Bauldr's Tears: Retelling Loki's Fate: Alydia Rackham's Retellings, #2

Chapter One

LOKI FARBAUTISON, the deep, quiet voice resounded through the white marble courtyard. You have been accused of murdering an Aesir—a willful and wicked act that cannot, through any cunning, be undone. Do you deny it?

Slate gray clouds hung low, blocking the sun. Icy wind whipped between the pillars, tugging at the long, black, draping clothes and loosened blonde hair of the crowd of courtiers who hugged the perimeter. All of their pale faces, stark eyes, turned toward the center of the yard, where a young man stood alone.

He also wore black, with tatters hanging down from his shoulders and long sleeves. His long, colorless, shackled hands did not move, nor did his lean form shift. His curly, dark brown hair ruffled in the wind, strands falling down across his white brow.

He slowly raised his head. Beneath ink-dark eyebrows, striking eyes lifted to the far end of the courtyard—eyes like a gray dawn; alive, but distant. The courtiers focused on his angular, handsome face, noble nose, cheekbones and chin, and firm, quiet mouth. They watched him unblinkingly, waiting for his answer.

He took a breath, and slightly lifted his right eyebrow.

Is there a point in answering? He spoke lowly, each word elegant and precise. Vapor issued from his lips. The crowd seethed. Their murmurs rumbled like low thunder.

And the first one who had spoken—a tall, white-bearded king garbed in night, seated in a wooden throne on the dais—slammed his hand down on the armrest.

The blow shook the air.

His single sapphire eye blazed, and he gritted his teeth. His wizened brow knotted around his eye patch, and his fists clenched.

You murdered my son, he snarled. "You, who we took in as one of our own. You, who have been our...our friend for countless centuries. You have betrayed us. The one-eyed king paused. His voice roughened. You have betrayed me."

The court murmured and groaned. Some shielded their eyes, others leaned their heads against their loved ones’. Loki Farbautison twisted his left hand and lifted his shoulder. His chains clinked. As if he could not help it, he glanced to the king’s right, where a magnificent, golden-headed prince stood, clad in dulled gold armor, and a heavy thundercloud of a cape that hung from his shoulders to his ankles. For an instant, Loki’s gray eyes met the prince’s burning blue ones. But the prince’s brow twisted, his eyes closed, and he turned his lion-like head away, pressing a hand to his mouth and over his bearded jaw. Loki swallowed, and turned again to the king. He raised his eyebrows.

What can I say? he asked.

The king would not look at him. His hand flexed, and he stared fixedly at something to his right.

You make no defense, you will not answer for your conduct, the king said hoarsely. Therefore, we must acknowledge that there can be no question of your guilt. He shut his eye, and closed his fist. You murdered my son, a prince of Asgard. Therefore, there is only one possible consequence.

The court held its breath. The blue-eyed prince turned to hide the tears that spilled down his face. The king lifted his chin.

Loki Farbautison, he declared into the silence. You are sentenced to death.

Loki’s long-lashed eyes closed. Overhead, a groan of thunder rolled through the clouds.

And it began to snow.

THREE MONTHS EARLIER...

Thunder growled around the thick wooden walls of the house as Marina Faroe crept from the sitting room toward the library, holding only a lit candle in her right hand. As her stocking feet slid across the floorboards, she bit her lip and prayed she wouldn’t trip over any of the boxes she had left out. The darkness hung thick and heavy around her, unwilling to flit away as her candlelight intruded. With her free hand, she pulled her long cashmere wrap closer around her very slight form, though the movement made her stiff arm ache from her thumb to her elbow.

She slipped through the pokey corridor, and then her feet brushed across the deep red, tapestry-like carpet of the library. She crossed the room, then reached up and pushed her candle down into a wooden candlestick standing on the carved mantle. Then, she knelt, groped for the matchbox, and leaned into the fireplace to snap flame from a single match, then light the tinder and logs inside.

It was difficult—the last three fingers of her left hand stayed curled close to her palm, and her wrist refused to extend more than halfway, leaving all the work to be done by her right hand, and the forefinger and weak thumb of her left. Besides which, it hurt.

However, after a few minutes of quiet struggle, a small fire danced against the rough-hewn stones, warming her narrow face, and lighting her hazel eyes. She dusted her right hand off on her jeans, then pushed her sleek, unbound black hair out of her face. Taking a breath, she lifted her head, folded her arms, and glanced around the room.

Deep bookshelves covered all the walls, except for the door and the wide fireplace. Empty cardboard boxes sat against the north wall, and their former contents now lined the shelves. Ancient, leather-bound manuscripts, their spines ragged, their pages yellowed, sat in uneven rows, the titles illegible in the flickering half dark. But Marina knew them all—knew them like weathered faces of old friends. They belonged to her dad’s collection: volumes of Norse poetry, Viking travel records, maps, folklore, songs and legends. Some had been inscribed by hand, in now-faded ink. Others were first editions of research published a hundred years ago. She had read them all.

Marina sighed, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her right arm around them, leaning back against more unpacked boxes as the scent of burning pine and the crackle of the flames filled the silence.

She glanced up at the softly-ticking, intricately-carved Swiss clock sitting on one side of the mantle. She could barely see its face by the light of the candle—it was past ten. Her delicate mouth hardened. The storm had knocked the electricity out, so she couldn’t charge her dead cell phone, and she hadn’t set up her landline yet. She couldn’t have called her mother in New York at nine-thirty. Even if she had wanted to.

She shifted, pressing her left arm against her stomach, turning her head to consider the empty shelves on the south wall. Tomorrow, she would set her dad’s collection of rusty Viking swords on the middle ones, along with his glass cases of beaten coins. She would heft the small, stone idols of Odin, Loki, Thor and Frigga to the very top shelves, so they could be studied, but never touched. And in the far corner, across the room, she would stand the three-hundred-year-old half-tree up, so that all of the wide-eyed, gaping faces and squatty bodies of the dwarves carved into it could be seen in the firelight. And over the mantle...

She got up. Thunder rumbled again, shaking the upper stories. Marina stepped nimbly between the maze of boxes on the floor, and bent over one in the back. She pried the lid open, then reached in with her right hand and pulled on a thick, gold-painted frame.

Carefully, she slid it up and out. Firelight flashed against the glass. She straightened, and held it up. For a long while, she just stood there, gazing at the broad picture within the frame. Then, she turned, moved back to the mantle, and, grunting, managed to lift the picture up and set it there, and let it ease back to rest against the wall. She stepped back, and gazed at it, keeping her left arm pressed to her chest. She took a deep breath, and her lips moved to mouth the words penned beneath the strange drawing. Words she had whispered thousands of times.

"Stien til Asgard..."

Silence answered her. Silence that had always been interrupted before by a deep, eager voice forming words of explanation—a bright eye, a roughened hand reaching up to point at the illuminated edges, a smile bordered by a dark, graying beard...

A tear escaped her guard. It spilled down her cheek. She swiped it away, swallowed hard and tightened her jaw—but the flutter of the candle’s flame drew her gaze back to the picture. Marina’s arms tightened around herself as thunder once again grumbled overhead, and the spring rain broke loose, and lashed the outer walls.

Chapter Two

MARINA TOOK A DEEP breath of cool morning air, thick with the scent of rain, and shut the front door behind her, as the sunlight warmed her whole body. She stepped down the short landing and turned back to glance up at her new house. New being a relative word—it was actually only new to her.

She could see it better now than she had when she had moved in. Yesterday, it had been cloudy, and she had ducked her head and hauled boxes inside between spats of rain. But today, golden sunshine bathed the whole house, and she stopped on the brick pathway to look for a moment.

Three stories, all dark weathered wood, with a peaked roof and simple, sturdy bric-a-brac around the thick-pillared porch, and upper windows. Marina narrowed her eyes at those dusty, flaking windows. They needed cleaned and sealed and painted. And she was fairly certain that the deep-green, hardy ivy growing up the north side had already slipped its inquisitive fingers in through the windows of the second story.

She took another deep breath, and glanced around at the rest of the yard. The lush, dew-gleaming lawn needed mowed, the rosebushes flanking the path had twisted and sprawled out of their bounds, and the iron-wrought fence surrounding the whole half-acre needed re-painted. And she didn’t even want to look at the snarled knot that was the vegetable garden on the north side.

She paused, listening. Birds chirped in the motionless boughs of the towering pines and oaks that surrounded and filled her property, but aside from that quiet, cheerful sound, all remained silent. She nearly smiled. So different from the rushing, wailing, flashing, seething streets of Manhattan.

She turned, adjusted the collar of her draping sweater wrap, and strode down the uneven walkway between the rose bushes, her boots tapping on the bricks. She pushed the squeaking iron gate out of the way, turned and opened the door of her dad’s pickup truck—a sturdy, new red Ford that had carried everything of hers up all the winding, sweeping roads from New York to here: an empty house by a tiny town near the Bay of Fundy.

She opened the door and crawled up into the cab—it was like climbing a tree. Her dad had been a lot bigger than her...

She settled, pulled her purse strap over her head and set her purse in the passenger seat, slammed the door, and started the big diesel engine. It grumbled to life as her keys jingled, and she gingerly pulled the truck out into the dirt road, sitting far forward in the seat and steering with just her right hand.

As she drove, the sunlight flashed through the trees and against the left side of her face. Marina rolled the window down, to let the fresh air in. She bit her lip, hoping she could remember the way back into town. She’d driven through it yesterday, late, but it had been in the rain...

She didn’t push the truck faster than twenty five, and she didn’t listen to any music as she maneuvered the road that wound through a canyon of pines, her left hand resting in her lap. She only came to one fork in the road, hesitated for a moment, wincing, then turned right. After a few minutes, though, she breathed a sigh. Here it was.

Marina doubted this little town appeared on most maps. But it had a medium-sized, stone post office that she could see from here, a wide, sunlit main street lined with a few quaint shops, a two-pump gas station, and a general store at the far end that she hoped would have what she needed.

She pulled up in front of the broad-windowed, brick general store and parked, then opened the door and slid down out of the truck. Her boots crunched on the gravel as she stepped up onto the sidewalk. She glanced to the right and realized that the store snugged up right next to what was probably the only restaurant in town—a white, pleasant little deli with the name Theresa’s painted in curly writing on the window—and the hanging sign said Closed.

Marina pushed the door of the general store open. A bell jangled over her head. She eased inside and let the door click shut behind her.

The shop was small, dimly-lit, and packed with rows of loaded standing shelves. White and maroon checked tiles made up the floor, and jars of old-fashioned candy almost covered the cashier’s counter off to her far left.

Before she had taken three steps, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and jeans stepped out from behind one of the back shelves.

’Morning, he greeted her, smiling. Can I help you find anything?

Um, Marina adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder and glanced around.   Paint?

Interior or exterior? he asked, coming closer.

Exterior, she answered. I’m painting my window frames.  

It’s a nice day for that, he commented. Yeah, come this way. He beckoned, then started back the way he had come. Marina followed him.

Is there a specific color you’re looking for?

They used to be deep green, Marina said. Almost all the paint is gone now, but I think that’s right—some sort of pine green.

The storekeeper paused and glanced back at her, brow furrowed.

Which house are you painting? he wondered. I’ve sold paint to pretty much everybody in this town, and there’s nobody with pine green windows.

Marina almost smiled.

I’m new in town—just moved in yesterday, she said. I bought the Stellan house.

The storekeeper, now standing in front of a rainbow of paint swatches on the wall, stopped and looked at her.

You mean... He raised his eyebrows. You mean that old, Danish-looking house on the edge of town? he pointed. The one where that author lived for all those years before he went out into the forest and...

Yeah, Marina nodded, then shrugged, smiling. What can I say? It was cheap.

He laughed, then turned to search the swatches.

Ghosts don’t bother you, huh?

No such thing, Marina said quietly, the smile fading from her face.

Tell that to the people around here, the shopkeeper answered, reaching up to pull a couple swatches off the wall. "Especially after most of us have seen or heard more than one weird thing in those woods. He turned and gave her a pointed look. Word to the wise: don’t go out there at night. No matter what you think you see."

Marina frowned at him, alarmed, but he was perfectly serious, so she nodded once.   He faced the swatches again, and pulled down one more, then handed them to her with another smile.

Feel free to take these home and see how they look.

I think I’ll actually pick one out now, if you’ll give me a minute, Marina said, taking them from him.

Okay, sure, he nodded. Take your time. I’ll just be up here organizing some stuff by the counter.

All right, Marina said, and he left her alone in the aisle with three swatches of green. Marina watched him go, her brow slowly furrowing as she rubbed her thumb up and down the pieces of paper.

The overhead radio clicked on, playing oldies. She blinked, and forced herself to look down at the different shades.

After ten minutes of debate, she decided, and took the swatch up to the counter. The shopkeeper eagerly mixed the paint for her, then helped her load up a basket of other supplies she would need, such as paint stirrers, brushes, and scrapers. She bought three gallons of dark green paint, all the other supplies, and a glass bottle of soda, and hauled all of her purchases, in bags, to the front door. Two bags she carried in the crook of her left elbow, and the other two in her right hand. She heaved the door open. The bell jangled.

Need help? the shopkeeper called from behind the counter. Marina shook her head.

No, thanks. I’ve got it.

Okay, he answered. Nice to meet you, Miss...?

Feroe, she answered, slipping out. Marina Feroe.

Jim Fields, he replied. Have a good day!

Thanks, Marina said, letting the door shut.

A crisp gust of wind blew through her clothes and hair as soon as she stepped down off the sidewalk, and she fumbled in her purse for her keys. She managed to dig them out, bite the side of her cheek and use the keyless entry to unlock the truck. It beeped. Grunting, she heaved the door open and swung her right hand bags up onto the passenger seat.

The bags on her other arm slipped.

She gasped. She scrambled to catch them, scrabbling around her swaying purse—  Her left hand wouldn’t obey.

One bag slipped and smashed onto the ground.

Her soda bottle shattered.

She wanted to scream something foul. Instead, she gritted her teeth hard, threw the remaining bag up into the truck, and got down to pick up the bag of paint brushes that was now filled with soda.

Wait, wait—careful! a voice called out. Don’t cut yourself.

She jerked, startled, and glanced up. At first, all she saw was a pair of work boots and jeans—then she saw the rest of him.

He wore a long-sleeved, blue shirt stained with dirt, as if he’d been working in a garden. He had collar-length blonde hair that lit up like gold in the sunlight. He hurried toward her, his boots thudding on the paving. Her face heated and she looked back down at the mess.

I won’t, she mumbled. I’m just...stupid... She twisted her left arm and pulled it toward herself, cursing her useless fingers. She reached out with her good hand and pulled the plastic back, trying to fish the brushes out.

Wait a second—stop, he urged—his voice sounded like an afternoon wind, warm and deep. It brought her head up again...

And she froze. He knelt right across from her, startlingly near. His face was flawless—pale but ruddy, with soft, strong features and jaw line. His fine hair hung like flax around his brow and ears, and his quiet mouth formed a small smile. But she saw all of this peripherally—for Marina was instantly captured by his eyes.

They were the color of the highest summer sky—pure blue, and brilliant as jewels, and fathomless. His dark right eyebrow quirked, and his smile broadened. He glanced down at the mess. His brown eyelashes were as long as a girl’s.

I can get those, he assured her, reaching down with both dirt-covered hands and swiftly pulling the brushes free of the tinkling glass. Marina’s mouth opened to protest, but nothing came out. Her face got even hotter.

Here, he said, holding the brushes out to her and giving her another bright grin. She managed to take them from him, and then he scooped the bag up and stood. Marina’s eyebrows raised. He was tall, his shoulders broad. He trotted over to a metal trash can and tossed the mess in. It clanged when it hit the bottom. Marina got to her feet, then realized she was staring at him. She turned quickly, leaned into the truck and stuffed the now-sticky brushes into the cup holder.

Planning a project? he asked, and she heard him come back toward her. She turned back around, wishing she wasn’t blushing so hard.

Yeah, she nodded, glancing up at him. He dusted his palms off on his jeans, his friendly look remaining.

I’m painting some windows, she added, shrugging, still keeping her arm close. He stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked his head.

That’s a big job. Need any help?

Marina’s eyes flashed and she frowned at him. He suddenly laughed.

I’ve forgotten my manners, he said. My name is Bird Oldeson. I’m kind of the town’s handyman. He met her eyes again, and inclined his head.

Oh, I see, Marina nodded. Absently, she noted that he had an accent—it sounded almost English, but with a gentle Nordic lilt that she couldn’t identify. She held out her right hand.

Marina Feroe, she said. I just moved here.

He gave her a look of startled pleasure, then took up her hand in a gentle hold. His fingers were warm.

Nice to meet you, he said. Marina allowed herself a little smile.

Nice to meet you, too, she answered. Then, she turned and climbed up into the truck.

I meant what I asked you, he said as she shut the door.

What? she asked, glancing out the open window as she turned the truck on.

If you need any help. He wasn’t really smiling now—he gazed at her with raised eyebrows. She shook her head.

No, I think I’m okay, she said. Thank you, though.

You’re sure? he pressed, his voice quieter. Marina paused, studying him, then nodded again.

Yes, she said. But really—thank you.

He gave her a half smile, then bowed his head again.

I’m sure I will see you again.

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she broadened her smile a little, then put the truck in reverse, pulled out and headed back alone to her old house.

Marina leaned the shaky ladder up against the north wall of the house. It rattled as it hit the sunlit siding. She took the heavy clippers in her hand and gazed straight up. Before she did anything with the paint, she had to get the ivy off the windows of the second storey. Which was going to be tricky.

She clamped the handle of the clippers between her teeth, grabbed one of the rungs of the ladder and set her feet. Then, taking a breath, she started to climb, only occasionally using her left hand for balance. Once she reached the top, she wrapped her left arm around the ladder, took the clippers in her hand and began snapping at the ivy.

The long tendrils fell down in waves, but more and more lay beneath, like a thick carpet. Her arm got sore, and the ladder wobbled, but she worked for several hours without stopping.

Finally, her shoulder couldn’t take it anymore, and she sighed, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and started down.

She gathered up the trimmed ivy and hauled it around to the sagging mulch pile near the garden. Then, she came back around, put her hand on her narrow hip and gazed up...

To see that it hardly looked like she’d done anything. She gritted her teeth, frowned fiercely at the remaining ivy, snatched the clippers up from the grass and started up the ladder again.

Marina thrashed. Her sleeping bag tore. She jerked awake, sweating, her heart hammering. She stared at the dark ceiling of the study.

Jerking gasps caught in her chest and she shivered all over. Weakly, she lifted her head and glanced through the door. Gray light of dawn seeped in through the sitting room windows. She swallowed and eased her head back down onto her crooked pillow—and grimaced.

Clenching pain ran up and down her left side and shot through her shoulder, down her arm, twisted through her elbow and clamped down on her wrist. Her arm shuddered, and she pulled it against her chest. Her whole back ached, and she felt like she had a fever.

For an hour, she lay there, breathing deeply, forcing her muscles to loosen, mentally kicking herself. She’d overdone it yesterday. She should have stopped after tearing the whole wall of ivy down, and not tried to tackle the rosebushes by the front walk. She’d known that when she started that last job, but she hadn’t listened to herself. Now she was paying for it.

Tears leaked out and ran down her temples. She knew what it was like to wake up fully rested, without any pain. But she couldn’t remember the last time she had.

And the last time it hurt this much had been about a month after it happened.

She sat up, groaning and gritting her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. She stayed still a moment, regulating her breathing, trying to stop shivering. Then, she pushed her sleeping bag off herself and crawled to her feet. The ruffle of her long white nightgown tumbled to her ankles. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled.

Such an idiot, Marina... she muttered. She crossed the rug and left the study, turned left down the hall and fumbled with the lock on the front door. If she could just get some fresh air, the ache in her head might go away, at least...

She pulled the thick, heavy black door open. Its hinges squeaked.

Cool air gushed in to meet her, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the door go as it swung further open. She stepped up and leaned sideways against the wide doorframe, letting the breeze cool her hot forehead. Sighing, she finally opened her eyes, and gazed out at her gray front yard, hung with early-morning shadow. She lingered on the ragged rose bushes, whose branches still hung wild, disordered and tangled all over the other flower beds and the path.

Then, she caught sight of something on her front step. Frowning, she shuffled out, bent with a wince, and picked it up.

She fingered the flimsy sheets of a small newspaper of ads and coupons. Her mouth quirked as she straightened. The people in her new town didn’t waste any time trying to sell things to her...

Her eyes focused on the front page. She frowned.

Right in the middle sat an ad for Svenson’s Plumbing, Carpentry and Landscaping—and it listed its employees: Richard Smith, Harry Williams, and Bird Oldeson.

Marina absently pulled her left arm against her stomach, and stared at the name as her unsteady hand held the paper. Then, she clenched her jaw, muttered a Danish curse word under her breath, and turned and went back inside to find a light, hoping the ad listed Svenson’s hours.

Chapter Three

WITH EACH LAP SHE MADE around the house, the aching in her muscles eased, and her left side relaxed. She wandered through the green, sunlit lawn, following a crooked brick path that led her between the overgrown rows of herbs, and beneath a leaning arbor laden with grape vines. Her heels tapped on the dull stone as she passed into the deep shadow behind the house, cast by three towering oaks. She glanced over the half-sunken benches and toppled bird bath, all swallowed by vines and weeds. A little robin alighted on the back of one of the benches and cocked his head at her. She paused, and watched his bright eyes. He chirped once, then fluttered up and away, darting into the forest and out of sight.

A chilly gust of wind issued from the reaches of the woods, and rustled through her hair and clothes and the boughs of the trees. She wrapped her arms around herself and narrowed her eyes at the deep, tangled green shadow beyond the benches, the line of pines and the sagging wrought iron fence. She turned, and resumed her walk.

On the other side of the house, she came again to the rose garden, all in disarray. Many bloomed—red, white, peach and maroon—but they snarled together like an evil fairy’s curse. One rosebush in particular made her frown: it bore no buds, and it leaned menacingly up against the house very close to the sitting-room window, just as the ivy had done on the opposite side. She paused and stepped closer to the plant, glancing it up and down. Thick, wicked thorns covered all its branches, and even its leaves. It needed to be cut back, or torn out—but she was afraid it would slice her to shreds if she tried.

Far off, a low rumbling rose through the silence, obscuring the twittering of the birds. Marina’s head came up, and she listened. Then, she took a breath and braced herself, and started back around to the front of the house. She picked through the border garden, kicked at a large weed, and halted in front of the steps, her arms still folded, gazing toward the road, toward town, at the approaching pickup truck.

The truck’s brown paint gleamed in the brilliant sun, and shovels, ladders and other tools rattled around in the bed. It pulled up in her driveway next to her truck, and the throbbing engine cut out. The next moment, the door creaked open, and the tall, winsome form of Bird Oldeson hopped out onto the gravel.

He wore a tan t-shirt, worn jeans and boots, and gave her a smile that lit the day up even brighter. She reflexively returned it.

Beautiful morning, isn’t it? he called, striding toward her, his vivid blue eyes glancing all around at the sky, then the gardens and trees, as the light made a halo