by T. G. Ayer
I had to see Aidan. See him up close and personal. Which meant only one thing.
I was going to Hel.
Chapter 7
I decided the only person I needed to tell about my trip to Hel would be the All-Father himself. To be honest, I suspected I'd need his permission before I set foot in Hel's realm anyway. Finding a time when old One-Eye was alone in the Great Hall would be the trickiest part.
In the end it wasn't tricky at all. Sigrun popped her head into my room to let me know I'd be alone at dinner. "I will be part of a scout team making a short trip to Midgard," she explained, before disappearing with a quick wave. I grabbed the opportunity and headed off to Odin's Hall.
Thankfully, the cavernous space was empty, but this hall was never deserted for very long at all. Odin paced the floor in front of his throne, one of his ravens balancing on his shoulder as he walked. I strode up to him, throwing a hurried glance around the hall to be certain we were totally alone.
I bowed my head and waited.
"Speak, Valkyrie Brynhildr." His single grey eye scrutinized me.
So I told him. And then I braced myself, watching his expression as he scanned my face. Would he forbid me? Or try to talk me out of it?
Whatever you do, please don't say no. I'm going, that's that.
I exhaled only when Odin nodded, his golden helmet reflecting the hall's many torchlights. "You will need a guide." He snapped his fingers. A rustle of wings brought the sudden weight of his raven to my shoulder. "Hugin will keep you out of trouble."
I frowned, eying the bird with mixed feelings. He'd better be more helpful than the last time Odin loaned him to me.
Minutes later I traveled the Rainbow of the Gods again with Hugin as my companion. The Bifrost still managed to be as disconcerting as ever. A mini-tornado swirled in my stomach, accompanied by a whirling in my head. For Asgard's main transportation system, the Bifrost scored a big fat zero for in-transit comfort.
My feet touched solid ground, and it took me a while to reorient myself. Tall trees and icy, stagnant air welcomed me to Hel. I'd expected Helheim to be hot, like Muspelheim, as both realms were technically part of the underworld. Shows how much I really knew.
I shivered, convulsion after convulsion rippling through me as I inspected the dark forest. Shadows clung to everything, and I stepped forward, needing to move to get some warmth into my limbs.
My feet trod a path of shattered stones that covered raw, black soil; the stones clattered underfoot like a chorus of chattering teeth. Ominous sounds that sent strange chills down my back. Dark trees loomed over me, limbs creaking eerily in the still air. Every tree stood stripped of its leaves, blackened, bark-bare and as bleak as the low sky above us. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I was sure the trees reached out to grab hold of me. I blinked, then laughed at myself. Scaredy-cat. Shivering harder, I struggled to process this strange, bone-penetrating cold. Not a breeze stirred the icy air; no wind drifted past to shift the cold around.
I glared at Hugin.
Thanks for not telling me to bring warmer clothing, Blackbird.
What more could I expect from a birdbrain? The bundle of feathers probably had no idea how debilitating the cold was to me. And knowing him, he'd just say he didn't tell me because I hadn't asked. I huffed in silence.
The strange cold seeped into my skin, soaking into my bones. My breath emerged warm from my lungs but didn't mist in front of my face. Bare ground crunched beneath the soles of my sandals.
The odd, odorless quality of the air raised a prickle of goose bumps on my arms. The place smelled like nothing. No musty odor of dried wood, no smell of ice on the wind, promising a snowfall or a frost. I took a deep, and loud, breath. And frowned. Maybe my nose needed fixing.
Hugin shifted, then tightened his grip on my shoulder. "In Hel, one cannot smell."
"Huh? You mean you lose the ability to smell odors? Or is it that nothing generates an odor in this dead place?"
"Either. Both," came the enigmatic reply.
I clicked my tongue, disgusted with the bird's convoluted confusions. I didn't think I could get used to the bird's cryptic guidance at all. I walked on, hurrying down the path through the blackened trees, feeling as though a thousand dark eyes stared from the shadows as I went.
The sky hovered above, a dull, ashen grey, offering not a hint of the time of day. No pale moon shone, no vibrant stars sparkled. No clouds danced dull and lusterless.
"Strange place for Freya to live," I said to the bird, pondering how the glowing beauty of Freya would fit in here.
"Goddess Freya resides in this place, where the goddess Hel is queen, and though Freya may not belong, she has a purpose to fulfill here in Helheim."
I frowned at the words of Odin's oh-so-wise raven. Yeah, well, let's hope she's fulfilling her purpose and finding Aidan a cure.
The path curved, and the sounds of a battle up ahead pierced my ears. Metal clashed and clanged, ringing in my ears without an echo. The racket of the fight rang high and sharp, yet hollow, as if the air absorbed not only the natural odors but also the timbre of sound.
"What are they up to?" The question stuttered through my chattering teeth.
Just ahead of us, the trees parted to reveal a field in which two regiments of mismatched soldiers charged and fought a fierce but strangely bloodless battle. All around, the clang and clatter of sword on sword spiked my senses, a needle to my awareness.
Right in front of me, one man's sword sliced into his opponent's flesh, then dislodged with a rapid jerk, coming free without a drop of blood marring its gleaming surface. I gasped, shock trickling through my veins, yet still mesmerized by the horror. My gaze remained on the soldiers, absorbing detail after detail.
A French legionnaire fought beside a Templar, whose white robes flared as he moved, back and forth within the dance of the battle. The red cross on his chest shone in the bleak light. A Spartan screamed, charging his opponents; his red cloak billowed behind him as he clashed with a kilt-bound Scot, their cries drowning each other out in a cacophony of spiritless battle.
The color of red screamed out. In the cross and the kilt, in the cloak, in the flag tied to a Roman's spear. But all it did was underline the absence of blood.
"Hugin, what's going on here?" I hissed, annoyed that the bird hadn't bothered to answer my question.
He cocked his head, his glassy eyeball seeking clarification. "Do you not see them fighting, Brynhildr?"
"The blood, Hugin," I replied, raising an eyebrow.
"There is none," he answered.
I rolled my eyes. "I'm very well aware of the absence of blood, Blackbird!" My annoyance drew Aidan's pet name for the feathered pest to my lips. "Why is there no blood?"
"Blood is life, Brynhildr. Where there is no life, there cannot be blood," he answered, unperturbed.
I muttered a reluctant thank you and stared at the battle again. They were all dead. I shook my head.
"Why?"
I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud until Hugin answered me. "They are doomed to replay their battles. It is their love of pillaging, of taking lives, that has brought them to the arms of Hel. This is their punishment, an eternity of battle to sate the needs of even the most ardent of soldiers."
I loved and hated the way the bird spoke. But at least this time he'd actually told me something significant about the realm of Hel. The dead who belonged here were destined for eternal punishment. Eternal strife. I studied the men who fought tirelessly on the field. They reminded me of something. Blank, staring eyes. Emaciated limbs. Grey, papery skin.
"Zombies."
"In your world that would be a suitable description, but here in Hel these men can do nothing else but fight each other. They cannot break free and attack at random. But yes, they are similar to your zombies. They are the dead, revived to live a life of death, forever."
I swallowed, thinking again of Aidan and his future. I had to get him out of this awful place.
"Co
me on, Hugin, which way to Freya?" I just wanted to get the hell out of Hel.
The bird flapped ahead and I followed, shivering, trudging along for what seemed like forever. I felt no thirst, no hunger and no fatigue. Only the biting cold.
"Hugin." I called him down. "Why am I not hungry? It's been ages since we last ate. We've been walking for hours now."
"In the world of the Dead, only the Dead shall suffer at the hands of fate. The living shall remain immune to the touch of Death."
I nodded, thankful for the information. Hugin was a regular chatterbox today, at least compared to the last time he'd been my guide. On our mission to find Brisingamen for Freya, Hugin had been painfully reticent, only providing information when I asked a direct question, and sometimes not even then. It was bad enough that Aidan couldn't hear him speak, and worse when the darned bird actually declined to answer our questions. He'd pissed me off pretty royally last time around. So much so that, on more than one occasion, I'd had to quell the urge to wring his feathery little neck.
The raven launched off my shoulder, rising high into the bleak sky. Guess he didn't plan on answering any further questions, then. I didn't see anyone else jumping up and down to offer to guide me around this dead world.
So I followed in silence.
The cold snuck beneath my cloak, and I pulled it closer. My wings fluttered at my back, reminding me I could fly, that I could really just take off and fly with Hugin. But I figured I'd stick to the ground for the moment. I'd tested my sore muscles that morning, and they were still stiff and unforgiving. The bruises on my skin shone yellow and purple, and no amount of salve or soaking in hot pools was able to ease their vicious color. At least they didn't hurt as bad as they looked.
I stared up at the dark speck that was my feathered guide, then shook my head. No way in Hel was I going to risk making a fool of myself again in front of Hugin. No way.
Hugin certainly knew where he was going. Not five minutes had gone by when he descended toward me in a wide curve, landing smoothly on a blackened branch of a dark, shadowed tree nearby. He turned his head slowly, peering down the path, and I knew we were almost there.
On the hill ahead of us sat a longhouse, the polished wood out of sync with the dead black of the trees we'd just passed. Could such an unglamorous structure be Freya's Hel-house?
A few moments later, drawing closer, I was sure.
Two large statues flanked the doorway, each guarding the entrance, a fierce expression on their beautiful stone faces. The wings drew my attention: raised and curving outward, at once threatening and welcoming.
Valkyries.
Chapter 8
I shoved the door open, a rush of welcome warmth bathing my skin and hair in loving greeting, soothing the ache in my bones. Inside, the large room looked a lot like Valhalla, with its huge beams and spiraling carved pillars holding up a monstrous roof. Dozens of empty tables lined either side of the hall, and a clear pathway ran down the center all the way to a raised dais. The lighter wood of the floor and the tables complimented the warm red of the pillars and rafters.
The room resonated warmth. But where were the occupants of this hall? And where was Freya? I swallowed my curiosity and walked to the empty dais.
"Ah, welcome to my humble home, Brynhildr."
The voice floated around me, twisting its way hypnotically into my mind. The intoxicating warmth of love and fealty swelled within me, forced there by the magical allure of the voice, but I fought down the enchantment. I blinked, glad I was able to hold off the thrall of this powerful goddess.
I had the sense to pretend though, and just stared ahead calmly as if her magic had won me over, the way it worked on all her other thralls. I waited for her to appear, knowing there was no sense upsetting her by revealing how little power she had over me, not when I relied on her to keep Aidan safe.
Freya stepped onto the dais, materializing from shadows to corporeal form in a matter of seconds. Her little magic trick failed to surprise or disconcert me; I'd been treated to Freya's appearances and disappearances before.
"Come forward, child," the gentle voice beckoned, and a smile twitched at her lips. She dazzled the eye, no less beautiful than the last time I'd seen her, when she'd taken Aidan from Odin's hall and promised to find a way to help him.
"How have you been, Brynhildr? I believe you have fared well with your training."
The normalcy of her questions threw me. The goddess was making small talk with me, and yet I knew she would gladly end both Aidan's and my lives without blinking a single one of her gold-tipped eyelashes. Small talk? Really?
Oh, I'm excellent, my lady. Except for the part about missing a boyfriend because some ungodly god decided it was good sport to poison him and have him carted off to Hel.
"I have, my lady." I had no choice but to maintain a certain civility, since she happened to be the only one who could possibly cure Aidan. When she planned to get around to it, I had no idea, but I had to hope. And I had to behave.
"You are here to see him, I assume?" Freya moved toward me, silken silent grace. I could see how men fell in love with her on sight. Worry and a twinge of jealousy rose in my throat like bile. I had to admit I hated the thought of leaving Aidan here with her when I returned to Asgard. What if she found a cure and he regained consciousness, and what if he fell in love with her and didn't want me anymore? When confronted with this vision of beauty and manipulation, I suspected few men could resist.
Besides, Aidan and I had barely had much opportunity for a normal relationship. In fact, we'd spent the better part of ours apart, with Aidan either dead, dying or in a coma. My heart hurt to even think about it.
I answered her question with a nod. "I promised I'd come to see him."
She laughed, soft and slightly mocking. "Do you really think he heard you, my dear?"
"Studies say that coma patients can still hear the people that speak to them," I replied, keeping my tone as flat as possible, even though every instinct made want to scream at her.
"Ah yes. The doctors of Midgard. Perhaps there is some truth to that, Brynhildr." She inclined her head and said no more. Was that a dismissal? Had she just provided permission for the visit? I wasn't sure.
A movement at my side stirred warm air against my skin, and I turned to meet Astrid's blue gaze. Great. I now stood face to face with the one person I'd prefer to avoid.
And by her dark scowl I guessed she was no more pleased than I at our reunion. The stunning, blonde, blue-eyed ideal of a Valkyrie hated me with an undeniable and yet unfathomable passion. Hated me for something I'd apparently done in a previous life. A life that I still found hard to believe in.
Good thing she'd disappeared off to Helheim with Freya. Best place for the goddess's pet. I was glad I hadn't seen her in Asgard at any point since Aidan had been sent to Hel. I don't think I could have controlled myself. Her snitching had enabled Freya to blackmail me into finding her necklace. I blamed Astrid. If it hadn't been for her malignant interfering, Aidan would've been just fine, training in Valhalla instead of lying unconscious in the middle of this dead realm.
Astrid suited this cold world, with her icy eyes and her pale emotionless face. She suited her mistress too. Both beautiful, both cold.
"Come." The word fell like an icy crystal from Astrid's lips.
Feathers fluttered behind me, and I swallowed a sigh of relief knowing Hugin remained with me. Annoying as he sometimes was, the enigmatic bird gave me comfort. And he was my only ally here.
I met Freya's eyes and bowed my head in a polite farewell, releasing my gritted teeth only when I walked off. Astrid led me through a doorway much smaller than the main entrance to the hall, and stopped almost immediately to swing open the first door on her left.
"He is in there. You may stay as long as you wish, but do not touch him." Then she left in a flurry of cool lavender fragrance.
Aidan lay on a low bed carved out of stone and bordered with the twisting branch design that had become so
familiar to me. A thin layer of white feathers protected his prone flesh from the cold stone.
I walked to him, knelt quietly beside him. My fingers reached automatically for his hand, but I yanked them back just in time, my muscles cramping with fear. Astrid's warning rang hollow in my ears. What would happen if I touched him? Would it hurt him, delay his cure? I fisted my hand as my gut twisted.
I may have sounded confident when I told Freya that coma patients could hear people who talked to them, but right then, as I gazed at his pale face, longing to run my fingers through his black tousled hair, I ceased to believe it.
Tears warmed my cheeks, and I brushed the heated despair from my face.
"Do not fear, Brynhildr. Freya will be able to leech the poison from him." Hugin, all but forgotten, landed again on my shoulder.
"What? What do you mean, 'leech'? I thought she was trying to find a cure."
"That is the cure. Over time, the power of Loki's poison will fade, and the weaker it gets the easier it will be for Freya to draw it from him."
"How does she do it?"
"The same way she placed the curse on him."
I swallowed a gasp, recalling the twisting green smoke Freya had drawn from Aidan's mouth when she'd removed her curse. A curse she'd used to force me to find her precious necklace. Although I'd grown fond of my amber pendant, I'd been very happy to be rid of the damned thing. Honestly, if I'd known the mess the bloody thing would get us into, I would never have accepted it, never would have worn it at all.
"So what? She spews some fancy Freya-smoke into him and then sucks it back out again? That's it?"
"Yes, that is correct." The bird bobbed his little head up and down, his emotionless eyes staring, glassy and glossy.
I shivered as I pictured how close Freya would have to be to Aidan, how close her lips would need to be for her to blow the golden smoke into him. In my mind's eye, I saw the swirling golden smoke dip and rise and fill Aidan's mouth. Then it would disappear, followed moments later by a solid, twisting, almost living black poison that would curl and writhe as it rose from his mouth again. Not my idea of a pleasant cure.