The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  She glanced at him, and then, with an expression of mild curiosity, at the bed. There is no time here, Juno reminded him. You do not wish to . . . seal our bargain?

  Pluto stilled, and then cautiously slipped a hand under her chin and looked down into her pale eyes. Unnecessary. You have already given me more in a day, than I ever had from Proserpine. I count the bargain already sealed.

  We are lacking in gods who can fight this war, Juno pointed out, sharply. If we combine our essences . . . .

  It is substantially unlikely that I can sire children. He let his hand drop.

  Have you ever had occasion to try, any more than I have had, in our barren, fruitless, wasted existences? Her voice was brine-bitter, and gave him pause.

  No.

  She tugged him, gently, by the wrists, towards the bed, ancient in style, mattress filled with rushes, which seemed to rustle under her weight. He hesitated again, at the edge of the bed, and then, defeated, told her, Never in the mortal realm. It would be dangerous.

  She looked up at him, her face fearless. But here, there is no death.

  There might not be death. But there still might be pain. Horror. Disgust. He lowered himself onto the bed, and opened himself once more, allowing her full access to his power, as she opened to him. And again, to his astonishment, there was no disgust, no horror, in her sense. Just understanding . . . and acknowledgment. Power was power, and Juno, of all the entities in this universe, was pragmatic about such things. Though he did rather suspect that Venus might have beguiled Juno into feeling something for him. He wouldn’t put it past the wily goddess.

  Oh, you are politically very useful. You are the most powerful god left in Olympus, and sharing a bed, our essences, is far better than a war between us, which would divide and destroy what is left of the pantheon, Juno told him, with brutal frankness, leaning up on one elbow to look down at him. But before you blame Venus for my actions, consider this. Juno reached out, and touched his face, directly, and Pluto flinched at the pressure of her hand. Do you not think I have seen viler and uglier things than you, in all the centuries I was bound to Jupiter? In all the years that Hera was bound to Zeus? How many women did Zeus rape, and leave to bear the generous ‘gift’ of his offspring? How many of those offspring became Hera’s duty—or mine!—to rear? How many men did Zeus rape? How many lives did he and Jupiter ruin, in just that fashion? She flapped a hand, as he opened his mouth to object. Yes, I know, it’s not fair to blame Jupiter for Zeus’ actions, any more than it is fair to blame you for Hades’. Consider then, how many wars Jupiter encouraged the humans to wage. Consider how many times Jupiter has strong-armed the other gods, or demanded tribute. Because he was the strongest. Because that’s how he stayed the strongest. She looked away. And that’s only the mortals and the other gods.

  The inference was clear. Hera and Juno had both been strident in their objections about their treatment over the years, but their only vocal protests had been about numerous offspring sired in equally numerous affairs. Most of the humans seemed to think that Hera and Juno’s pride and shrewish temper kept Zeus or Jupiter from the marital bedchamber, and that their barren condition was, in some manner, deserved. A few understood that Jupiter and Zeus feared to have their power usurped by an heir. Feared having to give way to the next generation, in the way that mortals did.

  But until today, not even Pluto had realized that their barrenness had also been a choice. The loudest way in which either goddess could protest their treatment. Pluto, like all the other gods, had looked away from that treatment. They’d all had to. And he hadn’t even realized the extent of it. Until now.

  Persephone was not the only one he forced, then. It was not a question. And while he prided himself on his impartiality, he felt something akin to rage.

  No. She glanced away. However, as Zeus came to be glad of Hera’s barren state, because it meant that no son or daughter could rise from her essence to challenge him, Jupiter came to echo his feelings, as well.

  We all echo our doubles. Pluto hesitated. It was a bad bargain. We should never have agreed to it. Too many years, carrying the baggage of their history, instead of . . . .

  . . . creating something of our own. There was a pause, and then her pale eyes rose once more. I know what true ugliness is. Sometimes it wears a handsome face. She leaned forwards, and let her essence entwine with his. You do not frighten me, lord of the dead. You are . . . refreshingly upfront about who and what you are.

  Though to say that they were surprised was something of an understatement, when Juno happened to glance down at herself, and found her belly already beginning to burgeon with new life. Jupiter’s widow could hardly be said to be mourning his loss. Humanity might take some time to forgive her.

  Though humanity did, frequently, forgive those who won.

  Aprilis 2, 1999 AC

  Olympus’ halls were quiet and all but deserted. Apollo of Delphi had not left his golden throne, though almost everyone else had. Even Artemis, his twin, had been pressed into service in the mortal realm by Juno and Pluto. The two most powerful of the remaining Roman gods were implacable. No more hiding in the Veil, while the mortal realm burned. Vesta was off on the borders of the Gallic lands, helping Idunn heal refugees, while Sif did the same for the people of Novo Gaul, in Caesaria Aquilonis. Artemis was using her power to help quell tides, and smooth the passage of twenty thousand Roman troops across the Sea of Atlas back to at least Iberia, accompanied by ten thousand Nahautl warriors and their families, rescued from the madness of their own lands by Quetzalcoatl. Poseidon was there to keep the winds and waves at bay, and Venus and Aphrodite were both out, doing what they could to warm fields that should have held the first shoots of wheat and barley outside of Rome. Juno and her echo, Hera, were both in the Alps, with Pluto at their sides, fighting off mad godlings, while Dionysus attempted to guard ships venturing to Judea, under a flag of truce, as the humans of the Empire reached out to Caesarion, governor of Judea, to bid him come home and assume the throne of Rome.

  The alliance was . . . uneasy. Pluto had been required to unbind himself from Hades, and had given Hades over to the justice of the Valhallan gods, for how Hades had permitted a human technomancer, bound to him, to destroy Cimbri-on-the-Caestus. Their Hellene counterparts could conceal things from their Roman halves; Pluto had been enraged to discover what Hades had done. And Hestia had been astounded to see that Pluto had given up the protection of having a part of himself always in the Veil, in the interests of justice . . . and the new alliance. If you feel the need to execute him, do so, Pluto had told Odin in the first meeting that had been held in Olympus. But I ask that you hold your hand until after the mad ones are all dead, and we have found a place where Hades’ death will not cause pain to the mortals.

  Odin and Tyr had exchanged a look, and both northern gods had nodded, in sober agreement. He will be our prisoner until that time. Do you swear that you had no knowledge of his actions?

  Pluto had raised a hand. I swear it on the Styx. On my own Name. My brother held us all by our oaths. I obeyed him, for that I had sworn him my allegiance. But I did not fear him. He did not have the power to destroy me.

  Hades had looked pale and unwell, almost flickering out of reality as Pluto unknitted the bonds between them, and turned him over to the gods of Valhalla. You betray me! Oathbreaker!

  You betrayed me. You have stained my honor. When have I ever sought to kill mortals? Pluto’s voice had been a hiss. Hestia had wondered if she should speak up for her brother, but hesitated. Someone should speak for him . . . but seven million humans had been killed. Not by his hands, no, but he’d made it possible.

  After that, everyone had agreed to table the issue of Skadi and Neptune’s deaths, and Cocidius, and all those whom Orcus had slain, with the understanding that all had been done at Jupiter’s orders, and such would not be permitted again, though no one knew where Orcus currently was. There were mutterings and grumblings from Poseidon and Artemis, but the Hellene gods were to
o few now, to be a real force. And that uneasy state of allowing things not to be said permitted them all to spread out over the world and work together.

  This left Hestia to tend the fire that should never—could never—go out. She sat by the great hearth, listening to Apollo gibber. None of this is happening, it’s not happening, it can’t happen this way, the end is coming, my end is coming, the bitch. The bitch is going to live, and I’m going to die, but if it’s not happening, it can’t happen, no . . . maybe . . . maybe I can . . . no, it can’t happen that way, I’ve already seen it, but what if I could unsee it . . . .

  Hestia looked up as the mumbling got louder, and Apollo began to bite his fingers once more. He was one of her brother Zeus’ children. And like all of them, had been a bright and shining spark in the earliest days. Before the world had changed them. Hestia had rarely ventured out into the world, other than to curl up in people’s hearth fires, and listen to the words they spoke around her. Their fear of the darkness outside their windows, a darkness unbroken by any light besides the stars and moon. A darkness filled with the howling of monsters, and, perhaps worse, the war-cries of other men. Their belief in her had been as absolute, in those days, as their fear of the darkness. Because her fires had been the only source of light. The only thing that kept the demons and animals and other men at bay, and chased the shadows hence. She’d been stronger then. But in this era of ley-light and electricity, her power was barely more than banked coals.

  There were times that Hestia thought that they should never have left the Veil. But she wasn’t sure if the gods would have stumbled upon the idea of banding together for protection, if they hadn’t happened upon humans who’d had that same notion. The very oldest memories she had were of unbridled chaos. Where the strong devoured the weak.

  . . . you better watch out, bitch!

  Hestia’s head lifted, sharply, as Apollo’s rambling increased in volume, and she sighed, stood, and crossed to him. Put a hand on his brow, just under the golden hair, and told him, gently, You need to rest. You need to let go of this vision that so fevers your mind. If you release it . . . and look at only the world you can see now . . . you may recover.

  Apollo smiled up at her, his eyes wide and dazed. Would you soothe me, dearest aunt, with your sweet lips? Would you warm me with your fires? His arms were around her, crushing her now, and Hestia threw herself backwards, regretting the moment of kindness that had allowed her to forget that her nephew was mad.

  She stumbled backwards, and hands caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. She looked up with a flash of relief, turning gratefully to see who had come back to the hall in time to send Apollo back to continue in his gibbering . . . and stopped, the words dying in her thoughts.

  Orcus’ skull grinned down at her, and skeletal fingers dug into her shoulders. Ah, Hestia. How good to see you. Tending the fire, as always, when everyone else has left on their little errands.

  You . . . aren’t supposed to be here, she told him, reaching out for the fires that smoldered at the center of the great hall. You left, and Pluto and Juno declared you an outcast.

  The smile almost seemed to widen. Oh, I know. But do you know what the best thing about Jupiter and Zeus being dead is?

  Hestia shook her head, numbly.

  No more rules. Orcus started to chuckle, at least until Hestia yanked all of Olympus’ sacred flames to herself, enveloping them both in fire. Bitch! Orcus shouted, and threw her to the ground, as the flames devoured his cloak.

  Make the shadows lighter, the humans had once prayed in front of her flames. Drive back the darkness. Protect us from evil. Keep us safe until morning comes, until the sun shines once more. The ancient litany went through her mind as Orcus’ weight came down on her, and Hestia’s eyes flicked back towards the sun-god, Apollo, as he stood, his head canted to the side. Watching, and biting on one of his fingers thoughtfully, as Orcus hissed and tried to absorb her flames. Made them dim, and begin to die. Make the shadows lighter . . . .

  Orcus’ essence pressed into hers, and Hestia fought, with all her strength. Drive back the darkness. New flames coursed out, and she drove her fingers into his eyes, making him howl . . . and then they both lost their adopted forms. Became nothing more than shadow and light.

  Protect us from evil . . . The shadows began to increase. The flames began to die, pressed down between the darkness and the cold stone floor. I cannot even protect myself . . . .

  The flames wavered. The sun hadn’t risen to chase the night away.

  And then they both vanished, leaving the hall empty, but for Apollo of Delphi, who removed his bleeding fingers from his mouth, and stared, thoughtfully, at where they had been. His vision told him that Orcus had just taken Hestia to the shores of an island in Hellas, and was consuming her, very slowly now. But this vision didn’t agree with his memories, which told him that Hestia would be killed in a month or two by a mad godling. And that Orcus would die when Jupiter did, in about three months. When the entire city of Rome would be riven into pieces by a massive earthquake. How intriguing, Apollo said . . . and vanished, himself. Leaving Olympus empty and dark.

  In Iberia, Vesta stumbled, almost falling, and wailed in pain and protest. Startled, Idunn reached out and caught her arm, and Sigrun Stormborn looked up from where she was working at a triage line. Roman, Gallic, and Gothic soldiers groaned in this makeshift shelter. All of them had been caught in an avalanche started by grendels in the Pyrenees mountains, and the broken bones and contusions and frostbitten limbs were a testimony to the mountain’s wrath.

  Sigrun stepped closer, reaching out to steady the Roman goddess, as Idunn asked, urgently, What is it? I don’t sense a mad godling anywhere near—

  There are other kinds of madness, Vesta said, covering her face as she wept. Hestia had been dear to her, a twin of the best type. And while Vesta had been a hearth-goddess, too, her cult had been carried all over the world, and she’d been transformed into the house-goddess of every Roman home, when hearths were left behind. Her Vestals had been the heart of almost every civic festival in Rome, known for their probity and honesty. Vestals had had the care of wills and testaments, important parts to play in courts and the law. Vestals were so revered in Rome, that some of the belief of the citizens in their priestesses, had actually given Vesta herself more power, in an ironic shift of the usual paradigm. Orcus has raped and slain Hestia. She is dead. And I am alone.

  Aprilis 12, 1999 AC

  Quauhtli, Tlatoani of Tenochtitlan and king of kings, had outlived every doctor’s prognosis for his condition. He had, somehow, managed to survive for five years in his horrific state. No other flayed man had lived for so long. Every one of them should, according to medical science, have died during the original process. In shock or blood loss, after the fact. Of infections, certainly. Some magic kept them alive, but many only lasted a few months, after tripping over their own intestines, catching some hanging organ on a door handle, ripping it free, and then continuing, horribly, to walk down a crowded street, their own feces spreading behind them with their blood. The blood always followed them. People had learned to watch the ground for the red footsteps, and not to follow them.

  And horribly, whenever another god died, more flayed men were born in pain and despair.

  Emperor Quauhtli was different. He had dozens of servants to clear his path for him. To ensure that he never caught himself on anything, even the back of his own chair. He had servants to feed him, to watch the digesting food slide through his pulsing stomach and undulating intestines, and to go about the oh-so-delicate process of bathing his weeping flesh. These servants were all deaf. This was considered merciful by the rest of the staff, as they did not have to hear their master screaming in agony every time they carefully washed his body.

  Quauhtli had even retained some fragments of his sanity. He remembered, for example, that he was Tlatoani of Tenochtitlan. That he ruled this empire. And he had latched on, firmly, to the idea that his condition was not a horrible accide
nt, nor a punishment, but a reward. He was now the living image of Xipe Totec. No . . . he was Xipe Totec, returned from the dead, as a fertility god ought. And he was going to cleanse his people, and protect them. And make the offerings that should have, by rights, always been given to the gods.

  That there were only a few of his brother gods left now, was an indignity. Mictlantecuhtli and Mictecacihuatl, the lord and lady of the underworld remained, and Quauhtli knew that they would protect him. He was feeding them with sacrifices, after all. And he’d even called on his people to venerate the lord of Mictlan in the most ancient of rites: today, all of the celebrants at the temple grounds would partake of the body of the sacrificed victim.

  A sacrament of flesh.

  His servants helped him to his throne, spreading rubber mats beneath his feet, to keep his sacred blood clear of the earth until it was time to mingle his divine essence with the clay. The throne itself had no cushions, just as his rugs were not made of fiber. Cloth could embed itself in his flesh. But the throne held a heavy canopy of wool and feathers above him, to keep the sun off his delicate flesh, and prevent it from burning.