History of Beauty

by Meraki P. Lyhne

  “That would be raid, pillage, and plunder,” Elakdon said. “That’s where the word Viking comes from. It’s a verb that means to go pirating Norseman style. But most were merchants, fishermen, farmers, you know, peaceful people.”

  “With swords,” Beaudon added, grinning.

  “Never leave your sword or spear at home, you never know what you’ll meet on the road. So says the Hávamál.” Kaydon pointed to his own sword.

  “What’s the Hávamál?” the young King asked.

  “Sayings of the High One. It is a collection of poems filled with the wisdom of Odin. They help us live a life of honor so we may earn the respect of the gods, our King, and our kin,” Randr said, and Elakdon could still get that pitter-patter feeling when listening to the old Viking. “Immortality is earned through our actions when we live a life of honor and courage. Our stories will then be told around the hearth for our future generations to feel proud of.”

  “Or sung?” Beaudon glanced at Elakdon who in turn glanced at Kaydon. He knew Randr had taken the young King to see him the day after Elakdon had returned from Baltimore with Kaydon. Beaudon had heard the first version of the hymn sung to the gods.

  “Or sung, yes. The sagas will mention our names and the hymns glorify our feats in life,” Elakdon said. “No man or woman of honor ever dies because their deeds in life are worth remembering. Many hirdsmen”—Elakdon pointed at the female warriors in his hird—“and women honor their fallen by telling the tales of their feats and bravery to their own children.”

  “Are you in the old sagas?” Beaudon asked, pulling the skins they’d found to warm him closer around his shoulder.

  “Yes and no, you see, Snorris, the man who wrote most of the sagas that survived, was from Iceland, and the Cubi didn’t go there. Plus, he was a Christian, so he twisted things a bit to fit the world view of his readers. Either that or it was to understand it from his very different world view. Rumors about him are a bit sketchy, and so are the rumors about him. Sex outside of marriage in Christianity was the greatest of all sins now that women had become the property of men. Adultery was a bad thing among the Norsemen, too, but we were more free-thinking when it came to sex. Guess why he kept us out of his sagas completely. Yet, there are surviving stories with obvious changes. The elvish people are said to be beautiful and lure men into sin, but the elvish people you’ve heard about are probably not the same.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I’ve seen Lord of the Rings, too, and all nature beings in Nordic traditions are called Vætter, and under that umbrella, there are more different kinds than I can count. We were among them. Later came Christianity, and our one race became known under so many names I gave up counting, but the word nightmare comes from a mare riding you at night, causing you to dream sinful dreams. And yes, that was sometimes a dose. Getting caught in hot sheets with spunk everywhere, you needed a good explanation. Our name, Cubi, even stems from Latin, meaning to lie down. We were given the name as we spread from our original place of birth in Greece.”

  “Are Vætter the same as leprechauns then?”

  Elakdon smiled. He couldn’t help it around the knowledge-hungry King. “Figuring that out is a headache even for those of us who lived long enough to become part of history. But let me tell you the story of how I became King. Everything else, and how we came to be supernatural, is woven into it.”

  Chapter Three

  Mother’s House had grown three Cubi overnight when Elakdon and two others had arrived to be empowered by her and her peers. But Bodin Borghild was a clever Succubus, and she’d commanded the erection of another house on her grounds. As the project reached its conclusion a few weeks after Elakdon had arrived, Elakdon had drawn the task of preparing pig stomachs for a window cloth, and the smell of intestines being flushed by the thrall was horrid.

  Mother was a demanding woman at times, and he didn’t know whether to be thankful that he was classified to feed her or if he wished himself for someone else. Maybe he could stay on her good side by being a good lover.

  One thing was for sure—the matriarch ran her House with an iron fist forged to fit a goddess. One of the thralls had said he was sure she’d taken one of Thor’s gloves, and that her strength came from there. Being a purple-eyed Succubus, Elakdon knew that that was where she got her strength from. He’d been empowered mere weeks earlier, and his young frame held no more strength than that of any other regular young man in the settlement. The thrall he worked with, Sigarr, was ten years older and held strength from years of hard labor, both as a freeman and as a thrall.

  The sound of flesh tearing reached his ear a split second before a smell worse than what he was working with hit his nose, and he fell to the side and vomited.

  Sigarr laughed. “I’m not sure which god’s favor you will win with that offering, young master.”

  “Not Mother’s, that’s for sure.” Elakdon made it to his feet again and drew deep gulps of air. It helped. So did the spectacular view.

  He’d grown up in a small settlement by the nook of a river in a flat land. They’d lived among the humans and were said to be a gift from Loke to mankind after he’d convinced the mistletoe to kill the beloved god, Baldur. Loke had consorted with Lofn, the goddess of forbidden love, to give a lover to the world—one so pleasing to the eye of both men and women that all would bed them. Of course, the story went more in the line of one child who could change its gender, and since women beheld magic, young Incubi men feeding from men sometimes dressed up as women and danced before they could get the human into bed.

  Taking pleasure in what the gods gave was considered pure among the humans so bedding the ones Loke and Lofn marked by beauty and magic in their eyes was an honor regardless of gender. Humans even knew they could sometimes be chosen by Loke and Lofn, and sacrifices were made to the Cubi people as if they were gods and goddesses themselves, just of a lower class since they lived in Midgard.

  The change of a young Cubus’ eyes was a big day, and the festivities were one the humans participated vigorously in. It could easily last a week.

  The Cubi people’s place in society was the same in the new village, yet High Mother held a higher position than the High Father had in the village Elakdon came from. The view was something else, too.

  Elakdon came from the flatlands and had traveled more than a week with three Cubi warriors and two thralls. They’d even had to sail. His travel companions had all left him after the Empowerment to tell his mother how it had gone.

  The view from the new Mother’s land was from up high, and it was breathtaking. On a clear day, he could see the sea to the east. Most of the village was built lower and all the way to the shore. Mother’s home was on the outskirts and bordered by the forest.

  “Mother’s coming!” the thrall whispered loudly, and Elakdon hurried back to his pig stomach project, dismayed at finding the smell before was from the thrall having managed to split another from the intestines of the newly slaughtered pig.

  “Elakdon, come here!” Mother shouted.

  Elakdon dropped the stomach in the wooden tub and ran to her.

  “Why isn’t the window drying yet?”

  “I had trouble with the lining.”

  “You said you could do this!”

  Elakdon hated feeling incompetent because he surely had learned many other things but what she needed. He knew metallurgy, yet this village had a blacksmith with two grown and capable sons. Elakdon had helped with fishing, too, yet here he lived too far from the shore for that to be a daily trait. “I can, with help, Sigarr is helping me learn.”

  “Sigarr better hurry up teaching you then, or you will both feel the sting. Maybe that can teach you to not dawdle.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She sent him a last disapproving look and returned to the house. Elakdon turned to glance at the thrall who had a bitter expression on his face.

  “I’ll work harder at it,” Elakdon promised and hurried back to his task.

  “Th
at would be much appreciated or may Forseti intervene and leave the punishment on the one who deserves it.”

  “How long have you been Mother’s thrall?”

  Sigarr groaned. “Two winters, and yes, I sold myself to her to get my family through rough times.”

  “For how long?” Elakdon asked.

  “Work!” Sigarr said, pointing to the stomachs.

  Elakdon shuddered at the mere thought but delved back into the tub with determination.

  Before sunset, Elakdon had managed three stomachs and was building the fourth frame.

  “Come on,” Sigarr said.

  “I promised I’d see it through, so I will.” Elakdon’s eyes stung from anger, but he wouldn’t shame himself by losing his temper and sneer at a man who had been so helpful.

  “You can barely see. Look at the roof. I can even smell the food from here.”

  Elakdon looked at the roof, but since he could barely see the wood he was trying to fit, then he could barely see the smoke from the hearth. But he could smell the food, too, and he’d already lost his lunch on the ground. And he was hungry for sex, too. Someone had been by a few hours earlier, but feeding on pleasure around pig stomachs was not exactly the best place to chase epic orgasms. It had been a flat one for him, a decent one for the woman, but it had left Elakdon wanting for so much more, and the hunger had stayed an irritating itch on his skin like his shirt was full of thorns.

  “Come on,” Sigarr tried again and took one of the frames with a pig stomach already stretched taut and drying.

  Elakdon drew a deep sigh and grabbed the other two and the tub. He had a stomach in there, and it would spoil if he didn’t manage it that evening. “Would you get a light? I have to finish this.”

  “I admire your persistence, so I’ll help you with that. I’ll meet you out front in a moment.” Sigarr hurried ahead, and Elakdon managed to haul everything in one go. At least he thought he did because he could barely see where he was anymore, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to find his way back to where they’d been working to see if he’d left something behind. He could hear the house more than see it, and he felt relief flood him when Sigarr came out with an oil lamp. At least the gods favored him with a still evening to finish his work in, and he made sure to show them gratitude by doing work he could be proud of.

  Finally done, Elakdon sat back and smiled at his accomplishment, but the legs next to him no longer wore trousers. It was the decorated hems of Mother’s dress and smock. He looked up from his kneeling position and found a small smile on her face.

  “I feared your promise to be nothing more than the sounds of an empty barrel. I judged you wrong.” She reached to help him up, and he stood with the frame. She took it from him and went inside, and Elakdon followed with the lamp. “Come sit with me.”

  Elakdon followed to her place at the head of the hearth, and her unspoken praise drew the attention of others when she fetched him beer, flesh, and bread. “Thank you, Mother.”

  She sat next to him and stroked his hair. “I would like you to spend the night in my bed. After you have eaten, go wash yourself, and I will braid your hair.”

  Yes, the strong-willed woman also possessed the compassion and nurturing side. Earning that side was a first for Elakdon. Even Sigarr smiled at him from across the hearth.

  Chapter Four

  Elakdon was cold and tired and nestled close by the long hearth. A thrall woman was turning the pots with porridge, and Elakdon willed the food to be done faster, and he spent time helping to stoke the fire and heat the house. He’d fed Mother numerous times and been dosed, too. Even so close to his Empowerment, he didn’t feel fear that he’d try to feed from the thrall woman, which was strictly forbidden without Mother’s say-so.

  A couple of Cubs were already too awake, arguing about whose wooden sword was the best. Apparently, there would be a challenge, later.

  “This!” a young Incubus declared and leaned the tip of his sword on the hearth between the two squabbling Cubs. “This is the best sword of the House.” The Incubus knelt to look at the Cubs, and Elakdon recognized him as the son of Mother. He would be sent off to be empowered in Elakdon’s village soon, since they were the Cubs traded to keep each Cubi House strong.

  “What’s its name?” one of the Cubs asked.

  “Bót Fastfrid, because I will ever and always take up arms to aid a brother in need of the help of my firm and beautiful helper.” The Incubus stroked the metal, gazing at it with love in his eyes.

  Elakdon had to give it to the young Incubus, it was a great name for a sword, and being the son of a blacksmith, Elakdon could recognize top-end craftsmanship. Elakdon had given his sword a Cubi name, not a Nordic one like Bót Fastfrid. Elakdon had never told anyone what he’d named it, and he’d even contemplated lying if anyone ever asked. But he’d finally come to the conclusion that if he respected the person who asked enough to think him worthy of knowing, then that man didn’t deserve a lie. If they didn’t deserve to know, Elakdon would simply remain silent and not sully his own honor.

  It was named Hal Lep-do’in, meaning something in the lines of of the first Royal union. The legend said that the first two Royals spread their seed through each other only to strengthen their race, yet Elakdon was sure it wasn’t the offspring, but the loyalty born within the Kingdoms that was the result. So to him, the name meant Loyalty to all Cubi.

  Elakdon had been teased and called unworthy of a sword because he was undisciplined. But he would pick up that sword and fight to the death for his race. Oddly enough, that one feeling could always get a rise out of him. Everything else seemed almost secondary. But he knew better than to say stuff like that out loud. Intentions didn’t make a man—his actions did. If he’d been unsure of that, then the comment Mother had given before praising him the night before had made it clear once again that speaking above one’s capabilities and only about wishes was to declare oneself a fool.

  “New Cub.”

  Elakdon looked up, and the handsome son of Mother smiled at him from across the hearth. “Sorry?”

  “You’re Elakdon Draumar, right? I am Foldon Gunnfúss. Can you handle a sword?”

  “Not as well as you, I imagine.” Foldon, the eager battler, was not a Cubus Elakdon, the daydreamer, had any intentions of picking up arms against.

  “Then it is my duty to teach you, House Brother.”

  Oh, no. Yet, Elakdon would, by the gods, earn another byname before that one stuck in the new village, and his new brother was a possible way to help him accomplish just that.

  “Before I leave to take your place in Ladby and be empowered by your old High Father, I shall teach you the ways of a warrior.”

  “Maybe my Cub should teach his new brother to eat healthily before going into battle.” Mother smiled at them from the end of the hearth. “Without food and water, even the most well-trained of heroes will falter.”

  Foldon grinned at Elakdon. “Like Odin asks Frigg for her advice, we too should take heed when a wise mother chooses to share her wisdom.”

  Elakdon liked his new brother and was sorry to see him go soon. Until then, he followed as Foldon led him outside and around back.

  “Let’s see if the chickens left us something more filling than porridge.”

  Around noon, Elakdon was approached by Foldon and his trusted sword.

  “I see that you’ve fed and fed, so I take it that you are more than at health for a little battle practice.”

  No way was Elakdon going to say no, but if that byname wasn’t one Foldon had given himself, Elakdon was, truth be told, a bit scared. Courage was revealed in moments like those, and Elakdon got up. “Show the way, brother.”

  “Get your sword.”

  Elakdon looked around and found Mother sitting outside in the sun and cutting vegetables. She had help from a Cub around age four. “Mother, do you need my help with something?”

  She looked up. “You look like a Cub with a plan.”

  “Foldon has a plan involvin
g us and swords.”

  She smiled. “Go make me and the gods proud.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Elakdon got his sword from his bedpost and met up with Foldon outside. Together, they walked and talked and tossed stones at twigs. He was a big Incubus, and Elakdon was kinda scrawny but tall—a beanpole with blond hair and blue eyes. Foldon was half a head shorter than Elakdon, but twice the width over his shoulders. He’d dyed his hair blond, but Elakdon could see the roots that he was a light brown from nature.

  “What do you dream about?” Foldon asked.

  Elakdon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, but the sincerity in Foldon’s expression made him smile instead. “A strong and united people.”

  “Under a Royal? You dream of the North united under a Royal?”

  “I don’t know. I dream of a people who feel more…connected.”

  Foldon held up his sword. “Dreaming of it won’t make it so. If the blacksmith hadn’t put his back and sweat into this, it never would have been.”

  “Being the son of a blacksmith, I know that, but without the thoughts of how it was to look before swinging the hammer, it never would have taken shape, either. Blindly swinging a sword in battle may keep your foe at bay for a while, but once you grow tired, you’d wish for having taken the time to dream up a strategy.”

  Foldon stopped to face Elakdon. He placed his sword on a log and leaned there casually, staring at Elakdon. “I admire the way you think. I guess I mostly recognize a skill I haven’t developed yet.” A crooked smile spread. “At least I lack it when I get angry.”

  “What skill?”

  “I act first and plan later. Mother reminds me often.” Foldon grinned, and Elakdon warmed to him even more. “Let’s see what you got. What strategy do you have for a fight here?” Foldon held out his arms and looked around in the beech forest they stood in.