The Witch's Heart

by Genevieve Gornichec

  “What words?” Loki asked, confused. “My absence of late has been your fault—”

  “Fenrir spoke the truth earlier. He heard what you said that night, about me being the ‘mother of monsters.’ And who are the monsters, then, do you think?”

  Loki’s face fell. “Oh no.”

  “I hope you’re happy with yourself,” Angrboda said, folding her arms.

  “I feel terrible,” he said, and put his hands on her shoulders.

  Angrboda was unconvinced. “Because you said it, because he heard you, or because you even thought it in the first place?”

  Loki mulled this over. “All three, really.”

  Angrboda took a step back, and he released her. She narrowed her eyes at him. “So, what did you have to say to me that you couldn’t say within earshot of the children?”

  By way of a response, he stepped forward, and she looked at him in suspicion. Then, in one fluid motion, he put his hands on her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her. For the sake of reminiscing about a time when things weren’t nearly as broken as they were now, she relented; she kissed him back and put her arms around his neck.

  She expected that when the kiss ended, she would look into his eyes and see that he was amused, or pensive, or perhaps as full of regret as she wished he would be. She expected that he would offer to leave Asgard and stay with her, with the children. She expected that maybe things would change. Such was the nature of this kiss.

  Angrboda pulled away a bit and murmured against his lips, her anger temporarily softened, “I heard what you said to Odin. That’s the only reason I came with you tonight. I saw Sigyn go to the gods and I saw you defend us. And then I saw Odin visit the Norns . . . and heard what they told him . . .” She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his cheek. “I know you tried. In Asgard. For us. I want so badly to forgive you and to trust you, but you understand that I cannot let you back into the protection spell now that the gods know what—”

  But Loki tensed against her, and he said, in an odd, strangled voice, “Is that all you saw? Nothing after that?”

  “Yes, that’s all. What’s wrong?” When Angrboda pulled away, she saw in his eyes something she had never before seen there—he looked like the very ground beneath him was caving in. She made to pull away farther, but he kept her locked in their embrace.

  “I’m sorry, Boda,” he whispered, brushing her nose with his as he always did.

  Angrboda twisted her face away. “Loki—”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” he said again.

  And that was when she heard Hel scream.

  She broke free in an instant, looking at him with such complete disgust and loathing that he visibly recoiled.

  She very much wanted to strike him then. But instead, she ran—and without slowing down, she ripped the covering from her head and tossed it into the underbrush, letting her hair fly free, streaming long and loose behind her.

  She cared little where the kerchief landed, a fine gift though it had been.

  She was no longer married.

  She wouldn’t need it again.

  Her feet carried her automatically back down the path, one step after another. She heard a loud hiss, the high-pitched whining of a wolf, her frightened little girl still screaming—her fists pumped; her feet moved faster—

  “Mama, look out!” she heard Hel cry, but too late.

  Just as she entered the clearing, a bolt of golden light hit her across the face, sending her reeling backward, dashing her head against a tree. She could feel the blood drip down her cheek and could not see, for the light had been so bright as to momentarily blind her, and the back of her head was throbbing and she could feel blood dripping down her scalp—

  As she struggled to regain her footing, she suddenly felt a cord across her waist and arms, pinning her to the tree—but she wriggled her arms free, fearing the worst for her children, whom she could hear struggling still—

  Then someone from behind her pulled the cord tighter and secured it, and then grabbed one of her wrists, and then the other, and tied them together behind the tree.

  No. No. No. She struggled as hard as she could, summoning all the strength she could muster, to no avail. So she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a few hasty, furtive chants, pouring all the energy she had into the words, but it was like talking to a stone—like someone had put up a wall, blocking her magic from having any effect on the world around her.

  A fellow witch had cursed these bonds of hers—she could feel the magic, so familiar to her somehow, almost like she knew the person who had wrought the spells. Power pulsed through the ropes around her wrists and strengthened the cord securing her to the tree at the waist.

  The person who’d crafted these ropes had bewitched them to restrain her specifically. To negate her magic. And there was naught she could do to fight it.

  By this time the stars had left Angrboda’s eyes, and she could see the scene before her by the light of the moon.

  The scene she’d always feared.

  A massive man with a red beard and steel blue eyes was holding the end of a huge, writhing, hissing sack, which Angrboda knew contained her youngest child, and she knew the man to be Thor by the hammer at his belt. There was a second man, who had dark hair and a dark beard and a sword at his hip; he had muzzled Fenrir and put a huge, thick collar around the wolf’s neck and held on to it now. Fenrir had stopped whining and stared at his mother piteously. Angrboda realized in a second that these must be magical objects indeed to be able to restrain her sons.

  The third man—brown-haired, golden-eyed, slightly smaller than the first two and with a thinner beard—looked very uncomfortable in his task: holding on to a twisting, sobbing five-year-old girl.

  “What’s wrong with that one, Frey?” Thor asked loudly, nodding at Hel. “She doesn’t look like a monster.”

  Angrboda then knew the man who was holding her daughter, for Loki had mentioned him once in passing a very long time ago: Freyja’s younger brother. Frey was looking more uneasy with each passing second.

  “There is nothing wrong with her,” Angrboda hissed. “There’s nothing wrong with any of them. Release them now. Do what you will to me, but release them.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said the man restraining Fenrir, giving her a stony look.

  “I’m surprised the wolf didn’t put up more of a fight, Tyr,” said Thor.

  Tyr’s face remained impassive. Angrboda knew of him; some said he was the son of a giant; others said he was the son of Odin. She was inclined to believe the latter this night.

  “My children are innocent,” Angrboda said vehemently, but her tone was desperate, and her voice cracked. “They haven’t done you or anyone else any harm. And if you leave them here with me, they never will. I promise you.”

  Thor snorted, keeping a firm hold on the sack with his gloved hands. Though Jormungand was still flailing madly, the god didn’t even flinch. “Leave them with you? All the way out here, where you could be teaching them who knows what? I think not, witch. The creatures come with us.”

  “If you cooperate, we may even do you the kindness of killing you before we go,” said Tyr.

  Hel started to sob more loudly upon hearing this, and Angrboda could not bring herself to tell her daughter that everything was going to be all right.

  That would make me a liar, and lying is her father’s job.

  “Perhaps we should do as she says,” said Frey. “At least with the girl. Thor is right—nothing seems to be wrong with her.”

  “It’s her legs, under those stockings of hers. They’re dead,” said a woman’s voice, and Freyja stepped out from behind the tree to which Angrboda was tied. “Or so your wife has told us, brother.”

  Angrboda raised her eyebrows in shock at the sight of the goddess—her pupil of old, recognizable even after all this time—but her s
urprise quickly gave way to scorn.

  Of course that’s why the energy in these ropes feels so familiar.

  Of course she knew how to bind me.

  She’s familiar with my magic, so she had to make sure I couldn’t fight back.

  “Well played, sister,” Angrboda said frostily. They’d used to call each other such, back in Vanaheim. Sister witches. But not for an age, and they would no longer. “This is magic skillfully woven. I hadn’t expected it of you.”

  Freyja tossed her bloodred hair and smiled. “When the All-father told me it was you I’d be fighting, I came prepared, Gullveig.” Her necklace was the same golden color as her eyes, and both glinted ominously in the moonlight. “I am not the only one here tonight who was not unlike your sister once, I’m afraid.”

  “Can’t you help me? Can’t you calm her down? You know her,” Frey was saying to someone in the shadows.

  “Perhaps your new wife has worn out her usefulness,” Thor said derisively, “eh, Frey?”

  Angrboda turned. Frey had been pleading with a woman who had just come out of the cave, looking like she was actively trying to disappear. But Angrboda knew her as well, and this recognition came along with a suffocating wave of betrayal.

  It was Gerd.

  She has her hair covered now, Angrboda realized in horror as Gerd went to stand beside Frey. I haven’t seen her since I last saw Loki, and that’s why. She married one of them since then. I should have known; I should have suspected.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Gerd said when she noticed Angrboda staring at her. She rushed forward but was held back by Freyja; the words spilled out of her nevertheless. “It was sudden—one day I was in Jotunheim and then I was married to Frey, and I didn’t have a choice; it was all—”

  “This isn’t happening,” Angrboda whispered to herself.

  “And Sigyn finally went and told Odin about you and your children,” Gerd went on, crying now, “and said she saw me that night as well, so he asked me what I knew, and I couldn’t lie to him—”

  “This witch here seems every bit as wild as Sigyn described,” Tyr observed.

  “I wonder which sort of giantess she is,” said Thor, examining Angrboda through narrowed eyes. “She may not be as ugly as some, or as beautiful as others. It’s hard to tell what to do with this one. Trust a mate of Loki’s to confuse us.”

  Mate, Angrboda thought spitefully. Like Loki cannot have a wife or a lover, because he’s an animal and I’m an animal.

  “Agreed. Look at her, hissing and spitting just like her snake-child,” said Tyr, but he didn’t seem very confused as to which sort of giantess he thought Angrboda was.

  “Do you think she’s mad?”

  “She’d have to be, to lie with Loki willingly.”

  “She’s not Sigyn, that’s for sure,” said Thor.

  “Let me go now and I’ll show you just how unlike Sigyn I can be,” Angrboda spat. “You have no right to—”

  “Quiet, witch, or my hammer will silence you,” Thor growled.

  Angrboda could only glare at him in response, for she fully believed the threat. Though she didn’t know if she was scared of it.

  As long as she was still breathing, there was a chance she could talk them out of this. There was a chance she could do something. But the bonds were tight—and hot, burning the bare skin of her wrists.

  “Speaking of Loki,” Tyr said, “where did he slither off to?”

  “I’m right here,” Loki said tonelessly as he came up the path. He looked at her for a fraction of a second—just enough for her to see him notice her and her pain and her loose hair and to quickly mask his own grief with an empty expression—before he averted his eyes.

  Angrboda saw then just how much of the odd man out he truly was when compared with the gods present: Thor, Tyr, and Frey were all three of them large and muscular and bearded. While tall—nearly of a height with Frey, the shortest of the three gods—Loki was thin and lithe and clean-shaven and looked rather scrawny in comparison. His expression of unhappiness was also at odds with the satisfaction evident on the faces of the gods and Freyja—with Frey once again being the exception, as he still seemed quite uncomfortable with the situation.

  “Papa!” Hel exclaimed when she saw Loki, wriggling more violently, trying to free herself from Frey. “Papa, help us! They’re going to take us away!”

  Shut up, stupid. He’s not going to help us, Fenrir said. He’s one of them. He’s just as bad as they are.

  All four of the gods looked at him, wide-eyed.

  “It can talk,” said Thor.

  “In our heads,” said Tyr.

  “Most interesting,” said Freyja, but Frey just looked even more troubled.

  “Can we just go?” said Loki. “You have what you came for. Let’s leave this place.”

  Hel gasped at those words and her huge eyes widened further, again filling with tears. Loki would not look at her.

  “Why did we even need him for this, anyway?” Thor asked Tyr. “Couldn’t Gerd have just led us here herself? If he’s just going to stand here and whine—”

  “We needed him to distract the mother, remember?” said Tyr. “And he failed.”

  “I could have just bashed in her skull in the first place,” Thor muttered, seeming almost disappointed that he hadn’t gotten the chance to.

  “Is that so? You were the distraction?” Angrboda said to Loki. “Thor has the right of it—he could have taken care of me swiftly enough, but they made you play a part in this as well? To add insult to injury?” She shook her head. “You gods are cruel indeed.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Loki said under his breath. “If I wished to remain among the Aesir—”

  “I see. So it was your choice.” Angrboda spat at his feet. “I wish I could conjure words vile enough to describe you.”

  Loki pursed his scarred lips and looked away.

  “You won’t be conjuring anything anytime soon, witch,” said Tyr. “Just because Loki is the All-father’s brother—”

  “You are not his brother,” Angrboda said to Loki, who did not turn back to her again. “And I am not your wife. You do me a disservice by taking my children and leaving me alive to mourn them.”

  “You would do well to be silent,” Loki said quietly. Pleadingly.

  “She’s asking for it,” Thor said. “Go on, then, Loki. Take Tyr’s seax and do it. She’s your wife. Do her a favor. Put her out of her misery.”

  “Enough,” said Freyja, wrinkling her nose. “You remember what the All-father said. Leave her be, and let’s go. It’s bad business to kill a kinsman’s wife, troll-woman or not.”

  “It’s as you say. I tire of this anyway,” Thor said, hoisting the bag over his shoulder. “Let us return to Asgard. I’m missing a most excellent feast for this monster-children nonsense. And, Frey, you had better keep that girl quiet.”

  Hel let out a loud sob and shrieked, “No!”

  Angrboda once again lurched forward against her bonds, incensed by her daughter’s screaming. “Tell them, Loki. Tell them that your children aren’t monsters. Tell them to stop this madness and give my babies back to me.”

  Loki looked to her again, but his expression was vacant. Tyr and Thor exchanged amused glances and Freyja folded her arms and rolled her eyes. Frey looked yet more anxious, because Gerd was still sobbing and Hel was screaming now, and he was responsible for them both.

  “We don’t hurt anyone,” Angrboda said, still appealing to Loki. Tears were beginning to stream freely down her face now, and she was shaking so forcefully that the gods might have thought that she was still struggling to free herself. “We never hurt anyone, and you know it. We mind our own business. Tell them. Please.”

  “I told you,” Loki said simply, “that I was sorry.”

  “If you ever held any love for me at
all, you would do this,” Angrboda whispered. “You would tell them.”

  But Loki said nothing and turned from her once more.

  Thor dragged the writhing sack away first; then Tyr followed, leading Fenrir, who gave his mother a last lingering look and whimpered loudly. Angrboda started struggling anew, screaming, “No, no, no,” and Gerd dashed away after Tyr and Thor, no longer able to bear looking at the scene she’d helped create.

  Frey was struggling to pick Hel up—she squirmed aggressively, trying to get back to her mother.

  “Mama, I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” she sobbed, reaching for Angrboda. “Don’t let them do this, Mama! I promise, I won’t be bad ever again! I’ll be nice to my brothers and I’ll eat all my dinner all the time and I’ll talk more, I swear! I’ll even go to bed when you tell me to! I’ll be better! I promise!”

  “I can’t do this,” Frey said, his expression bleak, but he did not release Hel.

  “Come, brother,” Freyja called back to him. “She’s only a child. Throw her over your shoulder and be done with it.”

  Loki pushed him aside and said thickly, “Give her to me,” and gathered up his daughter into his arms, where she clung to him for dear life. Then he marched after the rest of the gods and did not look back.

  The last Angrboda saw of her daughter were those tearful green eyes as she screamed over her father’s shoulder.

  Angrboda’s chest started to heave as she gasped for breath, trying to keep herself from dissolving into sobs, part of her not believing what had just happened, another part trying to be strong for her daughter—but her daughter was gone and her sons as well, and her mind was racing, and this couldn’t be happening.

  But as she struggled, she felt Freyja’s bonds begin to loosen. Hope welled up in her chest as she fought harder, summoning every bit of magic she had within her. The cords cut painful red lines into her wrists as she strained—her head began to pound so hard she felt her skull would burst—she could feel hot blood trickling from her nose, snaking down her upper lip and into her mouth, its sharp copper tang on her tongue—

  Hel was still screaming. Angrboda was still screaming, too—“No, no, no.”