“They made you marry her,” Angrboda echoed in disbelief. “It seems to me that you cannot be made to do anything you don’t want to do.”
He turned to look at her now: an intense, steady look meant to gauge her reaction. “It’s not my intention to keep things from you.”
Angrboda balled her fists on her knees. “Do you love her?” And then, after a long and terrible silence, the inevitable next question: “Do you love me?”
“I . . .” He sighed, stood up, and knelt down before her, put his hands over hers. “Can I tell you something?”
Angrboda stared blankly down at their hands and said nothing. He had never asked to speak before. Loki asking if he could talk was much like a fish asking if it could swim while in the act of doing so.
But Loki seemed to be gathering his thoughts, which Angrboda had rarely seen him do, as words seemed to continuously spill out of him. She was perturbed enough by this turn of events to finally make eye contact with him, despite blinking back tears of frustration.
“I think you were the reason I figured I might be able to love someone,” he said. “Why would I give you back your heart only to break it? I suppose that must mean something, right?”
“You suppose?” she mumbled, swiping at her eyes.
He reached up and wiped away a tear she’d missed, and his words were quiet and hoarse with those feelings he’d been so determined to hide at first. “And I do so hate to see you cry, and I hate even more that I was the cause of it.”
“Before you came along I wasn’t sure if I could love, either,” she said, and tried not to sound as resentful as she felt. Then she softened those words by adding, “I had always been fine alone. And I still am. But I’m better when you’re here.”
“Well, it relieves me to hear that you’re not always lovesick and pining for me.” Something about his tone made her feel like he was more than ready to get off the subject of love and feelings. She was happy to oblige him in this regard.
Angrboda rolled her eyes. “Who would pine for the likes of you?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Loki asked loftily.
“I wouldn’t, apparently.”
“Sigyn would. She’s probably doing so right now, at this very moment.”
“I’m not Sigyn,” said Angrboda, and it seemed as though something dark and awful blossomed in the pit of her chest as the other woman’s name rolled off her lips.
“Of course you’re not,” said Loki. “You live in a cave.”
“What?” Angrboda looked around her, feigning shock.
Loki patted her hand in a manner that positively dripped condescension. Angrboda had to admire his ability to keep a straight face as he said, in a sympathetic tone, “I thought you knew.”
Angrboda put a hand to her chest. “I would be lost without you.”
“Yes, I know. Everyone would be. Anyway, you live in a cave. Also, she obviously thinks more highly of me than you do.” He peered at her with mock suspicion and tapped his temple. “Your earlier sarcasm has been noted.”
“She’s obviously gotten confused somewhere. But I suppose you do have some redeeming qualities.”
“I’d be most interested to hear them.”
“Well, for one, you gave me back my heart.” She squeezed his hands and moved them up to place them on her stomach. “And more yet.”
“It kicked me,” he said, blinking.
“I suppose that means she likes you. Also, she hiccups.”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“I don’t. Call it wishful thinking on my part.”
“I don’t care either way, as long as I don’t have to clean up after it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. I guess I’ll . . . hold it, or something, or maybe try to make it laugh. But as soon as it starts dripping with excrement, I’m handing it back over to you.”
“You’re absolutely useless.”
“Babies just cry and make a mess and you can’t put them down anywhere because they just roll off whatever you set them on.”
Angrboda snorted. “Maybe I won’t let you hold the baby at all, if you’re going to be haphazardly placing her on tables and benches.”
“And their heads are big. Really big.” Loki held his hands up, half a foot apart from each other. “This big. So big that even you, with the size of your hips, will have no lack of trouble pushing it out of you.”
“Excuse me—the size of my what?”
Loki blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again.
Angrboda stared at him with raised eyebrows, waiting for him to repeat his last statement.
“And if you try to sit them up,” he went on after a beat, “their heads simply loll over because they’re so big. Babies are very inconvenient.”
“You’re inconvenient.”
“I know. I have to work at it sometimes, though. Babies don’t even have to.”
Angrboda shook her head at him.
Loki grinned as he leaned up and kissed her—and it was a better kiss than the one she’d given him when he walked in, to be sure. A proper kiss. “Can we now move on to the matter of my not having seen you all winter long?”
“I was beginning to think you’d never ask,” she replied.
* * *
• • •
They ended up in the clearing outside the cave entrance, curled up atop a blanket. The spring night was seasonably warm, but Angrboda couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept outside. She was always surprised to remember how many stars there were. For some reason she’d thought there would be only emptiness beyond the mountains that bordered Ironwood—perhaps that was part of why she rarely ventured out after dark, for fear of that void, for fear of realizing just how far on the periphery she really was.
And yet the sky told a different story.
“Are there so many stars in Asgard?” she asked Loki. They were facing each other, resting on their sides, his stomach pressed against hers, limbs entwined.
“Just about,” he replied. “They’re only stars. They look the same from everywhere, I promise you.” He pointed to two stars in particular, burning brighter than the rest. “Those are brand-new, though.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, you know your friend Skadi?”
“Of course I know my friend Skadi.” Angrboda sat up laboriously. She’d feared the worst, not having heard from Skadi since she’d left to avenge her father. She was surprised to hear Skadi’s name pass his lips—but then she remembered he’d seen her on various occasions, such as when she’d brought hay to the cave when he was a horse, and stopped by that spring and marveled at his son, Sleipnir, and of course last autumn when he’d come to see Angrboda as she was leaving for the winter. “Do you have news of her?”
“Calm down. She’s quite well,” said Loki, and she lay back down beside him. “She came to Asgard demanding blood, but . . . she came to a compromise with the Aesir. She took a husband from among them and demanded to be made to laugh, which I alone succeeded in doing, at my own peril.” He pointed at the stars. “And Odin took her father’s eyes and made them into stars. They’re just there, you see?”
But Angrboda wasn’t looking at the stars. She was remembering the story that Gerd had told them, about what fate had befallen Skadi’s father, and she recalled her friend’s grief and rage and lust for revenge. As a result, she had a hard time believing what she was hearing.
“She took a husband? That was her recompense? That’s ridiculous!”
“Yes. His name is Njord, and he’s of the Vanir. A sea god. One of the hostages that got traded in the war. He’s Frey and Freyja’s father. And why is it ridiculous? A husband is more than fair compensation.”
“She did not want a husband,” Angrboda ground out. For some reason the news of Skadi’s marriage made her angrier than she woul
d like to admit. A new feeling twisted in her chest—something like envy, not unlike what she felt when she’d first spoken Sigyn’s name. “How did they talk her into such a thing? That’s preposterous.”
“Well, that’s what happened.”
She set her jaw, the unknown feeling in her chest writhing furiously. “And he treats her kindly, this husband? This Njord?”
“The Vanir treat everyone kindly, for the most part. But the last I heard, it wasn’t working out between them—he hates the mountains; she hates the sea. Surely it won’t be long until the marriage dissolves.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Angrboda, not meaning it at all.
“Is it? They seem incompatible.”
“I’m just glad she’s alive.” Angrboda sighed and settled down a bit. Skadi had barely concealed her fury when Angrboda had professed to have a husband, and now Angrboda was cross with her for the same reason. It was better to let it go, she decided.
“She was made to choose her husband by his feet alone. She was hoping for Baldur, Odin’s own son, the youngest and fairest of the gods. He’s not even grown his beard and everyone is lusting after him, goddesses and giantesses alike.” Loki rolled his eyes and smirked at her, pushing her hair back behind her ear. “What if Skadi had chosen me?”
Angrboda snorted. “She would have sooner kicked you where it hurts than marry you, had she found out that you were my husband—she’s muttered about the things she would do to that man, should she come across him.”
“Well, Skadi’s payment for her father’s death was twofold: a husband and a bellyful of laughter, and I was personally responsible for the ‘laughter’ end of the bargain,” Loki said. “My testicles have suffered enough on her behalf, thank you very much. I tied them to a goat to make her laugh. She has a rather sick sense of humor, don’t you think?”
Angrboda blinked at him. “Why . . . would you tie your testicles to a goat?”
“I was telling a story,” Loki said defensively.
“I would like a reenactment, please.”
“No. That would mean tying my testicles to your goats, and your goats are unsociable and mean.”
“They are not.”
“They are, too.”
Angrboda pressed her lips together, unable to fully hide her amusement. “Was it a true story you told?”
“Perhaps.”
“Which means you’ve tied your testicles to a goat on more than one occasion.”
“It’s not something I’m proud of,” said Loki with gravity.
Then Angrboda noticed some smallish scars on his arm . . . then on his shoulder . . . then on his chest. “Where are these from?” she asked, prodding at one.
“Oh,” he replied. “Those are from when Skadi’s father turned into an eagle and dragged me all over creation until I agreed to bring Idun and her apples to him.”
“And you did.”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice. And then the gods all got old without the apples, and I laughed at them, and then they threatened to kill me unless I got them back, which I did. Problem solved. I’m sure they’re starting to mistrust me, though. You should see the way they look at me sometimes.”
“Does it bother you?” Angrboda ventured. “That they don’t trust you?”
“Not particularly,” he said with a shrug.
“Not yet. You live among them. Living among those who mistrust you will take its toll eventually.” She paused. “You are always welcome here. You know that, right?”
“I know. And I thank you for not asking me why I won’t stay.”
“I know that you don’t know. That’s why I don’t ask.”
Loki sighed. “So, why does Skadi want to injure your husband bodily, again?”
Angrboda shifted. “For not being here.”
“Ah,” he said.
They were silent as they watched the stars for a while.
“I was thinking of creating a charm,” said Angrboda sometime later.
“What sort of charm?”
“Well, first of all, it’s said that Odin can see all the Nine Worlds from that chair of his. Is that correct?”
“It’s correct,” Loki said slowly. “It’s not just said. He can, if he chooses.”
“I want to hide this place. So that only those who have been here will be able to find it.” She looked at him. “To be safe.”
Loki arched an eyebrow. “What interest would anyone have in finding you?”
Angrboda shifted. “I’ve always been afraid the Aesir would come after me. But now I’m connected with you, and soon we’ll have a child to worry about, too. That calls for more substantial measures.”
“But they don’t know you’re you. Just that I have a wife in Jotunheim.”
“But if you keep making mischief and then disappearing, they will start wondering where you’ve gone. It’s only a matter of time before someone follows you here.”
“You’re being paranoid. What would they even do to you if they found you, anyway?”
“You forget your own words—they stabbed me and lit me on fire, multiple times.” And there’s still the matter of what Odin wishes me to reveal to him, and the place I’d have to go to get it. The thought made her shiver. He burned me thrice and he’d do it again. And I have so much to live for now.
She steeled herself. It wouldn’t come to that, because he’d never find her once her protection spell went up.
Loki seemed skeptical. “So you think you can perform a spell that could hide you from even the All-father, who sees everything?”
“You forget again, my love.” Angrboda half smiled and lowered her voice, ran her finger along his cheek. “Whatever they’ve told you, they burned me for a reason.”
“Huh.” Loki leaned up and over her, grinning. “Perhaps one day it will pay off for me to have a witch for a wife.”
“I’m not getting you out of any sort of trouble you have in mind.”
He kissed her. “I didn’t have any in mind, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something soon enough. It never takes me long.”
“Then, as I said, you won’t have my help.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asked, kissing her neck, trailing kisses down the scar between her breasts.
“Absolutely,” she replied with finality, “and any attempts to change my decision would be futile.”
The kisses continued ever lower. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As the night quickly passed—as their nights together so often had, rushing past in a haze of passion—she found that she wasn’t even startled by the awareness that he could probably make her do whatever he wanted. Just a kiss, just a caress, just a word and she was his entirely. And while his way with words was not mere bragging on his part, his way with touch required no boasting whatsoever: Such actions spoke for themselves.
She was more surprised that she wasn’t surprised, perturbed, or troubled by the fact that she cared for him so deeply, as she once might have been.
Later they continued to lie there, the breeze cool on their damp skin. Angrboda stayed awake, for the child inside her was kicking excitedly, while Loki fell asleep in her arms. She took to running her fingers through his sweaty curls. He looked deceptively peaceful in sleep.
She would do anything for him, she realized then, with a sudden fierceness that made her heart race. Anything for him—anything for the child inside her, pressed between them and evidently incensed by her mother’s quickened pulse. Anything for them. Anything. And for some reason, this scared her, as if the thought itself were a promise she knew that she couldn’t hope to keep.
* * *
• • •
He stayed with her as the days grew longer and the nights shorter. But before long he was off again, speaking of Sigyn and the Aesir, and his absence bothered her where it had not before.
Angrboda took this time to work on her spell. She sewed three small sacks out of some leather scraps and filled them with little stones she’d carved with runes, over which she’d chanted for nine days and nine nights. After that, she placed the sacks in a wide triangle around her cave and the clearing. The first two she placed in the hollows of trees, marking the trees with more runes to disguise them.
The last sack she put higher up behind the cave to give the triangle even sides. She had to clamber up onto the rocks to place it, which was a challenge for her in her current state though the incline wasn’t steep. But she succeeded in hiding the sack in a hole in the rock face and disguised it as she had with the trees.
Once the charms were all in place, she immediately felt more at ease. She would just have to hope that such a blind spot would go unnoticed by Odin—along with the fact that, should he be seeking Loki’s location, her husband would sometimes be beyond his sight.
For whatever reason, the baby seemed to like to sleep during the day, only to wake and flail about at night, to Angrboda’s growing discomfort. The witch took naps whenever she could and worked by firelight, weaving and mixing potions and sewing. Lately she’d needed to adjust her clothes to better fit her present shape, including cutting a slit down the front of her dresses that could be secured with a brooch—it would come in handy for feeding the child after it was born.
Then there came a night when she awoke from a brief and restless sleep to a pain contracting in her belly. It was so strong that for a moment she could not move.
When she finally raised herself to a sitting position, she felt something wet and frowned, reached down to touch the bed, her dress, the insides of her thighs.
Her hand came away wet with blood. In the same moment she realized the baby wasn’t moving. She tried to remember the last time it had moved, but as it usually did not do so during the day, she could not recall.
A sudden panic gripped her. She was far enough along in her pregnancy that her child might survive outside the womb, but some instinct told her that what was happening was wrong, that the connection she had to the life growing inside her was slowly being severed.
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