Gilded

by Kendall Grey

  Barf.

  Baldur was such a ballbag, yet the Æsir loved him dearly. Why couldn’t they love me the way they did him? Wasn’t I worthy of their attention?

  Apparently not. Baldur was their golden boy, and I was an annoying, attention-seeking trouble maker. All I ever wanted was to belong. But aside from Odin, the Æsir never accepted me, and even Allfather turned against me in the end.

  When Baldur complained of disturbing dreams of his own death, his dear, smothering mother Frigg went around to all the things in nature—trees, water, animals, fire, even diseases—and made them swear they wouldn’t harm her precious baby. But she skipped mistletoe because she deemed it “inconsequential.” I know this because I disguised myself as a giantess, and the fool woman spilled everything to me. Obviously, the ensuing drama was her fault. Who goes around bragging to random giantesses that their son is ninety-nine percent indestructible with one small exception? An idiot, that’s who. Talk about a security breach.

  I snapped off the nearest branch of mistletoe and headed to the assembly where Baldur held court.

  The Æsir were so amused by Baldur’s ability to withstand attacks from every manner of object, they began shooting him with arrows, throwing rocks at him, and striking him with weapons. Not even Mjolnir hurt him. So, I whispered in blind Hod’s ear that he should take part in the fun. I presented him with a bow and slipped the mistletoe arrow between his fingers. With a little guidance, he pulled the string and let it fly.

  The arrow sunk into Baldur’s flesh and killed him instantly.

  It was all I could do not to scream “Yes!” at the top of my lungs.

  Things went bad after that. I ran to the sea and escaped by turning into a salmon. I swam to a pool at the foot of a waterfall and hid there until I felt safe. When I returned to human form, I erected a home atop the mountain overlooking Franang’s Falls. I chose this place for its strategic location, but also because it was beautiful, and at this time in my troubled life, I needed beauty to keep me from destroying everything in my path.

  Destruction would come soon enough.

  I built four doors within the house, each facing a cardinal direction so I could see my enemies coming. And come they would after what I did to Baldur.

  But this is just a dream. Despite its basis in fact, it’s not real. It only has power in the past.

  “Loki,” Sigyn calls from somewhere outside. The sound of her voice elicits a swell of guilt.

  I turn to the east-facing door, which she darkens. “What do you want?”

  She steps into the light, and I gasp. Resplendent in a V-necked linen gown, she’s just as I remember, yet there’s more to her than before. Deep sadness haunts her demeanor. Long blond hair gathered into an elaborate knot spills over her cloaked shoulders. Her clear gray eyes connect with mine. They convey emptiness that disturbs me.

  “They are searching for you. It was only a matter of time.” Her voice is soft and tremulous.

  I’m looking at her through my old eyes but seeing her through the new ones. I know what’s coming, but I can’t stop it.

  I turn up my drinking horn and drain the mead from it. I smash it into the blazing fireplace. “Then I suppose it’s going to be a fight.”

  “Don’t do this, Loki,” she begs, stepping close.

  Small hands smooth the wrinkles in my shirt. Strange how much they look like mine in the present day.

  I want to curl my fingers between hers. Instead, I fling them off me and push her aside. She stumbles toward an old chest in the corner. Much as a want to, I cannot stop this replay, lost somewhere in the annals of time, viewable but untouchable.

  My mind reeling and obsessed with figuring out how the Æsir will catch me, I flip open the lid of the wooden box, rummage through the furs and hides within, and draw out some yarn made of linen. I drop to the floor and begin crisscrossing the fibers, over and under, over and under, weaving them into the world’s first net.

  As I study the creation in my lap, understanding dawns on me. This is how they’ll catch me. With a net. They’ll turn my own snare against me.

  “I can take you somewhere safe,” Sigyn says, standing beside me. She offers her trembling hand. I smack it aside.

  “Get out of here,” I slur, drunk on mead and my own simmering rage.

  She squats and meets my gaze. “Please.”

  “GET OUT!” I bellow.

  Tears well in her crystalline eyes. She straightens to her full height. “I will try to distract them.”

  “I don’t care what you do, woman. Just get out of my sight. I can’t look at you another second.”

  Kenaz’s fire smolders in my eyes. It’s all I see. I want to snuff the inferno of hate, yet I burn unchecked.

  “What did I do to send you away?” she asks.

  “Gods damn it. Angrboda again?” I demand. I turn to look at her. In that moment I was disgusted. In this present one, I would kiss her if I could. But I am frozen inside this history I wish to forget. “You want to know why I stepped out on you? It’s because you let me. You’re pathetic and weak. If I told you to lie on the floor and be a rug, you would do it without question.”

  “And I would welcome the sting of your boots,” she says, lifting her chin. “I would do anything for you. I love you, Loki.”

  “Then you’re as much of a fool as the rest of them. I never loved you. And Angrboda was a far better lay.”

  I wince at the scathing words. A thunderstorm of tears falls inside me.

  A quiet whimper escapes Sigyn’s lips. She blinks several times over the flood of water escaping the levees of her lids. Cheeks flushed, she lowers her head and rushes out the door.

  “Good riddance,” I shout after her.

  I am angry at my inability to change the past. Of the countless mistakes I’ve made, the only ones I wish to correct are those that hurt Sigyn and my children.

  The Æsir are almost upon my house. I fling the net into the fire and dive from the south-facing door into the waterfall, using Othala and Kenaz to change my shape as I go. I am a salmon, flipping down the stream until I reach the river below. There I swim in circles, drunk and shamed. Having found the remains of my smoldering net in the fireplace, the Æsir mimic its design and toss a freshly woven web of their own into the pool. I evade, leaping over it and up the waterfall. The Æsir split up. Thor gestures for the others to return to the top of the waterfall while he wades into the river. I must stay ahead of the net. But when I try to jump it, Thor catches me by the tail.

  I resign myself to the fate the Norns dealt me.

  The Æsir take me to a cave and lay out the stones. They bring in my sons, Vali and Narfi. From the corner of my eye, I see Sigyn hiding in the shadows, watching the scene. Tears stream down her red cheeks; her shoulders tremble with quiet sobs.

  Odin turns my son Vali into a wolf. Vali screams as the transformation folds his body into disturbing angles that don’t fit his frame. Bones crack; sinew snaps. I do nothing to stop it, but my heart rips in two along with him. Thor wrenches my arms up, holding me in place. I am little more than paper in his iron grip. Tyr sits on my kicking feet. I am helpless against my enemies.

  Vali growls in his new canine form at his brother Narfi. Here comes the part I hate most. Try as I may to look away, I witness every excruciating second. Saliva dripping from his huge fangs, Vali pounces on defenseless Narfi, sinking his teeth into the boy’s neck. A river of blood spews forth, staining the cave red. Narfi’s screams echo through the cavern.

  I try to shout, but I have no voice. Sigyn screams for me. She tears at her hair as Vali rips Narfi’s flesh. Soon, the wolf lifts his head. He is unrecognizable, bathed in his brother’s blood. Entrails loop from either side of Vali’s mouth. Thor smiles as he removes the intestines and winds them around my wrists and ankles. Agony carves deep furrows into Sigyn’s face. She reaches for her lost sons, pleading with the Æsir. “Give them back,” she moans, bent over, destroyed. “Please give my children back.”

&nbs
p; I weep, yet no tears fall.

  The entrails harden into iron. Then Skadi brings in the snake. The poison flows like Franang’s Falls.

  I’ve relived this scene countless times, but never has it impacted me so profoundly as it does now. Because now I can feel Sigyn’s pain. Now I’m living it alongside her.

  The loss of her sons. The rejection of her husband. The beginning of the end.

  And I let it all happen. I started it.

  I am truly horrible.

  The final, killing blow comes when the Æsir leave and Sigyn goes with them.

  I am alone, wailing and thrashing under my son’s guts. But it’s not just the agony of the poison that wracks me to my core. It’s the realization of what I lost. It’s the recognition that people I care about have suffered because of my actions.

  Oblivious to the poison streaming into my eyes, I scream myself hoarse, mourning my family and my love. Rocks tumble from the ceiling of the cave. The ground shakes and rends. Rivers of molten lava bubble up from the cracks.

  I am broken.

  And then a thin shadow darkens the mouth of the cave, and light leaches inside. Sigyn appears, carrying a great pottery bowl on her heaving shoulders. Her face is awash with tears. She grieves for the losses of her sons, yet she is full of compassion for the husband who killed them.

  Holding the bowl with shaking hands, she protects me from the venom. She protects me from myself.

  I thought she was the weak one.

  I was wrong.

  I’m so sorry, Sigyn. My lips form the words, but here in the past, there is no sound to give them life. So, she never hears them.

  Unable to take another second of this torture, I claw my way back to the present and open my eyes.

  The room is dark. Gunnar Magnusson sleeps soundly beside me. My chest hurts so badly, I fear my heart might explode. As quietly as I can, I slip out of bed and go to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

  With my back pressed against the wood, I slide to the floor in a puddle of equal parts grief and terror. My arms are numb. Bands of steel tighten around my middle, squeezing my heart, forcing it to beat faster, faster, faster. I can’t breathe. I can’t cry out. I can’t think about anything other than Sigyn holding that bowl over my head and saving me from the worst of the snake’s venom after all the horrible things I said and did and about how I cheated on her with Angrboda and bragged about it to her face and laughed when she did kind things for me and about what a terrible father I was to our boys who might’ve grown into fairly decent chaps if only I’d been around more instead of screwing evil giantesses and mares and tricking people into hurting and killing others—

  Is this what a panic attack feels like?

  I try to gulp air, but I can’t find any. I pull myself up, turn on the cold water, and splash my face, hoping it’ll shock me back to life. My fingers are turning blue.

  Oh, my gods. I’m going to die.

  I close my eyes and remember waking up in Gunnar Magnusson’s arms. I remember the warmth flowing between us. I remember feeling as if he was where I belonged.

  I am Loki, son of Farbauti and Laufey; father to Jormundgandr the Midgard Serpent, Fenrir the wolf, and Hel the goddess of the two faces; wrecker of Sif’s golden hair; thief of the goat, Idunn’s apples, and the necklace of the Brisings; the sly god; he who engineered Baldur’s death; burden of Sigyn’s arms …

  Burden of Sigyn’s arms.

  That’s not just a kenning about me. It’s the essence of who I am. A burden.

  I’m breathing again. My racing pulse slows. My muscles loosen.

  I open my eyes and turn my head to avoid my own gaze in the mirror. As pretty as I am, I can’t stomach the sight of myself.

  I brush my teeth and gather my toiletries. I sneak into the bedroom and wrangle the few clothes I have. I glance down at the flannel shirt I stole from Gunnar Magnusson and bring the fabric to my nose, inhaling his scent. It calms me.

  I’m keeping this.

  It takes me a few minutes to rouse Freddie, but he gets up and doesn’t ask any questions. The cats’ tails wrap around his legs as he picks up his wallet and keys. “Meet you at the van.”

  I nod.

  The cats follow him out.

  Huginn is asleep. His feet twitch. Perhaps he’s dreaming of the past too.

  I return to Gunnar Magnusson’s room and stand beside the bed. It’s hard to see him in the dark, but his blond hair shines just enough for me to admire it. I grasp the raven pendant hanging between my breasts one last time and lift the necklace over my head. I settle it on the pillow beside Gunnar Magnusson’s head. It gave me luck, but I don’t need luck anymore. Besides, Gunnar Magnusson’s gift of hamingja has fulfilled its duties several times over. It’s only right that I return it.

  I lean down and whisper in his ear, “I’m sorry, Sigyn. For everything.”

  He barely stirs. His lips part. I want to kiss them.

  Instead, I flee into the night. With Freddie and a pair of enigmatic cats.

  Chapter Ten

  The cats are annoying. I try to lure them from Freddie’s lap into mine with a feather I plucked from my badass coat, but they ignore me. Freddie doesn’t seem to mind them fawning all over him. I’m feeling rather lonely over here without Huginn or Gunnar Magnusson. I just want a cuddle.

  Why am I so emotional today? I mean, more so than usual.

  I kick my feet up on the van’s dashboard. My head hurts. My guts hurt. My heart hurts.

  “Where are we?” I ask, already irritated by the length of this trip.

  “Almost to Birmingham, Alabama,” Freddie says. One hand steers the wheel while his other strokes Wiggles. Sparky ducks his head under Freddie’s palm, demanding attention. I want some attention too, damn it.

  “How much longer?” I whine. I scoot my butt back, forward, side to side. I can’t get comfortable. Adding to the misery, my empty stomach protests its lack of food with a loud grumble.

  “About 1800 miles.”

  “How many minutes is that?”

  “Eighteen hundred.”

  “That’s days away,” I gripe.

  “Yeah, but you said you wanted to see the country,” Freddie says. “Plus, you can’t fly without identification, and you screwed that pooch when you gave the police officer in Atlanta the passport you stole.”

  “I’ve screwed many things, but never a dog,” I say, wrapping an arm around my middle.

  Freddie perks up. “Oh really? What else have you screwed?”

  “A pissed-off giantess, too many women to count, a stallion—”

  Freddie swings his head toward me like a pendulum. “Hold up. You banged a horse?”

  “I shifted into a mare first, but yes. And I gave birth to an eight-legged steed.” This last bit is a point of pride for me. Human women complain about the pangs of childbirth. Ha! Try pushing out a bucking bronco with super-powered octo-hooves that never stop slashing and we’ll talk.

  “Wow,” Freddie marvels. “That must’ve been … uncomfortable.”

  Sensing an opportunity to dredge up information, I grab my snoop shovel and start digging. “Speaking of uncomfortable, I’m curious about something you said at the Waffle House.”

  Freddie glances nervously at me. “What did I say?”

  “That Gunnar Magnusson was shy.”

  A relieved Freddie shoos me off as if I’m a horse fly, which I’ve actually been before. I’ll tell you that story another time. “Yeah, he’s shy. So what?”

  His eyes widen suddenly at something passing us on the highway. He draws back a fist as if nocking an arrow and hits my shoulder. Hard. “Punch bug, green!”

  Maniacal laughter follows as I rub my sore arm.

  “Ow, you bastard!” I shout. “What was that for?”

  Mouth hanging open, he looks at me full on, neglecting the road for a couple seconds. “You’ve never played punch bug?

  I shake my head.

  “Slug bug?”

  Another sha
ke.

  “Every time you see a Beetle, you yell, ‘punch bug,’ say the color of the car, and punch the other person.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s fun.”

  I squeeze the top of my smarting arm. “No, it isn’t.”

  Freddie settles a pair of sunglasses he retrieved from the console over his eyes. “It is. Trust me.”

  “I didn’t see any beetles. I think you’re cheating, which under normal circumstances, I’d applaud. Now, not so much.”

  “A Beetle is a kind of car,” Freddie says, jutting his thumb behind us.

  I turn around. The vehicle is long gone. “This game sucks.”

  “If I see another one, I’ll tell you.”

  “After you punch me.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

  “How do I win this game?” I ask. I refuse to play a game I can’t win.

  “Get the most punches by the time we stop.”

  “What’s the prize?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno, some WeedPops? A shot of whiskey? What do you want?”

  So many things. “I’m hungry. How about a herd of goats?”

  “Like those?” Freddie points to a vivid green field dotted with stupid, submissive white and brown animals on the left.

  My mouth waters, and I sit up straight. “Yes. Stop the car. I’ll catch them.”

  “What do you mean, ‘them’?”

  “One is hardly enough,” I say. “I’ll gather the herd. You slaughter.”

  Freddie wrinkles his nose. “I’m not slaughtering any goats.”

  “Why not?”

  “Eww.”

  “Then you catch them, and I’ll slaughter. Do you have a knife?” I turn and scour the back of the van for sharp objects.

  “Yes, but we’re not using it to kill anything.”

  “If you’re worried about making a mess, I can clobber them in the brains. That method is less bloody. Most of the time.”

  “No killing,” Freddie insists.

  “But I’m starving.” I huff and stuff my balled fists under my arm pits. My puffed-up fingers feel like sausages. Maybe I need to drink some water.

  Keeping his attention on the road, Freddie reaches around to the bag behind me, fumbles inside, and tosses two chocolate bars in my lap. “Eat those. They should hold you over until we find a restaurant.”