“I’m not open to the idea of other people in our relationship,” Achille said, stiffly, but Brandr could hear the jealousy underlying his words. They keep trying with other people, but feel nostalgia because there’s never been a proper end to the relationship, so they get back together . . . only to find themselves right back in the same place.
Reginleif shrugged. “If you find your relationship fulfilling, then by all means, pursue it, but it seems to me that the fundamental factors that led to your first three breakups have not changed. Unless both of you are willing to give up some central human experiences—passion, children, family—and are content with a merely companionate relationship in the early years of your lives, you can’t really expect a committed monogamous relationship from each other, can you?
The couple looked caught off-guard. “I thought this was going to be a seminar with advice for making it work,” Amaranthe said, sharply.
“You’re not here for advice, so much as for approbation,” Regin told her, shortly. “You’ve come to the same conclusion three times before, that it doesn’t work between the two of you. You already know the answer. Everything else is window-dressing, to show each other and anyone else watching, that you’re trying. And to reduce your feelings of guilt. My advice, not that you will heed it, is simple: Live in the present. Things have changed. So have you. Move on. And if you are in a relationship that has only half of what you want in it, and the other person cannot provide what you need, then I question if it is a relationship at all.”
“What qualifies you to give any advice?” Amaranthe finally burst out, her expression resentful.
“I was married for fifty years before the Day of Transition,” Reginleif responded, tersely. Brandr’s eyebrows went up. She’d never before admitted to being even that old in front of witnesses. The young woman must have nettled her. “And the man who currently shares my life knew me before I became what I am today.” Regin’s words carried harmonics of regret. “Just as you and Achille knew each other. But he sees with both the eyes of memory, as you two see each other, and with the eyes of the present. He knows everything that I did, and he forgives me for the wrongs I did to him.” Sorrow edged her voice like razor wire.
Brandr had been set to open the door and walk in, as if on cue, but now stopped dead. He’d rarely seen her expose so much of her real identity. It must have been very important to her, that these people understand what she was trying to say. And more than ever, he couldn’t intrude.
The jotun in the circle had raised his head, and studied Lorelei now, with slight suspicion. “Fifty years? You must have been god-born before. I thought god-born couldn’t transition.”
“I was. It’s possible for us to transform. Just rare.” Reginleif sidestepped the details, but it was the first time she’d confirmed this to outsiders, to his knowledge. He wasn’t sure if this was progress, or not. She’d hidden so thoroughly behind the Lorelei guise all this time.
Amaranthe, still seething, challenged now, “You’ve kept saying, all afternoon, that both people have to give to a relationship. All right. What do you bring to your relationship, then?”
Brandr saw Reginleif shrug slightly. “The burden of my past, and little more.” Her face closed down. Sharing time, clearly, was over. “You can all trade advice now. Mind you, some of you won’t like each other’s advice any more than you liked mine, but that’s the purpose of an open forum . . . .”
Brandr pushed the doors open now, scowling, trying to fathom what in the gods’ names Regin had meant by that last comment. He thought he’d done everything he could to express appreciation for everything she brought to his life. She’d forced him to practice speaking out loud when they were alone together, so he could work around the stutter that Sigrun had told him was self-perpetuated, but she also gave him the option of using mind-speech, for when words were simply too difficult. Or even, best of all, the chance to express himself without saying a damned thing. She made all three options easy. She worked with him in the field, relaying orders in combat. While she relished what few foods she could eat now, as a rush of physical sensations that she’d been deprived of in the Veil, she understood that for him, food wasn’t a question of enjoyment, but of fuel. He needed to eat almost as much as a centaur did, after a long day of physical exertion. So he’d eat whatever odd fish dish she’d made for them to share, and then settle down afterwards to consume about a pound of oatmeal, without enjoyment. Easy to make, easy to eat, easy to clean up. She’d watched that for a month before cooking him chicken with lentils so he’d have something else higher in protein and iron to eat. She couldn’t eat a bite of it, herself. She’d starting adding almond and pistachio slivers to his oatmeal, too, for much the same reason. Simple things, he’d just never taken the time to do for himself, but that . . . helped. And he’d thanked her for it, as best he could.
As the door to the seminar room, opened, Reginleif looked up, and was startled to see Brandr standing outlined there. There was a marked frown on his face, but she could feel her own face soften into Lorelei’s smile. Lorelei, foolish girl, doted on her bear-warrior lover. Felt her stomach flutter at the mere sight of him, tall and powerful, the muscles in his throat visible below his short beard, and the solidity of his body evident through his tunic. It wasn’t just physical, either. Though Brandr didn’t match Lorelei entirely for intellect, he’d gained in wisdom in his decades of life. He’d read in his off hours, and though he had little interest in science or technomancy, he’d spend an hour or two at a time with a novel or a play, at least.
Reginleif loved her old friend, and dearly, but she knew it . . . couldn’t last. Wouldn’t last. Sooner or later, he’d heal enough from his wounding that he wouldn’t stutter anymore. He’d regain his confidence with people. And again, sooner or later, she was going to have to admit to more people who she really was. Other valkyrie and bear-warriors. He would face being ostracized by their kindred just for being associated with her. And no matter how brave, strong, and loyal he was, it would take a toll, and there’d be an end. And she couldn’t burden him with that, in the long-term, particularly since she knew he’d feel guilty at his perceived abandonment of her. So, when he was ready to leave . . . as he would be, someday . . . she’d let him go. Though, given the expression on his face, her heart clenched a little. She wasn’t quite ready for it to be today. “Brandr!” Lorelei exclaimed, standing with a smile. “You’re back from the defense of Tyre.”
“Yes.” Still, no wasted words in public. Little rings of space around them as he concentrated on not stuttering. “You . . . done here? Come home?” It took him more effort when he was upset about something. And it was almost a lost cause in combat, when the adrenal flow locked him out of some of his mental functions anyway.
She glanced at her seminar participants. They’d mostly finished for the day, anyway. She didn’t give the triton and his human lover good odds. Tritons and naiads had body temperatures a solid twenty degrees cooler than most humans, leaving them feeling slightly dead to most humans, and having to wear a snorkel mask or underwater breathing apparatuses in order to make love didn’t sound enjoyable to her. But stranger things had happened. “I don’t need to be here for the interaction portion of things,” she said, giving the others a smile and a little persuasive flick of her voice before crossing to Brandr’s side, and looking up at him in concern as they left the room. “Who died?” she asked, switching languages to Gothic.
“No one.”
“Is something else wrong?”
“Not . . . sure.” She was startled as he picked her up, right in the middle of the refugee center, and kissed her. “Come home.”
Lorelei acceded with enthusiasm, and shoved Reginleif to the back of her own mind. Brandr’s apartment wasn’t far away, and she’d had to retrieve, guiltily, some of her clothing from it while he was absent, so she could go back to using her own place. He’d glued cork to the windows, to help dampen the vibrations of her voice, and had a huge jotun-sized bed in
his sleeping chamber. It filled, in fact, most of the room, and the chest of drawers and the closet door barely opened because of it. He called it the most comfortable bed he’d ever owned in his life, and Lorelei loved curling up in that huge nest with him, but Reginleif knew she shouldn’t get used to it.
He’d just closed the door behind them, and already picked her up, carrying her effortlessly, boosting her so that her legs could wrap around his hips. He gave the room a blind glance, and set her on the kitchen counter, and, much to her surprise, started working at the laces of her trews already, pulling them down to let cool air drift over her skin, and then sliding his fingers into her while kissing her deeply. “You’re happy to be home,” she assessed, but she kept picking up flares of agitation in him, in her Veil sight. A ripple of mingled apprehension and desire curled through her. “Are you going to trigger the adrenaline flows with me?”
“Never done that before,” he told her, pulling back, clearly startled. If I do that, you might be too sore to walk tomorrow. You’d need to agree to a safety word. Another deep kiss, as he worked her with his fingers. Speaking without words. Lorelei’s head tipped back as her back arched, her hair spilling into the sink behind her, and Brandr moved in, nudging her legs apart with his own. Rubbed himself against her, through his own trews, and let her feel what was building in him now, too. “Have been thinking. Yes. D-dangerous. I know.” Another kiss, deep enough to cloud her mind. “Should get hand-fasted.”
Lorelei blinked, and Reginleif regained control of her tongue. “What did you just say?”
That we should get hand-fasted, Shadowweaver. He used her Name almost as sweetly as his tongue and fingers. It’s been two years. I’ve mostly gotten you moved in with me. And I want to share whatever future there is, with you. He smiled faintly into her shocked expression. And if there is a future . . . you know it’s not really a marriage until I get you pregnant. And I wouldn’t mind that. Spent a human lifetime training other people’s children. Might be nice to have my own. Though I’m still not really sure about the egg thing.
God-born, other than those of fertility gods, weren’t necessarily excessively fertile, and the odds of having a god-born child were slim. It was, as far as any of them knew, a deliberate policy of the gods so that the world wasn’t strewn with semi-immortal humans with strong powers. Reginleif’s lips opened, aching inwardly . . . . I chose not to have children with Joris. At first, he didn’t want them, because he wasn’t ready, and they’d interfere with his studies. Then later, I didn’t want to watch them grow old and die . . . .
Not sure I want to see that, either. But life needs to be lived, Shadowweaver. Come live my life with me. Please. I don’t want to stand at the arena edge anymore, watching everyone else . . . .
. . . I should say no. For your own good . . . .
How about if you let me decide what’s good for me? You’re responsible for you. Do I make you happy?
. . . yes, but . . .
If you say you don’t deserve it, I am going to have to rage, you know. It was actually teasing, and somehow, they’d unlaced his trews and he’d bent his knees to drive himself into her. No protection, for once, and he groaned out loud, in pure relief, as he sheathed himself in her, deeply. Her wings unfurled, knocking over half the pots and pans that had been left to dry on the counter in his absence, and then he picked her up again and carried her easily, to the bedroom. Going to bind you to me every way I can, so you don’t try to slip away for my own good, he told her, sleepily, some time later. Not going to let you kill yourself, either.
She was on her side, staring at the dresser with the lamp and the clock on top of it, which butted up against the big bed. Dying would be the easy way out.
He’d just lurched forwards to kiss her, hard, trying to drive that thought out of her mind, when something atop the dresser, dislodged by the bed’s motions, dropped down and landed on his head. Hard. Brandr swore and groped for a light switch. Regin had learned how not to shatter bulbs with her cries. Mostly.
Reginleif swallowed when the object was revealed. “It’s my old album,” she said, her throat dry as she sat up. “Brandr, how did you get this?”
“D-didn’t,” he returned. “Never seen it before.”
Inside, there was a piece of foolscap, with a partial explanation.
Regin, Brandr—
I didn’t want to intrude, so I left this for when you get home. I found this in Dvalin’s archives, and thought Regin might like to have it back. The pictures of Brandr at age sixteen are definitely blackmail material. If you want to have me store it in my keep, for safety, let me know. You’re both welcome there, any time.
—Sigrun
Reginleif’s eyes burned with tears as she leafed through the book, sitting up in bed, leaning forward so that her wings didn’t catch on the headboard. Between each page, a thin piece of foolscap, to protect the precious images. Somewhere in the order of a hundred and sixty years spent at the Odinhall. Not all the god-born of Valhalla had trained there; there were facilities in Europa, too, of course. Graduating classes could be as small as five people, or as large as a seventy-five. But of the twenty-five thousand god-born of their people alive today, she’d trained almost a quarter of them. The album was dense with their images. Most of the faces, she remembered. She remembered which ones had died young, not even making it through the nineteenth century. There was Sigrun’s great-grandmother, in fact, Solveig Caetia, who’d been god-touched, beloved of Tyr, and in her mid-thirties when she’d come to the Odinhall. “I thought she was too old to train,” Reginleif admitted, touching the picture. “She never did grasp magic worth a damn. She’d been elevated for her love of the law, her ability to argue and persuade, and then she insisted on going to Crimea, because it was her duty. And died there.” She leafed forwards, and found Brandr’s class, as he leaned forwards and looked at it now, himself.
“Was never that young.”
“Oh, yes. You were. Gods, you were. And got into so much trouble.”
“All in fun.” He moved one of her wings out of his way, so he could kiss her shoulder. “Keep . . . going.”
She flicked through the pages, finally finding Sigrun’s class. To her surprise, the image there remained intact. Sigrun had not effaced her own image. Brandr was there, looking much as he did now, though without so many scars, smiling faintly at the camera for the black-and-white image. The broad, energetic grin of youth was gone, replaced by the grimmer lines of experience. Sigrun stood slightly to the side of the bear-warriors who’d been in her class, including Erikir, who’d been caught looking her direction. Sigrun had been staring at the ground. And again, Reginleif herself, beside Brandr, arms folded across her chest, with a faint, inwards-turned smile that said, Well, let’s see if this lot amounts to anything, eh?
Reginleif slid the album away from her before her tears could fall on the pages. I taught them all. I betrayed them all.
Not what Sigrun intended her gift to make you think, Brandr told her, and pulled her back down into the sheets with him. Look at how many lives you touched, Regin. Look at how many lives you’ve made better, by being in them. All those god-born you trained . . . they’re out there, making the world a better place, even now. And Hel twisted you. Let the blame fall where it belongs. With her. And let yourself find a little peace. You told the others today to live in the present, not in the past. Follow your own advice, eh?
Reginleif exhaled, the rigidity in her muscles loosening. And she relaxed into Brandr’s arms. I will try.
Are you going to live my life with me, instead of trying to find ways to live in death?
. . . yes. Because you ask it of me.
Good.
She hesitated, and glanced over her shoulder at him. “There was talk of my not being able to walk tomorrow?”
Brandr leaned forwards. “You’re . . . sure?”
“I am still a valkyrie. I would be remiss if I did not offer you the chance to try it at least once.” Her tone was almost prim, b
ut there was a hint of humor in her voice. “Besides. I will admit to having been curious for about two hundred years on that score. One of the valkyrie in my class was a daughter of Freyr, and she could not stay away from a young bear-warrior, also of Freyr, who was of age with us.” She sighed. They’d both died in 1885. Before Brandr had been born. But they’d had nine children in their time. All mortal, damnably. “She spoke at length on the topic in the women’s rooms at night.”
Well, I am certainly glad to appease your curiosity. Brandr chuckled, and bit her shoulder . . . and reached into his own mind. A bear-warrior lived and died by his ability to control the adrenal rage. It was always there, bubbling just under the surface. Ready to be used. He had been controlling his for around a century now. Tripping it, deliberately, was easy enough. But for once, it didn’t mean that an enemy was about to die.
After depositing the album at Brandr’s, Sigrun had slipped back out through the empty apartment, feeling like a thief, before mounting Nith behind the apartment complex once more. Trying to ensure the happiness of two people was probably a very small thing, in the face of the world’s problems, but she did feel a little better, having at least made the effort. I can’t fix them, any more than I can fix the world. But I can help. And they . . . well, they connect me to humanity. They’re the closest things I have left to a mother and a father, damn it. And I need them.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 111