The Apple Throne (38 page)

I pluck it off the ground and unroll it to read:

Idun, we should protect each other.

Beneath the simple line is a fingerprint pressed in pale purple blood.

“Thank you,” I say to the troll-mother. “You are welcome in my orchard.”

More follow her, though none remain long. They stop through to bury pieces of their dead sons among the roots of my orchard and bring goblins with them sometimes.

Loki delights in it, snickering into my ear how Idun’s orchard has become a menagerie. Freya does not mind, nor her twin Freyr the Satisfied, but the Alfather threatens to turn the Bears upon my new stony friends. Thor Thunderer is wary, too, but when Freya shows them the plump apples of immortality, the two war gods realize whatever it is I’m doing is good for the tree.

All I do is thrive.

• • •

Still I wander the apple orchard alone in the afternoons, welcoming the sunlight and the promise of spring and Baldur’s return.

I watch late-night television in my cottage, often with a troll-mother looming in the doorway, as laugh-tracks and bright light flicker over her monstrous marble face. I braid my hair. I try new makeup. I practice yoga. I draw. I pet the little gray cat. I walk out through the iron fence and into my Bears’ practice fields to spar with them, to share cider and laughter and scold them if I must. I read magazines and watch the news, for I’m no longer afraid of the rest of the world.

And I wait for Soren.

Lofn comes to hear the tales of the new elfish queen who has been to Bright Home twice. She tells me my cheeks are rosy and I should go shopping with her in Baja California. Tyr the Just comes and rolls back his sleeve to show me the way his golden hand is melded to his flesh much like my ring and my scar. I leave the orchard with him to have dinner with the Fenris Wolf; she eats my weight in steak salad and orders me never to go hunting without her again.

• • •

Halfway between Yule and Baldur’s Night, I dream of Amon standing at the orchard gates, and the next afternoon I wait in the valley, baking pies in the industrial ovens for the Bears until his van appears, zipping too fast down the switch-back road.

He jerks to a stop and piles out, coming for me and swinging me up into a hug. “Gods curse it, I’m glad to see you,” he says.

I kiss his cheek, even as a few of my Bears wander after me, uncertainty on their faces. I turn to them and soundly say, “You will not partake of illegal trade with Amon Thorson any more, any of you.”

The captain puts his fingers over his heart and bows, just as the sliding door jerks open. There is Sune Rask, out of uniform in jeans and a collared shirt and vest, and a cast on his shield arm. I make introductions all around so my Bears know both Amon and Sune are welcome here. Jersy Oakarm asks if Amon brought another case of that honey liquor, and as they haggle on prices, several of the other berserkers gather with Amon at the rear of the van.

Sune joins me, pulling a thin vial from his pocket. “Apple whiskey from my family in Cantuckee.”

I uncork it and sip. It tastes like sharp apple pie. “What happened to your arm?”

Sune takes the flask back from me. “I kissed him again.”

“And he
broke your arm
?”

Amon saunters toward us as the berserkers pass around drinks. “I told him he wasn’t man enough for me.”

I cross my arms disapprovingly.

Sune shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “I challenged him to holmgang for the insult.”

The godling slings his arm around me. “
That
is when I broke his arm. He’s better with his gun, I guess.”

Sune gives Amon a long, cool smile. “Wouldn’t…you…like…to know.”

I laugh; I can’t help it.

Though both of them came for this visit, Sune refuses to walk through the orchard gates with us. He makes the sign of the hammer and puts a hand to the cool iron bar. “This is a place for gods, not men.”

Amon, already inside, steps back to face Sune, wrapping his larger hand beneath the hunter’s. “A place for the friends of gods?”

“I will wait here,” Sune says firmly.

And so it is only Amon and I who make our way beneath the spreading apple trees to my cottage. The apples of immortality hang plump and vital, though the tree itself remains no taller than I. “I’ll give you one,” I say.

Amon hunkers down, a foot away, staring at an apple. His expression is relaxed, thoughtful. For long moments, he does not move except to tug at the iron ring in his eyebrow.

“What?” I finally ask.

“I’m thinking what Sune would say,” he admits, pulling to his feet. “And I think if he died, he would not want to come back. He’d want his bones to go to Gunn-Elin and wait in peace for the end of the world, when the Thunderer calls his soldiers to his side.”

I kneel with him and put my cheek to his shoulder, glad of my friends.

When Amon leaves, I press a thin copper coin into his hand. “Take this back to him. A finding charm, so Sune may visit me even without you, if he likes.”

“Without me!” Amon pretends to be offended, but tucks the coin into his pocket.

“And give this to Eirfinna when you see her.” I hand him a small note rolled and slipped inside a braided silver ring.

“What makes you think I’ll see her?” he mutters, but accepts the note. He taps it against his thigh and says, “Don’t tell Sune.”

“Tell him yourself before he returns to the Army, you lump.”

Amon shrugs and then picks me up in one arm. He kisses me soundly. “I’ll be back here after Baldur’s Night, and I’m telling you now: don’t let that berserker leave you because of some flimsy rule a crusty old god lay down. You’re Idun, remember? You make your own choices.”

“I remember, Amon,” I murmur. He sets me down and goes.

I
stand at the roots of the New World Tree with my family of gods, the whole council of Valkyrie behind us with the president and Lawspeaker and a dozen members of Congress, waiting for the sun to rise and bring Baldur the Beautiful with it.

Many eyes and cameras are aligned to my face, for I hold a large golden apple in my hands. It is not an apple of immortality, but a pretense for the cameras – I’ll give Baldur the real apple alone. This one glows with
alfscine
, pulling at everyone’s attention, and in this white sleeveless gown my scar is as bright as a sun. It reminds people of elf gold and forgotten magic. There have been rumors of elves again, for the first time in decades, though Eirfinna herself has not yet emerged to the public. She and I are working with Freya on a scheme for that. But goblins have crept again toward their holy places, winking out of shadows near their woodland altars and marking boulders with their names. The rise of the trolls out of their plagued sleep caused some chaos and scrambling, but as there was never an official origin of the plague, there’s been no need to name a cure. We humans are skilled at making stories for ourselves.

The sun peers through the leaves of the Tree, and Baldur reaches a golden hand up through the roots. The Valkyrie of the Prairie clasps it and then Odin Alfather himself, and they help the god of hope climb free from Hel. His smile is glorious. It lights up my heart and the hearts of everyone around. A berserker hands him a white robe that the god slings on without hurry.

I go to him, draw him aside, and speak loudly enough to bring the cameras and mortal gazes with me. “My prince,” I say, winding my fingers with his, “here is your apple to give you life.”

“Lady,” he replies with a lopsided grin, “such a welcome as your smile hardly needs immortality.” Baldur’s perfect face is smoother than glass, and his eyes reflect pink and violet and blue sunrise.

My stomach flutters as it always does, and I reach to skim my fingers against his jaw. Instead of handing him the apple, I lift it to his lips. He opens his mouth and bites in. It breaks crisply, spilling a line of juice down one corner of his chin. The god of hope laughs, and I catch the juice, touching it back to his mouth for the cameras.

Baldur throws up an arm and waves to the crowd that presses to the iron fence section of the massive brick walls that separate the garden from downtown Philadelphia. The people cheer, and Baldur takes another bite. I smile, too, but am thinking of the roots behind me. Soren will be here any moment.

I look out at the people, at the young girls and at the mothers, at the older women, and all the men they bring along. The mortals, the humans, just like me. I have a story again and friends, and I’m building a new family so I will not be lost again to the threads of fate. Someday when my
unique spark
begins to fade, I will dream of the next little girl, the one who will take my place, but I won’t leave before she comes. I’ll wait in the orchard and tell her what I know: that we are immortal and dying, that we are the givers of life. The great secret of Asgard is that the gods cannot live forever without a plain human girl, with no power or magic but choice.

Our intimate histories are lost to the memory of the world, but we can rebuild, reweave connections to begin a new story.

There is a box of names under the cottage bed, and those names are our bridge to the past.

It is by touching gods and godlings, elves and trolls and men and women, by starting a new story for ourselves and our names, that we reach into the future.

That is how we thrive.

I
leave Baldur to his preening for the crowd and go to the small archway in the side of the Death Hall, where the iron gate bars me from the mess of the inside, still under reconstruction from the tremors we caused when we remade Eirfinna and the heart of fire.

My hands tremble, and I wind them together, fingers squeezing each other tight. At the base of the New World Tree, berserkers and Valkyrie, gods and reporters and priests shuffle together. Their legs and boots and skirts and robes hide the ancient roots from me. I suddenly fear Freya has somehow forced Soren to be late, to keep him from rising until the cameras are gone, until the crowd is gone. She said it herself years ago:
You are Idun and he a mortal man. It is simpler if nobody knows.

He would prefer it, not to add this brand of notoriety to his name.

I push away from the alcove, touching arms and struggling to smile as I squeeze back through the crowd. I need to see the first moment. I need to be right there, not hiding in the back. I will not hide anymore.

A voice calls out from over our heads, “Look! The Sun’s Berserk rises from the dead, too!”

There is a brief pop of silence and then cries of wonder and longing. While everyone jostles to see the roots, I glance up into the Tree’s branches, and there is Loki Changer as ginger-haired boy, straddling one of the branches and chortling like a fool.

The crowd of people outside the garden goes wild.

I manage a glance of dark skin between Valkyrie legs and see black clothes tossed from one berserker to another. At the edge of the circle, where Freya and Odin stand regal and uncaring of this sudden chaos, Freyr the Satisfied winks at me.

A contingent of berserkers pulls away from the Tree—among them Darius Strong and Pilot in a miniature uniform and three of my own Bears, including Justice who I brought with me for the honor of serving at Baldur’s rising. Signy slips away from her sister Valkyrie and heads for me. I hold out a hand to her. She lengthens her strides and takes it.

Loud voices and laughter, cheers and questions, batter through the air. I cannot seem to keep my mouth closed, but breathe past my lips like the elves do, as if to taste every moment of anticipation. Empty-eyed cameras stare over berserker shoulders. The crowd shifts, parting just enough to birth Soren straight at me: he’s in a black berserker vest and black berserker pants, but barefoot.

He stares at me, dark eyes wide, hands at his sides.

His name is called, and mine as well but mostly,
Soren Bearstar!
I move my lips in the shape of it, too.

His mouth parts.

“Odd-eye,” Signy says to him. “Your tattoo.”

It’s gone, just as I dreamed. His face is as smooth and unadulterated as bottle glass. Newborn.

He touches his cheek, surprised, and I lower my eyes to his other hand, strong and graceful, but also bare of that beautiful inked apple tree.

Signy doesn’t wait, but hugs Soren fiercely, grasping at his longish, floppy hair. He hugs her one-armed and touches his lips to her temple, but his gaze is on me.

“Soren!” calls a reporter, “what happened?” Another says, “You were released into the care of the gods. How did you die?”

His shoulders square, and his mouth presses into a line. They’re all behind him, recording the back of his head and me. My face. Whatever we do now will be broadcast across the United States of Asgard, and suddenly I remember this exact morning two years ago, when we were alone together atop a burial mound and heard the wails and mourning cries as the country realized Baldur had not risen.

A reporter I recognize from countless evening programs nudges through Justice and Captain Strong with her camera behind. Soren glances at her, at the camera, and modestly says, “I was given an apple and went to sleep in Hel with my lord Baldur.”

The reporter smiles. “The true Sun’s Berserk,” she says approvingly. “You’ll have to tell us what that was like and the story behind the apple…” She trails off as Soren steps across the last tangled grass to me.

He stops so near I feel the heat rippling off him. “Idun,” he says, and the name is loud in his mouth. I’ve never heard him say it before, I think.

“Soren,” I reply. I put my pale hand with the fused gold ring against his chest. His skin is warm, and I shiver with simple pleasure. The tattoos may be gone, but his fever remains, churning under his heart. That wild magic we still—always—share. I tilt my face to his.

“Everybody is watching,” he murmurs.

“I want them to see,” I say.

And Soren kisses me in front of the world.

THE END