The Fire Bringers: An I Bring the Fire Short Story (IBF Part 6.5)

  Table of Contents

  The Fire Bringers An I Bring the Fire Short Story

  Copyright Information

  The I Bring the Fire Series:

  Acknowledgements

  The Fire Bringers

  All Stories by C. Gockel & Contact Information

  The Fire Bringers

  An I Bring the Fire Short Story

  Three centuries after the fall of Odin a lot of things have changed.

  Some things still remain the same ...

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 2015 C. Gockel

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, subject “Attention: Permissions,” at the email address below:

  [email protected]

  The I Bring the Fire Series:

  I Bring the Fire Part I: Wolves

  Monsters: I Bring the Fire Part II

  Chaos: I Bring the Fire Part III

  In the Balance: I Bring the Fire Part 3.5

  Fates: I Bring the Fire Part IV

  The Slip: a Short Story (mostly) from Sleipnir's Point of Smell

  Warriors: I Bring the Fire Part V

  Ragnarok: I Bring the Fire Part VI

  The Fire Bringers: a Short Story

  Other Works:

  Murphy's Star a short story about “first” contact

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  Follow me on Tumblr: ibringthefireodin.tumblr.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/CGockelWrites

  Or email me: [email protected]

  Thank you again!

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I want to thank my beta reader, Kay McSpadden. Kay read and reread this story more times than I can count. I also would like to thank Sarah Easterly, Melissa Flores-Hosman for beta reading this story. Their suggestions helped me clarify situations and make the action more believable. Cherryl Crouch was the final editor of grammar ... she had a tough job. All mistakes are mine.

  I also want to thank all of my readers. Your continued encouragement helped give me the confidence to write this story. I love you guys!

  Finally, thanks must go to my husband Eric. If he hadn’t to stop writing fan fiction and start writing something I can own, this story never would have happened.

  The Fire Bringers

  Bohdi is enveloped in darkness. It is warm, soft, quiet …

  “Other Dad.”

  Someone grumbles; it’s probably him. His fingers close around his duvet, and he pulls it higher over his head.

  “Other Dad.”

  He rolls over, his nose butting up against upholstered softness. Ah, yes, the couch.

  Wait—why is he sleeping on the couch? He doesn’t remember fighting with Amy.

  “Other Dad, is that Henry on the floor?”

  Bohdi bolts upright. The television set is on. Eisa, Amy and Loki’s daughter, is filling the screen. Except for strawberry blonde hair, and a leaner, whip-like frame, she is the spitting image of Amy—but she’s a little flashier. Today she’s sporting a complicated up-do from the Court of King Utgard of Jotunheim. Over her shoulders he sees the telltale ice windows of Utgard’s palace fortress. Whatever universe she’s in, she’s probably not working for Odin if she’s with Utgard. Further, she looks to be about 26—although it has been over three centuries since the fall of Odin, and she’s closer to 355. That means whatever universe she’s calling from, Amy is still around. Also, she’s calling him “Other Dad,” which means they’ve talked before and she knows he is Chaos's destructive half in this universe. Yawning, he falls back against the cushions. That was way too much deductive reasoning first thing in the morning. “Yes,” he says, finally responding to Eisa’s question. “That is Henry.”

  “Mmmmm …” she says, eyes dropping to the floor between the television set and the couch. Bohdi looks down on the carpet. Henry, not Steve’s dad, but Steve and Sigyn’s son, is passed out there under a knitted afghan, sleeping off the aftereffects of a healthy night on the town. Sadly, Bohdi isn’t “suffering” from such indulgences this time. He has things to do today that didn’t allow him to be hung over. He glances at the clock underneath the television set. He blinks. It’s midmorning. His “things to do” should have awoken him by now.

  Eisa sighs, pulling Bohdi back into the moment. “He’s so gorgeous, even when he’s sleeping.” Bohdi would argue with her, but Henry has been on so many most eligible bachelor lists his attractiveness pretty much is a verifiable fact. He is the new era’s golden boy, literally. The genes for light hair and eyes among Asgardians are dominant, whereas among humans the genes for dark eyes and hair are dominant. In Henry, the warring genes have come to a compromise and settled on dark gold. His whole body is that color, even his eyes. He looks a lot like the statues of Baldur the Beautiful in the old palace museum. And it’s not just his coloring—he has chiseled features and curly hair—and the guy actually likes working out, so he’s fit, to boot. He is also infuriatingly nice, and very shy about his looks, so it’s hard to hate him for being so handsome.

  Eisa sighs again, this time with added drama. “If only he wasn’t in another universe …” Her face pinches. “Other Dad, did you get him drunk?”

  Bristling at her accusatory tone, Bohdi rubs the stitches in his neck. “Of course I did. He’s joining the fleet tomorrow and running off for twelve years in deep space. As his uncle, it was my sacred duty to get him soused.”

  Eisa’s lips purse. “Oh, I bet Sigyn and Steve will be angry.”

  “The drinking or the joining the fleet part?” Bohdi asks.

  “Both.”

  Bohdi winces. “What did they expect?” Sigyn and Steve, mindful that spoiling had corrupted Baldur, went the opposite route when raising Henry. They hoped being strict would make him an upright citizen and a statesman for the new age. They succeeded—partially. Henry is not spoiled, vain, or power hungry, but he also wants nothing to do with statesmanship. After receiving his Magical Medical Doctorate, he’s running away to the fleet, to be his own person and to get away from the shadows cast by his mother, father, and big sister.

  “Henry,” Eisa says in a sing-song voice, “Henry, my love, wake up, my darling.”

  Bohdi rolls his eyes. Unlike Amy, Eisa is an unrepentant flirt.

  Eisa kisses the air. “Oh, Henry, what you need is true love’s kiss.”

  Even though he’s not drunk Bohdi almost gags. Not for the first time he wishes that they’d just gotten a regular television set, instead of a magical television from Brett and Bryant. Although it does have amazing reception—

  On the floor, Henry moans.

  Eisa squeals and jumps. “See! See! It is true love. Henry, my darling! Henry!”

  Sitting up Henry rubs his eyes and looks at the screen. “Eisa?”

  “Yes! It is I, my love!”

  “I’m going to throw up,” Henry mumbles, pretty much echoing Bohdi’s own sentiment. Climbing too quickly to his feet, Henry makes a break down the hallway to the toilet. The sound of small thumps from the hallway trail in his wake. Bohdi half gets out of his seat to see what the ruckus was, but then he catches Eisa’s eyes zeroing i
n on him with laser-like intensity. “What did you do to him?”

  Bohdi shrugs. “How was I to know the Light Elves would be bringing brandy?”

  Sitting back in her chair, Eisa crosses her arms and glares. Okay, fair point, Light Elves always bring brandy.

  “What do you want, Eisa?” Bohdi asks.

  “Other Mom, of course. We want to cure the adze so they can join us in our fight against Odin, like your Daevas.”

  “Your mom can’t just spit in the eye of any adze,” Bohdi says. “Daevas was a powerful magic user in his previous life, and it was partially luck that—”

  “Just get mom.”

  Bohdi raises an eyebrow. “Right, I’m just chopped liver to you.”

  Eisa’s lips purse, and she has the decency to look slightly ashamed. But then Loki pokes his head into the camera view. “Yes.”

  Bohdi’s eyes narrow. Loki’s eyes narrow back.

  Bohdi’s about to quip something about Loki not liking to look at the new improved version of himself, when he notices this Loki doesn’t have a wedding ring on. They’re “calling” from one of the universes where things between Loki and Amy didn’t work out. Bohdi decides to hold his tongue—he’s nice like that.

  But even as he comes to that magnanimous decision, Eisa groans. “Oh, here we go again,” and he can’t hold back completely. Putting a hand to his chest, Bohdi flutters his lashes. “No, we are not going to ‘go again.’ I, unlike some people, have restraint.”

  Tilting his head, Loki smirks. “Are those more stitches on your arm? Did you manage to get yourself blown up again?”

  Bohdi blinks down at the stitches just below his shirt sleeve. They are a result of an unfortunate accident with some photon fireworks he was testing with Brett and Bryant … and possibly a lack of restraint. He glares back at Loki. “How many times did Hoenir have to stitch you up before your three-hundredth birthday?”

  Loki opens his mouth, and Bohdi says, “I’ll save you the embarrassment of revealing the number to your daughter and go get my wife.”

  Hopping off the couch, and out of view of the screen, he calls out, “Amy!”

  The only response is the sound of Henry throwing up in the toilet. Bohdi winces, thinking of how he’ll explain that to his daughter, Durga. Maybe Uncle Henry has the flu? But then she’ll ask, “Why doesn’t Mommy help him?” or “A magical flu, will there be a quarantine?” Shaking his head he steps into the hall and his eyes go wide. The floor is riddled with framed photos that have fallen from the wall. Henry must have knocked them down on his way to worship the porcelain god. Bohdi drops to the first one. “You broke the picture of my parents!” Heart stopping, he quickly scoops it up.

  He hears a sniff echo from the bathroom. “Sorry.” And then Henry pukes again.

  Bohdi carefully plucks the large shards of glass out of the frame. Fortunately, the photo of his teenage self, grinning between his parents, wasn’t scratched or torn. His eyes go down to his name, neatly written in black ink in the margin of the photo: Triloki. He touches the script reverently. It was written by his mother’s own hand, and it means a lot to him, even if he doesn’t remember her.

  Glancing around the hallway to make sure he’s not being watched, Bohdi concentrates and then feels the cold of the In Between on the hand holding the shards. Releasing them quickly, he yanks his hand back into the universe. Both hands free, he gently hangs the picture back on the wall.

  From the bathroom, Henry calls out. “Is the picture okay, Bohdi?”

  “It’s fine,” Bohdi says. He still goes by Bohdi, which means enlightenment, and he’d rather be enlightened than a ruler; he’s friends with Steve, and he’s seen the amount of bureaucratic BS leadership entails. Also, he stole the name Bohdi fair and square.

  Frowning at the other fallen photos, he bends down and picks up the next one. It is of him in Alfheim making out with a cute elf. He hangs it up quickly, and similar photos of him in Vanaheim, Svartheimer, and Musselpheim with native inhabitants. He picks up a picture of him, sitting on the lap of a cute curvaceous trolless. He smiles at the memory. That had been the best. He never meant to play have-carnal-relations-with-as-many-hominids-as-possible bingo with Loki; but he won anyhow.

  All the women in the pictures are Amy, of course. She can change her shape—although not in a puff of smoke like the myths. It takes days or hours depending on the form, but she prefers months or it is uncomfortable. When they’ve gone on missions in other realms, she’s shifted to be able to blend in with the populace. She can do illusions as well as Bohdi or Steve, but the magic to sustain illusions is detectable. When she finishes with a transformation, she is that species.

  The second to last picture is his and Amy’s “big fat Indian wedding”. Surrounded by all of Bohdi’s extended family, they’re both in traditional Indian attire. Amy is wearing an amazing pale peach saree embroidered with gold that hides everything and nothing. Bohdi is wearing a blue sherwani. His stitches sparkle just above the neckline—his relatives had wanted to cover them up, but he likes them. He’ll never let Amy take them out.

  He picks up the last picture. It’s a photo of Amy in mostly human form—she still has green hair and pointed ears—himself, and their one and only child, their daughter Durga. Taken four years ago, Durga is only two years old in the photo. She’s adorable with her dark brown pigtails, blue skin, velvety black bat wings, and her black, pronged prehensile tail—in the picture it’s wrapped tightly around Bohdi’s arm.

  He frowns. In the picture Durga is smiling. Lately, she hasn’t been smiling as much. She’s begun to realize that being blue, having wings, and a pronged tail isn’t “normal” for little girls. He’s trying to convince her that it’s better. It’s hard with the occasional, nosey busybody suggesting they surgically remove her wings and tail. His jaw gets hard and he hangs the picture up on the wall. Feeling a mood coming on, he shakes his head. “Amy?” He calls. Again, he gets no answer.

  He goes into Durga’s room. It’s neat and tidy—a sure sign that they’re out. Patting his back pocket, he looks for his phone and simultaneously closes his eyes. He sends projections throughout their house and to the backyard. It’s a rather nice backyard. Their home is near the lake, just north of the city—Bohdi prefers the city—but things tend to happen around Amy’s and his home that are best kept from major metropolitan areas: meteorites, spontaneous eruptions of mud monsters, that sort of thing. He doesn’t see the smoking husks of any meteorites, or any mud monsters, or leaf monsters for that matter—but no Durga or Amy, either.

  … if only he had his phone. It’s in the couch cushions? He lets a projection go there, but doesn’t see it. He tries to remember when he last had it—it was last night in the bar in Alfheim—he texted Amy to let her know he was fine. He winces. He’d been showing off the inter-realm reception to the Light Elves. Had they stolen the phone? He puts a hand to his forehead. Of course they have, but to the Light Elves it is merely borrowing. They’re bound to return it in another hundred years or so.

  Turning around, about to leave the room, he almost walks through Steve.

  “Is my son alive?” Steve, or rather the projection thereof, asks. Bohdi squints. Steve’s bionic eye—a combined effort of Brett, Bryant, Amy, and Harding—isn’t glowing. He’s wearing the latest fashion in men’s formal office attire: a thigh-length silver coat with a high collar and red embroidery at the sleeves and hem. It looks a lot like the traditional Indian groom’s attire that Bohdi wore to his wedding. When the coats first came into fashion, Bohdi had spent about fifty years making “Where’s the wedding?” jokes … at first to be funny, and then just to be annoying. He’s not feeling in the mood now.

  “Yes,” says Bohdi, running a hand through his bangs. A projection of his own notices Amy’s and Durga’s shoes are gone from the foyer. Why did she take Durga out today? It was Friday, a day she usually went to the office. She had to have realized Bohdi wasn’t drunk … just sleeping out near Henry in the event he started to choke o
n his own vomit. Bohdi sniffs—also he reeks of cigarette smoke, and he had been too tired to take a shower.

  “Did you convince him not to join the fleet?” Steve’s projection asks.

  Bohdi temporarily snaps back to his friend-frenemy-whatever. “Of course not.”

  Steve scowls. “Deep space is still dangerous.”

  Bohdi raises an eyebrow and his lip curls. “What about the whole “the military teaches discipline lecture” you gave me after you made me join the Marine Corps?”

  Steve rubs the bridge of his nose and waves his other hand at Bohdi. “Henry doesn’t need discipline. Boy’s got too much. I had hoped that when he became a doctor at least one of my kids would outlive me.”

  Bohdi can’t scoff. Claire looks for danger, and she is as cool as it had seemed before Bohdi had Durga. Now he can’t help empathizing with Steve. There is a part of him that wishes that Durga could lead a boring life. But she won’t—she is blue, and she has wings and magic so strong that even non-magical creatures can feel it in their whiskers and scales. She’s six years old and showing signs of “world walking readiness” according to Lionell, Bohdi’s elf house-husband buddy. Bohdi has destroyed all the World Gates in the vicinity, terrified that Durga will get herself lost in another realm.

  He runs his hand over the stitches in his neck. Who is he kidding? Even if Durga looked normal, her life never would be. Her parents are Chaos incarnate. Her mother is the Chaos of creation, which isn’t so bad. Wherever Amy is, scientific discoveries bloom like flowers in spring, the arts flourish, and strange and wonderful creatures emerge. Granted, it had taken nearly a century to tackle Chicago’s invisible rat problem, and the Zombie Virus was disturbing, but Bohdi thinks both were small prices to pay. However, he is the Chaos of Destruction; things die around him, break, or just go wrong. Some people who know what Bohdi is have suggested that he shouldn’t be around children.