Sigyn's Flowers, Page 4

How dare you come to my home, intent on destroying it! I will not allow it! I didn’t allow it in life. I won’t allow it in death. Face me, Goddess of Misery. Face me and know the truth of yourself!”

  Angrboda howled in rage and raised her weapon above her head. Sigyn leapt forward, bringing her staff up in defense.

  Where Angrboda possessed strength and raw brute force, Signy utilized her slender stature to dodge and dance around the giantess. Where Angrboda’s club hit the ground, creating a scene of death and decay, Sigyn’s strikes brought forth lush green grass and leaves and wildflowers in hues the likes of which Odin had never seen before. It was as if Sigyn had traded places with another Goddess like Idunna or Sif.

  He would have continued to watch the two fight if not for Freya. The Goddess gestured to the others raging battle. A slight smirk graced her features.

  “There are no dead for us to divide,” she murmured, “but there is still a battle to be won. What say you, Allfather?”

  “I say it,” and he paused for a moment, “I say it would be an honor to fight at your side one final time, Freya of the Vanir.” He reached over and grasped Frigga by her hand, bringing it to his lips. “I have never loved you more than I do now.”

  “And I you,” Frigga answered. She swung her distaff around. “Come. Let us finish this once and for all.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes for what he deemed the last possible time, minutes that could cost them their afterlife, but Odin wanted, needed for her to know how much he loved and cared for her. Then he leaned forward, his lips brushing against hers.

  “There is still so much I want to say, to apologize for,” he whispered. “But there is no time.”

  “Not right now. We know not how the battle will end, beloved.”

  Frigga let go of his hand, a not sad smile upon her lips. She then turned away from him and joined the fray. Odin laughed, the lightness of her boldness swelling within him all the way from his toes, and he ran after her, Loki’s sword raised high in his hand.

  For every Jötun felled in the fight, two more took its place. Even with their heads removed, the bodies flailed about, harming anyone and everyone within reach. The Aesir and Vanir were already weary from the fighting when they’d been alive. The exhaustion had carried over with them in their spirits as they passed on. They yearned for rest. Odin knew. He saw their expressions, noted it in their eyes, and struggled with his own weariness, his own desires to lay down his weapon and rest the same.

  He ended up back to back with Frey. The Vanir prince kept his footing and admirably so, but they were simply outnumbered. Odin glanced over his shoulder.

  “What think you?” he asked. He sliced open the chest of a Jotun and shoved the creature backwards.

  “I think we should go out in a final battle worthy of all the ages, Allfather, one in which if any bards remained, would be sung of for a hundred years or more, and one to put the previous fight to shame,” came Frey’s answer. “We have naught else left to lose. Let us send our foes into a mighty inferno.”

  “A final battle worthy of shaming the Ragnarök?” Odin chuckled at that. “And an inferno the same as engulfed all of the Nine when Surt came upon us. How fitting.”

  “Ah but Surt won’t be the one to fan the flames,” Frey replied with a bitter laugh. “I will be.”

  From behind him, the Jotun army yelped out in surprise and in fear. Frey’s seidr filled the air, and heat licked at Odin’s back. A blast of air pushed him forward, and he caught himself before he hit the ground. Cries for blood turned into cries of dismay then faded out entirely as the fires leapt from one giant to the next. Soon, only four of the Jötnar remained – Thiazi, Gerda, Fárbauti, and Angrboda, who sported a variety of welts and ... buds blooming from her arms and legs.

  Odin faced Fárbauti. The old Jotun nodded in his direction, looking more fleshy and hale than the rest. He raised his weapon, a sword of steel than of ice.

  “There is change, something we brought about ourselves,” the warrior and father of Loki said. “We will not undo what we did to Loki.”

  “And what did you do to Loki?” Odin asked, his eye narrowed. He, too, raised his blade. The two clashed in a spark of flames and ashes.

  “A curse that must play itself out,” Fárbauti answered with a grunt. He slid as Odin pushed forward. “We desired to live, despite what the Norns said about our ends. Loki was the only one we could sacrifice in order to do so. The course of fate has not gone as we wanted it to, but then such is the way of spells once cast. We have no regrets about our actions.”

  “What did you do?” the Allfather hissed. Rage flowed through him, hot and alive. For all of Loki’s tricks and dishonesty at times, Odin cared for him as a brother.

  “We spoke with the spirit of Ymir. Nothing more. Nothing less. What is done is done. Our survival is yours as well, Allfather.”

  More red and gold butterflies appeared, landing on Odin’s shoulders and on Fárbauti.

  “And who is we, Fárbauti?” Odin demanded.

  “Laufey and I and our two sons.” The old Jotun lowered his weapon. “Not even Angrboda knows what we have done.”

  The Allfather stared. Bursts of pain erupted behind his eyes, in his belly, in his chest ... breathing hurt. Rest. He needed rest. Odin would understand why. The Allfather wasn’t dead. It was just a horrific dream. Snow whipped around him. When had it begun to snow? His hand lowered, dropping the sword to the ground.

  ‘There is no way for us to reach Loki,’ Odin realized. ‘He lives but yet not. This is cruel, too cruel, even for my liking. We are to fade away and then be reborn ... I can see that clearly now. I pushed the knowledge to the side. I purposely chose to forget so I would not alter the course of fate. We always fail to change our ways. Everything has happened as it always has.’

  “Without Loki’s death, there can be no new beginning,” he said to Fárbauti. “We will be unable to ...”

  “A calculated risk,” came the reply. “In time, you will see that is for the best. The Realms cannot withstand the constant cycle of birth and rebirth, Allfather. I know of the cycles. The Well of Mimir showed them to me and to Laufey. It must come to an end. As long as Loki remains alive and oblivious to what has happened, as long as he believes he’s in a realm where he and others can all be happy, then the cycle of birth and rebirth is over.”

  “Where is he, you cursed fool?” Odin demanded. “Why have you robbed him of his destiny?”

  “I cannot and will not say, Allfather. Just as I will not allow you to slay me as your fellow Asgårdians are slaying my kind.” With that, the old Jötun warrior exhaled then smiled grimly. He raised his sword in salute. His body darkened and solidified, turning into clay. Each passing second, his features hardened and cracked, dust and ash breaking loose. A strong gust of wind tore Loki’s father into further bits and scattered him to the four corners.

  Odin gazed at the spot where Fárbauti had been mere moments before. The ground shook when Thiazi fell – neither Gerda nor Angrboda were quite as large or as heavy – but he kept facing where Loki’s father had been.

  ‘What has he done? How could he do this? Loki’s new fate is cruel, too cruel, even by Jötnar standards? What father would condemn his son to such a half-life?’

  It was only after Gerda fell that he turned to the final fight. Frey’s choked sob was the only indication that it was Angrboda who was left. To his surprise, all of his fellow Asgårdians remained alive and mostly hale. Battered and bruised and a little bloody, but all were alive.

  Flowers, bright and bloody, covered the giantess from head to toe. Sigyn bore a few marks as well, some scratches and bruises, but she never wavered in her resolve to triumph over Loki’s second wife. Angrboda was not about to defeat her, not when she had something to fight for, a man who, whether or not anyone believed him worthy of her, loved her deeply and passionately. It was a depth of feeling Sigyn returned.

  The Aesir formed a circle around the two, leaving a wide enough bert
h to avoid Angrboda’s club. Sigyn danced in circles around the giantess. Flower petals and tiny leaves whirled around her. Tears rolled in huge rivulets down Angrboda’s cheek. With one final whack to the back of her knees, the giantess collapsed. A pained wail escaped her.

  “No! I cannot ... lose to you. He is mine! Mine! I will not allow you to have him!”

  “It is over,” Sigyn said. “Loki is not yours. Not here. Not now.”

  “Farewell, Mother,” Fenris said in a solemn voice.

  Sigyn brought her staff down upon Angrboda’s head. The giantess crumbled into dust before her body hit the ground, and the shaking of Yggdrasil ceased. Sigyn leaned against her staff, panting for air. No one spoke a word in the silence for the longest time.

  “Loki ... will not be joining us. Will he, Father?” Thor broke the disturbing quiet in a softer tone than usual. His voice still boomed, a gentle peal of thunder in the distance.

  “No. Not at this time,” the Allfather confirmed. “Fárbauti refused to say where Loki could have retreated to, though I can tell you from what I saw it is somewhere cold. And, as of now, we will not be able to reach him in his altered state. Not as we are, either.”

  “Altered state? What has happened to him?”

  “We cannot leave him to such a torment,” Freya said. “Nor can we leave the fate of Yggdrasil and the Nine hanging so.”

  “I agree,” Odin replied. “We