Loki

by Vasich, Mike

  “Hail, brave Heimdall,” she said weakly, as she came close enough to hear his response. What little remained of her teeth were blackened stumps that hung precariously in her gums, ready to stick into the flesh of any apple she bit into.

  He narrowed his eyes at her, this ugly old crone who so presumptively attempted to gain access to the realm of the gods, and felt an odd amusement creeping through him. This pathetic, wizened shell of a human, this shambling sack of bones and skin, had made a trip from her village to the foot of Asgard by herself. Despite her appalling nature, she was worth some small measure of respect for her sheer tenacity.

  “What do you seek in Asgard?” he said, not unkindly.

  The old crone took long minutes to catch her breath and answer, her hump heaving with each gasp. “My son was long ago taken by the Valkyries. I would like to see him before I pass into Niflheim.”

  It was as he thought, although he shook his head at the futility of the request. “When was he taken to Valhalla?”

  “Many years ago, when I was much younger. He was defending our village against marauders, but there were too many. Our men managed to fight them off, yet the toll was heavy. My son stood against them and killed many before he was cut down.”

  Heimdall was not so hardened that he did not feel for a mother’s pain, although he constantly wondered at the thoughts of these mortals. They longed to go to Valhalla and serve the gods, and they railed against an ignominious death that sent them to Niflheim. Yet they sorrowed for their sons when they achieved a glorious death and reward. He could not understand them.

  For this woman he felt a bit more pity when he considered what she was likely to encounter in the person of her son. If he had been taken to Valhalla when this old crone was young, then it was likely he had been in Asgard for more than a mortal generation, fighting and preparing for Ragnarok. Few of the Einherjar escaped injury for long. Would there be much for her to even see? Would the boy even have a jaw left with which to speak? Would he have arms to embrace her?

  “I will send you to the High One’s servant. He will hear your request and pass it on to the Allfather, who will decide whether to grant it.”

  Her smile of gratitude made Heimdall wince. “Bless you, Lord Heimdall. My village will sing your praises.”

  He nodded. “I will send servants with you, to cart you to Valaskjalf.” He turned his head and motioned for some of his servants. A small cart was brought, and he helped the crone into the seat.

  “May the Allfather grant your request,” Heimdall said as the cart began to pull away.

  “Bless you, Lord Heimdall,” she said once more before turning. Heimdall was glad to be rid of her. Tenacity or no, her appearance was so foul that it lingered like the stench of rotten leeks. He hoped that he would not have to see such decrepitude in a mortal again. He turned back to watch the cart pull further into the distance, and some movement around the old crone caught his attention. He looked closer and saw nothing, grateful not to have to gaze at her visage again.

  He did not see her wide, wolfish smile as the cart pulled her away from Bifrost.

  * * *

  The servants could barely keep up with Thor’s relentless demand for more food. Despite having his plates—there were many in front of him—repeatedly filled to capacity, the Thunderer continued to make the contents disappear almost as they were filled. His insatiable palate was legendary, and he was proving that once again at this feast.

  For all his respect for Thor’s immense power and strength, Balder detested sitting next to him at these gatherings of the gods. The red-haired, red-bearded giant inhaled nearly everything within reach, and there was scarcely a word emitted from him while food and drink were proffered. At most he would grunt, point, or simply say “more” to whatever servant happened to be unlucky enough to be near, and then they would scurry forth to grab another heaping platter.

  Balder usually busied himself with trying to avoid the spray of food that came his way, while simultaneously keeping his own plate out of the Thunderer’s reach. There was scant time for anything else; each time he diverted his attention from the boundless stomach to his left, he would feel wet droplets of mead or crumbs of whatever food was being stuffed into Thor’s gaping maw striking him.

  To his right Tyr was mostly spared the assault of food and drink. He sullenly stared out at nothing in particular while most of his food went untouched.

  Balder slid his chair to the right and leaned over, ignoring Thor's assault. “You do not eat,” he said. “What troubles you?”

  Tyr turned to him, arms folded. He looked at him for long seconds before answering, some thought brewing behind his dark eyes. He looked away before answering. “It is nothing.”

  The servants continued their flurry of activity, most concentrating on keeping Thor’s plate full, but a significant number were dedicated to refilling horns and cups with mead and bringing large plates laden with meat for the other gods who filled Gladsheim’s vast main hall. At the head of the table, Odin sat eating slowly, lost in some other time or place. The other gods talked amongst themselves while they indulged in the bounty of Asgard. Gladsheim was filled with stories of battles won, trolls defeated, and bawdy tales that sent roaring laughter high up into the rafters.

  Balder leaned closer to Tyr so the other gods seated nearby could not hear. “It is plain on your face that you are thinking of the wolf.”

  Tyr looked back at him and unconsciously stroked the stump from his missing hand. The wound had been covered over with a metal sheath of dwarf design, a thing that both eased the pain and provided a weapon or defensive foil. “How could I not think of Fenrir when every moment of every day I see the handiwork at the end of my arm?”

  Balder felt uneasy. It had been his fault that Tyr had lost his hand to the beast. But his guilt was useless; it would not bring the hand back.

  “If I could hack off and give you my own hand I would,” he said, fully sincere. “Maybe the witch,” he indicated Freyja with a nod of his head, “could use some of her sorcery to bind my severed hand to your arm.”

  Tyr eyed him squarely. There was a nervous moment before he suddenly burst out in laughter. “Ha! I believe you would, at that. Careful, lest I take you up on your offer!”

  He seemed to lift out of his mood as he clapped Balder on the back. Balder felt some small measure of relief. He knew that the matter was not entirely resolved; in fact, he was not certain it would ever be. For now, here in Gladsheim at least, the two could nearly pretend that the incident had never happened.

  He looked up to see his brother, Hod, walking over to him with two cups held carefully out in front of him, his blind eyes staring vacantly ahead. He set one down in front of Balder and held on to the other.

  “What is this, brother?”

  “It is a mead I have had brewed with a new spice. I wanted you to be the first to try it. I thought this feast a good time to bring it out.”

  Balder held the cup to his nose and sniffed. “What is the spice? I have not smelled it before.”

  “It grows on the trees near my hall. It has small white berries, or so I am told. It is said to increase strength in . . . certain pursuits.”

  Balder smiled. “Well, I suppose one can always benefit from increased strength.” The two laughed. “Let us have a taste then.” They both lifted cups to their lips and took a slow drink.

  “What do you think of it?” Hod asked. “I cannot see your expression.”

  “No, I suppose you cannot. It is unique. I have not tasted anything like it before.” He looked into the cup and saw the liquid swirling. “I do feel the beginnings of a strange sensation. Nana will have to attest to my increased strength later.”

  Hod smiled. “Then you should be careful, brother, that you not drink too much. You would not want your consort to be injured.”

  Balder chuckled. “We should get her a cup of it, as well. Perhaps we will shake the walls tonight!”

  “I am afraid I only have this small
amount for now. It was brewed especially for you.”

  “I suppose I will have to carry the weight, then. Thanks to you for bringing it. I must return the favor soon.”

  “There is no need for that, brother. Your drinking it is reward enough for me.”

  Balder tilted his head back and drained the remaining liquid. When he set the cup back down on the table Hod was no longer there. He looked around to see where he had gone, but there was no sign of him, although he could easily have been absorbed in the movement and activities of the servants.

  The quick movement of a rat's tail scurrying across the stone floor distracted him for a moment. He wondered why his brother would leave so quickly, and also how he had managed to do so. A conversation for another time, he supposed, and he returned to his plate.

  None could fathom his burden. To be simultaneously present, past, and future took a toll on Odin that none of the other gods could know. It had been thus since he had hung on Yggdrasil, learning the way to unlock the paths to the future and past. And it had proven to be his everlasting sorrow.

  Even in so simple a place as Gladsheim, in the middle of a feast, he could not be fully present for long without drifting off to another time and place. He knew what the others thought—did he not know all?—that he stared out into empty space, present yet absent at the same time. They would never dare voice any derision, and not because they feared him, but because he was the Allfather: he who had carved up the giant Ymir’s body and created the Nine Worlds, he who had drunk from the Mead of Poetry, he who had created the race of men, or so the stories went. The truth was far murkier than the legends, and even he could not remember the events themselves, but rather memories of memories of things that might have happened in such and such a way.

  As he traveled through the past, seeing events unfold time and again, he was struck by how new and unfamiliar they were at times. They were always uncertain, though, and there were times when he witnessed a series of events that were the same and yet different. In one instance, he stood together with his brothers, Vili and Ve, and they had slain Ymir. In another, he was alone and had done it himself. In yet another version, Ymir had slain him instead. He could not tell which was the right version of events, if any, and it led him to further question any vision he might have.

  More problematic was the doubt he felt even while he lingered in the present. He could never be completely certain that whatever he was experiencing was indeed the here and now. At times he was fairly sure, but there was often some small thing that cast his mind to doubting. By far the most troubling experiences he had, however, were when he saw the past, present, and future all at once and could not separate them. This did not happen often, but when it did, he was so disoriented as to be nearly useless. What might it look like to Balder, Thor, and the others to see him talking and gesturing to nothing but open air? He had been lucky not to have had that experience yet, but who knew what might happen in the future?

  He laughed bitterly. He knew, and that was his curse.

  For the time being he was in the present, and he sat back in his high seat witnessing the scurry of servants, sniffing the odors of the feast, savoring the sounds of laughter and talk. It was rare that he would be attached to the present for such a length of time, and he enjoyed the feeling, recognizing that it was likely fleeting.

  As he let his eye wander through the main hall, he was struck by a feeling of familiarity that went deeper than normal. This was not a feeling of having been in a place before, since he had of course feasted and held council in Gladsheim thousands of times across the eons. Instead, it was a feeling that he had seen this exact scene, this exact feast, somewhere before.

  He was not surprised; he had this feeling often, one of the perils of perennially wandering about through time. There was a nagging feeling about it, however, and he suddenly remembered why. The look on his face becoming grimmer, he slowly scanned the hall. It did not take long before he found what he sought.

  Hod turned his head on the way to Balder and met Odin’s gaze for the merest of moments. In that brief time, an understanding passed between the two—both knew what was to happen next, and both also realized in that sharp moment that Odin would do nothing to prevent it from happening.

  Before turning his head, Hod gave a brief and shallow smile, so slight it might not even have occurred, and then the moment was over. He brought a cup full of mead for Balder, and the two talked for a moment before draining their cups.

  In the instant before Balder could set his empty cup down on the table, blind Hod looked once more over to Odin. Their eyes locked again, and then Hod melted away, the only evidence that he was ever there the small rat darting through the maze of servant's feet.

  He turned his gaze back to Balder, who was animatedly talking to Tyr. He was glad to see that the wall between them was beginning to crumble, that Tyr would not forever hold his injury against Balder. It would not go away easily, for the reminder would be with him forever, but after a time he would remember that they were brothers and comrades-in-arms, with a common enemy and a common goal.

  But of course, the time for such a reconciliation was too short. It would never occur.

  He felt a tightness in his chest as if someone squeezed his heart when he thought of the moment to come. He felt powerless, as he often did when faced with the unforgiving tide of time, but he wondered also if it were inevitable, as he had always thought. He could stop the events in motion with but a simple gesture. His son could live, could stand by his side at Ragnarok to face the tide of chaos that threatened Asgard.

  And yet he did nothing.

  He watched as the first convulsions changed Balder’s expression from carefree frolic to panicked terror, as those around him stared wide-eyed for a moment before calling for help, imploring that something be done. Tyr’s voice was loudest of all, even over the horrified screams of Balder’s own mother, Frigg.

  Odin sat stone-still as he watched his beloved son first froth at the mouth, and then vomit blood and bile while his body jerked painfully this way and that, sending plates and cups sprawling to the floor of the hall. He observed quietly while the hall erupted with outrage and horror, while Frey and Freyja rushed over and hurriedly cast whatever spells they could, all for naught, as Balder’s insides betrayed him and turned to writhing liquid. He continued to sit in his chair as Balder’s last throes slowly died down and he slumped onto his back on the table, his arms thrown out, while the gathered throng of gods screamed and howled curses to the heavens with red, tear-streaked faces.

  And then it was done. His son lay dead on the table not twenty steps away, the paroxysms of his final moments now only existing in the memories of those who had watched him die.

  Odin stood and walked slowly over to Balder’s body. The knowledge that he could have prevented this from happening weighed heavily upon him, but he sloughed it off. None could fathom his burden, could understand the decisions that must be made by him alone.

  He put his hand on Balder’s chest and whispered, “Good journey, my son.” And then he turned and quietly walked away, the image of Loki’s Hod guise permanently etched into his mind’s eye.

  Chapter Twenty

  The gods watched in silent stillness as the servants piled belongings and treasures onto the sturdy and finely-crafted long boat. They formed a long, slow-moving procession, laden with weapons and armor, silver utensils for eating, hollowed-out drinking horns gilt with gold, finely-wrought clothing and tapestries, chests filled with gold, silver, and gems, and other goods that had previously been in Balder’s hall. Each in turn laid the items carefully onto the deck of the boat, mindful to leave a small space around the pyre in the center, the wooden platform upon which lay Balder’s lifeless body.

  The procession of servants, deprived of their burdens, filed away with heads hung low. The snake-like file crested a hill, and the row upon row of Asgardians standing shoulder to shoulder parted to allow them to pass. Once the last of the servants had disappear
ed behind them they closed ranks, creating seamless lines at least ten deep stretching out along the shoreline as far as could be seen. All wore somber looks upon their faces, with jaws clenched in anger.

  The Aesir surrounded Balder’s boat, awaiting a final push into the surf.

  With a silent nod from Odin, Tyr strode forward into the shallow breakers with torch in hand and set fire to the kindling at the base of the pyre. As the flames rose and Tyr stepped back, Thor walked to the prow. Pausing for a moment while the pyre became slowly engulfed in flames, he grasped either side of the dragon figurehead with his massive hands and pushed the boat out onto the calm, dark sea.

  The boat drifted slowly, the flames rising ever higher, climbing up the mast steadily and setting the square sail ablaze, spreading from the pyre to the crossbeams of the deck, and from there to the sides, all the while moving further and further from shore. The assembled gods looked on in silence, none taking their gaze from the fiery last rites.

  The reflection on the calm waters created an aura of light as the flames consumed the boat, leaving no part untouched. The fire reached high into the night sky, sparks emanating like fireflies giving one final homage to the lost. The conflagration reached a peak, the warmth from the flames touching those who stood on the shore, before the rapidly disintegrating hull began to fail and the ship started its slow descent into the dark water.

  Eyes followed it sink down, the water extinguishing the flames with an audible hiss. The mast remained intact in defiance of the fire that ravaged it—the sail had turned to cinders almost instantly—and it stubbornly remained vertical as the boat descended to the depths, finally disappearing with a brief and final snuffing out of the last of the flames.

  And then it was done. What remained of Balder’s body was food for the fishes, and the once-fine longboat that had carried him with speed and steadiness across turbulent seas was no more. He had taken all his prized possessions with him, although even the gods themselves did not really know if they would be of use in Niflheim.