The Goddess Embraced

by Deborah Davitt

  The sheer size of the area that needed to be guarded by her gods was a little daunting, yes. She’d been pinned down in either Germania or on the Persian border for years, herself. Tyr looked down at her. Let me count our forces. Baldur, the beautiful. Bragi, god of poetry. Dagr, god of day. Eir, the erstwhile valkyrie, and now goddess of healing. Forseti, second after me in justice. Skadi who is winter. Idunn, goddess of youth. Jörð, goddess of earth. Mani, the moon, Sunna the sun, and Nott, the night. Mimir, who has nothing left to fight with besides his teeth, for his ability to manifest anything more than his head was lost long ago. Tyr grimaced. Sif, goddess of the hearth and home. Thrud, goddess of flowers. Njord, the sea. Freyr, sun and fertility and battle. Freya, fertility, beauty, love, and seiðr. Heimdall the Protector. Thor, lord of thunder, Odin the All-father, and myself. Tyr swept a gaze down the long table. With no offense to any here, how many of those named are warriors?

  Sigrun winced under her hood. Baldur was no warrior; he was frail as he was beautiful. Bragi was a poet, though he could apparently handle a sword. Dagr, maybe. Forseti was more of a hunter than a warrior, but should be capable of standing and fighting. Skadi was warlike and harsh. Njord had the power of storms, just as Thor did, but he was worshipped as the protector of sailors, not as a war-god. Sif, perhaps. The goddess of the hearth needed to be able to protect that hearth, when others were off at war, but . . . Idunn, Thrud, Jörð . . . no. Mani . . . maybe, in the same way Mamaquilla was capable of it, in Tawantinsuyu. Sunna was nowhere near as powerful as, say, Inti or Mithras or even Apollo. She wasn’t the central figure of the pantheon. Freya was powerful. Odin. Heimdall. Thor. Tyr.

  The list was . . . dishearteningly short. “Five of exceptional power. Of the others . . . perhaps as many as six might successfully keep a mad god at bay. The mad ones are growing in power. Though Jormangand shattered one just yesterday.” It was a whisper, and yet, it carried, and the room stilled.

  We are missing several of our most potent weapons, Tyr said, looking down at her, his hands still on her shoulders. Hel was a powerful adversary. She is no longer with us. His eyes flicked up to Nith. No blame accrues to either of you for that unfortunate incident. And of course, Loki retreated to the wild Veil. And yet, Loki could command Jormangand. And Fenris. So, you see why we cannot simply take the power from you, my child. It might empower one of us a little more. But a trace of extra power is nothing compared to replacing Hel on the battlefield. And that is precisely what you must do, my daughter. That, and you must assist Frittigil and her son in retrieving Loki from the Veil.

  Sigrun shook as Tyr paused. With all of these necessities before you, daughter . . . what is your judgment? Should I tear this power out of you, or should you be required to use it? We need more hands skilled in wielding weapons and power, not fewer. And you are part of the reason that we lack two of our strongest warriors. Though again, I do not blame you for that.

  Sigrun closed her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. I cannot replace Hel. No matter what Nith thinks. And yet . . . I am responsible. Well, we all were, all of us who went to Fennmark. But Kanmi is dead, Minori is . . . Amaterasu’s. Saraid has taken responsibility for the fenris. Trennus is still working as a Praetorian, in and around building his Forest. Lassair is . . . doing whatever Lassair wishes to do. Adam is retired. And he is subject to his own god, and is much involved with Judean Intelligence and the defense of his own lands. Who is left to pay the reckoning?

  She sighed. And who else should it be, but me? “I have always served so that others would not have to do so,” Sigrun said, dully. “I await your commands.”

  Tyr leaned in close, and whispered against her hair, I am sorry to require this of you. But we have no choice, any more than you do.

  “If we win, will you take the powers away then?” Her voice sounded as fragile as a child’s, begging for reprieve from some punishment, and she hated it. But Prometheus’ words had buoyed her, at least a little. There might be a way out of the trap of prophecy.

  Tyr’s expression flickered, unreadably. If we win, and if it is still your wish, then yes.

  Sigrun looked down at her feet, assuring herself that she had not stepped past the threshold and into the hall. “Then give me your orders, my lord. I have Prometheus’ counsel to give you, and I am sure that you have tasks for me to accomplish.”

  While there will still be orders, you must now also decide for yourself where you might be of use. Tyr moved his hands to her wrists, and pulled her into the hall, to the renewed shocked murmurs. Sigrun’s heels had been set, and she was almost yanked off her feet by the maneuver before she recovered. Tyr drew her to the table, where there were seats empty, but Sigrun could not make herself sit, in spite of his gesture to do so. Instead, she stood behind him at his seat, like an attendant. Listened silently to tactical discussions that were both geographic and temporal. Odin’s words rang out in the air, The gods of Rome are overextended. They are, as we are, too few, and they guard over even more territory. Southern Africa and Australia will doubtless fall. They will leave the western hemisphere for us to guard our people, and for the gods of Gaul, Nahautl, Quecha, and for Mamaquilla to guard their own, as well. Mamaquilla is the sole focus of her people’s belief, but her population is a scant thirty-six million.

  Not enough, Freya assessed. We can offer her some aid, but she is not powerful enough to stand entirely on her own. And nor can she, truly, offer us much assistance in return. Her people are already locked in combat with the Quecha, and the Quecha fight her people, and those of the Nahautl, at the same time. Rebellion and strife.

  Sigrun knew a little about that situation; Quechan rebels in Nahautl had been promised semi-autonomy by Livorus in 1954 AC, and had received it. Their provinces had subsequently been flooded with people from the south, looking for a better life; the Nahautl had set up a barricade on the isthmus, trying to repel the immigrants, who’d taken to boats, instead. That had started a particularly bloody set of battles in the jungles there. Then unrest in Quecha itself, rebels rising up, still looking for the better life that they saw in Tawantinsuyu and Nahautl. They’d taken refuge in the jungles, and even in the mountains of Tawantinsuyu itself . . . and the Quecha rulers had attacked the sovereign soil of the neighboring empire in order to root out those rebels. And in so doing, they’d attacked the Legion troops who’d been drawn up to prevent them from entering Tawantinsuyu’s borders. A civil war that was bleeding out into every country around it. She said nothing, however; she had nothing to add here.

  She listened to discussions of alliances with the Gallic gods—something that gave her reason to sigh in relief. Every pantheon that had stood alone so far, had died. Her gods also had slightly better information than she’d thought about the situation in Asia. The Mongol Khanate had been, apparently, obliterated, the entire government falling in a mad god attack. The people of Mongolia now had no leadership, and almost no spirits to call on for aid. They were, in the main, migratory by lifestyle, so they were moving away from the mad gods, as best they could, pushed this way and that, and were currently heading up into Raccia.

  Raccia had a few native gods. Domovoi were just lares or kobolds or faery by another name. They had Dažbog, the sun god, Perun, lord of lightning, and Triglav, a three-headed god of war. The rest were largely agricultural and fertility deities, and many western Raccians had worshipped the gods of Valhalla as well, because their rulers had been, since about the seventh or eighth century, Goths by culture. Even the name of their country, Raccia, came from the tribe that had conquered their ancestors, centuries ago: the Rus. A sub-tribe of the Varangians, who’d left other marks on the geography of the region, like the name of Varangkov, the city of white nights.

  The Slavic gods were notably unwilling to ally with the gods of those who had invaded, long ago. Their worship had been in decline for centuries, but they had, after Loki’s self-exile and the invasion of the ettin and grendels, seen a resurgence of faith, which had apparently buoyed them. And then the mad god
s had been loosed, and they were, for the moment, willing to risk standing alone. The human expression of cutting off one’s own nose to spite one’s own face comes to mind. Tyr’s voice was grim.

  Let them dangle in the wind. They would not come to our aid. Why should we go to theirs? Skadi was scornful.

  Because millions of their people call to us, as well. Freya’s replied, gently.

  So we should enter their lands in spite of their gods’ anger, and court the wrath of the Roman gods? The Varangians were not subject to Rome when they conquered the native Slavs. Nor are they now. But if we go there, and we go there with our children, we are accountable to Rome’s gods. Njord shook his head.

  What good are Rome’s laws, if the whole world burns? That, from Freya. Thor. Tyr. Odin. Heimdall. Each could successfully assail one of the mad gods. As Jormangand did. The Gallic gods permit us into their territory, for we are kin of old. Their Morrigan is a raven goddess. Our first valkyrie knew her, and loved her. I could assail a mad god, I think, and take it out of the heavens. She tangled her fingers in her necklace. But we are not permitted to do what is necessary. We cannot sweep across the world, hunt the mad ones, and end them.

  Tyr raised his head. The temptation, which I am sure my brother Thor would give voice to, if he were here in this council, is to beat down resistance. To assail the weaker gods of Raccia, and protect the people in their lands who look to us, in spite of them. We cannot do so. The result would be chaos. We could be caught, wounded and weakened from battling with them, and fall to a mad god, instead of defeating the damnable things. He paused. There is another concern, however. There are human groups that are . . . trying to strengthen their gods. With yet more human sacrifice.

  My agents have heard some of this, Odin agreed. Of more concern to me, however, are the human groups that are attacking gods. There are places in India where rioting crowds have begun destroying temples, for that the humans do not believe that their gods are protecting them. Loss of faith . . . will weaken us. And then our ability to defend our people will indeed, be compromised.

  Much of this was far above Sigrun’s head. She pulled herself inwards, tightly, and did her best to memorize the details so that she could think about them later. And when the council disbanded, Freya approached her, and tugged lightly on the hood of Sigrun’s cloak. A new fashion, inspired by Hecate, I take it? I had not thought you to be one to follow in her footsteps.

  Sigrun grimaced. She’d tried for invisibility. Perhaps the black swan-cloak was some unconscious manifestation of this desire. “Hel concealed her face behind a mask, my lady.”

  There is nothing that says you must do the same, though you must stand in her stead. Freya looked down at her. I was most pleased when you ate the apple. I think it helped you to resist Prometheus’ words less.

  Sigrun stared at the ground. “Prometheus informs me,” she forced the words out from behind stiff lips, “that I owe you an apology. That you planted the knowledge in my mind and concealed it from me, not to . . . violate me, as Apollo has done to my sister . . . but because you might not be able to train me, if the power came to me during . . . contentious times.”

  So do you apologize, then? Freya’s tone was mildly amused.

  Sigrun lowered her head. “I apologize for my actions in word, in deed, and in thought against you. I was wrong.” Sigrun did not forgive easily, and she’d harbored this resentment for over twenty years. It would take some time to fade.

  I erased the memories—a skill you learned from me, even as I performed it on you—but I tried to explain to your younger self why you needed to learn to shape seiðr. You refused. Resolutely. I tried to tell you that the othersight was the first sign that more could bloom, and that you should be prepared . . . and you told me to take it away from you. I still do not understand this. Most humans long to be more than what they are. They long for power, the ability to shape the world around them, through magic, science, art. Freya tipped Sigrun’s chin up. And even now, when you are no longer human, you still resist your wyrd.

  “It is no path of my choosing,” Sigrun said, very quietly. “And I do not deserve any part of it. I was unconscious when Tlaloc died. I had no real part in his death. Nith speaks of ‘to the victor go the spoils’ . . . but I was not a victor then. Supay? Self-defense. Loki? I had taken a near-mortal wound from Reginleif’s body, and was hardly aware of my surroundings. Baal-Samem? Again, nothing more than self-defense. Profiting by the death of others . . . .” Sigrun shrugged. “Makes me nothing more than a ghul. Eating from the corpses of the dead.”

  Human morality has changed in the last thousand years. Your ancestors would not have cringed at the thought. They would have exulted. They would have looted the gold from the conquered stronghold, and sung great songs, so that their deeds might be remembered for generations. For that wealth would assure them of health, and stave off hunger and need. Freya looked down into her eyes. You see only a burden, and not a benefit. You could use seiðr to make your husband’s poor bones ache less, you know. You could use it to supplement your natural healing, if you would but listen to the lessons in your head. He would never have to know why he feels better. He could attribute it all to some wondrous new pill his scientists have given him. But you could do that for him. It would come from your hands and heart.

  Sigrun froze, but Freya’s fingers remained gentle on her face. And as I told you over twenty years ago . . . I could not undo Loki’s curse on you. But you have Loki’s own power, locked in your heart. Like calls to like. Perhaps you could unknot, unravel the curse, where I could not. You certainly have more time with your body at your disposal. But if you will not try, you will never learn, will you?

  Sigrun started at the memory. Freya’s words of twenty years ago had been dangled there, like a temptation, and she’d rejected it. Felt that her future was her sacrifice, and had thought that if she embraced the power within her, she would no longer know who she was. And then she’d done her best to forget it all. And had succeeded.

  Freya pushed the hood from Sigrun’s hair, and the valkyrie flinched as that frail shelter was stripped away. You might also give consideration, the goddess said, with a little smile, to the fact that you will need to think on matters of public appearance, now. I know, it has never been a consideration before. You prefer to work in the shadows—odd, for a valkyrie. Most of your service has been as a bodyguard. The faceless protector. The rest of the time? You have affected to be a soldier among other soldiers, or a protector of the law. Anonymous, if you could manage it. That is neither possible, nor even a virtue for you, now. You will gain power by people’s belief in you, and people find it easier to believe in what they can see. An image they can hold in their minds and hearts.

  Sigrun shook her head, but her mind spun. She was being assailed on all sides now. “I . . . would greatly prefer . . . if no one believed in me.” Her throat clenched on the words. I don’t want to be seen. “If someone believes in you . . . you will almost certainly let them down.”

  You already have people who believe in you, Freya told her. When you walk through the streets of Little Gothia, and you hear the whispers of ‘Sigrun Stormborn’ in your mind, and you flee to find somewhere more occupied, where there is noise and life enough to drive the words out? That is them, speaking your Name in reverence and in love. The fenris, the jotun, and the nieten already have an image of you. And that is well and good. But there are a hundred million others, who had an image of Hel. And who now will require an image of you. Unless you would become her. Which, I think, Niðhoggr would take much amiss.

  Sigrun wavered, wanting nothing more than to vomit, all over again. She had never had to take a public speaking role in the Praetorians; Adam had always handled that. She didn’t think she had stage-fright, per se, but she did not want a hundred million eyes on her. And she’d had less than twenty-four hours to adapt to any of this. “I am who I am,” she said, desperately. “Is it not enough that I will live this lie for you?”

  F
reya sighed. People’s belief may change you. Distort you. You have seen your friend Saraid change over time. She deliberately assumed more lupine aspects to let the fenris understand her better. But she has gone from being as gentle as a deer, to being much more pack-oriented, has she not? She still retains a gentle core-self. But she is more feral now, is she not?

  Her stomach twisted. “They will turn me into someone else?”

  That has already begun. Freya held up a hand to still Sigrun’s words on her lips. Some of that is the natural evolution of experiences shaping you. You are far warier, more suspicious, and bitter than you were decades ago. For my part in that . . . I do truly sorrow. But you have much belief from the jotun and the fenris already in you, though you have tried not to hear it. You have your grandsire’s powers—flight, lightning, wind, truthsense, an implacable sense of justice—to which have been added ice and storm, death, vengeance, magic, and night. You are who you are. And you are what you are becoming. If you take charge of your image now, you can be who you wish to be, instead of whom they invent you as. Which might be a very dark and dire thing, indeed. Hel did not control her image. And look what she became, from the kindly chatelaine who looked after those who died of causes other than battle, to the cold and bitter thing she was when she died.