The rare moments of lucidity in the midst of her preparations to have an egg are the hardest. They remind me why I love her, though. I sit, hoping the egg comes out soon.
She wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I think this egg will be different. I’ve been pulling on Veralden’s magic every time we speak, and yes, I really have spoken to him. Watch. I’ll show you.” She picks the heart stone up again, holds it close to my ear, and then draws on her own ice magic.
It gathers up inside of her body, swirling bits of blue light that sparkle like firefly flashes. Then she shoves it into the heart.
I’ve never in my entire life shoved magic into the heart. I’ve always only tried to pull from it. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh.” She pats my leg with her free hand. “Just watch and listen.” She closes her eyes just before the heart flashes bright blue, red, and then brilliant gold.
A little warning on that would have been nice.
And then I do hear it, a great whooshing sound, like a terrible wind storm crying near the windows, and then, I hear something else. Something. . .ominous. It sounds like a long, protracted moan, but echoey, like a whale singing in a cavern. “What’s that?—”
Freya shushes me. “Listen.”
The moaning becomes a strange sort of whistle, and then I can make out words. Soon now. Send me more. Send me all you have, and I can come to you, my daughter. I can come soon.
I leap to my feet, shaken. “Freya.”
She beams. “See? Now you believe me. Veralden Radien knows we’re here and that we need him.”
“How do you know that’s him?” I ask. “You could be channeling that magic anywhere.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly. This heart is the physical manifestation of the love he and Jörð shared. He told me that himself. It’s why we can reach out to him at all. He left it behind so she could call him back.” Freya frowns. “He’s sad she never has.”
“Call him back?” I sigh. “Freya, I’m worried you’re messing with something big, something dangerous. Jörð and Veralden Radien may be our parents, but they’re not like us. The things they worry about aren’t the things we do. Case in point, the balance he intentionally created, between the vanir and the æsir. Who would think that’s a good idea—battling for eternity?”
“There is a poetry to it,” Freya says. “The earth children do suffer, but think about it. It keeps the sky children from completely dominating them, too. It was Jörð’s idea to make the sky children need the earth children. The bond, you know.”
“What does Odin say about all this?”
She scowls. “He doesn’t want to call anyone. He thinks we should just leave.”
“Leave?” I frown.
“That’s right. Take our earth children bonded, take their families, and just move to another place, another world, leaving the vanir here alone.” She shakes her head. “It’s irresponsible. It’s. . .”
“It would help us,” I say. “We could leave the vanir and take any earth child who wants to come along.”
“How are we going to find this new place?” She shakes her head. “Running never solves things. It just drags your baggage along with you.” She grabs my hand then. “Owww.”
It’s time.
I’ve been with her for many egg layings now, close to forty, and they’re never comfortable. Not in this form, not in any form. But at least in her earth child form, Odin can’t hear it’s happening and usually doesn’t storm in, throwing his thoughts and feelings about. Though, maybe she wants him here. I’ve never asked.
“Should I call Odin? You could still shift.”
She shakes her head. “It only upsets him.” She groans. “He doesn’t understand what I’m doing—when he comes, Veralden will fix it.” She glances at the baskets of eggs lining the walls. “He’ll be able to heal all our babies. They’ll all be born then, living and healthy, once Veralden Radien sets the balance right. Ice and Fire, storm and strike, we can all get along once he sets things riiiiight.” She screams then, and she crouches, and she lays an egg, right on the ground.
It’s easily the strangest egg I’ve ever seen, but it’s also beautiful.
Stunning, really.
From one angle, it’s bright, sparkling red. The strongest, best flame æsir shell I’ve ever seen. But when I shift, it turns golden. It looks. . .different than anything else. And when I reach to pick it up, it’s bluish, like the shell of an ice vanir. Then as I lift it into the light, it looks silver. And black. Then green.
“This—I’m not sure what kind of egg?—”
Freya’s arm hits me as it stiffens, and then her entire body goes rigid, from where she’s holding the heart stone, all the way down to her toes. When she begins to speak, it sounds nothing like her, as though she’s merely reciting words with no meaning whatsoever.
