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

by Deborah Davitt

  And he played with the soul-cord forming between them, and she reached out to touch it as well. Moon-silver and silver-black, braiding together, each to each. Even to touch it lightly sent sparks of pleasure and love through her, and her heart opened. Blossomed.

  She could feel his stunned surprise at the pleasure of the body, as he paused long enough to kiss her, ardently, and then licked the sweat from her throat, as he’d often playfully licked her face in dragon-form. The endurance and power of his dragon-self was still expressed in this smaller, more vulnerable form, his arms like steel bands around her. The exquisite scrape of his teeth against her shoulder and neck as he bit her, gently, as he rocked into her, harder now, more urgently, still playing on the soul-cord between them. Lifting her hips entirely from their nest of furs, and straightening his back as he saw a way towards his own ultimate goal, and their powers began to intertwine, as much as their bodies and spirits. Obsidian and earth and diamond from him, air and electricity from her. Cold and storms flooded between them. Seiðr and night from her, moonfire and deathfrost from him. Dominion and pain from him. Vengeance and justice from her. All mingling. Becoming one. Air and earth and frost and fire, buried deep below the surface. Building a world in their hearts.

  He unleashed himself, losing all that careful control, and hoarse, broken cries escaped her throat, echoing back off the walls. Mind and body and spirit all equally demanding, equally giving, flooding her with pure emotion and raw physical sensation . . . and two thousand years of memories. So many bitter sights. Cities razed, entire populations put to the sword at Hel’s command. Roman villagers running helplessly through muddy streets, their cows and sheep fleeing with them, trampling them, as Nith flew overhead, hating himself. Hating Hel. Sting of Roman arrows, out of a fort, slamming into his then-fragile scales. Black-silver blood leaking from his sides, and Hel’s refusal to heal him. Only the strong survive. Centuries of it. Centuries of being used as her threat, her power. The goddess commanding him to kill her in the simulation room, if Sigrun slipped, even once, in the ‘test’ of her abilities. His refusal. His having found her worthy, fair, and honorable.

  And in the present, Nith lifting his head from her, and trying to stop the flow of memories, to shield her from it, trying to pull himself away from her body and mind—

  No! I want to see it all. I want all of you. The good and the bad, the fair and the foul, I will drink you in, and breathe you out again, I will transmute you, and you will transform me, and together, we will distill each other into—

  —one whole being, better than each alone—

  —yes, oh yes—

  Fire in both their veins, and she knew, suddenly, that every time she reached her peak, he was experiencing it with her. Through her. Drinking her in as she drank him in. Perfection beyond any human loving. Waves and waves of each other’s pleasure, experienced by both of them at once, reciprocal, and concatenating. He raised her higher, and she raised him, until they could not have stopped if their lives had depended on it.

  I want to do this in my dragon form, he whispered, some time later, as they lay together, cooling off, with him behind her, one arm draped loosely over her. He bit the side of her neck gently. I can see you in a dragon skin, pale silver with moonlight on your scales. I want to start at the edge of space above the ruins of Novo Trier, and let us glide down, locked together, and take you across the entire continent, leaving dawn behind us until we cross over Burgundoi, and then skim down to land in the water. We can float there together in the night, weightless. And then I’d lift your tail away and start all over again. I want to do this with you in the polar ice fields, I want to do this with you atop the highest peak in the Hindu-Kush. I want to do this with you among the red sands of Mars, the blazing-hot craters of Mercury. I want to do this with you until the stars grow cold and the universe is born anew, and have your cries greet its newborn light.

  All of that. Yes. All of it. She picked up his hand and kissed the palm, and he slid a little closer, trailing little bites down her neck to her shoulder, and pulled, sweetly, on the soul-cord between them, filling her mind and heart with wonder. They were joined. She could feel it. One being. They would never truly be alone again. Sweet ache in all her muscles, a kind of exhaustion she hadn’t felt in far, far too long.

  We are bound . . . we two have always been bound, but . . . He paused. How I wish we had done this before. We could not have, I know . . . but how I wish it were so. Nith ran his fingers through her hair, staring at it as if it were the most wondrous thing he’d ever experienced. And through the soul-cord, she could feel the softness of her hair against his skin. Tactile awareness, hypersensitivity against that fresh and fragile human skin.

  We belong to each other now. She paused, and a tickle of a thought worked at the back of her mind. We’ve always been bound, though, haven’t we? Because we just . . . here in the Veil. Where things that have happened, have already always happened. But how could we not know that we were bound . . . ?

  I’ve always felt bound to you. I understood that we two were alike. That we resonated, were akin, in some fashion. And I loved your spirit from the moment I first saw you. He paused, and she could feel him working through the thoughts now. And yet, in every pre-memory I have of the coming battle, we will not have been bound, then. But since we are now, yes, we must always have been. Radiating backwards, weakened, until . . . affirmed.

  That sounds suspiciously like my sister’s predestinate path.

  Except that pre-memory suggests we are making her destiny a lie. I would, in fact, like to make fate a liar again. He rolled over, and kissed her, thoroughly. The tight knitting of the soul-bond pulsed between them, power rushing, each to each. It glowed in her heart, and made every inch of her body tingle. No wonder Trennus was so faithful to both Lassair and Saraid, if he felt like this all the time . . . .

  And yet, the world insisted on creeping into her thoughts, and she knew that Nith could hear her mind at work. No barriers. He didn’t seem troubled, however, by the fact that her mind fell back into an old pattern . . . one established by decades of similar thoughts. I could have given Adam this gift, if he’d let me. I could have given him this wonder, this richness, this intimacy. We could have known each other as fully as I now know Nith . . . .

  And as fully as I know you. Nothing but calm acceptance. They were mirrors for one another, perfectly balanced. Dark and light, air and ice and earth and fire. The same, but different.

  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t compare you to him. Not now. And yet, in the end, love is love . . . .

  Love is never wrong. It is sometimes inappropriately timed. He ran a finger down her throat to her sternum, and gently tugged the soul-cord between them, and her eyes closed at the pleasure of that touch.

  I have been dead so long. Only now do I live again, and yet we may well die tomorrow—

  Perhaps we will not die. Hope is what makes life worth living. I never had hope, until I had you.

  At the moment, I . . . feel . . . like we could even win. Hope was intoxicating.

  Keep believing that, and we might. He rolled her to her back, and continued to kiss her with renewed urgency. If we win, we’ll share the sky together, in the Veil and out. And I will be there to hold you when your mortal heart bleeds. Nith pulled away, and touched her face, gently. As I know it will, when he dies. And if we live, and he has not unmade himself? I will wait for you.

  You would do that? That seems . . . unjust. Unfair. She toyed with a piece of his hair.

  We’re bound. That will content me. And what is twenty years, when I have waited two thousand for joy? A leaf across the face of time, and nothing more.

  Sigrun considered that for a long moment. No.

  The moonfire eyes blinked, and she could feel startlement pour down the soul-bond between them. I do not understand.

  He has made his choice. He has made that choice for seven years. It would be grossly unfair to you, for me to go back to him. It would also be . . . deceptive,
after a fashion. Sigrun exhaled. No. If I am with you, I am with you. No half-measures. No going back.

  Nith shook his head, his brows knitting over his battered nose. I know your heart. And I know all that has passed before, which was rich and good. He gave you much. And you will wrack yourself with guilt, if you do not attend to him in his last years.

  Her lips quivered, and she looked down and away. Assuming there are any years to have? Assuming that any of us survives the next few days, let alone the next week or month? And assuming he does not unmake himself . . . then yes. I will care for him, in much the manner I have been. As a nurse and a friend, but not as a wife or a lover. And, like a Goth . . . or a goddess . . . I will ensure that when death comes for him, he can leave this life with the dignity he deserves. Cold tears coursed down her cheeks, and Nith raised a hand to wipe them away gently, and touched one to his tongue, his eyes going wide at the taste of the salt. I remember the good years, and I love him for those. And yet, I almost hate him for forcing me to say good-bye in such a way.

  And if he recants, and asks for immortality? Nith asked, very gently. What then?

  I don’t know, Sigrun admitted, shaking a little. I don’t think that he could accept, knowing that he would have to share my heart with you. She hated the thought of hurting Adam. But there are prices for every decision that we make in this life. I have chosen you. And I will pay the price.

  No prices between us, my love. Just a gift. Nith ran his fingers through her hair, his expression still awed, and she knew through the soul-bond that the sensation along his skin was a symphony. Enough. This moment is not that one.

  She stroked the soul-cord between them, now, herself, and watched his expression go distant and blissful, his eyes defocusing. A flash of memory crossed through her mind, however, a sudden blaze. Sophia, staring at her in anguish, trying to gabble at Sigrun that the vision on the dark road kept changing. Sigrun paused. Nith . . . my sister’s prophecy . . . .

  A child in your womb? The father a man alive and yet dead, your husband and yet never truly wed . . . Nith sat up, propping himself on one elbow, looking uneasy. We have broken much of the prophecy, Sigrun. No, I am far more concerned about our own pre-memories. Not your sister’s visions. We should find as many ways to break them as we can.

  Such as?

  The hrímþursar. Never in any vision of the battle to come, have I ever seen them there. They are our allies, yours and mine. We can call them out of the Veil to fight.

  Will it be enough to turn the tide?

  Perhaps not, but there may be a critical mass of changes that can be attained. He bit her shoulder, gently. If you had never ascended? If you had clung to your mortality for all the days of Steelsoul’s life? Nith exhaled warmth along her skin. Would Jormangand be alive, or Fenris? Would Obsidian Butterfly have killed Freya, without you and the Morrigan there to stand beside her? Right now, this moment, would you be lying in the mud outside of Burgundoi, miserably reflecting on the coming deaths of all those you know and love . . . perhaps curled against my hide, while I sheltered you from the falling ash with my wings . . . or would you be here, in my arms? Each question brought with it images, perfectly detailed.

  Alone, in the mud. Perhaps curled against your side. Certainly not doing . . . this . . . . She couldn’t stop herself, and stroked their soul-cord again.

  His eyes once more defocused, and his hands pulled her atop him. Moved her on him, as if she were weightless. All the inhuman strength of his dragon form, but gentled. And then, again, no more words for a while, until they were once more exhausted, and Sigrun nestled down into the furs and against the warmth of his skin, reaching for sleep.

  But as she finally began to drift off, Nith whispered in her mind, I will endeavor not to die tomorrow. We two have too much to live for, to die now. But if I should die—

  You must not!

  If I should die . . . I think our bond is strong enough that I will become a part of you. I feared that, when it was Hel that I was bound to. But I do not fear it now. He kissed the back of her neck. You might make a child of me, as Njord made of Skadi, freeing her to become Ciele. Or you can keep me in you, forever. I would like that, I think. You will feel me in you. Filling you. All my power. All my memories. Everything that makes me, me, I give to you. You will never be alone, Sigrun. I will always be with you.

  And if I should die . . . I will be a part of you? It was oddly comforting. She might not be entirely aware of it. Or maybe she would be, cradled forever inside of Nith’s armored body.

  Yes. We two will go on, so long as one of us does.

  I can live with that. She nodded, and finally, sleep found her.

  And once they had rested long enough, they arose. Sigrun pulled on her armor with a thought, and sighed as she watched Nith resume his dragon form. This is not death, Nith reminded her. This form is more natural to me than my human one. I have had more practice in it, anyway. He looked down at himself. And a human form would be useless to me, in combat. He leaned down, and exhaled frost against her ear. Are you ready?

  I was born to fight lost battles. Yes. I am ready. Sigrun looked up at him. To war.

  Chapter 19: The Night without Stars, Part II

  Facilis descensus Averni:

  noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;

  sed revocare gradium superasque evadere ad auras.

  hoc opus, hic labor est.

  The gates of hell are open night and day;

  Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:

  But to return, and view the cheerful skies,

  In this the task and mighty labor lies.

  —Virgil, The Aeneid, Book VI, 126-129. 15 AC-25 AC.

  ______________________

  Caesarius 29, 1999 AC

  Maccis ran. He’d found a good compromise form, that of one of the native leopards. A wolf stood out too much, and an ibex or a gazelle, while fleet of foot, was a herd animal. A solitary ibex was a target for predators, including the average hungry Persian patrol. A leopard could move up to thirty-six miles an hour during an attack charge, had natural camouflage, and preferred to move at night. Of course, he was also moving through many other predators’ territories, including other leopards, wildcats, foxes, and jackals. He’d also been forced to stop and hunt periodically. His last meal had been a family of moles he’d dug up and devoured yesterday. He’d found patches of snow, and chewed at it for the water, unusual for this desert.

  He loped onwards in the pre-dawn light, trying to make time before he’d have to find someplace to den up for the day. Daylight was less than optimal for leopard eyes. And any soldier who saw him would probably take a shot at him in this shape.

  There were no trees in this forbidding region. Just rocks and scrubby bushes. The leopards in the area typically climbed almost sheer rock faces to den up for the day, often carrying ibex carcasses with them. He’d just found a likely spot that didn’t have the scent of any other leopards on it—at least, no recent urine, scat, or face-rubbings—and was preparing to leap up into it, when his skin prickled, and his hair began to stand up on end. Shit. Shit.

  He scrabbled up the cliff face, claws digging into whatever would actually yield—a little clay, a few dead tree roots. Then he forced himself into a cleft in the rock, worming around, nose to tail, so that he could peek out the shallow opening of the hollow. If death’s coming, I’d prefer to see its approach.

  A shadow began to drift by overhead. Don’t see me, he thought, distantly. My change of form is absolute. There is nothing here but wildlife. No spirits here. No power at all.

  The mad godling took up half the sky. It took a long time to pass his location, and it was heading, damnably enough, due north. Precisely the direction he needed to go. Maccis put his head on his paws. His instincts screamed at him that he needed to be running, right now. He needed to be home. He needed to be there to protect Zaya, to help protect his family . . . even if the only thing he could do for them was help them run. His more rational self told
him that he couldn’t get there any faster than he was already going. And that he really had only a day or two more of running . . . assuming he could make any more damned progress. Mother, he called out, silently, once he was sure that the godling was out of range. A big one is almost to the southern border. This was the reason why he hadn’t allowed his mother and father to walk through the Veil and grab him by the scruff of the neck. Even if they’d had time, this was the fourth mad godling he’d seen so far . . . though by far the largest.

  They have always turned back before, Saraid replied, her tone a little harried.

  What’s wrong?

  The Woods do not entirely lie within the line of demarcation that outlines Judea. Parts of them lie in what was always Carthaginian land. There was a noticeable pause, and then she added, We have a godling attacking New Caledonia at the moment.

  Maccis stopped talking. He didn’t want to distract her. He didn’t want her death on his conscience. But it was impossible to sleep, no matter how tired he was, until Saraid’s gentle voice came back once more. It’s dispersed, she said, her tone exhausted. Mercury has been sent here by Olympus. Taranis and the Morrigan are here, as well. The Woods will be safe, I think.