by Poppet
For...ever.
Draped onto a bed in a different cavern, this one bathed in flickering light, I force my eyes open, quelling the queasiness.
Macala leans over me, a hand either side of my body, reading my eyes. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I squeak. “He's not human.” My throat hurts from shrieking.
He smiles again, lifting his right hand and smoothing the long hair off my face. “He mirrors your thoughts. I read his eyes and you compared him to a visigoth. Do you know what that means?”
I attempt to shake my head but the room spirals and I widen my eyes in instant alarm.
He holds my good hand, speaking to me in the tone adopted for a frightened animal, “The Visigoths were originally called Tervingi. Tervingi means forest people. Gothic means good, quite literally. You acknowledge what he is, what we are, good forest people. The good people who managed to overthrow Rome.”
Crap that Gothic means good. Why then are we persecuted by society for our resistance to all fake piety? Why is our authenticity a reason to attack because we don't adopt cult-like religions and ritual, accepting societal hierarchy and butchering our souls for conformity?
“We are alike,” he smirks, giving my hand a tiny squeeze. “We are on the same wavelength and fairly often I pick up your thoughts. To answer your question, good has no room for expansion in the social system. It's thwarted by greed and avarice. However, you haven't let it prevent you from being genuine.” Macala says the last segment with pride rumbling his voice into praise, and it feels so good I smile.
He stands then, moving away, returning just as fast to wrap a cool compress smeared with lube around my wounded hand.
The Goth's overthrew Rome? You'd have to be big and strong like them to wage war with the mighty plague of that empire. And shrewd.
I'm into Gothic history because of the label thrown on the lovers of darkness, us followers of peace without scrutiny and condescending judgment. Hungry for more I squirm to sit up but he pushes me back down with insistent hands on my shoulders, “Remain still while your body rejuvenates.”
Staring up into the strong planes of his face his expression makes me feel cherished. For some reason I'm important to him, and he's not quite the maniac I assumed he was.
“Explain it to me,” I urge, needing answers so I don't go batshit with hysterics from the things I've endured and witnessed so far tonight.
“The Tervingi originally hale from Scandinavia. We like the cold, we relish the isolated spaces of nature, and we live in mountain catacombs. We slaughtered the Romans in 378, the consequence was the fall of Rome and its tyrannical hold on this planet. Even good men must fight to return peace to a world besieged by egotistical oppressors. We are kin to many ancient brethren...” He pauses to grin at me with evident amusement, “...Including in part to the Argonauts. The truth of that excursion will be witnessed by you if you decide to stay here with us, as our underground realm is vast.”
Releasing my hand he works his fingers through his hair, the tension betrayer.
I watch him, waiting, holding tight to history as an anchor, my curiosity flaring up to fuel my emaciated mind. This distraction is working and I'm not ready to abandon it to face this situation logically. He clearly comprehends my mental instability within this alien immersion and is offering me answers and understanding with the patience of a priest.
He clears his throat, twisting to the bedside table with its yellow stone lamp, pouring liquid while his balm soothes my destroyed palm. “You deduce correctly, we are not human, even though many of us now are halfbreeds. We were known in our native region as Jötunn, living high up mountains in dense forest. The world know Jötunn as the Frost Giants.”
He's not human. Fuck! Are they going to hurt me? That definitely explains the dude with the funny eye.
He gestures as if to outside, “Locally the Tlingit people who remember us as giants named us T'ach'aa. That's the colloquial name for those of us residing here. We are a prehistoric people, and no, we are not classified human. We moved around the planet extensively at one point but eventually settled into the northern havens where we could live in peace, without the petty wars of the planet and the endless clashes of morons who think slaying a giant makes them a man. Like you and your little fort down the aspect of this mountain, we chose to isolate ourselves from the quarrels of ego clashes and live in our own Valhalla.”
Frowning, my own reading rears its head and I argue, employing it to stave off fear, “But Valhalla is for the fallen. It's not Asgard or Fólkvangr.”
“But it is peaceful, Emma. Valhalla is known for its tranquility and for shining brightly, with the golden tree as its distinctive attribute. The eagle is above the doors of Valhalla, and that is where Eagle went. This location isn't Valhalla but its our version of it, it's a home away from home for the Raven clan.”
He offers me a tumbler, picking up his own bigger version, indicating I should drink now. Worming up to rest against the suede headboard I accept my thimble, staring again into the golden drink, unsure if I'm going to cry. Emotions are welling up inside me and I think I might be the human about to crack under pressure. Misery is cloaking me, loss weighs heavy, this situation is shredding my subconscious and surrendering without a fight.
He affectionately tucks my hair behind my ear, saying intimately, “This is the drink of Valhalla, from the golden tree Læraðr. It cannot be compared to mead but it is close to ambrosia, we call it by its simplest description, arcana. It was this that the Argonauts and their buddy Jason went treasure hunting for. For good reason. But enough history for one night, how are you feeling?”
“I think this is a dream and I'll be sorry when I wake up.”
It's true and shocks even me to admit it. He doesn't feel like danger incarnate. I'm worried because I like this crazy delusion, I like the hallucinations of whatever someone spiked into my beer. It's nuts, but it's a journey into something I couldn't make up if I tried. Giants wanting my company when humans spurn it, how enticing is that? It makes me feel both fragile and essential. I guess I did want to be needed for something after all. Purpose. Guy would call it purpose.
“Why? What about this would cause you regret if it is just a dream?” he says.
The timbre of his voice has dropped to husky and it's enough to distract me. “Uhm, 'cause I like this weird reality. I love that cave we were in, and er.... you're nice too.”
“I'm nice? Even though I marked you with the seal of acceptance?”
“Ah huh,” I nod, nibbling my lip and focussing wholeheartedly on my drink, forcing myself to take another sip of the intriguing cocktail. Anything not to meet those eyes and experience the phenomenal magnetism in them.
My hand has stopped throbbing and I lift it as a distraction, offering it to him to unwrap, “It feels okay now.”
Unbinding the cloth, he twists my hand, examining it, pleased with the black ridge staining my palm in a Valhalla triangle. Hey, he's no longer wearing gloves.
“How come your hands are normal? This is insane dude.”
Closing his free hand into a big fist, he flexes the fingers out and shows me his palm, “It only raises in the presence of our own who is unmarked. It was confirmation of my suspicions about you. My blood wanted to recognize yours and bring you into the fold. It recedes when no longer required.”
Narrowing my eyelids because of the heat of his stare, I scramble for mundane ground, “What would have happened if I'd chosen the spiky circle to shake?”
“The right hand thwarts enemies. The spikes inject toxins into you, erasing your memory of us in its entirety, marking your palm with pustules until death.”
And you were willing to do that to me? Without even a warning?
“It's prudent, Emma. We've lived long enough to know better than to give enemies the benefit of the doubt. You are either with us, or against us. There is no maybe.”
“Are you a giant then?” I blurt, instantly shocked at my lack of tact, diving back into my drink for a big
gulp of potion.
“I'm like you, half half. I think I knew your father before he left out of loneliness. We lose more men to the desire for female companionship than anything else.”
Almost dropping my glass, I peg upright, “You knew my dad?!”
The nugget is so precious to my heart that tears bludgeon my eyes into submission again.
I knew dad would have understood me. I'm nothing like my mother, nothing at all. She blamed me for all his transgressions and ran off with her boyfriend, abandoning me to be raised by old Mrs Carter who had too many cats. I grew up fast and moved out at seventeen. I send her flowers sometimes, but can't gather up the courage to go back for a visit.
My drink is stolen and warm arms wrap around me, pulling me close, “It's okay, Em. You're home now.”
It feels so good, so right, I lean in, surrendering weakness.
Chapter 5
This is why I've never managed to acclimate to society. I've never managed to fit in, slotting into the big machine that churns children into slaves to the system. I've forever been dissatisfied, yearning for more, in my heart knowing there has to be more. This surely couldn't be 'it'.
Sobbing out of nowhere, my heart is breaking, my pain having a source, my mind finding closure in this information. Dad was one of them, and I'm a freak.
He holds me inside sturdy strength and my nose clogs with my surprise tear attack while squashed against a black button. A comforting hand strokes my back and I move to draw air, to sniff, to wipe my tears, to wrestle my mouth out of torment.
Relaxing his embrace he lets me pull away, fumbling in the bedside table cupboard and unearthing a box of tissues. I bet I know what they're in there for.
He bursts out laughing and I'm immediately shamed.
“Emma, what am I going to do with you?”
“Tell me everything about my dad,” I hiccup to bury my thought faux pas.
Why does my heart hurt so bad?
He loses the smile, staring into me as if he can see right into my subconscious to examine the pain buried behind the walls.
“Emma, I know the world can be a lonely place. For you it's been exceptionally hard, but here no one wishes you harm. Honestly, I swear on my oath that you are with kindred folk. There's no shame in being different. So many are lost in this world, craving to be complete but not knowing where their dissatisfaction stems from, it's normal and we're trying to locate our lost brethren. When your compassion is bigger than a city the pollution wounds it, the crime violates it, and you withdraw, sucking your soul into the space of a tiny seed to preserve it for a season when you can water it without fear. This is your season now, Emma. I will water your soul and show you how magnificent you are when unrestrained by hardened humanity.”
“Don't make promises you can't fucking keep,” I mumble through the fourth tissue.
“Do I seem like the kind of man who speaks insincerely? I do not jest because you have my mark on your palm, you heard my voice within before you heard it without. I would not abandon you now or play frivolous games with your mind.” He picks up my hand, staring into the palm when he lays it on his lap, softly tracing around the inflamed area of the sigil, “We are more than strangers with a connection, we are destiny now sealed.”
It shocks me stupid when he lifts my hand and kisses a soft promise onto my palm. Er... awkward... nice, very, but how am I supposed to react to that?
Hang on.
Instinct rears its brutal head, firing all cylinders to leap off the bed in one graceful movement without even stepping on my hem. My heart is having a seizure it's pounding with such adrenaline, “What do you mean your mark? You said it was the mark of your clan, of friendship! You lied!”
My hand is tight over my heart, pressing, I'm quivering again, I just want to flee.
The moment is crushed and I grip the bedpost for support, panic gonging through my head and slashing my ability to breathe in less than wheezed chokes.
He hold up both hands in the gesture of pacification, “Calm down. It is the clan mark but each one is personified. That is my mark as much as it is Raven's.”
Shoving fingers through his hair again he looks perplexed, sighing heavily and standing too, hooking his hands in his back pockets when he turns to face me with the left eye much brighter than his right, “Emma, this wasn't the time or the place, but I.... I'm drawn to you, so... took a liberty. If you were anyone else I would have taken you straight to Kake, our clan leader. You would have chosen one of his hands instead of mine, in which case you'd have worn the clan mark of most initiates. But... I offered you my hand to see if you would take it, your intuition didn't lead you astray and I know this because you didn't challenge me, you accepted the offer. You didn't argue or stand your ground. If you were violently opposed to me you'd have fought for fair play and you didn't, giving me a clear indication that in your heart you accept me without question. It is the right course of action for you to wear my unique mark on your palm.”
My limbs are wobbly jello and I need to sit, and the urge to pee comes back strong. Where the hell is the bathroom in this place?
Daring to perch on the edge of the bed, my defenses still up, I challenge, “What does that mean exactly?”
Swiveling in a sudden change of direction he heads back to his drink, picking it up and draining it, wiping his hand across his mouth when he replaces the emptied vessel to face me. “The men in our lineage share a gift. It's the gift of knowledge which you saw in Arghin's eye. I confess now, we all have an eye like that, and with it we see all of you. You can't hide a thought, a feeling, your past, your memories, it's open to us. What we read in you is broadcast in our left eye. When I look at you, when any of us do, you have no secrets. We are truth bearers. We keep it safe, we don't exploit what we learn...”
I'm damn glad I'm sitting down or I'd be a puddle on the floor now. That's why that eye is lighter behind the contact lens.
You knew what I was thinking this whole time? Gawd! This isn't happening. Fuck!
“Do not be ashamed, it pleased me greatly to know you are as drawn to me as I am to you. I wouldn't have brought you here or offered you the seal of friendship otherwise.”
“And that's why you made me shake your hand? So you can lay some barbaric claim to me?”
“I didn't force you to do anything.”
“You forced me to come here!” My voice warbles hysterically and I know I'm mentally avalanching.
“The bathroom is through there,” he says, giving me space to escape, pointing at a hollow in the cave wall. Turning away from me he walks out the opposite dark cavity, “I'll get you something to eat while you have some much needed privacy.”
And like that, he's gone, vanishing into the shadows with as much silence as a snowflake falling in predawn.
Collapsing back into the pillows fright manifests in a loud shaken sob. I don't have the mental fortitude for this kind of shit. I need a hug, and a good sleep, and a big dose of insipid self-pity.
Why can't my life be normal? If it wasn't for the sore scarring on my palm, turning pitch, I'd think this was just a mind trip, and tomorrow I'll wake up in my boring little life with nothing more than a hangover.
Intervention rings insistently with the call to urinate and I dizzily push up, getting off the bed and shuffling to the hole in the wall.
I'm afraid, confused, and in desperate need of reprieve.
Entering the bathroom I'm surprised at the modern facilities and inspired by the materials. Hewn rock constitutes the walls, the tub is carved out of a huge slab of rose quartz, the shower manufactured by a conglomeration of translucent stone blocks, the floor a mosaic of sea shells shining mother of pearl in every direction, and the lighting comes from wall sconces seating fat beeswax candles which scent the air with a sweet subtle perfume.
The toilet is porcelain with a striated stone lid and seat, and I head straight to it needing to do my business before he returns because there is no door.
Sitting down I
stare directly at the mirror framed with carved wood, at the amber basin with bugs still stuck in it, and at the quaint faucets fashioned out of metal to look like war axes.
Having a quiet pee, the draw of his bathroom cabinet is irresistible. Staring at the raw cotton towels and the single woven mat in front of the shower, I wonder how long these people have been hiding in caves, undetected by mankind.
At least they have some modern amenities like toilet paper. Concluding, I pull my panties up and face the toilet to flush it, only to be stumped. The cistern is also porcelain but there's no handle. No button. No lever. For fuck's sake!
Sighing, I fumble all around it feeling for a latch or something. Leaning against the wall on my hand to look down behind it, the entire area depresses under my weight, sinking into the rock.
Flabbergasted I pounce back, terrified I've fucked something up. The toilet flushes, the air filling with an immediate infusion of orange blossom.
The wall stays stuck in and I'm really panicking now!
Flitting about, I look left and right. Help!
Shit! The shower wall has slipped into the rock, exposing a doorway beyond it. What did I just do?
“You okay in there?” reaches faintly to me. He's trying not to lurk which is very sweet but... uhm...
“I broke it!” I yell back.
“May I enter?” speaks much closer.
Fuck, he's going to do his nut! I can't exactly hide this epic screw up.
“Yea...uhm... sure!” I answer, wishing for a slice of normal in a world turned on its head.
He walks in, filling the entire exit. In such confined quarters it's easy to see his giant gene wearing itself on his sleeve.
Looking at the wall, he frowns, stalking to it to peer inside. “How did you do this?”
“I was trying to flush the damn toilet! Where's the lever?”
“It's voice activated,” he says, glancing at me with amusement flashing briefly across his features. “Flush.”
And just like that the toilet flushes, stalling conversation until the noise abates.