Death and Beauty

  Death and Beauty

  Samantha MacLeod

  Published by Vestal Valley Press, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  DEATH AND BEAUTY

  First edition. June 20, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Samantha MacLeod.

  ISBN: 978-0997689846

  Written by Samantha MacLeod.

  Also by Samantha MacLeod

  Persephone Remembers the Pomegranates

  Honeymoon

  The Trickster's Lover

  Death and Beauty (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at Samantha MacLeod’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Samantha MacLeod

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  Further Reading: The Trickster's Lover

  About the Author

  For my mom, who is nothing like any of the mothers in anything I've written.

  CHAPTER 1

  The branch trembled, making the delicate green leaves and white flower clusters dance. A single petal shook free to sail across the bright blue sky. It was so beautiful, caught in the golden light of late afternoon. I couldn’t understand why someone was crying.

  The flower petal tumbled through the sky, heedless of the voices below. I liked it. I liked it all, the bright sky, the white flowers, the audacious little green leaves. I tried to turn and follow the petal through the sky, but my neck wasn’t quite working. It didn’t matter anyway. Soon the brave little petal would be swallowed by the blackness creeping into my vision, turning the sky into a little, shrinking circle, growing farther and farther away, until it was entirely gone—

  Darkness. Darkness and voices, a soft rush of motion. Then something harsh and acrid, like battlefield smoke, stung my nostrils, and my head spun. I tried to open my eyes.

  “What happened?” I moaned.

  Someone clucked above me. “Don’t move just yet, my boy.”

  The voice sounded old and only mildly sympathetic. I ignored it, pushing myself up to sitting. My head throbbed and my stomach surged, making me gag. Soft hands grabbed my arm, dragging me back to the bed. Her grip felt weak, but I didn’t have the strength to resist.

  “Where am I?” I whispered, once my stomach stopped roiling.

  “You’re dead, dearie.”

  I shook my head, making the room spin. “No. That’s not possible.”

  She clucked again. My eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and I could just make out a hunched figure tending to a fire. “Oh, that’s what they all say.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m—”

  “Baldr the Beautiful,” she said. “Óðinn’s favorite son. Yes, yes, we know all about you here.”

  “But I can’t die. My mother is Frigg. She traveled the Nine Realms, and everything she found—”

  “Promised not to harm you. I know. I heard all about it.”

  The old woman turned and gave me a sympathetic, tired smile. She looked like a nice woman, but of course you never can tell. “But your mother couldn’t possibly have gotten a promise from every single thing.”

  She hobbled a bit closer to the bed, her arms outstretched with a rough wooden bowl in her hands. “Drink this, dearie. It’ll help.”

  I tried to push myself up to sitting. Again, my head and stomach revolted, throbbing and churning. The old woman chuckled sympathetically.

  “It takes some getting used to, being dead,” she said. “Tell you what, Baldr the Beautiful. Why don’t we talk about the last thing you remember, hmmm?”

  I clenched my hand into a fist, momentarily fighting the urge to punch her. But I was clearly in no shape for punching anything and, in my experience, punching rarely improved the situation. So I tried to remember. My mind was strangely clouded and unhinged, as if I’d had too much mead.

  “Ah. Right.” I opened my eyes, blinking at the rough wooden beams above me. “We were playing a game...”

  It was a game, I guess, although I’d grown tired of it by that point. After my mother made every single thing in the Nine Realms pledge not to harm me, I turned invulnerable. Which was, admittedly, rather helpful. The game started innocently enough, in the small hours of the night, celebrating another magnificent battle. Someone dropped a dagger, someone else accidentally kicked it, and the dagger ended up in one of Val-Hall’s hearthfires. I reached in and grabbed it; flame, steel, and ash wood had all vowed not to harm me, so I was fine.

  Well. That was the beginning of the end. The whole crowd went wild and, before I fully realized what was happening, I was dragged outside and pelted with everything the drunken crowds of heroic warriors could imagine. Yup, iron didn’t hurt me. Neither did stone. Arrows bounced right off my chest. Same with burning pitch.

  Hilarious, right?

  I thought the fervor would die down. No such luck. A day or so later, all the Æsir wanted in on the fun. Even my own brother Thor tossed his magical hammer at me. I was scared enough to duck, although of course it didn’t touch me. And then Höðr, my blind brother, threw something tiny in my direction...

  I gasped. Pain. I remembered a blinding flash of bright white pain, and the sudden shock of betrayal. A flash of white against the blinding blue sky. Then darkness.

  “Yes, you’ve remembered it, then. Won’t do to dwell on it now, Baldr.” The woman patted my arm.

  “But that’s impossible! I’m Baldr. I’m invulnerable.”

  She clucked again. “Oh yes, your mother Frigg traveled the Nine Realms, forcing a promise not to harm you from everyone. And almost everything.”

  I groaned. “Almost. What happened?”

  “Mistletoe, dearie. Innocent little mistletoe. There’s always an exception, is there not?”

  She shook her head and wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around my back, helping me sit. My head and stomach had calmed some, and the steaming, golden liquid in that wooden bowl didn’t look half bad. She raised it to my lips and I took a sip. It was good, hot and salty.

  “I’ve got a son,” I whispered as she lowered the bowl.

  “Mmmm, yes. Forsetti. Fully grown, that one. But yes, he will mourn you.”

  My son, Forsetti Baldrsen. True, he was fully grown and happily married. But now I wouldn’t get to meet my own grandchildren? Pain lanced through me like fire.

  “I’m married,” I pleaded.

  “Not anymore,” she said. “Death breaks all bonds.”

  Well, shit. I sank back on the bed, exhausted. Death breaks all bonds, huh? I wondered how Nanna would feel about that. She was a good wife, I suppose, although I often wondered if she’d ever actually wanted to be married to me.

  She told me once she cried with happiness when her parents said she’d been betrothed to Baldr the Beautiful. I’m almost certain that was the last time I brought her so much joy. She loved going to parties together, chatting with her friends while their jealous eyes watched my every move. Or cheering for me from the stands as I sang one of Bragi’s epic ballads. But when it came to actually spending time with me, sharing a meal or a conversation or even occasionally spreading her legs, I always had the lingering feeling she’d rather be elsewhere. That she’d married the Beautiful, not the Baldr.

  Or perhaps I only told myself that to assuage my guilt. There were thousands of women in the Nine Realms, and they were all drawn to me. Resisti
ng every single one proved to be too much of a challenge. Rather frequently, in fact.

  But still.

  “I’ve got to get back,” I said. “How do I get back?”

  The old woman groaned in disapproval. “Ah, Baldr. Such a pity.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “You know, you’re the first true Æsir to actually die. And yet you’re just asking the same questions as everyone else. I expected better.”

  “Then who’s in charge here?” I asked, struggling to keep my eyes open. “I’ve got to talk to who’s in charge.”

  “All in good time, dearie. You’ve nothing but time now, you know.”

  I tried to speak, but my words were swallowed by exhaustion. I sank into blackness.

  When I woke, the old woman was gone and I was alone in a small, round hut. The fire had gone out, but I didn’t feel cold. I threw off the blanket, sat up, and pulled my rough linen shirt over my head, running my fingers over my breastbone, feeling for injuries. Everything felt normal, but it still took me a minute to find the courage to look down.

  My chest was fine. No wounds, no holes, no scars. Thank the Nine Realms.

  I didn’t recognize either the shirt or the soft leather pants I wore, and for a moment I wondered if I’d been put on my funeral pyre in such ordinary clothes.

  No. Óðinn would never let his favored son go out of Asgard looking like this. Knowing my father, he’d turn my funeral into another occasion to impress his friends and terrify his enemies. A real spectacle of might and power.

  I groaned and stretched, heading for the hide-covered door. A strange blue light filled the hut when I pulled the door aside, blinding me. Once my eyes adjusted I saw a dark, jagged mountain range in the distance. Blue-green foothills sloped toward me, meeting a wide, sparkling river. A haphazard scattering of huts sprinkled the rolling hills between me and the river. People moved among the huts, working in gardens or leaning against walls, chatting. The scent of baking bread drifted across the peaceful valley. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It wasn’t exactly what I expected for Niflhel, the realm of the inglorious dead.

  Inglorious. That stung, but I hadn’t fallen in battle, had I?

  I swallowed the growing lump in my throat and set off, walking down the hill and toward the closest person I could see, a young woman picking herbs in a small, fenced garden.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Oh!” She jumped and stood. Once she saw me her cheeks flushed and she smiled shyly, brushing back her hair.

  Ah. I guess I still looked like myself, then.

  “Hello!” she said. “Are you new?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am. I’m just wondering who’s in charge?”

  She giggled, although I hadn’t meant that as a joke, and the flush across her cheeks deepened.

  “I mean, I’d like to know how all this works?” I pressed.

  “Oh! You just, you know, you just do what you’d like,” she stammered. “You do what pleases you.” She covered her smile with her hand.

  Great. I was getting exactly nowhere with her.

  “Thank you,” I said, giving her my most winning smile as I turned to leave.

  “Unless you were talking about Hel?” Her expression dropped.

  “Hel?” I asked. The name rang a distant bell, but my mind was still irritatingly clouded and I couldn’t quite grasp the association.

  She frowned. “She’s in charge, I guess. I only saw her once, but...” Her voice trailed off and she shivered.

  “Thank you! And where do I find Hel?”

  “She’s up the river, in the castle. I don’t think you’ll get much from her, though. No one ever does. And, you know, it’s not bad here.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, glancing around. The door to her hut was ajar, showing a large sleeping platform and a pair of men’s boots just inside the doorframe.

  “Did you and your husband, uh, pass on together?” I asked.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, no! Nothing like that. We found each other here. Although I should tell you, people don’t like to talk about their lives before. It’s kind of, uh, rude.”

  I thanked her kindly for the advice and walked toward the river. I’d gone about ten steps when someone called my name.

  “Baldr! Stop right there, Baldr!”

  I turned back and saw the old woman hurrying down the path.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, panting, as she reached me. “Don’t go running off on your doula like that!”

  “Doula?” The term was unfamiliar to me.

  “That’s me. I assist the passage. And I’m not done assisting. You’re just up a bit earlier than expected, my boy.”

  I returned her smile. “I didn’t realize I needed assistance.”

  She cackled. “Well, now, of course you didn’t. And you don’t need much, really. I just wouldn’t want you wandering off into the darkness before you’ve even had a chance here.”

  “The darkness?”

  The old woman raised an eyebrow. “See? Now it’s a good thing you still have me. Let’s get back to the house, I’ve food for you.”

  The stone hut seemed even smaller than I remembered. I crouched on the bed, my head stooped to avoid hitting the roof beams, while the old woman unwrapped a package of fresh cinnamon rolls. I was surprised when my stomach rumbled at their spicy honeyed scent.

  “You don’t have to eat, of course,” she said, handing me a roll. “Your body doesn’t need it anymore. But eating’s always been about more than just fuel.”

  “These are amazing,” I said, around a mouthful of cinnamon bun.

  She nodded. “That they are. It’s Lucy just down to road who bakes them.”

  I chewed while I tried to wrap my head around that one. “So...people still work, then?”

  “Well, people find something to do. Most people, that is. I don’t know if Lucy was a baker before, mind you. Ah, and I should warn you not to talk too much about what came before. It’s—”

  “Rude,” I finished. “Yes, I heard.” I wiped my fingers on my pants and looked out the door. The strange blue light was stronger now, shimmering off the distant mountains and turning the river to a shining band of silver light. Up the river, in the castle. That’s what the girl said when I asked where to find Hel.

  “What’s past the river?” I asked. “In the mountains?”

  A shadow passed over the old woman’s face. “Ah, yes. That’s the darkness, boy. That’s where you go when you’ve had enough here. When you’re ready for what comes next.”

  I nodded as if that statement made sense. “And what’s up the river?”

  She cackled again. “Oh, clever, clever, Baldr the Beautiful! Yes, that’s where Hel governs her realm. But you won’t get anything out of her, dearie. No one ever does.”

  I shrugged. “No one mortal, you mean. Didn’t you say I’m the first Æsir to come here?”

  Her wrinkled face broke into a wide grin. “That’s my boy. Here, let me pack you another cinnamon roll. You tell the guards old Ada says hello.”

  CHAPTER 2

  It took me two days to reach the castle, although I could have covered the distance faster if I hadn’t been constantly distracted by the landscape and the changes in my own body. It was disconcerting to not grow hungry and, although my body was tired by the end of the day, I didn’t feel like I actually needed sleep. I stopped at night anyway, trying to find somewhere comfortable to lie down and watch the unfamiliar constellations whirl in the darkness above me.

  And I tried very hard not to worry about what would happen to the Nine Realms without me serving as Óðinn’s diplomat.

  Although the sun at midday was almost indistinguishable from Asgard, dawn and dusk in Niflhel were decidedly blue. The evening sky was fading from bright cerulean to a darker cobalt when I first saw the brooding towers of Hel’s citadel. By the time I reached the iron gates, the sun had set and the sky was a wash of indigo. Orange torches burned on pikes; the enormous gates stood wide op
en and unguarded.

  I approached slowly, expecting to be stopped. Not even Óðinn’s Val-Hall was unattended. But no one stood at attention inside the gates, so I walked under the wide arch, more uneasy than I would have been willing to admit.

  Voices drifted through the open air and lights flickered in many of the windows. The entire castle was made of dark, reflective stone cut to harsh angles, making a strange backdrop for cheerful voices and the smell of roasting meat. My mouth watered. Even if I didn’t need to eat anymore, damn, I could go for some roast beef and a flagon of mead.

  The first guard was just inside the castle doors, a portly, middle aged man sitting in a large armchair. Oddly, he appeared to be tuning a lute. He gave me a cheerful smile.

  “Excuse me, good sir,” I said, with a small bow. It never hurts to be polite. “Is this where I may find the Lady Hel?”

  He laughed. “You must be new here.”

  I admitted that was indeed the case, and asked again where I may find Mistress Hel.

  “Just through that door,” he said, pointing with the neck of his lute. “But, for Asgard’s sake, don’t call her Lady. Or Mistress.”

  “What title does she prefer?”

  He snorted. “Honestly, I think she prefers to be left alone.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you for your time, sir.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You do know what you’re looking for, right?”

  My smile faltered. Something danced along the edges of my mind, some information about Hel Lokisdóttir I’d heard and had managed to forget. I’d been trying to recall all the stories about Niflhel as I walked, but most of them stayed maddeningly out of reach. I guess I’d always assumed the realm of the inglorious dead would never apply to Baldr the Beautiful.

  “Yes, I believe I do,” I said. I shouldn’t be overconfident, but showing weakness was risky too. This casual atmosphere could be a trap. It wouldn’t have taken an espionage expert to see me coming and prepare a ruse.

  He shrugged and went back to his lute. “Well, good luck to you.”