Bauldr's Tears

by Alydia Rackham

  “Then why don’t my nightmares stop?” he asked, his voice hard and weary, staring straight out in front of him.

  The woman stopped her pacing, then knelt down beside the chair, reached out and stroked his hair away from his ear.

  “Sometimes we have nightmares,” she murmured. “We all do. But we mustn’t let fear dominate our lives.”

  Bauldr shot out of his chair and turned his back on her—she stared up at him in alarm.

  “You know nothing of it, Mother,” he snapped at her. “Being plagued every fortnight for more than two-hundred years by visions of your own red blood spilling out all over your hands?” He turned to her and held out his hands, palm up, his face pale and his eyes stark. His mother stared up at him, stricken.

  “They are not just nightmares,” he bit out. “They are real. And no matter what you, or father, or Loki can conjure, they will find a way of coming true.” And with that, he fled the room.

  His mother sat there, gazing at the place where he had gone.

  Then, she sank further to the floor, covered her mouth with her hand, and broke into weeping that shook her whole body.

  Marina heard Thor swallow hard. She glanced over at Loki…

  His eyes shone, his brow knotted, and he did not look away from that woman.

  Slowly, the picture faded, the flames regained their natural color.

  And the stone rolled out of the cinders and onto the rug. Loki gazed at it for a moment, then picked it up and vanished it again.

  “Strange,” Thor whispered. “To see him…”

  “I know,” Loki breathed.

  Marina gripped her blanket around herself, again unable to look away from him.

  “What…” Thor cleared his throat, and began again. “What does the golden one show?”

  “It shows Odin,” Loki answered quietly, head bowed. “And Bird, when he lamed Fljotur.”

  “Ah,” Thor said roughly, and dipped his own head, and swallowed again.

  “And…” Loki took a breath. “Odin telling him he shouldn’t have brought Marina to Asgard.”

  Thor looked at him.

  “Did Bird tell Father that she was to be the guardian of these stones?”

  Loki shook his head, and Thor frowned in answer.

  “What others do we have?” Thor asked, setting his stew bowl down.

  “Marina has the others,” Loki muttered, pulling at a loose bit of the rug tassel.

  “My lady?” Thor held out his hand out to her.

  “They’re in my coat pocket,” Marina said, far quieter than she had meant to. “On the chair, behind Loki.”

  Loki sat up and turned, pulled down her coat and stuck his hand in her pocket. The pulled out the gleaming stones, then laid the coat back where it had been, still avoiding her eyes. He picked up the stormy blue one, breathed on it and said the magic word, and threw it in the fire.

  The fire snarled and blazed, turning turquoise, then sapphire, and clouding all around with smoke. And in the swirl and pulse, a figure coalesced which was unmistakably Thor himself. And he chased after Bird down a long hallway. A hallway Marina recognized.

  It looked like Bilskirnir, Thor’s mead-hall. And Thor and Bird were wearing the clothes they had worn the night of that midsummer feast and dance—when Marina had come.

  “Brother,” Thor called. “Brother, wait.”

  Bird slowed, breathing tightly, and stopped to face a railing. He braced his hands on it and lowered his head. Thor caught up to him, his brow furrowed, his gaze intent.

  “Bird, what is going on?” Thor demanded. “You bring a Midgardian woman here, one who bears no ailment except a crippled hand—and you walk with her in the moonlight, kissing her, all just a fortnight from your own wedding.”

  Marina’s heart jolted. Her gaze flashed over to Thor, then Loki…

  But both men fixed on the flames before them.

  “Nanna is a mere league from here, staying with Mother and preparing the hall for your feast,” Thor reminded Bird, pressing closer. “And what are you doing?”

  “You have no idea what I’m doing,” Bird answered in a low, guarded tone. Thor stopped, frowning harder, and leaned around so he could see Bird’s face. He paused, studying him, then spoke again, carefully.

  “Have your dreams come again?”

  Bird cast his gaze down, and his mouth hardened.

  Thor reached out and put a broad hand on his shoulder.

  “You fear the spell is not sufficient to protect you?” Thor asked. Bird did not answer. Thor leaned even closer, his eyes bright and earnest.

  “Tell me, Brother,” Thor pleaded. “Tell me so that I might seek out this evil and destroy it—no matter where it lies. Please.”

  Bird let out a shaking sigh.

  “I dare not tell you,” he whispered, then turned his head and looked directly at Thor. “I dare not trust anyone.”

  Thor stared at him. His lips parted, but he clearly couldn’t speak. Pain crossed Bird’s face—but he pulled out of Thor’s grip, turned and walked away, leaving Thor gazing into the empty air, his hand grasping nothing. The image faded away. The fire turned golden again. The stone rolled out onto the rug.

  Thor covered his face with his hand. Loki turned to see him—eyebrows pulled together, eyes a deep and brilliant green.

  Thor grunted, loudly cleared his throat again, then rubbed his face with both hands and dropped them. His eyes gleamed, and his eyelashes shone wet. He gazed blankly at the rug.

  Loki bit the side of his cheek and lowered his attention. For a long while, they all sat silent.

  At last, Loki lifted the red stone, whispered the word and threw it in.

  A shimmering rainbow burst out, then decided upon yellows, oranges and deep reds. And clarified into a picture of Marina—herself—hurrying down a street in town, in the full springtime.

  She gasped, sat up straight, and battled to remember when this had happened…

  Ahead of her stood a building: a tall, broad, wide-windowed business with a hand-painted red sign reading: Svenson’s Plumbing Carpentry and Landscaping

  Marina hurried across the street and pushed the jangling front door open, and glanced around a cluttered workshop filled with all manner of table-saws, tools, half-done furniture and wood-littered countertops.

  “Good morning!”

  She turned when a man with a white beard and twinkling eyes, wearing cover-alls, carried an unvarnished rocking chair in through a side door.

  “Good morning,” Marina answered.

  “How can I help you?” the man asked, setting the chair down.

  “Is Bird Oldeson here?” Marina asked.

  The man’s cheerful expression disappeared.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Marina paused.

  “He isn’t?”

  “Nope,” the man sighed, shaking his head as he stepped up to the counter near her. “He quit on me the other day. Said he had some family business he had to take care of in Colorado.”

  Marina stared at him.

  “What…? He’s gone?”

  The man sat down in a chair and nodded.

  “Yeah, moved all of his things out of his trailer yesterday—he stopped by my house to say goodbye last night before heading out.”

  “But…” Marina stammered. “I thought…I thought all his family lived around here!”

  “No,” he shook his head. “No family at all here. He’s only been here for a few months. He came here for the fishing, initially, then needed some extra pocket money, so I hired him on. It’s a shame I had to lose him—he’s one of the best workers I’ve ever had. A real good kid, so friendly, always on time…I’m Jim Larson by the way,” And he stuck out a hand. Marina took his fingers.

  “Marina Feroe,” she managed.

  “Feroe!” he said as he released her. “Bird was doing some work for you, wasn’t he? Windows?”

  Marina nodded.

  “You’re satisfied with what he did, aren’t you?” L
arson leaned forward. “Like I said, I’ve never had a better—”

  “I’ve got a leak,” Marina cut in. “A leak in my bathroom ceiling. I need…I need someone to fix it.”

  “Sure!” Larson nodded. “Sure, no problem. I think Richard’s got some time tomorrow morning—want me to send him on by?”

  “That would be good,” Marina agreed. “Thank you.”

  Marina turned and pushed through the door. She trailed back down the sidewalk, looking straight ahead, her face blank—and a depth of sorrow in her eyes that shone so clearly, almost written across her whole frame.

  The image faded and disappeared. Marina, as she sat wrapped up in the blanket, felt her face burn, and her heart pang like something had stabbed it.

  Images rose again, and this time she recognized them instantly.

  It was her, and Bird, standing on the road outside Bilskirnir in the moonlight. Facing each other.

  “I know that I am utterly selfish to ask this of you,” Bird said, bending close to her face. “And I never would, if I feared only for myself. But I don’t. Whatever evil thing is to happen to me, it will also twist around my brother, my mother, my father, all my friends—and my realm. I can feel it. And you are our only hope.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Marina asked him, lifting her face. He halfway smiled at her.

  “You’ll know when it’s time.”

  And he slipped his hand around to the back of her neck, stepped in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  Marina watched herself as she closed her eyes, her whole body leaning into him…

  He drew back, lowered his head and gazed at her.

  “Thank you, Marina,” he whispered. “Now you should go back to bed.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  Bird smiled gently.

  “The best way you can help me now is to rest,” he said, stroking her cheek. “It will be all right. I promise.”

  “But…” Marina stopped. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth. She leaned up toward him, closing the distance…

  He dipped down toward her, just for an instant…

  Then slowly stepped back from her, and dropped his hand.

  “Goodnight, Marina,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She closed her fingers and pressed her fist to her heart. She nodded.

  “Okay,” she breathed. “Goodnight.”

  And she turned, and walked back up between the towering shadows of the oaks, toward the great mead house. Bird stood alone in the road, watching her, then turned and gazed out ahead of him at the towering shadow of Yggdrasil.

  The images faded, the fire returned to normal. The ruby hopped out of the hearth, and lay by the sapphire on the rug.

  Marina felt like something was sticking into her side. She winced, that uncomfortable, stinging feeling twisting around in her chest. She pulled her knees up against her, trying to form words…

  “Bird is engaged?”

  The words fell out. Hung in the air.

  “Yes,” Thor replied. “He was.”

  Marina swallowed, then swallowed again.

  And for some reason, she looked up at Loki.

  Who gazed right back at her. Eyes green as a rainy spring. Forehead knotted. Mouth soft, lips parted.

  She got up, gripping the blanket, and turned away from them.

  “I’m going upstairs to bed,” she stated. Then, without looking back, she strode toward the stairs and climbed up to her room.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Marina woke up.

  She stared at the ceiling above her and frowned, trying to remember where she was…

  Oh. Right.

  Her house. Her own house. Her own little bedroom, with the bed in the center of the room, the wardrobe that was not magic, the frosted window that faced the garden…

  Not Festning.

  Blankets and comforters piled on top of her. The room lay quiet. How strange it sounded, not to have a low fire crackling in a hearth nearby…

  She adjusted the way she lay, automatically favoring her left side…

  And a wave of ease and reflexive relief washed through her as she realized she didn’t have to—that actually it felt wonderful to lie on that side.

  She sat up. Tears sprang to her eyes again. She pressed her eyelids with her fingers, fighting them back, and sniffed.

  And then, slowly, as she gazed ahead of her into the softly-lit room—for it had to be afternoon now—memories began rising, unbidden. Like water bubbling up into a dry cavern.

  She sat up, her breath stilling in her chest as she frowned, carefully clicking the mental pieces together. Wondering at them…turning them over…

  She slid out from beneath the heavy covers, pulled her boots on, and, shivering, found her long coat and gloves, put them on and left her room.

  She crept out onto the landing and went down the stairs, avoiding the ones she knew squeaked. Marina passed the living room and glimpsed Thor lying on the rug in front of the fire, covered in several blankets, sound asleep. Sunlight glowed through the ice-covered windows. She smiled faintly, glanced around…

  She didn’t see Loki anywhere. Setting her jaw, she made her way to the front door, grasped the handle and opened it.

  The cold daylight spilled inside as the hinges creaked. She quickly stepped out and shut the door behind her, struck by a bracing breath of winter air. Her own breath fogged around her face as she looked around her yard. Sunlight shone blindingly upon the virgin snow all around her, making it look like mounds of sparkling sugar. Her boots crunched on the ice and snow piled on her porch as she started forward, down the steps, and out into the sunlight herself.

  Carefully, she waded between the drifts toward the side of the house, following what she remembered of the path, studying…frowning…

  There.

  Completely shrouded by snow so that it looked like a hunched tree. That wild, ungainly rosebush that she had almost torn out so long ago. Leaning against the fireplace for warmth.

  She paused, and then stood very still. Gazing at its burdened form beneath all of that crushing, paralyzing ice…

  She closed her eyes, trying to remember what warmth felt like, and the sound of the wind through the leaves, and birdsong…

  “Planning a little landscaping?”

  She opened her eyes and turned toward the voice.

  Loki stood there at the corner of the porch in his black trousers and boots, and a form-fitting black jacket with a thick velvet collar, his hands in his pockets. His curly hair had gone to ebony, and gleamed in the sunlight; and his eyes had turned to a slate gray that nevertheless appeared so striking that for a moment, Marina couldn’t look away.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Loki blinked, and swallowed.

  “Hello.”

  For another long moment, she held his gaze, and neither of them moved. Then, Marina turned back to the rosebush.

  “I was thinking of landscaping, actually,” Marina confessed quietly, wrapping her arms around herself.

  Loki’s footsteps swished through the snow toward her, but he stopped a short distance away.

  “Well, you might have to re-think your garden’s theme,” he suggested—and she could feel his dark smirk. “Something more along the lines of ice-sculptures or gingerbread house, perhaps?”

  The corner of Marina’s mouth quirked up, even as memories kept tugging on her…

  “I was going to tear out this rose bush this past summer,” she murmured. “Because I thought it was obnoxious and mean. Look at the thorns.” She pointed. “They’re so long they’re sticking through the snow.”

  She heard and felt Loki take three steps closer, cautiously.

  “Mhm,” he grunted. “So…why didn’t you?”

  Again, that sensation rose up inside her, swelling, almost coalescing into clarity…

  “Because of something Bird said,” she said, her brow furrowing as she ca
lled up his words from the golden haze of a faraway afternoon. “He said…‘This bush is a different kind from the ones along your walkway. Those were bought in this part of the country, bred for this weather. But this one…’” Marina reached out and touched one snow-covered leaf. “‘This…is from somewhere else entirely. A different climate, different soil. Picked up on some faraway travels. It’s had to survive far harsher winters than it was meant for, and a lot less sun than it needed.’” Marina’s voice lowered as light began to dawn in her mind…

  She kept going, careful with every word, every thought…

  “‘But it did what it had to in order to survive. It leaned up against the house, near the fireplace. The warmth and shelter of the house has kept it alive. And the one who built the house…was wise enough to plant this bush on the south side, away from the brutal north wind. And that same person nursed it and fought off frost and bugs for twenty or thirty years…before the bush got strong enough to fend for itself. But it wouldn’t leave the house then, even though it could.’”

  Marina felt Loki’s breathless silence—the tension against her shoulders, the almost-realization, the almost-words…

  “He said, ‘It’s a late bloomer,’” Marina whispered. “‘But I think, if you’ll have a little patience with its difficult attitude, it might…turn out to be…’” Suddenly, she turned, and looked straight up into Loki’s eyes. “‘…the prettiest rose you’ve got.’”

  He gazed right back at her, caught full in a sunbeam—and for the first time, though his eyes shone emerald, she could see dozens of other colors sparkling there, like the facets of a jewel. And though the depths of his curls remained black as pitch, the tips, highlights and edges shimmered with auburn, red, silver and gold. His angular face, pale as snow—yet he blushed. And his breath caught in his chest.

  The two of them stood, frozen, not daring to breathe—and Marina’s heart hammered so hard she was sure he could hear it.

  Finally, she forced a breath in through her tight throat, a warm shiver running all through her.

  “Loki.”

  “What?” he whispered, his gaze flitting all over her face.

  “I think…” She stopped, swallowed hard, then tore her attention away from him to stare at that gnarled bush once more. “I think it’s in there.”