“No, no, no . . . Please . . . wake up . . .”
Come now, the voice said, and Angrboda felt herself being hauled up through the darkness of an endless sea to a pinhole of light at the surface. The light got brighter as she rose, but she could not see who or what was pulling her.
She resisted. She was safe here. Up there was where everything went wrong. Down here, she could remain nothing and no one for as long as she pleased. She never had to go back.
“Wake up,” a woman’s voice pleaded. Angrboda could hear it more clearly now, could hear the anguish in the words. “Please, please wake up . . .”
It’s time to rise, the voice said, still gently guiding her upward, and the light became brighter still. She’s waiting for you.
Soon enough she felt the prickling sensation of her limbs awakening, felt that awful heartbeat again, felt the hair hanging in her face, felt the blood crusted around her nostrils and mouth. As she surfaced she let out a quiet, agonized sob but did not open her eyes.
“You’re alive,” said the woman’s voice, rising an octave in relief. Angrboda felt a calloused hand gently lift her chin, and she felt almost comforted by the touch. She tried dimly to connect the voice with a person.
The other woman’s fingers moved across her face to the side of her head, to softly brush aside the hair from the bloody crater at the witch’s temple, where Thor’s hammer had hit home. The woman let out a strangled gasp and a stream of curse words at the sight of it, and Angrboda’s brain suddenly put a name to the voice: Skadi.
Angrboda’s arms and legs wouldn’t move. She screwed her eyes shut. Her head was pounding, throbbing, and it hurt so much that she wished she were still asleep so she didn’t have to feel it. She tried to murmur something, but Skadi only said, “Shh. Don’t talk. I need to cut you down. I heard Freyja made these bonds especially so you couldn’t break out of them, but I wonder if that goes for anyone else who gives it a try.”
“Leave me here to die,” Angrboda finally managed. Her voice was barely a whisper and sounded alien to her own ears.
She heard Skadi scoff as she unsheathed her hunting knife. “Shut up.”
There was the sound of snow cracking under leather shoes, the snapping of cords; Skadi’s knife had indeed managed the task. Angrboda felt the bonds loosen and she fell forward, but Skadi broke her fall and gathered her up into her arms like a child. Angrboda’s eyelids fluttered as Skadi carried her over the threshold into her cave, and she got a glimpse of her clearing and the barren trees beyond: all covered in a layer of snow, just like herself.
She felt herself being set down on her own bed, heard the sounds of Skadi starting a fire in the center hearth, then felt her clothing being cut away. Angrboda didn’t even flinch, for her dress was frozen stiff and she knew that if it was still on her when it thawed the dampness would only make her colder. When Skadi was done and had cast the remains of the dress aside, she took to swaddling her friend in furs.
Angrboda’s hands and feet continued to prickle painfully as more feeling returned to them. She heard water being poured into the cauldron over the hearth, and then a short time later felt a warm, wet cloth dab tenderly near her temple, but she did not open her eyes.
“I can see your skull. It should be broken. How are you still alive?” Skadi murmured. When she had cleaned away the blood to her satisfaction, she applied some sort of poultice to it, hands shaking—whether from rage or distress, Angrboda couldn’t tell. The poultice was undoubtedly something from Angrboda’s own stores; Skadi knew the witch’s tinctures well from having traded them for so long.
Angrboda felt a hand lightly brush the ice out of her hair, then her eyelashes, and the rough fingertips lingered on her cheek. She opened her eyes to slits and saw Skadi, her face ruddy and windblown, leaning over her.
The Huntress pulled her hand back and a smile, full of relief, tugged at one corner of her mouth.
“Welcome back to the Nine Worlds,” she said. She’d been sitting next to Angrboda on the bed but eased herself onto the stool at the witch’s bedside. Angrboda immediately missed her warmth but said nothing; there was only one thing on her mind.
She closed her eyes again and asked, “What has become of my children?”
“You should rest before you hear the answer to that question,” Skadi said. “Gain back some of your strength. They’re alive—that should comfort you. Get some sleep and I’ll go hunt some game for dinner. I know you have dried meat in your stores, but I think broth would do you better in this state.”
The last thing Angrboda felt like doing was eating. “I’ve been sleeping for some time already. I’m not tired.”
“You weren’t sleeping, though, were you?” Skadi asked, studying her. “You were . . . somewhere else.”
“I wasn’t. I was asleep,” Angrboda insisted. But her lie sounded weak to her own ears, and she knew Skadi didn’t believe her.
“No one gets tired enough to just sleep for nine days and nine nights. Let alone someone who’s—who’s been through what you’ve just been through, my friend.”
Nine days. How could she have let herself stay in the dark place for so long? If only she’d come to sooner. If only she’d been able to do something.
When Angrboda didn’t reply, Skadi braced her hands on her knees and hauled herself to a standing position.
“I’m going to go catch dinner, then,” she said at length, then gave Angrboda a stern look. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Angrboda only blinked at her. Between her head wound and her half-frozen body, she was hardly fit to move about, and she said as much. She could barely even lift her head, let alone walk out of the cave on her own.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Skadi said darkly as she donned her kaftan and lashed it closed with her belt. “I won’t be long.”
Angrboda moved her eyes to the ceiling as she heard Skadi leave. Her mind went back to some of the visions she’d experienced while she’d been under: Hel in Asgard. Then Hel in Niflheim. Her daughter’s confusion, her fear, her power.
She closed her eyes.
Was I seeing the truth of things, or was my grieving mind playing tricks on me?
Skadi would be able to confirm her worst fears soon enough.
* * *
• • •
The next time Angrboda opened her eyes, Skadi was carefully lifting her head onto her lap and holding a bowl of broth to her lips, urging her to drink. Angrboda was still not hungry, but the broth was hot and she appreciated the warmth.
“What has become of my children?” she asked again when she was finished.
Skadi put the bowl down on the stool beside the bed without removing Angrboda’s head from her lap. “I was out hunting with Ull at the time—he’s a stepson of Thor’s. We were out in Midgard until the day before yesterday. But as soon as I heard, I pressed Frey for details of what had transpired and came here straightaway when he told me.”
Angrboda nodded. Frey was Skadi’s stepson and had been the only one among the gods to display any sort of discomfort with their actions that night.
Skadi had paused. Angrboda gave her an expectant look, but the other woman only looked away and balled her fists and said, “I should’ve been there. I could’ve saved you, and the children, too.”
“I doubt that very much,” Angrboda said gently. “It seems to me that nothing could have stopped them. Don’t trouble yourself with such thoughts.”
“So you forgive me?” Skadi’s head whipped down to face her. “For not being there?”
“My friend, there is nothing to forgive. I promise you that. Now, please, continue.”
Skadi swiped at her eyes and seemed to regain her composure.
“The children were brought before Odin,” she said. “Jormungand was cast into the sea first thing, and Frey swore he saw your son grow larger as they watched. So he is not
dead.”
Angrboda nodded again, expressionless. I know. It’s not his time . . . yet.
Skadi inhaled sharply through her nose before continuing. “They’re not quite sure what to do with Fenrir, for he, too, has grown in these past nine days. The gods have decided to keep him close in Asgard, where they can keep an eye on him until he becomes too much to handle. No one will go near him but brave Tyr, who feeds him, and your husband doesn’t even dare go within his sight for fear that Fenrir will kill him. Your son holds no love for his father.” She hung her head. “I tried to approach him myself, but it’s clear he thinks I’m one of them. That I betrayed you, as Gerd did, though nothing could be further from the truth.”
“And what will they do with him later, when they cannot stand to have him there any longer?” Angrboda asked, even though she already knew that, too; she’d seen Fenrir breaking free of something in her vision.
“Your husband or your son?”
“My son,” said Angrboda. “I have no husband.”
Skadi started, but then a look of approval flashed across her face before being quickly replaced by a sober expression more befitting their conversation. “What will happen then is anybody’s guess.”
“Jormungand cast into the sea and Fenrir trapped indefinitely,” Angrboda whispered. Something was nagging at her. But then her stomach twisted itself into a knot, and she asked a question to which she already knew the answer: “What of Hel?”
Skadi took a deep breath. “Frey said she was quiet on the way to Asgard because it was Loki who carried her. She did not let go of him even for a second, and he did not speak to her except to try comforting her, and that seemed to work until they separated the children. Once they rid themselves of Jormungand and made sure Fenrir was safely muzzled, they had to decide what to do with Hel.”
She seemed to be bracing herself for the next bit, and Angrboda waited.
“And then Odin himself tore her from Loki’s arms.” Skadi finally looked at her then. “They cast her down into Niflheim, body and all. I understand Odin has granted her jurisdiction over the dead, being half-dead herself.”
“Of course,” Angrboda said, eyes closed. The last pieces had fallen into place. This was her vision of the end times: the massive serpent rising from the waves and the huge wolf breaking its bonds as all the worlds descended into chaos. And the ship of the dead, who were her daughter’s subjects, sailing into battle against the gods . . .
Only now she’d seen the rest. The entire thing, from start to finish.
She’d seen the deaths of Odin and Thor themselves. Seen Thor fight Jormungand and Fenrir swallow Odin whole, and seen both her sons die. She tried to force the images back down, put them out of her head, but she couldn’t forget them. Wouldn’t forget them.
It seems the more answers I receive, the more questions I have.
“Of course?” Skadi echoed, confused.
Angrboda only shook her head and didn’t elaborate. “Thank you for telling me the truth of things, and . . . thank you. For caring for me. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a little while.” She swallowed heavily. “I just . . . I need time.”
“I understand. I won’t go far, though. And you’d better not go where I can’t wake you,” Skadi warned her, and it was with much reluctance that she stood so Angrboda could rest her bandaged head upon a pillow.
“I won’t,” Angrboda replied.
Skadi hesitated for a moment before nodding once and exiting the cave. As soon as Angrboda heard the door shut behind her, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thought about her vision.
She’d told Odin what he’d wanted to know that night. And before that, she’d begged, pleaded with, the Aesir to leave her children be; whatever the Norns had told Odin wouldn’t come to pass as long as Hel, Fenrir, and Jormungand remained with her. She was certain of it. And then, once Odin had forcibly taken the information from her—when she was too vulnerable, too heartbroken, too weak, to fight him—he’d known it, too.
So why hadn’t he simply returned her children to her the moment he’d learned what was to happen? Even if Odin thought her dead, why not release the children to Loki, or even into the wild to fend for themselves? If he was so concerned about his terrible fate, why make enemies of the very creatures who were to slay him and his son in the final battle?
Before she could think on this any further, she shifted in bed and felt something hard underneath the furs on the bed platform. She reached down between the layers to retrieve the object: Hel’s much-loved wolf figurine, its features barely distinguishable, the bite marks weathered down by little hands turning it over and holding it close.
Clutching the toy in a tight fist, Angrboda pressed it against her chest, her entire body shaking with silent sobs as it all finally hit her.
Her children were gone.
Not gone, said that familiar voice in the back of her mind, the one that had guided her back to consciousness some hours before.
“They are lost to me,” Angrboda whispered aloud. “If I free my sons, the end will begin. My visions have been very clear on that, and they haven’t lied to me yet.”
And what about your daughter?
“Hel . . .” She held the wolf figurine more tightly. I should be dead. I wish I were dead so I could be with her. How unfair it is, that I’ve died so many times and yet . . .
And then the thought struck her. Maybe I don’t need to die to reach her. Maybe I can reach her in my own way, and my sons as well.
She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep, calming breath. Cleared her mind, listened to the steady thump of her heartbeat. Waited to feel that separation, to sink down, to travel as she willed. As she’d always done.
But nothing happened.
She opened her eyes and furrowed her brow in confusion, and she willed herself to calm down and try again. But this time, instead of nothing, something worse happened: a flash of burning pain all over her body, flames like the ones that had burned her as Gullveig, which left her trembling and confused.
She tried a final time, and as soon as she began to leave her body, it brought everything back from that night, brought back Odin’s iron grip on her very soul as he ripped her up out of her physical form and forced her down into the dark place like he was holding her below water, as he took what he wanted and did as he pleased with her.
Her stomach lurched and her vision swam and she landed back in herself. And then a sickening realization occurred to her.
She had—somehow, whether because of her own shortcomings or from some kind of spell he’d put on her that night—lost the ability to perform seid.
Am I still a prophetess if I lack the skill of foresight?
Am I still a mother if my children are gone?
He has taken everything from me.
He and Loki both.
Her thoughts strayed back to Loki and she seethed. Would that he had never given me back my heart in the first place. He deserves to suffer as I saw him suffer in my visions. He deserves every bit of it after what he’s done to me.
But as Angrboda fell asleep, she let go of that image, let it fade into the recesses of her mind: the binding, the snake, the bowl, the pain. She did not need it any longer. She did not need to keep herself up at night wondering about it, for she realized now why it did not concern her any longer, why it never concerned her to begin with.
There is a reason that I will not be by your side during your torment.
And that reason is you.
* * *
• • •
Somewhere between dreaming and waking, the voice spoke to her again.
Do you remember how Odin earned his knowledge of the runes? it asked. He hung on Yggdrasil for nine days and nine nights. Sacrificed himself to himself.
Angrboda did not understand.
You were a sacrifice, too. Wha
t did you learn while you were tied to your tree, Mother Witch? What did you bring back with you that you didn’t have before?
What indeed, Angrboda thought sullenly. Hopelessness? Despair?
No, the voice said. Me.
But who are you? And why did it feel so familiar when you called me “Mother Witch”?
The voice offered no answer.
She woke up then, groggy and disoriented. She lay there for some time attempting to wrangle her thoughts. But the pieces were starting to come together in her foggy mind, and the picture became clearer with every breath she took.
Odin isn’t trying to learn of the prophecy in order to prevent its coming true—that’s what I thought originally, but I was wrong. He can’t prevent it. He knows it’s unavoidable. But then why would he want to know every little detail of his own death, of the deaths of his kin? Wouldn’t everyone be happier not knowing? Is anyone truly so grim?
No. He’s seeking information because he needs to know as much as possible if he intends to subvert it all somehow or find some kind of loophole to achieve his own ends.
And that means I can do the same.
But the question was how.
Angrboda didn’t have an answer, but she knew someone who might; she just had to find them, this person who was speaking to her in dreams—once she learned who they were in the first place, of course.
Mother Witch. The name stuck with her. Made her think of when she’d first come here to Ironwood, as Angrboda, and found the stone foundations some ways away from her cave. Perhaps that would be a good place to start. Even if the place yielded nothing, perhaps there would be at least a clue there to point her in the right direction.
And if that amounted to nothing as well, then she had the whole Nine Worlds to search.
I suppose I’d best get started.
Still holding Hel’s wolf figurine, Angrboda peeled herself out of the layers of blankets and furs in which Skadi had so carefully wrapped her—she winced as the colder air hit her bare skin, despite the warmth coming from the hearth fire—and sat up with much effort. She dragged her legs over the side of the sleeping pallet and stood, then braced herself on the table to make her way over to her chest of clothes.
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