What shall we do with a drunken mermaid?
The Way deposited the goddess and the young Finnfolk in the city docks, hidden in the shadows of a large ship. Tingling with excitement, Sejdørn ran straight ahead into the streets.
Galles had an untrustworthy song in its bones. Between the bricks, the clacking cogs of the machinery, the distance between people when they greet each other; it all felt like a melody of interruptions. But for Sejdørn? Something about it felt so freeing! No harmony could be heard, no chorus. Galles was a city of ‘’every man for himself’’, of fog and smoke and broken streetlights. Everyone was too busy to notice how your voice did or didn’t sound, and nobody noticed a short stout-faced Finnfolk sliding down the road, scales barely hidden with the little carnomancy she knew.
Sejdørn dodged a brawl, two carriages, and a cat-swarm. And all of that was before she even finished the street. She pinned her nose against the front windows of tailors and bakers; she asked a perplexed mechanic which song he used to get the iron in the right temperature; she had the loveliest conversation with a blind beggar that promised that God — she hadn’t quite managed to figure out which one — is going to rain fire from above to torch all the sinners.
A manhole puffed a cloud of thick smoke. Sejdørn jumped with delight, she landed on the side of the road, everything was so exciting here! She heard yelling and a horn and a light shown on her through the fog and—
She woke up tasting iron and seeing stars.
Stood up; pain split her shoulder.
Fell back with a cry.
‘’Woah woah, careful there, firecracker,’’ she heard someone say. The voice was soft, strange, stone wrapped in cotton. ‘’Here, have some water for God’s sake.’’
Sejdørn parted her lips just slightly to accept the water they offered. It was dusty and had an afternote of charcoal, but she nonetheless downed it like the sweetest of honeymeads.
Her senses started returning to her one by one. Cheap apple perfume, city smog, alcohol and puke. The ground was rough and cold. Around her; an alley at night; drunkards, rats, a shattered window, a person.
She couldn't tell if they were a man or a woman. They had old-brown eyes, like seeds that missed their growing-song and were left outside forever. Sejdørn’s eyes trailed lower, below the eyes nestled deep tiredness in eyebags concealed by heavy makeup, then a nose, broken and healed many times over, chipped lips stained by smoking. Sejdørn sat up.
‘’You’re a dargkur, aren’t you?’’ She didn’t say it accusingly. Well, she did, but she didn’t mean to. It was hard to say something like that unaccusingly.
The woman — by now Sejdørn was sure it was a woman, perhaps not always, but now — looked at her, her round seed-eyes looking… hurt? She seemed to understand the meaning of the word, foreign or not, the tone was identical across many languages.
‘’I— am— meant—’’
‘’It’s… alright. Glad to see your brain’s still in, at least.’’
‘’No!’’ Sejdørn almost stumbled over herself to push the words out of her mouth. ‘’I am deeply sorry, you have helped me greatly and I repaid you with insolence. I swear by my breath and song that I will redeem myself in your lovely eyes!’’
There stood a long silence, broken only by the occasional skittering of rats or the coughs or a sleeping drunkard. And in Sejdørn’s mind it was far too loud for her to say anything coherent; embarrassment flushed over her cheeks. She opened her mouth to— and then the woman laughed.
‘’Wow firecracker, you really are a strange one.’’ She said without rebuke or scorn, but with… By the Mither… What a beautiful smile.
Her cheeks flushed again, but perhaps not out of embarrassment.
‘’But seriously, it's fine, there is nothing to be redeemed, not like I have anything until 6. Just helped a friend in trouble.’’
‘’… A friend?’’
‘’In a sense, a ‘bird of a feather’, or something like that.’’
Sejdørn opened her mouth to a half-word, not sure what to say, to sing, to make of this thing she had found. A friend. She wasn’t a bird, nor was she a… ‘Firecracker,’ whatever that was. Yet, strange as they were, she found comfort in the woman’s— in her friend’s words.
Finally, her mouth found a word, ‘’firecracker,’’ she said unceremoniously.
‘’Hm?’’
‘’You called me ‘firecracker,’ what does that mean?’’
‘’Oh. Wow. Um, do you not have firecrackers in… wherever you're from?’’
She didn’t provide an answer, so the woman just continued, ‘’Well, firecrackers are papery things, I think. They look ordinary, but when you ignite them… They burn like nothing else in the world. It’s like holding a star.’’
‘’What’s your name?’’ Sej said—at the same time as the woman, like two discordant songs coming to a sudden duet. They both burst into laughter.
Her new friend’s name was Dahlia. What a beautiful name. Dah-li-ah, her tongue tasted every syllable each time she said it. Now this, this was a melody she understood perfectly.
Dahlia was the same age as her, but there the similarities ended. She was so… envy-inducingly independent! And sociable! And charming! She seemed to know by hand every little corner and shop that she showed Sejdørn. They never went into any of the shops, Dahlia said ‘folks like us’ aren’t always welcomed.
‘’Like us?’’ Asked Sejdørn, who couldn’t imagine any category that would include both her and the breathtaking person walking in front of her.
‘’Yeah. Folks who don’t have a home in the city, who aren’t supposed to be here. The city doesn’t want us, but goddammit we’ll stay!’’
‘’Why?’’
‘’Eh? The hell do you mean by ‘why’? Because we have just as much right to this place as anyone else, and because they’re gonna have to try harder if they wanna get rid of us.’’
‘’Well…’’ began Sejdørn, struggling to articulate why this sounded so odd to her, ‘’if the city hates you, if it doesn’t want you, why stay? Why not… move on to greener pastures?
’’Few reasons, firecracker. First reason is people like you.’’
‘’Me?’’
‘’Yes, you. I stay in this shithole because I know more people will arrive, people who will need help, people who will need your presence. It’s not always easy, but for a community to exist, you can’t just keep searching for better ones. You gotta stick together.’’
Sticking together with Dahlia. Helping people. That did sound nice. But… ‘’why not just take them with you?’’
‘’Because then you get nothing done, the city wins. You can’t just ‘search pastures’ all your life, sometimes you just have to stick your legs in the mud and do the dirty work of actually cutting down the damn grass.’’
After a while Sejdørn added in a longing voice, ‘’can I meet them?’’
‘’Hm?’’
‘’Your community, can I meet them?’’ She felt so comfortable around Dahlia, more comfortable than she ever felt her entire life. A community of people like them… it sounded like a dream.
Dahlia looked at her then. Her dead-seed eyes looked like they were about to burn in their sockets. Her dream was shattered before she ever knew, then it turned into a nightmare. ‘’They took them.’’ She stopped to light a cigarette, not that Sejdørn knew what that was. The fire crackled into her lungs as let out a long city-stained breath.
‘’One by one, they picked us from the streets. First it was under a guise of care, ‘just a quick inspection’, but they never returned from those inspections. After that it started to be more deliberate. Murder cases going uninvestigated, blind eyes turning, blood spilling over the smallest incidents…’’ Sejdørn could hear it in her voice, the tears and screams she was trying to choke down. ‘’Elliah and Jackie tried to fight back, it seemed like the thing to do at the time, better than just lying down and taking the beating. At least that’s what we thought. To them it was the proof they needed all along. Dangerous. We were finally dangerous enough to be put down ‘justly’.’’
The Finnfolk stood there, frozen in pure shock. She’d heard that humans could be so… cruel, violent, brutal to one another. But to hear about it directly, to see the pain reflected in Dahlia’s eyes and the way she pursed her lips. How did she not cry? Sejdørn could never have imagined— All this— It was— Before she knew what she was doing, she hugged her friend. Then said four simple words, ‘’it's not your fault.’’ Dahlia just stood there, silently, like she was barely even alive, so Sejdørn started to sing. It was a quiet little thing, a simple song that even children could hum, but Dahlia heard, and suddenly, she wasn’t alone.
Her friend had a job to do at one of the rooms at a place called, The Crackling Pot, she told Sejdørn to stay here and wait. ‘’I’ll be back before you know it, firecracker, then I’ll have some money to buy us an actual dinner.’’ That left an hour or two for Sejdørn, and she intended to make the most of them. She ran her fingers along her skin, checking that her disguise was still intact and—
All plans left her head the moment she stepped inside. If the city was a melody of interruptions, the bar was chaos incarnate. A cacophony of clanks, laughs, shouts and bubbling liquid assaulted her ears like a sledgehammer of raw sound. The place was impossibly crowded, and she waded through a sea of sweat-soaked shirts and greasy bodies, all bumping and shoving one another without so much as a glance. The air was thick and warm, smelling of fermented spirits, cooked meat and many other scents Sejdørn was less keen on recognizing. There had to be a quiet corner here somewhere, but she could barely differentiate between the walls and the floor. Her head hurt as her breaths grew quicker, tighter. If she could just find a table she could crawl under and hide until Dahlia came to her rescue—
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” The voice was deep and rough, like waves crashing on jagged rocks.
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?!” Half of the crowd replied in unison. Someone began clapping their hands, and suddenly the whole room was swept up in the rhythm. The first voice came again, stronger now:
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?!”
The Finnfolk froze. It was barely a melody, no more than a few notes haphazardly strung together. So simple and yet… It was still music, more beautiful than anything Sejdørn had ever heard at home. She somehow knew how it would go, its highs and lows, when the singer would need to pause for the audience to chime in. It all clicked.
“Whaaaaat shall we do with a drunnnn-kennnn sailor?” She sang with all the joy in her soul, leaping onto a nearby table with frightening grace. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to her — not the terrifying, expectant stares of her family but enchanted, almost hungry looks. So she kept singing, like a bird flying for the first time, not wanting to disappoint those watching from the nest. Not daring to stop, lest that freedom be taken away by reality.
But all performances must end, and she finished the shanty to a round of deafening applause and a hail of coins. Still giddy and half-dreaming, Sejdørn stumbled to the bar and ordered a drink.
“On the house, my God what a show!” The bartender poured her a glass of wine. “Only the finest for you, fair lady.”
The patrons recovered slowly, the air gradually filling with the same rumbling chatter as before. Sejdørn was halfway through her third glass when a sailor pulled up a chair next to her and slammed an empty tankard on the counter.
“So, lady, what’s a beauty like you doing in downtown Galles? Run away from your husband or something?” He was tall, well-built, a thick mustache covering most of his lips, with a voice like crushed gravel under heavy boots.
“Oh I’m— I’m far too young to marry, I’m just having some fun.”
“Ha! Good one. I like clever girls.” He leaned in, meeting her eyes. “What say you and I have some fun of our own?”
The Finnfolk downed her glass. “Oh, I mean— surely— mayhaps tell me your name before you act so forward?”
“You’re not from around here are ya? Alright then, name’s Charles, I’m sailing with the Aurora. Got ourselves a nice haul, plunder for the merchants and a few artifacts for the auctions. Reeled in the best of both worlds, and I figured t’was as good a time as any to celebrate.”
"You’ve been around the world?!” Her eyes grew wide. “Where’ve you been? What’s it like?”
“Oh I’ve been all over from Gibraltar to South Africa to India.” He smiled, showing yellow teeth. “Met some nice folks, killed some less-nice folks.” He said it so nonchalantly that she didn’t even notice, the alcohol making it difficult to focus on more than one thing at a time. “Why don’t I tell you on the way upstairs, mhm?” And it was so loud in here. “Come on.”
She followed him, almost losing her balance on the way to the staircase. Whatever they put in the wine here was much stronger than what she was used to, and it was a relief when he opened a shaggy wooden door and motioned for her to enter. Dahlia should be around here too, maybe she can—
“Well? What are you waiting for?” He grabbed her arm and then she was inside, looking at the pile of straws that passed for a mattress. The curtains were drawn and the floor was almost dirtier than the city streets, the whole room smelling like rotting wood. “You wanted to hear about my exploits? I’ve got something better. You can taste them.”
He knelt down, opening a chest by the bed, and drew a wooden spike skewering some dark material she couldn’t recognize. Her head was starting to hurt. She definitely drank too much.
“What is it? Where’s it from?” It took all she had to keep the words from slurring together, and the thoughts in her head weren’t doing much better. Water, that’s what she needs. Clean spring water, to clear the fog in her mind and sharpen her senses.
“Where’s the fun in that? Try to guess.” The sailor pressed it into her hand, unclasping his belt with his other arm. He tossed it unceremoniously into the corner of the room before starting to unbutton his shirt. It will be okay, she’ll eat and then ask to go drink something to wash it off. Taking a deep breath, Sejdørn bit down on the skewer and winced.
“This is… ugh, it tastes like burnt blubber.”
“That’s ‘cause it is, darling. Smoked whale, straight off the coast of Africa. You like?”
”Treat the wilderness in kindness and you may keep your place, betray it and it will spit you out like a half-chewed bone.”
Oh. Oh no. “Yeah— it’s— it’s really—” She coughed, tasting salt in her mouth before keeling over. There was something moving in her throat, the skin swelling and shifting as she heaved, seawater spilling on the floor. The man — Charles? — stumbled backwards drunkenly, face twisted in disgust. The meat was growing roots in her chest, crawling in her lungs and spreading beneath her skin. Gills resurfaced around her neck as her ears stretched and reformed their fins. Her whole body writhed, undulating like strings of kelp on the ocean floor.
“Oh Lord protect me, what the hell are you?!” He screamed, pulling out a knife from his boot. Her skin was peeling, sloughing off in droves to reveal the scales beneath. Sejdørn lurched again, a severed fish tail slapping wetly on the floor. Her fins were coming back, straining against her clothes. She had to get out of here now, to find Dahlia and–
“Siren! I knew your song was unnatural, you almost had me enthralled!”
“No! Please, I—” She could hardly breathe, throat clogged by cursed flesh. Nor could she move as every inch of her twisted and remade itself, the pain drowning out everything else.
“Silence! You won’t put me under your spell again.” He slammed his knee into her stomach, sending her tumbling to the other side of the room where she collided with the stone wall. She barely felt the impact, unable to process anything as she fell paralyzed to the floor. Why– why was he doing this? What did she do wrong?
Kirke’s galdr ran its course, the pain inside receding, but it was far too late. Blade in hand, the sailor grabbed her neck and lifted her head from the floor, pressing the knife to her throat. “You won’t put anyone under your spell again.”
“I di–”
He tightened his grip and she gasped. She couldn’t understand. What drove him to do this? Why did he refuse to hear the truth? Did some base human instinct force him to kill? But Dahlia wasn’t like this. Darkness grew in the corners of her vision, limbs going numb. Dahlia would never… His face was so close to hers, she could see the rage in his eyes slowly turn to hunger. Turn to greed.
“Come to think of it… I’m sure there’s a market for siren tongues.”
The auction house was spacious and dimly lit, all dark wood and scarlet candlesticks. This was obviously by design, making it difficult to identify the attendees at a glance, a boon for certain individuals who sought plausible deniability regarding their dealings in the occult. For Kirke, it was proving to be quite a nuisance. The goddess wore a simple green suit and a black fur coat, scanning the hall for the gentleman who’d invited her here. Her eyes found no purchase, but she could feel something tugging at the back of her mind…
Ah. That one. A sliver of her own power was somewhere in the building with her. Her fingers expertly located a flask in one of her inner coat pockets, and she took a sip of the bitter drink inside. The tugging became a pull, and she pinpointed its origin easily. Giving another quick look around the hall, ensuring that no-one had their eyes on her, she walked briskly to the staircase beside the main platform. Blackwood would have to wait, this could prove far more interesting.
Sejdørn awoke to a red pain in her throat, raw and wet. Blood had stained her teeth and lips, though she no longer had any way to taste it. The only source of light in the room was a small brazier of dying embers, and she could only see the outlines of her prison. An animal cage, built for something far shorter and wider than she, perhaps a pig or a lion. Footsteps echoed from above, growing steadily closer as her eyes adjusted to the low light. Beside her cage, the room was packed with boxes and display cases. Clearly some sort of inventory, though she couldn’t think of a unifying thread between the jewels, the flasks and the weapons.
Not that it mattered. Songless, there would be now way for her to escape. And even if she could sing, she had never really understood how to weave the melodies into a thing of power. The performance at the bar was a fluke at best, and now she was slated for execution. Or worse, she thought, remembering the sailor’s last words. Then the descending figure came into view, and all other thoughts left her head.
The Beast looked different than they had at Seho-Dal, but she still recognized Kirke instantly. Hope jumpstarted her heart, eyes darting across the room. She had to convince them to help. Somehow, without words or anything left to bargain with.
“I thought I sensed you here. I see your little expedition was… not as successful as you had hoped.” They smirked. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
No! Sejdørn grabbed the bars, pressing her face as close as she could to the cage. Kirke looked them in the eyes, glistening with the coming of tears. The look on the witch’s face suffocated that faint glimmer of hope. The Finnfolk closed her eyes, prostrating before the goddess, quivering. A final shot in the dark, to earn the pity of a being so far beyond what she could fathom.
“What’s wrong, cat got your tongue?” They took a few steps closer to the cage, then stopped at the sound of footsteps on the staircase. “You have only yourself to blame here, I’m afraid. I distinctly remember telling you how easily my favor can be lost? Then again, I also said that we would never see each other again, and here we are.” They were toying with her, dangling a piece of meat above a starving dog. Or was that a hint of genuine affection?
“Hey! What are you doing here, this area’s off limits!”
Drawing a different bottle from their coat, the witch crouched next to Sejdørn. The siren tilted her head, tears flowing over dried blood and opened her mouth.
“Oh no, this isn’t for you. I don’t think you’ve earned it quite yet.” And they took a swig. It was as the guard entered the room, right as their body turned to wind, that Kirke realized the poor girl’s throat had lacked a tongue.
The goddess rematerialized in the washroom, put the potion back in its place, and returned to the hall. She finally found Blackwood inspecting the wines at the bar, arguing with the waiter at the counter over a triviality she cared precious little about. When they finally sat down to talk at a small corner table, the auction had almost begun.
“So! Have you been enjoying yourself, Lord Circe?” The explorer wore one of his extravagant suits, complete with a silver walking stick with a lion for a head and of course, a golden monocle for his right eye.
“It’s Lady Circe, at least for now.’’
‘’But, the suit?’’
‘’Any problems, Blackwood?’’ Her stare was a blade that offered him to either spear himself or back off. He chose wisely.
‘’Apologies, my lady, may I ask if you are enjoying the evening? The cheeses on the west side are truly terrific, do try them when you get the chance.’’
‘’The cheeses, Blackwood, really? Perhaps that is why your company is so grating.’’ She waited for a second. As usual, his eyes were vacant of any understanding. ‘’No, it’s been quite a bore, but I did exchange pleasantries with an old friend… Now, what was it you really wanted to talk about, Blackwood?”
“Ah yes, the Leviathan! I have been reading up on—”
“Blackwood.”
He stopped, sighing. “Your ability to see through anyone and anything never ceases to terrify me, my lady.”
“Your flattery is misplaced, Blackwood, as is your terror. You are simply not as good at this game as you think. Now, I do believe we are short on time?”
The explorer glanced at the platform. Percival Darke was exchanging words with someone he didn’t recognize, probably an aide of some kind. “Indeed. Very well. Tell me then, Master of Aeaea, what do you know of the Odr?”
“Ah, the Sealing Wars?”
“Precisely. A few months ago a colleague of mine uncovered a very curious tablet off the coast of Portugal, and it spurred me to investigate the matter further. What do you know of the state of the seals?”
“No one has been maintaining them since Finnfelheim fell.” Kirke smirked automatically, then rethought the gesture. Oh well. Appearances must be maintained.
“How long do you think we have?” He narrowed his eyes, face wrinkling in worry. Or perhaps dread.
“It’s hard to say. Two hundred years, give or take. Maybe less.” She paused. “Things are already starting to give way. Magic growing stronger, more erratic. Ways leaking into one another more often. My own island might fully merge with Sehol-Dal in a few dozen years.” He gave her a confused look and she waved her hand in dismissal. “Unimportant. But you are right to worry. Repairing the seals would be a colossal undertaking for you mortals, most certainly spanning generations.”
“That is what I feared. I was considering speaking with the fine folks at Her Majesty’s Foundation for—”
“Esteemed Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer’s voice rumbled through the room. “Gather round, gather round, for the hour has come! We shall begin with a surprise addition to today’s catalogue, a beautiful siren caught by one of the brave sailors of our empire. Fear not, this demon has already been silenced, and will no longer pose any threat to the aspiring menagerist. Its tongue will be sold as a separate item, a powerful focus for certain rituals and a key component in several known…”
The Finnfolk’s cage was brought onto the platform, and the goddess rose from her seat. “Tell me when they get to the herbs, I’m going to see if there’s anything worth drinking in here.”
Before she had a chance to do just that, the front doors burst open and a dark-skinned woman charged into the hall, a pair of guards hot on her tail. One of them drew a pistol, struggling to aim mid-run.
“Freeze or I’ll blow your brains out you fucking–”
From the platform, Sejdørn couldn’t believe her eyes. Dahlia had found her, had come to save her. But she was alone, how could she–
“I won’t let you sell my friend like some animal!” Dahlia screamed, sprinting towards the platform, but another guard intercepted and tackled her, the two crashing to the ground with a cry. The pursuing pair caught up, both guns now drawn and aimed at the intruder as she twisted and kicked and headbutted her attacker. “You’re monsters! All of you bloody–” She choked as the guard grabbed her neck.
No. No! They were going to kill her. The same people who took her community, Sejdørn realized. All because of her, all because she couldn’t stand and wait for a few hours. She threw herself at the bars of the cage, but in her state she just collapsed again, fresh pain flaring. There was nothing she could do but–
Kirke watched the woman continue to struggle, coughing and howling. Surely she knew that this was hopeless, that even if she somehow managed to defeat a man twice her size she would be shot and killed immediately by the rest. She must have known that even making it past the doors would be a miracle. And all of this for what? The goddess’s eyes fell on the young siren watching the beatdown from behind the bars, robbed of any way to voice her pain. The party crasher was right, Kirke was standing by as an animal was chained, brutalized and sold as a trophy. She grit her teeth, scanning the hall and noting the guard placements. Two on the platform, three on the woman, one in the corner… her fingers closed around a flask she’d already sipped from tonight. A miracle, aye?
“Blackwood, cover me.”
“Huh– what? What do you mean–” But she was already dashing down the hall. The guards on the platform immediately took notice, drawing their rifles.
“Sir! Stop or we will fire!”
“Be my guest!” She threw off her coat and hurled it onto the platform, the fur rippling midair and twisting into the shape of a lion. It landed on its feet, roared and pounced on one of the guards. Kirke climbed the stairs as two gunshots rang hard through the air, sparing a glance to the hall behind her. Blackwood stood frozen where she had left him, and the corner guard was running after her, drawing his own musket from his back. The mystery woman – gods protect her – was still holding her own on the floor.
Sejdørn couldn’t take it. Her heart ached, unbearable hope bringing her to her feet again as Kirke sprinted up the stairs. Surely this time they would save her? Surely there was no other reason for the witch’s actions, no hidden agenda at play. How many times will she be forced to endure this? She couldn’t bear to experience that crushing despair again, to feel that dream of a future wither away to nothing, dust slipping between her fingers. Free me or let me die!
Then Kirke was on the platform, trying not to slip on the blood. Her lion was dead, but so was his prey, the remaining guard desperately trying to reload his weapon. He won’t make it in time. Almost at the cage, where the Finnfolk’s tear-streaked face was once again pressed to the bars, eyes wide. She took out the bottle and popped the cap–
Boom. Another shot tore through her ears. Kirke felt a rush of air as the musket ball missed her by inches, streaking ahead into the cage and slamming into Sejdørn’s waiting forehead. A fountain of blood sprayed from the wound and coated the goddess, who stumbled and skidded to a stop. Everything went red as she tried to process what had happened, staring at the fallen siren, the flask still in her hand. She had failed in her most basic of duties. But that wasn’t why she was in shock, unable to move as Sejdørn’s blood pooled beneath her feet.
Click. Her shoulder burned with pain, the bullet lodging itself between muscle and bone. Burning ichor dripped down like molten gold, hot enough to boil blood and set the floor on fire. But that pain was nothing compared to what she felt when looking at the siren, the sudden emptiness growing in her chest.
It was then that Kirke realized that she truly cared for Sejdørn. It was a strange, aching feeling, one she had not felt in thousands of years. Not since Odysseus had arrived at her island and asked for her guidance, haunted by the specters of war. Then another bullet struck her back in a burst of gold, and sorrow turned to white hot rage. These men will pay for their cruelty, Blackwood will pay for his ineptitude. They will know what it means to anger a god.
She took a swig and hurled the flask at the dying Finnfolk, the glass shattering on impact. Kirke turned to wind. Not the light breeze of her previous escape, but a howling, screeching tempest that let all hell break loose. The goddess ripped through the hall, breaking glass and sending furniture and people flying, tossing them like toys against the stone walls. Her winds whirled into the bar, picking up bottles and hurling them at the attendees. They smashed into pieces, blood and wine flowing in a shallow tide. Lightning crackled in the air, and in a blinding flash of green the room was ablaze. Thunderbolts arced through the hall ; tables and chairs blackened and burned, nerves fried as flesh was scorched and turned to ash. Then, setting her sights on the doors, Kirke rocketed forwards and tore them from their hinges, leaving it all behind.
On the platform, the potion seeped into Sejdørn’s blood, her body turning to sea foam. Her final thought was her friend’s face, laughing in the ocean breeze.
Kirke materialized on an empty cliff south of the city, the human woman hit the ground with a sharp breath.
‘’There. See that as my thanks for reminding me which way’s north, as it were,’’ she turned to the wide sea, the galdr beginning to unravel her form like a child pulling on a tapestry. Soon she’ll be in Aeaea, soon she’ll be home, soon, all of this will be behind her.
The mortal grabbed her leg, the galdr silencing without crescendo. ‘’What.’’ She spat the word like overripe fruit, barely turning her head to the girl that managed to crawl to her.
‘’Sejdørn…’’ she whispered, air barely leaving her mouth.
‘’She’s dead, child,’’ then added, in a softer melody, ‘’but you’re not. Go down to your family, treat your wounds, continue onwards.’’
‘’No.’’ Despite having no strength remaining in her lungs, the word came strong and clear.
‘’No?’’ Kirke almost killed the mortal then and there, a changing-galdr hanging on the edge of her tongue like a guillotine. ‘’Don’t test your luck human, I have given you my mercy. Return to your people before I’ll decide to take it back.’’
‘’Don’t have any. They took them away.’’
Kirke opened her mouth to say that it wasn’t her problem. That she didn’t care. It wasn’t her responsibility. Nothing came out. Her father was right, she was growing soft.
‘’Please, guardian angel, I beg of you.’’ Kirke burst into laughter, humans never ceased to surprise her after all.
‘’I know I haven’t been a faithful servant, but Sejdørn… Was she not the kindest of your Lord’s creation?’’
Kirke knelt, meeting the human eye to eye, oaken brown met burning gold, ‘’Do I look like an angel?’’ Kirke saw a realisation flash on the girl’s face. Good.
‘’If not a prayer, a bargain. You can have my soul, devil, please.’’
‘’Now you’re speaking my language.’’ And in her mind added, What’s one more miracle? ‘’No child, I cannot go to the land of the dead and return your friend, even if I could, she would have no body to return to,’’ then she smiled and said, ‘’but you might be able to.’’
The moonlight was cold tonight, the stars had a fleeting light that barely lingered on the edges of reality before slipping away into the endless dark.
Dahlia breathed slowly and sharply. The barren cliffside provided no protection against the freezing breeze; in fact, it lifted her up high beyond the city to face its full force, a hand offering a tiny sacrifice to the skies.
She was preparing a little sacrifice herself, a libation to the dead, or at least that was what the devil told her. It left her with seven things; instructions, milk, honey, wine, water, and white barley — the latter five contained within jugs that smelled of deep ceramic and old ash. The first step of the instructions was simple but grueling. For what felt like hours she dug in the dirt, the ground cruel and unyielding. The golden-eyed devil said she needed to dig a hole until she could fit her arm from elbow to the end of her finger.
By the time she finished the pit she didn’t know if her hands were covered in more dirt or blood. Then she poured the sacrifice. First came milk and honey, followed by sweet wine, and brine that smelled like a dream at the bottom of the ocean. Thereon she laid the white barley, and watched it grow and twist with the devil’s sorcery.
The grain was singing then, a sweet-tempting lullaby that poured strange mists from the pit that covered the cliff in an instant. Despite the mists being paler than snow, her vision went dark.
Sejdørn was a broken plank floating on a wave of darkness, everything numb, benighted, exhausting. She just wanted to sink. Why did any of this happen? It was all so unfair.
She didn’t do anything. Anything at all. Her life was just a big silence in waiting for a performance that never came. No one clapped. She wasn’t even bad enough to earn the audience’s ridiculing laughter, that was the real shame of it, she just stood on the stage her entire life, and never opened her mouth. What a waste.
Well… Not never. She remembered the warmth of Dahlia tears when she sang to her, her breathing slowing, hug tightening, her apple-scented perfume. She wished she could sing to her, one more time, but she would never have that chance now. At least she bettered a single moment, for a single person. It wasn’t a lot.
The edges of her mind started bleeding into each other. The border between her body and the darkness blurring. She breathed and felt the air escape through her ribs with a cold whisper. Finally, everything was so silent.
“Hey firecracker.” The voice burned like the brightest of galdrs, it bloomed like an apple tree and tasted like warm honeymead and fresh barley. The darkness was gone when she saw her.
Sejdørn gasped for mist, Dahlia was here somehow. Why was she here? She can't be here. This is—
Dahlia hugged her like the mattress hugs a tired man, like, through an unfathomably lucky coincidence, a misplaced pillow might catch a fallen bird. She buried her face deep into her friend’s chest and cried; and the warmth of the tears rolling down her cheeks made everything worth it.
Slowly, the light faded, and the realms of the living and the dead grew separate once more.
The tempest gale tore through the window like cheap paper, a flurry of books and glass and stifled candles rippling through the air. Blackwood himself was blown out of his chair, crashing to the cold hard floor as Kirke stepped into his personal chambers. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, and he tasted blood as he struggled to rise.
“Blackwood.” She spoke with a voice like arctic winds and frozen steel. The suit was gone, replaced by deep green robes that rippled as if they were underwater, her eyes white hot and burning.
“Lady– Lady Kirke–” He managed to stand, his whole body shaking, and pressed himself against the wall as far away from her as possible.
“Lord.” The god snapped, crossing the room slowly. Green sparks of lightning danced along his fingertips, crackling loudly.
“Sincerest apologies, I– I assumed–”
“You assume too much and learn too little. Now explain yourself.” He was just a few feet away from him now. The explorer could smell the ozone, feel the heat on his skin as the twin suns bore into him. There were no pupils in that white fire.
“I did not know– I did not understand what you had wanted in time to help.” He couldn’t get his breathing under control, gasping every other word. “Please, my lord, I–”
“I asked you to distract a single guard for a few meager heartbeats. Now one of mine is dead. Perhaps you were too concerned with your own status to act?” The two were almost touching.
“I assure you, it was nothing of the sort–”
“I have tired of you, Blackwood.” Kirke pressed a flask to the man’s chest, shadows swirling in the glass. “Drink.”
His eyes widened as realization dawned. “Please, have mercy. I swear by my name, by my life– take my lands, my treasures, take it all!”
“Drink.” The god’s eyes stared into his own, the light blinding. Stripped of dignity and hope, he fell to his knees and began to sob. Kirke grasped his neck and lifted his body effortlessly, forcing him to stand again and placing the bottle in his hand. The sparks arced to his skin, his fingers stinging. Then Theodore Thomas Blackwood pressed the bottle to his lips and drank.
The liquid tasted like mud and spoiled meat. Kirke stepped back as he retched, covering his mouth as something green and slimy poured out. His skin began to tingle and grow numb as it bubbled like boiling soup, before his bones melted inside his body and what remained fell as a sack of wet flesh.
“Perhaps this will teach you, explorer, never to be so sluggish when one asks for your help.”
Squirming, contorting, the thing that used to be Blackwood retreated into itself until it was nothing more than a sea slug, orange and teal stripes glowing in the dim light. He picked the small creature up and placed it on the desk next to the broken window. Outside, the green pastures of England glowed in the setting sun, cold air rushing in and cutting at his face. Kirke breathed deeply and drank the last of the wind-potion.
It was time to go home.
