Ragnarok: I Bring the Fire Part VI (Loki Vowed Asgard Would Burn)

by C. Gockel

“What a coincidence,” he whispers, “because I have something to tell you.”

  She blinks at him expectantly. Her cheeks are pink with cold, her lips are slightly parted.

  “You go first,” he says, sliding forward and wrapping his arms around her back.

  She bites her lip. “The reason I’ve been feeling sick is because I’ve been using a local drug. It simulates natural hormones so that your body thinks it’s pregnant, so you know, you don’t get pregnant.”

  It’s a strange thing, but Bohdi’s body is ahead of his brain in connecting all the dots of what she’s saying. Before he can think of a logical reply, his hands are sliding lower, and he’s kissing her. She jumps up, and he catches her legs around his waist. It’s only when he’s losing sensation in his arm, because he’s pushing her against a wall, that he remembers he should probably say something.

  “Umm … are you too sleepy?”

  Amy shakes her head in the negative. And he knows she’s not lying. Outside he hears the wind howling and tree limbs snapping.

  “You had something to tell me?” she asks, voice breathless, her lips extra pink and full.

  He presses his forehead to hers. “It can wait.”

  x x x x

  Bohdi lies on a spare mattress in Gem’s attic. Amy’s head is on his shoulder. Outside the whipping and snapping of the trees has died down … whatever it was had caused the tree that supports Gem’s inn to groan and smaller branches to twist and curl. The team still hasn’t come back yet. Amy and Bohdi have put their clothing back on so they can throw open the trap door, rush downstairs when the team comes home, and pretend like they’ve been darning socks all evening. Not that anyone will believe it … except maybe Rush. Bohdi’s still got the guy convinced he’s a virgin.

  They should probably have moved downstairs already, but Bohdi hadn’t wanted to let Amy go, and she hadn’t wanted to go. Now she’s sleeping in the crook of his arm, which is, in its own way, as nice as what came before her nap.

  Bohdi can’t sleep—partially because he promised to stay awake to alert Amy when the team came back. Also he is too happy. It had been better than the dreams; she’d said his name … His eyes drift down to Amy. It wouldn’t have mattered if she wasn’t exactly his physical type, she is cute, and has the perfect mind for him … but it sure doesn’t hurt. The blanket doesn’t hide the steep incline from her hip to the valley of her waist; he wants to slide his hand down that delicious curve. Just the thought of it makes his mouth water and his skin hum. He lifts his hand … and runs it through his bangs instead. He locks his gaze on the ceiling. She’s really tired. She was up all last night saving baby goats, and up early the next morning to make out with him. In her sleep, Amy slips her leg over his stomach.

  Bohdi groans. This is a test of his self control. What he needs is a distraction. He surveys the attic. It is neat and tidy without a speck of dust. It’s in the densest part of the mushroom-like cap of the tree the inn is built around. Gem has gone through great lengths to trim the tiny branches away from the large ones so the area is navigable and orderly, but there isn’t proper headroom, even for a dwarf. There are red glow globes all around, neatly folded blankets, crates of dishes, towels, spare furniture, books, and scrolls. He scowls. The books and scrolls are in another language, but he’d look at them, just for something to occupy his brain; unfortunately, they are out of reach.

  Amy mumbles in her sleep, and one of her hands slips along his chest and grabs his shirt, dislodging her parka. He had thrown it over him because the dwarf blanket was too small for them both. He raises an eyebrow … is she awake? He listens to her breathing and ... no. He sighs—and then frowns. With the parka shifted out of position, he’s cold. Besides the low ceiling and big twisty branches, the other thing that makes the attic a less-than ideal room is that there is no direct heat and it is chilly.

  He pulls Amy’s parka back up to his chin. As he does, something slips from one of the pockets and lands with a plunk next to the mattress. Bohdi reaches over with his hand, and his fingers encounter a small rectangular shape, only a little bigger than a deck of cards, that feels like it’s made of leather.

  Picking up the object, he brings it before his eyes and finds himself staring at a small white book. A Bible? He smirks to himself. Oh, it would be so good if she seduced him with a bible in her pocket, he could tease her about it forever. He rifles through the pages and blinks. Before his eyes the tiny tight cursive seems to morph from Hindu to English. He blinks again, and it’s English. He can feel the tiniest thrum of magic in his fingers.

  The tree’s branches groan. Thin whip-like fronds from the outer branches wave at the book—but don’t snap it away from him.

  His brow furrows. How did Amy have a magic book? For a moment, a dark thread of suspicion enters his mind. A magic book should have been shared with the team …

  Catching himself, he shakes his head. She probably just slipped it into her pocket when they were moving Gullveig’s stuff this afternoon, and then she forgot about it. She isn’t magic and wouldn’t have realized its importance. His eyes widen and he looks down at her. Is she magic now? He’s contagious; they hadn’t talked about that.

  She murmurs in her sleep. Maybe she’s remembering the hour she lost between the time Loki saved the universe, and she was mysteriously dropped off in his apartment? He should let her be.

  His eyes go back to the book. Rifling again through the pages, he finds himself staring at a picture of a woman sitting in yogi position, her body covered in flames. Wincing, he flips back a few chapters and finds a line drawing of a quilt, with a star sunk in the middle of it and a little round ball seemingly suspended around the sunken depression. He tilts his head. An illustration of space-time and the geodetic effect by a magical creature? Well, this is interesting.

  Branches snap nearby, and outside the wind roars. Amy sighs in his arms. He kisses the crown of her head and begins to read.

  x x x x

  Sitting on the table, Steve glares up at the ceiling. Bohdi and Lewis left a few hours ago. Branches are waving, curling and uncurling, and licking the air the same way they had when Bohdi and Lewis had danced. He rubs his jaw. All around him, the Frost Giant peasants drink quietly or whisper in corners. The mood among Steve’s team and the Frost Giant and Asgardian warriors is better—but even they’ve toned it down a little.

  Sliding out of his seat, Steve threads his way through the moody crowd to the door. As he stares out into the night he sees the iron wood trees writhe, making snow fall as if from buckets. He has a very bad feeling about this.

  Sigyn and Beatrice materialize beside him. “I don’t like this,” Beatrice says. “I think we should regroup at the inn.”

  “You might be right,” says Sigyn.

  “Yes …” Steve says. But then a hand lands on his shoulder. Turning sharply, he finds himself face to face with one of Heiðr’s warriors. His eyes are wide and worried. “You can’t be thinking of going out there? When the branches wave, large icicles fall from the trees. You could be killed!”

  Steve blinks. He doesn’t know the man’s name, but ... “Did I see you swallowing a sword earlier?”

  Brightening, the man straightens. “I am the best sword swallower in Jotunheim!”

  Steve looks toward the inn. If a sword swallower says it’s dangerous to go out … to Beatrice he says, “The team on guard said Lewis and Patel checked in.”

  Beatrice looks out at the night with concern and then down at her umbrella. But sighing, she crosses her arms. “They should be fine then.”

  To the man, Steve says, “I won’t argue with a sword swallower.”

  Punching Steve’s shoulder with a smile he says, “Ragnarok!” in the same voice a frat boy might use to say, “Let’s drink!”—which is probably the literal translation in this case. As if to confirm Steve’s interpretation, the man grabs a mug of mead from a peasant, toasts the air, and downs it in front of Steve’s eyes. Steve gives the peasant a sympathetic smile, but the
man glares at him and sulks away.

  Steve surveys the crowd. It’s impossible not to notice that the Frost Giant “civilians” are keeping their distance from the team. It makes Steve worried; he’d suggest Harding turn on some more music, to lighten the atmosphere for everyone, but he’s heard whispers that the “magical box” is responsible for the branches’ mad dance.

  Shaking his head, Steve heads back to his team with Sigyn, but Beatrice stays at the door.

  An hour or so later the branches finally slow. It’s still snowing, and large clumps still fall occasionally from the trees, but it’s much better. As the Frost Giants and Asgardians break up, he and the team gather together.

  “Where’s Tucker?” Berry says. Climbing up onto a bench, the short man scans the thinning crowd.

  Steve has another worry. “Where is Claire?”

  Thor and all of his sons, including Ullr, are standing nearby. “The little Valkyrie is lost?” Ullr asks. Before Steve can answer, Ullr says, “We will find her!”

  All of the Asgardians, humans, and Frost Giant warriors set off to find Steve’s kid, which is a fine moment of interspecies cooperation, but Steve really wishes it wasn’t on his child’s account. It’s not until after Ullr has led a small party of Asgardians out into the night that Sigyn, peering beneath a table, laughs. “She’s over here, come see!”

  Steve breaks into a jog, but Thor’s there first. The big man laughs. “The mighty Valkyrie sleeps mightily!”

  Heart in his throat, Steve peers beneath the table. His daughter is curled up with Fenrir. One of her legs is beneath Fenrir’s back legs, another is on her haunches, her back is on the floor, and her neck is draped over one of Fenrir’s front paws.

  Harding coos over Steve’s shoulder. “Awww … she can sleep anywhere … just like a Marine.”

  “Nah!” says Thomas. “That there is the first female SEAL.”

  “Is she drunk?” Steve says, panicked. Did someone give her alcohol? He needs Lewis … and he also wants to personally wring the neck of whoever got her intoxicated.

  Patting a yawning Fenrir, Thor looks up at Steve and gives a bemused smile. “No, Rogerson, she’s barely a decade old, and it is four hours from sunrise.”

  There are chuckles from the Frost Giants and Asgardians, and they pat their hands on Steve’s back affectionately. He manages to laugh at himself … barely.

  A few minutes later, he’s carrying a still “mightily sleeping” Claire back to the inn, most of his team behind him. Berry’s voice buzzes in his ear. “Still haven’t found Tucker. Wait! It looks like Fenrir’s got the scent!”

  “Let me know as soon as you find him,” Steve says.

  Moments later, he enters the inn. Over the sound of the team’s footsteps, Steve thinks he hears Lewis’s muffled voice. He’s instantly on alert. He hears the creak of the ladder to the attic, and he’s about to order the team back outside when there is a knock at the door, and Larson’s voice buzzes in his ear. “Bad news … Heiðr has Tucker.”

  “What?” says Steve.

  Before Berry can respond, there is another knock, and Cruz’s voice buzzes in his ear. “Sir, Heiðr and some Frost Giants Warriors are here … with Tucker.”

  Heiðr’s own voice echoes through the door. “Captain Rogers, you will let us in.”

  Steve’s eyes meet Larson’s. Beatrice hisses, “Give me Claire.” Steve deposits her in the woman’s arms, and nods at Rush.

  Rush opens the door and Heiðr strides into the room, warriors flanking her, Tucker just behind them. His head is high, back straight, face flat. Behind Tucker come three scruffy Frost Giant peasants, one who is sobbing.

  Without preamble, Heiðr says, “This man has murdered one of my people.”

  Steve almost gapes. Tucker is one of the more responsible men on the team; he’d be the last person Steve would expect to get into a senseless brawl. “Is this true?” Steve asks.

  Raising his chin a little higher, Tucker says, “Yes, Sir.”

  Steve’s jaw grinds. He can’t imagine how this could get much worse. Then from above his head he hears Bohdi shout, “Wait! Amy!”

  x x x x

  Amy is a child, walking through a snowy courtyard. It’s evening in Jotunheim, but she is far from the Iron Wood where she was born. Next to her is a man with a shaved head. He wears dreary brown robes, and his face is waxen. She doesn’t like him. She can’t say why, but when he puts his hands on her shoulders, it makes all the muscles in her back tense up.

  The man opens a door in a low stone building with a thatched roof. They step into a short hallway with an animal hide curtain at one end. The hand that had been on her shoulder drifts down her spine. The man’s breathing is too loud. He leads her through the curtain, and she’s in a room with a few candles for light and warmth, straw mats with thin blankets, and lots of boys of varying ages that all look bigger than she is.

  “This is where you will live now,” the man says. “The other apprentices will see that you have a place to sleep.” He tugs at the hair at the back of her head, and Amy shivers.

  He leaves. The boys in the room crowd around her. Their faces are gaunt, their clothing threadbare. Their expressions range from feral to hungry. Two large boys whisper to each other and step forward. “Look at this one. He’s as pretty as a girl, don’t you think, Ivan?”

  Amy gasps. And for a moment everything stops, and it all comes together in her mind. This is a dream, and in the dream she’s a boy. And then it’s like a play button has been pressed and the dream surges forward … and becomes a nightmare.

  “We could have fun with him, Gorg,” the boy who must be Ivan says.

  “I wonder if the elders already have,” Gorg whispers.

  Amy’s back hits the hide curtain; she doesn’t know when she started walking. Ivan and Gorg step forward, Ivan lifts his hands to touch her, and a shout rings out in the dormitory. “Stop!”

  Ivan doesn’t … and his robe catches on fire. Gorg spins. “You’ll pay for that!”

  A boy, not much older or bigger than Amy, punches Gorg in the gut. As Gorg crumples, the new boy knees him in the face and pounds his fists on the back of his head. Snarling, Ivan throws off his robe and reaches for Gorg’s attacker, but another boy stabs him in the eye with an icicle.

  Ivan howls and backs away. Amy’s two defenders kick and punch Gorg until he falls to the ground. All the other boys circle around, strangely mute. Gorg’s attackers don’t stop until Gorg is black and blue and tears are streaming from his face. “Stop it, Odin! Please!”

  “Are you begging me?” the boy who must be Odin roars.

  Ivan tries to rush Odin, but Odin’s friend throws up a hand, and this time Ivan’s tunic catches on fire. Crying, Ivan runs past Amy, through the curtain. She hears the door slam.

  Gorg sobs. “I’m begging you! I’m begging you!”

  Odin’s friend looks like he’s about to kick Gorg in the face, but Odin holds him back. Putting himself between the crowd and Amy, he shouts. “No more! No more! The elders may do what they may, but as long as we don’t become beasts we are still men!”

  The boys in the circle back away slowly. Gorg continues to cry on the floor. After what seems like a terribly long time, Odin turns around. His cheeks are streaked by tears, and one of his eyes is swelling. It’s the first time Amy’s had a chance to look at him. His skin is golden like Sigyn’s, his eyes are blue, his hair pale blonde. Other than that, he is skinny, unremarkable. This can’t be Odin—Loki never knew Odin as a young boy. Could it be a dream of one of Loki’s past lives in Amy’s own dream?

  To his friend, Odin says, “I should have done that a long time ago.”

  His friend still faces the room at large. Eyes roving over the boys like an alert hawk, he flicks a thumb and flame flares at the end.

  Odin bends so his eyes are at Amy’s level. “Don’t be afraid. We won’t let anyone hurt you.” He puts his hand on Amy’s shoulder, and where the man earlier had made her cringe, this fills her with a wa
rmth that goes straight to her heart. On a whim, she reaches out with her small fingers and touches Odin’s rapidly swelling eye. Before her eyes his skin goes from purple to golden. Smiling, he stands and touches his cheek. “Well, done! That is quite a useful talent.”

  And Amy’s aware that the little boy whose body she inhabits hasn’t heard that before from a stranger. She—he—has been called womanly. She—he—smiles at Odin.

  Leaning down again, Odin says, “What’s your name?”

  Amy shakes her head. She can’t say it, and she feels so ashamed.

  Instead of sneering at her cowardice, Odin says, “I couldn’t speak for days when I first came here.” He pats her shoulder affectionately, and she loves him instantly.

  Leading her toward a mat, Odin says, “It’s hard, but you’re with me—I’m Odin—and this,” he waves at the other boy, “is Lothur.”

  Lothur turns and smiles at her. There’s something manic about his smile, and it makes her draw closer to Odin. Lothur’s hair is dark red, his features sharp, his eyes almost orange. “Someday,” Lothur whispers, “we’re going to burn this whole place down.”

  Amy shivers. Lothur is one of Loki’s previous incarnations … but then who is she?

  … Her dream self closes her eyes. This is just a dark imagining brought on by the Frost Giants talk of buggering, probably merged with Loki’s memories of tales of magic schools. This is all because of Loki’s memories …

  She suddenly has to wake up. She squeezes her hand and encounters soft fabric, there is someone warm beneath her. Her heart races in fear. She opens her eyes and wakes to another dream. She’s with Loki, but it’s the other Loki, in the other universe. He smiles at her, and it’s too much like Lothur, too sharp, too cruel. He rubs a hand over her stomach and says, “How is my baby today?” And then he laughs at his joke, but it isn’t funny to Amy. In the end, all she’d been to him was carrier of his child.

  She squeezes her eyes shut again, and wakes to another dream. She’s standing in her Loki’s apartment. He’s in his armor and before she knows what is happening, she’s saying, “I think I love you.”