Tangled by the Trickster

Staunch beer and cheap cigarette smoke had become comforts to me. It was hard to get used to how the generations shifted, and their habits evolved— as lingering vapor from their mechanical sticks penetrated the familiarity. I’d get used to this habit, just as much as the last.

My life never ends, for whatever reason I won’t fucking let it. I didn’t even know who I was; I just kept on for the sake of doing so. Latching onto this innate sense of survival, before I could protest and let go— something inside always told me that it wasn’t time. Something was coming for me— for us all, it was coming for every one of the humans that I had to squeeze through to get to my booth at the back of the bar. And all of us, the ones living on in immortality— we were all part of some higher power that had fathered us. The deities, the gods. Odin— father of us all. Maybe it was Ragnarök, maybe it was the threat of nuclear war— who knows. The only thing I knew was that in order to survive— I had to feed Sigyn and her compassion. She was my God, and I was her servant.

Sliding onto the cracked leather of my seat in the back— I felt longing in the air. Someone in this place needed to spill their guts. Looking around the room, watching the way their bodies mingled amongst the clouds of haze and laughter— I searched for the source. The patrons distracted their hurt and buried their pain within the glasses they so eagerly emptied down their throats.

One guy— tall and skinny with long, brown hair— at the end of the bar might actually drown himself. The way he called for pint after pint at the very busy and annoyed bartender— he embarrassed himself. Wavering side to side, he was unable to keep hold of his balance on the stool he was perched upon.

“Wench!” he yelled out, trying to get her attention over the crowd that circled the bar she stood behind. I was transported through time to a memory before beer had replaced mead and the people still worshiped the gods. A century—at least— had passed by, and yet— the word still struck a chord with me.

It had become almost too easy to continue— eating pain— prolonging my lifeline through the centuries. The stretch of time had turned the details fuzzy, like television static, but they had been simpler, easier. I caught myself missing them more than I cared to admit. There was almost only darkness nowadays— the mortals hung onto their grief and sadness as if it were their lifelines into salvation. Like holding onto misery would grant them passage into Valhalla. They had stopped fighting, they had stopped hoping and worshiping, and the gods had abandoned them for it.

As I pulled the laptop from my messenger bag, the man began snapping at the bartender— as if she were a dog he was calling to heel. She was talking with a patron a few seats down from the drunk man, most likely ignoring him on purpose. If I could hear him, she could, and I silently saluted her for doing so. He didn’t need any more alcohol. One more drink and he’d be passing out drunk on the floor of this bar.

I opened the writing program on my computer. I had a feeling someone here would help me feed Sigyn— that they needed to spill their guts— and I already had a good idea of who it would be. I just had to wait for my opportunity— a natural way in.

The man let out a belch in between calls. Cringing— I instinctively cradled the rune that was etched onto the back of my neck with one hand— begging it for strength. Still sore, even though it had been there for ages, throbbing all the time— as if it were still fresh.

Thor, give me strength.

I felt sorry for him— I really did. Whatever weight laid upon his chest was too much for his fragile mind to endure. He would be perfect because I needed details, I needed to let it leak from me— to bottle up the emotion and feed it to Sigyn, the goddess of compassion and victory. She would reward me with bits of immortality. I felt the amount I had accrued so far slipping from me— my bones growing heavier each minute that passed, I was at the end of my line. I was also starving with actual hunger and my bank account read zero.

Freelancing, at its finest, I had written about the pain— the struggles I had witnessed, and my followers would tip me for my efforts. They read my words and deciphered my metaphors— paying me to continue.

The gods had granted me the extraordinary prize of continuing my life— forever, for this. It seemed aimless and shallow. Why did I keep on living if my life amounted to nothing?

Resisting feeding Sigyn for too long caused my body to begin the slow, painful process of dying— my cells would rot and die until the cancer that is my sworn oath would shut down my organs, leaving me with no choice but to feed again.

As if a reminder, the exterior wall of my stomach began aching, as if it were being stabbed by thousands of tiny needles.

To avoid this slow, torturous death— I continued my quest— my goddess-given duty.

Toppling his stool— the man crashed to the ground in a twist of limbs and laughs— it was another sign, like a delicate shove in his direction. He rolled around on the floor, cackling at his own ideocracy and stupor. His pain had to be witnessed.

I scooched out of the booth and headed towards him. First, I picked up the stool, watching him writhe beneath me. He was giddy, but his eyes were dark. Agony was held in the bright blue irises.

“Take my hand,” I told him. I was calm and collected— allowing him to take my kindness.

Gripping my hand, he squeezed my fingers together— my knuckles pressed against each other painfully. I didn’t let myself wince; in his drunken state, he was oblivious to what he was doing. He allowed my small frame to help him stand. With his weight once again underneath him, he took a step towards his stool— almost falling straight back to the floor.

“No, no, dude— you’ve had enough.” Pulling on his hand that was still in mine— towards my usual booth where my laptop was waiting to collect his struggle– I put on the face I wore for the crowd I was in. A cool and collected mid-twenties tease— a little attitude, with a little “I’m one of the bros” vibe that talks back and can rock a crop top with a pair of combat boots. Though my small stature and honey eyes contradicted this— the mortals were still persuaded enough to trust me. It was this trust that I needed in order to feed my goddess— I needed their secrets, and over time I had learned that with this façade I got them all.

Guiding him to the seat opposite my usual— he stumbled in— tripping over his own feet. I rolled my eyes. I should have pulled him over sooner— before he had consumed half the alcohol he currently had under his belt.

“Brakeep!” he slurred out. His gaze was still fixed on the busy woman behind the bar— his pointer finger waving in the air as if it would get her attention.

“Dude— you’re done, she’s not giving you another drink. You’re toasted,” I told him, moving to sit behind my laptop.

“Wha is thhhis? A fucking job interview?” He hiccupped.

It made me look at him— really look at him. His blue eyes pierced right through me, like miserably cold water in the fjord on a sunny winter day. They were intense— despite the fact that he could barely keep them open. They were hooded, lazily blinking at me as the alcohol had started to take hold of his libido. His face remained in a half smile, half sneer, as his hair hugged his face. It was dirty, unkempt, wild— the color of deep wood, rich and smooth.

“Come a little closer, baby,” he mocked— patting the booth next to him.

“Tell me your story,” I told him. Straight to the point, avoid the bedroom eyes, eat the pain, feed it to the gods, feed it to the followers. I couldn’t stray from that— I wouldn’t let myself. He was acting like some wicked creature full of mischief with a penchant for self-sabotage— a red flag.

He laughed in my face— a deep belly laugh. How that was funny— I’ll never know. There’s something about mortals I’d never understand, no matter how long I walked among them.

“Look buddy,” my frustration grew with the hunger deep below— the pain climbing, my cells began dying— it was spreading quickly through my veins. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it seems like something is eating at you, and I just figured you needed a friend.”

“I need more than a friend, darlin’,” he slurred again— an eyebrow raising at me inquisitively. It was another joke, the smirk on his face didn’t leave his features.

I motioned with my hand, palm up— gesturing to him to continue, I had all night.

I really didn’t— the cancer in my body was growing at a rapid rate— it was exponential as the potential relief of finally being fed hung in the air between me and this man. My organs were crying out for his pain— or rather the immortality that the goddess would gift me.

“Lemme tell you a story then, darlin’, but it’s a long one,” he said as he winked at me. He was a little less inebriated this time, the words were crisp— a small piece of recognition echoed into my dying brain— like Deja vu.

Shaking my head free of confusion— I focused. Time to get right down to it. Hopefully, my death would be patient— and I’d be able to endure the story before it gave out on me. A feast for me and my followers— they’d love hearing all the nitty gritty details at length.

The man ran both hands through his hair— smoothing it back, pulling the skin on his face taught. He took one deep breath before he looked at me again. The smirk grew into a wicked grin— both corners of his mouth uplifting. It dazzled me a little— his playful demeanor tricked my starving mind.

“I was made a fool!” he started, seeming a lot less drunk as he didn’t stray or falter, he instead sat tall— “I was held prisoner…” My fingers clacked across my keyboard— documenting details for my later writing session. It distracted him because he trailed off. Looking up at him, he had an eyebrow raised at me again. I gave it right back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, accusatory.

“I’m a writer, you distracted me from my work, so I think it’s only fair I get to work while I listen,” I responded automatically, my usual excuse when the mortals questioned it.

He lowered his lids, glaring at me— the blue orbs turned daggers— he refused to speak. Another pang of recognition— who was this oddly drunk and foolish man?

I felt the lining around my heart harden, the tissue slowly turning to stone— cutting off my thoughts. The life within me was running out. I shivered— slamming the laptop closed, trying to shake off death.

“Happy?” I asked, annoyed— it covered the pain growing beneath my skin.

He didn’t answer my outburst— only smiled, swallowed, and began talking. “As I was saying…I was held prisoner, and my one saving grace was stolen from me.” As he spoke, he eyed me— watching my reactions— I kept myself stoic. “My wife, bless her heart, my one light in the darkness, her loyalty meets no bounds…” he trailed off again— his icy eyes glazed over as he reminisced over her memory.

Snapping my fingers in front of his face— surely, I’d die before I got what I needed from this man— the hardening of my organs began working its way from my heart through my veins and I could feel it sitting heavier within my chest. My stature sagged, drawing my shoulders inward. My organs were dying and becoming too heavy for my tiny frame to carry.

My snapping pulled him from his head, and he was once again smirking at me. The dimple in his cheek taunted me— it was deep and at my expense. He enjoyed this.

“Your wife was taken?” I tried— exasperated. Edgy, my patience was waning— the mirror was cracking.

“Ah, yes, stolen! She was stolen from me!” he belted out. He laughed again— this time there was a sickness to it— the tone shifting from a sense of loss and despair to the urgent need for revenge. Dark and dangerous. The wicked smile that took hold of his features sparked an entirely different form of hunger.

The dimple on his face was so deep I wanted to place my finger in it– and with the thought a stronger familiarity took hold. I wanted to feel the bone beneath— to feel the heat of his flesh and the strength in his body. It had been a long time since I’d felt lust creep up on me like that— being mostly celibate for centuries will do that to a girl– but something about his dimples had memories that weren’t mine dancing around my vision. The budding desire distracted me from the stabbing pain that had been working its way to my limbs as I slowly starved to death, all encroaching at an alarming rate.

Resting my elbows on the table— I crossed my arms in front of me, becoming too tired to hold them up anymore. “And then what?”

Please, for the love of all of the gods, even Hodr, Idunn, Ve, and Vili. Even Loki himself. Let me survive just one more moment. Let this man sacrifice his secrets so that I may live just one more day. I’ll do whatever it takes. Please keep Hel from claiming me.

Silently begging Eir for healing, and Freyja for her love— I felt my vision blurring. There were twin grins now wavering in front of me— four blue pearls dancing, their gaze transfixed on me. Letting my head drop further— I couldn’t bear to look into the eyes anymore, they were everywhere.

Was this the end? I couldn’t speak— I couldn’t hear. All the sounds in the bar merged— hiding the man’s story within the chaos of the crowd. Or was he speaking at all?

In all the small noises, the dark room behind my eyes was searching for his words, trying to pick them out. I placed my head down on my arms.

In the shrinking black pit of my consciousness— I felt a touch. It caressed some part of my body— warm as it trailed a piece of my exposed skin, I couldn’t tell where it came from— I was lost inside. The touch squeezed and everything went sickeningly quiet. My dead stomach dropping— sinking like a stone— someone a million miles away spoke to me finally.

“Oh, Sigyn, look what they’ve turned you into…” I heard in the darkness— it was the drunk man in the bar, but he sounded different— sad almost.

Sigyn?

With that one name trampling around my brain, I lost consciousness. Everything faded into the void. Hel would have me at last.