her features. If Balder did not know better, he would have sworn that this was not even the same woman, so changed in demeanor did she seem. What was more shocking was the shifting of the face itself as it withdrew back into the cave, revealing the face behind the mask.

Balder felt rage creeping up inside him. “Loki,” he spat. “Always Loki.”

The blackness swirled and the scene shifted.

He saw Yggdrasil take shape and rise higher and higher, spreading its branches wide. Flames formed at its trunk, burning and smoldering, threatening Yggdrasil. The tree shrunk as the scene grew wider, and Balder could see that it was not just the base of the tree that burned. Flames engulfed everything that he could see, and they burned hotter and hotter, turning everything to ash.

From a breach in the tree a figure emerged, and as he did so the flames waned and eventually died down. The figure stood unmolested, surveying the scene of carnage and devastation. Balder could not tell who the figure was, but he did see a faint smile form on the face before the image faded completely, leaving nothing but darkness.

“
Who is that figure?” Balder pulled back from the well. “Is it Loki, gloating over the destruction he intends to cause?” He paused, but there was no answer. “What must be done to prevent this from happening?”

Three shapes materialized from the mist, assuming vaguely feminine forms, although they remained faceless and intangible. Their voices came from all around him.

“
What must . . .”

“
be . . .”

“
will be . . .”

Balder's anger flared. “Why do you show me visions if there is no way to change them?”

“
You will . . .”

“
not survive . . .”

“
his wrath . . .”

“
Loki's wrath? He will try to kill me?”

“
You will . . .”

“
survive . . .”

“
his wrath . . .”

“
Which is it? This riddle makes no sense.”

“
It . . .”

“
is . . .”

“
both . . .”

He silently cursed his father for sending him here. What was the point of this?

“
You will seek. . .”

“
the accursed . . .”

“
spawn . . .”

“
Loki's children?”