Intimacy meant sharing similar interests, or cultivating an interest in each other’s. Sigrun had enjoyed looking up at the stars with her father as a child, but she’d been trained to use them for navigation, and little more. Adam’s interest in astronomy and other planets had broadened her, as her interest in history had broadened him.
Intimacy meant not going on separate trips for pleasure’s sake. That one shouldn’t go off alone for a day or two at a time with a member of the opposite gender (or the same gender, if one’s inclinations led that way) also seemed to go without saying. If work required a trip, it was one thing, but pleasure excursions, separate from one’s beloved? Sigrun didn’t even see a point in that. It seemed self-centered to her; egocentric and childish. Excluding one’s spouse from enjoyed activities was also a grand way to invite jealousy and separation into a relationship. If a spouse happened to enjoy an activity that the other did not, on the one hand, being married did not mean that one stopped being an individual. Someone should feel free to pursue their avocations. But not in a way that completely disregarded the other person, excluded them, shut them out. All of these seemed to be hallmarks of what she considered a selfish modern tendency towards individualism at the expense of all else.
Relationships were thus, for Sigrun, intersections in space and time. If you valued someone, you would, perforce, want to spend more time with them, not less. The more intersections of your life with theirs, the more intimacy was promoted. One promoted intimacy by sharing things together. A bed. A home. A life. Mutual interests. If all a couple did together was occasionally occupy the same structure at the same time, and have sex, that qualified them, in her opinion, as roommates who periodically exchanged bodily fluids for the sake of reducing sexual tension, not as lovers or spouses. If one spouse’s only interest was watching the far-viewer, and the other was intellectually or physically active—a philosopher, a scientist, an athlete, or an outdoorsman—the relationship was doomed, unless the far-viewer watcher could get off the couch and participate in life. Because for the intellectually or physically active, the lack of stimulation in merely sitting and watching children’s puppet shows would eventually pall.
Of course, she was the first to admit, hers was a Gothic or Gallic viewpoint. Romans were nowhere near so romantic in their evaluation of marriage. For a Roman, a marriage was a civil contract for the raising of children. Men and women could, would, and did live entirely separate lives under the same roof, intersecting only to make children, eat occasional meals together, and check in on the progress of those children. Love was an unbalancing emotion. Held properly in check, it could contribute to a marriage, but it was not necessarily expected. Hence the chilly arrangement between Livorus and Poppaea. Erida, while Chaldean, had had a similar agreement with her first husband. And hundreds of thousands of other people lived in the same situation. For marriages like those, intimacy was not even a question.
So Sigrun actually felt guilty about the castle in the Veil. Guilty that she could not share it with Adam. And thus, for the sake of her own sanity, it had to remain solely a place of work, a convenience that allowed her to share more time, more intimacy, with her husband. She could not allow it to become a home. And she tried to make every moment she was allowed to spend at home with Adam matter. Even if it involved something as simple as going for a walk with him, and making sure that the arthritis pain didn’t shoot through his legs as they paced together.
It also meant that, if possible, she wanted to give him as few reasons to ask questions as possible. She knew that acting normal was a lie. But questions and suspicions were another invitation to division in a marriage, and a failure of intimacy. She couldn’t share her . . . entity-self with him. But she also wouldn’t allow it to destroy what they had.
And thus, Nith snorted and contracted himself to the size of a lindworm, dropping neatly into Trennus’ backyard, and Sigrun hoped that Adam wouldn’t look out a window at that precise moment. He could find out afterwards, after she’d seen if she could do anything for Trennus or not. If Trennus was all right, then he could deal with telling Adam of his newfound godhood. Which, knowing Trennus? Wouldn’t come up. He’d be as embarrassed about that, as being related to a king.
Sigrun slid off Nith’s shoulders, saying, silently, If you fit through the door, please come inside. I don’t think anyone will mind. She bolted through the back door, just about running over Minori, who was holding one of Lassair’s toddlers in her arms, and caught the surprised look on Min’s young, unlined face. Less than a minute had actually transpired since Saraid had called Sigrun; Min might not even know that the others were in the house yet. “Where’s Tren, the bedr—nevermind, yes, he is—” Sigrun used othersight to confirm that there were three figures in the master bedroom, and ran for the stairs, leaving a highly startled sorceress in her wake.
Sigrun made it into the bedroom, and skidded to a halt. There was a faint, but palpable tension in the air, and Lassair was in flame-form, something Sigrun hadn’t seen the spirit do in years, outside of the ‘god-boring’ lessons for the children. Not since Baal-Hamon, anyway. Lassair hovered on one side of the bed, and Saraid sat on the other, her ears drooping and her tail down, her hands clasping one of Trennus’. His hair was disheveled and had dead leaves caught in it, but he looked outwardly undamaged. Just unconscious. Sigrun sighed, and walked in, sitting on the side of the bed beside Saraid, and put a hand on her shoulder, gently. “Here. Let me take a look.” Sigrun lifted Tren’s hand slightly, and felt for his pulse. Simple human tactile awareness.
Steady, strong beats of a healthy heart. She looked down at his closed eyes, and shook her head. Years ago, Kanmi had teased him, mercilessly, about the crush Kanmi had supposed Trennus had on her. Sigrun had never really seen any signs of it, but then Kanmi hadn’t usually needed more than a partial target to open fire on, anyway. Trennus had flushed and reacted to a lot of women back in the day. But they’d been the only two people who’d spoken each other’s languages back then. Their cultures were related, too, in the way that Adam and Kanmi’s were; cousins, of a sort. Similar cultural expectations.
It had forged a bond of friendship between her and Trennus. A different one than they shared with the others. They understood the same jokes. They both chuckled under their breath at flyting, well done. They had the same context and understanding of the world, and both were introverts, ultimately, though Trennus was more out-going—rather, he had been made more outgoing, by Lassair.
Dozens of memories flooded through her. He’d held Sigrun down, long ago, so that the pazuzu’s claws could be cut out of her ankle. She’d been there for the births of most of his children. She’d helped raise and train all of them. He’d held her in the Veil, when they both had been injured in mind and heart after Loki’s banishment. And he’d been there to hold her and support her when Prometheus had forced her to acknowledge what she’d become. Sigrun’s breath caught in her chest, in silent acknowledgment of the bond of unspoken love between them, and put a hand on his chest. Let the rhythm of his breathing flow into her, and opened herself to othersight. Warm brown and green aura, as always. But only one cord wrapped around him, the leaf-dappled one from Saraid. No additional aura of flame.
“His mind is intact,” she said, after a moment. “But he is very deeply unconscious. I can try to raise him to consciousness, but sometimes, a deep sleep is necessary for the mind and body, to allow both to recover. Let’s give him a little time, first.” She watched as Saraid, very carefully, began to pull leaves out of Trennus’ hair. “Saraid, you gave me the . . . overview before I came here. And I wasn’t quite high enough in the air when we came in for a landing to see . . . but the entire northern end of Britannia is here?”
Yes. I suspect that passage through the Veil may have . . . changed . . . some of the people, and the Forest itself. I will go among them and investigate . . . but not until he has awakened.
“I . . . can’t help but notice that one of his soul-bonds is missing.” Sigr
un flicked a glance up at Lassair. “I didn’t quite see what happened there.”
I released him. He needed the energy to survive the transition process. Lassair sat on the edge of the bed, and huddled in on herself for a moment . . . and the quilt promptly began to smoke. There were no fire alarms in this house for a reason. Lassair sighed, and the flames on her skin, and on the bedding, both died. Stormborn. I need . . . your advice and counsel.
Sigrun’s head came up, surprised. She couldn’t remember the spirit ever speaking those words before. Lassair had always been free with her own advice, cheerfully administered. Always happy to hear from Sigrun about ways to deal with this problem or that with the children. But asking for counsel was new. “You ask me as an ælagol?” Sigrun said cautiously. “Or as a . . .” she grimaced. “An entity?”
As a friend who has known all of us for a long time.
Sigrun closed her eyes, and the door of the bedroom opened behind her, and someone walked in behind her. Othersight didn’t require her physical eyes. It showed her Min’s sky-and-indigo presence behind her, along with the brilliant disc of the sun inside of her that was Amaterasu’s sliver of awareness. “I can manage that,” Sigrun told Lassair, quietly. “Ask your question.”
What is wrong with me? Lassair’s voice was plaintive. He still loves me. I can feel it in him. But I am not the same as I was, years ago. I am not less. I would know if I had been diminished. But how have I gone from what I was, to what I am now? He does not love me less, but he loves her . . . as the stone that endures. Frustration there, and confusion, too. Pain, but not really jealousy. Lassair was probably not capable of that emotion. Though Sigrun thought if this was not handled well, that the spirit might well learn.
Saraid lifted her eyes, and shook her head, mutely.
Minori cleared her throat, uneasily. “I’m . . . not sure I entirely know what’s going on,” the woman said, softly, “but is this really the time for this conversation? Trennus is unconscious, and there are radio reports of a forest having spread itself out over the entire region north of the city. People are panicking, and don’t know if it’s a Persian trick, a mad god assault, or what.”
Sigrun snorted. “If the Persians are using trees to attack us, or if the mad gods are now creating life, instead of devouring it, the world would have turned upside down. We can deal with that in a minute or two.” She looked back at Lassair, and considered the matter, as dispassionately as she could. She’d never really been fond of Lassair’s habit of greeting her, or Adam, with a full-blooded kiss. It had been . . . off-putting. But there was so much to the spirit, just as there was so much to Saraid, that it took her a moment to assemble her mental collage.
Lassair’s love transcended the physical, but she saw no harm in expressing that love physically, towards anyone for whom she felt it. That, all of them had always known. An exchange of energies was a handshake to some spirits, and Lassair regarded almost all love as the same thing. She loved them all, and would have given all of them joy, as she expressed it, if they had permitted it.
And yet, none of them ever had, to Sigrun’s knowledge. She’d been on the radio when Kanmi had asked Lassair to go away, in Alexandria. Said if he was going to say farewell to his wife, he wanted that farewell to be for Min, and no one else. Adam had turned down an offer from Lassair to emulate Sigrun’s body—clone her, in effect—and give them a child in that fashion. Sigrun herself recoiled from Lassair’s embraces, but then, she recoiled from physical contact with almost everyone. It had taken Saraid years to get Sigrun to relax with her outside of wolf form. Minori clearly found Lassair beautiful—and Minori was, like, Sophia, equally attracted to both genders . . . but Sigrun knew that it had never gone any further than Lassair’s effusive greetings and coquettish, cheerful teasing. All of them had, in some form or another, said no to her. Except for Trennus, who usually said yes.
And thus, in close to forty years, Sigrun had never a hint that Lassair had come to understand the boundaries of how mortals lived, or respect them. There is something to be said for being a free spirit. And Trennus loves this in her. But sometimes, it comes across as . . . tone-deaf. And yet, she is wise. She sees deeply into people. She saw how Kanmi and Minori resonated with each other, before either of them ever knew. She is, like all of us, fallible.
Memories flickered through Sigrun’s mind. The look of anger and regret on Lassair’s face when she’d realized that there was a curse on Sigrun, and one she was powerless to lift. Lassair was love and life. Fertility. Fecundity. Growing things and passion. And it had hurt Lassair not to be able to give those gifts to Sigrun and Adam.
The amusement in Lassair’s tone, as the spirit had tried to convince her to use the othersight in Fennmark. Do you intend to limit yourself forever to what you have always been and always done? Humans grow. Humans change. The gain in complexity over a lifetime is one of the most intoxicating things about mortal life.
She hadn’t been conscious for it, but Adam had relayed a guilt-laden Lassair’s words to him, from that same day, on how Trennus went into the Veil every night. I did not realize how much of a toll the constant activity of the mind was taking on him, until Saraid showed me. I have been . . . selfish. But he was building for us such a beautiful place . . . .
Her own words to Adam, on seeing Lassair, Trennus, and Saraid leave their house one night, after Lassair had planted a very firm kiss on Adam. Lassair does what Lassair does, Adam.
The way the spirit gloried in trying new foods. The way she’d hung on Trennus in the first ten years, and still often did. The way she’d thrown herself into motherhood, full-tilt, as an exciting new project. Every child a wonder to her. The way she’d slain the Sapa Inca and others over the years, red in tooth and claw. The way she’d helped Minori go to Kanmi, masking the sorceress’ identity. Giving them both hope and strength. The rage and sorrow in her, when she could not save the child sacrificed to Baal-Hamon.
And on the other hand . . . . Whimsicality. Sigrun trusted Lassair with her back, but she’d known, for decades, that the spirit was flighty. She liked Lassair. Accepted the word sister from her, cherished the friendship, and had always tolerated her quirks . . . but Saraid was far more a kindred spirit to Sigrun. Saraid intuitively understood boundaries, and didn’t push them the way that Lassair did. Saraid had started working towards friendship and kinship with Sigrun by getting Sigrun to relax. She’d brushed her hair, which had initially made Sigrun uncomfortable, and had offered her lap as a place to rest Sigrun’s head while she let Sigrun’s mind move to the Veil . . . but Sigrun hadn’t relaxed until Saraid had gone wolf-form. Humans always want something, Sigrun had said that evening, quietly, as Saraid let the Wood flow through the living room. Shadows of leaves on the ceiling. Sounds of a babbling stream. Peace. Tranquility.
And the final piece of the collage . . . Sigrun had a sense that Trennus wouldn’t have minded a smaller family. Oh, he’d never spoken a word against Lassair to Sigrun or to Adam. But over the years, worry had tightened his expression when another child came along, and money had been a concern. Oh, there were always grapes to eat, and Lassair’s garden was the envy of the entire neighborhood, so none of the children went hungry . . . .but every child wore hand-me-downs. They all took the bus everywhere they could. Traveling with the family had become burdensome, and that was even before Saraid and he had conceived a few children in love, as well.
Sigrun knew that Trennus adored his children, and certainly never would have regretted any of them . . . but she had, for years, been building a certain quiet resentment towards Lassair. She’d tried to seine out any of her own bitterness at her barren condition from that feeling . . . and in the end, she’d realized that she’d come to terms with it. Her life was quite full without children of her own . . . mostly because she was busy playing grandmother to Lassair’s and Saraid’s and Minori’s.
But even though she no longer felt much, one way or the other, about her own inability to have children, she was left with a certa
in ambivalent sensation of anger, because she felt that somehow, Trennus’ good nature was being taken advantage of, and she loved Trennus. She could admit to that, for her friend. He and Saraid, clearly, were not on the same accelerated plan as Lassair. Lassair had had twins no less than seven times in the past twenty years. Saraid had had twins once. And since both spirits were in direct control of their own fecundity, Trennus had the choice, apparently, of either not having sex or any form of intimacy with Lassair at all, or risking, presumably, another set of twins. Sigrun wouldn’t even have put it past Lassair to make herself pregnant, if Trennus had decided to plead a permanent headache. Lassair . . . liked making life. It was a part of who she was.
But that brought it back around to Lassair’s intrinsic understanding of people. Sometimes, she was wise with the ages. And sometimes, as self-centered as a child, and unheeding of others’ desires. Infinitely complex and varied, and demanding as fire.
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