by C. Gockel
So nice, thoughtful and polite. Because Steve still thinks he needs her. She slips her phone back into her pocket, looks at the book in her hands but can’t bring herself to read it. Leaning her head against the cold glass of the window she watches Chicago’s dreary landscape blur by.
Not quite an hour later she walks into Beatrice’s nursing home facility. Joy of joys, Amy’s mother is at the front desk.
“I’ll be back to pick her up tomorrow!” her mother says, too bright and too cheerful.
“Yes, we’ll make sure she’s ready,” says the nurse.
Amy’s mother Anna turns around. Beatrice had Anna late in life. Anna had Amy very young. Her mother is only in her mid forties. Everyone tells Amy they look alike, but Anna’s hair is bleached blonde in the front and she wears a lot more makeup. They stare at each other a moment.
“You’re welcome to come with Doug and me when we take Beatrice to the new facility, Amy,” her mother says.
Amy’s lips turn down in disgust. Doug is Anna’s boyfriend — again. They’d been together before in Oklahoma and are back together.
“Yeah, no, I would rather not be stuck in a car for 3 hours with Doug,” says Amy.
Her mother rolls her eyes. “That was just a misunderstanding.”
Amy feels her face heat. After all these years her mother still doesn’t believe that the reason Amy ran away in high school was because Doug tried to sneak into her room one night. “Fenrir misunderstood, too,” says Amy coldly. If it weren’t for Fenrir...
“Fenrir hates all men,” says her mother dismissively.
And you just hate the idea that a man would be more interested in me than you. The words are on the tip of Amy’s tongue but she doesn’t say them. She just walks past her mother down the hall towards the elevator banks.
She’s out of the line of sight of the lobby when she hears Loki’s voice. “Amy, I caught up to you.”
Amy turns around and sees her mother smiling up at a surprised looking Loki. He looks human, like his ginger haired self. He’s wearing nice looking trousers and a navy blue peacoat over a pink and navy blue striped sweater.
“May I help you?” says Anna, smiling and gently putting a hand on Loki’s arm. With a sharp exhale of breath, Amy turns and dashes into a waiting elevator.
The door closes and she sags against a wall with relief. She’s escaped them both.
The elevator dings at the top floor and she walks to the desk. As she signs in she thinks she hears a scream from the lobby that sounds strangely familiar. She blinks, then shakes her head. Turning, she walks down the long beige hallway to Beatrice’s room, resolutely ignoring the smells of urine and disinfectant, the empty eyes of the patients, and the feeling of despair.
When Amy arrives, Beatrice is sitting on a chair by the window. She doesn’t look up when Amy walks in. Her hair hangs long and unbrushed.
“Hi, Grandma,” says Amy. Beatrice doesn’t respond; Amy didn’t expect her to. Putting down her coat and bag, she goes over and whispers in Beatrice’s ear, “Grandma, I’m going to do your hair up now, okay?”
Beatrice’s eyes flick to her, but then she looks to the window again. Is she dreaming of the trip they took to Alfheim with Loki? The elves had loved Beatrice, dressed her up in a beautiful gown, and done her hair up with pins that glittered like stars. And Beatrice had loved the elves — she’d told them the story of her life, things even Amy hadn’t heard of, about of growing up in the Ukraine and escaping to the States. The elves had hung on every word. And okay, maybe they loved Beatrice because the tragedy of her life was caused by a ‘land without kings and queens’ and validated their worldview. Still they made Beatrice feel like a queen and let Amy touch a hadrosaur.
The trip was dangerous but magical and wonderful. Running a comb through Beatrice’s hair, Amy swallows. And it was all Loki’s doing.
Her eyes flit to the door of the room. He’s gone by now, it hardly matters...and she should be grateful. She pulls back Beatrice’s hair, fastens it with a clip, and steps back. Her grandmother looks a little more present now — but she isn’t.
There is a knock at the door. Expecting a nurse Amy says, “Come in.”
“Beatrice!” says a sunny voice.
Amy jumps. It’s Loki, and he’s flashing his most rakish grin in Beatrice’s direction, though there is the familiar tightness in his brow, and something about the tug of his lips that feels forced. For a moment, Amy’s heart lifts. Loki is magical, maybe —
Heart beating fast, she turns her head. But Beatrice is still staring out the window.
“Beatrice?” says Loki.
Amy turns to him. He stands in the doorway, head tilted. Somewhere down the hall a patient starts screaming. Loki doesn’t move.
“If you’re coming in, shut the door,” says Amy.
Gently shutting the door, he comes further into the room. There are dark circles under his eyes, and if it is possible, he looks paler than usual.
Amy sighs. “Don’t feel bad, she doesn’t respond to anyone.” Beatrice drools a little and Amy wipes it away and then sinks into a chair.
Loki sits down on the bed. He swallows. “I had no idea...we don’t...magical creatures don’t suffer from neural damage...magic matter has memory and heals injured neural tissue.”
“Must be nice,” says Amy, her voice thin and bitter. And then she remembers why he is here. “If you’re wondering why Jameson has moved into the Chicago office, and what all the extra agents are for, I have no idea.”
“Oh,” says Loki. But he doesn’t move or speak.
Neither of them says anything for several minutes. And then through the door Amy hears more screaming down the hall. Just to not think about the noise, Amy says, “So you met my mother.”
She hears, rather than sees, Loki turn towards her. “Yes.”
“She flirted with you,” says Amy.
“She was....friendly,” says Loki.
Amy snorts and looks at him. “She was being more than friendly, trust me — and don’t let me stand in your way.”
Loki draws back a little. “Believe me, I wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, guess not.” She swings her feet. “The whole office knows about the thing in Visby.”
One corner of his mouth turns up completely without humor. “And that is your business because—?”
Chastened, Amy sinks into her chair. “It’s not.”
“Hmmm...” says Loki.
Amy drags her foot across the floor.
“Your mother wasn’t so friendly when I showed her the gift I have for you.”
Amy blinks and looks at him. He reaches into the pocket of the peacoat and pulls out something small, gray and wiggling, and walks towards Amy.
Loki opens his hand and she gasps. On his palm is a little gray mouse with eight black spider legs. Standing on the four back ones, he wiggles his whiskers at Amy.
“He likes you,” says Loki.
Stifling the ‘you should never give animals as gifts’ that has been drilled into her for years, Amy exhales in wonder and holds out her hand. The little mouse spider hops over and rears all the way up on two legs. He has little paws at the end of his spider limbs. Amy gently reaches towards him with a finger. Clasping her finger in his two most forward paws, he shakes it and Amy laughs in delight. “Oh, Mr. Squeakers! So nice to meet you.”
“Your mother didn’t appreciate him as much,” says Loki.
Amy tilts her head. So that was the scream she heard when she was signing in. “She doesn’t like mice or spiders.”
Mr. Squeakers rubs his head against Amy’s fingers. He’s warm and soft. Smiling, she scratches behind his ears. And then she remembers why Loki is here again. “I really don’t know anything about why Jameson is at our office. You don’t have to stay.”
Loki sinks onto the bed and tilts his head at her. He sighs and scowls. “You know just because I have ulterior motives when I come to visit you, it doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy your company.”
> Amy bites her lip and Mr. Squeakers nuzzles against her finger. Oh. Not knowing what to say, she turns to look at Beatrice.
“Is Beatrice your mother’s mother?” says Loki.
“Yes,” says Amy. Feeling defensive, she says quickly, “Sometimes good people have bad kids.”
Slipping his hands into his coat pockets, Loki stares at Beatrice. “And the opposite is true as well.”
x x x x
Loki is wiggling on the floor of the nearly empty throne room, one of the few places in Asgard where all the splendor is real, not illusion. Golden buttresses hold up a ceiling so high from below it seems to be made of clouds, the floors are decorated with mosaics, and the walls are dwarven crystal that make the great hall nearly as bright as day.
Lying next to Loki is Helen. Helen is nearly 36 years old. She is so small that she barely looks older than 12. And although she is intellectually as accomplished as an adult, magically, and emotionally, she is still 12.
All of the children of the Asgard are stunted this way. There is a lot of debate about the cause. Some say it is a curse. The more educated say Idunn’s apples have changed the magical code within the Aesir bodies that transmits traits. Aggie’s sorceress cousin Gullveig says that it is the effect of Odin’s magic, growing unchecked. For Helen this extended childhood is probably for the best. Sigyn says that she will want someday to have independence and “adult” relationships — but neither Loki nor Sigyn expect any Asgardian man to have her. And even independence is a bit of a dream. Helen still can’t walk and barely crawls. What she will do if something happens to Sigyn and Loki...Loki banishes the thought from his head....
Loki is lying beside Helen because Helen wanted to get close to the mosaics on the floor.
“Wha’ is dis?” says Helen, running her fingers over a picture of a blazing man, his skin so black it is almost blue, flames leaping from his skin and hair. Next to the man is a voluptuous woman whose skin and hair are glowing pale gold. Circling around them are two beautiful young girls. The picture is stylized, the girls’ arms are entwined, and they appear larger than their parents. “The woman is Glut, or glow,” says Loki. “The man is Laugatjanaz, the Blazing One. The two girls spinning away from them are their daughters, Einmyria, or ashes, and Eisa, embers.”
Loki traces the girls. Einmyria’s skin is as pale as his own, and she has black hair. Eisa is dark brown gold, her hair black braids with glowing yellow and orange flames. “The girls spun away from their parents. Einmyria became the planets and Eisa became the stars of the World Tree.”
“Prettie sistas,” says Helen softly.
“A pretty metaphor,” says Loki. “Hoenir told me once that Glut was the soul of the universe, trapped and condensed as matter. Laugatjanaz was the the spark that set her — and the universe — free.” He smiles softly. “Hoenir told me they had a son, too. He was more powerful than either of his parents. He became the magic that holds the World Tree together.” Loki tilts his head. He couldn’t find that story documented anywhere — and as a child, when he was interested in such myths, he looked obsessively.
Helen traces Eisa’s cheek with a blue finger. Loki thinks for a moment he hears laughter and the crackle of flames. He pulls back and takes a breath. And then he hears footsteps fast and light coming from behind them. Loki puts an arm protectively over Helen’s head.
“Arrrrgggghhhhh! Die!” screams a child’s voice.
“Never!” screams another child.
Loki scowls. His sons are at it again.
“Nari, Valli, watch where you are going!” Loki shouts. He and Helen both duck as shadows vault over their heads.
The two boys slide to a halt. “We were watching!” shouts Nari.
“We jumped over you!” shouts Valli.
Heart beating fast, Loki narrows his eyes at them. They are fraternal twins. Their conception was only a few decades less difficult than Helen’s. Sigyn had even consulted Frigga’s healing lady Eir for help and fertility herbs. And then one night after they’d given up, Loki had come home briefly from a campaign for just one night. It wasn’t Sigyn’s time, and they’d both been extremely drunk, but despite the odds, Sigyn had conceived.
The twins are nearly 15 now, but they are only the size of 5 year olds. Their skin isn’t quite as tan as Sigyn’s Aesir gold , but it’s darker than Loki’s pallor. They are both blonde, their eyes are the same gray as Loki’s, and they are healthy and hale. Nari tends towards the thin side, and Valli’s physique is more traditionally Aesir. They are, according to all who look upon them, beautiful.
They are also monsters. Nari is a bit of a coward, but he is so clever, he hides his cowardice with words. With words he can soothe every insult, and talk himself — and more often his brother — out of any scrape they get into. Valli is not a coward. He is brave to a fault, protective, loyal — and vicious and violent.
“And now I will destroy you!” Valli shouts again, raising a sword towards Nari.
Laughing, Nari takes off through the hall, Valli whooping on his tail.
“Now where were we?” says Loki, looking down at his hands. They’re blue in the glow of Helen’s magic. Helen is tired...it is strange, but that is when her magic seems strongest. It’s as though she holds back during her more wakeful moments. He is about to rebuke her, to tell her to just let go, when a voice booms from behind. “What are you doing on the floor, Fool!”
Loki rolls his eyes at Heimdall’s familiar disappointed tone.
Snickering at Loki’s eyeroll, Helen says, “Showin’ me pictas.”
“It is disrespectful,” says Heimdall, his heavy footsteps coming closer.
Loki rolls to his back, puts his hand behind his head, and scowls up at Heimdall. “How precisely is being prone on the throne room floor disrespectful? It’s not as though we’re bouncing in the Big Chair.” Scratching his chin, Loki says, “Although, perhaps it’s next — I’ll let the All Father know it was your idea.”
Heimdal stops, just a pace away. Standing as rigidly as ever, he stares down at them, hand on the pommel of his sword, his hunting horn hanging at his side. Loki is expecting some sort of argument, but instead Heimdall’s mouth drops. When he speaks, it is a stammer. “It just isn’t done.”
Loki sighs in vexation. Of course, lying on the throne room floor with one’s child isn’t done. Fathers spending time with their daughters is hardly done, but there are extenuating circumstances. Helen’s wheeled chair is a few paces away. It is hard for her to control her head movements while sitting up, and she gets a much better view lying down. Heimdall has watched her long enough; surely he must know this? But then again, this is the Aesir whose meddling created the social classes among mortals — he can’t stand a universe without order. However...
“Does it really matter?” Loki snaps.
Heimdall swallows. “No, in this case, I suppose it does not.”
They stare at each other. Heimdall upright and rigid as ever, Loki sprawled out on the floor. It strikes Loki at that moment that the person most trapped by Heimdall’s inflexible nature is Heimdall himself. Loki is suddenly, oddly, overcome by sympathy for the man who vexes him almost as much as the crown prince.
Heimdall clears his throat. “Prince Baldur noticed the illusion of Alfheim turrets failing at the south gate earlier.”
Loki tilts his head. “We rested there earlier and I noticed it flickering. I could not discern the nature of the problem though.”
Beside him Helen makes a small sound.
“Will you look at it again, Loki? As I passed it, it seemed fine, but the Prince was insistent.” Heimdall shakes his head. “It is beyond my skill.”
Loki blinks. An admission of weakness...and a compliment? Normally in Heimdall’s presence Loki casts true and untrue verbal barbs, but he finds himself speechless.
Rolling back over, he clambers to his knees and picks up Helen — waiting for the reprimands that Heimdall throws at him for ‘coddling his warped daughter.’ But none come. Loki puts Hele
n in her wheeled chair and they set out to the gate in a silence more uncomfortable than Heimdal’s insults.
The sun is just past its zenith, and it is hot. From a distance, the gate looks fine — white stones, with climbing flowers, and green turrets atop. But as they get closer it begins to flicker, gray blocks of poured cement showing through the facade.
“Schtop me here,” Helen says as they approach.
Loki tilts his head. He sees sweat upon her brow. “I can stop you by the gate, in the shade.”
“No, schtop me here,” says Helen. She’s wobbling in her chair and Loki’s skin is bright blue. They’ve been out since early morning and she’s very tired.
Not stopping, Loki starts to argue. “But —”
And then the illusion drops completely at the space of wall just before them and everywhere in the reach of the blue glow of Helen’s magic.
Helen gasps. “Letchs go home.” Her fingers tremble on the chair’s armrests.
Baldur’s voice rings out from behind. “Heimdall, what is Loki doing here?”
Heimdall and Loki both turn and bow — though Heimdall’s bow is deeper and longer. “My Prince, I just brought Loki here to help.”
“He’s probably the cause of this malfunction,” Baldur snaps, wrinkling his nose as he steps into the glow of Helen’s magic.
Smirking, Loki winks at Baldur and waggles his eyebrows. Loki sometimes flirts with him just to get his goat.
Baldur narrows his eyes. He’s never made an attempt to bed Loki. Which is a pity. Loki would be well within his rights to defend his honor to the death for the insult, crown prince or no. Loki’s very sure he knows who would win. Just for fun he lets a jet of flame rise from his hand.
Oddly, Heimdall ignores Loki’s theatrics. Instead, raising his head he says earnestly, “My Prince, are you well? You look pale.”
“I am fine,Gatekeeper,” Baldur snaps again.
“You do not sound yourself, either,” Heimdall says. Bowing again, Heimdall says, “My liege, far be it from me to offer advice, but please, I beseech thee, go to the healers. Your color and countenance seem off. I fear enchantment.”