by Vasich, Mike
“Do you have doubts?”
“No, but it will be difficult to see ones who I considered kin destroyed. It will not be easy to walk among them and see their faces as they are cut down.”
“Any who live will never rest until they have killed you. They will see you as a betrayer of his own kind, and will spare no mercy for you.”
“You are right, of course.”
“You need do nothing after Idun is captured, however. There is no reason for you to go to Asgard, if you wish to stay behind. Once they have been ravaged by time, it will be a simple matter for me to end their threat myself.”
“No, I will go with you. If anything, they should see the face of he who has brought them down. And I would not refuse myself the satisfaction of seeing their faces when they realize that it was their own actions that made me their enemy.”
“All of Jotunheim will owe a debt to you after this. The Aesir have ever been a sword hanging over the heads of all giants. It would only be a matter of time till they marched on us, and for no other reason than we bear the spark of Ymir.”
“They do not suffer any who are different from them. I have been an outcast in Asgard for as long as I remember, and only because I am unlike them. My service to them has ever been nothing compared to my nature.”
“Now, at least, you understand why you are different from them. They will regret spurning you.”
Loki stood up. His head reached only to Thiazi's waist. “How will I get past Heimdall?”
“He will not see you just as he did not see the mason. While his senses are keener than any other, he can only see what is there. You already know that when you shift, you do not simply change appearances. You in essence become the thing itself.”
“Yes, it was that way when I enticed the mason's horse.”
“He will see a bird flying overhead, nothing more. But now that you have learned how to retain your own true self while shifting, you will look down on him with your full senses.”
“I hope that he survives Idun's absence long enough for me to reveal how I deceived him.”
“He may, but he will not survive much longer than that. None of them will.”
The space in front of Loki looked vast and unoccupied, but he knew there was more there than was readily visible. Months ago he would have passed over these fields without a second glance. But now he could feel his chaos energy tugging him to this place, allowing him to pierce the veil that tied Idun's orchards to Asgard.
His eyes closed as he tapped the chaos inside him. It flowed throughout his body, changing him. His perception altered, and he could see the air in front of him shift and roil, its vaporous nature dissipating before him to reveal a window into another place, as if the reality he thought existed was nothing more than a cover for what lay underneath, a cover that he had just ripped through.
He stepped into the hidden space and found himself in the midst of a sprawling apple orchard, the gentle wind jostling fully ripe, golden apples on the branches and sending yellow leaves fluttering to the ground. It was warm here, although not uncomfortably so, the sun’s rays sending shadows across the ground with the movement of leaves and branches. The sound of birds near by filtered to him.
He reached up and plucked an apple from the closest tree. He examined it closely before sinking his teeth into it, the juice running down his chin. It was sweet and ripe, a perfect apple, and he could feel the lifeline to the Aesir within it. It was one small slice of their immortality, one facet of Idun’s gift of never-ending life to the gods. He could feel Idun’s presence in the fruit itself, her power flowing through the apple, through the trees, through the ground beneath his feet. She was a living part of this orchard, an integral component that made its existence possible. Without Idun, this orchard would wither and die, and with its death, the gods would also wither and die.
He spat out the half-chewed apple flesh and reached up to grab another. He did not pull it from its branch, but instead closed his eyes and concentrated. As he held it firmly, he imagined it ripening fully, quickly becoming overripe. In his vision, its flesh softened and shrank, becoming too full of sickening sweetness. The skin dimpled and withdrew as the apple slowly shriveled, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing second. Finally, it was a wizened and grotesque orb hanging on a branch.
He felt the energy flow out of him, through the apple and onto the branch, where each apple that it encountered shrank while the leaves detached and fell to the ground below. The whole tree was soon completely engulfed, and then Loki felt the energy spread out to the surrounding trees, each one succumbing to the same fate—shrunken and rotten apples, weak and lifeless branches. The entire orchard visibly shrank under his assault, until all he could see were bleak and decaying trees, lifeless and gray, hollow caricatures of what they had been only moments before.
He opened his eyes. The wind had ceased. Even the sun’s rays failed to shine down on the once vibrant orchard. Instead, he was amidst a tangle of dead and dying wood, shriveled fruit hanging from branches that looked as though they might break at any moment.
Even the singing of the birds had stopped. In its place, there was sobbing, the forlorn tears of a young girl. Loki weaved among the dying trees, listening carefully for the source.
She was on her knees, sobbing gently into her hands, the tears flowing through her fingers and falling onto the lap of her simple white dress. Her golden curls shook with every sobbing motion of her head. He approached her slowly and knelt down.
“Idun, it is Loki.” He spoke softly, his voice filled with soothing empathy for a suffering sibling.
Her crying slowed and her hands fell from her face. She looked up in mild surprise, the oddness of seeing him there barely registering alongside the shock of what had happened to her orchards.
“Loki?” She looked at him imploringly, desperate for some answer or explanation for what had happened. “My orchards. My sweet orchards. What could have done this?”
He put his arm around her shoulders and gently embraced her, warmth and caring emanating from every iota of his being. She leaned her small body into him, but lifted her eyes to meet his, imploring some answer to the devastation she witnessed.
“I cannot tell you what has happened here,“ he said, the air of one who truly did not have an answer infusing his voice. “But we will discover what has happened, I promise you.” His words were followed with comforting looks of reassurance, designed to give her a measure of peace.
“But now we must leave this place. It is no longer safe for you here.”
Her eyes showed alarm. “I-I cannot leave my orchards.” There was rising panic in her voice. “My trees, what will happen to them without me? I cannot leave them.”
He grasped her upper arms in his hands and turned her to face him, a figure of strength and fatherly sensibility. Both still kneeling, he towered over her.
“Idun,” he said, as if speaking to a child. “You must come with me. Whatever has poisoned your trees may be a danger to you. This is no longer a safe place.”
Although it felt natural to speak to her this way, a sliver of unease remained. Despite her child-like appearance, she was vastly older than Loki or any of the Aesir, with the exception of Odin. Still, it was difficult not to speak to her so in her current state.
“What will become of my trees? You must save them. We cannot simply leave them here like this. There must be something that can be done. Odin could—”
“There is no time. Odin could not reach us before this disease spreads and claims both you and I, in addition to your trees.”
He reached down and grabbed an apple that had fallen to the ground. It was slightly overripe, but not to the point of rottenness. It had fallen before its tree had been infected with his blight. He held it up to her. “We will begin anew. We will take the seeds from this fruit and plant them in a new place, a place where you can tend them, where no one can find you. I know of such a place, but you must come with me now.”
There was a glimm
er of hope in her eyes, borne from the inherent need to protect and nurture her charges. It was barely there, but some distant part of her recognized that her survival was crucial, that many depended on her, that the forces of chaos could destroy everything if not for her. She nodded to him, tears streaming down her face, and he smiled gently, pulling her to her feet. He guided her back to the window where he had entered, and the two stepped out onto Asgard. She buried her face into his chest as the window slowly shrank, leaving the vision of blackened and dead trees behind.
He glanced back only once, just before the window had closed entirely. The smile on his face was not consoling, but deeply self-satisfied. The illusion faded even as the window closed, leaving only Loki with the last true imageof Idun’s orchards—full, bountiful, and healthy.
Freyja disrobed and stepped slowly into the bath her servants had drawn. Her flawless, snow-white skin slipped under the water as she slid down into the warm bath, and her silver hair splayed out, creating a halo around her head. Her remaining two servants—those that always stood near to wait on her for whatever she needed—left after a dismissive nod of her head. She wanted to be completely alone for now, a state that she was not always able to achieve.
She was glad that Loki had been sent from Asgard. Of all the Aesir, she understood him least. He alone among them was immune to her enchantments, her beauty, and she did not know why. She had not sought him out—in fact, she had never sought out any—but they came for her still. More often than not, she was willing to accede to their desires.
In Vanaheim, there was no stigma to such acts; all gave of themselves freely, with no guilt, shame, or apprehensions. Nor was there any sense of unwanted attachment once those brief moments were gone. For a time she might stay with a lover, but it would be over eventually, and the two would find others. And even if Freyja were to stay with one for a time, that would not preclude the taking of others as well—on both sides. Such was the practice of the Vanir, and it was the very essence of their rituals that trickled down throughout the Nine Worlds, life begetting life in an act of physical and spiritual communion.
Here it was not the same. Asgardians she had mingled herself with often felt an entitlement, as if there was ownership implied by such acts. And even when there were no possessive inclinations, oft times a wife or other lover would send her angry or jealous glances. Freyja was more perplexed than angry at such responses, since she had never witnessed them before coming to Asgard. Yet she did not attempt to make amends for these acts or stifle them; she did not view it as her role, hostage though she may be in Asgard, to sublimate herself to the ways of these gods. She was a goddess of Vanaheim, and she would act as such, despite their discomfort and misgivings.
Still, Loki presented a puzzle to her. He did not act as the other Aesir did, letting their gazes linger after her, their countenances shining when near her, desiring her. She had had nearly all of them in turn, at one time or another, and she would do so again, whenever she felt the whim to do so. All save Loki. He alone had never lain with her; there was little desire for her in him.
When in her presence she could feel, almost like a physical sensation, the feelings of those around her. They would revel in her beauty, her scent, the allure she radiated. Her silver hair and tall, perfect form stirred longing in their souls, and these sensations gave her pleasure, happiness.
Loki emanated with darkness and confusion, and with venomous spite. He was not capable of feeling love for others, but merely jealously, envy, and arrogance. His emotions and thoughts caused her discomfort, and some small measure of pain. There were times when she could feel his glare burning into her with disdain. It was not that he did not find her beautiful, however; she could feel, buried under the other emotions, the bare stirring of lust in his breast, much like the others. But his was subdued, hindered by the darker resentments he felt.
Although he was one of the Aesir, she hoped he would not return from Odin’s task. She had heard that the High One had sent him to Jotunheim, and it seemed possible that he might meet his end there. Freyja did not speculate further on what that end might be, nor did she even consciously acknowledge it since it was so contrary to her nature. But there was a part of her that found a measure of peace in the notion that she might not be plagued with his presence any longer.
She stood up and let the water drip from her bare form. Leaving the bath, she strode over to the tall windows that overlooked the green plains of Asgard, the rainbow bridge just barely visible far in the distance. The sunlight streaming in warmed her naked body, the water that remained on her quickly drying with the heat from the sun. As she gazed out the window toward Vanaheim, the home she had left so many years ago, she felt a longing to return, but realized that was an impossibility if peace were to remain between the Vanir and the Aesir. Still, Asgard was majestic and magnificent in ways Vanaheim was not, and the Aesir—even with their strange ways—intrigued her with their unusual sense of honor. They were to be admired in many ways, even if they were different from the Vanir.
She glanced down at her hands and frowned slightly. They were wrinkled, as if from being in the water too long. She held them up to her face to examine them closely.
As she studied her hand, thin, blue veins became slightly visible just under the skin, and small, brownish spots appeared. Mouth aghast, she could only stare in horror as she witnessed her nails grow thicker and turn to a sickly yellow. The blue veins became darker, more pronounced, and they began to travel from the back of her hand up her forearms, each second staining more of her unblemished skin. She brought one hand up to her head, and pulled it away clutching a clump of dull gray, coarse hair.
She held her arms away from her, one still clutching the clump of gray hair, as if they were things alien to her body, as if she could somehow distance them from herself. She would have screamed, but she was so overtaken by a mixture of horror and disgust that she was unable to utter a sound even while her mouth was gaping.
She ran to the mirror in the corner of the room, noting that with even the few steps it took to cross the chamber she felt winded and weak. The first thing she noticed was her breasts. They were shriveled and sagging, like lifeless and dry prunes hanging from her chest. Her stomach was hollowed out, and her ribs were prominently displayed, as if she were a victim of famine. Her bones nearly protruded through at her hips, shoulders, and knees, but her skin hung on her in most places like ill-fitting and wrinkled leather, with the color of brittle, yellowed parchment. Spidery blue veins criss-crossed her legs and arms, although her mottled and splotchy skin made them harder to see than they otherwise would have been.
Her face was the most severely affected. Her once radiant, glowing eyes now glared dully at her from above folded bags of flesh and meandering wrinkles. Her mane of silver-gold hair, lustrous and shining even in darkness, was now a patchwork of bare skin and long, brittle wisps of gray thatch haphazardly attached to her scalp.
She stared at a folded-in version of herself, one consumed by the ravages of time. And she was also keenly aware that her eyesight was blurry and imprecise, and it was this one small favor that allowed her to keep some semblance of sanity, to tell herself that what she saw might not be real. It was not convincing, however, and as she stared at the old crone in her mirror, she finally managed to let loose a scream, but it was the breathless scream of an old woman, pathetic and weak.
Heimdall’s sword belt fell to the ground with an audible thud, his wizened body no longer retaining enough heft to keep it around his waist. Teetering, he put one hand out to steady himself against a small tree. His armor was weighing him down, and his helmet, suddenly and inexplicably too large for him, rode down over his eyes, obstructing his vision. He raised a weary hand and flipped it backwards, where it tumbled to the ground and lay there, inert and empty.
Weariness overcoming him, he lowered himself to the ground slowly and leaned up against the tree. His breath came in ragged gasps through his open mouth, and his head rocked back and
forth with the effort of breathing. They were shallow breaths, borne of sickly weakness and frailty, not the cavernous gulps of a warrior exerting himself. Indeed, he had done nothing to even cause exertion. As always, he stood watch over Bifrost, when a soul-wearying tiredness had come upon him.
With effort, he reached around and undid the straps of his armor. He was unable to summon the strength to pull it over his head, and so had to slide his body down the trunk of the tree, like an ancient snake relieving itself of its old skin for the last time. His armor propped against the tree, he managed to crawl slowly out from underneath it, only to collapse with the effort.
After a time, he was able to get to his hands and knees, and then to sit up. His arms were like two thin sticks covered by the tent of his shirt, and his chest was hollowed out and shrunken in upon itself. The only reminder of his once broad and muscular chest was the rolls of skin that sagged lifelessly from it. And his physical frame was not the only thing affected.
His razor sharp senses were now dulled and useless. Where before he had been able to see for leagues upon leagues, his eyesight alone standing as a bulwark against any who might seek to cross into Asgard, the thin film of old age now covered both eyes, and he could barely see the outline of Bifrost from where he sat, not more than a stone’s throw away. Nor had his hearing fared well. He had heard legends about his fabled hearing, caught snippets about his godly abilities from other Asgardians in low, awed tones. They said he could hear the grass growing on Midgard, and also the wool growing on sheep. He had done nothing to discourage these stories, even if they were greatly exaggerated. But his hearing was still greater than any other Aesir, and it stretched for long distances. This, however, was gone as well, to be replaced by a dull ringing that would not end.
None of these troubled him, however, as much as his one overriding thought. He became preoccupied with the idea that the end of his days was near, that soon he would shrivel and die. And worse, he would die weak and powerless, cringing in a bed, or right there on the fields of Asgard, a decrepit and useless old man. There would be no glorious end, with him beset upon by countless legions of giants and monsters, each tasting his steel in turn while the bodies of his enemies piled up, and he blasted Gjall that one final time to signal that Ragnarok had come. No, there would be no heroic end to one such as he, a pitiful shell of a god, the heart of a warrior beating only weakly in a decrepit bone-house.