Hammered

continued on my side of the river once the bridge touched the shore. It led straight to a stouter, smaller hall, clearly constructed rather than grown, but every inch of it was carved with runes and scenes of brave Viking deeds. I crept closer until I could read the runes. They were skalds of one form or another, proclaiming the hall to be that of Idunn and Bragi, long may they live and love and so on.
    My art appreciation was curtailed by the sound of low, intense voices coming from the hall. The door and windows were open, just like Freyr’s, and the fire inside was more for its light than its warmth.
    » Get closer, « imaginary Kirk said. » I want to hear what they’re saying. «
    » I agree, « said imaginary Spock. » The additional intelligence might prove to be useful. « I told them both I liked it better when they argued, as I picked my way carefully forward until I was crouching underneath the front window of the hall.
    The warm, rich voice of a woman fluttered into my ears: » … what this means? If the Norns are truly dead, then their prophecies may be null. We could be truly free, Bragi, think of it! «
    A sonorous baritone voice rumbled contemplatively. » Ragnarok, null? « A loudy thump and the scrape of chair legs on a wooden floor suggested someone had sat down heavily. » Perhaps then there is hope for us all. «
    » Yes! « the woman enthused. I assumed her to be Idunn. » And there is hope for us specifically! Do you not understand? Perhaps we could finally have a child! The doom they laid upon us may have died with them! « I heard kissing noises and then a throaty chuckle from the baritone.
    » Ah, I see. Only one way to find out, isn’t there? « The kissing noises became more frequent, and these were shortly followed by other, less chaste noises and heavy breathing. I sank dejectedly onto my haunches, realizing this might take a while. These were not teenagers who finished such business in a few frenzied minutes. The long-lived knew how to love long.
    But the brief snatch of conversation I’d overheard gave me plenty to think about. Idunn had implied that the two of them were cursed with infertility, and their current behavior implied that they couldn’t wait to get rid of that curse. Moreover, it implied that they were still in love. Mortals never got a chance to see if their love would last for centuries, but clearly Idunn and Bragi’s had. At first I felt a bit envious, and then heartachingly so for the memories it stirred.
    There had been a woman in Africa once whom I loved for more than two hundred years. Upon returning to the fringes of eastern Europe with the hordes of Genghis Khan, I’d quickly ascertained that there was little to be gained by staying there. So I crossed Arabia instead, a strange infidel in the Caliphate, then delved deep into the African continent and lost myself in that wondrous land of savanna and jungle and desert. I did not reemerge until the fifteenth century, happily missing the Black Death in the process. Even more happily for me, Aenghus Óg lost track of me for that whole time; were I superstitious, perhaps I’d assign the credit for that to my love. (More likely I had made enough progress on my amulet to shield me from his divination, and until he thought of new ways to track me, I was safe.)
    The source of my long attraction to Tahirah had been perfectly matched chemistry, of course, the same frisson that clearly existed between the Norse gods now snogging behind me. Her sharp wit kept up with mine, and her soft dark eyes soothed my restlessness and chained me willingly to her side. Her low musical voice entered my ears like new velvet, and her laugh was so pure that it struck a tuning fork against my bones and gave me shuddering chills down my spine. She was the last person with whom I’d shared Immortali-Tea. Over the two centuries of our marriage she gave me twenty-five children, all of them a joy; I regretted nothing. Perhaps we would still be in love today, still making babies and trying to keep the young ones from inadvertently marrying the descendants of the old ones (I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t marry him. He’s the great-great-grandson of your brother, you see, who was born back in 1842). I would never know; the Maasai war party we stumbled across ended our chance at eternal love.
    The renewed scraping of the chair leg interrupted my reverie and I heard footsteps fading away deeper into the hall, along with some panting and a